Carry Me On My Way

I wish you could meet Fred. As most of you know, I am an only child, spoiled rotten by beautiful parents who loved me well. Fred (and John) were the brothers I never had. John died too soon on Loveland Bike Trail, some years ago. So Fred and I are the only ones left of the "brothers". The picture to the left shows John, Fred and one of our Monk friends - taken so many years ago at Gethsemani.

Fred, of all, knows me, understands me and helped to get me where I am today. He and I used to talk about the Gospel, living a simple life for and with the poor, talked about living downtown, walking the streets and being Jesus for those we met and seeing Jesus in their faces. That was probably twenty-five years ago! We watched our children grow from infants to young adults. We traveled the country together, playing music, talking about God and our shared life in community. Many years ago, he and I went to Gethsemani. Late one night, while staying in Merton's Hermitage, we read out loud, Merton's poem for his brother - who died in the war.

For My Brother, Reported Missing in Action, 1943

Sweet brother, if I do not sleep

My eyes are flowers for your tomb;
And if I cannot eat my bread,
My fasts shall live like willows where you died.
If in the heat I find no water for my thirst,
My thirst shall turn to springs for you, poor traveler.
Where, in what desolate and smoky country,
Lies your poor body, lost and dead?
And in what landscape of disaster
Has your unhappy spirit lost its road?
Come, in my labor find a resting place
And in my sorrows lay your head,
Or rather take my life and blood
And buy yourself a better bed --
Or take my breath and take my death
And buy yourself a better rest.
When all the men of war are shot
And flags have fallen into dust,
Your cross and mine shall tell men still
Christ died on each, for both of us.
For in the wreckage of your April Christ lies slain,
And Christ weeps in the ruins of my spring;
The money of Whose tears shall fall
Into your weak and friendless hand,
And buy you back to your own land:
The silence of Whose tears shall fall
Like bells upon your alien tomb.
Hear them and come: they call you home.

Fred's own brother had died accidentally many years ago so you can understand the special meaning of this poem. We placed a copy of the poem with John at his funeral, along with selected items from Merton's Hermitage we had saved. I remember those times at Mertons Hermitage in Gethsemani, sipping Makers Mark from tin camping cups and we even heisted some "holy ground" to bring home from our visit.

So I tell you all this to let you know that Fred came over for dinner the other night - my good brother who taught me and walked with me. He brought with him the two tin cups for Makers Mark. He brought some "holy ground" from Merton's place which we placed on the St. Joseph statue in the yard - trying to sell the damn condo. He brought a James Taylor song and book. He remembered! His visit brings everything full circle in a way. I am convinced that my brother is not only a gift from God - he is the presence of God.

Things are falling into place. Those whom I loved in the past are coming together with those in my life now. I am left with only gratitude and humility.

Here is the James Taylor song Fred brought:

I forget what to ask for

There isn't anything I haven`t been given
How could I wish for anything more

As I am here living in heaven

This moment in the sun

To feel the wheel turning on

Carry me on my way

Carry me on my way

Carry me on my way

Carry me on my way

I worry about my actions

I think about the damage I do

I've seen the coming attractions

Armageddon and Waterloo

I tried to change my mind

I wasted precious time

Who knows where the time goes

Only everything is everything

Feels like I`m wearing my father`s clothes

Singing a song my brother would sing

I turned to hide my face

They`re gone without a trace