Dear Elizabeth:

Just yesterday I was making an Advent calendar with my granddaughter, and she said, “Grandma, look at all the days until Christmas! 24 long days!” Twenty-four days, indeed. A blink, a blip on time’s radar screen, a proverbial drop in life’s bucket.

Not so with us. I waited for years, you for decades–our arms childless and our hearts expectant. In season after season of fruit cake and divinity, I waited for God, for anyone to ring my door bell and place an exquisitely wrapped plate in my hands. On it, the frankicense of family, the fragrant assurance that two would become three would become four. . .

But you! Your expectation spooled out before you, skeins of your heart’s finest fibers in piles at your feet. You were an expecting mother far beyond what is expected. When a child called Mother, you stopped, turned, and watched as your arms left your sides, reaching, yearning, and stretching into the space that spanned the years between child-bearing and old age. Not a day–or night–went by when you did not see the child of your dreams in the faces of other mothers’ children. And not a moment passed when you did not feel the absence of the sweet weight of a sleeping child on your chest.

Day after day, you sent your prayers heavenward like eager doves, their wings beating the darkness around you. You baked the bread to feed your empty womb. And when your skin loosened from your bones, thin and mottled with sun and age, you began to settle into that singular space of childless women.

And then! God spoke: Behold Elizabeth, wife of Zecahriah and mother of John, a righteous and faithful man who will make ready a people prepared for the Lord. And in that barren space, your child grew and leapt for joy.

Oh Elizabeth, I have been an impatient woman. I have worked and worried through most of my days, believing that my will alone might bring me the blessings I so desired. I have stood before my life like a child before an Advent calendar. Twenty-four long days! As if my urgency were God’s. As if counting the days might make the answers to my prayers come more quickly.

Now, as my skin loosens from my bones, I want to settle into a space of expectancy into which I might loosen the binding of my will. Here, I might settle into faithful waiting, trusting that neither worry nor work will ever bring God’s blessings. Here, I might settle in beside you, sisters in waiting. And here, in the shadow of our son’s love, we might come to know God from whom all of our blessings flow.

With love and expectancy,

Shannon

Luke 1: 12-18

Then an angel of the Lord appeared to him, standing at the right side of the altar of incense. ¹² When Zechariah saw him, he was startled and was gripped with fear. ¹³ But the angel said to him: “Do not be afraid, Zechariah; your prayer has been heard. Your wife Elizabeth will bear you a son, and you are to call him John. ¹⁴ He will be a joy and delight to you, and many will rejoice because of his birth, ¹⁵ for he will be great in the sight of the Lord. He is never to take wine or other fermented drink, and he will be filled with the Holy Spirit even before he is born. ¹⁶ He will bring back many of the people of Israel to the Lord their God. ¹⁷ And he will go on before the Lord, in the spirit and power of Elijah, to turn the hearts of the parents to their children and the disobedient to the wisdom of the righteous—to make ready a people prepared for the Lord.¹⁸

On January 30, 1945, a military transport ship, the Wilhelm Gustloff, was torpedoed by a Russian submarine and sank in the Baltic Sea. The Wilhelm Gustloff was carrying an estimated 9, 343 people–mostly German civilians and mostly women and children–seeking escape from the approaching Red Army.

The ship was built and equipped to carry approximately 1,900 people, but desperate times called for desperate measures. And desperate these civilians were, most traveling for weeks to reach the port in Gotenhafen. Many left the roads and took to the woods to hide from Russian soldiers who were relentlessly pushing eastward.

Nine hours afer leaving Gotenhafen and 70 minutes after being hit, the Wilhelm Gustloff sank. Only 1,293 people could be registered as survivors, making this the largest maritime disaster of all time.

This disaster was six times deadlier than the Titanic’s sinking, but it has not been profiled in most history books or feature films. As a matter of fact, until I read Ruta Sepetys’ novel, Salt to the Sea, I had never heard of the Wilhelm Gustloff tragedy. And when I quizzed others, they, too, reported that they had never heard of the ship or the disaster.

Why is it that some people, places, and events are duly memorialized through monuments, in print and film, while others fail to register at all on the collective conscience of the world? Why is it that we see keenly at times and through a glass darkly at other times?

Holocaust survivor and writer Elie Wiesel writes:

For the survivor who chooses to testify, it is clear: his duty is to bear witness for the dead and for the living. He has no right to deprive future generations of a past that belongs to our collective memory. To forget would be not only dangerous but offensive; to forget the dead would be akin to killing them a second time.

If forgetting the dead is akin to killing them a second time, what about failing to see the dead at all, failing to identify their role in our collective memory? Is this like killing them a third time? Or worse yet, is this failure akin to these people never having walked this earth, never having lived or loved? Is this failure an act of undoing that is even more tragic than forgetting?

And if  we have failed to see the thousands that perished on the Wilhelm Gustloff, how many others have slipped through our collective conscience, never to become a part of our collective memory? How many others suffer and have suffered the human condition–individually or en masse–leaving marks that should be indelible but disappear as vapors?

We need fresh eyes. Eyes to see into corners. Eyes to see below the surface. Eyes, like drones, programmed for human sacrifice and suffering. We are fortunate to have those with fresh eyes who spread light into dark corners and cellars, dredging up souls who deserve to be seen, even years after they have lived, suffered, and died. These are the artists and writers, the historians and journalists, the descendents and filmmakers. Through their eyes, we see what we have not seen before.

Having failed to see and remember a tragedy the magnitude of the Wilhelm Gustloff, it is no suprise that we fail to see individuals and acts in our ordinary lives. We tell our children, our students and athletes to work hard and commit themselves to the pursuit of excellence. We coach them to persevere and encourage them with words like, “Your hard work and commitment will pay off–if not now, then later.” And we believe these words, for failing to believe them would leave us unmoored and drifting.

But what if those for whom our children, our students and athletes are working do not see them? What if all the hard work and grit simply goes unseen? The eyes of parents, teachers and coaches may be on others, and so fixed, they never see the efforts of those who are paying their dues and who yearn to be seen. For these individuals, hard work, commitment and even talent may not really pay off. Not now, and not later. The unseen sit in the backs of classrooms, on the sidelines or benches, in the shadows. Often, they wait expectantly to be seen. And then, after months or years of waiting, many resign themselves to invisibility.

They deserve to be seen. In truth, they may not earn the highest marks or win a spot on the starting team, but they should be seen. In defense of those teachers and coaches who work with students and athletes daily, I know how difficult it is to see each one. Most days, it is nearly impossible, for there are always those individuals whose presence looms so large, that all we can see is what is right there before us.

Still, failing to see some is as much a choice as choosing to see others. If our eyes have become clouded with cataracts, we need fresh ones. Through such eyes, we can honestly say, “I saw what you did today when you. . .” Ultimately, seeing is affirming. Fresh eyes say, “In this moment, in this particular place, you matter.” Too little? Perhaps, but seeing is a start.

Sadly, there were too many moments in my home, my classroom, church, and community during which I failed to see. The Wilhelm Gustloff could have been sinking in my midst, and I would not see the mothers throwing their infants to strangers who stood with outstretched arms in lifeboats below. I would not see the desperate men and women chip and claw at the ice that had frozen the remaining life boats to the ship’s side, nor would I see the multitudes standing at the rail, looking hopelessly down into the black sea that would soon take their lives.

In these moments, I did not see my own children. My nose in a book or a stack of student papers, I waved them off with red pen in hand and muttered, “I’ll be with you in a minute.” In these moments, I did not see many of my students. My eyes were on one whose continual disruptions threatened to undo us all, and I did not see those whose eyes and ears were always on me. In these moments, I did not see the parishioner who slipped from her pew early, a wadded handerkerchief in hand. And in these moments, I did not see the neighbors on every city block who wanted to lock eyes with someone, anyone.

I need fresh eyes. I need authors like Ruta Sepetys to help me see people and events beyond my time and place. And I need a passionate prescription for daily living, a reminder that fresh eyes are–at the very least–life-affirming.

Late autumn, southern Iowa

What green is left

lies muted beneath a veil of frost.

Its voice, caught in the throat of autumn,

is silent.

The wild parsnip and chicory are gone.

The linden and cottonwood loose their hair,

sending mounds of russet strands to the ground.

But what of this fodder?

What of these silos of dry bones and song?

In a season soon to sleep,

how now shall we live?

In a season soon to sleep,

who will speak the truth of green?

For white is not absence;

its presence is a crushing thing

that runs its mouth with colder claims.

So who will speak the truth of green,

its blooms and dreams,

its primrose promise of return?

Shannon Vesely