History
is full of strange coincidences, and the Civil War is no exception. In the
1950s, Stefan Lorant was researching a book on Abraham Lincoln when he came
across an image of the President’s funeral procession as it moved down Broadway
in New York City. The photo was dated April 25, 1865.
At
first it appeared like one of any number of photographs of Lincoln’s funeral
procession, until he identified the house on the corner as that of Cornelius
van Schaack Roosevelt; the grandfather of future President Teddy Roosevelt and
his brother Elliot.
The
coincidence might have ended there, but Lorant took a closer look. In the
second story window of the Roosevelt mansion he noticed the heads of two boys
are peering out onto Lincoln’s funeral procession.
Lorant had the rare
opportunity to ask Teddy Roosevelt’s wife about the image, and when she saw it,
she confirmed what he had suspected. The faces in the window were those of a
young future President and his brother. “Yes, I think that is my husband, and
next to him his brother.”
Just one of numerous
examples of people coming together, the rich, the famous, or simply commoners
to mourn, acknowledge or celebrate one happening or another.
The crowds that greeted “Lucky Lindy” as he brought
his weary aircraft down at Le Bourget Aerodrome.
The masses which gathered in London’s Trafalgar Square
to celebrate VE Day, and the multiplied thousands who congregated in New York’s
Times Square to celebrate VJ Day; finally bringing WWII to a close.
The festive tickertape parade which welcome General
Douglas MacArthur back from Korea; after having been sacked by President
Truman.
The live, virtual audience of literally billions, (of
whom I was one) who watched Neil Armstrong climb down the ladder, and take his
first tentative step upon the surface of the moon.
I have often mused about the aftermath of such events
as these, and the crowds which came together to celebrate the end of a war or a
military career, or those historic, watershed accomplishments; (which when,
subsequently, repeated would gradually be considered nominal and mundane).
We view the photographs. We watch the films. We look
into their vibrant eyes, we note their smiling lips, we hear their muted sobs
or raucous cheers.
But the assembled throng, (including a future
president) which, unwittingly, posed for Lincoln’s funeral procession on one of
the most celebrated avenues of this dear country
…are all gone now. Every single one of them. Gone.
Only we, their descendants, remain.
And how many who greeted Mr. Lindbergh at Le Bourget
in 1927 are still with us? Were we to invite those waving, cheering masses, who
lined the streets of London and New York in 1945, or who celebrated MacArthur’s
return, to recreate their pilgrimage, how many would appear? Paradoxically, would
a reunion photo be more poignant for the lack of people, and the empty streets
which they once filled up? What fraction of the billion who starred wide-eyed
into their black and white television sets in July, 1969, as Colonel Armstrong
left his dusty footprints on the lunar surface, still live, and breathe and
move among us?
Scripture assures us that “It is appointed unto man
once to die…” (Hebrews 9:27) We simply cannot stay here. It is crucial that we
work out whatever calling, that we use whatever talent, that we complete any
goal which God has instilled within us; while there is still time to do so.
I have often reflected on one particular scene in the
movie, “Dead Poet’s Society;” (a good movie and an extraordinary scene).
“Mr. Keating,” (portrayed by Robin Williams) a teacher at
a private boy’s school, leads his boys down the stairs from the classroom, and
into the lobby of the institution.
The young professor walks towards a couple of trophy
cases, and instructs his pupils to gather about him.
“Now I would like you to step
forward over here and peruse some of the faces from the past. You've walked
past them many times. I don't think you've really looked at them. They're not
that different from you, are they? Same haircuts. Full of hormones, just like
you. Invincible, just like you feel. The world is their oyster. They believe
they're destined for great things, just like many of you. Their eyes are full
of hope, just like you.”
Mr. Keating’s boys are
“all ears” by this point in his monologue. They know something of some value is coming.
And with the assurance of
someone wiser than his years, the teacher continues.
“Did these young men in the
photographs wait until it was too late to make from their lives even one iota
of what they were capable? Because you see gentlemen, these boys are now
fertilizing daffodils. But if you listen closely, you can hear them whisper
their legacy to you. Go on, lean in. Listen. Do you hear it? (whispering in
a gruff voice) Carpe. Hear it? (whispering) Carpe. Carpe Diem.
…Seize the day boys. Make your
lives extraordinary.”
And I think we have the
privilege, opportunity and obligation to do this.
…To make our own lives
extraordinary.
To discover the best
within us. To find out that one thing which separates us from the rest. To
develop that talent, that gift, that interest, which almost begs for a forum;
to a razor’s edge. To, as Mr. Keating admonishes us, make our lives
extraordinary. And I think we have the innate wherewithal to do this.
… (Though I think too few
tend to do so).
The sobs and the cheers
of those long lost crowds are muted now; and cannot be revisited. The season
has passed. The crowds and throngs have long past lived out their lives and
gone on to their reward. It is left for us, the living, to complete the task
which God has instilled within our hearts
It is left to us to take
time to listen, and to go about fulfilling whatever plans God has designed for
us, as individuals, to complete.
In the words of Mr.
Keating,
“Go on, lean in. Listen. Do
you hear it?
Carpe. Carpe Diem.
Seize the day boys and girls.
Make your lives extraordinary.”
…While there is still
time.
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