The Marker’s Meaning
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Some years back I read a story in the Indianapolis Star. It was a Sunday paper kind of an article about finding happiness. “The truth is,” says the column, “the real secret to happiness isn’t a secret at all. It’s just not that pleasant a truth. Nor does it rhyme. Which is why it is never cross-stitched, hung over the fireplace or emblazoned on tote bags. The secret to happiness is realizing that life is often hard.”
A local colleague, Wendy Bell, used to talk about riding the bus on her commute through a suburb called Arlington Heights. You have to remember that even suburbs are very old in the Boston area, by American standards at least, and Wendy would sit there on the bus and watch out the window until she saw it. She would sit there on the bus and sooner or later there it would be, the monument—the stone marker—the one that tells the account of one day in the life of Samuel Whittemore.
“On April 19th, 1775,” the marker reads, “Samuel Whittemore was shot, bayoneted, beaten, and left for dead.” He was eighty years old. Dr. Tufts, of Medford, declared that it was useless to dress Mr. Whittemore’s wounds.
Each of us has some pretty tough days. And it’s not always the big-time tough stuff like literally being left for dead that gets us—it’s the lost sock that can just as easily put us over the edge, or running out of cat food, or remembering to save that all-important computer file just as the screen goes blank. But whatever it is, whether your child won’t sleep through the night or your feelings for your partner are clearly waning, whatever it is…at least you are not Samuel Whittemore on his “no good, very bad day.” Thus far, no matter how bad it feels, you have not actually been shot, bayoneted, beaten and left for dead.
For some of us, salvation comes, historically at least, in “salvation by character.” We believe there is something wonderful inside us—you could call it inherent dignity and worth—that allows us to work toward good character, wholeness, healing, and all that is good. We have within us a little core of natural hope—some bit of life that lies waiting to spring into action. And even better, we don’t have to just sit and wait: we can act to realize that hope, that life, that wholeness. In spite of the difficulties in both our own experience and of life in the larger world, we do what we can. Therein lies our salvation.
Rabbi Harold Schulweis writes in “Playing with Three Strings,” a poem about Yitzhak Perlman,
On one occasion one of his violin strings broke.
The audience grew silent,
the violinist did not leave the stage.
Signaling the maestro,
The violinist played with power and intensity
on only three strings.
With three strings, he modulated, changed, and
Recomposed the piece in his head…
The audience screamed delight,
Applauded their appreciation.
Asked how he had accomplished this feat,
The violinist answered
It is my task to make music with what remains….
That hope, that strength, that “salvation by character,” is what many of us have been looking for. We have found that people have a light inside. We have a spirit. We bounce back. Maybe politically, maybe spiritually or psychologically, or medically, or morally. Sometimes in small ways—you got up and wrote a pretty decent letter to your local newspaper this morning, even though your coffeemaker let you down, or you ran an extra mile along the river. You can feel some hope inside, a little glow inside, hope for the world and for us all. Your power and your zest come back—you can feel it in your fingers and toes, you can imagine a time when lessons will have been learned—a few lessons anyway—a time when your efforts and our efforts together will pay off and no one— no one—is ever left for dead.
Which reminds me. Samuel Whittemore’s marker. Eighty years old in 1775—shot, bayoneted, beaten, and left for dead in Arlington. Samuel Whittemore survived that day. More than survived. He recovered and lived to be ninety-eight years old.
Life, the world, it can all get pretty desperate—shot, bayoneted, beaten, and left for dead. But we believe in the light of life, in that something inside that can awaken and shine and sing all songs of hope.
From From Zip Lines to Hosaphones: Dispatches from the Search for Truth and Meaning by Rev. Jane Rzepka, published by Skinner House in 2011. This book is available through the UUA Bookstore (800-215-9076) or the CLF library.
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