The Sinking of the Titanic - 102nd Anniversary

I will give a moment of silence to not only those who perished on this day 102 years ago, but also to those who were forced to live with the impact of that awful night – the loss of a loved one and the unbearable grief, denial, and sadness that comes with it; a life turned upside down and the questions, confusion, and uncertainty that come with rebuilding one’s life when so much that is important has been lost; the survivor’s guilt; the anger; the loneliness; the inevitable questioning of what once was an unwavering faith in God; and the growing knowledge that they would have to somehow, someway, explain to their children why the one they looked up to, loved, and trusted would not be embarking from the Carpathia with them. 

On this day I would also like to thank the people who have come into my life as a result of my interest in the beautiful transatlantic liners of the early to mid 1900s.  I’ll be spending the evening as I do most years with them in an online chat.  Their honesty, integrity, and compassion are above reproach and I’m blessed to have them in my life.  As do interests and hobbies, people come and go in one’s life, but just as my interest in the transatlantic liners of the early to mid 1900s, my interest in their lives be it their accomplishments, disappointments, milestones, failings, or everyday life occurrences will never waver.  

There appears to be some debate as to whom to attribute this writing, but from what I’ve read, Henry Van Dyke, American clergyman, author, and educator appears to be the likely source.  Titled “A Parable of Immortality,” this piece is often read at funerals.  It seems appropriate given the circumstances.  A family member of a friend of mine who died many years ago sent it to me and it has remained with me ever since.  In this case, I’d like to think the “other voices” are the family and friends of those who perished in the sinking, and who have passed before them.   

A Parable of Immortality 

I am standing on the seashore.  A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean.  She is an object of beauty and strength, and I stand and watch her until at length she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come down to mingle with each other.  Then someone at my side says:  “There, she’s gone.”  Gone where?  Gone from my sight, that is all.  She is just as large in mast and hull and spars as when she left my side, and just as able to bear her load of living freight to their place of destination.  Her diminished size is in me, not in her.  And just at the moment when someone at my side says:  “There, she’s gone,” there are other eyes that are watching her coming and other voices ready to take up the glad shout, “There she comes!” – and that is dying.