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.
