The Wind From An Eagle's Wing….

       The wind, which had long ago brought the spirit of the Arawak Indians and the wisdom of the European settlers to these island shores, had also driven the strength of the African slaves into this melting pot.  Over three hundred years had passed since this unassuming structure had been erected on St. John as The Nazareth Lutheran Evangelical Church, where people persecuted for their religious and racial differences and forced to leave their homelands could gather and worship in freedom. 

      Standing strong in the breezy tradewinds that in hotter months could easily accelerate into a tropical storm and rip into this tranquil village to transform the island into a third world mess, majestic palms were mere coconuts when they witnessed these events.  Now towers of success and strength, the trees displayed their fortitude and guarded the front entry, like holy knights waiting for the service to begin.  These same winds now massaging the mature palm fronds also cooled the backs of our sweating necks as we walked the last few blocks to enjoy another Sunday service, to be part of this small but established outpost, to give thanks for our blessings, and to pay our respects.

       Three days prior the only communication I had received from my father in weeks was a text message to inform me that Leroy “Pop” Miller had died, and his funeral would be today.  Isolated on an island with no airport and erratic phone service, a thousand miles away from home and unable to attend, my regrets of not being there tickled my heartstrings like the sound of an out of tune mandolin.  The message had read like an old telegram: “Pop died today.  Funeral Sunday.  He was 92.” 

       "Pop" meant much more to our family than a simple obituary could summarize and we all knew that.  Much like these palm trees we were walking by, he was a tall and stalwart educator called to demonstrate his strength during the storms of desegregation and civil rights, when my generation was attending school.  He was an African-American, a black man, with nine brothers and sisters who despite the winds of racial turmoil blowing against the youth of his generation, had sprouted and risen with his siblings to attend colleges, complete degrees and educate others.  Pop had finally been planted as Principal at East Mecklenburg High School, home of the Eagles, just a few years before I attended there, soon to be followed in their turn by my three sisters, and thousands of other rudderless and adrift students, safely protected under his disciplined branches.

  

       Forty years ago, his influence had guided our lives, steering our school to a success and spirit few Eagles before had ever known.  East Meck Eagles had winning seasons in basketball and cross country, won State Championships in football and volleyball, and all the time coexisted in class and on the field in racial harmony. Eagles won academic scholarships; no school had ever had two Morehead Scholars in one year, but that year he guided us Eagles to two, one of them mine, and to my eventual decision to become a doctor.  He had kept in touch with many Eagle graduates, attending our wedding reception, allowing me the great honor of doing his cataract surgery after he retired, and meeting at Eagle reunions to swap stories and exchange hugs. And every year, I exchanged Christmas cards with my pal, my East Meck Eagle high school principal. 

       Seated in this church, embraced by swaying palms and ocean breezes, and serenaded by crowing free-range roosters and chirping bananakeets, we meditated.  We were joined in worship by strangers - the ancestors of the Arawak, the descendants of the Europeans, and the offspring of the African islanders, and they welcomed us in racial harmony with their spirit, wisdom and strength, like family.  On this poor little island a thousand miles from home and as beautiful as heaven itself, named by the infamously religious Christopher Columbus after John, who according to scripture was Jesus’ “favorite and most beautiful” disciple, we prayed in a serene silence, wishing we could be a part of Pop’s funeral.  

       The quiet was finally broken when a tall African islander with graying hair and creases in his face entered the sanctuary.  His vibrant and deep voice commanded attention. Looking directly into my eyes, our pastor welcomed the service to begin with Hymn 137:  “On Eagles’ Wings.”  As I gazed down at my old high school ring still fitting snugly on my finger, I recognized the hymn.  It was the same music sung at my high school graduation.

       When confronted with something mysterious like this, it is said people break down into two groups.  The first group sees this as something due to chance, a coincidence.  It creates for them a sense of anxiety and unease.  For them, everything is random and death is something to fear, for they are alone.  The second group, they see this as a sign.  For them, it is a symbol we are not alone, reassurance that there is some greater power out there watching over us, connecting us.  And the second group is filled with hope.*

       On that day, on that island, in that church, because of a belief in a greater power out there, we realized we were at Pop’s funeral.  And we were filled with hope.  With tears in our eyes and tingles on our arms, we connected with our family and friends back home, and sang with great gratitude “On Eagles’ Wings”.  

       Then, in the stillness that followed, on the back of my neck, I am sure I felt the wind of an eagle’s wings.

The Eagle is the symbol for the island of St. John

*attributed to Mel Gibson's monologue in the movie Signs. M.Night Shyamala, 2002