Come, children, gather ‘round and hear what I have to say. Draw close to me – you won’t want to miss a syllable. For it has been asked, time and again, “How do we come to be here?” How, indeed…
It was this time of year. The nights were lengthening, dry leaves blew on the biting wind, and anticipation of upcoming holidays mixed with panic of all that needed to be done. Oh, it was a simpler time, before we had computers in our homes, dare I say before some of us were born, or when some of us were living unexceptional lives, unaware of what was about to happen.
An ordinary, every day event, unremarkable at the time. A child, a son, a family enlarged. His mother knew, but then mothers always know. Her son was special. Her son was destined for Great Things.
And so he grew, part of a loving family, nurtured and cherished, the object of the family’s delight. He was, to the casual observer, a typical lad, with hair in his eyes and scrapes on his knees. He was curious and adventurous, clever and inquisitive. The whole world was his playground, his library, his laboratory, his wilderness.
His teachers recognized his spark. And he took from them everything he could, always demanding more. When their answers didn’t satisfy him, he thought and thought and came up with his own explanations. And he knew, deep in his core, that the world had a special place for him. And he knew, when the call sounded, he would be ready to answer.
Meanwhile, years turned to decades and the boy was a man. He knew it was time to move from the home he’d always known and find his place in the world. He met the woman who would help him forge the next part of his life. They married and soon had a family of their own. He was happy, but he was not yet complete. In the depths of his being dwelled an aching void. Neither love not fatherhood could touch that place, for it was the place to be filled by his destiny, and his search continued.
Our story is now in more recent times. He, like many of us, has a computer. His world expands further, and he begins to see what he was meant to do. Slowly at first, and then with more confidence, he masters the medium. He explores and learns and realizes that this machine and connection are not merely tools. They are his portal and he steps through, prepared to do what he knows he must.
Hands to keyboard, he writes. Fingertips on plastic squares become his conduit. His entire life has led to this. His wisdom and wit, his ponderings and playfulness, his reason to be take shape among the electrical impulses. Like a man possessed, he places his offerings on the virtual altar.
Before long, he is noticed, first by a few, and then by more. Some are eager followers and some come along more slowly and skeptically. Yet all are united in their admiration, their awe.
And so are we united as we gather ‘round in this season of dry leaves and biting winds. We will celebrate Thanksgiving with out families (or muddle through yet another Thursday if we don’t live in the US.) And on Friday, as we fight our way through the over-commercialized shopping malls or make just one more turkey sammich or breathe a sigh of TGIF, we should pause for a moment to reflect and be grateful for him who drew us together. And to say, “Happy Birthday, Uncle Rue!”
Yes, Friday is Rue-day. The rest of the stuff I wrote contains a lot of poetic license. For all I know, Mama DeDay kept her son in a cardboard box in the attic…
We’re going to have to go out tonight to get a new one at Lowe’s.
