I Can See Clearly Now

I can still feel the calm of the midnight sun. Inky sky with stars shining like tiny solar lights. So close to the touch.

Rows of small houses parked side by side. Some with graveled yards, some with faded grass harboring the occasional dandelion wish flower half blown off in the summer breeze.

Kicking a rock over that cracked sidewalk ending at Janices trailer, I found myself singing out loud in a voice that did not shake for the first time.

Safe, accepted and loved under that vast Alaskan sky. The Big Dipper almost sitting on my head.

It was 1972 and The Jesus Revolution had made its way up the Alcan Highway from sunny California to central Alaska, placing me prostrate on the altar of childhood in my maxi dress with the white peasant bodice, surrendering my heart to the acceptance of God's love.

I was 9 years old and feeling the freedom of an old soul.

Prior to this was the springtime of my 9th year. After the frozen chill of winter I couldn't wait to put on my new red windbreaker with the white lining. I liked the way my blonde hair felt swishing against the smooth fabric as I walked through the rutted streets of my community, breathing in all the scents of a new season.

Gravel and potholes created the kind of mud puddles a child dreams of. Filled with water and dirtied sediment from heavy rains the night before, I would sing Johnny Nash's number one hit that seemed to play on the radio over and over.

"I Can See Clearly Now the rain is gone. I can see all obstacles in my way. Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind. It's gonna be a bright, bright, bight, sunshiny day."

I sang without understanding. Splashing with my winter boots, trying not to get the fur lining inside wet. Unsuccessful.

Up above the sun danced in and out between the pale gray clouds occasionally presenting a peek of blue. Hope that summer had not forgotten us after all way up here in a land far from the perfection of my sister's Teen Magazine covers.

Far from Southern California, wild with Jesus moving though the lives of the least expected.

Those that did not walk through cathedral doors or stare at stained glass windows. Those who wore sandals not loafers. Those who wore beads not pearls.

Those who wrapped themselves in hemp, slept in community, shared bread and stories and dreamt of a better world where love looked like Jesus.

This is what shook suits and ties and Sunday best. Shook traditional church, challenging peoples understanding of true love.

Not everywhere. Not everyone. But just enough that even in the furthest throes of the 49th state, His spirit came calling after me.

As spring made way to summer in my land, the days ran into nights. Lines were blurred and living in the middle of a world that does not seem to end (for a child) is the playground of a bottomless life.

Three months of eternal vacation.

Swimming and biking, forts and paper dolls. Camp.

Kickball in the street with timeouts just to run in and out of neighbors' homes for popsicles and Kool aide.

And my best friend.

She didn't go to church. Neither did I. But nonetheless as the summer of '72 was coming to a close she invited me to attend a gathering with her large family. Her siblings played guitar and sang, laughed and teased and expressed themselves in all the ways my family did not.

I desperately wanted to be a part of them.

My family was Lutheran, in name. We went to church on holidays, maybe a weeklong bible school in the summers. Strict. Simply living by the golden rule that I never remember anyone truly explaining. In time, I just figured out it meant to be good. To never do or say anything wrong. Keep your feelings tucked. Pull up your bootstraps.

I translated it to mean "be perfect" and the older I grew the more I failed, miserably.

But I begged my parents to let me go to church with them. And because it was, you know, church, they said yes.

I put on my maxi dress with the white peasant bodice.

I don't think my father was following the Jesus movement of California. At the very least I don't think he knew it had invaded our hometown. I'm sure he thought we were safe from the craziness of what we knew as the lower 48. For if he had known, I would never have walked through the doors of that building to experience a heart open up to light that can never be dimmed.

But Jesus has His ways. Even if your young, innocent and not looking, of plucking you out.

Of placing you on a path. Of planting a mustard seed in the heart of a babe.

Of waiting.

I can still hear the music playing and feel the awe of being someplace I should not be, yet should.

And although I know now there were surely those high on something other than Jesus, all I saw were the smiles of angels. All I felt were hugs, grace and a joy I personally had never witnessed under the roof of a church.

Words were spoken like poetry to me. Like a personal lullaby for my lost soul that I did not know was lost.

I'm not sure I even understood I was a part of a revival that was sweeping America. I didn't know, there in my corner of the planet, that this was the beginning of my future.

I only knew I felt free. Prostrate on that altar before a God I could not see.

And I sang with my best friend's family in that van all the way home. I sang down the sidewalk. Kicked that rock to the cracked sidewalks end in front of Janices trailer. In my brown leather sandals and dusty toes.

Skip danced in my favorite maxi dress.

I was a flower child who had met Jesus until I rounded the corner to hear my father's voice breaking through my glass house, calling my name.

Little cracks crossing over the music of my heart, silencing the words to my song, bringing me back to the world of rights and wrongs.

Of church on Sunday morning where Jesus lived with His wooden cross, not under the midnight sun where wild freedom prevails.

I see him standing on that front stoop now, differently. My father. Angry and sorry he had let his daughter go, church or not. Worried about her being out late on a Saturday night when she was only 9.

Imagination soaring.

The moon illuminating his white tee shirt and faded jeans. His look of panic and then relief as I came running across the graveled road to heed his call, resigning my voice.

Soundless then, my strength not yet formed in those tender years, I simply tucked it away for a time to work its magic into every fiber of my being.

Slowly, methodically, later circumstances would lead me to rise and know God with the joy of that first moment.

But tonight, within the mystery of it all, I felt protected. By both fathers.

I think maybe that's what heaven shall be like. My childhood.

Not golden streets but dirt and gravel. Cracked sidewalks that stop in front of those you knew and loved. Kickball, popsicles and no fear of the neighbors. The purity of splashing in a springtime puddle. Of looking up to see spaces of blue hope between speckled sunshine and clouds.

Of my father in a white tee shirt, waiting. Loving me enough.

And we will all be singing "Oh, yes we can make it now the pain is gone. All of the bad feelings have gone away. Here is that rainbow we've been praying for. It's gonna be a bright, bright, bright, sunshiny day."

Thank you for reading!

If you enjoyed my last book "If I Saw You on Sunday" which was a fundraiser for a school in Mexico, I am currently working towards another book of my collective writings and have joined Vocal to help with the cost.

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Salud!