God and Dog Travelogue

I’m in Vermont and the high today was 57, a full forty degrees less than it is in Augusta.  Thanks be to God.  I don’t think I could tough out the New England winters but the summers…on my!

I’m staying in the Bennington Motor Inn, which is wonderfully kitschy.  It is literally on

Main Street

and I mean literally.  There is a guard rail fifteen feet from the front door of my room.

  The place is a bit overdone with country charm; plastic flowers and American flags festoon the front of the Inn.  The room has two brass beds, which are very comfortable, a chair and desk,  It is the cleanest room I’ve ever seen.  Perfect.  Jack and Kelsey are with me and are terrific travel companions.

Yesterday I arrived in Bennington, VT, a small, eclectic college town after driving two days to get here.  This morning I had a wonderful breakfast at the Blue Benn Diner.  It is a converted railway car that has been turned into a diner.  I sat at the counter and ordered what had to be a quintessential Vermont breakfast – blueberry pancakes, Vermont maple syrup and bacon and hot, steaming coffee.   Conversation was swirling around me. A booth full of men were discussing politics and religion – the two supposed “no nos” of any polite conversation.   In a booth behind me a woman began singing a snippet of the aria “I know that my Redeemer Lives” in one of the clearest soprano voices I’ve ever had the pleasure of hearing.  She was singing softly to her companion, who turned out to be her voice teacher.  The soprano said, “I’ve finally leaned to take my time with it, to know how to sing it.”  How do you take your time with that phrase?  It takes a life time to let its music fill your life and not just be a song but the song of your life and the life to come.

 I know that my Redeemer lives.  I (myself, my truest self, the one I can’t hide from anyone, including God).  I know (this knowledge is not just a matter of faith but fact.  I know).  I know that. I know that my Redeemer (this Redeemer who came for the world has also come for me.  Just for me.)  I know that my Redeemer (the one who redeems my life, who is life, who give life and gives meaning to life).  I know that my Redeemer lives (He lives!  Jesus isn’t just a figure in a book, a well remembered teacher but one who lives, who continues to live and who chooses to live within m own life.)

The passion of just that one line, “I know that my Redeemer lives” was proof enough that the singer had learned not just how to sing that phrase but how to believe it, live it through her music.  Who would have thought that I would have a lesson in the resurrection in a Vermont dinner?

The other lesson learned came from the waitress.  This was her church. She knew her members and even the newcomers by name. A couple of men came in who apparently had been in for the first time just the day before.  She called out to them, “Ice water and Sprite, right?”  It was right.  A woman came and sat in the stool next to me.  Coffee appeared without asking and then a bowl of oatmeal topped with brown sugar.  “For I know my sheep and my sheep know me.”  Everyone who walked in was made to feel welcomed.  This was her church and she was the pastor.  I thanked her for her ministry and asked how I might ask God to bless her today.  She said I had already done that by thanking her.  The woman sitting next to me said to me, “Your right.  You must be an angel to her today.” I wasn’t but perhaps I was being used to be an angel unawares by letting one person know that I was aware of her, that she had been noticed for noticing others. To the young soprano, I thanked her for her song as I made my way out, which is where I learned that she was singing to her voice teacher.  They were preparing for a recital on Saturday and I got to her the dress rehearsal.

Its night and Jack and Kelsey are already asleep.  I will be also soon enough.  Tomorrow I go to Stowe, Vermont where I make a pilgrimage to Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream factory and learn the tortuous process of how Cherry Garcia, my favorite flavor, became Cherry Garcia.  I’ll swing by the Von Trapp family lodge where Maria and all the little Von Trapps put down roots after fleeing the Nazis from Austria.  Then I go to Dog Mountain and the Dog Chapel in St, Johnsbury, Vermont.  Dog chapel was created by an artist and is open to dogs and their special people.  I can’t wait.