Writings on the Walls, N. Barry Carver [top business books of all time txt] 📗

Forward

Shall I tell you of my travels?


Of watching the sun set into (and rise from) the Atlantic (and the Pacific)? Shall I turn out a fiction about scaling Mr. Eiffel’s monstrosity or a truth about chiseling away on the Berlin wall? You see, I’ve wandered a bit in this old world, and while I’ve chased down the beggars that stole my wife’s wallet in Paris; been stymied by the language–and driving habits in London, and supped on raw horse-meat in the outskirts of Nagasaki... I’ve found that travel is as much an inward thing as an outward one.

Let me instead tell you of much quieter places where there is nothing of human grandeur greater than the simple stacking of rocks to make a wall. The first wall was a division by decree that has outlasted the empire that made it. The second is a wall that it took an act of faith to reveal.

They are separated by nearly four thousand miles of earth and sea and yet turn upon a single point where neither of them is located: Rome.

Loo–See

On the occasion of visiting Hadrian’s Wall (The ancient Roman dividing point between Scotland and England) I have this day met a fine border collie. I thought her name was “Lucy” but I have since been informed that it is Loo-See.

Being a guard dog of the highest order, the name fits her. For, whenever there is a curious noise or action it’s this lovely black and white canine who is the first to go and have a look see.

She has today told me a message that I promised her I would pass on to those who might find themselves in similar straits but, since she was doubtful they’d listen, I’ll instead share it with you who better learn such lessons. Luckily, here at the tourist stop, right on that wall, there is an internet connection and hot tea, so I’ll take a moment and type this out.

Loo-See tells me that there once was a nearby wild dog, whom she referred to as a wolf (though I have my doubts), who would take the occasional stray sheep, eat what he could and leave the rest to rot, here near the old Roman fort of Birdoswald.

After many years, and several generations of this wolf’s activities, a wise collie (apparently this one’s great, great grand bitch) went to the wolf and offered this:

“If you would please,” she kindly said, “you are doing an awful lot of chasing and leaving quite a bit of unnecessary waste so, if you’ll agree to a deal, we can all get on much better.”

“You need to eat, obviously, and we need to live in peace. Let us agree to this then: Every third day, I will gather my flock and you may take a small bite from each one–until your hunger is satisfied. We will each hurt a bit but that’s the worst of it. What say you?”

Well, the wolf agreed and all was fine for a fortnight, and then another... but, on a cold midwinter morning, when the wolf was sleeping amid his new benefactors, the old urges overcame him and he ate a small lamb whole.

“We trusted you,” cried the collie, who had no interest in violence but was fond of her charges and knew the requirements of her job.

“It won’t happen again,” said the wolf.

And it didn’t...

For the collie tore his throat out in less than a minute... ending the entire line.

----

Ignoring my allergies, I thanked the dog for the story, with a long, slow scratching down her neck and as I turned to leave, she barked me to turn back. When I did, she reminded me to tread lightly amid these ancient ruins, on the marked path only, and not to stray. She gave me a funny wink, but all the same I noted that her teeth were sharp and well maintained.

Now that I’ve finished writing this down for you, I shall leave very carefully indeed.

Grotto

This is not the story that’s told in the libraries of the Vatican. Nor is it the one they tell at the tourist office I’m about to bypass for you. It may not even be true, but it is the story that I have found in my heart to share with you today and I hope the message will be equal to any of the shortcomings of my telling it.

I’ll start in Germany in the 1890’s. A young Paul Dobberstein is less than a month from being ordained as a Catholic priest when he falls ill. He makes nothing of it and continues his daily routine until one morning he can’t even get out of bed.

A doctor confirms it is pneumonia, which before the turn of the last century, was much more of a threat than it is today. With a wet winter coming on, in southern Germany, in a seminary famous mostly for its poverty, it was as close to a death sentence as anyone could get.

Brother Dobberstein, a tall thin boy who would never live to see himself as anything but, prayed his rosary and remembrances but in those dark days, and for the first time, his prayer included his own health.

By the time ordinations and assignments were handed out a gaunt young man stepped back from death’s door and took on the mantle of priesthood. From that day until his last he was as good a counselor, guide and friend as any man can be... but on that day, while still regaining his health, he prayed out his thanks and made a vow. Lord, the new priest prayed, Thank you for my life. Thank you for your love and for my chance to serve those who would follow you. I will build you a great temple, to the holy virgin, that will be a wonder to the world.

Sad as it is and no matter how courageous our intentions, the world has its own ways and some promises, heartfelt though they may be, are impossible to keep.

I move now to 1910 and Father Dobberstein has been called to a small town in Iowa. Most of the residents are German migrants and he proceeds to take up the duties as the head of the parish of Saints Peter & Paul in the desolate northwest corner of an unremarkable frontier state.

After opening a small Catholic school there (the first in the region) Dobberstein felt that he was getting into the swing of things and turned to a childhood interest in collecting rocks. Not very exciting for most folks but a very inexpensive hobby and, considering the shallow nature of the collection plate in West Bend (the town’s name referring to what the Des Moines river does near there) inexpensive was a very good thing.

Times were indeed lean and attempting a few homemade patches on his aging cathedral made him understand just how far his first hobby was from the study of architecture or the skill the of mason. If he was going to keep the roof from coming in, he’d need more money than the locals could generate.

After months of asking Diocese of Des Moines and finding their coffers also somewhat bare, he wrote to Rome. Telling the Holy Father of his plight, and recognizing at the same time that there were worse off, he mentioned his vow he made on his ordination day. How can I build the temple I pledged, when I cannot even keep the snow out of my church?

Although it may sound unsympathetic, the only reply came from Des Moines, along with a reminder that the Pope did not need to be bothered by every parish problem half the world away.

The final decision of the Diocese was a simple note to Father Dobberstein indicating that the local craftspeople might be of more use than he was currently getting from them. The note simply reminded him that money was an intermediary step, something to be used, like a hammer, or a muscle. He must confine his repairs, his plans and his life to use: Only what God has provided.

By the spring of 1912 the river’s annual vagaries had left him with a stagnating pond next his temple–which a patchwork of repairs held together. This was not the wondrous palace he had promised. It was a failing building and an empty lot unworthy of the support his community had invested. Behind the tiny rectory there was a small pile of collected stones half sorted by color and geological interest. Even his hobby had no structure or reason. Amid a cacophony of crickets and birds, a dejected young priest picked up a plain river-stone to launch pond-ward in disgust grumbling the refrain that was ruining his life: only what God has provided!

At this moment, I am stopped in my story wondering what you are made of? Are you the thing that your heart tells you that you are... or are you that collection of water and calcium that logic knows you are? Are you the coalesced fog of a thousand dreams... or the biological output of a crude process that starts with unprotected sex?

I tell you that you are... all of that. And, what’s more, you are a stone–like the one in Dobberstein’s hand. You are the impossible answer to what came before the big bang and God’s raison d'être (not the other way around). You are only the partially-tapped tip of your potential iceberg and that which stands in your way is the supposedly unsinkable Titanic.

Fr. Dobberstein never threw that rock, for it was what God provided. From that day he began working, with no blueprint of any kind, on a tribute to his God, community and the faith that saved his life and made it worth living. For the next 42 years, he laid one stone on top of another, with the tiniest bit of invisibly placed concrete, to form what some actually call a miracle.

The Grotto Of The Redemption

stands in West Bend, Iowa. I have been there. I have marveled at its beauty and been dwarfed by its scale and achievement.

Using nothing but the rocks he collected and was given, and working through blistering Iowa winters; two world wars; the great depression; nine presidencies and nearly as many popes, Paul Dobberstein built a cathedral worthy to praise his God. Most of the stones are no bigger than your thumb but from them he has built the Stations of the Cross (each large enough for you to worship inside), a bed of limestone roses–even the tearful hill of Calvary. A giant marquee spells out the Sermon on the Mount, made in contrasting bits of copper ore, and it stands next to a pearly gate (of pearls, opals, and polished quartz) that marks the entrance to this city-blocked sized sample of paradise. All made with his own hand and only what God provided.

On July 24th 1954, after a long day in the sun fitting geodes into a wall called the View of Heaven, Father Paul put down his trowel and left to