The Words of the Howell Family
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The Words of the Howell Family |
“Again the kingdom of God is like a dragnet cast into the sea, and gathering fish of every kind...” Matt 13:47
I was 26 years old and a relatively new member in the Unification Movement beginning a two year course of study at the Unification Theological Seminary.
Our studies were highlighted by visits from True Father [Rev. Moon] who frequently came to informally talk with us Seminarians. We eagerly listened for hours as he touched our hearts and imaginations, taking our education upon his own shoulders not only by starting the Seminary but by regularly searching for ways to teach and strengthen us for the challenging path ahead.
So one day Father showed up at the crack of dawn and started unloaded boxes filled with small lead weights, boxes of cork, spools of nylon twine and rope from his car. It was not at first apparent as to where this was all heading but, years later, in retrospect, it became clear that he had come upon an idea of how to convey the essence of all that he could teach in one unforgettable experience.
Speaking in Japanese, he directed some of the elder [Japanese] Seminarians to take positions assisting him whereupon he set about his chosen task with urgent intensity. Taking some sort of needle-like device the nylon twine became alive in Father's hands as he skillfully proceeded to attach the lead weights to a nylon rope. This went on for a considerable amount of time as we who gathered tried to understand what mystery was transpiring. Few, if any, had a clue. Yet we all became engrossed and convinced of its importance as we witnessed Father’s absolute absorption in his task.
As the hours went by it became apparent to me that a wordless sermon was being preached, a many faceted revelation into the life of the True Father was unfolding -- being received by each student on the level to which his faith was attuned. And as I watched it became apparent that all the commotion was about, of all things, a net! “A net! What for?” I asked myself.
Hours swept by and I noticed that Father never took a break; neither eating, drinking nor even relieving his urinary tract. But then again my attendance was on and off. And what started out as hours soon became days. Yes, “days,” for the net being made was no ordinary net. It was a massive work of living art unfolding yard after yard through a multitude of minuscule but painstaking stitches one after another. In fact each stitch required several loops and turns of the stitching tool after which the twine would be pulled tight leaving a knot fixed in place. This tedious process went on knot after seemingly endless knot as the uniform structure of a net took shape.
As mentioned, this continued for days but regretfully I failed to take note of just how many days had transpired. Regardless one thing was apparent, few Seminarians could keep pace with the master weaver; our intensity wavered: we came and we went each according to his or her various constitutions, connection to what was taking place and class schedule. However father’s dedication was as steady as a rock even working late into the night; lights were brought outside so the work could continue. However each night, one by one, most of the Seminarians faded away to their beds as time wore them down. Those who stayed were the ones, usually elder members, who could truly intuit the importance of this mysterious Korean man and his activities.
Years later, when pondering that period of time, I felt a great sense of shame at my lack of understanding and wavering attendance. But I, like many others, could, in the early Spring of 1977, only superficially perceive what was happening. Now I dread to think what realization may come to me when Father’s life is over. Will I one day wake up to realize the awful magnitude of all that I failed to fully grasp -- much as the disciples of Jesus later did?
As things turned out only a few knew just when True Father went to rest after each day’s toil. But there he would be again early next morning and another day would unfold with beads of sweat forming on his head as he wove on unifying cork, weights and rope into one harmonious creation.
Finally, the day arrived when the net making came to completion. Spiritually speaking, it seemed to have taken a long time. To my poetic soul, the net had an invisible dimension stretching into eternity, but in reality it must have been about one to two hundred feet long and about four feet in height.
Certainly some of the students and faculty thought, “Now that the net mania is over perhaps things will be returning to normal.” But that was hardly the case.
Soon thereafter we were invited to prepare to go carp fishing in the lagoon -- a small body of water, just below the Seminary property, connected to the Hudson River by means of a narrow inlet over which a railroad trestle passed. It was then that many of us realized that this type of net was not the sort to be pulled by a boat but one that was to be held at chest height while wading through water -- much as they do in Asia! It was incredulous to think that soon we would all be in the Hudson’s wintry water moving in unison attempting to herd unseen fish into the confines of the net’s ever shrinking circumference!
Although winter had ended a month or two before, the river had yet to break free from it's icy grip. This being the case, a judgment day was fast approaching as the call came for us minister trainees to descend into what would turn out to be bone-chilling waters.
Intuiting that such might be the case, we zealots, quickly wondered how to stave off the cold. On one hand it seemed as if we were in the grip of some hysteria. As mad as lemmings gathering to dash off a cliff into the sea -- we feverishly donned layers of shirts, sweatshirts, coats, pants and even sneakers all the time gathering our determination to make the unthinkable happen! Vainly, we hoped to insulate ourselves from the experience. It was a sight to behold. Certainly we candidate "messiahs" knew some bizarre adventure awaited us, but not even in our wildest dreams did we imagine the upcoming reality of our imminent baptism. Fishing, in and of itself, sounded somewhat romantic, but many were now not so sure that this was the sort of fishing they really wanted to do. Some began to ask themselves why they were there at U.T.S. in the first place; some admitted that they didn’t even like the smell or slimy nature of fish to begin with. Still many others never entertained such questions and were ready to follow Father anywhere, even believing there were beautiful golden carp lurking where none could be seen.
Finally at the lagoon’s edge, the 100 or so students of the first and second graduating classes as well as some visiting leaders, positioned themselves along the net and proceeded into the water as Father watched from a commanding rowboat.
Unless one has been in post-winter water it is hard to imagine just how cold that water was. But suffice it to say that even before I was deeply immersed I could barely breathe for that water was such a shock to my system. Still I thought, “I will adjust. It’s just a matter of time.” The thought that this was a good condition to unite with Father pushed me on.
Soon I was shoulder deep in the water. It helped to know that Father was there watching. My fellow seminarians tried to imagine just what the temperature was, as if some process of rationality might make the situation more bearable, but it was a comfortless task. We net holders moved slowly forward sweeping it along the lagoon’s bottom. It was an awkward process as we trudged through the deep mud. Progress seemed awfully slow; perhaps an hour plus had transpired. But after a while time itself also froze and I could no longer determine just how long I had been in the water -- was it minutes or an hour?
I don’t know exactly when, but at some point I ceased to notice anyone else -- so violently was I shivering. My bones began to sound like dice shaking in a cup. My jaw was chattering like some sort of machine gun. I was taken aback to find myself powerless to stop the incessant sound of my own teeth clacking together.
I found it hard to entertain the thought of getting out especially knowing Father was watching. “Wouldn't it bring some sort of sadness to Father to see everyone leave?” I remembered the story of when Father was in Hungnam prison his bones rattling in the frigid air of North Korea's winter as the prison guards called everyone out in their thin garments for morning roll call. “Father could not leave the prison”, I thought. That recollection gave me the tenacity to persevere this my own Calgary; I must not abandon him as the disciples did Jesus! I do not remember much after that for then my very thoughts also grew slow and numb.
I was literally and unknowingly crossing over the borderline of life and death. I no longer possessed the faculty of rational thought. I had heard of "hypothermia" before, but had no idea of how it subtly sapped away a person's life force fogging the brain and lulling the mind into the deceptive sleep before death. I certainly did not imagine that I was progressing through its classic symptoms, I knew I was cold, very cold -- the coldest of my life -- but I did not know that my core body temperature had dropped well below the necessary level for survival. It was only a matter of time before my situation would become irreversible.
.... To make a long story short, at one point I was jolted awake as I was pulled out of the water into a boat sometime thereafter coming back to consciousness in the Seminary infirmary, my body shaking convulsively like a runaway locomotive speeding uncontrollably downhill over a broken railroad bed. Eventually I emerged from the gauntlet...
Now, years later, as I reflect on that whole experience: the net, the river and the unforgettable baptism, the memory, like vintage wine, brings warmth to my heart as I savor the great meaning of Father’s incredible love: the love that had sought to painstakingly raise us Seminarians into those who might make a difference in this world. A father’s love, I can now understand, is tough love, disciplined love, a love that can mold a soul into something bigger, something more whole.
Now as I reflect upon that time it seems to me to be a metaphor of the mission of the True Father: his burning heart’s tireless and little understood efforts to raise up small messiahs, educated in mind and spirit, who could survive the ups and downs of the harsh path of restoration/salvation. The net became for me a metaphor for True Father’s life’s work; woven from his very soul.
Through that experience I came to see that Father’s whole life had been dedicated to making a net, everyday was a sacrifice to fashion a way to catch mankind and move them along. Each length of twine symbolizing one of Father's heartstrings. Each knot symbolizing a meeting, a rally, a speech, a tour -- a thankless seemingly never-ending task undertaken without complaint -- the science conferences, the businesses, the Blessings, the foundations and federations, the publications, the performing arts enterprises and so on. Hands hurting, back aching, mouth parched and yet smiling and still encouraging others, this is the True Father I will always remember.
Yet who could see into that heart? Who knew the story behind the beaming smile; the tearful path behind the man? He never talked of his worn tired body. He never talked of his prison time or of those who had tortured and mistreated him. Only those [followers] who had or would in the future walk a similar path would or could know. Only those who had held the net, in its broadest sense, and walked with it into the deepest and coldest waters would have some connection with Father. Because of this and many other experiences I and so many others can never forget True Father. And now our great concern is how to pass the net on to relatives, friends and descendants.