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Safety Harbor
Keepers of the Light
Chuck Cooper
Safety Harbor
Keepers of the Light
Copyright © 2016 Chuck Cooper. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.
Resource Publications
An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers
199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3
Eugene, OR 97401
www.wipfandstock.com
paperback isbn: 978-1-5326-1388-3
hardcover isbn: 978-1-5326-1390-6
ebook isbn: 978-1-5326-1389-0
Manufactured in the U.S.A. July 17, 2017
Rory Cooney is a composer in Lake Zurich, Illinois. His song, Safety Harbor, is available at giamusic.com, and his many songs can be found on iTunes. Mr. Cooney has served as Director of Music and Liturgy at Saint Anne Catholic Community in Barrington, Illinois for 23 years.
Safety Harbor by Rory Cooney
Copyright © 1989, GIA Inc.
All rights reserved. Used by Permission
Some Scripture texts in this work are taken from the New American Bible, Revised Edition, © 2010, 1991, 1986, 1970 Confraternity of Christian Doctrine, Washington, D.C, and are used by permission of the copyright owner. All Rights Reserved. No part of the New American Bible may be produced in any form without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
Some content taken from New Living Translation of the Bible, Copyright © 1996.Used by permission of Tyndale House. All rights reserved.
The Mercy of God is an Ocean Divine, Albert B. Simpson, 1891, Public Domain
Eternal Father, The Navy Hymn, William Whiting, 1860, Public Domain
Blest Be the Tie That Binds, John Fawcett, 1782, Public Domain
Take My Hand, Precious Lord, Thomas A. Dorsey, 1932, Public Domain
Breton Fisherman’s Prayer, Anonymous, Public Domain
To my beloved wife, Patty, who has shared herself with me so generously, for many years.
Preface
One of the most memorable events in my ministry took place in its earliest days.
“Mother wants to see you,” said one of my parishioners, in a small parish I was serving in the Midwest. “Can you come over right away?”
Her mother was on her deathbed.
When I arrived at the house and entered the bedroom where she lay, I asked, “What can I do for you, Mother?”
“I want to know,” she said, “that when I cross the Jordan River, Jesus will be waiting for me, on the other side.”
I recall no quotes from any theologian or scholar that have been seared into my memory as has that dear woman’s words. That plea from the depths of her spirit, in her last days, has stayed with me through all of my years.
The real depth of the spiritual life is not contained within the high echelons of religious institutions or in the public proclamations of the prominent, but in the common life of ordinary people. Here it is, that we live out our lives, with our anxieties, fears, regrets, hopes, and dreams. Here, we wrestle with the great questions of life. If we are open, it is in this living, that the Mysterium Tremendum comes to us in many ways and in different forms, and miracles happen.
The story told within these pages is of just such a community of people, who struggle with ambiguous relationships, who wrestle with their demons, who experience loneliness and self-doubt, who are flawed, who live with regret, unbelief, and sorrow. Yet, in spite of life’s challenges, they experience joy, healing, and grace, and are capable of noble and heroic deeds.
Welcome to Safety Harbor. I think you’ll like it here!
Acknowledgements
My deepest appreciation to those who generously took the time read my manuscript in its varying stages of development, and who encouraged me to submit my work for publication.
I am grateful to my wife, Dr. Patty Pickett-Cooper, and to Patrick Sousa, for their kindness in editing this manuscript.
Chapter 1
The summer sun rose over the hills with a surprisingly bright intensity, as if it had been on the job for several hours already. It drove the morning fog away early. The day was still cool, but warming up fast. A sweltering day was in store for the people of Safety Harbor. “Unusual for the Oregon Coast,” everybody said, even in the summer. It was the third day of the heat spell.
The regulars at Joe’s Diner were sauntering in, and the smell of fresh coffee greeted their nostrils with a jolt that drove away any trace of drowsiness. The sun hit their faces and they shaded their eyes, accustomed to having the morning fog still in, when they arrived.
It was excellent tourist weather and Nate Beard, the operator of The Salty Dog deep sea fishing business, was happy. He would have to eat hurriedly. The line was already forming down at the dock.
Sally Hankins went by him with three breakfast plates in her hands.
“Hey Sal! Take the day off and let’s go fishin’!”
Smiling, she shook her head, slightly embarrassed.
It was the same every morning. Almost the same words even. A ritual. She poured him coffee and called out “Two eggs over easy, ham, and wheat toast!”
As with many who walked in, she didn’t have to take his order. It was always the same. There was a joy among the mostly good people who assembled there, at the order and predictability of it all.
“Put a rush on that would ya?” said Nate. “There’s money linin’ up at the dock! I gotta get down there and get it before it gets away!”
From the view through the three large bay windows of the diner, the ocean gave off a beautiful deep hue that seemed to blend seamlessly into the blue sky. A lone kite floated effortlessly, seemingly suspended in midair, in the breeze over the waters.
Wendell Cone sat at his usual third stool from the end of the counter, sipping coffee. If his thin well-dressed frame wasn’t there each morning by 6:30, people watched for him until he showed up or until they found out where he was.
Maxine had died a year ago and he still missed her company dreadfully. He woke up early every morning and left the house and some of the emptiness of her absence behind. Although it followed him everywhere, it helped to be with people.
He read The Wave at the counter each morning, even though it was published only once a week. His mind would still wander from time to time to memories of the past and he missed many of the details of what he read. He took his time, reading and chatting with those who approached him. The bank didn’t open until 9:00 a.m. anyway. And he opened it.
Johnny Watson sauntered in, just home from Rehab. People always hoped the best for him, but had lost track of the number of times he’d gone away for help. The word around town was that his first two marriages had drowned in the sauce and his third was on life support.
Between benders one time, Joe had hired him to repaint the sign on the little cafe. When he finished, Johnny informed Joe that there had been a misspelling in the sign and he had corrected it. There had been an e missing, he said. It now read Joe’s Fine Dine-ing. The