Wisconsin is Grace

Wisconsin is grace. One of those bridges to the Divine. I don’t mean simply the PackerCheeseBeer&Brat Cult. Which may be more of a sect, or even a denomination, if you give it, well, grace. But, I mean a genuine gift of God.

My family and I recently had lunch with some friends from L.A. who talked about the Disney Land exhibit called California. And, they speculated, “What other state could have its own Disney attraction? Like, for instance, who would go to a Wisconsin themed park?!” Ha. Ha. Ha. But, in the front pew of my heart, I raised my hand. Hey, it’s Wisconsin. My birth home. And the home of my re-birth. Again and again. Because now that I live in Illinois, when I cross back over the border into God’s Country, I tell people there is a sigh of relief and a burden lifted.

But, whether it’s Madison, or Baraboo, Ephraim, Wisconsin Rapids or Stevens Point, I could offer you dozens of mental snapshots of Wisconsin where the light of grace rests just so. Like this Polaroid® peel-away photo which has been framed ever-so-slightly by my revisionist history. “Mythologized”, my brother says. But, we both remember (It’s from when I was in kindergarten. I’m the round kid on the left)…

“We don’t like it here and we don’t like you, Mom,” we had charged matter-of-factly.

We were rebelling against an oppressive regime. Who would’ve believed it was possible, there in central Wisconsin? Right there under the very noses of the good people of Stevens Point, even? We’d had enough of work camp. Enough of sweat shop. Enough of dictatorship. There would be no more cleaning of our rooms. No more gagging from wadding paper towel to extract tee-pee piles of dog poop from our brown shag carpet. “Why is it my job? I didn’t do it!”

My brother led the rebellion. He was nine. Four years older and wiser. He knew what was really going on around there: Stalin, Mussolini, Our Mother. We, The Proletariat, stood in defiance with our rubber boots, snowmobile suits, and Green Bay Packer stocking caps. Our rebel plan? We went for the heart. “We’re running away!”

“Where?”

“Anywhere but here.”

6:00 p.m. Freedom! We scuffed and shuffled down Torun Road. A dark night. Winter in Wisconsin. Our cheeks were stinging hot as kamikaze snowflakes dive-bombed our frozen eyelashes. But it was the right thing to do.

6:06 p.m. We had walked for hours. But there we were, stalled in our tracks. We had come to that particular spot in the road. On one side, that abandoned gray house. Weathered. Windows broken. Every kid for eight blocks knew it was haunted. And, on the other side, my brother remembers, “…There was a logging road and it made that whole area seem like a black hole that you would get sucked into and never come back.” We didn’t dare walk past that place in the daylight, much less that dreadful night.

“I ain’t walkin’ past it.”

“Me neither. Maybe we should go back,” I said.

“Home? No way!”

We looked back towards where we had made our escape, through the smudge of swarming snowflakes and blurred streetlights. A double take. A figure in the gray distance. We squinted through the dark, through the wet snow. It was coming closer. Some one. Carrying some thing. A club, in its right hand. Oh yes, it was a club all right! Some cartoon caveman, chicken drumstick club!

We were trapped. January sweat. Feet frozen by fear. We shivered between lurking ghosts and a madman stepping up to deliver the Gorman Thomas homerun blow. Crack! Over the fence, into the ditch, laying us out like two deep-freeze Ball Park® franks. But, our eyes strained through the dark to capture our winter assailant. The last image we would ever see before…

“Mom? Is that you?” (Or, maybe it was like that scratch-and-pop LP at home where Hans Christian Andersen’s Little Match Girl had only enough light to show her just what she didn’t have before she froze to death. Why did we have that record?) But, no, it was Mom. And, she was carrying two scarves in her right hand.

“Why don’t you come back home? We’re having Polish sausage for dinner,” she offered.

“Okay, Mom,” we said, like it was our bright idea. And we headed for the porch light of home. Rescued. And, just like that, ghosts and fear melted like snowflakes in the hand. There was never a word mentioned about our rebel offense. Grace. Grace wrapped in Polish sausage and applesauce.

And, our Gospel reading that night was from St. Luke, chapter 15: “But while they were still a long way off, they were spotted and compassion was poured out upon them. Footsteps broke into hot pursuit of them. An embrace and kisses all around. ‘Bring out the best scarves and put them on them. And put those mittens-on-a-string on their hands. And warm boots on their feet. Don’t forget the plastic bread bag liners to keep those feet dry. And bring the fatted Polish sausage. Let us eat and be merry, for these sons of mine were lost and now they have been found.’” Amen.

And, amen. Wisconsin is grace.