Iconic Remembrance : Ten-Ten-Ten

In case you haven't noticed it, today's date is 10-10-10, The tenth day of the tenth month in the tenth year of this century. That fact has absolutely nothing to do with this post.

Iconic Remembrance
I have a strange gift (or curse?) of remembering where and when and why I heard a word for the first time. The more obscure the word, the more likely I am to remember the moment its meaning first took root in my head. In this case, it is a word I never needed before I learned it for a college orientation class and in the past decade it has become a word that we use casually for something quite unlike its original meaning. I used it a few minutes ago with my daughter. I was helping her with a computer task, and I said, “Now double-click on the external hard-drive icon.” She immediately knew what I meant, because for her and her generation the word icon means a small graphic symbol for a file, program, or piece of computer hardware.

But in 1974, as a wide-eyed college freshman, I was required to go on a guided tour of perhaps the single-most comprehensive collection of religious art in the United States.
In one of the galleries, I was surrounded by what the guide called icons, a word that comes from Greek εἰκών eikōn, which means image. Icons are typically painted on wood, and sometimes in three-paneled hinged form allowing them to stand freely in place. These are called triptych icons. They're common in Eastern Orthodox Christianity. That little room in the huge gallery was filled almost exclusively with triptych icons. I have not been in that room for about 35 years, but that is where I first heard the word icon.

Because I was reared in a protestant home, I must confess that iconic religious art does not move me emotionally or spiritually. By that I mean that the “image” does not bring me closer to what it represents. If I look on it meditatively (if I double-click it with my mind so to speak) it does not open my eyes to the real thing. I have no quams with those who are affected by such symbols of the real thing, so long as the icon does not become an idol or the material object of affection; so long as the icon or statue does not venerate devotion; so long as the representation of Christ (or Mary or a saint) does not become a source of “spiritual help” apart from the real thing.

It’s a fine line between iconic remembrance and idolatry. The difference is that of representation vs. relationship. It’s like a husband who claims to know and love his wife who is in the next room wanting his company, but he instead keeps his distance while looking at his favorite picture of his wife. He has a picture of his wife on his office desk, one in his wallet, one on his dashboard. He loves looking at her picture, but he does not actually spend time with his wife. Regardless of how fondly he speaks of his wife whenever people ask about the picture (the icon), if he has no intention of introducing them to the real thing, what good is the picture? It is merely represention—the relationship itself is non-existent. That is the hazard of icons and idols—rather than pointing us to the real thing, they take its place.

Having said that, I will now defend a type of icon we probably all have in our homes. They are framed photographs of loved ones. Not just the hundreds of snapshots that fill our photo albums and shoe boxes under the bed in the guestroom. I’m talking about those dozen or so “iconic photographs” that have a Norman Rockwell illustrative quality and tell part of the story of who we are. I’m thinking of a framed picture of my mom and dad getting ready to drive away after their wedding and a similar photo of the same moment after Julie’s parents' wedding. Both of those pictures are framed and displayed on the antique lampstand in our living room. They are iconic to all members of my family. I look at them and think of the real people and the real life I shared with them. I don’t worship or venerate the image. I think of the real thing. If it were possible, the picture might prompt me to pick up the phone and call them, and in the case of Julie’s parents, we often do. That is the power of iconic photographs.

We share iconic photos as a country. Think of the images: FDR with his cigarette holder rising jauntily in the air from his confident smile; Truman holding up a newspaper announcing Dewey's win; little John-John Kenedy saluting his father's passing casket; and one of  my favorites—that iconic planted kiss from a sailor to a nurse upon the news that the war was over. Those photos, happy and sad, along with many others, remind us of events that shaped us as a nation.

In the same way, every family has iconic photographs. They do not take the place of the real thing; they help us remember those who shaped us; they foster the continued relationship with either the person or the moment and meaning of a frozen fragment of time; they are not idols that interfere with our relationship with God; they trigger remembrance of those who introduced us to Him.
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Three Generations

It takes two generations
to bring along the third
for the echo of truth
is sometimes heard
more clearly than
the words first spoken.
A cord of three strands
is less likely broken
than one or two,
and perhaps equally strong
is a chord of voices
intent to pass along
what matters most
from age to age.
The older voice can gently lead
and help confirm the page
the father reads
is worth the ink
and worthy indeed
to make man think
beyond his lifetime.
The family tree, it’s true, will grow
new limbs and leaves of green,
but the aging trunk that holds them
is held by roots unseen.
Some say "it takes a village,"
but more often than is heard,
it takes two generations
to bring along the third.
© Copyright 2007, TK, Patterns of Ink
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[Mom holding her newest grandson, Benjamin, my younger brother's 2nd son. Happy Birthday, Jim!]
Today was Grandparents Day at the school I oversee. It's a wonderful tradition each spring. We had over 300 guests registered to attend. They're not all "related" grandparents--some are close friends who fill the role for the day. These guests visited classes, had a "picnic" style lunch in the gymnasium and on the grounds, then watched the Elementary grades perform "Pinocchio." We began the day with a general assembly where I'm usually on the agenda for about ten minutes of "opening remarks."

Last night, I knew what I was going to say, but I woke up at 4:12 AM, scribbled down the lines above, and went back to bed. When I got up at 6:15, I read them again. To my surprise they still made sense when read with conversational meter. So this morning we printed the lines on narrow bookmarks to give to our grandparents and guests. As I was speaking about our school's mission, heads nodded with supportive understanding, etc.

I talked about a picture of a three-arched bridge that hangs in office and how those three strong arches symbolized the gist of the poem. But just as it came time to read these lines, I saw a man and wife sitting on the aisle who have gone through a life-changing trial as they've carried out this third- generational role for their grandchildren. While horseback riding with a granddaughter, my friend was thrown from his mount, breaking the same vertebrae as Christopher Reeve, resulting in the same paralysis and wheelchair. It’s been well over a year, but this grandfather has a marvelous testimony and the same smile I saw the day we met seven years ago.

I got a lump in my throat, but I don't think anyone noticed. I decided to pass out the bookmarks without my reading the poem... as if that was my plan all along. Maybe I could have read it; maybe not. It's not that the lines themselves are that "emotional," but in that moment they were too fresh in my mind to know if I could read them without getting misty-eyed. That's pathetic, I know, but it's hard enough to see through the bottom of my Varilux lenses when my eyes are clear. So why risk it? The older I get the more often I have such moments.

It was a great day. We have a choir and band concert tonight followed by what promises to be a sunny weekend.

Sunday evening follow-up: Having read some of the comments and after visiting with some of the grandparents (who commented about the bookmark at school), I want to say that just as Mother's Day does not evoke the same memories and emotions for all people, thoughts about grandparents or being a grandparent vary for family to family. The lines themselves make no mention of "grandparents" per se, but rather of generations. It's possible that you may represent the first "strand" in the kind of cord we're talking about. The thing we dare not forget is that current "young people" have much to gain from those older than their parents in their lives. It's possible that you may extend or accept such a relationship beyond your "family tree."

By the way, I've joked in the past about being a poor speller. On over 300 bookmarks, I spelled the word cord "chord," While I was embarrassed by the mistake, until that moment I never made the connection between a "chord" of three notes and the three strands twisted in standard "cord" or rope like the one below. I later revised the lines to make use of this mistake. =)

In 2021, this poem was revised and "copy-fit" into a brochure:

Three Generations

It takes two generations

to bring along the third…
for the echo of Truth is sometimes heard
more clearly than the words first spoken.
A cord of three strands is less likely broken
than one or two, and equally true and strong
is a chord of voices intent on passing along
what matters most from age to age.
The oldest voice gently leads
and helps confirm that the Page
the from which the middle voice reads
or shares each day is worth the ink
and worthy indeed to a child think
beyond their lifetime.
Some say "it takes a village,"
but more often than is heard,
it takes two generations
to bring along the third.

© 2007 / 2021 Tom Kapanka

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