Happy Lutheran

A few weeks ago, as a part of our trip to France, I found myself standing on Omaha Beach with John, one windy morning. Have you been there?

To be honest, Normandy is not a place that was on my bucket list (even though being married to a man who loves history means that I have seen one or two or twenty World War II documentaries). I know the story; I just wasn’t sure I needed to be in the place where it happened, so to speak. But, I knew how important it was to John and I knew it would be interesting, so after a stop in Giverny on the way from the airport, there we were, at low tide, standing on the beach. 

And, to my surprise, I was moved.

It is hard to explain why certain places strike us in certain ways. After all, Gettysburg was my home for many years–I literally lived on the battlefield–and yet, I can’t say that I ever connected emotionally in any way with the place or those who fought there.

Somehow, Omaha Beach was different.

I don’t know whether it was the fact that this history is still living, at least in a few very old veterans and others in that generation, or whether John transferred some of his enthusiasm to me. As I said, it’s hard to explain why certain places connect with us and other places do not.

But, I was struck by the vividness of my imaginings, looking up and down a beach that was much larger than I had imagined, conjuring in my mind’s eye the thousands who fought and died there–and the singular experience of storming that beach.

I was then further struck by the embodied nature of memory and imagination itself, and how so very different a virtual experience is from one that engages the fullness of your body: the smells, the feel of the weather on your skin, the sounds of the water, the sandy soil beneath your feet. In this day and age, when there are so many ways to “experience” a place–YouTube videos, pictures, documentaries, books–there is still no substitute for being there.

It’s funny; when people have asked me about the trip, to my surprise, I have found that each time, I start with Normandy. Not Paris, which is where we spent the most time, and where, to be honest, I enjoyed myself the most. But I am confident that, even more than Paris, the visit to Normandy is what we stay with me the longest. For example, I keep thinking about seeing–and not just seeing, but experiencing–the differences between Utah and Omaha Beach, and suddenly understanding in a very visceral way the reason why the casualties at Omaha were so much higher than at Utah Beach: the geography is substantially different in a way that I couldn’t have imagined without standing on the beach and looking up at the hills. And, I also keep remembering what it was like to stand at the edge of Pointe du Hoc and look down, trying to imagine how it was ever possible that US Army Rangers were able to climb to the top of that point, with the Germans perched there, shooting down on them. And again, let me reiterate that I don’t actually care very much about all of this–World War II history is absolutely not my thing. And, as I said, in spite of myself, I was moved. 

I don’t know exactly what I take as a larger learning from all of this, except that I am grateful for the ways the world continues to surprise me, and how openness to new experiences can prompt new insights, and new senses of self, even and especially in ways that could not be predicted. So, I suppose what I am left with is encouragement: encouragement to keep to saying yes, instead of no, and to ask questions and wonder, instead of making assumptions. And to keep showing up, whenever and wherever possible.

There is no substitution for being there.