Rock of Ages

It started with a year of losses. In August of 1974 a broken engagement, was followed in early 1975 by the loss of my job as a night nurse in charge of an active care psychiatric unit, and with it the loss of my career in nursing. I am a diploma RN; I do not have a degree in nursing. Without the degree, I cannot find the kind of job that is within my new limitations.


Since a back injury in 1971 my life is ruled by pain. Poor treatment by the VA compounds the problem. The doctor who told me to quit working is not into making a legal statement for Social Security Disability (SSD).


In retrospect I know I was clinically depressed. I was anorexic. I had a death wish, but I could not figure out how to do it properly — well, I knew it was not a Christian thing to do — but that did not keep me from pleading with God every night to take my life. Complicating everything is Marilyn, the woman who gave me temporary shelter. Every day she reminds me that I am not healed because I don't have enough faith, as if I need to be reminded.


Part of me feels abandoned by the God who said He loves me but apparently He will not heal me. I need time to think things through, so I decide to drive out to my favorite part of the Maine coastline, but Marilyn wants to make sure that I will be all right, so she is coming with me.


We start our trip just south of Bangor. Taking Route 1, I drive 70 miles to a little known part of the Acadia National Park system, called Schoodic Point. It has been a long time since I have been to the ocean. Each year it has been a magnet beckoning me.


I moved to Maine in the early 1970s, loving each part of it, but I fell in love with the rocky coast. Over time I have learned that the coast can be very crowded during the summer, so I tend to go off-season, in the spring or fall, like today at the end of September.


Route 1 has become an old faithful friend, frequently visited. I know each curve and turn. Today much of what I took for granted is no longer there, and the drive is considerably less interesting. I know when to expect the restaurant with a huge elephant outside for decoration. And I am amused by a round cheese building with a piece taken out for the doorway, complete with a mouse on the roof. I love the tiny town and its country store, post office and gas station all rolled into one, run by a grey-haired old man whose tanned face is wrinkled from years in the sun.


Finally we arrive at the business center of Ellsworth. In 1975 it wasn't very complicated, but today the tourist industry has turned it into a Maine coast Mecca. In 1975 my favorite restaurant has a monstrous plastic replica of a cooked red lobster on the roof, standing on its tail, waving its claws at the tourists. Their menu has lobster, lobster and more lobster, cooked only one way, boiled in sea water. But today it is out of season, and the lobster shack is all boarded up for winter. I’ll have to wait until next summer to indulge in my favorite lobster.


At the edge of town is a crossroad. Straight ahead is a bridge leading to Mount Desert Island, the main part of Acadia National Park along with Bar Harbor and Cadillac Mountain.


Instead, I turn left to continue along Route 1 to the lesser known part of Acadia National Park and my final destination. Past the mobile home sales lot and a stone quarry is the A-frame snack stand, no longer used, its declining condition is my signal that I'm almost to my special haven.


The National Park sign is not easy to see, and there have been times when I've gone right by it, but today Marilyn's eagle eye spots it fast. A few more roads and we are finally at the access road for Schoodic Point. After a picnic area at the entrance, the last piece of road is a one-way, asphalt strip hugging the rocky coastline of the Schoodic Peninsula.


Each mile is a slow meditation. Both of us are quiet, and I feel my heart reaching out for God. Will He meet me there? Where is He? I feel like the Psalmist who cries out in prayer, "Why, O Lord, do you stand afar off? Why do you hide yourself in times of trouble?" (Psalm 10:1 ESV) My heart is grieving and I don't know what to do with all of the pain.


I can tell that we have arrived when we reach a large paved parking lot, ringed with boulders. Seagulls rest almost everywhere, calling for handouts, their ear-piercing “Caw! Caw!” is disturbing. In 1975 there were no signs forbidding the feeding of the seagulls so we had fun feeding them Cheez Doodles ®, until they start drooling orange stained spittle. Marilyn can't quite get the knack of feeding them as they hover in front of her so she throws the long orange treat into the air at the seagull. As it ducks to grab the treat, Marilyn ducks to avoid the large bird's wings. Feeding them is like being in Hitchcock’s film, The Birds. In 1995 when I took my husband to my former refuge, there were a number of signs to not feed the seagulls since it disturbed the local natural ecology. As a biologist I should have known better back in 1975. My error. Also today, there are signs not to take rocks for souvenirs. They must mean the smaller rocks, because the rest are huge, weighing tons. My husband and I laughed picturing a tourist trying to load a rock weighing tons into the rear of his car. The ecology at Schoodic Point is very delicate and disturbing any part of it can have devastating repercussions.


This part of the peninsula has little vegetation because high winds and waves pound the rock shelf naked. Any wise person would know to come wearing multi-layers of clothing, because the weather can change in a minute, turning a warm summer day, to a chilling rain-soaked mess.


Between the parking lot and the open ocean is a huge expanse of rock which is sufficiently flat to allow almost anyone to walk to the water's edge. The colorful shelf of rock varies from a light tan to dark brown, occasionally streaked with black stripes only a few feet wide; they streak down to the water from the parking lot. Set into the rock are two National Park plaques describing the scenery, one explains that the rock formation is composed of granite (the light colored rock) and volcanic lava (the dark stripes). At the water's edge the black rock is more easily worn than the surrounding granite, producing a series of fissures.


Out in the ocean and on the rocks are cormorants in small groups. Some float on top of the waves, and I wait for them to dive for lunch; others sun-dry outstretched wings like lone sunbathers out on the rocks. In summer there would be color-coded buoys marking the spots where lobster traps have been set but right now it’s too dangerous to be out on violent waves of the fall season.


In 1975 Schoodic Point is my retreat from the world. It provides a needed change of scenery, a quiet spot to relax, meditate, and sort out thoughts. For me, it’s where I come to hear what Elijah heard — God's "still small voice." (1 Kings 19:12 KJV)


I sit in my usual spot, a carved out section forming a sheltered lounge chair of rock. After listening to the pounding waves, I’m finally able to relax. I want to get up and move to somewhere else because the cold, hard rock has numbed my bum. But I have the nagging thought that I have something to learn, right here, so I stay put.


I watch the seagulls as they soar on out-stretched wings, catching the air currents, easily avoiding a collision with the rocks. I want to be like a bird, soaring above the circumstances, riding out the storms that surround me.


The tide is coming in and the greenish blue waves beat a regular rhythm on the seaweed covered rocks in the small bay below me. An unusually large rock sits in the middle of the bay and I notice its unusually bare, sea-worn top. Waves strike the rock with thunderous force, yet it seems unchanged.


I once heard a talk about how to survive falling into the ocean around a rocky coast like Schoodic. The key is to find a raised rock and then cling to it. But the ocean water is always freezing cold, even in mid-summer. Numb arms and hands cannot hold onto anything. Survival hinges on locating an above-water crevice to find shelter in. A person can wedge herself into the crevice, a saving grace in the midst the cold, pounding surf, even when she is too weak to hold on with her own strength. When the tide goes down she can then walk into shore to safety.


Hours of watching and praying restore my spirit. God has shown me how to survive current and future storms of life. Marilyn and I drive home, singing "Rock of ages, cleft for me. Let me hide myself in thee." Funny how a hymn can suddenly come to life.


© 1976, 2007 Lois A. Denier