Memories

Grahame’s September Jubilee Celebration

September 19, 2013 by Grahame Nicolson

Photo ofthe SS Oriana berthed in Sydney Harbour and waiting for 19-year old me to board on a stormy, windy September 20, 1963, the day I "set sail" for North America. 50 years ago! — The SS Oriana berthed in Sydney Harbour and waiting for 19-year old me to board on a stormy, windy September 20, 1963, the day I “set sail” for North America. 50 years ago!

My salty old Latin teacher, Miss Butler, would surely have been able raspily to proclaim that the infinitive jubilaré means “to shout for joy,” and that our noun jubilee is derived from jubilaré which actually dates back to the Hebrew word for a ram’s horn trumpet.

Unfortunately for one uninterested young bloke (me), there was not much shouting for joy in her Parramatta High School classroom. However, this month I am thankful for Sally Butler who hammered endless conjugations into us because I know that the first person singular, present tense, active voice for that verb is jubilo, meaning “I shout for joy.”

And I am presently doing a little shouting for joy here and there because the faithfulness of God has made September 2013 to be a Golden (50-year) Jubilee month in my earthly life.

My widowed mum and my sister later emigrated to Canada, but the last time I ever saw my dad, Carl Nicolson, on earth was that 50-years-ago morning when he climbed up onto some pilings at the outer end of the pier and stood alone waving to me until distance and mutual tears put us out of sight from each other. Yes, on that trans-Pacific voyage on the SS Oriana I was leaving everything and everybody I knew for places and people unknown.

Scroll forward five decades… Wednesday night of this week took Karen and me to one of our regular assignments, a 180-mile (290 kilometer) round trip to Denton, Montana where Denton, Coffee Creek, and Hobson teens meet for youth group. We had not seen most of the young people and sponsors since June at C – N Camp. What a hug fest when several precious kids came running over to us with open arms as we entered the church basement! After supper we enjoyed shout-for-joy worship and lesson time during which I taught from Mark 4:1-20 and concluded by challenging us all to be “Mark 4, verse 20 people.” We then closed the meeting by prayerfully singing together:

“Jesus, Jesus, Lord to me—Master, Savior, Prince of Peace; Ruler of my heart today—Jesus, Lord to me.” ¹

As I accompanied the singing with my guitar, I could look at all the youth and sponsors’ beautiful faces, voices of praise and commitment belonging to a second and third generation of people to and with whom we have been privileged to minister. I can still see and hear that Wednesday night song in a little Montana town, and my heart is filled with praise to God for this Jubilee month of memories, reflection, and hope for the immediate and eternal future.

“My Jesus, my Savior, Lord there is none like You,
All of my days, I want to praise the wonders of Your mighty love.
My Comfort, my Shelter, Tower of refuge and strength.
Let every breath, all that I am, never cease to worship You.

Chorus:
Shout to the Lord all the Earth let us sing,
Power and majesty, praise to the King.
Mountains bow down and the seas will roar,
At the sound of Your Name.

I sing for joy at the work of Your hands.
Forever I’ll love You, forever I’ll stand.
Nothing compares to the promise I have in You.” ²

June 13th Memory

June 13, 2013 by Grahame Nicolson

Photo of Carl Campbell Nicolson, December 26th, 1908 – June 14th, 1965 — Carl Campbell Nicolson, December 26th, 1908 – June 14th, 1965

On Sunday, June 13th, 1965 (June 14th in Sydney), I was preparing to teach Vacation Bible School in Loma, Montana, when my friend Dave Dixon drove in from Big Sandy to tell me there was an emergency phone call for me from Australia.

After the overseas operator connected me, my brother Brian broke the news that our dad, Carl C. Nicolson, had suffered a cerebral hemorrhage and was with the Lord.

This 21-year-old college-student Aussie was not exactly flush with cash, so attending Dad’s memorial service in Sydney was sadly out of the question. However, comfort and hope from God, family, and friends saw me through those days; and ever since, I have rejoiced in and drawn from our mother and father’s heritage of faithfulness.

For example, I constantly draw inspiration from a poem Dad wrote to me in 1963 shortly before I sailed from home to North America:

Go, then, my son.
And may God give you to taste deeply
Of His matchless love and grace.
And in that glorious work
On Calvary’s cross begun,
May you for Him secure an honored place.

It may not always be the garden of the LORD,
Not every tree a glorious fruit will bear.
But just remember, ‘neath the barren soil
There are the roots
Which, by the power of prayer,
Will spring to life and glorify our God.

— Carl C. Nicolson, 1908 – 1965

What about you? As we look to Father’s Day celebrations this month here in the USA, how are you thankful for your dad? Share with us in the comments if you like.

“For Da Clock.”

June 7, 2013 by Grahame Nicolson

Photo of Grahame Nicolson at Camp Sambica in 2010 — A 2010 thumbs-up for my young Muckleshoot friend of long ago.

Our summer camp season is presently cranking up, and I find myself in eager anticipation and also in calling to mind camp-related memories. Here’s one of the reflections…

In 2010 while in Seattle, I made a pilgrimage out to Camp Sambica on the shores of Lake Sammamish; hence the photo above.

In 1965 when my friend Alan Woodley and I worked at Sambica, the building you see behind me in the photo above was used as a cabin where I tended some of my little flocks of energetic boys. A specific week of that summer and one young chap in particular are poignantly inscribed on my heart.

My cabin group was handful heavy with mischievous fifth and sixth graders. I believe it was on the Tuesday of that week that I had to step out of the cabin for a mere few minutes to attend to some matter or other. By the time I arrived back inside, “chaos” in the form of scattered pillows and other thrown items ruled the room. My little electric clock, so necessary for keeping things on schedule, lay broken on the floor. The young blokes couldn’t have known, but apart from pocket change and maybe a few dollars in my wallet, I was next to penniless.

Well, I didn’t yell at the group, but suggested that the one who hashed my clock should ‘fess up. Everyone had “Who, me?” written on his face, so I just tabled the matter with insistence the place be tidied up right away and with an ominous comment that “the Lord knows who broke the clock.”

The boys and I had a great time for the remainder of the week, and I never mentioned the Tuesday incident again; however, I did leave the clock’s shattered remains on its shelf for all to notice.

Come Saturday morning break-up time, the boys all received in cash any balances left in their snack shop bank accounts. We were all happily shouting good-byes back and forth when I noticed beside me one handsome native boy who, characteristic of his Muckleshoot heritage, never had spoken much throughout the week. Soon under cover of the din around us, he silently pressed two crumpled dollar bills into my hand and then whispered just three words:

“For da clock.”

To my shame, I failed to record that precious, young man’s name, but I have never forgotten him. And I can still hear those quiet, native-accented words, “For da clock.” He would be around 60 years of age now, and I often wonder what God ultimately accomplished through my young Muckleshoot friend’s life and conscientious heart.

What about you? What memories do you have of summer camp? Why not share them with us in the comments?

Springtime in Alaska

April 24, 2013 by Karen Nicolson

During this time of the year, my memories go back to my childhood in a remote and beautiful wilderness area beside the largest inland body of water in Alaska: Lake Iliamna.

When we weren’t driving our dog sled (pictured here), our family had an old Jeep that we used to drive around our village and over the high mountains between Pile Bay and Cook Inlet on the Gulf of Alaska. Sometimes in deep winter when the ice was strong, we would drive across the icy surface of the lake to check our trap lines or to go ice fishing.

One spring, there was an early warm spell after an especially cold winter. The lake ice was still very thick, but there was a layer of water on top, and then after a cool night, another thin layer of ice on top of that water. My dad was feeling adventurous, so to have some excitement, he took my younger sister and me along with a couple other young guys, and we spun “brodies” out on the lake!

We were having great fun until after one spinning session, the Jeep’s wheels caught on the top layer of thin ice, causing the vehicle to tip over! Luckily, no one was injured, just a bit shaken up and wet. We were able to tip the Jeep back up on its wheels with everyone’s help and drive back home. Naturally, my little sister was frightened and upset, but I was hungry for more thrills so I begged, “Let’s do that again, Daddy!”

Another springtime memory is of floating around on big ice floes when the lake ice would finally break up. My sister and I had fun poling around the shore on small bergs that had broken off the ice mass as though we were riding on little rafts. I shudder to think of what could have happened had we fallen off and into the icy cold water, but by the grace of God, we survived that and many other Springtime adventures in Alaska!

What about you? What memories of Springtime or childhood adventures do you have? Please share them with us in the comments.