We have this (hope) as a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul, a hope that enters into the inner place behind the curtain – Hebrews 6:19
We took a drive to San Diego and visited the aircraft carrier Midway. A plaque on the Midway said it was commissioned in 1945 – the first and longest serving modern aircraft carrier, seeing service in the first Gulf war before being decommissioned in 1992. It was also the largest ship in the world until 1955. Now it is a museum complete with many of the different types of planes and helicopters that flew from it displayed on the flight deck.
Nancy, Rick, Charlie and I wandered through narrow passages with low ceilings packed with all sizes of piping and electrical wires, stepping through dozens of hatches passing small comfortable cabins for the officers, then rooms with six foot long bunks stacked 4 high for a dozen or more enlisted men. Somehow Charlie who is 6 ft.4 never seriously cracked his scull. One docent told him there weren’t height restrictions for sailors on the Midway so a number of them had to constantly watch their step just like him. The docents were mainly former sailors, officers and pilots who’d served on the Midway. They knew what they were talking about. Crouching through passages surrounded by masses of steel, wire and pipe made me feel a little like an ant in a giant mound. I guess it makes sense. Ants build some incredible mounds all in the name of defense and survival too.
One reason the humanity and infrastructure of the ship was so tightly packed together was to make room for huge storage hangers below the decks. Now populated with displays, vendors, souvenir shops and tourists like us, the plane hangers look more like convention centers, although there are some famous warplanes on display below decks too.
Walking with Rick on the Midway was a special honor. I’d heard him called “Gunny” by Marine Corps friends. But his title Gunnery Sergeant barely hints at all the jobs he’s done in his long career with the Marines. It turns out that one job was being dropped out of the belly of a jet plane that was launched off the Midway and testing a new parachute.
Rick’s comments like “Oh yeah” when we passed enlisted sleeping quarters or “Wow I never got to see this part” when we walked through the amazing flight control complex added significance to our tourism. For a short time he was a part of a ship of which no one person could really grasp the whole.
A former pilot who was a docent talked with Rick about which planes on the deck might have been the one he jumped out of. We’re not sure if we ever saw the plane, but a couple were designed to drop torpedoes. One thing I am sure is that an enemy would have preferred a torpedo dropped on them to a Marine Corps Gunny in full combat gear doing his job.
I sent Sally a picture of the ship’s anchor chain. Each link weighs 150 lbs. She told me that she was reading Hebrews when she saw the picture. She talked about that huge anchor being dropped into the abyss trusting that it will hold fast to something that can keep that massive ship in place. She said it helped her to understand that the anchor of Christ’s hope must go to a place unseen, through the veil all the way to God, to hold fast to the hope set before us.
We’ve built and used these incredible floating mountains of national security for many decades now. They’re a big part of our freedom and prosperity. But they’re useless if our hearts aren’t anchored in hope for a day when they all become museums or at least plowshares.
