By Christopher F. Johnson
Special to the Herald
On Dec. 1, at 11:45 hours Hawaiian Standard Time, I went through Hawaii’s first air raid warning test since my childhood.
I, like everyone else in the Territory of Hawaii back then, had good reason to practice civil defense. The end of the war was not 10 years in our memories. We took the test seriously.
Now, all these many years later, with no one knowing of a single remaining air raid shelter, we’ve begun early warning testing again.
The siren’s song has both a new and hauntingly ancient sound. The sirens mounted on 50-foot poles have a new, distinctive nuclear melody. Military folk know it well; a high and low note harmony sequenced in opposite directions at just the proper cycle to bring unease to the pelvic floor of the soul.
I stood on my lanai as the first verse made its way across the low-lying land from Pearl Harbor eastward. The trade winds common to Hawaii suddenly stopped. The soft cool breezes that come from the clockwise flow of high pressure systems off the west coast of the Americas simply ceased. The wind shifted to a north easterly heading, coming off the harbor. As if it knew the equilibrium of this quiet string of islands was somehow off.
I looked out, as one by one, others emerged quietly from their apartments looking westward. Then the jets from Joint Base Pearl Harbor Hickam went full after-burners adding to the voice of the siren’s song.
The jets took off, the sirens wailed and we who’ve touched part of 6-plus decades simply and quietly looked out over Waikiki; then northward over the Koolaus toward Kaneohe where the Marine Corps Air Station resides. Then slowly pivoting on our heels northeast over Manoa Valley, knowing that if this were real, we’d have 20 minutes to gather our loved ones, our memories, and our hopes for the future before they all disappeared.
It is Advent. The time each year when certain religions prompt their faithful to prepare the way for the coming of God among us. To remember always that hope never dies. That the human condition, no matter how blind and careless it is with the gifts it is given, has a chance at love and healing. That the brokenness of our deepest and most honest birthright does not have to rule our hearts. That goodness and caring also dwell in each broken heart on the day of its birth.
The sirens have switched off, the echoes far offshore now. The old among us, myself included, step back into our small but important lives.
But, there was one moment, when these strangers, out of reach of each other’s touch but not out of touch with each other’s hearts, recognized how fragile we were. We looked at each other with clear but firm eyes, the same eyes that scanned the horizon just moments earlier. And in that gaze, we saw each other as we truly are. Vulnerable yet courageous, scared yet hopeful, finite yet eternal.
We may live in a magical place, but we are not created by sleight of hand. We are rather conceived as a miracle of mystery. And born to swim in a sea of grace. And in that moment, everything was OK.
Christopher F. Johnson is a parishioner of Sts. Peter and Paul Parish in Honolulu.
