Ere a Der 1

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BRENT ENGLAR 1

OF LINCOLNANDTHE GRAND CANYONA S H O R T S T O R Y

by Brent Englar: September 2006

He glanced at his watch and then up at the sun

nearly five-thirty and still safely overhead. The

most recent sign put the canyon twenty-eight miles

away, giving him about ninety minutes of solid

daylight upon the rim, an hour-and-a-half in which tocomprehend some of that magnificence promised by

the very name. His boss had not been happy about the

detourhe was needed in California ASAPbut as he

had explained, the detour was unavoidable: it would be

un-American to pass within a days drive of the Grand

Canyon and not turn northward. His boss, who proudly

displayed a Support Our Troops bumper sticker on

his SUV, had no response for that one.

Even so, hed felt the pressure of times shifting

sands weighting him down the entire trip. The

guidebook recommended at least three weeks to explorethe twists and turns of historic Route 66; he was doing

it in seven days. Today had been the worst. The irony

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2 OF L INCOLNANDTHE GRAND CANYON

as that his problems had begun with a pleasant

surprisepulling into the Arizona Welcome Center first

thing in the morning, he discovered that the change in

time zones had netted him two extra hours of daylight.Immediately the plan was revised, and todaywhich

was supposed to have featured

an extended stop at the Painted

Desert and Petrified Forest

culminating in an early rest

an hour south of the Grand

Canyonnow became Great

American National Parks Day.

In his defense, he couldnt imagine needing more than

a couple of minutes to get his fill of petrified wood,

and though his imagination was busy splattering thedesert with every color paint imaginable (including a

peculiarly vivid lime green), he convinced himself that

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BRENT ENGLAR 3

the entire experience could be had for under an hour,

sixty minutes in which to snap a couple of pictures

before setting his sights on grander vistas.The trouble was, the moment he set foot down this

path of reasoning, a hundred quibbles circled round

and prevented him from turning back. And so it was

that at every stop along the way, whether he found

himself peering into the distance across parti-colored

badlands or simply passing through towns so tiny their

populations could be pinpointed to the last person, he

could not outrace the question: Why bother? Surely a

greater reason for this westward odyssey was needed

than merely to gather memoriesmemories which a

month from now would be less accessible than anyphotos he could download online. In theory it was nice

to be able to tell people that one has seen the national

treasures of the American Southwest, but in practice

few people even ask for such a report.

Consequently, as the sun began ever so slightly

to tilt on its downward arc to the Pacific, leaving one

town after another in the rearview mirror, he found

himself investing more and more significance into his

ultimate destination. He didnt know what was going to

happen when he finally stepped from his dusty car to

gaze upon the Grand Canyon, but he did know it wasgoing to be profound. He imagined God making a home

beneath one of the ridges, coming out from the caves

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each evening at sunset to commune with whomeverhad been patient enough to seek Him there. And as

the miles ticked by his conviction only grew stronger.

There was precedent to support itonly five days earlier,

as the first leg of his trip

carried him through

Springfield, he had of course

made it a point to visit the

tomb of Abraham Lincoln.

As he passed families of

tourists attempting to corral

bucking children into commemorative portraits, hefancied himself traveling along a higher plane of being.

Something was drawing him toward Abraham Lincoln

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BRENT ENGLAR 5

more compelling than

anything the local tourist

board could devise. Enteringthe tomb, he nodded

respectfully to the guard and

proceeded in silence around

several marbled corners before

the burial chamber with its great red memorial stone

announced its presence: ABRAHAM LINCOLN:

1809-1865, and just above and beyond, NOW HE

BELONGS TO THE AGES.

He stood before the chamber, reflecting on the

meaning of this single life that it should cultivate such

solemnity in death. If a random sampling of Americans,from the educated elites to the ones who gladly make

fools of themselves on late night TV shows, were asked

a single questionWho is the greatest American?

would not the name Abraham Lincoln be invoked

most of all? Why? Is it because he died in defense of

this nations most sacred ideals: Liberty in Service,

Unity in Pluralism? Is it because the blood shed in his

death helps to wash away the most evil of stains upon

this countrys soul? Is it simply because in his gangling

build and fatherly eyes we are reminded that every one

of us can be heroic?As he contemplated these questions and others he

could not quite put into words, he realized he was

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crying. He moved to his left,

where on the wall framing

the vault were engraved the278 words that make up the

Gettysburg Address; he paused

to reread the famous first

sentence, luxuriating in its

epic cadences, its timeless diction, and the weeping

overwhelmed him.

That was five days ago. The days that followed were

pleasant enoughthe crossing of the Mississippi, the

pilgrimage through Oklahoma City, the wrong turns

and dead ends too numerous to count, when the road

disappeared beneath long, lonely drivewaysbutnothing had stirred his soul like those few moments in

the presence of immortality. He realized with a grin that

the most exciting moments occurred in the evenings,

as he raced the setting sun back to the interstate lest he

find himself lost in the twilight along the unforgiving

back roads of the American West. If all went according

to schedule, tomorrow evening would find him pulling

into Los Angeles at last to begin his new life in a blur

of discount furniture shopping and preparation for the

workweek ahead. His pulse quickened and his right

foot pressed down harder on the gas pedal as hereviewed the little he actually knew about the job, his

imagination leapfrogging ahead to the hundreds of

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BRENT ENGLAR 7

tasks still in need of completion. And when time slowed

enough for him to carve out his tiny niche what then?

How would he fill it? Whom would he share it with?

And so he was left with one final sunset and the

Grand Canyon. The road never veered, unraveling in

an endless line before him through windswept fields

and now slender pine forests, on past the entrance

plaza (where he was pleased to discover he had exactly

enough money in his wallet for admission and not a

dollar more), before finally slowing to catch its breathin the main parking lot. He turned off the ignition and

looked around, carefully blocking out any premature

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sightings of the canyon through the surrounding trees,

only to determine where along the rim the fewest

tourists were gathered. It was surely futile to drive until

he found a wholly secluded spothe doubted whetherany such place even existed, and besides, along the

western horizon the day was already blushing orange-

red, as though ashamed to be leaving him when he had

only just arrived.

The encroaching sunset was enoughhe decided

catharsis would occur as easily in a crowd as in solitudeand walked slowly toward the rim. The first traces of the

canyon appeared in shadow against the sky like painted

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BRENT ENGLAR 9

beehives, and each step filled in more of the picture until

at last he was standing no more than six inches from the

edge; he noticed a flight of rocky steps leading to a ledge

some three or four feet below, comfortably secludedfrom passersby, and picked his way down before

allowing himself his first unobstructed view.

Of this view what more can

I say? If you have seen it for

yourself, you know. If not, any

description I could offer would nobetter serve you than a painting

the blind. Let it suffice for me to

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say it is miraculousif God does in fact need a home

on this earth, He need look no further than that ancient

stone foundation.All this passed through his mind as he sat on his

ledge, yet no tears followed. A slight panic began to

shiver its way down his spine; he took a deep breath

and looked once more into the canyon. Even in that

short time the shadows had lengthened dramatically

or perhaps not. Perhaps he was simply seeing more

deeply into each crevice, each textured variation in

hue. He heard the wind slapping against the cliff faces

belowthere had been no such sound along the

rimwhere a piece of rock jutted out above the canyon

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BRENT ENGLAR 11

floor in the shape of a teepee. The house of God.

Or Lincoln. He thought of his trip, book-ended now by

two pillars of America, its greatest man and monument.And here he was in the middle.

He shivered again, but from the breeze this time. The

teepee receded into shadow. Here was no place for Lincoln

after all. Better to keep him in his own stone house, a

monument to life and death but not to eternity. This place

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upon which he sat and gazed mattered not for anything

any maneven the greatest manhad done or would one

day do. It was majestically unconcerned with the doings ofmen. It had no answer for their questions.

Sitting on the ledge, then, the man ceased to

question. When he had absorbed his fill he stood up,

dusted off the seat of his pants, and climbed back up

to the rim. There was still daylight remaining as he got

into his car and drove south to the interstate.

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