I remember listening to the song, “The Wreck Of The Edmund Fitzgerald” on the radio years ago, and I thought, what a haunting and yet beautiful song. Gordon Lightfoot sang it in a powerful way, and about every five or six years, I will hear it again.
And again, I am haunted by that tragic story. To me, it describes so well the events leading up to that particular disaster and to every other disaster much like it. The feelings of terror and the haunting knowledge that the crew is going down with the ship. To me, it really did not matter where the ship was, its name or what it was carrying. It didn’t matter how many men went down with the ship when it broke apart. Yes, Gordon Lightfoot wrote about the Edmund Fitzgerald, and his song is in reality a ballad about every lost ship and every mariner that has ever and will ever take place at sea. For the sea never gives up her dead. His ballad describes the terrible waves, the roaring water washing over the bow, the motion of the huge ship being tossed about by the power of nature. The men aboard, with fear in their hearts, were doing everything they could to stabilize the ship, but to no avail. The gale winds drowned out their voices and even their prayers. The question the crew may truly have had was: “Does anyone know where the love of God goes, when the waves turn the minutes to hours?” The words of the song:
“The Wreck Of The Edmund Fitzgerald”
—lyrics by Gordon Lightfoot
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down Of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead When the skies of November turn gloomy
With a load of iron ore twenty-six thousand tons more Than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty
That good ship and true was a bone to be chewed When the gales of November came early
The ship was the pride of the American side Coming back from some mill in Wisconsin
As the big freighters go, it was bigger than most With a crew and good captain well seasoned Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms When they left fully loaded for Cleveland
Then later that night when the ship’s bell rang Could it be the north wind they’d been feelin’?
The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound When the wave broke over the railing
And every man knew, as the captain did too
‘Twas the witch of November come stealin’
The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait When the gales of November came slashin’
When afternoon came it was freezing rain In the face of a hurricane west wind When suppertime came, the old cook came on deck Sayin’ “Fellas, it’s too rough to feed ya”
At seven PM a main hatchway caved in
He said, “Fellas, it’s been good to know ya”
The captain wired in he had water comin’ in
And the good ship and crew was in peril
And later that night when his lights went out of sight Came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald
Does anyone know where the love of God goes
When the waves turn the minutes to hours?
The searchers all say they’d have made Whitefish Bay If they’d put fifteen more miles behind her
They might have split up or they might have capsized They may have broke deep and took water
And all that remains is the faces and the names
Of the wives and the sons and the daughters
Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings
In the rooms of her ice-water mansion
Old Michigan steams like a young man’s dreams The islands and bays are for sportsmen
And farther below, Lake Ontario
Takes in what Lake Erie can send her
And the iron boats go as the mariners all know With the gales of November remembered
In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed
In the Maritime Sailors’ Cathedral
The church bell chimed ‘til it rang twenty-nine times For each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee
Superior, they said, never gives up her dead
When the gales of November come early
There are times when we are overwhelmed with life, and we may feel much the same as those on the Edmund Fitzgerald whose prayers they felt were drowned out by the gale. And the water came rushing over them, hope vanished, and the chance for being rescued was slim. When our gales of November come early, “Twas the witch of November come stealin.” We may not be on the big lake they call Gitche Gumee nor loaded down by a cargo of iron. But our loads may be burdensome, and we all might ask in times of desperation, “Does anyone know where the love of God goes when the waves turn the minutes to hours?”
We have all been caught in the storms of life, and sometimes before we know what is happening, the waves come rushing over us. Being overwhelmed with the burdens of life may happen to ships and to men alike. Men can sometimes unload their burdens more easily than can ships, and the Lord invites us to do so. When the gales of November come early, we too may feel that our prayers are drowned out by the waves of life and that it is too late for us to be rescued. We may ask in times like that, “Does anyone know where the love of God goes when the waves turn the minutes to hours?” May we always be blessed to be close to our God and know always “where the love of our God is.”