One of my esteemed colleagues claims libraries are one of the last vestiges of civilization.

“They’re quiet,” she says, “and people are courteous.”

She adds, “And the whole premise of a library is based on sharing.”

After a week of marked contrasts, I am inclined to agree with my colleague.

Last Tuesday I stopped into the library for a book from which I planned to select a reading for Homecoming Sunday. Yes, trying on a Tuesday to locate a copy of a book I would need for a sermon on the following Sunday was cutting things just a bit close. But the book – Small Wonder, a collection of essays by Barbara Kingsolver – was published several years ago. I was reasonably confident newer books had captured the affections of most readers, and I assumed at least one of the library’s two printed copies of the book would be available.

Alas, both were out. A recorded copy – on cassette tapes, a medium I cannot easily play – was available. Desperate, I pulled the cassette version from the shelf, and headed to the desk to check it out, wondering where I would acquire a tape player and when I would carve out time to listen to the cassettes, find the appropriate passage, and transcribe it, word for word.

At the desk, I told the librarian my sad tale. She did her own check, discovered that indeed both printed copies of the book were out, and entered an inter-library loan request for me. Then she asked, “When do you need it?”

“I need it for a sermon I am preaching this coming Sunday,” I answered.

“I own that book. You can borrow my copy. I’ll bring it in tomorrow.” she replied.

My jaw must have dropped halfway to my knees. I knew the librarian by sight, that’s all. She seemed to know I was the minister of the church across the street, but beyond that she had no reason to trust me with her book. Moreover, surely she was aware, as I was, that I could walk to the bookstore a couple of blocks away and purchase the book if I were that desperate for it.

Her spontaneous generosity touched me deeply. As we made arrangements for me to pick up the book the next day and I gushed my thanks to her, I mentioned the excerpt I was planning to use. She smiled and nodded both appreciatively and knowingly. Evidently it was a passage she loved, too.

Sure enough, the librarian phoned the next day to let me know I could pick up the book. I fairly skipped across the street to retrieve it. The remainder of my day was taken up with several hours of meetings. So it wasn’t until much later, when I finally had a chance to sit down with the book, that I discovered that the librarian had not only loaned me her book, but she had also placed a bookmark in the chapter I sought.

A book, a book mark, an unexpected spontaneous generosity – sure signs of civilization.

By contrast, also last Tuesday the Navy’s Blue Angels arrived in town preparatory for the weekend air show. For several days the citizens of Brunswick and surrounding towns endured screaming, thunderous practice and performance sessions. In the church office, we instinctively covered our ears and ducked when the planes flew over. No matter how much we reassured ourselves (“They’re only practicing. They always fly just above the church. Everything is fine.”), the planes made a terrifying noise. And they raised a terrifying specter. They are warplanes, after all, no matter how they dress themselves up.

At home, things weren’t much better. My house is right behind the air station. When the Blue Angels flew overhead, the china rattled in the cabinet, my bones shook in my body, and my nerves became quickly jangled. My little cat Molly darted around the house, trying to hide from the frightful noise and vibrations. But, of course, there was nowhere to hide.

Lots of people love the Blue Angels, and I don’t blame them. For a while I watched them practice on Friday. Their flying is amazing, artful, stunning. To master such precision flying, the pilots must commit themselves to more hours of training and practice than I can possibly imagine. And the teamwork required to produce their performance is truly inspirational.

Still, as I tried to carry on with the business of my daily life last week, I experienced the Blue Angels as an intrusion more than anything. They reminded me of all the people I’ve met in life who are too loud and domineering, take up more than their appropriate share of space, and are oblivious of the needs or existence of others. They reminded me, too, of humanity’s brokenness – of the countless times through the centuries when communication has broken down and human beings have resorted to violence to solve problems.

In one week, I experienced the contrast of the quiet helpfulness and generosity of a librarian in the public library and the overpowering presence of military aerobatics. If I had to choose one to represent a last vestige of civilization, the library would win, hands down.