A hundred thousand. Lord, have mercy. Many of those taken from us were elderly, but so many others were not. Ages 44, 52, 36, 25, 48, 43 … they still had so much to give, and the world is so much poorer without them.
Many of us are grieving … for this loss of life, for the loss of the lives we ourselves wanted to be living now … and it’s hard to grieve alone.
We need to feel free to go ahead and do the work of grieving, to curse and to cry. I think it’s important to face the loss, and not just turn away and wait for it to be over. We need to engage our grief.
But one thing I think we need to be careful about is targeting the wrong enemy. I see that in those who want to shame people who are or are not wearing masks, those who blame individual politicians for the closings, those who want to reopen churches now as an act of religious freedom.
I think true religion calls on us to dig deeper, to nourish compassionate hearts.
I read this this morning and found it helpful. It’s a reflection on Mark 7:24-30, the story of the Syrophenician woman who told Jesus that even the dogs deserve their crumbs:
Jesus of Nazareth, When you met the Woman of Syrophenicia, you called her a little dog but that didn’t stop her. Little dogs need little crumbs, she said, and you listened, repented, and praised her for her words. We praise her words too, and ask that we can speak like her, and listen like you. Because this is the gift of resilience and repentance. This just might save us. Amen.
from “Daily Prayer with the Corrymeela Community,” by Padraig O Tuama
One of the great pleasures of the walks which are really my only chance to get out and about these days is observing nature more closely than I ever have before.
Another is encountering people – at a safe distance – on the way. This must sound strange, I know, coming from a confirmed introvert such as myself. But exchanging a minute or two of conversation with someone else, whether that be an acquaintance encountered by chance or just someone friendly, is a joy.
Earlier this week my sister observed the 70th anniversary of my parents’ wedding by sharing the bill for the reception: $270.16 for 105 guests, including $99 for 18 bottles of champagne. Today, for the 75th anniversary of VE Day, I offer these pages from my dad’s war journal:
“TUESDAY-MAY 8TH “TODAY IS VE DAY – The Germans have surrendered unconditionally to us. The terms were signed in Rheims at 4:41 GMT yesterday. The hostilities end official at 12:01 GMT tonight.
“It is hard to believe – that after nearly six years of war the Allies have driven the Germans from Africa, Italy, France, Belgium, Russia and a score of other countries and forced defeat on them on their own soil. Yet it’s true; no more 88’s or ME0109’s or anything.
“We heard addresses by Churchill, Truman, and King George today. We also attended an informal Thanksgiving service at 3:30. Even the Germans seem glad. They knew it was only a matter of time.
“Half of our mission is accomplished. Now we shall either occupy Germany or head for the other war.
“A day later he learned that they’d be assigned as security guards ‘near Nuremburg for awhile.”\'”
He’s glad it’s over; there’s only a hint here of what he had endured. But on the first page of the Engineer’s Field Transit Book he used to record his thoughts, he explained his reason for journaling:
“I am going to keep this diary so that in future years I may remember more clearly the day to day events of my Army career. I especially want to remember – in the days of normal living coming again in the not too distant future – the days of hell of our present existence in combat. For, as Sherman said, war really is hell – crowded with misery, discomfort and uncertainty – uncertainty as to whether or not you’ll be alive in the next minute.
“In the peaceful sort of living which was once normal and which will follow this conflict, surrounded by the things which I have longed for so constantly, I may lose sight of this fact. Old memories will soften with time. Thus, the mission of this diary: to remind me, should I need the reminder, what it was like, and to make me work unceasingly to make certain that my son does not march off to war; or if he does – and I say this with the sad knowledge that our fathers fought for the same ideals – he goes prepared.”
My brother never did go marching off to war, mostly because his age cohort was too young for Vietnam and too old for all that followed.
Not because humanity had somehow come to its senses about senseless armed conflict. Lord, have mercy.
Someone mentioned this quote in Meeting for Worship a week ago. I looked it up and it’s stayed with me ever since. I was supposed to be on pilgrimage in Assisi right after Easter, going on from there to travel in northern Italy. We would have flown home from Milan at the end of last week. Of course the pandemic destroyed all those carefully laid plans. I haven’t heard much about Assisi in the news but Bergamo and Milan, two places we were planning to visit, were shut down and have suffered terribly. My heart has been with the people of those places in a special way.
They say, though, that pilgrimage begins not with your first physical step but rather with the intention to go, and so indeed I am on pilgrimage now, if not the one I had in mind. It’s turning out to be an unexpected and rather unwelcome journey, and yet it has included some good moments. I hesitate to celebrate those moments, gifts of time with myself and my family, while others have lost and are losing so much. And yet I must, because this is the way my feet have walked, the path my footprints have made. Whether or not I chose it, this is my life. One lesson we’ve all been learning – again – is that we’re not in control even of our own lives.
The truth is, I have lost so much. I hesitate to mention that, too, when others have lost so much more. But I’ve lost the freedom to move freely in life. I’ve lost time in my life, months and perhaps years that won’t come again. I’ve lost the freedom to be and do what I want in that time. I may yet lose my health, my life. I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about that, but those other losses I do grieve. I know only that this pilgrimage is taking me where I didn’t want to go, and I don’t know where it will lead before it’s over. By walking the path is made.
Three friends have died this week, members of different communities I’ve been part of over the years. They weren’t close friends, but one each of them touched my life in ways that made an impression that has stayed with me. I’m feeling sad about losing them now, but also glad that I had a chance to know them. Both emotions are reminding me to appreciate all of the special people I know while they’re still here. I’m also thinking about a comment made by the priest who preached at the funeral of the poet John O’Donohue; he recalled that when asked not long before his death what it was that haunted him, O’Donohue had replied, “It is the sense of my days running through my fingers like the finest sand and I can’t stop it.” That pretty much sums it up for me, perhaps for all of us.
Self portrait. Looking in from the outside, out from the inside, seemingly everywhere at once.
I’m getting better with practice at PhotoShop, enjoying the time with my family, trying to experience some of the blessings in this time, but still so worried for the world, for all of us, for the hungry and the sick and those who are dying alone and their families who grieve in isolation.
These lines from a book I’m reading resonate this morning:
There will always be more grief than we can bear. There will always be ripe fruit flesh making your fingers sticky from the juice.
Life is tidal, rising and receding, its long loneliness, its lush loveliness, no need to wish for low tide when the banks are breaking.
From The Soul’s Slow Ripening: 12 Celtic Practices for Seeking the Sacred, by Christine Valters Paintner
One of the things I’m noticing now in my practice of walking and observing the arrival of spring is the trees: The way they come into leaf at different times, each according to its own heritage. The colors of the leaves, much more brilliant now than they will be in the fullness of summer. And especially the way the exist in community, branch to branch with others not freely chosen, together until death parts them.
A while back I read a fascinating book called Lab Girl, by Hope Jahren. It’s part memoir, part passionate plea for a sustainable earth, part rumination on the lives of trees, which turns out to be a much more interesting subject than I’d ever imagined. Jahren talks about the tremendous risk involved when a tree-to-be puts out its first root:
No risk is more terrifying than that taken by the first root. A lucky root will eventually find water, but its first job is to anchor – to anchor an embryo and forever end its mobile phase, however passive that mobility was. Once the first root is extended, the plant will never again enjoy any hope (however feeble) of relocating to a place less cold, less dry, less dangerous. Indeed, it will face frost, drought, and greedy jaws without any possibility of flight. The tiny rootlet has only one chance to guess what the future years, decades – even centuries – will bring to the patch of soil where it sits. It asses the light and humidity of the moment, refers to its programming, and quite literally takes the plunge.
Everything is risked in that one moment when the first cells (the ‘hypocotyl’) advance from the seed coat. The root grows down before the shoot grows up, and so there is no possibility for green tissue to make new food for several days or even weeks. Rooting exhausts the very last reserves of the seed. The gamble is everything, and losing means death. The odds are more than a million to one against success.
I took this photo a year ago, on my last Sunday at the church I’d served for five years. I wanted to remember it as I saw it, and that view and that moment came back to me as I’ve thought about why I’m finding most of the online church services I’ve seen lately to be so unsatisfying. It’s because they’re all about the clergy.
Sometimes you get them appearing self-conscious and poorly lit in front of a smartphone camera which has been set at a tilt, and sometimes the high (read expensive) production values make them look like angels or saints on temporary loan from heaven. Most of the time it’s somewhere in the middle, but the bottom line is that what you get is just the clergy and what you don’t get is the people, without whom it isn’t really church.
I know my view on this isn’t the norm. I’ve got the clerical title and the collar that goes with it, but what I’m realizing so clearly just lately is that for years I went to church every Sunday and never saw a clergyperson there. What I saw was those dear faces and what I heard was their voices, all of them, and that’s how I knew that God was present. Lifting up bread and wine was important, but really it was a confirmation of what was already happening when we came together on Sunday morning.