Back in 1966, those three young divinity students looked
more like they belonged in junior high than in college. Good friends, they sang
in a music group and did almost everything together. They said things they
thought were hilarious like, “Ya know? Ya never really know.”
I’d never tell about the time one of them was on a
date and the other two pushed his car half a block away so he couldn’t find it.
I’d never write about the double date we went on with one of them when. . . .
They were great guys though. One became a missionary
to Italy, one the head of the music department at a college, and the third the
pastor of a country church. I married the third one.
They were right though. Ya know? Ya never really know.
Who would have thought that the first day of spring
2020 would arrive to find the world in chaos? A friend asked, “Am I the only
one who feels like I went to sleep and woke up in an episode of the Twilight
Zone?”
Well, hello coronavirus, COVID-19!
What positive things do I have to say from up here in
my Pollyanna tree? Please, don’t shoot me out of my tree just yet; I don’t
really like this any better than you do. Positive things. Hmmm. Well, we’re
learning new vocabulary words! Until recently, I thought “flatten the curve”
was wishful thinking when you flunked a high school chem test. And I thought “social
distancing” was something only hermits practiced.
Long ago, I wanted to be a semi-hermit. I wistfully imagined
living in an isolated cabin with just my family and a very few hand-picked
close friends nearby. I supposed that with just those few people, and my books,
I’d be perfectly content. But are selfish people ever really content?
I just didn’t know myself. I care too much about
people to be a happy hermit. How could a hermit love this saying, “They might
not need me; but they might. I’ll let my head be just in sight; a smile as
small as mine might be precisely their necessity.”
But wait. Wasn’t Emily Dickinson, who wrote those
words, a model for social distancing? Never mind. I’m distracting myself.
I’d ask you to link arms with me, walk my country road,
and talk about the crisis of coronavirus, but just for now, you stay over there
on your side of the road, six feet away, but let’s talk. What’s that you say?
My road isn’t six feet wide? Okay, I’ll walk off the road in the grass.
Community, friendship, love, these are beautiful words,
richer than we realized. No perhaps about it, we’ve taken so many precious
gifts for granted. And now we’re missing our normal lives.
Last week our little country church announced a
potluck. We love our potlucks. A friend posted on my Facebook wall that to be
Baptist you had to believe in Jesus and own a casserole dish. I told her that
was theologically incorrect. You also had to own a crockpot.
For almost forty-six years we’ve been crowding into
our fellowship hall, an old, one-room country schoolhouse for potlucks. You
should see our long table, groaning under its beautiful load of crockpots.
The schoolhouse has no running water, no indoor
bathroom, and it’s not big enough for all of us. But, oh the love and laughter
we’ve shared there. We’ve shared sobs and hugs too, at funeral dinners. I
fiercely love that old building, but I’m as anxious as anyone to see our new
addition completed. We’re going to have a fellowship hall with running water
and bathrooms, but we’ll still be the country church on the corner of two dirt
roads because that’s who we are.
We won’t be having a potluck this week. There’s no way
to practice social distancing in that old schoolhouse; it wasn’t built for
that. And you know what? Neither were we. None of us were built for social
distancing. We need each other. We need to give and receive love, friendship,
help, hugs, and comfort.
We won’t even be meeting for church; we’re doing our
part to flatten the curve. Sure, I’ll miss the big reason meet, to worship God
together and to learn from His Word, but I’ll miss the little things too. The
coffee and donuts on the back table. The smiles, handshakes, love. The shared
sorrows. The sound of the bell ringing out over the fields. The little kids
running out of children’s church anxious to show their handwork to anyone who
will look, and we’ll all look. The jokes. The laughter. The young people
helping the older ones to their cars. The contented silence of the church after
the last person has left, waiting for John while he locks the door, and walking
arm in arm with him to our car.
Soon, this social isolation end. Let’s not take each
other for granted ever again. Because, how long will we have each other? Ya
know? Ya never really know.
The bottle of Dom Perignon was half-empty, but Jer
hadn’t touched the Champagne. He wasn’t interested tonight in the pricey, popular
Treasure Chest of drinks. Its dry ice drifted in a lazy fog over their table of
four. He yawned and looked at the yellow-gold Rolex Lisa had given him.
“Here,” she’d kissed him lightly and laughed. “If
you’re going to be appearing on billboards all over Chicago with my Dad,
advertised as his brilliant, young, new law partner, you need to look the part.”
He hadn’t wanted to accept the watch; he and Lisa really
weren’t at that point in their relationship. He didn’t know if he ever wanted
to be, but things were complicated. He’d never have moved up so quickly in the
law firm without Lisa’s dad, so he felt obligated to take the watch, obligated
to keep being with Lisa, and he didn’t like the feeling. Jer sighed. He was
tired and suddenly homesick for a place he hadn’t been in years, the hills of
Tennessee.
“Hey!” Bud laughed. “What’s up, Jer? It isn’t like
you to look bored at Three Dots and a Dash! This is our third club of the night,
and you’ve only had one drink. Something wrong?”
Jer pushed aside his memories of a small church in
the Tennessee hills where it snowed every Christmas, all roads led home, and
grown men still called their fathers “Daddy.” His Daddy was the pastor at that
church. Right now they were having the Christmas Eve candlelight service, and
he knew light from inside was shining through the stained glass windows and
reflecting on the snow. When Jer had been a boy, Daddy had always left the
church lights on all night Christmas Eve, and as Jer’s family had left the
snowy parking lot and headed home to the farm, he’d loved looking back at that
reflection. It had seemed magical.
“Jer? You still with us?”
Jer looked at Bud, shrugged, and glanced at his
watch. In a half-hour it would be Christmas. “I’m tired. Let’s go.”
“And leave the rest of the Treasure Chest? Well,
it’s your buck! It you want to spend $400.00 for drinks plus your usual big tip
and then not finish drinking, okay. The rest of us have probably had enough
anyway.”
Enough
and too much, Jer thought as he helped his friends
out the door and waved for a cab.
Bud laughed again. “What’s that drunk doing here?
He’s a long way from the mission!”
Jer hesitated, then walked over to the man lying on the sidewalk. What was a drunk, homeless-looking man doing in front of this trendy, expensive bar? Even in the dim light Jer could see the deep yellow of the man’s skin. If he wasn’t dead already from liver damage, he soon would be.
The man started shivering violently. Obviously not dead yet, Jer thought. But he’s soon going to freeze to death. They
don’t call this the Windy City for nothing.
“Give
him you coat, son.” Jer’s father’s voice sounded so clear,
he looked around, startled.
Why
not? It’s not like I can’t afford another one. I can afford to buy anything I
want or need.
“Are
you sure you don’t need something money can’t buy?”
Again, Jer looked around started. Why did he keep thinking he heard his father’s voice? He wasn’t drunk, not on one drink. Was he losing his mind? He took off his coat and bent to cover the man on the sidewalk.
Jer’s friends laughed. “Hope you never want to wear
that coat again; it’s covered with lice and fleas now. Come on, Jer, cab’s waiting.
Leave that guy. He’s just going to die anyway.”
“Not on my watch, he isn’t,” Jer said abruptly. “You
guys go on. I’ll catch you later.”
Jer ignored his friends’ laughter and sarcastic
comments as he dialed 9-1-1. He did hear Bud jeeringly call him a Good-Samarian
Jeremiah. Bud knew he hated the name Jeremiah and all its biblical
connotations. Jer was definitely not
a Jeremiah, and he hadn’t been one, not for a long, long time.
Jer felt a hand grab his ankle. “Afraid,” a hoarse
voice moaned.
Jer squatted next to the man. “What’s your name? And
what are you doing here?”
“Samuel. Walked from the mission. Wanted to see
Three Dots and a Dash one more time. Used to come here with my buddies.”
Jer’s thoughts raced. Wait. Three Dots and a Dash had only opened in 2013. This man looked
like he’d lived on the streets at least forty years. When had he been sober and
wealthy enough to have come here? And how had he walked from the mission?
Jer had volunteered at the mission when he’d first
come to the city, before he’d left his faith behind, so he knew its location.
It was a brisk forty minute walk away for a healthy man. It must have taken
this man at least two hours to stumble here in his condition.
“Rum? Got rum?” Samuel’s voice was so low Jer could
barely hear it.
Jer shook his head, and tears stung his eyes. It had
been a long time since anything had made him cry.
“Don’t leave me. Don’t want to die alone.”
“I won’t leave, and you aren’t going to die, not on
my watch!” Jer peered through the crowd of bodies that had gathered to gawk. Where was that ambulance? Finally.
The paramedics rolled Samuel onto a stretcher. He
grabbed Jer’s hand.
“May I ride with him? I promised not to leave him.”
“You a relative? You can only ride in the back if
you’re family.”
Jer shook his head, but Samuel muttered, “He’s my
brother.”
“Get in.” A paramedic chuckled and motioned to
Jer.
Samuel kept a grip on Jer’s hand. Jer had never seen
such grime on a human body.
Again Samuel said, “Don’t want to die alone.”
“Hey! I told you. You aren’t going to die! Not on my
watch.”
The paramedic caught Jer’s eye and shook his head
slightly.
“Afraid, afraid!” Samuel moaned.
Jer was surprised to hear himself say, “For God so
loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth
in him, should not perish, but have everlasting life.”
“John 3:16,” Samuel whispered. “I believe. So sorry.
Almost forgot Jesus. Not alone. He’ll walk me Home.”
A few minutes later Samuel relaxed his grip. Jer
didn’t need the paramedic to tell him Samuel was gone. Jesus had come and walked
him the rest of the way Home.
“What happens to guys like him if they die without
insurance or families?”
The paramedic shrugged. “DHS might help with
cremation.”
“You look like an honest guy. “ Jer slipped off his
watch. “Will you sell this, pay for a funeral for Samuel, and give the rest to
the mission? I’d do it myself, but I need to catch the first flight to
Tennessee.”
The ambulance pulled up to the hospital
The paramedic’s eyes widened as he looked at the yellow-gold Rolex in his hand. “Isn’t this thing worth like forty-grand? Sure, I’ll take care of it for you. It just so happens my grandpa is one of the chaplains at the mission. Who should I say the gift is from?”
Jer jumped down from the ambulance and turned to shake the paramedic’s hand. “Tell them Jeremiah gave it to you,” he said, “Jeremiah from Tennessee.” Then he sprinted off to find a cab.
Photo Credit: Drones Over Broome. Please visit their Facebook page for more breathtaking photos.
Which is true?
You can’t go home again, or the greatest adventure of our lives is finding our
way back home?
One hour
and fifty-nine minutes. That’s how long it took to fly from Boston to Detroit.
“Under two hours to fly to a different planet,” Darla muttered, “and wouldn’t
you know, Mom and Dad would be late picking me up.”
Holiday
music filled the crowded airport lobby. Travelers rushed to get to their
destinations this Christmas Eve morning.
“I’ll be home for Christmas,” the old song
crooned. Darla wished she had earplugs. Detroit was only the beginning of what
was sure to be an almost unendurable week. The ride to the family home south of
Jackson, Michigan, would take thirty minutes longer than the flight from Boston
to Detroit had. From experience Darla knew the trip would be filled with Mom’s
irritating, optimistic chatter. And the questions! Mom’s questions never ended,
but Darla dreaded most the one question she knew Dad would ask.
Who was
it who said, “You can’t go home again?” Maybe they should have said, “Only a
fool tries to go home again.”
Darla
retrieved her bags, found a seat, and sighed. This wasn’t where she’d wanted to
spend the holidays. She and her friends had planned to party through Christmas
and then go to Times Square in New York to celebrate New Year’s Eve in style.
Darla
almost wished she’d refused when Mom had called asking her to come home for
Christmas and to stay for Grandma’s memorial service on December 31.
Grandma.
In spite of her black mood Darla smiled, visualizing her short, white-haired,
grandmother. Darla could almost smell Grandma’s Christmas cookies. Every
Christmas of Darla’s childhood had been spent at Grandma’s house, and at
Corners Church.
Finally.
There were the parents, hurrying toward her. She stood to accept Mom’s
hug. People always smiled at the
contrast between her and her mother. Mom said Darla, at five-eleven, looked
like Beauty in Beauty and the Beast,
and that she looked like Mrs. Potts—the little talking tea pot.
As a little girl, Darla had sung, “Mommy’s a little tea pot, short and stout,” until Dad had made her stop. He’d feared she’d hurt Mom’s feelings. Darla still referred to Mom as “The Tea Pot” when she talked about her to her Boston friends.
As
always, Darla felt half-amused and half-embarrassed by Mom’s looks. The way Mom
dressed did nothing to enhance her five-foot frame. Even on tip toe she
couldn’t quite reach Darla’s cheek.
Darla bent for Mom’s kiss. Then she felt the crush of Dad’s arms. They didn’t feel as strong as she remembered. She was surprised at the amount of gray in Dad’s hair and at the many wrinkles that lined Mom’s face. She glanced again at Mom’s cheeks. The pink cheeks she remembered were gone. Mom’s face looked pale and fragile.
The ride
home was emotionally exhausting. Darla bit her lip more than once to stop from
snapping.
“No,
Mom, Devon and I have no plans to get married.”
“Yes,
Mom, I know The Boston Globe is New
England’s largest newspaper. I’ve worked for them for two years.”
“Yes,
Mother, I keep my doors locked when I’m driving around the city.”
“No Mom, I don’t eat three healthy meals a
day. You have no idea how demanding my schedule is.”
Finally! Blessed quietness. Mom slept, her head leaned against the window. Darla noticed how the sunlight made Mom’s hair look even grayer than it had in the terminal.
Dad
cleared his throat. Oh no, here it came. “The Question.” Might as well get it over with.
“I’m
retiring the first of the year,” Dad said unexpectedly.
“What?”
Darla bolted up in her seat. “You told Mom not to talk to you about retiring
until you were seventy-five! Dad, why retire? You love your job!”
“Guess this is as good a time as any to tell you. Mom needs too much help now. I’m retiring to spend what time she has left with her.”
“What do you mean ‘what time she has left?’ Does anyone in this family ever tell me anything?”
Dad’s
voice was quiet “I wanted to wait and tell you in person. Mom has lymphoma.
Stage four.”
The size
of the lump in Darla’s throat surprised her. She hadn’t felt close to her
parents for years. Truthfully, she seldom thought of them except when she
skimmed their too long weekly letters. Darla hadn’t been home for five years,
and Mom and Dad had never visited Boston.
Darla was just as happy they didn’t come. The parents meeting her Boston
friends?
Darla
didn’t know what to say to Dad. The car was silent except for Mom’s soft
snores. Darla texted Devon the news of the lymphoma.
“So The
Tea Pot’s going to whistle her last tune?” he texted back. It was exactly the
kind of sarcastic, dark humor that had drawn Darla to Devon, but now it made
her inexplicably angry. She turned her cell phone off and shoved it into the
pocket of her jacket.
The trip
took an eternity. Ann Arbor. Chelsea. Jackson. Spring Arbor. As Darla well
remembered from her college days, there were still thirty minutes of car travel
left before they reached her parents’ farm at the end of a dirt road.
Dad slowed as they passed the college. It
looked even smaller and quainter than Darla remembered. She’d tried to forget
her years there. If anyone asked where she got her education, she always said
NYU, where she’d done her graduate work in journalism.
“Do you
want me to stop at your old Alma Mater?” Dad asked.
“Don’t
bother.” Darla sighed. “Let’s just get home and get this week over with.”
Dad
glanced at her in the rear view mirror. His eyes looked sad. That was another
thing Darla hated about coming home. It seemed she always said or did something
to hurt Mom and Dad.
“Here,” Dad reached back over the seat and handed Darla an ad ripped from the paper. “I thought you might want to see this for what it’s worth.”
Darla
couldn’t help it. She laughingly read out loud: “Wanted. Experienced journalist
for the Hudson Daily Reporter. Salary
based on experience. Benefits.” She remembered as a kid snickering at a story
the paper had carried on its front page, “Calamity Cow Causes Car Crash.”
So the
“Daily Blues,” as some called it, wanted to hire a reporter? Darla was
surprised the paper hadn’t gone belly up years ago. When even Newsweek couldn’t survive the upheaval
in print journalism, how had that little newspaper survived?
Hudson
was only about ten miles from her parents’ home. Did her dad really think she’d
return home and work for that nothing newspaper? Ludicrous! She crumpled the ad
and put it in her jacket pocket. Her fingers touched her phone. Should she text
Devon so they could mock her Dad’s idea together? Somehow, she just didn’t feel
like it.
Darla
carried one suitcase into the house, and Dad carried the other. Mom held his
free arm. Darla knew she should say something to Mom about the cancer, but
what? They’d never communicated well, not even when Darla had been a child. Mom
was all the things Darla secretly despised, a stay-at-home Mom, with no higher
education, and church as her only social life.
Darla felt she’d walked back in time when she stepped into the farmhouse. The tree was in the same corner. As usual, the top was crooked, and the tree topper had the same crack she remembered. The scent of pine filled the air. Darla sneezed. She’d forgotten about her allergy to pine.
Looking
around, Darla sighed. Every nook was filled with something red and green. Her
eyes widened at the array of home baked goods that filled the kitchen counter.
She hoped her parents didn’t expect her to eat those. It took strict discipline
to stay in her size six clothes. Dad saw Darla’s glance and smiled proudly.
“You think
that’s something?” Dad said. “Wait until you taste the turkey, the ham, and the
pork roast Mom has in the fridge.”
“I’m a
vegan!” Darla hadn’t meant to sound so angry.
“What’s
a vegan?” Dad asked.
How
could anyone not know the definition of vegan? Darla tried to be patient. “I
don’t eat anything that causes an animal to suffer. I don’t eat meat, eggs or
dairy.”
“What do
you eat?” Mom sounded stupefied.
“Veggies.
Lots of veggies. And no baked goods.”
Mom took
a long look at the counter. Tears came to her blue eyes. “I think I’m going to
go take a nap,” she said softly.
Dad
helped Mom into the bedroom and returned to Darla. “Sit, young lady!” he
thundered. Darla almost laughed, but she sat. “Your Mom has been cooking for days
for your visit. She has so little energy, and she used every bit of it to
prepare for you to come home for the holidays.”
“OK,
well I’m sorry.” Darla almost winced at the weak sound of her own voice. She
spoke louder, “I’m a vegan by conviction. I’m not going to change just because
Mom cooked!”
Dad’s
face reddened. “By conviction!” he thundered. “Since when do you have any
convictions about anything? You don’t even bother attending church. And do you
think Mom and I are stupid? We know you and Devon are living together. And that
last article you wrote for the paper on abortion? That made Mom cry. We prayed
none of our friends would see it.”
Darla
could feel her heart pounding in her head. One of her migraines was starting.
“This isn’t going to work,” Darla said. “Home for Christmas? What a joke! This
place isn’t home. I shouldn’t have come here. We live in two different worlds,
and there’s nowhere left for us to meet. I’m flying back to Boston.”
“Maybe
that would be best.” Dad sighed. “We’ll take you back to the airport in the
morning. Perhaps you’ll stop thinking of yourself long enough to go to the
Christmas Eve program at church with us tonight?”
Selfish?
Dad thought she was selfish? She almost told him how much she’d donated to
Planned Parenthood last year but realized just in time Dad wouldn’t consider
that a point in her favor.
“Speaking
of church,” Dad began.
Darla
interrupted hastily. She already regretted her bitter words and didn’t want to
argue anymore with Dad. “I’m going to do like Mom and take a little nap if I
have to go to church tonight.”
Lying on
the twin bed in her old room, Darla tried to sleep in spite of the pounding
headache. Had she ever been that girl who loved pink gingham? Everything in the
room looked like cotton candy. Pink was now her least favorite color.
From
downstairs Darla could hear Christmas music playing and Mom and Dad talking
softly. Her angry words with Dad must have prevented Mom’s nap. Was that noise
Mom crying? Darla buried her head under a pillow. She would get through church.
She would spend the night. She would fly back to her world in the morning and
bury this one in the past where it belonged. Home for the holidays was just an
outdated phrase; it had nothing to do with her.
Surprised
that she’d slept so long, Darla woke. Downstairs Mom and Dad were waiting
supper for her. No meats or treats were in sight. Two large trays of veggies
and fruits sat on th counter.
“Are
fruits okay?” Mom sounded timid.
“Oh
Mom!” Darla reached down, hugged her, and realized Mom’s clothes no longer
covered a plump frame. Mom was so tiny Darla could feel her bones. Darla pulled
away, shocked.
“You didn’t tell me about the lymphoma.”
“I
didn’t know what to say,” Mom said simply.
Darla
nodded. She understood that, the not knowing what to say.
The
three of them walked together through the snowy parking lot and into Corners
Church. This part of Michigan enjoyed a white Christmas only fifty percent of
the time. For some illogical reason, Darla was glad that it was snowing this
year. She liked hearing the snow crunch under her feet.
The
white frame church was even smaller than Darla remembered. Just like every year
of her childhood, there was candlelight, laughter, and music. The children in
the play forgot their lines, just like they always did. Grandpas dozed and
Grandmas looked proud. Babies fussed and were comforted. The same wreaths hung
in the same windows. The same ridiculous Charlie Brown Christmas tree stood in
the same corner. Its only ornaments were construction paper handprints. Must be
the children were still tracing their hands to make Christmas ornaments.
Could it
be? Darla leaned forward and peered at the tree. There it was—the handprint
she’d made so long ago. It was the only one with a big yellow smiley face on
it. At age seven, Darla had decorated everything with that silly smiley face.
Mom
leaned close and whispered, “Do you remember the year you had to be Joseph in
the Christmas play because there were no boys? You hated that. You wanted so badly
to be Mary.”
From
somewhere deep inside laughter bubbled. Mom started chuckling too.
“Shh,”
Dad whispered, but he was grinning broadly.
A little
boy, reading, stumbled over the words in the old King James Bible, “And she
brought forth her first born son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and
laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.”
I still believe those words, Darla thought, as a little girl placed a blanketed doll in a crude manger. That’s one thing Mom and Dad and I have in common.
Suddenly
she no longer felt angry. Darla knew she couldn’t leave before Grandma’s
memorial service. She leaned over and whispered to Dad, “I’m going to stay
through the holidays.”
Dad poked Mom, winked, and grinned. Had he
known all along she wouldn’t leave?
I’ll answer Dad’s unasked question before I go
to bed, Darla thought. It will make him happy. “Yes, Dad, I’ll look
for a church when I get back to Boston. It’s not going to be anything like
Corners Church, but I’ll start going back to church.”
She knew
what her Dad would say. “Well, that’s a start.”
She
wasn’t going to argue with him or Mom again, not about religion, or politics,
or vegans. She was just going to enjoy being home, home for the holidays,
perhaps for the last time.
Or . . . perhaps not for the last time. Darla reached into her jacket pocket and fished out the crumpled ad. It wouldn’t hurt to stop at the paper and just talk to them for a minute…. Had Dad just winked at Mom again? She watched him a minute, but he and Mom were staring straight ahead, holding hands, and smiling at the little angels with crooked tinsel halos who were singing quite off key, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth, peace, good will toward men.”
Photo Credit goes to Drones Over Broome who captures beautiful views in the area of New York where I spent many of my growing up years. Please visit the Drones Over Broome’s Facebook page for many more lovely scenes.
