|
Too many mornings I wake up to the thought that the country could be at war or in some other state of emergency. I feel obliged to jump from my bed and scour the news, the goings-wrong in the political universe. Too many mornings, the news casts a shadow over my entire day. But on this morning, the sky is clear blue, the sun is bright; a cool breeze passes through the window. Outside I hear the songs of birds and the quiet, steady hum of traffic. The world feels new. I sit up in bed wrapped in a quilt made of cotton, the fabric of our lives. I feel its softness all around me. This scene shapes my frame of mind. It is a better beginning to the day. I finish my morning chores and sit down at the computer. I open my bank account and find a deposit—an unexpected refund. On that positive bank note, I leave the house on some errands. I stop at a local convenience store for my favorite treat of crunchy ice and diet soda. The cashier knows me, a gift in its self, but then she says, “Put your money away. It’s on me today.” I leave the store and sit in my car waiting to make my move onto the busy highway. An unending stream of traffic whooshes past, and then an SUV stops and contains the long line of traffic behind it. The driver raises both arms from the steering wheel and gestures energetically for me to pull out onto the busy road. I drive through an older neighborhood. No McMansions here, but I admire the aging small houses with the tidy yards and the neat front porches. These are dwellings that say “the person who lives here cares.” These are not homeowners with yard people and pool people. They are the working people and the older retired people who wake up on Saturday mornings committed to the mowing and the trimming. They are old-time people who still sweep their porches with brooms and modern folks who clean their driveways with leaf blowers. They are people who visit the garden store in the spring and fall. They add annuals to the beds of perennials for a splash of color and invitation to the bees and the butterflies. These are the people who don’t make the news, but they shovel their walks and help their neighbors come winter. They put a Christmas card in the mailbox for the mail carrier and know the name of the UPS delivery driver. They buy the candy bars from the band students, the popcorn from the Boy Scouts and the cookies from the Girl Scouts. They ring your bell to let you know it was the deer eating the hibiscus in front of your garage and not two-legged vandals. Even on a drive-by, I feel at home here in this alternate universe. Back in my apartment, as I unload a small bag of groceries, the breeze rattles the mini-blinds and begs me to come to the walking path. The coolness hugs me again when I open the door, and I begin my walking mantra for today: God’s mercies are new every morning. For the first time I notice the subtle but pervasive yellow in the leaves of the trees. I step beneath one of the tall beauties lining the path, and I look up. Almost imperceptible, but there-- the leaves have begun to wither. Fall is on the way. I ponder the mystery and the miracle of how beauty and tragedy are there in the same leaf, the shade and the fragrance, as well as the barrenness and the decay. Loss and renewal occur over and over again so long as the roots are good. These lush trees have made it through a brutally hot, wet summer, and so have we. I think it is fair to say that I feel a bit yellow and withered at times, too. I take inventory of the things that went right and the things that didn’t go wrong. I give thanks for the day, for the walking path, for the convenience store clerk who knows my name, for the SUV driver that noticed my plight, and for all the people in tidy houses who wake each morning dreading the news but still shovel the sidewalks, greet the postman, and look out for their neighbors. I remind myself that it is important to know what is going on in the world, to be informed, but that I need to take note, too, that kindness and decency are alive and are a powerful form of both nourishment and resistance so long as we tend to our roots.
2 Comments
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times… - Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities Preparations for a mid-day meeting delayed my morning walk. By the time the meeting ended and I was free, rush hour had begun. As I stepped onto the shared-use path a cold wind whipped my face and stung my eyes. The whoosh of speeding cars, the squealing tires and the blaring horns were added blows to my bleeding senses. My spirit deflated like a punctured lung. I thought of turning around for home, but then I stopped, closed my eyes, and took a moment to center myself and reclaim my purpose and my enthusiasm. When I opened my eyes what I saw was a brilliant blue sky and puffy white clouds surrounded by haloes of gold from the setting sun. Crisp red and orange leaves skipped across the path in front of me, and I thought to myself, it is true: the best and the worst, they can both be present at the same time and in the same place. The daily news can be as jarring as the cold wind that whipped my face. Somedays it is easy to believe that the bad news is all the news there is, that it is indeed the worst of times in a Tale of Two Countries, but then something happens that expands my focus and restores my faith. Two such stories recently reached me. With all the worries about loss of essential benefits such as SNAP and healthcare amidst an affordable housing crisis and rising grocery costs, a friend sent me this story about a restaurant in Marion, Ohio where a few afternoons a week the restaurant offers free pasta dinners to families with the tag line, “Your children don’t need to know.” Quoting the article and Bucci’s Facebook post: Bucci’s said, “We love this community, and we’re thankful to be in a position to do something small that might make things a little easier for someone else. We can’t get through this without each other. Love you all.” A few days later, I saw another story about a man and his two young sons who live in Whitehall, Pennsylvania. They started a small food pantry on their front porch and received a nice donation from an anonymous donor. The Whitehall dad said, “Making a food pantry is no different than me inviting you over to my house for dinner. Come grab a meal. Come grab a drink. Come grab what you need. I’m happy to have you.” These stories were the medicine I needed, medicine that did not just restore my faith but invigorated it. I was reminded that God created man and placed that man in a garden. God saw that the man was lonely, and God created a companion for him. God never intended for us to face life alone even in paradise. Life was meant to be served up family style. I want to hold onto these stories whenever I am inclined to become a doubting Thomas. Just because there is a moment of darkness, I do not want to doubt that there is light ahead. I am a believer, and this is the hard work of faith: to keep believing even in the darkness, to trust in goodness even when the bad guys seem to be winning, and to act with conviction by committing ourselves to loving others with joy and enthusiasm. There is a story in the Book of Matthew about the apostles out at night on a stormy sea. They were far from shore and whipped by wind and waves. Exhausted, they looked into the darkness and they saw Jesus walking toward them on the water. Jesus said, “Take courage. Don’t be afraid.” I am thinking there are some folks in Marion, Ohio and Whitehall, Pennsylvania who have heard these same words from people they believe can walk on water. Dear God, It is me. I am feeling small and shaken today. As you know, there are powerful people calling my home, and one of your finest creations, a garbage can. They are threatening its people, your people, with harm and destruction. These people call so much attention to themselves Lord that I know they must keep you very busy. Many of these people call themselves believers. When they gather, they call it church. They invoke your name as though they have exclusive rights to you. While my faith tells me that is not so, sometimes I fear these folks keep you so busy that you can no longer see me. And so I will try to stand apart today, God, not to rail against what has been given, not to tell you what the Divine Agenda should be, but to reach out and say thank you for all that I have by the tremendous blessing of being born an American. I thank you for this land mass that is my home, a home that spreads from sea to shining sea within a geographic latitude that provides beautiful weather, flowing rivers, fertile soil, plentiful wildlife, and limited barriers. I know that so much of the world is constrained by its physical environment, heat, drought, infertile land, limited natural resources…And yet, you gave all of this to me, to Americans. How lucky are we to have it all—purple mountains majesty, fruited plains, the Grand Canyon and National Parks? You have indeed shed your grace on us. I do see it, God. I really, really do. And I thank you for the wisdom, the will, and the resources that created an expansive highway system that allows us to move freely with no border patrols or agents to slow us down or stop us, that give us the ability to enjoy freedom of movement and American road trips. I believe you gave this to us so that we could connect to one another, see ourselves as neighbors, as the American family. I thank you for our international friends and allies that extend the American family and that help to keep us safe. They open their doors so that we might partake of the majesty that exists in their countries. I thank you for the waterways they share, and the air space they open to American cargo and American travelers. We don’t ever want to be isolated without that. I thank you for yellow school buses that take our children to school each day and for the social safety net that keeps American children from having to beg on the streets as so many children around the world must do to survive. I thank you for public education that nourishes the mind and has grown the American genius, the genius that gave us sanitation, vaccines, and antibiotics. My own father grieved his entire life over the death of his young father from pneumonia in the time before antibiotics. My mother and her brother suffered polio and lived with the lifelong effects because there were no vaccines. Thank you, God, for sparing me, and thank you for America's extraordinary public health services. I thank you for the National Weather Service, the ability of a person to glimpse through God’s eyes and see what’s coming, to predict storms and weather events in time to move people out of harm’s way, and for government relief programs when the storms have passed. I thank you for public libraries and universities that make books and knowledge available to everyone who is interested. I thank you for postal workers who dodge raindrops, dogs, and traffic every day to bring news from loved ones, groceries, and medical supplies right to my door. I thank you for the genius of moving pictures and the entertainment industry, the magic of Disney, public television, public radio, Big Bird, Elmo, and Mr. Rogers. And I thank you for all of the other American mothers and fathers of invention who gave us the Ferris wheel, chocolate chip cookies, dental floss, zippers, hearing aids, cardiac defibrillators, traffic lights, chemotherapy, video games, computers, air conditioning, rubber, peanuts, sweet potatoes and crop rotation, bifocals, telephones, cortisone, air travel, electric power distribution, light bulbs, and so much more. Thank you, God, for all of the people, my own grandparents included, who came to the United States from faraway places in search of a better life in this marvelous country. I know they were grateful. I hope you are proud of their effort and hard work, their tremendous contribution to America’s greatness. I know that I am. Thanksgiving Day is coming, God, but please know that I am not thankful just one day a year. I am awestruck and grateful each morning when I arise in this land of the free. Please help me to be brave. Amen. PS: And, please, God, make America grateful again.  Today I am revisiting an earlier post, one I wrote in May. I wish to honor and remember an American hero, The Honorable John Robert Lewis, United States Congressman and Civil Rights Activist. He never gave up on The Beloved Community. Shake up the heavens, John Lewis! Send us some peace on earth. The Beloved Community My city is on fire. Does anyone know the way to the Beloved Community? Someone told me about it a long time ago. I was only a child at the time. It was a decade much like this one. Tumultuous. Divisive. Streets filled with protesters. Signs said “peace” and “love” while war, discrimination, and distrust of elders and government fueled flames of despair and burning buildings. A child living in the suburbs, I wondered how close the blaze was to the street where I lived. It was a decade when answering the question of how to put a man on the moon became easier to answer than the question of how to treat a man on the street. We lost a president to assassination. Later, his brother, a presidential candidate and civil rights activist, would be gunned down too. Many great leaders of the civil rights movement died by violence even the ones preaching peace and love. We have been wandering through this wilderness longer than Moses and the Israelites. People can only wander for so long. It is hard to live on promises. Like Dorothy on the way to Oz, we don’t really know where we are going. We’ve become distracted. Falling asleep in a field of poppies, we awakened to find we are alone. Where are our brains, our hearts, our courage? There are voices coming over the loudspeaker, but it is all bluster. We are leaderless and on our own. There is no one behind the curtain. Once again, we have set our sights on conquering the heavens. Did we give up on the earth? Does anyone know the way to the Beloved Community? Seeking an answer, I tried Mapquest. The Beloved Community might be in Jersey City, Chicago, Birmingham, St. Louis, Greensboro, or Atlanta. It is hard to find without an address. Without a leader I must rely upon the people who know, who remember… I have an old description of the place. A worn pamphlet reports that courageous people live in the Beloved Community. Nonviolence is a way of life. Members of the community seek friendship, understanding, redemption, and reconciliation. Any resistance that exists in the Beloved Community is resistance to evil and injustice not to people. It is a place where suffering educates and transforms without fear of retaliation. People of the Beloved Community choose love instead of hate. They believe that the universe is on the side of justice. I want to be on the side of justice too. Does anyone know the way to the Beloved Community?  My city is on fire. Does anyone know the way to the Beloved Community? Someone told me about it a long time ago. I was only a child at the time. It was a decade much like this one. Tumultuous. Divisive. Streets filled with protesters. Signs said “peace” and “love” while war, discrimination, and distrust of elders and government fueled flames of despair and burning buildings. A child living in the suburbs, I wondered how close the blaze was to the street where I lived. It was a decade when answering the question of how to put a man on the moon became easier to answer than the question of how to treat a man on the street. We lost a president to assassination. Later, his brother, a presidential candidate and civil rights activist would be gunned down too. Many great leaders of the civil rights movement died by violence even the ones preaching peace and love. We have been wandering through this wilderness longer than Moses and the Israelites. People can only wander for so long. It is hard to live on promises. Like Dorothy on the way to Oz, we don’t really know where we are going. We’ve become distracted. Falling asleep in a field of poppies, we awakened to find we are alone. Where are our brains, our hearts, our courage? There are voices coming over the loudspeaker, but it is all bluster. We are leaderless and on our own. There is no one behind the curtain. Once again, we have set our sights on conquering the heavens. Did we give up on the earth? Does anyone know the way to the Beloved Community? Seeking an answer, I tried Mapquest. The Beloved Community might be in Jersey City, Chicago, Birmingham, St. Louis, Greensboro, or Atlanta. It is hard to find without an address. Without a leader. I must rely now upon the people who know, who remember… I have an old description of the place. A worn pamphlet reports that courageous people live in the Beloved Community. Nonviolence is a way of life. Members of the community seek friendship, understanding, redemption, and reconciliation. Any resistance that exists in the Beloved Community is resistance to evil and injustice not to people. It is a place where suffering educates and transforms without fear of retaliation. People of the Beloved Community choose love instead of hate. They believe that the universe is on the side of justice. I want to be on the side of justice too. Does anyone know the way to the Beloved Community? |
AuthorLilli-ann Buffin Archives
August 2026
Categories
All
|
RSS Feed