Going Home

      I am visiting my sister and brother-in law in the town next door to the place I grew up. It's part of the Rust Belt, where even 30 years ago (the last time I returned for an extended stay) the steel mills were closed and the economy was suffering. Wives were working two or three jobs to hold things together, while men who'd formerly labored in the mills hunted, fished, drank, and boasted that they'd never work for a mere $10 an hour.

      Now, it is hard to describe the desolation of the downtown area. The large department stores are gone. The local mainstay for shoppers where I worked in the credit department is now an outlet store. The bridge across which I walked to the bank carrying the day's deposit of cash and checks has been refurbished and I can no longer see the water through it. The local bank to which I walked (with my gun-toting bodyguard Don a few paces behind) has been subsumed by a mega-bank. 

      Even the suburban malls, which once held a promise of shiny new life, are shells of their former selves. Blacktop parking lots are punctuated by tufts of grass or weeds. 

      Some things are the same, though. The family that bought my parents' home, the house where I grew up, is taking good care of it. Flowers bloom, the porch is painted, and at night the porch light is on, as it was so many years ago.

      My youngest granddaughter is growing up a few blocks from the old place, in another family's once-treasured home. She likes her new house and her neighborhood. She has friends there. May she treasure this time when she is grown and revisits it.

 

Life and Other Mysteries

"Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans" — John Lennon

     I was talking to a friend the other day. We hadn't seen each other for a while, and we were catching up on events in our lives. "Just when I think I can get going, something else happens," she said. Since I seem to be thinking in pictures these days, I have two images for this.
     The first picture that comes to mind is that of a lumberjack trying to stay on his feet during a log roll competition, twirling the log around and around‚ and the log suddenly doesn't spin as it has been doing. And the man falls into the water. Dripping wet, he clambers out of the water and back onto the log, where he spins it again. Once again he loses his balance — once again he falls into the water. This goes on and on. Sometimes the intervals are short between falls, and sometimes they are longer. In any case, another fall seems certain to come. I told her life is like a log roll: we think we're rolling along and then kerplunk! we're in the soup from a health issue, or a clash of personalities, or a job loss. And we somehow clamber back up and carry on.
     The other image is what I call "Sproing." You may be thinking, What's that? But you've seen it. Think Tom and Jerry cartoon. The hero is racing to get a piece of cheese or some other reward, and he's really, really rushing, feet a blur, and suddenly — Sproing! his suspenders have been tied to a stake and he comes flying back to the starting point. Sometimes life seems a bit like that, too.
     However it happens, we are always in the midst of our lives as they unfold, probably not exactly as we had planned. What keeps me going is faith, a faith that when I set my foot on an unknown place, it won't be thin air; there will be something under it to hold me up. By the grace of God.

Rhythms

     I was driving to my daughter's place yesterday on a highway that runs through the counties of Lancaster and Berks into Lehigh County. The day was sauna-like when I left my studio at the GoggleWorks. Bright sun alternated with clouds, so my sunglasses were on and off. I'm always captivated by the fields I pass, some newly planted in corn that seems to be growing as I watch, some in the distance looking like patchwork quilts. The area is replete with farm stands and small shops.
     Near Kirbyville I approached a farm stand that seemed to have an explosion of afterthoughts on its signs. The painted sign for strawberries had a cardboard addendum crayoned "raspberries." Signs for spinach and rhubarb had cardboard addenda for lettuce, sugar snap peas, and asparagus. There were others which I can't remember, but my mouth was watering. Then I reached the stand, where I saw one final addendum to the signage: Closed Sundays. (in red)
     The rhythm of farming is practiced here, not the rhythm of commerce. The growing season demands intense effort for some six months or so, dawn to dusk. This cannot be sustained without periods of rest, and most of these stands are closed on the Sabbath. Not at all like other commercial establishments, where everything is available all day, every day, 24/7. It is good to be reminded that to everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven, and to know that those who provide our fresh fruits and vegetables have their priorities straight. We need rest to replenish our bodies and spirits. I was glad to be reminded of this.
     The drive home was fraught with tension, as torrential downpours lowered visibility and drivers slowed their speeds. I'm sure the farmers were glad for the rain.
     To everything there is a season.  Thanks be to God.

Resurrection Times

     I've been visiting my dear friend Mary at the local hospital all week. Last Saturday when I saw her there for the first time, I was shocked at her appearance and her frailty. Through Sunday and Monday we talked about her condition. I asked if she had anything she wanted to say. She gave me a couple of small tasks to do for her funeral. We shed a few tears. Mostly we just held hands and were quiet.
     Then, Tuesday morning she was a bit better. Three of her friends (mine too) came from her church, and we had lots of laughs. It was a real party atmosphere. Mary began to improve. Wednesday morning when I arrived, she said she felt like she had a second chance at living, and we celebrated. She walked. She got off the oxygen. She had occupational and physical therapy. Yesterday she went to a nursing home near her home, where her husband and friends can visit much more easily. She will have rehab and, hopefully, return home in a few weeks. It was a real resurrection moment — we both felt it and rejoiced.
     I have been thinking since then about the many resurrection moments in a person's life, times when we feel that all hope is gone and we are helpless to change the course of events. And then something happens. A plant we thought was dead sends out new leaves. A lost opportunity presents itself in a new, better form.  A relationship we thought was failed is mended and renewed. I am reminded of the psalmist's verse: Weeping may spend the night, but joy comes in the morning. Thanks be to God.