Holy texts in a time of anxiety (Day 5 of 10 Days of Gratitude)

This afternoon the neighbourhood was empty, silent and cold.   Sidewalks, streets, and sky were all a stark, depressing grey.  A chill wind mocked the faint rumours of spring.  (Fake news?)

The playground structures in the parkette across the street are now cordoned off.  The swings and climbers are wrapped round in yellow Caution tape.  A big, black-on-white CLOSED sign is posted on one of the ladders.  Do not open ‘til … hopefully not as far away as Christmas.

But then on the sidewalk were three sections of pavement with a message in chalk.  “Be Kind.”  Blank section.  “Hope,” with a smiley-face beaming sun.  Blank section.  “Be positive.” 

A block or two farther on were more etchings.  Of an even more ambitious child.  Maybe ten messages left for any passerby.  For want of a phone or pen and paper, all I can remember are “Darkness does not beat light” and “If your (sic.) going to be WEIRD, at least be CONFIDENT about it.”  Ten delightful commandments for life in a time of anxiety.   

God bless you, little Moses!  Messiah child at least for a moment.

And along the way back home, holy writ and sacred art hung in house after house, in living room and kitchen and dining room windows, facing out for strangers like me to see.  Child-pictures of happy people, of flowers, of a dog standing under a sun and saying, “It will get better.”  Another urging, “keep it up everyone.”

How can I not be grateful for the children who see the caution tape, follow the rules, and yet still believe in life?  How not pray for the Child in us all?

Angels rush in ... (Day 4 of 10 Days of Gratitude)

Within less than three minutes of making the call, the ambulance had arrived and was parked in front of the house.  After unloading and readying the stretcher on the sidewalk in front of the house, two paramedics came in the front door.  With gloves on and no masks they asked a few questions about our possible exposure to COVID-19 (the same questions that had been asked earlier by the (911 operator), but you also knew from their demeanour that no matter what the answer they were going to be in the bedroom to tend to Japhia without delay.

Instant sympathy and rapport.  Immediate analysis of the problem.  Bending to the patient's wish not to have to go to the ER given the pandemic and the risks associated with it, they gave total and careful attention to what treatment they could offer where they and we were.  

In ten minutes they had resolved the worst of the symptoms of the chronic disorder that had flared up.  They gave advice and direction for the next few days.  They shared a bit of their own life story.  I think they as much as we appreciated the chance for human contact.  

Again they asked Japhia if she was sure she didn't want to go in to the ER.  They assured us she would probably sleep through the night, and be the better for it.  They told us to call back if needed -- that they were just a few minutes away.

Then they packed up, cleaned up and were on their way.  Back to the station to wait for other calls until their shift would be over around sunrise.

And really, this is only usual paramedic service.  But the times we are in -- this time of pandemic, makes it much more than "just usual."

How can we not be thankful for paramedics who serve the well-being of others like this in a time like this?  

The day after this event the local paper told a story of how paramedics far more than firefighters and police officers are now suffering massively increased instances and degrees of PTSD.  

I wonder.  In addition to other stresses, could there be a connection between that and the fact that while these two came in as they did, three firefighters who followed the ambulance to our house stayed outside having to chat among themselves through protective masks, under instruction not to enter the house without the paramedics going in first, establishing the parameters of the scene, and asking for their assistance only if needed?

I am immensely grateful for those two paramedics who Friday night just came right in where others cannot or will not tread.

Still Life (Day 3 of 10 Days of Gratitude)

Still vibrant.  

For how much longer, though?

They were bought and brought home maybe a week ago.  Or longer.  How many days before that were they cut off from their roots?  

How much longer can they last?

And is this not the way of all flesh?  The moment we are born -- the moment the cord is cut, they say, we begin our dying.

But look how long we are vibrant.  How long we vibrate with the pulse of life.  Pulse the heartbeat of God.  Unfold, open and offer -- each of us, our own flowering of God's glory.

I like what Richard Rohr (or was it Diana Butler Bass?) says about each of us and every other creature and created thing being a unique and singular emergence in time of some element or aspect of the Divine, at once eternal and transient.  I like the way Leonard Cohen puts it, that we are "really nothing but the brief elaboration of a tune."  (Nothing but ... but is there anything more or grander than this humble service?)

I am grateful.

For the flowers in their brief time.  For what they are, and what they show me of something more.  

For my life and yours and all life vibrating both now and forever with the purpose and pulse of God.

Living in the Web .. old-school style (Day 2 of 10 Days of Gratitude)

Today is my sister Valerie's birthday.  Happy birthday, Val!

I have to send a card.  (Yes, I know I'm late!  You think I don't know that?)

But I didn't know their mailing address.  I know where their house is and how to get there, but can't visualize the number by the front door.

Google it?  Call and ask for her husband Jim, so I don't have to admit to Val in person how late her card will be?

Normally we get together for an evening of birthday appetizers and euchre, and the card is hand-presented.  A wonderful system that's worked for decades.

So with the breakdown of what we're used to, I revert to what used to be.  The even older system.  I phone my other sister Carol to get Val's address.

As kids it was Carol who always knew our parents' birthdays and anniversaries, would buy the card, and bring it to Val and I to sign.  As we grew older and moved out and on it was Carol who without fail would remember the day and send a card well in advance.  Also Carol who kept a list of special days for all the aunts and uncles and cousins all over the country.

Well before the Web, Carol was the family spider spinning faithful lines of caring connection among us all.

I obviously was not as good at it, nor committed to it.  At times even resistant to it.  At other times, just forgetful about it.

But I'm grateful the web still holds.  That this old-school network of family connectedness and care has withstood the tests of time.

Now that I have the address, as soon as I get it in the mail, and then a little after that, Val will know I remembered to buy her a card.

Two, in fact.

Because I'm grateful.

(And ... there goes the suspense and surprise for Valerie!  Good thing she loves me.  Which I am also grateful for.)

Awakening to Gratitude (Day 1 of 10 Days of Gratitude)

I think there's such a thing as "a month of Sundays" (or is it Mondays?); how about "ten days of Wednesdays"?  A lot of folks have taken up the online challenge of posting 10 days of pictures of things they are grateful for.  Because I love to write (hear myself talk?) I'm accepting the challenge in this media.  Remains to be seen if I manage ten days in a row -- either of being grateful, or of blogging about it.

I was awake -- mind going full throttle, at 2:30 this morning.  I used to resent this; I've grown now to treasure these times of waking up to the dark. (Especially after reading a book by almost that exact title)

Downstairs I briefly checked the 24/7 Coronavirus Pandemic news on The National.  Nothing yet about the federal government invoking the Emergency Measures Act.

On BBC Earth I watched the last few minutes of a show about searching for the smallest particle in the universe.  Then the first few minutes of another show about searching for life on planets in other universes.  And noticed that BBCE's schedule for later in the day includes a whole string of episodes of a show about nature's "weirdest events."

Is reality these days only emergencies and extremities?

I shut off the TV and went to look out the back door.  

There lay the familiar bend in the street, the houses and driveways all along one side of it, the parkette and playground across the road and at the heart of it all.  A still, silent scene emptied of human life under the sentinel streetlight.  Abandoned and forsaken, deserted, just as it is now in the sunlight of cold day as well in this time of social distancing and self-isolation.

I walked to the front door.  Looked out just to see.

And there on our front lawn was a rabbit.  

Brown.  

Warm brown.

Living.  

Quietly moving.  

Confidently and soundlessly nibbling at a particular very little patch of weedy grass of some kind right by the sidewalk, that grows up taller and thicker every year than the rest of the lawn.  That I've not bothered to get rid of.  Nor learn the name of.  That this gentle, dear rabbit seems very familiar with and accustomed to.  Maybe thankful for, as much as an animal feels thanks.

An Easter rabbit, of a race deeper than Cadbury's?  I have begun to wonder how on Earth we will mark and celebrate Easter this year.

As soundlessly as him (or her? how would I know?) I moved full onto our closed-in front porch to be able to see it all the clearer and closer.  Standing still in pre-dawn cold I watched the rabbit graze the front lawn for maybe two minutes before disappearing from my sight into the shadows that lay across our neighbour's lawn.

Life persists.  Warm brown.  Gently confident.  Bold even, for something so precious and vulnerable.  Moving, in more ways than one.

I returned to the dark of the bedroom and of rest.

Grateful.