Rainbows

There is in Rochester a bridge over the Genesee River. On one side is the Kodak Hawkeye plant (which during WWII manufactured bombsights and now that Kodak, Bausch and Lomb and other Rochester companies no longer actually MAKE things, has been let to ITT for some purpose no one knows) and its employee parking. On the other side of the bridge is the Maplewood rose garden park and the YMCA. On the bridge is a perpetual rainbow. Driving across westbound in the morning and eastbound in the evening, the mist from the cascade directly upriver floats in front of you, and the sun shines through it. It is a visual caress. No matter the season, there are people who make a special trip to use that bridge rather than the one a mile south or north.

I choose to drive up St. Paul Street to go to church two or three times a week so that I can cross there rather than downtown or at Bausch Street. I carry that rainbow into church with me. I have that image of God's creation when I hear the priest say, "and this fragile Earth, our island home," and the people respond, "By your will they were created and have their being." (BCP p370) Then my heart sings and that rainbow shimmers in my mind's eye.

The Roof

When I was 12 and thirteen, we lived in Alpena Michigan. One of the industries there was a roof shingle manufactory. They made an asphalt shingle that stood up to wind and lasted. But they were outshined by new self-sealing shingles that were easier to install. As I sat here today gazing out my office window, I realized the house across the street has the shingles. They are at least 40 years old, and are covered in moss, but the roof is intact. Not a single lifted or curled or bare-of-gravel shingle to be seen. I imagine myself in the position of the owner of that factory: he had a wonderful product, he made it at a reasonable price and employed several people in a good business. Bu he was done in by a lesser product that was easier to install, even though it did not last as long. People were willing to go with the cheaper (in labor costs) product to their own detriment. How would I have reacted? Would I have become bitter, disillusioned? Would I have started making the lesser product? How would I have decided? I don't know how he decided, but even the best asphalt roofs don't last more than a lifetime. Soon the house across the street will get a new roof that will only last 20 years. Will it matter?

Wygelia

Just as the lilacs rhododendrons and azaleas faded away, the wygelia started blooming. In my neighborhood, the perennials are a sedate parade, one following the other, so that there is always something joyous to see. I look forward to the asian lilies and hostas as I revel in the odor of the lindenbaums and privets. I am blessed with the gift of a new flower every week until the kale is covered with snow.

I have been thinking much of late on the conversion experience. Some worship communities put heavy emphasis on that one bright moment of mystery and awe when God's Love overwhelms the senses. I have many of these, triggered by a mere flowering bush, or a baby's chortle, a teen's energetic lissomeness, or a sparkle from a craggy old face. A realist would say that the red cardinal's song is not caused by his heart bursting with joy, but by his inborn need to mate. But why can't it be both? Why can't I overlay scentific reality with my own joy? I promise not to forget the cold just because I am warm. And I promise live from crest to crest instead of cleft to cleft.

Cold Daffodils and the 10th Commandment

My neighbor planted his bulbs near the house; because there is a big overhang on my house, I chose to plant mine in the front yard, next to a big boulder. Next door, the daffodils were in full bloom when the spring snowstorm hit us. I had been sad because I had no daffodils, but now mine are in bloom.

I have had a hard time my whole life being covetous. My friends had Norman Rockwell families. I was an Army brat. I had short hair, my schoolmates had Beatles and Stones hairdos. Cars, muscles, money, social skills, adventures, other people have always had what I want. I was resentful, but it never translated into a drive or ambition. Now, as others are having their midlife crises, I am finally happy not to have something. I am now realizing that the internal babble of jealousy flavored my life but never motivated me: I didn't make decisions based on wanting to be like others.

The fineness of the distinction struck me with those daffodils. I wished my bulbs would come up earlier, but I wasn't about to move them. I just forgot for a while that they all would bloom for the same length eventually. I let my envy make me unhappy by focusing on someone else's blessing instead of my own. The 10 Commandments by being proscriptive, tell me to stop but they don't tell me how. The two the Jesus gave, are prescriptive, telling me how to act.

The daffodils have provided me with a clarity. Instead of being jealous, of wishing I had his flowers, I can rejoice in his because I can enjoy them, and rejoice also that I get a double helping, because when his are through blooming, we both still have mine to enjoy.

I have been doing that, without understanding that I was participating in it. I rejoiced with and for Brad at his ordination, beng glad I had a part in advancing it. Ditto with Alicia and Bryan. I have thrilled to Deirdre's becoming a granny, and have admired the physical beauty. I have enjoyed other people's possessing things without jealousy. Seeing others happy can make me happy.

Dark days are in your mind

Why is the day so foreboding? It is within my own expectations and judgments that gloominess arises. The dogs are truly in the moment: "I am tired, I am hungry, I hear a noise, I see a movement, the one I love is home again." Me, I worry about how the one I love sits morosely, I worry about whether I am doing the right thing to accomplish my mission, I worry that I will grow old and ineffectual before I am done.

I woke today before the alarm went off. I lay in bed looking out at a light grey, almost pearly sky and rejoiced in my breathing, luxuriated in warmth and comfort and thanked God for his gift of those things. But as soon as I got up, I started complaining. My back hurt, there was dog hair on my face, the floor was chilly, my day was too full. Oh, and the world is going to hell in a handbasket, and taking my measly retirement plans along with it.

And yet I have been told that I appear to be a cheery person. I really do look for the positive. So there is a dissonance between the person who is "on duty" for others and the dark poet of my privacy. Who is real? Next Sunday is Easter. Am I a Passion Sunday person, like Mel Gibson, or am I a resurrectionist? Ecclesiastes or Mel Brooks? Know thyself, Bob. And don't evangelize until you are sure of what you believe!

Spring has sprung!

I will soon need a new picture for this Blog. The last of the snow melted under this week's balmy weather, and although it is snowing today, it isn't accumulating. Taxes are almost done, and for the first time in ages, I owe.

As I look inward, I have some doubts. At a meeting today, the men who called the meeting didn't meet my eye. I sat quietly and let them speak, but I wonder if it appeared to them to be a stony silence, or worse, an antagonism. I admit that I took offense at their criticism veiled as a review of the work of our mutual ministry. I also cannot understand what bothers them so much about me. I wish I could understand and give them what they want. Meanwhile, they feel like they are inimical. But on the other hand, is my stony silence so strong and impressive that grown men cannot meet my eye? Hmmmm.


I sing TS Eliot's Lovesong of Alfred J Prufrock:
...No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach...

That is how I think of myself, and yet, I am NOT politic, I cannot advise the prince, and I cannot fade away and spend my remaining days on the beach. I can not stand by quietly. I barge in like the Prince's peasant servant, eager to work, unaware of subtleties like tact or planning.

Damn, I wish I were a magician.

January 24

Spring cleaning on my bedroom. I promised myself I would try to really deeply clean one room a month in the house now that I don't have regular hours. I have not been faithful to that, but today I took the vacuum and dust rag to my room. It needed it badly. The dust and dog hair were bad beyond excuse.

I got a call to come in to Highland. When I got to the patient, the family had already left. Poor guy had died of pneumonia at age 69, died quietly and without much notice, except a note in the chart. The Aide had opened his Bible to Psalm 23. I had comforted the family. I blessed the corpse through the shroud and prayed for his soul to be made welcome, and for comfort of the family. It felt cursory, but when I looked up, the staff had been moved. Bless them for helping me feel adequate.