In
on-line worship at our new church on Sunday, I was reminded that about a year
ago we switched to on-line worship, on-line work meetings, on-line poetry
readings, not knowing how long before we would be able to meet together
again. It made me think about where I
was, where we were a year ago, and what has happened since.
About
a year ago, we were wondering about where the country and world were going
(that hasn’t changed!). Disastrous wildfires were destroying so many homes and
wildlife. It had been two months since
Iran and the US teetered toward war, and a month since the impeachment trial of
President Trump had ended in acquittal. I was worried about what else Trump
might do, but had no idea what was in store.
About
a year ago, my wife and I were preparing for retirement. We had talked about travelling to Chile,
travelling to different parts of the country.
I had started researching working as a volunteer in a swing district in
the fall election. We talked about
renovating the house for a studio for Luisa. We talked about going to the
movies every week, a date we love to have.
Then,
about a year ago, COVID-19 arrived. Our
pension and retirement savings dropped to 70% of what they had been at the beginning
of the year. We met with our financial advisor to adjust our plans, and
wondered how—or if—any of the plans we had discussed would happen.
About
a year ago, I ordered seeds for the garden.
Overly optimistic as ever, but hoping that being retired would give us a
chance for a much more well-tended garden.
(That one proved true!)
About
a year ago, I was working with three young women I had known for over a decade,
preparing them for confirmation. Many
parents in our congregation had already lost their jobs or had their hours
severely cut. We did not know when we’d
be able to return to in-person gatherings. I didn’t know if we were going to
see the three young women or the two children preparing for first communion.
And
about a year ago, we were in the thick of planning our summer program: day
camp, youth leadership program, block party, art installations, neighborhood
celebrations, puppet shows—planning without knowing what we might be able to
do.
A
year ago, our funders suspended most grant applications. We kept planning for the summer (our busiest
time), not knowing if we could pay for it, or what we would be able to do
safely.
Almost
exactly a year ago, the high school from
my home town, the Austin, MN Packers was one win away from another trip to the
state tourney. The section finals were
with their historic rivals, Albert Lea. Though the Packers had a better record
than the Tigers, they had split the two games between them that season. Each game had been won by one point. The finals never happened. About a year ago, I was in the thick of my
research for NCAA March Madness, planning to smash Marty, a dear friend who had
run a pool on the tourney for nearly four decades. That tourney never happened. The Olympics didn’t happen. Opening Day for the Twins with two friends I’ve
known since kindergarten didn’t happen.
The State Fair did not happen.
About
a year ago, I was visiting Charlie, a faithful member of the congregation in
the hospital and a rehab center, until suddenly I was not. I had met him on my very first day at the
church, visiting him in another hospital.
For a while I could call him on his cell, when he remembered to take it
with him as he went from the hospital to the care home back to the hospital.
And
at the same time, I had my last visit with Mary, another faithful member of the
congregation, not knowing it would be my last.
She had had a stroke, and problems with her legs. She couldn’t swallow well, so I couldn’t
offer her communion. She asked me to
read Psalms to her: 91, 121, 51, 21. All
ending in 1.
March
7, 2020: saw my first robin, harbinger of an early Minnesota spring. Checked my log of robin sightings going back
to 1998 in Philadelphia. Earliest sighting
there: February 6.
About
a year ago, I was working on cleaning out our office at church, a job that
continued until our very last day. Not
quite like Hercules and the Aegean Stables, but monumental. I had to wear a dust mask most days, before wearing
masks against the virus were required. I
found something like $47 in cash. Photos
of youth who were now adults. Records of
meetings going back a decade and a half.
Some of the same issues and conflict:
what is our mission, who gets to decide.
An inordinate amount of time spent on property and finance. Lots of rubber
bands, paper clips and pennies in places I had forgotten existed.
That
was March 2020. We had some idea of what
was to come, but nothing like we expected.
In
April, I went to anoint Charlie and give him communion after he came to his
home on hospice. I wore double gloves, a
mask and clothes I took off on our porch (except underwear), put in a bag to
take to wash, and took a long shower. The
next day Charlie died. The day after
that, we learned that his wife and two adult children were positive for COVID
19. That began two weeks of quarantining
from my wife and daughter, in my own house. I never missed hugs so much!
I
was never able to visit Mary again, but every day of a beautiful spring, I
wrapped myself in the prayer shawl she had given me, and prayed on our porch as
the cardinals sang their blessed hearts out and a pair of downy woodpeckers set
up house in one of our trees. Mary died peacefully, and her family was able to
bury her in the Texas cemetery, where several generations of her family have
been laid.
On
May 25, George Floyd was murdered a little over a mile from our house. We participated in protests starting the next
day. The following day, looting and graffiti covered the neighborhood of the
church. Fires were started. Over a
thousand buildings were damaged or destroyed in the next few days, including
every grocery store, pharmacy, bank, library and post office near the church.
Luisa and I slept in the church for two nights as a part of our neighborhood
group. The police and National Guard occupied
our community: constant helicopters and sirens, smell of tear gas, SUVS with tinted
windows and no license plates racing through the neighborhood.
This
was all less than a year ago, and I don’t think the tension has yet left my
body.
Then
the attack on democracy ramped up. I couldn’t
travel to a swing district, but was able to write postcards and send texts to
people I probably will never know, in PA, AZ and GA. In our on-line training to be election
judges, the policy for confronting disruption and violence was emphasized. The election went smoothly, not one incident
of fraud or intimidation. Then the tense
wait for the results. I was out doing
yard work that Saturday, when I started hearing children shouting and bells
ringing and laughter. I checked my
phone, and thought it was finally over.
Would
that were true. The flurry of lawsuits,
the attack on elections by elected officials, finally the
insurrection on January 6.
Today
is International Women’s Day. Violence
against women has increased this last year.
Today was supposed to be the start of jury selection for the trial of Derrick
Chauvin, the chief murderer of George Floyd (postponed for motions). The city and state have put up massive
concrete barriers and barbed wire, and the Guard is at the ready.
I
don’t know if I ever want to go through another year like this one.
But
then yesterday, Luisa and I got the first shot of the vaccine. It was 62 yesterday, and may hit 66
tomorrow. I ordered seeds again today,
and we have plans to almost double the size of our garden. I saw a pair of downy woodpeckers in our back
yard. There is almost as much daylight as
there is night. My second book of
poetry was published this year, and I have more time than ever to work on my
third.
So
what else can I say about this? I’m sure
that all of us have stories about what happened and what didn’t these last 12
months. And I’m sure there’s some
important things I’ve forgotten, it has been that intense. More than anything, I hope we can grieve,
celebrate and keep working for justice together. Whatever happens.
Be
justice. Be beauty. Be alive.
