The poplar at the end of the block – thought by some to be the tallest poplar in the state – has lost its leaves.  It’s an upward reaching tree, and it looks a bit forlorn, though that could be some transference on my part.

But there is beauty in those bare branches.  You can see the architecture of the tree, of all of the trees whose leaves have flown downward for the winter.  I find that reassuring, that I can see the structure of the tree, where the nests are, what dead branches haven’t fallen yet.

There is something plaintive about it; the trees look as though they’re beseeching their sky-god for help.  It looks like beseeching and not praising, but as I said, there could be some transference going on there.

On election night, as the map of the U.S. turned more red than blue, I said one of those beseeching Hail Mary (the basketball kind, not the rosary kind) prayers.  Oh God, please, change this, I yelled in my head. As it turns out, God is not some genie in a lamp whose belly I rub and my every wish and prayer are answered.

For me, for my political and ethical sensibilities, for my understanding of the call of the gospel, this election and its aftermath has been hard and wrong.  But it has revealed the architecture of some things: my own prejudice and assumptions, as well as my faithful and ethical grounding; it has revealed branches of my fellow citizens whose worlds and attitudes are completely unknown and foreign to me.  It has revealed nests of strength, of protest and compassion, that may have been hidden, and dead branches that need to come down, like racism and misogyny and xenophobia.

So I find myself confessing a lot more, and seeking humility.  I find myself trying to be more brave and trying to reach out to those so different from me.  I find myself weeping still at times, and getting worried and angry.  I am hopeful too. One day those leaves will grow back on the poplar, sometime this spring. Until then I will appreciate the branches.

More than that, I will appreciate the strange village that has emerged at the base of the trunk.  Some time this past spring, the people who live in the house by the tree put a little gnome and door and a little fence among the roots.  Then one by one, other things appeared. Another gnome.  A miniature rope ladder.  A swing, then two. A few dinosaurs.  A pterodactyl.  Frogs.  A fort.  Some cowboys.

As plaintive as the branches are, a mismatched village of the whimsical and strange stands at the base of those branches, a counterpoint to the narrative of barrenness and beseeching.

There is always a counter narrative.  It may not get heard, it may not be remembered in history, but it is whispered among the powerless and the planning.  It is repeated by the protesters.  It is spelled out in the unfolding leaves of spring.

At least that is what I hope.

We were at the beach, and the clouds and sun were positioned in such a way, and I was positioned in such a way, that everyone I could see as I looked toward Haystack Rock was in silhouette. And I thought, isn’t that lovely – all I see are human shapes. I can’t tell if someone is young or old; I can’t tell what the color of their skin is, or what god they worship. We are simply human beings, our lowest common denominator.

That thought lasted all of three seconds, as sustaining as a truffle.

We are different. We are young and old; our skins are different colors. We worship different gods, or no God at all. And I think that is good. I do not simply want to be one of many silhouettes.  I do not want to live in Camazotz. (See A Wrinkle in Time)

I once heard an interesting interpretation of the story of the Tower of Babel. The story in Genesis 11 tells of the people wanting to build a tower that would reach to the sky. God sees that activity and says, “There is now one people and they all have one language. This is what they have begun to do, and now all that they plan to do will be possible for them. Come, let’s go down and mix up their language there so they won’t understand each other’s language.”  (Common English Bible). So God does that. The traditional interpretation of the story says that God punishes the people for their pride, scattering them and confusing their language.

But what if God was actually delighted by the humans and their ability to build a tower, the way a parent might be delighted by a fort of cushions and blankets or a sand castle that withstands the waves? What if the scattering of the people and the gift of languages was in fact a reward, an acknowledgement that human beings had evolved and matured enough to be able to live with difference?  What if God made difference as a challenge to be mastered or a reality to be embraced?

Maybe that is a good measure of our humanity –our ability to deal with our differences and delight in them. I believe we will be tested in that regard in the months and years that are coming. May we prove our worth.

I confess that I am heartbroken and stunned, that I’m fighting a migraine brought on by hot tears

I confess I found it hard to stay positive for my inconsolable child

I confess simple gladness at the sound of the dog’s toenails clicking on the floor as he made his way downstairs to find me

I confess I fell for the alchemy of Facebook’s algorithms, that I believed the bubble of like-minded people was bigger than it was

I confess Pantsuit Nation is so hard to read today

I confess short-changing the whole of America, forgetting that feelings are real to the person feeling them 

I confess the sin of judging others as ignorant, stupid, or of little account, or worst, not deserving the love of God

I confess relief that we are getting out of town and away from the internet for a few days 

I confess fear of those coming into power

I confess fear for those on the margins

I confess my weakness to respond in any effective way

I confess my pride which has indeed gone beforeth a fall

I confess despair 

I confess less than a mustard-seed of faith

I confess my failings

Kyrie eleison

Christe eleison

Kyrie eleison 

According to myanniversary.com, there is no traditional gift for celebrating the occasion of a 57th wedding anniversary, although one may give a glass object or a mirror. 

Those seem fitting gifts after spending two score and seventeen years together. After that much time, you know what is fragile about each other. You know how not to break things, hearts, dreams. You know that certain things need to be handled delicately and some things will leave a telltale fingerprint.

After 57 years, you may see parts of yourself in the other. There’s a shared kindness, a common sense of direction through paths traveled together, paths that have wound through children and mortgages and career disappointments. After 57 years you have the same worry lines in the forehead and the same laugh creases around the eyes.

I did not buy my parents a piece of glass art or a mirror when they celebrated their 57th anniversary earlier this year. I may have sent them a card, but I doubt it. I think I called them.

But what I would say to them (and do, since they read this blog), and to my in-laws whose 57th anniversary is coming up in a few weeks – and to anyone who makes it to 5+ decades – is this:

Wow!

You deserve a standing ovation and some really comfortable slippers.

You have set a high bar for those who aspire not only to a long marriage but also a happy one.

The way you care for each other inspires me. My dad has needed a little more help than usual lately and my mom has been there, every moment, without  a complaint, without a sigh. My dad has never missed an opportunity to thank her or to remind my siblings and me how amazing she is.

None of us knows when we start a marriage where it will lead us, who we will be at the end of a year or a decade or five decades. None of us knows if we’ll recognize the face in the mirror as that long ago blushing bride or that fresh-faced groom. None of us knows what will get broken and if it will be reparable. None of us knows what heartache or disappointment will do to us.

But none of us knows what love and fidelity will do to us either.

It took me a while to find the person I wanted to marry and it’s doubtful we’ll have fifty-seven years together.  Possible, but doubtful.  But my parents and my husband’s parents would be the first to say that the years are just a number; it’s what fills those years that matters.

May those years be filled with trust and laughter, honesty, argument, and some good old fashioned lust now and then; may they be filled with friendship, and sorrow that abates over time, and whispers and music and dancing, even if your song is “Bad, Bad, Leroy Brown.”  May they be filled with the light of early morning and the shine of a new spring moon.  May they be filled with wonder and familiarity, with respect, with a sense of what is precious.  May they be filled with the usual things: love, forgiveness, grace, and gratitude.

Fifty-seven years.  Wow.