Thoughts for Easter

Redbud in spring

“Asking these questions does not imply crude or simple answers, or answers that any human being can hold with certainty. But we should still seek after them, because if there is any message Christians can carry from Good Friday and Easter to a world darkened by a plague, it’s that meaningless suffering is the goal of the devil, and bringing meaning out of suffering is the saving work of God.”

from The Pandemic and the Will of God, by Ross Douthat, published in the New York Times.

I’ve never met the Devil, though I’ve crossed paths with a few of his minions. Those sons of bitches would proudly argue the suffering they dispense is far from meaningless or unintended.

Meaningful suffering, then? If Douthat and I were to sit for a discussion, I’d tell him I do appreciate a good turn of phrase–such as his closing argument. The entire article, actually, gives the impression he put careful thought to word, so it’s not possible to ignore the sincerity with which he writes. Though it is hard to give credence to the idea that deeper meaning–wisdom–can be found in the suffering the world is presently enduring. Speculation, but true meaning–meaning that can last beyond this moment’s fears?

“…there is a need for narrative… for some story about what the pain and anguish meant.  This need is powerful enough that even people who officially believe that the universe is godless and random will find themselves telling stories about how their own suffering played some crucial role in the pattern of their life, how some important good came from some grave evil.”

from The Pandemic and the Will of God, by Ross Douthat, published in the New York Times.

I find it hard to find meaning in death. Ryan killed himself. And afterward I struggled to reach back toward the living. Either that or join him in his grave. Though nothing even palliated the destruction his suicide wrought on his entire family. My father had died in his forties by suffocation from emphysema; leaving his young family behind; how could he have felt anything but desperation for his love and children? If these single annihilations were born of evil; what else could the millions currently dying in this pandemic mean?

That people tell stories about suffering seeking morals drawn from them, that is true. And if these stories offer solace to any in their bereavement, who would fault them? Though sadly, the stories may as well be Greek myth as far as they can stave off death.

Douthat talks about lamination–and yes, I certainly get that. The Covid-19 plague frightens me because it means a terrible death by strangulation, torture that’s surely death’s closest ally. All sentient creatures recognize death’s contours and struggle against it, even to a last breath, because they know its finality. The kind of pain in these ICUs is a brain screaming that it’s dying, and if there’s anything to be done, now would be the time.

I ran marathons, and the harder part wasn’t the physical so much as the mental endurance. For the latter miles of the race, your body is working hard to persuade you ‘now’s a good time, now’s a good time. Stop, dummy’ while your mind keeps pushing you forward. It was, curiously, mentally healing to discover I could push myself that hard physically, so I suppose that was a meaning. But marathons weren’t likely death, and there were medics stationed along the entire course for emergencies. While we emulators of ancient Spartans pursued our small victories, the medical teams we passed stood by to assist.

There’s meaning in the work of the health care workers in this pandemic, there is certainly that.

And Douthat recognizes it, even as he argues their work is the sign of God still in the world. Even as nurses and doctors hold the hands of dying patients hooked to ventilators, telling them they will bear witness at the end. Their work is the clearest example of the human capacity to help our fellow creatures. Why give an abstract metaphor credit when what these people are risking are their lives for saving others?

I would put it differently: uncared-for suffering is evil; dying ungrieved is evil, dying alone is tragic. The empathy of a nurse, the private tears of a doctor, orderlies, ambulance EMTs, police–theirs is true love. If one says Jesus nailed painfully on his cross symbolizes what these people sacrifice, I might accept that metaphor. Though it’s hard for me to credit our humanity by assigning it to a deity. So, I propose:

The meaning of suffering is to witness love at the hands of we earth-bound creatures of light.

It’s difficult to stand with Christopher Hitchens in his total rejection of religion. The sincerity of a person of faith isn’t something to be waved off. Were he and Douthat to sit for a discussion (which they can’t since Hitchens has gone on to meet his maker), I’d probably lecture Hitchens to show more tolerance, more humility, and beg Douthat for more skepticism. It would be an interesting debate, though if I were in attendance, lots of four-letter words would be flung about. We all can’t be saints.



How Do You Measure a Man?

I’m thinking about a friend I first met through D back in the early 90s, back when we were just hanging out. I’d seen Steve at the gym–he was something of a fixture–hard to miss given his mass, though we hadn’t said more than ‘how’s it hanging?’ in passing. He was one of those big boy trainers who rarely used the weight machines as they didn’t offer enough weight.

Me, I’d been going into the gym off and on for a few years when I couldn’t run distance due to one injury or another. Mine were mainly what the ortho docs like to call ‘overuse injuries.’ Some bodies just aren’t built for fifty mile weeks, only I was stubborn. Unless my boys were staying over, I was living on my own, and I used exercise as a distraction, and after a while, I became something of a gym rat.

D and I met at the Skyline Health Club, AKA ‘da gym.’ D wanted someone to run with so she could train for a marathon nights after work. That seemed simple enough, left foot, right foot, simple. Nights, we’d run from the gym, six miles, sometimes eight. The first few miles we ran through one of Arlington’s less safe neighborhoods, and I was flattered she wanted the company. Lord, let me follow her.

It was too late in life to become a bodybuilder like Steve. Jeez, lookit the man! I’d been skinny since I popped out and still didn’t have enough mean body mass from all the long-distance workouts. Anyway, you need to start that protein diet stuff in your teens, and I was beyond those years. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to tone up my upper body a bit. I’ve never been fond of cardio machines so if I was going to be stuck inside I might as well get something out of it–while eye balling those very fit women in tights doing their pilates and whatnot–cross training–what a concept.

So after Steve saw me hanging with D, he’d wander over when I was on the bench to chat now and then. Steve was popular with the women club members. I think it was the Irish flirt in him. I met his teenage girlfriend, soon wife, who, soon as we met, tried to sell me on adopting a puppy or two. “Hey, Bill, there’s a whole litter–don’t even have their eyes open yet.” In those days I was in a two bedroom apartment in Southern Towers, so that wasn’t happening, but Wendy’s been at it ever since.

We like to do our little dances, we humanoids, and we take ourselves more seriously than we probably should, so it’s rare to come across folks comfortable in their own skin, living life as it’s given, sharing friendship and happiness just ‘cause they live. Steve is one of those and he married another.

Me, I’d lie to the devil if I thought it would help, only momma said, ‘don’t bother.’

From early on, it seemed obvious if I was ever needing mates for a lifeboat, Steve should be one–and Wendy another because she’s lots cuter than he is, and he wouldn’t leave her behind, I don’t expect.

Saying Steve is an extrovert downplays the dude’s personality. That, or there’s no word for it.

If you’ve read about the six degrees of separation, with Steve it’s more like one and a half at most. No exaggeration. He grew up in Annandale, and everybody knows him. And the few he hasn’t met before, they seem to settle comfortably in his presence–I’ve seen it happen and just shake my head.

In the gym, he began to give me a hard time about my lousy weightlifting form, so I felt it necessary to return the favor. He mentioned he was a sprinter in high school. “Oh REALLY?” Though I might have taken a step back when I said it. Did I mention, shaking your hand, he liked to grin and crush it like an empty beer can?

Once their first child arrived, part of our social calendar began filling up with birthday parties, christenings, graduations and the like. I needed a cheat sheet to tell the friends from the kin in that house. Any excuse for a get together. I suspected I was included mainly for D’s sake. I had to keep a sharp eye on him around her.

He loves telling the story about how, on a trip to England, he drank his Guinness in a British pub with members of the Queen’s Guard and ended up invited to the Derby partying with them in the infield across from Queen’s box. As he tells it, the Queen wanted to keep their rowdiness at a distance. Seems they adopted him as their long lost American mate.

One night, Wendy called from the Fairfax ER to tell me Steve was brought in from a bad motorcycle accident. He’d been coming home from work and “He won’t be driving down with you to haul the old sofa to Duck,” or words to that affect, and I’m thinking, whoa, girl, go over that first bit again?

Years before, Steve had shared that he didn’t think Wendy was so strong she could take on a tragedy. He was a damn liar, as I’m sure he knew. I watched her through that entire ICU time. Their daughters the same. A tough bunch of women, not because there wasn’t crying, but because they never left his side. Standing in the ER that night, she said “I keep telling myself, God, he’s alive.” We loaded the pounds of his riding gear into her car that night and I went home.

Life hands out challenges like bon bons, and some of us cope better than others.

It’s true I’ve seen people crushed by life-changing traumas. And I’ve watched Steve and his family. Along with bones so broke, he had pins and braces through all four limbs, and he’d suffered a traumatic brain injury. They had him in the critical care unit for weeks, worried primarily about brain swelling. I remember mentally dismissing the risk as simply unacceptable. And day by day, an ever-growing team was growing, all waiting on Steve, expecting him to wake up. Even in the critical care unit, his nurses never challenged us; they’d smile and point me to his room.

None of us knew whether we were supporting Steve or ourselves even more.

His nephew Lewis drove up from Wilmington to spend nights in the ICU when Steve was unconscious being intubated and on a respirator–so Wendy could go home to feed the dogs and rest for a few hours.

The first night D visited, no doubt flirting, he asked her mumbling how the work on restoring the Mercedes was going–D has never owned a Mercedes in her life. Another night Lewis and I had to help him pee. Helping a grown man with his wiener is about the weirdest thing I’ve ever done–though being out of his gourd on meds he didn’t remember. I’m saving that story for a good payback.

Weeks passed killing time in the waiting room and people from our Skyline days kept coming through like it was a reunion. Brought their kids, brought their grandkids, a number were girls Steve had coached and were now in their teens. Months later, when he was finally released from the recovery facility, an aide from the hospital came by to check in—on his own damn time.

Steve’s friends built the world’s longest handicap ramp to get him and his wheelchair into the house. Hot, sweaty days sawing, drilling and hammering. His brother brought his best table saw and set it up under a tent. Another architect friend designed the ramp and bought the lumber–when Home Depot heard what he was doing, they sold the lumber, bolts and screws at wholesale. Post holes dug two feet down and poured with concrete. Having no idea how long he’d be in the chair, we wanted that damn ramp to last. Drilled and lag bolted that beast so it wasn’t going anywhere. I met Lewis’s young wife and child who’d driven eight hours up from Wilmington to bring Lewis back home. Far as I could tell, half of Annandale showed up one day or another to build that ramp.

We humans do our best when we’re working together. That’s the simple truth.

The man made it out the same way he came in, alive and bringing the rest of us joy. He had to step away from his job–the recovery is still ongoing, though he’s back at the gym, still teasing, still flirting, still squeezing my hand to make it hurt. He drives his ninety-year old friend to her doctors’ appointments and still mows her lawn. It’s the inconsequential things that makes me smile. Years later, we’re still friends because once you’re his friend it’s for life.

How do you measure a person? One way is by the people they stand with. By that measure, I stand proud. And it makes a good Easter tale for a world in pandemic.

My Sister Hated Needles

My sister, Susan, early in her nursing school training, told me she fretted learning how to give shots. I was in high school at the time. I had to agree—it wouldn’t get me jacked to get up in the morning, to go charging off to do that kind of work, coffee or no. Though she did learn to do it.

And every time I sit in the chair to donate blood, I’m grateful someone like like my sister learned the same skill. She was the first nurse in the family, but not the last.

Before the Deluge

As I was writing a first draft of this essay, I listened to a number of live recordings on YouTube on the laptop. I don’t remember how, but the first was Billy Gibbons playing Live at Daryl’s House. The beard is one thing, but his Texas blues is basic as a heartbeat, just a deep boogie beat on a beautiful Fender guitar. I kept switching between MS Word and Firefox to watch him play. For free, Billy throws in a demonstration on how to make guacamole–never heard of conquesa to smooth it out.

Followed by a concert by Jackson Browne backed by a select group of musicians. Before the Deluge The whole concert is on the YouTube video. Jackson Browne’s Before the Deluge, the song was written in the 70s, and he’s still singing it. The song closed a live concert recorded in Colorado. I won’t say it’s Jackson’s best by a long shot but…

thinking about the Baby Boomers first coming to the environmental movement, if a lot of selfish history can be laid at our feet, this was one of our high points. Aldo Leopold passed on what he saw to Dan Flores and lots of others. I have to believe living out west in big country has to open your eyes in a spiritual sense.

Then I came across another concert, Joni Mitchell with some fierce sidemen, Pat Metheny on guitar, Jaco Pastorius on bass, Michael Brecker on sax. Jaco is amazing what he can do on that thang. Joni was flirting with jazz since a long time before. Joni Mitchell and Friends

I suppose if I knew any of these musicians personally, I would see other sides, maybe less admirable than the genius of their music, but that’s life. I hope the music makes up for it. We creatures of light are not always angels, though on occasion we find our wings.

When I heard Ellis Marsalis Jr. died April 1st, it occurred to me under present circumstances there couldn’t be a jazz funeral in his home town of New Orleans. However when this thing is over, I hope they remember and do him right, Wynton’s horn leading the parade.

I can’t say if there’s a higher intelligence overseeing all this craziness. It would be a comfort. Though on the other hand, I’d be screaming ‘where the hell have you been all this time?’ Right now, it seems more important to bear witness to how much we humans do for each other–and our rescued puppies. This is our life in the midst of a pandemic. Some of us won’t make it, but the rest who do will find a way forward, a mournful way perhaps, but they’ll be still determined to find beauty in spring blossoms.

Besides, I hear Steve and Wendy are fostering another puppy. Layla misses them–she doesn’t howl like that for just anyone.