After many months of laying low, it’s time for me to lift my face and look around. Show up. See what happens.
Besides the virus. In addition to it. In spite of it.
The calendar tells me that tomorrow I will mark 62 years of life. I want to do more than decide on what kind of cake to bake. I want to climb up out of the basement, fling open the windows, squint at the bright blue sky, and smile at the baby sycamore leaves on the big tree in my yard.
I opened the top on the Steinway to full stick. I dusted and cleaned it inside and out. Then played it. Still haven’t taken that leap to actually singing, but I will. Baby steps, said the still-61 year old.
This weekend is Palm Sunday, the start of Holy Week. Without an open church to call home, I will climb that hill alone. I will Tenebrae in Place, and sing songs that tell of that agonizing, life-giving, greatest love of all. There is a lot wrong with this world, this country – and many other countries where powerful authoritarian leaders keep the poor, the children, and the hungry barely alive, crying out in fear for their very lives.
But there are also people who are digging deep. People of peace and courage showing up armed with love and gentleness of heart. Whole neighborhoods are flinging wide their windows and singing together from a safe distance. Yes, there are many reasons to despair, but infinitely more reasons to wipe away the tears, laugh and sing, and bind up the wounds of those who suffer.
To begin the week we call Holy, I offer this song.