Thank you for the unsettling of our lives

If you had told me back in March that the pandemic would still be raging, with no end in sight, in mid-August, I think I would have had a nervous breakdown. And yet here we are, pressing on like everyone else. I am anxious about the fall and winter, but I have been learning that anxiety is fruitless. So I don’t read the news; I stay off social media; I allow Guion to share one headline with me per day. In this way, I at least maintain a semblance of calm.

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I am currently reading and loving Robin Wall Kimmerer’s book Braiding Sweetgrass. Many people have recommended it to me, and I am grateful that I finally made time for it: What a gem of a book! One quote to whet your appetite:

“Being naturalized to place means to live as if this is the land that feeds you, as if these are the streams from which you drink, that build your body and fill your spirit. To become naturalized is to know that your ancestors lie in this ground. Here you will give your gifts and meet your responsibilities. To become naturalized is to live as if your children’s future matters, to take care of the land as if our lives and the lives of all our relatives depend on it. Because they do.”

Robin Wall Kimmerer, Braiding Sweetgrass

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Moses is 15 months old and continues to be a busy little bee. He has a lot to say (although the vast majority of it isn’t English) and loves inspecting nature on our daily walks. Every parent says this, but it is so refreshing to be in the presence of a small child when outdoors. They are so rooted in wonder.

Fashion Moses, before the big chop. (Wearing one of Guion’s vintage rompers.)

We are grateful for many things, and Moses is often chief among them. He makes these long days lighter.

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Almighty God, whose Mary-like beauty compels our attention, give us hearts that jump within us with the good news of your salvation. We confess that amidst the tedium of the everyday our worship of you sometimes feels like a job—just “one more thing.” Thank you for the unsettling of our lives, wherein we discover the splendor of the kingdom made possible by your Son, Jesus Christ. We pray that you will ever be here, unsettling our attempts to domesticate the wildness of your Spirit. Amen.

Stanley Hauerwas, Prayers Plainly Spoken

Lockdown life

How quickly things change! Here we are, huddled at home, like the rest of the world. It continues to feel surreal, like an irritating dream that resembles everyday life but is more… horrible somehow. That said, we are all well, learning a new routine as we figure out how to work at home and mind the boy. I am grateful for many things, and Guion and Moses are chief among them, along with our jobs, which we still have and are able to do remotely, and our weed-filled yard, which has needed the extra attention.

I have nothing profound to say about this strange moment, except that I have faith that it will end, one way or another.

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When the library shut down, I panic-ordered $100 of used books from ThriftBooks. I am not worried about running out of toilet paper, but running out of new books to read is a real threat to my well-being. I gravitated toward lots of serious, crisis-heavy tomes, whether about the dictator Trujillo’s murderous reign in the Dominican Republic, the fall of the Soviet Union, or the excesses of the Roman Empire. They comfort me, these catastrophic histories. Things have been dark before. They will be dark again. But hope persists.

In my reading life, I also acknowledge that this time of quarantine is an opportunity to read all of the thick tomes that have been languishing on my shelves for years (Don Quixote, Life: A User’s ManualThe Hemingses of MonticelloHirohito, The Golden Notebook, to name a few). To that end, I am also enjoying taking my time and reading through the books that have long been gathering dust on my shelves.

I started Don Quixote, which I have been putting off for at least a decade, and it has utterly enchanted me. Why didn’t anyone tell me how deeply funny it is? I hold you all responsible. It has provided a strange and charming sense of reprieve and escape from the news, which I no longer read at all.

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I am thankful for technology, but I am sick to death of video calls. They are a poor substitute for human interaction. They leave a bitter taste in my mouth, like artificial cherry flavoring when you were wanting the real, fleshy taste of a perfect cherry.

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biz-moses-IMG_9755

At least one member of our family is perpetually cheerful, living proof that ignorance is bliss. He will be a year old in early May, which is hard to believe. He will not get to have the birthday party I had hoped for, gathering all of our family and dearest friends at a park, but I’m the only one who is disappointed by that. He has no idea. We will give him his first taste of refined sugar in the form of a cupcake, take a few photos, and say, “Congrats, boy, welcome to adulthood,” and call it a day. And he will be happy, thinking it just a slight variation on any normal day, which he now spends happily destroying his “safe room” while his parents try to work and take dozens and dozens of… video conference calls.

Love to you all; be of good cheer. This will end one day.