Dismissals

Don was a tree trimmer. Twenty years ago, he fell from a tree. Unable to work, Don spent years in homeless shelters. Now he has an apartment and he keeps it spotless. Recently, Don had cataracts removed and he can read again. History is his favorite. He’s read through several shelves at the library and I buy him used books through Amazon. Last week, Don finished Ancient Worlds: A Global History of Antiquity by Michael Scott. Now he’s reading SPQR: A History of Ancient Rome by Mary Beard. When Don’s finished a book, he gives it to the homeless shelter. 

Erica’s mom drove her to school. In Erica’s lunch sack, a peanut butter sandwich with no jelly. Erica pouted. It was hot and the car windows were down. At a red light, an old man wearing a heavy coat walked up. “Ma’am, spare a dollar so’s I can get something to eat?” Erica’s mother reached for Erica’s lunch sack and handed it to him. “Careful. There’s no jelly on the sandwich.” The man said, “That’ll do fine … so long’s your girl’s got enough.” “We’ll be alright … we’ll buy a lunch at school.” He said, “OK, then. Thanks.” And they parted.

I’ve driven automobiles for nearly sixty years. I’m getting good at shifting gears, using my turn signals, and planning my route. Sometimes though, plans change. I’d driven my mother-in-law to the doctor’s. For the trip home, I proposed a shortcut but mom had other ideas. She said, “Go right at the light.” I used my turn signal. “Down the hill.” Down we went. “Turn left and slow down.” I wasn’t speeding but I obeyed. My passenger was happy to look around that neighborhood. It was the neighborhood where she had grown up. We took our time getting home.

Years ago, my newspaper quoted Elmer Johnson, an executive at General Motors, from a memo he wrote remarking on the woeful condition of his company: “We have vastly underestimated how deeply ingrained are the organizational and cultural rigidities that hamper our ability to execute.”* That bit of newsprint is yellowed and brittle now but I keep it handy, a succinct and prescient assessment of much of the misery we feel these days. Elmer proposed no overarching remedy, though I do see now that I might moderate my own “organizational and cultural rigidities” … and invite the Spirit to be my guide. *The New York Times, column by David Brooks … some years ago

I’d offered to help him move from his home of many years into assisted living. He pushed boxes onto the porch and I carried them to the van. On the stoop, by the front door, there was a small, ceramic bluebird. I asked him if we ought not pack it. He said, “That bluebird’s always brought me good luck. I’ll take it with me when I lock up and go.” I thought about it some, about a man who gets his luck from a ceramic bluebird, and about my God who could do good works through the same ceramic bluebird. 

Before I could rightly claim to be a churchman, a friend asked me to help out at a church supper. This was a sit-down dinner for hungry neighbors. They served good food on china dishes. That evening, I washed all those dishes and stared at the damp walls of my basement bailiwick. On one wall, these words were hand-painted: “Feed the hungry; Give water to the thirsty; Welcome the stranger; Clothe the naked; Care for the sick; Visit the prisoner.” I thought, “If I ever find a church that believes that, I’ll join up!” And so I did.

Some years ago, looking for a home to call our own, we drove through neighborhoods, scanning the green horizon for any “For Sale” signs. Our youngest, Henry, was five years old and appeared particularly astute in his judgment of various houses. We would pause in front of a house and Henry would say, “That’s nice!” or, “I don’t like that one.” In time, we learned that from his vantage in the back seat, Henry was unable to see the house itself but was assessing the houses by their curbside mailboxes. Eventually, the family found a mailbox that we all liked. 

My wife’s mother was unwell. We took her to the emergency room. With the pandemic, they wouldn’t let me in. One patient, one helper, that’s the rule. Mom was admitted to the hospital. I waited in the parking lot, recollecting the many hours I’d spent over the years in hospital rooms and corridors. There’s always something going on in a hospital … lives saved and lives lost … people thankful, people inconsolable … people close by their loved ones, holding hands. I felt dejected, sitting in the car, but regained my equanimity with a cellphone call … Mom was going to be just fine. 

We start out believing certain things about the world. Then, a few years or a few decades down the road, the world seems different and responds differently to our work in it. When I was young, nothing would do but that I change the systems that seemed so broken. Now, I do what I can to mend small tears in the fabric, put a patch on a leaky roof, a little bread for the hungry man, a visit or a letter to a prisoner, a kind word for the old lady next door I’ve not spoken to for too long.

Long ago, as a rookie policeman in a village, I did the funerals, escorting the hearse, directing traffic. When the service started, I listened to the hymns and homily from the back of the church. Church was new to me then and I found it quite affecting. One time, the funeral director thanked me and put a five dollar bill in my jacket pocket. I objected that the village paid my wages but he was gone. Next to me, a box marked “Alms.” I put that fiver into that box. I felt pretty good about it then. I still do.

We both had sons living far away. After church, we would ask each other, “How’re your boys doing?” We answered, “OK. They’re alright.” We both wrote to our boys from time to time to say that we are getting along well enough, sometimes to offer words about our own early lives, a subject seldom spoken when our sons were nearby. We recollected that our own fathers had written such letters to us, once we had left home, letters that were not well read until the old men had passed, the way of the world for many fathers and their sons.