by Jeff Gundy
………………………….In praise or lamentation, peace or desperation,
………………………Any way I do, I come into the presence of the Lord.
………………………………………..—Dave Carter and Tracy Grammer
When I look out my window, still rubbing my eyes, a young woman in a
……….long brown dress and white covering is gazing into the valley,
……….taking pictures with her phone. She dances away, swaying to a
……….music I can’t hear.
From downstairs, stray notes settle into “Great Is Thy Faithfulness,”
……….played slowly, with many runs and flourishes. It’s probably Hope
……….or Charity, two young sisters who brought a full-size harp along.
……….Last night they did a little concert, classical pieces, dolled up in
……….fancy period dresses they made themselves. One played harp,
……….one the harpsichord. I’m not sure which sister is which, but
……….both play beautifully, and are beautiful. Usually they dress plain,
……….but not that plain.
Mist for the second straight morning. Under the heavy columns of the
……….shelter the little fountain burbles. Children’s voices, happy for
……….now. A big flight of geese headed south, a small one going west.
This little band of poets and writers in plain dress, gathered in the vast
……….old mansion to scheme and talk and laugh and listen, let me join
……….them despite my worldly ways. They ask where I’m from, tell
……….me bits of their stories. Half seem to have the last name Martin,
……….but I have it on good report that each Martin is only barely
……….related to any other.
News comes to us through the air, as the trees share their needs and
……….desires through the earth. Twenty dead in El Paso, more dead in
……….Dayton. Torrents of lost ice pour, still cold, from Greenland into
……….the sea. Even the highest branch is not separate or alone. The
……….yellow bird on the highest branch is not separate or alone.
The brown-eyed woman rocking on the swing greeted me and then was
……….quiet. We sat together and apart under the big stone shelter,
……….content.
As the mist burns away, sun lights the high shoulders of the trees.
……….Something golden gleams like a tiny sun among the branches.
Others are measuring coffee into a machine, breaking eggs and stirring
……….them together, practicing for the service, watching over their
……….scrambling children, climbing through the gears on the hilly highway.
This is not paradise. But what is it then, and what then shall we do?
We walked uphill to the little white chapel, paneled inside with dark-
……….stained plywood. We sang a cappella in four parts, old songs
……….from well-worn Methodist hymnals. A man read some verses
……….from Tagore, another some scripture. The preacher told us,
……….without harshness or anger, that God did not choose his people
……….because they were worthy, but just because, the way a man
……….chooses a woman, or a woman chooses a man.
God demands to be loved, he said, for similar reasons.
I hoped the bird might be a yellow warbler but likely it was a goldfinch,
……….lovely but common, kin to those that flit like stray sparks from
……….the ditches back home.
The tiny sun was no such thing—only a yellow leaf, a trick of the light, a
……….brilliant speck among the common green.
Praise or lamentation? Peace or desperation? I hope no one will mistake
……….these words for explanation. I hope no one will load a gun and
……….empty it at anyone, today at least. I know how little my hope
……….means, how hard it is to lever the world off its heavy course.
……….Demands are less difficult than obedience. A crying child cannot
……….always be consoled, no matter how patient its mother, how gentle
……….its father, no matter how kind.