Easter Greetings

Easter Greetings

During Lent my husband underwent out-patient surgery after which he took two weeks off from his work as a Church of Scotland parish minister in order to begin his recovery. As he was back in the pulpit during Holy Week we received twice as many Get-Well cards as Easter greeting cards, all of which have been gracing our front window during this season of preparation (Lent) and resurrection (Easter).

Every year we get from local folks about as many Easter cards as Christmas cards. (From non-local folks we get no Easter cards and—see my first blog article—scads of Christmas cards.) In this part of the world where many an Easter Sunday is cloudy, if not rainy, and bone-chilling cold regardless of how “late” it falls on the calendar, the sunny, blue-skied, blooming scenes on card stock lead me to wonder if we’re not really paying homage to the Sun God. To be fair the writing includes verses of scripture, and the artwork features churches, sheep, and crosses—all good Christian imagery. But why aren’t there any cards that depict the true nature of things here, such as overcast skies and rain or hail? Even the blustery winds that can’t be adequately captured in a photograph or drawing could be symbolized by a bent-back umbrella blown into the gutter.

I’m not a literalist, but I do appreciate a message that speaks to reality, whether the message is in the form of a Bible story—dare I call it a myth?—or commercial advertisement –speaking of myths. Staring at the mixed messages about Easter, I wonder if the Get-Well cards do a better job? They certainly aren’t fair-weather worshippers or even monotheistic: there’s a seascape, a rural landscape, a collection of teddy bears, a cat,  flowers, and—from a church elder, no less—one card devoted to the Egyptian Queen Nefertiti. The only crosses are medical red crosses. No scripture verses; only words of hope, well wishes, warm feelings, and thoughts of you. Plus these imperatives: Take care, get well, and get well soon.

I double-checked how the Easter message comes across in the gospel stories: Very early in the morning, while it is still dark or the day is just dawning, one or more women go to the tomb to anoint Jesus’ dead body, only to find the stone which was at the tomb entrance being rolled back by an angel or already rolled away. She or they learn from one or more angelic figures that Jesus who was crucified has been raised, is no longer here, and has gone on ahead where they will see him. One by one the other disciples get in on the act with varying degrees of disbelief. Matthew’s weather report on this particular morning includes an earthquake. The feelings of the female witnesses are described as alarm, terror and amazement, fear, fear coupled with great joy, or sorrow that the body has been taken and presumably stolen.

Imagine an honest-to-goodness Easter card: A gray background, with dusky clouds, barely showing some dark-skinned Middle Eastern women hovering near an even darker, empty cave. Like in a Rembrandt painting, the dim light closes in on their expressions, and it’s up to us to make out their emotions in the face of the great unknown. The earth underneath their feet is shattered, and their world will never be the same.

Open up the card and all it says is, Thank God.

Final Resting Place

Final Resting Place

It might’ve been just another death in this small, aging congregation that I once served. We were averaging one funeral a month which was more than I was used to, but as an interim minister I was already used to not knowing the person who had died.

In this case there was no family in the area to meet with to plan the service and learn about the deceased—a woman in her nineties who had been in a nursing home for some time. One of the church deacons explained that the only surviving relative was due to fly in just before the service and depart soon after. So I outlined a simple service and chose the hymns. Then I sat down with the deacon and we went through the church record books to collect some facts about the person.

We read when the person had been baptized and confirmed in the church and at what ages, which were in synch with the date-of-birth on the death certificate. We noted when this life-long member had been ordained a deacon—making her one of the first female deacons in the Presbyterian Church, the current deacon informed me—and added up her many years of service on the Board of Deacons. According to the deacon, she had also been active in the women’s circle meetings, taught Sunday School, and knitted infant clothes for newborn babies born to poor mothers in the local hospital. After moving to the nursing home she had been regularly visited by former ministers and faithful elders.

The service was short and sweet and attended by the rear guard of the congregation. The grand-niece, fresh from the West Coast, and I made up the youth group. Immediately after the service she and I went to the nearby mausoleum for a private committal while the deacons got the lunch ready in the church hall and the rest of the congregation awaited our return. The relative and I rode in a limousine behind the hearse carrying the encased body, and we chatted about the usual things people chat about on the occasion of an overly-timely death: the weather (here and there), her flight (long but uneventful), and what she did for a living (I forget).

At the mausoleum, funeral staff in dark tuxedos escorted the body—the coffin on rollers—and the two of us down one long cavernous row after another formed by high walls of marble slabs. Each slab measured about four square feet—just big enough for the end of a coffin to be inserted—and they all looked the same: cold, hard, sterile. They finally stopped us at some point, and I spotted the name of the person: her first name and her last name carved in capital letters along with her date of birth and her date of death. I also noticed the slab above hers and the slab next to that one; they were obviously her parents, given their surnames and dates

“That’s her companion,” the great-niece said. She was pointing to the next slab, the one underneath the other parent. “My great-aunt took her in when she was a teenager—her folks had kicked her out, and my great-aunt was her Sunday School teacher. They lived together until she passed away. They both had jobs, a house, a dog, and they would take the dog on their vacations.” Her companion was only a few years younger than her and had died in her eighties. I made a mental note of the companion’s name.

The great-niece never used the L-word that day, nor did it come up in conversation when, a short while after the funeral, I asked the current deacon about the companion. I was told she too had been a longtime member of the church, served as one of the first female deacons, and was involved in circle meetings. From what I gathered, everyone in the congregation accepted them as two maiden ladies who shared a home together and took care of one another. Did their relationship include sex? The church record books don’t indicate one way or another. But the church cookbook leads me to hope so, for this couple submitted “Overnight Cherry Cream Cake” and “Good Chocolate Hot Dish.”

Cape Maker for Superheroes

Cape Maker for Superheroes

Recently I received a commission to design and manufacture capes for a pair of superheroes: my two oldest grandsons. They were adopted from Ethiopia and Thailand, respectively, and my first grandson’s birth name translates as “his history” and my second grandson’s birth name means “good and clever.” Their mother—my stepdaughter—describes their Ethiopian-Thai-American family life, especially the delicious parts, in her blog: myextendedtable.blogspot.com, and it was she who asked me to make power-appropriate apparel for them.

I’m taking a break from sewing to report that, after giving it some thought, I have decided not to invest my grandsons’ capes with specific powers. It’s tempting to choose, say, the ability to Stay Innocent or the wisdom to Know Everything Is Going To Be Okay. But Naïve Man and his sidekick Unrealistic Boy won’t get them very far in this world. As they grow up, even in a relatively progressive community, they’re going to need the gift of Wariness and the strength to Overcome Racism. Yet hopefully they won’t turn into Mister Misanthrope or Sir Victim.

I trust each of my grandsons will develop the skills he needs not only to survive traumatic situations but to thrive as his own unique self: Knowing Where I Come From and Who I Am—including Whose I Am, a sense of belonging—are essential for every one of us. So other than making the boys’ collars with Velcro so they can’t choke one another, I’ll leave it to their incredible imaginations to create their own powers.

Back in the Middle Ages when Christians used to make regular pilgrimages to the Holy Land, a chaplain would accompany a group on their journey, kind of like a spiritual tour guide, tending to the pilgrims’ religious needs and carrying the sacred elements. The word “chaplain” comes from the Latin word cappella, meaning “cap” or “cape,” for a chaplain was someone who was willing to share their outer garment with a person who had none, thereby sheltering under the same cover. This undoubtedly stems from Jesus’ strategy that if someone sues you and takes your coat, you are to give them your cloak as well. In other words, subvert your oppressors’ tactics and disarm them with non-violence. Now that’s a powerful cape.