Shocking amounts of rain, when there should be astonishing amounts of snow. At the edge of rain, voluminous rain…on this long road back to Bethlehem, I am astounded by flooding waves of grace. Grace. Reigns. Everywhere.
As penned in my journal the first few days after the death of my beloved Father, it rained and it rained. And there was grace. I wrapped up tightly in a large, candy apple red fleece blanket and sat looking out at the rain which was supposed to be snow. And there was grace, indeed.
And now, six years later, there is grace again as rain pours down when there should be snow. We are experiencing what we laughingly refer to as ‘fool’s spring’. The whims and vagaries of the Great Lakes keep us guessing. Just a few days before Christmas, Lake Erie joined forces with various potencies, spitting out wicked white snowy venom, burying the Queen City in record breaking piles; wicked delicate white snowflakes. With the spatter, came disruption, wrecked holiday travel plans, trapped cars; death. An hour down the road, Lake Ontario sat empty and bored. Rochester temperatures dropped. With increasing winds, we entered bitter hours and frostbite; but Ontario remained generally unmoved; yawning at the fuss and motion.
The day after my Father’s death, a long standing appointment resolved. The artisan hired to refurbish the piano, their beloved Steinway…arrived at the house and carried it away. Lacking and off-kilter; that is how the whole thing felt…as if the air around us kept jumping…electric and unsettled. January folded into the rest of winter and we reached a kind of holding space. We waited and phone calls were made. Spring threatened and then the rains came with humidity and the new sounding board fought the damp and the glue and we waited. Summer languished just a touch and suddenly there was August heat and the first signs of harvest and in the end, for eleven months we watched the empty space in the music room. A space that rich cannot remain empty and it slowly filled up with grandchildren toys and a chair or two…and of course, stacks of music. The furnace eventually started blowing hot air and the turkey was slain and then…eleven months to the day, the piano made the long journey home and settled back into that space.
Everyone breathes a sigh of gratitude. They say that old sins have long shadows and I believe it. But rivers of joy run deeply so we light candles instead of cursing those shadows and we surge ahead…
690 Saint Paul 