So Sam had a check up yesterday.
Sam, who is an almost preternaturally happy baby, started crying hard as soon as he saw the doctor in her white coat approach him. He associates such things with suffering.
The doctor said Sam is all but healed, though his skin is still red. He will have no scars, the doctor said. She wants to see him in a month.
And we walked out of the hospital with our child.
I thought of my recent wrestling with ‘God’, my asking why.
And I felt bad. I became acutely aware that we were walking out of the hospital with a living baby, one who can walk and is starting to talk. I thought of the many parents who have walked out of Akron Children’s Hospital, their children’s bodies left behind.
When I got home I happened upon a story about the pope. Francis was commenting on the reading from the Book of Job in the Roman liturgy for the day. He noted how Job’s prayer in the first reading sounded like a curse.
“He had lost all patience and he says these things. They are ugly! But he was always accustomed to speak the truth and this is the truth that he feels at that moment,” said Francis, and he noted how the prophet Jeremiah had cursed the day of his birth.
“But is this man blaspheming? This is my question: Is this man who is so very alone, blaspheming? Is it blasphemy when Jesus complains – ‘Father, why have You forsaken me?’ This is the mystery.”
The pope also made some remarks about not overdramatizing your situation, about remembering those with much greater sufferings.
So maybe the guy bitching about his broken smart phone needs to remember my scalded baby. Just as I, walking to the car from the hospital with my baby sleeping on my shoulder, needed to remember the parents who have made that same walk with no child in their arms.
But it is not blasphemy to chafe under the load of circumstance. Nor to speak the truth as you know it, even to the Absolute.
So long as you remember the conclusion of the Book of Job.
Which, okay, is maybe a little too much, but the part before Job gets it all back and then some is profound.
Remember last fall, when I wrote of the destruction of two huge trees, an oak and a maple, on my route? The man who owns the house had previously cut down a row of evergreens that ran along the border of his property.
He was not done. This past summer he cut down two of the three remaining smaller trees in his yard. He also removed all the large shrubs around his house and replaced them with small boxwoods, surrounded by gravel. I had to touch them to make sure they weren’t plastic.
His lawn had been pretty weedy, and so he cleared it of old grass and reseeded it. Apparently he chose one of the cheaper landscape companies, because when the grass sprouted it was obvious that there were a lot of weeds in the seed. No doubt when he called to complain he got a recording saying that the number had been disconnected.
So now his house sits surrounded not by the lush lawn he had intended but by a weedy mess. It sits as if in a wasteland.
I wish I could say that I feel bad for him.
Though actually I do feel bad for him. His wife died a couple of years ago, age 60 or so. If I have a package for him he always answers the door in his bathrobe. He rarely leaves the house. I just wish his grieving had not resulted in the death of so much beauty.
I also, later in the fall, reported that the largest tree in my 25 mile commute, an ancient white oak, had been cut down. For a long time there was just a big area of sawdust to mark its place. Then one day with a shock I saw that the place where the big oak had been had been paved over.
If it had been me I would have left the stump as a sort of monument.
To pave it with blacktop seems a sort of blasphemy. But then I have always revered trees. After women and babies and small children they are probably my favorite creatures.
If there is anything good that came from the deaths of these old trees it is that my mourning over a beech tree, one of my favorites on my route, that had been trimmed of all its lower branches is mitigated. Sure, its glory is diminished. But at least it lives and is still beautiful…
Photo by Ritva Kovalainen