March 21: Good Forever and Ever, God's Love Number Thirty-Two, Andrea Scarpino, "Hearing," New Cartoon

With pained but transcendent eyes, bearded and regal, [Jesus] would come down the central aisle toward Ives, and placing His wounded hands upon Ives' brow, give His blessing before taking him away, and all others who were good in this world, off into His heaven, with its four mysterious winds, where they would be joined unto Him and all that is good forever and ever, without end.

At the end of his life, Ives is left with nothing but grace.  He's lived his life a good man.  In the face of heartbreak and despair, Ives has remained true to himself and to his faith.  His heart is full of forgiveness and love and peace.  He's surrounded by goodness, forever and ever.  It's Hijuelos' version of "happily ever after."

I have been surrounded by goodness today.  I got to sleep in, something I don't normally do.  I had a long, leisurely breakfast, something I don't normally do.  Then, I went back to our hotel room and took a nap, something I never get to do.  And then, this afternoon, I went to a movie with my daughter.  Kenneth Branagh's new, live-action version of Disney's Cinderella.  It was smart and moving and beautiful to watch.  And my daughter and I had a great time together.  Later tonight, I'm going swimming with my son.

That's God's love number thirty-two.  Goodness.  All kinds of goodness with my family, away from the normal distractions of my life.  I need to do this more often.  I don't need to travel three hundred miles to have a good time with my son and daughter and wife.  I just have to relax, let go.

I have a final Andrea Scarpino poem for you guys, in celebration of her being named U. P Poet Laureate this past Monday.  It's not a happy poem, but it comes from a book of elegies.  No surprise.

Saint Marty wishes all of his disciples goodness, forever and ever, this evening.

Hearing

by:  Andrea Scarpino

Thirty minutes dead
when I arrived, algor mortis
in your fingertips, forehead.
Everyone says till the very end,
a voice perhaps, a recognition,
memory.  Your breath still wet
in the ventilator's plastic tubing.
I leaned close to apologize,
told of the airports, rental car,
highway.  Your hearing aids
in a hospital cup, heart no longer
moving blood.  Nothing
to carry the sound of my breath.

Confessions of Saint Marty