May 23: Memorial Day Weekend, My Son, Poem from "Kyrie"

It is Memorial Day weekend in the United States.  That's sort of the unofficial beginning of summer in my country.

In usual times, people would be flocking to campgrounds and beaches and summer tourist destinations.  Bumper-to-bumper traffic on the interstates and highways.  Hotels would be at capacity, and the smell of barbecues and campfires would fill the air.

This Memorial Day weekend, the first of the pandemic, people are flocking to campgrounds and beaches and summer tourist destinations in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  There was an eight-mile traffic backup at the Mackinac Bridge yesterday.  Hotels are full, and barbecues and campfires are fired up.

People are going to do what they want, regardless of Covid-19 or CDC warnings.  And there will be more infections and deaths, regardless of your political or religious affiliations.  Simple facts.  I've heard more than one person recently say, "I can't live in fear."  That's true.  Living in fear is never good.  I agree.  However, living in reckless disregard of proven ways to slow the spread of the virus is a whole other ball of wax.

I'm hoping that my worries are baseless, that I will be proven wrong in three or four weeks.  I'll be the first to lift a glass of wine in celebration if I'm full of shit.  Until then, I give you this miracle . . .

I just heard my son singing a lullaby to our puppy.  Hush, little baby, don't say a word.  I went to the living room, and he was sitting next to her, petting her head.  My son looked up at me and said, "Sometimes she gets nervous, and I have to calm her down."  Then he went back to singing.

I have a son who understands about anxiety and worry.  A son who is full of compassion and love.

And for that, Saint Marty gives thanks.

poem from Kyrie

by:  Ellen Bryant Voigt

Oh yes I used to pray.  I prayed for the baby,
I prayed for my mortal soul as it contracted,
I prayed a gun would happen into my hand.
I prayed the way our nearest neighbors prayed,
head down, hands wrung, knees on the hard floor.
They all were sick and prayed to the Merciful Father
to send an angel, and my Henry came.
The least of these my brethren, Henry said.
Wherefore by my fruits, Henry said.
All of them survived--and do you think
they're still praying, thank you Lord for Henry?
She was so tiny, we kept her in a shoebox
on the cookstove, like a kitten.