May 15: Made Fun, Loved Everyone, "Ascension"

Santiago faces polite ridicule from the other fishermen . . .

"Why not?" the old man said. "Between fishermen."

They sat on the Terrace and many of the fishermen made fun of the old man and he was not angry. Others, of the older fishermen, looked at him and were sad. But they did not show it and they spoke politely about the current and the depths they had drifted their lines at and the steady good weather and of what they had seen. The successful fishermen of that day were already in and had butchered their marlin out and carried them laid full length across two planks, with two men staggering at the end of each plank, to the fish house where they waited for the ice truck to carry them to the market in Havana. Those who had caught sharks had taken them to the shark factory on the other side of the cove where they were hoisted on a block and tackle, their livers removed, their fins cut off and their hides skinned out and their flesh cut into strips for salting.

There's some cruelty in this little passage, but Santiago doesn't take it to heart.  Either he's too old or too wise.  Probably both.  He's lived a long life and has seen a lot, suffered a lot.  Perhaps he's developed a callous around his heart to protect him from petty slights and injuries.  Like a hermit crab retreating into its shell until danger passes.

When I woke this morning in my hotel room in Calumet, there was a memory from two years ago in my Facebook feed.  It was from the beginning of the pandemic, and my wife, kids, and I had walked down to my parents' house to sing "Happy Birthday" to my sister, Rose.  We put our gifts for her on the front stoop, plus a cupcake with a lit candle, and then rang the doorbell.  The video shows Rose standing in the doorway, smiling and singing along with us, raising her arms and cheering.

Rose endured a lot of cruelty in her life.  Kids in school who made fun of her because she had Down syndrome.  Because kids are stupid and cruel at times.  Strangers who stared at her in restaurants.  Because she looked and acted differently.  Here's the thing:  Rose loved everyone she met.  Everyone was her friend.  She handwrote letters to people most of her life.  Hundreds and hundreds of letters. Labored over latch hook rugs for months and then gave them away freely.  Rose never developed callouses.  Never retreated into her shell.

This morning, watching that video, the joy on her face, I found myself breaking a little bit.  She was a great gift in my life.  I don't think I fully realized that until the day she died.  The world was a better place with her in it.  A kinder place.  If you ever had the chance to meet Rose, you know what I'm talking about.  If you never met Rose, know that she would have loved you.  Unconditionally.  Because that's what she did.  What she was.

Marty celebrates a true saint today on her birthday.  Saint Rose.  Patron of latch hook rugs and Diet Coke. 

A psalm for my sister . . .

Ascension

by:  Martin Achatz

for Rose, February 5, 2022

I wonder what Jesus did as he ascended
on that elevator of cloud. Did he wave
to the disciples as he rose and rose
like some kite broken free of its string,
becoming smaller, smaller until he
was swallowed by the great blue
throat of heaven? And did the disciples
keep their eyes trained on him,
unblinking, until tears transformed
that mountaintop into the Sea of Galilee?
After he was gone, did the disciples stand
there, look at each other dumbly, try
to recall his last word? Was it
earth or dirt or air or mother?
They didn’t have phones to take
pictures or videos. Weren’t able to
scroll through their albums
to remind themselves how dark
his skin and eyes were or how
laughing made him blaze
like Pentecost. Instead, they gospelled
each other, tried to recall with letters
God’s whiskered face.
               Today, we gather
in this church for you, dear sister, two
weeks after the metronome of your lungs
ceased and you ascended on that cold
morning. I stood by your bed, held
your hand, mapped its pulse
with my fingertips. I don’t remember
the last word you spoke to me,
or even second to last. It may
have been my name or mother
or ham or simply yes. Like the disciples
now, I’m greedy for every
last scrap of you, your crooked
smile, how you cackled even
when you didn’t get the joke. I
spent my entire life knowing
you, but not really knowing.
Until the end, when you were
rising and rising away from me,
getting smaller, smaller. I
watched until you vanished
from sight, taken back
to that place you came
from, that infinity between zero
and one. Only then did I realize
how lucky I’d been. To have
you with me every day, drinking
Diet Cokes, listening to ABBA
songs, begging me to wrap
my arms around your
shoulders. I could spend the rest
of my days writing gospels and gospels
about how much you loved me.