October 18: "The Future," Global Pandemic, Wet Dream

I've lived through several events that will probably be in history books for future generations:  The Challenger explosion.  September 11.  Columbine.  The burning of Notre Dame.  Barack Obama being elected President of the United States, twice.  The death of Queen Elizabeth II.

Who knows how people in the future will interpret these moments?  They may get it right, or they may fuck it up mightily.

Billy Collins contemplates being history . . . 

The Future

by: Billy Collins

When I finally arrive there—
And it will take many days and nights—
I would like to believe others will be waiting
and might even want to know how it was.

So I will reminisce about a particular sky
or a woman in a white bathrobe
or the time I visited a narrow strait
where a famous naval battle had taken place.

Then I will spread out on a table
a large map of my world
and explain to the people of the future
in their pale garments what it was like—

how mountains rose between the valleys
and this was called geography,
how boats loaded with cargo plied the rivers
and this was known as commerce,

how the people from this pink area
crossed over into this light-green area
and set fires and killed whoever they found
and this was called history—

and they will listen, mild-eyed and silent,
as more of them arrive to join the circle,
like ripples moving toward,
not away from, a stone tossed into a pond.

I don't think future generations will understand what it was like to live through the global pandemic.  Sure, there will be books and poems and movies and music and songs written about COVID-19.  They will all talk about mental health; makeshift morgues outside of hospitals; and politics.  However, unless you actually lived through it, you won't really get it.

This may sound strange, but I didn't mind the forced isolation.  In fact, I kind of enjoyed having to stay at home, away from people.  The long walks with my dog where everyone kept their distance.  Nobody knocking on my front door.  The holidays without 500 worship services to attend and five houses to visit.  Zoom church.  Zoom school.  Zoom business meetings.  It was an introvert's wet dream.

I'd never felt so close to my wife and kids.  Sure, it was forced bonding time, but it was still wonderful.  Family game nights and movie nights.  Curbside pickup at Walmart.  Knowing exactly where my kids were at all times.  And all the newest movies on streaming services.

Yes, bad shit happened.  Hundreds of thousands of people died because of President Felon.  People politicized science.  Anti-maskers marched on the state capital in Lansing, schemed to kidnap and kill Governor Whitmer.  Toilet paper just vanished from store shelves.  

During most of the pandemic, my wife and I cleaned and disinfected two churches.  We never ran into anyone.  It was kind of lovely to see the candles burning in the darkness of an empty sanctuary.  Yes, I know that religion is a communal thing.  We're all one, big, happy Christian family.  But there are some family members you just don't want to run into, even at reunions or Thanksgivings or birthdays.

Saint Marty isn't saying he misses the pandemic.  However, he does have a ton of really cool facemasks that he will never have reason to wear again.

May 27: The Boy Came Back, Niece, High School Graduation

The boy is good to the old man . . . 

When the boy came back the old man was asleep in the chair and the sun was down. The boy took the old army blanket off the bed and spread it over the back of the chair and over the old man's shoulders. They were strange shoulders, still powerful although very old, and the neck was still strong too and the creases did not show so much when the old man was asleep and his head fallen forward. His shirt had been patched so many times that it was like the sail and the patches were faded to many different shades by the sun. The old man's head was very old though and with his eyes closed there was no life in his face. The newspaper lay across his knees and the weight of his arm held it there in the evening breeze. He was barefooted.

The boy left him there and when he came back the old man was still asleep.

The boy takes care of the old man.  He's a good kid.  Full of kindness and empathy.  He's the kind of kid who gives me hope for the future.

Tonight, I attended the high school graduation of my niece.  There's something about being in a gymnasium full of young people who have their eyes on the future that fills me with hope.  A lot of it.  At the end of twelve years of public education, these kids have been through a whole lot, including a global pandemic.  They've had to deal with loss on a scale that I could never even imagine when I was seventeen.

Yet, they were smiling.  Laughing.  Celebrating.  Quoting Kanye West.  (Yes, Kanye West.)  The orchestra played "Pomp and Circumstance."  Mothers and fathers cried.  Diplomas and carnations were handed out.  And pictures were taken.  A lot of pictures.  

That is my takeaway from this evening.  Despite all the crap these kids have been through, they remain excited and wide-eyed about what's next.  That's huge, considering they have lived through four years of Donald Trump and COVID.  If there was ever a group of high school graduates who were candidates for permanent existential crises, my niece and her classmates would be them.  Yet, they aren't.

I love my niece and am excited for her.  She's sweet, compassionate, funny, and amazing in so many ways.  Seeing her take that first big step into the future filled my heart with joy.  Made me believe that the world is in good hands.

For the first time in a while, Saint Marty is going to sleep tonight with hope in his heart.