On Pietas and Rubber Bands (52 Weeks: Episode 3)
A short episode on the foothills of heaven.
I’ve committed to writing once a week for the next 52 weeks. In this season, this will be a challenge. If you’d like to support that challenge,
This is Week 3 of 52 Weeks, a series about getting back into the groove of writing. Writing requires a groove—a place to put the needle so the record sings. Everyone who’s put pen to paper understands that finding this groove (or the vein) sometimes takes great excavation. Today is not a day for great excavation, though.
When I started this series, a friend said this: There may be weeks you write a crappy little haiku and call it good.
This is not that week
I offer more than haiku—
but only just so.
I’m not tapping too great a vein this week because my family is—how do the privileged say it?—on holiday abroad. More than abroad, we’re kneeling at the foothills of heaven.
Years ago, Amber and I followed a small group of writers to a retreat in Tuscany. In those days, we were writing a great deal, had both signed book deals, and had sorted out that a retreat to Tuscany might be a way to write off some business income. This is another thing privileged people say—tax write-off. When I stepped from the van onto the cobbled streets of Castelmuzio, a wall of jasmine punched me in the face. I’ve been chasing that scent ever since.
In those days, our children were feral Arkansans, and we left them with a sitter who was—come to find out—less than responsible. She brought the children to her gym and carried them through the women’s locker room, which is where the eyes of Jude’s eyes were opened. This is a different story, though, and one that’s more human than salacious. Closer to 50 than 40, I’ve learned to shrug and laugh at things that once brought the cold sweats.
Since those days, we’ve dreamed of taking the children to Italy, even if it took decades to scrimp and save to make it possible. But life does what life does, and sometimes the rubber band of life shortens. Sometimes tomorrow becomes less certain, a sort of hazy dream. Here is a truth: All of our lives are a dream of tomorrow. Here is a corollary truth: Some dreams are shorter than others.
When Jude found his way into a wheelchair, we saw life for what it is—a shortened rubber band. This was the time, we figured, to get the passports, buy the tickets, and make our way to the rolling hills of God. And though this is no charity trip, I will say this—some very good friends in our very real community sacrificed to make it real. Here is another truth: The best dreams are shared in community.
We started in Rome because this is what moderately good Catholics who claim a fumbling devotion to Christ do. On Saturday, we stood in the center of St. Peter’s Basilica and looked toward the heavens. There are no words to describe the enormity of this Cathedral of Cathedrals, so I muttered two simple words: Dear God. Jude put it more simply: Wow.
After walking through the Jubilee doors, he sat in front of Michelangelo’s Pietà. There was the spent Jesus, limp-armed in the lap of Mary. Amber stood over Jude’s shoulder, and the two of them stared for what seemed like hours. There, the rubber band of time lengthened. I have not asked their thoughts because some secrets are not ours to know. But here is my secret: The arc of history rhymes. There was the holy mother holding the stony weight of grief. What did she know? The arc of a soul is an eternal thing, even in the grief.
From Rome, we made our way to Florence, and this morning, we awoke in the country. The clouds have rolled across the hills, promising rain for at least a day. Tomorrow, the sun will break through the clouds.
This is how life goes
It is gold and pietà—
drink the cold water.
And so it goes.
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How wonderful to visit Rome again…vicariously. Thank you, Seth.
Yes, keep on, we are with you.