paper snowflakes, like the March girls would have done?
But the ornaments made me so happy today. There were two of them, one commemorating Amy’s paternal grandmother, Jessie, and one memorializing Gertrud, in enameled picture frames with each one’s name, date of death, hollyand ivy, and hearts. In the picture on Sam’s ornament, Gertrud is holding him near a Christmas tree. She is about seventy, he is sixteen months, and they are studying the branches together. Her hair is silky and European, snowy white, and his towheaded blond, nearly white, too.
I was holding Jax asleep in my arms while Amy unwrapped the ornaments. I saw the delighted-child side of her, the other side of the coin of the iron will that brought us Jax. I saw her pleasure in the ornaments, and her profound love of the grandparent who is dead—perhaps this explains her holding out for the baptism at the other grandma’s church—an otherworldly connection she has to her ancestors; she honors them by remembering them, calling them into the present. She honors her living grandmother by visiting her with Jax in Chicago. These relationships are a major part of who she is.
I can perfectly remember how she took biblical care of Gertrud, at Sam’s nineteenth-birthday party here, when Millard, only four years younger than Gertrud, seemed like Mary Lou Retton in comparison. It was Gertrud’s last outing. Amy sat close to her, holding water for her in silence, taking away her plate when Gertrud was finished, without being asked, like an old man’s wife. I thought of Ruth and Naomi. After Gertrud stopped going out, Amy started the home beauty salon visits, which she kept up faithfully the entire last year of Gertrud’s life.
“Jessie” is tattooed on a huge cross on Amy’s upper back:she still grieves the loss. Still not sure about the “Jax” part. Amy and Sam said they like the sound of it, and when Millard recently asked Sam if it was short for “Ajax,” of
Iliad
fame, Sam said yes, partly, but that mostly they liked the way it sounded.
I said to Amy as she unwrapped the ornaments, “Promise me three things. You’ll never get him a Nintendo, let him go off to war, or let him ride motorcycles,” and she promised on the spot, although within the hour she had reneged on the motorcycle clause.
December 7
Yesterday was the second Sunday of Advent. The days are dark and short, and life has been dark and scary, with so many bad things happening to people I love. Tom has been having a difficult patch, and we meet at the church of IKEA as often as possible, because it is equidistant from our houses and always cheers us up. Yesterday I asked, “In your depression, and with so many people having such a hard time, where is Advent?”
He tried to wiggle out of it by saying, “You Protestants and your little questions!”
Then, when pushed, he said: “Faith is a decision. Do we believe we are ultimately doomed and fucked and there’s no way out? Or that God and goodness make a difference? There is heaven, community, and hope—and hope that there is life beyond the grave.”
“But Tom, at the same time, the grave is very real, dark and cold and lonely.”
“Advent is not for the naive. Because in spite of the dark and cold, we see light—you look up, or you make light, with candles, or with strands of lightbulbs on trees.
“And you give light. Beauty helps, in art and nature and faces. Friends help. Solidarity helps. If you ask me, when people return phone calls, it’s about as good as it gets. And who knows beyond that.”
“But if you will try and tell me more, I will buy you Swedish meatballs.”
“Meatballs, and dessert.”
So over lunch at IKEA, he talked and I scribbled down notes: “Advent says that there is a way out of this trap—that we embrace our humanity, and Jesus’ humanity, and then we remember that he is wrapped up in God. It’s good to know where to find Jesus—in the least of these, among the broken, the very
But the ornaments made me so happy today. There were two of them, one commemorating Amy’s paternal grandmother, Jessie, and one memorializing Gertrud, in enameled picture frames with each one’s name, date of death, hollyand ivy, and hearts. In the picture on Sam’s ornament, Gertrud is holding him near a Christmas tree. She is about seventy, he is sixteen months, and they are studying the branches together. Her hair is silky and European, snowy white, and his towheaded blond, nearly white, too.
I was holding Jax asleep in my arms while Amy unwrapped the ornaments. I saw the delighted-child side of her, the other side of the coin of the iron will that brought us Jax. I saw her pleasure in the ornaments, and her profound love of the grandparent who is dead—perhaps this explains her holding out for the baptism at the other grandma’s church—an otherworldly connection she has to her ancestors; she honors them by remembering them, calling them into the present. She honors her living grandmother by visiting her with Jax in Chicago. These relationships are a major part of who she is.
I can perfectly remember how she took biblical care of Gertrud, at Sam’s nineteenth-birthday party here, when Millard, only four years younger than Gertrud, seemed like Mary Lou Retton in comparison. It was Gertrud’s last outing. Amy sat close to her, holding water for her in silence, taking away her plate when Gertrud was finished, without being asked, like an old man’s wife. I thought of Ruth and Naomi. After Gertrud stopped going out, Amy started the home beauty salon visits, which she kept up faithfully the entire last year of Gertrud’s life.
“Jessie” is tattooed on a huge cross on Amy’s upper back:she still grieves the loss. Still not sure about the “Jax” part. Amy and Sam said they like the sound of it, and when Millard recently asked Sam if it was short for “Ajax,” of
Iliad
fame, Sam said yes, partly, but that mostly they liked the way it sounded.
I said to Amy as she unwrapped the ornaments, “Promise me three things. You’ll never get him a Nintendo, let him go off to war, or let him ride motorcycles,” and she promised on the spot, although within the hour she had reneged on the motorcycle clause.
December 7
Yesterday was the second Sunday of Advent. The days are dark and short, and life has been dark and scary, with so many bad things happening to people I love. Tom has been having a difficult patch, and we meet at the church of IKEA as often as possible, because it is equidistant from our houses and always cheers us up. Yesterday I asked, “In your depression, and with so many people having such a hard time, where is Advent?”
He tried to wiggle out of it by saying, “You Protestants and your little questions!”
Then, when pushed, he said: “Faith is a decision. Do we believe we are ultimately doomed and fucked and there’s no way out? Or that God and goodness make a difference? There is heaven, community, and hope—and hope that there is life beyond the grave.”
“But Tom, at the same time, the grave is very real, dark and cold and lonely.”
“Advent is not for the naive. Because in spite of the dark and cold, we see light—you look up, or you make light, with candles, or with strands of lightbulbs on trees.
“And you give light. Beauty helps, in art and nature and faces. Friends help. Solidarity helps. If you ask me, when people return phone calls, it’s about as good as it gets. And who knows beyond that.”
“But if you will try and tell me more, I will buy you Swedish meatballs.”
“Meatballs, and dessert.”
So over lunch at IKEA, he talked and I scribbled down notes: “Advent says that there is a way out of this trap—that we embrace our humanity, and Jesus’ humanity, and then we remember that he is wrapped up in God. It’s good to know where to find Jesus—in the least of these, among the broken, the very
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