To all the women who do the loving work of mothering, whether to your own child or children, and/or to other family members and friends, human and non, thank you! Our troubled world needs your care, courage and kindness. May you feel cherished and appreciated on this day and every day!
Happy Mother’s Day!
With the passing of Pope Francis last month, the world lost a rare spiritual leader, one who managed to remain uncorrupted by the power his prestigious earthly office afforded him. He embodied humility. He didn’t just preach about the need to care for the poor, the sick, and those on the margins. He lived that calling, daily. When he washed the feet of prisoners or shared a table with the street people of Rome, he wasn’t performing. By all accounts, his goal was authentic connection with real people, not publicity stunts or photo ops. Before becoming Pope, he’d been Jorge Mario Bergoglio, a pastor and good shepherd who led his flock with compassion. As Pope, pastoral care remained a priority. Like Jesus, he was concerned for lost sheep, for those who went astray. Like Jesus, he interacted frequently with ordinary people. Like Jesus, he lived a life of virtue; he didn’t merely signal it. He gave the glory to God.
I had feared, and rather expected, that a new Pope would mean a shift away from Francis’s emphasis on humility and concern for the downtrodden. I was afraid that Francis’s successor might be one who put more emphasis on the imperial majesty of the Papacy and strict adherence to the finer points of Church doctrine rather than on living out the message of Jesus.
And so I was surprised and relieved when Robert Francis Prevost from Chicago was announced as the 267th Pope. An American who spent much of his life in Peru, he began his first message to the world with the words “Peace be with you.” He connected that greeting, the first words of the resurrected Jesus to his assembled disciples, with Pope Francis’s final Easter blessing. He spoke in Italian, Spanish and Latin, but not in English. He spoke of the need to build bridges through “dialogue and encounter.” He spoke of a universal Church that opens her loving arms wide to all, as welcoming as the long, curved colonnade of St. Peter’s Basilica. He quoted St. Augustine in saying, “With you, I’m a Christian, but for you, I’m a Bishop.” He spoke of a Church that works together in service for justice and the common good. And he said, with firm resolution: “God loves you all, and evil will not prevail.”
Cardinal Robert Prevost, or Bob to his friends, chose the Papal name of Leo XIV. The last Leo, who held the office from 1878 – 1903, was a champion of the working poor and an advocate for social justice. The new Pope’s name choice signals his like-mindedness. His initial message yesterday as Pope, as well as the impressions of those acquainted with him, suggest that he will not veer substantially from the path set forth by Pope Francis.
I’m a lifelong United Methodist, not a Catholic, but the Pope is considered by many to be a prominent representative of Christ here on earth, so his words and actions matter to me. I happened to see Pope John Paul II heading towards St. Peter’s on Good Friday, 1985. I was in Rome with my boyfriend at the time, an avowed agnostic, disdainful of organized religion, yet possessed of a strong moral compass. When all those around us burst into cheers at the sight of the Pope waving benevolently to us from behind the glass shield of the Popemobile, Jonathan joined me and the crowd in exuberant applause. The Pope is a significant figure in the world, even to those who may think they see him as irrelevant.
I hope the leadership of this new Pope will serve as a reminder to all Christians, but especially to Americans, Roman Catholic and Protestant alike, that Jesus beckons us to a faith surpassing all boundaries made by human hands. The resurrected Christ called his followers to make disciples not just of their fellow Israelites, but “of all nations” (Matthew 28: 19). The concept of “Christian nationalism” goes against the very principles of love and inclusion preached and modeled by Jesus.
Habemus Papam. We have a Pope.
May Pope Leo XIV be an ethical inspiration for people the world over, no matter their faith, or lack of it, to work together, with patience and kindness, toward peace.
“It is finished!” And he bowed his head and released his spirit.
The Gospel of John (19: 30) records these final dying words of Jesus, spoken from the cross. A quick reading might prompt one to hear this utterance as the sad lament of defeated man. Not so fast, though. The Gospel writers Matthew (27:50) and Mark (15:37) don’t report Jesus’s last words. They tell us only that he “shouted out again” or “cried out again in a loud voice” before breathing his last. If we use all three accounts as evidence, what the Son of God likely said was a single word evoking not loss, but satisfactory completion. He spoke in Aramaic, but the original Greek of John’s gospel translates it as “tetelestai.”
This word would have been familiar in several contexts to the people of first-century Palestine. Having completed the last task of the day, a worker might tell his boss, “Tetelestai.” An artist, putting the final touch on a painting, might use the same word. A debt paid in full would be stamped “Tetelestai.” For Jews, the word would have been the Greek equivalent of a familiar Hebrew phrase announced by the High Priest each year on the Day of Atonement. After offering the proper sacrificial animals at the altar of the Holy of Holies at the Temple in Jerusalem, the priest emerged to tell the assembled crowd that God had accepted the sacrifice of the people.*
Jesus’s final cry before dying was therefore no whimper of pained surrender. Instead it was an exclamation of triumph.** The various frames of reference for “tetelestai” mentioned above are all helpful in understanding Jesus’s use of the word and what his death means for us. His earthly work is done, the masterpiece completed, the debt paid, the perfect sacrifice offered and accepted. In other words, “Mission Accomplished!”
Three of the Gospels include an often overlooked, but immensely significant detail that stands as proof of the change ushered in by Christ’s death. According to Mark 15: 38: “And the curtain in the sanctuary of the Temple was torn in two, from top to bottom.” This was the curtain in the Temple of Jerusalem which separated the Holy Place from the Most Holy Place. This sacred space housed the Ark of the Covenant, considered by the Jewish people to be the very throne of God. Only priests could enter the Holy place. The High Priest alone entered into that sanctified inner realm, the Holy of Holies, and then, only once a year, on that holiest of all days, The Day of Atonement, or Yom Kippur.
Although sometimes referred to as a veil, the Temple curtain was no delicate, gauzy thing that might have ripped easily in a gusty wind. It was a heavy, brocaded cloth, woven with images of protective angels. Only an intentional act of great force could have caused the Temple curtain to be torn fully asunder. Both Matthew and Mark tell us that it was divided from top to bottom, as though from on high. Human hands had no part in this. This was God’s work.
Having destroyed the barrier to the Holy of Holies, God invites his people to approach him directly. Middlemen are no longer needed. The ultimate gift of atonement invites us to be “at one” with God. Having willingly offered his own life for our sins, Jesus and his father tell us that animal sacrifices are a thing of the past. The perfect Lamb of God has paid our debt in full. We are redeemed. Tetelestai!
This is what Jesus referred to earlier at the Last Supper, when he took the cup and told his disciples, “This is my blood of the new covenant, poured out for you and for many for the forgiveness of sins. “(Matthew 26:28) We, and all generations before and after us, are among the many. It was on this same night that Jesus reduced the entirety of his message to this one essential commandment: “Love each other. Just as I have loved you, you should love each other.” (John 13: 34) See yesterday’s Maundy Thursday post.
So, what then is required of us in these days of the New Covenant? It’s not a matter of mastering complicated theological concepts and demanding the same of others. Instead, we’re invited to accept the gift given to us in love by our brother and savior Jesus. To admit our shortcomings and try to do better. To focus less on ourselves and more on others. To get back to basics: “Do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God.” (Micah 6:8) Think about that. We have a God who truly desires to walk with us. He wants to walk the road with us, to share in our sufferings as well as in our joys. And if we’re willing to walk with God day by day, in good times and in bad, loving him, loving our neighbors, we usher in his kingdom here on earth, as it is in heaven.
The Temple curtain has been torn. No barrier remains between us and our loving, faithful God. Tetelestai!
For I am sure that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. (Romans 8: 38-39)
*Michael Maynard discusses the various meanings of “tetelestai” here: It is Finished. . .The Last Words of Jesus, June 25, 2017.
** See Final Words from the Cross, by Adam Hamilton, pp. 103-104.
Today is Maundy Thursday, the day in the Christian calendar that commemorates Jesus’s Last Supper. The unusual word “maundy” (not Maunday) comes from mandatum, the Latin for command, because we remember the new commandment that Jesus gave his disciples on his final night with them. I wrote a version of this post four years ago, but it’s perhaps even more relevant today, when it appears that meanness, it all its many extravagant forms, is glorified. If those of us who call ourselves Christians were to take the message of Jesus to heart and actively try to follow his example, rather than that of the religious leaders who condemned him, wouldn’t the world be a far better place?
On the night of his betrayal and arrest, Jesus gathered with his disciples for one last Passover meal together. He knew his life on earth was drawing to a close. He had tried to explain to his dearest friends that he would soon be facing death, and doing so willingly. But the disciples, understandably, didn’t understand. Probably some of them were expecting to witness a magnificent earthly triumph. Judas, the betrayer, may have been counting on such a victory. None of the disciples, it seems, were expecting their friend, teacher and Messiah to die an ordinary criminal’s death on the cross.
The group must have been fearful and confused. They were back in crowded, dangerous Jerusalem, where Jesus’s life had been threatened multiple times during clashes with the Jewish religious leaders. And so, on that fateful final night, Jesus had the full and rapt attention of his disciples. He chose his words, and his actions, with care.
According to the Gospel of John (13:1 – 17), after the meal, he did something completely unexpected: he got up from the table and began to wash the feet of his friends. In those days, traveling, for people of ordinary means, meant walking, in sandals, or even barefoot, along dusty, dirty roads, through fields and stretches of sandy wilderness. A servant typically washed the feet of guests as they entered a home. If there were no servants, guests usually washed their own feet from a basin near the door. John the Baptist refers to this practice when asked by Jewish leaders if he is the Messiah. According to John 1:27, he replies, “I baptize with water. Someone greater stands among you, whom you don’t recognize. He comes after me, but I’m not worthy to untie his sandal straps.” The disciples were clearly uncomfortable with their leader and teacher washing their dirty feet. Had foot washing been done upon entering the upper room that night? It’s uncertain. Maybe there had been no basin set up for the purpose until Jesus poured water into one, as mentioned in John 13:5. The Pharisees had criticized Jesus when they noticed that some of his disciples failed to wash their hands before eating (Mark 7: 1-5). Certainly, Jesus’s focus was not on Jewish rituals of purity. External, physical cleanliness was evidently not one of his primary concerns. He may not have been a stickler for foot-washing prior to that last gathering.
The disciple Peter’s reaction supports this (John 13: 6-11). Peter was fiery, passionate and impulsive. Like many of us, he was often a bit dense. He couldn’t stand the idea of Jesus abasing himself to wash his feet. Foot washing was the job of an underling, a slave. Peter jumped up and exclaimed, “You’ll never wash my feet!” When Jesus replied, “Unless I wash you, you won’t belong to me,” Peter was all in. “Then wash my hands and head as well, Lord, not just my feet!”
Jesus went on to explain his puzzling behavior. “Do you understand what I was doing? You call me ‘Teacher’ and ‘Lord,’ and you are right, because that’s what I am. And since I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you ought to wash each other’s feet. I have given you an example to follow. . .Now that you know these things, God will bless you for doing them.” (13:12-15, 17).
Jesus wanted his disciples to understand that he had in mind much more than literal foot washing. Following his example is to mean humbling oneself in order to serve and help others. To further drive home his point, he continued: “So now I am giving you a new commandment: Love each other. Just as I have loved you, you should love each other. Your love for one another will prove to the world that you are my disciples” (13:34-35).
Jesus had spent three years traveling with this rag-tag group. They’d heard him teach and preach, seen him heal the sick and cast out demons. On three separate occasions, he’d even restored the dead to life. The disciples had been with him as he confronted the Jewish authorities and challenged their interpretation of the Law. Sometimes his words and actions had been difficult to comprehend. But on the night before his death, Jesus summed up the essence of his ministry in the simplest of terms: Serve others. Love others. Just as I have served and loved you, so you should love others.
Simple words, but tricky to put into practice. Why not at least give it a go? Vindictiveness offers a brief jolt of satisfaction, but doesn’t it leave a bad taste? In forgiving, we refuse to be destroyed by bitterness and anger. The wise counsel of our dear brother Jesus is food that strengthens and sustains us, for the long term. He urges us to be kind and compassionate, to all our neighbors, whether we like them or not, whether they are like us, or not. Of course, we won’t always succeed. Sometimes we’ll backslide and act in ways that are selfish and petty. But if we persevere, we can change the world, little by little, through service and love. That’s what Jesus meant when he talked about building God’s Kingdom here on earth. He wasn’t referring to a kingdom that can be built through military might or governmental power. Attempts to do so only backfire. The true kingdom is more like a community garden. When we plant seeds of love, and when we nurture seedlings that others have sown, we can rejoice in the certainty that the garden is growing. Its roots, we can be sure, are deep and wide-reaching. Let’s try to do our part, in the time that we have, to tend this beautiful garden so that it may flourish and bring forth good fruit.
Palm Sunday begs to be distinguished from just any other first day of the week. It launches the period known by Christians the world over as Holy Week. Palm Sunday sets an expectant, celebratory tone, one that contrasts, shockingly and painfully, with the shattering disappointment of the terrible day we call Good Friday. In between falls the oddness of Maundy Thursday. So much is packed into the events of these seven days, which lead up to the triumphant culmination of Easter. Indeed, without Easter, the story of new life, hope and possibility would have been one of failure, death and despair. I’ve written about the days of Holy Week several times before. Below is my Palm Sunday post from April 1, 2012.
Palm Sunday: Everyone Loves a Winner
On the day that we’ve come to think of as Palm Sunday, Jesus was hailed as a celebrity, a military and political hero-to-be. As he and his disciples entered the city of Jerusalem, cheering crowds greeted him with cries of “Hosanna,” which means “Save us.” The news was out: at long last, the King of Israel was here. He was the chosen one sent by God to restore power to the Jewish nation. He rode on a donkey to fulfill the prophecy in Zechariah 9:9: See, your king comes to you, righteous and having salvation, gentle and riding on a donkey.
It was a brief time of great rejoicing for the people of Israel. A new day of freedom and empowerment was dawning, thanks to the advent of the conquering Messiah. The palm branches they waved were emblems of Israeli nationalism.
In just a few days, though, the tide would turn. Jesus’s being hailed as the much-awaited Messiah would set in motion the events that would lead to his death. The admiring throngs would scatter when it became clear that he was not the kind of king they had desired and expected. Even his dearest friends would desert him. He would be betrayed by one of his own, turned over to the Roman authorities and crucified. On Good Friday, it would appear that this man was no winner.
Good Friday, however, is not the end of the story.
I thought I knew all my mother’s stories about her childhood and youth. Most I’ve heard multiple times, which is to be expected. My daughter would likely say she’s all too familiar with anecdotes from my past. (Except for one, which she heard for the first time recently, and it truly surprised her. But that’s for another day.)
A while ago Mama’s memory was jolted by a segment in one of her frequently watched History Channel shows. The topic was Robert Wadlow, the world’s tallest man. At his death at the young age of twenty-two, his height was 8 feet 11.1 inches.
Did she ever tell me that she met him when she was a little girl?
What? You met the world’s tallest man? No! How could you have never told me that?
She wasn’t sure. It must have slipped her mind, until just then.
As she remembered, her father’s brother Ben had taken her to a favorite restaurant on Main Street in her home town of Lebanon, Kentucky. This popular meeting spot, memorably called Humpkey’s, featured in many of Mama’s recollections. Open from early till late, it had a soda fountain, candy and ice cream sales in the front, and café tables in the back. Everyone, young and old, socialized, snacked and lunched at Humpkey’s. I have a vague vision of going there with my grandfather when I was very young. Apparently Mama’s uncle had heard that the world’s tallest man would be stopping by, and he took little Betty Ann, then no more than four years old. She couldn’t recall her parents, or any of her four siblings, all much older, being there.
But now she was starting to wonder if any of that had actually happened. Had she just made it up?
It was thanks to my late cousin Maryella, who lived her entire life in central Kentucky, that I was able to confirm my mother’s recollection. Until her untimely and unexpected death, Maryella maintained a Facebook archive of old newspaper clippings on Marion County events. Searching her site, I found an article from the local paper, dated May 8, 1939, on Wadlow’s visit to the town. He was twenty-one at the time. For the past year, he’d been traveling the country as a representative of the St. Louis-based International Shoe Company, which supplied his size 37 shoes free of charge. Lerman Brothers Department Store on Main Street had invited him to make an appearance in Lebanon.
Robert Pershing Wadlow was born in 1918 in Alton, Illinois, a small town near St. Louis. His great height was caused by hyperplasia of the pituitary gland, resulting in excessive production of human growth hormone. At eight years old, he was already six feet two inches tall. At thirteen, he became the world’s tallest Boy Scout, at seven feet four inches. As the eldest of five children, Robert was a caring and considerate big brother. Growing up in Alton, he was a familiar figure in the community, accepted and well-liked. To his peers in school (where he was a good student), church and scouts, he’d always been just Robert, who happened to be very tall. But of course, he attracted attention everywhere he went. In 1936 he traveled with the Ringling Brothers Circus. He didn’t think of himself as a showman, certainly not a side show act. In his appearances in the center ring, he wore a suit and tie, not the flashy top hat and tails that circus bigwigs would have preferred. He saw his towering height not as a handicap, but as a feature that made him unique. Throughout his life, he was known for his kindness, humility, gentleness and quiet dignity.
According to The Lebanon Enterprise article, a sizable crowd had gathered that day in May to await the celebrity’s appearance. After arriving in the specially modified family car with his father, Robert climbed atop a flat-bed truck parked on the street as a viewing platform. His father addressed the group and spoke of his son’s rapid development from an eight-pound baby born to parents of typical height. Robert made a short endorsement for the International Shoe Company, but spent most of his time seated in a chair chatting amiably with curious townspeople. His demeanor was described as pleasant, humble and at ease. After a while, a few of the town’s tallest young men were invited to climb up and compare their stature with Robert’s.
These details of Wadlow’s visit were news to my mother. But the final paragraph in the article noted that “following his engagement, the party had lunch at Humkey’s (sic) Confectionery and then left for Campbellsville.”
“You did see him, after all!,” I said to my mother. “And of course, it happened at Humpkey’s.”
Robert Wadlow died just a little over a year after his appearance in Lebanon. As he aged, his quickly growing body was under ever greater strain. He wore braces on his legs and used a cane to walk, but he never resorted to the use of a wheelchair. During a public appearance in Michigan, an ill-fitting brace rubbed a blister on his ankle. Because he had little sensation in his lower legs and feet, Robert didn’t notice the injury until it had become infected. Despite emergency surgery and a blood transfusion, the infection worsened, and Robert died in his sleep on July 15, 1940. Penicillin, which might have solved the problem, wasn’t in regular use until later that decade. His final words were “The doctor says I won’t get home for the celebration,” a reference to his grandparents’ upcoming fiftieth anniversary party.
The life of the world’s tallest man was unfortunately short, but his legacy is long. When I mentioned his name to my husband, he recognized it instantly. Not much of a reader growing up, he ordered a kids’ Guinness Book of World Records every year, if he could, through Scholastic Books at school. He remembered reading about Wadlow, and he knew his record had never been broken. “Wow! Nana met Robert Wadlow! Amazing!,” he exclaimed. My daughter’s fiancé, also a World Records enthusiast, was equally impressed.
Wadlow’s record will likely remain unsurpassed. His condition, known as pituitary gigantism, was accurately diagnosed during his childhood. It’s now typically treated successfully with surgery, but during his lifetime, that was deemed much too risky.
Robert Wadlow will be remembered as one who persisted through hardship, in ways that most of us can barely conceive. Daily, he navigated an environment built, from his point of view, on a cramped and unaccommodating scale. Think of an American Girl doll being trapped in a Barbie-sized world.
Because of his large size, Wadlow had no choice but to be visible. Far more visible, at all times, than most of us would choose. The typical celebrity has the option of dressing in forgettable attire and a baseball cap in order to slouch about unnoticed. Wadlow was never afforded that luxury. While his fellow citizens of Alton apparently took his outsized presence in stride, he could expect stares of amazement everywhere else. His attendance with his YMCA group at the Chicago World’s Fair in 1933 at age fifteen, for example, was caught on film. He must have tired of the never-ending stream of photo-seeking strangers. He must have groaned inwardly at hearing the same old jokes about his height. But those who knew him, as well as those who met him briefly, were impressed by his positive, matter-of-fact attitude, his patience with onlookers, and his complete absence of self-pity. He was not known to have complained about his condition or about being pestered by goggle-eyed crowds.
We all face challenges, but few of us are forced to deal with them in quite such a public manner. When I get the urge to whine about my problems, I’ll think of that tallest-ever man, a perpetually young man. Robert Wadlow persevered through unusual difficulties, all the while extending grace to those around him.
My dear mother-in-law Doretta passed away in the early hours of March 4th. Since her beloved husband Jim left this world in October of 2022, she’d been lonely. She didn’t complain. But when asked, or when his name was mentioned, she’d always say, “I just miss him so much.” She carried on, despite her sadness and the growing physical challenges of Parkinsons’ and Addison’s Disease.
I had the pleasure of seeing her most Wednesday nights for the past several years. During the height of the pandemic, she joined my mother and me and other friends for an online Bible study through our church here in Virginia. As her mobility decreased, attending her local Rochester church, and getting out at all, became increasingly difficult. Our mid-week virtual gathering had become one of her few fellowship opportunities, and she appreciated the warm welcome our group extended to her. With my husband’s and his sister’s help, she learned to use Zoom on her iPad in order to join us. This was quite the feat, considering Jim had always been the one to deal with any and all tech matters. During the sessions we’d often hear Barney the cockatiel chirping away happily in the background. Barney, like Doretta, had been bereft after Jim’s passing. An odd, cantankerous bird, he was prone to hissing with apparent vehemence at everyone who was not his best pal Jim. Over the past two years, he warmed up to Doretta, and the two became good company. It was her nightly ritual to sit with him in the family room, watching TV or reading. She found that he got particularly chirpy during the musical performances on old Lawrence Welk re-runs.
Doretta was determined not to relocate from her house, which she and Jim had built as newlyweds in 1965. Thanks to the help of my sister-in-law Julie, who lives locally, several regular care-givers, many walkers and two stair lifts, one to the basement and another to the second floor, she had been able to remain in the home she loved so much. When my husband returned there the morning after his mom’s passing, on the table beside her favorite chair, he found her Bible, some recent books from our Zoom studies, and a manual on coping with Parkinsons’. He saw them as a testament to her quiet, patient perseverance. Throughout adversity, her faith was strong. Life tossed many hardships her way, but she pushed through, with a kind, encouraging word for others. She was a light bearer in our often dark world. It feels odd not seeing Doretta’s Zoom square on Wednesday nights, not to see her sweet smiling face, not to hear Barney’s tweets. I like to think of her in that heavenly cloud of witnesses, reunited joyfully with her darling Jim.
Among my husband’s most cherished childhood memories are family outings to a remote location in western New York to feast on pancakes and locally made maple syrup. His grandfather Stan was a man of big, enthusiastic appetites, and he was a huge fan of maple syrup. He began the tradition of a mid-winter journey from Rochester, sixty-five miles south to Cartwright’s Maple Tree Inn. Stan’s appreciation for maple syrup lives on in my husband. Last year, he decided to tap some of our Virginia maples and see what might result. His efforts were rewarded, and he repeated the process again this year, with certain modifications. His local syrup making will be the subject of my next post. But first, back to the sugar shack that started it all.
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North to the Sugar Shack (first posted February 22, 2013)
Last weekend, we drove to upstate New York for pancakes. Not just for pancakes. Pancakes and maple syrup. We met H’s family at Cartwright’s Maple Tree Inn, a glorified sugar shack located, really, in the middle of nowhere. Its actual address is County Road 15A, Angelica, NY (2 miles from Short Tract), which, in the language of our GPS system, is “not on any digitized road.” Despite its truly out-of-the-way location in the midst of snow-covered fields, it’s a popular spot, with big crowds on weekends. It’s only open during the maple sugar season, which typically runs from mid-February through March or mid-April, depending on the weather. H’s family has been trekking out to Cartwright’s for decades, and now it’s among our winter traditions, even though our drive is far longer. Of course, we don’t return directly to Virginia, but spend the weekend visiting H’s family in Rochester.
The Cartwrights began producing maple syrup on their farm in the 1850s. The Maple Tree Inn dates from 1963, when the family decided to build a restaurant specializing in Grandma’s buckwheat pancakes served with their own maple syrup. In the adjacent shop, the syrup, maple butter and maple sugar cakes became available directly to the public. The somewhat ramshackle building has been expanded over the years and is now fairly large. It will win no awards for architectural style, but that’s not the point. In the chain-store sameness that dominates so much of our country today, the Maple Tree Inn offers a unique, quirky, authentic experience. It’s living history, and it’s worth a visit.
Before I met my husband, I had never tasted true maple syrup. The first time we ate together at PJ’s Pancake House in Princeton, I was surprised to see him pull a small container of pure maple syrup from his pocket. At the time, PJ’s didn’t serve the real stuff, although that has since changed. I didn’t understand what the big deal was. Growing up, when Daddy made pancakes on Saturday mornings, we used the typical supermarket syrup–Log Cabin, Aunt Jemima–whatever. H was no food snob, so I found his insistence on unadulterated maple syrup mystifying. That is, until that day at PJ’s, when I tasted the liquid from that little jar. H was right. There is no topping the perfection of the stuff that comes straight from the tree.
Visitors to the Maple Tree Inn are welcome to descend into the building’s lower level to learn how the sap is boiled down, in huge wood-fired evaporators, to its golden maple essence. Several years ago, a Cartwright grandson, no more than twelve or so, gave us a comprehensive tour that began in the frozen fields where we could examine the taps on the trees and see the liquid running into the buckets. This is not an option at IHOP.
These days, the rarified nuances of maple syrup, like those of chocolate, coffee and small-batch bourbons, are earnestly discussed at considerable length, using wine-lingo terms such as terroir. H doesn’t do this, although he can and does enjoy discerning, in blind taste tests, the variations between light, medium, and dark amber syrups. My palette will never attain such a degree of sophistication, but I can say this: a little true maple syrup makes life sweeter.
After a walk to explore the area around Cartwright’s, Kiko kept vigil in the car during our meal. Animal advocates need not be alarmed–he had his sheepskin bed and blanket if he needed to hunker down for warmth. Before this trip, in case it was particularly cold, we bought him a red plaid fleece coat. The temperature wasn’t low enough to warrant it, and he appeared perfectly comfortable, peering out from the front seat, when we returned. For his wait, he was rewarded with an extra sausage patty that H’s grandmother had carefully saved for him.
Kiko and D atop a tall snowpile on an earlier visit to Cartwright’s, in 2009. Kiko looks almost exactly the same as he did four years ago, when he was two. D, on the other hand, has changed.
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Next up: my husband’s foray into maple syrup making in Virginia.
Last week’s winter storm brought ice to our part of Northern Virginia. We awoke to a translucent landscape. It took me back to a time in my Atlanta childhood when I had little first-hand experience with snow, at least any that I could remember. My parents would wax nostalgic about family fun in the snow when I was a baby in Lexington, Kentucky. They seemed surprised that I carried no tender memories of making a snowman with Daddy when I was a year old. I grew up feeling sorely snow-deprived. Every once in a while, snow might be predicted, but typically, what we got instead, in Atlanta, was ice.
The current Virginia weather prompted me to rummage through a shoe box of 1970s photos at my mother’s house. I was searching for a particular picture of me and two friends. It had been taken in our back yard on a day when school had been canceled due to a winter weather event, whether snow or ice, I couldn’t recall. But I remembered that the three of us had that characteristically awkward, disheveled, waif-like look of most ten to twelve year olds from that era.
I found the photo quickly. It was a rare snow picture. On the back I’d printed: First snow, Atlanta, 1971. While it obviously wasn’t the city’s first-ever snow, it apparently was mine, in that location. We’d moved to the neighborhood only three years before. My old green and red swing set is visible at back left, long before it became an arbor for wisteria vines. I’d forgotten that that our yard had been such a wide open expanse in those early years. By the time we sold the house, in 2017, trees, shrubs and foliage had grown up dramatically, creating the look of a sheltered, enclosed garden. The corner of the garage, at back right, hadn’t been visible like that for many years, nor had the homes on the street behind.
The details of that winter day in 1971 are hazy. Seems like we wandered around and gaped, in awe, at the alien snow-covered landscape. We weren’t well-equipped for actual snow play. Cold, wet feet and hands prevented us from staying out very long. My husband is amused at how ill-dressed we were for the circumstances, in corduroys or jeans, and sneakers. This was Atlanta, not Rochester, I remind him. Few, if any of my friends had snow boots or ski wear; we would have outgrown them before they were ever needed. Winter in Atlanta was less a season than an exotic, fleetingly ephemeral sensation.
My memories of Atlanta ice storms are more distinctly fixed in my memory than the snow days. Growing up, I considered any form of frozen precipitation a welcome break from the usual. Ice, snow’s cousin, was our more frequent visitor, and I found its effects fascinating. As I roamed the icy yard last week, I saw it again with the eyes of a much younger me.
I loved how frozen droplets, their motion captured mid-air, dangled from dogwood branches. I saw, with wonder, that every individual privet leaf had been perfectly encased in ice. Each leaf was twinned with its own ice copy that could be carefully removed. Amazing!
I enjoyed hearing and feeling the ice-clad blades of grass crunch beneath my feet as I walked.
I liked how the light filtering through ice-covered branches gave the sky a lavender tinge.
Suddenly, I was brought back to the present by a sharp sound resembling a gunshot. The birds at the feeder vanished in a whoosh, and pine boughs came crashing down. The temperature was rising, and the sleet had turned to rain, but the pines all around our house were bending lower and lower with the extra water weight. The power went out. There were more gunshot-like sounds. I could see cars slowing down out front, avoiding a couple of newly downed limbs.
We were fortunate in having only minimal damage to trees from last week’s ice. This week’s winter storm is just now beginning. Small snowflakes are starting to fall. Accumulation of three to six inches is predicted for the metro DC area. The ten-year old me from 1971 would be ecstatic (and far better prepared, in terms of apparel.)
Wherever you are, may winter wow you with its beauty, rather than its destructive power.
In recent days, I’ve made a decision to focus consciously on the good. On the beautiful. That verse from Paul’s letter to the Philippians (4:8) has been echoing in my head: “Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.”
I won’t hide my head in the sand and deny reality, and I’ll try to find ways to be helpful. But I’ll make an effort to look for sunshine amidst the shadows. So my outlook was fairly positive yesterday as I was sitting at my computer, ordering stamps for our New Year’s cards. I added more of the Winter Woodland Animals to my cart. I love these stamps, which feature a stylized fox, buck, rabbit and owl in snowy settings.
Then, bang! There was a sudden thud at the window beside me. A few wispy white feathers floated in the air. On the ground was a dark-eyed junco, one of the many that fly down from Canada to winter here in Virginia. The small, gray and white bird lay on its back, motionless. It looked utterly helpless, its little legs in the air. I watched in dismay as it remained there, still. As I stood at the window, my instinct was to pray over the bird, in words something like this: Dear God, your eye is on the sparrow, so your eye must also be on its cousin, the junco. You made this little miracle creature, so why not heal it? It’s a miracle of flight. It’s a miracle that such a tiny being can thrive in this desperately cold weather. It’s a miracle of elegance and beauty.
I waited. Dear God, let me be a conduit of your love, of your healing power.
The bird remained motionless.
Should I go out? Give it the gentlest of nudges? I decided not to interfere.
And just then, the bird stirred. It popped up, fluffed its feathers. It appeared to be gathering its energy, preparing to fly. It looked fine. It looked like it was going to be OK.
Yes, yes, yes! Thank you, God!
And just then, there was quick flash of dark feathers, and the little bird was gone. In horror, I realized I hadn’t been the only one watching the injured junco. A hawk, hidden from view, had evidently been eyeing its potential prey. It swooped down and disappeared with its catch. It flew away with the mini-miracle that had just seemed to regain its strength.
I opened the window and clapped and screamed. It was too late, of course. But my anger and anguish needed an outlet. I yelled myself hoarse. So much for the sunny side of life.
I’ve observed nature long enough to have seen first-hand evidence of its sharp teeth and claws, of the thorns among the roses. I know that the cute bunny on the Winter Woodland stamps may end up as dinner for the equally charming fox or owl. I regularly see handsome red-shouldered hawks about, silently surveying their surroundings. They gaze at me coolly, poised and superior. I get it that my bird-feeding area can occasionally be a death zone. I see telltale clumps of feathers on the ground. For several years now, I’ve noticed a solitary dove as it appears before and remains after its fellow partnered couples. Call me silly and sentimental, but I’ve prayed for that lonely dove, too.
I considered that the small songbird had been injured more severely than was apparent. Maybe it would have managed to make its way to a hidden spot, only to suffer a long, drawn-out death. Perhaps the hawk merely hastened the end while nourishing itself?
I understand that all creatures, including hawks, need to eat. I’m not a vegetarian. I eat chicken, so technically, like a hawk, I prey on birds. But let the hawks eat elsewhere. Anywhere but in my side yard sanctuary.
I keep replaying the events in my head. The abrupt juxtaposition of hope and despair makes the repeating vision particularly painful. I thought the little bird was a goner, then I thought it had a chance, that it had survived a near miss. That my prayers had been heard, and answered. Then I watched as it fell victim to a terrible fate and certain death.
I can’t help but see the series of incidents as emblematic of life in our times. Seems we’re entering an era, in our nation and in the world, where predators and tyrants are celebrated and granted free reign, while the most vulnerable are targeted, maligned, and persecuted.
In my last post, I mused about what loveliness I might be missing just beyond my windows. Now I wonder what terrible sights I’ve been fortunate to miss. Will I look out onto a happy haven or a killing field? Even on the sunny side, the shadows encroach.
