Funny the way it is...

Funny the way it is…

Lying in the park on a beautiful day
Sunshine in the grass, and the children play
Siren’s passing, fire engine red
Someone’s house is burning down on a day like this
              - Dave Matthews

These are strange times.  A thousand people a day are dying of Coronavirus – during beautiful spring days in Tennessee.  Last night’s Spring Moon and its ethereal beauty accompanied the death of John Prine – and a million others unnamed around the globe.  His passing was mourned by many.  But amid this, so many others died unheralded – and alone.

It is the nature of this thing we call living – it is too big.  Its big – but composed of so many small days.  My life – now so precious to me at 63 – seemed hardly worth the bother at 23.  The ups and downs – the ins and outs -the many crushing moments of heartache – it all causes us to question at times “is it worth it?”

We ask – understandably – questioning the wisdom of so much pain.  Children starving, robbers robbing – gangsters killing babies in a drive-by shooting.  We want to scream – we want to know why?  We ask demandingly – as all our ancestors do, too.  From the beginning, scooped up and molded from river clay – we are unlikely angels.

Some days more like that moldy clay – and on some others – we faintly resemble the gods who made us.

We demand answers – stomping our feet like an angry 2-year old. We feel that we are owed an explanation.  As if – we could even understand any response that was offered.  We foolishly ask assuming the amoeba understands particle physics.  We ask, as if Beethoven could teach us music composition.

We, Americans, are an arrogant sort.  Never understanding the greatness of those who came before us.  As if history only began at our arrival. But babies have been born – beautiful and soft – even before birth announcements were invented.  The beauty of bare bodies, autumn sun, and springtime wildflowers has been since the beginning. 

And, yet, somehow – we believe we are owed an explanation of things.

In these days of hubris and chutzpah, bluster has replaced beauty as the preferred occurrence.  Tenderness is often seen as weakness.  But, “God will not be mocked” - the scripture says – and “those who sow to the wind will reap the whirlwind.”

Jesus was a man – seemingly of no account to the Roman Emperor seated at the time.  But now, I have forgotten the latter’s name.

As my heart overflows with the muse’s meander – I listen to John Prine songs – and remember.  At 23, he knew things I am still learning.  His heart unmatched by any other.  And this is the mystery of the great magician’s making.  A blue-collar mailman from Chicago – who changed the world.

No, he was no Jesus – nor even Genghis Khan.  So, only certain books will note his passing.  But then other books will be written on better vellum – with ink that never fades.  The human heart is God’s great creation.  Mud mixed freely with frankincense and myrrh.

So, John Prine is the answer to your question – he is the response to “Is it really worth it all?”  Because in his story, we are all recounted – our lives blended in with his.  That is the real meaning of Christmas – and John knew it.  He kept his tree up year-round.

There is no doubt that life is searing – burning us all with scars that never heal.  But underneath that hardened tissue, is the most tender skin.  Sinews that remember how hard life really is.  It was always meant to be this – the great ones grew to believe it.

Buddha, Gandhi, MLK – they all died understanding. Martin saw the mountaintop – and his seeing made it all OK for him.  We don’t often see the rain clouds parting – perfectly framing the setting sun.  But those brief moments are meant for inspiration – down-payments on heaven’s bliss.

The promise is easily forgotten – in this time of untimely deaths and Trumpian injustice.  Black men die for want of a blood test.  And junkies die for lack of any hope at all.  “Justice delayed is justice denied” – they tell us.  But I’ve got bad news for you – it has always been so.  It will always be – until that day.

Because that’s the deal.  In the midst of jeering hatreds – at rotting riches hoarded while others starve – there is mystery waiting.  There are angels working – unseen to us.

Trillium, buttercups and innumerable honeybees go about their business.  Babies nurse from their mother’s breast.  That tender perfection is just one glimpse of heaven’s mercies.  John Prine is just the latest.

John Prine, R.I.P.

Died April 7, 2020 at the age of 73