Advent 2003

I left the church and took a cab over to John's house. I cannot tell you the whole story, but Sam says that I can share the following brief report, on the dinner before Thanksgiving: His brother is tall and warm and kind. They looked enough alike so that you could see they were related, but not so much that I had to breathe into a brown paper bag. And they were both a little shy. His brother's wife is smart and lively, and their baby is lovely beyond words. We all connected, in the perfectly imperfect way of families. We ate and were kind to each other. We watched TV and raced around after the baby. Sam staked out turf close to both me and his father, and ventured out like small children do to try out new lines of conversation. I was secretly hoping that something dramatic would happen, and I'd have a great story to tell, but it took me several hours to realize that this is the best story there is: that a small group of related people came together, willing to be supremely uncomfortable, so that Sam could know his brother, and his brother's family, and therefore come to know a bit more about who he is. This is why we did it.

I am also allowed to report that Sam's niece, and my 11-month-old niece Clara, were born on the exact same day -- when God is not being cryptic and silent, She is such a show-off. Clara has taught Sam how to be with babies. Sam's like a cross between Big Bird, and Tony Soprano with them. "Hey you," he calls to Clara, and now his niece, when they're babbling over his TV show, "Put a sock in it." Then he tosses them around, and pushes his face against theirs, and makes farting sounds, and makes sure they don't get their fingers caught in drawers.

He also doodled the whole evening. The rest of us talked, overate, cleaned up messes as we went, held our tongues, overlooked the inevitable family tension. The oil of manners makes it possible. When you're kind to people, and you pay attention, you make a field of comfort around them, and you get it back -- the Golden Rule meets the law of Karma meets Murphy's law.

And all the while, Sam drew his little guys, from time to time asserting his adolescent grump. So what if I felt anxious much of time? What else is new? Something larger than us and our anxieties and ferocious need to control got us through, connected us, even if the connection was precarious at first. What shone through was the odd responsibility we took for each other, the kindness, marbled in through the past, our character defects, hidden and on the surface, and the glitches. Things got broken, they always do, and children yap and stamp and cry and glower, and demand all your attention. It's called real life, and it's cracked and murky and not my strong suit, but the glue for me is the beating of my heart, love and whatever attention I can pay to what matters -- making a good life for Sam.

"Hey, Sam," I said, when I hugged everyone goodbye and left for my hotel. "Doodle on, dude."

On Thanksgiving when I woke up after a troubled sleep, I lay in bed giving thanks for what has to be acknowledged as a small miracle: having come from where we were, before Sam knew his dad, to where we are now. I ordered room service, and then made the mistake of turning on the TV. Our grindingly clueless president was in Iraq, dishing out stuffing. What a turkey. I wondered, What if there really is no hope, this time? Outside my window, the nearest trees looked sick and in trouble. The leaves had all fallen off, and they looked dead. All I could do was lean on my shaky Advent faith that things would be OK, more or less, that we are connected, and everyone -- everyone -- eventually falls into the hands of God. I pray, and try to be kind, and go to church, and Sam doodles.

But these are the things that Jesus did, too. In John:8, when the woman is about to be stoned by the Pharisees for adultery, we see Jesus doodling in the sand. The Pharisees, the officially good people, were acting well within the law when they condemned the woman to death. A huge crowd of people willing to kill her had joined them. The Greatest Hits moment here is when Jesus says, challenging the crowd, "Let ye who is without sin cast the first stone." But the more interesting stuff happens before, when he leaves the gathering storm, goes off by himself, and starts doodling.

He refuses to interact with them on their level of hatred and madness. He just draws in the sand for a time. Maybe he was drawing his little guys -- the Gospel doesn't say. But when he finally faced the mob, and responded, all the people who were going to kill the woman had disappeared.

You have to wonder, where was the man with whom she committed adultery? Some people suggest he was in the crowd, waiting to kill her. We don't know. But I can guess how the condemned woman must have felt -- surprised. She was supposed to die, and her life was spared. Hope always catches us by surprise.

It poured all Thanksgiving morning and the only news was Bush in Iraq, clutching his little turkey. But even in the gloom and desperation, I played over the scenes from the night before, in all their magic and klutz and ordinariness: Sam and his brother getting to know each other; the baby racing around in a state of busy wonder. I have to say, I continue to be deeply surprised by life.

The rain poured down, dark and loud. This is the time to plant bulbs and scatter seeds, in the hope that some of them will grow: poppies, tulips, wildflowers. In the meantime, in Advent, we show up, with grit and kindness. We try to help. We prepare for an end to the despair, and we do this together.

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