Joys and Sorrows

We do this thing at church every Sunday called Joys and Sorrows; probably a lot of churches do. After an opening hymn, a welcome, and some announcements, the floor is opened to anyone to come up and tell the congregation about an event or concern in their life. It's a small church, and usually three or four people have something important to say - and occasionally an old coot who wants to show everybody pictures from his vacation. In two years of attending this little country church, I have never shared a Joy or Sorrow until this week, and I almost didn't this time, but I found myself walking up and standing in line behind some of the regulars.

I ended up not saying what I had rehearsed in my head, but said that my friend Steve lost his son in Iraq last week in a horrible roadside bombing incident, and I was grieving with Steve and his wife and his other son, and that it's just mindless and senseless and wrong. Then I went back and sat down while the service went on, but I didn't really hear the children's story that came next. I did eventually listen to the sermon, which was very well done, and participate normally in the rest of the service.

Afterward several people told me how sorry they were, and I appreciated that support. Those conversations also gave me a chance to vent some of the other things I had meant to say but didn't - always editing - such as the reason Aaron Reed and the other Ohio Marines died is that a small number of very wealthy and powerful people want to control even more of the earth's land and resources to acquire even more wealth and power, and they really don't care how they get it.

There were other things to talk about, some related to other kinds of blind, well-intentioned, thoughtless devotion to leaders who make careers out of lying, stealing, killing, deceiving, exploiting, and manipulating for personal gain. And some not, like how's the drum circle going, and how's your daughter the musician, and wasn't that a great sermon. It was also my first time as part of the set-up crew for a guest speaker, so I arrived early to open up, stayed late to lock up, and had more contact with church folks than usual.

The rest of the afternoon I was dragging. Gven Golly and I went window-shopping at BARGAIN OUTLET, as in actually shopping for windows for the remodeled kitchen of Om Shanty. I bought some hinges at Home Despot and spent an inordinate amount of my nonhandyman time leveling and hanging a big gate at the very back of the yard, which is now almost entirely fenced. I should have felt a huge satisfaction (cue the Rolling Stones) upon getting the gate up and latched securely, but no. I noticed a couple of glaring errors of judgment I made as the project progressed that, if I had it to do over, I would do differently. I still might go back and fix one particular error, but I ran out of daylight and I needed a beer and a burrito.

It was a long weekend. Jess Golly called Friday and told Gven about Aaron Reed's death, then Gven told me as I was building the gate. Jessi's friend Laura had called him in New York with the news; they all had known each other in a high school youth group. So the intergenerational networking shock waves of information and sorrow keep radiating out and bouncing off and knocking down. Saturday morning Helga Golly drove up to Mansfield for her friend Laura's bridal shower (different Laura), agonized just a little over a gift, met Laura's relatives, stayed overnight, came back safely, and all-in-all had a nice time.

This morning I kvetched to Gven about the grossly flawed fence. She has some wiring problems in the kitchen that will need professional attention. What does all this have to do with anything? I personally have not suffered as others are suffering, so this is not a lament. Just a note that it's good to have somebody to talk to.