Fridays

Yet another piece from the archives (my “archives” being an old file folder in the drawer of my desk). I wrote this a few years ago.

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A phrase from a song is traipsing through my head: “nobody said it was easy…”.

Fridays are a day I look forward to, with anticipation and not a little anxiety. This is the day, where it is my intention- maybe no more or less than on other days- to give.

Like Jesus, holding loaves and fish in outstretched hands… or maybe NOT like him because I want to say “it’s not enough” or “you want me to do WHAT?” or “give me more”. Instead, at least on Fridays, I hold out that which I have received and I whisper a hushed “thank you”. And whether it’s enough or not, I really don’t know.

A class, Eucharist, then lunchtime. I sit across from Marian. She’s fighting something off she says and my impulse is to lean away but holding out my hands (the whispered “thank you” there in my head), I hope it is enough. My ears are filled with a deep unfathomable sorrow as I hear of a son (“my baby” she say, again and again) putting a gun to his head. Something rattles in her throat, I think it’s pain. I myself, cannot breathe for what seems too long. She has a blanket and pillow, says she sleeps in her car. I remind her to drink lots of water for that something she is fighting off. I go in search of a fresh peach to give her but find none.

A little after, I sit in a different room with a different woman, one of the kindest I have ever known, and I speak out shards of glass, telling her of my internal conflict and existential confusion. With her gentle listening and spare words she reminds me of the Middle path, a way through. I am patched up for now and can stand upright, even feeling a sense of what seems to be peace.

Then comes a drive across town to visit my sister, broken in mind. I am armed with chocolate and the taste on her tongue elicits a smile. She wasn’t perfect and somehow her mind still clings to this knowing. But who is, really? All I know is she tried as much as she was able with what she had. Like me. Loaves and fish. Can I forgive myself as I have forgiven her? I sing to her a few lines of Feelin’ Groovy and she hums along tunelessly. I kiss her forehead and tell her I will come back. “Really?” she asks.

On my way home I stop at the grocery to choose what might be constructed into dinner. I move too slow with my cart and seem to be in everyones way. I stand too long, holding- one after another- pints of organic raspberries, finally choosing one from the others for a reason I do not know. In the meat section I cannot see because the tears… then I wander aimlessly, picking out a few things that seem to be what’s needed. Whether it is enough or not, I do not know.

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