Did God create the microbes, too? On which day did God say, “Let there be Brie”?
Are these, then, messengers of the Holy One— Clostridium Gabriel Difficile and Staphylococcus Michael Aureus? The seraphim Influenza and Pneumonia?
No drunk driver will take her away. No warriors wage this assault. No mugger, no terrorist, no drive-by shooter. No one to blame. No one.
Unlike the monotonic booping of her monitor And tweeting IVAC pump, Her ventilator pipes an almost merry tune From time to time, Like close encounters of some kind, While tiny creatures who, naturally, Dance in colonies on heads of pins, Swing, Lo, to carry her home
Wendy Carroll (Michelle Williams) is a homeless woman driving cross-country with her dog, Lucy, and sleeping in her car at night to save money and stay warm. One morning, her car won’t start. Her funds are limited, and she finds herself at the mercy of the local mechanic (Will Patton). She panics and shoplifts some dog food. She is caught and arrested.
In June the World’s Fair with bright red strawberries and cream over seared Belgian waffles. It grows hot. Trapped in the crowd, a tangled skein of nerves, lost and hungry for quiet, for tenderness, I ride with my aunt on a long conveyor belt to see the Pietà. So gentle the grieving, tranquil mother with her downcast eyes, the stone folds still around her, the cold flesh of her perfect son. She does not attempt to cry. My aunt, primed by The Agony and the Ecstasy, leans to recognize “Buonarroti” on the chiseled band, tasting the contours of each round unaccustomed syllable. She whispers the name. She will not last two years. Silent, thrilled and careful as dancers, when we step off on solid ground we are joined by our secret, sworn never to tell what we have no words to say. This is how it will be in the winter we take our leave: bitter flakes in a sharp ribbon of wind beyond tears or anger, the long frozen loop home from the hospital waiting for me, as we both know. Suddenly shy and tongue-tied as a girl, she will reach out from her bed to touch me, recalling too the marble brow, faintly wrinkled, the white hand, open, as if it were asking a question.
For a practice to qualify as “evangelical” in the functional sense means first of all that it communicates news. It says something particular that would not be known and could not be believed were it not said.
“I have been even as a man that hath no strength, free among the dead . . . Shall thy loving-kindness be showed in the grave?” —Psalm 88
Some days I feel as old as father Abraham, doddering father of a teen-aged daughter who last week attended her first “real” concert, at the crowded Aragon Ballroom in Uptown. When will my own days feel real again, the frozen clock hands begin to turn again? When will this chemical burning in the veins stop, and hope, perhaps, be recompensed? I wear this long wool coat against the cold that hurts me, covered with two scarves, my face covered to avoid any feeling of cobwebs, with their every thread feeling like a tiny razor blade slicing the skin. There is no ounce of benignity in this feeling. Maybe that is why the winter mask, last week found at Target, most accurately resembles a terrorist accessory, all black- hooded with eye slits. Were I to wear it, I would appear on campus like an ISIS recruit, no doubt a proud servant in his mind, clouded by the violence of the mission and sentence he honors. O the necessary horrors, those airstrikes occurring in the body’s battleground, leveled at the cells. If I were to wear the black hood, guise of a hangman (not the one hanged), I fear that campus security would target me, bucolic space locked down in emergency protocol. That’s all I would be: self-terrorist, strapped with the various wires of my sickness.
On the day the Supreme Court declared same-sex marriage legal, Iowans Bob Vander Plaats and Donna Red Wing had a chance meeting and hugged one another—even though they are culture warriors on opposite sides of the same-sex marriage debate. Vander Plaats heads Family Leader, which supports traditional marriage; he believes Red Wing’s lesbian marriage is unnatural. Red Wing, head of One Iowa, an LGBT rights group, has called Vander Plaats “bigoted” and “cruel.” But a few years ago, at Red Wing’s initiative, the two met for coffee and struck up a friendship. Since then they have been trying to soften the rhetoric of their organizations while still sticking to their principles (Washington Post, July 4).