Deliveries

In the last two days, I have received two deliveries which made me smile.

My other last name.

Yesterday, after taking an epic four-hour nap in my recliner that started mid-afternoon and ended in the early evening, I ordered from the local pizza joint that specializes in New York-style pies: half plain, half anchovies (don't judge). "Oh, and can you throw in two cannolis, too?" "No problem, ma'am," said the man on the other end of the line. Since moving to Ohio 13 years ago, I have not found a pizza that tastes like home—until last night. And oh, how it made my sad heart sing for a few moments! The cannoli filling was a little lighter than I'm used to, but hey, I'll take it. This is no time to be a critic.

After work today, I found myself in the same recliner, wanting to take another epic nap to escape reality, but I figured that would kill any kind of meaningful sleep later tonight. (I have not had much of an appetite lately, and I dream nightly that I have contracted COVID-19 and/or have spread it to someone I love.) My fantasy of disappearing via nap was disrupted when a delivery car pulled into my driveway, which is pretty common when you live at the end of a dead-end street that is not marked as such. Usually, these cars are lost and turn around, but tonight, the driver kept going up my long, concrete driveway. He stepped out of his compact car, walked up my sidewalk, and knocked on my door. "Here you go! Enjoy!" he said, handing me a paper bag and a small pizza box with his gloved hand. Perplexed, I replied, "Thanks." Inside the brown paper bag was a container of chocolate Oreo ice cream. Inside the box were a half dozen assorted cookies. As I was trying to puzzle out which of my friends might have sent this surprise, I received a text: "Enjoy the treats! Hope you are having a better day." —Jenn

Feeding my feelings. Thanks, J-Dogg!

Some people just know you. Some people take their role as best friend seriously and call in an order of treats to your home from their home in Virginia, when they know you're feeling overwhelmed by darkness. Some people know that you ran out of ice cream the other night without you even telling them. Some people know that sweets are a salve for sadness, if only for a few moments.

Life List

If you're a birder or a butterflyer or any kind of nature enthusiast, you might have heard of the term "life list." You might even have one yourself. For those who keep a list of all the species you have seen, you know the thrill that comes from adding something new to your record sheet, whether it's in a notebook, an Excel spreadsheet, in the back of a guidebook, or in your head.

My life list started innocently enough after a trip to a butterfly house in the Poconos a couple years ago. After discovering that there were native butterflies named after punctuation (i.e., commas and question marks), this grammar nerd was now hooked on lepidoptera. So I picked up a small Petersen's guide with illustrations of common North American butterflies and started checking off the ones I had seen, or thought I had seen. My identification skills have improved greatly since then, and while I now check off butterflies in an Ohio-specific guidebook, I really do keep the list in my head for the most part.

Look closely, and you'll see the eyes peeking over the leaf
during this intimate moment.

This weekend, I had been thinking about my late friend Cheryl, my butterfly mentor and friend. She always talked about going with her pal to a certain park to look for West Virginia Whites in April. They have a very short flight season and are restricted to certain locales. I was not at that particular park this weekend, but I wondered if maybe I would find one where I was. I knew there had been nearby records at a state nature preserve a few miles away. The sun was shining and although it was not yet sixty degrees, the sun was warm on my back—and I had to believe warm enough to wake the flutterbys.

I had been on a few different trails through the muddy wetlands and the deciduous forest when I came upon what I thought were two Cabbage White butterflies chasing each other. These looked smaller, though, and when they landed in a copulating position, I realized they were lacking the notable black dots that cabbages have on their wings. My camera battery was about to die, but before it did, I managed to get a couple photos of the action. They fluttered away. I watched them fly separately and then find each other once again. I took a few more pictures and uploaded them to iNaturalist, a citizen science portal that helps with identifications. Even before the good folks at iNaturalist confirmed my identification, I knew what I had seen. Jubilation! Thank you, Cheryl!

Adding to one's life list could be likened to checking things off a bucket list, I suppose. But for me, there's something special about adding to a list rather than subtracting from it. In Ohio, it is estimated that we have about 125 species of butterflies. Some of these are quite common across most of the state, like the Monarch or the Cabbage White whereas others are more localized either because of their location or their limited flight time, such as the Falcate Orangetip (not on my list) or the West Virginia White. Some butterflies remain on state lists but have been extirpated, or are no longer present in the state, like the Regal Frittilary. And some are being reintroduced and monitored very carefully, like the Karner Blue in northwest Ohio.

I had to include the Eastern Comma. I'm sure I'll write
another blog about this favorite butterfly of mine.

I am on a quiet quest to see as many butterflies as possible, not because I'm like that guy in the movie The Big Year, who is trying to break a record for seeing the most birds in one year, but because adding to my life list adds to the richness of my life. It is not competition but communion.

Flowering and Fading

Hey, neighbor! Hope you don't mind me sticking my
nose in your tree.

Since moving into my neighborhood six years ago, I have been quite enchanted by a neighbor's magnolia tree, the only one in our subdivision. Its sudden and stunning beauty somehow manages to take me by surprise every spring. My neighbor's tree is quite wide and nearly as tall as most of the other trees in the neighborhood, leading me to believe it may have been planted around the same time the house was built. The blossoms remind me of delicate teacups on the branches. The petals are soft and fragrant and large enough that you can stick your whole nose in them and be transported to some beautiful place in your mind. I rarely see the man who lives in this house, but I hope it gives him some measure of joy to see me photographing and sniffing his magnolia blooms. The cops have not come for me yet.

What can brown do for you?

Today, though, I felt a tinge of sadness as I walked by the tree at lunchtime. Its pink blossoms were turning brown, like when you leave an avocado out on the table for too long. A closer look, however, revealed a mix of petals past their prime and still some just coming into their own—a transition point.

Last week, I felt like I was finally (maybe) getting into the groove of stay-at-home, work-from-home, do-everything-from-home. This week has been a different story. For a couple days this week, I was like those sad, brown, wilting petals. On Monday night, I dreamed that I was saying goodbye to a friend. I hugged her and hugged her and hugged her. I asked her in the dream, "Are you afraid of me?" because I imagine when we can all see each other again, we will probably be suspicious of being close to people unless we have reliable antibody tests. "No," she replied. And then I woke up. After a month without any physical contact, the hugs in my dream felt so real. I wanted them to last forever, just like I want these magnolia petals to last forever.

Dealing with the brown stuff of life remains an open challenge. This week's brown matter included some really frightening thoughts about the possibility of loved ones dying during COVID-19 and addressing some tough topics in therapy. The brown too shall pass in my memory and soon there will be green leaves that will stay with us until the fall. I look forward to more green, more consistency in the coming weeks, though I suspect as we emerge from this current stay-at-home order next week, everything will once again be in flux—a transition point.

Procyon lotor

Raccoons. Procyon lotor. They're not exactly everyone's favorite mammal.

This looks like a good place to be.

When I was in graduate school, I went to take the trash to the Dumpster across the street, and when I opened it, a family of raccoons greeted me—no, more like scared the you-know-what out of me. I ran back to the duplex and asked my friend Patrick if he would take the trash out because I was scared. Raccoons have rightfully earned the nickname "trash pandas." My old neighbor across the street likes to trap them and then, well, you can imagine what he does with them next. The campus where I work has a Native American-derived name that allegedly means "raccoon," so I've been warming up to them a little more, especially now that a raccoon sculpture greets me when I pull into the parking lot. These aren't exactly the animals that make me ooh and ahh when I'm out in the woods, but when I see one climbing a tree and I have a great vantage point with my camera, I forget all of my previous judgments and fire away.

I had just finished a 2.7-mile hike at a local park that I don't frequent nearly enough. Earlier in my hike, I had photographed what I thought was a beaver but later discovered was a mink. What a find! It was already a good day of surprises. The end of the trail concludes with a long, stone staircase that leads to the parking lot. From the top, I could see some people pointing to the ground along the small creek next to the parking area. "It's a raccoon!" they said, and soon it was climbing a tree. It snuggled itself on a branch, next to the trunk. I made my way down the stairs and positioned myself under the tree for a different angle. The sun started to break through, casting a glow on the raccoon. Light is my friend. Light makes me lucky. I took a few snaps until it was clear the raccoon was not moving anytime soon.

The face that brought me to tears.

On my hike, I met two friendly women on the trail. We bonded over seeing some turtles on the pond, and I told them I would send them some photos of the turtles when I got home. As I was looking through my camera roll in the parking lot to find the turtle photos, this raccoon image consumed me. I could not stop looking at it. What was so compelling about this rodent's face and eyes that nearly brought me to tears (and later did)? We made contact.

In SoulCollage®, we talk a lot about the images we select for our cards being reflections of our soul. The tree provided a safe place to rest. Perhaps it felt vulnerable with all of the humans around and needed to retreat. Its posture reminded me of what I would like to do on so many days, hide in the arm of a tree and take solace there. A raccoon's most important sense is that of touch, something I long for but cannot get right now. I wanted to hug that creature, as crazy as that sounds. Who wants rabies? What I really want is to hug humans, but there is so much fear with that and no sense of when that will be possible. Who wants COVID-19, or to spread it to someone else?

Nap time?

Before Sunday, I wouldn't have imagined feeling connected to what I had previously deemed a rodent, undeserving of my attention. Nature has a way of transforming us and reminding us that we are all indeed part of the larger fabric of creation. Maybe creation knows we are suffering and wants to offer us compassion. May we stay open to wonder and unexpected graces from unexpected creatures.

The Mail: Allison

This is the last in a series on the real mail I've recently received and the person behind the parcel.

Another butterfly card!

Jesus' words in Matthew 20:16 are appropriate as I conclude this series on the mail: "Thus, the last will be first, and the first will be last." The very first card I received in Coronatime was this handmade beauty from a former coworker and fellow nature lover who lives in the southwestern part of the state. Like me, she works at a university and lives alone. Her first degree is in art, and it definitely shows here! Her second degree is in pastoral ministry, and that is how I met Allison all the way back in 2007.

I had just begun a graduate program in pastoral ministry and a graduate assistantship in campus ministry, a nine-hour drive from home, and was feeling quite out of place in every regard. Prior to moving, I worked in a small Catholic high school as a campus minister for almost two years. It was my first real job, with amazing students and incredibly fun coworkers (so many pranks!). Unfortunately, our school closed as part of a larger diocesan restructuring, and my job prospects were dim (ok, none) in the reorganized school system. It was the perfect time to go to graduate school, but now I was a little fish in a big pond, a girl from Scranton hanging out with incredibly smart and experienced people.

I remember meeting Allison on our staff retreat in August. She and another team member were talking about ABBA, as I recall, and I was like, "Oh, I love ABBA!" and I glommed on to that conversation like COVID-19 on an ACE2 cell receptor. I discovered that Allison was a bundle of energy with a laugh that filled the room. Even better, we were part of the same workgroup: retreats and faith communities. Allison was also new, in a way. She was a graduate assistant from 2003-2005 and had just taken a full-time job at the university.

One of our students captured this serene moment in
Red River Gorge.

Ten days into my stint as a graduate assistant, Allison, our boss Dave, and I went shopping for a year's worth of retreat supplies. This included buying hundreds of candles—I kid you not. Come to think of it, where did we put them all? Since I was new to the area, Dave and Allison decided to treat me to lunch at a famous Cincinnati chili place (no names, people have feelings), and while I went to the restroom, they filled my complimentary oyster crackers with hot sauce. "How are the oyster crackers," they asked. "Good," I replied. Something was off, but I didn't know what, so while I kept eating them, they started giggling more until they could no longer contain themselves about their cunning hot sauce bomb planting. We were all laughing after that and would continue to do so for the next two years together, even after I learned that part of my job was to lead a women's wilderness retreat, which involved backcountry camping in Red River Gorge, Kentucky.

The one where I almost died of hypothermia. Allison is
in green behind me.

The good news was that Allison and I would do this retreat together a total of three times over the course of two years. Our student leaders handled so many parts of the actual camping experience that it didn't matter if we had never slept outside before or cooked food on a camp stove or peed in the woods. We eventually got the hang of these tasks, along with providing spiritual support for our WOMS, as they affectionately called themselves. One night, though, I woke up in the middle of the night feeling dampness all up my back and a chill through my body. Did I went my pants? Nope. It was raining—and it was a cold rain. I was sleeping under the edge of the tarp that was no longer sheltering me from the elements. I said some choice words and attempted to wake up Allison. She was sleeping like a rock. Finally, when I was able to wake her and explain the situation, I changed my shirt and crawled in her mummy bag with her. Together, we shivered for three or four hours until sunrise. Mummy bags are not made for two. We lived to tell the tale (many times over, in fact!), and that was probably the moment that solidified our friendship. Those retreats were also the start of my great love affair with nature, falling in love with the ordinary.

I don't see Allison as much as I would like to, but we stay connected on social media and through her awesome homemade cards. I follow her birding adventures across the country, and she follows my butterfly exploits. Some day when we are free to roam the earth again, we are going to reconnect in the Rio Grande Valley of Texas when the butterfly and birding festivals take place back-to-back. And we'll stay in a place safe from the elements. I can't say the same for the hot sauce bombs, though.

The Mail: Carmen

This continues a series on the real mail I've recently received and the person behind the parcel.

A new way to keep a life list.

I was a little surprised to receive a box from the Puzzle Warehouse last week. Intrigued, I opened the box and found a 1000-piece puzzle, "Butterflies of North America," and a lovely gift note:

I know I have it comparatively easier living in community. I also have a host of hobbies (or at least instruments) that keep me busy when I am not preparing meals. I have been working puzzles, and they seem to keep me calm. Maybe [it] won't work for you, but at least it's butterflies! xo, Laverne

If Carmen is Laverne, then that must mean I'm Shirley. I could write a book about all of the experiences I have shared with Carmen since I first met her in March 2010, at the job interview that would bring me to the small city I still call home. We worked together for seven years in a parish-based campus ministry until my departure in May 2017. Andy Bernard in The Office once mused, "I wish there was a way to know you're in the good old days before you've actually left them." Sometimes, you get the rare privilege to know you are living in the good old days at the moment.

Easter card from Carmen, hand-delivered
earlier in the week with a homemade mask.

Our boss dubbed us Laverne and Shirley, and although I disagreed with him on many things, I thought his characterization fit us perfectly. We shared lots of laughter in the midst of absurd situations, many of them in the kitchen related to some fundraising dinner. Carmen has the gift of being able to cook a gourmet meal for four people, forty people, or a hundred people. When I met her, I could barely cook for myself, and now I found myself thrust into the role of sous chef, chopping vegetables for roasting, helping to make a six-foot-long Yule log we named Yolanda, hauling 35 pounds of butternut squash out of the West Side Market, and admiring the tenacity of the student volunteer we convinced to chop five pounds of shallots. Who cried more—the student or us from laughing at his tears (all in good fun, really)? I'm grateful for those times in the kitchen, where we built community and I learned how to cook. I can't even imagine living through this pandemic eating take out every single night. 

Carmen did not go to culinary school but music school, and that is one of the great talents that she shares. If we were on retreat or taking a trip for fun, I could always count on Carmen to bring her harp—or one of her many. At times, Carmen's harp playing boosted our prayer and at other times, the melodies she played lulled me to sleep. In an earlier blog, I had talked about my friend Cheryl who passed away. Twice during Cheryl's final month on earth, Carmen came with me and played her harp for my dying friend. What a beautiful gift!

One gift Carmen admits she does not have is that of the gift of nursing. Seven years ago this May, I had a bad cycling accident. Carmen drove six miles, scooped up my bike and me, and took me to the emergency room, even though I insisted I just needed to go to urgent care. However, my elbow was not where it was supposed to be, so she made the right call in taking me to the hospital. While we were waiting for the doctor to come in, she used an alcohol swab to clean up my road rash on my arm. I howled! The pain was about to get a lot worse, though, when I saw the x-rays which revealed a fractured olecranon requiring surgical repair complete with plates and screws. The whole experience brought us closer together as Carmen served as my caregiver for many weeks, taking me to surgery (twice), helping me to shower, and lining up others to help me since I could not drive. She's a better nurse than she gives herself credit for.

A spring ride with coordinating outfits to match the
spring blossoms.

A couple years later, Carmen bought her own bike and joined me on the trails. She is ambitious and she set a goal of riding a half-century, or 50 miles. Both of us trained the whole summer to gear up for this ride on the relatively flat towpath. At mile 52, I realized we still had not made it back to the parking lot. So, we were slightly off on our calculations, but we did it our way, yes, our way, making all our dreams come true.


That's how Laverne and Shirley roll. 

The Mail: Aunt Barb

This continues a series on the real mail I've recently received and the person behind the parcel.

Alleluia!

After a couple days off, I thought I'd try to pick up where I left off. Today marks one month of working from home and one month since I received a St. Patrick's Day card from my godmother, my Aunt Barb. She sends a card at every major (and sometimes minor) holiday, whether secular or religious. Sometimes she even sends thematic care packages, whether about butterflies, or Phillies stuff, or cycling. She gets me. Really, though, what a joy to find an Easter card in the mail last week at a time when I could barely remember it was Holy Week! It had a big "Alleluia" on the front and lots of flowers, which is appropriate for the season and for my aunt.

One of my Aunt Barb's famous care packages.

My mom is one of seven siblings, three boys and four girls, born in that order (one brother has passed away). My aunt was the fifth child and is the one most like my grandmother: kind, gentle, close to beauty, in love with nature. She loves to bake, garden, bird watch, and research family history. She enjoys the simple things in life. Out of all of my aunts and uncles, Aunt Barb was the only one to complete a bachelor's degree. She studied at the Pennsylvania State University, first at the local branch campus in town and then finishing up at University Park with a degree in horticulture. She married soon after college and did not use her degree professionally.

As a kid living in a city, I was not into nature and things like that, but my godmother's love of nature and science rubbed off on me a bit. I remember in my ninth grade physical science class I had to put together a bona fide, short-term experiment using the scientific method. When I needed help, my mom said, "Go ask Aunt Barb." Our teacher was demanding, and to many, downright intimidating. Aunt Barb helped me to create an experiment about hydroponics, which earned me an outstanding grade with this very rigorous teacher.

My godmother has always been generous with her time and talent, supporting my crazy ideas when my parents just shrugged their shoulders. In the fourth or fifth grade, I wanted to be Commander Spock from the original Star Trek series. She tailored a blue uniform with the Starfleet insignia and gold command stripes on the sleeves. I had the pointed ears and used makeup to arch my eyebrows. Gosh, what a nerd! I loved Star Trek before J.J. Abrams made it cool again. But she totally got how important it was to me. While her love of science and nature has stayed with me, I wish that I had gotten her gift of sewing, knitting, crocheting, and crafting, especially in these COVID days when making masks is all the rage.

Aunt Barb is pretty camera shy.
I had to crop her out of a group photo.

Aunt Barb is a faithful woman and has been a model godmother to me. Like so many of us, she has had her share of significant challenges in life: dealing with a nasty divorce, raising a child with special needs, and caring for my grandmother who died 11 years ago. The cards she sends at every holiday, even on St. Patrick's Day which doesn't mean too much for this Italian girl, mean the world to me. I don't tell her that often enough. Maybe it's time for me to send a card to her in thanksgiving. I've got lots of great nature cards that I know she will love and appreciate like few others in my family can.

The Mail: Pete

This continues a series on the real mail I've recently received and the person behind the parcel.

The contents, carefully highlighted and date stamped

Once a quarter, I receive a #10 envelope in the mail with the characteristic handwriting I have known all my life. The return address on this quarter's envelope didn't even have the return address, just the city name and the ZIP+4: 18505-4022. There is only one person that addresses mail so cryptically, and that would be my father.

My dad is a Virgo like me, a helper with a soft heart and a weird sense of humor. I was the firstborn of three daughters, and rumor has it, my dad was convinced I was a boy in utero. I probably would have been Pete the Third, but he gave me that X chromosome. As a kid, I spent a lot of time with my dad going for rides in the car to learn about the interstate highway system and license plates; riding bikes along the Lackawanna River; helping him to mow lawns; balancing his checkbook with him (not even joking); hanging out at the bowling alley to play pinball; playing catch in the backyard; going to minor league baseball games; and numerous other ordinary things that dads and daughters do together. When my friends would come over, my dad loved to bust their chops, but he would do anything for them. They all still love Pete to this day. A few said they wished my dad was their dad.

My dad's first butterfly survey.
He was a good sport.

Pete is now enjoying a well-earned retirement after a 25-year career with the Scranton Fire Department. Prior to that, he worked for a bank in a number of different roles, but he felt that a union job would help him provide for his family, which it did, although many cost-saving measures were instituted, like one-ply toilet paper (a hot commodity today); shopping at Kmart when my friends were going to the brand new downtown mall; and refusing to get touch-tone telephone service because it cost $1/month until the phone company forced him to. "That's $12/year times 20 years," he exclaimed. No doubt, this helped pay for my expensive college education.

My dad likes to collect things. For a while, it was aluminum cans and scrap metal, but now that he, my mom, and my youngest sister have moved into a new home, he's been collecting things for his refurbished garage/man cave, like road signs, license plates, and other vintage metal memorabilia. He also collects things to send to me, which brings me to the #10 envelope and its contents.

The dateline reads "Palmless Pandemic Sunday," and he goes on to tell me about some things he's been doing around his estate, that his buddy will be retiring from the used car business soon, and that he's also scrapped enough to pay for gas to come to visit me this summer—that is when we are able to travel again. He enclosed a few newspaper clippings: one quoting a Kent State professor of public health, a letter to the editor about how pasta dinners are going to be everyone's go-to fundraiser once quarantine is over, and one featuring my friend Sr. Lisa, who brought students from Florida to Scranton for a service trip. He might be one of the last people who reads the paper cover to cover every day. He also enclosed a check: "Go buy yourself an ice cream cone!" This was something his grandmother would say to him and he continues that tradition.

A very iconic Pete pose.

In concluding this post, I leave you with my father's traditional valediction: "Take it eetz!"

If you're scratching your head, just imagine an old Italian dude in a pizza shop saying this to you as take your pizza out the door. That's where he got it from, after all.

The Mail: Kathy

This continues a series on the real mail I've recently received and the person behind the parcel.

My mail delivery has undergone some changes recently. Mike used to deliver it in the late afternoon, but after many years on our route, I discovered he was no longer our carrier. He had been replaced by a woman whose name I don't know who now delivers in the morning. On this particular day, I was pretty sure I had not seen her head go by my home office window, but then again, I might have missed her being so engrossed in my work. Around 5:30 or so, my neighbor texted me, "You have a package." I guess the mail had come after all.

An Easter assortment

Sitting under the mailbox next to the door was a small box from a familiar address. I wasn't expecting anything from Kathy, so I was intrigued. Inside was a hodgepodge of little things: an Easter card, a Salvadoran cross, a book I had lent her, and this 3D emoji, inside which was a tiny note directing me to a particular passage in the book she had returned. Though there was no grass nor chocolate to speak of, it certainly felt like an Easter basket to me. I started to cry. Kathy called in the midst of my weeping, and when she asked why I was crying, I sobbed that I had gotten this Easter basket in the mail.

The littlest things invoke some of the biggest tears these days.

I first met Kathy in 2013, at a multigenerational women's retreat. The topic was Wisdom. I knew two people on the retreat, the leader who invited me and a friend my age who was discerning religious life. For an introvert, a scenario like this always invokes a little bit of panic; however, at the time, I was in church ministry and was happy to be "off" and just making a retreat for myself. On Saturday, Kathy and I had a one-on-one together, and while I don't remember what we talked about specifically, I remember feeling listened to and at peace, so much so that I wrote to her after the retreat to express my gratitude. And she wrote back. She always does, I discovered. She has a gift for words.

Our paths did not cross for a few more years. The retreat always fell during one of the busiest ministry seasons, but in 2017, I found myself unemployed and with lots of time on my hands. Soon I was invited to be on the retreat team and once again after a retreat, I had written to Kathy to express my gratitude for her presence and my support for her. It seemed like she was going through a difficult time. It took a few weeks for us to connect again in person. I remember walking through Shaker Heights on a March day with the bluest of skies talking about all kinds of experiences we had and people we knew in which we knew God's presence. It felt easy to confide in one another, just as it did on that first retreat.

Epic road trip stop to see Kathy's lifelong friend, Peggy,
in Charlottesville, Virginia

Over these last two years since we reconnected, our friendship has deepened substantially through faith sharing with Henri Nouwen and Richard Rohr; hikes in the woods; tours of various parts of Cleveland; editing projects; cooking together; a major move and all that comes with that; an epic road trip up and down the East Coast; tech support, and going to church followed by Sunday breakfast. There's eucharist with a capital E and then there's eucharist with a little E. The latter is my favorite thing we do together. It's become a tradition, one that we've tried to keep even during pandemic days. Gathering at table is a holy act: bread is broken, eggs are poached, coffee is poured. Mostly, it is simply good "to be" and to be with each other. Kathy is friend, mentor, and at times, mom. I am grateful for the little Easter box with all of its little pieces and parts and look forward to sharing eucharist once again.

The two disciples whom Jesus joined on the road to Emmaus recognized him in the breaking of the bread. What is a more common, ordinary gesture than breaking bread? It may be the most human of all human gestures: a gesture of hospitality, friendship, care, and the desire to be together. Taking a loaf of bread, blessing it, breaking it, and giving it to those seated around the table signifies unity, community, and peace. When Jesus does this he does the most ordinary as well as the most extraordinary. It is the most human as well as the most divine gesture. —Henri Nouwen, Bread for the Journey: A Daybook of Wisdom and Faith (2006)

The Mail: Marilyn

In the age of online everything, some things have become relics of the past, like "real mail." In my real mail, I am mostly subjected to multiple airline credit card solicitations, the weekly mailer with grocery ads and fast food coupons, and once a month, the water bill. In COVID-19 days, I haven't even wanted to touch the mail. Why waste a good handwashing and sanitizing of the door handles for junk mail? This week, though, I received more than my share of surprises when I reached my hand inside the box. For the next few posts, I'd like to share a little bit about the person behind each of those packages or letters that helped me get through a few more days of social distancing.

There is nothing I love more than receiving a card in the mail. And oh, one that pops up with a bicycle inside! My friend Marilyn sent me this card out of the blue. She wrote:

Hey, Girlie! Just checking in - hoping things get back to "normal" soon and we can go for a bike ride or 4. Miss your smiling face and think of you often. Love, M.

I smiled, remembering fondly the 36-mile ride we did together a couple of summers ago—my very first long one. And I remembered the time we rode to the northeastern part of the county and stopped to get a beer at the halfway point, which nearly did me in on the way back. She needed the beer, though, after nearly riding over a snake, one of her greatest fears. The bike pop-up card was a perfect reminder of adventures in cycling and adventures in faith—and even an adventure to my hometown.

I first met Marilyn on Facebook, actually, around this time of year in 2014. I can't remember if I messaged her or if she messaged me, but at the time, she was going through the Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults to become a Catholic. She asked me a lot of questions on Facebook Messenger about Catholicism that were easier for her to ask outside of her formal RCIA sessions. Why do we do this? What does this mean? Who are these saints? At the time, I was a campus minister at a nearby parish, so I happily obliged and cheered her on at every stage even though I barely knew her. We even shared a beer at the local watering hole after her first confession.

Rest stop during Pedal-with-Pete
June 6, 2015

Over time, we developed a friendship where I realized she was living the questions and the answers better than most cradle Catholics I knew, myself included. I have never met someone so hungry for understanding her faith, for wanting to know all there is to know. After translating complex theological concepts into images and metaphors a novice could grasp, I sometimes told her it didn't matter if you had the right answers or knew what the Annunciation was or could recite the prayer before meals without missing a word—what matters is love.

Marilyn's favorite part of the liturgy is the eucharist, an ultimate act of love, where we receive Christ's body and pray that we become what we receive. She used to cry every time she went to communion and as she watched others do the same. I couldn't help but think of her tonight as I watched a live stream of the Easter Vigil, her anniversary into the Church, and heard the third verse of Let Us Be Bread by Thomas Porter:

See how my people have nothing to eat.
Give them the bread that is you. 

Marilyn gives her bread (or famous pulled pork or flank steak) to others so that others might know love, might know God. Happy Anniversary, dear friend. I can't wait for that bike ride.

Spider

Surprise!

What do you do when you encounter a spider in a place that's yours? Do you kill it? Do you move it? Do you let it be?

Today, I found a spider on my garage keypad. I usually go out the front door for my walks, but because I have unidentified bees nesting under my storm door (and I am severely allergic), I decided to go through the garage. When I came back from a quick walk after work before a 6:00 videoconference, I lifted the plastic flap and found a tiny spider right smack in the middle. This is a pretty common occurrence on this keypad, but normally, when I open the flap, they fall off or find a small crevice in which to hide. This one stayed right there. Tap-tap. Nope, not budging. Tap-tap, again. Nada. I finally got a small twig for it to climb on, which it happily did, and I rested it gently in the greenery next to the garage. Ah, Cheryl. I guess she wanted to say hello today.

Cheryl and I at the end-of-the-year butterfly social,
November 2016

My friend Cheryl passed away on August 23, after a long illness. I met her in 2016, on butterfly surveys in the nearby national park. In the three short years we had together, she taught me much about butterflies and the natural world. She was completely self-taught and had the most amazing eye for detail. As her husband wrote in her obituary, "She loved all of God's creatures, whether they crept, crawled, slithered, walked, or flew—and she photographed them all." Cheryl's first love were spiders. As a kid, she told me how obsessed she was with them, drawing pictures of them and I think even collecting them. My entry into the insect world was pretty butterflies; hers was spiders.

My position on spiders has evolved quite a bit since I was a kid when I would ask my dad to kill them, or worse yet, I would murder them with the vacuum cleaner. I used to be afraid of these eight-legged creatures because I was ignorant and disconnected from nature. Now because of Cheryl and another friend who used to rescue spiders from our workplace, I am happy to either leave them be (unless they are over my bed) or take them outside to their natural environs. Please don't ask me what happens when they are over my bed.

Today's grace was that itsy-bitsy spider, a little hello from dearly departed friend whose love lives on in my heart—and in arachnids.

Contrasts

I wrote yesterday about the low point that I hit and hit pretty hard, likening it riding up a steep hill into the wind with one gear. Today, I felt I had reached the top of that hill and was now catching my breath as I hit the straightaway. I still needed to pedal but not so hard.

Virginia spring beauties

As much as I dread Mondays, they now provide a certain stability in uncertain times. This particular Monday began with sunshine and blue skies—as well as seeing a wild, solo turkey running across my neighbors' lawns. As it alternated between waddling and sprinting, I giggled. The wild things really are starting to take over.

Later in the day, during my brief walk to the next street and back, I noticed the stillness in the air. I haven't seen a contrail from an airplane in days. The sound of the traffic from the main road that carries into my neighborhood is quieter. At the very end of our subdivision on the edge of a lawn that borders an empty lot, I happened upon some Virginia spring beauties, one of my favorite native spring wildflowers. They are tiny, delicate, and pink and not usually found in residential neighborhoods—indeed, a lovely surprise.

The side view

Contrast that with the tree I saw later when I went to my coworker's place to drop off 20 or so t-shirts from my yesteryears (sniffs) so another coworker can make masks. This massive fallen tree was very old. I marveled at its splinters, at its massive trunk, and long branches. What force could have brought such a strong organism to its knees?

Many people perceive me as strong, too, but like that tree, I have been brought to my knees more than once during this pandemic. Inside, I'm a Virginia spring beauty—oh so delicate and trying in my own small way to bring something good into the world, even for a moment in an unexpected place to an unexpected person.

Everything looks better with daffodils.

Cycling

Behind me is a place that will soon be a brewery.
That's going to be a nice treat after a long ride!

The temperature and wind finally cooperated yesterday for me to take my first bike ride of the season and so begins my mileage log for 2020. I did an ambitious 18 miles from my house to the neighboring town and back, mostly on the hike and bike trail with a couple miles of road riding to get there. I figured if I did 10 miles that would be a great start, but my legs felt strong, and it was absolutely gorgeous out, so I pushed on without issue.

Fewer people were on the roads, but more people were out on the trails than usual. For the most part, people kept their distance and were polite and intelligent. I say for the most part because there's always the expert cyclist who thinks he's too cool to announce that he's passing on the left or the people who don't wear helmets because they're "just on the trail" regardless if a pandemic is raging (someday, I'll tell you about my accident on the trail and how grateful I was to have a helmet and all my teeth when it was all said and done).

That being said, yesterday was a very good day, physically and emotionally. Life almost felt normal—I almost felt normal—and I went to bed feeling good.

Today was anything but.

I spent most of the day in bed, except for the two hours I watched Palm Sunday Mass with a friend and had breakfast together. Then I crawled back in bed under my weighted blanket for the rest of the afternoon, dozing here and there, but mostly just trying to wrap my head around the awful loneliness I feel. In these pandemic times, some days are like a good downhill with the wind at your back; today was like climbing a monster hill into the wind with one gear.

From my neighborhood, I can easily access four trails in less than two miles. For the last eight years, I've been riding them regularly and know the subtleties in elevation of each one so I can prepare my gears. Sometimes before I go, I check the weather and decide which trail I want to ride based on wind direction and speed. I know which trails have water fountains and bathrooms, and for the ones that don't, I make sure I know how to get to the nearest mini-mart for provisions and facilities. I'm also keenly aware of my location in case I need to get picked up, like the time a yellow jacket stung me twice above the eye seven miles from home (I always think I can be a hero and ride back. Nope.). Riding has taught me to be disciplined and prepared. For the most part, the strategies I employ to have a good, safe ride work until there's an emergency. I usually learn about the gaps in my preparation the hard way.

I find myself in strange territory right now, on trails I've never seen before—that most of us have never seen before. I don't feel prepared. There are going to be uphills and downhills that both crush me and delight me—and you. Cycling through them is going to require discipline, patience, and self-acceptance. This is our century ride. It's going to be long and arduous.

P.S. With all of this free time on my hands, maybe this is the year I'll check that century ride (100 miles) off my list.

Breadrock

The Bread Rock

Did you ever walk down the street and see a loaf of bread on the tree lawn (or the devil strip if you're from Akron)? A few days ago, I must have been having my Jesus-in-the-desert moment thinking this rock was bread! The first time I saw it, I actually stopped and wondered why someone would drop a loaf of bread there. Was I hallucinating? And then I realized it was just a rock. A breadrock? Ah, clever me. I see lichens on the trees in my neighborhood, and they remind me of snowflakes or fireworks. My imagination sees things all the time that aren't really what they appear to be.

Call the Midwife premiered on PBS on Sunday night in the United States after its run in the United Kingdom earlier this year. It's a historical drama series that is now set in the mid-1960s. Midwives and nuns serve as community health practitioners, and in this particular episode, an outbreak of Diptheria was spreading throughout the east end of London. I found myself yelling to myself, "You're too close! Social distancing!" This is fiction. A reality check was needed.

It's sometimes hard to separate fiction from reality these days. What is real? What is not? Where is the bread I need to sustain life? Where is the rock that will steady me?

Lichen

Almost, but not yet

Cherry Blossom

"Almost, but not yet" was the caption I attached to some photos I uploaded on Facebook tonight of living things emerging from the ground: two volunteers in my front yard, possibly a lily of the valley and a tree sapling, and a partially opened cherry blossom in a neighbor's yard. I marvel at the saplings; it survived the ravenous squirrels and the well-trodden path of the mail carrier. Each organism will open and grow as it is meant to be in its own good time. Well, in the case of the two volunteers in my front yard, they will grow until the lawnmower comes along. And in the case of the cherry blossom, its beauty and fragrance will be fleeting as it leafs out.

Lily of the Valley?
I need a horticulturist!

The vulnerability and fragility of these plants strike me tonight, as I, myself, am feeling pretty vulnerable and pretty tender. I don't know if I want this blog, which is supposed to be about finding the grace in each day, to become a place where I air in great detail my current mental health struggles in pandemic times. Perhaps that is a bit selfish, given that there are probably others who could benefit from reading such accounts. We all need to feel heard and seen, especially when mental health issues often make us feel misunderstood to even our closest friends and family members. I recently read Reasons to Live by Matt Haig, a British author who has depression and anxiety. His compelling memoir doesn't mince words; he is incredibly honest in describing his feelings, thoughts, and actions from his lowest point of not wanting to live through his recovery, which he admits is ongoing. So many times in the book I found myself exclaiming, "Yes! He gets me." Right now, though, I'm not Matt Haig.

Tree sapling survivor.

I suppose what I'd like anyone reading this blog to know is that the grace of the day is often intermingled with not-so grace-filled moments, thoughts, and experiences that sometimes bring me to my knees and cloud my ability to see and to know what is good, true, and beautiful. Will I share those experiences here? Almost, but not yet.

Tours

Today was supposed to be my first virtual campus visit using Zoom, but no one signed up. This is not unusual even in "real life," as I'm now calling pre-COVID days. Students would sign up and then not show up. Students who didn't sign up would show up. And sometimes, people just didn't sign up or show up. 

Just two shy of The Brady Bunch

Last week, my colleague and I did some testing on Zoom, and if you recall, it produced a hilarious five-second video worth watching on loop. Over the weekend, I set up a Zoom call with some friends who helped me test out some of the features available with a larger group, which was both fun and instructional for them and for me. I even got my semi-Luddite dad to do it on Sunday. Last night, I set up a Zoom meeting with my cugine in Maine who is a CPA to discuss my taxes—this was after doing a 15-minute exercise routine with my friend who is in lockdown. Tonight, I helped that same friend and her friend, both of whom are not digital natives, learn the basics of Zoom. One is considering starting a poetry circle for members of her retirement community, and the other is a recording secretary for a board that will be using Zoom for its regular meeting on Monday. As I've been learning, I've been teaching.

My pops on his first Zoom call

I've wondered in these pandemic days what I can do. Yes, I am staying at home and saving lives. But I'm not one of the brave ones working in healthcare, often putting their own lives at risk. For eight hours, I get paid to sit in front of a computer screen and answer questions about college applications or changes in state law or university requirements. Tonight, though, I realized that giving tours of videoconferencing software is something I can do and do well. That brought me a sense of satisfaction. Jokingly, I said to my exercise buddy that maybe I should apply for a job at Zoom.

So, no one showed up for my tours at work today, but that's ok. I've been giving plenty of tours in the last week and I hope to give more to those who need it.

Thanks for letting me pet you today, kitty.

Gas is $1.45 at the station on the corner. There are 2,547 confirmed cases of COVID-19 in the state of Ohio. Sixty-five have died. Governor DeWine shut down Hobby Lobby today. The neighborhood cat provided some much-needed affection today.