Audacity
My 11-year-old started middle school this week. Deep into the darkness of the second year of this pandemic, it seems audacious to send her, too young to be vaccinated, to middle school, as though puberty and algebra are all we have to worry about.
But then, I want my kids to be bold and to take risks. I want them in school because I am hopeful about the light they will bring into this world as they learn and grow. I want them to know and love their friends and teach the rest of us to know and love each other. I want them in school because even in this dark time, I believe this is our best--if risky--chance to create a future full of hope, love, and community.
Twenty years ago, I gaped at the TV in my apartment as the second tower fell. I called my dad. He choked up and handed the phone to my stepmother right away. He worked down the street from the twin towers and had watched them fall. I had never heard my dad cry before. It was as shocking as the empty space where the towers had been. My relief that my parents were safe faded into a bigger fear for the future of our country and our world.
Even so, it was well into the evening before it occurred to me to wonder if this would affect my plans to travel to a wedding later that week.
Two and a half days later, I had been in line at SeaTac airport for so long that I was deeply grateful for the water and raisins the Red Cross volunteers were handing out. There were no flights to Philadelphia. But I could fly to Baltimore on one of the first post-9/11 flights out of Seattle. Close enough. When we landed, a teary flight attendant announced: “Ladies and Gentlemen, I am so pleased to welcome you to Baltimore.” We applauded. We exhaled.
It was the middle of the night before the dawn of the wedding day when I arrived in Baltimore. I got in a cab and asked the driver to take me to Penn Station, where I intended to get the first train to Philadelphia. The cab driver argued with me.
Yes, I know it’s closed. I’m going to sleep there while I wait for it to open.
At the train station? You don’t have a hotel?
Well, I do, but it’s in Philadelphia.
I’ll drive you to Philadelphia.
I can’t afford that.
How about $100. Can you afford that? Look, I’ll turn the meter off. You give me $100 and I’ll take you to your hotel.
He got me there with time to get my hair done.
I stood with the other bridesmaids, holding my flowers low and close to my body. The officiant began:
It seems strange that a wedding will go on in a time like this: When we are afraid; when so many have died; and when we are struggling to come to terms with losses we don’t even fully understand yet. Against this backdrop, a wedding seems out of place--like an audacious, life-affirming act of love and hope in the middle of so much death and darkness. But you know what? Weddings have always been audacious, life-affirming acts of love and hope in the midst of darkness. It’s just that right now in the midst of our own darkness, we see it clearly for what it is.
In dark times, audacious, life-affirming acts stand out: The love of two people for each other. Raisins and a bottle of water. A steeply discounted cab ride to Philly. Sending our kids to school in the midst of a pandemic. Wearing a mask. Meeting for a cup of coffee to share our exhaustion and our fears. Getting together outdoors, with a tarp to ward off the rain, to say I care about you, and I’m so glad to see you.