New Orleans On a Sunday, especially one involving Easter, just back from Arkansas and mi compaera’s family reunion, it’s hard to not reflect on religion and our raising.
I had that thought, sitting at a table in the back of the hall talking with my union brother, Toney Orr, about Local 100 business and plans, having made my manners, done my chores, and waiting for the dinner bell, when somehow I hear my brother-in-law say my name. I looked up and he and the rest were standing and preparing to pray on the meal. With what seemed like a reflex, I jumped up and yelled across the room an apology that I hadn’t realized that they were calling on me to do the prayer, as opposed to just asking me to be quiet in truth. “Come Lord Jesus” came out of my mouth from the rote beginning of every meal of my youth, and then, I kicked it back to my brother-in-law to take it from there. All of this was done in good humor, but later I had to think about whether or not, deep in my memory, I even still knew the words to that simple mealtime prayer. Surprisingly, given my earlier stutter and handoff, of course I did.
I’ve lost the practice and the faith without having lost the respect for the feelings and nostalgia for the peace that comes with steady spirituality, especially on these holidays. We all were in that number in Mexico City at last Christmas Eve’s mass in a cadence we recognized, even without following the words, just as we had been earlier at different times in Madrid at the cathedral and San Juan Allende in the town center. My dad was full of faith throughout his life. On Easter, decades ago, he would act as an usher at the Our Savior Lutheran sunrise service on Easter morning on the New Orleans lakefront, and for many years both in and out of their house, I would get up and stand at the back in solidarity with him. Watching people assembled in their silence as the sun broke over the water was beautiful and moving. If they were still doing this now, which they aren’t, I’d be tempted to stand at the back a couple of more times.
I may not be religious, but I felt like there were still miracles among us yesterday as we drove from Arkansas back to New Orleans. Our son had left before us in his truck. Our daughter and her partner were driving their truck in the opposite direction on their way to the Ozarks for a couple of weeks. Calling back and forth from the road, we said we would wave as we passed and turn on our warning lights so they could see us on our side of the road. Twice my daughter thought they had missed us in passing, even as she thought she saw us. Having driven this route hundreds of times, when she said she was near Lake Village, I said, “hey, so are we, we’ll pass by soon.” We somehow overtook our son, but he had to stop for gas at a Love’s station on the northern edge of this small town in southern Arkansas. When the light changed we called her again, she said “sorry, we stopped at the rest area.” There’s only one such place that Arkansas maintains on Highway 65 as drivers come by the lake before hitting town. We said, don’t leave, we’ll be there in minutes, then called our son, who said he would also be there in five. Amazingly, there we all were parked side by side at the rest area in a family reunion, having arrived seamlessly there, as if in a synchronized dance.
What are the chances? If we had deliberately planned and schemed to all meet at this one spot on the same highway at the same time in rural Arkansas on the day before Easter, it would never have worked out so well. One of us would have been early and had to wait, and another would have been lost or late, yet here we all were, hugging and laughing, letting the dogs run, and standing in the wind, a small break in the rain, as my son took a selfie.
Talk about the force being with us and the spirits moving us together. How wonderful! Who says there can’t sometimes be small miracles among us, ennobling our lives, no matter what we believe, that are bigger than ourselves? We see that in our work. We look for in our lives.