Hope is such a fragile thing. On Easter Sunday 18 years ago, I attended church with a heavy heart, for it was just days after my beautiful nephew was stillborn as a result of, well, no one ever really knew why. He was the first grandchild on either side of the family, and his pending arrival had been announced to my parents and me by my brother and sister-in-law during a wonderful train trip through the Canadian Rockies, where cool air, wildflowers and blue mountain vistas erased the long, hot summer that had gone before. We had celebrated in the observation car over strawberries and (for everyone save my sister-in-law) champagne. It had been a glorious August day.
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Seven months later, early on a sunny morning just days before the arrival of spring, the phone rang in my tiny English basement apartment in Washington, D.C. It was my Mom, and she had the same catch in her voice that had been there the night she had called me, 7 years earlier, to tell me that my beloved Nana had died. Something had gone wrong, she said, and the baby had died. The next hour was a blur of throwing things in a suitcase, calling my office, finding a cab, going to the airport. I do remember all the daffodils along the way – it seemed as though they had sprouted their glorious yellow headdresses overnight.
When I arrived home – to NYC – I hailed a cab and urged the driver to drive fast. At the hospital, I got directions to the maternity ward. Just as I was about to push the doors open, I saw – through the glass inserts in the doors -- my brother. He was all alone, carrying the cooler with the champagne in it, a treat brought along earlier that morning to celebrate the birth of their first born son. His head was down, and he was walking so slowly. He did not see me until I pushed the doors open and ran to him.
My brother and sister-in-law were largely silent during the small service we held for the baby, next to a tiny white coffin, several days later. My sister-in-law had undergone an emergency C-section once they realized that the baby was in distress; she had been in the hospital (my brother sleeping on the floor, next to her) for the better part of a week. I had made all the arrangements for the funeral; but I had been too late to the hospital to hold or see my nephew. A tiny framed picture of him -- blond and seemingly perfect – sits on my brother’s dresser to this day.
And shortly thereafter, on Easter Sunday, we all attended church together, and heard a message of hope from our minister. One of my mother’s dearest friends came up to us that morning, and said: "That sermon was meant for you."
I write this tonight because I am so grateful for the hope that is offered by this wonderful community. Earlier today, Meteor Blades had a fascinating diary about belief in the Resurrection . In that, in response to his thought-provoking questions, I said that I was a Christian, and that a tenet of my faith was hope. That tenet was sorely tested during a disastrous marriage, from which, unlike kossack Zwoof’s dear daughter, I was lucky enough to escape.
I believe that the hope any of us holds closely has been sorely tested by the disastrous Administration under which we have been forced to live for the past 6.5 years. Today’s diary by clammyc and yesterday’s by Jerome a Paris are just further examples of why. Yet, I maintain my hope – because of this community. I see, every day, the compassion and care offered by our members to our members, whatever the question or problem or complaint. The outpouring of concern, thoughts, practical assistance and love offered here offers me hope. As do the hopeful comments of our community, including station wagon.
As, too, does what we have accomplished here: a Democratic Senate and a Democratic House, and a path to the future where, just maybe, the principles upon which our great country was founded, can sprout leaves and flowers (daffodils of hope) once again.
Tonight, I celebrate more than one definition of resurrection – "a rising again, as from decay, disuse, etc.; revival." That is what WE have done, I think, not only for us, but, as well, for our country. And I celebrate, as well, perhaps the greatest testament to hope: the birth of a new baby.
There is no greater testament to hope than that.