This Sunday Sarah and I sat in the choir loft, where Craig was holding court in the bass section. It was going to be the last time he was able to sing in the choir before we move to our new home in Phoenixville. And though he hadn’t been singing with them for more than a year, it was clearly a struggle for him to let go. To leave. To start over.
Me, not so much. Truth is, I have a bit of gypsy in my blood. A kind of restlessness creeps in as the time gets closer for the new adventure. The boxes packed, the electric bill switched, the new house leased. A rush of excitement as I think about being able to unpack all our things that have been languishing in temporary storage.
And yet, as we drive home I cannot help but feel the weight in the car. “Moving stinks,” Sarah volunteers. Craig grunts. I recount all the wonderful things in store: the new au pair who is coming from Germany. The park with swings in our backyard. The big deck for summer barbecues. The beautiful new school we get to visit early in May. And yes, the new parish that has both an adult and children’s choir. Good things, all of them.
Still, the silence. And in that moment, I realize: Those strains of mercy needed most, are those we dispense when we are least disposed to grant it. In the classic work The Great Divorce, C.S. Lewis spoke of the Shining Ones who retrace their steps back down the mountain to meet the bus with those from the Gray Town. The grass cuts the feet of those phantom spirits. And yet the Shining Ones urge them farther and higher.
At Easter we remember those whose worlds are touched with gray, that the Spirit would make our joy contagious.