The other day, there was a thud against one of the big windows looking out to our back yard.  Since the Goldfinches took up residence at the feeders out there, we’ve come to expect thuds.  Too much transparency for fidgety finches, I suspect.  Dawn to dusk, they flock from the feeders to the tops of the neighbor’s big maples, to and fro. 

One moment they’re floating, flitting and flirting—banging up against their own reflections—leaving tiny yellow feathers stuck to glass.    Then, all of a sudden, they vanish aloft to the safety of big trees.  The slightest unexpected movement startles them and they’re all gone, except the unlucky ones lying expired on the patio floor or just sitting there stunned silly.  Sometimes they need to perch awhile on Ma’s finger to gather their wits before heading back to finch frenzy.

But the thud the other day, was something else again.  You see, last Christmas a small woodland hawk started showing up once a month or so, just sitting on the fence back by the chicken coop.  We were worried about our hens for awhile, but we looked it up in the bird book. She’s a Cooper’s Hawk, not a Chicken Hawk so, not having any coopers in the family, we have warned all the wineries in the area to keep their barrel makers indoors and haven’t thought much more about it.  If you don’t get my feeble attempt at raptor humor here, no worries!  But about the time the Goldfinches arrived this spring, the Cooper started showing up more often and we watched, because now in this sabbath of quarantine, we stay home and you stay home too, right?  

So Debbie was sitting in the living room, looking out at Finch World, when she heard that thud and saw the hawk swoop down, maneuvering swiftly between grape arbor and giant glass. Ruddered by her long, striped tail, she snatched a gold finch mid-air in golden talons. Then, bouncing off the glass, she swept up to a high branch to dine, leaving a contrail of fluffy, but forlorn feathers drifting down in the now silent afternoon.

It’s about as close as we get to wild in our urban woods.  Maybe as close to Holy. My favorite of Wendell Berry’s words is: “The world’s curse is a person who wants to be somewhere else.”  We’ve made it our custom to be somewhere else: to work somewhere else, to covet someone else’s somewhere, to worship something beyond, to profit from it to the disadvantage of others.  We build economies, our way of life of wanting to be there and all Creation literally teeters on the edge from our pandemic of emissions and the violent concentration of wealth and ill health of the underclass required to keep us going there.  There’s ample evidence we’ve forgot to be here or how to be here…with ourselves, our neighbors, our holy goods and services. 

A few mornings ago I met a neighbor I’d never met.  I was in our garden when he wandered by.  Valuing distance, we struck up a conversation about the flowering pears we trellis along the walk.  We talked bees, chickens and figs, ending up in our small grove of four young olive trees.  As we talked, I noticed a kind of caterpillar nesting in some of the growing tips of olive branches.  His neighbor-ness offered me the chance to look more closely than I’d been able.  I might otherwise have missed the chance to know if this was a critter I should be concerned about. Or missed the extravagance of caterpillar silk on olive gray.

It’s been awhile since Holy Week now, but, still in the season of Easter, I’ve been thinking a lot about eternal life.  I believe in it, I do, but maybe not what you think.  Our 22 month old grandson Jackson loves it when his mom gives him spikey hair in the bath, but he loves himself some dump trucks more than just about anything!  So, last week, when we had a load of bark dumped in our driveway, we took this video and texted it to him where he stays home too.  Please watch it.  Then watch it again.

Jackson watches it over and over and over and over again now.  What is it about little humans who can do that and never tire?  It’s like there’s an infinity in dump trucks, right?  You know what I’m talking about, if you can remember moments in your life you wished would never end.  There’s an eternity in it.  Like I could sit and watch the raw drama of Finch and Hawk forever and get totally wrapped up in caterpillars on olives and that would enough.  It’s not life after death unless you mean how something extraordinary bids us rise out of the ordinary.  It’s not eternal life like living forever unless you mean the rapture of relishing the eternal depth of the present.  What I know is that, in these moments, I am home.  And I do want that for you.  For all of us.  To wait where you are and touch it—be touched by it.

But then I must stop and diverge now because I was about to say, “Everything you need to thrive is right here at home.”  And that would be so old white guy of me, right? Because, for so many of our neighbors, home is the most dangerous place on Earth…witness the tripled gun sales, soaring domestic violence and child abuse with the lock down and witness how often home for communities of color is the place of greatest pollution and least access to food and health care.  And witness how many of us don’t even have the privilege of staying home, even in this pandemic, like the workers at any of Tyson’s meat packing plants.  Just sayin.   Though we’re not Jews, the Exodus story is an essential in the culture of our faith, so we did have a modest Passover meal during Holy Week last month.  Unlike the Ivanka Trump family, we didn’t ask “Why is this night different than other nights?,” pile into the armored entourage and head to the Trump Hotel in Jersey. 

I did make matzah.  There wasn’t any yeast at the store anyway, so that was easy.  It did help us remember that, in the ancient liberation story, families had to leave fast so there wasn’t time for bread to rise.  We ate haroseth, symbolic of the mortar slaves manufactured so Pharaoh could make Egypt great again.  I couldn’t find bitter herbs so we had to imagine the bitterness of bondage.  It was just the two of us and the cat, but I realized seder night, for a lot of us isn’t different than any other night.  For now, we shelter in place with the blood of those on the front lines guarding our doorways, protecting us till the plague passes over. But for the masses, life is perpetual Passover, huddling in darkness for fear of ICE or the abusive spouse, the rent collector or trafficking pimp…bags packed with disposable diapers, formula and today’s matzah, ready to leave at a moment’s notice. No documents.  Even though home in their zip code brings cancers and asthma, many of our neighbors stay home because they have no doctor.  They have no choice.  It’s the home they have.

So I’ve really diverged haven’t I?  Hmmm.  What became of hawks and finches, dump trucks and eternity?  I’ve gotta say I’m not sure.   The TV commentators keep saying “We’re all in this together.”  This time is reminding me that we’re not.  Not really.  We can stay home because wehave one…and the privilege of a steady retirement and time to witness the wonder of hawk and finch, caterpillar and grandson for as deeply and long as we please.  We have the luxury to call that holy and eternal.  We’re the lucky ones.  Hell, our stimulus checks and tax refunds arrived two weeks ago while others may never receive anything or wait several months.  And, make no mistake, the Pharaohs of our realm (the luckiest of all) and their people are working tirelessly, undercover of the pandemic to profit from the pain and make sure fewer and fewer are included in the abundance of our common life.

Staying home?  For us it’s a privilege. And while we have no idea what will be required of us beyond this time, one thing is sure:  if all of us are really in this together, then we must share our privilege in major ways.  This too can be a holy moment. These rocks started showing up all around the neighborhood in late March.  Then our stimulus money arrived.  We have given most of it away to families who need it.  You could too.