Sadness

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Martin Luther (2016)

  In August, the plague had struck Wittenberg, and Jonas and Melanchthon both left with their families. But instead of departing with the rest of the university to Jena as the Elector had ordered Luther to do, and despite suffering from what we would call depression (which lasted for many months), he determined to stay and nurse the sick. The monastery became a kind of hospital. Initially Luther made light of it, insisting that the plague was not as bad as people said. The first death was that of the wife of the town councilor Tilo Dhen: Luther was holding her in his arms shortly before she died. Then the pregnant wife of Georg Rörer, Luther’s secretary, gave birth in dreadful pain and the baby was stillborn. Exhausted by the birth and “more poisoned by the plague,” as Luther put it, she too died.48 Months went past and the plague continued to claim its victims. Only Bugenhagen and he had remained behind, Luther wrote to Hausmann; in fact, two chaplains, Johannes Mantel and Georg Rörer, and Luther’s wife and son remained by his side as well.49 Luther’s decision to remain in Wittenberg was bold, but also revealed a reckless disregard for his own safety and that of his family. It may have been a residue of his wish for martyrdom, or, perhaps, another example of the remarkable courage that enabled him not to shirk what he felt to be his pastoral responsibility to his flock. [image "51. Title page of Luther’s pamphlet on Leonhard Kaiser’s martyrdom, Von herr Lenhard Keiser in Beyern vmb des Euangelij willen verbrant, ein selige geschicht, Nuremberg, 1528." file=images/Rope_9780812996203_epub3_061_r1.jpg] [image "51. Title page of Luther’s pamphlet on Leonhard Kaiser’s martyrdom, Von herr Lenhard Keiser in Beyern vmb des Euangelij willen verbrant, ein selige geschicht, Nuremberg, 1528." file=images/Rope_9780812996203_epub3_061_r1.jpg] 51. Title page of Luther’s pamphlet on Leonhard Kaiser’s martyrdom, Von herr Lenhard Keiser in Beyern vmb des Euangelij willen verbrant, ein selige geschicht, Nuremberg, 1528.

• From Martin Luther (2016)

  No sooner had he arrived in Zeitz than he wrote to Katharina, telling her to sell everything and give the monastery back to the Elector. Let’s leave Wittenberg and move to Zülsdorf, where you have your farm, he wrote: “better to do it now while I’m alive, for it will have to happen then [that is, when he died].” What made the old, ill man suddenly want to leave Wittenberg? He told Katharina that he had heard bad things about Wittenberg now that he was out of town, castigating in particular the Wittenbergers’ love of indecent dancing, where women’s skirts flew up, revealing their private parts “back and front.” “My heart has grown cold,” Luther wrote. 70 Melanchthon immediately set off to find Luther, while the Elector arranged for Luther’s personal physician, Matthäus Ratzeberger, to plead with him. 71 The university also became involved, and the Elector wrote personally to both Luther and Amsdorf, pressing the latter to persuade the old man to come back. In the end, Melanchthon thought better of confronting Luther and returned home. Luther’s old sparring partner the Saxon chancellor Gregor Brück had the measure of the two men: If Luther just wants to “sit on his head,” that is, turn his life’s work upside down, then he was sure that Philip would leave Wittenberg, too. He predicted that Luther would stay because he would not find it easy to sell all that property: There was the huge monastery in Wittenberg, several gardens, and other houses, too. 72 What worried the Elector and the university was that Melanchthon would leave with Luther, and that would be the end of the university. Whatever it was that made Luther decide so late in life to throw everything over, risking not only the future of the university but the entire Reformation, probably had something to do with tensions in his relationship with Melanchthon. It seems that despite all their achievements, and everything the two men had gone through together, Luther was prepared to jeopardize it all in a moment of melancholic bitterness. It is part of the appeal of the old Luther that he grouchily refused to play the tame patriarch, meekly handing on power to the next generation—and it was the tragedy of the Reformation that Luther had destroyed relations with so many of those who might have stepped into his shoes. A LTHOUGH L UTHER SPENT much time in his last years attacking friends and allies, he never forgot his true enemies, the first and greatest of whom remained the Pope. In 1538 he published a leaked memorial of advice from some cardinals about what should be discussed at the future Church council, with a biting commentary. The woodcut on the cover showed two cardinals cleaning out a church with foxtails, while the altarpiece was an image of the Pope.

• From Martin Luther (2016)

  13. Luther made antipapal jokes out of the word, too, writing to Peter Weller WB 5, 1594, June 19, 1530, see n.3, about those at Augsburg now “Quiritisantes,” mixing quiritantes (sufferers), with the Quirites, Romans, a way of mocking the papists. 14. He acted as an advocate for Luther in 1544 when clauses were added to Luther’s will; StadtA Witt, 109 [Bc 97], fo. 330 (v); Fabiny, Luther’s Last Will and Testament, 34; WT 4, 4016. He complained that people did not begin marriage in prayer and the fear of God, citing the weddings of the daughters of Lufft, Cranach, and Melanchthon. We know from the mocking verses of Lemnius that Lufft held a particularly extravagant wedding, showing off in front of the whole town; Mundt, Lemnius und Luther, II, 39. 15. WS 38, 364:7–11; 364:7–11. 16. WS 38, 350; Luther had known him since at least 1517. Brecht, Luther, III, 15–16. 17. WB 6, 1880, Oct. 30, 1531, 221, n.4. 18. When Jonas von Stockhausen, Stadthauptmann of Nordhausen, suffered from suicidal thoughts, he not only wrote him a letter of comfort but wrote to his wife as well, warning her not to leave him alone on any account; WB 6, 1974, 1975, Nov. 27, 1532. Though he addresses him as “friend,” there is no other mention of the man in Luther’s correspondence or in the Table Talk, so this was not a man he knew well. 19. WB 6, 1811, April 30, 1530, 86:5–7; 87:55–56. 20. WB 5, 1593, June 19, 1530, 374:37–39. As with all aspects of what was now a public life, these letters were published and available as a collection, edited by one of his close associates, Caspar Cruciger, Etliche Trostschrifften vnd predigten/ fur die so in tods vnd ander not vnd anfechtung sind, 1545. Melancholy was an important part, too, of his relationship with Joachim of Anhalt (WB 7, 2113, May 23, 1534), and Luther speculated that it ran in the family, recalling the story of Fürst Wilhelm von Anhalt-Zerbst, who became a Franciscan monk and went about begging at Magdeburg. Revealingly he advised Joachim to hunt, ride, and enjoy company—not like “me who has spent my life with sorrowing and looking on the gloomy side” (Trauren und Saursehen, 66:20)—but now, he said, he sought happiness where he could. 21. Markert, Menschen um Luther, 319–29.

• From Martin Luther (2016)

  When Spalatin arrived, the Elector summoned him to read aloud, until Friedrich announced: “I can’t anymore.” Spalatin waited a little, and then asked: “My most gracious Lord, have you any trouble?” to which the Elector replied, “Nothing but the pains.” He seems to have died in his sleep, while Spalatin read to him from Hebrews. 42 Messengers arrived from the princes on the battlefield, calling desperately for reinforcements against the peasants, but their shouts echoed through the empty halls. The man who had been such a powerful prince of the empire died on May 5 not knowing whether the lords would prevail over the peasants. Yet as Spalatin noted, at the very moment Friedrich breathed his last, the first peasants were being slaughtered by Count Albrecht of Mansfeld. 43 Nothing better conveys the uncertainty and turmoil of the Peasants’ War. F OR P ROTESTANTS IT is almost an article of faith that the Reformation began when Martin Luther, the shy monk, nailed his Ninety-five Theses to the door of the Castle Church in Wittenberg on October 31, 1517, the eve of All Saints’ Day, and set in motion a religious revolution that shattered Western Christendom. For Luther’s closest collaborator, Philipp Melanchthon, to whom we owe the trenchant description of the event, the posting of the theses advanced the restoration of the “light of the gospel.” Luther himself liked to celebrate the moment as the beginning of the Reformation, and drank a toast to it with friends later in life. 1 A little historical debunking, especially with events of such significance, is always salutary. As the Catholic historian Erwin Iserloh pointed out in 1962, Luther himself never mentioned the event, but said only that he sent letters to Archbishop Albrecht of Mainz and the bishop of Brandenburg, Hieronymus Scultetus, in which he condemned the abuses of selling papal indulgences in forthright tones, and enclosed his theses. 2 The story that he posted them on the door of the Castle Church has come down to us through Melanchthon and Luther’s secretary, Georg Rörer, but neither of them was in Wittenberg at the time to witness the event. 3 Others have suggested that, far less dramatically, the theses might have been stuck to the door, rather than nailed to it. 4 Whether Luther used a nail or a pot of glue will probably never be known for sure, but it is certain that he sent the theses to Archbishop Albrecht, the most important churchman in all Germany, on October 31. The accompanying letter had a tone of remarkable self-confidence, even of arrogance.

• From Martin Luther (2016)

  Because West German historians after the war were so eager to identify a democratic lineage in their own past, they idealized the free independent cities with their elected councils. They wished to escape the deadening equation of the Reformation with political conformism and obedience, by pointing to the variety of local, popular Reformations, with ideas about the sacrament, images, and social reform very different from those of Luther. But the result has been that our account of the Reformation has been skewed. We lack a proper assessment of Lutheranism in its home social and cultural context, which was so unlike that of the southern cities: Its political values and its economic structures were not those of the south. Nor do we understand how Lutheranism developed in dialogue with what became reformed religion, the precursor of Calvinism, through bitter enmities and tragic broken friendships. This is an absence this book cannot repair, but I hope to suggest a new and unexpected approach to Luther’s theology by placing him in the social and cultural context that formed him. — L UTHER has been part of my life for longer than I care to admit. He was a feature of my childhood, because my father was for a few years a Presbyterian minister. I was only briefly a daughter of the manse, but I saw the toll that living a family life in public took on both my parents. The strange black cassock and gown seemed to transform my father into another being. He had a study lined from floor to ceiling with works of theology, but the congregation hankered after his predecessor, who had been less intellectual. All this confronted me with issues of authority—the authority the congregation invested in my father; the seriousness conferred by the pulpit and the heavy black robes, so unsuited to the Australian climate; and the strain this role put on him. We were set apart, and yet we were humiliatingly dependent—nothing could be repaired in the manse and no furnishings could be chosen except with the agreement of the congregation, one of whom opined, “You don’t need carpets to do the work of God.”

• From Little Birds (1979)

  And almost every day Fay saw shadows in the garden, shadows embracing. She was afraid to move from her room. The house was completely carpeted and noiseless, and as she walked up the stairs once she caught sight of Albert climbing behind one of the colored girls and running his hand under her voluminous skirt. Fay became obsessed with the sounds of the moaning. It seemed to her that she heard it continuously. Once she went to the colored girls’ rooms, which were in a separate little house, and listened. She could hear the moans she had heard in the park. She broke into tears. A door opened. It was not Albert who came out but one of the colored gardners. He found Fay sobbing there. Eventually Albert took her, under the most unusual circumstances. They were going to give a party for Spanish friends. Although she seldom shopped, Fay went to the city to get a particular saffron for the rice, a very extraordinary brand that had just arrived on a ship from Spain. She enjoyed buying the saffron, freshly unloaded. She had always liked smells, the smells of the wharves, and warehouses. When the little packages of saffron were handed to her, she tucked them in her bag, which she carried against her breast, under her arm. The smell was powerful, it seeped into her clothes, her hands her very body. When she arrived home Albert was waiting for her. He came towards the car and lifted her out of it, playfully, laughing. As he did so, she brushed with her full weight against him and he exclaimed, “You smell of saffron!” She saw a curious brilliance in his eyes, as he pressed his face against her breasts smelling her. Then he kissed her. He followed her into her bedroom, where she threw her bag on the bed. The bag opened. The smell of saffron filled the room. Albert made her lie on the bed, fully dressed, and without kisses or caresses, took her. Afterwards he said happily, “You smell like a colored woman.” And the spell was broken. MandraThe illumined skyscrapers shine like Christmas trees. I have been invited to stay with rich friends at the Plaza. The luxury lulls me, but I lie in a soft bed sick with ennui, like a flower in a hothouse. My feet rest on soft carpets. New York gives me a fever—the great Babylonian city. I see Lillian. I no longer love her. There are those who dance and those who twist themselves into knots. I like those who flow and dance. I will see Mary again. Perhaps this time I will not be timid. I remember when she came to Saint-Tropez one day and we met casually at a café. She invited me to come to her room in the evening.

• From Shunned (2018)

  One day you can go casual to the baseball game and then out for beer and blues, and the very next night dress in black tie for the opera.” “And I suppose you’ve done both?” “Sure. And Midwesterners are so friendly. There’s something very easy and unassuming about them. Once, I struck up a conversation with a couple sitting next to me at a Cubs game and ended up joining them at their house later for a barbecue. They live just around the corner from here, and I still see them from time to time.” “You weren’t concerned about going to the home of complete strangers?” “Once you’ve been through extra innings with someone and your team still loses, you’re no longer strangers—you’re old friends. The Cubs have an odd way of bringing people together.” She nodded her head, and the corners of her mouth turned up, but she didn’t smile. She’d set one elbow on the table and was resting her chin on her hand as she listened. We were keeping the conversation alive, but I wasn’t feeling connected to her. “How has your trip been?” I asked. As far as I knew, Mom still worked as an underwriter for a well-respected insurance agency. “I’ve never known you to travel on business. Did you change jobs?” “I’m working exclusively on commercial lines now, and my agency has this enormous new client with buildings in Indiana. Because the potential liability is in the hundreds of millions of dollars, we require someone to come and personally see it and meet with the developers.” The waitress set down our plates of salad, quiche, and beef burgundy. “I’ve spent more time on this than anyone else on the team, so the owner of the agency asked me to go. He thought it would be nice for me to meet the client, and he knew I had a daughter in Chicago. Of course, he has no idea of our situation and I’m sure the work will be piled high on my desk Monday morning.” Our situation. Yes, we definitely have a situation. We started eating. “You’d better be careful of too much business travel,” I teased, hoping she’d get the joke. “It puts you in contact with all sorts of worldly people, and before you know it you’re letting your guard down. Then any number of untoward things can happen.” “Yes, I’ve observed this phenomenon.” She rolled her eyes, mildly disgusted. Then she set down her fork, signaling the end of small talk. “Listen, sweetheart,” she said, “I’m really happy to see you. Everyone in the family misses you so much . Our dinners just aren’t the same without you. And things will not be the same until you come back. I know you probably want to hear news about everyone, but I’m going to tell you only that everyone is healthy and doing well.

• From Satyricon (1)

  Here Seleucus took up the tale. “I don’t bathe every day,” he confided, “a bath uses you up like a fuller: water’s got teeth and your strength wastes away a little every day; but when I’ve downed a pot of mead, I tell the cold to suck my cock! I couldn’t bathe today anyway, because I was at a funeral; dandy fellow, he was too, good old Chrysanthus slipped his wind! Why, only the other day he said “Good morning’ to me, and I almost think I’m talking to him now! Gawd’s truth, we’re only blown-up bladders strutting around, we’re less than flies, for they have some good in them, but we’re only bubbles. And supposing he had not kept to such a low diet! Why, not a drop of water or a crumb of bread so much as passed his lips for five days; and yet he joined the majority! Too many doctors did away with him, or rather, his time had come, for a doctor’s not good for anything except for a consolation to your mind! He was well carried out, anyhow, in the very bed he slept in during his lifetime. And he was covered with a splendid pall: the mourning was tastefully managed; he had freed some slaves; even though his wife was sparing with her tears: and what if he hadn’t treated her so well! But when you come to women, women all belong to the kite species: no one ought to waste a good turn upon one of them; it’s just like throwing it down a well! An old love’s like a cancer!” CHAPTER THE FORTY-THIRD.

• From Shunned (2018)

  “It’s not too late, Lindy,” Mom implored the next morning. We sat next to each other in the backseat of the car on the way to the airport. Dad drove and Lory sat in the passenger seat in front of me. “You can turn this whole thing around. Just look at your sister. She had her troubles and went outside her first marriage, causing all sorts of problems for herself. But she took her licks and got back on the straight and narrow. Look at her now, happy, living in a beautiful home, married to a good man.” The idea of living my sister’s life made me shudder—it was the life I’d spent the last year escaping. “It was a long, tough road back to ‘good standing,’” Lory said, twisting herself around from the front seat to face me. “But you’re a lot stronger than I am. If I can do it, you can, too.” “You can come back home,” Mom said. “You can live with us; we’ll support you on the condition that you start attending meetings again.” Dad was watching my face in the rearview mirror. I tried to keep my face blank. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful for the offer, but it was the furthest thing from my mind. I was a few weeks shy of my thirty-third birthday. I had a good job and good prospects. But more than anything, I had my freedom. Under these circumstances, why would I move home? Once again, I felt entirely misunderstood. All support from them was conditional: a shared religion. They refused to see any other path for me. I wanted to laugh out loud, giddy from the absurdity of it all, but I knew that would mock their desperation. “Listen, everyone,” I said, glancing out the window, grateful to see we had just turned onto the airport exit. “I appreciate your offer, really I do, but that’s not going to happen. My life is in Chicago now. Coming back to Portland is inconceivable. It just feels like I’d be going backward.” Mom looked away, out the window, collecting herself. “Just keep it in mind.” She paused and turned back to face me. “And don’t be too haughty when you meet with the elders.” We all knew I was doomed. I’d meet with the elders, and I’d get disfellowshipped. We were resting in the final moments of togetherness, and I felt compelled to talk about that future. “I wish you could understand my point of view, but I see that isn’t possible. I hope we can keep in touch somehow.” The words were coming out strong and clear. I marveled at my equanimity. “And if you ever need anything, you can always ask me.” Mom looked blankly at me. Dad kept his eyes on the road. It was Lory who spoke, still twisted around, her hand holding the back of the seat to keep herself in place.

• From Vision Quest (1979)

  Hope you make lots of tips tonight.” I regret not seeing Mom more often then, because she left us for a china-and-glassware man at the end of the summer, and I’m afraid it was the last chance I’ll have in my life to live with her. I don’t think she left because of Dad’s losing his job and selling the cabin and getting sued and stuff. After Mom started to get well she really got into her job selling china and glassware at the Bon Marché. There may be such a thing as a china-and-glassware syndrome. She had already begun to fall away from Dad before Carla and the lawsuit. Even in the best of health Mom is built like a falling leaf. But even when she was the sickest her body couldn’t keep her spirit down all the time. She always wanted to know what was going on at school and how many cars Dad sold. She was into painting by numbers and making ceramic ashtrays and mosaics—stuff she could do lying down. And when she felt good enough to get around she cleaned the house and washed clothes and baked stuff and even trimmed the grass. We lived in a time of strange eclipse then—all darkness and quiet for part of the month, then blasts of steady light and activity. I know I’m still shaped by those times, but I don’t know quite how. I guess Mom had a terrible time giving birth to me. I heard she almost died. I know something happened to screw up her menstrual cycle and cause her really unnatural pain and heavy bleeding about ten days each month. I have no idea what this problem could have been. I’ve never come across symptoms like those in my reading. I’d like to ask a doctor. Anyway, Mom was sick like that for fifteen fucking years. She didn’t have a hysterectomy because her doctor, a naturopath, told her she wouldn’t be a woman anymore if she did. He also told her that God was the greatest healer. He treated her with vibrating machines, hot and cold towels, and a lot of capsulated herbs named just with letters of the alphabet. I don’t know what God treated her with. After school I’d take a bus to the clinic to see her. She’d be strapped in this thing that looked like a chastity belt. It was hooked up to an electronic device that resembled an automatic washer on wheels. Violet tendrils of light popped and danced in the little round window. Mom would spend some time hooked up to that machine, then she’d get a series of hot and cold towels, then she’d swallow two Cs and an A and a B, and I’d push her out in her wheelchair. She hurt so bad she couldn’t even stand up. We’d take a cab home. Mom was a country girl and had gone to that guy all her life.

• From Shunned (2018)

  I was flattered, but of course I declined, explaining how I was just hitting my stride, feeling phony as I talked about how much I loved everything in my new world and yes, thank you, was thriving on all fronts. “I thought it was a long shot,” Brian said. “But what could it hurt to make you aware of it?” I was too proud to be honest with Brian, but our conversation triggered several days of ambivalent thinking. In private, I needed to face facts. Did it make sense to at least consider returning to Portland? I’d fallen into a vapid existence, working, sleeping, eating, struggling to retain some warmth, some aliveness, through a dark and frigid season. What was the point of such an existence? If I didn’t say yes to these offers, or at least entertain them, they might stop coming, and then where would I be? Stuck. Stuck in traffic, stuck in life, a pitiful divorced woman with uncertain professional prospects and no community. Maybe Mom was right: the world was a cold, hard place, and I’d set myself up to get knocked around. “You reap what you sow.” “Pride comes before a crash.” “Satan is a cruel master—he’ll cheat you out of life.” Just then, emanating from the car speakers came the gentle sound of a single acoustic guitar, playing a tune I’d not heard for a while but recognized immediately. It was delicate in tone, each note standing on its own, with a pacing that slowed me down, capturing my attention. I turned up the volume as Bonnie Raitt sang the plaintive tale of “Nobody’s Girl,” her voice nuanced with a wistful melancholy, She’s fragile like a string of pearls, she’s nobody’s girl. I burst into tears. Yes, that is what I am. Fragile. Alone. Nobody’s girl. I didn’t belong anywhere—not in the Chicago banking world, where I couldn’t seem to make a sale, but not in Portland, either; not at the Kingdom Hall; not with my family; not with Steve; not with Ross. The lyrics seared my chest like a branding iron. All this internal waffling, this confusion, this feeling deeply and utterly lost. What have I done with my life? Where do I belong? The lament in the lyrics weaved around the raw, simple sounds of the guitar. I was getting very heated and had to unbutton my jacket and crack the windows for air. Was I a fool to think I could have freedom and spiritual fulfillment at the same time? Was that possible for anyone? I cried so hard I got the hiccups. I was perilously close to being completely unstrung, barely holding it together. The final, lilting refrain repeated over and over until it faded out. [image "Images" file=Image00000.jpg] Later that week, Lory called to say hello and found me at home, cooking dinner, surrounded by boiling pots of water, colander at the ready, fish wrapped in foil, fresh vegetables waiting to be cleaned and chopped.

• From Shunned (2018)

  “And the day after school let out for the summer, Dad, Randy, and I hopped into the blue Ranchero, drove to the pound, and brought home Shad.” “From the first litter she saw,” Dad said to Bob. Shad was a Lab-collie mix who lived to thirteen, keeping Mom company in the years after I left home. “It was Randy who came up with the name Shad,” I said. “The name suited him.” The storytelling created an aperture of kinship that kindled my joy as everyone participated in the telling. At the same time, the contrast with the present was melancholy. Randy could easily hear the conversation from the other room, as he, Marlene, and Tyler sat in silence, eating at the table. He did not contribute any new details, which was unlike him. The silence between stories was growing, along with my dread of saying goodbye. I knew the death exemption was about to expire. It became clear that Randy was not going to join us. It seemed our conversation at the funeral home was all his conscience would allow. Other members of the family could set aside the rules for one day; Randy could manage only ten minutes. Or maybe he found the whole thing too emotionally confounding to confront. This was not a family reunion but a concession for mourning. Mom returned from the back room empty-handed and collapsed in the chair, her urge to reminisce waning. Bob looked at me and raised both brows, as if to say, Enough . I entertained the idea of speaking up about the absurdity of the situation. Is this how it will be for the rest of our lives: seeing each other only when someone dies? How many years would pass before I’d receive another phone call reporting a terminal diagnosis or the need for a deathbed rendezvous? But speaking up felt pointless. It might satisfy some opaque longing to vent, but I could do that on my own time. Truer still, I’d held it together all day, somehow managing to rise to the occasion, and I was afraid pushing past this cordial veil would result in my having an emotional breakdown, tears squirting from my eyes, unable to breathe or speak. To indulge myself felt too extravagant, too risky. I had too much pride to let that happen. In retrospect, it might have been good to let it all out, the sadness and anger, my despair on full display. But I feared it could be misinterpreted as unhappiness or a sign of repentance. Sure, I had regrets, but they were not of a confessional nature. “It’s time to say goodbye,” Bob said. “Our day started at four this morning, and you’ve all had a series of long days, we know. I’m sure we could all use some rest.” Everyone stood. Mom, Dad, Lory, and Ove gathered around me in a semicircle, with Bob off to one side. First, I hugged my sister. “Goodbye, Lory,” I said.

• From Shunned (2018)

  Dad said it was good to see that his daughter was well looked after. Following dinner, one of my friends gave my parents a lift to their nearby hotel and I popped a sleeping pill. The next morning, I awoke to a six o’clock alarm, peeled myself out of bed, stumbled into the shower, and cried. There was one more thing to do before I could allow myself to be strangled by grief: drive my parents to the airport, one hour away. The house was hollow and dark. Mom sat in the passenger seat, and Dad sat behind her. I could see his face in the rearview mirror. Their advancing age was apparent in their slower movements, in my need to speak loudly to them and repeat phrases several times. The conversation was amiable, covering the weather, service at their hotel, and mercifully few questions about my plans for the future. I could sense their desire and helplessness to assist me. All of my physical needs were met, and I had a community that would keep a protective eye on me. “Please thank all your friends for taking care of us,” Dad said. “Really, Lindy, no one would let us lift a finger.” “I do have great friends.” “That was a beautiful service,” Dad continued. “It made us wish that we had known Bob better,” Mom said. “When you brought him to our house, we could tell he was a great guy,” Dad said. “But he was so unassuming, we would never have guessed he was so accomplished.” “And loved by so many,” Mom said. “You both are.” “Yes,” I said, choking out the next sentence, sensing a well of sadness bubbling to the surface. “I’m still in shock, wondering when I’m going to awaken from this bad dream. He was so special to me.” I turned the car toward the airport exit. “I know it hasn’t really hit me that he is gone.” My eyes pooled with tears. I noticed Mom opening her mouth to speak, then stop herself. “What’s on your mind, Mom?” “Wouldn’t it be nice, Lindy, if you could be there, in the New System, to greet Bob when he’s resurrected?” She still hoped I would return to the religion so I could survive the inevitable march of the faceless hooded riders and make it into paradise. But her words did not ignite a storm in my heart. I had just lived through Armageddon, and the intensity of that had left me in awe of the mysterious ways in which life unfolds and the inescapable truth that everyone dies eventually. What else could I be sure of anymore? Only the power and presence of love. Under the circumstances, to be angry about anything seemed silly. What did it matter if my mom chose now to preach, which I saw as her way of expressing love? It’s easy to forget that parents have unrequited dreams of their own.

• From Shunned (2018)

  As she came through the revolving mahogany door, I saw that she was dressed impeccably, in white pants, a black-and-white-striped sweater, pearls at her neck, and white sandals. She squinted as her eyes adjusted to the light until she saw me standing, waving her to our table. She smiled stiffly, revealing only her bottom teeth. Her walk was unnatural and labored. Emily Post doesn’t cover the rules of engagement for greeting estranged relatives, and I was unclear on how to receive my mother. A handshake seemed absurd and distant. Would a hug feel contrived? If she didn’t want to visit me in my home, what other boundaries did she have? But I wanted to hug her and was glad when she reached our table, set down her purse, and extended her arms. At five foot eight, I towered over my mom’s petite frame. Our embrace was swift and awkward. She moved like a cat that allows itself to be picked up, then quickly wriggles to get free. “You look beautiful, Mother.” It seemed like the right place to start. She had more gray hair than I remembered, and her eyes turned down at the corners in an unfamiliar way. Was she weary from the journey, or was this grief? I pulled out her chair and gestured for the waitress to bring coffee. “You look good, too, my dear,” she said. “I see you’ve managed to stay slim.” She took her first sip of coffee. “This looks like a fun street. Is this far from where you live?” “This is my neighborhood. My brownstone is only six blocks away. I just love it here. There is a nice mix of families and single people my age. It’s about equal parts people who’ve lived here their whole life and transplants like me. We’re only eight blocks from Wrigley Field, so this place gets crazy on game days.” I was babbling and couldn’t seem to stop myself. “I love the hustle-bustle of this street, and yet, just one block over in either direction, are tree-lined, quiet residential streets. All of these restaurants are regular haunts of mine. The Music Box Theatre shows great, artsy movies. I can walk to the grocery store, and we’re a five-minute bike ride to the lakefront.” “You sound like a tour guide,” Mom said, “but you’ve always been a city girl at heart.” As she lifted the menu, I noticed her hands had not changed. Her nails were short, unpolished, and clean, yet they had the dry toughness of long summer hours tending to her roses. The waitress brought fresh bread and took our order. I served myself, and as the butter melted in my mouth, I realized how hungry and hollow I felt. I’d been up for hours and had been too stirred up to eat. “I feel very at home here,” I continued. “The great thing about Chicago is the range.

• From Shunned (2018)

  Soon we entered a suburban sprawl that was new to me, large housing developments stretched out over acres where we used to pick strawberries in the summer. Lory turned the car into one of these developments, winding through a series of tract houses, and parked in front of a one-level ranch-style house. “Here we are,” Mom said from the backseat. “When we go in, I’ll get an update from the hospice nurse, and then we’ll sit with Grandma a bit.” Grandma T.’s small room was gobbled up by the hospital bed that dominated one corner. The bed was perched up, and Grandma was lying there, eyes not quite open and not quite shut, eyelids thin, with barely a trace of lashes. The full reality of her impending death hit me as I observed Mom coaxing this once lively and self-possessed woman to take a few sips of water through a curled plastic straw. “Look who’s here to see you, Grandma. It’s Lindy.” I pulled a chair up to her bedside, sat down, and slipped both arms through the frigid metal railings, taking hold of her cool, knobby hands. Her blank expression did not change. I believe she was drawing inward, resting between the dimensions, pulling together the energy she needed to pass over into another world. I was raised to believe that death is a state of nonexistence, no consciousness, living only in Jehovah’s memory, until some far-off time when he resurrects people back to physical form in the New World. But I didn’t believe that anymore. Deeply saddened as I contemplated the months of pain and suffering leading to her death, I was comforted to think the universe would never be without the essence of Grandma T.’s kind soul, and that soon she would be released from the confines of corporeal form, free to grace us all again from benevolent realms. Soon it was time to leave, so I said my last goodbye and we headed back down the dark corridor, through the foyer, dodging raindrops as we dashed toward the car. All three of us were quiet for a while, in a reflective, respectful way, but I don’t think any of us was overcome with grief or emotion. I was grateful to see Grandma one last time, feeling the melancholy and mystery of the situation. I guessed Lory and Mom would feel some relief upon her death; in their view, it would open the way for her to potentially be resurrected into the New System on a perfect physical earth, if that was Jehovah’s will for her soul. [image "Images" file=Image00000.jpg] The windshield wipers kept the beat as we drove past my old high school and Lory updated me on her life. She and Ove continued to work together on his home construction business while she pursued her real estate license. They did not have children, so she was free to remain very active in preaching work. Ove’s position as a congregation elder also kept him busy.

• From Vision Quest (1979)

  Cindy talked some about skiing and her job with an ad agency and about the movies and books she likes. She likes Jesus Christ Superstar , too, but she said she couldn’t understand why I’d seen it eleven times, especially since I’m not even a believer. I told her it was food for my soul. “Your soul?” she said. “It can’t live on the promise of milk and honey alone,” I said and gave her a hungry-cherub grin as my stomach growled mightily, interrupting Miracle on 34th Street , which we’d been half watching. “That’s not your soul,” Cindy said, smiling. The ad agency Cindy works for has done business with Dad for a long time. I remembered that the name on the inside covers of those books on Dad’s nightstand is C. Callus—Cindy. And I wondered how long Dad’d been seeing her. And then as we sat in the soft candlelight with the snow shining in through the window and the Christmas-tree smell fresh in the air and a miracle having only shortly transpired on TV, I got to thinking about Mom and being lonesome for her and wondering what new dishes she got herself for Christmas. But later, just as I was about to call her, she called me. And though she said she missed me, she sounded real happy, too. Her stepkids were yelling and screaming and having a good time in the background. I thanked her for the heavy-duty suspenders and she thanked me for the new tapes for her fat-assed Buick. It continues to amaze me that Carla doesn’t get homesick for her parents. She contends they’re assholes, and they must be if she doesn’t miss them at Christmas. Maybe she’s just made up her mind not to. I let my spirits get a little low on the way up to the park to meet Kuch and run our three. I guess I haven’t really gotten over feeling a little weird about Mom and Dad. Stupid as it is, I kind of wish marriages would last forever. Actually, I sometimes wish everything would last forever. This is a wish I fight hard but am not always able to defeat. Really, I’m proud of Mom and Dad for having the strength to fight for big-time happiness after twenty years of something that must not have been enough. Christ, it must take guts to break up at the age of fifty, then go right out and find somebody new to love better. I get about half choked up just throwing away my sweat clothes at the end of the season. I’ve poured out so much of my life in them. I’d probably save them if they weren’t so smelly and disintegrated. The end of the year is just a bad time for me anyway. I get used to thinking about Time moving and I have to fight hard not to be depressed.

• From Shunned (2018)

  There was no quibbling over who got what table or painting or loan to pay off; I’d already given thought to the list, and it seemed like Ross had, too. When it was done, Ross mixed us both a drink and we ordered a pizza. It was Saturday night, and neither of us had anything else to do but hang out with each other. Curled up in sweatpants on separate ends of the couch, we sipped our drinks and stared holes in the carpet. “I’ll call Jerry and request a meeting tomorrow,” Ross said, getting up from the couch. “It’s important to me that the elders hear this from us first.” I agreed. It felt like the honorable thing to do, and I had nothing to lose. Ross would finally get me to meet with the elders, but now the terms were acceptable. I’d made my decision and had no fears of being dissuaded. The next day, Ross got behind the wheel of the repaired Honda without saying a word. I took the passenger seat, and we rode in silence toward the Kingdom Hall, taking the usual route down Butner Road. As we waited at the stop sign, my eyes came to rest on the guardrail he’d crashed into a few weeks earlier. It was stable and steady, peppered with the black rubber marks of many close calls. I squeezed the door handle a little more tightly. This is the last time we’ll ever go the Hall together —a sobering thought that beckoned an unexpected melancholy. So many parts of my life were about to end. Ross turned the Honda toward the Kingdom Hall and parked next to Jerry’s Taurus. I wasn’t expecting to see the second car, which I recognized as Vince Lloyd’s. Jerry must have asked him to join us. Ross hadn’t been expecting anyone else, or, if he had, he hadn’t mentioned it. The door was unlocked, but the Hall was dark and hollow, except for light emanating from a smaller meeting room in the rear of the building. There, we found both men. Jerry was setting four chairs in a circle. Diminutive in height and round in girth, he bounced around like a ball. Every part of him was round: his head, his cheeks, eyes like coins behind round wire glasses, waist spilling over either side of his belt. This gave him a jolly persona, rolling along with no sharp edges to harm whatever or whomever he came in contact with. Vince was plugging in a space heater to take the chill off. He was long-limbed and frail, pushing his wire-frame glasses up the rim of his nose as he stood. It was midafternoon, and they were still wearing suits and ties from the morning services. Ross had gone to the morning meeting without me and still had on his suit pants and dress shirt, jacket and tie now discarded.

• From Shunned (2018)

  Each table had a delicate vase of fresh pink and yellow freesia. The waiters were always friendly and never looked down their nose if you mispronounced l’agneau grillé, niçoise, or confit. The yeasty aroma of fresh croissants greeted me as I walked through the entrance. The black-and-white tile floors and mahogany bar warmed the room. It was tidy and charming. Mom would like that. I arrived early and claimed a corner table just inside the open door so I could see the cab delivering my mother. The moment the car stopped in front, I could make out my mom’s silhouette through the car window, wavy hair barely gracing her narrow shoulders. A bittersweet pain clutched at my heart. She got out of the cab and stepped on to the curb. Dusting herself off, she turned to size up the entrance, securing her purse tight under her arm, like a shield. As she came through the revolving mahogany door, I saw that she was dressed impeccably, in white pants, a black- and-white-striped sweater, pearls at her neck, and white sandals. She squinted as her eyes adjusted to the light until she saw me standing, waving her to our table. She smiled stiffly, revealing only her bottom teeth. Her walk was unnatural and labored. Emily Post doesn’t cover the rules of engagement for greeting estranged relatives, and I was unclear on how to receive my mother. A handshake seemed absurd and distant. Would a hug feel contrived? If she didn’t want to visit me in my home, what other boundaries did she have? But I wanted to hug her and was glad when she reached our table, set down her purse, and extended her arms. At five foot eight, I towered over my mom’s petite frame. Our embrace was swift and awkward. She moved like a cat that allows itself to be picked up, then quickly wriggles to get free. “You look beautiful, Mother.” It seemed like the right place to start. She had more gray hair than I remembered, and her eyes turned down at the corners in an unfamiliar way. Was she weary from the journey, or was this grief? I pulled out her chair and gestured for the waitress to bring coffee. “You look good, too, my dear,” she said. “I see you’ve managed to stay slim.” She took her first sip of coffee. “This looks like a fun street. Is this far from where you live?” “This is my neighborhood. My brownstone is only six blocks away. I just love it here. There is a nice mix of families and single people my age.

• From Shunned (2018)

  It seemed our conversation at the funeral home was all his conscience would allow. Other members of the family could set aside the rules for one day; Randy could manage only ten minutes. Or maybe he found the whole thing too emotionally confounding to confront. This was not a family reunion but a concession for mourning. Mom returned from the back room empty-handed and collapsed in the chair, her urge to reminisce waning. Bob looked at me and raised both brows, as if to say, Enough. I entertained the idea of speaking up about the absurdity of the situation. Is this how it will be for the rest of our lives: seeing each other only when someone dies? How many years would pass before I’d receive another phone call reporting a terminal diagnosis or the need for a deathbed rendezvous? But speaking up felt pointless. It might satisfy some opaque longing to vent, but I could do that on my own time. Truer still, I’d held it together all day, somehow managing to rise to the occasion, and I was afraid pushing past this cordial veil would result in my having an emotional breakdown, tears squirting from my eyes, unable to breathe or speak. To indulge myself felt too extravagant, too risky. I had too much pride to let that happen. In retrospect, it might have been good to let it all out, the sadness and anger, my despair on full display. But I feared it could be misinterpreted as unhappiness or a sign of repentance. Sure, I had regrets, but they were not of a confessional nature. “It’s time to say goodbye,” Bob said. “Our day started at four this morning, and you’ve all had a series of long days, we know. I’m sure we could all use some rest.” Everyone stood. Mom, Dad, Lory, and Ove gathered around me in a semicircle, with Bob off to one side. First, I hugged my sister. “Goodbye, Lory,” I said. “It’s nice to see you looking so well.” She hugged me back. “You too,” she said. Next I hugged Ove, briefly and with little intensity. “Thanks, Ove, for taking such good care of my sister,” I said. “You’re welcome,” he said. Mom was next. We wrapped our arms around each other and held each other gently, her head resting on my shoulder. “It was good to see you, Mom.” We rocked each other. “Yes, Lindy, we loved seeing you, too,” she answered. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Randy, Marlene, and Tyler had emerged from the dining room and were watching us. Bob was following behind me, saying his own goodbyes. “I wish we could see you all more often,” I said. “Yes, Lindy,” Mom said, still holding me. “We’d like that, too.

• From Shunned (2018)

  In this way, they assure themselves it’s not the system that’s flawed—it’s you! I didn’t know the answer to her question and shrugged it aside. I had no idea who I was or who I was becoming. I felt like I was living someone else’s life, floating through a dream. The only thing I knew for sure was that I had everything I needed to live well that day, and that had to be enough. Out of the courtesy she ingrained in me, I offered to make her a sandwich. To my relief, she declined, hugged me goodbye, and left. Word of my defection traveled through the community, and as it did, people called Mom or Lory. They passed along my new home number and encouraged people to express their concern to me directly. After a full day at the office, I’d return home every night to many phone messages, all from people I shared a history of service with and considered my friends. Most were well intended and supportive. “Linda, my heart goes out to you, and I hope you will call me if there is anything I can do,” said one sister I’d pioneered with a decade earlier. “Don’t forget Jehovah,” said another. The elder who’d said the opening prayer at our wedding called to say he and his wife were heartbroken to hear Ross and I had split. “We’re here if you need us.” As I listened to each message, I wrote the name and number of the caller down on a tablet by the phone. One night there were eight messages from concerned Witnesses. Soon there were pages filled with names and phone numbers. There were too many calls to return. Just the idea of it made me feel bone-tired and defeated. [image "Images" file=Image00000.jpg] It was a good time to focus my energy on my career, especially since it was funding my new adventures and was my only source of income. In just two years, our work team had grown to ten people. A familial bond, born of mutual respect and shared success, had developed among us. As my job shifted to include more business development, I started making joint sales calls with Geoff Singer, a man from another division of the bank. Our services were complementary, so we agreed to leverage our connections by forming an alliance and calling on prospective banking clients together. There was a kinship between us from the very beginning. Our first challenge was to travel to Los Angeles, where I would introduce him to one of my best clients and convince her to promote his credit card products alongside the consumer loans my group provided. Geoff and I walked out of the meeting with her verbal commitment and celebrated with lunch at my favorite restaurant in Pasadena. “I hope you don’t mind my asking,” Geoff said, “but what formal sales training have you had?” “None.” “None whatsoever?” He squinted and cocked his head.