Treachery

 

Saturday evening in Lancaster County, after saying goodbye to our old folks, we drove away, ice pelting the roads. Horrid conditions, but did we want to spend the night at the nursing home? What do you think? Amish buggies appeared in our headlights, and young women pedaling their bikes, so we, too, would brave the treacherousness and maybe get where we wanted. Inch by inch.

On 283, enough traffic to somewhat melt the ice layer. We reached Grace & Eric’s—warmth, whopping bowlfuls of ice cream, and wild, enthusiastic gabbing, and then the wonderful bed in their spare room overlooking the street.

Early next morning, we could hear an occasional car passing, which told us we could get off as planned, though ice still hung from the trees. We wouldn’t have to miss breakfast at Gerry & Rose’s.

There, too, we jabbered eagerly away, in utmost comfort except for the anxiety. Seems like too much of that is going around, over what appears to be a disastrous crumbling of the status quo politically. Possibly the very wealthiest of us remain confident, though.

At the sunny table, over our orange slices sprinkled with pistachios, and the simple potato frittata, and toast, Rose let out with one of her provocative, chaplain-lady questions. “What,” she asked, “do we see as the meaning of the Prodigal Son story?”

Quickly she supplied the answer. “Repentance,” she said. “We think it’s about repentance.”

Forgiveness, I thought. But maybe that was the same thing. I stayed quiet.

Then Rose said, “Others read the story differently. The son was eating pig scraps. That’s the part they see. It’s about the pig scraps. People weren’t helping him.”

Are we blind or what.

Isn’t it the oddest—how we richies are so caught up with repentance and forgiveness? As if that absolves us of responsibility, maybe?

Last week I went to see the refugee family again, now in the apartment Church World Service, reduced to a skeleton staff, had moved them into. The father had just purchased groceries using funds provided by CWS, and food crowded the table.

“No no no,” I gasped, because the mother was loading the apples, carrots, potatoes, peppers, and papayas(?) into the freezing compartment of the fridge. Hadn’t I explained the refrigerator/freezer back at the other place? And she studied the sugar bags, mystified. The father had bought the wrong kind, no-calorie, fake—two bags.

I promised I’d bring sugar. I had extra at home.

It seems a treacherous thing—to take from our abundance—because once we start, where does it end? Our own shelves bare, too?

But to turn away? Not look? Not relieve ourselves of the excess? I don’t see a choice. Do you?