Winter’s Gospel of Comfort and Time

This weekend, I attended the celebration service for Absalom Jones, the first African American Episcopal priest ordained in Philadelphia in 1802. As the choral group of young girls and boys sang in the high-ceiling cathedral with windows showcasing snow-draped fields, I remarked to my friend, “I can’t believe I was ever that young. They have their whole lives in front of them. Everything awaits with endless possibilities.”

I told my friend. “I wish I were young again. I would love to do it all over…” meaning my life. My friend said, “I would too if I knew then what I know now.” That, of course, would be ideal.

In college, I dated a man who played the piano for a gospel group from a Washington DC church. Since then, I have loved the rhythm and vibrancy of survival expressed through gospel music. We were the only white people traveling with five or six black men to North Carolina and Virginia, where they played at churches. The hallelujahs and amens were an education for the Protestant girl who worshipped in old stone churches with ornate stained glass windows of Jesus holding a lamb. After invigorating services, we enjoyed feasts of barbecued chicken and corn. We stood and talked next to tables laden with bowls of potato salad and plates of apple pie. I see a girl with shoulder-length blond hair, wearing light blue bell bottoms and a colorful dashiki-type blouse. I see him… a man, a gifted musician I loved who turned out to be gay and taught me the heartbreak of first love.

So much is written about age and the passage of time’s imprint on mind and body.  I struggle to avoid the advertising and media trap of the depressing. Old ladies staring wistfully out the window…old men in rocking chairs. Slights from people I thought were friends once bothered me, yet now belong to the prism of time that this too shall pass and patience is a virtue.

The snow that blanketed my backyard this week merged in perfect winter harmony with the sunshine and blue sky that followed the storm. My Valentine’s Day passed quietly. The next day, I bought peach-colored roses at the grocery store on sale at 50 percent off. They are just for me, a gift for loving myself.

I am “babysitting” my sons’ dogs for the next two weeks. They say you should feel useful to stay young. Caring for animals is useful. My sons have traveled to the end of the world—Antarctica—a trip they planned for thirteen months, which required a sizeable investment of time and money. They invited me to go, although we all knew I preferred the “health” that comes with a good night’s sleep, not the grind of 27 hours to get to Argentina…and whales, yes, I’ve seen those before.

I am leaving for Arizona after they return. This Is Me Now… a woman accepting the ideal getaway…leisurely and familiar yet magical. The sunsets and desert become muses for a work-in-progress novel.

As the young people at the Absalom service, called “Hope is Here”, sang gospel hymns of praise, I thought of a cozy house, a dinner of my choosing … and three dogs … mine and my sons’ … awaiting. This is the loneliness and beauty now.

Winter is a time for comfort.  As the great painter Andrew Wyeth once said: “I prefer winter and fall when you feel the bone structure of the landscape. Something waits beneath it; the whole story doesn’t show.”

There is a quietness now that comes with understanding the complexities of life. Absalom Jones fought against all odds the injustice of slavery to become a spiritual beacon of light. I see the complexities of my life, too. From that first gospel concert with the boyfriend from DC to the one on a winter’s day decades later, it’s all unfolding to the rhythm of comfort and time.