“Anxiety and fear are what we know best in this fantastic century of ours...We have heard so much tragic news that when the news is good we cannot hear it.” So writes novelist and theologian Frederick Buechner in the passage chosen for this day in Listening to Your Life, a book of brief readings from Buechner’s work selected and arranged as daily meditations. The words come from a 1987 novel, Brendan, and what is most startling in them is that the character is speaking from the 15th century, not our own.

This Easter weekend began with an image of anxiety and fear -- six-year-old Elian Gonzalez being removed from the home in Miami where he has stayed with relatives sincehis rescue from the sea in November. Critics are calling the event a “use of force” while Attorney General Janet Reno, who gave the go-ahead, prefers to call it a “show of force” designed to bring about the reunion of Elian with his Cuban-citizen father who, in my opinion, has been deprived for far too long of physical contact with his son.

The weekend concluded with pictures released by the US government of a smiling Elian in the arms of his father, the joyful little boy we’ve come to see playing in the yard of the Miami home now appearing equally comfortable with his more immediate family. The later images are meant to reassure us (“us” being the multitude of strangers who now know more about Elian’s life than we do about that of some of our own relatives) that what began as a terrifying ordeal has been concluded in peace.

Like most people, I have opinions about the Elian saga, about what could have or should have or actually was done by everyone involved. But I’m not involved -- I’m on the outside, safe in my pretty suburban neighborhood here in the land of the free and the home of the brave, watching it all on television. So I revert to the self-absorption of the Romantic tradition in poetry which is the bedrock of how I relate to the world -- observe something and then ask what lesson for my life can I take from this experience?

Back in March I wrote about the possibilities I saw for personal growth during what I heard a radio deejay call “the lentil season.” I’ve had a very “Martha” Lent, it seems, a combination of the biblical Martha who attends to household duties while her sister Mary (to Martha’s chagrin) sits with Jesus in conversation, and Martha Stewart, that maven of household arts for whom no task is so menial that it cannot be made enjoyable, especially with a kit of supplies from her catalogue. It’s all been part of my program to bring order and completion to the scattered areas of my life.

Last night Ron left at 7:30 to participate in his Catholic congregation’s lengthy Easter vigil. This evening used to be a time for Lynn and me to be home alone together, as our Lutheran practice saves everything for Sunday morning. But this year, in a way that is symbolic of how our life together is changing, Lynn went to the movies with her new boyfriend, Jimmy. (David, introduced in January, is now sooo last century, I'm told.) 

I was the designated driver for this date. I used the two hours I was home alone as a mini-retreat. I put some wordless quiet music on the stereo and prepared anise bread and lemon meringue pie for tomorrow’s dinner. I made the activity a prayer, an offering of energy and expertise to the God who has given me both. Afterward I took a long shower, a cleansing of the spirit as well as of the body.

When I opened the door to the garage the Carolina wren who has lived for the past three or four years in a nest she keeps in a shoulder-high storage bin flew out. Her leave-takings have been most infrequent in recent weeks as she’s tended her eggs, so I peered into the nest. 

Instead of the smooth blue eggs I saw a mass of fur and heard a faint but insistent
chirping. One little hatchling popped up its head and opened its mouth for feeding. What better sign could I have been given than this -- the time of preparation is over. The shells are broken, and though it was painful, new life is here. It’s time for the next phase, even if you still harbor a certain fear of moving out and through.

Whatever your tradition this season, I wish you a hopeful new beginning.