Deep Breaths

Some fragmented thoughts on 20,000 daily reminders of grace, a new t-shirt, Sun Gold tomatoes, duck, and ice cream

The 71st Day after Coronatide*
Grand Rapids, Michigan

Greetings, dear reader.

After three long days of vital but exhausting meetings on Zoom, Fozzie and I went to the garden late yesterday afternoon. It was hot out, and Fozzie got impatient. So I tried to harvest—tomatoes, beans, green onions, zinnias—as quickly as I could. I’ve done a sloppy job of providing support to my tomato plants this year, and I was just trying to tie a heavy stem to a stake while reassuring Fozzie that we could go soon while realizing that I was sweating through my shirt when I noticed: I was barely breathing.

Don’t worry about me. I wasn’t about to die. This is really about awareness and attentiveness, not only toward my own body but also regarding the world around me. When things get busy and stressful, which is just about all the time nowadays, my breath is shallow—just enough to survive. 

I hold my breath because I don’t know, each time I come to the garden, what will be growing and what won’t. I’m glad I fried a batch of squash blossoms back in June, because not a single yellow squash, not a single zucchini, has survived to maturity. We had just enough carrots for one meal, and they were delicious, but let’s not run the numbers on how much each carrot cost in materials and labor. 

I hold my breath because of all the uncertainties of my life and work: Will we stay in Michigan after my time at this church is done? Will I be able to find a church job—or should I even try—when this one is done? Will I write another half-decent sentence when this one is done?

I hold my breath because of my denomination—not just because of my own ordination process but also because it seems so impossible to imagine an outcome in which we can hold together when so much is working to tear us apart—and because so much of the witness of the Church has been tarnished by our failures—my failure—to love God and to love our neighbor well.

I hold my breath because of Hong Kong, because of Beirut, because of Gaza and Yemen and all the other places that don’t make the headlines anymore even though the suffering continues.

I hold my breath because of a physical virus that colonizes the lungs and the blood vessels—and an ethical virus that tells us our rights are greater than our responsibilities.

I hold my breath because of our society’s faltering efforts to recognize the pleas of George Floyd and of Eric Garner before him—“I can’t breathe!” they cried—or the others whose God-given breaths were taken away before they could even say a word, including Breonna Taylor and Tamir Rice.

I hold my breath because of what might happen over these coming days, weeks, and months. I have so many questions: Will we be able to turn any of the political ugliness into beauty, empathy, or care for those who need it? Will we stop shouting long enough to listen to those whom we’ve chosen not to hear? Will we be messengers of mercy and agents of love? Will Kamala Harris be safe? 

I hold my breath because of November 3 and whatever comes after that.

I hold my breath because 2020 has been unlike anything in my lifetime, and I just have to laugh when I look back at texts with my friends about 2019. What innocent and naive people we were, to hope that this year would be better than last. What awful surprises might the rest of this year bring?

Each normal breath is grace—20,000 reminders that I get, every single day, of the life I did nothing to deserve, the life that is God’s handiwork. And each deep breath is gratitude, a choice to answer the divine invitation into a life of abundance and a choice to recognize not only the gift given to me but also the love lavished on every other person who lives and breathes. Will I honor not only my breath but also theirs? Sometimes, what it takes to remember to breathe is the simple recognition of the grace every breath embodies.

Today was a good day: I remembered to take a deep breath less than an hour after waking up. I was coming down the stairs, and Tristan said, “I made you some eggs!” Sometimes, what it takes to remember to breathe is for someone else to remember that you’re human and to meet you in your hunger.

A deep breath—a prerequisite for that sigh of relief, that burst of laughter—might come through the unexpected delight of a friend’s text message or a glimpse of a blossoming hydrangea, an especially crispy piece of bacon or a really funny installment of Nathan Pyle’s Strange Planet. Sometimes, what it takes to remember to breathe is an interruption of your regularly scheduled programming that returns you to the conviction that, yes, there’s good in this world too.

Some days, the first time I breathe deeply is in the evening, after dinner, as we take Fozzie out for the last time. It happens in the hallelujah as the sun slides down in the sky and the heat of the day dissipates. We’ll be out in the field where Fozzie is likeliest to find a rabbit to chase (read: the field where we are likeliest to spot a rabbit, toward which we then direct him—and occasionally carry him—until he spots it and freaks out and barks delightedly after it has escaped into the woods, as if to say, “Guys! I hunted a rabbit! Did you see the rabbit?” Yes, Fozzie, we saw the rabbit). Sometimes, what it takes to remember to breathe is for the elements of creation to conspire together to nudge you, to tell you that you too are a creature.

In his book Bread for the Journey, Henri Nouwen writes, “The Greek word for ‘spirit,’ pneuma, means ‘breath.’ We are seldom aware of our breathing. It is so essential for life that we only think about it when something is wrong with it.” Maybe becoming just a little more aware of our breath will help us become just a little more aware of and attentive to everything else in God’s good creation. Maybe taking a deep breath is the tiniest act of resistance against the ways in which this world seeks to inhibit and even snatch away the goodness of life itself. That’s my hope, anyway. I think it’s a start.

Note, because some people have asked: My “Prone to Wander” t-shirt in the photo above was designed by an Arkansas pastor named Elijah Walker, who is trans, queer, and disabled. I don’t know him; I just saw a link to his fundraiser on social media. Elijah is raising money to train a service dog, who will help him navigate the logistics of daily life, and all the proceeds from the sale of this shirt will go toward the costs of training his new dog. You can order the shirt and support Elijah here.

What I’m Growing: The first time I tasted a Sun Gold tomato was at the Farminary. Each of these little yellow-orange orbs is a surprise. I’ve had Sun Golds that taste sweet and melony, like the marriage of a tomato and a cantaloupe; others are more savory, just begging to find its way to basil and olive oil. My Sun Golds are finally coming in, and they are a delight.

What I’m Cooking: I think I’ve finally settled on good ratios for ice cream: 2 c cream, 1 c milk, 1/3 c sugar, 1/4 t salt, 4 egg yolks. This week’s batch was vanilla. I might try peach next, since it’s peach season here now. Also, I cooked duck for the first time this past weekend! Next time, I’d turn the heat down just a tad and render more of the fat out, but these duck breasts and legs turned out pretty great—and the leftovers were perfect for fried rice the next day. What’s something you’d like to try cooking for the first time? I’d love to hear your dreams—and the resulting stories.

What I’m Reading: I finally finished The Overstory. It took me a long time, in part because Richard Powers’s words and images are so rich that I couldn’t take in too much at a time. I’m still processing. Two books contending to be read next, depending on whether I go with fiction or non-: Pachinko, Min Jin Lee’s acclaimed novel, which has been on my book pile for an embarrassingly long time, and Begin Again, Eddie Glaude’s reflection on James Baldwin. What are you reading?

I promise that next week, I will not use the word “breathe” or “breath” a single time; I’ve used up my quota. Didn’t have a lot of writing time this week, so thank you for your grace and my apologies for the infelicities in my prose. I’m so glad we can stumble through all this together, and I’ll try to write again soon.

Jeff

*I’m counting from June 1, when my governor, Gretchen Whitmer, lifted Michigan’s stay-at-home order. Maybe she shouldn’t have lifted it. Maybe we don’t know how to do things unless we’re told under threat of fine or arrest. Because people still aren’t wearing masks or physically distancing very well, and it freaks me out. For the love of God and neighbor, please wear a mask, and please stay safe.