Dear Readers,
For those of you who have been devoted readers from the beginning, you may recall me speaking of John Steinbeck a time or two. If you haven't guessed, his books are held very near and dear to my heart. I cling to his stories the way most do to scripture. I am his disciple. Last night I embarked on my annual reading and review of his Pulitzer Prize (as well as the catalyst for his Nobel Prize) winning classic, "The Grapes of Wrath". Although I would have to say that "East of Eden" is my favorite, most prized piece of literature in my vast collection, "The Grapes of Wrath" is in my top five. Written by a very driven 37 year old Steinbeck, he started and finished this very important transcript of American history and welfare in 4 short months. As a result, laws were made and lives were saved. Not many authors have such bragging rights.
Not to completely change subjects, but I had an experience today that shook me up a bit. One of my officemates is a lovely women named Bonnie. She's been an educator her entire life, and is passionate about teaching. After teaching elementary school for years, she retired only to be snatched up by Northwest Lineman College to teach our Training Specialists the art of instruction. We haven't worked in the same space for long, none-the-less she is a warm and loving person and someone I'm proud to call a friend. It was shocking and awful today as another coworker and friend of mine, Jennifer, and I witnessed Bonnie answer the phone to receive the tragic news that her husband had a heart attack, and was in a coma as a result. Bonnie was frantic (naturally), and Jennifer and I scurried to her aid, helped her gather her things and came up with a quick plan to get her to the hospital. Soon we found ourselves in the waiting room of the ICU, wanting to make sure that Bonnie was okay and to offer any support we could. The room was filled with coworkers and friends of her husband, and soon their grown children came as well, and we made our exit.
Last year at this time, you would find me loitering in waiting rooms on the 5th floor at St. Al's hospital, usually accomponied by one or the other of Loren's parents. A lot of reading, writing, and conversation transpired in those waiting rooms. What an apt name, because wait we did. Wait till Loren wakes. Wait till Loren goes home. Wait till the sun is shining and the grass is green and the flowers are blooming. Eventually there was nothing left to wait for. Today, sitting in a different hospital, on a different floor, in a different waiting room, the old anxiety surfaced, and my heart broke for Bonnie, knowing all the waiting she has in front of her. Regardless of the outcome, that inbetween time when you flounder in the abyss of ignorance, it's just so helpless and awful. It's times like that I miss faith. Or maybe crave it. I'm not sure, all I know is that I don't have it. I see things in such a black and white nature, I can't imagine holding an unknown force responsible for the well-being of myself or those that live in my heart. I envy those who can.
It is with that big faithless void that resides in me that I bring this conversation back around to John Steinbeck and "The Grapes of Wrath". Last night, I read some of my favorite paragraphs ever written. Tom Joad comes upon an ex-preacher named Casy, and eventullly their conversation is turned to the reasons why Casy left his preaching days behind. He says it better than I can explain:
"Casy spoke again, and his voice rang with pain and confusion. "I says, 'What's this call, this sperit?' An' I says, 'It's love. I love people so much I'm fit to bust, sometimes.' An' I says, 'Don't you love Jesus?' Well, I though an' thought, an' finally I says, 'No, I don't know nobody name' Jesus. I know a bunch of stories, but I only love people. An' sometimes I love em' fit to bust, an' I want to make 'em happy, so I been preachin' somepin I though would make 'em happy.' ...I figgered about the Holy Sperit and the Jesus road, I figgered, 'Why do we got to hang it on God or Jesus? Maybe,' I figgered, 'maybe it's all men an' all women we love; maybe that's the Holy Sperit -- the human sperit -- the whole shebang. Maybe all men got one big soul ever'body's a part of.' Now I sat there thinkin' it, an' all of a suddent -- I knew it. I knew it so deep down that it was true, and I still know it."
Now, this is the abridged version of the conversation, but I hope the point came across. Steinbeck brings up this idea again and again in his writings. That we are connected as humans, that our souls should dictate our actions, not our beliefs. That we are bound to each other by love and grace, but not by religious rederic. That we are responsible for ourselves, our choices, our actions, and not sinners that will be brought to justice by a higher being. This idea, the notion of huministic accountibility, is probably the closest thing to faith that I've found. I like the idea that we share a common soul, that we suffer and experience joy together. The tides rise and fall for all of us, and there's not a lot of emotion that hasn't been experienced by each of us.
With that in mind, I bring my thoughts back to Bonnie, her husband, and her family. If this idea is true, if we do share one giant soul, than I offer her what little light and love is in my share. I hope the waiting isn't long, and that her family is on the road to recovery soon. As for the rest of you, feel free to take parts of that as well. In turn, I offer my sincerest thanks and gratitude to the many that have shared their love with me.
Sincerely,
h.
