Holiday letter 2020

 Happy Holidays from the McElveens! 

In the words of Judith Viorst, this has been a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day—or in the case of 2020, year. We’ve endured fire, flood, plague, isolation, deaths, conspiracy theories, violence, protests, and possibly worst of all, a gut-wrenching presidential election. And, that not being QUITE enough, the disruption of the accepted processes for a presidential transition. Is it at this point that we cry “uncle”? 

Heading into the Christmas season, though, we can report that we are all healthy, and reasonably safe here in Alexandria—wearing our masks, washing our hands, and keeping our distance. We miss going to the movies, going to the theater, fine dining (though we HAVE had some fine curbside pickup), and of course, getting together with friends and family. When we think of what we are missing now, however, the consolation is always “Maybe next year..”. Far better to be safe right now. 

Our note to Santa says that we have been VERY good this year (though it’s been hard to be naughty, when we’re confined to our houses and forbidden contact with most occasions of sin..) Our “nice” activities have involved photo sorting, reorganizing stuff, totally EMPTYING our last storage space, getting a new stove, re-doing the dining room lighting, and basically, catching up with all the things we’ve postponed till we had more time. But even these have gotten pretty old, and we think longingly of plays in NY and West Virginia, map conferences (yes, even me!), Chautauqua, and all the other portions of this cancellation year. 

Sarah is still working from home as an assistant city attorney for Alexandria, and Darnell is doing the same with his job, with occasional required days in the office. Sarah has also been helping us screen the many curbside pickups in town, and we’ve all discovered some hitherto unexplored locations—notably one that offers grapefruit margaritas by the pint. 

(continued) 

 

Kay and her family continue in Tucson, with Audrey and Claire doing virtual learning and Kay working from home. Paul is still with the foundry on a part-time basis and they are also working on the home-improvement side of things, totally re-landscaping their yard, and doing the seemingly-endless fix-ups that home ownership entails. 

Like most other families, our Christmas-ing is happening largely on-line (thank God for Zoom), which isn’t entirely satisfactory. BUT...everyone seems to be doing well—and my nephew Eric and his lovely wife, Tiffany, are expecting a little girl in May, which gives us all a positive boost and an event to look forward to. Times may be hard right now, but we consider ourselves to be among the lucky ones who have all that we need to get by until better days return. 

For the moment, JC and I are planning to fly to San Diego right after Christmas—if only for a change of scene. We intended to visit Tucson at the end of January..but all that depends on the virus and its attendant statistics, as well as the vagaries of vaccine distribution (which we don’t expect to see until late spring, if then.) Ah, to have life be predictable again! 

So, from our house quite literally to yours..stay safe, stay healthy, keep in touch, and have as merry a Christmas, and as happy a new year as your circumstances allow! 

JC & Mary 

jcmcelveen@gmail.com 

marymce@gmail.com 

Boxwood

It is not a mulberry twig

straight from the famed New Place tree,

or any descendant therefrom.

It is not a part of 

the veritable forest of mulberry

cut to proffer as splinter souvenirs

with supposed direct lines to

the hand of the Bard.

 

No. It is more distant yet:

a boxwood from the Folger garden—

a simulation of a simulation

of what might have been;

a garden that he might have had, 

or seen, or looked to

for inspiration.

It is a relic from a copy

of a copy of a guess

at a distant, celebrated life.

 

Not Capulet angelica,

nor Ophelia’s rosemary,

nor Romeo’s rose,

but sturdy boxwood,

like a miniature Birnam wood

(concealing who knows what army)

come to my personal Dunsinane.

Hard Times

Hard Times

A hard time we’ve had of it:

March to December. 

Beleaguered by rampant plague, 

distracted leadership, lies

and unbelief, trust dying on the airwaves.

We’ve endured shortages, closings

and curtailments, meeting outdoors, 

keeping our distance, learning to wash, 

to sanitize, to wear our masks. We know

(more than we ever wanted to)

about ventilators and hospital beds 

and refrigerated -truck morgues,

positivity rates and grim statistics:

graphs full of spikes that never seem to flatten, 

but continue to eternity.

 

We are not counting fires and floods,

riots, and hurricanes, political machinations, 

storms and accusations,

marchers and violence (by and toward police), 

the signs and shouts and terrors 

that prowl the edges of our dreams.

We are frightened.

 

A hard time, a hard year 

of struggling through, of prayer and despair,

of impatience and boredom, of missing friends and family, 

of sickness and death and apprehension,

of worry and fear and anxiety

that brings us at last 

to Christmas.

 

“Peace on earth, goodwill to men”

Can there ever be peace again?

Where is the joy? The goodwill?

Can we come together? 

At least to pray, at least

to worship the One 

who saw us as we are, and said, “Yes”...

Who saw us as salvageable,

who determined He would save us.

We survey our world, and it is hard to see

why He might think us worth the effort--

 

And yet, He comes. Soon, He comes...

Prince of peace, Lord of Hope,

God of Forgiveness...whether we

deserve it or not, He comes.

His time is here. His time is now.

And so is ours. To forgive. To hope. To love.

Emmanuel. God with us.

Come let us adore Him.

PRAYER

If my God were a transactional God,

I would be negotiating

right now

for an immediate savior.

How many novenas,

rosaries, masses

are required 

to pray this man

out of Washington?

How much self-denial,

abjuration of bad habits,

and self-mortification 

would set us free?

Can we devote our accumulations 

of indulgences to this cause?

Time in Purgatory would be a blessing

after these four years.

If my God were a vengeful God,

I could understand.

We have not been 

a devoted people, and

have been led astray

by all and sundry, 

and have twisted your laws 

to suit ourselves,

our comfort, our own desires.

O God of transactions,

O God of vengeance,

but, most of all,

O God of forgiveness,

take this cross from our shoulders,

and grant us, again, your peace.

 

COVID

2020, year of loss. Missing...

Hugs and kisses, family dinners,

baseball, football, the Olympics.

Quick runs to the grocery, or the mall.

Travel, handshakes, museums, libraries.

Theater, meetings, impromptu dinner parties.

Wine and cheese and cocktail gatherings, 

headlines that don't include 'virus',

doctor's appointments in a room with a doctor.

School and sports and movies in a theater,

meals in a restaurant, drinks at a bar.

walking hand-in-hand, or arm-in-arm,

sharing an ice cream cone, or a bag of popcorn.

Church and singing and coffee hours,

Pats on your shoulder, pecks on the cheek.

Easter, Memorial Day, Fourth of July, Labor Day.

Graduations, weddings, reunions,

vacations, the beach.

Crowds.

And, in exchange, we get

masks and gloves and wipes and sprays,

less traffic, more walking, and delays

(while surfaces are sanitized).

We know the names and faces

of public health officials, and have forgotten

those of masked neighbors...we know

the daily statistics of infections, deaths,

and positivity rates.

Have seen nasal swabs and ventilators

and the insides of many hospitals that

we didn't want to see,

along with refrigerated truck mortuaries.

People reacting violently to

humane requests to wear a mask.

Editorials and op-eds and 

unfounded speculation on hoaxes

and vaccines and conspiracies

and politicization and finger-pointing,

when all we want

is straight talk, informed talk,

science, if you will,

that knows whereof it speaks:

the what, the why, the how, and

(most important)

when it all will end.

After 9/11

Nineteen years ago. 

Deaths overwhelmed us,

Three thousand dead, ten times more injured.

We listened avidly to the stories:

survivors and heroes and

ordinary people who stood up 

to help in an event

they could barely comprehend.

We stood, stunned,

and watched the towers fall

again and again and again,

hoping it would not be real the next time,

it would all be simply a dream:

the images on the screen,

the memory, the fear,

the gut-wrenching uncertainty

destabilizing all we knew. 

We held on. We prayed.

We survived.

Today we stand, stunned

and overwhelmed.

We are losing sixty times that toll

to other enemies we do not understand.

We are losing the west to wildfires.

We are losing the faith of our youth

who no longer believe we can fix what is 

so terribly wrong.

Protest and violence are our daily bread.

Our people, our land, and our future

are dying, and there aren’t enough heroes

to save us. It’s hard to believe in heroes

any more. We are  beset

by dishonesty, by fear, by corruption.

Belief and trust are gone.

There is nothing and no-one to hold us together.

We are flying apart with each turn of the globe,

and we continue to whirl

out of control:

faster, faster, faster.

O God, slow us down.

Rewind the clock and make us try again.

Return us somehow to the point

where we were our brothers’ keeper;

where we reached out in sympathy, 

not struck out in fear.

Take our disordered values 

and rearrange them into what we

once knew them to be.

Have us look with new eyes

at the world we have broken;

have us look at each other and

give us the will to fix it,   

to move on together

with faith,

with hope,

with love.