I like to think Sundays are meant for resting and re-creating, when I enjoy a period of “just sitting,” reading, knitting, writing notes to loved ones, or making music, while coming up with a week’s worth of supper menus eases the nightly conundrum. Readings by spiritual authors tune me up, as it were, and fills my head with wholesome suggestions, i.e., exhortations to do good for others, and no  wrong—as the Spirit of Christ Almighty there abides). I fall woefully short of the goal.

Last Sunday as I was prepping something or other, I reached into a cabinet for a ramekin. It clattered out Fibber McGee-like onto the floor and shattered. I swore and began the clean-up. Meanwhile, in the microwave, a jar of honey I had only wanted to soften and not cook, bubbled over, creating a right sticky goo everywhere. Another fine mess, I heard from my Laurel and Hardy past. Here’s a metaphor! cried my soul—and with it, my facile reflection of this confounding age we traverse, no matter your sensibilities–meaning perhaps, political persuasion.

So, SOMETHING happened, then SOMETHING else happened, and now these two events have morphed into a see-saw of salvos meant to upend the other (imagine a rider flying off, into the air by sheer force of the other’s descent—wheeeee! Then comes the crash). Salvo comes from the Italian for a greeting, as in “Hail!” Salut in French, or salve in Latin. Today we recognize a salvo as missile fire over a ship’s hull. As a “friendly” warning. Or not. Strangely, its root is not related to the original word for savior, as in Salvatore or, as in an herbal salve for healing. Pity.

I observe this present drama as through a glass, darkly (Saul/Paul’s image), and wonder how to further navigate these times without losing the sense of being human. Cracks appear in my defenses daily and I suspect that we—humanity—grapple with personal fortifications. How could we not?  

Keep on keepin’ on and let the low side drag is a favorite pithy saying. The peace that tip-toes onto a quiet day’s observance is a true port in the storms that define this age of chaos. Minding a late president’s admonition to “pick up the telephone and make that call! (his emphasis), the Carter Challenge (as it has come to be known) winks at me from its sunny spot on a windowsill: to do one good thing for one other person—be it a loved one, a neighbor, a stranger, or a friend.

Consider it the antidote to feeling too comfortable. Or worse, too smug.