In the neighborhood where I grew up,\u00a0there were the Friday evening band concerts underneath the cherry trees down the hill. Half a block away was the library, where sweet Bethany sat in the children\u2019s room, listening patiently without blinking her wide, blue eyes. There was the park with its swings and see saws, the sumac trees, the little stream with frogs. In our yard was an enormous maple tree, spreading and gracious, with a tire swing and a perfect circle of dirt\u00a0where we played marbles.<\/p>\n
And there was the house across the street, where David, with his evil panther face, threw his wife through the window. Someone called the police, again, and she was furious. Any official record of disorder would\u00a0make it harder for her to get foster children into her home. Those children were her\u00a0living. Their apartment was large and empty, the cleanest and emptiest and coldest space I had ever seen, the wooden floors scrubbed colorless, the curtains transparent with washing, the light bulbs bare.The staircase wall was lined with framed photos of children I had never seen, dozens of children who had passsed through that cold, glaring\u00a0house.<\/p>\n
David and his wife had their own children. Patrick, about ten, was evil like his father. \u00a0His face was already twisted\u00a0into lines of permanent rage, like a samurai mask, and he took his beatings and turned them around on any smaller child who got in his way. Anna, eight, was pale and silent and colorless like her mother, with staring eyes and a voice that barely dared.<\/p>\n
In other house around the block was Mikey, who was gentle. At twelve, his voice was still piping and chirping, and he always wanted to play with us. One day I biked around the corner, not knowing whose house this was, with the sagging porch and the cans of cigarette butts. I heard a man growl, \u201cYou put your hand on the rail\u201d and then the piping voice pleaded, \u201cNo, Daddy, no!\u201d\u00a0And then I heard screaming. Punishment for who knows what infraction of the rules, in that sagging house with the cans of ash. I kept on biking and went home to read comic books under the maple tree.<\/p>\n
This is thirty years later. Many of those houses are gone altogether, torn down by the city. The giant maple is gone, too, because it kept casting heavy branches down whenever there was wind. It was just too heavy.<\/p>\n
Now I wake up in the middle of the night. It\u2019s a good night because at least I have been asleep. My hips hurt, my baby is kicking me, and I feel sorry for myself because I can\u2019t sleep. In a few hours the alarm will go off, and I\u2019ll plunge into trivia again. I\u2019ll get up and do a mediocre job\u00a0again, giving my heart and mind to all the wrong things, grazing over the things that need me, things like my children. They\u2019ll be up in a few hours, needing me. They are not my living, but they are my life.<\/p>\n
I think of the maple tree that is gone. There is a stump left. Maybe it will bud again, but I don\u2019t think so.<\/p>\n
Advent is just beginning. Change is possible, I must believe. Yesterday, I passed along a quote by Josef Cardinal Ratzinger: \u201cIt is the beautiful task of Advent<\/span>\u00a0to awaken in all of us memories of goodness and thus to open doors of hope.\u201d\u00a0<\/span>I try to think of the babe of Bethlehem, the child in the night. I pray for God\u00a0to pluck me out of the trivia, turn me around again to face the things I\u2019m neglecting. Help me, I beg the Father, to take up the task of Advent. The memories that awaken are\u00a0silent Anna, raging Pat, chirping Mikey, his poor hand on the rail, begging his father, \u201cNo, Daddy, no!\u201d<\/p>\n These children I remember aren\u2019t children anymore. They are adults like me, nearly forty, probably grandparents. How are they with their own children? Their houses aren\u2019t even there any more. The tree has been cut down. It was too heavy, and it had to come down.<\/p>\n I\u2019m thinking of that little \u00a0baby, born in a bad neighborhood, a dark corner of the universe. His mother wondered, his gentle foster father was glad, the angels rejoiced, but the little baby cried and cried for His brothers and sisters. At least\u00a0there is someone who will cry for them. The stump may bud again. But at very least, there is someone who will cry for them.<\/p>\n<\/body><\/html>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" In the neighborhood where I grew up,\u00a0there were the Friday evening band concerts underneath the cherry trees down the hill. Half a block away was the library, where sweet Bethany sat in the children\u2019s room, listening patiently without blinking her wide, blue eyes. There was the park with its swings and see saws, the sumac […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1533,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-14101","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"yoast_head":"\n