DC Spinster

Then came Peter to him and said, Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me , and I forgive him, till seven times? 
Jesus saith unto him, I say not to thee, unto seven times; but, Until seventy times seven. Matthew 18: 21-22.

Mine honor is my life; both grow in one; Take honor from me, and my life is done.  Richard II, Act 1.

I had a wonderful Christmas day, mostly.  I went at noon to my favorite gourmet pizzeria for lunch, hoping somebody amongst the families of my three children, all adults now, would finally mature enough as human beings to put aside their induced hatreds from the bitter divorce two decades ago that their mother fully and purposefully enmeshed them in as tender, immature children, but no such luck there.

I returned home and went for a short run on the beautiful, clear day, reflecting on my blessings that I had at least been enabled by the good Lord to be able to provide safety and shelter and support and coaching (both figuratively and literally) and means and guidance and love and full, free education through college to each my three sons until each reached maturity and later forgiveness, and that I had and have always been there for them as a father and a man.  I then packed up my Christmas tree which I had set up on my covered side porch and drove it over to a friend's house where I spent the remainder of the daylight hours in the true spirit of the holiday, sharing it with a loved one.

We trimmed the tree at her house and it looked pretty Christmasy when we were done.  We exchanged a few gifts and opened presents.

I cooked a sumptuous brunch and we enjoyed each other's company listening to carols and discussing the prospects of an even better year in the offing, especially for our mortally threatened country, imperiled stunningly and perniciously from domestic enemies acting either through reckless ignorance or self-aggrandizing, rapacious malice.  Then because my vision has been compromised at least temporarily due to my year of successive eye surgeries during the past year which makes it more difficult to drive at night, we packed up my car and I returned home before the gathering gloom at day's end turned into fully enveloping darkness.

I re-read A Tale of Two Cities which I read at age 12 for school.  I remembered the famous beginning ("It was the best of times... .") and the iconic close ("far better rest that I go to... .") but not much in between. 

I see now that it is a novel about expiation of past sins through terror which is in itself a horror.  During the French Revolution's Reign of Terror, each day scores of people were condemned to die within 24 hours under the Guillotine (the National Barber) for various impure thoughts or actions towards the Republic by jackal courts thronged by vengeful baying people who retired therefrom to the "sharp female, newly born" to watch that day's grim tally tied to the instrument and perish one by one.  The crowds would count out loud each head as it was lopped off. 

How far to take the cleansing? asked Ernest Defarge, a revolutionary leader, of his vengeful, implacable wife.  "To extermination." 

When will there be a finish to it? he inquired of her.  "Tell the Wind and the Fire where to stop; not me!" was the soulless answer.

Written in the 19th century about occurrences in the 18th century, such sentiments presaged even worse events in the 20th century.  As the dreary tumbrils trundled through the crowded streets towards the guillotine each afternoon, each dolorous cart bearing its piteous load of bound, condemned prisoners, the occupants looked out with their faces reflecting various expressions, resignation, defiance, dignity, desperation, but not one looked out beseeching mercy, because there was no pity to be had in the massed crowd.

‎In November 2009, Brian Danza, the current president of my former running club, the DCRRC, totally disrespected a guest I had brought to a board meeting when I was president, even as Brian along with his posse of three other club IT guys, fellow twenty-somethings (one actually was barely thirty, a rogue club VP and liar who was their personal lapdog) typically and totally disrupted (nay, trashed) my board meeting.  It got so ugly that night that Brian felt compelled to call my friend (but not me) the next day to apologize.

I left the club shortly thereafter over Brian's actions, which included shutting me out of certain parts of the club's website and, in his ad hominen attacks upon me (I think it was a generational thing, or perhaps he's unbalanced, but it was certainly all-consuming on his part), unilaterally editing my president's column to the club.  The personal affronts aside, I could not enlist any board support in undertaking a review of Brian's control over and use of the club's accounts (I had heard stories of allegedly questionable conduct on his part), and since I could not therefore ensure fulfillment of my fiduciary duty as president to the club, I resigned.

Since then, Brian has run right past me and my friend, a running buddy of mine, twice on the trails, passing by within a yard of us each time and pretending not to see us, even when my friend called out a greeting to him.  I have been critical of Brian for his behavior.

Yesterday Brian ran by us again, overtaking us this time in contrast to running past us from the opposite direction, and this time he stopped briefly to say pointedly hello before going on.  My friend said later that Brian acknowledging us finally was to his credit, and that me shaking Brian's hand when he offered it was the right thing for me to do.

By the end of next month, the breakaway parishioners at the historic Falls Church Episcopal Church in my home town will have to vacate the valuable structures belonging to the Episcopal Church that this rump congregation has been occupying for years and turn the venerable sanctuary back over to the Episcopalians they turned out of the premises in 2006. These squatting "Anglicans," homophobes and misogynists (in my opinion), will be required to fend for themselves, just like they forced the local "continuing Episcopalians" to do for years when the worshippers found sanctuary in the loft of the Presbyterian Church down the street in which to conduct services.

I had long ago stopped going to the Falls Church after listening to some of the disturbing sermons of the charismatic rector, John Yates. This mesmerizing man who led the defection of many of the parishioners from the Episcopal Church preached male dominance, anti-gay bias and pious family-value elitism under the guise of the true, nay, the only, word.

The ordination of an openly-gay bishop in New Hampshire by the Episcopalians this century was something the priest just couldn't get past so he and his enfatuated followers engineered a takeover of the church property in 2006 and aligned themselves with a rogue Nigerian bishop who advocated long prison terms for homosexuals and, for all I know, suitable harsh biblical punishments for other "sinners."

The town Episcopalians however persevered for years in cramped loft space within a sympathetic Protestant church, teaching tolerance, forgiveness and inclusion in a true Christian fashion, and I rejoined the fold as their services now aligned with what I believe in, having learned the compassionate way as a boy at the loving services I attended at St. Paul's Episcopal Church on Staten Island. The courts having finally handed us our property back, worth many millions of dollars (no wonder the defectors tried to take it when they left the church), we are going home again next month.

At 8 a.m. on Thursday I met my friend P, whom I hadn't seen for 22 years since I moved out of Colorado, atop Davidson Mesa in Louisville, a bedroom community for Boulder. Tiny Louisville has been ranked for years by Money Magazine as one of the top two or three places in which to live in the country.

When I called up P to say I was coming out west and would like to visit with him, I was delighted to hear that he had taken up running a few years back as he approached the half-century mark, to stay in shape. Now he loves it, running five miles three times a week. He ran the Boulder Bolder 10K last year and intends to run it every year from now on.

I immediately set up a running date with him, for my last day out west. I looked forward to it all trip.

We ran six miles at a 9:37 pace. The first half of the run we did on the mesa top, overlooking the front range. Those are the Flatirons behind me in the picture above, the distinctive rock formations which characterize Boulder and CU, where I went to college. As we ran atop the snow on the paths cutting through the tall grass in the open space, we talked about mountain lions, which were becoming prevalent along the front range. One had been spotted in Louisville.

A big cat attacked a boy in Boulder in 2006. I said it sounded like a problem for an Animal Control Officer with a telescopic rifle. Naw, this is Boulder County, P informed me. They're protected. We're encroaching on their environment. You know how liberal Boulder is. I did indeed, having been a State Trooper there for years. I lost lots of court cases, good busts, on technicalities. That judicial attitude bothered a lot of the Troopers but not me. Hey, it was part of the culture in that college town.

The last half of the run we did on trails that wound through the town itself. They were clear. I wondered if they plowed paved running trails in Boulder County.

P has three grown children. We talked about the problems and heartaches children present to their parents. P is a realtor. He knows all about divorces because he is always selling couples' houses so the entire proceeds can go straight to the divorce lawyers, as the man and woman glare at each other. He knew about my situation, the estrangement of my three children, and was a good listener.

I told him I had done a lot of introspective thinking on this solitary week-long car trip. People tell me to move on, get over it. How do you get over losing your children? But I was freshly working on something that was liberating. Forgiveness. Accept the past and forgive in your heart those that caused it. Then move on. Don't let yesterday take up too much of today. This attitude was really making me feel better. It's a work in progress. David once told me to look inside myself in relation to my bitterness and hurt, and this is a derivation of that good advice, I think.

This third magical run in six days came to an end. My friend stood for one last pose (even in DC, I am such a tourist!), with Louisville sprawling over the plains as the backdrop. I said goodbye and went back to the real world.