If the weather was treacherous before the concert, by the time Richie Havens had sung his final encore Saturday night, and signed the last remaining vintage album jacket thrust at him by a fan, the afternoon's ice storm had long since been thoroughly blanketed with snow -- snow that was still falling heavily. So when we arrived at the bottom of our hill, having picked and dodged our way that far, it did not surprise us that we couldn't make it up the drive. After dropping my wife off at the bottom of the hill, I parked the car in the Unitarian Church's empty lot (trusting in their ecumenical spirit) and began the block-long trudge through the snow. Close to midnight now, it was all but silent -- save the muffled "fuff" of the snow and the occasional crack of breaking limbs. It was an intriguing combination -- both eery and awesome -- whose alchemy together was prescience.
Sunday, ours was one of only a handful of churches that didn't cancel services. Perhaps we should have joined the masses, but we had all these special guests in town for the festival -- a guest preacher from a native reservation in South Dakota; the native
American flute player; and for the afternoon, Jean Michel Cousteau who had flown in from Brazil and driven through the storm from Kansas City after his Chicago flight was cancelled. If he could get here, couldn't the rest of us? So we went ahead -- partly awed by the power and beauty of the experience, and partly cracked by the diminished attendance. Exhilarated, but disappointed; thankful but regretful; thrilled to be close enough to touch, but sad that more couldn't join alongside us. Awestriking wonder and beauty, littered by ice-broken branches and whole-felled trees -- the event as much as the landscape.
It reminds me of the time we spend, each Sunday morning in worship, sharing joys and concerns before prayer. It is always a jarring juxtaposition there, as well -- the straight "A's" of a child alongside the sudden death of a neighbor; a new job celebrated alongside a new diagnosis grieved. It is, as it turns out, real life. Broken branches and broken crowds alongside snow-covered horizons and transcendent moments.
Sunday, ours was one of only a handful of churches that didn't cancel services. Perhaps we should have joined the masses, but we had all these special guests in town for the festival -- a guest preacher from a native reservation in South Dakota; the native
American flute player; and for the afternoon, Jean Michel Cousteau who had flown in from Brazil and driven through the storm from Kansas City after his Chicago flight was cancelled. If he could get here, couldn't the rest of us? So we went ahead -- partly awed by the power and beauty of the experience, and partly cracked by the diminished attendance. Exhilarated, but disappointed; thankful but regretful; thrilled to be close enough to touch, but sad that more couldn't join alongside us. Awestriking wonder and beauty, littered by ice-broken branches and whole-felled trees -- the event as much as the landscape.
It reminds me of the time we spend, each Sunday morning in worship, sharing joys and concerns before prayer. It is always a jarring juxtaposition there, as well -- the straight "A's" of a child alongside the sudden death of a neighbor; a new job celebrated alongside a new diagnosis grieved. It is, as it turns out, real life. Broken branches and broken crowds alongside snow-covered horizons and transcendent moments.
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