God has called us to Scranton. I’ve been told that Scranton is just Boston without clams, but then Kelly and I went to dinner at a pub on Saturday and ate clams, so now I am disoriented; shellfish farms and trucking continue to blur the distinctions that once allowed us to tell ourselves we knew exactly where we were.
Wherever we are, we are here to amplify our little voice that the darkness has not and will not overcome the light -- we are building an east coast shop for Marian Caskets because about half of the people who contact us now are on this side of the Mississippi and our usual methods of shipping have presented new challenges over the past eighteen months.
Scranton is great. Maybe all our kids will be president. We are more or less in the city which is quite the counterpoint to our 20 years on Vashon Island. The crickets are louder, as are the sirens and church bells, but the birds are quieter -- except for the three immortal ring-necked doves we have in our bedroom. Last night I was awakened by a tremendous thunderstorm shaking the house. Half of our kids slept through it, half did not. The violent majesty of the thunder and the rain that tested our roof made me grateful for the defenses we have, moreso for the heightened alertness elicited by my slight uncertainty as to whether said defenses would prove sufficient.
One should not put one’s faith in a building, especially one that one has just moved into, but one might have enough experience, over enough time, to recognize that things usually turn out better than one fears. Then, have a little gratitude and proceed accordingly.