I expected to have all sorts of pithy observations after
returning to America after so many years living abroad. I suppose my main observation is how quickly and efficiently I have been reabsorbed into the American work cycle,
which devours all of one’s time and energy and leaves very little room for
pithy observations. I think it mainly has to do with the time zone and my company’s
tendency to begin every day with meetings at 7am or 8am (there’s even a 6:30am
call on my calendar this week). So that
by the time the workday ends, one doesn’t have much left in the tank for anything else.
In our neighborhood there are, staple-gunned to telephone poles, signs which read, “CASH FOR DIABETIC TEST STRIPS,” in black all-caps scrawl on a safety yellow background. A visitor to Cambridge might see this and not understand what it means. I’m not sure if I understand what it means. I assume it means that someone (call them Person A) will give money to someone (Person B) in exchange for the strips they use to measure their blood glucose, under the assumption that someone else (Person C) who needs them will pay a greater amount of cash for them. In the most optimistic scenario, this is a simple correction of a supply imbalance: Person B ended up with too many test strips – maybe because they recently purchased a new blood glucose monitor – so they make a little money off of them rather than throw them in the garbage, and Person A can make a legitimate margin for their service connecting buyer and seller. Like Air BnB, but for medical supplies. But what about Person C? The scenario assumes that they aren’t able to get test strips – which they need so they don’t die – by means other than buying them off the black market. Not to mention the darker scenarios: Person A sells their test strips not because they have extras, but because they need the cash and they’re willing to roll the dice and test their blood glucose a little less frequently; or Person A’s cousin steals their test strips and sells them to Person B because they need the cash; etc.
One would assume that this sort of hustling and
margin-chasing would be unnecessary in a developed country with a functioning health
care system. One would be mistaken.
The dryer has turned all my nice Hanro undershirts into
crop tops. This isn’t the ideal look for
me.
On Easter Sunday, I got up early and drove down to Cambridge Common
for the 7am outdoor service that Harvard-Epworth was putting on. On my way down Mass Ave, the maroon
minivan in front of me kept slowing down as if to turn right but then
changing its mind at the last second and continuing straight. After a while, I semi-angrily passed it, and then
saw that it pulled in behind me to park at one of the meters next to the
common, as the driver too was on his way to the outdoor service.
Around 40 people were arranged in three-ish
rows which emanated out like the wifi symbol.
I was greeted by Alissa the divinity student
from Arkansas, who handed me an order of service, which they call a “bulletin”
here. I said hello to a few people I didn't know, and
I thought I recognized one of the women from the Lent group Zoom, whose name I
want to say is Terri or Charli or something like that. I caught Pastor Herb’s eye, and we exchanged waves.
It was a short service, which was appreciated because
we were standing outdoors in the early-April chill, squinting into the rising sun, and my glasses kept fogging because of the FFP2 mask I was wearing. A brief welcome. “Morning Has Broken” (which we
were asked to sing in sotto voce). The standard reading from
Matthew with the stone rolled away, including the great line which landed
especially heavily this year: “Why do you seek the living among the dead?” A
short message from Herb, in which he inverted the stone being rolled away not
so JC could come out as much as we could enter in and join him. “Christ Our
Lord Is Risen Today,” whose melody will be familiar to the C&E churchgoing crowd. Since these are Methodists, it's the Charles Wesley version, which includes the superb middle-finger-to-Satan of a 3rd
verse (Lives again our glorious King / Where, O death, is now thy sting? / Once
he died our souls to save / Where's thy victory, boasting grave?). All atop an audio bed of
whoosh from the passing cars on Mass Ave on one side and Garden Street on the
other.
At a few points during the service, we engaged in some "Christ
is risen!"/"Halleluiah!" call-and-response, an activity which several years ago
I probably would have felt very self-conscious about doing in any setting, much less while
standing in the middle of a public square in broad daylight. But for whatever reason this year it didn't feel awkward at all, and
in fact it felt cathartic and right to praise the coming of spring, the promise
of rebirth, the hope of return.
