An apology of sorts
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April comes in like a lion, every year. Nothing lamb-like toward the end, though; the month subsumes me ably.
I like it sometimes.
The birdsong beguiles me at the time of morning where the rays of sun stretch for the first time.
The trees, plush, sway with their new leafy weight, verdant.
My boys and I take an hour to do a 10-minute task (my husband has a pretty indomitable Protestant Work Ethic thing going on, so for him, it shows up in his energy levels and emotional agility). We’re too dreamy; forever staring out of the window to admire the length of the grasses and the acrobatic feats of chickadees. the antigravity acts of woodpeckers, the shyness of doves.
April is the month of of It’s Too Much in my home so consistently that we instituted a personal holiday on April 12. We make ourselves stop. (We celebrated the day this year, with aplomb. We stopped that whole week, because we had the privilege and the opportunity.)
April often comes bearing the memory of violence, death, and resurrection because of Good Friday and Resurrection Sunday. This year, violence and death visited the country through the weaponized paranoia of people who shot children for any reason (why am I demuring? Definitely because of gun worship; sometimes because of white supremacy). Children are being shot and gun worshippers throw themselves over the guns to keep them safe.
I cry on Resurrection Sunday because of the perfect story. Jesus, this lover and bringer of life; kind to women and children and challenging to the powers that be, was accused by a murderous religious contingent, seized and executed by the state, but did not stay dead, and lives to advocate for and restore us. This is who God is? This Jesus is the Word to us? Good news! Good news.
I cry on Resurrection Sunday because of all the old and fresh graves. Still.
I wrote once in April (and a paid post at that) and I’ll tell you why: I don’t think everyone wants to read my agony about raising children in a death-cult country, but I definitely do not think that everyone should. There are too many who are greedy to gorge themselves on the grief and terror of others.
After writing the post, I was done. Done. You ever get that way? Done in a way where you will get up eventually, but you need to go on and sit down somewhere? Or take a nap? Or cry? Done so badly that it doesn’t matter what other people think?
Well here comes May, so I am pushing to write again, but April still enfolds me. Still singing Harry Belafonte songs as a requiem. Still praying for the safety of trans people. Still hypervigilant for my boys.