Author: Stephen Reno

Most folks probably scanned past the news item that recently reported the imminent closure of the 450-year-old “Lamb and Flag” pub in Oxford, England. This venerable gathering place on St. Giles Street has served clients local and visiting, famous and ordinary, and even the likes of me. The pub not only held fond memories for me, it also indirectly affected the upbringing of my children.
In the early ’70s, while doing research for my doctoral dissertation in the Bodleian Library nearby, I would repair to the Lamb and Flag at the end of the day for well-earned refreshment. My favorite seat in the pub — if it were available — was at an ancient and worn oak round table situated in a corner and flanked by two tall bookcases.
On my first visit to the pub, that space caught my eye because it was occupied that afternoon by an Oxford don and three of his students. I sat close enough to them to engage in my favorite pastime, namely eavesdropping. They were discussing a poem and each had their book open in front of them along with a pint of bitter. Behind them, the two tall bookcases were filled with Oxford University Press reference books. From time to time, I noticed, one of the group would turn around, take down a book, and look up a reference. I was fascinated by the ritual, not to mention the novelty that a pub would keep so many shelves of reference books. Thereafter, I sat at that table every time I could and I too would turn and look something up from one of the books.
Twenty-five years later, my family and I moved into a house in southern Oregon. A feature of the house that attracted me immediately was a little corner dining nook that had two tall bookshelves behind it. Ah ha! I decided to fill it with all of my reference books, from the Concise Oxford Dictionary of Music, Dictionary of Ancient History and Fowler’s Modern English Usage, to The Oxford Dictionary of Modern Slang. There were tomes of history, books on world religions, collections of poetry and language dictionaries.
Before long, our family had its own ritual. We had many of our meals together at that round table in the nook. Whenever a question of fact or definition arose, someone would say, “Let’s look it up” and would reach around to find the appropriate reference work. Tedious? Yes, I am sure our son and daughter felt that way many times. Nevertheless, we sorted out a number of homework assignments, not to mention settled disputes.
So, yes. I shall miss the Lamb and Flag, almost as much as I miss those family gatherings around our own reference table. With Google readily available now, we don’t need those any more. Do we?

At a religious ceremony last weekend, in the beautiful woods of New Hampshire, the priest counseled us to come together across our differences and to pray for one another. While that sentiment seemed reasonable among the small group of relatively like-minded folks gathered in the snow that morning, I realized it was directed ultimately not just to us but beyond, even nationally across our country. The challenge of that admonition was for each of us to look above what divides us to what we have in common. But in all honesty, that’s hard to do when so much of what has happened recently seems inevitably to drive us even further apart.

Tonight, as I write this, while watching the memorial service for the victims of the pandemic who were grieved at the National Mall, and especially when the 400 lights came on along the Reflecting Pool, each one casting a reflection in the shimmering water, as if to ripple out through each glistening reflection the individuality of every single tragically lost life from families across our nation, it became so very clear that that truly is what we have in common.

For regardless of partisan identity, as human beings we all grieve the loss of our loved ones.

In that other, almost religious service this evening, we were counseled, “To heal, we must remember. It’s hard sometimes to remember.” Yes, it is hard to look beyond the tragedy of our personal losses: the deaths of those who didn’t die with their families at their side, who died in the compassionate care of nurses and doctors who maybe knew them only by name and brief acquaintance, but who gave them tender ministration in our place. Yes, to hold that sorrow and look around to so many others with whom we share loss and to remember they, too, are our brothers and sisters.

Ancient wisdom tells us that “Nothing is as strong as a heart that has been broken.” Might this nation of broken hearts look up through our pain and remember who we are?

Rituals are things we do as a community at times of profound change and deep feeling. They can bind us up as individuals, but they can also urge us as fellow human beings to lift one another up. Truly, this I believe.

For more years than I can remember, at this time of year someone within earshot would say, “Christmas carols so soon? It’s the day after Thanksgiving and the carols have started. Far too early.” That always struck me as a little Grinch-like. This year, however, no one has uttered those words. Instead, there seems an almost universal haste to bring on the holiday season.

Our favorite nursery and hardware store reports their stock of wreaths, garlands, lights, candles and festive decorations is nearly sold out. Drive through neighborhoods after dark and more houses than usual seem festooned. And while many of us are staying away from retail shops for health and safety reasons, seasonal shopping is at a brisk pace online as witnessed by the UPS, FedEx, Prime and USPS trucks out and about.

We should not be surprised at ourselves this year. As we enter the 10th month of mask-wearing, social distancing and cabin hibernation, we are looking for the comfort of those seasonal traditions that were commonplace before the pandemic.

Across cultures worldwide, regardless of their religions, rituals bring meaning to ordinary time and action. They lift us out of the commonplace by changing what we see, hear, taste and smell. In short, rituals of whatever kind link the present with the past, whether it is our tribe’s, family’s, community’s or our very own. And we seem to need them most when the world around us seems dark and possibly even dangerous.

For centuries and in many cultures the winter solstice (which occurs this month) has been seen as a significant time and has been marked by festivals and rituals. It marked the symbolic death and rebirth of the sun. The seasonal significance of the winter solstice is in the reversal of the gradual lengthening of nights and shortening of days.

With the pandemic death toll in our country now approaching 280,000, we are truly in a very dark time. And while the promise of effective vaccines offers a light ahead, as does the solstice promise the return of the sun, we seek some comfort in rituals of this season and trust they will bolster our hope for better times.

So this year, whatever festival we observe, we are likely to do so more thoughtfully and with greater intensity. As much as we may trust in science, we also take comfort in our rituals.

In a curious way, the pandemic has closed us into our houses and into ourselves at precisely the time when there is so much at stake in our state, our country and the world that would call forth our efforts and actions. For many this brings great worry and frustration. There are so many needs, so many competing causes, and so many voices, often strident, angry and competing. Many friends say they have quit following the news or have severely curtailed their watching, listening or social media engagement, looking instead for some peace and quiet to find meaning in all this.

As a retired professor of comparative religion I am familiar with many forms of retreat, reflection and inward turning. But I know, too, that inward growth, nurtured in quietude and silence, can give purpose and energy to outward action. My daily morning meditation takes its start from some reading chosen from my library. Today’s seemed especially timely. It is “A Prayer for the world” by Rabbi Harold S. Kushner. I share it here so that it might serve others as it has me.

A Prayer for the World

Let the rain come and wash away
the ancient grudges, the bitter hatreds
held and nourished over generations.
Let the rain wash away the memory
of the hurt, the neglect.
Then let the sun come out and
fill the sky with rainbows.
Let the warmth of the sun heal us
wherever we are broken.
Let it burn away the fog so that
we can see each other clearly.
So that we can see beyond labels,
beyond accents, gender, or skin color.
Let the warmth and brightness
of the sun melt our selfishness
so that we can share the joys and
feel the sorrows of our neighbors.
And let the light of the sun
be so strong that we will see all
people as our neighbors.
Let the earth, nourished by rain,
bring forth flowers
to surround us with beauty.
And let the mountains teach our hearts
to reach upward to heaven.
Amen

You can contact Steve Reno at stepreno@gmail.com.

As our country reaches the unenviable milestone of 200,000 deaths from the pandemic, the New York Times this week printed pictures and brief profiles of some who perished. In the same issue, the paper recounted the many ways those deaths have affected survivors, especially family members of all ages. Those stories resonate deeply in all of us, for we cannot help but imagine how we would cope with such a loss. Often unreported in such accounts, however, is the impact of a family member’s death on their children or siblings. My mother died at a young age, when I was abroad and my only sibling, a sister, was 16. Through the telescope of time, and many conversations with my sister, I have gained a deeper understanding of how she coped with that loss, especially at her age and with no real support.

Recently I learned a startling statistic: In New Hampshire, 1 in 13 children will experience the death of a parent or sibling before the age of 18. Perhaps this is not news to you as you may well know of such a case or, perhaps even, have suffered such a loss.

Some have observed that contemporary American society generally tries to keep death at a distance. We treasure youthfulness, seek to extend our healthy lives, but then, when death occurs and the details are kindly and efficiently undertaken by others, we are left standing at memorial receptions struggling to find words to console the family and close friends of the deceased.

How often, in the midst of such gatherings, is there a small child, or perhaps a teen, standing apart, deep in their own grief? Adults will “get on with their lives,” we may think; theirs are many ways of coping. But what of the children?

Friends of Aine is the only organization in New Hampshire whose sole mission is to support those grieving children, teens and families who have experienced a significant death. This small nonprofit, through a network of trained volunteer facilitators, leads activities in small groups to create an opportunity for our grieving population to share their personal experiences, explore topics related to grief, learn coping strategies, and help in the all-too-human task of mourning.

Friends of Aine are seeking volunteers. Perhaps at this time, when we all are finding ways to

help others, Friends of Aine might be an option. Visit friendsofaine.com

It started in a parking lot. I noticed and greatly admired his old, possibly vintage, car, and told him so as he stood behind it, awaiting his partner outside the grocery store. What I thought would be a very brief chat actually turned out to be a much longer conversation. Of course we spoke of the pandemic and its impact on our lives and those of our family and friends, the weather, and rather quickly turned to politics. We then proceeded a little more cautiously, feeling one another out till we found we were a bit off center from one another: he for one candidate, but not sure this time, and I for the other, but hopeful.

We might have just stopped there, but each of us seemed to want to explore the other’s position a little more. We did, and it didn’t take long to recognize we held quite similar values and expectations, just different ways of imagining who could better bring that about. We reflected on previous presidents and our respective voting record and the reasons why. We both lamented the polarization in our country but didn’t deny the deep divide between others we each knew to be on one hard-held side and another equally so.

We didn’t engage in any conversational poker, each trying to outmatch the other by slamming down a factoid, latest rumor or conspiracy theory. Instead we just explored one another’s likely voting preferences. We ended up exchanging names and wishing one another well.

Of course I was late getting back home. But on the way back I made a resolution. Namely, I would find a way to have one of these conversations each day between now and the November general election. Just one a day. Of course it would be necessary to find a conversational opening that would be neither aggressive nor confrontational, and be ready to be rebuffed. But the fellow’s agreement that we Americans desperately needed to have conversations across differences kept spurring me on.

Yes, it is risky, perhaps even more so than inquiring why a fellow shopper isn’t wearing a face mask. But if we do not take the chance and reach out to see if we have any common ground with all those who bear the same citizenship as do we, what chance do we have collectively or individually?

We in New Hampshire are jokingly said to have made politics our state sport. If so, should we not get into the game? In his new book, Montana Sen. Jon Tester recounts his almost life-long effort to cross divides of class and geography, and in his political life, to understand the issues that keep us truly grounded, as he still very much is in his farm in rural Montana.

Whether it’s a parking lot or another venue, we need to take that first step.

If I close my eyes and concentrate, I can recall the very sound our mail slot at home would make as the letter carrier deposited our day’s delivery. My sister and I would race to be the first to gather the mail and plop it on the kitchen table. Its delivery was as much a fixture in our childhood as was the sound of the milkman’s bottles on the back step or the thud of the evening paper as it sailed across our lawn and landed on the porch.

Later, when I started collecting stamps, I learned the different classes of postage. “First Class” meant just that: it had priority. And if I had any questions about mail or postage or stamps, I could always go downtown and ask my uncle who was the postmaster. He once gave me a tour of the post office, introducing me to all the staff, including Sandy, the carrier for our route. What he and his fellow workers exemplified — and I greatly admired — was pride in their work and the integrity of the U.S. Postal Service. One of my earliest pieces of memorization was the Service’s motto: “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these carriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.”

Well, so much for that if the new Postmaster General’s recently implemented procedures result in major delays of the mail. What we thought we were buying with a First Class stamp just a few weeks ago may now not be the same service we have come to expect. The impact of those changes, according to postal workers themselves, is demoralizing and a challenge to their commitment to their historic mission.

The president’s oft-repeated judgment that vote by mail is rife with fraud has been disproved by so many secretaries of state — some of whom are Republicans — that it is irrational, if not virtually felonious, on that basis to tamper, albeit indirectly through a major donor political appointee, with the integrity of one of our most trusted institutions. That the Postal Service must find its way in an ever more competitive environment is obvious, but it cannot be a party to any political effort to influence a free and unencumbered election.

The late John Lewis called on us all to vote, reminding us that it is the most powerful act we can perform in a democracy. We must ensure that our other fundamental institution is able freely to play its role in that process.