Motown and Miracle

October 2003

"An almost unbelievable goodness, helps us face the fierce unknown"

"Beloved - truly this is a time of sorrow and lamenting for Jeanie and Bill, but wait. Let there be no chagrin for I am clearly planted in the center of their hearts and their children and their life scope. Nothing will fall within that center that I do not ordain. I will clear away the chaff and burn away the sordid and I will bring in the cool clear waters. Their sorrow will be lifted and they will be nourished by the fruits of the earth and dancing will encircle them."

Dear Friends:

Labor Day weekend past marked five years since Jeanie Wylie collapsed on the bathroom floor with a seizure induced by the tumor on her brain. "We've got to have a party, Dad - a five year survival celebration!" said Lydia Irene. She was right and did we ever.

Jeanie's last MRI, shot at the beginning of the year, shows things virtually unchanged now for a couple of years. A Glioblastoma in remission is something of a non sequitur. No one knows quite what to call this medical state of affairs - except for those of us with a language for miracles. The Hungarians who ship us the chicken virus claim credit (Who knows?). They feature her the MTH68 American poster child and tinker with an article for the American Journal of Neurology which eventually may make Jeanie notorious in a new way.

The pictures may be unchanged, but she actually improves - also against logic and over the remonstrations of our neurologist who cautiously reminds us that she has taken the maximum hit of radiation with its long-term permanent consequences (believed at the time to be rather a moot point). But Jeanie blithely breaks new mental paths the radiationists thought they had extinguished forever, improves her short term memory, orients herself to the day, and speaks up cogently in group conversation. Plus remembers the words to an endless repertoire of songs constantly on her lips. (Some might actually credit such music and prayers over the mysteries of chicken vaccine).

Thanks for the prayers. Never cease.

As to the party report. It seemed itself somehow mystical and miraculous. We held it at Lucy's school - Our Lady of Guadalupe close by in the neighborhood. Over a hundred friends and family appeared from near and far, bearing garlic dishes and desserts. We had a short program comprised of gifts, remembrances, and testimonies. Ange Smith, Detroit jazz and gospel artist, brought down the house right off with her a capella rendition of "Eye on the Sparrow." Jim Perkinson, theologian and local hip hop poet, brought a poem for Jeanie (appended in entirety below). Julie Beutel, folk laureate of our community, sang - but joined last minute and unrehearsed by fiddler Karl Meyer in from NYC who transfigured the song with his backup beneath. These were the invited gifts. Others came forward unbidden: Ron Dale with a "Song for Jeanie" performed by an impromptu choir. And perhaps most mystical of all, a Taize-style chant, brought by Ande Gaines and Mike McCarthy, whose base-line of "an almost unbelievable goodness..." was overarched with a descant of Merton's famous prayer from Thoughts in Solitude. Stunning. One of the testimonies, moving and tearful, was from our friend Jane, a labor activist - recounting Jeanie's words to her about the similarity of work in church and union, organizations both so good at heart, but often losing their way in bureaucratic politics. She spoke of that work which summons both back to their true vocation and noted Jeanie's contribution to the Detroit labor movement via Readers United during the newspaper strike. Nancy Cannon, charismatic and ceramic artist, who figured decisively in our finding the Hungarians, sent the prophesy uttered above. Buried these five years in her journal, it now finally spoke its promise publicly - right down to the "dancing" - which promptly began as if on self-fulfilling cue. Just a word of astonishment about the dancing. It was, of course, mostly to Motown as Jeanie desired. And went til nearly midnight when we had to pull the plug. But it was the high schoolers (of our own community now grown and of Lydia's friends) who held the floor. Here's the astonishment: these kids know not only the moves, but all the words to Stevie Wonder, Diana Ross, Marvin Gaye, and the Temptations. They sang while doing the hustle! How? Like some weird cultural osmosis topping off the mysteries of the providential night.

Oddly and inexplicably, Jeanie suffered a seizure two nights after the party, first this year and unrelated to any know medication screw-up. Almost as though the devil demanded his own jig time.

I think it's OK to report something about Lydia's cohort of school friends. Last day of the spring semester one of her closest theatrical comrades announced that she wasn't returning to Mercy for her senior year; her parents couldn't afford it. Instead of just dissembling in tears, Lydia and friends went to the principal and declared their commitment to anonymously raise the tuition. The principal announced to the family a new-found scholarship, and the girls formed a work collective which took jobs cleaning, moving, gardening, yard saling, even running birthday parties. By Labor Day they had the substantial cash in hand - and came with multiple reasons for dancin' in the street. I couldn't have been prouder, not only of the love and solidarity, but of the sense of themselves and their own power which overrode ordinary passivity with a conviction that they could change a deal apparently done. Now she's organizing, pretty much with this same circle of friends, a city-wide "social justice social," with workshops, coffeehouse poetry and music. It's all of a piece, no? One miracle feeding another. As Walter Wink says, miracle is just a word for what we've allowed the powers to convince us is impossible.

As Lydia broods on college possibilities, Lucy prepares to be in the first eighth grade graduating class from OLG. I always think of her as a body person. This summer our friend Ched taught her to surf in two days. She's lithe and supple (taking three different dance classes and burning her carbs on the soccer field and basketball court), but then she turns round and knocks my socks off with a poem or a journal entry. This girl has the writer's gift, a genetic inheritance from her Mom. She and Lydia were just in a production of Fiddler on the Roof. Their troop has moved from youth to community theater with adults in the mix and production values kicked up several notches. The two of them played daughters, Zeidel and Hava. I think of Lydia as the family actress, but Lucy pulled a real piece of tear-jerking agony, almost entirely with her face, when Tevya renounces her and turns his back. The tears were not just in a father's eyes.

It's travel season for me. I'm on the road ten or twelve days each month this fall. In addition to recruiting (a form of discipleship evangelism in my book) at the eleven SCUPE member seminaries, I'm doing a retreat for urban pastors in Boston, co-convening a symposium on Humanities and Urban Theology, team-teaching a New Testament course on the Southside of Chicago, and helping support (with other Word and World folks) the Truth and Reconciliation Commission going forward in Greensboro, NC. The latter is really important work, initiated by some of the most remarkable human beings I know. Feel like I'm blessed to be privy there to yet another miracle.

Who'd a thunk it. I could be writing about the dark and dangerous times we're all living through, but instead I'm enumerating miracles. And thinking of dancing.

Another future is possible.

Til the heart is parted,

Bill for all the W-Ks

PS Jim's poem below.