We Do Our Best

We all make mistakes. I've been refinishing a coffee table that has endured some punishing treatment. The task is about a six–part process with the stripping, the sanding, the pre-staining, the staining, the wiping down with mineral spirits and finally finally finally: the finish coat. I got all he way to that last step but left the windows open as I worked on that balmy Indian summer day and some kind of 'particulate matter' dust? pollen? settled out of the air and made my new finish, once it had dried, feel like stubble on an unshaven cheek.And this picture at the left? This is  what I routinely do with our foods. Our new microwave is a mighty all right! This lava spill is really oatmeal, made the “quick” way (if you don’t count how long it took to clean up the mess.)We apologize as we go for our mistakes.My column last week was about this subject and in response to it a new friend from Tennessee wrote me.  I had written him to say I knew I was late offering my greetings on the High Holidays but that  had been thinking of him on Yom Kippur, especially, which was the day I wrote this piece on contrition and forgiveness.He wrote right back. “Thank you.," he wrote. " May God bless you and keep you and make His countenance known to you. Thinking of and praying for you as well. Shanah Tovah and Chag Sameach Sukkot."And that reference to Numbers 6:24reminded me of one of the I used to get to sing over the 320 year period when I was part of our awesome church choir. Do you know John Rutter? This is one of his as he sets to music this lovely verse:

The LORD bless you  and keep you;  the LORD make his face shine on you and be gracious unto you; the LORD turn his face toward you  and give you peace."

Here it is now by the Cambridge singers. See if this doesn’t just give you shivers.[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PO17DIeI7Ec]

Forgiven

Yom Kippur was a few days ago but here’s the real Part Two to the story I wrote last week, about a long-ago column that made light of support groups, including one for those with head injuries.It brought in a furious letter to the editor by a person who not only demanded I be fired but also called the guy up to make her case.“But it’s humor,” the editor told her. “It’s meant to be funny.” “Funny, my foot,” she basically said, and she was right.All this was back in ‘93. Then, in the fall of ’97, a letter dropped into my own mailbox complimenting me on another satirical piece I had just done. This letter was signed only with initials but I knew the initials. I knew the return address. So when I wrote back to say thanks. I added a spur-of-the-moment P.S. saying that I knew who she was and I was still sorry for what I did back then. And didn’t the woman write me again the very next day:

I used only my initials because I thought you might be bitter about what happened between us. I was furious and I wanted to hit back for the dreadful pain I was feeling at the time. I’ve worked with a number of head-injured young adults who went through their windshields and came back as strangers. Also when I wrote that, my nephew had just recently died of a massive head injury sustained in a road accident.But as time passed I saw that I didn’t despise YOU but only that lapse in judgment. Moreover, you apologized - probably while hurt beyond words by my scathing rebuttal. It took a while, as I would go and stare in radical disbelief at my nephew’s fresh grave, but I finally got to where I could accept your apology. After all, I had no wish to be bound by my grievances; what a dreary proposition in a world where we are all so far short of perfect.

Later, in other letters, she described her old neighborhood, recommended restaurants I might visit in her area and complimented me on another column. She ended that letter by saying one thing more:

You mustn’t worry that I’ll be going over these pieces with a microscope, looking for faults. Also, there’s no need to be nervous if, now and then, one of your loyal readers decides to take you to task. You have to be tough about that, Terry.

You have to be tough about that, Terry: That sentence alone can bring tears to my eyes still, because here was the lady now comforting me; counseling me about developing a thicker skin.We wrote regularly after that. We met only once when, sick with the cancer that would soon claim her life, she insisted on dressing up, taking a train into the city and buying me dinner in one of its fine old hotels. So here’s to, departed friend. You have stayed with me all these years and you guide me even now, each and every time I sit down at my keyboard.