Grafting Love
Grafting Love: 15 October 2023
About a month ago I made everyone get ready early for church because I’d signed up to take doughnuts for the youth Sunday School. No one was happy about this, even with the promise of doughnuts.
I like to get the doughnuts on Saturday so we don’t have to leave super early, but there was just too much going on. It seems like there’s always so much going on. I feel like I’m barely treading water. Anyway, we left early for Krispy Kreme to avoid the drive though line. There was no drive through line. What there was, was a truck. Before I could turn left into the drive through, I had to figure out what the truck in front of me was doing. There was no other traffic on this side street, and apparently, Mr. Truck didn’t know where he was going.
He was turning left, no not turning, yes turning but further up, no not turning…he couldn’t decide. By this time, I had started turning toward the drive through, and my car was partly across the middle line. The truck finally turned, and when he did, we could now see what the truck had blocked: a guy on a bicycle speeding towards us. He stomped his brakes and slowed down a lot, but still ran into my front fender, rolled once across the hood, and landed on the asphalt.
We were all really rattled. Mark got him over to the curb and sat him down. He seemed shaken, obviously, but no cuts or scrapes, nothing broken on the bike. We asked if we could take him to a doctor or drive him and the bike home. He insisted that no, he thought it was okay. We offered several times; he demurred. I gave him my insurance information; he said he thought it was okay—he’d ride home and then maybe call me. He’d been in insurance before and didn’t like all the ambulance chasing, so he agreed maybe it’d be better to settle it on our own. I offered him a doughnut. He declined.
We got the doughnuts, made it to church, headed for the youth wing, and as I was discovering that the door was locked, Jack said OW! His thumb was already starting to swell where something—we never saw what—had stung him. I was too rattled to pursue getting ice but did make it into the church and eventually find him some Benadryl. Honestly, I just wanted to go back to bed.
During church, bike guy, let’s call him Jonthan, left me a message. He’d made it home okay, but something was clicking in the bike—I hadn’t noticed it was an electric bike—but he assured me he felt fine. He didn’t want to make a big deal of things. Give him a call when I could.
The Benadryl made Jack increasingly loopy during Sunday School and church, and I really wanted to get him home. But I returned the call. Jonathan explained again that the bike was clicking, so he’d text me the information, and give me his home address, and once he got my check, he’d send me a letter absolving me of all liability. I wasn’t really tracking all this, so I just said yes, please text the information.
We stayed through the fellowship lunch and got home in time for Jack to crash (barely making it to his bed) and sleep for three solid hours. I changed clothes and checked my texts. Jonathan had sent his name and address, plus a link to the bike manufacturer. It finally dawned on me that he wanted me to send him a check for $1,500 to cover the cost of a new bike. What? I offered to take the bike to a shop that works on E-bikes, and asked if he still had the two-year warranty mentioned on the Aventon website. No response.
On Monday, Jack’s entire hand and wrist were swollen and I made him walk to school anyway because it was the first day of my new job. I came home delighted and exhausted and with a slight headache. And I texted this to Jonathan: “I’m just checking in to see whether you wanted to get a damage assessment from Reedy Rides? Or I could get my Travelers insurance agent to send an adjuster? I’m so glad that you weren’t hurt and make it home on the bike yesterday with only a little tenderness.” No response.
On Tuesday I heard from my insurance company that Jonathan had filed a claim, including injuries. So much for not chasing ambulances. The long and short of it is I never heard from Jonathan after it was clear I wasn’t going to mail him a check on the basis of one text. Insurance settled the claim: $1,300 for a new bike plus $6,400 in medical bills. Turns out he felt some soreness and went to get it checked out. Yeah. Wonder how much our premiums will increase.
It sticks in my craw for obvious reasons, but also because Jack now has his learner’s permit. I’m super aware of wanting to be, and wanting him to be, a safe driver. I’m disappointed in myself for the accident. And I hate it when other people confirm the culture’s prevailing cynicism. Mark and I continue to insist that to follow Jesus is to take responsibility for mistakes, to act honestly and honorably, to treat all people with dignity and respect. I guess events like these are object lessons in how counter-cultural Jesus still is. Honestly it just makes me want to go back to bed.
Instead, whenever Jonathan comes to mind, I take a deep breath, and pray an earnest prayer that he becomes a better man. Because we can all be better, and sometimes, usually, we can’t do it alone. I hand him over to Jesus—this guy could use some attention, Lord.
But not my attention.
I have so, so much gratitude these days. I love my new job and all that it affords—colleagues, campus, benefits, a common goal, dignity, a way to make a difference. I have a lovely home and a reliable car and, well, insurance. My wonderful husband is supportive and proud of me and doing all the extra driving these days, plus most of the cooking. My older daughter is blazing a trail through grad school with hard work and head-spinning success. My son is happy and thriving and no longer needs the ADHD medicine that helped for many years. My younger daughter is discovering her emerging self with a confidence and curiosity that amazes me. I am hopeful for my church community as we strive to become ever more deeply what God is calling us to become: a community moving from being welcoming to one of active belonging. My dog still likes me best.
And I am not naïve. The eruption of war in Gaza is horrendous, as is the continuation of war in Ukraine. Our national politics (and frankly, politics around the world) are breathtakingly contentious, and it’s hard to see a civil way forward. The window for getting in front of the climate disaster is rapidly closing, and the need to do so distressingly evident. And so much more. It is a season of lamentation.
Still, I’ve been mulling this observation from novelist Mary Renault, “In hatred as in love, we grow like the thing we brood upon. What we loathe, we graft into our very soul.”
It’s seductively easy to loathe. Loathing, like cynicism, like contempt, feels powerful. Feels satisfyingly us-vs-them. Turns the objects of our loathing into objects beneath our concern. Scapegoats. Enemies. Monsters. Lamentation, on the other hand, is the true power. Lamentation grieves all that is wrong but can also give us courage to act with hope.
So, no. I will not loathe.
I choose to brood upon love. I choose to see the offender when it’d be easier to dwell on the offense. Because when I have offended, I have been seen, I have been forgiven, I have been loved back into my humanity
I choose to graft love onto my soul. That seems to me the only way forward.
