One of my daughters-in-law, a doctor, got the vaccine today. She got the notice late last night after our Zoom call where we opened gifts together.
I sit here now, so grateful. Tears came when I got the news. She is a doctor in Santa Clara, not the safest place these days, but now we feel a level of protection, and realms of gratitude, and yes, she’ll still wear a mask.
Four years ago, my husband was in the hospital at Christmas. Not one’s choice but across the hall was a prisoner from San Quentin. Though he was shackled, a guard was in the room with him, and another sat outside his door. He didn’t look capable of escape though he was young, perhaps thirty.
Everyone agreed that for Christmas the shackles would be removed, and he could take a shower. We all rejoiced in this man’s shower.
Those who worked those holidays, Holy days, volunteered so those with families could be home. It’s a sacred time, as is every moment and day but something jingles more clearly this gathering time of year.
I continue to read Journey into the Whirlwind by Eugenia Semenova Ginzberg, about her 18 years of unjust imprisonment in insane times in Russia. And the rain pours down. I’m gratefully embraced.