An Easter postscript: It used to make me squeamish when “family values” were tossed around, stolen for political heft, loaded up with ultra conservative sheen. A certain shape and look was the order with little room for interpretation. Then came an inevitable stage when associating too much with family elicited eyeball rolls, like, hey man, you need to cut the strings. It wasn’t cool to admit you liked them, hanging out was ok, good in fact, these people get you.
I have never been cool. Too exuberant I guess, which is far away from cool. I do admire the hipsters, lusted after one or two here and there, but they wouldn’t admit me in their club. I cheer too loudly and choose candour over cool flirtations, although those too have their charms.
If I love you, likely you know it.
I won’t mince words then to tell you much this recent Easter essay in the NY Times moved me. A grandfather is driven from Georgia to New York by his eighteen-year-old granddaughter; just finished high school, and not thinking about being anywhere else but with this old man.
“Tolstoy wasn’t on the mark. Not all happy families are alike. But all happy families-or, more accurately, all close ones-have this in common:Their bond is forged not by accident but by intent. They make a decision. And their actions follow their resolve.”
Read the rest here and see why I liked this family’s approach. It reminded me why I spent my Easter weekend bouncing from one family gathering to another. It’s a habit I’m in no hurry to break.