What Do We Do Now?

Making the case for love

The wise words belong to John O’Donohue. The plaque hangs in our home, except when I brought it outside to photograph it for you.

Last week, I walked into the kitchen to find my husband standing at the window with his hands on his hips. “Look at him,” Sherrod said, nodding toward his vegetable garden in the corner of our backyard.

A large groundhog was standing on his hind legs next to the row of peppers, basking in the glow of the setting sun. He looked like the lord of the manor surveying his evening buffet. The only thing missing was a cigar in his fat little paw. When Sherrod banged on the windows, the groundhog didn’t flinch. This is his garden now.

Sherrod shook his head. “What an asshole,” he mumbled.

Every time I think of that moment, I laugh.

I shared this story over dinner recently with a young man I have loved since the hour of his birth. He was a month away from his wedding day, and we were talking about what it means to love someone so much that you’re willing to make that leap. When he told me that he and his fiancé already have a long list of private jokes between them, I pressed my hands against my heart.

“This,” I told him. “This is what it means to love someone. When we can revel in the silliness of life.”

In this marriage, that garden has provided plenty of punchlines. For ten years now, Sherrod has been growing an organic summer garden. My sole contribution is the compost bucket I fill week after week with vegetable scraps that I used to throw away in the era of BS (Before Sherrod).

Every summer, Sherrod wages a hopeless battle with the wild creatures who discover his garden and declare it the best neighborhood restaurant to everyone they know.

Every year, he tries again.

I love that about him. I love how excited he gets when he buys seeds at the local nursery, and how he yells like a cattle rancher when he wants me to run out and see the first shoots of the season. I love the look on his face when he brings in the first tomato and ceremoniously places it in the palm my hand. And I love how he always gives up the fight with wildlife, because no animal will ever have to fear my husband. He doesn’t have a mean bone in his body, even for this year’s cigar-chomping groundhog who has obliterated the zucchini and is now feasting on green beans.

When I smile at the memory of Sherrod’s grumbled punchline about that groundhog, I remember all of this about him. To me, that’s the surprise of love, the way it sneaks up on you and makes you feel better about the day, the week, the year. The way it comes with stories.

I’m thinking of my dear friend who recently described her husband’s reaction to the surge of power they witnessed in their young daughter during her softball game. He seldom cries, and her memory of his tears in that moment is a new story about this man she has loved for a very long time. When she shared it with me—and I will never take for granted that privilege of friendship—I could hear the softness in her voice, the love. Then I was tearing up.

Love is so contagious. Perhaps we should be talking about that more, and how love makes us softer and braver at the same time.

That little plaque in the top photo is a recent addition to our home. Its message—Be still and let love discover us--is a quote from the late John O’Donohue, an Irish poet, author and theologian. One of his books, To Bless The Space Between Us, is always on my bedside table and a frequent gift to people I cherish. I highly recommend his interview with Krista Tippett, one of the last he gave before his death in 2008, at age 53.

The quote on the plaque is from a passage in O’Donohue’s bestselling 1997 book, Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom:

“Love is our deepest nature, and consciously or unconsciously, each of us searches for love. We often choose such false ways to satisfy this deep hunger. An excessive concentration on our work, achievements, or spiritual quest can actually lead us away from the presence of love. In the work of soul, our false urgency can utterly mislead us. We do not need to go out to find love; rather we need to be still and let love discover us.”

I want this reminder every day, which is why the plaque is hanging between the kitchen window and our coffee pot.

There is no denying the urgency of these times. Four days ago, a gunman tried to assassinate former President Donald Trump. Another man died at that rally, and two others were critically injured.

Equally urgent is the need to stay tethered to the best in us, which springs from love. When O’Donohue urges us to be still, I hear: Keep your heart wide open. When he talks of letting love discover us, I am reminded that there is always good in the world trying to find us. Whenever we are remember beautiful moments in our lives, we extend the invitation for more to come.

How else to explain friends that show up later in life and in the nick of time? Friends like Maura Casey, a fellow columnist who, after hearing me give a speech, marched up to me and said, “We’re supposed to be friends.” Years later, she was the driving force behind my landing here on Substack. Benjamin Dreyer started out as the master copyeditor of my first book. He knows how shy I can be in a crowd (thank you again, Benjamin, for that rescue) and is one of my first calls whenever I’m on the brink. Jennifer DiBrienza is a fierce champion for so much good in the world, and has an uncanny ability for knowing exactly when I need a gentle reminder to breathe.

The night in New York City when Benjamin Dreyer talked me out of crawling under a table. He saw that I was nervous and never left my side.

I love these people. Each of them came into my life when I thought new, to-the-bone friendships were impossible. I’ve never been more grateful to be wrong. They haven’t replaced friends who’ve known me longer. They have expanded my understanding of what it means to be a friend, when we let love discover us.    

I can hear the question: Why am I writing about this now, when our country is on fire? Well, how can I not, when love is the one thing that saves us?

I know from experience that some are tempted to dismiss me as naïve. This makes me smile. That same husband who was swearing at the groundhog is a Democratic U.S. senator running for reelection this year. Naiveté walked out the door ages ago and took Wishful Thinking with her.  

Public service is the honor of a lifetime, and I do not have a moment’s regret that Sherrod is running again for the Senate. I do, however, wish I didn’t have to worry so much about him because he is. We’ve been living on high alert since January 6, 2021, when violent insurrectionists tried to overtake our government. This is a fact, not a grievance.

Each of us has our own ways of living with lingering fear. I am grateful for the joy that comes when my only thought is that everyone I love is happy and safe. Such moments feel like a magic spell. The good witch has waved her wand and granted my biggest wish.

Sherrod on the trail last Saturday afternoon. He was talking to supporters when I held up my phone and said, “Hey, you.” Click.

When I first heard about the assassination attempt on former President Donald Trump, I hoped it was a false rumor. I am relieved that he survived. I have frequently criticized his rhetoric as dangerous and inciting violence. This does not absolve me from praying for his full recovery.

Like millions of other Boomers, I remember when President John F. Kennedy was killed. I was in first grade and learned of his death from our beloved teacher, Mrs. Behrendt. She sat on a piano bench in front of the classroom and started to cry. “Children,” she said, “a terrible thing has happened today.” Hours later, I saw my tough, burly father cry for the first time.

I was so deeply affected by the reality of a murdered president that 57 years later a version of that day in my life made its way into my first novel. “There is a long time in me between knowing and telling,” Grace Paley once wrote. Trauma stays with us no matter how long it takes us to find the words.

This past weekend, a new generation of children learned that the former president of the United States had been shot. For many of them, this will change how they see the world, even if it takes them years to realize it. They need us to love them, and to be strong and brave enough to help them see how love prevails. For what is a childhood without that hope? Who are we if we fail them?

When I learned that Trump had been shot, I was standing a few feet away from Sherrod, watching him give a speech to a packed room in the town where he grew up. We’d had a long and happy day, and he was excited to be with the hometown crowd. So much laugher, so many smiles.

A group of young staffers was standing with me, and one of them asked softly if we should let Sherrod know about the shooting. I took a long look at Sherrod. I could tell he was winding up his speech.

“No,” I whispered.  “Let’s let him finish. He will find out soon enough.”

Everyone nodded. For three more minutes, we stood close together and watched our cheerful candidate believe nothing had changed. Sometimes, that’s what you do for love.