In season of rebirth, the sounds and smiles are testament

The Boston Globe

Beverly Beckham

Rebirth, everywhere. Across the street and down the street. In my front yard and just beyond my backyard. In the ground and above the ground.

Al, my neighbor across the street whose heart stopped beating 230 days ago, turned 80 last Friday. Lazarus, I call him. And he smiles and shakes his head in wonderment and gratitude and turns to his wife, Katherine, and she smiles, too.

Behind me, just outside my backyard, a house is being built. Machines come every day. Tractors. Bulldozers. Big things that moan and screech and beep when they back up, that tear up the ground and shatter silence.

And I, who complain about leaf blowers with their screechy whine, and empty trucks that barrel down my street, metal against metal, an ungodly noise, and tree trimmers, and sidewalk sweepers, and cacophony in general, welcome the daily sounds of this new construction. Because it is resurrection in action, life eternal, like the snowbells in bloom right now, like the crocus and hyacinth creeping out of the dark toward the light.

Last year, there was no construction going on outside my backyard. There was a custom-built house that looked straight out of a Hollywood set. Neat. Perfect. Beautiful. But it burned to the ground one night last October and the Rudnicks, he in his 80s and she in her 70s, escaped with their lives but with everything else lost.

They could have chosen not to rebuild. They could have sold the land and moved to an already built house somewhere nearby. No hassle.

But instead, they're picking up the pieces and starting again.

An act of faith. And hope.

A resurrection.

The night of the fire, I stood with my neighbor Diane, resurrection the furthest thing from my mind. We watched the flames destroy in minutes the accumulations of a lifetime, not licking the way fire is said to lick, but devouring - unholy tongues everywhere, turning into ash cars, beds, bureaus, photographs, books, pots and pans, a houseful and a lifetime of things.

The fire terrified me because dozens of firefighters with all their equipment couldn't stop it from destroying that house. And it was only because the night was misty and there was no breeze that the fire didn't destroy Diane's or mine.

I was terrified, too, three months earlier when Al collapsed. I watched the paramedics try to revive Al, paddling and pumping, Al ashen, Al unconscious, Al not responding. And I thought how awful it is that a life can be lost in seconds. And I wondered, if we're lucky and we get Al back, will he be Al?

We got him back and he is Al, 80 now. Lucky him. Lucky us. And the fire that destroyed the Rudnicks' home, that incinerated everything they owned, failed to destroy them.

They are the promise of Easter for me this year. They are what I celebrate these long days of Lent. Al and the Rudnicks. Not just the days growing longer and the sun growing stronger. Not just the soft ground and the patches of grass that are strikingly green. Not just the snowbells I found last week under some leaves or the crocuses and hyacinths in my daughter's front yard. Not just the birds I hear singing in the morning these days, or the two robins a friend said she saw.

These are all typical of spring, rebirths, yes, and miracles, too, but so common that although we're pleased we are seldom amazed.

Al and the Rudnicks amaze me. Al in his spring jacket, not his winter one. Al slipping into the passenger seat in the morning to go somewhere with Katherine. Al crossing the street, grinning.

The bulldozer scrapes away, backing up, beep beep beeping, all day, every day, slowly, slowly tearing down and building up. Life goes on. Life and hope and God's good grace in front of me and behind me, front door, back door, rebirth everywhere I look.