The Annunciation

Mid-Eighties.
My parents would have been about thirty,
With three young children,
Living in a shack so squalid
The kitchen cabinets blew open
When the Santa Ana’s blew.
Cost of living: outrageous.
Support: always lacking.

I was young, and was shielded from much
Of the hardship and struggle that
True poverty brings,

Though I once asked my Mom why she
Felt compelled to use up every last
Bit of salt dough for ornaments,
Even though none of her children
Or grandchildren were still enjoying it.
“Did you live during the Great Depression?”
I asked, bemused and a bit annoyed.

Weeks later, she reminded me,
“Our time on support was almost
Exactly as long as the Great Depression.
It formed me.”

Just so.

My Dad had one week off. With a tiny budget,
Camping was the option available,
And they had heard that Monterey was nice.

Six hours in the dependable brown Corolla,
Stuffed with five persons, food for a week,
Tent and supplies strapped on top.

It was summer, and hot, and after six hours,
The baby was wet and we were all a bit sweaty
And grumpy, ready to stretch and be outdoors.

And we arrived to find no room.

I wonder about this moment.
Was this simply one more minor frustration?
Or did this seem like the culmination of
A few years of bewildering setbacks?
How close to despair did that moment bring them?

But that is their story, not mine.

This is mine.

Surrounded at the park entrance by other cars,
Filled with other disappointed travelers,
Dad went to see what he could do
(Probably suspecting rightly that there was nothing.)

A man came to Mom, announced,
“I’m leaving a day early. Once you’re in,
You can renew as many days as you want.
Have a good time.”

The wonder of that moment,
Transformed from shelterless to
Chosen.

The wonder increased when the site
Proved to be the nicest in the whole camp.
(Of course we looked—if you’re going to be in
A miracle, might as well explore how extensive is
The good and perfect gift.)

Why us?
Ha! Why not us?

We have a prodigal father.