Tapestry of faithful surprises

I have a problem with the New England spring and fall. I can’t decide between the kaleidoscopic April colors or the monochromatic, orange hues of October. I have a love affair with them both and I long for our impending trysts every summer and winter. As I lingered at the Brigham stop, I knew it was about time for our rendezvous. The sunshine hit my skin with the right hint of warmth to make the incessant winter a memory. And the breeze danced with the right vigor, not too strong or light. I wanted to bribe the heavens to keep the sunlight and breeze around. But instead I offered prayers for their permanence. Spring is finally shining on my adopted city of Boston. I thought I had my treat for the day, but if I foresaw the awaiting banquet a few miles away, what would have sufficed as an offering?

I got on the E line and as I indulged in bending the Charlie card with my fingers, Copley square was approaching. I have always wanted to see Copley, but had not yet. As I heard the driver's impatient voice that screamed "Caapley Squaya", my feet rushed out as if I was meeting someone. The green mermaid graffiti and ipod advertisements on the tunnel wall kept me from reading the signs. But there was only one exit.

I stepped on to the sidewalk and my eyes stared in disbelief at this encased array of red, orange, pink and white beauties. They were tulips, the foreign flower I have only seen on calendars. The spires, columns and arches of a church named Trinity gloated as their backdrop. On my left, as Trinity’s twin, the Public library paraded two bronze woman gatekeepers with their flowing robes. Their eyes seemed to persuade me to touch them or to peruse the books inside. The tulips on center stage were piercingly celestial as light bathed them and the breeze swayed them. I wondered if a million hour undivided gaze could gather up their charm. I was smitten.

In a trial to etch them forever, I took pictures. But I realized that my camera can’t translate the feast before me. I stared at them individually and glanced across them to drink deep the beauty of their collectivity. I was jealous of every spectator’s vantage point and wandered around the iron bars to see more.

On another April day, I was once again in disbelief. I heard that my beloved square named for a painter was red from a Marathon bomb. As I froze, these words on the library wall became my anthem upwards: “Sicut Patribus Sit Deus nobis” which translates, “as to our fathers may God be to us”.