Summer hours continue. Daily Episcopalian will publish every other day this week.
By Todd Donatelli
It is called “Taste of Chicago”, a ten-day festival of food, music, art and people gathered in and around the lakefront at Grant Park. According to the website, about 70 restaurants and 3 million people are present over the ten days leading to July 4. It is a collection of all sorts and conditions of folks. It is a broad snapshot of Chicago.
It had stiff competition this year from “Taste of Benson”, a much lesser known but every bit as significant event which took place in Chicago the same weekend. There was a grand variety of food, a wide array of entertainment, and plenty of storytellers. It is actually known as the Benson Picnic, an annual summer Sunday gathering of my grandmother’s family (on my mother’s side) which began in the mid 1950’s.
Each year the invitations go out to all members of the family. One never knows how many will attend from year to year. This year’s total was 78; the record is 108. Some are unable to attend for health reasons. One niece is currently working in Spain and a weekend trip to Chicago is not practical. Some send notes if they cannot attend and others may not be heard from.
There is a family journal into which we add notes and pictures each summer. It includes notations both joyful and tragic. There is the late 60’s entry from my oldest brother, “Keep the faith baby.” There is the entry about our cousin Lee who died in a plane crash in 1977. Included is the official American citizenship document of Otto Benson dated September 14, 1892. Otto came to this country to avoid conscription in the German Army, something our mother did not tell my older brothers or me during the Vietnam years. “The three of you didn’t need any more encouragement at that time,” she later laughed. There is an amazing history of hair styles.
I must admit that as with all families there are times you cannot wait to see some members of the family and other times you may wish to avoid someone for one reason or another. I now realize I have been the subject of both sentiments for members of the family. There have been some significant disagreements in the family at times and passions are not held inside. As often as not folks figured ways to move ahead even as they might wonder about the maturity of another.
A large family tree is displayed beginning with my grandmother and her siblings. It is written on very large sheets of paper. Several years ago I was standing in front of the tree with a cousin who had been recently remarried after having gone through a divorce years before. “So what is the protocol for this?” they asked, referring to their new and former spouses. As the tree is written in ink, no one gets deleted from the tree. New persons are added, but no one is ever deleted. Once you are part of the family, you are part of the family. Some may stay away for a time, but no one is ever deleted.
As this annual reunion is in its sixth decade, there has been much change in the family. I recall being too young to play in the annual softball game. A few years ago I asked my brothers if they realized we were the oldest ones now playing. Their looks suggested they had. Gone is Grandma Myrtle and Grandpa Art. Gone is Chester, Mildred, Oz, Roy and a host of folks who were the mainstays for so many years. They are gone and yet recalled in pictures and in stories that make you laugh deeply even as they bring tears for missing them. Their presence with us is real.
The Picnic stirs many deep emotions in me. It is one of those rare places that holds in a small space the expanse of my life: my origins, my gathered experiences, the people who have known me and stood by me in all sorts and conditions of years including years I am proud of and some years I would not mind forgetting. It holds the memories of my grandparents, aunts and uncles and cousins now gone. It reminds me of the place I have taken in the family, the place these elders once held. It reminds me no matter how far I have traveled, no matter how far I have wandered, no matter how much I have amassed or squandered, there is a place and a people present, waiting with a meal to share. All of the above makes for a sacred event.
We are in that period of the Liturgical Calendar called Ordinary Time, the Season after Pentecost; the season which tells us we are the body of Christ, we are the physical manifestation of God, the family of God. In this space we continue to recall our origins, our people (every human being), our stories, our losses and our joys. We recall what has been learned and what has been squandered. We recall times when we were a tight group and times some of us wandered away. We recall when our separation provided the space and hunger for the work of being reunited. There are all sorts and conditions in this body; there are all sorts and conditions of stories.
In this and every season we have our own “taste of”: again and again we gather at table to remember who is present and who is not, what has been lost and what has been found. We remember the story started long before us and will continue long after we are gone. We recall that some wander and none are deleted. We gather at table and find the meal always present and waiting for us. It is our taste of the sacred.
The Very Reverend Todd Donatelli is dean of The Cathedral of All Souls in Asheville, North Carolina. His published writing includes the chapter, “Art and Transformation” in “From Nomads to Pilgrims”, edited by Diana Butler Bass and Joseph Stewart-Sicking. He blogs at Contemplation from the Angle.