Kathy Coffey

It’s often said in an exasperated tone: “What was I thinking?” Exactly what Peter might have said, walking water, if he weren’t so terrified.  

The gospel story read this weekend might seem far-fetched, ‘til we remember all the times we’ve stuck our necks (or feet) into stormy waters: the project which surely won’t take too long or cost too much but which quickly grows far beyond the initial impulse, the brand new job, relationship, sport or neighborhood. Perhaps we’re reaching for a better self, one larger than our limitations. At this time of year, children are walking tremulously into kindergarten, or boarding school buses taking them into the scary, unknown worlds of middle school or high school. Entering each day, we may have a rough outline of what will happen, but can never predict exactly what mysteries might unfold. The ego craves security and control; understandably, we panic when “we see how strong the wind is.”

A marvelous female model for riding the waves is St. Clare, whose feast is Aug. 11. At the age of eighteen, she decided to follow St. Francis, though his scruffy little band was still controversial. Despite her beautiful idealism and firm commitment, Francis had no clear plan of what to do with her. She, and shortly after, her sister Agnes needed protection from their relatives’ wrath, and the Benedictines gave sanctuary until the little group could be established at San Damiano. Apparently Claire annoyed church authorities by her insistence on total poverty and on maintaining the ties with the friars that Francis had promised, but their grumbling didn’t faze her–on she sailed, serene.

Eventually, Clare became the first woman in the west to write a rule for monastics. It happened because the sisters’ “protector” Cadinal Hugolino wrote one full of fussy detail, later revised by Pope Innocent IV, but still obsessed with hierarchical authority.  On the other hand, Clare writes like one responding gladly to Jesus’ invitation, “Come.” She is filled with common sense, curiosity, wonder and awe, trust that the Holy Spirit who began the good work will help them to complete it. Hugolino’s insistence on the harsh austerity of the life contrasts dramatically with Clare’s vision of its joys.

As she wrote in 1235, “with swift pace, light step, unswerving feet…go forward securely, joyfully and swiftly on the path of prudent happiness.” And if that path happens to cross the sea? Well, trust Jesus’ outstretched hand to lift and carry.   

Two numbers I simply can’t wrap my head around: 37.5 billion, and 19.

The Department of Defense spent nearly $2 billion dollars a day in the first six days of the Iran war. Since then, the total cost of the war has ballooned to $37.5 billion, according to Defense Secretary Hegseth testifying before Congress July 21. He then asked for an “urgent” additional $88 billion. But apparently that is a dramatically low estimate.

Linda Bilmes, a professor at the Harvard Kennedy School and an expert on budgeting and public finance, said on “All Things Considered,” NPR, 7/25: “According to my analysis, the very up-front, short-term costs are, to date, about 120 billion.” The $37 billion that Secretary Hegseth cited is just the tip of the iceberg. Beyond that are “hidden costs”: care of veterans, replacement cost of missiles (at least 50% higher than initial cost), interest on the debt to pay these bills. “But that doesn’t include another $250 billion for rebuilding the hundreds of U.S. facilities across the Middle East that have been destroyed or damaged.”  

The mind reels. What could a school or hospital do with $370 billion?

Leaving that unanswerable question unanswered, let’s turn to the second number: 19. That’s the age of Isabella Gonzales, from Carrollton, Texas, an army private killed in Jordan. She had just graduated last year from a high school near Dallas. High school. Let that sink in. That is the truly tragic cost of this war. And how could anyone explain to her family why she died? No satisfactory explanation for the conflict has yet been provided to Congress.

Interestingly, Ari Honarvar wrote a relevant article in Yes! magazine which was first published on the grateful.org website in 2020. She describes her childhood during the eight-year Iran-Iraq War, which killed over a million people. “We Iranians had become accustomed to daily funerals, food rations, political oppression, and an ongoing threat of bombs and missiles.” One night, in her home city of Shiraz, Iran, sirens blared and the electricity was shut off, warning of an imminent attack. Her family crept to the rooftop to watch the anti-aircraft missiles shoot. To her seven-year-old eyes, it was a brilliant fireworks display. But beneath hovered the worry: who would be killed next?

“And then someone from another rooftop shouted a verse of Rumi’s poetry into the clear night air:

Even if, from the sky, poison befalls all,
I’m still sweetness
wrapped in sweetness
wrapped in sweetness…

This was a poetic challenge to the bombers, but it was also a gauntlet thrown down to any Persian in hearing range. The verse soon was rejoined from another rooftop. Even as a young child, I could feel the ecstasy of these verses in my heart, radiating to every cell of my being. In an instant, my world not only became sane, but infinite and glorious. And what bomb could ever touch that?”

So this is “the enemy”: people who exchange poetry across rooftops during a bombing. Some consolation comes from Frederick Buechner: “Life even at its most monotonous and backbreaking and heart-numbing has the Kingdom buried in it the way a field has treasure buried in it. …The Kingdom of God in the sense of holiness, goodness, beauty is as close as breathing and is crying out to be born both within ourselves and within the world…” (Secrets in the Dark, pp.148-9) When the numbers stagger, the Iranians remind us of our holy humanity.

What would you expect from two sisters and a brother? They criticize his clothing choices; he teases them about their latest crush. And maybe at one time, they did. So the feast of Marthy, Mary and Lazarus of Bethany celebrates an imperfect trio—and he wasn’t added ‘til 2021!

In an ironic reversal of the usual order, we know more about the women in the story of raising Lazarus than about the man. The gospel gives cameos of two different personalities: Martha, direct, confrontational, not a shred of syrupy politeness. Holding opposites, she not only accuses Jesus of a tragic delay; with bedrock certainty, she affirms his identity. It’s entirely possible she gives Jesus the mysterious affirmation he needs before he plunges into the passion awaiting him in Jerusalem.

“But Mary sat at home.” Sounds like her usual apathetic sitting at Jesus’ feet while Martha tore her hair out to prepare a meal. Or maybe more? The phrase “at home” always carries rich overtones in the gospel. Of course she was sad, but she could’ve reached deep into herself to a secure place of knowing that God’s care was untethered to specific events. Any parent could look at their own daughters and see the same radical personality differences as in these sisters. Many have pointed out that they represent the whole holy spectrum of action and contemplation.

Can we imagine the family conversation at dinner that night? Was the tone one of hushed awe and overwhelming gratitude, or did the customary taunts slip in?

“You sure had us worried there, Lazarus! Like, out of our minds with grief!”

He smiles. “Didn’t know I gave you such a jolt.”

“What was it like, to hear that voice and shake off the grave cloths?”

Lazarus replies slowly: “Well, I knew Martha would kill me again if I didn’t lurch out of that tomb. And it smelled! Better to be back with you two…”

Martha replies sternly: “Don’t ever joke about it!”

But Mary chimes in, conciliatory: “Look—Martha cooked all your favorite dishes.”

Then the chortle: “Sheesh—what a guy’s gotta go through to get a decent meal around here!”

The sisters happily dogpile their brother, whose protests are lost in a tangle and tumble of tickling, laughter and relief.

I hope it’s not too much of a stretch to compare the American democracy after its 250^th birthday to the parable of the mustard seed. Jesus, after all, invited open-ended interpretations and comparisons. If he’d wanted his teaching iron-clad, he would’ve started with that unfailing crowd-gripper: “Rule # 479D, section 12.”

I never realized that the beginnings of the thirteen colonies were so small and fragile, until I watched “The American Experiment,” a five-part series on Netflix. What the founders attempted had never been done: since the dawn of human history, people had lived beneath tyrannical rule. Some kings may have been slightly more benign, but the idea of “We the People” having any power was new—and probably scary. How did one shape a structure on that principle?

The show may have a bit much bayonetting of redcoats and lengthy deliberations of men in wigs, but it brings home the point: this form of government had never been tried and it was hard to figure out. As Lonnie G. Bunch III, secretary of the Smithsonian Institution underscores: the Declaration of Independence was aspirational. The framers might have been surprised if their enterprise lasted 25 years, let alone 250! And they would’ve marveled at how it inspired other countries around the world.

How it endured was a series of compromises and failures. Hilary Clinton ruefully points out that “the electoral college is an abomination—for obvious reasons.” She won the presidency by 3 million votes, but the system was built by compromise on top of compromise, trying to allow free and slave states, large and small states equal representation. As it turned out, a minority can overrule the majority—all because the Continental Congress was ending a long, hot summer in Philadelphia (wearing those wigs!) and wanted to go home.

That was only one of many disasters–Robert Miller, chief justice of the Pascua Yaqui tribe explains that native people had no representation in the decision making—nor did people of color nor women. Other events proved untrue to the founding goals: slavery, the internment of Japanese Americans during World War II, the refusal of due process to immigrants. But other moments shone: Mike Pence, defying Trump’s order, certifying the results of Biden’s 2020 election as an angry crowd called for his execution. Pence explains that he’d been inspired by Vice President Al Gore marking the “peaceful transfer of power” 20 years earlier: “A man who had lost the election narrowly, and with controversy, still yielded to the constitutional order.”

Given current political divisions, it’s remarkable how senators from both sides of the aisle express their reverence for the shaky American project. Sen. Ted Cruz (R—Texas) remembers how his dad, who had fled torture and imprisonment in Cuba in 1958, watched weeping as his son was sworn into office in 2013. Sen. Rand Paul (R—Kentucky) says the founders would be astonished that one branch, the legislative would so easily cede its power to the executive.

President George Washington, voiced by Martin Sheen, worried about demagoguery and retired after two terms rather than set the precedent of a life-long or inherited monarchy. Furthermore, he astonished everyone by showing up for the inauguration of his successor, John Adams. Ron Chernow, whose biography of Alexander Hamilton was the basis of the musical, blames Americans for neglecting to learn about the miracle that Washington and the other founders conjured, a miracle that is now in jeopardy. “You can’t begin to explain to them that the system the founders created is being trampled on if they don’t have the rudimentary sense of what the whole design was supposed to be,” he said in a New York times interview with Maureen Dowd July 4.

Democracy is under siege now, but it has been threatened before. Its precarious nature should inspire us to save it. Or, as conservative historian Yuval Levin says in the series, “The fear of losing it all is actually a source of our strength.” This experiment isn’t rooted in centuries of custom or rule, like the Hapsburg Empire or the British royal family. “If you look at the national anthem of England, it’s God Save the King. The national anthem of France is about how great France is. The national anthem of America is about barely making it through one night,” director Brian Knappenberger said. “It’s who we are. We’ve inherited something incredible – and we’re on the cusp of losing it.”

After many eloquent speakers and scholars, the most touching moments may be the final quiet ones. Sen. Lisa Blunt Rochester (D—Delaware) had seen the graves of her ancestors who were enslaved, crossed the Edmund Pettus Bridge during a protest, and survived the Jan. 6^th invasion of the Capitol. She says, “This experiment is just not finished… We are at a point where we have to choose: Who do we want to be? …Are we for some of us, or are we for all of us? I’m not going to lean back. I’m not going to quit… Democracy is worth it. It’s worth it.” She falls silent with tears in her eyes, and the rest is up to us. Will the metaphorical plant of the US stay healthy, resisting dictatorship, welcoming the birds of the sky to dwell in its branches?

Kateri would perk up, hearing this Sunday’s readings, evoking a world she knew well: meadows, snow, hills, rain, seed, earth, grain. Kateri and her native people understood how human life is physically and spiritually interwoven with the water, sun and soil that sustain us. They appreciated how the splendor of land, sky and sea inspires our sense of the divine.

Despite sparse biographical details, we know that Kateri, patron saint of the environment was remarkably cheerful, despite smallpox that marred her face and drastically affected her vision. Her joy was so contagious that children were drawn to her for storytelling. She showed a key hallmark of holiness: people wanted to be around her.

Beyond the brief biography, Kateri stands as a larger symbol for the reverence and repair our environment desperately needs. Thomas Berry in The Dream of the Earth underscores the significance of Native Americans to a country that seems aggressively bent on destroying the earth, greedily exploiting its natural resources. The environmental damage goes back to the first European settlers who saw themselves as “lordly rulers of the continent,” (p. 189) who could dominate it at will. Instead of meeting the indigenous cultures with curiosity and delight, wondering what they could teach, these pioneers called them “savages” needing redemption. Berry terms this “our compulsive savior instincts. We take up the burden of saving others even when in fact we destroy them.” (p. 182)

In the five centuries since the European invasion of the continent, the indigenous tribes suffered physically but won “a moral victory of unique dimensions.” (p. 183) Their spiritual tradition, which might be called a nature mysticism, reverenced God’s hand in creation. That attitude might indeed save the threatened planet, teaching “the art of communion with the earth.”

Kateri might’ve liked Debie Thomas’ read of Sunday’s parable of the sower (Mt. 13:1-23). Instead of focusing on the four types of soil, Thomas suggests in Into the Mess & Other Jesus Stories, we should look more at the sower. Blissfully flinging seed, he doesn’t much care where it lands. He’s extravagantly generous and open-handed. Like God, who in July is bounteous with sunlight, warmth, daisies, corn, tomatoes and wildly reaching vines. Can we marvel at that abundance, and treat with care the waters and soils which are their sources?

“although you have hidden these things from the wise and learned, you have revealed them to little ones.” Mt. 11:25

What does it really mean to live as God’s children or little ones?

One answer: photos of the World Cup, where children escort players onto the field, a traditional part of the pageantry since 2002. In the words of Mia Gómez Solis, age 7, “Mommy, I got to go with the captain! [of the Australian team] He held my little hand and we walked out.” 

Quaker sponsors this year’s Player Escort Program. In the United States, it has given 1,400-plus children from marginalized communities in or near the 11 host cities a “once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to walk professional players onto the pitch,” organizers say.  Non-profit organizations sponsor soccer clinics for mostly immigrant youth from underserved areas, then choose the children from participants. It’s such a small, human touch in that huge arena before a high stakes game with thousands of fans.

If we want to live as God’s children, it may not be too much of a stretch to imagine God taking our hands, assuring us we’re accompanied into a world that may seem big and overwhelming. And surprising us with the “thrill-of-a-lifetime”…

Another answer: our family has rented a beach house for vacation annually over the last ten years. It has become what St. Frances de Sales would call “our place of rest and delight,” where we are most alive, happy, at peace. We’ve watched the children grow on this holy ground, from toddlers eating sand to middle schoolers entertaining more sophisticated dangers like boogie boards. The primary activity and highlight of our time there is the children rushing into glacially cold waters, shrieking, splashing, and never wanting to get out. They know they’re not allowed to go in the water without an adult, so behind the small, frail silhouettes in the vast ocean poise vigilant parents, aunts and uncles, counting to make sure all six are there, ready to jump in if needed.   

That protective guard means the children can play carefree, dancing with waves, being part of something huge and potentially scary without worry. And we? Would we be so anxious if we were convinced of a protective parent behind us? Perhaps that unseen presence has brought us here to the beach after another year, with its trials and threats, depressions and exhilarations. Strength beyond our strength, love beneath our loves, we ask this God who creates and commands the seas to grace us with another year of joy, surprise, protection, survival and untold blessing. If we can image God as shepherd, why not as lifeguard?

“Whoever gives only a cup of cold water…” (Mt. 10:42)

Those of us “at a certain age” may still carry a built-in, hard-to-shake distrust of corporations and millionaire Hollywood actors. The tale of Water.org may help us shake both moldy assumptions.

An actor like Matt Damon could luxuriate in his wealth, probably enjoying multiple homes and private jets, right? Wrong. Twenty years ago, as he surveyed the developing world, he concluded that the lack of clean water undergirded severe poverty. It meant disease at worst, and at best, millions of families spending more than 15% of their income on water, girls who should be in school or women who could run small businesses instead collectively spending 200 million hours a day hauling buckets. He partnered with Gary White, an engineer and problem-solver who, traveling in Honduras, observed “how many above-ground graves there were, and how small most of them were.” Young children were dying from water-related diseases.

Then in India he met a woman who was paying a loan shark $125 in interest to buy a toilet. “What if?” he thought, “we lend this woman and millions like her the money for a toilet or water tap, they repay it gradually and own it in the end?” Minor miracles: microfinance institutions started lending for water connections and toilets, families repaid the loans at 98% within 2 years, White partnered with Damon and 90 million people on four continents have been helped.

Problem solved? Not quite. Two billion, or 1 in 4 people still live without access to clean water. Here’s where we come in. This summer, corporations– the Gap, Starbucks, Amazon, Ecolab and others still joining—are partnering with Water.org to educate people about the global water crisis and take meaningful action to help solve it. Learn more about this effort at https://getblue.water.org.

With each purchase from its Get Blue Collection spanning children through adult sizes, Gap will donate $5 to Water.org. Trust me—I have the t-shirt, my grandkids sport the jeans and sweatshirts, and the tiny bear wearing the slogan is highly coveted in our family. (Full disclosure: their dad is the CFO of water.org.)

From June 16 through July 7, 2026, Starbucks will donate $0.25 to Water.org for every purchase of an Iced Blue Coconut Matcha or a Blue Coconut Refresher.

Tell Alexa, “donate to water.org,” and Amazon will make a one-time donation of $5 in your name.

“Ecolab will commit $1 million through the Ecolab Foundation, with $500K delivered immediately and $500K delivered upon helping its customers achieve 255 billion gallons of water savings through the use of its products this year.”

Ever take it for granted that water flows from your faucet, or a hot shower streams forth at the turn of a dial? Next time you’re sipping that icy glass, think of the two billion people who still don’t have it.

“worth more than many sparrows” (Mt. 10:31)

How often I’ve seen unhoused people clumped under a bridge or hovered around a heating grate and dismissed them as anonymous, even slightly annoying. Never again. My attitude changed when I read Rough Sleepers by Tracy Kidder. The author’s work may be familiar to readers of Mountains beyond Mountains, describing the work of Dr. Paul Farmer in Haiti.

Here he profiles Dr. Jim O’Connell, whose career trajectory took an unexpected turn. After graduating from Harvard Medical School and being senior resident in the ICU at Mass General Hospital, he’d been awarded a prestigious fellowship in oncology at Memorial Sloan Kettering in New York. But the Boston hospital’s chief of medicine asked him to try—just for a year—working in their Health Care for the Homeless program.  That was in 1985. When Covid hits the streets in 2020, he was still at it. By then, his program had 400 employees, caring for 11,000 unhoused people a year. Kidder spent five years following O’Connell around, tending what he called “a system of friends.”

One of the most poignant chapters describes his orientation to the Pine Street Inn, a shelter with a clinic. It had been run by nurses, who initiated the young doctor. They encouraged him to set aside his stethoscope and focus on foot washing, for more than a month. He was astonished that he recognized some of the elderly men from the Mass General ER, where they were sullen, angry, resisting treatment. With their feet soothed, soaking in buckets, they were docile, conversational, even asking for medications. It made sense—they’d been on their feet all day, they were tired and their feet were sore, itchy. “They’d let you look at their feet before they’d let you examine any other part of them” (p. 32) and their feet could reveal larger problems. Beyond the biblical connotations, it put the doctor at the feet of the patient, reversing the usual order of authority talking down.

He would soon discover and work around other reversals—like relying on friendly bartenders who’d insist that heavy drinkers needing medicine must take it before they could get a drink. Some people were reluctant to come to a hospital, shelter or clinic, so Jim and his team designed “The Overnight Rescue Van,” which would bring food, blankets and medical help to the “rough sleepers,” a term from British slang for people who sleep in rough conditions  They navigated a mind-blowing labyrinth of regulations around what they could do, which Jim termed “the theater of the absurd.”

Jim would treat people who hadn’t seen a doctor, dentist or psychiatrist in years, with ailments he’d met only in textbooks—maggots in wounds, untreated cancers or hernias that had grown grotesquely large. At the low end of the prestige scale, Jim found this kind of health care “utterly fascinating” (p. 42). Perhaps it was because he could see the lovable person beneath an exterior that could be aggravating. As one of Jim’s assistants noted, an invisible barrier seems to block us from those slumped against a wall or begging at a corner. In the care of Jim and his team these people acquired identities—funny, quirky, caring for each other, and better understood knowing the trauma many had suffered. Or as Jim phrased it, “all that anger comes from a broken soul.” (p.189) A psychiatrist added, “How could you live on the streets without self-medicating? [with drugs and alcohol] I never could.” (p. 180)

Jim came to understand why so many unhoused people were averse to shelters–as one asked, “you ever try to sleep in a room with 100 people?” Kidder focuses on one character, Tony, and how his relationship with Jim, often erratic and frustrating, deepened into friendship. After decades of unconventional work, Jim still insisted, “it’s a privilege to be there. I love it.” His conversational manner was to say little, but remain unwaveringly attentive, “rarely ending a conversation himself, but allowing almost all of them to talk for as long as they wanted, as if he had all the time in the world.” (p. 272) 

Over the years, Jim’s patients (or those who adamantly refused treatment) became characters with great stories that could make him laugh and irritate him at the same time. Jim transformed shadowy figures in doorways to lively characters and took photos of them that became a portrait gallery. Some, like the Judge, concocted fictional identities, but others like two former college professors were so brilliant and intriguing, Jim had a monthly lunch with them.  Maybe Jim sees the unhoused as God does—not a heap of blankets beside the street, but precious children, with “every hair of [their] heads counted.” (Mt. 10: 30)

At first the sending forth in today’s gospel (Matthew 9:36-10:8) sounds doable: laborers for the harvest. There’s a certain novelty and delight in gathering the first lettuce or cherry tomatoes from the garden in June. But then Jesus ups the ante. As always, his expectations of us are startlingly high: cure the sick, raise the dead? Large order…

Not to dilute the call, but maybe to think of it from a slightly different angle. Health care workers by the thousands are laboring in hospitals, clinics, homes and offices to heal. Over and over, they show up without complaint, early in the morning, or for the night shift. For a fictional account of nurses working in ICUs during Covid, read Sacrament by Susan Straight, which I recently reviewed:  https://uscatholic.org/articles/202606/sacrament-evokes-healthcare-workers-grace-and-heroism/.  It shows dramatically the cost to nurses’ families when they had to work in isolation, always at high risk of becoming infected themselves. They rise to the occasion beautifully, becoming the healing hands of Christ to critically ill patients.

Raise the dead? Maybe not as dramatic as Lazarus, but my friend’s husband Tom died recently after a long illness during which she and her five children provided dedicated care. Even in their grief, they are now writing the obituary and eulogy, arranging the memorial service, handling countless details. In them and the eight grandchildren, Tom will resurrect—through a familiar facial expression or turn of phrase or way of thinking.

When Jesus asks us to do what seems preposterous, perhaps he means the ways that grace can make us our finest, bestest selves. Sometimes, after pulling off a task we dreaded, we say with surprise, “I handled that rather well…” We organize a closet, call a lonely friend or get ahead of a deadline. But Jesus isn’t at all surprised. He simply grins, “Knew you could do it!”

After nine years, my early morning job of walking the grandkids to school daily comes to an end. The youngest will graduate from the nearby elementary school, and exhilarating walks in the crisp air are over. It was a fine wake-up call, stepping into a shiny new day, and walking briskly, our speed adapted to our degree of lateness. (What colossal relief to hear the first bell after I’d already begun the walk home!) The skies were sometimes marbled, sometimes bright blue and on a few rainy days, we popped open our umbrellas.

At times, we’d walk with high anticipation—a special event at school, a trip planned for the weekend–or reflection after an experience: “What was your favorite thing in Seattle?” Sometimes we’d carry gingerly: the diorama, the Valentine box, the bouquet for Teacher Appreciation Week. Always, the backpack and the water bottle, sometimes the mittens, hats and coats.

Especially in the early years, we were attuned to every snail inching along the sidewalk, to diamonds left by rain in the long grass, to a necklace of jewels along one fence when the sun would strike the dew, to the “fairy decorations for a ball” when moisture would shine in intricate cobwebs. Underlying the sadness of the ending is deep gratitude that we survived vulnerable, dangerous years with only minor scrapes. A couple times, she or I almost fell, but we saved each other—luckily we were holding hands or looping arms. No car accidents, school shootings or major illnesses, just the usual flus and colds and Covids.

It’s appropriate that June 8 marks the feast of Gerard Manley Hopkins, Jesuit poet who captured the precious, fleeting nature of human life. He’d grin with appreciation for our rhythm on a foggy day as we marched along chanting, “One misty, moisty morning/When foggy was the weather/I chanced to meet an old man, clothed all in leather.” He describes eloquently the scenery we might’ve taken for granted: “the azurous hung hills are his [Christ’s] world-wielding shoulder” or “my heart in hiding/ Stirred for a bird—the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!”

And above all, he’d appreciate the nostalgia a grandparent feels for the small, wispy-haired child, reluctant to part in the morning, and running pell-mell to me at pick-up time, bellowing, “Grammy!” Hopkins’ “Spring and Fall” is dedicated to a young girl named Margaret, who’s sad about autumn leaves falling. He concludes with advice not only for her, but for a newly grounded grandparent:

Now no matter, child, the name:

Sorrow’s springs are the same…

It is the blight man was born for,

It is Margaret you mourn for.

Ah yes, but not a bad way to spend nine years?