On Thursday, I walked home from Sally's house through an unusually warm, beautiful afternoon. The sun illuminated the roofs of the University on the hill and the earth smelled warm, of thawing and early spring. The first robin I've seen in months hopped toward a round carpet of delicate white snowdrops. Beatrix ran up and down hills that I have come to know so well.

Earlier that afternoon, Sally and I had been raking leaves away from her bulbs, clipping back a bush already studded with pink buds. Bea and her buddy, Will, ran around the yard, yelling to each other, making a muddy hill covered with sycamore sticks. They have known each other since Will's birth three years ago. Sal and I have known each other like sisters through many years. In many ways, she is my link to the wider community of Greene County; she is my thread to her fine family, whom she shares with me generously, but more importantly, she has been my sister through the many happinesses and griefs of the past years, one of many dear friends here who have brought us so much joy.

Finally we reached home; the bus whined by and Elspeth and Merry burst in the door. Shortly after their arrival and the flurry of snacks and school news, the mail carrier arrived and rang the doorbell. "Certified letter for you," she said.

I signed the form. "Isn't it a lovely day?" I asked, and she agreed.

We met Martin out on a little bricked street not far from our house, where we extended our walk through the warm afternoon. Elspeth and Bea ran ahead down the broken sidewalk. Martin told me about his day; we discussed how, despite its many imperfections, this place where we live is a good place, full of beauty and grace.

At home I handed him the envelope from the University, where he has unconditionally poured his energy, love, and thought for the last almost seven years. He slit the envelope and pulled out one piece of paper. There was a moment of silence as we stared at the letter. Martin looked up at me with stunned eyes. "I was not granted tenure or promotion," he said.

In that moment, our entire reality shifted, almost as if the room had comically swung around in a full circle. It was the singular feeling that I have experienced only a few times in my life: the sudden shattering of what you hoped was certain, the entrance of a new and unwelcome reality.

For those of you who are not familiar with academia, this letter means that Martin will be employed at the University for one more year. After that, we are cut loose.

In the past day, we have reeled with the new reality of our situation. We have felt upset but mostly we have felt deeply grieved, faced now with the very likely conclusion of our time here: a sudden move, the uprooting of our children from people they have known since birth, or for Merry, since she was two; the departure from a community that we have tirelessly invested ourselves in. There are many things that we weep for.

But we are overcome by gratitude for the support of our community, both here and elsewhere. Martin feels support from his colleagues; we can't get into the details of the situation, but suffice it to say that Martin does not feel betrayed by anyone whom he deeply trusted, and so the sense of betrayal is small and much easier to forgive; betrayal by those whom you trust and love is shattering and that, mercifully, we have been spared in every respect.

Martin and I both reflected that this past 30 hours has been much like being at your own funeral, annointed by the love of many good people. Martin's job may have been taken from him, but the things that really make us who we are--our family, our vision and convictions, the many threads of love from so many people--these things nobody can ever take from us, not really, because they are held by God's hands, and in that place, we are truly safe.

Last night, Sally saw Luis, Nancy's oldest son, at the grocery store. "Did you hear about Uncle Martin?" he asked her. "I'm going to do what I can for him," he said, "Because he's family."

What more could we ask for? Family, near and far, surrounding us with the currents of their love. We are more grateful and humbled than we can express.