It seems they grow up faster than this

“Every cliche about kids is true; they grow up so quickly,
you blink and they’re gone,
and you have to spend the time with them now.
But that’s a joy.” ~ Liam Neeson

Photographer Frans Hofmeester filmed his daughter every week from birth up until she turned twelve. He then made this neat time-lapse video.

Unclogging the drain

There’s a lot of construction going on downtown and apparently somebody made a boo-boo by cutting through a power line. Our entire office building went dark (as did a large portion of downtown Lincoln) and while the power was off for only ten minutes we’re still waiting for our networks to get back online. So while I wait I’m going to try to get this stuff that’s been collecting in my head and on scraps of paper into some sort of coherent form. Forgive me my bullet points.

• It seems I’ve become aware of a lot of death lately. People I know, people I don’t know, people who I don’t know but are known by people I know. From infants to teenagers to adults. Every one of them someone’s child. Every one of them leaving behind a grieving parent or parents. Death is a part of life…the great “circle of life” and all that. I get it, believe me. As a Catholic I believe I’m more acutely aware of it than I ever was pre-Catholicism and I’m glad my children don’t think of death as some foreign icky thing to be avoided at all cost. I wish I had more time to explain this now but unfortunately I don’t.
• Back to the recent awareness with death. A good friend of mine lost a son recently. He was in his twenties. Stacye is a writer and once some time passed she did as I knew she’d do: she wrote about it. And then did so again. And again. Beautifully in fact, and with the grace I knew she possessed. Naturally she has cut way back on posting things on Facebook and writing in general, at least publically. She may be keeping a private journal of her own thoughts. I hope she is. Because if I’m right she needs to write…needs to bring order to her thoughts and the swirling whirling emotions that have surrounded her in this time.
• Confession: I really hate writing. I hate it for the very reason stated above. Because I find myself almost hourly finding a subject to write about, some of them even interesting, that I want to share with others. But also that I want to share with myself and in some small way bring an order to the massive globstopper in my brain that seems to clutter up the place. I have to write it down as a means of eliminating clutter, and if I can help someone along the way by means of an understanding than it’s a bonus, baby. By placing it in the trash, or at times the recycling bin, I am able to keep it from growing out of control and stinking up the place. But damn it I wish it wasn’t that way sometimes. I wish I could just take something in by means of one of the senses and immediately let it go. But instead it ferments too long and then I don’t get wine. I get grape juice. And really crappy grape juice at that that leaves nothing but a headache behind. So I hate writing.

Not being able to write didn't work out so well for this guy.

• And that is precisely why I love to write.
• About the same time as my friend’s loss the dad I know across the street from our house also lost a child, his 16-year old son. I’ve written a little about it here. A few weeks later he and I were standing on his curb talking. While we spoke he kept glancing into my front yard where my two youngest were running and screaming and playing. “They grow up so fast, Jeff,” he said. And then he told me three things: “Play with your kids. Take them out for ice cream. Remember all of it.” And then he hugged me and went inside his house.
• Here’s what’s been marinating since he told me these three things. I am a steward of my children. I think all parents know this on some level. My oldest is 16, but I’m making a note to ask my friend Stacye sometime how she feels about it. My guess is that it never stops. As a Christian when talk turns to the principles of stewardship we mention three: time, talent and treasure. Time is another word for prayer; Talent is our service towards the Church and our fellow man; and Treasure is our tithing or monetary contributions towards worthy causes. So for weeks now I’ve been trying to fit a square peg into a round hole and write a clever blogpost about what this father said to me, kids, parenting and stewardship. The closest I came was
  • Time = Remember all of it.
  • Talent = Play with your kids.
  • Treasure = Take them out for ice cream.
• Or something like that. Either way, I thought his advice was pitch-perfect. But I couldn’t seem to unclog the drain and write it down.
• In both instances, Stacye and the dad across the street, I failed to reach out to them. I don’t know why I froze up when it counted, but I did. I told myself that I’d give them time to get through the first few days and week or so of numbness and being overwhelmed by it all, including all of the visitors and well-wishers. After that initial rush we are left alone, and that is when we need someone the most. So I waited. And then I began to feel I’d waited too long. Then I felt uncomfortable for having waited too long and I certainly couldn’t call or talk to them then, right? I cannot believe how poorly I did at this. Fail.
• A little over a week ago this email landed in one of my inboxes: “Special prayers are needed for Kirk N. and Family (wife Tania, sons Jordan, Ethan, & Gabriel) as they lost their unborn baby girl Thursday night. May God fill their hearts with strength & courage during this time of extreme sorrow.” Almost to the second I got a text from my wife to call her. She’d heard the news too.
• I didn’t meet Kirk until last fall when he initiated a men’s Bible Study/Prayer program at our parish called “That Man Is You”. We met for 13 weeks in the fall, took a break for Christmas/New Year’s, and just finished up the 13 weeks of the spring “semester.” We met every Wednesday morning from 6:30 to 7:30am (“we” being around 50 men) and it has been a real blessing to us men and our marriages, relationships, etc. Kirk is a quiet, unassuming man who once you get to know him…well, let’s just say the well runs deep within him. He’s one of those guys who doesn’t say much, but when he does you want to listen.
• Kirk’s wife Tania had just entered into the Catholic faith at the Easter Vigil under two weeks ago. A week ago on Wednesday morning as our prayer group was finishing up I asked Kirk how the Vigil had gone. He smiled broadly and said it was fantastic and that the boys (in grades 7, 4 and 1) were all so happy for their mom. And in just a few weeks they would be welcoming their new daughter. Life was wonderful.
• Except that twenty-four hours later it wasn’t so wonderful. Having noticed that she hadn’t felt the baby move that day Tania went to her doctor. There she received the worst news any of us could receive. For reasons unknown her little girl had died. Sunday morning at 3am she was induced and delivered little Sophia Gianna Therese. Our pastor was there to baptize Sophia and mourn with the family. Gianna was the confirmation name Tania had chosen when she became Catholic just a week before. St. Gianna Beretta Molla, pray for them.
• I found a short, beautiful poem when I was writing this.
• Yesterday morning I attended the funeral Mass for little Sophia. Her dad and her grandfather carried her tiny white coffin to the front of our church where it rested on the tiniest funeral bier I’ve seen. I went early, so as to sit in the pew alone with my thoughts. I prayed the Office for the Dead from the Liturgy of the Hours. The last lines of the opening hymn are

In him all our sorrow,
in him all our joy.

In him hope of glory,
in him all our love.

In him our redemption,
in him all our grace.

In him our salvation,
in him all our peace.

• I find Catholic funerals much more comforting, and I suppose that comes as no great surprise. I do because like a proper Catholic wedding, the main reason we are there is to honor God. God is the center and the emphasis of the event. Not the bride or the happy couple. And not the honored dead. Of course, they are prominent and we are there to honor them and their memory, but the focus remains on God and our faith, whether within the Sacrament of Marriage and the union of the man and woman, or in the hope of joining Christ in the Resurrection.
• The readings, music, and homily by Fr. Johnson were perfect. I was a mess through the first part of the Mass but I composed myself and focused on the liturgy. That was a tremendous help.
• And then the three brothers processed to the front with the offeratory gifts before the Liturgy of the Eucharist while the pianist sang a moving version of Ten Thousand Angels. Cue water faucets.
• For some reason I thought back to when I was a teenager and my thoughts turned to funerals. I remember thinking that for my own funeral I wanted something angst-ridden like Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here” or “Dust in the Wind” by Kansas played at my funeral. Thank God that didn’t happen.
• And not just because of the crappy funeral music. But because I’m still, you know…here.
• If I were to choose now, I’d lean more towards having a slower version of this song played at my funeral Mass. That and a little Mozart for good measure.
• Kirk said a few brief words at the end of his daughter’s funeral about how much the family had appreciated all the prayers to give them strength to get through this time. He mentioned a quote by Saint Faustina that he’d read in her diary (a book I highly recommend as one of the pillars of spiritual reading). I wish I’d captured it correctly, but paraphrasing her she’d said “Sometimes God creates children for his own purposes.” Kirk said it brought him great comfort to think that perhaps that was his daughter’s role.
• While I can’t recall  the exact quote above, I did find this one from an early Father of the Church, St. Gregory of Nyssa:

Well, your child may have departed from you, but he has gone to Christ the Lord. For you his eyes have been shut, but they are opened to the eternal light: he is gone from your table, but is now added to the table of angels. The plant was uprooted from here, but planted in paradise. From the earthly kingdom he was transferred to the heavenly kingdom. You see what was exchanged for what. Are you sad because you no longer see the beauty of the face of your child? But this happens, because you do not see the real beauty of the soul with which he rejoices in the heavenly feast. How beautiful indeed is the eye that sees God! How sweet indeed is the mouth that is adorned with divine melodies!

• All of these events remind us that life does go on. It really is a big, and whole, circle. We’re born, we live, we die. We recently spent forty days of preparation for Easter, experiencing the triumph of Palm Sunday, and the agonies of Christ’s Passion. We celebrated the victory of Easter and the Resurrection, and thus began fifty days of celebration. Forty days to prepare for a fifty day party. I’ll take it. But even during the party there will be reminders that the struggle on this earthly plane continue. Since Easter we celebrated Divine Mercy Sunday, children have received their First Holy Communion, prayer groups continue as do weddings and funerals. We have mourned and we have celebrated. We continue to be the best stewards we can be. We are the Church Militant on earth, waiting to ultimately join the Church Triumphant in Heaven.
• Last thoughts: After the funeral I went home to change for work. The house was empty except for our beagle puppy Buster, so I took him out to the backyard to enjoy some sunshine before I had to drive to work. I sat on the park bench in the little garden area (a work in progress) while he frolicked in the warm sunshine, rolling around in the grass and soaking in every ray of the sun possible.
• While I sat there a squirrel perched in one of the tall evergreen trees in our fence line chirked angrily at Buster. And I mean this squirrel went off. I laughed out loud because years ago when we still had our first dog, Fenway, we rented a house that had a large oak tree in the middle of the small back yard where he would trap squirrels. They were climb down to the lowest branch possible and chew him out for treeing them. I love that memory. Looks like I’ll be hearing more of it (the chirking) going forward.
• Sitting on the weatherworn bench I make a note to myself to replace the wood slats. These are getting a little weak having been exposed to the elements for a few years. Twelve small pieces of lumber should do the trick. And then I decide it’s time to build the wooden arbor trellis over the bench, too. And thus a summer project is born.
• Is there anything more wonderful than working with our hands? For my money there is nothing more satisfying than creating or working on something in this manner. It’s almost divine. Maybe it is.
• Before going inside I decide to join Buster for a roll around the grass and soak up some of the sun’s rays. Why should he have all the fun? So I do. Therapy.
• I hate writing. I love it so.

***

Plunger to the face image source.

Friday Five (Vol. 28) – Dreams edition

— 1 —

As Debbie Harry famously crooned: Dreaming is free. And I thought I’d do a little today, mostly because I woke up with the first song I link to below echoing in my head, but also just to do a little light writing. I’d considered the subject of dreams before as examples of them are scattered throughout Scripture and the lives of the saints. But that involved heavier lifting than I’m up for today.

First up, a song from my daughter’s favorite movie, Tangled. No matter who we are or our situation, we all need a dream. Make it a big one, and be flexible and receptive to change. Like a million other little boys I wanted to grow up to pitch at Fenway Park. Ok, so that didn’t work out…but I found a new dream or two instead.

I’ve Got A Dream – Tangled
Though my face leaves people screaming
There’s a child behind it, dreaming
Like everybody else, I’ve got a dream

— 2 —

“God has created me to do him some definite service; he has committed some work to me which he has not committed to another. I have my mission – I may never know it in this life, but I shall be told it in the next… I have a part in a great work; I am a link in a chain, a bond of connection between persons…” ~ Cardinal John Henry Newman

— 3 —

Part of getting a new dream is realizing that our dreams are not meant to be kept to ourselves. A great dream is a selfless one…a mission…and it is often in serving others that we awake to find we’ve suddenly achieved a dream of our own even if it wasn’t the one we set out to accomplish. The lyrics I quote below are meaningful to me today as half of my life is behind me and I am the sum of my experiences, both good and bad. When you dream, do not be afraid to fail or make a fool of yourself. You have to put yourself out there.

“My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think that I am following Your Will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please You does in fact please You. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing…” ~ Thomas Merton

Dream On – Aerosmith
Half my life is in books written pages
Live and learn from fools and from sages

— 4 —

“I must keep alive in myself the desire for my true country, which I shall not find till after death; I must never let it get snowed under or turned aside; I must make it the main object of life to press on to that other country and to help others to do the same.” ~ C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity

— 5 —

Fairy tales are more than true; not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten.” ~ G.K. Chesterton

Photo source: photos.cleveland.com

And now that I have reached the halfway point (or more) I find that my dreams transition to those of my children. To do what I can to help them not just achieve their own, but to learn how to dream themselves. I find I do this through books, stories, movies and musicals and plays and sonnets and songs. And through fairy tales. Especially through fairy tales. These tales, while seeming to be overly simplistic or idealistic to some, demonstrate over and over again the real life virtues of Fides, Spes and Caritas (Faith, Hope and Love). Of Prudence and Temperance, and of Fortitude and Justice. Without dreams and fairy tales the seven opposites of these virtues flourish (pride, envy, wrath, sloth, greed, gluttony and lust) can flourish. If we, or our children or others we influence in this life, do not learn, practice and share the light of these virtues the gathering darkness will indeed grow more suffocating.

“Fairy tale does not deny the existence of sorrow and failure: the possibility of these is necessary to the joy of deliverance. It denies (in the face of much evidence, if you will) universal final defeat…giving a fleeting glimpse of Joy; Joy beyond the walls of the world, poignant as grief.” ~ J.R.R. Tolkien

I Have A Dream – ABBA
If you see the wonder of a fairy tale
You can take the future even if you fail
I believe in angels
Something good in everything I see

 

Friday Five (Vol. 22)

— 1 —

Kindergarten Roundup for my youngest child is today at her school. Already in pre-school she was so excited for today that she didn’t want to go to bed last night, though she cried during supper that she “didn’t want to get shot.” I about choked on my food and asked her what she meant. She had misunderstood something she’d heard from her mom or brothers about vaccinations and once we were able to clarify this for her she visibly relaxed.

It’s trite to say this I suppose, but it really does seem like only yesterday that we were attending this same “roundup” with our oldest child, now 16 and a sophomore in high school. I was able to be there that day with my wife as we watched him be led off hand-in-hand with his future classmates and teacher as they went to visit the classroom that would be theirs the following fall, while parents stayed behind to listen to the school administration and fill out forms. He looked back just once, and then grudgingly walked on. Three years ago we did the same thing for our 2nd grader. He never looked back and was eager to go.

I am unable to be there today to watch my daughter make this same walk. I have this photo taken of her last fall to have an idea of what it will be like for my wife.

— 2 —

Psalm 107

One of the neatest projects I’ve come across in a long while is the creation of the illuminated St. John’s Bible. It is the first illuminated bible commissioned in over 500 years and took a decade to complete. Calligrapher Donald Jackson led this project that resulted in a hand-written, hand-illuminated Bible. The website for this project is worth looking at to get an idea of the process involved in putting together this amazing work. It has been featured on the Today show, and a massive tour various locations in the world allowed people to view this magnificent work in person. This epic piece of art is comprised of seven volumes. I received my first volume yesterday, Gospels and Acts, and spent much time last night looking through it. It is large in size (10” x 15”) and 136 pages of beautifully handwritten calligraphy as text. But what really makes this book unique is the artwork involved. While the originals must be stunning in their use of gold inlay to truly illuminate the page, the reproductions are still in themselves unlike anything I’d seen before. I plan to purchase the six remaining volumes over the course of the year and look forward to using them often. I also purchased The Art of Saint John’s Bible: A Reader’s Guide to Pentateuch, Psalms, Gospels and Acts as a companion to help educate myself on the techniques as well as a guide for reflection.

I invite you to explore each volume by paging through them here.

To see a small example of what is meant by “illumination” and how light is incorporated into the reading/meditating/praying experience, go here.

— 3 —

Several years ago I had remarked to a friend of mine who is a priest that I would love to handwrite and/or illustrate in a similar manner a Book of the Hours. At that time I had been reading Eamon Duffy’s Marking the Hours: English People and Their Prayers, 1240-1570. I was also becoming an avid participant in praying the Divine Office, something I still do today. In Duffy’s book he provides an excellent history of the use of the Book of Hours as well as a lot of fascinating illustrations of the lavish illuminated manuscripts used by the wealthy or the noble, to the mass-produced and sparsely illustrated volumes used by the common man or woman. You are able to see where the books became customized by their owners with the inclusion of their own prayers, or as they were handed down from generation to generation. I recall one particular book where you could see the name of the Pope and other things Catholic vigorously erased and replaced by more inane names at the time of the Reformation. This was done to avoid the persecution that raged in England and resulted in the deaths of thousands of Catholics including those who were caught with this book in their possession.

I’d still love to pursue a project like that one day. While it wouldn’t be handwritten I think that with computer technology being what it is and my experience with publishing software, I’m sure I could produce a pretty fair “book” of my very own.

To see an excellent example of one of a 15th century Book of Hours, go here.

— 4 —

I can recall on several occasions during my lifetime as a Protestant and a Catholic hearing this phrase:

“If you are ever accused of being a Christian will there be enough evidence to convict you?”

It seemed a trite saying, said with the smug confidence of those who felt safe and secure of their living in the United States of America. Given all that’s been going on in this land, building slowly over time and reaching a crescendo with the current administration, it doesn’t seem so trite to many of us anymore. I had never in my wildest dreams thought that my lifetime or even my own children’s lifetimes might actually see the words “Christian” and “convict” in the same sentence.

Watching the news the past few days it is plain to see that the prejudices and selfishness as old as man and woman are still rampant and at work today. The historical ignorance and lack of rational thought or argument is staggering to behold. As it has been for over 2000 years the boogeyman to these fools is the Church. Stalin had a name for their ilk: useful idiots. He used them to rid Russia of the Church. These artists, intelligentsia and the like did his dirty work. They metaphorically dug the mass grave for him. And then when their task was complete he lined them up in front of that hole and shot them, covering their bodies under layers of the earth and the lost pages of history. The history that is not lost teaches us that dangerous fools, these useful idiots, will always be among us.

I will not go quietly.

— 5 —

I’ve spoken often of historical ignorance on this blog, including this installment. I own a degree in History and have never stopped being an historian. Watching The History Channel is not the same thing. Sorry people. It don’t cut it.

H/T: Mark Shea for the graphic, and for astutely naming this generation: Generation Narcissus.

A Profile in Perspective: Garvan Byrne

I know I tend to talk a lot about keeping things in perspective and some may tire of it. Before you do get weary of the subject however, I’d like to introduce you to Garvan Byrne. A boy who at 11 was more of a man than I am at four times that age. He is one of the best definitions of faith I’ve ever seen.

Below is the eight minute edited version. It’s worth your while to watch the whole interview: Part One, Part Two and Part Three. I enjoy watching him draw and talk about his love of art, in particular Snoopy, in Part Three.

The Flight from Failure to Redemption

This morning at The Catholic Thing I read a piece by Ashley McGuire about writing that really struck home. She writes:

As a little girl, I found it infinitely frustrating that I could not fly. Sure, people can fly in planes, but we can’t fly. It took me a couple of decades to gradually discover that, in fact, humans can fly. Writing is flying. Flying looks like this: keyboard before you, wrist arched from the weight of an eager index finger hovering above a letter. Any letter. Lower and click. And you’re off!

Suddenly you are restrained by nothing. The stars are letters and punctuation. They collide into fantastic supernovas. Your imagination has an engine. Eventually you are pulled back in as everything comes together on a page, leaving ink smudges on your fingertips or crisp black lines on a bright screen. The sweet assurance that your flight was not a dream.

McGuire’s right, and in those moments when the flightpath is clear there are few things as exhilarating as the transfer of lucid thought to paper or screen. Ah, sweet lucidity.

I’ve been in a rut lately when it comes to writing. Last week it seemed my plane would never come out of the clouds. This week I couldn’t coax the plane away from the gate let alone taxi down the runway. This isn’t to say I’ve tried. I’ve written more than one rant or screed but have stopped halfway through them all. I was unable to keep on any discernable path and they all just meandered through the narrative. And what was that narrative? The anger and sadness that is the state of things at Penn State. When I first heard about the grand jury report on ESPN Radio’s Mike & Mike In The Morning on my drive to work last week I could hardly believe it. I felt sick to my stomach. So naturally during a slow part of my morning I read the actual grand jury report. And then I walked outside to a bench at the corner of 13th & O Streets and sat in the autumn morning sun to catch my breath, trying not to throw up. Like many people I suppose I then read too much…too many commentaries and articles and opinion pieces. I tried to write my own. I failed, because my indignant and righteous anger kept my shaking hands from conveying any coherency at all to my keyboard.

The targets of my disgust were of course the alleged perpetrator of these crimes, as well as those who covered for him including the head football coach himself. I tried to write about assigning blame to anything I could: the worship of football, the promotion of deviance in our culture, and on and on.

And then there was of course my main target: Mike McQueary. I still have to pause while typing to ensure I stop myself from going off into the narrative weeds once more. Instead of pouring all of that bile onto the screen I am choosing another path.

I know how the Penn State community as a whole feels. Not those who covered this up. Not the few hundred morons who were rioting when Joe Paterno was fired or chanting his name in blind allegiance at the PSU/Nebraska football game a few days later. I’m talking about the over 44,000 current students and over 500,000 alumni and supporters of that university. I know how they feel because I, and a billion other Catholics, lived through it a decade ago. We are still living through it.

We know what it’s like to have the name of the institution to which you belong dragged through the mud because of the actions of horrible men living a double life. We know what it’s like to be further horrified as the scope of the coverup by other men in a position to put a stop to the crimes are exposed. We know what it’s like to dread another day’s newspaper, or the cable news, or the internet, as the wound continues to grow and to bleed. We know what it is to be “guilty by association” even though we had nothing whatsoever to do with the crimes.

It is known to Catholics as The Long Lent of 2002. It has taken a decade to even begin to heal. In time, Penn State will heal as well, but there is still a lot of poison that needs to be expunged from their wound.

We know what it is to continue to be ridiculed and scorned by those with an agenda. To be the butt of jokes. Penn State will learn this as well. It will not be fair. But it will still happen. It does not change who you are as a person. It does not define you or your institution.

There are similarities. Last week we learned of university officials who covered for Sandusky, and we saw students gather around the statue of Paterno and chant and riot. A decade ago, for every bishop who engaged in covering their backsides there were parishes who gathered around Fr. Soandso when his disgusting crimes were uncovered and saying they would stand by him through his unwarranted persecution.

To those of us who will be so quick to condemn an entire university or group of people, whether Catholics or Penn State, I suggest you say to yourself what I finally said to myself a few days ago: “There but for the grace of God, go I.”

When I began to realize that my hatred for a man I’d never met and a man I only knew through a damning grand jury report was burning so white hot that I was losing sleep, that phrase came to me. For while I’d desperately love to believe that had I stumbled onto the scene in the locker room showers that McQueary did I would have become Instant Chuck Norris and dispensed justice, I can’t honestly say that because I wasn’t the one who did. It’s too easy today to be a combox warrior on the internet, thump our chests with braggadocio and SHOUT IN BIG CAPITAL LETTERS WHAT WE’D HAVE DONE. But we don’t know. Because it wasn’t us. People do weird things in shocking situations. When an evil is exposed involving someone we don’t know, everybody is so sure that they are a hero who would have beaten the living hell out of the accused and dragged his sorry ass to the local police station. I hope I would have.

In the blogosphere comboxes we are all Dirty Harry. Sadly, history has shown again and again that what the combox warriors say they’d do and the reality of what they do are two different things.

• After sleeping with and impregnating Uriah’s wife Bathsheba, David ordered his commanding officer to put Uriah in the front of the battle and have the soldiers draw back from him so that he would be killed. The commander did nothing. He and David failed.
• When he cried out that he would never deny his Lord, and yet denied him three times before the dawn, Peter failed.

There are too many to list, not all of them biblical of course. German citizens living in towns near death camps. The Chinese populace who walked by the crumpled form of a two-year-old little girl who’d been struck not once, but twice, by passing cars before dying at the hospital. We all fail every day on a massive scale.

Yet redemption can and does come despite all the shame and failure. David and Peter both redeemed themselves mightily. Despite the sneering and the dismissals by its critics the Catholic Church is doing the same. I’m choosing to pray that Mike McQueary, and others at Penn State, somehow do so as well.

The Fall was the result of a simple formula: Pride, disobedience, death. That formula is still at work today.

For those of us blindsided by the events within the Catholic Church, we reminded ourselves that our faith is in Christ Jesus, not in His human messengers, sinners all. When our attention is diverted from the message to the messenger, the object of our faith is obscured and a whirlwind of emotions threatens to upend the foundation of hope we have in Him who saves.

Through it all my foundation never changed because He does not change. I learned long ago to not put my blind trust in men or confidence in man’s princes. I won’t pretend to know who or what the half-million PSU member family puts their trust. It does appear that for too long they put it in men, and in particular one man. A football coach.

“There but for the grace of God, go I.”

45 minutes, or a lifetime

“Everything around her is a silver pool of light …”

The best three minutes of your day today via The Washington Post:

Twenty-four hours after surgery to fix her cleft lip, a little Brazilian girl’s face is still swollen and painful.

But the look in her eyes when she sees her new face in the mirror for the first time is hard to mistake.

To see and be seen, both physically and metaphorically, is so integral to being human, so that without these doctors she might have been relegated to a life where people look away. If you’re ever seeking a charity to support, please consider Operation Smile. Another way that you can help these beautiful cleft affected children is to send cleft bottles to orphanages through great organizations like Love Without Boundaries.

Many cleft babies in third world countries suffer severe malnutrition and often die from not being able to get enough nutrition in their first year. If cleft bottles are not available and they are not in most developing countries including China,these children are given milk with a spoon or an eye dropper which is very time consuming and difficult.

These types of palate correction operations can take as little as 45 minutes. Yet there are those who are justifying the aborting of children in the womb because of this with such frequency that the British government is fighting to suppress the statistics of the frequency in which this occurs. And a cleft palate is a less common reason used to justify killing children. Here in America we have our own reasons of course, which are then used to accomplish things the way we do best: through litigation. Imagine being this child (his name is Bryan) and growing up one day to learn that your parents wanted you dead so much that they sued under Florida’s wrongful birth statute after you were born. (Wrongful birth? How upside down have we become?)

The time spent for an actual abortion procedure takes 5-10 minutes for first trimester procedures, and 15-20 minutes for second trimester procedures, depending on gestation, with an additional 3-5 hours for paperwork, blood draw, lab tests, counseling, etc. Plus 20-30 minutes of in-clinic recovery time. And the rest of your life to think about it.

45 minutes.

While it is true that his parents didn’t give him up for adoption or worse, leave him to die, I can’t imagine the shock they had when Bryan was born missing three limbs after being told repeatedly by their OB-GYN that the ultrasound showed everything was normal. Some have even argued that they “had” to say they would have had him aborted in order to sue and win their case. This, however, is called perjury. Pray for this family.

His handicap in this life won’t be his lack of limbs. It will be his parents reminding him over and over that he’s “not normal.” To Bryan and his parents I wish to introduce the inspirational Nick Vujicic and the other members of The Butterfly Circus.

Halfway: a draft from a portion of my book’s introduction

For what is fatherhood at its best, everywhere, but the training of good men to take the teacher’s place when his work is done? – Henry Van Dyke, from “Au Large” in the collection Little Rivers. (1895)

During Lent a few weeks ago I came home around 10pm and saw that the light was still on in my oldest son’s basement bedroom. I had been out with a few close friends praying a rosary and Divine Mercy chaplet for the unborn and their moms as we do each Lent. Knowing that he had to be up at 5:15am the next morning for a 6am high school baseball practice I went downstairs to see if he’d fallen asleep with the lights on. What I found was a visibly stressed out 15-year-old lying on his bed. I can’t describe it for you other than to say that a parent recognizes these things. After making some small talk I convinced him to come outside with me to go for a walk to clear his head so we could talk about whatever it was that was upsetting him. It was a nice evening, requiring only our hooded pullovers, and we walked a few blocks in silence to our neighborhood park where we found a bench to sit down. We sat in silence for long periods of time while he found his voice; I won’t go into specifics about what was bothering him but after an hour we went back in the house and to bed. He was wiped out during our 5:40am drive to practice but when I picked him up after the after-school practice thirteen hours later he was all smiles and the most relaxed I’d seen him in weeks.

It was after our talk the night before while I laid in my bed that I realized I was running out of time to get to writing this book. During our discussion I had given advice to my son that I myself was not following. I was not stretching, growing, reaching or testing myself as I had told him to do. I was growing complacent towards this book project as I had done to so many other projects. Who was I to tell my son to suck it up and push himself because “anything worth doing is hard”, if I myself was unwilling to do the same?

So I’m writing it now, in stops and starts, at my dining room table on my laptop and intermittently in my basement upon my PC. Where ever and when ever I can find some quiet time, I write by electric light or candle light, fueled by a glass of water, wine or bourbon.

I write.

I write because of events such as I had a few months ago. I found myself standing before our bathroom mirror looking at my reflection. It was a few weeks after my 43^rd birthday. I stood and stared at my bed-head hair. Man, there was a lot of gray up there. I can always tell when it’s time for a haircut because of the amount of gray. For two or three brief seconds I will admit that I considered coloring my hair. But that vanity quickly passed. A lot of vanities are being let go as I grow older, but on this morning I felt too old, too gray, and too overweight. It wasn’t a pretty reflection.

Part of what I saw reflected back were tired eyes. I had stayed up until 3am the night before reading Promise Me by Richard Paul Evans. I began the book at 10pm, was quickly hooked, and decided to finish it in one sitting. At midnight I left my bed to sit in the living room chair so I wouldn’t bother my wife.

The first quarter of the book disturbed me, as it presented the picture of a man who had much but threw it all away due to his selfish actions. It hit close to home. Too close. I’ve known that man. I’ve shaken my head in disgust and silence at him. I’ve counseled him or those he’s left in his wake. I’ve even been that man. While that story arc ended and the book progressed beyond it, its memory and lessons will stay with me.

I write because as I wrote earlier I am now 43 years old. A few months back I was sent a link to one of those silly websites in which you answer some basic health and family background questions and it will tell you the date you will die. And so to God and country I can now announce that I have 15,676 days, 23 hours, 59 minutes, and 30 seconds remaining above room temperature. Or at least I did a few months ago on March 26, 2011. Now I’m closer to 15,600 days left. I’m going to die on Feb. 23, 2054. I’ll be 86. According to this website I am almost exactly at the halfway point of my lifespan.

Of course this is nonsense. This assumes I will not have an accident, will not be subject to sudden storm activity out here on the prairie, or other world events that are beyond my control. But it was interesting to look upon the numbers and dates and contemplate the meaning of it all. On one hand, I can relax right? I mean, I have FORTY-THREE MORE YEARS to write this book, or any book for that matter. That’s plenty of time to meet my goals of sharing my thoughts on life within its pages with my children.

I’m not going to take that chance. If we learn anything from our experiences each day it is to expect the unexpected. Because it isn’t just about filling your days with events and activities. It is merely not losing sight that each moment has the potential to be your last, and that some moment will be. There will be the last time you make love, the last beer you ever drink, the last time you see your kids, the last time you listen to your favorite Don Henley song. We cannot regret that there will be a last time for everything. But we should savor it in its due time, and let go of it all without fear.

So I write.

On the morning I stood before the mirror I started to read another book. It was a book for men by Fr. Larry Richards named Be A Man: Becoming the Man God Created You to Be. At the end of the first chapter he asks these questions:

1. Do you live for today or eternity?
2. What would a person who was honest say about you if you died today?
3. What do you want them to say?

I’m still finding my answers to these questions. I’m learning to recognize them as I write this book.

I’m finding they appear out of nowhere and in what I read each day. Recently I came across something I’d never read before, a poem by Will Allen Dromgoole called The Bridge Builder. It’s a wonderful work that I think relevant to this subject matter.

The Bridge Builder
by Will Allen Dromgoole

An old man, going a lone highway,
Came, at the evening, cold and gray,
To a chasm, vast, and deep, and wide,
Through which was flowing a sullen tide.

The old man crossed in the twilight dim;
The sullen stream had no fear for him;
But he turned, when safe on the other side,
And built a bridge to span the tide.

“Old man,” said a fellow pilgrim, near,
“You are wasting strength with building here;
Your journey will end with the ending day;
You never again will pass this way;
You’ve crossed the chasm, deep and wide-
Why build you this bridge at the evening tide?”

The builder lifted his old gray head:
“Good friend, in the path I have come,” he said,
“There followeth after me today,
A youth, whose feet must pass this way.

This chasm, that has been naught to me,
To that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be.
He, too, must cross in the twilight dim;
Good friend, I am building this bridge for him.”

Perhaps you read this and asked yourself, as I did, if we build bridges every place that people may struggle to get across then how will they acquire the strength and knowledge to cross them like the old man did? Aren’t we weakening our youth by building bridges everywhere? After some thought it came to me: we build the bridges not to weaken those who follow, but so they may have the strength to go further than we did, and become better men and women than we were. I didn’t read the poem to say that we need to build bridges so that things will be “easier” for those who come after us. To me, the poem seemed to say that our actions aren’t just for us, but also have an impact on those who come after us. My favorite line in Scripture is from St. Luke: “To whom much is given, much will be required.” (Lk 12:48) We are given much. It is terribly selfish not to share it with those who follow. We have bridges to build, leading and helping those who may follow.

Even if what we do makes certain things easier for the next generation there will always be new struggles to draw strength from. The old man built that bridge so the youth could conquer chasms that he would never even meet. There will always be another chasm ahead. If the youth is wise, he’ll pause on that bridge and remember the work of the old men who built it before him. These bridges, built upon the struggle, hardship and firm foundation of experience from those who have gone before us, are the key to building a generation of young men and women better than ourselves.

This poem makes me think about the reason I exist. To pave the way for my own children, so that they may travel faster, easier and give them the opportunity to achieve more than I was able in my own life. It is why my parents built bridges for their children and still are to this day. My own bridge is half finished. I’ve a long way to go yet.

There’s an old saying that “A society grows great when old men plant trees whose shade they know they shall never sit in.” I’ve also heard it said that “The best time to plant a tree was twenty years ago. The second best time is now.”

And so I write…

©2011 Jeff A Walker. All Rights Reserved.

Sometimes when you lose, you win

“Let’s play Dad.”

Putting my book down, I asked her. “What are we going to play, Sophie?”

Smiling a knowing smile, she handed me a large paper cutout doll of Belle from Beauty and the Beast. “We’re going to play,” was all she told me as she sat next to me on the couch, holding a cutout of Ariel from The Little Mermaid.

“I’m going to wear this yellow dress Dad, and you can wear this pink one. Ok?”

“Ok Soph. What are we playing?”

“We’re going to talk about my party.”

Now in my best warbly-pitched-alto-falsetto-Belle-on-steroids voice: “What kind of party are you having Ariel?”

Suppressing her giggles at my play-princess voice, she said, “It’s my birthday party. Are you going to come?”

“I’d love to come! Will there be dancing?”

“No, no dancing. But there will be cake.”

“I like cake. But I like to dance too. Will any princes be coming?”

“Yes, they will be there. They’re bringing me presents. I don’t have any toys in my house.”

“But you have lots of toys. What happened to them all?”

“All my dolls died. They aren’t able to play any more.”

(stifling my horrified laugh)

“Ummmm…ok. I’d better go home to change into my pretty dress for your party. I’ll see you later.”

“Here, you can wear my white wedding dress for the party. It’s beautiful and will look good on you.”

“Thank you! I’ll run home now to my castle and get ready.”

Now at this point I got distracted by homework questions from Jonah, a quick conversation with Janell, and layed my Belle down flat on the couch. Sophie, growing impatient at my “sleeping” Belle said in a sweet singsong voice “It’s time for my party. Aren’t you coming?”

Realizing that I’d better wrap up Jonah’s questions and get back to Sophie I said “But I’m soooooo tired. I’m sleeping.”

“But didn’t you see? The moon went down and the sun came up and my party is starting in five minutes.”

“Ok. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“But it’ll be over in five minutes.”

At this point Belle can be heard muttering under her breath.

“Ok ok…I threw on my dress and I’m here, ready for your party.”

“But it’s over now. You missed it.”

(exasperated princess-y sigh)

“It’s over…but did you bring me a present?”

“Why yes! Yes I did. Here you go. Happy birthday! I’m sorry I missed your party.”

“That’s ok. I love presents! What did you bring me?”

“Why Ariel you’ll just have to open it and find out for yourself.”

(pretending to rustle paper and open a present)

“Oh. It’s a red car.”

“Yes! I know you love cars.”

“But I love pink cars. This one’s red.”

(facepalm)

“Let’s play something else Dad. How about Go Fish?”

“Ok, but after a quick game it’s bedtime.”

So we played a “quick game” of Go Fish on the living room floor. My ruthless daughter proceeded to slaughter me despite the fact that she lays her cards face up on the floor where I can see them. Always while singing in her sweet singsong voice, “Go fish, Dad.”

It was at that moment I remembered a favorite line from a movie that I had watched again recently, What Dreams May Come. Robin Williams tells his wife, played by Annabella Sciorra, “Sometimes when you lose, you win.” She may have won the game and had the birthday party, but I won the moments. Sweet irreplaceable moments with my daughter.

Bedtime. Tucking her into her bottom bunk, I wrapped her in her covers like a big burrito and got on my knees for my nightly hugs.

“You give great hugs, Sophie. I love your hugs.”

She giggled. “You say that every night Dad.”

“I know I do. I say it because it’s true.”

“But you say it every night. Why do you say it?”

Brushing her blond hair out of her face I hug her again and tell her. “Because I want you to always be able to remember that your daddy loved your hugs.”

“And my kisses?”

“Yes Sophie. And your kisses. Goodnight sweetpea.”

“Goodnight Dad. I love you.”

“I love you too. I bet I’ll beat you in Go Fish tomorrow.”

“Yeah right Dad.”

Sometimes when you lose, you win.

“Goodnight Soph.”

“Goodnight.”

Postscript: After finishing his homework Jonah wanted to play Go Fish, too. So we played…and kept playing…until I finally beat him. A dad’s gotta win sometimes too ya know.

©2011 Jeff A Walker. All Rights Reserved.

The Pink Arrow

Sophia means “wisdom” in Greek. She was the legendary mother of the virgin martyrs Faith, Hope and Charity. Three days after their deaths she is said to have passed peacefully away while praying by their tomb, and is thought to be the personification of an allegory. Meaning, I guess, that if we lose the first three, wisdom is doomed to follow. Or, wisdom exists only because of the three things it has given “birth” to. Jeez…that’s a little deep, eh? I’ll stop before I hurt myself.

The philosopher Soren Kierkegaard has reminded us that “we know backward, but we must live forward.” And so we must, but I’m taking a moment today to sneak a peek back. Doing so reveals to me my “forward.”

Just four short years ago our bit of wisdom arrived. On Valentine’s Day 2007 Sophia Rose entered this world. And with her arrival came the sense that our lives had changed forever.

I recall writing that I had “found my vocation.” Our vocation is not only the way that we love God but also the way that God loves us. In Ephesians St. Paul exhorts us to “live a life worthy of the calling” we have received. Thomas Merton, a 20th century Trappist monk wrote “a man knows when he has found his vocation when he stops thinking about living and begins living.” I believed I had finally found mine. I still do.

God’s invitation to live out our unique vocations is part of what makes the world so rich. “How gloriously different are the saints,” wrote C.S. Lewis. Problems arise when we begin to believe that we have to be someone else to be holy. We try to use someone else’s map to heaven when God has already planted in our soul all the directions we need. In that way, we ignore our own call to sanctity. When admirers used to visit Calcutta to see Mother Teresa, she would tell many of them, “Find your own Calcutta.”

Mother Teresa not only had her order of nuns, but she also had an order of priests and brothers. One of the brothers came complaining to Mother. He was mad at his superior because the superior asked the brother to do something other than what he wanted to do, so he got very frustrated. He went running to Mother and said, “Mother, my vocation is to work with lepers.” Mother said, “Your vocation, Brother, is to belong to Jesus. That is your vocation. That means you will do anything He tells you. If you belong to Jesus, you will be His fool.” Mother was echoing St. Paul when he says:

Let no one deceive himself. If any one among you considers himself wise in this age, let him become a fool so as to become wise. – 1 Cor 3:18

This is a difficult concept for we Americans in this secular age. We’re not a terribly humble bunch. We refuse to submit ourselves to any authority, let alone something from as “antiquated” and “irrelevant” as Scripture. So we continue to fumble along in the dark, pissed off when things don’t work, convinced that we were right, someone else was wrong, and the way to get our way is to sue someone or completely tear down their character. Just read any story online in your local paper or favorite website for news these days, paying special attention to the comment boxes. It used to be rare to see so much ignorance on parade. Now it is our national pastime.

Thomas Merton, in No Man Is an Island wrote: Why do we have to spend our lives striving to be something that we would never want to be, if we only knew what we wanted? Why do we waste our time doing such things which, if we only stopped to think about them, are just the opposite of what we were made for?

It’s no secret that I love to write. For the past few years I really believed I had at long last found my vocation. What I was made for. Once I figured that out, however, I began to try too hard. I put too much pressure upon myself to “perform.” I had forgotten the cardinal rule of writing: above all write for yourself. Once you begin to write for a specific audience or people the vocation can become an albatross about your neck. Mine grew quite heavy. I have learned and been reminded that it is not necessary that we succeed in everything. A man can be perfect and still reap no fruit from his work, and it may happen that a man who is able to accomplish very little is much more of a person than another who seems to accomplish very much.

Merton reminded me that fame is not the reason one writes. The burning desire for fame is of course a manifestation of pride, a pride that seeks not the hiddenness of the desert or the humility of the unseen act, but the adulation of others. Ultimately it is a destructive mind-set, since one can never receive enough acclaim to satisfy the craving for attention or fame or notoriety. Inexorably, it leads to despair and so must be resisted. But while the path to humility is necessary, it is a difficult one to tread. In Henri Nouwen’s words, one strives to seek the freedom to be “hidden from the world, but visible to God.”

And I wonder if the more hidden the act, the more valued it is by God. I am reminded of the legend of a master sculptor in one of the great medieval cathedrals of France. The old man spent hours and hours carving the back of a statue of Mary, lovingly finishing the intricate curves and folds of her gown. But, someone asked the sculptor, what’s the point? That statue will be placed in a dark niche against the wall, where certainly no one will ever see the back of it.

God will see it, he answered.

I long for that kind of holiness. But I am very far from it. To find that type of holiness and success in my vocation leaves me with little to no time for blogging. I also prefer to write for myself for now, as well as for my children. It was with this intention in mind that I began a project in November. It is a love letter of sorts to my children. Actually, it’s twenty-six letters. Will other eyes read them one day? Perhaps. But I find that the words have come easier by sitting down to write them in long hand with pen and paper, addressed to my kids, before typing it into my computer.

On Friday night when I arrived home from work my daughter did what she often does. She gets a running head of steam and flies towards me, arms outstretched, for what I have dubbed the “Sophie Sassafras Slam-bam Hug” (Sassafras being her family nickname). I scoop down and fling her up into the air to a chorus of giggles. Lately she’s been insisting that she is no longer a little girl, but as she is turning four on Monday she is in fact a “big girl.” Holding Sophie tonight parallel to the ground and looking up at me I asked her “Where’s my little girl? Who is this big girl in my arms? Where is my little girl?”

“Is she under here?” I lifted up her shirt and blew a raspberry on her tummy to squeals of laughter. “No dad! I’m right here. I’m a big girl!”

I turned her over to face the ground and repeated the question as well as the raspberry on her lower back. “Is my little girl back here?” More squeals of delight. “No! Dad, I’m a big girl!”

Holding her in my arms so we are face-to-face I repeat the question. “Where is my little girl?”

Sophie took my face in her hands and with her blue eyes looking into mine she smiled and said “I’m right here, dad.”

And so she is.

In the Psalms there is a verse for fathers that while especially true in the more agrarian society of three thousand years ago when many hands were needed with the flocks or the crops, it still holds truth today.

Children too are a gift from the LORD, the fruit of the womb, a reward. Like arrows in the hand of a warrior are the children born in one’s youth. Blessed is the man whose quivers are full. They will never be shamed contending with foes at the gate. (Psalm 127:3-5)

My sons are young, strong arrows and in my mind’s eye I imagine them as being green in color as they are still maturing. And then I have that younger, other arrow. It is lightly covered in glitter and has just a hint of a pink outline highlighted on its feathers.

These arrows are my vocation. Many secondary vocations come from this quiver. Writing is distant among them.

They are my faith, my hope and my charity. They are my Calcutta.

I am a willing fool. This is my Wisdom.

©2011 Jeff A Walker. All Rights Reserved.