St. Paul and the Painted Ladies

For almost three weeks my oldest son was home prior to deploying overseas. At least twice a day I’d go outside to our covered patio behind the garage and find him there, sitting with Buster his beagle, iPhone in hand, smoking a cigarette. Just three years ago I’d have been mortified by the sight of him sitting with no shirt, tattoos on his shoulders, smoking a cigarette. But there are battles to fight in this life that are worth fighting and as he left for boot camp later that October in 2014 I knew those were two skirmishes to be avoided. Three years later I find myself not minding so much.

And as was the case the last time he was sent overseas I’d go outside and be met by the starkness of his absence. It was like being struck in the face to go back there where I prayed a rosary or the Divine Office every day and have that image so fresh in my mind of him occupying that space. Yet I remind myself on a regular basis that he’ll return, or at least that’s the hope. I know there are hundreds and thousands of parents each day who face an empty patio chair, couch or bed of a loved one who will not be returning as they have left the earth. This sobers me and I’m able to keep myself together.

Yes, I take pictures of ash now.

The Sunday we took him to the Omaha airport to fly back to his base a few days before he deployed, we returned home to a house once again occupied by the four of us. Five counting Buster. I walked slowly outside and stared at the place we he’d sat just hours before and had “a last cigarette at home” and talked to me about “just stuff.” Sitting in his spot I looked down and saw the remnants of his habit: cigarette ashes. When he left for Iraq last year I’d swept the patio rug clean right away. This time, however, I’ve left them to linger. In a few weeks we’ll be sweeping the rug before rolling it up and putting it away for the winter. But for now I decided they could stay. Two years ago he promised me he would give up smoking when his four years were over, and he told me on that final Sunday morning that he was going to use his deployment to do so. Where he’s going cigarettes will be hard to come by, so he figured it would be the best time to do it. Right now I don’t care. I just want my son back.

The days before he arrived home for his leave my wife had clipped the dying flowers off the row of Black-eyed Susans we have near our deck. During his visit one small, defiant flower emerged and stood watch. I checked this morning in the rain and note that almost a month later it’s still there. For reasons I cannot explain this has brought me much comfort and every day when I’m outside praying I focus on that burst of yellow among the drab hues of autumn: the dark greens and the browns.

At her post.

On this, a gray, rainy day, and feeling down, I took my breviary to the Pink Sisters chapel as I try to do each week. I prayed for my family, friends, for peace but most especially for my son and his fellow soldiers. The following passage in the Office of Readings caught my eye and I spent the next 15-20 minutes re-reading and meditating upon it.

There is no need to worry; but if there is anything you need, pray for it, asking God for it with prayer and thanksgiving, and that peace of God, which is so much greater than we can understand, will guard your hearts and your thoughts, in Christ Jesus. Finally, brothers, fill your minds with everything that is true, everything that is noble, everything that is good and pure, everything that we love and honor, and everything that can be thought virtuous or worthy of praise. Keep doing all the things that you learnt from me and have been taught by me and have heard or seen that I do. Then the God of peace will be with you. – Philippians 4:6-9

The nuns have a little bookstore at the front entryway and I paged through a book that caught my eye. A Mind At Peace: Reclaiming an Ordered Soul in the Age of Distraction  contains a forward by Fr. Paul Scalia, son of the recently deceased Supreme Court justice Antonin Scalia. He writes:

But we live in a schizophrenic culture. As much as we might want that peace, we still desire the world’s distractions. We love the gifts of the digital age: “Big Data,” connectivity, constant streaming, and so forth – even as we sense a need for quiet, for relief from information and communication overload. We want both the promises of the digital age and the habit of recollection (“mindfulness,” as it is now fashionable to say). It is increasingly clear how difficult it is to have both – to be at once digitalized and recollected.

Finding myself guilty of the above I decided to get the book.

As I wrote earlier this week social media…connectivity…all of the noise has finally gotten to me. I longer care to participate. While I have not deleted my Twitter account I’ve started with baby steps and “unfollowed” any and all political pundits or media people outside of one or two. This significantly reduced the clutter on my Twitter feed. It is now mostly comprised of baseball-related organizations, coaches and the like that I follow as well as Catholic priests, authors and media. Facebook is a beast I aim to tackle in 2018 once and for all. I’m also three years in to my old iPhone 5s and early next year am going to “downsize” my phone into a lesser model. Because the opening paragraphs of that books Introduction asks the same questions I’ve been asking myself for over a year.

Have you ever regretted sending an e-mail, a text, or a post? Have you recently forgotten an appointment that a year or two ago you would have had no difficulty remembering? Do you catch your mind wandering when you should be attending carefully to the task, or the person, right in front of you?

What about the way you have been spending your time? Is it difficult to refrain from checking your phone or e-mail every several minutes? Are you uncomfortable being alone and quick to look for relief from boredom? Do you find yourself browsing websites or trying to keep up with the latest news? Do you fall into binge-watching television shows, or playing just one more round of a video game? Are you preoccupied with social media to the point of compulsively checking updates, statuses, and likes?

Are you more often ill at ease or anxious than in the pasts? Are you uncomfortable with your own thoughts? Do you feel unfocused, distracted, restless? Are you finding less joy in conversation, reading, and prayer than you used to?

Yes! To all of the above. I remarked to my wife the other day that in 2017 I’ve read fewer books than I have since we were married almost twenty-five years ago. My lack of sustained focus and ability to read for more than twenty minutes annoys and also scares the hell out of me.

Feeling somewhat buoyed by what I read from St. Paul and the pages I’d scanned in the book, I went outside where the rain had momentarily stopped. While walking to the parking lot I was suddenly surrounded by little butterflies. They bounced off my face and head and I noticed that I had walked right by a flowered area. We’ve been enjoying thousands of these little visitors throughout Lincoln this fall and have a few dozen that have been squatting on some flowers in our yard as well. They are called Painted lady butterflies and our local paper wrote about them here. I watched them for several minutes and snapped a few pictures. Even after it once again began to rain I stood there watching them. It’s a fluke that they are even here this fall and I’ve not stopped to really notice and appreciate them. I recalled what I’d read by St. Paul in Philippians in the chapel:

…fill your minds with everything that is true, everything that is noble, everything that is good and pure, everything that we love and honor, and everything that can be thought virtuous or worthy of praise.

And so I will. Tonight I’ll look at a lone Black-eyed Susan in my backyard.

I’ll watch the Painted ladies.

And then the God of peace will be with me.

– Oct. 6: feast of St. Bruno

Painted ladies on Pink Sisters’ flowers.

Gazing through the knothole

Last night while on my knees next to my daughter’s bed I tucked in a little girl who asked me a big question.

“What will we do if Nolan dies?”

I had asked her if she was ready to see her oldest brother again when he had graduated from boot camp and was a Marine. “Yes,” she said, her head settled onto her pink pillow and blue eyes locking onto mine. “But what will we do if he dies during the next four years?”

I pulled back to look at her and there were tears in her eyes, trickling down each cheek. As I moved to wipe them away she moved her hand quickly to her face and did so before I could.

I didn’t know what to say. I assured her that he’d be safe. That he and his Marine brothers were training to ensure such a thing wouldn’t happen. I hugged her close.

As will happen with my mostly matter-of-fact and practical daughter this moment passed swiftly and she soon made a joke, said her goodnight, and shooed me out the door.

She’s quite bright, and growing up in a house with two older brothers and a dad who watch John Wayne westerns and Peter Jackson visualizations of the battles of Middle-Earth has made her aware of the fact that well…it is a fact that soldiers die.

Soldiers + Battle = A chance of death

Nolan will be a Soldier, ergo she now sees that

Nolan + Battle = A chance of death

I had always danced around that possibility with her. But as I said, she’s quite bright this young one.

The October day that he left for boot camp we stopped to pray in a roadside chapel along the interstate between Omaha and Lincoln. We continue to pray each day, at Mass, and each Sunday late afternoon/early evening we four pray a family rosary together. Except this last Sunday we didn’t. I don’t know how or why but we forgot. This was not unnoticed by my daughter. Before I closed the door I turned and told her to continue to pray for Nolan’s safety.

“We forgot to pray our rosary on Sunday, dad.”

“Yes, Sophie, we did.”

Turning to face the wall she said “We need to remember better.”

“Yes Sophie, we do. How about we do one tomorrow night after your brother and I return from his practice?”

“Ok. Good.” <yawn>

“Goodnight Sophie. I love you punkin.”

“Goodnight Dad. I love you too.”

I have been surprised to learn just how lonely a place it is to be the parent of someone in the military. Our “family” has expanded in a sense as we’ve met many other parents going through the same ordeal in online forums, and friends of mine that I know personally have been warm, supportive and encouraging. But in the end you are alone. Alone when you see how much your son’s peers have moved on. How carefree and different their lives are whereas just a calendar year ago they were doing the same things in the same classrooms or same ball fields. As parents we all shared in these things together. Now I feel as distant from them as I did before we met.

“It’s part of the growing up process. It’s normal. It would be the same had he gone to college” I tell myself, and it’s true.

But it’s different. Much different.

So different that it brings tears to a little sister’s face and dampens her pillow.

It’s tempting to wallow in self-pity, especially during the holidays. But I’ve always tried to be a “big picture” kind of guy. I try to maintain perspective. Believe it or not I am an optimist.

Life is like looking through a knothole in a wood fence. You can see whatever passes by the knothole, but not the whole picture. God knows the bigger picture, and all is well in it. We are being blessed right now even if we are only looking through the knothole and don’t see all the good that God has planned for us. We must trust. When you feel the pangs of struggle, turn your gaze and know that you are cherished by God. Your human past or present might leave a lot to be desired. But your spiritual now is filled with love. My daughter has not learned this yet, which is where my experience and guidance is best served.

I love to keep the Psalms close which is why I pray the Divine Office. It has become so much a part of who I am and my day overall that I am aware of the emptiness when I fail to do so. It is a part of the rhythm of my life.

There are two other prayers that I pray each day. I began to pray the Anima Christi on my knees after returning from Holy Communion. I will let the Eucharist dissolve slowly in my mouth, consciously absorbing every fiber of the host and Body of Christ. This is warmth. This is safety. This is Eternity.

This prayer attributed to one of my spiritual mentors and favorite saints, Ignatius of Loyola (who was also a soldier before becoming a priest) is one that I’ve prayed and meditated upon many times. I closed my final letter to Nolan at boot camp with it.

ANIMA CHRISTI
Soul of Christ, sanctify me.
Body of Christ, save me.
Blood of Christ, inebriate me.
Water from the side of Christ, wash me.
Passion of Christ, strengthen me.
Good Jesus, hear me.
In your wounds, hide me.
Apart from you let me never be.
From the enemy, defend me.
At the hour of my death, call me.
And close to you bid me,
that with your saints I may always be
praising you eternally. Amen.

Right below this prayer in my Daily Roman Missal is another prayer that I’ve now made a part of this time with God. It has become my prayer for 2015 and indeed the rest of my life. I will continue to pray them in order to keep my gaze on God and not on my struggle as seen through a knothole.

SELF-DEDICATION TO JESUS CHRIST (OBLATIO SUI)
Lord, take all my freedom. Accept my memory, my understanding, and my will. You have given me all that I have or hold dear. I return it to you, that it may be governed by your will. Give me only your grace and the gift of loving you, and I will be rich enough; I will ask for nothing more. Amen.

ADDENDUM:

As I was proofreading this post and about to hit “Publish” my mobile phone rang at 4:45pm. I knew from other recruit parents that phone calls were being made from a certain area code by our recruits to finalize travel arrangements post-graduation. This would be Nolan.

When I answered the phone I heard his voice for the first time since Oct. 27th. He sounded strong and normal; his already deep voice sounding even deeper. As soon as he recognized my voice answering him back his tone immediately changed. And then my 6’3″ 185 pound soon-to-be-Marine began to sob. I knew the call was monitored and there were to be no questions other  than those related to travel. So I kept on task and I asked him if he’d received the ticket information I’d sent to him two weeks ago and if we were all set. His voice was still breaking but he seemed to recognize what I was trying to do and he said “Yes, we should be set.”

I told him I loved him and that we’d see him soon. And then we hung up.

The entire conversation lasted 43 seconds.

My son turns 19 in two days. I forgot to wish him Happy Birthday.

No Regrets

Saturday night will be the last night my oldest son spends under the roof of our home. Well, for a while at least. Late afternoon on Sunday he will depart for Omaha to spend the night as he begins processing for his departure to boot camp. Monday morning I and the rest of his family will see him off as he begins his career in the Marine Corps.

Change.

His younger brother and sister have been counting down the days to his departure. Brother will move downstairs to occupy the briefly vacated bedroom. Sister will at long last have a bedroom all to herself. The bedroom that was originally painted for the two boys will be painted for a girl, though her color choices of pink, purple, red and white may be tempered a bit. It will be the first time for both of them that they have a room all to themselves.

Change.

We’ll be back home by late morning. I’ve taken the day off so I’ll probably putter around the house and try to keep myself busy. Perhaps in a book while sitting outside enjoying what has been an idyllic autumn thus far in Nebraska. Or maybe I’ll head to a bookstore. Most likely I’ll be found on my knees at either the Pink Sisters chapel or at our parish.

At some point late on Monday night/early Tuesday morning we’ll receive a 15-second phone call from him letting us know he made it and that this would be the last time we heard his voice until we travel to San Diego in January to see him graduate and be recognized for the first time as a Marine.

On Tuesday I’ll go to work at my new job. My last day at the one I’ve had for almost six years is tomorrow. And so will end eleven plus years in the world of corporate IT.

I’ve been looking to make the change for about a year. While I’m not ungrateful at all for the job I’ve held, or the great people I’ve worked with, I’ve not felt challenged for quite some time. I am not allowed to use any creativity (which accounts for my seeking other outlets such as writing as well as the art classes I began to take last month). And so for almost six years I’ve done the same thing, day in and day out, working on things which provide no stimulation, or spark, or even incentive. Or I should say: challenging but not edifying. So I began to think about a change, because life is short. I’m excited about the opportunity and challenges ahead.

And if my son is taking a risk in the pursuit of his passion, then why shouldn’t I as well?

Change.

Over the weekend we visited both sets of grandparents so they could say goodbye to him. Harvest is in full swing so he joined his uncles in the fields and made a few rounds in the combine, just as he did when he first made a round at the age of four. His sister joined him for her first trip through the dried corn fields.

Change.

I drove my final 90-minute requirements meeting on Tuesday.

I’ve walked the last requirements spec document I’ll ever write.

I’ve just created and posted the final test plans for which I’m responsible.

There was to be a follow-up meeting this afternoon. Due to the fact that Tuesday’s meeting went so well and the crush of everyone’s schedule it was deemed unnecessary. I canceled it this morning.

And then I walked a few blocks to Starbucks and The Cookie Company one last time. I said my goodbyes to Karen, the woman who has been making my peppermint mochas since I got addicted to them four years ago. I went next door and purchased a large macadamia nut cookie. I began to clean out the desk I’ve occupied for just shy of six years.

My son’s new adventure begins for him on Monday.

Mine starts on Tuesday. The son has inspired the father.

As the Greek philosopher Heraclitus of Ephesus said five centuries before the birth of Christ:

“The only thing that is constant is change.”

For that much I’m grateful.

No regrets.

__________

Photo credits: The final three images were taken by the author.

The Ragamuffin Road

Recently I was asked how I’m doing and why I haven’t written much of late. After thinking about it for a moment I reached back into my vocabulary and dusted off this word:

Image source: Google

Initially I blamed my listlessness on the fact that we had just endured a draining ninety days from March through May. During that time both boys began their respective baseball seasons, my wife underwent major surgery followed by a delicate recovery period, and graduation and a graduation party loomed ahead in May. April brought more baseball, a prom, and graduation planning. And in May I frantically worked to finish up landscaping in the yard, more planning, more baseball, and finally the big events themselves at the same time that my oldest son’s team went on a roll that culminated with them winning their second state championship in three years.

So yeah…June is a time to exhale. Maybe I still am. The month is only half-over after all.

But I’m also numb. And as I watch the events around our country and world spiral out of control while nurtured on by the policies of our current government I grow tense. With the realization that there’s little I can do about it (and being as tired as I am) I shut down. The alternative is to froth at the mouth in angry rage. (That would be the hysterical fanaticism mentioned in the above image.) Rage at the things being done as a result of this government’s policies. Rage at those who voted for it twice while at the same time saying that those who didn’t were on the wrong side of history. Rage at their now being strangely silent. And I wonder: are they silent because they are embarrassed, silent because they are afraid of admitting they were wrong, or silent because deep down they agree with the nation-destroying actions of the man they helped elect twice?

So while numb and wanting to avoid having my blood pressure so high that my eyes bleed I have chosen to stay quiet and listen. Not to the news, social media or the like. But to God and what He is saying for me to hear if I quiet myself and listen. And it is working.

In many ways I’m ready to retire and do some traveling with my wife. Instead I find myself with a suddenly open calendar and time on my hands looking for projects to do. I’ve considered constructing a gazebo in the back corner of our yard, building a second level to the deck, paving a patio extension and firepit area, and building a doghouse. And that’s just in July and for the outside of our home.

But I realize that I’m looking to fill my time and my space with things. My oldest son’s time at home is nearly spent and soon he’ll leave and a hole will exist where he was. Life as we’ve known it and our family’s dynamic since the birth of our daughter will change as he leaves. Son #2 will move into the recently-vacated bedroom downstairs and my daughter plans the complete redecoration of her own room.

“I’m going to paint it pink, purple, red and white Dad.” It’s going to look like a unicorn exploded in there, but I’ll love it.

So I’m looking to fill a hole in my heart with things. Same as it ever was. However, I’ve been around this block already and recognized this road. This is why I’ve stopped all of it and am listening. Stopped all the planning and researching. Because I can’t retire yet. We can’t travel unfettered as we wish or spend all our time accumulating things. We still have two more children to provide for and raise. My work continues.

Because of this my time is spent reading, praying, and listening.

In other words I’m working on filling this hole in my heart with more of what, or who, should be there in the first place. While enjoying the cool spring/early summer days I’ve spent more than a few mornings and evenings sitting outside in conversation with God. I’m listening. Listening to God’s voice in the psalms and prayers of the Divine Office and in the Gospels themselves.

“Morning Offering”. Image source: Me

I’m also reading a book that I inadvertently left off my summer reading list. I first attempted to read The Ragamuffin Gospel by Brennan Manning over ten years ago but quit half-way through. It was brought to mind recently when I watched the movie Ragamuffin: The True Story of Rich Mullins. (As an aside, I plan to write a review of this movie soon. Rich Mullins was, and still is, one of my favorite singer/songwriters. This movie reminded me how much I miss him since his death in 1997.) Unable to locate my original copy of Brennan’s book two weeks ago, I went to Barnes & Noble and purchased another. I’ve been reading it and highlighting it non-stop ever since. Here are but three of the many selections I highlighted within the first chapter alone:

*****

And Grace calls out, You are not just a disillusioned old man who may die soon, a middle-aged woman stuck in a job and desperately wanting to get out, a young person feeling the fire in the belly begin to grow cold. You may be insecure, inadequate, mistaken, or potbellied. Death, panic, depression, and disillusionment may be near you. But you are not just that. You are accepted. Never confuse your perception of yourself with the mystery that you really are accepted. – page 28

We want ever-sharp spirituality—push, pull, click, click, one saint that quick—and attempt to cultivate a particular virtue at a given point in time. Prudence in January, humility in February, fortitude in March, temperance in April. Score cards are provided for toting up gains and losses. The losses should diminish if you expect to meet charity in May. Sometimes May never comes. For many Christians, life is a long January. – page 31

In essence, there is only one thing God asks of us—that we be men and women of prayer, people who live close to God, people for whom God is everything and for whom God is enough. That is the root of peace. – page 46.

*****

That is the peace I’m looking for. It can’t be found in social media, the news, the opinions of others or in a gazebo. It is found in prayer. It is found in communion with God. God is enough.

Moses spent forty years in exile before going back to Egypt to demand that Pharaoh let his people go. Israel then spent another forty years wandering in the desert before they were allowed entry into the promised land. Jesus spent forty days being tempted in the desert before launching his ministry three years prior to his death and resurrection.

I’m forty-six. I’ve wandered a long time. Much of that wandering was aimless and without purpose.

I’ve had my long January. I’m listening with purpose and know that action will follow while on this road. Action with a purpose.

I am a ragamuffin.

My Life. My Truth.

Who Am I?
by Carl Sandburg

My head knocks against the stars.
My feet are on the hilltops.
My finger-tips are in the valleys and shores of universal life.
Down in the sounding foam of primal things I reach my hands and play with pebbles of destiny.
I have been to hell and back many times.
I know all about heaven, for I have talked with God.
I dabble in the blood and guts of the terrible.
I know the passionate seizure of beauty
And the marvelous rebellion of man at all signs reading “Keep Off. ”

My name is Truth and I am the most elusive captive in the universe.

*****

I haven’t forgotten about this blog or any of you. I’m simply in the middle of one of the busiest times in my life that I can remember.

The deck is done. We have sold our piano, donated some of our older furniture, and generally cleared out an entire wall space.

Then my wife had surgery in mid-March. Since then I’ve become one with our washer and dryer. I’ve relearned how to separate clothes. I’m a vacuuming demon. I can tell you which aisles the cereal, or coffee, or vegetables, etc. are located in two different grocery stores.

We’ve shopped for, purchased and refinished an old antique stand that has been re-purposed to hold media equipment, a television and storage.

We’ve filled the rest of the wall with new bookcases and finally liberated several volumes from boxes and basement shelves.

We’ve survived prom. We’re surviving two concurrent baseball seasons. The spring prep post-season looms on the horizon. The summer season commences soon after.

#15 in your programs…

We’ve received invitations to and plan to attend several graduation parties over the next four weeks.

Today I ordered the main course for the looming graduation party whose invitations ordered last week, arrived today, and have begun to be addressed for delivery.

We’ve received the graduation ceremony announcements that will be mailed out as well.

I will be taking five days off soon in order to finish landscaping work in the backyard. These includes appointments with a tiller, sprinkler guys, and a lot of lattice, mulch and stone.

This past weekend I finished the front yard. Almost. A much needed spring rain prevented my installing the 20 foot flagpole in our front yard from which Old Glory and the Marine Corps flags shall proudly fly.

(It sounds like a lot of silly work for a graduation party, I know. But when we moved in to our house eleven years ago we actually mapped out this plan and all the work we wanted done by May 2014. We came damn close to pulling it all off.)

I’ve pulled the mangled remains of the exhaust system out from under my son’s car where it fell off a few miles from home. I shopped for a second opinion on repairs and saved $1200 because I did so. (That’s a win for me for those keeping score at home.)

At the office we’ve held almost three solid weeks of exploratory meetings involving new products and functionality.

At home I’m dad to three, husband to one and a beagle whisperer.

I watch reruns of Castle on the weekend or new episodes on Monday nights in order to give my brain an entertainment break.

I’ve had play dates with my daughter, her dolls and her various animals. I’ve read her first self-published “book”.

A self portrait

I’m at long last about to finish Kristin Lavransdatter, the greatest single character study of an individual life that I’ve read since Josip Lasta in Island of the World.

I’m just a few sections into the Summa Theologica and preparing to read Master and Commander while drinking good scotch and enjoying some much-welcomed spring and summer weather.

I haven’t forgotten you. In the parlance of my profession I have simply overextended my capacity. But when I think I have no more to give, I find that I haven’t even scratched the surface yet.

Life is a glorious, busy, hectic, lovely, maddening and wonderful mess.

Gotta run. Believe it or not as soon as I hit “Publish” I’m heading across town for a ballgame.

I wouldn’t trade places with anyone.

My head knocks against the stars.