I have trod the upward and the downward slope;
I have endured and done in days before;
I have longed for all, and bid farewell to hope;
And I have lived and loved, and closed the door.
No reason, I just like that poem. Well, maybe there is a reason, but don't go fussing about specifics, 'cause specific it ain't. If I'd written that, maybe you could pin deep meanings on me, but I didn't.
Remember, if you keep your chin up you're liable to get knocked out, but if you keep your head down you're sure going to miss something beautiful along the way. Temptations and oppressions are a grace, for they drive us closer to God. We cannot withstand without his aid, and in the dying fire of strength he blows on a smoldering flame and gives us the courage to carry on... but first we must open our hands and cry, "It is enough, I have nothing more. Help."
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Papercuts
You said, you said that you would die for me
You must live for me too
I never thought bridge day would result in reflections on love, but here they are.
A man we met on the porch behind the restaurant was telling us that he would sky-dive in a heartbeat, but that base jumping was too much for him. It seemed a silly notion, but he explained that when you're in the airplane, thousands of feet above the ground, your mind cannot process the height, you cannot comprehend the distance you will fall, and so you simply jump. In base jumping it is different. You see the ground a few hundred feet below you, and you know very well that jumping from that height is not at all a natural act. Your mind is able to comprehend the distance, and the impending pain. So... do you jump?
Fuer dich, wuerde ich mich gerne vor einem Zug hinlegen.
I'm not sure if a German would ever say that. It is a saying I developed myself. Translated, it says: For you, I would gladly lay myself down before a train.
Funny notion, isn't it? Perhaps it is not as poetic as I like to think. Perhaps it is merely a morbidly explicit way of saying that I would die for you. That is love, is it not? To die? I never doubt the veracity of a man's claim that he would lay down his life for the woman he loves. To die for my faith, for my God, for my wife (hypothetical, you understand), for my son and my daughter, for my friend - this is a high and precious calling. I hope I will be able to, and I hope the same for you. To be able to make such a sacrifice is an extraordinary grace.
I wonder, though, how much we comprehend what we say, when we say we would die for another. Death is remote and shadowy, its sting is shrouded in mist, and it happens only once. You would leap from the plane; would you jump off of the bridge? You would die; would you take a papercut, or let your toes be crushed with a hammer? This is pain we know. This is pain we can comprehend. This is dying daily, to take a papercut every day of the week, every week of the year, to sting for another and smile. Remember, Christ died for us, but first He suffered for us.
So would you do it? Would you take a papercut for another? How big is your love, and how small? And if someone sliced your finger without meaning to, what would you do? Tit for tat, slice them back. Or bite your tongue until it bleeds. Why should you sin in your anger? Yes, perhaps it is good to say, "You cut me; it stings." Then again, perhaps it is good to pray, "Lord, this stings; have mercy on me, a sinner."
Too many today would die for another, not enough would live for another. The ugly spectre of selfishness and jealousy no longer lurks in the mist, but parades down the street and calls itself virtue. And we, we suffer for believing it. Papercuts? You deserve better. See, over here, no more pain, no sliced fingers, no smashed toes. But you'd die for her, you say, but only if in some grand display of pride, not in the daily battle of life. And the spectre's spawn curls round your feet, and whispers that the holy bond is unholy, that the tie that binds is already severed. And you believe and you follow.
Or, you could take the papercuts and pray. The beauty of life is found in the little pain, and the little love, and these become great grace.
Anima Christi, sanctifica me.
You must live for me too
I never thought bridge day would result in reflections on love, but here they are.
A man we met on the porch behind the restaurant was telling us that he would sky-dive in a heartbeat, but that base jumping was too much for him. It seemed a silly notion, but he explained that when you're in the airplane, thousands of feet above the ground, your mind cannot process the height, you cannot comprehend the distance you will fall, and so you simply jump. In base jumping it is different. You see the ground a few hundred feet below you, and you know very well that jumping from that height is not at all a natural act. Your mind is able to comprehend the distance, and the impending pain. So... do you jump?
Fuer dich, wuerde ich mich gerne vor einem Zug hinlegen.
I'm not sure if a German would ever say that. It is a saying I developed myself. Translated, it says: For you, I would gladly lay myself down before a train.
Funny notion, isn't it? Perhaps it is not as poetic as I like to think. Perhaps it is merely a morbidly explicit way of saying that I would die for you. That is love, is it not? To die? I never doubt the veracity of a man's claim that he would lay down his life for the woman he loves. To die for my faith, for my God, for my wife (hypothetical, you understand), for my son and my daughter, for my friend - this is a high and precious calling. I hope I will be able to, and I hope the same for you. To be able to make such a sacrifice is an extraordinary grace.
I wonder, though, how much we comprehend what we say, when we say we would die for another. Death is remote and shadowy, its sting is shrouded in mist, and it happens only once. You would leap from the plane; would you jump off of the bridge? You would die; would you take a papercut, or let your toes be crushed with a hammer? This is pain we know. This is pain we can comprehend. This is dying daily, to take a papercut every day of the week, every week of the year, to sting for another and smile. Remember, Christ died for us, but first He suffered for us.
So would you do it? Would you take a papercut for another? How big is your love, and how small? And if someone sliced your finger without meaning to, what would you do? Tit for tat, slice them back. Or bite your tongue until it bleeds. Why should you sin in your anger? Yes, perhaps it is good to say, "You cut me; it stings." Then again, perhaps it is good to pray, "Lord, this stings; have mercy on me, a sinner."
Too many today would die for another, not enough would live for another. The ugly spectre of selfishness and jealousy no longer lurks in the mist, but parades down the street and calls itself virtue. And we, we suffer for believing it. Papercuts? You deserve better. See, over here, no more pain, no sliced fingers, no smashed toes. But you'd die for her, you say, but only if in some grand display of pride, not in the daily battle of life. And the spectre's spawn curls round your feet, and whispers that the holy bond is unholy, that the tie that binds is already severed. And you believe and you follow.
Or, you could take the papercuts and pray. The beauty of life is found in the little pain, and the little love, and these become great grace.
Anima Christi, sanctifica me.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Functional Pacifism and the Lust for Battle
Truly sons are a gift from the Lord,
a blessing, the fruit of the womb.
Indeed the sons of youth
are like arrows in the hand of a warrior.
O the happiness of the man
who has filled his quiver with these arrows!
He will have no cause for shame
when he disputes with his foes in the gateways.
It occurs to me that the family is the basic unit of the Church, what one might call a platoon. The hierarchy of the Church can in this way be compared to military hierarchy. The comparison is apt, for although we think little on the war that surrounds us, we are indeed fighting - every day, every hour, all our life long we struggle. We have Hope of final victory, because we have Faith. Yet the battle is hard fought. With good reason is the Church on earth called Militant.
In simpler, rougher times, when men were men, women were women, and families were families, in a simpler age the family truly was the ultimate thing. A man had a need of a woman and children for whom to care. A man without cause, a man useless to any but himself, is lost indeed. There is, I believe, an inborn desire in a man to be necessary, to be gallant, heroic, and virile. He needs a woman not just for what she can give him - for her softness, beauty, grace, and kindness; he needs her also for what he can give her - his life.
Husbands, love your wives, even as Christ has loved us.
This is an extraordinary burden. I hesitate to speak much on marriage, for I am utterly lacking in direct experience, but I can observe others, and I know the desire in me. The family, in these simpler times of which I was speaking, was an army in miniature. A man with sons stood proud, a force to conquer the unknown, the foe both human and animal... and spiritual. Perhaps I idealize.
There is a real spiritual war, with casualties, victories and defeats along the way. We may rest at times in the consolation of a small battle won. We may suffer to see our Lord in those times when we have failed. We pour out our efforts for the salvation of souls, never seeing the whole, never seeing aught but that which entangles us at the present. We fight on, because we know the end, because we have no choice but to strive in love. We fight on, remembering that by uniting our sufferings to Christ on the cross, we may hope also to be united in the glory of Christ risen. In this fight, the family is paramount. Each father is a little Lieutenant, each mother a little Sergeant. And the children, ah the children. With what pain must a father send his children forth into the fray. With what agony must a mother wait for her little soldier's return from a perilous mission. Our weapons are unique. The sacraments sustain us, nourish us, and give us strength for battle.
I've been a functional pacifist for only a short time. I say functional, because while I am not opposed to war in an absolute sense, I yet abhor it in an immediate sense. I abhor the dehumanization of the enemy, be they japs, krauts, gooks, ragheads, hajis, or what have you. I abhor the making of war on civilians. My country has not fought a true defensive war (say what you will) in over one hundred and fifty years. It has not fought a constitutional war in fifty years.
So why am I talking about this, about my pacifist instincts (which will likely rile up a few people). This is why: there is in me, and I think in all men, a lust for battle. There is a desire to fight, to contend, to achieve a great victory - yes, to be heroic. But how to fight? Find a battle worth fighting.
This is the battle. Well did Dickens call his tale "The Battle of Life". This lust for battle exists for a reason. When we direct our desire to wage war away from nameless, faceless enemies whom we kill without knowing why, and to a named, twisted villain, truly the great Satan, then our war becomes holy. Then, in the silence, in the quiet of our hearts, we press on. At times we must rage against him. At times he will beat us down. At times we cry out in desperation. At all times we fight together. The family, the Church, we are brothers in arms. And so we stand.
Hope in God, I will praise him still.
a blessing, the fruit of the womb.
Indeed the sons of youth
are like arrows in the hand of a warrior.
O the happiness of the man
who has filled his quiver with these arrows!
He will have no cause for shame
when he disputes with his foes in the gateways.
It occurs to me that the family is the basic unit of the Church, what one might call a platoon. The hierarchy of the Church can in this way be compared to military hierarchy. The comparison is apt, for although we think little on the war that surrounds us, we are indeed fighting - every day, every hour, all our life long we struggle. We have Hope of final victory, because we have Faith. Yet the battle is hard fought. With good reason is the Church on earth called Militant.
In simpler, rougher times, when men were men, women were women, and families were families, in a simpler age the family truly was the ultimate thing. A man had a need of a woman and children for whom to care. A man without cause, a man useless to any but himself, is lost indeed. There is, I believe, an inborn desire in a man to be necessary, to be gallant, heroic, and virile. He needs a woman not just for what she can give him - for her softness, beauty, grace, and kindness; he needs her also for what he can give her - his life.
Husbands, love your wives, even as Christ has loved us.
This is an extraordinary burden. I hesitate to speak much on marriage, for I am utterly lacking in direct experience, but I can observe others, and I know the desire in me. The family, in these simpler times of which I was speaking, was an army in miniature. A man with sons stood proud, a force to conquer the unknown, the foe both human and animal... and spiritual. Perhaps I idealize.
There is a real spiritual war, with casualties, victories and defeats along the way. We may rest at times in the consolation of a small battle won. We may suffer to see our Lord in those times when we have failed. We pour out our efforts for the salvation of souls, never seeing the whole, never seeing aught but that which entangles us at the present. We fight on, because we know the end, because we have no choice but to strive in love. We fight on, remembering that by uniting our sufferings to Christ on the cross, we may hope also to be united in the glory of Christ risen. In this fight, the family is paramount. Each father is a little Lieutenant, each mother a little Sergeant. And the children, ah the children. With what pain must a father send his children forth into the fray. With what agony must a mother wait for her little soldier's return from a perilous mission. Our weapons are unique. The sacraments sustain us, nourish us, and give us strength for battle.
I've been a functional pacifist for only a short time. I say functional, because while I am not opposed to war in an absolute sense, I yet abhor it in an immediate sense. I abhor the dehumanization of the enemy, be they japs, krauts, gooks, ragheads, hajis, or what have you. I abhor the making of war on civilians. My country has not fought a true defensive war (say what you will) in over one hundred and fifty years. It has not fought a constitutional war in fifty years.
So why am I talking about this, about my pacifist instincts (which will likely rile up a few people). This is why: there is in me, and I think in all men, a lust for battle. There is a desire to fight, to contend, to achieve a great victory - yes, to be heroic. But how to fight? Find a battle worth fighting.
This is the battle. Well did Dickens call his tale "The Battle of Life". This lust for battle exists for a reason. When we direct our desire to wage war away from nameless, faceless enemies whom we kill without knowing why, and to a named, twisted villain, truly the great Satan, then our war becomes holy. Then, in the silence, in the quiet of our hearts, we press on. At times we must rage against him. At times he will beat us down. At times we cry out in desperation. At all times we fight together. The family, the Church, we are brothers in arms. And so we stand.
Hope in God, I will praise him still.
Friday, September 4, 2009
St. Christopher, Pray for Us
Amidst the crowd of travelers this weekend we will be but tiny specs. Like particles of radiation being spit from a split atom, we are cast in all directions: one to Michigan, one to Georgia, one to South Carolina, six to various corners of Indiana... visiting family, going on retreat, entering the convent.
One will not return. I trust she will be with us in prayer. For the rest of us, Tuesday will find us once again in our familiar places. Through the intercession of St. Christopher, may we be kept safe on our sojourn. When I return, I shall try to return to posting some more interesting ideas, and not just old fiction and Latin prayers. Speaking of Latin prayers...
Domine, exaudi orationem meam
Et clamor meus ad te veniat
One will not return. I trust she will be with us in prayer. For the rest of us, Tuesday will find us once again in our familiar places. Through the intercession of St. Christopher, may we be kept safe on our sojourn. When I return, I shall try to return to posting some more interesting ideas, and not just old fiction and Latin prayers. Speaking of Latin prayers...
Domine, exaudi orationem meam
Et clamor meus ad te veniat
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
A Prayer After the Eucharist
I found this some time ago in the 1962 Missal. You may recognize the first line from being appended to some of my posts (a practice I have neglected lately). If you were ever curious where that line came from, now you know.
Anima Christi, sanctifica me
Corpus Christi, salva me
Sanguis Christi, inebria me
Aqua lateris Christi, lava me
Passio Christi, conforta me
O bone Jesu, exaudi me
Intra tua vulnera absconde me
Ne permittas me separari a te
Ab hoste maligno defende me
In hora mortis meae voca me
Et jube me venire ad te
Ut cum sanctis tuis laudem te
In saecula saeculorum
Amen
(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
Oh good Jesus hear me
Within your wounds hide me
Do not let me be separated from thee
From the malignant enemy defend me
In the hour of my death call me
And bid me come unto thee
With thy saints to praise thee
For ever and ever
Amen)
Anima Christi, sanctifica me
Corpus Christi, salva me
Sanguis Christi, inebria me
Aqua lateris Christi, lava me
Passio Christi, conforta me
O bone Jesu, exaudi me
Intra tua vulnera absconde me
Ne permittas me separari a te
Ab hoste maligno defende me
In hora mortis meae voca me
Et jube me venire ad te
Ut cum sanctis tuis laudem te
In saecula saeculorum
Amen
(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
Oh good Jesus hear me
Within your wounds hide me
Do not let me be separated from thee
From the malignant enemy defend me
In the hour of my death call me
And bid me come unto thee
With thy saints to praise thee
For ever and ever
Amen)
Monday, August 31, 2009
Go to the Hills
Leanne asked for fiction; here's fiction. It's simple, really, nothing fancy or striking, but I like it. Maybe you will, too.
Somewhere on the side of the road in the north Georgia mountains he stopped the car. He reached behind the seat to grab the last beer out of the cooler, being careful not to wake Ashley. Quietly he opened the door and stepped out of the car into the night. The crickets and tree frogs chirped their discordant symphony from the darkness as he walked over to the lookout point. A sliver of moon cast an eerie glow on the gorge that stretched out before him. The trees around him waved their leafy arms in the breeze and whispered frightening words in his ear. In the distance he could make out vague, black shapes. The warm spring breeze found its way under his shirt and he threw his head back to drink in the beauty and the eeriness of the night. His thoughts tangled together as he remembered the first time his parents had taken him up into these hills. He had been in love with them ever since. He had seen the Rockies and the Alps. He had seen the green hills of Ireland and the creamy beaches of Hawaii, but his heart always brought him back here, to the rolling blue hills of his youth.
He glanced down at the can of beer in his hand and wondered why he had brought it out here. He certainly wasn’t going to drink it. His mind wandered again, wandered to his childhood. How long ago it seemed. He tried to separate the faces in his mind, but they blurred together, melting and fading, fleeing from his grasp. And then, everything was sharp and clear, like a camera snapping into focus. He saw them all – even the ones that he had not thought of in years. He saw them all just as they had been when he knew them. One face jumped out at him and he tried to place it. He knew her… “What was her name?” he wondered aloud. He could see her face clearly but couldn’t remember her name. Funny, that, he thought. He shouldn’t have forgotten her name so easily. He let the faces fade into the background, and they took with them a part of his life so far.
He wanted to drive. He wanted to drive all through the long night and watch the sun rise somewhere in these blue hills. He wanted to forget about work and life and the cares of the world, and just get away for a little while, with Ashley by his side. But Ashley wouldn’t like that, he thought.
He popped the can of beer open and stared at it. He almost poured it over the side of the overlook, but some strange urge grasped him, and he stopped. Slowly, without really thinking about it, he tilted the can back and let the cool liquid pour down on his head. It ran over his face and down inside his shirt, soaking him. When the can was empty he stared at it, trying to figure out why he had done that. Well, it didn’t matter; he was soaked and smelled of beer, now.
Behind him he heard a step on the gravel. A hand slipped into his – a small, gentle hand that he knew well.
“I thought you were asleep,” he said.
“I was.”
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It’s eerie,” she said. “And…yes, and beautiful, too.” She laid her head on his shoulder and felt the dampness of the beer. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yes, I just…well,” he smiled, “I guess I just needed a little shower.”
“Of beer?” He knew the quizzical look in her eyes without having to see it.
“Yeah, I guess so.” He shrugged and slipped his arm around her waist. They stood like that for some time, saying nothing.
Finally, he squeezed her waist and walked back toward the car. She followed.
“Are you tired?” he asked.
“Why?”
“I thought we could drive off into the night and watch the sun rise somewhere in these hills.”
“Why not?”
He smiled, turned the key, and – with the windows down and the wind in their hair – they did just that.
Somewhere on the side of the road in the north Georgia mountains he stopped the car. He reached behind the seat to grab the last beer out of the cooler, being careful not to wake Ashley. Quietly he opened the door and stepped out of the car into the night. The crickets and tree frogs chirped their discordant symphony from the darkness as he walked over to the lookout point. A sliver of moon cast an eerie glow on the gorge that stretched out before him. The trees around him waved their leafy arms in the breeze and whispered frightening words in his ear. In the distance he could make out vague, black shapes. The warm spring breeze found its way under his shirt and he threw his head back to drink in the beauty and the eeriness of the night. His thoughts tangled together as he remembered the first time his parents had taken him up into these hills. He had been in love with them ever since. He had seen the Rockies and the Alps. He had seen the green hills of Ireland and the creamy beaches of Hawaii, but his heart always brought him back here, to the rolling blue hills of his youth.
He glanced down at the can of beer in his hand and wondered why he had brought it out here. He certainly wasn’t going to drink it. His mind wandered again, wandered to his childhood. How long ago it seemed. He tried to separate the faces in his mind, but they blurred together, melting and fading, fleeing from his grasp. And then, everything was sharp and clear, like a camera snapping into focus. He saw them all – even the ones that he had not thought of in years. He saw them all just as they had been when he knew them. One face jumped out at him and he tried to place it. He knew her… “What was her name?” he wondered aloud. He could see her face clearly but couldn’t remember her name. Funny, that, he thought. He shouldn’t have forgotten her name so easily. He let the faces fade into the background, and they took with them a part of his life so far.
He wanted to drive. He wanted to drive all through the long night and watch the sun rise somewhere in these blue hills. He wanted to forget about work and life and the cares of the world, and just get away for a little while, with Ashley by his side. But Ashley wouldn’t like that, he thought.
He popped the can of beer open and stared at it. He almost poured it over the side of the overlook, but some strange urge grasped him, and he stopped. Slowly, without really thinking about it, he tilted the can back and let the cool liquid pour down on his head. It ran over his face and down inside his shirt, soaking him. When the can was empty he stared at it, trying to figure out why he had done that. Well, it didn’t matter; he was soaked and smelled of beer, now.
Behind him he heard a step on the gravel. A hand slipped into his – a small, gentle hand that he knew well.
“I thought you were asleep,” he said.
“I was.”
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It’s eerie,” she said. “And…yes, and beautiful, too.” She laid her head on his shoulder and felt the dampness of the beer. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yes, I just…well,” he smiled, “I guess I just needed a little shower.”
“Of beer?” He knew the quizzical look in her eyes without having to see it.
“Yeah, I guess so.” He shrugged and slipped his arm around her waist. They stood like that for some time, saying nothing.
Finally, he squeezed her waist and walked back toward the car. She followed.
“Are you tired?” he asked.
“Why?”
“I thought we could drive off into the night and watch the sun rise somewhere in these hills.”
“Why not?”
He smiled, turned the key, and – with the windows down and the wind in their hair – they did just that.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Overheard Between Two Guardians
The two angels watched from above as the canoe drifted closer to the outside of the bend. The current grew swifter and sucked the canoe toward the rock overhang, where the flowing water cut deep. The man in back paddled furiously, trying to turn the canoe towards open water and propel it forward, away from the low hanging wall that threatened to clothesline them. In the front of the canoe a redheaded girl was screaming "Rocks! Rocks! Rocks!" In light of the impending crush of the rock wall, her screams were reasonable. Above them, Stephen and Marie laughed.
Stephen: Ha, look at this idiot*, letting the canoe get sucked in towards those rocks. Should we get them out of this one?
Marie: Well, this girl's mom is praying pretty hard right now. Anyhow it's not her fault. I'll bet if I push her out of the canoe right now she'll be all right.
Stephen: Good idea.
Marie (shoving the redhead into the water just before the rocks could strike): What are you going to do?
Stephen: Well... he is kinda dumb. Look, he's trying to keep the canoe from getting sucked further under the rocks...
Marie: Yeah, shoulda bailed out when the girl did. But he's not a bad guy, y'know.
Stephen: I suppose not. Maybe I'll just get him out with a little reminder that he failed pretty epically on this one.
Marie: Flip the canoe on him?
Stephen: Why not? He's too stupid to jump out when he should. Maybe smashing his leg up would teach him some humility.
Marie (sounding very much like her ward): Ha, good luck with that.
Stephen: It's worth a shot anyway. At least he'll remember that he managed to find the only conceivably dangerous spot on this creek to screw up in.
Marie: Not really surprising, I suppose.
Stephen (sighing): No, I guess not.
As the canoe flipped over the right side smashed wickedly into the young man's leg. He plunged into the cold water only a few seconds behind his companion and, probably with Stephen's help, managed to swim down stream and into the open, away from the current and the rocks, where he suffered a brief attack of Limited Vocabulary Syndrome, before finally recovering with some help from the rest of the group.
*"This idiot" is, of course, your humbled, bruised author, who really does owe some thanks to that redhead's mom for her prayers, even if they were mostly for her, and only for me in a sort of incidental, or even accidental, way.
Stephen: Ha, look at this idiot*, letting the canoe get sucked in towards those rocks. Should we get them out of this one?
Marie: Well, this girl's mom is praying pretty hard right now. Anyhow it's not her fault. I'll bet if I push her out of the canoe right now she'll be all right.
Stephen: Good idea.
Marie (shoving the redhead into the water just before the rocks could strike): What are you going to do?
Stephen: Well... he is kinda dumb. Look, he's trying to keep the canoe from getting sucked further under the rocks...
Marie: Yeah, shoulda bailed out when the girl did. But he's not a bad guy, y'know.
Stephen: I suppose not. Maybe I'll just get him out with a little reminder that he failed pretty epically on this one.
Marie: Flip the canoe on him?
Stephen: Why not? He's too stupid to jump out when he should. Maybe smashing his leg up would teach him some humility.
Marie (sounding very much like her ward): Ha, good luck with that.
Stephen: It's worth a shot anyway. At least he'll remember that he managed to find the only conceivably dangerous spot on this creek to screw up in.
Marie: Not really surprising, I suppose.
Stephen (sighing): No, I guess not.
As the canoe flipped over the right side smashed wickedly into the young man's leg. He plunged into the cold water only a few seconds behind his companion and, probably with Stephen's help, managed to swim down stream and into the open, away from the current and the rocks, where he suffered a brief attack of Limited Vocabulary Syndrome, before finally recovering with some help from the rest of the group.
*"This idiot" is, of course, your humbled, bruised author, who really does owe some thanks to that redhead's mom for her prayers, even if they were mostly for her, and only for me in a sort of incidental, or even accidental, way.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
After the Deluge
The streetlight glows a melancholy yellow through the downpour, just like that night so many years ago when I walked in the rain with a friend. Time dulls the memories. The joys and sorrows seem to me like ghosts floating through the dense gray of the storm. I said goodbye again last night. Not forever, no we never say forever. She said she'd have to come visit, had to keep an eye on me, keep me out of trouble. I reckon she might.
The threads of life twist and dance, a woven chord of black and silver, blue and gold. And red. We danced a little closer, we few. The grace of friendship gave us strength and joy. For a time our lives touched, our stories tangled into one.
We dance on, reminded anew of the grace of a memory. A friend to be honest with you, to put up with your bitching or your drunken phone call. A sister to love you. She was not the first to leave. No, the little one left first, the one that moved far away. Like a cat she was there, and then she was gone. I don't think cats get all teared up when they hug you. Generally, cats aren't much good for a hug.
We dance on. Everything is a grace. The chord may have changed, but the strength is still there. Across the miles we are together in faith. The things that I remember seem so distant, though it hasn't really been that long a time. The shades of a year drift into the fog that has swallowed others before them, but I can still make them out. Many years ago I watched in the mirror as the ghost of Christmas past waved at me under a gray December sky. Through the years that have passed we have changed, we have grown, but when I go home she lets me visit her; she lets me be her friend. I hope I do the same when others come to me.
The threads of life twist and dance, a woven chord of black and silver, blue and gold. And red. We danced a little closer, we few. The grace of friendship gave us strength and joy. For a time our lives touched, our stories tangled into one.
We dance on, reminded anew of the grace of a memory. A friend to be honest with you, to put up with your bitching or your drunken phone call. A sister to love you. She was not the first to leave. No, the little one left first, the one that moved far away. Like a cat she was there, and then she was gone. I don't think cats get all teared up when they hug you. Generally, cats aren't much good for a hug.
We dance on. Everything is a grace. The chord may have changed, but the strength is still there. Across the miles we are together in faith. The things that I remember seem so distant, though it hasn't really been that long a time. The shades of a year drift into the fog that has swallowed others before them, but I can still make them out. Many years ago I watched in the mirror as the ghost of Christmas past waved at me under a gray December sky. Through the years that have passed we have changed, we have grown, but when I go home she lets me visit her; she lets me be her friend. I hope I do the same when others come to me.
The Red Headed Colleen
1 part Irish cream.
1 part Irish whiskey. (I'd recommend Powers Gold or, if you must, Jameson. The original was made with Black Bush.)
Top it off with a thin layer of cinnamon.
Sip it, chug it, warm or over ice (well, I drank it warm, I imagine it'd be good over ice).
This is the first in what will hopefully be a series of new drinks. My friend Suzanne, who is one of my circle of beer friends, helped with the creation of the drink. We have another idea in the works which we haven't had a chance to try yet.
1 part Irish whiskey. (I'd recommend Powers Gold or, if you must, Jameson. The original was made with Black Bush.)
Top it off with a thin layer of cinnamon.
Sip it, chug it, warm or over ice (well, I drank it warm, I imagine it'd be good over ice).
This is the first in what will hopefully be a series of new drinks. My friend Suzanne, who is one of my circle of beer friends, helped with the creation of the drink. We have another idea in the works which we haven't had a chance to try yet.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Education: Principles
What is it that constitutes education? What ought the focus to be? We have lost sight of the foundations we once saw so clearly, and our thoughts have turned to shallow, egalitarian pursuits, which should on their very face be contradictory to good education. Education, in its nature, is discriminatory. It is based upon the idea that the better is preferable to the worse, that knowledge and understanding are goods to be pursued. Now, though, we see more than anything a desire for sameness. The structure of the school system is geared towards achieving equality among the students. Rather than pushing each student to excel as much as possible, we push each student to reach the same goal. To make this possible, we set that goal so low that the very worst students may reach it, and then require the bright minds in the classroom to slog along drearily through topics that they mastered upon hearing. This problem exists in private schools as well as public; it is structural. The best intentioned of teachers, the most Catholic of schools, still struggle to overcome this basic egalitarian structure. And so those inquiring minds, who could swallow algebra and geometry whole, who read classical literature for fun because it is intelligent, literate, and substantive, these minds are stifled by boredom and left to rot on the wayside of the highway to sameness.
A properly educated child is a dangerous weapon. A boy, once taught to read, will soon discover worlds of adventure laid at his doorstep – if, that is, he can escape the hatred of reading instilled in him by the politically correct, empty hogwash forced down his gullet by a system that does not want him to be a man. Tales of adventures, of heroism and fair maids, of treasures and scoundrels, will inspire him to be a man to match his heroes. Indeed he runs the risk of misbehaving horribly and turning into something not at all effeminate. Worse, this love of reading may wax non-discriminate, and his wandering eye may fall on some volume that contains more profound ideas and fewer adventures. He might perhaps read it without proper supervision by an amateur expert in interpretation, and he might, just might, form his own ideas without regard to what everyone else in the class is told to think!
Likewise a girl might discover that there is beauty in being feminine. She will perhaps find in Mary the ultimate model of a mother. She may read Jane Austen without being told how horridly sexist her novels were. She may expect men to be men, rather than wishing they were girls. She runs the risk, terrible indeed, of wanting to conform to traditional gender roles, because she recognizes that in being a woman she is fulfilling a unique and precious place in the world, one which will earn her the respect, admiration, and love of every man worthy of the name.
Words are dangerous, for they convey ideas. There is a reason that education once centered around Reading, Writing, and Arithmetic. Language is the means by which ideas are exchanged. A word written speaks through time. The dead cry out to the living, saying, “Look, here is truth, here is beauty, here is wisdom.” Through reading we learn to think about meanings. Reading alone is not sufficient, though, for many of the dead and living lie. We must learn to discriminate between truth and falsehood. We must learn to take the good because it is good, and to leave the bad because it is bad. Usually, we take the bad because we are told it is good, and leave the good because we are told it is bad. Arithmetic (and ultimately higher mathematics) is vital to education because it teaches one to think with discrimination, to discern proof from sophistry, to know that begging the question is not a valid argument, and to reason about truth from first principles. A mind that devours inputs as a child’s will must be well-ordered. A well-ordered mind is capable, not only of absorbing old ideas, but of forming new ones; not only of reasoning about truth, but of expressing that truth to others in words. A child who reads and thinks clearly can, in turn, cry out to future generations, “See, here is the truth, here are beauty and goodness.”
Anima Christi, sanctifica me.
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