Me and My friend Seth

Gangs of New York, 2002

My friend Seth is forty years old and has outlived at least half of the 9 lives allotted to even the feistiest cat. We now live a thousand miles apart, as we have for most of our adult lives. He has remained in our hometown, built a family and a life there around the seasons, while my husband and I came north fifteen winters ago. Our connection is sporadic but always warm and fraternal, like a big brother who has seen anything I'm about to show him but endures my antics anyway.

Seth's mother braided my hair and baked apple pies for all of our childhood. When his cat gave birth to kittens in his bed -- a handbuilt lofted bed perfect for forts and scary stories -- his stock rose exponentially in my five-year-old mind and has stayed there since. We played hide and go seek among the spruce trees and trailer parks of our densely forested, working-class Alaskan island. The snuggly rhythms of early memory gave way to some chaos in our respective homes, and we've also shared the messier milestones of adolescence and adulthood.  

Our parents are probably more surprised to see us raising ten children between us and baptizing them into a faith neither of us were raised in, than they were to pick us up from the police station together off and on in the early 1990s. Seth taught me about weed, subversive music and the delicate balance of supply and demand. We played F*ck the Police at top volume and did our best imitations of the bravado presented on MTV. His father was my only visitor when I was shipped to a nearby island for residential drug treatment. 


I will note here Seth's physical presence: he is massive. Foreboding, even. An uncle of mine who employed him as a commercial fisherman remarked that Seth is the quintessential gentle giant. He was a wrestler in high school and has always kept his strength in check; never bullying and even using his imposing physicality to defend would-be victims from teasing or worse. There's one particular story about the school bus that brings me near tears each time I tell it -- and the irony seems to be that the boy being bullied was of correct breeding and political class but wispy and nerdy, while Seth was the scrappy hero. That boy from the bus went on to some really prestigious East Coast college I can never remember the name of and now works for a Fortune 500 in the art dept (last I knew), while Seth put down roots in the same neighborhood from which the school bus shuttled him to & fro. When I watch the (glorious) movie Overboard I still see Seth in the oldest son. Noble and quiet but certainly not without spine. Perhaps his power lies in the suggestion of violence without having to deploy it. 


I thought of Seth in a special way after reading this piece. I emailed it to him, along with a half dozen other men and women, childhood friends all, with whom I often share banter about current events. We don't agree on every issue nor seek to convert each other -- we just like to stay in touch and rap about lifestyle and philosophy between diapers, work and errands. We're able to learn from one another without resentment or bitterness, pride or retribution. I see now that our unity may be a threat to those without agency in the present White House. Seth shared the piece on social media only to be accused of racism and effectively silenced. I would laugh if it weren't so sad and entirely missing (or proving) the point of the post.

Today, taking stock as if I were a raven perched in the treetops, listening to the foment of human pettiness in the wake of President No Good Really Bad, reading scribes from all corners, ruffling my feathers -- I see that the erudite leftist minds neatly bunch us all together. We are White. We are to be aggregated and educated, or at least ignored. Our varied opinions and experiences do not matter, for we share the embarrassing ethnicity of being Anglo-Saxon. Our immigrant stories are irrelevant, for we must absorb fresh wisdom, prostrate ourselves to the latest arrival. We're descended from countries that lack the exotic pedigree to grab the audience of National Public Radio with tales of victimhood. 
 
Never mind that Seth's children aren't even white, or that my husband is only second generation American, with grandparents who came as illiterate teenagers hoping to earn enough money to return to Portugal and buy a horse. If that hints at a certain pride, it's simply pride in the achievements and perseverance of someone else. It would never occur to me to ascribe pride to my race. I don't need census bureau stats to validate my existence, and I have 2,000 years of cultural heroism in Christ and His Bride to "fall back on" for identity. My kids attend a school with just seventy students. Laotians, Alaskan Natives, African Americans, Hispanic children from pockets of Central and South America, Caucasians. No one notices. We have families with foster children, families of truckers, clerks, engineers, physicians, pilots, families built by adoption and those with transient children. Our stated goal is to make saints. We look to martyrs, soldiers and scholars with equal fervor. We are not divided and we are not afraid.

As I said in the email scribbled to friends when I shared Dreher's post this morning, the weird alt-right thing gets no traction with me -- but the objective point being made by his commenter is quite illuminating.  Foreboding? We'll see. I do know this: the guidance of a nuanced gentleman who takes no guff is an invaluable force for children. Come what may, both Seth's children and mine have that in their fathers. 

If the American Left insists on fragmentation along lines of race, the carnage is predictable and its genesis rests squarely on them. They play with fire. Although the USA is unique, and this experiment of unity is worthwhile, we are all still human beings. I grieve the idea that men like Seth (who I use here without permission and not as a mythic hero; he's just a dude I know) are being trashed. Again to repeat myself --- white men are allowed to be anything except victorious. I would submit that the creepy racism of America was exposed, burst like a boil on Satan's ass, not with the election of a black man to the Presidency, but of a white one. Why is that?

the mouthy and the merciful

Mrs. Obama and her daughters

By some mystery, my browser homepage was changed to MSNBC recently, so rather than learn how to fix it I've been indulging in their glossy spin. It's fun to read news from an entirely different source than I would normally.

This blog post came through my email today, and it's gorgeous and convicting as usual. Pope Francis recently used the term 'a bitter zeal' in a homily, which apparently belongs to the ancient St. James. God save me from having a pretentious faith, because aside from the obvious blindness and harm to my own soul, that's no way to attract anyone to the Gospel. My dad always told me essentially this when I got flustered about interpersonal stuff --- it takes all different kinds of people to make the world go 'round. My father-in-law once said something similar to a friend of ours who was a new recruit for the APD (he himself being a veteran of LAPD), "Just put your head down and do your part". I had never heard that phrasing and was puzzled ~ didn't he mean hold your head high and go be a big bad cop? All good advice from men who have weathered four or five decades of getting stuff done in groups of fallible humans.

Speaking of the police, I met a guy last night who has been camped out in his car at the local grocery store. He ran out of meth a few days ago. He said he just hunkered down in a damp sleeping bag and kept passing out whenever he tried to read the Bible. Nearing desperation, he chased down a pair of cops who had previously tried to wake him up in the Carrs parking lot. He ran after them on foot, claiming he had drugs and that they had forgotten to search him. The officers were incredulous, but one took him under his wing, helped him toss his pipe, drove him to a late-night 12-step meeting, and has even employed him with odd jobs for the past few days. No paperwork was filed or charges pressed. I hope he keeps coming back. Father Martin gives a rousing ode to the prayers of a scared addict --- "Don't ever discount the prayers you said when you were drunk. A hurting heart is closest to God than any other. Those were the best prayers you ever prayed." That policeman has done something grand, humane, and risky. Soli deo Gloria.


Hoda & the lil' Giff taking breathalyzers

I can't even believe Dwija is considering moving. I wonder if the people who buy her house will be weirded out that there's an entire blog dedicated to their house? Funny quirk of living in the Internet age, you never quite know when you step on documented ground. Real estate sales involve those tiresome disclosure forms, about lead paint, crimes or malfunctions on the property. Sellers even have to disclose paranormal activity like suspected hauntings. I imagine those concerns will soon grow to include potential privacy violations or previous media exposure.

And I don't care much for the First Lady's chosen dress at her chef's wedding, PS! (although I liked how she and her girls were coordinated.)

Reading MSNBC reminds me of one winter when Anthony and I found ourselves in the habit of watching the Today Show every morning as we stared slack-jawed over coffee mugs at the frigid yard outside. The show's cacophony was warm, sedating and a little hedonistic ("...is Kathi Lee drinking Tanqueray at 6 a.m.? well, this is fun.") My husband sighed, "it's the dead of February and I feel like I'm trapped in a dentist's office, with old issues of People magazine come to life. Part of me is humiliated, and part of me never wants this to end." :)

But, look ~ here! Life can be simple, even when pierced by great evil.

 

desperation is better than despair

(There's not really a point to this blog post. Mostly a brain dump, and I hope the Ben Stein piece will reach more eyes. As a writer, there's supposed to be a one-or two sentence takeaway possible afterwards, right? this doesn't meet that criteria, but I'm very sad and wanted to share.)

I've just heard the news about Robin Williams' grappling with the beginnings of Parkinson's. It's a comfort to know he was sober, according to his wife, and it makes sense that physical sobriety is in fact unbearable without a program of recovery. To an addict, the toxic (for us) substances are the solution, not the problem. Strictly speaking, "the problem" begins when the drugs run out or stop working. Also, other people seem to have a problem with our ... antics.

Among the attitudes I encountered while asking friends and family the Weed Question, there was an almost un-nameable strain of, "Stoned losers are always going to be stoned losers, so who cares." This stung ~ as a former stoned loser and an escapee from addiction, I couldn't reconcile my own experience with such extreme dismissal of the human journey. In my mid-teenage years, after writing off notions of family and faith as naive, but before meeting judges and hospitals, I was given the benefit of men like Mr. Eddy --- who somehow intimated that I was made for better stuff than even the best dope around. Notably for those who love him, Mr. Eddy is in his third decade of living with Parkinson's Disease. I think of Robin Williams, with John Belushi hours before his fatal overdose in 1982, and the decades of public joy and productivity which followed -- all created by an addict saved from the trash heap.

As to the Parkinson's Disease, facing certain physical decline is often touted as a reason for "assisted suicide" and abortion. We hear fallacies about being 'productive' as the measure of a life. I think of John Paul the Great and his witness of a holy death. I want to blame the culture of death for its utilitarian treatment of people, but blame belongs other places, too: misapplication of psychoactive drugs, highbrow culture, Hollywood, lowbrow culture, selfie culture, Major Depression, the Sexual Revolution (see utilitarian treatment of people), and predictably, the whispering plunder of the Devil himself. Lower power indeed. Like Bob Dylan says, You Gotta Serve Somebody.

Last year, Simcha wrote a memorable piece about beating a cause to the point of becoming deaf and dumb, and I risk doing that if I pretend to know the details of this tragedy. And as my husband shrugged, "Do you know how many people offed themselves yesterday? Nobody cares about them. Even this claim of caring is selfish. He was a thing." (this is how my husband talks, but he's not endorsing --- just describing. He is the best describer I know.)

Before despair comes desperation. When desperation is shared, it recedes. By the same selfie culture which pierced his blameless daughter, Robin Williams' privacy was finally so desecrated that his options for spiritual salvage seemed to close in on him.

With a few kids who have a flair for dramatic, we've begun conversations about the ultimate isolation of the performing arts. They can be fulfilling, noble and ordered to the good, sure --- but the risk of becoming a 'thing' to surrounding caretakers, pawing fans, or well-intentioned managers seems ever-present. No matter our affection or connection with an artist, it's not my Christmas morning that will be empty without Robin Williams. He was someone's Daddy.

NB --- I have to link it again ---  every word of Ben Stein's take rings true, from where I sit.  I wasn't a big fan of Robin Williams' raw comedy because of the hints of sex-tinged stuff that put me off, even as a kid/before I could name or recognize the "blue" as blue. My preferences aside, his talent was so grand and generous, his range so vast, that his loss feels like a hunk of the earth dropped away. I guess it has. Addiction has only three ends, unless arrested ~ jails, institutions and death. May God help me to be less selfish. To reach for Him through sharing my needs with others, and doing my best to meet theirs.

A Mother Lifts Her Son, Slowly, from Heroin Overdose

Please meet Alex and pray for their needs tonight.

an ordeal

So, on the eve of Alaska giving in to Big Marijuana and recreational pot-faux-pharma, I've been asking many of our friends and relatives their opinion on the subject. I learn from different points of view, am grieved by others, but in the end I appreciate that drugs market themselves, and the interior conditions of a soul are what makes them attractive --- packaging & distribution really is an afterthought. I do find some amusement in the irony of the most vociferous weed advocates being rabidly opposed to cigarette use.

However, woe unto the society that removes the protection for its most vulnerable populations. On a personal note, as a heavy daily pot smoker for five or six years, at least when I offered my loyalty, conscience and identity to drugs, it was clear that the trade-off was opting out of polite society in quantifiable ways. I was intuitively given the gift of shame. For that, I thank my parents and the ambient cultural defaults (in the mental health world these are 'norms' and risk/protective factors, which is neutral language for standards and expectations. It is objectively cruel to remove them...) which are being so rapidly discarded. Maybe that's one definition of aging --- hand-wringing at the new school, love for the old school. :)

May we elevate all people to keep their drug use in the back alleys. And at least stop short of telling wannabe scholars that getting stoned will get them anywhere except stoned.

In lieu of waxing emotively to placate or antagonize the Libertarian streak, the comfortable conservative, or the rebellious Republican, I'll just let Louis C.K. share the giggles. And yes, he curses.

Dear Larry

On Thursday a friendship of twenty-plus years came to an end when my mom called with the difficult news of death. My first pen pal (besides Lil and the foreign kids from the back of Archie comics), my first professional boss, and the first gift sobriety gave me: Larry King.

Do you ever picture a certain friend or relative, and just sense they'll never be an ailing 97 year old in a nursing home? This friend was like that, and I'm relieved he is no longer constrained by his earthly body. Larry was somehow ageless: eternally 55 or so, but in many ways a carefree 17-year old guy. He personified the gratitude a recovering addict carries with them --- to be aware of a generous universe, our rightful place in it, and the immutable hand of a loving Creator. And he was a good counselor. Maybe that's why he stayed in the chemical dependency field when he could've chosen a half dozen careers with relative ease and acclaim: music, activism, educational guru, and so on. But he remained a counselor, walking with lost souls trudging towards clarity --- witnessing all the pain and madness without being swallowed by it. He was a real shit disturber where it mattered, and a voice of perfect trust in God when life seemed too much.

Among the things he illuminated for me was an absolute riddance of self-pity and fear. As a clinical director he was patient, meticulous, and funny. As a friend he was endlessly comforting without losing his own serenity. He let me bring my dog to the office every day, wryly declaring her a therapeutic presence. He spoke highly of both of my parents, and had great stories from the 1970s and 80s about many people in our town. I think now about his monk-like existence, the confidences he took to his grave ~ he instilled in me the sacred trust (not to mention a near-holy fear of federal privacy mandates) of receiving another's pain or joy, which is especially vital in an isolated community.

Larry intentionally lived by the ocean, nesting and creating stability wherever he roamed. He was somewhat itinerant in his mission -- knowing when to move on, but fully immersed while he lived in a place. He really was the kind of personality that helps knit a small town together. His physical presence was fixed, immovable: keys jangling, quips exchanged, tie dye and denim blazing through. Spiritually, things settled a bit when he asked questions. The world slowed to a pace of wonder and hope.

He was alternately known as Easy Eddie and the Frog King, both nods to personas and passions. On any topic, he had a joke you saw coming but didn't hurry along to its conclusion, since conversation was an art in which he delighted and excelled. The currency he traded in was profound, sincere, and exacting of truth in himself and others. There was no pretension in Larry. To say he "looked for the best" in people would be trite, since I think his skill was a deliberate routing of the best in a person, inviting them to live better and do better in a most unselfish way.

While I reflect on the magnitude of his service, the tenderness of our bond, and the role he played in so many lives, I trust that my grief will subside while his impact will remain. My life has been fortified by a thousand tiny points of light that Larry delivered, always allowing me to claim the discovery as my own. It's sobering to learn of the hundreds of people who felt precisely the same way about him. May God grant eternal peace and majesty to his soul.

Ten Things I've Learned in the Past Month

10. Where I used to cluck sadly at bedraggled parents with their toddler on a leash, I now ponder the legitimate use of a (very small) Taser for getting mine in formation. Or at least into their carseats.

9. If you casually mock Axe body spray over the years, you will accidentally buy scented oils labeled Lavender & SomethingSomething, but they'll just smell like Axe body spray.

8. The most polished etiquette cannot replace manners. When you meet darkness in its most civilized forms, run. When warmth and light come in the distressing disguise of the poor or suffering, embrace. This takes practice.

7. I can no longer tolerate Kandinsky.

6. Conjunto is REAL.

5. Packing sack lunches and dispatching children for activities means the dishwasher can take three days (!) to fill up, which feels like being on vacation.

4. There is some redeemable value in Christian rock music. That might be the most embarrassing sentence I've ever written.

3. Polish people and Minnesotans have a lot in common -- the good stuff.

2. GoPro videos taken by children are funny. But they do seem like pointless "home movies" --- since the child is nowhere to be seen. Tree climbing is predictable and needs no narration. And I don't know why ice fishing needs to be re-enacted at all. Give me a stranger's clichéd travel slideshow any day.

1. Typing resumes for friends is gratifying, for selfish and unselfish reasons. I love to type and hear life stories, linger over design (all the best fonts are named for composers, have you noticed that?) and see the final product bring happiness to the person it describes.

PS This week's doddery (mine) brought to you by Her Excellence Jen, at Conversion Diary.

Order, Wonder and the Historical Trauma of last-minute Christmas Shopping

So, a few weeks ago I was ogling Advent wreaths online, wondering if I could swing across the modernist divide and embrace something like this:

*****
NEVERMIND, the picture won't load and my friend in Texas wrote something better than my planned drivel about overconceptualized (crappy) religious art.

Even better than blogs about schedules (my subtopic), which are admittedly my favorite kind of blog posts to read.

In any case, please heed her warning at the top, because it's sincere. She has a certain vantage point --- it may not be for everyone. But I would ask anyone who wants to bristle at her style to consider the potential audience. I've been thinking lately about how much of the dysfunction we seem to mourn can be traced back to the cultural expectation of living in a state of unending gratification --- sexual, consumerist or otherwise. "If it feels good, Do it" is quite the mantra. We pay.

Much like Peter Hitchens being unfazed by Dan Savage's juvenile attempts at antagonism, the world needs women who can talk like this to girls out there. And priests who can talk to both. We all have that God-shaped hole in our heart, and those who minister to us do well to accept the ways habitual sin has made us blind. And to carry on, with a burning love of souls. God bless you, Mrs. Stacey Adams.

From Ho to Housewife, How Jesus Changed Everything

{insert here Diego Rivera, Woman at a Well. If photos would load to Blogger today.}

there is no war on drugs

Peter Hitchens breaks it down. (this links to an argument which is long, but unique. After watching Mr. Hitchens go toe-to-toe with Dan Savage, I'm quite taken --- as the Brits would say --- by his brain and his verve).

mwahahaha

Cute stuff, FYI

Can an Atheist Get Sober?

After the most grievous, fruitful season of my young life, I'm sorting through the lessons. Through my limited scope, I'm discovering a fraction of what it feels like to love, and to be powerless. If God's inexhaustible Love for us feels anything like this for its Source, I'm happy to remain a fleck on the windshield of life.

Part of this summer's journey has meant a return to the 12-step meetings that saved my life fifteen years ago. I selfishly gained the gifts of sobriety (becoming employable, a husband and family, a busy life) and left my duties to still-suffering drunks behind. I also left behind the spiritual growth that propels us, one day at a time, in recovery. Although I didn't pick up a drink or a drug in the six years that I stayed away from meetings, I retreated into my faith. This isn't a fact I'm overly maudlin about, but it is a fact. We either 'grow spiritually or die', is a recognized truth for addicts. I've moved through the deep shame and regret of leaving this first facet of good living behind --- that progress being due to the unfailing welcome of beautiful strangers who now inhabit my heart and my home. Thank God they were still there when I put my hand to the doorknob. The worn carpet, bad coffee and tattered slogans on the wall spoke in sacred, silent tones. May I never forget where I came from.

In a flash, I was relieved of my embarrassment at the realization that I'd concocted two different Gods: one for alcoholism and one for Christian living. I had a merciful God and a legalistic God. To reconcile the two was not the kind of protracted analytical exercise I first expected; rather, God returned wholly to me the same way He first appeared --- in my utter surrender. We know the expression 'there are no atheists in a foxhole', hinting at the simplicity and willingness of the human soul to cry out for divine aid when all other hope is lost.

The Twelve Steps are undeniably rooted in Christianity, even mirroring Ignatian and Benedictine spirituality so closely that Bill Wilson (their author) was once asked by a priest if the rumor was true --"had the Steps in fact been written by a Jesuit seminarian?" These roots are not restrictive, however, and the program is presented in the most unobtrustive way. Any seeker of God is free to their conception of a Higher Power, and this is no doubt a wellspring of their efficacy. The fruits of Christian love and service abound, free from moral authority or hierarchy. We exist in concert with recovery from profound, intimate trauma, and humans of every possible stripe are well-represented in our numbers. We are bikers and doctors, mommies and felons, sometimes all in one person. It's this variety of experience plus the purity of our mission, that gives us the ability to reach one another. And here I come to the question first posed --- can someone who denies the existence of God make use of the 12 Steps? YES. A thousand times yes.

Picture a symphony. If you have any experience with a musical instrument this will be easy.  I played the clarinet gleefully and with mediocrity as a teenager, never reaching first or second chair but learning rapidly and deeply enjoying the experience. And we had a conductor who was one in a million. This conductor exists and is leading the show whether I acknowledge him or not --- a 'higher' power, if you will. I can reasonably get by and gain new techniques by copying the person sitting next to me. I never even have to look at the Conductor unless and until I'm willing to find that specific direction. What's vital is only that I discard my way, my self-will, and my ideas about how it should go. Humility, that elusive condition, is essential. I can copy the technical skill of another player, I can merely pretend to play ('fake it 'till you make it'), I can dither between numbers and let others carry the weight. I don't even need to be copying a player of the same instrument; I may play the clarinet but be enamored with the bassoon. It doesn't matter. All have varying results but all are different than hiding in the gutter or the catwalk --- if I'll come in, sit down, assume some postures, and allow for a new way of living from the inside out, I have a chance.

Taken as a straight parallel, any souse has already done this. In active addiction, many of us eventually exit polite society, learning a new vocabulary, new cultural norms, and a host of frightening new "skills" as we descend into hell. We trust in all kinds of unseen forces, for better or worse, to carry us through to the next fix. This mimicry of addicted life is much like the map out of the morass and into healthy and whole life --- just copy the people who have what you want.

The principles of getting well after a period of degradation so bleak that we find ourselves beyond human aid are universal and personal. It works to replace 'atheist' with the spiritually arrogant (hi!), the proud, the lazy and the skeptic: we lay aside our old ideas in exchange for a new way of living. This is simple yet difficult. If it were easy, Skid Row would be empty. As usual, this painful, privileged sojourn is best summarized in the perfect locution of wounded healers, reaching for their own:

bring your ass and your heart will follow.

I Have Too Many Kids

I have too many kids to buy perky cylinders of just about anything. If our family goes on a jag of enjoying certain treats, it's time to consult kitchen-savvy friends, drag out the five-gallon buckets, and start hustling ingredients. Once in awhile I get rebellious, standing bleary-eyed in the grocery near midnight, and just toss that slim dose of French jam into my basket with optimism. "Maybe I'll hide it," I think to myself. This time will be different. More refined.

A week goes by and I'm shaking my head at my silly use of seven dollars. Not because the blueberry preserves were practically chugged straight from the jar by nude, bellowing toddlers --- but because of my own short-sightedness. My fixation on this image of a delicacy, and its prudent dispensation, having some power over my mood. Ain't nobody got time for that. As R.R. Reno observes, "we must be careful of living our theories rather than our lives", a line from this bright yellow volume that recently had me fist-pumping in the midnight sun.

I find myself conditioned to desire the fruits of shiny marketing in place of substance. And I just turned 35, so I'm supposed to know better. Be seasoned and practical in my decision-making, no? Plus I dread passing on such a superficial angst to my daughters. "Enjoy Your Toast. Don't Overthink The Jam." --- maybe put that on my grave.

This revelation goes for so many other jumbo-sized tub o' products, from the hair salon to the car dealers' lot itself. We who claim the quiver's arrow more than twice are banished from the line of polite cars with a simple front seat and back seat. Not for us! The motorcar's features turn from gleaming lifestyle imprimaturs like Bluetooth or sunroofs to purely utilitarian gain: "Washable floor mats? Pish posh. How about a 100% rubber floor in your fifteen-passenger van? Get a power washer and hose this bad boy down." Our cars are so big they have aisles. More to the point, I contend there's nothing quite as cool as barreling down the highway in a motorcade rivaling a presidential lineup, with m'bes'grlfrenz at the helm of every rig. We will mess you up.

I suddenly have too many kids to last very long in public playgrounds, where parents micro-organize every tot within striking distance. Let them play. Visit with your adult friends.

I have too many kids to hitch my calendar to most of the lovely organizations that I'm drawn to. Whether it's ballet for one or a concert for many of us, I'm still learning to consider the "rest of the family" and their limitations when discerning our schedule. For real.

I finally have too many kids to move around spontaneously or hang out at the bus station in Mexico City in lieu of pre-natal care. "...Bloom where you're planted" is the most wretched, promising and elusive of clichés for someone like me. We soldier on.

Perhaps a more astute soul can figure this stuff out with the prescribed 1.7 American children in their midst, but I've always been a late bloomer. As the story often goes, there was more to be revealed.

We have too many children to view our parenting impact as sacrosanct. God imbues each person with a dignity their own. By His grace, our children may live to see decades of opportunity. They could spend much of their adult lives around people we'll never meet. Our time with them is truly just a season, and they are not ours to contain.

We have too many children to believe we can craft them in our image. Should their character be revealed in ways that stir our tears, whether of pride or despair, we know it's their character being forged. Not ours. The journey is theirs. We can shepherd them, and their formation is our duty --- but having 4 or 5 different personalities blossoming together goes a long way to expose the futility of control over another's destiny.

We have too many children to spend time driving all over tarnation for things we can reasonably (re)produce at home. This applies to meals, much of modern entertainment, and certain forms of fellowship. Heroic exceptions are made for exposure to arts and letters, tacky parades, and church stuff.

We have too many children to revel much in professional goals, whether realized or still being pursued. Kids want to feed the ducks and ride bikes and chase pigs. They want to go swimming and pick up hitchhikers and count the stars. They want truth. My husband will never ask for his (numerous) (just bragging) service plaques and production awards at his deathbed. We hope only to join their struggles and achievements in a sane and sober way --- not eclipse their young lives with misplaced ambition and easy accolades. Kids know.

We have too many children to believe in fake activism. Seriously. Let's take a risk and love someone. May God pierce our crazy, selfish egos with His peace.

We have too many children to believe that "born healthy" is the ultimate gift. Life hurts. We cry out loud and drive in circles with death metal blaring, yelling at God. And He's there.

We have too many children to labor under the illusion that sex is meaningless. It makes new people, and those people deserve a family. The heaving, aching, fussing mound of issues and persnicketies that all families are, at times, but a family. With seven years of infertility at the front half of our marriage, Anthony and I are acutely aware of the life-giving power of sex, gone inexplicably dormant. Babies aren't merely a milestone, or a delay of real milestones, they're whole new people. Life is never diminished by the addition of a baby.

We have too many children to be scared (for long) by the notion of another pregnancy. They're our only lasting gift to each other and to their siblings.

A Life Without Sin

When I met my husband, he posed this question very early: "What is Satan's greatest lie?" (To certain girls, it doesn't get much more romantic than that. I know. I was eighteen. You hush.)  That the answer --- "Satan's greatest lie is that he doesn't exist" --- came from Anthony, not French poetry or even a Kevin Spacey movie, was the beginning of my fascination with and attraction to him. My husband seems like a bombastic personality to many people, but how quickly he deflects my swooning over these moments now. ("Honey, I probably got it from a movie. I was just trying to sound deep.")

We were married one year later. We lived together for the entirety of our engagement. The doors of Christ were thrown widely open for us, sinners seeking an anchor without much knowing we were drowning. We've needed a life raft more than once in our travels together, including being civilly divorced and remarried, and relapsing on a host of favorite vices, all the while clinging to the virtue of Love itself and our unquenchable thirst. That 'God-shaped hole' I first heard about as a teenager, and visited in adulthood by finding the heartfelt vocabulary of Saint Augustine, has never left us. We are grateful.

And yes, we immediately began having sex when we met ---- that's how people express an interest in getting to know each other, in the world we came from. I don't make these admissions out of pride or even shame --- just an attempt to be clear about my moral formation. I also mean to draw a larger conclusion about the arrogance of chronic sin, and how it blinds us to our own brokenness. This is well-illustrated by a Western priest's report on the number of people standing in line for confession vs. those in line for communion on Sunday, comparing the ratio now to that of forty years ago. Hint: one is shrinking while the other is growing. I described this to my husband and he replied sardonically, "See, it's working, Father! People are living lives without sin." Our sadness isn't smugness.


If you didn't know grandstanding has found new heights
via cartoon imagery, you should check out social media!

No Guts, No Glory
In the wearying discussions about same-sex 'marriage', both online and offline, the conclusion is clear. Either align yourself publicly with the crushing tide of nihilism, or prepare to opt out of cultured society. The prevailing argument ("Don't H8! ForniK8!") has revealed a dirth of contemporary authority so vast, I find myself shocked.

I don't hold a shred of ill will towards people who have gay sex, but I'm also not that impressed by it. Christians know the ground to be level at the foot of the Cross. Letting sexual sin be defined as sexual sin is enough for us --- please work it out privately. For reaching this unglamorous conclusion, we're termed "nothing but hateful, ignorant bigots". Ignoring the effects of overturning the expressed will of voters, or the implications of further eroding states' rights, these simplistic dismissals are met by applause in the name of tolerance. Short-sighted, heartless and frankly moronic comparisons to interracial marriage are made.

Dialogue either stops or turns lukewarm when a person announces they have a gay relative. I remember when my affection for the gay people in our life was enough to satisfy my hope that I was making the right decision by saying nothing on this subject. I considered hearing no resistance as evidence that I was on the winning 'side'. Is there a notion that our individual lives and peers are sufficient for the wisdom we need? Must I seek a deposit of faith and wisdom from anywhere broader than my family reunion or the university? What a plebeian bore I am, then. I'm watching a parade of souls begging to be redeemed by United States Supreme Court Justices. When we refuse to conform our hearts to the authority of Christ, isn't it curious that we'll force conformity on the people around us? We long so deeply for approval, all the while yelling about rebelling against the patriarchy.

I know some really nice drug dealers --- hardworking men who donate to charities and support their families. Should that remove any objections I have to the trade? Moreover, does it free me from the responsibility to think? God's greatest earthly gift is our sense of reason --- we must employ it fearlessly if we believe the state of our souls depends on accepting His ultimate gift of salvation.

So why can't I just 'shut up'?
My duty to my Creator includes sharing what He has done for me. God's truth sets us free from a host of suicidal tendencies, most of which fall under the umbrella of selfishness dressed up as license. (My rights!) My friends have written more personally. In the short time I've been maintaining this glorified Pinterest page I call a blog, I've felt called to write on topics outside of polite conversation, mostly because those are the topics I think about and find most relevant.

It's not about me, or some climactic reveal when it comes to my views. Nobody cares or is surprised, on the whole. I'm sad to be called a bigot, but eager to form my witness in a way that welcomes private dialogue with my "Questioning" friends. (Let's use the word for questioning politically correct trends, not methods of getting off sexually. Only one of these requires secrecy in our society.)

My alternative is silence, or a sort of counterfeit truce. Notice this truce requires silence only from those who uphold a heterosexual ideal for marriage. I'd rather have honest and respectful conversations than pretend. 

The Catholic Church is the sole purveyor of a consistent pro-life ethic, and her teachings on abortion, the death penalty, euthanasia, birth control, and sexuality don't deviate a whit. Yet our silence, confusion and disobedience has contributed massively to the desecration of marriage. Possessing the truth isn't enough, we have to share in an honest and love-affirming way. We can ask those whose faith we admire to help us in discussing this freely. If it's all so noble, why the insistence on euphemisms?

We rightly want to be affiliated with noble causes, and when a Facebook friend tosses out a vague cliché about injustice or civil rights, the temptation to join in can be strong. This is where silence is better than a forgery. Not everyone is an activist. Ask questions in real time and in real life of people whose spirituality you admire. Listen for authentic love. Be careful of who you consult. Nothing sends me running in the opposite direction faster than attempts at faux sisterhood, and life is filled with sources of bad theology dispensed by people with Good Hair. I'll take my moral waxing from someone who wouldn't think of waxing anywhere else, if you don't mind. I'm not making attention to fashion trends a litmus test which must be failed in order to have intellectual credibility, but --- oh wait, yes I am. Great thinkers necessarily seem to opt out of the parade of vanity. People who neglect hygiene in order to socialize (or not) are often fantastic. The day my eyebrows are finally just growing in concentric circles, you'll know I've reached scholastic nirvana.

The bare truth is, marriage was redefined fifty years ago with the introduction of no-fault divorce and artificial contraception. This is detail. Gird your loins: if sex is merely the joining of two people (without the possibility of creating a third), then so is marriage. The unexamined life Socrates warned against has won. Ironically, it can't stop preening in front of the mirror.

To Capture Humility --- or How Pope Francis reminds me of my high school biology teacher

Happy Pi Day! Habeus Papam!

As I strained to make out the themes of our good Pope Francis' first homily this morning, seated at my computer, I sensed an authentic quality that proves elusive and inspiring. It wasn't on the chorus of traits we'd been hearing as necessary for "the" papal elect. And we didn't get our bombastic American. Neither the exotic African or the pedigreed doctrinaire. God has given us a Tango-dancing soccer fan who cooks for himself and insists that while catechetical standards not be lowered, access to the Sacraments will heal us. Even ... sinners.
That trait is humility.

(That any of this is revelatory must serve as a chastisement to our current cultural state. We are too affluent, too comforted by material vanities and our own big fat opinions. By all accounts, Pope Francis has a curious mix of humility and joie de vivre. Add to that, that we seem shocked to find the purported runner-up of the last conclave elected this time and it might point to our short memory! Or.)

The humble teacher can be beyond reproach. Think of Blessed Mother Teresa of Calcutta. Such clarity! A tone is set by their example that makes chafing against it almost moot.

I had a teacher like this, and his name was Mr. Eddy.

At times I had to strain to hear Mr. Eddy teach. He spoke unhurriedly and from a vast deposit of knowledge honed in the sciences. He regularly filled two mammoth whiteboards with detailed vocabulary and life science data in his meticulous, curvish handwriting --- which we were required to copy verbatim on note-taking days at least two or three days per week.

To say that he required it seems incorrect, for I never witnessed him exert force. Somehow, his unspoken power stirred our own desire to achieve, and I've thought of him fondly and often because of it. We all know the varying styles of a teacher, and their various results --- the sad sack who is too eager to be liked, the rigid authoritarian, the burnout who phones in their duties. From these human flaws come chaos, fear and rebellion, and surely some arc of learning, however flaccid. Our note-taking duties in biology class were required only if we desired to learn, or score decently on his exams. He signed our yearbooks "Your friend, Jack" in the same penmanship with which he had moved us to fill our notebooks.

When our daily schedules were up for renewal each year, I sought a position as his aide. I contentedly made photocopies, organized files and ran little errands during one daily class period each year of school. He taught lots of high level classes I never participated in, but I reveled in the solitude and absorption of his expertise, by proxy of sorts. I got to touch all the papers in his world. And his world was orderly --- coming to us after a career in U.S. Border Patrol and a stint as our local magistrate. He was no one's fool in the classroom (he has since retired), and he's not a simple man. We too often mistake humility for weakness or simplicity of psyche --- when rather it is cultivated of great discipline, and devotion to Christ's Gospel.

I was often suspended from high school --- for things I said, wrote, drank and smoked. It happened predictably, and I wasn't proud of it, no matter what kind of braggadocio I displayed to my cohorts. I dreaded telling my parents and I dismissed the authority of the principal who dismissed me. But I always trudged a curious, heavy-footed path up the stairs to Mr. Eddy's second-story classroom to tell him I'd be gone for a few days, and the reason why. I treated no other teacher with this courtesy, and it's a testament to his gifts -- surely not mine.

Mr. Eddy was accessible, even in my brokenness. I wasn't repentant. I didn't want change (yet), but his acceptance of such facts made me willing to approach him. I wanted him to know me. I think Jesus would treat us the same. We are better than our best efforts, and often worse than our worst thoughts. It's okay. We have gifts, and when humility isn't among them, we won't gain much by trying to catch it. The examples of humility that have pierced me most are of people who simply do their job. Mr. Eddy had no trace of grandiosity, yet his dry wit existed in harmony with his love for us. To quiet a chatterbox he'd sometimes say, "(Student name), I apologize for trying to teach while you're busy interrupting." My ego slammed shut, followed by my mouth. He managed to offer this in such good humor, we were allowed to save face and receive the lesson. He allowed for the reality that we were squirmy kids --- but he knew we were plenty capable. It brings to mind what George W. Bush called "the soft bigotry of low expectations". Our world is rife with the discarded -- the troublemakers. Mr. Eddy knew how to quiet their external chatter, a silence which seemed to precede an interior calm.

Humility has nothing to do with money or prestige. It's recognized that pursuit of these stations in life can be a passion-filled distraction, rendering our lives complicated and filled with disordered tension. Early in my spiritual journey I learned one tenet of Buddhism, which I taught our then three-year-old daughter to recite: "To want is to suffer."

From "Dr. Bob", co-founder of Alcoholics Anonymous, I offer the best concrete description I've read of humility:

"Perpetual quietness of heart. It is to have no trouble.
It is never to be fretted or vexed, irritable or sore;
to wonder at nothing that is done to me, to feel nothing
done against me. It is to be at rest when nobody praises
me, and when I am blamed or despised, it is to have a
blessed home in myself where I can go in and shut the
door and kneel to my Father in secret and be at peace,
as in a deep sea of calmness, when all around and about
is seeming trouble."

And from the riches of the Catholic faith, the Litany of Humility:

O Jesus! meek and humble of heart, Hear me.
From the desire of being esteemed,
Deliver me, Jesus.
From the desire of being loved...
From the desire of being extolled ...
From the desire of being honored ...
From the desire of being praised ...
From the desire of being preferred to others...
From the desire of being consulted ...
From the desire of being approved ...
From the fear of being humiliated ...
From the fear of being despised...
From the fear of suffering rebukes ...
From the fear of being calumniated ...
From the fear of being forgotten ...
From the fear of being ridiculed ...
From the fear of being wronged ...
From the fear of being suspected ...
That others may be loved more than I,
Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.

That others may be esteemed more than I ...
That, in the opinion of the world,
others may increase and I may decrease ...
That others may be chosen and I set aside ...
That others may be praised and I unnoticed ...
That others may be preferred to me in everything...
That others may become holier than I, provided that I may become as holy as I should…

May God abundantly bless Pope Francis, and may we seek to transmit love rather than contain it. The true gifts of this life are so fleeting. Share them!

To Arrive Where We Started

All I've ever really wanted to be is a Grandma. I guess I should say I've wanted the persona, irrespective of bearing children --- the liberation, daffiness and solitude is what appealed to me about the stage of life. In fourth grade I wanted to be sixty years old. I wore fake pearls and collected stray cats.

My grandparents passed to me a love of writing, and to a lesser degree, reading. Since I grew up in Alaska and they lived in California and Minnesota, we didn't share books in the way we might have, had we been neighbors. But no matter. Our written exchanges were nearly constant through the stages of my life; their penmanship marked each milestone -- the joyous events like birthdays and holidays, as well as conflicted times like my parents' divorce, and my own drinking and drug-addled college days. Even to the casual observer it was incongruous enough --- my first roommate remarked that she'd never met anyone who drank so much whiskey or got so much mail from their grandma. I'm not sure if these traits were impressive on their own, but together they warranted commentary! My grandmothers were none of the things I listed above as a Grandma profile: both of them would be more aptly described as refined, self-possessed and quite social. They reinforced a dignity and zest for living with each note and card they sent.

Although I treasured our letter-writing as much as I was capable of while it was happening, I sometimes think about how much I held back. A desire for approval led to editing and restraint where it was unnecessary. Grandma Ruby, Grandpa Bob and Grandma Katherine were unavoidably on a pedestal --- I'm at peace with that in retrospect. However, I wish I had been more brave. Their decades of living, plus their unconditional love, allowed for much fuller exposure than I allowed. I played it safe, you know? Spoke of achievements, aspirations and observations. I wish I would have asked them more pointed questions, about the world and their place in it. But I was a kid.

They have all died within the past nine years. God rest their beauty-filled, unrepeatable and generous souls. (I'd be remiss not to mention my Grandpa John. His pen may not have overflowed with prose, yet every occasion of my young life was marked with a punctual gift check filled out by Grandma Katherine and bearing his sturdy signature. Work is love made visible, and sharing the earnings of that work is certainly a loving act.)

Anthony and I are considering a 1,000 mile move -- a permanent return to Southeast Alaska -- to my hometown of Petersburg, where we met and were married (twice, actually. A reunion that may not have happened without the counsel of Grandma Ruby).

Recently I compiled a list of our reasons in favor of living in Petersburg, and a contrasting list of all that we'd be leaving behind. The list is revealing, entertaining, and might make a neat blog post sometime.

For now, I'm satisfied to share that this possibility is setting me free in unspoken places. I trust my grandmothers would approve.

"We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time." --T.S. Eliot

Controlled Burn, for the Win

Two of my favorite pastimes on this Earth are both events that I've given up trying to capture in photos: fireworks and parades. I vividly remember our oldest daughter's first parade almost eight years ago: on Dr. Martin Luther King's birthday, which we took in from a hot sidewalk near the jazziest pharmacy I've seen, in downtown Las Vegas. (The store's logo is bedazzled in perpetually chasing neon. Even the foam beer cozies on sale within have a holographic sheen.) Occasionally looking through family scrapbooks, these are pictures of silent strangers, reducing the extended sensory pleasure to a flat, two-dimensional memento. All photographs necessarily compress our memories, but this desire to capture the momentous and celebratory rings especially hollow when it fails so starkly. My images of the teenaged drill team members are blurry, the fire trucks are muted and dull without their attendant sound effects, and the only photo I treasure among the forty or so taken is of baby Vivian's profile, ensconced in a rainbow feather boa. I've read tip sheets from professional parade photographers, shown up early in order to get a good angle, and shot with perspective in mind. I've turned the pictures black and white. It doesn't work.

In this way, the process unfolding before us, and the resulting sensation within us, are the attraction. We'd do better to acknowledge its fleeting nature and value it accordingly. Wanting to possess, contain and control it --- even for the sake of art and posterity --- reveals an underdeveloped sensual nature and fear of vulnerability.

Just like premarital sex and the San Diego fireworks mishap. Stay with me. All of the anticipation and physical pizzazz was there, but released in a brilliant and fizzling burst. The brilliance and the fizzle are so thoroughly enmeshed, it almost equals security. No wondering if each combustion is the finale, no time to worry about this experience being one of consequence or mutual value. In fact, in the sexual sense, the utter lack of trust between two parties becomes its own reductionist bond: we are simply animals.

I had another photo-based catharsis after effectively missing an epic fireworks show in Singapore, because I was distracted by the task of capturing it. Picking up my little camera, then putting it away and trying to re-focus and drink in the revelry, only to grab it again at hopefully the right millisecond. (Incidentally, who is interested in amateur photos of fireworks? Not even my best shots stir anything in me, years later.)

This, kids, is courtship:  a burst of light flashes and recedes before we realize its strength. Was that eye contact? Others build, with crescendoes that physically rock us: we held hands! I asked him his last name! I like his last name! The staccato sadness of an unreturned phone call is where the depth of feelings can get scary, and thereby meaningful. Likewise, the dark spaces between fireworks contain much of the show's dignity and power.

It strengthens us to exist, in the early stages of love, between high marks, with breath held and hopes pinned --- my fate resting in the Conductor's baton. Please God, let this be authentic. The accents of courtship are made meaningful because of their rarity. He kissed me!

We are not built to sustain the razzle dazzle. The ferocity and uncertainty of human love has a place so precious within us that to hold the note cheapens the tune considerably. Take the near-constant barrage of text messages which I presume to be a part of many adolescent and perhaps even adult dating rituals. The poignancy of contact is all but gone, with a need for increasing stimulation dooming us to cynicism. What, as the radio anchor posited this morning when reporting on the half million spectators assembled for the 4th of July in San Diego, was left to do "for the remaining nineteen and a half minutes?"

We are wired to experience ever-new dimensions of trust, disillusionment and thrill. It will not break us. The courage to see what's around the corner is the essence of life. Nothing is to be gained by treating virginity as a simple milestone to be overcome. Sexual life has an eternal weight that we can't diminish, regardless of our opinions on the veracity of natural law. Breaking a window and running away might change our view, but the universe, including our space in it, has been impacted.

And for every girl like me who tossed it away, may the right soul stick around and dedicate his life to your private jubilee.