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?

Unused Creativity Becomes Toxic

So, my friend Rikki set me up with this lady by a few piercing quotes and I've been hooked ever since. This is a long interview, and far-reaching, but even if you have just ten minutes or so I say she's worth a gander. Groudbreaking points --- and not just one chick blathering, but the result of extensive research. It makes me thankful for the music teachers, hippies and counselors who cross(ed) my path.

The Jehovah's Witnesses keep coming over

"The Catholic Church is an institution that I am bound to hold divine --- but for unbelievers proof of its divinity might be found in the fact that no merely human institution conducted with such knavish imbecility would have lasted a fortnight." ~ Hillaire Belloc

A few years ago I suffered a setback in my enchantment with all things Catholic. I finally saw the impenetrable bureaucracy for what it was. A priest friend sat up late, listened and studied --- he said this was good, that getting pissed and not leaving was vital to developing a mature faith.

In the matter of Timothy Cardinal Dolan and every other source of ecclesial agitation, I'm marshaling hope that it's part of being sanctified. Living in an age of penance. Being thankful for every upright soul I can learn from. My duty is to serve Our Lord by loving my family. Life can be really simple. I have no reason to be ungrateful. And a grateful heart cannot be disturbed.



The cat is gagging super loudly in a corner of the kitchen and my 'free hour' during math and Sesame Street is coming to an end.

a link for you

Abby Johnson: Only Modern Pro-Life Women’s Centers Can Beat Planned Parenthood

Read more: http://www.ncregister.com/daily-news/abby-johnson-only-modern-pro-life-womens-centers-can-beat-planned-parenthoo/#ixzz2toAmMIRc

(great thoughts here: how can the pro-life movement encounter and transform the culture? I'd say pray for willing benefactors, #1. The eugenics assault has Bill & Melinda Gates, and we need similar muscle. God knows who they are...)

Joe Walsh and Monsignor Charles Pope

To my earlier point (every high-minded philosophical discourse that matters can be traced to something I've heard expressed more succinctly in the rooms...) a link is included to a great treatment of the increasing fascination with standardizing marijuana sale and use. My view of the whole thing is admittedly more cynical (what kind of square stands in line to get weed?), so I like to see how others argue the point. "Medical marijuana" has measurable benefits, as I understand it ~ but the mode of delivery could be as boring as ibuprofen, without all this hullabaloo, right? Maybe decriminalization is the first step to that simplification.

So I wish I could print my husband's poetic but crass version of this conversation, the opening paragraph of which he just recently summarized over coffee ... too brash for me to repeat, or admit that I loved. I may have choked on my croissant.



ah, the list of things Simcha and I have in common...

oh well. Troublesome trophy husbands come in all varieties. At least mine is too busy conquering industry to write a blog! There's always that. And as usual, Msgr. Pope's perspective is worth a read. I love his accessible style, pastoral approach, fidelity to the faith and the variety of topics he covers. As for Mr. Fisher, I'm filing him under croissant-choking-awesomeness I'm too scared to endorse.

this is my friend Rees

Rees (in blue) and I are alike in the following ways: we love Alaska and have no desire to leave. We're also firstborn, sharing the privilege and funny insights of that role in our families. We both like busywork but sometimes question pursuing schoolwork to the exclusion of "real life". However, Rees is well into his second year of college and has impressive SAT scores under his belt, so he's already surpassed any academic merit I've sought. And speaking of belts, he has a black one, earned with persistence and grit that I do not possess. He's never known himself without that grit, since the most involuntary function most of us perform is the one that threatens him most. That would be breathing.

This is where his story diverges mightily from mine, from all of his siblings but one, and likely from yours and the people you know. Do you know anyone with cystic fibrosis? I didn't, until we met the Howells ten years ago.

A few days ago Rees came within a one week supply of the medication that keeps his lungs clear of the mucus that will otherwise overtake his organs. A few weeks ago it became apparent that his healthcare needs would not be met by the policy the family purchased in December (to the contrary of claims and paperwork provided by the selling broker). A few months ago Rees turned nineteen years old, facing all the normal excitement of early adulthood. Management of his symptoms is standard operating procedure for Rees and his family; the need for his lung drugs is predictable, expensive (we're talking five figures, monthly) and it hangs in the balance of a vacant phone bank.

Having CF isn't trendy like some diseases, forgive me for saying so ~ or dotted with unity-building tearjerkers like other conditions. It's a daily grind of maintenance and meds, a path that breeds strength and good humor. The Howells don't need aid or comfort for much of the trials CF visits upon them, they simply need the medicine required to keep Rees running after his dreams, wherever they lead him. He's most interested in wildlife sciences but must reconcile his passions with the reality of hospitalizations which sometimes last weeks or longer.

This isn't a rag on Obamacare or fluff about my BFF. In his mother's words,"...now when we try to get prescriptions, the pharmacy tells us that there's a 2500 deductible (5000 yearly max) when the plan is for a 250 deductible and 500 yearly max. So the broker at Enroll Alaska says that Rees is not properly loaded into the system. But Premera says it's not them; it's the Marketplace. And of course the Marketplace says it's not them; it's Premera. In the meantime, his meds are $11,000 a month. We should only have to pay the first 500 for meds, then the plan picks up the rest. That's why we can't get any meds; because according to the computer, we owe $5000 which we don't have."

In my GenX Millenial mind, this is the part where I link to a gofundme campaign, or launch into a pep talk for the people who care to stalk social media, litter offices with letters or march in the streets. But in this case, shows of caring and donations will only get Rees so far. He needs a well-placed responsive soul with the power to fix this.

He bought a product which has evaporated --- his family was mandated to buy an insurance plan and is now being given the runaround by three disinterested parties. Please pray for resolution that really helps them, now.

Ed and Dorothy

A few years ago, for a few years, I kept a regular holy hour. I had just two children and it was in the middle of the night, a straight shot up a long road dotted with intersections every few blocks in a quiet Anchorage parish. We subsequently moved much closer to that parish, but I floundered at the habit which had previously become a life preserver. I often remarked that I'd barely get into the chapel each week, but had such a sense of spiritual rejuvenation that I knew it was a great aid at keeping me afloat during the week. The Coordinator of Perpetual Eucharistic Adoration at the time was such a gentle prophet --- raising the standard of what I expected of myself and my children without a whiff of patronization that we weren't already there. Do you know what I mean? The kind of teacher whose heart welcomes your heart, and everything else is superfluous. She taught me to use alarm clocks, sure, but suggested above all else asking my guardian angel to prick my brain for the 2 a.m. wakeup call. It really works!

I still long for that hour and that practice --- the solitude, the intimacy with Jesus, and much about the routine. I now understand that it's controversial (or at least debatable) to have a reading library in an adoration chapel, but I'm so glad "mine" did! I discovered a treasure in there and I want to share it with you.

(an aside: I can't overstate my amusement/God's providence/the heart of Catholicism when a book written by friends of Peter Maurin converges with SSPX books on Amazon's "People Who Purchased this book Also Purchased" list. Humanity is a circus. There's something fantastic about what that represents. I want everyone to have this little jewel and be able to discuss it! It's available on Kindle ... and in my opinion, the blue version titled 'Motherhood...' was a memorable read, but doesn't pack the same punch as the red book.)

So. Background --- Ed Willock was born in 1916 to a large, working class Irish American family. He became enamored of the early Catholic Worker movement and went on to publish Integrity magazine for ten years with his wife Dorothy. The couple and their hep cat friends were the main contributors, many writing under pen names. Rather than attempt to summarize the individual essays, I'm going to transcribe them into pages on this blog --- found along the right sidebar and beginning here. The main themes are social action which in turn forms familial vitality (rather than the other way around) being the aim of men, and the father's role at work and home. Attention is also given to the economic philosophy of distributism. The magazine refused any commercial ads, which, along with competition from larger publishers, finally proved unsustainable and the magazine ceased printing in 1956. (Much of their desire to stir lay Catholics found a voice in the intent of the Second Vatican Council.) Peak circulation was around 150,000 copies and a few of the principals went on to work in the Catholic press with some renown. A dozen of Willock & others' essays were compiled for the little burgundy book I found.

One more thing: naturally, it turns out that this effort has Dominican roots, with Father Wendell, O.P. being the first to introduce Carol Jackson and Ed Willock, who went on to become co-publishers of Integrity magazine for its ten-year run.

Shoe Leather Evangelization, as God Intends

The shoes always made me slightly uncomfortable. Yes, I'm talking about the red papal shoes, a bit of flair on which I tried not to pin too much symbolism. "He's the Pope, he can wear whatever he likes," was my ultimate response. A flash of color, a spark of life, these are no bad things, right? Isn't it true, though, that in our world of blips and sound bites, it was enough for those who find comfort in rejecting the Catholic faith to see the symbol of custom Italian shoes as a harbinger of excess and disconnect, a dismissal of our wounded world?

Perhaps the only thing that makes some among us more uncomfortable than the appearance of excess, is the appearance of material wanting. We read that Cardinal Bergoglio's friends bought him some new shoes just as he departed Buenos Aires for Rome, since the pair he was wearing were pretty shabby.

Spiritual truths are, by their nature, simple. I've always found conviction and inspiration in the question, "What if we spent at least as much time working on our 'insides' and we did on our 'outsides'? Francis' Argentine life seems to overflow with this possibility. Even the charming description of his sister's reaction shows us we are not witnessing a fluke of Catholic religious life. He's doing it right. It's been reported that as a priest he spent most of his time offering masses and hearing confession. He's spent over four decades among our wounded world, gaze fixed, heart entwined, hard at work and prayer. We must now pray for every priest, bishop and Cardinal who lives similarly. And ask God to show us how to do it too.

We can check 'yes' in the box for both camps' requests, from radical stewardship to unwavering fidelity to Magisterial teachings. These camps of Catholics need not be disparate. And here's the crux, if you will: it's not so much that our new Holy Father has fulfilled each of our criteria. He does --  yet he adds more. God is adding more to the dimensions of our hearts and lives, by having less and doing more. For one camp this means a braver, more visible evangelization. As then Cardinal, Pope Francis spoke of our church needing "to spill onto the streets, for Jesus is the King of the Streets." For still others it will mean an equally brave interior quest which results in assenting (or not) to the teachings of the Catholic faith in order to call themselves Catholic (or not).

Pope Francis has said 'yes' to God, humbly giving himself to our world, in this age and beyond.
Just like Mary.

Who was/is Pope Emeritus Benedict? Deeply dignified, a man of resplendent faith, insistent on sharing the transformative power of God's love.

Francis appears to be this and delicately, more --- by showing us less. Less of himself, more of God.
Just like Jesus.

It seems each person who clamored, even casually, for the Church or the papacy to change is getting their way. What's more, we're being newly invited on The Way.

Dances With Devastation: A Personal Reflection

The police dispatcher was waiting. I was stalling. Her question was simple. "Native," I answered after two or three beats, equally peeved at her for asking as I was at myself for balking at the descriptor. "Maybe in his early fifties, with long grey hair and a ballcap, wearing a backpack. He has a cane. He's teetering in the highway with a half-gallon vodka bottle and the cars are swerving around him."

Inupiat dancer

Driving home from an elegant celebration of Alaska Native culture, our minivan nearly intersected with a man who wasn't taking very good care of himself. "He needs to live indoors and take better care of himself," has long been my go-to simplification when answering my children about some of the Indians they see. As 'urban' Alaskans, my kids know the drumbeat as an ornamental attraction, and it will not likely represent much more to them. Even if we returned to the island of my childhood, the dances and regalia would be an occasional treat -- yet it'd be complemented by a life peppered with plenty of Native Alaskans sharing their daily pursuits and lifestyle. My early life in Petersburg, Alaska was infused by founders Tlingit, Filipino and Norwegian. I've been in the city for exactly ten years --- two or three of those years had passed before I grasped that the landscape of Anchorage contained a hostility to Native people which is foreign to me.

It was subsequent to this, and the birth of our first child that I vowed to seek as many healthy and beautiful examples of Native culture as possible for our kids. I want to foster layers of understanding about our state and her first people; I wasn't necessarily prepared for the emotions that would stir in myself.

My husband had an inverse perspective, coming from Southern California directly to an Interior village of under a thousand people in the mid-1990s. He took a service job where he was literally spit on by Native residents. Vulgarities and racial epithets were hissed at him while he worked for minimum wage. Forging ahead, his Alaskan adventure and American dream were nonplussed. He would later assert that "Natives in Southeast (where I grew up and where he eventually moved) are particularly civilized." I dismissed this commentary as my decidedly un-PC husband trying to roil his NPR-listening wife. How dare anyone describe a wide swath of humanity with such paternalistic kudos? The more he and I have travelled together, the more I see his candor on the topic as simply that. His formative years were spent in a vibrant ethnic tapestry, and he recognizes racial harmony on sight. By no means a social utopia, there is a certain lack of friction in Southeast Alaska, worthy of appreciation and study. His provocative description was probably intentional, but his frank apprisal has often been a gift to me.

A few years later, it was my husband who pointed out the innocence of a scene which I initially absorbed as shocking. Strolling with our daughters, we were caught off guard by a half dozen men bathing in our small neighborhood lake. They were splashing and laughing in the sunshine in their bright white cotton briefs. Soap and shampoo were scattered along the shore, and there were no signs of alcohol or inebriation. It was just some Native guys swimming in their underwear. My response was to quicken my step and shake my head, not quite sure whether to vocalize at all. Anthony recognized their ease in the natural world as an amusing inspiration. Except for the detergent raining into the duckpond, I guess it was hardly different than any group in swimsuits enjoying the sun.

Kids at Culture Camp

That same summer, we briefly met a young grad student who bought furniture we had advertised on Craigslist. His chiseled Yup'ik features and wire-rimmed eyeglasses matched his understated politeness. He shared his relief over finding enough seats to accommodate an influx of family members visiting from Bush Alaska as he loaded the dining set. As the beefy pickup truck pulled out of our driveway, my husband beamed towards no one in particular, "He's gonna make it, you can just tell." That a lone person doing such an ordinary task was noteworthy, even exhilarating, and is still memorable gives a hint at its uniqueness. Living in Anchorage, we so rarely encounter Natives who are not in crisis.

As spectators to these rarities and my admittedly museum-style field trips on holidays, my children are otherwise growing up with only glossy, low-rise corporate real estate and street drunks as their imagery of modern Natives. I counter it where I can, and I maximize on their oblivion to racial stereotypes. They would not consciously draw the conclusion that most of the wandering alcoholics they see are Native, but it will take root over time. For now, I manipulate discussions to include race ("Your dad has Portuguese blood, mine is Scottish, Irish and German, Grandma Sue's is German, Grandpa Bob's blood is African and Chinese, your cousins' is Mexican," etc.) solely for the purpose of skewing the data their brains might otherwise absorb. I selectively mention some of their favorite adults as having "Indian blood." I habitually say 'their blood is...' rather than 'they are Irish/German/Black/Native," because I want to transmit that our earthly origins describe us, but they don't define us. (I'm not quite this persnickety in adult conversation --- I just want to imprint the literal truth where possible in my children.)

Loretta Marvin, a Petersburg elder
(and unnamed kiddo) both in traditional garb

I feel a pull to share this particular culture as being noble and strong. My defenses rise when people of any stripe condemn rural Alaskans who are floundering in the city. This must be what members of a race feel like when their compatriots are the troublesome immigrants of the moment: "I know my people to be different than you are all seeing." I'm sensitive to the call not to teach that Native ways are antiquated, yet I purposely refer to displays of art, habitats and subsistence as describing "old-fashioned Indians", to subtly re-assert to my children that Indian lineage is shared by people who live and strive just like we do. My casual tone belies the pride and admiration I feel towards my girlfriends --- teachers, nurses, businesswomen and activists, who are also devoted wives and mothers.

Too many of the men are drunk, dead or in jail. I don't have a pat approach to that one. My tears during Native cultural celebrations are for these gentle souls turned violent, predatory and self-destructive. On Mother's Day we again took in the powerful sounds and sights of Native traditions --- the playful, creative spark in the dancers' eyes was as familiar as my first teenage love, youthful partners in crime, and eventually the children in my charge as a tutor and counselor. Those connections have been lost; morphed into hometown graveyard visits in the rain, prison letters exchanged over years, and tender memories of human potential. These are not case studies to me.

I reject the term "privilege awareness" as little more than a polysyllabic version of White Guilt, but living as a visible ethnic minority and having my actions -- for better or worse -- chronicled as a token of my race are not burdens I bear. For this I do wrestle with guilt, however irrationally. My response is to consider my conscience pricked, and see my duty to any suffering soul as one of prayer and action. At times, both seem like a futile wimper compared to the endemic winds of pain which swallow generations.

My classmates who have found peace and professional success didn't do it because they are Tlingit or Haida, nor in spite of it. They set goals and worked hard. Bloodline is not an achievement. Ancient tribal dances offer a most stirring, primal beauty, yet they are irrelevant to modern commerce and academia. No one is telling Irish American children that Celtic dance is paramount to their worth --- we're all just invited to enjoy a nostalgic form of entertainment. The wounds have largely healed. I hold the same hope for the epic sadness that dominates the public face of Alaskan Native people in this city. I pray for better days ahead.

Elizabeth Peratrovich, tireless fighter

Our most recent visit to the Heritage Center included the discovery that the concession stand was gone, replaced by a welcoming indoor play area for toddlers. Hanging on the wall above the toys was a banner titled, "Never Forget Who You Are". A grid of six Alaskan tribes was printed neatly, with a cartoonish graphic and a positive trait listed for each tribe. For example, one tribe was "Loving" and another was "Caring". Recognizing this as an attempt to distill complex and storied history of milennia to the Pre-K level, it still strikes me as vapid and erroneous if used as anything more than ancestral storytelling. There is no long-term viability in the formal promotion of cultural stereotypes, and they cannot provide tangible direction for children who might seek it. The communal aspect of tribal life has rendered competition --- at least in its simplest form, that of self-glorification --- useless in their circles. Boasting is anathema to the Natives I know, and yet the systemic approach in "Native Pride" programs seem to foster a swagger in young adults that has no root in their reality.

The risks facing a population may vary, but the solutions are the same no matter our ethnic heritage --- meaningful work and stable relationships. I would add the recognition of our self-worth being placed firmly in a Christian foundation; in this realm, that brings its own history of pain and exploitation.

Some guy in Ketchikan

Should Native kids be unequivocally warned about the toxicity of booze and their DNA? Sure, but so should mine. Should they be relegated to well-intentioned Home Ec classes rather than challenged to develop marketable skills? Not unless we want to add considerable insult to injury. The vigilant mothers and hard-working fathers of my Native friends did more to promulgate their success than self-esteem maxims or public education dollars.

There's a similar grace, and a similar despair, in the indigenous faces of Australia. Their gaze seems fixed on a horizon I cannot see, with an enviable stoicism. Enter alcohol or trauma, usually in tandem, and it gets more complicated. When we visited the Northern Territory a few years ago, I listened to stories of parliament-mandated homes built on tribal land at no or low-cost to Aboriginal families, only to be raided and left vacant. The men dismantled the cupboards, windowsills, and doors of their own brand new kitchens --- to provide fuel for outdoor cooking fires. They wanted to live outside. The irony of my sentiment towards beggars on the corner ("go live inside and take better care of yourself") is that it mirrors the intrusive arrogance of federal governments. The nomadic mystique of indigenous people was obliterated as a matter of course, and the reverberations are all around us. When I approach the guys on the street, I speak only of God's love for them individually. My tone is more urgent and firm than my children are used to hearing, and certainly more familiar than seems proper when addressing a stranger at a traffic intersection.

In that solitary flash during a Sunday drive, I face my own deep-seated conflict. When asked about the physical appearance of a brother in peril, I hesitate. My heart sees a resemblance to countless kindred faces, and my mind clicks through the statistics that damn him. The simple protection of his person from oncoming traffic I hope to provide by sending the cops will probably not do much to interrupt his life's trajectory. I want the guy to get out of the road, but I'm no more sure than he is about where he's supposed to go next.

Language @lert

The Hermit, Gerrit Dou

Norman worried me. He seemed seven feet tall, constantly fingering a hand-rolled cigarette and yelling about systematic incompetence in one place or another, though he was more likely to describe it as "corrupt bastards, every last one of 'em". Blustery on most topics -- downright wild-eyed on the right ones -- I grew a tolerance to his opinions that rivaled my tolerance to whiskey itself. Just like a proper drinking career, sobriety comes with a certain social price. The difference is that one destroys personal dignity, and the other helps to restore it by first leveling our false pride.

God sent Norman into our life by way of the hardest knocks. My husband Anthony arrived in Southeast Alaska with the interruption of his journey to Somewhere Else, Alaska. The 747 had a mechanical failure on the November day he fled Orange County for good. Anthony found himself deposited on a marshy isle called Wrangell, where the one-room airport's phone rang and he was summoned to the call by a desk agent. On the other end of the phone was Norman, a stranger to him. He was, however, known to the Episcopal priest who was known to the fish mogul/street preacher who had years before burned a path between Southern California and Southcentral Alaska, goading all around him to do the same. Uncle Mike wasn't around this time, but his people were. And so the world shrinks when you need it to. The interrogation was brief, jarring and provided passage to Petersburg. Norman's voice boomed through the phone with gruff extroversion.

"You drink?"

"No, Sir." 

"If you're lying to me I'll rip your (expletive) eyeballs out."

That my husband boarded the ferry boat to such an invitation says enough about his mental health and hunger for adventure at the time.

Within this spiritual and physical journey there was to be a blooming courtship between Anthony and me. Norman would later become a chaperone of sorts, spending hours offering us the simple gift of self which unlocks the mystery of recovery from chronic addiction: we hang out together and don't get high. He'd drive us to deserted logging roads, park his two-tone Chevy pickup and assemble the accessories of an Alaskan hike: guns, dog, smokes. Our walks ended when Norman said it had been three miles, which was clearly random from one day to the next, but we didn't care. Not drinking is a full-time pursuit in the very beginning, and any diversion of this focus is gratefully welcomed. 



The Dutch Housewife, G. Dou

We spent a lot of time with Norman and his wife Merry in the coming weeks and years, their tireless devotion to suffering souls being without parallel. We cooked together, celebrated holidays, passed the time with card games and stories. Their modest home was usually bursting with guests, from the scrappy newcomers like us to the local doctor or recently transplanted state trooper. Their open door signified everything that was behind it: hospitality for anyone, warmly offered regardless of status. Elegant-souled Merry has many one-liners that ring in my heart to this day, a favorite being "Take your time in leaving (her house), but hurry back."

She also demures when complimented for her generosity, answering simply, "You can't outgive God." As an art school dropout who now drinks in good philosophy wherever it's served, I continue to hear strains of Merry's folksy wisdom from the most rareified minds I can plop myself down in front of. She knows the human condition intimately, after four decades of ministering to addicts. I'd contend there's literally nothing someone could confess that would shock her.

While making enchiladas, I once said something about "a good person" and Norman went mildly ballistic at my term. "She's not a person, she's a woman. These women's libbers have made knowing what we are into a problem we're supposed to fix, now? Buncha hogwash."

I dismissed him as crazy and kept chopping onions.

It is nearly twenty years later, and the crazed refrain that our language has been hijacked no longer displaces my sensibilities. The obvious offenders are notable but tired, and the effects are intentional and insidious.

In terms of personal pronouns, we slowly strip away everything that makes a person unique, with this insistence that equality means feigning utter homogeny. What a bore.

Indoctrination is most effective when the subjects perform it on themselves, and we see this in the hunger to be hip and relevant with the trendy rejection of reality. Often coined 'privilege awareness', it addresses a narrow spectrum of personal traits which none of us had a hand in choosing, and paints a hierarchy we must name, claim and reject in order to relate to anyone else. White European Guilt pales in comparison to Privilege Awareness, and comparison is the name of the game. Rather than welcoming a new friend or associate, we're called to flatly survey the balance sheet of their experience on this planet, and reduce our expectations (of ourselves and others) according to the prevailing prejudice. Content of character is now secondary to this frenetic labeling.

Privilege Awareness is different than useful thought exercises because it's based in gibberish and ends in policy. As an elementary school student, I remember a simple and powerful classroom activity about discrimination, probably in tandem with learning about Rosa Parks. Many readers of my generation will be familiar with it too, and I've used it in discussion of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 to our young daughters. Our teacher separated our desks acoording to eye color, granting "good seats" to only the blue-eyed children for a whole day. (No doubt this would be hatcheted into unnecessary complexity today, or railed against by parents who don't grasp the specific and gentle nature of the lesson.) 

My ears are now pricked up for the codification of left-wing preference as the default setting of common sense. I'm encouraged by the beauty of actual intelligence which is capable of examining cause and effect, and unimpressed by the poorly thought out offerings of those who are really impressed with themselves.

Lots of tributes lately at the Lox. I'm thankful for people who are at least willing to shout rather than fiddle while Rome is burning. Especially if they value truth above their own reputation. People like Norman are right about everything, even if our first urge is to dismiss them to preserve our own comfort.

NFP: Not For Pansies

My habit of representing myself and my husband as adherents to Natural Family Planning is entirely incorrect. It's become my shortcut, a kind of lazy jargon I toss into written and spoken exchanges to signify how joyfully we welcome news of a pregnancy. I've never read an NFP text, and have minimal experience with charting my ovulation, even when we longed for children and were diagnosed as infertile. Every once in awhile I read something about those wacky Providentialists, and realize that our response to the gift of fertility is more aligned with theirs than careful NFP in any form.

I can't overstate the imprint on my psyche and my soul those barren years produced. For a young woman who gave casual assent to damaging sexual ideals, it was fairly shocking not to have children right away in married life. In hindsight, I am grateful for every necessary step, especially praying together and the painful conclusion that we may not ever physically bear children. At that conclusion, the only thing we had to overcome was our own egos, in order to consider adoption. Birth mothers (fathers too) who entrust their babies to another family have self-knowledge and courage of a caliber I can only ponder. God love them.

Our kids are healthy, my husband earns a strong income, and life is stable by most measures. None of these are factors in our openness to the gift of new life. I don't even like babies, generally! (Love my kids, love your kids, I'm just bothered and intimidated by the delicate, dependent and darling responsibility of it all. It's overwhelming.) I exhale around the seventh month, when my anxieties are replaced by a sturdy little pal who is eager to see around every corner, meet every stranger, and wield their own amusements for just a moment while I stare slack-jawed at the coffee pot and dream of library visits that bypass the children's floor entirely.

Real life began when we became parents, and I still find equal parts encouragement and panic in Peter De Vries idea that “the value of marriage is not that adults produce children. but that children produce adults.”  The day may come when our circumstances merit actually learning the NFP method, and I don't moralize over other couples' decisions or struggles in this private matter. In the meantime -- limit this? No thank you. I'm called to limit everything else: material excess, leisure time, heady solo pursuits and even predictable sleep patterns. But another eternal soul may be called forth, and my family is at the service of a God whose generosity I know to include grace. Children are the visible sign of marital love fulfilled, which makes them a sacramental of sorts.  It's also the way we all started out, so let's not get too big for our britches. If you're raising kids or at a stage when this makes sense to you -- just for today, envision your home with one more child, whether biological or adopted. Ask God to make the way clear. I offer my free advice with a handy money-back guarantee, as usual.

"The greatest gift you can give your child is another sibling."

Bl. John Paul II

Pimp My (Free) Ride

Secular shoulders are being shrugged around America just as rapidly as documents of resistance are being penned by our bishops and congressional leaders. The suggestion that contraception coverage will be mandated to include Catholic institutions has put a finer point on the paradigm, but the American taxpayer has long subsidized many unhealthy rites of passage that are now commonplace.

Sacred, life-giving milestones in the Catholic faith are called Sacraments, outward signs instituted by Christ which point to inward reception of God's grace. Reciprocally, secular society has milestones to which many people feel great loyalty and expect unfettered access. Certain restrictions exist to protect public money from funding violations of human dignity still viewed as illicit, but many of them are practically de riguer in adult life.

Let's be intellectually honest and recognize the tenets of the American Left as the framework of a nihilistic faith tradition. Through this lens it becomes clear that our federal government, which must remain secular in order for our republic to survive, has its disciples well-trained by age eighteen and expecting no less than utter redemption through good service.

It's worth mentioning that many Christians suffer the delusion that elements of their lifestyle should be on the dole, and plenty of hardcore liberals live self-sufficiently off the grid. American people are not a one-size fits all populace, which is precisely why we must unite to confront this overreach --- to restore personal liberty. The MTV generation occupies the vast middle, and we risk too much by continuing to feed their superficial accessories and unexamined pursuits with the hard-earned income of good men like my husband.

Pastimes, medical care and education are personal decisions with complex factors, and criticism of neither is my goal. Clarity is my goal. Catholics have been carrying on for milennia without need or desire of our sacramental lives being funded by anyone but ourselves; we wouldn't consider it. And we give.

Nanny-state tyranny, however, demands ever-increasing public dollars for the narrow agenda of its lobbyists and death merchants. Here are the broad strokes of such an egregious presumption, contrasted against the Sacraments of Initiation, Healing and Communion.





Oh, that just figures.

First, thank you to the forty-six voters in my navel-gazing poll asking for a 'subplot'. You have boldly chosen to join me the quest for freedom from our debt-insistent surroundings. Are you stoked? The tally is still visible on the right sidebar, and you're clearly geniuses for sparing yourselves my rather pedestrian goal of dropping the last (thirty!) pounds of the baby basket. The only thing more boring than gym exercise is reading about someone's gym exercise.

This, however, is going to be a great challenge. I'm intrigued by the idea of having no mortgage, buying a home outright and having our income available as we please. Travel. Helping with our childrens' college tuition, enabling them to begin adult life without debt. Giving to the causes and people we love.

I'll explain pieces of our financial history as we go along. Or no, I'll just summarize --- sketchy. Since leaving the workforce eight years ago to raise a family, I've watched my husband meet our every economic need. He's amazing. He left a career field he was passionate about for one that was much more lucrative. Then that effectively tanked, so he was brave and took a lateral kind of mumbo-jumbo which has kept us afloat.

We've learned good stuff along the way, not the least of which is reliance on God's providence. Simplicity. Unity. Most tender and elusive: humility. I have no original tools to offer you, but I have discovered this dude and will craft a program around that, and share our progress with you each Monday. As for today, homeschooling and the elliptical machine call.

Can A Website Be Fruit?

Hi new readers!

I have infinitely more to learn about being Catholic than I do to teach, so please read with that in mind. That statement is also true about a half dozen other relevant passions (drawing, gardening, financial stewardship and general civility come to mind), but pursuit of those are in God's care too. I write about the things I think about. I welcome, nay -- thrive on, hearty discussion.

Today this blog received more than twice as much traffic as it has in its three weeks of existence, so that was cool. Then I got yelled at for using a crude salutation, having a stupid website name, and needing to pray more. That was even better.

Know that my shoulders are broad, as they say, and typed attacks are my favorite kind. But our ideas can be shared without nastiness. If I write anything heretical or against the Magisterium, I sincerely hope you'll correct me.

In the case of our tireless ordained men, I'll only delete stuff that doesn't warrant sharing. (According to ... me! This is great fun.)

God Himself saw fit to spare them loudmouthed wives, and the priesthood doesn't need my clumsy defense. In any case, I stand by every syllable of it.

P.S. new guru subset: Catholic blogger lawyers named Joe.
Alaska has one, too.

Our Selves and Our Choices

Violating everything we know about attention spans online, I'm hoping you'll check this out. As Hilary at Orwell's Picnic suggests, such thought exercises are a worthy beginning but unlikely to instill a long-term change of heart. Watching the video, I was struck by the average person's hunger for honest deliberation. This conversation offered basic good vs. evil quandaries. One gets the sense these topics simply haven't been broached in the recent memory of those interviewed. Some of them look like undergrad college students, and it appears to take place in Southern California, but even controlling for those deficiencies (kidding!), they seem to really be stretching their abilities. Did you notice towards the end, how many of them were visibly relieved to have a logical approach by which to call themselves pro-life?

"Those who have hope live differently." PBXVI

Before we rally on the Internet in defense of life, may we stop to first pray and sacrifice for the cause.

If a stranger observed us going about our comforts, how would they recognize our concern for the nearly 4,000 little people whose lives will end today? My suggestions are simple, active and they start with concern for mothers. At one end is the call to prayerfully consider adding to our own families through adoption. There are simpler ways to encourage mothers at risk, too: shop at thrift stores for baby clothing and supplies. Answer Craigslist ads in your area posted by pregnant women looking for free stuff. Bring a box of diapers to a shelter that assists families. Pray for their fears to be removed.
Just as it's wrong to demonize (all) pro-abortion people as being predatory eugenicists, it's wrong to oversimplify pro-life America as callous oppressors. As a nation, we are an uncatechized people. My own circle of friends and family is peppered with many good women who have had abortions. So is yours. It doesn't grant me special knowledge of their suffering, but I hope it has made me more compassionate. The factions of those who would declare any baby 'unwanted' and those who reject that, from the very moment of conception, don't have many places to run parallel. May civilized and sane conversation be our start. I'm not minimizing the efforts that will be undertaken by many smart and dedicated people to commemorate the 39th anniversary of Roe v. Wade. But this is too grave, and perhaps I am too naturally flippant --- so personally, I have to pass on the invitation.
We who have travelled from buzzwords to truth owe this change to specific moments in time, like more of an incremental catharsis. "That time someone got snarky on Twitter" ain't on the list, I guarantee it.  Radical, ongoing conversion to Christ --- to say nothing of bio-ethics --- happens one soul at a time.