Mother's Day of Healing with Fr. Michael Shields

Local readers: do not miss this day, if at all possible.

Mini-Retreat at St Michael Parish
Saturday, September 13

9 a.m. - 2 p.m.
Lunch and childcare provided by AHG Troop AK1414
Palmer, Alaska

9-10 a.m.      Eucharistic Adoration and healing litanies, in the parish

10 a.m.          coffee break, downstairs

10:15 - 11:15 Talk by Father Michael

11:15-11:25   break

11:25 - 11:45 Question & Answer with Father
(written questions accepted anonymously during the morning, in-person questions welcome as well)

11:45-1 p.m. lunch and fellowship

1-2 p.m.         Sacrament of Reconciliation, upstairs, for those who desire

 

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.

 

making peace with progress

Denali from Talkeetna

1) Our local newspaper has gone away, and I guess I still need to make a visit to their vault to get our four youngest 'Stork Report' clippings. When Vivian was born I remember being told that the newspaper office maintains a few copies of each day's newspaper indefinitely, and one can request them in person at the ADN office. Now that they've moved online, everything feels transient and like those newspapers could vanish. Like they take 'their duty to me' less seriously. Which I know is silly. It's been ten years and I'm probably never going there. But how dare they!

2) I signed up for a deductive reasoning class online with Duke University (I'm not a total curmudgeon about the internet, see?) and am excited to see what it's like.

3) We've crossed the threshold into Too Many Kids to attend the Alaska State Fair cheaply, even with our tricks (totally different bag of tricks than we used at the Ventura County Fair, way back when) --- so it looks like an undercover mission with our three oldest is in order. I hope to see photos. Just husband Anthony with Viva, Margaret & Veronica. --- no babies and no mom --- paaaaaaaarty.

4) Do you think it's impractical to invite Snoop Doggy Dogg to our 20-year high school class reunion this summer? I really want to.

5) One more link. Okay, two.

6) I might soon write a sex post and try to keep it as elegant and approachable as Simcha's lovely new book. Stay tuned for all that, DAD. hahaha. Um. I would never do that.

7) That wraps up my first attempt at 7 whoodly what whats, or however Jennifer calls it. She regularly slays it over here.

What the Mahoneys Mean to Me

It's Father's Day. The guys are a few paces ahead of me on the homestead, as the languid sunshine propels us toward another family's story. I'm following an informal pilgrimage at the speed of happy toddlers and aging dogs, having momentarily left behind the annual Mahoney Grotto picnic. Our kids moseyed up to the barbeque buffet a few hours before, adding bananas, cookies and tea to the homemade sausage, roasted chickens, varied casual food and salads.

In front of the picturesque log home, I watch a guy whose name I'm unsure of pet a horse and smile shyly towards the camera. Another newly sober friend takes his picture with an iPhone. My heart is pierced by the simplicity of what's going on and the profundity I know it to be --- peace of mind, freedom of movement. Walking down a road among friends, without heroin or its effects as part of today's journey. I may not know his name, but I've heard this young guy impart Christian mercy towards his still-drunk mother on a candlelit Mother's Day. He has memorably intimated a Bush Alaska childhood with every abject sadness that can entail --- followed by the despair of aging out of foster care and directly into the dope house. The loneliness of belonging nowhere.

But not today. Today he's with the Mahoney family. And what a fold to be welcomed into, under the crisp blue mantle of Our Blessed Mother and the Alaskan sky, in a space built to honor their earthly mother.

Car after car parks across the outer reaches of Wasilla's Schrock Road, depositing more smiling faces, absorbed into still more giddy embraces.

Two and a half generations of men play football through rain and shine, with a mix of manhood and gentility that comes from staying close to the earth and each other. At one point, there were haphazard games of Frisbee being played through the middle of the football scramble, and our three-year-old son became fixated on possession of the yellow Frisbee. They humor him for awhile, but then a big boy crouches to explain the rules. "You have to throw the yellow circle, you can't keep it for yourself. You can play with us, but you gotta do the game." The shock of being asked to uphold any standards is immediate. He wails for his mother, allows me to hug him and cluck over the injustice. Then he grows quiet and rips straight back into the action. My role fulfilled, I return to the assembled brothers, sisters and cousins who have invited us for the day.

Back at the towering pod of birch splashed near the grotto, lighthearted Jungian psychology ensues, followed by a dissection of comedian Chris Rock's brilliance, then trading of recent travel stories, updates on work and worship, and an absolute fireside contentment with the human condition. Siblings and nephews check in on family business and health affairs, with tears and triumphs quietly exchanged. Babies wander to greet their grandfathers from perches against tree trunks, low-slung chairs and truck tailgates.

Throughout the afternoon, at least seven pots of coffee are brewed and shared. During this particular party I'd come without diapers for my toddlers, not a mishap new to me, and apparently not one they've never seen before either. In fact, I've never met so many grown men with Pull-ups and baby wipes stashed in the cabs of their beefy pickups. Ten-year-old boys stand stick straight and acknowledge children who are new to the fold with uncanny verve --- grilled hot dog in one hand, the other extended to greet friends with a handshake. Children ride past on the golden bare backs of horses, and a four wheeler crawls by with a dozen bouncing faces laughing from its trailer. My kids are in there somewhere. I overhear James, a local cabbie, asking what a grotto is, and Barney explaining it's Latin for crypt and means a place to pray. James asks permission to add his own rosary beads, from an ACTS retreat in Juneau years before, to the offerings inside. A few times I usher my kids away from the votives and statues, but I eventually give in to the friendly, insistent tones of Mahoney mothers young and old: they are perfectly welcome in there. Please.

I can now include myself in the tender rank of moms-in-need for whom Barney Mahoney has been known to produce dry clothing, diapers and a hot meal. A guy who knows the ropes once confided that it's Mahoney policy to stop for all hitchhikers, regardless of circumstances or disruption to his own schedule. Barney accepts no money for rides, often towing and fixing the stranded vehicles himself. Sometimes a tank of gas is the solution. Sometimes, single mothers are given the bad news that their cars are broken beyond repair, followed by the gift of a used car that runs just fine. I knew a lady who said his treatment of her was the first noble exchange from any man she'd known in forty years.

The Mahoneys don't fit into any prescribed camp: they're at once sincerely humble and born orators. A five-minute chat reveals them to be philosophically airtight, but with cowboy swagger and grammar to match. They are both wild-eyed and utterly serene. Their devotion, workmanship and credentials make heads swivel. I've seen them diffuse borderline psychotic, volatile characters with a reprimand and a hug. There would seem to be little place for saccharine piety among them -- considering the unflinching duty to truth and mercy they personify -- yet their poetry rings 100% sentimental Irishman. They are trappers, miners, steel workers, storytellers, musicians, entrepreneurs, hunters, fishermen, blacksmiths, woodworkers, bikers, builders, and farmers. (And those are just the six or seven of them that I know...) They are here to honor their mother and their father. They all know how to cook. On this day, they're willing to roast marshmallows for a continual stream of children, provided each one have dinner first and mom's permission.

Photo by Bill Hess

The two brothers I'm closest to share the story of their father's final days, including over six years spent building the grotto by hand, with random stones and statues being deposited by unknown people from all over the world, in hopes of helping the project. The mysterious Canadian squatter who came out of the woods long enough to roll a hulking, man-sized boulder (which became the grotto's roof, after being split lengthwise a few times) down their mountainside in order to contribute. The force of their father's passion for the Eucharist. The quiet heroism of their mother's twenty years of successive pregnancies in the wildnerness. Her fidelity to the establishment of a Catholic church in Wasilla --- a dream dismissed by many, considering there were parishes already built in Palmer and Eagle River. The patronage of Saint Jude.

I spend a lot of time with a lot of people who talk a lot of shit about faith, hope and charity. If the greatest of these virtues is love, why does this day look so different from most stuff I read or hear? The Mahoneys make it look easy. Joyous. Immediately possible. Their sacrifice and toil on each others' behalf is borne without calculation, shrill preaching, or pecking order. They just love. This family overflows with love, heaped on with human frailty, God's strength, and more love. Even though this isn't my first visit to the grotto, and I've logged hundreds of hours with Patrick, Paulie, and Barney, I'm thrown off kilter by the whole experience. Their rough-hewn setting and elegant hearts are healing people, through the grace of God. This is the grit that social workers, municipal food banks, SWAT teams and prisons cannot touch. I feel silly for ever wanting to buy a tapestry with the corporal works of mercy woven into it.

Since becoming a wife and mother, I've been increasingly drawn in by chatter about the Benedict Option, and set out with a hunger for it, visited often by the idea as life unfolds ~ for a fleeting sunny day in June, we were immersed in the fruits of precisely what Alisdair McIntyre describes in the final paragraph of After Virtue. My favorite depiction is contained in John T. Goerke's recent analysis: "The Benedict Option then is not a retreat into a cave, but an advance down the barrel of a shotgun."

Paul and Iona's descendants are indeed preserving their traditional culture, yet standing at the ready to receive the walking dead of modern culture, with a greased wrench in one hand and a rosary in the other. Their good-natured, fearless proclamation of God's Kingdom is magnetic. I felt like a fellow traveler, even among the dozen-plus Mahoneys previously unmet. Supernatural forces were unmistakably present. Part of me wanted to stay forever.

Another part of me knows that I witnessed nothing more than a hardworking bunch of people, hard at play on their family ranch. Let their welcome not be wasted on me, I pray. The good life is within reach --- of anyone who's willing to reach out to the guy next to him.

Surely I'm flattering myself, but I'd like to think the Mahoneys are my kind of people.

Photo by Bill Hess, 2012

"The most extraordinary thing in the world

is an ordinary man and an ordinary woman

and their ordinary children." ~ G.K. Chesterton

I am a Reindeer Dog King

If the manic Anchorage summer season had an official emcee, it'd be this guy! (with a nod to my mother, who sold hot dogs with the best of 'em for a few years in the 1980s ~ salesmen do it with a smile in all kinds of weather, as she has always said.)

Alaska Ferry, in semi-haiku

French toast, sleeping bags 

sleep sunshine rainbow mountain

tiny accordion bliss

diesel engine hum

brass clocks and doorknobs regal

fall together peace

ascetic gypsy

needs met // wants forgotten now

transformed deeper, higher

highway relative

there's that tax lawyer ski doo

More shrimp salad, please

Canada between

chunks of Alaska beloved

poky, vibrant, rough

photos from Milepost guide...

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.

Iditarod Anticipation

Meet and Greet this musher on Friday, February 28 at 6 p.m. Clarion Suites Anchorage. I can't overenthuse enough about the reasons to spend a few hours learning at the heel of Aliy Zirkle --- her trail stories are personable, strong and inspiring. She and her husband (Allen Moore, who just won the Yukon Quest) offer a great glimpse into the world of mushing with and doting over their dog teams. Elite athletes all.

Around here I use the Last Great Race for an annual descent into the mayhem and wonder (the opposite of order and wonder?) of unit studies for the kids' lessons. The Iditarod comes at the perfect time of year for diversion from winter doldrums, and as the kids grow they're able to draw many subjects into their little studies. Zirkle herself reminds me of Alaskan icon Susan Butcher and of my Godmother, Linda Squibb: balanced, driven and unendingly gracious.

enslaved by design

Kate Endle original

Our kids have been hooked on the Dr. Dobson AM radio magic that is Adventures in Odyssey, with the older two asking each time we're in the car during late afternoon if "those stories" are coming on the radio and if we have sufficient time to listen. I often rely on audiobooks in the car, since the sedative effect seems to linger even after a half-dozen renditions of the same chapters. Audiobooks get expensive! So, I'm happy to have the backup entertainment. Being a massive radio devotee anyway, this has been a nice diversion for the past few months. I often take the long way to our engagements for the sake of not cutting out the story's climax, just as habit dictates with my own worthy FM companions. Sometimes that makes us late.

Last week, the kids' show was preceded by this guy. And he was good. Personable without being phony, light and engaging without being predictable. He used this quotation rather unceremoniously: "He who is enslaved to the compass has the freedom of the seas." I looked around online and saw it variously fleshed out (some added "...all the rest must stick close to the shore", which adds another element altogether; how does my refusal to submit to authority actually limit me?) but attributed to no one. I'd love to learn the source if anyone reading is familiar with it.

It took root in my psyche, and I've thought about it quite a bit since. It's a great question ~ presuming physical freedom, just who or what are we enslaved by? My reflexive mental response is juvenile: "a compass, ick!" Do I live as if each moment is ruled by the pursuit of virtue? No, not naturally. I sometimes have to pose this very direct question to myself over the most mundane tasks or choices: Will this help me grow in virtue? The answer is usually immediately clear, thank you God. Self-will run riot is no way to live, as a certain Ohioan once penned.

I do know that plotting a rough course and keeping to it pays dividends. The kind of dividends I long to reap, in all honesty. I try to align my inspiration with real goals, and merging the two comes only from focused effort. (ICK!) Once plainly enslaved by my passions, I guess it's safe to say that adulthood has allowed me to transfer my servitude into much more polite masters. (triple iiiick...)

The imagery of Davis' borrowed quote is clear enough in my own life without getting too fanciful: I don't like to be led around by GPS  --- I prefer to scribble directions onto looseleaf, stuff it into my organizer, and set off cloaked in mystery and overconfidence. And it works for me --- although more than once I've commandeered skateboarding children for their phones, to plea for aid from my husband, or Google map (that's a verb now, right?) some elusive destination. Not always efficient.

My happiest travel moments, barring none, have involved being geographically lost. ...Wondering what's around the corner, adapting to the unexpected, embracing novelty and feeling very free. I won't even try to be circumspect and proclaim it an illusion of freedom. Again, not the most efficient way to handle everyday life. (Although, I once missed a gymnastics exhibition with Big Names because I couldn't find Seattle's Key Arena. On foot. From my apartment on Third Avenue. Almost 20 years later and I'm still a little sad about that. I was pretty drunk + missing a contact lens, so I guess I wouldn't have seen or remembered the whole shebang too well anyway! Thank you for buying the tickets from afar and being kind about all of it, Dad.)

Plus, family produces so many moving parts that one can't exactly swing along various continents tripping the light fantastic and wrest any degree of satisfaction from this life.

I guess this is my way of saying I'm going back to the wiles of FlyLady, even if she did somehow give my laptop a terrible virus with that Cozi nonsense. Jen Fulwiler is hosting this upcoming link party. I'll use her prompt to shower you with my navel-gazing catharsis about how mopping the floor daily and being meticulously punctual sanctifies my otherwise grubby desires. There's a teaser for ya.

Heavy sigh.

Oh, Alaska.

work hard and be kind: goodbye to the GOP

Remember when Conan O'Brien was ousted from the Tonight Show, in a bizarre move, the fruits of which are still playing out? I do. This is one I ocassionally flash on mentally, even four years later. Beautiful, heartfelt advice, borne of pain and redeemed by kindness. (Plus, it was followed by a gyrating Will Ferrell belting out Freebird, his enormously pregnant wife and a huge American flag! Top notch.)




I find myself resenting the arrogance and the cynicism of the GOP. You know what they are, the lot of my local conservative representatives? They suffer from the very malady they like to toss casually towards constituents who don't feed their narrative. They're entitled.

Please let the record reflect that U.S. Senator Mark Begich and Alaskan Sen. Bill Wielechowski have answered my friend Allison. They both appear to see a moral imperative for healthcare to be provided. Medicine to be dispensed. As for Pruitt, Parnell, Keller, Dunleavy ~ I can only assume it doesn't fit their schedule or their schtick. An Alaskan family with oodles of military service, graduate degrees, professional work, and bootstraps integrity who needs expensive preventative care for a genetic disease? Republicans don't appear to have a pat answer for that --- and what's worse, they're ignoring the question.

Question: How is a college student living at home whose family falls under the eligibility guidelines for Denali Kidcare supposed to buy $12,000 worth of drugs each month?

Question: Can college kids, within certain age, income, and courseload boundaries, remain on Medicaid?

Every tea party tagline I've previously found solace in falls short: work hard, play fair, pay your own way. None of it applies in this case. Unless I come into money on a Romney scale, this is a healthcare expense I couldn't fudge into my budget. You probably couldn't either.

And ~ a disclosure. I truly believe the endgame of Leftist American public policy means my family is rounded up for our indiscriminate breeding habits, our religious gun-clingin', and our allegiance to anything higher than a labor union. The nerve. But are these just fear-mongering tactics, employed by hapless asshats to keep the peasants in line? One wonders. As for this day and this cause, our representatives in the Democratic party are showing professional, warm and courageous behavior. The Republicans have been silent. As if the principles (anti-abortion, small gub'mint, big liberty) of their base voting bloc gives them hostages. I owe you nothing.

Both practically and philosophically, the kicker is that a clear resolution may not come --- there may not be some dramatic shift in the Affordable Care Act, and the tragedies might continue to wander in and out of daily life under the Marketplace. The Republicans weren't expected to have superhuman powers, just humane ones. Do your job. Hardships endured by American families under the top-down insanity of the ACA appear to pad the GOP's ego-boosting ideology, rather than motivate them as problem solvers. Does anyone grasp that a young man could die due to the wild mismanagement of Obamacare --- and judging by the behavior of its leadership, my party would be content to blame the president rather than get on the phone and work for change? Loyalty is earned through risk, not platitudes.

So, I thank the Catholic mothers of these two Democratic senators. Thank you for raising sons with manners. When summarizing Rees' story, I didn't know how to end it except with a plea of sorts. I hoped that someone somewhere would simply be responsive. Maybe even someone powerful enough to effect policy change. Does the cynic in me say it could be "just to get a vote"? Sure. What are politicians, if not vessels for a vote? It's when my vote is taken for granted that I'll shake you off my shoes like so much dust. Goodbye to the Alaska Republican Party, and thank you immensely for all that I learned with you.

pretty, happy, funny, real

Capturing contentment in everyday life ~ please visit the best of the best over here.

{pretty}

 

{happy}

Dorothy Maria has a fancy smile --- now with teeth!

 

{funny}

Homeschooling in January. It's an act of the will.

 

{real}

 

We want our winter back! I'm personally offended by watching the grass thaw,

exposing the April 'ick' before I'm prepared to deal with it, and the general vibe that it's bike riding time instead of hunker-down time ~ happy to see the temperatures dropping again so we can continue embedding in our arctic layers.

 

 

 

 

 

Early to bed, early to rise makes some girls 1/3 more peppy and annoying

I'm thinking of Victor Hugo's words, translated variously like, "Most men spend the first half of their lives making the second half miserable." To suggest that we spend the second half of our life trying to overcome traits or pursuits of the first half seems apt to me. No, not apt --- clairvoyant.

And all I can suss out in my current state of reflection is that my 20s were probably spent discovering that waking early leads to much success --- and at age 35 I now make the tragic, yet magical correlation of this habit to the habit of an early bedtime. Three extra hours of sleep is mine for the taking every day, if I'll just claim those pre-midnight hours! Can it be this simple?

One more cliché I sometimes reference with a sigh was imparted by a co-worker years ago in Glendale. We worked the phones of a semi-shady TV shopping network on the back lot of a television studio. Still scared to drive in L.A., I lived within walking distance and loved the job's hours (9 p.m. to 3 a.m.). I was usually ten minutes late for work, even considering my stroll was less than twenty minutes each day. The host wore a headset, a full suit on the top half of his body, sweat shorts and sneakers on the bottom, and would chain smoke cigarettes while pacing around the lot out of our view. We were seated inside with computers and phones in sleek glass terminals. I was constantly reprimanded for taking too long on the incoming calls. (I remember having the sweetest conversations with elderly gentlemen in Oklahoma, Maine, Oregon and beyond, while they mused over their orders of loose gems and Artwork of Questionable Origin. I now realize it was like a business and stuff, not my sociological data mining session. They were timing our calls-to-sales ratios and mine were probably disastrous.) Carlos and Ana were ambitious twentysomething twins who both had day jobs at U.S. Bank and commuted from Tustin to Glendale for our night shifts together. They were probably punctual, too.

Anyway, I've never forgotten Carlos repeating their mother's favorite adage, "The Devil knows more for being old than he does for being the Devil." And then I would giggle and beg him to say it in Spanish...

2013, the year i turned old

Cool video found on Alaska Dispatch, with the following description: From the mundane to the epic, filmmaker Josh Ramharter condensed 2013 into a 365-second video diary, one second for each day of the year. Ramharter, who was born and raised in Alaska, has an unending affinity for the outdoors. His preferred method of exploring the vast Alaska landscapes is by bike during the summer and splitboard during the winter. Oftentimes you will find him slinging around a camera searching for that next epic shot.

2013, The Year I Turned Old. from jram on Vimeo.

Buon Natale

Dear Pope Francis (standing, second from left), who taught me the word Lampedusa, whose smiling face I felt beaming from Time covers all over New Sagaya last Sunday, and who is celebrating Christmas Mass in Rome this day --- Merry Christmas! May your earthly mother rejoice in her work being carried to such completion and your blessed Mother ensconce you in her mantle.

This is such a humbling, overflowing time of year. The cold weather (-17 this morning as I picked up one final gift) ensures that we'll probably stay parked for the next few days. I do not sled or stroll in single digits. We wish you a Merry Christmas. May your mug overflow and your public radio stay wired. Snuggle in! The miracle isn't dependent on us doing a thing, planning or preparation-wise. God is great.

I'm always in search of a resplendent Christmas(s), and regret that an impressive strain of stomach flu will keep me home tonight. I'll light candles and remember that Mary herself knew the resplendent Soul, with no need of the trappings I'm tempted to chase. It's the warmth of love, from one soul to another, that gives us security. So at this time of year I try to balance my sensory desires with the knowledge that God alone fulfills me. I've been reading a little bit of St. John of the Cross. He rivals Augustine in threatening the allure of my own appetites. Thank you to the friends who passed the book along. The guy is hardcore and I knew little of his biography until now.

I still like sparkly stuff.

 

sthughofcluny.org

 

 

For the Andy Rooney in all of us

This fine tribute sums up my experience pretty well, too. I still savor the childhood memories of my parents renting the actual VCR (it came in a huge plastic suitcase for $15 per night) alongside the VHS tapes we wanted to watch. As I recall, the remote control was on a long, thin cord which allowed a viewer to sit some distance from the TV, but not far enough to reach the couch ~ it sort of hung there like a waiting tripwire or jumprope.

As a teenager, my friend Tonya worked in the local video store and visiting her was an important stop in our route of eveningtide juvenile delinquency. There was an unwritten rule that if you wanted a movie poster that was currently displayed, all you had to do was ask and it became yours once its cycle on the wall was complete. That seemed really amazing, even glamorous, to me.

As a mother, video stores were a big deal to us for awhile, too --- I remember our oldest daughter, toddling, pacing off the four yards of Anchorman cases and reciting, "Papa. Papa. Papa. Papa," to each Will Ferrell mustachioed face. (I've never seen the movie but that still amuses me, Ron Burgundy is the name, no?) The clerk at our more recent haunt would exuberantly pass out terrible "free" candy, every single time.

I guess I like the depressive tone of that Weekly Standard piece. And I'm glad that our older girls have a small piece of their life that includes the video store outings. (Our second daughter was completely stressed out to first grasp the idea of Redbox --- she asked specifically about the girl who gave her lollipops, and if she had lost her job.) That sincere (if fatalistic) perspective in a four-year-old made us proud. So time marches on, I get it.

Having to brave the elements and bump into humanity at the video store was a chore, but in some ways it was a grounding ritual. It was a simple way to anticipate coziness.

NB: Maybe I can finally get my hands on a copy of Arachnophobia...

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K i s k a I s l a n d

I've been wanting to write a blog post about how contented we are to return to rural Alaska --- the little things: daily life on a smaller scale, Alaska on a larger one, and the specific blessings of the Mat-Su Valley. Wasilla is a great fit for us. Add to that the accessibility of Anchorage (church, Costco, the quiet thrill of feeling like a complete yokel, standing in Snow City Café in an ankle-length skirt while my husband's pickup truck idles in a no-parking zone...) and it's even better.

Wasilla doesn't ring 'rural' Alaska to the casual glance: the commercial real estate is charmless, the streets stretch beyond view in every direction, coupled for an effect that's much the definition of unchecked urban sprawl. Those who know say it looks like Anaheim, California in the 1970s, development-wise. I don't think we have a zoning board. And I'm pretty sure we collectively don't want one.

It's not utopia --- franchise businesses are outpacing mom & pop shingles, and we're touched by every kind of depravity you'd find in a larger town. So while the aesthetics might belie the quality of life available, I have so much happiness (happiness is different than pleasure, correct?) at a gut level about being here. We loved our five years in Anchorage, to be sure, but the wideness of the sky and the smallness of the human community here is a joy.

It's little things, mostly personal and petty, but these offer a sense of permanence. Alaska can be a transient place to live (I'm often in the minority for being native to the place), so finding pockets of generational grooves means something, socially and spiritually. This past Memorial Day, a friend with roots here whispered as we watched a huge group gather around their family graves. She ticked off the businesses owned by them, collectively. It felt like being slipped the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. All of that exists in any city, of course, but you can't be from nowhere and wander into it as easily. I am from nowhere, compared to this population hub of AK (Wasilla, Palmer + surrounding areas comprise the fastest growing section of Alaska, by quite a margin) and my husband is from Orange County (truly Nowhere, culturally, hahaha), yet we've wandered into a close-knit, ever-expanding circle of friends who are like extended family to us. I trust that one hundred years from now, God willing, our babies will know their babies.

A big source of Alaska's revolving population is the military. Today we honor their inexhaustible bravery and sacrifice. And, while on the topic of the Valley, a link to today's newspaper front page. Did you know that my state has the highest per capita population of veterans? I've met so many aging vets who say they were stationed here long ago, and returned with their families as soon as possible, upon retirement. We're thankful !

{One more link}

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.

When Evangelize Sounds More Like Scandalize

It's been observed that having a judicious temperament includes knowing when to simply be quiet. What's the opposite of judicious, then? That's the one I have. The temperament of a defendant, or maybe a plaintiff, but I wish to be no one's Judge. And thank God for His wisdom on that. We could take a moment of silence to observe it, even.

Blogging has served a thrilling mix of the accessible and the impossible for me, since jumping in with both feet two years ago, after an annual Christmas letter mailing just left me overflowing with more to say. A convert to Catholicism, I find endless study, joy and conversion in the tenets of our faith. Reading certain blogs has urged me along the journey. It's also been helpful to express these beliefs by writing them down, in the sense that I could refer to authoritative teachings and teachers while paddling alongside them in my own way. It's been cool.

None of this is to say that writing publicly in my limited scope has helped me to become a stronger Christian. It hasn't. With the exception of highlighting my own scholastic and spiritual weaknesses --- a focus I'm thankful for --- this has been mostly an exercise in networking. Still valid, still gratifying and productive. But not growth, for me. There are graceful women who can avoid being unfairly combative while elucidating Truth, and I commend them.

"I write to make sense of my life," is a sentiment I heard twenty years ago and loved immediately. It now sounds slightly vain and limited, but as far as it goes is still true for me. My faith makes sense to me now, and writing about it has been a small but vital part of that.

I am newly sensitive to the formulaic cheapening of our faith for cynical gain, after an exchange heralded by a popular Catholic blogger, in which "traditional" Catholics were prompted to decry the secret anti-Semitism amongst the people they worship with. Hardly a light charge. Stuttering denials and outrage ensued. Crazy anti-Semitic (the word crazy being descriptive, not a qualifier, for there's no other kind) things were typed to the blog author in response. However, all sane voices claiming to run in traditionally-minded circles but never hear such filth were ignored. A pattern emerged: either tacitly cheer the hip blogger and mock the square kids in skirts, or prepare to be shunned. Una Voce, people.

Sometimes I read the posts offered here and see a predictable pattern: "Orthodoxy (from the Greek, 'straight, upright', no?) rules! Believe me and St. Augustine --- and if you don't, allow me to shock you with a sordid, self-referential anecdote." Formulas are tiresome, and if there's one thing I learned from the smirking condescension lobbed my way this afternoon, it's that guilt by association has a formula all its own. When an accuser is intent on proving their point over discovering even a hint of new data, no defense is possible. I trust God alone to direct my soul, and have no doubt that the gift of reason will serve me in discerning the company I keep at mass or anywhere else. I don't need edicts from the internet or a Facebook pep rally about bravery to do so.

And so it follows that I now assess my associations. Let God find me in a Latin mass all day long before He sees me bowing down to self-appointed spiritual directors posing as bloggers, so hungry for plain old meanness and detraction. We must be careful that leaps to rashness and amusement at the expense of charity don't become idols in themselves. I'm comfortable saying 'we' because I mean 'me'. I must be careful of this.

Lox Populi, in its name, is a claim that the voice of the people is not, after all, the voice of God. (Plus my daffy nod to the superiority of Alaskan seafood.) I wonder if that's an irrelevant claim to stake online, where being loud and pithy too often passes for virtue and truth. Mob rule has no charity. It seeks evidence to fulfill a foregone conclusion, and ignores any contrary testimony. There's no judicious temperament required, only a grudge and a megaphone.

If I began writing in this space with at least the clarity of knowing I have much more to learn than I do to teach, that clarity remains. And I want to write about motherhood now, with many of the same intentions (mostly justifying the suspicious amount of reading I like to do). My motivation is growth as a writer --- with opinions and observations about modern culture through the prism of Catholicism coming naturally. Joyfully swimming upstream towards the shared aim of sainthood, and challenging myself to excellence, these all still matter very much to me.

This blog will stay active, but I envision a season of learning and sharing more on the personal topic of vocation: if you'll join me, please find newer posts at The Reasonably Redneck Childhood.

If Ever You've Lived On An Island

My friend Tonya's parents had this poem framed near their dining table, as I recall. Next to sliding glass doors that practically touched the beach ...

If ever you’ve lived on an island
 if ever you’ve lived by the sea;
 You’ll never return to the mainland
 once your spirit has been set free.

If ever you’ve smelled the ocean
 or tasted the salt in the air;
 You’ll know you’ve discovered a hatch
 that is uncommon, precious and rare.

If you’ve ever seen the whales play
 or watched the eagles in flight;
 You’ll remember, again, why you live here
 and why it feels so right.

If you’ve ever seen the sun set
 as the ferry passed the shore;
 You’ve seen the beauty of the island
 that will be with you forever more.

If you’ve heard the seagulls
 the waves, a foghorn, the winds;
 Then you’ve heard the song of the island
 and the peaceful message it sends.

Indeed, if you live on an island
 if you’re lucky to live by the sea;
 You’ll never return to the mainland
 as your spirit has been set free.

-J. Earnhart © ’92