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.

Is the Church a Clubhouse or a Lighthouse? by Msgr. Charles Pope

(copied from his blog here)
OK, so the title asks two focal questions plainly enough. Let’s begin with the first,  “Is the Church a clubhouse or a lighthouse?”

Many, it would seem, want the Church just to be a friendly place where people can gather. Many of these same people get angry when the Church shines the light of truth on something. They declare that the Church should just be open and inviting. They object when She is challenging and points to the demands of the Gospel.

But the Church has to be more than a clubhouse otherwise She is no different from a bowling league or the Moose Lodge. She is most certainly meant to be a lighthouse, a warning of danger giving light to those in darkness. But in doing so, She is also risking that some who are accustomed to the darkness will complain of the Light of Christ She reflects.

Here then is a focal question: clubhouse or lighthouse? Of course there does not need to be a radical dichotomy here. There are surely social aspects of the Church wherein She builds community. But mission needs to be first and it is our mission to be light that actually builds community since we are focused on one goal, not merely individual interests.

Another and even more provocative image is in the video from Ignitermedia.com, which asks if the Church is a cruise ship or a battleship.
 

Many, it would seem, surely think of the Church as more of a cruise ship: one that exists for my pleasure and entertainment. “Peel me a grape!” seems to be the attitude that some bring to Church.  The video does a good job of pointing out how many think of the Church as a cruise ship by listing the questions many ask of a luxury cruise liner.

1. Do I like the music they play in the ballroom?
2. Do I like the captain and his crew?
3. Is the service good?
4. Am I well fed?
5. Are my needs met promptly?
6. Is the cruise pleasant?
7. Am I comfortable?
8. Will I cruise with them again?

It is true that our parishes ought to work very hard to make sure the faithful are effectively served and helped to find God. Good sermons, excellent and obedient liturgy (including good music), a beautiful Church, and dedicated clergy and lay staff are all important. God deserves the very best and so do His people.

However, it also follows that the world does not exist merely to please me. No parish we attend will ever be exactly the way we want it. No priest preaches perfectly every Sunday. The choir does not always sing my favorites.

Some people stay away from Mass calling it “boring,” or saying they aren’t being fed. But in the end, it’s not about you! We go to Mass to worship God because God is worthy, because God deserves our praise, and because He has commanded us to be there. God has something important to say to us whether we want to hear it or not. He directs us to eat his flesh and drink his blood whether we like it or not. We must eat or we will die. Holy Mass is about God and what He is saying and doing.

The video goes on to suggest a better image for the Church—a battleship. I was less impressed with the questions given in the video comparing the Church and a battleship, so I’ve added my some of my own as well.

1. Is the ship on a clear and noble mission?
2. Is the ship able to endure storms at sea?
3. Does the captain submit to a higher authority?
4. Are the tactics and moves of the enemy well understood by bridge crew?
5. Does the bridge crew have proper training and experience?
6. Are the general crew members equipped to succeed?
7.  Is the general crew well trained in the available weaponry?
8. Does the general crew cooperate with the captain?
9. Are they taught to be disciplined and vigilant?
10. Are they rooted in (naval) tradition yet well aware of current circumstances?
11. Are they at their posts?
12. Do they take the battle seriously?
13. Does the ship have adequate first aid and medical help?
14. Is the crew properly fed?

Some dislike any military imagery in reference to the faith. But pugna spiritalis (spiritual battle) is a simple fact. We are besieged by the world, the flesh, and the devil. We are called to engage in the battle and, by God’s grace, to persevere through to victory.  Our weapons are the Word of God, the Teachings of the Church, the Sacraments, and prayer. We cannot win on our own; we must work together under the authority of the Church, which is Herself under God’s care and authority. We are rooted in the wisdom of tradition and, guided by the Pope and Bishops, we are to apply that wisdom and our training to these current times. Peter’s Barque has endured many storms yet has never sunk. She is a sure, steady ship on a clear and noble mission.

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.

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.

Vote for me!

huh? I barely understand what's going on, but the most reliable thing about me is probably that my mouth continues running, regardless of this ignorance! Howz that for a slogan. Gitchasomevotes, m' hm.

Seriously, I'm flattered to be included and am eager to follow along. My yammering was nominated in the Smartest Blog category. Words are all I've ever really had, so sharing them means a lot to me. I deeply admire the rowdy pilgrims whose names I recognize in many categories of Bonnie's roundup --- this should be a good time for all. Her story is unforgettable.

Speaking of Sling Blade, has anyone seen the new BB Thornton movie? I can't remember what it's called. We've revived the Blockbuster tradition at our house lately and it's been fun.

Okay, double seriously -- go over there and vote for all the blogs! if the Spirit moves you. Thanks.

** edit: Okay, "Words are all I've ever really had" is a bit melodramatic. I don't mean like I was raised in a Honduran landfill or something ~ just that I can barely swim, have only marginally luscious hair, and enjoy talking and writing with people very much. It clarifies a world that sometimes overwhelms me with its demands and mysteries.

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.

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.

A Life Without Sin

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We "Translate Doctrine Into Form and Color": Hail, Blogger

"The proper sphere of a Catholic craftsman who is responsive to the appeal of the liturgical movement is to translate its doctrine into terms of form and color, and so help in presenting it to his fellow men through the medium of the senses. Let us be quite clear about this. His work is not that of a teacher, but of a translator of others' teaching. His normal function is to get on with the job without explaining what he is doing or why he is doing it.

He may well consider the job important enough in itself, if he accepts the definition of Catholic philosophy that all truth has to pass through the senses before reaching the understanding. Nihil in intellectu nisi prius fuerit in sensu." -- Geoffrey Webb, Liturgical Arts Quarterly, 1942

In a recent teleclass, Laura Berquist spoke extensively about the process of thinking, and it's always fascinating to reflect on the steps required to have a single thought. (Wait, is there such a thing? It seems like thoughts, by definition, multiply without cause or consciousness.) It is a truth that the senses are the first to record an image, and the image must be outside ourselves before we can process it. All thinking is a function of sorting --- matching a momentary impression to one similar or dissimilar in past experience. She used the example of a baby's shape sorter: we possess the triangle block, and we hunt for the triangular-shaped hole.


I think of our first associations with sex, and how powerful they are. Our role in the encounter, the general goals of the affair, and so on, these provide the tone of so much of our future searching. Those who are abused or preyed upon have much to overcome. Those who are derailed by selfish lust have themselves to overcome. Good news there, directly from Aristotle:

"I count him braver who overcomes his desires

than him who conquers his enemies; for the hardest victory is over self."

If that's all too vague, perhaps Raquel Welch's take will be useful.


Realizing that blogging is not liturgical, as it were, but a venue for those who are called to the avocation of writing -- I'm a wife and mother first, but I desire to more widely share the truth which has set me free. You won't find many original thoughts here at Lox Populi, but I aim to translate the Big Ideas which have deeply impacted my family. Also, I think the opening quotation, taken very generally, means that fiddling with my blog's color and decorations ad infinitum is totally fruitful.


God Bless You!

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.

Lenten Journal, First Sunday

Blogging about Lent while simultaneously abstaining from entertainment via technology is a puzzle. Also, writing for a public readership of any degree about something interior and personal begs the question, 'why?'  Hopefully, the same reason I write on most topics --- to share how Christ continually transforms my life when I'm willing.

Fasting from use of electric light is our chief family sacrifice. As Mindy shared so candidly here, much of this is pure adventure for children. Even our cats seem perplexed when we arrive home in the dark and bash around finding oil lamps and lighters in the dark before greeting them.

We have a bathroom (and fish tank) exemption, as well as a request that anyone who accidentally flips a light switch adds a coin to the Rice Bowl. Each of our girls also has a flashlight for errands around the house since the oil lamps must be untouched when they're lit. I notice an eagerness to help each other by holding the flashlight while the other one digs for a pair of socks or a favorite book. This accomplishes building virtue in them without mom or dad insisting or even suggesting as much.

Loading the dishwasher by lamplight is magnificent! Usually half drudgery and half cardio (keeping the babies out of the racks), it has taken on a more meditative groove. It will be useful, and spiritually fruitful, to exchange this novelty for spiritual momentum. I am not above packing up four children and driving to Barnes & Noble every night -- open 'til 11! -- because we have given up electric light. I need Lent.

Lucy is keeping a chart of our oil usage, which (yet unbeknownst to her) will provide a basis for a few science and math assignments after Easter. She'll have data about daylight hours and be able to track the increase ~ much beautiful Lenten poetry there, the darkness being replaced by light ~ as well as a wealth of simple math facts she can work, from the cost of lamp oil / quantity used each day, comparison to cost of electric light, and so on.

My biggest challenge is in not using "screens". The Liturgy of the Hours begins my day in all seasons, but without a conscientious fast, the computer is a Presence all else must contend with, usually for the rest of the day. I didn't prepare for Lent enough to learn to pray with the books (it takes some familiarity) and I'm gratefully reliant on the website. I've never donated money to them. I should. Rather than having the internet at my disposal while home (I long ago gave up mobile internet because it's so captivating), I have to keep a list of recipes, addresses or info to retrieve from email and get them at prescribed times.

In addition, I was quickly led to confront the sloth that leads to effectively medicating children with TV when sweet two year old Sally implored through furrowed brow, "I TIYED! Watch widdow show?" She refused the comfort of a story, or being held, or lying in her bed, so she roamed around until naptime overtook naturally. The next day was better.

In short, all good things.

Backwards Sex (ual Teaching, that is)

Stained glass depiction of
First United Methodist Church
Chicago, Illinois

I bombed the first time someone challenged my faith. Visiting a friend in Chicago, I was dazzled by her city. Truth be told, Cassandra had dazzled me for twenty years prior. We grew up together in soggy Southeast Alaska, although she moved away when we were seven years old. Her parents are my godparents, a role they generously fulfilled by offering endless hospitality and Good Literature.

She attended a real live Boston prep school with which her family is affiliated, and I stuck around Alaska, marrying a boy from Orange County. Cassandra and I wrote letters and sometimes visited each other. Through the years, her edgy handwriting offered blythe notes about ski trips, grad school fellowships and punks with trust funds. Our bond, though tender and far-flung, is still quite sincere.

During that three-day trip with my toddler, our days were a marathon of first class museums and happy wandering. I rode the El and eavesdropped on ebullient strangers after witnessing the White Sox win the 2005 World Series. Each night I dutifully ordered a new variety of Chicago's famous deep dish pizza.

While walking her dog and my baby in her Rogers Park neighborhood, talk turned to travelling with babies.

I mentioned (rather pridefully and without cause) that earlier in the day, Lucy had finally fussed to sleep as I chanted the words of the Hail Mary against the hum of the basement laundry room. I had been a confirmed Catholic for less than six months and was still clumsy with the words of this prayer, but drawn to its meditative use. Cassandra answered with a casual question about being Catholic, specifically "as an intelligent woman". I demured, unprepared. She wasn't hostile and I wasn't resentful, but nothing was gained in the way of understanding. I had all the personal thrill of conversion, but so little to offer my inquiring friend.

It's trite but true --- we often take the gift of our faith for granted, not even sensing our lack of evangelization until we're stuck.
Such has been my conclusion while watching the adroit "Catholic responses" to the Jefferson Bethke's viral video. The answers are truly beautiful, but am I wrong to assume they appeal mostly to people who are already Catholic? While my regretful moment was that of a fresh convert unaware there was an entire field called apologetics --- the call remains the same. To drink deep, of a Love so visible that we will be approachable, but ready with a defense of our Mother.

The Catholic Church is not a response to Protestantism.

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.

If You Want To Sing Out, Sing Out

After almost two weeks as a blogger, it's high time for some wild generalizations and sweeping conclusions about this experience from yours truly, no?

First -- as predicted, my debut and the ensuing shock waves have apparently shut down Wikipedia. Weird.*

Speaking of the mighty wiki, let's start there. Think of Wikipedia as the town square, layered with a feast of fliers on every Dickensian lamppost. Its senior contributors keep a tidy aesthetic and I generally trust them on matters of democratic access to information.

As for the motley crew of websites that allow much of this information to flow so freely, let's be clear. Facebook is the detention hall, or your living room, or the lounge at the Senior Center, depending on your demographic. We're passing around artful doodles of this and that, with all the productivity of an episode of Wheel of Fortune. We're quite literally spinning our wheels. I know that some people can visit Facebook without clinical side effects, I just don't know if I'll ever be one of them.

The Facebook News Feed has become like our customized morning newspaper, and maybe tweets are a broader form of email, like the braggart descendant of IM. Or (for the Lutherans, not to mention the Luddites), Twitter is for nailing missives to the doors of your neighbors, be they friend or foe. Like the boy in the tweed cap selling newspapers, breathless as he paces the square, offering insistent headlines. And hey, news flash, I have totally been putting stuff on Facebook that belonged on Twitter! That's where you put links to articles. It's just the rules, evidently. We're passing notes (back to the detention metaphor) with our tweets, where Facebook is more like decorating the walls in the hallway. Ah, the Facebook ...Wall. I daresay M. Zuckerberg and I would not have been friends in school.

Pinterest, as far as I can tell, allows us to peek in everyone else's windows and spy on them. Or sift through their storage units.

As these distinctions in egalitarian media are becoming more accepted, it brings me to the idea of a blog. I wrote my first in 2001, and it was a labor of love. Love, of course, was spelled h, t, m, l and my page's theme was sparkly red Hello Kitty. (I know, I'm a badass.)

This was before FAQs were expressed as such, and blogs were still called weblogs, as if some vital data was being logged. Doesn't it sound like part of a nautical chart? The term was soon handily shortened to 'blog. I begrudgingly gave up that apostrophe, and the term weblog, once I realized it sounded like the equivalent of offering to send you a facsimile, using the facsimile machine. My blog was an offshoot of a Yahoo! account, and I extracted the codes from their tutorial, copying instructions from my laptop onto fathoms of Post-It notes. It took me about a week to put up exactly four pictures of our move from Alaska to Nevada. I built a few more scrapbook-ish pages and let it go at that.

It's been fascinating to read the blogs of people I know, over the years. Their design choices display personality in a way that's slightly more organic than Facebook or MySpace templates. I celebrate the moment we all had a slot on these centralized sites as a net gain since it includes many more people than blogging ever will. But all our pages look the same. I digress.

My point is one of decision, mindfulness --- I don't want to be shouting in your living room. If the Facebook News Feed has become the morning newspaper, then its full-page ads are boring me. Mine included. Maybe a blog can be a more settled space to opine. I'm no longer standing in the street, wringing my hands over rotten tomatoes, but instead resolving to go inside and make you a sandwich. If you tuck the pickles into your napkin and toss them, I'll never know. Take it or leave it, the etiquette of what we're doing online bears examination.

Thanks for the support and networking from so many dedicated  bloggers, Catholic and otherwise. And the readers. There appear to be some readers!

There's a million ways to go, you know that there are.

* Una voce, friends.

Stage Fright

Hi. I have a few defunct blogs under my belt, and am wary of blogging in general for reasons of existential import. But also, get this --- I waste time online. I read too many newspapers, I troll around Facebook, I get slogged deeply in message boards on topics that interest me. These pursuits usually dead end without bearing much fruit. My computer's default screen is set to edifying homepages that I quickly run from, like a teenager ducking out of the library to smoke with the rough crowd.


I've had my share of tech burnout and usually step away for at least a month. My experience with taking a break from electronica has been blissful rejuvenation. I make lots of (lame) jokes about having no interest in moderation, anything worth doing is worth overdoing, etc. That isn't true. I admire people with an inherent balance, and I do think it's a goal worth pursuing. What is that principle in physics, where you keep walking halfway to the wall but never arrive? Ironically, without metered progress over time, my Thoreau-styled declarations end up being in vain.


Part of the problem with being of a somewhat extreme mindset is that I tend to be rash. If I sense creeping disaster, I will fast forward to the end in order to be in control. When I've been frustrated by the intrusion of cell phones and computers in the past, my solution has been to trash them rather than changing my habits or looking at things in a different vein. But it's becoming more difficult to live without my Google calendar, people! And I've grown from the tangible benefits of having an online presence. A beloved acquaintance whose life would be otherwise unknown to me has given me more to think about in the past two years than most people I see from day to day. Thank you, Emily and John.


So, with the idea of writing more comes the demand for focus. There aren't any big ideas at the moment. I'll try not to be too navel-gazy and I promise not to bore you with baby stories. I named my blog Lox Populi because the Latin is bouncy and salmon is the best food on earth. And people do like bagels, universally. Wait, does it read like I'm comparing people to bagels?