Time Is Slipping Through My Fingers Like Sand

 

I did not expect to struggle so much as a father with my kids getting older. Lamentably, my memory is very poor and I only have little snippets of mental vignettes in my mind from when they were young. I do not, cannot remember. It is distressing. I feel like a lost man searching his mind for his kids, and I cannot find them. This is why I struggle to write as well, because the pool of details in memory to draw from is very shallow. There is no shortage of material to work with when you have memory. So I write from the present, but long to write the past as well, a past which is dispersing like vapor faster than I can preserve it.

My oldest two are teenagers now, while the youngest is 8. I know every parent goes through this at some point, but I was not prepared for it, the speed at which time accelerates. Next year the oldest will be driving. Maybe a job. Then college. Then...what? I am sad. I also am struggling to keep up with the changes. I want to hold on to them, control everything like we did when they were toddlers, but to do so would be to stunt them. 

Letting go is very hard. So, whether it is fair or not, I hold my youngest tight--I stroke his cheek and slip my hand in his. I have him fall asleep next to us in bed sometimes. I try to record his little voice to preserve it. He is the last, and when is grown there will be no more. 

I also am not sure I could have handled more than three kids. God knows. I know He gives the grace, but grace builds on nature. The Epistle at Mass on Sunday from 1 Corinthians: He will not let you be tested beyond your strength. We had seven miscarriages along the way. God knows.

I lost all my photos in a botched iPhone transfer last Fall. It was pretty traumatic, and in fact I am considering looking into EDMR therapy to deal with what has become a real problem in my life lately--being triggered by tech. I am standing still as the world is rushing by me. I am getting left behind. My wife has a good amount of photos on her phone, but I almost want to print the best ones out, keep them physical and in a album in our family room. I don't want to Zoom, I want to hug. I don't want to Facetime my grown kids, I want to hear them chew and laugh at the kitchen table. I don't want to be locked out of life, which is becoming increasingly digital. I am scared. I cannot keep up. 

It is very hard to live in the present, because the present is constantly shifting. We can take our time in the past, linger in memory; we can create futures for ourselves, make ourselves anxious or sick with longing. But the present is flitting, requiring constant attention, focus, and awareness. By the time you seek to hold on to it, it is gone. You cannot hold on to the present. And so each day I get distracted and my kids get one day older, one becomes two, to weeks and months, and then they are almost slipping out of my grasp. I am not a controlling dad, but I do have fear--fear for what my kids are being launched into--and fear is not of God, is antithetical to trust, which God requires of us to live in faith. 

I was watching Terrance Malick's Tree of Life last night, a beautifully shot meditation on memory, past, nature, and grace. The opening monologue contrasts "the way of Nature" with "the way of Grace" and that one must choose which one they will follow. Jack (Sean Penn) is a middle-aged corporate executive trying to make sense of his present by reflecting on his past growing up with his mother, father, and brothers (one of whom died at the age of 19) in Texas in the 1950's. The way of Nature is reflected in Jack's father (Brad Pitt)--loving yet authoritarian, teaching the boys discipline and that the world is a hard place where you need to be on your game to survive. Jack's mother is the way of Grace--gentle, caring, empathetic. There's no real "point" or plot to the film, but the meditative aspects reminded me that memory is composed of those subtle moments that take place in the present--the trace of a mother's finger across her sleeping son's chest, the evening sun piercing through the pine trees, the sound of the screen door closing. The day their brother died. 

Without memory, or with it being so compromised, I feel as if I am disappearing. I want to remember because I want to preserve, be a good custodian of the my past. Everything is moving by so fast, and I can't stop it, can't stop my kids from getting older, nor would I want to. I just want to hold them in the present, and keep the memory from that now-past for my future self. 

The NIMBY Priesthood

 Steve Skojec, for all his faults and character flaws, is if nothing else an honest man. I did appreciate his recent Substack, "When Religion Comes First," on the topic of those who put their God before their family. Steve explained that the essay was an extrapolation of a spicy Facebook post in which he wrote,

"If you love your religion more than you love your own kids, don’t be surprised when they grow up to reject the thing you always cared about more than them."

I've always felt sympathy for Steve and his "deconstruction" (to use Protestant nomenclature) since losing faith and leaving the Church. I reached out a couple times over the years, and was either met with non-response or a kind of exacerbated callousness (which is okay). The thing is, I think Steve makes some good points from this vantage point of now being outside the Church that are lost on a lot of the pious crowd still in (and attempting to raise their kids in it as well). He notes:

"I have become increasingly convinced that much of Catholicism is, essentially, a kind idolatry of religion. Since God is perceptually absent/distant/nonexistent, the Church and all her countless rules and rubrics and rituals swell to fill the space left by his absence.

We begin to worship the means of worship because the object of worship is inscrutable and inaccessible.

Worship becomes indistinguishable from the rituals that comprise it. Which is why (according to my theory) those rituals take on more and more significance in the minds of those who feel that they must always go deeper and seek more reverence so that they can try to commune with God."

Now, obviously I do not agree with Steve on Catholicism being a kind of idolatry, but I do think I know where he is coming from, and this seems more common with people to whom God was always elusive, far-off, "Other." It is a little hard for me to relate in some ways because this was the opposite experience for me: I encountered God personally first as a loving and saving Father, and then religion became the chalice to house the pearl. So, God was always worshipped first and foremost, and the external structure of religious practice giving that heart a body and a skeleton. I could shrug at the rituals and just assume they were the particular expressions of religious practice but were not little G gods in some way. But then again, I was kind of a blank slate coming into the whole thing, without much baggage, preconceptions, or religious trauma. 

I mean, I've alluded to this in posts like The Church Will Hurt You and Preventing the Scars of Religious Trauma in Your Children, that although my wife and I have always had the order of God first, Spouse second, Children third, there is a part of me that is reticent to be too strict or "religious" with force-feeding my children the faith, because there is also a part of me that recognizes the Church is rife with abuse and corruption, and what father in good conscience would put that before his own family? 

But I have not been burned beyond peripheral singes, because I have largely kept my distance from episcopal and diocesan machinations. I have been constantly spared from being employed by the Church, despite my best early and naïve efforts to work for Her. Years ago I wrote the vocation office about wanting to serve the Church as a deacon, and never even received a response, so dodged a bullet there. I have wanted nothing to do with parish councils, and though I have close relationships with a couple priests friends, I have kept a healthy distance and distrust of "just because he's a priest" thinking. In other words, "I can trust him because he's a priest," which is just another manifestation of clericalism. As a father of boys in a Church rife with mollittes clergy and homocentric seminaries, I don't think this is being imprudent. 

Now, I have often said priests are like farmers: No farm, no food. No priests, no Church. We're not Protestants. We are grateful for men who sacrifice and take on the cloth for the flock. There are bad priests out there, and many lukewarm company men. But there are also good men, imperfect but striving men, servants who want to carry out their calling for the glory of God and the tending of the sheep. And there are many bad and lukewarm status quo administrator bishops out there. But there are one or two good ones as well, who love as a father loves and not as a COO of DIOCESE Corp.

And yet, knowing all I know about our particular wasteland of a diocese and many others like it, I want priests for the Church but would never sacrifice my son to the diocesan grinder to become one. 

That sounds harsh, and I hate admitting it myself. When a man is called by God, he will only find peace when he embraces that calling. And so I would hope that if one of my sons was truly called by God to take up either religious or priestly life, that God would preserve him in that calling and make a way. But as a father, I would never push it or even encourage it. Kind of the way we know we need chemical plants and prisons in society, but we certainly don't want them in our neighborhood enclaves (NIMBY--not in my backyard). 

To lose faith is a terrible feeling. Which is why I feel for Steve. In many ways, I have kept my distance from "the Church" in order to maintain my faith. Awful, isn't it? And yet I benefit from Her sacraments, Her teaching, Her witness, Her priests and religious. But I am not willing to offer my son to the roll-call. I feel like I know too much insider info, and am too familiar with the dysfunction. Wed yourself to Christ, yes...but not the Church. 

We know some folks who have "assigned" their young children as religious and priests already--"oh, well so-and-so (age 4 or whatever) is going to be a priest, so..." I think this is terrible parenting and religiously manipulative, not to mention just unrealistic. Although we know this was how the Church was fed for years with nobles and large families "offering" one of their sons to the priesthood, whether or not they felt called to it. I think vocation offices have gone to the other extreme these days, though--not encouraging men to think about it enough (maybe because they know all too well the problems and burnout inherent in the role of priest), or the seminaries being effeminate and inconducive to healthy masculinity. And bishops not being true spiritual fathers, but many who are cold administrators who will throw you under the bus to preserve the Force at all costs. 

I want my sons (and daughter, of course) to remain Catholic. I don't care if they are "religious" or not, but I want them to have life, and have it abundantly (Jn 10:10). I want them to attend Mass of their own volition when they grow up, have a family if it be God's will for them. It's a fine line to walk between forcing your children to be "holy" and letting them simply be who they are and loving them for it. I can only be the example. I want him to be able to come to me with anything, know he can rely on me to never spurn him, to take him in when he needs a place to come home to. 

Will the Church do that for my son also? Can I trust the Church to preserve his innocence? Not feed him to the wolves? Or is it a corporation (albeit a religious one) just like any other, where the bottom line is the preservation of the company at all costs? 

No faith, no salvation. No priests, no Church. Lord, raise up good men able to endure the suffering that comes their way when they live out their vocation with nobility and integrity. We need true shepherds, not simply effective administrators and ecclesial ladder climbers and company men. We need a Church we can trust, and that trust must be earned. Until then, I'm not sure I'm willing to sacrifice my sons for Her.  May God judge me.

Let Not The Son Go Down On Your Anger

 Like all families, we have our share of happy moments as well as struggles and discord. And like many families, I more often than not selectively highlight the good things while tucking the less-than-noble ones in the back corner out of sight. We all display our best side more often than not.

Last night was one of those perfect storms of frustration and anger which opened up the sky as soon as I arrived home. Feuding siblings throughout the day as well as other derailments had my wife emotionally exhausted and frustrated, nursing the sting of perceived failure as a homeschooling mom.  She started verbally unpacking everything on my lap as soon as I walked in the door at 8pm (which, to her credit, she doesn't do all that often). 

I was wrestling with my own frustrations, having just gotten out of my first class of the semester--a graduate writing class which I was initially looking forward to but now made me question the value of the entire system of higher education. I had decided to drop the class (which I was taking as a non-degree student for personal enrichment at the public university), but wanted to talk it over with my wife but who also had no bandwidth to deal with "something else" at the moment. I unloaded the groceries and we sat down at the kitchen table so she could vent about her day.

I try to be cognizant of respecting my children's right to privacy and so I don't write about them much here on this blog. Suffice it to say that as we were discussing the matter my wife's frustrations at the kitchen table were made well known, and on the tail end of my own frustrations in the classroom that evening, I contributed something to the effect of "well, at the rate he (my son) is going with school, college many not be in the cards anyway." I knew as soon as I said it, I shouldn't have (whether or not it was true or not), even if I meant it in the context that he might be better off anyway given how left-leaning the universities are. Unbeknownst to us, my son was eavesdropping in the next room and heard every word. 

We moved into damage control mode and sat him down at the dining room table, while the two of us continued to wrestle with our own feelings of failure and dejection--both with our children and with one another. We know that only a father who disciplines, loves (Heb 12:6) and so while owning what we said and standing behind it apart from the poorly-spoken comment about college (knowing he had heard every word and heard it as he was not capable of getting into college), we took away certain privileges and told him he needed to start doing his work. We exacted this punishment without a heavy hand, but were firm and for his benefit. He kept his head on the table, and said nothing but if I can surmise, all he heard in translation was "I'm bad. I'm stupid. I'm unloved." 

After he went to his room, my wife collapsed into the living room armchair and attended to various text messages that needed responding to. Not having the chance to discuss the matter, or my own day, I waited five or ten minutes for her to look up. When she didn't, and figuring she was done for the day and checked out (and as many husbands may feel, that I was going to get nothing but leftovers anyway from what little mental or emotional energy she still had left), I put on my boots and headed out for my scheduled 11pm holy hour, inadvertently slamming the door a little too hard on the way out. As I was getting in the car the front door swung open and words were...said. I pulled out and a series of texts coming from a place of frustration and hurt started hitting my phone as I was driving to the church. I ignored them, on purpose, but they seared the heart.

As I entered the chapel a half hour early, I dropped to both knees, turned off all the lights, and took a seat in the back, not feeling worthy to do so up front or even hold my head raised before the Lord.  The large stained glass of the young Virgin was illuminated by candlelight and rose up behind her Son exposed on the altar. I couldn't offer my heart on there because of not only the irreconciliation with my son, but now my wife. "So if you are offering your gift at the altar and there remember that your brother has something against you, leave your gift there before the altar and go. First be reconciled to your brother, and then come and offer your gift" (Mt 5:23-24). I prayed the rosary asking for help but feeling soiled, and after a half hour or so then lay on the row of chairs and closed my eyes.

As I drifted off to sleep, an image of the Virgin materialized. She was clothed in white and lay submerged face up in water reminiscent of Hamlet's Ophelia in Sir John Everett Millais' painting of the same name. As she sat up from the sea as if from sleep, the light rose with her and her arms extended into the air as if at the Presentation. She was releasing the radiant infant Jesus from her chest into the air at a sixty degree angle. 

As the babe was assumed higher and with each cubit away from her, he aged year by year: from a baby to a boy, to a young man and then a man. All the while, he was extending his arms as if preparing to hug his mother. In the vision, the slow gravitational pull which separated him slowly from her slowed to a halt on the ascent. 

The Virgin, now separated from her child having handed him over to the Heavens, watches as two sets of arms materialize and grab the wrists of her son's extended arms. To her utter and knowing heartbreak, she sees they are not to draw him higher home, but to stake them to this earth. They stretch the right limb taunt and secure his quivering and noble hand to the plank and strike a nail, then move to do the same with to the left. The Virgin is sitting up at the waist on the surface of the sea, unmoving yet keeping her arms extended to embrace her son miles away as he suffers and cries upon the cross. But he is miles away; all she can do is watch. She presented her son as a babe at his birth to the Father in the Temple, and now witnesses him as a man embracing his destiny, writhing in full display above the distant shore. 

I rise from sleep around midnight, my arm asleep and my shoulders sore from the wood of the chairs. My 12am replacement has come to relieve me, and I make my way outside from the chapel into the cool night air. I am hungover from the gall of unforgiveness still in my heart and in the smoldering hearth of those asleep at home. We let the sun go down on our anger, and now it has set in stone for the night. I climb into an empty twin bed in one of the kid's rooms and go to sleep.

When I wake up in the morning, I make coffee and a feeble morning offering. I go to the living room, sit in the armchair; my wife comes down a half hour later, the air tense and in stalemate. Eventually things thaw slowly and we start the cold engine of communication. One by one, we rebuild the broken pillars of miscommunication, of anger, of things said and unsaid. We melt closer, forgive by exercise of the will, and get ready for the day.

When my son came down, I thought all would be well. He would be sorrowful, contrite. I waited for him at the bottom of the stairs to embrace him, make things good. But instead, it was if I was a ghost of Christmas past; invisible, not really there. There was no overt anger on his part as he rounds the corner into the kitchen...just memory. 

As the family makes lunches for the day and go over the scenes from Plutarch on the day's agenda, I feel a sense of great inversion. How many times have I ignored and turned my back in spite, brushed by the Lord on the way here and there, who waited for me there in the armchair to make all things new. And now, as the father who both sinned and was sinned against wanting to make things right but having to relinquish my son to his own timing, his own destiny, I remembered the puncturing of the Virgin of the Sea's heart watching the film of salvation history play out, alone in the theater with no one to turn to in her sorrow. I prepared my heart to accept this restitution as my family gathered their bags to leave; the home felt colder inside than out.

I set up my laptop at the kitchen table, a statue of the Virgin with outstretched arms on the bay window mantle in front of me, resigned to spend the day working under the heavy blanket of matters unhealed for the next eight hours. When I turned to get some more coffee, my son was there at my left side. "I'm sorry, dad" he said. 

"I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have said what I said." 

"It's okay. I know."

And that was that. Forgiveness exchanged, the balm of healing applied. I told him to have a good day and that I would see him when he got home. The front door, still shuttering from being slammed so forcefully last night, clicked closed quietly. The sun that had set in indignity was the same sun that rose this morning and the pall that was cast by the sower of tares had been thrown off. Even though the sun hid under the thin grey blanket of clouds and a warm January fog had set in, everything seemed white as the snow.

"That's The Good Stuff"

I saw this image the other night and it hit me right in the feels. It said very succinctly, in a kind of koan-type fashion, exactly what I have thought on many occasions, and how easy it is not be be present to the blessings right in front of you. 

 

In Looking In From The Outside, I wrote:

Middle age is a tough time for dad. You're so focused on your career and managing things that time is at a premium. I try to balance having time for myself (time that my wife usually doesn't have as a luxury, admittedly), time with other men, time with my parents, time with my wife, time with my kids, time writing, and time in prayer.  

My wife was chastising me a bit last night for not being present with my kids when I have the opportunity. She's not wrong. She is a 'be-er' and I'm a 'do-er.' Every time I do have the opportunity to just 'be' I end up 'doing' something instead. Everyone knows that you can't substitute time together with other things and expect to have a healthy marriage. And the more time you spend with someone, the more you get to know them, and want to spend time with them. I feel like my kids pick up on that I am not as present with them as their mom is, and so they turn to other 'things' to fill the vacuum that I could be filling if I was more present.

There's an image I have, when I go out on the patio for some time to myself, of looking from the outside in while the rest of my family is inside. I've chosen to take time for myself, but I would be horrified if I tried to come back in the house and it was locked for some reason. Then you realize the place you really want to be more than anywhere, with your family, you're barred from, because of what you've chosen instead. I know it's just a moment but I don't want it to project as a future reality. Moments add up to days, and days to years, and before you know it if you're not careful, you can become a stranger in your own house.

My wife was telling me something she heard from Leila Lawler, some erudite wisdom on homemaking and childrearing, along the lines of "You don't 'make memories' for your children. They make their own memories." I don't know the exact context of what she was saying, but from what I surmised "the trip to Disney World," or "the birthday party" or whatever is often not the true memory. The memories are those snippets, those scraps of tapestry, that the children make for themselves. It could be the smell of the salt air, a song heard on the radio, laying on the couch with mom, or the salted caramel ice cream cone your dad treated you to.

We played a round of miniature golf yesterday, and walked over to the Wendy's afterwards to treat the kids to some frosties and things. It was "a great day" for them, and it wasn't because of the mini golf or the burgers or any one thing, but because we were together as a family. I don't make much money and I don't have any real professional status or standing. But I realized many people would kill to have what I have. My 'new core memory' as a dad that day was seeing them at the table as I ordered food, and realizing I am not a poor man, but instead very, very rich.

Robbin Williams has a great monologue in Good Will Hunting (part of which I heard was unscripted) when he's talking to the young Will about his deceased wife. 

"My wife used to fart when she was nervous. She had all sorts of wonderful idiosyncrasies. She used to fart in her sleep. One night it was so loud it woke the dog up. She woke up and went like "oh was that you?" I'd say yeah...I didn't have the heart to tell her...Oh God...[laughing]

Will: She woke herself up?

Sean: Yesssss....aahhh. But, Will, she's been dead two years and that's the shit I remember. Wonderful stuff, you know, little things like that. Ah, but, those are the things I miss the most. The little idiosyncrasies that only I knew about. That's what made her my wife. Oh, and she had the goods on me, too, she knew all my little peccadillos. People call these things imperfections, but they're not, aw, that's the good stuff." 

We are coming up on our thirteenth year of marriage, and I have plenty of those memories of my wife--the things that make her my wife. The time she dozed off looking at her phone and dropped it on her head; the particular sigh she makes which distinguishes whether she is angry or just tired, which would be lost on anyone but me; when she laughs and then accidentally snorts at the same time. I try not to take them for granted, either, to recognize and give thanks for that privileged place. 

There's a saying I'm fond of, when it comes to your life in Christ as a Catholic:

You have all that you need.

You have the grace of your baptism; the heavenly manna of Christ's flesh in the Eucharist; the opportunity to confess your sins to a priest; a community of fellow pilgrims and those who have gone before you, the saints; the solace of prayer and silence; the assurance of the promise of salvation; the opportunity to become a saint. We are rich in faith, every single one of us. And if we're not careful, there will come a time when you would give all you have to have that again and not find it. You will remember the heavy smell of incense, the flicker of an offering candle bouncing light of the stained glass windows, the solidness of the oak pews where so many hands have been placed, the unlocked door that allowed you to sneak in for a few moments of quiet. 

Same goes for our families, or marriages. These are great graces which we can build up, invest in, and recognize them for what they are: moments stitched together in time, moments not promised that can be taken away from us at any moment as the Lord wills. Each moment can be sacred, can be sanctified, especially while the kids are young--if we are paying attention and not letting it pass us by. This is what makes a man rich, establishes a legacy. You have all that you need.

What Should A Catholic Family Look Like?

 

Occasionally I get slightly self-conscious because although we are Catholic through and through, and our faith is the most important thing in our life, we don't always comes across as the most "Catholic" of families. We have been known to have family dance parties in the kitchen to top-40 pop songs from the radio. We don't pray the rosary consistently every night as a family (though my wife and I do make every effort to pray it daily on our own). My youngest wears urban hand-me-downs I got from a black family in Philly, and my daughter refuses to wear long dresses. My humor is sometimes off-color.

On the flipside, we home school, my oldest son serves the Latin Mass, we say grace before meals, and we have Catholic books, art and crucifixes throughout the house. We love the Lord, we love our faith, and we try to live it out where it matters. 

We are heading to our monthly poetry recitation after Mass this morning with our co-op, and I was joking around with my wife that I should recite Gregory Corso's beat poem Marriage (published in 1960), which begins: Should I get married? Should I be good? Even though I didn't live through that time period, the Beats were a huge influence in my life growing up--for better or worse. I wanted to write like Jack Kerouac, who threw syntax and conventional form out the window and banged out his epic novel On The Road in 1957 on a single scroll of typewriter paper. The Beats were critical of post-war American conformity, typified by jobs, marriages, and suburban domesticity, and I shared Kerouac's affinity that "the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!""

But Kerouac died un-enlightened, suffering a massive abdominal hemorrhage at the age of 47. The New York Times obit interviewed his wife the day after, who told reporters, "He had been drinking heavily for the past few days. He was a very lonely man."

"I'm not a beatnik. I'm a Catholic," Kerouac used to make a point of telling reporters. And he was. The late 1950's and 1960's were marked by an upheaval of conventional social mores, and Kerouac was no exception to being swept up in this wave of throwing off shackles--of syntax, of dogma, of sexual morality, of what was expected of a good American citizen.

And yet the irony is that as huge an influence as Kerouac and the Beats were on my teenage and young adult years, I saw the writing on the wall: no one was happier, no one was enlightened, and their sexual forays didn't bear fruit worthy of eating. When I met my wife and ultimately got married, I wasn't asking the question "Should I get married? Should I be good?" or feeling like I was succumbing to social convention based on the expectations of others. Rather, I said to myself, "I want to get married, because this is good."  And it truly has been.

I do from time to time get a case of the shoulds, mostly related to how we look "on the outside" as Catholics while other homeschool parents are living out the liturgical year with little crafts for their kids, and families are going to Catholic Family Land, etc. But as the saying goes, "comparison is the thief of joy." I certainly don't want to give scandal by doing anything contrary to the faith or in morals, and I think we're good there--because if we weren't, none of the externals matter. 

But is there a 'typology' or what a Catholic family should look like? I don't think so, and I'm not going to make some bullet point list of things you can do to look more Catholic as a family, either. To be honest, I think the bigger problem is that for many American families who are Catholic and may even go to Mass every Sunday, they are largely indistinguishable from the culture at large. 

So, what should a Catholic family look like to those on the outside? I think first and foremost, as we see in today's Epistle from 1 Peter, "Before all things have a constant mutual charity among yourselves; for charity covereth a multitude of sins. Using hospitality one toward another, without murmuring...that in all things God may be honored through Jesus Christ, our Lord." (1 Pt 4:7-11) Catholic families should have charity as their mark, and joy as the plate it is served on. 

I do remember that when I was in high school and before I was Catholic going to a friend's house and noticing a picture of the Sacred Heart on the wall. I thought to myself, "What's that?" but it always stuck with me…and I came into the Church a few years later.  So, Catholic art is a good thing, and can be an external mark as well that has the potential to lead others to curiosity, and perhaps ultimately, salvation through grace. Saying grace before meals in public, or praying the rosary on the train, can be good things if it does the same .

I do think some people get it in their heads that they have to "dress the part" or use churchy language all the time, or any other number of things in order to stake out their Catholic identity especially if one is trying to figure out "how to be Catholic" and what that looks like externally. That's all fine and good, but to the degree it comes from a spirit of comparison or even a kind of spiritual covetousness, it would be better to eschew those externals and focus on inner conversion, prayer, and charity and let the rest eventually take care of itself. We don't wash the outside of the cup first, but the inside (Mt 23:25). 

Writers try to find their voice by borrowing from other writers and trying on their style, as I did with Kerouac. But over time, my confidence in both my identity as a Catholic, a husband, and a writer grew, and I found I didn't need to try to sound like x, or write like y, or dress like z. I could just be myself, and be that well, as St. Francis de Sales was so fond of exhorting. 

 A true Catholic identity is more like a blush that subtly highlights rather than a bright red lipstick meant to draw attention to itself. So, to the extent you are loving the Lord, honoring him in worship, being charitable to your neighbor and the poor, and raising up your children to do the same, you're most likely on a good track.

The Tired Revolution

 

A few years ago Dr. Jennifer Roback Morse reached out to me to see if I would be willing to write a review of her book The Sexual State: How Elite Ideologies Are Destroying Lives and Why The Church Was Right All Along. I was happy to do so, as my eyes had been unwittingly opened and moistened with the tear drops of grace a few years prior to sitting down to read and review her book. Figures like Janet Smith and Christopher West dragged me kicking and screaming into the light of Truth--Dr. Smith through humor and common sense reasoning, Christopher West by way of the book Good News About Sex and Marriage (which I threw across the room; read here). 

In my review of her book, I highlighted the premise of Dr. Morse's thesis: the Sexual Revolution did not just “happen” as a social phenomenon. Rather, it was engineered by cultural elites, enabled and underwritten by the State, codified into law, and accepted as normative in the culture as a deliberate matter of course. In other words, she doesn't just lay out the what and the why of the sexual "revolution" but the who and the how.

After harvesting the fruits of the sexual "revolution" most of my life, I had never gave it a thought to second-guess the contraceptive mindset, even as a Catholic. To do otherwise would be like a fish questioning the source of the water it swims in. Part of that was because I didn't have an alternative to look to: we were only acquainted with nominal and left-leaning Catholics who played the "primacy of conscience" card, and faithful Protestants who didn't think twice about utilizing contraception. That changed over the years as God began planting faithful Catholic families in our life one by one, to make it visible to us what is possible when you live by faith and the Church's teaching on human sexuality. 

I guess I was hoping for a little bit of new material when I went to hear Mary Eberstadt speak at our local campus Oratory this evening. Her books include How the West Really Lost God: A New Theory of Secularization; Adam and Eve after the Pill: Paradoxes of the Sexual Revolution; and Primal Screams: How the Sexual Revolution Created Identity Politics. From her website: "Her social commentary draws from fields including anthropology, intellectual history, philosophy, popular culture, sociology, and theology.  Central to her diverse interests are questions concerning the philosophy and culture of Western civilization and the fate and aspirations of post-modern man."

I wasn't well acquainted with her body of work, but the particular talk she delivered this evening seemed to be an amalgamation of generalized themes: Humanae Vitae was prophetic, sexually "liberated" individuals today are not happy, porn is rampant, etc etc. Now, perhaps she had meant to deliver it to students and tailored it as such--indeed there were some students present. It wasn't anything new and it had all been said and highlighted before, but to a student that may be hearing it for the first time, it WAS new and potentially eye-opening. So my intention is not to disparage, only to say I was underwhelmed and saw a bit of a lost opportunity. As a friend also present shared with me, "it's not like this hasn't been happening for the past sixty years." The Sexual "Revolution" may be a distant memory for those of Mrs. Eberstadt's generation--but for the younger generation (and my own), it's something for the history books. The damage and fallout is irrefutable--we know we're not happy and we are less free, but we don't know HOW to get out from under this old blanket. 

Which is why I wanted to press Mrs. Eberstadt a little. I posed the question, but in an abridged format. I share it here in writing only because I wrote it down so as to be able to articulate it during the Q&A:  

"Upon first glance, there seem to be at least three areas in society which it is very difficult and (not without major repercussions) to "put the genie back in the bottle" so to speak. These are:

1) full-time women in the workforce

2) a consumer economy

3) contraception and abortion

In other words, we can't imagine a society in which women were suddenly taken out of the full-time workforce; we can't imagine an economic system that isn't founded on people feeding it with material consumption; and we can't imagine a society in which contraception and abortion were not an available option. 

And these three things seem inter-related as well. Women accounted for 52 percent of all workers employed in management, professional, and related occupations and comprised 47 percent total employment. (BLS).  In other words, in an ideal "conservative" world, women would stay home, abortion would be unthinkable, and consumer spending would not account for more than two thirds of economic activity in the U.S. But were any one to take away or reverse these three things, there would be an implosion because these systems are designed, built and predicated upon one another's existence: 

a) the workforce depends on women working

b) women working depends on limiting family size and/or abortion

c) the economy is dependent on consumer activity, which feeds the perceived need for two-income households, which bids up the cost of housing, etc, 

Rinse and repeat. We stop spending, the economy tanks; women stop working, productivity falters; abortion is eradicated, babies are born.

Of course most of the women and families in our particular circle have "opted out" of this narrative--they are staying home, having babies, raising families, etc. And they seem very happy doing so; So my question is, how do you advocate for these positive 'right-sizing' changes based upon conservative/traditional values when such a proposition seems to threaten the very foundation of the economic and social model the U.S. has adopted in a post-Roe world? It is no wonder why they are resisted so vehemently, and why even questioning the good of those assumptions is almost unfathomable today. "

I don't quite remember the extent of her answer, and that is my fault, but it was, like the talk-- underwhelming, with a few Weigelian accents here and there, and seemed to take the 'dourness' (as my same friend also called it) of Church teaching as a scholastic given rather than the dynamism of unscripted fecundity lived out in real time. There is no living "Revolution", there are no hippies--there are only washouts and their fallout from their failed social utopia that people my age and older now have to sift and live through, with no good solutions. Yes, have faith and have all the babies because kids are the best. But that can be a tough pitch unless you are traditionally minded, an orthodox Christian, or a counter-revolutionary breeder. 

As Dr. Morse maintains, the State has become sexual not because it believes in "free love" but because it operates by way of coercion. And how does one coerce? By fear: fear of pregnancy, fear of children, fear of overpopulation, fear of genetic abnormalities, fear of financial "irresponsibility." The State is a major player here, and they are not in the game for the benefit of the public good (at least not as Catholics understand it). Whatever the agenda is, you can place bets that it is most likely at odds with Catholic teaching which liberates the human person rather than subjugates, and gives hope rather than instills fear. When we get stuck in highlighting the "bad fruit" of the so-called sexual "revolution" and not moving beyond that, we miss a huge opportunity to give hope to the next generation that they don't have to make the same mistakes, aren't subject to the same fate--if they take a different route.  As Chesterton said, “The Christian ideal has not been tried and found wanting. It has been found difficult; and left untried.”

Let's be honest: the "revolution" is no longer novel and the effects of its rotten fruit is straightforward. But figuring out how to live a fruitful life in the shadow of that shell can present challenges that demand creativity, courage, and unconventional faith. We can be guided by the teachings of the Church and inspired by holy families, but ultimately we need to live it out ourselves in real time. We don't need more Weigalian scholastic talks or TOB in a vacuum. What we need is witness. Fruitfulness. Living saints. A casting off of the shackles of sin. A revolution of the home. We need to do it because others need to see not so much how it is done, but simply that it is possible. They will find their way, aided by grace, from there, as long as we are all doing our part one by one, home by home, marriage by marriage, baby by baby, family by family.

Have All The Babies

 Note: This is a repost from June 2021. It's my youngest's birthday today. We celebrated with Chinese food, a DIY obstacle course, and a homemade Spiderman cake. My wife was 43 when he was born five years ago--a miracle of sorts...our second-chance miracle of grace. We've made peace with the likely reality that we will not have any more children. I'm trying to take in the noise, the mess, and the crawling in between us in our bed. Because the fact is, each passing day erases a little bit of the childhoods under our roof the way a sand dune gets eroded a little bit each year. In five years, my oldest will be driving. In time, our house will be clean and quiet. But that makes me sad, truth be told. 

The self-serving trend towards millennials choosing a child-free life (and 77% reportedly being happy with the "freedom" gained by doing so) doesn't bode well for our future. A quote from the film Children of Men that stayed with me was when Kee's midwife reflects on the beginning of the infertility crisis in 2009, when people stopped getting pregnant and giving birth. "As the sound of the playgrounds faded," she said, "the despair set in. Very odd what happens in a world without children's voices."

Anyway, here's the repost:

 I don't give advice very often, but if anyone in their twenties or thirties was anxious about having kids and wanted my opinion, I would tell them at this point, "just have all the babies."

The concerns are always understandable--for me early in my career, when I wasn't making much money and we were juggling a lot and at our wits end with our two, it can be tempting to not be so open minded (and open-ended). This is the faulty promise of contraception, that you can "be done" and just get on with your life without the constant worry and anxiety that comes with being open to life.

But where does this anxiety come from in the first place? The contraceptive mentality is so prevalent in our culture it's like the air you breath or the water you drink. New life is a barrier to autonomy; it throws things off, wrecks best laid plans, causes financial hardship, and generally makes life harder. 

Is that such a bad thing? Satan wanted to be autonomous, loosed from the bonds of the Divine. Yes, new kids "throws things off," and sometimes upends our best laid plans--but when I think of the 'best laid plans' I have laid for myself and what God has put in their place, I'm constantly reminded that I don't always know what's best for me. Do kids cause financial hardship? Sometimes they do. Life is hard to begin with, but sometimes the hardest things bring out something good in us that wouldn't otherwise if we weren't pushed to trust that it's worth it. 

Babies are not a threat--they are pure gift, and the reason we all exist in the first place. We seem to have forgotten this. We don't "live to procreate," but take having babies out of the picture and it wouldn't be long before we all die out (see Children of Men). Underpopulation, not overpopulation, seems to be more a threat today in many countries thanks to the scar of contraception and may lead many countries to a demographic winter where there is no easy turning course on.

But no one has babies purely because they want to "save the planet." Some people do, however, choose not to have them because they "don't want to bring children into this world" or are fear-mongered into thinking they are being "irresponsible" by doing so or consuming "too many resources." 

I was talking to a mom at our fellowship get together on Wednesday at our house, and she mentioned that St. Alphonsus' Uniformity With God's Will (which we were studying and reflecting on during the course of the evening) felt kind of over her head. I told her that's ok, in scripture St. Paul says that women are saved through childbirth. "I've never read that," she said, with a bit incredulously. "Yep. First Timothy 2:15," I told her, and we looked it up. "Well, I'll be," she replied. "So take heart," I said, "You're doing great!"

The fact is, we are all saved through childbirth. Abortion and contraception introduce nothing but disorder, throwing a monkey-wrench into God's divine plan for happiness and salvation for mankind. This is not to speak of those who want children and can not have them (by way of infertility, for instance), but the decision to delay or prevent children for the sake of the things of this world and our short-sighted plans is, in my opinion, regrettable. I can say without doubt that as a father, "the children have made the man." The notion of sacrifice and protection is wired into us as men, but becoming a father organically taps into those primal characteristics and brings them to fruition. 

The Catholic plan for life is to be generous in regards to life. Some people do in fact have grave reasons to abstain through the use of NFP, but one should dig deep to look starkly at those reasons and discern their gravity. God is not trying to shortchange us--He wants to fill our cups to overflowing with the choicest wine. I think that children are that wine. Can they be overwhelming, taxing, hard to deal with? Sure. Are they worth it? You bet. 

I wish we would have been more open to life earlier in our marriage. Who knows how much more we would have been blessed. We changed course a little late, but God is good all the time, and we still pray that He might use us as His instruments to bring saints into the world. They can't do the work if they are not born. Who knows--you might be the soul they save in the end.

So have all the babies. It's my one regret in life, that we haven't had more. But we trust Him still. Listen to our Lord, "Fear not, for I have overcome the world" (Jn 16:33). Some of the richest people in the world are the most alone and unhappy. But for those rich in children, who may not have much but you trust that God wants them here--"You are already filled, you have already become rich, you have become kings without us" (1 Cor 4:8).

Live Not By Lies

 We're still learning how to be Catholics. And sometimes we don't always get the memo.

As a convert to the faith, I have few religious traditions that were intentionally handed down to me as a child. Meanwhile all of our good Catholic friends seem to be steeped in them, from Jesse trees to putting out the shoes on the feast of St. Nicholas to various other traditions. We just got an advent wreath and candles this year. Better late than never, I suppose.

To boot, my wife and I also inherited a lot of secular "things you just do" as part of the season. Truth be told, there is a part of me that just wants to be in a cave somewhere this time of year to focus on the "reason for the season." But instead, I'm heading to my sister in laws for a dinner feast on Christmas Eve (when we should be fasting), having to run into Giant to search for the green peas we forgot at home, fighting traffic, and tiredly wrapping presents. I've grown to hate "the season" for these reasons, which in turn makes me feel guilty since it's supposed to be about peace, hope, and joy. 

One secular tradition we never gave much thought about but bequeathed to our children was the idea of Santa Claus. They leave out cookies for "Santa" (and carrots for his reindeer), and some presents are "from Santa", replete with different labels, handwriting, and wrapping paper. Of course, for us as parents, "Santa" is our Christmas altar ego--whether he is man, myth, or legend I do not know. All I know is my kids have bought into it all.

But something went awry this year. I suspect it was a wrapping paper mix up, but somehow my nine year old daughter put two and two together and discovered in tears, that "Santa wasn't real." She wasn't angry, she wasn't distraught--she was simply sad. My wife and I stood over her as she showed us how the jig was up, feeling like our hearts were breaking into a thousand pieces. Not because of the Santa thing per se, or even the loss of childhood innocence waking up to the idea that "it's all bullsh*t." 

Mostly, we realize we had been culpable for misleading and perpetuating an untruth, and our child was now suffering for it. We were "cut to the heart" as it said of the Jews in Acts. 

From an early age, I made a personal commitment to always tell the truth. This was partly pragmatic, since it made my life easier in some ways because I didn't have to remember to keep stories straight; eschewing lying when you have a bad memory just simplifies things--always tell the truth, don't hide things, be honest. 

Now that I realized it wasn't only my daughter feeling betrayed, but myself as well. Because "this was just what you do" during the secularized version of the "holiday season"--you buy presents. You get together with family. You leave cookies for "Santa." Etc.

The Danish philosopher Soren Kierkegaard's father once cursed God for his misfortunes. He tells us in his journal: "as a small boy tending sheep on the Jutland Heath, suffering many ills, famished and exhausted, stood up on a hill and cursed God! And that man was never able to forget it, not even at the age of 82." In Fear and Trembling, Kierkegaard retells the story of Abraham and Isaac from four vantage points. It is the first version that has always stayed with me: that Abraham convinces Isaac that he’s sacrificing him by his own will, not by God’s. This is a lie, but Abraham says to himself that he would rather have Isaac lose faith in his father than lose faith in God. 

I thought about this yesterday standing over my daughter. My biggest fear in this little "Santa" crisis is that she reasons "well, if Santa isn't real, maybe God isn't real as well. Maybe it's all a lie." It hurts my heart to think about--and that she would be mislead by her own parents about something so dumb and insignificant. I know I'm biased, but my daughter is an especially beautiful and innocent creature. I hated myself in that moment for unwittingly bringing the world into our home, rather than following the lead of our Catholic friends who refuse to do "the Santa thing." Now we know better. 

As much as this incident may stay with my daughter over the years, I pray it doesn't shake her faith in a loving, personal God who cares for her. She's not especially "religious" in the pious sense (none of our kids really are, if I'm being honest) but they are good, innocent, well-adjusted kids. And I realize they are not my own, that I am not in control like I think I am, that they have free-will. 

My indignation at the world and my unwitting betrayal of my own flesh rose up as a fury in my throat the other day. Fool me once, shame on you, as the saying goes; fool me twice, shame on me. Friendship with the world is enmity with God, as St. James says. 

The Lord does not say "unless you don't like your own kin, you cannot be my disciple." He says unless you hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters"(Lk 14:26). My hatred of the world and its lies had cooled, but this incident had rekindled a kind of holy hatred of the secular, the material, the lukewarm, the customary, the "this is just what you do" mentality of the world. Now we know better. 

The world can keep its Santa Claus and its pious secularism. We have the living God, the God who saves, Emmanuel. He is the way, the truth and the life, born poor in a manger, the antithesis of a worldly king. We live not by lies. Restore the innocence of the crestfallen and brokenhearted. Lord, teach me thy way, O Lord: I will walk in thy truth... (Psalm 86:11).

When You Are About To Break

In March of 2021 a gigantic cargo ship got stuck in the Suez Canal in Egypt for a week. At least 367 vessels, carrying everything from crude oil to cattle, had backed up to wait to traverse the canal, halting $9 billion dollars of global trade for every day it was stuck. 

"Cheaper, better, faster" is the current underlying motto in global supply chain management. But that model really depends on thousands of factors and players operating under ideal conditions. The Suez incident illustrated just how one unforeseen event can throw off an entire global enterprise. 

Our healthcare industry is stretched to the breaking point. Most wait times in the ER are 5-6 hours just to be seen on a good night. People wanting to buy a car are finding it will take months for one they want to come in. Kids in school are so overscheduled that there is little time for 'boredom' which is a necessary ingredient for creativity. Millenials in the hustle culture monetize every spare minute they have. And most of us haven't learned how to not live beyond our means, either, creating financial stress that is palpable. More than half of Americans, for example, would not have the means to cover a thousand dollar emergency. Talk about being stretched to the breaking point. 

As families, we tend to sometimes structure our family lives like the global supply chain. Our time is leveraged to the hilt, and natural disruptions like sickness or injury can set us back and make life suddenly feel crazy. Sometimes this is unavoidable, and sometimes we bring it on ourselves.

This season, especially, we all are "so busy" that very few of seem to have a built in reserve of time and mental energy to attend to unexpected things lilke a family in need, or help at the church, or simply spending time with someone who needs it. 

White space is the natural elasticity of unstructured time that has the potential to absorb disruptions to the family supply chain. But it isn't valued in and of itself, so we tend not to work a lot of it into our schedules. It is the "time" equivalent of a financial emergency fund, which can be used to absorb disruptions to our budget due to house or car repairs, or medical emergencies, for example. 

We try to be conscious of both these things in our finances and our family schedule. Now, granted, we only have three kids who do a modest amount of activities (theater, sports, gymnastics). I make a median salary, but my work is not overly demanding either. Nonetheless, we typically undergo frugality in order to beef up emergency funds and savings so that when unexpected bills come up, we can avoid that stress. 

Part of this is conscious and calculated. As someone with a mental illness, I am more vulnerable to stress, and so I try to avoid or minimize it when at all possible. It's not always in your control, but sometimes it is; I always get us to Mass at least twenty minutes early, so we avoid the stress of running late, especially when my son is serving Mass. I figure we can pray the rosary or sit quietly during that twenty minutes.

But not overscheduling ourselves also gives an opportunity to serve. We've realized there is a real need at our parish soup kitchen and community outreach center, but they are also very hard up for volunteers. I don't know if that is because people are so busy they don't have time to, but it's come on my radar that since we are not caring for my father in law anymore after his passing, we have more time and respite. We can "fill this space" with "stuff" (activities, vacations, extracurriculars) or we can use it for other things, like serving, volunteering, or making ourselves available to those in need of time or attention. This can feel like a "privilege" of only having three children that may not work for those with larger families, but it's the principle that should be considered rather than the specifics. 

We think it is a matter of a hardened heart that the Levite crossed the road when he saw the Samaritan lying in a ditch. What if he didn't help, though, because his schedule was stretched too thin and "there was no time" to do so even if he wanted to? 

I think a lot of people during this season, but also in general, just feel like they are about to break; they don't have enough elasticity to bend instead--overworked, overscheduled, over committed. Is that a given? Do you have the ability to say 'no' and start slowly carving out and reclaiming time for Christ, time for your community, time for your family, and even time for the random stranger in need who may just need your ear for five minutes?

Advent itself is a 'waiting room' in which we watchfully anticipate the birth of Christ. Does the reality of our lives reflect that? Is the constant running from one thing to another during these short four weeks a given? Or do we have within us the power to say 'no' to some things in order to free up time and space in our hearts to say 'yes' to others--the better parts?

Sunshine In A Bottle

 When I first came into the Church, I had a tough time with Mary, the Mother of God. Not for any theological reasons, but simply in a relational sense. One often hears of struggles people have with God as Father because of their wounds with their own father. For me it was the opposite--my father exemplified the unconditional love shown by the father to the prodigal son in Luke 15. But with Mary, it was an issue of her being peripheral. 

I have a good relationship with my mother and love her dearly, but I realize in sitting down tonight I don't mention or write about her much. And that's how I viewed Mary, the Mother of God, for a long time--not sure how she fits into the picture of my newfound faith. I learned to pray the rosary during those first years as a Catholic, but it was hardly my favorite prayer. My recitation of it seemed to stay on the surface of things above the depths, which now in hindsight, would be a good description of my relationship with my mother. 

My mom may quite possibly be one of the nicest and most pleasant people you will ever meet. I have described her to people who haven't met her as "literally, sunshine in a bottle." My brothers and I joke about her "permagrin"--that is, the fact that she is always smiling. I don't think it's superficial, either. She is a genuinely happy person.

But part of that happiness and effervescence is perhaps why I had trouble relating to her growing up as a broody teenager who thought about things deeply and was discontent with the supericial and fleeting nature of existence, and even today as an adult. My mom is a smart, educated woman, but she doesn't necessarily "go there" when a conversation gets too deep. She prefers to stay on the surface rather than stare into the sun with the naked eye, and will sometimes change the subject to something more essentially palatable if the discussion vears too existential. Maybe this is how she is able to maintain her positive outlook on life, by not staring straight into the abyss on the daily the way I tend to sometimes. 

I've put her through the ringer growing up, and between dealing with me and my dad and our mental health issues, she is stronger than I give her credit for. She also has a natural deference to my father's authority in most matters, though my father also recognizes how much he relies on her to complement his own deficiencies. Their marriage has withstood a lot in large part to this model, and I give her credit for it.

But there is also a degree of frustration on my part in expecting my mom to be someone she is not from time to time. For one thing, as much as I would love for her to come into the Church as a Catholic, she remains outside of it. It is not a negative in our relationship, and there is no antagonism, but I have trouble understanding people who do not consider the four Last Things: Death, Judgement, Heaven, and Hell. The impetus is not there. I want her to know herself the joy that is our hope, not the happiness tied to the externals or pleasures of this temporary life. But ultimately, these decisions to pick up our cross and follow the Truth wherever it leads must come from the individuals themselves.

It's hard to reconcile sometimes. How will the good Lord judge my mom when she comes before Him? Am I effectively living with the cognitive dissonance of trying to reconcile a modernist concept of your religion not mattering, of being a "nice person" (which my mom most certainly is!) with the exclusive claims of the Church, the necessity of the sacraments? Maybe it's why I trend towards throwing myself on God's mercy and fearing His just judgement in the same breath. I fear the hellfire myself, but I also fear it for my family.

Ultimately, the Mother of God broke into my and my wife's life and flooded us with grace and afforded us her protection (by way of the Miraculous Medal). She is no longer peripheral. We pray the rosary regularly and are indebted to her for that grace.

I still hold out that that same grace might break through in my relationship with my mom. I want her so badly to be Catholic, and she's not, and I don't know what to do with that. I respect her enough not to force the topic, but maybe I'm not doing enough either to make the prospect hard to resist. And it becomes hard when you know that the popular sentiment of "good people go to Heaven" and "being kind is the most important thing" is false when you know the people you love fall into that category. "Lord, who can be saved?" As He tells us, "with men, it is impossible. But with God, all things are possible" (Mt 19:26). 

Family Charity And The Impending Recession

It seems pretty clear that we are heading towards an economic recession, which will affect the lives of Americans and our global neighbors of all social strata. But the most economically vulnerable always take the brunt of such weight. While some of my friends are getting into prepper mode, and others are buying up commodities, I find myself preparing from a less pragmatic angle: how do we serve and become a 'house of respite' as a family with what God has given us when SHTF?

When I read The Cure d'Ars a couple years ago, it was this passage about John Vianney's parents--rather than the saint's later life as a cure, edifying as it was to read of his commitment to the holy priesthood and the salvation of souls--that made an impression on me: 

"Love of the poor was the only rival love that divided his young heart with Jesus and His Blessed Mother. The child was, it is true, in a school where he could scarcely fail to learn to love the poor. Matthew Vianney's house was open to them like a wayside fountain. It was a common thing for as many as twenty poor people to turn in there of a night for food and shelter. In the summer time Matthew housed them in the barn ; but on winter nights he would light a great fire of fagots in the kitchen, set a big pot of potatoes on it, and when they were boiled serve them, and divide the meal between his children and the poor. When the last potato had disappeared he said night prayers aloud, and then conducted his guests to the hayloft, taking care that they were secure from the cold and wind, and as comfortable as his scant accommodation could make them. 

The Christian laborer entertained many an angel unawares, no doubt, amongst these strangers. One cold winter's night there knocked at his door a pilgrim who was destined one day to shine in the calendar of the Church. The traveller who tarries on his way through Dardilly is sure to hear, as of a great glory that lives in the tradition of the village, how, on his way to a neighboring shrine, Benedict Joseph Labre slept one night under the roof of Matthew Vianney." 

St. Benedict immediately gave away his inheritance and set off to be a hermit of the desert, while St. Katherine Drexel used her sizable family wealth in the direct service of the poor. Venerable Aloysius Schwartz had to wrestle with his desire to be a poor missionary priest in the slums of South Korea with God's will that he be used as an administrator to raise millions of dollars through a charitable non-profit to serve the poor there.

Matthew Vianney (the father of St. John Vianney), however, was a poor laborer rather than a man of means, a husband and father rather than a religious. In the wake of the French Revolution, a time of uncertainty and suffering for many in France, he did not stock up on canned beans and guns (well, who knows) and build a bunker, but instead with his wife opened up his humble homes to the poor flocking to the country side and shared the meager spread of their table with those who were hungry. 

This is not the kind of response most of us are accustomed to, especially as Americans. It almost requires a kind of 'reprogramming' to loosen the grips on what we possess materially during times of scarcity. Our natural, base response is typically to hoard and protect, or drop the crusts from our sandwiches of excess. This is not to judge those who (as one example) lived through and were scarred by the effects of the Great Depression. The instinct to survive changes a man in ways he may never know, and he may do things he always said he would never do. 

But it does give us the opportunity as Christians to reflect on the question, "what have I been given, and what am I being called to give in service of God and neighbor during times of great collective need?"

When we reflect on the words of our Lord in scripture, "What merit is it to you to love those who love you? Do not tax collectors do that?" (Mt 5:46) we can apply this admonition to love to our more typical approach of sharing from our excess and thinking we are admirable servants of charity. For the parents of John Vianney, what little they had, they shared in direct service.

I'll admit, it is often easier to cut a check. We have written mortgage payments and utility bills for struggling families (those who often fall through the gap with slightly-higher-than-poverty-level incomes who are not eligible for food stamps and public assistance), and donated to various charitable organizations, but I don't think this is enough. For one thing, it does not model visible, lived charity to our children. That is what struck me about the example of the Vianney's--their home was a "school of charity" which formed the character of the impressionable Jean. As St. Paul says, "be imitators of me" (1 Cor 4:15-16) and gave himself as a model of faith, hope and charity in the flesh. There is a reason students do not become nurses or doctors or teachers through online-only instruction--their profession dictates they learn their field through practicums, clinical rotations, student teaching, etc.--in other words, they need to "see how it's done" in real life. 

There is a part of me that is frugal by nature as a way of padding myself from the uncertainties of life. I take more comfort in a few extra thousand dollars in the bank than an RV or an expensive vacation. I don't mind working hard, and hustling on the side. Part of this is prudential stewardship, and part of it is a less admirable means of control and lack of trust in Divine Providence. I was never modeled charity as a child; my father, though generous with his children, felt that the government's job was to provide for those in need, not his, and that is why he pays taxes. Part of my "unlearning" as an adult Christian is how to truly trust that God will provide for our needs, and that we will be judged on our charity when we die. And that judgement may be harsh.

John Vianney is a model priest of spiritual charity. He spent hours and hours in the confessional and ran himself ragged to save souls. But where did he learn such charity? Maybe his father had something to do with that with his humble example of corporal family charity that addressed need in times of national hardship that gave not from excess, but from his meager allotment as a peasant. 

I get the feeling that we are in for a good world of hurt as a country in the ensuing few years, and who knows how long it will last. There will be no shortage of opportunities to be of service to the Lord, but it may not be by walling ourselves in church exclusively. It may involve the uncomfortable, active charity that the Lord is giving us the opportunity to cultivate as a means of growing in virtue and service. We may have to get creative as well, and think about our particular family circumstances and means in light of the needs of our neighbors. Charity may be hard to practice, but it's not rocket science to learn. The learning comes by doing.

We may even find ourselves on the receiving end of pink slips or economic misfortune. But I don't think even that excuses us from the need to serve. St Peter had no money but healed a crippled man (Acts 3:6). The holy St. John the Baptist told those who wanted to be saved, “The man who has two tunics is to share with him who has none; and he who has food is to do the same” (Lk 3:11). And our Lord put in the simplest terms possible, "And if anyone gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones who is my disciple, truly I tell you, that person will certainly not lose their reward" (Mt 10:42). What is more important to us--a life of pleasant leisure, a padded bank account, a weekend boat in the driveway--or our eternal reward which demands we do more than just the minimum?

Perhaps it is a change of perspective as well, the way one may fail to quit an addiction by will-power alone, or through fear of health consequences. Perhaps he needs to see life on the other side not as deprivation from a substance, but of fulfillment through freedom from slavery. 

Likewise, when it comes to charity, God gives us so many daily opportunities to give, to empty ourselves, to grow in virtue, to serve our neighbor, to practice goodwill, to endure suffering and want as means to sanctification. We can be prudent and creative. We can be responsible and charitable. We can find pleasure not in some trivial recreation or object of desire, but in the opportunity to multiply our talents for the good of our neighbor and the advancement of the Kingdom. It is hard to do during unsettling times of national insecurity and economic disruption when the rubber hits the road. But we can have faith that that reward will not be lost in the spiritual economy, even for the smallest act done with love and concern for those most in need of it. God is not a liar. For our part, we must have faith as well that he was not being allegorical, but literal, when it comes the requirements of the discipleship of charity. 

“Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’

“The King will reply, ‘I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.”

Work, Family, and the New Techno-Agrarianism

Like many people I know, my work has shifted, post-COVID, to a hybrid-remote setting. In a tight labor market, my largely brick-and-mortar employer realized that we were losing too much talent to corporate remote options that paid better. Last year, in an attempt to stem the tide, we were offered the option for a 3 days in the office / 2 days remote. Some of our team was offered a fully remote option, (which all but one who were offered it took). For summer, this increased to 1 day in, 4 days remote. It was considered a perk, offered conditionally provided we could continue to offer the same service and do our work just as effectively as when we are in the office.

It has been working well, it seems. For a largely traditional institution, we pivoted pretty quickly in March 2020 when we were all fully remote (due to COVID) by necessity. Our phone system shifted to our laptops, VPNs were added, and Zoom meetings became a regular thing. Though I missed seeing my co-workers from time to time, and occasionally felt isolated and disconnected, I found I was just as productive at home as I was in the office. The hybrid option seemed like the best of both worlds--it got me out of the house occasionally, while reducing my commute and allowing me to do things around the house on my lunch break.

It is not lost on me that this is a privilege of my particular strata in the workforce. Were I a bricklayer, or a cashier, or a daycare worker, such options would not be available to me and others who now find ourselves working primarily from the comfort of our home. But since it is my situation, and since workforce culture and employer understanding seems to be shifting, it has allowed me to observe the effect of this shift on family life.

I have a friend who thinks and writes about the family-unit prior to the Industrial Revolution. Not being a historical affodicio, I can only write in general terms. But it seems that prior to the late 18th century, society was largely agrarian, and populations localized in small towns. When Industrialization came about, men would leave their families and villages to seek employment in factories in largely urban areas. 

My friend noted that families prior to this era were together more by nature of the work they did. This seemed to be the case, and sometime I noticed, when viewing the film A Hidden Life (set in rural Austria) with my wife a few years back. There was a rhythm and cohesion to life, more localized economies, more sense of community. When the automobile became more commonplace, my friend lamented, this sense of place was further fractured as people were able to travel farther distances for both work and leisure. 

This is my first time working remotely in a job. But it's interesting, isn't it, that whereas low-wage agrarians two hundred-some years ago had the benefit of family cohesion and togetherness (but minimal opportunity), now it is tech-workers with higher commanding salaries that find themselves, well...at home. 

Because we also homeschool, we are together in proximity as a family much more than just a few years ago, when I would leave the house at 7 and get home around dinner time five days a week. Even when I am working upstairs, or on slower days with no meetings, in the kitchen, the kids are at the dining room table with my wife doing math and language arts. On my lunch break, we can eat together, or we can go to the adoration chapel together, or I can work in the garden. Because I don't have to leave or get up as early as in previous years, my wife and I begin our day with prayer and reading scripture at the kitchen table over coffee. When I log off at the end of the day, I'm already home. We could probably even give up one of our cars if we had to, since I tend to bike commute whenever I am able 

The days I am in the office and it is slower, I am literally staring at the wall in my office. I don't mind, but it just seems so--antiquated. The Corner Office used to be a sign of status and prestige, especially in law-firms and places like that. Now it just seems like an expensive waste of space and not something you would brag about the way a yuppie might in the nineteen-eighties.  I literally don't need anything to do my work--and more effectively and productively, mind you--than a flat space to put my laptop on.

Has technology improved our lives? There's something to be said about washing dishes by hand for nostalgia's sake, but I don't think any housewife is going to be giving up their dishwasher anytime soon. Same for the automobile, or air conditioning, or WiFi. We enjoy doing things old-school--baking bread, tilling a garden, writing a letter with a pen and paper--because we are recipients of the privilege of not having to do so. If we were forced to thresh wheat by hand for 16 hours a day, or canning all our produce to get through the winter, it might be a different story. We're kind of--"playing", if you will. It's quaint and pleasant. 

But agrarian life was not always quaint and pleasant. It was work, always work, and were one to mimic the sluggard in Proverbs, they would, well, die. But there was a hard simplicity to life, and I think that was in fact a good that is often neglected. Hard work is good for us, and we were not made for unbridled comfort, leisure, and security.

So it's an interesting swing of the pendulum--those at the higher socio-economic rungs are enjoying more efficiency, more time, better compensation, and yes, more leisure in this new post-industrialized tech-ocracy. For many, the laptop is the new scythe. 

For those working at lower-wage jobs that require in-person presence, it's quite the opposite. They are taken away from their families, often scrambling for child-care, while just trying to make ends meet and pay their bills. For many of these jobs, it's necessary. You can't "virtually" build a skyscraper or empty waste cans remotely. 

It is for this reason that I often reflect that despite my median-income, I am the rich man in the bible, afforded a position not of want or need, but of surplus. The bonus, however, which I am increasingly grateful for, is that I seem to have more time with my family (whom I actually like being around), even when I am working in the next room. 

It would be one thing if I wasn't able to work as well from home as in the office. But this new model has afforded us a curious new paradigm of family life in the midst of a sometimes godless technocratic world order, to make of it what we choose--for good or for evil. There is fruit there, and I don't want to squander it or take it for granted. This is not to condemn or succumb to privilege-guilt, but simply to cultivate gratitude as a matter of perspective (hot water! flush toilets!) and accept a responsibility of multiplying talents for the kingdom and the least of these with what we've been afforded. For those who are given much, much is expected.

An Enduring Mercy

My father in law passed away this morning, drawing his last breath peacefully in bed with my wife by his side. He left the world with her reading to him from Psalms. Today was his 86th birthday.

When I entered his bedroom later in the afternoon it was, truth be told, the first time I had ever seen or been in the presence of a deceased body. His arms were folded on his chest in his bed, his speckled skin thin and taunt, his mouth ajar. It was strange to think that a few hours prior he was breathing and existing in time and space here on earth, and now his spirit had departed--there was no longer anything to compel movement or thought in him. He was, quite literally, no longer here. My wife and I made the sign of the cross, prayed together over his body, knowing that he was before the Lord at the great and terrible Judgment we all must face. "And I, if I be lifted up from the earth, will draw all men unto myself." (Jn 12:32)

Two years ago I had discretely given my father in law a letter that I had hopes he would read, but was never sure if he did. I found a copy of it on my hard drive this evening:

Dear Dad,

D____ filled me in on the appointment, and your beginning dialysis. I know the next few months will be filled with lots of physical and medical changes, and will be difficult in lots of ways. I am glad you are undertaking it, and I hope it will help you feel better. You are in good hands with your children, who love you very much. As do I. 

Which is why I am writing this letter. Do you remember when I called you on the phone ten years ago, to ask your blessing to marry D? And you said to me, “I have to pull over, I am driving.” Haha. “We will go out to dinner,” you said, “we will do this in person.” Of course, for such a serious preparation for something that is for life, it is important that we do it the right way. You were right of course. We were preparing for life. 

Dad, I love you. Just as you prepared us for life together, I feel the need to write as you enter the final stages of your own. Deb said you have been experiencing a lot of anxiety with all the medical scares, and that it is hard to be alone. Of course, you know you are not alone, but that the Lord is always there beside you, holding you by the right hand. And you have been assigned a guardian angel at your baptism to watch over you and be your protector. 

“So then, banish anxiety from your heart. And cast off the troubles of your body.” (Eccl 11:10)

But no one can escape their end. It comes for us all. 

“All share a common destiny--the righteous and the wicked, the good and the bad, the clean and the unclean. Anyone who is among the living has hope--even a live dog is better off than a dead lion!

For the living know that they will die,

But the dead know nothing;

They have no further reward,” (Eccl 9:2, 4)

Dad, you have lived an amazing life. You have overcome hardship, made a life for yourself and your children in America, and been given “all good things” as a result of your hard work and tenacity. You leave a legacy. And none of it can you take with you. You know this. We all come before the Lord as naked and helpless as the day we are born.

The Lord loves you more than you will ever know. He loves you so much He sent He sent His Son, his only Son Jesus, to die for your sins. He sent us His Son to take the punishment due to our disobedience upon himself so that we might not suffer the fate of unbelievers. That means me, and that means you. If you were the only person in the world, God Himself would have sent His son to die, to redeem you, because by his death he conquered death. We need not fear death as believers, because we know it is not our final home. 

But we should not presume that Heaven is our due right. We are not “good people” in the eyes of God, for all have sinned, and fallen short of the glory of God (Rom 3:23). For there is no one who is righteous, no not one (Rom 3:10). One unconfessed mortal sin is enough to separate us from God forever. But we have a mighty Savior, for as far as the east is from the west, so far has he removed our transgressions from us (Ps 103:12).

The Church offers by the Sacrament of Confession the opportunity to reconcile with God in this life before we face the next. For after we die there is no confession, no opportunity to change. And no one knows the hour when that will happen. Christ gave his ministers--his priests--the power to forgive sins when we confess them, and the opportunity to be reconciled. All the dirt is washed away and we are made white as snow, though our sins be as scarlet. But we must confess with our tongue, and be honest with ourselves and before God, that we have fallen short and sinned against our Creator. 

Dad, you know I write this out of love. I don’t know anything about medicine, have been healthy most of my life, but know I can be taken from this life at any moment. Whether I am or not does not concern me, because this life is the veneer, a blink of an eye in the grand scheme of things. My hope is in Christ my Savior. I have made my confession, confessed my sin before Him who sees all things. 

Dad, I have included below an examination of conscience. Read through it slowly and carefully and search your heart. The Lord is merciful, and will pardon your sins, but you must confess them while you still have breath. We have priests on retainer who will hear your confession. There is nothing more important than Heaven. Please, please think about it. Of course you will be our daily prayers. You are not alone in this life, but ultimately you will face God alone and before Him at the Judgment Throne. Everything you have ever done in your life will be made known and is already known by the Lord. It is between you and God. But we only have this life to make amends. 

We love you dad.

R

For two years I prayed a lot that he would take the words in the letter to heart. He was a good and tender man, but was he ready in the "Memento Mori" sense? I even (subconsciously I think) asked Mary to "credit" him the graces promised from my First Fridays and First Saturdays, if this were possible. 

What graces? From our Lord to St. Margaret Mary Alacoque, the 12th promise:

"I promise you in the excessive mercy of My Heart that My all-powerful love will grant all to those who communicate on the First Friday in nine consecutive months the grace of final penitence; they shall not die in My disgrace nor without receiving their sacraments; My Divine Heart shall be their safe refuge in this last moment."

And Our Lady to Lucia at Fatima:

"I promise to assist them at the hour of death with all the graces necessary for the salvation of their souls."

 

So many of these graces were manifested the past few weeks: The narrow window in which we were able to obtain a transport for him home from the hospital two weeks ago. The availability of our priest to hear his confession and administer last rites and the apostolic pardon that evening. To provide him with Holy Communion. To have his family around him, and to pass peacefully from this life to the next. Even as we sat around the kitchen table, my wife's brother and sisters and myself, there was peace and not acrimony. It was all the graces I had prayed for. And God in His infinite mercy, I believe, heard those prayers and honored them.

I texted a friend this afternoon: "I have to believe that perfect trust and confidence in God is His mercy is pleasing to Him. That is my oblation. Little Flower, pray for us!"

God's justice does not mitigate or undermine His mercy, or vice versa. As Scripture says,

“I will have mercy on whomever I have mercy, and I will show compassion to whomever I show compassion.” So then, it does not depend on the person who wants it nor the one who runs, but on God who has mercy. For the Scripture says to Pharaoh, “For this very reason I raised you up, in order to demonstrate My power in you, and that My name might be proclaimed throughout the earth.” So then He has mercy on whom He desires, and He hardens whom He desires." (Rom 9:15-18)

I believe God extended the divine mercy to my father in law in his last days. He gave him not only a full life for 86 years, but in the end He gave him the gift of time and preparation, the gift of family, and the gift of metanoia and the sacraments of Holy Mother Church. What more could we have asked for? As I mentioned to the same friend I had texted, "No need to be sorry--we are Christians, we are people of hope!" 

My wife and I "rediscovered" the Divine Mercy chaplet fairly recently, and so had been reciting it the past few days. It's easy to trad-scoff at the extension of mercy to others and preference for divine retribution...until you are the one in need of mercy. The opening prayer for the chaplet, from St. Faustina's diary, was moving in light of the mercy and consolations we personally witnessed. 

As Catholic Christians, we do not presume to know the mind of God, but we trust in His just judgement and His great mercy for sinners. "It is therefore a holy and wholesome thought to pray for the dead, that they may be loosed from sins." (2 Macc 12:46). The grace and consolation that can only come from Him can not be overstated. As St. Anthony the Great said, "I no longer fear God, but I love Him." His mercy endures forever (Ps 136:1).

"O Jesus, eternal Truth, our Life, I call upon You and I beg Your mercy for poor sinners. O sweetest Heart of my Lord, full of pity and unfathomable mercy, I plead with You for poor sinners. O Most Sacred Heart, Fount of Mercy from which gush forth rays of inconceivable graces upon the entire human race, I beg of You light for poor sinners. O Jesus, be mindful of Your own bitter Passion and do not permit the loss of souls redeemed at so dear a price of Your most precious Blood. O Jesus, when I consider the great price of Your Blood, I rejoice at its immensity, for one drop alone would have been enough for the salvation of all sinners. Although sin is an abyss of wickedness and ingratitude, the price paid for us can never be equalled. Therefore, let every soul trust in the Passion of the Lord, and place its hope in His mercy. God will not deny His mercy to anyone. Heaven and earth may change, but God's mercy will never be exhausted. Oh, what immense joy burns in my heart when I contemplate Your incomprehensible goodness, O Jesus! I desire to bring all sinners to Your feet that they may glorify Your mercy throughout endless ages."