This is Life!: Revolutions Around the Cruciform Axis

So Many Books, So Little Time!

My benefactor, an upstanding member of All Saints parish, bequeathed me a bevy of books this past Sunday. Oh, my, how sweet!

Two of them, in particular, from the Ancient Commentators on Aristotle series will not only fulfill my lusty philosophical Aristotelian desires, but will suffice to assist me in my dissertation.

Alexander of Aphrodisias' Quaestiones 1.1-2.15 and Quaestiones 2.16-3.15.

There was also:
Amazon.com: Topics in Stoic Philosophy by Katerina Ierodiakonou

and

Holy Fairs: Scotland and the Making of American Revivalism by Leigh Eric Schmidt

and a third one:

Christian Revelation and the Completion of the Aristotelian Revolution by Patrick Madigan

There were also some free books being given away at Church, and I scored a "little Liddel" for my backpack.

I wasn't wholly selfish, however. I saw a paperback of Brother Roger of Taize's journals and snatched it for my brother Tripp.

Glory to God for benefactors and friends!

Death

22 March 2004: My step-grandfather, Wilbur Yelton
17 December 2004: My brother-in-law, Delane Sykes
5 July 2005: My former parishioner, James Anderson
10 September 2005: My grandmother, Christine Healy Yelton

So many deaths of late.

This past weekend, aside from the sheer physical brutality of driving a total of sixteen hours (twelve to Siloam for the funeral followed about an hour later with four to El Dorado for the burial), with 45 minutes of sleep in the encompassing thirty-six hours, was extremely difficult. Grandma's funeral was very respectfully done, and I was able to offer my prayers and to grieve.

It was a blessing to spend the following couple of days, though too too short, with family. Except for my mom, no one had made Delaina's acquaintance, so the juxtaposition of death and the celebration of new life was quite stark. Since my birthday is coming, my family took the opportunity to celebrate it with me. It was nice to have the attention and well-wishes.

But I return to a storm-filled Monday morning with lots of rain and grey clouds. It certainly fits my underlying mood.

But I did not and am not succumbing to the inertia of darkness. I am trying to fight through the listlessness and inner ennui to do my prayers. And though I awoke with only a few hours of sleep under my belt (having got in about midnight last night), I did manage to struggle to say morning prayers, and I am working hard to pray the Jesus prayer regularly.

If this emptiness in me is to be filled, it can only be filled by meeting Him who overflows it on the pathway of prayer.

Recent Gifts and Acquisitions

On my recent trip home, I was treated to a "surprise" (and early) birthday party at my sister's--since my family won't be with me on my birthday. Sofie saw the cake earlier in the day and kept exhorting all of us to sing "Happy to you!" with all the energy a two year old can muster. She also enjoyed helping daddy blow out his candles.

Through outright gifts or cash-enablement I was able to get some nice items.

I bought the following at Eighth Day Books:

• St. Seraphim of Sarov (Little Russian Philokalia vol. 1)
• Saint Seraphim, Wonderworker of Sarov and His Spiritual Inheritence
• Blessed Paisius Velichkovsky: The Man Behind the Philokalia
• Confronting and Controlling Thoughts According to the Fathers of the Philokalia

Plus an icon of St. Euphrosynos, and a new prayer rope.

My mom also got me something I'd been wanting to buy for a long time: a good pair of boots. After looking, yet again, at the offerings at Sheplers there in Wichita, I finally settled on this pair of boots. She also got me a couple pair of jeans, and made me a pot of coffee for the return trip home yesterday.

Increasingly Sad

I am deeply sad this afternoon, and have been increasingly so throughout the day. Barring a remarkable turn around toward health, my grandmother will die soon.

Grandpa Healy, Grandma's first husband, died 10 February 1991. (Her second husband, Wilbur Yelton, died a year ago March.) Now I face losing my grandmother, who is in her eighties. When she dies--even if her life is spared for now--I will have lost half my grandparents. I still have my mother's parents. But there will no longer be any Healy grandparents.

I feel so empty saying that.

My grandmother is such a beautiful, strong and radiant woman. She is (partially) of Cherokee lineage, a devout Christian woman, of virtuous character, noble. So many memories.

Yes. I am very sad.

My Mother and I and Our Differences on Prayer

My mother and I have not seen eye-to-eye on matters religious since I began to search for the historic Church during my last two years at Bible college. She did not understand my fascination with monasticism and liturgy--which was probably due in large part to the fact that I tend not to share my inner thoughts readily until they are fully formed and ready to be defended. (Note to self: Bad habit in a marriage!)

So, ever since I was confirmed as an Episcopalian, and especially once my mom came to visit us shortly after I was confirmed, and saw my prayer-desk--with rosary, crucifix and prayerbook--in my office at home, we've sort of settled into a mutual "truce" of silence. She will occasionally respond obliquely to the few comments I make about various aspects of my faith in such a way as to offer a criticism of such views without coming out and explicitly saying, "That's not Christian" or "That's not in the Bible" or "That's not the faith we taught you."

Case in point: I had taken some video of the interior of our temple at All Saints, along with other video of Sofie and our apartment. When mom watched the video, I made some brief explanation as to what she was seeing: the nave, the icons and iconostasis, the altar, etc.. Her only comment: "Where's the baptistry?" I explained that Orthodox baptize by triple immersion and that, since most baptisms were of infants, the baptismal font was portable, brought in as needed. My further explanation that Orthodox also baptized adult converts who'd not been baptized previously seemed not to impress.

Which brings me to our phone conversation on Saturday. It was Mom's birthday, and I'd called to wish her "Many Years!" In comparing our New Year's Eve activities--we'd both celebrated with church families--she proceeded into what I took to be a sideways criticism of Orthodoxy via a skewering of Roman Catholicism by way of her formerly Catholic classmates who had converted recently in her Sunday School Group. She emphasized how many Catholics had recently joined--since they'd been excommunicated for divorces--and all of whom had been baptized (which is to say, re-baptized, but my mom would not think Roman baptism valid). And she also emphasized--and this brings me finally to the point of my post--how happy they were that they had at last finally learned how to pray, which is to say, extemporaneously, without set prayers.

I was struck by this. I know what my mom meant--not some eighteen years or more ago, I would have said something very similar. Mom noted that many of her Catholic classmates at church had never really felt as though they'd prayed until they learned to do so apart from liturgy and ritual prayer. That is to say, raised on liturgical and ritual prayer, the learning how to pray extemporaneously opened up for these classmates of my mom a new experience of worship and, one assumes, of God.

As I said, I know very much the sentiment my mom expressed to me. However, I now find myself at a very different place. It has been my experience that I never really knew how to pray until I learned to pray using someone else's words; specifically, the words of the Psalms and the Church's own prayers. More importantly, I did not learn to pray until I had memorized certain of those prayers again and again day after day, the words entering my mind and my heart. Indeed, only after doing so did I learn that I still have yet to learn how to pray. But I am more ready to learn than before.

Of course, I should also say that I also pray extemporaneously, even if that also means the memorized phrases of the Psalms and the liturgies of the Church form backbone and frame of such prayers. It is never an either/or, but always both/and.

My mom may not grasp what I mean, even were I to more openly express myself. But if she prays more often and more deeply than I do--and I have no evidence to suggest that she doesn't--then even with our differences, it is I who still have much more to learn about prayer than she.

A Somewhat Narcissistic Description of My Christmas Booty

I suppose the whole blogging thing is fairly self-referential anyway, so in the same spirit of myopic narcissism, I present a Gollum-like enumeration of some of my favorite acquisitions up through this ninth day of Christmas (but then, who knows what the next three days may bring?!).

Two icons: one of our family's patron, St. John the Wonderworker of Shanghai and San Francisco (to be placed in the icon corner); and one of the blessed parents of the Theotokos, Joachim and Anna, the ancestors of God, which will hang in our bedroom.

DVDs: the two Spider-Man movies, and the extended edition of "The Return of the King" as well as "It's a Wonderful Life."

CDs: Tim McGraw's "Live Like Your Were Dying" and U2's "How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb."

A new prayer rope.

Books: A "pocket-sized" edition of the Orthodox New Testament (translated by the Holy Apostles Convent and Dormition Skete); a hardcover edition of The Ladder of Divine Ascent; The Dialogues of St Gregory, including the second book which is the life of one of my patron saints, Benedict of Nursia; The Northern Thebaid, compiled and translated by my other patron, Blessed Hieromonk Seraphim of Platina; and--drumroll as I reveal one of my lesser known indulgences--two new collections of Robert E. Howard stories, The Bloody Crown of Conan, and The Savage Tales of Solomon Kane.

But so that I may somewhat redeem this excursion into self-preoccupation . . .

Anna received some nice gifts, including several clothing items of the maternity fashion kind. And, if I do say so myself, her stocking was the best she's ever gotten from me: nifty travel gadgets, a booklet of baby names, just enough candies and sweets to make it worthwhile, and, my favorite, a bag of sunflower seeds, usefully ensconced in a spitting cup. (I'll leave to your imagination as to how well my Oklahoma gal can spit.) Anna will receive another gift tomorrow that will surprise her, I'm confident. But secrecy necessitates silence on that for now.

Sofie, well, what can I say, Sofie made a haul. Family can be too dadgum generous if you ask me. We'll have to move into a three bedroom house just to hold all the toys she got. But two of my favorite gifts she got came from my mom: my old spring rocking horse, newly refurbished, and the ten volume set of Bible stories I cut my teeth on. Yep, I read every one of 'em several times up to going into junior high.

Helpful Finds

After some searching, I found this information on the Orthodox Church funeral practices and A Requiem Service for Non-Orthodox (pdf file). This requiem, along with the traditional praying of the Psalter, will be very helpful. I won't be able to pray it over the body, but can do so at home. Delane is not Orthodox, but the Church, in her wisdom, allows us to pray privately for the repose of our non-Orthodox loved ones. Heck, I'm not even Orthodox. My life is confusing.

I also happened by chance to come across Boris Bobrinskoy's The Compassion of the Father (SVS Press, 2003) at the Loyola library prior to giving my final Tuesday night. Two chapters that stood out to me: "The Lamb of God Takes Upon Himself Human Suffering" and "The Prayer of the Heart and Suffering."

What a weird, weird thing is this waiting for death.

Group Sessions and Being More Interactive (How Vomitous!)

Do you dislike this thing called "breakout sessions" or "group sessions"? Do you cringe at comments like "this would be better if it were more interactive"? Are you one of the ones that audibly groan, indeed, suffer convulsions of nausea, when you hear "Now, let's break into small groups"? Then you'll love this rant.

So, I'm compiling some evaluation surveys of various staff development workshops held last year here at the library. As I compile some of the written statements, I'm running across things like "More group interaction so we know what others are thinking," "More group discussion," and "Be more interactive."

Gag! Cough! Spatter.

First of all, answer me this: What is a class but a group? Huh? It's a congregation of some thirty or forty individuals who collectively have signed up for a class. Therefore, anytime the class meets we are having a group session. QED.

"Oh," you say, "but we want smaller groups." Fine. Contact the administration and lobby for capping class size at twelve. I know for a fact that all your instructors will go for it.

What is it about group sessions that they are now the orthodoxy of paedogogy? I mean people don't even think when they write this tripe. You could facilitate the most dynamic lecture/discussion/multimedia presentation on Cartesian dualism, which both informs and entertains, as well as brings forth actual rational thought and analysis. And the evaluations would always read: "Needs more small groups."

"You're just a grouch. Important learning takes place in small groups that wouldn't take place otherwise."

Really.

So, what you're telling me is that the class of thirty-seven students (all but three of whom did not read the text, and of the three that did, two of them read it like a novel--with music blaring through headphones, sipping a latte, and after one reading put it down) is competent to sit down in groups of seven (which means you'll actually have to explain to the students that two groups will have eight members) and instruct each other in a text in which (in most groups) no one will actually have read it.

Yep. That'll work.

But okay, let's assume that the students have at least read some parts of the text. You expect all thirty-seven students to be competent enough to have not only analyzed the text but are then able to communicate that analysis to their peers, then discuss and debate differences of analysis, and following all that come to a consensus?

Of course, my mistake is to have them read a text at all. Silly dork, me.

No. Here's what happens in groups--if you're lucky. One student will take the assignment seriously, two or three will at least be interested enough in watching the serious student do her thing that they'll take part. The remaining four or five are grateful for an opportunity to cease all rational cognition (if they'd ever engaged in any in the first place). In the end, one student does the work of all seven, with minimal assistance of one or two others. And all get credit for the work of one.

No, all groups do is enforce groupthink. They accomplish social engineering in getting everyone to "go along" and "reach consensus." We all feel better that we could sacrifice our brains to the greater well-being of the Borg . . . er, I mean, the community.

Friggin' lemmings.

Of Red Stick and Debutantes

The women and I headed south to Baton Rouge last Wednesday. We'd been invited, a couple of months ago, to a "presentation ball" by one of Anna's former co-workers and friends, Patti. Her daugther, Jacque, was being presented on Saturday, and Patti and Harold had wanted us down for Thanksgiving ever since we left Lousiana in January 2000. So, we decided to both take advantage of a trip to see warm and wonderful friends, and to get our experience of southern tradition.

It was everything we thought it would be, and then some. There were a score of young women (set to graduate high school in the spring), dressed in white wedding gowns (yes, wedding gowns) and white gloves, presented by (mostly) their fathers, in tails, and introduced by long resumes of their accomplishments--all set to Vivaldi, Strauss, et. al., attended by guests in black tie and formal gowns, and accompanied by filet mignon and wine.

An amalgamated example: A young women, dresssed in strapless white, with long gloves and pearls, approaches the arch on a largish stage. Spotlights train directly on her. Her hair and makeup are immaculate, her grin porcelain. The M.C. intones: "Christiana Suzanne St. Romain-Hebert Melancon, daughter of Dr. and Mrs. Pierre Melancon, granddaughter of the late Paul-Robert St. Romain-Hebert and Giuseppina St. Romain-Hebert, and granddaughter of Joseph and Marie Melancon. She is presented by her father, Dr. Pierre Melancon. Christiana is a member of [insert about a dozen volunteer organizations], was last year a maid of the court of Krewe Germain, and this year is a lady-in-waiting. She hopes to find the cure for cancer, and to work for world peace. She will attend either Lousiana State University, Tulane, the University of Mississippi, Harvard, Yale or Copiah-Lincoln County Community College in the fall." Once all the near-two-dozen presentations had been made, the young ladies were led in a waltz by their fathers/presenters, and then joined for a second waltz by their mothers and escorts (mostly boyfriends or close kin).

Of course, I'm exagerrating for humorous effect, but not by much--as any who have attended such functions can attest. This presentation ball was different from the one that had taken place the night before. These young ladies were la jeune amie of the Baton Rouge Symphony League, a service organization in which the young women must perform a certain number of volunteer service duties over the course of their high school career. It's rather rigorous in expectation, and only rarely does a junior enter the la jeune amie and complete all the requirements necessary to be presented in her senior year. (By comparison, the ball the night before was nothing more than the presentation of the ladies, without the resume.)

But no matter how you cut it, these families were the affluent (or minimally upper middle class) of Baton Rouge, many of them with histories going, well, waaaay back. And this was the modern incarnation of the old southern tradition of debutante balls. It was a sight to behold.

For this Kansas boy, it was a fun experience. Of course, the best part was joining with Patti and Harold in an important milestone for them and their daughter. Whatever one may think of such traditions as these in our modernist era, I'm all for them, markers of the transition from one stage of life to another. We have no such markers, incarnate rituals which unite a community and help us move from one life to the next.

As a father, of course, I'm not so keen on the expense. But then again, that's all part of it, too.

In Honor of My Grandfather, Everett Daniel Thompson

I have in past months included posts expressing appreciation for my late paternal grandfather, Clifton F. Healy. There are many reasons for having posted thoughts on my grandfather. I am his namesake. His strength of character showed through the imperfections he, as all of us, had. His Midwestern rural values inform my own present ones, especially since such values are in bold contrast to those of the city where I currently dwell. I love Grandpa Healy, and miss him.

But one should not get the impression from my relative silence about my maternal grandfather, Everett D. Thompson, that I love or respect him less. I am also Grandpa Thompson's namesake, sharing my middle name, Daniel, with him. His character strengths are different, in some respects, than Grandpa Healy's, but they are no less important. Nor do they any less inform my own present values.

I'm thinking about Grandpa Thompson today, because I had the honor of sharing with him and Grandma the good news that Anna and I are having another child. Grandpa served most of his adult life as a minister among the Restoration Movement churches in which I was raised. He mostly served small, rural congregations. He and Grandma had six children (three boys and three girls), whom they raised on the pittance that ministers of the Gospel receive. I happen to be the eldest of their grandchildren, our daughter Sofie, one of eleven (soon to be twelve) great-grandchildren.

I pray for Grandpa and Grandma each day in my morning prayers, and when I think of Grandpa I think of such characteristics as endurance, faith, and integrity.

My grandfather was a Quaker before he became a member of the Restoration Movement churches. But as an adult, he considered the claims of the Restoration Movement churches, and decided, in light of his study and conviction, not only to become a member of this brotherhood of churches, but also to spend his life serving them in a vocation of ministry. One cannot, it seems, have a more solid example of integrity.

My grandfather has lived his faith in Christ in the midst of struggle and not a little suffering. One of his sons, my uncle Mark, died as a young man. The family history with which I grew up had had hopes for Mark that he would go into ministry as Grandpa had done. This promise, however, was not fulfilled. My grandfather raised a large family on a meager income. Grandpa could have sought a different occupation—and he often needed to supplement his income in other ways (bus driver, piano tuning, and so on). For a time he managed a nursing home, but eventually went back into ministry, once again in a small rural town. Every family has their own crises and pain, and Grandpa has had to watch and pray over the struggles and hurt of his children. Yet, he endures in his faith. Just last night, as I spoke with him on the phone, his voice was filled with excitement and justifiable pride in the ministers and service of the congregation where he and Grandma worship. A life lived with little worldly acclaim or wealth may well discourage the best of us, not less so when it is coupled with deep tragedy and sorrow. Yet Grandpa still finds joy and excitement in the service of God.

But perhaps most of all, of all his qualities, my grandfather's faith stands out to me. Both my sets of grandparents instilled in me the faith I now carry, but particularly since Grandpa Thompson served as a minister, and since I grew up in the group of churches in which he served, I have a lot of church memories when I think of Grandpa. I still have a children's New Testament given me by my grandparents as a gift in 1975 (taped together, true, but still useful), and will be reading from it to Sofie when she gets a little older. When I decided to go to Bible college to serve as a minister, Grandpa was unsurprisingly proud. Visiting my grandparents for school breaks or in the summer I was regularly and unostentatiously inculcated in the Christian faith.

I am no longer serving in ministry. But I have not left the faith in which I was raised. I no longer worship in the churches in which I was raised, but in the same spirit of integrity, of study and conviction, that my Grandpa has exhibited, I have found a way to live the faith in which I was raised in a new setting. And although my tragedies have not been of the depth my grandfather has experienced, his example of endurance has, in part, been used of God to keep me present in the grace of the Holy Trinity.

Due to my current location, my job and my studies, I do not get to see Grandpa and Grandma much. I heard the longing to see us and our daughter when I spoke with them last night. We are the poorer for not seeing them more often. And though our daughter is too young to have a conscious understanding of the qualities Grandpa exemplifies, she does not need it. She will grasp those qualities by merely being around him more.

I most definitely want my children to have the character traits of their great-grandparents. Grandpa Healy's characteristics will have to live in family story, and in me. So, too, will Grandpa Thompson's. But they need also to be received in the ministry of presence. God grant us the time to make that so.

Weekend Odds and Ends

On Saturday, the Healy's celebrated the onset of autumn (some week and a half earlier) by traveling an hour west to Goebbert's Pumpkin and Farm Market. For parents with grade school age kids, and for others who want to enjoy plucking your own pumpkin right off the vine, I highly recommend Goebbert's. It's an eighty-cent toll on I-90 (one way) and five dollar per person-over-1-year admission (Sofie was free, though technically was over a year). But the weather was great. They have some great cider and (of course) pumpkin pie, with some other more substantial goodies. We found some great pumpkins. And Sofie just loved the petting zoo. Especially llamas. She also was enamored of the chickens and goats. Sofie didn't care so much for the bunnies. (Daddy mentally scratches that item of the future family pet list.) Being out on the plains, though the weather was comfortable in the city, the breeze was pretty nippy on the farm. Bring a jacket or windbreaker.

Sunday we were back at All Saints. It was convocation Sunday, or, in other words, the annual parish meeting. What an amazing parish we go to. We are very, very fortunate and blessed. Half our membership added in the past year were infants. (By the way, for all you evangelicals out there: Trust me, this is a good thing.) In fact, ten percent of our membership is under two years old. (Sofie, when she gets baptized, would make it twelve percent.)

The convocation, as you might imagine, went quite long. Sofie only lasted a short while down in the nursery. So we brought her upstairs with the rest of us. She did pretty well, in terms of noise, but literally walked a path in the carpet through all the chairs and around Father's podium. She didn't seem to disturb too many people, so we just sort of coralled her away from the stairs and let her go. If I may be so bold: this is a quintessential sign of our parish--we are a family, and little children wandering around during a mandatory and official parish meeting doesn't cause very many of us to bat an eye.

In fact, there was one moment which pretty much sums up our parish. While the Sunday School superintendent was talking about the past year and our needs (which have more to do with finding space than volunteers or class members), Sofie decided it was time to go up to the iconostasis. She just about wandered through the Royal Doors, but Anna deftly stopped her. At which point Sofie decided to venerate the diptych of the Annunciation which adorns the Doors. Sofie kept wanting to go through the doors, which Anna was holding shut, so I came up and grabbed her up in my arms. As we passed the icon of the Forerunner, Sofie leaned forward to venerate the Saint. So I brought her up to the icon, and she kissed it with a resounding smack.

How's that for an advertisement for Church School?

Omni-Update: Delane and the Trip

Word from the road yesterday is that Delane is out of ICU and is doing well. Thank you for your prayers. We are waiting now for suitable transplant organs.

Thursday morning we left for Tripp and Trish's wedding in Virginia. With us in the Toyota for the 1600-mile round trip were Justin and Mae (and here and here), themselves affianced and set to wed next summer. We made it to Princeton, West Virginia, stayed the night there, then went on into Lynchburg on Friday. On Saturday, I got a chance to drive over to Roanoke and visit my friend, Brent (scroll down to last picture), who's a philosophy professor at the college. It was a short visit, but we got to meet his daughter, Aubrey (born exactly one month before Sofie), and he and Aubrey got to meet Sofie.

Saturday was a beautiful day for a wedding: sunny blue skies and mild temperatures. The wedding and reception following was an amazing mix of diverse family and friends. I got to meet a couple of the people with whom I've interacted on Tripp's blog. One of them, on introducing herself to me remarked: "You're that annoying Orthodox convert." Yep. 'Spose so. But apparently my wife's charm overcame my annoying nature, and Kate has agreed to sew a dress for Anna. I also met Megan, with whom I've most vociferously disagreed in comments on Tripp's blog. Apparently, she and I both seperately remarked to Tripp that on meeting one another the universe did not implode as both matter and anti-matter actually shook hands.

The trip back on Sunday was a long one, but safe. It's now Monday, and I'm full-speed back into my normal week. At work all day today, then my class tonight.

You're now caught up.

13,515 Days Ago, in a Kansas Town Far, Far Away . . .

At 11:09 in the a.m., on this date way back when, I came into the world prematurely. At five pounds, fifteen inches, I was a tiny thing, and had to be on oxygen for a couple of weeks. I was two weeks old before my mother could even hold me. But I clearly survived my beginnings with plentiful food, plentiful hugs, and just darn good parenting. I sure ain't the tiny thing I once was.

For all the good that my life has been, thanks be to my parents and to God. For all the bad, well, that's my fault.

Little Things

The routine: supper, bath, book, Our Father, lights out, Church hymns, bed. This is what it takes to get Sofie to sleep, though by seven or so in the evening, she's a willing accomplice to the whole thing. And really, once the bath is over, the rest takes just minutes.

In a darkened nursery, with your daughter in your arms, having prayed the Our Father, with the Phos hilaron and the Nunc dimittis on your lips, sometimes the questions are stilled. At least for a while.

One is not wrong to take brief comfort in that.

"Surely I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with his mother; like a weaned child is my soul within me." (Psalm 131:2)

Myopia

The kick in the crotch that life sometimes brings does it's job. It focuses one's attention.

Trouble is: where's that attention focused?

Annie Dillard

I will be reading Holy the Firm.

Imponderable

My resume? I have a bachelor's degree in theology, and MA in contemporary philosophy and theology, and soon-to-be-finished master's degree in theological studies, and, for good measure, I'm nearing the end of a doctoral degree in philosophy.

And I am as dumb as a friggin' post. No, really. I am one hundred percent @*!%-ing stupid.

Anna spoke with Delane last night. You want to know where the ultimately unusable organs came from? Death from the hurricanes. That's right, Ms. Frances provided moments of hope for my brother-in-law. Is it understandable that Delane watches Ivan with an interest I myself cannot know?

What the hell is going on? I don't know. I'm too stupid to get it.

Anger

This latest development with Anna's brother, Delane, I think has become the last straw for me. I. Am. Angry. These are not feast day meditations. But they are what they are.

I am Psalm 77:8-9 angry. "Has His mercy ceased forever? Has His promise failed forevermore? Has God forgotten to be gracious? Has He in anger shut up His tender mercies?" I am Job 7:11 angry. "Therefore I will not restrain my mouth; I will speak in the anguish of my spirit; I will complain in the bitterness of my soul." I am pointing the accusing finger. I want answers. I want results. I want Delane healed and whole. I want his children to have a father who will give his daughter away in marriage, who will give his fatherly advice to sons who act like they don't want to hear but secretly long for it. I want him to bounce grandchildren on his knees.

This three years of suffering is a manifest evil. It is wrong. I have a just complaint. Where are these miracles that others testify of? Where is this healing we are promised? I want God to act. I want death and corruption to be put to death. Do we not sing about this every Divine Liturgy? Are these just words?

Where is the power of God? I want an answer. Why does he not act? How much suffering must a man endure before God brings healing? How many of Delane's loved ones must have their faith stretched to the breaking point? Does God want to destroy faith? This endless cycle of hope and disappointment is just a hellish injustice. How much can one take?

A Tale of Two Biographies, Answered Prayer, and Other Odds and Ends

St. John the Wonderworker continues to intercede efficaciously for the Healy household. Through his prayers, God provided me with needed income through a summer ethics class and full-time status where I work, worked all the myriad financial details and timing about our car, and got our tax refund to us in record time. Add to that one more answered prayer: we didn't have to pay a fine on the citation we got for the car accident because the other party didn't show. This was heavy on my mind this morning as I prayed my morning prayers and brought my particular petitions to God and his saints. For some reason I have been bringing my financial concerns to St. John to pray for, and God has heard and answered our prayers. Praise the Lord. (Oh, and Anna was in and out of traffic court in record time. I think St. John threw that in just for fun!)

I'm currently reading two massive biographies simultaneously: Eberhard Bethge's biography of Dietrich Bonhoeffer (over 900 pages of text), and Hieromonk Damascene's revised biography of Blessed Seraphim (over 1000 pages of text). The contrasts and similarities are striking. Both men were intellectually brilliant, yet left academia to serve God: Dietrich in the pastorate and in training underground pastors of the confessing church; Seraphim in the monastery and in regional mission work. Both men wrote important books that had profound impact on Christians worldwide. And both men's reputations suffered postmortem as fellow Christians struggled to bring divergent aspects of their lives and ministries into a single whole: Dietrich for his part in the plot to kill Hitler and his writings on religionless Christianity; Father Seraphim for what some critics called his "academic" approach to monasticism, as well as his writings on the soul after death. Both men had conversion experiences that so shaped them it called for a radical break with their lives in academia and some of their most important early convictions.

But the differences are just as striking. Dietrich wanted to understand Christianity in this-worldly terms: where is Christ here and now in our present godless society? Seraphim wanted to understand Christianity in otherworldly terms: how can one find Christ over against the cacophany of the blasphemy-shouting world? Dietrich wanted to find a way toward real and tangible unity among all the world Churches. Father Seraphim saw ecumenism as a dangerous distortion of ecclesiology. Dietrich wanted to bring traditional forms of worship (the daily office) into his modern Protestant setting. Seraphim wanted to find authentic traditional forms of worship and monasticism on their own terms.

One could go on. I have a penchant for these ponderous biographies of God's saints. There's just something about poring over the accounts of the grace of God working in men's lives, a handful of pages each day for months on end. Very, very satisfying.

On unrelated matters: my summer ethics course is done. Thank God. No more fourteen hour days. I've got a ton of grading to do, and still some loose ends to tie up from my classes this spring, but it's all downhill from here.

I found out I could register for two consecutive semesters of doctoral studies. This will keep me enrolled, give me a chance to work on my dissertation proposal, yet not add to the the number of seminar papers I need to do.

Speaking of papers, I have five, count 'em, five, incompletes to finish up in the next month. Yikes. And I came to a standstill on my thesis for Seabury. That needs to get back on the front burner. Got a lot of writing to do. So . . . I blog.

Go figure.

Whigs and Tories

I had a good time yesterday evening, with the men of the parish (some fifteen or so) at the annual Fourth of July Whig and Tory party. This was an exclusively male gathering--explicitly stated so in the invitation, to wit: "No girls allowed"--and was all the better for such gendered segregation. I do not, of course, mean to say that men do not need women, or that somehow our lives would be better without women. No self-respecting man could ever believe such things. But it is the case that men need an occasion to find release from the domesticity that women wonderfully bring into our lives so that we may make political speeches, ridicule and mock our fellow man, drink beer, sing masculine songs, play bagpipes, smoke cigars, and blow things up. All but one of which we did last evening (for some reason it was a tobacco-less gathering and was the worse for it).

The speeches ranged from that of letters between Abigail and John Adams, the last speech of Jefferson Davis in the U. S. Senate in defense of the secession of Mississippi from the Union, and some ad hoc comments that ran more toward the conservative side of the political spectrum. (E. g.: in response to Bill and Hillary Clinton being caught napping side by side at Reagan's funeral: "That's the first time they've slept together in years.") We sang an immigrant song celebrating Ellis Island, as well as the state song of Illinois. One of our men played "God bless America" and some Scottish tunes on the bagpipes. Our priest brought forth a civil war era long sword. And we lit firecrackers and bottle rockets. Because even though these are illegal in Illinois, what would any self-respecting descendent of American revolutionaries do on the Fourth of July but stick it to the man?

I am, though but a neophyte, a swift convert to this sort of celebration, and have already committed my attendance for next year.

"Who Am I, O Lord God?"

After God had led David to the throne of Israel, David wanted to build a temple for worship of God. God sent Nathan to tell him no, but gave him a much greater promise instead: from his house would come the Messiah.

"Then went King David in and sat before the Lord, and he said: 'Who am I, O Lord God? And what is my house, that Thou hast brought me hitherto? And this was yet a small thing in Thy sight, O Lord God; but Thous hast spoken also of Thy servant's house for a great while to come.' . . ." (2 Samuel 7.18-19)

Exactly two weeks ago today, my family was in an auto accident, and our car was totalled. I was so angry. I had to quite consciously refrain from any critical remarks to Anna--as she had been driving. After all, it was hardly something she intended to do. What do they call these things? Accidents, not "on-purpose-ents." (She even said to me later that day, "Well you haven't yelled at me yet." I pointed out to her that doing so would hardly accomplish anything helpful, and in any case, she didn't mean to do it, and it wasn't as though she had a habit of driving recklessly.)

I tried as hard as I could to try to see behind the outward circumstances and find there some evidence of what God was doing. I didn't come up with much.

But neither did I have long to wait for it to become clear in what ways God would bless and take care of us in the midst of these difficult circumstances.

The very first bit of evidence was the willingness of one of the parishioners at All Saints to come and pick us--and all our baby gear--up from the accident site. Pat Kushiner is an angel. And she did much to try to bring us cheer as we drove home.

Next came Blaise and Lynn Kueck, who drove us to services one Sunday. Not to mention Michael and Todd giving me rides home from the men's group.

Then came an anonymous cash gift (of some significant proportions) from someone in the parish through the pastoral discretionary fund. (When Father handed me the envelope, I didn't have to ask what was in it. I just broke down and wept.)

Next came the offer for the second part-time job at the library where I work. This effectively puts me at full-time benefits status. There's a lot of blessing there. (Oh, and the summer ethics course I'm teaching.)

Then came as almost perfect a used vehicle as you could imagine. Sold to us by the first owner, it was the same manufacturing year as our now-deceased Saturn, with only 64K+ miles, new tires and battery, towing package, CD player (we've never had one of those), fold-in mirrors (great for our narrow one-way street we live on), and needing only routine 60K maintenance (tranny service, fluid flush, spark wires, etc.). Not cheap, of course, but not unexpected.

Next was the amount of total loss the insurance company gave us for the Saturn. The retail was for about 2K, but ours was high mileage (140K), so we expected much less. Instead, we got more than double what we thought we would get for the car.

The owner's asking price for the car was $500 under what the bank would loan us, and we eventually got the owner down to $1500 under her original asking price.

But all that almost hit a snag when we hit the bank. We have great credit--in fact, the interest my credit union offered me was only a half point above their best rate for used cars--but with Anna no longer working our debt-income ratio looked horrible. But God put us with a loan specialist who was willing to work with us, and through some careful questioning was able to "make the numbers work."

So as of last night, we are the grateful owners of a new vehicle.

So, through one totalled car, God blessed us with no injuries, the outpouring of love from a parish of which we are not formally members, a generous gift and other financial blessings, and a new car.

In less than two weeks.

This hardly is the same as being promised to be the ancestor of the Messiah. But I'm with David. All I can say is, "Who am I, O Lord God?"

Ain't No Sunshine (Sorry, Can't Help It)

Well, having come home Tuesday night, Anna and Sofie turned right around and headed out of town yesterday evening, to go be with Anna's sister, Teresa, who is in on the verge of giving birth. Hubby and daddy sits alone in the apartment in front of the keyboard and screen, with Bill Withers on his mind.

Ain't no sunshine when she's gone
It's not warm when she's away
Ain't no sunshine when she's gone
And she's always gone too long
Anytime she goes away

Wonder this time where she's gone
Wonder if she's gone to stay
Ain't no sunshine when she's gone
And this house just ain't no home
Anytime she goes away

Back, Tired, and Not Really Ready to Hit the Throttle Full Open Tomorrow

We're back. Got in about three hours ago. Unpacked a bit, put the wee one through her nightly routine (bath, massage, story, nursing, prayer), and then to bed.

Newbery winner: Kate DiCamillo's The Tale of Desperaux. There you have it.

Another Sofie first: Boat ride on the Pacific ocean (heck, first boat ride, period), and first whale-watching trip. We did end up seeing about three or four grey whales (thanks, JamesOTN), some Pacific dolphins, a small herd of lazing sea lions on a buoy, and miles and miles of wide-open ocean. Sofie? Slept through it all.

Sofie's plane ride back was almost a repeat of the trip out, but she did wake up about three-fourths of the way home, and so was awake for the last part of the flight and the landing.

I got into it with the taxi driver outside our apartment. I was so irritated I didn't tip him. Must have been why he didn't get out of the cab to help with the bags. Argh.

In non-trip news: A few minutes ago I got a call from Anna's sister, Jessi. Her other sister, Teresa, is pregnant and apparently is having contractions about five minutes apart. I've got to write a quiz for one of my classes tomorrow, so I'm standing by the phones. Would appreciate your prayers for a safe delivery (though given her history, by the time many of you read this, she'll have delivered).

Our Trip to Cali is Almost Over

I've been Mr. Nanny for this trip to San Diego, and the American Library Association's Midwinter meeting. Anna serves on the Newbery Medal Award Committee and this is their final meeting before passing the baton this summer to the next group. At this meeting they have decided which book will get the Newbery Award and which book(s) will get the Newbery Honor (sort of like runner-up). Of course, being the outstanding moral people that we are, my wife has refused to tell me who has won (dang!). But the press conference is to occur here within the hour and so we'll know soon enough.

Some trip highlights:

1. Sofie's first airplane ride: Slept right through it.

2. The Healy's first trip to the San Diego Zoo: Way cool! We got to see the new baby panda. Who, coincidentally, was born four days after Sofie and is as long and weighs as much as our daughter. We got cute pics of the little bugger sleeping. Awwwww.

3. Clifton lost his cell phone: (Insert profuse cursing and foreheading-slapping here.) Yep. Apparently it came off my waistband, where I'd had it clipped, in the taxi I was riding in. And we'd just gotten the free upgrade. I'd had the phone for, like, three days. Sheesh.

4. Took the trolley tour to Coronado and Old Town. Went to the Hotel Del Coronado and had lunch. Got pictures of the beach. Another Sofie first: Went to the Pacific Ocean. Leaving the Hotel and heading back to the trolley stop, saw the President of Chile's motorcade go by. Also saw a traffic stop turn into an arrest and search of the car (drugs?). Old Town was completely touristy. Oh well. What should I have expected.

5. Got a free reviewer's copy of Andrew Clements' new book, The Report Card, and have already read it. It's pretty good. I love this children's author. If you haven't read his book Frindle, run (do not walk) to your local library's children's department and check it out. You will cry at the end (for joy). His The School Story is pretty good, too.

In other news, picked up a cheap pipe and some aromatic tobacco to smoke on our hotel balcony. (I knew I should have brought mine from home.)

Later today we'll do the whale-watching tour and see the humpbacks (grey whales?) do their migrating thing. This will be another first for Sofie.

More blogging when I get back.

What Home Does to You

The trip home to see our families has had a profound impact on me, or so it seems as the days following our return to Chicago have unfolded. Perhaps it's the time of transition already underway with a new year, a new semester, Anna's soon-to-be-realized embrace of her God-given vocation. Or all of it together.

I just find myself interested in and focused on different things.

My following of the Anglican schism has effectively postponed the reality of my having left ECUSA long ago. And, frankly, has been a waste of time.

I'm not even interested in current events like I normally am. The presidential politics and upcoming primaries are something I'm usually a junkie about. Yawn. While I usually enjoy faithful Christian reflection on and critique of present-day culture, now I'm just tired of the distraction. Blah.

I could go on.

Being home these past couple of weeks got me in touch with the bedrock realities that sustain life and faith: parents, siblings, extended family, day-in/day-out earning a living, some prayer, some faithful living, new babies to keep the particular embodiment of all our lives going. I miss my family terribly. Does it really matter, my getting my PhD? Not when you compare it to holding on to my nephew, Jacob, or cuddling my niece, Reagan, or teasing my other nieces, Cassidy and Baileigh. Does it really matter that some self-proclaimed Anglican "inclusivist" expertly uses doublespeak to exclude those hated traditionalists? Not when a new mommy and daddy each and every night hold and caress their infant daughter while praying the Lord's Prayer. Not when this daughter will grow up in the Faith once for all delivered to the saints, and will know the smarmy church politico for what he is.

All my current life activities and interests could go hang, so long as there were family there to sit and sip a soda with and catch up on the gossip. So long as there were toddlers and infants exploding with new life and energy. So long as a young family could look out across windswept Kansas plains, or up at a clear Oklahoma sky, and rejoice in the God who had made these things and bridged the gap between us and him with flesh and bone and blood.

Sometimes the contemplation of these things is so sweet it leaves an ineffable disturbance in the soul, a joyful sorrow, a graceful melancholy. For the blessedness that you can taste in the slobbery kisses of your infant daughter is only a foretaste. . . just a foretaste, and not yet the full reality.

No wonder creation groans and waits. And so do I. So do I.

On New Year's Resolutions

I have long been one for New Year's resolutions. In fact, from 1988, at the midpoint of my sophomore year at a private Christian college, through the start of 1999, I had scrupulously engaged in year-end review and resolution-making. Since the end of 1999, however, I have not done any but the most general of mental resolutions. There are a few reasons for that.

First, of all, most of my resoution-making energy came from being caught up in the "daily-planner" (Daytimer, FranklinCovey) mindset. When I need to be, I can be very disciplined, and the use of a daily-planner proved increasingly helpful up until I moved here to Chicago. Through planning and using action-item lists, I was able to work full-time, move from central Illinois to Baton Rouge, find two new full-time jobs (in succession) and undergo two weeks and a month and a half of management training, respectively, complete my master's thesis (with oral examination by phone) in eight months and teach myself Latin. But once I left the telecom management field to pursue ordination and a doctoral program, I had hit daily-planner burnout. I continued to use a planner (and still do), but with much less discipline.

Second, since spring of 2000, the complexity of my vocational, educational and family decisions became more complex than could be put to a list of action-items. The "flow charts" would have branched exponentially as each attendant consequence would have resulted in multiple considerations. And many of these consequences were unforeseen: namely, my leaving the ordination process, and ECUSA, altogether. Trying to implement New Year's resolutions in such a state of continual fluidity involved much more time and energy than simply abiding by my principles and attempting to head in the general direction we'd decided on before coming here. The use of a daily planner largely became a matter of a glorified to-do list in a multi-ring binder with pretty paper.

Finally, you can't program God or reduce him to a daily planner schedule. The one verse which has guided me through all my New Year's resolution activities is from Proverbs: "Many are the plans in the mind of a man, but it is the purpose of the Lord that will stand." (Proverbs 19:21 ESV). These past four years have not been merely planning and programming a career with attendant changes matching changed circumstances (and changes of mind). Rather, these past four years have been primarily a concentrated effort of listening for the vocation of God. I had thought God was calling me to the priesthood in ECUSA. But in reality he brought me to Chicago to show me he was calling me out of ECUSA into Orthodoxy, out of a clerical vocation, to one of layman and professor. Neither of these would have figured into New Year's resolutions in 2000, 2001, and only provisionally in 2002 (though they became much clearer this past year).

These have been excruciatingly painful and difficult years here in Chicago (and in looking back on some of my journal entries, I noted that 2001, our second year in Chicago, was exceeded in pain and difficulty only by 1996, when we left the ministry at Greenview). But out of these challenging times, great joy and blessings have already begun to come. I finally found the Church for which I had been searching since 1990. My wife has gone from being vociferously opposed to Orthodoxy, to being open to strong involvement in the local Orthodox parish we now attend together. I escaped what could only have been much heartache and moral compromise by leaving behind my quest for ordination in ECUSA and have been enriched by the life of faith and practice available to all in the Orthodox Church. I have embraced and been affirmed in my chosen profession of teaching (philosophy, and, perhaps, theology), and in my writing. And I have met and made wonderful Christian friends. (Here's God's funny bone: all these friends have attended/are attending the ECUSAn seminary by which I was once repulsed and angered.)

So, in talking about all these New Year's resolutions, and the not making of any, am I returning to my former practice? Yes. But not in quite as disciplined (or anal retentive) a way as previously. I will coalesce my thoughts on what I need to accomplish or would like to accomplish this year, submit them to prayer, and focus on doing them.

What are my resolutions? Well, perhaps they can be summarized in this way: "For as the body apart from the spirit is dead, so also faith apart from works is dead" (James 2:26 ESV). In other words, this year action will take the focus. Thought and contemplation will never be discarded, but this year thought and contemplation must find their fulfillment in acts.

Facing the New Year

Two thousand four will be a transitional year for me. I will, Lord willing, have completed my course work for my doctoral program at Loyola, and will have gotten my dissertation proposal approved and have begun writing. I will be free to relocate, if I can find a suitable teaching job, and will begin submitting resumes. I'll need to beef up said cv with conference papers and journal articles--which I should already have paid much more attention to--but my immediate responsibilities and obligations will have drastically altered. Indeed, this coming semester, with two directed readings, will be something of a transition itself. I won't have formal class meetings to sit in each week. I'll be reading and writing and meeting one on one with my respective professors. Pretty much what I'll eventually be doing for my dissertation.

Anna will soon be transitioning to full-time motherhood (as though she weren't already doing that, but you get the point). Goodbye to the regular salaried workweek. Hello to not missing out on the smallest joys and "firsts" of Sofie's growth and development. Hello to more time to give to our local parish, connecting with the young mothers group.

I'm not sure what sort of transitions we're in for as a family with regard to the Orthodox Church. We've already begun small steps in a direction toward, if nothing else, an embrace of a local Orthodox parish. Will this turn into a joint pilgrimage toward Orthodoxy itself? I dare not guess. But I would never have thought we'd have come to this point, so I'm open to further surprises. Patience and prayer are the order of the day.

Those are the philosophical, professional, and familial faith transitions. But there remains my own personal faith transition.

A recent comment by a dear friend (who, actually, was defending me) struck home: "I will admit that his detail-oriented, philospohical style of argument, quite frankly, sometimes just gets on my last nerve." Jane, thank you, I know you meant the best, but . . . ouch.

Readers of my blog will know that for a year now, I have really struggled, when it comes to the Faith, between exercising my intellectual gifts in understanding and defending it, and shutting up and living it. I tend more toward speaking when I feel I should focus more on living. Previously I have made all sorts of promises to myself: total blogging and "dialoguing" silence, only arguing certain topics on certain days--only to fail to keep those promises. And I haven't developed the concomitant focus on Faith-full living.

While the other transitions taking place this year are somewhat out of my control, this is the one intentional transition I need to really fight to make: Live, live, live this Faith I hold. There are all sorts of things I could recommend to myself: less reading (except for school obligations), more praying, seeking more opportunities to serve at our local parish, etc. But I've made all these, and many more, resolutions before. And here I am.

This is a fight with the old nature. This is askesis. And if I could program change more effectively, I would. But mine is a selective discipline. Many of the more important areas of life are under control of the passions--like "impulse buying" I have "impulse areas" in which passion leads to act without much thought.

So, in facing this new year, I know areas where transition will occur. I know where it should occur. But I have no programs or formulas to "guarantee sucess." Three hundred Jesus prayers every hour may have helped the Russian pilgrim, but my starts almost never finish. I guess I just need to look forward to messy struggle, gaining and losing ground everyday.

But that itself, if done more consistently on my part, will have been a great step forward.

Luciferian Dream with a Seminary Dream Prelude

Okay, no kidding: this one creeped me out.

I had two dreams this morning, some time between Sofie's three o'clock feeding and her six o'clock feeding. I'm not sure how or if they were related. One involved one of the seminaries I went to. The other one was really weird: It was a dream about Lucifer.

In the first dream, I was in a large kitchen with several of my former seminary classmates, the dean, and one of the professors I had really admired. Some sort of conversation had ensued about Scripture and theology, when the dean opined, "It's all just metaphor." There were silent nods all around. I replied, "It can't be just metaphor. There is a reality behind it, otherwise it's not a metaphor."

Everyone must have thought this terribly rude of me, for no one would meet my gaze. Even the professor suddenly retrieved his hat and said he had to go.

Then, for some strange reason, we all adjourned to a lounge on the seminary campus where I was to defend my stance. I sat in a wingbacked chair while a couple dozen students gathered around. I began to weep, but tried to hold it back. I said a silent prayer, and someone asked a question.

I don't remember anything else about the first dream.

Then, in my second dream I was on my hands and knees trying to rearrange an icon stand I'd somehow knocked over. I didn't recognize the stand and the icons were new, and, over my shoulder, asked Anna about it. She said she'd gotten it not too many days before.

Then, I saw a pair of boots walking behind the stand, and I looked up. It was an ordinary man I didn't recognize. There was a conversation of sorts that I don't remember. What I next remember about the dream is that I sensed some sort of threat, to which I kept replying, "The Lord Jesus Christ reigns." The man sneered, but calmed down. Then he appeared to listen intently.

In my dream I sensed that this was Satan, so I began to tell him the Gospel. "If you accept the Gospel, you can became what you are not. If you refuse it, you will cease to be what you are. Through the Gospel you will gain all that which you only think you have."

There was an ensuing part that I do not remember, then at the end, I was asking Anna if she thought Satan had accepted the Gospel. She said she didn't know. We were standing in the lobby of a club, it looked like, and I happend to look up at an ordinary man dressed in black. With him he had a date I couldn't see very clearly. But when the man turned to look at me, he had a mask covering his eyes. So though I suspected it was Satan and that he had rejected the Gospel, I wasn't sure.

I don't often have dreams bubble up from my subconscious. And now I know why I prefer it that way.

Funeral Yesterday: Mildred N. Baker

Yesterday, Anna, Sofie and I spent all day in downstate Illinois near Lincoln. One of our "adopted grandparents" died this past weekend, and we went to the funeral.

Glenn and Mildred Baker lived across the street from us in the small town where I last pastored. They were Presbyterians, but since the church were I ministered was literally across the lot from their home, they had had ongoing relationships with several of my predecessors, and, of course, with various church members.

When Anna and I first moved in to the parsonage and I began my role as senior pastor, I was encouraged by our church treasurer, the late Lynn Edwards, to go over and introduce myself to Glenn. As things turned out, I was too busy in my first weeks to do other than wave at Glenn as he mowed his lawn on his John Deere lawn tractor. But introductions to the Bakers were soon taken care of, when, shortly after we arrived, Mildred walked across our back lawn to bring us cookies as we stood on the back porch talking to a neighbor. Soon we were eating dinner at their place with some regularity.

The Bakers were farmers, and, when we met them, in their eighties. They had seen their share of heartache. Their first child, Samuel, died in infancy. Their only other child, Sandra, almost ten years prior to our arrival at the church there in town, died at age forty in a car accident. In typical Midwestern farmer tradition, they remembered often, grieved a little, and went about their daily chores and routines.

Glenn and Mildred were careful to watch over our welfare, being young, newlweds, and having signed on to serve a church with a history of turmoil. When Anna needed new tires on her car, since she was travelling almost an hour one way to finish her bachelor's degree, the Bakers bought them. When they learned our microwave had gone on the fritz, they gave us one that they'd "just had laying around." They were frugal to the point of eccentricity. Glenn would wear the same pair of overalls till they were falling off his body--though he had a brand new pair still in the package waiting to be worn.

When we left the church, the Bakers were both angered at what had happened to us, and saddened that it had happened. Since we remained in the area, never more than an hour away, we visited frequently and kept in touch. When we left Illinois for Baton Rouge, so Anna could go to library school, we quite literally on our way out of town visited Mildred, who'd just broken her hip, as she recovered in the hospital. There we were, Ryder truck towing our car and our two cats and a ferret, parked illegally, but visiting the Bakers.

When we returned to Illiniois, to live and go to school in Chicago, we continued to visit the Bakers. Mildred, of course, had gone from the broken hip right in to the nursing home. Glenn every morning would wake, go argue politics at the local hangout, then head to the nursing home to have breakfast with Mildred. He would often eat lunch and dinner there. The separation was difficult for him, and it was challenging for him to keep the house, so he put his affairs in order, and moved in to the same facility as Mildred. He would then be able to have all his meals with her.

Glenn died on Christmas Eve 2001. Though I was asked to officiate at his funeral, I hadn't pastored in some years, and truth to tell, I was too shocked and saddened to do so. Glenn's death was unexpected. We went to the funeral and said our goodbyes.

News of Mildred's death this week, however, was not unexpected. Shortly after arriving in the nursing home, she began to deteriorate badly. She soon lost her ability to communicate, though she seemed to recognize us when we visited. Not long after that, she lost conscious awareness of her surroundings. Though we did not know it, in the last several weeks, she'd stopped eating, and they were having trouble getting her the nutrition she needed. She died Sunday, coincidentally my birthday. She was ninety-three years old.

She has a sister-in-law and her granddaughter who have survived her. The rest of those in attendance were her former school children. Mildred taught at a one-room school house not twenty miles from the funeral home, and only miles from her gravesite, and a good dozen of her pupils, themselves in their seventies, came to pay their respects and to say goodbye.

As Anna and I drove around the area yesterday, we remembered why it was that we love small towns. Everyone knows everyone. Though you'd nearly run your neighbor off the road to get your beans in to the elevator and get the best possible price, you also know that disaster is nor respector of persons. When tragedy hits, you help your neighbor. I've seen farmers who otherwise would be at one another's throats, join hands to help another farming family make ends meet. I suppose that when you farm, you risk your entire family's livelihood and your own sense of self-worth everyday. A life like that will either solidify your vices, or at least make an honest man out of you.

We relived a lot of memories. Our year and a half in that small town was in a lot of ways a very difficult time. But there were many good memories that we were able to revisit yesterday. Including all of the ones involving the Bakers.

May the Lord grant rest to the soul of Mildred N. Baker. May her memory be eternal.

Rants and Various Sleep-Deprived Sundries

First: This really pisses me off. Pharmacy techs who will not, I repeat will NOT, get their lazy ten-dollar an hour backsides out from behind the counter and help a new father locate the vitamin-D supplement recommended for his daughter by the pediatrician. The conversation runs something like this:

"Excuse me, I'm having trouble locating--"
"What do you need?"
"Well, a liquid vitamin supplement for my twelve-day-old daughter--"
"Aisle seventeen."
"I'm sorry, but--"
"Aisle seventeen."
(I'm steaming now!) "Well, I was just on aisle seventeen and didn't find--"
"With" (Freakin' cutting me off again!!) "the children's vitamins."
(Mentally reciting the luo verb chart) "But I didn't see anything--"
"Then" (Again with the interruptions!) "we don't have it."
"Could you just come and help me locate where you're talking--"
"It's not in, try other pharmacy."

Bet on it!

Second: Undergraduate students who noisily began putting away their notes and books with five minutes remaining in class. "Oh. I'm far from finished, ladies and gentlemen." F's all the friggin' way around! (At least we graduates are more circumspect--and quiet--about it.)

Third: Anglo-American/analytic philosophy. Puh-leeeze! Could one take a more interesting topic (free will, agency and the self) and make it anymore boring? Hard determinism blah blah blah Newtonian physics blah blah blah Kant blah blah blah noumenal self phenomenal actions blah blah blah blah BLAH!! Several short assingments, a seminar paper and a final exam. (Final exam?!! for grad students?!! @#$$#@!!!)

No word yet on whether I'll be able to drop a class for a directed reading. Too bad I can't drop the Anglo. Drop kick it in to next week!

Grumpy. Hungry. Need much sleep.

Visitations Amid Various Sundry

Friday was an interesting and faith-invigorating day. Although it was a bit chilly and rain-threatening here in the Chicago area, I saw an interesting and well-done movie, bought a book I thought I'd never own, and got some good news on my immediate job needs and Anna shared her own news of a potential lead on a job.

I go for an interview this morning for another part-time position at another college library in Evanstion. The job would entail, for the summer, essentially data input to bring a "old-fashioned" card catalog system online, then later, once school has started, turn into your basic circulation clerk. It seems enough of my experience matches their needs, but we'll find out if my fall scheduling conflicts with their stated scheduling needs. I hope it can work out, since the other part-time position I'd been looking at fell through, and Anna and I need all the extra income I can bring in as we prepare for our baby's arrival.

Anna also got a serendipitous lead on another job. The pay would be a few thousand more per annum, would allow her to go to the conferences she often misses out on due to zero-sum library finances, gain her some publishing experience, and allow her to continue working with children's and young adult books. The main drawback: it would start 1 September, thus effectively eliminating maternity leave. NOT a good thing. Of course, Anna's qualifications, while good, nonetheless do not make this opportunity a shoo-in for her. And God may have other plans. We'll see.

I saw the movie "X2:X-Men United" Friday. Wow. The reviews are correct: much better than the first, which I thought was great too. I was extremely taken with the character of Nightcrawler (aka Kurt Wagner). His portrayal was among the most sensitive, sympathetic and realistc I've seen of a traditional catholic (and Roman Catholic) Christian. He gives Storm what-for by humbly yet confidently asserting that the Faith is the core of our lives. He's shown praying the rosary twice, and also praying the Lord's Prayer and Psalm 23 (22 in the LXX/Vulgate). Though it's unclear whether his scarring is self-inflected or the mystical workings of angels, the message that what appears to be the ugliness of penance is actually the beauty of mercy and grace is thoroughly biblical. One might first be taken aback at his assertion that Christ is testing him by the tortuous control of Stryker, nonetheless it is the biblical precdent from Hebrews that in our sufferings God trains us as sons and daughters.

And all this from a script and story line that is hardly free of heresy. While I'll not assert that the X-Men movies and mythos lack any resonances with Christian faith (because it's not entirely true), nonetheless because it is based on the evolutionary faith's worldview it conflicts directly with the Christian faith. And that is what makes the character of Nightcrawler in the movie so surprising and interesting. It was odd and refreshing to have such a real Christian character portrayed where one would least expect it.

After the movie, I had an hour to kill while waiting for my wife to pick me up to go run some errands with her. And here's the capstone to a day filled with godly visitations. My original impulse was simply to cross the street from the theater and sip coffee at Borders and read. But for hardly conscious reasons, I decided not to. Instead, I thought I'd go to the library a few blocks away and read. But then I decided that would take away too much of my reading time to go there and walk back to our meeting spot. Barnes and Noble was a block closer, so I decided to hang out there, and I'd only be a block away from meeting Anna. But once inside Barnes and Noble, I didn't head to drink coffee. Despite my having purchased far more books than I probably needed this semester, and in a mood to definitely NOT buy any books, I nonetheless ended up browsing the shelves. I looked over philosophy, gave a glance at Christianity, and went to the Bible section (to vainly look for a KJV with Apocrypha). Then, with no real interest, I headed back to Christianity. After just a few minutes, I noticed the title Not of this World. It struck a chord, but until I picked it up and looked at it, I didn't know exactly why it seemed familiar. There it was: the out of print biography of Fr. Seraphim Rose.

One should understand that I couldn't even purchase this book from the publisher, let alone order it from one of the online distributors. It should also be noted that this comes from a small press, and is not likely to be found at a major retailer. Nor could Barnes and Noble have ordered it. My best bet had been to try to order it used through an online service. Yet here it was, in brand new condition. And I had come to Barnes and Noble aimlessly, and hardly with any intention of looking for it.

It reminded me of how my patron, St. Benedict of Nursia found me. I was in a conservative, evangelical seminary bookstore in central Illinois in the spring of 1990. There on the clearance rack was a small paperback edition of The Rule. I have been, in the last month or so, asking the intercessions of Fr. Seraphim, haivng found an affinity with him from reading his biography and most of his written works. It may well be that Friday's events, far from being merely fortuitous happenstance, was a confirmation that another patron had found me. Which means I'm either a very fortunate man, or a very great sinner.

Actually, I'm sure it means both.

Of Prayers Offered and Icons

The academic life, despite its social structures, can so often become very solitary. For us monkish types, that is just a-okay dandy most of the time. But on days like today, the silence and solitude of a library study room can feel not so much comforting as empty. My wife's brother, Delane, is facing necessary but life-threatening surgery on Tuesday. My wife, Anna, and our child (in her womb) will be traveling in the midst of cold, and possibly stormy, weather over the infamous I-80 tollway. I've hit backlog in classes and teaching. It sure feels pretty overwhelming. Especially when I want, and need, to minister to my wife in her own state of anxiousness and concern.

But the responses to the email I'd sent earlier this morning to family and friends about Delane, were deeply encouraging. "I'll pray for Delane." "I've forwarded your email to five of my Bible study partners. We'll be praying." And so it went. I probably got a dozen replies within the first hour. It's enough to make you cry.

I also headed over to the seminary bookstore, to just sort of go into a mental vegetative state. That's what us academics do to decompress: browse books. I was drawn, however, not to books, but to icons. And two in particular: the icon of the Crucifixion and the icon of Extreme Humility (the repose of the Savior in the tomb). In ways difficult to articulate, I was deeply moved by these icons. I sure felt empty, yet my emptiness was encompassed by that of the Lord. Indeed, in my emptiness I can, by grace, participate in that of Jesus. But the emptiness which Jesus willingly experienced is an emptiness that ultimate fills us. And so, strengthened by this encounter, I ate a late lunch, and boarded the bus to go teach my evening class.

SDG!