Tag Archives: Family

Trust Life

We had a death in the family on Saturday. I don’t usually like using names on here, so I’ll refer to him as Vermont. It was completely unexpected. He wasn’t an immediate family member, but he was still someone fairly close. I’m surprised at how hard it hit me. Life is so fragile. Death is a weird thing. Just recently, another family member died, though this person was much older, and I didn’t know him personally. When I think about it, our family is so large, but a number of elderly relatives have died, and even some younger ones. It’s hard to believe I’m never going to see Vermont again. We didn’t see him and his family often, but I liked him. He was friendly and it will be strange having the others come to visit without him.

Death is a strange thing because the show must go on. Life doesn’t often let you stop to grieve; at least not for very long. Tonight I’m hosting a party with some old friends I grew up with. Most of them will probably drink, we’ll all eat food, and we’ll play video games, and do other stupid stuff. At the end of the day, though, somebody died. Sometimes I wonder what it will be like when I die. I don’t want people to be sad because I want them to be sure that I’m going somewhere good. At the same time, though, I’ll be gone and out of their lives until they follow me. I admit, I think about death a fair amount, but I’m not afraid of it. I just wonder what really happens before you reach your final destination.

That’s the other weird thing. Death isn’t really any kind of end. It only looks like one. Vermont is still alive in spirit. He’s just somewhere else. Maybe it’s the not knowing that freaks us out so much. We want to know where our loved ones have gone. Ultimately, we can only have some kind of idea, and depending on our spirituality, these ideas are usually hopeful and good, but they’re still vague at best. From a Christian standpoint, I think death is hard because it involves something that humans tend not to be so good at. It involves trust, and it involves surrender. When a loved one dies, there is literally nothing we can do about it, and if we don’t surrender, we tend to just cause ourselves more pain. We have to surrender ourselves to God’s mercy, and we have to trust God with the soul of the one we love and, for now, have lost.

I often reflect on the fact that the world is not fair, but at the same time I remember that God isn’t either. In this world, we have to die, but God made a way for us to live past death. I trust that.

Because in my world guinea pigs can fly!

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Boys And Girls

The other day I wrote a post about some Catholic teachings that, though I follow the Catholic faith, I am still somewhat uncomfortable with. The first you can read here. The two topics are, I feel, mostly unrelated to each other, so I decided to separate them. This post is about the roles of spouses in a traditional, Catholic marriage. A rather old fashioned way of thinking about this is that men always have to be the bread winner, and women always have to be stay-at-home moms. This is not what the Church teaches. The priest at my church explained that men and women have different roles because we have different needs. Generally speaking, on a physiological, and psychological level, I think, to some extent, this is true. However, I wanted to stop him, and ask “What would you say to someone like me who, if we’ll permit a little stereotyping here, generally has stereotypically male interests?”

One of the reasons his homily was about this topic, though, was because one of the readings for last weekend was the dreaded Ephesians 5: 22-24, which says, “Wives, submit yourselves to your own husbands as you do to the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife as Christ is the head of the church, his body, of which he is the Savior. Now as the church submits to Christ, so also wives should submit to their husbands in everything.” Initially, this rubs just about every woman, myself included, the wrong way. God is the only person I will be submitting myself to, thank you very much. That is my initial, impulsive reaction. However, for a few reasons, live with my parents. The fifth commandment, which could not be spelled out more clearly says that one is to, “honor your father and mother,” so it would seam that I should, in some sense, submit to them, and this is what is pleasing to God. Likewise, God left us his Church, and both men and women are meant to submit to its teachings because really, they are his teachings.

Last weekend, our priest went on to explain that we often neglect Ephesians 5: 25-28, which says, “Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her to make her holy, cleansing her by the washing with water through the word, and to present her to himself as a radiant church, without stain or wrinkle or any other blemish, but holy and blameless. In this same way, husbands ought to love their wives as their own bodies. He who loves his wife loves himself.” Remember that Jesus died for every individual person. What Saint Paul is saying here is that husbands are supposed to make these kinds of sacrifices for their wives. What is also implied here is that the Church is the body of Christ, in the same way as a husband and wife are meant to be one unified family.

Ultimately, husbands and wives, and actually people who love each other in general, are supposed to make sacrifices for each other. When reading these verses of Saint Paul, we have to keep a few things in mind. He was writing in a certain time period for a certain group of people. He was also writing for us. Love between people is not a mirror. I don’t love my dad in the same way he loves me, nor is it the same for me and my mom. The sacrifices they make for me are not the same sacrifices I make for them. Today, and particularly in the West, men and women are largely on equal footing in terms of the opportunities we have, especially for education and employment. We are to be given an equal level of respect, and when we are not given the same respect, we have problems. This does not change the fact that we are meant to make different sacrifices for different people at different times if we truly want to own that we are Christian.

Because in my world guinea pigs can fly!

Legality And MOrality

Before I start this post, I would like to explicitly say that I am Catholic. What I mean by that, in this particular case, is that I believe in the Authority of Catholic doctrine and hierarchy. I wanted to say that first because this is the first of two posts having to do with two major teachings of the Catholic Church that I don’t entirely understand, or am still uncomfortable with. The first is the teaching on gay marriage. The second is the roles of spouses in traditional marriage. Some might wonder why I follow a church with certain teachings I may not entirely like or understand. I believe in the Catholic Church for historical reasons, logical reasons, and theological reasons which I won’t go into here, but I do want to explicitly say that I believe in Catholicism and not any other denomination of Christianity because this is where God has led me.

Now I’ll get into the uncomfortable stuff. The truth is that a few teachings on marriage make me uncomfortable. When I was a little bit younger I thought I wanted nothing more than to get married. The Catholic Church teaches that marriage is for creating a family, and for growing in holiness together in a particular way. The Church also teaches that the family as an institution of sorts is the basis for society. Lastly, the church teaches that the sacrament of matrimony actually takes place when the couple (forgive the explicit language) has sex for the first time. Furthermore, the Church teaches that such an act has two purposes. The first is procreation. The second is pleasure. If such an act is incapable of accomplishing either of these affects, then it’s wrong. Therefore, gay marriage is not allowed in the Catholic Church because procreation cannot be accomplished.

What makes me uncomfortable about this is that the Church teaches that gay marriage should not be legal, even in society at large. To some extent I understand why. If a traditional family (mom, dad, and kid(s) is the basis for society at large, then a marriage that is incapable of naturally growing a family would seem problematic. However, this raises another question that I would like to touch on. I am asexual. In fact, aside from a biological perspective, I can’t really think about that without feeling uncomfortable. I am also disabled in a way that would make procreation impossible. Recently, however, I’ve entertained the idea of adopting a child when I get older. I don’t know if the Church would permit that. I would like to clarify here that the Church does not teach that any sexuality is in itself sinful. Only certain actions and choices are sinful.

That being said, it could be argued that things like gay marriage should be allowed from a strictly legal standpoint because other things that are considered immoral or sinful are perfectly permissible in larger, secular society. For example, lying, while generally considered wrong, even outside of Christian circles, is completely legal even though it tends to hurt the one lying and the one being lied to, in the end. Of course there are cases in which lying is not legal, like in court, for example, but generally speaking, it is so commonplace that it’s almost expected. Along this line of thought, one might argue that something like gay marriage should then be legalized because the worst that could happen would be that the couple breaks up. It only hurts the two people involved.

The fact of the matter is, we live in a democratic republic, not a theocracy. Our laws are only loosely based on a Christian moral code, and increasingly less so. Therefore, our laws and lawmakers do not recognize sin as something real. However, I think it is safe to say that most Americans, regardless of their belief system recognize that humans have a soul, or a spiritual aspect of their being. That being the case, it would seem that a moral code is necessary to protect that aspect of our being. This again poses difficulties because America is a very diverse country, and not everyone living here is Christian. However, if most people recognize that we do have a soul, we need a moral code to live by, even if we are not legally obligated to do so, to protect our souls. If this is the case, it would seem that our laws do need to enforce this moral code.

The question then is, where would this legal moral code come from? The problem with our laws today is that they try to determine right and wrong from an atheistic standpoint. I simply mean that our laws do not have a standard for the ultimate good. If they do not have a standard for the ultimate good, they also do not have a standard for the ultimate bad, or the ultimate evil. Without a standard for good and evil, one eventually finds that, in the end, even the most straightforward laws become arbitrary. We need to know what the ultimate good is for the human soul, and we need to live up to that ultimate good. That is why, though some of its teachings make me uncomfortable, I believe in the Catholic Church, and I believe it is right.

Because in my world guinea pigs can fly!

My Christmas

Yesterday was pretty sweet. My cousin from Montreal was home for Christmas, and my grandmother got me a super competitive board game called Cathedral. The point is to place more buildings on the game board than your opponent by strategically blocking off territory. I love games like this because for whatever reason, I’m obnoxiously competitive. We also played a game called Password. We decided that we would do sibling teams because we knew it would end badly. It was my two cousins against my brother and me. My two cousins think nothing alike, and my brother and I think nothing alike, so it was hilarious. I got a lot of great presents from my family, but I’m most excited about my new bass guitar, and my copy Saint Faustina’s diary.

I realized something rather embarrassing when everyone had left, though. I had gone to Mass the night before, but I had not had a particularly Christ-centered Christmas Day. In my defense, my grandmother had stayed overnight and we had had company all day, so I didn’t exactly have much time to sneak off and do much. I had some, though, and I should have recognized and used it. I started reading Saint Faustina’s Diary today, and she wrote something that I think is helpful. I don’t remember the exact quote, but basically she wrote that the future scared her and that she realized the past is unchangeable and not really worth thinking too much about. I empathized with her being a little freaked out by the future, and I’ve realized over time that I have a tendency to dwell on the past. It used to drive me crazy, but it has died down quite a bit. When I went to bed last night I prayed through the Joyful Mysteries of the Rosary, and then I crashed. My mistake bothered me last night, but that was last night, and I can’t do anything about it now.

One really cool thing was that my cousin (not either of the cousins I played Password with) told my mom that he really liked the Christmas Mass because our Priest’s homily was basically a history lesson. Apparently there has been preserved, what is believed to be, the wood from the manger that Jesus was placed in as a baby. My cousin asked my mom why they didn’t teach that kind of stuff in history class at school because, he said, it might convince more people to believe, even just a little bit. I’m my cousin’s Confirmation sponsor, and unfortunately, I’ve never really been able to figure out what he believes or how much he believes. This sounds to me like he at least wants to believe. I’m going to start being more of a pest, I think. By “pest” I pretty much mean Catholic nerd.

Anyway, I’ve had an otherwise pretty relaxing day today. I was going to work on my book, but I’ve decided to take a little vacation. As I said, I started reading Saint Faustina’s Diary, but I also wrote a little in my own “Honesty Journal,” which I will be sharing with no one, and I started teaching myself the bass part of “Man On The Moon” by R.E.M. I may not have it exactly the same as the original, but I’ve figured out a fair amount of it primarily by ear, which has been great fun. It took me forever, though. I was using a pick instead of finger picking because I’m just used to that, but it actually sounds right, and at least for now, I might stick with that style, just for goofing around. I haven’t just sat in my room and played music for several hours in a long time. The crazy thing is, it seems like I almost forgot how much fun it is. Ironically, I’m wondering if I’ve accidentally become a bit of a workaholic, and in some ways, a perfectionist. I think taking a break will be good.

Because in my world guinea pigs can fly!

The Sky Did Not Fall

I’ve written about half of my mythology. Yesterday, a file went temporarily missing, which constituted a significant portion of what I had written, as well as a log of what I had finished. I had finished half a book. I thought I had lost nearly all of it. After an initial panic attack, I did something I normally never would have done. I looked for it for a bit, but then I gave up. It wasn’t the kind of giving up that feels like ultimate defeat, though. I decided that this was God’s book, and if it was gone, I would just start over. There was nothing else I could do. It seemed simple enough. Don’t get me wrong, I thought I had lost a year’s worth of work, and it sucked, but I realized that I couldn’t hold onto something that was presumably gone.

This is my fourth attempt at writing a book, and I wasn’t just going to drop the project, so I prayed. I said, “Father, this is your book. If it’s lost, then I don’t see much I can do about that, but I will start over because it’s yours, not mine, and I want to finish it for you. Maybe you have something better in mind that I haven’t even come up with. I really want to get this thing back, but your will be done, not mine.” I knew I might be able to get it back if I had help, but I’m technologically inept, and my brother and my dad were both out of town last night. There was literally nothing else to do, so I prayed the Chaplet of Divine Mercy, read some scripture, and waited for my friends to come over, since we had made plans earlier that day. We hung out, talked about Star Wars, and watched the latest episode of Runaways, then they left, and I went to bed. I ended up having insomnia last night, so I slept very late today. My dad had got an early flight home from New York, and got to the house before I was awake, which was around three thirty. He did some work stuff, Mom and I went to get coffee, and then he helped me rescue my book. The sky did not fall.

The sky didn’t fall for three reasons. The first was that I was prepared for the worst. The second was that I trusted my dad. The third is that I trusted the Lord. As a Christian, and really as a realistic, rational person, I can simultaneously expect the worst and hope for the best. I keep coming back to a very important lesson God taught me recently. He can take my almost nothing, and turn it into something awesome. He could take all the work I had done, and even the loss of that work, and turn it into something better than anything I had planned. Even recently with a supposed lost like this, I probably would have had the expected panic attack, and just given up, but yesterday, because I was able to give the disaster to God, I was able to look forward to the next step. I was able to think to myself, “Well, there’s one final thing I can do. My dad might know how to get this back. If he can’t, then I know now how the Abyss works, even if I can’t get all the actual content back. I can work off of what I have and let it go from there.” Today, hope and trust won out, and the sky did not fall.

Because in my world guinea pigs can fly!

Words Make A Difference

Today I woke up thinking about linguistic idiosyncrasies. I have no idea why. What I mean, though is that I was thinking about how language, and our use of it, changes over time. When my dad was a kid, to describe something as “cool,” he and his friends would say it was “wicked pissa.” When my friends and I were teenagers, we would say it was “sick.” When I was fourteen and my guitar teacher was twenty nine or so, he would call things, “mad ill.”

My use of language has definitely changed since I was fourteen. I have no idea why, but for a while now I’ve been describing things that I really like or that get me excited as “disgustingly good,” or just “disgusting,” or “stupid good.” I remember when we were younger, we used to use the word, “awesome” a lot.” Now I tend to use “ridiculous.”

When I was a senior in college, I had to fill my schedule with a couple electives. The funny thing about my school was that there weren’t really any classes that were just fun and easy. That being the case, I decided to take “history of the English language.” It wasn’t an easy class, but it was definitely interesting. Our final was to write a paper that had anything to do with the English language. It was as simple as that. I decided to write my paper on the use of slang. I find slang immensely interesting. In part, my paper dealt with the reinterpretation of how certain words are used in informal vernacular, and in part with the invention of new words. I came across one argument that I strongly agreed with, that if an invented word is universally understood in a specific context with an actual definition, whether or not it’s in the dictionary, it is, in fact, a legitimate word in the English language. A significant portion of my paper dealt with this idea.

I’ve invented a few words and phrases. Mostly only my dad and I know what they mean, but between us, they make sense. For example, “blargh,” means “darn it.” The word “gabuje” has several uses, but it’s always accompanied by body language or some other indicator that makes it makes sense. It means, “move,” “help me with this,” or in the form a question, “are you ready?” My dad also invented the term “bird tantrum.” a bird tantrum is when you’re annoyed, generally about something stupid, but you have no words to describe what you’re annoyed about.

On a more serious note, I learned something very interesting the other day. In middle and high school I took a total of five years of French classes. In French, as well as with other languages, there is a formal, as well as an informal word for the second person singular, i.e. “you.” In French, the formal is “vous,” the informal is “tu.” The latter is what one might use with close friends or relatives. Apparently there used to be a recognizable formal and informal second person singular in English, as well. The formal was “you,” and counter intuitively, the informal was “thou,” or “thee,” depending on the context. Therefore, when certain prayers were translated into English, the translators intentionally retained the informal, intimate use in recognition of the kind of relationship we’re supposed to have with God.

Of course we haven’t retained the formal/informal use of the second person singular in English, and I kind of find that regrettable. Unless I’m reciting the Lord’s prayer or another old prayer I have memorized, I call my heavenly Father, and my Savior, “you.” In a way, I think it makes the short moments taken to recite old prayers more precious, knowing what it means to say, “Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.” He’s my God. He’s the King of the Universe. He’s my Savior, and my brother. He’s my family because he chose to be. He chose me.

Because in my world guinea pigs can fly!

Beautiful Now

Salvation is a hard thing to understand, let alone, explain. This morning I couldn’t sleep, so I read an article about how God just wants us to be ourselves. God loves us just the way we are. He created us, he knows who we are, and he doesn’t expect us to be anything other than who we really are. Whether we know it or not, we have a tendency to put on a facade a lot of the time. Even around our best friends, we emphasize certain things about ourselves, and hide others. God loves even the worst parts of us.

Our family recently bought a house in Naples Maine. My mom has loved this house for five years, and at first, I had no idea why. It looks like it’s about to fall down. We officially owned it last Friday. It’s not exactly wheelchair accessible yet, but I can get into three of the rooms on the first floor as it stands. Last Friday, I went into the house for the first time. It smelled. Everything was covered in dirt, dust and mouse crap, and it was filled with trash that had been left there by the previous owner.

The house hadn’t been lived in for twelve years. The guy who lived in it before was an alcoholic, and just let everything fall apart before eventually leaving. While he was there he had said he wanted to fix the place up, but had only really managed to pull some things off the walls. His drinking habit was evidently so bad that he had literally lost track of where he had stored away some of his beer.

We stayed there for a couple of hours on Friday and began cleaning some things up. I had brought my rosary with me, so I hung out in the kitchen and went through the Divine Mercy chaplet, which is part of a devotion that was first introduced in the 1930’s. In one of the rooms I couldn’t get into, my mom found a broken piece of something that had a piece of one of the psalms written on it. It read something like, “He who puts his faith in God is safe.”

This past weekend, my dad went up and camped in the house to start cleaning it up some more. On Tuesday, my mom and I went up to see how things were going. We had hired a clean-up crew to just get everything out of there, and they spent the entire morning and most of the afternoon there. My dad had kept the windows open, so the place already looked and smelled significantly better by the time my mom and I got there. On Wednesday someone came to see if the septic system was going to work for the house, and he said it would. Later, the architect came to see if the house itself could be “saved” and remodeled for what we need. He said it can. He’s already started working on plans, and my mom has enlisted her cousin, who is a builder, to take care of a lot of the work.

When my mom first saw this house she loved it. She wanted to save it. She wanted to make it her own. I didn’t get it for the longest time. A while ago I wrote a post about how we were debating about buying a house in a town closer to our family, or in Portland. My mom kept coming back to this house. When we finally decided on this one, and we were coming closer to buying it, I realized I wanted it, too. I was getting excited, but I still didn’t really know why. Now that we do own it, I can truthfully say that I love it now. I obviously don’t want it to stay the way it is, but I love this house, and I can’t wait to see how awesome the finished product is going to be.

This house to me is what salvation looks like. It was broken and empty before, but now it’s got people who love it living in it, and we’re going to fix it. Obviously it’s not a perfect analogy because we’re not there all the time, but I think now the house has hope in it. I recently wrote a post about what home is. Home isn’t just where a person’s primary residence is. Home is found in people and memories and various places all at once. I’ve barely known this house, and quite frankly, it’s still disgusting, but on Wednesday I sat on the porch in the sun, listening to music, and I definitely felt at home.

God asks us if we will let him into our souls, even if we’re really messy; even if we’ve said “no” to him time and time again. God loves us just the way we are. He always wants us to be better; Jesus said, “Be perfect, as your Father in Heaven is perfect,” but he knows it’s a process, and I expect he loves the process, just as my family is already loving the process of fixing up our house. It’s easy to feel like we’re not good enough, and therefore, wonder how we can let God in, and even if we do, how we’re going to hide the ugly things from him. The fact of the matter is, we don’t have to. The ugly stuff is what makes the finished product so beautiful, and the fact of the matter is, God made us. He thinks we’re beautiful now.

Because in my world guinea pigs can fly!

Who Do You Trust?

Yesterday massively sucked. Our house cleaner comes every other Tuesday, which basically means I can’t work every other Tuesday because I’m out all day doing mind-numbing errands with my mom and brother and by the time we get home I’m kind of fried. Yesterday was a house-cleaning day. Usually we’re up and out of the house pretty quickly, but for whatever reason, we took what seemed like over an hour to leave. On top of that, we had decided to go to Flat Bread Pizza for lunch, which for us is in Salem. Salem is a pretty long ride for us, and by the time we got to the restaurant I was famished. This is probably sounding like whining so far, and under normal circumstances, it probably would be.

Shortly after we got to the restaurant I started feeling sort of sick, so I just sat still and figured I’d be fine once I got some pizza in me. Flat Bread is my favorite. However, shortly after I got my first piece down, my head started spinning, I started feeling faint, and then I got sick in my plate. We left after that and went to a gas station next door where I tried to keep down some chips and some Gatorade. I couldn’t even keep down the chips, and I could keep down the Gatorade for a while until we got almost back to our house. Then I got sick again in a container of wet wipes.

I was so dizzy I could barely make it to the bathroom on the second floor of our house (which is across from my bedroom) to get cleaned up before I slept for several hours. I did finally get up around nine PM and was finally able to eat some crackers and drink some Gatorade. I was also, thankfully, able to get my epilepsy pills down, and then I slept pretty well last night.

Today I got up feeling almost back to normal. I ate a pancake and some cheese and crackers and a bit of fruit before going to get my blood drawn (to make sure I’m not, you know, dying or anything), which went swimmingly, and then I got coffee with my mom, and I just finished writing the fifteenth story in my mythology.

It kind of seems like I’ve had more weird health issues lately. I had a thought a little bit earlier today. Is a cry for help a kind of worship? I’ve learned to say, when I ask God for help that I trust him. He did get me through yesterday, and yesterday was one of the worst days I’ve had in a quite a long time. A little while after we had left the restaurant I was feeling really crappy, and I told my mom I thought I should go to the hospital. Willingly going to a hospital is like admitting the worst kind of defeat for me. I have to be almost convinced that if I don’t I’m going to die. I’m not exaggerating. My whole family (on my mom’s side, anyway) is like that. Luckily my dad talked me out of it, but I prayed to God before we got home, and I said, “I don’t want to die, but I trust you, and whatever happens, I’m ready. Just please help me.” Now reading it, it sounds absurd. I’m twenty-four, but yesterday I was ready to die if that was what it was coming to.

I suppose this needs a bit of explanation. The symptoms I was experiencing yesterday seemed to be the result of really low sodium levels. One of my epilepsy medicines does deplete my sodium, which stinks because I’m also kind of a health nut, and a lot of salty things aren’t particularly healthy. Sure enough, though, once I got some crackers and Gatorade down, I was a lot better. I should also say that I’m only a health nut in the sense that I try to eat fairly small portions and ration the amount of actual junk food I eat. I also prefer, in general, to snack on fruits and vegetables, but I certainly don’t go overboard to the point that I feel like I’m missing out on something.

Still, none of this really answers my question. Is a cry for help a kind of worship? After yesterday I’m inclined to think so. I think it depends on whether one trusts God, and if one remembers that he’s there in the good times as well as the not so good ones. I remember our priest talking about this a handful of times in church when I was younger, before I had ever even accepted Christ, really. He said it’s so easy to remember God and to call out to him when we need something, but he’s not just here to give us whatever we need or want. He seeks our worship when things are going well because he loves us and he wants us to love him back.

While I was waiting for my appointment today I was trying to work through this in my head, and ultimately I had to realize that I keep asking myself the same questions over and over, which all boiled down to one: Am I worth dying for? In the opinion of the God I worship, I am. Part of that question is: How am I, one out of millions, and nothing special, worth it, and why am I worth it? I’ve decided to stop asking, though. I told him that in the waiting room. I’m done asking, and instead I’m just going to say, “I love you, too.”

Because in my world guinea pigs can fly!

Welcome Home

My parents and I have been arguing about where to buy our second home (their retirement home–I can work from wherever I want). We know we want to live in Maine where most of our extended family lives. My mom has fallen in love with a falling-down farm house in Naples, and though Naples is quite close to my godparents and Mom’s cousins, I think Portland would be better in terms of accessibility. My dad seems to like Portland better, but we’re all just going back and forth really.

A lot of people my parents age seem to be talking about buying a second home–another place to hang out and live. However, for years now I’ve felt like I have three homes. The first is obviously the house I live in and, by extension, my little neighborhood that goes around a loop, so there’s barely any traffic. The second is the music studio where I learned to play guitar and recorded eleven songs. In a way, I also learned to pray there because my teacher and later, producer happened to be Christian. The third is the church that I couldn’t stand as a kid, but am now seemingly magnetically drawn to. To be fair, I still think it’s the ugliest church in America, but the priests are awesome, the other volunteers and parishioners are really nice, and it’s just about a mile from my house so it’s easy to get to.

About two years ago another one of the teachers mentioned Eucharistic Adoration to some of the older kids around Lent. He didn’t elaborate much about what it was, but for some reason I thought it sounded interesting, so after a little while, I decided to go. The truth was I had never heard of it before. I went that week, and I honestly don’t remember what happened in particular, but I decided to make it a habit to keep going. I’ve been going almost every week now for the past two years.

Our parish also offers confession during that time, and at some point, for an inexplicable reason, I felt I should go. It was the first time I’d been since I made my confirmation, which meant it was the first time I’d gone in several years. I don’t remember what I confessed that night, but I do remember it felt like a humongous weight had been lifted off my shoulders. After that I got a little crazy and probably a little paranoid and started going about every two weeks, and sometimes more than that. Now I go about once a month, sort of like a check-up.

Going to Adoration is never quite the same from week to week. Sometimes it feels a bit futile, like there’s a tiny voice in the very back of my mind wondering why I’m there. During those times I pray anyway, but it kind of feels like I’m talking to myself. Other weeks, amazing things that I can’t explain happen. Last night I went as usual, not really knowing what to expect. I almost didn’t go because I was in the middle of working on one of the stories for my mythology, but I got a little distracted, and somehow came across the bit of Scripture where Jesus says, “Can’t you wait with me an hour?” So I decided, yeah, I’ll do that.

When I got there, I grabbed the little pamphlet with the prayers on it for the end, found my spot, put my phone away and waited. I’ll try and explain exactly what happens at Adoration the best I can since I know many of my readers are not Catholic. Catholics believe that the Eucharist (consecrated bread and wine) are literally transformed into the body and blood of Christ. Some people take issue with this because it sounds like Christ is being sacrificed again. However, what it does, is it allows people to be present in his once-and-for-all sacrifice. That’s what happens at communion. Adoration outside of Mass is when the consecrated hosts are exposed so that people can look and sit and be in his presence.

I was a few minutes early last night, so I was totally ready to go by the time our priest came out and set everything up. For some reason I felt slightly awkward at first and I wasn’t sure why. It was like both of us (me and the Lord) were waiting. The thing is, when I’m nervous or scared, I ask Jesus to stay with me; just to be with me. Unfortunately, I forget to promise to do the same for him. There was nothing on my mind at all really for the first thirty seconds to a minute while I was there, and then I remembered why I had come in the first place, so I said, “Well, I’m here. I’m with you, Jesus,” and then one of those amazing things that I can’t explain happened. I couldn’t really think for several minutes after that. It was kind of like really seeing someone you love for the first time and fully understanding how much you love them and how much they love you and how awesome they are. Then of course I couldn’t shut up.

I sometimes have trouble praying at Adoration. Part of the reason I go is because it forces me to leave my normal life and sit still for an hour, and sometimes my mind just wanders. Last night I didn’t have trouble, though. In fact, I almost wished we had had a few extra minutes before the closing prayers that we all do together. I don’t know how much time it really was before the Katie in me kicked back in. It felt sort of outside of time. It could have been fifteen minutes, it could have been three. All I know is that whatever I felt brought me to tears.

Actually, at the beginning of this post I talked about the places I think of like home to me, but the truth is, they’re really just buildings. I think it’s really the memories and people associated with places that make them home. Really I could probably list off a whole bunch of places that could be home to me, including the camp ground we’ve gone to since before I can remember, Portland Maine itself, and the movie theater a couple towns over. Again, though, these places are home to me because of the memories and people I associate with them. I know that what I felt last night felt really good, and maybe it was God’s way of saying, “Welcome home.”

 

 

Who Are You?

One day this past weekend I hung out with a twelve-year-old kid who lives on our street. He was playing in his driveway with his six-year-old brother and their five-year-old friend. I was going for a walk and I heard U2 playing. The two little kids left after a little while, and one thing led to another. The kid in question plays, as far as I know, four different instruments, and is a much better guitarist than I am. He also knows how to use protools, which is an audio engineering software that professionals use. I can’t decide if it’s laughable or annoying or scary or what. Anyway, we had fun. He’s a really polite, pretty mature kid, for his age. After the little kids left I actually scurried back to my house and got my guitar so we could mess around for a while. I have no rules about who I’ll hang out with, as long as they’re cool.

I didn’t used to be like that. When I was in high school especially, I hated kids. I don’t think that’s an understatement. Kids were annoying and stupid, and that was it. Of course, at that time, a “kid” was anyone under the age of eight. Now I refer to the high school freshmen I teach as “kids.” It’s kind of disturbing. I think I used to have a much higher view of myself. I used to think I was the queen of the universe. It was entirely undignified to associate with such plebeians as children.

I think I understand kids better now as a writer, too. Kids are much more willing to believe things, so long as their capacity to listen holds up. I think you have to be able to believe something in order to enjoy it. You have to be able to pretend, and be willing to enter into a different universe.

A friend of mine who is older with kids once asked me what I thought about allowing his kids to read the Harry Potter books. He’s Christian, and he wasn’t totally inclined to let them because magic is seen as the highest power, and the battle between good and evil is entirely up to human ability. There is no mention of any kind of God (though the Christian holidays are mentioned offhandedly), and though there is a general sense of morality, like in any fantasy story, it isn’t directly spelled out. For example, I’m re-reading the series now, and I’m actually surprised at just how much the characters lie. Ultimately I advised my friend to let his kids read the books because it’s simply another universe that isn’t governed by the same rules as this one.

As I reread the Harry Potter books, I find myself laughing a lot. I’ve seen the movies a thousand times, but they’re not nearly as good as the books, and I’m finding they cut out a lot of humor. Maybe my sense of humor has changed too, but I think the movies tried to make the story too dark in places where it didn’t need to be, and not dark enough where it’s really creepy. I’m excited because I’m almost halfway through the fourth one now, and it’s after this one that things get serious, and in my opinion, the series gets more cohesive from book to book.

I don’t want this to turn into an analysis of the Harry Potter series, so I’ll make my point. I like these books. They’re meant for a younger audience, but I don’t care. My dad taught me a rule when I was in high school, and I have faithfully lived by it: growing old is mandatory; growing up is optional. I used to get thoroughly annoyed with myself when I did something embarrassing. I used to think I was so dignified. I have no idea why. I’ve gotten used to the fact that I’m clumsy and silly. I spell things wrong and say ridiculous things. I make dumb mistakes. My friends laugh at me about this stuff, and that’s okay.

Mistakes are part of life. Messing up is part of life. Silliness is part of life, and being wrong is part of life. I’m writing this down because kids used to annoy me for the same reasons that my friends laugh at me (not in a mean way). In the past several months my mom and I have been listening to audio books in the car. We started doing mostly contemporary realistic fiction and moved, really by accident, into science fiction. We went for a few weeks without a story because I know she’s not a huge fan of sci-fi, and we couldn’t think of what to listen to. Finally I suggested The Brothers Karamazov. We just started it yesterday.

My point is that it’s okay to love Dostoevski and Rowling. It’s okay that my favorite foods are fancy pasta dishes and fried buffalo chicken wraps (for the record, yes, I also eat healthy food). I’m getting comfortable joining in events at my church where most other people are at least in their fifties, and hanging out with kids on my street who are under ten. The teenagers I teach think I’m kind of weird, which is probably at least a little true, but that’s okay. Lately I’m becoming more comfortable in my own skin. Weird is more fun, anyway.

Because in my world guinea pigs can fly!