Why stay in the Catholic Church? One good answer: Solidarity with such as Anacleto Gonzalez Flores and his family (picture is of his widow and children) and Father Miguel Pro (picture of his execution). Their sacrifices should not be in vain:
Tuesday, March 26, 2019
Solidarity
As someone whose ancestors belonged to an outlawed Church, I must feel solidarity with the Mexican Catholics who at one point also had their Church outlawed.
Why stay in the Catholic Church? One good answer: Solidarity with such as Anacleto Gonzalez Flores and his family (picture is of his widow and children) and Father Miguel Pro (picture of his execution). Their sacrifices should not be in vain:
Why stay in the Catholic Church? One good answer: Solidarity with such as Anacleto Gonzalez Flores and his family (picture is of his widow and children) and Father Miguel Pro (picture of his execution). Their sacrifices should not be in vain:
Wednesday, February 27, 2019
The Road Ahead
It's taken awhile for both of us to process what happened when Mac broken his hip. I say "hip" but it was really the femur, which shattered. He said as he lay on the ground he could feel the pieces of bone and he instinctively held them together.
He said he couldn't stop shaking. Partly because it was cold but also because of shock setting in. You lose a fair amount of blood with this kind of break. He was lucky a shard of bone didn't nick an artery.
We are now starting to understand the meaning of "lifelong injury". There's potential for all sorts of ongoing complications. And he will need physical therapy for a long time.
We watched a video about a pro hockey player, Taylor Fedun, who sustained a similar break a few years ago during a hockey game. People who were there when it happened said Taylor was screaming from the pain. It took him doing 5 hours of therapy a day for many months to get back to skating.
Mac does 2 hours of physical therapy a week. He's nowhere close to being able to do 5 hours a day. To be fair, Taylor is a star athlete who still plays pro hockey. Taylor was young and fit prior to his injury. Nonetheless, you can see how grueling the therapy can be, even if you are in otherwise top shape. I think we need to see if we can add an hour or two to Mac's therapy schedule and if it helps more than it hurts.
Keeping up morale is important. I've read a lot of comments from people who were permanently floored by this type of injury. If the healing doesn't go just right you can end up with a lack of symmetry in your skeletal system that leads to permanent limping and unbearable knee pain.
The ongoing physical therapy requires belief in the possible because there are no guarantees. This is when I can see the value of having crazy faith. And at the same time, this is when I can see the value of crazy gratitude.
Mac did do the right thing when he fell in simply holding himself together, and not struggling to move, even though he now says how scared he was until I discovered him lying on the ground in the backyard. He'd left his phone on a nearby table and couldn't reach it to call me. I am grateful that his injury wasn't worse and that something told me to go check on him when I did.
He said he couldn't stop shaking. Partly because it was cold but also because of shock setting in. You lose a fair amount of blood with this kind of break. He was lucky a shard of bone didn't nick an artery.
We are now starting to understand the meaning of "lifelong injury". There's potential for all sorts of ongoing complications. And he will need physical therapy for a long time.
We watched a video about a pro hockey player, Taylor Fedun, who sustained a similar break a few years ago during a hockey game. People who were there when it happened said Taylor was screaming from the pain. It took him doing 5 hours of therapy a day for many months to get back to skating.
Mac does 2 hours of physical therapy a week. He's nowhere close to being able to do 5 hours a day. To be fair, Taylor is a star athlete who still plays pro hockey. Taylor was young and fit prior to his injury. Nonetheless, you can see how grueling the therapy can be, even if you are in otherwise top shape. I think we need to see if we can add an hour or two to Mac's therapy schedule and if it helps more than it hurts.
Keeping up morale is important. I've read a lot of comments from people who were permanently floored by this type of injury. If the healing doesn't go just right you can end up with a lack of symmetry in your skeletal system that leads to permanent limping and unbearable knee pain.
The ongoing physical therapy requires belief in the possible because there are no guarantees. This is when I can see the value of having crazy faith. And at the same time, this is when I can see the value of crazy gratitude.
Mac did do the right thing when he fell in simply holding himself together, and not struggling to move, even though he now says how scared he was until I discovered him lying on the ground in the backyard. He'd left his phone on a nearby table and couldn't reach it to call me. I am grateful that his injury wasn't worse and that something told me to go check on him when I did.
Sunday, February 24, 2019
Waves
My grandmother's house was near the top of Cape Cod. On some summer days she packed the cousins, beach towels, sand pails and shovels, soda and flip flops into her copper-colored Pontiac and drove us to the beach. We stuck our hands out the windows and pushed back at the air rushing by us, waving at the drivers heading in the other direction back towards town.
The gray days are the ones I remember best. As the afternoon wore on the sun would break through the clouds on the horizon and shatter the waves into shards of sparkling glass. Using our plastic shovels we packed tin pails with damp sand to form sandcastles. The clouds began to gather and push the rising tide towards us. Wrapped in towels we shivered and watched as the tide won back our fortresses.
I learned to body surf the rolling waves long before I learned to swim. The light filtering through the tunnel of green water was the color of Coca Cola bottle glass. Inside the wave you were carried in serene silence. When the wave broke you suddenly heard the force of the water crashing down. As the water retreated you would be scraped roughly over the rocky surface of the ocean's bed. Long strands of rubbery seaweed tried to snare your limbs but slipped away as the waves carried you forth.
There was a lesson here. Trust the waves. And keep holding your breath, longer than you would have thought you could. You do it instinctively. The ocean picks you up and carries you to the surface again, back to the sound of shrieking seagulls and the children running on the beach. As you surface your lungs fill with air again and you breathe deeply.
The water was icy cold. I would look down the beach in both directions and see that I was the only one in the water. I had found my element in the Atlantic.
The Pontiac had a translucent amber hood ornament that caught the remaining light of the day, guiding us along the road towards my grandmother's house. The sand caught in the seat of our swimsuits made us squirm restlessly on the car's seats. When we got home we used the yard's garden hose to wash off as much sand as possible. Then we sat on my grandmother's screened-in porch and had grilled cheese sandwiches and hot chocolate for dinner.
Later in the evening we watched giants moths batter the living room window that looked out into the forest at the back of the house. The drapery of the woods at night hid creatures that kept themselves to their own business. Only the moths sought the lamps that cast a soft glow over us while the cousins played card games like War and Go Fish. My grandmother gave me a conch shell from Florida and told me to listen to the sound of the ocean. And she was right, there it was.
Espíritu
Under the stars, past the houses, past the lighted windows,
Past the thoughts within, some nefarious,
Some not,
You heard whispers, prayers, and wondering,
Across the plains, silvered by the moon,
Sweeping up dust, weeds, and broken promises,
Espíritu, Espíritu, do not linger, do not stray, but gather,
Sweep all before the dawn, before the banded sky of morning,
Into your heart, forever and ever,
World without end.
Sunday, January 20, 2019
The Real Presence
We got Mac a wheelchair via Amazon. Now we can go in the van to Holy Hour at our local church. It means a lot to both of us to be there, though Mac can't sit comfortably very long.
We like the shared feeling of reverence you find at Holy Hour. I wish I associated the Mass with reverence but it doesn't happen very often. The vibe of a company picnic comes to mind: forced camaraderie.
At Holy Hour people are praying silently and intently, eyes on the Eucharist. Some get down on the floor and kneel forward, head to the ground. We've even seen a couple walk on their knees from the back of the church. This is not an easy thing to do on the hard floors.
Sadly, too often the Mass doesn't seem informed by any emotion other than a wistful earnestness... this does not do justice to the Real Presence of a passionate God.
Somewhere in the last 50 years the Catholic Church lost focus on the Real Presence. It's an amazing concept, a God Who wants to be here now, with you. Not a symbol, not a memory, not a nice thought, but a real person.
I remember the first time I went to Holy Hour and observed the Eucharist in the monstrance and realized, this is more real than I am. This is Ultimate Reality while I'm just a brief gathering of atoms and electrons soon to dissipate into the ether. And here is Ultimate Reality reaching out to hold us together.
The Church knows it doesn't get any better than this. It must act like it.
Saturday, January 12, 2019
One Life to Live
My days are anything but sublime. After getting things at the store that Mac needs, like shorts with zipper pockets so his phone doesn't fall out of reach on the ground, and a bathroom-safe chair that might allow him to take a shower, I headed to the Cathedral for a brief visit.
As I headed the truck towards Saints S&J a car cut me off on my left. I noted the Harley Davidson sticker and the Hell's Angels MC sticker. Peace, brother. An elderly man bent at the waist hobbled across the intersection while we waited for the light to turn. He was carrying a tote bag that said "Glad to be young!"
The Adoration chapel at Saints S&J is Perpetual, meaning always open day and night, but at night you have to sign in and have a code to open the door. A note on the door says they need volunteers to visit in the middle of the night. That might work in the summer time.
There were a couple of people there when I arrived, a young woman nodding off over her rosary beads, and a guy I recognized from previous visits. He didn't have on his Harley Davidson t-shirt today. Funny to think of sitting with people you would usually keep a safe distance from on the street but the Real Presence becomes our common denominator.
I've been thinking about the Benedictines. After decades of social anxiety do I have an awakening awareness of the value of community?
When I go to the dawn Mass at St. Effects almost everyone there is over 60. The priest is old, too, and sometimes he has to reach for the words. We all sit respectfully in silence, mentally saying the words for him, rooting for him to remember. I think God might be saying wherever He is and we are there together, that is community.That's how it feels.
Thursday, January 10, 2019
Holy Hours
Went to noon Mass at St. Effects. I sat up more towards the front and could make out most of the sermon. So far the acoustics have been terrible in every church we've visited. What did priests do before they had microphones?
I felt guilty about leaving Mac alone at the house but going to Church keeps me strong. He said it was fine. He knows how I am. He had hip surgery a few days ago. Now he's home recuperating. I wonder what the doctors would say if they could see Mac covered in cats as he lays on his bed.
As a distraction I told him about a Benedictine monastery I found in California. Based on what I've found on the Web, I'm drawn to the Benedictines more than the Franciscans, but I'm not sure why.
The Benedictines go way back and were founded before there were religious orders. They seem very independent to me.
You can join a monastery as a layperson. There's a Benedictine monastery on the West side of Phoenix that we can visit. You don't live there, you're not a monk, but as a layperson you're associated with the particular monastery you choose. So you want to pick the right monastery.
This morning I got up at 4 AM and started chores, which now includes helping Mac, of course. I drove to the pharmacy and picked up his meds, including painkiller. His leg aches pretty bad, understandably. It's an alarming shade of eggplant.
Tuesday I went to Holy Hour at St. Gee. This time the deacon showed up. He was supposed to be there last Tuesday but no in casa. Mac and I and a few stalwart Mexicans huddled outside church in the freezing cold for 15 minutes or so. (This was several days before Mac fell and broke his hip in the backyard.) Finally we disbanded and waved each other good night.
This week I had to go to Holy Hour by myself because Mac was in the hospital with his broken hip. I wondered if at the beginning of this service the deacon explained why he was missing last week? Probably no need as regular parishioners are probably already in the know. Deacons can be married so maybe he had family issues.
There were considerable tears this particular night. One of the men, even. Sometimes I cry, too. I can't help it. Deacon puts together a beautiful Holy Hour. It's actually closer to two hours. He plays Gregorian chant for the first hour, then he plays something traditional. This time he had a violin rendition of Amazing Grace that was gorgeous.
At the Benediction they sing "Bendito, Bendito", a hymn that is about 400 years old. It feels like you are being transported through time and space. Everyone prays to the Real Presence in the Eucharist with a fervor I have never experienced in a church before.
There is a wooden kneeler right in front of the monstrance that holds the Eucharist. People who have special intentions go and kneel there and often cry, even sob. I admire this but I am way too shy.
I had never much thought about the Real Presence until recently. The idea that you could just sit in silence and visit with Jesus, that struck me as brilliant. You could talk to Him, tell Him about your week, ask for help, express gratitude, or just clear your mind.
I felt guilty about leaving Mac alone at the house but going to Church keeps me strong. He said it was fine. He knows how I am. He had hip surgery a few days ago. Now he's home recuperating. I wonder what the doctors would say if they could see Mac covered in cats as he lays on his bed.
As a distraction I told him about a Benedictine monastery I found in California. Based on what I've found on the Web, I'm drawn to the Benedictines more than the Franciscans, but I'm not sure why.
The Benedictines go way back and were founded before there were religious orders. They seem very independent to me.
You can join a monastery as a layperson. There's a Benedictine monastery on the West side of Phoenix that we can visit. You don't live there, you're not a monk, but as a layperson you're associated with the particular monastery you choose. So you want to pick the right monastery.
This morning I got up at 4 AM and started chores, which now includes helping Mac, of course. I drove to the pharmacy and picked up his meds, including painkiller. His leg aches pretty bad, understandably. It's an alarming shade of eggplant.
Tuesday I went to Holy Hour at St. Gee. This time the deacon showed up. He was supposed to be there last Tuesday but no in casa. Mac and I and a few stalwart Mexicans huddled outside church in the freezing cold for 15 minutes or so. (This was several days before Mac fell and broke his hip in the backyard.) Finally we disbanded and waved each other good night.
This week I had to go to Holy Hour by myself because Mac was in the hospital with his broken hip. I wondered if at the beginning of this service the deacon explained why he was missing last week? Probably no need as regular parishioners are probably already in the know. Deacons can be married so maybe he had family issues.
There were considerable tears this particular night. One of the men, even. Sometimes I cry, too. I can't help it. Deacon puts together a beautiful Holy Hour. It's actually closer to two hours. He plays Gregorian chant for the first hour, then he plays something traditional. This time he had a violin rendition of Amazing Grace that was gorgeous.
At the Benediction they sing "Bendito, Bendito", a hymn that is about 400 years old. It feels like you are being transported through time and space. Everyone prays to the Real Presence in the Eucharist with a fervor I have never experienced in a church before.
There is a wooden kneeler right in front of the monstrance that holds the Eucharist. People who have special intentions go and kneel there and often cry, even sob. I admire this but I am way too shy.
I had never much thought about the Real Presence until recently. The idea that you could just sit in silence and visit with Jesus, that struck me as brilliant. You could talk to Him, tell Him about your week, ask for help, express gratitude, or just clear your mind.
Momo Leaves Us
Momo is playing at the feet of the Lord now.
When she was a baby I found her in the yard, alone in a planter pot. She was not much bigger than a little mouse. On her first visit the vet offered to put her to sleep. He said she tested positive for some acronym. "NO!" I said without thinking.
I nursed her to health and she bounced around so much we named her Momo Bongo. Part Russian Blue, with Tux markings, as an adult she was the most regal of cats. She lived almost 9 years, one year for each of her 9 lives.
In her last months she moved back and forth between the kitchen and the family room. She watched Nordic Noir with us in the evenings. She slept on the kitchen counter no matter many how many times I discouraged her.
I gave up and let her have her way. We put a soft blanket on one of the counters and that's where she slept until the day she couldn't climb up there anymore. She had picked the most socially important part of the house and made it hers. Who would deny her? Not me.
I miss her.
Some days later:
Found a picture in my camera phone tonight of Momo sleeping her final hours. The lighting is dusk and all you can make out midst the shadows is one little snowshoe paw. An hour before she passed over she raised her head and gazed at me and I gazed back, willing her to let go.
I still miss her.
When she was a baby I found her in the yard, alone in a planter pot. She was not much bigger than a little mouse. On her first visit the vet offered to put her to sleep. He said she tested positive for some acronym. "NO!" I said without thinking.
I nursed her to health and she bounced around so much we named her Momo Bongo. Part Russian Blue, with Tux markings, as an adult she was the most regal of cats. She lived almost 9 years, one year for each of her 9 lives.
In her last months she moved back and forth between the kitchen and the family room. She watched Nordic Noir with us in the evenings. She slept on the kitchen counter no matter many how many times I discouraged her.
I gave up and let her have her way. We put a soft blanket on one of the counters and that's where she slept until the day she couldn't climb up there anymore. She had picked the most socially important part of the house and made it hers. Who would deny her? Not me.
I miss her.
Some days later:
Found a picture in my camera phone tonight of Momo sleeping her final hours. The lighting is dusk and all you can make out midst the shadows is one little snowshoe paw. An hour before she passed over she raised her head and gazed at me and I gazed back, willing her to let go.
I still miss her.
Wednesday, November 7, 2018
Nine lives?
Dr. Tom Kirkwood, head of the Department of Gerontology at the University of Newcastle, is an expert on the ageing process. He says we are made of two types of cells, the "germ line" or DNA, which is "immortal"
and somatic cells, which are designed to
support reproduction*.
As
far as longevity goes, Kirkwood says 25% is DNA, 75% is taking care of
ourselves. Our somatic cells weren't designed to last forever and Nature doesn't waste a lot of energy on them. It's up to us to stay fit.
Funny
to think that much of modern culture revolves around appearance, which
is pretty ephemeral thanks to those somatic cells. We humans worship
those fleeting moments of somatic reproductive display. I suppose rarity is something we always value the most.
As far as I know this obsession with the somatic is a human thing. Cats are blessedly free from "selfies".
As far as I know this obsession with the somatic is a human thing. Cats are blessedly free from "selfies".
[Dr. Tom Kirkwood] on ageing
The one on sex and death is the most interesting, imo.
or for PDFs go here
"The catalytic insight came in 1881 from the distinguished German naturalist August Weismann.
What Weismann realised was that in a multicellular body like yours and mine, there is a profound division of labour between two principal kinds of cells. On the one hand, there is the germ line - the egg or sperm-forming cells of the ovary or testis. These are the cells that, if we have children, transmit our genes into the next generation. The rest of the cells - those that make up the other organs of the body - Weismann termed the soma."
Tuesday, November 6, 2018
Do cats go to heaven?
Our domestic cats are sure that if you provide them with love, food, warmth, safety, clean surroundings, and companionship, they are in heaven.
So we know love creates the possibility of heaven for cats, even now, in this life. Would God love cats less than we do? So, yes, of course cats go to heaven.
Our Smaller Brethren
I found myself looking back at some of the crazy and disturbing things we were taught in Catholic school back in the early 60s. For example, the nuns told us kids that animals didn't have souls and therefore didn't go to heaven.
I don't know if this was ever official Church teaching or just something the nuns dreamed up. Fortunately, Pope John Paul II was more enlightened. In 1990 he told an audience:
'the animals possess a soul and men must love and feel solidarity with our smaller brethren', all animals are the 'fruit of the creative action of the Holy Spirit and merit respect', and animals should be considered 'as near to God as men are'.Cats have feelings, they communicate, they are sensitive to the moods and feelings of others, they give love abundantly, without judgement. They are part of our family.
If animals didn't have souls and didn't go to Heaven, then it wouldn't be Heaven for me. If I died and found the nuns were in Heaven and the cats weren't, I'd have to reconsider my options.
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