It’s Gabe’s birthday, and he was feeling his oats, as they say — a little rambunctious; a little silly (as were the other kids, me included). So just before we begin, I look around and find Trevor, lying on his belly with his butt in the air and “aimed” directly at me, as it were.
“What is that!?” I roar, pointing at the pajama-clad rump.
Without missing a beat, Gabe says, “It’s a horrible crime against nature!”
Sometimes it appears that I am unable to go with the flow. This is not true. (No, it isn’t!) I can absolutely go with the flow. But once I have a plan, I have a hard time adjusting it or letting go.
I have a good reason for this — one that cropped up again today. As a writer, I have to push myself to get work done in a reasonable timeframe, and now that I’m able to work from home (surrounded by potential distractions) I have to be even more structured with my time. So I’ve got my work week carved into blocks of time for specific projects, for writing, for catching up on reading and administrative tasks, etc. It is my intention to cultivate discipline in myself…unfortunately, this morning I woke up feeling quite ill and started the day slow. Then I started to spread myself out in my home office space and realized I didn’t have enough open work surface for the project, so I had to do some rearranging. By the time I got situated, I was supposed to be moving on to the next project. I didn’t achieve much that I set out to. Tomorrow must be a better day than today, or I’ll be seriously behind my self-imposed deadlines. And even though they are self-imposed, if I don’t take them seriously, I’ll never accomplish anything.
Similarly, today is my bride’s birthday, and I wanted it to be special. I’ve spent the past several days thinking about how to achieve this and formulating plans in my head: how can I give Jodi exactly what she wants, and surprise her?
What does she want? The bathroom repainted, relit, recaulked, etc.; a new curtain or blind for the kitchen window; and (eventually) new bedding. And to go out for supper. And a pineapple upside-down cake. I knew, based on what we have scheduled this week and weekend, that the bathroom was not going to get done until next weekend at the soonest…and since we’re still trying to narrow down what she wants for the kitchen window, I urged her to consider moving the bedding up on her list of priorities, because we had done a little looking already and that was something I could do tonight. After all, I wanted her to have something to open.
I also planned to have lunch with her today, and supper out, and then cake. It was going to be great!
I was going to pull lunch together with the kids, but people kept calling Jodi, so I was working while she talked…and next thing I knew, she was cooking something for lunch. Strike one.
“Why are you cooking?” I said. “We have plenty to eat, and the kids can do this!”
She shrugged. “It’s fine,” she said. “It’s lunch time and I felt like it.”
We talked a bit about her “home improvement” gifts, and I thought I’d slip quietly out to get what I needed for the cake and come back with the bedding we had looked at…except then she said we should shop some more — at least at JC Penney and Bed, Bath, and Beyond — before we purchased anything. Strike two. At least I could still make a cake.
Jodi and I discussed supper plans. There was a fair chance that wherever she decided to go, we would get dessert. Tomorrow is Gabe’s birthday — we will celebrate it as a family, but he’s having a party (and his cake) on Friday.
“Maybe we should get dessert at the restaurant tonight, and hold of on your cake until tomorrow,” I sighed. “Then there will still be a cake on Gabe’s birthday, and one for his party.”
“That sounds good,” said Jodi.
Strike three.
I spent the afternoon stewing. Jodi made lunch. Jodi had no presents or cake. All she had to mark the day was a card, or best birthday wishes, and dinner out. That had better be good!
We went to Texas Roadhouse. Having no experience with the place or the portions, we thought we would order a couple appetizers as a treat. (We almost never order appetizers.) The boys wanted chili cheese fries. Jodi wanted potato skins. The two younger kids wanted macaroni and cheese and fries for their meals, but we reminded them we were getting fries as an appetizer. We were also snacking on delicious warm bread and cinnamon butter as we discussed it…so by the time we had settled on what we would order, Jodi and I looked at each other and said, “Probably just one appetizer.”
Except that now all four kids were expecting fries. Jodi ordered chili cheese fries instead of potato skins. Then, just before we ordered our entrees, she announced she was ordering a sandwich — one of the cheapest things on the menu.
“Are you sure?” I asked, incredulous. “Don’t worry about the cost because…”
“It’s fine,” she said. “It’s what I want.”
“It comes with more fries,” I said. “Why don’t you get the potato skins instead?”
“It’s fine!”
Jodi was getting exasperated. It occurred to me then that I wanted the day to be special, but only in part for her…that I was also trying to be a Good Husband. I didn’t want her to tell anyone that she cooked, and didn’t have a gift or a cake, and had a pulled pork sandwich and fries for supper, because people would think I was a jerk. (And if she insisted it was a good supper or a good day, people would nod knowingly, because that’s the kind of woman she is: Of course she wouldn’t badmouth Jim, the big jerk!)
She ate her sandwich, her fries, and a small dish of complimentary ice cream and chocolate sauce. We stopped at JC Penney on the way home and looked but did not buy. And I couldn’t help myself: on the way home, and at least once after we got back, I apologized for not making the day more special.
“It was fine, honey,” she said. “I got a lot of reading time, dinner was fun…and the sandwich and fries were perfect for me!”
She may have had a point there: Brendan and I were both miserable from eating too much, and Gabe brought most of his home.
I had plans and couldn’t let them go. I wanted things to be perfect, and wound up driving my bride slightly batty today. In my Second Third, I need to learn when to stick to my plans, when to be flexible, and when to let go.
A few years ago, I briefly joined the kids in studying Chen-style taijiquan — the original “tai chi,” an ancient Chinese grappling art rarely taught in the West. During a “push hands” class, I was partnered with a diminutive older woman. We stood toe-to-toe, our right hands extended and connected, back-of-wrist to back-of-wrist; I would shift my weight forward (toward her) and rotate my hand to push her hand toward her; when she could shift no further backward, she would redirect my push in a circular fashion, rotate her own wrist, and push back into me in the same fashion. We did this continuously, until our quads were burning and droplets of sweat ran down our forearms, and the longer we went on, the faster her redirect, until it felt (to me) barely controlled. I shrugged inwardly — she was a more experienced student than I — and tried to maintain a slow and steady pace.
Our instructor, Jose, approached and watched us a moment, then gently reminded her to move in a more deliberate and controlled manner. “I’m trying,” she replied, “but he’s pushing like hell!”
Jose shifted his knowing gaze to me and smiled. “I paired you with someone of a different size on purpose,” he explained. “One of the most difficult parts of taiji for men — especially large men — is learning to sense the other person and knowing their own strength, learning to be gentle. Anyone can be hard, but it’s often difficult for men to be soft.”
Jodi had told me for years that that I didn’t know my own strength and that I should be more careful when “handling” her or the kids — but this lesson drove it home. We resumed the exercise, and I tried to empty myself. I could barely feel that we were connected, which made it difficult to respond to my parter’s movements. I found I needed to be infinitely more attentive to my partner. Jose was right: It was hard to be soft.
A week or so later, I was partnered with a man closer to my own size and build, in a similar exercise, except this time the circular hand motions were more vertical in orientation, and the one whose hands were beneath the other’s was supposed to bear the weight of the other’s arms. This requires the other person to empty himself and let his weight (or at least, the weight of his arms) be carried — another act that does not come naturally to men. Both of us tested the other by periodically stopped our circles and watching the “empty” person continue to circle on their own, a sure sign that he was not truly “empty.” This time we were forced to be more attentive to ourselves.
It is easy to find the power in our strengths — to rely on our size or our natural aptitudes and bulldoze our way through the problems that confront us. This past Sunday, Fr. Mark of Our Lady of the Black Hills Catholic Church preached on the topic of meekness, in part using the definition “strength under control,” and indeed, the New Testament of the Bible is rife with the apparent paradox that we are strong in our weakness.
I’ve struggled with this concept myself and, in the past, have made my peace with it in the sense of Clint Eastwood’s line (above): “A man’s got to know his limiations.” But a few weeks back, our associate pastor at St. Michael Catholic Church, Fr. Meyers, helped my understanding in a profound new way. In a three-minute homily at a Saturday morning Mass, he said that each of us has a tendency toward one of the seven deadly sins — I believe he referred to this as our primary fault — which can also be the means of our salvation. (I’m certain I’m oversimplifying and not doing this topic justice.)
This resonated with me. I know that I struggled, early in my marriage, with lustfulness and learning to better love my bride, and I know that coming to terms with the Church’s teachings on married sexuality has transformed my marriage, my faith and family, my entire life. Despite a number of strengths as a husband, father, and man, I had a basic weakness and misunderstanding that kept me from being all I could be in all three of these areas. Not only did I come to understand my limitations, but my weakness was turned to strength.
St. Paul, in his second letter to the Corinthians (Chapter 12, verses 7-12), says:
Therefore, that I might not become too elated, 3 a thorn in the flesh was given to me, an angel of Satan, to beat me, to keep me from being too elated. Three times I begged the Lord about this, that it might leave me, but he said to me, 6 “My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness.” I will rather boast most gladly of my weaknesses, in order that the power of Christ may dwell with me. Therefore, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and constraints, for the sake of Christ; for when I am weak, then I am strong.
May we all be blessed with such a thorn, and find the strength in our weaknesses.
Part of the reason that it went so well may be the words of Fr. Mark’s homily on Sunday. Fr. Mark is the pastor at Our Lady of the Black Hills Catholic Church in Piedmont, S.D. He is not a big man, but his enthusiasm for his vocation, his joy in the Mass, and his genuine love of the Eucharist erupt in a loud voice that resonates to the wooden rafters of the sanctuary. He tends to gain, and keep, your attention.
On Sunday, he preached on the gospel of Matthew, chapter 11, 25-30:
“Meek and humble of heart” — this from a man who would be put to death for proclaiming that he is God’s only son and the messiah, who toppled tables in the temple and drove the traders from “his father’s house” with an improvised whip of cords, who stood before the authorities unafraid and walked willingly to his doom. This is not the image of a meek man by today’s definition of the word, and in fact, the definition of meekness was the root of our discussion yesterday. Fr. Mark gave two: “not easily provoked” and “strength under control.” Afterward, Jodi’s brother-in-law said that those seemed to be reasonable definitions that worked well for the homily, but were not necessarily in keeping with the commonly accepted definition of weak, cowardly, or passive.
I’ll discuss “strength under control” in a separate post; for the purpose of this post (and the discussions at Grandma’s house), “not easily provoked” is the key. Webster’s online dictionary gives three definitions, and the first and third line up well with Father’s explanation and with Christ:
Many people do not wish to be seen as activists or evangelists, and it can be difficult to discuss one’s faith and convictions with people who have different viewpoints. It takes a deep inner strength to endeavor quietly to do right and to endure wrongs patiently, without physical or verbal violence, out of loyalty to a higher calling or greater good. The person who can do this possesses a deep inner strength and is decidedly not deficient in spirit or courage.
It is in this respect that I have re-titled and re-focused my blog this year, and that I hope, in my Second Third, to cultivate meekness in my own life, in order to facilitate civil discussions about the things that really matter with people different than myself.
Blogger’s Note: Sorry so late. On the road in South Dakota.
In many ways, , our fifth child is a second chance of sorts for me. It’s been seven years since Jodi’s been pregnant. I was involved in the past: I attended doctor’s appointments when I could, encouraged my bride and cut the cord, helped with the older kids and the baby when practical, and generally tried to be a good dad. But even with Trevor — even though we thought we might be done having children — I never thought of it as over or that I’d miss anything.
But I did miss it. My wife is beautiful always, but uniquely so when pregnant, and the miracle of new life has not lost its wonder. So in my Second Third — since this may or may not ever happen again — I’m taking it all in: every appointment and ultrasound, the anticipation, the excitement of our children…and in December, God willing, every moment and change in our new growing baby. I cannot wait. Best. Christmas. Ever.
Archangel Stomp 