Author: J. Thorp

The Second Third, Week 4: Stewing

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Blogger’s Note: The whole idea behind these “Second Third” posts can be found here.

I tend to spend too much time “in my head,” as a friend of mine would say. Ever read the book Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance? Well, I half-recommended it to my dad, in part because I thought he’d like the motorcycle parts, and in part because I admired it (which is not the same as liked). He read it, and afterward admitted that he liked the motorcycle parts best, and that the philosophical portions of the book, which appeared to have lead the narrator to a nervous breakdown, made him think of me.

A couple different times in my teen years, he and Mom came home to find me sitting alone in silence in the twilight, having accomplished nothing all day, pale and distracted and emotional. He knows I have a tendency to go down the rabbit hole. So far I’ve always been able to find my way back to the surface. So far.

This tendency is at its worst when I get into a heated discussion regarding something I care about, especially with a friend. I will hash and re-hash an argument, sometimes even out loud, think of responses and likely counters, try to imagine what may have led to their point of view and how best to persuade them or at least make myself understood…and if the discussion is happening online, check for replies compulsively with my stomach tied in knots. I have unfriended people on Facebook just to relieve myself of the anxiety about The Next Thing they were sure to say, tomorrow, or two years from now, that would ignite an argument. I have a hard time ignoring things, and a harder time letting go.

It’s not a problem with forgiveness. I can forgive; that’s an action I can take, every day if need be. But I can’t forget. And if it’s me that screwed up, it’s worse still, because I tend not to cut myself much slack. With myself, even the forgiveness comes hard.

Another friend often says, “The perfect is the enemy of the good,” meaning that all of our efforts to make everything work out just so will amount to nothing, because perfection is unachievable, and by focusing all out efforts on accomplishing the impossible, we will accomplish nothing.

I have a wife to love, children to raise, things to do — I can’t afford to accomplish nothing! No one lives to 105 with the weight of all their mistakes on their shoulders and a thousand useless arguments raging in their heads. No question about it: in my Second Third, I need to lighten up.

The Second Third, Week 3: Faith and Family

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Blogger’s Note: The whole idea behind these “Second Third” posts can be found here. I’ve had multiple half-baked ideas for posts these past few weeks, but this one jumped to the forefront after reading Prairie Father’s latest post. Kudos, Father Tyler, for sparking this. The choice between two goods is the very definition of a dilemma, don’t you think?

Here at the beginning of my Second Third, I’ve gotten more comfortable with a me I never thought I’d be: a church guy. You know, a weekly worshipper, and more than that: a known quantity in the gathering space after Mass, a meet-n-greeter, a volunteer. One of those guys…

This is somewhat surprising. I was raised a good Catholic in every way except the church-on-Sunday way (so-called “old-fashioned” morals and values, but aside from a brief stint my late elementary years, no Mass or catechesis), then went on to study evolutionary anthropology, which was generally an atheist discipline. Thankfully I had just enough churching and manners to not drive Jodi away entirely when we first met. She brought me around.

The funny thing is, I got along with all sorts of people in school, but didn’t necessarily fit in anywhere. I was a poor athlete, and Coach asked me to help the first-stringers study for their exams. My bearded and be-hatted dad drove the mule to town now and again; that and my square tendencies caused even some of my closest friends to contemplate my Amish-ness. In college, too, I was square and old-fashioned, never an outcast, but never A-list. Friends were surprised when I went to South Dakota to sell western boots, and floored when I came back talking marriage and kids. These were not Ivy League aspirations — at least, not in the near-term.

Jodi brought this baptized Catholic back to the church. A number of good priests — good friends — inspired me and advised me to follow my doubts and questions. Even my dad, who does not share my faith, has never discouraged me from seeking and finding.

So I’ve searched and searched for people like me. Michigan to Connecticut to South Dakota to Michigan again, and finally to St. Michael Catholic Church in St. Michael, Minnesota. I have family in Michigan, family I miss terribly. But I have brothers and sisters here, too, and each week, each Sunday, it gets harder to imagine living anyplace else.

In early October, I had the opportunity to meet my dad on the Tahquamenon River in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula to fish on our old houseboat. I could get just Friday and Monday off from work: drive all day Friday, sleep Friday night, and head up the river at first light on Saturday to the fishing hole. The boat landing was a couple hours downstream from our fishing hole, and the closest Catholic church was 40 minutes from the landing, and offered just two Masses: 5 p.m. Saturday or 9 a.m. Sunday.

Either we’d have to pull up our anchor after lunch on Saturday, go to church, and sleep ashore again, then resume fishing mid-morning Sunday, or we’d have to pull anchor a couple hours before sundown on Saturday, sleep ashore at the landing, then drive into church Sunday morning. We’d get back to the fishing hole in early afternoon and get a couple hours of fishing in before we needed to head back to landing, since I’d need to leave first thing Monday to make it home.

I prayed on it, talked to a friends, and decided it was important to spend this time with Dad, even if it meant missing Mass. I further resolved to spend time Sunday praying the rosary and reading scripture — and to receive the sacrament of Confession before Mass the following Sunday.

I had a great weekend with Dad, a great Sunday, and honestly never felt far from God. But all weekend, when I thought about missing Mass, a little pang would shoot through my chest. For the first time, it wasn’t so much guilt for missing Mass…it was missing Mass. Longing for it.

How weird is that? I thought.

I did go to Confession the following Saturday, and another good priest told me he thought it was important that I spend time with my dad, but reminded me that if I truly believe, then I must also understand that attending and actually praying the Mass is the most powerful thing I can do for anyone I love. More food for thought.

In Matthew Chapter 12 is a passage that used to trouble me. Jesus is with his disciples, and he is told that his mother and brothers wish to speak with him: But he said in reply to the one who told him, “Who is my mother? Who are my brothers?” And stretching out his hand toward his disciples, he said, “Here are my mother and my brothers. For whoever does the will of my heavenly Father is my brother, and sister, and mother.” — Mt 12:48-50

I think I’m beginning to understand. So in my Second Third, I’m embracing my inner Church guy, and working to balance our family by blood and our family in the Body. I can love both — and I should if I am to love either one well.

The Second Third, Week 2: Thanksgiving

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I spent my first third, from infancy to 35, wanting more. I used to have this card with a terribly grouchy-looking man on it, touting the virtue of dissatisfaction as inspiration and motivation. I used to have a million things I wanted to do, including running for office. I had so much to say, and places to go, and stuff I wanted: new and old stuff; beautiful and functional stuff; all sorts of stuff. But when Thanksgiving rolled around, I was always most thankful for the same handful of blessings, such as Jodi and my children, my parents and my sister, her kids and my in-laws and friends. All the stuff I wanted so badly over the course of the previous year wouldn’t even come to mind.

Over the course of the past summer and fall, we’ve been purging. Even the kids got into the swing of things, getting rid of toys and books, throwing out old drawings and lesser “keepsakes.” When they started asked about an xBox to replace the old PS2, I got them to agree to trade-in the PS2, all the games, controllers, accessories, and most of our PC games, plus put their own money toward the new system (even Trevvy). Jodi and I agreed to pay the balance, but that this would be our Christmas present to the kids this year (even though it was early autumn). They agreed with little hesitation. I hope they’ve begun to realize, too, that having it all is too much.

That may be wishful thinking, and I’m not perfect: on my birthday, Jodi agreed that I “could use” a new pair of brown casual shoes to replace my current, incessantly squeaking (albeit perfectly functional) pair. We went to the shoes store, I found a pair of Doc Martens, tried them on, and bought them. As soon as we got in the car, I felt horrible, and all the way home, I debated taking them back. A week later, after putting them on two or three more times on the carpet, I did just that. And felt good about it.

I’m thankful this year for all the usual things, plus two: the ability to get the stuff we need, or even the stuff we want, sometimes, and the sense to know when enough is enough.

They Call the Trina Bina

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So we went through a windy spell a few weeks back, and I made some comment about Mariah singing me to sleep. Then I googled the song, and found the video below. (I hadn’t known where the song came from.)

Then my good friend, Laura of Laura the Crazy Mama fame, commented how much she loves that song, and that her eldest daughter’s middle name is Mariah…which was funny, because everyone calls her eldest daughter Trina Bina. (That’s Treena Beena, in case it’s not clear.) Jodi said as much — “I thought her middle name was Bina” — and, since just a week or so prior (in a beer-weakened moment) Laura’s husband had spilled his guts about how he and Laura met, well, the makings of a song just percolated up real natural-like. With any luck, a super-creative and somewhat musical family like Laura’s brood will record this — maybe even post a video on YouTube.

So with a shout-out to Mamaloco and Trina the Crazy Big Sis (and with apologies to Butch):

They Call the Trina Bina
In Albertville, they’ve got nicknames
For Nielsen sons and daughters.
The Nick is “Bock”; the Lise is “Weez”–
And they call the Trina “Bina”…

Katreenaaaah! Katreenaaaah!
They call Katrina “Bina”…

Ol’ Butch he sat at home that night
When came a knock at his door
Up jumped his friend, and he let in
His girlfriend, yes, and one moooore…

They played at cards, then watched a film,
When out they should be goin’.
He wanted then to punch his friend
But inside love was growin’…

Katreenaaaah! Katreenaaaah!
They call Katrina “Bina”…

He watched her in the mirror and she
Pretended not to mind him.
Her hair she tossed, and he was lost,
Where only God could find him.

From that day on, a family man
Butch was, and a provider
He worked away, and all the day
He dreamt he was beside her.

Katreenaaaah! Katreenaaaah!
They call Katrina “Bina”…

A lovely mama Laura made
But loco as a ferret.
She homeschools, blogs, and often jogs
And Butch must grin and bear it.

They’ve rolled a lucky seven since
Three boys, four lovely ladies—
And nicknames all they always call
From teens right down to babies.

So Matt is Matty; Nicker’s Bock;
There’s Mari and there’s Lina
Tommy’s easy; that one’s Weezy!
And they call the Trina Bina…

Katreenaaaah! Katreenaaaah!
They call Katrina “Bina”…

Katrina! Katreenaaaaaaaaaah!…
Oh, lend some saniteeeeeeee!

The Second Third, Week 1: Pulling My Own Weight

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Somewhere around ninth or tenth grade, I took my required high-school health class. Early that first semester, we were asked to set a fitness goal for ourselves. I was one of the small guys on the football team, and a mediocre wrestler, at best, with a large head, skinny build, and little natural athletic talent — so there was plenty of room for physical improvement.

I thought about speed and strength-related goals, like many of my male classmates, but ultimately settled on this: “I want to be able to bike or walk anyplace I want to go, even when I’m in my 70s.”

Or something like that; you get the gist. To be completely honest, I had visions of a family bike trip across the country. Our teacher was also a coach on his way to assistant principal, but even he took notice. This goal was not like a lot of the others. It was extremely long-term, and seemed modest, but as a man of a certain age, he knew this was no small thing.

As a senior, I played varsity football as second-string noseguard. I was about 6-2 and 175 pounds at the end of season, so when wrestling started, I told my coach I was going 189. (Dad told me in 7th grade, when I said I wanted to wrestle, that I always had to wrestle up a weight class — I was forbidden to cut weight, or he would pull me from the team.)

By the mid-point of the season, I weighed 152 pounds, and wrestled 160, 171, and 189, as needed. I was skinny, sure, but had never been in better shape, and had my best (albeit still mediocre) season.

Freshman year at Yale, after several months away from organized sports, I entered an intramural wrestling tournament. I wrestled three shortened periods, won my first match, and went outside to puke in the snow.

The second match was the next day. This time, my opponent had put at least modest effort into his cardio since high school, and it showed. For me, it’s been downhill since.

Today? 6-3 and 235 (on a good day). My bike hung in the garage all spring and summer this year. I road the stationary bike indoors after dark fairly regularly for a few months — but as far as biking anywhere I want to go…well, I can still ride, but we aren’t gonna make time. Especially on the hills.

What’s more: it has begun to bother me that I cannot move my own weight with just my arms. I can do solid pushups, but no pull-ups. From a survival standpoint, this seems like a bad thing. Not that I expect to be in a fight-or-flight situation this week, but then, that’s the point: you never know…

In some ways I was wise as a kid; in some ways, just way less busy and as invincible as only a teenage boy can be. But here in my Second Third, I should be self-sufficient — and that means physically, too. I’ve got work to do.