On the Feast of St. Valentine, priest and martyr, I wrote but did not share: It’s Valentine’s Day—our chocolate-covered, cherry-filled, and rose-scented celebration of what passes for romance in a wonderless age. Named for a priest who was imprisoned and beheaded for secretly marrying second-century Christians, today Valentine’s Day has renounced its sainthood, elevating desire and satisfaction over its patron’s self-denial and sacrifice. Perhaps it is not surprising—we’ve watched the rise of the vampire romance in recent years, and February is a vampirous month, bloodless, pitiless, cold, and pale; short-lived and yet interminable. Ironic that it should be “the month of love,” since no one loves February except by accident, birth, or misunderstanding.
And then a day breaks like this:
Hoarfrost on cherries, St. Michael Catholic Church, St. Michael, Minn.
No matter how deeply we may pine for it, the death of winter is neither pretty nor enjoyable—the season, once virginal and white, is condemned each year to drown in its own juices and filth. So it is that a thick layer of hoarfrost like the one last Sunday morning (and again today) is not the spiteful parting shot of a dying man, but a beautiful reminder that we’ve been blessed to live in this beautiful world, through another wondrous winter.
As a boy, I liked to stand on my head. It was only natural, I suppose — I was built like a caramel apple, more stable when inverted. First I learned to hunker down with my hands on the floor and my knees behind my elbows, then tip forward into a head-and-hands tripod, and slowly extend my skinny legs. I would wobble and sweat and then do my best to make my final tip-over seem controlled and intentional.
As I got stronger, I kept my legs together and controlled my descents. As I got stronger still, I would start by lying on my belly with my hands in pushup position, the elevate my hips into pike, smoothly drawing my toes along the floor until my torso was inverted, then open like a jackknife to point them at the ceiling.
After that, I began to time myself. The well-worn carpet in my childhood living room provided little cushion, so at first this was not easy. Two minutes. Five minutes. Ten minutes or more. I learned to relax unnecessary muscles and shift my weight slightly to my hands to relieve the pressure on my head. It got to the point that I could watch TV to pass the time.
Then I stopped. It wasn’t that I had “maxxed out,” strained my neck, or switched to handstands. It was fun to learn, fun to perfect, fun to challenge myself for awhile — but I just didn’t see much sense in it anymore. Today, I can still stand on my head on demand (and I do so now and again, just to prove it to the kids). But I feel better with my feet beneath me.
I’ve told myself and proclaimed on this blog that I am a writer, and that I’m working on a book. I have done a fair amount of reading, and very little writing. Aside from our annual Christmas letters, I write virtually nothing of interest to anyone I love. I am not a writer, but a director of communications. I am also a father and a husband, and blessed to be so — but most of my waking hours are spent standing on my head for a living, looking at the world in a way that’s begun to feel unnatural. I do it because I can, I do it on demand — but it doesn’t seem to make sense anymore.
In the parlance of my peers, I need to “re-tool.” I don’t know what’s next. I won’t call myself a writer again until I write something worthwhile, and I don’t know what it will be. But I am eliminating distractions, one by one. This blog, though I have loved it, is one of the things that will go.
This is my last post for the foreseeable future. This blog will taken offline soon. If you wish me well, wish me luck.
Our youngest is quite the explorer these days — and she is completely obsessed with anything resembling a cell phone, computer or remote control (which may be an indicator of how we spend too much time, but that’s another topic…). A few days back, Jodi caught her standing and leaning against The Big Chair in our living room, fully extended, trying to reach the iPod Touch someone had left on the armrest.
“No, Lily,” said Jodi, and our monsterpiece plopped to the floor and began to cry.
Jodi went about her work, and Lily soon calmed herself. A short while later Jodi looked back to the chair to see the iPod was gone. She stepped into the living room to see Lily standing next to The Big Chair. Lily smiled her adorable, open-mouth, gasping grin, showing all her budding toofers, and looked adoringly at her mother.
“Hi, baby!” cooed Jodi, her eyes scanning for the iPod. “Are you soooo happy to see me?”
Lily grinning, and bounced, and babbled. Jodi spied the iPod Touch, which had somehow been knocked from the armrest and slipped between the cushion and side of the chair. She continued to banter with Lily while secretly sliding her hand between the cushion and chair and palming the gadget.
“You be a good girl,” Jodi called cheerfully, stepping back into the kitchen.
She watched quietly from just out of sight. The grin left Lily’s face quickly, and she turned to the chair and reached to the spot between the cushion and the chair where the iPod had been moments before.
Every year for the past five or so, Jodi and I and the kids have joined 30 or so families from St. Michael’s and St. Albert’s parishes at a camp near Upsala, Minnesota, called Camp Lebanon. The first year I didn’t want to go, a) because with a dining hall, water toys, and showers, it wasn’t really camping; b) because I was going to be surrounded by kids not my own; and c) because I didn’t feel like I knew enough people and wasn’t looking forward to being “on” all weekend.
All true observations…none of which had any impact on my actual enjoyment of the weekend. We’ve been going back ever since, and even organized it a couple of years.
No time to do a complete recap of the weekend, but here are the Top 10 Highlights:
10. Not My Job! I had hoped to be done with my work early on Friday so we could be on the road by 3 p.m. or so. Not even close, and when 4 p.m. rolled around and I was still packing, my blood pressure started to rise.
Then I remembered: We’re not running things this year. We can get up there any time before tomorrow, and it’s all good.
Turns out we made it in plenty of time for Friday evening activities — and with Lily this year, it’s a good thing we weren’t the organizers! Kudos to Sustaceks, Duerrs, and Fredricksons for a great weekend!
9. New Faces. We missed a number of dear friends who weren’t there…but there were so many new families, too, that you couldn’t help but make new connections. I met potential homebrewers, Axis and Allies enthusiasts, future KCs, and just all-around good guys — hopefully next year the old and the new will all show up, and then some!
8. Albany Invasion. Albany, Minnesota, is the last stop for food on the way to the camp. A gas station just off the freeway houses A&W, Subway, Godfather’s Pizza, Taco John’s, and Chester’s Fried Chicken counters under one roof — and Friday afternoon, it hosted nearly every family bound for Camp Lebanon in constant rotation. I’m sure the locals had to be wondering about the volume of strangers greeting each other with hugs and handshakes.
7. Has Anyone Seen… Once we settle in at camp, the kids are off and running with their friends. Jodi and I ate with grown-ups and Lily, and generally soaked up the weekend, only rousing ourselves occasionally to ask around, “Has anyone seen [CHILD’S NAME HERE]?” And we were hardly the only ones.
6. Holy Spirit at Work. More than once, someone stopped to share that the weekend itself, or something someone did or said, was just what they needed — that the Holy Spirit was at work last weekend. But the most striking example came on Sunday morning, when one of my own overextended children decided to disobey Jodi and run off to play with friends. I confronted the child and had a long talk about the responsibilities that come with being family — and I thought it sunk in. Only a few minutes later, a local seminarian, Paul, offered a scripture reflection in which he talked about how family is diminished when one person acts selfishly — and I looked over to see wide, staring, glassy eyes. I asked about it later, and was told, “I heard him and I was like, “Seriously?!” Wow.
5. Zip Line! I watched two grown men race over a wooded ravine, brazen in their talk but white in their knuckles. I watched our priest and seminarian zip through the tree tops — Father was pounding his chest; Paul was all smiles and thumbs up. But best of all, I watched Emma nervously strap up after watching the men, whimpering and sighing a bit under her breath; watched her set out across the ravine tentatively, and watched her slide back over, screaming and giggling, barely able to speak “That was awesome!” to the camera. She is the only Thorp to have done it so far. She deserves applause.
4. Dating Survey. A few friends began asking an unofficial survey question of the couples at camp: “Do you and your spouse go on dates?” Jodi said, “Not really.” I said, “Occasionally.” Then we both said, “Unless running errands or getting groceries alone together count.” The ruling came back: if we are specifically going together and leaving the kids behind, it counts. Oh, yes, we are still romantic!
3. Early Morning Run. Brendan rose at 6:45 a.m. on a Saturday to go running with a few of the guys from school — and a few girls. I rose a little after 7, and when I emerged from the bathhouse, they were coming the hill from the lake: four or five girls, graceful and light on their feet, and two clomping boys bringing up the rear. Turns out the girls were all cross-country runners, and the two wrestlers were the only boys motivated enough to get up that early. What motivated them to keep pace with the fleet-footed young ladies over two or three miles? I’m going with sheer stubborn pride…though at that age, who can guess? (For an alternative explanation, see the video below…)
2. Family Prayer. Family rosaries each night, and Saturday evening mass with sunbaked parents and waterlogged kids doing their best to be reverent. Families praying together with families. There’s nothing better, except…
1. Serenading Lily. Every year we listen to The White Stripes on the way to the camp. This year Lily was fussing until the guitars and drums kicked in, and, to a person, all four of her siblings began to sing to her.
Wish I could’ve recorded them doing it — leaning over her car seat, almost in harmony, and her grinning, gasping, laughing face. She’s pretty good-looking (for a girl).
Archangel Stomp 