Callings

/ J. Thorp / 9 Comments

Lots of folks — Catholic and non-Catholic alike — have a hard time imagining the choice a priest makes to remain celibate his entire life. Some are amazed; some view it as impossible; some are simply grateful they weren’t called to such a life. Boy, I couldn’t do it, they say. Better them than me.

A few months back, our associate pastor, Father G, joined a group of us at an event for married couples. He spoke about what a beautiful vocation marriage is, then said, “I’m glad I wasn’t called to it.”

As you might expect, that got quite a laugh from the couples in attendance — like, if it’s so great a calling, why are you so happy not to be married?

I laughed, too. Later, as I talked to a friend, he pointed out that no one thinks twice about a married man saying, “I’m glad I wasn’t called to the priesthood.” The Catholic Church views both vocations as lifelong, life-giving commitments, in one case, to your spouse; in the other case, to the Church. So just as I feel I am meant to be a husband and father, so Father G feels he is meant to be a priest.

You might argue that the reason one’s easier to swallow for most people than the other is that taking a mate and giving birth to children seems somehow more natural. And in a way, that makes sense — in a “taking a mate and giving birth” sort of way. But in terms of a lifelong commitment to marriage and raising a family, come what may, the differences are less apparent. Would I leave Jodi if a tragic accident made it necessary for us to spend the rest of our days celibate? No. Would I stay married and cheat? Of course not. My “I do” a dozen years ago was more than a mere one-time choice — it’s a daily commitment and lifelong vocation. It’s a calling.

I bring this up because for the past couple of years, our middle son, Gabriel, has been talking about becoming a priest. When he first told our priest, Father M began to call Gabe “Father Gabriel” — and it bugged him at first, because he was worried that we might hold him to a lifelong decision made at age seven. “What if I don’t become a priest?” he asked.

But his comfort with the idea seems to be deepening, and he talks to Father M and Father G whenever he gets the chance. When we start poking fun at the kids about girls and boys and who they might marry, Gabe says matter-of-factly, “I’m marrying the church.”

Puberty may tweak his thinking, but for now, he seems to be serious.

When my mom first heard this, she was saddened, despite herself. She’s Catholic, too, and knows we need priests, but she also dreams of seeing countless great-grandchildren from each of her grandkids. Our oldest, Brendan, wants to go the Naval Academy, then become an officer in the Marine Corps. I mentioned this to another friend of mine, who said, “Well, at least you’ve got time to talk him out of that!”

I understand these feelings, but I wouldn’t dream of it — first, because a kid deserves his or her dreams, and second, because I am so deeply proud to have two boys who are willing to entertain lives of service and sacrifice at their young age. Even if they don’t become what they aspire to today, that willingness to serve will be a great asset to our future.

Some of you read about the special gift given to Gabe by Father M a few weeks back — a stole, chalice and paten (pictured above) with which to practice the Mass. Gabe made him a thank-you card and has been looking for an opportunity to give it to him. In the meantime, last Saturday we visited our friend Deacon Tyler (from the Future Priests of the Third Millennium blog) at the St. Paul Seminary. (He will be ordained a priest in Rapid City this June, and yeah, we’ll be there.) He showed us all around: the chapel, the dorms, the lounge, the grounds. He explained that the higher floors of the residence hall have the best view of the Mississippi River below, and that the priests who teach at the seminary get those rooms.

While we were in St. Paul, we stopped by one of my favorite used bookstores, Sixth Chamber, to pick up a copy of Steinbeck’s East of Eden, which Deacon Tyler, Jacqui of Jacqui’s Room, and Matt “Hubba” Trask of Hubba’s House turned me onto. I had discussed it briefly with Father M and discovered that he hadn’t read it, so we thought we would get a copy to thank him for his thoughtfulness toward Gabe.

He was not the presiding priest at the Mass we attending on Sunday, but appeared just before the end to make a bombshell announcement: he will leaving our parish this summer — the archbishop has asked him to teach at the seminary.

Through my own tears, I looked at Brendan. He was crying softly; he and Father M had bonded over military history during numerous conversations. Gabe was quiet, unflinching.

After Mass, we made a beeline across the church with Gabe’s card and the book. We hugged Father M and told him it was coincidental, but we had something for him. It was a bittersweet moment — then Gabe piped up that he had been to the seminary the day before, and that Father would live on the upper floors, overlooking the river …

Later, I asked Gabe how he felt to hear that Father was leaving for the seminary. His eyes grew wide and glassy, but he didn’t speak.

I told him that I noticed he didn’t cry like Bren and I did. He told me he was sad, too — but a little excited that he might have Father M for a teacher one day.

He is eight, but this appears to be no distant calling.

Four Kids; Four Tidbits

/ J. Thorp / 1 Comment

Blogger’s Note: Thought I’d share a little bit about the family from the past few weeks. Just random stuff. Little things …

I was digging through a closet and found a stack of National Geographic magazines from the turn of the century (the 21st Century, unfortunately). The April 2000 issue has an open-mouthed great white shark on it, and as soon as I saw it, I had a flashback to when Brendan was about three years old. I flipped it open and found a feature story called “Yemen United.” I flipped several more pages and found a full-page portrait of a dark-skinned, graceful Yemeni girl, her face more African than Asian, with deep brown eyes, wearing a purple headscarf with black flowers, a colorful floral-and-stripes dress, and a beaded necklace and silver rope chain around her neck.

I showed the cover it to Brendan. “Do you remember this?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he said. “We watched a show about those sharks.”

I open to page 52. “Do you remember this girl?” He is confused by the question and shakes his head no.

“She was your first crush,” I tell him. “When you were three, you used to find the shark magazine every night, look through it until you found this picture, and tell this girl, ‘Good night.'”

He looks embarrassed. “Really?” he asks.

No reason to be embarrassed, Bren. She’s beautiful.*

* * * * *

The Easter Bunny brought the kids Night at the Museum on DVD. Sunday afternoon, Trevor said he couldn’t wait to watch “Hotel After Dark.”

Later in the day, one of the kids said something about the Easter Bunny laying eggs in our house. He or she quickly changed it to hiding eggs, but the whole deal got a big laugh .. and got Trevor thinking.

“I know!” he said. “What if it was Christmas time, and Santa was a polar bear that laid presents!”

* * * * *

After Mass the other day, Father M called Gabriel (and the rest of us) into the vesting sacristy to give Gabe something. Because our middle son thinks he may want to be a priest when he grows up, Father had hinted that he had communion set of some sort for Gabe to practice with.

Gabe was so excited, but almost had to be pushed into the sacristy because it felt “off-limits” — like he was backstage without a pass. Father turned to him, smiling, and presented him with a long purple cleric’s stole, which appeared hand-woven south of the border. “You must always kiss it before you put it on,” Father said, and Gabe nodded, wide-eyed. Then Father gave him a large brown stoneware chalice and paten with the Words of Consecration on their rims. He took them, and stared, and said next to nothing.

Jodi and I both thanked Father, then coaxed Gabe to do the same. He did, haltingly. “We don’t use clay in this church,” said Father, “but this is a real set. Someday, when you’re ordained, you’ll get your own set, but you can practice with this one.”

Gabe said nothing, but nodded. “I think he’s in shock — a little overwhelmed,” I said.

As we walked to the car, I told Gabe that I had thought Father was going to give him some sort of kid’s set: a tin cup and plate, or something. “This was very generous of Father,” I said.

“Dad,” he said, “when I didn’t say anything right away, it was because I was surprised, and overwhelmed, and a little disappointed all at once, because I thought it would be gold, and it wasn’t. I didn’t know it was a real set.”

I told him that I understood how you get something in your head, and when it comes out differently, it can disappoint. “But remember Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade? When Indy had to pick the right Grail and drink from it, but if he picked wrong, he would die? Of all those beautiful cups, which was the right one?”

Gabe’s face lit up. “The carpenter’s cup!”

“Right — the clay cup. Jesus wasn’t rich man, and neither were his disciples. He wouldn’t have had a gold cup!”

You should see him now: he kisses the stole, puts in on, and carries his chalice and paten with such care!

* * * * *

Emma has been working for several weeks, 10 to 15 minutes a night, to read Beverly Cleary’s Runaway Ralph. It was slow going at times — a “stretch” book from the get-go, since she’s just finishing first grade. But she insisted, persisted … and today got 10 out of 10 on her Accelerated Reader quiz, which means she understood what she read. Yeah, Rosie!

* * * * *

* I’ve search the Web over, and cannot find this photo, and I don’t feel right about scanning it. The photographer who shot it has books of famous National Geographic portraits and photos, including this famous Afghan girl. He does good work, and I’m sure he protects his copyrights.

Impulse Buy

/ J. Thorp / 7 Comments

I’ve been buying a lot of books lately. Mostly used on eBay — great deals on good Catholic books. Got a nice former-library Encyclopedia of the Saints, which the whole family digs (10,000 saints — who knew?) for $2 or so.

Also picked up St. Thomas Aquinas’s simplified Summa Theologica, called My Way of Life, the source of that spectacular quote under This Moment on this blog, along with hardcover copies of Imitation of Christ and Imitation of Mary for something like $7 total, including shipping. Nice.

But what I really wanted was a nice pocket-size copy of Introduction to the Devout Life by St. Francis de Sales (pictured), patron saint of writers and journalists, and my confirmation saint. (Lest you think I knew at an early age what I would become, I should note that I was confirmed as a 25-year-old father of two; when I was a teen I didn’t know I would be a writer or a Catholic!)

There were lots of new paperbacks on eBay, and two hardcover editions from the 1920s. The first was a 1923 second edition in the saint’s native French, bound in brown leather. Beautiful book, but I don’t speak or read French, so it made sense that I’d bid on the late 1920s American edition, the size of a coat’s inside pocket, with the yellowed dust jacket still intact. There was another bidder, but surely it was destined to grace my shelf.

I bought the English edition, but couldn’t keep from watching as no one bid on the French version. Minimum opening bid was $5, plus $3 shipping. No reserve. No bids.

A horrible thought struck me: this book would be regarded as worthless and tossed. It would be burned, or rot amongst coffee grounds and banana peels. I had to save it.

I bid $5. Spent $3 on shipping. The book is beautiful, bizarrely bound (to my eyes, at least): a metal strip runs behind the leather spine, with two wire spring clips the hold the pages in. The pages themselves are not uniformly sized and are variously stitched together.

I was fascinated and promptly showed the family. Jodi smiled and shook her head. The kids were vaguely interested in the book — what caught their collective attention was Brendan’s question to me, in a tone equal parts hopeful and impressed, doubtful and incredulous: “Dad, can you read French?”

Um, no. I simply can’t help myself.

All-Nighters

/ J. Thorp / 3 Comments

I saw a sock on the sidewalk the other day — ankle-length, white with a pink toe and heel. Lost, perhaps, during a return trip from the laundry mat, though that wasn’t the first thought I had on the subject. My first thought was of my days working at Ferris State University and an autumn morning in 2002, full of awkwardness and regret (none of it mine, thankfully). This is how the morning unfolds in my mind now.

I drove to campus one morning in October. The autumn colors had just popped, and I had a poem brewing in my mind (“cornucopia,” posted here).

As I approached campus, I saw a young woman walking along a street of older houses, college rentals, mostly. She walked barefoot on the cold concrete, in boxers and an oversized sweatshirt, her blonde-on-brown highlights pulled back to a hasty ponytail. She carried her jeans and assorted other articles of clothing. She shuffled quickly through the tumbling leaves.

I drove past and parked my car. The poem was about half formed, and I needed a walk to solidify it. The girl from the sidewalk was gone, so I headed up that particular street.

Half a block up, a young man now sat on the front steps one of the rentals. He wore last night’s jeans and a white t-shirt, a backwards ball cap. I think he was barefoot, too, and I recall a beer can and a bottle of water on the step. His head was in his hands, and as I approached, he mumbled: “Not doing THAT again.”

“Rough night?” I asked, and he raised his head and blinked. “Dude, you have no idea.”

“You alright?”

“Think so.”

I walked on, wondering if these two bedheads were connected. I turned left at the end of the block, and worked a couple lines of the poem in my head. Not great, but alright. I took another left — and heard music drifting on the breezes.

Ahead and across the street, an upstairs window was open, and from it blared the voice of Alanis Morrisette, accompanied by an as-yet undiscovered co-ed: “It’s not fair to deny me/Of the cross I bear that you gave to me/You, you, you oughta know!”

Was it the sound of running water? Steam drifting from the window? The volume of the music in the window? To this day, I have the distinct impression of a girl singing angrily in the shower. The rage and sorrow in her voice seemed authentic, and the thought occurred to me: perhaps all three know each other now. And I thought I should write this down.

I walked on. The wind kicked up, and hundreds of orange leaves, swirled about my head shoulders. The poem took final form, and until I saw that sock last week, the rest of the morning slipped me.