Finally, the 2010 Thorp Family Christmas Letter is finished! It is long, yes; footnoted, of course; also bittersweet, overtly religious in places, and probably too much information. You’ve been warned; proceed accordingly…and Merry Christmas!
church
Greetings From the North Pole, Part VIII
Blogger’s Note: Over Christmas 2003, we became annual pen-pals with an elf named Siberius Quill, and he has again delivered this year! Transcriptions of past letters from Quill can be seen here.
Christmas 2010
My dearest Children!
Another year flown by already—and as I sat down to write you this evening, the Keeper of the Birthday Calendar, Monitor Milestone, reminded me that not only do you have a Teenager in your midst, but also another child in Double Digits, as it were! We track such things carefully, because as you might guess, birthdays and other such Big Events are prime opportunities for Young Ones like yourselves to do good or ill. Happily, you all remain on the Good List again this year—believe me, not all my Families do so well!
But old Monty had a second purpose in mind with his reminder: while a decade is no time at all in the Life of an Elf, it is a Significant Step for the children of Big People and a boy’s role in the celebration of All Things Christmas. Why, it seems no time ago at all that I told Master Brendan he was of an age to take on New Responsibilities in that regard, and now Master Gabriel has joined him! As you’ve no doubt guessed, there are Things You Must Know and Thing You Must Do. In a quiet moment, talk to your Father, Master G.—he remembers his own Tenth Year well!
Master B., we’ve noticed the Shifts in your attention and interests this year from Play Things to stuff of a More Serious Nature. Though your house is not small, you are in Close Quarters with your siblings (at least one of whom is still Quite Small) so you cannot do or have everything you would like. Patience, Eldest! St. Nicholas knows your needs and has done something unusual this year—you will find somewhere in your gifts an opportunity to choose something a bit more Grown-Up. Use it wisely!
As for the lovely Emma Rose and young Master Trevor, it is a joy to watch you grow, in grace and wisdom, as well as stature. Miss Emma, your love of the Arts is apparent in all that you do! You might recall I previously mentioned our elfin Songmaster, Jovial Morales, who provides the music by which we elves do our work? His mother, Choral (who was a Longpiper before she married) has heard you with the Children’s Choir and (I hope you don’t mind!) singing about the house. For nearly a millennia she has conducted our church choir, so you can be sure she speaks the Truth: your voice is sweet and will only get sweeter. Madam Choral says keep practicing, and remember: When you sing, you Pray Twice!
As for you, Master T., as is typical for Boys Your Age (especially those with Big Brothers) you are always trying keep up. You’ll be happy with the gifts old Santa has prepared—but I urge you to Be Patient, as well. Enjoy being young, and do not rush into the games and toys of Older Kids!
Finally—and I will not dwell on Sadness, knowing you are reading this on Christmas Day, which, like no other day, must be a Time of Joy—we know of the loss your family suffered in November. Suffice it to say that our thoughts are with you. The Devout Sisters of Our Lady of Perpetual Winter have joined their prayers to yours, and I have it on good authority (theirs!) that your Dear One is in Good Hands! Master G., your idea of hanging a special stocking was a fine one, but Kris Kringle had a different idea. Each Christmas he will leave a Special Ornament to hang on your Family’s Tree, in remembrance. And this year, he has left Something Else, something from the Wood Shop—he thought it appropriate for your Back Yard, and requested Dorothea Gudwerds of the North Pole Library to track down a Special Poem by one of your Most Famous poets, Emily Dickinson (who, by her language, could have a touch of the fey and elfin in her own blood):
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune—without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
Again I’ve run on and made Little Sense, it seems. But you see with the Wisdom of children—I’ve no doubt Some Sense will come of it. Travel safe, my young Friends, and a Very Happy Christmas to you all!
Yours Still and Always,
Quill
Blogger’s Addendum: Bren’s opportunity for something a bit more grown-up was a gift card to Cabelas; he’s had is eye on a variety of hunting knives, as well as an UnderArmor hood/facemask. The special gift from the wood shop was a bird feeder. In the spring we intend to do some landscaping back there, including a fruit tree and statue.
The Second Third, Week 3: Faith and Family
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.
Order and Disorder
Before I left for Dallas, I mentioned to Jodi that I might try to go to Mass on Sunday at Cathedral Guadalupe.
“That’s one of the nice things about your travel for work,” she said. “You get to see lots of cool churches.”
Well, I didn’t make it to Cathedral for Mass. It was more than a mile from the hotel, and I didn’t know exactly how to get there on foot or what might be between it and me. My Aunt Jackie drove me past it on Sunday night, but that morning, I walked to St. Jude Chapel, instead. I was in Dallas for work, and had quite a bit to do; I figured I could get to St. Jude and back in half the time, and I knew exactly what streets to take, all in the business district, all with sidewalks.
I walked about 10, maybe 15 minutes on mostly empty streets. I could almost count the people I saw on my fingers; would’ve had to use toes, too, for cars, but still. Sunday morning in Dallas was bright, clear, and quiet.
I passed office buildings, weekday lunch spots, a gleaming CVS Pharmacy, and several pubs…and there, across and up the street from a nightclub called Plush, which featured giant, full-body bas-reliefs of well-endowed topless women, was the chapel. I approached the door and hesitated, double-checked the sign. What I could see through the door looked like a tiny Catholic gift shop. I walked in.
It was a tiny Catholic gift shop, primarily stocked with crucifixes and statues, including the pregnant Virgin, a four-foot Pope John Paul II, and St. Judes of every size. Ahead was another set of glass doors, through which I could see the sanctuary. A handful of people were praying the Rosary, which was piped into the gift shop through a loudspeaker.
I entered, dabbed the sponge in the holy water fount, and crossed myself walked to the far side of the sanctuary, genuflected, knelt to pray. Behind the altar, a mosaic Christ in white on a light blue backdrop watched over us; above the altar, Christ crucified; to my right, scores of red electric “candles” with flickering incandescent flames, and a constant procession of worshippers, primary Hispanic, clicking them on, kneeling, crossing, and praying.
I joined the rosary as more worshipers trickled in. When they finished the Joyful Mysteries, I realized that the rosary leaders had been recordings; a pleasant sounding man and women moved directly into the Luminous Mysteries. Some continued to pray, but Mass was about to begin, so I sat.
The priest processed in from the gift shop as the opening hymn played. There were less than 100 people in the church, but they sang and prayed with faith in their voices. The priest was elderly, hunched, almost frail looking, but he ascended the steps just the same and opened with a question (certainly before the opening prayer, possible even before the Sign of the Cross): “Who here has heard of Mother Cabrini? St. Francis Cabrini?”
His voice was loud and friendly, but somewhat indistinct; certain syllables ran together so you had to listen carefully. He told a bit about the saint, and explained that we would say an extra prayer for her intercession along with the prayers of the faithful.
So it went from there. Every so often, he would shift suddenly from the rite of the Mass (is that the word?) into personal asides to draw our attention to particular details or meanings of what we were doing.
A teaching Mass? I wondered.
“…and lead us to what?” he asked, as the congregation dutifully continued, “Everlasting life.”
“Everlasting life,” he said, nodding, smiling out at us. “Wow.”
Just his style? I thought.
The reader approached the lectern, but the old priest remained standing, so she hesitated. He waved her forward, but said, “I wanted to introduce this first reading.” He then offered a brief refresher on the two Jewish kingdoms and the Babylonian exile. Then he sat, and she read.
Psalm. Second reading. The priest rose and read the gospel, but at the point when he should have said, “The Gospel of the Lord” — and without taking a breath or changing inflection — he moved directly in his homily: “This reading is what we call…”
Away to the left, one of the regulars, I presume, looked carefully at the missal to see that he had, in fact, completed the gospel reading for the weekend, then looked around and nodded. A number of other regulars sat. Father hadn’t looked up from the text he was explaining, and slowly, the rest of us caught on and followed suit.
After a few moments, the old priest read the next section of the same gospel chapter in order to expand on it in his homily. When he finished this second section, and again, without missing a beat, he said, “The gospel of the Lord.” The seated congregation dutifully replied, “Thanks be to God.”
Maybe he’s just getting older I decided, but a part of me was getting impatient. At this rate, it could be a long morning.
His homily was intelligent, funny, human and humane, if a little scattered. The Liturgy of the Eucharist came off without a hitch, and Communion was a welcome presence. The congregation sang and prayed. Mass was winding down. I tried to stay present in the chapel, but my mind had begun wandering during the gospel confusion, wondering about the time.: 9:30 Mass…probably 11 by the time we’re done. 11:30 or so by the time I get back to my room and boot up the computer, and the boss’s flight arrives around noon…
“Mass is ended. Go in peace.”
“Thanks be to God.”
I expected an announcement of the recessional, but the priest said, “If you have time, we’ll say an Angelus right now: The Angel of the Lord declared to Mary…”
Mass is ended, I thought. I gotta go.
I genuflected and moved quickly, quietly, along the back toward the door, then out through the gift shop. I started down the sidewalk, feeling guilty for not staying until the priest recessed; justifying it because of my work, then feeling doubly guilty for working on Sunday.
“Wonder what time it is,” I said to no one in particular, and pulled out my phone.
10:19 a.m.
What kind of a time warp… Mass had been 49 minutes. Not even an hour, even with the ad libs. And I had skipped the Angelus.
Halfway back to the hotel, something the old priest has said at the end of his homily returned to me: “Sin is a sign of a disordered life. If you live an ordered life — with God, with your neighbors, with yourself — you will get to heaven.”
And of the two of us, who was more disordered this morning?
Father Gabriel’s First Homily
We were driving home on Sunday from getting haircuts for me, Gabe, and Trevor. I ran my hand over my much lighter head, then rubbed my chin and said, “All I need to do is trim my beard, and I’ll be a new man!”
Jodi looked sideways at me and suggested that she, for one, could use a new man, and that my whiskers weren’t close to the first thing she’d change. We went back and forth a moment: I, lamenting the cruelty of my beloved; she, enumerating my shortcomings…until Gabe interjected: “You shouldn’t do that, Mom.”
“Gabe!” she protested. “You’re sticking up for HIM!?”
“The Ninth Commandment,” he said matter-of-factly. “‘You shall not covet” — he pronounced it “COVE-it” — “thy neighbor’s wife.'”
“Covet,” I corrected, laughing. “And how does that apply in this case, Gabe? I don’t think she wants someone else’s husband; she wants a different me.”
“Lust makes you…” He stopped for a moment, as if choosing his words carefully with the younger kids in the car. “Lust makes you want something different than what you have.”
Jodi and I looked at each other. I raised an eyebrow.
An aspiring priest’s first homily…
Archangel Stomp 