faith

Bren Turns 16

/ J. Thorp / 1 Comment

Our first child turns 16 today. My Facebook statement sums up my sentiments nicely: “Hard to believe my eldest son Brendan turns 16 today. He is smart, responsible, strong, gentle, persistent, respectful, and faithful — and I love him.” But don’t take my word for the type of young man he is (outstanding in many ways) or what motivates him (faith, food, personal goals, and a particular brand of ginger soda). Consider how he’s spending this special occasion:

  • The movie Cinderella Man and pie last night, and the actual Braddock-Baer fight from 1935 on YouTube this morning.
  • Breakfast burritos this morning, football this afternoon, stuffed pasta shells this evening, chocolate bundt cake for dessert — all here at home, with family.
  • No driver’s license until later this winter or early this spring — he’s got school, wrestling, Confirmation classes, and taxidermy work to earn money for a pilgrimage to Rome next summer.
  • On his birthday list: several Catholic books; the movies Big Jake, Captain America and Here Comes the Boom; the book Cinderella Man, and a “Vires et Honestas” (Strength and Honor) t-shirt from the Art of Manliness website.
  • Theology class tonight with his friends.
He opened his gifts this morning: a secondhand army dufflebag containing the following:
  • two 12-packs of Vernors, plus a book called The Vernor’s Story and a vintage Vernors recipe guide from the 1960s;
  • a handful of 100 Grand candy bars;
  • a jar each of smoked black pepper and hot dill pickles;
  • Fr. Richard Heilman’s books Church Militant Field Manual: Special Forces Training for the Life in Christ, Fortes in Fide: Church Militant Prayer Book, and Strength and Alliance: Church Militant Field Journal;
  • The Naval Academy Candidate Book: How to Prepare, How to Get In, How to Survive;
  • Three movies: Here Comes the Boom and the two recent Sherlock Holmes flicks;
  • and a set of keys to all three vehicles and the house on a Captain America key ring.
Some of it he asked for, all of it he’ll enjoy — and sweet 16 in this case is a relaxing day at home. He’s growing into a fine young man, and we’re proud of him. Much love to you on your birthday, son!

It’s In the Small Things

/ J. Thorp / Leave a comment

“You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you.”  — St. Augustine of Hippo

It’s been awhile since I’ve blogged.

I’ve been thinking for a couple of weeks now that I’m neglecting this site. I’ve been thinking that I ought to just provide quick updates and anecdotes about the kids. That’s what my readership (largely friends and family) tend to read and comment on anyway. But I also have in my head these much grander posts I’d like to write, but can’t find the time for — and I second-guess myself about the smaller updates and think, “Why spend valuable writing time on the day-to-day, when you have bigger fish to fry?”

As a result of this back-and-forth, I’ve written nothing.

Last night, a dear friend, Fr. Tyler from Prairie Father, visited from South Dakota. As usual, we talked long and late about everything under the sun — most amusing were his interrogation of Trevor on the topic of Greek mythology, which Trevor knows primarily from Percy Jackson and not from the myths themselves, and his discussion with Gabe about the nature of reality and the unintended consequences of Copernicus’s work and the scientific method.

Later, we began to talk more practically about how we, as Catholic adults, can live our faith on a daily basis and act as missionaries wherever we happen to be. I admitted a tendency to downplay the little ways in which I can evangelize in favor of planned grand gestures in the future: a book I’d like to write, or a pilgrimage or retreat I’d like to take with friends or family. Several times during the discussion, Fr. Tyler repeated, “It’s in the details. It’s in the little things.”

“I know you’re right,” I replied at one point, “but that’s not how I’m living on a day-to-day basis.”

I’ve said before that I believe men want to be a part of something great and glorious — but although I had a great marriage and glorious family, I’m constantly, restlessly searching for that great and glorious thing — that other life — I should be leading.

It’s in the small things.

I thought about his words throughout a restless night and morning — then checked my personal email and found a new, anonymous comment on this blog post. It’s the most popular post on my little site, and I joke about it sometimes, because my web stats tell me that post, in particular, is big in Russia.

Yeah, I’m read internationally. Deal with it.

The point is, not only am I looking for the next big thing, but I downplay, and even mock, the little things I do well. Today an anonymous reader (Fr. Tyler, was that you?) reiterated the message of last night: It’s in the small things.

* * * * *

Blogger’s Postscript: Apparently I’ve written this post before. How soon we forget…

Book Break: Atlas Yawned

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Several months back, when I took a break from blogging, I spent many long weeks listening to an audiobook reading of Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged. From the opening chapter, I wanted to like it — it unfolds like a story that needs telling — but my guard was up: from what little I knew of the book and of Rand, I was certain to find parts of the book’s worldview objectionable.

In hindsight, I still believe there is a great story to be told in Atlas, buried among the monotonous monologues, ham-fisted philosophizing, immense egos, and sexual dysfunction and self-loathing. It is prescient in some ways, and in general, I agree with the dangers of rewarding inability and incompetence, and saw much I recognized in the progressive agenda and the corporate culture of political power, spin, and blame. On the other hand, the insistence upon ability as the sole criterion of the worth of a person, the overly simplistic and roundly negative presentation of religion, and the conflation of lust with love are fundamentally problematic for orthodox Catholics (and should be, I would argue, for Christians in general).
But as a reader and aspiring writer, the problems run deeper (or rather, shallower) than these. The books goes on and on, long after the point is made and the mystery solved. Dagny Taggart and Hank Rearden are among the brightest minds of their era, and neither can put these pieces together? The mysterious John Galt; Francisco’s odd, destructive behavior; the disappearance of the captains of industry — and no one gets it except the reader. There is an odd parallel here to The Blair Witch Project, which opened with the knowledge that the protagonists were never seen again, so that the viewer was left with little in which to be interested, except to see how they bought it. In this case, however, we know they haven’t bought it — and we’re waiting to see how long it takes for the heroes to figure it out.

Answer: A long dang time.

Really, the only thing I was a bit uncertain about right up to the reveal was who the nameless rail-worker in the Taggart terminal was, and who he was spying for. Strangely, his primary source, the ever-loyal and reasonably intelligent Eddie Willers, shared no such wonder.
The book could be half as long and thrice as engaging, if only the characters talked less and connected the dots more. I would recommend it only to help people understand the frequent political and cultural references we still hear today. I’m interested in seeing the film version, as even spread across three movies, I have trouble believing the filmmakers could have been so long-winded onscreen. This may be the rare instance in which the movie surpasses the book.

Rosa Represents

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Rosa, ready to go.

I took Rosa out for an afternoon on the town this past Sunday.  We appeared together in the Albertville Friendly City Days Parade, representing Knights of Columbus Council 4174, with fellow KCs and Catholic youth (including Bren, Gabe, Rose, and Trev) passing out Tootsie Rolls to the crowds.

Parade rest.

She drew a lot of looks and compliments, particularly among gentlemen of a certain age, who might have known someone like her in their younger days. The younger men took notice of both her beauty and her age and were respectful, save one young hoodlum, still red-faced and drowsy from the previous evening’s festivities, who bellowed, “C’mon, light ’em up! Let’s see what kind of power the old Ford’s got.”

Rosa ignored him entirely in favor of a little boy waving enthusiastically from the other side of the street. I leaned out the window, smiling, and said, “She’s got a 240 straight-six. This is about it.”

Show some respect, young man. She’s forgotten more miles than you’ve travelled.

Another young man, clean-cut with Buddy Holly glasses, looked her up and down and said, “’66?”

“Yup,” I said, and he nodded appreciatively.

Were she a woman, guessing her age would be considered uncouth, but for a pickup, it’s a compliment. What might be an adulterous attention to her curves and lines were she human is for Rosa a sign of her authentic, ageless beauty – she is noticed, not because she’s hot, but because she’s classic.

To that end, when we were preparing for the parade, I flew the flags and hung the KC emblems on the side, then grabbed the box of streamers, spangles, and bows left over from last year’s float. I looked from the box to pickup and back, then returned the box to the garage. She’s impressive enough in her own right. Who doesn’t love a modest girl who’s comfortable in her own skin?

Looks just as good going…