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| The Thorp Gang, April 2013 |
It’s been many months, but it’s here: our first online-only, illustrated Holiday Letter, just in time for Pentecost. (Download and open or print for the best viewing experience.) Thank you all for your patience — and for asking about it occasionally, which was just enough inspiration to finally get it done!
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| What can happen when you say “Yes”… |
Blogger’s Note: The links below are to good stuff, but not necessarily kids’ stuff. Use discretion.
Probably the most transformation part of my conversion to Catholicism — not just going to church on Sunday, but full-tilt “this is who I am and how I try to live” conversion — has been the reorientation of my thinking on the topics of marriage, sexuality, and procreation. See, the Catholic Church is perhaps the one institution on Earth that has refused to divorce these three things from each other…and when Jodi and I were preparing for marriage, I was not entirely on board with that.
In the years since, my thinking has changed — and along with it, my life, my marriage, my family, my entire conception of who I’m called to be.
Now Jodi and I speak at retreats for engaged couples, sharing with frankness how we were, in fact, where they are — crazy in love, uncertain about parenthood, frightened by the Church’s teachings, and unready to “risk” a baby. (What an awful phrase, in retrospect.) We share the Truth we’ve come to know as best we can — but I’m always looking for new ways of going about it. And once in a while, I stumble across really good stuff.
So — if you’re struggling to understand or explain the Church’s teachings marriage and sexuality, check out these links:
Back in early December, I announced that I was suspending this blog and taking it off-line. I likened my writing career thus far to standing on my head for show: requiring modest skill; impressive at first, then amusing, before becoming repetitive, uncomfortable, and unnatural. I even went so far as to declare, “ I won’t call myself a writer again until I write something worthwhile, and I don’t know what it will be.”
Those who know me well know I have a tendency to take myself entirely too seriously. I was in a bad spot at the time: way too busy at work, home, and church; unable to make a satisfactory start on the annual Christmas letter; and unhappy in my work. Some several things needed to give — but this blog was not one of them.
As a full-time husband, father, and director of communications, this little corner of the internet is one of the few places I actually do write stuff that people read. The people who matter most to me are here, but they aren’t the only ones — consider that this tiny, rhyming prayer is the most viewed post on my site, in large part due to readers (or skewed search results) from Russia. A favorite web site of mine, The Art of Manliness, posted an article awhile back entitled, “How a Man Handles a Miscarriage.” I read the post and the appreciative comments, before adding a comment of my own and sharing a bit about our little Jude. Men came and read, and though they left no comments, who knows whom it touched?
In fact, if I want to be truly serious about writing, I would not permit myself to be limited by the potential for monetary gain. A few weeks ago I was looking through the Catechism of the Catholic Church to see specifically what the Church teaches about property rights — and learned that while she makes no bones about supporting the right to private property, she is insistent that we steward our property and talents for the greater good:
“In his use of things man should regard the external goods he legitimately owns not merely as exclusive to himself but common to others also, in the sense that they can benefit others as well as himself.” The ownership of any property makes its holder a steward of Providence, with the task of making it fruitful and communicating its benefits to others, first of all his family.
Goods of production — material or immaterial — such as land, factories, practical or artistic skills, oblige their possessors to employ them in ways that will benefit the greatest number. Those who hold goods for use and consumption should use them with moderation, reserving the better part for guests, for the sick and the poor (CCC 2404 and 2405).
I read and re-read it: Goods of production, including practical or artistic skills, “oblige their possessors to employ them in ways that will benefit the greatest number … reserving the better part for guests, for the sick and the poor.”
A “serious” writer , then, should speak the truth, regardless of gain or loss, for the good of those who need to hear or whomever will listen.
It’s good to be back.
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.
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| Here comes trouble… |
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.
Then she cried and cried.
Archangel Stomp 