family

The Second Third, Week 3: Faith and Family

/ J. Thorp / Leave a comment

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.

Father Gabriel’s First Homily

/ J. Thorp / 2 Comments

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…

Pre-Election Rant-A-Day 4: Who Will Take Care Of Us?

/ J. Thorp / 2 Comments

Blogger’s Note: The “Rant-A-Day” format enables all the cluttered, curmudgeonly, pre-election grumbling in my head to come out in a more-or-less orderly fashion. You can look at the past few posts if you want to see from whence this came.

I thought about answering the title question with, “We will!” and calling it a night, but that didn’t seem to qualify as a rant. So here’s tonight’s attempt…

In the early days of the recent global economic meltdown, when the news was all about subprime mortgages and ripple effect of the collapsing housing market, a friend said, “It really makes you wonder…people are losing their homes, now their jobs. Isn’t that what government’s supposed to do — protect us from stuff like this?”

I sympathize with the idea that the government could perhaps have done more. I think it’s crazy that banks could write loans that the borrowers had almost no chance of ever paying off, and even crazier that companies can bundle things like (forgive me if I’ve completely misunderstood, but even my misunderstanding underscores the problem) possible future earnings, then buy and sell those bundles like they represent something that actually exists. But we are people, after all: crazy ideas are our specialty.

On the flip side: we are also adults (well, most of us), and we have a responsibility to be informed consumers and cautious in our business dealings. I’m sure many people in the housing collapse were victims, taken advantage of by unscrupulous lenders — but I’m sure many others willfully distorted their ability to pay in order to secure a bigger loan. I’m sure some didn’t take the time to understand their mortgages, some were naively optimistic, and some just signed where they said sign. Government can put up guardrails and warning signs, or even patrol the edge of the cliff — but what if we chose to ignore them? What if we jump?

Who will take care of us?

I was in a meeting not long ago in which a colleague I don’t really know except by sight was pontificating about the need for higher-paid employees like her (and especially like her bosses) needed to give some of their salary back to protect lower-paid employees from potential pay cuts. She suggested that all who made more than $XX,000 per year should take a deeper cut in pay so that “less fortunate” workers — those who made less than $XX,000 could afford to buy groceries and pay for childcare. “They need our help!” she opined, accusing the administration of not caring about “social justice” and imploring her colleagues to help her take care of us — to act for the greater good.

For whose greater good? I thought. She likely didn’t know she was talking about me — the “working class” were generally underrepresented in the meeting — but I was struck by the paternalism in her remarks and the condescension in her tone. I wanted to stand and say, “Do I look like a victim to you?” — to explain that my wife and I are doing fine raising four kids on my salary, thankyouverymuch, and if we need someone’s help, we’ll ask. I wanted to ask her why it is that in my church, the lower-income parishioners are more likely to give, and give more, than the wealthy. I wanted to say I’d rather go hungry than have her define my “greater good.”

I don’t want to outsource my better life. I don’t want someone to take care of me and my family. Events like the economic collapse or the attacks on 9/11 can shake us to our very core because they effect us profoundly, yet seem so far beyond our control. But why, when these things happen and we wonder who will take care of us, would we cede what little control we have and trust unknown others to act on our behalf?

The government should absolutely make and enforce laws that protect our inheritance — life, liberty, and opportunity — and prosecute wrongdoing when and where it happens. But beyond that, it should expect us to act in our best interests, individually and as a society; it should step aside, and watch us reach out to our neighbors to raise them up, too. The “privileged,” if they want to be of use, should actually lend a hand, firsthand — if a colleague is struggling to get by, see what you can do to help. Throwing money at a problem is easy and feels good, but the last thing we need is a bunch MORE like-minded people with money and influence pooling their resources because they’ve decided they know what’s best for us.

General Douglas MacArthur once said, “There is no security on this earth; there is only opportunity.” There are no guarantees; only possibilities. Who will take care of us? We will. We are not victims.

Pre-Election Rant-A-Day 3: The Wrong Kind of Better

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Blogger’s Note: I’ve had a terribly long and curmudgeonly blog post brewing in my head for months, and no time to write it. So I’ve settled on the “Rant-A-Day” format. The first Pre-Election Rant-A-Day is here. Number two is here. To recap: “It’s All Good” (aka “Go Along to Get Along”) kills democracy, and you can’t legislate happiness. Okay. Where are we today?

“[It’s] The Economy, Stupid.”
— James Carville

These rants began to take shape in my head a few months ago or so, after I posted a status to my Facebook page that got people talking. From August 11 at 8:31 a.m.: Jim Thorp wonders: If parents today feel as though, for the first time, their children may not have a better life than they had — maybe we’ve been seeking the wrong sort of “better” all along?”

What is this better we’ve been after? In my day-job, I write a great deal about economic growth and quality of life and human capital, and to a point, I believe we need to turn the economy around, lift folks out of poverty, and generally make life better for everyone. I mean, it sounds good. It makes sense. So why does my heart rebel?

Maybe it’s because, deep down, I agree with this guy (any excuse to use this clip; I picked this version on this site because the site was obscenity-free). In case you choose not to watch a very funny video clip (or in case they pull it at some point), permit me to quote: “When I read things like, ‘The foundations of capitalism are shattering,’ I’m like, maybe we need that, maybe we need some time where we’re walking around with a donkey with clanging on the sides…because everything is amazing right now, and nobody’s happy.”

We could use some perspective. We could count a blessing or two, and be content.

I’ve talked with my parents about their childhoods, and I know I am a generation removed from poverty. I’ve talked with friends who can’t find work — I know that edge is closer than we think. I also know my solidly middle-class five-figure salary puts me in the top quarter of earners in the U.S., and way ahead of most of the rest of the world. I know people making 10 times what I make, raising half as many kids, who look at me and shake their heads: poor stiff. I also know how comfortable our existence is. We’ve got too many bills, but we’re paying them. I’m in debt to my ears, for a modest house, yes, that has lost much of its value — but also for a million little things I used to think we needed so my kids could have a so-called better life. I know that if my family finances collapse because of reckless spending, it’s my own fault, and I know with each minivan load of stuff that goes to the church garage sale, or friends with new babies, or Goodwill, our lives improve, if for no other reason than we’re letting go. Even the kids are happier. They don’t miss it.

I remember when I got accepted to Yale — what a burden it was at first, to think that thousands of other students were trying to get in, and I applied almost on a dare, and got in. I didn’t even know if I wanted to go — I’d never thought seriously about it — and now I had the golden ticket. Leave Remus, Michigan, for a school of presidents.

I was scared.

I remember my dad pulling me aside after a day or so, and saying, “I just want you to know, you don’t have to go to Yale if you don’t want to. You don’t have to go to college at all. If you decide you want to stay here and work in the shop, that’s fine with me. Whatever you do, I just want you to be happy.”

Sure he wanted a better life for me, but that wasn’t measured in dollars or degrees. He had already given me a better life by being home for dinner, pulling me out of school to take me hunting and fishing, insisting that I work hard and well and contribute to the family, not drinking or smoking, and teaching me to say I love you (and even to cry like a man, on occasion). He sacrificed for his family. He gave me more than he got as a kid, but it wasn’t more stuff. It was more of himself.

My fellow freshmen at Yale thought I was nuts when I said I wanted to be a high-school biology teacher. They rolled their eyes when I shrugged and said I came East for an education, not a job. (Hear that? That’s the sound of a squeaking halo.) They were incredulous when I came back from Wall Drug engaged.

We used to want these things: to serve others, to better ourselves, to love and be loved. Financial independence used to mean “owe nothing to any man,” as St. Paul said his letter to the Romans; now it means a strong credit score and purchasing power.

On the radio yesterday, a prospective voter wondered aloud why his legislative candidates were obsessing over which president, Bush or Obama, was to blame for the economy, while Americans are dying in two wars. Where in this economic engine (and myriad other car analogies) do we, as people, live and move and have our being?

It’s not the economy. It never was. The economic collapse is a symptom of a world so suffering-averse that it would rather sell out its children than sacrifice its lifestyle.

We vote our pocketbooks and consume ourselves.

Trevor Day

/ J. Thorp / 2 Comments

Before supper tonight, I received a variety of homemade and store-bought Father’s Day greetings. After supper, Trevor says, “I wish there was a Trevor Day, when everyone in the world named Trevor could do what ever they wanted, and if they wanted to play with their brothers’ Legos, they could for as long as they want.”

Our youngest is six tomorrow. Happy birthday, Trevvy!