kids

Grace By Association

/ J. Thorp / Leave a comment

It’s a blue Sunday.

Yesterday our youngest son, Trevor, graduated from Saint John Vianney College Seminary and the University of St. Thomas—summa cum laude, with degrees in philosophy and Catholic studies. We drove into the Twin Cities for the ceremony (a commute I made daily for work for more than a decade and we used to make regularly as a family for martial arts classes, concerts, and more). We went to Cecil’s Deli, one of Trevor’s favorite places, for a late lunch and then packed up his dorm. He said goodbye to his brother seminarians—a group of great young men from several dioceses with whom he has lived, laughed, learned, and prayed for the past four years. (Can it have been four years?). Then, we headed home.

Last night we were up late while Trevor sorted his belongings into three groupings: stuff he needs this summer, stuff to get rid of, and stuff to bring with us to North Dakota when we move. We had breakfast after Mass this morning; he wrote some thank-yous and checked the oil on our reliable blue Elantra—and at about 12:15 PM, he left the only home he’s ever known, likely for the last time.

It’s been a whirlwind week or so. Our older daughter Emma was married a week ago yesterday and moved to Sioux City with her husband Isaac, leaving the only house she remembers. (She was a baby when we arrived here.) Our older sons, Brendan and Brother Jude, along with Brendan’s family, were here for the wedding. Last time the family will gather here, our home for 23 years…

Thank you, Lord, for Lily. We’re not ready to be alone in this!

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Don’t Get Comfortable

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I have a longer piece to write at some point, about how St. Michael has been a spiritual home for me and my family—Ground Zero for my thorough reversion to the Catholic faith and our conversion to an authentically Catholic understanding of marriage and sexuality, not to mention the garden in which my children grew strong in faith and began to first bear fruit for the Kingdom.

I could write a book. Maybe I should someday. But today, it’s just a column on what’s next for me and my family.

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Book Break: Two Volumes by Matthew B. Crawford

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One of the great pleasures of these latter years as a father is receiving books and book recommendations from my grown children. The University of Mary in Bismarck, Saint John Vianney Seminary in Saint Paul, and the Franciscan Friars of the Renewal have led each of them on tremendous intellectual and spiritual journeys. Occasionally, I tag along.

This past Christmas, Brendan and Becky presented me two books I may have never encountered had Brendan not taken a surveying (as in, land measurement) course as an undergrad…a surveying course taught by a history professor with a love for useful arts and practical skills.

Both books are by Matthew B. Crawford, who holds a PhD in political philosophy and a prestigious research fellowship at the Institute for Advanced Studies at the University of Virginia. He also runs a motorcycle repair shop. In these two books, he makes a convincing case that we are ceding more and more of our will, abilities, and control to technologies and systems that make life easier by making it less lively, less human, less worth living.

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A Year Apart: Reflecting on My Father’s Passing

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One year ago today, my father passed away.

I flew to Michigan early that morning with the experienced observation of a close family friend ringing in my head: It won’t be long. The flight was flawless and landed early. When the rental car clerk learned why I was in Michigan, he expedited everything, and I was on the road in minutes. Traffic moved. The pavement was dry. I drove the limit and made myself relax, reflecting that this was unfolding in God’s time, and I would arrive when I should.

I arrived just in time. My sister came out to greet me in the driveway and said she thought Dad may have just stopped breathing. I went in and held his hand, which was warmer to my touch than it had been in years. I spoke to him softly, telling him it was okay, telling him to go to the Lord and not to be afraid, telling him we were okay and would take care of each other. 

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Wednesday Witness: At My Door

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This column is part of a new, weekly series on what the Lord is doing in my heart, specifically encouraging me to simplify my own life in order practice the virtue of charity and the Corporal and Spiritual Works of Mercy. Come back each Wednesday to read the latest!

In last week’s column, I referenced a letter from St. Vincent de Paul, in which he describes our obligation to the poor person at the door. While I was on retreat, the phrase “at the door” stuck with me. We live in a mid-1980s neighborhood in Albertville—a curving, suburban street with split-level homes, mature trees, the barking of dogs, and the laughter of children. We have no beggars, no one camping in the park, no one asking for handouts.

We do, however, have two men with developmental disabilities. Both are about my age (one, a little older; one, a little younger). Both grew up in this neighborhood, and their natural sociability means they know everyone. Both have been friends with us as our family has grown up, until, one by one, my children have aged past them, despite being a generation younger.

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