marriage

The Second Third, Week 35: Best-Laid Plans

/ J. Thorp / 2 Comments

Sometimes it appears that I am unable to go with the flow. This is not true. (No, it isn’t!) I can absolutely go with the flow. But once I have a plan, I have a hard time adjusting it or letting go.

I have a good reason for this — one that cropped up again today. As a writer, I have to push myself to get work done in a reasonable timeframe, and now that I’m able to work from home (surrounded by potential distractions) I have to be even more structured with my time. So I’ve got my work week carved into blocks of time for specific projects, for writing, for catching up on reading and administrative tasks, etc. It is my intention to cultivate discipline in myself…unfortunately, this morning I woke up feeling quite ill and started the day slow. Then I started to spread myself out in my home office space and realized I didn’t have enough open work surface for the project, so I had to do some rearranging. By the time I got situated, I was supposed to be moving on to the next project. I didn’t achieve much that I set out to. Tomorrow must be a better day than today, or I’ll be seriously behind my self-imposed deadlines. And even though they are self-imposed, if I don’t take them seriously, I’ll never accomplish anything.

Similarly, today is my bride’s birthday, and I wanted it to be special. I’ve spent the past several days thinking about how to achieve this and formulating plans in my head: how can I give Jodi exactly what she wants, and surprise her?

What does she want? The bathroom repainted, relit, recaulked, etc.; a new curtain or blind for the kitchen window; and (eventually) new bedding. And to go out for supper. And a pineapple upside-down cake. I knew, based on what we have scheduled this week and weekend, that the bathroom was not going to get done until next weekend at the soonest…and since we’re still trying to narrow down what she wants for the kitchen window, I urged her to consider moving the bedding up on her list of priorities, because we had done a little looking already and that was something I could do tonight. After all, I wanted her to have something to open.

I also planned to have lunch with her today, and supper out, and then cake. It was going to be great!

I was going to pull lunch together with the kids, but people kept calling Jodi, so I was working while she talked…and next thing I knew, she was cooking something for lunch. Strike one.

“Why are you cooking?” I said. “We have plenty to eat, and the kids can do this!”

She shrugged. “It’s fine,” she said. “It’s lunch time and I felt like it.”

We talked a bit about her “home improvement” gifts, and I thought I’d slip quietly out to get what I needed for the cake and come back with the bedding we had looked at…except then she said we should shop some more — at least at JC Penney and Bed, Bath, and Beyond — before we purchased anything. Strike two. At least I could still make a cake.

Jodi and I discussed supper plans. There was a fair chance that wherever she decided to go, we would get dessert. Tomorrow is Gabe’s birthday — we will celebrate it as a family, but he’s having a party (and his cake) on Friday.

“Maybe we should get dessert at the restaurant tonight, and hold of on your cake until tomorrow,” I sighed. “Then there will still be a cake on Gabe’s birthday, and one for his party.”

“That sounds good,” said Jodi.

Strike three.

I spent the afternoon stewing. Jodi made lunch. Jodi had no presents or cake. All she had to mark the day was a card, or best birthday wishes, and dinner out. That had better be good!

We went to Texas Roadhouse. Having no experience with the place or the portions, we thought we would order a couple appetizers as a treat. (We almost never order appetizers.) The boys wanted chili cheese fries. Jodi wanted potato skins. The two younger kids wanted macaroni and cheese and fries for their meals, but we reminded them we were getting fries as an appetizer. We were also snacking on delicious warm bread and cinnamon butter as we discussed it…so by the time we had settled on what we would order, Jodi and I looked at each other and said, “Probably just one appetizer.”

Except that now all four kids were expecting fries. Jodi ordered chili cheese fries instead of potato skins. Then, just before we ordered our entrees, she announced she was ordering a sandwich — one of the cheapest things on the menu.

“Are you sure?” I asked, incredulous. “Don’t worry about the cost because…”

“It’s fine,” she said. “It’s what I want.”

“It comes with more fries,” I said. “Why don’t you get the potato skins instead?”

“It’s fine!”

Jodi was getting exasperated. It occurred to me then that I wanted the day to be special, but only in part for her…that I was also trying to be a Good Husband. I didn’t want her to tell anyone that she cooked, and didn’t have a gift or a cake, and had a pulled pork sandwich and fries for supper, because people would think I was a jerk. (And if she insisted it was a good supper or a good day, people would nod knowingly, because that’s the kind of woman she is: Of course she wouldn’t badmouth Jim, the big jerk!)

She ate her sandwich, her fries, and a small dish of complimentary ice cream and chocolate sauce. We stopped at JC Penney on the way home and looked but did not buy. And I couldn’t help myself: on the way home, and at least once after we got back, I apologized for not making the day more special.

“It was fine, honey,” she said. “I got a lot of reading time, dinner was fun…and the sandwich and fries were perfect for me!”

She may have had a point there: Brendan and I were both miserable from eating too much, and Gabe brought most of his home.

I had plans and couldn’t let them go. I wanted things to be perfect, and wound up driving my bride slightly batty today. In my Second Third, I need to learn when to stick to my plans, when to be flexible, and when to let go.

Strength In Weakness

/ J. Thorp / Leave a comment

A few years ago, I briefly joined the kids in studying Chen-style taijiquan — the original “tai chi,” an ancient Chinese grappling art rarely taught in the West. During a “push hands” class, I was partnered with a diminutive older woman. We stood toe-to-toe, our right hands extended and connected, back-of-wrist to back-of-wrist; I would shift my weight forward (toward her) and rotate my hand to push her hand toward her; when she could shift no further backward, she would redirect my push in a circular fashion, rotate her own wrist, and push back into me in the same fashion. We did this continuously, until our quads were burning and droplets of sweat ran down our forearms, and the longer we went on, the faster her redirect, until it felt (to me) barely controlled. I shrugged inwardly — she was a more experienced student than I — and tried to maintain a slow and steady pace.

Our instructor, Jose, approached and watched us a moment, then gently reminded her to move in a more deliberate and controlled manner. “I’m trying,” she replied, “but he’s pushing like hell!”

Jose shifted his knowing gaze to me and smiled. “I paired you with someone of a different size on purpose,” he explained. “One of the most difficult parts of taiji for men — especially large men — is learning to sense the other person and knowing their own strength, learning to be gentle. Anyone can be hard, but it’s often difficult for men to be soft.”

Jodi had told me for years that that I didn’t know my own strength and that I should be more careful when “handling” her or the kids — but this lesson drove it home. We resumed the exercise, and I tried to empty myself. I could barely feel that we were connected, which made it difficult to respond to my parter’s movements. I found I needed to be infinitely more attentive to my partner. Jose was right: It was hard to be soft.

A week or so later, I was partnered with a man closer to my own size and build, in a similar exercise, except this time the circular hand motions were more vertical in orientation, and the one whose hands were beneath the other’s was supposed to bear the weight of the other’s arms. This requires the other person to empty himself and let his weight (or at least, the weight of his arms) be carried — another act that does not come naturally to men. Both of us tested the other by periodically stopped our circles and watching the “empty” person continue to circle on their own, a sure sign that he was not truly “empty.” This time we were forced to be more attentive to ourselves.

It is easy to find the power in our strengths — to rely on our size or our natural aptitudes and bulldoze our way through the problems that confront us. This past Sunday, Fr. Mark of Our Lady of the Black Hills Catholic Church preached on the topic of meekness, in part using the definition “strength under control,” and indeed, the New Testament of the Bible is rife with the apparent paradox that we are strong in our weakness.

I’ve struggled with this concept myself and, in the past, have made my peace with it in the sense of Clint Eastwood’s line (above): “A man’s got to know his limiations.” But a few weeks back, our associate pastor at St. Michael Catholic Church, Fr. Meyers, helped my understanding in a profound new way. In a three-minute homily at a Saturday morning Mass, he said that each of us has a tendency toward one of the seven deadly sins — I believe he referred to this as our primary fault — which can also be the means of our salvation. (I’m certain I’m oversimplifying and not doing this topic justice.)

This resonated with me. I know that I struggled, early in my marriage, with lustfulness and learning to better love my bride, and I know that coming to terms with the Church’s teachings on married sexuality has transformed my marriage, my faith and family, my entire life. Despite a number of strengths as a husband, father, and man, I had a basic weakness and misunderstanding that kept me from being all I could be in all three of these areas. Not only did I come to understand my limitations, but my weakness was turned to strength.

St. Paul, in his second letter to the Corinthians (Chapter 12, verses 7-12), says:

Therefore, that I might not become too elated, 3 a thorn in the flesh was given to me, an angel of Satan, to beat me, to keep me from being too elated. Three times I begged the Lord about this, that it might leave me, but he said to me, 6 “My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness.” I will rather boast most gladly of my weaknesses, in order that the power of Christ may dwell with me. Therefore, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and constraints, for the sake of Christ; for when I am weak, then I am strong.

May we all be blessed with such a thorn, and find the strength in our weaknesses.

Book Break: Three Little Books

/ J. Thorp / 1 Comment
I’m playing catch-up on a few recently completed books, lest you think (aside from The Brothers Karamazov) I haven’t been reading in the past year. All of them are “little” books in one sense or another, but none are insubstantial; in fact, all three have Catholic or spiritual underpinnings and overtones. I shall write about them in the order that I completed them, though the last one I began reading even before Dostoevsky.

Parish Priest: Father Michael McGivney and American Catholicism by Douglas Brinkley & Julie Fenster is a short biography of the founder of the Knights of Columbus and an intriguing glimpse into the struggles of American Catholics in the nineteenth century. Fr. McGivney, like many priests of his day, died young, but nevertheless transformed the communities of which he was a part, and ultimately re-envisioned the role of Catholic men in America. The authors admit he left few personal papers or other items behind, and at times, it felt as though the material on Fr. McGivney was a bit thinner than the book. I was particularly struck by several points, however:

  • Fr. McGivney’s gifts as a parish priest, and his ideas behind the Knights of Columbus, first manifested themselves at St. Mary’s Catholic Church on Hillhouse Avenue in New Haven, Conn. Interestingly (to me, at least), when I was at Yale, this was a church I walked by on a daily basis, and when I met my bride and began (occasionally) to attend mass, it was at St. Mary’s. As a result, the book was full of names and places I knew and could envision from my college days.
  • Catholics in America were subject to discrimination; however, New Haven’s sophisticated liberal leanings made the community quite tolerant of its Catholic immigrants. On the other hand, when I was at Yale, the community’s sophisticated liberal leanings caused the students to look sideways at the priests and parishioners at St. Mary’s.
  • Fr. McGivney’s desire to start the KCs stemmed from the problems he saw in his Irish Catholic community, including poor widows, fatherless children, and men who wanted something more than their workaday lives, but were seeking it in the bottle and secret societies that separated them from their faith and their families. As they say, the more things change…
The book was a quick read, and especially for Yale Catholics and my KC brothers, I recommend it.
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Antoine de Saint-Exupery’s The Little Prince is a grown-up fable masquerading as a children’s book. It’s a book I’ve seen often and have often wanted to read based on the whimsical illustrations alone, but until I recently heard an interview about the book on the local Catholic radio station, I’m embarrassed to say I knew almost nothing about the book or the author. I found a like-new, soft-cover, second-hand copy at The Sixth Chamber in St. Paul, brought it home, and did something I certainly haven’t done since Trevvy learned to read for himself: I began to read to the kids after dinner.

It’s neither overtly Catholic nor overtly religious. It is beautiful. I won’t tell you a thing about the story; I knew very little, and I found my voice choking with emotion throughout as I discovered my kids, and especially myself, in the characters in the story.* I will say only that it is worth reading and worth sharing. Everyone, from six-year-old Trevor to Jodi and I, loved the book. Gabe says it may be his new favorite. Our teenager said, “Will you pick another book, Dad? I really like this!”

If you want just a taste, my good friend Fr. Tyler wrote about The Little Prince, as well, on his Prairie Father blog. The excerpt he used is one of my favorites, too. Read this book!
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Finally, the other night at Adoration I finished Introduction to a Devout Life, a Catholic spiritual classic written in the early 17th century by St. Francis de Sales. The copy I have is a pocket-sized hardcover; an undated old printing of an old translation, I suspect. The book is available for free in its entirety on several web sites; CatholiCity.com describes it this way:

Introduction to the Devout Life is the most popular Catholic “self-help” book of all time. First published in the early 17th century, it has proven its value as a daily spiritual guide and helpful reference for living an authentic Christian life. Written specifically for laymen, it began as letters from Saint Francis to a married woman who was seeking holiness amidst the distractions of her life of wealth and status. It contains treasures of wisdom for every reader, from eager beginner to lifelong Christian.

I came late to the Church and was confirmed as a young husband and father and an aspiring writer.** I picked St. Francis de Sales as my confirmation saint, primarily because he is the patron saint of writers. I read a bit about him and learned that he had a privileged education and upbringing, and he was looking for signs all the time…so it took him awhile to come to the decision to serve God. (That seemed appropriate.) Once he became a priest, he went into fairly hostile areas to convert people, and often used his writings to do so. These details, plus the fact that Francis is a family name on my father’s side, seemed like good reasons at the time. (I never even considered any of the numerous St. Jameses.)

It wasn’t until years later that I realized St. Francis de Sales was a doctor of the church and decided I should probably read my patron’s writings. I searched for a copy of the book and wound up with two (one in English, and one in French, which I don’t read or speak. I’ve been reading it a bit to a time each Monday night in the Adoration Chapel ever since. The sentences are often intricate, but the saint’s voice and genuine joy in serving God shines through. The book provides step-by-step guidance for increasing devotion and holiness in your life, and the saint’s suggestions, while intimidating taken in their entirety, are individually small, practical, and still relevant today. And every so often something strikes you as so profound that you incorporate it immediately into your prayer life. It is a challenge to anyone living in this world, but I suspect it rewards repeat readings.
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* Of course, I am an emotional guy…
** I’m still all of these things except young.

The Second Third, Week 22: Stay-At-Home Dad, Part 2

/ J. Thorp / Leave a comment

Last week’s Second Third post (posted just yesterday) touted the family-related advantages a new job that will enable me to telecommute. As the count currently stands, this new opportunity will give me a flexible schedule in which to complete some of my own writing, and will substantially cut down on time stuck in traffic and away from home so I can do more of the fun fatherly things I ought to do with my brood.

In this post (Part 2 of yesterday’s), I turn from my brood to my bride.

I’m not the perfect husband and father. (I know: shocker!) I generally think I’m right, I’m overly emotional, I change plans only with reluctance, and I like to be in charge. I can be diplomatic (with effort), but can also have a short fuse. And as I’ve said before, I’m also a bit of a navel-gazer — I know these things about myself because I spend a lot of time snooping around the corners of my mind. But I’ve been a bit near-sighted for a long time now, so I see things through my own lenses, and assume that others see and react to situations the same way I do. And I’ve never been quick, so when I make a cosmic leap — such as If I were in that situation, I’d be irritated, therefore, she said that because she’s irritated! — I usually realize 30 seconds too late that I’ve reacted wrongly, or at least prematurely.

Unfortunately, my current job demands extraordinary levels of restraint, consultation, and patience. Everyone has an opinion, and at a university, multiple opinions are given more or less equal weight and consideration. This can be a great strength, but it also exhausts the mind and saps the soul. I’ve trained myself to jump through hoops during my work day, with mane neatly combed and a domesticated grin. As a result, I come home with much roaring and gnashing of teeth. The best of me is spent on my colleagues and the issues of the day, and my bride gets the leftovers. Not pretty.

It’s not right that my very best friend takes the brunt of all my worst characteristics. It is a strangely beautiful thing that I feel comfortable enough, confident enough, loved enough to let down my guard and turn off my filters around her. But I should love her better than that.

So here’s the theory: if my work is at home, and my circle of colleagues is reduced, I will spend less on others and have more…tact? discretion? charity! to spend on Jodi. In my Second Third, God willing, I’ll treat at least as well as my co-workers…and hopefully even better.

The Second Third, Week 16 (Belated): In One Ear…

/ J. Thorp / 1 Comment

First, let me say that, obviously, the idea of posting these Second Third entries on Wednesdays has fallen by the wayside. This is primarily because this winter has been crazy busy, especially since three Wednesdays a month, I teach Confirmation classes. So I’m settling for weekly, roughly. If I end on or about November 10th with The Second Third, Week 52, I shall declare victory.

So…

I had an Alien Abduction moment last week. I woke at about 5:20 a.m., rolled over, and in the pre-dawn gloom, discovered my wife was not beside me. This struck me as curious enough that I mustered the wind to croak, “Jodi…” and listen, half-asleep, for a response.

Nothing.

My eyes opened a bit wider. “Jodi?”

Nothing. I sat up and rubbed my eyes. No noise from the bathroom. No lights visible anywhere. Probably on the couch with a sick kid, I thought. But I usually hear sick kids.

I rose, stepped carefully past the snoring Schnauzer in the darkness, walked down the short hallway and into the living room.

“Jodi!”

Nothing.

I turned my head from the side to side, dumbly, in the darkness. No signs of a struggle. (Yes, I actually thought that.) Where could she be?

Perhaps I only stood there for a few seconds, perhaps longer. Eventually I occurred to me that she had told me something before bed, something relevant. What was it?

She had told me she was getting up and going walking at the indoor track at our high school early in the morning. I had heard her say it, and no doubt it registered subconsciously, because I had slept soundly through her rising and leaving. But it took awhile to recall it consciously.

I have a knack for hearing but not listening. This is not selective hearing, per se, which all people cultivate to a certain extent. This is a problem in which I hear everything you are saying, and mere seconds later, it’s gone.

It’s not a matter of simple distraction, although if I’m engrossed in something, it’s almost a given that I’m hearing you but not computing. (On the other hand, I can doodle my way through a meeting and catch all of it.)

No, distractions and “multi-tasking” (in which we do several things poorly at the same time) are different evils altogether. What I’m describing is “in-one-ear-and-out-the-other” in it’s worst form. Jodi can do everything right: she can get my attention, get me to put down the book I’m reading or shut off the TV and look at her, tell me what she’s going to tell me, tell me, then tell me she told me…and I can blink and lose all of it. Sometimes I realize immediately that my memories been wiped clean, and will ask, sheepishly, for her to repeat herself. I’m sure that, more often, I have no idea it’s happened. One can’t remember what one has forgotten.

And it’s not just Jodi, though she has so many more opportunities per day to be the victim (or perpetrator?) that she is the person most frequently connected to it. Lucky gal.

In my Second Third, I need to figure out this little glitch in my software. Unfortunately, they say the memory is the first thing to go.