Michigan

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.

Pre-Election Rant-A-Day 5: Stop Yelling and Say Something!

/ J. Thorp / 1 Comment

Blogger’s Note: The Rant-A-Day blitzkrieg continues. Check the past few days to see what’s got me going.

I have a hard time voting. I love the concept. I love the sense of civic duty, the solemnity of the retiree election judges. I love having voted, and watching the returns roll in. But I’m a visceral guy — I trust my gut, and it doesn’t respond well to well-oiled answers and million-dollar smiles. So the voting booth often feels like a trap.

If you’ve been reading these rants, you may be thinking that I lean to the right, politically speaking. That’s true enough — although I voted for candidates from four different political parties in the 2008 election, I’m getting progressively more conservative (see what I did there?). My good friend Jinglebob, whose Dennis Ranch blog is to the right of here (literally and politically), once told me, “If you’re not liberal when you’re young, you’ve got no passion…and if you’re not conservative when you get older, you’ve got no sense.”

Not long after that, another friend described me as an “old soul.” There you have it. Storm’s comin’…feel it in my knees…

So yeah, I lean right. The only thing that keeps me from tipping over completely is that it seems like too many Republicans have forgotten that there is a conservative intellectual tradition* that is deeper than the handful of talking points they’ve memorized, and actually could be employed to change minds and solve problems. (Yes, that’s right: you can be a conservative intellectual; they just don’t give you a talk show.) The folks on the Left like to describe the Democrats as the Party of Ideas and the Republicans as the Party of No. I think they’re half right on both counts — I see the two as the Party of Bad Ideas and the Party of No Ideas. I often disagree with our Democratic candidates’ approach to issues, but the Republicans rarely get specific enough for me to make an informed judgment about their approach.

I guess I’m supposed to trust that we’re like-minded, provided the candidates are minded at all.

And this year in Minnesota, politicians and newspapers of all stripes are endorsing the Independence Party candidate, who, according to the Dems, is a once and future Republican in disguise, and according to the Republicans, is only Right relatively speaking, insofar as he is right of the Left. He seems completely rational, has a balanced approach to every issue, and appears to be personally principled and professionally pragmatic. Perfectly positioned to appeal to the thinking public.

I can’t stand that: Where do you stand, sir? Right here in the middle. What’s your opinion? Well, I can see both sides. We should do this AND that.

Peachy. Except everybody can’t be right and everybody can’t win all the time. Too much compromise is the same as “It’s all good.”

Where are the lines you won’t cross?

I am a conservative, and a Christian, but not a “Christian Conservative” as it is popularly understood. I am a Catholic, but what does that mean, come Election Day? Does it make me a “one-issue” voter? I suppose it would, if I were a one-issue Catholic. What most people — many Catholics, even — don’t understand or have forgotten is that the Catholic Church also has a rich intellectual tradition, rooted in philosophy, and history, and (dare I say?) science — a tradition that, once understood, suggests new ways of thinking, new solutions to problems, and even new responsibilities for believers, both in their public and private lives.** We like to wear our various faiths like badges of honor, and point to those on the outside as the problem — but in truth, our beliefs make demands primarily of us. And the same holds true of the candidates.

My point? It’s easy to spout off. The donkeys bray; the elephants trumpet; and no one moves an inch. I lean right, and further every day, but my vote’s not guaranteed. I do my homework as best I can. I’ll vote third-party to have a clear conscience.

So stop shouting — I can hear you even with my hearing aid turned down. I know what you’re saying. Now tell me what you’re thinking. AR-TIC-U-LATE something. Let me in on the plan. If you need my vote, convince me. And if you don’t need me, stop junking up my mailbox with oversize postcards that say the same thing as last week.

Now get off my lawn.

—

* As a teen, I lived 5 miles or so from a big old mansion in the tiny village of Mecosta, Michigan. Rumor was that an eccentic old writer lived in that house. When Jodi and I bought our first house in Mecosta after we married, we lived just a few blocks from the mansion, and the old writer’s widow invited us to dinner. Russell Kirk: Father of American conservatism, with a little Gothic fiction on the side. And I left town and went to Yale…

** Kirk was Catholic.

Easter Revisited

/ J. Thorp / 3 Comments

Blogger’s Note: For those who may not know, the Easter season officially came to a close last Sunday, with the Feast of Pentecost. Oh, and sorry for the long hiatus.

I drove to Michigan the Monday after Easter to be with my folks and sister while my dad recovered from surgery. In the weeks leading up to that trip, I’d exchanged a few emails with my sister — it’s been a rocky year for her, and we had been talking a bit about God and faith, prayer and church. I knew she’d been checking out churches in her area, but didn’t know if she’d found one, or what denomination it might be. Even so, a question had been stirring in my heart: would she consider baptizing my niece and nephew. I didn’t know how to broach the subject, not knowing where she was with her own thoughts, or what their dad might think. So the week before Easter, I prayed.

Then on March 31, while at work, a close friend dropped me a line. She had been cast in a play very near and dear to her heart, but her childcare arrangements for her son had fallen through. She asked me to say a prayer for them that this problem would work out, and I agreed — but the workday being what it was, I didn’t feel I could do so immediately. I went about my business, drove home, ate supper with Jodi and the kids, and at 7:05 p.m., as I logged into my computer, remembered that I had yet to pray for her needs. I closed my eyes and offered a short but heartfelt petition on her behalf, then reiterated my prayers regarding my sister and her children.

At about 7:30, my friend emailed that she had found a replacement sitter. “I know it’s not yet Easter,” she said, “but Alleluia!”

I opened a chat window, and asked her when this had happened. About 20, 25 minutes ago…little after 7.

As I confessed I had not managed to say the requested prayer until 20, 25 minutes ago, a prickle ran up my neck.

The next morning at work, I received an email from my sister, informing me that she had found her church — St. John Neumann Catholic Church in Canton — and asked me about Holy Week services: what to expect Holy Thursday, or at Stations of the Cross on Good Friday, or at the Easter Vigil. She told me she was considering attending all three (which we had never done, even during the brief period my mom brought us to church as kids) and that she was setting up a meeting with her priest to see about getting the kids baptized.

This time the prickle was a full-on chill.

* * * * *

On Holy Thursday, I was blessed to be one of 12 parishioners asked to allow the priests to wash my feet in the sanctuary, as Christ did for the Twelve. This is the work of household slaves, and is a gesture of profound humility and service.

The kids watched closely, smiling at me from the pew. Father Gregory made quiet, humorous small talk, and on either side were friends of mine, also absently making quiet small talk, also lost in their own thoughts.

My thoughts were these: It is nearly impossible to get previously worn socks back on damp feet in a graceful or quick manner, and I have never understood these words of John the Baptist until now: John answered them, “I baptize with water; but there is one among you whom you do not recognize, the one who is coming after me, whose sandal strap I am not worthy to untie.” — John 1:26-27

* * * * *

At supper, we begin the obligatory annual discussion about what happens if a hunter accidentally shoots the Easter Bunny, or if a dog — Puck, for example — were to get hold of him by the neck and shake furiously.

Trevor takes a new angle, combining the best of the discussion thus far and the premise of the movie The Santa Clause: “What if,” he says, “Puck killed the Easter Bunny, then had to deliver all the candy and hide all the eggs!”

The Easter Schnauzer. Hilarity ensues. To borrow from my friend Jacqui, will someone please write me this book?

* * * * *

On Good Friday, we attended the Living Stations of the Cross at the historic church in St. Michael. It was, as always, very well done, and if you’ve not gone, I will recommend it here and say little more about it, except that based on his experience last year, Trevor spent a good portion of the Stations with his hands clamped over his ears, anticipating the thunder peals that occur only when Christ dies upon the Cross. As a result, he watched the Passion in muffled near-silence.

Across the aisle from us sat a young woman and her parents. The young woman was not attending of her own accord — that much was plain — and spent the bulk of the time until the lights dimmed doing what appeared to be homework. She stood, she knelt, when others did, but neither said nor sang a word.

The procession wound around the sanctuary as the Passion unfolded, until it came to the front, near the altar: Calvary. I noticed as the end near, she was following the action, if only with her gaze. The hammer and nails. The cross is raised. He speaks, and breathes his last. Thunder (followed by Trevor’s loud rasping whisper: “That wasn’t as bad as I thought!”).

The reader announces a hymn. The girl across the aisle thumbs through the hymnal to the right page and opens it for her father. He smiles, perhaps surprised. She does not sing, but she is not unmoved. Her eyes follow the words.

* * * * *

The little tablets for coloring eggs can’t touch good old-fashioned food coloring, vinegar, and hot water…and the smelly tie-dyed fingers that result.

* * * * *

I was also privileged to read at the Easter Vigil Mass this year. For those who have never been, the Easter candle is blessed and lit from a wood fire outdoors, then all those in attendance light their own small candles from the Easter flame and process into a dark church. The Mass itself begins with numerous Old Testament readings by flickering candlelight—readings that trace salvation history from Genesis forward.

I read Exodus 14:15-31 — Moses and the parting of the Red Sea. All readers in our church receive a workbook of sorts, which provides the year’s worth of readings for each Sunday and Holy Day, with pronunciations, commentary, and context, as well as tips for how to proclaim the readings. In my case, the book suggested that I imagine myself relating an ancient tale over a crackling fire — and I did. The lighting was perfect; you could almost perceive the stars in the high dome of the sanctuary. It is a wondrous and terrible story to hear and to tell.

* * * * *

Crafty Bunny hid the eggs, the baskets, all of it. The kids loved the looking and the finding. Lots of good food on Easter Sunday — a big brunch and a big supper, too, just the six of us. Could’ve widened the net and invited others, but I was heading to Michigan in the wee hours, and I find I no longer enjoy being alone away from home. Family time was the goal, and it was achieved with gusto.

* * * * *

I took the northern route to Michigan — a long solo drive through beautiful stretches of Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Michigan’s Upper and Lower Peninsulas. Stopped twice, I think — my little Deezeldub, Nadia, (a 2000 VW Golf TDI) hovered right around 50 mpg for the trip. Hawks and eagles. Lakes, rocks, and trees. Two outstanding audio books (The Lincoln biography Team of Rivals and a first-time fantasy outing The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss). And scotch waiting for me at the log house on 11-Mile.

* * * * *

Dad’s surgery went perfectly on every level. More prayers answered.

* * * * *

Headed to my sister’s place on Thursday. I’ve never really spent time with just her (or just her and the kids and the dogs, cats, and guinea pig).I was torn the whole way between wanting to hang with the three of them, and itching for time to talk, just to Jill, about rejoining the church.

I don’t remember the exact order of things. I know Chipotle was eaten. I know we drove around the Domino’s Pizza corporate campus looking for a Catholic bookstore; Domino’s founder Tom Monaghan is a devout Catholic who has started a number of Catholic organizations and businesses. We found it, and all four of us bought books.

Then we drove to the University of Michigan Museum of Art. On the way, my nephew began to read his new Bible, illustrated in comic fashion, and to ask fairly deep questions about creation and violence, humanity and eternity — the perfect set-up to a tour of art history that included the intricate handiwork of samurai armor, obscure (to our eyes) minimalist modern drawings, and several paintings of the Annunciation.

Later, my nephew asked me about the story of Abraham and Isaac (“Was he really going to kill his own son?”), then asked about my favorite Bible stories. I told him that Abraham and Isaac had always been a favorite, but so was the story of the Apostle Thomas and his believe-it-when-I-see-it attitude toward the Resurrection. This began a long-running discussion about favorite books and authors — when I was little, when I was in middle school, now — and recommendations and summaries of all of his favorites. I had never seen him this animated about books before. Neither had my sister.

* * * * *

The meeting with my sister’s priest that day went exceptionally well. He met with the four of us briefly to talk about the Baptisms, then Reconciliation and First Communion for the kids (my sister and I made ours circa 1985 or so, during our brief stint in the church) and Confirmation for my sister and niece in the coming year. Then I took the kids out and answered questions about the artwork in the gathering space (primarily the Stations of the Cross) while my sister confessed to a priest for the first time in years and years.

When they emerged from Father’s office, he reassured her and the kids that he would have only older children baptized on the Sunday that they were — no babies, so they wouldn’t feel out of place. The date was to be in just a few weeks.

As we walked to the parking lot, I smiled to myself — how quickly this was coming together. My sister had mentioned earlier that morning that she wanted Jodi and I to be the kids’ godparents, and as we climbed into her truck, she said, “I hadn’t expected it to be this soon. It’s great, but I had hoped you could be here for it. I’m sure you won’t be back that soon.”

“Actually,” I said, “it’s amazing…we have a First Communion in Grand Rapids the Saturday before. We were going to be here that weekend no matter what.”

Joy and wonder lit her eyes—sparked, perhaps, from mine.

* * * * *

We went to Mass that Saturday, the four of us. My sister looked at home, the kids sang out, and the gospel was that of doubting Thomas, which I mentioned coincidentally the day before. My nephew nodded off briefly and was mortified; already he seemed so serious about the Mass. My sister and I walked to receive Communion together. Decades ago we had done this. It felt like the first time again.

* * * * *

A few weeks later I was back in Michigan, with the entire family this time. We stayed first with dear friends whose son was marking his First Communion — they had actually put me up overnight while Dad was in the hospital just after Easter, then come to Minnesota for Emma’s First Communion. They are like family, and we love them.

I watched Emma playing with their girls (the youngest, our darling goddaughter), and the three were angels. She talked with their son a bit about First Communion, mostly to affirm she had lived through the experience, and saw that it was good. I remember following her with Jodi to receive the Eucharist a couple weeks ago, and the swell of pride I felt. The anticipation of multiple sacraments struck me again and again, and I realized I’ve become what I long rejected, a church guy.

The readings the weekend centered on The Golden Rule, which Christ took to a new level with, “Love thy enemy.” Thinking about my sister, and more specifically, her ex, I prayed for the grace to forgive and to love. Our friends’ son did a wonderful job, both during and after the Mass: he was graceful and grateful, and after opening a number of gifts, began almost at once to study his new Bible and the lyrics to a Christian rock CD he had received. Kids absorb the faith like sponges; it’s no wonder Christ said we should come to him as a little child.

* * * * *

The very next day — Sunday — we met my sister, mother, niece, and nephew at my sister’s house. We arrived just as my sister’s ex and his fiancée dropped off the kids. I said hello, but realized with a sudden ache in my chest that I had not sufficiently prepared to love them both. I took Puck around back to relieve himself and settle my nerves.

We took two vehicles to the church, and met my sister’s ex and his fiancée in the gathering space. I was much more settled this time, and we sat in back-to-back rows, with the two of them and my niece tucked behind the rest of us. The readings for Saturday afternoon and Sunday morning are the same, so the priest again reminded me to love my enemies — and I said another silent prayer against the whispering behind me.

The baptism was after Mass, our two, and one other tween girl and her mom. Parents and godparents up front proved a bit awkward when it came to renewing our baptismal vows: my former brother-in-law was silent, and my nephew was quiet. Father insisted upon hearing the kids’ response, since they were old enough to understand (at least on some level) what was occurring, so he pushed a bit to be sure.

The water and the words, then the chrism. I love the smell of that sacred oil, and took more than opportunity to hug my niece (who is nearly nose-high to me) and smell her blessed hair.

She’s something special, that girl. The days I spent with just my sister and her kids, my niece’s presence was like a constant hug we both needed — does that make sense? I wonder if others sense it, too. I love her. I love them all. Even without the chrism.

* * * * *

Jill and I did steal an evening while I was there, alone, talking long and late about faith and marriage and forgiveness. I shared things with her I’ve shared with few others save Jodi. So glad we didn’t kill each other as kids; this thing we have now is special.

* * * * *

Our former priest, Fr. Michael, caused a stir when he met me at the President’s Office to go to lunch with me. We don’t get many callers with collars, and when we do, it’s usually to protest something anti-Catholic occurring on one of the U’s campuses. Social calls are virtually unheard of.

We walked to Kafe 421 and back, and asked about the kids (“There’s something about Gabe; he’s gonna be a priest.) and our parish and even my sister. When we came back to the office, the U police officer assigned to our office and the Board of Regents was talking with our receptionist. Father and I stepped in, and the officer’s eyes widened. He had just lost his dad, and was discussing a point of Catholic teaching that a family member was giving him grief about before the funeral. He confided a bit in Father, who reassured him that his view on the subject is correct.

When Father Michael left, two or three co-workers — including one who is a professed non-believer — remarked how cool it was to be in the presence of someone who has given themselves to service and the Spirit. I can’t help but think that, like me, they can sense Truth when they hear it. Love of this sort is a universal tongue.

* * * * *

After the baptism of my niece and nephew, my sister and I, Jodi and Gabe were sitting around the kitchen table. My sister had said before that Jodi and I were a part of drawing her back to the Catholic Church, but in this moment, she credited Gabe, as well. Friends had suggested it might be easier to re-enter the faith by another church. “I thought, ‘If my 9-year-old nephew knows enough already to think he wants to devote his life to it, who am I to choose another church?” she said. Gabe’s eyes widened in awe, his skinny limbs falling heavily along his narrow frame. He smiled in wonder. Whatever his vocation, his good work has begun already.

* * * * *

Our associate pastor, Father Gregory, is leaving for a new assignment; he has grown so dear to us all, and his grounded presence and sincerity of heart will be sorely missed. We will have a newly ordained associate shortly.

I’m pretty sure there was more to this Easter season, but perhaps that’s enough. I think this may have been the best Easter I’ve ever witnessed. I know we’ve been immensely blessed.

* * * * *

For more chocolaty sweet Easter goodness:
Trevor’s Latest
A Hare’s Hare
Easter Stream of Consciousness

First Snow Freak-Out

/ J. Thorp / 2 Comments

I remember my first solo flight into a snow-filled ditch. I was 17 or so, driving a red ’83 Lynx (Mercury’s version of the Escort), headed to my high-school girlfriends house 20 minutes away. It had snowed in the morning, then warmed during the day to a slushy mess that froze into deep ruts in the evening. I could feel the car’s tires jumping sideways, trying to find a groove, as I drove — still, I was going too fast. Finally I caught the right rut, and it spun 180 degrees and then sideways into a snowbank.

I blinked, exhaled, and let my hands fall from the wheel. I thought a moment, then tried the accelerator to move the car forward. The tires spun. I tried reverse. Same.

I put the car in park, shoved open the door and stepped knee-deep into snow. No way I was getting out. Some Lynx.

I walked a short distance to a nearby farmhouse and asked if I could call my father. They obliged — probably even offered to pull me out, but I figured Dad would want the honor. He rumbled up 10 minutes later in Old Blue, a multicolor F-150 4×4, circa 1978, with a homemade plow on the front. He described what he figured happened, and was spot on, as usual. Then he hooked the pickup onto the Lynx with a yellow nylon tow strap and jerked the little car clear of the ditch.

“You want me to follow you home, or are you gonna follow me?” I asked.

“Aren’t you going to your girlfriend’s?” he replied.

“I just figured since the roads are bad and you had to…”

He cut me off: “The only way to learn to drive in it is to drive in it, so get going — but slow down!”

I’ve been off the road a few times since, all from driving too fast for conditions — but not in years, knock on wood. I’ve finally learned the age-old lesson of the tortoise and the hare: slow and steady wins the race.

Note that it’s “slow and steady” — not painfully slow. And not fast, like the foolish hare. Slow. And steady.

I raise this issue because each year in Minnesota, we commuters experience what I’ve come to call the First Snow Freak-Out. When the first snow sticks to the road, no matter how much or how little, how wet or how powdery, most of the driving population immediately divides into one of two camps:

  • 85 percent go hypervigilant — these you can tell by their wide, scared-rabbit eyes peering past the wheel and into the snowy haze; by their clenched teeth and white knuckles … and by the fact that they aren’t moving.
  • 10 percent go snow-leopard, roaring past the gridlocked masses, blazing their own trail around, over and through whatever is in their path, slinging road grime on on the windshields of the hapless herd, and laughing into their cell phones … until Mother Nature casually flicks them into the median.

The remaining 5 percent pass our 30-miles-in-2-hours-40-minutes commute by shifting our manual transmissions from first to second and back and improvising profanity laced lyrics to the Christmas carols on the radio (only the secular ones; the Christian songs afford the opportunity to weep).

Thirty miles in two hours and forty minutes. Because people couldn’t grasp the concept of a consistent 30 miles an hour. Three-quarters of an inch of snow on the pavement, and I saw cars snared in sumac, perpendicular to the roadway. I saw a semi facing the wrong way alongside the interstate. I saw two crumpled SUVs on the shoulder. And I saw miles and miles of brake lights.

And the truth is, it happened during the second snow, because the first came in October but didn’t last. Everyone forgot their autumn lessons, so December provided remediation, I guess.

Fortunately, this snow seems to be staying. That first evening was awful. The next day I worked from home, but the traffic reports were terrible. When I returned to work the following day, the roads were clear and dry, and stayed that way until yesterday. New snow in the morning, and traffic moved a consistent 15 to 20 miles an hour — too slow, perhaps, but at least steady.

Today, everyone was in sync. Congratulations, Minnesota — you survived the First Snow Freakout. Again.

The Exquisite Ache of Loving

/ J. Thorp / 5 Comments

While we were visiting friends in Michigan last weekend, they were saying goodbye to a loved one. We offered to stay away — to not burden them with guest beds and towels and six extra mouths to feed. They insisted we come, to share what they had to give. “We may have to leave for a few hours,” said the wife and mother of three. “And we may eat hot dogs,” said the husband and father.

I don’t want this to come across the wrong way — like taking pleasure in pain — but there is something beautiful about being invited to share in the sorrows of another. I’ve said before: it’s easy to share in the good times — anyone can do that. But vulnerability requires trust, and real empathy is hard work. The intimacy of a family drawing together at the close of a life can be deeply moving, and in this case, the opportunity for us to share these moments and to feel strong and useful, able to listen and to be leaned upon, was a source of great peace and joy to me. Like all hard labor for a good end, the ache I feel for our friends brings with it a little smile — the result of shared and genuine emotion, of loving and being loved.

Does that make sense? I commented to a friend not long ago that genuine emotion seems to be a rare thing. And I know for my part that I am a sponge for it — I’ll soak any source ’til I’m dripping (usually from the eyes). Our work-a-day lives too often require cold calculation and compromise, a daily quest for the brightest shade of grey. A splash of color — even the deepest of blues — resonates, and we are grateful.

Thank you, friends, for sharing your lives with us. We love you.