John 21

Even after the irruption of his divinity
He still had his body.
The wounds, sticky and healing
Beneath the clean, rough cotton;
The muscles stiff, but strong again.

He felt so good in the clear morning air,
Away from men contending in the synagogue,
That he dug his toes deep into the formless sand,
And decided to make them breakfast.

They came, dulled by fear and fatigue,
Except for Peter. Who could not love Peter?--
In up to his chest,
Made all the more alive by his shame.

So in love, he knew that
Eventually he would say it:
Yes, by all means, go

Teach all nations.

Complications

Revved up. I would take my blood pressure if only I could find my machine. No sooner had the need for basement waterproofing been triumphantly validated, than L. has a car accident. She's OK, physically. Had a bad dream or two, but had to get over it quickly and back to work. She mentioned she misses her Volvo, and it's not like her to complain. I guess it's displacement. She is tired and freaked out about how close she got to being really hurt.

A bit of running around there, doing auto body things, and Monday Mom will be having a hysterectomy. A lot of running around there, I'm thinking, though my wonderful sibs will be doing a lot. L. is upset. Sounds like a pretty safe procedure, but Mom's 87! And the Mother of All Anti-patients. That she agreed to the operation makes me realize how much she has suffered over the past year or so.

I feel beleaguered. Mustn't panic. Must talk to myself in the optimistic way I talk to the womenfolk. Well, the soul is feminine, isn't it?

"That which does not kill me, makes me stronger." Nietzsche. Well, don't believe it. I think that that which does not kill outright, kills slowly, ineluctably.

We must remain clay in the Potter's hands. He, the conqueror of death. Thomas Merton says, I think in New Seeds, that without Christ, human suffering is just misery. Stress usually makes me feel resentful or hurls me back on my own devices. Either way I'm mindless, Godless. I should practice prayer, faith and acceptance now, before even worse times.

Liturgies

My Easters are often like my Christmases--I'm utterly uninterested till they actually happen. So I am anticipating Holy Week, now that it's here. I remember some affecting Holy Thursdays: living in the Port, in the city, with the old immigrant churches cheek-by-jowl, all gorgeously decorated. A fair number of people keep up the custom of visiting churches through the night. Once, in St. Adalbert's, at 10 o'clock in a nearly empty church, four strangers walked in, lined up in the back, sounded a pitch pipe, and proceeded to perform a Renaissance motet. The effect was eerie and magnificent. Then they walked out.

Some good Good Fridays there as well. I remember Fr. Moriarity, the jolly, garrulous Irish priest at Nativity, silent for once and prostrate in the center aisle of the cavernous stone church. One year I went downtown to St. Mark's Episcopal. That was a liturgical workout. Very long service, with the Passion chanted in a peculiar, rhythmic style. Sort of a Church English, like Old Slavonic, maybe. I don't much like Good Friday at my current parish. Too many kids, for one thing, I don't much like the whole post-Vatican II service. Not much goes on and there's a lot of standing in line. Maybe that's why I often feel thoroughly exhausted and righteously holy at the end.

What I do like at St. Thomas is the Easter Vigil. Our reserved, intellectual Fr. Williams stands in the sanctuary and sings the Exultet to us. Could there be anything more thoroughly pastoral? The Resurrection announced by our own shepherd, the gift of faith transmitted personally. Better than the Mormon Tabernacle Choir in full throat.

The music of belief. I'd rather hear "Were You There?" sung by a group of believers than the St. Matthew Passion with a cast of arteestes. One Good Friday at St. John the Evangelist in center city, I marveled at the throng of movers and shakers at worship and had an epiphany similar to the one Annie Dillard describes, commenting on a Presbyterian communion service in An American Childhood: People really believe this stuff.

Their faith moves me forward.

Small Victories

So we had the basement waterproofed. That was ten days ago. After they cut away the drywall, they found a leak in a water supply line. At first, I admit, I thought they must have busted it with those jackhammers they were using. But it was way up, just under the kitchen floor. When they finished installing the system, they rigged a trash bag to direct the drips into the drain. The system works great--I think it's quite spiffy, actually. But that leak--it was coming down behind the wall, only three feet from where I thought water was seeping in. Could I have mistaken it for a rising water table? Did I just spend four thousand dollars to fix a drippy pipe joint? Only time would tell, once the pipe was repaired.

Which was done on Tuesday. Wednesday night my wife came home from work and remarked how dry the outlet gutter was. (She was trying to compliment me for taking care of the leak.) I awoke at four a.m., worried about money. Why is it so damn hard to make one's economic way? Why am I so stupid as to buy an whole, completely unnecessary waterproofing system? But I went out once it was light, and there it was--a beautiful puddle of water, shimmering in the sun.

Should I invest so much emotion in such trivialities? I can't seem to help it. But it doesn't bother me as much to be bothered. Bothers can be small builders of wisdom. As I've gotten older, and especially since I've gotten married, I've sort of given myself up to them. Imagine if I had children, all the "trivial" problems I would have to solve. So...they're probably not that trivial. The daily and domestic really do form us. Didn't the Church Fathers say we encapsulate all of salvation history within us? We all must deal with our personal Egypts. James V. Schall says our lives are "theologically dramatic." I smile at my feelings of triumph at this small victory, but I am also reminded, once again, to trust, to learn, and not to feel so desperate when things seem dark.

With My Wife on Retreat

Where There Are No Rooms for Married Couples

Please bless us, Lord, your simple pair,
Who seek our spirits' resting here,
Two flesh in one apart tonight,
Protect us both from harm or fright.

Protect this house, this gentle school,
Help us to keep its holy rule;
It teaches love by keeping us apart,
A wholesome tearing, heart from heart.

Though you are some way down the hall,
It's really not that far at all,
And all around these sacred places
God's love descends and fills with graces.

Someday sick or dead or dying,
We will in separate beds be lying;
But know, my dear, in that dark hell,
God's love and grace are there as well.