Anywhere but the hospital

My parish's men's choir sang at another parish across town this past Sunday. Monsignor William Kerr was celebrating. Great pastor, great confessor, great homilist. International scholar and diplomat. He was my parents' pastor about 35 years ago, I think. Tells a story about his diaconate year, the archbishop had 11 assignments for the deacons, ten in parishes, one in a hospital. Deacon Kerr said, "Lord, anywhere but the hospital." Of course, he got the hospital. First week (I think) of his internship, he was on the burn unit--without the attending chaplain, who was sick.

A 19-year-old burn patient wouldn't leave the hospital alive and knew it. He told the deacon, "I wanted to be a priest, but I know I can't; I'm going to offer up my suffering for your priesthood." And he did--spent his dying days without crying or screaming, but offering up his pain for the future Father Kerr. Monsignor says not a day goes by he doesn't ask Michael Anderson (the burn victim) to pray for him.

Some beautiful words about the Good Shepherd laying down his life for the flock. Let us pray. And then (real time here, 12:15pm last Sunday), Monsignor has a stroke.

Paramedics arrive in minutes. He is out the door (waving to the choir) on a stretcher before we can finish two decades.

You're getting all this, right? Begins and ends in a hospital? Laying down your life for the sheep? Offering it up? Good Shepherd Sunday?

Please pray for Monsignor, this was a hemorrhagic stroke, the bad kind (like there's a good kind). He is in stable but guarded condition. Mary, Mother of priests, pray for him. St Jean Vianney, pray for him. Michael Anderson, pray for him.

Stop living in your head

This is amazing stuff. I confess I don't understand the philosophy nor did I live the history, but Goldman's story resonated with me. My reversion to Catholicism after 20 years in self-righteous Evangelicalism (not that Evangelicalism is intrinsically self-righteous, just my practice of it), with my own background in classical music, echoes Goldman's return to his childhood Judaism.

This is a gem: “To approach the sacred, Jewish tradition admonishes, is both exalting and dangerous, and it is less frightening to look for the sacred in Mozart’s sonatas than on Mt. Sinai.” For me, it was the masses of Victoria and Byrd rather than Golgotha. As with Goldman, my supposed intellectual arguments against my cradle Catholicism were really cowardice wrapped in words.

And his climax ("I prayed my way into thinking") reminds me of the 12-Step mantra, “I can’t think my way into right acting, but I can act my way into right thinking.” Just so. It took an addiction to knock me off my intellectual high horse, and a lot of really earthy 12-Step meetings to make me a better Catholic (or one for the first time, perhaps). Goldman was undone by a musical score--a Jew gets out of his head, and into his heart, through Bach.

Scapular tip to Crunchy Con.

From fog to blog

We interrupt this self-absorbed silence for a self-absorbed blog post. Things are going extraordinarily well, and I intend to blog about that soon. I am emerging from the fog. Perhaps I should have blogged more from the fog itself, but it is what it is.

At the extreme risk of co-opting another’s grief, I feel compelled to comment on the passing of Michael Dubruiel. I was deeply moved by his death. Though I have never met Michael or Amy, I have been touched by their writing (both online and in book form), and by their lives (which, while necessarily lived out loud to a great extent, nonetheless are possessed of strong boundaries—something I am still trying to figure out for myself).

But I am touched most by the loss experienced by their sons, so very young. And by that damned picture.

There is something in the man with SSA (and I aim to blog about that with a vengeance soon), at least one who faces his pain in earnestness, which yearns for a father’s touch to heal the wounds in his heart. So I feel for their sons, because I know something of being orphaned, at least emotionally. Yet—here’s the wickedly self-absorbed part—I envy them, because while this loss is horribly early, horribly sudden, they at least know their daddy loved them—still loves them, and still prays for them, I believe.

I am lonely fairly often. But I have tried something a little different this week. As I have prayed for the Dubruiel family, I have (not much, once or twice maybe) offered up that loneliness in prayer for the boys. It has helped me a little. I have faith it may help them. Gazillions of folks in the blogosphere have prayed for Michael’s soul, as well we should, but I suspect he is praying hardest, for his wife and sons. Not to canonize the man, as though I could, he’s only human. But if I may be so bold (speaking of myself), it is perhaps the wounded who recognize health best, the deformed who behold beauty most.

So, memory eternal, Michael. As a native Tallahasseean and FSU alum, I bleed garnet and gold (no, I can’t name any of this year’s starting line, shut up). But I wore my one orange-and-blue article of clothing (hint: not visible in public) yesterday. I’ll be a Gator for a day in Michael’s honor.

UPDATE: Amy posts about euthus, perhaps the most striking display of Christian grief, and discipleship, I have encountered.

Fay Is Done

I'm here, possums. I overcame my OCD enough not to post anything for July.

Tropical Storm Fay has finally left us. My area of town was remarkably spared, only constant rain. Many homes were without power for two days or more, some may still be for all I know. The main drag on the east side was ripped up and will not be passable for another week or so. Twenty inches of rain. Two fatalities in rural areas--a utilities worker hit by a falling tree, and the drowning death of a 12-year-old...who was on a swim team.

I guess I was not really aware of all that was going on. Saturday, the day after the worst rain, my part of town was quite passable, and I had many errands to run, so I did so. It's surprisingly easy to get your tires rotated during a hurricane. It was quite apocalyptic on the roads, no one was around. I drove downtown for confession, and my dear 80-year-old Irish priest was sitting in the dark. The Blessed Sacrament had been reposed from the Perpetual Adoration chapel until after vigil Mass. The Savior has left the building.

As always, I have much in mind to post. For now, I will share this. The pun in the title of this post comes from a poem I just found, "The Day Is Done," by Longfellow. I almost never read poetry, but Kendall posted a stanza of this, and I looked up the whole thing and was quite moved by it. Truly ineffable. It speaks to me of friendship, and pain, and art.

The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,
That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

Thank you to my friends who lend the beauty of their voices to the rhyme (certainly not reason) of my life, and who fill my nights with music.

Random recovery thoughts

Being in recovery means your closest companions are as messed up as you pretended not to be for 20 years. And so are you.

Three things of which I am convinced there is an inexhaustible supply:
1) Denial
2) My weakness
3) God's mercy

They say when you break a leg, you feel the pain, but when you have a heart attack, you become the pain. I'm having a spiritual heart attack. But I am thankful I know the Great Physician.

Thanks for the prayers, y'all.

Mercy is for the weak

When I had gastric-bypass surgery some eight months ago, I had many expectations. I expected to lose a great deal of weight. I expected to feel better physically, and to feel more confident about myself. I expected it to be difficult. All of the above expectations were met.

What I didn't expect was that some eight months later, I would be spending four or five nights a week in 12-Step meetings saying, "my name is Frank, and I'm an addict." And I certainly didn't expect to find as much freedom as I have in making that declaration.

I knew I was an overeater. And overeating is about using food in the wrong way, not about weight; skinny people can be overeaters, and obese people can have control over their eating habits. What I didn't know was what kinds of pain I was medicating with food (and I am still learning that), and what other addictions would be uncovered when my eating habits were forcibly changed. The prurient may try to guess what my other substances are, and they will likely be both right and wrong. Some of my meetings are even "substance-blind" (I think I just made that up) because ultimately it doesn't really matter what one's drug of choice is.

But something happened a few weeks ago. I found the grace to realize my life was completely out of control. In the words of Step One, I was powerless over my addictions, and my life had become unmanageable.

So I drank the recovery Kool-Aid.

God broke down my pride, and my rationalizing and denial. Admitting I needed help from anyone was difficult. But I made things harder by complaining that the recovery programs available to me were (variously) "too Protestant," "too Charismatic," or "too secular." The largest Christian recovery program in town is run by a Methodist church. But I also have "back-up" in generic 12-Step groups (where many attenders are Christian, some Catholic, though others are more undefined about their "Higher Power").

There is nothing I am learning or practicing that is in conflict with Catholic teaching. I am no less in love with being Catholic than I was before. The first place I take my "searching and fearless moral inventory" (Step Four) is in my examination of conscience prior to receiving the Sacrament of Reconciliation. Improving my "conscious contact with God" (Step Eleven) comes through the Rosary, the Liturgy of the Hours, and receiving Christ--Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity--in Holy Communion.

But admitting I don't have all the answers means...admitting I don't have all the answers. I have walked into rooms full of Christian people, many of whom I know from the various Protestant churches I once attended, and I have seen amazing transformations happen. The same thing is beginning in my life.

I have also learned, somewhat coterminously with my recovery journey, that my Catholicism is a gift (the Sacraments, all of Sacred Tradition, etc) that God has given me. And gifts are not meant to be used to beat people over the head. One rejoices in them, receives them with open arms and heart, thanks the Giver, and tells others how wonderful the gift and Giver are. And I have had more than a few opportunities to tell my brothers and sisters in recovery about the treasures of the (One, Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic) Church, because they are what "works" for me. But I have also learned that one of my addictions is religion (in the worst sense of that word--and there are very good senses of it).

It has taken a bunch of Protestants (and a pagan or two) to make me a better Catholic. And I am thankful for that, too.

Today's concert was glorious. One of the biggest musical challenges and triumphs I have had. Singing Father Victoria's masterwork is a religious experience no matter what the environment. But for the foreseeable future, I have cleared my calendar of anything not directly related to my recovery. I have asked to postpone my Secular Franciscan profession at least until the fall. I am not able to give my heart to profession or fraternity life right now. I am doubting whether the SFO is God's will for me at all, as it became an area of pride for me. But I am seeking to discern God's will in all things, including this, and will continue to do so, by God's grace. I have asked for the prayers of the fraternity and told them of my addictions.

But He said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." I will all the more gladly boast of my weaknesses, that the power of Christ may rest upon me. For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities; for when I am weak, then I am strong. (II Corinthians 12:9-10, RSV-CE)

I am weak--powerless, in fact. Mercy is indeed for the weak. Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.

P8 is 15, and equally mature

I don't know where all the time is going. I keep ditching things from my schedule, and suddenly more things pop up. Still having blog ennui, clearly.

I have lost 125 pounds so far, a week short of eight months post-op. I have hit many milestones recently. There's a number called your EBW, or Excess Body Weight, how far you are above the insurance tables. My surgeon considers losing 50% of your EBW a "good" result, and 70% to be "excellent". I am now "excellent"! I have indeed hit my age-15 weight as well.

I still have a list of links a mile long to comment on, but that will wait for now. Just a few quick updates on me. I went with some guys from my parish and another to a Catholic Men's Conference in the Diocese of St Augustine (the next one over). There were 1150 men there, about 1000 from that diocese--in fact, one parish had 200 men registered! Scott Hahn was the keynote speaker. I met Dr. Hahn at break and told him the two biggest reasons for my return to the Catholic Church were him and Danny Garland. His eyes opened real wide and he told me Danny was picking him up at the airport that night (which I guessed anyway). I got him to sign a couple of books; Mark, one is on the way to you!

Sitting here listening to the Officium Defunctorum of Tomas Luis de Victoria in preparation for a concert next month. One of my musicology professors from FSU (yes, there is such a field) is retiring, and alumni of one of the early-music ensembles he created are singing a portion of the work at a concert in his honor in May. He's conducting his own Requiem, actually. The ensemble was some of the hardest music I sang 17 years ago, and they've raised the bar quite a bit since. These people breathe air way above my musical pay grade.

My SFO profession is scheduled for June 14. I had hoped to make it on May 20, the feast of St Bernardino, and the second anniversary of my return to the Catholic Church, but the chapel wasn't available that night. So we're having the profession at our June fraternity meeting. I am very excited, and humbled.

OK, I haven't shared this publicly before, but I'm in a mood to be snarky and contentious. I commemorated my first anniversary last year by burning my Protestant ordination certificates. Sorry, it felt good.

And tomorrow is one of my patron's special days, the Feast of St Joseph the Worker. You can read about it in the second paragraph here.

Be blessed, y'all.

P8

P8 is 16 (April Fool's post)

OK, this post is an April Fool's joke on so many levels. First of all, I'm back-dating it to yesterday, because I'm just OBSESSIVE enough to loathe the fact that I went an entire month without posting, and I can't stand not having a "March 2008" category in my archives.

I got a flu virus the week of 10 March and was off work all week--that never happens. Then, the week of 17 March, I got a secondary (upper-respiratory) infection and started on antibiotics. Then, by 27 March it hadn't gone away, so I am in the middle of a second course of antibiotics (after a chest x-ray--new experience--demonstrated I didn't have pneumonia) and just now beginning to feel normal again. We delayed my mother's birthday celebration two weeks because she had the flu-followed-by-URI cycle, too.

But I'm now back at the gym, and whether due to flu or continued perseverance in high-protein-and-exercise, I am now down a total of 118 pounds. I weigh approximately what I did at age 16--though let me hasten to add the pounds are not proportioned as they were 22 years ago! The sad thing is I am still 59 pounds above what the insurance tables say I should weigh, though my doctor thinks half that amount is a solid goal.

I have a raft of links and things to post on as usual, but I must get to bed at a decent hour (heck, it's yesterday, anyway). Maybe this weekend. Unlike last year, I made it to none of the Triduum services, only 7:30am Easter Mass with the Men's Choir. I also have a wedding to sing in this weekend--as if the concept of being a wedding "cantor" isn't bad enough, the bride wanted copious amounts of HAUGEN-HAAS. Only Catholic liturgical snobs will understand my pain. Glad there are confessions after the wedding.

I'll be back for real One of These Days.

P8 is 38

While this blog is over two years old now (and this is my 200th post), its owner turns 38 tomorrow. Proving the Lord truly works in mysterious ways, I spent the Eve of my Nativity cleaning my car and my house!

Speaking of birthdays, my uber-cool bishop celebrates his 17th birthday this Friday. You'll get it in a minute.

Since I have started something of a tradition in posting an annual birthday poem (here and here), I shall continue. Previous entries have been English and light-hearted. This year, I am going with English and somber, in keeping with Lent, memento mori, yadda yadda. But it quite captures my frame of mind right now.

A Hymn to God the Father - John Donne

Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun,
Which is my sin, though it were done before?
Wilt thou forgive that sin through which I run,
And do run still, though still I do deplore?
When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
For I have more.

Wilt thou forgive that sin by which I have won
Others to sin? and made my sin their door?
Wilt thou forgive that sin which I did shun
A year or two, but wallowed in a score?
When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
For I have more.

I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun
My last thread, I shall perish on the shore;
Swear by thyself, that at my death thy Son
Shall shine as he shines now and heretofore;
And, having done that, thou hast done,
I fear no more.

There is no fear in love (I John 4:18). May all of us know the breadth and length and height and depth of the love of Christ (Eph 3:14-21) this Lent and beyond.

Ash Wednesday varia

Wow, I've been gone a while.

The large news is that I am smaller still. Today is 5 months post-op and I have lost 103 pounds, by God's grace. It's unfathomable. We are not our bodies, but we can't change our bodies this drastically and not go through amazing changes emotionally and spiritually. I am about 8 pounds above high-school graduation. I am still losing, and hope to continue for a while.

Grateful today is not a Holy Day of Obligation, since my car is dead. My mechanic is fixing it Monday night. Starting tomorrow, I am borrowing a truck belonging to some Jewish friends. It has bumper stickers in Yiddish. I told them I would put a "Pray the Rosary" sticker next to them. I get to drive the Jewish truck to Mass Sunday, which should be fun.

Links for all the peeps:

Mark sent links to "True Male Friendship" (Parts I and II) from Baptist blogger Dustin Benge. OK, sorry for the snark, Mark (heh), but you had to expect it. Dustin is good, but Tony Esolen said it better. And a Baptist quoting Augustine? How can these things be?

The SheepCat sent "Beware of 'Gentlemen'" by Fr. Paul Scalia. Fr. Scalia was one of our retreat directors in Connecticut (and a mean quarterback in the Courage Bowl). Oh, good grief, I haven't even blogged about the retreat.

Amy shares something which is "Irrelevant," but really means everything. After hearing the Gospel (Jesus calling Peter and Andrew) at Mass that weekend, a friend (one of few I call "brother") e-mailed me and said he had a vision of the two of us going out and wreaking havoc for the Kingdom. Then I read Amy's piece. It's rare that hearing about a homily moves me to tears. But clearly this ancient priest's life was as much a homily as his words.

Two thousand years pass, but still, brothers listen, say yes, and cast their nets.

And they come back full.

May I be such a brother. May I be so irrelevant.