June 29: Saint Peter, Fishing, Dinner

One of today's feast saints is Peter, disciple and one of the most flawed men in the whole Jesus narrative.  I mean, he argues with Jesus, denies Jesus (three times!), and hides in fear after Jesus' crucifixion.  Peter's faith was far from perfect, that's for sure.  He's a man after my own heart.  I mean, if Peter can be that screwed up and still become the first leader of the Christian church, there's still hope for me.

I was pretty hard on myself last night.  If you couldn't tell from yesterday's post, I wasn't in the greatest of moods.  It didn't change when I got home.  I just couldn't shake a sense of...I guess the best word I can come up with is "failure."  I felt like a failure last night.  Some members of my Spiritual Autobiography Workshop didn't show up, so I postponed the session.  Then I started going through a collection of my newest poems, nearly 100 pages of verse.  I didn't like what I read.  I found a couple of typos.  Each poem struck me as trivial, stupid, repetitive.  I finally had to put the binder away.

My daughter helps me

My daughter called me from the trailer park last night.  She was homesick.  At 9:30 p.m., I drove out and picked her up.  When she saw me at the door of the trailer, she wrapped her arms and legs around me, and I carried her to my car.  When she got home, she took a shower, and then we watched an episode of M*A*S*H while she ate a bowl of ravioli.  After she was done eating, she sat next to me, holding my hand.  My daughter made me feel loved, cherished, important at the end of a day where I felt small, sad, and a little useless.

Part of the work in the Spiritual Autobiography Workshop is to develop your ability of "noticing."  At our first meeting, I talked with the group members about paying attention, recognizing the evidence of God in your life.  It's a practice that not very many people exercise, including myself.  However, last night, I exercised it.

I was defeated and depressed.  I couldn't even muster enough self-confidence to appreciate my own poetry.  I was just sitting on the coach, wallowing.  Then my daughter called.  Within an hour of being with her. of taking care of her needs, I was feeling God in my life.  My daughter changed my attitude, made me sense God's love.  By loving her, I knew I was loved.

I know that sounds corny, but I've held on to that feeling today.  Of course, by about mid-morning, I started getting phone calls from home.  My daughter and son were screaming at each other.  My daughter somehow managed to completely soak her only pair of shoes.  My daughter had an argument with her best friends.  My daughter wasn't invited to go fishing with her cousins.  Typical ten-year-old kid stuff.  Yet, even those phone calls let me know that I was important, loved.

Tonight, I am meeting my family for dinner.  My wife will be there with my son and daughter.  I will hear the horror stories of the day.  I will hear how my daughter missed using her new tackle box and fishing lures.  (Peter is also the patron saint of fishermen.)  Listening to all the chaos and drama, I will be happy.

Because Saint Marty will be noticing.