It's difficult watching your children do anything where they may be judged as good or bad, whether it's dancing or wrestling or singing or reading. I find myself wanting to punch other parents in the mouth as they sit in the bleachers, screaming at their kids.
I haven't raised either of my kids to be bloodthirsty when it comes to competition. My wife and I always emphasize simply doing the best they can. Unfortunately, a lot of other parents have different values.
I often wonder how Mary and Joseph may have treated Jesus as a child. Wondered whether he was a perfect son, never doing anything wrong, picking up after himself, treating all of his friends with kindness. I mean, in things I've read, it's always emphasized that Christ was fully human and fully divine.
That fully human side interests me. The side that gets angry, overturns tables, whips money changers with ropes. That's something that I can understand. As a writer/poet, I find perfection a little . . . boring. It's imperfections that interest me.
Saint Marty is and always will be a work in progress.
by: Martin Achatz
The Virgin saw the face of God
Daily, took it in her hands,
Saw Eden's requiem in His eyes.
For 33 years, she hoarded the mysteries
of Him in her breast,
Like black pearls.
When He died, she rubbed her fingers
Raw on those dark stones, felt
the bite of His birth,
The salt of His scourging.
Did she pray on those dim gems
For the day when she would see
His face again, unfolding
Like a lightning storm,
A bright gout of love,
In the oyster of her heart?