The weeks went by, and I wrote some more poems, and continued to fast
and keep my Lent. All I prayed was that God should let me know His will
—and, if it pleased Him, there was only one other thing I asked for myself
besides: if I had to go to the army, I begged Him at least to let me make a
retreat with the Trappist monks before I went.
However, the next thing I got from the Draft Board was a notice to
present myself for medical examination before the doctors in Olean.
I had not been expecting things to develop that way, and at first I
interpreted this to mean that my request for consideration as a non-combatant had simply been ignored. There were three days before the
examination, and so I got permission to go down to New York. I thought I
might see the Draft Board and talk to them: but that was not possible. In
any case, it was not necessary.
So the week-end turned out to be a sort of a festival with my friends. I
saw Lax, who was now working for the New Yorker, and had a desk of his
own in a corner of their offices where he wrote letters to pacify the people
who complained about the humor, or the lack of it, in the pages of the magazine. Then we went out to Long Beach and saw Seymour. And then
Seymour and I and Lax all together got in a car and went to Port
Washington and saw Gibney.
The next day was St. Patrick’s Day, and the massed bands of all the boys
and girls in Brooklyn who had never had an ear for music were gathering
under the windows of the New Yorker offices and outside the Gotham Book
Mart. And I, an Englishman, wearing a shamrock which I had bought from
a Jew, went walking around the city, weaving in and out of the crowds, and
thinking up a poem called April, although it was March. It was a fancy
poem about javelins and leopards and lights through trees like arrows and a
line that said: “The little voices of the rivers change.” I thought it up in and
out of the light and the shade of the Forties, between Fifth and Sixth
avenues, and typed it on Lax’s typewriter in the New Yorker office, and
showed it to Mark Van Doren in a subway station.
And Mark said, of the shamrock I was wearing:
“That is the greenest shamrock I have ever seen.”
It was a great St. Patrick’s Day. That night I got on the Erie train, and
since I was so soon, I thought, to go to the army, I paid money to sleep in
the Pullman. Practically the only other Pullman passenger was a sedate
Franciscan nun, who turned out to be going to St. Elizabeth’s: and so we got
off at Olean together and shared a taxi out to Alleghany.
On Monday I prepared to go and be examined for the army. I was the
first one there. I climbed the ancient stairs to the top floor of the Olean City
Hall. I tried the handle of the room marked for the medical board, and the
door opened. I walked in and stood in the empty room. My heart was still
full of the peace of Communion.
Presently the first of the doctors arrived.
“You got here early,” he said, and began to take off his coat and hat.
“We might as well begin,” he said, “the others will be along in a minute.”
So I stripped, and he listened to my chest, and took some blood out of my
arm and put it in a little bottle, in a water-heater, to keep it cosy and warm
for the Wassermann test. And while this was going on, the others were
coming in, two other doctors to do the examining, and lanky young farm
boys to be examined.
“Now,” said my doctor, “let’s see your teeth.”
I opened my mouth.
“Well,” he said, “you’ve certainly had a lot of teeth out!”
And he began to count them.
The doctor who was running the Medical Board was just coming in. My
man got up and went to talk to him. I heard him say:
“Shall we finish the whole examination? I don’t see much point to it.”
The head doctor came over and looked at my mouth.
“Oh, well,” he said, “finish the examination anyway.”
And he sat me down and personally took a crack at my reflexes and went
through all the rest of it. When it was over, and I was ready to get back into
my clothes, I asked:
“What about it, Doctor?”
“Oh, go home,” he said, “you haven’t got enough teeth.”
Once again I walked out into the snowy street.
So they didn’t want me in the army after all, even as a stretcher bearer! The street was full of quiet, full of peace.
And I remembered that it was the Feast of St. Joseph.
Saint Joseph, patron of, among other things, fathers (he was God's stepfather), unborn children (considering what he went through to protect in utero Jesus, not surprising), workers (a carpenter his whole life), immigrants (crossed a desert to Bethlehem, fled to Egypt to protect his family), and a happy death (supposedly, Jesus was at Joseph's bedside when he passed). Joseph surrendered to God's will. Merton is ready to surrender to whatever God has in store for him in this passage. And what God has in store for Merton is a bus ticket back to teaching and the pursuit of a religious life. Because of his bad teeth.
I get surrender. Have done it a lot in my life. Sometimes by choice. Other times, because of metaphorical bad teeth. Free will is a thing that all humans possess. Joseph could have chosen to quietly break off his engagement with Mary and spend the rest of his life making birdhouses. Instead, he gave his life over to something else. That's not easy to do.
Yet, sometimes life doesn't give you many options. You have to accept whatever plate comes out of the kitchen and is put before you, even if you're vegan and the entre is prime rib. In that case, surrender is easy. Because you have no choice. It's when you're faced with a potluck that surrender is more complicated. You can go with the salad, which is better for you. However, the brownie trifle is so much more appealing.
Right now, I'm facing a salad/brownie trifle situation, and I'm not finding the lettuce that appetizing. Not going to get into details, but let me just say that, come fall, I think my life is going to look a lot different.
Yesterday, my sister, Sally, would have been 60 years old. She probably would have retired this year and started planning long road trips with her trailer. But she never got to make that choice. Seven years ago, she died of lymphoma of the brain. It was one of those situations where God didn't give her any options. She got sick. She died. It wasn't a matter of surrender.
Some people hate having options. Some people have no options. And, somehow, we have to trust that God's watching over us. Is present in every decision we make, good or bad. Was with my sister to the end.
Saint Marty is wondering if he can send back his salad. Maybe trade up for a plate of pasta.
And a poem for my sister . . .
On Your 60th Birthday
by: Martin Achatz
This birdsong morning, you have been free
of rib and lung for almost seven years. You've seen
the face of God or disappeared down oblivion's throat.
Soar with seraphim or feed the veins of hungry cedars.
You walk with Saint Francis through Eden's orchards
or sun yourself on the backs of Galapagos turtles.
Mystery doesn't exist where you are now,
or you have become part of mystery. Remember
the first question we learned in catechism?
Who made you? Answer: God made me.
Second question: Who is God? Second answer:
God is the supreme being who made all things.
We recited those words as if they were simple
as vanilla pudding, could be rolled around
on our tongues, swallowed as easy as breath.
Perhaps it is that plain. Perhaps, after your last
sigh, as color drained from the dusk
of your face, the knot of the universe unraveled
before you, you were looking down on me
from some divine glossary page, marveling
at how it was just a matter of footprints.
Heel. Instep. Ball. Toes. You followed
them. Didn't ask where you were going. Trusted.
Ahead of you, right where Bluff Creek
curves and forest takes over, something waited,
hand outstretched, ready to lead you
into the pines. Show you that place
where hosts of blueberries sing
hosannas, loud and round and sweet.
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