April 14: Sunlit Detail, Grand Rapids, Nostalgia

All these things I saw.  Scenes grew in depth and sunlit detail before my eyes, and were replaced by ever more scenes, as I remembered the life of my time with increasing feeling.

Dillard is talking about memory.  Remembering the sunlit times of her life.  In paragraphs before and after the above passage, she writes of oceans and space and France.  Things from her past.  She's flooded with nostalgia, thinking about a former place or time in her life.  With nostalgia comes a certain degree of sadness, as well.  Dillard is walking a tightrope.  Above, moon and stars.  Below, canyon and darkness.

First, I apologize for my absence these last two days.  It was my mid-week blogging pause to lesson plan and grade and teach.  By the time I get home after class on Wednesday night, I am usually brain dead.  It takes much energy to engage a classroom full of 25 undergraduates between the ages of 18 and 23.  Last night, I had enough gumption to order a pizza, eat it with my wife and daughter, and then stumble off to bed.

This weekend, I will be traveling to Grand Rapids with my family.  My daughter has a dance competition.  We will be leaving tomorrow morning.  It's about a six- or seven-hour drive, depending on the number of stops we make.  The members of our Grand Rapids landing party include myself, my wife and son and daughter, my sister, and my daughter's boyfriend.  By tomorrow night at this time, I will probably be throwing my son into a swimming pool or eating McDonald's food in a room at the Ramada Inn.

On my way home from work this evening, I stopped to visit my sister's grave.  I drive by the cemetery almost every day, and sometimes I just experience this urge to turn into the entrance gates.  Tonight, I stayed there about ten or fifteen minutes, talking, telling my sister about the trip, work, school.  I told her about her godson (my son), and how he is now sporting a Mohawk haircut.  And I told her about my daughter and her boyfriend.  My sister would have liked him.

Yes, like Dillard, I indulged myself in a little nostalgia.  Happiness and sadness.  I know that grieving is a process.  Healing takes a lot of time.  It has been almost eight months since my sister's death.  It was sunny and warm in the cemetery this afternoon.  All the snow had melted around my sister's headstone.  The metal nameplate on it was warm to the touch. 

I sometimes experience tremendous guilt for convincing my family to discontinue my sister's medical treatment, for bringing her home under hospice care.  It's an irrational feeling.  I know this.  My sister's brain lymphoma was very advanced, the tumor in her head caused a debilitating stroke.  She wasn't opening her eyes, barely responded to questions.  She had suffered a lot and was going to die.

My family had been praying for a miracle.  Our parish priest brought the stole of Bishop Baraga to bless my sister.  Frederick Baraga was declared venerable by Pope Benedict XVI in 2012.  That means that he's two steps away from being declared a saint.   Father Larry placed the stole around my sister's head, anointed her with chrism.  We recited the rosary.

Now, perhaps the miracle my sister received was an end to her pain.  I remember the morning she died.  One of her best friends was standing at the foot of her bed, and, as we prayed, she lifted her arms up, as if she were giving my sister up to God.  It was a gesture that profoundly moved me.  It was shortly after that moment that my sister breathed her last breath.

Yes, grieving is about letting go.  Releasing all the pain and anger and sadness.  Until I give all that up, I'm never going to be able to appreciate what I had with my sister.  The jokes we shared.  The long hours we worked together.  The closeness and trust.

That is what Saint Marty is missing tonight.  Those sunlit details.

March 14: White Smoke, Habemus Papam, Frists

Yes, the papal conclave is at an end.  It concluded yesterday afternoon, around 2 p.m., with white smoke and lots of bells.  I missed the whole announcement and first blessing from the balcony of Saint Peter's Basilica.  I had to teach a class.

However, there's a new guy in white.  He is a cardinal from Argentina.  His name is Jorge Mario Bergoglio, and he's 76 years old.  That means he's only two years younger than Joseph Ratzinger when Ratzinger became Pope Benedict XVI.  Bergoglio is a Jesuit and the first non-European to become Bishop of Rome in over 1600 years.  He's also the first pope from the Americas.

The other first is the name Bergoglio chose:  Pope Francis, in honor of Saint Francis of Assisi.  Of course, everyone is speculating about his name choice.  It could reflect the new pontiff's dedication to battling poverty, since Saint Francis gave up all his worldly possessions and spent the rest of his life ministering to the Italian poor.  It could also reflect his determination to break away from the "old" way of doing things in the Vatican and plot a new course for the future.

Whatever ideology his name reflects, Pope Francis is both  a revolutionary and conservative.  For the reasons mentioned above, he's a revolutionary.  However, he is still pretty reserved in his theology, a product of the papacies and leadership of John Paul II and Benedict XVI.

I'm withholding judgement.  The guy's only been in office less than a day.  I'm going to give him time to figure out where the little pope's room is before I start criticizing or praising him.  In the mean time, "Habemus Papam!"  We have a pope.

And it ain't Pope Bubba I, aka Saint Marty.

The guy who beat me at the conclave

February 11: Pope Benedict Resigns, Pope Bubba I, "Rye" Dip

This morning, Pope Benedict announced that he was resigning from the papacy, effective February 28.  That means that by Easter, there will be a new pontiff.

Of course, Benedict's announcement came as a huge surprise.  A pope hasn't resigned since the Middle Ages.  The press immediately connected the announcement to the priest sex abuse scandals that have been plaguing the Catholic Church.  However, that mess began before Joseph Ratzinger became Pope Benedict XVI.  Nope, I think the reason is much simpler.  As his official statement said, he noticed that his strength had deteriorated over recent months "to the extent that I have had to recognize my incapacity to adequately fulfill the ministry entrusted to me...For this reason, and well aware of the seriousness of this act, with full freedom I declare that I renounce the ministry of Bishop of Rome, Successor of Saint Peter."  To put it simply, he's getting old and tired.

Early this morning, I e-mailed my pastor friend in Roscommon with my decision, and now I'm going to make it official:  I'm declaring my intention to throw my name into the ring.  I intend to be the next Bishop of Rome.  I've even picked out my name:  Pope Bubba I.  Kinda catchy, I think.

Before you snort coffee through your nose, I must point out that the rules don't say you have to be a cardinal or archbishop or bishop to be elected pope.  You don't even have to be a priest.  You just have to be a practicing Catholic male in good standing.  The last time I checked, I meet those requirements.  I'm a Catholic; I go to mass; and I have a penis.

All kidding aside, I sort of admire Benedict for recognizing his diminishing capacity to fulfill the duties of the papal office.  While I'm more liberal in my theological thinking, I think the German Shepherd has done a lot of good in the seven years he's led the Church.

But now it's Pope Bubba's turn.

It is Monday, and so it's time for a Rye Dip.  My question for the Good Book of Salinger is fairly simple:

Will Pope Bubba be celebrating Easter in Vatican City this year?

And the answer from Holden Caulfield and co. is:

..."I expected to see a day-old infant in your arms.  Nowhere to turn.  Snowflakes in your eyelashes."  He's a very witty guy sometimes...

There you have it.  Saint Marty is a very witty guy, defying people's expectations.  Habemus Papam!

Long live Pope Bubba!