August 10: Full-of-Wonder, Rio Olympics, Gold Medal

I didn't know, I never have known, what spirit it is that descends into my lungs and flaps near my heart like an eagle rising.  I named it full-of-wonder, highest good, voices.  I shut my eyes and saw a tree stump hurled by wind, an enormous tree stump sailing sideways across my vision, with a wide circular brim of roots and soil like a tossed top hat.

I think that Dillard is talking about grace here.  That feeling that descends upon a person unexpectedly, lifts the heart like an eagle rising, as she says.  She tries to label it, give it its proper name, but, like most human endeavors, she falls a little short.  So she resorts to metaphor and image.  A force strong enough to uproot a redwood, send it hurtling through space.

I know that I've written about grace many times before.  I think that I keep returning to the subject because grace is so illusive, as Dillard points out.  I've felt it in church at times, when people are lifting their candles on Christmas Eve.  I've felt it reading poetry, when the words flutter in my chest like sheets on a clothesline.  Going down the highway at sunrise or sunset.  Watching my daughter or son sleeping.  The world is full of grace.

Tonight, I'm going to sit down and watch the Rio Olympics.  On the docket tonight, swimming and gymnastics and beach volleyball.  Every two years, I spend over two weeks watching sports.  It's the only time in my life that any athletic event interests me.  Sure, the physical and mental competition is inspiring.  Seeing athletes push themselves to accomplish seemingly impossible acts of strength, speed, and stamina.  But I watch for another reason.

Once or twice a night, a person stands on top of the podium to receive a gold medal.  As the flag rises, and the country's national anthem starts playing, something happens.  I see it in the eyes of the athlete being honored.  The gaze becomes distant, maybe a little teary.  The chest inflates a little.  For a few moments, everything seems to stand still.

I can sort of imagine what's happening.  Years and years of practice and sacrifice.  Time away from family and friends.  Maybe missed birthdays and anniversaries.  Skipped high school proms and graduations.  And hours and hours on the track, in the pool, on a bicycle, whatever.  It all comes down to these few seconds.  And the moment, I think, is full of a kind of grace and thankfulness.

I will never win an Olympic gold medal, take first place in the Boston Marathon, or throw a touchdown in the Super Bowl.

But Saint Marty recognizes an eagle rising, highest good, full-of-wonder moment.

April 16: Concern for Your Future, Boston, Saint Apollonius

"Do you feel absolutely no concern for your future, boy?"

"Oh, I feel some concern for my future, all right.  Sure.  Sure, I do."  I thought about it for a minute.  "But not too much, I guess.  Not too much, I guess."

Old Spencer tries to get Holden to think about his future at the beginning of the book.  Holden, however, has very little interest in what his teacher has to say.  Like most teenagers, Holden regards the future as some kind of foreign land he will never have to visit.  He doesn't think of himself as a grown man.  He thinks of himself as the catcher in the rye, saving children who are about to fall off the cliff into adulthood.

I've been thinking about the future a lot since yesterday afternoon, when I first heard the news of the bombings at the Boston Marathon.  Last night, my twelve-year-old daughter looked at me and said, "Why would anyone do that, daddy?"  And I had no good answer for her.  I sort of feel like Holden right now.  I want to catch my daughter before she falls off the cliff into a world where bombs kill people on street corners.  Residents of the Middle East deal with this reality every day of their lives.  The world is full of terrible, frightening people.

I tried to make my daughter feel safe.  I tried to calm her worry.  I tried to make her not fear the future.  I'm not sure I succeeded.  I think I said something like, "There's a lot of crazy people out there, sweetie, who want to hurt others.  But there are a lot more good people in the world, who want to keep you safe and happy."  It was the best I could do last night, when hope was in short supply in my heart.

Saint Apollonius, whose feast day is April 21, was condemned to death for being a Christian.  Before being martyred, he had a few words to say to the Roman Senate about the future and hope:  "We have hastened to honor [Jesus] because we have learned lofty commandments from Him. . . . Yet if it were a delusion (as you assert) which tells us that there is a judgment after death and a reward of virtue at the resurrection, and that God is the Judge, we would gladly be carried away by such a lie as that, which has taught us to lead good lives awaiting the hope of the future even while suffering adversities."

To face a present filled with bombs and senseless death, there has to be a future filled with hope for forgiveness, salvation, and love.

That's what Saint Marty should have said to his daughter last night.

There has to be hope...