June 18: "Oxygen," Great Commission, Father's Day

Mary Oliver tends the fire . . .

Oxygen

by:  Mary Oliver

Everything needs it:  bone, muscles, and even,

while it calls the earth its home, the soul.

So the merciful, noisy machine

stands in our house working away in its

lung-like voice.  I hear it as I kneel 

before the fire, stirring with a

stick of iron, letting the logs

lie more loosely.  You, in the upstairs room,

are in your usual position, leaning on your

right shoulder which aches

all day.  You are breathing

patiently; it is a

beautiful sound.  It is

your life, which is so close

to my own that I would not know

where to drop the knife of

separation.  And what does this have to do

with love, except

everything?  Now the fire rises

and offers a dozen, singing, deep-red

roses of flame.  Then it settles

to quietude, or maybe gratitude, as it feeds

as we all do, as we must, upon the invisible gift:

our purest, sweet necessity:  the air.

Everything on this planet needs oxygen in some way.  It's the element that binds us all together, fueling life and love and fire and finches.  In the time I have typed these words, I have taken exactly 12 breaths.  Twelve bites of oxygen to keep this machine of lungs and blood and muscles and bones running.  

Of course, as Oliver points out, the soul (if you believe in souls) doesn't require oxygen to continue to exist.  But, for the time that the soul is tied to this world, it uses the body as its Millennium Falcon, its Enterprise.  And oxygen is the coaxium or dilithium crystals (depending on your sci fi universe of choice) that powers the body.

I've been thinking a lot about the soul today, for some reason.  Today is Father's Day in the United States, 24 hours set aside to honor fathers and father figures.  I attended two church services this morning, and the sermons were all about Christ sending his disciples out into the world to spread the good news.  In Biblical terms, it's called the Great Commission.  Gathering souls for God.

My dad forced me to go to church when I was young.  It wasn't a choice.  We were expected to attend Mass every weekend.  (For the most part, I followed this edict, except for a couple years of rebellion in my late teens, when I attended the Church of Burger King every Sunday, instead.)  For a long time, as well, my father forced my siblings and me to recite the rosary after dinner.  After the dishes were cleared off the table and the food put away, we all got on our knees and prayed.

In a way, I suppose, my dad was doing his part for the Great Commission.  Teaching my siblings and me how to live good, devout lives.  Of course, as children are wont to do, we all followed our own paths.  None of us have turned our backs on God, but none of us get down on our knees every day to recite the rosary, either.

Through my whole life, the lessons I learned from my parents have guided my actions as an adult and husband and father.  I am the person I am today because I was raised by two loving individuals.  I might not have liked all of my father's beliefs or ideas, but I always knew that I was loved.  That was the oxygen of my family.

I have tried to be the oxygen for my kids.  My daughter taught me how to be a father.  My son taught me how to be a father unconditionally, no matter what.  You see, I spent a lot of time as a teenager and young adult wondering if my dad really even liked me because I was so different from all of my brothers and sisters.  And I voted for Michael Dukakis in my first U. S. presidential election.

I think that both my kids know that I love them without question.  That I'm proud of the young people they've become.  My job as their dad is to keep that fire burning brightly for the rest of my life.  That is a child's sweetest necessity.  That is a father's Great Commission--to be that oxygen.

Saint Marty has a poem for this Father's Day:

My Son’s Cars

by:  Martin Achatz

When I read to my son, he runs
from me, as if I’m a hungry lion,
he, a well-fed Christian condemned
by Nero. I have never played with green
soldiers, refuse to buy toy guns or darts,
still have my daughter’s old dolls
in the toy chest. My son obsesses over
cars, matchbox tractors, helicopters tiny
as frogs. I don’t know where he learned
this hunger, if it somehow mutated
from some Neanderthal gene, hairy,
full of mammoth hunts, stone wheels.
He sits on the floor, growls, makes sounds
of rusty mufflers, truck engines stuck
in pools of swamp mud. I listen,
watch him shove cars across hardwood,
think of my father, the plumber, hunter,
car guy, in the front row for Our Town
when I was in high school. He watched me
the way he watches the Super Bowl
every year, as if his life depends on
his team bringing home the Vince Lombardi
Trophy. I took my bow, looked at my father,
standing, clapping, maybe understanding
Thornton Wilder’s words about how
we all go through life, ignorant of
toast mothers make for breakfast,
grass fathers mow on summer nights,
our daily acts of devotion, sacrifices
we make without even thinking.
I will sit in stadium bleachers
if my son joins the football team.
I will buy popcorn, cheer, stomp.
I will do this for him, not quite
comprehending the rules of his game,
the mechanics of toy cars pushed
straight through the walls of my heart.

March 22: The Fish Jumped, School Musical, Cult of Oprah

Santiago finally gets what he's been waiting for . . .

He woke with the jerk of his right fist coming up against his face and the line burning out through his right hand. He had no feeling of his left hand but he braked all he could with his right and the line rushed out. Finally his left hand found the line and he leaned back against the line and now it burned his back and his left hand, and his left hand was taking all the strain and cutting badly. He looked back at the coils of line and they were feeding smoothly. Just then the fish jumped making a great bursting of the ocean and then a heavy fall. Then he jumped again and again and the boat was going fast although line was still racing out and the old man was raising the strain to breaking point and raising it to breaking point again and again. He had been pulled down tight onto the bow and his face was in the cut slice of dolphin and he could not move.

This is what we waited for, he thought. So now let us take it.

Make him pay for the line, he thought. Make him pay for it.

He could not see the fish's jumps but only heard the breaking of the ocean and the heavy splash as he fell. The speed of the line was cutting his hands badly but he had always known this would happen and he tried to keep the cutting across the calloused parts and not let the line slip into the palm nor cut the fingers.

If the boy was here he would wet the coils of line, he thought. Yes. If the boy were here. If the boy were here.

Everyone has things they wait for.  Books from Amazon.  Birthdays.  Christmas time.  Summer vacation.  I do it all the time.  I try not to look too far into the future anymore, though, and I try to keep my list fairly small.  Large lists, with huge life goals, are for people who follow the cult of Oprah.  Me?  My list of things I'm waiting for includes pizza on Saturday night.  A nap.  A beer with a friend every week or so.  (Yes, I still dream about Pulitzer and Nobel Prizes, but I'm not going to commit to a time frame on those.)

Today, my son performed in his school musical.  Schoolhouse Rock.  He had one of the lead parts, and he was fantastic.  Animated and funny.  After the second performance, I spoke with the director who has been a friend of mine for over 25 years.  Without prompting, he started praising my son, saying something like, "This was a really good way to end my career."  (My friend is fully retiring at the end of this school year.)

So, there you have it.  That's my big fish jumping today.  My son, at a microphone in a spotlight, hamming it up.

Saint Marty has no idea where he gets that from.

And a Lenten poem . . . 

My Son’s Cars

by:  Martin Achatz

When I read to my son, he runs
From me, as if I’m a hungry lion,
He, a well-fed Christian condemned
By Nero. I have never played with green
Soldiers, refuse to buy toy guns or darts,
Still have my daughter’s old dolls
In the toy chest. My son obsesses over
Cars, matchbox tractors, helicopters tiny
As frogs. I don’t know where he learned
This hunger, if it somehow mutated
From some Neanderthal gene, hairy,
Full of mammoth hunts, stone wheels.
He sits on the floor, growls, makes sounds
Of rusty mufflers, truck engines stuck
In pools of swamp mud. I listen,
Watch him shove cars across hardwood,
Think of my father, the plumber, hunter,
Car guy, in the front row for Our Town
When I was in high school. He watched me
The way he watches the Super Bowl
Every year, as if his life depends on
His team bringing home the Vince Lombardi
Trophy. I took my bow, looked at my father,
Standing, clapping, maybe understanding
Thornton Wilder’s words about how
We all go through life, ignorant of
Toast mothers make for breakfast,
Grass fathers mow on summer nights,
Our daily acts of devotion, sacrifices
We make without even thinking.
I will sit in stadium bleachers
If my son joins the football team.
I will buy popcorn, cheer, stomp.
I will do this for him, not quite
Comprehending the rules of his game,
The mechanics of toy cars pushed
Straight through the walls of my heart.

February 20: My Son Dance, Filled With Joy, "My Son's Cars"

Tonight, I watched my son dance.  He wasn't the best dancer in the class.  Or the most flexible.  His turns made me dizzy just watching him.  Sometimes, he simply stood in the middle of the room and did the Macarena.  He did it really well, though.

My son was filled with joy, and that filled me with joy.  He really loved what he was doing.

That's all that Saint Marty wishes for his kids, every day of their lives.

My Son’s Cars

by:  Martin Achatz

When I read to my son, he runs

From me, as if I’m a hungry lion,

He, a well-fed Christian condemned

By Nero.  I have never played with green

Soldiers, refuse to buy toy guns or darts,

Still have my daughter’s old dolls

In the toy chest.  My son obsesses over

Cars, matchbox tractors, helicopters tiny

As frogs.  I don’t know where he learned

This hunger, if it somehow mutated

From some Neanderthal gene, hairy,

Full of mammoth hunts, stone wheels.

He sits on the floor, growls, makes sounds

Of rusty mufflers, truck engines stuck

In pools of swamp mud.  I listen,

Watch him shove cars across hardwood,

Think of my father, the plumber, hunter,

Car guy, in the front row for Our Town

When I was in high school.  He watched me

The way he watches the Super Bowl

Every year, as if his life depends on

His team bringing home the Vince Lombardi

Trophy.  I took my bow, looked at my father,

Standing, clapping, maybe understanding

Thornton Wilder’s words about how

We all go through life, ignorant of

Toast mothers make for breakfast,

Grass fathers mow on summer nights,

Our daily acts of devotion, sacrifices

We make without even thinking.

I will sit in stadium bleachers

If my son joins the football team.

I will buy popcorn, cheer, stomp.

I will do this for him, not quite 

Comprehending the rules of his game,

The mechanics of toy cars pushed

Straight through the walls of my heart.