March 17: Desolation and Emptiness and Abandonment, Loss, "Nearer, My God, to Thee"

Things getting real for young Thomas Merton . . .

Then the artificiality of the business dawned on me and I went home.  Father said to me:  "What's this I hear about you chasing after girls at your age?"  After that life became very serious, and a few weeks later I put on my new blue uniform and went off to the Lycee.

Although by this time I knew French quite well, the first day in the big, gravelled yard, when I was surrounded by those fierce, cat-like little faces, dark and morose, and looked into those score of pairs of glittering and hostile eyes, I forgot every word, and could hardly answer the furious questions that were put to me.  And my stupidity only irritated them all the more.  They began to kick me, and to pull and twist my ears, and push me around, and shout various kinds of insults.  I learned a great deal of obscenity and blasphemy in the first few days, simply by being the direct or indirect object of so much of it.

After this everybody accepted me and became quite friendly and pleasant, once they were used to my pale, blue-eyed, and seemingly stupid English face.  Nevertheless, when I lay awake at night in the huge dark dormitory and listened to the snoring of the little animals all around me, and heard through the darkness and the emptiness of the night the far screaming of the trains, or the mad iron cry of a bugle in a casserne of Senegalese troops, I knew for the first time in my life the pangs of desolation and emptiness and abandonment.

Desolation and emptiness and abandonment.  Seems like the young Merton is going through a little dark night of the soul here.  He feels friendless and alone at the Lycee, abused physically and mentally.  He is lost.

Over the last couple weeks, I've experienced all kinds of loss.  The loss of my ability to see my students face-to-face in a classroom.  Or to go out and buy simple essential household items like toilet paper or cheese or hamburger.  In fact, every excursion into a public place now kindles in me a little dread.  That's loss of comfort and safety, if you're keeping track.

Today, however, I experienced a loss that hit me very hard.  The Bishop of the Catholic Diocese of Marquette cancelled all weekend Masses, from now until April 5.  For most of my adult life, since around the age of 17, worship and Mass have been a constant part of my Saturdays and Sundays.  Aside from an occasional weekend away, I've been on an organ bench every Saturday since I graduated from high school.

When I went to church to clean this evening, I had a really heavy heart.  This pandemic has sort of stripped away everything that I hold dear.  And now, it sort of felt like God was packing up and leaving, as well.  The predictions are all dire--death rates that could top out at 5%.  If you do the math, there are 7.53 billion people in the world.  That means, close to 376,500 people will die before this conronavirus is over and done.

So, at church tonight, I dusted the pews and altar.  I emptied the garbages.  Mopped the marble of the sanctuary floor.  I climbed into the choir loft to dust and collect the garbage, as well.  Then I sat down at the piano in the loft.  I played a song.  "Nearer, My God, to Thee."  The same song that the musicians played on the deck of the sinking Titanic.  I played variations of it.  In the end, I held the last notes, let them roll through the church until they faded away under my fingertips.

It's difficult to see God in all of this.  I know He's there, but I just don't understand His will right now.  It's not divine punishment.  It's senseless death of the young and old and sick.  Where is God in that?

Playing that song felt right tonight, as if I was on the deck of a sinking ship:

Then, with my waking thoughts
Bright with Thy praise,
Out of my stony griefs
Bethel I’ll raise,
So by my woes to be
Nearer, my God, to Thee,
Nearer, my God, to Thee,

Nearer to Thee.

Saint Marty is trying to feel nearer.

September 14: Fusillade, Icebergs, Finding Joy

The Heart of Gold crew are still under attack from some overly sensitive space cops . . .

Ford's eyes popped halfway out of their sockets.  "Who are these guys?" he said.

"Dunno," said Zaphod, "I think I preferred it when they were shooting."

"So are you going to come quietly," shouted one of the cops again, "or are you going to let us blast you out?"

"Which would you prefer?" shouted Ford.

A millisecond later the air about them started to fry again, as bolt after bolt of Kill-O-Zap hurled itself into the computer bank in front of them.

The fusillade continued for several seconds at unbearable intensity.

When it stopped, there were a few seconds of near-quietness as the echoes died away.

"You still there?" called one of the cops.

"Yes," they called back.

"We didn't enjoy doing that at all," shouted the other cop.

"We could tell," shouted Ford.

Life seems to throw things at you like a fusillade of Kill-O-Zap bolts sometimes.  In my experience, I've have long periods of wonderful status quo followed by bolt after bolt of change and chaos and heartbreak.  (Don't worry, I'm not launching into one of my posts that require large dosages of anti-depressants at the end.  Keep reading.)  I'm sure I'm not alone in this cycle of happiness/calm followed by upheaval/struggle followed by happiness/calm.  That's sort of the way the universe works.  For example, we had eight good years of steady, strong leadership in the United States, followed by three years of Trump.  Yes, I went there.

If I met you today, and you told me that your life has been perfect forever, that you've never experienced a day of struggle and pain, I would call you a liar.  We're all in the same boat here.  At times, that boat is taking on water and you have to put on your life vest.  Other times, that boat is anchored in a coral bay of white sand, and there's an open buffet on the lido deck.  That's the way life works.

How you deal with the crises that come your way is what differentiates one person from the other.  When the iceberg shows up, are you going to get in the lifeboat line, run around screaming, or sit and listen to the musicians play "Nearer My God to Thee" as the ship goes down?  When the ocean is calm, temperatures warm, sky cloudless, are you going to count your blessings, look for a better ship with better parties, or stand lookout for icebergs on the horizon?  It's all a matter of choice.

I can honestly say that, at times, I've done all of those things.  I've sat in lifeboats, and I've stuffed myself at the buffet.  I've run around screaming like Chicken Little, and I've counted my blessings.  I've abandoned ship in the morning, and sat down and played "Nearer My God to Thee" in the evening.  It all depends on the day, my state of mind, and the circumstances.

I don't think that it's healthy simply to go through life preparing for the next iceberg.  Doing that ensures that you will never be happy.  Your life will just be a series of Titanics.  On the other hand, simply stuffing free crab cakes into your mouth and dancing to the Abba tribute band every day is not a good choice, either.  Life isn't always a series of parties.

I am the result of hundreds of hours of therapy.  I say that flippantly, but it is true.  In my life, I have done my fair share of time on couches, talking to counselors and psychologists.  It's what has kept me afloat in my life storms.  One of the biggest lessons I've learned is this:  one day at a time.  It doesn't help to constantly rehash old pains and hurts, unless it's to understand present pains and hurts.  And it doesn't help to worry about future pains and hurts, because they will overshadow your present life.

So, I take things one day at a time.  I try to not worry about what's going to happen tomorrow, and I try to let go of yesterday.  Now, I'm not saying that you should go out and spend all the money in your retirement account on that Corvette you've always dreamed of owning.  No.  That would be foolish.  However, making yourself (and everybody else around you) miserable because, in five years, you may be diagnosed with some kind of expensively catastrophic illness is foolish, as well.  You will never experience joy.  Ever.

It's Saturday.  I didn't have to rush off to work at 5 a.m.  I haven't received any death threats from bill collectors.  Nobody has kidnapped my kids.  My wife is unwell, but she has medication that will, hopefully, help her to feel better.  I'm on a diet that is making me feel better about myself.  That is my list of today's joys.

Saint Marty hopes everyone has joy today in their lives.

December 3: Changed His Life, Love, Fear

[E. B. White] was thinking a lot about love.  He agonized about what it meant and how it had changed his life and how it might change it more in the future.  Change always frightened him, even when it was thrilling, and the uneasy blend of fear and excitement was almost overwhelming him now...

I think I am a lot like E. B. White.  White wasn't impulsive.  He didn't court adventure in his life.  He was a thinker.  When he fell in love, got married, became a father, he had to meditate on it.  Put it in terms that he understood.  He wrote about his complex feelings.  Often, he hid behind animal characters, like pet dogs and birds.  He seemed to understand the world better if he viewed it through the eyes of a winged or four-legged or eight-legged creature.


This week, I have been struggling to make sense of a loss.  Every time I step foot in the English Department, I'm overwhelmed by sadness.  I still see people crying in the halls, in offices.  It's as if this place has hit an iceberg and is taking on icy water.  I can almost hear a string quartet playing "Nearer My God to Thee."  This change isn't easy.  It's like floating in the middle of the Atlantic in a life raft, waiting for a rescue ship.

That may sound melodramatic, but that's the best analogy I can come up with tonight.  This afternoon, as I was working in the medical office, a man stepped through the office door.  He was a salesman from a drug company.  I saw him out of the corner of my eye, and I stopped what I was doing.  Froze.  I experienced a moment of disconnect from reality, because I actually thought my friend Ray was standing at the counter, looking at me.  In a very faint way, he resembled Ray.  And, for the briefest of moments, I felt like Ray was there with me.

Of course, this all has to do with my state of mind.  How my thoughts have been dwelling on Ray since Thanksgiving.  I was walking to my car last night, and I thought I heard Ray's laugh behind me.  I turned around and saw a crow sitting on top of a snow bank.  That's it.  I know I have to snap out of this blue funk.  Ray certainly wouldn't appreciate being the cause of so much grief and heartbreak.  He'd be telling jokes and stories, making people laugh.

Like E. B. White, I am uncomfortable with change.  All change.  Change through loss.  Change through love.  Change through fear.  I don't like change.  If I were White, I'd probably be writing this post in the voice of a goldfish named Eugene who'd recently lost his friend, another goldfish named Albert.  It's a way of making sense of a senseless situation.  I think all writers do this.  In the face of difficult or confusing emotions, writers turn to words.  Characters.  Stories.  Poems.  Essays.  It's a way to put the universe back into some kind of order.

The stars are realigning.  A new normal will soon be established.  I'd like to believe everything happens for a reason.  Something good will flower somehow after a long, bleak, cold winter.

Saint Marty holds onto that hope.

Don't abandon hope, all ye who enter here

May 29: New Confessions of Saint Marty, Turkey Dinner

Well, you'll have to forgive me if the cartoon today doesn't look as good as the other ones.  I had to scan the images by myself after getting a crash course last night from my sister.  I think I did everything correctly, but the proof will be in the post.

Had a great morning of worship at church.  We had a string quartet playing "Nearer My God to Thee."  It was beautiful.  We also played some good music with the band.  This afternoon, we're having a deep-fried turkey with all the fixings.  Looking forward to that.  It's a slow day.  I don't know where my son is.  He went for a ride this morning with my sister, and I haven't seen him since.

Well, I'm going to cut this one a little short.  I promise something a little meatier tomorrow, even if it's a recipe for a chicken pot pie.

Saint Marty, looking forward to some turkey.

Confessions of Saint Marty