June 18: Father's Day, Classic Saint Marty, "Pie Jesu"

Happy Father's Day to everyone.

I have had a fairly relaxing day, as Father's Days go.  I went to church this morning.  Dropped my daughter off at Bible camp this afternoon.  I just spent an hour or so grading some papers.  Now, I am blogging.  Nothing really out of the ordinary, except releasing my daughter into the woods of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan to learn a few things about God.

I'm not a guy who likes surprises, if you haven't figured that out yet.  This has been a good Father's Day because it was a run-of-the-mill Sunday for me.  I got a card from my sister.  I have a gift to open up from my kids when I get home.  Later tonight, I will watch one of my favorite movies.  I haven't decided which one.  Probably something a little sad. 

Today's episode of Classic Saint Marty first aired on Father's Day four years ago.  Another run-of-the-mill Sunday in June . . .

June 14, 2014:  Saint Vitus's Dance, Recitals, New Poem, "Pie Jesu"

"What kind of acrobat do you think I am?" said Charlotte in disgust.  "I would have to have St. Vitus's Dance to weave a word like that into my web."

Charlotte's reference to St. Vitus pretty much defines my weekend.  St. Vitus is the patron saint of dancers, and today, June 15, is his feast day.  My whole weekend has been dedicated to dance.  I spent all Saturday in a dark auditorium, watching my daughter rehearse for her dance recital.  Saturday night, my daughter danced.  This afternoon, my daughter danced.  Tonight, her feet are sore, and she's a cranky teenager.  But she, and my son, danced and made their father very happy on Father's Day weekend.


I know I'm not a normal dad.  I don't watch football on TV.  I could care less who wins the Stanley Cup.  I don't go fishing.  Can't stand to touch worms or fish.  I don't restore old cars, and I don't have a bunch of woodworking tools in my backyard.

I like dance.  And foreign films.  500-page novels.  Art exhibits.  Musicals.  Poetry.  It is Father's Day night, and, as a treat, I'm watching Midnight in Paris.  I'm not normal.  I'm waiting to see if my son ever realizes his father is from another planet.  Right now, he just thinks I'm really funny.  I'll take that.  It's better than being an embarrassment.  That time will come when he's a teenager.

Last night, when I got home from the dance recital, I sat down with my journal and finished my Father's Day poem for church.  All the pieces sort of fell together for me.  I simply stepped out of the way and let the poem finally emerge.  I started writing at 11 p.m. and finished around 1:30 a.m.  I went to bed very satisfied.

I read my poem this morning during the worship service at church.  It was, of course, dedicated to fathers and father figures.  I read the poem, and then my cohorts in the praise band sang Andrew Lloyd Webber's Pie Jesu.  By the time the music was over, there wasn't a dry eye in the church.  The pastor had to stand at the lectern for about twenty seconds to compose himself.

I'm not sure if all that means that my poem is any good, but I do think that the Holy Spirit was really present in church this morning.  I could almost see the tongues of fire.

Saint Marty was blessed this weekend.

Pie Jesu

by:  Martin Achatz

At my brother's funeral,
my father made sounds
I'd never heard him
make before.  Ancient sounds.
Meteor smashing into Earth
sounds, shifting the planet
from brachiosaurus to Ice Age.
Noah loading up the ark
sounds, the heavens a black
boil of rain, mud, tsunami.
Vesuvius opening above Pompeii
sounds, a highway of magma
rolling over house, dog, mother, suckling child.
Abraham on the mountain
sounds, his son climbing like an ibex
ahead of him, higher and higher,
to that stone altar.  Sacrifice
is a part of the deal, giving
up something precious.
The last piece of pizza or
a night of sleep or
a grandfather's watch or
the marrow of your bone.
My father worked twelve-hour
days, fixed toilets, faucets,
unplugged plugged sewers.
His hands, hard as permafrost,
could tear Detroit phone books in half.
Yet, when he had to let go
of my brother, my father broke.
He sat next to me, made sounds
like a charging mammoth,
drowning lion.  Like an old man
asked to give up his last breath.
I think he was waiting, like Abraham,
to hear the whisper of angel wing
in his ear, singing Pie Jesu.
Lord, have mercy.

August 30: Sister's Funeral, Eulogy, New Poem, "Strawberry Picking"

My sister's funeral was this afternoon.  It was not without its share of family drama.  In the end, no blood was shed, and everybody was well-fed and happy at the end.  You will forgive me if I am not witty or profound this afternoon.  I was up until about 2 a.m. finishing my eulogy and poem.  It is now after 7 p.m., and I am practically comatose.  The only blessing is that I don't have to work tomorrow.  Or the next day.  Or the next.  For the next five days, all I have to do is create lesson plans and teach.  Basically, I'll be living the life of a tenured full-timer.  No jumping jobs in the middle of the day.  No late nights at the medical office.  Basically, I will have a normal existence for the next week.

The funeral was beautiful.  My sister's best friend, Lydia, gave a moving eulogy with a Nightingale tribute.  My sister was a nurse for 32 years. And then I gave my eulogy and recited my poem.  My friends sang the "Pie Jesu" by Andrew Lloyd Webber and "I Have a Dream" by ABBA.  At the end of the Mass, I turned to Lydia and said, "I think Sal would have been happy."  Lydia hugged me and said, "Sal is happy."

So, I am exhausted.  When I got to the church, I cried.  When Lydia showed up, I cried.  When I gave my eulogy, I cried.  When my friends sang, I cried.  When I ate my stuffed shells, I cried (they were really hot).  When I got home and saw the rum my wife's cousin dropped off for me, I cried.

Saint Marty misses his sister a lot.  Or he's pregnant.

Strawberry Picking

for Sally

You took me strawberry picking
once, drove out to a farm
where we paid to squat in green
beds laced with tongues of red.
I could feel my ears and neck
tighten under the punishing
sun as we filled Morning Glory
ice cream buckets with our
harvest, each berry looking to me
like some vital body part,
an organ or muscle necessary
for life.  You sat on your haunches,
fingers staining red, as if you
were some battlefield surgeon
patching up the fallen with only
your hands.  Every now and then,
you would lift a berry to your lips,
eat it in a hummingbird moment,
smiling the smile of the freshly
healed at Lourdes, where miracles
are common as empty wheelchairs
or dandelions in a July field.

The days since you've been gone,
I see strawberries everywhere,
in a welt of blood on my lip
after shaving, a stop sign,
a friend's dyed hair,
my son's sunburned shoulders,
oxygen in the gills of a perch.
Last night, I stood outside, under
ribbons of borealis, watched
them glide between the stars
like garter snakes in a midnight
Eden.  The Bible says that, in the cool
of the day, Adam and Eve heard
God taking a stroll through
the garden.  There were probably
peacocks nesting in the pines,
a stream talking with moss and stone,
the scurry of mole and spider
in the ferns.

That's what I believe you heard
in your last moments of breath.
You heard peafowl screams,
brook trout leaps.  Grasshopper wing
and corn silk.  And you heard
His divine toes in the grass, walking
along.  When He came to you,
He couldn't resist.  He reached down,
plucked you from the stem.  You were
ripe.  Sweet.  Ready.  He put you
in His Morning Glory bucket, continued
on into the dew and sunlight.

June 15: St. Vitus's Dance, Recitals, New Poem, "Pie Jesu"

"What kind of acrobat do you think I am?" said Charlotte in disgust.  "I would have to have St. Vitus's Dance to weave a word like that into my web."

Charlotte's reference to St. Vitus pretty much defines my weekend.  St. Vitus is the patron saint of dancers, and today, June 15, is his feast day.  My whole weekend has been dedicated to dance.  I spent all Saturday in a dark auditorium, watching my daughter rehearse for her dance recital.  Saturday night, my daughter danced.  This afternoon, my daughter danced.  Tonight, her feet are sore, and she's a cranky teenager.  But she, and my son, danced and made their father very happy on Father's Day weekend.

I know I'm not a normal dad.  I don't watch football on TV.  I could care less who wins the Stanley Cup.  I don't go fishing.  Can't stand to touch worms or fish.  I don't restore old cars, and I don't have a bunch of woodworking tools in my backyard.

I like dance.  And foreign films.  500-page novels.  Art exhibits.  Musicals.  Poetry.  It is Father's Day night, and, as a treat, I'm watching Midnight in Paris.  I'm not normal.  I'm waiting to see if my son ever realizes his father is from another planet.  Right now, he just thinks I'm really funny.  I'll take that.  It's better than being an embarrassment.  That time will come when he's a teenager.

Last night, when I got home from the dance recital, I sat down with my journal and finished my Father's Day poem for church.  All the pieces sort of fell together for me.  I simply stepped out of the way and let the poem finally emerge.  I started writing at 11 p.m. and finished around 1:30 a.m.  I went to bed very satisfied.

I read my poem this morning during the worship service at church.  It was, of course, dedicated to fathers and father figures.  I read the poem, and then my cohorts in the praise band sang Andrew Lloyd Webber's Pie Jesu.  By the time the music was over, there wasn't a dry eye in the church.  The pastor had to stand at the lectern for about twenty seconds to compose himself.

I'm not sure if all that means that my poem is any good, but I do think that the Holy Spirit was really present in church this morning.  I could almost see the tongues of fire.

Saint Marty was blessed this weekend.

Pie Jesu

At my brother's funeral,
my father made sounds
I'd never heard him
make before.  Ancient sounds.
Meteor smashing into Earth
sounds, shifting the planet
from brachiosaurus to Ice Age.
Noah loading up the ark
sounds, the heavens a black
boil of rain, mud, tsunami.
Vesuvius opening above Pompeii
sounds, a highway of magma
rolling over house, dog, mother, suckling child.
Abraham on the mountain
sounds, his son climbing like an ibex
ahead of him, higher and higher,
to that stone altar.  Sacrifice
is a part of the deal, giving
up something precious.
The last piece of pizza or
a night of sleep or
a grandfather's watch or
the marrow of your bone.
My father worked twelve-hour
days, fixed toilets, faucets,
unplugged plugged sewers.
His hands, hard as permafrost,
could tear Detroit phone books in half.
Yet, when he had to let go
of my brother, my father broke.
He sat next to me, made sounds
like a charging mammoth,
drowning lion.  Like an old man
asked to give up his last breath.
I think he was waiting, like Abraham,
to hear the whisper of angel wing
in his ear, singing Pie Jesu.
Lord, have mercy.