February 26: Allie's Dead, in Heaven, Saint Gabriel of Our Lady of Sorrows

"I like Allie," I said.  "And I like doing what I'm doing right now.  Sitting here with you, and talking, and thinking about stuff, and--"

"Allie's dead--You always say that!  If somebody's dead and everything, and in Heaven, then it isn't really--"

Holden is arguing with his sister, Phoebe.  She's challenged him to name one thing he likes a lot.  Holden struggles to answer her, begins thinking of one of his classmates from school, James Castle, who jumped from a window to avoid a group of bullies.  He thinks of how quiet Castle was, how nobody would go near him as he lay on the steps where he landed.  And then Holden answers Phoebe.

Holden wasn't really friends with James Castle.  Holden loaned him a turtleneck sweater, the same sweater he was wearing when he leaped to his death.  That's Holden's strongest memory of his classmate, seeing him sprawled on the stairs.  Then Holden thinks of his dead brother, Allie.  Memories of Allie bring Holden pleasure.  At the end of the book, it's Allie Holden invokes to protect him as he's having his breakdown.  Holden recognizes the power of innocence, especially innocence cut short.

February 27 is the feast day of Saint Gabriel of Our Lady of Sorrows, whose life was cut short.  As a young boy in Assisi, Francis (his given name), was popular with his fellow students and teachers at the Jesuit College in Spoleto.  He loved literature and the arts.  As a youth, he was "miraculously cured from two bouts of illness."  This experience led him to the religious life.  He entered the Passionist Institute and took on the name "Gabriel."  He died at age 24 of tuberculosis in 1862.

Gabriel's story doesn't end there, however.  After his death, miracles began occurring at his tomb.  One girl was healed of pulmonary tuberculosis and periostitus, and a boy was cured of an inoperable hernia.  Gabriels tomb and monastic house have become shrines in his memory.  He is known as the patron saint of clerics and youth.

Gabriel is a saint Holden could get into.  Still really a child when he died, Gabriel is like Allie and James Castle.  Always young and innocent, untouched by adult worries and cares.  Holden sees the world of adults as corrupt, disingenuous, phony.  He sees the world of children as care-free, true, and pure.

Last night, I wanted to kill my four-year-old son.  I was trying to undress him for his bath.  He started punching and kicking me.  Then, as I was carrying him to his time-out corner, he bit my arm hard enough to break skin.  When I put him in that corner, I said, very quietly, "do...not...move...from...here," and I walked away from him.  If I had stayed by him, I'm afraid would have cut my son's innocence short on the spot.

After ten minutes of crying, shouting, and weeping (not mine, my son's), I went back to him.  He was a puddle on the floor.  I stood him up and told him I loved him a lot, but, I said, "You really hurt daddy."  He started gulping sobs, reached out, and put his arms around my neck.

It was a strong, good hug.  A loving hug.  A healing hug.  It was a hug Holden and Saint Gabriel would have appreciated.  Full of real innocence and love.

Saint Marty's son survived the night .  Barely.

Saint Gabriel's Death

February 27: Saint Gabriel of Our Lady of Sorrows

Being a parent is a terrifying job. My daughter has had enough emotional baggage placed on her shoulders to fill the hold of the Titanic (and we all know what happened there, James Cameron notwithstanding). I often joke that I'm not starting a college fund for her; I'm starting a therapy fund. My son is only sixteen months, still old enough to absorb such parental mistakes as strained peas and pureed beef, but young enough to have a fighting chance. My daughter is nine years old, however, and past the point of no return.

The first six months of my daughter's life, my wife spent days in bed, shades drawn, with just enough energy to fish out a breast when our daughter got hungry. Some nights I'd come home and find them in the dark bedroom, the air filled with the smell of sour milk. Yet, my daughter was a happy baby, always full of smiles. She continued that trend, accepting the ups and downs of the past nine years with the grace and maturity of ... Well, a comparison doesn't readily come to mind, because a majority of the adults I know accept change about as well as I do, and that isn't saying much.

My daughter is another story. She spent one Easter Sunday visiting her mother on the psychiatric ward. She's gone camping for a couple of days and come back home to find that her mother no longer lived there. She's also had me clinging on to her like a piece of driftwood when the barge of my life hit an iceberg. (Again with the Titanic imagery. I swear I haven't been listening to the greatest hits of Celine Dion while I write.) I'm a crabass when I come home from work sometimes, and my daughter has become a pretty good barometer of my emotional state. If I start railing about unwashed dishes or unmade beds or baths no taken, she will look at me with her dark eyes and say "Did you have a bad day at work?" or, even, worse, "Why are you being so mean?"

I don't know how my daughter has managed and still manages to be the happiest and most grounded person in our household. (Don't get me wrong. She can have her tantrums. I once drove to her ballet class with her screaming in the backseat "I want a puppy!" over and over for the entire twenty minute trip. I was seeing halos around street lights and had developed a tic by the time we arrived at the dance studio.) Perhaps she handles upheaval so well because, for the most part, that's all she's really known. The only constant she's had is change. I know that's a bit of a cliche, but think about it. An adult has a longer time to develop strong, sometimes unhealthy attachments to lifestyles. If you're in a fifteen-year relationship with someone and it ends abruptly, that's your cue to reach for the ativan and a cocktail. If your whole life has been only five or six years long, your mommy moving out may simply mean that you get the bigger bedroom. It's a glass half-full, half-empty thing, and my daughter is definitely a half-full kind of girl.

She still believes in Santa Claus and the tooth fairy (or she's hedging her bets). She still thinks I can draw better than Walt Disney. She still likes me to read to her at night. And she still says her prayers without wondering if Jesus is really listening to her.

Gabriel of Our Lady of Sorrows is, among other things, the patron of youth. He was only 24 when he died of tuberculosis in 1862. During his life, however, he had a wild, good time. He liked girls and literature and dancing and theater. He was almost shot by a stray bullet during a hunting trip. He also, according to my research, miraculously survived two, near-fatal illnesses, one a nasty throat abscess. While he was sick, he promised God he would become a priest if he recovered. (If you've ever been severely hungover, you understand this impulse. I've made similar promises: "God, if you get me through this, I will never drink again, and I'll go to confession every day, twice on Sundays!") Of course, like any kid, once Gabriel was healthy, he forgot these promises because he had a date with a zaftig pig herder, a cute pizza waitress, or a pouty sheep castrater. God has an irritating way of not giving up, however. God keeps knocking on your door until you open it.

Gabriel's brother, Paul, died. His brother, Lawrence, committed suicide. His sister, Mary Louisa, died during a cholera epidemic. Eventually, Gabriel answered the door and joined the Passionist Institute. He died before he was ordained, but attained "a heroic degree of sanctity by a life of self-denial and great devotion."

Okay, self denial and devotion. I am forty-something years old, and I panic if I don't know what I'm having for dinner when I wake up in the morning (pigs in a blanket, if you're interested). My daughter, however, could get out of school this afternoon and discover that our house was blown away to Oz by a twister. Her only response would be, "Could I have chicken nuggets?" Gabriel would have much the same reaction, I suspect. It's all about picking up, moving on, and trusting that God's on your side.

Perhaps I just need to take a few lessons from my daughter and Gabriel. I shouldn't sweat about how bad a father I am, how much I've screwed up my kids' lives. I should just roll with whatever comes my way and have faith.

When life gives you lemons, scream for a puppy.