June 3: Cole, A Miracle, "Dedicated"

Tonight, I'm writing about a young man whose whole life has been a miracle.

"Cole" is the nephew of one of my best friends.  He has had health struggles his entire life.  Born with a severe form of cerebral palsy, he has grown and thrived because of love.  In his young life, he has undergone over two dozen surgeries.  Without words, he communicates.  Without the ability to walk, he never slows down.  He is the anchor of his family, holding them steady with the light of his smiles.

Today, Cole was brought to the emergency room of our local hospital because he told his mother that his lungs were burning, and he was struggling for breath.  After many tests, the doctors sent him home, because his family already has a ventilator to place him on.  He's in his own bed now, surrounded by everyone who has nurtured and cared for him.  They are awaiting the results of a Covid-19 test.

I don't have to ask for a miracle for Cole.  Cole is a miracle.  What I'm asking for tonight are prayers and love for Cole.  Lift him up to whatever higher power you believe in.  Yahweh.  Jesus.  Buddha.  Mohammed.  God.  Science.  Ask for healing.  Ask for strength.  Ask for the universe to smile down on him, the way he's smiled up at the universe his whole life.  I want everyone who reads this post to be a miracle for Cole.

When my nephew, Caden, was dedicated at church as an infant, I wrote a poem for him and his parents.  I'm including that poem tonight, this time for my best friend's nephew, whose whole life has been dedicated to love.

And for that Saint Marty gives thanks.

Dedicated

by:  Martin Achatz

My daughter draws roses

Crowned with valentines,

Stems long, leafy, without thorns.

She hands me a sheet of them,

A garden bright as Christmas lights,

Cardinal red, finch gold, jay blue.

I put the picture in a book, know

Tomorrow, when I open it to read,

My daughter’s flock of blossoms

Will take flight, fill the air

With the slap of crayon hearts.

Christ, as a child, scooped clay

From the ground, molded it

Into a bird, a wren

The size of a date.  He brought

His creation to Mary and Joseph,

Caged in His ant fingers,

Released it before them.

They watched it rise into saffron

Sky, disappear like the frost of breath.

Perhaps that’s when they truly knew

He didn’t belong to them.

I want to keep my daughter’s roses

Locked deep in the bed of my chest

Where they’ll flutter like trapped sparrows.

But I have to let them go.

They don’t belong to me.

They belong to the grass, the clouds,

The pigeon-white moon,

The bright palm of the sun.

July 25: Nagging Little Problems, the Meaning of Life, a Miracle

Some more about Deep Thought's answer to the Big Question . . .

A man standing on a brightly dressed dais before the building which clearly dominated the square was addressing the crowd over a tannoy.

"O people who wait in the shadow of Deep Thought!" he cried out.  "Honored Descendants of Vroomfondel and Majikthise, the Greatest and Most Truly Interesting Pundits the Universe has ever known, the Time of Waiting is over!"

Wild cheers broke out among the crowd.  Flags, streamers and wolf whistles sailed through the air.  The narrower streets looked rather like centipedes rolled over on their backs and frantically waving their legs in the air.

"Seven and a half million years our race has waited for this Great and Hopefully Enlightening Day!" cried the cheerleader.  "The Day of Answer!"

Hurrahs burst from the ecstatic crowd.

"Never again," cried the man, "never again will we wake up in the morning and think Who am I?  What is my purpose in life?  Does it really, cosmically speaking matter if I don't get up and go to work?  For today we will finally learn once and for all the plain and simple answer to all these nagging little problems of Life, the Universe and Everything!"

The Honored Descendants of Vroomfondel and Majikthise are gathered to find out the meaning of the universe from Deep Thought, the stupendous super computer that has been working on the answer for seven and a half million years.  Of course, Douglas Adams is providing satire and parody here.  He's making fun of philosophers and "deep thinkers" everywhere.

The most serious part of this satire is that all of this race of beings is looking to a machine to provide purpose and guidance and happiness in their lives.  Of course, that is not going to happen.  I could pose the question to Google, "What is the meaning of life?"  Here is one of the answers I will get:

Life has different definition in the eyes of different people. ... For many life is all about love. For a few, life is all about religious practices. For philosophers like Aristotle life is about happiness: "Happiness is the meaning and the purpose of life, the whole aim and end of human existence."

So, that isn't necessarily a definitive answer.  It's simply an overview of several philosophical and religious and cultural responses.  Those responses weren't created by Google.  They were compiled by Google.

Last night, I spoke about the current financial circumstance my wife and I find ourselves in at the moment.  No money to get groceries.  Bills we can't pay.  I was feeling pretty desperate.  I simply was at the end of my rope.  I had no answers.  I had no where to turn.

After I published that post, I said a prayer.  Gave all my worries and problems to God.  I couldn't think of anything else to do.  Then, I went home, heated up a frozen pastie, made an omelet with the last four eggs in my house, and I fed my daughter and her boyfriend.

Then I received a whole lot of grace.  I'm not going into any details, but, by about ten o'clock last night, our cupboards and refrigerator were full.  God sent some angels our way, and I am so humbled by this act of love and generosity for me and my family.

You know, it's really easy to look at the state of the world and be really cynical about the human race.  Then, God steps in and does what He does best--restores your faith.  I want to thank those angels who helped us out so much yesterday.  They made a miracle happen last night.  I went from feeling alone and desperate to loved and hopeful.

We're not out of the woods yet.  The credit union turned down our loan application this afternoon.  Still trying to figure out how to pay a pile of bills.  As I said last night, it has a whole lot to do with the lack of a paycheck from the university over the summer.  And a few other things that I had no control over.  It's a little frightening being this powerless.

However, last night proved to me that God is on my side.  I place these worries and problems in His hands tonight, because that's all I can do.

Saint Marty learned last night that God really does listen to prayer.  And angels are right around the corner.  That is the real meaning of life, the universe, and everything.

July 14: Eerie Shadows, Teeth Grinding, Adrienne Su, "Antidepressant"

...One night, while working late, Ives, in his fatigue, staggered out to Madison Avenue:  for as far as he could see, the office buildings were casting eerie shadows, and he felt the world a lonely and dreadful place.  He often awoke with a gasp in the middle of the night, his heartbeat accelerated, his breathing shallow, his heart filled with sadness, his head with memory.

After his son is killed, Ives has trouble sleeping.  Nightmares.  Scratching his arms and legs bloody.  And sadness, tremendous sadness.  Ives feels cheated.  His son, his good and devout son, has been taken away from him.  God hasn't played fair.

Some news from the University of Michigan this morning:  the brain biopsy has confirmed that my sister has lymphoma of the brain.  The neurologist and oncologist are discussing treatment options, including chemotherapy and radiation.  The question is whether or not my sister can survive the treatments.

Recently, I've been having trouble sleeping.  I wake up in the morning, and my jaw hurts.  I've never been a teeth grinder before.  This summer, I'm worried that I'm going to fracture my molars or bicuspids or canines.  I went to the dentist a little over a month-and-a-half ago.  He confirmed the grinding and told me to take ibuprofen and not chew with my back teeth.  For a while, that did the trick.  The last couple of weeks, however, have been a test, and my mouth is failing.

Of course, it's all about stress, and I feel stupid complaining about sore teeth when my sister is fighting for her life.  Like Ives, I don't think God is playing fair.  My sister deserves better.  I will put up with some cracked teeth if my sister will live to see my son graduate from high school.

Saint Marty doesn't need Zoloft.  He needs a miracle for his sister.

Antidepressant

by:  Adrienne Su

The purple pill rattles
out of its bottle,

makes my hands therefore my pen
shake, cloaks me in thirteen

layers of delusionary fur,
stunts my walk, and blurs

each stark moment so it won't
be so stark.  At last I don't

know what time it is
sometimes.  I like this

effect all right, although
I'm still sad.  Night goes

too fast, bringing sun,
whose brash light comes

unwanted into each crevice
of the apartment.  This

could be a matter of life
circumstance and pills might

be the wrong fix, but I know
things won't change if I go

to Spain or take up fencing.
I'd be the same wincing

Adrienne, only armed
or in Spain.  What harm

in staying by the window
to think, wish, swallow

pellets of hope, and not eat?
I'm not unrequited, don't need

company, haven't lost friend
or family.  I just tend

to be a sick plant,
and no antidepressant

can shield me from the sun's
burning; leaves drop one

by one to the sill.  I'll win
my war yet.  My angel isn't

dead, just lost on the moon
or snowed in, gone but soon

to come, nudged out of sight
by another sleep's night.

I like it sprinkled on my Cheerios in the morning

December 8: Grading, Poet Laureate, "Web" Dip

I'm sorry to say that I don't have time to do a more considered post this evening.  I have a ton of grading to complete for the end of the semester.  However, I did want to take a minute to do a quick Web dip.

Tonight's question:

Will I be named the next U. P. Poet Laureate?

And Charlotte says:

"You don't suppose that that spider . . ." began Mr. Zuckerman--but he shook his head and didn't finish the sentence.  Instead, he walked solemnly back to the house and spoke to his wife.  "Edith, something has happened," he said, in a weak voice.  He went into the living room and sat down, and Mrs. Zuckerman followed.

So, Mr. Zuckerman is about to break the news of Charlotte's miracle to his wife.  Maybe that means that a little miracle is headed Saint Marty's way.

How about "Some Poet"?

VOTE FOR ME FOR U. P. POET LAUREATE (voting ends of December 31, 2014):

U. P. Poet Laureate Voting 

December 19: Ed Banky, a Car, and Mechanics

Ed Banky was the basketball coach at Pencey.  Old Stradlater was one of his pets, because he was the center on the team, and Ed Banky always let him borrow his car when he wanted it.  It wasn't allowed for students to borrow faculty guys' cars, but all the athletic bastards stuck together.  In every school I've gone to, all the athletic bastards stick together.

I'm not really going to write about Ed Banky or athletic bastards.  I'll save my thoughts about school athletics for another post.  The reason I chose the above passage from Catcher is that it's the only one I could find that dealt specifically with a car, and that's the real subject of my first post this evening.

I dropped my car off at the dealership this morning for an oil change.  This is the same dealership that told me about four months ago that my vehicle needed about a $1500 repair.  Something about wheel bearings or a wobbly wheel.  The mechanic led me to believe that my tires could lock up and I could die in a ball of fire at any moment.  Or something like that.  It wasn't good.  So, when I left my car at the garage at 5 a.m., I wasn't expecting good news.  To be honest, I was expecting my car to be condemned.

Imagine my surprise when, at about 10 a.m., I got a phone call from "Buck" at the dealership.

"Yeah, I just wanted to let you know that we did the oil change," Buck said.

"And?" I said and held my breath.

"Everything looks great," Buck said.  "We'll have it parked outside when you come for it."

I stood there in shock for a couple of seconds.  "Really?" I said.

"Yup," Buck said, "you're good to go."

When I hung up the phone, I said a little thank you prayer.  And then I got a little mad.  How did my car go from being a road hazard to a "good to go"?  I didn't do anything to it.  I didn't get it fixed.  Yet, it miraculously healed itself.  Or the mechanic was lying to me at my last checkup in order to get me to pay for an expensive repair my car didn't need.  Take your pick.

I'm going to believe in the miracle, because it's Christmas and miracles are supposed to happen.

Saint Marty will save his piece of mind about shady dealership mechanics for another post.

My car's a little better than this