February 25, 26, 27: Discernment of Souls, Penalty Box, Remain Positive

Merton discussing some popular sports in his new hometown. . .

Meanwhile, we had made a lot of friends.  I do not know whether it was through the capitalist, Rodolausse, or through the radical-socialist teamster Pierrot, that we got in contact with the local rugby football club, or they with us:  but one of the first things that happened after our arrival was that a delegation from the club, the "Avant-Garde de Saint-Antonin," presented themselves to Father and asked him to become president of the club.  He was English, and therefore he was an expert, they assumed, in every type of sport.  As a matter of fact, he had played rugby for his school in New Zealand.  So he became president of the club, and occasionally refereed their wild games, at the risk of his life.  It was not only that the rules had changed, since his time, but there was a special interpretation of the rules in St. Antonin which no one could discover without a private revelation or the gift of the discernment of souls.  However, he lived through the season.

I used to accompany him and the team to all the games they played away from home, going as far as Figeac to the northeast, deep in the hill south, a town with one of those fortress-churches and a real stadium for the rugby team.  St. Antonin was not, of course, called in to play the Gaillac, first fifteen, but only to play an opener, while the crowds were coming in for the principal games.

In those days the whole south of France was infected with a furious and violent passion for rugby football, and played it with a blood-thirsty energy that sometimes ended in mortal injuries.  In the really important games, the referee usually had to be escorted from the grounds afterwards by a special bodyguard, and not infrequently had to make his escape over the fence and through the fields.  The only sport that raised a more universal and more intense excitement than rugby, was long-distance bicycle racing.  St. Antonin was off the circuit of the big road races, but occasionally there would be a race that came through our hills, and we would stand at the end of the long climb to the top of Rochher d'Anglars, and watch them coming slowly up the hill, with their noses almost scraping the front wheels of their bikes as they bent far down and toiled, with all their muscles  clenched into tremendous knots.  And the veins stood out on their foreheads.

Believe it or not, I have never been a huge fan of organized sports.  Not rugby or football or basketball.  I know this revelation will come as a shock to some of you.  When I was a kid, my parents had season tickets for the home games of the university hockey team.  I spent many Friday and Saturday nights in a cold ice arena.  And I ended up tolerating the games fairly well, with a steady supply of hot chocolate and an occasional hot dog thrown in for moral support.

These last few days have been brutally taxing.  Still trying to recover from the string of unfortunate mishaps and malfunctions that have plagued my life recently--plugged toilet, broken furnace, hacked bank accounts, and a drug overdose.  Tonight, sitting in the living room of my sleeping house, I feel like I've been playing my own little hockey game where I've been hit in the face by the puck about 50 or so times.  I'm whipped.

The weekend is almost upon me.  Spring break at the university next week.  My life will be slightly less hectic for the next seven days.  Hopefully.  I'm still trying to sort out my bank account problems.  Have to make some phone calls to Apple.com to get some money back from them.  Hopefully.

I am a firm believer in trying to remain positive, even in the face of tragedy.  I try to look for silver linings.  I really do.  These last few days, however, I've been wondering if I'm being divinely punished for something.  It feels as though I've pissed off the universe.  Sent to the penalty box, so to speak.

Now, I know that God doesn't work that way.  The vengeful version of the Big Guy Upstairs kind of went by the wayside when Jesus showed up on the scene.  It's all supposed to be about love and forgiveness.  I've had to remind myself of this fact many times in the last five-plus days.  God didn't hack my accounts, but He did make sure that I only lost less than $500,  And He didn't break my furnace, but He did send my brother and sister to fix it.  God is always at work.

So, Saint is headed into the weekend, hoping that God has very little to help me with over the next few days.  Amen.

May 30: Face of Tragedy, Bad News, Joshua Mehigan, "The News," New Cartoon

With so much correspondence to answer, on many an evening, when she might have otherwise been studying, she [Annie Ives] sat in their living room, at their secretary, chain-smoking Chesterfields, sipping wine, and listening to music as she composed her responses.  That she did not know what to say in the face of tragedy greatly vexed her.  She would write sympathetic notes of response in her impeccable script and enclose an illustrated prayer card that her husband had made up in the office.  Christ giving his blessing.  Finishing with her signature, she handed each to Ives, as he sat by his drawing board, so that he could sign the notes too.  She was not certain that he read each one over, but had often watched his face sadden when, as if wincing, he would sign his name.

The year following her son's death, Annie spends her time answering all the letters of sympathy the family receives.  People whose loved ones have died in tragic circumstances.  A woman who lost her husband in a fire.  Parents whose son shot himself.  A mother with a two-year-old who drowned in a backyard pool.  Tragedy keeps paying visits to the Ives family.

Tragedy is never far away.  This week, floods in Texas that have killed dozens of people.  I met with a friend whose son died of a drug overdose last fall.  My sister who had her parathyroid removed at U of M hospital this week is a good example.  Last year at this time, she had just broken her wrist.  Two or three months later, she would have surgery on that wrist.  Two or three months beyond that, back surgery.  Infections.  Sepsis.  Hospital stay after hospital stay.  Then, for four months, flat on her back in a nursing home, unable to eat or move.

Last night, I was feeling pretty sorry for myself.  After about the third hour of vacuuming and pulling down soggy pieces of my kitchen ceiling, I stopped for a couple moments to get a drink of water.  I was hot.  Itchy from all the dust and insulation.  My nose was running.  I stood by the refrigerator and said aloud, "What have I done wrong, God?  What's my problem?"

Of course, I know that's a pointless question.  Tragedy is not some kind of divine lesson.  Tragedy is simply tragedy.  The product of a world that the human race has abused and taken for granted.  The people who died in the Texas floods or my sister or my friend weren't being punished.   Tragedy doesn't have to make sense.  It exists.  Period.

That doesn't mean that those affected by tragedy don't question the universe, get angry at God, drown in waves of grief.  There's a certain amount of baggage involved in all difficult circumstances.  What ifs.  What if my sister hadn't broken her wrist?  What if the people in Texas had decided to go to Disneyland last week?  That is sometimes, I think, the most difficult part of tragedy, because it is an attempt to assign blame or reason.

Tragedy has a way of happening, no matter how much you try to control life.  Grace resides in how you deal with any tragedy that befalls you.  Annie Ives tries to console other grieving human beings.  My friend tries to educate her students about mental illness.  Once my sister has recuperated, returns home, perhaps she will go back to work as a nurse, helping other people struggling with limiting health problems.

Saint Marty thinks grace is God's response to tragedy.

The News

by:  Joshua Mehigan

What happened to today?  Where did it go?
The raindrops dot the window and roll down.
One taps the glass, another, three at a time,
warping the view of black tree limbs and sky.
Long hush, quick crescendo.  Wind leans on the sash.
Behind me in the shadows sleep two cars.
Nearby, like something small deposited
tenderly, by a big wind on the bed,
my wife sleeps deeply through the afternoon.
The sky is gray.  What color is the sky?
Rhinoceros?  Volcanic dune?  Moon dust?
Breast of mourning dove?  Gray butterfly?
Blank newsprint.  There's no news, no news at all,
and will be none,
until, at long last, in the other room,
one light comes on, and then another one.

Confessions of Saint Marty