January 21: Grey Morning, End of Life, Grace and Light

 Merton's year starts badly . . . 

The first morning of 1939 was a grey morning.  It was to turn out a grey year—very grey. But now a cold wind was blowing in off the sea, where I walked, among the white empty houses to the naked place where stands the church of St. Ignatius Martyr. The wind did something to help me to wake up, but it did not improve my temper much. The new year was beginning badly. 

I'm not a big believer in bad luck, and neither was Merton.  Just because a year starts out with, say, a violent insurrection in the United States Capitol Building doesn't mean that a nuclear apocalypse is on the horizon.  That's not how the universe works.  Bad luck is a human creation, used to explain a series of unfortunate events, to borrow a phrase from one of my daughter's favorite children's authors.

Yes, there was an insurrection.  But a week later, there were federal arrests and an impeachment.  And yesterday, a new President of the United States was sworn into office, and this one spoke of unity and healing in his inaugural address.  Plus, a young, amazing poet practically hijacked the entire ceremony with her inaugural poem.  

So, you see, even if a year begins with grey mornings, the sun will eventually break through.

Grey morning today.  I got a call about my sister Rose, who's in the hospital right now.  She has Down syndrome and has been suffering a series of grand mal seizures for about a week now.  The neurologist who is treating Rose informed my other sister (who is Rose's durable power of attorney) that seizures are not uncommon in a person with Trisomy 21 and Alzheimer's.  The doctor said something along the lines of seizures and Alzheimer's "starting at end of life."  

Now, I'm not sure what that means.  It could have been the neurologist's way of saying that there's not a whole lot he can do.  He is referring Rose to a pediatric neurologist, because she is tiny.  Certainly, the medications that Rose is taking aren't doing the trick.  Last night, she suffered another grand mal seizure when she was alone in her hospital room.

Rose is sleeping all day.  Not responding to people.  When my sister talks to her, Rose will open her eyes and look at her.  Then she goes right back to sleep.  Tonight, the nurse couldn't get her to take her anti-seizure meds.  Rose wouldn't wake up.

As I said, I don't believe in bad luck.  However, I am a firm believer in miracles.  I've benefitted from miracles in the past.  Right now, my sister Rose needs a miracle.  Her little body and brain have been through a lot.  I'm not sure how much more she can take.  

I don't have much more to add.  Rose is a gentle soul, full of love.  She deserves some grace and light.  

That's Saint Marty's hope tonight.

December 31: Poo-tee-weet, New Year's Eve, "Before 4:30 Mass"

Billy and the rest wandered out onto the shady street.  The trees were leafing out.  There was nothing going on out there, no traffic of any kind.  There was only one vehicle, an abandoned wagon drawn by two horses.  The wagon was green and coffin-shaped.

Birds were talking.  

One bird said to Billy Pilgrim:  "Poo-tee-weet?" 

The last three paragraphs of Slaughterhouse Five on this last day of the year.  Tonight, we bid farewell to Kurt Vonnegut, Billy Pilgrim, Montana Wildhack, and Tralfamadore.  Old friends by this time.  It's fitting that the novel ends with a nonsensical question.  After all, the entire book is about things that don't make a whole lot of sense.

This year hasn't made a whole lot of sense, what with the ascendancy of Donald Trump and the descendancy of everything else.  I wish I could say that the world is a better place this December 31st than it was last December 31st.  Unfortunately, I can't make that assertion.  America, which WAS great, is not so great anymore.

However, as I said in yesterday's post, my life has been full of wonderful things--new friends and poems, recognitions that I'm not sure I really deserved, and good health for my wife and children.  Of course, I have had some personal challenges, too.  My father, who turned 90 this year, had to be moved into a nursing home.  My brother's heart attack in May, and all the complications that followed.  Brake jobs.  Frozen water pipes.

No year is ever all positive, unless you're delusional (ahem--Donald Trump).  However, I have been, for the most part, greatly blessed this year, and I want to thank all of my friends and family who have filled the last 365 days with so much joy.

Saint Marty wishes all of you a safe--and warm!--New Year's Eve, and grace and light in the coming year.

Before 4:30 Mass

by:  Martin Achatz

I look down from the choir loft
At the silence gathered below.
Mrs. MacDonald wears her wool coat
In the same pew she sat in
With her parents, seventy years ago.
She looks behind her, as if she expects
Her father to march up the aisle,
Sit next to her, his boots
Still red with dust from the mines.
Father George flits from person-to-person,
Like a hummingbird in an apple tree,
Pausing long enough to taste
The blossom of each sinner's grief
Before moving on.  My daughter, white
Acolyte, lights candles on the altar,
Checks chalice and paten, makes sure
Gospel and cloth are in place
For the coming show.  So much quiet
Desperation fills the sanctuary,
Everyone craving a piece of holiness
To bring home, bake with eggs and oatmeal,
Spaghetti and meatloaf for the week.
I reach down, press the red button.
The pipe organ takes a long breath,
Groans to life, resurrected again.
It waits for my fingers, holds
Music in its gold pipes that reach
Up and up to the vaulted ceiling,
To the bell in the steeple.  It waits
For that low D of the first hymn,
Voices rising like seagulls
Above the waves of Galilee.