Maybe we won't be going to the beach today. Will just lost his cookies again at 4:00 p.m. He doesn't have a fever - some kind of stomach bug, I guess. We'll be running him up to the pediatrician, whose office is a far sight better than any old sandy beach with salty breezes.
We're heading to the beach this afternoon. Somewhat fearfully, let me add. You see, last night Will began to throw up and vomited twice more this morning. As of 9:00 he's been vomit free. We fed him lunch and have been waiting to see if he's serious about this new endeavor of his. I've been feeling a little queasy stomached myself. So pray for us, if you would, for traveling mercies and no-vomit-in-the-truck mercies.
It'll probably be a short trip, but I hope to be able to spend at least a few mornings at the beach. Like a flapjack. I love the ocean. I'm hoping for beautiful days to soak in the glory of the ocean, and the glory of children.
Friday, Independence Day, is my 16th wedding anniversary. It's the Can-You-Bring-Me-Some-Toilet-Paper Anniversary, I think, or the Light-A-Match-While-You're-In-There Anniversary. I'm not sure which one it is now that I think about it. Anyway, Laura's a good woman, which is to say a good person, which is to say I'm a fortunate, fortunate man. (And how could I complain when she's the one who cleans up the vomit?) Thanks be to God for my wife, for our marriage. My life, I love you.
Still here. Being dragged to lake. Finishing chores left undone. Jumping dead batteries after overhead lights are left on for a week. Getting oil changed in truck. Napping. Will return shortly.
As I was taking time to compose a post (bits and pieces over the past three days), I came across an excerpt from a book that always strikes a resonant chord: St. John Climacus's (+650) The Ladder of Perfection. Today's excerpt came from the Daily Gospel that I receive, well, daily in my inbox. It stopped my pencil. (Perhaps an old dog can learn a new trick or two.) And this refrain constantly comes to the forefront: Do not judge. Do not judge. Do not judge.
Here's the quote:
I have heard some people speak ill of their neighbour and have rebuked them. To defend themselves, these evildoers have answered: "We are saying these things out of charity and concern!" However, I have replied: "Stop practising a charity like that or you will be accusing of deceit the one who said: 'Whoever slanders his neighbour in secret, him will I destroy,' (Ps 101[100],5). If you love him – as you claim – pray for him in secret and don't make a mock of the man. This is the way of loving that pleases the Lord; don't lose sight of it and you will take the greatest care not to judge sinners. Judas was of the number of the apostles and the thief was among the criminals but, in an instant, what an astonishing change! ..."
So reply to anyone who speaks evil of his neighbor to you: "Stop, brother! I myself fall into the most serious faults every day; how could I now condemn this man?" Thus you will make a twofold gain: you will heal yourself and heal your neighbor. Not judging is a shortcut towards the forgiveness of sins, if this saying is true: "Do not judge and you will not be judged" ... Some people have committed grave faults in the sight of everyone but, in secret, have carried out the greatest acts of virtue. Thus their detractors have been mistaken by focussing only on the smoke without seeing the sun ...
Those who are hastily censorious and severe fall into this delusion because they don't keep the memory and constant care of their own sins before them ... Judging others is shamelessly to usurp a divine prerogative; condemning them is to bring down our own souls ... Just as a good grape-picker eats the grapes that are ripe and does not pick those that are green, so a watchful and sensible soul carefully takes note of all the virtues he sees in others; but it is the stupid man who keeps an eye on their faults and failings.
I am a stupid man. I hate judgmentalism in others because I see it so clearly in me. Lord, have mercy.
Pray for me, St. John Climacus, that I might love truly, forgive all, and judge none.
Not what I was hoping for last night, but a mildly amusing interview anyway. By the way, when I met the good bishop he had the same clothes on, and that was three years ago. I don't know what's up with that.
And if you're interested in more about the book: Here's Bishop Wright and Fr. Neuhaus of First Things going at it. Some good criticism by each of the men, I would imagine. Nevertheless, writing is an unforgiving mistress. A cautionary tale here for each of us. Certainly for me.
And here's Neuhaus's review of Surprised by Hope. (My linking is a little bass ackwards, my apologies.)
Schooool's out. for. summeeerrr! Schooool's out. for. eveeerrr!
(Not hardly, but it is permissible that one may kid oneself on his first free afternoon.)
Starting Tuesday, Laura's first day out, Every Day Is Saturday™, again. Make a note of it.
Sophie is testing all week, per our state's requirement for homeschooled kids. Now, in our neck of the woods, parents are allowed to administer the tests themselves. I appreciate this because it trusts me. The downside is that today while administering a math test, I was nearly driven into apoplexy as I watched my child marking, left and right, the wrong bubbles. I was staid, and remained so. Nonchalant. But how utterly maddening to know that she knows better and then to be forced to watch her record one incorrect answer after another. It was as if she were punishing me.
I quickly determined (with my razor-sharp intellect) that it would have been wise to use a practice test, in order to provide some strategies for taking such tests - like the ins and outs of using scratch paper. (Apparently there is a difference between telling something to a child and actually having her do it.)
Oh! how I need a vacation.
Tim Russert died today of an apparent heart attack. He was 58 years old.
Memory Eternal!
The other day, wonder of wonders, my daughter gave me a pencil to sharpen. I worked on it for several minutes, but couldn't quite get down to the lead. I looked at it carefully, then, took out my pocket knife and split it open. The pencil had no lead. Not an ounce. In my 37+ years I've never seen such a thing.
Come quickly, Lord Jesus. Come quickly.
Yesterday, Will was combing his hair, which he never does. He looked at a picture of St Paul that I had on the table, who was holding the Scriptures in one hand and a sword in the other. Intrigued by the sword, he said, "I want my hair to look like him."
"He's bald, son," I said.
Life is funny. Just when I start getting interesting in pipe smoking, it possibly turns to dirt. The last couple of mornings after smoking, I've woken up with a monster migraine. I'm not certain the two are causally related, but it's likely. For me, it simply doesn't take much of a change in environment to trigger a headache. And that reaction from my body just makes me sad. I like the ritual of the pipe - the quiet of it, its spirituality. I'm going to give it a few more shots, but if the headaches, such severe headaches, continue on subsequent mornings, then this sordid affair, though passionate, will be short-lived.
On Fresh Air today (NPR), Terry Gross interviewed Ron Hansen, author of The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford and who has just released a new historical fiction book on the life of Gerard Manley Hopkins (one of my most favorite of poets). Mr. Hansen is a deacon in the Catholic Church and Hopkins was a convert to the Catholic Church, who became a Jesuit priest and whose poetry was all published posthumously. This is my kind of book. It's titled Exiles and I think it's going to my Father's Day gift to myself. (Happy Father's Day to me! Happy Father's Day to me!)
Speaking of books, today the UPS man brought a gargantuan box of the complete works of Shakespeare, hardcovers all, 38 books total. The offer was through Amazon and published by the Penguin Group. All for $60 (that's $1.58 per play). A splurge on my part, but I couldn't resist. ("Happy Father's Day to you!" sings my wife. "Happy Father's Day to you!")
I lost my Rosary and am quite frustrated about it (truth be told, I'm cussing mad). I had it sitting on the night stand next to my bed and two days ago it came up missing. I checked with the local pack rat (yellow-haired), but she doesn't seem to have it. No one has seen it. I've checked under and in the bed and in all the pockets of shorts and jeans I've worn and I can't find it. It really bothers me. My dad gave me this Rosary, one that he had from ages past and I've enjoyed praying with it. Say a quick prayer for me that I'll find it, if you would, since I obviously can't pray without it.
