Thinking and Believing

How we think about something and what we believe about it are sometimes disparate things. Which, to me, is odd. But I occasionally in my spiritual life will have a moment of semi-clarity where I see this bold disconnect between my understanding of something theological and my belief/action concerning that same principle.

The prayer to the Holy Spirit I posted on Sunday

O Heavenly King, the Comforter, the Spirit of Truth, Who art everywhere and fillest all things; Treasury of Blessings, and Giver of Life - come and abide in us, and cleanse us from every impurity, and save our souls, O Good One.

created one of those moments in me.

I think correctly about the Holy Spirit (I think). But this prayer made me realize that even though my view of the Trinity has broadened in the past year, that my understanding is still impoverished in many ways. And perhaps this has to do partly with the general incomprehensibility of the concept of the Trinity. Perhaps it is partly due to my upbringing (Thou shalt pray only to the Father ...). But sometimes I wonder how much of a practical Jehovah's Witness I am. Not fully comprehending or living as if God indwells His Church, that God - the Heavenly King - temples within me.

This is me thinking out loud, and it probably makes little sense to anyone else. I am not thinking of abandoning the Holy Trinity, only thinking that my heart may have inadvertently abandoned Him long ago. I'm not sure what I'm saying at the moment, except that I want to live the experience of the Holy Trinity more than simply know the concept in any theological sense - even if it's an understanding of the idea's unknowability. I want thought to concretize in my heart and in my life, in word and deed.

O Heavenly King ... come and abide in us, and cleanse us from every impurity, and save our souls, O Good One.

Letting the Air Out

As we were driving home from the grocery store - one of those "family" trips - the kids all had helium balloons. And then they didn't. One after the other let out the helium. (Completely wasted helium, I might add.) It took them less time to empty the balloons than it did for the poor kid who had to fill them all to fill them all.

So as their father, I kindly explained to them why balloons won't float as they do on SpongeBob, where they can simply blow air into something to make it float. I explained how helium is lighter than the air they breathe. And I added that letting the helium out of a balloon without inhaling it is surely at least a venial sin.

"Daddy, how do you know all that?" Annie asked.

Mommy said, "It's Daddy's job to know everything."

Anna said, "But Daddy doesn't have a job."

*phweeeee* I hear my pride deflating ...

To which dear, sweet Sophie replies, "But Daddy knew all that stuff before he lost his job, Anna."

... *phpbpbpb*

Where I Am

My first year at Lansing Christian School was as a third grader. We had moved from Mason where I attended a public school, Steele Street Elementary. In fifth or sixth grade I went to a sleepover hosted by friends of mine from Mason - the earliest friends I remember.

It was an eye-opener. The guys were hormonally crazed. They kissed the TV screen whenever a beautiful woman came on, they told dirty jokes, etc. I expressed my shock and discomfort to my mom when she picked me up the next day.

"I can't believe how much they've all changed," I said.

My mom, referring to my growing faith, said, "They haven't changed, you have."

Fast forward twenty-five years. On returning to the Catholic Church, I have had my share of relational turbulence that has sprung up out of my reversion. At one moment - a year after my return to the Church, I expressed to my in-laws my dismay at our floundering relationship. They told me, "We haven't changed, you have."

And it hurt.

Almost two weeks ago, Dr. Francis Beckwith, former president of the Evangelical Theological Society, was received into the Catholic Church. He too is a revert, his family having left Catholicism when he was fourteen.

I've been keeping up with his comments on Right Reason, where he blogs with several other bloggers. And I've been keeping up with the reactions of both Protestants and Catholics. And I've been reliving my own reversion.

The first Protestant reaction I read was from Dr. James White. He talked about how Frank had lost his love for Christ. He said other things equally incomprehensive for a revert who has become Catholic for that very reason - his love for Christ and Christ's Church.

Some Catholics responded poorly to Dr. White's post. Dr. White said he was not slandering Frank, but only taking a stand for the gospel.

On The Journey Home program on Monday, I watched Dr. White's sister, Patty Bonds, herself a convert to Catholicism, talk about how she has lost her family and friends because of her decision. You could see the hurt written large on her, even though she said that encountering Christ once in the Eucharist has been worth all her pain and struggles. Nevertheless, you could see and feel the pain, especially understanding her brother's disdain of Catholicism and Catholic converts (the show never mentioned Dr. White specifically that I saw - though I was trying to corral the children into their beds).

(So, uh, do we have a point, Lyons?)

All the hubbub surrounding Dr. Beckwith's reversion to the Catholic Church has re-opened these wounds in my life. And I've hurt with Dr. Beckwith, though I don't know him from Adam's cat.

As I was watching Dr. White's sister, Patty, on the Journey Home she said that right before she was about to be received into the Catholic Church during Easter Vigil, a few of her good friends told her that they would sever their relationships with her if she went through with her conversion.

She did.

So they did.

And she said that when she drives by one of these friend's homes - as she apparently must do on occasion - she is struck by how much she still loves her friend, but how her love is unrequited. Patty said that she hadn't changed, but that her friend had.

And it reminded me of how I've heard that sentence spoken in my life. It was revelatory.

You see, my in-laws told me recently that our struggling relationship is my fault: "We haven't changed, you have." And I finally recognized that to be the lie it is - not a malicious or purposed lie, by any means, but a lie working itself out in my life. Patty is right and they are wrong.

It's true that I became Catholic. But I changed churches; I did not change who I am, or my relationship with them or others. They and others have changed our relationships. They and others have voluntarily withdrawn from me emotionally and spiritually. They and others have, apparently, felt that they needed to do so.

And I'm sorry for all of them. I'm sorry for all those who a friend or family member's decision to, on their own journey, follow Christ into the Catholic Church has been so incomprehensible and objectionable to them that it fundamentally changes how they view that person.

It's painful. It hurts that following Christ can cost so much because of other believers. It hurts to hear disparaging words spoken about you and your relationship to Christ from brothers and sisters. It hurts to see people whom you love and respect distance themselves from you because of their inability to recognize even the possibility of Christ in a Church that believes and worships differently than they do. It hurts to hear the Church you so dearly love spoken about with such hostility.

And so where am I? I love and I pray. I work at doing each better each day. Sometimes I fail miserably. Sometimes it feels like most of the time.

But I'm making new friends and discovering new family who love and pray for me.

So Blessed Mother, pray for me. Pray that I might love more deeply. Pray that I might love more truly. Pray for those who attack the Body of Christ and so persecute our Lord. Pray to our Lord with me that He might broaden their understanding of His grace, of His Body.

Bikinis in Boots

Looking out the window from my upstairs office, I noticed the yellow-haired child running around in her stars-and-stripes bikini and her robin-egg-blue snow boots.

I wish I had my camera with me.

The kids wanted to head down to the lake to go swimming. And yes, even in North Carolina the water is still too cold to swim in. But there are some things that children learn only from experience.

It was nearly 80 degrees outside. The water was nearer 60. They were in the water briefly when Sophie said she stepped on something, or that something big (like a fish) was nibbling at her toes. Then the yellow-haired child said she stepped on something too, and that it was a dead body.

So Laura let them play five more minutes around the corpse before loading them up into the van.

I was home with Jack Henry, sorry that I missed the whole adventure.

Denethor and Do-Overs

Remember the scene in The Return of the King where Denethor sends Faramir off to his death while eating his roasted chicken and cherry tomatoes? I feel like Denethor sometimes.

I warmed up some KFC for lunch today. And I achieved that heavy-browed, John-Noble stare and that ill-mannered chewing, and of course I couldn't avoid the greasy fingers. I was only missing the great fur cape, the cherry tomatoes, and a small tenor hobbit. (A couple of baritones were lying around, but what good are they?!)

And while it was all play today - Avery and Will laughing and telling me I wasn't using my manners - as I sat there play-acting, the clothes seemed a little too comfortable, too familiar.

And I think of how we are murdering our children with impatience and anger and harshness, how we muddy these pure springs with our busyness and inaccessibility.

What I wouldn't give some days for a do-over.

Tele-abuse

Does anyone else get these crazy automated phone calls: "Please return this call at [toll-free number]." Excuse me? Like I'm going to call someone who gives me no more information than that. Pleeease. I may be desperate for post-preschool, semi-intellectual, human contact and all, but I'm not that desperate.

Non Compos Mentis

The treasures of the heart are odd, funny-looking things. For instance, my stay-at-home children broke out into several fights and fits concerning my son's two Superman toothbrushes today.

I certainly have no bones to pick with the Man of Steel. Unlike many nerdy comic-book aficionados who think he's too perfect to identify with, I appreciate Kal-El's unwavering goodness and strength. But they're toothbrushes. We're not talking about their blankeys, their favorite toys, or - let's say - the Crown Jewels.

Toothbrushes.

I know it sounds as if I'm bashing the kids again - and of course I am - but I imagined the soundtrack of my life sounding more like Top Gun's than Barney's. At times, it's enough to make me a bit batty.

In all fairness, I can be quirkily particular myself:

• I love my metal Staedtler pencil sharpeners and erasers. I am usually carrying one of each in my right pocket.

• Books are people too.

• Writing instruments are sweet. Think of the staggering promise of a wooden No. 2 pencil.

• My pencil box is my pencil box - get your kindergarten, pie-grabbing hands off of it. (Yes, I have a pencil box. Though I haven't been able to find it in a fortnight. Back off, man, I'm a writer.)

• When I have cash, it belongs - ordered from larger to smaller bills - face-up in my wallet.

• I'm a sucker for cool high-tech gadgets. And all high-tech gadgets are cool.

• I'm a sucker for what others tell me is cool. (It's like calling James Dean a chicken, only different.)

• Just let me hold the remote. It pacifies me.

• Give me Jif or give me death.

(For the unabridged list, see my wife.)

The Bestest and Strongest Daddy Ever

"Dear Daddy you are The nisdis and the sDrooGis Daddy iN The holl wid world"

Ah! The world never felt so mapped-out, so conquerable.

A List

• Deadlines make me as ornery as an old bear.
  

• Meeting a deadline is sweet.
  

• I don't give a fig what anyone says, tomatoes are no fruit.
  

• Likewise, a bug is a bug is a bug. Beetles? Please. Arachnids? Pshaw!
  

• Hearing the baby's heartbeat through the tight drum of my wife's belly is what hope sounds like.
  

• Thomas the Tank Engine rocks!
  

• 24 begins Sunday night. And so endeth the People's Republic of China.
  

• Regardless of what my son will be named, the show 24 played no role in the decision-making process.
  

• Canker sores bite.
  

• Granholm and Pelosi - two more reasons to be Catholic.
  

  • Sarcasm is a bad habit. Pray for me.

• The movie recommendations Netflix shows me make me think they think I'm 65.
  

• Eñes - one more reason to buy a Mac.
  

• Sleeping children is what peace looks like.
  

• The polls are in and it appears I could use a few months of St Catherine of Siena's ... austerity.
  

• I once streaked in college. And it's true, I was the fastest thing on two feet.
  

• My streaking story is far more tame than it sounds. It's more that I ran outside in a semi-naked state. I was wearing a short coat and a pair of shoes. And it was dark.
  

• In defense of my coat and shoes, the winter winds in Indiana blow bitter-cold across barren corn fields.

I See London

The yellow-haired child likes freedom - not quite the freedom of the Garden, but it's close. It's hard to keep clothes on her.

The boy and girl run around outside sometimes in skivvies and diapers - sometimes even while little frosty clouds form from the moist warmth of their breath. So I corral them inside and persuade them that perhaps a shirt would be appropriate. And they allow it - given the right kind and amount of persuasion. Perhaps if it were colder here. But even when they deign to wear clothes, it is temporary; and the girl, when she wears them, changes them frequently. Perhaps if she had less from which to choose.

In public, of course, it is easier to convince her of the propriety of clothes-wearing: I simply tell her that everyone will laugh at her if she goes out in only her underpants. The fear of universal mockery always seems to work in a pinch. And, at the same time, I am building a strong sense of confidence in her. It's virtually a win-win.

"You're the parent. Just put clothes on them for goodness' sake."

Well, yes, I could. But that would be one more thing for me to do, wouldn't it?

From the Front Line: Toys from Hell

Last night, coming to bed after midnight, I entered the bedroom as quietly as possible so as not to disturb my wife. Just as I was about to lie down, I stepped on Koda, Brother Bear Talking Bear Cub, who yelled out: "RAW-AWR! Scared ya, didn't I!"

After catching my breath, I began giggling uncontrollably.

On Fatherhood

We walked downtown to the mom-and-pop grocery today (our town population is about 1,500). Anna and Will rode in the Step2 wagon, Sophie helped me pull the wagon, and the yellow-haired child was our intrepid leader. She stopped us at all the intersections, both sides, and kept us from even the suggestion of a motorized vehicle.

I recently read a quote from Lynn Hybels that said Nice girls don't change the world. This one's changing things. I pray daily, fervently, that it will be for the better.

Our little gang walked into the grocery, looking like trouble. Will carried the basket and began loading it. I emptied it behind him. He chose, among other things, pink Sno Balls. Now, I despise Sno Balls - white or pink. It's a coconut thing. And I also hate them because they're disgusting. They're just something that should have never been. But I let him buy them anyway - sometimes you have to let kids make their own mistakes.

As we left, Will wanted one. I opened the package and handed him a Barbiesque teacake. He dove right in, ignoring his sisters' Yucks and Icks and Dat's Iscusstings. A third of the way in, he offered it to me. I took a bite to confirm that I still despised the spongy little poison and then offered it to Avery. The yellow-haired child, nibbled on it and quickly handed it back. I tossed it into the ditch. I have no scruples about littering with food - it keeps the wildlife at bay.

When we got home, I put the second Sno Ball on the counter, thinking perhaps my wife enjoyed them (she doesn't, for the record). After talking to Laura, I threw it in the trash.

And that's when the Raccoon wanted it. Naturally. So I told him to get it.

He couldn't reach it, so I bent down, reaching past the empty Campbell's cans and pulled out the pink Sno Ball. As he reached for it, I said, "Wait, Will, until I pick off the SpaghettiOs."

And that, my friends, is the fundamental difference between a stay-at-home dad and a stay-at-home mom.

Once More into the Breach

Laura goes back to work in the morning, without the girls. The girls go back Wednesday. That means tomorrow (today?) is all about me and Legion. I'd love to take them to a movie, only I don't have a vehicle that runs. And I have a two-year-old. And I'd rather not be banned from the theater.

The park would be nice too, of course. I may be able to swing the park. If we had a van that worked.

Speaking of which, this vehicle situation is getting old - I probably just need to fix the gasket on my sweet mini. Ack! I just can't get the image out of my head of my money looping the bowl three times before disappearing into the toilet. I've thought of just doing without the mack-daddy mobile, but six, soon to be seven, people in a Jeep just seems, well, nuts. They stack nicely in the back and all, but still.

Unlawfully Absent

Yesterday, I received two letters for each of my girls about absences. It was shocking to receive them since I was not aware that they had any absences. The shock increased, on this first notice of our girls' truancy, with its wonderful quotation from the North Carolina Compulsory Attendance Law that spoke of unlawful absences and court dates.

"Unlawful," while technically accurate, seems to be tonally extreme on the first notification that your children have had several absences - especially when their absences are due to sickness or being stranded in Michigan due to a broken vehicle. But perhaps I'm being oversensitive.

Regardless, I called the school social worker this morning - where, Did I mention?, my wife teaches - and was told that all their absences were excused. Furthermore, the second letter that said they had three 'unlawful' absences was a glitch in the computer. I can only assume they use PCs.

I suggested they work on the tone of their first contact letters, and maybe not bring up the whole "We're going to haul you off to jail and send your children to live with Jimmy Jack and Annabelle Guthry in western Appalachia" bit until at least the second letter. I mean, we barely know each other.

I was kind, of course - but when am I ever not?

This and That

I got the news from the garage concerning my pimped Mini,uh,van: Apparently I need to replace a gasket. Depending on whether we're talking about the intake or the head gasket, the repairs will run anywhere from $500 to $1200+. It's fortunate that I'm uber-wealthy. That's like maybe a quarter for me, relative to what you all make. Not to rub it in or anything, I'm just saying good for me and all.

Speaking of wealth, I need to start searching for at least one more freelance job. I'm looking primarily for a writing gig, but I suppose I'll accept editing crap. And speaking of crap, can you believe Peter Boyle is gone? Holy crap. (That's not "Catholic, XXII: Sacramentals," by the way, just an exclamation.)

Saturday was 30 weeks for the baby boy. Woo-hoo! I think he's already done, though, because Laura's belly button looks like a spent plastic pop-up turkey timer.

Festival of Vomit

Vomit's not really my thing. Nevertheless, the boy vomited in the car today as we set out to see the Festival of Lights at Tanglewood, just west of Winston-Salem. Thank God for a wife who loves to clean up vomit. If it weren't for her, I don't know what I'd do.

Afterward: "Will, does your tummy feel better?"

"Yeh. Seesbuhr! Seesbuhr! Wah seesbuhr!"

I think the boy gets carsick. He threw up three times on our trip to Michigan, none of which made it into a bucket. (Though we weren't sure of the cause of that vomiting due to the Plague smacking down the entire family over Thanksgiving.) Regardless, I'm going to begin keeping a supply of Dramamine on hand for him.

No More Coffee for the Yellow-Haired Child

Yesterday, while she was taking a bath, the yellow-haired child commented that she thought she was growing hair on her butt.

. . . . .

Also, I just got back from Mass - today is the feast of the Immaculate Conception. (Boy, there's a can of worms.) It was nice - Sophie and Anna made the trip with me and we talked and sang. But they came along mostly, I think, for the ice cream afterward.

Michigan

Me and the Crue are heading to Michigan in a week, braving the cold and the gray, braving two holidays being pressed into one.

We'll be celebrating Christmas with my side of the family after Thanksgiving (I imagine it will be on Saturday, though Who knows?).

We're driving through the night, we've decided. It usually works out well: Kids sleep, wife sleeps (if only fitfully), Dad sleeps (if constantly interrupted by those annoying rumble strips). We get to Michigan the next morning, and, for the most part, it's as if the trip never happened. Then I collapse on the couch and nap until it's time to drive home again. All around, Good Times.

Maybe I'll pick up a DVD player so I can watch movies while I drive. Or maybe get some movies on CD at the very least. Or do they just do books?

I suppose coffee is always a good option, or a 2-liter bottle of diet Mountain Dew with loads of chips and candy. ("Ew," he shudders.) That just doesn't sound as appealing to me as it did when I was in college. But I'll make it work - suggestions are welcome.

Misc.ing Me

I mowed today. Yeah, you heard me - November 11. I hope it will be the last time I need to this year, but it was 81 today and now I hear it beginning to rain - I wonder.

. . . . .

I go through bouts of depression. My spirit rains, my soul drizzles. I usually don't recognize the depression until I'm on the other side. Once, several years ago, I realized it had been four days since I'd brushed my teeth. That was a rather serious bout as I do try to regularly brush my teeth. This summer I didn't mow the lawn for two months. It seemed like the right thing not to do. I was so busy, after all.

I don't like being depressed. Though I do. I like to shrug it off on my being a classic melancholy, but that is a box smaller than who I am.

I'm not glum. I would even describe myself as "very happy." Most people who know me know my smile. And the smile is not hiding anything, though sometimes it co-exists with something blacker.

. . . . .

My mom sent me some jokes this week. Here's one of the three - with some cussing:

A man went to church one day and afterward he stopped to shake the preacher's hand. He said "Preacher, I'll tell you, that was a damned fine sermon. Damned fine!"

The preacher said, "Thank you, sir, but I'd rather you didn't use profanity."

The man said, "I was so damned impressed with that sermon, I put five thousand dollars in the offering plate!"

The preacher said, "No shit?"

The last of the three jokes was funnier, about penises and such, but that's probably already too much for this blog.

. . . . .

I have beautiful children. I'm just stating a fact. They're beautiful. They're monkeys, the whole lot of them, but they're beautiful monkeys.

I was wondering today what the state of my soul would be if Will had been twins. I whispered a profound prayer of thanksgiving. I cannot imagine the sheer destructive potential of twin boys. If you have twin boys, let me know so I can daily pray for you.

. . . . .

Although I could have sworn I had locked the door, a few months ago my oldest daughter walked in on Laura and me, uh, conjugating. She opened the door, her eyes saucered, and - like an old reel-to-reel playing backward - she exited.

A little while later, Laura was sitting out with the kids and Sophie asked for a drink.

Laura said, "Daddy's in the kitchen; go ask him."

Sophie said, "That boy better not be naked!"

Mea Culpa

It has been a rough week - one of those weeks where I've seen too much of myself. I've been angry and impatient. I've been depressed and tired. It's been a week where everything, no matter how well-intentioned, has turned into crap. I sing with Joe and Blue, "I did that."

I am a maker, a little creator, fashioning my world with these two hands, with this mouth, with anger or peace. My children suffer under such a creature as me. They deserve so much more.

I am less than I ought to be.

I want to make the days better. I want to fashion them through the freedom that is given through grace - to laugh without resistance, to smile without this downward tug.

I am less than I ought to be.

Puppets and cartoons and sing-songy songs saturate my brain, turning it into crap. But I still know one thing: Elmo sucks. I used to love him, but a half hour of the furry red bundle of cute makes you wonder how Dorothy keeps from going belly up. Or at least vomiting little goldfish vomit all over the multi-colored pebbles that line her cell.

While we're speaking of excrement, I changed a dirty diaper today. And then, fifteen minutes later, realized that the boy was just revving the ol' engine. Tuning the orchestra, if you will. And the movement that followed was less than sublime. So I changed that one too. Last diaper. I call Laura and ask for more diapers - my only request. I don't request a book by von Balthasar or a CD, no newly released movie, not even a pack of new pencils (I love new, wooden pencils). Just diapers, please. And hurry.

O Lord Jesus, I am less than I ought to be. Heal me.