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A Very Different Holy Week

It is hard to believe it is Holy Week without little crosses made of palm all over the place. Plus, I kind of miss those strings of palm that come from all the frayed edges. They get all over the car, the floor, and the kid’s rooms. The palms were a bit of a misnomer 2,000 years ago – as people confused the types of kingdom Jesus came to establish, so maybe not having them is a good thing.

Still, it is a whole new world, isn’t it?

We will not watch 12 people from the parish get their feet washed this week. We will wash each other’s feet at home.

We will not stand in line to venerate the cross, trying to kiss it where no one else has kissed it (I cannot be the only one who does that). Instead we will take a cross off the wall, read the Passion, and have our own little service.

There will be no fire on Holy Saturday night and sparse Easter baskets come Sunday morning.

But there is cause for joy. We are spending tons of time together, watching movies, laughing at old Vine videos on YouTube, and building the treehouse.

The walls of the treehouse are complete and the siding starts tomorrow. Fortunately, the supplies were delivered long before the virus took hold and I have even convinced a local roofer to come by as we hide in the house to put the roof on.

We celebrated the 15th birthday of Ace Number One last week and I am grateful to the dozens of you who were a part of it. Tiger came home and she was delighted. If you want to see the video, let me know. I won’t post it here in an attempt to shield her privacy but for those who haven’t seen it, it will bring you to tears. We took portions of many of the letters you wrote and decorated the box. When she got to one that referenced the day he was lost, the look of surprise came over her and she tore through the box.

“He came home,” she muttered.

All of us knew the implications of the reunion. A childhood friend returned, reminding her of simpler times and easier days. He has been hanging out of her pocket since. It will take some time for her to get through all the notes and letters.

This week, we will celebrate another birthday as Maureen follows my footsteps into the next decade. We will delay her annual birthday dinner because of Good Friday but we will celebrate her life just the same.

May this holiest of weeks bring you closer together with your own loved one – even if only virtually.

May the solemnity of Holy Thursday give way to the eerie calm of Good Friday. May you turn off the television and find some solitude to remember the great sacrifice of that day.

May we remember that Jesus’ “yes” to God on the cross created the space where hatred goes to die and, in that act, Jesus literally loved hatred to death.

May we remember that he did it once for all, paying the debt man owed God but could not pay unless God became man. The paradox of salvation that is only possible if we understand that mankind needs redemption and yet cannot achieve it on his own.

As C.S. Lewis says, “Only a bad person needs to repent: only a good person can repent perfectly. The worse you are the more you need it and the less you can do it. The only person who could do it perfectly would be a perfect person – and he would not need it.”

Let us remember that 2,000 years ago, God became man, walked among us, and tried to teach us what being fully human looked like.

As a viral darkness covers the earth, let us look for the light that comes from this simple fact: we know the end of the story.

That’s right. We know how this story ends.

In that, let us find the hope the world so desperately needs.

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Long Live God

Sitting in the parking lot last week, waiting for child number one’s bus and listening to the local public radio, I was distracted by the mention of Godspell playing nearby.  Something about the station giving away tickets if you signed up online.

So I signed up online and forgot about it. A day or two later, I receive an email that I have won two tickets to see the show at the Contemporary Theater of Connecticut in Ridgefield, a thirty-five-minute drive from the house. With everything going on last week – Maureen out of town, teaching two night classes, the children wanting to be fed every evening – I almost wrote back and said, “thanks but no thanks.” Something made me hesitate.

By the night of the show, we had decided that the eldest would be ready, that I would end my night class early, and that I would then race home, pick up the child, and head north. I had very little hope that this plan would work, but like everything else last week, we’d have to wait and see.

The Contemporary Theater of Connecticut is a small equity theater that features professionals just as good as you would see on any Broadway stage. The intimate setting allows for you to feel like you are a part of the show and yet still a spectator to all that is going on up on the stage. Through their friendship with Stephen Schwartz, the directors are allowed to make some changes to the show, something that would normally be forbidden.

The oldest is one who struggles with her faith. She argues about going to Mass more than anyone and yet still has a deep longing for that which is bigger than all of us. I was so glad she wanted to go with me to see the show.

Sitting on the edge of her seat, I could tell she was moved by the story and the music. The genius of the directors at the theater was clear as the greedy king in one parable was a Trump-esque leader of his people and another was Harvey Weinstein. There were shades of Game of Thrones, Hamilton, and even a little music-by-cup from Pitch Perfect. The contemporary references – even the subtle ones – just made the show better and better. The actors were superb, and the music washed over her as I could see out of the corner of my eye as she bobbed  her head along.

During intermission, the actors hung out with the audience and she couldn’t wait to tell any of them that she loved their singing, their haircut, their outfits – all of it. One of the actors invited her to wander around the stage before the show started again, and I hadn’t seen her that happy in quite some time.

Godspell is one of my favorite shows. Seeing it years ago in Ford’s Theater in Washington was one of the things that drew me to study my faith more closely. In the last scene, when Jesus has died and his friends come to carry him to the grave, they begin to sing, “Long live God, long live God….” again and again. When I saw it the first time, the actors carried Jesus up and down the aisle as the people in the audience sang right along with them. There was less walking around in this small theater and not as many people sang along, but you better believe my daughter and I were belting it out – a message that speaks more of that faith we need in this world, at this time, now more than ever.

Love live God. Long live God.

In our words, our actions, and our attitudes. Around us. All through us. In our homes and in our communities.

Love live God. Long live God.

 

*This post updated with the change that the theater is an equity theater, not a community theater. 

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T is for Tiger

She called him “Tiger” from the first moment she could pronounce the word. Our eldest child and her constant companion. A small, stuffed animal that was a part of all the stories she would tell – and the ones that I would make up for her. It began with his adventures from Africa, when Tiger climbed in my suitcase and smuggled his way home. Maureen and I had just found out we were expecting our first child when I ventured to Rwanda and Kenya with Catholic Relief Services.

To be fair, I think Tiger was a gift from an aunt or a cousin, but when the children are little and need a story, we oblige. Plus, we honestly didn’t remember where he’d come from, so Africa seemed like a good bet.

Tiger was in loads of photos those first few years. Like the animals we all had growing up, he had his own personality. Many nights were spent searching the house for Tiger so the baby, then toddler, then child could finally go to sleep. I honestly have no memory of her in those early years without him.

Then, in August 2010, Tiger was gone. We remember having him in the Costco parking lot on a day that included haircuts (her first “bob”), back to school shopping, and more. We were taking pictures and we think Tiger must have wandered away into the woods looking for an adventure (or, in laymen’s terms, was left on the wall where we were staging our back to school photo shoot).

In the days and weeks that followed, we returned to every one of the locations from that day. We talked to the folks at lost and found, the people who collect the garbage from the parking lots, and we looked high and low – in the woods and in the grass. But Tiger was gone.

I have spent the last ten years looking for him. I searched through every single current and retired Beanie Baby animal. I have done image searches online using the best picture we have of Tiger, sitting quietly next to Winnie the Pooh. I looked through antique stores, all the GUND animals I could find, and, when I am out and about, I often search through those carousels of stuffed animals near the checkout line just in case Tiger (or his twin) shows up.

On Saturday morning, I found him. I don’t know what made me look, but there he was.

On eBay.

Same little pink nose. Same green eyes. After hundreds of searches with all sorts of combinations, I finally stumbled across an entry labeled, “orange cat.” Tiger would not be happy at being called an ordinary cat. I did not investigate the backstory. I did not email the person selling it with questions about where she got him. I just spent a few minutes whispering a prayer of thanksgiving and, with a few clicks, Tiger was on his way back to Connecticut.

Ace Number One has a birthday coming up – she’ll be 15 years old at the end of March and Tiger will be there to celebrate. I imagine I am much more excited that she will be. After all, she’s been without her friend longer than she had him. But he still comes up in conversation once in a while and my hope is that she will be both surprised and thrilled when she opens the box and sees her stuffed friend sitting there. Maybe there is a part of me that hopes by reclaiming some of her childhood, I can somehow pause the rapid pace of her growing up. I need her to feel safe. I need her to be careful. I need her to study and do her homework. I am probably asking too much of a stuffed animal, but this is Tiger, dang it. He can do it.

To set the scene for the birthday surprise, I want to ask you to do me a favor. Could you hand-write a note from Tiger and talk about some great adventure you’ve had? Make it up. Get creative. Use a postcard or a plain piece of paper. It doesn’t have to be long, just a quick note that speaks of an adventure and then end with, “I can’t wait to come home.”

Sign it “T” so it keeps her guessing – or don’t sign it at all. Do not include your own name, please. Keep it anonymous. My hope is that if she receives a few of these, it will build the momentum for Tiger’s triumphant return.

If you don’t have our address, shoot me an email (p(dot)donovan(at)mac(dot)com) and I will send it to you. The birthday is the end of March, so we have some time.

Sounds crazy, I know. But parents always do crazy things for their kids and even crazier for the inanimate objects that make our children happy.

~pjd

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Ace Number One

The eldest child graduated eighth grade yesterday, so it is time for some nostalgia.

She is the first born, my Ace Number One – nickname her maternal grandfather used for her mother that I adopted. She is an enigma – fourteen going on cynical. With humor like her father and a voice like an angel. She has her mother’s wisdom and the depth of character more often found in someone twice her age.

Struggling with “undifferentiated fear,” she, along with thousands of other young people, suffer from some anxiety her parents yearn to understand. Moved by her parents so her dad could take a job he loves, working for (as a change), someone he admires, we uprooted her after fifth grade and left behind the only school, home, and friends she had known. As she struggled to fit into the “land of entitlement” (her words), it was hard for her father not to feel guilty for moving her at such a tenuous age.

Then came seventh grade and a situation in school that still haunts us. An offhanded comment brought her world crashing down as a young teacher dropped the ball and a principal took overreacting to a new level. There are moments in a child’s life when parents look back and wonder if they could have done more to protect their child, and this is one of those moments. As an educator, I am often prone to side with other educators. I expect them to react as I believe I would act. I expect them to be prudent, caring, and honest. I expect them to put the child first. As long as I live, I will regret thinking these people capable of such maturity.

Still, we talk about the moment not defining us. We challenge the now-rising freshman to dream big. She is over the moon about her high school decision – the only child from her school set to attend Sacred Heart down the road in Hamden. She tried out for the fall play on Saturday – before graduating from one school and buying books for another. She is excited about meeting new people, making new friends, and starting over.

Finally, we see light.

When she was six years old, we were at Mass for Easter Sunday and, since not saying “Alleluia” in our house during Lent is a big deal, the children were anxious to sing it out loud for the first time in forty days. Mass began with the required, “Jesus Christ is Risen Today,” and even the “Gloria” was a welcomed delight.

Then came the Gospel Acclamation. For reasons passing understanding, the cantor and choir chose the worst version they could find – the dirgiest of dirges to sing. It was painful. It was lifeless. And the six-year-old knew it.

Closing her book and chucking it on the pew, she leaned over and whispered, “I wouldn’t get out of the tomb for that.”

So, yes, her standards are high. Her patience is low. But her faith is deep. Somewhere in the midst of all that unnecessary worry, all that cynicism she gets from me, the questions she struggles with about her own place in the world, there is a depth that amazes me. She does not suffer fools lightly, but she delights in the joy she finds on her own.

And now, she is off to high school. So, today, we look back on simpler times and are reminded that she has always brought a song into our lives.

If the clip does not load, you can visit it here.

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Confirmed

Ace Number One was Confirmed on Saturday. She still smells like Chrism.

Several months ago, I asked her what name she was considering. “St. Thecla,” she responded, without hesitation.

“Who in the world is that?” I asked.

“She was a recluse and a virgin,” came the response.

“Oh, sweetie,” I responded in typical dad fashion, “You don’t have to be a recluse.”

“Nice dad.”

This kid misses nothing.

When I asked a few weeks later if this was still her name of choice, she told me it was and when I asked why – on a day filled with anxiety and stress from school – she told me: “Thecla was a first century strong female saint who isn’t Our Lady…and she was anonymous.”

While I was proud of her for spending more time on researching her name than most kids her age, my heart broke a little as I realized the quest for anonymity was real. She is a young lady struggling to find her place in the world, who is overwhelmed by (in her words), “the vastness of God, the sinlessness of Jesus, and the need to go to Church.”

I have never been one to let my children choose whether they go to Mass or not. We go as a family and that is the end of the conversation. But as Molly got closer to Confirmation, she had more questions about the hypocrisy of the Church, the poor leadership of parishes, the awful liturgical celebrations she has experienced, and faith in general. To be fair, she probably thinks about this more than most 13-year-olds, but this journey of self-discovery was part of her preparation, so it was part of our conversation at home.

When one of the children asks, “Do we have to go to Mass?” my response is always the same. “No.” I tell them, “We do not have to go to Mass.”

“We get to go to Mass.”

We live in a country where we get to worship as we please. We get to believe, practice, pray, and celebrate our faith freely.

“And you get to get in the car now,” is how that conversation usually ends.

It isn’t that the children don’t enjoy Mass, it’s more that, since Fr. John died, the relationship has changed – not ended. They struggle to find a relationship that is consistent and a message they can remember. He really was one of a kind.

So Molly chose to be Confirmed. Not because she has all the answers – I assured her that her own father still struggles – but because she knows now that struggling with our faith is best done at Mass.

During the homily, Bishop Caggiano directed his message directly to the Confirmandi:

“You are on the road to sainthood,” he told them. “And it happens one choice at a time.”

One choice at a time.

One Mass at a time.

One day at a time.

One child at a time.

May your week be filled with the presence of the Holy Spirit and the sweet smell of Chrism.

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Surprised

I attended a conference in Indianapolis last week. It was only for a few days and flying in and through Chicago gave me an appreciation for hats, coats, and gloves. The conference was about theological exploration and, though I didn’t really want to take the time away from home and work, I am glad I did.

I forgot that I could still be surprised by the stories of others.

Like the woman in my small group who shyly told of being on the FBI “list” back in the day when she and her friends sat in at a lunch counter and shut Dillard’s department store down “because they would not hire blacks.” Now she is an ordained minister in the AME church in Arkansas – the first woman to hold that distinction.

Or the man who worked as both a priest and psychologist with first responders after 9/11.

Or the young lady struggling to teach college students and raise her own two young children.

Or any of the other stories of faith I encountered – one surprise after another.

And I forgot that I could be overwhelmed by prayer.

For two mornings, our prayer was led by a group out of Richmond, VA called Urban Doxology. While many in the room danced, waved their arms, and shouted: “Amen,” I was more of the “chosen and frozen” kind of pray-er, rocking back and forth like I was putting a baby to sleep, but still moved to tears at the songs of praise and powerful witness.

After Friday morning prayer, when I was psychologically done with the conference and emotionally ready to go home, I found myself seeking out one of the worship leaders. She had given a powerful testimony about her struggle with anxiety and sang a song that saved her once and continues to save her today.

As we started to talk, I told her about my own child who, at age 13, struggles with anxiety. I found myself choking up and I simply said, “You give me hope,” to this young woman with such a gift for music and such a witness to the 100 or so gathered.

“Can we pray?” she asked. Sheepishly, I agreed.

She began, “Heavenly Father, we pray for Patrick’s baby girl….” And I lost it.

But as she prayed, I was overcome with a sense of relief. My oldest will always be my baby girl. She will always be my Ace Number One. And I knew at this moment she would be okay. In all my distractions, I remembered that there is a God who loves her more than I can ever comprehend, even if the child wonders if that’s always true.

“Amen,” the prayer concluded, and I thanked her.

I forgot that I could be overwhelmed by prayer.

~pjd

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First Teachers

Anyone who has heard me give a presentation to parents knows that I love to quote the prayer over the parents that happens at the end of a baptism in the Catholic Church. It’s the part where the priest or deacon tells mom and dad that, in addition to having to buy diapers and formula, books and blankets, tuition and car seats, they are the “first teachers in the ways of faith.” Okay, to be fair, the rest of that isn’t actually in the prayer, but I swear it is implied.

First teachers. That’s heady stuff. There is an implication there that mom and dad have a clue as to what they are doing in their own faith lives. “You cannot give what you do not have,” the wise man says. So if mom and dad haven’t read the catechism or learned their prayers, they may want to spend that first year reading up on the Good Book so they are prepared.

I thought about that first teacher stuff the other night when I took the children to the track behind their school for movie night. The littlest really wanted to go and once she promised the eldest she would not sing along to every song in “The Greatest Showman” (which was the movie of choice), we had a deal. We picked up some chicken and some drinks, packed the folding chairs in the van, and set off. Mom was flying back from a trip and Friday night is movie night anyway, so this might prove to be fun.

It was a circus.

Actually, it was a circus happening around a movie about a guy that starts a circus. There was as much chaos in front of the screen as there was on the screen. Some kids chose to play basketball instead of watching the movie. Others chose to run around and scream on the playground. One little group of girls – all with light-up sneakers – decided to chase each other in and around those who were actually watching the movie. When one of them hit the inflatable screen for the third time, I thought my second youngest would lose it.

“What is wrong with these people?” he asked.

“Their parents,” came the response from the eldest child.

No one was in charge. No one had control of the situation. As my children sat there watching the film, I began to wonder why they were so irritated. It wasn’t because they wanted to run around, it was because this was billed as a movie night for families and since we’ve had movie nights for years, they knew how this should go: start the movie, pause it for snacks and bathroom breaks, and otherwise sit quietly and laugh, cry, or fall asleep. But running around, tripping on the tie downs for the screen, and generally shrieking about was never on the agenda for my kids.

It turns out the movie was a backdrop. An excuse to get families together. We went expecting one thing and what happened was something else. That’s not a bad thing, but the realization didn’t help ease my irritation.

At one point, I remembered, as I was trying to pass out Oreos to those kids sitting around us behaving themselves, what Ron Rolheiser says about those times when screaming and yelling of children irritates us. He calls the unabashed outpouring of noise and merriment “joy” and says that it can irritate us because this joy gets in the way of our own misery.

“Was that true?” I wondered as I sat there in the cool fall night? “Was I miserable in some way? Was this joy around me irritating me because there was something inside me that needed to change.”

“No,” I finally concluded.

These parents should be watching their kids.

Being a first teacher is hard.

-pjd

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Summertime

The homeroom teacher for Ace Number One stopped me in the hall the other day after Maureen and I finished playground duty. He asked if it would be okay if he gave our eldest a copy of Ray Bradbury’s Dandelion Wine. He has read it every summer since 1964 and thought she would enjoy it.

It was a lovely gesture and I am anxious to reread my own copy as she works her way through the book. If you have never read it, put it on your list.

There are two scenes I love. I’ll tell you about the second one another time but in the early part of the story, set in the summer of 1928 about 12-year-old Douglas and his brother, Tom, the two boys are talking in their room. Tom tells Douglas that he has discovered that old people were never children, which strikes Douglas as both obvious and brilliant. Tom also points out that this is tragic because they cannot really do anything to help old people.

The two are amazed at Tom’s discovery. Because we live in the moment this is partially true; because the children cannot conceive of anything beyond the moment, they see it as a fact.

For the boys, growing up seems not to depend on figuring things out completely as much as coming up with new ideas about things. In fact, there is no reason to believe that adults have figured many things out but rather simply reached a consensus. But for the boys, summer is magic: growth happens without apparent change.

Do you remember summer? Not vacations to the beach, not getting out of school, but summer. That feeling that you have absolutely nothing planned, no list of chores, nothing written down or implied…tomorrow?

I don’t either.

Still, I find peace in remembering Catholicism 101: you cannot quantify grace.

So those moments of nothing have been replaced with moments of superficial importance. The “everything I have to do today” steps on the neck of “what will I do tomorrow?” and strangles it.

And I sometimes forget to find grace in the to-do list, emails, and phone calls.

Today, right now, I will close my eyes and remember. I will pray for patience. I will pray for the nothingness that surrounds me and the violence of busyness that consumes me.

I will pray in hopes that us old people aren’t so helpless after all.

~pjd

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Family Update

Child number two won second place in the science fair this week. Her project had something to do with whether girls were smarter than boys. The irony that a boy won first prize was not lost on her. Still, we are very proud.

Child number one did not place but did an excellent job on her project, “Can you survive a black hole?” The principal said that many of the judges found it fascinating and he wondered aloud if you could indeed survive a black hole. I told him I would let him know when teenage years were finished.

Child number three got a haircut that is too short for him. He complained that the stylist did not listen to his request. Good thing he’s a good-looking kid. He can pull it off. Dad…not so much.

Child number four was painting last week with child number three, when her sibling took the paint she was going to use. Rather than asking for the paint to be returned she whispered, “Sleep with one eye open, buddy, because I’m coming for you.” Too much Internet access for that child.

Maureen got home from a week away so our schedule of staying up late binge watching Monk on a school night will have to end. The kids said I was the best Dad ever every single night. The ice cream might have helped.

As we move towards Lent, we have been discussing what we could do as a family. Child number one suggested that we give up movie night but was horrified when I offered Stations of the Cross as an alternative. When another child suggested Taize prayer at our parish, all agreed, most of all the eldest. We also opted for more time in prayer each night and I have promised to get back on the exercise bike.

To cap out week, we went out to celebrate Dad’s birthday last night. It’s hard to believe he’s been gone six and a half years.

May your week be blessed and your Lent begin with humility and peace.

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Children Will Watch

Ace Number One came home with an infraction the other day. It’s essentially a piece of paper that outlines what she did wrong and one of her parents have to sign it. By the time I got home, the infraction was signed and the letter of apology to the teacher to whom the disrespect was aimed was written and ready for delivery.

What did she do? Well, she repeated bad behavior. Walking her charges down the hall, the first-grade teacher told her students, “Be careful, children, the seventh graders have no respect for first graders.” Child number one took issue with this and, upon turning the corner, muttered to a friend, “It sounds like she doesn’t have a lot of respect for seventh graders.”

She would have gotten away with the remark had the first-grade teacher not been standing right behind her.

The infraction was well-deserved and the child was well rebuked. She knows better than to talk about another person like that. But, still, the whole event got me thinking. It reminded me of a conversation with my dad when I joked that no one listened to me at home. “Children don’t listen,” he said. “They watch.”

My children yell because I yell. They eat ice cream and chocolate and read books and love electronics because their mother and I enjoy all these things. They are short with each other and mean to each other and leave their clothes on the floor because, well, you get the idea.

But they also sing and share and pray because we do. They know I love the Rosary and have an affinity for Our Lady and they know that Maureen and I bless them each night not out of habit, but out of a commitment to love them and do our best to be their “first teachers in the ways of faith.” They know that the religious symbols in our home are not for show. They are silent homilies that give witness to all that our lives are rooted upon.

The teacher in the hall was inappropriate. So was the child in front of her. Children listen. Children watch.

Lord, give my children good witnesses. And let the witnessing begin with me.

~pjd