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Outcasts

For the Donovan family, Friday night is movie night. It has been that way since the oldest was a baby. The children (and parents) still miss the seating and the set-up from our family theater in Delaware, but like all first world problems, we muddle through with a large screen and comfortable seating.

Several months ago, we began to watch what we thought was the next movie in the Captain America series but within a few minutes realized we had no idea what was happening. With a little research, we discovered that you are not supposed to watch the Marvel movies in order of release. They tell a story and to understand it, you have to know which movie to watch and in what order to watch them. We are about fourteen weeks into this adventure and some of the movies are just fantastic. They speak of family and sacrifice, loyalty and redemption. They are worth the time and money it takes to rent them.

This weekend, however, we added another movie to the mix as we finally sat down to watch The Greatest Showman. It is a hybrid of Hollywood and reality and tells the story of P.T. Barnum, who lived and is buried just down the road. While it skips most of his time in Bridgeport (as mayor and legislator), it does tell the story of his relationship with those most vulnerable – and detested – in society.

I was a fan of the circus until the day it closed. We used to go every year near my birthday. In those early days, the title “circus’ was given to Barnum’s gathering of oddities as a term of derision. The people he gathered (and exploited) were among those that no one wanted to be around: the bearded lady, the tattooed man, the tall man, the short man, the fat man, and the hairy man, the conjoined and the dark-skinned. These are the people, the movie tells, that Barnum befriended with a smile and who helped him put on the greatest of shows.

In typical Hollywood fashion, he forgets his roots as the poor son of a tailor. He seeks fame and acceptance among the upper class. Only when tragedy strikes is he reminded what family really means, as he is encouraged to come home and rebuild. There is crucifixion and resurrection all wrapped up with songs you will be singing all week.

But the reason I loved the movie goes beyond the song and dance, though child number two couldn’t stop singing and child number four couldn’t stop dancing. There is a scene where Barnum’s youngest child meets the bearded lady and, while everyone else is laughing, she takes a cue from her father and looks past the lady’s shame and directly into her eyes. Barnum calls the bearded lady beautiful. His daughter smiles and maintains eye contact.

It made me wonder what cues my own children would take from me. Do they look upon those whom society ignores with love or do they change lanes to avoid eye contact? Do they treat others with respect or, like the crowds in the movie, yell, “You are not wanted here; go home?”

As my children grow, will they be among those outside the tent or among those who serve and are loyal to those singing and dancing?

Children watch. They don’t always listen. But children watch.

Sometimes it frightens me to be so powerful.

-pjd

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Sing Out, Earth and Skies

When you do Lent well, Easter means more.

This year, as a family, we did Lent well. We prayed together, we sacrificed, we talked about being better, and we talked about Lent. The poster created at work hung in the kitchen and, while it encouraged forty ways to live Lent well, we got to about half of them, which is pretty good, all things considered.

The kids were adamant that no one say the “A” word and chastised friends who did. We go through this every year.

The season – cold, snow, and all – seemed more real this year for some reason. Perhaps it was because we needed resurrection from a long, cold winter. Perhaps because for us, as a family, our Lent included power outages and hospitalizations, viruses and snow days. Perhaps it was last week’s funeral that tipped Lent more towards darkness than usual. Perhaps we gave up more, lived more intentionally, and waited, hoped, and prayed with greater fervor.

But come Sunday morning, the energy and enthusiasm was palpable and came not from chocolate but from the anticipation of getting the “A” word back. As we drove to church, the children, especially the youngest, wondered exactly when we could return to the singing of the “A word.”

When it was time to sing it within the context of Mass, no one missed a note.

Then, on the way home, we sang it some more.

Indeed, it is good to have the “A” word back.

We are an Easter people. A resurrection people. Alleluia. Alleluia.

Hope has transcended the bounds of death.

Death has been vanquished.

Even on the cross, overwhelmed by a prayer of abandonment by the God he has so earnestly and steadfastly served, Jesus refused to give over to resignation. He forgave.  He kept believing and hoping. He said, “yes” to God. Again and again, he said, “yes.”

Jesus has delivered himself entirely from himself in order to be completely God’s.

And so stones are rolled away. And God says, “yes” right back. God raises that which we crucify.

The tomb is empty. He has been raised. Now, go and tell the Good News.

We are an Easter people. And “Alleluia” is our song.

May your week be blessed.

~pjd

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Best Dad Ever

The title of this entry comes from the birthday card my youngest made for me. She is known for her brutal honesty, so I am taking her words for Gospel.

Today, we celebrate the Solemnity of Saint Joseph, spouse of the Blessed Virgin Mary. He is the patron saint of fathers (Joseph is also patron saint of the Universal Church, families, fathers, expectant mothers (pregnant women), travelers, immigrants, house sellers and buyers, craftsmen, engineers, and working people in general), so he and I share a bond. I don’t have any kids like Jesus, but they try.

Since yesterday was my birthday, the children were extra well behaved. The yelling was limited only to the moments when child number three hit child number four (two times) or when child number two “tripped” on child number three’s outstretched leg (only once). They made cards and gave me a wrapped package of Junior Mints. They used money I had given them for when they go to town after play practice, so technically, I think I bought the Junior Mints.

We had our standard dad’s birthday dinner of chicken, mashed potatoes, and broccoli. Apparently, I thought we were having company because I have enough mashed potatoes for a week.

Maureen made sure I got to spend the entire day with the kids and enjoy their company all by myself, having gotten herself checked into the hospital on St. Patrick’s Day. She’s still there, hooked up to pain meds for some mysterious illness that has her doubled over in pain. I told the children she probably forgot to buy me a present.

Nothing is recorded in Scriptures about St. Joseph’s words to his family. He gets a message in a dream, but even the Blessed Mother gets to speak once in a while. And yet, he is a model for fathers everywhere. There’s a lesson in there, albeit an ironic one, about who gets to talk and who gets to listen.

This week, be like Joseph and listen more. Speak less. Work hard. And, like Joseph certainly did for Jesus, teach your children well.

St. Joseph, patron of best dads everywhere, pray for us.

~pjd

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Let There Be Light

It is easy to forget how nice electricity is until you are in the middle of a snowstorm and the lights go out.

For days.

At first, you sit around in the darkness and you hope it is just a temporary condition. Then you start to gather candles, you search for the flashlight you swear you just saw the other day, and you put the kids to bed like normal.

At some point, you realize this might take a while, as you hear the hum of the generators the neighbors have pulled from their garage and filled with gas. You remember that you always wanted to get one and you wonder how much they cost. You look with envy at your neighbors house, lit and warm, as the chill settles over the house.

The first day was fine. We hit McDonalds for breakfast after shoveling the driveway. When you pay as much as we do in property taxes, the snow barely has time to settle on the streets before the trucks plow it off to the sides. When we return home, the children realized that no electricity equals boredom and, though their father suggests playing a game (Mom was out of town all week), the children ask if there is power at dad’s office. If there is power, there is a chance to charge the electronics.

We camp in the living room, around a fire that burns all night, and we hang some quilts on the doorways to keep the heat in the room. By this point, Mom has navigated the power lines that have fallen across the streets and joined in the fun. The conversation turns to all the food in the freezers and refrigerator. We probably could have stored the milk in one of the bedrooms or out in the snow, but no one thought of that.

By day three, we leave town. Dad had a retreat to lead in Delaware, so we pack up and visit friends and Aunt Barbara in a whirlwind trip down the turnpike.

Much to our relief, our neighbors send a picture via text while we are away. It shows the lights on in the house. Whew.

Now, the work of salvaging food, cleaning up the campsite, and resetting all the wireless devices begins.

Tomorrow the forecast calls for six to eight inches of snow and high winds. I take comfort in knowing that trees that fall cannot fall again.

At least I hope that is the case.

May your week be filled with light and warmth.

~pjd

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Lessons

I remember the day that a little girl fell down a well and the world watched while she was rescued.

And the well got covered and the little girl grew up.

I remember when the Space Shuttle fell from the sky shortly after takeoff killing all the astronauts on board, including a school teacher who won a contest.

And the fleet was grounded for years while protocols were amended.

I remember when a group of miners was trapped underground and people all over the world held their collective breath until the very last one came to the surface.

And mining regulations changed.

I remember when evil hijacked the planes and the towers fell.

And we changed the way we check in and get screened at the airport, we went to war, and we hunted down the guilty party and made movies about the whole experience.

I remember when oil gushed beneath the Gulf of Mexico and people dove into the sea to escape the flames.

And the number of inspectors tripled, and audits of offshore oil rigs became more complicated.

I remember being in a classroom with junior high students watching on television as children in Littleton, CO ran from the building.

I remember Paducah, Tacoma, Knoxville, and the Amish children in Nickel Mines, Pennsylvania.

I remember the night and weeks following Newtown and how we held each other and our children so much closer.

I remember people arguing about politics and guns and parenting and I remember politicians crying and celebrities offering thoughts and prayers.

But nothing changed.

So, now, seventeen more children and adults are dead, and the arguing has started all over again.

And parents everywhere wonder…

Will things be different this time?

~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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Death at the Cemetery

I returned from a week in Bethlehem, Galilee, Nazareth, and Jerusalem on Saturday night and will be processing the journey for some time. It was a powerful trip, especially because I participated with twenty young adults and our bishop. Reading the Scriptural passages, studying them, and then visiting the physical places is a powerful way to make your way through the Holy Land and, as with any pilgrimage, some moments stand out more than others. There will be time, in the coming weeks, to share more of what we experienced. For me, though, it was the unexpected moments that were the most emotional.

On Tuesday, as we hiked up the hill towards the Chapel of the Milk Grotto in the West Bank of the Palestinian Territories, we noticed a large group of women coming down the hill. They were all in black and heading into a church. Not being familiar with our destination, I assumed they were heading the same place we were going. But then, many paces behind them, came the men. The first one was carrying a lid to a coffin and it became clear pretty quickly what was going on. The men were carrying the body of an old man, laid out in a coffin and surrounded by flowers. Then came another group of women, many sobbing. We stood silently on the side of a very small road, trying to push ourselves aside for the procession to pass. As they headed into the Coptic Orthodox Church, I found myself praying for the deceased and his family. It was a stark reminder that life falls over into death, even in the holiest of sites.

The following day, we were outside the Eastern Wall of Jerusalem, which faces the Mount of Olives and the Kidron Valley. On one side of the hill is an enormous Jewish cemetery. On the other side, nearest the Eastern Wall, is a Muslim cemetery. Both are hundreds of years old and yet still in use. We saw one family gathered at the grave in the Jewish cemetery, placing stones on the grave of their loved one, presumably marking a birthday or anniversary. We made our way down the hill from the Garden of Gethsemane and wandered through the Muslim cemetery so we could more closely touch the Eastern Walls surrounding Jerusalem, which have stood since the time of Jesus. As Fr. Paul, our guide, was speaking, a group of men walked in haste towards us. “Stay where you are,” Fr. Paul whispered into our headphones. As the group came closer, I could see that the man in the front of the crowd was carrying a body.

It was child.

No box. No coffin. Just a father carrying his child, presumably wrapped in the traditional white linens, though we could only see the green blanket wrapped around the outside. If I had to guess, I would say the child was no more than five or six years old. The pained look on the man’s expression was one of emptiness, unimaginable grief, and yet a look of purpose. The tradition is to bury the dead within a day, but not after sundown. It was obvious this was a recent death and so the group moved with precision, past the onlookers, and towards the grave.

I stood and wondered. Was it a boy? A girl? Had he been sick? Was it an accident? Why the hurry? These questions haunted me all day and into the night, as the rest of the pilgrims shared their reactions, prayers, questions, and thoughts as we gathered for our regular time of sharing that night. As I went to bed, I prayed for the family of that child, the repose of the soul of that child, and fell asleep thinking about my own children six thousand miles away.

Then, around 4 am, I woke up with a start. I don’t know what made me wake up, but as I sat up in bed, a thought occurred to me. Maybe the father was hurrying because he had other children at home. He had a wife he was anxious to get home to. He had responsibilities waiting. Outside the cemetery, life was waiting. It was a strange experience in so many ways.

In the United States, we have sanitized death, commercialized it even. We have rituals, a timeline, showrooms for caskets, and budgets. There is a beauty in all of this, to be sure. There is also a beauty in hastily taking the dead to their resting place, giving him or her back to God, and getting back to life. Even after leaving the cemetery, that father will carry the child with him forever. That’s how fatherhood works.

I know, too, that I will carry the image of that scene with me for some time. It is an image not on my camera, but embedded in my mind. I will continue to pray for that child, those men, that family. Religious views may divide us, but that man and I are fathers and I pray with all my heart, I never feel his pain.

May your week be filled with holy sights.

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Word Made Flesh

Merry Christmas.

Today is the day when people, believers and nonbelievers alike, celebrate Christmas far more widely and with far greater joy than any other holiday or holy day.

Is this simply because Christmas is about motherhood, the birth of a child, innocence, and love? After all, these are at the heart of human life. I suppose it’s true that most of us would find it hard to identify with rising from the darkness of the tomb. Maybe that is why Christmas often has broader appeal than Easter. But perhaps there is more, a lot more. Perhaps we are more deeply in touch with an abstract idea we call the Incarnation than we realize. It could be that something deep inside us knows what “the Word made Flesh” really means.

From the moment God breathed God’s life-giving spirit over the darkness of the void and brought creation to life, God spoke to people. Through giants like Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, Deborah, Jeremiah, Isaiah, the psalmists, God gave us the words of life.

But, on Christmas day, the living Word of God came into the world. Mary gave birth to the Son of God. In this Jesus, God communicated most eloquently with God’s people. In this Jesus, God held children. God met with skeptics and dined with outcasts. In Jesus, God talked, listened. God wept over the dead Lazarus. God touched the leper. God put mud and spittle on the blind man’s eyes and healed him. Through Jesus, God entered the cycle of human life and unswervingly walked its path to the end.

Perhaps Christmas is so touching because God skipped nothing, not the frantic eruption of birth nor the numbing moment of death. God came to be one of us. One of us.

Perhaps the gift-giving of Christmas, the outpouring of love we lavish on one another, echoes the final message this God-Made-Man spoke through human flesh: “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you” (John 15:12).

Maybe this feast opens the door to some inner cell of our hearts where we imprison the Word that tells us that now we must be the arms of God surrounding the little ones; that we must be God’s voice to speak and God’s ears to listen; that we must weep God’s tears; that we must be God’s healing hands; that we must be Jesus in our times and in our culture. the power of this truth escapes and, at least for a few moments, warms up the coldness of our world.

It is indeed up to the twenty-first century Christians to give birth to Jesus in their own time, their own culture, their own families. This is the heart of faith and life. Each of us is an innkeeper. It is up to us to find room for Jesus.

Deep within us, we know it. We feel it and so we celebrate.

May that wonder and joy of that first Christmas be yours today and always.

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Morning Routine

There are some mornings when the children rise, speak pleasantly to each other, arrive to the kitchen with teeth brushed and uniforms on, eat their breakfast, and are waiting at the door when the bus arrives.

Today was not one of those mornings.

It was probably my fault because I prayed last night for the sleet and snow to delay the arrival of the day by a few hours. Mentally, I was prepared for that. Like most predictors of the future, the weather people were wrong and the wintry mix will not arrive until the morning commute. So the children rose and the yelling commenced. Child number four was making a noise that irritated child number three. Child number one was taking her time and child number two lives in her own time zone.

There were a few minutes when the cinnamon raisin toast was distributed and the stillness of the snow outside took over, but to be honest, that lasted about a minute and a half. Coincidentally, that is the time it takes for three children to chew two pieces of toast apiece.

The bus arrives five minutes early, as it does on days like today, and so the toast for child number one goes with her to the bus. Child number two has decided that now would be a good time to brush her teeth and I scream for the bus to wait as the mailman pulls up to deliver packages from the Santa that lives at Amazon. Neither sleet nor snow nor waiting buses will deter the mailman as he inches closer to the driveway blocked by the honking bus. Down the stairs bounds child number two, irritated at nothing and everything all at once.

Then, suddenly, the mayhem is over. As quick as the morning stillness was broken, there is peace in the house once again. We have passed the chaos off to the bus driver who will, in turn, pass it off to the teachers.

It is quiet. It is still. There is peace.

I sit in the living room, listening to the ticking of the grandfather clock, preparing for the day. Like every morning, I pray for the safety of the children and the sanity of the teachers.

And there, in the stillness of the morning, when all is calm, I find myself longing for the chaos.

It is an odd feeling to be irritated by something while you are in its midst and yet missing it once it has passed. In the stillness, I realize something I hadn’t before.

In the chaos, I find my joy.

May your week be filled will joyful chaos.

~pjd

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Anticipation

The children are planning for Christmas. They are making lists and comparing them with each other, making sure that they do not overwhelm Santa or Mom and Dad. I think they also want to make sure they do not repeat on one list what is asked on another.

When we moved to Connecticut, we started a new tradition. The children’s list can include only four items:

One thing you want.
One thing you need.
One thing you wear.
One thing you read.

For the sake of tradition, we also allowed one thing from Santa. The practice requires thought, planning, and maybe a little scheming. In the end, however, it has been a great move. Gone are the days of the endless list of toys that will litter the basement – we already have plenty of Legos for that. Gone, too, are the days of trying to count to make sure every child receives the same amount. The lists are simple and direct. Needs are identified and answered. There are still “family gifts” like the Nintendo Wii that appeared a few years ago and still haunt us, or the Lego Millennium Falcon, which did not actually get put together until just a few months ago, so it is not as if anyone is cheated by the new tradition.

The youngest has been asking for a few days when we can start decorating, but until the leaves are out of the yard, it just seems too soon. The liturgical calendar requires we “do” Advent first, but I think the tree may appear this weekend. After a whirlwind few weeks of attending the National Catholic Youth Conference and celebrating Thanksgiving on the road, visiting family and friends, and going to the movies (you really should see Coco), the school bus arrived on time this morning and the family is settling back into our routine.

I am taking a few days off this week, making use of the vacation days I will lose if they go unused. There are plenty of chores to do around the house, but my guess is that I will work from home while I pretend to get some reading and writing finished for school.

As we head towards the season of waiting, may your week be filled with the hope and anticipation that can always be found this time of year in a house filled with children.

~pjd