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This Week

Do you remember when you were little and you had absolutely nothing to do?

When evening arrived after a day of doing nothing with people you loved and as day turned into night, nothing mattered, nothing was important, and nothing worried you? You would stay up late because there was no bedtime and the stars were out and there were fireflies to chase and put in jars? There was no to-do list. No email. No one waiting for you to text back.

You could eat ice cream and not be intolerant and you could drink a coke and still fall asleep. If you were like me, you would mix up your ice cream until you made soup out it and still think it was delicious. In fact, you could eat pretty much anything because no one cared how you looked or what you wore or whether your pants were too tight?

Your parents said things like, “Be careful,” when you left the house and, “Be home before dark” as you rode down the street on your bicycle, without a helmet but with all the intentions of staying out until it was exactly dark and not a minute before.

Do you remember? Can you remember?

Me neither.

But as we worked in the attic this weekend, I found myself humming a song I thought I had forgotten. The song is “Eulogy” by The Hereafter and, though I have no idea of its origin, I love these lyrics:

Let’s pretend that we can still pretend/Let’s pretend that we are young again/I am only looking for a friend/Let’s pretend that we are young again.

It reminds me of those days so long ago and I’ve decided that this week I will worry less, have more fun, eat more ice cream, connect with a friend or two, and maybe, just maybe, go outside and ride my bike.

Close the computer. Put away the phone. Worry less. Pretend with me.

~pjd

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FXM

When I was little and the older siblings were playing basketball at Knoxville Catholic, the principal was a priest named Fr. Mankel. He would let us go into the office and make copies of our hands.

He was a big man with an enormous presence. When he spoke, rooms went silent. When he sang, walls shook. And when he corrected you, you just wanted to crawl away. But this big man became a mentor, a colleague, and eventually, a good friend. He was the first priest to hire me into ministry, promising that if I ever wanted to leave to “try out” the seminary, he would keep my position vacant in case I wanted to return home.

I heard this weekend that he is in 24-hour hospice care. He is in his eighties now and, though we have stayed in touch, he went downhill faster than anyone thought he would. He always joked that if he fell, the rising tide would sink many boats and, ironically, it was a fall at the barbershop that began his descent.

It was Fr. Mankel – now Msgr. Mankel – who invited my father to take stats at all the high school basketball games. For my father, it was a job he enjoyed from the early 1980s until shortly before he died. For Fr. Mankel, it was a way to separate my dad from Dr. Davidson since the two of them were, shall we say, pretty tough on the officials. That was FXM, always looking to match the right person with the right post.

His homilies were terrible, but his capacity to create a beautiful liturgical experience (homily notwithstanding) was incomparable. I served Mass with him every Triduum up until he transferred from our parish when I was 27. He was a gifted educator, a consummate politician, and a walking encyclopedia when it came to the people of Knoxville. He could look at a picture and tell you about the nurse who delivered the mother or the father of whomever was in the photograph. His mind was a wasteland of facts and figures most of us would never bother to remember, but for him, it was a way of connecting to the larger community and making sure those who heard him tell stories knew that, in the end, we are all connected.

This week, I will pray for my friend and teacher. I will tell my children the story of someone who once drove – or tried to drive – through the blizzard of 1993 just to get some personal items for the young people stuck at the church, snowed in during a retreat. I will tell them about how he once caught me imitating him and how he shook his head in disappointment, not because it was rude, but because my impression was so bad.

When you think about the teacher or mentor or friend that contributed to who you are today, whom do you think about? Got it? Can you see him or her? Good. Now tell that story to someone.

Be a witness to the lives of others and the gift they gave so freely.

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Holes

The children wanted to dig a hole in the backyard this weekend.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because. It’s a big yard. It needs a hole.”

“Don’t you remember digging holes when you were a kid?” My wife asks.

I honestly don’t.

I remember tying the wagon to my bike and going on imaginary trips. My maternal grandmother would even mail her paper boarding pass to me so I could use them when I pretended to travel. I still have one tucked away in a book somewhere. It serves as a memento of a generation passed.

I remember being younger and having absolutely nothing to do. Of course, you dare not admit this boredom for fear of being overheard and the avalanche of chores that might follow.

I remember putting fireflies in jars.

I remembering eating tons of ice cream and not getting an upset stomach and I remember drinking a coke and still being able to fall asleep.

I remember riding my bike until it was dark and walking to McDonald’s with my brother.

But I don’t remember digging holes.

Still, at some point this weekend I paused from the home construction project I wanted to get done and looked out in the yard. There were the children, digging a hole. I found myself unconsciously humming a song I heard once upon a time. The song is “Eulogy” by The Hereafter and, though I have no idea of its origin, I love these lyrics:

Let’s pretend that we can still pretend/Let’s pretend that we are young again/I am only looking for a friend/Let’s pretend that we are young again.

As I hummed the tune, I wandered out to the yard. The kids were so proud. So dirty. So happy.

And I had to admit. It was an impressive hole.

This week remember what gave you joy when you were kid. Hitch your wagon to your bike. Smile more. Email less. Put down the phone. Catch a firefly.

Dig a hole.