Almost missed posting something today. Not that today was worthy of anything to post.
Nothing learned. Nothing read. Nothing experienced. Nothing gained. Nothing of note.
It started quite early and never let up. Got up at 6:15, unable to get back to sleep. Went to the basement to write but had block. Little ones up, fed them. Ran to the post office to pay a late bill. Dressed the girls, walked them to school. Got back, ate, fed Patch, put Patch down, showered, cleaned, made lists. Got the Little One from school. Disciplined the Little One for not listening: no TV. Fed Patch, out on the road doing errands: buy a gift, buy diapers, home to feed, clean, feed, clean, feed, and clean. And do some laundry. And later some packing.
One thing after the other. One step forward, two steps back. Occasionally, two steps forward and only one step back. Usually X step(s) forward and X step(s) back. Overall, after fifteen hours awake, I’m about a step, step-and-a-half ahead.
Tired and uninspired. Tomorrow, though, I hope to write something interesting. This is an earnest hope. And I earnestly hope you’ll find it interesting. What it is, I don’t know, yet. But I’ll think of something overnight.
Big crunch tomorrow. Wife is swamped – and I mean, swamped – with last-minute work. I’m too boneheaded to help her out effectively. Then we head to my parents in PA for the long Thanksgiving weekend. They have a computer out there, so I’ll post stuff while we’re off for some serious R&R as a family. Blessed relief. We all need it.
By the way, lots of strange songs going through my mind all day: “O Holy Night,” sung by Cartman of South Park; the Three’s Company song, “Come and Knock on Our Door,” complete with wah-wah pedal intro; the Super-Readers super soulful theme song (it’s a kids show); “He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother.” People giving me lots of quizzical looks, especially my children. Oh well. I chalk it up to … nothing of note.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Monday, November 23, 2009
Theology Lesson 2
Two theological items I came across this past week, both in my various reading. Perhaps you might find something here interesting?
First, I came across a unique analogy skimming through an online book by John C. H. Wu. Don’t know much about him, except he’s one of those converts who seemed to soak up the faith, dangerous and alien to his culture and environment, immediately and exponentially and had the power to spread it with the same force.
Two of my dozen interests (passions, to varying degrees) are physics and Catholicism. Never before have I read a connection between the two. Until now.
Mr. Wu suggests in a footnote a comparison which those of you who are familiar with the saints may find intriguing. In The Science of Love, he states that the theology of Saint Teresa of Avila compared to that of Saint Therese of Lisieux is analagous to the physics of Newton compared with that of Einstein.
Hmmmm. What the heck does that mean?
I dunno, but I think it would make for a good post in itself. Of course, after much study, thinking, and prayer.
Second, as Catholics, we believe in the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist. That is, through the process of transubstantiation, instituted during the mass, the wine and bread becomes the body and blood of Jesus Christ. I wrote about it at length here. The main point is that Christ is really present in the wine and bread.
Now, while reading a book on saints, I came across a paragraph stating that, traditionally, it has also been believed that the Real Presence is also in Scripture. The actual Bible, the physical book you can hold in your hands. Christ is really present there, too.
Wow. I had never even thought that or about that, nor had I ever heard it before. So I extend it here for your consideration, with the caveat that I don’t have anything official to back it up save this one book I read it in. If I find it in the Catechism, or something more weightier, I will pass that information on. At this stage, to me at least, it ain’t what we call dogma.
But it’s still something I find quite mind-blowing.
First, I came across a unique analogy skimming through an online book by John C. H. Wu. Don’t know much about him, except he’s one of those converts who seemed to soak up the faith, dangerous and alien to his culture and environment, immediately and exponentially and had the power to spread it with the same force.
Two of my dozen interests (passions, to varying degrees) are physics and Catholicism. Never before have I read a connection between the two. Until now.
Mr. Wu suggests in a footnote a comparison which those of you who are familiar with the saints may find intriguing. In The Science of Love, he states that the theology of Saint Teresa of Avila compared to that of Saint Therese of Lisieux is analagous to the physics of Newton compared with that of Einstein.
Hmmmm. What the heck does that mean?
I dunno, but I think it would make for a good post in itself. Of course, after much study, thinking, and prayer.
Second, as Catholics, we believe in the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist. That is, through the process of transubstantiation, instituted during the mass, the wine and bread becomes the body and blood of Jesus Christ. I wrote about it at length here. The main point is that Christ is really present in the wine and bread.
Now, while reading a book on saints, I came across a paragraph stating that, traditionally, it has also been believed that the Real Presence is also in Scripture. The actual Bible, the physical book you can hold in your hands. Christ is really present there, too.
Wow. I had never even thought that or about that, nor had I ever heard it before. So I extend it here for your consideration, with the caveat that I don’t have anything official to back it up save this one book I read it in. If I find it in the Catechism, or something more weightier, I will pass that information on. At this stage, to me at least, it ain’t what we call dogma.
But it’s still something I find quite mind-blowing.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Pet Rock
His name was Louis.
He was black, round, craggy. Could fit in the palm of my hand. Spent most of his short life on the painted ledge of my window sill. All the neighborhood girls would come to my window. They acted like they wanted to see me, but I know better. They wanted to see Louis.
I told them all, Stephanie, Jennifer, Mary Ann, Florence, and, of course, Cathy, I told them all that he was volcanic. Spewed out of Mount Vesuvius. You know, the volcano that covered Pompeii with hot, poisonous ash and left all those mummified and contorted bodies. That’s what I told them. I have an active imagination. They might have believed me.
Actually, I found him at our local swimming hole. Stubbed my toe on him; the original meet-cute. Picked him up and I just knew his name and his whole backstory. In reality, he was a chunk of tar from the paved road a few yards away.
Regardless, Louis was the star of my block that July. And me, too, by a degree of separation.
Then, one day, he fell off my shelf, and broke in two.
Louis had done the impossible: he had reproduced via some sort of macroscopic mitosis.
Now I had Louis and Clyde; double the attraction. So I thought. Suddenly, the zeitgeist had shifted. The moving finger, having writ, moved on. Louis was no longer the “It” rock.
At first I blamed Clyde. Instead of my palm-sized pet, I now had two irregular-shaped friends, one larger than the other but both small. No longer was Louis larger than life. In fact, I held a press conference from my bedroom window. Stephanie, Jennifer, Mary Ann, Florence, and, of course, Cathy showed up. I made my announcement.
Louis had died. So had Clyde.
There was an immediate commotion: Was there to be a burial? Any last words? What had happened, exactly?
No! No more questions. I pulled the shade closed. Once the girls had all departed, I placed Louis and Clyde in the pocket of my bathing suit.
That weekend we went back to the lake. I walked to the water’s edge and withdrew my friends, placing them down at the gentle shore. “Go, now,” I whispered. “You’re free …”
They sat there motionless.
“Go, damn you!” I cried. “Go!”
Still, they stayed.
I ran to the edge and picked up my pet rocks in my hand. I squeezed them one last time, thinking of all the memories of that week in July. Then, I hurled them out towards the center of the lake.
The lifeguard blew a whistle at me and told me to stop throwing rocks at the other swimmers, but I paid him no heed.
Wiping a tear from my eye, I went back to the picnic table where my family sat, and had some barbecued chicken.
He was black, round, craggy. Could fit in the palm of my hand. Spent most of his short life on the painted ledge of my window sill. All the neighborhood girls would come to my window. They acted like they wanted to see me, but I know better. They wanted to see Louis.
I told them all, Stephanie, Jennifer, Mary Ann, Florence, and, of course, Cathy, I told them all that he was volcanic. Spewed out of Mount Vesuvius. You know, the volcano that covered Pompeii with hot, poisonous ash and left all those mummified and contorted bodies. That’s what I told them. I have an active imagination. They might have believed me.
Actually, I found him at our local swimming hole. Stubbed my toe on him; the original meet-cute. Picked him up and I just knew his name and his whole backstory. In reality, he was a chunk of tar from the paved road a few yards away.
Regardless, Louis was the star of my block that July. And me, too, by a degree of separation.
Then, one day, he fell off my shelf, and broke in two.
Louis had done the impossible: he had reproduced via some sort of macroscopic mitosis.
Now I had Louis and Clyde; double the attraction. So I thought. Suddenly, the zeitgeist had shifted. The moving finger, having writ, moved on. Louis was no longer the “It” rock.
At first I blamed Clyde. Instead of my palm-sized pet, I now had two irregular-shaped friends, one larger than the other but both small. No longer was Louis larger than life. In fact, I held a press conference from my bedroom window. Stephanie, Jennifer, Mary Ann, Florence, and, of course, Cathy showed up. I made my announcement.
Louis had died. So had Clyde.
There was an immediate commotion: Was there to be a burial? Any last words? What had happened, exactly?
No! No more questions. I pulled the shade closed. Once the girls had all departed, I placed Louis and Clyde in the pocket of my bathing suit.
That weekend we went back to the lake. I walked to the water’s edge and withdrew my friends, placing them down at the gentle shore. “Go, now,” I whispered. “You’re free …”
They sat there motionless.
“Go, damn you!” I cried. “Go!”
Still, they stayed.
I ran to the edge and picked up my pet rocks in my hand. I squeezed them one last time, thinking of all the memories of that week in July. Then, I hurled them out towards the center of the lake.
The lifeguard blew a whistle at me and told me to stop throwing rocks at the other swimmers, but I paid him no heed.
Wiping a tear from my eye, I went back to the picnic table where my family sat, and had some barbecued chicken.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)