penance

I feel compelled to tell every person I know about my particular sins, as if confession will cancel the consequences.

nostalgia

I remember those days when I would work really hard on something, then turn it in and a little while later I'd get it back with an A or A-.

I like getting A-s. An A-, especially with red marks all over, is commendation for a job well done and confirmation that the professor read your work, found flaws, and isn't a pushover.

An A- says "deserved" and "well-earned."

I miss those days.

These days I mostly work really hard at getting the work done and I hardly have time to get it done well.

But after doing poorly on my first Greek Myth paper, I worked hard on my second one.

I got it back today with lots of red ink and a penciled-in 92.

A-.

Thank you, Dostoevsky

Svidrigaylov lives the basest, most debauched life of any character in Crime and Punishment, then goes and shoots himself. In my gut I pity him, and even though we aren't supposed to make this sort of supposition about people, I can't shake the feeling that after death he was probably led to infinite suffering.

But then I remembered that he is fiction.

Freshman year I threw the book against the wall several times. I was frustrated with Dostoevsky for creating characters that seemed so real then making them suffer so much. (My story writing was always weak because I didn't have the heart to make my characters suffer.)

But they are fiction.

So I can make them suffer all I like.

And therefore tell a story.

at the end of the day

I'm still just as dumb as everyone else.

the difference is

Fatima

Something was crawling on my little statue of Our Lady, and I was about to flick it off, but then I realized it was a Ladybug.

underground thoughts

eli eli lema sabachthani!

The Pulley
by George Herbert

When God at first made man,
Having a glass of blessings standing by;
Let us (said he) pour on him all we can;
Let the world’s riches, which dispersed lie,
Contract into a span.

So strength first made a way;
Then beauty flowed, then wisdom, honor, pleasure:
When almost all was out, God made a stay,
Perceiving that alone of all his treasure
Rest in the bottom lay.

For if I should (said he)
Bestow this jewel also on my creature,
He would adore my gifts instead of me,
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature;
So both should losers be.

Yet let him keep the rest,
But keep them with repining restlessness:
Let him be rich and weary, that at least,
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
May toss him to my breast.

also

my mother is a beautiful woman.

useful saints: Joseph of Cupertino

I've decided to compile a list of useful saints, that is, patron saints of everyday things, saints whose particular intercession normal people need frequently. The term "useful" isn't mine -- it came from a friend when I asked him about a patron saint of awkward social situations. "I do not know the patron saint of the socially awkward," he told me. "Such a saint's intercession would be extremely useful, much like St. Anthony's." I think this merits, at the very least, a list. And so we begin.

St. Joseph of Cupertino, patron of test-takers
Patron Saints Index bio
EWTN bio

St. Joseph of Cupertino had a horrible time trying to learn to read and they almost didn't let him join the Franciscans. The only thing he could really remember was one line from Luke, on which he could talk rather eloquently: "Beatus venter qui te portavit." He had to pass a test in front of the bishop and, in the sort of coincidence that is clearly the grace of God, the bishop asked him to talk about that line from Luke.

After St. Joseph was ordained, he had to undergo another exam. One by one, down the line of priests, the bishop asked quesions and one by one, the priests gave fantastic answers. The bishop was so pleased that he decided to cut the exam short and several priests -- including our good friend St. Joseph -- didn't even have to answer.

He seems to be patron of general academic luck, and it honestly, that's exactly what we need sometimes.

Prayer to St. Joseph of Cupertino (linked from patron saints index)

O Great St. Joseph of Cupertino, who while on earth did obtain from God the grace to be asked at your examination only the questions you knew, obtain for me a like favor in the examinations for which I am now preparing. In return I promise to make you known and cause you to be invoked. Through Christ our Lord. Amen. St. Joseph of Cupertino, Pray for us.

smile

this one's for you, roommate

My brain hurts. I think it's going to ferment and drool out of my ears. As soon as I pick up my Latin, my brain says "no!" I can't even look at the page without my brain throwing fits. It's like a two-year-old throwing a tantrum. "I don't want to do Latin," it whines at me. "Well, brain," I say, "I'm sorry, but sometimes you just gotta do stuff you don't want to do." It writhes some more and screams at me: "No!" I wish it would drool out of my ears. That way at least it could flail around freely on the floor instead of in my head, flapping and smacking against my skull. "You haven't even read one sentence yet," I tell it, but my voice is like a lance in the side of an angry bull. "I have too been reading!" my brain whines. "I read all afternoon Saturday. I read all afternoon Sunday. And you made me get up early today and I read this morning, too. And you hardly gave me a break before going to class and taking that quiz. And you forced me to pay attention the entire time." It's been several hours since class and I haven't done any Latin since, but I've tried. I can't look at the text without my brain wilting into a pile of its own waste. "Come on, brain, let's get back to work. If you focus now, I'll let you sleep longer tonight," I say. It jerks away and smashes against the inside of my skull. "No!"

But by the grace of God I will win this war! Else I think I will make a horrible mother...

chicken soup with rice

I love feeding people.

Now I need to be Mary.

rabbit-trails about "extra" children and carbon footprints

I'm always a little irritated when I hear about population control or the irresponsibility of having more than so many kids. I found this article while deleting accidentally-saved drafts, and I decided to write about it after all.

When I'm finished with a gallon of milk, I throw the bottle in the car and, when I go home, add them to our recycling bin in the garage. I keep a hamady bag next to my desk and fill it with scrap paper (rough drafts of essays, map quiz practice sheets, outdated flyers I've removed from bulletin boards). I use some of it to make lists or so I don't get acrylic paint on the carpet, and whatever I've collected by the time I go home next gets tossed in the recycle bin at St. John Vianney. Clothes I don't wear anymore go to St. Luke's Street Ministry; clothes too worn-out to wear I make into something else. For the most part, I avoid using paper napkins. I made a gift for a friend from a green glass balsamic vinegar jar; I filled an emptied peanut butter jar with cough drops. I shy away from bottled water. I walk to Mass and the grocery store when I can. On my shelf right now is a burned-out lightbulb and an empty 10-oz apple juice bottle, waiting to be turned into projects.

I am thrifty (read: stingy) and I honestly enjoy walking, but most of these environmentally-friendly activities come from a desire to treat the earth with respect. We ought to: it is a gift from God.

But the earth is not God, and we need to remember to keep our duties in perspective. As a student I have a moral obligation to complete my schoolwork thoroughly; however, if a friend had a rough day and needs my shoulder and my ear the night before an exam, I ought to hug my friend. Love for God first and neighbors second should rule our lives; other duties follow.

Caring for the earth -- treating so great a gift with respect -- should flow from, not supersede, our primary duty to love.

Here we need to distinguish between love of humanity and love of neighbor. It's easy to "love humanity," for humanity is merely a collection of our neighbors, minus what makes them actually human.. We can "love humanity" without having to deal with a human response. We can "love humanity" but this love carries with it no risk of rejection and it is therefore a cheap form of love.

We were specifically instructed to love our neighbors, and our neighbors are real people. They have faces and middle names and favorite colors. The hairs on their heads have been counted. These are the people we ought to love. Your spouse and children are real people; the ozone layer is not. Contracepting to reduce greenhouse gases is putting humanity ahead of neighbor, promoting a vague, faceless cause instead of loving people.

The lede paragraph in the article asks: "Will there be enough food? Enough water? Will planet-heating carbon dioxide gas become ever more uncontrollable?" These are horrible questions to consider when planning a family.

First of all, we shouldn't really "plan a family." Just as the Son is love become incarnate, so too ought children be love become incarnate. There's a reason the "how to make babies" talk begins with "when a man loves a woman..." Love transforms from an abstract concept to a physical being, a child conceived in his mother's womb. "Family planning" involves an attitude of "I love you, but let's decide when/whether to let our love become incarnate," which is simply wrong.

Secondly, given the amount of food we waste in this country, we really shouldn't pretend that we worry about food quantity. Food will never be appropriately distributed over the entire world, and if we did run short, I don't think we would notice. We would continue to eat our dinners and ignore larger parts of world.

Third, though food is necessary for survival on a physical level, we are not merely physical beings. We are also spiritual beings who will live forever. How does fasting appear in the light of eternity? I don't want to trivialize starvation, only point out that it is an evil suffered, not an evil committed. Evils suffered damage the body; evils committed damage the soul. The human race has survived famine before; we can probably do it again.

Quoth the article: "If you are serious about your carbon footprint, think: birth control."

Interestingly enough, artificial forms of birth control are really really bad for the environment. The Pill is essentially a collection of hormones, bad for the environment and bad for your body. (Honestly, why would you want to mess with women's hormones more than necessary anyway?) With other forms of artificial contraception, the packaging and the items themselves get thrown away, filling landfill space, or left in a parking lot or in the woods, littering. The factories that produce these products and their packaging also produce greenhouse gases.

One way to avoid having children is to abstain, or to abstain during fertile cycles (which you can figure out easily if you have a thermometer). This leaves no carbon footprint whatsoever.

At heart, though, this isn't an issue of the methods of preventing conception but whether to prevent conception at all. Every time a husband and wife express their love this way, they must know that their love might become incarnate and they must be open to this possibility. Otherwise, they are qualifying their love and love must not be qualified. Love doesn't come with modifiers, dangling or not. Love does not precede a cum clause. Love is not followed by conjunctions. Love is "I (completely) love (completely) you (completely)," not "I love you, but let's be careful" or "I love you when you're not fertile."

The article continues: "The greenhouse gas impact of an extra child is almost 20 times more significant than the amount any American would save by such practices as driving a fuel-efficient car, recycling or using energy-efficient light bulbs and appliances," according to the study.

This begs the question: which children are extras and who decides? Look my little sister, kid #5, in the eye and tell her. I dare you.

The article goes on to say that "under current U.S. consumption patterns, each child ultimately adds about 9,441 metric tons of CO2 to the carbon legacy of an average parent--about 5.7 times a person's lifetime emissions, he calculates."

The writers of Our Sunday Visitor's Daily Take blog comment better than I ever could:

First of all, what is that even supposed to mean? If we start thinking about our future children in terms of how many metric tons of carbon dioxide they will produce, we may need to consider the possibility that perhaps we are not called to the vocation of motherhood and fatherhood in the first place.

The article mentions that this awkward statistic takes place "under current U.S. consumption patterns." Who's to say that these "extra children" will follow current U.S. consumption patterns? Most couples having "extra children" (we'll say more than two) tend toward the Catholic/homeschooling variety -- countercultural enough not to follow the current consumption patterns. They are probably wearing hand-me-downs, driving vans and buying food in bulk. They probably don't take long or frequent road trips, leave a big-screen TV flashing at all hours or fill landfill space with used contraceptives. I wouldn't be surprised to find that a normal family of seven or eight leaves a carbon footprint similar to that of a normal family of three or four. Big families just don't follow normal consumption patterns.

In the light of eternity, how much of this matters? The heavens and the earth, including the ozone layer, will pass away, and when it does my carbon footprint will be erased. My first duty is to love God, and from my love for him flows a desire to respect the gifts he has given me. I will recycle not for the greater good of the vague mass we call humanity, but to express my gratitude to so great a Creator.

Lepanto Day

I have friends whose families have recipes for Pacskis and others who take Mexican dancing lessons. I know people who grew up bilingual and whose grandparents speak broken, accented English. I didn't.

I know people who revel in being Irish or Polish or Italian or French. I can't -- I'm made up of smidges and pinches of Europe.

Ethnically, I am lost, without a clear history or notable ancestors to show me who I am and where I came from. Judged this way, I have no real identity.

I think a lot of Americans feel this way. We are a people without a past.

But I have a past. I have my people. I have St. Peter, who insisted on being crucified upside-down because he wasn't worthy to be martyred the way our Savior was. I have St. Joan of Arc, who led France to victory. I have St. Francis of Assisi, who rebuilt the church. I have St. Maximillian Kolbe, who died in place of a stranger in Auschwitz. I have St. Nicholas, who slapped a heritic on the face at a church council. I have Perpetua, who thought of modesty before pain during her martyrdom. I have St. Thomas Aquinas, brilliant man, who realized God is infinitely more than he could contain in a book. Even St. Paul -- everyone reads his letters -- he's one of mine, too.

Anthony put it beautifully on Sunday: "I, too, have some claim to this." This is my history. These are my people.

I have our baggage, too. All throughout our history -- even now -- we've been varying degrees of fallen human beings. The more visibly fallen ones are my people, too.

But I also have Don John of Austria and the heroes of Lepanto. I have the Blessed Mother, who can do anything.

And I'm with them, too.

Praised be Jesus Christ!

(to which you respond: "Now and forever!")

I lost a friend, sort of; anyway, I'm not publishing details. I tried chasing after her -- I poked my nose in when I knew she was working, made an appointment with her that she didn't keep, called her, texted her (from gmail, not my phone, so it was free, Dad), followed her back to her dorm. One day I went to her room (she lives in a different dorm than I do), sat down and did homework for a couple hours, hoping she'd show up, but she didn't. I left a note on her computer before I left.

Finally, she told me I'd get a response sometime Sunday. I didn't really believe her (based on recent track record), but--

I talked Anthony into coming to St. Anthony's so I'd have someone to walk back with and could stay until 8 p.m., when adoration ended. Hooray! I had two hours to spend with our Lord.

And I did. I sat/kneeled there, drinking in graces as if I were starving for them -- I probably was (I usually am).

I was praying mostly about this particular friend and this particular conversation I was trying to have with her. I'm not publishing details.

Before long it was 7:30, and I heard my phone beep. I looked back.

Phone call from this particular friend.

A bit later, another beep. Voicemail.

Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, a sinner.

Anthony and I walked back to campus after night prayer and benediction, and I listened to the voicemail. I followed directions and met my friend.

We talked. I'm not publishing details.

The elephant has left the room and his droppings have been cleaned up. Forgiveness happened.

Blessed be God forever!

cookies say I love you

I'm up late e-mail bouncing my story with my editor, and not a whole lot left to do except philosophize about cookies.

I love making cookies for people, and I make them for lots of different reasons, but they all boil down to "I love you."

I made cookies for a really super close friend in the middle of a year-long angry fight we had ("If your enemy is hungry, feed him."). I made cookies for Myles when he brought gas to me in Jonesville. I made cookies for a high school friend I had a crush on. This afternoon, I made cookies for a friend I'd lost a bet to. I made cookies for Tony's family when his grandmother died.

I make cookies to say I'm sorry or I forgive you or whatever muddled mis-match of that there is when we stop tallying how much fault is on each side and we're done with being angry.

I make cookies to say thank you or welcome home or I miss you. I make cookies as peace offerings.

I understand why people say "made with love" -- I can't explain it, but that's completely and utterly true. When I make you cookies, I'm offering myself in a way that I can't explain in words. I can't tell you or show you how I feel, but I can make cookies.

concealed carry on campus?

(prompt) I'm not really sure where I stand on gun control, so I'm going to throw a few ideas around. I'm pretty well ignorant of the entire issue.

I don't understand why concealed carry is so important. I think if I were going to rob someone, I'd less likely rob someone who was openly carrying. If I see that you have a gun, I'll probably go rob someone else. If I don't see that you have a gun, I'll probably rob you, then get shot. Now I'm dead and you have some messy legal problems--at the very least, some irritating red tape--to deal with.

Security officials, including student workers, should carry while on duty, especially on particularly dangerous campuses (e.g. those in Flint). They should be trained in appropriate use and safety, and they should be visible all over campus, especially after dark. I think if I were going to rob you and an unarmed security officer showed up, I'd probably still rob you.

Who has the right to tell civilian students whether they may carry? Logistically, it doesn't make sense to legislate this from the state because college campuses are so different. Kettering University students--most of whom are men--don't feel safe walking 100 yards in the dark because of inner city-folk, but I have no problem walking across Hillsdale College campus by myself in the dark. It makes no sense for the state to make a sweeping rule on this; instead, college administrations should figure out a proper solution for their own college.

Civilian students--that is, students not on duty at security--should not be allowed to carry firearms on campus at Hillsdale because our campus is so safe. We aren't worried about townies coming onto campus and robbing us: anything worse than a suggestive whistle is big news. We don't need to worry about a Virginia Tech-like incident because it almost definitely won't happen. Virginia Tech made national news because it was such an abnormal event, so there's no reason to be paranoid about it. We all know someone who's been badly hurt or killed in a car crash--car crashes are so common they hardly ever make national news--yet we aren't afraid to drive.

Additionally, I'm not convinced that gun-carrying Virginia Tech students would have solved the problem. It may have helped. It may have turned into chaotic gunfire. I don't know.

Civilian students don't need to carry, and moreover, we shouldn't. College students in general do stupid things, like get drunk. I brought this up with an anti-gun-control friend and he looked at me very seriously and said "guns and alcohol don't mix."

Nonsense. Guns and alcohol are aluminum foil and draino, not oil and water.

You could legislate CUI and CWI offenses, but that isn't really going to prevent anyone from carrying while intoxicated. If you normally carry, you'll probably carry to your friend's house, and if your friend offers you a beer (as lots of friends do), you'll be CUI. I'm not much into the drinking culture, but it seems to me that most people don't plan to get intoxicated, and those that do plan to get intoxicated probably don't care enough to leave their firearms at home.

I'm still exploring the issue...

prayer before sex? GASP!

I don't know what's up with this article. I'd like to go on a point-by-point rant examining each error/inaccuracy, but it will get dull rather quickly. I think instead I will write about how great sex is. That's great as in lofty, sacred, etc.

This idea that anything enjoyable is sinful really irritates me. God made it; therefore it is good (cf Genesis). The problem is that we are fallen and therefore not in our natural state--and therefore not inclined to act in accordance with our true natures. A telescope with a broken lens does not function as a telescope, but it's still a telescope.

Sex is really, really great within its proper context (that is, a valid marriage which, by definition, is heterosexual and monogamous) and really, really bad without. A formal dress can make a woman look absolutely stunning at a formal occasion; however, if she wears a formal dress on an equipment move (trucks, canvas, grills), she will probably get hurt and ruin her dress and make everyone else angry because she can't be helpful.

Now there are a million more things to discuss--the incarnation of Christ and how that relates to baby-making; Christ's relationship with his bride, holy mother church; the creation story; Trinitarian theology.... but it's late, I have work to do and I don't have time to make it short. And these points I'm better explaining by talking than by writing anyway. So that's all you get for now.

100th post

"Just so you know, Maddie, you have a really dumb roommate."

"No, Mary, I have a roommate who makes very poor decisions."

advice from my brother

"Most importantly, the amount of things that you unnecessarily set on fire should increase as you grow older."

don't catch the rape virus

soul glimpses, or, scraps of paper

Sad day: I pretty much ran out of things to give away. Still too many boxes in my closet, though, so I'm going through them trying to throw away as much as possible. It's pretty much all paper--essays from high school, journals, stories I started to write, etc. Every now and then I come across a sentence or phrase that I wrote down and kept because I found it very beautiful. I think I kept them in case I wanted to use them in a novel. I always forget about them until next time I clean out my closet, and anyway I'll write new ones that are actually relevant to my novel when I write it. If I leave my words here, maybe I can finally throw these (worn, crumpled, ripped) pieces of paper away.

...Rosary beads sliding through my fingers like water droplets leaking out of a half-empty glass.
I cut this from an application essay to a college I didn't go to.

...who walks off the muddy football field with clean pants.
I still remember who I wrote this about. This was the kid nobody liked, who talked to me for about 30 minutes in the teacher's lounge and taught me patience. He was a good kid.

Being late can be okay. The second mouse gets the cheese.
Saw this on a church sign.

Ideas. They come to my mind from my ears or my eyes. They travel down my head down my neck through my arm to my hand. There, they travel through my pen onto paper.
I wrote this in yellow pen on a yellow sticky note (what was I thinking?) with line breaks making it looks lightly more poetic.

Other things I found while cleaning out:

• my drill book from freshman year marching band
• activity rotation schedule from Camp Copneconic, eighth grade
• small green plastic seal or porpoise or something
• cassette tape of our late dog, Nellie, singing
• late slip excusing me to go to Tony's grandma's funeral
• a shoebox with every trophy, plaque, letter, pin, etc. since seventh grade
• the all-purpose poetry anthology for HH9 English
• Fiddler on the Roof music from junior year in high school pit band
• Western and American Heritage supplementary readers
• a note about balloon pop polka
• a shoebox full of poetry--poetry I would dismiss as melodramatic teenage angst if I didn't remember so vividly what was going on and how much I hurt when I wrote it.
• my junior and cadette girl scout vests, both of which will probably be worth a lot of money in a few years since Fairwinds Council folded. I've got a lot a lot of patches on my junior vest. I think I'll give it a few years, then find the Mike Beratta of girl scouts and donate them.
• a plaster model of my late dog, Nellie
• a hairbrush my grandmother gave me when I turned 10
• my old 35mm point-and-shoot and a roll of undeveloped film with photos of the Wisconsin Dells
• my double-jointed swiss army knife
• my protest against the artificial Christmas tree

That's all for now, folks. I have 13 boxes on my floor and two on my bed that will be on my floor in a minute so I can sleep.

what i learned this summer

Mark 8:34: "...If any man will follow me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me."

Matthew 11:30: "My yolk is easy and my burden light."

Mother Teresa: "I know God wouldn't give me anything I can't handle. I just wish he wouldn't trust me so much."

If I can get my knees under a patrol box, I can lift it--anyway, lift my half of it if my mind is in the game, too--and carry it to the truck, but usually I'm not strong enough to hoist it up to the bed. Usually someone will come by and give me a hand; if not, I just leave it by the truck and go back for the next one.

Some guys can lift a whole patrol box by themselves and toss it in the bed of the truck. Most partner up, though, and have this crazy upper-body strength that allows them to slide it into the bed.

I wish I were as strong as they are, but the fact is, I'm not. If I tried to lift the patrol box into the truck, I would back up the entire crew, hurt myself badly, and not be able to help with anything else, even mattresses and cots.

If I pretend I am stronger than I am and don't ask for help when I need it, I hurt myself and the group. Every time I help move a patrol box, though, I get stronger, even if I didn't lift it into the truck. (Those things are heavy!)

The same is true for non-physical strength. If someone's walking all over you, chewing you out for things that aren't your fault, harrassing you, taking advantage of you, don't pretend you're stronger than you are.

If you choose to let someone be rude to you, then be meek and humble and let them. It will toughen you up and strengthen you for the next challenge.

But if you let them be rude to you because you are afraid to speak up, or if they've gotten control of your emotions, you are not strong enough to handle this. And if you aren't strong enough, have someone help you. Talk to someone, hug someone, get the problem solved. If you pretend you're stronger than you are and don't ask for help when you need it, you'll hurt yourself and the group.

homemade meals for cheap college students: goulash

Katie and I made goulash when she taught me how to camp-cook, so I tried it again when I was making dinner for myself. We decided the rather unappetizing name came from the sound it makes when you stir it all together.

1 16-oz box elbow macaroni - $1
1 green pepper - $.50
1 onion - usually get a bag of 8 for a couple bucks
2 cans diced tomatoes - $.60
16 oz ground hamburger

1. Boil enough water to cover the noodles. Remember that boiling water takes forever so start it early. When the water boils, put in the noodles. Make sure you keep stirring them or they'll get stuck to the bottom of the pan.

2. Brown the hamburger. When it's almost all the way cooked (still a little pink), throw in your vegetables. Green peppers and onions are great, but you can use whatever you have in your fridge.

3. When everything's cooked, drain the water from the noodles, drain the grease from the meat/vegetables, and throw it all together. Add the cans of diced tomatoes (juice and all) then mix it up with the lovely goulash sound.

4. This makes a lot of food so I hope you have friends or a really large refrigerator.

what I didn't say when I gave you a hug

Mostly it was goodbye and thank you, but the "thank you" seems so empty. How can I say it? I've learned, grown, laughed so much.

Camp does weird things to you, socially. We're a small group (too small) working crazy hard toward a common goal with a common enemy and still finding the energy for a game of after-hours ultimate. We live together, we sleep in the same quarters, we eat every meal across the table from each other, and just when you fall into a groove and figure out how things work with this group, bam! you go home and the group dissipates. Some of them you'll probably never see again. Some of them you create weirdly close friendships with and you'll stay in contact for quite some time. But you'll never get the whole group together, living and functioning with its own dynamic.

Unless you're lazy, we're all pulling for you. We've all got your back. I can go on crazy adventures (four-mile hike in lightning for a Christmas tree? getting lost in a swamp? slinking around a mental institution at twilight? shooting off fireworks? sleeping in homemade shelters? sailing?) and the whole time I know I am completely safe. Be tough, be strong, do something stupid but I got your back. If you need a boost up a tree or a hug when you fall, if your sparkplugs go bad, if you want to learn how to cook or start a fire or change your sparkplugs or juggle, if someone's inappropriately hitting on you, we got your back. I've got a whole crew fighting for me, and I'm fighting for them, too.

I love camp because I know I am safe, and once I know I am safe, I can take risks and go on adventures. I wouldn't swamp tromp with just anyone.

From Mike: "Mary, you know I feel about my girls here. If you get in their face, you're not coming back. I'll make sure the situation gets taken care of. Now come here, give me a hug and tell me how cool you are."

I learned some cool skills, like camp cooking, knife sharpening, wood splitting, spark plugging. I grew a back bone. I learned how to goof off and why it's important. I learned how to throw my whole heart into what I do. I learned that people wildly different are crazy fun and can love deeply.

I am a different person now than I was when the summer began.

I learned how to give. When you give, you can receive. When you pour out your love, you make room in your heart to receive love. Then love pours in and you overflow and hurry to pour more out, but more comes streaming in and the mad waters splash and everyone rejoices.

Last night I had a blast (that's a pun for those of you who were with us at firebowl), but morning came and I had hugs to distribute. Mostly I didn't talk, because I knew if I did I'd be a mess, and I don't like crying in front of people. Usually I can't.

"Mary, you leaving?"
No words; just a hug. Together silence.
"Hey, look, I have to go."
"No." Arms tighter.
"No, really, I have to get the toilets cleaned and pick up my paycheck."
"No."
Eye squeezing. Tears losing. Together silence.

My list of people to say goodbye to was getting shorter. I looked across the parade field and saw another friend walking toward me.

"Did I give everything back?" I asked him. I'd probably never see him again, and I wanted to make sure I returned everything of his.

He nodded. "Yes. I hope I gave something back, too."

Gave something back? We work at Camp Tapico. That's just what we do.

goodbye for now

I'm going offline tomorrow and won't be back on until I get back from camp (end of July). Write me at:

Camp Tapico
2408 Camp Tapico Road NE
Kalkaska, MI 49646

Love is

"...does it sound like I'm thinking straight?"
"Yes. But you're thinking too much."

I've been torn up the past few days: angry, terrified, lost in my thoughts. Not lost the way I get in Genesee County, where if I just pulled over and looked at a map instead of calling home I'd be fine--no, I was truly lost. I didn't have any idea where I was, how I got there or where I was going. I needed to do something, to get out of the house and stop thinking.

It's a bad system: I'm home by myself with my Dostoevsky from when I wake up until when Anne and Mom get home from school. I have to get my reading done but I'm bad at reading and I end up thinking instead. I'd lie on the floor crying and praying for an hour at a time. "Jesus! I don't know what you want me to do. I'm trying to do your will but I'm pretty sure I've screwed up horribly. Is this really the path you want me to follow? Stay with me! I feel like I'm running away from you and I don't want to do that." I was trapped in this and I couldn't get out. I couldn't focus on my reading. A grocery store run helped some, but when I got home I fell right back into it. And thus I got behind on my reading.

I'm anxious to grow up, to get out of the house, to be with people, to get a real job, to get an apartment and pay for it myself. Slow down, Mary. You're still in college. Have patience.

This morning I went to mass and helped my mom with eighth grade graduation practice (sort of). She didn't really have anything for me to do, so she sent me to spread mulch around some of her plants by the school.

While I walked from the church to the school, I finally figured out my problem. I'm willing to give my time, my things, my smile, my ears, my arms, my food, my clothes, even sometimes when I really don't want to. I do a lot of things I don't want to do out of service to other people. But I don't give myself.

How do I give myself?

I buzzed into the office and went to my mom's room to get the mulch. I tucked it onto my hip like a baby and stopped in the hallway.

Art. When I make something, I put my whole self into it. The CD rosary on my ceiling, the St. Michael icon I made for Garrett, the Sir Gawain figure I made for Dr. Jackson and gave to Seth because it ended up looking stupid--I threw my whole self into it, I worked hard and tried some things that might not work. And some of them didn't.

I did a dang good job spreading the mulch. (Even saying that, I run the risk of my mom reading this and thinking "no, she buried the coral bells and put the mulch in the wrong place and now I have to go buy more mulch and take up my own time to go put it where I asked her to.")

This reckless abandon is the way my mother cooks and gardens. "I don't really have any idea what I'm doing," she says (constantly!), but she throws spices into the bowl and nearly all my friends who come over tell me she's an amazing cook.

A few weeks ago, I helped her line a skeletal wire tea kettle with moss. In theory, the moss would allow the tea kettle to hold dirt and we could plant flowers inside and hang it from the shepherd's hook. I finally understood what she meant by "I don't really know what I'm doing." She means exactly that: I don't know, but I'm going to try and see what happens. It might not work. But what the heck. There was a twinge of that "we're not really supposed to be doing this" thrill.

That's the vulnerability of love. "I made this for you. I put my whole heart and soul into it, and I hope you like it. I'm a little nervous because you might not like it. But I love you enough that I'm willing to run that risk."

My mom is so good at this! "Do you want to play rack-o?" She risks that we'll say no (and we often do). "Do you want to go to the dollar store with me to get clay?" "Will you dance?" "Clean your room!"

I suspect that the "obligatory yes" is actually worse than a "no." God gave us the freedom to disobey him in order that we might freely choose to obey him. "I'd love to play rack-o with you" is much better than "fine, I'll play rack-o with you."

Yeah, I remember my mom always telling us to be cheerful. I think I finally get it.

I think my mom is good at this at least partly because she gave birth to five kids. I've never given birth before but it seems to me it's a painful process, and the easiest way to go about it is probably to focus on what you're giving to your child. "I'm not doing this for me--I'm doing this for you, and I really, really hope you're happy." Of course the first thing the baby does is cry.

This part's for you, Jeff--that's something women can do that men can't do. "Don't give me any nonsense about having babies and stuff," you told me, and I'm not. It isn't nonsense. Tell me how difficult it is for a man to be a father (physically). The easiest ways to do it are rape, paying a prostitute, and sweet-talking an easy woman. It is possible for a man to be a father (physically) and not care a bit about his kids. (Good fathers don't do this. Mine loves me a lot.)

It is not possible for a woman to be a mother (physically) and not care about her kids. She can try not to care, she can abuse them and abandon them but she can't honestly not care. She's already put her heart and soul into her kids because of the suffering she's gone through for them, so to abandon her kids is to abandon part of herself, and so it tears her up. (This is why abortion hurts women so bad.)

Dr. Krannawitter said that before no-fault divorce, judges would often rule that the couple can divorce, but the dad gets all the kids--and then the couple wouldn't divorce.

There are a lot of things you men can do that we women can't do or aren't as good at, and Jeff, I'm sure you can list them all. But here's one thing that women are better at: reckless abandon.

Mother Teresa said "It is not how much we do, but how much love we put in the doing. It is not how much we give, but how much love we put in the giving."

Okay, think of the enthusiastic amateur knitter who makes sweaters for her husband. That is love! But she must also be willing to accept that maybe he doesn't actually like these sweaters. They probably look awful.

So when I hug you, I need to throw my whole heart and soul into that hug.

When I run, I need to throw my whole heart and soul into that run--find out how far I really can go, how hard I really can push, go until I actually can't anymore. (I've done this twice.)

When I eat, I need to throw my whole heart and soul into that eating.

When I sleep, I need to throw my whole heart and soul into that sleeping.

When I say "no, I don't really want to hold your hand right now," I need to throw my whole heart and soul into that "no."

When I climb the tower, I need to put my whole heart and soul into that climb.

Whether I end up in a convent or community or married to Garrett or married to someone else or hit by a bus, I need to love with that reckless abandon.

Tony told me that in a bible study, Catholic speaker Mark Hart said of prayer: "Love the 'yes.' Hate the 'no.' ABSOLUTELY CAN'T STAND the 'wait.'"

As far as long-term vocation, I'm getting a 'wait.'" So let's think of something to do while we're waiting.

While I'm waiting, I'll practice that reckless abandon.

Maybe you should too.

things I have to do before I marry

WOW I'm growing up. It's weird--my perspective on big things like careers and marriage and kids is way different. It's not a "what do you want to be when you grow up?" thing anymore but a "maybe in the next five years" sort of thing. It's not a "vague future" sort of thing anymore; it's a "wow this might actually happen" sort of thing.

This is not a list of things my future husband must do before he proposes--I've got that list too but it isn't here. These are things I need to do and ways I need to grow up before I marry. This is not a "finding a marriageable man" list but a "becoming a marriageable woman" list. If I've forgotten anything important, I want to know. Some of these I've done or started on already, and a lot of them I can't do right now. But I will get them done. You just watch.

• graduate from college
• get a steady job and live on my own (financially independent) for at least a year. during that time, eat regularly (not forgetting meals) every day for at least a month
• be able to deal with people talking and giggling and gossiping about me
• stop getting really annoyed at being called “cute” (individually or as a couple)
• close my eyes
• meet his parents
• have him meet my parents
• run 8K or break 7 minutes in a mile run
• get approval from parents, grandparents, siblings (including Tony)
• learn how to cook over an open fire
• take a big trip (on a plane or at least two states of driving) on my own or with friends, where I’m in charge or one of a few in charge of what to do and how things turn out
• drive from Tapico to Houghton Lake without getting horribly lost
• road trip of at least 5 hours by myself
• learn how to slow dance with Grandpa
• do something crazy with Emily
• make an important decision in less than four months
• freelance for a daily newspaper
• learn how to cook at least 10 good dinners
• understand cars and be able to at least educated-guess what’s wrong with them
• own a car and pay my own insurance and whatever else goes along with owning a car
• get a credit card and actually buy something with it
• eat a raw tomato
• throw up
• swallow a pill
• tell everyone when my birthday is and if they insist on fussing, let them
• take my photography to an art show or fair or something and sell at least one print
• have a pool party or a beach party or canoe trip or something with a mixed-sex group of friends and dress appropriately, and not spend the whole time assuming all the men are ogling
• go backpacking for at least 4 consecutive nights
• crochet something big/complicated, like a blanket or a sweater or something
• get in a fight with him and resolve it
• wear “everyday” makeup in public for at least seven days, and learn how to do makeup
• turn 21 and drink a whole beer or a whole glass of wine (responsibly, socially) at least 10 different times, at least once at a bar and at least once with dinner at someone's home
• read the entire bible at least once through
• have a solid group of girlfriends to go out with
• wear a skirt in public for something that isn’t a dress-up occasion
• learn to drive a stick shift well enough that I’m comfortable with it
• dress up for something formal and tell all my dressed-up girlfriends that they’re beautiful
• volunteer with missionaries of charity
• change a messy, poopy diaper by myself
• kiss him in front of my parents or in some other situation that would be sort of embarrassing but not morally wrong
• make a final decision on piercings and stick with it
• eat a whole meal with chopsticks
• get a cell phone that actually works (actually, get my own and pay for it myself)
• learn AP style for “whether or not”
• take my Sobe bottle to the bank and change all the coins into cash (or deposit the money)
• successfully and consistently keep track of my cycle for at least 6 months (really keeping track, that is, filling out NFP charts)

"we're not stalkers: we're journalists"

I'm glad I'm a journalist because when I need to find some, I know how to do it.

Kate borrowed my chem book for the second half of the semester, and I thought I had taken it down from amazon.com. Apparently, I hadn't, and Kate still had the book when I got the "sold! please ship within 2 business days" email. I didn't have Kate's number.

I called Katie Rose, the reason I met Kate, but she didn't have Kate's number.

I checked Kate's facebook page (I'm not her friend, but I could see her profile) but her phone number wasn't there.

I went to the Hillsdale student directory and found her address, but her phone number wasn't listed.

I went to white pages on yellowpages.com and typed in her last name and zip code, but again, her phone number wasn't listed.

I went back to her facebook and clicked on the most recent post on her wall. The link sent me to Elizabeth's profile. I don't know Elizabeth, but I checked her profile for her phone number--she probably had Kate's number.

Elizabeth's number wasn't listed, but I saw that she was "in a relationship with Mitchell," and I had Mitchell's phone number--he and a couple other people and I studied philosophy together first semester freshman year.

While the phone rang, I saw that Christina had posted on Kate's wall as well. I talked to Christina over aim quite a bit--she and I were in the same Latin and Greek classes and we sometimes rode to Mass together.

I called Mitchell and started typing a message to Christina. Mitchell answered before I was finished typing, so I asked for Kate's number, and he gave it to me.

I called Kate.

Kate said she'd ship the book tomorrow.

The Adventures of George the Viking

an anachronistic and heartily plagiarized tale mostly by Mary Petrides, about a year ago

Chapter One
How George the Viking Conquered England

Once upon a time there was a Viking farmer who had three Viking sons: Alexandros, Pip, and George. The farmer grew old and died, leaving only his tiny hut as inheritance, so the three sons set out to try their luck.

One day they came to a hill of silver. “This is all I need,” said Alexandros, and he filled his bags and pockets with as much silver as he could carry and returned home. Pip and George continued on in hopes of something better further on.

Later they came to a hill of gold. “This is all I need,” said Pip, and he filled his bags and pockets with as much gold as he could carry and returned home. George continued journeying.
George walked into a great forest that seemed to have no end. He climbed the tallest tree and looked around and all he could see were treetops, stretched for miles in every direction. “Frick!” said George. Wondering where he would stay the night, he exclaimed “what I wouldn’t give for Chinese takeout and double-stuf Oreos!” He climbed down the tree and there on the ground was a tablecloth with the most exquisite Chinese takeout and double-stuf Oreos. Without asking where the meal came from, George ate to his heart’s content. When he was finished, he picked up the tablecloth and took it with him.

He journeyed further into the woods and he came upon a charcoal burner. “Good day,” George said to the charcoal burner. “Potatoes for supper again?” “Yes,” said the charcoal burner, “and though it isn’t much, you may be my guest for supper.” “Thank you,” said George, “but I’ll be treating you to supper tonight.” The charcoal burner couldn’t see how George could fit a supper into his pockets, but George pulled out the tablecloth and laid it on the ground. “Tablecloth, set yourself!” George commanded, and the tablecloth was immediately filled with the most exquisite Chinese takeout and double-stuf Oreos.

When George and the charcoal burner had eaten their fill, the charcoal burner said “what I wouldn’t give for a tablecloth like that! I have a knapsack in my hut that has magic powers, and I’ll trade it to you for the tablecloth.” “First,” said George, “I’ll have to know what those magic powers are.” “When you slap the knapsack, a corporal and six soldiers appear, armed to the teeth, and ready to do whatever you command.” “A fine trade,” said George. He took the knapsack and left the tablecloth with the charcoal burner.

George walked further into the woods. “Let’s see if this knapsack really works!” he said. He slapped the knapsack and there appeared seven men, armed to the teeth, just as the charcoal burner had said. “Go back to the charcoal burner and demand that he give my tablecloth back,” George orderedthem. They soon returned with the tablecloth: they hadn’t asked the charcoal burner; they’d just taken it. George dismissed them and continued on.

Soon he came upon another charcoal burner. “All I have is two potatoes,” the charcoal burner said, “but you are welcome to share them.” “Thank you,” said George, “but I’ll be treating you to supper tonight.” The charcoal burner couldn’t see how George could fit a supper into his pockets, but George pulled out the tablecloth and laid it on the ground. “Tablecloth, set yourself!” George commanded, and the tablecloth was immediately filled with the most exquisite Chinese takeout and double-stuf Oreos.

After George and the charcoal burner had eaten their fill, the charcoal burner said “I have a hat in my hut, and this hat has magic powers. If you put it on and give it one-quarter turn, a battery of guns begins firing. I’d be happy to trade it to you for the tablecloth.” Once again George made the trade, and once again he slapped the knapsack and sent the soldiers back to regain the tablecloth.

George continued walking and saw a third charcoal burner. “You are welcome to be my guest tonight,” said the charcoal burner, “if you don’t mind potatoes.” “Thank you,” said George, “but I’ll be treating you to supper tonight.” The charcoal burner couldn’t see how George could fit a supper into his pockets, but George pulled out the tablecloth and laid it on the ground. “Tablecloth, set yourself!” George commanded, and the tablecloth was immediately filled with the most exquisite Chinese takeout and double-stuf Oreos.

George and the charcoal burner finished eating, and the charcoal burner said “I have a horn in my hut that has magic powers. When you blow the horn, the earth shakes and buildings tumble so that not one stone is left lying on another stone. I’ll gladly trade it for your tablecloth.” “A fine trade!” exclaimed George, who made the trade and promptly sent the soldiers back to retrieve the tablecloth.

“I have a magic knapsack, a magic hat, and a magic horn, not to mention a magic tablecloth,” said George. “I’ll go home and see how my brothers are doing.” He went home and found his brothers living in style in a mansion with gold, silver, and lots of fancy electronics. When his brothers opened the door and saw him in an ugly sweater and green pants, they laughed at him. “You can’t be our brother!” they said. “Our brother passed up silver and gold for better luck! He wouldn’t come in an ugly sweater and green pants!” They slammed the door in his face.
George slapped the knapsack several times until he had whipped up a good-sized army, then he ordered the soldiers to harass his brothers. The king sent his army to counter them, but George slapped his knapsack several more times and whipped up an even larger army. The king sent reinforcements, but they accomplished even less. George demanded to marry the king’s daughter, and the king had no choice but to let him. The princess was highly disappointed to marry George, and George was highly disappointed to find out that she was an ugly Puritan named Buttercup.

They were married nonetheless, but Buttercup was determined to kill George. She took off her ugly Puritanical bonnet and her ugly Puritanical dress and asked George to get rid of his ugly knapsack. “I won’t,” said George. “Why not?” Buttercup asked. “It’s embarrassing to me. It’s ugly.” George suddenly found her beautiful, or at least passable, or anyway, as good as an ugly Puritanical lady named Buttercup was going to get. “My knapsack is my source of power,” he said. “Every time I slap it, a corporal and six soldiers appear, armed to the teeth, ready do my bidding.” “Oh, George!” said Buttercup. She threw her arms around him as if to kiss him, but deftly slipped the knapsack off his shoulders and ran away. She slapped it once and ordered the soldiers to escort George out of the palace. They forced George off the property and obtained a restraining order, but as soon as George’s hands were free, he turned his hat and the battery of guns began firing. The king and his daughter had to let George back into the palace.

Buttercup was still determined to kill George, so again she took off her ugly Puritanical bonnet and her ugly Puritanical dress and asked George what was the source of his power. “It’s my hat,” said George, again finding her suddenly beautiful. “When I turn it, a battery of guns begins to fire.” Buttercup threw her arms around him as if to kiss him, but she slipped the hat off his head and ran away. Again she had George escorted off the premises. George blew his horn over and over again and the castle tumbled down and his brothers’ mansion tumbled down. Not a single stone was left on another stone, and his brothers, the king, and the king’s daughter were killed. George retrieved the knapsack and the hat and got to be king over the whole country.

Chapter Two
How George the Viking Discovered New Lands and Went to Russia

Soon George the Viking became bored of England, so he picked up the knapsack, the hat, and the horn, and, not forgetting the tablecloth, set sail for Russia. George was a clever man and thought to get east by going west. On his way to Russia, he accidentally bumped into Canada, a land which no one had ever seen before. In Canada there lived mythological creatures like elves, dwarves, and meteors. George was deftly navigating his way between the islands of northern Canada when the water froze over, trapping his ship. He slapped the knapsack with his frozen hands and the soldiers appeared. “We’re army men, not navy men,” said the corporal. “Don’t ask us what to do with a ship.” George dismissed them. He was at his wit’s end, not knowing what to do, when suddenly there appeared a draagyn. George whipped out his sword, ready to slay the draagyn. “Wait!” the draagyn cried. “I’m not a dragon! I’m a draagyn, which is very closely related to the dragon, but we’re not the same thing. Draagyns are good; dragons are evil. Don’t slay me!” “Frick!” said George. “I was hoping there was a beautiful princess to rescue!” “No,” said the draagyn, “but there is one in Russia.” “Oh, good,” said George. “I was on my way to Russia. But then I got stuck in the ice and now I’m not sure what to do.” “I will help you if you promise to offer a ride to anyone who asks for one,” said the draagyn. George promised, and the ship sprouted wings and flew off in the general direction of Russia.

Soon, George heard a voice and stopped the boat. “I’m listening to everything in the world, but I need a ride to Russia.” “I’ll give you a ride,” said George. The man who listened to everything in the world climbed aboard the boat. Later, George heard a voice. “I unstrapped one of my legs so that I wouldn’t reach the end of the world in one bound, but I left the leg in Russia.” “I’ll give you a ride,” said George. The man with one leg climbed aboard. Again, George heard another voice. “I can shoot a bird at a hundred miles, and I did, but it’s in Russia, and I need a ride to pick it up.” “I’ll give you a ride,” said George. The man who could shoot a bird at a hundred miles climbed aboard. “I need a great basket of bread for breakfast,” said another voice, and yet another said “I could drink a whole lake and still be thirsty.” “I’ll give you a ride to Russia if you’d like,” said George. “I’ve never been to Russia,” said the hungry man. “Neither have I,” said the thirsty man, and the two of them climbed aboard the ship. Another voice said “I have a straw that makes everything cold, and Napoleon’s about to invade, so I need to go to Russia.” “I’ll give you a ride,” said George, and the man with a straw that made everything cold climbed aboard. Yet another voice said “I’m a tailor with a magic needle. I’d like to try my luck in Russia.” “I’ll give you a ride,” said George, and the tailor with a magic needle climbed aboard. Still another voice said “I’m a perfectly normal person. Can I come, too?” “Frick!” said George. “Normal people aren’t supposed to show up in fairy tales! But I suppose I must give you a ride. Come aboard, then.” The perfectly normal person climbed aboard the ship as well and gave George a squeaking haggis.

Chapter Three
Why It Was George the Viking’s Fault that the Princess was Turned Into a Flower and How He Saved Her

The ship landed in Russia and everyone got out and scattered. George took the knapsack, the hat, and the horn, and, not forgetting the tablecloth, got into a canoe and followed a river to a mystic seaport in Byzantium. Mist swelled and ebbed about the dock, and a distant chorus chanted “unus … nullus … ullus … solus … unus … nullus … ullus … solus.” “Why is there a seaport on a river?” George wondered, but not for long because he glimpsed a beautiful lady with red hair flowing to her waist, skin the color of snow, and eyes green like the sea after a storm. The mist flowed over her and when it moved again, she was gone.

“Who are you!” George cried. “I will tell you about her,” said a voice. George turned and looked and saw a little green alien. “Tell me!” said George. The little green alien began:

“Ich will euch etwas erzählen. Ich sah zwei gebratene Hühner fliegen, flogen schnell und hatten die Bäuche gen Himmel gekehrt, die Rücken nach der Hölle, und ein Amboß un ein Mühlstein schwammen über den Rhein, fein langsam und leise, und ein Frosch saß und fraß eine Pflugschar zu Pfingsten auf dem Eis. Da waren drei Kerle, wollten einen Hasen fangen, gingen auf Krücken und Stelzen, der eine war taub, der zweite blind, der dritte stumm und der vierte konnte keinen Fuß rühren. Wollt ihr wissen, wie das geschah? Der Blinde, der sah zuerst den Hasen über Feld traben, der Stumme rief dem Lahmen zu, und der Lahme faßte ihn beim Kragen. Etliche, die wollten zu Land segeln und spannten die Segel im Wind und schifften über große Äcker hin: da segelten sie über einen hohen Berg, da mußten sie elendig ersaufen. Ein Krebs jagte einen Hasen in die Flucht, und hoch auf dem Dach lag eine Kuh, die war hinaufgestiegen. In dem Lande sind die Fliegen so groß als hier die Ziegen.”

“Lügen!” cried George, and he pulled out his sword and slew the little green alien on the spot.]

“Who will tell me about her?” asked George. “I will,” said a wise old man named Gerontius Senex. “She is a Byzantine princess named Blodwyn, and the her father and an evil tyrant king wants to marry her to a man of wealth. With a sweater like that, you don’t stand a chance.” “What!” said George. “This is my best sweater!” (He was wearing the one that’s gray on top, green on bottom, and has three rows of diamonds and one of zigzags in between.) “Sorry,” said Gerontius Senex. “You’re going to have to try harder than that.” “Then I shall have to see the king!” said George. Gerontius Senex pointed. George looked where he was pointing and saw a castle with walls that rose straight up to the sky. He walked in.

“Your Majesty, I have a squeaky haggis and I would like to marry your daughter,” said George. “Marry my daughter!” said the king. “You’re but a peasant with an ugly sweater! You can’t marry my daughter, even if you have a squeaky haggis! Leave my presence.” George came back the next day. “Your Majesty, I have a squeaky haggis and I would like to marry your daughter,” he said. “Leave my presence!” said the king. George came back day after day until finally the king said “You can marry my daughter if you can accomplish what I’m about to whisper in my servant’s ear.” The king leaned over and whispered something into his servant’s ear. “If you finish before I am done with dinner, you can marry my daughter.”

George left the castle. Knowing there was no way he could accomplish the task, he sat under a tree and read Manga online. Some Japanese martial arts tourists walked by, blurting out “Hic! Haec! Hoc!” when they kicked things. George paid them no mind.

Presently, the man who listened to everything in the world walked by. “Hello, George,” he said. “The king wants you to go to the end of the world and get the healing water.” “Frick!” said George. “I can’t do that before dinner!” “I can,” said the man with one leg, who had found his other leg and was carrying it with him. He strapped it on, ran to the other end of the world, got the healing water, but fell asleep by the bank of the river. The man who could shoot a bird at a hundred miles shot him. He woke up, healed himself with the healing water, then ran back to George. Then he remembered that he’d forgotten to bring healing water for George, so he ran back and got some and brought it back to George. “Thank you,” said George. George brought it to the king. “I can’t have a peasant marrying my daughter!” muttered the king. “I have another task for you.” Again he whispered to his servant.

George went outside and sat under the tree. “The king wants you to eat twelve oxen and twelve tons of bread, and drink forty casks of wine with forty gallons each,” said the man who listened to everything. “Frick!” said George. “I can’t do that before dinner! I can’t do that for dinner!” “We can,” said the hungry man and the thirsty man together. “Jinx!” said the hungry man. The thirsty man slapped him. “Go,” said George. They went. They ate. They drank. Or, rather, the hungry man ate and the thirsty man drank. They finished the meal, though the hungry man choked a bit on the bones and the thirsty man was severely hungover the next morning.
Again, George went to the king. “Your Majesty,” he said, “I have a squeaky haggis and I would like to marry your daughter.” “What!” said the king. “I can’t think of any more tasks, so I guess I’ll have to let you. But first we’re going to burn that ugly sweater of yours.” “No!” cried George, but the servants tore the sweater off him. They were about to light it on fire when the man with a straw that made everything cold put the fire out. The tailor hastily sewed the ugly sweater back together. (The tailor even fixed the holes under the arms with the magic needle, and the sweater almost looked nice.) The king sent an army in to destroy George and burn the sweater, but George hastily slapped his trusty knapsack and turned his hat a couple times, and the king’s army surrendered.

“I can’t have a peasant with an ugly sweater marry my daughter!” said the king, “even if the sweater almost looks nice now.” He turned his daughter into a flower and sent her out into the garden. She was only allowed to become human again during the night. George could save her only by plucking the right flower. If he plucked the wrong one, she would die.

George spent the night on the ground next to the garden. “Blodwyn, Blodwyn!” he murmured. “Here I am,” she called, and there before him stood the princess he had seen at the mystic seaport, only this time, she was much closer much more beautiful. Her red hair flowed from her head to her waist and her eyes shone green like the sea after a storm. Her skin was pale and she stood at about 5'8". She wore a beautiful green dress and a funny Russian hat that matched George’s exactly, except for its magical destructive powers. The two sat in the garden under the moonlight, and when Blodwyn began to get cold, George gave her his almost nice-looking sweater to wear. She was even more beautiful with the sweater on, George thought. A breeze ran its misty fingers through their hair, and George shivered. Blodwyn did not shiver because she was wearing the gray and green sweater, and George was pleased.

At sunrise, Blodwyn vanished and again became a flower. George picked up his sweater and looked at the garden: there were three flowers of exquisite beauty, all three identical in height, color, and shape. “Blodwyn, Blodwyn!” George whispered, knowing one of them was her. None of the flowers responded. George studied the flowers, and finally he knew which was Blodwyn. He plucked it, and instantly the flower was transformed into the beautiful Blodwyn. “How did you know it was me?” she asked. “Dew fell on the other flowers during the night, but since you were up all night, there wasn’t any dew on you,” he said, and kissed her.

Chapter Four
The Wedding and Some of the Events that Occurred Thereafter

George and Blodwyn were married the next day. George wore the gray and green sweater and a pair of red and green striped stockings. Blodwyn wore her beautiful dress. The perfectly normal person presided. (He had turned out to be an Orthodox bishop.) Afterwards, George pulled out his tablecloth and there was a great feast of Oreo and French fry pizza. George and Blodwyn lived happily ever after and had lots of grandchildren.

The end.

on aging

I plan to be beautiful my whole life.

I don't plan to be 20 my whole life, but I plan to be beautiful my whole life.

I will grow old and get wrinkles and gray hairs and stretch marks, but I'll tell you what, they'll be sexy stretch marks.

When it is my birthday, people will ask if I'm 29 again, and I will say no, I'm 67.

I am a fallen woman, and deep in my heart I doubt. I wonder. I ask: "am I beautiful?"

I won't take my question to the world: they will say "no, you are old and wrinkled, and all beauty is vanity."

I won't take my question to my husband, a fallen man. Some days he will say "yes" honestly. Some days he will conjure this required answer.

I will take my question to God, and he will say "I made you, I created you, I know you better than anyone else. Yes, you are old and wrinkled and beautiful. You are a captivating, beautiful woman, desired and loved. Let me wash you with my blood so you can be seen." And deep in my heart, deeper than my doubt, I will know this is true.

I will empty myself and let Him fill me with His love.

And I will go to my husband and say "Look!" and I will not be ashamed of my wrinkles; I will not be afraid. I will be beautiful, and my husband will see my beauty. He will speak and I will hear Christ's voice: "you are truly beautiful."

I have no beauty that does not come from my Creator. To Him I owe infinitely more than I have or am. I deserve nothing. But "deserve" is irrelevant to love. I am empty and grateful.

prayers for finals week

From St. Thomas Aquinas, a noble, dedicated, hardworking student:

Creator of all things,
true source of light and wisdom,
origin of all being,
graciously let a ray of your light penetrate
the darkness of my understanding.

Take from me the double darkness
in which I have been born,
an obscurity of sin and ignorance.

Give me a keen understanding,
a retentive memory, and
the ability to grasp things
correctly and fundamentally.

Grant me the talent
of being exact in my explanations
and the ability to express myself
with thoroughness and charm.

Point out the beginning,
direct the progress,
and help in the completion.

I ask this through Christ our Lord.
Amen.


From St. Joseph of Cupertino, friend of those who don't or can't study:

O Great St. Joseph of Cupertino who while on earth did obtain from God the grace to be asked at your examination only the questions you knew, obtain for me a like favour in the examinations for which I am now preparing. In return I promise to make you known and cause you to be invoked.

Through Christ our Lord.

St. Joseph of Cupertino, Pray for us.

Amen.

a week and a half

Sr. Mary Ann: "Tonight when you're in the chapel, ask Him how much He loves you."

Jesus: "Do not be afraid of what I will show you tonight, for it will set you free."

Mary: "How much do you love me? My brain knows. Tell my heart."

Dream: I gave [G] a hug and said "Thank you for being such a good friend."

Morning: Swollen jaw, bloody nose.

Afternoon: Plans for health center Monday morning.

Monday-Wednesday: Afraid. Exhausted. [G] takes care of me and doesn't take advantage of my weakness.

Wednesday: Home. Afraid. Collegian.

Mary: "If I fall, will you catch me?"

[G]: "Look to Christ. I can't catch you every time. He can."

Mary: "I know he will always catch me. But he can use your arms, if you let him."

Thursday: Surgery. Sedatives.

Friday: Post-op. Toga. Hugs. Antibiotics.

Weekend: Walk. Speak. Listen. Shoulders touching. Humility. Tears.

Monday: Love. Gaping humility. Decision. Poignant peace.

Tuesday: Coffee shop. Collegian party. Physics lab. Pizza.

Mary: "I think I was mad at you for a long time."

[J]: "Yeah, I think I was mad at you, too."

Tuesday: Forgiveness.

Mary: "Can I tell you how we got the water filter?"

[J]: "I think [G]'s on the straight and narrow."

Wednesday: The head realized what the heart knew all along.


"How much do you love me?" I asked Him. "Tell my heart."

Soul emptied with gaping humility, replete now with love.

I have [G], and my gut is satisfied, not nagging at me anymore. And I got [J] back. And I can love wildly without reservation. Crazy men, strong men, wild men, good men, and my soul overflows with love for them both.

"Tell my heart," I told Him, and He filled me till I overflowed.

crazy days

Things I've learned since last weekend (this includes the retreat and the jaw infection):

• "How am I going to find you a husband if you're going to spend all your time running away from convents?"
• Do not be afraid! It might not even be scary, and whether it is or not, He is with you always.
• If you cannot love or cannot express your love, ask God how much he loves you and allow him to answer. When you are full of his love, you can overflow onto other people.
• [G] is a really good friend, and I've greatly underestimated his loyalty.
• Your body has plenty of ways other than physical pain to tell you to slow down. Physical, mental and social exhaustion are three of them.
• When everyone else is telling you that you look like a dead rat and you should skip classes and go to sleep, that is not the time to be tough. Sometimes you actually are weak.
• Darby is a really good friend, and I haven't known her long enough to underestimate her (I don't think).
• My antipathy toward pharmaceuticals is rooted in a need for control, and I need to give up that control sometimes. Not do heroin, but just take the dang antibiotics.
• I need to be willing to give up anything if Christ asks. Including friends. The Lord has given and the Lord has taken away: blessed be the name of the Lord! Parents, when they send their children off into the world, give back to God what God has given them. I can do the same with my departing friends. Let them go, and if God wills it, he will give them back to me.
• I can decline agricola and pray multilingually while sedated.
• God's love is like the crazy powerful ocean, and we're all just little Dutch boys with our fingers in the wall, afraid to let him in. Because we know that his love is a crashing, powerful surf that will sweep us off our feet and send us somewhere we don't know. And we'll have to change. But we have to trust him and let his love flood us: otherwise we can't let it overflow into other people.
• If you're afraid, look satan straight in the eye and ask him what, specifically, you're afraid of. He probably won't have an answer. Call on St. Michael and tell satan to f--- off and you'll be fine.
• Play fighting is an expression of love, probably because we're all afraid to tell someone directly how much we love them.
• I might not have had as much pride as I'd thought resting on that prank. Maybe it was an elaborate expression of love. And maybe it was my heart, not my pride, that was angry when the whole thing was ignored.
• "Mary, I see how you work. You're more complex than that. You're not that simple."
• Everyone is shy. Everyone is afraid. No one knows what it's like to be the bad man behind blue eyes, but we all know what it's like. The only remedy is Christ's love.
• It all hinges on love. Everything.
• [G] is a much stronger, more mature man than I gave him credit for.
• We are all called to holiness, but we aren't all called to famous holiness.
• Empty antibiotic capsules are fun to play with.
• There are real deer, deer that run away from you when you're on the other side of the field, in Hillsdale County.
• Christ has no body now but yours, and when I fall, he can use your arms to catch me if you let him. And if he is giving me your arms, I should let him.
• "Why are you running away from men? You are running away from me."
• Any love I give anyone is merely His love. I am a pitcher of water. If I let him fill me up, then I will overflow and spill onto everyone else. I can't love on my own, but I can be a window showing His love. Let my soul magnify the Lord!
• Other people are windows, too, and I need to let them love me.
• It's all about love. Everything.

I have a theory that the most important things I'll learn in college are not academic things. Well look at that. I went to one class all week and look what I learned.

eithe, ei gar (yap)

I wish I wasn't afraid to tell people how much I love them.

I guess I just expect people to know. And when they say something funny I'll say "I love you" but that really only means "you just made me laugh." It's an outlet, though. It's like poking a hole in the wall around my heart, letting some of the water out but not letting all of it flow. But the little Holland boy comes running.

Sometimes I see you leave the table and I want to run over and hug you, but I don't because you'll get annoyed and won't hug me back.

Sometimes you ask why I want to walk with you and I want to say because I love you and I want to spend time with you, but I don't because you will run away.

Sometimes I ask "how are you?" and all you say is "fine" because you have no idea how badly I want to know.

Sometimes we're leaving and I hug you but not as close as I want to. And I don't know why. I'm afraid.

I don't love you for what you do. I don't love you because you listen to me or make hats for me or throw me to the ground or believe in God or enjoy Latin or make jokes or help me with chemistry. I love you because you are made in the image and likeness of God, because you are good and nothing can change that.

But I'm afraid to tell you. All of you.

I'm afraid because somewhere inside me I know that I love some people more than others and I know I ought to love everyone equally. And if I tell you how much I love you, you'll know the extent of my love. And it's nowhere near where it should be.

I'm afraid because my actions won't follow through. I can, for the most part, make my actions follow through with how much I say I love you. But I'm not strong enough to love consistently. If I say I love you twice as much, my actions ought to reflect that, but I know they won't.

I LOVE YOU.

Christus resurrexit!

My Eastern friends (Catholic and Orthodox) don't celebrate the resurrection for another week. I've heard a couple jabs from them about why the Western calendar is wrong, and I don't really know how or who worked out the calendars, but I think it's interesting that the Son rises in the West before he Rises in the East. Hooray for semantic fun.

This went through my mind tonight:

With pretty much every one I know, especially people I know well, at least once I've felt that love so strongly that I was convinced I'd be utterly willing to die for them.

Then something happens and I find out I'm not willing to do smaller things for them. My emotions go reeling and I am ashamed.

It's a painful reminder that as much as I think I love, I don't love strongly enough. As much as I think I'd die for someone, I don't actually know, and I won't actually know until/unless the situation comes up.

You? I love you. My heart is weak, though, and I fail often. But I'm not letting it stay that way. I can do all things--even love--through Christ who strengthens me.

Who strengthens my heart.

Solemn Reproaches

O my people, O my church, what have I done to you,
or in what have I offended you?
Answer me!

I led you forth from the land of Egypt
and delivered you by the waters of baptism,
but you have prepared a cross for your Savior.

Holy, holy, holy God, holy almighty God, holy, holy almighty God, have mercy upon us!

I led you through the desert forty years and fed you with manna.
I brought you through tribulation and penitence
and gave you my body, the bread of heaven,
but you have prepared a cross for your Savior.

Holy, holy, holy God, holy almighty God, holy, holy almighty God, have mercy upon us!

What more could I have done for you that I have not done?

I planted you, my chosen and fairest vineyard,
I made you the branches of my vine;
but when I was thirsty, you gave me vinegar to drink
and pierced with a spear the side of your Savior,
and you have prepared a cross for your Savior.

Holy, holy, holy God, holy almighty God, holy, holy almighty God, have mercy upon us!

I went before you in a pillar of cloud,
and you have led me to the judgment hall of Pilate.
I scourged your enemies and brought you to a land of freedom,
but you have scourged, mocked, and beaten me.
I gave you the water of salvation from the rock,
but you have given me gall and left me to thirst,
and you have prepared a cross for your Savior.

Holy, holy, holy God, holy almighty God, holy, holy almighty God, have mercy upon us!

I gave you a royal scepter,
and bestowed the keys of the kingdom,
but you have given me a crown of thorns.
I raised you on high with great power,
but you have prepared a cross for your Savior.

Holy, holy, holy God, holy almighty God, holy, holy almighty God, have mercy upon us!

My peace I gave, which the world cannot give,
and washed your feet as a sign of my love,
but you draw the sword to strike in my name
and seek high places in my kingdom.
I offered you my body and blood,
but you scatter and deny and abandon me,
and you have prepared a cross for your Savior.

Holy, holy, holy God, holy almighty God, holy, holy almighty God, have mercy upon us!

I sent the Spirit of truth to guide you,
and you close your hearts to the Counselor.
I pray that all may be one in the Father and me,
but you continue to quarrel and divide.
I call you to go and bring forth fruit,
but you cast lots for my clothing,
and you have prepared a cross for your Savior.

Holy, holy, holy God, holy almighty God, holy, holy almighty God, have mercy upon us!

I grafted you into the tree of my chosen Israel,
and you turned on them with persecution and mass murder.
I made you joint heirs with them of my covenants,
but you made them scapegoats for your own guilt,
and you have prepared a cross for your Savior.

Holy, holy, holy God, holy almighty God, holy, holy almighty God, have mercy upon us!

I came to you as the least of your brothers and sisters;
I was hungry and you gave me no food,
I was thirsty and you gave me no drink,
I was a stranger and you did not welcome me,
naked and you did not clothe me,
sick and in prison and you did not visit me,
and you have prepared a cross for your Savior.

Holy, holy, holy God, holy almighty God, holy, holy almighty God, have mercy upon us!

Litany of Humility

The first time I saw this, it was taped to the inside of the dorm-room door when I stayed overnight in Steubenville. My gut twanged in a way that told me this would be good for me. I'm still bad at it, but this is Triduum, a good time to get back to work.

A non-Christian friend once told me this sounded too extreme, and perhaps it does. But read it carefully. We aren't asking to be free from esteem but from the desire for esteem.


[by Rafael Cardinal Merry del Val (1865-1930), Secretary of State for Pope St. Pius X]


O Jesus! meek and humble of heart,
Hear me.

From the desire of being esteemed,
Deliver me, Jesus.
From the desire of being loved,
Deliver me, Jesus.
From the desire of being extolled,
Deliver me, Jesus.
From the desire of being honored,
Deliver me, Jesus.
From the desire of being praised,
Deliver me, Jesus.
From the desire of being preferred to others,
Deliver me, Jesus.
From the desire of being consulted,
Deliver me, Jesus.
From the desire of being approved,
Deliver me, Jesus.
From the fear of being humiliated,
Deliver me, Jesus.
From the fear of being despised,
Deliver me, Jesus.
From the fear of suffering rebukes,
Deliver me, Jesus.
From the fear of being calumniated,
Deliver me, Jesus.
From the fear of being forgotten,
Deliver me, Jesus.
From the fear of being ridiculed,
Deliver me, Jesus.
From the fear of being wronged,
Deliver me, Jesus.
From the fear of being suspected,
Deliver me, Jesus.

That others may be loved more than I,
Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.
That others may be esteemed more than I,
Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.
That, in the opinion of the world,
others may increase and I may decrease,
Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.
That others may be chosen and I set aside,
Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.
That others may be praised and I unnoticed,
Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.
That others may be preferred to me in everything,
Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.
That others may become holier than I,
provided that I may become as holy as I should,
Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.

clumsy evening

Dear Mom,

Monday nights I set up for Mass, and I never know what the room will look like before I get to work. Today there were six round tables, each one roughly my weight, scattered around the room and surrouneded by chairs. They had to go.

I was strong enough to move them, but not strong enough to move them gracefully. I kicked in the legs and rolled the tables to the room's perimeter, leaning them against the walls in pairs: two on the back wall, leg-side-out; two on the side wall, both sets of legs between the two tabletops; one right next to these on the side wall, legs out; one more on its way.

I kicked in the last set of legs and rolled the table over, putting the legs toward the side wall so they'd meet up with the other table's legs.

If I succeeded, you could look at the wall and see two round tabletops sitting right next to each other, and there would be two round tabletops sitting right next to each other, leaning against the wall. Two pairs of tables, two leg-sandwiches. Theoretically. One more table to put in place.

The legs caught. I rolled the table back and forth, trying to untangle them, but it slid between the neighboring table-pair and the wall. The neighboring table-pair fell and knocked into the lectern (just for you, Dad), which cleared the rectangle altar-to-be table by about an inch.

I asked Jordan to give me a hand; he said he could in about 10 minutes. I saw Garrett who'd come up the hill to make a phone call, so I asked him to help. The furniture was almost entirely in order by the time Jordan got there.

I went to the chapel cupboard to get the cruets (little glass pitchers). I poured some wine into one and some wine onto the floor. Fortunately the chapel carpet is red.

Later I reached up to get the lectionary (big book of scripture readings) and sacramentary (small book of prayers), which were stacked on a shelf that is above my head, but on a normal day is well within my reach. I pulled on the lectionary, but I must have tilted it too far because the sacramentary slid off. It was about to come crashing down when I saved it with a quick elbow motion, pinning it between my arm and the wall.

So you know I asked for help.

Love,

Mary

NB

I learned something on Saturday.

If your arms are not strong enough to lift it, if it's an awkward position and you can't get your knees and hips under it, if you know you're going to pull a muscle in your back, don't lift it.

Fortunately I've only learned this twice this (academic) year.

friend fail forgiven

"I'm sorry," she said.

"I forgive you," he said.

"What should I have done?" she said.

"This," he said, and hugged her.

friend fail

Once upon a time there was a girl who wanted to be beautiful. But her hair was dark and her eyes were brown and she couldn't learn to be beautiful the same way the other girls did. She couldn't wear the same color earrings as they could and couldn't tie her hair up the same way they did.

But she knew she was beautiful.

She heard of a place where she could learn how girls like her could become beautiful, but she had to pass a beauty test in order to get in.

She learned everything she could from books and practiced making herself beautiful. Finally, the time came for her to take the beauty test. She asked her friend to drive her because she couldn't drive by herself.

He agreed. When the day came, he pulled his car up in front of her house. She stepped out of the doorway in a blue silk dress and shining silver necklace and walked gracefully to the car. She opened it and sat inside. "Ready to go?" he asked.

"Are you going to tell me that I'm beautiful?" she asked.

"Oh," he said. "I thought I was just driving."

He drove.

They arrived at the school where she was to take the beauty test. She got out of the car and shut the door, then walked to the dressing room.

"Don't try to be one of us beauties," a blue-eyed girl called from inside. The dark-haired girl knew she was taking a different beauty test, so she took a deep breath and walked into the dressing room.

When she came out she was even more stunning. Her friend walked with her toward the stage where the beauty test would take place.

Suddenly her earrings fell out and her necklace broke and dropped onto the floor. Her friend waited to see what she would do.

A boy walking down the same hallway happened to see, and he deftly lifted the pieces of fallen jewelry off the floor and set them on the table along the wall. He opened a toolbox that was sitting there and bent the clasp back into shape. He handed her the glittering necklace and earrings while her friend watched.

"Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome," he said.

She put them back on.

He looked at her. "You're beautiful," he said.

She smiled, and it was a smile so glorious that had she shaved her head and put on men's jeans and a shapeless winter coat, she could have passed the beauty test with flying colors.

Feast of St. Patrick confessions

Happy birthday, Emily.

I went to the scout office to turn in my paperwork and pick up some patches for my bag. Pat found a 2007 Camp Tapico patch for me and even let me buy a climbing merit badge patch, on condition that I don't give it to a scout.

I thought briefly about going to my grandpa's house while I was pulling out of the parking lot. I didn't really feel like going, but I wanted to see them at some point over break so I guilted myself into going. Then I realized I wouldn't have to take the freeway if I stopped at his house, so cheerily I went, making only one especially stupid navigational error ("that looks like some sort of factory on the left, so I ought to be turning right").

I pulled into his driveway and gave him a hug as I walked in the door. His clothes matched: gray pants (belt undone) and a gray-and-white plaid shirt. Both were stained with the blue paint he'd recently used on the basement walls. "Do you have any work for me?" I asked.

For as long as I can remember, these four black-and-gold profiles in tilted-square frames hung on the east wall in his living room. He had taken them down, and he told me he wanted to fill the wall with pictures.

These were gathered on the couch awaiting wallhanging: Uncle Steve's 11x14 senior picture in a large, smooth, light-brown wood frame (taken from a shelf in the basement); my dad's 11x14 senior picture in a large, rippled dark-brown wood frame (taken from the basement wall); Uncle Chris's 8x10 senior picture in a thin wood frame (taken from a shelf in the basement); an elaborate matching pair of worn-out-fake-gold frames holding 11x14s of my dad and Uncle Chris when they were about four (taken from the upper stairwell).

I gently tried to discourage him from putting these together on the wall, but secretly I wanted to see what the wall would look like when he was done. We pulled three nails from the wall and left the top center one in to mark the middle of the wall, and it was time to work.

He'd bought a package of tiny plastic suction-cup hooks to hang them up. I pressed a dry suction cup against the white paint and let it fall, but I was disappointed to find out that my grandfather was not so easily discouraged. He explained that suction cups don't stick unless they're wet, so I lightly licked one while he soaked another like an excited puppy. We pressed them onto the wall. Neither stuck.

"I think your best bet would be to use nails," I suggested. Determined to get his money's worth from the tiny suction cup hooks, he told me he had some gorilla glue and asked if I'd heard of it. My eyes got real big.

He spread yesterday's newspaper on the kitchen table to protect the ratty old tablecloth and leaned over the suction cups, dabbing them with glue that was the nasty yellow-green color of hydrochloric acid.

I knew I had to prevent him from gorilla gluing the tiny suction cups to the wall because the tiny plastic hooks attached to the tiny suction cups didn't look strong enough to hold these heavy, decades-old pawnshop frames.

He finished dabbing glue onto one suction cup, and he stuck it on the wall. I was happily surprised to find that the glue didn't hold any better than our saliva had.

He tried again, this time with more glue. Again, the glue didn't hold.

I had an idea. I picked up one of the tiny suction cup hooks in my hand and hung my dad's senior picture from it, but it didn't break. I swung the picture back and forth a bit, but it didn't break. I twisted the hook back far beyond its normal range and it snapped with a pathetic little sound. The frame fell to the floor.

"Grandpa," I said, "I don't think these hooks are strong enough to hold the frames. Look." I showed him the broken hook.

He set down the glue and looked. "Well I'll be--" he started, and tried hanging a frame from a hook in his hand. The hook split almost before he started swinging it. It was time for nails.

Scotch tape from the kitchen drawer, hammer from the coat closet, a Gerber jar of nails from the basement, and he began.

I sat in Grandma's chair, watching him and laughing silently. One by one, the pictures went up.

"I don't care if it's symmetrical or not. I just want to blast a buncha pictures up there," he said. He looked at me as if asking permission. "Deal?" he asked.

I looked into his eyes. "Deal," I told him.

Oh, man. I just betrayed my entire family and pretty much anyone else who sees that wall.

"Glad you come over 'cause I wasn't sure if I 'as gonna do this or not, and you come over and I decide to do it. See what kin'a influence you got over me?"

My insides cringed. I should have sucked it up and driven home on the freeway.

I sank back into Grandma's chair. We small talked for a bit while he fiddled with the pictures, and, remembering his World War II exploits, I asked if he'd ever been to Thailand.

"Thigh-land?" he asked. "No, I never been to Thigh-land. Why do you wan' know about Thigh-land?"

"I have a friend who went to Thailand for a year," I told him.

"Why would you go to Thigh-land?" he asked, stepping around and back to the pictures. He answered the question for himself: "Study Chinese. It's not a very healthy country to go to right now," he said, maybe to himself.

Four pictures hung in a nearly-straight row on the wall. He looked at me and there was an instant of eye contact before his eyes danced into laughter. He, too, saw how ridiculous the pictures looked.

"They aren't even," he said.

When he turned around, I facepalmed and wondered what my parents would say when they saw the wall. I could hear my dad saying "what on earth?" The wall looked so bad that no one would notice that the pictures were uneven, and if they did, they would assume it was part of the lack of design.

There was still a nail hanging in the middle of the wall, between my dad's and Uncle Steve's senior pictures. He wanted something small to hang there, so I gave him a horizontal 4x6 picture of my immediate family (my parents and siblings and me; his son and daughter-in-law and grandkids) at Uncle Joe's. Framed in black, it fit snugly between the foiling brown frames.

He put another nail in directly below this one and asked for the picture of him and my grandmother. A vertical 4x6, it sat on the shelf in a simple fake-gold frame. There was no hook to hang the frame with, and he mentioned gorilla gluing the whole thing to the wall. "Can't see, can't hear," he muttered and distracted himself with a Cole Porter casette tape.

The wall had pretty much gone to hell, and I felt like I was responsible for it. What could I do? If he had twine, he could tie it around the shelf-stand and hang the frame from there, I suggested.

He didn't have twine, but he had packaging tape. He looped it around the shelf-stand on the back of the frame and hung it from the nail below the family portrait.

To recap, this is what the wall looks like from left to right:

.elaborate fake-gold frame with 11x14 of either my dad or Uncle Chris at about four years old
.dark brown rippling wood frame with 11x14 of Uncle Steve at eighteen (looking slightly left)
.black frame with horizontal 4x6 of my family, below this a simple fake-gold frame with 4x6 of my grandparents
.light brown smooth wood frame with 11x14 of my dad at eighteen (looking slightly right)
.matching elaborate fake-gold frame with 11x14 of either Uncle Chris or my dad at about four years old

"Okay, if I keep messing it up, it won't matter, will it?" he asked me. He straightened my dad's senior picture and for a second I thought the whole thing didn't look half-bad.

Suddenly he realized he'd forgotten Uncle Chris's senior picture, the lone 8x10 sitting in its simple medium-brown wood frame. He decided, with some egging on from me, to put it on top in the center. He dragged a dinette chair into the living room and stood on it. I knelt on the couch, handing up equipment and spotting in case he fell.

"Scotch tape and duct tape. You can't live without 'em," he muttered. I wondered where the duct tape was.

I thought it strange to display the middle child in such a ridiculously prominent location, so I handed him his 50th anniversary frame with wedding-day photos of him and my grandmother. Well now he needed a place for Uncle Chris's picture, and he fit it snugly between the two other senior pictures, hanging down below. He found a spot, stabbed at it with his finger, marked it with Scotch tape, and started the nail. "So much for measuring," he said.

The 4x6 of him and my grandmother slid out of its frame. He knocked it around a bit, trying to straighten it, but without any luck. Finally he gave it to me.

"Get the picture straight and put that sucker back on," he instructed me.

I took it to the kitchen table, emptied the frame, and taped the photo in place. The shelf-stand was in the way. Grandpa stole a guilty look at me and ripped it off.

"Why didn't we think of that before?" he asked me.

I sat back in Grandma's chair, watching him, and then I realized this wasn't as ridiculous as it looked. It was his house, let him have it how he likes, I thought. I've spent a lot of time in college going out of my way to be tacky because I've had a nagging feeling that once I grow up and settle down somewhere, I'm going to have to look respectable and my house will have to look respectable and my picture frames will have to match and hang symmetrically from the wall. It was kind of liberating to known that I can grow up and still be tacky.

I understood, then, what he was trying to do. He was thinking the same way I thought when I attached a hanger to the ceiling with push pins and twine so I could hang my internet cord up or when I carried an old drumhead back to my room to use as a table. He knew where he was going, and now I knew, too, and I could help him without silently mocking him.

"I shouldn't even be doing this," he muttered into the wall. "Someone smart should be doing this."

He wanted the 5x7s of his five grandkids on the wall on the left side, and I went through each one, Scotch-taping the bottoms so the pictures wouldn't fall out. The shelf-stands on the frames were too big to hang the frames on the wall. "I don't dare rip these off," he said, and so he turned the first one over on the table and began nailing the shelf-stand to the back of the frame. He'd had some success with this tactic before, but this frame was thinner. We heard the glass break.

"Oh, sh-t, I mean, shoot," he said. He didn't mean shoot. The glass had shattered and there was a nail sticking out through Emily's shoulder. We cleaned out the glass and, without it, there was plenty of room to tuck the shelf-stand into the frame. We used either tape or gorilla glue to tuck in the other four shelf-stands, then we realized that Anne's frame didn't have a loop to hang on the wall. I found a paperclip and taped it to the back of her frame.

We were done for the day. He stepped back and we admired our work. He asked me if I liked it, and I told him I did--and told him this honestly. I also told him I didn't think my parents would like it, and he was surprised, but I said it didn't matter. I liked it.

My Thigh-land friend once told me I was endearingly tacky, but he hasn't met my grandfather. He is impossible not to love.

Saturday, I went back to Grandpa's house, and he had more pictures up. It looked better, actually, sort of collage-like. Now I got to run off to Greek, but here's a picture of what it looked like on Saturday: