two men

I was sitting in AJ's before lunch tweaking a paper for Anglo-Saxon, and a friend stopped by to say hello. We chatted for a bit and, as so often happens here, the discussion turned from weekend plans to abstract concepts. Well, I thought it was abstract concepts, but the issue was more personal for him than I knew. It seemed like suddenly: "You don't understand how angry you just made me, Mary." His face turned a little red--an angry red but not a furious red--and he clammed up and wouldn't listen to anything I had to say, even my apologies. He walked off.

I thought I should feel bad about it, so I stared at the table for about thirty seconds. Then I realized that I wasn't upset at all--as far as I could tell it had been a friendly conversation the whole time. I shrugged and went back to my paper. (It was about 11:15 and the paper was sort of due at 2:30.)

Someone else walked up, and I'm not sure how to describe him without plastering his identity online. I don't know that I've talked to him enough to call him a friend, but we're friends on facebook. I have one class with him, but mostly when we talk, we talk business. I always got the feeling that he didn't like me much.

"Hey, Mary, do you know who that was?"

"Yeah, that was" and I told him my friend's name.

"Yeah, I know it was him, but is everything okay? I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but it sounded kind of awkward."

I shrugged. "Yeah, he's one of my friends. I'll give him some time to cool off then I'll go apologize."

He gave a small laugh, a "heh-heh," one with two breaths. The first was nervous and the other relieved. "Okay. I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm okay." I nodded. He started to turn. "Thank you," I told him.

And that was that.

blues!

Amanda called me, excited that my story about skulking during the SAI ball was in the yearbook. Thrilled, I ran from the Collegian office in Grewcock to come see. We were sitting on a bench in front of the library flipping through Winona, when I glanced up and saw a Marine recruiter in his blues walking toward us.

Amanda and I looked at each other and laughed.

When he got closer, I looked at him and said hello.

He returned the greeting and continued walking passed us toward Grewcock.

I recognized him. He was the one with the blood stripe in AJ's.

I could go find him later, but what would I say to him? My standard line, "you should have worn your blues," wasn't going to work. But he was wearing his blues, and I couldn't pass this up.

We couldn't think of anything, and it was time to get back to my paper, so I walked back into Grewcock.

I ran back out to Amanda with an idea, but after telling her I realized it was a little weird.

I danced anyway. Called Jason (my Marine friend from camp).

"Hey Jason! Guess who's here today!"

"Bob?"

"No."

"Marine recruiters?"

"Yes. And guess what he's wearing?"

"Blues?"

"Yes!"

"Was I right?"

"Yes on one thing, no on the other."

"Let me guess. They look good and your clothes are still on?"

He was right.

Went back into Grewcock. And when I opened the door, the recruiter was there. There are two doors; we met between the doors. He stood aside and let me walk through first.

"Hello," I said.

"Hey, how's it going?" he said (not asked).

I reached for the other door handle.

"Wore my blues today," he said.

Giddy.

possibly the nerdiest moment of my life (thus far)

I was at adoration this evening and had a very profound thought but couldn't for the life of me figure out how to express it in English. I wish we had a dative of reference.

homecoming festivities

Sometimes your parents tell you not to do certain things, and they tell you why. And sometimes you assume that the reasons they give are a little exaggerated. Trying to convince you not to do it. But sometimes you find that what actually happens when you don't take their advice is about twenty times worse than anyone ever let on.

I've never seen anyone as drunk as I saw on Friday night.

Or heard, really. I woke up when my roommate came in, about 2 a.m., and I heard another friend say "Call me if anything happens, okay?" I sat up and asked my roommate what was going on. Someone on our hall was very, very drunk, she told me.

"Is she conscious?" I asked.

"She's in the bathroom retching now. Her sorority sisters brought her up."

A little bit later, I took my phone and went to the hallway, thinking: I don't want her to die of alcohol poisoning on my hall knowing I could have made a phone call. One of this girl's friends was in the hallway, and I talked to her. She said not to worry about alcohol poisoning. "She's throwing up, which is good. It'll get it out of her system." She and a couple other friends were there and planned to stay as long as they needed to. She said she'd been in the same situation before and she knew what to do. I asked if this was typical behavior of this girl or if she learned something that night, and it sounded like she had learned something.

I went back to my room.

"Up, up, up." (groan) "You need to sit up." ("I am sitting up.") "No you're not. Sit up. Drink some water." ("That requires movement.") "I don't care if it requires movement. Drink water." ("No. That water tastes bad. No wonder I'm throwing up.") "Drink some water."

She sounded miserable. I heard her say--not as slurred as I expected--how miserable she was. And her girl friends stayed with her the whole time.

I finally fell asleep sometime between three and four, but I wondered.

Most of my friends don't drink or don't drink much, and the ones that do don't do it around me. But what if they did?

I know I am willing to drive someone home (if I had access to a car) and willing to make as many phone calls as I need to to find a car if someone called me drunk.

I know I am fully prepared to tip over a table of shot glasses if someone's being stupid.

I know I am ready to call for help if someone passes out drunk.

But would I stay up all night with a profusely vomiting friend?

I hope I never have to. But I wonder.

a missing blood stripe

I'm done with my morning classes by eleven o'clock every day, and my afternoon classes don't start until 2 or 2:30. Usually I bring my work up to AJ's and work on it there--saves me another trip to my room, and I get to watch people. And I'm about 20 feet away from the table where military recruiters sit when they're on campus.

Before today, the Marines have been here twice and the Navy once. (I like Marine haircuts better.) Today my sister is here, and we went back to my room after lunch. I left the room around 1:40, ran to the EAR to print something out for my two o'clock class. Saw recruiters outside Grewcock.

Remembered that I had a letter for Justin (friend from camp, MRP2 in San Diego) in my backpack. Ran downstairs and slipped the envelope in the mail slot. Ran to the EAR to print out my article for class. Came back, thinking about what I was going to say to the recruiters (because, come on, I couldn't pass this up).

I thanked them for being there because it reminded me to send my letter to a friend in San Diego. They reacted in an utterly normal fashion--that was strange, but you're welcome.

"And, you guys should have worn your blues today," I said.

And walked away without making eye contact.

Thought it was strange that only one of them had a blood stripe on his pants.

Well, I went to class, then (with Anne) to pep band rehearsal, then to work on the Collegian cart, then to dinner. And as we were walking into dinner, I saw that the recruiters were still on campus. I wanted to ask the one why he didn't have a stripe, but, both recruiters were sitting down with a student, folder open on the table, having a serious conversation. I wasn't going to interrupt that. So Anne and I went to dinner, and after dinner picked up Collegians and sat down in AJ's, reading. Patient.

Amanda and Jeff stopped by. And we talked and laughed for a while. Jeff still hadn't find the girl he was looking for.

Finally, the recruiters stood up. Shook hands. The student walked away.

And I walked up.

"I have a friend in the Marines--two friends, actually, one of them's in San Diego right now. I'm curious, I saw you don't have a stripe on your pants. I'm wondering."

The one with the stripe said told me it's a blood stripe--which I knew and should have said--and told me something about rank that I didn't really pay attention to. I recognized him. He must have been here before.

I said okay, cool, and walked back to the table with my sister and friends.

The recruiters got their bags packed, picked up their covers (hats), put on their coats, and walked.

Past our table. They walked probably 5 feet from me.

I made eye contact with the Marine with the stripe. I waved. A shy wave.

He acknowledged it, then continued walking.

"Hey, you guys should have worn your blues," I called after them.

He turned.

Made a vowel, the sort of vowel that says "there's that obnoxious girl again." Or anyway, that's the way I heard it.

And left.

Our table was giddy.

death

I wanted to go to the funeral today.

On Tuesday afternoon, there was a car accident at my high school. The driver survived; the passenger died. Both were students.

I didn’t know the passenger and I only vaguely knew the driver. But I remember another car accident when I was a senior in high school: my classmate Crystal died and the driver survived. I remember how the whole school mourned. I knew my school was grieving, and I wanted to be there with them.

We couldn’t work out rides, so I wasn’t able to come home. Instead I went on with the weekend’s plans: pep band rehearsal and a B-movie on Friday, football game Saturday afternoon.

This morning (Saturday), part of Students for Life made the trip out to Ann Arbor to pray in front of a Planned Parenthood clinic. We met up with students from Ave Maria Law School, and we began a Rosary at 10 o’clock.

The funeral was at 10 o’clock this morning as well. Her teenage body was lying in a casket in St. Pius X Catholic Church in Flint, Mich., and I know the church was packed. It was when Crystal died.

And there I stood, holding a weathered posterboard sign with “Choose Life!” scrawled in black marker. Just 100 feet away was a house of death, where children are killed and never mourned.



May the angels welcome you to paradise.
May the martyrs greet you on your way.
May you see the face of the Lord this day.
Alleluia, alleluia.

Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May their souls and the souls of all the faithful departed rest in peace. Amen.

mile swim

People are often surprised with how much I can carry, how far I can throw a football, how fast I can climb a wall. Granted, I'm not as strong as most people are, but based on my observations, I'm probably stronger than I look. So when I think "I can't" and say it, people believe me and that's the end of it.

Not so much at Camp Tapico. I say “I can’t” and I hear “try.” I was talked into doing several things I didn’t think I could do. I went on the 4+6 mile bike ride (twice, actually). I attempted the eight hilly miles into Kal, didn’t make it but probably could have if it weren’t for the wind and the time crunch (I felt fine on the six hilly miles I biked back to camp). I yelled to Eco-Con and they heard me. I swam a mile.

Kalkaska mornings are cold and water--shower, swimming, rain--destroys my tolerance for cold. I wasn’t going to be able to jump in the lake at 6 o'clock Thursday morning with the rest of the mile swimmers. But I could swim laps in the afternoon.

I had to swim 44 lengths, so down-and-back 22 times. I had to keep track somehow, and numbers are boring and easily mixed up.

There are 20 mysteries of the Rosary if you count the luminous, and adding two afterward wouldn’t be a problem. If I did them in chronological order, I wouldn’t mix them up.

I slid into the waist-deep water off the one dock and began making my way to the three dock, focusing my mind on the Annunciation. I gave up trying to say Hail Marys because all I had to count on were my fingers, and I needed those to swim. I flipped over onto my back before I got to the three dock because I couldn’t breathe.

I touched the one dock again and thought of Mary visiting Elizabeth. When I came back to the one dock, I was about ready to get out of the water. I was exhausted. I couldn’t do this. But I didn’t want to say “I attempted 44 and quit after 4” when everyone was convinced I could make it the whole way. Plus I wanted to be able to say that I swam a mile. Pride countered my “I can’t.”

I kept going: one dock, three dock, one dock, three dock. I was almost entirely elementary backstroking, but every now and then I’d flip over breast stroke. I slammed my head into the dock twice.

The presentation in the temple. My left knee started hurting, so I had to be careful how I kicked. “I can’t do this. I need your strength,” I prayed. Bob and Jam Jam were on the main dock, and when I swam by they moosed me (which, according to the moose game, meant I had to do five pushups). “I’ll do ’em later!” I called. They laughed. I tried to swim by with goggles up (hands shaped like Os around my eyes, which would exempt me from the pushups) but I pushed my face underwater and sputtered to the surface, treading water until I emptied my nose. They moosed me a few more times, and I began thinking about how cool it would be to say I swam a mile, got out and did 20 pushups.

When campers want to do the mile swim, they have to swim a quarter mile Monday, half mile Tuesday, three-quarters Wednesday, then get up Thursday morning for the mile. It was Tuesday, and I was about at the halfway point. I could stop now, I thought, but that first half mile sucked, and if I stopped now, I’d have to swim it again. I may as well finish now. My own suffering countered my “I can’t.”

The institution of the Eucharist. I was nearing the three dock when a gullible camper, also swimming laps, asked me how deep the water was this far out. I told him I didn't know. "Bob told me it was 50 feet deep here," he said. I smiled, knowing twelve feet was more accurate. "Well, Bob's the aquatics director; I'd trust him," I told him.

The agony in the garden. My left arm cramped up and I let it drag, limp, flailing in a pathetic half-stroke. I channeled what was left of my strength into my legs, kicked hard, and tried to massage my arm. It felt like someone had surgically implanted a golf ball in my bicep. But I can’t swim very long without my arms, so I laid back again. Elementary backstroke is slow enough; my one-armed elementary backstroke was even slower.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in so much physical pain--my whole body ached and I could only use some of it. “I need your strength,” I prayed. I wanted to give up, get out of the water, lie in the sun. I hurt.

The scourging at the pillar. To bail out of this because I was suffering would be ridiculous.

"I need your strength." The crowning with thorns. "I need your strength." Carrying the Cross. “I need your strength.” The crucifixion. "I need your strength." His suffering countered my “I can’t.”

The resurrection. I hurt, I hurt bad, but I was on the homestretch now. “I need your strength to finish this. I don’t need to do pushups on the dock. I just want to finish the mile, and I can’t do it without you. I need your strength.” But wouldn’t it be cool to swim a mile and immediately do 20 pushups on the dock? I hurt.

The coronation of Mary. One. A thrill shot through my body: This "I can't" was nonsense, and I knew it.

Two.

I finished. I let out a yell of victory. I touched the one dock, stood up and threw my arms into the air triumphantly--or anyway, that was the plan. I touched the one dock, put my feet on the ground, tried to raise my body up, and splashed into the water. Bob and Jam Jam came over, laughing. “Mary, are you okay?”

I laughed, too. “Yeah. I’m fine. I think my muscles turned into lead.” I got up slowly, leaned on the dock, and stood there for a minute, resting, aching, remembering the gravity I hadn't dealt with for the past hour and a half. They asked if I needed help getting up, but somehow I flipped myself onto the dock, feet in the water. I sat. The pushups weren't going to work out, but I just swam a mile.

Somehow I got a towel and a lifejacket--maybe I got them from the blockhouse; maybe someone brought them to me. The horn blew to close the lake, and Scott took me back to the boathouse in the crash. I changed in the Letts and stumbled to the gazebo. Good thing I had the night off.


Saints write all the time about suffering, uniting your suffering with Christ’s,and joy through suffering. They still baffle me, but I caught a glimpse of what they’re talking about. I know full well that I can’t swim a mile, but somehow I did --it was his strength, not mine, that pulled me through.