scriptus

This weekend, my heart almost stopped. Not literally, but close. We had just driven down to the location of William’s Saturday baseball game and were getting out of the car. I open the trunk and sling William’s baseball gear bag up onto my shoulder, and it roughly brushes my hand. I hear an odd “ping … ping ping … ping ping ping” and look down. Weird, some golden shiny thing is pinging down the pavement in front of me towards the curb.

I wonder what it is?

Wait a second, that looks familiar. “My ring!” I shout. Wait that’s not a curb, it’s a gutter opening. “OH NO! NO!”

“Ping … ping” into the opening. “Ping … ping … ping” becoming fainter and stopping.

My wedding ring rolled into the sewer drainage entrance. Internally I’m sinking. Amy has turned towards me, and I’m sticking my head down by the drainage entrance. The sun is illuminating the area a little, and I can see that I can’t see my ring.

But I can see that there is a cement boxlike area, with a few cement drainage tubes leading off of it. Oh, man. This is getting worse.

I say a quick silent prayer, “Lord help me.” And then, I notice another detail I initially had ignored. There are two little sets of iron rungs on the sides of the underground cement box. I lift my head up to look at the sidewalk. Two manhole covers.

“Please don’t be bolted down,” I whisper.

The covers are large, and I am full of adrenaline. No bolts. The cover has a small notch, into which I stick one finger, all that will fit, and start to lift.

“Be careful,” Amy says.

The cover must weigh over fifty pounds, but I pull it up pretty quickly and before I scamper down the hole, I notice the kids giving me strange looks. I don’t think they’ve caught on yet.

Down in the cement box, I search and don’t see my ring. I sigh, and head to what I think must be the most logical tube. I get about two-thirds of my body into the tunnel, and there on floor is my ring.

I can’t describe how I felt at that moment — relief and joy amongst the multitude of feelings.

As I climbed back out of the hole, I crossed myself and thanked God that it was possible to recover my ring.

After I put the manhole cover back, my hands smelled of the acrid aroma of oxidized metal and we went on to the game, where we met William and Carolyn’s godparents and proceeded to have a nice hot time in the sun watching six-year-old baseball.

But my heart is beating strongly. And God is merciful.

“A true philosopher is one who perceives in created things their spiritual Cause, or who knows created things through knowing their Cause, having attained a direct, unmediated faith, and a union with God that transcends the intellect. He does not simply learn about divine things, but actually experiences them.”
– Saint Gregory of Sinai

Would that I knew that ca. 1991.

Yesterday I went to church. I took the children. But, it wasn’t the Orthodox Church — it was the church of secular humanism. Yes, that’s right, I took the children to the museum of Nature and History.

First, we went to the “Space” exhibit, which, admittedly to this old science-fiction nut, was pretty darned cool. I sat and watched, to the kids annoyance, about ten minutes of amazing video of the many amazing pictures sent back from the Mars rovers — the video scrolled over some immense panorama shots that were breathtaking. But, of course, none of this was presented as an awe-inspiring view into the creation of God, rather, it was presented in a “look how smart we humans are, we’re virtually gods!” sort of way. Ironic, considering the little bits of the universe we’ve touched are so infinitesimal. I began to wonder if God gave us the universe just to help us remember our place and how ineffable He really is.

After this, we took a sojourn to the observation deck on the roof and enjoyed the view of downtown and the Rocky Mountains. Immediately following, we were off to the Native American exhibit. As we entered, there was a video with a message of “Welcome” playing in many of the native languages, which was very cool. However, next to this was a map of the Americas with type set in white overlaying it that read something like “We are all the same” (not the exact phrase, but close). If this were really true in the context of a museum, why the heck would I care to enter the exhibit? While trying to sound inclusive in a context that made little sense, the museum actually denigrates the entire history, traditions, and culture of these wonderful people. The rest of the exhibit was actually very nice, and the maps, rugs, baskets, and and pottery gave me the chance to explain to the kids that this was more than the past, that there were people who lived now only slightly differently than this. I was able to tell them about some of the pueblos I have been invited to, and some of the Native American friends I’ve had back when I was working in northern New Mexico. I enjoyed the whole exhibit very much, it brought back more than a few good memories.

Of course, William, almost six, wanted to see the dinosaurs. It wasn’t until we entered the exhibit and were ushered to our seats for the video that I started to remember about this part of the museum. (Shields up! Red Alert!) The video started up and we received the lecture about how we are all created from random junk in a pool that was hit by lightning and UV rays. Science fiction indeed. Well, after the video I skillfully navigated them past the evolutionist creation mythology sections and to the actual dinosaur bones. Now, I’m not one who is going to argue over the age of the earth. However, I have zero doubt that God is her creator. The random junk-in-a-pool theory takes huge leaps of faith to believe, as there is zero science behind the assertion. And these are the same people who would likely complain about I.D. being faith based. Pot, kettle, black.

Anyway. After navigating out past the chimps-became-man proselytization posters, we were as hungry as dinosaurs, so we had lunch at the T-Rex Cafe. Personally, I think my dinosaur burger was tough enough to have been millions of years old. Home was our final destination.

Now, I do enjoy museums most of the time, and this trip was mostly pretty fun. However, I have been entrusted with two beautiful children by God, and the things that are easy for a grown faith to handle raised the hackles on my neck when my children were there. They are jewels to protect.

Last night as I was putting William to bed, we said our prayers. Afterward, he looked up at me.

“Dad?” he said.

“Yes, William?”

“Do you ever feel like not eating, or sleeping, or playing, and just spending all the time praying?” he asked me with a very serious look in his nearly six-year-old eyes.

“That is a beautiful idea, Will,” I said. Really, I’ve never considered such an extreme devotion.

“That’s what I feel like now, Dad.”

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

Last year for Thanksgiving we traveled to New Mexico and spent the days visiting both of our families. The night of the feast, we were at Amy’s aunt’s. After an interesting dinner, William started throwing up. Red Jello. Everywhere. Amy’s uncle did a yeoman’s job cleaning up, and we got in the car to head back to Los Alamos from Albuquerque. It is a 100 mile trip, about 1 hour and 45 minutes.

Normally.

I’m sure you’ve wondered, as Amy did last year, why on earth places like K-Mart were open on Thanksgiving. We know, now. It is for parents traveling late at night in the car with a kid who has just totaled his clothing after throwing up again in the backseat. On the Interstate.

So, Amy and Carolyn go in to get clothes for him, paper towels, and also cleaning stuff, as the backseat and his carseat are not pretty. As he is just too covered in it to take in, Will and I, we stand outside in the cool air.

Okay, we get that all straightened out. The poor kid has the heaves the whole way home. Amy is driving, I’m leaning into the back, hold a bag out for him if he so much as breathes funny. After I catch the next one, hollow-eyed William looks at me.

“Hey, Dad, this is a working plan!” he says.

We all laugh, and laugh, and laugh. I love William.

The next morning, Carolyn woke at 5 am with heaves. I loaded the car, and we prepared for a fun-filled seven-hour drive back to Colorado. I drove this time, and Amy got to try the “working plan.” We made it home, but we were completely exhausted.

Well, that brings me to this year. Our Thanksgiving was much quieter than it has been for awhile — we spent the day together, just us four. No family came up. None of the friends we had invited came over. It was decidedly peaceful. I cooked the bird, and it came out fine. Amy has mastered the gravy. I said a prayer of thanks for our bishop allowing this day as a local feast day without fasting restrictions. For dessert, we went to a friend’s house and had a nice get-together with a couple of couples, and their kids. It was really fun.

This year, though, the big event was the day after Thanksgiving. We went to Liturgy to celebrate the Feast of St. Catherine the Great Martyr. Not only is she the patroness of our parish, but she is Carolyn’s name saint, and this is the first name day to come up for our recently chrismated family.

She started the day with the gift of a new watch. I’m pretty sure that as long as I’m around her, I’ll not need mine again, as she happily announces the time frequently — over 50 times last Thursday, I think! ( Amy tells me the today she only announced the time twice. ) After, we went to Liturgy, and it was wonderful to be there, still warm in our Thanksgiving glow, to celebrate the Great Thanksgiving in Eucharist. Afterward was a blessing of the loaves, wine, and oil, followed by coffee hour. Carolyn was told χρόνια πολλά (chronia polla) by our Priest and others, and he explained to her that it means “many years”. She just glowed with delight. We also had the gift of the protopsaltis from the cathedral come help with the chanting, and he is wonderful.

I hope you all had a blessed and wonderful day of thanksgiving as well!

“You are the salt of the earth; but if the salt loses its flavor, how shall it be seasoned? It is then good for nothing but to be thrown out and trampled underfoot by men.”
(Matthew 5:13, NKJV)

This was in my inbox this morning from a mailing list of Christians I’m on at my company. Recently, I’ve been thinking a great deal about the One Catholic and Apostolic Church, and about the multitude of other kinds of Christianity. (New readers, I believe the Orthodox Church is that One Church founded by Christ, and the only other possible viable claim is Roman Catholicism.) When I read this verse today, it seemed to me, for the first time, condemning of the many schismatic branches of those who claim to follow Christ. Does Schism imply lost saltiness? I believe, to a certain extent at least, the answer is yes.

I don’t have more time for thoughts on this at the moment, but perhaps I will have more thoughts on this topic in the future…