When my mother was married at thirty-two years of age, my paternal grandmother was fifty-two and my maternal grandma was seventy-two. Grandma Foley, Mom's mom, was always sweet. She was Irish, told stories, and spoke in a soft voice. She was precious. Grandma Barvick was Polish, energetic, organized my underwear drawer and spoke with a tone of authority. She was a good woman. They were as different as two people could be.
Grandma Foley and I always had a very special relationship. My Paternal Grandfather and I did as well. My sister once noticed that he never called me Sheila. I refuted that of course he did and she replied, "No. When he speaks of you, it is always... always, My Sheila."
And so it was. I was my Grandma Foley's girl and my Grandpa's Sheila. Grandma Barvick and I were never as close. I owe her a lot and I love her. But I would never call her sweet and I know she would never call me hers.
They are dead now, Grandma Foley and Grandpa. Grandma Barvick is still around at almost 95 years of age. I try to get the kids out to see her every month, but like confession, that is the plan, but it seems to be more like every six to eight weeks instead.
My younger brother is in town and we went out to see GG (Great Grandma) a few days ago. It has been six weeks since we have been there of course. I have made a habit of always asking her who I am. All but once she has said "Sheila." After I got glasses, she thought I was her neice, Renee.
She knew me this time. We took pictures and talked in the library at her nursing home. I got the kids involved in a game of Scrabble and pulled her wheel chair up to the table so she could watch. At one point, she was trying to say something and my sister in law was not sure what it was. I leaned down to hear her now soft voice ask if the kids were cold. I told her no and returned to help the players find words among their tiles for the game. I thoughtlessly reached down and grabbed her hand to hold while I was helping keep the game going.
The way she held my hand. The way she seemed to appreciate having hers held. It can only be described as sweet. Holding my hand, while I made up words like "dirtyell" or gave advice like, "just make 'an'"'was the sweetest encounter we had ever had. Not the most improtant, not the most profound, but the sweetest.
It is all different now. How do I describe her? What will I tell my children about their GG when she is gone?
She made me clean my room.
She let us watch TV.
She was bossy and opinionated and energetic and extremely efficient.
She was a hard worker and a good woman.
And...
When she grabbed my hand when I was young, I knew I was in trouble...
When I grabbed her hand when she was old, I knew she was sweet and I knew I was hers.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
The Word Love
I love the Gospel of John. I love the poetry. It begins: In the beginning was the Word and the Word was made flesh. The idea of Jesus as God’s words is so beautiful it makes me want to weep. I love words. Words are so distinctly human. Angels do not need words, animals can not use them.
Conversation is at the heart of relationship for humans. Communication, be it in personal relationships, the workplace or child rearing, is the buzz word for successful human interaction. We need to know how to communicate our feelings, wants, desires, and expectations to those around us. We do this primarily through words.
Jesus as the Word of God is the personification of God’s desire to communicate with His creation. And John goes on to try and sum up the Word. It seems impossible to believe that something as complex as the Divine could be boiled down to terms a human could understand. John boils it down to just one word: love. God is Love. Why do we not study the Gospel of John in writing 101?
The Word of God is Love. It is so simple, no adjectives or adverbs, just one word. But then, the word gets in the way. I have heard that the English language is unique in its incredible specificity. I heard a great writer once say that for every idea, there is really only one right English word. For example, we have a specific word for distinctions in water temperature: freezing, cold, temperate, warm, hot, boiling, scalding. But what of the word love?
We love our dog, chocolate, our spouse and children. We love God, books, curtains and shoes. This simply will not do. We need more words. Or do we? God is Love. It was the one right word for the Idea. But how do we grasp it as a mere human? I think, like water temperatures it is all degrees of the same thing. Love is our ability to put someone or something above ourselves. For things like chocolate and shoes this is temporary. For those humans in our life, the goal is to make it a more of a permanent state of being.
And isn’t this really what God was trying to communicate to us through His son? To be truly human, we must learn to put others first. Christ was the personification of self-denial. He was perfectly human in His ability to always put others first.
Why do you want so many children? I am asked. There are so many, many reasons I could give. But if I had to choose just one, I would say love, no adjectives or adverbs or clarifiers attached. With the addition of each child into my life, my heart expands. The capacity I have to love increases. I can feel it in a physical way. My heart aches with the effort to expand to be filled by all the love a child brings into my world with him.
Nature gives me what I need to put my offspring first. It is an instinct for which I can not really take much credit. But unlike the female lions, rabbits or robins, I can give it a word: Love.
To be a mother, is to Love. Period. End of Conversation.
Conversation is at the heart of relationship for humans. Communication, be it in personal relationships, the workplace or child rearing, is the buzz word for successful human interaction. We need to know how to communicate our feelings, wants, desires, and expectations to those around us. We do this primarily through words.
Jesus as the Word of God is the personification of God’s desire to communicate with His creation. And John goes on to try and sum up the Word. It seems impossible to believe that something as complex as the Divine could be boiled down to terms a human could understand. John boils it down to just one word: love. God is Love. Why do we not study the Gospel of John in writing 101?
The Word of God is Love. It is so simple, no adjectives or adverbs, just one word. But then, the word gets in the way. I have heard that the English language is unique in its incredible specificity. I heard a great writer once say that for every idea, there is really only one right English word. For example, we have a specific word for distinctions in water temperature: freezing, cold, temperate, warm, hot, boiling, scalding. But what of the word love?
We love our dog, chocolate, our spouse and children. We love God, books, curtains and shoes. This simply will not do. We need more words. Or do we? God is Love. It was the one right word for the Idea. But how do we grasp it as a mere human? I think, like water temperatures it is all degrees of the same thing. Love is our ability to put someone or something above ourselves. For things like chocolate and shoes this is temporary. For those humans in our life, the goal is to make it a more of a permanent state of being.
And isn’t this really what God was trying to communicate to us through His son? To be truly human, we must learn to put others first. Christ was the personification of self-denial. He was perfectly human in His ability to always put others first.
Why do you want so many children? I am asked. There are so many, many reasons I could give. But if I had to choose just one, I would say love, no adjectives or adverbs or clarifiers attached. With the addition of each child into my life, my heart expands. The capacity I have to love increases. I can feel it in a physical way. My heart aches with the effort to expand to be filled by all the love a child brings into my world with him.
Nature gives me what I need to put my offspring first. It is an instinct for which I can not really take much credit. But unlike the female lions, rabbits or robins, I can give it a word: Love.
To be a mother, is to Love. Period. End of Conversation.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
A History and The Nature of Choice
Growing up, my parents had one car for most of my life. My Dad rode the bus to work or walked if my mother needed the car. She was homebound on days he took the car. This was at the same time most high school students had their own cars. My father was a lawyer. He taught law school for a few years, worked for the State and then went into private practice. He and my mom were married with three children before they purchased their first house at nearly forty years of age.
We took three family vacations my whole life. Two of them were to Chicago. For the third, my dad left the choice up to us kids. He gave us a certain mile range to choose from. Needless to say, Hawaii, the Bahamas and Washington, DC did not fit the criteria. He ended up choosing, since we couldn’t make a decision based on his parameters. We went to Eureka Springs, Arkansas. I remember having a good time.
In high school, we all had summer or after school jobs. We were given lunch money and our school clothes and a few extra items were bought for us each year. Everything else we paid for. I remember being in awe of a friend who was handed money to take us both to the movies. It was tough to decide between entertainment and wardrobe. I have to admit, I loved sitting home in my cool clothes and going out in old ones.
Dad encouraged me to study harder. I didn’t really care about academics at the time, but he said, “You want to have options. If when you graduate from high school you only get into one school, you have no choice. You always want to have has many options as possible to choose from.”
When I finally did graduate, I got into more than one school. I got to make a choice. Dad helped: If I wished to go to a non-Catholic school, I paid for it myself. If I chose a Catholic School that fell into a certain range of tuition, he would pay for it. While I had been creating options for myself, he had been creating options for both of us. He put himself in a position to affect my decision and also to increase my educational opportunities. I learned later this was his plan all along. His main priority was to send us all to Catholic College. Any extra money we had, he chose to put away for this purpose. Having the finances allowed him to set parameters again. I chose the Catholic route. I have never regretted that decision.
Needless to say, we were not given a car in high school or college. I was not even allowed to buy my first car until I could afford both the payment and the insurance. I was finally in a financial position to make this choice after college graduation. Again, I took my dad’s advice: “A new car always becomes an old car. Eventually it is just a payment; get the cheapest one you can find.” I did: A green Toyota Tercel. I have to admit I loved everything about that car, even the fake leather seats that cracked in the Texas sun.
After less than a year at my first job out of college, I made another choice. I wanted to be a teacher. I moved home and enrolled in a local land grant college to get certified. I worked part time jobs until my semester of student teaching when I was forced to live off of my student loans. My parents offered me their home, but no financial help. My car payment and insurance and all other expenses were left to me. I even paid my own phone bills.
After certification, I had another choice. I was offered a job at the public middle school where I had done my student teaching. I was also offered a job at the local Catholic high school, my alma mater. The public school job paid more. I loved the junior high and my co-workers. But I had gone to Catholic schools my whole life. I felt the need to give back. I took the lower paying job.
I was married at age twenty-five the summer after my first year of teaching. (You can read about that choice in another post.) My husband had made some choices of his own. He had studied the Classics in undergraduate and went on to study Literature at the graduate level. A year into his studies, he decided teaching literature was probably not the best means to support the large family he hoped to have some day. He took the LSAT and was accepted into Vanderbilt Law School two weeks before I met him.
My husband had two years of law school left after we were married. I found a job at another Catholic High School in Nashville, and we lived on my very meager salary. We chose an apartment away from campus because it was cheaper. We only had the Tercel, so I drove him to school early and he stayed there until I was finished working.
When he graduated, we had another choice to make. The salary for lawyers on the coasts was much higher than in the mid-west. He went to undergraduate at Colgate in New York and had the potential for a much greater client base in New York, Boston or DC. I wanted to be close to my mother who had become a widow three months before my wedding. We chose the mid-west. We would make the same decision again if given the chance.
We moved into a wonderful apartment not too far from the Plaza. It was one of those old brick buildings with large white columns and balconies. It was charming and in a not so safe part of town, but we loved it. I continued to drive him to and from work daily.
We put off home ownership until two months before the birth of our first child. We had paid off my post-graduate school loans and saved much of my salary after we were both working. It was not the home of many of the lawyers with whom he worked. It was not even the house the banks said we could afford. It was the payment we decided we could afford. We still had his law school loans and were a one income family. I loved that house. I loved the neighbors and the neighborhood. I loved that it was in Missouri. So, we only had one bathroom and two and half closets. It was worth it.
We finally bought a second car when our second child turned one. Prior to that, I drove Chris to work or stayed at home on days I did not wish to get out with a baby on cold mornings. It was the first and last used car I bought. It was much cheaper than a new car, but I still find the security of a five year one hundred thousand mile warranty worth the extra monthly expense. It blew up on me one hot summer day on a trip to my grandparent’s house. We traded it in before it was even paid off.
We got the dreaded mini van just as number three arrived. I need to say at this point in our lives, we did not have cable, internet or even a TV made in the current decade. When number three was just one, we decided to adopt a child. All extra income went to this endeavor. It took a lot longer than we expected, almost two years from beginning to end. But it was worth it. I love that little girl, even when she cuts her own hair and says, “NO!”
I said I loved our first house, and I did. But with six people and one bathroom it got a bit complicated. When I found the boys going behind the girl, it was time to make another choice. We had hoped to wait until all the law school loans were paid off, but we reviewed finances to decide if it was possible to do it a year early. We decided to put the house on the market and see what happened.
The goal was to move into a bigger nicer house in our current area. Like the parameters my dad had set for the family vacation, we were shooting for Hawaii. We could find the same size house in perfect condition OR a bit bigger dump for a mere two hundred thousand more than our current house. To get bigger AND nicer put us at about two hundred over our budget. We had to adjust. We decided to go more urban. We found a beautiful house near the art museum and decided we would buy it if ours sold. For once in my life, I decided to do a little research. I found on a national registry that a vile child predator would be living three doors away. That obviously ruined it for that house and actually did it for more urban life in general. Then our own house sold.
We needed to move. Not to the suburbs, please not to the suburbs. “Find us a house!” My husband commanded. “There is nothing we can afford.” “Then change your criteria.” “I don’t want to.” “The market is dropping; we will never get this price for our house again. If you want to move anytime soon, it needs to be now. Find a house.”
So, I changed my criteria. I looked across the State Line. I looked in the suburbs. I found a house. We bought it. It was a wonderful house with plenty of bathrooms, but I had wanted to live in the City. I didn’t want to be in the suburbs. But you adjust. I was able to move, I actually had several options in the suburbs. It just was not exactly what I had hoped.
I have come to love our new location. My kids are happy and my life is much easier. It was a trade off. Suburban life has its perks as does urban life. You can’t have the best of both worlds unless you are a millionaire. And I am not. Even being a millionaire requires choices. Not every decision is based on finances, though many are.
As I read through this post, it seems to be the history of choices made by a pretty fortunate gal. And, in fact, it is. I think of the choice made by my fourth child’s biological parents. They chose to abandon her near a military facility in China where she would be found. What criteria did they have to change? What were their options? What were the consequences of not abandoning her? What were the consequences of leaving her near that gate? And what of our newest child who we have yet to meet? He will be from Ethiopia where many children are given up because family members can not provide for them. Will his parents have chosen to part with their child in order to insure he does not die of starvation? What kind of choice is that?
The nature of choice is that we have to work within the parameters. We would all choose the mansion in the perfect location, the Mercedes, the Harvard education were it not for parameters. Would anyone choose to abandon or give up a child without parameters? Would one know it all girl make the best choice for her college education?
Sometimes we set the parameters, sometimes others set them for us. Sometimes they are set by the forces of nature or a communist government. As my dad told me, the goal is always to have as many options as possible from which to choose. Whenever we can, we create our own options. When we can’t, we make the best choice we can.
And what exactly does this mean about the nature of choice? Somewhere across the ocean in Ethiopia and China, the parameters were set. Someone was forced to choose between two terrible options. And those choices are my children. What in the world can that possibly mean?
We took three family vacations my whole life. Two of them were to Chicago. For the third, my dad left the choice up to us kids. He gave us a certain mile range to choose from. Needless to say, Hawaii, the Bahamas and Washington, DC did not fit the criteria. He ended up choosing, since we couldn’t make a decision based on his parameters. We went to Eureka Springs, Arkansas. I remember having a good time.
In high school, we all had summer or after school jobs. We were given lunch money and our school clothes and a few extra items were bought for us each year. Everything else we paid for. I remember being in awe of a friend who was handed money to take us both to the movies. It was tough to decide between entertainment and wardrobe. I have to admit, I loved sitting home in my cool clothes and going out in old ones.
Dad encouraged me to study harder. I didn’t really care about academics at the time, but he said, “You want to have options. If when you graduate from high school you only get into one school, you have no choice. You always want to have has many options as possible to choose from.”
When I finally did graduate, I got into more than one school. I got to make a choice. Dad helped: If I wished to go to a non-Catholic school, I paid for it myself. If I chose a Catholic School that fell into a certain range of tuition, he would pay for it. While I had been creating options for myself, he had been creating options for both of us. He put himself in a position to affect my decision and also to increase my educational opportunities. I learned later this was his plan all along. His main priority was to send us all to Catholic College. Any extra money we had, he chose to put away for this purpose. Having the finances allowed him to set parameters again. I chose the Catholic route. I have never regretted that decision.
Needless to say, we were not given a car in high school or college. I was not even allowed to buy my first car until I could afford both the payment and the insurance. I was finally in a financial position to make this choice after college graduation. Again, I took my dad’s advice: “A new car always becomes an old car. Eventually it is just a payment; get the cheapest one you can find.” I did: A green Toyota Tercel. I have to admit I loved everything about that car, even the fake leather seats that cracked in the Texas sun.
After less than a year at my first job out of college, I made another choice. I wanted to be a teacher. I moved home and enrolled in a local land grant college to get certified. I worked part time jobs until my semester of student teaching when I was forced to live off of my student loans. My parents offered me their home, but no financial help. My car payment and insurance and all other expenses were left to me. I even paid my own phone bills.
After certification, I had another choice. I was offered a job at the public middle school where I had done my student teaching. I was also offered a job at the local Catholic high school, my alma mater. The public school job paid more. I loved the junior high and my co-workers. But I had gone to Catholic schools my whole life. I felt the need to give back. I took the lower paying job.
I was married at age twenty-five the summer after my first year of teaching. (You can read about that choice in another post.) My husband had made some choices of his own. He had studied the Classics in undergraduate and went on to study Literature at the graduate level. A year into his studies, he decided teaching literature was probably not the best means to support the large family he hoped to have some day. He took the LSAT and was accepted into Vanderbilt Law School two weeks before I met him.
My husband had two years of law school left after we were married. I found a job at another Catholic High School in Nashville, and we lived on my very meager salary. We chose an apartment away from campus because it was cheaper. We only had the Tercel, so I drove him to school early and he stayed there until I was finished working.
When he graduated, we had another choice to make. The salary for lawyers on the coasts was much higher than in the mid-west. He went to undergraduate at Colgate in New York and had the potential for a much greater client base in New York, Boston or DC. I wanted to be close to my mother who had become a widow three months before my wedding. We chose the mid-west. We would make the same decision again if given the chance.
We moved into a wonderful apartment not too far from the Plaza. It was one of those old brick buildings with large white columns and balconies. It was charming and in a not so safe part of town, but we loved it. I continued to drive him to and from work daily.
We put off home ownership until two months before the birth of our first child. We had paid off my post-graduate school loans and saved much of my salary after we were both working. It was not the home of many of the lawyers with whom he worked. It was not even the house the banks said we could afford. It was the payment we decided we could afford. We still had his law school loans and were a one income family. I loved that house. I loved the neighbors and the neighborhood. I loved that it was in Missouri. So, we only had one bathroom and two and half closets. It was worth it.
We finally bought a second car when our second child turned one. Prior to that, I drove Chris to work or stayed at home on days I did not wish to get out with a baby on cold mornings. It was the first and last used car I bought. It was much cheaper than a new car, but I still find the security of a five year one hundred thousand mile warranty worth the extra monthly expense. It blew up on me one hot summer day on a trip to my grandparent’s house. We traded it in before it was even paid off.
We got the dreaded mini van just as number three arrived. I need to say at this point in our lives, we did not have cable, internet or even a TV made in the current decade. When number three was just one, we decided to adopt a child. All extra income went to this endeavor. It took a lot longer than we expected, almost two years from beginning to end. But it was worth it. I love that little girl, even when she cuts her own hair and says, “NO!”
I said I loved our first house, and I did. But with six people and one bathroom it got a bit complicated. When I found the boys going behind the girl, it was time to make another choice. We had hoped to wait until all the law school loans were paid off, but we reviewed finances to decide if it was possible to do it a year early. We decided to put the house on the market and see what happened.
The goal was to move into a bigger nicer house in our current area. Like the parameters my dad had set for the family vacation, we were shooting for Hawaii. We could find the same size house in perfect condition OR a bit bigger dump for a mere two hundred thousand more than our current house. To get bigger AND nicer put us at about two hundred over our budget. We had to adjust. We decided to go more urban. We found a beautiful house near the art museum and decided we would buy it if ours sold. For once in my life, I decided to do a little research. I found on a national registry that a vile child predator would be living three doors away. That obviously ruined it for that house and actually did it for more urban life in general. Then our own house sold.
We needed to move. Not to the suburbs, please not to the suburbs. “Find us a house!” My husband commanded. “There is nothing we can afford.” “Then change your criteria.” “I don’t want to.” “The market is dropping; we will never get this price for our house again. If you want to move anytime soon, it needs to be now. Find a house.”
So, I changed my criteria. I looked across the State Line. I looked in the suburbs. I found a house. We bought it. It was a wonderful house with plenty of bathrooms, but I had wanted to live in the City. I didn’t want to be in the suburbs. But you adjust. I was able to move, I actually had several options in the suburbs. It just was not exactly what I had hoped.
I have come to love our new location. My kids are happy and my life is much easier. It was a trade off. Suburban life has its perks as does urban life. You can’t have the best of both worlds unless you are a millionaire. And I am not. Even being a millionaire requires choices. Not every decision is based on finances, though many are.
As I read through this post, it seems to be the history of choices made by a pretty fortunate gal. And, in fact, it is. I think of the choice made by my fourth child’s biological parents. They chose to abandon her near a military facility in China where she would be found. What criteria did they have to change? What were their options? What were the consequences of not abandoning her? What were the consequences of leaving her near that gate? And what of our newest child who we have yet to meet? He will be from Ethiopia where many children are given up because family members can not provide for them. Will his parents have chosen to part with their child in order to insure he does not die of starvation? What kind of choice is that?
The nature of choice is that we have to work within the parameters. We would all choose the mansion in the perfect location, the Mercedes, the Harvard education were it not for parameters. Would anyone choose to abandon or give up a child without parameters? Would one know it all girl make the best choice for her college education?
Sometimes we set the parameters, sometimes others set them for us. Sometimes they are set by the forces of nature or a communist government. As my dad told me, the goal is always to have as many options as possible from which to choose. Whenever we can, we create our own options. When we can’t, we make the best choice we can.
And what exactly does this mean about the nature of choice? Somewhere across the ocean in Ethiopia and China, the parameters were set. Someone was forced to choose between two terrible options. And those choices are my children. What in the world can that possibly mean?
Pink Ribbons and The Comprehensive Health Care Bill
The Comprehensive Health Care Bill is scary for a number of reasons. Currently, I am most afraid of the end of life issues it contains. Those of us who are young and in the midst of raising our own children spend little time thinking about end of life issues. The current bill contains language that will set up a system that requires the elderly to receive counseling every five years about end of life care. The hope is to expand the Hospice Care which provides care for those who are dying. The government hopes to save on costs of people nearing the end of life. Government is always a bureaucracy and will define end of life simply by a random age based on statistical information. If you are above this age, you will not be given treatment as an option; only hospice.
When I was a freshman in high school, a fellow student did a speech on Breast Cancer. Her mother had breast cancer, and she was resigned to the fact that she would have it as well. Her speech talked about preventative treatment and being aware of your risks. I thought this was at best, odd. What fourteen year old thinks about breast cancer at some far off point in the future? Since then, I have found that Breast Cancer Survivors are a unique club. I have seen pink ribbon tattoos on the ankles of fifty year olds, pink ribbons on bumper stickers, pink ribbons the size of a house hanging from office buildings. I have read stories of these survivors and have seen how they continue to support awareness and treatment funding long after they have been cured. Once in the club, you are always a member. If your mother joins, you join in spirit.
My mother was recently diagnosed with breast cancer. We believe we have gotten all the cancer, but she will begin preventative chemo-therapy tomorrow. She is seventy-four years old and in better shape than I am. It is unclear if she would be allowed treatment under the rules of the new bill. Her treatment will continue into her seventy-fifth year of life.
As my fourteen year old friend knew, breast cancer is nearly always hereditary. If your mother or grandmother had it, your chances are greatly increased. Will you get it at thirty, or forty, or seventy-four? If you do get it, do you want the government to determine whether or not you receive treatment? It is one of those diseases, that if a loved one has suffered from it, we are forced to think about our own future. There are other diseases of this nature as well.
I am all for dialogue about end of life care. I do think we need to look at pain management and creating an atmosphere of love and attention over the option of Euthanasia. I hope the elderly and sick will have many options for care rather than thinking they have a responsibility to kill themselves when they are no longer considered productive. I do not think rejecting treatment for yourself is wrong. I think all treatment should be a risk/benefit analysis. But it is one of the most personal decisions a person can make. Quality of life is one of the most subjective things in existence. Some of us are wired to want to live at any cost under any circumstances. Others see death as a welcomed friend. I have seen rewiring based on circumstance and pain but never on a magic birthday.
So, if you are in the Breast Cancer Club or your mother was or your daughter may be, think twice. If you are a survivor of any age, do you want other women to be denied whatever treatment they wish to undergo? What age guarantees a woman should surrender the battle and let the cancer win? For every woman who loses the battle, those in the club mourn. For every success story, the club celebrates the victory. We respect personal choice with regard to treatment, but for the government to deny treatment to one of us should enrage all of us.
If the Comprehensive Health Care Bill should become law, be prepared to mourn more of our fallen sisters and to be enraged.
When I was a freshman in high school, a fellow student did a speech on Breast Cancer. Her mother had breast cancer, and she was resigned to the fact that she would have it as well. Her speech talked about preventative treatment and being aware of your risks. I thought this was at best, odd. What fourteen year old thinks about breast cancer at some far off point in the future? Since then, I have found that Breast Cancer Survivors are a unique club. I have seen pink ribbon tattoos on the ankles of fifty year olds, pink ribbons on bumper stickers, pink ribbons the size of a house hanging from office buildings. I have read stories of these survivors and have seen how they continue to support awareness and treatment funding long after they have been cured. Once in the club, you are always a member. If your mother joins, you join in spirit.
My mother was recently diagnosed with breast cancer. We believe we have gotten all the cancer, but she will begin preventative chemo-therapy tomorrow. She is seventy-four years old and in better shape than I am. It is unclear if she would be allowed treatment under the rules of the new bill. Her treatment will continue into her seventy-fifth year of life.
As my fourteen year old friend knew, breast cancer is nearly always hereditary. If your mother or grandmother had it, your chances are greatly increased. Will you get it at thirty, or forty, or seventy-four? If you do get it, do you want the government to determine whether or not you receive treatment? It is one of those diseases, that if a loved one has suffered from it, we are forced to think about our own future. There are other diseases of this nature as well.
I am all for dialogue about end of life care. I do think we need to look at pain management and creating an atmosphere of love and attention over the option of Euthanasia. I hope the elderly and sick will have many options for care rather than thinking they have a responsibility to kill themselves when they are no longer considered productive. I do not think rejecting treatment for yourself is wrong. I think all treatment should be a risk/benefit analysis. But it is one of the most personal decisions a person can make. Quality of life is one of the most subjective things in existence. Some of us are wired to want to live at any cost under any circumstances. Others see death as a welcomed friend. I have seen rewiring based on circumstance and pain but never on a magic birthday.
So, if you are in the Breast Cancer Club or your mother was or your daughter may be, think twice. If you are a survivor of any age, do you want other women to be denied whatever treatment they wish to undergo? What age guarantees a woman should surrender the battle and let the cancer win? For every woman who loses the battle, those in the club mourn. For every success story, the club celebrates the victory. We respect personal choice with regard to treatment, but for the government to deny treatment to one of us should enrage all of us.
If the Comprehensive Health Care Bill should become law, be prepared to mourn more of our fallen sisters and to be enraged.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
When in Rome
I save too much stuff. I feel very sorry for my children and grandchildren who have to clean up this mess when I die. I found in one of my boxes, a speech I had co-written and given in the last days of my semester abroud. It is published here for the benefit of those who were there with me.
Fall 1989 Romers Farewell Speech:
As we begin to think back on our semester and see it coming to an end, many events come to mind as humorous and nostalgic reminders of our Rome experience.
It began with the realization that we were in for a semester with only half a bath tub, or as it is now called, a cro-mag. Yet, even with the constant shortage of hot water, things got increasingly better.
Our trip to Florence brought a once in a life time chance to dance on John Travolta's dance floor, and in Assisi, we rallied with the Facist in Rocca Maggori. We were becoming increasingly accustomed to Italian things like Perroni, Cappuchini, and dodging Komakasi Pigeons.
In what seemed like days since we had arrived, we were off to Greece. If you weren't in a state of awe from the sunset seen from the deck of the ship, you surely would be at the fact that we survived the Greek bus rides.
Our ten days were decorated with unforgettable memories. Our secret fire under the Olympian stars, that certain closeness we all felt as we huddled around to hear the "top 10" from our favorite quotable professor. We were lucky enough to witness Professor Novinski's excellent lectures and blessed enough to witness the stigmata acquired from Aigina mopeds. And no one will forget that illusive student who disappeared and reappeared in the most unseemly places. Not to mention the poor Aigian who is still looking for his dog.
We were dad to say good-bey to Gyros, Baklava, and Amstel, but glad to return to Home Sweet Rome and Vitinia. For here held some of our greatest memories: lounging in the lounge, listening to the stereo that we had worked so hard to purchase; being led in various choruses of Happy Birthday at dinner; keeping each other informed by way of class attendance sheets as well as being careful not to forget fellow student John Hrad on any of them. Together we battled the Italian crowds at the Papal Audience and together sat quietly at our own Private Papal Mass.
Our individual travel could hardly be considered individual. Each Monday brought stories of event filled weekends. We collectively shared the excitement of the historic fall of the Berlin Wall and collectively hoped that those who looted our belongings in the night would enjoy them as much as we had.
As I reflected on our semester one word kept coming to mind: growth. We have all grown: academically, spiritually, practically and most obviously in regard to one another. I've seen the strengthening of many old friendships and the growth of many new ones. We've made it through our Rome Experience without any major tragedies and with a whole lot of fun.
Today, I wanted to say something stimulating to expand on that word growth, since we HAVE grown both individually and collectively. So, I went to Webster's dictionary for some help. The first definition was: an increase in size. I didn't feel like elaborating on that aspect of MY semester, so I looked at the second definition which read: an abnormal mass of tissue. I took that as a sign to leave the reflection to you and end by saying simply, we have all grown an it in not due just to Gelatti.
Fall 1989 Romers Farewell Speech:
As we begin to think back on our semester and see it coming to an end, many events come to mind as humorous and nostalgic reminders of our Rome experience.
It began with the realization that we were in for a semester with only half a bath tub, or as it is now called, a cro-mag. Yet, even with the constant shortage of hot water, things got increasingly better.
Our trip to Florence brought a once in a life time chance to dance on John Travolta's dance floor, and in Assisi, we rallied with the Facist in Rocca Maggori. We were becoming increasingly accustomed to Italian things like Perroni, Cappuchini, and dodging Komakasi Pigeons.
In what seemed like days since we had arrived, we were off to Greece. If you weren't in a state of awe from the sunset seen from the deck of the ship, you surely would be at the fact that we survived the Greek bus rides.
Our ten days were decorated with unforgettable memories. Our secret fire under the Olympian stars, that certain closeness we all felt as we huddled around to hear the "top 10" from our favorite quotable professor. We were lucky enough to witness Professor Novinski's excellent lectures and blessed enough to witness the stigmata acquired from Aigina mopeds. And no one will forget that illusive student who disappeared and reappeared in the most unseemly places. Not to mention the poor Aigian who is still looking for his dog.
We were dad to say good-bey to Gyros, Baklava, and Amstel, but glad to return to Home Sweet Rome and Vitinia. For here held some of our greatest memories: lounging in the lounge, listening to the stereo that we had worked so hard to purchase; being led in various choruses of Happy Birthday at dinner; keeping each other informed by way of class attendance sheets as well as being careful not to forget fellow student John Hrad on any of them. Together we battled the Italian crowds at the Papal Audience and together sat quietly at our own Private Papal Mass.
Our individual travel could hardly be considered individual. Each Monday brought stories of event filled weekends. We collectively shared the excitement of the historic fall of the Berlin Wall and collectively hoped that those who looted our belongings in the night would enjoy them as much as we had.
As I reflected on our semester one word kept coming to mind: growth. We have all grown: academically, spiritually, practically and most obviously in regard to one another. I've seen the strengthening of many old friendships and the growth of many new ones. We've made it through our Rome Experience without any major tragedies and with a whole lot of fun.
Today, I wanted to say something stimulating to expand on that word growth, since we HAVE grown both individually and collectively. So, I went to Webster's dictionary for some help. The first definition was: an increase in size. I didn't feel like elaborating on that aspect of MY semester, so I looked at the second definition which read: an abnormal mass of tissue. I took that as a sign to leave the reflection to you and end by saying simply, we have all grown an it in not due just to Gelatti.
How I Met Your Father: How it took knowing the Blues to know you
I sat in the college Eucharistic chapel. It was ugly, really. Jesus on the cross that hung on the wall didn’t have a face. The tabernacle looked like the house built for Eeyeore by Pooh and Piglet out of sticks. But I loved it here. It reminded me a lot of the ugly church that had been my home parish growing up. It was quiet and peaceful, and I was usually alone. I found it easier to talk to God here. We were having the same conversation again. I was telling him if He really wanted me to be a nun, I would do it. But I didn’t mean it and He wasn’t answering.
I had a boyfriend at the time. He was charming: a big Louisiana chap from a family of thirteen who liked hunting and fishing. His goal in life was to have a tractor that he probably wouldn’t know how to use with his Political Philosophy Degree. He made me laugh and I loved to argue with him. I could see myself marrying him though I didn’t have that “You Just Know” feeling that everyone always talked about. I tried my half hearted offer again when it came to me. The realization: I knew that I would never be happy if I was not doing what God wanted me to be doing. I did not want to be a nun, but if that is what He had planned for me, it is what would bring happiness and fulfillment. And so I said it again, and I meant it: “If you want me to be a nun, I will do it!” And He answered. Not with lightening or thunder, He spoke to my soul. His wordless answer was: “I do NOT want you to be a nun. I want you to be a wife and mother. I just wanted you to give it up to Me.” We never had to have the conversation again. I was at peace. I knew my vocation and that was enough. In time, I would know to whom I would be married.
A few years later I was living at home. I met an acquaintance from High School and we became friends. Being friends was enough for me, but not for him. He wanted to go out with me. I had nothing better to do, so I agreed. Then he wanted to date seriously. I didn’t really have any other prospects, so I agreed. Before I knew it, we were engaged to be married. I had grown very fond of him but there was always a feeling that something was not right. I call it the claw on my heart: a gripping feeling at the center of my chest. If my heart were my head, the claw covered my ears. It would not allow me to hear.
I was teaching Theology at the time, and in many ways my relationship with God was at its height. I spent many hours in Eucharistic adoration. The chapel was right across the hall from my classroom. I also had to pass the cathedral on my way home. I often stopped and popped in to see Jesus. But our relationship was suffering. He was trying to talk to me, but the claw blocked Him out. I was telling Him who I would marry and that was that.
My sister was engaged too. Her wedding was planned for July, mine for December. I decided I really wouldn’t put much thought into my own wedding until after hers. Then the summer came and her wedding was only a few weeks away. The realization put a chink in my armor and God’s will, that old Realization seeped through. I went to Mary. I begged her for help. He was a wonderful man. I could not tell you one thing that was wrong with him. I just knew he was not the one God had planned for me. I did not want to hurt him, I really didn’t. I made a deal with Mary. I told her that I would wait until I was eighty years old for her to show me the man I was going to marry if she would help me out of this spot
While he was driving over to my house, I think I must have said a million Hail Mary’s. Though I sat on the porch in a folding chair, in my heart I was clinging to the hem of my Mother’s skirt. I was holding it so tightly my knuckles hurt. “I will wait, I will wait, If you help me do this, I will wait forever.”
She gave me the courage to break it off. I had boyfriends who had broken up with me. It was a terrible feeling to be rejected. But rejecting someone else was far worse to me. It would have been easier if there was a reason I could give, but I had no reason, no rational one any way. His reaction was the worst thing I could have asked for. If he had gotten angry, that would have been better. He was so kind. “Let’s just wait awhile. You keep the ring for now. There is no rush. You take some time.” “Please, Mother, tell me what to say. Please, Mother, Please if I don’t go through with this now, I may never have the courage again.” And then the words came:
“Do you know how you think I hung the moon?” I asked. He nodded. “Well, you deserve someone who thinks you did too. I don’t. I really wish I did and there is no reason I should not. But I don’t. In the end, we would not be happy. You deserve to be happy and I would make you miserable.”
He left. I was not sad. I felt such a sense of relief. I had no regrets, the claw was gone. I thanked Mary over and over. When I said I would wait until I was eighty, I meant it. I would never ever again try and tell her who I was going to marry. I would let her tell me.
We all went to Dallas for my sister’s wedding. I assured her that my broken engagement would not be a damper on her celebration in any way. It was her day and I was so excited to be a part of it. I told her I was so happy for her. Those words were truer than she could ever know.
I first saw him at the rehearsal dinner. He was so arrogant. The way he walked, the way he talked, the way he held a cigarette. Who did he think he was anyway? We ended up on the porch of the hotel where everyone was staying. It began as a large group that got smaller and smaller. In the end it was he, his sixteen year old brother, and I. We talked all night. We talked of books and plays. We talked of Latin and Shakespeare. We laughed at his brother. I could tell the younger adored the older. He was trying so hard to please.
“What is your favorite book?” I asked.
“Mr. Blue.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“It is out of print. I actually asked my dad to bring our copy from home to the wedding, so I could reread it. I will lend it to you if you want.”
“I would like that.”
We were both in the wedding party. The reception was a wonderful celebration. My “date”, my college roommate, and I went swimming with him and the other groomsmen in the hotel pool after hours. It was another late night, but I wasn’t the least bit tired.
I wasn’t quite sure what to feel. I did not want to make the same mistake twice. I was pretty sure he was not as wonderful as I believed. I was making him into what I thought was perfection. He would end up proving me wrong, and that would be fine. I expected it. “It is okay Mary, I will not fall into the same trap twice. If this is nothing, I will wait.”
My sister and her new husband had left for their honeymoon. The rest of the family had flown home. Mom and I were staying two more days before making the long drive home; the car now emptied of the mounds of ivy we had driven eight hundred miles to make the center pieces. She was staying at her friends, I at my sister’s apartment.
I tried to think of a reason to call him. I was in charge of returning my dad and brothers’ tuxedoes. That sounded like a legitimate reason. I left a message asking him if he would mind returning them for me along with his own. I wandered around the apartment doing nothing. I saw the light on my sister’s answering machine blinking. They would be gone for a week. No point in leaving the answering machine full before I left. I pushed play and prepared to write down the message for her.
“Hey, Sheila it is Chris. We are watching a movie over here tonight if you would like to join us.” He had called me first. I went over to watch the movie. It was just the two of us. After the movie we went and sat in his apartment’s hot tub and talked until two or three the next morning. My mind kept saying, “He is not really perfect. I am on the rebound. I am making him into what I want him to be.” The next day I spent reading Mr. Blue. The more I read the more excited I became. I called my roommate.
“I think he is real. I think he really is the man for me. If this is his favorite book, then he really is who I think he is.” To which she responded, “I think your hormonal.”
We spent the next evening together. I don’t remember how the conversation went, but on the drive home from Dallas it was clear to me. He believed I was the girl he was going to marry. I had that “You just know” feeling. He was the one.
“Thank you Mother, Thank you Mother…” I was not clinging to her skirt but hugging her in a tight embrace. I had told her I would wait until I was eighty for her to bring him to me. The Good Lady made me wait two weeks. TWO WEEKS! Six months later we were engaged. Eleven months after I had met him, I married my sister’s husband’s brother.
It was in May and my invitation read ‘In the Month of Our Blessed Virgin Mary.’ I was married at Our Lady of the Snows Catholic Church in Mary’s Home, MO. Every known Marian Hymn was a part of our Sacramental Celebration. The tradition at that time was to have a little bunch of flowers for the bride to give to the Virgin. I did not have a separate little bouquet made to leave at the foot of her statue. I gave her mine with my husband at my side.
That was thirteen years ago. I had put my happiness into the hands of Mary. I had given her complete control to work out God’s plan in my life. She did not fail me. She has never failed me.
I am still as madly in love with her choice as I was the day I finished Mr. Blue for the first time. We often joke that it was Blue that brought us together. And until this very second, as I am writing this account, it never occurred to me that the title of our favorite book is also her color. She continues to amaze me.
So in the end, my children, this is how I met your father. It was all because of a book and the Mother of the Author of Life: Mr. Blue and the Lady in Blue. May your lives forever be filled with such Blues.
I had a boyfriend at the time. He was charming: a big Louisiana chap from a family of thirteen who liked hunting and fishing. His goal in life was to have a tractor that he probably wouldn’t know how to use with his Political Philosophy Degree. He made me laugh and I loved to argue with him. I could see myself marrying him though I didn’t have that “You Just Know” feeling that everyone always talked about. I tried my half hearted offer again when it came to me. The realization: I knew that I would never be happy if I was not doing what God wanted me to be doing. I did not want to be a nun, but if that is what He had planned for me, it is what would bring happiness and fulfillment. And so I said it again, and I meant it: “If you want me to be a nun, I will do it!” And He answered. Not with lightening or thunder, He spoke to my soul. His wordless answer was: “I do NOT want you to be a nun. I want you to be a wife and mother. I just wanted you to give it up to Me.” We never had to have the conversation again. I was at peace. I knew my vocation and that was enough. In time, I would know to whom I would be married.
A few years later I was living at home. I met an acquaintance from High School and we became friends. Being friends was enough for me, but not for him. He wanted to go out with me. I had nothing better to do, so I agreed. Then he wanted to date seriously. I didn’t really have any other prospects, so I agreed. Before I knew it, we were engaged to be married. I had grown very fond of him but there was always a feeling that something was not right. I call it the claw on my heart: a gripping feeling at the center of my chest. If my heart were my head, the claw covered my ears. It would not allow me to hear.
I was teaching Theology at the time, and in many ways my relationship with God was at its height. I spent many hours in Eucharistic adoration. The chapel was right across the hall from my classroom. I also had to pass the cathedral on my way home. I often stopped and popped in to see Jesus. But our relationship was suffering. He was trying to talk to me, but the claw blocked Him out. I was telling Him who I would marry and that was that.
My sister was engaged too. Her wedding was planned for July, mine for December. I decided I really wouldn’t put much thought into my own wedding until after hers. Then the summer came and her wedding was only a few weeks away. The realization put a chink in my armor and God’s will, that old Realization seeped through. I went to Mary. I begged her for help. He was a wonderful man. I could not tell you one thing that was wrong with him. I just knew he was not the one God had planned for me. I did not want to hurt him, I really didn’t. I made a deal with Mary. I told her that I would wait until I was eighty years old for her to show me the man I was going to marry if she would help me out of this spot
While he was driving over to my house, I think I must have said a million Hail Mary’s. Though I sat on the porch in a folding chair, in my heart I was clinging to the hem of my Mother’s skirt. I was holding it so tightly my knuckles hurt. “I will wait, I will wait, If you help me do this, I will wait forever.”
She gave me the courage to break it off. I had boyfriends who had broken up with me. It was a terrible feeling to be rejected. But rejecting someone else was far worse to me. It would have been easier if there was a reason I could give, but I had no reason, no rational one any way. His reaction was the worst thing I could have asked for. If he had gotten angry, that would have been better. He was so kind. “Let’s just wait awhile. You keep the ring for now. There is no rush. You take some time.” “Please, Mother, tell me what to say. Please, Mother, Please if I don’t go through with this now, I may never have the courage again.” And then the words came:
“Do you know how you think I hung the moon?” I asked. He nodded. “Well, you deserve someone who thinks you did too. I don’t. I really wish I did and there is no reason I should not. But I don’t. In the end, we would not be happy. You deserve to be happy and I would make you miserable.”
He left. I was not sad. I felt such a sense of relief. I had no regrets, the claw was gone. I thanked Mary over and over. When I said I would wait until I was eighty, I meant it. I would never ever again try and tell her who I was going to marry. I would let her tell me.
We all went to Dallas for my sister’s wedding. I assured her that my broken engagement would not be a damper on her celebration in any way. It was her day and I was so excited to be a part of it. I told her I was so happy for her. Those words were truer than she could ever know.
I first saw him at the rehearsal dinner. He was so arrogant. The way he walked, the way he talked, the way he held a cigarette. Who did he think he was anyway? We ended up on the porch of the hotel where everyone was staying. It began as a large group that got smaller and smaller. In the end it was he, his sixteen year old brother, and I. We talked all night. We talked of books and plays. We talked of Latin and Shakespeare. We laughed at his brother. I could tell the younger adored the older. He was trying so hard to please.
“What is your favorite book?” I asked.
“Mr. Blue.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“It is out of print. I actually asked my dad to bring our copy from home to the wedding, so I could reread it. I will lend it to you if you want.”
“I would like that.”
We were both in the wedding party. The reception was a wonderful celebration. My “date”, my college roommate, and I went swimming with him and the other groomsmen in the hotel pool after hours. It was another late night, but I wasn’t the least bit tired.
I wasn’t quite sure what to feel. I did not want to make the same mistake twice. I was pretty sure he was not as wonderful as I believed. I was making him into what I thought was perfection. He would end up proving me wrong, and that would be fine. I expected it. “It is okay Mary, I will not fall into the same trap twice. If this is nothing, I will wait.”
My sister and her new husband had left for their honeymoon. The rest of the family had flown home. Mom and I were staying two more days before making the long drive home; the car now emptied of the mounds of ivy we had driven eight hundred miles to make the center pieces. She was staying at her friends, I at my sister’s apartment.
I tried to think of a reason to call him. I was in charge of returning my dad and brothers’ tuxedoes. That sounded like a legitimate reason. I left a message asking him if he would mind returning them for me along with his own. I wandered around the apartment doing nothing. I saw the light on my sister’s answering machine blinking. They would be gone for a week. No point in leaving the answering machine full before I left. I pushed play and prepared to write down the message for her.
“Hey, Sheila it is Chris. We are watching a movie over here tonight if you would like to join us.” He had called me first. I went over to watch the movie. It was just the two of us. After the movie we went and sat in his apartment’s hot tub and talked until two or three the next morning. My mind kept saying, “He is not really perfect. I am on the rebound. I am making him into what I want him to be.” The next day I spent reading Mr. Blue. The more I read the more excited I became. I called my roommate.
“I think he is real. I think he really is the man for me. If this is his favorite book, then he really is who I think he is.” To which she responded, “I think your hormonal.”
We spent the next evening together. I don’t remember how the conversation went, but on the drive home from Dallas it was clear to me. He believed I was the girl he was going to marry. I had that “You just know” feeling. He was the one.
“Thank you Mother, Thank you Mother…” I was not clinging to her skirt but hugging her in a tight embrace. I had told her I would wait until I was eighty for her to bring him to me. The Good Lady made me wait two weeks. TWO WEEKS! Six months later we were engaged. Eleven months after I had met him, I married my sister’s husband’s brother.
It was in May and my invitation read ‘In the Month of Our Blessed Virgin Mary.’ I was married at Our Lady of the Snows Catholic Church in Mary’s Home, MO. Every known Marian Hymn was a part of our Sacramental Celebration. The tradition at that time was to have a little bunch of flowers for the bride to give to the Virgin. I did not have a separate little bouquet made to leave at the foot of her statue. I gave her mine with my husband at my side.
That was thirteen years ago. I had put my happiness into the hands of Mary. I had given her complete control to work out God’s plan in my life. She did not fail me. She has never failed me.
I am still as madly in love with her choice as I was the day I finished Mr. Blue for the first time. We often joke that it was Blue that brought us together. And until this very second, as I am writing this account, it never occurred to me that the title of our favorite book is also her color. She continues to amaze me.
So in the end, my children, this is how I met your father. It was all because of a book and the Mother of the Author of Life: Mr. Blue and the Lady in Blue. May your lives forever be filled with such Blues.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
The Shack: A Book Review from a Catholic Perspective
I heard of The Shack from my mother. All her friends were raving about it and insisted she read it. All she knew was that it was a book about God, and God the Father was portrayed as a woman; that and the fact that many of these same friends had raved about the Divinci Code. She had no desire to read it and asked if I would read it first to tell her if she should waste her time.
Let me begin by saying that reading it is definitely not a waste of time. William Young does an incredible job of explaining some difficult theological points in a brilliant, colorful and poignant way. The gift of the book is the understanding of the Trinity it leaves with the reader.
Three years after an horrible tragedy, the main character, Mack, receives a note from God asking him to come to the Shack. The shack played a part in the tragedy that has given Mack his Greatest Sadness. Not really sure if it is a cruel joke, an insidious plot, or actually God, Mack secretly returns to the Shack to see for himself.
Mack then goes on to spend a weekend at the Shack with the Trinity. Through his interactions with the Three Persons he comes to understand the great mystery of three in one. Like most Christians, Mack finds Jesus much easier to know. Though both the Father and the Spirit have corporeal identities at the Shack, the humanity of Christ shines through in the actions and words of Jesus. Through Mack’s interactions and reflections, we see our own relationship with Christ and become more aware of how His humanity makes Him so much more accessible to us. For myself, and I assume many Christians, the Holy Spirit is the most difficult of the Three Persons to understand. Young helps us to see how the Holy Spirit works in our lives primarily through the image of a garden. It is a beautiful image that allows the author to discuss the Fall and our own souls. God the Father is portrayed as the Papa God, not the God of Justice and Wrath. Young’s explanation for why He is showing Himself to Mack as a large African American woman is brilliant.
Some of the most poignant scenes in the book are the interactions of the Three Persons together in Mack’s presence. Through a shared dinner, we are given insight into the nature of the Trinity as a perfect, complete and wonderful unity. The individuality of the Persons is maintained, but His oneness is undeniable. As three and one God interacts with Mack to show the importance of divine relationship in the lives of His most precious creation. We come to see what I believe is the most important theological fact about the Trinity: God is Love and Love is relationship focused on other.
Young also captures brilliantly the Trinity’s relationship with man as his creator. He explains the nature of divine love for man and the consequences that must come with the gift. Completely omniscient and omnipotent, God chooses to limit Himself with regard to His creation in order to allow man the fullness of the gift of love. Forcing man to act according to his intended purpose is by all means within God’s power, but to do so would not be an act of Love. Young also explains how God uses our mistakes and misuse of the gift to bring about our good. He does not send nor give suffering, that is the consequence of our own desire for independence, but he takes the mess we make and continually uses it for the benefit of the creatures He so dearly loves. Though a beautiful and theologically correct explanation of God’s power and the root of suffering, Young makes a leap that undoubtedly could be the hope of all mankind, but is disputed by the teachings of the church. For Young, there is no hell. God continually takes our mistakes and moves us toward the good. Creation is a mess, but will eventually be made right by God one person, one mistake at a time simultaneously across each of His creatures of whom “He is especially fond of.” While helping in his explanation of God as love, Young denies the possibility of hell. Therefore, we can not find in The Shack, how a God that refuses to force Himself on His creation, leaving us free to choose love, can not allow for at least some of us to Not Choose Him. The nature of Choice must have two options. Young makes a wonderful effort at explaining how that does not have to be, but it falls short of being a philosophically correct conclusion.
The other gem in The Shack is the Trinity’s purpose in creating and redeeming man. Through very human and easily comprehended scenarios, Young shows how man is called to be in relationship with the Trinity. We see how the Commandments, the Cross, suffering itself is used by God to bring us to Him. We are called to give up our Independence and allow God to live in us. Young shows how Independence and freedom are not the same thing, but actually that Independence is the result of a misuse of freedom. We come to see how we can be filled with God, yet not shackled by our choice but allowed to fly because of it. Mack’s own unique struggles and his journey to forgiveness and peace provide us with a beautiful illustration of the need for both forgiveness and the ability to forgive. By using a situation all humans would find incredibly difficult to reconcile, Young helps us to understand the means necessary and the absolute necessity of forgiveness to be truly free. He shows how it is our own shortcomings, not a lack of God’s love, which make us slaves to the sadness and pain of the world. God is neither the author nor perpetrator of evil, but He is the means for us to move beyond suffering to peace.
Where Young is on, he is right on. His imagery and characterizations lead us to a beautiful and mostly theologically correct understanding of the Trinity. He misses the boat on a few points and I think, intentionally takes a swipe at Eucharist. His lack of understanding of Sacrament is disappointing because if he were to make an attempt to explain the beautiful teachings of the Outward Signs of Inward Grace given to us by God because of our human nature and His love for us, it would probably be a joy to read. Young’s understanding of the Incarnation taken to the next step of Transubstantiation is absent and leaves the Catholic reader a little sad at the author’s misfortune at missing this most wonderful gift from God.
The time spent reading The Shack will feel like time spent with The Trinity and has an enormous amount of potential to bring the reader to a closer union with God through a greater understanding of who He is.
Let me begin by saying that reading it is definitely not a waste of time. William Young does an incredible job of explaining some difficult theological points in a brilliant, colorful and poignant way. The gift of the book is the understanding of the Trinity it leaves with the reader.
Three years after an horrible tragedy, the main character, Mack, receives a note from God asking him to come to the Shack. The shack played a part in the tragedy that has given Mack his Greatest Sadness. Not really sure if it is a cruel joke, an insidious plot, or actually God, Mack secretly returns to the Shack to see for himself.
Mack then goes on to spend a weekend at the Shack with the Trinity. Through his interactions with the Three Persons he comes to understand the great mystery of three in one. Like most Christians, Mack finds Jesus much easier to know. Though both the Father and the Spirit have corporeal identities at the Shack, the humanity of Christ shines through in the actions and words of Jesus. Through Mack’s interactions and reflections, we see our own relationship with Christ and become more aware of how His humanity makes Him so much more accessible to us. For myself, and I assume many Christians, the Holy Spirit is the most difficult of the Three Persons to understand. Young helps us to see how the Holy Spirit works in our lives primarily through the image of a garden. It is a beautiful image that allows the author to discuss the Fall and our own souls. God the Father is portrayed as the Papa God, not the God of Justice and Wrath. Young’s explanation for why He is showing Himself to Mack as a large African American woman is brilliant.
Some of the most poignant scenes in the book are the interactions of the Three Persons together in Mack’s presence. Through a shared dinner, we are given insight into the nature of the Trinity as a perfect, complete and wonderful unity. The individuality of the Persons is maintained, but His oneness is undeniable. As three and one God interacts with Mack to show the importance of divine relationship in the lives of His most precious creation. We come to see what I believe is the most important theological fact about the Trinity: God is Love and Love is relationship focused on other.
Young also captures brilliantly the Trinity’s relationship with man as his creator. He explains the nature of divine love for man and the consequences that must come with the gift. Completely omniscient and omnipotent, God chooses to limit Himself with regard to His creation in order to allow man the fullness of the gift of love. Forcing man to act according to his intended purpose is by all means within God’s power, but to do so would not be an act of Love. Young also explains how God uses our mistakes and misuse of the gift to bring about our good. He does not send nor give suffering, that is the consequence of our own desire for independence, but he takes the mess we make and continually uses it for the benefit of the creatures He so dearly loves. Though a beautiful and theologically correct explanation of God’s power and the root of suffering, Young makes a leap that undoubtedly could be the hope of all mankind, but is disputed by the teachings of the church. For Young, there is no hell. God continually takes our mistakes and moves us toward the good. Creation is a mess, but will eventually be made right by God one person, one mistake at a time simultaneously across each of His creatures of whom “He is especially fond of.” While helping in his explanation of God as love, Young denies the possibility of hell. Therefore, we can not find in The Shack, how a God that refuses to force Himself on His creation, leaving us free to choose love, can not allow for at least some of us to Not Choose Him. The nature of Choice must have two options. Young makes a wonderful effort at explaining how that does not have to be, but it falls short of being a philosophically correct conclusion.
The other gem in The Shack is the Trinity’s purpose in creating and redeeming man. Through very human and easily comprehended scenarios, Young shows how man is called to be in relationship with the Trinity. We see how the Commandments, the Cross, suffering itself is used by God to bring us to Him. We are called to give up our Independence and allow God to live in us. Young shows how Independence and freedom are not the same thing, but actually that Independence is the result of a misuse of freedom. We come to see how we can be filled with God, yet not shackled by our choice but allowed to fly because of it. Mack’s own unique struggles and his journey to forgiveness and peace provide us with a beautiful illustration of the need for both forgiveness and the ability to forgive. By using a situation all humans would find incredibly difficult to reconcile, Young helps us to understand the means necessary and the absolute necessity of forgiveness to be truly free. He shows how it is our own shortcomings, not a lack of God’s love, which make us slaves to the sadness and pain of the world. God is neither the author nor perpetrator of evil, but He is the means for us to move beyond suffering to peace.
Where Young is on, he is right on. His imagery and characterizations lead us to a beautiful and mostly theologically correct understanding of the Trinity. He misses the boat on a few points and I think, intentionally takes a swipe at Eucharist. His lack of understanding of Sacrament is disappointing because if he were to make an attempt to explain the beautiful teachings of the Outward Signs of Inward Grace given to us by God because of our human nature and His love for us, it would probably be a joy to read. Young’s understanding of the Incarnation taken to the next step of Transubstantiation is absent and leaves the Catholic reader a little sad at the author’s misfortune at missing this most wonderful gift from God.
The time spent reading The Shack will feel like time spent with The Trinity and has an enormous amount of potential to bring the reader to a closer union with God through a greater understanding of who He is.
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