Birthday Numbers

Today is my birthday, my 76th, but I feel much younger...well, most of the time...ok, maybe sometime. They sang “Happy Birthday” to me in church this morning, right after the final blessing. It was a surprise, but very nice. It would have been nicer if Dear Diane had been there, but her shoulder was acting up, so I left her in bed with the ice machine soothing her pain. Dear Diane’s ad:

I think young people tend to forget, or simply ignore, the birthdays of their elders under the mistaken belief that anyone that old wouldn't want to be reminded of it. Here they're wrong. Older folks are really more like little children and take secret pride in their advancing age.

Remember when you were a kid and someone asked, “How old are you...five or six?” How did you respond? “I’m six and a half!” To be seen as only five was a huge insult, and six simply wasn’t good enough. You wanted everyone to know exactly how old you really were. Of course, at that age the years crawled by, so half-years were far more meaningful.

We old folks are much the same. 30 years ago I never would have asked a woman her age. But here in The Villages, they don’t give me a chance to ask. I need only say, “Hi, how are you today?”, and I’m greeted with, “Wonderful! Not bad considering I turn 79 next week.” What do you say to that? You have to say something. Here it’s best to remember how seniors and little kids differ. Both are proud of their actual age, but kids want you to think they’re older, while seniors want to be known as old but viewed as younger. Probably the safest response is something like, “79! You’re kidding! You can’t be 79.” That covers all the bases.

Of course birthdays are linked to time itself, and for me, time is probably the most intriguing aspect of God’s creation of space and time. (Read St. Augustine's Confessions, chapter 11 for one of the better discussion on this.) 

When it comes to space, we can revisit places again and again. They might have changed a bit over time, but they’re still there and usually still recognizable. If I’m planning a future trip to a new place, I can even call up Google Earth and check it out. Oddly, although I’m actually looking at the past as it appears on my computer screen, for me it’s more a peek into the future, a glimpse of the place I intend to visit. 

It’s with time that things get a bit messy. We can’t reclaim the past because it’s irretrievable, but we can call it back as a memory. 

My earliest memories are quite early. I remember watching my dad and brother playing in the snow in our backyard in rural Nichols, Connecticut when I was only two years old...well, ok, two years and five months old. I was sitting with my mom at our bay window looking out at the two of them and wanting so badly to join them. Years later, when I described this memory to my mother, she was amazed that I could recall that day. “You had a bad cold,” she said, “I was very worried about you, and wouldn’t let you go outside. My gosh! That was in February 1947, and you remember that?” Yep.

I have quite a few memories of my third year, again all in Connecticut. I’ve always been an early riser. Even as a young child, I would awaken long before everyone else, leave my room, and sit down in the hallway at the top of the stairway. There I’d be joined by our dog, a German Shepherd named Clipper. He and I would lie down, my head resting on his side, while I rattled on, sharing my thoughts. Clipper was a tolerant beast and feigned interest. Often my voice would waken my parents (I’ve never been a quiet talker) and Dad would come into the hallway and ask me, “Who are you talking to?” I, of course, thought that a silly question and simply said, “Clipper.” I have many other memories of Clipper, a terrific dog whose only vice was his uncontrollable desire to kill our neighbor’s chickens. 

Birthdays generate other thoughts. I was born in 1944, so someone who was my current age then -- 76 years old -- was born in 1868, just a few years after the end of the Civil War. If we repeat this exercise and go back another 76 years, we find ourselves in the year 1792, when the French Revolution was in full bloodbath mode, setting the stage for the far bloodier revolutions of the 20th century. 

Speaking of the French Revolution, when I was 13 I met a 96-year-old man born in 1861 in Philadelphia. His grandfather had left France in a hurry in the midst of the revolution because as an apprentice cabinet maker his shop in Paris had made furniture for French royals. For the revolutionaries this apparently was a capital offence. Born in 1776, he was only 17 years old when he made his way to America thanks to a gift from a wealthy friend. Arriving in Baltimore, he managed to find work in Philadelphia, again as a cabinet maker. He died in 1870, at the age of 94. (His grandson attributed the family's longevity to the daily consumption of French wines.) 

But that's just the background. The interesting part of the story began when the grandson told me his grandfather had made some furniture for Thomas Jefferson and visited Monticello on several occasions during the early 1800s. The old man had also told him many more stories of meeting other famous Americans during our nation's infancy. That's when it hit me. Old age and the compression of time placed me just two people away from our founding fathers. 

Maybe 80 years from now, one of my grandchildren will tell stories to his grandchildren of that strange year, 2020, and what his aging grandfather told him about a world so very different from the world they'll be facing then. 

Cherish the memories, friends. Share them and let the past live in the minds and hearts of those who follow. 

God's peace...and a Happy Birthday to all others who may be celebrating today.

The Inescapable Power of the Cross

Clipper, in Nichols, looking for chickens in the snow

Growing up as a youngster I lived first in rural Connecticut and then in suburban New York. I was only four years old when we made the move and suppose I was too young to notice much of a change between these two very different environments. Although I have many memories of those earliest years in Nichols, Connecticut, almost all center around our home and family. I can recall quite vividly every room of our house, and in my mind's eye can even picture the view from the window-seat in the living room. I remember well our dog, Clipper, a large German Shepherd who, despite his friendly, engaging nature, had developed one bad habit: a taste for a neighbor's chickens. For my brother and me, the highlight of our day was Dad's return from work. We would wait for him at the foot of our long driveway where he would stop so we could stand on the running board of his Packard sedan. He would then move up the driveway, at about two miles per hour, with the two of us joyously hanging on. I remember, too, our immediate neighbors, Dr. and Mrs. Scalzi, who with their children and their collie, Laddie, lived in a lovely Tudor-style home. And the smells...how can one forget the smells? It's the scents of the past that seem to linger longest in the memory. Even today, whenever I smell a wet dog, my thoughts rush back to a day when I helped my mom catch Clipper who stubbornly refused to come inside during a heavy rainstorm. I can still smell the ripening apples on the trees in our backyard as my brother and I watched Dad standing on his stepladder picking them. And when the wind was right, who could forget the ripe, tangy, homegrown odor of Parker's Dairy Farm next door? We lived in a wonderful place and I've often wondered how my life might have differed had we remained there.

But these and the many other memories of those early years in Connecticut never take me beyond our home and its immediate surroundings. I have no recollection of any other place at that time of my life. I know, for example, that I spent some months at a local nursery school, run I believe by a Mrs. Curtis, but can recall nothing of it. I'm also certain Mom took us on occasion to Beardsley Park in Bridgeport; I have photographs, but no memories. Indeed, my earliest memories of places outside the home are of school and church, later memories from our life in New York. I find this very odd, but I suppose memories, especially those of early childhood, are fickle, capricious things. Who knows? Perhaps, as I enter this last phase of my life, memories of those earliest days will come flooding back and overpower the recall of more recent events, like what I had for breakfast.

In the midst of all these, my earliest recollections, one other memory is remarkably clear. It's the memory of a cross, a crucifix really, over the altar of a church. It's a very early memory, a pre-New York memory, and so this crucifix might well have been in the church we attended in Connecticut. I'm not certain about this since I don't even know the name of that church. It could have been in another church somewhere else. I simply can't be sure. But the image, this visual memory of that cross, is very intense. I can picture it as if it were right here on the wall of this room. Strangely, I can see clearly every aspect of the image. I can see the expression on the face of our Lord, one of victory colored with extreme sadness. I can see the nails, the wounds, the crown of thorns, the rough wood of the cross. And I can actually recall my child-like thoughts as I gazed on this symbol of our faith, wondering why someone would do such a thing to Jesus, the one Mom had told me was my friend.

I think it interesting that the very first symbolic object I can recall is a crucifix, the Cross of Calvary. This is particularly pleasing to me. I'm happy that I was blessed with this early memory, a memory that has never faded. For some, as St. Paul reminds us, the Cross remains a stumbling block, and for others a folly [See 1 Cor 1:18-24]. But for the faithful, it is the overpowering sign of our faith and calls to mind St. Paul's wonderful words to the Christians of Corinth:

"For I resolved to know nothing while I was with you except Jesus Christ, and him crucified" [1 Cor 2:2].

Sometimes that's exactly the way I feel. When something triggers the early memory of that crucifix I can think of little else. The image fills my thoughts. The Cross exerts power not just over you and me, but over all of creation. St. Paul, of course, recognized full well the tremendous power of the Cross of Christ:

"But may I never boast except in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, through which the world has been crucified to me, and I to the world" [Gal 6:14].

And I find myself  pitying those who reject the Cross, those who actually despise it; for St. Paul also address them in his unambiguous way:

"For many, as I have often told you and now tell you even in tears, conduct themselves as enemies of the Cross of Christ. Their end is destruction. Their God is their stomach; their glory is in their 'shame.' Their minds are occupied with earthly things" [Phil 3:18-19].

More on the Cross of Christ in my next post; but in the meantime, pray for those who "conduct themselves as enemies of the cross of Christ."

Pax et bonum...

Tragedy, Grief, Forgiveness and Blessing

I just returned from the local UPS store where I shipped five large boxes filled with Christmas presents. They're on their way to our children and grandchildren, all of whom still live in the icy north. Presumably, as our children age the cold will penetrate their bones more deeply and lead them to migrate in our direction. One can only hope, since sending large, heavy boxes is not inexpensive. I'd prefer to drop them off personally at the front doors of our sons and daughters. In the meantime, however, I will add to the UPS bottom line.

Returning home from my errands, I caught the news about the horrific school shooting in lovely Newtown, Connecticut. Dear Diane and I are familiar with the town since good friends once lived there and we visited them on several occasions. But I find myself unable to juxtapose in my mind the memory of that quaint, picturesque village and the events of this sad day. It simply does not compute. Far worse, however, as a parent and grandparent I cannot imagine what the families of the victims are experiencing. My thoughts turn to my children and grandchildren, and I thank God they are safe, but I stop that train of thought in its tracks. I cannot go where it wants to take me. To have a child, one of God's precious little ones, taken so suddenly and so capriciously is something no family should ever experience. For those families in Newtown this will be the worst time of their lives, and in their grief whatever faith they have will be sorely tested.

Recognizing this please join me today in praying for the souls of those who died, for peace in the hearts of those who love them, and also for the soul of the confused and troubled young man who was apparently responsible for this massacre of innocents. We must pray for his soul because we are commanded to do so by our Lord Himself. We must pray for him because the families of most of his victims will be unable to take that step, probably for years to come. Forgiveness cannot enter a heart that is understandably filled with grief and anger, that is unable to respond in love. And so let us extend forgiveness for them who are as yet unable to do so.

And to those of you with children, please accept a little advice. Bless your children each day, for blessings are spiritually powerful acts, especially when extended by a parent. As a father or a mother, reach out and touch their beautiful heads with your hands and extend God's blessing in the name of Jesus Christ. Every morning send them into the world cloaked with God's love and your love. Let them know you love them deeply and ask the Father to protect them, for as Jesus told us, "See that you do not despise one of these little ones, for I say to you that their angels in heaven always look upon the face of my heavenly Father" [Mt 18:10].

Pray too for our country.