Not only do we set the parameters for what we give up (sugar in coffee? A second cup of coffee? All the coffee?), but we decide what kind of thing we want to give up (or take on) — and why. Here are a few broad categories of ways to observe the penitential season. One or the other may be more spiritually fruitful for you, but none of them is really wrong . . .
Read the rest at the Register.
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It’s hard to say which is more satisfying: a book that introduces you to a fascinating, new, unfamiliar world, or a book which is set in a time and place that you know intimately, and which really nails it.
For me, The Dogs of March by Ernest Hebert is a great example of the latter. It’s set in a fictional small town of Darby, New Hampshire, and man, is it familiar. It gives us painfully accurate picture of the small town full of foster children, incestuous shack people, pompous little fief lords, renovating interlopers, and limping, buck-toothed junk car collectors, who see no difference between the beauty of the snow on a stone wall and the beauty of a burnt-out washing machine riddled with bullet holes for target practice.
The Dogs of March (first in a series, The Darby Chronicles) introduces us to Howard Elman, foreman at a weaving factory in the early ’80′s. He hasn’t yet figured out that he’s going deaf, and he hasn’t yet figured out that there is nothing he can do about the way his world is coming apart and being rebuilt for some new purpose that doesn’t mean anything to him.
Here he appears around Thanksgiving in the dorm room of his son Freddy, the first of his children to go to college, with an early Christmas present:
Father and son looked at each other as if each had come across a crime. Both spoke at the same moment. Freddy said, “‘Lo,” and Howard said, “Where’d you get that goddamn beard?”
“I didn’t get it; I grew it,” said Freddy.
“Ain’t you smart,” yelled Howard. This phrase he could utter in a hundred ways, to convey degrees of sarcasm, exasperation, frustration, criticism, irony, cosmic outrage, even affection; a phrase that filled in when he had no other words; a staple–like rice or potatoes or refried beans–that could be fed into the maw of a starved vocabulary.
“You’re always yelling at me,” yelled Freddy.
Dark hair enveloped his face from the bottom of the eyes to the throat. A pink slash showed where his mouth was. His ears were partially hidden.
“You look like a goddam A-rab,” yelled Howard.
“The word is Arab,” yelled Freddy.
“Ain’t you smart,” yelled Howard.
“Arab, Arab, Arab,” yelled Freddy.
“Ain’t you smart,” yelled Howard.
“Oh, I ain’t smart,” yelled Freddy, with emphasis on the “ain’t.”
“I’ll smarten you up,” yelled Howard, taking menacing steps forward, rifle at order arms, its butt skipping along the floor.
Freddy stood his ground, teeth chattering, clenched fists quivering at his sides.
The two stood breathing fire on each other for a few seconds.
Then Howard backed up. He realized he had been wrong. For man who had never learned to apologize, he did his best. He brought the rifle to present arms, and said, “Merry fucking Christmas.”
“No, not to me,” said Freddy.
“Trade it for a shotgun, then,” said Howard.
Freddy shook his head no no no no and retreated.
Howard remained in the middle of the room, holding the gun in offering.
“Ain’t nothing wrong with this rifle,” he said.
“I’m not interested in killing animals,” said Freddy with a shrug of hopelessness.
Dread rolled over Howard. College had pulled his son apart, scattered beliefs, habits, and loves like so many bits of a machine, and was now rebuilding him into a customized version of Freddy Elman.
The arc of the story follows a series of losses, errors, and painful discoveries, but it is somehow not a difficult book to read. Along with the brutal and tragic are dozens of little jokes and lavish gifts of beauty, as Howard, his long-suffering, teardrop-shaped wife Elenore, and his circle of malformed friends and privileged enemies rearrange themselves into a new world order — while other things, like Howard’s duty to strike back against the savagery of the dogs of March, never change.
A beautiful, frightening, tender-hearted book. And if you’ve ever been to a town meeting in a small town, you won’t want to miss chapter 13, where the wealthy, litigious newcomer tries to ram through her own agenda; the delusional, power-hungry selectman makes a tactical error; the white-bearded old loon is, as usual, the only one who talks sense, and the single-minded fire chief just wants a new firetruck, and can’t seem to get it.
What book or movie would you recommend, if you wanted someone to understand the place where you live?
Afraid the world is getting smarter? Set your fears to rest with this story from my increasingly schizophrenic home state of New Hampshire, where we just can’t decide if we’re all about rugged individualism, progressive environmentalism, or just good old fashioned booze chugging:
Hybrids Trump Handicapped At Liquor Store
In order to receive Leadership in Energy and Environmental Design certification, Nashua’s new 20,000-square foot liquor store, which is owned and operated by the state, was “built with solar panels, geo-thermal heating and cooling systems, local building materials and recycled products.”
The problem? It was also designed with reserved parking spaces right in front of the door. Not for the handicapped, though—they had those, too, but they were further down. Who got the primo spots? Low emission and hybrid cars, of course!
Yeah.
Apparently there is some fishy explanation that the handicapped spots were placed halfway between both entrances, so handicapped people could reach the main door and the bathroom door with equal ease. This explanation should relieve your concerns, as long as the handicap they have in mind is a small bladder.
See, I frequently get accused of hating the environment in a most un-christian way, but this is not fair. I actually love the natural world, and my family’s lifestyle is amazingly green. No, really all I hate is professional environmentalists, because of the way they are jerks.
The sheer moronitude of the environmental planning board’s decision boggles the mind. First, how did they not realize how much outrage it would generate? It’s a policy just begging for inflammatory headlines. I’m imagining the environmentalists putting their heads together, realizing that ideas like forced sterilizations make them kind of unpopular. “I know!” says one stringy fellow in hemp biking shorts. “We need a new message, to make our ideas more palatable. How does this strike you: ‘Nyah, nyah, cripples—we got here first!’ ” And the rest of them were like, “If I weren’t going through a hetero stage right now, Nigel, I’d kiss you on the mouth.”
Second, Nashua, NH is a pretty left-leaning little city. But it’s still NH, folks—not especially known for our tree-hugging ways. We like trees. We also burn them. We recycle because it’s easier than lugging stuff out to the fire pit in the back yahd. We wear natural fiber clothes because that’s what was half price at the rummage sale. We don’t fly on gas-guzzling jets because there’s no one we want to go see, as long as we have a six pack of MGD and an aluminum lawn chair in the living room back home.
Third, I don’t know if this is a NH thing or just a thing, but have you ever actually seen people park? They will endlessly circle the lot like lunatics, spending twenty minutes on perfect spot-hunting for every two minutes they spend actually shopping. To encourage less gas consumption, the state should issue “Ridiculously Lazy” tags, and designate parking spots inside the store itself. You’d solve the budget problem right there, selling lazy tags.
Fourth, your typical hybrid car driver is permanently intoxicated by a sense of his own wonderfulness anyway, so what is he doing at the liquor store?
No, if there were any justice in the world, I’ll tell you what the parking lot would look like.
First in line would be handicapped people, because they’re handicapped.
Second in line: pregnant women, with or without other children in tow. If you’re outraged at the idea of a pregnant woman visiting the liquor store, I’ll join you. It’s an outrage! The liquor store should be making house calls from the second trimester on.
Third: people who really need a drink, no questions asked. Come on, it’s a liquor store. Liquor. Liquor.
And so on.
But you know, I would go further than designating spots for easy accessablity. As long as this kind of obnoxious social engineering is now kosher, let’s put the power of shame to work—let’s designate parking spots for people who could benefit from a few obstacles to easy access.
For instance, college students could have spots reserved at the nearest Catholic church. That way, sooner or later they’re bound to regain consciousness at a time when confession is scheduled. Priests are tough; they can handle getting thrown up on from time to time, to save a soul.
Women who don’t especially like the taste of alcohol, and who are in danger of throwing away perfectly good cash on ridiculous new gynocentric beverages, could be required to park at Wendy’s, where they easily buy what they clearly actually want: a nice milk shake.
Progressive consumers on the prowl for wine with edgy, esoteric hipster names like or “Listeriosis Nouvelle” or “Châteauneuf a la My Slug Wears a Spangled Fedora Ho Ho Isn’t That Droll” could probably find ample parking up their own, oh, um, why am I writing for a Catholic publication again?
In closing, I’d like to say: Are you going to eat that olive?
****
This post originally ran blah blah blah some other time, completely irrelevant now, might as well get paid for it twice. I’m officially full term as of yesterday, and have spent the last week getting not one or two but three runarounds from three different doctors, one pharmacy, and of course one insurance company, and now they want me to see their therapist because I SEEM UPSET. So, here is a post for you, damn your eyes.
Not one of the free showers offered. Don’t ask how I know, but bathing here is frowned upon.
It’s been many years since I was in Rome, but I remember my first impression of the city: it’s extremely beautiful, and it smells like poop. Part of that smell comes because Italians tend to have dogs, rather than children. And part of the smell comes because, at least when I was there, public bathrooms are few and far between, and they are coin operated. The phrase “eternal city” takes on a whole new meaning when you are penniless, on foot, and have nowhere to go for hour upon hour.
For a college sophomore spending a semester abroad, this discomfort had its exotic charm. For the thousands of homeless men and women who live in Rome, having nowhere to relieve themselves — and nowhere to shower after a day in city of grit and Mediterranean sunshine– is a daily reality which means nothing but more humiliation.
Here lies Doug, the perfect husband.
This year, I revealed to my husband that I actually kind of like Valentine’s Day. This is despite all the times I told him that I hated it, it’s lame and stupid, and a made-up, over-commercialized saccharine-fest invented by Hallmark and Big Floral. For fourteen years, the poor man has been wondering why, every February 14, I would say I wasn’t mad at him, while I was clearly mad at him.
I was mad, you see, because everyone else was getting flowers and riding in heart-shaped hot air balloons and– I don’t know, eating hot fudge sundaes that turned out to have a tiny violin player at the bottom. And here I was getting nothing,which is what I repeatedly told him I wanted. Pray for me: I’m married to a monster.
Anyway, I finally realized that it doesn’t make me defective to enjoy flowers — and that if it’s artificial to suddenly act romantic on a nationally-specified day — well, we need all the help we can get. Alarm clocks are artificial, too, but if they didn’t automatically remind us of what we ought to do, we’d be in big trouble. So, yeah, I asked him to get me flowers, and take the plastic wrap off, and he will, and I’m going to like them. Whew, that wasn’t so hard!
Having taken this huge leap forward in our communication skills, I decided to hunt around to see what normal human beings do on Valentine’s Day.
If you want to feel like you’ve got your act together, just ask the internet a question. Okay, maybe not in all circumstances. If you’re rewiring your living room, for instance, or trying to remove the Spaghetti-o decoupage from an angry cat, you may very well have lots to learn.
But if you need help with your relationships? A quick trip down Google lane will have you feeling like an expert, a champion, a genius, a hero of common sense and decency. For instance, if you Google “What do guys want for Valentine’s Day?” you will come across this depressing paen to modern love, written by a man:
One of my favorite presents was a trip to the grocery store.
I remember the clear, cloudless day, sun shining down on me proudly pushing my cart into Central Market. Rachel was with me, and some friends who came along.
I picked up a steak and set it in the cart. Rachel said, “That’s great, Doug!”
I grabbed some chips. Rachel said, “That’s really great, Doug!”
I picked up some really expensive jam. Rachel said, “Yum, that will be really great, Doug!”
In fact everything I picked up got the same response from her (or very close to it), and that was my present: I could choose anything I wanted, and she could only say how great everything was. What an awesome gift that was, a trip to the grocery store.
So what did I get, besides some red AND yellow peppers?
I got what most men want. I was accepted.
I weep for America. I weep for mankind. I weep for myself, because this is the saddest, stupidest thing I’ve ever read, and I read it three times to make sure I wasn’t missing something. What is Doug going to get for Christmas from the gracious lady Rachel? A coupon for Not Getting Kicked In the Nuts?
You know, I probably treat my husband this way sometimes. But the difference is, neither one of us is okay with it. We don’t assume that relentless criticism and belittling is part of a normal relationship — we try to get past it. And please note,Doug and Rachel’s travesty of a relationship is just as much Doug’s fault as it is Rachel’s: women can’t demean their husbands and boyfriends without the man allowing, even wanting it to happen. It takes two to be this dysfunctional.
This reminds me of the story of the man who had invented a brilliant method for saving money on the farm. “On the first week,” he says, “I fed my horse a bale of hay. On the second week, I fed him half a bale of hay. On the third week, I fed him a quarter of a bale. I was damn near to teaching the horse to live on nothing at all, but on the fourth week, the ungrateful sonofabitch died on me!”
Happy stupid Valentine’s Day, folks. I hope you get something nice. Or if you get nothing, I hope at least it doesn’t feel like a gift!
****
(This post first ran in 2011.)
Pro-lifers routinely refer to “the miracle of life,” a phrase which isn’t really technically accurate. A miracle is, strictly theologically speaking, an event which wouldn’t happen ordinarily in nature. It’s something which only happens because of the special intervention of God.
If you’re going to look at sheer numbers, it’s hard to imagine anything less miraculous, or more ordinary and natural than the conception of a child. It’s something that’s happened billions of times, often without anyone meaning or wanting it to happen — often without anyone evenrealizing that it’s happened. I’ve seen pro-choice people roll their eyes and patiently explain, “Yes, babies are cute, but they’re hardly a miracle, any more than it’s a miracle every time a weed grows. It’s simple biology; happens all the time.”
Which always makes me think, “Yes? Is it somehow not amazing when a weed grows?” Maybe it’s just because I’m such a terrible gardener, but every time I put a seed in the ground, sweat and fret for those ten days of germination, give up hope, keep watering anyway, and then go out one evening to discover that SOMETHING IS COMING UP, it blows my mind. Absolutely blows my mind. I drag my husband out to see: “Look! Do you see, right there? You can even see where the soil is actually being pushed away, because the little leaves are coming up! Look how hard it’s trying! I know I planted a seed there, but HOW IS THIS HAPPENING? You can even see the little bean shell stuck to it! LOOK!”
I get nearly the same thrill when I weed, to be honest. Yesterday there was nothing but bare dirt surrounding my tomato plant; today, there are six kinds of green all fighting their way through out of nothingness into the light, all hungry, thirsty, ready to join the battle with beetles and downpours and sun and chill. Some of them are feathery, some fibrous, some creep and cling to the ground with flat, sticky leaves, some are just simple, forthright grass . . . and everybody wants a piece of life. I don’t shed any tears when I rip them out and toss them away, but I really do admire them. Or at least, I admire the system. Yesterday, there was something very close to nothing, and today, there’s something big enough to grab with my whole hand. Tomorrow, if I leave it be, there will be something with a stem thick enough to snap, full of juice and intricate hairs. Everything is ordered toward life, toward making more and more and more of itself, to being part of the plan.
And it happens over and over and over again.
When we’re talking about grass and weeds or even exquisite hot house flowers, only truly crazy people worry or marvel over every last bit of plant life: it’s not merely common, it’s insignificant. And, while we certainly cherish and delight in our own babies and the babies of people we love, no human heart is big enough to cherish and delight in the individual births of all the billions of babies conceived. There are just too many of them. It’s just too common. It happens literally all the time, every second of every day.
But here’s the thing: it’s just that very commonness, that everyday-ness of human life that is a gift in itself.
Think of other things that repeat and repeat. I’m not the first one to point out that repetition is sometimes a gift in itself, and not a stumbling block to overcome. Do you get tired of hearing your spouse say, “I love you?” Do you look at those beloved lips forming those words and think, “Oh, that old thing again. Why can’t I have something new for a change?” Would you want to have a marriage where the words “I love you” were an extraordinary, unexpected event, only brought about by special grace? No, it’s the very repetition that makes it cherished, delightful — extraordinary, even, just because it is so ordinary.
So, when a baby is conceived, maybe it’s not a miracle — maybe it’s something better than that. It’s a sign that God has given us a world which, even in its natural, fallen state, is completely stuffed with wonders. He is not stingy; He doesn’t withhold his goodness. This is the kind of marriage that mankind has with God: He says “I love you” every day, every minute of every day.
My cup overflows.
***
This post originally ran at the National Catholic Register in 2012.
1. You may know where the baby is going to come out, but your joints aren’t sure. So they alllllll relax, all over your body, just in case you need to prepare for, for instance, a mandibular delivery. On the up side, the spectacle of you trying to get out of a car with your useless, floppy puppet legs is hilarious, and will win you many admirers. Among jerks.
2. Doesn’t matter if it’s a penny, a pork chop, or the last existing original copy of the Declaration of Independence wrapped around the Koh-i-Noor diamond: if you drop it on the floor, it’s dead to you.
3. People can chatter all they like about “miracle drugs” that “cure cancer” or “save lives” or other trivial nonsense like that. You know what’s a miracle drug? Zantac. One dose, and your pantry shelves are suddenly full of food again, rather than leering, taunting lava grenades waiting to detonate in your esophagus.
4. Drool. So. Much. Drool. Don’t wait for baby; break out those rubberized sheets now.
5. Your body gets so excited about growing a brand new baby that it gets really ambitious, and starts growing all kinds of other things, too: skin tags; thick, glossy sideburns; a glowering, boundless resentment toward humanity in general.
6. Right this second, check if you can reach your toenails without blacking out. If you can, then trust me on this: trim them now.
7. I’ve never read any non-fiction by Chesterton. There. Whew. That doesn’t belong in this list, but it’s been weighing on me, and what if I die in childbirth and I never get a chance to confess it?
8. Turning over in bed becomes a 46-step process. The only benefit to this is that it gives the drool puddle on your pillow sufficient time to dry before you lay your cheek in it again. Also, your husband will enjoy the soothing sensation of having the mattress tossed around like a liferaft trying to get some distance from the Titanic.
9. Hey, remember round ligaments? REMEMBER THEM, YOU POOR SUFFERING SPECIMEN OF HUMANITY WHOSE ENTIRE EXPERIENCE OF LIFE HAS BECOME SEARING AGONY THAT GETS WORSE WHEN YOU DO EXTRAVAGANT THINGS LIKE BREATHING OR TURNING YOUR HEAD A TINY BIT? Yeah, me too.
10. Of course it’s all worth it blah blah blah miracle of life and so on. Where the drugs at?
****
UPDATE: Thanks for the orders, folks! Leaning Into Love is sold out (from my stash, I mean; you can still order from OSV, naturally!). I still have a few copies of The Sinner’s Guide to Natural Family Planning left. To receive an autographed copy for Valentine’s Day, YOU MUST ORDER TODAY OR SATURDAY the 7th BEFORE 11 EASTERN. I will still accept orders after that time, but I cannot guarantee they will get to you by the 14th.
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I’m not going to tell you to get your wife a book or two for Valentine’s Day, but IF you are VERY SURE that she would want a book or two for Valentine’s Day, here’s a deal for you: I’m offering …
The Sinner’s Guide to Natural Family Planning (OSV list price $9.95)
and
Catholic and Married: Leaning Into Love (OSV list price $14.95) with my chapter, called “Mirrors Around a Flame: The Gift of Children”. This is a new book from OSV. You can read a nice review of it at Aleteia here.
(If the Aleteia link isn’t working, cut and paste this into your browser:
aleteia.org/en/society/article/9-wise-funny-and-totally-catholic-takes-on-marriage-5872273021992960)
both autographed by me. $12 each, $20 for both, including shipping.
*****
If you’d like to order either or both of these books,
1. Email me at simchafisher[at]gmail[dot]com and put “SIGNED BOOK REQUEST” in the subject heading.
2. Include the following information:
(a) which books you would like: just SGNFP, just CMLIL, or both
(b) exactly what you would like me to write on each book’s title page (if nothing is specified, I’ll just sign my name). If you would prefer to have them without anything written in them, please specify that.
(c) the address to which you’d like the books delivered.
If any of this information is missing, I may run out of books before we can straighten it out.
3. The cost is $12 per book or $20 for both, which includes the cost of postage and shipping materials. Please pay with PayPal. You can use the link on the right sidebar (where it says “Tip tip tip!”) or use simchafisher[at]gmail[dot]com as the recipient address. Please specify “signed book” in the “note” section. (Yes, please pay via PayPal AND send me an email. Trust me, I need the email.)
4. No Valentine’s Day orders will be accepted after February 7. You may still order signed copies after February 7 if there are any left, but I cannot guarantee it will get to the recipient before Valentine’s Day.
5. I have a limited number of copies on hand. Once they’re gone, they’re gone. If you ask very nicely, I may be willing to give up the one I inscribed for my bishop but then chickened out and didn’t give to him.
We are in denial about how vulnerable our hearts really are. Watching brutality makes us brutal. Torturing our emotions inevitably makes torture seem more normal, not less.
According to the AP (bold type is my addition):
The monsignor who spearheaded the saint-making process for El Salvador’s slain Archbishop Oscar Romero said Wednesday it was Pope Benedict XVI— and not Pope Francis — who removed the final hurdle in the tortured, 35-year process.
Archbishop Vincenzo Paglia told reporters Benedict “gave the green light.” Speaking a day after Francis declared that Romero died as a martyr for the faith, Paglia said Romero’s beatification would likely be within a few months in San Salvador.
Paglia says Benedict told him on Dec. 20, 2012, the case had passed from the Vatican’s doctrine office, where it had been held up for years over concerns about Romero’s orthodoxy, to the saint-making office. From there it proceeded quickly, taking a mere two years for theologians, and then a committee of cardinals and bishops, to agree unanimously that Romero died as a martyr out of hatred for the faith.
I don’t know about you, but the narrative I always heard and accepted was that Oscar Romero did good work, but was a little hinky in his leanings, and so the more conservative element in the Church didn’t want to touch his cause for beatification; but Francis is enough of a free-wheeler to cut through that red tape and get this thing moving. I’m not saying that’s what you thought; I’m saying that’s what I thought, without thinking about it much.
Instead, it looks like this is installment #3,908,555 in the story titled “The Vatican works very, very slowly, and most of us know almost nothing about what goes on there” (and installment #598,773 in the story titled, “So, you thought you knew Benedict?”). I’m really looking forward to learning more about Abp. Romero, who was assassinated while saying Mass, apparently for appealing directly to soldiers to stop murdering the citizens of El Salvador.
Whew, 2015 is off to quite a start!
