Fourth Week of Lent

Dear SlumberBundle,

Today is the fourth week of Lent and the first time we've taken you to church.

Holy Family Church is considered the second oldest Catholic church in Chicago. It is not my favorite church but is just half a mile from our condo. Your mother doesn't like the seemingly endless sung Our Father and I have some problems with the homily.

The Scripture reading today was from the Gospel of John, the most mystical of the four gospels (considered to have been written last of the four). Jn 9: 1-41 tells the story of Jesus giving sight to the blind man by smearing mud on his eyes and sending him to the Pool of Siloam. This particular Gospel is notable because it opens with people speculating on why the man is blind -- what his parents might have done to contribute to his blindness.

As much as I thought the homily went on a bit, there was a story the priest told about a book that was out years ago called:  "When Bad Things Happen to Good People". He said the author went on a book tour and time after time he was introduced as the author of "Why Bad Things Happen to Good People" -- and that's what most of us want the answers to: not what to do next, but "Why" it happened. I pray that your mother and I can do a good job of helping you find ways to find the heaven here on Earth and not look for all the ways we can put ourselves -- and others -- down.

Of the three readings today though, my favorite was from the letter of St. Paul to the Ephesians. Now St. Paul (and perhaps a few other people) wrote these letters AFTER the Gospel of John was written and although there are times when, like all later texts from all religions, it bears the mark of dogma at work, but here is what the letter says:

Eph. 5: 8-14
Brothers and sisters:
You were once darkness,
but now you are light in the Lord.
Live as children of light,
for light produces every kind of goodness
and righteousness and truth.
Try to learn what is pleasing to the Lord.
Take no part in the fruitless works of darkness;
rather expose them, for it is shameful even to mention
the things done by them in secret;
but everything exposed by the light becomes visible,
for everything that becomes visible is light.
Therefore, it says:
“Awake, O sleeper,
and arise from the dead,
and Christ will give you light.”

Madonna and Child

Of the many photos we've taken in the past six weeks, this one, taken while your mother was standing in front of a the window on a snowy day where the light was reflecting off the snow behind her, is one of my favorites.

Second scare

Dear Schnicklefritz,

On the day you were born, you scared your mother and me. Not intentionally mind you. But as you were trying to come out, you were knocking your head against your mother's pelvis and there was some swelling they call: kaput succedaneum

I thought they kept saying "kappa" like the cucumber sushi roll: "kappa maki", but that was just their shorthand.

Fortunately, they were able to perform a C-section and limit any further swelling and all was fine.

But at your one month check up, the doctor kept going back to your chest with his stethoscope. I've learned better than to ask the doctor's questions before they're good-and-ready to tell you what is going on. (Besides he had the two parts of the stethoscope stuck in his ear.)

When he was done he told us that he wanted to have an ultrasound done. "I don't want you worrying," he said. "And I don't want you going on the Internet. You'll just go down the rabbit-hole and likely worry yourself unnecessarily."

One of the first things I did when I got home was check the Internet. Now, was that because I like to worry myself? I don't know. Perhaps.

But at any rate, he told us there was a chance of a heart murmur and here is where I learned something new about you being here -- I mean really here -- so that I can see you: In many ways, I found myself more worried than I was that night my heart was racing about you being "kaput".

Now that you are here, I find that each day the miraculous happens: I find myself still closer, still more loving of you. And so, when we had to lay you down in the hospital and have electrodes placed on you, I found I just HAD to reach my hand in there and place it on your head (that's me, in flannel shirt on the left and the technician on the right, placing the ultrasonic wand to peer into your tiny heart), as if that might help calm both of us down... and yes, because I thought just that contact, me touching you might link in some way and help.

We had to wait through a weekend to hear the results but were happy to hear your hear is healthy and strong.

We also learned we're ][ this much closer to you than we were yesterday.

The First Sunday of Lent, March 9

Dear Squeaks,

As I write this you are fussing in your bassinet, your body pushing to grow another inch and your stomach churning like a Daytona 500 engine. Mom is out shopping after a breakfast of pancakes and bacon (her favorite... er, one of her favorites.)

I've just spent a little time with copy I need to write for work but am hoping to get back to this book on Emily Dickinson. The reason I mention that is that it's got me thinking (as you'd expect on a Sunday) Sunday thoughts about Faith. The book talks about her time at Mount Holyoke, a woman's seminary where she found herself unable to publicly proclaim her faith. The school split attendees into three groups: "No Hopers", "Hopers" and "Christians".

"It is hard," she wrote as a young woman of 17, "to give up the world." For her, she saw the work of God in everything around her and could not imagine following that Calvinistic path of rejection of the world.

And so here you are, little Earthling, fussing about, trying to slip this body on like an ill-fitting, ever changing shoe. I pray for the day you find the shoe fits just right and you take off for a run through a field and see that as Ms. Emily herself has written: "Hope is the thing with feathers"

Ash Wednesday, March 5, 2014

Dear Angelic Champion,

Tomorrow you will be one month old! Born February 6. It wasn't easy for  you or your mother, I know, but you were beautiful from the first instant I heard your voice and saw you. When I held your cheek to your mother's we both cried -- and you may have joined in. It was hard to see because the world looked so underwater.

It is strange -- and especially difficult for me -- that in the four weeks since your birth I haven't been able to write a darn thing. (No, it's not sleep deprivation; your mother has more of that!)

You are so much on my mind that I realize that everything I am doing is filtered through some lens of what does this mean for us. We three. We blessed three.

When it was just your mother and me, we had things together, sure; we had our jobs and paid the mortgage; went to wacky Wagner operas. There was never a sense that these things mattered to anyone but us. It seemed so much easier then.

But now I feel something I haven't felt for a while now, I realize that I want so much for you to be proud of me. The same way I wanted my parents to be proud of me, but different.

This is scarier. When I was a child as (I think) you will learn soon enough, you find yourself surprised when your parents don't seem proud of you, when you feel you've disappointed them. And you'll be even more surprised that these huge, looming creatures can disappoint you.

My father, your grandfather died just a little over one year ago and I remember how hard I worked to get his approval. And even now that weighs on my mind.

As much as I always want you to know you are loved and cared for. I know there will be times when you feel you don't live up to some standard I'm setting. (You'll find out soon enough (and I'm sure your mother will tell you) I have all kinds of high and unrealistic standards that I always want to reach.)

I've never been a father before and all I know about this is what I've seen others do. I feel more than a little inadequate with such a precious thing like you in my arms....

But please know two things: first, I can't imagine EVER feeling any different than I do at this moment, that most of all I want you to be Happy. There are so many beautiful and wonderful gifts in this world, dear Imelda, that I want you to see these as gifts for you. And I don't want you to ever confuse Happiness for Pleasure. Although you can see them happen at the same time; they are two very different things. Whether you believe or not, it you can be happy when things are unpleasant; and when you do those will be the times you understand what real happiness is.

(Take right now, for example, I'm sitting in a coffeeshop as I write this and it's a really good thing it's early, because I'm crying. A lot. Actual sobbing crying. Weird, huh? But that's how happy I am (and scared.) Writing about this, about wanting Happiness for someone you love is hard and sorta heartbreaking in its own way.)

Because here's the second thing I want you to know: if you ever feel that I am not proud of you, or that I'm disappointed in you, please know that I am far more disappointed in myself and how often I fall short of my own ideals. But you are always loved.

I've had enough therapy in my life to know that some of that is because I am still trying to please a father who is dead and a mother who is lost in her own deep, seemingly infinite, sadness.... I know that they both love me and each in their own way feel as if they have fallen short.

Which is why, my dear, dear child, I need you to know that this one thing will NEVER change: you are our miracle and if we ever forget that, it's simply because we're human and can be so easily distracted.

And which brings me to why I found myself kneeling in a church on Ash Wednesday at the start of what is Lent, forty days of preparation for the resurrection of Christ. All of our lives, sweetheart, are bookended by the miracle of birth and the miracle of resurrection. And we forget.

When I got up and walked to the altar, the priest (who had a slightly runny nose and looked all-too-human) dipped his palm into the ashes and made a sign of the cross on my forehead. As the ritual goes, the priest says the words from the very first book of the Bible, Genesis: "Remember that thou art dust, and to dust thou shall return."

I know, I know it sounds like a sort of sad way to remember that we're living, breathing miracles. But it is reality and sometimes we need a good reminder of it that we're here just this one time. As the saying goes: This is not a rehearsal. We've got just this one performance on Earth. So here (after all of that!) is my Ash Wednesday prayer for you:

May you know always that I love you, that I want your life in this world to be filled with the joy of knowing that it is all gift. Please know that you are our gift and that we will do everything we can to get it "right" but please forgive me for falling short and forgetting all of these things I hold in my heart, my don't always make it out to the tips of my fingers or tongue.