for now, so long Dick Clark

I spend way too much time thinking about death.

It hasn't always been this way, but since I more or less hit adulthood it's kind of become a thing. So today, when I heard the incomparable Dick Clark had passed away, I turned off the laptop, fed the dogs so they'd stop bugging me, and sat in my room, thinking about death. (And yes, I'm aware that sounds really depressing and sad. I await my offer for a TLC show.)

I mean, come on, does it get any more apple pie than Dick Clark?

It's always sad when a public figure dies, especially one that had a career over multiple generations. But, to me, it's just a little sadder to hear about Mr. Clark's death. For those of my generation, born in the 1980s, we remember him, reliable as the sunrise, every year in Times Square for New Year's Eve. For those of my parents' generation, and even grandparents', they remember him on American Bandstand and beyond.

I think for a lot of us now, in the 21st Century, us post-modern folks who are beyond such quaintness, he reminds us of a time when we were better. Not always and not perfectly and in some ways worse, but maybe, just enough that it counts, better.

And when I think about death, what I'm really thinking about is life.

I still believe there's wise blood in these veins, and if we're quiet enough to listen, we can hear it telling us which way to go.

I'll never understand why God gives out things like firework nights in a field behind the high school, countdowns with strangers in Times Square, closing your eyes and dancing and feeling a cute dress swirl around your legs, the smile of someone you don't even know but warms up your whole insides.

Dick Clark didn't deserve any of the good things he was given, but then, none of us do. We might work hard and get somewhere. But the truly good things of this world are only God's to give.

And the hard things are his to give too; Dick Clark lost his only brother in World War II.

But good or bad, there's only one life. As many chances as there are stars in the sky, but just one life. And who knows what shape a life will take? Or when it will be taken from us?

So when my time comes, I hope that I can say I lived it, bursting at the seams with love. That I cried when I needed to, laughed as often as possible, brought as much good into this world as I could, praised God in all things, never forgot to say 'thank you', swam in the ocean as often as possible, and left everything better than I found it.

It's my hope and prayer that tonight, Dick Clark is with Jesus in Paradise; it's certainly my prayer. And I hope that we'll all get there one day, make it through this wild and crazy and wonderful life we've been given.

For now, so long Dick Clark...

the book of mercy

image from here

We were at Friendly's. Home from college, old high school buddies. Maybe we were a little too loud, a little too boisterous. The waitress had been rude the whole meal, was slow with the orders and the water, though the place was empty. When it came time to pay we thought to shortchange her on the tip but one of my friends put in extra, more than what was even normal. When asked why she said, "Maybe the waitress was having a bad day."

Mercy--

Old man and his dog, fresh from the groomer's, weathered face, flannel and Levis: farm uniform. At the end of the leash he's holding is a little tan and white dog with a bow on its neck, wagging his little tail furiously. The man says its name is Larry. He bought Larry from the local rescue after his last dog died. It was his first rescue. Larry had been abused in his old life, bullets still lodged under his skin, but you can't see them now, only the bow on his collar and the way his tongue hangs out the side of his mouth when you pet him.

Mercy--

High school friend, known him since middle school, all of us going through all the awkward and angsty teen years together, is killed in Afghanistan. Everyone in three towns shows up to line the streets from the local base where his family received his body and back here, keep him company on the last drive home. At his wake and funeral the place is packed and there are so many people standing, being there, they had to close off the roads.

Miles and miles of mercy--

an ode to the brothers ratzinger

As young women, as young people, as young Catholics, starting our lives in this New Millenium we are so often bombarded with this culture's idea of how we should live our lives.

We're told that wealth, power, and living for ourselves will make us happy. We're told that if we look like and act like Kim Kardashian we will have everything we need to be fulfilled. We're told that if we contracept ourselves to death and abort anything that stands in our way we will be the enlightened, self-actualized successful women of the 21st-century Elizabeth Gilbert always thought we could be. 

But you only need to watch an episode of Mad Men, 16 & Pregnant, Jersey Shore to see that these are ALL. LIES. If you let it, this world will take all the individuality, the love, the grace that God has given you and sterilize it right out. 

Which is why I'm so thankful that Christ has given us so many holy examples and friends in the saints. What's more, He's given us the great leadership and example of our Holy Father Pope Benedict XVI.

Jesus, take the wheel.

And, frankly, I think Papa Benedetto sometimes gets kind of a bum rap. So this is just a brief post to let him know (since he is obviously one of my most devoted readers!) how much I appreciate, love, and pray for him.

Watching him since he was first elected Holy Father, I have seen a man who has completely and utterly poured himself out for the Lord and His people. A man who has utterly put aside his own desires for the will of the father. A man who would much rather be hanging out in Bavaria eating apple strudel (seriously - it's in the book) but has given himself over to be used as a "little pencil" in the hand of God. Can you think of any better lesson for our time? 

Georg, his brother, who is quite the success in his own right, recently wrote a book that is really an autobiography, memoir, and interview about his life with his brother, the pope. I've just started reading it but so far it's an extremely fascinating inside look at not only the exterior circumstances of their lives, but also their interior lives.

The power of a simple life, lived well and rightly for the Lord, cannot be denied. 

Our Lady of Altotting, pray for us

the ballad of judas iscariot

You begin on the sea.

There is only you on this boat, you and another. By your feet, cold, wet fish flop helplessly, as their life leaves them. The air itself is salty, sticky on your skin, and warm. The boat moves back and forth in the rhythm of this sea, the water gently hitting the wood of the boat, it is a give and take, give and take that you have known since before you could walk, that is in your very blood.

nothing can ever separate us...

The sun is setting, an explosion of blood red and orange light pours out across Galilee and the whole world is swallowed up. The other one with you is not looking at the horizon, or the fish, or the water, or the shore; he is looking at you. 

I knew you... 

It is a look you've seen before, your father watching your mother prepare his favorite meal, her kneading the dough, smiling back at him in a cloud of flour. When your brother was born and your father held him and learned the baby by heart and opened the window to let the sun warm the baby and you watched it and thought this was how it happened when you came too. When it was you and Father on the boat and he handed you the net and showed you where to catch the best fish and you learned the sea-rhythm together.

All of this, a whole lifetime, in those eyes.


Now you're in a garden. It's silent, the deafening kind, and only a cold wind accompanies you. The olive leaves are rattling in the trees and somewhere you think you hear someone laughing.

Where were you? 


You close your eyes and stick your hands out; you can remember where all the bodies stood, the sounds of metal clinking, sweat dripping, hands gripping, eyes unblinking - the olive eyes, bright eyes on an open face, an easy face, you could trace its lines in the air though you've never touched it - can feel its warmth on your lips from the one time you kissed it.

Father... 

You rub the brittle dirt between your fingers, the dirt from underneath the sandals - here, this is where he stood. There, that's where I stood.

The unfriendly wind carries the smell of fire, of burning wood, and the vague distant muffled sounds of voices. You know that if you look you will see light, torches, people gathered and pushing and moving and screaming to watch them take him away.

But he is looking past them, over their heads, and you are back on that boat in Galilee, just you and him, and it's those eyes looking at you again and your skin can't contain what you find there.

You scream into the ground until you run out of air. Until you just run out. You hit the ground, hard, to see if it will open for you.

Father, why have you abandoned me? 


You can still taste the bitter wine, the blood red wine, he'd held out to you, in a cup, he'd looked right at you, right through you, right into you, down into the marrow of your bones, and back out again, when he'd smiled, you realized, he knew. He knew. Why did he come?


You press your cheek into the cold cold dirt, colder even than your lifeless skin, and before you close your eyes, before it is finished, the last thing you smell is Galilee, salty-sweet, and the last thing you see a single white dove.

Father, forgive them.