My Personal Fab Five

Everybody needs good advice from their friends.  These literary figures have long been my good friends, so much so that I call them Aunt or Uncle depending.  These are not my favorite saints.  That's a whole different thing.  This is more about camaraderie than hero worship, though I'll admit to a little hero worship.

Tante Corrie (Ten Boom)
The consequences for her sympathy for others are horrific, but no matter how much else she lost, she never lost this basic instinct of caring for others in trouble.  I want to be as brave and forgiving as she was.

 Auntie Jane (Austen)
She pushed herself to write for publication, but never lost her own voice.  I want to be published.

Aunt Flan(nery O'Connor)
She woke me up and made writing seem like something worth doing.  I never understood what redemption meant until The Violent Bear It Away.  Now I can't stop looking at it--through parted fingers, but still.

Uncle Jack (C. S. Lewis)
His tape started running in my head when Dad started reading me The Chronicles of Narnia at two and finally left off reading me Lewis with That Hideous Strength when I was off to get married at twenty-three.  I marvel at how he shapes my mind, down to a fascination with medieval literature.  I hope to learn his kindness.

Uncle Frebby (Frederick Buechner)
He is my only living model, which was quite a comfort when I was lonely.  He is so patient with his faults and honest about discussing them.  I grew up in a world where flaws were hidden or everyone was too intimidated to state the obvious.  I want to be that genuine. 

Until Epiphany

I hate hard deadlines.  I feel so flustered, and there is nothing in the year of family life with a harder deadline than Christmas.  You have to gather it all up, decorate it all up, and party it up before the 25 gets here.  When it's past midnight and I'm still wrapping, it feels as though only death has a firmer though unknown end point. I was chatting with a friend about Christmas work, when it occurred to me that I'm a Catholic now--a Catholic Christmas starts Christmas Eve and keeps right on going into early January.  My timeline suddenly felt generous.  I find that deadline extension comforting, even though I'll still need to get the presents wrapped and the fancy clothes organized by the day, I will have a luxurious amount of time to reflect on the meaning of the season and Christ's place in my life.
Sometimes preparing for death seems as crammed and crowded as Christmas.  We have so much to do, to be, to share, and things get behind.   My first priest said that Purgatory is an acknowledgement that we die with sin and that that must be cleaned away.  How comforting!  I'd hate to show up in the Lord's presence still dragging this crap along.  A chance to "shower and change into his righteousness" is just the thing.  Purgatory is a deadline extension. a chance to reflect on the meaning of life and Christ's place in it.

Catching Up

My childhood was rather extraordinarily sheltered.  Adulthood opened a few doors, but mostly my life was all about following the pattern laid out from birth to death.  The only possible adventure would be the return of Christ, and while other people hailed it with joy, I figured they hadn't really thought through all that Tribulation stuff.
The voice of the Holy Spirit whispers gently to the root-bound, and I had numerous moments when I thought I heard something and found myself in trouble with the adults in my life.  They were sure they knew what the Holy Spirit might or might not say.  What I thought I'd heard wasn't likely or even possible.  So they said.
For me one of the global differences between Protestant as I experienced it and Catholic is that Catholics expect to be surprised.  They are open to Mary dropping off a message or some other improbable happening, and I love that.  While they have every confidence in the Word of God, they don't shrink God's work down to a contract.  Instead of closing their eyes and resting in God's peace they keep their eye's sharp looking for the work of God and for their place in it. 
Becoming a Catholic was for me, a Holy Spirit as Gandalf moment.  I was sitting there in my garden smoking a pipe, when he scratched a secret message on my heart, "Do or die time," so I did.  For me, becoming a Catholic was like Bilbo running straight out the green door.  I am having an adventure.

Comforting or Creepy?

This is my brother's gravestone.  My parent's bought it after the terrible trial of losing an infant.  The money hadn't been easy to spare, but it made it easier to leave him in Michigan when a job came up in West Virginia.  I was careful to pay attention to the details so that I could find him if I ever came back.  The other day I was googling the names of people I know, and there it was, little lost lamb and all.  I felt two things immediately, relief--"there you are" and anger--"how dare they!"
The relief stemmed from the moment of connection with this little person gone, a sense that, in a world of shifting electrons something had stayed put.  I can visit and scrub the headstone and plant things that never survive.  I will admit that since I found this picture I have returned periodically to view it and remember.
The anger comes in that, anyone with Google can go there too.  This is our private grief and no one else's business.  Shouldn't there be some protection for this sacred place?  How dare some camera enthusiast  fill an empty Saturday snapping up pictures of loss and grief?  I cannot move into the graveyard with my brother's body, his body cannot stay with me.  Please do not abuse the middle ground between us.
Then I remembered visiting Starnberg, Germany and my fascination with the graveyards.  The beauty of the expressions of love inspired and comforted me.  The comparative sterility of American graves seemed rather sad.  I took tons of pictures and they are still my favorite tokens of Starnberg.  I suppose the balance is this-- he is my brother, my only brother and he's gone, that's personal--my grief is universal and I share it with everyone.  If the photo was taken in such a spirit, it took nothing it didn't own.