So who is the real three year old?

"In fact, I don't understand why I act the way I do. I don't do what I know is right. I do the things I hate. Although I don't do what I know is right, I agree that the Law is good." Romans 7:15-16 (Contemporary English Version)

My oldest son is newly three, and has been channeling these verses an exasperating number of times each day. His misbehavior six to nine months ago was easier to deal with for a lot of reasons, but I think his language development is part of what makes it harder. I mean, the boy is talking in paragraphs now, so I tend to act like he must also have a richly developed inner dialogue going on, that his conscience is clearly telling him what’s right and wrong. So whereas when two year old KB was tough to deal with, I tended to think, “well, he’s still a baby.”, but now each moment he, with apparent forethought, disobeys, it feels like a personal affront toward me or Rosey. But I know that’s not right. He’s not near the age of reason, and the task of forming that conscience is just beginning and will be more arduous than it was teaching him the alphabet and counting to twenty.

But still, several times I’ve found myself thinking: “KB, why don’t you just TRUST me! I know your still a little boy, but even if the subtleties of moral theology are lost on you, or you’ve never given any thought to the natural law reasons why jumping on your little brother is wrong, or quite know what it means To Honor Your Father and Mother and why that’s actually really important, wouldn’t it still makes sense to, you know, LISTEN to us?? Look what we’ve given you kiddo! We’ve loved you from the moment we knew of your existence, we prayed for you and prepared for you. We’ve given you a warm home, nourishment, toys climbing the walls! We’ve given you most everything you’ve asked for, and so many things you didn’t even know you wanted or needed, and it has all redounded to your good, has it not? Remember your fear last summer at the lake? But you let me hold you and you were safe AND had fun? Don’t you feel loved by us every day in our words and hugs and kisses? Don’t you see we would do anything for you? Do you think we would ever do anything to hurt you? Isn’t there enough evidence for you to know we seek only your good? And heck, failing all that, we’ve just been around a heck of a lot longer than you. We know how things work and how they don’t. You have a lot to learn, so for pete’s sake just let us be in charge!!!”

Oh. Sweet. Merciful. Crap! The loving 2x4 of spiritual insight gives quite a welt on the head: I’m constantly acting like a three year old before my own Father in Heaven. At best:

“Brian, why don’t you just TRUST me! I know you live with the mark of Adam, but I’ve given you an intellect to understand quite a bit of moral theology, and I went ahead and wrote the law on your heart, and if that seemed muddy I put it on tablets, and then summed it up in two sentences in case that seemed too long! And yet you ignore it, a lot more than seven times daily. Why? Look what I’ve given you! Before I formed you in the womb I knew you and loved you. I’ve given you a powerful heavenly being to constantly watch over you for all your earthly existence and eternally thereafter, and prepared the hearts of your parents to receive you and teach you and to cooperate with me. I gave you legs to walk, eyes to see, ears to hear! I’ve given you most everything you’ve asked for and many things you didn’t know you wanted or needed, and it has all redounded to your good, has it not? Remember that time where I asked you to take that step, and you were scared, but you trusted me and let me walk with you, and it led you to so many blessings, to what you hold most dear? Don’t you feel loved by me every day in Word and Sacrament? Don’t you know I’ve done everything for you; I’ve given my life away? Do you think I would ever do anything to hurt you? Isn’t there enough evidence for you to know I seek only your good, your True Good, not the counterfeits you are always seeking? And heck, failing all that, I’m GOD, and I’ve been around a heck of a lot longer than you. I know how things work since I made them. You haven’t. You have a lot to learn, so for pete’s sake just let Me be in charge!!!”

I’ll try, Lord. I’ll try. But the thing is … I don't understand why I act the way I do. I don't do what I know is right. I do the things I hate. Although I don't do what I know is right, I agree that the Law is good.

St. Paul… Pray for us.

Immaculate Heart of Mary… Pray for us.

Sacred Heart of Jesus… Have Mercy on us.

My son examines my conscience

We have a small crucifix that we didn't realize was in the range of Kenny's growing reach. It disappeared one day this week and got mixed in with his toys. A short while later, a two year old being a two year old, the crucifix was launched from the living room and landed in the dining room, separating the corpus from the cross. Rosey gathered the pieces, explained to Kenny how we have to show respect for sacred objects (and that, for that matter, throwing ANYTHING inside the house isn't permitted) and assured him that I would fix it when I got home from work. So what was I greeted with when I arrived home? Kenny runs to me yelling: "Daddy puts Jesus back on the cross! Daddy puts Jesus back on the cross!" I'm told he'd been repeating it most of the afternoon.

Touche, my son. Touche! To be more precise, I helped put him there in the first place. But point taken. Bring on Lent.

Divine Adoption

Two couples we are friends with have completed adoptions in the past few months. At the Baptism of the first child on Holy Family Sunday, the priest emphasized that we are all adopted. We are all divinely adopted sons and daughters of the Father. And of course, there is nothing lesser about being adopted, in fact, this Divine Adoption creates a deeper and more unending bond than parenting of the "natural" order. Our parenting on earth is really a sharing in this Divine Parenting.

On Sunday we went to a Mass to welcome the other couples' new son and daughter, twins from an orphanage in Uganda. As we spoke to D and J afterwards, they related the rather incredible conditions the twins lived in, and the long, physically and emotionally arduous 7 week journey to meet them and finally bring them home.

I've been thinking of the lengths they went to to unite with their children, and of the long, trying road that brought B and R their beautiful son. Given all this, my prayer over the past few months has been peppered with this concept of Divine Adoption. What does it mean for my marriage, for my fatherhood, for my life as a Christian? One thing is for sure, since getting married, and especially since becoming a dad, Theology is a whole heck of a lot more personal. If that makes any sense.

I'm still pondering this and can't quite articulate all the insights, but I was thrilled to come across this profile of Blessed Columba Marmion on Ignatius Insight. Here's the tidbit that knocked me over:

Though Marmion was not opposed to the more abstract theological mode of St. Thomas Aquinas and the scholastics, he had a different point of departure, said Fr. Groeschel. "Abbot Marmion in some ways was the beginning of a movement that became known, under Popes John Paul II and Benedict XVI, as the 'New Evangelization.' That movement begins theological and religious investigation with the self," an approach that "comes directly from the great statement of St. Augustine: 'You have made us for yourself, O God, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you.' It relates to how a person experiences their need for God.""One of the things about Abbot Marmion," Fr. Groeschel added, "is that he ain't fooling. He's a deadly serious spiritual writer."

This seriousness is reflected in the theme of Divine adoption that forms the great motif of Marmion's works: because God became man, men can become adopted sons of God. The doctrine of Divine adoption is, of course, found in the New Testament, and has always been taught by the Church, but Marmion brought a special depth of insight to its expression. Indeed, some of Marmion's admirers believe he will one day be declared a Doctor of the Church -- the Doctor of Divine Adoption.

According to Fr. Tierney, "A lot of the Eastern fathers wrote about the idea of Divine adoption, but they put it into technical language. Marmion brought it down to the level of the ordinary man. Marmion's definition of grace is that it is nothing more than the life of Christ in the soul. That is why he chose the title, Christ, the Life of the Soul. Grace is the life of Christ in the soul, which we get at baptism and which we build on right on up to the day we die."

Blessed Columba Marmion, Pray for all of us, the Adopted Children of God.

A Conversation at Bedtime (or, St. Joseph don't get no respect)

Kenny: Crissmiss comin!
Me: That's right, Kenny. Are you ready to welcome Baby Jesus on his birthday?
Kenny: Yesh!
Me: Good. Do you know who Jesus's mommy is?
Kenny: Maaarrrrreeeeee!!!!
Me: That's right. Who is Jesus's Daddy?
Kenny: Um .... God.
Me: Very good. Jesus is God's son and he sent him to be born here as a little baby like your brother Paul because he loves us. But do you know who was Jesus's daddy on earth? ...

Kenny: staring blankly

Me: ... someone who lived with him and Mary and taught him things and played with him and protected him?

long pause. and then ...

Kenny: Oh, I know! Sheep!

Our New Family Bible

As a dad, I'm trying to come up with ways to make the faith something important for the boys. In looking around the house last month, I noticed we have perhaps a dozen different bibles in several different rooms, but nothing much distinguishes them from the books next to them on the shelves. I thought it was important to have a well made family bible that could be passed down through generations, and a special place to keep it, to show without words that the Word of God is important in our family.

After a good bit of research we purchased the Ignatius Family Bible, and are thrilled with it. It's an excellent translation, has beautiful artwork interspersed throughout, a full concordance, and the coolest part: a 16 page family record section to record our family tree, and all the sacraments our family receives, and other significant events. I look at what's been recorded (our marriage, the boys' baptisms) and am reminded of the great work God has done. I'm reminded that the things recorded in this book, and how I cooperate with God to see that the graces received in those events are nurtured, will be my ultimate legacy as a Catholic dad. I pray that if God wills, we'll fill in during the years ahead those many blank spaces with baptisms of children yet to be born, first Eucharists, first Confessions, Confirmations, and when the time comes and the Bible is well worn, marriages, ordinations, or religious professions.

Tomorrow, after Thanksgiving Day Mass, we'll bless our bible using this short prayer service (PDF) from the Archdiocese of Galveston-Houston.

Paul finds the door to fairyland

We welcomed Paul Vincent Lester into the world and our family at 3:26AM on Thursday.

As Paul was on the threshold of birth, in a moment of calm between the violence of contractions, our midwife said “I always wonder what they are thinking at this point.” I’m not sure what he was thinking right then, but I think in the days leading up to birth babies begin to “get it”. They begin to think, “this is all very lovely, but there must be something more.” Perhaps Paul was thinking along these lines:

By the Babe Unborn

By G. K. Chesterton

If trees were tall and grasses short,

As in some crazy tale,

If here and there a sea were blue

Beyond the breaking pale,

If a fixed fire hung in the air

To warm me one day through,

If deep green hair grew on great hills,

I know what I should do.

In dark I lie: dreaming that there

Are great eyes cold or kind,

And twisted streets and silent doors,

And living men behind.

Let storm-clouds come: Better an hour,

And leave to weep and fight,

Then all the ages I have ruled

The empires of the night.

I think that if they give me leave

Within the world to stand,

I would be good through all the day

I spent in fairyland.

They should not hear a word from me

Of selfishness and scorn,

If only I could find the door,

If only I were born!

Welcome Paul, my son. You found the door. I’m your dad, and my job is to let you know, as big and wonderful as this new world seems, there’s one more Door to go through! Just like your heart began to long for more than the dark of the womb, you’ll begin to notice that the fixed fire in the air and deep green hair growing on great hills point to one more Place, your final destination. Let’s find that door together Paul, and be born once again.

Baseball's Lessons on Eternity and a Father's Love

Game 1 Sunday June 21, 1964. Phillies 6, Mets 0.

The first place Philadelphia Phillies are in New York for a doubleheader against the basement dwelling Mets. The Phils have been perennial also rans since the 1950 Whiz Kids season, but now appear to be the real deal and are winning over the Philly Phaithful. Johnny Callison and rookie Richie Allen are pacing the offense. The pitching staff is led by an off-season trade acquisition from the Tigers, hard-throwing veteran Jim Bunning.As Bunning took the mound that summer Sunday afternoon, a television in the living room of a cape cod in Norwood, PA was tuned in. My dad sat down to watch the game with my grandfather. I don't think that either of them were really big sports or baseball fans. Granddad was an engineer with GE in their old Southwest Philly plant. Dad had just turned 13 and finished up 7th grade. Dad's older brother by 8 yrs, my Uncle Bill, had gotten married the month before, and so it was just Nana, Granddad and Dad. With all that excitement, plus Granddad's own 50th birthday having just passed, perhaps a low-key Father's Day was in order. Just a kid with his Pop. One on one. And so the game began.

The Phils put up a run in the top of the first and another in the second. When the Phils went up 6-o in the sixth on a Callison homer and Bunning helping his own cause with a two-run double, the game was well in hand. But something else was happening. Jim Bunning was pitching brilliantly. Every Met who stepped to the plate was retired. Not a hit, not a walk, not a hit by pitch or an error. No one had reached first base. As the bottom of the ninth came around, dad and granddad joined thousands of other fathers and sons throughout the area in sitting too close to the television and watching and waiting nervously. Charley Smith pops out ... George Altman down on strikes .... and John Stephenson .... down swinging!!!! He Did It!!! 27 up, 27 down. Jim Bunning Pitched a Perfect Game! First since Don Larsen in '56, and the first in the National League in 84 years. And most importantly, time had been spent and memories had been made. In the unexplainable magic that baseball can bring, Dads and Sons spoke without words:
"I love you."
"I'm glad you're here."
"This is gonna be some summer!"

The next morning, Granddad died of a heart attack. Some summer indeed!

Since baseball time is measured only in outs, all you have to do is succeed
utterly; keep hitting, keep the rally alive, and you have defeated time. You
remain forever young.
-- Roger Angell

That's the poetry and mystery of baseball. But we know time isn't ever defeated. Sometimes it goes way too fast. Like from a thrilling Sunday afternoon to a terrible Monday morning. In a memory though, or just a story for me, Dad is still forever young and the Granddad I've never met is still here. And in Another Place, Granddad waits. And there, time really is beaten. There is only now, the hits keep coming, and the rally is kept alive.

William N. Lester 1914-1964. Lux perpetua luceat ei.

Game 2: October 8, 1977 Dodgers 4, Phillies 1

Fast forward. October 8, 1977. The Phillies are in the playoffs against the Los Angeles Dodgers. Despite a ridiculous loss the night before to fall behind 2-1 in the best of five series, hope springs eternal. Not in the hearts of all the Philly cynics, but certainly in my mom. Mom has scored a pair of tickets to the game. The seats are way up in section 725 at the Vet. The forecast is for a cold rainy, night. And by the way, mom is nine months pregnant with yours truly. Mom is stoked. Dad is worried. As the evening came and they were getting ready to go to the game, I apparently began mildly suggesting they change their plans. The rain began to fall, giving my parents more time to debate whether the hospital or the stadium would be the destination.I became more adamant, and dad convinced mom that the hospital was the place to go. In the delivery room, mom screamed often. Sometimes at me; sometimes at the radio with the game on it. (This apparently caused some consternation among the nurses). I came into the world four minutes after midnight. Shortly after, the Phillies went down to an ignominious defeat and their season was over. In South Philly, misery. At Lankenau hospital, joy.

Mom and Dad's unused tickets from that night are framed and hang on my wall. On Christmas 1986, Dad gave me a book; I don't remember the title, only that it was a sort of baseball historical timeline. But I remember clearly what he wrote inside:

Brian,
Page 243 tells of a sad, sad night for the Phillies. It was the
happiest night of my life.
Love, Dad

I don't know quite how all that registered in my 9 year old head, but I do know that was the moment I became a baseball fanatic. What might have been just a boyhood phase became a lifelong passion, because in playing, watching and reading baseball I was connected to Dad, and knew he loved me.

Game 3: July 11, 2006 American League 3, National League 2

There have been times watching baseball where I've leapt for joy, yelled in anger, or just plain cried (Joe Carter anyone?). But mostly I know it's just a game. And nowadays, a game played primarily by obscenely rich and arrogant players for even more obscenely rich and arrogant owners. I really love the game because it reminds me how blessed I am, and how precious life is, and how the next day or minute, or next at-bat or pitch, just might change everything. It reminds me of Granddad and Dad watching one last incredible game together. It reminds me of Dad telling me the story of that game as we visited Cooperstown on my 11th birthday. It reminds me of watching the 2006 all-star game as a new dad, with 3 week old Kenny asleep in my arms, looking at him and thinking that just a month before, I could never have imagined the depth and breadth of love a father has for a son, and longing to do anything I could to teach him, protect him and to ... succeed utterly; keep hitting, keep the rally alive, and have defeated time. So we could remain forever young.

Alas, I can't do that. But our Heavenly Father can. And in Him, Granddad, Dad, my sons and I are all brothers. And we are young. And there are games to play.

I love you Dad. Happy Father's Day.

Kenny's Faith Life

Any parent of a toddler knows that kids tend to get obsessed for a while with each new discovery. Rosey's Simpsons refrigerator magnets, especially Marge, were Kenny's constant companion in February and March. They gave way to a need to always have his favorite crayon, "Big Purple", with him all the time. Nowadays he's rarely without his very own St. Jude Shop $1.29 plastic mini-Mary statue. Also, for every item he points out, we must designate it as big ("be-bay"), medium ("me-may") or little ("leel" or "le-lay") and find comparitive items of the same genre to prove we've made the correct designation. This gets tough on the highways where for every big-rig you must find a medium box truck and a compact pick up or the world as we know it will come to an end!!

All this is a prelude to saying -- Kenny thinks he's had apparitions of the Blessed Virgin.

About a month ago, our dear friend Mary B. was visiting from Los Angeles and came over for dinner. Kenny was so excited to see "Mary". He loved eating that meal even more than usual, playing peek-a-boo with Mary and being very affectionate toward her afterwards.

In the time since Mary B's visit, it's become clear why he was so happy to meet her -- in his head Mary B and the BVM are one and the same. He will now point to the Mary statue at church or his Mary Holy Card and say "Mare, eat!". And I'll ask "Did Jesus's Mom come to eat with us Kenny?" and he nods yes. Or he'll point to the chair where Mary B. sat and say "Bebay-mare" (Big Mary) and then to our Holy Family statue and say "Leel Mare" (Little Mary). (To Mary B.-- Don't worry you're only big when compared to a very small statue!).

So needless to say, since he's met Mary in real life, he's really in to the Hail Mary. At bedtime we try to do an Our Father, Hail Mary and Glory Be. Through the Our Father, he usually interrupts with shouts of: "Mare! Geegus Mama!". So we speed through Jesus to get to the Mary prayers.

Off to Cooperstown (and Utica and Highland Lakes)

Fun long weekend ahead.

Tomorrow we head to the National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum. Rosey's never been; despite my numerous invitations. But her old college friend is having a "Getting her Ph.D." (Go Susan!) celebration in her hometown of Utica on Saturday, and Cooperstown is close enough that I successfully made the case. Pray that she at least humors me as I regale her with baseball lore and statistical minutiae! I'll try to hold back on the ride up and save it for the museum proper. K.B.III is coming too of course. I expect he won't quite get it, but being around baseball with my son means a 100% chance of me turning into a blubbering emotional fool at some point. I'll try to explain in a future post; but baseball and fatherhood are intimately connected. And a day in Cooperstown makes them both seem even more magical and mystical.

On Sunday we head down to Rosey's parents in Highland Lakes, NJ. (aka -- the cool, natury part of Jersey that I never knew existed until meeting my lovely Bride) for another day of fun. And then back home on Monday afternoon.