‘A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.’
And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
[Journey of the Magi, T.S. Eliot]
- Reading
good stories at an early age, especially myths, legends, and fairy
tales, builds children’s moral imagination. It provides them with an
imaginative framework for understanding the world around them, and a
rich resource on the affective level for discerning between good and
evil, right and wrong. In reading classic fairy tales, children practice
navigating a world filled with perils by stepping into the shoes of an
Everyman protagonist, and are thereby given the confidence that no
matter what “monsters” they will have to face, the story is going to end
happily ever after. In this way, fairy tales are an essentially
Christian genre. Crucially, fairy tales are not cloyingly didactic; they
teach about the consequences of vice in a way that is extremely subtle,
but deeply profound. [The Lamp]
- Losing my parents wasn’t just a reminder that I will die and be
forgotten. It also started that very process. When they died, they took
to the grave some of the stories and memories they had of my early
childhood. Things that only they remembered, that I never knew or have
forgotten. Things that never got written down or captured in Kodak.
Those events and memories were part of my story, my life. But now
they’re gone because the only two people who carried that part of my
life story are gone. I’m not even dead yet, and I am already slowly
being erased from the world. What I am experiencing, then, what I see
and touch and what I insist on recording is that everyone, everything on
earth is ephemeral. My parents are dead; my wife and daughters and
friends will all eventually die; my teaching and poems and translations
will someday be forgotten or lost; even what little I have put into
print will sit slowly biodegrading in the basements of a handful of
libraries. This summer I went to our college library to borrow a volume
of poems by the great Spanish Romantic poet José de Espronceda; when I
opened it, most of the pages had never even been cut. Does anything we
do last? As a Catholic, I have consolation available to me in the faith:
“Are not two sparrows sold for a small coin? Yet not one of them falls
to the ground without your Father’s knowledge”; “Precious in the eyes of
the Lord is the death of his faithful ones”; “I look forward to the
resurrection of the dead.” This is what I have somewhat thoughtlessly
called the “good news” all my life. But as the saying goes, the good
news isn’t good unless the “bad news” is bad. When I lost my parents
over that catastrophic year, I finally heard the bad news. [Kelly Scott Franklin]
- What’s
more, given the amount of scriptural support for the practice of
venerating relics, it’s unclear why the practice seems to be followed
mostly by Catholics. Acts describes how the early Christians would touch
handkerchiefs and aprons to Paul and bring them to the sick and
possessed, and “the diseases departed from them, and the wicked spirits
went out of them.” When the hemorrhaging woman wished to be healed, she
knew that just brushing the edge of Christ’s cloak would heal her.
Christ Himself created one of the Church’s most cherished relics. While
Jesus was carrying His cross on the way to Calvary, a woman was moved
with compassion and approached Him. Desperate to give Him some kind of
consolation, she wiped His bloody, sweaty face with her own veil. Later,
the woman realized that the image of Christ’s face had been imprinted
on the cloth. The woman has been named “Veronica” by tradition, derived
from the Latin vera icona, or “true icon.” Thousands of miracles have
been attributed to Veronica’s veil, and the Church preserves and
venerates it to this day. I have come to think of our N.I.C.U. nurse as
not unlike Veronica. Just as Veronica approached Christ to wipe His
face, desperate for some way to alleviate His suffering, the nurse had
given us the little teal-starred blanket because she was attempting to
find some way to console us. The blanket became his only real
possession, since we didn’t have the time or the presence of mind to
give him anything else. And just as Christ left His imprint on
Veronica’s veil, He also allowed Iggy’s blanket to become something more
for our girls, a way to give them the grace of consolation. [The Lamp]