Sunday
The weather was beautiful and warm last Sunday. After swinging by the coffee shop and chatting with various friends and acquaintances as they enter for a few hours, my sister, a friend and I end up deciding to go on a hike in neighboring Shenandoah National Park. I pick the same hike that I took back in January, when I hiked alone, in the freezing cold. The weather on this 60-some degree day is strikingly different, but the elevation is still pretty intense. As we make our way, I keep promising that there is a gorgeous and unexpected overlook where we can take a break and soak up the sun for a bit. Finally, we make it, and they agree that this view is absolutely worth the hike. Once again, this little overlook takes my breath away.
Suddenly the path opened into a clearing where an outcropping of rocks jutted away from the woods, providing an astonishing view of the surrounding valley. Scrambling up onto a rock, I gazed with affection over the sundrenched vista before me. This was the destination I had been anticipating throughout the bitter trails below. This was what had pulled me forward.1
Monday
All week I have been laughing at the songs that have popped into my head. For Lent, I’ve given up listening to secular music, even on Sundays. I thought this would give my mind a degree of rest and make room for Lenten contemplation. And in some ways, it has. However, the absence of the radio or my Spotify playlists at work have caused my brain to instead recollect countless random and forgotten songs from various stages of my life. I’ve been singing Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, Stop! In the Name of Love, the Bob the Builder theme song, songs from The Music Man, Cheap Thrills, Chicken Fried,2 and much, much more.
It is worth mentioning that liturgically appropriate songs have also had their place, especially Stabat Mater, and All Glory Laud and Honor. But every time another disparate sing pops into my head and I start singing, I can’t help but feel tickled and blessed. If I’d been simply listening to the radio these past few weeks, my mind wouldn’t have had the space to think of these songs and remind me of otherwise forgotten experiences and memories in my life.
Tuesday
As I wrote earlier, March 19 is both my mother’s and brother’s birthday. It is also St. Joseph’s feast day. At daily Mass I teared up as Fr. talked about the humble nobility of dear St. Joseph. After Mass we prayed the Litany of St. Joseph, and again I choked up at the sheer magnitude of the gift we have been given in this father figure for us all. St. Joseph is a universal saint, and he is a perfect example of true masculinity and selfless fatherhood. Our families, our work, our daily tasks, and our death are under his watchful protection.
Wednesday
Brush fires sprang up and took over the valley on Wednesday, filling the air with smoke. As I drove to the grocery store after work, the billowing clouds of smoke stunned me. The smell permeated through the car and walls of my house, making me cough as I peeled potatoes for dinner. But the intensity struck a chord within me, and though the fires brought destruction for some, they also moved me, reminding me of the littleness of my life, and the vast power of God and his creation.
Thursday
On Thursday, the fires continued in various places across the valley. Smoke still hung about the air, though the smell was less potent. As I drove to town for a meeting of my craft group, the sky took me off guard and reminded me that there is hope, even in darkness and destruction. With large swaths of smoke rising in the west and spreading across the sunset, the sky was painted in stirring fiery hues. Yes, beauty shone, even amidst the burning and smoke-filled valley.
Friday
Thinking that I’d just drop by the campus chapel and quickly say the Stations of the Cross by myself before my 7:30pm commitment, I found myself surprised at the number of cars in the parking lot when I arrived at 6:45. Apparently my quick and private Stations weren’t meant to be. A sign in the vestibule conveyed that Stations were beginning at 7pm, and that they aren’t just simple Stations of the Cross. No, these are, “super stations,” with the choir accompanying and singing for a few minutes every two stations. Unlike usual Stations, these end up lasting over an hour. Yes, they are truly beautiful and meditative. However, they are also very different than my plan, which had been to sneak in, pray the Stations quickly, and then duck out again.
Though I’d made up my mind to stay, that didn’t stop me from being extremely stressed and distracted for the first twenty minutes as the minutes passed and I realized I would be late, and not make it at 7:30. But then, finally, the reality of what we were reflecting on (namely, Christ’s Passion) broke down my resistance and left me both remorseful, and yet at peace. My plan and my commitments were nothing when compared to the moment before me. The Stations of the Cross call us accompany Christ on his journey and to enter into the mystery of his Passion. We pray them not merely to check a box on our Lenten observances list, but rather to participate in Our Lord’s suffering and death.
Furthermore, as I listened to the choir, gazed upon the candles, and pondered the hidden majesty of the shrouded Crucifix, I realized that I had been thirsting for beauty. This moment was just what my weary heart needed. Though I hadn’t realized this thirst, God knew and called me to the chapel at just this moment, to bless me with this beauty.
Saturday
I’m part of an unofficial group of people who like to look for books in obscure bookstores every few months. None of us need any more books, and rarely do we finish (or even start) the books that we purchased on previous expeditions, but that in no way deters us from continuing our quest for more. Anyone who owns more than a few books can understand this desire, nay, this need, to amass a real stockpile of books. And so, this Saturday, our search took us not to a bookstore, but instead to a giant, sprawling antique store in a neighboring town (which yes, does have a good-sized room dedicated to books).
Antique stores are so odd - you’ve got a piece of furniture from the 16th century in one room, piles of rotting fabric displayed next to a sewing machine in another room, a boxed set of Star Wars vehicles (which are decidedly not antique, seeing as the box proudly displays the word “Disney” on the side…), crates of unwanted vinyl records, old but serviceable tools in glass display cases, and dishware and crockery to fill an infinite number of kitchen cupboards. The crocks always tempt me the most. Growing up we used old crocks as magazine holders, trash cans, kitchen utensil holders, and more. Now I store onions in one and exercise equipment in two more. But that isn’t enough. Like books, more crocks are required.
When you think about, antiques are both universal and particular at the same time. We saw an antique hutch from the 19th century, worn and shabby, with a glass pane broken in one of the doors. Beside it sat a magazine, open to a page of the very hutch before us. The magazine itself is an antique, but it serves as evidence that this hutch is older still. Once upon a time, a specific family made or purchased this wooden hutch and used it in their home. But over time, it got passed along from one person to the next. Someone wrote an article for a magazine and featured this very hutch, but then it then moved on again. Now, after many years, it rests in this back room of an antique store, having been delegated a role akin to the 16th century shelf beside it. Forgot, but not quite forgotten, all at the same time. There is a beauty to this, albeit a sad beauty.
You “can’t take it with you” they say, and it is true. But the hutch invites us to ponder the past, to think of that family who stored their belongs in it.3 It invites us to take care of our possessions, to preserve and hand them down to future generations. The hutch with the broken glass calls us to live with intention in this current moment. As we stand before it in this dusty antique store, we are reminded that to live well today we must thread the needle of keeping alive the past while at the same time looking ahead towards our future in Heaven. Yes, antique stores are odd indeed.
This is going to sound ridiculous, but can someone please write a parody of Chicken Fried about single ply toilet paper? And yes, this revelation/request is the result of my secular music fast, so maybe don’t try this at home. 😂
Maybe they even had a crock or two!
These posts of yours are enjoyable to read. Your last comment regarding "You can't take it with you" brought to mind two things.
Bob Hope used to tell a funny story sometimes in his comedy routine. He would say, "They say 'you can't take it with you', but I saw Jack Benny coming out of a store with an asbestos suitcase." One wonders whether the subtle dig would be lost now on people in a post-Christian culture.
Also, if you've never seen the (very) old Jimmy Stewart movie "You Can't Take it With You", it is well worth watching. Also stars Lionel Barrymore (who later played "Mr. Potter" in "It's a Wonderful Life") and Jean Arthur.