|Swallow, New Kingdom, ca. 1479–1458 B.C.|
Wow, who knew that Winston Churchill was only 5'8" and weighed almost 300 lbs? Like Howard Taft and William McKinley, one could be very productive despite the fatigue caused by carrying so much excess weight.
Read some surprisingly rough-ish statements on Pope Francis from Vatican scribe Sandro Magister, I think that's the name. A familiar one though because he's a main Vatican reporter/translator. Critique is that Francis is contradictory (he does seem to contain multitudes) and that he's completely silent and uncritical of militant Islam, Isis, etc… - compared him to public perception of Piux XII's supposed silence on the Nazis. On the latter, I'm not sure what Francis can say that won't merely inflame an already horrid situation.
It's fall and a middle-aged man's thoughts turn to... death. The operation that was intended to give my uncle 3-5 years instead of one year, ended up giving him zero years. Science giveth, science taketh away.
My wife sees him as already amid the angels and there's something innocent about that, and in some ways a rather logical assumption that follows from the fact that a) God made him, loved him, and counted the hairs on his head and b) God doesn't need anything. Put these two facts together and God could be welcoming him into Heaven at this minute. (Of course that ignores that we have free will and can cooperate to varying degrees with God.)
I thought about how true for my uncle is the prayer I say to St. Joseph for a good death:
“…my natural strength [then] will be nil, I won't have any human help, so from now on I invoke you, my father, to your patronage…I plead you to drive away those enemies of my soul so I can end my life in peace and in love with Jesus, Mary and you, St. Joseph.”Indeed there was no human help for Bill; his doctors failed him and he likely had no access to the sacraments. But it's then God works most powerfully, in our ultimate weakness, at our death, in the absence of “sense reward”. St. Joseph, pray for us!
Sad to read of escalating tension and violence in Jerusalem. I wonder if you haven't gone, you'll eever get to go now.
A nice readerly weekend this past one. I have a Pavlovian response to print. Just seeing someone reading a full page of photo-free text is invitingly tingly. The star turn was glorying in the depth of St. JP II's encylical on life and Erasmo's Fire and Mercy. World-bending, mind-bending, soul-crunching offerings. But around that strong meat, I tasted a lot of articles found here and there, including a particularly pleasing short fiction piece in the New Yorker by David Eggers about a mother with two kids going to Alaska in a rented RV. So right up my wheelhouse.
A nice stretch with the kiddies. We ate, played silly games (Will loves it where I pretend to eat something and just before I do he tells me, 'It's poopy!“ and I cringe and make a face like it's horrible. We do that over and over ad nausea, and for effect, to vary it a bit, I start coughing and acting like I'm literally nauseated.) Then we headed over by car (too cold to bike) to the ice cream place, where the usual frivolity ensued.
Also enjoyed the diversion of an exciting OSU game yesterday. Beat Minnesota there, a MN team that has a fine record and a good coach. Nice to tape the 3.5 hour game and then watch it in 1.5 hours by cutting out commercials, half-time, replays, huddles, and the last five game minutes when the outcome was clear. Technology is spoiling.
Read myself into the dreamy, intoxicating abyss of new fiction - not only the Eggers, but the Richard Ford novel Let Me Be Frank about an East Coast real estate guy in his upper 60s, facing the quandaries and vagaries of aging. The author is that age and some of the references are clearly more meaningful to that generation, such as a riff on Lemon Tree by Peter, Paul and Mary and words like "blower” and “crapper” as were hot words of that generation.
It feels just shy of stealing to be able to read New Yorker articles for free. I feel an irrational bloom of gratitude that makes me want to give the New Yorker some money, much as I'm always on the brink of signing up with ad-free version of Pandora merely as a way of saying thanks.
Of course same could be said, for that matter, concerning the wisdom of the ages, real wisdom, given that the Scriptures are online and free to those fortunate enough to have internet access. And every papal encyclical as well. We live in the greatest of times information and resource wise.