It had to happen someday. A certain relative of mine is decidedly on the left side of politics, extreme in my view, and has been very vocal about it since Obama’s first term. I had learned long ago that any argument with him would be futile; it would not be about good policy or bad, but rather about winning. Since I did not have the desire to argue without end, the argument could only be ended by admitting defeat. Because of this, I have learned to let him rant and pound the table until he is so exhausted that we can move on to something else.
A few weeks ago, however, I had simply had it. Another relative, “Relative B”, has not been as quiet as I, and after expressing an opinion, he was labeled an idiot and bad person for his more conservative views. I was mentioned in passing as well, which did not help my disposition.
“That’s it!” said I, and I let him have it, telling him that I thought his views were not only appalling, but were at core diabolically influenced. This took him by surprise, briefly deflating his confidence. As this made me feel like the aggressor, I modified my stance with a clarification: we both thought each other’s politics were appalling. Regardless, I added, we should never let this lead to the break-up of the family. This was exactly what the political parties wanted. Why couldn’t we agree to disagree, then, and refrain from political rhetoric and personal insults in the future?
It didn’t work. My compromise was seen as weakness, which again made me the loser.
Same old, same old.
Meanwhile: during the same time as these correspondences, the commotion of our church’s annual retreat was in full bloom. This event was (and always is) a grueling 4 day exercise in devotion, testimony, indoctrination and, yes, inspirational music. The latter is where I come in, having the dubious distinction of being slightly more polished at playing guitar than your average three or four chord pop strummer. This, however, is what gains me entrance to the Inner Committee, where we meet together as a team during certain breaks to discuss religious and spiritual issues. Here, we tell stories of experiences, of failures and enlightenment, and of other important incidences from our or our acquaintances’ lives. It was during this time that I came to share one of my own:
Years ago, my octogenarian father had become blind due to a growing cancer in his sinuses, and this, along with other illnesses, caused him to be delivered to a nursing home. Living 1100 miles apart from him and the rest of my family, I saw him no more than twice a year, so that any visit from me was a novelty. Yet on my last visit before his death, he seemed to have anticipated me.
Usually I would stop to see my siblings first, as I would be staying with one of them, and then I would pay a visit to my mother in her little granny house. My Dad would be the last on the list, in part because it was more practical, and in part because it was the most unpleasant. Most of us can understand why: the smells of urine, the blank stares of the demented, and the pathetic bodily decay in nearly all the inmates makes a Home one spooky place. This is where we will all end someday, too, and we know it.
Then there was Dad himself. As with most of the old and dying, he was not anything like the man he had once been, both physically and mentally. It was and is a tough thing to witness.
Gathering my courage and a sunny disposition, I finally made my way to the Home’s check-in desk, then wandered the halls until I found the right room. I knocked tentatively, and when there was no answer, I walked in cautiously to find my dad in bed. The TV was turned on to some ridiculous show, and he seemed asleep to the world, as he now almost always was. After wondering whether I should disturb him or not, I took a deep breath and threw my words to the air. “Hello Dad,” I said. “It’s me, Fred.”
I did not expect any response, but was surprised by his loud and cheery voice: “Hello, Fred! So good to see you!”
That was so unexpected that I immediately filled with hope. Heck, he’s back to his old self, despite the infirmities! So I began to talk of things we used to talk about. The first thing mentioned was the drive out with its difficulties and novelties, but there was no response. Then I talked about the family, but still there was no response. Feeling at a loss and even a bit panicked, I went back to one of his old interests, current events and politics. I started to yammer on about the stuff that had the world in its never-ending state of excitement, all while embellishing it with my own cynical opinions. There were the coming elections, the Middle East, China and Russia, taxes, the latest scandals and so on. Still, nothing made Dad come back to life. He remained in deep sleep as if his earlier greeting had been a mere reflexive action that had no thought or meaning behind it.
Then something very odd happened.
I suddenly became aware of a deep, silent and all-encompassing presence. It included all things and all time. It was definitely alive, but as I tried to grasp what it was, I realized that it could only be understood in silence. No words could ever suffice. It was both alarming and wonderfully soothing, both scary and calming. It was everything at once, and from it came a great, inarguable revelation: that all the things of Man’s preoccupations in this world were like straw.
Such it was exactly what Thomas Aquinas, the genius theologian of the Mediaeval Age, said on his death bed. All letters, all thoughts, all cares of the human drama were little more than a drop in the ocean, an ocean we shared with the Infinite. We rarely knew of its presence in quotidian life, but it was always there, waiting for us with boundless patience. I felt at once like a great fool – knew that I was a great fool – and blessed to be given this experience. Dad was going home, and at that moment he was bringing our true home right back to this “Home” of decay and death. There was nothing left to experience but awe.
When I told this story to the group, I had to stop for several seconds to hold back tears. I had not thought of the incident for a while, and had forgotten how impactful it had been. A bit later, I went outside for a walk and suddenly recalled the argument with Relative A. It became obvious that this memory of my dad had come back to me with a purpose. It was to show that, compared to the Infinite, all the other stuff that fills our lives is a distraction. Yes, we need food and shelter and healthcare at times; and yes, people die, sometimes from war and sometimes from acts of individual evil. In this imperfect world, we cannot shake off the harsher realities of a life that is bound by death and the actions of us imperfect souls.
But we should not be held captive by any of these realities. There is something grander there that displaces them all, like a healthy birth that displaces the pain of labor. It waits patiently for us to fulfill our time, our lives, our preoccupations, before it presents itself to us. “Are you ready now?” it asks, and you know you are when it calls because it is the Being that fulfills all desires; it is the Being that brings us to the place where all doubts leave, and where nothing has to be forgiven because, by comparison, everything else is so incredibly small. Instead, we learn that we are all relatives under one roof, and all our fretting and fighting are only distractions from our true place.
All this coming to me through a man who was being found even as he was being lost; all this granted to us in the unspeakable wisdom of silence.
It had to happen someday. A certain relative of mine is decidedly on the left side of politics, extreme in my view, and has been very vocal about it since Obama’s first term. I had learned long ago that any argument with him would be futile; it would not be about good policy or bad, but rather about winning. Since I did not have the desire to argue without end, the argument could only be ended by admitting defeat. Because of this, I have learned to let him rant and pound the table until he is so exhausted that we can move on to something else.
A few weeks ago, however, I had simply had it. Another relative, “Relative B”, has not been as quiet as I, and after expressing an opinion, he was labeled an idiot and bad person for his more conservative views. I was mentioned in passing as well, which did not help my disposition.
“That’s it!” said I, and I let him have it, telling him that I thought his views were not only appalling, but were at core diabolically influenced. This took him by surprise, briefly deflating his confidence. As this made me feel like the aggressor, I modified my stance with a clarification: we both thought each other’s politics were appalling. Regardless, I added, we should never let this lead to the break-up of the family. This was exactly what the political parties wanted. Why couldn’t we agree to disagree, then, and refrain from political rhetoric and personal insults in the future?
It didn’t work. My compromise was seen as weakness, which again made me the loser.
Same old, same old.
Meanwhile: during the same time as these correspondences, the commotion of our church’s annual retreat was in full bloom. This event was (and always is) a grueling 4 day exercise in devotion, testimony, indoctrination and, yes, inspirational music. The latter is where I come in, having the dubious distinction of being slightly more polished at playing guitar than your average three or four chord pop strummer. This, however, is what gains me entrance to the Inner Committee, where we meet together as a team during certain breaks to discuss religious and spiritual issues. Here, we tell stories of experiences, of failures and enlightenment, and of other important incidences from our or our acquaintances’ lives. It was during this time that I came to share one of my own:
Years ago, my octogenarian father had become blind due to a growing cancer in his sinuses, and this, along with other illnesses, caused him to be delivered to a nursing home. Living 1100 miles apart from him and the rest of my family, I saw him no more than twice a year, so that any visit from me was a novelty. Yet on my last visit before his death, he seemed to have anticipated me.
Usually I would stop to see my siblings first, as I would be staying with one of them, and then I would pay a visit to my mother in her little granny house. My Dad would be the last on the list, in part because it was more practical, and in part because it was the most unpleasant. Most of us can understand why: the smells of urine, the blank stares of the demented, and the pathetic bodily decay in nearly all the inmates makes a Home one spooky place. This is where we will all end someday, too, and we know it.
Then there was Dad himself. As with most of the old and dying, he was not anything like the man he had once been, both physically and mentally. It was and is a tough thing to witness.
Gathering my courage and a sunny disposition, I finally made my way to the Home’s check-in desk, then wandered the halls until I found the right room. I knocked tentatively, and when there was no answer, I walked in cautiously to find my dad in bed. The TV was turned on to some ridiculous show, and he seemed asleep to the world, as he now almost always was. After wondering whether I should disturb him or not, I took a deep breath and threw my words to the air. “Hello Dad,” I said. “It’s me, Fred.”
I did not expect any response, but was surprised by his loud and cheery voice: “Hello, Fred! So good to see you!”
That was so unexpected that I immediately filled with hope. Heck, he’s back to his old self, despite the infirmities! So I began to talk of things we used to talk about. The first thing mentioned was the drive out with its difficulties and novelties, but there was no response. Then I talked about the family, but still there was no response. Feeling at a loss and even a bit panicked, I went back to one of his old interests, current events and politics. I started to yammer on about the stuff that had the world in its never-ending state of excitement, all while embellishing it with my own cynical opinions. There were the coming elections, the Middle East, China and Russia, taxes, the latest scandals and so on. Still, nothing made Dad come back to life. He remained in deep sleep as if his earlier greeting had been a mere reflexive action that had no thought or meaning behind it.
Then something very odd happened.
I suddenly became aware of a deep, silent and all-encompassing presence. It included all things and all time. It was definitely alive, but as I tried to grasp what it was, I realized that it could only be understood in silence. No words could ever suffice. It was both alarming and wonderfully soothing, both scary and calming. It was everything at once, and from it came a great, inarguable revelation: that all the things of Man’s preoccupations in this world were like straw.
Such it was exactly what Thomas Aquinas, the genius theologian of the Mediaeval Age, said on his death bed. All letters, all thoughts, all cares of the human drama were little more than a drop in the ocean, an ocean we shared with the Infinite. We rarely knew of its presence in quotidian life, but it was always there, waiting for us with boundless patience. I felt at once like a great fool – knew that I was a great fool – and blessed to be given this experience. Dad was going home, and at that moment he was bringing our true home right back to this “Home” of decay and death. There was nothing left to experience but awe.
When I told this story to the group, I had to stop for several seconds to hold back tears. I had not thought of the incident for a while, and had forgotten how impactful it had been. A bit later, I went outside for a walk and suddenly recalled the argument with Relative A. It became obvious that this memory of my dad had come back to me with a purpose. It was to show that, compared to the Infinite, all the other stuff that fills our lives is a distraction. Yes, we need food and shelter and healthcare at times; and yes, people die, sometimes from war and sometimes from acts of individual evil. In this imperfect world, we cannot shake off the harsher realities of a life that is bound by death and the actions of us imperfect souls.
But we should not be held captive by any of these realities. There is something grander there that displaces them all, like a healthy birth that displaces the pain of labor. It waits patiently for us to fulfill our time, our lives, our preoccupations, before it presents itself to us. “Are you ready now?” it asks, and you know you are when it calls because it is the Being that fulfills all desires; it is the Being that brings us to the place where all doubts leave, and where nothing has to be forgiven because, by comparison, everything else is so incredibly small. Instead, we learn that we are all relatives under one roof, and all our fretting and fighting are only distractions from our true place.
All this coming to me through a man who was being found even as he was being lost; all this granted to us in the unspeakable wisdom of silence.
RSS Feed