Remembering my Grandfather

He would have been 83 years old today. He died from complications following a heart attack a week after my brother, whose birthday is June 5th, was born--in 1994, after being in the hospital since my birthday for almost 6 months. I was in my first year of college. He bought me a $50 French dictionary while in the hospital. I was taking French, which he, like my grandmother, spoke fluently from childhood. I had a particularly distinguished and knowledgeable professor--older, I think, than my grandfather--who gave me a recommendation (at my grandfather's request) for a good unabridged French dictionary. A friend found it at the Yale bookstore (in the days shortly before Amazon.com), and though unable to speak for the tubes, he wrote that she should buy two.

I visited him once in the hospital. I went to read to him from Fitzgerald's translation of The Odyssey, which I had read recently. I was overwhelmed, and had to leave as I grew cold and developed the tunnel-vision that I understand precedes fainting. I promised to return but never had another opportunity to visit.

We shared a love of learning and of books. As the oldest of his grandchildren, he would talk to me about ideas. He admired the Southern Agrarian writers, and found T. S. Eliot because of writers like Alan Tate and Cleanth Brooks. I would learn more about two of these authors after his death. I believe he would have liked to talk with me about Modernism. I believe that he is proud that I will be graduating with a Ph.D. in August. He would have liked to read my dissertation, I think. And though he may not have approved of some of my actions along the way, he would be--is, perhaps--proud of where I am now, with my husband and my children.

He was an important influence on my conversion, albeit posthumously. When I was in high school, he showed me a book that surprised me--about Catholic teaching on sexuality--and told me that he would give it to me to read when I was ready. Unfortunately, I have never read the book, which is packed away now in the house my uncle built for my grandmother after he died so that she would be closer to the family. She is no longer able to live there. If I knew which book it was, I would like to read it now. I remember his desire for me to have that perspective, and, knowing so much more about it now, I have so many questions about that book. I have not thought about it in years.

After he died, years after and for years after, I had dreams--that he was still alive, that he had not really been dead, that he recovered from his illness. I still have dreams about him sometimes. I believe that in some ways I was closer to him intellectually and in temperament than any of his family, at least in the latter years. In more than one of the dreams, he urged me to convert to Catholicism. It sounds irrational to say that those dreams influenced me, but they did. Besides my grandmother, I am probably the only family member who offers prayers for him, and then not as diligently as I should. Perhaps he knew that I would one day offer prayers for him.

So many answers are lost to me now. I wonder so much about his faith. I remember that he would receive brochures from Thomas Aquinas College. Had I graduated more conventionally instead of early, he might have had me apply there, though I was skeptical of not being able to major in English. He had volumes of classic texts that he would buy from what I believe was a small Catholic press. I have no idea, now, what the press was. I remember that the endpapers were designed with their repeating insignia, but as it had no significance to me then, I can't recall whether it was a symbol of Catholic significance. I believe it was.

If he went to Mass when I would have been old enough to remember, I can't say. I think he was among those disappointed by the changes following Vatican II. He was certainly disenchanted with the local Archbishop and the administration of the Archdiocese. He had no visible signs of his faith that I can pin down, unlike my grandmother, who had her rosary--and should still. I will hold in my heart always my image of her, sitting on her porch with her rosary, waiting in case my mom and I were able to visit her with my Doodle, but thinking that it was too late for us to come. I have wondered if he received Last Rites. I hope so. I believe my grandmother would have seen to it. I was disappointed for his sake that his funeral, sadly presided over by a painfully nontraditional priest. My aunt, Hispanic Catholic-turned-Protestant-Evangelical (off & on), liked the service. She felt that the funeral was for the survivors rather than the deceased. I think that a traditional Catholic funeral would have healed many of us more effectively. . . Certainly, it would have moved me closer to the Church sooner.

I have so many memories that I can't contain them all here. I remember as a very small child, I would always tell him "bonsoir" as I was leaving his house. It was the special word that I associated with him. I remember his stubbly cheek, and the smell of red wine on his breath in the evening. I remember running as a child of 5 or 6 to bring him a Budwieser from the old fridge on the "next door" side of the shotgun double when he came home from work. I remember his retirement party when I was in 5th grade--a year younger than my son is now. How he would sit on his porch swing on the back porch. How he hated the squirrels who ate the cypress balls and caused the sticky cypress mess to fall on the bricks of the backyard. I was recently reminded of this by some responses to this post about Darwin's lost tomato. My grandmother would tie homemade "sacks" around the figs in her fig tree to keep the birds from getting them before they were ripe; my grandfather would shoot the squirrels with a b-b gun to keep them out of the cypress tree.

I wrote this poem as an undergraduate in response to his death:

In the Garden of the House
on Dublin Street

Monet never painted one like this:
How the colors follow no pattern.

How within the chaos each leaf has
Its discernable place, and therefore

No one is very surprised to see
The cypress tree that is their brother;

Not surprised by the year, chipped in stone.
This garden swallows the dead. I know

When my grandfather died, he became
A porch swing, wooden, or an oak, life.

How life is dull, while death and still-life
Are colored alive, like the flowers.

How he never painted brown swallows
Dying on stone fences in gardens.

He had seven children, six of whom survive. He has 13 grandchildren, 10 of whom he knew, and 3 great-grandchildren who were not fortunate enough to meet him. He is strong in many of us. My siblings and I--all except one--inherit his eyes. My Doodle inherits more than that. She favors that side of my family, perhaps more than I do. I inherit his fear of death--especially, of a painful or lingering death, which is exactly what he had. I hope to be able to greet him one day. I pray that we will be reunited. When I was younger, growing up without a grounding in formal Catholicism, I was convinced that relatives who had died before I was born, specifically, my grandfather's parents and my mother's older brother, were looking down on my actions, taking an interest in or being proud of me. I wonder how I had a sense of the Communion of Saints--it was not something I learned from the Protestant churches I had attended. I never imagined that they had become "angels," as popular culture would have it, and I did "pray" to them in a way. I hope that he is looking down on me, on my children, and on all of my family. When I pray for the souls in Purgatory, I pray for his especially. If you could, please offer a prayer for him for his birthday, so close to the anniversary of his death.

Baptism Reflections. . .

On Sunday, during Mass, we witnessed the Baptism of three infants, and while the addition of half an hour or so is typically not the best thing with a temperamental toddler who is, nevertheless, getting better about staying in the pew, the Rite was very well integrated into the Mass and oriented those present towards the meaning of the Sacrament in a quiet yet profound and even scholarly way. It was nice to see the Baptism, as it always is, though I was a bit sad to note that all of the babies seemed younger than mine, whose Baptism we have been planning for. . . well, months now, but our plans have really been coming together in the last few weeks. I sometimes forget, now, that the importance of Baptism was something that I rejected initially as a mere display--an impression I received from other churches--then because I did not hold with the idea that a newborn could be "tainted" by anything. But I grew gradually to doubt my own certainty, losing faith in my skepticism, until fear that Baptism might be necessary to Salvation gave way to acceptance and faith. It was the biggest step in my conversion process to accept the necessity of Baptism, and I first considered the possibility of its truth for the sake of my family--particularly my son. I couldn't have anticipated the fullness of what it came to signify for me. . .

Apart from the Grace of the Sacrament, Baptism is a gift that I give to my children so that they will always have the Church as a spiritual home--a place where they belong. I know that there are many who were raised Catholic who don't now feel this way, never have felt this way, or never will again. But in the stories of Catholics who have returned to the Church after being away for a period of time, there is always the sense of returning home. I felt this way myself, though I was not baptized Catholic as an infant. I knew that both of my parents were raised Catholic, that my aunts and uncles were raised Catholic, that my grandmother was devoutly Catholic in her way, that many of the older adults I encountered were Catholic, their houses adorned with the trappings of Catholicism. So when I decided, finally, to become Catholic myself, I had a sense of returning home--of being where I belonged.

We have scheduled my little daughter's Baptism for March 1--an oasis in the desert of Lent--and this is what I wish for her: to be initiated into the Catholic Church as a spiritual home, where she can belong, to which she can always return, and where she can learn (about God), and grow (towards God), and thrive (in His Grace).

Words: "Conversion"

Well, it's happened. Someone has made me think! ;) Blogging around this afternoon--something I have neglected this week--I discovered this post by Entropy on the subject of being a "Cradle Catholic" vs. a Convert. Now, this is a topic that is near and dear to my heart, so I couldn't help adding my $0.02. I think it becomes a particularly relevant question to Catholic converts, or should, whether converting is "better," somehow, than being raised in the Faith, since practicing Catholicism involves choosing Catholicism for one's children, which is not something that can be said of most Christian churches, and which is in contrast to the experience of some (many?) coverts to Catholicism. In particular, the churches I was exposed to as a child required a personal conversion experience, and in fact, many tried ("revival"-style) to induce a conversion experience (in the manner of Langston Hughes' "Salvation," which has always been a favorite short story of mine). So I was "touched by Jesus" several times when visiting weird youth-groups with friends, only to realize when I returned home that what I mistook for "repentance" was actually guilt for some minor or imagined teenage transgression, and that I had been duped into feeling something that was not, in fact, genuine. Over the years, one of my issues with the churches I had attended (the more mainstream ones, that is) was this emphasis on the Ultimate Conversion Experience--that is, the moment of Being Saved. It struck me as being so intangible as to be unreliable, first of all (child of reason that I was), and second, so wrapped up in emotion as to be, to my mind, distasteful. (I've said before that I've had to gradually "grow into" spirituality, in part because I had been warm & fuzzied to death over the years. . .) I wondered how one recognized the One Moment, what happened if one lapsed (this from observing the "Saved" around me, or the hairdresser who declared her son to be "Saved" anew every time he came back home needing money), and any number of other things. I believe I understand things a bit better now, but suffice it to say that I was skeptical, and rejected the whole concept out of hand. I came to wonder if not everyone was capable of the Ultimate Conversion Experience, so when I was looking for a conversion experience, I looked to reason rather than the lightening bolts I was told to expect. (Is it any wonder I liked the Hughes story?)

Now, this is not to say that my conversion experience, when it came, was not recognizable as something unique and momentous, and suffused with emotion, but that's not where I'm going with this. Rather, I want to think about the difference in the way "conversion" is represented within Catholicism. Certainly, "conversion" is the act of becoming Catholic--or Christian, if one is not Catholic. It involves Baptism if one is not Baptized already, and in Catholicism, it involves the acts of receiving the other Sacraments of Initiation--First Communion, First Reconciliation (if one is already Baptized) and Confirmation. But I was surprised to find, within Catholicism, a discourse of conversion that went beyond initiation into the membership of the Faith--something beyond that first acceptance--of the individual by the Church and of the Church by the individual. During Lent in particular, there was a discourse of "turning away," of "converting"--turning one's mind and actions away from sin and toward God. Those Catholics who had turned away from the Church, but returned were described as having "conversion experiences" (though they were not called "converts"), and even those who had never left the Church were sometimes referred to as having a conversion of mind, heart, spirit, etc., sometimes to a new acceptance or a closer understanding of Church doctrine. In addition, the Eucharist is a means toward our continual conversion. I found comfort in this expanded definition of "conversion" which placed emphasis on a continual affirmation of faith rather than a one-time faith event that was supposed to sustain the love of God and the will to remain relatively sinless. It placed more responsibility on the individual and acknowledged the individual's weakness simultaneously. It also somewhat modified my understanding of what "conversion" means.

Thinking about Entropy's post, then, my initial response addressed the question of what I gained from being a convert, and what I thought my children stood to gain from being raised Catholic rather than being allowed to convert later, in the manner of many Protestant denominations, which teach that Baptism should follow the individual conversion experience rather than being chosen by the parents. I did value my choice, but this was from the perspective of rejecting organized religion (int he form of all Christian churches). However, I do think that even had I been raised Catholic (as I "should" have been, given that my parents were Catholic and were married in the Catholic Church), I would have rebelled at some point. But perhaps I would have had a better vantage point for converting, that is, for turning back. I still would have had the ability to "claim" my faith, and perhaps (ideally) I would have had a better idea of what I stood to gain or lose. Who knows? But this is my point: that what we really mean by "converting" when we talk about the Ultimate Conversion Experience (or even Being Saved) is the act of Claiming one's faith. And though Catholics are Baptized at birth, all Catholics have various opportunities to claim our Faith. Inevitably, it is (or should be) an act of will to convert--to claim one's faith; however, everyone should at some point exercise their own will in choosing their faith, even to choose the faith that they were given from birth by their parents.