Jesus pulls up a chair to tell me about his day. Today at breakfast, when the doors were unlocked, he and the others came out of their rooms, and to his surprise, there were muffins! Everyone here is crazy about muffins. They mean nothing on the outside, but in here (he looks at the floor and trails off). Jesus tugs at the little braids in the nape of his neck. I go to court tomorrow. They say I’ll be sentenced and moved on Friday. He drums the metal table, balances his feet on their heels. With a sign, I heard you can get Snickers over there, at least. Just then, he remembers and pulls a glow-in-the-dark rosary out of his shirt. Jesus says he is learning how to pray, albeit with help from the Virgin prayer card from the priest. At night he draws the blanket over his head and cups the rosary, as if brightness itself offers protection. There is comfort, he says, in knowing his grandmother blessed each bead, and when he slides them through his petitioning hands, it’s as if he’s lacing his fingers into hers. There, in the sanctioned darkness he whispers, Glory be.
He would sit Sunday mornings in his big steepled chair the cross hung gold and unswayed overhead a man in a robe. I had seen him dress sitting on the side of his bed he wore ribbed gauzy undershirts and white boxer shorts and my father’s legs had no hair where socks go. As the organist played a meditation he would span his forehead with his hand and seem to suffer but then leaning back his bright eyes would go fishing for me in the dark congregation and I waited
and waited until he caught me and smiled. During most of the service I stared at unmoving biblical men in stained glass. I loved to have him see me in church and after the sermon I stood in line and went through shaking his hand like we didn’t know each other and I told him I enjoyed it and he put his other hand on top of mine.
It might as well be the inner sea, all these people floating by in surges, welcome calm after the last parishioner slips away at low tide, after the third mass, after he’s greeted each one personally, remembering chief worries, daughter in trouble, husband wronged, teenage boy not certain if he’s in or out of religion, black-hatted old woman who swam in during mass, fluffy white-suited—some misguided angel. The day is old. He walks back alone to the huge rectory built for twelve, now inhabited by one priest and the tidal wave of his God.
Since Grace has struck once more with gifts beyond all need of giving, we give ourselves to giving thanks.
In giving thanks, we find once more ourselves inclined to giving; by Grace giving, we give thanks.
Should Grace return once more to bring us joy in giving, all will know a round of thanks—
Once more giving to the Giver thanks.
Study war no more
Mar 18, 2011
Michael Izbicki grew up in a nondenominational church in California. A National Merit Scholarship finalist, he chose to go to the U.S. Naval Academy out of a sense of duty to his country during a time of war. At the naval academy he began to doubt whether the career to which he had committed himself could be squared with the tenets of just war doctrine. He got in trouble when he responded no to this exam question: "If given the order, would you launch a missile carrying a nuclear warhead?" After a four-year legal battle, the navy discharged him as a conscientious objector. Izbicki may have to reimburse the service for part or all of his education (New York Times, February 22).