Sunday rituals...

 
March 29, 2011


“My Letter to Brian Doyle”


Dear Brian Doyle:

So, I occasionally attend a nice little Unitarian Universalist church here in Charlotte, North Carolina.

Nestled in the woods near Mallard Creek, the church building actually looks more like a nature center than a place of worship.  That is probably what attracted me to this particular UU church in the first place.

Though I was a practicing Catholic as a young person (alter boy, twelve years of Catholic school -- the final four at an all-boys high school in the heart of Pittsburgh) I now find myself questioning the divinity of Jesus and seeking comfort in the literature, generosity, and passion of the Unitarians.

Last Sunday, I had convinced one of my sons to attend Sunday services with me.  This feat typically requires some form of sugar bribery involving either Starbucks or Dunkin’ Donuts.  And Ben, who is nine, always insists that I articulate clearly – prior to his committing to the trip by getting into the car -- whether we will be stopping for coffee and his vanilla bean BEFORE church or for a Boston crème-filled donut AFTER services.

Satisfied by our negotiations, Ben sat quietly in the back seat for the short drive. We parked and got into church a few minutes before the 10:30 chimes.

Here’s my first confession.  I chose this church partly because it looks like a camp site.  I continue going to the church, in part, because in the waiting area outside the main room, there is a stack of old Orion and Sierra Club magazines on a “book exchange” shelf.

I snag two issues from the stack and Ben and I find a seat in the back row near the window.

The thing about the Unitarians is that you never know if the service is going to strike you.  Some weeks, the excerpts from Annie Dillard and Thoreau coupled with the Joni Mitchell hymns are enough to lull me into a peaceful spiritual daydream.  Other weeks, though, the urgent calls for sharing positive energy for a sick cat and announcements about the upcoming youth talent pageant are enough to make me wish I was reading the corrections and clarifications section of the Sunday Times.

Last Sunday was one of these “cat” Sundays (as I call it to myself, hoping Ben won’t notice my obvious lack of enthusiasm).  So, out comes the Orion.  Autumn 1999. A beautiful quote about spirit from Scott Russell Sanders on the back cover.

Then, I turn first to the last page.  Somewhere along the line, I have fallen into the habit of reading magazines from back to front – partly, I think, because the back page tends to be shorter and more “big picture” than the hyper-informative articles and stories found up front.

So, Autumn, 1999.  Back page.  Coda.  “The Anchoviad” by Brian Doyle.

Perfect.  Just what I need to drown out the Cat Sunday whining and get something worthwhile out of the next 45 minutes or so.  (Ben knows he can ask “How much longer?” two or three times before I give him the quit-asking-or-you-put-your-donut-in-jeopardy look.)

As parent of three young boys, I am immediately pulled in to your essay by the list of items that each of your children sleep with. Bears and basketballs and tigers.  Yes, my wife and I have been there.  Searching the back yard with a flashlight to find “Bunny Bramble” or the new waffle ball bat. Kneeling in the dark van to find the blanket or Red Sox cap that will allow bed time to come to a peaceful end.

But I have to admit, we have never had canned anchovies in our bedtime ritual.  That, I’d venture to say, might be a Doyle-only phenomenon.

And yet, I understand the follow-up you describe.  Sitting in the dark, wondering about your son and how he came to want to sleep with packaged food. Why do we love the things we love? And how much do we know – will we ever know – about ourselves and/or the ones we love?

I sneak a peak over at Ben.  He is listening intently as the lines of candles of sharing participants go one-by-one to the microphone to express their heartfelt joys and sorrows. I notice Ben’s profile.  Note the location of two prominent freckles on this half of his face. I follow the curve of his ear -- how it resembles his Grandpa's. Notice the color of his eyes from this angle.

Ben goes on listening to the stories of sick relatives and the latest graduate degrees attained.  And his eyes move from speaker to candle and back each time.

I go back to my magazine, learn a few things that I never knew I didn’t know about anchovies, and quietly close it and slide it under my chair.

I spend the remainder of the hour stealing glances at my son.  I let my mind wander from fond memories of his past bedtime rituals to his current nightly habits and routines. I see him standing next to me and wonder what more I can do to truly know him. I daydream about who he will be in ten years – and remind myself to be sure he has his own flashlight.

Eventually the plate is passed, the main candle is extinguished and we are sent off to do another week of good on this earth.  Ben and I move quickly toward the parking lot, his pace noticeably quicker than an hour ago.  We weave through a Prius or two and make our way to our car.  Ben is in and buckled before I can even get the key in the ignition.

At Dunkin’ Donuts we order our favorites and find a seat near the door. Ben smiles as he pulls his donut from the bag and takes his first bite – leaving white powder on his chin and on the tip of his nose.

“Dad,” he says, not bothering to wipe the powder away before his next bite. “Have you ever lit a candle of joy at church?”

There is a bit of a pause -- interrupted briefly by the voice of a CNN reporter droning from the flat screen TV on the wall behind me.

“No, I haven’t,” I respond, looking down at my coffee before looking back up at Ben to finish my answer.  “But I think I will next week.”

Thank you, Brian, (and Orion) for helping convert what might have been a lost hour into a time of reflection.  Thank you for reminding me to take a long, deliberate look at my son and appreciate all that he is and all that he might be.

And, most of all, thank you for reminding me that all of this is a beautiful mystery – and not much else.


With gratitude,

Bill Diskin



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Two years later...

So it's been over two years and now I am adding a new post on Father's Day, 2012. Spent the day thinking about my mom and dad as I hiked at Crowders Mountain (North Carolina) with my family. My mom died in December, 2011 and I think I am still processing that. My dad died in June of 1998 -- which seems like forever ago at this point. I just read Cheryl Strayed's book, Wild -- and her thoughts on her mother's death are so interesting and engaging. That's a book everyone should read.