Where you go, I will follow

The first reading in Mass last night was about God's covenant with Abram. I read it to the congregation at Mass, having prepared it in the normal fashion.

Later during Mass, we sang something called "Covenant Hymn," copyrighted in 1993. Very pretty melody and lyrics, although I began to wonder as I sang the identity of the "you" and "I" in the song, thinking initially it was Christ and me. And as I struggled with this, I began to substitute people whom I love for the "you," or maybe even the "I" - my wife Jan at one point, my grandson Noah at another. Very affecting.

And though you should fall, you will find me
When no other friend can you claim
When foes beat you down or betray you
And others desert you in shame
When home and dreams aren't enough,
And you run away from my love,
I'll raise you from where you have fallen, 
Faithful to you is my name.

As I write this, I'm tearing up, ridiculous for a man my age. And as I sang in church last night, I had to stop reading selected passages because they spoke so loudly to me. Jan knows the drill: I mouth the words, but I'm not able to sing them. Eventually, I regain composure, and begin singing again.

Skeptical? Here's more:

Wherever you die, I will be there
To sing you to sleep with a psalm,
To soothe you with tales of our journey,
Your fears and your doubts I will calm.
We'll live when journeys are done
Forever in memory as one.
And we will be buried together,
And waken to greet a new dawn.

And there is hope, in a bright new world absent suffering:

Wherever you go, I will follow,
Behold! The horizon shines clear.
The possible gleams like a city:
Together we've nothing to fear.
So speak with words bold and true
The message my heart speaks to you.
You won't be alone, I have promised,
Wherever you go, I am here.

The magic of Notre Dame

The first day for high school players to commit to colleges and universities is over. And it appears that the Irish did very well.

As a college football fan, you can get geeked about the potential impact of new prospects, envisioning ND gridiron glory with the next Rocket Ismail or Joe Montana.

Over the years of following ND football, I became jaundiced about the ability of successful recruiting to predict successful game day performance. And I think it's because, for some years before Brian Kelly became the coach, players perhaps with oodles of potential weren't realizing their potential - weren't being developed by their college coaches.

It appears that's over, and that four and five-star prospects will help ND improve and ascend again to the highest tier of college football.

Last night, a five-star prospect named Eddie Vanderdoes, a defensive tackle from California, signed with ND. He waited until 8 PM EST, an unusual thing, and he selected ND.

I suppose players select teams for countless reasons - some good, some maybe not so good. But a quote from Vanderdoes published in Irish Illustrated last night resonated with me, having visited the ND campus several times in the last 25 years.

The post went: "Call the Mayor: Eddie Vanderdoes picks Notre Dame. He is profoundly relieved and ecstatic and says 'I love South Bend!'" (Bolding, italics mine).

Amen to that, brother. And as the ushers say in the football stadium as you make your way to your seat, filled with anticipation: "Welcome to Notre Dame!"

Things We Shared

Today, my mother would have been - ah, well - she never confessed her age to me in the many years we shared - so why start now?

When I hear about someone's parent dying, I feel a twinge and my heart goes out to them. It helps to write about it, I find, and several years ago I wrote a two-part column about her and me that was published in The View. I called it "Things We Shared."

Here is part II, in which I'm forced to admit she's dying, as a result of a simple, thoughtful thing she often did for me, in which we switched roles and I knew things had permanently changed.

Happy birthday, Mom. I miss you.

Toward the end, my visits with her were timed to coincide with major golf tournaments. I would arrive Thursday evening at the airport, greet her with a big hug around the tiny, increasingly fragile frame, and she would drive us in the tiny white Saturn to Applebee’s for a snack. I sometimes would succeed in picking up the tab, but more often she insisted I take the proferred cash for her share.

I believe our golf tournament viewing habit began when Tiger Woods first won the Masters in 1997. The timing of my visit then was a coincidence, but we were thrilled to see him win. He was one of her heroes.

At the same time, I began to realize our time together was growing shorter – she wouldn’t be here forever.

And so I began to visit more often, timing my visits with the Masters Golf Tornament (my personal favorite – I will never again view those beautiful vistas on TV without thinking of her), the British Open, the U.S. Open and the P.G.A. Championship.

 She had her dislikes among golfers, too. She detested Fred Couples, because she heard that he had cheated on his wife. Remember, there were rules to live by. I didn’t bother checking whether he had in fact cheated – she was sometimes wrong about these things – because even if the man was truly a saint, I couldn’t have convinced her.

She loathed Phil Mickelson, but that antipathy wasn’t based on his behavior or a bad reputation; in fact, it was quite unfair. She disliked Mickelson because he competed with Woods so effectively during that time. She admitted to me once that she would whisper “Miss It” as Mickelson attempted a key putt.

Of course, we didn’t spend all our time watching golf. She had home improvement projects planned, projects that required my help, living alone as she did. In fact, she would prepare a list before my arrival.

But she wasn’t a stern taskmaster. I have little talent or inclination for complex home improvement projects involving carpentry, plumbing or wiring, but I’ve a learned a few things over the years, and I can do the simple stuff.

I’ve also learned, however, that I have little patience when such projects go wrong, as they invariably will. The right tool isn’t available, the instructions aren’t clear, or you drop the screw below you on the floor and can’t find it.

 It was then that she shone. She encouraged me to postpone the project, relax, and maybe watch a little golf. There was no hurry – we could get back to it tomorrow. In fact, there were some visits that ended with my having completed very little, although we tried. What I viewed as failure didn’t bother her a bit – we’d get to it next time.

 Late in 2001 and into 2002, her health deteriorated. She had lung cancer and heart disease, and was hospitalized for a while. I visited a half-dozen times in 2002, at times hopeful, despairing at other times.

Ironically, the woman who did so much for me was toward the end reduced to asking me for help. I will never forget making a lunch of grilled cheese for her on my last visit – it was such a pathetic little offering for someone who had done so much for me. I felt puny and ineffectual. I wished I could have made her one of those rare roast beef sandwiches on thick, hand-cut Italian bread, generously layered with sweet salad dressing.

I believe with bedrock certainty that the measure of a good mother’s love is infinite. It’s an article of faith for me, one of the eternal verities.

It’s reaffirmed as I live my own life, by seeing my wife’s actions toward our children. I joked this week with my son about the embarrassing portions of food my wife jams into the storage container for his lunch – the effort to do this simple act is animated by love. My daughter received similar attention earlier this week. OK, I admit I get the same treatment.

This love is evidenced in acts, often small acts, not words, acts whose recompense for the giver is as simple as a little time together with the receiver. I was fortunate to have been the recipient of this love for so long, and have learned much from it, about others and myself.

I hope you dance

The boat was rocking in the wind and the waves, although the sun was shining. Most passengers had elected to don snorkeling gear and enter the ocean, to look at the colorful fish below the surface.

I was indecisive. I wanted to get in the water and snorkel; I had come on the boat excursion partly for that reason. But I've snorkeled in choppy waters before, and it's not much fun, unless - unless - you see some great fish swimming about.

But you won't know that until you get in the water, right?

I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean
Whenever one door closes I hope one more opens
Promise me that you'll give faith a fighting chance
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance

Dance


In the end, I decided not to do it. I felt a bit better when another passenger emerged from the ocean and said that it wasn't worth it - too much work for too few fish. But I'd passed on an opportunity to have some fun, and I had some regrets.

Country singer Lee Ann Womack performed a song in 2000 called "I hope you dance." I was impressed with the writing and with the sentiment.

I've passed on a few chances to dance, literally and figuratively, in my past, largely to my regret. But I admire those who do choose to dance, as it were. I am surrounded by such people, in fact, by my wife Jan and my two children, Matthew and Kelly.

There are a few things my wife passes on - think stuff like skydiving -, but when it is time to screw up her courage and be responsible, there is no one like her. And she's a gamer in most situations.

We taught our kids to dance from the beginning. They were allowed to change activities like swimming, dance, soccer or basketball if they wished, but if you made a commitment to participate, you played through the season.

We introduced our kids to swimming when they were six months old. Matthew took to it, but Kelly, after enjoying the first swim session, decided she didn't like it at all. Tears and loud protestations followed before, during and after each swim.

What should we do as her parents? We wondered.  We decided to tough it out, and the word is apropos. It was tough. But, in the last session, something surprising happened: She liked it! She had fun! And the swim lessons continued for both our kids, who eventually swam competitively on the Belleville Tigers Swim Club.

They danced. They still do, in fact.

My grandson Noah dances often, and I love watching the enthusiasm, the excitement. When I first see him on a visit, it's "Pa, come see this," or "Pa, come see that." And we immediately launch into an activity lasting a few or many minutes, and move on to something else when it makes sense to both of us.

Jan said of Noah and his parents the other day, "They're going to make that kid's life one long series of adventures." Jan said it in a highly positive way. I could see immediately whet she was talking about, and I heartily agreed.

On the last leg of our recent flight to the Caribbean, I was not able to arrange seats next to anyone in the family. So, I sat alone in a window seat. I was not able to read because my Kindle ran out of battery, and I was bored. And hungry.

Noah and Matthew were seated two rows behind me. Matthew offered me some food, but I declined. And then I hear the little voice, stunningly clear and articulate for a two-year-old, asking me, "Pa, you want some chicken?"

I laughed alone in my seat, hard, and it was one of the those incidents, where, if you think about what just happened, you laugh again, and again.

My heart melted, and I was once again happy. "No thank you, Noah," I replied to the little voice a couple rows behind me in the airplane. And I laughed again. What a kid.

Later on the boat journey in the Caribbean, I jumped in the water and snorkeled. The view below the surface was a bit disappointing, but I was glad I did it. And better still, we climbed into and through a cave that had been a hideout for real pirates in the late 18th century.

The climb was a bit dangerous, but it was bracing to emerge though the hole at the top of their lair, to stand maybe 50 feet above the ocean on a rocky promontory surrounded by sand, water and wind. In the surface of the stone at the peak, the pirates had carved their names and other information, a lasting reminder of a different time, a different world. Ah, history.

(Tell me who wants to look back on their years and wonder, where those years have gone?).

Dance.

12/9/82

12/9/82. It's one of those numbers that's burned into my head. 6/28/75, 6/30/79, 1/10/1954, 1/20/09 are other dates in my life that I've memorized, after years of completing forms and applications, and celebrating annually family milestones. Also included are Social Security numbers, addresses, phone numbers and now email addresses.

But I digress. I think of this because the one of whom I wish to speak has a prodigious memory, a small gift in a pantheon of personal gifts which she can rightly claim.

Her memory is so good, her friends used to call her "Rain Man," after the character played by Dustin Hoffman in the movie of the same name.

She's extraordinarily good at spelling, like me. She's won contests. To this day, Ev Larabell insists that the tester at the oral bee mispronounced  the word "fanaticism" as "phonaticism," causing Kelly to misspell the word. Otherwise, Kelly might have moved on to the next level in the spelling contest. As it was, she was the best speller that year at Savage Elementary School.

She was the co-winner of the John May award for St. Anthony CYO basketball in eighth grade. That same year, she was voted MVP of South Middle School's basketball team.

Among the LaVaute nuclear family, she is by far the most photogenic. Her smile can literally light up a room.

She loves to laugh. She and her brother Matthew can quote long passages from the movie "Bad Boys" with Will Smith and Martin Lawrence, and recently she's made me laugh, a lot, with FB posts from the "Vacation" movies with Chevy Chase.

She was voted best female dancer at Belleville High School in her senior year, a school where she played basketball, soccer and track, and was in the band.

She can write. Oh, she can write. Imagination, just the right touch, a sense of caring and creativity. I miss seeing it more often, it's so good.

The thing of which I'm the most fond, however, is something she shares with her brother. She's a good friend; no, a great friend. I have admired that in my children for many years. In that, they're like their mother. Thank goodness.

Happy birthday, Kel, to a fabulous daughter of whom I'm ferociously proud, who continues to amaze and delight me most every day. Happy, happy birthday.

I spent some quality time last night with Noah. I've noticed the first thing he does when I arrive at his home, after I see him get visibly excited through the window as I walk toward him from the car, is he wants to show me something new that he has, something with which we can play.

Last night, it was a rubberized toy sword. Evidently, his parents had already taught him not to stab someone even in play, because I saw a lot swinging, but no poking - of Pa, or anyone else.

His parents always seem to be a few steps ahead of him regarding behavior that could even remotely be interpreted as bad. Their investment is paying dividends even now, but in the future - that kid will be a net add to society, not a minus. And isn't that our job as parents?

We moved quickly to the bedroom, where he opened his closet to get out more toys. Dismissively, he admitted that the closets weren't school buses, as we had pretended last week, but were simply bedroom closets. Such a memory.

I told him I disagreed - they could be anything we wanted them to be. We moved from the bedroom to the basement, where a corner of the large room is his. We played inside the cardboard house that once contained a new freezer, a briefly with his kitchen.

We moved to the furniture and began watching the movie "Jungle Book 2" on television. I was passingly familiar with Mowgli and his story,  but it was great to share it with Noah. He asked about 1,000 questions. We talked about the animals and the people, and I was hoping he wouldn't be too frightened of the tiger. He did fine.

Reunion

Trick-or-treating on All Hallow's Eve 2012 with the family. Noah's at far right, directly above the center of the spider.


When we pulled in, I saw Gretta's face in the window. I smiled - I knew what was about to happen, and it would be fun.

But I had traveled north for a different reason. I got out, grabbed the stuff from the backseat, and turned to begin the short walk to the front door.

PA! I heard. I stopped, raised my head, straightened myself, and there he was. He had opened the front door halfway, and was leaning out toward the porch, a big smile on his face.

In my clearest, loudest and most joyous voice, I replied NOAH!, and my soul lifted skyward. His absence the last two weeks was over. I had re-entered his world, our world, Noah's world - Pa's and Noah's world. Emotionally, it's like stepping into a promised land where there is no suffering, no worry; naught but fun and very often silliness.

And learning. He repeats everything you say, as if practicing to become better at it.

I got to watch him go trick-or-treating, and it was a pleasure and a privilege. He was engaged, he was having fun. He acted as if it was his first time; he'd evidently forgotten about last year.

He was costumed as a fire chief, and boy did he look good, except possibly when he put his helmet on backwards.

God, I missed him. Last night was a tonic. And I got to see Owen, too. What a pair they're going to make.