It’s always amazed me how the thing I need to hear often shows up exactly when I need to hear it. As usual, I was late to get around to reading an article (clearly I missed it the first time, it’s from 2023!) but Zina Hitz’s piece “Other Monks” in Plough found its way onto my reading list recently, and it was provoking–in a very good way.

Hitz lived for a time at Madonna House, a Catholic community founded by Catherine Doherty where laity and priests live together in community and simplicity, serving the poor. Her description of her experiences felt perfectly true to my own brief experience with community life (though to be fair, I chose my companions):

I learned to see that life with unchosen strangers laid bare one’s own faults so that one lives with a painful self-consciousness, regularly realized if not constant.

The sort of non-homogeneous community Hitz found at Madonna House is what we hope to move toward with our own Catholic Worker group – but for the most part I think we still fall into the same category with which Hitz labels her own friends of choice: “all bookish, and all middle class.” There is room for improvement in my own life if I want to love as Christ loved, leaving no one out. But that was not the insight that made me pause and blush with recognition, this was:

Among the forms of human speech sacrificed in common life are gossip, trivial comments about the lives of others: complaints, hasty judgments, salacious stories, speculations, cruel entertainments, and gratuitous criticism.

My first thought was, “If I said none of those things, my house would be very quiet…”

But how to break out of these habits of speech? This is not the main question of Hitz’s article, but it was the question the article raised for me. I could start any number of places – the way I correct my children, the stories I share with my husband, my reaction to the news, or traffic, or broken household appliances (I’m looking at you, mircowave)…and yet even as I consider how to stop complaining a little joke-complaint slips in. It looks to be an uphill battle.

***

A little later in the article Hitz continues:

[My friend groups] were, perhaps, intelligent, wise, authentic, morally upright, or edgy. Perhaps we drank fresh-brewed coffee rather than instant, read books rather than watched movies, or had in other respects excellent taste in consumer products. Nonetheless, such garden-variety exclusion is the antithesis of unconditional love.(emphasis added)

She held up a mirror, and what I saw was not pretty. I probably say something along these lines several times a day, I laugh about it, I have (mostly unintentionally) taught my kids to think like this. But I think Hitz is right: when we judge first, there is no opportunity for love to take root.

I don’t have a solution, or even a plan of action to work on this. Yet here, perhaps, is a place to start: with humility. However good I may consider my coffee or book choices to be, I am well aware that there are many things I just don’t know or understand. Could a stance of humility and curiosity – and, for me personally, a willingness to ask questions rather than play the part of quiet know-it-all – be a first step? My kids are very good at this; maybe I need to take some lessons from them.

I know what I don’t want: my hasty judgements, uncharitable speech, and “garden-variety exclusion” to prevent me from forming interesting, loving friendships with people whom my very limited imagination doesn’t recognize as good candidates for part of my community.

***

I just finished reading The Duty of Delight: The Diaries of Dorothy Day (how’s that for some alliteration). Over and over again Day prays that she will learn to control her tongue – to speak less, less hastily, and less critically. At the beginning of 1960 she writes:

This year I must strive for gentleness and listening–less talking, no passing judgements, no impatience. God help me.

And all I can say to that is, “Me too. Amen.”

Often when I consider Lenten reading, I turn towards spiritual classics or stories of the saints. Poetry, however, offers a meditative way to focus our minds and hearts on just what it is that we remember in this holy season. Herman Sutter’s Stations: A Poem Cycle and Nikki Grimes’ At Jerusalem’s Gate: Poems of Easter offer thoughtful re-imaginings of the events of Holy Week.

Stations: A Poem Cycle by Herman Sutter (Wiseblood Books) is a slim volume consisting of one poetic reflection for each of the stations of the cross. Shifting voices and forms keep the reader off-balance in a way that feels appropriate to the topic, and rich language begs for the sort or re-reading that facilitates reflection.

For example, “Station I: Pilate Condemns Jesus to Death” asks in Pilate’s voice, “Where is your throne?” The question is answered in part in “Station II: Jesus Accepts the Cross”: “Receive thy burnished throne; bear it away,/ thou silent king of all you survey.” This sort of linguistic and spiritual depth, with words and ideas sliding under the surface then reappearing a few poems later, pervades the entirety of the work. The different kinds and meanings of “silence” which these poems suggest would itself be a rich source of reflection.

Aimed at younger readers (the publishers recommend ages 10 and up), Nikki Grimes’ collection At Jerusalem’s Gate: Poems of Easter (Eerdmans Books for Young Readers) follows the Easter story from Christ’s entrance into Jerusalem through his encounter with his disciples on the road to Emmaus. She doesn’t shy away from the painful moments of the story, and reminds the reader that Easter only holds its full meaning if we recognize “the price Jesus paid…and that price included suffering on the way to the cross.” Rich with reflections and honest questions, At Jerusalem’s Gate is a book to share with older children as you enter into the mystery of Holy Week and Easter. 

“Evidence of Mercy” considers what was for me a new question: What must Malchus, the slave whose ear Peter cut off during Jesus’ arrest and whose wound Jesus healed, have thought of the crucifixion? Grimes gives Malchus a question that must have been in many other people’s minds. “[He] puzzled why/ one with such power/ would consent to die.” 

As if Grimes’ poetry weren’t powerful enough on their own, richly colored and moving woodcuts by David Frampton promise another way to enter into reflection on the events of Holy Week and Easter. At Jerusalem’s Gate may be intended for young readers, but its poems and images offer rich insights for Christians of any age.

If, as Plato (supposedly) suggests, “Poetry is nearer to vital truth than history,” then Stations and At Jerusalem’s Gate offer abundant opportunities to draw near the truth of our salvation this Lenten season.

At the start of October, I spent a weekend at the Catholic Imagination Conference hosted by the University of Dallas, and (though it has taken me an unconscionably long time to get started) I suspect it may be the topic of posts for the next several months as I unpack the many, many ideas I was exposed to over the two days of sessions. (It was a star-studded, tightly scheduled conference, so there’s a lot to unpack.)

One thing that struck me, as has been the case in other Catholic writing talks, essays, and conferences of my experience, was a bit of a doomsday view of our culture at large. (Though happily with the emergence of new small presses, journals, and National Book Award Winning-authors of a Catholic flavor, the laments of “Why aren’t there any more Flannerys?” seem to have died out a bit.)

By no means would I argue that our culture is flush with artistic expressions of the three transcendentals, but compare this distress to how Carey Wallace, author of The Blind Contessa’s New Machine (which I found rich and compelling), Stories of the Saints (which my kids love), and The Ghost in the Glass House (the first three chapters of which I have enjoyed to date), describes her thoughts on the “culture-making conversation” in her interview with Charlie Peacock:

…doomsday proclamations about the death of culture from both the right and left…seem blind to what I see as constant outbreaks of thoughtful culture from all kinds of unexpected quarters…

She continues:

I believe art doesn’t need to make an argument for itself, and that, outside of a small group of professionals whose livelihood depends on debate about the nature of art, everybody know this. One way or another, we all dance, sing, write, act. And when we’re done putting food on the table and a roof over our head, the first thing we do is reach for a book, turn on the radio, pick out a show. Art in all its forms is intimately connected with every aspect of all lives. We sing when people die. We dance when they get married. Even sports events and video games incorporate music, dance, images, theater. The things I make are only my participation in that constant, unstoppable swirl of creation. (emphasis added)

I, who hate conflict and always want everyone to get along, naturally prefer a middle ground, a nice Catholic “both/and” if you will. Art is not created in a vacuum, and thus an understanding of, engagement with, and (when appropriate) lamentation of the state of our culture at large can act as both a starting point and a stimulus for the creation of art. After all, it is difficult to enter into a conversation when one has not been listening. On the other hand, I believe it is wise not to spend so much time consuming (and, more particularly, lamenting) culture that little time is left for one’s own creative endeavors. Considering the saturation of our lives with media, and particularly digital media, this is a real danger.

If Wallace is correct, art doesn’t need our protection. It does, however, need our attention, as well as our intention to contribute beauty to our own cultures–whether they be as small as our own families or as large as the national literary scene. And I think we can all agree that the best way to create the culture we hope for is simply to create, and to create work that is so compelling in its truth, goodness, and beauty that it is nearly irresistible to viewers and auditors of goodwill, whatever their background or current creed.

It’s rare day in my life that I’m only reading one book at a time. In fact, I’m more likely to be reading a few too many at once. One advantage to this practice, however, is that sometimes books shine a light on each other that wouldn’t be as obvious if I had to remember all the details for months or years. But when the audiobook I’m listening to in the car mirrors a scene or an idea from the novel I’ve got on my nightstand, both take on a greater relevance and depth. Like wine and cheese or coffee and dessert, some books just bring out the best in each other.

Because of how interesting these relationships can be, I thought it would be fun to start a list of some the pairs I’ve stumbled across. I’d love for you to add your own epiphanic parings in the comments, and I hope this is a list that will keep growing in the future. Here are a few complementary titles to start with:

IN THIS HOUSE OF BREDE (Rumer Godden) & MARIETTE IN ECSTASY (Ron Hansen) — Two very different novels whose main characters are women entering convents. BREDE is one of my favorite novels; MARIETTE is not, but I felt the ending was so satisfying that it made it worth the read.

EGG AND SPOON (Gregory Maguire) & A GENTLEMAN IN MOSCOW (Amor Towles) — It’s the whimsy and the Russian setting that tie these two together. You might think there would be little room whimsy for a former noble under house arrest in his hotel (GENTLEMAN). You’d be wrong. But don’t let the light-hearted moments fool you – both these novels pack an emotional punch.

KRISTIN LAVRANSDATTER (Sigrid Undset) & TILL WE HAVE FACES (C.S. Lewis) & “The Sentimentality of William Tavener” (Willa Cather) — The stories in KRISTIN and FACES are very different on the surface, but the deeper themes of our fallen, broken experiences of love tie these two together. “Sentimentality” (a short story) has interesting things to say about long-lived marriages, especially next to KRISTIN.

JACK (Marilynne Robinson) & BORN A CRIME (Trevor Noah) — It’s been a while since I read Trevor Noah’s autobiography, but JACK feels like it could be written in his parents’ perspective. Though they’re set half a world apart, the books feel like two sides of the same coin. (On a side note, Marilynne Robinson’s whole GILEAD series deserves to be read as a group, I think. I still need to read LILA, but reading GILEAD and HOME back-to-back made both books feel richer than they did alone.

Christmas is almost here, and with the last week of Advent comes the frantic rush to finish buying and making Christmas gifts. Despite my best efforts, it seems like there are always one or two people (at least) who still have me stumped right into the week before Christmas.

Usually, it’s not the kids who create the difficulty. Little boys in particular are good at rejoicing over all kinds of toys, and thankfully all my kids love books. And then there is something about the way a child receives a present. Sometimes I am a little disheartened by the expectation that my children exude at Christmas: “I can’t wait for my presents!” and especially, right in the middle of Christmas morning, “Are there more?”

I think (I hope, anyway!) that there is something else going on here besides sheer selfishness. I hope that our children, for the most part, know that their parents, grandparents, and other friends and family love them, and often show that love by giving them good things. So even if I’d rather they seem a little less eager, it makes sense that they would expect many good things from the hands of their loved ones – their experience (again, for the most part!) has taught them that this is how life, and especially Christmas, works.

I just finished reading Marilynne Robinson’s Home for the first time, and when I finished it, I had to re-read its sister novel, Gilead. (Which I highly recommend doing during your Christmas break – read them both, back to back, in the order of your choice. They are rich separately, but magnificent together.) Anyway, as I was reading Gilead right at the beginning of Advent, one line stopped me cold: “But I hope you will put yourself in the way of the gift.” (Page 114, in case anyone is counting.)

Put yourself in the way of the gift. Robinson’s character, Reverend Ames, writes these words to his son, specifically about his faith and his acceptance of their church. He hopes his son will allow God to speak into his life, so that he can receive the gift of faith.

I think about our kids at Christmas time hanging around the decorated tree and the presents waiting under it. When an adult walks by, their eyes are uplifted and eager. Their hands are open, ready to receive whatever is offered. They are ready: they have put themselves “in the way of the gift.”

This is the posture we need to assume in the spiritual life as well, as Reverend Ames recognizes. We can’t accept whatever God has to give us with our hands in fists and our faces turned away; rather we must open our eyes, hands, and hearts to the Holy Infant like children around a Christmas tree, ready and eager for the gifts we know He desires to give us.

First of all, if you live in Lafayette Parish, please go vote “yes” for the library millage. If you’re wondering why, my own reasons are in this post and this post. Don’t worry – we’ll wait.

Now that you’ve done you civic duty, I have a couple of thoughts for you on the topic of community. First from Jayber Crow, by Wendell Berry:

“I have got to the age now where I can see how short a time we have to be here. And when I think about it, it can seem strange beyond telling that this particular bunch of us should be here on this little patch of ground in this little patch of time, and I can think of the other times and places I might have lived, the other kinds of man I might have been. But there is something else. There are moments when the heart is generous, and then it knows that for better or worse our lives are woven together here, one with one another and with the place and all the living things.”

I love that Berry uses “for better or worse,” borrowing language from a wedding ceremony. In Berry’s mind, our relationships to the people and place that make up our community resemble the commitments involved in marriage. When our hearts are “generous,” we recognize that there is, or at least ought to be, a mutual care between us and everyone and everything God has chosen to put in our lives each day. (I will refrain from pointing out how this could relate to public libraries.)

I also really enjoyed Susan Bigelow Reynolds’ article from Commonweal this week, “Going Gray,” also about aging and community – this time the communion of saints.

The nature and nurture of community is always buzzing in the background in my mind, but it’s come to the forefront lately. Several of my friends have been encouraging me to read Dedicated. The whole Commonweal magazine this month is focused on “Varieties of Religious Community.” And, to top it all off, my Bible reading has made its way to 1 Corinthians 12 – “many parts, one body” and the like.

I have no deep thoughts to add to any of this at the moment, but these kind of conjunctions always make me sit up and pay attention a little more. So much of the richness of faith, for me, comes from the people of the church, which makes sense, since the church is the Body of Christ. I’m grateful for all the ways I’ve been reminded of this this week.

Last week, I spent some time exploring the situation our local libraries are in and how we got here. This week, I’d like to continue the discussion by looking at some of the benefits a strong library system brings to our community — in other words, what we risk losing if the millage ultimately fails and the library loses the 38% of its budget those tax dollars represent.

I’ll put a nice long list of amenities the Lafayette Public Library provides towards the end of the post, but I’d like to start with something more personal. 

We’ve been homeschooling for roughly eight years now, and I can say with conviction that our homeschool could not function as it does — almost could not exist — without the public library. 

Last week when I took stock, we had over $1,000 worth of library materials (books and audiobooks) in our home. A good portion of those are “for fun” reading (which some of us call “building fluency”) but a good portion are also dedicated to learning new information. I recently returned a stack of books on Egypt. This year our assigned (library sourced) reading has also included a children’s version of Gilgamesh, Old Yeller, The Cricket in Times Square, books on ancient Mesopotamia and how energy works…the list goes on, and it’s barely November.

The point is, my husband is a school teacher, with a school teacher’s salary. I don’t really get paid to write. There is no way we could give our children the education they currently enjoy without our libraries, and we are grateful. We could be paying hundreds of dollars for the use of these “curriculum materials,” and it would still be a great deal. For the upcoming millage, we pay roughly $11. I couldn’t purchase any one of the books about Egypt for that price.

(There is a greater good here, as well — libraries are key to a strong democracy. Because they give everyone, regardless of their ability to pay, access to information, they lay the groundwork for an educated and involved public. This isn’t my idea — it was Ben Franklin’s. But to get back to our story…)

When we first moved to Acadiana, we lived in the wild Cajun prairie between Grand Coteau and Arnaudville. We soon learned that, despite our St. Landry Parish address, we could get a Lafayette Public Library card. The Sunset Community Library (St. Landry) was closer, but North Regional Library in Carencro was on the way to most of the places we went…and it had story time. Mrs. Anna, the children’s librarian, was pretty much my kids’ first friend in Acadiana. Every week I got four small children out of the trailer and into the magic of books, songs, sidewalk chalk, bubbles, and exploring the library. We didn’t have internet at home, so it was also my only computer time, and my only access to a printer. It’s hard to express what the library meant to us that year, but one word might sum it up: connection.

Again, once the library re-opened for drive-thru services after quarantine, it was one of the few options for entertainment at that time. I’d order books online (we did have internet by then, thankfully) and pick them up at the window, along with take-home crafts for the kids. We also, appropriately, borrowed the board game “Pandemic.” The librarians provided online story times and events to help parents cope and our community stay connected.

Which brings me to the promised long list of library services we risk losing if we don’t care for our libraries. There are the obvious things that can be checked out: books, music, movies, video games, board games, air quality monitors, musical instruments. Plus all the digital resources — magazines, books, newspapers, genealogy information, and research databases. And if our library doesn’t have a book, they will go out of their way to get it. Need an obscure book on life in Roman-occupied Israel? That’s what interlibrary loan is for.

There are the spaces open to all: meeting and study rooms available for reservation, a quiet place in a world that is noisy, a warm place in winter and a cool place in summer, a place where one is allowed to loiter in a world where people are often only welcome if they plan to spend money. Our churches are usually locked these days, but the library still provides a seat and a little rest for those with no where else to go.

There are the services: tax and legal and resume assistance programs, nutrition and exercise programs (some day I will make it to the Zumba class), literacy programs for children and adults, craft time and story time and speakers on all sorts of topics. My oldest two girls and I heard Ernest Gaines speak at our library a couple of years ago. When Lucy read A Lesson Before Dying in English this fall, she already had a connection to the author. That is priceless.

There is the equipment: access to computers, internet, and printers. In the Maker Spaces patrons can use sewing machines, sergers, 3-D printers, dye-cut machines, typewriters, and more.

And there is the community a library creates. Moms meet at story time and then schedule their own play dates. People meet at craft events and become friends; people meet at book clubs and learn from each other. 

If all this isn’t enough, libraries also mean good jobs and higher property values. Even if you never set foot in the library, you still benefit.

Some people in our community argue that these resources aren’t worth our tax dollars. I disagree. I think we should be hesitant to undervalue community, literacy, and an educated populace. As Catholics, we believe we have an obligation to develop the whole person towards holiness; our public libraries (rightly used, of course, but that is another very long post!) make the space and the resources available for people to do just that. If our goal is human flourishing, libraries are a step in the right direction.

All that said, the discussion circles around and ends where it began for me. For our family, the library, more than anything else, means books. Books mean stories. Stories are where we meet people like us, people unlike us, and ourselves. I believe in stories because I believe in the Word, and I believe one place in which we can encounter Him is in stories. So join me at the polls this coming Saturday, November 13, please, and support our community’s access to these stories.

I think everyone who knows us knows one thing about us: our family loves books. The bookshelves line the walls to the point that there’s no room to hang art. There are stacks by everyone’s desk, on everyone’s nightstand, and (often) in the van. Naturally, something else comes with our love of books: a love for our public library.

The Lafayette Public Library is at an inflection point. One of its two millages is on the ballot November 13 – a millage that represents 38% of the library system’s annual operating revenue. Normally, this kind of millage renewal is almost a given. The same sort of property tax is used to fund police, firefighters, parks, drainage, and other civil services. But in 2018, Lafayette learned that public support for libraries could not be taken for granted.

In 2018, a new PAC was formed – Citizens for a New Louisiana. The PAC spent upwards of $20,000, including a direct mailing to Lafayette Parish residents, arguing that the library system had too much money in reserve to need this millage renewal.

The voters agreed — at least, roughly 650 more voters agreed than disagreed, in an election that had only 8% voter turnout. The result was a $3.6 million budget cut for the libraries. 

If that weren’t enough, voters also pulled $10 million from the library’s reserve funds and rededicated it to drainage and parks. Then property values dropped in 2020, delivering another hit to the library’s budget. The Parish council voted to adjust a remaining millage to make up for the short fall, since the library has not been receiving the full 2 mills the voters awarded them in the first place, but Mayor-President Josh Guillory vetoed the proposal.

All of which means that the November 13 millage vote is truly make-or-break for our libraries.

Geoff Daily has a very clear run-down of the implications over at The Current, so I won’t go into all the details. But the important thing to know is that if this millage fails, some of our libraries will close. $4 million are on the line, and there is absolutely no way to save $4 million by cutting corners here and there. There are a couple of possible scenarios floating out there, but if you visit any branch other than Main, your favorite library is in danger.

This situation is especially depressing because of the steps Lafayette has taken to build its library system over the past twenty years. With the 2019 opening of West Regional Library in Scott, the city completed a project voters approved twenty years ago to renovate Main and build four regional libraries. Our system, in fact, was awarded the James O. Modisette Award for Public Libraries in 2020, recognizing the improvements made in the libraries’ service to the community. That’s the highest honor the Louisiana Library Association can give to a public library system. 

It would be a shame to throw away the work of the past two decades, work that has made Lafayette Public Libraries one of the premier systems in the state, because the citizens of Lafayette don’t want to contribute $20 per year per household.

Wait – what? You can see for yourself. The Library has set up a calculator to estimate how much property tax a household will pay for this millage. 

Our family pays $11.96 a year. Less than $2 a person.

To put that in perspective, one picture book costs roughly $17 these days. I gathered up all the library books in our house (that I could find – you know how that is!) and added up the total. We have $1,011 worth of library materials in our home at this moment. And since that’s not counting computer and printer access, programming, digital checkouts, take-home crafts, and use of the space (a couple of hours a month, at least), and assistance from librarians, I think we’re getting our money’s worth.

There are many more reasons you should vote to fund our libraries…but I don’t want to try my dear readers’ patience with a longer blog post. So I plan to finish this conversation next week. If you don’t already love your library enough to make you put up some home-made “Save Our Libraries” yard signs, hopefully next week’s post will convince you that you should.

I’ve read a good bit of Wendell Berry’s writing in the past, but most of my focus was on his essays. The Unsettling of America, which I think I could still find blindfolded in the Jones Creek Library in Baton Rouge, formed the way I think about culture and the land. On the other hand, I had read one of his novels a few years ago (I can’t remember now it if was Hannah Coulter or Nathan Coulter) and found it a little slow.

My tastes in fiction seem to have grown up a bit since then.

Lucy’s godparents gave her a copy of Fidelity, which includes five of Berry’s short stories. It interested me, of course, because his writing is always beautiful, but it was the fact that “Pray Without Ceasing” was chosen for our book club that got me to take it up and read.

And after reading one story, I had to read the other four. The the prose could probably be called “quiet,” and there are no explosions or car chases in these pages, yet I didn’t want to put the book down. Furthermore, I can honestly say that this is the first book in a long time that so severely tempted me to read it again. Immediately.

I’ll admit that there were a couple of spots where the dialogue felt a little preachy, but I’m willing to forgive that. “A Jonquil for Mary Penn” was heartwarming. I could absolutely relate to the title character’s struggles: “…she felt herself a part without counterpart, a mere fragment of something unknown, dark and broken off.” I think we’ve all had a day when we feel abandoned, and that nothing we do, even if it would usually bring us joy, is worth anything. It’s a loneliness that I fear is all too common.

“Fidelity,” the title story, is a page-turner wrapped around some of the most beautiful nature writing I’ve ever read. “Are You Alright?” cuts to the heart of our love and care for our neighbors, without omitting all the self-consciousness that complicates those relationships. And “Making It Home” explores all the little bits of life that we miss when we’re gone, or don’t realize we missed until we get back.

Throughout the stories, of course, Berry touches on the themes of so much of his writing: community, the land, and the intersection of the two. For all their faults (and it’s clear that Berry’s characters have their share of them) the people of Port William care for each other. Their relationships are beautifully complicated, and exceedingly rich. Only Jack Beecham could calm Mat’s rage, because only Jack Beecham had been there with him since he was a boy and knew him well enough to react to him by instinct.

Fidelity doesn’t just take its name from the longest story it contains; fidelity is the theme of the whole. These stories overflow with scenes of how we could care for each other, and perhaps how we ought to care for each other. In the story “Fidelity,” the people who knew Burley Coulter best circle their wagons, so to speak, to care for him. Their brand of care doesn’t make much sense to those outside of Port William, those who hadn’t spent decades knowing and loving “Uncle Burley.” And that, I believe, is precisely the point.

Most likely I’ve said nothing here that someone else hasn’t noted earlier and more eloquently. But that doesn’t make it any less timely. Berry writes about a lost world – and how much more the world has changed since Fidelity was published in 1992 – a world where people survive by working the land side by side and checking in on each other, the same neighbors, the same second cousins, for their entire lives. It has an air of utopia to me, in a generation whose main objective often seems to be to forget its roots. Berry describes the kind of care and relationship we now try to create with prayer groups and book clubs, intentional communities and even social media. We know deep down that something is missing, and try to create it from scratch. Berry’s characters are steeped in it, and if they feel they’ve faltered in their obligations it keeps them awake at night. I don’t remember ever losing sleep because I hadn’t signed up on someone’s meal train yet.

Cajuns are famous (at least in Cajun country, which is the only country I can speak for these days) for the way they band together in times of crisis. We’ve seen it first hand, of course, in the months after Jacob was born – our community literally carried us through those days – and it will be much needed in South Louisiana in the coming months. But I think what Berry has put his finger on is something different, not a willingness to rise to the big challenge, but a daily awareness of the hearts of those around you. A sort of attention that notices both the habits of the spiders and the worry in a neighbor’s face.

“But [Jack] put his eye on Mat, not willing yet to trust him entirely to himself, and waited.” So much of these stories is about watching and waiting. Maybe more than anything, Fidelity encourages us to look, to “put an eye on” what is happening around us, both in woods and in people’s hearts, so that when the opportunity to care for each other arises, we don’t miss it.

I came across this passage in one of Dorothy Day’s monthly columns for the Catholic Worker paper the other day, written when she was staying with her daughter before the birth of her third grandchild:

“It has been a month of ‘ice, rains, snow and stormy winds,’ and every morning after the routine of fires, breakfasts and dressing has taken place, Becky, Susie and I rock in the wicker chair and sing, ‘All ye works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord; oh ye ice and snow, oh ye cold and wind, oh ye winter and summer, oh ye trees in the woods, oh ye fire in the stove, oh ye Becky and Susie, bless ye the Lord, praise Him and magnify Him forever.’ It is a song with infinite variations. You can include Mr. Clark’s cows, Leslie’s horses, the Hennessy goats, and all the human beings for miles around…What are we here for anyway except to praise Him, to adore Him and to thank Him? … and there is plenty to remind us of that in the country.”

-Dorothy Day, On Pilgrimage (in the CW paper – not the book) March 1948

We have our own verses to add lately. (Because of course you don’t have to be in the country to come up with more.)

Swallowtails and zinnias, bless the Lord.

Sprouts and seedlings, bless the Lord.

And as Hurricane Ida gets here, it will be winds and rains, bless the Lord. Fortissimo.

It’s a good reminder: we aren’t on Earth just to work and to suffer, we are here to praise God. Last week our praise (besides morning prayer) included our school work and dance and play-doh and some spent-grain bread; next week I expect it will include fallen-limb removal.

The pre-hurricane preparations are finished, except for the boards for the picture window, which we’ll do tonight. And then comes the waiting. And we get to be reminded just how small and not in control we are.