The Stories I Tell Myself

Our friend Mark contributed this for our "fate" theme.

The Stories I Tell Myself

Just the other day, while running, I saw a cardinal. I knew it was a cardinal; that red is unmistakable. That red is brighter than a fire engine. The kind of red that reminds you of lip stick, Corvettes, China. It all happened so fast. I was running and then there it was, on the sidewalk, one wing outspread. Then I saw its head, haphazardly displaced a few feet away. Like a discarded clown nose after a birthday party. Absurd and horrifying. I winced, of course. I wince every time. Squirrels, deer, even raccoons. Snakes make me jump. I told myself a story. Dead on impact; the usual lines. But questions remain. Like, "How did its head get separated from its body like that?" and "Is red more beautiful now than before?" Lately, falling asleep has been easier. I count backwards from a thousand. I don't say "nine hundred and ninety-nine." I say "nine ninety-nine, nine ninety-eight, nine ninety seven..." Either it works or I get distracted and start telling myself a story. No matter the story, sleep is the ending. I drive a lot for my job. Close to five-hundred miles a week. I complain sometimes but driving is my practice. I see and think in relative motion. I try my best to avoid phone calls and I only text when the parking break is on. One must follow the rules. I listen to radio news. I gather facts. I look at clouds. I get irritated by teenagers. I turn my head for boys in Audis but that's a different story. My job takes me to the outskirts. It's where I grew up. A little bit country, a little bit suburbia. Country clubs. Hidden driveways. Lots of yellow signs. Some public, some private. Some depicting jumping deer. Like I said, I wince. I've seen roadkill before. Who hasn't? But I didn't see her at first. No, she "came out of nowhere" as the saying defends. I became fixated on her gleaming white tail. It all happened so fast. Fast and hard towards the silver SUV which I'd graciously let pass before turning into its wake. It was a 55mph zone. The driver - I saw the her hair in profile - was easily approaching 70. I tried not to judge. I've replayed this sequence hundreds of times. Images in motion stay in motion. It all happened so fast. It was absurd; a cartoon crash and flip. She landed in the ditch. She tried to stand up, to run away. She couldn't. God only knows the damage inside. Broken bones. Internal bleeding. I drove past the stopped SUV; the driver inside held her head in her hands. My window was cracked. I felt a breeze, heard birds singing. I glanced into the rear view mirror. Her body writhed but her head stayed steady. Poise, I thought. I started to cry. I was running late. What could I do? Two days later, I told my therapist I was afraid of dying alone. It was a bullshit line. I won't die alone. No matter the circumstance, I know that truth. What I should have said was that I am afraid of dying in fear. I went back. I had to. The SUV was gone. So was the doe. Just a tuft of white in the grass. I imagined a gun. I imagined irises. I don't know what you tell yourself at night. I won't ask. I've come this far. I know a thing or two. I know that we're all headed towards something. They say the sun is a star. Like all stories, there's a beginning, middle, and an end. And I am comforted.

Fate

Greetings, all.

Here's my post on fate. This is the first 500 words; I wrote over 1,000, and might post the rest later. For now, this.

Fate was an interesting topic to ponder, especially because Kelly and I have such different takes on it. For her, fate is a dealbreaker; it's as unspeakable as inadequate Christology. For me, fate is after-the-fact perspective. I don't really trust fate or believe in fate; what I do believe is that, as my mother says, God gets you where you're supposed to be.

When I think about all the changes and movements of my life, what I see is not fate but opportunity. Recently I was speaking to a friend about the delicacy of timing: How do we know when it's time to let go or cling? To pursue or retreat? To stick our necks out or be still? As I ponder my life, I'm amazed at the opportunities that have come to me. And they've all come at the right time.

I've no reason to think the future will be any different. Perhaps that's trusting in fate.

At least my Christology is adequate.

Peace,

LLM

***

I made my first trip to Minnesota in January of my senior year of high school. The college counselor thought that the College of Saint Benedict would be the perfect place for me to study. I had spent my whole life in Kansas City, Missouri; I liked it there and wanted to stay somewhat close. At the same time, I was attracted by the adventure and possibility that a place like Minnesota could hold. The school, a women’s college partnered with a men’s university several miles away, sounded like a great fit for me: rigorous academics, strong and sound theology, valued women’s intellect and contribution to the world. The only problem was that it was five hundred miles from home.

Despite the distance, mom and I decided to make the drive. One can’t say no to an opportunity without being fully informed of the decision being made. When we hit hour eight of nine, Neil Diamond was singing “Both Sides Now.” We had just gotten in to Minneapolis and a steady snowfall was coming down around us. I began to cry. Mom navigated the fairly stressful driving conditions and managed to ask why I decided now was a good time to start freaking out.

“I can’t do this,” I said. “There’s no way I can be this far from home.”

“Should we turn around?” she asked.

“No,” I told her. “Let’s go see it. But I’m not coming here!”

Knowing that I wouldn’t be attending the school that coming autumn, the tour was fairly relaxed. We saw the college campus, marveled at the dorms that were connected by tunnels, saw the library and campus ministry offices. All this in the bitter cold with nearly a foot of snow on the ground. As part of the tour, mom and I went to Saint John’s University, the men’s campus that is partnered with Saint Ben’s. Saint John’s is home of the School of Theology, a well-respected graduate school and seminary. I remember nothing of the tour of the Saint John’s campus but our leaving. We headed toward the interstate, the abbey’s bell banner filling the rear window, and I said to mom, “Well, I’m not coming for undergrad, but maybe I’ll get my master’s here.”

***

Early in my junior year of college I contacted the admissions director for the School of Theology at Saint John’s. He knew a friend of mine in Atchison who also taught at the SOT. Sister Irene, a member of the women’s religious community that cosponsored the college I attended, stopped me one day as I was heading to the chapel for prayer. “I hear you’ve been talking to Mr. Duffy,” she said, smiling.

“Yes, I have. How did you find out?”

“He called a few days ago asking if I might know a certain young woman who was looking at coming to Saint John’s. When he said it was you, I laughed and told him I know you very well. We need to talk about Saint John’s some day!”

Not long after that Irene and I had a three-hour conversation about Saint John’s—her experiences as a student and a teacher, her friendships with the monks, her sense that it would be a wonderful place for me.

I left her office determined to study at Saint John’s.

This necessitated another trip north. Again, mom came with me. Again, I was nervous about the distance. But this time there was more excitement than trepidation. We met with professors, sat in on some classes, dined with students, and wandered around the campus. Immediately I knew I was home, that this would be the place for me to study.

And so it proved.

Understanding A Car Crash

This week's theme: Fate

Somewhat recently, Lauren was editing a paper I wrote. She left the following comment in the margin: I hope you never have any reason to criticize my theology. You're brutal.

When I asked her, later, what she meant by this she told me that I wasn't wishy-washy in my critiques of other theologians. I am almost completely intolerant of what I view as inadequate theology. I take my position and defend it strongly.

It wasn't until recently that I discovered how much this aspect of my theological life spills over into my regular life. I had a social engagement in March and the topic of fate came up. He is a great believer in fate and destiny (Are they the same thing? He seemed to imply that they aren't.) and how people are destined to come into one another lives.

"Bullshit." I responded.

"I'm sorry?"

"Bullshit."

The conversation that followed grew increasingly tense and heated. He kept claiming that fate is inexorable. We owed our very friendship to fate. I contended that belief in fate is a major character flaw. It is, in fact, a dealbreaker when it comes to relationships in my life. Believing in fate is a blunt refusal to take responsibility for one's own choices and actions in the world. You are no longer accountable for the people you hurt, the jobs you screw up, the small triumphs in your life. They are nothing more than the universe's will. It is the ultimate test of immaturity in another person.

We haven't spoken since. Perhaps it was not meant to be.

***

Understanding a Car Crash

I was baking a cake and realized that we were out of butter. The grocery store is right through the alley, so I pulled one of your shirts off the clothesline and buttoned it over my camisole and jeans. It smelled like expensive laundry soap and sunshine. It was a warm May day was filled with the sound of bees humming in the lilies of the valley and lilacs. My neighbor drove past in a newly restored '69 Mustang, a car I've been coveting since I moved into this house. He was listening to something loud, I think it was the Eagles. There was a warbler building a nest in the trees. I was thinking about the cake I was baking, worried the frosting wouldn't set. The sun was so bright I wished I had thought to grab my sunglasses, even for this brief walk through the alley. Thinking about it now, the sunny silence of the morning shattered, it must have been terribly bright--why else would that glossy black car have missed seeing the golden retreiver wander into his lane, causing him to swerve suddenly into oncoming traffic, then crumple into a rainbow of broken glass and chrome.