Today I had the sort of reading day that made me wish I could resign all of my jobs and do nothing all day but pore through books with a pen, notebook, and everlasting coffee pot, thinking about things and trying to figure them out. There simply isn't time enough from sun-up to sun-down to think all of the glorious thoughts one could think. Add to that a lovely wife and a giggling baby boy, and a wild outside world with winds and trees and mysterious places, and it feels something like vertigo. The world is too much with us.
This Lawrence E. Lynch (has anyone ever heard of him?) book I'm reading on Aquinas is quite good. He's so far addressing the question whether Aquinas' philosophy can be taken seriously as philosophy, given that he was foredetermined in a particular religious worldview. So far he's demonstrated quite brilliantly how Aquinas defined knowledge, being, and science. It seems authentic to Aquinas, and shows convincingly how his Enlightenment critics were at futile cross-purposes. Here are two insights worth repeating:
1) Aquinas' method depended on carefully distinguishing the various ways in which truth can exist in the human reason (Some truths being of faith, others of knowledge, others of demonstration, and sometimes the same truth by different ways to different people)
2) What anything is (it's essence, as man's individual humanity) is real only because a unique act of existing makes the individual real.
This simultaneously explains the construction habens esse and answers Sartre and Russell.
In Lynch's praise, he translates Aquinas into English with admirable clarity. Against him, though this is true of nearly every scholarly philosophical work, his own writing is dull and dense...most of the time. Sometimes it astounds me, as it did on my drive home today, that there can be boring things in the same world as Elephants and mandolins and Venus fly-traps.
Also, I've sat on my last post for a good week wondering whether I'm right to leave it up or not. I haven't taken it down yet, and I think I will leave it up with the further disclaimer that I know what a deeply personal issue it can be. I'm probably the last person who has any right to say a word about it. Still, if that word can be heard, let it sound compassionate.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Image and Shape
I'm continually surprised by women. I'm mostly surprised by one woman, but that's because she's so surprising I don't really have the power to pay attention to any more. For example, I used to think that the male-female roles came down to us from ancient times by necessity. The cave people, I reasoned, must have apportioned the tasks of hunting, building, and making war to the men because men are physically larger, stronger, and tougher; it would follow quite naturally that women would tend to home and hearth, being of a generally smaller and more fragile stature.
Then I watched my wife give birth. I am no longer under any illusions about men being tougher than women. I don't know why the men were sent off to war and the women kept the infants in the ancient tribes, but it certainly wasn't because the women were too delicate.
The modern woman is also a strong and marvelous creature, but she thinks, I am now realizing, far more about her weight than I ever suspected. Women say they are thinking about their weight, but that actually means very little. A person's weight for them is really a shorthand way of talking about their shape, and they are deeply and almost frighteningly concerned about that. I notice my shape about twice a day, once in the morning when I put my clothes on and then again in the evening when I change into pajamas. Most of the women I know think about their shape nearly constantly. It's something like the "ticker" at the bottom of the screen on ESPN or CNN, and it's attached inseparably to the habits of dress, eating, and sex.
Now, when some idea is joined so strongly to dress, food, and sex, I think it's safe to call it a religious idea, and the present concern for shape can appropriately be described as a cult. Of course women (and men) have always been concerned about their shape, just as they've always been concerned for their health and hairline and smell. There's nothing unnatural in that. The concern becomes a cult when every meal eaten is publicly prefaced with either an "I know this is bad for my waistline, but such-and-such reason for eating it" or "This is surprisingly healthy and I commend myself for eating food that helps my shape." A mild vanity becomes an identifying ritual when all my female co-workers gather for a Bible Study on Tuesday nights and a Weight Watchers meeting on Wednesday nights. When clothing is judged by how well it flatters, conceals, and accentuates without a thought of whether it warms or cools, and when measurements have nothing to do with fitting comfortably and become abstract benchmarks of how successful a shape you are, you may have joined the Cult of the Shape.
Two things must be said here: First, that this is by no means some odd feminine practice which men have nothing to do with. We are just as involved with what the words "attractive" or "beautiful" mean as they are. These words have meant different things to different ages, but they have always been determined by both sexes. Second, as far as vanities go, I'd much prefer the person who is a little too fussy about her shape to the person who is a little too fussy about how important or intelligent or perfect a parent she is. As far as prides go, this one isn't so bad to be around.
I do, however, think this ought to be addressed. For one thing, it's a perfectly healthy phenomenon for a woman to look very differently at 63 and 43 than she does at 23. God made young ladies spectacularly lovely, but trying to stay 23 forever is a strange, expensive, and ultimately futile project. My wife has received more praise on her beauty over the past few months than ever before, not because of anything she's done to improve her shape, but simply because her body returned itself to its prenatal shape almost immediately after giving birth. And of course, she is gorgeous. But she isn't being complimented on that, she's being complimented on overcoming the destructive force of childbirth, which many women are unable to do. J tells me that she is secretly relieved herself, and that this was a concern about her pregnancy.
Since the mass distribution of the camera and the screen, we have come to think of ourselves as images in a way that no other people before us have. If I were to ask a man to think of himself catching the game winning touchdown pass in the Superbowl, or a woman to picture herself receiving an award at a fancy dinner, neither would think of themselves in "first-person," as they would actually experience the event, should it happen to them. They would assume the camera, and see themselves in "third person," being videotaped in their mind's eye.
Facebook has removed the image one step further from the pre-photographic culture, by placing one's identity in a editable portfolio of carefully selected images. Having the great misfortune of working with teenagers, I've heard them refer to their Facebook pages as themselves on several occasions. They are liked, approved, and commended where their consciousness resides, which is not in flesh and blood, but in electronic images!
It isn't hard at all to see how a cult of image and shape could grow so quickly in these circumstances. What can we do? I can be very thankful, first of all, that I had a son first. Second, we can appreciate youthful beauty--let's not pretend it doesn't exist, and that very powerfully--but call it for what it is, which is of course ephemeral and of secondary importance to domestic happiness. Third, we can give our sisters and wives every opportunity to know they are loved for who they are, and not what they look like, and we can refuse to adjudicate any other woman's value by their shape or lack of it. What a sad and desperate thing it must be to be a 60-something year old woman who stakes her self-worth is a shape that she can't and shouldn't ever be again, denying herself every pleasure of food and clothing in order to twist back to it, and even--this is frightening, but I've heard it more than once--praying to God that he would intervene in the matter. If I've come across as glib throughout, I apologize. I know that this is a deeply personal issue, and it has to be dealt with for our grandmothers as well as for our daughters.
I think today especially of my sister M, who turned 16 yesterday and is blooming now into the splendor of her loveliness. For the next 10 or 15 years she'll be the envy of many women and the desire of many boys. (Boys, beware--she has five older brothers.) Then she'll begin to age and have children, and the beauty that is so easy for her now will need to be kept up, and then even fought for. I hope she knows now and then that what makes her so remarkable are her inner charms. Her patience, maturity, and tender heart are rare and precious. She is beloved by her niece and nephew, and each of her older brothers are chained to her with a powerful love, her being their only sister and the baby of the family. She is her Father and Mother's delight. I can't imagine that she would ever evaluate her identity and her personhood--the whole robust collection of wonders and virtues which she is--based on the silly and fleeting shape she sees in the mirror. Much love to her and to all women, all of you ex imagine Dei.
Then I watched my wife give birth. I am no longer under any illusions about men being tougher than women. I don't know why the men were sent off to war and the women kept the infants in the ancient tribes, but it certainly wasn't because the women were too delicate.
The modern woman is also a strong and marvelous creature, but she thinks, I am now realizing, far more about her weight than I ever suspected. Women say they are thinking about their weight, but that actually means very little. A person's weight for them is really a shorthand way of talking about their shape, and they are deeply and almost frighteningly concerned about that. I notice my shape about twice a day, once in the morning when I put my clothes on and then again in the evening when I change into pajamas. Most of the women I know think about their shape nearly constantly. It's something like the "ticker" at the bottom of the screen on ESPN or CNN, and it's attached inseparably to the habits of dress, eating, and sex.
Now, when some idea is joined so strongly to dress, food, and sex, I think it's safe to call it a religious idea, and the present concern for shape can appropriately be described as a cult. Of course women (and men) have always been concerned about their shape, just as they've always been concerned for their health and hairline and smell. There's nothing unnatural in that. The concern becomes a cult when every meal eaten is publicly prefaced with either an "I know this is bad for my waistline, but such-and-such reason for eating it" or "This is surprisingly healthy and I commend myself for eating food that helps my shape." A mild vanity becomes an identifying ritual when all my female co-workers gather for a Bible Study on Tuesday nights and a Weight Watchers meeting on Wednesday nights. When clothing is judged by how well it flatters, conceals, and accentuates without a thought of whether it warms or cools, and when measurements have nothing to do with fitting comfortably and become abstract benchmarks of how successful a shape you are, you may have joined the Cult of the Shape.
Two things must be said here: First, that this is by no means some odd feminine practice which men have nothing to do with. We are just as involved with what the words "attractive" or "beautiful" mean as they are. These words have meant different things to different ages, but they have always been determined by both sexes. Second, as far as vanities go, I'd much prefer the person who is a little too fussy about her shape to the person who is a little too fussy about how important or intelligent or perfect a parent she is. As far as prides go, this one isn't so bad to be around.
I do, however, think this ought to be addressed. For one thing, it's a perfectly healthy phenomenon for a woman to look very differently at 63 and 43 than she does at 23. God made young ladies spectacularly lovely, but trying to stay 23 forever is a strange, expensive, and ultimately futile project. My wife has received more praise on her beauty over the past few months than ever before, not because of anything she's done to improve her shape, but simply because her body returned itself to its prenatal shape almost immediately after giving birth. And of course, she is gorgeous. But she isn't being complimented on that, she's being complimented on overcoming the destructive force of childbirth, which many women are unable to do. J tells me that she is secretly relieved herself, and that this was a concern about her pregnancy.
Since the mass distribution of the camera and the screen, we have come to think of ourselves as images in a way that no other people before us have. If I were to ask a man to think of himself catching the game winning touchdown pass in the Superbowl, or a woman to picture herself receiving an award at a fancy dinner, neither would think of themselves in "first-person," as they would actually experience the event, should it happen to them. They would assume the camera, and see themselves in "third person," being videotaped in their mind's eye.
Facebook has removed the image one step further from the pre-photographic culture, by placing one's identity in a editable portfolio of carefully selected images. Having the great misfortune of working with teenagers, I've heard them refer to their Facebook pages as themselves on several occasions. They are liked, approved, and commended where their consciousness resides, which is not in flesh and blood, but in electronic images!
It isn't hard at all to see how a cult of image and shape could grow so quickly in these circumstances. What can we do? I can be very thankful, first of all, that I had a son first. Second, we can appreciate youthful beauty--let's not pretend it doesn't exist, and that very powerfully--but call it for what it is, which is of course ephemeral and of secondary importance to domestic happiness. Third, we can give our sisters and wives every opportunity to know they are loved for who they are, and not what they look like, and we can refuse to adjudicate any other woman's value by their shape or lack of it. What a sad and desperate thing it must be to be a 60-something year old woman who stakes her self-worth is a shape that she can't and shouldn't ever be again, denying herself every pleasure of food and clothing in order to twist back to it, and even--this is frightening, but I've heard it more than once--praying to God that he would intervene in the matter. If I've come across as glib throughout, I apologize. I know that this is a deeply personal issue, and it has to be dealt with for our grandmothers as well as for our daughters.
I think today especially of my sister M, who turned 16 yesterday and is blooming now into the splendor of her loveliness. For the next 10 or 15 years she'll be the envy of many women and the desire of many boys. (Boys, beware--she has five older brothers.) Then she'll begin to age and have children, and the beauty that is so easy for her now will need to be kept up, and then even fought for. I hope she knows now and then that what makes her so remarkable are her inner charms. Her patience, maturity, and tender heart are rare and precious. She is beloved by her niece and nephew, and each of her older brothers are chained to her with a powerful love, her being their only sister and the baby of the family. She is her Father and Mother's delight. I can't imagine that she would ever evaluate her identity and her personhood--the whole robust collection of wonders and virtues which she is--based on the silly and fleeting shape she sees in the mirror. Much love to her and to all women, all of you ex imagine Dei.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Image, Symbol, and Idol
One of the projects I’ve been engaged in recently is a commentary on the book of Romans with my father-in-law, brother-in-law, and wife, exploring the book verse by verse for one theological reason, but finding, of course, a wealth of topics unrelated to our original purposes. In reading Romans 1 I was struck for the first time how important the sin of idolatry is to all Paul writes about the pagan Gentiles in vv.18-32. If you’d asked me six years or even six months ago whether there was any special significance to idolatry over and against any other sin in Paul’s argument I probably wouldn’t have seen anything. If there was a charge of special importance, I probably would have thought it vv. 24-27, with idolatry being something of an undesirable norm for the pagans in the way that slight speeding and overeating are for Americans.
Yet on this re-reading it struck me how in Paul’s theology and in the structure of his argument pagan idolatry is the arch-sin, the sin which leads vv. 24-27. This is not because idolatry is bad for you but it can lead to something worse; rather, 24-27 is both the consequence and the judicial sentence of idolatry: humanity lost. Or to put it another way, the imago Dei drive into exile.
In typically Pauline fashion, his syllogistic philosophy evokes the Israel story. I long failed to understand in my reading of the Old Testament why idolatry was so gravely important. Israel might be full of murder, adultery, and oppression, but it was always idolatry that called down judgment, and somehow these other sins were all expressed in the language of idolatrous unfaithfulness. The people are idolatrous and the glory is taken from the temple; the people are idolatrous and receive ignominious defeat at the hands of their enemies; the people are idolatrous and forfeit their inheritance, ultimately led off into exile. In Romans 1, this pattern is echoed powerfully in Paul’s indictment of Pagan humanity’s failure.
Perhaps this shouldn’t be surprising, since every vice can be somehow expressed as a form of idolatry—little bronze statues aren’t required. Chesterton speaks somewhere of how most religious error is preferring the symbol of something over the reality which that symbol represents. For example, a man prefers the image of the cross over the divine mercy of which the cross is a symbol, and he takes a sword to his enemies. He prefers the image of the hymnal over the praise to which the hymnal is an aid, and is no longer able to open his mouth. He prefers money itself, which is just green paper and metal discs, over the healthy things which money ought to represent, like wine and horses. The image of a woman is loved more than the love of a woman, and the image of one’s self is nurtured more carefully than the virtue, manner, and health which actually is one’s self. In advocating the realities of things over their images, I begin to sound like a Platonist!
It was Neil Postman who first pointed out to me how apart from all the other ancient peoples, the Jews alone did not depict their God, and even received specific instructions—over Thou Shalt Not Murder and many others more important—that they were not to do so. First came monotheism, and then the imagelessness of God, of which they were so respectful that they would neither write down nor speak Yahweh’s name.
The creator God would not be symbolized, imaged, or depicted in something created.
Remembering this truth helps one to realize afresh how spectacular the incarnation is, for after thousands of years of keeping—albeit with various success—this commandment, God finally acts for his people, and in doing so, he gives them the long withheld image. In other words, Jesus fulfills the second commandment, for now there is an image of Israel’s God, and he is come down form Galilee.
In light of this, I’m afraid that Protestantism might have been overhasty in reacting against the rich iconography of the Roman and Eastern churches. Yes, there is of course a danger in such ornate images, but there is also a danger in lack of images. Jesus came, and he was seen by men. There must be some way, and I’m very much open for suggestions, on how we can celebrate the way in which God’s image was uniquely revealed in him without slipping into pseudo-paganism on the one hand, or on the other hand preferring the barren ugliness of Protestant churches.
There’s much more to be said, from Plato to Wittgenstein—whose work I’ve recently started on—about the relation of real things to the symbols we use to represent them. This conversation not only includes images, but is deeply concerned with language. This probably means that it’s getting beyond me and it’s time for me to start writing about classical music again.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Baeckeoffe and Grugeres
We've been listening to an awful lot of the Ratatouille soundtrack, and were in the mood for French food. Bless you, Wegmans!
Monday, February 6, 2012
On Fathers
James D Bear lives on Washington Street in the nursery. He is growing longer every day, and his parents have just arranged to have him baptized in March. It wasn't a decision made lightly, and J and I had to find each other from opposing camps. I think it will merit its own entry when the time comes.
Tonight, Monday night, is my time alone with James Bear. J has orchestra rehearsal from 7-9:30, so I give him a bottle and put him to bed. I worry sometimes that James doesn't see enough of me. Several days a week I'm out the door before he's up and I don't return until he's been put to bed for the night. It isn't unusual for Monday night to be the last time he sees me until Thursday afternoon. It would be even worse if J had to work as well, but she can stay home with him, and he loves his Mom beautifully. I'm sure he knows who I am, but I worry when I go several days without seeing him. (Sometimes I'll try to get up in the night if I know I'll be gone all day to see him at his feeding)
I have a marvelous father. He's kept five sons from killing each other for over twenty years, and he's a devoted husband, a small business owner, and a pillar of his church. He is, moreso than any other man I've known, a bringer of peace. He is patient and humble enough to swallow whatever pride he has of his own, and to do what's best for everyone. This is how he's been the worship coordinator for years at our church, and how a household of five boys survived itself. I can't remember the last time he raised his voice or even showed a flicker of a temper. He indulges the foolish strong opinions of others when that's what is best for them, and if that isn't the right thing to do he has a way of correcting you gently. He's so wise he hardly knows it, and he loves his grandchildren now in the same abundance of affection I remember poured out on his own sons and daughter.
My father-in-law is also a maker of peace. Despite his profound theological learning and gift for eloquence, his primary role in his church is as a reconciler and voice of calm. Were I able to speak so easily and hold so much sway, I'd hardly be able to resist throwing my voice against any opposition as I pushed my own theological and organizational agenda. My father-in-law counsels the hotheaded, is patient with error, and always defers to what's best for those around him.
My fathers don't just get along with those around them. Wherever they go they create comfort, calm, and trust. Their trustworthiness is a fragrance, and neither asks for anything in return. Being their son is easy.
Tonight I sat the James Bear on my lap as I put some soup in the microwave. It was a delicious Italian soup J adopted from an Olive Garden date, and I put it in for four minutes so it might be piping hot. James is always happiest with his mother, but he was playing well with me tonight. It's a remarkable thing, how powerfully motherhood sets in. If I ever slipped on the ice and fell while holding James, I would hope that in the split second I had to react, I would overcome my instinctive reaction to brace myself, and would fall in a way that would protect James instead. If J slipped on the ice with James, there wouldn't even be a question of "reacting" to protect him. Her instincts have changed. She loves him and nurtures him as naturally as she breathes, and he knows it. It's why her arms are the safest place in the world for him.
I took the soup out of the microwave and leaned over the table, so I wouldn't drip anything on the little bear bouncing on my knee. I leaned near the bowl and had a few sips. It was piping hot, and delicious. Then I dropped my spoon into the bowl, and the scalding broth splattered directly into my open eye. It felt like I'd been stung by a bee. The soup (which really was delicious) was loaded with hot peppers and salt, and I could hardly see as I staggered up and towards the bathroom. I set James down on his blanket with one eye pinched painfully closed, and then raced upstairs as he began to cry in shock and surprise.
I took my contacts lenses out, and tried to squeeze saline solution into my eye. Eventually I gave up on that and just started splashing cold water onto my face, trying to hold my eye open with one hand and cupping water with the other, James howling downstairs all the while. I started to be able to open my right eye again after a few minutes, and, red and swollen though it was, I was able to think about my son again. He was more frightened than anything else, and it took him a good several minutes of snuggling and whispering to calm him down again.
We had a good half-hour playing with toys. (Even though his rattle gives him a start, I think he likes it.) We were having a grand time on the floor before his bath. We try to bathe him every other night, and I'd made up my mind to give him a big boy bath tonight, which we'd never tried on our own before. I read him a story (The Cat in the Hat) on his changing table, and then stripped him down and took him, the bare little bear, into the bathroom. Sometimes when we change settings all of a sudden he gets upset, and this was one of those times.
I had laid him out on his towel as I checked the temperature of his water, and all of a sudden I heard him truly, truly crying. It isn't hard to tell whether he's mad, frustrated, or scared. As he cried now, shivering and naked on his towel, he was clearly frightened. I wondered whether he was just cold, but I'd wrapped him up tight. I picked him up to snuggle him for a moment, but he was flailing in an unusual way. Then I looked into his eyes and saw nothing but sheer terror. He wasn't cold or upset; he'd suddenly realized he was in a room with someone that wasn't Mom, and he was sobbing because was terrified of me. He never looked so small. I tried to whisper to him some more and comfort him, but he kept pushing away from me and twisting back. I put him in the bath, and he kicked like he's never done before, doing anything to get away, to run away, to look for Mom.
His bath tonight was more of a rinse. He was shrieking so hard that I couldn't stand to keep him in there for more than a splash off, and I couldn't get him calmed down afterwards except for finally offering him his bottle. He had tears streaming down his face and he was still shivering with sobs as he took it, twisting away from me and breathing hard. About halfway through he calmed down, and though he was still tear-stained, I felt his little body relax. He had fallen sound asleep when I wrapped him up and laid him in his crib.
Father-love is a strange and frightening thing. I think it's entirely natural, but somehow it requires effort in a way quite unlike Mother-love. Tonight when my little son saw me in the fluorescent lights of the bathroom I frightened him in a way that I've never heard him frightened before. My fathers, by a lifetime of decisions to look to the interest and well-being of others before themselves, bring comfort and peace wherever they go. I, who am clever and vain, haven't been so helplessly inexperienced at something in quite some time, especially something so important as loving and comforting my son. Pray that I might show my Father's love to him.
Tonight, Monday night, is my time alone with James Bear. J has orchestra rehearsal from 7-9:30, so I give him a bottle and put him to bed. I worry sometimes that James doesn't see enough of me. Several days a week I'm out the door before he's up and I don't return until he's been put to bed for the night. It isn't unusual for Monday night to be the last time he sees me until Thursday afternoon. It would be even worse if J had to work as well, but she can stay home with him, and he loves his Mom beautifully. I'm sure he knows who I am, but I worry when I go several days without seeing him. (Sometimes I'll try to get up in the night if I know I'll be gone all day to see him at his feeding)
I have a marvelous father. He's kept five sons from killing each other for over twenty years, and he's a devoted husband, a small business owner, and a pillar of his church. He is, moreso than any other man I've known, a bringer of peace. He is patient and humble enough to swallow whatever pride he has of his own, and to do what's best for everyone. This is how he's been the worship coordinator for years at our church, and how a household of five boys survived itself. I can't remember the last time he raised his voice or even showed a flicker of a temper. He indulges the foolish strong opinions of others when that's what is best for them, and if that isn't the right thing to do he has a way of correcting you gently. He's so wise he hardly knows it, and he loves his grandchildren now in the same abundance of affection I remember poured out on his own sons and daughter.
My father-in-law is also a maker of peace. Despite his profound theological learning and gift for eloquence, his primary role in his church is as a reconciler and voice of calm. Were I able to speak so easily and hold so much sway, I'd hardly be able to resist throwing my voice against any opposition as I pushed my own theological and organizational agenda. My father-in-law counsels the hotheaded, is patient with error, and always defers to what's best for those around him.
My fathers don't just get along with those around them. Wherever they go they create comfort, calm, and trust. Their trustworthiness is a fragrance, and neither asks for anything in return. Being their son is easy.
Tonight I sat the James Bear on my lap as I put some soup in the microwave. It was a delicious Italian soup J adopted from an Olive Garden date, and I put it in for four minutes so it might be piping hot. James is always happiest with his mother, but he was playing well with me tonight. It's a remarkable thing, how powerfully motherhood sets in. If I ever slipped on the ice and fell while holding James, I would hope that in the split second I had to react, I would overcome my instinctive reaction to brace myself, and would fall in a way that would protect James instead. If J slipped on the ice with James, there wouldn't even be a question of "reacting" to protect him. Her instincts have changed. She loves him and nurtures him as naturally as she breathes, and he knows it. It's why her arms are the safest place in the world for him.
I took the soup out of the microwave and leaned over the table, so I wouldn't drip anything on the little bear bouncing on my knee. I leaned near the bowl and had a few sips. It was piping hot, and delicious. Then I dropped my spoon into the bowl, and the scalding broth splattered directly into my open eye. It felt like I'd been stung by a bee. The soup (which really was delicious) was loaded with hot peppers and salt, and I could hardly see as I staggered up and towards the bathroom. I set James down on his blanket with one eye pinched painfully closed, and then raced upstairs as he began to cry in shock and surprise.
I took my contacts lenses out, and tried to squeeze saline solution into my eye. Eventually I gave up on that and just started splashing cold water onto my face, trying to hold my eye open with one hand and cupping water with the other, James howling downstairs all the while. I started to be able to open my right eye again after a few minutes, and, red and swollen though it was, I was able to think about my son again. He was more frightened than anything else, and it took him a good several minutes of snuggling and whispering to calm him down again.
We had a good half-hour playing with toys. (Even though his rattle gives him a start, I think he likes it.) We were having a grand time on the floor before his bath. We try to bathe him every other night, and I'd made up my mind to give him a big boy bath tonight, which we'd never tried on our own before. I read him a story (The Cat in the Hat) on his changing table, and then stripped him down and took him, the bare little bear, into the bathroom. Sometimes when we change settings all of a sudden he gets upset, and this was one of those times.
I had laid him out on his towel as I checked the temperature of his water, and all of a sudden I heard him truly, truly crying. It isn't hard to tell whether he's mad, frustrated, or scared. As he cried now, shivering and naked on his towel, he was clearly frightened. I wondered whether he was just cold, but I'd wrapped him up tight. I picked him up to snuggle him for a moment, but he was flailing in an unusual way. Then I looked into his eyes and saw nothing but sheer terror. He wasn't cold or upset; he'd suddenly realized he was in a room with someone that wasn't Mom, and he was sobbing because was terrified of me. He never looked so small. I tried to whisper to him some more and comfort him, but he kept pushing away from me and twisting back. I put him in the bath, and he kicked like he's never done before, doing anything to get away, to run away, to look for Mom.
His bath tonight was more of a rinse. He was shrieking so hard that I couldn't stand to keep him in there for more than a splash off, and I couldn't get him calmed down afterwards except for finally offering him his bottle. He had tears streaming down his face and he was still shivering with sobs as he took it, twisting away from me and breathing hard. About halfway through he calmed down, and though he was still tear-stained, I felt his little body relax. He had fallen sound asleep when I wrapped him up and laid him in his crib.
Father-love is a strange and frightening thing. I think it's entirely natural, but somehow it requires effort in a way quite unlike Mother-love. Tonight when my little son saw me in the fluorescent lights of the bathroom I frightened him in a way that I've never heard him frightened before. My fathers, by a lifetime of decisions to look to the interest and well-being of others before themselves, bring comfort and peace wherever they go. I, who am clever and vain, haven't been so helplessly inexperienced at something in quite some time, especially something so important as loving and comforting my son. Pray that I might show my Father's love to him.
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