Post 7: "All the Time"
“Deliver me, O Jesus, From the desire of being loved, From the desire of being extolled, From the desire of being honored, From the desire of being praised, From the desire of being preferred, From the desire of being consulted, From the desire of being approved, From the desire of being popular, From the fear of being humiliated, From the fear of being despised, From the fear of suffering rebukes, From the fear of being calumniated, From the fear of being forgotten, From the fear of being wronged, From the fear of being ridiculed, From the fear of being suspected.” Mother Teresa, Simple Path
As preparation for Confirmation, the Catholic rite of passage, Father What-a-Waste asks us, “what do we want to be when we grow up?” The night before, flipping among the handful of television channels we had back then in the troglodyte era of 1970s television, I caught a segment of a show about poverty among the elderly. Watching this show felt just like when I stood at the altar.
I heard another snippet of the song, another line, beckoning me, simple. Like it was Jesus saying over and over, “follow me.” It all came to me. So when Father What-a-Waste posed his question, I was ready. I began to write as if I were channeling the Holy Spirit on speed. I wrote a passionate essay that I wanted to build housing for poor old people when I grew up. Like for the lady under the bridge with the moldy pizza. Like a Donald Trump for the poor. Only nicer and with better hair.
I never wrote so fast in my life. It just flowed. However, I wrote the wrong answer. My response did not fit Father What-a-Waste’s handout – which was looking for answers like: “I want to be a housewife when I grow up” or a beautician, a fireman, a policeman. etc., etc., exactly what the rest of the kids wrote. As Father What-a-Waste began citing our nation’s future gardeners, morticians and ballplayers, he came to my essay.
He began to read and then stopped.
Even Father What-a-Waste appeared stumped. Everyone stared at me, on cue. Was this some plot of the Zombies to take over the world? The classroom grew quiet.
Father put my essay aside as if it contained traces of phlegm and went quickly to the next one. The Politburo threw the Handbook at my head and hissed, “What the hell did we teach you about keeping your damn mouth shut?”
So I began a practice that would last decades: I tore my essay up.
However, a few notes of the song had broken free and refused to be silenced.
“Someday, you will follow me.”
Notes:
http://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/838305.Mother_Teresa?page=8
Give the gift of music to the next generation through donations to:
The Manilow Music Project
8295 South La Cienega Boulevard
Inglewood, CA 90301
info@manilowmusicproject.org
Click here to go to the next post or click here to return to the previous post.
As preparation for Confirmation, the Catholic rite of passage, Father What-a-Waste asks us, “what do we want to be when we grow up?” The night before, flipping among the handful of television channels we had back then in the troglodyte era of 1970s television, I caught a segment of a show about poverty among the elderly. Watching this show felt just like when I stood at the altar.
I heard another snippet of the song, another line, beckoning me, simple. Like it was Jesus saying over and over, “follow me.” It all came to me. So when Father What-a-Waste posed his question, I was ready. I began to write as if I were channeling the Holy Spirit on speed. I wrote a passionate essay that I wanted to build housing for poor old people when I grew up. Like for the lady under the bridge with the moldy pizza. Like a Donald Trump for the poor. Only nicer and with better hair.
I never wrote so fast in my life. It just flowed. However, I wrote the wrong answer. My response did not fit Father What-a-Waste’s handout – which was looking for answers like: “I want to be a housewife when I grow up” or a beautician, a fireman, a policeman. etc., etc., exactly what the rest of the kids wrote. As Father What-a-Waste began citing our nation’s future gardeners, morticians and ballplayers, he came to my essay.
He began to read and then stopped.
Even Father What-a-Waste appeared stumped. Everyone stared at me, on cue. Was this some plot of the Zombies to take over the world? The classroom grew quiet.
Father put my essay aside as if it contained traces of phlegm and went quickly to the next one. The Politburo threw the Handbook at my head and hissed, “What the hell did we teach you about keeping your damn mouth shut?”
So I began a practice that would last decades: I tore my essay up.
However, a few notes of the song had broken free and refused to be silenced.
“Someday, you will follow me.”
Notes:
http://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/838305.Mother_Teresa?page=8
Give the gift of music to the next generation through donations to:
The Manilow Music Project
8295 South La Cienega Boulevard
Inglewood, CA 90301
info@manilowmusicproject.org
Click here to go to the next post or click here to return to the previous post.
