‘The Tender Eyes of May’ was presented in Salzburg in November 2012 at a conference sponsored by Inter-Disciplinary.Net. Like the year before, when I travelled to Vienna and then to Prague to present ‘The Book of Joe’, I had arrived at the conference venue with my paper incomplete. But, unlike the prior year, I had no anxiety about finishing it. I had reserved the evening before the presentation to review the essay and cobble out further ideas derived from the reading of John 13 in the New Testament. But I had teaching duties to attend to and other busy work, and I was not yet ready to write them out, or so I told myself. The day before the presentation some anxiety finally filtered through.
After the last session on November 14, I went to the lobby of the hotel. I was teaching three online classes at the time, and the hotel lobby had a very nice Wifi connection. I sat down and went to work on my laptop putting my online classes in order. I was typing away when a colleague from the conference bolted through the door and immediately approached me. I had just met this fellow the day before. He was an American professor teaching in Lithuania. He was Christian, and his paper had to do with communicating the significance of the crucifixion. He had given a presentation that afternoon and I had made a comment that was important to him. As I recall my comment was not directed to him but to another presenter. It had to do with the distinction between what is true and what is believed. In narrative accounts of suffering and the meaning of suffering, how should we assess this distinction? Does it matter that events that are said to cause suffering and the suffering itself really happen? It was suggested that the reality of suffering has less significance than we should think. I thought this idea was dangerous. It is, of course, obviously true that fictional narratives about suffering can dramatically influence thinking, perceptions and, with the right historical circumstances, cultural norms and beliefs. But what really happens, the truth, is essential for a whole slew of reasons. To abandon the idea that the truth about suffering is of major significance leads to more absurdities than one can count; including the idea that one’s own suffering is not, or should not be, of central importance when others talk about your own suffering.
This man politely asked if he could sit down and talk. I was pressed for time, but he was so earnest and thoughtful. This will only take a couple of minutes, I thought. We began having a lively discussion roaming over the question of the fundamental importance of seeking the truth in making sense of suffering and claims of suffering. And the event of the crucifixion, its reality and meaning, he thought, were inescapable for any group discussing human suffering. The very real persecution of people and their very real sufferings had to be distinguished from false claims of victimization, and the reality of the crucifixion had to at least be acknowledged—there is an ethics to suffering and its meaning rooted in existence, what is real. On that we agreed.
In the midst of our talk, out of the corner of my eye I noticed an old man walking into the lobby of the hotel. He was thin and gaunt with a little green winter cap on his head. An unlit cigarette was sticking out of his mouth. He walked through the front door of the hotel and stopped, as if he were confused and disoriented. He abruptly turned to his left and walked right up to us with a blank, troubled look on his face. He stood just a few feet away from us and seemed to want something. We both got up out of concern for this fellow.
“Can we help you?” I asked.
The man stared at me groaning with the cigarette in his mouth, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t.
“Can I get you a light?” My colleague asked.
The man just stood there like a stone, groaning, with a vacuous look on his gaunt, pale face. His eyes were pleading and suffering. I felt deep concern for this fellow, but in his face I recognized something. The unlit cigarette protruding from the middle of his mouth seemed comical to me. I thought about Joe. Without thinking I gave him a little smile.
Suddenly the man’s eyes fixed on mine like steel, and for a split second his face, his eyes froze, as if he recognized me. The stillness of expression was then, in an instant, shattered in an explosion of expression as his whole continence lit up with a brilliant light and joy, a smile and eyes that I have never witnessed before, nor could I ever imagine witnessing again; from ear to ear his smile stretched, as if his face were made of elastic fabric. His thin lips pulled clear across his face and somehow he managed to retain control of the unlit cigarette, which pointed directly at me. His eyebrows lifted, his eyes dilated, and grew like a flower miraculously blooming all at once.
I was stunned.
After just a few seconds his face imploded in pain as instantaneously as it had erupted in joy, and he returned to his former condition. He abruptly turned around and walked away without saying a word. He marched through the lobby and then right out the door of the hotel to the sidewalk. He turned to the right and kept going, passing in front of the hotel window, as if he had someplace to go.
Two young girls sitting in the lobby next to the window on a couch had witnessed the whole thing. As the man passed by they pressed their faces close to the window giggling, exchanging knowing glances in a private feast of mockery.
My colleague and I sat down and continued our conversation. We did not speak about what had just happened at the time, although we did have a short discussion about the encounter at a dinner later that evening. He, too, thought the event was remarkable and strange, especially given the topic of our discussion. Like the year before with the ladies, I could not get this fellow out of my mind. Again, I felt that I had the privilege of being a witness to something extraordinary.
I could not forget the cigarette. I saw Joe just the day before I left from San Francisco. He seemed more tired than usual, more short of breath. Joe had been on a restricted regime of cigarettes for years, but I suspected he had found ways to get his hands on more cigarettes than he was allowed. So, the day before I left for the airport I took some cigarettes away from him. I had no place to put them, so I dropped them in a plastic tray in my car, which was sitting in the long-term parking lot in San Francisco. Joe cannot enjoy walking the way he used to before his accident. He has no one to talk to, except his friends. In those days I used to take him out to lunch every other week or so. His only great joy was smoking cigarettes and talking with his friends and God. Every cigarette I took from him deprived him of a little joy. I had taken upon myself the horrible task of inflicting suffering on my brother out of love for him.
Why was the cigarette in the mouth of the man unlit? Was that his only cigarette? Was his only joy the preservation of the possibility of a joy of which he could not partake?
Was the unlit cigarette an embodiment of his suffering?
Like the year before I thought more and more about this man, suffering, mocked, wandering the streets of Salzburg. Would Joe suffer a similar fate, crucifixion on the streets, without me, without the resources, the will, the love to care for him? Did the man smile in recognition of this love? Was the love for my own brother hidden in my little smile? Did he recognize it? Is that why his face exploded in joy?
About a year or so after this event, I came upon the portrait of a Catholic saint who bore a striking resemblance to this tall, skinny, pale man with the elastic face who wandered into the lobby that chilly November day. Let me be clear: I do not believe that the man who approached us in Salzburg was this Catholic saint. But the likeness and coincidence are factually true: if you imagine a ski cap with toggles in place of the white hair, and a suffering, disoriented, blankness of expression, one arrives at a fair likeness to the man we encountered in the lobby of Hotel Imlauer in Salzburg on the afternoon of November 14, 2012.
John Vianney
This is a painting of John Vianney, also known as the Curé de Ars:
When I returned to San Francisco from my trip to Salzburg in November 2012, I took this photo of the cigarettes I had taken from Joe just prior to leaving. My concerns for Joe’s smoking were well-founded—a couple of weeks after this picture was taken, Joe had severe problems breathing and had to be taken to the hospital. Events surrounding this episode are recounted in the essay, ‘The Face of Joe’. (This essay will be published next on this blog.)
I sat outside with Joe on the patio of the Kalico Kitchen in Paradise, our customary lunch place in those days. The sun shone brightly that day, and, as I recall, we were waiting for our lunch, sitting in the metal chairs under an umbrella at a white, plastic table anchored by a heavy metal stand. The patio is set above a sidewalk running along a fairly busy street, two lanes in each direction. But ‘busy’ must be understood in the context of this sleepy, Northern California retirement community. The steady rumble of older cars and trucks is mellowed by the towering pines and the slow pace of the locals, young and old. And most of the locals in this restaurant are older and commonly dressed.
On this day I was in a normal visiting-Joe kind of mood, and doing normal visiting-Joe kind of things: I was day-dreaming and basking in the sun. I don’t remember what I was dreaming or thinking about, but I do remember that my dreams and thoughts seemed particularly important. I did not want anyone to bother me, especially slow-moving locals, which included elderly patrons at the restaurant, waitresses and waiters, or anybody else. I occasionally had to attend to Joe in ‘listening mode’, but for the most part Joe was entirely occupied with his friends. He had important business of his own. So, most of the time he kept to himself, mumbling, smiling.
I could not help but notice two scruffy young boys walking in our direction on the sidewalk. They were walking toward me. Joe was facing me and could not see them at first. The very sight of them made me uncomfortable. They looked like they had not bathed in a few days, wearing old tee-shirts, ratty jeans, marching in a cocky strut. As they approached I turned my gaze, trying not to make eye contact. They were walking along at a quick pace. I expected them to pass by without a glance or a word. And it seemed that that is just what they would do. They came around a bend and passed directly in front of us, in a place where Joe could see them.
Suddenly the boy closest to us turned his head and spoke up in an almost irreverent tone not breaking his stride,
“Hey, do you know where MacDonald’s is?”
The question startled me. I shifted my glance to the boy and smiled, as if to say that I did not know. His demeanor was not aggressive. I would describe it as curious and confident. But he and his partner did not slow their pace in the slightest after the quick question. They walked as if they knew exactly where they were going and had no time for conversation. And yet he was asking for directions. The street they were walking along, the Skyway, ran for about two or three miles through the town of Paradise—this was not an urban area where shops and restaurants are congregated in one place. There was a Burger King around the corner, but MacDonald’s was on the other side of town a mile or so away. Didn’t these scruffy, local boys know that? Or were they visitors who just looked like they belonged there? At the very least they were in a hurry and confused and not worth my attention. Why bother trying to explain to these two rugrats, who did not have the courtesy to slow down to ask a question? Not that I wanted them to slow down.
They were just a few steps from losing interest in us entirely, bounding off to their unknown destination when Joe spoke up.
“MacDonald’s is on the other street,” Joe said in a clearly articulated sentence.
The boys still did not slow down. But the boy who asked the question looked at Joe with some interest. Joe wanted to help him, and he seemed to acknowledge that.
“It’s on the other street,” Joe repeated. “The street is on the other side of town,” he said, pointing in another direction.
The boys kept walking, but the one boy continued looking at Joe.
“You are on the wrong street,” Joe said again.
The boy gave Joe a little smile and a curious look, as if he thought for a moment that Joe could help him. Then his expression turned blank. Did Joe’s appearance turn him off? Whatever the boy was thinking, it did not slow his pace. He turned his head and kept moving with his friend marching in step..
As the two boys moved away from us, their eyes fixed ahead, Joe’s face softened with concern and then transformed. His eyes grew large with compassion, as if he were about to cry. He uprighted himself, as if he were going to get up out of his chair. Then he extended his arm and motioned his hand in a gentle wave.
“Good luck to you now,” he said tenderly.
“Good luck to you.”
POSTSCRIPT
Oh dear brother, I did not see you in the faces of these boys, so poor, so pitiful, so impulsive. They did not concern me, because I did not want them to.
Were they really searching for MacDonald’s?
I never forgot that day, my brother’s eyes and his extended hand. I never forgot the way he said, “Good luck to you.” Was it you, my brother, showing me how to reach my destination? Did you show your face to me once again? Do you tenderly wave to my back as I walk away from you, loving me in every step? Does your heart ache and plead for me as I march off? Do you utter sweetly to me, “Good luck to you”?
Did I walk away from you that afternoon as those boys walked away from us?
And how do I appear to the heavenly gathering? Dirty and unseemly with a cocky strut, confident yet curious, do I ask questions without the patience and courtesy to stop and address you? Do I move swiftly with purpose as if I know where I am going, while I am asking for directions?
And how many times, my Lord, have you taken pity on me and waved to my back wishing me well?
“Good luck to you,” you say most exquisitely, piercing the veil of space and time with Love.
But I do not hear you, because I am not listening. I am so certain I know where to go.
Joe on the patio at Kalico Kitchen Paradise, California 2012.
I had not seen Joe for maybe five or six weeks. I have many dishonest excuses for not visiting. It is not that difficult to call and make an appointment, and Joe is not much trouble. He does ask for little favors, like cigarettes, a drive, lunch at a particular restaurant, maybe a visit to a department store to buy a shirt. But the requests are always politely offered and he takes refusals graciously, although he can be quite persistent in his requests for cigarettes.
I still experience reluctance and forgetfulness in arranging visits. “I have things to do,” I tell myself. But these tasks could wait or be put off altogether. Why do I neglect him? Are the visits more uncomfortable than they seem?
But I do visit Joe, I remind myself as I drive into the facility. I have been watching out for him for the past thirteen years or so. I promised that to my parents, who are now gone. Is it the promise that matters most to me?
It was the second week in May. I made my way towards the iron fence enclosing the facility. The air was dry and cool for this time of year. A gentle wind blew from the West and the sky was a clear, deep blue. White clouds meandered like heavenly cream puffs.
I readied myself to enter. The empty stares, the blank faces of dying minds, the smells of cafeteria food and traces of urine, the moans of imprisoned souls, these can shock at first.
I keyed in the entry code of the outer iron gate, marched up to the door and entered the building, one of two, sprawling, one story, structures. No one was in the main living area. I was dumbfounded. I stopped and listened for some sound from the kitchen. Nothing. Silence closed in on me, the only sign of human presence was the faint hum of an air conditioner rumbling in the background. The air was stale but fresh–the scents of the place had vanished. Where is everybody? I cautiously made my way to the kitchen and peaked around the corner.
Emptiness followed me. I was alone.
I turned around and gazed down the hallway extending from the kitchen to another living room about one hundred feet away. At the other end of the building I could make out a man sitting by himself in a large easy chair wearing a cowboy hat. It was Joe.
I skipped quickly through the living area and down the hall, it took a few seconds, and while I was still some distance away I greeted him.
Joe pushed himself out of the chair mumbling happily. Then, with his first step he stumbled a little.
“Are you doing alright Joe?” I asked, patting him on the back. “How is your leg?”
“I am fine Donnie. I’m fine,” Joe said in a chaffed, upbeat voice.
I stepped back and examined him. He was wearing pajama bottoms. Did he have trouble dressing himself that morning?
I came closer to Joe. His clothes were clean and he had showered that morning. The only coarse odor I could detect was on his breath, laden with scents of his rotting teeth and blackened lungs. He took a couple of steps and his limp again seemed pronounced. I cannot resist the thought that he is in pain. But there is never any sign of it in anything he says or does, except his limp.
We stepped outside into the warm sunshine and walked along the sidewalk bordered with green grass and flowers winding to a second iron gate a little further up. I kept a close eye on Joe. He trotted along in his normal fashion. As we made our way through the garden under the mild, May sun my worries subsided. I noticed some staff and a few residents lingering near the other building. I later learned that the facility was under new management and downsizing–all patients had been relocated there. Joe had returned to his former home and waited patiently for me where he knew I would find him.
I guided Joe through the gate to the car and in a few moments we were off. As we pulled away from the facility Joe made his requests, as was his custom.
“Donnie could we take a drive in the mountains and listen to music, maybe up to Paradise to Kalico Kitchen and sit outside,” Joe asked.
“Sure Joe. It’s a nice day to do that,” I said.
It was time to execute the routine. I turned the radio to the oldies rock station. No music. The station we normally listened to had changed. I searched for another station. I found nothing. Distractions attacked me. I had to take my daughter to the doctor and run other errands. The afternoon visit would have to be cut short. Was this a wish?
I punched at the radio with no success. My frustration escalated. Bursts of music and random noise rang out. Above it all Joe was talking in a loud, garbled voice, smiling joyfully, he glanced out the window one moment and in my direction the next. The absence of music to his liking didn’t seem to bother him, but I worried that would change, so I kept looking.
He turned to me and mumbled seriously with pleading eyes. God was telling him something and he wanted me to know about it. It was time to give up on the radio and go into a listening mode, a habit I’ve developed with Joe. In listening mode I nod my head at whatever Joe is saying, smile, and say, ‘yeah’.
A scratchy mini-lecture of about twenty seconds went off right on cue. It was something about God, warehouses and resources in the ground. I had no idea what he was talking about.
“Yeah,” I said.
Joe belted out a few knowing chuckles, as if the joke were on me, then he looked back out the window and returned to private conversations beneath his breath. I resumed the hunt for music. Finally, I found something, the Rolling Stones. I turned up the volume. Joe bobbed his head in approval. Relief. We rocked down the road. The day seemed to find its true course: lunch, a drive, daydreams and random thoughts for me, endless dialogues for Joe, under rock and roll rhythms.
Joe would live in his world, and I would dream in mine.
We travelled along the Skyway, a thoroughfare ascending the ridge from Chico into the foothills of the mountains to the town of Paradise. The Sacramento valley came into view to our right, green rice fields and orchards spread up and down the middle, along the Sacramento River running north and south for as far as the eye could see. Surrounding the lush green valley were the dry, yellowish brown summer grasslands of Northern California spreading in the distance to the far off Pacific Coast Range, whose magnificent forms loomed to the West. The old music brings on a dreamy nostalgia that overcomes me. Joe strums an air guitar and memories from my youth pass before me like the hearty oaks sprouting from the volcanic rock of the ridge receding from our skyward vision.
But God did not want us passing our time like that today. Joe tried to raise his voice above the music, and this time his eyes gleamed with intensity. He was doing his best to enunciate his words. I turned down the radio. Listening mode would not be enough this time.
Again Joe said something about God, and resources, and what God was doing with them; the warehouses were put in the ground, he said, or something to that effect. He smiled at me awaiting a response or some acknowledgement
“That sounds about right, Joe,” I tried to say with an honest air.
Laughter exploded from his belly. His eyes lit up with joy. I could not help but smile, as if I had brief permission to play some unsuspecting role in this divine comedy.
We have had so many exchanges like this over the years. Following the laughter Joe mumbles and chuckles, and will sometimes repeat phrases for a while. For a few seconds I am part of it all, whatever it is, and as the laughter wanes my separation from his world increases, until we return to our former condition, my dreams of distraction, his divine dialogues that never cease to amuse.
But not today. Not one song on the radio had passed before Joe invaded my space again with a demand for attention. He turned to me and spoke in the clear, sober voice of a friend.
“You know Donnie,” he said, “I just love riding in the car and listening to music.”
I nodded, but not from mere acknowledgement. I agreed with him. The music of our youth, the passing motion of oaks, pines, blue skies, rocks, the reddish brown earth of the foothills, sights, sounds, and smells of our Northern California home, all these we shared as brothers. Joe had set aside his friends and God to say ‘thank you’.
We approached our destination, Kalico Kitchen, a homey, American-style restaurant along the main street, the Skyway, in Paradise California. Joe used to live right around the corner from this restaurant. Before his accident, Joe frequented this place. In the front of the restaurant was a concrete patio with plastic tables, metal chairs and umbrellas.
We took a seat. Our waitress, a large woman in a black dress and ruffled white blouse handed us menus.
“Can I get you anything to drink honey?” She said gruffly.
“Just water,” I said.
“Water, water’s fine,” Joe said.
Joe immediately attacked the menu scanning the pages. I don’t know what Joe sees and thinks when he looks at a menu, but he takes great care, and orders just what he wants.
The waitress hovered over us like an inquisitor. Joe rattled off his order in his scratchy voice. I leaned over and listened carefully, ready to translate if needed. He wanted prime rib, fries and a chocolate milkshake.
When the waitress heard ‘chocolate milkshake’ she hesitated, as if she disapproved. I had not seen a chocolate milkshake on the menu. She paused and studied Joe, then she smiled,
“Alright honey.”
I placed my order and reclined to the extent I could, and focused attention on the sun and the tall evergreens that lined the street and surrounded the restaurant. A soothing May sun fell upon us like a clean sheet. Joe lost himself in peaceful mumbling, and my mind was again set adrift.
It did not take long for the waitress to arrive with the milkshake. A decorative glass was filled to the brim with a straw placed squarely in the middle, and next to it she placed a tall, silver, metal cup, which was almost half full. She dropped an additional large spoon into the metal cup as if to invite Joe to share with me.
“I made this myself, and I make a great milkshake,” she said. Her gruffness had disappeared. She almost spoke like a mother.
Joe dug in.
This is too good, I thought, He can’t eat all of this. I asked permission to take the metal cup.
“Donnie, you go ahead, go ahead.”
The milkshake was beyond this world, rich, smooth ice cream and milk with just the right amount of chocolate, not too sweet, without a hint of bitterness. Heavenly.
We devoured the shakes in a minute or so, and with every scoop and draw my mood elevated. Not a word passed between us, but I was drawn closer to Joe. The shared enjoyment of this unexpected pleasure had built a bridge between us and when we had finished, conversation seemed natural. But sustained conversation of more than a minute or two is difficult for Joe. I have a way of engaging Joe with little stories about the family. And so I did. Joe graciously listened, as he always does. He tried to stay engaged for as long as he could. Then he asked something quite unusual. There was a large sign across the street advertising a charter school. Joe asked me what a charter school was. He had read the sign. I did my best to answer. He nodded as if he understood.
Silence was building between us again, normally a prelude to a return to dream. But we both remained present to one another. The milkshake, the sun, the fragrance of spring, I don’t know what kept us together. But the silence seemed to bring us closer this time.
Then Joe’s demeanor suddenly changed. His being relaxed and gentleness washed over him. His face seemed to brighten. I could see clearly the smoothness of his cheeks riddled with deep valleys of wrinkles. He leaned forward, his face coming nearer to me. His tender eyes led the way, clear, pleading, full of compassion. His entire countenance had transformed in a few seconds. I sat there empty, not knowing what to expect. His eyes reached mine, and he spoke effortlessly in the clarity of space that contained us,
“Love one another as I loved you,” he said sweetly.
He reclined and in a few moments returned to his former self. His words seemed to pass through me, washing away any lingering distance between us. But I did not know what to think. I was a witness and nothing more to something remarkable. But what? There was something that I hardly sensed at the time. What Joe said, what he had done, had changed me in some way. I could not stop thinking about it. I could not stop my curiosity. Where did that come from? Why did he say it? What did it mean? These questions set themselves aside as we finished our lunch, but they would return.
The rest of the day proceeded as most of our days do. After lunch I drove him back to the facility with oldies rock pounding away at high volume. Joe grooved to the music. I escorted him through the gate and gave him a little hug
“God bless you Donnie. God bless you,” he says.
Days passed. A question had taken root and demanded answers.
I wanted to ignore the theological context of what Joe had said. “It was him,” I kept thinking. The soul that came to me in those words, in that moment was my loving brother, his essence, his power and strength, the will that had brought him out of decades of torment to a life of peace and faith, an unstoppable love.
It was him. He had endured, and for a few precious seconds he was restored entirely.
But the words were too perfect. And no words have ever been spoken with more conviction and loving intent. I got out the New Testament and looked up the passage, John 13. I rarely read the Bible and did not remember the chronology and details of the story. Jesus gets up from a meal with his disciples, takes off his clothes and wraps himself in a towel. He pours water into a large bowl and begins to wash the feet of all the disciples, including the scheming Judas, and passionate Peter, who at first refuses to allow Jesus to behave like his servant.
“You will later understand,” Jesus says.
He puts his clothes back on and returns to the meal. He declares that one of them will betray him. He privately identifies Judas and tells him to do what he must. He tells the rest of them that he will not be with them much longer, then, he utters his final teaching, what he says is his only commandment:
“Love one another as I loved you.”
The words were a perfect match with what Joe said. I had to look at the Greek. I had studied the Greek language for several years in my youth. My interests were philosophy and literature. The language of the New Testament, the primitive koine, the language of Hellenistic bureaucrats, never appealed to me.
And the story plays out in the koine in choppy simplicity, like storytelling for children. But the tenses in the commandment itself form a conceptual whole. “Love one another” is a present tense command with a continuous aspect, open-ended, “as I loved you” is the aorist tense, in a timeless aspect denoting the finality of a past event. The idea of the aorist tense attempting to contain the finality of that act, the act of the master becoming the servant, the act of love and sacrifice, and all that that might imply, brings me back to Joe.
The simple, crude veneer of the Greek text is only a layer that both represents and hides others, and the root of layers of language is an act of service and love at a meal among friends, first century Jews, gathered before the Passover in Jerusalem, speaking another language entirely.
It is at the level of action, the root of the language, visible and intelligible to us that I see the power of the so-called commandment, a commandment that is no commandment at all. Actions are not language. Love is not language. And all commandments require language.
The act of love is like a resource underground, an aquifer, nourishing history and language that are visible, just as the soul of my brother is a resource of sorts, animating his diseased and broken body and his damaged brain.
Joe was right. God put resources underground.
The context of the command also brings me to Joe. The roles of servant and master are reversed and then annihilated. “It is right that you call me rabbi and lord,” says Jesus, but his role as teacher and lord requires stripping away any sign of status, to become naked, and serve like a slave for those he keeps in his heart. Only love warrants status, only love keeps, and love requires the obliteration of status, of our normal assumptions and conventions.
On the one hand, I appear to be one of Joe’s masters, his superior. Without me he would be unable to go out for lunch. I pay for his conservator. I watch out for him. I am educated, literate and strong. But this role has dignity only insofar as I love him, only insofar as I act to care for him. Without love my strength has no purpose, and falls into the dangers of cruelty, meanness and self-indulgence. Without love I become base, inferior, and lost.
And in his actions and utterance that day, Joe served me, he taught me. Through some extraordinary and divine act of will he traversed the natural separation of body and mind to love me, and that love is a mystery that continues to grow like from a seed, from touch, to germination, to budding, to appearance in the world, love from his soul to this page.
But Joe could not do it on his own. He needed help. The sky, the rolling clouds, the luminous warmth of the spring sun, the motherly affection and diligence of a waitress, and the heavenly flavor of a milkshake. In the littleness of things love grows in unexpected ways and that littleness involves us all and all that surrounds us. It involves everything.
Herein plays out the irony and paradox of a divine ethic, born in the action of Jesus, born in the actions of my brother.
ROSELEAF GARDENS
In the spring and summer of 2012 I did not know that the care home where Joe was staying had changed ownership. That is why the building was vacant, and Joe was not in his usual place when I came to pick him up that day. The new management renovated the facilities, and within a few months the atmosphere of the place had been transformed. A lightness seemed almost tangible in surroundings that had felt heavy before. It was as if a new day had dawned for this care home, a happy new day. The new assisted living home specialized in memory care, and somehow Joe, a schizophrenic, had been grandfathered in as a permanent resident.
The new home had a new name, which I did not come to know until December of 2013.
From: My Sister Saint Therese, by Sister Genevieve of the Holy Face (Celine Martin), translation from the French by the Carmelite Sisters of New York, Tan Books and Publishers, Rockford Illinois 1997 (Originally published in 1959), p. 31:
“As a remembrance of my profession my dear little sister made a sketch of my coat-of-arms with the motto I had chosen: “ The loser always wins.” Later she developed this theme and went on to explain how we must choose to lose everything on this earth, and allow ourselves to be stripped of all, in order to gain poverty of spirit. In her own case she lived out this principle to such a degree as even to desire that others in preference to herself should be favored by special graces. Moreover, I have seen her pass on to another a book from which she was deriving great spiritual profit, before she had finished reading it and without any hope of having it returned.”
My pilgrimage to Beauraing was peaceful and uneventful. In the mornings I got up early and enjoyed the free breakfast in the hotel, coffee, bread, eggs, cucumbers, tomatoes, fruit, yogurt, common Central European faire. I walked down the hill to the Sanctuary and celebrated mass everyday. I visited the Sanctuary a few times a day. I prayed, listened to the wind, gazed at the hawthorn tree, and I said the rosary. I lit a few candles at the Sanctuary. I walked around the town and tried a couple of restaurants. But for the most part I stayed at the hotel. I rested, read, wrote, and attended to some online teaching and administrative work. The Wifi at the hotel was not the most reliable, but it worked fine most days and I got along. There was not a desk in my room, so I had to do much of my work sitting up in bed or in the lobby. I have fond memories of a ZOOM meeting in San Francisco. It was in the evening due to the time difference. There were no lights in the lobby, so I presided over the meeting in the dark with a spotty connection. It was a contentious meeting, and I had wonderful excuses for ignoring all the arguments. I was one of the only people staying at the hotel; I did not see many others. I spoke a few times with hotel staff, people working in the gift shop, restaurants, grocery store, but for the most part I kept to myself. I was alone. I should have been at least a little bored. But I must say I enjoyed myself.
I noticed bike tours advertised on the Sanctuary Web Site, but I didn’t see a place to rent bikes. On my last day I asked around, and I discovered that in the tourist office there were dozens of bikes in the back. I took one for a spin in the park next to the castle on the hill. The trails were nothing exceptional, and the park itself was small by American standards and less than spectacular, but the ride felt epic. Overall, I remember my visit fondly.
I have developed rather severe tinnitus since my pilgrimage five years ago. As I recall the peaceful emptiness of my thoughts in Beauraing, I receive strange comfort. I must have experienced mild tinnitus in 2019. The condition tends to come on gradually, as it has with me, but I don’t remember it. Common truisms that people find God in silence, or that in silence we find peace, do not mean the same to me anymore. If silence is necessary for peace then I must conclude that I will never have peace, because I never have silence. The high pitched ringing is now loud and constant. The sound of the wind, talking out loud, listening to music, or other fuzzy noise are the only ways to blend the screeching into less distinguishable sound. Tinnitus is, of course, nothing compared to Joe’s infirmities and the illnesses and sufferings of countless others. I should be able to find peace, a kind of spiritual silence perhaps. I try to remember the peace of Beauraing and what it meant, or what it should mean for me.
Besides memories of silence and peace, I did come away with something else that I keep thinking about: I noticed an odd coincidence in Beauraing. I thought little of it when I first took note of it five years ago, but that quickly changed. The coincidence is related to what some critics and believers alike view as an ‘unsightly’ or ‘noisy’ dimension to the Site of the apparitions. Perhaps the noise of tinnitus is more generally relevant than I think. This will require digression and an imaginative trip to a bridge.
(NOTE: Most of the following essay was written on November 22, 2012. The events in Vienna occurred on November 7, 2011.)
I arrived in Vienna late in the evening around ten o’clock on November 6th after fourteen hours of travel from San Francisco. I managed to navigate the local trains to my hotel on the outskirts of the city center without trouble. I got to bed around eleven thirty, but I had difficulty sleeping. My paper, ‘The Book of Joe’, was not yet finished and I was presenting it in four days. Most of the paper was written. I had completed a general account of Joe’s life, his breakdown and transformation, but I felt dissatisfied with it. I was not sure what to say at the end. A simple narrative would never capture whatever the aim of the paper was. And the story had to be about him, not me. But I didn’t know how to get myself out of the way. Joe himself must be made present to an audience, I thought. But even that was not enough: the meaning of Joe’s life, whatever it was, should be revealed. I found myself turning to poetry here and there, and occasionally I would write something that seemed out of the ordinary. It was the meaning of Joe’s life that mattered, I repeated to myself. But what was that meaning? Was the meaning of Joe’s life simply a matter of my own interpretation? Or perhaps I was lying to myself in saying that I wanted the paper to be about Joe. Maybe it was all about me. If it was about me, then I did not want to write it. What right do I have to define the purpose of my brother’s life? I rolled over in my mind again and again the purpose, the meaning of the paper, the meaning of a life.
I awoke around eight o’clock, languishing in jet lag. A shower, a hearty breakfast in the hotel restaurant, and my grand expectations for the day brought me to life. By around nine thirty I was ready. My concerns about the paper were set aside. I had only one day to see Vienna and I had a plan. From the hotel I could walk to two nearby 17th century churches and get a feel for the streets and byways of the old city. I would make my way to Saint Stephen’s cathedral in the city center, and from there I could visit the Mozart museum and the Jewish museum nearby. Then I would walk out to view the grand architecture of old Vienna. After that, if I had any life left in me, I wanted to head out in the direction of the Freudian museum and a few other churches in another section of the city.
Dominican Church, Vienna
With my rucksack on my shoulder provisioned with water and my iPad, I set off. The day immediately came to a fortuitous beginning. I came upon the Dominican Church, an unassuming structure from the outside. I noticed someone coming out the front. The church was open. I tried the thick, dark wood door and it glided open. Not a soul could be seen or heard. I proceeded cautiously through the foyer. I could not believe what I saw. A beautiful baroque interior in an early 17th century style, pews carved from enormous trees and stained a dark chocolate, brownish-black. I made my way to the middle of the church examining the paintings, statues and carvings. It took a few moments to realize that I was entirely alone. In the front of the church to the right there was an early Baroque depiction of Madonna and child. I sat down on the hulky pews and gazed at the surroundings. Time passed and the church remained utterly silent. No one entered. I remained alone in that lovely, divine place. My mind silenced itself. There was too much to see, too much to think about, if I looked around with intention. So I banished my thoughts and sat for the sake of sitting. I had just begun my day, which would involve long walks through this wonderful city, and I was already tired.
After about fifteen minutes or so I got up. I was still alone. All was quiet. And that is how it remained as I left.
I was a block or two away before I realized that I had not taken a single photo. But I did not care. The images were indelibly imprinted in memory where they remain to this day.
Saint Stephen’s Exterior
After a quick visit to the Jesuit Church, which was far less charming, I walked to Saint Stephen’s, the grand medieval, Gothic cathedral, the heart of old Vienna. I would not miss the opportunity for photographs this time. I clicked away at my iPad picturing the exterior of the Cathedral from various angles. And then I climbed all the way up the ancient, stone stairwell of one of the steeples and took in vista of the city expanding in all directions. I came down from the steeple and made my way to the front of the Cathedral. The solemn, majestic interior of St. Stephen’s embraced me like an old friend–the tall, cylindrical stones towering high above, the glimmering, rectangular tile floors, the exquisite artwork. The center of the church was blocked by a wrought iron fence and gate. Mindlessly I wandered down the left corridor of the church gazing at the surroundings. A mass was being held in front, so I kept my distance. I turned around and walked back to the front. On the right side of the church was the Maria Pötsch icon, a rope surrounded several rows of pews and chairs in front, and there were several people praying. Tourists bustled in and around the church in a constant stream, but somehow that did not diminish the experience of reverence in that place; in the tussle between faithless curiosity and faithful prayer, prayer seemed to be the victor, absorbing the curious unto itself and leaving them with something they did not possess before they entered.
Saint Stephen’s Interior
It took me a while to notice a little shrine to the left near the entrance of the church. It was plain and mundane compared to the artistic, historic surroundings. A black and white picture of a nun, who seemed familiar, was hanging above a simple altar, and next to her was a text in German. I moved closer to read it. The author was “Saint Teresa”. The German text was flowing and simple, an easy read. And how beautiful it was. “Love was the heart of the church,” it said, “love is all.”
I could not place this saint. There is no German or Austrian Saint Teresa, I thought. Who is she? I read the passage again. It seemed even more lovely the second time. Who is this ‘Teresa’? I stepped back and with my mind in overdrive running through my very limited knowledge of Catholic Saints. There is no German Saint Teresa, I concluded.
Suddenly I noticed a woman standing very close to me. She was short and plain looking, unlike many of the fashionable ladies, young and old, meandering through the church. She very softly started speaking to me. I did my best to listen and piece together what she was saying with my rusty German. She said something about how much she loved the church, and how it was like her home. She spoke slowly in a rhythmical simplicity, as if her mind moved in such ways. She was so courteous that I felt the need to reply, but I did not know what to say, or what I could say with my poor German.
“The Church was indeed beautiful, very beautiful,” I said, or something to that effect.
I expected her to move on. I obviously had little to say, and my attention was fixed on the little shine. My body language should have indicated that she was bothering me a little. But the woman humbly and quietly stayed by my side, like a loyal friend. It would have been rude to say nothing to her, so I started wondering out loud about the picture of the saint.
“I know her,” I said. “What is her name?”
That was stupid question. Her name was ‘Teresa’. It said so on the wall. I tried to rephrase the question clumsily.
“What is her last name?” I asked.
Another idiotic question. Saints are not known by their last names. I tried again. I do not remember what I said, but it was just as senseless. The lady seemed to want to help me, but she herself seemed small and out of place. Then she spoke to me directly in the most slow, and matter of fact tone,
“Sie is tot,” she said. (“She is dead.”)
What a foolish thing to say, I thought. Of course, she is dead. I could not help myself. I just blurted it out,
“Yes, of course.”
The lady seemed to withdraw from me a bit, and I immediately regretted what I said. Her behavior and childish remark seemed to indicate that she was mentally diminished. But she treated me with such graciousness. I began to pity her. I wanted to at least say something out of politeness. But my German was not working, and I was too busy trying to deduce the identity of the saint. In a few moments she wandered off. I thought that she had gone. I remained before the shine attempting to solve the puzzle.
“Who is she?” I continued to ask myself.
Out of the corner of my eye a little figure came marching toward me. It was the little woman. She extended her arm. She had a book in her hand. Then she very carefully and slowly spoke in simple, crystal-clear German.
“This will tell you what you want to know about the Madame,” she said.
I looked at the cover of the book. It was a fairly thick, glossy magazine of some sort. If this were a picture book about the saint bought at a local bookstore it would not be cheap. This lady certainly did not have much money. I could not accept that kind of generosity from her. I tried to politely refuse the gift. She became insistent and extended her arm closer to me, as if it would be an insult to her if I refused. I reached out and gingerly grasped the book and nodded to her a ‘thank you’.
As soon as the book was securely in my hand, she turned and sped off. I glanced at the cover. The book appeared to be some kind of home and garden magazine that had nothing to do with the saint. I became concerned for this woman. I followed her with my eyes. She quickly walked to the other side of the church, and marched confidently up to a wooden door that seemed to provide passage to the interior of the church on the right side. She tried the door handle as if she lived there, but the door was locked. She abruptly turned to her left, walking quickly along the side of the church until she disappeared from view behind the Maria Pötsch icon
I opened the book and thumbed through the pages. My initial impression was correct. The book was full of glossy pictures of gardens and luxury homes. It was not a picture book, but it would not be inexpensive in a city like Vienna. The woman had generously given me a book that must have been valuable to her. I could not help but think of Joe. I pitied the woman even more. She had been so generous and thoughtful.
I stuffed the book into my bag, unsure what I was going to do with it. It was a little heavy. I pondered the mystery of this saint’s identity for just a little longer. The Internet will solve the problem once and for all, I thought. No more need to linger.
I left the church and continued my excursion to the Mozart and Jewish museums. The Mozart museum was enjoyable. Besides the music and the history of the flat where Mozart lived in Vienna, I took comfort in the café on the first floor, which allowed me a few minutes to rest and have a coffee. Fatigue gnawed at me.
I made my way to the Jewish museum next and was horribly disappointed, even sad. I hoped to find information about the long history of Viennese and Central European Jews, their persecution, their intellectual and cultural contributions. There was one minor exhibit on the Holocaust and a whole floor devoted to the accomplishments of Central European Jews in Hollywood. Multimedia, movie posters, I felt like I was in Los Angeles. On the top floor were a few cabinets enclosed with glass with candlesticks and other artifacts from synagogues that had been destroyed during the reign of the Third Reich. Was this all that was left of the old synagogues of Vienna? The walls of the museum were painted a bright white, a fitting color, I thought. The purpose of the museum seemed to be to be bright, not dark. Hence a shiny whiteness washed the walls. Was there nothing to display? Had the Holocaust so completely erased the Jewish presence and memory in Vienna that there was nothing more to say? Was the Holocaust so painful that the spectacular distraction of Hollywood movies had become the antidote?
I made my way toward the palace and administrative buildings of the Hapsburgs clicking away at the architecture. I walked and clicked, walked and clicked for at least an hour or two. My legs were getting soft. My joints were aching, and a walking drowsiness was overtaking me. I needed to sit down. I was not going to make it to the Freudian museum like this. I would be lucky to have the energy to walk back to the hotel. In my mind I ran through the tasks that were necessary before my trip to Prague. The Czech Republic was not in the Euro-zone; I needed to change money. I checked the map and started walking in the direction of the hotel, looking around every corner up and down the street, hoping to spot a place to change money. I passed by more magnificent architecture, and encountered quite a few tourists like me snapping away at their cameras. My legs weakened further. I had to sit down. I spotted a bench on a corner that also had a view of a beautiful archway and statues. These would have impressed me earlier in the day, but the bench meant far more to me now. An older woman sat on one side of the bench. I examined her as I approached. She was well dressed and appeared quite civil from her demeanor, the kind of person that would leave me in peace. So, I sat down on the other side of the bench and quietly let out a sigh of relief.
We sat there together in silence for a few moments. The lady was living up to my expectations.
Then she abruptly changed that. She pointed to some tourists across the street taking pictures of the statues and buildings.
“Why do they do that?” she asked. “Why do they take pictures?”
She scoffed at the tourists disdainfully. This lady had some spunk. I had to respond in some way to avoid being rude. I did my best to say something civil.
“I take pictures so I can share them with my wife and daughter when I get home. That way I can share my trip with them, as if they were here,” I said.
“Ah!” She scoffed again, obviously unimpressed. This woman had some strong opinions, but she did not appear mean, and she still wanted to talk. She picked up her chin.
“At the market here,” she protested, “there are four hundred different kinds of cheeses.” She flicked her fingers in the air as if to bush it off as some kind of absurdity.
“Ah! Take me back to the war!” she said.
From pictures to cheese, to war, I did not know what to think. I was again obliged to respond, not knowing what to say. The lady did not look that old. I surmised that she must have been a child during the war. Perhaps she had painful memories.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“I am from Canada,” she said.
“But you were here during the war?” I asked.
She nodded, “ I am from Normandy.”
She promptly launched into another tirade.
“Fifty thousand dead! Fifty thousand dead! Churchill, I hate him. Ah! He bombed all these German towns. Fifty thousand dead!”
Proudly and bitterly pursing her mouth, her finger held high again:
“We will never forget!” she said.
The lady was becoming agitated. I tried to calm the conversation,
“It was a horrible war,” I said.
She paused and swallowed her breath. I was not thinking clearly. I suppose I wanted to change the subject and guide the conversation to some philosophical plane that I found interesting. My experience at the Jewish museum was fresh in my mind, and so I made a clumsy attempt at sharing.
“I visited the Jewish museum today…” The lady would not allow me to continue.
“Ah!” she scoffed again. “I will not go there. You did not have to be a Jew to be killed!” She said, shaking her finger in the air.
The lady had finally broken my patience. She was not the gentle lady she appeared to be. Bitterness and hate filled her soul. As much as I needed to rest my legs, I could not tolerate sitting next to her any longer. I got up and spoke as kindly as I could, allowing the sharpness of my movements to express my displeasure.
“I must find a bank to change money. I must go. Goodbye.”
I walked away. I glanced over my shoulder to have one last look at her. With her chin held high in the air, proudly, she looked in the other direction. I continued on my way and did not look back. I rounded a corner and did my best to put her out of mind.
I made my way back to the main pedestrian zone of the old city and visited one more church. I was lucky enough to enter in the midst of an organ recital. I changed money and as I approached Saint Stephen’s fatigue set in full force. I walked back to the hotel, another ten minutes or so, and laid down in my room. I awoke and it was dark outside.
Out of curiosity I again pulled the magazine from my backpack and looked it over. The lady in Saint Stephen’s had so earnestly and sincerely told me that this book would tell me what I wanted to know about the Saint, and she was such a sweet lady. Maybe there was something I missed. But I did not find anything new. Luxurious furniture, clothing, floral arrangements, gardens; I did not bother trying to read the German text, which appeared to be the sort of thing one might find in a Town and Country magazine back home. The magazine was just what it appeared to be, or so I thought. I did not see any point in keeping it. I was already weighed down enough with books, clothing and papers. I set the book on the desk in my room. It was too nice to throw away. It had been such a generous gift, but it was useless.
I walked to a nearby restaurant. I had a meal and some tasty Austrian beer, then back to the hotel. I took a shower and climbed into bed. The train left for Prague fairly early. I would have the late afternoon and evening to settle into Prague. The conference would begin the next day. I still did not know what to do with the conclusion to my paper. As I lay in bed that night, I could not get the lady from Saint Stephen’s out of my thoughts. She reminded me of Joe. She appeared to have so little. But she wanted to help me. Or was she just grateful that I had talked to her? In any case, she had given me what she had. Her world seemed to be one of dreams, delusions and alienation. She left me with exactly the opposite feeling from the lady on the bench, who did not care about my feelings or needs. The lady on the bench wanted to impose herself on me, to speak without listening. The lady of Saint Stephen’s had nothing remarkable to say, and she appeared to be aware of that. All she did was listen and give. Pride and humility, meanness and compassion, bitterness and gratitude, the contrasts between the two of them mounted.
That day in Vienna, besides requests for directions and a few transactions, checking into my room, changing money, ordering food and drink, I spoke only with these two people, the ladies of Vienna, as I came to know them. I thought nothing of it at the time. Vienna was such a beautiful city, and in my jet lag I had managed to see much of the old city. It was a good day of sight-seeing. But these ladies left me hints and clues to an unknown horizon. I did not know it at the time, but in the littleness of these clues I had been introduced to the very Saint whose identity had escaped me, a Saint who would change me.
The next morning I packed up all clothing, toiletries, books, iPad and papers and got ready to leave. The magazine was still on the desk. It was useless, I concluded one more time, but too nice to throw away. I left ten Euros on the magazine as a tip for the cleaning ladies. Perhaps they might enjoy it.
I checked out of the hotel and left.
I had left the adapter to plug into European electrical outlets in the hotel in Vienna. I was writing my paper on the iPad, and the paper was not finished. As soon as I checked into the hotel in Prague I raced to a department store to buy a new adapter. After some confusion, and a lot of walking around, my hunt met with success. I barely had time to unpack and access the WiFi at the hotel when it was time to go out to dinner with my colleague Nate. I read my paper again. It was entirely inadequate. I want the audience and readers to see in Joe what I see, I thought.
But what do I see?
There was no more time to think that evening. It was time to enjoy. I met Nate at a restaurant in the old city and enjoyed a good meal and more very good beer. Prague and Vienna, such marvelous cities, and I had been granted the great blessing of visiting them both in such comfort.
I returned to my room a little euphoric from the beer. I sat down at the desk and turned on my iPad. I was in no state of mind to write. But I could browse the Internet. It was now time to solve the mystery of the Saint at Saint Stephen’s. She was not German. She was probably not Austrian. The photo looked 19th century or so. Her name was ‘Teresa’. I searched and browsed pages in a confused fashion for a few seconds. Then I found her. No wonder! She’s French! Saint Thérèse! I hunted further, and brought up her biography. She was from Lisieux, in Normandy.
The lady on the bench!
I read on. Saint Thérèse was known as ‘the Little Flower’, a doctor of the Catholic Church, and yet she died at the age of 24. She was not a scholar, not that well educated. She said that she wanted to be little. And she loved. Oh, how she loved! In her life she practiced this love in every little act and intention of daily living. This she endeavored to teach.
What a beautiful Saint! What a match for Joe! What a match for the lady of Saint Stephen’s! And what an opposition to the lady on the bench. The contrasts and oppositions, irony and paradox, filled my mind anew. And she was from Normandy. In the beauty of it all I began to cry. The meaning of my brother’s life was a mystery, hidden in irony and paradox, hidden in love. The little Saint looked at me from the screen of my iPad and seemed to tell me that. I did not yet know this woman. But how lovely she was.
In her I knew I would find my brother.
I slept that evening with tears streaming down the pillowcase, and reviewed in my mind every sentence, every moment of those experiences with the ladies in Vienna. That evening in Prague I committed it all to memory, where it resides to this day.
The events of Vienna carried immediate significance for me, as well as hidden meanings. In the little lady I saw Joe, I saw Saint Thérèse, and in the lady on the bench I saw the opposite. I saw love opposed to hate, bitterness opposed to compassion, self assertion opposed to patience, disregard opposed to care, pride opposed to humility, charity opposed to self concern. And yet the lady on the bench was from Normandy, the birthplace and home of Saint Thérèse herself.
“But she is dead,” I thought, just as the lady in Saint Stephen’s had said. She no longer resides in Normandy. The flowers and gardens of the magazine acquired meaning as well. Saint Thérèse loved flowers, and was known for leaving roses in response to prayers. I wanted to have the book back to examine it. But it was gone, just like Thérèse herself. I had given it away with ten Euros for the cleaning ladies. I flirted with claims to charity, but that would be a lie. The book was too heavy and I did not want to carry it. Now, I wanted it back.
The comment about the cheese as well seemed to have some ironic meaning. The bitter lady on the bench was not open to limitless choice and pleasures. She was fixed on the familiar, sameness. She wanted to go back to the war. But why? Did her bitterness prevent her from opening herself up to what is new, different, the unexpected? Joe’s mind was diseased. He could not think complex thoughts. But in his delusions he enjoyed limitless possibility, and continuous joy. He was imprisoned from the normal, human perspective, and yet he was free and joyful. The biological and material limitations could not contain his spirit. He roamed blissfully among worlds we cannot know.
Was this part of what he meant when he says, “I live with God”?
The openness of Joe’s life coalesced with his compassion and charity. These belong together. His heart beats with such concern for others, which he expresses in ways that he can, just as the little lady of Saint Stephen’s did what she could for me. Is this also an aspect of life with God?
The night before I was to present my paper I sat down at my desk and wrote out a series of ironies attempting to unravel the mystery of the meaning of my brother’s life with God. Did he really live with God? How could I say he did not? How could anyone say?
******************
I returned to Vienna after the conference by train in the afternoon. My plane left for San Francisco the next day. I checked into the same hotel, and was given the same room. In the room I found my adapter still stuck into the electric socket. But the magazine was nowhere to be found.
I had just enough time to make my way back to Saint Stephen’s and view the shrine of Saint Thérèse one more time. In the Cathedral store I found a little card with the same photo of Thérèse with the German text on the back. I bought four cards, and a rosary for Joe, and went out to dinner.
Upon my arrival home I was excited to tell my wife about the experiences in Vienna, the reception of the paper, and the ideas still fresh in my mind. I told her about the shrine, the lady of Saint Stephen’s and the lady on the bench. She listened intently with tears in her eyes. Then she said quietly,
“I have been praying a Novena to Saint Thérèse for over a year.”
She pulled out a laminated, black and white card. There she was, Saint Thérèse, the very same photo at the shine in Saint Stephen’s. It was a special card with a tiny piece of red cloth laminated on the back; the cloth had been touched to her relics. It was a gift from a high school friend of hers. My faithful wife had been praying for months on end without my knowledge. But she was always praying, by the fireplace in the morning, in her office. That was what she did. I never asked her about it.
POSTSCRIPTS
AFTERMATH OF VIENNA
In the aftermath of this trip I was uncertain what to think and believe about what had happened in Vienna. To the very core of my being I felt that something extraordinary had taken place.
But what?
I began reading all the works of Thérèse, her famous autobiography, The Story of A Soul, letters, poetry, plays; she was quite prolific for a cloistered nun who only wrote with permission from superiors. I stayed away from hagiographies and other books and articles about Thérèse. In Vienna I could not escape the feeling Thérèse had introduced herself to me, as well as to her opposite, who ironically hailed from her earthly home. Ironies and opposites bubbled up like signs. I cannot help but crack a smile when I think of it, “You want to know who I am? See this bitter woman from my home? Well, I am not her!”
I did not want to read what others said or thought about Thérèse. Her own words were required. And how touching, transparent, and true they were. If one attends carefully to the writings of Thérèse, no matter what your opinions or beliefs, one cannot escape the depths of soul from which every word springs; she says only what she thinks, nothing more or less, with a mix of childlike simplicity and Norman common sense. Her autobiography inspired millions in a few short years following the death of this young Carmelite nun, who was entirely unknown outside the cloister and a few correspondences. More than a century after her death, I was becoming yet another one of her victims. I uncovered so many little coincidences that suggested meanings and direction for understanding my brother’s life, what it is that brings me hope, what it is I can learn from him, as well as the source of his indomitable strength. Great ambitions overtook me.
“I will write a book within a year about Joe, love, hope, and the Little Way of Thérèse of Lisieux,” I thought.
But instead, the exact opposite happened. I languished in self centered stupor. I cannot remember what oppressed me in the months following my return from Vienna. But I do recall how I felt, depressed, dissatisfied with work and life. Whatever I wrote seemed nonsensical and dishonest. My visits with Joe were less frequent as well. I do not want to remember those days and months, but in hindsight I can say this about it: the lady on the bench was not only the opposite of Thérèse. I was the lady on the bench. I wanted to speak without listening. I wanted to impose my thoughts on others and force compliance. I wanted others to be like myself and loathed differences that made me uncomfortable. I did not want to forget. I did not want to share. And, although I considered myself forgiving and accepting, I did not want to forget. There were parts of me that wanted to go back to the war.
The lady on the bench did indeed serve as an ironic opposite to reveal what Love is, who Thérèse is, but she also serves as a mirror to the heart of all those who fall short in Love. The novice-lover must confront the lady on the bench before he can comprehend the gift of the lady of Saint Stephen’s, a gift of infinite simplicity that can be revealed in an instant of time, and yet remain incomprehensible in a thousand lifetimes of study.
“This will tell you what you want to know about the Madame,” she said.
But what is this?
CHEESE
Among the many ideas that emerged from interactions with the ladies of Vienna were some ideas on cheese of all things.
Why would a native of Normandy, known for its cheese, complain about the wide variety of cheese at local supermarkets? Perhaps she is just grouchy and likes what she likes. But what if one considered cheese a symbol of some sort?
I decided to look up the occurrences of “cheese” in the Bible. According to the Gateway.com search engine, there are three occurrences of the term “cheese” (translated from Hebrew). Two occur in Samuel 17 and one in the book of Job 10:10. The occurrences in Samuel do not appear to suggest any symbolic meaning to ‘cheese’, but that is really a question to be addressed by those who know the Bible better than I. The occurrence in Job is pregnant with meaning, and calls for another digression.
As I started writing about Joe in the spring of 2011, I did not know what to do. Should this be an academic paper of some sort that draws ideas from other sources? Should I research other inspiring stories about those suffering from schizophrenia? Should I read classical stories about suffering and overcoming suffering as background? What about conversion stories?
Joe says he lives with God and sometimes makes reference to the Bible. You cannot encounter Joe without talking about God. What about suffering in the Bible? So, I read the Book of Job in a search for ideas. In the end I decided that Job was not really analogous to Joe’s story: Joe has never been reduced to cursing God for his misfortune, crying out ‘why me?’. Also the attacks on Job come from without, but in Joe’s case overwhelming inner turmoil is the obstacle to be overcome (although one could certainly argue that God allows both). I spent some time thinking about the comparisons between Job and Joe, and came to the conclusion that my brother is a far more agreeable character, yet another reason for admiring him. But I still liked the sound of the title, ‘The Book of Joe’, so I borrowed it for the paper.
And now months later in the wake of Vienna, Job and Joe came together again in an examination of cheese.
In the biblical passage Job builds his plea for God to relieve his suffering by reminding God that he is His creation,
“Your hands have shaped me and made me, But now you destroy me completely. Remember that you have made me as with the clay; will you return me to dust? Did you not pour me out like milk, and curdle me like cheese?”
According to some rabbinic commentators, the ideas of being ‘poured out like milk’ and ‘curdled like cheese’ allude to the release of semen in the womb and the mixing of milky fluids to form a person. Job also humbly debases himself and all humanity with these comparisons: neither ‘dirty’ clay nor ‘stinky’ cheese are flattering analogies for the substance of human beings.
Cheese appears to stand for the physical substance of what it means to be human, ‘earthly humanity’, so to speak; and more especially, ‘cheese’ is a fitting description of the substance formed in the womb.
In this way one could interpret the aversion to many different kinds of cheese as a symbol for lack of tolerance for other human beings different from oneself. The lady on the bench loves only the familiar, what suits her, the sameness of what it is to be her. Others should be like her, agree with her, or she will dismiss them. Cheese and people are matters of taste, and the lady on the bench will only tolerate a very limited selection.
Love, it seems, would be just the opposite; Love desires as many different kinds of cheese as one can produce. Four hundred would be too few. As Love desires a limitless selection of cheese, so Love embraces an infinite variety of people, all human, as cheese is all cheese, but all with different textures, flavors, and aromas. But, we are all cheese, unfortunately, rather stinky, physical beings that are none too pleasant if left out in the sun too long. But Love embraces the stench, and wants to proliferate the kinds of stench as far as it can go.
Irony, comedy and biblical foundations accomplished, this interpretation seemed to suit an imagination in search of the Little Flower. But there was more to come.
One day as I browsed the Internet researching the life of Thérèse I came upon a photo and some information about the streets of Lisieux.
April 9, 1888 was one of the most important days in the life of Thérèse. On this day she would enter the convent, Carmel, the desert where she would meet Jesus himself. Passing through the convent doors was like being born into another life, a life of sacrifice where she would die to herself and the world to allow the Love of God to shine through her.
Rules forbade girls from entering the convent until the age of 18. Thérèse had let loose an unrelenting campaign to gain permission to enter the convent early at the age of 15. She had enlisted the help of her father, her uncle, the Prioress at the Carmel in Lisieux. Through her father she had arranged a meeting with the bishop. And then, she travelled with her father and her sister Celine to Rome on a pilgrimage and audaciously asked the Pope himself, when she was strictly forbidden not to say a word. Finally, permission was granted, and the day of her entrance into the desert of Carmel was set, April 9, 1888.
As she travelled down the road leading up to the gates of Carmel, she travelled on her last earthly road, the last moments of her life ‘in the world’. Henceforth she would retire to an enclosure to be near to her beloved, to seek him, to be annihilated in His Love, until every aspect of her being shone with charity for others rather than concern for self. The road that Thérèse travelled down that day, April 9, 1888, was named Rue de Livarot. Livarot is a famous kind of Norman cheese. On a road of cheese Thérèse approached the gates of Carmel. Later, no doubt due to the fame of this young Carmelite, the Rue de Livarot was changed to the Rue de Carmel. As Thérèse herself moved from the ways of cheese to the ways of God, so too did the name of the road leading up to Carmel.
Humanity universally shares its ‘cheesy’ nature, and Love demands the multiplication of our kinds to the limits of natural diversity—and Love loves each kind as if there were no other, Love does not impose itself, but embraces all. But, the ambition of cheese should not be to remain cheese, there is a greater destiny in store for us. Beyond our earthly differences there is a heavenly sameness, Love. The sameness of heavenly Love seeks to annihilate our selfishness, which seems impossible for us in this Life, but Love does not thereby seek to annihilate our differences but to glorify them.
Thérèse remains Thérèse, I remain me, you remain you, but in Love we are the same to the extent we give ourselves to one another for the good of one another.
“This will tell you want to know about the Madame,” said the lady of Saint Stephen’s.
But what is this?
On this day in 1888, April 9, Thérèse passed through the gates of Carmel on her journey from the world to heaven, from what is human to what is of God, from what is of self to what is selfless, from earthly cheese to heavenly spirit, from Livarot to Carmel.
One hundred and twelve years later, on this same day, April 9, the most precious of all cheeses would be born to my wife and me, our daughter, born April 9, 2000.
Gilberte reports that the Mother of Jesus told her and the other children who saw her to be good. At some later time Mary says something like, “Are you really good?”. What does it mean to be good? And what about the dialectic of competing theories of ‘the good’, ‘well being’, ‘happiness’ and how these issues relate to public policy and political and social arrangements?
I pray a novena to Saint Thérèse of Lisieux almost every night. I believe that I would not know Thérèse as I do without Joe, although I am sure that Joe had never heard of her. I woke up with a song playing in my head this morning and I could not turn it off. The song belongs in the repertoire of Joe and Thérèse, a song for Joe.
Songs for Joe 