One Saturday Morning

The previous night I'd had a really awful PTSD attack. Wave after wave of horrific anguish washed over me, and would have completely overwhelmed me if not for reaching out to God with the Jesus Prayer. You can claim to have faith all day, but when the night comes and the darkness comes in what do you do? Anyway, the next morning rolled around and I felt pretty awful. I was having trouble with the trigger, which was still riding it out in my body. I didn't know how long it was going to last, and frankly I didn't know if I could deal with the truth anyway. So my family and I went for a stroll.

It was still a bit cool; the sun hadn't reached its typical Oklahoma awfulness.  On this day you'd almost believe it was a normal August day anywhere north of the Mason-Dixon. My 3 year old was skipping along, and the wind was just the tiniest bit crisp. That's about as close to Fall as we'll probably get for a few more months yet.

I was enjoying the weather, despite myself. After all, it's not too often where you get a break before November in this wretched state and even I could tell it was a good morning, even if I couldn't appreciate it. The mind of someone deep in a trigger is of bolted down boards on roiling chaos. It's hard to adequately express it, only that at some point the body wears out of being in so much supposed danger all the time and you begin to feel depressed, since there's really not a whole lot more to do at that point.

And then we happened upon the graveyard.

Now, this graveyard was not a surprise; we live right across the street from it, after all. We'd known about it for a few weeks. But we'd never gotten to visit it. Well, today was the day. And I was welcomed with the greatest gift a troubled man can receive: silence.

No, I didn't say quiet. The graveyard was far from quiet. There were people doing maintenance and there was a woman walking, talking on her cell phone. But something hung here, in the air, serene, passive, and patient. The instant I stepped foot on this ground I could feel my body change. Gone were the aches and pains. In its place was the realization that what I was feeling would pass. These people lay here, awaiting the day they would come back. I was awash in something that is very rarely felt: peace. I found myself laughing as we walked between the gravestones, heady with the borrowed freedom of the dead, the knowledge that this too would pass. Oh, it was not not my freedom, and I knew it. I knew that, once I walked away, the battle would begin again. The memories would begin to fight to come back, and I would be faced with something new and horrific to suffer through, all over again. But, for that moment, staring at the dead's tombstones and realizing how little time I actually had, I was free. The Gift of Illuvatar was, indeed, just that: a gift! And  while that gift would be mine someday, it was not yet. And so I enjoyed my troublesome and stubborn flesh as we walked. These people were waiting. They were at peace. And one day I would join them, when it was time. Fortunately I do not dictate that time.

I stopped, took a deep breath, and walked into the area. There were single days on these gravestones, with toys (illegally) stacked atop them. The air itself changed; anguish overlaid itself on the peace of the rest of the yard. My wife and I stood, staring at the gravestones, and cried as we looked at our little ones, one strapped in a carrier to my wife and our three year old running around, oblivious as to where we were. Death may be a gift of release from this cruel world but that doesn't mean it's any less painful for those left behind. These little ones had such a small amount of time, months at the very longest. Looking at our little ones my wife and I were overwhelmed by it all.

Drying our eyes the best we could we left the silently grieving area and started trying to corral our three year old back to our house for food. It was almost noon, no one had showered, and we'd barely eaten anything. But, of course, a three year old in an open space is going to run like the dickens, and he had to be caught. Across the road, closer to our house, is a pair of fountains. We offered to stop there. Our son found this acceptable and, crossing the usually-busy road, we made our way to the fountains.

As you can see, there are multiple levels down to the water; we never let our children down to the last one, because it's so easy to fall in and with the reeds, we might never even notice what had happened. Fortunately our eldest son was in a good mood about that restriction today. Instead, he walked up to me, held out his hand, and shouted "JUMP DADDY!" I looked down at my little angel, one who at so many points infuriates the holy hell out of me, but then inspires with pure goodness a moment later. I looked down at the half of a six foot drop to the next level. He probably didn't need me to do it, but that was besides the point, wasn't it? I grabbed his small, delicate hand and, yelling at the top of our lungs, we jumped the half-six feet , to the next row below.

And we did it over, and over, and over again. Each time we laughed and, for the briefest second, there was something far better than peace. I only wish I knew how to describe it to you.

Lunch was delicious, by the way.

Catholics, Orthodox, and Tolkien, Chesterton, and Lewis

I'm absolutely appalled by most of my Orthodox brethren's treatment of Catholicism. Modern Orthodoxy's selective sense history (not to mention the ignoring of their own canons and anathemas) is frustrating. Don't get me wrong, there's problems with Catholicism, and they're all tied in with the Pope and Rome and the centralization of their ecclesiastical power. But there's still some hope for unity, and I think that's thanks to J.R.R. Tolkien, Chesterton, and Lewis

I mean, sure, who doesn't love LOTR? Well, quite a few. But there are a number of Orthodox who love Tolkien, who attribute their Orthodoxy, in part, to Tolkien. Even the most die-hard ROCOR I've met has sang Tolkien's praises. And it's not hard to see why. Tolkien's worldview is decidedly Orthodox: people fall and succeed because of their limited qualities, not because they're good or bad or whatever, the world is infinitely larger than the characters but can be profoundly affected by them, and victory is because of the divine, not the human. But the inherent tragedy of human existence, coupled with the fact that, for us Christians, death is no longer the tragedy it once was, is at the beating heart of Tolkien's works, which lines him up with Orthodoxy's hymnography and doctrine. And people can feel that out.

G.K. Chesterton is another great example of a Catholic who the Orthodox love to quote. His books Heretics and Orthodoxy and some of the most quotable and hopeful books I've ever read in my life and were part of my (still very much so ongoing) recovery from cynicism and a dead life. Chesterton's take on life as being a fairy tale that all others are based on is impossible to ignore, let alone talk down. Chesterton's fiction isn't quite as good as his non-fiction, but it has a charm that's all its own.

I don't know of a single Christian group that can actually hate C.S. Lewis. While he was nominally Anglican (c'mon, people, the Great Divorce puts him squarely into Orthodox territory at the least, if not Catholic)the fact of the matter is that The Chronicles of Narnia and The Space Trilogy have put Lewis as secondary only to Tolkien in the Christian world, and even that's arguable for a number of people.

Like I said, Orthodox and Catholic alike hold up these three giants without any shame. And that, to me, speaks to a much greater commonality than people on both sides would like to admit. An Emperor of China, when he wanted to know what his people were like, would go out and find out what art they were creating and consuming. And the fact of the matter is that, if a right-right ROCOR Orthodox can love Tolkien as much as a modern Novus Ordo Catholic, not all is lost. We can figure this out, somehow.

It very well may take the Anti-Christ to do it, but that's to be expected. We are only human, after all, and are a rather thick bunch.

PTSD

It always starts with a period of deep anger. The type of anger that comes out from your bones and leaves you feeling like there's no other feeling to have about the world, and that you never felt anything different.  It spikes at differing things that it holds to be threats, like how the sun shone in your eyes just then, or the way your son's voice sounds particularly squeaky when he's trying to communicate how much he can't say, or even when your poor wife is trying to get you to pick up the other kid cause he needs someone to hold him. There is a threat to be found, somewhere, and the anger will be damned if it can't find an attacker.

The funny thing is how reasonable it is until you open your mouth to express why you're being pissy.

Oh wait, this makes no sense. Crap.

For a brief second you feel powerless and the feedback loop is created. You are now locked into a cycle of anger at... something... along with the shame of being so irrational, which makes you angry, because no one else understands. Nor can they. It's a comforting loneliness at times. I wouldn't wish this on anyone. But the wish to not have anyone share in it just makes you lonelier.

Sometimes this cycle goes on for weeks at a time, as your body continues to break down the barriers between you and a truly horrific memory, the stuff of nightmares. You take a breath and ride it out. The little drops of anger have become an ocean that you ride upon in your little skiff. Getting wet is impossible, but you can stay on the skiff.

And then you remember.

All of a sudden you are there. Your brain snaps into awful focus, and you realize that you are in a moment of hatred so intense, so awful, that you cannot for the life of you figure out how the heck you are still around. You are being hurt, right now, and you cannot stop it. Maybe, just maybe, someone will figure it out. But you're tired, so very, very very tired. You're in two places at once. That's not figurative, you are both a child and an adult at that point and I dare anyone to tell me different. The decision to stay in one point in time must be made. What happened then is then, you are not there, not right now. The pain may be so intense that you feel that you've lost your mind, but the simple fact is somehow, some way, you are sane, because if you were not feeling like this it would be insanity itself. Flailing in the tidal wave, you get the idea to shoot a hand up, above your head.

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner!

I do not pretend that every time I say that prayer I feel the presence of God. That would be utterly untrue and prideful. Perhaps it's just the act of doing it that is so helpful. But there are some times I'm convinced that there's a presence that dawns in my soul.  The Presence does not say much, not normally, but He does hold me, as the waves continue to batter harder and harder. There are times I find myself terrified of everything, but He continues to hold me, and I am safe. Even in the midst of the worst tidal waves there He is. Sometimes I must pray for the person who is did the damage to me. And sometimes I realize the waves of anger that I feel against this person are so horrific that they'll destroy me too, and so I ask for the both of us to be saved from myself.  Sometimes it has to be praying for myself, because the tidal wave is aimed at me for allowing this horrific thing to happen to me. The fact that I was a child is immaterial to that level of anger. Someone must be destroyed, and if it's me, the one who made the anger in the first place, so be it. Anger is ultimately a suicidal impulse, somehow, even if you don't feel suicidal at that precise moment. To be angry at another and to wish for their harm is to wish harm to yourself.

So the waves hit, over and over, and I find that I am still alive, that the world did not wash away, and that part of me cannot hate or be angry anymore.  And the waves just... stop. Sometimes it's large parts of my personality that walk away changed, and sometimes it was just a battle for just the tiniest personality tick. But I walked through the shadow of the valley of death, and He was with me. And yes, that rod is really comforting. And without His staff I would have wandered off a long time ago. Goodness and Mercy do follow me, because if He didn't I would've drowned, and it's as simple as that. 

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner!

Tolkien and Fairy Tales

I've decided to go through all of Tolkien, which I've never done. Wasting no time, I jumped into the Silmarillion, which I've not read in 17 years. I remember first trying to read this book, and how ridiculously hard it was at 13. I was pleasantly surprised by the book at 30: it has become easier with age. Not only that, but I've found the stories entrancing in a way that I had forgotten I could be.

It started with Aule's creation of the dwarves. Aule, the Valar of making things, had decided that he wanted to his own people, in direct contradiction to Illuvatar's wish that the elves be first. Illuvatar, of course, corrects Aule, that he can't actually create souls, and so he was essentially just making thrauls. Aule's reaction made me pause: without blaming Illuvatar, he responded that, given how Illuvatar had made him, what else could he expect? For Aule could not act outside of his nature. Something about this level of honesty has stuck with me: "I am what I am, and even though what I did was wrong it comes from who I am, as a person". This blatant acceptance of self is something that's rare in modern fiction. Characters may be good, they may be bad, but their good usually only makes good things and their bad only makes bad things. Ironically enough, Tolkien's work in the Silmarillion is far more "grey" than anything in modern fiction: good can (and does) lead to great evil, and evil can (and does) lead to good. Even Manwe's inability to counter Melkor is specifically because of his goodness, to the point of utter naivete. But it's this goodness that later leads to his defeating  of Melkor.

But it didn't stop here for me. The tale of Beren and Luthien talks of a love so strong, so immediate, and so intense that even the gods have to get out of the way! They wander about the world, knocking over evil gods and destroying monsters, all so they could remain together. And, again, they get into the trouble they do because they are good people. Death comes to Beren, not because he's stupid, but because he refuses to give up on his oath, justly sworn. But this led to huge consequences that we often forget about. And the children of Hurin are completely engulfed in the fact that they can only be what they are.

There's a largeness to The Silmarillion that is unparalled. Somehow, getting as far I have in the Silmarillion, I've been reminded that modern sitcoms and stories all have a glass ceiling on them. I can't but help but feel like, somehow, I've been re-awakened to a larger world, a world that isn't so hellbent on keeping the bigger picture out of our minds. A world where we are not alone, where our struggles are little but important. It's older, wilder, more unpredictable. In short, it's a fairy tale.

And, for the most part, I can't imagine any modern writer I've read doing that, George R. R. Martin particularly.