TF Audit

When I was eight years old I swiped another kid’s tooth and put it under my pillow.

TF was a no-show.

Even supernatural accountants, it seems, insist on clear title.

Trad Cats

We Trad Cats are like children whose father has brought another woman home and told us we must now address her as our mother.

 

”But father, this is not our mother,” we say.

 

”I am your father with authority over you, and I say this is your mother. You must hug her and kiss her and tell her you love her,” the father says angrily.

 

”But father,” we say, “this woman is not our mother. We want our mother back.”

 

“You disobedient child,” the father says. “Your new mother keeps house and cooks for you and takes you to school. She does everything a mother does. She is your mother.”

 

”But father,” we say, “Our mother gave us life. She makes us home-cooked meals with love and attention. This other woman lets strangers into the home at all hours and heats up TV dinners in the microwave. She is not our mother. We want our mother back.”

 

”You have injured the harmony of this family with your complaining,” the father says. “You have defied my authority.”

 

“But father,” we say, “we know you are our father. Yet that woman is not our mother. We are broken hearted. Please give us our mother back.”

 

”You disobedient, ungrateful wretch of a child” the father says. “Because you have defied me, you are excommunicated and no longer part of this family. Depart from my sight and sleep in the coal cellar, for if you will not have this woman for your mother, then you are no child of mine and you have no part in this family.”

 

And so we continue on, quarantined to the dark cellar, yearning for our father to put his trophy bride aside and bring our mother back. In our seclusion we keep the family customs, we recall our true mother’s birthday, we sing the songs she loves. She will know we have been faithful, even though our father has forgotten himself and shamed her.

 

May our father remember his duties and restore our loving mother to her rightful place.

Roman Drivers

During my recent trip to Rome, I enjoyed several excellent meals at local restaurants. Dining out from the hotel was a thoroughly enjoyable part of the trip.

 

One evening I joined Ben and his wife and daughter for dinner. We took an Uber to reach our destination.

 

I can say from that experience that the legend of the aggressive Italian taxi driver is no myth.

 

Ben and his family took the back seat, and I sat up front with the driver. I greeted the driver, who had the look of the disheveled uncle you need to keep your eye on at weddings. He spoke no English, but he turned and gave me a mischievous wink.

 

It was a hint of what was to come.

 

To say that the driver confirmed the stereotypes is too generic, so allow me to provide a few details.

 

I noticed no speed limit signs, but I imagine this driver would have taken them merely as suggestions rather than laws.

 

Abrupt changes of lane were routine.

 

At one point, the driver pulled into the oncoming lane to pass a slower car. To get the oncoming automobile to slow down, he proceeded to honk the car horn vigorously and repeatedly.

 

I turned to speak to Ben in the back seat, and he and his family were all staring wide-eyed and in a state of near-shock.

 

“If any of you want to sit in the front seat on the way back, I’m OK with that,” I offered.

 

Nobody laughed, but Ben did show me his phone's screen, explaining that the estimated drive time had suddenly dropped from 17 minutes to 7 minutes.

 

After the driver dropped us off, Ben looked at his phone’s map and announced that we were not at the restaurant he’d told the driver to take us to, but that’s OK because we spied several promising restaurants near the spot where we had been dropped.

 

Not that we explored the options: we sat at the first table we came to so as to recover from the white-knuckle, kamikaze taxi experience.

 

Sometimes legends, stereotypes, and myths are rooted in history.

 

And sometimes legends, stereotypes, and myths are the history.

 

 

Tenebrae on Maundy Thursday

Today is Maundy Thursday, and this morning at church we sang Tenebrae.

Tenebrae (Latin for “darkness” or “shadows”) is a profound and deeply moving Catholic liturgical service, observed during the Sacred Triduum — specifically on Holy Thursday, Good Friday, and Holy Saturday.

 

In the pre-1955 Holy Week liturgy, Tenebrae was celebrated on the evening before each of these days, i.e., on Spy Wednesday (looking at you, Judas), Maundy Thursday evening, and Good Friday evening.

 

It is a time of intense mourning and reflection, as the Church commemorates the betrayal, Passion, and burial of Our Lord Jesus Christ.

 

The Tenebrae service lasts for about two hours and combines the Office of Matins and Lauds, the first two hours of the Divine Office. It is chanted in a darkened church, with only the light of candles to illuminate the sacred texts.

 

At the front of the sanctuary stands the Tenebrae hearse, a triangular candelabrum bearing 15 candles:

• 14 candles represent the Apostles and faithful followers of Christ.
• The 15th candle, placed at the top, symbolizes Christ Himself, the Light of the World.

After each psalm is chanted, one candle is extinguished, plunging the church ever deeper into darkness. This symbolizes the abandonment of Christ by His disciples and the growing darkness over the earth as He approaches death.

 

After the 14 candles are extinguished, the single white candle — Christ — is hidden behind the altar, symbolizing His burial in the tomb.

 

At the end of the service, a great noise (strepitus) is made — at our church one bangs on the pews; some places slam books on the choir stall. This represents the earthquake at the moment of Christ’s death and the confusion of creation in the face of the death of the Creator.

 

Then, in silence and darkness, the hidden candle is returned to its place — not extinguished.

 

The texts of Tenebrae are drawn from:

• The Book of Lamentations of the Prophet Jeremiah, chanted in a mournful tone, lamenting the desolation of Jerusalem — foreshadowing the desolation of Christ's Passion.
• The Psalms, particularly those that prophesy the sufferings of the Messiah.
• The Responsories, which offer deeply poetic and sorrowful reflections on Our Lord’s Passion.

 

These are traditionally sung in Gregorian chant, with a haunting and meditative quality that leads the soul into contemplation of the Mystery of the Cross.

Tenebrae is a powerful act of devotion, inviting the faithful to accompany Christ in His abandonment, agony, and death. It is a moment to enter into the heart of Holy Week, to keep watch with the Lord in His darkest hour, and to meditate on the gravity of sin, the depths of divine love, and the hope of redemption.

 

The Royal Colors

Yesterday was Passion Sunday - from the old Latin word "passio," which means "suffering" or "endurance."

All the crucifixes and pictures in the church were draped in purple, the color for mourning, but also for royalty.

 

It's a salute to our Lord Jesus Christ, who loved us so much that He suffered on the cross for our sins - a royal king paying the debt owed by His people.

 

Rubicon Recall

My car was in the shop this morning getting a factory-recall upgrade. While I was waiting for my vehicle, I observed a Rubicon jeep parked at the shop.

I was reminded of a trip I made some 20 years ago to attend a friend's wedding in Winnipeg.

During my stay in the Great White North, I rented a Rubicon jeep, which I used to zip around the city for extra-curricular sight-seeing.

The Red River flows through the center of Winnipeg, and I took the Norwood Bridge over that waterway several times during my visit.

On one such passage I mused, "When Caesar crossed the Rubicon, the fields of Rome ran red with the blood of civil war. Now here I am crossing the Red River in my Rubicon jeep."

Which goes to show that if a little knowledge of history is not necessarily a practical thing, at times it can at least be mildly amusing.

 

 Photo of the Rubicon I spotted this morning

No Place for Yuccas

Here’s a photo of the first house I ever owned - bought it in the fall of 1998.

 

First House

It sat on a corner lot, and at the corner of the front lawn sitting under the stop sign was a great big yucca plant.

 

I hated that plant: it was a pain to trim, it didn’t belong, it wasn’t attractive, and it was a pedestrian hazard.

 

I kept telling myself that I needed to just cut it up, but I never got around to it.

 

One day the doorbell rang.

 

I opened the door and made the introduction of my neighbor, a decent and polite chap who apologized for what his sons had done.

 

“They know that what they did was wrong, and I told them that they had to own up to it and say they’re sorry to you,” he said. “They’re afraid of how you’ll respond, so they asked me to explain what happened first.”

 

“OK," I replied, baffled at this introduction. “What did they do?”

 

He pointed to what was left of the yucca plant at the corner.

 

The thing looked like it had been ripped apart with a blunt machete.

 

“They took a couple of sticks and tore into your plant,” the kindly chap continued. “I asked them why they did it, but they just said they didn’t know.”

 

I suppressed my smile, took a deep breath, and then said as seriously as I could manage, “OK, send them over so that I can talk to them.”

 

The two sheepish lads approached my front door, their father looking on sternly. I reminded them of the need to respect other people’s property, and I told them to promise never to do anything like that again.

 

“Yes sir,” they said. “We’re sorry.”

 

“Well, I was a young fellow once too,” I said. “Just clean up the mess you made, and we’ll put this behind us.”

 

“Yes, sir,” they said then turned to remove all the debris under their father’s attention.

 

I dug up the stump soon after.

 

Adam’s Needles stood so tall,

Spiky stalks that never fall.

Two young lads with naught to do,

Whacked it ’til it no more grew.

 

 Adam's Needles