Hark I hear the harps

As part of a summer organization binge (an attack precipitated by the finishing of the house renovations) I bought two new bookcases and have been electronically cataloging and re-shelving my professional books. This afternoon both boys were up in my office clearing their plans for the rest of the afternoon when Crash peers more closely at the shelf he's casually propped up against.

"A Primer of Ecclesiastical Latin? Seriously, Mom?"

"If a library is reflection of its owner's mind, I'm not totally sure what my books tell tell you about me..."

"Knitting Know-How..."

"Dictionary of 26 Languages..."

Yes, yes, I know I've got ecclectic interests. Finally The Boy spys a small blue book, "Mangles, Mops and Feather Brushes?"

A reprinted book of household hints from the late 19th century. He opens it at random and begins to read solemnly, " 'Inspection of Linen. Fold carefully — with taste.' With taste?!"

We're all confused. Honestly, I'm happy if the laundry gets put away period, I don't care if it's been folded tastefully or even folded at all, as long as it's not in baskets in the sunroom.

They departed down the stairs, singing (in two part harmony) Dashing Away With A Smoothing Iron. I'm remembering a day when The Boy was 1/2 the age he is now (and half the height), invaded my office of an afternoon. And as they broke into "Hark, I hear the harps eternal..." I realized that I was hearing the sounds of heaven, right here and now.

Litany of litanies

Barnacle Boy's hamster's departure from this earth left a little hole in his heart, I've discovered.

I wrote a piece for this week's Catholic Standard and Times on litanies, prodded by a spate of litanies. First there was Stratoz, praying his way through an anxious morning, then I spent an uncomfortable few minutes on an examining table praying the litany of the saints. The next morning, as we chatted over breakfast preparations, Math Man recounted the poem he'd heard on NPR. "It had this interesting structure, a back and forth...I can't quite remember what they called it." "A litany?" Got it in one. And I got the message. Maybe I should write about litanies?

You can read the piece here (and and then perhaps the photo will make sense...)

On the way home from school today I mentioned to the Boy that I'd written about him, and about Rufus. "Is it about that day?" he inquired. "The day Rufus.." He stops me. "Nope! It makes me sad."

Requiescat In Pacem, Rufus

Saturday night Barnacle Boy appeared in the kitchen distressed, "I think Rufus is dead, Mom." Rufus is his hamster. "What makes you think that?" "He didn't eat dinner and he's not breathing." Rufus is downright ancient for a hamster, and doesn't always wake up for dinner, so this would not in general worry me. The not breathing, however, is a tip-off. The Boy is right, Rufus has indeed gone on to the next life where he'll always have dried papaya and a wheel that doesn't squeak. We take the cage out to the garage and I promise to help him take care of Rufus in the morning (we're having a thunderstorm!).

The next morning, we consign Rufus to the earth. Last summer my director (a Jesuit priest) had told me about the 6-yr-old son of friends, who'd called him to try to convince him to come help him bury his fish. Four phone calls later, he'd promised to construct a service and phone in to preside. He took the canticle of the three men in the furnance from Daniel and converted it to a litany (All you beasts, wild and tame, bless the Lord). We did the same. There were tears, but litany as a form seems to weave something healing around you, and it seemed to have channelled the grace in this case, too.