Happy Father's Day.
Born: August 12, 1997. My son William is named after my father, William Theodore Mitchell. When I was single and not dating, I dreamed of the day I could name a son in honor of my Dad. Friends and my mother called my father "Mitch" or "Mitchell" and the rare "Bill" He was courageous (Navy WWII veteran) with a fierce intelligence, and a surprisingly sensitive emotional pitch. He did not suffer fools lightly. Hence, my son is named William Theodore Mitchell II; we call him William, or Theodore, or "P" (short for "Prince" since he is our surviving bit of "royalty"... my wife's first pregnancy ended in a miscarriage). But mostly we call him William. Not Bill, or Will, nor Willie (to my ache as a long-time SF Giants fan). Every Sunday at my old church, during "Alter Call" or after monthly Communion, the only thing I would pray for was to be a better, more attentive, patient yet firm father to William. He is the source of my vocation. If the Mass is the #1 reason I converted to Catholicism, William is the reason I attended, and was attentive at Mass in the first place. I guess now all that remains is the telling.
In the novel The Hotel New Hampshire, John Irving wrote (paraphrasing here...) that the great binding myth of every family is the tale of how Mommy and Daddy met/courted/married. At our house, my wife still thinks that our chance meeting in the immediate aftermath of the Loma Prieta Earthquake prior to Game 3 of the 1989 World Series is the most important story of our nuclear family.
"Important" is one thing, but the most binding and mythic story of our family life is the day I walked our son William T. Mitchell II onto the grounds of St. Augustine for his first day of Kindergarten. The back story leading up to that moment, and all the intrigue and stories (bad and good) that flow directly from after that day makes it the stuff of legend at our house.
First day of School (Kindergarten): August 25, 2002
Holding his little five year old hand, wondering if we were going overboard by dressing him in full sweater-ed uniform on a late summer day. As disoriented as I was (Where to go... where is the Kindergarten classroom? Which adult is the principal? Where are the families from preschool who said they were coming to St. Augustine? Why are the older kids wearing white sweatshirts in August, with that enormous "A" logo on their chest?), I was comforted by the orderliness of the children as they obediently and quietly (relatively speaking) lined up like little ducklings standing at attention by grade. The almost submerged anxiety I was feeling about having to shortly let go of his hand, and enter into the adventure of formal education alone calmed for a second. I knew it was the best thing to let go, and the best school available, but still it was a nerve-jangling moment. A life changing moment.
Plus, I still was not 100% convinced that Catholic education was necessary for the first few years of schooling, even in Oakland. Really, I had successfully matriculated at public schools in California (Redding, Los Banos, and mostly Fresno); qualifying for a couple colleges. But looking at the orderly children, and the firm control of Sister Mary Alice over her 8th graders and the whole schoolyard, I was willing to relax and give myself over to Cynthia's insistent judgement on parochial school for William.
Little did I know that I was underestimating the changes that would flow from that day, or what changes would happen in years later, fifty feet from where I was standing at that moment.
We had been wait-listed at Corpus Christi, rejected by St. Leo's; my wife and I rejected the Oakland Public School System (during her pregnancy, the OUSD would lead the evening television news or be the above-the-fold headline of the local major metro newspapers Oakland Tribune and SF Chronicle). As a matter of fact, during his preschool years we came across several OUSD teachers who warned us to double our efforts to find a private school for William. "You just can't send your child to one of these public schools in Oakland" was the repeated refrain.
So we settled on St. Augustine. Turns out the school had fabulous facilities (the gym is a dream that is rented out to several other schools for volleyball and basketball practice); over-qualified, loving, and effective faculty; fun loving but dedicated parents. Within two months after William's first day of school I became a complete homer for Catholic Education generally, and St. Augustine Catholic School in particular. The turning point was William quickly memorizing the "Hail Mary," with extensive help from Kindergarten Teacher June Melchior. I was very worried about that homework assignment, because a father knows the limitations of their child, and William had not displayed the kind of academic talent to memorize a non-rhyming, somewhat disjointed prayer that was at that time alien to our Protestant home. William's quick mastery of the Hail Mary was a sign that he was in good hands.
But I felt that it was my duty to drop in on Sunday Mass, and pick some knowledge on a few Catholic precepts, gestures, and "factoids" so that I could tutor William if the Kindergartners were given a quiz on the Holy Trinity or pronounce the names of the saints depicted in the stained glass windows of the church. Going to mass once... twice... and I was hooked. I felt that "personal relationship for Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ" that I had been hectored about (and started to think the possibility was a cruel joke, for I obviously was not conferred with the grace of faith or consistent understanding of God) during high school and college for the first time in my life by watching and paying attention and asking questions about the Mass. I unhesitatingly felt Christ and Christianity for the first time in my church going life. I also started to feel effective in my vocation as husband and father through the Intercession/Communion of Saints. It was only a matter of five years until I would overcome a few more barriers, and officially cross the Tiber.
Saturday, April 7, 2007. Easter Vigil. Morning Prayer. The Minor Rites of Christian Initiation. After years of being a diligent student myself, studying this familiar yet strange new religion and life of Roman Catholicism, I was on the doorstep of being fully initiated in the Church. After nearly dying in hospital from post-op complications, and still significantly impaired from Spinal Cord Injury in my hands, legs, and feet, I was finally entering into new life in Christ by joining my suffering to his Holy Cross. The excitement and anxiety swarming my body mirrored the feelings I felt August 2002. Fr. Mark blessed our class (seven total new Catholics!) and announced my Confirmation Name of Joseph, then commissioned/blessed/sealed to extra hear the Word, and speak the Gospel Message of Christ with my blessed lips. I felt and heard the words... so calm, pastoral, yet invigorating. I could not wait to confront the world with my new status and responsibilities. Weeks later I would deal with notions of charity and humility in professing the faith and being a newly minted Catholic, but for that moment felt like it was the beginning of a special day, and the most surprising/moving moment of a week that was, is intended to be, chock full of such intense moments. As emotional as I was on that morning (I shocked myself that I was so in the moment that the mere six hours from lunch to driving back to St. Augustine for Easter Vigil Mass felt like years), I was going to have ten times more emotion during the Mass; nearly overcome with joy on Easter Vigil, Saturday April 7, 2007, fifty feet from where I was standing that first day of school for William.
Then after the Easter Vigil Mass (Gloria, Sanctus, and Amen ringing in my ears; Eucharist tingling on my lips) around midnight after eighty minutes of chocolate cake and happy chat with my classmates, congratulations from parishioners, and just touching my face to confirm that my body was outwardly betraying with grins the intense JOY and Contentment I was feeling inside my body, heart and soul. Cynthia, William, and my mother Shirley were by my side for introductions at the reception. I thought back to how my son was supportive of me during the years it took me to get to that point: he never resented the time away from home that my RCIA and Small Christian Community sessions took me away from the house; he always wished me good luck and "have a good class" as I headed out of the house and always asked how class/meeting was when I came home (when that was not past his bedtime); sometimes curious about the particulars of class or faith sharing. I thought of how the moment of my coming fully into the Church was all the more delicious by having William in the pew right in back of me. As father and son, we were both completely in the moment (head back full throated roar singing during the "Gloria" and "Alleluia" when it came time for the Liturgy of the Eucharist portion of the mass-- as if we were obsessive fans at a Springsteen concert); yet indulging in private family rituals fist bumps during the Sign of Peace and after receiving Eucharist.
Which lead to one last father/son private joke, with a joke back story, that is now one of our family's legends:
Years before, the first time William received Communion at Parks Chapel AME Church, we were kneeling side by side at the Communion Rail. I was so worried that he follow the rubrics of family tradition (especially to honor Cynthia's deceased father, Reverend D.B. Frierson), I forgot to warn him that the host... well... does not taste like "bread" and the wine might taste a little "old" but to just go with it.
[Red Alert] Forgive me God and Readers: I hesitate to amplify on this part of the back-story in print, because I don't want to seem dismissive or cruel; yet the ultimate story does not make sense without a little candor about the Communion rite of my youth... back to the story...
This task to warn my son about the physical taste of communion bread (in Protestant-land, the host is the stark color, feel and taste of Styrofoam and impossible to chew and swallow like normal food) and juice (never wine in Protestant-land) was something that all my life I considered a sacred duty; I promised myself years before I met my wife, and again the day William was born, that I warn any/all children of mine about the taste of Communion, and provide tips for getting through the "ritual" with minimum disruption and/or embarrassment. Communion, while not the "source and summit" of Protestant faith and worship as it is in the Catholic Church, was/is considered the greatest symbol of the faith; the symbolic vestige of Jesus living though he was in heaven. First Sunday/Communion Sunday was a "don't miss" family situation as a child. I just did not want William to suffer through Communion as I did as a child (...as an adult...) with the elements of Communion. Being honest here: I did not want William to choke and make a scene at the rail with the horrid Styrofoam and old juice (from a can of Hi-C grape juice so large and old that the tin oxidized into the liquid and left a shocking taste of old hubcap). So you learn to hold the host in you cheek and wait for the thimble cup of "wine" to come so you can power wash the "bread" down your throat; otherwise, you would start to chew the host but it resists your teeth and expands in your mouth, and then literally choke on the combination of host-cud and metallic tasting hubcap-juice.
This warning process is something conscientious AME Dads do every month across this country; and I forgot. So when William put the host in his mouth he immediately knew that there was something terrible in his mouth, and he looked directly at me (his Father) and shot a sorrowful pleading look that said "Hey, you could not give your only son a bit of warning about this mess in my mouth?!? Isn't your solemn duty as a father to protect me from all harm?!? What am I supposed to do with this expanding wad in my mouth."
So after getting back in place in the pew my receiving Eucharist for the first time, William tapped me on the arm and we had the following brief conversation (with the previous backstory as context) as the Communion procession and hymn continued:
William: "What was it like? So how was Communion (implying, How did communion taste)?"
Me: "Better than Protestant host William."
As soon as the words left my mouth, darling wife Cynthia shot me a look ten times more wounded and wounding than the one William produced years before. She is still Protestant, and still devoted to her father the Reverend; she thought I was making a snarky theological put-down to her faith and the faith of her father. I explained what I meant the first chance I got, during the recessional hymn. I think she has forgiven me. It has been a couple years, and I hope she has forgiven me. William and I still laugh about the tale.
Walking out of the front side door of the church to take the family (including my mother who drove up from Fresno to see her "little boy" receive First Communion in the Catholic Church), I stopped and knelt before the tabernacle containing the Blessed Sacrament. This was a habit I started from the second time I went to Mass. I say the "Anima Christi" and a short prayer asking St. Joseph as a holy example of Fatherhood and Patron of the Universal/Catholic Church to intercede with prayers; praying to God for me to be a good father. As is commonplace in Catholic Churches, a statue of St. Joseph holding the Baby Jesus is behind the tabernacle, in the front right side of St. Augustine's sanctuary, near an exit. I also thanked St. Joseph for the prayers he had already made for me in that regard and for the protection of The Church and the protection of my classmates now fellow fully initiated Catholics. A moment wherein I truly felt the presence and need for the Communion of Saints.
Then I slowly stood up, and continued walking out into the upper court yard of the school adjacent to the church. In so doing, I suddenly realized I was standing on the very spot where I first gave my son away to Catholic education. Here I was the one starting Catholic education/life, the beneficiary of the son's education. Now I have given myself away to Jesus in a more profound way than in all the previous decades of nominal Christian life; entering into his holy and apostolic Church through his body, blood, soul and divinity. And it all would not have started without William attending this now closed school, and me wanting desperately to be a well-prepared father to him. The milisecond of melancholy passed into the ongoing moment of joy, love and belief.
November 30, 1996. Let's back up to a late November day, after Thanksgiving in 1996. My wife has received the word that she is pregnant. In the middle of a celebration featuring Thanksgiving leftovers and fine wine, Cynthia blurted:
"You know He is attending Catholic School, starting from Kindergarten."
To which I thought to myself two things:
1. How do you know the baby is a boy?
2. Pay tuition for Catholic School Kindergarten? Really? Pay for Kindergarten, which entails only three things: Finger-painting, nap-time, Graham crackers?
Sure we live in Oakland and the schools are truly and universally horrific (perhaps a touch of hyperbole for elementary school), but can't we save the money of tuition and use it for his high school/college education, or home down-payment? Darling wife Cynthia, the Protestant minister's daughter (aka "PK"... Preacher's Kid) insisted, and the Sister Act cliche came to life. Turns out another cliche is 100% true: with William's physical safety, and the blossoming of his social skills, musical talent, and obedience (plus my ongoing conversion, and the family legends that spawned therefrom) we reaffirm that there are some things money can not buy. Hope, Faith, Charity, Joy, Peace (of mind).
William brought me to St. Augustine. As such, he was the proximate cause of my entering the Church. I love him because he is my son. I am devoted to him because of that love and because of duty. I marvel at him, and God's mysterious way's, because of how I entered the church because of my desire for his success. Thanks Be To God.
PS: Just so you know, I had not saved this post for Father's Day, just one of those signs. In closing:
RIP Tim Russert, famous son, father, Catholic, and video companion as myself and millions of Christians ironed shirts preparing for church the past two decades.
RIP Sister Mary Alice who also died this week. In a perfect world, William and thousands more Oakland children would have experienced your firm yet loving touch as 8th grade teacher and mentor for many for years.
Pax Christi to you both. |
|
Follow this blog
