When Adults Pick Up Children's Books

I remember a story--though I have forgotten its teller--of a young man who was rather depressed. He went to the doctor to find a cure for his ailments. The doctor, however, rather than offering him an injection or pill or some such nonsense, looked at the young man and asked, "What have you been reading lately?" After hearing the young man's abysmally post-modern list of dark and dreary reads, he recommended a few favorites of his own. Mostly children's books. These, he thought, would cure the young man. And cure him they did. 

We are never too old for children's books. They remind us of our natures, of an innocence lost. They remind us that "unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven." Children's books humanize the sophisticate and the barbarian alike, bringing both closer to the golden mean of reality. That is why we read children's books. 

This evening I picked up Mark Twain's The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, and was delighted by the author's preface, which explained:

Although my book is intended mainly for the entertainment of boys and girls, I hope it will not be shunned by men and women on that account, for part of my plan has been to try to pleasantly remind adults of what they once were themselves, and of how they felt and thought and talked, and what queer enterprises they sometimes engaged in.

Exactly. This is why we pick up children’s books—so we can set aside the pencil and the notebook for but a moment so we can sit and enjoy the simplest of things. 

This is why, through the council of some dear friends, I have decided that the first book I shall read as a married man (coming soon in 50 days) is The Wind in the Willows. I have never read it before. Yet it seems to be one of those “queer enterprises” of which Twain speaks. I hope it will prepare me well, for marriage, too, may prove to be such an enterprise.

A Pilgrim's Prayer: A Letter to St. Anthony's Parish

The following was delivered on April 28, 2013, before the St. Anthony's Lifeteen youth group in Hillsdale, Michigan. After four years, it was my final message to the group. 

My Dear Friends,

We have tried to teach you many things these last four years.

Men, we have tried to teach you to be men. We have never taught you to be boring and nice. The world has enough people who are boring and nice. We have taught you to be passionate men, lovers and fighters, poets and warriors. We have taught you to pray on your knees not your butts, work with you hands not only your mind, and climb trees. After all, Zaccheaus could only see the Lord from a tree.

Women, we have tried to show you beauty. It was an easy job: simply holding up mirrors. Yet these mirrors the world tried to smash again and again. And when we ran out of mirrors, we brought you before the Mirror of the Monstrance, where true beauty and dignity is always restored.

It was before this Mirror, this Sacrament, that a young lady prayed five years ago. Her name, Danielle. She prayed that when the man she was to marry came along, he would give her a pink rose, and by that she would know this was God’s will. Four years later she began dating a boy named Eric. After a year of dating, he knelt to propose to her before that same Sacrament. And at the foot of that Sacrament stood a bouquet of pink roses. You see, ladies, Our Lord is a pleasant and patient lover.

My friends, in these years together, we have not so much sought to make you more holy. Instead, we have sought to make you more human. And in the process, you have made me more human. I thought I was God’s gift to you. Nay, you were God’s greatest grace to me. In the beauty and holiness of this parish, you have taught me love—a love undying.

When I think of a love like yours, I am always reminded of one of my favorite stories.  It is entitled “The Nightingale and the Rose.” In this story, a young boy who loves philosophy and books falls in love with a girl. Yet in order to woo her, he must acquire a red rose. In his distress, he cannot find one, and begins to cry. A small Nightingale overhears his weeping, and, so moved by his love, she searches and searches for a red rose. She finds white and yellow roses, but all the red roses have been nipped by the winter cold. There is only one remedy, she is told by the rose-tree. If she wants a rose, she must “build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it in her own hearts blood.” The Nightingale wanted so very badly to give the boy a rose, and replies “Death is a great price to pay for a red rose… Yet love is better than life…” and she accepts her fate.

The following is an excerpt after her fiat:

'Be happy,' cried the Nightingale [to the boy], 'be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart's-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense.'...

And when the Moon shone in the heavens, the Nightingale flew to the Rose-tree and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her…

But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. 'Press closer, little Nightingale,' cried the Tree, 'or the Day will come before the rose is finished.'

So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid.

And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose's heart remained white, for only a Nightingale's heart's-blood can crimson the heart of a rose.

And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. 'Press closer, little Nightingale,' cried the Tree, 'or the Day will come before the rose is finished.'

So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.

And the marvelous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart.

But the Nightingale's voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat.

Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea.

'Look, look!' cried the Tree, 'the rose is finished now;' but the Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart.

And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out.

“Why, what a wonderful piece of luck! he cried; 'here is a red rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name;' and he leaned down and plucked it.

Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor's house with the rose in his hand.

The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.

'You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose,' cried the Student. Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will wear it to-night next your heart, and as we dance together it will tell you how I love you.'

But the girl frowned.

'I am afraid it will not go with my dress,' she answered; 'and, besides, the Chamberlain's nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers.'

'Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful,' said the Student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it.

'Ungrateful!' said the girl. 'I tell you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don't believe you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain's nephew has;' and she got up from her chair and went into the house.

'What a silly thing Love is,' said the Student as he walked away. 'It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making one believe things that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics.'

So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read.

My dear friends, St. Anthony’s Parish has been for me that Nightingale, that rose. And though the world and other students may not see her beauty, and throw it into the gutter, though they may abandon her love for books and her passion for prudery, it is only because they are blind and looking for something more sophisticated, more flashy, more expensive. The fools cannot see the heaven right in front of them, the crimson rose in the tabernacle of this sacred parish.

And so, my dear friends, if you remember nothing else from my four years here, remember this alone: only love makes us more human. Everything else is quaint. Love is wiser than philosophy, mightier than power, wealthier than gold. Love reminds us that we are made for more, that this is not our home. Love reminds us that we are pilgrims, that our hearts search restlessly, and find no rest till they rest in Thee.

St. Anthony’s has not been my home. She has never been my home. She could never be my home. St. Anthony’s was my viaticum, my food for the journey. She has fed me and formed me and bid me be well. She has taught me to love, and love simply.

Love simply, dear friends. And when you forget how, do as I often did these last four years. Look to the image of Our Lady that rests in St. Anthony’s courtyard—for in all of Italy and Spain and America, I have not yet found a more beautiful image. She taught me to love her son, and thus every time I passed her, I placed a kiss with my hand upon her feet. Stay close to your mother, dear friends. She is the rose which blossomed in the Nightingale’s blood. She will teach us love. She will lead us home. Amen.

A Letter to Virginia

As my wedding day approaches, my fiancée and I have frequently and excitedly reflected on how we intend to raise our children. We have talked with other married couples and conversed with close friends on the philosophy of the family. The fruits of these conversations will undoubtedly make up a substantial part of the posts on this blog.

            A couple of weeks ago, we sat with friends at Hillsdale College after an afternoon of backyard football. Over warm soup and wine, we discussed everything you’re not supposed to talk about at Thanksgiving – religion and politics. Eventually, a most relevant question arose: as a Christian, will your children believe in Santa Clause?

            Simple enough, right? Not so much. My fiancé and I have talked with many friends about this, and it seems to be the object of many parents’ internal debates: I don’t want to disillusion my child, but does this eliminate all fairy tales and stories? I want to tell stories, but how will my child be able to distinguish between the reality of Scripture and the fantasy of Snow White? I do not think the decision should be this easy, nor should it be rooted in a false idea of tradition – “Well we always believed in Santa, therefore…” Tradition is good, unless it is tradition for tradition’s sake. Tradition is good because it points to something higher, not because it is an end in itself.

            The Christian parent (I assert as if I know what I am talking about) must wrestle with this point, and with it wrestle with the whole realm of fantasy and fairy tale. Should we teach our children about Santa Clause?

            The one side would understandably reason: The reason for Christmas is Jesus Christ, not some secular gift giver whose red suit was inspired by a Coca-Cola advertisement (true story). If we want our children to understand Christmas, therefore, we should teach them the real reason for the season rather than clouding their minds with falsehoods, which when they are exposed may cause our children to question if every other story they were told is real – especially the story, the life of Christ.

            This is a legitimate concern, indeed. An overemphasis on the secular has been one of the greatest causes of headaches and feuds in the season of peace and goodwill to all men. Yet just because a good is abused does not mean we should rebuke the good, but rather the abuse.

            In the questions of Santa Clause, two things must be contemplated: the first, what do I want my Children to understand about Christmas in the end? The second, how will they get there? In reality, it is the simple task of discerning ends and means – Aristotelian causes at their best.

            To the first I answer: In the end, a child ought know three things about Christmas: First, that unto us is born this day, in the city of David, a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. Second, that the night on which that Child was born was a magical night (not magical in a cauldron-spells-witches and wizards understanding, but magical in its medieval sense – “magic” was how people in the middle ages described miracles, those unexplainable things of God, not of the devil). Christmas is a night filled with magic – angels, stars, and prophecies fulfilled, a virgin birth and God becoming man. If this magic is not understood, then raw enlightenment rationality declares these events impossible – and I hope we can all see the issue with that. Hence, my third point follows, a child ought to know that everything that happened that night was real, and continues to be real to this day.

            Now, to the second: how will these ends be accomplished? My thesis is as follows: a child will know these things through Santa Clause. Yes, Santa Clause.

            A realistic understanding of children must be accepted in order to accept this thesis. Of course, every good Christian parent wants their child to know that Christmas is about Jesus. And in families who promote this, their children do tend to know it is about Jesus in their heads. Their hearts, however, are another matter. As long as there are wrapped presents and delicious cookies, pretty lights and Christmas trees, children will look forward to these far more than Christmas Eve Mass. Hence, the teaching of the first and primary end of Christmas is a patient and enduring task, the result of which is the fruit of years of labor.

            The latter two end – the magic and reality of Christmas – I argue can be taught and understood at a young age. And the manner in which these are taught is through Santa Clause. In believing in Santa Clause, Christmas is always magical. The tale of a man coming down the chimney and leaving presents under the tree will leave children baffled for years. They cannot adequately explain it, and so leave it to magic. And in leaving it to magic, children understand that Christmas is real – not because they have rational proof, but because they need none. Christmas is real because it is magical. You cannot explain Santa Clause any more than you can explain a virgin birth, but in leaving both to the magic of Divine Providence, you assert that belief is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.

            But what happens when children learn that Santa Clause is not real? Will the magic cease, and hence the reality of Christmas? Perhaps, but only for awhile. There will be a period after Santa’s exposé that children will question, wonder, and perhaps cry. But human nature is not despairing by nature (God forbid it should be), but hopeful. A child will not linger for long in limbo – instead he will look to his parents, because for some reason, though his parents knew the truth about Santa Clause all along, they always thought Christmas was still magical – they always kept a warm smile and a twinkle in their eye around Christmas, loving it more than any other time of year. What kept them going? Why is this holiday still magical for them?

            And here, yes here is when the child will realize all along that Santa Clause was real. That the story of Father Christmas, like any good story, was, as C.S. Lewis explained, a “net whereby to catch something else.” You see, all along, your parents never lied to you, they told you a story that was ardently true. You only missed the point. You thought the magic was in the plot, but your parents knew that the magic was in the “something else,” and they hoped that one day you would realize that something else too. They told you of Santa to teach you that magic existed in Christmas, that one day you may realize where that magic truly lies. Santa taught you that Christmas was magical, and finally you realized that it was magical not because of chimneys or presents or cakes. Christmas was magical because of Christmas Eve Mass, because of family and friends, and because Jesus Christ came into our fallen world. And this magic is timeless. It is real.

            So parents must never stop telling the story of Santa Clause. If you stop telling the story, you admit that the whole thing was a lie. If you continue telling it years after their belief has passed, you show them one thing: you still believe in the story. Fairy tales and Santa Clause are real at their deepest level. Santa Clause is as real as the buttresses of Notre Dame. They draw you in, show you beauty and magic, cause you to wonder. But they are not the end. They are both in service of something higher. The buttresses bring you within that you may one day realize where the true grandeur of the Cathedral lies – in a small gold box behind the altar, in a tiny white host. Santa brings us within the mystery that one day we may realize where the true magic of Christmas lies – in a small wooden box filled with straw, in a tiny baby.

            My favorite image of Santa Clause has always been the image of him kneeling before the manger of the infant Jesus. This is his end. This is why Santa Clause must be told, and believed. But how, a parent might ask, how will this practically be done? I provide the following imperfect formula: 

            Tell your children the story of Santa Clause at a young age as a story. Do not delay in it or wait for them to gather things from school.

      Do not lie to your children! Tell them the story of Santa Clause in the same way you would tell them the story of a princess and a dragon – you never end a fairy tale by saying “The End… and by the way all of that was false. Have a good night.” Let them wonder.

     
      Continue telling the story, and leave much up to the imagination of the child. When asked “How does Santa Clause do this or this?” simply refer back to the story you told – “Well, how did he do it in the story? What do you think?”

     Most importantly, never lose sight of where the magic really is, and let your children see from an early age that you and your spouse love Christmas for Jesus Christ and for Christmas Eve Mass, and in this lies the magic and reality of Christmas.