As initimated in last night's post, today is the 42nd anniversary of my nativity. Or whatever.
My wife, daughter, parents, and brothers got together to spoil me last night. As my dad once warned me, someday I would miss those family get togethers. Now, I look forward to every other Sunday when we all have dinner at my parents. I think my wife and I may be taking over the hosting soon as Mom is not as excited about feeding a large horde anymore.
Anyway, my wife gave me a copy of the Latin version of Rosetta Stone. Dabbled a little in it this evening, and it looks promising. I might have to get the French, Spanish and German versions to relearn what I've forgotten. Mom gave me three titles by the Holy Father. I'm currently digging into The Spirit of the Liturgy. And apparently she has another on the way, a Hans Urs von Balthasar reader.
Tonight, my wife is making enchiladas, and we're watching Chronicles of Narnia. I feel blessed.
Every now and then, I think, "Hey, I'm actually 42." I'm not depressed, just rather surprised. I should've been clued in by the whizzing sound that January first kept making as it passed by. Nonetheless, I find it oddly shocking to be two years on this side of 40.
I mentioned that my father has been diagnosed with two forms of cancer—both slow growing and very responsive to treatment. He's been undergoing chemotherapy and finished his second cycle last Monday. I guess his hair has started falling out, and it appeared last night that he had gone ahead and shaved his head. So today, I celebrated my birthday by having my head shaved. Dad won't know until I see him at Vespers on Wednesday (and I trust that no one - Mark - will tell him).
One thing is certain. I'm much happier since I've come back to the Church and turned my life over to God. That sounds trite. In a previous life, "trite" would've concerned me. I still sometimes wrestle with the cynical, hip voice that sneers at sentimentality and raises its brows at common expressions of love. I have, at very least, come to despise the malady of hipness, the illness of ennui. And it's not an illness merely because it "torments" people. Hipness, cynicism, and ennui poison the soul. They make simple pleasures impossible and degrade the beauty of everyday life.
Here's a happy birthday to me, and a very merry unbirthday to all y'alls (or y'uns, or youse guys).