We need a rebirth of gratitude for those who have cared for us, living and, mostly, dead. The high moments of our way of life are their gifts to us. We must remember them in our thoughts and in our prayers; and in our deeds.
~ William F. Buckley, Jr.
William F. Buckley once caught a ride in my truck. He came to Boulder to speak at the University of Colorado when I was a graduate student there, and I not only got a ticket to see him, but also landed an invite to the Young Republicans reception afterwards.
It was 1990, and Buckley’s book Gratitude had just come out. It was a modestly controversial book because it pressed an argument for national service– perilously close to advocating yet another government program according to Buckley’s right-wing critics. But the book’s real theme, aside from policy recommendations, is that we all need to practice gratitude with greater intentionality and conscientiousness.
That evening in Boulder, Buckley demonstrated what he wrote about in a way I’ll never forget. He gave his talk and was ushered over to a nearby facility for the reception. Mr. Buckley must’ve caught a cold, for he was having trouble clearing his throat, and as the reception got underway, he abruptly requested a ride to his hotel so that he could retrieve a cigar and some brandy – evidently a home remedy for colds at the Buckley house. I happened to be nearby when he made the request, and I immediately put myself and my truck at his disposal.
You have to understand that I didn’t exactly look the part at that reception. Shaggy hair and beard, tweed coat and jeans, hiking boots and John Lennon glasses, I stood out conspicuously in that sea of blue blazers and power ties. Nevertheless, without ceremony, Mr. Buckley thanked me for my offer and headed out the door. The Young Republicans all stared at me as I shrugged my shoulders and headed out after him.
So, there I was, in my battered Toyota pickup, with Bill Buckley of Firing Line and National Review fame seated next to me. I drove him downtown to the Hotel Bolderado, he ran in and out, and I drove him back to campus again. Most of the ride to and fro, I kept up a constant one-sided conversation, ranging from my conversion to Catholicism and embrace of the Catholic Worker milieu, to my enthusiasm for the common interests of the Worker and the National Review, especially in terms of subsidiarity.
Buckley was gracious, listening in silence aside from an occasional murmur of assent or inquiry. When I got him back to the University, he turned, looked me in the eyes, and thanked me most sincerely for the ride. He encouraged me in my intellectual pursuits, and gave my hand a vigorous shake. Later, I approached him at the reception with a book of his. He signed it, “Gratefully, Bill Buckley.”
Authentic gratitude like that was on my mind as I celebrated my birthday last week. It fell on Gaudete Sunday this year – Pink Sunday.
Yes, yes, I know, it’s “rose,” not pink. Whatever you call it, that lightened purple combined with the lightened liturgical mood is always welcome mid-winter, especially when lake-effect snow and bitter cold are dragging us down. Isaiah sets the tone and gets us thinking beyond our current circumstances to new life just over the horizon:
Then will the eyes of the blind be opened,
the ears of the deaf be cleared;
then will the lame leap like a stag,
then the tongue of the mute will sing.
Those whom the LORD has ransomed will return
and enter Zion singing,
crowned with everlasting joy;
they will meet with joy and gladness,
sorrow and mourning will flee.
That Gaudete Sunday coincided with my birthday this year was serendipitous, for it was an especially joy-filled one. Contemplating the many blessings in my life, I couldn’t help marveling that I’d been blessed so abundantly. For example: A loving wife and seven wonderful children – me! A terrific lout blessed with a wife and seven kids! Thank you, God!
Then there’s the fact that the day began in a warm house (thank you, God!) and we had plenty of food to eat (thank you, God!). I drove to the church to get coffee started for CCD (thank you, God, for cars! for our parish! for work!), and later I got to see my son play basketball (thank you, God, for Catholic schools! for healthy kids!).
Mass in the evening (thank you, God, for the Sacraments! for the Church! for faith!), followed by dinner and birthday cake at home, with all nine of us in attendance – thank you, God! Truly, the best birthday ever!
And, later, I got online – behold! A long list of “Happy Birthday!” messages on Facebook – thank you, God!
Now, wait.
Do I mean that? Am I really lumping together Facebook ‘friends’ with my wife, my children, and my faith?
Indeed I am. And why not?
Now, I know that many of those friends are folks I barely know. The whole Facebook/social networking thing is still a bizarre phenomenon to me, but I have no illusions about an environment in which my sister, a buddy from high school, and a student I had in class a half dozen years ago all fall under the same ‘friend’ rubric.
But remember that last scene of It’s a Wonderful Life? George has been saved from despair and suicide by angelic visions and timely human interventions. He’s surrounded by wife and children, close associates and family, acquaintances, neighbors, customers, and a host of Hollywood extras. In the end, his brother Harry lifts a glass and toasts, “To George Bailey! The richest man in town!”
Whence those riches? Obviously Harry doesn’t mean literal riches – George has just narrowly escaped jail time and disgrace as a result of his pecuniary difficulties. No, George’s riches comprise relationships – what the Catechism calls “spiritual communion”: Not only his wife and his family, but his friends as well. All kinds of friends. Clarence, George’s novice guardian angel, inscribes this interpretation in a copy of Mark Twain as a thank you to George: “Remember, no man is a failure who has friends.”
Consider that throng crowding around George in that final scene. Is it likely that all of them could’ve been his friends in the same way? I mean, even in the context of a fictional tale, is it even remotely possible that all those folks were really his chums?
Not a chance. The story portrays George’s real friends as his wife, his brother, Ernie the cabbie, and Bert the cop. Then there was another circle of friends just a bit beyond the inner circle: George’s mom, his uncle, and Sam Wainwright perhaps. Next, a circle of business associates, Mr. Gower, and Mr. Martini, and after that a smattering of neighbors, customers, and so on.
As I scrolled through all my birthday greetings on Facebook, I thought of Bedford Falls turning out to cheer for George, and I smiled. George discovered in the end that he was indeed valued by a rather large community of friends, bothclose and not-so-close.
That seems to me a decent metaphor for Facebook, especially on birthdays. A torrent of “Happy Birthday!” posts from our online community of friends – whether lifelong companions, passing acquaintances we wouldn’t recognize on the street, or somewhere in between – can be just as encouraging and welcome as a rousing in-person chorus of Auld Lang Syne. At least it was in my case.
And, yes, I’m grateful. Thanks, friends.
