Where The Pavement Ends

Fortysomethings My world feels slightly askew today. Like a picture across the room that beckons for straightening. Is it me that’s off center? ... Or is it the wall? No matter really — for my world’s askew either way. * * * Last week, I passed a kid in Ron’s IGA with a large, black cross on his forehead. Ash Wednesday. The beginning of Lent. 40 days and nights of retreat ... solitude, silence, privation. A call to look inside to see what might need changing; to participate in Christ’s 40 days and nights of fasting and temptation in the desert. Forty. Just like the number of days, in Genesis, that the rain fell to create the Flood and the number of years the Israelites wandered in search of the Promised Land. Or turning 40 — which is about the time we come to some reflective awareness of where we’ve been and where we’re going. (It’s been said that in the first half of his life, a man struggles to find out who he is — and in the second half he struggles to forget.) I have a male friend at the 40 juncture who’s been having anxiety dreams about all his teeth falling out. Indeed. And a female one who’s wanting no birthday celebration — lest she be reminded she’s leaving her 30s behind. Oh the sweet bird of youth does fly. Back when I was a kid, the 40 days of Lent were a problem only in that they meant depriving myself of some treat — Snickers bars or NuGrape Sodas, for example. Kind of a test of my ability to withstand the temptations of Satan. But when I began the cross over — in adolescence — to adulthood, I was hit with the awareness that the struggle was changing. That is, it wasn’t until then that I began to ask questions like, “Who am I? Why am I here? Where am I going and who do I want to go with me? What are my ethical beliefs? What are these forces tearing me apart inside? and How do I cope with this unbearable loneliness?” (Many of the very same questions that come up again at age 40.) * * * On Wednesday evening, after finishing some work at the college, I stopped for gas and then drove home — all the while contemplating the significance of the number 40 in liturgy and life. Once there, I was standing quietly and rather abstracted in my kitchen when I spied a police car slowing to turn into my drive. Immediate anxiety. Someone hurt? One of my kids in some trouble? I suppose I could have thought, “An officer’s been dispatched to tell me I just won the Pulitzer prize for journalism,” or “He’s coming to say that the patrolman’s association would like to donate towards publishing my book,” but, let’s face it, a policeman at your door, most times, bears bad tidings. I said a quick silent prayer as I walked into the dim light of the back porch and opened the door. “Mr. Knoll?” “Yes.” “Did you just buy some gas at Fast Trip?” “Yes officer, I... ..Oh no! I forgot to pay!” “The attendant said you were a regular and that you probably forgot.” “Sorry. I’ll get right back there.” “No problem.” * * * Friday morning, I was shooting hoops alone in the east end of the YMCA gym when some guys called to me to join a half-court pick-up game — two on two. All of them looked to be in their early 20s, young enough to be my kids. I first refused, but on second thought decided to join them. While I played, I thought first of my adolescent sons, both of whom love the game, not only for the testosterone high of the competition, but for the good-natured fun, the camaraderie, the stories that unfold on the court. Then I thought about Brother Gabriel, former all-state guard, now a novice monk at Assumption Abbey. About how he’s been trying to talk the abbot into letting him put up a hoop out back of the cloister. And how he sold everything he owned — the house, the vintage cars, everything — gave the money to his sister, and joined the monastery. Now only he knows for sure exactly why he did that. But I do know for sure when. It was just after he turned 40.