October 10th in the year of our Lord 2024
I don’t know if it's the gradual change in weather, being stuck in a car for most of the day, or the change in time zones leading to my ever-increasing exhaustion. Perhaps a combination of all three is to blame. Driving home is a very different experience than driving to a new “Home.” Instead of pressing on to newer and more extreme environments, sitting in anticipation of what the future may hold in a new land with new people, the drive home is a slow return to pace as I return to the weather I had fled, to familiar landscapes, and to re-encountering cultures I was raised in. This Homecoming is an odd feeling because I was not away for long, but the short absence has reinforced my love for my home. While I loved the cold and mountain terrain, I look forward to seeing palm trees and the feeling of warmth that comes not just from the blazing heat of my home but from the spiritual hug a familiar surrounding brings. To walk the downtown streets of Bartow, admiring the architecture of our old courthouse with a slice of pizza from the corner shop. To once again kneel before the altar where I first tasted the body of Our Savior. These longings for home run against the fear I have of returning to the life I led before embarking on this journey. To the aimless monotony of work, falling back into old cycles and sins. I pray that when I do get home I don’t fall back into the same routines of vice and that I can at least make some improvements in my life with the knowledge I have gained through this trek. But I know I am far too weak to make these changes myself and that only through the grace of God do I stand the chance of improvement. I ask that you, dear reader, say a prayer for me.
Leaving the hotel, I had only a short drive to reach Mount Rushmore. Despite the numerous signs declaring it a monument to democracy (ironic, considering Lincoln’s face is up there), these claims, like many of the plaques scattered around, are little more than propaganda. Before diving into the description of the carvings, I want to explore the oddity of national monuments. I fully support monuments that instill pride, awe, and unity in a divided nation. What’s fascinating, though, is that Mount Rushmore has seen 13 presidents since its completion in 1941, and each regime can reinterpret it differently. Today’s regime calls it a monument to democracy; the next might claim it honors what Great Men (barring Lincoln) have achieved. For something carved in stone, its meaning seems oddly fluid.
But the monument. Three strong stone jaws carved into a mountain. The detail and sense of awe this inspired was entirely different than the awe-inspiring Old Faithful. While Old Faithful brought out a whimsical feeling about the magic of God’s creation, Mount Rushmore was a sculpture created by man. Faces of our leaders carved into the mountain. A literal stamp of our claim over the land. Both made me proud to be an American, both proud of the achievements of my country, and thankful to God for creating land for us.
I didn’t stay long at Mount Rushmore. I could have spent the day admiring the sheer beauty of it, but I have a home to return to. It wasn’t long till I was in Nebraska. Now, Nebraska is an insane state, but its insanity derives not from the crazy people or wild landscapes; instead, its insanity comes from just how flat and boring it is. I hit a road that was 45 miles of straight road through nothing. No trees, hills, or buildings, just fields of dead grass and corn. I felt like a lone sailor sailing a well-known sea lane as waves of golden grain rolled across my bow. This prolonged isolation from anything interesting did give me time to contemplate. I began to think about how people like to throw natural law arguments around when it comes to smoking or contact sports. You’ll hear someone say, "The lungs are made for air, not smoke," or, "It’s disordered to put your body at risk willingly." And sure, those statements aren’t wrong. The lungs are made for air, and yes, football can knock a few screws loose. But here’s where I think those arguments miss the mark: they ignore something fundamental about the nature of men. They miss the virtues that only risk can cultivate.
Take a contact sport like football. Does it hurt? Absolutely. Can it damage your body? Yes, without a doubt. But those who only see the harm miss the larger picture: you can't develop certain virtues without risk. There’s no fortitude without fear to face, no bravery without the temptation to turn tail. Decisiveness and temperance—these are the fruits of the struggle, the result of a man learning to control both his body and his mind in the heat of a challenge. These virtues don’t grow in a vacuum; they need friction, and that friction sometimes comes with a cost.
The folks making these natural law arguments seem to assume that the purpose of a man’s body is the same as a woman’s. And that’s where I think they’re wrong. A woman’s body is built for motherhood; it’s the natural order of things. Her health, her strength—those are for nurturing life, and preserving her health is essential for that role. But a man’s body? A man is built to be a father, and more than that, a protector. To protect, to provide, he must face risk. His body is a tool for that purpose, and sometimes that means putting it on the line.
Now, let’s shift this to smoking. Is inhaling smoke ideal? Of course not. But in the same way that a glass of wine can bring people together, spark a conversation, or open a space for reflection, smoking can do the same. It’s not just about the act itself; it’s about what it brings with it—the stillness, the quiet, the chance to stop and think. When you’re still, you can feel God’s goodness in a conversation, or in simply sitting there and letting your thoughts settle. That’s a virtue too—knowing how to be still, how to reflect.
At the end of the day, it comes down to this: the virtues men gain from risk-taking are worth the risks themselves. Fortitude, decisiveness, temperance—these are the marks of a man who knows when to charge forward and when to hold back. And to cultivate them, sometimes you’ve got to put something on the line. Sometimes sacrifice is necessary. Now that shouldn't be news to a Catholic, but I guess when so many Catholics have been longhoused, you get these feminine objections to masculine virtues.
As I was thinking, the passing fields slowly turned into houses and then finally to a town where my hotel awaited.
October 11 in the year of our Lord 2024
Quickly getting my stuff together, I hit the road. Noticing I was leaving faster and faster each morning, I reflected on the nature of habits and how quickly we can adapt and grow accustomed to new states of affairs, for good or evil.
I didn't think much on the road today, choosing rather to drive in silence to give my mind a rest. We need sleep to rest the body, and sometimes we need to stop with our consumption of content—be it music, audiobooks, or even the friendships we have—and simply be still. This idea shouldn't be controversial, but seeking or accepting boredom is verboten in modern society, and it really is a modern problem—the ancients didn't even have a word for boredom. It’s amazing to sit and simply acknowledge the passage of time rather than doing everything in our power to not notice it. At first, it felt like waiting in line where time seemed to crawl at a snail's pace, but before I knew it, a few hours had passed, and I had arrived at my destination.
I was meeting a Twitter friend, and I was nervous as I’m sure everyone gets when meeting with an online friend in person for the first time. “What if he’s weird, what if he’s a fed, what if (and this is my mom’s favorite) he wants to steal my kidneys!” Thankfully, it went fantastic. We went and got some incredible BBQ. My friend knew the whole history of his town. We drove around looking at different parishes and sites as he gave me a full account of the town’s local history. His pride and love for his home were apparent in every syllable, history blended with personal stories and accounts from his grandparents as the night went on and the booze flowed, only interrupted by the occasional smoke. The conversation, like all good conversations, turned to God. We talked about my conversion, his reversion, and what we can do as men in the Faith for our local churches. As I pulled out of town, I felt like a weary traveler who caught a second wind after finding a new friend in a strange land.