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PAGE 4—The Georgia Bulletin, November 15,1973
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JOURNALISM
AWARD
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The opinions contained in these editorial columns are
the free expressions of free editors in a free Catholic ;>ress.
Pathways to Marriage
In the NEW YORK TIMES,
psychologist and marriage counselor Dr.
Gerald Albert maintains that “only
about one-fourth of all marriages in this
country can be considered highly
satisfactory.” He believes that the most
important counseling must be done
before the wedding and that “childhood
is the first thing to consider in predicting
whether a couple will be happy.”
An unfavorable sign, according to Dr.
Albert, “is extremely inconsistent
discipline in the home, or harsh and
frequent discipline, because this can
result in the feeling that other people
may be more a source of pain than of
satisfaction.”
Other unfavorable signs, he holds, are
a courtship of much less than a year, an
engagement of much less than six
months, the revelation during courtship
that either of the partners cannot
confide in the other, or feel persistently
disturbed by the other’s activities, beliefs
or attitudes, a tendency toward dramatic
changes of mood, quickness of temper,
unwarranted jealousy, a strong need to
dominate and frequent feelings of
self-blame and remorse.”
Those contemplating marriage may
profit by taking note that, in Dr.
Albert’s opinion, signs favorable to a
happy marriage are: “For a man to be at
least 21, a girl to be at least 19, both to
have had at least a high school education
(the greater the education, the greater
the chances for marital success, he
commented).” He also has learned that
“it is better to meet members of
the opposite sex in conventional ways -
in school, at work, in the home of a
friend,” and that “a marriage performed
by a clergyman has a greater chance for
success than those legalized by a judge or
county clerk.”
Politics and Christian Realism
(EDITOR’S NOTE: The following is an excerpt
from an editorial in the CHRISTIAN CENTER Y.j
The Christian who observes this
constitutional form of government
sustaining the dual blows of Watergate
and the Agnew resignation can see the
theological wisdom in the formation of
our Constitution. Given a realistic view
of man, the Christian sees again the
wisdom of Reinhold Niebuhr’s famous
statement that “man’s capacity for
justice makes democracy possible ... his
inclination to injustice makes democracy
necessary.”
The perspective which the Christ
event provides us makes it possible to
deal with the kind of national crisis we
now face. Christian realism assures us
that all persons who occupy positions of
civil power are susceptible to the
temptations to misuse that power.
Because only God is to be finally
trusted, we know to deal cautiously with
all human assertions. The politician is
the first to forget that his or her task is
to serve and not to be served. Sometimes
it works slowly, but our system of
justice has the capacity to correct that
misunderstanding.
Christian realism allows us on the one
hand to celebrate the freedom that
permits us to choose our leaders, but on
the other hand, it allows us to rejoice
that it is finally not these leaders, but a
system of law and justice that
determines how we live within that
freedom. Former Vice-President Agnew
and the many who may yet be indicted
because of Watergate have shown their
human frailty; our system of law now
serves to check that frailty.
Our bicentennial now appears more
important than ever. And one thing we
must do in contemplating who we are as
a people and how we got to be a people
is to look again at those founding fathers
who established this remarkable
structure of self-government. In this
connection, Thomas Jefferson’s first
inaugural address contains a pertinent
reiteration of the correctness of a
Constitution that guards constantly
against man’s temptation to give up his
self-government to the surface security
of total reliance on the totalitarianism of
a selected few. Self-government means
the sharing of leadership under a system
of law. “Sometimes it is said,” Jefferson
noted, “that man cannot be trusted with
the government of himself. Can he then
be trusted with the government of
others? Or have we found angels in the
forms of kings to govern him? Let
history answer this question.”
“We were just talkin’, and decided that if we’re old enough to fight in wars
and vote, then we’re old enough to be married... So hitch us up, pop!”
‘Professionalism’ Problems
In the Priesthood
Reverend John Reedy C.S.C.
Some time ago I did an interview with a
priest who travels around the country far more
than I do. Almost always he meets with groups
of priests from the local area.
I sought his impression of the mood of the
Church, as reflected in the concerns and
attitudes of these men. Behind my questioning
was the suspicion that the uproar and confusion
of recent years had less impact on the lives of
these priests than one would expect from the
passionate protests of pious propagandists.
(Spiro might be gone, but his impact lingers
on.)
The traveller confirmed my suspicion, but he
made an interesting distinction. He said there
was a good deal of confusion and unrest,
particularly in the priests’ inability to feel
secure, confident and committed in the services
they offered their people.
It’s hard, he explained, to whip up great
enthusiasm for a particular pastoral program if
you fear, at least in your emotions, that
somewhere an “expert” is writing an article or
an official is preparing a decree that will blow
that program out of the water.
Still, as he explained it, this concern exists
on a plane split off from the everyday work and
satisfaction experienced by most priests in their
services to parishioners.
“The real satisfaction,” he said, “which
keeps most of these men going — and makes
sense of their lives — has little to do with
hassles over theology and policy. It comes from
their own recognition of what they contribute
to people in the important moments of their
lives, in helping them celebrate the joys of
birth, marriage, a wedding anniversary, in
sharing their anxiety over difficult family
problems, in mourning with them as they
encounter disappointment, suffering and death.
All of this makes a lot of sense to me; I have
experienced such satisfaction; I have seen, with
some amazement, how much my presence can
mean to people in these moments.
However, because of my work, I usually
encounter such occasions only when they are
experienced by people who are close to me.
Because I am involved in their lives, I am also
affected by the emotions they are experiencing.
In such circumstances, it’s not too difficult
for me to express those feelings in the liturgy of
a funeral or a wedding. Though I hate the idea
of being an emotional dishrag, it’s not unusual,
in such circumstance, for my eyes to glaze over,
for my voice to break.
While I’m embarrassed by such a show of
emotion, I also understand that it can say more
to my friends than all my words can.
But what if I had three or four funerals a
week, along with two or three weddings? For
each of the families involved, this experience is
deeply personal and emotional. Aside from
things like glazed eyes and cracking voice, could
I really avoid “professionalizing” the service,
running through a liturgy, a formula which
would be a carbon copy of those offered a
hundred times a year?
I have been subjected to funeral home
services in which the house clergyman is
brought in for an all-purpose memorial
ceremony. Some of these have been grotesque
in their inappropriateness for the people being
served. Thank God, the Catholic liturgy has an
objectivity of ritual and significance which
avoids such a monstrosity, even if it often
seems cool and distant.
Most priests are, I believe, sensitive enough
to recognize the problem of professionalism —
of dealing with joys and sorrows as so many
“cases” or “jobs to be done.”
I’m impressed and bewildered by those
pastors who manage to break through this
difficulty, to communicate their personal
concern for the lives of many parishioners. At
the same time, I feel deep compassion for those
priests who cannot manage it; many of them
suffer with their own sense of this inadequacy.
A businessman, a professional man can find
meaning and satisfaction in his family even
when he has difficulty maintaining respect for
his work.
If a priest loses respect for his service, there
is nothing else. The emptiness is devastating.
This is a dimension of rectory life which
parishioners should understand; such
understanding might even enable some of them
to minister to the men who seek to serve them.
Down the Track
Alton Finstad
A meeting was scheduled in Greensboro,
N.C. and I recalled someone mentioning that
the Southern Railroad still had a passenger train
serving Atlanta to Washington and New York
and that the route went through Greensboro.
So at 6:30 a.m. one morning I was at Peachtree
Station making “railroad talk” with Mr. Pierce,
the depot agent.
At 6:50 a shaft of light pierced the darkness
and two ribbons of steel sparkled in the early
dawn as five huge diesels grumbled into the
depot. No hissing of steam or clanking of rods,
no ringing of bells or sounding of engine
whistles announced the arrival of the
“Piedmont.” Only the roar of the diesel engines
and the smell of diesel fuel rather than the odor
of coal smoke.
After boarding, I stood in the vestibule of
the coach and waited for the conductor to raise
his lantern on high and call out, “Board.”
Instead, he took a telephone off the hook of a
small transmitter he was carrying and very
casually and quietly said, “Let’s go.” Away we
went through the sleeping industrial parks along
the right of way.
Would you believe that this train ran for five
minutes less than three hours before we
stopped at Greenville, S.C.? Duluth, Buford,
Gainesbille, Cornelia, Toccoa, Clemson and
Easley just waved to us as we rushed through
these towns. I clocked the mile posts out of
Gainesville and we were doing better than 70
miles per hour. Can you imagine the audacity
of two cat birds racing with us through the
morning mist.
What beautiful scenes flashed by: ripe com
fields, the rising sun shining on the trees
mantled in their early fall raiment, the
“bottomlessness” of what I think was Talluah
Gorge.
Along the way we passed depots that seemed
to reach out begging us to stop. At Gaffney the
depot was a small aluminum building. Then
there were deserted depots with windows
broken out that were sound asleep dreaming of
the days when they were the centers of activity
There was no diner service aboard the
Piedmont until lunch was served in Charlotte.
Being forewarned, I packed a thermos of coffee
and a sack of sweet rolls. It brought back the
memories of my annual train ride to Fargo,
North Dakota on the Northern Pacific R.R.
when coach passengers packed a shoe box with
sandwiches. Salmon sandwiches with
home-made bread were fit for a king.
On the return trip to Atlanta, I boarded the
train with an 82-year-old fellow passenger a
wonderful lady, with so much courage! She was
to get off at Greenville, take a cab to the bus
depot, and continue her journey to Anderson,
S.C. where her children would meet her.
At Greenville we met Southern’s first-class
passenger train, the “Crescent,” heading east
for Washington. In contrast to our Piedmont
which consisted of three baggage cars, two
coaches, and sixteen flat cars on the rear with
“piggy-back” semitrailers bound for Atlanta,
the Crescent was a gleaming stainless steel thing
of beauty. Two pullmans out of New Orleans,
four pullmans out of Atlanta, one pullman run
by Amtrak out of San Francisco, two reserved
seat coaches and a dining car served by three
stewards in their crisp, white uniforms made up
this train.
From Greenville to Atlanta I had a private
car! Yes, I was the only passenger. C.L.
Barnhardt, brakeman on the return run,
brought me three pillows, turned the seat
around so I could get my feet up and stretch
out, and then dimmed the lights so I could
enjoy a three-hour nap into Atlanta.
At 1 a.m. I got off at Peachtree Station with
the train crew. The “piggy-backs” disappeared
into the yards where a night crew would unload
them and trucks would take them to their
destination. Having had a glimpse of a first-class
train, I was bitten by the bug enough to make
reservations on the Crescent to go to New
Orleans for Thanksgiving. And just enough of a
glimpse of railroading to put my thoughts into
verse:
AND THE WHISTLE BLEW
Down the valley lay a single track,
Where trains once ran and hurried back
To a time when life was raw and new,
And the bell would ring and the whistle blew.
Every evening long about dusk,
When the sun was setting like a ball of rust
An old man watched and listened in vain
To hear the whistle of an old steam train.
He used to work on the Rio Grande,
When iron and steam crossed this mighty land.
When cow pokes waved at the engine crew,
And the bell would ring and the whistle blew.
Now the sun has set and so has steam,
And the old man lives a young man’s dream.
But his eyesight dims and his step grows weak,
And a tear runs down his wrinkled cheek.
But then a steam whistle sounds ‘cross the hill.
The old man listens til all is still.» '
Hears the railroad sounds that he once knew,
When the bell would ring and the whistle blew.
Prepared
Childbirth
Part Two
Teresa Gemazian
(EDITOR’S NOTE: In last week’s column Mrs.
Gernazian wrote of how she had prepared herself for
natural childbirth through a study course based on the
Grantly Dick-Read principles. When the time came for
her delivery, she and her husband became trapped in a
snow storm enroute to the hospital.)
My husband got out of the car and walked
around, appraising the situation. It was then I
realized he would never win an Academy
Award, for no matter how hard he tried to hide
his deep fear, it was written all over his face.
At this point my contractions disappeared
and the snow began to subside. I got out of the
car to consider the possibility of walking to the
hospital. This didn’t appeal to either of us.
I noticed an elderly black woman sweeping
snow off her porch and I thought to myself, “If
worse comes to worst, I’ll just ask her to deliver
my baby.” We got back in the car.
“Dear God, please help us,” I began to pray
feverishly.
Then to our great joy a small truck turned
into the snowcapade but managed to back up
after coming very near us. My husband got out,
frantically pushed away the snow and we were
able to line our tires up in the tracks and back
up. At last, we were on our way and arrived at
the hospital at 10:45 am.
I felt like dying when the nurse asked after
examining me, “Have you ever had false labor
before?” “No,” I answered weakly. Another
nurse brought my husband into the room and
when he was told the probability of a false
alarm, he shouted nervously: “She’s not leaving
this hospital ‘til she has that baby. I don’t care
if it takes two weeks!” We were led to the labor
room and hoped for the best.
I varied my positions, continued abdominal
breathing and prayerfully coaxed my
contractions to hurry up. My husband
pampered me lovingly and kept me relaxed.
Time, nature and providence all did their jobs
and soon I was making real progress.
Another examination and the nurse was
satisfied that this was the real thing. She left for
a few minutes and returned with the exciting
news that my doctor was stuck in the snow and
his partner was tied up at another hospital with
four women in labor. The resident might have
to do the delivery! “O.K.,” I said and dug to
the shred of faith that was still left within me.
I began transition knowing the time was
near. The contractions came harder and lasted
longer and I started deep chest breathing and
panting. The nurse checked me around 12:30
and was pleased that I was seven centimeters
dilated. They wheeled me into the bright
delivery room and in a little while my doctor’s
partner walked in.
The pressure was very great but I cooperated
with the forces of nature, doing exactly as the
doctor told me. I watched excitedly for the
baby’s head to appear in the mirror that had
been set up for me to view the birth. The
contractions were overwhelming at this point
and I called out to God for help several times.
But I did not want medication. I knew what I
was working for and that it would soon be over.
All five feet one inch of me was dedicated to
bringing my baby into the world and at last I
saw the doctor’s gloved fingers on my baby’s
black-fuzzed head. One final forceful push and
the great miracle of birth enthralled my whole
being. For one perfect moment I felt one with
the Creator. I screeched wildly: “My baby, oh,
my baby!!” This time I was drunk with joy and
I could see it was a boy. The doctor easily got a
cry out of my eight-pound, five ounce cherub,
placed him lovingly on my tummy and my
dream had at last come true.
I greeted my husband outside the delivery
room a little later and we hugged excitedly,
thanking God for another son. I joined with
women the world over in praising with a
grateful heat all those who have labored so hard
to make childbirth preparation a beautiful
reality. ****
Professionals are becoming increasingly
aware of the danger of birth defects due to the
unwise use of anesthesia and forceps. Much
postpartum depression is caused in mothers,
not by the delivery of the baby, but the misuse
of anesthesia. This is not to say that drugs and
instruments should never be used, but rather
that they should be used only in situations
which warrant them and that everything
possible should be done to encourage childbirth
preparation so that their need is minimized.
In the middle 40’s the principles of
childbirth presented by the British obstetrician
Grantly Dick-Read made their debut in the U.S.
It was his belief that the majority of women
could, through education, exercises and
preparation, find great spiritual and emotional
fulfillment in giving birth to their babies in a
natural, normal way.
The other outstanding leader in this field is
Ferdinand Lamaze, French obstetrician who
obtained his method of preparation during a
visit to Russia. The Lamaze method is based on
Pavlov’s theory of conditioned reflexes and
prepares a woman for a conscious, cooperative
childbirth. The Lamaze method was introduced
in the U.S. in the late 50’s. It entails more
active concentrated controlled effort on the
part of the mother. Many education classes use
exercises from both methods.
Childbirth preparation is available from the
following: Childbirth Education Association of
Atlanta, Inc. (C.E.A.) P.O. Box 11683, Atlanta,
Georgia 30305, Telephone 892-8655.
Lamaze Association of Atlanta, P.O. Box
7225, Atlanta, Georgia 30309, telephone:
636-5306. Childbirth Without Pain Education
League, Iris Cockrell, 861 Regency Court,
Lawrenceville, Georgia 30245, Telephone:
292-5908 or 963-0867. Ellen Bierbaum, 324
Meadow Drive, Alpharetta, Georgia 30201,
Telephone: 475-9666.
Three excellent books are: “Childbirth
Without Fear” by Grantly Dick-Read,
“Husband Coached Childbirth,” by Robert A.
Bradley, and “Thank you, Dr. Lamaze,” by
Marjorie Karmel.