Before I became Catholic myself, I lived at Old St. George, a former Catholic Church, in Clifton when I first moved to Cincinnati. It was a time of radical formation for me, and I can sincerely say that my sojourn there, fraught with both joy and distress, has served as much as any other experience of mine when it comes to my understanding of myself.
So in honor of this saint on his feast day, about whose legend we know more than his life, I offer these lyrics from one of the songs that I wrote for a stunted concept album about my life-changing adventures in the building named for his patronage:
Making Your Mother Concerned
Looking for treasures in heaven
I lost all my treasures on earth
Suckered, depleted, broke and defeated,
Hustled, harangued, had and hurt,
And it's damn near impossible
To play a righteous role
Being so bitter and burned,
When you turn 21,
It's never quite as fun
Making your mother concerned.
But I've got my bets on a longshot,
I've got my eyes on the prize,
Heard all the projections predicting defections,
But I'd rather be a surprise,
We train like olympians,
Take it like champions,
When we get beaten and bruised,
'Cause everyone knows the disgrace when you quit
Is worse than the shame when you lose.
It's damn near impossible
Not to be humble
Knowing how broken you are,
But everyone knows that the Spirit sticks closer
To spirits who're falling apart
It shakes out the sickness
To recognize weakness
It undoes the things that you've done,
But I'm lifting up my eyes,
Glad for the exercise,
Glad for the treasures I've earned,
I've not lived so long I can't learn,
But I'm making my mother concerned.
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