Joy

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption (2014)

  Dozens of Walter’s family members and friends from the community were there to greet him when he came out. They had made signs and banners, which surprised me. They were such simple gestures, but I found myself deeply moved. The signs gave a silent voice to the crowd: “Welcome Home, Johnny D,” “God Never Fails,” “Free at Last, Thank God Almighty, We Are Free at Last.” I went down to the jail and brought Walter his suit. I told him that a celebration was planned at his house after the hearing. The prison had not allowed Walter to bring his possessions to the courthouse, refusing to acknowledge that he might be released, so we would have to go back to Holman Prison to get his things before the homecoming at his house. I also told him that I’d reserved a hotel room for him in Montgomery and that it would probably be safest to spend the next few nights there. I reluctantly talked to him about my conversation with Minnie. He seemed surprised and hurt but didn’t linger on it. “This is a really happy day for me. Nothing can really spoil getting your freedom back.” “Well, y’all should talk at some point,” I urged. I went upstairs to find Tommy Chapman waiting for me in the courtroom. “After we’re done, I’d like to shake his hand,” he told me. “Would that be all right?” “I think he’d appreciate that.” “This case has taught me things I didn’t even know I had to learn.” “We’ve all learned a lot, Tommy.” There were deputy sheriffs everywhere. When Bernard arrived, we consulted briefly at the counsel table before a bailiff asked us to go back to the judge’s chambers. Judge Norton had retired weeks before the ruling from the Court of Criminal Appeals. The new judge, Pamela Baschab, greeted me warmly. We made small talk and then discussed what would happen during the hearing. Everyone was strangely pleasant. “Mr. Stevenson, if you’ll just present the motion and provide a brief summary, I don’t need any arguments or statements, I intend to grant the motion immediately so you all can get home. We can get this done quickly.” We went into the courtroom. There seemed to be more black deputies in the courtroom for this hearing than I’d ever seen in my appearances in that courthouse. There was no metal detector, no menacing dog. The courtroom was packed with Walter’s family members and supporters. There were more cheering black folks outside the courthouse who couldn’t get in. A horde of television cameras and journalists spilled out of the crowded courtroom. They finally brought Walter into the courtroom wearing the black suit and white shirt I’d brought him. He looked handsome and fit, like a different man.

• From Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption (2014)

  By the time he retired, he’d become the Court’s most vocal critic of excessive punishment and mass incarceration. In 2013, along with Marsha Colbey, we decided to honor the charismatic former director of the NAACP Legal Defense Fund, Elaine Jones, and the progressive ice-cream icons Ben (Cohen) and Jerry (Greenfield). Roberta Flack, the legendary singer and songwriter, agreed to perform. She sang the George Harrison tune “Isn’t It a Pity” before it was time to present our award to Marsha. In my introduction, I told the audience how, on the day of her release from Tutwiler, Marsha had come to the office to thank everyone. Her husband and her two daughters had picked her up at Tutwiler. Her youngest daughter, who was about twelve, had reduced most of our staff to tears because she refused to let go of her mother the entire time she was in the office. She clung to Marsha’s waist, kept hold of her arm, and leaned into her as if she intended never to let anyone physically separate them ever again. We took pictures with Marsha and some of the staff, and her daughter is in every shot because she refused to let her mother go. That told us a lot about what kind of mom Marsha Colbey was. Marsha took the podium in her lovely blue dress. “I want to thank all of you for recognizing me and what I’ve been through. Y’all are being very kind to me. I’m just happy to be free.” She spoke to the large audience calmly and with a great deal of composure. She was articulate and charming. She became emotional only when she talked about the women she’d left behind. “I am lucky. I got help that most women can’t get. It’s what bothers me the most now, knowing that they are still there and I’m home. I hope we can do more to help more people.” Her gown sparkled in the lights, and the audience rose to applaud Marsha as she wept for the women she’d left behind. Following her, I couldn’t think of what to say. “We need more hope. We need more mercy. We need more justice.” I then introduced Elaine Jones, who began with, “Marsha Colbey—isn’t she a beautiful thing?” E Chapter Thirteen Recovery vents in the days and weeks following Walter’s release were completely unexpected. The New York Times covered his exoneration and homecoming in a front-page story. We were flooded with media requests, and Walter and I gave television interviews to local, national, and even international press who wanted to report the story. Despite my general reluctance about media on pending cases, I believed that if people in Monroe County heard enough reports that Walter had been released because he was innocent, there would be less resistance to accepting him when he returned home.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  Objection 3: Further, according to Augustine (De Consensu Evang. ii, 27), just as there is a fast “of sorrow,” so is there a fast “of joy.” Now it is most becoming that the faithful should rejoice spiritually in Christ’s Resurrection. Therefore during the five weeks which the Church solemnizes on account of Christ’s Resurrection, and on Sundays which commemorate the Resurrection, fasts ought to be appointed. On the contrary, stands the general custom of the Church. I answer that, As stated above ([3486]AA[1],3), fasting is directed to two things, the deletion of sin, and the raising of the mind to heavenly things. Wherefore fasting ought to be appointed specially for those times, when it behooves man to be cleansed from sin, and the minds of the faithful to be raised to God by devotion: and these things are particularly requisite before the feast of Easter, when sins are loosed by baptism, which is solemnly conferred on Easter-eve, on which day our Lord’s burial is commemorated, because “we are buried together with Christ by baptism unto death” (Rom. 6:4). Moreover at the Easter festival the mind of man ought to be devoutly raised to the glory of eternity, which Christ restored by rising from the dead, and so the Church ordered a fast to be observed immediately before the Paschal feast; and for the same reason, on the eve of the chief festivals, because it is then that one ought to make ready to keep the coming feast devoutly. Again it is the custom in the Church for Holy orders to be conferred every quarter of the year (in sign whereof our Lord fed four thousand men with seven loaves, which signify the New Testament year as Jerome says [*Comment. in Marc. viii]): and then both the ordainer, and the candidates for ordination, and even the whole people, for whose good they are ordained, need to fast in order to make themselves ready for the ordination. Hence it is related (Lk. 6:12) that before choosing His disciples our Lord “went out into a mountain to pray”: and Ambrose [*Exposit. in Luc.] commenting on these words says: “What shouldst thou do, when thou desirest to undertake some pious work, since Christ prayed before sending His apostles?”

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  13. They on the rock are they, which, when they hear, receive the word with joy; and these have no root, which for a while believe, and in time of temptation fall away. 14. And that which fell among thorns are they, which, when they have heard, go forth, and are choked with cares and riches and pleasures of this life, and bring no fruit to perfection. 15. But that on the good ground are they, which in an honest and good heart, having heard the word, keep it, and bring forth fruit with patience. THEOPHYLACT. That which David had foretold in the person of Christ, I will open my mouth in parables, (Ps. 78:2.) the Lord here fulfils; as it is said, And when much people were gathered together, and were come to him out of every city, he spake by a parable. But the Lord speaks by a parable, first indeed that He may make His hearers more attentive. For men were accustomed to exercise their minds on dark sayings, and to despise what was plain; and next, that the unworthy might not receive what was spoken mystically. ORIGEN. And therefore it is significantly said, When much people were gathered together, and were come to him out of every city. For not many but few there are who walk the strait road, and find the way which leadeth to life. Hence Matthew says, that He taught without the house by parables, but within the house explained the parable to His disciples. (Matt. 13:36.) EUSEBIUS. Now Christ most fitly puts forth His first parable to the multitude not only of those who then stood by, but of those also who were to come after them, inducing them to listen to His words, saying, A sower went out to sow his seed. BEDE. The sower we can conceive to be none other but the Son of God, Who going forth from His Father’s bosom whither no creature had attained, came into the world that He might bear witness to the truth. (John 18:37.) CHRYSOSTOM. (Hom. 44. in Matt.) Now His going, Who is every where, was not local, but through the vail of the flesh He approached us. But Christ fitly denominates His advent, His going forth. For we were aliens from God, and cast out as criminals, and rebels to the king, but he who wishes to reconcile man, going out to them, speaks to them without, until having become meet for the royal presence, He brings them within; so also did Christ. THEOPHYLACT. But He went out now, not to destroy the husbandmen, or to burn up the earth, but He went out to sow. For oftimes the husbandman who sows, goes out for some other cause, not only to sow.

• From The Folding Star (1994)

  What an effort to have walked it all the way up here, even if he came by the gentler climb from the other side. I was aware of the wheels wobbling by me, the squeak of the brake again, a plimsolled foot scraping for balance. It was Dawn. He fell against me, hand round my throat to keep him steady, so that I choked for a second, like in a fight. He let the bike slither under him across the path and hopped free of it while a wheel still lazily spun. Then there was a second embrace, an arm round my shoulder in apology and surprise. It seemed we were being matey: Dawn's arm stayed heavily where it was, his fingers absent-mindedly doodling on my collarbone. We gazed out at the glimmering pinky-mauve crag of cloud that stood motionless to the west. He was very warm from exercise, and lightly sweaty in a tracksuit—not the sleazy multi-coloured modern kind but the soft old navy-blue kind that was like a rugged form of undress, like slumberwear worn out of doors. I always felt disadvantaged in sports gear, and envied boys like Dawn who came to life in it. I was analysing the slight discomfort in our stance, a hollowness in my stomach, an ache down my thighs like I got on a high building. I raised my arm and rested it on his back. "I should have known I'd meet you up here," he said, with a hint of routine school jeering, and a hint of flattery too, as if I figured in his thoughts, a poetic type from the Lower Sixth who might be worth wary emulation. "I'm always up here," I said, to counter any suggestion it was his place, not mine. "Yeah, I come over on my bike sometimes, since we moved. We should arrange to meet up." I loved the idea of that, perhaps we both had these great vacancies—these grandes vacances —to fill. On the other hand what would we talk about . . . We hardly knew each other; he was already coloured in my mind by being in Drake, with their drab plum strip. He was handsome, he'd been a rather hopeless Orsino last term, but his strong physique and violet tights had given the role another kind of interest. He turned towards me and jutted his chest out, with a body-builder's deep breath, and hooked up his other arm. "Feel that," he said, nodding at it. The light was failing, there was a moment's uncertainty. "Go on."

• From The Folding Star (1994)

  And then what could he do but add, "But if you'd like to . . ." I think she agreed less out of high spirits than from a sense of duty. "I shan't sing 'I'm just a wee bit boozy'", she said, "because actually I am, and I'll probably get muddled up with the words." "Ah well," said my father. "But can you play . . . ?" She had a whisper with my mother and after five seconds' modest thought broke out in a deeper, sexier voice than usual, "A home is not a home without a man—He's the necessary evil in the plan . . .", at which Geoffrey looked quite uncomfortable. My mother accompanied anxiously, making it sound like a metrical psalm. When it was finished I clapped for too long. "Thank you, darling," said Mirabelle with a bow. She had on black linen bell-bottoms that added a further curve to her outline and low-cut slippers which showed the little pinched cleavages of her toes. "What would you like me to do next?" There were no immediate requests, and the general answer might well have been "Sit down and shut up". "Beggars in Spats," I called out mischievously. This was a comic number from the Broadway of thirty or forty years ago, a genre utterly antique to me but treasured by all these adults as the glamour music of their youth, and so absorbed by osmosis into my own. It was another of those things that gave me the ghostly sense of having grown up in an earlier age. She did sing "Beggars in Spats", which was about a couple getting married with only a nickel between them but somehow managing very well; it was a long song, in which everything happened several times over. "And now I've done enough," she said, turning her eyes on my father. "If I really can't persuade Lewis to join me?" He shook his head. "There seems to be a bit of a matrimonial theme. We could round it off with 'There's Nothing Like Marriage for People' . . ." "I'm just not up to it tonight." "Oh, go on, Dad!" I said, bounding across to his chair and tugging at his hand. "It's always so funny when you do it in your American accent." And Sibelius, noticing the activity, lurched to his feet and clittered round the parquet giving short affirmative barks. I appealed to my mother, who looked mournfully at my father, not knowing what to hope. Mirabelle doodled the first two lines sweetly, sotto voce, "Imagine living with someone Who's longing to live with you", and winked at me as he got up, with an alarming look of stifled wretchedness, and took his place by the piano.

• From Hillbilly Elegy (2016)

  The rancor of the 2016 campaign continues to infect our discourse. In short, there are many reasons to worry about the future, though I remain hopeful about it. Part of that stems from the fact that my own life remains remarkably blessed. Understandably, many people wonder what so many of the characters of Hillbilly Elegy are doing. I recently led an effort (along with my partner Steve Case) to bring more investment capital to neglected areas of the country, an effort we hope will spur serious job growth in places like my hometown. My aunt and sister continue to do well, and my mom is healthier and happier than she’s been in a very long time. And of course, in June of last year, my wife gave birth to our first child, a beautiful baby boy we named Ewan Blaine Vance—his middle name taken from Mamaw’s father. He’s a spunky, goofy baby, and he’s given Mom and me something to bond over. Watching her with him and seeing how much she loves him has only accelerated the process I described toward the end of Hillbilly Elegy—of replacing resentment with sympathy and understanding. I continue to marvel at the life I lead, constantly a little afraid that the proverbial rug will be pulled from under me. Someone told me not long ago that they felt I had survivor’s guilt. That’s too strong a word. But I am acutely aware of how fortunate I am, and ever more convinced that we must extend the sort of luck I’ve had to more children—no matter how difficult. That, to me, is the critical question, and yet I’m only a bit closer to answering it than I was two years ago. With Ewan not yet a year old, that question has taken on an intensely personal flavor. And I’m acutely aware that many of my life’s current worries are jarringly differently from those of my childhood. Yale Law, with its prestige and privilege, was a culture shock unlike anything I’d ever experienced. But the train ride through crazy town shows no signs of slowing. I’ll never worry about money in the way that Mamaw did when she worried about not affording her prescription drugs if she bought me a calculator I needed for school. Now my only financial problems revolve around how and when to help my family when they ask. I first flew on an airplane when I was twelve, thanks to an uncle’s airline miles. My infant son has already flown to California, Idaho, and Florida. Again, I return to that word: weird. It’s just all so weird.

• From Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption (2014)

  One of the deputies patted me on the back, declaring, “That’s awesome, man. That’s awesome.” I asked Bernard to tell the family and supporters that we would meet them out front. Walter stood very close to me as we answered questions from the press. I could tell he was feeling overwhelmed, so I cut off the questions after a few minutes, and we walked to the front door of the courthouse. TV camera crews followed us. As we walked outside, dozens of people cheered and waved their signs. Walter’s relatives ran up to him to hug him, and they hugged me, too. Walter’s grandchildren grabbed his hands. Older people I hadn’t previously met came up to hug him. Walter couldn’t believe how many people were there for him. He hugged everyone. Even when some of the men came up to shake his hand, he gave them a hug. I told everyone that Bernard and I had to take Walter to the prison and that we would come to the house directly from there. It took nearly an hour to get through the crowd and into the car. On the drive to the prison, Walter told me that the men on death row had held a special service for him on his last night. They had come to pray for him and give him their final hugs. Walter said he felt guilty leaving them behind. I told him not to—they were all thrilled to know he was going home. His freedom was, in a small way, a sign of hope in a hopeless place. Despite my assurances that we’d be at the house shortly, everyone followed us to the prison. The press, the local TV crews, the family, everyone. When we got to Holman, a caravan of media and well-wishers trailed behind us. I parked and walked to the front gate to explain to the guard in the tower that I didn’t have anything to do with all of the people—I knew that the warden had strict policies about the presence of people who didn’t have business at the prison. But the guard waved us inside. No one tried to get the crowd to leave. We went to the prison office to collect Walter’s possessions: his legal materials and correspondence with me, letters from family and supporters, a Bible, the Timex watch he was wearing when he was arrested, and the wallet he had had with him back in June 1987 when his nightmare began. The wallet still had $23 in it. Walter had given to other death row prisoners his fan, a dictionary, and the food items he had in his cell. I saw the warden peering at us from his office as we collected Walter’s things, but he didn’t come out. A few guards watched as we walked out the front gate of the prison. Lots of people were still gathered outside.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  Reply to Objection 2: Strife or struggle arising from the opposition of an external thing, hinders delight in that thing. For a man delights not in a thing against which he strives: but in that for which he strives; when he has obtained it, other things being equal, he delights yet more: wherefore Augustine says (Confess. viii, 3) that “the more peril there was in the battle, the greater the joy in the triumph.” But there is no strife or struggle in contemplation on the part of the truth which we contemplate, though there is on the part of our defective understanding and our corruptible body which drags us down to lower things, according to Wis. 9:15, “The corruptible body ss a load upon the soul, and the earthly habitation presseth down the mind that museth upon many things.” Hence it is that when man attains to the contemplation of truth, he loves it yet more, while he hates the more his own deficiency and the weight of his corruptible body, so as to say with the Apostle (Rom. 7:24): “Unhappy man that I am, who shall deliver me from the body of this death?” Wherefore Gregory say (Hom. xiv in Ezech.): “When God is once known by desire and understanding, He withers all carnal pleasure in us.” Reply to Objection 3: The contemplation of God in this life is imperfect in comparison with the contemplation in heaven; and in like manner the delight of the wayfarer’s contemplation is imperfect as compared with the delight of contemplation in heaven, of which it is written (Ps. 35:9): “Thou shalt make them drink of the torrent of Thy pleasure.” Yet, though the contemplation of Divine things which is to be had by wayfarers is imperfect, it is more delightful than all other contemplation however perfect, on account of the excellence of that which is contemplated. Hence the Philosopher says (De Part. Animal. i, 5): “We may happen to have our own little theories about those sublime beings and godlike substances, and though we grasp them but feebly, nevertheless so elevating is the knowledge that they give us more delight than any of those things that are round about us”: and Gregory says in the same sense (Hom. xiv in Ezech.): “The contemplative life is sweetness exceedingly lovable; for it carries the soul away above itself, it opens heaven and discovers the spiritual world to the eyes of the mind.” Reply to Objection 4: After contemplation Jacob halted with one foot, “because we need to grow weak in the love of the world ere we wax strong in the love of God,” as Gregory says (Hom. xiv in Ezech.). “Thus when we have known the sweetness of God, we have one foot sound while the other halts; since every one who halts on one foot leans only on that foot which is sound.”

• From From Shame to Sin: The Christian Transformation of Sexual Morality in Late Antiquity (2013)

  This description of the woman’s pleasure, the reader of the romance remembers, is delivered by a young man whose experiences, on his own admission, have been limited to professional women. Part of us may wonder if Clitophon has not himself been sold a convincing act, but that is to bring a modern cynicism into the picture. Achilles is a sly author, to be sure, but his rendering of female pleasure is integral to the whole conception of eros in the novel. The novels embrace the physical power of eros and celebrate its potential to be reconciled within the order of married life and the city-state. The Greeks and Romans recognized eros as a wild, destructive force. The novels present a cosmos where the feral power of eros is harnessed by marriage, not dampened by it. For Achilles, marriage itself exists as part of nature, or at least on an indistinct border between wild nature and human civilization. The novels are about the ending, about marriage, but they are not sermons or political pamphlets on behalf of marriage. In the world of the novel, civilization does not repress eros. For the novelist, the fires of sexual love gave warmth and meaning to human life. Civilization is nourished by absorbing eros into its most vital institution. THE GLOOMY ONES: THE PHILOSOPHERS AND SEXUALITY In the very opening scene of Leucippe and Clitophon, the “author” sails to Sidon and meets Clitophon in a temple of the goddess Astarte. The topic of eros arises and the two descend to a nearby grove bordered by a clear cold stream; the rest of the novel is Clitophon’s first-person account of his experiences. The story of Clitophon and Leucippe’s romance is an afternoon conte in the cool shade of the plane trees. The ancient reader would have known immediately that we have been placed in the surroundings of Plato’s Phaedrus, one of the Athenian’s most celebrated dialogues on eros, in which Socrates extols the power of love to draw humans toward the divine. It was by design an ambitious place to set an erotic story. From the beginning Achilles Tatius evokes the atmosphere of philosophy and the possibility of a rivalry between philosophy and art. The novel presents a narrative of eros that is permeated at every turn by the concerns of contemporary philosophy. Leucippe and Clitophon is a philosophical novel, though not a dogmatic one. Indeed, Achilles Tatius was one of those creative spirits whose prime conviction was the superiority of art over doctrine as a vehicle for representing deep human truths.93

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  AUGUSTINE. (Tract. lxxviii. 1) Though He was only going for a time, their hearts would be troubled and afraid for what might happen before He returned; lest in the absence of the Shepherd the wolf might attack the flock: Ye have heard how I said unto you, I go away, and come again to you. In that He was man, He went: in that He was God, He stayed. Why then be troubled and afraid, when He left the eye only, not the heart? To make them understand that it was as man that He said, I go away, and come again to you; He adds, If ye loved Me ye would rejoice, because I said, I go unto My Father; for My Father is greater than I. In that the Son then is unequal with the Father, through that inequality He went to the Father, from Him to come again to judge the quick and dead: in that He is equal to the Father, He never goes from the Father, but is every where altogether with Him in that Godhead, which is not confined to place. Nay, the Son Himself, because that being equal to the Father in the form of God, He emptied Himself, not losing the form of God, but taking that of a servant, is greater even than Himself: the form of God which is not lost, is greater than the form of a servant which was put on. In this form of a servant, the Son of God is inferior not to the Father only, but to the Holy Ghost; in this the Child Christ was inferior even to His parents; to whom we read, He was subject. Let us acknowledge then the twofold substance of Christ, the divine, which is equal to the Father, and the human, which is inferior. But Christ is both together, not two, but one Christ: else the Godhead is a quaternity, not a Trinity. Wherefore He says, If ye loved Me, ye would rejoice, because I said, I go to the Father; for human nature should exult at being thus taken up by the Only Begotten Word, and made immortal in heaven; at earth being raised to heaven, and dust sitting incorruptible at the right hand of the Father. Who, that loves Christ, will not rejoice at this, seeing, as he doth, his own nature immortal in Christ, and hoping that He Himself will be so by Christ. HILARY. (de Trin. ix) Or thus: If the Father is greater by virtue of giving, is the Son less by confessing the gift? The giver is the greater, but He to whom unity with that giver is given, is not the less.

• From Etched in Sand (2013)

  When I hold it to my face, the smell reminds me of pickle juice, with that salty flavor, I love to drink straight from the jar. Thinking about pickles makes the vinegar more bearable, and for some reason, the vinegar always curbs my appetite. When that doesn’t work and I’m still feeling worn down, I know I have backup to keep my energy going: the yellow jackets. I do my best to ignore the signs of my malnourishment: the bruises that appear in dull purple on my limbs from simple chores around the house, the shallowness of my skin, and the emptiness in my eyes. There’s constant pain in my gums, and I can’t drink cold water because of the tingling ache in my teeth. Finally, late one afternoon, Camille comes home for a visit, wearing a huge smile when she steps out of Kathy’s mother’s car. Through the rolled-down window, Kathy waves as she pulls away. In my bare feet I step onto the porch and fold my arms, smiling. “Why you looking so smug?” “Here’s why.” Camille opens a plastic grocery bag to reveal a whole roasted chicken. “Where’d you get that?!” “Today I made ten dollars washing cars with Kathy’s brother,” she says. “I was worried about you guys.” “No way!” I hug her—quickly, because my mouth is watering with the intensity of a fountain. “What else is in here?” When I take the chicken out of the bag, I find a jar of mustard and a loaf of Italian bread. Yum! “Norman! Rosie!” I yell. “Come and eat!” “Now?” Norm yells from upstairs. “It’s a surprise.” The four of us sit on the floor with the plastic tray of chicken between us. “You’re eating so fast!” Camille says, giggling, and poking me in the ribs. “Slow down or you might choke.” We put mustard on our plates and dip the chicken in it. When the bones are nearly stripped clean, Camille sets it aside and we pass around more mustard and dip our bread in it. Rosie and Norm sit back to let their food settle, then run outside to play. Camille smiles at me, seeing how happy they are. I tuck my hands behind my head and smile back in agreement. With our bellies stuffed, she and I stretch out on the living room couches. I tell her how we’ve been spending our days and how I lock the house up at night. “Are you going to come back and live with us again?” “How are the kids doing?” I understand this is her answer. Norman and Rosie have always been “the kids,” because they’re “the kids” to our mother. She’ll say, “Who’s taking care of the kids?” and I know she means Norman and Rosie. I have never been a kid. Norman acts like a child, even though we’re less than two years apart. He’s our mother’s little prince, and he loves that we girls take care of him.

• From Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption (2014)

  Sometimes I’d find within a letter a scrap of wrinkled paper, which, once unfolded, would reveal thoughtful and sobering poems with titles like “Uncried Tears,” “Tied Up with Words,” “The Unforgiving Minute,” “Silence,” and “Wednesday Ritual.” We decided to publish a report to draw attention to the plight of children in the United States who had been sentenced to die in prison. I wanted to photograph some of our clients in order to give the life-without-parole sentences imposed on children a human face. Florida was one of the few states that would allow photographers inside a prison, so we asked prison officials if Ian could be permitted out of his solitary, no-touch existence for an hour so that the photographer we hired could take the pictures. To my delight, they agreed and allowed Ian to be in the same room with an outside photographer. As soon as the visit was over, Ian immediately wrote me a letter. Dear Mr. Stevenson: I hope this letter reaches you in good health, and everything is going well for you. The focal point of this letter is to thank you for the photo session with the photographer and obtain information from you how I can obtain a good amount of photos. As you know, I’ve been in solitary confinement approx. 14.5 years. It’s like the system has buried me alive and I’m dead to the outside world. Those photos mean so very much to me right now. All I have is $1.75 in my inmate account right now. If I send you $1.00 of that, how many of the photos will that purchase me? In my elation at the photo shoot today, I forgot to mention that today June 19th was my deceased mom’s birthday. I know it’s not a big significance, but reflecting on it afterward it seemed symbolic and special that the photo shoot took place on my mother’s birthday! I don’t know how to make you feel the emotion and importance of those photos, but to be real, I want to show the world I’m alive! I want to look at those photos and feel alive! It would really help with my pain. I felt joyful today during the photo shoot. I wanted it to never end. Every time you all visit and leave, I feel saddened. But I capture and cherish those moments in time, replaying them in my mind’s eye, feeling grateful for human interaction and contact. But today, just the simple handshakes we shared was a welcome addition to my sensory deprived life. Please tell me how many photos I can get? I want those photos of myself, almost as bad as I want my freedom. Thank you for making a lot of the positive occurrences that are happening in my life possible.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  The Offering of Sacrifice.—The first is the offering of sacrifices. In the Book of Numbers (18) it is written how God ordered that on each day there be offered one lamb in the morning and another in the evening, but on the Sabbath day the number should be doubled. And this showed that on the Sabbath we should offer sacrifice to God from all that we possess: “All things are Yours; and we have given You what we received from your hand” [1 Chron 29:14]. We should offer, first of all, our soul to God, being sorry for our sins: “A sacrifice to God is an afflicted spirit” [Ps 50:19]; and also pray for His blessings: “Let my prayer be directed as incense in your sight” [Ps 140:2]. Feast days were instituted for that spiritual joy which is the effect of prayer. Therefore, on such days our prayers should be multiplied. Secondly, we should offer our body, by mortifying it with fasting: “I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercy of God, that you present your bodies a living sacrifice”[Rm 12:1], and also by praising God: “The sacrifice of praise shall honor Me” [Ps 49:23]. And thus on these days our hymns should be more numerous. Thirdly, we should sacrifice our possessions by giving alms: “And do not forget to do good, and to impart; for by such sacrifice God’s favor is obtained” [Hb 13:16]. And this alms ought to be more than on other days because the Sabbath is a day of common joys: “Send portions to those who have not prepared for themselves, because it is the holy day of the Lord” [Neh 8:10]. Hearing of God’s Word.—Our second duty on the Sabbath is to be eager to hear the word of God. This the Jews did daily: “The voices of the prophets which are read every Sabbath” [Acts 13:27]. Therefore Christians, whose justice should be more perfect, ought to come together on the Sabbath to hear sermons and participate in the services of the Church! “He who is of God, hears the words of God” [Jn 8:47]. We likewise ought to speak with profit to others: “Let no evil speech proceed from your mouth; but what is good for sanctification” [Eph 4:29]. These two practices are good for the soul of the sinner, because they change his heart for the better: “Are not My words as a fire, says the Lord, and as a hammer that breaks the rock in pieces?” [Jer 23:29]. The opposite effect is had on those, even the perfect, who neither speak nor hear profitable things: “Evil communications corrupt good manners. Awake, you just, and do no sin” [1 Cor 15:33]. “Your words have I hidden in my heart” [Ps 118:11]. God’s word enlightens the ignorant: “Your word is a lamp to my feet” [Ps 118:105]. It inflames the lukewarm: “The word of the Lord inflamed him” [Ps 114:19]

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  AUGUSTINE. (ubi sup.) Though Matthew mentions only the disciples of John as having made this enquiry, the words of Mark rather seem to imply that some other persons spoke of others, that is, the guests spoke concerning the disciples of John and the Pharisees—this is still more evident from Luke; why then does Matthew here say, Then came unto him the disciples of John, (Luck 5:33.) unless that they were there among other guests, all of whom with one consent put this objection to Him? CHRYSOSTOM. Or; Luke relates that the Pharisees, but Matthew that the disciples of John, said thus, because the Pharisees had taken them with them to ask the question, as they afterwards did the Herodians. Observe how when strangers, as before the Publicans, were to be defended, He accuses heavily those that blamed them; but when they brought a charge against His disciples, He makes answer with mildness. And Jesus saith unto them, Can the children of the bridegroom mourn as long as the bridegroom is with them? Before He had styled Himself Physician, now Bridegroom, calling to mind the words of John which he had said, He that hath the bride is the bridegroom. (John 3:29.) JEROME. Christ is the Bridegroom and the Church the Bride. Of this spiritual union the Apostles were born; they cannot mourn so long as they see the Bridegroom in the chamber with the Bride. But when the nuptials are past, and the time of passion and resurrection is come, then shall the children of the Bridegroom fast. The days shall come when the bridegroom shall be taken from them, and then shall they fast. CHRYSOSTOM. He means this; The present is a time of joy and rejoicing; sorrow is therefore not to be now brought forward; and fasting is naturally grievous, and to all those that are yet weak; for to those that seek to contemplate wisdom, it is pleasant; He therefore speaks here according to the former opinion. He also shews that this they did was not of gluttony, but of a certain dispensation. JEROME. Hence some think that a fast ought to follow the forty days of Passion, although the day of Pentecost and the coming of the Holy Spirit immediately bring back our joy and festival. From this text accordingly, Montanus, Prisca, and Maximilla enjoin a forty days’ abstinence after Pentecost, but it is the use of the Church to come to the Lord’s passion and resurrection through humiliation of the flesh, that by carnal abstinence we may better be prepared for spiritual fulness.

• From Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption (2014)

  The judge and the prosecutor were suddenly generous and accommodating. It was as if everyone wanted to be sure there were no hard feelings or grudges. Walter was rightfully ecstatic, but I was confused by my suddenly simmering anger. We were about to leave court for the last time, and I started thinking about how much pain and suffering had been inflicted on Walter and his family, the entire community. I thought about how if Judge Robert E. Lee Key hadn’t overridden the jury’s verdict of life imprisonment without parole and imposed the death penalty, which brought the case to our attention, Walter likely would have spent the rest of his life incarcerated and died in a prison cell. I thought about how certain it was that hundreds, maybe thousands of other people were just as innocent as Walter but would never get the help they need. I knew this wasn’t the place or time to make a speech or complain, but I couldn’t stop myself from making one final comment. “Your Honor, I just want to say this before we adjourn. It was far too easy to convict this wrongly accused man for murder and send him to death row for something he didn’t do and much too hard to win his freedom after proving his innocence. We have serious problems and important work that must be done in this state.” I sat down and the judge pronounced Walter free to go. Just like that he was a free man. Walter hugged me tightly, and I gave him a handkerchief to wipe the tears from his eyes. I led him over to Chapman, and they shook hands. The black deputies who had hovered nearby ushered us toward a back door that led downstairs, where a throng of reporters waited. One of the deputies patted me on the back, declaring, “That’s awesome, man. That’s awesome.” I asked Bernard to tell the family and supporters that we would meet them out front. Walter stood very close to me as we answered questions from the press. I could tell he was feeling overwhelmed, so I cut off the questions after a few minutes, and we walked to the front door of the courthouse. TV camera crews followed us. As we walked outside, dozens of people cheered and waved their signs. Walter’s relatives ran up to him to hug him, and they hugged me, too. Walter’s grandchildren grabbed his hands. Older people I hadn’t previously met came up to hug him. Walter couldn’t believe how many people were there for him. He hugged everyone. Even when some of the men came up to shake his hand, he gave them a hug.

• From Etched in Sand (2013)

  For years, the two of us have worked to set up each new place so that it feels at least something like a home, even though we never know how long we might stay there. We just rest easier knowing, at nightfall, that the younger ones have a safe spot to rest their heads. Together. Without Cookie. If we can control that. Cookie puts the brakes on our wordless games when she pulls into a semicircular driveway, gravel crunching under the tires. We’re met by the image of a gray, severely neglected two-story shingled house surrounded by dirt, dust, and weeds. There are no bushes, no flowers, no greenery at all; but the lack of landscaping draws a squeal from me. “No grass!” Rosie and Norman smile and nod in agreement, understanding this means we won’t be taking shifts to accomplish Cookie’s definition of “mowing the lawn”—using an old pair of hedge clippers to cut the grass on our hands and knees. Camille and I usually cut the bulk of the lawn to protect the little ones from the blisters and achy wrists. Cookie turns off the ignition and coughs her dry, scratchy smoker’s cough. “This is it,” she announces. “Sluts and whores unpack the car.” Then she emits a loud, sputtering, hillbilly roar that never fails to remind me of a malfunctioning machine gun. As usual, she’s the only one who finds any humor in the degrading nicknames she’s pinned on her daughters. I gaze calmly at the facade before me. It’s a house . . . our house. Even if it ends up being only for a few days, I’m relieved that my siblings and I won’t be separated. Since the interior car-door handle is missing, exiting the car is always an occasion for embarrassment. I take my cue as Cookie reaches out her window, pulling up the steel tab that opens her door with her right hand while she pushes with her left shoulder from the inside. It’s my job to step out and pull the exterior driver’s-side door handle for her, especially when she’s too drunk to get the door open on her own. This normally results in me falling on my bony bottom as the heavy steel door comes barreling out toward me from my mother’s force. I quickly jump straight up like Nadia Comaneci at the Montreal Olympics—landing with locked legs and arms extended skyward—and look back at the three little judges in the car to rate my performance. As always, this leads to giggles from Rosie and Norman and an I feel your pain wince from Camille, whose behind is just as scrawny as mine. Since my dismount lacks originality, my score is always the same. Rosie is the most generous, flashing ten stretched-out fingers. Norman offers an underwhelmed five; Camille gives me two thumbs-up, which from her is equal to a ten. Cookie usually just snorts in my direction, but not this time. Today she’s in a hurry.

• From The Swimming-Pool Library (1988)

  There I sat, cross-legged on a rug, shirtless, brown, blue-eyed—perhaps the most beautiful I had ever been or ever would be. ‘That’s you,’ cried Rupert, splodging his forefinger down on my face as if recording his fingerprints for the police. ‘And that’s James! Isn’t he funny?’ ‘Yes, isn’t he a scream.’ James had on his panama hat, was quite drunk and had been caught at an unflattering angle (one I had never seen him from in real life), so that he looked lecherously seedy. ‘And is that Robert Carson um Smith?’ ‘Smith-Carson, actually, but jolly good all the same.’ ‘Was he a homosexual?’ ‘Certainly was.’ ‘I don’t like him.’ ‘No, he wasn’t very nice really. Some people liked him, though. He was great friends with James, you know.’ ‘Is James a homosexual, too?’ ‘You know perfectly well he is.’ ‘Yes, I thought he was, but Mummy said you mustn’t say people were.’ ‘You say what you like, sweetheart; as long as it’s true, of course.’ ‘Of course. Is he a homosexual as well?’ he chimed on, pointing to the remaining person in the picture, the blazered, boatered man-mountain, Ashley Child, a wealthy American Rhodes scholar whose birthday, as far as I could remember, we had been celebrating. ‘A bit hard to say, I’m afraid. I should think so, though.’ ‘I mean,’ Rupert looked up at me cogitatively, ‘almost everyone is homosexual, aren’t they? Boys, I mean.’ ‘I sometimes think so,’ I hedged. ‘Is Grandpa one?’ ‘Good heavens no,’ I protested. ‘Am I one?’ Rupert asked intently. ‘It’s a bit early to say yet, old fellow. But you could be, you know.’ ‘Goody!’ he squealed, banging his heels against the front of the sofa again. ‘Then I can come and live with you.’ ‘Would you like that?’ I asked, my avuncular rather than my homosexual feelings deeply gratified by this. And really Rupert’s cult of the gay, his innocent, optimistic absorption in the subject, delighted me even while its origin and purpose were obscure. I was saved from the sexual analysis of the next set of pictures, the Oscar Wilde Society Ball, by the doorbell ringing. (The dressnote that year had been ‘Slave Trade’, and the spectacle of predominantly straight boys camping it up to the eyeballs would have been confusing to the child’s budding sense of role-play.) It was not Philippa but Gavin who had come. ‘Sorry about this, Will,’ he said. ‘Has he been a frightful bother?’ ‘Not a bit, Gavin. Come in. We were just having a talk about homosexuality.’ ‘He is frightfully interested in that at the moment, although he can’t have the least idea of what it is —can he?

• From In an Unspoken Voice (2010)

  An open multidisciplinary effort could begin to help us discern what is or is not effective and to improve at our primary aim of helping suffering people heal! The article by Jack Maser and Steven Bracha offers a spirited challenge to those entrusted to write the DSM-V. In their audacious commentary, these two researchers put forth the bold premise that there exists a theoretical basis for the mechanisms underlying PTSD: an evolutionary (instinctual) basis for trauma, similar to what I had observed with Nancy in 1969. With this article, I had come full circle. Gallup and Maser’s 1977 experimental studies on fear and “animal paralysis” had inspired my explanation for her behavior. Now Maser and Bracha concluded their 2008 article with these tickling couple of sentences: Along with the many changes that are being suggested for DSM-V, we urge the planners to seek out empirical studies and/or theories that place psychopathology in an evolutionary context. The field will then have a connection to broader issues in biology, the data on psychopathology can be placed within a widely accepted concept, and clinicians will have the possibility of developing more effective behavioral treatments (e.g., Levine, 1997). 9 Oh, what divine delight! I could not help but wonder if my lecture at the San Diego Medical Conference had contributed in part to stimulating Maser and Bracha to make this proposal. The mere possibility that I might somehow, through fateful detours and twisted turns, have influenced the course of the psychiatric diagnosis of trauma (or at least contributed to the dialogue) was mind-blowing. Let us take a brief look at that diagnostic history. * I use the term renegotiation to refer to the reworking of a traumatic experience in contrast to the reliving of it. † Tragically, Donald Wilson was killed in a rafting accident in 1970. ‡ This transcript was published in the journal Science in 1974. § The Alexander technique takes its name from F. Matthias Alexander, who first observed and formulated its principles between 1890 and 1900. It is an approach for reducing harmful postural habits that interfere with both the physical and the mental conditions of the individual as a whole. ‖ At this time the chairman of my doctoral committee was quite dubious, even antagonistic, about my thesis. M CHAPTER 3 The Changing Face of Trauma OST PEOPLE THINK OF TRAUMA AS A “MENTAL” PROBLEM, even as a “brain disorder.” However, trauma is something that also happens in the body. We become scared stiff or, alternately, we collapse, overwhelmed and defeated with helpless dread. Either way, trauma defeats life. The state of being scared stiff has been portrayed in the various great cultural mythologies. There is, of course, the Gorgon Medusa who turns her victims to stone by exposing them to her own wide-eyed terrified gaze. In the Old Testament, Lot’s wife is turned into a pillar of salt as a punishment for witnessing the terrifying destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah.

• From The Unexpected Legacy of Divorce: A 25-Year Landmark Study (2000)

  “Having kids had a huge impact on our marriage,” Gary said with satisfaction. “I love being a father. I like the newness of my kids’ lives. I love reading the books to them that my folks read to me and playing the games I played as a child. Those were happy times and my children give me the double joy of sharing the parts of my life that I loved with them and replaying these precious experiences in my own mind. Both Sara and I are committed to spending as much time as we can with our kids. We have this crazy schedule that’s all about maximizing our time with them.” As he told me the details, I felt exhausted just listening. This is the story I hear these days from all parents with children. They come home from their busy, demanding jobs to pick up children at school, take them to their playdates and their music lessons, sports, and a zillion other activities plus hours of homework that by second grade require the presence of parents. Fathers in general are more present in the lives of their children. It is one of the better changes in American society over the last few decades. Unlike Karen, who wrestled over the decision to have a child, Gary took marriage and fatherhood totally for granted. The fact that his mother and father had troubles in their marriage in no way affected his decision to have children of his own. Indeed, this is one of the major differences between those raised in good or “good enough” intact families like Gary’s and children of divorce.1 Gary and his peers felt that becoming parents was a natural step and discussed having children as part of their courtship. They knew that their parents wanted to be grandparents and were happy to oblige them. But in another respect, Karen and Gary were very much alike as parents. Their children were central to the marriage. They wanted what was best for their children and were willing to make sacrifices on their behalf. For example, Gary explained that he got an offer from a national chain to buy out the family hardware store. The deal meant he’d make a lot more money, but he’d have to relocate the family to company headquarters in Seattle. “That’s a very nice city and a really good offer but I said no,” he explained. “It wasn’t because of me or even Sara. We would have enjoyed a big rise in our standard of living. And we would have stayed close enough to my folks and hers to see them pretty often. But I wanted the stability for my children that I enjoyed as a child. I want them to feel that they have roots. I still feel like I have two homes—ours and my folks’.”