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Prayers Forgotten

Back in March, my office hosted Nine Nights of Prayer and we prayed a Novena together online with several hundred people.

Then in April, we did Evening Prayer for a while, then the Divine Mercy Chaplet for nine nights.

Every night in May, the Donovan family gathered and either led the Rosary online or at least participated it in. Sometimes, several hundred people would join us. Other times, several dozen.

Since the end of May, we have gathered on Sunday nights and Tuesday nights to pray the Rosary with the online community. Once again, we average a few hundred each night.

Last night, something remarkable happened.

Last night, we forgot.

We stranded a few hundred people online and it was not until I came up from the basement and looked at my phone that I realized what had happened. The texts, the reminder, the emails – the cacophony of noises I had missed by leaving my phone in the kitchen all conspired to remind me that I had missed the Rosary.

What was happening instead?

Family time.

The day began with the electricians – masked and gloved – coming in at 7:30 am to fix a few things. Then we spent the day cooking, singing, playing cards, and generally doing nothing. We watched television, read a little, and had a great time.

When dinnertime rolled around, we had leftovers and grilled cheese, a great salad from the lettuce we grew in our own garden, and then headed to the basement for a movie.

We left the phones in the kitchen and just enjoyed each other’s company.

And before you suggest we set an alarm, I should tell you that the fifteen year old heard the alarm go off at 7:15 and turned it off.

“I thought it was Saturday,” she admitted later. Mass was a distant memory and since she’s in the midst of summer vacation (with so few responsibilities), she just silenced the alarm.

Another unintended consequence of quarantine. All the days run together.

So to all those who wanted to join us, my apologies. I am sorry I missed praying with you. But I really am not sorry that I got to spend such a great day hanging out with my family.

Have a great week.

 

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Judge Not

This morning’s Gospel reading is a tough one.

“Stop judging and you will not be judged.”

Ouch.

But it gets worse.

“For as you judge, so will you be judged…”

Double ouch.

The Gospel writer goes on to quote Jesus about boards and splinters and eyes and beams. We’ve heard it before.

These days it is hard to not to judge. The media seems to encourage it. Politicians welcome it. Families suffer from it. Relationship are destroyed by it.

Judge not… what a concept.

It is appropriate, then, that today we also celebrate two great saints: St. John Fisher and St. Thomas More.

John Fisher was a bishop who refused to recognize the king of England, Henry VIII, as the supreme head of the church in England. He was executed on orders of the king, who could not stand being embarrassed by those whose reputations as a theologian and scholar were greater than his own reputation as ruler.

The other guy we commemorate is my favorite (beside Patrick, of course). Thomas More was also executed for his refusal to recognize the king over the pope as head of the church, More was the Lord Chancellor of England, whose final days are recounted in Robert Bolt’s play, A Man For All Seasons. I read that play every summer and taught it when I was a junior high teacher and, again, more recently, in a class I taught at a local university. At the end of the play, More stands on the dais, about to lose his head for following his conscience and says, (at least in the play), “I have been commanded by the king to be brief, so brief I will be. I die here the king’s good servant, but God’s first.”

More and Fisher served the king well. When the king didn’t get what he wanted, he simply made himself the head of the church, granted himself the divorce, and thus was free to marry the woman who would become one of many in a succession of wives. It was a declaration (think: executive order) that he wrote with his advisors that made him able to do these things and it turns out it was a declaration that went against his own coronation oath.

When I was teaching junior high, I gave a review that was more than thirty pages long. Students could use books, parents, other teachers, even each other to find the correct answers. After all, it was only a review, not the final exam.

The final exam, it turns out, was only one question. After all their study of the “facts of the faith,” their final to get out of middle school religion was simple:

“How are you God’s first?”

Perhaps if all of us – including me – asked that question more often, there would be a lot less judging going on.

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The Children Will Lead

Jeremiah didn’t want to go. His excuse was age.

Isaiah didn’t want to go. He said his lips were unclean.

Simon didn’t want to fish. He’d been out all night.

Paul was unworthy, he was the least among the apostles, or so he said.

But God – or God, through his Son, Jesus – saw in each of them something special. Leadership ability? Maybe. Or maybe it was that they had the humility to question authority, understand that none of us are worthy, and realize that it isn’t knowledge or power that makes great leaders.

Sometimes, it’s simpler than that. Sometimes, all it takes is a willingness to serve.

Paul says he is not worthy. He’s right. He wasn’t. Neither am I. Neither are you.

And yet, at the same moment, we are very worthy. We are called. We are challenged. We are asked, “Enough with the excuses. Will you go?”

There was a rally in town this weekend and the kids, after watching the movie, “The 13th” as a family, really wanted to go. They found the rally. They made signs. They got their black shirts and masks together and they got up and got ready.

I didn’t want to go.

I was tired and itchy (poison ivy) and just wanted to lounge around all day. I never said I didn’t want to go and maybe they couldn’t tell. But four or five miles seemed like a long walk – longer than I’ve done in a while. I was concerned about the kid’s health and did I mention it was a long walk?

Then, when I saw the pain the eyes of the youngest, the anticipation in the eyes of the eldest, and the signs the other two had made, I was convinced. Enough excuses, it was time to go.

The rally was peaceful, joyful even. It was led by college students at the local university. We chanted, we walked, we carried our signs, and I found myself praying for those who have suffered needlessly at the hands of others. As they called out the names of those in the Black community who have been murdered, I found myself overcome by an experience that I could only imagine. These are not lenses that I can see through. But it doesn’t mean I cannot try.

Perhaps this week, we will be called to serve in a way we really don’t want to. We will be invited to a Zoom call we would rather skip. We will be up against a deadline we do not want to meet. We will be challenged to fish among piranha that we think are out to destroy when they might just be understood.

Will we come up with excuses? Will we challenge the call? Will we play hide and seek with the Master?

Or will we just put aside ourselves for a moment and echo Isaiah’s voice and Paul’s humility and Simon’s blind trust.

“Here I am…willing to go…send me.”

And then, when we go, will we commit ourselves to learning more? To doing more than just showing up? Will we learn? Find a book that helps? Talk to a friend who can share their own story? Will we listen?

We need to enter into this story to understand it. We need to try to wear the lenses that are not ours. That’s how we become one.

Or we can just  keep making excuses.

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The Art of Distraction

I am distracted of late.

Distracted by not being at the office and confusing working from home with vacation, with a list of chores that never seems to get finished.

Distracted by children who have not been anywhere and want to go somewhere. One who is out of school (today is her first day of no school) and who announced her boredom to the world this morning. I offered to share the list of chores, but that was a nonstarter.

Distracted by the sheer volume of work on my plate. I love my job but sometimes I can feel the walls closing in on me. So much to do, so much we don’t know, so many people wanting answers.

Distracted by the unknown, the intensity of wanting to be finished with the pandemic, the virus, the masks that make me hot, and the lack of human interaction outside this domestic church.

Distracted by the cacophony of sounds in my head and around the house – the arguing, the laughing, the Alexa, the fan, the door chimes, the sounds of computers and television and keyboards and timers and endless emails and Zoom calls.

Distracted by the news of more protests and trying to see through lenses I can never wear. Trying to marry compassion and understanding with justice and order and wondering how to support a cause that is foreign to me as a white, middle class man who has never suffered because of his race and yet fully comprehending the privilege this brings.

So I turn to today’s readings. Matthew offers Jesus’ take on the constitution of our faith, the foundational principles of who we are as followers of Christ and who we ought to be with each other.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit,
for theirs is the Kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are they who mourn,
for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek,
for they will inherit the land.
Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness,
for they will be satisfied.
Blessed are the merciful,
for they will be shown mercy.
Blessed are the clean of heart,
for they will see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers,
for they will be called children of God.
Blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness,
for theirs is the Kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are you when they insult you and persecute you
and utter every kind of evil against you falsely because of me.
Rejoice and be glad,
for your reward will be great in heaven.
Thus they persecuted the prophets who were before you.”

I am not sure these words bring me the complete comfort I seek, but they help. They promise solace for the suffering – but with the assumption that someone hears their cry and addresses their pain. They promise mercy and compassion and justice and fairness and happiness and more. But these are not obtuse promises; these promises are rooted in a relationship that begins with everyone being part of one body.

Therein lies the problem, I think. One body. Do we grasp that? Do we honor that? Do we accept that? Do we live by that?

Do we really understand that no race is better, no color more superior, no person is more deserving of love than any other? Do we accept that there can be space in our togetherness, that we need not agree on politics or religion or which channel gives the best coverage? Can we first simply accept that we are all part of one body in this crazy upside down planet we call home?

Perhaps when we truly grasp that we are one body, we will understand how our lives can be a blessing to the merciful, the peacemakers, and those who long to be called children of God.

Perhaps when black lives matter, all life will matter.

Or are we too distracted by the noise that surrounds us?

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All About Emily

I usually go to great lengths to avoid naming the children in these posts. I call them by their numbers instead since we are not much into nicknames. Growing up as one of 11, you were lucky to get called your own name and, on occasion, my mom would just snap her fingers and you were supposed to figure out who she wanted in the moment. But I digress…

This post is about Emily. She graduates eighth grade this year. True, it’s not a milestone like college or medical school or perhaps even high school. It’s more like part of the normal growing up process and, in this town, the law. Still, it’s an event worth celebrating.

When her big sister graduated last year, relatives came. There was a party, a Mass, a celebration, gifts, cake. She got to see a Broadway play with mom and dad and the family’s favorite priest.

Emily got a sign in the yard.

She feels the slight the universe has dealt her and knows that others are celebrating the same way. She tries not to take it personally, but she’s a kid. She will turn fourteen in a few weeks and, like every fourteen year old, she is filled with hormones and attitude and excitement and wonder and hopes and fears and eyes that roll. She is excited about high school but nervous about going to clean out her locker. She is looking forward to new challenges in a new school, but hesitant about what school will look like when it reopens in the fall. Like all of us, she is facing a new reality that has yet to be defined and seems to change every day.

The sign in the yard doesn’t quite cover it.

Emily is the kind of kid that, at a young age, sought out the ones on the playground that had no one to play with and engaged with them. She wants justice for all and peace in our world, but will turn on a sibling who chews with their mouth open faster than anyone I know. She is helpful and kind, a good cook and talented student. She is social and bright and conscientious. She can also be moody as hell and can cut the room with a tone that gives even me the chills.

In the coming weeks, her mom and I will plan a party and family and friends will join virtually. We will toast her with sparkling cider and make her queen for the day. There will be gifts and a homemade cake and her school will do a special video with all those annoying baby pictures the parents hate submitting. We will do what we can to make sure she knows we are proud of her and this milestone in her life.

Most of all, we will pray that she and her siblings will soon be able to visit with friends, return to school unmasked, and maybe even go to the beach. It will take a miracle, to be sure, but we are people of hope.

In the meantime, let us collectively pray for graduates everywhere and for their parents who look for ways to make these rites of passage meaningful during these interesting and challenging times.

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Pause to Remember

Since we have been working at home for so long, today seems like just another day at home. I have a budget to prepare, calls to make, and work at home to do. But today is different. It should be different.  Today is more than hot dogs and hamburgers, beach passes and cutting the grass. It is more than the unofficial beginning of summer. Even without the parades and the large-scale gatherings at beaches and lakes, it should be different.

Today is one of those days to pause and remember.

We should remember why we enjoy the freedom to do the things we love to do. We should remember the sacrifice of someone’s daughter or son, sister or brother, mother, or father. We should remember that it was those sacrifices that give you and me the chance to vote for whomever we choose and then complain about the outcome. We get to speak our minds out loud without fear of recrimination and we get to worship wherever we choose, even if it is only outside or in small groups these days.

Freedom comes at a price. Following the Civil War, which claimed more lives than any conflict in our nation’s young history, our leaders were faced with the need for the country’s first national cemeteries. Within a few years, Americans in towns and cities began setting aside a day in late spring to pay tribute to the fallen, decorating their graves with flowers and praying for the dead.

As wars continued, so did the number of cemeteries. Decoration Day gave way to Memorial Day, which was established officially as a federal holiday in 1968 and first celebrated across the country in 1971.

So even if you do not have a chance to visit a cemetery and lay flowers at a grave, you and I can pause this day and give thanks for the brave women and men who offered, as President Lincoln called it, “the last full measure of devotion.”

We can be people of peace. We can speak kindly to a stranger, thank a veteran, fly the flag at our homes. We can pray in public, tell our children the stories of friends and family that served. We can enjoy the freedoms earned by another’s sacrifice.

And we can pray…

While the storm clouds gather far across the sea
Let us swear allegiance to a land that’s free
Let us all be grateful for a land so fair
As we raise our voices in a solemn prayer.

God bless America
Land that I love
Stand beside her and guide her
Thru the night with a light from above

From the mountains, to the prairies
To the oceans white with foam
God bless America
My home, sweet home

God bless America
My home, sweet home

May we all pause to remember those who had sacrificed so much that we may live in peace.

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On Praying the Rosary

I miss my dad every night around 7:30 pm.

That’s when we stop everything and pray the Rosary. We started back in March when we hosted Nine Days of Prayer in the diocese. That led to a few nights of Evening Prayer during Holy Week, which lead to the Divine Mercy Novena between Easter and Divine Mercy Sunday. Then, I suggested we do another novena at the beginning of May but the Bishop had a better idea: why not the Rosary every single night in May.

And so here we are.

I log in around 7:15, just after the alarm on my phone goes off, ending whatever yard work or Zoom meeting, or dinner preparation that has been started. I finally got smart for the nightly Rosary and invited anyone who wished to lead to do so. I don’t mind leading, but it’s nice to have others give their voice to the prayers too.

It is a holy interruption in our household and it always makes me miss my father. You see, it was my father who introduced me to Mary.

Dad taught me how to pray and a big part of those prayers was the recitation of the Rosary. We prayed every day on the way to school. We prayed in the living room when my aunt and cousin were killed in house fire. We prayed around the bedside of my brother, Jim, as he lay dying of cancer.  We prayed for peace in times of trouble. We prayed in thanksgiving for good health. We prayed for each other. For others. For ourselves. We prayed. Together. Alone. We prayed.

Dad was introduced to the Rosary by his mother, who made them by hand. She gave dad his first beads – for his First Communion – and then made and gave each of the grandchildren one for that same celebration in each of their lives. I still have mine and am proud to say the beads are nicely worn.

As dad got older and spent his time working in the yard or cleaning the pool, he prayed the Rosary every day, just like he had every day of his life. But he found that the mysteries of the Rosary you and I know did not quite cut it anymore. So he made up his own. He contemplated five miracles. Five saints. Five parables. A few summers before he died, he asked me for new ideas I suggested he think of five priests who had influenced his life and, since so many relatives were women religious, five sisters. He liked that idea.

When dad was dying, we took turns sitting with him, praying the Rosary, asking for peace for him, freedom from pain, and a quick journey home to the Mother he had called “Holy” so many times in prayer.

When he was gone and mom was putting together an outfit for dad, she knew where to find his Rosary: in the pocket of the last pair of pants he had worn. We buried him with one set of beads. I have another, found in his office after the funeral.

So last night as I was sitting in my attic office, looking at my wife across the room, I thought of dad and I prayed. I thought of those drives in the early mornings to school and those times sitting around the living room. Eventually, my thoughts turned to the hours sitting by dad as his life slowed. I prayed and I missed my dad.

We gather each night during May – nearly 200 faithful souls – and we pray for each other, our parents, our children, graduates, those who have died, those who are sick, the unemployed, the underemployed, our leaders, our heroes, our families, ourselves. It is an holy interruption from the anxiety that surrounds us.

Perhaps this week you might dig out your Rosary and pray. Perhaps its in your pocket or purse or backpack. Perhaps it’s been a while since you let the beads slide through your fingers. If so, start slowly. One decade per day, starting today. It will make a difference in your week, I promise.

Think of those who taught you to pray and thank God for their example.

Then close your eyes and open your heart and join me.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son….”

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Life in the New Normal

They tell us there is a new normal coming. I think it’s already here. In the months ahead, we will likely see less gathered events and more virtual ones. We will see fewer school buses on the road and more masks on faces everywhere.

And we will see protesters. They will protest that the government is encroaching on their freedom. They will argue that the government should reopen because people die every day and a contagion that kills thousands is just one of those things. They will argue that it is an overreach to close stores and beaches and theaters.

Surely there is a better way to get through this.

When the experts say that a face mask will help contain the virus, why oppose it? When the government says social distancing saves lives, why gather in groups? When the doctors and nurses who are fighting on the front lines, seeing death every day, keep telling us to wash our hands and stay home to stay safe, why venture out?

Yes, it’s boring. Yes, we have to get creative with education and daily chores and even the menu at home, but instead of complaining, perhaps we could see this as an opportunity to try something new, something imaginative, something that feeds our hearts and souls and keep our bodies safe.

Each day, more and more people are losing their jobs and it seems that the longer this goes on, the more likely it will be that this sad trend will continue. The economy will suffer, business will close, and life will change.

But none of that will matter if you’re dead.

So let’s stay safe, stay at home, get creative, and keep the whining to a minimum.

Have a good week, but, please, stay in your own yard.

 

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The Simple Things

So we are in week six, I think, of the stay at home order. The kids are getting tired of only seeing mom and dad, but we’ve connected with some good friends and family via Zoom and the kids Facetime with their friends, so that has helped.

But we are enjoying the simple things in life.

We got Ace Number One a record player. Only $15 and the crackling sound she craved is here. Of course, the only records I have are some that my older brother gave me from his radio station and a collection of American heritage by Burl Ives. But she loves the sound and the taste of a yesterday she never experienced.

We built a fire pit in the back yard and moved rocks from everywhere to encircle it. There is nothing quite like the taste of hot dogs, marshmallows, and a chilly Connecticut spring night to remind you of the blessings that surround you.

When it rains the school work is finished, we binge watch The Mentalist or Parks and Recs or watch a Star Wars movie again.

We have tried Doubletree Hotel’s chocolate chip cookies. One batch was great. The other batch – no so much – it seems the baker got distracted and forgot a few lines of ingredients. We now know what baking soda, salt, and cinnamon bring to that recipe.

Child number three is busy with his own crafts. He’s made a Darth Vader helmet out of cardboard and more lightsabers that I can count. It’s amazing what a box of 500 hot glue sticks will let you accomplish.

Child number two has discovered sewing and made the cutest stuffed animals for the children who moved in next store.

The youngest has painted, rearranged her room, painted some more, and can be caught practicing head stands and cartwheels anytime she’s outside. Such a spirit of joy in that one.

The experts predict we will be inside for another month. I miss going to the store, but not spending money. I miss going to work and the kids miss being in school. I imagine Maureen misses working uninterrupted in a quiet house.

But if I am being honest, I really, really love having everyone home, being together, and spending time surrounded by those I love the most.

May you find silver linings in the simple things all around you.

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Springtime. Finally.

We turned a corner here in Connecticut this weekend. No, we are still quarantined and still going to school virtually. That will likely continue for some time. We stay safe by staying at home. Trips to the store are kept to a minimum and since online food delivery is backed up, we make a list, keep to it, and get in and out quickly. No more browsing for us.

The corner we turned is weather-related. Divine Mercy Sunday was gorgeous. The sun shone, the birds sang, and the tree house drew nearer to completion. The chill returned in the evening but it was still nice enough to grill outside. After a long, long Lent, lots of rain and chilly weather, it seems spring has finally arrived.

It was hard to celebrate Easter without springtime. It’s even harder to celebrate Sunday without Mass. Going to Mass via television is just not the same, but it has given the children (and parents) a better understanding of those older folks around us who are unable to go as often as the rest of us – at least when public Masses are not suspended.

In the readings during the Easter season, we read of Thomas, who doubted, Peter, who was reconciled, and the early followers who experienced the resurrected Jesus on the shore, in the upper room, and as they cared for one another.

I get Thomas. During these days of staying indoors, it is easy to doubt the reality of the world around us. It is easy to feel fine, see the sun shining, and wonder to ourselves why we can’t just go about our lives doing whatever it is we want. Then we see the numbers and realize how contagious this virus is and how staying away from friends and family can actually save lives. Yes, it’s boring, but I find hope in this fact: the Church canonized Thomas. He’s a saint, which means that after the doubting, there was belief. His confession of faith speaks to the hope we can all find when this pandemic is over and we breathe a sigh of relief and hug our neighbors. He doubted, but his experience of Jesus brought him through the darkness.

Then there is Peter, who saved his backside by denying he even knew Jesus. We’ll see in Sunday’s Gospel that he gets his chance to reconcile with Jesus. To weep, to repent, to choose to love again. That gives me hope too. I am forgiven. I can be reconciled. I can experience Jesus in the people around me and choose love over ignorance and self-serving behavior.

Finally, there are the early followers. The ones who ran to the tomb and yet still stayed locked in the upper room. The two who ran off to nowhere, only to find the risen Lord along the way. We are like all those people. We are scared. We are alone. But we know the end of the story. We know there is light after darkness, resurrection after crucifixion.

We know that we are Easter people and that Alleluia is our song.

And that makes all the difference in the world.