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Dinner Out

We decided to take the family out to dinner last night. We had roast beef, mashed potatoes, green beans, and rolls. There was coleslaw and apple sauce and beets (though I noticed no one at our table ate the beets). It only took three and a half hours to get there, but the food was great.

It was the annual roast beef dinner at our children’s former school in Maryland and at some point on Saturday, child number two missed the Oblate Sisters who founded the school and who continue to live on the campus and serve the students faithfully. Armed with access to the Internet, she looked online to find out when the dinner was being held. As luck would have it, we had very little planned on Sunday, so into to car we piled and off we went. When we arrived, the children could not wait to get inside. It was as if they just needed to touch base with a place they once called home.

Inside, we were immediately greeted with looks of surprise (“Who drives three hours for dinner?”) and the children, in time, found their friends and listened patiently as adults talked to them and about them. The eldest sister gently chastised child number three for failing to write (which he really should do), everyone commented on how tall the children had gotten (which they have), how must they are missed (not as much as we miss that school), and how much children can change in four years (Amen!).

The food, of course, was delicious but the night was really about reconnecting with the holiness and calm the good sisters bring to any occasion. Their charism is simple: “Live Jesus.” And they do this so well, so kindly, so gently, so effectively. There is a peacefulness about the place we have yet to duplicate. The sisters invite you into their home, share what little they have, pray with you and for you, and challenge you to be better than you were when you arrived.

There is not enough of those challenges in our daily lives these days. There are not enough people who Live Jesuson our networks and in our halls of government. There is not enough authenticity on our airwaves and online. We need more people living Jesus – and, as the sisters would remind us, we need to start with ourselves.

After dinner, we headed home – another three and a half hours up the Jersey Turnpike and across the George Washington Bridge, which in and of itself is a near occasion of sin. Then down the Merritt Parkway, over to 95 and on to exit 25.

The children were tired this morning, but no one complained about going to school. Their stomachs are still satisfied by the full of good food we enjoyed, and their hearts are filled with the joy that only comes from touching base with home.

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My Friend Next Door

There is an empty office next to mine. It’s where my friend used to work. Friday was his last day and I missed it. I was out of town and, though I knew it was coming, today’s quiet brings a reminder that he has moved on.

His generosity of spirit was the first thing I noticed when he picked me up at the train station when I first came to meet with the Bishop about this new adventure. He took me to lunch at a great little bistro – long since closed – and showed me around the small town, making sure I saw only the good. Trying to “sell” me on the move were his instructions and, apparently, it worked.

Over the next three and three-quarter years, we forged a friendship built on mutual respect and trust. Though age separates us by ten years and experiences separate us even farther, we shared our office suite like a couple of brothers, listening to one another when it was necessary and picking on each other when the tension needed breaking.

He’s off on another adventure, shifting gears, recalibrating. So he is in my prayers today. As I pray, I am reminded of the wise advice I received just about four years ago: “If you don’t want to change, don’t pray.”

Prayer teaches us to dream, to imagine the impossible. Prayer works against time, noise, language, pragmatism, and inability. It begins with an appraisal of what we are and where we find ourselves, and then moves on to changing the situation and ourselves.

We pray and change is inevitable.  It is the start of a motion, a continuing transformation, and upheaval. Things are never quite the same as before and there is no going back.

Change means letting go, dying and rising.  It is the continual paradox of death and resurrection, which is experienced in prayer. It is a longing for change.  It is asking that we become what God dreams us to be. 

If you don’t want to change then don’t pray. To live is to change.  To be holy is to have changed often.

My friend prayed for guidance and knew a change was necessary, that life outside these walls was not only possible but essential.

Still, I will miss my friend in the office next door to mine.

~pjd

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Remembering That Tuesday Morning

There is an anniversary this week that, for many, will pass just like any other day. After all, we have an entire generation of students in school – nearly everyone in school these days – who have no memory of 9/11. To them, it is an article in a history book, a few paragraphs tucked between the election of 2000 and another war overseas.

For others, however, it is an anniversary that commemorates a great loss. The loss of mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, sons, and daughters. It is the day we remember pilots and flight crews, bravery, and heroism. We remember those who took over the cockpit and those who ran into the buildings. Yes, they ran into the fire, up the stairs, and into history.

I remember, like many of you, where I was on that Tuesday morning eighteen years ago. I remember watching the events unfold, the emails from around the globe as family checked on family, the phone calls from Brazil as messages were relayed to and from my late uncle who lived there to family living in Tennessee because calling Brazil that morning was possible; calling family in New York was not.

But more than anything, I remember watching the news, the coverage, the stories, and the sadness. I have always been fascinated by the news, long before I studied journalism in college. In those days that followed, I was pinned to the television. I could not watch enough. I remember how, in those early hours, the people called the place “Ground Hero” in memory of all those brave men and women who ran towards the danger. Long before social media was a way of life, we got our news from the television and that morning the news came quickly and unfiltered.

Soon the media would rename that sacred space in Manhattan as Ground Zero, the epicenter. Though for some families, the epicenter was the Pentagon or a field in Pennsylvania. The moniker stuck, like it often does when people repeat it again and again.

I remember, in the midst of the chaos, the cameras turned to the families when people started to gather because their loved ones had not yet come home. The pictures of the missing filled the screen as commercials were abandoned and some channels were too overcome with grief to broadcast at all. I remember the pictures. The men and women holding posters with photos of their parents, brothers, sisters, lovers, and friends adhered hastily to anything they could find. Just to be able to stand with a photo was enough. There were no words.

Then, because journalists are human and most humans are afraid of silence, the reporter thrust a microphone towards a woman and quietly said, “Tell us about your husband.”

“Every time he walked into the room,” she replied, “He took my breath away.”

I still remember her face. I still get chills when I think about it. I still pray for her.

May our God, who is beyond all understanding, be with us as we pray.

May we look upon those we love with the face of Jesus.

May we practice patience.

May we be people of peace.

May we, in the silence of our hearts, pause for a moment to look at the bright blue September sky.

And remember to give thanks.

For a faithful God who takes our breath away.

Again and again and again.

Amen.

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A Prayer for the First Week of School

Master and Teacher,

Bless the students who will have trouble settling down this week, whose minds are still at the beach or at grandma’s swimming pool, or the amusement park or soccer camp.

Bless those who sit nervously in class: those who are new in school and those who never read anything over the summer and know a test is coming anyway.

Bless those who will struggle, those who will succeed, and those who get lost in the crowd.

Bless the new friendships that will begin on day one and bless those cherished friendships that will be renewed.

Bless them all with compassion, that they may root for the underdog, celebrate those who accomplish much, and pray fervently for each other.

Bless them with an environment free from bullying, needless competition, and petty jealousy.

Help them, Lord, to fall in love with learning.

Bless the parents of these students, their first teachers in the ways of faith. Give them patience when the homework takes too long, give them the courage to understand that their children are not perfect and give them the courage to discipline with love. May they abdicate less and partner more.

And we beg you, Lord, to bring these children safely home at the end of the day, the week, or the semester. Keep them free from violence – at home and at school – on the bus and on the streets – and guide them home to the waiting arms of those who loved them first.

Finally, Lord, we pray in the thanksgiving for the men and women who have already been hard at work straightening desks, taping names to cubbies, painting lockers, planning classes cleaning rooms, decorating bulletin boards, hanging posters, and studying test scores. Bless these servants with peace, patience, persistence, and your Spirit, that they may be Your presence to our young people, Your hands, and Your voice.

We make this prayer through Christ our Lord: teacher, servant, and source of all hope.

Amen.

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Vacation

The folks at Merriam-Webster define vacation as follows:

va·ca·tion

/vāˈkāSH(ə)n,vəˈkāSH(ə)n/

Noun

  1. an extended period of leisure and recreation, especially one spent away from home or in traveling.

In reality, it’s when you pick up your chaos at home, pack it in a car, sit in traffic for a while, and then unpack at your temporary destination. Then, after much effort to find a sunny place to spend your vacation, you drag your stuff to the beach and create shade.

In our case, the temporary destination is Baby Condo, my aunt’s place on the Jersey Shore. It’s small – only one bedroom – but it is right on the ocean and it is free, so it is ideal. After the three-hour journey turned into six, mostly thanks to construction in New York and the clogged Garden State Parkway, we arrived in time to have lunch with Aunt B and then settle in. We’ve already hit the beach a few times and have the redness in our fair Irish skin (yes, we used sunscreen) to prove it.

Today we might hit the boardwalk in Atlantic City, or we might play games, or we go back to the beach, but in true vacation mode, it does not matter. There is no plan. We are reading, playing cards, cooking together, and yes, on occasion, irritating each other with our closeness.

The best part for me – other than just being together – will come tomorrow morning around 4:20 am. That’s when the moon sets and we will be able to enjoy about an hour of the Perseid Meteor shower – an annual sky show viewed best away from city lights. The nearly full moon will hinder the show a bit this year, which is why we will need to rise early to get a glimpse of the sky while it is at its darkest. I did a dry run this morning and enjoyed a half dozen or so meteors when the hardness of the bed woke me around 4 am.

Then Wednesday night, following the vigil Mass of the Feast of the Assumption, the local pastor will hop in a boat and bless the waters of the Atlantic. The entire congregation walks with him to the shore and participates in the blessing. The kids love it and I love watching them enjoy the rituals of our faith.

Until next week…get some rest, enjoy your family, and unplug from the busyness of life.

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A Note From God

My Dear Children,

What is it about, “Do not kill,” that you do not understand? Put the guns downs. Please.

When you were offered freedom in the garden, you got to choose between love and loneliness, true freedom and selfishness, happiness and despair.

Owning all the guns you want that fire all the bullets you want is not freedom; it is insanity. I gave you intellect so you could make smart decisions and protect each other. Why not get together and pass some of those laws you like and make it harder for dozens of people to die in a single weekend? While you are at it, think about that “welcome the stranger” line – I meant that too.

Take care of those who need help sorting out the wiring in their brains.

Love the depressed into wholeness.

Seek to understand each other and stop blaming one another.

Stop worrying about what the television says and open your hearts and minds and work together. It starts by listening to each other. Put the phones down and just listen. I gave you the intellect to create things – great things – like technology and cool ways to communicate – and you turn them into ways to tear one another down. I just don’t get that.

Too many of my children – your brothers and sisters – are dying and nobody seems to want to help. I said, “Blessed are those that mourn…” but I didn’t mean for you to make more people mourn each day. I think you might want to re-read that part of Matthew.

You are loved – all of you – in every color and in every race, every gender, and every orientation – no matter where you come from and no matter what you are heading. I love each of you – unconditionally – why is that so hard for you to understand? If you could try to understand it, perhaps you could mimic it. No race is better than another, despite what you might hear proclaimed in the streets or on the screen. We have been down that road and fought that battle before. Remember? I won.

Please. I am begging you. Freedom comes from doing what is hard, what is right, what is just, and what is true. It does not mean that everyone gets their own way all the time. That’s just silly.

Take care of each other. Love one another. Listen to each other. Mourn with one another. Hold one another. Talk to one another. And, please, for my sake – and your own – make some wise decisions that lead to safety in the classrooms, in the marketplace, at parties, and on the streets.

I am here if you need me. I always have been.

~ God

 

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Martha, Martha

This morning’s readings for the Memorial of Saint Martha offer two choices when it comes to the Gospel reading. They both include a story about a Martha and both include powerful lessons applicable to our daily lives.

In the first option, John 11:19-27, we hear the beginning of the story of the resurrection of Lazarus, the brother of Martha. I love that Martha tells Jesus, “Lord if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” How many of us wonder in the time of great loss if God is really present? And yet, she confesses her confidence that Jesus can still make things right, almost challenging him: “But even now I know that whatever you ask of God, God will give you.”

The conversation leads to that great line that conveys so much for you and I and for all faithful. Jesus tells her, “I am the resurrection and the life; whoever believes in me, even if he dies, will live, and anyone who lives and believes in me will never die.”

To this, Martha confesses, on behalf of all of us: “Yes, Lord. I have come to believe that you are the Christ, the Son of God, the one who is coming into the world.”

Martha speaks for all of us. Her confession must become our own. But how?

This takes us to the second optional reading, Luke 10:38-42, Jesus enters a village where Martha and her sister Mary greet him. Mary listens while Martha works. Then Martha complains that she’s doing all the work and Mary isn’t helping. “Tell her to help me,” Martha requests.

But Jesus chastises Martha, “Martha, Martha, you are anxious and worried about many things.

There is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part and it will not be taken from her.”

Martha works. That is important. She serves our Lord. That is essential.

Mary spends time with Jesus. Equally important. Equally essential.

Two readings. Two lessons. There is no escaping the Good News: in one reading, we hear that believing in Jesus gets us life eternal. How do we get to this confession? Serving and spending time.

These are the two roles we can choose when it comes to Jesus – serving him by loving others in word and deed – or spending time with him in prayer, in listening, and in just being present. Or both?

Both are essential and both will lead to that moment of clarity: “Yes, Lord, I believe…”

Saint Martha, pray for us.

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Capernaum

I am in the Holy Land this week with a group of young adults. We have visited Nazareth and arrived today in Bethlehem. Our visit today to the house of St. Peter and the seaside town of Capernaum reminded me of the card in my wallet.

This card in my wallet tells a story and it started, like all good stories do, with a teacher who made a difference.

It was my junior year in high school and Sr. Judy Eby, RSM asked us to reflect on that great passage from the Gospel according to St. Luke.  You remember the story: Jesus is teaching at the house of Peter in Capernaum and some friends want to get their buddy, who is paralyzed and has spent the better part of his life flat on a mat, closer to Jesus. Unable to get through the crowd, they drag the poor fellow up a ladder and down through the roof.

Then, after we read the passage, we watched a scene of Franco Zeffirelli’s 1977 masterpiece, Jesus of Nazareth. The story unfolds just like it does in Luke’s Gospel: the crowds have gathered and there is no room for the men to bring their friend to Jesus. He cannot walk, so they carry him over the wall, through the thatched roof, and place him before the Teacher.

You know what happens next. The movie takes some editorial license, but after a brief conversation, the man is told his sins are forgiven. The movie version, while riveting, fails to follow Luke’s account. Jesus forgives the man’s sins because he is moved by the actions of the friends. But more on that later.

In both versions, the crowd goes nuts. “Only God can forgive sins,” they reproach Jesus. Putting yourself on the same plane as God is only going to cause trouble. To this, we get a classic Jesus response: “Which is easier, to say, ‘Your sins are forgiven,’ or to say, ‘Rise and walk’?”

Think about that. Surely forgiving sins is easier. Right? To show the crowd what he’s really capable of, Jesus tells the man to get up, pick up his mat, and go home. The man obliges. The crowd goes nuts for an entirely different reason and everyone learns an important lesson.

But back to the card in my wallet.

We wrap up the reading, the watching, and the discussion about the friends who carried the stretcher, and Sr. Judy hands us all an index card. “Now,” she tells us, “write down the names of those who carry you to Christ.”

Wait. What? This just got real.

I have repeated that exercise with youth and adults alike for years.  I even used it last night with my group here. Like Sr. Judy, I challenged them to think of those who, when we are paralyzed with fear, sinfulness, and selfishness, carry us to Christ. When you cannot move, who lifts you up? When you are sick or alone or unhappy or in serious need of a friend, who do you call?

I have edited my list throughout the years. Friends come and go. People die. But my list has been there since that spring day in 1987. I have moved it from wallet to wallet. It’s a thirty-two-year-old ratty piece of paper that I carry with me everywhere. On more than one occasion, the list has saved my life, my soul, my sanity.

Yes, there is a card in my wallet that tells a story. It tells a story of salvation.

Who’s on your list?

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Perspective

Reflecting on one of the Gospel stories we hear this week, you can see the stark differences between the way various groups react to the words and work of Jesus.

A demoniac who could not speak was brought to Jesus, and when the demon was driven out the mute man spoke. The crowds were amazed and said, “Nothing like this has ever been seen in Israel.” But the Pharisees said, “He drives out demons by the prince of demons.”  Matthew 9:32-34

The crowds – the everyday people – are overwhelmed with faith. The Pharisees – the so-called holy ones of Judaism – are overwhelmed with indignation.

One group sees light, wonder, amazement. The other sees jealousy, bitterness, even a connection to demons.

I thought of this the other day when we were riding our bikes as a family (well, almost all of us, as the last child’s bike had bad brakes and she nearly wiped out on the first hill). We are trying to increase our exercise so child number three can increase his carb intake. It makes for a healthier family altogether.

Child number one – the one who would almost always rather be online – loved it. She was off and riding on the trail, talking to strangers, interacting with others, and having a great time. Child number two was less thrilled, complained a bit more, and rode with less enthusiasm. Though I was told I look like a bear riding a tricycle, I kept up.

It’s the same at home when we try to pick a movie. One child wants animation. One wants a documentary. Another wants all things Marvel. And yet another wants to stay in her room and interact with others only online. When it comes times for chores, one child clearly understands the connection between helping out and personal responsibility while another sees only a parent stealing playtime.

Perspective matters. What we see matters. But what we see and what we say are often rooted in who we are as children of God – and our willingness to embrace that childhood. How we respond when someone takes our parking space or cuts us off or eats something that is ours in the refrigerator is rooted in our own happiness – or lack thereof. Do we approach others with humility, openness, and love? Or do we allow our responses to be rooted in jealousy, hypocrisy, and envy?

When we look out at the world, do we see stars or just darkness?

This week, may your world be filled with light – and may that light guide others home.

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The New Normal

A well visit at the pediatrician and an irregular test result led to repeated tests on Friday, which led to child number three’s hospitalization from Friday through Sunday night. The final diagnosis: Hoshimoto’s disease and diabetes.

The first we can take care of with medicine and, as long as he takes it regularly, there are no real concerns. The second – type one diabetes – can also be treated with medication, but there are more toys involved: antiseptic wipes, glucose meters (that lose their battery power at 10 pm), testing strips, insulin, injector pens, and tons of paperwork.  Then there is the change in eating habits. No more than 60-70 carbs per meal and about 20 per snack. Check out the labels next time you go shopping and think about that. I have promised to limit myself in solidarity and the girls know our family eating habits will change, so in the end, child number one might be right when she called all of this, “a blessing in disguise.”

The patient is a trooper. Testing himself and injecting himself has quickly become second nature. He wearily offers his fingers for the midnight and 3:00 am test these first few weeks and shows me how he injects into the fatty part of the thigh with ease. He is becoming adept at reading labels and knows that giant bowls of pasta are not in his immediate future – at least until we get used to this new normal.

The parents are another story. His mother accompanied him to the hospital and never left his side. Nervousness and worry gave way to boredom because, when you look around at the other patients, there was a lot less to do for a child who just watches movies between tests and injections. As the girls and I were leaving the other day, I caught a glimpse of some of the other patients – heads shaved, barely coherent, confined to wheelchairs. Yes, we’ll take the inconvenience of diabetes any day.

Still, I think there is a mourning period that happens when your child’s life changes. Since I was at camp with high school and college students, the immediacy of it all fell to Maureen. Ever the daughter of a nurse, she is amazing: confident and calm under pressure. And yet, there is a twinge of pain when we think of how his life – all our lives – will change. How we eat, how we prepare for vacations, how he will need to test himself at school, the effects of stress on our bodies, and on and on.

The child, however, is made like Rubbermaid. He will bounce back and we will oddly draw strength from him. He is already made one thing clear: he is not a diabetic. He is a boy with diabetes. It’s the new normal and I pray that, in time, we are all as clear-headed about it as the eleven-year-old.

May your week be free of worry and may you enjoy the independence that comes from realizing we were never really in charge to begin with.