Posted on

Take It To Our Lady

My father was the one who introduced me to Mary. Every day on the way to school, we would pray the Rosary. It is a tradition I came to cherish and have sought to maintain as a parent. Even though the children now take a bus to school, the daily prayers are a practice I try to maintain – in part as a nod to my father and in part because of the power prayer has to focus me on the things that matter most.

But praying can be a challenge. It can be hard to hear above the din. The drive to the office is only a few minutes and I get busy at home or work. The noise around me – or in my own head – distract.

A few years ago, after Maureen was diagnosed with Colon Cancer, we were at a meeting for diocesan leaders that was taking place as part of the National Catholic Youth Conference, which Maureen organizes. In a moment of unscripted sharing, she told those in attendance about her diagnosis and impending surgery.

All of the sudden a women in the middle of the room interrupted her. “Take it to Our Lady,” she called out, and immediately invited all of us to pray the Hail Mary together for Maureen – and each other.

It was a powerful moment. It was a powerful experience. Even today, though the cancer is gone and Maureen’s at full power, it gives me chills. I can still hear that clarion call, “Take it to Our Lady” echoing as though they are instructions for the rest of my life.

For Mother’s Day, the children gave Maureen a statue of Our Lady for the garden in the back. Our friend, Fr. Joe, will bless it in a few weeks and Katie, who makes her First Communion next Sunday and missed the May Crowning as school, will fashion together some flowers and crown Mary – a small nod to another grandparent lost.

This week, I will focus more on prayer. I will go back to the ritual my father taught me and try to stand still before moving forward.

This week, I will take it all – the pain, the ignorance, the cynicism, the joy, the work, the play, the family, the driving, the shopping, and the conversations – all of it – to Our Lady.

And, like my father, I know I will find peace.

Posted on

Risking Weakness

If society is judged on how we treat our most vulnerable, then surely our brothers and sisters in Washington have work to do. The latest movement of the House of Representatives aside, our elected officials at the local, state, and federal level should be encouraged to give some serious thought to how we care for those most in need – even if they have been sick or depressed, lonely or in crisis, in control of their faculties or struggling to remember – for some time. What some would call pre-existing conditions, others call a way of life.

So this morning, I turned, as I often do, to a book my parents gave me when I left home. Today’s reading was from Matthew 25. The sheep and the goats. How appropriate. For so many years, I thought about this as only a call to care for “the least of my brothers (and sisters).” Sure, it’s a call to help others. But maybe it’s more.

If you read the whole passage you begin to understand its context. Matthew is not just writing about the end time, when those who have helped others will go to heaven and those who ignored those in need will go to hell. It is, instead, a call to live as brothers and sisters of Jesus. Look at Matthew 12: the family of Jesus (his brothers and sisters) are those disciples gathered around him – men, women, children.

So to live like Jesus means to risk being homeless (“the Son of Man has no place to lay his head” cf Mt 8 and Luke 9). To live like Jesus is to be like Jesus, with less concern for the material things of this world and more concern for the welfare of others (cf Mt 19). We have to risk being hungry. We have to risk being ostracized. We have to risk being poor (all this is in Matthew too).

It’s not just that the rich must help the poor or those with much must offer what they have to those who have not, it’s more than that. To live like Jesus means to risk being weak so that we might receive from those whom we are called to serve. It is easy to think of Jesus as the only teacher in the crowd, but every good teacher learns from the student.

If society is judged – if any of us are judged – by how we treat those who are most in need, perhaps the judgement begins when we decide what we are willing to risk in service to others.

Posted on

On The Road Again

I have been thinking about the two disciples on the road to Emmaus. So much has been written about the two men and how “he was made known to them in the breaking of the bread.”

I imagine Jesus having a great time knowing he wasn’t recognized. He converses with them, chides them, even plays the fool so their doubts are made clear, paving the way for the teacher to invite the students into a greater understanding of the Truth.

But one thing always bothered me about that story. As a young man, I was always a bit dumbfounded that Jesus didn’t introduce himself.

As a parent, I realize that He seldom does.

Instead, we find God in the laughter of the children who are young enough to still experience joy while the adults around them settle for happiness.

We find God in the man on the corner asking for money – but only if we are aware enough that the children are watching and switching lanes carries as powerful a message as rolling the window down and offering what we can.

We find God in the springtime when we are surrounded by new life, but only if we pause from medicating ourselves against the pollen.

We find Him in holding hands, a good night kiss, a blessing on the forehead, and a hug instead of a shout.

We find Him in the messiness of house and home.

We find Him in the busyness of work.

And we find Him in the people we love – and those we struggle to love – if only our eyes are open.

Open my eyes, Lord. Help me to see your face.

 

 

 

Artwork by He Qi

Posted on

My Lord and My God

I get Thomas. I get why he needed to see the wounds. Like you, I struggle. I doubt. I wonder. I’ve put all my eggs in this basket, after all, and there are moments I look up and think, “This better be true.”

I think we all do. All honest people anyway.

We pray for the sick and they die anyway.

We pray for patience and the virtue still eludes us.

We pray for strength and courage and wisdom and still find ourselves weak and scared and dumb.

We pray for clarity of thought and still get lost in the minutia.

I get Thomas. And I take comfort in the fact that our church canonized the doubter and let the guy who denied be its first leader. Talk about human frailty.

But one of the things that has always fascinated me is that Thomas, for all his whining that he wouldn’t believe, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands and put my finger into the nail marks and put my hand into his side…’ the Gospel writer never actually says Thomas touches Jesus.

It is the mere presence of the Risen Lord in front of Thomas that makes this honest disciple cry out.

And so it is with us. We don’t have to touch. We just have to be in the presence of Jesus.

And so, because of faith, we look at the sick and the lonely and the dying and we see the resurrection and good health that awaits us all.

Because of faith, we recognize the opportunities to be patient that are put before us by a Savior who invites us to be better than we are.

Because of faith, we find our strength and courage and wisdom in those sent to carry us, support us, and teach us (and maybe even challenge us).

Because of faith, we see the big picture. We know the end of the story. We cry on Friday and rejoice on Sunday and know that the winners write the history books.

Because of faith, we know that “the relationship is changed, not ended” and that those we love and lose remain with us and in us and all around us.

I get Thomas. And with him, I cry out: longingly, adamantly, fervently.

“My Lord and My God.”

And He cries right back, “Here I am.”

Thank God for Easter. Alleluia. Alleluia.

Posted on

Pop Pop

On Wednesday, we will bury Maureen’s father.

Ed. Dad. Pop Pop.

As we celebrate resurrection and sing our Alleluias, we will pause to remember the life of a man who meant so much to so many. He raised six amazing children and often said he lived a life more blessed than he ever imagined. We will take comfort in knowing that his suffering was minimal and give thanks that the stroke that took him in the end was, in many ways, a blessing.

Most of all, we will remember that the relationship is changed, not ended.

Still, saying goodbye to a parent is devastating. A child losing a grandparent is heartbreaking. In time, we will remember him with smiles and laughter. This week, we will take our turns crying – not for him, but for ourselves.

And so we pray:

Take my heart, O Lord, take my hopes and dreams.
Take my mind with all its plans and schemes.
Give me nothing more than your love and grace.
These alone, O God, are enough for me.

Take my thoughts, O Lord, and my memory.
Take my tears, my joys, my liberty.
Give me nothing more than your love and grace.
These alone, O God, are enough for me.

I surrender Lord, all I have and hold.
I return to you your gifts untold.
Give me nothing more than your love and grace.
These alone, O God, are enough for me.

When the darkness falls on my final days,
Take the very breath that sang your praise.
Give me nothing more than your love and grace.
These alone, O God, are enough for me.

Saints of God, come to his aid! Hasten to meet him angels of the Lord! Receive his soul and present him to God the Most High.

We will miss you, Pop Pop.

 

Prayer from These Alone Are Enough © 2004, Daniel L. Schutte.

Posted on

Suddenly Spring

We find ourselves suddenly faced with a few challenges. How did the snow give way to spring so fast? Where did Lent go? Why can I suddenly see all the dust in the house and the dirt on the windows? Will the lawn mower be ready for use in time?

The family also finds itself on a familiar journey with a parent/grandparent. Maureen’s dad was diagnosed last Thursday with stage four Esophageal Cancer. He went in on Tuesday with a low blood count and feeling tired and by Thursday he couldn’t eat. Yesterday he suffered a stroke and has been unresponsive since. It is a familiar journey, whose path and timing and outcome are known to God alone.

So while Maureen is in Baltimore with her dad and siblings, the kids I and will tackle the dust, prep the mower, and clean the house. I call it a staycation. The kids call it choremageddon.

The beauty outside will distract our work. As the rain turns the world here in New England from white to green, we see new life all around, even as we wait for sad news from the south.

Today and tomorrow, we will dust and clean and look for the perfect tree branch for a swing.

Thursday, the poet’s words will come alive as we “discover who we are in the act of washing feet.”

Friday, we will venerate and commemorate and be still.

But on Sunday we will remember how the story ends – we will be reminded that death falls over into life and that for those who believe, the cross is not foolishness or folly, but a sign of the saving power of God.

May God continue to bless Maureen’s dad on this last leg of the journey and may we all have a happy, healthy, holy week.

Posted on

Expectations

I heard once that most of the world’s conflicts are rooted in expectations that are unclear. This would explain why my children are hardly ever able to clean their rooms without very specific instructions. It’s even gotten to the point where, when asked to clean the basement, the children will often reply, “Do you mean neat or really neat?” Clear expectations can save a lot of time and frustration.

I thought of those endless conversations with my children the other day as some colleagues and I were brainstorming about expectations when it comes to our faith communities. We wanted to create a general list that answers the question, “What should be able to expect from my parish community?” Just to be fair, we also wanted to answer the question, “What should my parish expect from me?”

Our initial list is below. Feel free to use the comment section to add to the list. We plan to publish our list as part of a report we are working on as we reimagine faith formation in our diocese. Our hope is that these lists will help parishes become more welcoming and engaging.

What should I expect from my parish community?

  1. A welcoming, Catholic community, rooted in the Eucharist
  2. Liturgical experiences that are engaging
  3. Accompaniment through life’s joys and struggles, celebrations and heartbreak
  4. Opportunities to use my gifts and talents in service of the parish and wider community
  5. Opportunities for Reconciliation
  6. Parish leadership that is well formed for their ministry
  7. Parish staff that is friendly and knowledgeable
  8. Opportunities to pray for the needs of others and learn more about my faith
  9. Opportunities to support the community through prayer and tithing
  10. Regular, ongoing communication about the life of the parish

What should my parish expect from me?

  1. Regular, active participation in Sunday Mass
  2. Ongoing prayers for my parish leadership and community
  3. A willingness to get involved in the life of the parish
  4. A willingness to serve in ministry
  5. A willingness to learn more about my faith
  6. A willingness to share my faith with others
  7. A willingness to reach out to others, welcoming them to join our faith community
  8. A willingness to support the parish financially

What would you add or change?

May your week be blessed!

Posted on

Born Blind

In Sunday’s Gospel, we hear the story of the man born blind. He finds Jesus and is healed.

It would be easy to think of this man in light of all those we know who are also blind: those who only see color when they look at others, those who only see religious practices that differ from their own, those who fail to see others in need, in pain, in darkness.

But for whatever reason, the Gospel made me think of all the things I still do not see. Though these things are ever present, I am blind. Though there are those around me who are light, I still somehow remain in darkness.

This week, I will wash my eyes and pray for sight.

To see the child whose needs are greater than my own.

To see and hear the coworker who just wants to talk.

To see the friend who has advice to share.

To see the spouse who is tired.

To see the person in need at the corner.

To see the reflection of Christ in the mirror.

To see the leader who knows more than I do.

To see the opportunities for new life around me.

Master, I want to see.

O God of Light, wash away the darkness.

Posted on

On Lent and Crosses

The acting out of love to the extent of dying on a cross is a mystery I have never been fully able to understand. My limited ability to love stands embarrassed at such extravagance. My daily attempt falls short of my dreams. I carry my crosses carefully, trying to make sure they don’t take too much out of me.

I always leave a little pink around the edges of my crosses. I can not bear unpleasant things. I honestly don’t know how Jesus did it! I can hardly accept WHY he did it. The why he did it always makes me feel guilty about the pink around the edges.

During Lent, at least, I’d like to let the pink go. I’d like to be content for forty days with a cross that is not pretty. But I am so young in my faith. It is hard not to cheat a little and search for soft, easy, pretty crosses.

O God of Lent, remember me. Help me to take all the clutter that I try to decorate my crosses with, all the ways I try to camouflage your death and dying because my faith has not grown enough and to look at death as it really is: an emptiness that brings me face to face with LIFE.

And yet, within my fragile, questioning heart I know that if I would ever dare get close enough to dying, to death, it would fall over into life.

O God of Lent, Your love has opened my eyes. It is my own pink-edged crosses that have broken my heart.

But your cross has saved me.

from Seasons of Your Heart
Macrina Wiederkehr

Posted on

That’s The Deal

Matthew’s account of the Transfiguration yesterday gives us the opportunity in Lent to take a break from all the penitence and sacrificing to celebrate what is possible. Jesus is transfigured – glorified – before the eyes of a few of his followers who share the account so all may be reminded of what is possible for everyone.

God became man so that man could taste divinity. Jesus is transfigured before a few to show the possibilities for all of us. That’s why Peter wants to build tents, remember the moment, memorialize the wonder and awe of the occasion. We all want to do that, don’t we? We don’t want the happiness of a moment to end. We want to stay in those experiences of bliss, unexpected and overwhelming joy. It’s why we build snowmen, take pictures on the roller coasters, and keep journals. I imagine if Peter, Andrew, or John had had a cell phone, we’d be remembering the moment by looking a selfie with the transfigured Jesus. But if we stay on the mountain, we only get half the story. Sure, it’s a great story – filled with wonderful feelings and ecstatic joy. But the picture is incomplete.

The joy on the mountain is but a moment. As C.S. Lewis so wonderfully reminds us, “The pain I feel now is part of the happiness I had before. That’s the deal.” We celebrate the Transfiguration in the midst of Lent because the joy the Apostles feel on that mountain is part of the agony they will experience, albeit unbeknownst to them, at the crucifixion. One will deny, another will abandon. But in time, they will come to see that it is all connected.

We build snowmen and take pictures because life goes on. Moments pass. Snow melts. We suffer tragedy and we agonize through experiences and all of these are wrapped up together in this fragile journey we call life. I am not being fatalistic or alarmist. It’s just how it is.

So pause this week and celebrate the joy, the stillness of snow or the beginning of springtime. Celebrate the wonder. Pray for the suffering. Smile at the stranger. Welcome the guest. It’s all connected – our happiness and sorrow, our pain and joy.

The happiness now is part of the pain then. The pain now is part of a happiness we cannot even imagine.

That’s the deal.