Posted on

Healed

After last night’s televised freak show, I am tempted to reflect on the demise of American democracy, but thankfully, I am distracted by the story in Sunday’s Gospel.

The author of Luke’s Gospel has Jesus’ healing ten lepers. It’s a story that always causes such consternation. Ten were healed but only one returned to say “thank you.”

It is good to give thanks.

But to concentrate on the one who returned is to miss the point. Maybe the other nine had good reasons.

Maybe one was a mother who had been kept away from her children for so long by this disease that turns you into an outcast. She was healed and she rushed right home and returned to her family.

Maybe one didn’t believe he had been cured because he didn’t do anything to deserve it. He couldn’t face unconditional love – healing without a price – so he couldn’t see he was healed and just went back to the colony.

Another was really, really excited about being free from the ravages of his illness and in his excitement, he just forgot.

Maybe another was alone, having already lost his family and now the only family he knew – the other lepers – were gone too. He was cured but now he was alone. He wasn’t grateful, he was ticked.

I could go on but you get the point.

Ten were healed and only one said “thank you.”

To concentrate on the one is to miss the point. Then again, I sometimes think we’ve institutionalized missing the point.

Ten were healed.

Ten were healed.

Ten cried out for mercy. Ten longed to be near Jesus so they just shouted as loud as they could. And Jesus, never one to leave someone wanting, responded simply, “Go, show yourselves to the priest” (the priest being the only one who could verify that they had in fact be healed).

They asked for Jesus’ mercy and received so much more.

Ten were healed. One said thank you.

It is good to say thank you.

But something tells me it is better to be healed.

 

 

 

artwork The Ten Lepers by John Steel
Posted on

Holes

The children wanted to dig a hole in the backyard this weekend.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because. It’s a big yard. It needs a hole.”

“Don’t you remember digging holes when you were a kid?” My wife asks.

I honestly don’t.

I remember tying the wagon to my bike and going on imaginary trips. My maternal grandmother would even mail her paper boarding pass to me so I could use them when I pretended to travel. I still have one tucked away in a book somewhere. It serves as a memento of a generation passed.

I remember being younger and having absolutely nothing to do. Of course, you dare not admit this boredom for fear of being overheard and the avalanche of chores that might follow.

I remember putting fireflies in jars.

I remembering eating tons of ice cream and not getting an upset stomach and I remember drinking a coke and still being able to fall asleep.

I remember riding my bike until it was dark and walking to McDonald’s with my brother.

But I don’t remember digging holes.

Still, at some point this weekend I paused from the home construction project I wanted to get done and looked out in the yard. There were the children, digging a hole. I found myself unconsciously humming a song I heard once upon a time. The song is “Eulogy” by The Hereafter and, though I have no idea of its origin, I love these lyrics:

Let’s pretend that we can still pretend/Let’s pretend that we are young again/I am only looking for a friend/Let’s pretend that we are young again.

As I hummed the tune, I wandered out to the yard. The kids were so proud. So dirty. So happy.

And I had to admit. It was an impressive hole.

This week remember what gave you joy when you were kid. Hitch your wagon to your bike. Smile more. Email less. Put down the phone. Catch a firefly.

Dig a hole.

 

 

Posted on

V+J

The other night, Maureen and I attended a dinner where the emcee asked the audience to name the last five actors who won an Oscar, or the last five Heisman Trophy winners, or the last five winners of the Nobel Prize. The room was quiet. Then he asked us to remember the names of five teachers who made a difference in our lives. Nodding heads all around.

I thought of that challenge as we headed to Maryland yesterday to attend the roast beef dinner at the children’s former school. True, it is a long way to drive to take the family out to dinner, but well worth it when we saw how their friends reacted at seeing them for the first time since June.

The Oblate Sisters of St. Francis de Sales (and the food they cook) was enough of a reason to drive the four hours or so for the event. These remarkable women understand that a teacher cannot give what he or she does not have and their ability to “Live Jesus” always overwhelms me. Seeing the children interact with them, catching the Sisters up on their new school and new friends and new home, was a joy-filled sight.

We were planning to head back to Connecticut last night but since we have family in Philadelphia, we are taking the day to see Aunt Barbara. Plus, we are hoping the children’s former dentist might be able to fit child number two into his schedule, as she took a tumble down the stairs this weekend and chipped her front (adult) tooth. Never a dull moment.

Then it’s back up Interstate 95 to donate more money to the toll collectors ($1200+ since February) and finally home to the Nutmeg state.

As we drive, we will finish homework and wrap up the second Harry Potter audiobook. We will talk about last night and our former teachers and friends from another school. Most importantly, we will pray for the good Sisters, who continue to feed us – physically and spiritually – with their kindness and friendship.

May you be as blessed with such teachers in your life.

 

 

Posted on

Rough Weekend

Maureen was away for seven days and usually the time the kids and I spend together in her absence is filled with waffles and ice cream or a double feature for movie night. None of that happened this weekend.

The week was filled with homework and soccer practice and was enjoyable and largely uneventful until Friday afternoon. We hit Home Depot for few things, including light bulbs. As we unpacked our items, child number three decided he could reach the counter from the door and threw the bag, including the light bulbs. The light bulbs didn’t make it.

Friday evening child number one got pizza out of the basement freezer and never shut the freezer door. Her error was discovered fifteen minutes before we were leaving for soccer game number one.

We lost the game. It was as if fate knew that’s how it should be.

Fast trip home between games to clean the house for two friends arriving this weekend for a visit only to find child number two and four sitting among their piles of messiness reading, not cleaning, just reading.

“Daddy never cries,” they told Mommy when she got home.

I don’t babysit my children. I parent them. Unlike some men, I am proud to say that I can manage when my wife has to travel.

Still, what a welcomed sight for all of us when she returned home Sunday afternoon.

One can be strong. Two, leaning on each other, are even stronger.

May your week be blessed.

 

 

Posted on

Remember

I remember, like all of you, where I was on that Tuesday morning fifteen 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 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 into the fire. They ran into the fire.

Soon the media would rename it Ground Zero, the epicenter, even 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 the families started to gather because their loved ones had not come home from work. 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.”

Fifteen years later, it still gives me chills.

May our God, who is beyond all understanding, give you peace this week.

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

May we practice patience.

May we be people of peace.

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

To remember to give thanks.

For a faithful God who takes our breath away.

Again and again and again.

 

 

Posted on

Calm Amidst The Storm

A friend told me that it takes a year to really move. A year to get settled. A year to feel at home.

As the son of a military officer, he moved around a lot as a child and young adult, so I remember thinking he must know what he is talking about. Still, I thought, it will not take us that long. Being together is what counts and it will feel like home quickly.

My friend was right.

Sure, the house feels like home some of the time. But there is a restlessness that is shared by the children and the parents as the projects continue. The basement is off limits as our first project of preparing the playroom and movie area is stalled. The walls are framed and the drywall is hung, but the rest of it is waiting for the whole house air conditioning to be installed, which had to wait until the bank gave the okay, which waited for the estimates and paperwork.

So we moved the Legos to the sunroom to give the children some space to play. Then the sunroom project of new walls, windows, and a sliding door forced the Legos to move to the dining room table. To save money, we let the company schedule us whenever they wanted so when they arrive and say, “It’s time,” we moved. The sunroom will not be finished until the insulation and drywall go in, but to save money, the insulation crew is waiting to come out until it’s time to do the attic, which cannot happen until the air conditioning is installed.

Champagne problems, to be sure.

Still, there is a restlessness as movie night is moved to the master bedroom and we crowd into the bed and argue over who sits where. There is restlessness as we squeeze into the kitchen to eat dinner, having surrendered the dining room to the Legos. There is dust everywhere.

Thankfully, the heat has abated and the windows are open, cooling the house. Boxes and toys are still unpacked as they are moved from room to room. Books litter the floors as I try to catch up on writing. Amazon keeps delivering boxes for projects that have to wait for the weekend or other pieces of the puzzle to be completed. We would use the garage for some larger things but the doors are broken and do not open. They, too, are on the list.

Then, in the midst of the craziness, we look out the window and see the deer that wander through our yard. They like to eat the Hostas, but since landscaping is on next year’s list, they can only wander through our yard to see what the neighbor’s have to offer.

But in the stillness we stand silent. We stare out the window knowing that any little noise will scare them off. In hushed tones we huddle at the window and talk about how pretty, how small, how tall, how majestic, how quiet, how everything they are…

We stand in our home together and watch.

The stillness is interrupted by the rapping on the door.

“Why is that person knocking so loudly?” I ask no one in particular.

“Oh, yeah,” comes the response. “The doorbell is broken.”

(Sigh)

“It will take a year,” I tell myself, “It will take a year.”

 

 

Posted on

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.

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 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.

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.

 

 

Posted on

Blind Guides

I can relate to this morning’s Gospel reading. Jesus is chastising the Pharisees for their arrogance, their impudence, and their failure to hold themselves accountable to the same rules they force upon others. The Pharisees, in short, miss the point.

Sometimes, so do I.

I mistake the whining for immaturity when it is really rooted in hunger. I mistake the moodiness for irritation with siblings when it is really rooted in nervousness about a new school. I mistake the over-sensitivity for pettiness when it is a struggle to find balance between a child and being a big girl. I excuse the lack of confidence on the fact that she is the youngest, when really she just wants to find her place among the others.

I get irritated when the dishwasher is not filled the way it should be but do not take the time to teach them how to do it. I complain about the condition of the bedroom but do not take time to help straighten it. I expect maturity and empathy and responsibility but sometimes fail to lead by example.

Blind guides indeed. Blind parents. Blind father.

This week, I will teach instead of tell. I will model instead of demand. I will listen for the explanation instead of jumping to conclusions.

This week, I will be less pharisaic and more like the Master.

The real struggle is what happens next week, and the next, and the next…

 

 

Posted on

Carrying Christ

One of the first graduate courses I took at Notre Dame was taught by the now-retired Bishop Robert Morneau of Green Bay, Wisconsin. It was called Faith in Fiction and we spent our time together studying writers like Flannery O’Connor and poets like the Carmelite nun, Jessica Powers. But one of the first poems the good Bishop used in class was about today’s Gospel readings. It was written by the late Ruth Mary Fox and offers a great challenge to each of us.

Into the hillside country Mary went

Carrying Christ.

And all along the road the Christ she carried

Generously bestowed his grace on those she met.

But she had not meant to tell she carried Christ

She was content to hide his love for her.

But about her glowed such joy that into stony hearts

Love flowed

And even to the unborn John, Christ’s love was sent.

Christ, in the sacrament of love each day, dwells in my soul

A little space.

And then as I walk life’s crowded highways

Jostling men who seldom think of God

To these, I pray, that I may carry Christ

For it may be

Some may not know of him

Except through me.

As we watch the news and see the violence, bigotry, and unbridled enthusiasm for ignorance and dishonesty on both sides of the proverbial aisle, we are challenge this week to ask ourselves this important question:

“How will we carry Christ this week?”

 

 

Posted on

Amused at the Park

The children and I spent a day last week at the local amusement park. It is called Quassy and the kids named it Connecticut’s version to Lancaster’s Dutch Wonderland, which used to be part of our summer tradition. Though smaller and boasting less rides, the park is manageable and affordable, two things often missing from similar parks. Since the admission to the park was included in the day camp our local parks and recs hosts, I decided to save the kids from the bus ride and join them. Plus, child number two is a bit skittish on some of the rides so it helped to have Dad along.

We started at the swinging chairs. Every year since she was tall enough to ride them, child number one has sought to conquer the ride. This year, her brother joined her. In past years, the screams coming from my first born would have passers by thinking someone was dismembering her and then there was the one year the operator stopped the ride early. To be fair, the bar on the front of the chair had come down and split my lip and since she was sitting behind me screaming, the teenage  operator saw the blood on her shirt (flying off my lip), heard her screams, and wondered what he had done wrong. But I digress.

This year, she climbed aboard, buckled herself in and pulled her hat down over her face. No screams. She later commented that if she didn’t look, she wasn’t scared, and could just enjoy the ride. There is a lesson in there for life in general, I am sure.

Then it was off to the wooden roller coaster. “I’m not going,” child number two repeats the entire 20 minutes in line. “I’ll wait with you,” I think to myself. But as we near our turn, she summoned the courage and off we went. Two thoughts went through my mind as we hit the first hill: First, I am taller than most of the youngsters on this ride and I really hope the designers of this ride took that into consideration for that tunnel up there. Second, the bar, though tight on me, has left significant room for the child next to me to wiggle around and if she falls out, her mother will kill me.

Unless they are filled with actual tea, I don’t do teacups.

The pirate ship was my undoing. Back and forth motion makes me ill and it didn’t help that the eight year old next to me kept coming off the seat as the ride made its return trip down and then up again. Half way through, he say, “Okay, I’m good, we can stop now.” I explained that it doesn’t really work like that as I close my eyes and hold him tightly. The oldest child, who took her sisters to the merry-go-round while we were getting nauseas, is waiting for us at the exit and say, “I thought you hated that ride.”

“I do,” I said, “But I love your brother.”

“So do I,” she says pointing back to the ride, “But not that much.”

We hit the other rides in due time and the water park was a nice place to sit and watch the kids run hither and yon while I took a nap. “When did I get old?” I think as I sit in the shade and close my eyes, wondering why no adults work at this place.

The end of the day sees us parked at the bumper cars for four or five turns. The lines in the park have dwindled and Joe, the teenager running the ride lets the kids go again and again. I find the bumper cars to be both exhilarating and counter-intuitive. I was taught not to hit things when I drive, so I instinctively swerve around the cars and navigate the traffic in the pen around and around without hitting anything. “You’re doing it wrong,” Joe says over the intercom, mocking my abilities to steer clear of the others. Then, wham, the kids have ganged up on me and hit me from all sides. They shout with glee as Joe tells them to do it again. “Everyone hit the man in the blue car,” he announces, pleased with himself. I consider trying to jump the tracks to hit Joe with my car, but enjoy the moment of bliss on my youngest child’s face instead.

“Have fun teaching them how to drive,” Joe calls as we depart. I laugh, praying that day will stay far away, knowing deep down it will be here before I know it.

“Home again, home again, jiggity jig,” I announce like I always do when it’s time to head back to base. I am hoping they will sleep. I am hoping the sun has exhausted them.

If only wishing made it so.