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Fall In Love

Nothing is more practical than
finding God, than
falling in Love
in a quite absolute, final way.
What you are in love with,
what seizes your imagination, will affect everything.
It will decide
what will get you out of bed in the morning,
what you do with your evenings,
how you spend your weekends,
what you read, whom you know,
what breaks your heart,
and what amazes you with joy and gratitude.
Fall in Love, stay in love,
and it will decide everything.

 

Happy St. Valentine’s Day.

Often attributed to Fr. Pedro Arrupe, SJ (1907–1991), but by Joseph Whelan, SJ.

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Brrr…

The heat was out at the Donovan home for a few days last week. No hot water either. It got a little chilly inside, so everyone donned more socks and sweaters. There was little complaining, which surprised me, because everyone likes to be comfortable. Perhaps the lack of moaning and groaning had something to do with why the heat was off. It turns out, yours truly got distracted by work and home and family and all the little things that fill my mind that I simply forgot to order oil before we ran out. It was a dumb mistake and one that was fairly predictable. I had even left myself notes to order oil the week before. But then one child was home, another needed a doctor, Mom was buried in Knoxville, and I simply got distracted. The oil tank just ran dry. No oil. No heat.

It doesn’t take a genius to draw the parallel to the rest of our lives – spiritually, emotionally, and mentally – and the tank in the basement. The empty tank, it turns out, was only a symptom of a greater problem. It gave me time to reflect whether I am a person of prayer or whether I try to solve everything on my own? Do I share the things I am struggling with or do I wander around in darkness looking for the proverbial light switch? Do I let my own tank run dry instead of filling it with the peace, love, and joy that comes from true friendship and healthy relationships?

The oil guy came as the snow started to fall and no real damage was done. The blankets and quilts were put away for another time when dad messes up and life returned to normal.

Still, the memory of the empty tank haunts me and serves as a gentle kick in the pants that no man is an island. This week, let’s all check the balance in our emotional bank accounts and check in on those around us that might need some support.

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The List

There is a card in my wallet that tells a story. Many of you have heard the story and some may even have lists of your own. The list, the card, battered and torn, started, as 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 the reading from Mark’s Gospel that we will proclaim at Mass on Friday morning this week. You’ve heard the story before: there are crowds gathered around Jesus and so some guys carry a paralytic, drop him through the roof, and in front of Jesus.

After we read the story in Sr. Judy’s class, she wheeled in that big glorious television that promised a break from the text and we all move our seats so we could see it. It was a scene of Franco Zeffirelli’s 1977 masterpiece, Jesus of Nazareth. The story unfolds sort of like like it does in Mark’s (and 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 man is told his sins are forgiven. 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 it. Surely forgiving sins is easier. But how can someone who is not harmed be the one to forgive sins? To show the crowd what he’s really capable of, he tells the man to get up, pick up his mat, and go home. The man obliges. The crowd goes nuts for a new 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.”

I have repeated that exercise with youth and adults alike for years. Like Sr. Judy, I challenge people to think of those who, when we are paralyzed with fear, sinfulness, guilt, 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-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.

Go ahead, take out a piece of paper.

Who is on your list?

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A Christmas Wish

I don’t know if you believe in Christmas
Or if you have presents underneath the Christmas tree
But if you believe in love, that will be more than enough
For you to come and celebrate with me
For I have held the precious gift that love brings
Even though I never saw a Christmas star
I know there is a light, I have felt it burn inside
And I have seen it shining from afar
Christmas is the time to come together
a time to put all differences aside
And I reach out my hand to the family of man
To share the joy I feel at Christmas time
For the truth that binds us all together
I would like to say a simple prayer
That at this special time
you will have true peace of mind
And love to last throughout the coming year
And if you believe in love, that will be more than enough
For peace to last throughout the coming year
And peace on earth will last throughout the year

I first heard these words, written by Danny Akken Wheetman and sung by Kermit the Frog, when Kermit and the Muppets joined John Denver on television for a Christmas special. It is a nice reminder that Christmas is bigger than any of us, than any single loss, or any collective issues we might share. For one day, at least, we can put peace first, let joy reign in our hearts, and pray that hope will spring anew. 

May the wonder and joy of that first Christmas be yours today and always.
-pjd
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Amen

Mom died shortly after last week’s post was published. My eldest sister texted a question and because I was driving, I returned the text via phone call. The answer she was looking for was irrelevant and she said very simply that mom was gone.

“Good,” I said, as Maureen took my hand and started to cry.

After what I had witnessed the previous 72 or so hours, I was relieved. The pain had ceased, the screaming had turned to silence. She was, at last, at peace.

The last week has been an emotional one but I am still waiting for that breakdown; the flood of tears, the ache in my heart, the agony that comes from the loss of a parent. Mostly, I have been overwhelmed by shame and guilt for the way I let mom be treated these last several years. The reality is that my younger sister is troubled. Her behavior is not rational. She is dishonest and manipulative to a point that is almost comical – if the repercussions were not so serious.

And I didn’t do anything about it.

Sure, I discussed it with my siblings. We texted one another about our frustrations. We shook our heads and wrung our hands. We would take turns challenging her and calling her to account, only to have our lives threatened, our children ridiculed, and (in my case) being told I was banned from the facility where she had warehoused mom among the demented and inept. She had held mom hostage – emotionally, spiritually, and physically – and I rationalized that my hands were tied because mom had chosen her as power of attorney.

So there are two kinds of mourning going on – one for a mother I loved, who raised me and challenged me and supported me. Another for a sibling I surrendered to and in whose presence I hope to never find myself. Someday I will be able to separate the two but for now one loss taints the other and I find my anger focused on my own lack of action.

Life is complicated.

Years ago, when I was in the Holy Land, at a hotel in Bethlehem, I was on the phone with my mother. I was about thirty, unmarried, and calling to check in and share a bit of the journey with her. Suddenly, the power in the whole town went out and sirens blared. Knowing just enough to be scared, I crouched down in the phone booth and relayed what was happening to my mom, thousands of miles away.

“Really?” She said, “The power is out…” Then a pause. “It’s fine here,” she said, suddenly oblivious to the miles and the ocean that separated us.

That simple phrase, “It’s fine here” became our rallying cry for the rest of the trip. Twenty years later, friends still quote it to me.

In the stillness of the morning, sitting here all alone, I imagine that’s what mom would say right now. Forget the guilt. Forget the past. Forget the pain that comes from knowing you probably couldn’t have done anything without permanently fracturing the family. Forget it all. Just remember the love, that she tried her best as a parent and, when appropriate, as a friend. Wherever she is, the response would be the same, settling my nerves and reminding me once again…

“It’s fine here.”

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Waiting

I had a few visits with mom and said my goodbyes.

There will be plenty of time to reflect on her life and the gifts she gave her children, but for now, we wait. When I arrived, she was in a wheelchair. When I left three days later, she was in bed nearing the end.

It was a heartbreaking scene as she began vocalizing all the pain and confusion and memories and whatever else was flowing through her mind. The sounds echoed up and down the hall – a combination of screams and moans and howls and cries. You could make out a few words here and there, but the clearest was, “Help me….”

The anguish of a soul not ready to go home, perhaps fearful of what awaits or simply a person in pain, only made worse by the inability to articulate.

Finally, the staff got its act together enough to give her medicine and my sisters and I ducked out before the younger sibling stormed the castle, enraged by my speaking truth to her supposed power.

Mom is on morphine now, if only to keep the screaming to a minimum and to take advantage of modern medicine’s gift to the final journey: a peaceful transition.

Advent is the season of waiting. So as we wait for the coming of the Christ child, we also pray for another child of God to head home and rest in peace.

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Ave Maria

There is a day off coming in the middle of this week. The offices will close as we pause during Advent to celebrate Mary’s Immaculate Conception.

I cannot help but think of my own mother whenever there is a Marian feast. She was not immaculately conceived and the older I get, the more realized how complicated she really was. As dementia takes over and her body fails, I will travel 700 miles or so this week to say goodbye. It will be good to be alone in the car. It will be good to see my sisters. It will be good to hold her hand and thank her for doing the best she could.

Mary taught Jesus how to pray. My mother taught us that God was often subtle. Her daily ritual of “Good night. God bless” was as much of an overt prayer as she offered. Her “be careful,” every time you left the house was as much an admonition as a prayerful plea. She once told me she feared something would happen if she didn’t utter those words before we left the house – especially when we started driving.

Mary taught others to do whatever Jesus told them. My mother had a bit of a different take on that. She ruled by fear and you did whatever she told you or you incurred her wrath. I grew up in a physical household and it’s likely one of the reasons I hardly ever touched my children when disciplining them as toddlers.

Still, my mother was generous to a fault. She spent money she didn’t have on things we wanted but didn’t need. Year after year, she allowed her children to invite youth groups, sororities, fraternities, friends, and families to our house and our giant pool and enormous backyard.

You think more about your own parents when you are a parent and I imagine I will soften my own opinions when the phone call comes and mom is gone. The time since dad died has not been easy and is colored by the dynamics of a family that struggles to love each other and a little sister that makes everything messy.

Today, however, I am torn between the memories of the mother I had and the idealized version of the mother I wanted.

Life is complicated. Love is messy.

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A Night at the Symphony

Someone gave our son tickets to see the Bridgeport Symphony play Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony on Saturday night (at the same time Notre Dame was playing). My wife and I flipped for it. She won, so I went. 

I’ll be honest. I like classical music, but I really wanted to watch the game. Maureen left yesterday for her first extended trip in nearly two years and there is just something about a night at home.

The seats were in the second row. My son’s cello teacher had received them as comps and she has little ones for whom the evening would be too long. His orchestra teacher from school plays alongside his cello teacher, so we were in the line of sight for both of these talents. Note to self: don’t fall asleep.

I had forgotten what it’s like to sit next to a child who is totally enraptured in something. I had forgotten how music well played can lift you up and carry you away. I even forgot to check the score of the game on my phone. Let’s be clear – these folks can play. 

If you’ve not taken the time to listen to the full symphony, download it and turn it up. Written in a time when the world was a depressing place for the composer, when anxiety was high as a leader failed to serve the people, the orchestration is written to reflect the trying times in which Beethoven found himself. While we are all familiar with the opening notes, few of us have ever listened all the way through – to the triumph, the pageantry, the mystery, and hope that the composer finds in the end. 

As we walked to the car, I couldn’t help thinking what a gift the evening had been. Not just because I got to spend it with my son, but because it had challenged me to stand still and listen – and it gave me hope for all that still stands before us. 

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This Place Is A Mess

Sometimes I like to look around the house and think about being dead.

I don’t mean in a suicidal way or anything of the sort. I mean looking around and wondering, “What will happen to that?” or “Will anyone want that?” or even, “I wonder how long it will take to throw that away.”

When someone dies, I find that there are two reactions when it comes to the stuff that’s left behind. Either the person or persons left let virtually no time go by and begin almost immediately throwing out, donating, selling, or otherwise giving away the collection of things the now-dead person once possessed.

The other reaction is that nothing happens. Nothing is moved. Nothing is donated. Eventually, the items become part of the house, absorbed into the everyday.

Every so often, I look around and just start pitching stuff. The thought of someone having to go through my desk, decipher my notes, looking at the nonsense I have kept makes me crazy. What a waste of time I think that would be for someone. There are days I want to live more simply – give me some books and a nice chair – and a computer – and printer – and some good pens – and a blanket. Here we go again.

When I was growing up, I remember my mom saying that if we had not used something in a year, it was no longer ours. We had to go through the closets and give things away. I dare say it was one of her finer moments that has stayed with me into adulthood.

There is too much stuff cluttering the house. The same could be said for my mind. Time to declutter.

Time to throw away.

Time to let go.

Before the winter cold sets in and now that we are through the heat of the summer, it’s time to clean the closets, give away the furniture, slim down the closets, and fill the van with donations.

Now… how to do that with my head.

 

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The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

It’s back to school time!!

After a non-summer summer, with no vacation and days that slipped by too quickly, the bus pulls out this morning at 7:20 am.

And moms and dads everywhere rejoice. It’s not that we do not love our children, but it will be nice for them to be away, for the house to be quiet, and for them to get back to some semblance of normal (whatever that is).

And so we pray….

Master and Teacher,

Bless our bus drivers and crossing guards. .

Bless our Google classrooms and those who still must be on Zoom.

Bless those who are vaccinated and those who struggle to decide. (Give those undecided folks a push, O Lord, and wings to get to the doctor.)

Bless those children who struggle to keep the mask on, trying so hard to stay even three feet apart from friends they have missed so much.

Bless our teachers who have worked so hard for so long, those who yearn to embrace their students and those who will face the challenge of keeping their charges safe and healthy.

Bless our school nurses, who guide those who are not well away from others, trying to discern the difference between a common cold and a deadly virus.

Bless our little ones entering school for the first time in this reality that changes every day. Give them the wisdom to comprehend the need to stay angel wings apart from their friends.

Bless those who are new in our schools – students and teachers alike – trying to find the right classroom, the right locker, the right books, and the right attitude.

Bless those extroverts among us who long to sing and talk and have for so long been stuck indoors.

And bless those introverts who wish they were still inside.

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

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

Help us, Lord, to fall in love with learning, be it online, in person, or a little bit of both.

And we beg you, Lord, to bring these children and teachers safely home at the end of the day, the week, or the semester. Keep them free from violence and viruses – 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 beg for an end to the pandemic that has cost so many so much.

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

Amen.