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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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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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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.

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The Longest Lent

It seems this Lent has lasted longer than most. It seems it might last longer. With the world around us shut down for another month or more, how can we celebrate Easter alone? How can we celebrate the washing of the feet, the veneration of the cross, the Easter fire, when the lights in our churches are turned off and the doors are locked?

Well, we could go back to the beginning.

We could remember that 2,000+ years ago there were no churches like there are today. There was no schedule, there were no livestreams, there were not daily phone calls and meetings reminding us of the distance between us.

There was only fear. Not of a virus, but of persecution for those who had followed the Lord.

And yet they gathered as families and cared for one another.They gathered as small communities and fed one another.

They washed each other’s feet by caring for widows and orphans.

They venerated the cross by remembering the sacrifice they had witnessed – even from afar.

They remembered their experience of the person of Jesus Christ and loved one another as a response.

Yes, Lent will seem long this year. Hope will seem distant. Light will seem weeks away.

But perhaps that is the gift of this pandemic: time to stay close with those who love us most, quarantined with those who love us no matter what. It offers us time to be still – as if we were in the dessert.

We must remember our experience of Jesus and his challenge to us to love one another, forgive one another, serve one another.

It started with an experience of Jesus.

That encounter led to discipleship.

May this experience – this desert experience – do the same.

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The Big 5-0

Amid the panic, the fear, the anxiety, the staying inside, and the cancellation of just about everything, yours truly celebrates a birthday this week. To commemorate the occasion, I thought I would list the things for which I am grateful, but who has that kind of time?

Then I thought of the fifty things I would do while the world shuts down. Then I remembered that I have a job and doing that while making sure the four kids are connected to their schools and doing their online assignments might all just be a bit much, so I let that idea go too.

So I decided to make a list of the fifty people who have influenced me the most in my adult life. I took brothers and sisters out of the mix. Partly because they would take up a fifth of the list to begin and partly because they are part my past, my childhood, and even my everyday life. They got stuck with me as I got stuck with them. Those are not relationships I chose any more than any of us choose our families of origin. I love them and value them, but this is a list of people I choose to be in my life.

I also took the immediate family out. My wife, my true North, who keeps me grounded, didn’t make the list. Neither did the children. I love them with my whole heart but I put them in a category all their own. I would be lost without them and they know that. They are on the list in my wallet of people who I pray for every day, but they didn’t make the cut for this list.

So who did? Well, there’s people from the Wilmington chapter of my life on whom I still depend for friendship and kindness and honesty: Fr. Joe, Jen, Joe, Hummy, Karen, Bridget, Sr. John Elizabeth, Mary, Madeline, Ruthie, Vanessa, Mark, and Kelly. These are the people that moved with me virtually when that chapter of my life wrapped up in 2015.

There are even a few from the first chapter of my professional career in Knoxville with whom my life would be empty. There’s Susie, Marcy, Madelon, Regan, Sam, Dana, Kathleen, and all their extended families I cherish.

Chapter three began in January 2016 and includes Patrick, Pat, Bp. Frank, Brian, Debbie, Elizabeth, Anne, Sr. Mary Grace, Tracy, Erin, and all those who welcomed me to New England and introduced me to people like Valerie, Liz, Msgr. P, Father K, Eleanor, Nancy, Pat, Carol, Sue, Diane, Elaine, and the many, many people for whom ministry in the Church is more than a job.

There are the women of the Church like Charlotte, Ela, Marlene, Kathryn, Christine, Kathy, Cindy, and Brigitte (among others named above), who teach me each time I talk to them something new about the world and how we can each make it better.

Wrapping up the list are all those who cross from chapter into chapter, people I bring with me along the journey because of the bond we share and the experiences that bring us together. Here’s looking at you, Steve, Tony, Jose, John, Declan, Michael, Scott, Mark, and Robert. You have my respect and my undying gratitude for your example of faith and wisdom.

In case you’re counting, that’s more than fifty. I could probably go through and delete a few people, but it’s my birthday and my list, so I’ll pass. I could also keep going and list Bill and Mary Beth, Bob and Kathy, Barry and Regina, Amy and Mike, and all those couples who continue to help my family navigate the challenges of growing up, moving, and putting down roots.

The reality is this: I am blessed – more than I know and probably more than I deserve. God’s grace is limitless, unmerited, and overflowing. It’s easy to miss that in these days of uncertainty. It is easy to get nervous and impatient and begin to wonder what will happen next. Yet there is comfort in not knowing, I think. It makes us cling to that whom we do know and trust and love.

Panic makes us mean. Not knowing makes us nervous. Uncertainty can make us selfish.

But each of us are surrounded with many more than fifty people who are only a phone call or text away. Find someone in these coming days to pray with, to pray for, and with whom you can share your uncertainty.

And remember, my friends, that we never know what tomorrow will bring, but the old adage is right: we know who brings tomorrow.

That’s where I find peace.

Have a good week and wash your hands.

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God’s Own Fool

Sitting at Mass this weekend, there was a line in the second reading that caught my ear. But first, some context.

Over the course of the last few weeks when I have been traveling in the car, I have hooked up my phone via Bluetooth and just let the music play. I chose the entire music library (several thousand songs) and hit the “random” button. There are tons of songs I love, and I am always amazed at how many a human brain can remember. But let’s be clear, there are lots and lots of songs that I hear and wonder why in the world they are on my phone. The Countdown Kids compilation that was fine when the kids were younger but now make me want to intentionally hit a tree. Then there’s the Veggie-tales, which are worse. Those I skip. Anything that makes the children groan, I skip. Anything that has inappropriate lyrics (I’m a grown up, don’t judge), I skip.

That still leaves several thousand songs to play and it’s made driving back and forth to drop off and pick up the kids, especially when Maureen is out of town, all the more enjoyable.

There was one song that came up last week that I love, sang along too, and remembered long after it was over.

That brings me back to Sunday’s second reading. In the first letter of St. Paul to the Corinthians, we hear:

Let no one deceive himself.
If any one among you considers himself wise in this age,
let him become a fool, so as to become wise.
For the wisdom of this world is foolishness in the eyes of God,
for it is written:
God catches the wise in their own ruses,
and again:
The Lord knows the thoughts of the wise,
that they are vain.

This brought me back to that song in the car. It’s called, God’s Own Fool and was written and sung by Michael Card a generation ago, when religion was more touchy-feely, and we used songs at retreats the way people use apps to pray.

Still, the lyrics are a great reminder of our call to live a life worthy of imitation.

Seems I’ve imagined Him all of my life
As the wisest of all of mankind
But if God’s Holy wisdom is foolish to men
He must have seemed out of His mind

For even His family said He was mad
And the priests said a demon’s to blame
But God in the form of this angry young man
Could not have seemed perfectly sane

When we in our foolishness thought we were wise
He played the fool and He opened our eyes
When we in our weakness believed we were strong
He became helpless to show we were wrong

And so we follow God’s own fool
For only the foolish can tell-
Believe the unbelievable
And come be a fool as well

So come lose your life for a carpenter’s son
For a madman who died for a dream
And you’ll have the faith His first followers had
And you’ll feel the weight of the beam

So surrender the hunger to say you must know
Have the courage to say I believe
For the power of paradox opens your eyes
And blinds those who say they can see

So we follow God’s own Fool
For only the foolish can tell
Believe the unbelievable,
And come be a fool as well

As Lent begins, may we all be a little foolish this week. A little less wise in the know-it-all sense, and a little more willing to let others know whose we are but showing them who we are as a child of God.

pjd

To hear the artist sing the song, click here.