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Long Live God

Sitting in the parking lot last week, waiting for child number one’s bus and listening to the local public radio, I was distracted by the mention of Godspell playing nearby.  Something about the station giving away tickets if you signed up online.

So I signed up online and forgot about it. A day or two later, I receive an email that I have won two tickets to see the show at the Contemporary Theater of Connecticut in Ridgefield, a thirty-five-minute drive from the house. With everything going on last week – Maureen out of town, teaching two night classes, the children wanting to be fed every evening – I almost wrote back and said, “thanks but no thanks.” Something made me hesitate.

By the night of the show, we had decided that the eldest would be ready, that I would end my night class early, and that I would then race home, pick up the child, and head north. I had very little hope that this plan would work, but like everything else last week, we’d have to wait and see.

The Contemporary Theater of Connecticut is a small equity theater that features professionals just as good as you would see on any Broadway stage. The intimate setting allows for you to feel like you are a part of the show and yet still a spectator to all that is going on up on the stage. Through their friendship with Stephen Schwartz, the directors are allowed to make some changes to the show, something that would normally be forbidden.

The oldest is one who struggles with her faith. She argues about going to Mass more than anyone and yet still has a deep longing for that which is bigger than all of us. I was so glad she wanted to go with me to see the show.

Sitting on the edge of her seat, I could tell she was moved by the story and the music. The genius of the directors at the theater was clear as the greedy king in one parable was a Trump-esque leader of his people and another was Harvey Weinstein. There were shades of Game of Thrones, Hamilton, and even a little music-by-cup from Pitch Perfect. The contemporary references – even the subtle ones – just made the show better and better. The actors were superb, and the music washed over her as I could see out of the corner of my eye as she bobbed  her head along.

During intermission, the actors hung out with the audience and she couldn’t wait to tell any of them that she loved their singing, their haircut, their outfits – all of it. One of the actors invited her to wander around the stage before the show started again, and I hadn’t seen her that happy in quite some time.

Godspell is one of my favorite shows. Seeing it years ago in Ford’s Theater in Washington was one of the things that drew me to study my faith more closely. In the last scene, when Jesus has died and his friends come to carry him to the grave, they begin to sing, “Long live God, long live God….” again and again. When I saw it the first time, the actors carried Jesus up and down the aisle as the people in the audience sang right along with them. There was less walking around in this small theater and not as many people sang along, but you better believe my daughter and I were belting it out – a message that speaks more of that faith we need in this world, at this time, now more than ever.

Love live God. Long live God.

In our words, our actions, and our attitudes. Around us. All through us. In our homes and in our communities.

Love live God. Long live God.

 

*This post updated with the change that the theater is an equity theater, not a community theater. 

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T is for Tiger

She called him “Tiger” from the first moment she could pronounce the word. Our eldest child and her constant companion. A small, stuffed animal that was a part of all the stories she would tell – and the ones that I would make up for her. It began with his adventures from Africa, when Tiger climbed in my suitcase and smuggled his way home. Maureen and I had just found out we were expecting our first child when I ventured to Rwanda and Kenya with Catholic Relief Services.

To be fair, I think Tiger was a gift from an aunt or a cousin, but when the children are little and need a story, we oblige. Plus, we honestly didn’t remember where he’d come from, so Africa seemed like a good bet.

Tiger was in loads of photos those first few years. Like the animals we all had growing up, he had his own personality. Many nights were spent searching the house for Tiger so the baby, then toddler, then child could finally go to sleep. I honestly have no memory of her in those early years without him.

Then, in August 2010, Tiger was gone. We remember having him in the Costco parking lot on a day that included haircuts (her first “bob”), back to school shopping, and more. We were taking pictures and we think Tiger must have wandered away into the woods looking for an adventure (or, in laymen’s terms, was left on the wall where we were staging our back to school photo shoot).

In the days and weeks that followed, we returned to every one of the locations from that day. We talked to the folks at lost and found, the people who collect the garbage from the parking lots, and we looked high and low – in the woods and in the grass. But Tiger was gone.

I have spent the last ten years looking for him. I searched through every single current and retired Beanie Baby animal. I have done image searches online using the best picture we have of Tiger, sitting quietly next to Winnie the Pooh. I looked through antique stores, all the GUND animals I could find, and, when I am out and about, I often search through those carousels of stuffed animals near the checkout line just in case Tiger (or his twin) shows up.

On Saturday morning, I found him. I don’t know what made me look, but there he was.

On eBay.

Same little pink nose. Same green eyes. After hundreds of searches with all sorts of combinations, I finally stumbled across an entry labeled, “orange cat.” Tiger would not be happy at being called an ordinary cat. I did not investigate the backstory. I did not email the person selling it with questions about where she got him. I just spent a few minutes whispering a prayer of thanksgiving and, with a few clicks, Tiger was on his way back to Connecticut.

Ace Number One has a birthday coming up – she’ll be 15 years old at the end of March and Tiger will be there to celebrate. I imagine I am much more excited that she will be. After all, she’s been without her friend longer than she had him. But he still comes up in conversation once in a while and my hope is that she will be both surprised and thrilled when she opens the box and sees her stuffed friend sitting there. Maybe there is a part of me that hopes by reclaiming some of her childhood, I can somehow pause the rapid pace of her growing up. I need her to feel safe. I need her to be careful. I need her to study and do her homework. I am probably asking too much of a stuffed animal, but this is Tiger, dang it. He can do it.

To set the scene for the birthday surprise, I want to ask you to do me a favor. Could you hand-write a note from Tiger and talk about some great adventure you’ve had? Make it up. Get creative. Use a postcard or a plain piece of paper. It doesn’t have to be long, just a quick note that speaks of an adventure and then end with, “I can’t wait to come home.”

Sign it “T” so it keeps her guessing – or don’t sign it at all. Do not include your own name, please. Keep it anonymous. My hope is that if she receives a few of these, it will build the momentum for Tiger’s triumphant return.

If you don’t have our address, shoot me an email (p(dot)donovan(at)mac(dot)com) and I will send it to you. The birthday is the end of March, so we have some time.

Sounds crazy, I know. But parents always do crazy things for their kids and even crazier for the inanimate objects that make our children happy.

~pjd

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Back to Life

Three of the children went back to school on Thursday. They did so begrudgingly. A long Christmas break afforded us the chance to build fires in the fireplace, play cards, eat meals at all times of the day, and watch more movies and shows than we normally would. We are not full-fledged fans of The Good Place and Brooklyn 99. We’ve seen movies about popes and another where nearly everything blows up. We cheered the Irish on in their bowl game and made plans for Easter break. We saw the new Star Wars, had a visit from our favorite priest, and even ventured to Baltimore to spend time with the cousins on Maureen’s side.

Today we are back to normal. The eldest went off to high school bright and early and Maureen drove to a meeting in Newark even earlier. I am back at work trying not to think of the books I started and never finished, not to mention all the decorations still adorning the house.

Vacations are a good time to rest and reconnect, but for us, they are also a great time for being together as one family unit. I know the days are numbered and that before too long, kids will have jobs and access to cars, college will soon follow, and we’ll trade one group of expenses for another.

For now, though, I will hold fast to the moments of sitting all together in front a show we enjoy, listening to the unbridled laughter of those around me. I will cherish the memory of Christmas morning, when we enjoyed the excitement of children – giddy that Santa has come – and yet still managed to sit quietly for a great breakfast on our new snowman plates. I will smile when I remember how child number three launches into the theme song for the cheesy movie he and I watched in our “guy time” –  a classic Disney flick in which a young Kurt Russell is shocked by a computer and is suddenly imbued with all the knowledge the machine contained. I am not sure which was more amazing to the child: the horrible song that someone actually had to sing (and that he continues to sing at random times) or the sheer size of the computer in the movie.

I will take comfort in the raw energy of the youngest, who will not walk across a room if she can flip, cartwheel or otherwise fly across it. I will be sustained by the second oldest, who sends more texts of love, hearts, hugs, and kisses than most children her age. The phone, for her, is not a way to move away from the family, but an opportunity to become even more connected to it.

And I will settle back to work knowing that the oldest, our ace number one, will be heading into exams soon and will need all the patience her parents can muster. Always the serious one, she surprised us all the other day when someone was giving Alexa a hard time. The so-called smart device was asked a simple question and could not seem to come up with an answer. Someone commented that it wasn’t that smart after all when suddenly, the eldest child chided us all, told us to be nice to the smart devices, and reminded us that when the robots turn on us, she’ll be remembered as having been nice to them.

Happy new year, everyone. May your time away from work and school – and the memories you made together – give you strength to journey onward.

At least until the next long weekend.

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Blessings Abound

It is the week of Thanksgiving. A time for us to count our blessings, share a meal with those we love, and, I suppose, either shop for things we do not need or binge on football, parades, and commercials.

For me, the holiday started a week early. I had the great blessing of traveling with the children to the National Catholic Youth Conference in Indianapolis. My four joined 20,000 other young Catholics in praying, learning, singing, and lots and lots of walking. The journey and the conference were filled with many, many blessings. Here are just a few:

The right engine did not, it turns out, explode, catch on fire, or otherwise seize. It did, however, shut down after the fire extinguishing system emptied its contents onto what it suspected was a fire. The emergency landing at Dulles was exciting for the children, given the number of first responders that met the plane. The item “jumping off a plane onto one of those ramps” will have to remain on my bucket list.

The airline was incredibly courteous and professional, despite what the people in front of me say on social media (which is what they threatened when it became clear that the poor gate agent had clearly orchestrated the whole episode so she wouldn’t be bored…at least that’s the way the folks in front of us behaved).

We got to see some of the nation’s capital.

By the time we got to Pentagon City Mall, McDonald’s was still serving breakfast. Hotcakes for everyone.

We got to ride the metro for free because the guy said he loves seeing “good families traveling together.”

We landed safely in Indy – seven hours late – by safe!

The suite where we stayed was enormous (t helps that Maureen is in charge of the conference).

Nothing quite compares to the site of 20k+ young people singing praises to the Lord, then falling silent in prayer.

Ace number one spent the day “as a normal participant” and when the crowds got too much for her, she called (sorry mom) her father!!

The kids all got to drive golf carts when no one was looking.

I got to film more than 30 people for the Institute’s Lifelong Lessons project.

The kids met new friends, traded hats and buttons, and got to see For King and Country perform.

We hung out together, ate together, laughed together, and prayed together as a family.

We got to see our friend Father Joe from Wilmington and hang out with him.

We got to see so many people that have known the children since they were born, have been a part of the village raising them, and continue to be fixtures in their lives.

Liam got to spend time with the Feduccia boys.

We got to go to lunch with the team that pulled this conference together logistically and got to spend time with our friends Declan, Fran, Robert, and so many more.

We got to see a special message from Pope Francis to the attendees and hear his words of challenge to take the Gospel message out into the world.

We prayed with and for our friends – especially Marlene and Mr. Steve – who recently lost their fathers.

We celebrated Mass with Archbishop Thompson from Indy who challenged us – again and again – to call out to the world: “Viva Christo Rey!” — “Long Live Christ the King!”

The children learned first-hand what all these months of mom being so busy, not sleeping, working in the car, working at all hours, and travelling hither and yon have been about – and are so incredibly proud of what she and the team pulled off.

We landed safely home after a completely boring, uneventful, on time flight.

May your week be filled with rest, non-eventful travel, and many, many blessings.

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Little Things

I broke my pinky in six places last weekend. Thankfully, it’s on my left hand. Still, it’s amazing to me how one little tiny part of the body can be so painful and can get in the way of opening bottles, rolling down the car window, holding a cell phone, and typing. In time, it will heal and I imagine I will grow to be grateful for the role it plays in my life.

I’ve been thinking recently about away little things affect our lives. I suppose I have St. Paul to thank for the meditation about how one part tends to affect the whole. In a large family, one disagreement among siblings or one child’s irresponsibility can affect all other relationships. At work, one employee’s incompetence or bitterness or passive aggressive behavior can affect the work of everyone. In a parish, the attitude of one leader of one program can poison the ministry of many others. One driver on your journey home can anger you, distract you, or even endanger you.

I suppose it all comes down to what we choose to care about. Perhaps it comes down to what we are willing to overlook, what we are willing to forgive. We can let the one driver ruin the rest of our journey or we can chalk up that driver’s negligence to ineptitude or other mitigating circumstances. I like to make up reasons for why people are stupid. I tell the kids that we should pray for the driver going 90 miles an hour because their mother must be sick and they are racing to get home. Or the person who never uses a signal and never lets you know where they’re headed on the road must be so consumed with thoughts of a sick child they don’t even think about using a directional. It’s an invitation to prayer and it helps me be less angry. It’s harder at work. Sure, everyone has a story and everyone has sick relatives or children or other responsibilities beyond the office, but some behaviors are just unprofessional.

Our town recently held a shredding day and we gathered up all sorts of whole papers to take to the park to be destroyed. I ran across a letter from my father that he wrote to me in high school. In it, he challenged me to be more tolerant of those who are not as smart, not as confident, not as creative as I think I am. It gave us all a good laugh because some things haven’t changed since I was in high school. Needless to say, I kept the letter as a reminder of things I still need to work on more than 30 years later.

I think sometimes we are addicted to outrage. We enjoy being irritated. Everyone on television is angry. Everyone is screaming at each other. The folks on the left hate the people on the right. The people on the right hate the people on the left. In the end, nothing gets done. We could all use a little more tolerance, a little more prayer, and a little less outrage.

We can all make little differences. My pinky taught me that. We can pray for each other. We can forgive one another. We can stop being needlessly concerned with the actions of people we simply cannot control. There will always be people who are dumb. There will always be people who are passive aggressive. There’ll always be people whose attitudes are poisonous because they don’t believe they have anything more to learn in life. But we don’t need to be one of these people. We only control ourselves, our reactions, our thoughts, our prayers.

This week, let us take responsibility for ourselves. Let God sort out the rest. Let us commit to doing our little part to make the world better place.

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Clocks

I was at a parish on Saturday morning giving a presentation when an elderly gentleman wandered through the room. He was known to a few people, who engaged him in conversation. It seems that he had arrived that Saturday morning because he remembered that the clocks were changing and thought it would be a good idea to change all the clocks in all the classrooms so the students on Sunday morning would see the correct time in religious education class.

No one asked them to do it. No one assigned him the task. He just took it upon himself because he “wanted the children to concentrate on Jesus and not whether or not the clock was right.”

We spent most of Sunday either ahead or behind. The clocks on all the phones and electronic devices change automatically, but until we thought we were late for church, no one changed the time on the microwave or the oven or the not-so-smart devices.

As we ran around on Sunday, I remembered that man from Saturday morning. I wondered how often we overlook the people in our lives who do things without asking that improve our day, our mood, our lives. The person who holds the door for us. The person who stops so we can turn left in front of them on a busy road. The person who picks up the paper in the hallway without being asked. The person who jogs by your house and throws the newspaper a little closer to the front door. The person who puts extra change of the dish at the cash register so, when we are a few cents short, the change is waiting for us.

Life is messy. The world is complicated. But, once in a while, we experience the anonymous kindness of people around us. This week, I will try to notice the kindness. I will express gratitude for those who make my life a little better with simple, random, acts of generosity.

I was in an airport recently and the cashier was watching people go by, hurriedly and absorbed in their own world. She stood on a stool and yelled to the passing crowd, “Hey people you get what you give. So let me see you smile.“

If she’s right, and I think she is, perhaps this week I will be more intentional about spreading a little kindness myself.

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Our Lady of the Rosary

These thoughts were published a few years ago, but the sentiment is still true today. 

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 a sudden a woman 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.

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.

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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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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.