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How Do You Not Understand?

We celebrate a few great feasts this week. Today is the day for prayer for the legal protection of the unborn. Wednesday is the feast of St. Francis de Sales, Bishop and Doctor of the Church. Thursday is the Conversion of St. Paul and Friday is the Memorial of Saints Timothy and Titus, who were bishops in the early Church. Lots of great teachable moments.

Plus, we have some great readings this week. I especially love when Jesus takes the time to explain the parables he’s just taught the crowds. Like any good teacher, he wants to make sure the lesson does not fall on deaf ears and, like anyone who has ever stood in front a classroom, my hunch is he began to see people’s eyes glazing over, people looking off in the distance, and a general disconnect starting to form.

So he paused, rearranged the narrative, and made sure everyone understood.

If you have teenagers, you have lots of practice with this. You ask your teen to do something, retrieve something, go somewhere and complete a task – and you are confident you are speaking in a language he or she understands. But as soon as the instructions are delivered, your teen looks at you and says, with a completely straight face: “What?”

They heard it all but they comprehended nothing.

So you repeat it. You tell them to put the phone away and really listen this time.

“Okay,” says the teen.

Then they walk away and do absolutely nothing.

The more I reflect on Mark 4 from Wednesday’s Gospel, the more I am thinking this was Jesus’ turn with the teens in Jerusalem.

“What?” they said after he taught them.

Jesus said to them, “Do you not understand this parable? Then how will you understand any of the parables?”

Great question.

It turns out in two thousand years, the content hasn’t changed, only the context.

This week, I will practice the patience of Jesus and avoid gritting my teeth as I explain to my four teenagers the same thing over and over and over.

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Purgatorial Departments

Two of the children and I were talking about the afterlife on our way to faith formation Sunday morning. I’m not sure how the topic came up, but we started to imagine what it would be like if you got to heaven, and you were faced with the number of times you missed an opportunity.

I suggested that it sounded a little bit more like purgatory and then the ideas started flowing.

What if there was a department that told you all the times you actually had a lottery ticket that was a winner?

What if there was a department that kept track of all the times you have been unkind to someone?

What about a department where they kept track of all the money you wasted throughout your lifetime?

What about a guy at the counter who had tracked all the times you missed a chance to be kind (and his assistant that indicated which of those times was intentional)?

Then, down the hallway, there was a department that let you review the footage of all the times you were faced with a choice for good and evil and you had to reflect upon the choice you made.

It was a fun conversation, though some of those departments sound like they belong in hell, and it got me thinking about that voice in our head we call a conscience. I couldn’t help but think about the example I set for others, the missed opportunities, the wasted time, and the chances lost to selfishness.

Perhaps this week, I can keep those fictional purgatorial departments in mind and strive to be a better role model and friend.

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Thinking of Brian

Every once in a while, I scan the obituaries in the Knoxville paper. I lived there from the time I was three or four until I was nearly thirty, so the people listed in those pages are often teachers, family friends, and neighbors. Every so often, I am stopped in my tracks at one of the names I read, recalling with great fondness the memories of spending time with that person, living nearby that person, or worshiping alongside that person.

Sadly, once in a while I stumble across the name of a young person who sat before me in a classroom or took part in the ministry I led. That’s exactly what happened last week.

When I saw Brian’s name and picture, I just sat there. Stunned. Was he sick? Was there an accident? How did I not know this?

To be fair, I hadn’t seen Brian in years. I hadn’t talked to his mom in nearly a decade, despite her constant support and her family’s generosity. It’s been a few years since I was back in Knoxville, pandemic notwithstanding, and every time I visit the numbers of those I see gets smaller. There are plenty of excuses, but our lives change as we grow up and start having children of our own.

But his photo brought back a rush of memories to part of my life long before Maureen and the kids.

In my thirty years of teaching and ministry, I have probably encountered hundreds, maybe thousands of young people. Most of them, to be honest, fade from my mind. Unless they say or do something that I remember – for good or for ill – most are nondescript mental notations tucked away in the far recesses of my mind.

Then there are kids like Brian.

Even in junior high, he was wise beyond his years – and not just because he had this infectious laugh and this great smile that lit up when he got a joke I told that no one else had understood. He had a great sense of humor and I could tell that he was thinking about things that were funny or witty or sarcastic or maybe even a little mean. His whole face would light up and he would just sit there and smile.

He was a great student, did all his work, and got frustrated when others didn’t pull their own weight. As I read the notice in the paper, I remembered how he would challenge those who would not or could not behave, prodding them to be better, encouraging them to buckle down and get to work. Ironic, I thought, that some of them would be carrying him at his funeral. He made them better just by being himself.

At recess, Brian would play with the new kid, making sure everyone was welcomed. He adored his little brother, and I can still remember the look on Corey’s face when he would have to stay in the car while Brian was off on another adventure with the older kids.

After I left Knoxville, Brian and his mom were among the very first I welcomed into my new home six hundred miles away. While the kids swam in the pool out back, his mom and I sat in the kitchen and talked about old times. The picture of Brian and I in front of my office still hangs on the wall. When I asked my own children to pray for his family, one of them immediately remarked that they knew him – or at least his name. It turns out Brian’s name is on several of our Christmas ornaments – gifts he gave his teacher long, long ago.

He was one of those kids that could have done anything he wanted. Like most kids in his mid-thirties, he struggled with anxiety and joblessness and an overwhelming desire to change the world. Brian always looked at the way things could be, the way people ought to be, and the way he wanted to be. Though his death was an accident, I am saddened that he died alone after meaning so much to so many.

As a parent, I can only imagine the grief enveloping the family. They are, of course, devastated. His little brother is lost and his friends in shock.

I pray that they find hope in those words of the preface to the Eucharist Prayer that will be prayed at Brian’s funeral this week: Life is changed, not ended. 

This week, check in on one another, pray for those who have made our lives better, and, if you would, pray for Brian’s family. For a mother and father who loved and supported him no matter what, and for a little brother who struggles with the loss of his best friend.

Pray, too, for my friend Brian. May the angels come to greet him. May they speed him to paradise. May their arms enfold him. And may he find eternal life.

For me, you will always be that smiling kid in religion class, longing for the chance to put the Gospel into practice, asking the tough questions, and working hard to understand what God has planned for those who love Him.

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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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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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The New Normal

A well visit at the pediatrician and an irregular test result led to repeated tests on Friday, which led to child number three’s hospitalization from Friday through Sunday night. The final diagnosis: Hoshimoto’s disease and diabetes.

The first we can take care of with medicine and, as long as he takes it regularly, there are no real concerns. The second – type one diabetes – can also be treated with medication, but there are more toys involved: antiseptic wipes, glucose meters (that lose their battery power at 10 pm), testing strips, insulin, injector pens, and tons of paperwork.  Then there is the change in eating habits. No more than 60-70 carbs per meal and about 20 per snack. Check out the labels next time you go shopping and think about that. I have promised to limit myself in solidarity and the girls know our family eating habits will change, so in the end, child number one might be right when she called all of this, “a blessing in disguise.”

The patient is a trooper. Testing himself and injecting himself has quickly become second nature. He wearily offers his fingers for the midnight and 3:00 am test these first few weeks and shows me how he injects into the fatty part of the thigh with ease. He is becoming adept at reading labels and knows that giant bowls of pasta are not in his immediate future – at least until we get used to this new normal.

The parents are another story. His mother accompanied him to the hospital and never left his side. Nervousness and worry gave way to boredom because, when you look around at the other patients, there was a lot less to do for a child who just watches movies between tests and injections. As the girls and I were leaving the other day, I caught a glimpse of some of the other patients – heads shaved, barely coherent, confined to wheelchairs. Yes, we’ll take the inconvenience of diabetes any day.

Still, I think there is a mourning period that happens when your child’s life changes. Since I was at camp with high school and college students, the immediacy of it all fell to Maureen. Ever the daughter of a nurse, she is amazing: confident and calm under pressure. And yet, there is a twinge of pain when we think of how his life – all our lives – will change. How we eat, how we prepare for vacations, how he will need to test himself at school, the effects of stress on our bodies, and on and on.

The child, however, is made like Rubbermaid. He will bounce back and we will oddly draw strength from him. He is already made one thing clear: he is not a diabetic. He is a boy with diabetes. It’s the new normal and I pray that, in time, we are all as clear-headed about it as the eleven-year-old.

May your week be free of worry and may you enjoy the independence that comes from realizing we were never really in charge to begin with.

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Father’s Day

I was thinking this weekend about the advice I would give to my younger self, before the children were in or near their teen years, before technology got in the way of real relationships, and before I had a chance to make so many mistakes.

I would tell myself that kids hardly listen when voices are raised, that sometimes, “I don’t know,” is all they’ve got, and that “clean” is a relative term.

I would teach my children how to fold clothes correctly, how to fill a dishwasher properly, and how to vacuum the whole room, not just the places you can see.

I would teach them to make their beds every day, to pick up their clothes, and to put their toys away.

I would teach them that socks belong in three places – on their feet, in the hamper, or in a drawer – but never scattered by the back door or around the sunroom, in the basement, or under their beds.

The children are young, and I hold out hope that some of these things will be learned in time, but it will probably require me to learn how to fold clothes correctly and unplug from my phone or iPad as an example. To be fair, our children are fun to be around like to have a good time. They are helpful some of the times and mean to each other just enough to be irritating. Like any child these days, they get bored easily and get drawn into YouTube or television, or an app on the iPad way too easily. If I could afford it, I would quit my job for the summer months and hang out with my kids – doing something more interesting each day.

In tomorrow’s Gospel reading from Matthew, we are reminded that we are called to “be perfect just like your heavenly Father is perfect.” I suppose that advice holds true for my children too. If I want good behavior, I need to model it. If I want a clean house, good manners, folded laundry, and children who know when to unplug, that begins with me.

Then again, if I want children who have bad eating habits, like to binge watch crime shows, and don’t mind the dust, I am well on my way to perfection.

God bless all fathers and the examples they set.

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Ace Number One

The eldest child graduated eighth grade yesterday, so it is time for some nostalgia.

She is the first born, my Ace Number One – nickname her maternal grandfather used for her mother that I adopted. She is an enigma – fourteen going on cynical. With humor like her father and a voice like an angel. She has her mother’s wisdom and the depth of character more often found in someone twice her age.

Struggling with “undifferentiated fear,” she, along with thousands of other young people, suffer from some anxiety her parents yearn to understand. Moved by her parents so her dad could take a job he loves, working for (as a change), someone he admires, we uprooted her after fifth grade and left behind the only school, home, and friends she had known. As she struggled to fit into the “land of entitlement” (her words), it was hard for her father not to feel guilty for moving her at such a tenuous age.

Then came seventh grade and a situation in school that still haunts us. An offhanded comment brought her world crashing down as a young teacher dropped the ball and a principal took overreacting to a new level. There are moments in a child’s life when parents look back and wonder if they could have done more to protect their child, and this is one of those moments. As an educator, I am often prone to side with other educators. I expect them to react as I believe I would act. I expect them to be prudent, caring, and honest. I expect them to put the child first. As long as I live, I will regret thinking these people capable of such maturity.

Still, we talk about the moment not defining us. We challenge the now-rising freshman to dream big. She is over the moon about her high school decision – the only child from her school set to attend Sacred Heart down the road in Hamden. She tried out for the fall play on Saturday – before graduating from one school and buying books for another. She is excited about meeting new people, making new friends, and starting over.

Finally, we see light.

When she was six years old, we were at Mass for Easter Sunday and, since not saying “Alleluia” in our house during Lent is a big deal, the children were anxious to sing it out loud for the first time in forty days. Mass began with the required, “Jesus Christ is Risen Today,” and even the “Gloria” was a welcomed delight.

Then came the Gospel Acclamation. For reasons passing understanding, the cantor and choir chose the worst version they could find – the dirgiest of dirges to sing. It was painful. It was lifeless. And the six-year-old knew it.

Closing her book and chucking it on the pew, she leaned over and whispered, “I wouldn’t get out of the tomb for that.”

So, yes, her standards are high. Her patience is low. But her faith is deep. Somewhere in the midst of all that unnecessary worry, all that cynicism she gets from me, the questions she struggles with about her own place in the world, there is a depth that amazes me. She does not suffer fools lightly, but she delights in the joy she finds on her own.

And now, she is off to high school. So, today, we look back on simpler times and are reminded that she has always brought a song into our lives.

If the clip does not load, you can visit it here.

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First Teachers

Today is graduation day, so my studies are on my mind.

As a parent who is also a practicing Catholic, hoping to raise his child to be faithful, there were, perhaps, no more daunting words that those the priest prayed at the end of the Rite of Baptism for my children. In concluding this ritual of initiation, the celebrant prayed first over my wife, the mother of the child, reminding her to give thanks for the gift of this child now and in the future. Then the celebrant blessed me, the father of the child, reminding me that, together with my wife, we “will be the first teachers of (our) child in the ways of faith.” The celebrant continued, “May they be the best of teachers, bearing witness to the faith by what they say and do, in Christ Jesus our Lord.”This is a tough challenge for any parent, but it was a challenge that unfolded for me more and more as I journeyed through my coursework at LaSalle.

In those early years, when the children were quite young, the primary role of my wife and I was to feed and care for our helpless children. As parents, we taught our children to walk, talk, count, identify colors, and be kind to others. Parents like us, who wish their children to grow up in the faith – any faith – also tell stories of Jesus. Catholic parents help their children make the Sign of the Cross correctly and we teach them their prayers. As first teachers in the ways of faith, we are storytellers and witnesses to a loving God on whom our children can depend. As Saint John Paul II stated in 2003, “people today put more trust in witnesses than in teachers, in experience than in teaching, and in life and action than in theories. Therefore, a loving witness of Christian life will always remain the first and irreplaceable form of mission.”This charge to be witnesses certainly extends to parents. The obstacles to raising faith-filled children today do not involve public games of chance with a lion at the center of the ring, but the rise of anxiety, shootings in our schools, and the onslaught of technological devices certainly do their part to make it harder for parents to be strong witnesses to the faith.

As a theologian in the Roman Catholic tradition, these questions are paramount to the future of our faith communities. As a parent, the answers might save my children’s souls.