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Take It To Our Lady

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 the sudden a women 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.

For Mother’s Day, the children gave Maureen a statue of Our Lady for the garden in the back. Our friend, Fr. Joe, will bless it in a few weeks and Katie, who makes her First Communion next Sunday and missed the May Crowning as school, will fashion together some flowers and crown Mary – a small nod to another grandparent lost.

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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Risking Weakness

If society is judged on how we treat our most vulnerable, then surely our brothers and sisters in Washington have work to do. The latest movement of the House of Representatives aside, our elected officials at the local, state, and federal level should be encouraged to give some serious thought to how we care for those most in need – even if they have been sick or depressed, lonely or in crisis, in control of their faculties or struggling to remember – for some time. What some would call pre-existing conditions, others call a way of life.

So this morning, I turned, as I often do, to a book my parents gave me when I left home. Today’s reading was from Matthew 25. The sheep and the goats. How appropriate. For so many years, I thought about this as only a call to care for “the least of my brothers (and sisters).” Sure, it’s a call to help others. But maybe it’s more.

If you read the whole passage you begin to understand its context. Matthew is not just writing about the end time, when those who have helped others will go to heaven and those who ignored those in need will go to hell. It is, instead, a call to live as brothers and sisters of Jesus. Look at Matthew 12: the family of Jesus (his brothers and sisters) are those disciples gathered around him – men, women, children.

So to live like Jesus means to risk being homeless (“the Son of Man has no place to lay his head” cf Mt 8 and Luke 9). To live like Jesus is to be like Jesus, with less concern for the material things of this world and more concern for the welfare of others (cf Mt 19). We have to risk being hungry. We have to risk being ostracized. We have to risk being poor (all this is in Matthew too).

It’s not just that the rich must help the poor or those with much must offer what they have to those who have not, it’s more than that. To live like Jesus means to risk being weak so that we might receive from those whom we are called to serve. It is easy to think of Jesus as the only teacher in the crowd, but every good teacher learns from the student.

If society is judged – if any of us are judged – by how we treat those who are most in need, perhaps the judgement begins when we decide what we are willing to risk in service to others.

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Pop Pop

On Wednesday, we will bury Maureen’s father.

Ed. Dad. Pop Pop.

As we celebrate resurrection and sing our Alleluias, we will pause to remember the life of a man who meant so much to so many. He raised six amazing children and often said he lived a life more blessed than he ever imagined. We will take comfort in knowing that his suffering was minimal and give thanks that the stroke that took him in the end was, in many ways, a blessing.

Most of all, we will remember that the relationship is changed, not ended.

Still, saying goodbye to a parent is devastating. A child losing a grandparent is heartbreaking. In time, we will remember him with smiles and laughter. This week, we will take our turns crying – not for him, but for ourselves.

And so we pray:

Take my heart, O Lord, take my hopes and dreams.
Take my mind with all its plans and schemes.
Give me nothing more than your love and grace.
These alone, O God, are enough for me.

Take my thoughts, O Lord, and my memory.
Take my tears, my joys, my liberty.
Give me nothing more than your love and grace.
These alone, O God, are enough for me.

I surrender Lord, all I have and hold.
I return to you your gifts untold.
Give me nothing more than your love and grace.
These alone, O God, are enough for me.

When the darkness falls on my final days,
Take the very breath that sang your praise.
Give me nothing more than your love and grace.
These alone, O God, are enough for me.

Saints of God, come to his aid! Hasten to meet him angels of the Lord! Receive his soul and present him to God the Most High.

We will miss you, Pop Pop.

 

Prayer from These Alone Are Enough © 2004, Daniel L. Schutte.

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Born Blind

In Sunday’s Gospel, we hear the story of the man born blind. He finds Jesus and is healed.

It would be easy to think of this man in light of all those we know who are also blind: those who only see color when they look at others, those who only see religious practices that differ from their own, those who fail to see others in need, in pain, in darkness.

But for whatever reason, the Gospel made me think of all the things I still do not see. Though these things are ever present, I am blind. Though there are those around me who are light, I still somehow remain in darkness.

This week, I will wash my eyes and pray for sight.

To see the child whose needs are greater than my own.

To see and hear the coworker who just wants to talk.

To see the friend who has advice to share.

To see the spouse who is tired.

To see the person in need at the corner.

To see the reflection of Christ in the mirror.

To see the leader who knows more than I do.

To see the opportunities for new life around me.

Master, I want to see.

O God of Light, wash away the darkness.

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On Lent and Crosses

The acting out of love to the extent of dying on a cross is a mystery I have never been fully able to understand. My limited ability to love stands embarrassed at such extravagance. My daily attempt falls short of my dreams. I carry my crosses carefully, trying to make sure they don’t take too much out of me.

I always leave a little pink around the edges of my crosses. I can not bear unpleasant things. I honestly don’t know how Jesus did it! I can hardly accept WHY he did it. The why he did it always makes me feel guilty about the pink around the edges.

During Lent, at least, I’d like to let the pink go. I’d like to be content for forty days with a cross that is not pretty. But I am so young in my faith. It is hard not to cheat a little and search for soft, easy, pretty crosses.

O God of Lent, remember me. Help me to take all the clutter that I try to decorate my crosses with, all the ways I try to camouflage your death and dying because my faith has not grown enough and to look at death as it really is: an emptiness that brings me face to face with LIFE.

And yet, within my fragile, questioning heart I know that if I would ever dare get close enough to dying, to death, it would fall over into life.

O God of Lent, Your love has opened my eyes. It is my own pink-edged crosses that have broken my heart.

But your cross has saved me.

from Seasons of Your Heart
Macrina Wiederkehr

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That’s The Deal

Matthew’s account of the Transfiguration yesterday gives us the opportunity in Lent to take a break from all the penitence and sacrificing to celebrate what is possible. Jesus is transfigured – glorified – before the eyes of a few of his followers who share the account so all may be reminded of what is possible for everyone.

God became man so that man could taste divinity. Jesus is transfigured before a few to show the possibilities for all of us. That’s why Peter wants to build tents, remember the moment, memorialize the wonder and awe of the occasion. We all want to do that, don’t we? We don’t want the happiness of a moment to end. We want to stay in those experiences of bliss, unexpected and overwhelming joy. It’s why we build snowmen, take pictures on the roller coasters, and keep journals. I imagine if Peter, Andrew, or John had had a cell phone, we’d be remembering the moment by looking a selfie with the transfigured Jesus. But if we stay on the mountain, we only get half the story. Sure, it’s a great story – filled with wonderful feelings and ecstatic joy. But the picture is incomplete.

The joy on the mountain is but a moment. As C.S. Lewis so wonderfully reminds us, “The pain I feel now is part of the happiness I had before. That’s the deal.” We celebrate the Transfiguration in the midst of Lent because the joy the Apostles feel on that mountain is part of the agony they will experience, albeit unbeknownst to them, at the crucifixion. One will deny, another will abandon. But in time, they will come to see that it is all connected.

We build snowmen and take pictures because life goes on. Moments pass. Snow melts. We suffer tragedy and we agonize through experiences and all of these are wrapped up together in this fragile journey we call life. I am not being fatalistic or alarmist. It’s just how it is.

So pause this week and celebrate the joy, the stillness of snow or the beginning of springtime. Celebrate the wonder. Pray for the suffering. Smile at the stranger. Welcome the guest. It’s all connected – our happiness and sorrow, our pain and joy.

The happiness now is part of the pain then. The pain now is part of a happiness we cannot even imagine.

That’s the deal.

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The “A” Word Disappears

Lent begins on Wednesday. In the Donovan household (and at liturgical celebrations everywhere), it has always meant the absence of the “A” word. When the children were younger, it seemed like a big deal. You could not sing “Alleluia” around the house – and when one child did, another would correct them (sometimes harshly). Yes, it seemed that “dummy” and “idiot” remained in the common vocabulary, but heaven forbid that anyone sing praise during Lent.

The children are getting older and I doubt there will be much discussion of the “A” word this year. I don’t know whether they have aged out of the novelty of it or if their focus is pulled in so many directions, they have just forgotten the big deal it used to be. This year, we need to make Lent a big deal again. We need to try harder to “live Lent” intentionally. Perhaps this will mean giving up ice cream or candy or making a concerted effort to read more, watch less, or spend more time outside. Perhaps the iPad or Wii will go unplugged and we will dust off the family Bible.

Family time has always been a sacred tradition in our home. Friday night movie nights are a long-standing commitment we enjoy. Sunday Mass is sacrosanct. But last year Lent was consumed with packing and moving and emptying a house we occupied for 11 years. Lent rushed by and we fell into Easter without realizing we had failed to live Lent well.

This year, we will slow down. We will pause. We will pray. We will sacrifice. We will make some new traditions in our new home and we will spend the next forty-plus days understanding why the Church asks us to live in the dessert for a bit.

Then, when Easter comes, we will sing that “A” word loud and long. We will rise up and celebrate the reality that death falls over into life. We will celebrate being Easter people.

But to make Easter a more powerful experience, we must first live Lent well.

Are you ready?

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Unbelief

In today’s Gospel we see a man who hurts for his suffering child. “Help my unbelief,” he calls out to Jesus. I have been thinking about that line these past few days.

I can’t believe the things that pass for news. I can’t believe the people that pass for leaders. I can’t believe the same people who proclaim that life begins at conception also say that guns belong in schools.

I can’t believe that people really think the world is flat or that all undocumented workers are criminals, or that refugees arrive without years of vetting. I can’t believe Twitter is a thing.

I can’t believe how big my children are getting and how much fun they are when they play together. I can’t believe how often we say we are people of justice and mercy but behave quite differently. And yet, I can’t believe the recreational outrage to which so many people subscribe is quickly become the norm for our news and our politics and our communities. I can’t believe it’s almost Lent.

I can’t believe there are people who look at the wonder of creation and doubt the existence of God. I can’t believe that there are people who love God but don’t love their neighbor. And I can’t believe that there isn’t a scientist in this world who can’t come up with a rational reason that convinces us all that ice cream is, in fact, good for us.

As people of faith, there will always be things we struggle to believe. That God is love and that we, in turn, are called to share that love with others, shouldn’t be a struggle.

Help our unbelief, O Lord.

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God Saw How Good It Was

It is a dad-only week as mom travels to Pittsburg for her organization’s annual meeting. I have caught up on laundry, mostly because Maureen did nearly all of it before she left. I have tried a new recipe for slow-cooker oatmeal, which the children voted “not as good” as the last recipe. And I let them have garbage for dinner one night while we watched the documentary, Planet Earth (and no, the irony of mankind’s treatment of the earth and the effect of dinner on their bodies wasn’t lost on the eldest).

It is only day three.

But there was moment in Mass yesterday when I was listening to Father John read about salt and light, that I began to think about how my children are lights in the world. The oldest is fascinated with the possibility of alternate universes and wants to study quantum physics. I’m not sure I could spell the word “quantum” at eleven.

Child number two wants to be a teacher. I have never met a child who could turn anything into “playing school.” If she helps her sister study, there is an imaginary classroom involved. If they are playing with Legos, she’s building a school. I’m not sure if she wants to impart wisdom or just likes being bossy.

Child number three will illustrate the next great graphic novel. He has taken a cue from his eldest sister and fills sketchbook after sketchbook with illustrations. When he isn’t drawing, he is casting spells from Harry Potter on all of us. I think he wishes the school would add Parseltongue to their foreign language choices.

Then there is the youngest. We are hoping the upcoming celebration of Reconciliation curbs her ability to lie to your face (“You were gone for thirty seconds and I’m not deaf, so there is no way in the world you brushed your teeth!”). Still, her gymnastic abilities are amazing. Her confidence is overwhelming. The lying will pass, I am sure, but I pray the playfulness never leaves here.

I look at these four amazing children and pray their father doesn’t screw things up. I pray that they will grow to cherish their relationships with each other. I pray that they will change the world in powerful, pervasive ways. I look from my chair to the four of them sitting on the couch, eating Chex mix and popcorn (we were out of ice cream) and I realize they are the light of the world. They are the light of my world.

And it is very good indeed.

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Whatsoever You Do

“Give me your tired, your poor / Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.”

These lines, taken by Emma Lazarus’ poem “The New Colossus,” have been in the news of late as politicians and pundits quote the lines in response to the president’s latest executive order.

But if you know your history, you know that The Statue of Liberty, which arrived in New York in 1885 and was officially unveiled in 1886, was not very popular at first. No one likes it when a gift ends up costing money. Lazarus is credited as being among the first to really understand the significance of Lady Liberty. Still, her poem did not become famous until years later. In 1901 a friend rediscovered her words and in 1903 the last lines of the poem were engraved on a plaque and placed on the pedestal of the Statue of Liberty. Lady Liberty does not hold those words in her hand, as some on Twitter would have you believe. Someone who was paying attention had to place them where they live today.

If you want to quote something that underscores the fecklessness of the executive order, go back to another text, written hundreds of years before.

“Amen, I say to you, what you did not do for one of these least ones, you did not do for me.” (Matthew 25:45).

I imagine that passage was not met with overwhelming popularity when it was first announced. Be nice to my enemy? Are you kidding? Open my door to the hungry, the homeless, the refugee? The ones who smell? Are you serious? They are so different than me. Welcome the stranger? But what if they hurt me? Shouldn’t I first test them to see what their intentions are, have them fill out paperwork, wait in line for years, and then help them? Wouldn’t that be safer?

I would imagine the best way to turn someone against you, to foster their supposed hate for you is to slam in the door in their face and tell them they are not welcome.

We have been preaching the Gospel of Matthew for a few thousand years.

The time has come to show our brothers and sisters in need whether we really believe what we preach. As the great Fulton Sheen reminded his pupils, “If you do not live what you believe, you will end up believing what you live.”

God is love. That is not an alternate fact. It is Truth. Those of us who say we believe in God should remember that.