Pilgrim - Chapter 4

(All chapters are found on one page here. Scroll down to start at the beginning.) 

I was almost in complete agony, knowing that God was calling me to something...but what?  I didn't have a spiritual director, couldn't find one, so all I could do was write, pray, and hope. God had a plan...He HAD to have a plan!  

At that time, I was no longer considering religious life.  Even though it seemed maybe the door wasn't entirely closed, I wasn't attracted to the life, and in fact, the very IDEA was an effective repellant.  It wasn't like I didn't appreciate it, only that it wasn't for me.  

Last summer, I went to Ohio to visit friends, and because I was so cut off from my usual routine, the effect was as though I was at a retreat of sorts. The morning after I arrived, my friend and hostess asked me candidly about religious life. I definitively told her that I was NOT called to it.  She seemed a little surprised and disappointed, but supportive.  

Those few days, there in Ohio, were amazing. Our prayer, our conversations, our activities were all directed towards God.  I visited the Lourdes Shrine in Euclid Ohio, where five of us (two priests and 3 lay women) prayed the rosary and Daytime Prayer from the Liturgy of the Hours.  

The next day we went to the Vatican Splendors exhibit in Cleveland, and the one moment that stands out most clearly was stopping in my tracks, staring at a gold jewel-encrusted papal chalice.  It wasn't the ornate workmanship of the chalice that overwhelmed me; it was what it had contained:  the Most Precious Blood of Christ.  For a moment, I was lost in that fact. It was the most important thing in the world.  For a moment, the crowds around me, my friends...none of it mattered. Only that.  The only reality was the sacrifice of Christ, outpouring His own blood for our salvation.  Personally.  

That evening we attended Mass together, and a few things came together, as though the previous days had only been preparation to open the doors of my heart to God's REAL message for me.   

I mentioned that two of the friends in the Ohio group were (and remain!) priests. One of them was Pastor at the parish where we attended Mass, and it seemed it was even more meaningful because I'd been praying for him for so long...and had only just met him in person on the day of my arrival.  But it wasn't him I heard as he proclaimed the Gospel...it was Christ.  And he gave an amazing, eloquent homily that convicted me even further.  After Communion I knelt, unable to stop the tears.  I looked upon the altar, where he and our other priest friend were offering Communion, and realized what a gift this was. I realized that I was home. 

It wasn't the place. It wasn't even the people. It was the MASS.  For so long I'd realized I was a pilgrim on this earth, especially having read the Letter to Diognetus, which I now pretty much take as my anthem.  BOTH priests, that weekend, spoke of their joy in their Vocation, and emphasized their love of Christ, encouraging us all to be willing  to follow Him without reserve, wherever He was calling us. 

Maybe I was more open to the message God had for me because it was delivered through priests I knew and trusted as personal friends.  Or maybe it was the situation, being removed from my own comfort zone but placed firmly into God's own arms, without a doubt.  

In case there is any curiosity about the reading of that Sunday:  it was the parable of the Pearl of Great Price and the Treasure in the Field.  

I didn't know that when the trip was set up.  But God did. And He had a plan.  

While I was there, I said nothing to my friends. I had to take some time to think about what had happened.  My big "moment" happened at the Vigil Mass, but we attended Mass with the other priest the next day, and his own words and witness served to emphasize what it seemed God was saying the evening prior.  

On one hand, I did want to talk about what I'd experienced, but on the other hand...I couldn't. And really, maybe it's proper that I didn't.  As Mary did, I had to "ponder it in my heart".  

Just as she said to the Angel Gabriel, so did I ask, "How can this be?" 

What happened to me, you ask?  God.  God happened. Jesus spoke to me in a manner so deep and personal that it had no words, only understanding. 

 I realized that I'd been running away from Him for a very long time, and it was time to stop running.  I was a pilgrim. And as a pilgrim, I have no home on this earth.  The closest any of us can get to Home is the Mass, and if that's true, if the Sacrifice of Christ is true, then why WOULDN'T I be willing to leave everything?

After all, I'd left everything for that weekend.  What if I never went back?  What if it was place to remain there, in the presence of Christ?  What if I let EVERYTHING go? 

It wasn't so scary. I knew that in Christ, I'd have everything I truly need. And for the first time, I heard that He saw ME as "the pearl of great price". I'd never heard that before.  Yet, when I looked at the crucifix, I knew it was true.  Jesus went to the cross because he thought I was worth it. I thought of the fact that my birthstone is the pearl...even through my very birth, Christ gave me a revelation of my own value in His eyes.  

It's hard to accept that kind of love, and I didn't know if I could.  I wanted that kind of love, and I want to GIVE that kind of love.  

A few days after I returned home, I sent an email to my friends and let them know that I think God is calling me to religious life.  I went to my own Pastor, met with him, and noted he didn't seem a bit surprised (not that he ever does, actually, but his lack of surprise this time had a note of even more of a lack of surprise!)  Another priest at my parish told me that there would be doubts...always. But to get through them.  

And there have been doubts, serious doubts. Even attacks.  I've been praying hard, trying to discern God's will in all of this, and at this point, it seems that I am being called to consider not an active/contemplative community, but a cloister. All I desire is the Cross. Even as I tell Christ that I cannot drink of the same cup, I know that if it is what He calls me to do, He will give me the grace. 

I'm still in need of conversion. My life is still a mess, and were it not for the Sacraments, I'd still be lost.  

It's nice to have a purpose, though. It's nice to know that in spite of doubts, I have a plan. I've decided that, no matter what, I'm going forward with that plan, even though it will be difficult.  In all actuality, it's impossible.  

But God wil provide.  All I have to commit to is one step at a time. One step, along this Via Crucis, one designed especially for me out of the depths of God's love. 

Conversion...discernment. It all has blended into a unitive mass.  Ultimately it's all about one thing:  pursuing Christ.  Pursuing holiness. 

We so often write pithy poetry about chasing the elusive rainbow and finding a pot of gold to satisfy our material nature. Yet it seems impractical to pursue the shadow of the Cross, to walk it's length, knowing that when we arrive we will not be receiving treasure, but rather offering ourselves for crucifixion in a very real and agonizing sacrifice.  

I am a pearl. An unformed, misshapen pearl, constantly being formed through trial and time.  Right now, I am worth nothing to Our Lord, but He doesn't look at us in terms of what we are right now. He calls us according to what He has chosen us to become, and invites us to participate in that call through cooperation with His grace.   

I only hope that, when the time comes, I have lived a life that brings me into the refuge of the Blood that was shed for me, and I pray that precious blood changes my misshapen form into the pure and perfected pearl of great price, for which Our Lord so willingly entered His Passion, Death, and Resurrection. 

This is an ongoing story. Conversion is NEVER complete. We fall away through sin, we return, we grow, we regress.  But God is faithful, even as we are not.  

I am, and we all are, works in progress. All we can do is entrust ourselves to God's Mercy and do our best to cooperate with Him.  

Lord, Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.  Amen. 

*

Fin

Pilgrim - Chapter 3

(click for Chapter 1 and Chapter 2)

I got into a cycle of regular Confession, never missed Mass, and my friends invited me to go to daily mass with them.  But I never did. I never even darkened the door of the Adoration Chapel, being entirely clueless as to why I should.  

Proposal

Then, one February day, I think it was during Lent, for some reason I couldn't go to work. I hated my job, was completely stressed out, and that morning I was in tears just THINKING about work. But I wasn't sick so got up and went through the morning routine, knowing I needed to go. When it came time to leave, though, I couldn't get through the door. I couldn't open it. Something was telling me to STAY HOME.  I thought I was being ridiculous, certainly I needed to go to work!  But I was so emotionally distraught that I realized it was time for a "mental health" day, so I called in and said I was sick. I guess that was actually true, even though I didn't understand the nature of my "sickness."  

There was ONE place I DID want to go, though;  to the Adoration Chapel.  I wanted to go visit Jesus. I hoped He could give me the remedy for what was ailing me. Somehow, I knew I had to spend time in His presence.  On my way out the door, I grabbed a notebook, not understanding that inspiration, either.  But there it was.  

I sat down in the chapel, and looked at the Blessed Sacrament. Finally, almost in complete relief, I let the tears come. I  don't even think I was praying, just kneeling there crying my heart out.  After a bit I gained control of myself and took out the notebook...and began to write.  I wrote to Jesus, telling Him many things, writing about memories, regrets...many things. Finally I stopped and observed the monstrance, and began to write some more. About what Christ was offering to me, and what my response would be. 

Suddenly I stopped, shocked. I read what I had written, looked up at Jesus, thinking He could NOT possibly be saying what I thought He was saying. Was this a...a...proposal???? 

NO!  I began crying again, shocked, terrified, unworthy. Quickly I stood up and left the chapel, still crying, not knowing what to think. I went home, though, and started looking at different religious communities. What was out there?  COULD this be something I might want to do?

And again, my cousin's words came to me, haunting me. I'd never seriously considered religious life. But then again, I'd never been a "good Catholic". At that time, I was on my way, maybe, but, at least in my estimation, still not "there".  

That started a pendulum swinging; some days the life seemed attractive, other times it didn't.  And I didn't like praying the rosary in community, didn't even normally pray it every day!  I didn't think I wanted to spend so much time praying. But I did like the idea of helping the poor, I liked the idea of contributing to something real, not to a business I really didn't like.  

And then the pendulum would swing away and I was bored with the idea. It was usually around those times that some random person would say to me, out of the blue, "Do you think you have a Vocation?" I always said no, but then the pendulum would come back again and I'd find myself surfing the web for religious communities.  

I also began spending a lot more time in the Adoration Chapel, often even skipping lunch at work in favor of finding a chapel in a parish near the office. It was a very difficult time in my career, and had it not been for the availablity of those "mini-retreats", there was no way I would have survived with any sanity at all. In all liklihood, I would have lost my job.  With my entire being, I was seeking holiness and seeking Christ, knowing that without Him, I could do nothing at all. 

And still, the pendulum swung, back and forth, back and forth, almost tearing me apart. I thought maybe I was a character in Edgar Allen Poe's tale by the same title. This went on for a long time. Slowly I told a couple friends what I was thinking, and even told my Mom and brother.  That was a bad idea. That started Mom calling me nearly every day to ask if I still wanted "to be a nun".  She was absolutely convinced that I'd go knock on the door of a convent and never emerge again.  

I tried to go on different discernment retreats, but nothing worked out. I couldn't find anyone to take my dogs and I couldn't afford to put them in a kennel for the weekend. Or maybe the cost to get somewhere was too prohibitive. Some of my friends tried to "take over" and order me to do certain things, and I wasn't comfortable with those ideas. It wasn't the right time. And when I didn't do what they wanted me to do, those friends became angry with me. 

Then one day it occurred to me that I was going about discernment in the same way I'd gone about looking for jobs and choosing a career. Which, clearly, hadn't worked out well for me even in the proper context.  I realized that discernment was dependent upon God. Not me. So I simply stopped looking and put it in God's hands. I was open to His will, and it seemed religious life wasn't His will for me. So I shrugged and went on with my life, realizing I'd done my duty as a "good Catholic woman."  I'd seriously discerned religious life and now it was done.  

And the sense went away. I'd learned a great deal in that process, and through it, had come to a closer relationship with Our Lord. 

And thankfully, Mom stopped asking about it.  

Graduate School

The following summer, I attended a Catholic conference that was held locally, and, there, found my thirst for knowledge of God growing almost unbearably.  Since my conversion, I'd done a great deal of reading, had listened to Catholic Answers on the radio, and in fact, was always listening to Catholic Radio.  After the Conference, I again began to think about going back to school, this time to study theology. I learned that I wouldn't necessarily need to go for an  undergrad degree since I already had a B.A., but might be able to get straight into a grad program. But it seemed too expensive. A friend, though, encouraged me and made me ask an important question:   other people went to grad school...why NOT me?  

So I looked into it and applied for the Catholic Studies program at the University of St. Thomas, and was subsequently admitted, although as a special student.  As I could not qualify for financial aid under that status, I delayed my start...and learned about Ave Maria University's Institute for Pastoral Theology. The curriculum matched what I TRULY desired, so I took a course, loved it, and my application was accepted.  

I remember sitting in class one day, realizing what God had done to give me this great gift. I wondered how, though, exactly, I could have gone from the cesspool that was my life to being a grad student in theology.  There, sitting in that first class I took, I nearly wept with gratitude. 

Pursuit of Holiness and God's Will

Even though I didn't think God was calling me to religious life, I had a deep spiritual longing to be more united with Christ. I recognized the need to be committed, somehow, to someone, and it seemed that marriage really wasn't "it" for me, even though that's where I thought I probably belonged.  Yet, I couldn't really see myself in a home with children. I didn't know any guys I'd be interested in even dating, nor did I know of any who would be interested in me.  

So I learned to be content with my state in life, knowing God was there, that He had a plan, and it was my job to keep my eyes on Him.  Even so, there was an intensity in my longing that was nearly painful at times.  I was in agony, wanting to belong to SOMEONE, tired of being adrift, recognizing that this solitude isn't natural or part of God's original plan for humanity.  

A random question to a classmate about whether we had Third Order Dominicans in our area ended up being launched into the idea of starting a new chapter.  This seemed like a perfect idea, and I knew that although it wasn't a vow, it would be a new step in pursuing union with God.  I was very drawn to the Dominicans, and saw the intercession of the Dominican Saints in my life;  my own Confirmation Saint, I learned, was a tiertiary (3rd Order) Dominican, which, today we  refer to as "Dominican Laity".  

That continued coming up against walls, although we learned that there is a small chapter locally, so we were working with them to find an advisor.

Then something else happened, for God was not yet finished with me and had a BIG surprise in store....

Pilgrim - Chapter 2

Chapter One can be found here.

So it was that when I graduated from college, I had no relationship with God. I was truly seeking Him, but rarely went to Mass. Whenever I did attend Mass, I usually broke down in tears. I would sit and stand and kneel, trying mightily to maintain my compsure, and even if I was successful, when I went forward for communion, all control would be lost. I'd return to my pew barely able to see.  

A strange thing was happening, though; I was there so rarely that it seemed I always managed to attend Mass when Gospel was the story of the Prodigal Son. And yet, I managed to miss the main point of that reading:  God's love and Mercy.  I did sense an invitation to return, but I didn't know how. I was terrified. And so instead of running into the open arms of our Savior, I unworthily received Him in Holy Communion and fled in tears, back into the darkness of my life.  

I desperately needed to go to Confession as I was NOT living morally. Nor did the situation ever improve; rather, it spiraled downward.  But I hadn't been to Confession since some time in high school, and I questioned whether it was really necessary, anway.  Couldn't we just go straight to God?  I was truly sorry for my sins, and certainly knew right from wrong, but I also knew I couldn't get myself out of them. I was stuck.  

Yet, God continued to pursue me, refusing to let me get away so easily.  

I remember driving down the street one day, remembering the words of my cousin, who had served as my Confirmation sponsor.  She had been in college at that time and was speaking of the Sisters she knew there.  And although her comment wasn't addressed to me, she was passing on advice she'd been given by someone in her own life. 

It was so ironic, that there, as I ran amok in a world of sin, when the state of my soul was worse than abysmal, her words echoed through the years:   "Every good Catholic woman should seriously consider becoming a religious sister." 

And on the heels of that thought came the next one:  "I'm supposed to be a religious sister." 

WHAT!?  I nearly slammed on the brakes, but instead I shut down that thought as quickly as I could. I knew the life I was living. I was NOT a good Catholic by ANY stretch of the imagination. And..me?  A....SISTER????  Hysterical!  Blasphemous. Boring.  

I remembered during college, a great uncle had offered to pay for my education if I would become a teacher. He was a trustee at a Catholic school on the East coast and through his connections, I'd almost be guaranteed a job.  But I refused, and that reason was this:  his description of what he felt I should be doing sounded an awful lot like he wanted me to be a nun. 

I pushed the thoughts away, thinking that I really was supposed to get married, and maybe to my boyfriend at the time. We'd have a house, I didn't want children, but we could have pets and maybe I'd get a horse finally.  And have a successful career, etc etc.  

So I moved on, but every so often my cousin's words would invade my thoughts:  "Every good Catholic woman should seriously consider becoming a religious sister." 

Conversion 

It was maybe around that time that I met an ex-Catholic anti-Catholic at work. I often spoke with friends about spiritual things. I was truly seeking God, and I said I was Catholic.  Yet I didn't know my faith. One Evangelical friend invited me to her church, but I never went. In fact, I never darkened the door of another church as I couldn't for some reason, stop identifying myself as Catholic.  So it was that I was challenged by others who hated the Church and lodged false accusations against her.  But I had no defense. I knew that the attacks were unjust, I knew that the charge that Confession wasn't scriptural was wrong, although I wanted to agree. 

But I couldn't.  The statements from my anti-Catholic friend sent me on a journey to find answers to my own questions.  I would go home from work, turn on the TV, and one day I found EWTN. Exactly the shows I needed:   The Journey Home and Web of Faith.  

Other people had the same questions as I!  It was amazing to me, although I still wanted to reject many of the answers, thinking them "too conservative".  The reality was, though, that I  recognized Truth when I heard it, and that truth began to work on me, little by little. 

I was going to Mass more often at that point, and felt like a fraud, as though everyone could look at me and see how awful I really was.  I used to sit in the back of the Church, as far away from people as I could.  At no time would I ever approach a priest, for I feared if I did, he would immediatly recognize my sorry state and say I had to go to Confession.  I thought I was transparent.  

And as desperately as I wanted to go to some authority and ask my questions, and get answers for my misunderstandings, I just as desperately feared the very remedy I needed, and had begun to want. 

I began to pray, "God, please don't give up on me! Don't ever give up on me!"

I was trying, really trying, but had no solid Catholic friends. All that I knew were just as fallen as I was, if not more so.  What I didn't realize is that even though I was so lost, God was there, and...didn't give up on me. 

Finally, at long last, I made it to Confession. My boyfriend was in Afghanistan, I had been working hard to clean up my life, I'd learned a lot more about my faith and had begun defending it, if imperfectly.  But it was a start.  And I truly wanted to come home. 

So, I searched online and found a communal penance service at a church I knew I'd never go to again for it was far away from where I lived.  I went, picked up an examination of conscience, and sat down...in the back, as usual.  The reading, of course, was the story of the Prodigal Son. I started crying and couldn't stop. They announced where the priests would be stationed, and to my great dismay, I realized I was FAR away from a confessional where I could be anonymous.  I had to go face-to-face. So I stood in the line closest to me, weeping uncontrollably. 

Thankfully no one said anything, and I did my best to hide my face.  I wanted to flee, but wanted to stay. I'd finally gotten this far and NEEDED to go through with it. I feared that if I left, I'd never be able to come back.  It must have taken a legion of angels to keep me there in that line! 

Finally, it was my turn. When the priest saw me he exclaimed "Oh my!" and reached a calming hand out to me. I said, "It's been 12 years..." and in my hand, I had the examination of conscience.  He quickly put things together, and said, "THAT'S WONDERFUL!  YOU'RE the Prodigal Daughter!"  He was overjoyed...I was flabbergasted.  He went on to explain that the examen they handed out was meant to be a guide, not something designed to condemn us, and he told me to make a general confession. I did my best, I listed everything, barely able to speak, and I doubt he was even able to understand me most of the time. Yet he never asked me to repeat anything.  I told him that I'd stayed away because I knew I was going to committ those sins again. I knew I was supposed to have a firm purpose of amendment, and didn't think I did. 

I didn't understand at that time that God didn't expect me to perfect myself; that's His job. And the priest explained to me that our inability to free ourselves is why Christ died for us and why He gave us the Sacrament of Confession;  in His mercy He knew we could come to Him over and over again if necessary, and be forgiven.  

Receiving absolution that evening remains one of the most profoundly glorious moments of my life. When I left the church to head home, I knew it was gone. I knew I was free, if only for a little while.  The following week was Holy Week, and I wanted to be ready.  Our Lord waited.  

Sadly, it was another three years before I had the courage to go to Confession again, for, as I suspected, I fell back into my old sins, very quickly.  But something had changed; I truly desired to live a holy life, at least to some degree. I got another job, I broke up with the boyfriend, and I moved to another city where I had bought a house.  God had lead the way and brought me into a world in answer to a simple prayer:  for more Catholic friends.  

Two of my new neighbors were young Catholic women about my age, my new parish had perpetual Adoration (although I really didn't know what that was), and I was making more and more connections to other Catholics online through Catholic Answers forums.  I learned a great deal, began attending local conferences, went to Mass every Sunday...and was still living in a state of mortal sin. And yes, I was receiving Communion. 

At some point I became convicted and stopped receiving, although I continued to go to Mass.  Finally one day I took the day off of work to ENSURE I would go to Confession. And finally, I went in, this time anonymously, made a three year confession, and promised the priest that I would never again stay away for so long.  And I was serious, making it a habit.  

At first, I would be shaking and crying, terrified, yet realizing the irrationality of my response. Only GOOD things were happening! And so I continued to go, at least once a month if not more often.   

This is a habit that has continued, and I hope to never again fall so far away from Our Lord that I'd fear not to come back.  

As it was, I found my parish home, I was surrounded by wonderful Catholic friends, and finally in a place to begin to listen to what God REALLY wanted to say to me. 

*

Pilgrim - Chapter 1

I was a "miracle baby", only because Mom was told she could never have children.  Thus my older brother by two and a half years was a miracle, and I following,  was just a cute little bundle from God thumbing His nose at the pathetic "god of Science" that continues to reign in America. 

But I wasn't born into a perfect family, for who is?  Nor was I born perfect; it was only right that I was born of two imperfect parents.  Mom had been born into a large Catholic family, and had only one hand.  It was surmised that the umbilical cord had been wrapped around her left hand, refusing to let it be formed properly.  My Dad was born with Spina Biffeda and spend his young life in and out of surgery. 

I know my parents met at a dance and dated long-distance before they got married. Grandma on Dad's side had a conniption fit, apparently because Mom was "Irish Catholic", and Grandma, who had immigrated with her parents from Stockholm, Sweden, it was apparently a national hobby to hate Irish Catholics.  That's the impression I always had, anyway.  

As it was was, I grew up with a huge disconnect;  Dad was Lutheran, Mom was Catholic. That meant that Dad rarely came to Mass with us, and on Holy Days of note, our relatives on Mom's side were willing to travel...but those on Dad's side weren't.  

So we spent many secular holidays with Dad and his family, such as Thanksgiving, and if we were there for Christmas, they went to a plush-carpeted Lutheran church while Mom drove my brother and I, alone, or were dropped off at the local Catholic Church. 

I remember feeling like a refugee of sorts.  

It's not that we grew up with massive family discord; rather, I have many great memories of my grandparents on Dad's side, our travels to visit them and Mom's family in Minnesota. I mean only to emphasize that our own little family of four was very much split along religious lines, even as they tried to make it work.  

Even today when we get together for holidays, in honor of Dad, we say the Lutheran meal blessing along with the Catholic:

Catholic:   Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive.  From Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord, Amen

Lutheran:  Come Lord Jesus, be our guest, and let these gifts to us be blessed. Amen. 

It's a beautiful blend of the prayers of two religions, and even as I wish my parents had been unified in their faith, I'm grateful for Dad's contribution to the customs of our family in the name of Jesus.  

Childhood....

I said before that I wasn't born perfect. I wasn't.  I was born with a lazy eye. My earliest baby pictures show this terrible defect, and I remember this defect being constantly discussed.  I remember wearing a patch over my left eye, and I remember when the extreme part of the defect was miraculously cured via the power of prayer the day before surgery.  

But that didn't take away the need to wear the dreaded Patch, and it was maybe the ONLY thing my older brother didn't use to torture me during those early years.  Nor did I ever tease him about his struggle to learn to read, even as I surpassed his abilities before my own time.  

Even siblings can find peace.  Those were our early years.  

But things changed.  I remember Mom and Dad arguing at night, and I'll never forget the cold November day when Mom went outside and smashed a bottle against the Maple Tree, and, shortly afterwards, Dad left with a suitcase and never returned.  

I'm not sure if it was the following summer or later, but it was an awful day in our history.  Mom  began "pacing" down the long living room as though she were walking the aisle in her own wedding or serving as a bridesmaid. She was clasping her hands together and muttering to herself. A neighbor took her to the hospital, we went into another neighbor's care, and the next day, or a few days later, our aunts and uncles suddenly appeared at our home to take care of us.  Grandma on Mom's side was the most prominent of the caretakers.  

That summer Mom was diagnosed with Bipolar. Shortly after that, the divorce was final and the bank foreclosed on the house.  We moved to Minnesota courtesy of an uncle's cattle truck and a small caravan of passenger cars. 

A couple years later, Dad moved to Minnesota and found a place near the Cities, so we were able to see him more often.  

In 6th Grade I played a flute solo in the Christmas program at the Church of the Sacred Heart, and Dad was invited, but I don't think he ever came.  I wanna say he did one Christmas, but although he was invited every year, he chose not to come.  It was always a disappointment to me. Even as I remembered that Christmas Eve, trembling before an audience the likes of which I've never seen and haven't seen since.  Even as I remember the vibrato enforced by uncontrollable shaking, even as I remember struggling to hold my flute and play the notes through my frozen fingers...I don't remember Dad being there.  I know he was there ONCE...but never again. 

It didn't matter. That's what I told myself.  

But Dad DID help me learn to drive when I turned 16, taking me to the narrow, overcrowded streets of Uptown Minneapolis. He taught me how to drive on freeways, how to deal with idiot drivers, and his own lessons have often come into play as I later moved to the Cities and  made it my home. 

Grandpa died when I was in Jr. High, and as it was the middle of winter and the weather was poor, we didn't go to the funeral.  Dad did, though, and actually moved to Michigan in order to help Grandma.  So it was that I didn't see him much over the next few years.

During Jr High and High School, I remained active in my parish, as a progressing flutist, as a cantor, and a member of the adult Choir.  I'd have to say that my happiest memories of those years were from my connection to my parish, and my best friend, whom I met through a youth group that didn't last.  

In spite of that though, those were tough years. It's a much longer story, but suffice to say I nearly took my own life, truly believing that I had no contribution to this world.  Mom was in and out of the hospital, Dad wasn't around at all, and at the worst of it, at one point, I lost ALL of my friends.  There was a terrible confrontation in the cafeteria of my Jr. High school, where I gave my ONLY warning:  "Maybe I should just kill myself".

The response of my "friends"  was "Yeah..maybe you should."  

I nearly did.  It is ONLY God's hand that stayed my own.   

Troubled High School....

Life was awful.  I  was never one of the popular group. I don't know that I was officially a "nerd" any longer, but I had no status.  Half the time I lived with my best friend's family, sometimes I lived with relatives.  I remember sitting in the hallway before classes started, wondering where I'd sleep that night. I had clothing and a work schedule packed into my locker, hoping that I'd be able to reach someone...because I couldn't go back home.  I couldn't take it anymore.  

There were a few friends who knew what was going on at home. NO ONE knew how close I was to taking my own life. 

I even now doubt few people would have cared.

One day, in desperation, I went to the Guidance Counselor, having run away from home, unable to take any more. She listened to my story and told me to go to the school principal and ask about minor emancipation. So it was that one morning I sat tearfully in his presence and explained that Mom wouldn't sign a permission for something because of her mental illness.

He'd never seen me before because I was a good student, and was somewhat shocked by what I was saying. That, thankfully, gave me credibility. In his compassion he gave me other options; everything other than the legal proceedings I had been told to seek.

I graduated when I was still 17, and two weeks later, legally, I became an adult. Two weeks later, Mom attempted suicide and I not only signed the 72-hour-hold as her legal guardian, but I advocated for commitment. Thank God wonderful mental health professionals, both those who had worked with her throughout the years and the one who was in charge of her at the new hospital took the time to learn the facts and explain the consequences. Mom was saved from a very damaged 18-year-old daughter who didn't know what else to do.

That same year, right on schedule I went to college, a Catholic one.  I stopped going to Mass; I knew nothing about being Catholic because I'd grown up to believe our faith is in what we do during and surrounding Mass...and nothing else. And since I wasn't DOING anything anymore, it all fell apart.  I had nowhere to roost. I wasn't playing flute or cantoring anymore.  I was away from that parish family that had been cultivated over the years.  I missed them, but I also missed "performing" every Sunday, for that was what it seemed to be for me.

Clearly, I never understood what the Mass was REALLY about. 

College

I was one of the few college students happy to be away from "home". As it was, I had not home. We'd lost our home the summer, so really, I had no permanent address. The homesickness of my friends was mystifying to me.

During those years, I rarely attended Mass, and if I did, I was in tears, so just didn't go as I didn't know how to handle my own emotions or why they were happening.

I spent a semester in Mexico during my Junior year, and exactly a month after I returned, Dad passed away.  It was a devastating event especially because I couldn't talk to anyone. There were those who offered open doors, but I ran away from them.  The VP of the college himself offered his shoulder and his time, but I lied and told him I was fine. I couldn't speak.  Yet I'd stop in on occasion to "chat", and he'd try, clearly mystified that I wouldn't speak of my very obvious  grief. If I felt the tears coming on I'd quickly make an excuse and flee his office.    

I could not speak.  I wanted to, but couldn't.  It took months.  

And throughout my question was...where was God?

I learned in a very heretical class just after Dad's passing that "God is not omnipotent".  It destroyed me.  There I was, faced with one of the biggest questions of my life:  "Where is God in all of this?"  

And through that class was given the answer, "He can't help you. God doesn't really care. He doesn't have time."

As it was, at that point, I had no home, I hated my family (what little I had left), I didn't feel connected to anyone or anything, and I missed my Dad, whom, by the way, I hadn't seen at all since high school graduation and would never see again. 

Is it any wonder that I looked then to New Age and the Occult?  For they also have gods who don't care, but at least those gods can be manipulated...in theory, anyway.  

At the time, I worked in Campus Security and when it was my job to lock the chapel, I would genuflect even though I didn't know why. Something called me to wait, to remain, there in the warmth, there in the light of the tabernacle candle. Because He was the ONLY one who knew my suffering.

And yet I fled from the light, however flickering, however warm.  I was lost. 

Read Chapter Two