Thanksgiving: What, Exactly, Are We Celebrating?

Adviso! This is one of those epically long posts that might qualify as "Story time with Adoro". It's part rant, part history, part Adoro being Adoro. So settle in with a leg of turkey from your annual sacrifice, some mashed potatoes, gravy, green bean hotdish with French's onions on top, a dinner roll, cranberries and a nice glass of Riesling or Gwertztraminer or maybe a Pinot Noir, because you aren't going anywhere any time soon. Don't say you weren't warned. Even my UK and Australian readers may want to read this one...your ancestors might be involved, too.....

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Every single year it happens: we Americans get together and exclaim over cutesy Pilgrim and Indian figures worshiping a cheap plastic squash holding court in the center of the table while we eat great quantities of food and then nap because we can't move our engorged bodies, so besotted are we with triptophan and wine.

Every single year, as we ramp up for this "Holiday", while we use the word "Thanksgiving" officially, the REAL meaning of the day is summed up in popular parlance: "Turkey Day".

Yup. It's all about the Almighty Turkey. As Fr. Charles succinctly observes, we even make sure those who cannot afford one to worship ( uh, I mean roast) have one, or a few, if need be. Not ham. Not chicken. Not roast beef. TURKEY. As the good Father says:

People start to show up at the door of the church to "get their turkey" with a spirit similar to the one that brings out the hordes to "get their ashes" or "get their palms." It cracks me up because turkey is actually very cheap as edible proteins go, and not without hazards and pitfalls when it comes to preparation. It's a symbolic thing, I know, a graced transaction that has more depth of meaning than economic need reveals.

In a thousand years, archaeologists are going to dig into our decaying yet somewhat-preserved belongings and our literature and our celluloid (film) and ascertain that we, as a culture, one day out of the year lose our minds and worship one of the dumbest and most useless animals on the planet.

I remember as a child, a CATHOLIC child, learning in public school about the Puritans who were escaping England in search of "religious freedom". Their biggest enemy: The Big Bad Catholic Church, under the auspices of the Church of England, but really...it was the "Romanists" they hated the most.

These poor innocent people, thanks be to God, arrived on the shores of the New World where they nearly died as a result of their ignorance and complete inability to survive. We all remember the story of Squanto, the nice Indian who taught them about corn.

I still remember decorating a paper bag and making a headband with "feathers" in his honor in school. I loved the "Indian" stuff. The Pilgrim things always seemed lame to me. Maybe it was because they were slandering my religion and I was on to them even before I realized how far their hatred of us went.

But I can certainly say I NEVER knew that it was at the hands of the Catholic Church that the Pilgrims survived...through the intercession of Squanto.

This information isn't contained in popular History. I don't know why. It's one of the BEST stories I've ever read about history, and I read it today, and reproduce it, in part, for you thanks to the good Fr. MacRae, who hails from his unjust imprisonment:

"Before boarding the Mayflower, the Pilgrims were called 'Separatists.' The religious 'persecution' these Puritan Fathers of America came here to flee consisted largely of their wish to expunge the remnants of Catholicism in the established Church of England. Philip Lawler summed this up in his book,The Faithful Departed: The Collapse of Boston’s Catholic Culture" (Encounter Books, 2008) :

“ …the Puritans were campaigning against the lingering traces of Catholicism. Decades of brutal persecution – first under Henry VIII, then under Elizabeth I – had eliminated the Roman Church from English public life in the sixteenth century; the country’s few remaining faithful Catholics had been driven underground. For the Puritans, that was not enough … They were determined to erase any vestigial belief in the sacraments, any deference to an ecclesiastical hierarchy.” (The Faithful Departed, p. 22).

G.K. Chesterton once famously remarked, “In America, they have a feast to celebrate the arrival of the Pilgrims. Here in England, we should have a feast to celebrate their departure.”

Despite their disdain for Catholicism, it is one of the great ironies of American history that the Mayflower’s Puritan Pilgrims owe their very survival in the New World – indirectly at least – to the Catholic Church.

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Are you intrigued? Read on:

In 1614, six years before the arrival of the Mayflower, Captain John Smith (the same man rescued by Pocahontas in another famous tale) led two vessels to the coast of Maine to barter for fish and furs. When Smith departed from the Maine shore, he left a lieutenant, Thomas Hunt, in command to load the smaller ship with dried fish.

Without consultation, Hunt sailed his ship south into what is now called Cape Cod Bay. Anchored off the coast of Patuxet (now Plymouth) in 1614 Hunt and his men invited two dozen native villagers, including Squanto (Tisquantum) aboard their ship. Once aboard, the Indians - as the Europeans came to call them were forced at musket point into the ship's hold where they were chained. Kidnapped from their village and families, Hunt too them on a six-week journey across the Atlantic.

Not all the captured Indians survived the voyage. Those who did survive, Squanto among them, were taken to Malaga off the coast of Spain to be sold as slaves.

Fortunately for Squanto – and, later for our pilgrims – Spain was a Catholic country. In 1537, Pope Paul III issued “Sublimis Dei,” a papal bull forbidding Catholic governments from enslaving or mistreating Indians from the Americas. The Pope declared that Indians are “true men” and could not lawfully be deprived of liberty. The papal document declared that any Spanish intervention in the lives of Indians had to be motivated by benefit to the Indians themselves, and not to the Spanish

As a result, the Catholic Church in Spain strongly opposed mistreatment of Indians and opposed bringing them to Europe against their will At Malaga, Thomas Hunt managed to sell several of his Indian captives before two Catholic priests intervened. The priests seized and rescued the unsold Indians, including Squanto who somehow convinced the Spanish speaking priests to return him home.

Take note of the year: 1537. Note that in the meantime, Mexico was also being colonized by the Spanish, Missionaries were being sent, and note well that the Catholic Church was then and has ALWAYS been against slavery. This information will arise in another post more specific to that topic.

Go to Fr. MacRae's post to read about how Squanto (Tisquantum) found his way back to his Native soil to find his entire tribe dead, and, as the only Native American fluent both in their languages AND in English, convinced the Native leader, Massasoit, in what we now recognize as Plymouth, Massachusetts NOT to kill the Pilgrims, but rather, to allow him to speak for both.

It was because of Squanto that the Pilgrims survived. It was because of the Catholic Church that Squanto survived and returned to save them.

You won't read about that in school. Are you WILLING to read about it NOW and fall on your knees in Thanksgiving for God's Divine Providence? Go back and read the ENTIRE POST Fr. MacRae has to offer.

BUT WAIT! THERE'S MORE!

I don't intend this post to be about the anti-Catholicism of the Pilgrims. Regardless of their hatred of us, of their faulty ideology and their complete ignorance, we owe them a debt of gratitude. These people risked their lives, many lost them, and it is because of them, in part, that this country was born. We owe them thanks for what they did, we should be offering prayers for their souls (because as they don't believe in Purgatory there is no one praying for them but us) and we owe Thanks to God for all He has done to make this country great.

It seems to me, though, in reality, we owe a far greater debt, to the Native Americans than we do the Pilgrims, for it is the Natives of this country who helped our founding families live, when they COULD have allowed them to simply starve to death. Yet, it seems to me that those who were branded as "savages" for so long were far more humane than those they harbored and taught to survive: the pathetic, ignorant, weak, anti-Catholic-to-the-death pilgrims.

Still, I'm not entirely sure that the Native Americans would look upon Squanto as a hero, and sadly, we who are of European descent have never been taught of his entire history and role in our survival. This is a HUGE disservice, both to the Native peoples and to our own ancestry. Can it be surmised that Tisquantum's actual life story is not presented to children or to the larger American audience because of the ties to the Catholics and Catholic ideology that saved him from Protestant slavery? It would be impossible to share his story without discussing what was behind it, and it seems to me it has been very purposefully suppressed. Why else would a nation fail to mention such a fascinating and epic life story of a man who united two worlds?

Such a history from the experience of a REAL hero is quite inconvenient to the romanticism and perfection of our founding Protestant European "saints" isn't it?

Five Kernels of Corn

We have to ask anew, after all this, WHAT, exactly, are we celebrating each year? How can we know if we've forgotten or have NEVER KNOWN our roots? All most of us know is the romanticized comfortable version of the first people to touch the shores of America, which doesn't tend to recognize the people who were already here and who enabled us to survive. It doesn't tend to mention, in the history books, the Hand of God who orchestrated the survival of our ancestors, or the heroic actions of real people like Tisquantum (Squanto) who gave his fiat to God in true charity, on behalf of the most destitute; our ancestors.

Our entire Nation is built upon poverty in every form.

A few years ago, one of my professors gave us a Thanksgiving lecture in the midst of our Scripture class, and I've never forgotten it. I can't forget his passion or the tears in his eyes, or the tears that fell from my own during his lecture. I was deeply moved. It should be mentioned that my professor had been raised and had been a Pastor in a Protestant religion, but had converted to Catholicism, so perhaps had a particular pain in his heart at the disunity and war that has always been present at the heart of America.

I posted this a few years ago but find it necessary to post it here again today, in its entirety. You can find the original here:

Many years ago, a ship set off from Europe, seeking greener pastures, a land of promise. They landed off course in winter, but decided to remain and eke out their new existance, and indeed, there the people settled. Their code was basic; the Lord is your God, and those who do not work shalt not eat.

That winter, food was rationed, and these completely unprepared people were also completely unequipped to battle for survival. Were it not for the intervention of the Native peoples, they all would have perished. During their worst days, all they had to eat, PER DAY, was 5 kernels of corn. Many died that winter.

And yet, they still had to continue working for survival, even under those rations:

FIVE. KERNELS. OF. CORN.

Some of them survived, and their new friends taught them how to plant corn and how to survive in this new land. When they had their first bountiful harvest, they celebrated. And it was not for only one day. NO! They celebrated as in Biblcal times...for a week! But they remembered their previous winter, and so to begin, they were each rationed 5 grains of corn, as a reminder. It was a solemn moment. There they were, before a repast fit for Kings and their Courts, and yet, in humility, they remembered their moments of the most abject poverty. They remembered the lives lost, the terrible journey, and the friendship and hard work that enabled their survival.

They knew they owed their very lives to God. And only 5 grains of corn was enough to remind them of their humble positions before their Maker.

Deuteronomy 8: 1-20

1 Be careful to follow every command I am giving you today, so that you may live and increase and may enter and possess the land that the LORD promised on oath to your forefathers. 2 Remember how the LORD your God led you all the way in the desert these forty years, to humble you and to test you in order to know what was in your heart, whether or not you would keep his commands. 3 He humbled you, causing you to hunger and then feeding you with manna, which neither you nor your fathers had known, to teach you that man does not live on bread alone but on every word that comes from the mouth of the LORD. 4 Your clothes did not wear out and your feet did not swell during these forty years. 5 Know then in your heart that as a man disciplines his son, so the LORD your God disciplines you.

6 Observe the commands of the LORD your God, walking in his ways and revering him. 7 For the LORD your God is bringing you into a good land—a land with streams and pools of water, with springs flowing in the valleys and hills; 8 a land with wheat and barley, vines and fig trees, pomegranates, olive oil and honey; 9 a land where bread will not be scarce and you will lack nothing; a land where the rocks are iron and you can dig copper out of the hills.

10 When you have eaten and are satisfied, praise the LORD your God for the good land he has given you. 11 Be careful that you do not forget the LORD your God, failing to observe his commands, his laws and his decrees that I am giving you this day. 12 Otherwise, when you eat and are satisfied, when you build fine houses and settle down, 13 and when your herds and flocks grow large and your silver and gold increase and all you have is multiplied, 14 then your heart will become proud and you will forget the LORD your God, who brought you out of Egypt, out of the land of slavery. 15 He led you through the vast and dreadful desert, that thirsty and waterless land, with its venomous snakes and scorpions. He brought you water out of hard rock. 16 He gave you manna to eat in the desert, something your fathers had never known, to humble and to test you so that in the end it might go well with you. 17 You may say to yourself, "My power and the strength of my hands have produced this wealth for me." 18 But remember the LORD your God, for it is he who gives you the ability to produce wealth, and so confirms his covenant, which he swore to your forefathers, as it is today.

19 If you ever forget the LORD your God and follow other gods and worship and bow down to them, I testify against you today that you will surely be destroyed. 20 Like the nations the LORD destroyed before you, so you will be destroyed for not obeying the LORD your God.

DO NOT take the Lord's mercy for granted. Do not make your "Thanksgiving" a moment of self-praise about what YOU have accomplished and built. Remember that the Lord, your God has given you EVERYTHING that you have, to the very air in your lungs. As you sit around the table before a sumptuous repast, remember our forefathers and what they suffered, remember your own moments, if you had them, of absolute poverty, and remember that all you now have is a gift. Invite God into your celebration, and if it so helps, as you offer your Thanksgiving prayers and blessings, set before you 5 grains of corn. And Remember whom you serve, and who it is who holds you in existance...and Praise Him.

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Thanksgiving, 2009

My friends, Give thanks to God for what you have received. Remember the humble roots from which you spring. Remember the sacrifices of the pilgrims, the origin of our nation, the importance of our Catholic faith, so ignored and even vilified with regard to the founding of this country. Take pride in who you are as Americans and remember that many martyrs made this country great. Remember the heroism of the Native Peoples who taught our beloved ancestors to survive, recognizing that were it not for them, we would not be who we are.

God bless you all, have a blessed Thanksgiving, and let the five kernels of corn forever remind you of the humility of your roots and the hand of God in your very being in ever single moment.

Give thanks to God...His mercy endures forever!

God's Little Connections

Something amazing happened today, and as it was happening, it didn't even seem weird, although it should have.

I had to run some errands for work and stopped at Wal-Mart. I drove around the lot looking for a space near my partner in mass-event shopping, and as I stepped out of my car, saw an SUV waiting in the aisle behind me. The woman had her window down and signaled to me; she was obviously waiting to speak to me.

For a moment I wondered if I should recognize her from somewhere? She didn't look angry so I figured I hadn't inadvertantly cut her off or something. I wondered if she was going to tell me I had a flat tire? (That happened to me when I was 16...)

But no, that wasn't it. She indicated my "Relevant Radio 1330" (a local Catholic radio station) bumper sticker and gestured for me to come closer to listen as she turned up her radio. Indeed, she was listening to Relevant Radio, and she explained that she saw my bumper sticker and so HAD to follow me around the lot in hopes of speaking to me.

It was strange; I should have been maybe a little weirded out by a strange woman following me around a parking lot just because of a bumper sticker for a station she liked. But for some reason, I wasn't, and in looking back, she seemed a bit bamboozled by her own behavior of following a stranger around a parking lot with regard to a bumper sticker!

But it wasn't strange and I can't explain why. It seemed perfectly natural. And it was. She went on talking, as though seeking an explanation for her reason for wanting to speak to me, explaining that she used to have that bumper sticker and had bought a new vehicle and no longer had one.

Immediately, almost as though someone whispered it in my ear or even more, to my heart, I remembered that I'd picked up some extra bumper stickers from church thinking I'd run into someone who needed one. Not really sure if they were still in my car or any good if they were, and seeing that a car was patiently waiting for us to stop blocking the way, I asked the woman to wait a moment as I thought I had some extras. So as I went to my car, she pulled aside to let the other car pass.

I opened my back door, looked in the pocket behind the passenger seat, and initially found nothing. I was about to go to the trunk when something told me to look again...and immediately they appeared between some map books! I grabbed a couple and chose the better one, victoriously returning to the SUV and handing it to the astounded stranger.

She was amazed, but for some reason, I wasn't. I'm certain that this woman doesn't regularly follow strangers around mega-store parking lots in order to chat about random things. I'm certain she was surprised at doing so. My guess is that this was something on her mind for some reason, and God or maybe her Guardian Angel prompted her to follow me, knowing that I had what she needed, and knowing, of course, that I'm not a psychospaz. (My friends may disagree....)

The woman literally stared at my car, at the bumper sticker and at me, thanking me, saying "God bless you!" and I said the same back to her as I went on.

I wasn't surprised for some reason. This seemed perfectly normal to me, yet still extraordinary for I realized God had just connected two strangers over a simple item. And yet, I am surprised, even flabbergasted. It's not like I could make this up!

It's Happened Before...

I was once on the receiving end of such a grace, and so I understand this woman and her behavior.

Several years ago, when I was really seeking God and really lost, I had one good Catholic friend. She attended a decent parish and one at which I was comfortable; it wasn't wacky. I didn't go to Mass often, but I was beginning to attend more and more often. One day I arrived early for Mass and as usual, went to the back of the church, on the left side, and knelt down, praying. I was really lonely for some reason that night, and was even near tears. I wanted to see my friend there, but I wasn't sure if they attended that Mass. I was tired of being a stranger every time I went to Mass, although I didn't want to go somewhere that was "in your face" about "welcoming". (I've always been a bit of an introvert.)

Something told me to look up, so I did, and there, walking down the aisle, was my friend, first with an expression of confusion, then recognition, then joy as she saw me. She invited me up to sit with her and her family. They always sat in the front row as she had a little boy with special needs and if he could see what was going on, he was wonderfully behaved during Mass.

Happily, I walked with my friend towards the front, although somewhat sheepishly as I was so accustomed to seating myself anonymously at the rear.

Later, after Mass, my friend explained that they'd arrived as usual, took their usual pew and as she prayed, suddenly she was prompted to get up and walk down the center aisle towards the back of the church. She had no need to go there for anything...even the bathrooms were in a large hall to the side of the sanctuary. But the feeling wouldn't go away so she obeyed, feeling very confused. Then, as she neared the doors, she saw me and realized what she was supposed to do.

GOD IS AMAZING

He hears the smallest prayers, and answers the tiniest desires of our hearts. He gives us what we need. That day, although I was accustomed to being alone and unnoticed and usually liked to be so, and lacked courage to sit closer to Our Lord, He sent a friend to invite me. And that invitation, no less, to be seated in the very front row.

Although the gesture was simple, it was profound for it told me that God knew I was there and He desired that I be closer to Him. While I was content with remaining far away, afraid to come closer, He desired that I be a part of His family in a very real way. So God spoke to me through my friend, revealing His love, both through prayer and through human friendship.

I don't know why God sent that woman to follow me today, and I don't know what our exchange means to her. Maybe she needed a sign of God's love, just as I did in that moment so long ago. Or maybe it was a simple thing that goes far beyond that exchange.

We never know how or when God will call us to do something, but today He revealed to me a profound example of the connection between members of the Mystical Body of Christ. I immediately recognized the woman as a friend, as she had a rosary similar to mine (even the same color) dangling from her rearview mirror. It was as if we knew one another, and it didn't matter that we'd never actually met.

Yet I'm amazed, and humbled, that God would connect two souls in such a way, and even make it seem to be so natural.

We have to remember to be open to God at every moment. We never know when He will ask us to do something, and we will never know what small humble thing will have the greatest impact.

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Childhood Disasters and Angelic Salvation

Everyone has stories from childhood, whether of theirs or that of their children.

I told one such story about how my Mother and every other involved parent in the neighborhood converged to save us from a spring flood.

This really was my mother's story as my memory is not so clear, and I have other stories also belonging to Mom which I now take as my own. Each family has their own oral tradition; and so I encourage all of you to absorb what you learn from your parents, or what you learn AS parents, and pass it on. As it is, today, I pass on a couple stories, thanks to Melody's comment which inspired me.

The Nick of Time...

My brother and I grew up watching Tom & Jerry cartoons, and anyone familiar with these characters knows how often they hit each other with common household objects, and how birds and stars would circle their heads after a cranial impact.

Well, around that time our parents had purchased a table and chairs made for children, both of which were kept in the living room, likely because of my "tea parties" to which both Mom and Dad found themselves "invited." I seriously must not have been older than three or four at the time, which would have made my brother five or six.

One day, my brother decided that he would like to see the birds and stars, and although I recall little of the experience, I think I agreed that I'd like to see the creatures around my head. As none of the cartoon characters ever suffered anything other than crossed eyes (which I already had, by nature) and the flying things, well, I agreed to the experiment.

Mom walked into the room just in time to see my brother raising the chair over his head. She stopped him mid-swing as the chair descended towards my tender skull, and took it away from him.

Guardian angel intervention? Quite possible. Quite likely. Can you IMAGINE the headlines that would hit the news today?

And I have yet another story, from around the same time period.

Impossible Salvation

Mom and Dad, as most parents, had a full-sized or queen bed, and it was just WONDERFUL for jumping. Of course, Mom and Dad BOTH had FORBIDDEN us to jump on the bed...EVER!

But one morning, we went into Mom's room and began bouncing. That was fun, but then my brother, being a boy, found the need to up the ante because bouncing wasn't enough. He started to push me, likely expecting me to push him back. But me, being a girl, was completely contented with just bouncing, and saw his pushing as a personal attack.

I think I likely did push him back and told him to stop, but he didn't, and at one point in the skirmish, I remember being in mid-air, being pushed, and I remember the room turning upside-down.

It happened in slow-motion. I saw the ceiling, the wall, the brown dresser, and the green diamond-shaped Berber-type carpeting, and just before my head hit, I stopped. For a moment, I was suspended, not even breathing as I observed the room around me, knowing at even a cellular level that horror had been averted.

My brother was holding my ankles with a strength I didn't know he had...because he had stopped my momentum and my descent in an instant. I remember being able to touch the floor beneath me, and I remember studying the dresser in my upside-down position, my legs straight up in the air, soles towards the ceiling. My back wasn't even touching the bed, which meant that my brother's arms had to have been extended straight out from him.

My brother pulled me back onto the bed, again, with a strength that belied his years. As soon as I was there, I looked around the room, shocked. He was no longer interested in jumping and playing. He was as terrified, if not MORE terrified, than I was in that moment. Neither one of us, though, really understood the full consequences of the action that had been averted.

My brother's eyes were saucers and he was already pleading with me not to cry, not to call Mom, not to tell. He was telling me I was OK, don't cry, don't cry...

And of course, realizing that I'd been upside-down not according to my own will, what did I do but start to cry?

I don't remember the rest. I'm not sure if my brother calmed me down or if I ran away and told Mom. That part is too fuzzy. I do remember him begging me to be quiet, I remember his hand on my shoulder, I remember him telling me that I was fine, and I was. But I didn't know what else to do but cry, and I did know clearly that my dear brother had saved me.

But in looking back, considering I was around 3 or 4, and my brother, 2 1/2 years older, I don't know how he could have saved me. I don't know how he could have halted my descent. I don't think he had the physical strength to work against...well...physics.

There is no doubt in my mind that our Guardian Angels intervened physically to save us both in that instance.

"Can you feel the tips of their wings?"

Mom taught us both, at a very young age, about Guardian Angels. I still remember the afternoons that we laid down for a nap,one of us on either side of Mom. She would speak to us about the angels, and invite us to raise our hands in the air. She told us they were flying above our extended hands, and we should be able to feel the feathers on their wings against our fingertips as they flew.

I stretched my little fingers as far as possible, but never felt the wings touch them. I never felt the breeze created by their flight. But my brother cried out that he could feel it, and Mom endorsed this as she said she could feel it, too. Never once did I ever feel the passing of the angels over us, and finally, one day, I cried because I thought the angels didn't love me. I cried because my arms were too short, and the angels couldn't fly low enough to reach me. And I cried because, once again, the people older than I could experience what I could not because I was too little.

Mom and my brother both sought to comfort me and stop my tears, and finally my brother admitted he couldn't really feel the wings, either, but was only pretending. And Mom admitted the same thing, but told us both that the angels were real, they were really there, even though we couldn't touch them with our fingertips.

The angels, clearly, revealed themselves when it was important, and not when we desired that they do so. They were present when it counted, and although I've never seen my Angel, I am forever grateful for his perfect intervention, no doubt aided by my brother's own angel, and also my Mom's. (They're all in cahoots, you know...)

All of us have stories of childhood disasters, and many of us can see, as adults, the divine intervention that saved us. What is your story? Did it happen when you were a child, or did it happen to aid you in your parenthood?

A Cold Winter's Tale

One more story: Mom tells a tale about traveling with my brother and I in the winter. I believe she and our Dad were still married, but I don't recall how it was that we were alone. And I remember part of this night. We were caught in a Midwestern snowstorm, where there was nothing to stop the wind. Mom was scared, it was obvious, and she was praying, out loud, there in the car with us, for somewhere to go. We'd gotten lost and had to find our way to the interstate.

Out of the snowy winter darkness there appeared a gas station and a diner, and so Mom stopped, grateful, hoping for directions, willing to sleep in a truck stop booth if it meant getting home safely.

We were both very little, and I think I still remember the light, Mom's anxiety, and a very nice lady who welcomed us. She was a "down home" sort of woman, used to catering to truckers, but we were the only guests. She said that "something" had told her to keep the light on in case someone happened by in such a terrible storm. She fed us, she talked to Mom about many things, and did her best to make us all feel at home. And at one point, she told us it was OK to leave, and how to get to where we needed to go. Mom thanked her, and offered her money for the food, but the woman waved her off...it was her pleasure. She'd been paid by being able to help.

So Mom packed us back into the car and we were on our way.

I don't know when this happened, but it was either the next day or maybe within weeks of the incident. She wanted to find the truck stop and the woman who had helped us, and she found what she thought was the spot, but it was closed down and clearly hadn't been inhabited in years. Mom drove to a nearby gas station or other business (I'm not sure) which was nearby and had been closed on the night of the storm. The person there told her that the place where we'd been had been nothing but a ruin for YEARS, and that it wasn't POSSIBLE that anyone had been there the night the down-home lady had taken us in from the cold.

Remind me to get the actual story from Mom...if I can get better detail, I'll tell the story here.

So...what's YOUR story? Com-box is open for business!

Teaching the Parents

Tonight I had my first experience with the parents of the sacramental class this year. In this parish, while the children are enrolled in a weekly program of formation (or in religion class in the school), the sacraments themselves are taught at home, by the parents. So tonight was an orientation for the parents.

Father, the DRE, and I agree that this is a grand opportunity for formation for the parents, many of which are not really practicing Catholics; they belong to that demographic that sees Confession as being a hoop for their child to jump through just to get the great experience of the pomp and circumstance of First Communion.

Now, there are also a lot of parents who are dedicated Catholics and could teach circles around me...and so they should. But still, they attend, and my guess is that these parents likely help the others.

Tonight was the orientation for First Confession, which will happen during Advent. For weeks, I've been trying to figure out what to say. A couple weeks ago I walked down the hall, into the Adoration chapel with the red USCCB Catechism, thinking to write an outline as though for RCIA, hitting all the main points. And that's when Jesus spoke.

I learned last year that when preparing a lesson, it's very important to go to Jesus for input. What does HE want taught in that class? Who needs to hear certain words? I don't know that...but Jesus does. What if I don't understand a relevant scripture...no matter. Jesus can explain it.

So although I figured to use the book the bishops recommend, Jesus had other plans. My routine in these situations is to go into the chapel and just pray. If I don't have words, to just kneel in silence with the Lord, and offer him my lack of direction. He will answer when it is time. Well, I thought it had to be time because I was really STUCK! Nothing I wanted to do seemed right, it was uninspiring, too elementary...or too theological. (Being a grad student does that).

Well, Jesus answered that day. Although my catechism was next to me, suddenly a starting point came to me. What is sin? A rejection of God's love. Disordered Love (St. Thomas Aquinas), an abuse of freedom.

What did Adam and Eve do when they sinned? They hid from God. Great point! That's what I did, too. That's what we all do.

What was Jesus' mission? Forgiveness. Mercy. Definitive love. The gospel is full of Jesus forgiving sin, and each is a personal encounter. Bartimaeus, the paralytic (a few of them!), and the sinful woman who washed and annointed his feet. Jesus recognized and drew attention to the interior, recognizing faith, repentance, contrition, belief...all of that...

Jesus passed this ministry onto the Apostles. How? He breathed on them, just as God breathed life into Adam. He gave them the power to forgive sin.

The Bible is a love story, all about God reaching out to reconcile his people to him, his people who run and hide when they reject him. God does not reject us; we reject him. And so God continues to reach out, and he did this ultimately by sending his own Son to die, to overturn the sin in the Garden of Eden.

How do we respond to God's mercy? We have free will. Free to run and hide. Free to come to him in tears and repentance...and we do this in Confession. The priest is in persona Christi, so it is Christ who hears us, always.

As I was writing all of this, I knew as I had from the beginning that I had to tell my 12 year Confession story, my identity as "Bartimaeus". And so it was important to read that particular gospel.

And the connection...the parents must teach this to their children. They are called to holiness, to live that example, every day. They are the primary catechists. Not the school. Faith is learned and reinforced in the home, and in 20 years, the kids won't remember their catechists at faith formation, they won't remember the books...but they will remember the actions and living faith of their parents.

I explained how my Mom's faith affected my conversion, and told them that now is the time to act upon that...now is the time to toe the line, to be that example.

So, all this was written in the Adoration chapel. It was Jesus who wrote it...not me. I could not have done this. I didn't know what to say. Jesus did.

That day, I left the chapel and put the scribbles in my notebook into a coherent outline, and something told me to bring it to Father, for a few reasons: I am new. While he trusted me enough to hire me, he still needs to know what I'm teaching. While the DRE is indeed my boss, so is he, and when it comes to the sacraments, it's more important that he is involved than the DRE. So I found him in his office and we sat down with the outline. He liked it, felt that it covered what needed to be covered, and made some suggestions for things to add to the presentation...but he didn't suggest anything more for the content of my talk.

And that's the other reason I went to him; one was a trust issue, that he should know what is being taught. The other is a practical issue; I needed to know that this plan was what was expected, what he envisioned needed to be done, and I needed direction if there were missing elements. Which there were, and I took all of his offered suggestions. He said he would not be present for the orientation, which was also important for me to know. Fine.

So...tonight was the first of two orientations for the parents. And I've never spoken to such a hostile crowd.

Yup. You heard me correctly. Not everyone was hostile, but there were a few, and it was written all over them. They didn't want to be there. They were offended that it is their duty to teach their children the faith. Some were bored...simply not interested in engaging. Some looked angry about what I was saying. Some just had poker faces that gave nothing away, although by their body language I could see they were more hostile than interested.

But I wasn't speaking tonight to make myself look good; I was speaking because these people needed that message of mercy; that Jesus isn't just there for their children; he is there for them as well, and waiting for them, all the time.

And I'll admit; it was difficult at times to realize that my words were being rejected. But when I told my confession story, well, I could see heads nod. I could see some of them coming to life, but most...still hostile. They didn't like where I was going. I was not telling them what they wanted to hear. Thank God for that.

Those who were nodding and smiling, I'll tell you right now they gave me strength, identifying themselves immediately as allies, people of faith, people who understand the grace of the sacrament, people who have experienced God's mercy.

Overall, it went well, and didn't take the whole hour as planned, which is fine. There was time for questions (I didn't answer them all adequately or correctly, with regard to some of the process regarding the books), and I have things to follow up on. Only a few people were clearly unhappy, but the DRE was there and did assist with some of the questions, and for that I'll be eternally grateful. She won't be around for Thursday's group, though. And she added her own confession story, for she is a convert...I think the next group will be sadly deprived.

One of the things I did to prepare tonight was to ask my Guardian Angel to go around and speak with everyone present, to help smoothe the waters. I spent some time in Adoration a couple hours ahead of time, and afterward, I went back to the chapel to thank Jesus. After all, these are His people; they are his to convert, his to teach, his to calm. But this wasn't done without some adversity; the microphone did not work, and we tried a few of them. Nuthin'. I had to "project". (Thank God for my time in theatre!). But of course, I'm getting a cold, and wasn't sure my voice would last.

Can we say "spiritual battle"? God prevailed.


I may post my presentation in written form at some point, but not likely this week, In any case, please pray for this parish, the parents who are teaching, the children who will be receiving the sacraments, and for hearts to be open to the Holy Spirit and converted.

All I am is a voice in the wilderness, speaking from a wilderness of my own. I can boast of nothing but my weakness, and of nothing other than Jesus Christ. He is the words on my lips, the song in my heart, and the fire in my soul.

And even in my weakness, He has called me to speak for him...and I am humbled. The hostility of a few just makes me love him more.

Please pray for this class from tonight, and for the class on Thursday evening, and please pray for me. I can't do this without a lot of divine assistance.

The View From Above

I was nearly hoping today that I would be met at the door by a group of my management, escorted to a closed office, and dismissed. I was nearly in tears as I drove in today, not at the thought of the humiliation of being terminated, but rather at having to stick it out for one more day.

I've experienced burnout before, but never to this degree, never without an end in sight, never from a position in which I am so completely trapped. And I have to admit, I feel abandoned by God in some ways because nothing is happening and I can't find an escape hatch from this professional burial ground. And I'm running out of air.

Funny thing, though; God uses the every-day to get our attention and teach us lessons we would not otherwise understand.

I've been dealing with a customer who had a bad experience with a new vehicle. Unfortunately, due to some bad advice she was given, she's now in an even worse position. I explained her position up front, having to be very careful to let her know that I was not giving any final answer, just defining the worst case and probable scenario while I worked to research the issue for her. I had to give her a lot of information, which, I knew, at the time didn't make a lot of sense. I realized I'd be having this discussion with her again.

Indeed.

Today we spoke again. I had spoken with the person who made the error, learned something additional, and called the customer to follow up.

She was very upset. She expressed that she literally felt like everyone had abandoned her and because she had to make calls on her own to another company to step up and handle the situation, that she was totally on her own. In reality, this woman experienced a miracle; she managed to get this other company to do something I had NEVER been able to get them to do in my years in this job. Nor had I ever met anyone else who had success with them. And so quickly! No, they aren't resolving her problem...not yet...but it looks promising.

She continued to vent, telling me how unhappy she was with me, with us as a company, with the person who made the error, and how abandoned she was.

I sympathized with her; she had a point, and certainly I did understand it. But I had to remind her that I had been very up front with her with regard to what she was facing; she agreed with that. But she was still angry.

Somehow we managed to go point by point, in a very logical manner, and I did a lot of listening. She said what she had to say, and while she was upset, she was rational and recognized the humanity of all parties involved. I actually found her to be quite refreshing, for this was a woman who had a right to be frustrated and angry, but who had the balance to be able to discuss the issues and even HEAR the answers.

I told her how amazed I was with what she had accomplished, and explained why; I explained the process I'd have to follow in accordance with company policy and state law. I explained the detriment to her, the time frame, and the historical response from the other company, likely due to their own policies. I explained the frustration on our end because of the stonewalling, delays, etc., and that I have NEVER gotten the response that she did. I explained how she had knocked down barriers that can not be ovecome from our end.

She was amazed, too. She was under the impression that we, being in "the biz" had all the clout and that things would be easier. How far from the reality of the situation!

Somewhere during this conversation, I realized that I was so clearly able to see her entire situation as a big picture; I knew the steps, I knew the legalities, I knew all the little pieces that had to fall into place. I knew the players involved and what they do and don't do. And I also knew the unfortunate customer's position because I'd worked with and for so many like her.

But she had a very small view; she had her notions as to how things should go, and had no idea how large the picture really was. During our conversation, I revealed to her all the workings behind the scenes, and remined her also of the fact of real people doing real things to work towards a decision or resolution of this issue.

She was amazed. She was floored. She was delighted to learn that things WERE happening, even though she couldn't see it. She was thrilled to learn that all the people involved really DO care about her situation and truly want to help her.

Is this beginning to sound familar to anyone?

I'm going to come out and say it; this scenario I lived out professionally today is exactly the scenario I've been living out spiritualy for a long time now.

I know I'm miserable. So does God. So do the Angels and the Saints. Everyone knows I want resolution, and everyone knows my preconcieved ideas as to what that resolution should be, and perhaps it is...but that doesn't mean other things have to be done first. It's a process, but one far more complicated than what I described to my customer today.

God sees the entire picture. He sees my problem, he really is helping, and so are all those Saints to whom I have prayed for intercession. I have experienced much grace this week, in spite of all my trials. I have experienced real affirmations of intercession. I still don't have the big picture; but God does.

And one other point, perhaps a very important one; I revealed to my customer today how detrimental our involvement would be in this situation, and how she's accomplished so much and knocked down barriers by virtue of the fact that we could NOT be involved.

And that little interior voice is telling me the same thing; if God was doing it all for me, crucial things would not be overcome, because I'm the only one with the authority to knock down those barriers. There are certain things I have to do myself, certain steps I have to take, and no matter what, God remains in charge of when those barriers fall and which remain erected.

I think we can all identify, because we all challenge God, we all want things our way. But as it says, God's ways are not our ways, which is as it should be, for He has the grand-scale view, He's reading the blueprints, he's designing the blueprints and he's tracking our progress.

When I was a kid, one of my favorite songs in church was, "I believe in God", typical of the folksy liturgical style of the times. But I have to admit, that song has remained with me and still serves to remind me that things are not always as they seem.

"I believe in the sun, even when it isn't shining.
I believe in love, even when there's no one there.
And I believe in God
I believe in God
Even when He is silent."

I learned today that God is not nearly so silent as I thought.

The Situation Groweth Dire

I don't know how much longer I can hold out. I can NOT do this job anymore. I can't go into it, but I'm having moral issues with my work, and I can't get out of this industry soon enough.

We're in our busy season and we're supposed to be in robot-mode. I don't have a robot-mode. Someone forgot to tell the Company that they hired human beings. My entire team is ready to walk off the job. We love our Manager, and if it were not for him, we'd all be gone. But we can't remain miserable just because we happen to like our leader.

Today is Day 9 of my Novena to Our Lady of Perpetual Help. I know that she has been interceeding for me, for I have experienced much grace of late, very directly connected to her. One of my intentions was with regard to school, and there may be an answer for that soon..maybe not, but I have an appointment with a person of note, and I have a sense that this meeting won't just be about school, but about deeper topics as well. I will say no more about that.

But the job...another of my own intentions. The job has no end in sight, although I'm closer than ever to simply picking up my things and walking out the door, never to return. The only reason I haven't done that is because I'm just wise enough not to. But I had to literally hold on to my desk today to prevent my sudden flight.

My stomach is in knots, and every time I see something around me which is related to my job (which is quite often as I can't avoid these objects), my stomach turns and I'm nearly overwhelmed with despair. And I'm barely holding despair at bay...I just can't keep this up. I am losing this battle, and I have nowhere to go.

I am clinging with all my might to the hand of Our Lady, because I know that even if I falter and let go of her...she will never let go of me.

Ok, now I'm crying and I have to not do that because I have a meeting tonight at the church.

Does anyone out there have use for a Catholic in need of good, moral, useful employment? My resume is ready to go!

It's a Double Header!

Just thought I'd put up a misc. post tonight, sort of to offset the heavier topics, and because I'm not ready to go to sleep. I'll pay for that tomorrow, believe you me.

Today I started out working from home then headed into the office around 10; we were all leaving for a team outing at 11.

Now, this set the stage for a small Divine Intervention. Allow me to explain.

This morning, I got up at 5:20 or so since I wouldn't have my regular commute from home to be there by 8, but I couldn't bring myself to sleep too much later. So it was already weird, and of course, I was all ready to go to work by 7 am. I had planned to start work early, at 7:30, to make up for my commute time in the "middle" of my shortened work day. But "something" told me to take a quick run to my church...I'm a few blocks away, and we have Perpetual Adoration. I was tempted to hit the 8 am Mass, but by then, I needed to be connected to the network and working, so, unable to ignore the promptings of the Holy Spirit, I quickly locked the house and drove to the chapel, where I spent some wonderful time with Jesus. I left and had to run a quick errand, then was back home before 8 so I could connect to the network from home. Instead of pulling into the garage, as I'd be leaving shortly, I parked my car in one of our townhome "extra" spaces.

When I tried to leave, I realized I'd forgotten something and planned to run inside. I got in, having some trouble with the deadbolt lock, but I attributed it to today's humidity, and got in. I grabbed what I needed, locked knob lock, and after I pulled the door closed, I stuck my key into the deadbolt, turned it to lock it...and it didn't quite do what I wanted to do. So I twisted it back to the "unlocked" position and back to "lock" and the key was stuck. I couldn't move it. I needed to leave for work RIGHT NOW and my key was stuck in my lock.

Quite the dilemma. On one hand...the key was stuck and was not going to move. I could technically go as long as I took it off the ring with all my other keys. But then I'd have a key for my house, my unnattended house (but for the dogs) stuck there in the lock for anyone to find. Yeah, it was stuck...but what if someone knew how to "fix" it? That's a problem.

I took a deep breath. This must be God's will. What was God trying to tell me? Was he preventing a disaster through some sort of delay? Was this just an incidental? Or was I simply supposed to call a locksmith to help me?

Instead I opted for my next-door neighbor. They have often been helpful and they have hearts of gold. They're a little odd, but easy to overlook oddities when you know who they really are. So I ran the bell, begging God that they'd be home and have WD-40 on hand.

Well, the dad came to the door (just the person I needed) and he didn't have any WD-40. I explained my key was stuck, and as he went to try to worry it from the lock, I realized that as I'd parked outside, and my garage door opener was still in the car. I had a way in, and access to some kind of lubricant. So I ran to my car, hit the button, and found the oil. While my neighbor oiled the key and the lock, I was able to get inside (attached garage) and opened the interior door.

The lock is shot. I have to replace it.

And there's the thing: I just now realized that had I not obeyed that prompt to visit the adoration chapel this morning, my car would still have been in my garage!

You might be thinking that there would then not be a problem...but here's the reality; I go in and out of my front door all the time, and I usually lock both the knob and the deadbolt. Had I not gone to the chapel this morning, and therefore parked my car outside, I would not be aware of the problem, and there's a good chance I would have found myself locked out of my house and in need of a locksmith, which can be time consuming and expensive.

Incidentally, I don't have a cell phone, so in the middle of the day...if no one's home, it can be difficult to find someone to call a locksmith for me. I know some of my neighbors, but not all, and sad to say...I don't want to know all of my neighbors.

Anyway, things worked out and as of this evening, if I go pick up the new locks, my neighbor offered to replace them for me. I am bessed. Oh, and the lock works from the inside, so I am secure.

So! For our team outing, we went to the Twins vs. White Sox game at the Metrodome today. We all caravaned to one of the park and rides, ended up parking in the street, and took the Light Rail to the 'Dome. For most of us, it was the first time on Light Rail.

So, for those of you who are local, I'll offer a tutorial:

* You buy your tickets from a machine in the station on the lower level. It appears there's also one on the upper level at the train itself, apparently in case someone misses the lower level one.
* First select what you need - there is a menu for different options. You can buy one-way or round-trip, which might be good for X. number of hours.
* You must select your choice before you offer your money, which may be in the form of cash, credit, or debit. The machine only allows a certain amount of change, and gives change in coin form (ie dollar coins as applicable).
* Take your ticket and read both front and back. It doubles as a bus ticket. The light rail ticket is not "run" through anything but you do need it available to be checked.

Anyway, we got to the 'Dome, found our seats, and found them inhabited by a bunch of middle-school kids. We spoke with one of their teachers, our Manager showed her our tickets and first questioned whether were in the wrong place? We weren't. They'd bought a section of tickets. Apparently either the adult groups spread throughout either bought theirs first, or the ticket office messed up and scattered random people throughout a group of rowdy middle school kids. (For those outside the U.S. middle school is 6 - 9th grades, ages of apx 11-15)

Either I have more patience than I used to, or those kids weren't that bad. Their teachers did correct behavior that started to get out of hand, while allowing a range of "normal" for them.

The game was good, not a ton of action and I'm not a huge baseball fan anyway, but when in a game in person, it does a lot to inspire interest. The 9th inning was exciting. At the bottom of the 9th, the teams were tied. I began to wonder if it would go into extra innings.

The bases were loaded, 1 out. Tory Hunter was up to bat. The crowd was on its feet, roaring, screaming, whistling, waving, the scent of blood...uh...a win...in the air. The atmosphere was charged.

He walked.

The White Sox walked him.

The man from 3rd ran home, the game was won, the teams rushed onto the field...and while the fans rejoiced, it wasn't the "kill" of a grand slam. It was a lackluster win, but a win nonetheless, and we'll take it.

If I went to these games all the time, I'd likely be a baseball fan. But as I usually only see it on TV, I just don't care. I enjoyed today's game and have been to other Twins' games, but like many other fans, if I'm not really there, it isn't real.

My perspective is different with regard to horseracing and skiing, where the best action is on camera. I like to be at those sports in person (never been at a Word Cup Ski event in person, but would like to), but in reality, it doesn't happen much.

Anyway....

Been a good day. Back to the grind tomorrow, busy day to make up from the last couple.

Thank God we have only two days left this week.

I really need another job.

Our God is a God of Miracles

I believe in miracles because I am both the product and the subject of a miracle.

Shortly after she was married, Mom was told that she would never have children. But, in defiance of the great god Science, she conceived and bore a son, and called him her firstborn. And Heaven rejoiced.

Then, two years later, roughly, she conceived and bore a daughter. Either before or during her gestation, Roe v. Wade passed and so people were embolded to approach her to say unspeakable things. Mom and Dad both suffered from visible genetic defects; Mom was born with only one hand, Dad had Spina Biffeda. So while Mom's belly was swollen with me, she was attacked with great hatred by the culture of death that suggested remorselessly that she murder her child in deference to their preference to live in a world without such imperfection as herself.

I can't imagine the anguish this must have caused my mother. That alone should qualify her as a martyr and speed her canonization.

So then I was born, and Heaven rejoiced. But alas, I was born with a very lazy eye, turned so far inward that as I got older, the doctors told my Mom I would never have depth perception, I would never be able to so much as stack blocks. Mom was devastated, but she opted not to kill me although certain factions of culture would have liked to see such a thing occurr.

I still remember an eye doctor appointment during which I heard the word "surgery". I remember the doctor discussing with my mother how certain muscles would be cut and reattached, the risks (which I did not understand) and the probability for success. The appointment was set for a few days or couple weeks later. It was to be a simple surgery, apparently.

I remember going to Mom's friend's house the day before my scheduled surgery. Mom's friends' name was Barb, and she was about Mom's height, a little older, and she had dark wavy, short hair. She was very friendly and talked a lot. They had a split-level home with blue carpeting and nice furniture. They were nice people and they had a littl girl a bit younger than me and sent us off to play together. That little girl was as blue as the carpet.

Mom explained to me later that she was sick and wasn't going to be in this world for very long. (Many years later I learned her diagnosis; Congenital heart disease. She was a "blue baby"). That little girl actually lived far longer than she was "supposed to."

I remember a certain sense of peace about her, as though she knew she was dying, but it didn't diminish her life. She was just like every other little girl everywhere, but for her blue color and her need to rest a little more often.

While we were there, she and I were called into the livingroom where all the adults were, including some other people I'd never seen before. I seem to remember people exclaiming over us and my lazy eye.

I was a very very shy child, hated to be the center of attention, and did my best to not be noticed. But since my new blue friend was with me, I felt better because they were making much out of her as well. There is solidarity in such things.

The group of adults stood in a circle around us, and I remember Barb praying for healing for us. Other people spoke up, too. I hated being there and I made faces at my new friend to release some tension. She was very used to this so didn't understand my discomfort, and stared back at me soberly. I took a cue from her and stopped, enduring the embarassment of so many people paying attention to me at once.

Shortly after that, and maybe some hugs from our new friends, and promises to return, we left.

I remember holding Mom's hand as we went to the hospital where I was prepped for surgery.

There was a quick pre-op exam, and the doctor stood up and called for someone else. They left the room. They came back, checked again, and told Mom that surgery was not necessary.

I remember walking out with Mom, not understanding my sense of relief, not understanding Mom's wonderment. I was completely oblivious to what had happened.

Mom wasn't.

It was a bona-fide miracle. My condition, which had been monitored since my birth, was not a self-correcting type of condition. I literally needed surgery to turn my eye straight.

But overnight, the condition was corrected to the degree that surgery was not needed.

I actually always thought that Barb and her family and friends were Charismatic Catholics, because sometime around then, Mom had taken us to a Charismatic prayer meeting. I only learned last weekend that they were actually Assembly of God.

I have been pondering this and considering whether this new information affects my perspective in any way.

I've decided it has not. Rather, I am coming to a new understanding of true ecumanism, in fact, the true meaning of it. I do not remember that they were trying to convert us. It seemed there was a great deal of mutual respect for our religious beliefs and theirs, and through their concern for their children, these adults bonded over what was common and addressed God in unity.

I think only a suffering mother can relate to another suffering mother, and those prayers are powerful.

I was healed that day. I found out that about a year later, that other little girl died. I also seem to remember her praying for me with her family.

I am humbled, and I pray that this little girl is in Heaven, praying for me still for I sense that her prayers are powerful.

Do not fear to believe in miracles; they happen every day, to people all over the world.

I am typing these words today not through braille, but through living eyes, a sense of sight Mom was told I would never have. These very words are the result of a miracle.

Thank you, God, for this gift of sight. Thank you, God, for Mom's gift of faith. Thank you, God. for Barb and her family/friend's gifts of faith and prayer, and thank you, God, every day, for the gifts of holy friendship.

The Coming of the Flood

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I originally posted this a year ago, in June 2006, but I have recieved my Mother's account of the story and have added it. She is less long-winded than I am. Those of you who remember this story can just page down and you will find her memory of the event in italics.

When I was a little girl (very little), we lived in a country neighborhood sprawled haphazardly around and on a hill near the banks of the Rock River in Illinois. It was a great place to be a kid in...we had the woods, we had hills for sledding in the winter, and overall, most of our neighbors were great people.

During the winter, we had options for sledding; the biggest hill was between about four different properties, and we had standing permission to use it as long as we didn't damage the buildings or the trees (with the exception of accidentally crashing into trees which can happen on a sled). The other hills were smaller, but treacherous; they were narrow and descended between the trees in the woods.

And we had Frank's Place. He had this grand yard that sported kind of a bowl which led down into the creek. It flooded every spring, and sometimes, if we'd had more rain than usual, it might flood before freezing and then we'd have a layer of ice to slicken up our sledding endeavors. I think my brother managed to get his sled all the way into the frozen creek (or "crick" in local parlance) once. That was quite a feat!

We loved going to Frank's place, and we were careful to ask his permission before doing so as we did not want to lose the privelige of using his awesome bowl for sledding. He always told us not to get hurt, and seemed very gruff, but he ALWAYS let us use the area.

Although I was very little Mom used to let me go without her direct observation because I was with my brother, who was two yrs older, and other children. And in that neighborhood, it was almost guaranteed that other adults were watching and they knew ALL of us. The world was different then, and so the "dangers" to us had less to do with predators and more to do with just being kids.

As spring neared, we were warned not to use Frank's place because it was getting too warm. The river flooded each spring, and when that happened, Frank's bowl became what it was and morphed from a frozen sledding hill into a spring pond fit for thousands of tadpoles and a couple of water moccasins. Ice-out was a dangerous time of year, for no one knew the day or the hour in which the ice would break.

We left home one day, having heard the warning, and our plan was initially to sled on the upper hills nearer to our house. But one of the other kids said that it was fine and we should go to Frank's for we had not much time left. My brother and I resisted (mostly him...I was very shy and prone to keeping my silence. Amazing, isn't it?), but we went because we wanted to experience the terrain one last time, too.

We had a BLAST flying down Frank's hill and across the bottom of the bowl. It was always a race to see who could go the furthest the fastest. As I was the littlest, I was NEVER the one to reach the point closest to the crick, but that didn't stop me from trying!

What happened next has been related to me but I hold only a vague memory of the event. For awhile I denied it but I could not deny the images that continue in my mind to this day or the nightmares that still come to me when they are triggered by similar real-life events.

It was a warm winter day, cloudy, and the snow on Frank's hill was packed from use. We were flying down the hill and across the bottom, when cracking sounds began to echo in the relative silence of the winter afternoon. We ignored the sound and continued sledding. My brother went down the hill, and one of our friends, I think. Our parents were coming, and we didn't want to stop. They had a note of warning, a note of desperation, but as we knew we were where we were not supposed to be, we rushed to get in our last runs...as it was, we were in trouble for our disobedience and we knew it. Might as well make it worth it. So even with parents descending upon us, we went down the hill in defiance of their commands. I do remember turning my head to see Mom coming towards us, on foot, yelling already, calling our names. I remember throwing myself into my orange toboggan so that I could make this last "slide" the best yet.

The problem was that we didn't know what that echoing crack was about. Our parents did. We thought we were in trouble. We were, but we did not understand the reason why and that we were in trouble only because of the presence real danger.

Spring had arrived.

I remember sliding across the bottom and seeing my brother (or maybe his friend?) leaping out of his sled and trying desperately to flee before the wall of water that was coming at us. I remember the boy yelling, telling me to STOP! STOP! TURN AROUND! GET UP! I remember my sled stopping as it met the water and it didn't float...the icy brown water began to come into my little orange toboggan, forcing it down. I was getting soaked.

I couldn't get up. I couldn't move. The water was coming and I just sat there because I couldn't get out of my sled.

I saw adults, parents rushing down the hill, and someone grabbed me and hauled me out of the sled as the water climbed higher. They helped me walk through the water and the snow, out of the bowl that was rapidly filling with the spring flood of the Rock River.

Someone else had reached the boy (my brother, I think) who was in front of me, who had been yelling.

I don't think there was much stopping for any of us once at the top of the hill; I remember somewhat clearly my hand in my Mom's, and she was upset and scolding me, but seemed more concerned than anything. She told me that she had to get me into the bathtub and cleaned off. I did not want to take a bath, but she explained that the water was very dirty, and so I meekly agreed, exclaiming, "Yuck!" from that point on.

I remember that my snowsuit was literally peeled off of me, and as this happened, I proclaimed, "Yucky, yucky! Yuck! Yucky!" and Mom agreed. I was thrust unceremoniously into the warm water of the tub and cleansed thoroughly and when I was dressed in warm clothing, I was still saying "Yucky" as my Mom related the tale to others.

My Mom recently reminded us of this harrowing event. She described how she had been at home and heard the ice crack. Somehow, instantly, she and all the other parents of the children involved *KNEW* that something was wrong. They *KNEW* that we were NOT where we were supposed to be, and NOT A ONE went to the other sledding hills; they ALL converged at Frank's Place just as the bowl began to fill with the spring flood.

The calvary of parents came of of nowhere to rescue their children, and each of them credits guardian angels for the alert. Not a single one of us was lost in the flood, all by the Grace of God.

What follows is my Mom's account of the event:

It must have been a beautiful winter day as most of the neighborhood children were sliding on the neighbor guy's hill. We called it "The Bowl" because the area was a natural depression shaped like a bowl. At the bottom of the hill was a tree. Beyond that is a flat area which leads to the creek that drains into the Rock River under a highway bridge. It is a natural flood plain.

It was getting to be late afternoon as I was beginning ot prepare supper. I think it was mid-February 1979. I felt a vibration with my bare feet about the same time I heard a "CRACK". I knew the ice was going out of the river. I jumped into my boots. I may or may not have reached for a jacket as I ran out the door. Our street was plowed in on both ends that winter so I had to run on top of snow and snow piles. (A neighbor later told me I had run like a deer - not even touching the ground. - That may be because I believe I was "Sent".)

As I approached The Bowl, I saw several children on the hill, some sliding down, some coming up, and three little ones preparing to slide down (ages 3, 4, and 7). I tried to stop them but couldn't. A 4th or 5th grader tried to help the children off the hill as we saw white water blow over and under the bridge into the creek and bowl. As the children slid down the hill I ran after them. The water, the three kids, and myself all met at the tree at the bottom of the hill. As the neighbor boy floated over to me, I reached for him with my left arm, picking him up by the straps of his two-piece snow suit. My daughter jumped onto my back with her arms around my neck. My son grabbed hold of my right arm and held on for dear life.

When I turned to go back up the hill, I couldn't move. The toe of my right boot was under a sled (which by this point was completely under ice cold freezing water and ice.) I asked God for HELP.

Just then, my dad's gentle voice said, "Take your foot out of the boot. Go behind the tree." Just as we got behind the tree the first wave hit, and then receeded. We were under water. Then a few more big waves and the current slowed. The voice said to o"Go left and stay in the lighted path...and go forward with the water and hold when it receeds." At one point I couldn't get footing. The voice told me to move my foot to the left to get footing past the ice. And with forward, hold, forward, hold, we walked up thehill and out of the flooded bowl.

Some weeks later, after we had recovered from our colds, and the water had receeded, the neighbor came and told me there was something he wanted me to see. We walked to the hill and there by the tree was my missing boot, still full of water, under my son's sled. My daughter's red toboggan and the neighbor boys' blue saucer were by the creek near the bridge.

The neighbor told me they hadn't realized that we had gone all the way down the hill. He asked how we got out. I told him, "Only by the grace of God," were we able to walk up the hill and out of the water.

(As a couple notes to my Mom's story: Mom has only one hand. Her left hand never formed so she has no fingers and only a partially-formed palm. That is the arm she used to save one of our friends. Secondly, the "voice" of her Dad came from eternity, for I would have been about five years old and he had died that winter. )
*

I realized upon reflecton that this story is a parable all it's own, and perhaps the Lord will allow me to use it as such, for there is a moral to the story.

We children sinned through disobedience to our parents who were aware of the danger and told us what the danger was, but we ignored the warning and followed our own will. Of COURSE we had a BLAST in our disobedience; disobedience is usually a lot of fun...that is, until there are consequences.

The Consequence came to us in the form of the flooding river when the ice went out. Our forbidden playground flooded, and had things gone differently, we would not have been the only children on the face of the planet to go to our judgment as a result of a flood.

But our parents heard the river cracking, and by the Grace of God, they understood that the fruit of their love was in mortal danger. Each and every one dropped what they were doing, and converged, lead by the Guardian Angels of chidren to the very location of their charges.

Each and every responding adult cast aside their own terror and ran INTO the FLOOD and pulled someone to safety. Each and every one died to themselves so that another soul might live, and in most cases, that was the soul of their own child. (Although not a single child in danger was surpassed).

Each and every one of us children was hauled home firmly and cast into the warm, clean water to be purified. We all received some sort of punishment, although it was mostly a tongue-lashing as the parents considered the flood to have been terrifying enough.

And each and every one of us lived to sled another day; we lived to tell the tale and that, my friends, is Redemption.

I did not realized until recently that this event has affected me. For many years, I did not remember it, and when Mom brought it up, I denied it. But something in the back of my mind kicked me and harangued me and reminded me of the vague, foggy visions of being pulled from the toboggan and the warm bath punctuated by "Yuck!" My own memory of the incident is vague, foggy images, and so I cannot clearly tell you that I remember every piece of what I have told here. But I remember enough, and the nightmares I still suffer on occasion validate the experience.

I still remember a particular nightmare from when I was a child; in this dream, I was in the middle of a field, and all had been wiped out by a huge wave. And while I walked, seeking safety, more waves of mud were coming, although they were small. I knew a larger one was coming and I was afraid. But Mom found me and lead me to a safe place. I still woke up screaming, terrified of the wave to come.

I did not have any such dream like that for a long time, but then when I spent a semester in Mexico and swam in the ocean on the Gulf and the Pacific coasts, for months I had dreams of monster waves coming unnanounced and sweeping us all out to sea. And in those dreams, I was always able to escape the wave,and the certain death if not the terror of the event.

I realize now that the nightmares result from the flood wave which overtook us on that day of sledding.

And THAT, everyone, is what the Catholic church refers to as "temporal punishment", that is; the consequences of sin which we must live out while we are on this earth. We can be forgiven the sin through the grace of God (and sacrament of confession), but God will not erase the debt we owe; and to this day, it seems I am still paying for my disobedience.

This is a parable for for all of us, and if I were to poll every one of you, you would have a story which shares all of the above elements. You could describe your sin; you may still suffer the consequence; you remember the sacrifice and the grace that saved you and you are still here, proving that you have been redeemed to live another day.

Maybe some of you reading this may not be Catholic or even Christian. Maybe someone reading this does not fully understand what I mean by the titled terms or what the Catholic Church teaches. I encourage everyone to do the following:

Write down a moment in your life in which you sinned. It does not have to be dramatic. What is the sin? Taking the toy of another? Disobedience to parents? Lying? What was the consequence of that? Did someone else have to make a sacrifice of some sort on your behalf? Was there some miracle (grace) that saved you from something worse which would have resulted from your sin? And how were you redeemed? How did you happen to survive/learn from your sin and continue on?

We all have stories, and through these stories we can come to better understand the teachings of our faith. We cannot ever escape consequences. But that is not to say that we suffer alone or without understanding of others, and certainly, we cannot survive without God's grace, nor would we have eternal life without the sacrifice of Jesus Christ.

As always, God bless you all, and thank God for the gift of life which you all have received.

The Parable of the Breadcrust

Matthen 6: 25
"Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat (or drink), or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food and the body more than clothing?
26 Look at the birds in the sky; they do not sow or reap, they gather nothing into barns, yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are not you more important than they?
27 Can any of you by worrying add a single moment to your life-span?
28 Why are you anxious about clothes? Learn from the way the wild flowers grow. They do not work or spin.
29 But I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was clothed like one of them.
30 If God so clothes the grass of the field, which grows today and is thrown into the oven tomorrow, will he not much more provide for you, O you of little faith?
31 So do not worry and say, 'What are we to eat?' or 'What are we to drink?' or 'What are we to wear?'
32 All these things the pagans seek. Your heavenly Father knows that you need them all.
33 But seek first the kingdom (of God) and his righteousness, 19 and all these things will be given you besides.
34 Do not worry about tomorrow; tomorrow will take care of itself. Sufficient for a day is its own evil

A couple people expressed disappointment in the ending of the parable of the breadcrust. I imagine that in the time Christ walked the earth, many were also disappointed and went away not understanding. We as Christians often don't understand what is before us, but the reality is that God still speaks to us in parables, and sometimes these parables are humble stories that occurr right outside our windows. Those stories aren't always about us, in fact, they are rarely about us, but this is as it should be. In this way, God is inviting us to come out of ourselves and to come to him to experience his grace in wonderful ways.

I think the breadcrust was one such situation. By itself, it was meaningless. Who cares about a piece of discarded bread? I mean, really? Will this crust change anyone's life? Will it save anyone? If my house burned down and I had no food would this crust sustain me? Of course not. Then why was it important?

It wasn't. Not to me. It served as a "gimmick" of sorts, being that it mysteriously appeared in an odd location. I chose to leave it as it was, and over time, when it did not shift, it did not blow away, and it did not seem to be discovered by any creatures, I began to wonder what would happen to it. This silly object; a piece of stale breadcrust likely not fit for human nor animal consumption.

I don't think it was any accident yesterday that I got a front row seat to the workings of God's divine hand, in accordance with scripture. God always keeps his promises; the parable of the breadcrust is all about trust in God. I will explain.

Since it is becoming warmer even here in cold Minnesota, the animals have come out of hiding, the birds are more abundant, and as the food is not yet abundant, they are all fighting for survival. When people throw out the breadcrusts or birdseed, the animals flock to it it droves, trying to get there first to get their fill. Yet the crows, the avian mafia, continue to chase the other creatures away, squirrels included. Squirrels tend to run, find a perch, and scold the offending crows quite haughtily, which of course, the crows ignore while they munch away to their little hearts' content.

Sometimes, though, the creatures assert themselves a little more; I suspect the squirrels may have run out of their buried stashes, or at least forgot where the rest of them are. And of course, like humans, they are going for what is easy; the bread and the birdseed.

Yesterday, I think Mr. Grey Squirrel was chased away from the fresh bread but managed to escape the wrath of the crows with a crust in his mouth, which he dropped when he reached my ledge. He came back for it in his hunger, finding it was still there. The crows don't tend to hang out that close to the windows.

While there, he discovered the other crust, the one that has been there for awhile. So the little guy was able to avoid the crows and still feast on what was needed. He had to work to get it, but the food was there. He maybe wasn't the one who put it there, but that crust sure was preserved for that small creature through God's Divine Providence.

Do you remember my first couple posts on the breadcrust? I said, "God Provides."

I had no idea at the time what would happen, but as it turns out, that is the moral of our story. God provides.

He knew about the crust, He's likely sitting back laughing at our discussion about the crust, wondering if we're going to "get it." Will we really understand?

I think I understand, and I hope you do, too. The fact that we've all been able to watch this unfold before us is no accident; it is all about God, showing us that he provides for the smallest creatures, the most hated and despised creatures. He, who loves us so much, we, the only creatures with free will who freely choose to reject him, became one of us. He did not become a squirrel or a toad or anything else. God was born of a woman and became man. For us.

God provides for squirrels in mysterious ways we normally don't get to witness. If he does that, then how much more will He provide for us, whom he loves so dearly He suffered the agony and humiliation of the cross on our behalf?

Do not doubt the breadcrust; it's not about me, and it's not about you. It's all about the hand of God, the love of God, and a reminder that He knows of the most humble and insignificant things; and provides.

Trust God. Seek Him.

God provides.

The Breadcrust Again

A few weeks ago, I lost my rosary ring. It's a small ring with a crucifix and 10 little rounded nubs which I wore all the time. Part of it was the visible crucifix at all times, part was the discomfort caused by the little nubs against my other fingers - they reminded me to pray, and they reminded me who I represent.

I lost the ring one Sunday morning. I remembered having it before I left my house for Mass, but it was at Mass that I realized it wasn't on my finger. I thought maybe I'd dropped it when taking it out of my pocket as I got out of my car.

I realized in that moment that it was gone and I would ever find it. I did send up a prayer to St. Anthony, sort of half-hearted, but it was there. But the ring hasn't left my mind.

Part of my attachment to the ring is actually sentimental because the blessing upon the ring itself was an answer to a spiritual need.

I had purchased the ring during the week, and on Friday that week, I ran to the Adoration chapel to spend a little time with Jesus. I was feeling very unloved, very disconsolate, very frustrated with life in general. I really needed to know and understand God's love, so I went straight to the source and offered all of this up.

As I left the chapel, a priest, a local hospital chaplain, was coming out of the sacristy. He's from Africa, and has the BEST smile I've ever seen, which of course, really stands out! I didn't really know him, but his smile reassured me of his approachability, so I asked him to bless my ring.

I carefully held it in my hand and he exclaimed, "I can do more than THAT!"

So Father blessed my ring, and then placed his palm against my forehead and blessed ME!

I thanked him with tears in my eyes; God had answered my prayer, He had displayed His love for me, the reassurance of his presence and fidelity to us in even our smallest crises.

After that day, every time I looked at that ring, I saw not only the love of Christ who died for us on the cross, but the personal love for each and every one of us.

Then, this morning, as I was bringing the dogs in from our walk, I took a look at the bush containing my own personal breadcrust. It's still there, still lodged within the branches. I wondered if it would turn green or just disintegrate eventually?

From there, my eyes happend to drop downward to a stone at the base of the bush. And next to the stone, directly beneath the breadcrut, was a glitter of silver. I looked more closely...and it was my ring!

How on EARTH did it get THERE!?

I have no idea. I wasn't wearing the ring at the time I last passed through that door on the day I lost it. I don't wear the ring on dog walks, but only don it upon leaving for work or other things because of the design which has a propensity to get caught on things. I know for certain that on the day I'd lost it, it was not on my finger, and further, I'd been wearing gloves which I did not need to remove in order to open the door.

So how did the ring get there? Right there, with the mysterious breadcrust marking the very spot?

Thank you, St. Anthony. Yet another miracle to testify to God's love an fidelity.

Thank you, Jesus.

Habits, Clerical Dress, and Witness for Christ

Over at Father V.'s blog, I happened to read a post about those priests/religious who wear habits or clerical garb.

Think of a pan of a crowd in a news segment that catches a priest or sister in religious garb. For that instant, thoughts of Church, God, and Catholicism pop into mind.

When I was a baby priest, occasionally I would be walking down the street and catch a glimpse of myself with my collar on in a store window. It would jolt me into remembering that I was living a very public Catholic life involving powerful symbols and that my actions meant something to other people. It is not about me, a humbling lesson to learn, but about that collar and what it is supposed to represent.


AMEN, Father!

As my regular readers know, I discerned a call to religious life and I would not consider communities that are not in habit. Why in the WORLD would I want to go live in a house with a bunch of gray-haired women who lived out the worst misinterpetations of Vatican II, and continue to dress worse than I do?

No, the habit is necessary; it is not just symbolism; it is reality. Those who give up the world for God, but to live in and to serve the world are set apart and should be recognized as such.

(Aside: There are parts of the world where this would mean immediate death; please exclude those extremes from my commentary).

I spent a semester in Mexico during a time of my life in which I was desperately seeking God but holding on to the world for all it was worth. Turns out, not much.

But God is faithful, and when I did pray, He answered. God rewards with grace even the most confused.

I was about to start a practicum and I had the address but I didn't know how to get there from where I lived. We had just gotten back from a "Study Trip" and I was begging God for help because I was down to 5 pesos and a cab minimum fare was 8-10. I had Traveller's Checques, but I had to be there before the Casa de Cambio opened...and I didn't know the nearest one to either my house or my destination! What to do?

I prayed.

On my way home from the bus station that evening, the Combi (VW van common to Mexican public transportation) that I flagged down happened to contain two Sisters in full habit. I will never forget them because I immediately recognized them for what they were; representatives of Christ. Brides of Christ. Mothers of us all, and women to be respected, as well as a refuge for confused female travellers.

In Mexico, public transportation routes are not published. I had already asked everyone I knew what bus to take to my destination. No one knew. There was no central office I could call. The only way to find out what bus when where was to flag every bus on every road down and ask, or find someone who knew the right answer.

I was an American in Mexico, I didn't know anyone, and I did not want to ask perfect strangers what to do. Amazingly, to all those who know me, I used to be a very shy child and even as an adult, I still retain some of that shyness. Speaking to perfect strangers is always difficult for me. Most people don't realize this. Mexico was one of those experiences that helped me to overcome this detrimental facet of my personality.

Anyway without published bus routes, I didn't have a choice but to ask perfect strangers for help.

Then I stepped into the Combi, sat down, and realized that God's grace had just opened a door for me. When I saw those black-and-white habited religious sisters, I knew that even if my Spanish was bad, even if someone found out I was American and they happened to dislike Americans, it didn't matter. Because 2 Sisters were present, no one would laugh at me, no one would give me bad advice, and rather, people would be more inclined to help.

Their presence gave me courage, so I asked my fellow travelers how to get to the Delegacion, which was the nearest landmark to my destination the next morning.

A conversation ensued, most of which I did not understand; even after 6 years of Spanish, one month of immersion in Mexico was not enough to make me fluent.

Finally, they described the bus to me, what it looked like, and where to pick it up. The Sisters didn't have much to say during the conversation, but I have a sense they might have realized what was happening in front of them. It probably happened all the time.

The reality is this; people badmouth the Church and her representatives all the time. But when someone marked as belonging to the Church is present and in person, no one wants to offend them, nor anyone who respects them or their presence.

Those Sisters were an immediate answer to my prayer. Had they not been in habit, I don't know what I would have done. What I needed was only directions, but were it not for their presence, I would have been terrified of asking perfect strangers with unknown motives how to get where I was going. Now, most of the people I met in Mexico were wonderful human beings and I found the country to be far more welcoming and friendly than anyplace in the United States. But I also met people who freaked me out and most of them were riding around on combis; even driving them. (long story, let's just say that God is good and protects the frightened traveller.)

The clericals or habits provide a very visible presence of God in the world, and there has never been a time during which such a witness is more needed. Our culture is increasingly secularized, while those seeking God in a godless society is increasing exponentially.

I've worn uniforms, and I know what it's like to stand out, and the microscope those who are so identified are under, but at the same time, I also recognize that those who give up the world for Christ are doing in order to be recognized SO AS TO SERVE HIM! Just as I wore a police and firefighter uniform so as to be recognized as a person called to help others, so a priest or religious wears a habit to identify themselves as servants of God through the dedication of THEIR VERY LIVES.

There is nothing more powerful, and perhaps many of them don't realize that their presence in such dress isn't necessarily about apologetics or sacraments (ie impromptu Confessions), but about an oasis for a lost traveller in a strange land.

And in the end, isn't that what we all are - lost travellers in a strange land?