Gun Control

There's a lot of ideology and politiking flying around since Monday, and quite honestly, I'm offended that all these people are jumping onto the political bandwagon to seek votes while the emotions are running high over the horrible slaughter at Virginia Tech.

Let me be very clear; the people who were killed and injured at Virginia Tech are not there to be poster children for politicians, and to make them out to be such is demeaning to the dignity and memory of them all, including the killer.

But since the topic is flying around, I am going to enter my own opinion, which actually has nothing to do with this event. I am "pro-gun" now and will likely remain so, but keep in mind that my position was tempered by the extensive training I have receivd.

I grew up in a household in which my mother was so terrified of guns that the very topic threw her into a complete tizzy. Her brother, my uncle, died in Korea, killed by a sniper, apparently while protecting a priest. I don't know the whole story, but we have visited his grave every year on Memorial Day to honor his memory and his sacrifice.

Imagine Mom's complete consternation when I announced I wanted to be a police officer! I think she nearly drove off the road; we were en route to visit the college I was considering for their Criminal Justice program, and her questions forced me to reveal the news although I would have chosen a safer occasion to do so.

That following summer, when I turned 18, my cousin, a part-time officer, welcomed me to his home and gave me a "dry-run" with several guns, gave me quite the involved primer on gun safety, and instilled the foundation for my education in this. He took me under his wing and really fed my career aspirations but with great cautions and of course, with great love.

Mom referred to him as a "gun nut". I wish all "gun nuts" were just like him, because if they were, the world would be a safer place. He was all about education and safety.

When we finally went out to the gravel pit, he brought along a bullet proof vest; he would not even allow me to enter the area without it, for fear of a ricochet. My cousin took his lessons very seriously and knew of my Mom's fears so he did his utmost to be sure I was returned to her in the same condition I had been when I left the house.

He taught me to shoot several types of guns, several styles, and on our third trip out, he was confidant enough in my ability to challenge my marksmanship with something he thought I might face someday; a gunman with a hostage.

He set up the cardboard cutouts with clothing to blur the lines, and set one in front of the other to mimic a gunman shielding himself with an innocent party...and he bid me to put one through this guy's head and "ruin his day."

I did as I was told, and I "ruined his day" in a major way with a Smith and Wesson .45 semi-automatic.

The primary lesson of all of this was not only experience and forcing me to face real-life situations, but when I shot the victim, he made sure I knew that, too, because the use of weapons in deadly force is not a joke. There are always consequences, and these consequences are deadly.

In skills training we spent a great deal of time at the range, and our instructor, while fond of humor, was deadly serious on the range. Even though we had heard the instructions a thousand times, he always bid us to "fire downrange!" before holstering our weapons. (.9mm glocks).

On the occasion of a night shoot at the training range, however, one individual chose to ignore his advice. He holstered his weapon, and as he did so, pulled the trigger...and the gun went off. It entered his pantleg, seared down his leg, and exited through his shoe.

He was unharmed, but for a black burn-mark down his leg, and the holes in his clothing.

He learned this lesson in a very scary way.

The school was also home to other bullet-marks in the walls, thanks to students who had disregarded classroom instruction and put everyone in a bad situation.

When I was hired as a Police Officer, I was given a Smith & Wesson .45 to carry, quite large for my hands and predictably, I had some difficulty qualifying. A few years prior I had purchased an HK .9mm, which I still own, so my duty weapon was very different and took some adjustment. The Range Instructor felt that I was a good shot, however the qualification took awhile and the department's standards were far higher than the school's standards. As it should be, for Police Officers are charged with making that ultimate decision; to take life or not to take life.

I was amazed by the ignorance of my friends (non-law enforcement) while I went through training, for they often offered the suggestion to "shoot to maim, not kill".

I have to be very clear on this issue; there is NEVER a reason to point a gun towards another human being unless you intend to kill him.

That is why the use of a gun in any situation constitutes "use of deadly force", which in the Minnesota State Statutes is Criminal Code 609.066.

Deadly force is a big deal, and the situation had better warrent such use. Someone may intend to shoot a leg or an arm, and strike the heart. A shooting situation involves a human being who may have run for blocks, may have leapt over fences, may be shaking with adrenalin...and that shot may not be true and kill the person they only want to stop. There is no such thing as "shoot to maim."

When I lived in Mexico, I became acquainted with a man who was an ex-cop. I had observed that, in Mexico, at museums, at tourist affairs, at government buildings, and literally everywhere we went, the cops were carrying sawed-off shotguns and fully-automatic weapons. I asked this man why, and he serenly replied, "It's for shooting into crowds so we can kill more people."

God. Bless. America.

We do not shoot into crowds here. As depraved as our society happens to be, we still hold, collectively, some shred of value for life.

I am no longer a cop nor do I ever plan to revisit that part of my life in any way other than through memory or writing of the lessons learned.

However, I am a woman, and I am a trained woman, and I fully believe in my right to own a weapon for the purpose of self-defense.

When I lived in south Minneapolis, I kept a loaded gun close by because I worked nights and I was well aware that most burglaries take place in the daytime. Because I had nowhere to go if someone were to enter our home, I planned to be prepared.

I still have my gun although I live in a more secure area now, however, if someone enters my home and comes up my stairs at 3 am, he gets one warning if he's lucky (if there's time), and then he will be entrusted to the Lord's Judgment. I reserve the right to defend my own honor because there is no one else to do it for me.

I have heard the arguments stemming from the wording of the Constitution with regard to the 2nd Amendment; that it pertains to a trained militia.

Fine. I'm a trained militia of one woman. Do not enter unbidden or I will consider it to be a hostile takeover and I. Will. Take. You. Out. Period.

In all seriousness, the concept about a "trained militia" having the only access is a great ideology and if our country and culture had developed differently, I would agree, but I must say that we live in the real world, not one that we would like to be real. Thus we must deal with this on real terms.

The reality is that guns are readily available in our culture and if they forbidden to the average citizen, the criminals would be empowered, forcing the good citizens into the black market to obtain weapons for themselves, for Americans are not going to be cowed by legislation that usurps their right to defend their families.

In other countries that have stringent gun laws, (ie the Netherlands)their murder rates are only slightly lower...for very little has to do with guns, but most has to do with premeditation for the murders are committed in closer quarters with knives and other weapons.

"Gun control" is not the solution to violence.

Respect for life IS a solution. Education in gun handling is a solution, and enabling the average citizen to learn to handle guns and the appropriate use of and consequences of them IS a solution.

Guns are a tool. They are inanimate metal and plastic; it takes intent to kill.

Where I live now, I am not so "dependent" upon my gun, and this is because I have other protective measures I did not have before. I see the gun as the last option, the option of absolute desperation for the purpose of defense only.

Yet there are extremists out there who seem to depend upon this as their answer to defense, which it is not. Then there are those who seem to depend upon legislation to deprive their neighbors from this legitimate option for defense.

The answer to violence has nothing to do with guns and everything to do with humanity and our flawed consciousness with respect to human life.

Yes, I am pro-gun and I'm willing to use the gun...in defense, if I am cornered, and consistent with my training.

But I'd far prefer never to have to think about it. I'd prefer that we live in a society that respects life and the reality behind the events of Virginia Tech. It was a man, not a gun, who killed the innocent in cold blood. It was a man, not a gun, who planned, plotted, and carried out this event. It was a man, not a gun, that was seriously mentally disturbed, displaying outright aggressive paranoia when he carried out his act.

If guns were not available to him, he would have found another way. The 9/11 terrorists didn't use guns to carry out their slaughter, did they?

Guns have never been the problem; don't make them the scapegoat. It's people who carry out the acts with whatever tool is available.

I am all for a waiting period, strict education, and other "controls", but do not ever take away my gun as long as I am a law-abiding citizen. I maintain the right to defend my life or that of another should the situation call for it.

I just pray that it might never be necessary and that this weapon will only be used to practice hand-eye coordination.

Let the flaming begin:

The Truth, Free Will, and Human Dignity

Recently I and a group of friends were in conversation with a priest and the topic of contraception arose. I'm not sure how the question or suggestion was put to him, but some of this group, some of which were his parishioners, suggested he use the pulpit to discuss contraception or promote Natural Family Planning (NFP) classes at his parish.

He became visibly uncomfortable with this suggestion and explained that there were many who were not open to such a teaching and would not be happy. As a result, they, the priests at his parish, have chosen to avoid "controversial" topics.

I have been turning this over in my mind a great deal, and I have been growing more and more offended at the affront to the dignity of the people of this parish this attitude presents. And unfortunately, this shrinking away from moral topics is far too common in America.

Where to begin? This attitude is so wrong on so many levels!

First of all, those who are placed in a position of Church authority, whether as clergy, religious, catechists, etc., have a moral obligation to speak the truth in charity to those they serve. The Good Lord did not place them there to speak on his behalf with the admonition to try not to offend anyone.

The truth is offensive - it is supposed to be so! The Truth makes us uncomfortable. GOOD! Because it is this very discomfort that makes us squirm by holding up an example of Christ...to whom we are allegedly seeking to conform.

It is not the job of the Church to conform to the immorality of the people; it is the job of the Church to lift the people up to Christ, call them to transcend the depravity of the culture and conform them to be like Jesus Christ!

To withhold the Truth because people may become offended is an outright and active affront to their human dignity, for it deprives them of the God-given use of their free will. So what if they reject the teachings of Jesus Christ? They rejected Him first, they tried to stone him, and they finally beat and crucified him.

I got news for you all....we are all called for such devotion, love, and obedience to the Truth, personified in Jesus Christ. He was not kidding when he told us to "Take up your cross and follow me."

To all priests, religious, and teachers...I IMPLORE you to speak of "controversial" topics to the people to whom you are sent. If I am one of them, then PLEASE OFFEND ME WITH THE TRUTH! Do not allow me to wallow in darkness!

Speaking as an ex-dissident myself, I would not be where I am now if I had not heard the Truth, and it is a sad state of affairs to say I had to find it on TV because there was no one else available who could be bothered with such a sordid affair of reaching through my moral ambiguity to confront me with reality. Thank God that He alone is so faithful, for He did not let me go. Those of you who must speak for him are literally CHARGED with teaching the people! Please overcome your own unwillingness and do your best to restore life to the dead and become a light in the darkness.

I cannot emphasize this enough: let people be offended! They became ticked off at Christ and rejected him in dramatic ways...why should YOU be any different? The servant is not greater than his Master...none of us is greater than Jesus, and we can all expect to offend someone.

In fact, if someone is not offended, then we are not doing our jobs.

I am not advocating in any way that we should go out and beat people over the head. Rather, I am advocating simply presenting the moral teachings of the Church, the same ones found throughout history, in a calm, professional, and confidant manner. It is not our place to reject the Truth on behalf of others. It is our place to allow them, in their free will, to accept or reject it, and it is not the problem of the teacher if the student isn't open to following Christ. Adam and Eve had a choice too, and each one of us is in a position to relive the Garden of Eden. God allowed them to do so and this reality has never changed.

One day we will all be called to account not only for the words we spoke, but for those we did not speak; and woe to the man or woman who was in possession of the Truth of Jesus Christ and chose to remain silent. Our omissions will be fully revealed to us in all their far-reaching consequences, and we will have no defense.

Indeed, there is a time to speak and a time to be silent, and this is where prayer must come in; we must look to the example of Jesus there as well, for He chose silence at some points as well.

But it is not proper to choose to ignore the difficult teachings for to do such a thing robs the people who are deserving of the Truth. How can they reject what they do not know or understand?

SPEAK THE TRUTH AND DO NOT WITHHOLD IT! Do not offend the dignity of the people by robbing them of free will. We are all called to be the hands of Christ, and this doesn't always refer to physical work, but to teachings as well...the Truth is placed into our hands. If we do not give it away, we are, in and of ourselves, rejecting God, rejecting the Truth, and rejecting even our own dignity.

Speak the Truth, and do not fear. Speak the Truth, and affirm the dignity of those who hear it. Speak the Truth, and allow the one hearing it to embrace or reject it, for they have the right to do so.

Speak the Truth, and by doing so, you conform yourself to Christ for if they reject you, you may be comforted that He was rejected first.

The Truth and Love are inextricably linked; rejection of one is unfulfillment of the other. Trust God, conform to Christ...and be guided by the Truth.

Don't Call My Name

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I wrote this piece a few months after I "retired" from law enforcement. I was inspired upon the occasion of the untimely death of a local State Trooper, whom I did not personally know, to write this piece. I further edited the work upon the tragic death of another police officer, whose wife, a Deputy Chief at the time, had been one of my references. I consider this to be a work of fiction because the experiences within are not necessarily "mine", but those of police officers collectively, throughout the world. The beginning is mine, although I suspect that others would state something similar. Police Officers everywhere answer to a true call; it is not just a job, and even a short time in the field marks a soul for life. .
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I decided a long time ago to become a police officer. My family was shocked and most of them decided that I was insane. They spoke to me as if I were an irrational child, and everyone, EVERYONE, asked me "WHY!?" . I neither defended nor explained my choice. The simple reason was this: there was no rational or logical reason in the world for my desire to become a police officer. I knew the risks I'd be taking and I understood my family's concern.

So I prayed, "God, please don't call my name."

I went through the training where they made us run miles and hold the push-up position for what seemed like hours while we listened to our instructor give us his life story. They made us take our turns at leading calisthenics and if we didn't give it our all, they made us do extra. They stuck us in the "gas chamber" and gave us tear gas, CS gas, and pepper spray just to be sure we got our "money's worth" of education. They twisted our joints and shot at us, and throughout the training, they impressed upon us that no matter what happened, no matter how serious the injury, how intense the fear, or how close the panic, we were always to be in control of ourselves and the situation. They taught us the mentality necessary for survival on the streets. And they told us story after story of heroes fallen in the line of duty. They taught us to learn from their mistakes as well as our own and how to not make the same mistake twice. We may never get a second chance.

Throughout it all, I prayed, "God, please don't call my name."

When I was finally hired, I raised my right hand to give my oath to God, my Country, my State, City and Department, to uphold the Constitution of the United States, enforce the laws, to Serve and to Protect. In a room full of collegues, family, and superiors, I gave my oath and silently prayed, "God, please don't call my name."

I wore my brand-new uniform with pride, pinned on my badge, strapped on my vest, and holstered my loaded gun for the first time. As I did so, the full weight of my responsibility settled upon my soul. I experienced for the first time the taste of the knowledge that accompanies fear; sometimes "serving and protecting" means taking a life or risking my own...so I prayed, "God, please don't call my name."

I rode in a squad car, patrolled the strets, stopped offenders, served warrants, subpoenas, and took reports. I turned in documents upon which I had written, "status/inactive", knowing that someone's home, life, and rights were somehow violated, but I was unable to provide the solution they needed me to offer. I realized that although I was young and inexperienced, I was suddenly "Authority", and I supposedly had "the answer" the people I served were seeking. I comforted the grieving, warned the disorderly, and stopped the assault. I restored safety, referred people to other agencies for problems I couldn't fix, and I tracked down runaways and returned them to their parents, caring or otherwise. I held the hands of children trapped in twisted metal and I helped to save the life of someone's family member. Each and every day I saw both the best and the worst of human nature.

However, I always knew that I was not immune to the tragedies that strike unprovoked, so I prayed, "God, please don't call my name."

I learned early that because I wore a uniform and a badge, I was no longer my own person. My life was not mine; it belonged to the public and my reputation was relegated to the same. I became the target of hatred, unforgiving glares, and pointing fingers. Likewise I was seen as an expert in the law and the solution to life gone somehow awry. And I felt incredibly inept.

So I prayed, "God, please don't call my name."

I attended the funeral of a fellow officer who had fallen in the line of duty. I gave my condolences to his family and friends and I shared in their grief. As I paid my respects and said my goodbyes to the officer in the casket, I realized that his death was not personal. He was killed because he wore a uniform and a badge. He died for what he represented, not for who he really was. I knew that it could just as easily be any one of the thousands of officers who do the same job lying in that casket. I also knew that no matter who it was, the death would not be any easier to accept. And as the tears came to my eyes I understood the full impact of the identity I shared with this individual. And I prayed, "God, please don't call my name."

When I flipped on the lights, switched on the siren and screamed through crowded intersections en route to a call of a "man with a gun," and as I risked my life to reach an unknown situation, I knew that I couldn't spend my career, and thus my life, fearing that my name would be called. So I put my life into the hands of the Lord and I did the job that no one else would.

I stood by the closed door, drawing my weapon as, from the other side, came the unmistakable sound of a live round striking the empty chamber of an unidentified gun. I didn't need to see the frightened eyes of the victim to know that I was living someone else's desperate prayer. I knew why I was there.

"God, you already called my name.""

Happy 80th, Holy Father!

I held my breath with the rest of the world after the passing of beloved Pope John Paul II, knowing the promise of Jesus to His Bride would be kept; we are forever under the protection of the Holy Spirit.

I remember how I loved Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger, and prayed he would be the choice of the conclave. I remember exactly where I was at that moment in time. We always remember the most minute details at such important moments, because, for that space of time, nothing else is important, and yet, everything is given a clarity it did not otherwise have.

We were taking our Manager out to lunch for he was leaving for another position, and we wanted to say goodbye. The pizza restaurant we patronized had, I think, CNN (the channel was unimportant) on, and I remember looking up to see the white smoke, hearing the cries, HABEMUS PAPAM!


I was not able to express my true joy as we were sitting at a crowded meal, but no one could refrain from making comment. It was one of those moments in which I very publicly came out to many as a practicing Catholic, deeply in love with my faith and with our Holy Father...to become known as Pope Benedict XVI.

Happy Birthday, Holy Father! We love you!


And can I just say....our beloved Pope Benedict XVI has to be the most photogenic Pontiff EVER!

I Came Home to Divine Mercy

Divine Mercy is part of my conversion story - a part that wasn't told in that series of posts.

When I was living in the darkness of my sin, working nights, and basically, embracing the total darkness that was my life, a co-worker gave me some books to read while at my post at night: The Left Behind series.

I was seeking God at the time, sensing my separation, sensing his call, but I was at a loss as to what to do. I remember thinking that maybe I should find a priest, make an appointment, and pose my questions to him. But who? What church? Weren't priests too busy to deal with the likes of me? And if I DID find a priest, I was quite certain he would tell me I needed to go to Confession, and I didn't want to and would be at a loss to explain why. I feared being pressured into something I didn't want to do, so I ran from the idea.

And because I had nowhere to go, I went nowhere...or so I thought.

One Christmas, Mom had given my brother and I a CD with the Divine Mercy prayer on it, along with a pamphlet explaining the devotion and how to pray the chaplet. I remember finding the CD and the pamphlet, and I read it over suspiciously, thinking it was too easy. It also said I had to go to Confession...so at first, I tossed it aside. Something told me not to throw it away, though, so I added it to my collection of eclectic things that didn't otherwise have a place in my home and my life.

But as I was reading the "Left Behind" books, I found that I was offended by the outright anti-Catholicism expressed within the pages, including the idea that the Pope became the right-hand man of the Antichrist. I couldn't explain why I was so offended, but it was like someone was attacking my Mother. Attack me all you want...but do NOT mess with my Mother!

I was conflicted, but somehow, these books drew me into an understanding that I had been rejecting God, and I had to make my peace with Him...and that move was mine. I didn't believe in the Rapture, but it did come to me that if God wanted to wipe me off the face of the earth, he would do it. If he wanted to cause the earth to erupt into earthquakes and raining fire, he could do it.

And always, I had the presence of the crucifix on the wall of my livingroom - because it wasn't home without that. Thank you, Mom.

So through all this introspection, I went back to Divine Mercy, not really believing the promises to St. Faustina, but I really wanted to. I needed to believe, and I needed mercy.

But I could not leave the life I was living behind me. I could not, in good conscience, come to Jesus begging for his mercy without a true desire to change. Somehow I understood this, so I put the pamphlet down again.

Then finally, I picked it up, and I found a rosary buried in a box somewhere, and I prayed the Chaplet of Divine Mercy. I apologized to Jesus that I could not go to Confession, but I begged for Mercy just the same.

I think I might have prayed it a few other times, and then put it away again.

I credit Divine Mercy for bringing me home, for it was shortly after these prayers that my struggle to return to Confession began in earnest. I began going to Mass somewhat regularly, almost always receiving communion, but still feeling like an outsider. I always sat in the back of the church, not wanting to approach the Holy of Holies, as though Jesus didn't know I was there!

And he drew me on, even as I ran away...His Mercy continued to endure. I so desired mercy, but I was terrified to approach. I could not trust. My life had beaten all forms of trust out of me, such that I could not even trust God.

Jesus never gave up on me, and he doused me with those rays of Mercy until finally, finally, I came home. In my conversion story I explained some of that experience, the agony and ecstasy of it, but I don't think mere words can possibly convey the reality of this incredible experience of Divine Mercy.

When I bought my townhome, I had bare walls, so I requested art for Christmas and birthday gifts. Specifically religious art. I can't remember if I requested Divine Mercy specifically or whether the Lord put it on her heart, but my Mom gave me a Divine Mercy image which I had blessed on Divine Mercy Sunday a couple years ago. It now hangs on my livingroom wall next to a very realistic crucified Jesus, and I find that I cannot venerate one without the other, for they are one in the same.

I have another picture that combines the Sacred Heart of Jesus (another image I grew up with) and the rays of Divine Mercy. No one can enter my home without seeing these things.

Thanks be to God, the Divine Mercy of Jesus brought me home and to this day envelopes me in all my sinfulness, all my imperfections, and brings me to him with all his Divine Love.

If you are struggling with your faith, if you have been away for a long time, just pray this chaplet...you have nothing to lose and everything to gain.

For those interested, my Conversion story can be found here. Warning: many links!

What Church Father are you?

You’re St. Justin Martyr! You have a positive and hopeful attitude toward the world. You think that nature, history, and even the pagan philosophers were often guided by God in preparation for the Advent of the Christ. You find “seeds of the Word” in unexpected places. You’re patient and willing to explain the faith to unbelievers. Find out which Church Father you are at The Way of the Fathers!

If you can't follow me...forget me

H/T to Angela Messeneger and her post about St. Pedro Gonzalez, aka "St. Elmo", who said to his family, "If you love me, follow me! If you cannot follow me, forget me!"

Several years ago I was living in south Minneapolis at the home of a friend who had become a new homeowner. She and I met at a job in which we worked with mentally ill adolescents and through the experience we bonded. Many of the kids we worked with were violent and when she and I worked together, she knew I had her back and I knew that she had mine. It's hard to find such a relationship, especially professionally.

Predictably, we remained friends even after our employment there ended. She was there for me as I was applying for jobs in the Twin Cities Metro area and offered me a place to stay if my job search required an overnight. When I graduated from Law Enforcemnt Skills training, she was the only person to show up and offer her congratulations at what she know was a tough battle. My father had died early that year and my Mom didn't understand that this graduation cost me far more than my adademic four year graduation did; academically, I was a natural. Physically, I had a lot to overcome (being a woman), and I remain pleased with my showing at Skills.

She was a great friend, but we had one point of friction which I never wanted to bring up: my faith. She knew I was Catholic, but from the time she met me, I was not a real Catholic; I was struggling. I did not want to leave the Church, although I tried. Somehow, though, I could not bring myself to even darken the door of another religion. Although I did not go to Mass on Sunday very often, the pull was still there, and the moral upbringing was still present.

When I was "down and out", that is, having lost my job and what I thought was my very dignity, she purchased a home. She needed a roommate and I was her only choice. She was my only hope. True friendships can be like that.

Now, just so you understand who my friend was: H. was a political and personal Liberal with a capital "L", most of her friends were gay men, and she referred to herslf jokingly as a "fag hag". It wasn't until I moved in with her that I met some of her friends and even went out with them socially. Some of them are not friends I would have chosen for myself; they were angry, hateful people, ready to take offense at the slightest thing. Most were people just like me - just trying to get by, just trying to do the right thing, all tied up in moral relativism.

Eventually H. and I drove each other nuts as roommates tend to do, and I left. We remained friends until a few years ago.

This next part of the story is still painful.

Before and after I moved out, I was undergoing my long conversion. She and I stayed in contact and went out for our birthdays, even if we never had a chance to meet up otherwise. She had expressed long ago how important her friends were to her, as she saw her family as the ultimate representatives of betrayal. As I knew the story, I felt priviledged and did my best to remain as a good friend to her as she was to me.

After she had become a Social Worker, she had an Advance Directive written up and asked me to be one of her proxys. I looked it over and agreed, applying what I had learned (imperfectly) from my moral theology class in college. I thought it was acceptable and although I had seen questionable content there, I thought it could be justified. So I signed my name and agreed I would speak for her if the time ever came. She did not trust her family and knew that I would stand up and be her voice, and I fully intended to live up to that if it was necessary. For, you see, she was my friend and I owed it to her to stand up for her even in adverse conditions.

But my conversion was ongoing, and she was unaware of this as we were not in much contact anymore.

Then, one day, H. sent me an updated copy of her Advance Directive and as I reviewed it, I realized that she was asking to be Terri Schiavo - she wanted to die of starvation should the situation present itself. She claimed to know what she was talking about, but she didn't understand the reality of such a death. In all of her enlightenment, she had bought the liberal agenda including the outright ignorance of the suffering of such a death - even if confronted with that very thing.

H. was a social worker in a nursing home, and she often spoke of the people there whose time it was to "go" and the families who did everything to prolong their lives, refusing to allow them to pass away peacefully. At heart, I believe H. was a compassionate person, but God was not the source of her strength or her understanding. So when she was confronted with suffering and death, it terrified her. She also had deep-seated issues surrounding the need to control a situation (she was sexually abused as a child), and felt that she must have absolute control over every detail of her life...including how she was going to leave it.

I took the document she'd sent me and went to my parish priests at that time in order to help me with this, explaining that long ago I became a "proxy", and in fact was primary on her "Living Will." I tried to obtain some direction with what I had, and was looking to both preserve the friendship and break the news that I could not ever hold up my end of that contract. I would not tell the doctors, or enforce anyone to starve her in such a way. I was do my best to keep her alive until God himself called her home, which of course, was adverse to her wishes.

I did not receive much help from either of the priests I consulted. One did pose the question, "Would you starve your dogs?" And of course the question was "NO! That's cruel!", but he never helped me figure out how to best deal with the battle I knew was coming. The other priest was entirely unhelpful, and just told me to listen to my conscience. My conscience (more properly formed than before) had spoken, but it did not answer as to how best to deal with what I knew was coming.

I knew that H. would see this not as a rejection of a false ideology, but as a rejection of her, and certainly I did not want to reject her. I hoped to open a dialogue in which I could explain our Catholic faith and the dignity of life, using that as a platform to help her understand how I could not carry out her wishes which were in direct contrast to these beliefs. I also knew that she needed to be affirmed, but I didn't know how to do this with such an intimate topic, and I needed some sort of pastoral help in handling this.

I did not find it.

But God is good and he helped me say what had to be said in the tone with which it needed to be said. On the day she and I finally spoke, I explained to her that I could not fulfill the contract. In her condescending way that betrayed her own fear of rejection (that very thing I was trying to calm), she asked me,

"What's the problem?"

I carefully explained to her that what she was asking for amounted to murder and I could not, in good conscience, be a part of it.

Sharply, she told me that she needed me to be on board for 100% of this. She told me that I could not pick and choose what I wanted to follow.

I explained to her that I was aware of this and that I was telling her of my dilemma out of respect to her. She did not let me finish this explanation, but broke in and demanded that I be on board with her own wishes and that my statement told her that I was not respectful of her wishes. She told me that I did not respect her enough to follow her beliefs.

Very hurt, I took a deep breath and said to her, "I can't sacrifice my own beliefs on behalf of your own, H."

She said "Fine, I'll take you off, " and slammed down the phone.

I did not get a chance to "dialogue" with her. I did not get a chance to try to explain the dignity of life. She cut off our conversation and rejected me even as I tried to embrace her humanity even more deeply than I had ever before, because, through my conversion, I had come to understand who she really was: a child of God who deserved not to suffer more deeply than she already had.

H. rejected me, but I have never rejected her, and I still pray for her often. I have not tried to contact her for I know her too well and how such reaching out would be simply ignored or would fuel her anger even more deeply.

But she was like a sister to me, she is a strong woman pining for the truth she can't seem to find in the world she inhabits, so I ask you all to pray for her, and offer your Divine Mercy novena this week on her behalf.

H. couldn't follow me....so she forgot me. But I still can't forget her.

I suspect we all have stories of those we love who chose not to follow us to Christ, but that does not mean we should ever leave them behind. Let us all remember that even the greatest of Saints once rejected God...and that His love overcomes every evil.

Eternal Father, I offer you the Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity, of Your dearly beloved Son, our Lord Jesus Christ, for the atonement for our sins, and those of the whole world. For the sake of His sorrowful passion, have mercy on us, and on the whole world.

Missing Pieces

How many of you remember what it was like to be a child? Do you remember how it felt to be praised by a parent for something? Do you remember what it was like for your Dad to take notice of something you did, and even better, when he BRAGGED about it to his buddies?

And do you remember how much it hurt if you ever overheard either one of your parents, but especially your Dad, say something negative about you?

My parents were only married until I was about eight, but I still remember some pretty special moments, and after that, everything from my Dad became even more precious because he didn't live with us anymore.

There is something in all of us that really needs a Dad. We need our Fathers. If we don't have them, then some piece of us goes missing and we spend our lives looking for it.

I can only look at this through the eyes of a daughter, but I know that sons are also desperately in need of their fathers, and they need strong, manly figures in order to round them out and turn them into the men they are destined to become. And when they don't have that, they also spend their lives searching for that missing piece.

Wheras I really didn't have much of a "Dad" when I was younger, those years as a "Daddy's Girl" really left an impression on me. I still remember his praise; I still remember Dad telling me I could do anything. While Mom did extra to keep me grounded, Dad did everything he could to endorse my dreams - no matter how outrageous. As far as he was concerned, if I wanted to build a catapult out of bubble gum, sticks, and rubber bands and eject myself to the moon so I could bring back a piece of blue cheese, he was all for it and would supply the materials.

He drove my Mom nuts.

I think my Dad was a romantic. I'm just like him. He was definitely the sentimental one, and I inherited that facet of his personality.

My Dad died during my Junior year of college, and that following summer I went to Law Enforcement Skills Training. My Mom couldn't understand me or why I was doing this; yet I knew that my Dad had been all for it. He had actually been highlighted in a local newspaper article, bragging about my brother and I. It was a human interest story about he and his group of cohorts who met at a local coffee shop where they would talk about their kids and their lives. Dad was all about us, what we were doing, where we were headed, and how proud he was of our dreams and willingness to pursue them. The fact that his daughter was pursuing a career in law enforcement was a huge point in the article and seemed to make him somewhat of a celebrity among his peers.

But when I graduated from Law Enforcement Skills training, Dad wasn't around anymore. He didn't get to see his little girl standing there in her brown polyester uniform, one of only 11 women in a class of 300, one of the shortest, one of the proudest.

When I graduated from college with my BA degree almost a year later, Dad wasn't there; the last time I'd seen him was at my high school graduation, four years prior.

A few months later, when I was sworn in as a Police Officer, Dad wasn't there. He would have been so proud! He'd always told me I could do anything I wanted to do, and I did it. Dad wouldn't have been surprised to witness my oath and he would have been the first to ask for a photo and to actually hold my badge. My Mom didn't understand at all. I was there because of my Dad; I was there because of Dad's encouragement and his belief in my abilities even while I was still in diapers.

But I'm thankful that I still had an uncle there, who drove Mom up to witness the occasion. It wasn't the same as having my Dad there, not nearly, but I am thankful that at least a male family member was there on that auspicious day as I gave my oath to God, my city, and my country, my oath to serve and protect. He wasn't Dad, but I do think that he was glad to be there just the same. He had several daughters, and I was maybe one by "adoption" and even "default" included somehow in the mix. What was one more daughter among many?

When I got into firefighting, my Mom didn't come up for the swearing-in ceremony. I didn't have any family there. I wish I could say my Dad would have been there, but even for that, I'm not sure he would have made it. He would have been very proud, of course, but I doubt he would have been there. My boyfriend, who was himself a firefighter and the one who had encouraged me and helped me train, did manage to make it, and that meant a lot, especially since no one else was there for me.

It was a doomed career anyway, which is fine, but still, the presence of my Dad would have made a difference in some small way that can't be quantified. It would have, in a sense, "legitimized" what I was doing.

We need our fathers. We need that male presence and that male guidance in our lives, no matter who we are, whether we are male or female. We need our mothers and we need our fathers; it is they who form us, and each has a special role in that.

There is nothing like the praise and support of a father; there is nothing like knowing that our Dads love us and are behind us in what we do. There is nothing like the blessing of a father.

Every so often, I think of my Dad, and the nostalgia stops me in my tracks. I wish I could call him up and share my adventures, not nearly so interesting now that I am an adult. I know that he would help me take myself less seriously, and he'd remind me of the time I calculated the speed of the Black Stallion and declared it impossible. He'd remind me of the time I walked into a glass door at a grocery store, and the "My Heinie" commercials we used to roar about on the radio. Dad was still around when I learned how to drive, and he taught me how to drive in the Cities. He was still around when I wanted to be a jockey, and cultivated my interest in horse racing, even paid for English riding lessons although he couldn't afford it.

For my 16th Birthday, we went to Canturbury Park, he let me pick the horses and he placed the bets. And we entered the "Filly for a Fan" contest, joking about actually winning. He was going to name the filly, "Julie's Dream", and we were going to win the Kentucky Derby...with me aboard. Roses for everyone!

Dad always told me I could do anything - and I believed him.

I just wish that I could hear my Dad tell me, even one more time, something more important, and I wish that, the last time I'd heard it, that I really understood. I wish I could hear my Dad tell me that he loves me and that he is proud of me.

Is there a single one of you out there who doesn't feel the same way?

Atheism is NOT a Religion!

H/T to Happy Catholic

The Blogger's Choice awards is going on right now, and in the "religion" category, an Atheist blog is winning!

So get thee over there and vote for a blog that actually involves religion!

Some very prominent Catholic blogs are featured. You will have to register, but it's painless and I got the email to confirm the account immediately.

What are you waiting for? GO!


UPDATE: Friday, April 13, 6:00 pm

Atheism is falling off the charts. Catholics are ahead. Thanks be to God!

I turned in my paper...

Somehow I thought the idea of this was better than the actual thing.

The paper is done. I determined that I couldn't do any more with it, and I sent it on to the prof with apologies. I hope he lets me stay in the class, since I have so demonstrated my ineptitude in theology...

Maybe I should have sent a blog post instead?

To quote Shakespeare:

"I go, and it is done....

Out, OUT, damned spot!"



And, just to contrast, and as an aid to understanding the above image, here is an example of a similar reaction a student (not me) had to a math test:

More on Suffering

It's official. I now have all the elements of true suffering: blood, sweat, and tears.

The sweat came first, actually, as I raced through the pages of the encyclicals and class notes, trying to write this darned paper about how suffering is salvific (according to John Paul II in Salvifici Doloris). I can't seem to make it come together.

Then the tears threatened today as I considered my deadline approaching, one day closer, and I am only one sentence and one quote closer to ending my paper - with another paragraph and a conclusion still to go. The tears came as a result of the thought of turning in this terrible paper, and the embarassment it will cause my faithful references. I considered calling them to tell them not to send in the forms. After this one, I'm not sure they'll want to stand behind me.

You may say I'm being too hard on myself, but not this time...this paper simply will not come together. I've highlighted and dog-eared my books, I have colored tabs to code the topics, and I've starred and underlines and bracketed important passages.

I have revised, I have replaced quotes, I have cut sentences and added others. I've cut, I've expanded. I've drawn the connections....and lost others.

And I can't seem to get anywhere.

And the final element was the blood. I cut my finger when reaching into my backpack to grab my binder containing 3 Encyclicals, all printed off from the EWTN website because they are no longer in print.

So I bled, and now I have blood on my pages.

That does it. I'm really suffering.

I know I read something about joy in suffering...where is it?

And how can this possibly be salvific?

Oh...right...that's what the paper is about.

Maybe I should just turn in a blood-stained piece of paper with a picture of the Crucified Lord, and sign it with a smilie face.

Feed My Sheep - Follow Me

It's no secret that I used to be a bad Catholic...rather, I was no Catholic at all. I served a different Master, even if I did not acknowledge so. But God would not let me go so easily, for He had placed his mark upon me, he kept His voice in my ear, and he kept me from falling into the abyss.

36 Simon Peter said to him, "Master, where are you going?" Jesus answered (him), "Where I am going, you cannot follow me now, though you will follow later."
37 Peter said to him, "Master, why can't I follow you now? I will lay down my life for you."
38 Jesus answered, "Will you lay down your life for me? Amen, amen, I say to you, the cock will not crow before you deny me three times."

How many times I denied Jesus, through my actions, through my words, through my beliefs? I grew up well within the fold, with a mother the likes of St. Monica, and yet I went the way of Judas. In my defense, I was confused by the world; I was lead by my own concupiscence, and I was lost, yet Jesus did not let me go so easily.

So often I have been Peter, really loving Jesus, yet not understanding what he was saying. So through my own ignorance, I rejected Him.

As I came into the faith, I began to understand what he was asking, and then, through my own fear of ridicule, I have rejected him.

But Jesus is merciful; he does not leave us to our own demise, and he did not leave Peter.

John 21
3 Simon Peter said to them, "I am going fishing." They said to him, "We also will come with you." So they went out and got into the boat, but that night they caught nothing.
4 When it was already dawn, Jesus was standing on the shore; but the disciples did not realize that it was Jesus.
5 Jesus said to them, "Children, have you caught anything to eat?" They answered him, "No."
6 So he said to them, "Cast the net over the right side of the boat and you will find something." So they cast it, and were not able to pull it in because of the number of fish.
7. So the disciple whom Jesus loved said to Peter, "It is the Lord." When Simon Peter heard that it was the Lord, he tucked in his garment, for he was lightly clad, and jumped into the sea.
8 The other disciples came in the boat, for they were not far from shore, only about a hundred yards, dragging the net with the fish.
9 When they climbed out on shore, they saw a charcoal fire with fish on it and bread.
10 Jesus said to them, "Bring some of the fish you just caught."
11 So Simon Peter went over and dragged the net ashore full of one hundred fifty-three 5 large fish. Even though there were so many, the net was not torn.
12 Jesus said to them, "Come, have breakfast." And none of the disciples dared to ask him, "Who are you?" because they realized it was the Lord.
13 Jesus came over and took the bread and gave it to them, and in like manner the fish.
14 This was now the third time Jesus was revealed to his disciples after being raised from the dead.
15 When they had finished breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, "Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?" He said to him, "Yes, Lord, you know that I love you." He said to him, "Feed my lambs."
16 He then said to him a second time, "Simon, son of John, do you love me?" He said to him, "Yes, Lord, you know that I love you." He said to him, "Tend my sheep."
17 He said to him the third time, "Simon, son of John, do you love me?" Peter was distressed that he had said to him a third time, "Do you love me?" and he said to him, "Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you." (Jesus) said to him, "Feed my sheep.
18 Amen, amen, I say to you, when you were younger, you used to dress yourself and go where you wanted; but when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will dress you and lead you where you do not want to go."
19 He said this signifying by what kind of death he would glorify God. And when he had said this, he said to him, "Follow me."

I love this passage. Peter recognizes Jesus, and not only does he cast his net into the deep on command, but he leaps into the water in order to swim to him, while his cohorts simply row the boat back in. Peter is so eager to get to Jesus that he does not wait for the boat...he just goes. This is a man of courage and conviction. This is a man I can relate to in his over-eagerness!

Do you see the connection between the two passages?

Jesus rises from the grave, breaking the bonds of death, and what does he do? He returns to the shore and finds Peter fishing. Peter is so ready to meet Jesus and be reconciled that he literally leaps into the waters to get to his Lord.

And then Jesus asks him three times, "Do you love me?"

He does this to overcome Peter's three denials. Three times, Peter answers in the affirmative that he loves Jesus.

So I go back now, to my own life, how many times I denied the Lord. Peter denied him only three times; I denied him many more than that.

Last night, after the Easter Vigil, some of the people in class thanked me for what I had done and made me aware of the influence I've had upon them; one is now going to the Adoration chapel regularly, another is listening to Bl. Fulton Sheen and Fr. Corapi on Relevant Radio. His wife and sponsor is amazed.

Where I used to deny Christ, I am now standing before a group and proclaiming Him.

Where I used to ridicule the faith, I am now upholding and explaining the teachings.

What I used to flee, I am now following, willingly, and asking others to do the same.

I wondered today how many times Jesus will ask me to affirm my love for him, to overcome the number of times I have denied him. It was far more than three. And I cannot believe his Mercy, allowing me to stand among the Saints and Angels at the Easter Vigil, with the souls seeking admission to the Lamb's Supper, having been given the grace to lead them there in my own way. I was allowed to stand up before the congregation, before the priests, before the Lord, and proclaim with my presence that I do indeed love the Lord Jesus Christ, and desire to lead others to Him.

Only a few years ago, I was not even attending Mass on a regular basis. I could not bring myself to go to Confession, and I was receiving the Body and Blood of Jesus unworthily, bringing judgment upon myself. Only a few years ago, I complained that the Church did not allow women to be ordained, and I was calling for "Vatican III". Only a few years ago, I wanted the Church to change, I wanted Jesus to change, to fit my idea of what worship should be.

Last night, I was allowed to stand up in front of my parish as a teacher and a sponsor, and proclaim that Jesus is Lord and I am His servant - and I am thrilled to lead others into his embrace.

I can't imagine anything more merciful for a sinner such as myself. I deserved to be cast into the abyss, yet the Lord instead has called me to his side, to serve and to teach, bringing the Word to those who are where I was, and who have surpassed where I am even now.

How many times will I have to say, "I love you" to overcome my countless denials of Christ?

Yet I will do so as many times as necessary, for I owe my penance in the order of Justice. And Jesus, in His Mercy, allows all of us the ability to answer for our wrongs against him, for He sees our love and allows us to proclaim it, even when, in the past, we have denied him and run away.

Thank you, Jesus, for your Mercy. I love you, and I will follow you.

HE IS RISEN!

You wouldn't believe the joy!

Tonight, I had a front row seat for the Easter Vigil, there as both a teacher and a sponsor, and I was given a place in between the woman I sponsored, whose liflong dream it has been to be Catholic, and her adult daughter on my other side, who was also entering the Church.

We began in the back of the sanctuary, in darkness, witnesses to the lighting of the Easter Candle, and we processed in, to take our places in the front rows. The last light of the evening was still visible through the stained glass windows slowly fading to mark the end of day, even as we were only beginning. The readings were long and somehow, so much more meaningful tonight than they have ever been in my life. We were taken through Genesis, and I found myself silently mouthing the words of Creation, almost overwhelmed with a newfound understanding of God's love for man.

Each one of us there were created by God, for God; each one of us is created in the likeness and image of God; each one of us is there by virtue of God's command to Adam and Even to "go forth and multiply".

There, in the darkness, I wiped tears from my eyes, overwhelmed by gratitude.

This was my first Easter Vigil at my parish, and what a blessing to truly participate in such a degree in the liturgy. I couldn't stop smiling as I witnessed from my front-row seat, the baptism of several catechumans. The tears nearly overflowed as I observed their smiles, and Father, often very solomn, could not contain his own rejoicing.

When it was time, our row filed forward and we stood in front of the Church, candidates in front, sponsors in back, facing the people. After my candidate was Confirmed, she turned to witness her daughter right next to her - both were in tears and I stood back, blinking back my own. I'm sure we weren't the only ones.

I kept forgetting to count, but between candidates and catechumans, we had about 25; what a beautiful witness to us all.

They were so excited to receive the Body and Blood of Christ for the first time, and I had given a quick lesson to the two who had missed the rehearsal as to what to do. When the time came, they forgot, but that did not impact their joy in finally receiving the Lord.

All Heaven is rejoicing tonight, bringing the prayers of the new faithful to the altar in Heaven.

All the Earth is rejoicing tonight as we celebrate the bonds of death broken by Jesus Christ.

All of Heaven and Earth are rejoicing together in the union of Christ to His Bride, the Church.

And here, in humble Minnesota, the heart of one woman is rejoicing, in solidarity with so many others, having been witness and participant in one of the most beautiful and meaningful liturgies she has ever attended.

My prayers were answered; I asked to be crucified with Christ, I asked to die with Christ, and so he answered consistent with my state in life.

Tonight, I, and all who celebrate his Resurrection, rise again and are reborn.

In the Eastern Catholic Church, during the Easter season they greet each other with the following exchange:

HE IS RISEN!

Indeed, He is Risen!

And so I say to you all:

HE IS RISEN, INDEED, HE IS RISEN!

And I can't believe the joy.

Holy Saturday

We are in a period of mourning, on our knees, joyful yet silent, waiting in hope, waiting in tears, waiting in gratitude for what our Saviour has done for us. We await and keep Vigil in prayer, preparing to celebrate the Resurrection of our Lord.

And just as Our Lady wept at the foot of the cross, so do we, but our tears differ, for we weep in repentence, in deep sorrow for our sins, the blood of the Lamb on our very hands. We weep for ourselves, for without our Savior, we would be lost and our suffering would be definitive, eternal separation from God. We weep for those who have chosen to reject the God who loves them so dearly, and we weep for our own inability to return His love fully to him.

And we hope in our Savior, we trust in our Savior, and we find joy even in our tears because we know that the Heavenly Father sees us through the wounds of His Son, who stood in our place and bore the justice which should have been meted out upon us.

It is through the Holy Spirit that we see and understand what Jesus has done, for in and of ourselves, we cannot grasp the immensity of his deed. Jesus dies not only in abandonment that we could not withstand, but also so he could send us a permanent companion to unite us in his Body; He sends us the Advocate, the Holy Spirit.

Holy Saturday is a day of mourning, but not so much for the Lord for we know he rose and released us from death; but rather,for our willful separation from Him. But because of His Sacrifice, we rejoice in the Triumph of the Cross, eagerly awaiting his light to return to the sanctuaries, waiting to be reborn again with him; we all await the Resurrection.

When I look upon the cross, I see the hand of God holding not just Jesus, but the entire world. I see the work of the Holy Spirit who brought me home and placed me at the foot of the cross next to the Blessed Mother. and today, I weep with her for she has withstood the sorrow of all sorrows and in her motherly embrace, we may all find the comfort we so require, and the path through her heart into the most Sacred Heart of Jesus Christ.

We will never understand our salvation without first understanding sorrow, which leads us to an understanding of the love that gave us the redemption.

Soul of Christ, Sanctify me.
Body of Christ, Save me.
Blood of Christ, Inebriate me.
Water from the side of Christ, wash me.
Passion of Christ, Strengthen me.
Oh, good Jesus, hear me.
Within thy wounds, hide me
Suffer me not to be separated from thee
From the malicious enemy defend me.
In the hour of my death call me
and bid me come to thee
that with thy saints I may praise thee
for ever and ever. Amen.

Triduum

Last night, Holy Thursday Mass was beautiful, reverent, and above all, as always, holy. After communion and the procession to the altar of repose, the choir filed out and around the sanctuary and sang,


"Stay with me
Remain with me
Watch, and pray..."

It was truly beautiful, and fostered a deeper prayer within me. Throughout the evening a prayer continued to rise from me, one I did not really want to pray, yet I could not help but follow the prompts of the Holy Spirit in my spontaneous request. And as I rested there, suddenly feeling a sensation like a spiritual rupture, I begged the Lord for a special grace, which He provided nearly immediately. I was completely overwhelmed.

I had been contemplating the agony of Jesus in the garden, and I could not help but feel deep, deep pity for him, wanting to extend consolation and mercy to him, wanting to reach out to him in some gesture of gratitude, of love....of consolation.

Yet how could I console my Lord, when I was the one who fashioned the thorny crown he was to wear? How could I offer mercy to the one whom I had lashed so hard with the whips? How could I offer gratitude when I had placed the nails in his hands and his feet? How could I dare to extend pity towards the on whom I had ridiculed?

And yet, still the prayer for a certain grace rose from my soul and I could not hold it back, somehow entering into his suffering in a way I had never experienced.

I cannot share the grace I requested or recieved, suffice to say that the Lord is good, the Lord is merciful, even to the least of us, even to those of us who abused Him unto death.

When I could rise from my pew last night, I went into the chapel, trying to hide my tear-stained face, but I could not stop the tears, and I could not leave His presence. I remained, but had to go; I had no choice, and that leaving ripped a wound open I did not understand.

At home, I could only kneel and gaze upon a crucifix of the suffering Jesus, sensing this terrible separation, feeling a sort of lonliness so deep it was unlike anything I'd ever felt. And yet, the word "felt" or "feeling" isn't accurate; it wasn't really an emotion or a physical sensation. Words simply do not convey the experience.

I had to work today, and counted down the minutes and hours until I could leave, apologizing that I could not be observing in prayer the hours of 12 pm to 3 pm. But tonight's service was blessed. The experience of last night did not repeat, although there was a touch of it before it started; I could not prevent my tears.

And after all, if we are contemplating the suffering of our Lord on our behalf, aren't tears appropriate? So I let them come.

And now it is over, we celebrated the death of our Lord Jesus Christ on the cross, and still, this paradox resides within my soul; it is a separation, a sort of rupture, and yet a closeness to Jesus I don't understand. I don't understand how this paradox can be, and yet it simply IS.

I have never before been so prepared for the Easter Triduum; I have never before experienced such graces at such a time.

This is when the Church goes into a period of silent mourning, and our Good Friday fast is to extend into Holy Saturday to the degree possible. In this way, we may all be better prepared, and more appreciative of the beauty and richness of the Liturgy of the Easter Vigil and the Easter Sunday Masses in celebration of the Resurrection.


Jesus, let me be crucified with you.
Jesus, let me die with you.
Jesus, remember me, when you come into your Kingdom.

Made to be Sin...He, Who Knew no Sin

*** Author's note: This post also published at CatholicDaily on April 5, 2007 ****

I have been contemplating the cross a lot lately, which is quite normal for all of us this time of year. Yet sometimes I think our Protestant brothers and sisters are so anxious to get to the Resurrection they forget that before Jesus rose, he suffered and died in a profound act of love in the reversal of sin.

I was listening to the local Protestant Christian radio station the other day, cringing as they referred to this as "Easter Week." Uh, no, that's next week. Then they went on to discuss how we are going to celebrate that Jesus "rose from the dead...for YOU!"

Back up. Yes, Jesus rose from the dead to free us all from death; but first He died a cruel, punishing death, and he had to do this to reverse the sin in the Garden of Eden. There can be no Easter without Good Friday. So let us delve into what Good Friday was about; let us see why Jesus had to suffer and die for our sins.

In Genesis 3: 17-18, we see the results of Adam and Eve's disobedience; "cursed is the ground because of you; in toil you shall eat of it all the days of your life; thorns and thistles it shall bring forth to you."

In Joshua 23:13, we read of the punishment of Israel for their sins: "know assuredly that the Lord your God will not continue to drive out these nations before you; but they shall be a snare and a trap for you, a scourge on your sides, and thorns in your eyes, till you perish from off this good land which the Lord your God has given you.."

You know the story. What happens on Good Friday? What are the first acts of the Passion of Jesus Christ? Why does the Passion begin with his betrayal in the Garden? What are the Sorrowful Mysteries of the Rosary? (Agony in the Garden, Scouraging at the Pillar, Jesus is Crowned with Thorns, Jesus Carries his Cross, Jesus is Crucified.)

The Passion begins in the Garden; the Lamb of God, innocent of any sin, is betrayed and taken into the immediate abuse of the Roman soldiers. The sin of man began in the Garden of Eden, thus it is appropriate that the reversal of sin begins in a similar place.

Jesus is lead to trial, where he is trapped; he does not resist, but has been taken into the snare, willingly, voluntarily, and obediently, his heart prepared, having already offered his sacrifice to his Father in Heaven. It is the perfect love of Christ; the perfect obedience of the Son of God.

Sin is a rejection of God's love; here Jesus reverses that and stands as our mediator, returning God's love fully by giving everything he has, even until his life, in the face of countless humiliations, indescribable agony, and impossible spiritual tortures. Yet he is innocent of any wrongdoing. He has not sinned. Jesus loves with the very love of God; only he could take on the sins of the world for only he possessed the divine love strong enough to overcome the greatest evil. He suffered with a human body, and loved with a human heart; he is the bridge that reunites us to the Heavenly Father.

In his Passion, Jesus is lead to be scourged; taking on the punishment promised to Israel. He is crowned with thorns, again, taking on the punishment inflicted upon Adam for his sin, taking on the thorns which were then battened cruelly into his scalp.

We follow Jesus as he carries his cross to Golgotha, he embraces it, obediently, in spite of his agony, in spite of the ridiculing soldiers and spiteful crowds, in spite of the weeping women, he carries on, giving everything, every drop of blood, every gasp of his lungs, every torturous step, to his Father in Heaven for expiation for our sin.

And the cross...what of the cross? Deuteronomy 21:22 states, "And if a man has committed a crime punishable by death and he is put to death and you hang him on a tree, his body shall not remain all night upon the tree, but you shall bury him the same day, for a hanged man is accursed by God; you shall not defile your land which the Lord your God gives you for an inheritance."

Jesus the innocent Lamb, became "the accursed". Jesus, for our sake, was made to be sin, who knew no sin. (2 Corinthians 5:21) He took on the punisiment for our sins, the very punishments bestowed upon Israel for their sins. Finally, Jesus experienced the rejection of the Father, the complete abandonment of the Father, to overcome the rejection and disobedience by Adam. Just as Adam had turned away from God, the Father turned away from the Son, a punishment no human being could withstand. With his suffering and death, justice was fulfilled; redemption was accomplished as all the iniquities of man were laid upon Jesus, who so willingly paid the price.

Galatians 3:13: "Christ redeemed us from the curse of the law, having become a curse for us - for it is written, "Cursed be every one who hangs on a tree."


The sin of disobedience was eating from the wood of a tree; Jesus, to reverse this, became sin, and was left to die brutally, hanging on the wood of a tree. We, as Catholics, also participate in this reversal of sin in the form of completing this new Covenant; we, the Bride of Christ in this mystical wedding, also consume the fruit of the tree; the wine poured out upon us, that wine that is the very Blood of Christ, that flesh that is the Body of Christ. We, too, eat from the wood of the tree. But rather than eat from the tree that brought death to the world, we eat from the tree that brings the world to new life.

There is no Easter without Good Friday. There is no sacrifice without love. Let us all spend time reflecting on Jesus, made to be sin, he, who knew no sin. Let us consider the thorns, the scourging, and punishments served upon Israel for their disobedience, let us consider our own disobedience and rejection of God's love, and as we pass through Holy Week, let us be condemned, convicted, and converted by the Blood of the Lamb.

Holy Week

Lent is drawing to a close - how fast it's gone this year! I'm almost sad to see it go, but of course, rejoicing in the celebration of Easter Sunday.

Tonight was our rehearsal with the RCIA catechumans and candidates. The cool thing is that, while I'm on the RCIA team, I was also asked to serve as a sponsor, so in a way, I get to really experience the "fullness of the Easter Vigil." My candidate was not there tonight, so I listened carefully to all instructions so that I can better assist her on Saturday, although it sounds like we'll run through it again before Mass starts.

I'm very excited. I've never been to the Easter Vigil at my parish, which is quite shocking to the other RCIA team members, and some of the candidates and sponsors. Here they assume I know what I'm doing because I'm a "teacher." Yeah...well....not in this regard!

In a way, though, I think this is an appropriate way to experience the Vigil; through the eyes of someone entering the Church. Yes, I'm already fully Catholic, but I get a front row seat (literally!), and I get to unite my butterflies with those of our new Catholics, really taking a few first steps of my own right along with them. This year has been like that for me; as they have learned, and I've stood up trying to teach them and share my faith with them, they have also shared themselves with all of us. And as a first-time teacher, let me tell you, this group has been incredible. They tolerated my flubs, they emathized with my nervousness, and they didn't throw things at me or groan the next time I stood up in front of them!

I think there's something about being new that relates to other newness. I don't think I can explain it in any other way.

Please keep our group in your prayers. They are enthused, maybe a bit nervous, and we are all joyful as we enter this,the most solomn and holy week of our year.

May God bless you all abundantly as we prepare our hearts for the Easter Triduum.

The Fire and the Stairs

FR. V., this one is for you and all the other Greyhound enthusiasts out there!


Fire stood looking at me, ears pinned, his gentle brown eyes questioning how I could do this to him. He was interested, yet fearful…and as I sat, watching, he turned around in an awkward circle and let out a soft whine. The sound conveyed a lot and I wished I could duplicate the vocalism.

My other dog for once simply laid on the bed, gnawing at her bone while I struggled to understand what more I could do to get my new Greyhound up the stairs. I signed, then, realizing Heather had been right….I had to force him. If he was going to “grow” he needed to be pushed…what I was trying to teach him went against his natural instinct.

So I got his leash and before he could get too excited at the prospect of a walk, and with Tikaani racing around, also fooled into standing at the door, I pulled my big red newcomer to the base of the stairs and forced him onto the lower landing. He stood, shaking, head down, ears pinned. I couldn’t look at his eyes and see the fear I was causing.

Sweating already, I soothed him and then urged him to the bottom step. He stood planted, not willing to move any more so than a marble statue. Careful, speaking encouraging words, I manually placed his front paws on the steps and set them appropriately although he wanted to bend them beneath him. When my urging didn’t move his rear legs, I also put those on the lowest step. Grasping the railing so that I would not fall backwards between Fire’s klutziness and my own, I forced him up the stairs, stopping when he did to repeat the procedure, but praising him all the way.

I couldn’t believe how awful I felt for making him do something he so clearly had no interest in learning; at least, not while he was learning it. But I remembered the yearning look in his eyes while he had stood at the bottom of the steps, watching Tikaani and I at the upper level. I knew this poor ex-racer wanted his wings, too…so we continued.

Once at the top he rushed into my bedroom and sniffed around, occasionally come to me with his ears raised and cocked, smug in his finally arriving at the top of what must have seemed like an impossible tower to him. But what he didn’t understand was the law of physics - and that once he was up, he must learn to come down.

I wondered if we’d drag the entire upstairs carpeting with us as I forced Fire to the top of the stairs. Wow! This dog had such an ability to make me feel like a horrible human being!

But again, with kind words, lots of pats and praise, and much muscle, I managed to get him started down the steps. I found that if I used the leash at his front and kept a hand on him, he found the courage to crawl step by step. Happy with the success, I immediately turned him around and we forced our way up the terrible, terrible stairway once again. This time I didn’t let him explore. We dismounted again and I saw no improvement, no increase in his courage.

I wondered if I was doing this all wrong and in the process, ruining him. But Fire, unlike his namesake, was very forgiving and shortly after our second trip down the stairs, he seemed to forget all about the terrifying experience. He romped around clumsily with his “sister” the German Shepherd while I wiped the sweat off my face.

The next evening we repeated the routine. Fire was just as frightened although it seemed to go a little better. I had decided that I was sleeping in my room that night, not downstairs near him while he became accustomed to the kennel and his new surroundings. So it was time to force the issue and I “attacked” the training with great resolve.

Again, we stopped after two trips as I didn’t want to overload him. But I was encouraged by his small improvement and was pretty sure I wouldn’t have to carry his muscular build all the way up the steps before I tried to sleep. So in order to help him in transition, I carried his bedding up the stairway and arranged it in my room. Hearing him whine plaintively at the bottom landing, I went to the top of the steps and sat, looking down at him.

Fire broke my heart. He stood forlornly, looking at me, his deep soulful eyes asking me how I could be so far away and so unreachable. My own heart was asking how he could stay so far away and not TRY to come up the steps. Slowly, I eased myself down the steps, all the way encouraging him to put even ONE PAW on the lower step.

Finally, I sat just above him – but couldn’t quite reach him. I hoped he’d meet me half way. Fire only stood there, a statue again, but his eyes never left mine.

I wondered what hindered him then thought back to some comments other greyhound owners had made; that the dogs were afraid of heights, that it was so new. And I considered too that puppies normally learn stairs when young and unafraid, but here I was asking an adult dog with long gangly legs to learn something which just didn’t make any sense in light of his experience. And like an adult maybe trying to climb a tree for the first time, Fire was afraid. And justifiably so.

I further realized that he and I shared different facets of the same fear. My heart caught in may throat, forming a lump and suddenly I understood his barrier. I remembered my own mortal fear as I climbed a ladder in turnout gear in firefighter training, having had to make the decision to climb…or run away forever. At the time my fear was bigger than the terrible ladder, but the goal – the roof, the accomplishment – had to be enough to overcome something that went so blasted harshly against my nature.

I remembered shaking all the way up. Several time I remembered the pride I felt every time I reached the top of a ladder, and how scary it was to come down, always expecting a misstep which would cause me to fly headlong down to the unforgiving cement apron of the training ground at the base of the tower.

I remembered encouraging words from friends and the resolve that I would not let this fear beat me; if others could do it, then so could I. But even so, I could not stop the tears behind my eyelids, thankfully hidden under the yellow helmet and heavy turnout gear. Those tears that did fall blended easily with the sweat pouring down my face and the redness caused was camouflaged by the redness from physical exertion.

In that moment, all of that flashed before me, and I understood Fire completely. I knew his fear and he knew mine. Our eyes held, I reached down to pat him, having to drop one more step to do so. Slowly I climbed the steps and returned to arranging his bedding so that he would be comfortable. I put his “baby”, a little squeaky plush alligator toy on top, ready to welcome him after the next journey. Sighing, I knew exactly why I had to force him up; because overcoming this fear would make his life better by leaps and bounds, and free him.

In the past, I had to learn to climb in order to reach the fire. Now, it was fire who had to learn to climb the stairs just to reach me. I understood that night that our match had not been in error, but that my new Greyhound was really a “kindred soul.” (As much as a human and animal can be).

I heard his whine again, and the sound of paws on the steps. I was certain Tikaani was taunting him again and turned to see if she was actually doing so or still lounging as she had been before. Much to my surprise, Tikaani was still there but had sat up, ears pricked, eyes bright, and head tilted. Her tail displayed the beginning of a wag.

Holding my breath, I turned toward the stairs just in time to see Fire emerge, get his legs under him and shake himself. He looked at me, ears jauntily half-cocked, and pranced toward and around me, happily dancing in his doggy pride. I patted and praised my new Grey, understanding that both he and I shared different versions of the same accomplishment.

Just as I had received a heartfelt hug from a fellow cadet facing the same fear, I hugged my Fire and knew our newly formed bond had just strengthened tenfold.

I find it ironic that I had to learn to climb a ladder to face the fire, yet in real life, Fire had to climb the stairs in order to be with me. Sometimes in facing our greatest fears we obtain more than the ability to face our personal dragons; rather, we learn how to strengthen others to conquer their own. And in the end, both are deeply blessed.

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.