The Short End of the Stick?

A few days ago while flipping stations on my car radio, I came across a protestant preacher, and stopped to listen for awhile because what he was saying sounded interesting. He was talking about the story of Joseph in the book of Genesis, and how poor Joseph was "always getting the short end of the stick."  Not having heard this particular angle taken before, I listened, giving consideration to his thought process. He explained that Joseph always had things going wrong and about telling his dream to his brothers (about the sheaves bowing to his sheaf), well, he just needed to learn wisdom and grow up a little. He explained Joseph was an arrow being polished for the Lord's quiver so that he would be ready to go on God's time.

Ever since I heard that particular interpretation of Joseph's story, I've wondered about it, most particularly the "short end of the stick" part. Although Joseph went through many trials, could it really be claimed that he got the "short end of the stick"?

I decided to read that story again during Adoration yesterday and try to do so with new eyes.

You all know the story: Joseph is a child of his father's old age, so is a favored and quite coddled son. One night Joseph has a dream that he and his brothers were binding sheaves, and the all arose and bowed to Joseph's sheaf. His next dream was of the sun, moon, and stars bowing down to him, and this second dream annoyed even Joseph's father.

As I read that, I could see, of course, how Joseph was taunting his brothers. While on the surface he seems only to be revealing a dream, it's easy to imagine the not-so-pure fallen human using the dream against his brothers instead of simply keeping it to himself. His father's own reaction, rebuking Joseph, seems to support the fact that he did indeed realize Joseph was being a pill and was not merely innocently recounting a dream.

Joseph's brothers then went off to move the flock and one day Israel ordered Joseph to find them to see if they are well, and to bring word back.

This next part is fascinating, for it seems out of place:

Gen 37:14-17
So he sent him from the valley of Hebron and he came to Shechem. And a man found wandering in the fields; and the man asked him, "what are you seeking?"
"I am seeking my brothers," he said, "tell me, I pray you, where they are pasturing the flock."
And the man said, "They have gone away, for I heard them say 'Let us go to Dothan'."
So Joseph went after his brothers and found them at Dothan.

Every time I read this story, I pause at this section. Who is this random unnamed man? Look again at the dialogue: "What are you seeking?"  And Joseph doesn't answer with a "what", but a "who".  "I am seeking my brothers." 

Joseph is given direction by the unnamed man who clearly knew who his brothers are, and he goes, and finds them.

This passage is so loaded; it reveals a prefigurement of the Messaiah, and a subtle shift in power; it is not his brothers who seek him, but Joseph who seeks his brothers.

Of course, he finds them, they plot to kill him and at the behest of Reuben who wants no harm to come to his brother, convinces them to put him in a cistern instead (so Rueben can restore him to his father). Instead, Joseph is sold into Ismaelite slave traders, who take him to Egypt and sell him to Pharaoh's Captain of the Guard.

Genesis Chapter 39 tells us that the Lord was with Joseph and he became a very successful man as a slave in Potiphar's house, and finds favor; he was actually placed in charge of the household.

Then the woman of the house hit on him and when Joseph refused to submit, fleeing the woman's greedy embrace, she lied and accused him of attacking her, causing him to be thrown into prison.

Genesis 39:21-22 tells us the favor of the Lord was steadfast and he caused the prison keeper to have regard for Joseph, and all prisoners were placed into his care. It was in this context that Joseph met the butler and baker of the king of Egypt.

The two servants of the king had mysterious dreams, and Joseph found them downcast, and upon learning the dreams, stated, "Do not interpretations belong to God?"  So they told Joseph the dreams and he interpreted them; both came to pass as Joseph said. The baker was executed and the butler restored to the King's service.

Two years later the Pharaoh had a dream, and the Butler remembered Joseph and told the King about him. Joseph was summoned from prison and brought before the King, where he interpreted the dream and gave advice on how to proceed with the prediction of the oncoming famine. Because of his gift and his wisdom, the Pharaoh set Joseph as his second in command and put him in charge of preparing for the famine.

Reality Check

As I re-read all of this, I kept pondering the protestant preacher's words:  Joseph was getting the short end of the stick? Really?

Let's take a closer look:

Well, first we have a spoiled brat who taunts his brothers, and he brothers go overboard on the revenge. OK, granted, that was a pretty awful thing to do; to plot to kill one's own flesh and blood and then sell him into slavery. Very low. That does seem to be quite a detriment.

Well, Ishmaelite slave traders weren't exactly known for being gentle folk, and Joseph could have been sold anywhere - but no, he want to Pharoah's Captain of the Guard. Then he is placed in charge of the household. Oh, right, he was thrown into prison for a crime he did not commit, but then he still found favor. After all, as scripture tells us, the favor of the Lord was upon Joseph and everywhere he went, even prison, he was the favored son and experienced the best of conditions.

No matter how I read this, I simply can't see that Joseph EVER got the "short end of the stick."

Did he suffer trials? Indeed, and yes, they were harsh!

Still, Joseph was cared for by God, and I see those trials as a purification; he had misused his gift and had to be taught how to use it. Not to benefit himself, but, rather, to benefit others. He had to learn not to abuse his gift to grow in regard of others, but rather, to grow in humility and wisdom.

While Joseph, after he favorably interpreted the dream for the Butler, asked him to remember him when he was restored, and revealed he was unjustly imprisoned, we hear not a word of complaint from him for the two following years as he continued his prison work.

It was not until he was sufficiently purified in God's eyes that he was called upon to place his gift and himself at the service of the Pharaoh and all his kingdom, and ultimately, his own family.

What are you seeking?

Look again at the unnamed man in the field and his conversation with young spoiled Joseph.

He was seeking his brothers, and even when those who had sold him came to him, he sought until he had found them all. Joseph was not satisfied with only a few brothers; he ached for his family and his homeland and knew he could not reveal his identity until the time was right, and when all had been properly restored...and forgiven.

Food I Would Serve Jesus - Fall Edition: SOUP!

Welcome to Fall!  In honor of the changing of the seasons to my favorite time of year, and also celebrating the Feast of St. Padre Pio, I bring you....SOUP!

Yesterday I was craving Italian soup, and couldn't find a recipe for what I wanted...so I made it up as I went along, stopping at the store only to get the main ingredient: ground Italian sausage.

The soup was comprised otherwise of the items I already had on hand and needed to use, and so, with this monastery-like "spirit of poverty", I dedicate my new invention to my dear St. Padre Pio - I would serve it to  him and to Jesus without reserve!

Italian Sausage-Tomato Soup:

1 package sweet ground Italian sausage - Johnsonville
Chicken broth - I used a box of Swanson's 1/3 less sodium
Vidalia onion
1 can diced tomatoes, garlic and basil flavor (I had DelMonte on hand)
1 fresh perfectly sweet tomato (from Aldi's)
thyme
fresh basil
oregano
garlic
celery salt
rosemary
tomato sauce (well, I didn't have any so substituted leftover pizza sauce)
red wine vinegar

Directions:

Start to heat the chicken broth in a soup pot while browning the sausage and chopped onion in a sauce pan. "Break" it up as you go so you don't have huge misshapen meatballs. Drain excess fat, then carefully add the meat/onion mixture to the broth. Open the can of Italian diced tomatoes, add to the pot, along with the other chopped fresh tomato - as many as you'd like. Add the tomato sauce and herbs according to taste. Cover the pot and simmer, but stir and taste-test occasionally for balance.  I also added additional water to the broth, and salted with celery salt.

When you're satisfied with the flavor, add some kind of pasta. I had Orzo in the cupboard so used that, but any pasta would be fine - take care not to overwhelm with the pasta unless that's what you're going for. I wanted a very "brothy" soup, something perfect for dipping a hard roll into.

Serve with crackers or bread of your choice, garnish with Parmesan cheese and a fresh basil leaf.

Enjoy!

A few notes:

If you can, cook this in a slow-cooker so you can really give the flavors a chance to blend. I simmered on the stove for a couple hours, but I'm picky that way. You could simmer uncovered for a much shorter period of time and it would still be very tasty!

As this soup is very basic, you could turn it into a hearty stew by adding other garden vegetables, substitute the pork for ground turkey - the sky's the limit! (Not that turkeys fly or anything).  :-)

Perhaps I'll re-post my French Onion Soup recipe soon, complete with a photo of the finished product. Anyone interested?

Restored to Innocence

A couple days ago, I went to Confession, cringing once again at having the same laundry-list of sins. I'm the kind of person who could probably LIVE in a confessional and never run out of sins ot confess, but of course, if I were to never leave, I would never have a chance to try to overcome my numerous faults and weaknesses that lead me into sin.

Every now and then I long for the days of childhood innocence; back when I didn't understand real evil and even better, had never experienced it or had been the author of it.  Yet even this frivolous longing carries within it God's grace, for it makes me even more grateful for the Sacrament of Confession.

All of this was on my mind when I entered the tiny room and knelt down behind the screen, the priest already intoning the beginning of this most sacred rite. I listed my sins...as always...knowing that God already knew what I had done and had only been waiting for me to come to Him to take full responsiblity and ask for the grace to overcome them, to start anew. Once again.

I listened to the advice of the priest and when prompted, began my Act of Contrition, the very same one I learned back in First Grade when I received the Sacraments.

"Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended you. I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of Hell....

And then it happened. I can't properly explain it, but there, as I prayed the words, it was as if I was taken back in time to a confessional long long ago. I was again six years old, and, having confessed my little sins, things like fighting with my brother and disobeying my mother, was moving haltingly through the Act of Contrition. I could feel my page-boy style hair cut and in my mind's eye, see a little of the light of day peeking through the woven wicker-type screen, revealing the silhouette of Fr. W. as he waiting patiently for me to complete the prayer, his hand already raised in anticipation of absolution.

But most of all, because I offended You, O my God, who are all Good and deserving of all my love....

There I was, kneeling in the Confessional, an adult, having committed much greater sins, having now had a long life of having gravely, over and over again, severed my relationship with God in ways I couldn't even have imagined as a child. I knelt there and the tears came as I recalled that sweet, sweet innocence of childhood.
 

I firmly resolve, with the help of your grace, to confess my sins...

 
It truly was as though suddenly, I was a child again, kneeling humbly before my God, knowing His Mercy, and overwhelmed because I am also an adult, an adult who has been wounded by sin. As I said that ancient prayer, I knew without a doubt that in my sorrow, in my repentance, in my desire and will to lean on God in order to overcome my sin, in His Mercy He indeed restored me to that beautiful innocence of childhood.
 

...to do penance, and to amend my life. Amen.

 
Still experiencing the sense of timelessness, lost in the echoes of childhood, I bowed my head to receive Absolution, my tears turning to joy with the unmerited, undeserved gift of a greater knowledge of God's incredible love. 
 
As I stood to go, renewed, restored, I had come fully to myself again but could still turn to look at memory's image of me as a six year old, skipping gaily out of the confessional when only moments before I'd trudged in shyly and a bit guiltily, sent in to expose to the light the sins that could only exist under the cover of darkness.
 
I wiped the tears away as I returned to the chapel where I knelt once again to pray, this time to offer my assigned penance, raising my eyes to Jesus in thanksgiving, knowing His mercy is eternal and that in His eyes, I am once again a child of God.
 
Through the Sacrament of Confession, Jesus gave me glimpse through His own eyes; now I know that I need not long for that innocence of childhood, for it is but a mirror image of holiness, and through the grace of the Sacraments, we each can be that reflection for eternity. That is our Call.
 
The Sacrament of Confession restores us; no matter what we have done, by humbly accusing ourselves before God, through contrition for our sins, we open ourselves to His Grace. While we may still suffer the effects of sin, God remembers no more what He has forgiven. It doesn't matter if we are six or seven or eighty-one; once we have come to Jesus, it is, in His eyes, as though those things have never happened. We are, once again, a mere child He delights to indulge in His great love.
 
Thank you, Jesus.

A New Stage

It's no secret that I've been suffering from writer's block.

Part of it is the fact that because I work in a parish, sitting down on my off time to write about religious topics feels like work. And not work I really care to do, especially when I'm supposed to be getting away from work.

I've been seriously considering bringing this blog to a close simply because I don't think I have anything else to say. It's all been said or is perhaps being said better by someone else.

Still...this blog has been a wonderful outlet for me over the last several years, and I've met many friends, learned many things and I admit it's still a bit of an attachment. So, instead of hanging it up I'm switching gears for awhile.

That's right...I signed up for NaNoWriMo for the first time.

Perhaps, I thought, if I can put my focus into a non-religious topic, perhaps I'll find my Catholic muse again, and my motivation.

Or, perhaps, once November hits, because I'm supposed to be working on a novel, I may be struck once again by great topics for the blog.

Who knows? In any case, expect more erratic posts about random topics of interest to me (if not by anyone else) and, if you REALLY want me to post something, feel free to post your own random questions to spark my motivation.

After all, one of the things I love to do is answer sincere questions about our faith by people seeking to grow deeper in their relationship with Christ.

Until my next inspiration.....

Dear Old Friends

Even before I could read, I have loved reading. I remember looking at picture books, listening to Mom help my brother with reading; he was sick for much of First Grade and got far behind the other students, so truly struggled with the foundation of reading and writing. I wasn't invited into those lessons because I was too little, and so I would ask Mom to read me books, and in so doing, would try to memorize them so I could perhaps make the connection between what I was hearing and the figures on the page.

I strongly recall picking up a book I was CERTAIN I remembered, and, bringing it to Mom and Dad, announced that I had learned to read and I was going to PROVE it!

Unfortunately, when I opened the book, to my chagrin, I could not understand those characters and was forced to make up a story which turned out to be very lame; after all, since I couldn't read, I didn't actually know what the book was about. Mom and Dad laughed, said that was cute, and left me to look at pictures.

Ultimately, learning to read was never a struggle with me...when it was finally time, I took to it like a fish to water. My particular problem was that I would pick up books, fall in love with them, and set that particular book as a "gold standard". I would have books read to me, such as the Laura Ingalls Wilder books, and because I wasn't quick enough on Library days to get that particular book, and I wasn't at the top of the elementary grade "A-list", to get the library's only copy of any given Little House book, I was forced to peruse the shelves, looking for something I actually wanted to read.

We had the most freedom in Fourth Grade, and it was that teacher who, frustrated with me always being the last to choose a book, quickly but carefully grabbed one for me and forced it into my hand. "Go check out. You're reading THIS."

I would go to the Librarian, pouting because it wasn't what I wanted to read. But because of that vigilant teacher, I read books that taught me something MORE, for the popular books with the other girls, the ones I could never obtain, were the ones our teacher had already read to us as a class. She didn't want me to stick with the status quo, but rather, to branch out to many genres and most importantly, discover new territory. She didn't object to students reading on their own the books she read us in class, but didn't want us to remain there; she wanted to use books to inspire us, to discover new adventures, new worlds, and of course, improve our reading and grammar because we WANTED to read.

She was successful but I must confess that my propensity to be loyal to favorite authors has never died, and even as an adult, I return to the literature of my youth.

The Best Friends a Girl Could Have

My family moved to Minnesota when I was in Fifth Grade, and sometime that year or perhaps between Fifth and Sixth Grade, I came home one cloudy, humid, rainy day to find a few large boxes on the floor of my room, all containing musty-smelling hardcover books.

"Where did these come from?"  I demanded.

"Your Aunt Laurie. She read all of them and thought you would enjoy them. Take care of them; she wants them back when you're done reading."

One by one, I pulled the books out. The Bobbsey Twins, one about Barbie and the Florida Keys, and about thirty books about a girl named "Trixie Belden".  A couple Nancy Drew.

I didn't want to read ANY of them, but at the time, I wasn't reading anything else, the weather prevented other activities so I began with the "single"  books, putting off the lame-looking "Trixie Belden" series, certain I'd hate them.

To my surprise, I enjoyed the first few books I read, and began to see my aunt in a new light. Maybe she DID know what she was talking about in recommending these books. Even though I wasn't enthused about the Trixie books, I realized I should at least read one of them; that way I could give those boxes back to my aunt in good conscience, even if I didn't like them.

Much to my surprise, when I opened the cover of the first book, Trixie Belden and the Secret of the Mansion, I found I couldn't put it down. One by one, I absorbed each book voraciously, and if a one was missing in the sequence, I'd go to the public library with the desperation of an addict.  Over one summer, I was at the library every other day, looking for the next book and placing orders for interlibrary loans.

Because of my enthusiasm and "frequent customer" appearances, I got to know the Librarians, especially one named "Laurie" (not my aunt, her agreeable name merely a coincidence).

Over time, I finally exhausted both my aunt's books and the library's resources, even through interlibrary loans. Some of the books simply weren't available anywhere, although we continued to look. Some were being reprinted and I ended up receiving a couple of the later books as gifts or by purchasing them myself.

I read and re-read my favorites of the series, but realized, as my Fourth Grade teacher had taught me, that I couldn't stagnate. Laurie, the Librarian, seeing my consternation at running out of my beloved Trixie books, strongly recommended Nancy Drew, and so I moved on to that series, too, and before long, was coming to the reference desk to ask her to place more orders for interlibrary loans.

Nostalgia

 When I left for college, I think,  I had to finally release my aunt's books back to her, so I'd carefully packed those old friends away while suppressing the tears. Over the years I'd read and re-read those books I had initially not wanted...and like so much of life, learned that what we think we'll hate is often what others realize is just perfect for us.

I also knew that one has to move on to greater things, and as much as my old friends Trixie, Mart, Brian, and Bobby Belden, Honey Wheeler, Jim Frayne, Dan Mangan, Di Lynch, Regan, Miss Trask, Tom Delaney, Nancy Drew, Midge....had become nearly "real" to me, one must always grow up. Instinctively I'd understood that the series had ended because the characters had to grow up, too, and life doesn't ever remain the same...not even in storybooks.

Still, I didn't go to college untouched by these mere "childhood" books, even though I didn't realize until recently how much they have impacted my life.

Good Literature does not point to itself...but to even GREATER Literature

Recently I went to the public library and admittedly, somewhat abashedly, entered the "Children's" section of the huge hub, and went through the fiction stacks. Although I found Nancy Drew, and knew from a previous computer search that this library DEFINITELY had SOME of the Trixie Belden books, I couldn't find a single one. I looked under both author names under which the 39 books in the series had been penned. Nothing.

Shamefacedly I approached the librarians and confessed I could not find my beloved Trixie Belden, and they helped me locate it on the shelves - under Title, not author, simply because of the duality of authorship.

For the last week or so, I have been DEVOURING these books and realize how much they contributed to my own formation in my teenage years.

Although they were written in the '40's and '50's, and use archaic words such as "dungarees" instead of "jeans", and to this day, I still have no idea what a "sharkskin suit" is or why it is considered to be "cool" for a hot day, I took to heart the moral lessons within the pages. Now that I am re-reading as an adult, I can see the values instilled in the characters, but still the personalities, temperaments, and utter teenage stupidity that made the books so appealing.

It is because of Trixie Belden that  in my Jr. High years I took it upon myself to read Edgar Allen Poe, the works of Shakespeare, and inquire about other classic literature - simply so that I would be able to understand the references the characters made. In fact, because of these books, I questioned why I had never had to study these greats, and why we didn't touch them in English classes or other electives until High School?

Through Trixie Belden and Nancy Drew, I became interested in the world around me, not just my immediate locale, but the larger world, and suddenly, History became important, and other cultures became even MORE interesting than they had been before.

It didn't stop there, though. I can't help but notice the words being used and how cleverly the authors of the series clearly sought to elevate their readers to the next level. Julia Cambell, "Caroline Kennedy" (pseudonym for several authors), and Katherine Keene (Nancy Drew author) did not talk down to their young audience but sought to increase their vocabulary. Perhaps they did this unconsciously, for it does not read as "gimmicky" but like books written by readers for readers out of respect for the intelligence of readers everywhere.

I can't help but recognize the influence of these authors upon my own writing, both in fiction and that which I use on my blog, and I wonder sometimes if I am channeling Mart Belden - and if I'm not, I wonder if perhaps he could have stepped in to become my muse on occasion, especially when having to compose academic treatises. (Only Trixie Belden fans will understand this reference).

Dear Old Friends

For years I have been reading some pretty hard-core stuff:  between real-life autobiographies to deep Theology and some Fiction, it has been Flannery O'Connor, some CS Lewis, murder mysteries, and well...some serious adult content consistent with my history and training in Criminal Justice. Because I enjoy "BONES", the TV show, I have read Kathy Reichs, the series upon which the production is based, and even though it interests me scientifically, it still makes me occasionally scream and want to write to Ms. Reichs about what she's getting wrong about Catholic theology. So often, when I read even FICTION these days, it feels like work, because as a theologian now, I can't help but take what I know and interpret everything through that particular lens.


 [Remind me to write to Dr.. Reichs and offer my services as a specifically Catholic theological consult. She's made some really embarrassing errors with regard to Catholicism both in the books and on the show - or her current "theologian" on her payroll has, anyway. It makes her look like an idiot and she has a HUGE Catholic following to whom she is doing a great injustice and has been for a long time. *sigh* ]

Because life has been so burdensome of late, I realized I needed something lighter, and so I turned to my old friends. I found that it's been so long I have forgotten the plots of these "juvenile" mysteries, and even though the core of the story has remained, I can still re-read these books as if for the first time, introduced all over again, entertained all over again, reminded all over again.

I love turning these precious pages, getting lost in the stories in a way I could never really  be lost in theology, for both forms utilize the intellect in different ways. I realize that I have to get back in touch with my own roots, my own motivations, the very basic love of literature at the simplest level, engaging my imagination so that I can once again gallop along the bridal paths (an experience I've actually finally had in real life), once again thwart the bad guys (another experience I've had in real life), once again enjoying the camaraderie of great friendships in good times and in bad (an experience that is ongoing as long as the sun rises and sets.).

Ah, my dear friend Trixie, how much you taught me about life, about literature, about selflessness, about manners, about goodness, about adventure, about the very mystery of life. How much I would like to be like you, even now...but still am grateful for many of my adventures in real life were inspired by your fictional ones.

Thank you.

Now, my readers, please excuse me...I have books to read and many old friends with whom I have been longing to be reacquainted.

Consider this an invitation to meet them, too:

Trixie Belden

Nancy Drew (I read only the original series and always saw the later "files" and such as bastardizations of what was originally a good story and good character gone to agenda.)

Ten Years Later: 9/11/2001

The Anniversary has always been hard for me, and over the years, although I've written many posts about it, I always go back to the beginning: to where I was on that date. That's what we all do, we who remember the day. We know where we were.

This morning I went to Mass, already walking a thin line emotionally, and pondered how perfect were the readings for this day, as if God knew exactly what we needed to hear and pray on this tenth anniversary - and indeed, He did, for 9/11 didn't take Him by surprise.

I think what's hardest for me right now is that ever since I left emergency services, I don't have any friends now from that time period. I don't have any friends who wear badges...or ever have. I don't have any friends in police or fire services, or any area of EMS.

When I left for the last time, I left for good and because I was never truly called to those careers, I did not maintain the friendships - and so 9-11 is not just a sad day, but a lonely day, because there isn't anyone who understands my pain. Those I know NOW  saw the images on TV, like any other disaster. But they didn't see it as a rescue worker, they didn't have friends or relatives there - for the people around me, they don't understand why I continue to take it to heart each and every year.

One friend of mine, usually very sensitive, said to me today, "Yeah....but it was 10 years ago. Get over it."

I think my silence in response to that remark said far more than any blog post I've ever written.

There are just some things that can't be expressed in words, but only through shared experience, shared understanding at a visceral level...shared understanding with others who know what it's like.

Theologizing

I am saddened to see many of my fellow faithful Catholics poo-poohing the images of September 11, 2001, and several have expressed the fact they desire to FORGET. They admonish we who watch the looping video from that day, bringing in the Sacrifice of Christ, pointing out that remembering does not mean seeing.

That may be true to a certain degree...for them.

Indeed, in the Sacramental Theology of the Church, the Sacrifice of Christ takes place EVERY DAY, an unbloody re-presentation, making us present there, at Calvary, and yes, I believe this and agree with it.

But that doesn't mean I don't need my bloody crucifix of Christ to remind me that His death was anything but pristine, and the ransom He paid for my sins was anything but comfortable. When I gaze upon the bloodiest renditions of Christ in any work, I am moved, for I am forced to confront the violence of sin and the very bloody price paid for my Salvation.

While certainly, maybe we don't "need" from an intellectual level, we who are faithfully enlightened, to see the bloody images of Christ to know about His Sacrifice, and maybe we don't "need" to see looping footage from 9/11 or for that matter, any other given disaster anywhere in the world, on a very visceral human level...yes...some of us do.

I can't agree with some of my dear friends that the images from 9/11 should not be shown, for I hold that we DO need to see them in order to properly recall the full extent of human evil and human suffering, and human triumph on that day. We need to see those video loops because we can't help but witness the best of humanity brought about by the very worst. (Caveat: some can't handle the sight of blood and/or violence; I offer my "need to" with the suggestion of prudence on behalf of sensitive individuals.) 

Ten Years Ago

Ten years ago I was a rookie with some serious life experience, but still grasping to learn, on the cusp of belief in immortality and recognition of mortality.

Ten years ago I was barely practicing my faith, although I was trying, and not a day went by at the Training Tower that I did not pray, "I can do all things in Christ, who strengthens me." It was the litany that got me through many terrifying tasks.

Ten years ago, I didn't know my Faith and I only prayed when I was afraid or when I had a big decision to make...like whether or not God was calling me to take the Fire Test, or if I passed, whether I was really supposed to be a Firefighter. Because from the beginning, it terrified me and with God's Grace, He pushed me through fear into...well....I'm still not sure what.

Firefighter training, and for that matter, coupled with earlier Police training/experience  made me realize my mortality, and drew a very clear black-and-white line in the sand for me...especially on 9/11.  Although I went back to class on my deceased father's birthday, September 12, in looking back, I think that perhaps was the day I realized I didn't have it in me to do what the 343 NYFD Firefighters had done the day before.

Even though I didn't even know what my life was about, or perhaps, BECAUSE I didn't know what my life was about, I knew I couldn't lay it down for anyone. I didn't have the courage for I didn't even know the cause. The First Cause.

I think that in the last ten years, I have been seeking a cause, and that's what led me to study Theology. In confronting death, I was forced to confront God and learn, at a very basic level, who I am in relation to Him and therefore, everyone else.

But that doesn't explain 9/11 or why each year I spend this day holding back tears. Why MANY of us hold back tears, and live in the loneliness of grief we can't express, for that grief has nowhere to go and no ears, hearts, and souls that truly understand. 

I can't explain what it was like that day to stand there in a Fire Dept. uniform, learning about and discussing the SOP's about skyscraper fires only to learn about the worst ever known, happening live on TV.  I can't explain what it was like to watch a Fire Chief weep while teaching a lesson, live, in real time, about something happening NOW, because, had we been there, we would have been called to go in, too, especially because our brothers and sisters had just been killed.  And in fact, his own dear friends had just been pulverized before his very eyes, and still, that Chief chose to teach even through the tragedy because that was what he was called to do. That's what most honored his friends, who had taught him.

I can't explain what it was like to have the reality of a "Job" brought so close to home, knowing that at any moment, we could get that Call, too, simply because of who and where we were in that given moment.

I can't explain what it was like to watch people leap to their deaths, for to us, it wasn't just news video, but the very reason we had applied to the Fire Department: so that no one would ever have to do that.

I can't explain what it was like to stand there, unable to do ANYTHING, watching futility in action, watching Firefighters in New York, Police in New York, Paramedics in New York...go into buildings to help victims of a coward's attack...and never leave.

I can't explain the grief within my soul that surfaces this time every year, even though I haven't worn a uniform and badge since May of 2002.

Do you know why I refuse to stop watching the footage from that day?

Now, ten years later, I have a Masters in Theological Studies, and although I am well versed in the theology of suffering, of redemption, of the Sacrifice of Holy Mass and even teach it to others, I find that mere theology is not enough.

It's easy to intellectualize and theologize suffering.

It's hard to LIVE it. It's hard to look into the eyes of those who are experiencing or have experienced REAL suffering and just tell them Christ died for them and therefore the images aren't important. To those who lived 9/11, and survived it, it is not sufficient to speak of the "unbloody re-presentation of the Sacrifice of Calvary", for to them, there isn't anything "unbloody" about it.

We always have to remember that suffering is not an abstract idea, but it is real, it is painful, it is agonizing and brutal, and the recognition of its bloody violence is ALSO necessary; for that is what paid our ransom for sin.

I am grateful for the programming each year that shows the footage from 9/11, because I NEED that, and I know that others do, too.

What I pray for is understanding from my fellow Catholics, that our desire to watch those events again is not "gawking" and is not "denial of the sacrifice of Christ", but rather, is perhaps a way to continue to seek to understand, to realize that others, too, struggle to explain this loneliness of grief that can't be easily expressed, and because we NEED the visual reminders....to ensure that we will NEVER forget.

We watch the footage, again and again, because Theology has never been about mere intangible Philosophical theories, but about children of God who, every day, suffer the Passion of Our Lord, and never is this more apparent than during a disaster. Ten years later, those who suffered on that day CONTINUE to suffer, and those images are not mere images, but reality, for they live it day in and day out. To watch that footage is to enter into their suffering, to suffer with them, to take it to heart and to have, even briefly, a glimpse of their grief.

To forget that day, and those images is, to many of us, a denial of the heroism of those who went into those buildings, even though they knew they might never come out. To deny the images is to deny the very real, visceral, sacrifice, taken on willingly, by human beings who realized what their lives were really about. To forget that day is to forget all those who continue to suffer the losses of that day.

Anyone who has lost a loved one through the most ordinary of deaths knows that although there is much "support" in the beginning, it quickly ebbs and months, even years later, the survivors are forgotten, although they still suffer. So it is with 9/11 - many continue to suffer and many others who have been direct casualties of the wake of that day. To forget is to ignore them, too.

Bl. John Paul II wrote eloquently about compassion, explaining that this virtue was about being with others in their Passion. When I watch the annual 9/11 tributes and memorials, when I watch the footage, I know that in prayer, in emotion, in solidarity, I am with those for whom 9/11 never ended, for the reality of it goes on and on for the 3,000+ (and counting) who were murdered and were injured that day in New York, Washington DC, and Pennsylvania.

No, not everyone needs to see the images, but I can no more look away from the carnage of 9/11 than I can the carnage of the Cross. They are one and the same, for Christ gave His own sign of His presence that day through the death of Fr. Michel Judge, the first official death recorded for that day. Even 9/11's foundation was laid upon the altar, a priest who died offering his life to bring Christ to the hopeless through the Sacraments.

Today is September 11, 2011, and I pray that we will never forget.

Age of Reason

Several days ago I posted a story that I think made national headlines. I know that a week ago Monday it hit every local NEWS station's site, and that Wednesday, there was FINALLY video of this, probably because of the utter hilarity of the crime of goat rustling and WHO committed it, while wearing...PAJAMAS.
I love this story but not just because it's, well...hilarious....but because it reveals so much about the intelligence and awareness of children. That intelligence and more importantly, AWARENESS, is exactly why Pope St. Pius X allowed children of "the age of reason",  usually figured to be about age 7, to receive Holy Communion, and therefore, the Sacrament of Confession.

Why? Because at that age, children can discern the Body and Blood. They are aware of Sin, of what that means, how it separates them from God, and they are most importantly aware of the fact that He gives Himself to them, in pure innocence, at the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass.

No, they don't understand all the reasoning of 4,000 years or more of Judeo-Christian philosophy and theology, but they sure do know what is required to steal a goat and they know enough to try to hide their crime by lying about what they did.

Even more importantly, they sure do know that stealing a goat is WRONG or they wouldn't have, at the age of 5 and 7, escaped their home with a very viable plan, with a leash, walked a mile or so to a farm, liberated a goat, leashed it, and walked it home, then lied to the police officer who confronted them.

Should Children Receive the Sacrament of Confession?

In my parish work, I have become aware of a number of local parishes that do not offer First Reconciliation before First Holy Communion.  Their reasoning:  children can't possibly commit mortal sin. Children don't understand sin and their "sins" aren't really sins because children don't understand what is wrong and why.

Hmmm...there's so much wrong with this, and yes, I'm going to talk about it, but first, let me tell you a little story.

Oh, the webs we weave, when first we practice to deceive....

When I was about 4 years old, I spent the morning in our little country neighborhood playing with my friends down the road. When it was time, I went home for lunch, having made solid plans to return to my friend's house to continue playing the afternoon away.

To my surprise and horror, Mom told me that no; I wouldn't be going out to play. I would be taking a nap.  Of course I thew a fit becuase I was both wide awake and wanted to PLAY! Well, of course, me being 4 and Mom being Mom, she won that argument and sent me to my room, but you see, there's a bit more to this story...

As I sulkily ate my lunch, punishing Mom with my pouting silence, I came up with a plan to make Mom THINK I was napping, but I was REALLY going to go play with my friends. I was going to choose adventure and fun over obedience.

When I finished lunch, I (apparently) obediently went to my room, found one of my dolls, and placed her in my bed. You see, Mom always commented on that particular doll and how much her hair resembled mine. And I ALWAYS slept with covers over my head, even on hot summer days like that particular one, so it wasn't odd for me to cover my head but still leave a bit of hair poked out. I knew Mom would "check in" on me during my "nap", so I made sure to rustle the bedcovering a little. I think I even changed my shoes so she'd see a pair by my bed as though I'd kicked them off before climbing in.

Quickly, I opened my bedroom window, opened the screen (something my brother had recently shown me how to do), made sure there were no spiders as that was the ONLY thing that would keep me inside, and seeing that the coast was clear, I climbed out, closed the screen behind me, leaving it cracked just enough so I could open it again when I got back, and snuck around the house remaining below the windows to avoid being seen.

I spent a few hours with my friends, blissfully playing, but unfortunately, we got into a fight. I ended up stomping home, steaming mad, and because I was so angry, I completely forgot about my plan of escape and return. As such I burst through the front door, stood in the kitchen, hands on my hips and announced that I was NEVER going to play with D. and J. EVER AGAIN!

I can still see my Mom standing in the kitchen, wiping her hands off on a dishtowel, staring at me in shock and growing anger.

"I thought you were taking a nap!"

Uh oh!   I can still remember the sense of horror that I had just exposed my very big lie.

I actually tried to race to my room ahead of Mom to erase the evidence, but predictably, she beat me to it, tore back the covers and exposed the deception and disobedience.

That was the first time I was ever grounded.  I was four years old.

Let's Break This Down

I know that some of you reading this will first question my age - four years old, running around the neighborhood?  Yup, that's right, and no exaggeration. I'd been free to run around at about the age of 3, within limits. Our home was surrounded by retired couples and stay at home moms who knew all of us and where we were allowed to go and when. My friends lived the equivalent of a block from my house and we all knew to watch for traffic on the gravel that only served our immediate homes.  Besides, times were very different then and there wasn't a lot of crime in our sleeply little town, and certainly not in our immediate neighborhood.

So, that objection handled, let's talk about a child's ability to reason.

1. I knew that I was disobeying my mother, and willfully so. Proof:  I hid my crime and deliberately pretended to obey by going to take my "nap" without argument once Mom refused to give in. (Premeditation)

2. I went to great lengths to plan how to hide my disobedience, to include the return trip of climbing back in the window.  (Deliberation)

3. I knew that if Mom discovered my deception, I'd be in BIG BIG trouble, but I did it anyway. (full knowledge that what I was doing wrong, consent to do it anyway)

What are the three elements of mortal sin?  According to paragraph 1857 of the Catechism of the Catholic Church, a mortal sin must be an objectively grave matter, committed with full knowledge and consent.

Now, I will not say that my sin that day (or rather, slippery slope of many sins) was mortal, for the simple act of disobedience, no matter how complexly I went about it, is not normally a "grave matter", especially for a four year old. However, I would argue that it was sufficiently grave especially considering my age, the danger I could have been in, and the fact that one intent to disobey led to a whole host of other sins, including the fight with my friends which ultimately ended our friendship. (That's a long story and I don't want to tattle!)

Can children commit mortal sin? Yes, I would argue that they can. Usually, though, the fact they don't have sufficient knowledge and certainly can't reason through the consequence of their actions even if they can reason the concrete "how" to commit them, prevents them from meeting the definition of "mortal sin".

Always, though, when I speak with someone who advocates a more mature age for First Confession, if they argue on the grounds that "children aren't capable of mortal sin", I query, "Why would you wait to teach them about right, wrong, and sin when they ARE capable of doing something that grave?"  Seriously...wouldn't that be like closing the barn door when the horses have already escaped?

For some reason, some adults of a certain age have no problem telling their children about right and wrong and even mete out punishments and corrections as they grow, but when it comes to Confession, they balk and say, "Oh, my kids can't really sin." 

Except they do, all the time, and they are AWARE of it - but they need US to teach them what sin is and how that affects their relationship with God...and with others. How are they ever to learn about consequences if consequences aren't taught? Children know how to choose what is right, and they do THAT all the time, too, and understand that if they obey here, there are good consequences that follow, and that reinforces their good behavior. That's even basic psychology!

Confession, though, also teaches children how to identify their sins, how to correct them, and learn the consequences, not just in this life, but for the next.

And you know what? Children really really love Jesus a great deal, and they want to please Him, they want to be right with Him, and that want that deep, personal relationship with Him.

Still, there's one other thing we can't miss when talking about the Sacraments:  Grace.

Not only do children need to learn how to identify sin and take responsibility for it, but they need that final revelation that SINS CAN BE FORGIVEN! Remember:  God never reveals sin without revealing His Mercy.

Children can learn that, and not just learn it, but EXPERIENCE it, and then, in the Sacrament of Confession, receive the Grace to be strengthened against temptation, to be guided in learning to live in Christ. They can be placed on the path to Sainthood and perhaps, learn to never commit a mortal sin!

Dare we hope for such Grace? And why not? God freely OFFERS it!

Certainly, people can argue all day long about whether or not children can commit mortal sin, but when it comes to the mysterious workings of God's Grace in the soul, that's where the argument ends.

Why would we ever want to risk a child's eternal soul by denying them the Grace of the Sacrament of Reconciliation, especially, and properly, before they receive Our Lord's Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity in their First Holy Communion?



.

A Tale of Pajama -Clad Girls and a Stolen Goat

For a few days now, I've been giggling about a story out of Mankato.

Two little girls, ages 5 and 7, snuck out of their house on Saturday night, walked a mile to a Farm Park (whatever that is, exactly), and, uh...liberated a goat. They brought a leash with them and just walked the goat back to their home along a busy street, wearing their footie pajamas.

Fortunately, a neighbor saw them and thought it a strange enough sight to call 911, and fortunately, since they did look so odd, being so young, wearing pajamas in public, and leading a goat in the city, it was very easy for the chortling officer to find them.

I don't think it was very easy for the Police Officer to stifle her own laughter as she "assisted" the children and the goat home.

Today a local News channel posted a video of the story, well worth checking out!

2 MN girls pull off the great goat escape!

Now I want a goat! (Well...I've wanted goats for a long time, but I live in the city and I don't think my neighbors would appreciate goats in the garage. Or the yard. Even if they WOULD save on lawn mowing fees!

Just sayin'

Discalced Singles of Perpetual Involuntary Vocational Deprivation

Every now and then someone contacts me to ask how my "discernment" is going, and that makes sense, considering the very premise upon which I began this blog was... (drum roll....) : VOCATIONAL DISCERNMENT.

Well, I haven't offered any updates because IT ISN'T GOING ANYWHERE. 

Literally.

Now, don't jam up my combox [not that I recall what a jammed-up combox is since I've never had one] with a bunch of hand waving interruptions and insinuations like nightmares from the past I wish I could forget resembling  "But Adoro! But Adoro! Go to this community! Or this Order! And Oh my gosh, Adoro, my twelfth cousin thrice removed liked THIS community and celebrated her jubilee this week so you should go there!".

Please spare me and all we discernment-weary Singles your....uh...distant relative's joy. I already assume it exists and that if God wanted us to know more about it, we'd be the recipient of it in some way, and far more directly than a combox internet-vocational-charitableness assault from someone I don't know and who doesn't actually know me no matter what I've written over the years.  (Why do I fell like I'm channeling The Crescat right now?!)

Anyway...yeah...I'm done looking and have been for over a year now. I know where I'm going but God has not opened the door. In fact, even though the community opened the door, I have not been able to enter their program, ironically, because I work for a church and every one of their formation weekends has also taken place on a weekend I have been required to work. Every one. No exception. Not even their retreat was possible for me. That's what I get for having to direct a program I don't even want; but then again, we must be obedient and go when GOD calls, not when we would prefer to go.

As a friend of mine observed (someone comfortably married who can afford to make such observations), I'm probably experiencing a "purification".  

Yeah, tell me something I DON'T know. What I AM interested in knowing is whether this ongoing period of purification that began roughly when I lost my first career in late1996 is going to finally come to an end? Gosh, stick a fork in me already! I'm done!

Apparently God isn't into the culinary arts and doesn't have very good aim with the fork. Maybe He should talk to St. Lawrence, who always knew when he was done.

But I digress.

After a conversation with a friend today, who was under the impression that I have decided to no longer pursue religious life, I realized that, well, this limbo is not only Hell for we who suffer it, but also a really confusing time for our friends and family members who have come to "see" us, finally, as religious, and don't understand why we're not living in a community and going around chanting and praying all the time.

This conversation made me come up with 

A COMPLETELY BRILLIANT PLAN!

Oh, my regular followers are all shaking in your shoes right now, aren't you? You know ALL ABOUT my "Completely Brilliant Plans" from the past and how they...uh...ended...don't you?

Well, you all may be naysayers but really, this is brilliant and this time I MEAN it!

So, here's the deal:  there's a lot of we Single Catholics out there who aren't at all sure of our Vocation and are at various stages of discernment. For some it is a new thing, for some, who are veterans like me, we actually squwack cobwebs from our mouths when we utter the word "Vocation", and that's really disconcerting both to us and to our various interlocutors.

Many of us have worked really really hard, with SD's, with friends, with spiritually-wise trusted people to learn to seek God's will, and some of us have, in that journey, even spent thousands of dollars in a Master's in Theology program just to work in a church so that we might become even MORE poor and deprived in a voluntary economic inversion of involuntary poverty we didn't actually understand before it irrevocably buried us.

We discerned seriously, and then the doors closed. We realized we aren't called to Marriage (or probably not, at least), and focused with our entire hearts and souls upon religious life of some sort, and learned that, well, with our debt, the market crash that made it impossible for we late vocations to sell our homes and actually be without debt as canonically required, our student loans, our credit card loans from paying for car repairs not covered by warranty...etc...we're really REALLY buried, and not a valuable finely crafted Trappist coffin among us!

No one will have us. We're so poor we can't pay our own bills, and even though we have the ability, otherwise, to enter religious life, we find there are other obstacles, such as parish work, that literally makes it impossible to even BEGIN to enter the final stages to acceptance to a community...which, if completed, would open doors to mere financial assistance.

But heck, at least we get to experience the poverty-part while seeking. That's such a nice plus.

Gosh, I can't tell you what an honor it is to offer up a near-foreclosure existence while barely staying ahead of disconnection bills. Just riding the holy wave of the almost-destitute....whew! The ADRENALINE baby!

It's so heroic to be single and try to figure out which of my possessions will fit into a box on the corner under the 394 bridge near the Basilica in Minneapolis. I think my wool blankets hand-woven from Mexico, the ones I got in the market, would be wonderful, but I hope they don't pick up vermin too quickly or start to stink if they get wet.

But WAIT!

IT DOESN'T HAVE TO BE LIKE THAT!

This brings us to my plan:

MY COMPLETELY BRILLIANT PLAN:

I'm going to found a new Religious Order!

Are you ready?

Good!

But...before I tell you what it is, there will be a certain code of introduction we the Screeners (not "Superiors" as we have no authority whatsoever) will be looking for. It should be something like this:

"Hi, I'm Adoro and I'm a Single in Vocational limbo just when I had it figured out for...hold on I have to count (one...two..three...) Do you have a calculator? No? Ok, hold on... (four...no, wait...ok six...back to...right...then...) TEN! I had it figured out for the tenth time, consistently. Um, except that...well...uh *scratching head, scraping toe on floor* I'm still Single and I THINK I'm supposed to enter religious life except that, ah, well...I can't. And it's not just a matter of funds but...ah, well...the door is...uh....stuck.

Yes, that's right, it's stuck. It won't open. I've tried and tried and the crowbar is defective. See? It broke! And now I'm out $20.00 for the broken crowbar and the store won't take it back since it's "used". Now I have to skip 3 days of Ramen noodles because I have to pay for that bloody crowbar!"

You see, that's what we'd be looking for, although variations would be permitted.

So, are you interested in what Religious Order could come out of the above intake interview?

Here it is:

The Discalced Singles of Perpetual Involuntary Vocational Deprivation

Who we Are: Singles from all walks of life who have sincerely sought God's will for our lives but broke crowbars and hurst tools while trying to open each and every Vocational Door...at least twice, if not more. We're on the "lowered expectations" end of the scale because most of us have tried sincerely several times and seem to be stuck in a room full of a few doors that refuse to open or be chopped down.

Each candidate goes through a screening process to make sure they aren't just taking the "easy way out"; we Discalced Singles of Perpetual Involuntary Vocational Deprivation worked HARD to get to where we aren't, and we won't tolerate anyone who hasn't put in the honest time and mileage. Most of us are age 36 and above, given the cut-off ages of most religious communities.

We Discalced Singles of Perpetual Involuntary Vocational Deprivation will take ANYONE of any age over and above those accepted by religious congregations. We're like the opposite of the Frassati Society - the flip side of that coin.

Oh, and just to be curmudgeonly, we don't do outdoors things because it's really hard on our feet since we're discalced.

That brings us to our Vows:

We take vows of Chastity, Poverty (not like we have a choice!) and Obedience to the Magisterium of the Holy Catholic Church, and we will go barefoot (discalced), also because we have no choice because a requirement of membership is actual poverty because the economy crashed and they foreclosed on our houses so now we're both homeless and shoeless and just trying to keep the car running so we can get to work so we can pay taxes, never mind the groceries....

We're still discerning our Charism; the thus far non-existent Discalced Singles of Perpetual Involuntary Vocational Deprivation is such a motley crowd and we so fear becoming modern hippies with vile 60's and 70's colored dyes and ironed hair and designer fringes on the organic hemp clothing being pushed on us by a nearby vegan community who just doesn't "get" our spirituality, man, know what I'm sayin'? (Seriously, just because we're poor doesn't mean we're without taste or have in some way become color blind! Also...we like meat. We actually would be willing to raise cattle as long as we get a good cut of steak every now and then, especially when it's warm enough to grill.)

So...more to come as we continue to discern our involuntary Vocational deprivation....

Barking at the Rain

Last week we experienced another summer deluge and I was amused to see my dog leave her cover and stand facing the living room window, nose lifted, sniffing the puffed breeze flowing through the screen. She barked once, sat, laid her ears back, and continued to analyze the scents, finding it necessary to alert me another few times with barks and less urgent "woofs" that it was, apparently...raining outside.

To all appearances, she was indeed, barking at the rain, and I admit I shared her sentiments; I'm tired of the rain, too.

Lately, it's been pouring, and I'm not just talking about the crazy weather we've been experiencing for nearly the last year: the unusual extremes of winter followed by the unusual extremes of summer. And of late, the death, the crisis, the emergencies, the uncertainty....it just won't stop raining.

Still, between the raindrops, there have been blessings, surprising blessings, seemingly small but when considered, reveal the hand of God at work.

My friend died a week ago Friday, and it was with agony on that day that  I reigned in my own grief and called the many other volunteers who knew and loved him, and then I called his students. And my co-workers.

Every so often I had to stop and take a deep breath, perhaps let out a little sob, only so that it would not interrupt my speech. I had to be professional, and still, on several of the calls, it was obvious both to the person receiving the news and to me that we BOTH knew the other was weeping.

I think what hit me the hardest was speaking to one of the students, catching the hitch in his voice, knowing he didn't want me to hear it and yet, I could nearly SEE it through the phone lines.

Willing to Suffer in Joy and Pain

For years, ever since I began at my work, I knew I was not "called" to it. I hate the charismaticsm that surrounds me and rules my co-workers and any area of youth ministry in which I am involved. I hate having to conform to a spirituality I do not possess and find lacking, and then inflict it upon our youth as though this is the ONLY thing.

One of the pillars of my work, then, was the man who recently went to his eternal reward, because although he never expressed it, he and I saw eye to eye on this and worked together to bring our own more...contemplative...spiritualities into the realm of religious education. And I know, from him and from his students, that he truly brought himself into the classroom, engaging them with stories from his life and military service, showing his love for them through teaching our Catholic faith through example, devotion, and practice.

He died praying for "his boys" and all who instruct students in the Catholic faith. To my blog readers...that means he was praying for YOU and for YOUR students as well!

Unexpectedly Finding my Place

When I went to pay my respects, before I approached the coffin I waited to speak with one of his daughters, and in a way, felt very awkward. It wasn't "my parish" because I only worked there, right? Yes, my work parish is a second home of sorts, but...still. Who was I to enter into this moment of grief?

The second she saw me, though, his daughter threw her arms around me and sobbed into my shoulder, "He loved you so much!"

I hugged her back, instantly as tearful, hugging her as fiercely. I've lost my father, too, and now I've lost a friend who was HER father, and all I could expel between my own sobs was, "I loved HIM so much, too!" We cried together, shared joyful stories together, and, well, reveled in the love of a struggling-to-be-holy man who had touched so many souls.

While there I saw many other parishioners, and we alternately wept and smiled, for we all knew our grief was transient; we believe in the Resurrection, and we are happy this dear soul has been called back Home, where we all hope to meet again.

It was there that I understood my place in the parish; I, too, have a role, I have a place, and to those parishioners I am also a part of the the family. Although I had often called upon this man for help in various programs, and he has meant a lot to me, it was through his family that I learned how important I was to him...and to all of them.

They helped me, unwittingly, understand more deeply the bonds of friendship and service and that my parish work has effects I cannot possibly understand.

My friend, in his death, has taught me a great lesson, perhaps the most important I have ever learned, about the value of the smallest things I do in my employment in ministry and their impact on the people I serve, including my volunteers.

It Was Pouring

While learning this great lesson, I was in the midst of fear of greater grief, fear of losing my mother. Fear of being the only family member available during her procedure. Fear of making the wrong decision for her, contrary to her wishes and Catholic teaching.

I couldn't find my mother's medical directive so couldn't bring it to the hospital so trusted, as she'd shown me, that it was with her documents should it be needed. She had to fill out paperwork prior to arriving at the hospital, so when I arrived I thought it would be available to me.

No, it wasn't. Mom remembered her overnight bag, but left all of her documents...ALL of them...on her kitchen table. That meant that her pre-op was delayed as she filled out the permissions and history and contacts all over again, but it wasn't until I was brought back and sat with her for an hour that I learned she didn't have her medical directive.

My own heart nearly stopped when, 40 minutes into what we expected to be a 60-120 minute procedure, I was called back to the "Consulting Room".

I had been glancing at the clock, wondering how my friend's funeral was going, wishing I was there, praying not to be planning my own mother's funeral.

Then in the Consulting room, I was living in two places: planning the future and visualizing the present at which I was not...present.

Because I've written of it, you all know how it turned out...but I cannot accurately express my agony of that time.

Feast of St. Rose of Lima

It is fitting that I finally publish this post on the Feast of such a great Saint, for St. Rose of Lima was well acquainted with suffering, and chose it both for her own hidden humiliation but also to emphasize the necessity of our willingness to unite our own agony with that of Christ in His Passion.

How often I fail at this! How often I complain and squirm and wail and whine!

How often God must roll His Divine eyes at my caterwaling!

When I experience the slightest discomfort, I complain.

Elevated humidity?  Oh, the suffering!

A pain in my knee? Oh, the agony!

A bit more rain than usual?  Oh the torment and drama!

A bit of suffering with the chance of "offering it up"? Oh the refusal to rise to holiness!

St. Alphonsus Liguori, in "Uniformity With God's Will"  wrote with simplicity about how easy it is to just...accept God's will in every moment.

I can't even stand a bit of discomfort. It's "too hot" or "too cold" or "too busy" or "too...whatever". Never mind the toil our Savior suffered for our salvation.

It's so easy to forget that we aren't here on earth to be comfortable and really shouldn't be so shocked at the trials that come our way. After all...we choose most of them for ourselves! Seriously, we shouldn't complain so much when we are faced with adversity of any sort.

While I can't speak for my readers, most of whom, no doubt, buck up so much better, I can say, with great shame, that I am all too willing to give in to venting and anger and passion when faced with the realities of life, when something is asked of me that takes me out of my comfort zone.

That is behavior far unfitting a Christian. 

A couple weeks ago, the  Gospel was about the woman Jesus called a "dog".

I know why He did this, and I know why she compared herself to one as well. She and I are one and the same and I realized it while I watched my German Shepherd respond with defiance to the downpour that was flooding our yard.

I am nothing more than a dog barking at the rain, for the rain will fall whether I bark at it or not. I know Christ and have been baptized into His Body, yet am nothing more than a dog refusing crumbs and barking at the rain, only to seek shelter as though the thunder and lightning do not exist.

The Calvary Cometh

I spent yesterday in the hospital with my Mom. First waiting while she was being prepped, then waiting with her in pre-op.

The nurses, techs, and practitioner were all amazing and I was very impressed. While the time dragged on as we waited together for the procedure room to come available, I developed a new hobby: watching the IV drip. 

It's fascinating. I also counted the high number of ports. It's almost as exciting as watching paint dry. In a phone conversation with my brother that put Mom to sleep, we discussed the epic IV dripping with great excitement and animation.

Then without ceremony, they came to take Mom away and banish me back into the exile of the waiting room where I fired up my computer and tweeted about IV drips and drops. It was only 10:30 so I wasn't ready for lunch, and they'd told me it would be anywhere from 30 minutes to an hour and a half. No problem...I'd wait.

To my surprise, they called me to go to the consulting room only 40 minutes after they had wheeled my mother away to surgery. Was this good or bad news? Was the consult the type of "this is what happened and we need to do something NOW" or "good news she's fine"?

The volunteer who escorted me to the lonely and isolated  but comfortable "consultation room" told me the surgeon would be out in 5 minutes. Nope, he wasn't. I waited. And waited. And my uncle called on my mother's phone and I explained I'd know more...um...10 minutes ago? He asked me to call him back after I'd spoken with the surgeon. No problem.

Sure enough, the surgeon came out and delivered good news and with a diagram to prove it. He explained that they hadn't found anything so no medical intervention actually needed, contrary to our expectations! Thankfully I returned to the less-lonely waiting room and a staff member helped me carry my mother's things to post-op.

As I walked into the room Mom said, "Well where were you?" with this terrible, wide-eyed expression suggesting I had abandoned her.

"Um...in the waiting room."  She immediately relaxed.

"Oh." and then she forgot all about it. Quite literally.

The initial plans were for Mom to remain in the hospital overnight and then go home in the medical transport van that had brought her there. Unfortunately, the hospital was releasing her, deeming an overnight stay (in spite of an arterial stick) to be "unnecessary". Why was it "unnecessary"?  Because insurance wouldn't cover it.

So we had to scramble for a plan because she couldn't take the van home unless someone could ride with her. But we had no one to ride with her and stay with her overnight - we had not planned for it as they'd assured us, apparently, that Mom would be in the hospital overnight!

Oh, my. So it was decided that I would drive her to my brother's home, she would stay there and we'd figure out from there how to get her back home this week.

That's not what happened.

Last night I spoke with Mom as she called me in a panic over some directions from the doctor, which I explained was not part of her care plan since they had not put in stents. Oh, ok. Thanks.

All seemed well and I went to bed. My phone rang sometime around 2:30 am or so. I answered after staring at it in confusion but no one was there. I think I tried to call back but don't really remember. I knew it was my brother but figured perhaps he'd called me accidentally while checking on Mom.

I went back into a troubled sleep, to be awakened at 6 am by my brother, calling again. This time I managed to actually answer the phone.

He explained Mom had gone to the hospital via ambulance at about 2:45 or 3:00 am and was being admitted - she now has pneumonia.  During that 6 am conversation, he had to disconnect but later emailed me the room information. When we finally spoke again I got the crazy events that had led up to the 911 call.

I admit I had to chuckle a little bit over some of it - the repeated conversations with my very confused yet childlike mother, and my brother's surprise that, when you call 911 for a medical emergency you don't just get an ambulance, you get a BIG RED TRUCK! And a squad car. Yup - you get the calvary!

My brother had been very unsure about calling for an ambulance but I'm glad he realized the necessity of it. I won't go into details about the events that took place at his house; suffice to say he did the right thing and clearly, Mom is where she needs to be.

At this point we don't know what else will happen, how long she'll be there, or if they'll be able to identify some others of her medical complaints, of which there are many. Thank you to all my readers who have been praying for my mom, and please continue praying - clearly, we aren't out of the woods yet and don't even know what is coming next.

Hypoxic

This evening my brother called; he saw Mom this weekend and said she is falling to "suggestion". Because other people thinks she has to look a certain way, she now looks "ashen".

I rolled my eyes thankful we were on the phone, even though his description kicked my worry up a notch or so.

He explained then that Mom did NOT receive the Sacrament of the Sick (Anointing) at her parish, citing the fact that apparently, Father didn't have the oils on him. He was going to call her so I asked him to find out for certain, because if she was truly denied the Sacrament, I was going to call the hospital so that a priest could be there tomorrow.

Monday is the ONLY day there is no priest available at the hospital.

After some conversation, I gave my brother some facts about coronary heart disease, how the heart works, and what happens to a brain that is not receiving enough oxygen. This took place after he told me Mom had dropped the F-bomber.

That's right. Mom brought the F-word into everyday conversation. We have NEVER heard her utter that word. Ever.

Ergo: she's either had a stroke or she's hypoxic. Given her current diagnosis, I'm guessing the latter.
As I had to explain to my brother, welcome Hypoxia, the guest of Coronary Heart Blockage. Who is being evicted tomorrow. We hope. And disconnected.

Then Mom called, and I spoke with Her Hypoxicness directly. 

It took some creative lines of questioning, but I learned that yes, Mom DID receive the Sacrament of the Sick (Anointing). She had gone to Confession, and Father didn't have the oils on him and expressed that he didn't feel the Sacrament of the Sick was proper in her case. Clearly he had no idea what he was talking about, or Mom wasn't clear, etc.

As it turned out, though, after Confessions he DID Anoint her as she requested, regardless of his own "feelings" on the subject.

So thank God for that!

Then, once I had that information, Her Hypoxicness began crabbing at me about being tired, traffic, driving, and not knowing where to park tomorrow which was all making her even MORE tired, and she was also apparently angry that I was keeping her awake since she forgot that in fact, she called ME!

I explained to her that she was taking med transport to the hospital and didn't need to worry about parking - they would know where to drop her off. (I, on the other hand, do need to worry about parking and which limb will be severed to pay for it.).

Based on my brother's physical description of Mom today, her liberal use of profanity that has NEVER been part of her vocabulary, and her confused conversation with me this evening, I am even more worried than I was.

It is clear that the blockage in her coronary is affecting her more acutely than we'd realized. She's been short of breath for a long time, but also suffers from COPD from her years of smoking.

I pray that she makes it to the hospital tomorrow and hope they have O2 readily available.

Please pray for the surgeons who will be operating, the surgical techs and nurses, the anesthesiologist (I know there is at least one really good Catholic among them..hoping she's on the team), and all who are there to care for my mother and other patients at the hospital tomorrow.

Tomorrow, because it is a Monday, is the only day during the week that the hospital does not have a Catholic priest available. I am praying that because it is a Solemnity (Assumption of Mary), there will be a Mass I can attend and perhaps, if needed, a priest available, especially if it turns out he is needed.

Mom received the Sacraments (Thank God!) but you know what? I need them, too and it seems I will be deprived of Mass on the day I may need it the most.

Serious Air Force Amazingness!

Seriously, you have GOT to check out the pipes on this Air Force (National Guard?) Staff Sergeant Angie Johnson and the rest of the band, the Sidewinders:



The Intelligence from YouTube gives us the background on this incredible force:

Air Force Staff Sgt. Angie Johnson and Sidewinder perform a cover of "Rolling in the Deep'" by Adele. Sidewinder is part of the 571st Air Force Band, 131st Bomb Wing, Air National Guard. They are deployed as the U.S. Air Forces Central Command Band.

Sidewinder is Capt John Arata - officer in charge, keyboards, fiddle; Tech. Sgt. Kevin Maret - NCO in charge, percussion; Tech. Sgt. John Cavanaugh - operations/logistics, bass; Tech. Sgt. Joseph Castilleja - guitar; Staff Sgt. Tobias Callaway - saxophone; Staff Sgt. Ransom Miller - trumpet; Staff Sgt. Devin LaRue - trombone, guitar, keyboards; Staff Sgt. Brian Owens - vocals; Staff Sgt. Angie Johnson - vocals; Staff Sgt. Sean Navarro - Audio, Trombone

If you're not rockin' out with Sgt. Angie and Sidewinder and company on this, there's something seriously wrong with you.

OK, and really...check out that violin and hit that guitar....absorb those drums and return the echo.

I gotta be honest...I could sing this song and hit the notes, but I couldn't sing it with abandon, the proper vocal tone and hit every  note, every word, and embrace it with the same SOUL Sgt. Johnson hits with with such complete and effortless abandon. That is a true gift from God!

Dang. I'd be honored to sing backup for her, anything to bring out her vocals even MORE.

Is Sgt. Angie and Sidewinder releasing a album any time soon?

If I were dying, my wish would be to sing backup on their cover recording of this song. (No offense to Adele! I just love our Troops!)

** ** **

Um, well, OK then, nothing to see here and stop listening to Adoro [try to] sing in her car, shower, or livingroom! 

Move on..nothing to see here...nothing to hear  here...

Some things are just plain 'way bigger than a blog can contain...

Life Gets In the Way

Or is it more proper to say, Life IS the way?

We don't grow in holiness through blogging about it. We grow by experiencing challenges that force us to grow in virtue.

Our life experiences bring us out of our comfort zones, force us to confront not just the situation but also to reflect upon the state of our own souls, and hopefully, to help us grow deeper into our Vocations or even temporary states in life.

What's the old saying?  "Man plans and God laughs". Something like that.

There's been a LOT going on around me, at home and with family and work, and it consumes me.

Today has been especially difficult and I even fled quickly from Mass this evening, knowing I didn't have enough kleenex to absorb the tears.

We all deal with tragedy, but I'm still trying to sort out the magnitude of tragedy going on around me. I thank God for a special gift He sent this week, that being lunch with an old friend who is back in town for a reunion. Perhaps that was the respite that prepared me for today in the wake of all that has been going on and will coalesce in the next week.

Backstory

I can't go into detail because it may involve court proceedings, but I can reveal a little.

Remember last fall, my posts about the battle against the mouse invasion?

Yeah. I had no idea what we were all up against. Although eventually the mice population lost to human dominance over our own proper habitat, we unfortunately didn't realize that humans can choose to be vermin because that, too, is a part of our fallen nature.

If I'd realized then what was going on, I would have been on the horn to child protection and the health department and anyone with jurisdiction over this on a weekly basis.

You see, I live in a townhome and the unit in question, being rented, was host to someone who misrepresented herself and unfortunately, wasn't screened by the homeowner. So it was that about 5 families or other single personages moved in, and the main renter happened to allow immediate destruction by her children with no correction. Ever.

Let's just say that the renter in question turned out to be a hoarder, didn't understand what cleaning chemicals, brushes, rags, mops, vacuums, etc are for, and never employed them. Ever. In fact, there seemed also to be no understanding in that home at all that garbage containers were designed for a purpose, too. Apparently, these people decided that living with and among and on top of and under garbage of all types was something they preferred.

Now, I didn't realize this until recently. Yes, I'd noticed the growing rank smell in my garage and increasingly had to suppress the gag reflex every day I came home. And yes, the people who resided there increasingly used the front lawn as a livingroom, and often, the lawn outside my place for major celebrations, which was very noisy and annoying especially with their unleashed dog and uncontrollable children who literally threw patio furniture at each other with no parental intervention.

But that's beside the point. They had their electricity turned off for non-payment shortly before the end of their lease which was not being renewed, and that's where I came in. While checking on the property for my friend the homeowner, I and another neighbor became aware of the ACTUAL condition of the property and the filth that contained the people there.

Have you ever seen the show "Hoarders" on A&E?  I find it ironic that I watched a few of them via Netflix while on the other side of my wall, THAT'S what was going on. But you see, I didn't realize because I had no reason to pass in front of that unit that faced away from me, and they were such heavy smokers that the cigarette smoke that permeated the walls and filled my home with a haze actually covered the scent of garbage and human soil.

Really. 

Well, I actually had to enter the abandoned place to turn stuff off when the owners, unaware of what was left on deliberately or not by the vacated renters, had it turned back on. We pulled the fuse on the Central Air from outside and decided to enter (trespass) in order to protect the owner. And it all went downhill from there.

You can't imagine the smell. Four cats and the litter box never cleaned, or if so, only rarely. The introduction of a puppy. Actual violence done to the actual structure of the home. Filth everywhere. A kitchen never cleaned...ever. Walking on garbage, floors tacky, even the carpets. Mold and mildew from a serious water leak they did not call the landlords to report. (Now I know the source of the mildew I smelled about mid-winter but could never track in my house. The leak wasn't mine..but the scent came through my walls).

So...well...let's just say I've been in the unit taking damage photos with the owner's permission, blessing, and gratitude simply because I used to investigate fraud and know about the importance of photos in court proceedings.

Unfortunately, I may have signed away, for free, several years of my life.

But Wait! There's More!

Well, my personal life isn't exactly roses, either.

While I'm not a hoarder by any means, I have agony coming at me from another direction: family.

Recently I wrote about my mother's upcoming surgery. Even though Angioplasty is perhaps the least-invasive of all heart surgeries, the fact is that we all only have one heart muscle and if something goes wrong, it's over.

It's complicated by the fact my mother is high-risk with diabetes and a non-or-under-functioning kidney. (For those unaware: that complication has to do with the dye used to identify the blockage).

I'll be waiting at the hospital, alone, while Mom is in surgery as bro can't be there, and so I've been trying to emotionally and mentally prepare myself for the worst case scenario.

Today

Then today I went to work, and learned that my friend, whom I wrote about a couple weeks ago, died this morning.

That was hard enough and I had steeled myself for the news, knowing that as a parish employee, I could not give in to emotions. I had to inform as well, and be present to support others.

So I received the news and took advantage of the short period of numb denial, and called, personally, all of our volunteers who had worked with him so long, starting with the most difficult. Then called the teens he had taught, and heard some very touching things from the parents with whom I spoke: as much as this man had been touched by "his boys", they also had been touched and spoke often of him. They had also learned much of their faith and that, too, had made incredible impact.

Because of this response I passed on to them his dying wish, which I won't reveal here for that should remain silent but for those whom it involves right now.

While making those calls, I often had to stop, take a deep breath, and get my emotions under control. On the other end of the phone I heard tears, sharp intakes of breath before I even delivered the news as some seemed to sense that I wasn't calling for my normal August reasons.

Many took the news and re-directed the conversation to other things, probably for the same reason I allowed it to be re-directed: for composure. To speak of normal things because, well, we were ALL at work.

And sadly, I had to leave the information on some voice mails and with great apologies. Still, if it were me, I'd rather have the voice mail notification than none at all or a cold emailed version.

Because of all this, I had to get away from the office. I couldn't go to the Adoration Chapel at work; when I am there I need to be "professional" and can't just go there to cry there in front of Jesus.

I had to go home, so I left work, went to my home parish chapel, and prayed the Office of the Dead, Divine Mercy, and laid my grief before My Lord.

And Then It Got Worse

When I arrived home, I had a phone call from my boss with the funeral information: it's Monday, the Feast of the Assumption.

The same day as my Mother's surgery.

I can't go.

I can't go to my friend's funeral because I will be sitting in a waiting room praying not to have to plan my mother's funeral.

And on top of all of that, today I also learned a co-worker and friend was diagnosed with breast cancer and will be undergoing very aggressive treatment, starting very soon.

We Are All Tested

I can't explain the ways of God, but I know the family of my friend probably hoped for a funeral on the Feast of the Assumption for the same reason I prayed my mother's surgery would be on that very same Feast Day.

It comes down to our beliefs about the Assumption, about eternity, about the Blessed Mother's intervention at the time of death

It comes down to what we believe about Purgatory (pray for the Holy Souls!) and eternal Beatitude.

Grief isn't a bad thing, as some want to imply. Grief is beautiful, for it is a corollary of love. We cannot truly grieve those we did not love. In grief, tears are the pearls recorded by God and if offered up, applied as prayers on behalf of the loved one who has gone to join Him, and such pearls are never wasted.

I know my friend received the Sacraments and spent his final months doing little but praying, most especially for others. I am honored and grateful to have been on his list.

I know my mother has received the Sacraments and will go into surgery spiritually prepared.

And I know that God wills me, in some sense, to be present there, in "original solitude", and He intends it for my holiness just as He intended for me to make all the phone calls, alone, earlier today, reigning in my own grief in order to support that of others. None of us lives for ourselves; our lives belong to God and He calls us forward into that life, to serve even when we'd rather retreat. This the paradox that makes us grow in virtue.

Tonight I am exhausted, and it seems, at every moment, there is a phone call or email demanding something more, and I find that still, somehow, I have more to give. It doesn't come from me...it comes from Him.

Yes, Life gets in the way of our personal plans, but in reality, that's because God calls us to live through everything so that we may more appreciate His sacrifice, learn to live it ourselves, and bring others to Him through our own suffering.

You know...Jesus never promised that we wouldn't suffer. Rather, He promised to be WITH us.

The more difficult the trial, the more He carries us and our load.

Thank You, Jesus, because I can't carry any more right now.