Lerdo, 1968

When I was in college at University of Dayton, I belonged to an organization called CIASP (Conference on Inter-American Student Projects). It was as a member of this group that I spent 8 weeks in the summer of 1968 living and working in a small village in Mexico, in the state of Veracruz, called Lerdo de Tejada. Eleven of us went down that particular summer, living in homes arranged by the village priest, and teaching English as a foreign language in a small and very primitive school in the neighboring village. It may have looked for all the world like we were the ministers, offering our services to the school system there, but in reality, the eleven of us were most surely the benefactors, permitted to be engulfed in a culture so totally foreign to us, expanding our narrow view of the world and its poor. For some reason, I was placed with by far the poorest of the families. While others had the relative comforts of indoor plumbing and a nuclear family with whom to live, my situation was different. For some reason (and I can’t imagine why) I was placed with a family who had no relationship with the Church at all. There must have been a backstory to this, but I was never privileged to its telling. They were not a traditional family: there was Argelia (the elderly mother) and her two adult children, both probably in their late forties, Angel, who was a schoolteacher, and Rosa, who had apparently no occupation. My long missives to my mom and dad betrayed a homesickness the likes of which I had never known, and I cringe even now as I think what this must have put my parents through, detailing time spent in the outhouse, miserable Montezuma’s Revenge, sleeping on the narrowest of cots in unbearable heat. Eight weeks can change a lot, and in those weeks I grew to have a fierce love and respect for this threesome who had taken me in and shared their poverty as if it were the finest of accommodations and the richest of foods.
The final chapter in my mission story came on the last day, the day we were to leave. Padre Manuel had suggested that we begin with Mass together, then disperse to our homes, and finally meet at the bus station. But my family did not go to Mass and there was no way I could leave them on that morning to join the others at church. They sat at the kitchen table, the three with whom I lived and the cousins next door, all very somber. They kept looking at me, waiting for me to leave for church. When I didn’t, they simply did not know what to do. This was not the “Juani” who was so conscientious about being with the group for all church activities. But I was at my Eucharist, right there in our kitchen.
In the liturgy we not only celebrate Christ’s offering himself to be bread, broken and shared, but we also offer ourselves to be broken and shared in the community, to and for others. This is why that final meal in Lerdo was so strongly eucharistic for me – through the strength and grace of God, this non-believing family had offered life to me from their own meager means, and from the well of themselves; they broke and shared their lives without counting the cost, for me, an unknown “gringa.” I, in turn, after some gentle coaxing, was finally able to reciprocate. And on that last morning we sat around a rough-hewn wooden table and ritualized our eight weeks of growing to love each other fiercely, as we shared tears and tortillas, their bread of life. I have rarely felt so aware of Christ’s sacrifice, embodied in a ritual meal, as I was at that one. I don’t mean to imply that this was more than a Eucharistic liturgy, but I had lived this Eucharist intensely for eight weeks, and it was there ritualized with all the appropriate solemnity.
This episode in my life continues to be as vivid today as it was some forty odd years ago. Although we kept in touch for some years, eventually that was lost. I’ve tried to track down the family using the internet, but without luck, and I realize that very likely Argelia and her two adult children have died. But the lesson they knew and lived and gave to me is very much alive, and I am ever humbly grateful.

The Baptist's Call

I love this season of Advent! I love the readings from Isaiah, John the Baptist and his adventures, the darkness and the light, the cold and the still…I love it all. The figure of John the Baptist is especially compelling to me…

prepare the way of the Lord

he quotes,

make straight his paths.

Richard Rohr cautions that we must move beyond a merely sentimental understanding of Christmas as waiting for the baby Jesus to an adult and social appreciation for the message of the Incarnation. What exactly does this mean, in light of the Advent readings? Urged on by Rohr, I’m especially aware of the relational paths I have forged in my life, and how misshapen some have become. Molehills have grown into mountains, insurmountable, pride declares. Valleys have plunged to depths unknown. How can I follow the advice of Isaiah and the Baptist to make straight a path for our God? Beyond the parties and the merrymaking, there’s work to be done, and we’re reminded of this in not too subtly a way, work that is not easy, no matter how the season masquerades its true nature. The Incarnation calls all of us, indiscriminately, to make God present in this world, especially in the misshapen areas of our own lives. It means facing those relationships that I have sidelined, and righting them once again. It’s that peace we read about so often on the seasonal cards we’re sending and receiving, making that peace tangible in those places in our own lives where peace evades. The image that comes to mind is taking a buzz saw to the block of ice that we call our lives, and carving life into it by chiseling away anything that does not contribute to life. It’s advent, and besides the shopping and decorating and gatherings of friends, it’s a time to break thorough the darkness of our own lives and emerge as light, the light of Christ ever and again on earth. Rejoice!

The Rite to be Righted

What is it about the Sacrament of Reconciliation that makes it so distasteful to so many? Not hard to answer, right? Facing ourselves, calling ourselves out on certain (lots of) things? Only a sadist would enjoy that. And yet here’s a quote which I stumbled upon from Lee Iacocca, former CEO of Chrysler Corporation, talking about this very sacrament:

In my teens I began to appreciate the importance of the most misunderstood rite in the Catholic Church. I not only had to think out my transgressions against my friends; I had to speak them aloud…The necessity of weighing right from wrong on a regular basis turned out to be the best therapy I ever had.

And so Iacocca correctly names two important aspects of the sacrament: thinking through my life, recognizing the failures/misdeeds, and naming them out loud to another. I often think about the craziest things in the middle of the night - have you been there? Your whole world seems to be falling apart in the darkness and murkiness of half-sleep. But up comes the light of day and the relating of the misguided adventures of the night to my spouse (or someone), and reality seems not nearly so fearsome. Perspective and balance are gained; guidance is offered. This sacrament operates in something of that same mode, but that and more, oh so much more, because we are praying to the Almighty, and we are being guided and mentored by grace. I don’t look forward to our twice-yearly Penance Services (it’s just hard to go to the dark side of one’s personality) but I know they are good for me and I do them. And I find consolation in the fact that shoulder to shoulder with me in the service may be those very ones against whom I have sinned, and those very ones who have sinned against me, and I know that in community and humility we will move forward by the grace of God.

Praying From the Center

Last Saturday our Evangelization Team had our second neighborhood walk. It was, just as the first, a phenomenal experience. Why? -because standing on someone’s front porch and asking them if there’s anything going on in their life that we might pray for is startling to them. It opens up to an entirely new place in someone’s soul; somehow this person is immediately brought to a place of reverence and speaks to you as if you had known each other intimately. They might tell you about a sick spouse, a friend with Alzheimer’s, a neighbor’s surgery, an alcoholic relative - In other words, they know that this is the time to disclose the darknesses of their lives and to admit their own powerlessness in the face of them. But here’s another revelation: one lady whom I visited last week, a bouncy 40ish blonde, said that no, everything was going just fine in her life and she really didn’t have any prayer requests at this time. I thought about it later and wondered if most people think of prayer in just that way – as ‘assisted living,’ a place to turn when burdens become overwhelming. It certainly is that – but can it be more? I was fortunate enough in my expedience to have learned about prayer as intimacy with God, prayer as learning to see life from God’s perspective, prayer as finding Truth in silence (Richard Rohr): in other words, prayer as union. Praying scripture and centering prayer both lead one in this direction. There are a lot of good resources available for entering into the silent world, among them, Open Mind, Open Heart by Trappist monk Thomas Keating, and Into the Silent Land by Martin Laird. It’s another beautiful way to pray, one that might be explored.

Life Coincidences - Yes or No?

Last week I had invited myself and my husband to our younger son’s house for a Friday night cookout. Brazen – yes – but I really enjoy being with the kids, and my daughter-in-law is so gracious and accommodating. She immediately emailed me back with an enthusiastic YES! and a further invitation to spend the night and they’d set up a movie in the backyard when it got dark. Great! Super! I was pumped. But the next day I got a call from my son. Hmmm…different story. Ohio State had it opener on Saturday and he had tickets and they’d be tailgating and yada yada yada…wouldn’t another weekend work better? OK, sure, no problem. So my husband and I were sitting on our porch, reading at about 10 PM Friday evening when the doorbell rang. It was dark and we couldn’t imagine who it might be at that hour. He went to answer it and called out to me that an old friend was here – someone we had not seen in years. She came in with her young son and we had the nicest visit. As it got later though, I kept wondering what was going on – why she was not making an attempt to leave. After all, her 6-year-old son was already asleep in her lap…and then the sadness began. She related the story of her family’s dysfunction – that after her mom died, they all pretty much went their own way, and one brother “scammed” her out of the money necessary to keep the family home – her home. She was temporarily living in a rental, but needed some quick cash by the following morning in order to save her belongings from being trashed by the owner of a storage unit. We decided that she must have been very desperate to have come to us who hadn’t seen her in so long, and just hours before she would lose everything. Then I began thinking that had we gone to our son’s, we would not have been there when she needed help. People often say that there are no coincidences in life, and I have never known what to think of that statement. I still don’t, but it does now give me pause. I so believe that we’re a family here on the planet, and the opportunity to put that philosophy (and gospel lesson) to work is a gift. Our friend will probably never suspect the gift she gave to my husband and me on a summer Friday night.

Days of Wine and Rosaries

Dad died on June 26th. It was so sudden (can the death of a 95-year-old be sudden?) and so surprising that I couldn’t get my thoughts together to attempt a eulogy at the funeral. His last months were a struggle for him – more than I knew at the time, it seems. His hearing was declining, his eyesight was practically gone, and even his ability to get out of his chair presented challenges. He’d want to go to bed as soon as I finished giving him dinner in the evening, maybe around 5:30 or 6 o’clock, not because I insisted, but it seemed that he didn’t have any more fight left for the day. The only pleasure he really had in life was sitting in his chair with his rosary beads in one hand and a glass of wine at the reach. His best friends – those he had known throughout his last seven years without mom, were his salvation. These two gentlemen from church visited him regularly and even heroically ventured to take him to lunch on occasion. But even getting out of bed early enough to accommodate their mid-morning visits seemed a strain toward the end. I didn’t see it; I thought he was just getting a little bit – dare I say? – lazy in his old age. A few times I had to make excuses, and one changed his visiting time to afternoon, better suiting dad’s habits. But the night before he died was telling. Dad went to Mass with us, but we sat in back so he didn’t have so far to walk, and we followed that with a trip to Red Lobster where Al and I sat across from dad in a booth. When I would talk to him, he looked straight ahead at Al; we realized not until then how really bad his sight had gotten. Toward the end of the meal he asked me to put him to bed, not recognizing that we were in a restaurant. Reluctantly we wondered if placing dad in a nursing home later this summer might not be the only safe solution. The following day, Sunday, when I went over after work, he was still in bed but sat up quickly when I went to him. He was in a great mood; we put some brand new clothes on him and went to the kitchen for brunch. After a hearty meal, dad hobbled to the sink with his walker but dropped to the floor before he could return to me. I think he was dead immediately, although the paramedics did transport him to a hospital where he was pronounced. It was weeks ago now, but it is still so vivid in my mind. A few days after the funeral, the woman who cleaned his house told me she was always so touched to watch him saying his rosary and drinking his wine (simultaneously)throughout the afternoon. And I thought – the two things that continued to give him comfort – his wine and his prayer, his devotion to the Blessed Mother. In his last months, dad was so unsure of his footing that when he would have to walk anywhere (restroom, bedroom, kitchen) he would talk/pray aloud to her, "Blessed Mother, help me to get to …I think I can do it." And upon arrival, "Thank you, Blessed Mother" He didn’t realize that anyone around could hear his very private plea, but we did and it was so beautiful to behold the faith that sustained him. I continue to miss dad terribly, but I believe that these last years, trying and demanding as they often were, were God’s gift to me, a time to reconcile the stern father of my youth with the vulnerable man, daddy, that he was in his elder years. And I am grateful, grateful again to the God who lavishes us with gifts beyond telling, daily bread that we can sometimes only appreciate in retrospect.

THE VIEWS EXPRESSED ON THIS BLOG ARE MINE ALONE AND DO NOT NECESSARILY REFLECT THOSE OF MY EMPLOYER.

A New Old Way to Pray

I am stunned. I have been a Catholic since baptism, just weeks after my birth day, 64 years ago. I have worked in the Church for the past 28 years, have taken graduate level courses on centering prayer, and yet have only recently come to adopt this method for myself. What took me so long, I think! And now I sit here, looking at my computer screen, bewildered as to how to share with you the wonder that I have discovered. Centering Prayer is, according to the contemplative outreach website, “a method of silent prayer that prepares us to receive the gift of contemplative prayer, prayer in which we experience God’s presence within us, close than breathing, closer than thinking, closer than consciousness itself. This method is both a relationship with God and a discipline to foster that relationship.” Does that tell you anything? It is a type of prayer in which we put our own agendas completely aside and wait on God. We dismiss any thoughts worries, problems, ideas – anything which is our agenda, and wait on God to come to us, usually at an unconscious level. It is as easy, and as difficult, as that. Why difficult? -because we have minds, and the job of the mind is to think. To suspend that function, i.e., to let go of our own agendas, takes practice and discipline. To find God in silence, which is really the only appropriate medium, is the goal, for anytime we use words, we immediately limit God, who is limitless, unfathomable to the human mind. I can only tell you that I have been practicing this 40 minutes per days for the past five weeks (2 20-minute periods daily) and I have been given the gift of consolation. I feel joy: true, deep-down joy. I can’t explain it; I don’t know if it will be a lasting thing, or if it is encouragement to continue in this type of prayer…I don’t make any claims, other than it is. If you have an opportunity to take a contemplative prayer workshop (they are everywhere, in every city), you might consider it. This may not be for you, but then again, it may just be the door to something you have never even known possible.
THE VIEWS EXPRESSED IN THIS BLOG ARE MINE ALONE AND
DO NOT NECESSARILY REFLECT THOSE OF MY EMPLOYER.