Stay Awake

Pay attention, church.

We are here, in the midst of the pandemic. This is a moment of God moving across the face of the earth. This is the moment when we who have been practicing our faith for years, are called to step in, lean in, be salt and light.

Woe to us if we let this moment slip by. Woe to us if we make an idol of 'normal' life. A life that no longer exists. Don't worship that life. Erecting a false god of 'normal' is leading us down a dangerous path.

Pay attention, church. This is the moment when LOVE must prevail. We stare in the face of our own fear and discomfort. We find the cracks in our hearts. We come face to face with our sin and vulnerability, our broken natures. But if we keep seeking God, his light will shine through those cracks. He will be glorified. He will fill us and use us and give us everything we need to do the work at hand. We need not be afraid if we stay focused on him.

But we do have to keep watch. Jesus tells us he is coming like a thief in the night, or like a bridegroom in the middle of the night. He will sneak in when we least expect him and if we are busy constructing altars to idols, we will miss him.  We will miss him.  We must keep our lamps trimmed and stay awake. He is coming.  He is here.

Pay attention, church. He is asking us to stay awake.

A death in the family

My house is full of memories. Every time I sit on the porch, I think of Peter, my spiritual director.

For over 13 years, on a monthly basis, he would come up the front stairs. Towards the end, it grew harder. Even the two steps sometimes posed a challenge, especially going down.  I talked to Nguyen about building a railing. I even looked them up on Amazon. But somehow, in the hustle and bustle, we never got to it. I suggested Peter use the back stairs, which had a rail, but he never did.

Yesterday I went to a local deli to buy sandwiches for me and Emmett. As I stood in line, I realized that lately, most of my sandwich runs were for visits with my mom and visits with Peter. Before his kidneys started acting up, the usual was a roast beef sandwich, no cheese, with lettuce, tomato, onion, and mayo. Lots of black pepper.  After the low sodium diet it was low sodium turkey with low sodium cheese.  But no matter how you filled it, Peter loved sandwiches.  On Fridays, outside of the Easter season, I usually made grilled cheese. Once, I made frittatas with fresh eggs from a friend's farm. I was grateful I had cracked the eggs into a bowl first. Two of them had chicks inside. Peter never said a word as I unceremoniously dumped them into the trash and started again.

He ate whatever I served him. It was a part of his practice, I think. Even if I forgot it was Friday and served meat, he was a gracious guest.

My dining room table. I always sit in the same seat. Every day for 24 years, I have sat in the seat with my back to the windows. Except when Peter came. He got that seat for our lunches. I always sat to his left, in Noah's place. We were close enough to be able to speak softly and still hear each other. Close enough that the pepper could be passed without reaching. Close enough that a clean handkerchief could be offered in the event of tears.  (Did Peter always swap out his handkerchief before coming to lunch, I wonder?)

Once, I couldn't make lunch. It was a strange time when I got some sort of inflammation in my knee. The draining, the MRI, the doctors couldn't fix it or figure out what it was. For a couple of months I was immobilized, unable to walk or even get to the bathroom without the use of a cane. It started in January, right around the time I began a program to read the bible in 90 days. Since I couldn't really do much else, I read the bible. I read and read and read. Until one day, on the Thursday of Holy Week, I finished.

During this time, Peter came to lunch. But instead of me making it for him, he arrived with lunch for the two of us. Hot dogs with buns. Cole slaw. And two bottles of beer.  It's funny that I never offered him a beer at any other time.

Just once or twice did I go to his house- a beautiful little cottage overlooking a lake in Chepachet. It was after his prostate surgery and he wasn't up to driving yet, but was up for lunch. I think he even cooked. I seem to remember some noodle dish. He was very fond of Asian food. He made us tea in real Japanese tea bowls. We used cloth napkins and talked.

Every part of my life is so deeply connected with Peter. He prayed for me constantly. He offered advice reluctantly.... always prayerfully, always seeking the Holy Spirit first.

He was my first confessor, the first person I took communion from, my Godfather, my friend. For weeks now I have only been able to think of the loss. I have only been able to feel the loss. I have been overwhelmed with the loss.  But yesterday, I woke up and realized that Peter is in Heaven. He is in JOY. The place of love. He is one of the saints holding bowls of prayers, lifting them to God and Jesus. It seemed selfish, suddenly, to lament his passing. The loss for me is nothing but gain for him. So, I will cherish his joy, even as I learn to live in a world without him.

Loss

The last several weeks have been a series of losses.

On May 17th, my mother, Pat Hegnauer, died.  She lost a long a fierce battle with alpha-1 anti-trypsin deficiency, a lung disorder that gave her COPD at the end of her life.

A few days later, I learned that my spiritual director, Fr. Peter D'Alesandre, had died on May 16th in the same hospice facility. I still am not sure how Peter died. In the weeks following his death, I have not been able to reach his family members... and it seemed rude to ask at the funeral.  I can only assume it was complications related to a recent surgery.  The obituary said he died peacefully. I am haunted by the possibility that I was actually in the hospice center when Peter was there dying. I am not sure of that, though.

For the first couple of weeks after my mother and Peter's deaths, I was in too much of a fog to think straight. I could barely hold a conversation. I would walk away realizing that most of what I meant to say never made it out of my mouth. Thoughts just hung there, unspoken.  It was strange.

A week and a half after my mother died, I tried going back to work. It was very hard.... not because the work is all that hard, but because my job is a lot about making decisions, big and small.... and about supporting my staff in their work. I struggled with even the simplest decision and frankly didn't feel like I had enough strength to support myself or my family, never mind staff members.

It was on the Thursday after I returned to work that I got the call from Vietnam about my father in law. Nguyen's dad had peacefully passed away in the hospital. He died of heart failure.

Since then, I have taken a short leave of absence to try and process all these deaths. For the most part, the processing has been unsuccessful. What am I to make of this? I don't know. I have been spending much time sitting, reading, tending to my growing collection of houseplants, going to daily mass. Not thinking much, just being. Hanging with my husband and kids.

4 Years In

On Thursday, I had the opportunity to share my conversion story with the Young Adult Group at Pius V Church in Providence. It was a lovely night. It started with an hour of Adoration and prayer, followed by a Benediction by the priest. We headed downstairs to a comfortable lounge filled with sofas and armchairs. I spoke for at least an hour and answered questions for another 30 minutes or so after.

After so much turmoil entering the Church, it is amazing to finally be in a place where I feel embedded. It is hard to remember the time of not being Catholic, to be honest. The life that came before seems so distant, now.

It has been over a year since I posted to this blog. My mother is still with us, living in a nursing home run by the Catholic Diocese. She is savoring these, her last days. The spark is still in her spirit, even as her physical health has declined.

I am grateful for the time together. God has blessed our last year and a half.

Breathless

For 25 years we have known, but it doesn't make it easier when things shift- when my mom was rushed to the hospital by ambulance for respiratory failure.  COPD brought on by a genetic disorder that my kids and I carry, but don't, thank God, have.  Our lungs are fine. Our lungs can repair themselves and then behave as they should.  But hers have been on overdrive for years, cleaning, cleaning, cleaning, like an OCD housewife wearing holes in the carpet with over enthusiastic vacuuming.  Hers are puffed up like balloons that can't, won't, deflate properly.

She hasn't been able to talk very well. Not her usual rambuncious self.  Not her normal bossy pants self.  Not her 'get me a vodka tonic and don't be stingy with either' self.  A breathy whisper.  The vocal chords need air to work properly, it turns out.  Without it, they just get tight and squeaky.

The drugs are good.  We have grown to love morphine.  It is the thing that helps keep her calm when the air decides to quit.  That and lorazapam. Anti-anxiety.  I am ridiculously grateful because without them she is drowning in fear. Her body betrays her spirit, fighting for air.  Better living through chemistry.  Living through chemistry.  And maybe a gentler death, too.

I have been praying with her.  I send her little texts at night as I head to bed.  I quote scripture or just wish her a sweet and peaceful night.

I am jealous of her time, of solitude with her.  I know you are her friends, have been there for her, love her.  But get out of her room now.  Let me have time alone.  I need to hold her hand and speak of things you cannot overhear.  I need to ask her questions that will haunt me forever if left unspoken. I need to strain to hear the truth inside her whispers.  I need to let her love me.  I need to love her.

My kids have met death before.  They met it face to face when their friends' mom died.  The one who made sauce and meatballs and let Noah stay over every weekend. The one who sat in the pew at church with us, week after week, Sunday after Sunday.  The one who died one night.  Who just didn't wake up.  Who left us all grief stricken and in shock.  They have met that death.  The angry, forlorn, shocking death.

But this one is different.  Not the same shock. Or the sense of outrage at it's unfairness.  Instead, it is a quiet grief.  My mom considering this a teachable moment.  She wants them to walk on this journey with her.  To not be afraid.  To step to the edge with her and feel the love that surrounds us all.

I am crying a lot.

Canceled

I was supposed to go on retreat last weekend.  It was canceled at the last minute for lack of participation.  I was utterly crushed.  For weeks I had been looking forward to time away from the hubub of life.  A whole weekend of silence, listening, resting in Him, and walking.  But on Thursday I got a call that it was not happening.

I went home and cried.  Big, deep, ugly cry. I carry so much in my day to day life, especially at work. And I felt like the weight of the world came crashing in at that moment.  

My staff assured me that God had something else planned for me.  And while that might have been true, at that moment, it was little consolation.  I was devastated.

So I went home and cried.  And cried out to Jesus.  Lord, help me.  Help me.  

And thus began a funny one way conversation with my friend Jesus.  He got all cryptic on me.  He gave me little orders and expected me to just follow.

I woke up on Friday morning with a sense of him telling me "Clean your room."  Sort of like what I say to my teen aged sons.  And yes, my room was a mess.  Laundry piled up, books all over the place, every surface covered with stuff.  It was as inhospitable a room as you can imagine, made worse by the fact that it needs a paint job and some organization.  

"Make it a place of retreat."

I didn't argue.  I didn't resent the fact that I lost my beautiful weekend of silence to a laundry folding marathon, vacuuming under the bed and decluttering my bookshelves.  It took me the whole weekend to get it all sorted out and dusted.  I helped Emmett clean his room while I was at it, complete with a new comforter and sheets, cleaned bunny cage, swept floors, fresh curtains.

"Go to Mass" was the next order I got.  So I walked to the little church in my neighborhood on a weekday morning and attended Mass with about 6 other folks, all of whom are well north of 60 years old.  As I sat in the church, I felt a sense of peace and joy.  Oh yeah!  I can do this every day if I want!  I LOVE this!

"Come visit me."  The same little church has a tiny adoration chapel.  It is a dusty, funky, vintage 80s affair with a laminate altar, some dying plants, and a few milk crates filled with old candles stacked in the corner.  Hardly a place that inspires fervent prayer.  But between pulling the dead leaves and watering the thirsty plants, I felt a powerful sense of His presence.  On the little bench where I was seated, people had left old devotionals, hand written prayers, and a worn set of commentaries on the gospel readings for every day of the year called 'In Conversation with God'  which is not to be confused with the very new age series of books of a similar name.  

I picked up the nearest copy of 'In Conversation' and randomly opened the page.  It was from the readings for the season of Advent and was about doing a daily examination of conscience.  It suggested that every day, we ask ourselves a simple question.  'Where was my heart yesterday?'  Was it on God?  Or was I focused on fear, anger, frustration, or something else?  It goes on to suggest that we repent of those times when our heart was distracted and ask God's help in staying focused on him for the coming day.  

I went home and bought a copy of the current volume of 'Conversations' for my kindle.  And every day since it has been a wonderful part of my daily time with God.

I was sad and disappointed that I wasn't able to go on retreat last weekend.  But in the days since, I have been spending much time with my Beloved, reading the daily cycle of prayer in the church, going to Mass, sitting in silent prayer, and enjoying my tidy room, a lovely place of retreat in my own home.  

Such a gift.

Heaven on Earth

I was a lector that day.  After the consecration, I was standing behind the altar with the Eucharistic ministers and the altar servers.  The priest, Fr. Mongeon, was saying the final prayer before giving communion.  "Behold the Lamb of God, behold him who takes away the sins of the world. Blessed are those called to the supper of the Lamb."

And suddenly, I felt a wave of peace.  A moment in which I truly believed that God could and would take away the sins of the world.  That we would taste the joy of Heaven.  My heart was flooded with love.  My eyes filled with tears.  I knew, in that instant, what Heaven feels like.

RIP John Michael

13 years ago, as I was just beginning my walk as a Christian, I joined the Unitarian Universalist Christian Fellowship forum online.  Through it, I met many good people.  I went to the annual convention.  I wrote about my conversion to Christianity and it was published in a book on UU Christianity.  I eventually left the Unitarian Church and lost touch with most of my UU Christian friends, but over the years, one of the most lasting things was a correspondance with John Michael Keba.  

John was raised as an Eastern Catholic who had explored different faiths, including Unitarianism.  He was a hot head who got into vicious debates with UUs about all kinds of things.  He was a very smart, very fiesty man who eventually got himself banned from the forum.  For a couple of years we didn't connect.  

Then, one day, I knew that I could no longer be a Unitarian.  I began searching for a new church.  A Christian Church.  My search brought me to many Episcopal Churches.  But one Sunday, I decided to visit St. Teresa of Avila, a Catholic Church in Providence.  At the time it was pastored by a wonderful priest name Fr. Ray Tetrault.  I cried through the whole Mass. And though I knew that I wasn't ready to become a Catholic, for the first time I thought that someday, I might end up there. 

On the way home, driving under an overpass on the highway, I remembered John Michael.  I remembered that he was Catholic.  I decided to write him an email telling him that I had visited a Catholic Church.  He relentlessly tried to convince me to join the church.  I resisted.  I wasn't ready and I knew it.  But nevertheless, we continued to email each other, sometimes daily, usually weekly.

Thus began a correspondance that lasted over 10 years.  

The irony was that over the next several years, as I was drawing closer to the Catholic Church, John was leaving it.  He eventually chose the absolute polar opposite and joined the Religious Society of Friends.  And even there, in a faith about peace and quiet and the gentle calling of the spirit, John was a rabble rouser.  He was fiesty and cranky and got into all sorts of trouble, I think.  I believe that he was seeking peace.  He believed in peace.  He yearned for peace.

In some ways, John was actually responsible for my choosing to work at CareNet.  He insisted that if God was calling me, I had no right to refuse.  And if there was doubt about the call, he was having none of it.  John was fiercely pro-life.

Once I started working at CareNet, I would occasionally write to him, especially when things were particularly tough.  I asked for his prayers.  He prayed.  He encouraged, exhorted.  But somehow, after his father died in 2014, our correspondance dwindled. 

This morning, I woke up thinking about him, and for some reason, felt sure that he had died.  I went online and found that yes, indeed, he had died over the Christmas Holidays.  There is no obituary.  No record of his death save for a brief comment on his facebook page.  His extended family didn't even seem to know about it. Fortunately, one of his friends was willing to message me back on Facebook and tell me the story of his passing.  He died alone in his home. He wasn't found for days.  No one seems to know if there is a grave somewhere.  

Dear Jesus,  I pray that John is at rest in your arms.  He was deeply aware of his sins.  He loved you with all his heart.  He was a man who yearned for peace.  The peace that surpasses all understanding.  I pray, my savior, that he is with you.  May his soul rest in your peace forever.

Life in a Catholic parish

We have a new priest at St. Catherine's.  His name is Fr. Plante and he seems like a good guy.  That isn't really all that remarkable.  What has been remarkable for me, as a new Catholic, is the way that the new priest was installed.

In my old Episcopal Church, when the priest retired, it was nearly a two year process to replace him.  There was a 'self study' conducted that took months.  Surveys, meetings, ongoing conversations.  An interim priest was assigned (two actually) to shephard the congregation through the process.  A hiring committee spend months gathering resumes, conducting interviews, talking to references.  Finally, a team flew all the way to Paris to listen to the final candidate preach.

In my Catholic parish, it went like this:

My priest asked the Bishop's permission to retire.  The Bishop assigned a new priest to the parish.  On the day after my priest's retirement, the new guy was saying Mass.  That's it.

Here's the amazing thing: This process, for the most part, works just fine.  Yesterday was the first Sunday for the new priest.  I sat in the pew and felt such a sense of love and welcome.  The folks in the pews were a little excited and nervous.  We are, understandably, a bit concerned about how this new priest will work out, especially since he is going to be pastoring two parishes now.  But the overall sense was one of warmth and expectation.  Love and encouragement.  We want to love this guy.

I was very moved, to be honest.  Here, in action, there was a sense of trust in God.  There was the implicit belief that God has brought this new priest to us and we are going to have open hearts and open minds.  There is a humilty in that.  There is grace in that.

It made me grateful to be a Catholic.

The deepest truth about me....

is my faith in Jesus Christ.  It is the thing that drives everything.  It is the thing that has taught me to love you unconditionally.  The thing that draws me to try and do good in the world.  The thing that helps me ask forgiveness when I screw up.  The thing that has helped me raise two stunningly wonderful young men.  The thing that keeps me coming back, even when it is painful or challenging.  I know this truth is uncomfortable.  It has been challenging for some of the people in my life to come to grips with it.   To you, I say, I will not take my toys and walk away angry.  I am right here, loving you.

out of the darkness

I have been struggling for most of the last year with desolation.  It has been a dark time for me.  It has been very hard.

Fortunately, through all of it, I never really lost the sense of God's presence.  I felt him there, quietly egging me on, inviting me to plumb the depths of my soul, inviting me to trust him.

In desolation it is easy to second guess every decision, question every inspiration, regret everything.  It feels like a deep spiritual depression. And oppression.

A few weeks ago, the desolation began to lift.  I could see tiny cracks of light peeping through.  I could feel a shift in my spirit.  I began to feel a clearer sense of God's reassuring presence.  I have moved towards consolation and it is such a relief.

In consolation, the word is trust.  I trust the decisions that God lead me through.  I trust him to take care of my tender and weak soul.  I trust that I don't have to be in charge of everything.... just let him draw me towards him.  In consolation I am not alone.

This year, for Lent, I gave up desolation.

Hey Jesus, got a minute?

I knew this was going to be hard.  I had glimpses of how much of a challenge this was going to be.  But Jesus, I didn't know it was going to be this hard.  This painful.  I had no idea how agonizing it was going to be to feel this isolated.  This is one heck of a cup, this chalice of yours.  Never, since following you, have I struggled so much.

Jesus.  I wonder if I had known, would I have still converted?  I honestly don't know the answer to that.  I think it would have been impossible for me to understand what I was in for.  It is like trying to explain to someone what childbirth is like.  It is like nothing else, so how can you describe it?  So it is with conversion.  If I could speak with my past soul, what would I say?  Would I tell her to ignore the Call?  Would I suggest she run away, hide, drown herself in distractions?  Would I encourage her to deny the groundswell that was rising beneath her, drawing, pushing, dragging her towards the Church?  And if I did... would she have listened?  I think back to that time, not so long ago, when the longing for the sacraments was so powerful, so overwhelming, I couldn't imagine any other alternative.

The desert time

Given the many things I was worried about as I considered joining the Catholic church, isolation never really came up.  I had no idea how alone this was going to feel.  I never realized how hard it was going to be to always be going to Mass alone.  How it was going to be to essentially be in the closet with my faith at work.  In a weird way, my experience mirrors that of my Christian business leader colleagues who struggle with sharing their faith at work.  In my case, I am blessed to have a staff I can be honest with and pray with, but otherwise my faith is mostly unspoken, hidden.  It is heavy.

The Baptism of the Lord

...instead of feeling guilty that I am not going to church with my kids and husband, maybe I could take a moment to relish the quiet emptiness of my house.  The sound of the birds.  The feel of the black leather bound copy of the Liturgy of the Hours in my hands.  The gentle gnaw of hunger in my stomach, reminding me that I am fasting in preparation for the most Holy of Holy things... Communion with my sweet Friend.

Maybe for just today, instead of pangs of guilt, I can accept the silence of my house as a gift from my Father, who wants all good things for me.  Who has given me the gift of his Church.  Who has invited me to step into his waiting arms and cherish with him the Mass... that taste of Heaven on earth.

Today is the Feast of the Lord's Baptism.  It is a day for me to reflect on the beauty of baptism.  As the readings this week have said, because Jesus once stood in a river in Palestine, now and forever, ALL water is Holy.  The Jordan flows to the sea, the water evaporates and falls as rain.  Nothing will ever be the same.

 'Except a man be born again of water and the Spirit, he cannot enter into the kingdom of God' [John 3:5]

A Good Christian

Recently a Christian acquaintance made a distinction between a Catholic and an Evangelical, stating that the Evangelical is a 'good' Christian and clearly implying that the Catholic is not.  (She wasn't aware of my conversion.)

I did not respond except to laugh and say that I suspected there is no such thing as a 'good' Christian.  We all are mediocre at best.  We strive to live lives that reflect Jesus.  We stumble.  Regularly.  And I think if anyone thinks they fall into the category of a 'good' anything, they are probably in for a rude awakening.  Even Jesus himself said "Why do you call me good?  Only the Father is good."  (Luke 18:19)

I was hurt by her comments.  I find it painful when people say such things about the Catholic faith.  But I did not feel a sense of fear, which has been my response in the past.  Fear of what, I am not sure.  That I won't be loved anymore when they learn the truth?  That it will cause harm to the ministry I run?  That volunteers, donors, friends will run in the other direction and pull their support because they think I am now unqualified to run the place?

Maybe I still harbor fears around all of that, to some degree.  But the other day, all I felt was hurt, plain and simple.

Epiphany

My priest chose Epiphany to share he is retiring in 6 months due to health reasons.  He told me yesterday after I made confession. To be honest, I was a little bit at a loss for words.  I said something about praying for him and gave him a quick hug.  Oddly, I wished him a happy new year.  Perhaps it doesn't feel particularly happy.

This morning, our associate priest joined Fr. as the celebrant.  I understood immediately that this was a way to reassure the congregation that all will be ok.  Fr. shared about his retirement and health concerns as part of a beautiful homily on the light that Christ brings into the world... and how Jesus is with us despite life's difficulties.  I wept through the whole thing.  Once the announcement was made, I could hear others sniffling and blowing noses.  This is a parish that LOVES their priest.  During the peace, many around me were in tears.

I have learned in my life that brevity in a relationship is not necessarily relevant to it's intensity.  In this last year, I have been deeply touched by the pastoral care and guidance I have received from Fr.  both in and out of the confessional.  We met weekly for some months leading up to my confirmation.  He has been a gentle teacher.  In just the last few months, he confirmed me, officiated my church wedding with Nguyen, heard my confessions and taught me how to use the breviary. He was there through all the grueling and painful aspects of my conversion, and for all the joy and wonder, too.  And most of all, he has fed me the body, blood, soul and divinity of Jesus Christ.

I am sad that he is leaving the parish, and doubly so for his health situation, but I am sure that his ministry will not be over.  He is a man who has much to give.  In some way, I hope that this retirement will offer him the opportunity to follow his ministerial bliss, so to speak.  I suspect teaching and spiritual direction will figure prominently.  And I trust that we will stay in touch in one way or another.  In the mean time, I will be praying for him.  And thanking God that he invited me into his church shepherded by Fr. Friedrichs.

Listen

I have found, since becoming a Catholic, that folks have a lot of questions about the church.  What is all this with Mary?  I don't understand Purgatory.  I can't get my head around the saints, the Eucharist, the liturgy.

The funny thing is that people rarely ask me to explain these things.  They will give me the list of their objections, but won't invite my perspective.  I never really get a chance to explain how I came to understand Marion doctrine, or Purgatory, or any of it.

Which makes me wonder if they just aren't really that interested in understanding.  I almost never volunteer to explain if I am not asked, mostly because I don't want to seem defensive.  But if we are having coffee and you want to know my opinion on Mary, just ask.  I would be delighted to share.

Wedding Ring Wrangle

While planning to rededicate our marriage, my priest mentioned that he would bless our wedding rings.  I felt a moment of anxiety.  I haven't worn my wedding ring for at least a couple of years, because I am a drummer and I was worried that constantly taking it off to play would make it more likely that I would lose it.

So I went home and started looking for my ring.

Which I couldn't find.

I ransacked my jewelry box, my bureau, all the likely spots where I would have stashed it.  I looked for days.

Finally, I decided that I would need to get a new one.  Nguyen and I went to a Cambodian jewelry store near the Asian market and I picked out a very plain gold band.  Looked fine, felt fine.

Of course, a couple of weeks later, I found my original ring.  But since it was a little less comfortable, I decided to keep wearing the new one.

But then I lost it.  I took it off for drum class and hooked it on my drum.  And forgot to put it back on, so the ring goes missing.  I searched my car, drum bag, the studio where we play, everywhere.  Nowhere to be found.

So, out comes my original ring.  It is a sweet ring... channel set sapphires in a simple gold band.  It fits snugly enough that I can wear it while playing with drum sticks, so I don't even have to take it off for class.

Yesterday, I was playing drums at McAuley House.  My stick bag fell off the chair and dumped my sticks on the floor.  As I was picking it up, I heard a little tinkle sound.  And sure enough, there, on the floor, was my plain gold wedding band.

I decided to put it on my RIGHT hand... so now I have two.

Which in a funny way, seems appropriate.  Nguyen and I were married almost 25 years ago, but it wasn't a Christian wedding.  A month ago, we rededicated our marriage in the Church and in a way, it is like part two of our original wedding.  Two parts of the same, wonderful, event.

So for today I am wearing both rings to remind me of the double blessing of our marriage.

Into the silence 2.0

Last year about this time I went away for a silent retreat and came back a Roman Catholic.  In the silence, I heard God asking me if I was willing to carry the cross.  I heard God calling me to the Catholic faith.  I remember how it felt.  I cried a lot.  I felt joy and terror and peace and Jesus.  It was such a big, sweet, loving, encounter.

Simon of Cyrene was there.  The cloud of witnesses looking on.  The quiet of an empty church and solitude.  I wrote a lot, and read scripture.  I slept for hours at a time.  I walked.

When I got back I was teetering on the edge of radical change and knew it.  And knew it would be hard.  And suspected it would be beautiful.  I was thirsty, so thirsty for deeper connection with Christ.  I longed for him.  It was at once lovely and painful.

I met with a priest and began the unpleasant task of finding a parish.  It was funny that it had never occurred to me that being a Catholic meant finding a new church.  Truly one of my least favorite tasks....  I checked out a few parishes and mostly felt uncomfortable and foreign.  Thankfully, I wound up in a church with a wonderful pastor.  He met with me weekly to prepare for confirmation.  I also met with a couple from the church.  And while the process was hard, it was also clear that it was the right process.

For me, the liturgical year feels more relevant than the calendar one.  Christ the King is coming and I am coming to the close of one of the most eventful years in my spiritual journey.  When I look back, I can hardly believe that in the midst of all the chaos at my work, I was simultaneously undergoing a radical spiritual transformation.  But I believe that the conversion was a gift God gave me to equip me for the work he has planned for me.

This year, as I enter into silence and the rhythm of the Liturgy of the Hours, I pray that I will, once again, seek his will for me.  And rest in his presence.  And praise him.  And love him.  I love Him.

Elizabeth Claire

I have never gotten a straight answer for why you had to die.  I have heard, variously, that you were going to have some sort of birth defect, or that you were going to be a financial burden.  I suspect it was deeper than any of those things.

But I am sure that if you had made it into the world, we would have loved you, regardless of your health or costs.

And though in this life I can never know for sure whether you were a boy or a girl, I always think of you as my sister.

I pray for the day I will see you again.