Category Archives: faith

Voices in the Night

Posted on by
4

Craig is gone this week on business, and Chris and I have been spending some quality time in the evenings. Around midnight last night we were watching Medium (the Hulu reruns are his new favorite program) when we heard a slow thump … thump … thump coming up the stairs.

(Now, this is exactly NOT the program you want to be watching at midnight when there is a thump, thump, thumping going on).

“I think it’s Mammy,” said Chris, peering over his blanket and not moving a muscle to investigate. (Man of the house, indeed.)

So I got up to check and, sure enough, my dear mother had crawled halfway up the staircase, pushing her box fan ahead of her. “Mom! What are you doing?” I chided.

fan“You told me to bring the fan up here,” she insisted. “I heard you.”

Now, of course I had done no such thing. But I have learned over the past two years not to argue with the voices. Gently I extracted the fan from her grip and put my arms around her, helping her up the last few steps. “Mom, let’s get you back in bed. It’s not safe for you to be climbing these stairs without your chair. Let me get it for you.”  And that is what we did.

Later that night, I got to thinking of the story of Samuel (1 Sam 3:1-11), who heard God’s voice and thought it was that of his guardian, Eli. The elderly priest was blind and had failed as a father with his own two godless sons, but he saw in this young, impressionable boy a chance at redemption. After Samuel awakened Eli twice, insisting that he had heard the priest call him twice in the night, the old man wisely advised the boy, “Go to sleep, and if you are called, reply, ‘Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.'” (vs. 9).

And the boy did. And God spoke again. And when young Samuel heard what the Lord had to say, he was afraid to give his mentor the message: that the Lord had turned against the house of Eli, and was utterly condemning them. And yet, Eli’s unexpected response must have reassured him: “It is the Lord. What is pleasing in the Lord’s sight, the Lord will do” (vs. 18). And Samuel became a great prophet.

Now, I’m not sure exactly what it is God is trying to say to me through this incident with the fan. Maybe it’s something as simple as, “Make better media choices, both for yourself and as an example to your kids.” Maybe it’s a warning that Mom is going to need closer supervision at night (the progression of dementia can cause nighttime hazards). Or maybe it’s just a simple invitation to spend less time watching television and more time listening for that still, small voice in the night.

Speak, Lord, your servant is listening.

Unhand the Cheerios…

Posted on by
4
cereals in basket

Photo by rawpixel.com on Pexels.com

Both kids were scheduled to work this morning, so we went as a family to the five o’clock Mass at St. Pius. It was the first time we’d gone there together — gorgeous church, lovely organ music, and the homily was short, sweet, and … a little crunchy.

The priest observed that every parish in America sweeps up at least a pound of Cheerios each weekend — a kind of divine detritus (my words) left behind by parents of small children who just want to be able to pray for five minutes. Then one day as he was watching his two-year-old nephew grow frustrated over trying to play with a truck with two fistfuls of Cheerios, he said, it made him realize that Cheerios are the perfect metaphor for human desire. “God holds out the truck, and we won’t let go of the Cheerios long enough to take it. But that’s what God is asking … he wants you to let go of the Cheerios,” he explained.

I looked at my mother, sitting so intently next to me. It has been only about three weeks since our priest gave her the anointing of the sick while she was in the hospital with pneumonia — for her, it was a sacramental windfall that included first confession, first Eucharist, confirmation, and last rights. Thank God, she recovered … and has been eager to go forward to receive Jesus each week. Her eyes just light up with so much joy, you never would have guessed what a miracle it is that she was standing there at all.

I’ll spare you the gory details, but suffice it to say that I was brought up believing Catholics aren’t “really” Christians. So to see God work it out so that my mother goes forward to receive Jesus each week is a little … strange. I’d had two aunts (one on either side of the family) who had married Catholic boys, and it didn’t end well.  (Interestingly enough, one of them — my namesake — wound up tending to my grandmother in her later years. I so admire her.)

All I know is that, for the past two years, mom has been going to church with us each week … and remaining in the pew as the rest of us went up. She would say all the prayers, and sing along to all the hymns, and listen intently as our Nigerian priest would break open the Gospel. At night I would tuck mom in and read to her from some of the books I’m currently working on, and one day she pulled out one called Catholic and Christian by Dr. Alan Schreck … and we started reading THAT.

Next thing I know, she’s telling Fr. John that she wants to be a Catholic. I’m not sure exactly why. Maybe it’s because her Catholic daughter rescued her from memory care prison. Maybe it’s because I refused to give up praying with her for her marriage. Maybe it’s because … well, maybe it’s because we were both ready to let go of the Cheerios, and hold out our hands for whatever God wanted to give us.

And so we did. And you know what? It was even better than we thought.

When Mothers Arise

Posted on by
1

IMG_4465Each year on this day Catholics all over the world remember the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary, the day she was taken body and soul into heaven at the end of her earthly life. In years past, some families feasted on raspberry shortcake and adorn their statues with rose garlands. Others decorated balloons with images of the Blessed Mother, and launched them heavenward.

Sadly, this isn’t a year for such celebrations. The most recent news reports outlining the depravity of some very bad men at the highest level of the Church has traumatized the Catholic community. The outraged responses are wholly understandable and natural. Sadly, all the outrage in the world is not going to fix this problem.

Last night I attended the vigil Mass at Queen of Peace, delighted to see both my children singing in the choir — something they had reluctantly agreed to after I told them it was the only birthday present I wanted this year. Even so, they grumbled … but they went. As I watched them that night, I was reminded again of the great influence women hold in the lives of their families to inspire goodness in their children.

I also thought about the redemptive power of a mother’s love to make wrongs right, and to guide her children to repentance. While we were in Rwanda, attending an open-air Mass, during communion the religious sisters in front of us left their seats to distribute the consecrated hosts. During that time, a man came and swiped this sister’s purse (pictured above) and tried to make off with it … and was promptly taken into custody by vigilant security. At first he glared about him, defiant. Then, when the sister returned and learned what had happened, she said not a word. She just turned and looked at the man full in the face. He crumbled into a chair and covered his face. Then she sat beside him and began speaking gently to him. (I don’t know what was said — she was speaking in Kinyarwanda). As he was being led away, I thought about the way her mother’s heart had touched him and inspired him to recognize and regret the wrong he had done.

I don’t know exactly how this applies to our current crisis, except to say that a mother’s heart is a powerful force for change. Frankly, I don’t know if it is even possible to exact true justice through the judicial system we have today … I sincerely doubt it, based on our own experiences with the juvenile justice system (ironically, in Pennsylvania). What I do know is that true repentance and conversion is possible only in hearts that are open and unguarded, who love God more than they love themselves. Men who love their Mother enough to be willing to endure any trial in service to her. If there is going to be true change in the hearts of those who lead our Church, it will come only as they are drawn once more to fall in love with God, and with their Blessed Mother. That is where they will find the strength to do what must be done … and to stay the course.

My friends, as we continue to pray for God’s will in this ongoing battle for the souls of both perpetrators and their victims, on this day of the Assumption I will be praying that the love of Our Blessed Mother will arise and blanket the earth afresh, and that we will all find the courage and humility to seek not simply justice, but true healing and reconciliation. Our Lord promised that the gates of hell will not prevail against his Church. We must remember that those gates swing both ways — and that the forces of destruction can come from without as well as from within. Lord willing, so will the forces of healing and reconciliation.

Our Lady of the Assumption, Arise! Spread your mantle of love over us, and pray for us, that we will soon be able to proclaim the Good News with pure and loving hearts. Amen.

My Christian Superheroes

Posted on by
5

Last week I had the chance to speak to a group of local women — and my mother, who had never heard me speak in public until then — about a group of women I’ve come to regard as my spiritual mothers: Women whose example led me, as surely as Moses led the Chosen People to the Promised Land, to where I am today. They (clockwise from upper left): My confirmation namesake, Amy Carmichael; Gertrude “Biddy” Chambers, widow of Oswald Chambers; Gladys Aylward; Mother Teresa; Elisabeth Elliot; and Corrie. ten Boom. (I’ve linked each of their names to my favorite books by or about them, in case you’d like to learn more.)

Like Moses, most of them did not “cross over,” as I did, into the Catholic Church (Mother Teresa is the only professed Catholic among them). And yet, each of them left an indelible stamp upon my spirit through their lives and writings.

Tonight mom and I finished reading the book about Gladys Aylward, the British missionary to China (1902-1970), whose story was retold (with great liberties) in the movie The Inn of the Sixth Happiness, starring Ingrid Bergman. After twenty years preaching the Gospel to teems of people suffering under Communist oppression, she felt the Lord call her back home. At first she was incredulous — she had by that time become a Chinese citizen, dressing like them, eating like them, even thinking like them. And yet, she said,

“England, seemingly so prosperous while other countries passed through terrible suffering at the hands of Communist domination, had forgotten what was all-important — the realization that God mattered in the life of a nation no less than in that of an individual…. I knew that I must go back to the land of my birth. I must return to do what I could to dispel the spiritual lethargy that had overtaken so many. I must testify to the great faith of the Chinese church. I must let people know what great things God has done for me” (The Little Woman, 136).

This was nearly fifty years ago, and yet not much has changed. The “underground” Church of faithful Christians continues to suffer and to struggle, and even to die.

Pray with me for the Holy Father, for the Christians in China … and for all those on the front lines, who seek to ease the suffering of the “least of these” who continue to suffer simply for naming the Blessed Name. Mother Gladys, pray for us, that we might not be afraid to stand with your beloved people.

Another much admired figure, from the Civil War era at Notre Dame, I’d like to write about one day: Sister Angela Gillespie.

Day 4: Blessed Abundance

Posted on by
Reply

Missionary life, like motherhood, is not a 9-5, M-F proposition. The tiny routines of our lives — the feeding and tending and being fully present — are part of each day’s experience. They are part of us.

For the past few days, my tiny routines have changed. As a mother of two teenagers, I’ve swapped out nagging and exasperation for the gentle rhythms of swaddling and rocking, of returning to a kind of childhood where I struggle to make myself understood, as the adults around me patiently try to figure out what it is I want. It’s humbling, yet a bit liberating — I’ve had more sleep these past four days than in the last four years.

marketToday we took a break from sorting clothing donations to go into the city to the farmer’s market. The stalls lined a city block (both sides), with multicolor produce of every imaginable shape and color. I counted six kinds of fruit I could not name (in English OR Spanish), plus one kind of green vegetation that looked a bit like collard greens and smelled exactly like cilantro. Locally made cheese and meats (the slaughter house is just down the street from the Center), and roasted coconut completed the shopping.

While it is possible to buy the chips and chocolates and fast food that is so freely available at home, somehow I just can’t bring myself to eat it — not when so much of this good stuff is readily available. It’s too hot to eat vast quantities of food — I just keep chugging the agua con limone. Oh, and today at lunch we had lemonade with ginger. Yum.

Back at the Center, it’s nearing naptime. I assemble a fruit salad and make a cheese plate – the perfect lunch after a day on the town. No sooner have I had the last bite, I hear the cries of an infant who does NOT want to sleep, thank you very much. Tia Heidi to the rescue. Runny nose and teary eyes, the little one smiles through his tears as he looks up at me. He, too, has discovered the joy of simple abundance … of the new lady with the ample bosom who never tires of taking him in her arms and rocking him to sleep. Once I have him finally settled, the next one decides it’s his turn … and a third smacks himself in the head and starts wailing at my feet, determined not to be left out of the besos.

adorationNow, I’m not saying that life at the Center isn’t without its challenges – the on again, off again plumbing; the lack of electrical outlets to charge my cell phone, the language barriers, the stifling heat and mosquitos. But there is blessed abundance as well — the new friends, the delicious sleep under the mosquito netting, the daily Rosary (a ten-year-old girl named Lola is teaching me), the early mornings when I venture by bus to the center of town to offer prayers for the work of the Mission, and watch as local Christians gently stroke the tabernacle like the woman touching the hem of Christ’s garment. Above all, the opportunity to slow down enough to breathe and sleep and revel in the gentle simplicity of life. And I thank God for the blessings of such blessed abundance.

Remembering Mr. Fancher

Posted on by
Reply

Mr FancherA few weeks ago we arrived at church and, as the first hymn was about to start, I quickly scanned the crowd for a gap big enough for my family. I slid in, and found myself seated next to … Mr. Fancher. Not the real one — he died when I was a little girl. But he bore a striking similarity to the elderly gentleman who used to live next door.

He lived alone, but every day when I got off the school bus from kindergarten, he’d be out working in his garden. He’d lean on his hoe, and intone to me: “Beautiful eyes, she has such beautiful eyes…” I’d drop my book bag and run to his yard, and he’d let me help him pull weeds and pick flowers for my mother. Sometimes he’d go in to the house and bring out a glass of Kool-Aid or a cookie, just to sweeten the day.

My parents invited him to dinner, and soon he became a fixture in our home. We never knew the story of his own family, his own grandchildren. When he passed away, he gave my father his old roll-top desk, where for the next twenty years my father would sit and pay the bills.

So today, when I looked up and found his twin smiling pleasantly up at me, my heart clenched. I never forgot the first man who — other than my own dad — made me feel beautiful. Forty years later, his little song plays in my head and makes me smile.

Happy Father’s Day, Mr. Fancher. Rest in peace.

How to Get Rid of Impatience

Posted on by
1

catholic crossThis week I found myself over at “Whispers in the Loggia” and came across Rocco Palmo’s post dated May 21, 2013 containing the homily of Pope Francis, who spoke of his personal encounter of faith.

In his own warm and personable way, Pope Francis recalled receiving the personal challenge of his “Nona” (grandmother) to follow Jesus — and later encountering a priest at his local parish, who was waiting to receive his confession. “He had been waiting for me for quite some time,” said the Holy Father. He would never forget it — and it had a profound effect upon his decision to become a priest.

I smiled as I thought of this confessional encounter, remembering my own encounter with Jesus last weekend, an unexpected gift that I found in a poor old parish in downtown Reading. To be honest, I had gone in not expecting anything remarkable, going through my laundry list of faults and sins. Again and again I found myself saying the same word: impatience. Impatient at home. Impatient at work. Impatient with my family.

“You know the best way to get rid of impatience, don’t you?” came the voice from the far side of the screen.

“Tell me, Father.”

“Not by praying for patience … That only brings more challenges. You can ask for perseverance, and that will help. But the most IMPORTANT thing you can do is fast.”

“Fast? From food?”

“From food, from radio, from television. Like at Lent. When we fast, it reminds us that we are not in charge of our lives. It puts our own will in the back seat, and allows Jesus to take the driver’s seat. Fast, and you will find your impatience disappear.”

In that moment, a light went on. It was a timely gift. In that moment, I knew Jesus had been waiting to give it to me.

when mercy moves

Posted on by
Reply

easter-breadThis Sunday Sarah and I sat in the choir loft, where Craig was holding court in the bass section. It was going to be the last time he was able to sing in the choir before we move to our new home in Phoenixville. And though he hadn’t been singing with them for more than a year, it was clearly a struggle for him to let go. To leave. To start over.

Me, not so much. Truth is, I have a bit of gypsy in my blood. A kind of restlessness creeps in as the time gets closer for the new adventure. The boxes packed, the electric bill switched, the new house leased. A rush of excitement as I think about being able to unpack all our things that have been languishing in temporary storage.

And yet, as we drive home I cannot help but feel the weight in the car. “Moving stinks,” Sarah volunteers. Craig grunts. I recount all the wonderful things in store: the new au pair who is coming from Germany. The park with swings in our backyard. The big deck for summer barbecues. The beautiful new school we get to visit early in May. And yes, the new parish that has both an adult and children’s choir. Good things, all of them.

Still, the silence. And in that moment, I realize: Those strains of mercy needed most, are those we dispense when we are least disposed to grant it. In the classic work The Great Divorce, C.S. Lewis spoke of the Shining Ones who retrace their steps back down the mountain to meet the bus with those from the Gray Town. The grass cuts the feet of those phantom spirits. And yet the Shining Ones urge them farther and higher.

At Easter we remember those whose worlds are touched with gray, that the Spirit would make our joy contagious.

The Priest Who Loved Me (The Love Project: Day 30)

Posted on by
5

egg rollsI hadn’t been in RCIA more than a month when I got the summons in the form of a phone call from his secretary. “Monsignor was wondering if you’d have time to let him take you to lunch this week.” My heart pounding, we set a noontime appointment at a local Chinese place a few days later. As soon as she hung up, I called my sponsor.

Well, she was my second sponsor, actually. My first one had quit after just a couple of weeks because I kept asking too many questions. So Dawn — the woman in charge of the program for adults interested in learning more about the Catholic Church — decided to take me on herself. “Don’t worry, Heidi. I’ve been telling him good things about you. He just wants to meet you.”

I arrived ten minutes late to find Monsignor waiting patiently, writing something in his appointment book. He smiled and stood up when he saw me, his Irish brogue warm with sincerity. “I’m so glad you could come.”

Over pork lo mein and egg rolls, he asked me gentle questions until he had heard the highlights of my story: the Catholic boyfriend I was forced to break up with because of his faith; my friend the Baptist minister who resigned his position because of his desire to join the Church; my summer in Poland that had left me groping for God, unable to pray until I found refuge in the last place I ever expected — inside the darkened sanctuary of that historic old parish in South Pasadena.

I had kind of tuned out during my own narrative, telling it as though it was someone else’s story. When at last I finally looked up, Monsignor was studying me intently, his eyes bright. Oh, man, now I’d really done it — I made a priest cry. I glanced at my watch. Two hours had gone by, yet he was clearly in no hurry to leave. He took a sip of tea, and cleared his throat.

“Heidi,” Monsignor Connelly said to me, taking my hand. “You are a gift to us.”

In that moment, sitting there in the middle of that Chinese restaurant, I could not recall the last time I had felt so completely and unreservedly loved and accepted. I was home at last.

Today’s Love in Action: Has there been a priest who has made a difference in your life? Have you thanked him?

Eucharist of Divine Love (The Love Project, Day 20)

Posted on by
Reply

divine mercyToday’s quote is taken from the Diary of St. Maria Faustina Kowalska (1239).

O living Host, O hidden Jesus. You see the condition of my soul. Of myself, I am unable to utter Your Holy Name. I cannot bring forth from my heart the fire of love but, kneeling at Your feet, I cast upon the Tabernacle the gaze of my soul, a gaze of faithfulness. As for You, You are ever the same, while within my soul a change takes place. I trust that the time will come when You will unveil Your countenance, and Your child will again see Your sweet face. I am astonished, Jesus, that You can hide Yourself from me for so long and that You can restrain the enormous love You have for me. In the dwelling of my heart, I am listening and waiting for Your coming. O only Treasure of my heart!

Today’s Love in Action: Print out this little prayer and bring it with you to Mass today. Offer it to the Lord with all your heart. He is waiting to meet you there.