Lassie Come Home

I have always wanted to read this book; I've seen the movie many times. Now I finally read it as an adult. However, I didn't read it just as ‘story’, but from the perspective of the “Great Journey Home” which we are all on. My read was a quest for universal themes, and one in particular. This quote had me in tears when I first encountered it and saw it as pertaining to my own journey back to Jesus:

‘...there was no hesitation. She was going home. Her senses were now aware of a great satisfaction, for there was peace inside her being. She was going home. She was happy. There was no one to tell her, and no way for her to learn that what she was attempting was almost in the realm of the impossible—that there were hundreds of miles to go over wild land—a journey that would baffle most men going afoot.’

This is a classic story because we are all called by something deep inside we don't understand which compels us to journey Home. Sometimes we're aware of it; most times not. I also don't have any problem seeing myself as ‘Lassie’, perhaps because I'm a woman and it is a common Scottish term for females.



A beautiful, sweet story of family, love-of-animals, loyalty, the importance of kindness, persistence and a sure cure for whatever ails you.



‘For I know well the plans I have in mind for you—plans for your welfare and not for woe, so as to give you a future of hope. When you call me, and come and pray to me, I will listen to you. When you look for me, you will find me. Yes, when you seek me with all your heart, I will let you find me.’ ~Jeremiah 29:11-14

Thanks Mom for getting this for me! Love you!

For Rose

Today I am staying home and remembering a friend who died Wednesday night at the hands of her sixteen year old grandson. She was 57, just a few years older than me. I‘ve known Rose almost since we arrived here in Oklahoma in 1998 when my husband was still on active duty in the Air Force and we were members of the Tinker Catholic Parish of St. Francis of Assisi.

Rose got me started in the hospital ministry, visiting and bringing Holy Communion to the sick and dying. I was in a lot pain myself at the time—my psoriatic arthritis was years away from diagnosis and treatment—and Rose helped me find the inner confidence to minister to those more ill than myself.

Rose always ran circles around me in terms of what she could do. She was brash and sometimes loud. Although she rubbed some people the wrong way, she had a heart of gold and would help anyone in need. After my husband retired and we switched to an off-base parish, I saw Rose less but got to know her best friend, who later became my oldest daughter’s Religious Education teacher and Confirmation Sponsor. I kept up with Rose though her. We often got together as a group and went out to dinner after Saturday evening Mass.

The last time I really visited with Rose was at my daughter’s Graduation party. Rose never missed an opportunity to celebrate ‘family’. She believed in God, love and family. She believed in the young grandson¹ who brutally took her and her husband’s² lives two nights ago. This isn’t easy for me to get my mind much less my heart around today.

I think it’s going to take awhile ... to say the least. I have been crying off and on ever since I heard the news.

I have heard and in fact already know all the truisms about such tragedies.

“She’s in a better place.” Yes, I believe she is.

“She isn’t hurting anymore.” Yes, thank God!

“It doesn’t help to dwell on how she died.” No, it never helps to dwell on violence.

“Prayer is a great healer.” It truly is and I have been and am praying.

“You will see her again someday.” Yes, the best thing about our faith is that certainty of eternity with our God.

I'm not looking for answers or quick fixes or even anything to ease the pain. I don’t need to have everything fixed today. I don't need any answers, because anything easy I can think to say just sounds trite. Maybe I just need to remember my friend—as she was—with humble gratitude for the gift of her life and all she gave me; remember her and grieve.

Here’s to Rose ... and Dave

May you live forever with Him Whom you served.

With much love,




¹The grandson is in custody where hopefully he will stay. He needs our prayers more than anyone; however, he also needs to be physically restrained so that he cannot do anyone any more harm.

² I don’t mean to ignore Dave, Rose’s husband, in this post. It’s just that I didn’t know him as well as I did her. But I do know he was a very quiet, gentle man who loved her.

Letting go means finding

I asked God for all things that I might enjoy life. God gave me life that I might enjoy all things.

We’re snowed in again here in Oklahoma.

So I'm at home—working, writing, cleaning, doing laundry, etc. When I saw a big pile of stuff my daughter had put in the back room to donate to the next agency calling to pick up our ‘give aways’ I was inspired. Time to scour the shelves and closets looking for things I can ‘harvest’ and prepare to pass along.

Immediately I set to work.

Here’s something—a tape series on mentoring your teen. And how about this, some old homeschooling stuff. Don’t need that anymore for sure. So as I cleaned off a side table in the corner of the front room making piles, going through papers, books and things I hadn’t looked at in months, maybe years, dusting and rearranging I discovered some spiritual material from a long ago retreat which I could use for a meeting this week-end. Wonderful! Thanks God! I can’t remember the last time I saw that.

And then! Then!

My CAT NOTEBOOK! What?




My what? My Cat Notebook! This was given to me by my Mother-in-Law on the 28th of January 1988. It’s only a paperback book, roughly 8 x 10 consisting of (originally) blank pages, cat quotes and now bulging fat from all the cards, newspaper articles, stories, poems and miscellaneous truisms I’ve pasted in it. It’s a treasure chest of booklady wisdom collected over the years, meaningful only to me but very dear because of who gave it to me and all the odds and ends I’ve stuck in it. I’ve shared it with my husband, Mom, very special friends, and both my daughters at various times.

It has been “lost” for the past year or more. I’ve searched high and low for it but couldn’t remember where I put it, who (if anyone) I loaned it to or what could have happened to it. I tried not to worry but I missed it numerous times.

It made me smile. Another beautiful lesson: I needed to let go of some things in order to find what was lost.

Now! Let’s see what else I can get rid of! ☺

‘With the qualities of cleanliness, discretion, affection, patience, dignity, and courage that cats have, how many of us, I ask you, would be capable of being cats?’ ~Fernand Mery

And as I typed that last letter, my faithful CAT meowed to let me know he had followed me into yet another room ... as he has been doing all day long. ☺

Pray for the Dead ... and the Living

The longer you work in or with a church—whether paid or volunteer —the more you come to realize the many sorrows everyone bears. The friend across from me laments a son with a drinking and drug problem, a husband who doesn’t believe in God all the while mourning the loss of the woman who was her mother figure. Another woman never married but cares for her dying brother; she was also there to see to all the needs of both parents in their last hours. A man lost his wife over ten years ago and yet still loves her and misses her as if it were yesterday. An elderly mother has buried three of her five children, a husband, all but two of her eight siblings and outlived most of her friends. Another woman lost her husband when he tried to stop a crime in progress and one of her two sons to an accident; she also lost five babies to still births and always dreamed of having a large family. Her only surviving son lives over in Europe and is approaching 40; she quietly accepts that she will never have grandchildren of her own and lavishes her love on the parish children.

Death. It’s all around us. So is sorrow and grieving. We aren’t supposed to be a grieving society. We are affluent America. We’re supposed to be happy. It’s what American parents reportedly desire for their children and for themselves—happiness. And we want it in this life; we even expect it. Our own Constitution tells us it’s our God-given ‘right’, or the pursuit of it is anyway. I’ve never had much luck with ‘pursuing’ happiness myself, but that’s another story.

Interestingly, those same people who have – and are – suffering so much are often the most joyful people I know. They aren’t always ‘happy’, but they are usually full of His Joy.

Last night I discovered another such soul, a woman I’ve seen and known by sight around my parish for years. And she asked an interesting question, a question I’ve given some thought to myself.

She wanted to know why we as Catholics pray for the dead. Her husband has been dead for years now and their six children apparently are offended by the fact that she still prays for him. Like their mother, they loved their Dad very much and believe he was a very good man. Their reasoning is, if ‘Dad’ was such a good man, isn’t it an insult to his memory to pray for him? Why not have faith in his good life—or if not in him, then in God’s all powerful mercy—that this good man will go straight to Heaven?

Well of course I did think of the Biblical argument that there is ‘no one good but God alone’ but decided not to go down that path. Scriptural debates are all well good in their place. This was a matter of the heart. And anyway, I knew why this woman was still praying for her husband and it had nothing to do with her beliefs about her husband’s soul or God’s mercy and it had everything to do with her undying love for him.

You see if you really love someone, that love doesn’t stop with death. It doesn’t end; it can’t. It goes on just as that person’s life goes on in eternity. So whether or not we may be aware of it, it’s our need to reach out to our loved one which is met through our prayer for that person. Of course this isn’t the Church’s theological reasons for prayers for the dead and those are certainly worth studying too. But in this case, I think my friend will have more success explaining to her children that she prays for her deceased husband because she loves him. She loved him so much and for so long, she couldn’t—can’t—just stop because he’s died. So now praying for him allows her to express those deep feelings.

And what about the prayers?

What about them? Well, they are surely from her heart, so they are good prayers. In fact, they are probably the very best kind of prayers in the entire world knowing the sweetness of this dear woman.

So, if in fact, her husband does need her prayers, so much the better.

And if he doesn’t? Doesn’t this world need prayer?

Is there any doubt?

Are prayers wasted? If you believe in an all-merciful and all-loving God, as I do, I think you know the answer to that question. He has plenty of use for such prayer.

Is there anyone you are grieving? Anyone you miss more than your own life? Pray for them and be consoled. If they need your prayers, you may bring them to the arms of God. If not, you will still bring YOU—and perhaps some of your hurting brothers and sisters here on this earth—there with you.

Pray. Pray. And Pray some more.

prayer journeys

I’ve often wondered if prayer is such a good thing, why is it so difficult to maintain? Oh sure it’s easy to begin to pray or say you’re to going to develop your prayer life or that you want to deepen your relationship with God through more consistency in prayer, but how many of us find that after a week or two, or maybe even a couple months we hit a wall?

Or maybe something big changes in our life, like a new job, marriage or baby and suddenly the time and routine which we’d formerly devoted to prayer, is now consumed by duties too important to neglect. We’re overwhelmed and it’s easy enough to let the prayer slip into whatever time and space is left over.

As for myself, I justified my recent neglect of private prayer by saying, “But I go to Mass almost every day. Isn’t that good enough?” No! The Mass is the chief or central act of communal worship in the Catholic Church and there is nothing which can replace it. I would not miss any opportunity to go to daily Mass, however, it is not a substitute for my individual prayer time with God. I need both. I need to go away from everyone and spend time alone with the Father—just as Jesus did so often, as we are repeatedly told in the Gospels. When I do this, I find a world within myself where He dwells. I discover that still small voice.

We are all on a spiritual journey. For most of us, I suspect, it isn’t along a superhighway. I know I’m traveling the back roads. Lately, I think I’m not even on a road at all. It feels like God has taken me out of any motorized vehicle and is leading me along an unexplored path through a wooded area. He has me by the hand but I can’t see the way ahead at all. Maybe it is night time or He could have me blindfolded. In any event, the effect is the same; I’m completely dependent on Him to take me where He wants me to go. For someone who is a planner and organizer, this is not a comfortable position to be in. I have to trust Him utterly. I can’t stop praying—not because I’m good or self-disciplined but more out of a sense of desperation.

I don’t know if this means my prayers are less efficacious because they are as necessary as drinking water or breathing, but I suppose it doesn’t matter. I do wonder sometimes how many different levels we pray on. When I am very relaxed and praying the rosary, I’ll be contemplating Our Lord’s actions in one of the mysteries and yet I am also aware of being very conscious of my plea to Our Lady, “Pray for us!” Today when that happened, I wondered if one was the spirit and the other the mind or if they were both just simultaneous thoughts of the mind. I suppose that's not really important either ... just my random musings. Of course, that’s not to say, there aren’t other times, when I’m not concentrating on any level, so please don’t think I don’t have my fair share of distractions. I do!

I’m still very much a child of prayer, taking stumbling steps.

Oh Jesus, You have brought us safely thus far. Please continue to watch over us as we continue on our individual and collective journeys, always traveling toward You, the only and ultimate destination.

Child of Prayer

A friend asked me about my New Year’s Resolutions the other day. “What are your plans and dreams for the upcoming year?”

Plans and dreams... Yes, those are both very good things! God has a plan for my life—for every second of every day I have ever lived and will go on living in this world. And He often communicates His desires to His children through their dreams. So what plans and dreams can I have but His?

What I have for the upcoming year are prayers and one prayer in particular: to become a person of prayer.

I desire to live in constant communion with Him.

Every time my mind wanders to a problem, let it be drawn back to Him in trustful surrender.

When my eyes behold evil, let Him show me the Way, the Truth and Life.

If my heart seizes with fear, let His Love encircle and warm me, bringing more love than I’ve ever known before.

May He be my first thought every morning and may I fall asleep with His Name on my lips.

May He love and protect my dear ones as I would if I could—were I but All Knowing, All Loving and All Good.

May He turn all my sins into opportunities for growth in kindness, humility and patience.

Sweet Jesus, with every breath I take in, let me seek You; with every breath out, may I grow closer to You.

You know LORD what a wretch I am—how far I have to go, how much I ask by daring to pray as I do. And yet, You are the God of the Impossible. With and through You, All Things are possible, even my sanctification.

Help this year be a YEAR OF PRAYER for your servant. Help me seek You at all times, in all ways and without tiring.

Make me Your child of prayer.

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We Are The Catholic Vote

Make yours count for LIFE!

"AND GOD SAID...."

I said, "God, I hurt."
And God said, I know."

I said, "God, I cry a lot."
And God said, "That is why I gave you tears."

I said, "God, I am so depressed."
And God said, "That is why I gave you Sunshine."

I said, "God, life is so hard."
And God said, "That is why I gave you loved ones."

I said, "God, my loved one died."
And God said, "So did mine."

I said, "God, it is such a loss."
And God said, I saw mine nailed to a cross."

I said, "God, but your loved one lives."
And God said, "So does yours."

I said, "God, where are they now?"
And God said, "Mine is on My right and yours is in the Light."

I said, "God, it hurts."
And God said, I know."

Posted on the wall at the
Oklahoma City bombing site
by K. C. and Myke Kuzmic
Stockton, CA

Day 11 - God Doesn’t Give Handouts

‘Jesus began to teach them that the Son of Man must suffer greatly and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed, and rise after three days. He spoke this openly. Then Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him. At this he turned around and, looking at his disciples, rebuked Peter and said, “Get behind me, Satan. You are thinking not as God does, but as human beings do.” He summoned the crowd with his disciples and said to them, “Whoever wishes to come after me must deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me.”’ Mark 8:31-38

There’s an old Chinese proverb which says, “Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime.”

I’m a teacher. It’s my vocation, my charism; it’s in my blood. I taught my baby sister to read when she was three and I was thirteen and then went on to organize a summer neighborhood nursery school camp for her and her little friends which I ran for the next three summers. I wasn’t going to charge for it, but the mothers of the tots—children I babysat for—all insisted. Still my profits were nil because I reinvested every nickel I made in treats, art supplies and games for the kids. In the military I was a part-time instructor. When I got out it was to homeschool my own children. Now I’m the Director of Religious Education for my parish. What can I say? I love to learn and I love to share that love of learning with others.

Some lessons are harder than others. One of the hardest is this one: God, and your fellow man, are here to give you a hand up, but not a hand out. There’s a difference—a big difference. Ultimately, my destiny is my own responsibility. It is the result of my own choices. Every time something happens to me, I have a choice. I can accept what happens or I can whine, complain, and blame others for my circumstances. I wish I could say I never resort to those childish forms of behavior—that I always cheerfully accept whatever circumstances I encounter. I wish that were true, but it isn’t . . . yet. I’m still working on it.

That’s why I like this chapter so much. I need this reminder. In the next hour or the next day, something will happen which I don’t like. I can focus on those things or I can keep my eyes on what I can do, my next goal, what lies ahead.

My oldest daughter graduates from high school tomorrow. I’m feeling many things as I look ahead to this milestone. Fortunately I’ve been so busy lately; I haven’t had a moment to think about my feelings concerning this event, which swing from excited to sad and from proud to lonely all in the space of five minutes. Last night we went out to help some friends who were hit hard by the May 10th tornadoes clear trees. My house needed cleaning and I was tired from a full day at work, but somehow—with His Grace—I found the energy to do everything. Best of all I forgot about my daughter growing up, graduating and moving away.

Life changes and moves on. Today I went to a funeral—always a good reminder of the brevity of this life. I know that mine is going by at a break neck speed! In the meantime, if I can lend someone a hand up, I hope I do.

And I pray that somewhere along the line I taught my daughter to fish—literally and spiritually.

Day 10 - In The Groove

‘They were on the way; going up to Jerusalem, and Jesus went ahead of them. They were amazed, and those who followed were afraid. Taking the Twelve aside again, he began to tell them what was going to happen to him. “Behold, we are going up to Jerusalem, and the Son of Man will be handed over to the chief priests and the scribes, and they will condemn him to death and hand him over to the Gentiles who will mock him, spit upon him, scourge him, and put him to death, but after three days he will rise.”’ Mark 10:32-34

Of the chapters which I’ve read thus far in Reverend Mill’s book, A 30 Day Retreat, this has been my favorite. In it he describes Jesus on the way to Jerusalem, knowing where He is going and what He’s about to do. He is on track and on purpose. His disciples, by contrast, couldn’t be more lost. They don’t get what’s happening, where they’re going or what Jesus is saying and doing. Put in common parlance, Jesus is in the groove and they are out of it.

Where does that leave me?

Am I getting this? Do I know where I’m going?

Do I stay on track keeping my eyes fixed on Jesus, or do I keep letting little unimportant things distract me?

When I catch myself getting off track, what do I do? Do I immediately take corrective action such as prayer and/or confession? Am I willing to admit when I’m wrong, to be humble, and to be last and the least of all?

Do I forgive as I want to be forgiven? Love as He has loved me?

Am I willing to share my faith with those who don’t know about Christ or might need to hear me witness to the Truth?

Do I go daily for spiritual sustenance? Attend Mass as often as I can, pray before the Blessed Sacrament, and say the rosary?

Do I keep studying and trying to learn, understand and grow in the truths of my faith?

Do I accept that being a Catholic Christian isn’t necessarily an easy choice, but it’s my only choice?

Do I?

Right now dear Lord, help me find that road to Jerusalem with You. That’s where I want to be—the road I want to take. Take my hand. I want to be ‘in the groove’ with You, not wandering lost somewhere. Basically Jesus I’m a coward and sinner, like the rest of your disciples. I probably don’t ‘get’ what is going on any better than they did, but with Your help I want to. Please help me. Hold on to me tight Lord. Keep me with You and don’t let me get in Your way.

Day 6 - Do You See What I See?

‘Now as he approached Jericho a blind man was sitting by the roadside begging, and hearing a crowd going by, he inquired what was happening. They told him, "Jesus of Nazareth is passing by." He shouted, "Jesus, Son of David, have pity on me!" The people walking in front rebuked him, telling him to be silent, but he kept calling out all the more, "Son of David, have pity on me!"’ Luke 18:35-39

The beauty in this story is in the irony. The blind man, Bartimaeus, could see what those who still had two good eyes could not. Jesus was so much more than his traveling companions knew or – if you’ll forgive the pun – could see. They saw Jesus of Nazareth, Jesus, son of Mary and Joseph from Nazareth, a teacher, a holy man, someone they wanted to follow to be sure. But the sightless man saw salvation in the form of God’s promised Messiah.

Do you ever feel that way? That you can see more than meets the eye? Have you ever been in a crowded room at a social gathering where everyone is making small talk—about the food, about the night’s events, about the weather (yawn!)—and you were seeing a different picture? Maybe I’m just weird (okay I know I am!) but sometimes when I’m at those kinds of social events, I look around at all the people and tell myself, ‘God loves all these people—every single one of them.

And yet they are each unique individuals; completely different from each other. Every man and woman here is an original in the eyes of God, with his or her own special story, maybe of pain and suffering, but also of hopes and joys. He knows this man’s fear of bankruptcy and that woman’s insecurity about her weight. He sees back into the past which has brought them here and beyond this day/night until that soul returns to Him.

When I begin to think like that, it’s easy for me to get lost and sometimes I get ‘caught’ at it. People accuse me of daydreaming. Yes, I’m a daydreamer, but I also like to think that I’m a little “blind” when it comes to social functions. I don’t fit in and I’m frequently at a loss for words. Still when I’m seeing things in just that way, I am often reluctant to return to ‘real life’. I prefer to see as a socially blind person.

I wish I could have met Bartimaeus and talked with him. I would have asked him what he saw.

Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me a sinner.

Day 3 - Peace Be With You

‘On the evening of that first day of the week, when the doors were locked, where the disciples were, for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood in their midst and said to them, "Peace be with you." When he had said this, he showed them his hands and his side. The disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. (Jesus) said to them again, "Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you." And when he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, "Receive the holy Spirit. Whose sins you forgive are forgiven them, and whose sins you retain are retained."’ John 20:19-23

Peace.

Don’t we all long for it?

I know I do.

Inner peace, peace-of-mind, a tranquil home, amiable co-workers, neighborly neighbors and a world free from war? It sounds like Heaven on earth. Where can we find it...?

Today I put myself with the apostles in the inner room. I accepted the Peace of Christ when He offered it to me—both times. I invited the Holy Spirit to dwell actively in me today. I asked for a day of spiritual communion.

Mostly I know what it takes to have peace: to let go of outcomes. It’s the old saying, pray as if everything depended on God and work as if everything depended on you and then trust that whatever happens is God’s Will.

He has sent me now to you. The Peace of Christ be with you!

Day 2 - Love One Another

‘This is my commandment: love one another as I love you. No one has greater love than this, to lay down one's life for one's friends. You are my friends if you do what I command you. I no longer call you slaves, because a slave does not know what his master is doing. I have called you friends, because I have told you everything I have heard from my Father.’ John 15:12-15

The reason God gives us the commandment to love is because love is a choice, not a feeling. Love is a decision. It is a verb, an action word.

We can always choose not to love. We can turn our back on a brother or sister in need. We can hold on to a grudge, refuse to forgive, nurse old wounds. We can tell ourselves that this or that person has hurt me and doesn’t deserve my love.

And we may be right.

In my meditation today I recalled a conversation I had with my daughter’s boyfriend. He believes that none of us ‘deserve’ love, that all love is a great gift, to be treasured when and where it is received. Part of me agrees that we don’t deserve love. As God’s creatures, we can never merit the love He gives us, anymore than we can earn our salvation or justify our lives.

And yet, as a parent myself, I also know that a helpless infant denied love will not survive. We need love. It isn’t a question of whether or not we deserve it; we don’t. But we still have to have it. We are still commanded to give it to each other.

He gave us the commandment to love each other for our own good. I derive more tranquility, joy and gratification from the love I give than from the love I receive. Withholding love from someone brings neither peace of mind nor emotional satisfaction. It does shrivel the heart and shrink the soul.

Today I choose to love.

Three Books About Priests

With the Catholic priesthood under attack—yet again—I am going to devote my next three posts to three classic stories about priests. The first two deal with priests living in the world, so to speak. The last will address the monastic life and the whole issue/question of ‘vocation’, i.e., whether or not a person is called to a life of celibacy, poverty and obedience.

In the canonization process of the Roman Catholic Church, the ‘Promoter of the Faith’ popularly known as the ‘Devil’s Advocate’ is the priest whose job it is to argue against whoever has been proposed for sainthood. Morris West’s The Devil's Advocate takes place in late 1950’s or pre-Vatican II era, Calabria, Italy, the ‘toe of the boot’ for those not so familiar with Italian geography. During this time of apparent calm in Church history—the uneasy quiet before the storm unleashed by the many misunderstandings which grew out of the Second Vatican Council—the tiny hamlet town of Gemello Minore a-top a twin peaked mountain in one of the poorest areas of Southern Italy seems an unlikely place for a saint or miracles, but then God has a habit of using the most ordinary people and places to do the most extraordinary things.

Our devil’s advocate is dying and has been summoned by Rome for one last assignment. In the 1977 West German film version of the book—which I’ve only been able to read about but haven’t been able to obtain—the British actor, John Mills plays the terminal padre. In fact, Monsignor Blaise Meredith is a British Roman Catholic priest living in Rome and working as auditor to the Sacred Congregation of Rites, personal assistant to the prefect himself. Here West describes very poignantly how his protagonist, Meredith learns and reacts, in true stoic Anglo fashion, the news of his impending death: ‘He had been twenty years a priest, vowed to the affirmation that life was transient imperfection, the earth a pale symbol of the maker, the soul an immortal in mortal clay beating itself weary for release into the ambient arms of the Almighty. Now that his own release was promised, the date of deliverance set, why could he not accept it—if not with joy, at least with confidence?’ (pp.7-8)

From the Monsignor, we move to the village of Gemello Minore and its cast of characters: the dead martyr himself, the bishop who has proposed his ‘cause’, the local priest and his ‘housekeeper’, the Jewish doctor who has struggled for acceptance and understanding, the “saint’s” mistress and bastard teenage son, the aging heiress and her uneasy alliance with a rogue artist.

As Meredith proceeds with his investigation, each person must come to terms with secrets or disclosures which he or she might rather not—some like wounds long in need of dressing, others more like being led from darkness into bright sunshine—initially painful, but ultimately healing.

An engrossing read from start to finish both in terms of characterizations as well as a snapshot in time. I wouldn’t classify this as an exciting book, but rather as a thoughtful one; the plot is negligible and yet almost non-essential. However, what The Devil’s Advocate lacks in speed, it more than compensates for in depth and beauty.

Highly recommended as a fitting tribute to the priesthood for this Year For Priests.

Constant Contact

Remember what it was like to wait for something? Or someone? To savor the anticipation of seeing that special person? Talking to him? Hearing from her? Receiving a letter from them? Ah yes, those long ago days when we actually used to write each other letters, real letters. Remember?

Do you remember what it was like to wait and want very much to hear from someone? It could be a family member serving in the military overseas, or friends who’d move away, or that special someone you’d met and thought you couldn’t live without ... but found you could. Still the letters you wrote helped you feel connected despite the distance.

And then the day was here—that long-cherished missive from your special person arrived! You pulled it from the mailbox and looked at the return address, at your own name as the addressee, or the family name perhaps, written in long-hand on the envelope. Did you bring the paper near your nose and breathe in the scent of faraway places? Or perhaps touch it briefly to your lips? The touch and smell of someone dear sending shivers of joy and sadness through you, your eyes warm and full of moisture, close to tears...

You felt the thickness of the packet trying to judge the worthiness of the writings; the heavier it was the better. A fat letter meant many pages and more words to feast on. Maybe you wondered what he was doing now? Or if she was eagerly awaiting a reply. Now the question became, where to read the cherished epistle? In a private room? Around the kitchen table with the family? Under or up in a tree? Or for the very impatient among us, before we even got back in the house!

But what am I writing about? Does anyone even know? For more than three fourths of the population in America today, what I’m describing probably sounds like an ancient Japanese tea ceremony or a medieval courting ritual, if young people even know what those things are.

No one today knows how to wait for anything. We expect—we demand—instant communication, constant contact. Everywhere you go, everyone is on his or her cell phone, as the saying goes, 24/7. Wait to hear from someone?! Send a “letter”?! What’s a letter”? My daughters had to teach their boyfriends—and most of their friends for that matter—how to even address an envelope.

My response to all this: I refuse. I answer my phone when I feel like it. When I don’t, I don’t. When I’m with someone, I turn off my cell phone. I don't consider this anymore than common courtesy. If my husband was dying of cancer or my mother was having heart surgery that morning, I would make an exception. Otherwise, I think it’s rude to keep interrupting a lunch you’re having with someone to answer your phone. There aren’t as many emergencies as we like to think there are.

The people who love and truly need me know where I am and how to find me within a fairly short period of time. But truthfully we don’t need to talk to each other all the time. As for the rest, they don’t matter. If I could, I’d get rid of my cell phone altogether, but I can’t ... yet. I'm still working on it...

However, if I don’t blog as much as I used to ... you know why. Constant contact isn’t necessary, nor is it even enjoyable.

Savor the spaces and the opportunities to be quiet. Life is the real luxury. Letters and taking things more slowly are among the best ways to cherish it.

Atticus

Atticus is both the book’s title and the name of the main character. Given the name’s connection to a famous novel, we are supposed to associate the ideal father in To Kill a Mockingbird with this father of two grown sons. Atticus is the modern day retelling of one of Jesus’ most beloved parables, The Prodigal Son, or as it is known in some circles today, The Loving Father. The focus of the first title being on the sins of younger son, whereas by changing the title the locus of the story shifts to that of the mercy shown by the all-compassionate father.

Without giving too much of the story away, Atticus is a widower with two sons. The older son, Frank, has obligingly remained close to his father, married, and produced grandchildren. The younger son, Scott, is a rebel. He comes home for a brief – but happy – visit at Christmas and then returns to Mexico where he lives his dissolute life. The next thing Atticus learns, Scott has committed suicide. Atticus flies south of the border to attend to his son’s personal affects and arrange to have his body returned to the United States. What he finds is nothing like what he expected.

I first encountered the author, Ron Hansen, in Mariette in Ecstasy and I was amazed by his insight and story-telling ability. Once again, he has produced a fine work of modern Christian fiction. Unfortunately it will fail to make many Christian book-of-the-month club selections due to some of the more unsavory aspects of human life which Mr. Hansen has chosen to portray. This is a loss, but only for those who refuse to read books because they are easily offended. I can assure sensitive readers that Mr. Hansen never goes out of his way to shock through excess, which is what I take exception to in so much of what masquerades as literature these days.

Although it could just be the locale, Atticus occasionally reminded me of Graham Greene’s 1940 novel, The Power and the Glory. I think it was a bit more than the sun-baked Mexican landscape that had me thinking of Greene’s whiskey priest, however. No doubt the younger son, Scott and his unsavory lifestyle, especially his unwillingness to give up his mistress, was reminiscent of Greene's character. Hansen’s writing, although not yet on par with Greene’s, is exquisite. His book goes down like a cool drink on a hot day.

I’ve always loved the Parable of the Prodigal Son, but then I expect most people do. It’s easy to see oneself and God in it, which is the purpose of all of Scripture. We are called to locate our sinful selves in the place of every sinner in the Bible. This parable has the redeeming quality of a visible, tangible, all-forgiving God who rushes out to meet us—despite what we actually deserve. In Hansen’s book, the father persists in loving his son despite circumstances and actions which seem to render him all but impossible to love. Oh but for such a father when we are similarly unlovable!

Here is a passage from Atticus which says it all:

‘She told him, "When I was in college I read a folktale about a father pursuing a son who'd run far away, from one world to the next. The father called to him, 'Please come back!' But his son looked across the great gulf between them and shouted to him, 'I can't go that far!' So his father yelled to his son, 'Then just come back halfway!' But his boy replied, I can't go back halfway!' And finally his father shouted, 'Walk back as far as you can! I'll go the rest of the way!'"’

Yes Lord, I’m walking … and looking for You! Please come the rest of the way!

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The Story of a Soul

As I’m writing this the State of Oklahoma could be executing Julius Young.

Tonight I went to my first ever execution vigil. No, it wasn’t down at the state capital. It was in our little Daily Mass Chapel at my parish. The prayer vigil was scheduled to begin at 5:30 which would bring things to a conclusion at 6 p.m. – just around when the execution was supposed to take place.

Everyone took turns reading from Scripture: the story of Cain and Abel, an eye for an eye, how many times must I forgive my brother? The lone candle in the center of the room was extinguished; there was one less light of Christ in the world. We concluded by singing “Amazing Grace”. Although we were a small group, one man had the most incredible voice. His could have been the voice we silenced, I mused.

Afterwards our little group lingered ... as if we didn’t want to leave the comfort of each other’s companionship. We all complimented the man with the incredible voice. Another man spoke up about his experience as the spiritual director for someone on Death Row. He and his wife had literally lived there for the last few months of a man’s life. We listened and learned about that person’s final few minutes on this earth; he was praying.

As I left the chapel I recalled a gift I’d received earlier in the day from my Confirmation saint, St. Thérèse. It’s been awhile since I’ve asked her for a rose but I needed one today and she gave me one, a very special and beautiful rose. I wasn’t expecting two.

Our book club is currently reading her autobiography, The Story of a Soul. In Chapter 5 of Story, Thérèse relates an incident about an impenitent murderer who she prayed for, begging God’s mercy in response to Jesus’ cry from the Cross, “I thirst” for souls. In response, the man gave a sign at the last moment which allowed her to know he had repented his sins. This increased Thérèse’s desire to bring more souls to her Jesus.

I saw her hand in my being at the prayer vigil. Please St. Thérèse, continue to rain your shower of roses down on us. And beg God’s mercy on us all! We are so much in need of it.

cat cuddles

He looks up at me and cries plaintively. It means, “Pick me up. I am lonely.” Or, perhaps, “I need some affection, a hug—some of your bodily warmth and reassurance. Please hold me and rub me ... until I don’t want it anymore.”

I may read it, “He loves me.” And in his little cat-way, I suppose he does, so far as he is able. But I don’t worry about that. I know what he means. I need ‘picking up’ too. So I pick him up and in the process, he picks me up.

I hold him close, rub his soft fur, feel his warmth and listen to his gentle purr. He’s not a young kitten anymore, but neither am I and so we are well-suited to one another. We sit together for awhile enjoying each other physical presence. It’s nice, very nice and there’s nothing ‘wrong’ with it. When he’s had enough of me, he wriggles free, stops to rub and bump up against my thigh. His sign of affection is to put his kitty forehead next to you and just hold it there ... almost in a position of submissive adoration. It’s so sweet and tender. I just love it. We calling it “bumping”.

While I watch him lick his ruffled coat back into pristine position, I muse: wouldn’t it be wonderful if we humans could do something like this?

Just look up at the person we care about—but don’t begin to understand—and meow, asking to be held? And just imagine if that loved one, a troubled teen or a disgruntled friend or even a struggling co-worker, could hold us in their lap for awhile and rub (or rock) us oh so tenderly and gently for just a little while without fear of ‘weirdness’ or sexual misunderstandings or gossip...

I know I’m being silly, but I think so many of our human problems could be solved if we could just do this.

But we can’t—for obvious reasons.

So we have pets.

Still, when my cat and I have our next cuddle (in about an hour or so) I’m going to think about the person I’m having the most trouble understanding – or loving – and imagine cradling her ... him, offering myself unconditionally and without fear like I do with my cat.

Then I’m going to see myself “bumping” that person: putting my own forehead up against my neighbor in an act of submission, trust and love.

Of course it would never work in “real” life, but oh, isn’t it nice to dream about?

And just think what cat cuddles and bumps – even just those we do in our imagination – could do for our relationships with others?

Trust in God

The trouble with being a book lady is that you read – or have read – and/or heard so many truisms, good words, wise sayings and profound thoughts from so many wonderful sources at different times and places, in various formats, written and verbal, you just can’t remember the origins of everything. Google and other Internet search engines are a great help in tracking down many things, but they can’t locate everything. Often, some of my favorite quotes and stories linger in my memory and form my conscious decision-making basis and yet I am unable to remember who first promulgated the idea or how to locate the exact words in a saying or place it contextually. It’s very frustrating to say the least. One wants to give credit where credit is due, of course. But also, there is always the sense of only having a fraction of the whole, a poor reproduction or a sloppy translation. (sigh)

One such normative principal for me concerns prayer. In case anyone who followed my earlier series on Mental Prayer is wondering, yes, I am still continuing on with it. In fact, for the first time in my life, my prayer life has taken wings. I have no idea where it is going, nor can I attribute it to any one particular book, method or routine. In fact, it’s almost been since I stopped forcing myself into the rigidity of fixed parameters—beyond that of adherence to a daily prayer commitment—I began to experience contemplative prayer for the first time in my life. My spiritual director confirmed that indeed it is possible to enter into contemplative prayer when one is washing dishes or doing almost any ordinary household task, although not advisable to do so when one is driving or operating dangerous machinery. But I digress.

What I was leading up to in the first paragraph was that I have always understood prayer to be ‘talking to God’. Listening to Him and hearing His answers are other matters entirely. They require much more spiritual maturity. Indeed listening to another human being, even one we think we know and love well, is no easy thing for most of us. Listening requires quieting our own minds, setting aside our own agendas and entering into a space with the other person. And yet even when we do this, we still bring ourselves into that new space. Indeed, we can’t leave our ‘self’ behind—well to certain extent, what would be the point? Presumably the person talking to us must have his/her own desire to talk to us as well. So what do we bring and what do we leave behind? Hopefully, we bring our compassion and our openness to the other person. We bring our desire to learn and be moved by what the other person has to say to us.

Now, extend that scenario to a conversation with God. He is talking to us ... or trying to. How can we or do we listen to Him? Do we attempt to squeeze Him into a few odd minutes here and there? Or do we fully enter into the time we give Him, and after presenting Him with our needs and concerns, petitions, thankfulness, sorrows, sins and ultimately our overwhelming love, adoration and worship, do we then rest in Him as we would in a lover’s arms? Can we settle quietly as His lost lamb ... rescued and now secure?

Somewhere, sometime I heard – or read – that one of the ways God speaks to us is through Holy Scripture. Not that we can use the Bible like an Ann Lander’s answer book: ask God a question and presto, open the pages to reveal God’s hidden truth for you. No, nothing like that. In fact, be very careful of doing anything like that! What I’m talking about is during your prayer time, it is often very helpful to have Holy Scripture or another favorite devotional book handy. Through these means God can and will sometimes provide words or an uncannily appropriate phrase which will touch your heart so deeply, you know without a doubt He has spoken directly to you. This is the half-remembered wisdom I wish I could trace back to its origins. I know I read it somewhere. I know it is true and that it is a reliable means of hearing His Voice.

Last night, I settled down in my bed, pulled the quilts up, propped my Bible on my knees and opened to Psalm 4. I have many, many favorite Psalms but I don’t think I ever appreciated this beautiful little song before or even paid it much attention.

A beautiful motto for the New Year, for the Epiphany and the rest of life: Trust in God. He is manifest!

My favorite parts from Psalm 4:

Answer when I call, my saving God.
In my troubles, you cleared a way;
Show me favor; hear my prayer.
Know that the LORD works wonders for the faithful;
The LORD hears when I call out.
Tremble and do not sin;
Upon your beds ponder in silence.
Offer fitting sacrifice and trust in the LORD.
Many say, "May we see better times!
LORD, show us the light of your face!"
But you have given my heart more Joy
than they have when grain and wine abound.
In peace I shall both lie down and sleep,
For you alone, LORD, make me secure.