Notes from an Unconventional Catholic

Well this is Shit!

2024-01-01T09:40:00.002-05:00

Now there were shepherds in that region living in the fields and keeping the night watch over their flock.

The angel of the Lord appeared to them and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were struck with great fear.

The angel said to them, “Do not be afraid; for behold, I proclaim to you good news of great joy that will be for all the people.

For today in the city of David a savior has been born for you who is Messiah and Lord.

And this will be a sign for you: you will find an infant wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger.”

Luke 2:9-1

It was time to bring out an old favorite Christmastime teaching for my spirituality groups. The reading from Luke describing the circumstances of our Savior’s birth.

I asked my patients why they thought Jesus was born in a manger? Most of the answers were predictable and correct – to demonstrate humility, that we are all equal, even a king can be born in dire conditions.

Then I asked my patients if they really thought about what a manger was like? Animals, in the case of Jesus’ manger, lots of animals surrounding his crib. What comes with animals? Crap. That’s right – our beautiful, loving savior was born into crap. I asked them to imagine the smell.

Why would the will of our God be to be born there?

Two thousand years later, we sometimes let ourselves go to unholy places, we do very unholy things or have unholy things done to us. Does the shit in our own lives keep us from relationship with God?

If it does, if we erect barriers based on our sinfulness or others’ sinfulness toward us, we can remember that our king was born into filth. That stable did not stay filthy!

And suddenly there was a multitude of the heavenly host with the angel, praising God and saying: “Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests.”

Luke 2:13

Glory came, joy arrived, in the birth of a baby, came hope for a broken world.

Two thousand years later our Jesus can still bring glory, joy and hope to each one of us.

It was time to pick our music. Music is a vital part of the spirituality groups I conduct. Patients get to choose what they’d like to hear – within very broad limits. Once I had a patient request Eminem, only to find me five seconds later frantically searching for the pause button as a stream of f-words came out of the chaplain’s speaker! Eminem was banned.

One of my patients said, “Let’s hear ‘Well This is Shit.’” She patiently explained, “Well we’re talking about crap.”

Shit is my favorite epithet. I try giving it up for lent every year since it does appear unseemly for a chaplain to be saying, “shit” at any given moment but there it is.

I polled the room. Would anyone mind hearing, “Well this is shit?” Not a single dissent so there began a jubilant time, patients laughed and I laughed, a tech came in, he laughed.

Listening to the jaunty ballad, I realized why my patient loved this song.

You’re trying to be helpful, and that is always nice

But right now all logic only grates so don’t try to give advice

I need someone to rant at who’ll not judge or take offence

At my incessant f’ing swearing and my unfiltered sentiments

So stop the pragmatic intervention just nod and say you’ll understand

Pretend I’m not being an unreasonable arsehole and hold on to my hand

Well this is shit

Oh this is shit

I’m not expecting answers, because they’re out of your remit

I’m not looking for solutions just for someone to admit

That this is shit

This is shit

Kudos to Thomas Benjamin Wild, Esq. for brilliantly summing up what many of us need during a crisis, someone to “hold unto our hand.”

Many years before as an enthusiastic trauma chaplain I would want to try somehow to fix unfixable solutions. Years later I realized my “Martha-like” sentiments were not always the most helpful.

When I began a concentration in behavioral health ministry I quickly became aware of how vulnerable my patients were. People who have physical ailments are often treated with respect, dignity and kindness by the world at large.

You’ve got a walker? Here let me get that door for you. You have cancer? Let me bring you food. Let me take you to the doctor’s.

“You have schizophrenia? Let me get to the other side of the street.” “You’re depressed. Call me when you’re in a better mood.”

Acts of kindness to people physically impaired are commendable and hesitation to embrace the mentally ill is understandable.

We are human. Many of us do not want to see our fellow humans in trouble. What can we do when all that can be tried has been and just hasn’t worked? -- when we’ve prayed and the answer we wanted didn’t materialize?

Understanding that just our presence can be invaluable begs us to realize that we, despite our brokenness, are precious to and beloved by God.

Then Jesus said to them, “My soul is sorrowful even to death. Remain here and keep watch with me.” He advanced a little and fell prostrate in prayer, saying, “My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me; yet, not as I will, but as you will.” When he returned to his disciples, he found them asleep. He said to Peter, “So you could not keep watch with me for one hour?

Matthew 28:38-40

Jesus did not need the disciples to fix what was going to happen to him. He needed their presence. Much sympathy goes to those apostles who presumably just couldn’t stand watching their Jesus, their teacher, their friend, facing the unthinkable. The story would not have changed if they had been present but the apostles’ presence would have shored him up to face his fate.

The next time we are tempted to try and fix something that is beyond us, it could be incredibly helpful to know we can just be present and say, “This is shit.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cE4lpSFNFUE

The Love Bank

2022-04-21T11:47:00.003-04:00

"And the Greatest of these is Love!" 1 Corinthians 13:13

💜💛💚💙💗💜

The war in Syria was raging.

The small Catholic community hospital where I am a chaplain prayed. We prayed consistently but a tugging in my heart said we need to do more.

Part of that urging was prompted by the many Syrian employees I met every day and of course the Syrian patients who came to the hospital. What could we do as a hospital? We are an institution founded by Missionaries of the Sacred Heart, brave women who came to Allentown in the midst of a diphtheria epidemic -- fueled by a need to mirror the love of their Jesus to all those they met.

Could we adopt a Syrian family, as an institution? Could we surround one family with a blanket of our love?

After getting the blessing of our kind President I began informally polling our staff about whether they would be willing to help a Syrian immigrant family. I was met with overwhelming enthusiasm. People stepped up offering to volunteer; willingness to donate household goods, time to tutor children; transportation. It blew my mind!

Next came contacting the different agencies who could help connect us with a family. There began the problem – a big problem for the newly created Love Bank. Immigration had ground to a halt.

That left a very real dilemma. Where can we channel this love so beautifully offered by our kind, generous staff?

I was discussing this with the head of our Parish Nurses. Our parish nurses are formidable! They venture into the depths of the poorest places in Allentown to provide much needed medical care, teaching, and maybe most important of all, direction. They dish out hope when there is none to be found.

Deb suggested that there were dramatic needs right here. Could we possibly redirect energies to our immediate neighborhood?

One of our parish nurses runs a laundry ministry. Every Tuesday for many years Jacqui and a crew of volunteers have gathered at a local laundromat to serve the poorest of the poor of Allentown by providing free laundry services. It is a beautiful dignity-providing act of love.

The laundry was the Love Bank’s first venture into local service and wow! – employees responded with an abundance of quarters and laundry supplies.

Through the years, the Love Bank has served three basic functions. Bolstering the good parish nurses’ ventures; helping our neighboring parish – located in a very impoverished area; and lastly but maybe most important of all, outreach to our employees who need a helping hand.

While still primarily supported by employee contributions, news of the Love Bank has grown and very good, very generous people from the community have pitched in to lend material help to the work of the Love Bank.

One beautiful woman from the community and her husband have provided case after case of granola bars, cartons of socks and other items for years. Granola bars are in big demand because they do not have to be cooked – a real plus for our neighbors living in tents.

A physician has given the Love Bank thousands of dollars to keep those washers and dryers running at Jacqui’s laundry ministry.

An employee tithes her salary so she can make a substantial contribution each month. That money is kept as a fund for when impoverished people need big help like a security deposit so they can get housing before their first paycheck arrives.

We ran a tent drive and my office soon filled with tents of all sizes to help poor people with much needed shelter.

Many people anonymously slip gift cards under the door.

There is such joy working in a place where people eagerly help!

Once, the parish nurse from the church next door asked if the Love Bank could help with a highchair. I sent out a public email and by the next day we could have supplied about a half dozen highchairs!

This year has proved to be a great one for the Love Bank. One kind woman gave us the ability to buy fruit every week and bring it to the laundromat. Many homeless people get by with help from the soup kitchen but fresh fruit is in very short supply. Because of this woman’s generosity people who really need it can munch on grapes, bananas and oranges while getting their laundry done.

The Love Bank is awash in my prayers. Sometimes donations do get scarce, then God is hearing my constant nagging, “Come on, this was your idea – how about sending some help?” Invariably – eventually – help does arrive. I also pray in thanksgiving, holding the people receiving and the people giving close to my heart as I pray.

God does answer these prayers. Not usually dramatically but last week I was overwhelmed with God’s loving response to my irreverent request.

We have begun accepting all kinds of clothes. For years I refused clothing donations because I just had no place to put them. Recently Jacqui volunteered to distribute them at the laundromat. God bless her!

Simultaneously Deacon Ricardo, one of two beautiful deacons, who serve our hospital, began bringing in clothing donations from his church. Two large garbage bags just missed the Tuesday ministry and were on top of a cart in my office.

Isaiah, one of my patients who returns to the hospital with a certain amount of frequency, came in looking for a couple of specific things.

“Sister Karroli (think cannoli but with an r), I need some glasses so I can read the word. I need a belt, size 36.”

“Okay, Isaiah. I can pick you up some glasses but the belt might have to wait until tomorrow”

What I honestly was thinking was, “Oh s**t, when the hello am I going to find time to go to Walmart.” I thought I would look in those bags to see if there was anything that could hold him over until I could get to Walmart. I shouldn’t be, but I am a bit of a cynic when it comes to God’s direct intervention in my life. I believe in a powerful, loving God but I think he leaves a lot of things to us and maybe once in awhile he inserts a divine touch.

When I opened the huge garbage bag and saw a size 36 beautiful men’s belt right on the top of all the other clothes, this old cynical chaplain was stopped in her tracks. Wow! Thank you Jesus!

And thank you to all the people that have made the Love Bank flourish, beautiful, generous people who have consistently lifted the poorest of the poor in our Sacred Heart neighborhood. Thank you to St. Luke’s who when they took us over, not only didn’t shut us down but continued the Sacred Heart practice of paying for any incidentals associated with this venture so that I can proudly say 100% of donations go to the intended recipients.

💜💛💚💙💗💜

The Love Bank

St. Luke’s Sacred Heart Campus

421 Chew Street Allentown, PA 18102

610-776-4524

Lilacs

2020-05-14T16:26:00.000-04:00

The Mary altar looked especially beautiful this year. My new young neighbor allowed me to cull some lilacs from his yard. The beautiful aroma filled my house. Through the years lilacs had become my favorite flower. The promise of spring brought to fulfillment.

This year spring was especially important. Covid-19 had been wreaking its damage on the world, my relationships and sense of peace.

This had been a bit of a haul. Our director of pastoral care at the hospital where I’ve served for the last 19 years as chaplain had been very ill and the last place he needed to be was a hospital full of Corona Virus. Our volunteers had been sent home early in the pandemic so that left me to try to do what I could to offer spiritual support to a hospital full of frightened employees and patients.

By the 51st day of this marathon I was feeling broken. I did not think there was enough of me to go around this Catholic hospital. My fear is always that our Catholicism will get swallowed up in the zeal to be the biggest, the best and the most profitable of the two competing hospital chains in our area.

A big part of my mission was to fly that Catholic banner high by overhead prayer through our intercom system, the rosary in the chapel, and to help facilitate the daily Masses we had special permission to have celebrated. That meant sanitizing, getting priests to celebrate, and announcing the good news that it was happening.

Additionally I conducted 12 spirituality groups a week for our behavioral health patients.

Angry, sad and overwhelmed, it had all come to a head on this sunny Tuesday. I came in extra early to pray at the hospital’s town meeting. I hadn’t slept well. Spontaneous tears were manifesting themselves causing me to stop and pay attention to what was happening with me.

I bopped in and out of the chapel.

Normally these ventures to the chapel were filled with purpose – liturgical duties, promised prayers.

Today was different. I left my cell phone in my office, usually along with me to provide music and to help with the recitation of the rosary every day.

Today I just went in and in my normal irreverent way told God he needs to send some help, something to boost up my flagging spirits, more tears.

I went back to my office, took off my damn mask and sat down.

Appearing at the door was one of our hardworking cafeteria ladies. She presented a bouquet of lilacs to me saying, “These are for you. I know what you do around here.”

Then I really cried – in thanksgiving for an ever present, ever loving God made visible through the beautiful flowers and heartfelt wish of one of his people.

Thank you, God!

Our Lady of Sorrows

2017-09-15T23:47:00.000-04:00

I am grateful to him who has strengthened me, Christ Jesus our Lord.

1 Timothy – Reading for the Day, Our Lady of Sorrows

St. Joseph by the Sea, where I had spent the last week in retreat was a perfect setting to renew my body, mind and soul. Long walks along the ocean, Mass every day, reading and eating terrific food in an atmosphere of silence, those were my days.

Friends still texted me. Sacred Heart Hospital, where I am a Catholic chaplain, is in the process of being taken over by one of the two health networks we stood between, a small Catholic, community hospital serving the very poorest of the poor.

Economic realities have forced this alliance. My friends were worried – whether I was retreating or not. Personal crises happened. A beautiful aide’s daughter was found dead. Another friend’s niece was born at 25 weeks and in very critical condition. All of these concerns accompanied me on my walks on the beach. I brought these needs and my weakness to our loving God.

Confession is part of this retreat. I made a very frank confession and received a cogent response from a not at all warm and fuzzy priest. “Do you want peace or do you want torment?” I picked peace. Decidedly. And peace flowed over me.

I woke up early the day after I came home, ready to go to my beloved hospital.

It is so much a home to me. Jesus is there in the tabernacle. My patients are there, my friends. People trust me to look after them. They look after me. It is a place of love.

I was dressed in my funeral clothes ready to be at least a face of love and support to my friend at the service for her daughter.

Part of what I do as chaplain is pray a morning prayer overhead. It’s a way for us to say who we are, a place of faith-based healing. I attempt to interject real petitions, sometimes even humor, an invitation to God to join us in our daily work. Today I prayed also through the intercession of Our Lady of Sorrows, it was her feast day, never one of my favorites.

I went to the cafeteria and was asked by my friend whose niece was born prematurely to visit the baby and her sister at a neighboring hospital. No other answer but, “yes.”

She told me what hospital, ironically the one that was soon to swoop in and acquire us. That hospital was directly across from the funeral home where I was planning on attending the service for my friend’s daughter.

I negotiated the hospital’s parking lot and found my way to the NICU only to discover the baby and mother were in another site of the hospital, close to my home.

I still was foolishly thinking, “I can do this. I’ll just swing by the funeral home, pay my respects, hit the road, and go to the other hospital.

For probably the first time, I encountered a funeral usher who was truly a crab ass. “Lady, you can’t go in there. Park in that overflow lot down the street.”

I patiently explained that I had an emergency. Could I possibly just park and quickly see the bereaved?

I was told in no uncertain terms that was unacceptable. I began to park in the other lot when I got another text from my friend asking whether I was with her sister yet?

Deciding to drive away from my other friend and all of my friends on her unit who love her too was a hard decision, but one I felt compelled to make.

After what seemed an interminable time driving, I finally arrived and traversed the hospital until I got to the extreme other end where the NICU was located. I entered the unit and before I even got a chance to introduce myself I was greeted with, “Thank God, you’re here. They are right this way." I assumed they noticed the big old chaplain on my ID.

The nurse who led me in told me the baby had just died. I walked into a curtained cubicle where a mother sat rocking, cradling her very tiny, dead baby. I knelt down and said, “Rosa, I’m Carolee, your sister sent me. I am here to help in any way I can.” I told her that my friend had said she would like her baby baptized. I asked if she would like that. “Yes, I want her baptized.” I said okay, “Let’s baptize Bianca.” “That’s not her name,” she said. I was surprised. Then the nurse told me the mother’s name was, Linda, not Rosa.

“Oh shit,” is what I thought but I knew her identity was irrelevant, only that she needed me and what God could do to help her.

I was still kneeling and I asked Linda what the baby’s name was. “I don’t have one,” she replied tearfully. I looked right into her eyes, and I said, “Linda, it will help you so much if you can give your baby girl a name, is there a name you would like to call her?”

“Grace,” she replied. Thank you God for letting me keep it together. As I baptized little baby Grace, I couldn’t help but think of my own daughter, Grace, born 27 years ago.

It was then that the young chaplain resident arrived. The one who I am sure the staff had expected when I waltzed in instead. She was obviously as confused as I was but I talked to her privately and told her what had happened. She thanked me profusely for being there and shared it was only her second week in training.

I then saw Rosa in the cubicle next door. Bianca was still alive but barely. Her color looked terrible. She was expecting me and we prayed. I actually just stood by this woman as she pleaded with God for her daughter’s life. I was next to her with my arms around her as a neonatologist clumsily explained her daughter’s precarious condition. Rosa looked dazed at the onslaught of information she was receiving.

A family friend arrived and I departed.

I had debated about returning to the funeral home where my friend’s daughter’s funeral was in progress. I decided she had so many people to love and support her I would bring love and food to her home where maybe I could be more helpful. I was also well and truly shot to shit. As soon as I got to the hospital I went to the little nun’s room and sobbed.

The rest of my day was spent performing duties which bring me great joy – taking food, toothpaste and sanitary napkins from the hospital’s Love Bank to the parish next door; seeing some of my beloved psych patients; changing used candles; preparing the altar for Mass.

My phone rang a little before Mass. It was Rosa’s hospital. Bianca took a turn for the worse. “Could I come?”

As I waited for my son to come and bring me, I went to Mass. I heard Father Hilferty’s wonderful homily on Our Lady of Sorrows. I asked our Blessed Mother to be with all three women of sorrow, suffering so very much today.

When I entered the NICU for the second time that day, another sobbing, suffering woman greeted me, holding her dead baby girl. This time I prayed in thanksgiving for life; for Bianca, and her parents, her dad, there now, clearly numbed by the ordeal; and for the sympathetic nurse, standing by the parents of her patient she so lovingly tended.

When my son picked me up he was kind. I knew I needed some time and privacy to process this feast day of Our Lady of Sorrows. I headed to our secret garden, a tiny bit of beauty at the top of our hill. I sat on the rough stone bench and wept.

For so long I have felt distant from our Blessed Mother. I didn’t use to – I nursed my own baby Grace as I watched the rosary. The milk and repetitive prayer lulled her happily to sleep. Events and my own sinful decisions caused me to be almost embarrassed to go to her. I knew Jesus was there to forgive me and love me no matter what but Mary was quite another story.

Our Lady of Sorrows is my least favorite manifestation of Mary. I know she deserves the love and respect the name brings but in embracing her pain I am forced to look at my own sorrow, and I would really rather not. Today though I am fervently praying to her to take care of the three women who met their sorrows today and all the other ladies of sorrow who have dealt with losing a child. Mary pray for them, intercede for them!

Fireflies

2015-07-08T22:40:00.000-04:00

We only do it once a year, its very simplicity sets the stage for a memorable evening.

“Firefly Picnic” has become an annual tradition. A salute to summer with just my two neighbor children, a boy,11, and a girl, 7, and myself. They are marvelous, intelligent, kind children.

Other family members wander in and out but it is really just the three of us. We eat happily, waiting for it to get dark enough to temporarily gather the magical insects then release them to continue to light up other summer evenings.

We frequently lie back and do some serious cloud watching while waiting for the first blips of magic to appear.

This year we went right to dessert and had huge sundaes with mounds of whipped cream before we went out to greet the evening. My dog happily accompanied us as we meandered to the elementary school near our houses. We found fireflies everywhere – under trees, against the stone wall, in the grass and even near the building.

Part of this yearly ritual is devoted to celebrating ourselves – for doing it – for taking time to experience the wonder of fireflies and our friendship, all wrapped up in the warmth of a summer night. This year we talked of how we hoped our tradition would continue even into my young neighbors' adulthood and my doddering old age.

It is treasured time. I thank God for it.

***

Harry, my dog, and I walked along the train tracks above the park. I knew I wasn't going to stop this time until I saw it.

Woods on either side of the tracks made for a beautiful walk. There was a trestle over the wide creek where I scooped Harry up into my arms and carried him, worried that his little paws would slip through the spaces between the ties.

Tears welled and my chest clenched as we walked on through the evening.

The sun brought solace as its diminishing light lit up the water with a hopeful glow.

It was so real to me, that magical night 18 years ago.

Holding hands as we walked – we happily talked about our lives, soon to be joined in marriage. The warmth of our joined hands was as important to me as the beautiful love making in which we reveled.

And then he spotted them, what seemed like hundreds of fireflies lighting up the grove next to the stream. He was from England. He said he had never seen them before. I loved that he was enchanted by them. I loved him.

Firefly meadow – that's what he dubbed that beautiful spot.

Harry and I were almost there. Then I saw it -- the beauty had not diminished. Lush green, helped by lots of early summer rain, framed the space. The tears were no longer welling, they were now gently streaming down my face.

It was too early for fireflies. I didn't linger long.

I don't linger in that pain, that sorrow. In the beginning when his betrayal was made manifest I just needed to find a way to keep going through the onslaught to my senses, my reality. There was sobbing hysteria but I wouldn't call it sorrow. I was helped by good, loving friends and family.

In the grove I met sorrow, a deep grief.

My fear of hurt will not let me entertain, or at least not for very long, even the thought of allowing someone to bring me to that place of love, to feel a large hand encircling mine-- to experience God through a firefly, sharing deep excitement at a tiny gift.

As we walked out of the grove I was startled by a young deer, just yards away, leaping over the tracks to the other side and up the wooded hill. Her graceful dance was beautiful to watch.

Another gift. When we walked back, beyond the meadow, she was just standing quietly, now assured that we meant no harm.

I will always be grateful to my God who did not abandon me.

235 Shades of Green

2015-06-22T09:53:00.000-04:00

Adventures in Ordinary Time

The hospital chapel where I am almost the sacristan is back to green.

The transformation this humble space receives at the hands of our Director of Pastoral Care, Father John Hilferty, is mind boggling. Without his genius vision it would look like a basement chapel – lacking character and warmth.

Christmas has a giant angel overlooking the array of almost life-sized characters found in most Catholic depictions of the nativity. Subtle shades of blue illuminate the tons of cotton snow there for artistic effect, if not historical accuracy.

Then there is Easter. It's a wow, a great big beautiful wow. There is a fountain and spring flowers in unashamed abundance. Our beautiful Sacred Heart stained glass window gets covered with a dramatic circle of bright yellow and white. Jesus, in all his risen glory, takes center stage in that circle. A giant cross, with the famous white shroud dangling from the sides, is impossible to miss. The whole display is magnificent.

Advent, Lent and Pentecost aren't ignored but nothing beats the Easter glory.

But now it is back to green and I love it. It is not that I don't appreciate the beauty of the special celebrations but ordinary time allows me to concentrate on my journey, how I am, or lots of times, not, incorporating the Gospel message into my daily life.

Ordinary Time gives me the direction I need. Take this Sunday, Mark 4:35-41, when Jesus, ticked off with his apostles, gets up out of a sound sleep and gets cracking, he calms the wind, he calms the waves and then proceeds to remonstrate his followers for not waking him up in the first place, “Why are you terrified?” “Do you not yet have faith?”

On that day, as evening drew on, Jesus said to his disciples:
“Let us cross to the other side.”
Leaving the crowd, they took Jesus with them in the boat just as he was.
And other boats were with him.
A violent squall came up and waves were breaking over the boat,
so that it was already filling up.
Jesus was in the stern, asleep on a cushion.
They woke him and said to him,
“Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?”
He woke up,
rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, “Quiet! Be still!”
The wind ceased and there was great calm.
Then he asked them, “Why are you terrified?
Do you not yet have faith?”
They were filled with great awe and said to one another,
“Who then is this whom even wind and sea obey?

I use this reading regularly for my spirituality groups in the psych units of the hospital where I work. My message is simple – most of the time you are in a storm when you arrive here. Consider inviting Jesus into that storm.

Father Hilferty's excellent homily on this very familiar reading provided me with more tools for my teaching.

Later, a dear friend reminded me I too was in the boat! Amen!

Last week's Gospel on the Kingdom of God being compared to a mustard seed, so very tiny but ending up large and sprawling gave more fodder for my groups. Many of my patients feel so very small when they are hospitalized – small, broken and insignificant. God's word can present an alternative vision!

There are so many stories in ordinary time about. “The Call.” The very beginning of ordinary time this year tells of two fishermen, Simon and Andrew, who dropped their nets and embarked on one mighty adventure, allowing themselves to be used as beautiful players in salvation history.

I love stories about women religious, priests and brothers and how they came to a life of service. They prompt me to ask myself, how my life was transformed – am I still allowing room for the Holy Spirit to lead, guide and direct me?

Another Ordinary Time story I use with my groups is Mark 12:28-34 – the Great Commandment. We discuss how we can pretty much understand what loving your God means, and loving your neighbor but what about the far-less talked about aspect, of loving “as yourself”?

You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind, and with all your strength.’ The second is this: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ There is no other commandment greater than these.”

I can tell my patients it is not selfish or unholy to love ourselves, that Jesus himself commanded it.

Healing is another key element of Ordinary Time, unclean spirits, leprosy, our sweet Jesus cured it all – taking broken people and giving them hope. Two thousand years later, he still is healing -- bringing hope when there isn't any, light into the darkest pits and worth and direction in place of floundering emptiness.

I thank God for my Church and the beautiful way they have constructed the seasons of the year. Guiding, teaching and providing adventure for those willing to jump into and embrace Christian life.

Gonna Ring His Be el el, Ring His Bell!!!

2014-11-06T20:24:00.000-05:00

Happy Feast Day!

November 4 is the Feast Day of St. Charles Borromeo and my feast day. I had no idea what joy the day would bring.

The church considers Carolee a derivative of Charles so that’s how I wound up with November 4 as my feast day.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Borromeo

Sacred Heart Hospital’s chapel acquired bells -- wonderful bells all over the place. We now have bells mounted to the wall to herald the beginning of Mass.

The other new addition is a set of sacristy bells to be rung at the appropriate parts of the Mass indicating something really big, important and miraculous is happening.

I got to ring the bells!!!

Kneeling at the foot of the altar, waiting for the correct time to ring the bells, it occurred to me how right, proper and good it was to announce this everyday miracle was taking place one more time -- ordinary bread and wine being transformed into the body and blood of our Lord Jesus Christ.

I love daily Mass. It’s not that I don’t appreciate music or the extra bits of the Mass from Sunday it’s just that daily Mass offers an opportunity to hone in on the very essence of my faith. The beautiful gift Jesus gave us in the Eucharist!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kU9faERbno0

Full Love

2013-06-13T07:15:00.000-04:00

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When the fullness of love manifests itself it cannot be diminished. It becomes its own entity, a living, driving force.

Not romantic love, but divine love, brought to life in those around us. When we are able to feel that love, see it, we can breathe it in, embrace the joy, and if we really truly get it, we can be emissaries of that love.

I met one of those emissaries and was changed forever.

She was 103 when she left this world and went to her sweet Jesus. I had only been a part of her life for the last ten years. We journeyed together – an old nun and a middle-aged chaplain. She to heaven, me to a place deeply rooted in the sure and certain knowledge of God's love.

I am not one to see divine interventions every where along our road, but I know Sister Rose was sent – an embodiment of pure grace and love – all wrapped up in a four-foot, seven-inch bundle of Jesus-driven energy.

The first day I met Sister Rose, I had been on a 16-hour on-call at the nearby trauma center. I was tired but excited to be filling in for one of the nuns at the local Catholic hospital.

When I was introduced to her she immediately pointed to a chair, told me to sit down and asked me, “So what's your story?”

I honestly doubted that this nun really wanted to hear my story which included three husbands, numerous affairs in between those husbands, three children and lots of escapades – some scandalous along the way.

Given all that, you might be wondering how I became a Catholic chaplain?

I converted back to the religion of my birth through a resignation that it was the only place spiritually where I felt at home. Profound faith in the real presence of Jesus in the Eucharist keeps me there -- bitching much of the time about the bureaucracy that surrounds the beautiful presence in our tabernacles.

Chaplaincy called to me and I answered. My thinking was something like, “I survived a lot of trauma. I am still walking. Maybe I can give hope to others.”

Sister Rose came to learn my story – all of it – the everyday happenings, the parts of which I was proud – especially my three children, and the parts that filled me with shame.

She especially liked hearing about my ex-husbands. She was very direct and with regard to my second one, 25-years my senior, she would ask, “What were you thinking?”

She heard about what I thought was a miraculous third marriage to a man I loved with passion and devotion.

Sister Rose and I came to love each other. I loved her because she was brave enough to swim in all the crap with me. I guess she loved me because I was brave enough to risk telling her.

She told me her story. I always loved hearing how religious got the “call.” It started when she was seventeen. Her mother volunteered her to be the substitute housekeeper for the pastor of the local church. “I thought I was hot stuff,” she asserted. She was happy to be in charge of the money, the groceries, the meals. She loved that responsibility.

One day when it was nearing time for the absent housekeeper to return from caring for her ailing mother she went to church and asked God if he could please arrange for her to stay as housekeeper. She heard God tell her, “I have something better for you.” “Six months later I was in the convent!” she happily exclaimed .

It was that simple for this woman of God. He called, she answered. She lived her life keeping her promises of obedience, poverty and chastity with joy.

She did all sorts of things, including being in charge of the hospital's kitchen for many years. It wasn't until she was well into her seventies that she took Clinical Pastoral Education and became a chaplain.

Her style of chaplaincy was certainly like nothing I was taught in Clinical Pastoral Education.

It was all about love for that nun. She distributed Holy Communion with a humble, loving reverence that radiated from her little body. The patient would finish receiving the host then Sister Rose would say, “Thank you, Jesus. We love you, Jesus.” She meant it. She meant every word she prayed.

There was no little black book – that was how I managed to give Communion. Quickly trying to ascertain how the patient was feeling and then hurriedly going to that particular topic in the book. Pathetic really but like many Catholics the idea of extemporaneous prayer was a foreign idea – fine for those lovable, free-spirited Evangelicals, but certainly not for me. She soon taught me to pray from my heart. I couldn't even tell you where my little black book is.

We became friends. Real friends. I was one of the few people who didn't treat her differently because she was old. She liked that. I liked that she could make me feel that Jesus absolutely loved me, just as I was, broken and very imperfect.

During our time together she related a full life. Many adventures lived in the busy world of the convent. She happily shared her frailties as I shared mine.

She told of the time she was in Ohio and working on the order's farm. One of the other sisters, came rushing toward Sister Rose and her friend, planting at the time, ordering them to help hunt down an escaped cow. She was having none of that! She told her friend to keep her head down and pretend they didn't see anything.

I didn't mind how many times Sister Rose told me the same story. I understood that even if she added nothing new to the rendition, I could hear it differently each time.

Sister Rose was not much of a complainer. She learned early it wasn't thought well of in the convent. She told of going to her novice mistress with a complaint about a particularly annoying fellow novice. Her superior said, “So did she crucify you?” Sister Rose never forgot that. I must confess that I have not fully embraced that non-complaining sentiment but I'm working on it.

Sister Rose lived through much change in the church – it didn't faze her. She told me about the nun who allegedly said Mass. “That was a good one!” she asserted, thinking it was quite humorous.

She enjoyed the charismatic movement of the church and had quite a few good stories of the trips to the conferences they offered. She liked the energy.

She made her perpetual vows as Sister Deodata – meaning gift from God. A fitting name but when her order decided to give the option of changing to birth names, Sister Deodata eagerly became Sister Rose Lechner.

She was not so sure about lay ministers. I was very surprised to hear that she told another sister chaplain that if they hired a lay person she was quitting! I am glad that something kept her there journeying with me.

There was sadness in this beautiful woman's life. Living to such an old age brings grief at each passing of an old friend. Her mother was killed in an accident on her way to see her. The order's rules were onerous in the beginning of her vocation. She was kept from the family she loved. The visits with them were few. Most of the time she had nothing to say about where she went or how long she would be there.

Sacred Heart Hospital was blessed to have Sister Rose there for 53 years -- an institution at the institution!

The bedraggled, the liars, the drunks, the prostitutes, people of all states of life, flocked to Sister Rose, to be fed materially and to be loved. “God loves them,” she asserted.

The CEO at the hospital was one of Sister Rose's friends. They would talk companionably. He would tell her of the hospital's troubles. She would offer advice and support.

Age continued to haunt Sister Rose. It wasn't ill health. Her health was remarkable. She hated being put on display because she happened to be a nonagenarian. She regarded her longevity as simply not worth mentioning.

Once when she was 98 I took her to visit a priest in a nursing home. We entered the elevator with another woman who began a conversation with Sister Rose. The woman asked her how old she was. “Eighty-eight” she answered without batting an eyelash. “You look great for 88,” said the woman. It was the only time I remember Sister Rose looking smug. Later she assured me, “It was none of her business anyway.” Amen!

When anything went wrong in my life Sister Rose's answer would always be, “Let's just pray before the Blessed Sacrament.” That was a practice we never stopped in our friendship. The Blessed Sacrament always beckoned to both of us, providing warm, steady comfort in the midst of chaos.

Deep sadness descended on Sister Rose when her order called her to return to the mother house, an hour away from the hospital. Sister would sleep at the convent from Sunday through Thursday but she spent Friday and Saturday nights with the medical residents, living at the hospital. She spent much of those nights ironing altar cloths, purifiers and corporals. The hospital was her home, her place to love Jesus, her place to shine.

The first time her leaving was mentioned I got angry, very angry. Few of us at the hospital could understand why the order would bring this wound upon this good woman. She still functioned as a chaplain. The hospital was willing to make any accommodation the order felt necessary for her.

I was one of many who pleaded with the Superior. She was impatient and unyielding.

I called the superior general in Rome. Unlike the local superior, she was lovely and listened to my concerns. I don't know if that intervention had any effect but the idea of Sister Rose leaving the hospital was dropped for a year.

The time did come though -- the agony. This despite the efforts of doctors, administrators, and many other people – all begging for her to stay. This beautiful, then 97-year old nun, had to leave her beloved hospital.

There was a wonderful Mass celebrated by many priests who came to love this dynamo of a nun. Old friends came to wish her well.

She was not okay with this move and asked me if I would drive her out to the mother house for one more attempt at changing the superior's mind. I did. It was a hopeful ride. We took the long way, dotted with sheep, cows and goats. We prayed the rosary. I waited in the lobby as she put forth her arguments only to be turned down once again.

It was a very sad ride coming home. We both cried at the unflinching meanness of “Attila the Nun.”

She had many options. My nature is not one made for obedience. I offered up suggestions that in Sister Rose's mind did not meet the obedience standard, “I took vows. They are my community.”

Sister Rose never stopped loving her community, the Missionaries of the Sacred Heart. No matter how angry and hurt she was, she loved and defended them.

Sister Rose needed a carton to step into my pickup truck for the ride to the mother house to begin this new, unwanted chapter of her life. The truck was stuffed with boxes – among them one filled with green cards, with “The Miracle Prayer” printed on them – Sister Rose's favorite giveaway. Praying the rosary again, we made this trip without the benefit of happy conversation that marked most of our time together. Instead there was a companionable sadness, a distinct quiet. I couldn't talk because I didn't want to cry again. I would suspect it was the same for my friend.

Thank God there were warm faces to great her as we arrived. Nuns I grew to love over the years. They were the characters in many of Sister Rose's stories. While I am still working on forgiving the superior who wouldn't let Sister stay at the hospital, I grew to love the other sisters, well most of them.

I had promised Sister Rose to visit her as often as I could.

I kept that promise. My then-husband would accompany me, on almost every Sunday after Mass. The trips were happy ones. We would take in the beautiful scenery that graced the less-traveled route. Listening to audio books and holding hands, the time was a gift.

When asked what she did there, she would shrug, and say, “Eat, sleep and pray. What else is there?” She didn't let that become her life. Sister Rose went into action. There were many times when we would arrive and there she'd be pushing one of the residents from the assisted living section of the facility in their wheelchair. She found ways to minister to the residents, staff and other sisters.

We would come bearing goodies that we would share in the sisters' dining room. Coffee, sweets, spirited conversation with a bunch of nuns – it was my idea of a good time.

These visits continued through the years.

Every visit ended with a trip to the chapel and a prayer for us. She absolutely hated the tabernacle being off to the side. “This is his house!” she would angrily exclaim. I must admit I always thought the justification for moving the tabernacles was flawed so she got my support. She tried to have it moved. Like many things in the Catholic church, her initiative got lost in a bureaucracy that didn't welcome change – even if it was a change back to the way things were.

When Sister Rose hit her hundredth birthday, there was a festive celebration with tons of people, music, and testimonials, one of which I was honored to give. Her reply, happily delivered, was that she, “couldn't wait to meet Jesus!”

Every time a situation with my family surfaced I would tell Sister Rose. Our friendship demanded that I not become one of the people that kept things from her. She didn't want that.

She shared her disappointments also. She hurt for those around her. Sister Rose was hurt when people discounted her because of her age.

She was my biggest cheerleader. Everyone needs a Sister Rose in their life. Introducing me to the sisters, she heralded every one of my accomplishments, big or small.

Years went by and then one day I made the trip alone. I had the task of telling my friend that my husband, the love of my life, had been unfaithful and was moving back to England to be with his mistress.

We both cried that day. He was her friend too. She was a huge source of support for me in the ensuing months when I found adultery was minor in comparison to the heinous offenses that landed him in jail, probably for the rest of his life.

She told me about the time he came to visit her after we separated. “Well Carolee, there is no other woman, and it's all your fault,” she told me this laughing. Sister Rose was no dope.

Once she asserted I had a “Sears Catalog” husband. “He looked good on paper.”

When he was arrested she wanted to go see him. “He has to know that no matter what he has done, Jesus still loves him.” His betrayal was of such a magnitude that I didn't know if I could help her with this. Eventually I contacted the prison and asked that she be put on his visitors list. They never called back, I assume he was too embarrassed to see her.

Ministering to prisoners was nothing new to Sister Rose. One of her happiest moments was when a death-row inmate converted immediately before he was killed. Sister Rose had been writing to him, encouraging him to turn his life over to Jesus and ask forgiveness for his sins. She read the account of the execution in the paper and the prison chaplain reported that he acknowledged Jesus and begged forgiveness.

Her charity was real-- palpable-- and I wanted to be more like her.

Sister Rose's example inspired me to pray regularly for my ex-husband.

It wasn't until Sister Rose was 102 that she finally consented to use a walker. I was visiting with one of the other chaplains from the hospital. I had for quite some time tried to tactfully suggest that she might want to try a walker. She would give me withering looks that convinced me to drop the subject. Sister Clare took one look at her and said, “Rose, you need a walker.” Sister Clare then got one of the aides to bring her one and that was that! Her hip pain, the only health concern she ever expressed, was eased because of that walker. I was very grateful to Sister Clare for her forthright insistence.

My new found dire financial circumstances found me visiting less often. I was working four jobs and working every day. I didn't mind working but I minded not seeing Sister Rose. She was a priority. I still managed to find ways to see her fairly often but I missed the frequency I had enjoyed previously.

People would comment on how marvelous I was to be so loyal. I always pointed out that the joy was mine and that when I visited it was definitely as much for me as it was for her.

What I could count on was her love. She always was happy to see me. Our faces would light up when we saw each other. She would tell me she was ready to meet her Jesus. My only comment was, “Well you might be ready but I am not ready for you to leave,” admittedly selfish!

During the last weeks of her life she had moved to a wheelchair. While my heart was saddened for my friend, the wheelchair provided an opportunity to take her outside for a wonderful walk on a gorgeous day. Whenever we went outside she always wanted to go to the sisters' cemetery. That time was no exception. She stopped before many of the graves and prayed for her friends.

One of the last visits I had with her was when she was taken to the local Catholic hospital because she became faint. Her friend, Sister Eileen, called and told me she was admitted. I quickly went to see her. When I arrived she was sleeping. She woke, saw me and gave me a big smile and said, “Here I am lying around doing nothing!” She went back to the mother house that afternoon.

Two weeks later I got another call from Sister Eileen. Sister Rose was not doing well. They had her anointed and called in hospice.

This time I really raced. I arrived to see my friend wracked with pain but I was so glad to be there. The morphine began to work. I stayed. I prayed the rosary and prayed some more. I read to her from her Liturgy of the Hours book. I sang to her.

I prayed to St. Anthony to help her find Jesus. St Anthony was one of our favorite saints. I still have the statue of him she gave to me when she left the hospital.

I kept whispering in her ear, “Go to Jesus. He's waiting for you.”

Her sister friends could not have been kinder. They knew how special we were to each other and they honored me by allowing me to be with her. Sisters would come in and out of her room, checking on their friend who would be leaving them soon.

They told me the Friday before she became so ill she went out into the hall and thanked all the aides and nurses for taking such good care of her.

The circumstances of Sister Rose's death provided one of those rare moments in one's life when God's love comes up and washes you in its greatness. He allows you to drink it in, to revel in it, to be enveloped in his loving generosity.

Sister Rose died on the 13^th of June, the Feast of St. Anthony, with only me by her side. In a mother house steeping with nuns, God graced this very faulty woman with the beautiful gift of being the one to walk my friend home.

I will forever be grateful for witnessing, when once again, God told Sister Rose, “I have something better for you.”

A Bit of Cadmium

2013-04-15T00:37:00.001-04:00

Saint Michael the Archangel,
defend us in battle.
Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil.
May God rebuke him, we humbly pray;
and do Thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Host -
by the Divine Power of God -
cast into hell, satan and all the evil spirits,
who roam throughout the world seeking the ruin of souls.

And sociopaths, be our protection against sociopaths....

The small brown bottle stared at me challenging me to pick an emotion. I couldn't. I stood there swimming in a mixture of disbelief, exuberance and anger.

It all started about five years ago in the final months of my marriage to my ex-husband Geoff.

I made coffee in the morning, he made tea at night. No matter how annoyed or happy I might be, the coffee got made and brought to Geoff in bed. It was love as action, something tangible – you could put your hand on the mug and feel the warmth, the love. Presumably it was the same for him. He brought me chamomile mixed with mint or rose hips. Geoff even sent to his homeland, England, to get my favorite, chamomile with lime.

Something happened those last months – occasionally the tea tasted metallic. The difference was subtle but I knew what my tea was supposed to taste like. I told Geoff, he got defensive. There wasn't anything else to say. Maybe he forgot to use water from the Brita pitcher? “Yes, that must be it,” I thought.

That was also the time when Geoff suggested I get life insurance. I laughed at that because I was a Catholic chaplain making not very much money. “Surely the year and a half of my salary that comes with my employment would be enough?” He wasn't so sure.

Then there were the headaches. They were persistent and painful. They went away the day I temporarily moved in with my sister after finding a $2,000 phone bill to his “fiance” in England. They didn't return until a head injury brought me migraines.

The significance of the convergence of the metallic tasting tea, the life insurance and the headaches escaped me until after the sociopath I had married had been arrested for doing unspeakable things to two little girls. A few months after that I remembered the funny tasting tea and I wondered whether he actually could have been trying to poison me?

There were only a few people I mentioned this to since I thought it sounded paranoid and just a little crazy. I must admit none of the people I told treated it that way. They thought I just might be right but we would never know.

At least I didn't think so...

Many people think I should move out of the very old house in which I was raised. I love it. Throughout the entire nightmare that surrounded the events involving my ex-husband, my house and more importantly, my neighbors, provided comfort, lots of it.

So, I stayed.

I finally had a little money to take care of the wiring and the cabinets in my kitchen, both in dire need of replacing. One of my neighbors is an electrical contractor who like me, grew up in his house.

He was absolutely appalled at the state of the wiring. Geoff, who told me he was an electrical engineer before becoming a systems validation consultant, had done a lot of rewiring.

At one point my neighbor said, “This is so bad. It's like Geoff was trying to kill you.”

“Funny you should say that,” I recounted my suspicions about the tea.

The next week my neighbor yelled up from the basement, “Carolee, put the water on … you're going to want a cup of tea.”

I had no clue what my dear neighbor could have meant. I went to the basement and there it was, a bottle of cadmium, a heavy metal – very, very toxic. It was hidden between the duct work and the ceiling. It would have stayed there, indefinitely, undetectable, had it not been for the work being done.

Immediately I shared this news with my other neighbor and another friend who had always believed Geoff had tampered with my tea.

Still, I wanted it somehow not to be true. My father worked in the labs in the research center of the Bethlehem Steel Corporation. I immediately became as knowledgeable as I could about cadmium. They do use it in electroplating. I am convinced it was my father's cadmium. I am also equally convinced Geoff took it from my dad's messy workbench and decided to use it for his own purpose. There is no scenario that would explain my father hiding it. He had bottles of hydrochloric acid, a bag of asbestos, and other not-so-healthy components of his work on display for all to see.

I had to admire Geoff's ingenuity. The hiding spot was very conveniently located just about two feet from the stairs leading from the kitchen to the basement. “I'll just nip down and get a bit of cadmium,” I could hear him saying in his Birmingham accent.

“Your guardian angel must have been watching over you,” someone said.

“Yes,” I thought, but where were the guardian angels of the little girls so violated by the monster I had married?

As a chaplain, especially when I was working trauma, this question of why God allows evil to be wrought on the innocent was a constant companion to my ministry.

The question, never answered satisfactorily, has surfaced again, this time with very personal implications.

It is that whole free will phenomenon. The gift. The hope of a loving God that we will choose to love him.

The gift comes with many, many complications. To say we don't always choose good is to state the obvious. The choice not to do good sometimes creates dire consequences to the innocent.

If we are brave enough to look and accept a God so magnificent that he does the miraculous, we also are compelled to ask why he chooses not to help those suffering.

Why when facing this great dichotomy – the loving God vs, the cold unfeeling one – am I so convicted of God's love for each and every one of us?

That even though he didn't swoop down and stop Geoff before he damaged the little girls he abused, that I believe God cried with all of us at the carnage Geoff left in the wake of his narcissism.

Feeling vs. action, like the cup of coffee I brought to my husband every morning, is also apparent in my faith life. There are times when I feel loved by God – when I feel like I'm loving God. It happens sometimes during adoration of the Blessed Sacrament, when God's very full presence fills me and I have no choice but to kneel in awe.

There are times when that doesn't happen but I stay adoring anyway because my faith tells me God is there whether I feel it or not. My actions tell God I love him, my feelings don't.

God's free will plan sometimes unleashes horrendous events, despicable actions. That this time they happened in a very personal way by a monster who made choice after choice to do evil doesn't change my belief in a loving God.

Because he did not intercede when I thought he should does not diminish the miracles he has given us through his will alone and through the hands of those who love him.

I do believe all heaven eventually came together and aided the police in discovering Geoff. My prayers for him were heard when he was incarcerated for hopefully the rest of his life, where he can no longer sin against children.

It was God who gave the police and the district attorney the gifts they needed in order to prosecute Geoff.

God gave me a gift when it came time to testify against him. Waiting to go into the courtroom, I was literally sick. I prayed. I knew many were praying for me. When I entered the witness box, I felt those prayers, calm descended. I was able to identify the body of the man I had loved so much in the most vile of photographs.

God gave gifts of courage to people to be outraged and stand up against the evil.

God gave gifts of empathy and compassion to the counselors his victims will hopefully visit.

God gave us beauty to thumb its nose at the hideous images found in pedophiles' possessions.

When this terrible drama was playing out I think I would have succumbed to despair if it were not for the friends and family who I am convinced God helped me recognize as ambassadors of his love.

I have no answers when it comes to knowing how to prevent sociopaths from destroying lives. They are about manipulation, lies and deceit. Their purpose in life is to satisfy whatever pleasures them. If it hurts other people, tough.

I do know that each one of us is called to be holy, to love freely, to give of ourselves, to make God's world a better place, if only in little ways. When we call on God to join us, we together become a formidable force against the evil one. God will win!

One Year Without a Date -- Celibacy Celebrated

2012-11-30T14:32:00.000-05:00

Thank you Jesus! For real.

I woke up and realized that this past year I have been happy. This in spite of many disappointments. My vision has not improved. Panic ensues at the thought of serious multi-tasking. Headaches are still a bitch. My neck and shoulders feel like I am carrying a ton while all I'm doing is lifting my sweet little granddaughter. Cognitive therapy has now replaced physical and occupational therapy -- vision therapy to follow. The $20,000 grant that I was awarded to fix up my house was ultimately not received because I don't need $20,000 worth of repairs, I need $50,000 – the logic of that still escapes me. I failed as a copywriter because I couldn't do the necessary tasks required of my still-healing brain. I have been invaded by bastardly squirrels.

That litany of misfortune doesn't tell the true tale.

Something beautiful has happened this past year. I've gotten stronger. I have more confidence in my decisions. I have invested more of myself in the people I care about – my family, my friends, my neighborhood, my community. The result has satiated me like no man ever could.

I do not credit myself for being determined in my happiness. I thank God, who I believe directed this growth. The Holy Spirit continues to fly in to my life providing loving guidance.

Still there hasn't been a single date. I did have two parking lot attendants at the local hospital vying for my attention but I wasn't biting, or writhing or anything.

It isn't that the physical expression of romantic love holds no appeal. It does. Sometimes I get downright lonely.

A dear friend of mine was honored as a gala. Despite being on the tail end of a bad case of bronchitis, I got dolled up, put on a borrowed top, did my hair, applied a face and went. My son described my appearance that night to my daughter, “Mom looked great. There were bosoms involved!”

My friend got all the accolades she so deserves and then the dancing began. Heartache. I watched as much as I could and then had to excuse myself to privately mourn my single status. I wonder if it's silly that slow dancing is where I long the most for a man's presence? I am not a good dancer but I love being held and led and losing myself in the music, the man and the magic of the dance.

This, “You don't have a partner” phenomenon happened in the summer too. My friends invited me to a band concert that turned out to be a dance. I still remember the feeling of wanting to be in among the music and people moving effortlessly to oldies but goodies.

If I had been alone I would have prayed the rosary for help in getting through a difficult time. But I wasn't alone. Therein lies the hidden joy.

Despite yearning for human touch on starry nights, there is happiness. I have community – real community – friends I love, family to whom I matter. There is no dating awkwardness. This space away from sexuality has been freeing.

When I was very young my self esteem was such that I thought my sexuality was the best gift I could give a guy. I believe God led me to a new awareness of the many worlds of loving. In so doing he has opened up my own loving-ness. God created all of us as vehicles of his love. I now know I'm one of them.

Celibacy does not rob me of the ability to meaningfully interact. To share love allowing God to direct the process is to know wonder.

With my history it would be almost hilarious to say I am committing myself to celibacy. I won't pretend that I don't find chubby, intellectual-looking guys very interesting. What I know is that no matter what happens there will be love, God will always be there inviting us to step into his dance.

The Meek Can Have It!

2012-11-15T11:53:00.002-05:00

“Since the Passover of the Jews was near, Jesus went up to Jerusalem. He found in the temple area those who sold oxen, sheep and doves, as well as the money changers seated there. He made a whip out of cords and drove them all out of the temple area, with the sheep and oxen, and spilled the coins of the money changers and overturned their tables, and to those who sold doves he said, “Take these out of here, and stop making my Father's house a marketplace.” John 2:13-22

This morning I am thanking God for that passage. Last night I got very, very angry. I fashioned my whip and then I didn't overturn tables, I posted on Facebook.

The referenced passage teaches us a lot about anger. Jesus did not just react immediately to what he considered an affront, he took his time, he thought about it the entire time he was fashioning his whip. I thank God this model for Christian anger exists. Thank you, Jesus!

When we're walking the Christian walk, I think we receive subtle and not so subtle messages to squelch our anger. “Turn the other cheek,” is a mantra to many. “Nice Christians don't raise their voices,” and of course, my personal favorite, “The meek shall inherit the earth.” There is nothing meek about me and I don't really mind missing out on my inheritance.

We are confronted daily with these schizophrenic messages from God's word. So what to do? We are left with the task of deciding how to apply Jesus' teachings to our everyday lives.

We have help awaiting us. It is stating the obvious to say that we might consider praying before working on those whips, “ Holy Spirit, a little direction, please!”

The decision to act out in anger should also be accompanied by volumes of introspection. Is it ego acting out or is my anger righteous? In last night's case, I have to admit my ego had taken one too many blows from the subject of my wrath but I don't think ego was the primary motivator. I'd be a terrible liar if I didn't admit it was a contributing factor.

Is it wrong to defend our egos? I don't think so, not always. We are children of God. The children he created in his image. When the image is ridiculed, condescended to, and reviled, I think our loving Father wants us to say, “Don't do this to me!”

One other, admittedly subjective, measure is the feeling after we display our anger. Last night there was peace! Peace is so subjective but I think we all know when we've got it and we know when we don't. Last night there was no tugging at my conscience. I fell asleep happy that for once I didn't let a bully go unchecked.

Please see my Facebook page for original rant.

At the Feet of the King, Adoration -- Up Close and Personal

2012-09-04T22:23:00.008-04:00

Warm anticipation enveloped me as I hit the pillow. No, this was not a hot date. It was Tuesday and tomorrow I would be visiting a king.

Wednesday was Adoration day at Sacred Heart Hospital.

Four years ago the small community hospital of about 243 beds was attempting to stave off a takeover by Lehigh Valley Hospital, a goliath. We in Pastoral Care viewed a non-Catholic identity for Sacred Heart an abomination so we decided to call in the big guns – that would be Jesus Christ, the Lord, the King, the beautiful merciful God for whom the hospital was named.

So we began Adoration -- the Catholic practice that stems from the belief in the real presence of Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament. Unlike many of our sister Christian faiths who believe communion is just a symbolic reminder of the Last Supper, we take the Gospel of John literally and believe through the priest's hands at Mass, ordinary bread and wine become the real body and blood of Christ.

This Wednesday was special, not only was I going to get to spend time at the feet of my king, I got to prepare the altar and lead the beginning and end of Adoration.

The day began with an intercom prayer and a message urging hospital employees, visitors, and patients, if able, to pay a visit to our beautiful chapel to experience the peace and calm this practice can afford.

Then I carefully arranged candles and flowers on the altar. It was time to uncover the monstrance, the beautifully embellished holder in which the Blessed Sacrament would spend the day. I then went to the tabernacle and took the special host reserved for adoration and placed it in the monstrance.

I bowed before my sweet Jesus and began singing, “O Come Let Us Adore Him, O Come Let Us Adore Him, O Come Let Us Adore Him, Christ the Lord.”

Memories of the first time I heard the familiar Christmas carol in adoration swept me to a scene in a small dark chapel in Mahanoy City, Pennsylvania. There I was sock-footed with a room full of Mother Teresa's sisters, wrapped in their white saris with blue trim, bowing in joyful adoration, singing the familiar tune.

Other adoration memories from my youth filled my mind with incense and no real knowledge of what was happening – only that it was a very big deal – and that instead of a one-kneed genuflection, people knelt on both knees and maybe hesitated just a fraction before getting up and entering the pew.

That childhood awe has transformed to a real hunger for this beautiful devotion. Now, I can't do anything but bow before the blessed sacrament. It is his loving kingship which I am acknowledging. Mother Teresa's sisters taught me well. I understand now.

Through the years, I have fallen in love with Jesus. The Jesus that still loved St. Peter, even after he betrayed him. The Jesus who loved the woman caught in adultery. The Jesus who loved his mother, who looked after her, even from the cross.

I love the Jesus who healed – who still heals – our brokenness, our bodies, our minds, our souls. The Jesus who came to earth in a filthy stable, who is willing to enter into our very own dark, dirty selves, to stay with us and make us clean – yes I love Him, my king. Jesus who took my brokenness to the cross with him, I grew to be in love with him.

This is one of my favorite readings from Luke:

A Pharisee invited him to dine with him, and he entered the Pharisee’s house and reclined at table. Now there was a sinful woman in the city who learned that he was at table in the house of the Pharisee. Bringing an alabaster flask of ointment,she stood behind him at his feet weeping and began to bathe his feet with her tears. Then she wiped them with her hair, kissed them, and anointed them with the ointment. When the Pharisee who had invited him saw this he said to himself, “If this man were a prophet, he would know who and what sort of woman this is who is touching him, that she is a sinner.” Jesus said to him in reply, “Simon, I have something to say to you.” “Tell me, teacher,” he said. “Two people were in debt to a certain creditor; one owed five hundred days’ wages and the other owed fifty. Since they were unable to repay the debt, he forgave it for both. Which of them will love him more?” Simon said in reply, “The one, I suppose, whose larger debt was forgiven.” He said to him, “You have judged rightly.” Then he turned to the woman and said to Simon, “Do you see this woman? When I entered your house, you did not give me water for my feet, but she has bathed them with her tears and wiped them with her hair. You did not give me a kiss, but she has not ceased kissing my feet since the time I entered. You did not anoint my head with oil, but she anointed my feet with ointment. So I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven; hence, she has shown great love. But the one to whom little is forgiven, loves little.” He said to her, “Your sins are forgiven.” Luke 7:36-48

I love the Jesus, who allowed that woman -- some say Mary Magdalene, to pour costly perfumed oil all over his feet, to love him, extravagantly, blatantly, unabashedly. I long to break my alabaster jar and love my king but for now I can spend precious time with him in adoration.

Oh come Let Us Adore Him!

This story was also published in Catholic Online www.Catholic.org

Betrayal, Forgiveness and Thank You, God!

2012-05-17T23:46:00.013-04:00

We both sat on the edge of her bed with tears streaming down our cheeks.

This story began a long time ago.

Betrayal violently assaulted me. I had loved and along with me, that love was betrayed. The betrayal surfaced in layers, one revelation worse than the last until I felt filled with the hurt.

I am a follower of Jesus, a Christian. I say that with no pompousness or supposition that it somehow makes me holy. I am not particular holy. But I love Jesus. I have attempted to allow that love to dictate most of my middle-aged decisions. I have come to believe fully that God loves me – broken and so less-than-perfect. I am convinced he loves me anyway.

That conviction led me to fight against that betrayal. I feared that if I let my spiritual guard down for even a day the hate would overwhelm me. I didn't want that – none of me wanted that.

So I prayed – for my betrayer. I prayed a lot for him in the beginning, not as much now. Two chaplain friends helped me. I don't think I could have done it without them. They are beautiful people with open loving hearts. They knew what I was fighting. They helped me walk that very dark road. In between the prayers were sobs. I just couldn't help sobbing. You need to be brave to listen to someone's wailing. There were a lot of brave friends and family walking with me then. I will always be grateful for each and every one of them.

Maybe it was my understanding of God's love for me that helped me to want to live. I knew my children needed me. I wanted to live for them but it was more than that – it was an attempt to see myself through God's eyes that kept me going. It was fall. I walked almost every day with my Saint Bernard, Winnie. We would walk along the river and through the pastures of a park nearby. They were not happy walks but something kept me putting one foot in front of the other. I kept telling myself that if I walked enough I wouldn't need anti-depressants. The beauty of the season was balm for my aching heart.

There were so many wonderful people loving me during that time. Friends still asked me for dinner even though they knew I wasn't good company. My sister welcomed me to her home.

One day dear neighbors brought a bunch of goodies to my sister's for me -- a wonderful big pillow with pigs all over it that Kristi and her son made for me, pumpkin pancakes and a jack o' lantern. Each gift lovingly selected to make me feel better.

It is my simplistic faith that allows me to think that's how it is with God. He loves us even at our worse.

A few months later I was again assaulted with information nobody should have to know. This time the betrayal spread. I learned I had been married to not only an adulterer, but a monster.

I began the work of forgiveness again. I prayed for him. I sobbed again. This time for all the people hurt by his selfish narcissism. I still wanted to be whole. I wanted to be a woman of love and not hate. I was struggling. The horrible images of his offenses would haunt me. They would come up and never leave my stunned and shattered mind.

My loyal chaplain friends came and prayed over me. Michaelene begged Jesus to help me. Russell anointed me and prayed very specifically for those images to be gone. God answered those prayers. The night I was anointed I slept without my horrible companions prancing around in my mind. They have not returned to haunt my sleep. Thank you God!

Still, I continued to struggle with forgiveness. I could pray but I could feel no forgiveness. I could never envision saying, “I forgive you.” It was too big and too bad and just too much.

I heard about a healing retreat. Forgiveness was one of the themes. I couldn't afford it and I needed to work. I was working all the time by then in order to try to keep my home, still a huge source of solace.

I was praying with my friends in front of the Blessed Sacrament when Russell challenged me about why I wasn't going to the retreat. I explained that I couldn't afford it and I had to work. He whipped out three one hundred dollar bills and offered to fill in for me at my weekend job. Thank you God for wonderful friends.

So I went.

A cocky priest gave a talk on forgiveness. I went to confession to him later. I said I was really struggling with forgiveness and he told me, “You just have to do it.”

I felt despair. How could I possibly go beyond what I had done? I thought praying for him was enough but no, I had to forgive him.

One of the reasons I wanted to be at this retreat was to see one of the presenters, Kathleen McCarthy. I had spoken to her on the phone about my situation. She had a similar experience.

It was her I wanted to talk to about this forgiveness question. She was in demand from the other retreatants. At 12:45 in the morning, I received a life-changing gift.

I told her of my dilemma, that I prayed for this man, saying empty words but saying them anyway. Then she blew my mind.

Kathleen said, “Think about Jesus.”

But I had been thinking about Jesus.

“He was beaten, He was mocked. He was spit upon. He was stripped of his clothes. He was nailed to the cross,” she continued.

“What did he say on the cross?”

“He didn't say, 'I forgive you.' He said, 'Father, forgive them.' If Jesus couldn't do it. Why do you think you have to? Just ask our Father to forgive him, he'll take care of it. You don't have to.”

I stood there sobbing, but this time it was relief that fed my tears. The beautiful release washed over me, knowing I didn't have to try and do the impossible. I simply asked God to forgive him and that was enough.

Fast forward three years -- there I was with one of my precious psych patients. She was sobbing. She too was being asked the impossible. I was able to share the beautiful news that when we just can't will ourselves to forgive we can give it to our loving Father who will take it off our hands. Thank you God!

Death Knell

2012-03-27T10:45:00.009-04:00

Saying goodbye can be so very hard. The beautiful convent at Saint Ursula Church in Fountain Hill, Pennsylvania is soon to be demolished.

People will say, “What a shame.”

The convent's death sentence is a result of pessimism and lack of hope – the very things our faith should be curing, instead of fostering. It is an example of the staggering lack of vision that pervades our church in certain dioceses. This has been one of those dioceses.

We have a new bishop, a reportedly truly holy man. He has not yet had a chance to make his mark. My fear is that the bureaucracy of the job will rob him of his holiness.

Jesus abhorred that bureaucracy that pervades our American churches. He preached constantly against the practices of the scribes and pharisees.

Jesus, in picking St. Peter as his first bishop, thumbed his nose at the idea that a bishop should be awash in balance sheets and scandal control. St. Peter was full of hope, optimism and love of our Lord. So human, he didn't let his pessimism get in the way. When he walked on the water to Jesus he started to falter but where did he look – to Jesus. When he was on the mountain during the transfiguration, he wanted to do something, anything, even build a tent!

When he denied the man he loved the most out of a pitiful need for self-preservation, he humbly begged his Jesus to forgive him, knowing before the words were out of his mouth his request would be granted.

Jesus picked a very human pontiff, one full of faults but full of hope.

The projected demise of the convent is a very big deal to me. I admittedly take it personally. The empty space will be a monument to my lack of follow-through and a testament to my present frailties.

I had a vision. I am not a particularly holy person, but I saw that empty convent as a tool for God's love, a place for mentally ill women to come and live, to be safe and secure but most of all loved.

The convent, through a lack of care, deteriorated to the point that serious amounts of money would be needed to salvage it and turn it into a place where God's love would flourish.

I spent over a year of my life getting estimates coming up with a practical way of addressing the enormous cost of renovation. It was a journey that included many people helping me. In the end the local Catholic hospital that was going to collaborate in the venture was forced to withdraw because of their precarious financial position.

This is not an attempt to withhold blame from myself. Personal crises reared their ugly heads. I did not have the strength to keep pushing through them to find other ways to save the convent for the women who truly needed it. That was my selfish act of self-preservation. Staying sane was hard work. Through much love from my friends and family, I did. God's love made manifest through beautiful people who cared enough to keep me going.

When the convent was actually put up for sale at a very low price it was like a shove from above. I proposed that the diocese hand it over for me to use for the original vision I saw. I would form a lay community dedicated to the Eucharist and the mentally ill. We would make habitable a small portion of the convent very quickly and then move to renovate room by room, project by project. I would have sought support from many of the charitable organizations within our diocese. The diocese appeared amenable to this but said the decision was ultimately the pastor's.

We have a pastor who has many good traits. He is kind to the developmentally delayed. He visits parishioners in the hospital. When I think of him, though, it is his pessimism that comes to the fore. I don't understand it. We are people of faith. We should be people of hope. Jesus is alive! He lives in our tabernacles. Two thousand years have passed and he is with us – for real. How can pessimism survive when that belief exists?

But sadly it does. Almost every single homily delivered is one of pessimism, even on Christmas, even shockingly, on Easter. Where is the hope that gives the faithful cause to celebrate our faith?

I had a conversation with our pastor shortly before Christmas. I wanted to bring one of my dear friends, an incredible fundraiser, to meet with him about the convent. He turned to the Lutheran pastor standing next to him and said, “She just doesn't understand the way these things work. It isn't up to me.”

It was up to him. According to the diocesan hierarchy, it was ultimately the pastor who would decide if my proposal could happen. He wouldn't even listen.

The destruction of the convent will just be further evidence of a diocese that put its time effort and treasure into tearing down and destroying. The church “consolidations” that have taken place in my diocese are a mark of shame. Shuttered churches are examples of defeatism rather than hope. If all the energy that was placed into closing parishes throughout the five-county diocese was placed into keeping the churches alive we would be facing a very different picture – a portrait of evangelized neighborhoods celebrating the beautiful presence in our tabernacles and spreading God's love where it is desperately needed.

So when I look at the empty space where the beloved convent once stood I will see a palpable example of the sin of despair and hopelessness winning. Shame on us all!

Confessions of an Easter Bunny

2012-03-26T08:20:00.006-04:00

I carefully walked up the firetruck steps helped by a couple of our borough's firefighters. Soon the wind was whipping through my tall furry ears. I ducked to avoid the wires overhead. I waved to the onlookers below. It was a wonderful day. I was the Easter Bunny on my way to the borough's Easter egg hunt.

A few hours earlier I was at Sacred Heart Hospital helping to get the chapel ready for the celebration of the Easter vigil that night. It was Holy Saturday!

How could I do this about-face? How could I remove myself from the somber reflection of Jesus' great sacrifice? The triduum was only two-thirds complete and yet I was celebrating with wild abandon.

Holy Week is my favorite week. Easter is by far my favorite holiday. This week of the liturgical year, like no other week, invites us into the life of Jesus. I hear through the scriptures the stories that still deeply affect me. The drama of the Holy Thursday and Good Friday liturgies drive home what Jesus did for all of us.

There are other aspects of the entire lent-Easter dilemma. When do I put out the china bunnies and chicks? When do I hang the Easter wreaths? Most of the time I wait until Palm Sunday but this year I put up the wreaths early. I think I needed a little reminder this year of the joy to come.

So back to the bunny, just how can I do it?

I know the ending, that's how. My joy is premature. I don't deceive myself into thinking that there can be any logical correlation between the passion and resurrection of Jesus Christ and the Easter Bunny but there is a cause to celebrate – even if it is a day early!

Easter egg hunts, china chicks and bunnies, ridiculous amounts of candy, over-the-top house decorations, can be our invitation to share the joy of the resurrection with those we know and love.

Much gratitude to the Borough of Fountain Hill's awesome firefighters and all they do to make the borough a better, safer place to live!

This story will appear in Catholic online next week. www.Catholic.org

Around the Well

2012-03-14T22:19:00.007-04:00

Following please find a reprint of my article in "Catholic Online." The Woman at the Well is one of my very favorite Gospel readings. Comments are very welcome!

The strains of the famous song from "Lilies of the Field" filled my ears once more,     "AAAmen! AAAmen! AAAmen! Amen! Amen!" It ended almost every one of my spirituality groups. Hands clapped and voices were raised - a bit of joy.

The group was over and my patients were slowly making their way back to their rooms.

My groups were a bit different than the rest of those offered. Mine were totally voluntary. I rejected offers from well meaning mental health aides and nurses to coerce their charges into attending. You cannot force God's love on people. They have to want to hear it, feel it.

We began with a simple prayer, inviting God to our group. A prayer that our hearts be open to receive his love, some scripture, a little reflection, personal intentions, the Our Father and then that wonderful "Amen."

That formula varied little - if I had a Jewish patient we'd use the Old Testament and skip the Our Father.

Once again I had used one of my favorite scriptures, John 4:1-42 - the story of the Woman at the Well. Theologians offer up sophisticated explanations of the very long reading. My message could not have been more simple, some might say crude.

"Why do you think Jesus went to her?" I asked. My patients shook their heads, almost all of them in sad, slow motion. Sadness that was a result of depression, psych meds, and a life of being ostracized by a society that doesn't understand mental illness.

"He could have strolled into that town and met with the president of the Sychar PTA," I continued.

"But no, he went to that woman. The woman who had been around the block one too many times, a loose woman."

"Why?" I challenged.

"To let us know that no matter what we've done, no matter who we've slept with, no matter how broken we are, Jesus will use us to spread his news! The news that we're loved, that he knows our sins and still loves us."

That reading has been part of my scriptural toolkit for many years. It has resonated consistently. The beautiful faces in front of me would smile and nod. This was truth to them.

And to me. I am that woman. My friends and family know I want that reading, that affirming story, read at my funeral.

Just as my patients heard in that scripture, the hope that even in their weakness they are precious, I also have heard that acclamation. I have sought to spread God's good news, even in my brokenness.

My life is full of mistakes made, sins committed. Telling my patients of God's love for them just as they are - broken and less than perfect - demanded a personal response from me. I also had to look at myself differently, not through the world's eyes, but God's. I was his daughter and he loved me.

Amen!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cHHYQX-HRf8
    © 2012, Catholic Online. Distributed by NEWS CONSORTIUM. www.Catholic.org

Happy Anniversary!

2012-02-08T13:33:00.008-05:00

Every once in awhile amid some serious crap, God sends us an invitation to rethink our world. He invites us to be brave and embrace what's before us.

February 11, 2011 was the beginning of an invitation.

That day found me driving – chaplaining for the nursing home where I worked. Suddenly, I was hit from behind and propelled into the car in front of me. My head took the brunt of all this with a severe double whammy. Fortunately I was restrained but my old beater didn't have an air bag so I wasn't afforded the protection that wonderful invention would have provided.

I was transported to the hospital and told the news that I had sustained a concussion and they were sure I'd be back to normal in no time. Didn't quite happen that way.

The following, days, weeks and months of pain and therapy were filled with an awakening to what it means if you are really hurt “on the job.”

The greed and blatant unconcern of the administrator of my nursing home astounded me. The zeal to bring me back to work, whether ready or not was unrelenting.

It was not a smooth transition when I did go back to work. My employer had done just about everything he could to sabotage the attempt. My office, right inside the chapel, was given away and I was placed in the activity office with four other people. The workman’s compensation doctor they forced me to go to ordered a calm and quiet atmosphere. One morning I attended a meeting in a charting room where the lights were literally a foot from my head. I went out of it reeling, I couldn't believe how disoriented I felt. All of a sudden I fell into a water fountain and suffered my second concussion just weeks after the first.

I was faced with the very stark reality that much of my life as I knew it was done. The cacophony of lights, sounds and constant stimulation found in a nursing home could no longer be a normal part of my day.

Always an extrovert, I found in the ensuing months that I was craving quiet – calm. This was such a far cry from my previous self that I was forced to examine the implications for my life as it went forward.

Common activities most of us take for granted – grocery shopping, going to the movies, attending a zumba class, are almost impossible for me. The nearby casino is off limits and it's no longer my lack of funds issuing that edict. Too much stimulation. My brain rebels against noise, lights – especially fluorescent ones, and lots to look at simultaneously. Non-stop migraines if I don't pay attention to this.

Providers would, with amazing tactlessness, explain that 54 year-old brains don't heal nearly as well as when they were younger. “Well shit,” I thought, "I don't feel old." I did feel different.

So where was God in all of this?

What the heck kind of crazy invitation was this?

From the very onset of this entire experience, God sent me angels.
My son, Peter, who would vociferously object to being called a messenger of God, still in my eyes, was one. He was at the scene of the accident within minutes. He stayed with me in the hospital making sure my bruised brain didn't embarrass me too much.

He found a netbook computer for me which has been my constant companion ever since. He even replaced it when I tripped on the cord and broke the screen. Balance issues still rear their ugly head from time-to-time.

My other son, Daniel, took me to a much-feared MRI. I was so medicated I am sure it was difficult for him to witness his mother stumbling but he stayed through it and got me safely home.

Grace, my daughter, actively helped me when I campaigned for mayor. Retrospectively, that venture might have crossed the border of sanity in the midst of trying to negotiate a head injury.

There were so many heroes to me in all of this. My friends and family who gave me rides for months when I was not able to drive. Then when I thought I could drive, the optho-neurologist disagreed. My peripheral vision was another victim of the concussion.

My attorney brother Doug patiently continues to help me navigate the legal process of all of this.

At one point when I was driving I became terrified of the open space. I could not seem to connect the car with the vastness of the horizon. Kristi, my next door neighbor, patiently and lovingly, talked to me until I was safely home.

Then there are the group of therapists. My physical therapists were really on top of the myriad of symptoms they were faced with treating. I did get much better since the beginning, much of that because of their kind attention.

My occupational therapist has become a friend. She knew how frightened I was by my loss of reading, my delayed speech, my sense of disorganization – always there – had now taken on epic proportions. It brought more chaos and confusion to my struggling brain.

Nancy quietly companioned me through each and every scary aspect. My speech improved dramatically, my vision, still screwed, improved drastically from the beginning when I could only read one word at a time with an index card with a hole in it floating over the words. All this under her careful ministrations. She always assured me my cognition was intact and that it was processing that was the issue. Thank you God for that significant blessing!

When it became obvious that I could no longer work as a chaplain, it was Nancy that walked with me through the idea of writing. I had been a staff writer at the local Catholic newspaper. I use to be able to construct a sentence and write stories. I could control my environment. I could write in the dark. and stop when the overwhelming fatigue that plagued me couldn't be appeased. Since the accident, reading to any extent was problematic. I no longer enjoyed the tactile pleasure of holding a book and quickly racing through the pages. A computer allowed me to increase the font and more importantly the space between words.

Three books became my constant companions. One to write down daily tasks with a master list in the beginning containing chores for every day – drink water, nap, go to Mass, and more.

Another book was for any writing ideas I might have and finally a day timer completed the trio.

Nancy gave me an assignment to construct a paragraph.

I sat down to do it and then I couldn't stop. I wrote the earlier story in this blog “Full Love” about my relationship with my friend, Sister Rose. When I was finished my body was reeling. My head was pounding unrelentingly but I was excited that I could still write.

Nancy was pleased that I found a way to write again but understanding that I couldn't continue to do it if I didn't find a way around the assault on my body. Breaks were added. She asked me everyday if I added the note to my computer encouraging me to take time away from what I was doing. She was right of course. I put a post-it there with the simple reminder, “BREAKS” alerting me not to let the symptoms get ahead of me.

Through all this I kept feeling like God was inviting me into the quiet, to not fear the lack of constant stimulation. To enter into the quiet is a dangerous activity for me. I am almost always confronted by memories so painful I have no wish to relive them. My television is nearly always on in the background keeping those recollections at bay.

The invitation has persisted. It has not yet been possible for me to joyfully jump into a pool of silence but still I feel God saying, “I'll be here. I will love you. Trust me,” so I've dipped my toe in cautiously. I have found a few more minutes to spend in adoration a few more deep breaths inviting my loving God to help. The rosary is once again becoming my familiar prayer companion.

Gaudete Sunday, the third Sunday of Advent brought a gift – well I think it's a gift. I woke up – without the television – and realized my beloved Fountain Hill doesn't have a media outlet – and that with my knowledge of the little borough and my involvement in its government, I could be just the person to remedy that gap.

“The Fountain Hill Gazette” – soon to be published – was born. The fact that was the middle of December and we are not even in the middle of February and I am beating myself up for not having it done says much more about myself than I might want to know.

Recently I attended a yoga class with one of my best friends. I love the physical activity of yoga but I found the relaxation hard work. When the kind instructor invited people to concentrate on the color emerald as they meditated I thought, “Bullshit! I will concentrate on Jesus.” I did -- and for just that small amount of time I felt like I was saying “yes” to that beautiful invitation.♥

Postscript:
It is the end of July and I still cannot get it together to do the "Fountain Hill Gazette." I realize that there are too many steps and too many things to learn for my brain to put it all together. This makes me very sad. I tried so many different ways to do it but I cannot seem to execute any of them, I am waiting to see whether I can get regain enough executive function of my brain to be able to complete this dream of mine. If not, I know God will find a way to use the talents I still possess.

www.catholiconline.com

No Nudes

2011-11-21T22:42:00.010-05:00

My wonderful boarder, Rachael, moved out and my finances are such that I can wait for just the right person to rent out what was her room.

I live in the house in which I was raised. I love it. Growing up my siblings – and even my parents – changed rooms on a regular basis. I had done a stint in all of the bedrooms except Rachael's.

My turn for the room came when I was still married. My ex-husband traveled a lot for his job. I wanted to surprise him with a beautiful bedroom when he got back from one of his trips. I enlisted my wonderful, long suffering friends and family to help with the transformation.

The room was painted a gorgeous cream with periwinkle blue trim. My sister, Nan, helped me to pick out window treatments that lent a warm elegance to the airy space. When done it reminded me of one of the rooms at Lubcloud Farm, my favorite bed and breakfast. An old farmhouse, nestled on an English organic dairy farm, it had a magic that invited you back to visit again and again. It made me happy when my daughter walked into the finished room and asked whether I was trying to make it look just like Lubcloud Farm – a success.

Fast forward quite a few years. I ran out of my house at the discovery of my much-loved husband's infidelity. When I moved back after staying at my sister's I couldn't bear to be in that room. My love offering, it was beautiful but I just couldn't handle it. I moved into the guest room, a happy, warm room but without the serene beauty of the “master.”

My friend Ellen talked me into rearranging the furniture. She was convinced it would change my feelings about the room. She was right. We spent an afternoon moving things in all directions. I did feel differently. She took the old bedspread off and surprised me with one that looked great in the room.

I was happy in that space. It was my room and the fact that I had given it as a gift to someone I didn't really know wasn't important anymore. It was mine and it was comforting.

I stayed in it for months until I realized I needed desperately to rent out a room. It was the most logical one to use. Rachael arrived, another present from God. I didn't mind that beautiful woman having my room. She was a gift.

She's gone though and I decided to reclaim my room of peace and calm.

I repainted the original colors with help from my daughter. I gave Rachael some of the art work. I needed something for over the bed.

I remembered the nudes. They were done by my lover, an effervescent Italian who made bread and made love to me, making me feel beautiful for the first time in my life. He was 32 years older than me and married. I believed him when he told me that he and his wife had a celibate relationship. I still do. It doesn't take a priest or theologian though to know that it was terribly wrong anyway – I understand there are few moral absolutes but that is one of them. I get it. I was young -- 20. Tony made me feel loved, beautiful and alive. He sketched me and I was amazed at the results.

It is one of the great ironies of my life that this man was one of the main reasons I came back to the church of my birth – and with such joy.

I had married after I broke up with Tony. The marriage did not last long. There were many, many reasons for the demise. I went to my old lover, wanting to resume our relationship. The bad marriage helped me to understand all that I gave up when I said goodbye to Tony.

He was loving but firm in his refusal. He had always been Catholic but he had an epiphany and was on fire with the faith. Tony had become a Eucharistic Minister and realized that his first responsibility was to his loving God. So we stayed friends.

Immaturity and I suppose my ego contributed to my feelings of rejection and confusion. There was enough of the Catholic in me to know he was sincere. Catholicism, how old fashioned! The dogma alone was enough to kill you! Still, it was odd that I chose my father's Episcopalian faith in which to raise my two sons. It was so close to Catholicism but not quite there.

“Why I'm an Episcopalian” was the topic of an adult education course at the church I attended. What I realized was, “Holy Shit I'm a Catholic.” My lover's words and deep faith never left me. I realized I needed to go back. I needed to once again receive Holy Communion, to know Jesus in that intimate way.

I went searching for the nudes. I found them and still love them. My artist lover took a homely girl and made her beautiful. I thought of him. He died three years ago. I am convinced he is with his loving Jesus. I put the pictures on the side table and realized I will never hang them. They are anything but vulgar. I am on my side in the one, sitting on the side of the bed in the other one. It is the oddest thing. I really think I look more like that woman now than I ever did at 20. It seems like I grew into them. Maybe Tony saw something in me then that I never did, but do now.

I will not forget where he told me about his Jesus. We were in Manhattan looking over the Hudson. He had an arm on my shoulder. He was telling me what it meant to him to distribute Holy Communion, how he never wanted to jeopardize his ability to receive Jesus. I get it now, Tony.

I'll move the nudes back to the cubby hole. I'll probably pull them out in another ten years when once again I need to see myself through someone else's eyes, someone who did in fact love me and in his rejection gave me such a beautiful gift.

Here's to you Tony! Happy heaven!

Lost!

2011-11-15T07:45:00.012-05:00

The loss in my bid to become mayor of the little borough in which I live has me thinking even harder about just why I'm a Republican.
The Democrat to Republican ratio here is daunting. I am on borough council with people who never flinched as they changed parties for political expediency. I served as the lone Republican for the longest time until a fellow party member finally joined me. My “Republicrat” colleagues certainly sound and act “Republican.” I was advised that if I had any hope of winning I needed to change my party. I wouldn't. I lost.
Most people are more than a little surprised when they hear I'm a Republican. I'm not sure how you would describe me, I certainly don't fit any of the traditional images associated with the party of elephants.
One stereotype that is floating around is that we're rich. Well I'm not.
That is not to say I am poor – anything but – maybe I am rich. I have plenty to eat. My home is too big for my needs – never mind the ancient plumbing, wonky wiring, a roof crying out for attention, and a room beneath the kitchen that is never dry. We won't discuss the toilet sitting in the middle of the the third floor instead of on the appropriate pipe in the powder room. I have plenty of clothes. The vast majority are from friends or “family day” at Sally Armani, aka, the Salvation Army. Once in a great while I hit the super clearance racks at the local department stores.
Then there is the heartless cliché. There are many more generous people than me gracing this earth but I share where I can. I have a heart, if not a purse, for the poor.
Still lingering, despite Herman Cain, are a few “racist Republican” images. Perhaps it is my naiveté, but I don't even think it deserves a mention. My friends come in all hues. I like it that way. Life is far more interesting with a kaleidoscope of rich colors gracing your horizon.
You get the idea.
Not exactly what comes to mind when you are thinking, “Republican Woman.”
So, why am I a Republican?
I am pro-life. That is one telling factor, but even that doesn't explain it. One of my many Democratic friends, a staunch one, spent many years in charge of a home for unwed mothers. She has done more for the pro-life cause than I ever will do by just voting that way. She thinks abortion will end when women's hearts are turned and that the legislation is irrelevant. I don't agree in the least but as I said I don't know that my disagreement has saved one baby. Her stepping up and helping has.
The pro-life question though is the beginning of the answer. It is my belief that Republicanism, if done correctly, the way I believe it was intended, holds up the very dignity of all of us.
Some people find that a strange notion, “What about the poor?”
If we believe what we are told, the Democratic Party does more to look after the poor. They are creating program after program to address the suffering among us. What do my fellow Republicans do?
If my party's platform were allowed to flourish, I believe the very dignity, as well as the material needs of the poor, would be addressed. Republicans love business, big and small. I believe we can love our businesses by asking our government to stay out of them. Taxes and onerous regulations stymie even the most promising of endeavors.
Successful enterprises need people. Employees may work with the knowledge that they are capable of earning money and contributing to a growing concern. Character is reinforced with good self esteem to follow.
“Trickle-down” economics has been bastardized as ignoring the needs of the lowly worker. I beg to differ. Any intelligent business owner knows that its workforce is its life blood. Workers need to be respected both monetarily and socially in order to be retained. Grudging corporate attitudes breed nothing but turnover and waste. Competitive compensation is an intelligent business decision that pays for itself very quickly.
The other outrage expressed is the hardheartedness of those nasty Republicans -- denying the needy help and assistance at every turn.
I have been a Catholic chaplain for 13 years. I have seen my share of need. I would like to see more of a community response to the hurting among us. It does happen. We are a generous country with many, many kind, giving people, Republican and Democratic alike.
When a poor person comes to the local Catholic hospital, the nun greeting them has a few choices. She can direct them to the welfare office where they will have to stand in line in a dirty office, fill out numerous amounts of paperwork, then wait for the “nay” or “yea” that determines whether they will get emergency food stamps or not.
Another alternative is to take some of the money handed to them by loving people who want to help and pass it along to the person in front of them. They can buy them food with it, get their baby a package of diapers, put money in their gas tank -- the list of possibilities is a long one.
I went through an incredibly difficult period in my life when I was downright poor, frighteningly so. I can honestly say it was not my fault. My friends helped. I mean really helped in both material and spiritual ways. I didn't ask for the help, they just did it. Society did not tell them this was their obligation. They just acted out of kindness and love. It made all the difference. I retained my home and did not have to figure out how to live without basic utilities. A nun friend of mine, on hearing my house was going into foreclosure, made a phone call and arranged a $12,177.74 loan from a woman I had never met. That woman's act of courage in loaning me that money gave me hope where there was despair. Even though the shit hit the fan, I was loved.
To me that epitomizes the Republican view of social justice -- personal responsibility. Instead of pulling out their checkbooks, they could have driven me to the local welfare office. They chose instead to become personally responsible for their friend. Those who couldn't give money were kind and kept in contact, loving me, walking with me, holding my hand, sometimes literally, during that dark time.
The Republican Party as a beacon of love? Please do not misunderstand me. It was not just my Republican friends who helped me. I have a very Democratic neighbor who pro-actively loved me from the time she knew my world fell apart until this very day. She epitomizes pure love and has never once directed me to a government program but has always said, “what can I do to help?”
My camadre, a confirmed Democrat, was shocked when she found out the true state of my finances and immediately helped.
Another Democratic friend of mine consistently awes me in her personal generosity.
My theory is that my friends' behavior follows the Republican platform before it was hijacked by crazy judgmental people who really don't know that true Republican tenants do not carry with them a requirement for vitriol. There can be a world where good people can disagree and still be respectful.
Republicans are not better than Democrats -- no hacking way. Looking back at the sex scandals that have stained (pun intended with respect to Bill Clinton) our country's history, the lack of impulse control appears to cross party lines at very regular intervals. The Republican pro-death penalty stance makes me sick. I could not disagree with it more. Immigration is another area where I do not tow the party line.
I have just listed ways, in my own life, where both Republicans and Democrats came rushing to my assistance.
I know for me, the Republican way, is a better way to go forward. It is a way that demands personal responsibility and forces me to see my part in a brighter, better tomorrow. Perhaps it speaks to a weakness in me that I need to cling to my party's original beliefs. The beautiful Democrats in my life just do it naturally.

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Bless Me Father!

2011-09-18T22:38:00.010-04:00

I'm running for mayor of the little borough in which I live. It is a contested race.

"Bless me Father for I have sinned!"
"Father, I am having a very difficult time keeping a Christian perspective regarding my opponent." What followed was an honest account of my feelings regarding the misogynist, arrogant, idea stealing, SOB I'm running against.
Oops. Guess I need to work on that Christian feeling bit -- just a little...
As a result of the previous part of my confession in addition to my political angst, I was given an entire rosary for my penance. I was also given beautiful, total absolution through the hands of a very generous, loving priest -- such peace!
Confession has such a bad rap. There is the whole having to say out loud just what your conscience -- ever working if you're Catholic -- has told you needs expunging. There is a reluctance to put it all out in front of another human being. The thing to keep in mind is that person can give you the peace that St. Paul tells us, "passes all understanding."
The Sacrament of Penance is actually one of the things I enjoy most about my return to Catholicism -- some 23 years ago. Since my return, thanks to some lovely priests, one in particular, I have received absolution and peace in a variety of locations from a restaurant parking lot to my personal favorite – a broom closet.
My penances have been equally varied. My favorite of all time was to leave the confessional, look at the huge crucifix hanging in the middle of the church, reflect on how much Jesus loves me and say his name. It sure and hello beat saying an entire rosary, everyday for the rest of my life – an actual penance one very angry priest gave me but thankfully later retracted by a kinder one.
There is nothing more cleansing than this most misunderstood sacrament. Think of it! Starting anew each time with a clean slate. Another opportunity to grow in the love of God. Those are not just idle words. God's love is real, through the hands of the priest it becomes palpable.
As a chaplain, peace is the thing I pray for most with my patients. Peace – think of it. You really can't get too much of it. Peace, if you're ill. Peace, if you're depressed. Peace, if you're angry. Peace, if you're lonely. Peace, if you're anxious. It's all good.
My Protestant friends, and many of my Catholic ones, tell me that a priest is not at all necessary for confession and I am happy that they can find that peace in their own way.
I really do believe that the priest is acting as Jesus and that Jesus is using that priest to bring me back closer to him. A dear friend is my usual confessor. He has known me for a very long time. He has heard quite a variety of sins from me in that time. Because he knows me he is able to give me really good counsel. I hope he would tell you that through the years I have matured – at least a little – in my faith.
Priests have seen the lines at the confessional dwindle markedly through the years. Perhaps because of that – or I would like to think – just because they are kind – most priests are very patient and helpful to the penitent. So don't let the fact that you've been away since forever keep you from trying this wonderful tool in your spiritual arsenal. Peace awaits!