February 2011
Growing up one block from the library allowed me to frequently indulge my love of books. Each summer all my brothers and sisters and I would enroll in the summer reading program, silently competing with one another to see who could read the most books. My brother Chris even took the grand prize one year (though the exact number of books he read in order to claim the top spot seems to have grown with each passing year in the retelling of this achievement). Our small town upbringing devoid of many distractions was the perfect setting year-round for losing oneself in books—which I did.
So when it became starkly clear to me my freshman year as a fledging pre-med student at Loyola that a future career in medicine wasn’t in the cards, I quickly switched my major to English and returned to my first love.
As the temperatures get colder the one advantage of winter as I mentioned last month can be the opportunity to curl up with a great book. This month I share with you some of my favorites. These authors and their books have left an indelible impression on my heart and have explored faith topics in ways that stretched my own thinking. Following is my list in no particular order:
Non-fiction: Prayer by Philip Yancey. True confession—I adore Philip Yancey. He is a writer’s writer and his examination of the perplexing and intricate world of prayer, or as he calls it—keeping company with God — is my favorite. Yancey thoroughly examines the many aspects of prayer and while not himself a Catholic he draws upon the wisdom of favorite Catholic thinkers from Henri Nouwen to Mother Theresa to Thomas Merton as well as many others. Sprinkled throughout the book are poignant and sometimes heart wrenching stories of the power of prayer.
Memoir: The Power of the Powerless by Christopher De Vinck. On the heels of the anniversary of Roe v. Wade I can think of fewer unintentionally “pro-life” books than this beautiful tribute from the author to his brother Oliver who was born severely handicapped—blind, mute, crippled, helpless. Oliver lived for 33 years and De Vinck’s moving memoir illustrates the beauty and meaning of his brother’s life and the profound impact Oliver had on everyone who encountered him.
Fiction: Saint Maybe by Ann Tyler. Main character Ian, convinced he’s responsible for his brother’s suicide, embarks on a life shaped by his involvement with a church community he happens upon called The Church of the Second Chance. Through this compelling story Tyler explores the complexity of what it means to not only ask for God’s forgiveness but to forgive ourselves.
Poetry: Sinners Welcome by Mary Karr and Easter Vigil and Other Poems by Karol Wojtyla (Blessed John Paul II). Here’s a second true confession—I could have listed Mary Karr in every category as she is one of my all-time favorite authors. While she is most known for her memoirs (Liar’s Club, Lit) she is also a gifted poet. As a later in life convert to the Catholic faith, Karr weaves her own signature humor and stark honesty into beautiful verse. My second recommendation in celebration of Blessed John Paul II is a nod to a beautiful collection of poems gifted to me on the occasion of my Confirmation by my father. It’s a prized possession and a collection that reveals a different side of our late beloved pope.
Audio: Trumpet of the Swan read by author E.B. White. As a transplant to the area I take many long car trips to visit family and friends and one of our favorite things to do is to listen to audio books. Nothing compares to the rich baritone of E.B. White as he recites his own words. Though not as well-known as his signature work, Charlotte’s Web, this beloved children’s tale of spunky trumpet swan Louis won’t disappoint and reminds us of the importance of accepting those who are different as well as what it means to be resilient.
So this month whether you fire up your Kindle, curl up with an old-fashioned hardback or slip on your headphones I hope you are inspired and surprised by the themes of faith you may find in unexpected places.
January 2011
This news will not interrupt local broadcasting or send shockwaves through the diocese: I do not like to be cold. Chalk it up to a childhood spent in a large and drafty (though charming) turn-of-the-[last]-century home as well as years slogging through many Midwest winters to dutifully deliver newspapers. However, even as I wrap myself in layers and huddle around a steaming cup of hot cocoa in my quest to stay warm, there is one attribute of winter that I have come to appreciate more with each passing year: the stillness.
During the other seasons there is a kinetic energy to the day—one that beckons me outside for a hike or a trip to the beach. Not so in the winter. While I can be coaxed to enjoy a good day of sledding or ice skating the lower the temperatures drop the deeper I stay bundled under warm covers molding myself into the little corner of my couch.
During this time of year I indulge my love of reading. But the funny thing about “winter reading” is that for me I’m drawn to more thought-provoking topics leading me to more introspection at a time of year where I can be still and let the words wash over me and inspire me. These are the times while reading that I can pause, put the book down and just think. Be still in the stillness.
As I was contemplating my own list of books to dive into this winter I was reminded recently of the ancient practice of Lectio Divina, a contemplative praying of the Scriptures credited to St. Benedict. This slow, purposeful practice is a perfect complement to a wintery day made for snuggling because it, too, asks for the embrace of the silence in order to hear the voice of God.
There are four basic steps in the art of Lectio Divina: reading scripture, meditation, prayer and contemplation. And the common thread through each step is stillness. The art is not to rush but to be open to the voice of God who can sometimes whisper and it’s hard to hear a whisper if we’re plugged into our iPods or channel surfing through the white noise of television.
During this past Advent a group of co-workers gathered each morning to reflect on a scripture passage and meditation from a daily devotional booklet—a kinda-sorta group form of Lectio Divina. One of the day’s readings was from Luke 1:41-42 where Elizabeth, pregnant with John the Baptist, meets with Mary and “…the baby leaped in her womb.”
“Leaped” is the word that landed on me. I was immediately taken back to the fluttering and then sommersaults of my own babies and then what joy and excitement the very action “leaped” reflects. Who leaps? Ballerinas, excited sports fans, people in love. All these reflections streamed through my mind in just a few seconds and what I heard was God telling me that no matter what other things may be happening around us, there is joy in the world — what a treasure.
My wish for you in 2011 is that you carve time out in your own stillness to hear the voice of God alive in your life.
Happy New Year!
October 2010
I took inventory recently: green, black, pink, mother of pearl, brown wood and even glow-in-the-dark. This time I’m not talking about my eclectic collection of shoes but rather describing all my rosaries. Like many of us I remember receiving my first rosary (the pink one) as a gift commemorating my First Holy Communion.
However, my memories of the rosary go even further back to my days as a fidgety preschooler. Many times my nonna, while trying to be deeply attentive to the Mass despite my best efforts to distract her, would silently pass me this black little pouch that contained the most gorgeous sparkly glass beads and voila — I was mesmerized. I would bet that many of us have witnessed this very scene countless times — a child calmed by his or her fascination with—and by—the rosary.
During this month of October when we honor this age-old devotion to the Blessed Mother, I began to wonder more about the rosary’s history. So I did some digging.
And, of course, as is the case with many Catholic traditions and customs, there is some dispute about its origin. Most sources contend that in the twelfth century St. Dominic devised the rosary as we know it today and used it in his missionary work. Other sources date the origin back to the Middle Ages when monks counted on 150 prayer beads symbolizing the number of psalms in the Bible. In 1569 Pope Pius V officially established and standardized the rosary. And then later in the late 1800’s Pope Leo XIII, dubbed “The Rosary Pope,” wrote 12 encyclicals and five Apostolic Letters on the rosary and is responsible for introducing the custom of daily rosary recitation during October. In 2002, Pope John Paul II, in his Apostolic Letter, Rosarium Virginis Mariae, introduced the “Luminous Mysteries” to the rosary prayer which focus on the public ministry of Jesus Christ.
As somewhat of a trivia buff I am giddy over learning such facts. However, what struck me most during my research on the rosary is learning that its power continues to repeat itself even today. During the centuries this contemplative and meditative prayer has been credited with aiding soldiers going into battle; increasing religious vocations in families; and providing comfort to the afflicted. These examples continue today as we turn to Our Lady with our prayers and hope for her intercession.
During my research I stumbled upon this quote from the Italian Franciscan, St. Bernardine of Siena,
“You must know that when you ‘hail’ Mary, she immediately greets you! Don’t think that she is one of those rude women of whom there are so many — on the contrary, she is utterly courteous and pleasant. If you greet her, she will answer you right away and converse with you!”
This month I hope you find time, as I will try to do, to converse with Mary.
September 2010
Ok, I admit it. I enjoyed my share of guffaws and “tee hee hees” at the news coverage this past summer of the JetBlue flight attendant. For those who missed the media blitz, this veteran employee quit his job over the airplane’s loud speaker with a profanity-laced tirade and then proceeded to deploy the emergency slide before jumping to his grand exit. Having done my fair share of travel I can empathize with the increasing levels of rude behavior airline employees field. But when the media, and then average citizens, began labeling this person a “hero” my stomach began to turn. Really? This guy—a hero—for doing what? For throwing a ‘hissy fit’ as my grammy was fond of saying. A very public, very dangerous, hissy fit.
When did we become a culture that not only commends bad behavior but elevates and applauds it? So I began to ponder: Who are our real heroes?
How about our teachers whose dedication and drive is fueled more by passion than a paycheck. Or our priests who answer a life’s vocation that never actually goes on vacation. Or all the moms and dads who toil and sacrifice to provide for their families. Or our migrant farmworker brothers and sisters who perform more physical labor in a week than most of us will have to in a lifetime. Where is their sit-down with Larry King or multi-million dollar book deal?
Of course such notoriety afforded “JetBlue Man” doesn’t happen in a vacuum. We, as media consumers, enable it. But we don’t have to.
This fall would be a great time for all of us to redefine and recognize the true heroes among us. I’m certain we will discover many. One need only page through this edition to gather a few ideas: attending the diocesan Blue Mass on September 19th (cover); sending a new principal an encouraging note (p. 7); learning more about the work of Catholic Family Services (p. 7), and so many more. Is there someone in your parish who quietly serves others with little fanfare?
Jesus told us in his blueprint for living, the Beatitudes, that “the meek shall inherit the earth.” Very true, but while they’re on their way to inheritance a little recognition and encouragement would be nice as well.
July/August 2010
Since I was one of seven children, alone time with my mom was virtually unheard of with one exception. Every Thursday morning during the summer I excitedly accompanied Mom on the garage sale circuit around our small town. I can’t even remember why I was often the only tagalong — maybe it was because I was the only one awake on those lazy summer days returning home from a 7 a.m. swim team practice in time to jump in the car for our weekly treasure hunt.
Oh how we scoured those garage sales —surveying our neighbors castoffs in search of our own treasures. I can still recall fondly my most prized find— my metallic-gold, banana-seat bike complete with a front basket to hold my coveted Chrissy doll as I tooled around my small town.
While I cherish the memory of those times with my mom I must confess that I don’t go to garage sales now. I could say it’s because my schedule doesn’t allow such activity but the truth is, frankly, I just don’t need any more stuff.
More and more I find myself wanting and even needing less. Don’t get me wrong—I still have a closet full of shoes and more than enough clothes—but I try diligently to shed our extra belongings, routinely handing down my kids’ clothes to younger cousins and boxing up long-neglected but still usable household items for St. Vincent DePaul or Goodwill.
Through these small acts of “recycling” I derive more joy in sharing my goods than accumulating more, a notion reinforced by the popular Pixar movie, Toy Story 3. [Spoiler Alert—if you haven’t seen Toy Story 3 stop reading here, go see the movie, and then please come back and read the rest.]
Central character Andy is college-bound. After a fair amount of mayhem and shenanigans involving a band of Andy’s favorite toys, he is faced with the decision of discarding them or taking them all with him to college. He decides instead to donate all of them to a sweet little girl—the daughter of his former preschool teacher. At my favorite moment in the movie when Andy is “introducing” his toys to his new little friend his favorite pull-string cowboy, Woody, mistakenly makes his way into the “donate” box. As the little girl grabs for it, Andy instinctively grabs it back. But then Andy does something remarkable. After a short pause, he gives his treasure to the little girl.
And that’s the moment that made me blubber. As a mom of a college-bound son it wasn’t for all the obvious sentimental reasons. It was because in that moment Andy did the right thing. He had the character to complete a totally self-less act. He was forgoing the idea of ownership for the value of sharing. And as a mom who steps into a new chapter of parenthood I wonder as I send my “treasure” out into the world if all the years of mothering have taken hold.
“Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” [Mark 6:21]. Whether it’s an old sweater or even your eldest child we are called to share our treasures and not own them.
June 2010
When my daughter Olivia first started all-day kindergarten she had a hard time adjusting. After a blissful year of preschool, which was only a few hours a day, she graduated to all-day kindergarten and couldn’t understand why her school days had gotten longer.
“You forgot to pick me up” she said on that first day, melting my heart and igniting every nerve of motherly guilt. She had assumed she’d get picked up before lunch as she had before—not after lunch—or the nap—or the more afternoon classes.
Eventually though Olivia not only adapted—she grew to adore her teacher and love her new routine.
Like my precious daughter and many of you, I’ve experienced my share of changes over the years: moving from my hometown state to Michigan; changing jobs; I’ve even changed my hair color a few times [though my days as a blonde were short-lived and much-ridiculed.] Sometimes, almost too blithely, I approached the changes naively unaware of how difficult they may be to manage. But even when they were challenging—like being without a paycheck—there was always something exciting about the journey itself.
However, I do understand how a change in the familiar—the very things we hold sacred—can be un-nerving. I remember this vividly when I was a 2nd grade catechist, over a decade ago when my son was preparing for his First Communion. I started to teach the class the “Act of Contrition” that I’d learned when I was their age and they were very quick to perk up and say, “You’re doing it wrong Mrs. Cessna—it doesn’t go like that.”
Huh? When the heck did they change that? And why? And who’s “they”??
My parish at that time had adopted the “modern” version of the prayer—completely foreign to me. So, admittedly, after some grumbling, I learned the new prayer along with my charge of eager eight-year olds. And something wonderful happened along the way. I had a new perspective on the idea of “contrition.”
Within the coming months our Church will begin to prepare for the implementation of the third edition of the Roman Missal. There will be changes to the familiar that may be uncomfortable at first but all indications are that the language changes are intended to enhance our liturgical experience. This undertaking also allows us the opportunity to gain new perspective and insight on the Mass as well.
One of my favorite poets, William Blake, said, “The man who never alters his opinion is like standing water, and breeds reptiles of the mind. “
Yikes! I don’t know about you but I certainly would rather have a mind that is open to change than one that attracts reptiles.
Therefore, I eagerly await the journey to learning more about the revised Roman Missal. If for no other reason than I don’t want to be responsible for a plague of turtles descending upon us.
April 2010
“Mom—did you ever see the Thriller video?”“Hey Mom—you ever heard of this group called Queen?”
Lately my kids have been discovering pop music from the ‘80s and ‘90s and of course, Mom couldn’t have been cool enough to have heard about it.
In fact, I can still remember quite vividly sitting in my best friend Stephanie’s basement — the only friend of mine whose parents had cable—“back in the day” when MTV actually played — get this —music! How could I ever forget the big moment when our pre-teen hearts were eagerly awaiting the debut of the much-heralded Michael Jackson “Thriller” video. And as for Queen —it was the background music of many junior high moments.
The funny thing is that these are innocent questions my children have posed to me, eagerly awaiting my response so I too could share in their enthusiasm for their “new” found discovery. Even as they think of me as “old school” it’s fascinating to watch them discover the very “old school” things I also enjoyed as a kid and approach it with the same excitement.
Everything old is new again so the saying goes. In some ways—these “new” discoveries remind me of what happens quite often in my own faith life—happening upon something I’ve known for years but when I approach it in a different way it becomes “new” again.
This happened quite a bit to me this year while teaching 7th grade catechism. While studying Jesus and the Messianic prophecy my students were fascinated at many of the lessons I’ve known for years and had almost taken for granted as ordinary. Things like how Paul changed one letter in his name from Saul (of course, they thought that was hilarious, pretty much missing the significance of his transformation) and how Deuteronomy was a book in the Old Testament detailing the plight of the Israelites from slavery, not, as one of my young students thought “the study of dudes.”
In some ways my young students — so new in their Christian faith journey — are not so different from the early Christians who in their deep despair discovered the truth about Jesus. Mary Magdalene, who went to his tomb and saw that it was empty. The disciples, gathered in a room after Jesus’ death and He appeared in their midst. Even the man we know as “Doubting Thomas,” touching Jesus’ wounds to prove to himself that it was truly Jesus. Their discovery that Jesus was who He said He was became the driving force that built and sustained our faith for more than 2,000 years.
So the next time you may be tempted to think that Easter is just another holiday recall what Pope John Paul II said, “Do not abandon yourselves to despair. We are the Easter people and hallelujah is our song.”
Imagine if we approached every Easter as if we were experiencing it for the first time — the joy of the discovery that we are saved by God’s gift of His only Son.
Hallelujah!
March 2010
I love shoes. Purple. Floral. Suede. Leather. Hound’s-tooth. Open toe, closed toe, funky sneakers to high-heeled impractical boots. I love them all as they make their home in my closet which has yet to reach the proportions of the infamous Imelda Marcos, but is still bursting.
As I was reflecting on my annual custom of giving up something for Lent I thought about my love of footwear. Could I go 40 days without buying a new pair of shoes? And in fact, could I take this a step further and sacrifice buying anything unnecessary during the Lenten season? Those who follow my Lenten journey may remember that in recent years I have forgone my love of popcorn and my silly habit of monitoring frivolous celebrity gossip. This year I was inspired by a desire to focus on my needs versus my wants.
Maybe I’m just rebelling against the zillions of media messages trying to tell me I need more stuff in order to be happy. Or maybe it’s the haunting images from Haiti-not just the ones showing the devastation but the inspirational photos of joyful faces-smiling despite having so little. If a young child can be happy with a bottle of fresh water, why do I need another pair of shoes to be happy?
Lent—indeed, any “sacrifice” that is a part of our faith—is too often viewed as a negative, a burden, a struggle. Giving up some of your personal time to volunteer to help others. Giving up part of your income to support the ministries of the church. And of course, giving up something you like a lot for Lent like these adorable patent-leather red heels I saw at Macy’s.
But here’s the great catch: some of the greatest blessings we experience come when we get ourselves out of the way. It’s as if we need to “deny” ourselves what we think we need in order to make room for what we really need: a simpler life; the joy that comes from serving; a sense of independence in knowing we can live without buttered popcorn, People magazine or trendy footwear.
Throughout His ministry, Jesus called us to invest in others—visit the sick, feed the hungry, clothe the poor—not to accumulate more stuff. With this direction comes the blessing of focusing less on ourselves and more on others. The self-denial we take part in becomes self-affirming and, hopefully, even transforming. Isn’t that one of the beauties of Lent—opening ourselves up to the Lord’s grace to better our lives?
One less shoe at a time.
February 2010
The call went out to my group of friends. Gail needed our help. Recently separated from her husband with
two young kids in tow she was overwhelmed on how to keep up with the yard work that came with her two-acre country dream house. Within hours ten women ranging in age from 26-65 came armed with rakes and weedwackers, and most importantly, lots of chocolate. Less than a year earlier we hadn’t even known each
other but a women’s retreat held at our parish bonded us together as a
community.
I am reminded of this “drop everything and help” approach and on how ingrained it is as a part of our faith. Service is an integral part of our Catholic DNA. We don’t sit around and talk about it, we just do it. As a young child I remember plunking my pennies into my own cardboard Rice Bowl fascinated by the knowledge that a few cents a day would feed a family in a far away country. As a high schooler I joined with my peers to canvas neighborhoods for canned goods for our Catholic high school’s annual thanksgiving basket drive.
And
while my avid childhood Rice Bowl participation was motivated in part by sibling competition, and my high school service wasn’t all together altruistic as it was to conveniently hang out with the cute guy from science class, it left its mark on me as an adult the desire to help is still ingrained deep within me and is inseparable from my faith.
One of the many perks of visiting the parishes around the diocese is to witness the gleam in peoples’ eyes and the genuine pride as parishioners talk about their parishes’ outreach programs. The food pantry in Coldwater begun by St. Charles Borromeo and now a pride of the entire community; the thanksgiving baskets assembled and distributed at St. John’s in Albion that have increased in number over the last 25 years; the Sunday suppers offered at St. Philip’s in Battle Creek for anyone in the community; the fundraising spaghetti suppers at St. Cyril in Nashville to aid a seriously ailing toddler. And the list goes on and on.
As my heart shattered at the tragic devastation of Haiti it was also pieced back together through hope at the news of countless acts of selflessness and sacrifice: from rescue workers risking their own well-being to save lives to elementary school children digging in their own pockets for pennies to offer help. Reflecting on the often-quoted verse from Acts of the Apostles 20:35: ‘There is more happiness in giving than receiving’, in his 2003 Lenten message Pope John Paul II said, “The inclination to give is rooted in the depths of the human heart: every person is conscious of a desire to interact with others and everyone finds fulfillment in a free gift of self to others... When believers respond to the inner impulse to give themselves to others without expecting anything in return, they experience a profound interior satisfaction.”
A friend once said that perhaps one of the positive outcomes of natural disasters was the opportunity it provided for us all to do as Jesus commanded: love one another. Every day, in countless ways, many around our diocese are doing just that.
December 2009 /January 2010
I’m pretty good at waiting. I waited 17 years for my older sister to move out so I could finally have my own room—only to leave home less than a year for college but boy did I savor those months. Once I waited six hours on a plane stranded on the runway and used that opportunity to finish two novels. Those times of waiting weren’t too bad but admittedly there were the harder waits — like being with my son when he was only a year old and in the hospital with bronchitis and waiting by his bedside while he received breathing treatments. Or staying scrunched up on a little pullout chair in my daughter’s hospital room for three days after a bad fall left her with a fractured skull.
Waiting is good for me because it ultimately leads me to a place of calmness despite what’s going on around me. [Ok, maybe not during the 17 year wait for my own room but during the other definitely during the other times when I’ve had to wait.] To paraphrase the Serenity Prayer, I am able to slow myself down and let go of that which I don’t control and focus on that which I can. In most of my times of waiting I’m able to set my sights on the positive outcome ahead. That’s what allows us to endure the wait — the hope that something good is coming.
This ability to be calm as we wait is not a skill that comes naturally to us but something we learn from experience. As a child, waiting seemed like torture and no time of the year was harder to wait than during the days leading up to Christmas. Each day my brothers and sisters and I would hurriedly tear off the little paper window from the Advent calendar, fighting over the little chocolates and making elaborate guesses at what lay under the Christmas tree.
While I can admit to missing some of that childlike wonderment at the holiday, that wonderment has been replaced with something better — a richer understanding of the Advent season. We celebrate not just the birth of our Lord and Savior but also prepare and celebrate the time for His return. We hear the hope of a new life in Christ echoed in the readings at Mass and in the hymns and Christmas Carols.
And so during Advent, we wait. We hope. We know who arrived at Christmas. And even better, we know what’s yet to come.
