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Hearts and Treasures

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In my life, no day has ever been darker than January 27th of 1985.  That day, my big sister, whom I dearly loved, never woke up from her sleep.

Marianne and I were living in Rhode Island with our 10 month-old daughter, Rachel, when the awful news came.  Grief-stricken, we immediately drove to Massachusetts to be with my anguished mother.  Then, later that day – the details are forever fuzzy – my mother and I boarded a plane to Florida to be with my sister’s husband, Jimmy, and their three children.  It was a very long flight!

Christine was five years older than I, and I grew up under her tutelage.  Occasionally, she’d play a funny trick on her gullible little brother, but never with a hint of malice.  In fact, her natural goodness was unmistakable, and I always felt safe in her presence.

My sister taught me a great deal about kindness and selflessness through the example of her life.  And, even in death, she had one more lesson to share.

When we arrived in Florida, and especially when we walked through Christine’s front door, the pain of her absence was suffocating.  Her inscape was everywhere, but she was gone.  We embraced Jimmy and the children and collectively ached and wept!

Only a few weeks prior, Marianne, Rachel, and I had come for a surprise visit over Christmas.  I was an impoverished graduate student at the time, and my brother-in-law had paid for our airfare as a combined Christmas/birthday gift for his bride, who shared a birthday with Jesus.  We had arrived on December 21st, 1984.  (Keep that in mind.)

Jimmy picked us up at the airport and drove us to their home.  We entered quietly through the garage and sneaked up on Christine in her kitchen.  When she turned and saw us, her face lit up and her first words were: “Give me that baby!”  She had not yet met Rachel.  We stayed with Christine and her family until January 2nd, and it was a thoroughly joyous time.  A blessed time!

I believe that much can be known about a person by observing her/his treasures.  A verse from the Sermon on the Mount comes to mind.

“For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.” (Mt 6:21)

While in Florida that terrible second time, I found one of my sister’s treasures and gazed, just once more, into her wonderful heart.

Jimmy, knowing my sentimental side, invited me to go through some of Christine’s things and told me that I could keep anything I found that had special meaning for me.  His was a generous offer!

As I searched, I came upon her wallet.  Tucked inside were her license, some credit cards, family pictures, a few dollar bills, and a small folded piece of paper.  Curious, I pulled out the paper and unfolded it.  It was a simple sales receipt from a local store dated December 21st, 1984.  Christine had written on that receipt:  “This is the day that Steve, Marianne, and the baby came for a surprise visit.”

Treasures!

How I loved – and still love – my sister!

Dwelling

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One special evening, many years ago, found my daughter Rachel, perhaps 4 years old at the time, in an inquisitive frame of mind. In one sense, this was not unusual. Bedtime often seemed to inspire a rash of questions from the youngest Daltons – a clever tactic intended, no doubt, to delay the inevitable; but, that night was different.

After family prayers, story-time, and our bedtime song – a nightly ritual joyfully celebrated by all – Rachel and her little brother were safely tucked into bed. I kissed them both goodnight and was quietly leaving their room when the first question was posed.

“Daddy, does God really live in my heart?”

Since this was a concept we had spoken of a number of times before, I smiled and affirmed that it was indeed true.

Rachel paused thoughtfully and then followed-up with this: “When I die will I really be with God forever?”

Recognizing that this was not a time to rush away, I walked back and knelt by the side of her bed. I looked into her wondering eyes and assured her that this too was true.

She then became quiet for a few more fruitful seconds before asking me a question I will never forget.

“Daddy, does that mean that, when I die, I will live in my own heart forever?”

Honestly, I can’t recall how I answered my daughter that night because I was so taken by her thoughts/words.

Many times since, I have asked myself what it would be like to live in my own heart forever. Would it be a well-ordered and peaceful place? Would I find genuine joy there? How about hope? Faith? Goodness? Kindness? Mercy? Forgiveness? Gentleness? Understanding? Patience? Acceptance? Love?

Hmmm.

“Sightseeing”

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She was a wisp of a woman, greatly advanced in years, wrapped in a plain gray coat, and with a simple scarf covering her head.  She slipped into the building unnoticed, except by me.

I had never traveled internationally before and was spending my first full day in St. Petersburg, Russia.  Since the conference at which I was to speak would not begin until the next day, my host graciously proposed a driving tour of the magnificent city.  Along the way, we came to a Russian Orthodox Church, and our driver was instructed to stop so that I could see the beautiful icons therein.

As we entered, I was immediately captivated by the religious imagery all around me.  I walked from icon to icon drinking in the stories each piece told – familiar stories given new life by an artist’s hand.  In another part of the church, a wedding rehearsal was taking place; and, that too drew my attention as I considered the sacred covenant for which two young people were preparing.

At one point, the main door opened just enough to allow the old woman to enter.  I’m not sure why I felt drawn to watch her, but I did.  She crept along the wall purposefully, approaching a life-size icon of Jesus on the cross.  Once there, this frail woman, who had grown up amidst state-enforced atheism, who had survived Stalin’s murderous reign, who had endured the terrible blockade of her city by the Germans during World War II, and who – no doubt – dealt every day with crushing poverty, knelt and humbly kissed the feet of her Christ.  I was awestruck – and, honestly, a bit ashamed.

Since that day, I have visited many countries and seen many memorable sights.  None has ever moved me more.

“Thanks… Giving”

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(The names have been changed in this true story, below.)

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I once attended a weekday Mass at a Catholic parish where I was working at the time.  As I took a seat in the small side-chapel where daily Mass was typically celebrated, I quickly recognized the signs that this would be a funeral liturgy.  Honestly, I thought about leaving, but I finally decided to stay.  I will always be grateful that I did.

A few minutes after the Mass began, someone noisily entered the vestibule just to the left of the chapel.  Some persistent rustling sounds followed, and chagrined faces began turning to look for the cause of this disruption.  Suddenly, the door to the chapel swung open and a homeless woman, carrying her belongings in a few small bags, maneuvered her way inside.  There was a hush.

At first she just stood there, apparently sizing up the situation.  Then, she asked quite loudly: “Is this John’s funeral?”  The priest who was celebrating Mass informed her that it was indeed John’s funeral, to which she responded: “I have one thing to say!”  There was another hush, a bit more uneasy this time.  Had John offended her somehow?  Was an accusation forthcoming?  Her next words broke the awkward silence.  “He was the best cab driver in this city!”  And then she was quiet again.

Smiles began to appear.  The priest thanked the woman for sharing her sentiments and invited her to stay.  She declined, saying: “Nope.  I said what I needed to say.”  And she turned and left.

What a wonderful eulogy!  What a blessing for John’s family!  What an amazing way of thanks… giving!

“What the Heck”

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I’m by no means a poet. But, I wrote this one almost 40 years ago, and it has never left me. How do you like it?

—–
“What the Heck”

Something, somewhere, when it wasn’t where it was
Headed out for nowhere, and it didn’t give a cause
The welcome signs along the road made it want to check
Where it was and when it would arrive at “What the Heck”

It walked around for hours till it was all confused
Its were laughing carelessly, but it was not amused
Now it walked a few steps more, and it didn’t know it then
But its never ending journey was now about to end

How it did, or why it happened isn’t really known
But at “What the Heck” this wandering it found itself a home

“All Shall Be Well”

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“All shall be well. And, all shall be well. And, all manner of things shall be well.”

These eschatological words were spoken by Jesus to (and through) Julian of Norwich while she was engaged in mystical prayer. I hold them very close to my heart and find in them a definitive statement about God’s goodness and good intentions for the world.

We may quarrel, but all shall be well.

We may struggle, but all shall be well.

We may suffer, but all shall be well.

We may be so wrapped up in our own selfish pursuits that we miss God’s blessings in the moment, but all shall be well.

We may be discouraged and lonely, but all shall be well.

We may doubt, but all shall be well.

Life’s burdens may sometimes seem too heavy to bear, but all shall be well.

We may be divided ideologically, politically, and theologically, but all shall be well.

We may ache to find a deeper purpose in life, but all shall be well.

We may question our own ability to accomplish the tasks before us, but all shall be well.

We may be wilting under the judgment and criticism of others, but all shall be well.

We may be experiencing terrible grief, but all shall be well.

Ultimately, all manner of things shall be well.

“Grand-Parenting”

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When our daughter, Rachel, was expecting her first child, friends who were already veteran grandparents promised us that we were going to love the experience. “It’s all of the fun and none of the responsibility” was the typical refrain. Of course, there’s a degree of truth to that, but that doesn’t begin to tell the story.

For me, the genuine wonder of grand-parenting comes from perspective.

As a young parent, I was often so busy providing for my children and tending to their day-to-day needs that I failed to appreciate fully the transitory nature of their childhood. And then, too suddenly, they were grown.

As a young parent, I tended to idealize my children and to have unrealistically high hopes that they might avoid some of the mistakes and the pain that had colored my life. And then, I watched them struggle.

As a young parent, I worked hard to protect my children from harm. And then, I saw them suffer.

Today, when I gaze into the eyes of my grandchildren, I understand that the huge place I now occupy in their worldview will necessarily (and rightly) diminish over time. So, I gaze more intently.

When I read or tell a story to my grandchildren, I understand that the narrative of their lives will, far too soon, become more complex and cloudy. So, first, I try not to rush; and, I emphasize (and relish with them) the simple wisdom the stories seek to convey.

While playing with my grandchildren, I really try to “play.”

And, when I hear my grandchildren cry, I sometimes cry too.

“Corporations Move On”

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Not too long ago, I visited the website of one of my former employers. I spent nearly twelve years of my life with that organization as a member of the management team; and, I hope that I made some small contributions during that time.

While on the website, just out of curiosity, I searched under my name and found just two rather obscure references. I had to smile.

I don’t say this to indict my former employer. In fact, I still believe it to be a very noble company, one that I am proud to have served.

I guess my point is that corporations move on. As much as we’d like to think of ourselves as irreplaceable in our jobs, it really isn’t true.

So, what lesson do I take from this?

Honestly, it’s the people that matter.

I may be a distant memory to the “organization,” but there are still people from that organization whom I consider very dear friends.

By all means, work hard for your employer; but, take special care of the people you meet on the job.

Memories are made of this!

“Dementia’s Curious Lesson”

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Loving someone stricken with dementia is a curious journey. The disease not only robs a person of precious memories, but it also can tear down some of the afflicted person’s personal boundaries.

A few months ago, I was visiting my Mom in the nursing home, and we were having a nice chat about family matters. I mentioned that her ninth great-grandchild would soon be born, and she smiled.

“Really? Who is having a baby?” she asked.

I told her that her granddaughter, Sarah, Christine’s daughter, would soon be having her first child. Her expression changed when Christine’s name was mentioned.

“She’s gone, isn’t she?” she asked.

We talked a bit about Christine’s short life and, in an attempt to console my Mom, I mentioned that she would be reunited with Chris in heaven. Then, something unexpected happened.

My Mom not only gave me the gift of life, she also passed along her strong Catholic faith. Many factors/voices have contributed to my faith formation, but I first learned of God’s great love sitting on my mother’s knee.

Even during family crises, my Mom’s faith was always an anchor. She was a daily communicant, a woman of prayer, and, for many people, an instrument of God’s mercy and love. In fact, even in her diminished capacity, she continues to minister – through tenderness and contagious joy – to her fellow residents in the nursing home today.

“Do you think it’s true?” she asked (about heaven). “You know, when you’re in your eighties…” and her voice trailed off.

I couldn’t believe it! For the first time in my life, I heard my Mom express doubt about God and God’s promises. Dementia made that possible.

Though we may be guarded in sharing our personal struggles in this area, doubt is always a part of the life of faith. In fact, I have discovered that it is precisely my doubts that draw me further along the journey, that cause me to seek answers to some of life’s – and faith’s – deepest questions.

“I believe; help my unbelief.” (Mark 9:24) With these brutally honest words, a desperate father cried out to Jesus on behalf of his afflicted child. His words could also be my words every day of my life. And now, I have my mentor’s (i.e., my Mom’s) example to let me know that it’s okay to voice that very human struggle. Again, dementia made that possible.

I looked at my Mom and encouraged her to hold fast to what she has treasured her whole life. Now, it is my turn to minister.

“Salieri”

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In the 1984 movie Amadeus, composer Antonio Salieri is (fictionally?) depicted as being insanely jealous of Mozart’s remarkable talent. Gradually, he descends into actual madness; and, in one compelling scene, he throws a crucifix in the fireplace in rage and despair. He had wanted to glorify God with his music; but, in the shadow of Mozart, he felt the terrible sting – rooted in pride – of being a lesser talent. It is truly tragic.

I feel sympathy for Salieri.

Many times, I have wanted to express something I was feeling in words, but the words won’t come. Many times, I have marveled at someone or something but have found myself incapable of conveying the height, depth, and breadth of my experience.

One idea that I treasure about heaven is that it will bring transcendence of our all-too-human limits. We will love and be loved perfectly. We will know and be known perfectly. We will understand and be understood… perfectly.

And our song(s), now playing obscurely in our souls, will give perfect glory to God and bring perfect satisfaction to us.

All shall be well!