Tag Archives: faith

“Icons” of Hope and Encouragement

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In 1997, when Fred Rogers (Mr. Rogers) received an Emmy Award for his Lifetime Achievement in children’s television, his acceptance speech famously included an exercise, during which he invited audience members to spend just 10 seconds calling to mind people who had made a difference in their lives, who had helped them become who they are. Reportedly, that short reflection proved marvelously rich for those in attendance, many of whom were left misty-eyed by the experience.

While I wasn’t present for that award ceremony, I have viewed the video capturing that special moment multiple times, and it easily brings me to tears as well. When I take the time, even just the recommended 10 seconds, my mind can easily summon the faces of many good people, “icons,” if you will, of hope and encouragement, who have aided me along life’s path. Some are faces I would fully expect — family members, close friends, etc. — but others are faces of people whose lives only intersected with mine for a short period of time, yet their influence undeniably remains.

In the spirit of Mr. Rogers’ exercise, please allow me to introduce three such people, who have helped to make me the person I am today.

—

Jimmy, the Ice Cream Man

When I think of Jimmy, even after these many years, my heart smiles. He is someone from my childhood, who I knew virtually nothing about, except for the fact that his truck would turn the corner onto our street at roughly the same time every summer evening. He would then sound his familiar bell while pulling over to the right side of the road. The children of our neighborhood, myself included, would always be ready for him, clutching the coins our parents had given us, watching and listening together.

Jimmy was a heavy-set man, who moved slowly within the tight confines of his mobile ice cream shop. He was never unfriendly, but he spoke sparingly to his young customers, often soliciting each next order by a quick nod of the head.

He had an olive complexion, thick hands, slightly bulging eyes, and a round face that toggled between a smile and a smirk — a face that remains vividly accessible to me even today.

Yes, Jimmy served us creamsicles, strawberry shortcakes, fudge pops, and a variety of Italian ices, but those were not his only wares. Perhaps unbeknownst to him, Jimmy also served us innocent fun on a stick or in a cup. He served us a predictable rhythm in our young lives, an experience of shared expectation and joy. He brought us together on a common quest and helped to shape those blessedly simple summer evenings that bonded us in friendship.

Though Jimmy visited our neighborhood for the final time decades ago, he often still turns that corner and rings his bell in my cherished memories.

—-

Sister Mary Ann Follmar

“Follmar anxiety” cannot be found in the DSM-5, but it felt very real to my friend Liz and me when we were graduate students together in Sr. Mary Ann Follmar’s classes at Providence College. The faux ailment was a comical label Liz and I attached to our stressed-out frame(s) of mind when charged with writing research papers for our remarkable professor.

Holiness is not a measurable commodity, but when one is in the presence of a truly holy person, it is certainly discernible. I’m not referring here to an aura that sometimes accompanies celebrity. Instead, I’m speaking about an otherworldly quality that can be difficult to describe.

Christian theology asserts that God is holiness itself. In this view, God is perfectly pure and thus separated from all that is sinful. For a person to be holy, therefore, is for that person to manifest God-like qualities, i.e., to be similarly — though imperfectly — separated from sinfulness. I believe this quality of separateness is what people intuit when in the presence of a holy person.

Sr. Mary Ann exhibited such separateness, perhaps more strongly than anyone else I have ever encountered; however, rather than making her seem distant or unreal, the separateness manifested as deep joy and peace and thus acted as a powerfully attractive force. It was not unusual, for example, to find students gathered around Sr. Mary Ann at her desk before or after a class or even in the dining hall. She was also known to invite groups of students to her apartment for prayer, and many enthusiastically accepted.

Though known as Sister Mary Ann, she was not a nun; rather, she was a consecrated virgin in the Dominican tradition, who lived alone and spent several hours each day in Eucharistic adoration. The fruit of her devotion was powerfully evident.

Though she had no immediate family of her own in Providence, she took absolute delight in children, including our first child, Rachel, who was only four months old when I started my degree program. Sr. Mary Ann would positively beam in Rachel’s presence and was always eager to hold her, even if Rachel was having a fussy episode.

When my sister Christine passed away early in the spring semester of 1985, Sr. Mary Ann traveled with another of my professors, Fr. Giles Dimock, O.P., from Rhode Island to our hometown just outside of Boston for Christine’s funeral. Her (and Fr. Giles’) presence and support at that acutely vulnerable time meant a very great deal to me.

Sr. Mary Ann’s influence, in the classroom and (especially) through the witness of her beautiful life, made holiness seem possible for her students, including me. I doubt that spirituality would hold the same treasured place in my life if not for her. I will be forever grateful.

—-

Theodore “Ted” Vrettos

Ted Vrettos had a “yes” face that could easily transition into a mischievous grin. His laid-back classroom style put his students at ease and helped create a safe forum for creative expression.

I first met Ted when I enrolled in his basic Creative Writing class at Salem State College in the late 1970s. I had no idea at the time how much richer my life would be because of that encounter.

An endearing man, Ted was about 60 years old and an accomplished writer when I became his student. Thinking back, I struggle to recall anything that Ted actually taught me about the craft of creative writing. He did, however, do two things that I consider far more important. He encouraged my discipline as a writer, at least for as long as I was in his classes; and, he helped me to find and shape my writer’s voice.

I believe I took three classes in all with Ted and then finished up by participating in his summer writer’s conference in 1980. Beginning with my second class and continuing right through the writer’s conference, I was part of a committed group of Ted’s students, who took creative writing seriously and became very good friends. Four of them remain my close friends today, some 45+ years later. And, most of us continue to write.

In Ted’s classes, the desks in the room were always arranged in a circle. Ted would enter with his briefcase and assume his place at one of the desks in the front of the class. If he had given an assignment, he would begin there, but most of the time he would simply invite anyone with a newly written piece to read it aloud so that he and the class could critique it. The experience could be exhilarating, unnerving, even embarrassing, but we willingly subjected ourselves to the process because our desire was so strong.

A couple of years after graduation, someone from our group had the idea that we should get together again informally with Ted. My wife and I offered to host, and I reached out to Ted to see if he would consider joining us. He quickly agreed to come and asked if his wife Vas could also join in. In preparation, several of us, including me, wrote new stories to read to the group.

When the night came, we broke bread together, socialized for a while, and then fell back into our familiar pattern of sharing and critiquing. It was wonderful.

I saw Ted two more times in the early 1990s. First, I dropped by his house to invite him to come and speak at a Library Week program that would take place in the public library where I began my career. He was warm and welcoming as usual, and Vas prepared me a delicious lunch. He also agreed to come.

Our final encounter was a few weeks later at our Library Week program. Ted shared about his published books on the topic of Lord Elgin and his controversial removal of the Parthenon Marbles in the early years of the 19th century. He spoke eloquently, and the audience was very engaged. So, I was delighted with the program; but, I was sad to see it end. I sensed that my old mentor and I might never cross paths again after that night. That proved to be the case.

—-

At the end of December, I will be retiring from Boston College. It was not an easy decision because I genuinely love my job. Still, it’s time.

Being both naturally introspective and quite sentimental, I find myself in a reminiscing mood as the final days of my career tick by. Curiously, I’m not thinking at all about achievements through the years. They may have once been quite important, but their significance fades with time. Instead, my mind is occupied by the wonderful people I’ve been blessed to meet, work with, and serve during my career. It’s really all about them… and you.

“Jimmy, the ice cream man,” Sr. Mary Ann Follmar, and Ted Vrettos are all gone today.

I wish I’d had a final chance to say, “good-bye,” and to tell them how important they were (and are) to me.

I wish I had let them know that I love them.

—-

If you have been a part of my life, my work, or both, whenever I reserve 10 seconds (or more) to consider my helpers, your face may come to mind as one of my “icons.” Thank you! 

And, just so you know, I love you too!

Holy Ground

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“… put off your shoes from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground.” (Exodus 3:5b RSVCE)

_

Just imagining the scene conjures up a swirl of emotions.

Her plot was hatched even as she watched the workers pour the thick mixture into the square form and smooth it with a trowel. She knew this much, the job to be done must be carried out in secret.

As afternoon yielded to early evening, while her Mom was occupied with preparing dinner, she sensed her opportunity. Clutching the popsicle stick she’d retrieved from her toy box, the wispy young girl slipped out the front door and crept purposefully toward the still-damp concrete. The naughtiness of her intention was unfamiliar but somehow exhilarating.

She glanced in all directions before moving aside one of the orange cones and kneeling next to her target. She would employ a light touch…

—

I once had the grand opportunity to visit the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg, Russia. As I moved slowly from gallery to gallery, viewing works of art by many of history’s great masters, including Rembrandt’s “The Return of the Prodigal Son,” I was spellbound. I also found myself oddly preoccupied by two things: 1.) the realization that each of these treasures began as a blank canvas and later became a masterpiece; and, 2.) a fascination with the various artists’ signatures.

Not all artists choose to sign their work. Some, however, make the distinctiveness of their signature a true part of their artistry.

—

Our granddaughter Therese, known affectionately to friends and family as T, has a flair for art that was evident quite early in her life. Though never one to draw attention to herself, Therese clearly understands the value of a distinctive signature. 

When she was thirteen, Therese was commissioned by her Gramma (my wife, Marianne) to produce a painting of a bird. When we received the finished work, I noticed for the first time the uniqueness of Therese’s signature. Note the period (.) before rather than after the capital T.

—

I once heard a conference speaker compare the experience of viewing a great painting by one of the masters to viewing a digital reproduction of the same painting. He admitted that the reproduction would lack the original’s capacity to inspire awe. He went on to say, however, that the digital reproduction should not be easily dismissed since advancements in digital photography now afford us the chance to study great paintings even at the brushstroke level.

I wonder how many thousands of brushstrokes Rembrandt used when painting “The Return of the Prodigal Son.” And, I wonder how many Therese used in creating her early masterpiece.

—

I still live in the small town where I was born and grew up. Its streets, neighborhoods, and even many of its residents are well known to me. It is, after all, home, and my roots run deep.

Maybe it’s characteristic of my age, but when I take walks today on these oh-so familiar streets, what had originally been intended as cardio exercise often becomes instead a mobile meditation through space/place and time. Memories are easily triggered. I also seem to notice things – or, more precisely, the significance of things – I have somehow missed before.

Locally, the practice seems to have ceased; however, for many years, the companies responsible for creating sidewalks in our town actually signed their work by embedding a small company plaque in the freshly poured concrete.

On a recent walk, I saw this:

What captured my attention was the date on the plaque, 1928. My father and mother, who also grew up in this town, were born in 1925 and 1926 respectively. So, they were toddlers when this sidewalk was created; and, since our town spans only 1.5 square miles, they had almost certainly walked on this very same sidewalk when they were children, adolescents, young adults, etc.

In a stunning moment of awareness, I sensed that a part of each of their stories had played out right here decades before. I suddenly felt a closeness to my parents that warmed my heart. Perhaps they had even walked by here together when their love was new and still enchanting. If so, I like to imagine that they were holding hands.

While caught up in this rumination, it dawned on me that F. J. McQueeney had, rather distinctively, signed a blank (concrete) canvas in 1928. Thereafter, it would be up to countless “artists,” over many generations, to finish the masterpiece.

All of the moments of all the lives lived atop McQueeney’s work were the brushstrokes.

—

I keep a soft, squishy ball that’s about the size of a softball atop the bureau in my bedroom. Most of the time, I pass by without even noticing it. Other times, however, it will catch my eye, and I’ll pick it up, squeeze it gently between both hands, and feel its inscape in my heart.

There’s a history with that ball that can’t be seen but can yet be deeply experienced, at least by a sentimental grandfather. Borrowing a concept from my favorite children’s book, The Velveteen Rabbit, that ball has become “real.” My grandson Joseph made it so. (But, that’s another story.)

—

I now see that McQueeney’s sidewalk is likewise “real.” All of us who have traveled its firm path have made it so  – and continue to make it so.

Consider, if you will…

Boys, in 1956, pitching their baseball cards toward the small retaining wall on the far side of the sidewalk – brushstroke

A brother and sister, in 1933, drawing a marvelously imperfect hopscotch grid in front of their home – brushstroke

An elderly woman, in 1962, slipping and falling on an untreated icy patch, thus beginning a steady decline in her health – (a tragic) brushstroke

A committed jogger, in 1978, stopping to check the intricate tread on her running shoes after accidentally stepping in something unpleasant – (a smelly) brushstroke

A father, in 1989, teaching his 6 year-old how to ride a bike and letting go at just the right time (even though he’d sort-of promised he wouldn’t) – brushstroke

A lovely bride, in 1994, leaving her childhood home and climbing into the limousine that would whisk her to the church and to a new life – brushstroke

A 47 year-old heart attack victim, in 2006, being wheeled from his home to a waiting ambulance with his nervous wife at his side – brushstroke

And so on…

—

After countless other brushstrokes, my late sister’s name in that sidewalk panel has faded over time. Truthfully, it was barely discernible from the start. Perhaps she really did deliberately employ a light touch, or, the concrete had already hardened to the point that making a deeper impression was just too difficult.

When I pass that way, I’ll often stop to study the spot. I know exactly where her name had been literally etched in stone, but the clarity of “Christine” is no more. That realization brings me sadness. Still, its gradual fading, while disappointing to her younger brother, may be appropriate.

Perhaps our brushstrokes are meant to fade. Then again, perhaps they don’t fade at all. They simply become invisibly “real” by blending with countless other brushstrokes that paint the human story.

Christine’s name and her memory have now become part of that sidewalk panel’s inscape, brushstrokes of a collective masterpiece.

—-

Tread lightly on the sidewalks in your life, for they are truly holy ground.

Thank you, F.J. McQueeney.

“… and I wish we could be friends.”

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Author’s note: 

Composing this essay, which deals with the healing of a tragically fractured family relationship, has confronted me with a dilemma. How much personal information is necessary to disclose in order to tell the story? After anguishing over this question, I have ultimately decided to adopt a minimalist approach.

Most readers, I dare say, have suffered through broken relationships that they wish could be repaired and restored. The specific details of the rift, while perhaps a curiosity, are not of paramount importance. Rather, it is the path to forgiveness and reconciliation that is the “good news.”

So, while what follows is admittedly incomplete, I will try to do my noble topic justice.

_____

My mother glanced warily at the bustling crowd just ahead of us on the platform. “Hold tight to your brother’s hand, Stephen,” she cautioned. “And give me yours too.”

As I followed her into the throng, the inevitable jostling began. Try as I might to fulfill my charge, the bumping and pushing ultimately got the better of me.

“Ma!” I cried out as I felt David’s fingers slipping from my grip. Turning around, with raw panic in my heart, I realized that my little brother was nowhere in sight.

_____

Mercifully, we found David rather quickly that day; and, the relief I felt when his hand was safely back in mine was almost otherworldly. Only much later would I come to see that blessed childhood moment as a harbinger of a far deeper reconciliation awaiting our older selves.

_____

The Bible is rife with tales of conflict between brothers. The “prodigal son” and his resentful older brother are characters in one of Jesus’ best known parables. The birthright struggle between Jacob and Esau, the shocking cruelty visited upon Joseph by his brothers, and the struggle for the throne between Adonijah and Solomon are other notable examples. How deep are these fetid roots? Well, the story of Cain and Abel might lead us to conclude that fraternal strife is as old as humanity itself.

Sadly, David and I fell readily into that familiar destructive pattern.

_____

My brother, who passed away at age 61 in September of last year, lived a life that I understood poorly since it was so very different from my own. We grew up in an alcoholic household and both of us gradually adopted blended roles within our dysfunctional family system. I became the hero/rescuer and David the scapegoat/acting out child. Rivalry proved inevitable.

The dynamic between our parents was a further complication. By the time David and I reached adolescence, our mother had all but given up on her husband exercising a fatherly influence in her sons’ lives. Her solution was for me to become a father figure in David’s life, even though I was less than three years older than my brother and definitely not equipped for the task. I tried to fulfill my mother’s expectations by assuming authority in David’s life, but it only resulted in his deepening resentment and distrust.

_____

In many respects, David seems not to have had a fair chance at life. Our father, who was prone to angry outbursts when intoxicated, once looked his younger son in the eyes and flatly told him: “You were a mistake!”

The damage inflicted by such a declaration, especially when spoken by one’s own father, is incomprehensible. Not surprisingly, David bore the weight of those awful words for the remainder of his life.

At the age of twelve, David was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes, a condition that made him insulin dependent and left him feeling “different” from his peers. A year or so later, his sense of difference was further magnified by the growing realization that he was gay. Today, at least in some quarters, such an awareness would be met appropriately with love and acceptance, but this was the early 1970s.

My brother suffered for who he was all those years ago, and he coped by retreating into behaviors that put him at heightened risk. I sincerely loved him; however, in my ignorance and immaturity, I kept trying to redirect his life rather than simply being a supportive big brother. The result was alienation that seemed insuperable.

_____

David’s adult years brought further challenges – mental illness, disability, codependency, erratic personal care of his diabetes, and persistent substance abuse. Though my grasp of his struggles matured with time, we eventually reached a point where holding a simple conversation became virtually impossible.

The deathblow came when, with the full support of David’s psychiatric team at a Boston hospital, it became necessary for me to take a tough-love stance with my brother. For the next decade, David embarked on a campaign to harass and publicly discredit me. I wrote about that dismal period in my essay titled “Waiting for God.”

_____

David was by no means an evil person. In fact, he had deep faith and a terrific capacity to love and forgive; but, I was his relational kryptonite.

Part of his brokenness was an inability to distinguish feelings from facts. He often acted out of his emotions, which had been horribly scarred. I see that now. He also seemed to need a villain, someone he could identify as the root of his distress.

Knowing my faith and my long history of involvement in the Church, he dubbed me the “Preacher of Death.” (Enter villain, stage left.)

_____

On the night our mother was actively dying, I summoned my courage and called David to give him an update on her condition. As soon as he heard my voice, he erupted in rage and then hung up. A bit later on, I called him again to let him know that our mother had passed. I quickly conveyed the terrible news so as to be sure that he would hear me. Again, he flew into a tirade before hanging up abruptly. That may have been our lowest point as brothers.

_____

Through the years, I continued to reach out to David, but the result was always the same, utter hostility. I came to dread the sound of his voice while still wishing things could be different between us.

I petitioned God about my brother countless times with no result. Exasperated, and to guard my own sanity, I finally determined to cut myself off entirely from David. I told God as much; but, even as the words left my lips, I could sense the Healer had other intentions. Shortly thereafter, this thought came to me. If our voices are triggers, perhaps we could communicate another way – via texting.

I felt great peace about this plan. I resolved to write to my brother and simply say: “I love you, David, and I wish we could be friends.” If he responded angrily, which I absolutely expected, I would only respond with the same message: “I love you, David, and I wish we could be friends.”

I hit the send button the first time with trepidation. Although frightened by what lay ahead, the volleying had now begun. I don’t recall how many times David responded with anger; but, as I continued to extend my text-based olive branch, his tone slowly softened. When it became apparent that taking our communication to the next step was finally possible, I began folding in small talk, but I always ended our back and forth correspondences with the words: “I love you.”

Then, he began doing the same!

_____

In my opinion, the word “miracle” is tossed around far too easily. Still, even the skeptic in me sees God’s hands (and heart) all over this reconciliation. Further evidence can be found in the timing.

Just a few months after David and I finally began living our vocation as loving brothers, he received the awful news that he would need to have part of his leg amputated due to an aggressive infection in his foot and ankle. Diabetes! We were able to walk through that experience together. And, the former “Preacher of Death” even served as David’s power of attorney and healthcare proxy.

_____

David’s final months were spent in a nursing facility. We spoke frequently, sometimes multiple times a day, and I visited with him at least once a week, usually bringing one of his favorite snacks and/or a cup of Americano coffee.

We often spoke of our childhood, sharing fond memories of events and people and looking through family photographs. It was such a blessing!

One day, mindful that we’d never really had a chance to speak with one another about the loss of our mother, I asked David if he would like me to read him my essay that recounts the events leading to her death. He said that he would like that very much and listened attentively as I read “My Mother’s Hands” aloud. Afterward, with tears in his eyes, he told me that the essay was beautiful. That meant the world to me.

_____

Before closing, I would like to share just a couple of details about David that I believe reveal something about his heart.

Our mother eventually remarried after divorcing our father. Her new husband, Earl, was a very good man, but he and David struggled to get along. Earl’s impatience with David was quite evident; and, since they lived in the same small apartment, the tension between them could be palpable.

Toward the end of his life, Earl was in hospice care at home and was very weak. When he reached the point where he needed help to get from his bed to the bathroom, there was David with his arm around Earl, supporting him all the way.

When David himself was in hospice, he looked forward to visits from the chaplain, a Catholic priest, who always brought David the Eucharist. Once he had received the Sacrament, he would often call me to say: “I just received Holy Communion and want to share the blessing. The peace of the Lord be with you.”

_____

On the eve of David’s death, I was privileged to sit by his bedside, (once again) holding his hand. My little brother was safely in sight, and both of us were at peace.

A Thought I Cherish…

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The Catholic Church teaches, and I gratefully accept, that God has perfect foreknowledge. Simply put, God doesn’t have new ideas; and, that truth has enormous implications for each one of us. It means that, although we were conceived and later born on particular dates in history, we have always been in the mind, heart, and plan of God.

God has always known your name, your face, your strengths and weaknesses, your favorite color, your most cherished memories, the things that move your heart, and the things that make you cry. God sees your loneliness and insecurities. God hears your voice raised in prayer. God sees your fist raised in anger and frustration… and understands.

You have always been, and will always be, God’s beloved. You are never completely alone.

You are not an accident or a mistake! In fact, you are God’s good and eternal idea!

May I Take Your Order?

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In the early years of our marriage, going out to dinner was a really big deal for Marianne and me because funds were so scarce at that time. These days, we typically dine out once a week as an established “date night” tradition; and, while we deliberately avoid the higher end (i.e., more expensive) restaurants, we also never really worry about paying the tab.

After a recent meal, as we were waiting for our check, an embarrassing memory came to mind. We were a young and still childless couple, and we had finally saved up enough money to treat ourselves to dinner out. I recommended that we try a restaurant my first family used to patronize when I was a boy. I remembered really liking their Italian dishes and looked forward to savoring one of my childhood favorites once again.

When we arrived, I noticed immediately that the restaurant had a new name; and, that was not the only thing that had changed. We were seated and handed menus, and our server told us that she would be back in a few minutes to take our order. When we looked at our choices – and their cost – our hearts sank. We didn’t have nearly enough money.

When our server came back, I explained that we had come there so that I could introduce my wife to one of my favorite childhood restaurants, and we’d not been prepared for the change in ownership and accompanying changes to the menu. In fact, I pointed out, my favorite childhood dish was no longer offered. We were told that the chef could make that dish as a special order, but I protested that it just wouldn’t be the same.

At that point, I think our server perceived what was happening, and she said: “I understand sir.” We thanked her for her kindness, gathered our things, and left. Perhaps it was my imagination, but it felt as though the other diners were staring at us as we exited, that they were somehow in on our shame.

Of course, I felt awful at the time, but now I am honestly grateful for the memory. Part of married life is walking through hardship together. Somehow, “date night” dinners are tastier and more meaningful now because we couldn’t afford that long-ago meal.

As I look across the table, that same beautiful woman is still my companion, for richer or poorer. We are so very blessed.

Gum Balls

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The little boy’s excitement was palpable. He bolted from his mother’s side and approached the array of gum ball machines at full tilt before braking abruptly just inches from the display. He studied his choices with wonderment, running his hand slowly over the glass as if some Divine guidance was forthcoming through his fingertips.

I studied him as discreetly as possible from my place in the checkout line. I remembered that feeling from many years past… and smiled.

But something else held my attention. The child’s face was badly scarred, no doubt from severe burns. He was also missing part of an arm below the elbow.

I couldn’t squelch the sadness that came over me in a wave. I thought about how hard it is to be different, how cruel and superficial the world can be. I wondered about his future and the courage and character he would need to survive. I hoped he would know unconditional love, acceptance (from others and from himself), tenderness, peace.

I knew that I would likely never see this child again; and, though my heart was deeply moved, I really had no right to project about his future. Almost certainly there would be struggles, but I also believe in grace, amazing grace.

Whatever the years ahead might bring, for that blessed moment, he was just a little boy in front of some gum ball machines, his heart racing as he considered where to insert his precious coin.

Some of My Best Friends Are…

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Preamble: 

What follows is an essay that has been stirring within me for some time. I have discussed a few of the thoughts expressed below with friends, but I have never had the courage – or, perhaps, the humility – to commit them to writing. This reflection deals with aspects of human sexuality, a topic that somehow remains perplexing for me even after sixty-three years of life and nearly forty years of marriage.

I wish to make it clear from the start that I do not write as a teacher of Catholic morality. Further, I make no claim to be a theologian, philosopher, or anthropologist. What follows are simply the ruminations of a man with faith, who has stumbled more times than he cares to admit in the sexual arena, and who also happens to be a husband, father, and grandfather within a beautiful, complex family.

Why tackle this topic now? I could rightly claim that I am motivated by prayer since the matter arises often in quiet moments with God; however, the deeper truth is that I write this especially for my youngest child, Matthew, who shall always be welcome in my heart and at my table.

By the way, two related stories are quite deliberately interwoven below. I hope the narrative won’t be too difficult to follow.

—– —– —–

When our youngest child, Matthew (Matt), was a toddler, he had a stuffed Pinocchio toy that he really loved. At bedtime, I would sit on the edge of his bed, assume my silliest Pinocchio voice, and bring the puppet/boy to life. It was a ritual we both thoroughly enjoyed.

Just before turning out the light, Pinocchio would always mischievously say:

“Good night.

Sleep tight.

Don’t forget to write.

Be careful, I might bite.”

Then, after a pretend chomp on Matt’s belly…

“You weren’t careful.” (Delighted laughter!)

—–

It happened nonchalantly. My wife Marianne and I were watching a movie on the loveseat in our den when she suddenly pivoted, lifted her legs, and draped them over my lap. All the while, her eyes never left the screen.

It was not an overtly sexual act; still, it was quite intimate. There was no hesitation, no concern that I might not want her legs restricting my movement, no worry that her feet might smell after a long day at work.

I glanced down and instinctively began massaging her calves, but my mind was racing elsewhere. I was caught up in marveling at how far we had come, at how fruitful our difficult journey ultimately had proven to be.

—–

Matt was a child of firsts: the first to keep us waiting, a full two weeks beyond his predicted delivery date; the first who, thanks to meconium aspiration syndrome, remained in the hospital for several days after birth before he could safely come home; the first whose skin assumed an orange tint due to his seemingly insatiable appetite for carrots and sweet potatoes.

Other firsts would follow years later: the first to try smoking; the first to dye his hair; the first to get a tattoo.

Being Matt’s Dad has not always been an easy proposition. He is the most temperamental of our three children and the one who has always seemed most willing to push boundaries. When he reads this essay, as I know he will, I suspect he may recall some specific examples. (Right, son?)

Matt is a talented musician and artist. He is highly creative, strong-willed, tender-hearted, and very passionate about causes and people he believes in. He is a devoted son, brother, and friend, and he has the gift of genuineness that can be both charming and a bit in-your-face.

On parent-teacher day, I recall his kindergarten teacher raving about his people skills and his tendency to coordinate social activities among his classmates. We were not surprised.

Growing up, Matt had a sincere faith in God. He was an altar boy in our parish, attended youth retreats, and enthusiastically entered into daily family prayers. In fact, one of the sweetest memories Marianne and I have of Matt’s childhood is when he would summon his older sister and brother to gather for prayer by calling out: “Guys, it’s time for we’re prayers.”

—–

Marianne is an incest survivor. Her rapist was a trusted uncle, who began molesting her when she was only ten years old. His violations continued until Marianne was sixteen, when she rose up in her own defense and finally ended the horrific abuse. We didn’t know each other at the time, but I am so very proud of her courage.

Of course, I have Marianne’s permission to mention her ordeal here. Otherwise, I would never have brought it up. I will provide no further details except to say that such a sustained trauma cannot help but leave lasting scars. In the early years of our marriage, even though our love was genuine, building trust was the essential work of our intimate life. And it was precisely work, requiring a great deal of patience and perseverance from both of us.

Marianne was by no means the only wounded member of our team. I have written previously of the dysfunction characteristic of my first family and of the downward spiral ultimately leading to my parents’ divorce. I will not rehash specifics of my father’s abuse that caused me to doubt my worth and personhood. I will, however, offer one story that I have never told here before because I believe it exemplifies the awful confusion of my teenage years.

As my parents’ relationship deteriorated, they reached a point where they could barely tolerate being in one another’s presence. Almost anything could serve as a catalyst for their heated arguments.

One day, they were particularly incensed with one another and were screaming back and forth between different rooms in the house. I always assumed the peacemaker role, so I went to the kitchen to attempt to calm my mother down. Unfortunately, there was no consoling her. She broke away from me, walked to the doorway, and deliberately began banging her face into the door frame. Before I could pull her away, she had already violently impacted the surface multiple times. Then, she reached for the phone to call the police to report (falsely) that my father had struck her.

The shame and embarrassment of that afternoon are chiseled into my memory. I was seated on the front porch, in full view of the neighbors, with the flashing lights of  the police car drawing attention to the scene, as the two responding officers questioned me about the incident.

“He’s not a good husband or father,” I recall myself saying, “but he didn’t do this.”

My mother was a genuinely dear woman with unyielding faith and a deep love for her family. Under supreme stress, however, she broke that day, and I was left to pick up the pieces.

I believe I was 17 at the time.

—–

When Marianne and I wed, we embraced a shared and hopeful future; but, if we were to grow together, we would also need to confront our emotionally shattered pasts.

—–

The Catholic Church teaches that a married couple’s sexual expression should always manifest both procreative and unitive dimensions. This is a beautiful, holy ideal; and, many Catholic couples strive heroically to live out this commitment, particularly through the practice of Natural Family Planning (NFP). Many others, however, for complex reasons known only to God, the couples themselves and, perhaps, their confessor(s) and/or spiritual director(s), come up short of full compliance. Marianne and I fall into this latter camp.

While I believe in the possibility of a Divine plan for human sexuality and really do cherish the ideal the Church sets before us, I also recognize it as exactly that, an ideal. Though I am not proud of our struggles, especially in the procreative dimension, neither do I allow them to shame me/us disproportionately. They are a part of our intricate reality, and our forgiving God has met us most generously along that path.

—–

One day, some years ago, Matt asked if he and I could have dinner together that evening. I queried if there was something particular on his mind, and he replied that he had something to share with me that might make me uncomfortable but that could prove a breakthrough for him. I booked a reservation at a nearby restaurant, waited, and wondered.

I suspect he wanted to talk with me first (and alone) because, for whatever reason, he saw me as a larger hurdle than his mother. Over dinner that evening, in an act of liberating courage, my youngest son told me that he is gay.

—–

Based upon Marianne’s and my lived experience of ministry to one another, I would broaden the Church’s understanding of the fruit of marital sexual expression to include a third dimension, co-creative, and I would easily give it equal weight. Within this framework, such things as honesty, transparency, prioritizing the spouse’s needs above one’s own, sharing the daily burdens of temporal life (jobs, chores, etc.), active listening, empathy, compassion, patience, forgiveness, shared meals and tears, prayer, laughter, and exhausted hugs are all, in my opinion, co-creative expressions of married life and love.

I once heard a female comedian say something like: “The sexiest thing a man can do at the end of the day is wash the dishes.” I think that’s often true.

Since we committed our lives to one another, Marianne and I have been all about co-creating with God, helping each other become the person God created us to be. I am unquestionably a better man due to this amazing woman’s enduring love and support. My bride has been a channel of God’s grace in my life, and I pray (and believe) that I have been the same for her.

Indeed, it is “not good that the man [or woman] should be alone.” (Gen 2:18)

—–

During his teen years, as his sexual identity apparently came into clearer focus, Matt became vulnerable to the kinds of wounds only the Church and/or its members can inflict. As a result, he began to rebel against Catholicism, which I mistakenly interpreted as a faith crisis. I have since come to understand that he was actually struggling to reconcile his blossoming sexual awareness with his heretofore faith community, and it wasn’t going particularly well.

—–

Just a few days after “the  dinner,” Marianne and I departed on a previously booked cruise vacation. Early on, we learned that a priest was onboard and that he would be ministering to passengers throughout the trip. I requested a one-on-one appointment with him to talk through issues related to what I’d recently learned from my son. I was seeking an objective, compassionate ear, and, initially, I was warmly received; however, as soon as I mentioned Matt’s news, the priest’s entire demeanor changed. In an oddly hostile way, he began angrily railing against “sodomites.” I tried to listen politely, but it was all too much. He was demeaning my son, albeit circuitously. I left that ugly meeting without confrontation (thank God!) but with a much clearer understanding of what Matt was facing, at least in some quarters of the Church.

—–

I once knew an elderly woman whose middle-aged gay son lived with her. In many ways, her unconditional love for her son was a model of acceptance. Her devotion to him was sincere, but she always secretly held on to an unrealistic hope. On more than one occasion, she discreetly whispered to me: “I hope he finds a nice girl and settles down.” This fantasy, I believe, was her coping mechanism.

Many parents, I suppose, nurture an idealized vision of how their children’s lives will unfold – good health, a joyful childhood and adolescence, a great college experience, a satisfying career, solid friendships, a loving marriage, adorable children, a nice home, ample money reserved for those anticipated “rainy days,” sufficient retirement savings, and, ultimately, a burial plot in a particularly lovely part of the cemetery. Marianne and I were guilty of that too; and, Matt’s news, initially at least, seemed to throw those prefabricated plans – our plans – into disarray.

By God’s grace, we have come to recognize that our calling is to embrace the reality of what we have learned about our son. Matt’s gayness is not temporary. It is not a phase he will outgrow. It cannot be prayed or reprogrammed away. While he could, theoretically, “find a nice girl and settle down,” we know that doing so would be fraught with complications that could undermine even the strongest of relationships.

Rather than abandoning parental dreams for our son’s life, we find ourselves rethinking them in light of this new – or, newly understood – reality. Matt, our former “orange baby,” is gay!

Since faith and active participation in the Church are central elements in our lives, our rethinking must also consider how to reconcile our love and support for our son with our experience of God.

—–

When Marianne spontaneously draped her legs across mine, I saw in that simple act a hard-won, uncomplicated trust, an affirmation of safety, a sign of the maturity and beauty of our love.

Our path had certainly not been “ideal,” but it had been authentic.

—–

According to the Catholic Church, the only morally acceptable option for homosexuals is to live a life of chastity and celibacy. This may be a holy and high ideal, but is it realistic? And, does the Church honestly support it?

Before continuing, I will reiterate that I write only as a Catholic Dad, who knows and loves his gay son, and not as a teacher of morality. Some readers may be disappointed by my ideas, but they faithfully reflect my conscience.

—–

Recently, I spent some time reviewing web-based information about the formation of Catholic priests for a life of chastity and celibacy. In the pieces I read, the difficulty of this calling and the special grace required to fulfill it are repeatedly emphasized. I also discovered that seminary educators and formators are specially tasked with cultivating in their students a deep sense of the “precious gift” of celibacy, especially insofar as it prepares one for priestly ministry.

The website of The Sacred Heart Major Seminary in Detroit included this statement on the topic:

”… Depending upon when a man enters the seminary, his formation can last from between six to eight years. The seminary has a well-developed and comprehensive curriculum for chaste celibacy. This curriculum outlines and examines key formation components: study of the Church’s documents; Sacred Scripture foundation; the history of celibate priesthood; psychosexual development; counseling others; prayer and a personal relationship with the Lord; celibacy and the evangelical counsels; intimacy in human friendships; discerning a call to celibacy; moral theology; and strategies for living celibacy and purity.”

Embedded in the excerpt above is a link to the “curriculum for chaste celibacy,” which helped me to understand more fully that Seminary’s comprehensive approach.

While I think it is entirely appropriate to form seminarians so carefully and comprehensively – over a six to eight year period – for a life of celibacy, I am left with some disturbing questions. Where is the corresponding formation for single and homosexual lay people? Are chastity and celibacy less demanding for them? Or, is their vocation simply valued less within the Church?

The truth is, many LGBTQ people, including Matt, already feel unwelcomed by, or alienated from, the Church. And, when people like Fr. James Martin, S.J., attempt to build bridges of healing with the LGBTQ community, they are often met with strong resistance, including from some brother priests.

Even if formation in chastity and celibacy were to be made widely available in parishes, which is where most active Catholics live out their faith, significant reparative work would likely need to precede the offerings in order to encourage participation. Further, and perhaps more importantly, I question whether a contemporary Catholic audience in Matt’s age group values or even understands celibacy.

—–

Knowing Matt as we do, Marianne and I seriously doubt that he will choose to live his life without a romantic partner. He is currently in a relationship, in fact, and it certainly seems to be blessing him, including helping him to trust and to heal from the wounds of his past.

I can easily imagine someone with the mindset of the priest on the cruise becoming apoplectic at the suggestion that a committed gay relationship could be a blessing; yet, can we really deny that possibility?

It is a cliché, of course, but some of our best friends are gay. As I write, I am thinking of a particular couple, Richard and Frank, who have been together for many years and are still very much in love. Their relationship richly demonstrates commitment. It also offers ample evidence of the fruit of the Holy Spirit – love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control (Gal 5:22-23).

Can this be ignored?

Perhaps I’m grasping at straws, but I find hope in the groundbreaking work of the Council fathers at Vatican II, who drafted and approved the Decree on Ecumenism Unitatis redintegratio. 

That decree was written against the backdrop of the long-held Catholic view that there is no salvation outside of the Church. The Council fathers, because they could not deny the evidence of the Holy Spirit at work in separated Christian denominations, acknowledged a salvific, albeit imperfect, communion between those bodies and the Church. In so doing, they both confirmed the long-held teaching and recognized salvific degrees of incorporation/communion within the Church.

I wonder if the Church might one day apply a similar rationale with regard to human sexuality, i.e., uphold the ideal of marriage between one man and one woman wherein every sexual expression is both procreative and unitive, but also recognize degrees of incorporation within that ideal for those of us – the majority, I suspect – who fall short of fully realizing that ideal.

Yes, I wonder.

—–

Along the continuum of views regarding homosexuality and the Church, I know good people on both extremes: some who would read what I have have written (above) and conclude, without hesitation, that I am advocating grave sin; and others who would simply say that God made Matt gay, and he should pursue his truest self.

Marianne and I are decidedly closer to the latter view than the former, but we are still somewhere in between. There is, however, one thing we can say with certainty. Matt is our beloved son, in whom we are well pleased.

And, we’ve really no doubt that God feels likewise.

“I thought you knew…”

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I caught sight of them while slowing down for a red light ahead. The thirty-something man, dressed in a fine suit, was holding hands with an adoring little girl, presumably his daughter. Oblivious to the bustle of the morning all around them, they seemed in rapt attention with one another, talking and laughing as they walked. Then, in what I view as an inspiring expression of fatherly freedom, they suddenly began skipping in unison along the crowded sidewalk. Passers-by couldn’t help smiling, even if self-consciously averting their eyes. I was captivated and regretted it when the light changed.

I tend to notice fathers with their children.

—

At a recent leadership retreat sponsored by my employer, I was charged with delivering to my fellow participants a short presentation expressing “my story.” Considerable liberty was given regarding content, so I chose to tell about an inexplicable encounter with God (and my father) that brought both healing and direction to my life.

I scribbled a few notes for the talk, but I honestly found the best preparation to be prayer and introspection. While reflecting, something my father said to me many times during my childhood and adolescence came painfully to mind.

“You’re not worth the powder to blow you to hell.”

Those words remain disturbingly accessible to my psyche even in this seventh decade of life. Sometimes, while with my grandchildren, I think about their innocent susceptibility to emotional injury and about the terrible implications if they were to hear such words directed their way, especially if spoken by someone they love, someone charged with their protection and formation.

—

When I read my resume, it is often with an odd sense of detachment. The career path and achievements detailed therein can actually intimidate me and feel as though they are someone else’s work, feats well beyond my capabilities. I believe the term currently used to describe this phenomenon is “imposter syndrome.”

I also wrestle this beast every time I sit down to write, which is likely why I so seldom post a new essay to my blog. Yes, I am in a long-term relationship with self-doubt (and shame). I also believe, however, that God is healing me incrementally, choosing opportune moments to speak a beautiful new reality into my wounded heart.

What follows describes just such an occasion.

—

I first encountered Peter Meinke’s powerful poem “Untitled” (reproduced entirely below) more than 30 years ago. I was overseeing a weekend retreat at the time, and one of the retreatants, a kind gentleman named Gene, who – coincidentally? – was just about my Dad’s age, read it aloud to the group.

The words, written by a father to his son in reparation for the harm he had caused him, seized me unexpectedly, even violently. Fighting back tears, I considered leaving the room but then concluded doing so would only draw attention to my embarrassing reaction. Instead, I bowed my head, took deep breaths, and battled to keep my composure.

Over the course of (then) recent months, Gene had become a dear friend. I first met him when he enrolled in an evangelization workshop I was teaching in his parish. From the start, I was drawn to his genial, affirming manner.

Gene was an educator by profession; and, though I was technically the instructor in our shared workshop, I really learned a great deal from him. At one of our sessions, for example, I was chatting with Gene during a coffee break and asked him about his experience while pursuing his PhD. Specifically, I wanted to know what he valued most about the experience. His response made a lasting impression.

“Oh Steve, that’s easy,” he said. “The best part of my studies was the research. It was such a privilege to take a topic I cared deeply about and to explore it from every direction, to peel it like an onion finding every hidden layer. Doing research is what helped me learn to love to learn.”

At the time, I had no hint that I would one day become a research librarian. When I did, however, Gene’s words became my mission statement. With every student who sought my assistance, my goal was always to help her/him “learn to love to learn.”

—

The Meinke poem haunted me. My initial reaction had been so overwhelming, I was certain I needed to go further with it, certain that God intended my cooperation.

Several days after the retreat, I recognized a possible opportunity. I had a light workload at the parish and knew that I would not be missed if I spent some time praying in front of the Blessed Sacrament. Before deciding definitively that the timing was right, however, I peeked inside the church to see if I would have the privacy I knew I would need. Thankfully, it was completely empty.

I brought a printed copy of “Untitled” with me and knelt before the Tabernacle. Since Catholics believe in the abiding presence of Jesus in the Eucharist, I trust there is no better place to open one’s heart to God.

As soon as I glanced at the page, as soon as I saw the words “I thought you knew” I began to sob ferociously.

Some tears seem to originate directly behind or within the eyes. These felt as though they were springing from within my soul.

Here is the poem that affected me so profoundly.

—

Untitled

This is a poem to my son Peter
whom I have hurt a thousand times
whose large and vulnerable eyes
have glazed in pain at my ragings
thin wrists and fingers hung
boneless in despair, pale freckled back
bent in defeat, pillow soaked
by my failure to understand.
I have scarred through weakness
and impatience your frail confidence forever
because when I needed to strike
you were there to hurt and because
I thought you knew
you were beautiful and fair
your bright eyes and hair
but now I see that no one knows that
about himself, but must be told
and retold until it takes hold
because I think anything can be killed
after awhile, especially beauty
so I write this for life, for love, for
you, my oldest son Peter, age 10,
going on 11.

(Peter Meinke)

—

Though alone in the church, my powerful emotional response made me self-conscious. Several times, I looked around through bleary eyes to make sure I’d not been mistaken regarding my solitude. Then, just as my concerns were sufficiently assuaged, I heard the familiar sound of the church’s large front door opening.

I regret admitting this, but my first reaction was anger. Seriously, God had put me in this very vulnerable place and then wouldn’t/couldn’t protect my privacy?

I dried my eyes as best I could and began praying that the invader would kneel, say a quick prayer in the rear of the church, and exit with no further trouble. Then, I heard the footsteps coming down the aisle in my direction. I bowed my head and quietly simmered.

As the interloper passed by on my left, I discreetly glanced in that direction. My heart immediately softened. Of all people, it was Gene.

He must have sensed the intensity of the moment for he was very respectful of my space. It occurred to me later that he may have even seen the Meinke poem in my hand and read the situation clearly. He was, after all, a very perceptive man.

Though I didn’t notice it at first, Gene, a Eucharistic minister, had a pyx in his hand. He had come to the church specifically to retrieve the consecrated Hosts to bring Communion to the shut-ins he visited regularly.

He genuflected, opened the tabernacle door, then turned to me. “Would you like to receive the Eucharist, Steve?”

“That would be so beautiful!“ I replied, my voice shaking in the winds of grace.

I received Eucharist twice in that moment – first in the sacred Host and second in Gene’s fatherly hug. I wept in that good man’s arms, no longer concerned with privacy or appearances.

—

“I thought you knew…”

I never did.

But, I’m learning.

Perhaps you are too.

—

Addendum:

I have honestly forgiven my father, who passed away in the fall of 2013, but forgiveness does not necessarily heal one’s wounds. I write as a cathartic exercise and not to pass on blame. My sincere hope is to hold my father’s hand in God’s Kingdom and to skip unashamedly with this man I have always loved but have not always understood. Again, I’m learning… with God’s grace.

Waiting (for God)

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Waiting, it seems to me, is a defining characteristic of the spiritual life. In my mid-twenties, I rediscovered God and eagerly adopted the opening verse of Psalm 63 as a recurring prayer.

“Oh God, you are my God whom I seek; for you my flesh pines and my soul thirsts like the earth, parched, lifeless and without water.”

These words gave/give authentic voice to an aching for God in my heart that has yet to be fully satisfied. Still today, in prayer or simply in quiet moments, I echo the Psalmist’s words, and I wait.

In my early fifties, I endured a prolonged and, frankly, demoralizing period of spiritual darkness. While in the midst, I repeatedly called out to God for even a pinpoint of light to sustain me, but all that came was this familiar ache.

On the other side of that wrenching experience, I shared the details with my spiritual director. In frustration, I asked him why God had withheld consolation for so long. In his wise way, he quietly asked: “Have you ever considered that the aching in your heart was your pinpoint of light?”

Since that exchange, I have come to view the ache as my companion on the journey. Now, we wait together.

If I Spoke at Career Day…

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“We know that in everything God works for good with those who love [God].” (Romans 8:28a)

Since September of 2008, I have been blessed with the privilege of assisting students, both lay and religious, with their academic work in theology. These remarkable people, who inspire me every day, intend to use the knowledge and formation they acquire in graduate school and/or seminary to bless the world, to help heal and restore.

I understand and encourage their mission for I once walked in their shoes.

——

Admitting I am a sinner is far easier than disclosing the specifics of even one sin. Likewise, claiming I have learned from my failures is far more comfortable than detailing a single instance when I unquestionably failed. Yet, such is my intention here.

In retrospect, I do not regret what I plan to describe. In fact, if this makes sense, I now see its necessity, though I use that word cautiously. Yes, I have learned from my failure(s).

My tale begins in a dark place.

——

Soon, I would need to vacate the newly renovated office in the basement of the rectory. In the scant time I had left on the job, I labored on, trying to resurrect the genuine passion that had brought me to that place ten months earlier. It wasn’t working. How could I compose a lesson plan about God’s faithful love while consumed with worry about my wife and our two small children – and, truth be told, while doubting if God’s faithful love extended to me? I was tired, demoralized, and wrestling with a fearsome goblin named self-doubt.

——

Footsteps on the stairs were the first thing I noticed. Then, several faint voices grew steadily stronger as the visitors approached. I quit typing and sat motionless while shadows of feet became visible beneath the door.

The basement room was windowless. I had always preferred a small desk lamp to the stark fluorescent overhead light; so, from outside, the room must have appeared dark and unoccupied. Someone tried the doorknob but found it locked.

“This is my new office,” a man said. (I later learned it was the parish deacon.) “Unfortunately, I can’t show it to you yet because I don’t have the key.”

A woman’s voice queried, “Is someone else using it now?”

“Some guy who’s been running an evangelization program,” the deacon replied, “but that’s ending, and he’ll be gone soon.”

It wasn’t breaking news. I had learned my fate a couple of days earlier. Still, there was something icily final about his words.

Another topic soon captured the group’s attention, and I was vaguely aware of a shared burst of laughter as the oblivious assassins exited the scene.

“Some guy… and he’ll be gone soon.”

——

At one time in my life, I fashioned myself a writer. As an undergraduate, I took every writing course my school had to offer – advanced writing, creative writing, technical writing, journalism. Then, in the final semester of my senior year, I had a dream opportunity to serve as an intern reporter for the local daily newspaper.

It was a bitter cold winter that year, and my schedule was taxing. I had to report to the newsroom, with the newspaper’s daily mail in tow, by 6:30 every weekday morning. That placed me at the nearby Post Office at least fifteen minutes earlier.

I would remain in the newsroom, working on any assignment(s) given me by the News Editor, until deadline at 10:30 a.m. Then, I would rush to campus for my classes before returning to the newsroom to cover evening assignments. I was sometimes there quite late writing, and it was a grind; but, there was also a palpable energy in the newsroom that fueled my desire. This, it seemed clear, was the life I wanted.

My internship ended with the close of the academic year. On my last day, the News Editor invited me into his office for an exit interview. He thanked me for my efforts and told me that my work showed real promise. Though he had no position to offer at the time, he encouraged me to pursue writing professionally.

Graduation and reality awaited.

——

Landing a writing job just out of college proved a pipe dream. To pay my bills, I tried my hand at selling insurance (a disaster), installing mini-computers (a mini-disaster), and working the ticket counter for a regional airline. I had some interesting experiences, but I kept watching for the right opportunity.

The advertisements appeared in the newspaper only a few days apart – two entry-level reporter positions, one at the very newspaper at which I had served my internship. I had the phone in my hand almost immediately.

In the interim between my graduation and the posting of the jobs (a little more than two years), there had been an important personnel change in the newsroom. The News Editor had moved on, and a reporter I had worked with once or twice had been promoted to fill the vacancy. He took my call, listened patiently while I rambled on about my strong interest in the position, and advised me to send a resume directly to him.

The other posted job was a Junior Staff Writer position at a soon-to-be-publishing computer weekly with strong financial backing out of New York and enormous promise. I applied almost as an afterthought. I imagined the competition would be intense but vaguely hoped I would secure an interview that would help to sharpen my interviewing skills for the job I really wanted. To my genuine surprise, I got a call.

In my experience, that interview was unlike any before or since. With my heart set firmly on the other position (i.e., at the daily newspaper), I felt completely at ease, even when I had to demonstrate my writing skills on the spot under strict deadline pressure. It went well, which gave a much-needed boost to my confidence.

To my great relief, the daily newspaper also called me for an interview; and, though I was nervous throughout, I left that encounter in a very positive frame of mind. The News Editor told me he remembered my work and thought I had done quite well as an intern. He made no promises but said he had confidence in my ability to do the job.

I’ve never prayed with greater fervor for a personal intention. The job seemed like a perfect fit, and I let God know that day and night.

I waited anxiously. When the News Editor finally contacted me, he didn’t deliver the exact message I had ached to hear. He did, however, offer real hope. He told me he had decided I was the right person for the job, but there was a snag. The Editor-in-Chief was having second thoughts about filling the position due to cost considerations. He told me a firm decision should be rendered soon and asked me to call him just after deadline exactly one week later.

There wasn’t time for a novena; but, over those intervening seven days, I visited the parish church of my childhood several times on my way home from work. Perhaps God would hear me more clearly from there, I reasoned, where I had offered so many prayers in the past.

——

“I’m really sorry, Stephen,” he said. “We’ve decided not to fill the position at this time.”

There had been such certainty in my mind. The news violently deflated my spirit.

That evening, while grieving with my wife, our phone rang. It was a representative from the computer publication. He offered his congratulations and asked me when I could start.

——

In everything, God works for good.

——

From day one, the job and I were a mismatch. At first, I thought my discomfort was due to continuing grief from a lost opportunity; however, I soon realized it was the nature of the work that unsettled me. As an intern at the newspaper, I had written about interesting people and circumstances, and I found doing so exhilarating. On this job, my writing assignments were all about machines and software. Try as I might, I couldn’t force compatibility.

——

While wrestling with my fit at the new job, important changes were also happening in my personal life. I was in the midst of what I would call a spiritual reawakening, an experience I wrote about in a previous essay titled “The Red Sweater.” In addition, though I didn’t yet realize the significance, major changes were taking place in a ministry organization run by two dear friends.

The Word of God Ministry was a pioneering venture in Catholic circles. Established by lay evangelist Nina Lauzon, the ministry brought regularly scheduled adult Bible study courses to Catholic parishes on the North Shore of Massachusetts. In addition, Nina and her co-worker, John Clabeaux, ran retreats and parish missions that touched many lives. I count myself, in fact, among those richly blessed by their efforts.

As I was writing, grudgingly, about hard drives and CPUs, John Clabeaux was completing work on his doctorate at Harvard Divinity School. Once finished, he intended to accept a full-time appointment teaching at St. John’s Seminary (SJS), which meant there would soon be an opening at the Word of God Ministry.

——

I first shared my story of “The Red Sweater” at a meeting of our parish prayer community in Salem, MA. After hearing me speak, Nina asked if I would be willing to tell the story again as part of a retreat called “2 by 2 Before Him” that she and John would soon be offering in a couple of Catholic parishes nearby. I was honored to do so and found the experience uniquely stirring. Honestly, it was as though something had been unlocked in my soul.

——

Perhaps a future essay will tell the more complete story. For now, I will simply say that I began a process of discernment about my future. It was then that two important firsts entered my life – spiritual direction and the 19th Annotation of the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius. Both have since proven indispensable on the journey.

My wise director, Sr. Lucille Cormier, offered to guide me through the Exercises after I spoke with her about my desire for vocational discernment. Again, much is missing here; but, by the end of the process, she and I both sensed that a call to some type of lay ministry could be authentic.

I believe Nina was the first to suggest the possibility that I might join her in the Word of God Ministry after John’s departure. For that to happen though, I would need the appropriate credentials.

——

I see clearly now that the seeds of failure first appeared while I was in graduate school.

A complicated variety of factors were in play, including: general low self-esteem; self-doubt about my ability to do master’s level work; a perceived need to justify the major changes I was imposing on my young family; a drive to prove that the Word of God Ministry had not made a mistake in holding the teaching position for me while I studied; and, a deep interior need to demonstrate to the generous members of our prayer community, who pledged to help us pay our living expenses while I was in school, that they were making a good investment. Whatever the motivation(s), grades became excessively important to me to the detriment of true learning.

Held hostage by perfectionism, I pushed myself to extremes to “get the A.” By the end of my program, I had indeed achieved a 4.0 cumulative average and had passed my comprehensive exams with distinction. I was also very run-down and sick with mononucleosis. Was it worth it?

Interestingly enough, in the 30+ years since my graduation, not a single person has ever asked me about my grades.

Perspective, even when it comes after a considerable passage of time, is a valuable thing.

——

I taught for two years full-time in the Word of God Ministry, and perfectionism dogged me throughout. Every lecture preparation was an ordeal; and, though I thoroughly enjoyed the classroom experience and the wonderful people among whom I ministered, I was growing increasingly weary. When Nina suggested a new model of service, I was intrigued.

While the prior work of the ministry had reached those individuals who chose to come to classes or retreats, there was no intentional corporate outcome. What Nina now proposed was a parish-centered evangelization program wherein a self-selecting group of parishioners would be trained over the course of an academic year to serve as hosts/facilitators for home-church meetings, which would commence after a Lenten parish mission. It was an exciting vision.

Two Catholic pastors embraced the concept and hired us to run the program in their respective parishes. We intended to do the lesson planning over the summer and begin co-teaching on an academic calendar in the fall. Then, an obstacle arose. A personal issue prohibited Nina’s involvement, at least for the foreseeable future. The plan moved forward, but with just me at the helm – and, at the podium.

——

In the captivating novel Watership Down, author Richard Adams employs a fictional language, Lapine, which is spoken only by the rabbit characters in his story. One Lapine word, “tharn,” has remained a part of my vocabulary ever since I read the book decades ago. It refers to a paralyzing level of fear a rabbit might experience, e.g., while looking into the headlights of an oncoming car.

——

I did not hear the visitors’ footsteps as they climbed back up the stairs. Although alone in the room, I felt suddenly exposed, confused, humiliated, vulnerable, scared. If writing had once been my strongest aspiration, ministry now had supplanted that notion entirely. And, the ministry door seemed to be slamming shut.

In that bleak moment, my future was an approaching set of headlights; and, laboring to breathe in the deacon’s new office, his key resting uneasily in my pocket, I was tharn, utterly tharn.

——

Saying good-bye to the parishioners who had participated in the evangelization program was very difficult. For all of my (apparently not so) private struggles, the classroom experience had been consistently uplifting; and, I had formed strong bonds with these remarkable people. I was guarded in what I disclosed, mostly from embarrassment. Still, I was sure word would spread.

I cannot fault the pastors for witnessing the toll lesson prep was taking on me and choosing to adopt a tough-love stance. In retrospect, I see that they did me a favor. I can, however, mention a real injustice that my family was forced to endure.

Working for the Church often involves sacrifice, especially regarding wages. When the job abruptly ended, my wife Marianne and I had virtually no savings. With two small children, imagine our surprise when I applied for unemployment compensation and was told that the Church does not participate in the program. So, I had no salary and no unemployment protection. We were in a genuine state of panic.

I won’t belabor the point here, but the Church must be/do better than this.

——

In everything, God works for the good.

——

In that desperate moment, an unexpected phone call offered us a life-line. The call was from a priest we barely knew at the time, but he had heard of our circumstances.

“No one who has worked for the Church should ever find himself in your position,” he said, “especially someone with small children.”

That very good man of God promised to pay our family’s living expenses until I could find a job. He proved faithful to his word.

After a two-month search, I found a job teaching religion/theology in a Catholic high school. Though it proved to be just a stop-gap position lasting only a few months, something beautiful and quite unexpected happened there.

Until then, the vast majority of my teaching experience had been with an adult audience. High school students were so very different; and, they called forth from me a response I wasn’t initially sure I could make. They had no tolerance for painstakingly planned lectures. Instead, they demanded spontaneity. With their (unknowing) help, I broke free from enslavement to preparation. And that freedom has endured. I have since taught many adult faith-formation classes, and my prep time is nothing at all like it once was.

I left the Catholic high school without completing the academic year because a position was offered to me that promised great benefit to my family. A local public library was looking for an Assistant Director/Reference Librarian. The pay wasn’t great, but it was more than I was earning at the high school. That wasn’t the determining factor, however. The job came with the promise that, should I choose to pursue a master’s degree in Library Science, the library would cover the cost. I accepted, and I found myself once again needing to say good-bye to some very special people.

——

Often we fail to appreciate the impact we have on one another. My students didn’t realize how instrumental they had been in healing a broken part of me. Likewise, I don’t think I fully appreciated the bond we had forged.

Years later, my daughter Rachel attended that same high school at which I’d briefly served. While she was walking down the hallway one day early in her freshman year, a young teacher called out to her.

“Are you Rachel Dalton?” she asked. “And, is your Dad Steve Dalton?”

When my daughter replied in the affirmative, the teacher introduced herself as one of the religion/theology teachers at the school. She then said: “I was one of your Dad’s students. And, he’s the reason I became a religion teacher.”

I honestly had no idea. Wow!

——

A library colleague once shared her impression with me that libraries can sometimes serve as rehab centers for derailed careers. I’m sure she didn’t realize how true that is in my case. I smiled internally.

I served at the public library for almost five years, and during that time I did indeed acquire my master’s degree in Library Science. When the degree was finished, I took a second job working the reference desk in a community college library. There, my love of working with students was rekindled, and I set a long-term goal of ultimately making academic librarianship my primary job.

Before that could happen, I took a marvelous detour by joining the staff of a major paper conservation lab. There, for nearly twelve years, I engaged in many fascinating preservation-related projects and met some truly inspiring people, many of whom remain close friends today.

Finally, I found my way to Boston College (BC), where I have now served for almost thirteen years. My first position at BC was that of Preservation Manager for the BC Libraries. Three years into my tenure in that position, BC was poised to open its newest library, the Theology and Ministry Library (TML), to serve the newly-formed School of Theology and Ministry (STM) and St. John’s Seminary (SJS). One position at TML had yet to be filled before the opening, that of Collection Development/Reference Librarian.

Knowing my background, a colleague took me aside one day and said: “That position is made for you. You should really apply.” I did, and it was the best career decision I have ever made.

——

I was fifty years old when I finally landed my dream job. I have since spent the better part of ten years doing ministry again, and I cannot imagine experiencing a greater degree of job satisfaction.

The door I thought had permanently closed at that profoundly trying moment of failure is now wide open, perhaps (realistically) for the first time.

Only recently, I successfully applied for the Head Librarian position at the TML. I began serving in that position earlier this month, and I’ve yet to appreciate the full dimensions of the job. Knowing my past, however, and my history of benefiting even from hardship, I have a hunch God will be working for good.

It’s sobering to consider that, if my oh-so-urgent prayers had been answered affirmatively, if I had been given the newspaper job I coveted so long ago, my life would be entirely different today.