Tag Archives: Spirituality

“… 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!

A Power in Naming

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“Out of the ground the LORD God formed every beast of the field and every bird of the air, and brought them to the man to see what he would call them; and whatever the man called every living creature, that was its name.” (Genesis 2:19; RSV-CE)

A long-ago co-worker of mine, Joey, a genial but opinionated young man whose company most people seemed to enjoy, was unabashed in his disdain for organized religion. Knowing my faith and, I suspect, my proneness to blushing,  he would sometimes publicly tease me about belief in God being a “crutch for the weak.” We would joust a bit, nothing mean-spirited, and always parted on friendly terms.

Whether or not he intended it, Joey’s provocative teasing spoke to a curious paradox. Indeed, human weakness before God is always a given; yet, lived Christianity is far more Cross than crutch.

—

When my wife, Marianne, and I first viewed the apartment, the middle floor in a triple decker home, we were so hopeful. For a number of reasons, the relationship with our current landlord had grown strained, and we were more than eager to find a new home for our young family.

The apartment featured two bedrooms, a large kitchen, surprisingly high ceilings, beautiful hardwood floors, and a sunroom that could function – at least while weather permitted – as an office. The building was owned by a friend, and he generously set the rent at a rate we could afford on our very limited budget.

So hopeful!

—

My aversion to bugs goes way back. I remember, for example, being a small boy in the front yard of my first home when a yellow-jacket landed on the sleeve of my sweater. I was paralyzed as I watched this winged demon twitching for what seemed an eternity before finally flying away.

Another time, when I was a bit older but still a young boy, I noticed a folded newspaper wedged inside the hedges alongside a neighbor’s home. Wanting to be helpful, I reached in to pull the newspaper out, intending to drop it on the doorstep where it belonged. Just a second or two after I had pried it from its perch, however, an earwig emerged from one of the folds and ran across the top of the paper. I immediately dropped it on the sidewalk, which caused, at least to my impressionable eyes, an earwig exodus. I felt traumatized watching those ugly creatures scamper from their newsy nest and recall instinctively rubbing my hands on my pant legs over and over as if doing so would somehow remove the horror.

Perhaps “aversion” doesn’t go far enough.

—

The day after we moved into the new apartment, I was eating breakfast at the kitchen table when something on the counter caught my eye. I literally gasped as a large cockroach, which I knew right away was just one of thousands, stood menacingly still, save the waving of its long antennae. We were suddenly, unexpectedly at war.

I had never lived with these invaders before, and it was a nightmare. While most encounters took place in the kitchen or bathroom, the roaches were by no means restricted to those spaces. Consequently, I was ever on alert, knowing that one (or more) could dart out suddenly from almost anywhere. That prospect, like the scurrying earwigs so many years before, honestly haunted me.

Our landlord, to his credit, understood and responded to our plea for help. He hired a local exterminator, who was soon on the scene for an assessment. He informed us that both the upper and lower apartments were infested and that he would need an aggressive approach to eliminate the problem. Of course, we were onboard.

The initial treatment resulted in a discernible drop in the number of sightings, but it didn’t completely eradicate the problem. A second treatment offered brief hope, but it too yielded unsatisfactory results.

After weeks of watching the population grow back to pre-treatment levels, we appealed again to our landlord, who proposed switching exterminators to a firm about which he had “heard some good things.” This was long before the advent of Angi and other such online review sites.

The new exterminator was notably more meticulous than his competitor. He spent considerable time analyzing the situation and assured us that the problem was resolvable. He added, however, that success ultimately depended upon our “proper preparation.”

I would not be at all happy when I learned what that term implied.

—

I am among those Catholics, apparently a minority in the U.S. today, who continue to rely upon the Sacrament of Reconciliation as a trusted channel of God’s forgiveness and healing. While I personally consider the Sacrament a precious gift, I am not blind to its potential complications and abuses. I have had wonderful experiences in the confessional and still others that were less than edifying – some even disturbing. In this respect, I know I am not alone. Recently, for example, a spate of Confession-related horror stories have been posted on social media sites, many focusing on women’s troubling interactions with their confessors.

The Church teaches that, for the Sacrament of Reconciliation to be valid, there must be proper matter (i.e., true contrition, confession of sins, and performance of penance by the penitent) and form (i.e., absolution pronounced by the priest). Validity, however, does not always translate into a positive experience for the penitent. For that blessed outcome to be realized, I would suggest two other ingredients. First, finding a regular, trusted confessor is helpful. For me, this does not suggest a theological milquetoast; rather, I favor a priest who is compassionate and non-judgmental but who is also not afraid to challenge me when necessary, though always within safe and appropriate boundaries. The second is – and here’s that phrase again – “proper preparation,” which, regarding Reconciliation, has traditionally been known as an examination of conscience.

—

Marriage is sometimes referenced as a metaphor for the spiritual life, and that makes sense to me. This coming March, Marianne and I will be married 40 years. When people learn of the longevity of our union, they will sometimes ask about our secret (i.e., to a happy marriage). My response is always the same: “Transparency.”

Hidden things can absolutely ruin a marriage; and, though nothing is ever truly hidden from an omniscient God, hidden sins can also grind spiritual growth to a dead halt.

—

When I resumed practicing my faith in my early to mid-twenties, my relationship with God followed something akin to a romantic arc. What began as a vague attraction to the holy, quickly deepened to a true desire for God. Some deliberate, though fumbling, steps toward intimacy (through prayer) came next, followed by a passion to learn more about my Beloved (through study). Finally, and not without resistance, came the time for my personal transparency before God; however, I wasn’t sure how to get all the way there. I would go to Reconciliation and make what I believed to be a thorough confession, but I would often leave feeling as though I hadn’t allowed God into those secret places, i.e., the ones that most needed God’s healing touch.

In 1986, some dear friends sponsored me on a Cursillo weekend. During that unique experience, I met a wonderful priest, Fr. Martin, who seemed to personify the qualifications I desired in a good confessor.

During one of Fr. Martin’s presentations at the Cursillo, he spoke of penitents who came to Reconciliation expecting to knock priests off their chairs with the thoroughly unique and awful sins they confessed. He then said something I’ll never forget. “The penitents are shocked – some, even disappointed – when the priest yawns at their sins because sins are boring. It is only God’s forgiveness that is exciting.”

Shortly after my Cursillo experience, I began seeing Fr. Martin for spiritual direction, a relationship that would continue for nearly twenty years. Early on, I told him about my desire for greater transparency before God but always feeling as though there were things I was afraid to confront. Exercising characteristic wisdom, at one of our sessions he gave me a copy of the “Young People’s Forgiveness Prayer” by Fr. Robert Degrandis, S.S.J., and he asked me to pray it every day until further notice.

While the prayer was not terribly long, going through it thoughtfully took a good bit of time, and I frankly found the practice tedious. When I would go to prayer, I often prayed that prayer first to get it out of the way.

But, God is a God of surprises.

—

Our new apartment had a dark walk-in closet that shared a wall with both the bathroom and the kitchen. In fact, the water pipes from both rooms ran through the back of that closet, making it a likely enemy stronghold. On the day we moved in, we had innocently stored a number of our still-packed boxes deep in that closet. Once the bug problem was revealed, I came to view those boxes, figuratively speaking, as multiple folded newspapers stuck in the hedges; and, I was more than content to leave them undisturbed.

—

“The key to addressing your roach problem,” the new exterminator explained, “is getting the treatment into all of the places where the bugs potentially nest and thrive.” As he walked with us through the apartment, he pointed out all of the areas we would need to empty out so that he could treat them thoroughly. I was quickly filling with dread.

When he came to the walk-in closet, he noted that it was a special area of concern.

“I’m really not crazy about pulling out those boxes,” I offered, looking warily at the open door.

“I understand that,” he said, “but to eradicate the problem we sometimes need to go into uncomfortable places.”

I swallowed and nodded.

—

As young parents of two small children at the time, Marianne and I were both quite used to a lack of privacy. Perhaps a couple of months into my practice of laboring through the Degrandis prayer daily, Marianne surprised me one day by announcing that she had errands to run and would be taking both children with her.

“You’ll have most of the day to yourself,” she observed. “What will you do?”

“I’m not sure,” I replied, barely hiding my excitement. “But I’m sure I’ll find something to keep me busy.”

When Marianne and the children had left, one of my first instincts was to grab the Degrandis prayer, again wanting “to get it out of the way.” As I began to go through it, however, grace rushed in. It is nearly impossible to explain an experience like this; but, portions of the prayer that had seemed extraneous to me before began to manifest much deeper meaning. It was extraordinary. 

Inadequately explored events, relationships, and sins from my past, areas requiring my and/or God’s forgiveness, became perceptibly present, along with all of the associated feelings, regrets, and (sometimes) shame. Tears flowed freely.

I’m not sure when it struck me, but at one point I realized that I should be journaling about the experience while it was happening. I hastily grabbed an unused notebook from the bookcase and began writing as I prayed.

When the experience finally yielded, I had written seventeen pages of notes and felt a great sense of transparency and relief. I realized that, with God’s help, I had explored those heretofore hidden areas of my life. I also knew that the content of my next confession was in those handwritten pages.

—

At my next meeting with Fr. Martin, I walked into his office and placed my notebook on the arm of his chair.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“That is my full confession,” I responded happily.

He opened the notebook, thumbed through a few of the pages, closed it, and held it out for me to take back. “Actually, I’d like for you to read this to me,” he said.

For some reason, I was caught completely off guard by his response. I had imagined that the cathartic experience had ended for me with the writing of the final page of my journal/confession. I was wrong.

I took back the notebook and asked shakily, “Do I have to do this?”

“I think you should,” he gently replied.

Knowing well the content of those pages, I was gripped with fear and shame; but, Fr. Martin’s gentle expression helped me to trust that I was in a safe place, so I forged on. I was not even through the first page when the fierce tears began. About halfway through, Fr. Martin said, “Let’s pause for a minute.” He then stood up and motioned for me to come to him. He embraced me, allowed me to grieve and weep on his shoulder, and all the while repeatedly assured me that God loves me beyond measure.

At some point, I regained my composure, blew my nose, and told Fr. Martin that I was ready to continue. When I resumed reading, the tears no longer came. As I looked at the remaining pages, the sins, which I had been incapable of facing apart from God’s extraordinary grace, seemed devoid of their power to embarrass, wound, and inhibit. In fact, Fr. Martin’s words now seemed so real. “… sins are boring. It is only God’s forgiveness that is exciting.”

When I was finished, Fr. Martin gave me absolution, and I felt a lightness in my being, an ineffable sense of peace in my spirit.

I did my best to thank him – and God, but all Fr. Martin did was smile.

After a period of blessed silence, he asked: “Do you understand why I wanted you to read the notebook to me?”

“I know that doing so ultimately brought me peace,” I answered, “but I’d like to know your reason.”

“In the Bible, there is a power in naming,” Fr. Martin explained. “In one of the creation accounts in Genesis, for example, Adam is given the task of naming all of the creatures God had created. You see, in the ancient mind, to know the name of something is to have power over that thing. In the same way, by speaking and naming your sins, you took authority over them, brought them into the light, and stripped them of any power they previously held over you. Then, God could truly set you free.”

I nodded in deep gratitude, and he continued.

“This is important. I want you to take that notebook home and destroy it. God has forgiven and forgotten. Now, be finished with everything that’s written there.”

When I got home, I wasted no time in ripping those pages to shreds and then delighted in throwing them all away. Looking at the pieces in the trash barrel brought yet another experience of extraordinary peace.

—

The roaches? I had no need to name them because, as the Biblical folk tale explained, Adam took care of that task long ago. What I could name was my fear of entering the dark closet where the crawly creatures dwelt, one of those hidden places that only God’s grace gives us the courage to explore.

By prying those boxes from their “hedge” and bringing them into the light of day, the exterminator’s treatment could penetrate to the root of the problem and thus proved effective. We lived the remainder of our time in that apartment sans the bugs.

—

True freedom? Often, we get there by facing our deepest fears.

A crutch? Sorry, Joey, but you just don’t understand.

Addendum: After reading a draft of this essay, a friend asked me if I attributed my remarkable prayer/journaling experience specifically to the Degrandis prayer or to grace. I have since thought often of his question, and I believe it warrants an answer here. The Degrandis prayer has no unique mystical power. In my circumstances, however, it proved to be an effective tool for excavating some things in my past that needed to be brought into the light. Other “examination of conscience” tools may have worked just as well had I made use of them. I will never know. I can say with certainty, however, that the breakthrough came as a result of God’s grace. I have no other explanation.

Did You Hear?

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“Every moment and every event of every man’s life on earth plants something in his soul. For just as the wind carries thousands of winged seeds so each moment brings with it germs of spiritual vitality that come to rest imperceptibly in the minds and wills of men. Most of these unnumbered seeds perish and are lost, because men are not prepared to receive them: for such seeds as these cannot spring up anywhere except in the good soil of freedom, spontaneity, and love.” (Thomas Merton, New Seeds of Contemplation)

—

Since reading it for the first time decades ago, I have felt powerfully drawn to this observation (above) from Thomas Merton. I go to it often seeking inspiration; but, I also enjoy reconsidering its implicit challenge. What, after all,  is the quality of my soil? How many precious “seeds of contemplation,” which are really words of God expressed through the ordinary circumstances of my life, have been wasted on me? How can I become a better listener?

—

After all, perhaps God speaks through…

The chirping of birds, the barking of a neighbor’s dog, a rush of wind…

The distant laughter of children at play, the “noise” testifying to human ingenuity, the traffic encountered during a daily commute…

Footfalls of a loved one approaching, the words “I understand” spoken compassionately by a friend…

A stranger’s yawn on the train, captivating music, a whispered “I love you”…

A trickle of water, an insect’s buzz, a cry for justice…

A sigh of relief, pages turning in a treasured photo album, a blessed silence…

The rustling of young leaves with their textured beauty set against the backdrop of a brilliant blue sky…

The crunch of those same leaves under foot in late fall…

A distant foghorn, the scrape of a razor over morning stubble…

The subtle sizzle of a candle’s wick, tears, even bitter tears…

The creak of a rocking chair against the deck of a porch, a panhandler’s “Friend, can you spare some change?”…

The rush of a river’s current fed by melting mountain snow, the fluffing of a pillow…

A familiar, tender memory, an interior aching for meaning…

The soft breathing of a sick child, who has finally fallen asleep…

The click of a camera shutter after capturing a precious moment…

Forgiveness given or received or both, a stick figure drawing by a very young child…

Moments of surprising stillness that invite participation, a forgotten person’s loneliness, a favorite teddy bear…

Condensation on an ice-cold glass of lemonade, morning dew, a hot shower after finally exiting a sickbed…

A great work of art, a witnessed act of kindness, receiving breakfast in bed…

A good listener, the crack of a wooden bat against a baseball, a frisky wink…

An unset alarm clock… a dentist’s “all done,” a street sweeper’s scratch and grumble fading in the distance…

A face smiling back in a mirror, acceptance, poetry, a happy surprise…

The first careful sip of morning coffee, the scent of a Christmas tree, an example of beautiful penmanship…

The first snowflake of the season, an orb weaver’s majestic trap, the twitching of a squirrel’s tail…

The view from a mountain top on a crystal clear day, the imagination of a child, the pages of a diary or prayer journal…

Mutually respectful dialogue, words in a holy book, an unexpected visit from a wonderful old friend…

And… [Thoughts?]

—–

What if the voice of God can be found/heard in the “seeds” of life all around us, and we need only till our soil?

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.

“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 consider 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 this 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 taught me to 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 building to see if I would have the privacy I knew I would need. Thankfully, the church 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 unmistakable 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 pix 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.

Praying on 3rd Base, Etc.

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For a number of years, I have been in the habit of writing a Thanksgiving essay as my way of expressing gratitude for the many blessings in life. Typically, those essays have taken the form of a single, sometimes lengthy story. This year’s entry, however, represents a departure from that tradition.

Earlier this month, I turned sixty-one years old. Having now completed the first full year of my seventh decade of life, I am in a scattered yet reflective mood. So, this year’s Thanksgiving entry finds me less with a (longish) story to tell and more with a few short musings possibly consistent with this later stage of life.

I hope one or more of them will bless you.

—

A friend of mine recently said to me: “God cannot be put in a box.” Her intention, of course, was to express that God is bigger and greater than we could ever imagine; and, I wholeheartedly agree with her. Yet, virtually every day of my life I violate that awesome truth.

When I sit down to pray, I most often do so with a concept/image of God in mind, something to make God seem more real and approachable. I suppose “boxing” God in that way helps me to cope with the mystery, especially God’s silence – even apparent absence – at difficult moments in life.

One such depiction of God, an anthropomorphic image found in the book of Genesis, grips my imagination like no other. It appears in the story of the fall of Adam and Eve, and it reads as follows:

“And they [i.e., Adam and Eve] heard the sound of the Lord God walking in the garden in the cool of the day…” (Genesis 3:8a, RSV-CE)

I cannot explain my fascination. I can only admit to bringing a personalized version of this verse (i.e., a God box) to prayer countless times. In truth, one of my deepest longings has now become walking with God in the garden in the cool of the day.

To talk. To listen. To finally understand. And then, to rest in God’s peace.

One day…

—

This past summer, my wife Marianne and I attended several of our grandson Joseph’s little league baseball games. One inning of one game left a lasting impression.

The field where the game was played restricts spectator access along the baselines, so we were watching from behind the left field fence. Since we arrived a few minutes late, and our vantage point was a healthy distance from the dugouts, we weren’t even sure Joseph knew we were there. That question, however, would soon be answered.

When Joseph got up to bat for the second time, he got an infield hit. As often happens in little league, a series of fielding miscues followed; and Joseph, who should have been on first base, made it all the way around to third. His foot had no sooner safely landed on the base when he pivoted around and waved enthusiastically to us.

“Did you see that? Are you proud of me?” his wave seemed to say.

That endearing gesture spoke volumes to this grandfather’s heart. Joseph’s Mom and Dad had dropped him off that day, but they couldn’t stay for the game. If we’d not been present, with whom would Joseph have shared his great accomplishment?

Joseph’s wave reminded me of a child’s vulnerability and of his/her need to know support, affirmation, love, and acceptance. Since we are all God’s children, and since my mind inevitably works this way, it also taught me a lesson about prayer.

Sometimes I turn to God with a broad smile and wave. Other times, I turn and desperately search for God’s face in the crowd. Still other times, I turn and can only bow my head in sorrow.

What matters is that God comes to every game.

And, as it turns out, 3rd base is an excellent place to pray.

—

When I was a boy in parochial school, I learned that we all have a guardian angel assigned to guide and protect us. I can’t help wondering what the guardian angels of the children of Sandy Hook Elementary School were doing while Adam Lanza was on his hellish rampage.

—

Years ago, when I was working for the Northeast Document Conservation Center (NEDCC), I was invited to deliver a presentation about preservation microfilming to an audience of imaging scientists at the Polaroid Corporation. That was, perhaps, the most intimidating lecture I’ve ever had to give. Before speaking, I remember studying the faces of those in attendance, knowing full well that every one of them was more knowledgeable than I about photographic processes.

Some years later, I had a similar experience while teaching a six-week adult-education course in my parish on the topic: “God and Human Suffering.” Looking out at the participants before my first lecture, I realized that every person in the room had suffered, many quite profoundly. Further, each person had processed his/her suffering in such a way as to reconcile it with his/her view of God. I was an amateur charged with speaking to an audience of experts.

Fortunately, the course was very well received. In fact, after the final lecture, many expressed a desire to meet for an additional session just to talk about what we had collectively learned. We did so, and it was a beautiful and humbling experience – so many moving stories.

I’m now convinced that discovering the beauty and goodness of God in the midst of our suffering is one of the most important adventures in life.

—

I can’t imagine a more central element to the spiritual life than daily prayer. Yet, in all the parishes to which I’ve belonged over the years (nine or ten, if memory serves), I’ve never found one that consistently prioritized teaching adult parishioners how to develop and deepen their personal prayer lives.

Why?

—

The divisions that exist in the Catholic Church today exhaust me. Twitter, in particular, has become a battleground wherein uncharitable comments from both the right and the left abound.

With that in mind, it is an interesting exercise to read James 3:1-12, while mentally substituting the word “keyboard” for the word “tongue.”

It is also worthwhile to recall that, whenever someone expresses an opinion that differs dramatically from one’s own, that person is defending what he/she believes to be good, i.e., he/she is not knowingly proposing evil. In all circumstances, deeper understanding is called for, not aggression.

—

I have a friend I greatly admire, who is an atheist. He is kind, thoughtful, socially conscious, a devoted husband and father, and he certainly has known his share of suffering. Though we’ve never discussed the matter outright, he and I would surely differ in our views about an afterlife.

Of course, the only way we will know which of us is right is if I’m right.

Should that prove to be the case, it would gladden my heart immeasurably if my friend were to walk with me – and with God – in the garden in the cool of the day.

—

Happy Thanksgiving!

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.

 

 

The Tale of the Foul-Mouthed Boy

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”For me to be a saint means to be myself. Therefore the problem of sanctity and salvation is in fact the problem of finding out who I am and of discovering my true self.” (Thomas Merton)

I see him at the vigil Mass every Saturday evening. He sits in a pew toward the back of the church. So, by the time he reaches the front of the Communion line, I’m already back in my place – praying, watching, remembering.

Though we both live in the same small town, where secrets are not easily kept, I’ve never known his first name. To me, he’ll always be the “unwitting catechist,” and I’m content with that.

He resembles his late father; and, it was he, rather than the son, who once wagged an accusing finger in my face, thus teaching me something truly important about integrity and authenticity at a tender age.

—

My first childhood home had a fateful encounter with a demolition crew many years ago. No doubt the house was already well beyond its prime by the time the Daltons took residence there in the 1950s, but I have no recollection of its warts. Instead, I remember it as a magical place, and I suspect I always will.

A formidable maple – “my tree,” also gone now – served as sentry at the front edge of the property. Countless times I traversed the deep grooves of its bark with my small fingers and scaled its rung-like branches as far as I dared. On one side of the trunk, the tree’s sinewy roots poked up through the ground like a child’s bench, a perfect perch on which to savor a Popsicle, swap stories, or simply relish the pure freedom of a young child’s summer day.

The large backyard was a wonderland, overgrown in places, lending a true sense of mystery to the space. It served as a de facto neighborhood playground, and many adventures were concocted and acted out there under its seemingly inexhaustible inspiration.

For the first eight years of my life, that house and its immediate environs were virtually my world; and, it was a charming place indeed. Of course, being a small boy, it never mattered to me that my family and I lived in a rented apartment. It mattered to my parents though, especially my mother, who had long dreamed of owning her own home.

—

The move comprised no more than half a mile, but distance is an unreliable measure of change.

Yes, the new house was “ours,” but there was no maple tree, no intriguing backyard to attract playmates. In fact, there was really no yard at all, only a narrow driveway and a boring one-car garage.

My initial response to the move was grief.

—

“There seem to be quite a few children in this neighborhood, Stephen,” my mother observed one day from across the room. “I’m sure you’ll make lots of friends here.”

Embarrassed at having been noticed, I let the curtain slip from my fingers and turned my attention away from the window and the children playing outside.

“Maybe,” I replied in a near-whisper. Shyness can make social transitions so very difficult.

Thankfully, over time, my mother’s words proved prescient. I did make good friends and forged life-long memories in the new neighborhood. In fact, if my first eight years are characterized by memories of things and places, the next few years are filled with names (Paul, Phil, Evans, Justin, Jackie, Jimmy…) and endearing faces. Those were, in fact, the happiest days of my childhood.

My friends and I typically matched our activities to the season. In summer, we seemed to play baseball morning, afternoon, and night. In the fall, our street became a touch-football field with telephone poles marking the end zones. And, in winter, we played street hockey both after school and on weekends, as long as daylight accommodated.

Often, boys from nearby neighborhoods would join us for our games. That made our play more realistic as we’d have more positions covered on the field; however, it also changed the group dynamic a bit and eventually presented me with an early moral dilemma.

—

I wonder if there’s anything – temporally speaking, of course – that the human heart desires more than fitting in, i.e., being accepted by one’s peers.

—

I’m not a fan of foul language. Even as a child, I was very careful with my words, never wanting to offend God or others. While my closest friends always respected who I was and how I tried to conduct myself, kids from other neighborhoods were not always so understanding. They would occasionally tease me about my “holiness.” And, though most of their jibes were not mean-spirited, being a sensitive child, I tended to take their words to heart.

—

I don’t recall how the idea first came to me, but the more I worked it over in my mind the more sense it seemed to make. Convincing myself, however, was only half the battle. When I summoned the courage to raise the issue with her, my mother looked less than pleased.

“Why would you want to do that, Stephen?” she asked.

“The other kids say swears, Ma.”

She carefully studied my face. “You know it’s not right to use bad language.”

“I know. But, if you give me permission, that would make it okay, right?”

She remained silent for some time, and I could feel my face flush under her persistent gaze. When she finally answered, she did so with obvious hesitation. “I don’t like this, Stephen.” She shook her head slightly as she spoke. “But… I do understand.” After another pause, she continued, “I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll let you choose one word to say. But, that’s all. Does that sound fair?”

“Thank you, Ma!” I said gratefully, feeling a weight had been lifted from my small shoulders.

We then rather delicately discussed my possible choices – an interesting exercise between a mother and her young son. While I don’t clearly recall our rationale, we ultimately agreed upon the word “sh#t.”

—

Soon thereafter, my friends and I gathered to play touch football. It was a beautiful fall day and, though we didn’t notice it at the time, one of the local residents was sitting on his enclosed front porch observing our play.

As the game progressed, so did our use of salty language. Feeling a newfound freedom and connection with my peers, I made liberal and creative use of my new vocabulary word.

“That was a sh#&&y pass!”

“You really looked like sh#t on that play!”

“This ball is as dirty as sh#t!”

I was playing my role to the hilt until a porch door suddenly swung open, and a large, angry man stepped out.

“Hey!” he bellowed. The game abruptly halted and all of us players gave him our full attention.

“I’ve been listening to you guys and your filthy mouths for half an hour now, and I am sick to death of it!”

He came down from his steps to confront us at closer range. My heart was racing but my feet were anchored in place.

Pointing a thick finger at one of the boys, he screamed, “I’m sick of listening to you!” Then, he pivoted, aimed his finger at another, and yelled, “And you!” He quickly turned again, “And you!” Finally, as I knew in my heart he must, he turned his rage my way. He glared at me and thrust his finger forward once for each pronounced word of my sentence. “And! Especially! You!”

Especially?! Me?!

My first instinct, though I didn’t act upon it, was self-defense. “You don’t understand,” I thought to myself, “I had permission.” Within a split second, however, defensiveness yielded to shame for my actions. I had indeed been responsible for the verbal assault this man experienced, and any protestation, even one pointing to a mother’s consent, would have been an empty excuse. My eyes dropped from the outraged man’s face to my own feet. I felt crushed.

“I’m really sorry, sir,” I said, still not looking up.

“I don’t want to hear any more of it!” he proclaimed loudly to all of us. “Do you understand?”

I and several others answered, “Yes, sir.” Then, our game broke up and the dispirited players scattered.

As I was walking home, the scene played over and over again in my mind. I knew the man was justified in the action that he took, and I felt true contrition for my offense; still, I couldn’t help feeling like a victim of injustice. He had singled me out as the worst offender without really knowing me.

The realization, when it came, was sudden yet gentle, like a soft voice in the soul. Even being a child, I could understand. Indeed, the angry man didn’t know the real me because I hadn’t shown him the real me. Instead, I’d pretended to be someone else in order to feel more like a part of the group.

Sh#t happens! My real sin was falsity and compromise. And, the angry man was my wake-up call – a true friend.

I’ve come to trust that the soft voice in my soul was/is my conscience, helping me interpret my world and inviting me to live more authentically (i.e., closer to God’s plan for my life). I wish I could say that I’ve always been true to that calling. Alas, I’ve needed many wake-up calls.

So, I will be at the vigil Mass again next Saturday evening. When my “unwitting catechist” passes by, I will see again the face of his father. I will remember. And, I will lift up a prayer of thanks.