A Bit of Cadmium

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least I didn't think so...

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

So, I stayed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One Year Without a Date -- Celibacy Celebrated

 Thank you Jesus! For real.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Meek Can Have It!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please see my Facebook page for original rant.  

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

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

Wednesday was Adoration day at Sacred Heart Hospital.

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

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

This Wednesday was special, not only was I going to get to spend time at the feet of my king, I got to prepare the altar and lead the beginning and end of Adoration. This is an honor I don't deserve but someone needed to do it and I was available.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is one of my favorite readings from Luke:

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

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

Oh come Let Us Adore Him!

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

MATERIAL GIRL

“Living in a material world
And I am a material girl
You know that we are living in a material world
And I am a material girl”

Robert Ranns, Peter Brown

As he was setting out on a journey, a man ran up, knelt down before him, and asked him, “Good teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” Jesus answered him, “Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone. You know the commandments: ‘You shall not kill; you shall not commit adultery; you shall not steal; you shall not bear false witness; you shall not defraud; honor your father and your mother. He replied and said to him, “Teacher, all of these I have observed from my youth.” Jesus, looking at him, loved him and said to him, “You are lacking in one thing. Go, sell what you have, and give to [the] poor and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.” At that statement his face fell, and he went away sad, for he had many possessions. Jesus looked around and said to his disciples, “How hard it is for those who have wealth to enter the kingdom of God!” Mark 10:17-23

Being an annoying optimist, when I hear that scripture I assume the rich ruler was sad but he sold everything anyway and eventually was happy because he did a brave, radical act, then got to hang out with Jesus. After all it doesn't specifically say he refused to do it, only that he was sad about it. 

 

Arrogantly, I thought I had all that down just fine. I shop at thrift stores, discount groceries, even my car use to reflect my embrace of the simple life.

Not any more.  That was before gross materialism reared its ugly head.  I am still reveling in the product of my new found lust for the sparkly. It's parked right outside my door.

I had been driving a 1991 Buick LaSabre – a beast of a car. Despite my mechanic, Julio's (Julie to his friends), efforts to keep the horrible thing running, time was winning and it was falling apart. 

 

It was battleship gray, peeling everywhere, revealing hideous layers of rust underneath. I could not travel without an ample supply of water – gallons of it. Every ten to 12 minutes I would have to stop and pour water into the radiator reserve tank to prevent the engine from seizing.

It became ridiculously difficult to turn the lights out – my theory is the engine was so hot that it somehow disabled the switch. The brake light would mysteriously come on for no apparent reason.

There was no horn. That was terrible! No “Jingle Bells” on the horn at Christmas. A middle finger is not nearly as effective as a blasting horn when displaying disapproval of my fellow drivers' less than perfect skills. Just to annoy people I sometimes forgo the middle finger and offer a quick blessing – now that really is annoying!

Even worse than the lack of a horn was the sludge. That's right – sludge, thick brown disgusting sludge. Due to the gaskets around the door continuing to come off, the car leaked – badly. Eventually it formed a thick sludge. During my last few weeks of driving this bastardly car, I would actually have to lift my feet when going downhill in order to avoid the dreaded swill. I had the audacity to subject other people to this affront. I had to warn them, “Quick, lift your feet.” Obviously, I have no shame.

The past few weeks had brought more change to my family and with the change a terrible realization of the depth of a tragedy that just goes on and on – seemingly spiraling out of control.

The car was the last straw. This surprised me. I accepted my status in life and frequently joked about it. “Piece of Shit Car” the incredibly vulgar song by Adam Sandler, would cheer me up – but it was only temporary.   A palpable dread came over me when I realized that I needed to go out in the abomination. I still don't totally understand that phenomenon. Bad car depression?

For weeks I was salivating over cars on Craigs List. My hope was that my car would last until my finances improved. Sadly, it didn't. I thought it was going to catch on fire – the billowing smoke and the heat under my feet made me realize the time for a different car had arrived. 

At breakfast with a friend, who I am sure would rather not be named, I announced that I was girding myself up for the courage to call my brother and beg for a loan until my financial circumstances improved – a definite happening but with an unknown time frame. I had found a dream car on Craigs List, an oldish red Chevy Cavalier with only 41,000 miles on it.

I dreaded the call. My friend must have realized that and immediately offered to help. I felt instant relief – peace. I would not have to humble myself to ask my brother for help and my car hell was soon to be finished!

 

The Cavalier got sold too quickly for me to grab the deal. Thank God!  While I was fantasizing over those Craigs List beauties I also conducted research. I knew I needed a reliable car that would last at least two years, hopefully a heck of a lot more. I wanted a purple car or maybe a flashy red, but I found myself yearning for for a sporty vehicle, maybe this was a female version of a mid-life crisis. 
 

Accompanied by my wonderful brother-in-law, Ralph, and my sister, Nan, I made my first venture into the world of lovely cars. It was a two-door Mitsubishi Eclipse – a red one – a five speed. I soon realized that despite the fact that I knew I would look very, very cool driving around Fountain Hill in this sporty little car, I couldn't shift it easily, and it was a very poorly kept car. Logic took over. Ralph and Nan agreed.

The search continued. Ralph found a car, a burgundy Saturn that had everything I wanted. While burgundy wasn't red it was a nice looking car. 
 

Ralph offered to drive me. So off we went. It was a long drive and Ralph was a big help. The burgundy Saturn turned out to be a dud, big time. We persevered. Eventually my dream car surfaced. 

 

Our journey led us to a little car dealer, 611 Auto Sales, with not too many cars. I must admit I have a dread of going to car dealers but this place and the people there seemed really different. There was an amazing lack of bullshit. They priced the cars at a fair price to sell and that was it.  Not much haggling. One of the owners said, “I'd rather make a fast nickel than a slow dime.” Not eloquent but comforting from the consumer's point of view.
 

There were two possibilities -- a red Saturn wagon or a sweet little Mazda Protege. It was silver, something on my forbidden list – due to an association with the battleship gray of the Buick. But this was no battleship! It was gorgeous. The silver was of a pale variety, and it shimmered, it really did. It had fine navy blue pin striping.  Lovely!  Then I drove it.  I couldn't believe it. It responded to every slight correction.  There were brakes. There was air – cold refreshing air – cooling us off in the 90-degree weather. There was a horn! This was heaven.

I test drove the Saturn but it just wasn't the same. 

 

Still, I was willing to be persuaded. I went home and consulted “Edmunds'” reliability charts. I went on “Car Talk's" site – they have a terrific program that allows you to compare two vehicles side by side. The Saturn had 47,000 less miles on it but was three years older than my beautiful 2000 Mazda. 

 

Finally, I found the justification for the Mazda. Edmunds had put a red circle with an “X” next to the Saturn's engine. Yippee!!! 

 

I was a few hundred dollars short – the Mazda was just a little more expensive than the Saturn. I figured that I would make a conscious overdraft. My bank is kind enough to give me a little overdraft protection which has come in mercifully handy. When my son Peter heard that I was going to dip into the overdraft he insisted on loaning me what I needed. Both my friend and my son made me feel blessed and just so incredibly happy that people love and trust me enough to help.

So my kind brother-in-law drove me down to pick up the Mazda. His examination of the car and subsequent approval gave me confidence in my choice.

I fell in love with a car. The ugly, gas guzzling, cars with all their peculiarities are a thing of the past. I picked a car that looked pretty -- beautiful in my eyes.

I am reveling in it.

Yes! No stops for water. No smoke. No sludge! And a horn!

I asked Father Hilferty at Sacred Heart Hospital if he would mind blessing my car. He is a good, kind, and very intelligent priest – probably the best homilist I know. 

 

There we were on the parking deck on a hot day with me showing off my prize!

I told him I thought I must be committing some kind of sin for liking this car as much as I did. True to his nature, he assured me I wasn't, the car was a necessity.

He blessed my shimmering car and sprinkled it with copious amounts of holy water (he has seen me drive). 

 

The blessing was dramatic:

Lend a willing ear, Lord God, to our prayers, and bless this vehicle with Your holy right hand. Direct Your holy angels to accompany it, that they may free those who ride in it from all dangers, and always guard them. And just as by Your deacon Philip You gave faith and grace to the man of Ethiopia as he sat in his chariot reading the Sacred Word, so, point out to Your servants the way of salvation. Grant that, aided by Your grace, and with their hearts set on good works, they may, after all the joys and sorrows of this journey through life, merit to receive eternal joys, through Christ our Lord.

Wow!

I drove off reflecting on how good God was in surrounding me with so many loving people. I did pause to wonder again – about whether or not I had really taken that plunge into gross materialism.

This car made me happy. It was beautiful. I thought maybe I was liking it a bit too much. I even bought mats! I looked for just the right litter bag. This was getting ridiculous.

I'm hoping – and praying – that my seeing God in all the beautiful people – and things in my life – will somehow excuse this dip into the material world.

 

When Jesus calls, I will follow him, driving right along behind him in my little miracle car, beeping with wild abandon! 

Cut and paste below to hear another Material Girl:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_gWqc7pTNn0 

Betrayal, Forgiveness and Thank You, God!

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

 

This story began a long time ago.

 

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

So I went. 

 

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

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

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

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

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

Kathleen said, “Think about Jesus.”

But I had been thinking about Jesus.

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

“What did he say on the cross?”

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

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

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

Death Knell

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

People will say, “What a shame.”

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

Confessions of an Easter Bunny

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Around the Well

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why?" I challenged. 

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

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

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

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

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

Amen!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cHHYQX-HRf8 
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Happy Anniversary!

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

February 11, 2011 was the beginning of an invitation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So where was God in all of this?

What the heck kind of crazy invitation was this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nancy gave me an assignment to construct a paragraph.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1. www.catholiconline.com