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. It must have been so hard for them to hear me cry so much but they still picked up the phone and loved me through it. 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. 

So many people just loved me when I wasn't very lovable. 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 building 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.♥

1. www.catholiconline.com

No Nudes

My wonderful boarder, Rachael, moved out and my finances are such that I can wait for just the right person to rent out what was her room.

I live in the house in which I was raised. I love it. Growing up my siblings – and even my parents – changed rooms on a regular basis. I had done a stint in all of the bedrooms except Rachael's.

My turn for the room came when I was still married. My ex-husband traveled a lot for his job. I will not elaborate on that right now. I wanted to surprise him with a beautiful bedroom when he got back from one of his trips. I enlisted my wonderful, long suffering friends and family to help with the transformation.

The room was painted a gorgeous cream with periwinkle blue trim. My sister, Nan, helped me to pick out window treatments that lent a warm elegance to the airy space. When done it reminded me of one of the rooms at Lubcloud Farm, my favorite bed and breakfast. An old farmhouse, nestled on an English organic dairy farm, it had a magic that invited you back to visit again and again. It made me happy when my daughter walked into the finished room and asked whether I was trying to make it look just like Lubcloud Farm – a success.

Fast forward quite a few years. I ran out of my house at the discovery of my much-loved husband's infidelity. When I moved back after staying at my sister's I couldn't bear to be in that room. My love offering, it was beautiful but I just couldn't handle it. I moved into the guest room, a happy, warm room but without the serene beauty of the “master.”

My friend Ellen talked me into rearranging the furniture. She was convinced it would change my feelings about the room. She was right. We spent an afternoon moving things in all directions. I did feel differently. She took the old bedspread off and surprised me with one that looked great in the room.

I was happy in that space. It was my room and the fact that I had given it as a gift to someone I didn't really know wasn't important anymore.  It was mine and it was comforting.

I stayed in it for months until I realized I needed desperately to rent out a room. It was the most logical one to use. Rachael arrived, another present from God. I didn't mind that beautiful woman having my room. She was a gift.

She's gone though and I decided to reclaim my room of peace and calm.

I repainted the original colors with help from my daughter. I gave Rachael some of the art work. I needed something for over the bed.

I remembered the nudes. They were done by my lover, an effervescent Italian who made bread and made love to me, making me feel beautiful for the first time in my life. He was 32 years older than me and married. I believed him when he told me that he and his wife had a celibate relationship. I still do. It doesn't take a priest or theologian though to know that it was terribly wrong anyway – I understand there are few moral absolutes but that is one of them. I get it. I was young -- 20. Tony made me feel loved, beautiful and alive. He sketched me and I was amazed at the results.

It is one of the great ironies of my life that this man was one of the main reasons I came back to the church of my birth – and with such joy.

I had married after I broke up with Tony. The marriage did not last long. There were many, many reasons for the demise. I went to my old lover, wanting to resume our relationship. The bad marriage helped me to understand all that I gave up when I said goodbye to Tony.

He was loving but firm in his refusal. He had always been Catholic but he had an epiphany and was on fire with the faith. Tony had become a Eucharistic Minister and realized that his first responsibility was to his loving God. So we stayed friends.

Immaturity and I suppose my ego contributed to my feelings of rejection and confusion. There was enough of the Catholic in me to know he was sincere. Catholicism, how old fashioned! The dogma alone was enough to kill you! Still, it was odd that I chose my father's Episcopalian faith in which to raise my two sons. It was so close to Catholicism but not quite there.

“Why I'm an Episcopalian” was the topic of an adult education course at the church I attended. What I realized was, “Holy Shit I'm a Catholic.” My lover's words and deep faith never left me. I realized I needed to go back. I needed to once again receive Holy Communion, to know Jesus in that intimate way.

I went searching for the nudes. I found them and still love them. My artist lover took a homely girl and made her beautiful. I thought of him. He died three years ago. I am convinced he is with his loving Jesus. I put the pictures on the side table and realized I will never hang them. They are anything but vulgar. I am on my side in the one, sitting on the side of the bed in the other one. It is the oddest thing. I really think I look more like that woman now than I ever did at 20. It seems like I grew into them. Maybe Tony saw something in me then that I never did, but do now.

I will not forget where he told me about his Jesus. We were in Manhattan looking over the Hudson. He had an arm on my shoulder. He was telling me what it meant to him to distribute Holy Communion, how he never wanted to jeopardize his ability to receive Jesus. I get it now, Tony.

I'll move the nudes back to the cubby hole. I'll probably pull them out in another ten years when once again I need to see myself through someone else's eyes, someone who did in fact love me and in his rejection gave me such a beautiful gift.

Here's to you Tony! Happy heaven!

Lost!

The loss in my bid to become mayor of the little borough in which I live has me thinking even harder about just why I'm a Republican.
The Democrat to Republican ratio here is daunting. I am on borough council with people who never flinched as they changed parties for political expediency. I served as the lone Republican for the longest time until a fellow party member finally joined me. My “Republicrat” colleagues certainly sound and act “Republican.” I was advised that if I had any hope of winning I needed to change my party. I wouldn't. I lost.
Most people are more than a little surprised when they hear I'm a Republican. I'm not sure how you would describe me, I certainly don't fit any of the traditional images associated with the party of elephants.
One stereotype that is floating around is that we're rich. Well I'm not.
That is not to say I am poor – anything but – maybe I am rich. I have plenty to eat. My home is too big for my needs – never mind the ancient plumbing, wonky wiring, a roof crying out for attention, and a room beneath the kitchen that is never dry. We won't discuss the toilet sitting in the middle of the the third floor instead of on the appropriate pipe in the powder room. I have plenty of clothes. The vast majority are from friends or “family day” at Sally Armani, aka, the Salvation Army. Once in a great while I hit the super clearance racks at the local department stores.
Then there is the heartless cliché. There are many more generous people than me gracing this earth but I share where I can. I have a heart, if not a purse, for the poor.
Still lingering, despite Herman Cain, are a few “racist Republican” images. Perhaps it is my naiveté, but I don't even think it deserves a mention. My friends come in all hues. I like it that way. Life is far more interesting with a kaleidoscope of rich colors gracing your horizon.
You get the idea.
Not exactly what comes to mind when you are thinking, “Republican Woman.”
So, why am I a Republican?
I am pro-life. That is one telling factor, but even that doesn't explain it. One of my many Democratic friends, a staunch one, spent many years in charge of a home for unwed mothers. She has done more for the pro-life cause than I ever will do by just voting that way. She thinks abortion will end when women's hearts are turned and that the legislation is irrelevant. I don't agree in the least but as I said I don't know that my disagreement has saved one baby. Her stepping up and helping has.
The pro-life question though is the beginning of the answer. It is my belief that Republicanism, if done correctly, the way I believe it was intended, holds up the very dignity of all of us.
Some people find that a strange notion, “What about the poor?”
If we believe what we are told, the Democratic Party does more to look after the poor. They are creating program after program to address the suffering among us. What do my fellow Republicans do?
If my party's platform were allowed to flourish, I believe the very dignity, as well as the material needs of the poor, would be addressed. Republicans love business, big and small. I believe we can love our businesses by asking our government to stay out of them. Taxes and onerous regulations stymie even the most promising of endeavors.
Successful enterprises need people. Employees may work with the knowledge that they are capable of earning money and contributing to a growing concern. Character is reinforced with good self esteem to follow.
“Trickle-down” economics has been bastardized as ignoring the needs of the lowly worker. I beg to differ. Any intelligent business owner knows that its workforce is its life blood. Workers need to be respected both monetarily and socially in order to be retained. Grudging corporate attitudes breed nothing but turnover and waste. Competitive compensation is an intelligent business decision that pays for itself very quickly.
The other outrage expressed is the hardheartedness of those nasty Republicans -- denying the needy help and assistance at every turn.
I have been a Catholic chaplain for 13 years. I have seen my share of need. I would like to see more of a community response to the hurting among us. It does happen. We are a generous country with many, many kind, giving people, Republican and Democratic alike.
When a poor person comes to the local Catholic hospital, the nun greeting them has a few choices. She can direct them to the welfare office where they will have to stand in line in a dirty office, fill out numerous amounts of paperwork, then wait for the “nay” or “yea” that determines whether they will get emergency food stamps or not.
Another alternative is to take some of the money handed to them by loving people who want to help and pass it along to the person in front of them. They can buy them food with it, get their baby a package of diapers, put money in their gas tank -- the list of possibilities is a long one.
I went through an incredibly difficult period in my life when I was downright poor, frighteningly so. I can honestly say it was not my fault. My friends helped. I mean really helped in both material and spiritual ways. I didn't ask for the help, they just did it. Society did not tell them this was their obligation. They just acted out of kindness and love. It made all the difference. I retained my home and did not have to figure out how to live without basic utilities. A nun friend of mine, on hearing my house was going into foreclosure, made a phone call and arranged a $12,177.74 loan from a woman I had never met. That woman's act of courage in loaning me that money gave me hope where there was despair. Even though the shit hit the fan, I was loved.
To me that epitomizes the Republican view of social justice -- personal responsibility. Instead of pulling out their checkbooks, they could have driven me to the local welfare office. They chose instead to become personally responsible for their friend. Those who couldn't give money were kind and kept in contact, loving me, walking with me, holding my hand, sometimes literally, during that dark time.
The Republican Party as a beacon of love? Please do not misunderstand me. It was not just my Republican friends who helped me. I have a very Democratic neighbor who pro-actively loved me from the time she knew my world fell apart until this very day. She epitomizes pure love and has never once directed me to a government program but has always said, “what can I do to help?”
My camadre, a confirmed Democrat, was shocked when she found out the true state of my finances and immediately helped.
Another Democratic friend of mine consistently awes me in her personal generosity.
My theory is that my friends' behavior follows the Republican platform before it was hijacked by crazy judgmental people who really don't know that true Republican tenants do not carry with them a requirement for vitriol. There can be a world where good people can disagree and still be respectful.
Republicans are not better than Democrats -- no hacking way. Looking back at the sex scandals that have stained (pun intended with respect to Bill Clinton) our country's history, the lack of impulse control appears to cross party lines at very regular intervals. The Republican pro-death penalty stance makes me sick. I could not disagree with it more. Immigration is another area where I do not tow the party line.
I have just listed ways, in my own life, where both Republicans and Democrats came rushing to my assistance.
I know for me, the Republican way, is a better way to go forward. It is a way that demands personal responsibility and forces me to see my part in a brighter, better tomorrow. Perhaps it speaks to a weakness in me that I need to cling to my party's original beliefs. The beautiful Democrats in my life just do it naturally.

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Bless Me Father!

I'm running for mayor of the little borough in which I live. It is a contested race.

"Bless me Father for I have sinned!"
"Father, I am having a very difficult time keeping a Christian perspective regarding my opponent." What followed was an honest account of my feelings regarding the misogynist, arrogant, idea stealing, SOB I'm running against.
Oops. Guess I need to work on that Christian feeling bit -- just a little...
As a result of the previous part of my confession in addition to my political angst, I was given an entire rosary for my penance. I was also given beautiful, total absolution through the hands of a very generous, loving priest -- such peace!
Confession has such a bad rap. There is the whole having to say out loud just what your conscience -- ever working if you're Catholic -- has told you needs expunging. There is a reluctance to put it all out in front of another human being. The thing to keep in mind is that person can give you the peace that St. Paul tells us, "passes all understanding."
The Sacrament of Penance is actually one of the things I enjoy most about my return to Catholicism -- some 23 years ago. Since my return, thanks to some lovely priests, one in particular, I have received absolution and peace in a variety of locations from a restaurant parking lot to my personal favorite – a broom closet.
My penances have been equally varied. My favorite of all time was to leave the confessional, look at the huge crucifix hanging in the middle of the church, reflect on how much Jesus loves me and say his name. It sure and hell beat saying an entire rosary, everyday for the rest of my life – an actual penance one very angry priest gave me but thankfully later retracted by a kinder one.
There is nothing more cleansing than this most misunderstood sacrament. Think of it! Starting anew each time with a clean slate. Another opportunity to grow in the love of God. Those are not just idle words. God's love is real, through the hands of the priest it becomes palpable.
As a chaplain, peace is the thing I pray for most with my patients. Peace – think of it. You really can't get too much of it. Peace, if you're ill. Peace, if you're depressed. Peace, if you're angry. Peace, if you're lonely. Peace, if you're anxious. It's all good.
My Protestant friends, and many of my Catholic ones, tell me that a priest is not at all necessary for confession and I am happy that they can find that peace in their own way.
I really do believe that the priest is acting as Jesus and that Jesus is using that priest to bring me back closer to him. A dear friend is my usual confessor. He has known me for a very long time. He has heard quite a variety of sins from me in that time. Because he knows me he is able to give me really good counsel. I hope he would tell you that through the years I have matured – at least a little – in my faith.
Priests have seen the lines at the confessional dwindle markedly through the years. Perhaps because of that – or I would like to think – just because they are kind – most priests are very patient and helpful to the penitent. So don't let the fact that you've been away since forever keep you from trying this wonderful tool in your spiritual arsenal. Peace awaits!

Full Love

When the fullness of love manifests itself it cannot be diminished. It becomes its own entity, a living, driving force.

Not romantic love, but divine love, brought to life in those around us. When we are able to feel that love, see it, we can breathe it in, embrace the joy, and if we really truly get it, we can be emissaries of that love.

I met one of those emissaries and was changed forever.

She was 103 when she left this world and went to her sweet Jesus. I had only been a part of her life for the last ten years. We journeyed together – an old nun and a middle-aged chaplain. She to heaven, me to a place deeply rooted in the sure and certain knowledge of God's love.

I am not one to see divine interventions every where along our road, but I know Sister Rose was sent – an embodiment of pure grace and love – all wrapped up in a four-foot, seven-inch bundle of Jesus-driven energy.

The first day I met Sister Rose, I had been on a 16-hour on-call at the nearby trauma center. I was tired but excited to be filling in for one of the nuns at the local Catholic hospital.

When I was introduced to her she immediately pointed to a chair, told me to sit down and asked me, “So what's your story?”

I honestly doubted that this nun really wanted to hear my story which included three husbands, numerous affairs in between those husbands, three children and lots of escapades – some scandalous along the way.

Given all that, you might be wondering how I became a Catholic chaplain?

I converted back to the religion of my birth through a resignation that it was the only place spiritually where I felt at home. Profound faith in the real presence of Jesus in the Eucharist keeps me there -- bitching much of the time about the bureaucracy that surrounds the beautiful presence in our tabernacles.

Chaplaincy called to me and I answered. My thinking was something like, “I survived a lot of trauma. I am still walking. Maybe I can give hope to others.”

Sister Rose came to learn my story – all of it – the everyday happenings, the parts of which I was proud – especially my three children, and the parts that filled me with shame.

She especially liked hearing about my ex-husbands. She was very direct and with regard to my second one, 25-years my senior, she would ask, “What were you thinking?”

She heard about what I thought was a miraculous third marriage to a man I loved with passion and devotion.

Sister Rose and I came to love each other. I loved her because she was brave enough to swim in all the crap with me. I guess she loved me because I was brave enough to risk telling her.

She told me her story. I always loved hearing how religious got the “call.” It started when she was seventeen. Her mother volunteered her to be the substitute housekeeper for the pastor of the local church. “I thought I was hot stuff,” she asserted. She was happy to be in charge of the money, the groceries, the meals. She loved that responsibility.

One day when it was nearing time for the absent housekeeper to return from caring for her ailing mother she went to church and asked God if he could please arrange for her to stay as housekeeper. She heard God tell her, “I have something better for you.” “Six months later I was in the convent!” she happily exclaimed .

It was that simple for this woman of God. He called, she answered. She lived her life keeping her promises of obedience, poverty and chastity with joy.

She did all sorts of things, including being in charge of the hospital's kitchen for many years. It wasn't until she was well into her seventies that she took Clinical Pastoral Education and became a chaplain.

Her style of chaplaincy was certainly like nothing I was taught in Clinical Pastoral Education.

It was all about love for that nun. She distributed Holy Communion with a humble, loving reverence that radiated from her little body. The patient would finish receiving the host then Sister Rose would say, “Thank you, Jesus. We love you, Jesus.” She meant it. She meant every word she prayed.

There was no little black book – that was how I managed to give Communion. Quickly trying to ascertain how the patient was feeling and then hurriedly going to that particular topic in the book. Pathetic really but like many Catholics the idea of extemporaneous prayer was a foreign idea – fine for those lovable, free-spirited Evangelicals, but certainly not for me. She soon taught me to pray from my heart. I couldn't even tell you where my little black book is.

We became friends. Real friends. I was one of the few people who didn't treat her differently because she was old. She liked that. I liked that she could make me feel that Jesus absolutely loved me, just as I was, broken and very imperfect.

During our time together she related a full life. Many adventures lived in the busy world of the convent. She happily shared her frailties as I shared mine.

She told of the time she was in Ohio and working on the order's farm. One of the other sisters, came rushing toward Sister Rose and her friend, planting at the time, ordering them to help hunt down an escaped cow. She was having none of that! She told her friend to keep her head down and pretend they didn't see anything.

I didn't mind how many times Sister Rose told me the same story. I understood that even if she added nothing new to the rendition, I could hear it differently each time.

Sister Rose was not much of a complainer. She learned early it wasn't thought well of in the convent. She told of going to her novice mistress with a complaint about a particularly annoying fellow novice. Her superior said, “So did she crucify you?” Sister Rose never forgot that. I must confess that I have not fully embraced that non-complaining sentiment but I'm working on it.

Sister Rose lived through much change in the church – it didn't faze her. She told me about the nun who allegedly said Mass. “That was a good one!” she asserted, thinking it was quite humorous.

She enjoyed the charismatic movement of the church and had quite a few good stories of the trips to the conferences they offered. She liked the energy.

She made her perpetual vows as Sister Deodata – meaning gift from God. A fitting name but when her order decided to give the option of changing to birth names, Sister Deodata eagerly became Sister Rose Lechner.

She was not so sure about lay ministers. I was very surprised to hear that she told another sister chaplain that if they hired a lay person she was quitting! I am glad that something kept her there journeying with me.

There was sadness in this beautiful woman's life. Living to such an old age brings grief at each passing of an old friend. Her mother was killed in an accident on her way to see her. The order's rules were onerous in the beginning of her vocation. She was kept from the family she loved. The visits with them were few. Most of the time she had nothing to say about where she went or how long she would be there.

Sacred Heart Hospital was blessed to have Sister Rose there for 53 years -- an institution at the institution!

The bedraggled, the liars, the drunks, the prostitutes, people of all states of life, flocked to Sister Rose, to be fed materially and to be loved. “God loves them,” she asserted.

The CEO at the hospital was one of Sister Rose's friends. They would talk companionably. He would tell her of the hospital's troubles. She would offer advice and support.

Age continued to haunt Sister Rose. It wasn't ill health. Her health was remarkable. She hated being put on display because she happened to be a nonagenarian. She regarded her longevity as simply not worth mentioning.

Once when she was 98 I took her to visit a priest in a nursing home. We entered the elevator with another woman who began a conversation with Sister Rose. The woman asked her how old she was. “Eighty-eight” she answered without batting an eyelash. “You look great for 88,” said the woman. It was the only time I remember Sister Rose looking smug. Later she assured me, “It was none of her business anyway.” Amen!

When anything went wrong in my life Sister Rose's answer would always be, “Let's just pray before the Blessed Sacrament.” That was a practice we never stopped in our friendship. The Blessed Sacrament always beckoned to both of us, providing warm, steady comfort in the midst of chaos.

Deep sadness descended on Sister Rose when her order called her to return to the mother house, an hour away from the hospital. Sister would sleep at the convent from Sunday through Thursday but she spent Friday and Saturday nights with the medical residents, living at the hospital. She spent much of those nights ironing altar cloths, purifiers and corporals. The hospital was her home, her place to love Jesus, her place to shine.

The first time her leaving was mentioned I got angry, very angry. Few of us at the hospital could understand why the order would bring this wound upon this good woman. She still functioned as a chaplain. The hospital was willing to make any accommodation the order felt necessary for her.

I was one of many who pleaded with the Superior. She was impatient and unyielding.

I called the superior general in Rome. Unlike the local superior, she was lovely and listened to my concerns. I don't know if that intervention had any effect but the idea of Sister Rose leaving the hospital was dropped for a year.

The time did come though -- the agony. This despite the efforts of doctors, administrators, and many other people – all begging for her to stay. This beautiful, then 97-year old nun, had to leave her beloved hospital.

There was a wonderful Mass celebrated by many priests who came to love this dynamo of a nun. Old friends came to wish her well.

She was not okay with this move and asked me if I would drive her out to the mother house for one more attempt at changing the superior's mind. I did. It was a hopeful ride. We took the long way, dotted with sheep, cows and goats. We prayed the rosary. I waited in the lobby as she put forth her arguments only to be turned down once again.

It was a very sad ride coming home. We both cried at the unflinching meanness of “Attila the Nun.”

She had many options. My nature is not one made for obedience. I offered up suggestions that in Sister Rose's mind did not meet the obedience standard, “I took vows. They are my community.”

Sister Rose never stopped loving her community, the Missionaries of the Sacred Heart. No matter how angry and hurt she was, she loved and defended them.

Sister Rose needed a carton to step into my pickup truck for the ride to the mother house to begin this new, unwanted chapter of her life. The truck was stuffed with boxes – among them one filled with green cards, with “The Miracle Prayer” printed on them – Sister Rose's favorite giveaway. Praying the rosary again, we made this trip without the benefit of happy conversation that marked most of our time together. Instead there was a companionable sadness, a distinct quiet. I couldn't talk because I didn't want to cry again. I would suspect it was the same for my friend.

Thank God there were warm faces to great her as we arrived. Nuns I grew to love over the years. They were the characters in many of Sister Rose's stories. While I am still working on forgiving the superior who wouldn't let Sister stay at the hospital, I grew to love the other sisters, well most of them.

I had promised Sister Rose to visit her as often as I could.

I kept that promise. My then-husband would accompany me, on almost every Sunday after Mass. The trips were happy ones. We would take in the beautiful scenery that graced the less-traveled route. Listening to audio books and holding hands, the time was a gift.

When asked what she did there, she would shrug, and say, “Eat, sleep and pray. What else is there?” She didn't let that become her life. Sister Rose went into action. There were many times when we would arrive and there she'd be pushing one of the residents from the assisted living section of the facility in their wheelchair. She found ways to minister to the residents, staff and other sisters.

We would come bearing goodies that we would share in the sisters' dining room. Coffee, sweets, spirited conversation with a bunch of nuns – it was my idea of a good time.

These visits continued through the years.

Every visit ended with a trip to the chapel and a prayer for us. She absolutely hated the tabernacle being off to the side. “This is his house!” she would angrily exclaim. I must admit I always thought the justification for moving the tabernacles was flawed so she got my support. She tried to have it moved. Like many things in the Catholic church, her initiative got lost in a bureaucracy that didn't welcome change – even if it was a change back to the way things were.

When Sister Rose hit her hundredth birthday, there was a festive celebration with tons of people, music, and testimonials, one of which I was honored to give. Her reply, happily delivered, was that she, “couldn't wait to meet Jesus!”

Every time a situation with my family surfaced I would tell Sister Rose. Our friendship demanded that I not become one of the people that kept things from her. She didn't want that.

She shared her disappointments also. She hurt for those around her. Sister Rose was hurt when people discounted her because of her age.

She was my biggest cheerleader. Everyone needs a Sister Rose in their life. Introducing me to the sisters, she heralded every one of my accomplishments, big or small.

Years went by and then one day I made the trip alone. I had the task of telling my friend that my husband, the love of my life, had been unfaithful and was moving back to England to be with his mistress.

We both cried that day. He was her friend too. She was a huge source of support for me in the ensuing months when I found adultery was minor in comparison to the heinous offenses that landed him in jail, probably for the rest of his life.

She told me about the time he came to visit her after we separated. “Well Carolee, there is no other woman, and it's all your fault,” she told me this laughing. Sister Rose was no dope.

Once she asserted I had a “Sears Catalog” husband. “He looked good on paper.”

When he was arrested she wanted to go see him. “He has to know that no matter what he has done, Jesus still loves him.” His betrayal was of such a magnitude that I didn't know if I could help her with this. Eventually I contacted the prison and asked that she be put on his visitors list. They never called back, I assume he was too embarrassed to see her.

Ministering to prisoners was nothing new to Sister Rose. One of her happiest moments was when a death-row inmate converted immediately before he was killed. Sister Rose had been writing to him, encouraging him to turn his life over to Jesus and ask forgiveness for his sins. She read the account of the execution in the paper and the prison chaplain reported that he acknowledged Jesus and begged forgiveness.

Her charity was real-- palpable-- and I wanted to be more like her.

Sister Rose's example inspired me to pray regularly for my ex-husband.

It wasn't until Sister Rose was 102 that she finally consented to use a walker. I was visiting with one of the other chaplains from the hospital. I had for quite some time tried to tactfully suggest that she might want to try a walker. She would give me withering looks that convinced me to drop the subject. Sister Clare took one look at her and said, “Rose, you need a walker.” Sister Clare then got one of the aides to bring her one and that was that! Her hip pain, the only health concern she ever expressed, was eased because of that walker. I was very grateful to Sister Clare for her forthright insistence.

My new found dire financial circumstances found me visiting less often. I was working four jobs and working every day. I didn't mind working but I minded not seeing Sister Rose. She was a priority. I still managed to find ways to see her fairly often but I missed the frequency I had enjoyed previously.

People would comment on how marvelous I was to be so loyal. I always pointed out that the joy was mine and that when I visited it was definitely as much for me as it was for her.

What I could count on was her love. She always was happy to see me. Our faces would light up when we saw each other. She would tell me she was ready to meet her Jesus. My only comment was, “Well you might be ready but I am not ready for you to leave,” admittedly selfish!

During the last weeks of her life she had moved to a wheelchair. While my heart was saddened for my friend, the wheelchair provided an opportunity to take her outside for a wonderful walk on a gorgeous day. Whenever we went outside she always wanted to go to the sisters' cemetery. That time was no exception. She stopped before many of the graves and prayed for her friends.

One of the last visits I had with her was when she was taken to the local Catholic hospital because she became faint. Her friend, Sister Eileen, called and told me she was admitted. I quickly went to see her. When I arrived she was sleeping. She woke, saw me and gave me a big smile and said, “Here I am lying around doing nothing!” She went back to the mother house that afternoon.

Two weeks later I got another call from Sister Eileen. Sister Rose was not doing well. They had her anointed and called in hospice.

This time I really raced. I arrived to see my friend wracked with pain but I was so glad to be there. The morphine began to work. I stayed. I prayed the rosary and prayed some more. I read to her from her Liturgy of the Hours book. I sang to her.

I prayed to St. Anthony to help her find Jesus. St Anthony was one of our favorite saints. I still have the statue of him she gave to me when she left the hospital.

I kept whispering in her ear, “Go to Jesus. He's waiting for you.”

Her sister friends could not have been kinder. They knew how special we were to each other and they honored me by allowing me to be with her. Sisters would come in and out of her room, checking on their friend who would be leaving them soon.

They told me the Friday before she became so ill she went out into the hall and thanked all the aides and nurses for taking such good care of her.

The circumstances of Sister Rose's death provided one of those rare moments in one's life when God's love comes up and washes you in its greatness. He allows you to drink it in, to revel in it, to be enveloped in his loving generosity.

Sister Rose died on the 13^th of June, the Feast of St. Anthony, with only me by her side. In a mother house steeping with nuns, God graced this very faulty woman with the beautiful gift of being the one to walk my friend home.

I will forever be grateful for witnessing, when once again, God told Sister Rose, “I have something better for you.”