Today was Volunteer Appreciation Day at the Catholic retirement home where I spend a couple of hours a week visiting with the residents. I’m a pretty new volunteer, and what with illness and family emergency, I’ve missed several shifts in the short time that I’ve been on board. In fact, “new” barely describes me — I’m more a neophyte.

After a mass for the intentions of the volunteers and their families, the Sisters who run the home provided an excellent lunch in the home’s bright and cheerily decorated social hall. The meal was followed by distribution of door prizes, an event emceed by a wonderful woman I shall affectionately refer to as Sister Mary Stand Up because of her spontaneous humor and good natured jabs at staff and volunteers, her own singing voice, and her celibacy. “It’s a good thing I’m not married!” she’d chirp, every time a female volunteer chose a door prize appropriate for her husband. “I’d pick a gift for myself!”

Even though every one I encountered, from the Sisters, to the staff, to the other volunteers welcomed  me with cheerful kindness, I felt out of place. Some of the volunteers have been doing God’s work at this facility for decades. I felt that being so new and having done so little, I didn’t deserve the lunch or the recognition.

And then I won a door prize. My sense of guilt pricked me as I heard Sister Mary Stand Up call out the number that matched my little red ticket.  I picked out a nice piece of electronics and said I would give to my husband for his birthday (which I did). There, I thought, if I give it to someone else it’s not like I took it for myself when it wasn’t deserved. Sister Mary Stand Up observed, “and ya got it for nuthin’!” She meant it was a free birthday gift, but I heard another layer of meaning.

But there was more. As the event drew to a close, Sister Mary Stand Up announced that there was a gift bag for each volunteer. And they were big gift bags full of a variety of practical gifts and little luxuries, all brand new and donated just for this purpose. Well, that’s it, I thought. There’s no way I’m taking a gift bag. I haven’t done enough to deserve it, and the Sisters can put the items to better use if I leave them here.

As people exited the social hall I tried to slip away to the door, but the stream of traffic pushed me along to the end of the room where the Sisters were distributing the gift bags. The other volunteers urged me, “Go on, get your bag!” I looked at the pretty bags, assembled with loving care for the recipients. I looked at the joy on the faces of the Sisters as they distributed the bags. They were beaming.

So I took a gift bag. Not because I felt I deserved it, but because it gave the Sisters such joy to give it to me. And it’s an incentive for me to be more mindful, diligent, and faithful in my volunteering in the future.

I figure grace is like that. I don’t deserve it. For all my years on Earth, I’m still new at this walk in the Light, and I may never be as good at it as I want to be. But I believe it gives God such joy to bestow love and blessings upon me, that, worthy or not, I accept with a grateful heart and try to be more mindful, diligent, and faithful in my walk.

Wishing you a space for grace in your life today,
Kate

I hate being cranky on Easter. Actually, I hate being cranky any day, but especially on the most glorious of celebrations of renewal, there is no place for Scrooge. Bah, Humbunny!? Wrong holiday, wrong sentiment.

But cranky I was.

In my meager defense, I was still a little bleary from the four hour Easter vigil the night before. But Easter mass only magnifies one of my pet peeves about my parish.

Soooo many people come late to mass.

I normally sit at at the back of the sanctuary with my godmother. A remarkable bright and enthusiastic 80, she recently sustained a fall that would have left a lesser woman permanently grounded. Not this gal. She’s back to navigating with a cane or Rollator, but for convenience and safety, during mass she now sits against the back wall of the sanctuary on the seat of the Rollator. I sit on a bench next to her.  Between us and the last row of pews is a very narrow aisle, the only access people have for walking the width of the sanctuary and finding available last-minute seats. Every Sunday, once she and I are settled and mass has started, 5, 10, 15, even 20 minutes later, people are coming in and rushing along that narrow back aisle looking for seats.

That means that our feet are stepped on, and anything we hold out to read risks being knocked from our hands to the floor. People don’t say “excuse me” as they crash by — they just crash by. It’s disrespectful toward an elderly woman who has been a pillar of that church for decades. Having spent a little time in a wheelchair, I know that most folks choose not to see the “infirm” seated below eye level, but I’m a tall person on a long bench that’s part of the wall. Can’t they see me?

Scroogie enough?

Hang on. I wax Scroogier.

Easter was, of course, jam packed, so much so that the crowd spilled out into extra seating on folding chairs. But the same Late Parade took place, only in greater numbers. People with hair still wet from the shower, families with several children, young parents toting babies in carriers came 5, 10, 15, 20 minutes late through that already jammed aisle.

But that was just the beginning. Once in, they seemed to need to leave again. The stream of people going back and forth in that narrow aisle was constant. Constant. I might as well have been standing on a downtown sidewalk during rush hour. I was stepped on. I was knocked against. I couldn’t hold out anything to read, or see or hear what was taking place at the front of the sanctuary. People didn’t say “excuse me” as they crashed by — they just crashed by.

You know what happens when you feed a pet peeve. It becomes a beast. After an hour of  this, I was, to use my godmother’s favorite expression, “seriously honked off.”

I couldn’t put up a red light in the aisle and stop the flow of traffic. What could I do? Well, I could starve the beast and change my response.

If you’ve never read Emmet Fox, I recommend him without reservation. His books brought me back from a long hiatus away from the church. His insights are precise and so well targeted that when he hits you upside  the head with Christ truth, there is no hiding place. He emphasizes in all his writing that our faith is in our state of mind, and that anger and resentment kill the Spirit. Rather than criticize or condemn our fellows, he says, we must “salute the indwelling Christ” in every person we meet.

So, I tried it. I looked at the elderly couple pushing past me. That’s Jesus. I looked at the harried young father carrying a screaming baby out of the sanctuary. That’s Jesus. I looked at the two “tween-age” girls going out to the restroom for the third time since they arrived. That’s Jesus. The well dressed woman crossing the sanctuary to have an overly-loud conversation with a friend? Jesus.

When I realized how surrounded I was by the Divine Presence, the beast vanished. I was immediately lifted up and my heart was lightened. What a beautiful group of people! What a joyous event!

Not even a minute later, a small boy, no more than elbow high to me, came through the aisle shepherding what appeared to be a younger sibling. As he weaved his way along in front of me, he said in a high clear voice, “Please excuse us.”

Coincidence?

Nah. Ain’t no such.

Grace comes in such small packages some times.

Wishing you a space for grace in your life today,
Kate

(Note: This blog was originally posted for Lent 2011, but I am reposting it because I want to be sure I recognize again this year the impact of the Holy Thursday service. The beautiful picture that accompanies this posting is not my artwork, but hangs in the narthax of St. Thomas Aquinas Catholic Church in Indianapolis.)Yes, I know, I’m a day behind, but my Holy Thursday was so full that I had to take some time to fully digest my experiences. Perhaps no profound insights today, but a catalog of meaningful experiences.
First, coffee with a dear friend who came bearing an Easter gift from my godmother: a beautiful French rosary. After coffee, I made my Reconciliation before the Triduum. Father’s penance for me was so thoughtful and thought-provoking, so appropriate for my life right now, that the scope of it still hasn’t completely sunk in. No, I won’t share what it is — that’s between God and me! — but I am deeply grateful for the spiritual guidance and see I have much to do in my prayer life.
Before mass I had dinner with my daughter, who continues to amaze me with her intelligence, her insight, and her sense of purpose. The fact that she seeks out my company and trusts me means everything to me. Every day I thank the Holy Mother for Her example and ask Her guidance. I feel as though any triumph I have as a parent I share with Her.
Mass on Holy Thursday is wrenchingly beautiful as the Last Supper is remembered, and last night I had the honor of carrying the gifts to the altar. But what touched my heart most deeply was the ceremony of washing feet.
It may be done differently in different parishes. Where I worship, Father washes the feet of 12 parishoners at the front of the sanctuary. Then stations are set up at the corners of the church where the rest of the congregation lines up to continue the ceremony. Each one sits on a white folding chair as his/her feet are washed by a fellow. Then that person leaves the chair, kneels, and washes the feet of the next in line.
There is something so humbling about being barefoot in church. Feeling the soles of my feet touch the cool cement, the rough carpet, I felt as though I was communing at a very elemental level with my brothers and sisters in Christ. We were coming to each other like the poor — without protection, decoration, or pretense. As I took my seat, a little girl, no more than five years old, poured the pitcher of warm water over my feet as I held them above the basin. With her mother’s help she dried them with the towel. As I assumed my place kneeling before the chair, I held the feet of a man in his eighties. As I poured the water and applied the towel, I felt the same tenderness and loving service that I had felt bathing my daughter as an infant.
Surely this is what Christ had in mind when He washed the feet of his disciples — children, parents, elders, all coming together as base human beings to be touched by the hands of loving service.
“And if your Lord and teacher has washed your feet, you should do the same for each other. I have set the example and you should do for each other exactly what I have done for your. I tell you for certain that servants are not greater than their master, and messengers are not greater than the one who sent them. You know these things, and God will bless you if you do them.”  John 13:14-17
So much to think about, so much to pray over — so much to do!
Wishing you a space for grace in your life today,
Kate

I’ve been away from my home, away from my blog for several days. My father-in-law died last week and our lives have been turned inside out and upside down as we have dealt with the loss of a loved one and with all the hard physical and emotional work that arises when a parent’s home must be dismantled and parceled out.

I don’t mean to be at all flippant, but it is at times like this that I find grace in my dogs.

Dogs are wonderful creatures, and anyone who loves a dog knows it makes perfect sense that “dog” is simply “God” spelled backwards. What greater example is there of loving, willing obedience than a disciplined dog?

I frequently take my dogs out in the back yard while I do a quick task — fill the bird feeder, pull a weed I noticed while looking out the window, or clip a few flowers or herbs to bring into the house. Like all dogs, my pooches have favorite pursuits in the back yard. One likes to lie in the sun. The other likes to chase squirrels. They both like to follow me around as I do what I need to do.

But these are quick tasks, and soon it’s time to come in — which my mutts don’t want to do. But because they are obedient, disciplined dogs, they come in when called, tails wagging.

Of course, what they don’t know in that moment is that I have even more enjoyable activities planned for them in my own time. There will be a long walk. I may have a treat in the house. Or perhaps I’ve planned some first rate cuddle time with lots of canine massage. All they know is that their immediate activities, things they enjoy doing, have been cut short. But because they trust me, because they are obedient, disciplined dogs, they come when called without any knowledge of a future reward.

I wish I could be more like my dogs.

My pleasant life is frequently interrupted by events that range anywhere from inconvenient to heartbreaking. In the moment I don’t know why I have been burdened. But that’s because I don’t know God’s greater plan. If I am obedient and disciplined I will obey and do what must be done, trusting that God has greater rewards in store for me than I can imagine. Like my dogs, I, too, have a master, only my Master’s plans have secured me far beyond an afternoon and well into eternity. I can’t wag my tail, but I can go where my Master calls me with a joyful heart.

Wishing you a space for grace in your life today,
Kate

My daughter is one of the walking wounded in the brutal game of tug and war going on between government budgets and public opinion regarding the public schools. She is dedicated, intelligent, creative, relates well to children and parents, and wants to do good in the world. She has two college degrees and another on the way. She slam dunks her professional exams. All she wants to do is teach.

You’d think somebody would want to hire her.

Isn’t the hue and cry all about accountability? How else do you ensure accountability in schools except to hire intelligent, well educated, dedicated teachers? And once you’ve got them, you do your level best to keep them, right? Wrong. We’ve now seen an entire generation of students endure the high stakes joke of high stakes testing while the individuals who work (and work hard!) to teach them are marginalized and even vilified. And what do we have to show for it? Our schools are inside out and upside down. The flea is wagging the tail and the tail is wagging the dog.

Where does that leave people like my daughter? She’s hired to sub, to work as an aid, and she tutors on the side. But the pay is low, the benefits non-existent, and there are no opportunities for her to really stretch her wings, shine, and make what she feels is substantive impact. As a result, she questions herself. She questions her career choice. Why commit so much of her time, money, body, and spirit to a profession that doesn’t value her gifts? Worst of all, she questions if she even has these God-given gifts. She questions her intelligence and her abilities and her desire to do good.

As her mother, as a career teacher with 30+ years in the classroom, my heart is broken by her disillusionment and discouragement.  I pray a lot. I pray for her, I pray for our broken system, I pray for all the children who are falling through the cracks, and I pray for the teachers with long, proven careers whose livelihoods are yanked out from under them like so many dirty rugs. I pray for the angry people who don’t understand the crucial role that teachers play in a civilized society. I pray for myself to control my own anger and outrage. If I weren’t praying right now, I would probably set my laptop on fire. That’s how frustrated I get. For the life of me I cannot understand the vitriol that has been unleashed on teachers, how they have become seen as disposable and contemptible. And how can people who call themselves Christian forget that the Gospels chronicle the life and works of a man his followers called “Teacher”?

And then there is a moment of grace. I just received a text message from my daughter. She recently took a (very expensive) professional exam to add another credential to her resume in the hopes of becoming more employable. It was a hard test and she was fearful of failing. She found out today that not only did she pass,  she tipped the scale.

Will the test results get her hired? Hard to say. Will it give her bargaining room for a salary if she is hired? Of course not. Teachers are not rewarded for professional success and ability. But what this score did for her was restore her confidence in herself.

You see, overwhelmed by the political and economical trash talk that surrounds us, by the discouragement of underemployment and the continual threat of unemployment, by her fear that she had made bad career decisions, she simply forgot how smart she really was. She had begun to believe that she was no more than what “the system” allotted her.

For me, it was the answer to a mother’s prayer, a bit of oh-so-needed encouragement. I will continue to pray that she can parlay this into a job, or if nothing more, the drive to hang in there and continue to desire to do good in the world. This can’t last forever, I keep telling myself. The scale will tip, the pendulum will swing, and America will begin to put our children first and to value and trust the people we employ to educate them.

You’ve probably seen the bumper sticker that says, “If You Can Read This, Thank A Teacher.” It’s a little simplistic. If you can think critically, if you can write a complete sentence, if you appreciate poetry or music or art, if you can do higher math, if you understand the significance of the American Civil War and the Civil Rights Movement (and know the difference!), there was probably a teacher in the picture. And if you can do even just these things, you’re well on your way to having the skills you need to be a productive, engaged, compassionate citizen. Teachers create good citizens.

Have you thanked a teacher today? You have no idea how much it would mean to another good citizen who’s working hard to do good in the world. You might just provide them with a moment of grace.

Wishing you a space for grace in your life today,
Kate

I volunteer at a retirement home operated by an order of caring, dedicated nuns. The facility is immaculate, bright, and colorful. The staff and volunteers are obviously full of spirit and joy, and committed to their work and ministry — you can see it in their faces, hear it in their voices.

Every morning mass is celebrated in the chapel. Today I was making my volunteer rounds, in between visitations, and at the urging of a resident, I stopped in for mass. How glad I am that I did.

As I entered the chapel, one of the sisters had just begun the reading of the Rosary. I sank to my knees and was soon immersed in the graceful ebb and flow of the familiar words. As I always am in my veneration of the Holy Mother, I was moved out of my immediate surroundings and into a place of joy and peace. Until my knees began to hurt. And then my back. And then my arms where they had been propped on the hard seat back in front of me. I straightened my back. Then I bent my back. I shifted this way, then another. In shifting, I looked up at my companions, the residents of the retirement home.

There they were, people old enough to be my parents, the aging faithful, also on their knees. They didn’t bend, they didn’t shift, they didn’t squirm. They remained steadfast in their worship of our Lord and His mother. It was a humbling moment for me, and also a moment of gratitude. How grateful I am that these faithful are in the care of other faithful servants who dedicate their lives to giving dignity and hope to our seniors.

Wishing you a space for grace in your life today,
Kate

Today’s Gospel reading on the resurrection of Lazarus is one I have found compelling from childhood. It dramatizes so well. Mary and Martha question Jesus’ delay. Christ prays aloud for the benefit of the onlookers. Lazarus, still bound, emerges from the dark cave of death into the light of life. Stop. Just sit with it for a moment. Picture it. Now listen to it. Can you hear the gasps? The shouts of amazement? The joyful weeping?

Then the story of Lazarus stops. We don’t know what Lazarus did with his second chance or how much it changed the way he lived his life. Did he follow Christ? Teach and preach to others? Give up bad habits of thought and action? We don’t know.

Of course, the lessons to be gleaned from this story don’t focus on the follow up. Lazarus is saved by the faith of his sister Martha, by the miraculous powers of God invoked by Christ. Non-believers believe. Christ’s own resurrection and empty tomb are foreshadowed. I know that and I rejoice in it. All of us can be brought from the death and darkness of our own doubt and flawed humanity if we believe.

But I still have to wonder about brother Lazarus and the rest of his life. How did it feel to be revived? Did he remember the experience? Could he tell others what it was like to be dead? How long did he live afterward? This was, after all, a temporary reprieve.

There are no answers, so I guess I will just have to ask those questions about myself and focus on the resurrection of my own spirit, which happens over and over and over again when faith pulls me from the tomb of despair, doubt, and mis-direction. What does it feel like to be “dead”?  Painful beyond words. How does it feel to be revived by faith? Liberating beyond words. What to do with the new life and the second, third, fourth, fifth, infinite number of chances that I am given to be reborn again? Be grateful, and praise, praise, praise.

Wishing you a space for grace in your life today,
Kate

I’ve been mulling over this week’s Lenten Gospel, specifically John 9:6-7. Leading up to this  passage, Jesus and his disciples encounter a blind man. Jesus tells them that the man’s blindness is not a result of sin, either his or his parents’. Jesus says, “While I am in the world, I am the light of the world.” Now, “When Jesus had said this, he spat on the ground and made clay with the saliva, and smeared the clay on his [the blind man’s] eyes, and said to him, ‘Go wash in the Pool of Siloam’ (which means Sent). So the blind man went and washed, and came back able to see.”

I have to admit, when I heard these verses as a child in Sunday school, my first reaction was, “Eeeeeeewwwww. Jesus spit?!” Then, “He put mud on his eyes?!” Then, “He put mud made with spit on his eyes?!” And up until now, I filed away this particular passage of John with Other Things in the Bible I Don’t Want to Think About.

Lent has brought this particular bit of distasteful truth back to my now adult attention, and I keep asking myself, “Why saliva?” Christ turned water into wine, multiplied loaves and fishes, and walked on water. He commanded the elements. Certainly He could have asked for a flask or called down the rain. But He spat.

Why saliva? From then until now, spitting on or at someone has been a sign of contempt. But Christ used it to bless rather than curse. Well, that’s certainly consistent with His “turn the tables” practice. More than once in the Gospels, Jesus prefaces his teaching with, “You have heard it said, but I say unto you…”

But why saliva? Twenti-first Century readers might assume that there was something phenomenal about Jesus’ DNA, that this was a supernatural loogie with healing powers.  For me this calls attention to the combined humanity and divinity of Christ. He ate, He drank, He spat. In the desert he probably sweated up a storm. But with these human functions He achieved divine results. It raises the question for me — are there aspects of my own gross humanity that I can use to help advance the divine plan? If that’s what I take from this Gospel, it’s a pretty good start.

But I think I probably should quibble less with the spit factor and shift my focus to the recipient of this act of grace — the blind man. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t debate the nature of Christ or his methods. He accepted the miracle at face value (sorry — bad pun).  The first time he is questioned by the Pharisees he gives a brief description of what happened. The second time he focuses on the results and gives us the line most identified with amazing grace: “One thing I do know is that I was blind and now I see.” The third time he says, “‘I told you already and you did not listen.  Why do you want to hear it again? Do you want to become his disciples, too?'” (John 9:24-27)

I’ve asked three times, why saliva? Had I been there in that time and place I’m sure the once-blind man would have given me exactly the same answers he gave to the three interrogations from the Pharisees. In essence, he said, look at the results and follow Him.

Do I want to become His disciple, too?

Yes. Yes, I do.

Wishing you a space for grace in your life today,
Kate

April 2 was “Latare Sunday.” Yes, I had to look it up, too. Taken from the Latin for “be joyful,” the fourth Sunday of Lent is considered a time out from the serious introspection of Lent and an occasion to rejoice in anticipation of the glory of Easter. It’s also a good half-way point for taking stock of the Lenten journey.

On Latare Sunday the presider at mass may change the purple vestments for those of rose. After my initial amused surprise at seeing Father striding up to the altar draped in pink from neck to ankle, I had to turn my attention back to my own Lenten journey to the Easter altar and was struck by something equally as surprising: my Lenten fast hasn’t been a fast at all.

Okay, there’s a fast and there’s a fast. Christ fasted. Ghandi fasted. Irish political prisoners fasted. Members of Congress have fasted in protest of economic reform they feel will hurt America’s poor. My little fasts pale in comparison. First of all, there’s the facebook fast. I’m off facebook until Easter because I feel my time could be better spent during Lent in prayer or reading scripture than seeing who just checked in to Pizza Hut. And I’m observing abstinence from meat on Fridays. But I seriously have been trying to fast from food.

So far my food fast has been this: only two meals on Friday and Sunday, and no snacks between meals. I made this choice for a couple of reasons. First of all, I want to be more mindful of my eating and my actions, and I have the tendency to start shoving chips or crackers into my face when I’m bored or anxious. Again, this could be time better spent in prayer or reading. And second, I wanted to remind myself what it’s like to feel hungry. Over the years my husband and I have spent time volunteering at soup kitchens and homeless shelters serving meals, and the people who have taken plates from our hands have had to be mindful of what they were eating, because they might not know when they would eat again. If I am to follow Christ’s command to “feed my sheep,” it would be hypocritical of me not to have some understanding of their experience. Of course, it’s also kind of shallow of me to think that getting hungry in between meals is the same as living from meal to meal.

All the same, I was getting hungry in between meals and experiencing frustration and a sense of deprivation because I couldn’t gratify that hunger the second I felt (or before I felt) it. So what was I doing to compensate? I was eating twice as much at meals. Oh yes, there’s bargaining and rationalization going on! Have two eggs in the morning instead of one — you won’t eat again until lunch. Load up on the side dishes at lunch — you won’t eat again until dinner. Have dessert at dinner — you won’t eat again until breakfast.

It was Latare Sunday and I could laugh at my middle-class sensibilities and what I considering “doing without.” But once I stop laughing I had to look at the underlying reason for my bargaining and rationalization. It was fear. I was afraid of being hungry. I was afraid of doing without. I was afraid that if I didn’t get what I needed at one meal, I would never, ever get it. If Freud started digging around in my psychic closet, he could probably come up with a number of experiences from my childhood that would explain this fear of not having what I need, but that’s not the issue, and it’s not of Spirit. If I fear, I do not trust.

It doesn’t matter what kinds of needs were not met in my past. If I have decided to walk the path of Lenten sacrifice in anticipation of the glory of Easter, I have become, as Paul says in 2nd Corinthians 5:17, a “new creature.” And if I have an extra dessert at dinner because I’m afraid of going without food until breakfast, I’m saying, by my actions, “I don’t trust You, God.” And if I don’t trust God to keep my well-fed middle-class body whole and sound for 12 hours, how, in the name of all that’s holy (no pun intended), trust Him with my life, my will, my soul?

Half-way through Lent I discovered that my fast was only a half-fast. And, at the risk of offending some readers, it was just a half-assed fast. I’m glad I made that discovery while I still have time to truly walk the walk. God does not give me half. My fast, my Lenten experience, my walk with God has to be whole and all. My fast must ultimately be not a fast from food, but a fast from fear.

Wishing you a space for grace in your life today,
Kate

The title pretty much says it all — this is a place where I share my every day experiences with Divine Grace. The observations are purely personal. I’m a practicing Catholic with liberal leanings, and my impressions do come through a Christian filter. My hope is that whatever your faith walk, my postings may encourage you to look for evidence of the Divine around you, and to make a space for grace in your own life. If you’d like to respond to a blog, there is a place for comments at the bottom of each post. If you’d like to stay updated on what I’m currently writing and painting, please subscribe to my site. All it takes is your e-mail address in the “Subscribe to Posts” form in the side bar on the right. I know your time is valuable. Thank you for spending some of it here!
Kate