and I’ll follow you!

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I have a pyx in my purse.

For the uninitiated (and until last week that included me), a pyx is a small round container used in the Catholic Church to carry the consecrated host (Eucharist) to the sick or invalid, or those otherwise unable to come to a church in order to receive Holy Communion. As a Eucharistic Minister, a lay person who assists the priest during Communion, I volunteered within my parish to take the Host to members of the faith confined to local nursing homes. I started this week — hence, the encounter with the pyx.

I received my orientation by accompanying a wonderful woman in my parish who has been serving in this special ministry for years. A former Sister of Providence, she has a theological background, and an outgoing, loving personality that reaches into the dim corners of the waning mind and draws out smiles from these meekest of the meek whom she visits so faithfully. I knew I was in good hands. After my orientation she went over some final guidelines and handed me the pyx I would be using for the next couple of months.

Gulp. A pyx of my own? The Host in my hands? I asked, “What should I do with the pyx? Where should I keep it?” She cheerfully replied, “In your purse.”

In my purse?

In my mid-fifties, I’m still trying to wrap my mind around the mystery of the Eucharist (a possible subject for my next blog). This morsel of brittle, flavorless “bread” becomes the body of Christ, the flesh of the Redeemer. We consume it and become one with God in our body. How do you comprehend that? And even if we can’t fully comprehend, we revere the Host. We keep it under lock and key. We kneel before it when it is revealed. Once it is consecrated, it cannot be thrown away. And now it’s bouncing around in my purse with the Kleenex, lipstick, pens, and cell phone? That struck me as inappropriate if not downright irreverant.

And yet — the longer I think about it, the more appropriate it seems that I should carry Christ along with all the mundane items of my daily life. Isn’t that where and when I need Him most? I’m in pretty safe territory when I’m meditating in a fragrant chapel or inching my way down the aisle with other parishoners anticipating receiving grace. The challenges come when I’m in rush hour traffic, standing in the long line at the grocery store, or dealing with a belligerent co-worker or family member. That is when I need to be aware of the Christ I carry. No one can see the pyx in my purse, but it is my sacred obligation that they see Christ in me. “It is not I that live but Christ that lives in me.” Galatians 2:20.

Kate is a nickname for my legal name, Katherine. My parents told me that had I been born a boy my name would have been Christopher. Their choice came from my father’s devotion to A.A. Milne and his fictional character Christopher Robin. It was only when I began to learn about the lives of the saints that I discovered the name Christopher means “bearer of Christ.” I like knowing that. And I like that in my fifth decade, while not being born a “Christopher,” I always have the option to live as a “Christopher.”

I currently have the pyx safely tucked away in the zippered pouch where I keep the rosary given to me by my godmother, and a third-class relic of Padre Pio. I won’t always have a pyx in my purse, but for now, as I work toward becoming the person God calls me to be, it’s an important reminder that the most important thing I carry isn’t my wallet, my keys, or my phone. It’s the call to Love as I have been Loved.

Wishing you a space for grace in your life today,

Kate

In addition to my first autograph, I started my first board on Pinterest and posted my first item for sale on etsy this week. I’m stumbling into the brave new world.

A lovely woman at the St. Matthew book fair asked me to sign one of my prints. (Forgive me if you see multiple postings, but it really tickled me.)

… can be compared to a beautiful ray of sunshine on a cloudy day.” St. John Vianney

The Village Dove is graciously letting me share their booth space at the St. Matthew book fair: Jan. 21-22, after mass, 56th and Binford. If you’re in the area, stop by and see some of the wonderful stuff Trudy has for sale. And say hi to me!

This weekend I was treated to a “spiritual spa,” a women’s CRHP retreat at my church. Pronounced “Chirp,” the acronym stands for “Christ Renews His Parish,” a ministry described as “a spiritual renewal weekend designed to help individuals grow in their personal relationships with Jesus Christ and with others in a faith community.” Saturday morning I joined 15 other women in my parish to share, sing, pray, eat, play, sleep, laugh, and cry together in a safe and loving space. Sunday afternoon I emerged both exhausted and exhillarated, having witnessed a cycle of renewal that spirals around multiple levels.

I won’t reveal what occurs at a CHRP retreat; not because it is a secret ceremony conducted by a mysterious cabal, but because it simply has to be experienced to be understood. Without the context of the experience, any description would sound over-inflated, yet still be inadequate.

So why write about it?

Because there are two very simple truths about CHRP that I can share with anyone and within any context. The first is that acts of loving service are not finite acts, but infinite ripples that spiral outward to an unseen end. The second is that prayer has power beyond our understanding.

Those who have gone through past CRHP retreats prepare and coordinate the retreats for new participants. As the weekend went on I saw over and over that this hard work was not done out of obligation, but out of joy. These spirit-filled women (and men) wanted for us the same fulfillment they had known, and were also happily anticipating for us the discoveries we did not yet know lay ahead. I have paid people for many services over the years: physical training, counseling, room and board… It is one thing to be served because you have paid. It is quite another to be served simply because you are loved as a fellow child of God. These past CRHPers renewed themselves through Christian service, showing us how much we are loved by our parish. As a recipient of that service of love I became grateful, humbled, and eager to serve others with the same joy. The cycle spins on and on.

Our retreat was held in the parish school adjoining the church, and the CRHP organizers set up classrooms as our sleeping quarters. Desks and chairs were cleared away to make space for air mattresses, six or so to a room, with partitions set up for some privacy and quiet. When we arrived Saturday morning we each claimed a mattress and parked our sleeping bags.

Saturday evening I was the first to bed down in my shared room, and, as the others chatted in the hall, I snuggled into my sleeping bag, anticipating drifting off alone in the quiet dark. I had just adjusted my sleep mask and scrunched up my pillow, when I had a sense of people standing around me, even leaning over me, forming a circle around my sleeping bag. I couldn’t see anyone, hadn’t heard anyone come in, but I knew I was being watched. Thinking I was being summoned back to a group activity, I pulled off the sleep mask, sat up, and looked around the dim room. I was alone. A little unnerved but not frightened, I shrugged off the sensation and lay down to sleep.

The next morning our retreat leaders reminded us that people of the parish had been praying for us that weekend. We were offered up by the prayer chain, with the mass intentions, and in our families’ prayers. I believe that the previous night I actually felt the presence of those prayers as a protective circle in a sacred space. How else to explain the mysterious sensation of being watched over? And how else to explain that after six miserable years of chronic migraines, Saturday was my first headache-free night in many months?

Call it coincidence or chalk it up to rational causes if you will. But I know I was touched by an energizing love and carried by a strength of spirit as Christ renewed His parish. Just think of the joy and healing that can be accomplished if we keep the ripples spreading ever outward.

Wishing you a space for grace in your life today,

Kate

In early childhood my daughter was, by nature, sweet and sunny, always loving and laughing. But I remember when she reached that stage in her development, around age 5 or 6, when children become, for a time, more fearful and anxious; that point in life when they grow aware that the world is big and can be dangerous, when safety programs at school can cause anxiety, and when the meaningless noise on the grown up TV programs starts to translate into threatening messages close to home.

A child of the Cold War, I became a first-grader terrified of nuclear attack, and for a brief period was certain that when I walked home from School 92 (after an air raid drill), I would find my house just a smoking hole on Kenmore Drive, my parents no more than vapor. For my daughter, born in the mid-1980s, the fear was Stranger Danger.

One evening as I was putting her to bed I saw she was unusually quiet and downcast. Before I could ask what was wrong, she said, “Mommy, I’m sad.” I sat down on the bed next to her and asked why. As she continued, the tears glistened in her eyes.

“I was thinking that if somebody took me away from you and Daddy, there wouldn’t be anyone to call me by my pet names. I’d never hear them again.” The tears started down her cheeks.

I hugged her, swallowed hard, and told the great parent lie, the one every parent prays is true. “No one can take you away from me,” I promised. “I won’t let them.” How could I let her know that her greatest fear was also my own? What mother has not felt that clutching at the heart when she turns and for a moment does not see her child?

But as she continued, I could tell my daughter’s distress had a different emphasis. “But I’d never hear all the special names you and Daddy have for me.” It wasn’t being taken that disturbed her as much as the fear of being unknown in a loving and intimate way.

I replied, “Well, let’s just say them all right now so you can hear them.” My names for her: Sweetheart, Honey, Baby…her father’s names: Punkin, Noodle, Chip…until we ticked off at least 10. I squeezed her again and asked, “Does that help?”

She sniffled, nodded, and added, “You forgot one. Sweetums-Pie.”

Sweetums-Pie. I’ll never forget it again. Every loving name we had for our little girl was registered in her sense of self. And if one was missing, she knew. I kissed my Sweetums-Pie good night and tucked her in.

I believe that no matter how old we are there can still emerge from within us a trembling child who fears being separated from the Divine Parent, who fears being cast into the deep, dark, turbulent currents of a threatening world, alone and unknown. But I also believe that the Eternal Parent, unlike the human parent, can promise without doubt, “No one can take you away from Me.” God always knows where we are and who we are, and God’s names for us are tender and individually intimate.

“Fear not…I have called you by name; you are mine.” Isaiah 43:1-2

When you start to feel lost, listen for your name.

Wishing you a space for grace in your life today,

Kate

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