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

St. Padre Pio said, “Remember that if a demon is causing an uproar, it is a sign that he is still on the outside, and not on the inside of you. What we need to be terrified about is a demon that is at peace and has harmony with the human soul.”

While Padre Pio was speaking in more literal terms, this wise observation hit home with me in the context of our nation’s current controversy over mass shootings and gun legislation.

This is a difficult issue for me. I was a teacher. My daughter is a teacher. Am I afraid for her as she walks into a public school to do her oh-so-important job? I certainly have reason to be, and I commend her and her school into the care of Our Lady every day. Do I think she should carry a weapon? Absolutely not. Anyone who takes responsibility for a loaded weapon needs to be keenly aware of the location and condition of that weapon at all times. A teacher surrounded by children who are constantly moving, speaking, and pulling her attention in a dozen directions cannot give adequate attention to the safekeeping or maintenance of a weapon. Even though I kept my purse in a locked drawer, my wallet was stolen several times while I was teaching. What’s to keep a student from stealing a teacher’s gun?

Am I anti-gun? Absolutely not. I grew up in a family of hunters and farmers, and men who served in the military and law enforcement. My father taught me how to shoot a pistol when I was little more than 8. I can still feel the sting of the retort that smacked my small palm. There was no greater honor for me than to go target shooting with my father and uncle. A rifle kept foxes, snakes, and hawks from disturbing livestock. One may argue that in today’s world of multi-million dollar agri-business (a demon I will speak to another time!) and the decline of the family farm, those kinds of weapons and practices are no longer a necessary part of life. But they are still part of rural life, and they are part of a heritage. My Grandpa earned his sharp-shooter medal in the Marines, and he could take out a Blue Racer with one clean shot. I’m proud of that. So proud that I am displaying his medals to illustrate this blog.

So, who and what is the demon? How is the demon exorcised? In my belief, the demon is the illness and alienation that drives people – almost exclusively young white men – to devalue human lives, including their own. Can we look more closely at the ways we are raising our boys, and how they define themselves and their futures in the 21st Century? What kinds of discipline and healthy outlet of aggressive emotions do they require? Do they need more engaged parents; responsibilities at an earlier age; a faith-based outlook on life; more access to athletics and the arts; time in the woods? Can we be more attentive to, compassionate with, and supportive of the mentally ill and their families?

I’m not saying anything new, and I don’t see a short term fix to this national tragedy. But to bring the conversation back to Padre Pio, I am at least grateful that the demon is still making an uproar. The demon is still outside of us, we recognize the social illness, and we are trying, if ineffectively at the moment, to find a cure. It is when the demon lives within us “at peace…with the human soul,” and we settle into complacency — that is when I will be most afraid.

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

“Everything will be okay in the end. It it’s not okay, it’s not the end.”

It’s been a while since I’ve posted a blog – months, to be more accurate. Life bloomed in different directions as I traveled, started writing a novel, visited family, took on two new jobs, and became involved in community theater.

My trip to New Mexico with my husband this summer allowed me to visit some of the oldest churches and shrines in the country dedicated to Our Lady. I hope to post pictures soon.
In the meantime, however, I have been moved to write on a topic of a different history.

Yesterday my husband showed me an article in our local paper announcing the October opening of Ireland’s Great Hunger Museum, the first of its kind in the US (Hamden, Connecticut), and the world’s largest collection of art, artifacts, and printed articles about Ireland’s terrible famine.

From 1845-1852, a million Irish died of starvation and disease as British occupiers exported grains and livestock to Europe and the US, leaving the Irish tenants only blighted potatoes to sustain them. Once the potatoes were gone, many of the desperate starving were reduced to consuming grass. And all the while the English grew fat on the bounty of the Irish fields, watched the Irish “monkeys” suffer, and dispossessed them of their meager homes, forcing them to live — and die — in roadside ditches.

Just to write about it makes my pulse pound.

Many saw no alternative – leave Ireland, or die. I’ve been to Ireland twice, and on my last trip, while in County Wexford, my husband and I stood on the deck of the famine ship Dunbrody, a recreation of an actual ship that carried Irish emigrants to unknown futures in America. The sad irony, of course, was that life on the ships was little better than life in Ireland, and many died during the trip.

One who survived the terrible journey was Thomas Duffy, a young carpenter who immigrated to Baltimore, lived and worked in Washington DC, and served in the Union Army under President Lincoln. He later joined the Irish exodus from the East Coast to San Francisco when Protestants burned Catholic churches and terrorized Irish Catholic neighborhoods.

It is because of Thomas Duffy that I am here to to write my blog. This young man, with his wife, Mary O’Rourke, was the founder of an American clan (and I say clan because we are far bigger than a family) whose living members currently number over 100. We are many, and we are proud to be Irish. We’ve continued to serve our country in the military, we include in our numbers teachers, nurses, engineers, artists, and musicians. We are devoted parents and grandparents. We are people of faith. We are patriots. A century and a half later, we still know that the name Duffy represents struggle, survival, and success. It is a badge we wear with pride.

Not quite a hundred years after Thomas Duffy escaped genocide in Ireland, a young Jewish man named Herbert Sim escaped genocide in Austria. He left Vienna to come to New York as an exchange student under the sponsorship of an aunt. He and his father were the only members of their immediate family to escape the Holocaust, an abomination which requires no further explanation because its name carries the weight of the world’s shame. Herb went on to serve his country in the Army, become a distinguished professor at Notre Dame (talk about Irish pride!), and, with his wife, Sylvia, raise five children — one of whom I married.

When my father-in-law died (may his memory be for blessing), I spoke at his funeral. My brief comments acknowledged the grief of his loss, but also gratitude that he, like Thomas Duffy, found a new life in a new country, and would ultimately bless my life and the lives of so many others who knew him. The good will rise from the bad.

I have a small sign that hangs on a wall in my home. It reads, “Everything will be okay in the end. It it’s not okay, it’s not the end.” I realize that expressed in those words, the sentiment may sound trite or glib, but I really believe the deeper message. We never know the full impact of any event until we see the blessings to which it gives birth.

History paints disasters in broad strokes. One million Irish were allowed to die in conditions we would not force upon animals. Six million Jews were exterminated like vermin. But the blessings emerge in the stories of individuals lives. Thomas escaped the starving bowels of Ireland and I am here. Herb escaped the ovens of Auschwitz, and my husband is here. This is a second marriage for each of us, a new chance at a new life after years of loneliness. From darkness comes light.

I hope to meet Thomas in the next life. I would like to tell him that my heart has ached for his anguish when he saw his homeland turned to rot. I’d like to tell him that I am so very grateful he took a chance on a second chance despite the obstacles. I’d like to tell him how many people are proud to carry his name. And I’d like to tell him that I am proud to pair it with the name of another who was able to turn despair into blessing.

Everything will be okay in the end. I’d like to think wherever he is now, Thomas knows that better than anyone.

Wishing you a space for grace in your life today,

Kate

This afternoon I accompanied a friend to the three o’clock Good Friday service at her beautiful, old church. I love my modern parish church and its pared-down contemporary sanctuary, but sometimes I need to immerse myself in the “bells and smells” of a traditional setting. Seated in my pew, I looked around with an artist’s appreciation, drinking in the classic architectural features, stained glass windows, and frescoed ceilings.

Whump!

A thumping sound came from directly in front of me. It sounded like somebody was getting punched.

Whump! I heard it again and saw the source. A young man sitting two rows ahead of me had just pounded the back of the older man sitting next to him — pounded it hard.

Whump! Whump! Whump! Now the young man was repeatedly striking the side of his own head. I immediately surmised from his spastic movements and unfocused gaze that he was mentally challenged. The older man sitting close beside him was white-haired and well dressed, certainly old enough to be a parent or guardian.

Throughout the service I watched the young man twitch and punch, unable to control his movements, and unaware, I’m sure, of the force with which he was hitting the older gentleman at his side. I recalled the stories of Christ driving demons out of the afflicted and wished the Great Healer would free this poor soul from the chemical and neurological demons that plagued him.

But them my focus shifted to the man next to him, who, because of his behavior, I will refer to as the young man’s father. As many times as he was forcefully struck, the father did not react with anger or impatience. He simply took his son’s hand and gently redirected it. The blows were painful for me to watch and listen to. I can’t imagine what it would be like to experience them in my body day after day, year after year.

“That man,” I thought, “has the patience of a saint.”

I’m glad I was on my knees at that moment, because I realized then that I was seeing Christ at work. The Great Healer was present and bestowing his grace, not upon the son, but upon the father. This man did not return evil for evil, but responded with love and guidance.

“Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

What a blessing for me to witness this forgiving love on Good Friday, and what a practical reminder of the meaning of the Great Sacrifice. We all hurt and are hurt by those around us — not out of malice, but the unconscious or misdirected acts of fellow flawed human beings. The only way to respond is as I saw today — the way Christ would want us to respond — by extending a loving hand.

Wishing you a space for grace in your life today,

Kate

My husband is a good man. In addition to being committed to his family, his home, and his job, he is also committed to his community. He volunteers for an organization to prevent homelessness, and he also serves as a guardian ad litem for our county. People who take on this crucial role step in as guardians for adults who, because of age or mental illness, cannot make decisions regarding their medical care and legal matters, and who have no family or friends to act as advocates. It is truly God’s work.

In this role, my husband recently became the permanent guardian for a mentally challenged man in his mid-sixties who has multiple health problems, no income, and who is not competent to manage his own care. Out of respect for his privacy, I’ll call him “Edward.” Under my husband’s supervision, Edward was placed in a nursing home a few weeks ago, and when I can, I go with my husband to visit him.

It’s not easy to have a conversation with Edward. He is only sporadically coherent, his voice is quick and hushed, and he has lost all his teeth. He takes medication for anxiety, but still seems to be troubled by what he perceives to be happening around him. I have found, though, that he responds to and is calmed by prayer.

On our latest visit we found Edward in a wheelchair parked in a hall of the facility. He had just had his dinner and was most likely awaiting his meds. In the bustle of the hallway I had difficulty understanding him as he spoke, so I knelt down in front of him to try to make better sense of the mumbling. Looking at him at eye level, I saw for the first time that he had large blue eyes and a full head of hair. He must have been a beautiful child. The thought moved me – this lost man had been someone’s beautiful little boy. Indeed, much of his demeanor is childlike.

He was eager for conversation, and wanted to talk about the way he was being treated. He pointed to my husband: “He’s nice.” He pointed to me: “You’re nice.” He pointed to an aide passing by: “She’s nice.” But worry creased his brow and clouded his eyes as he tried to explain that some people aren’t nice. The words wouldn’t come, and when they did, he stumbled over them.

In an attempt to calm him, I confirmed that it is important to be nice to everyone, and added that people should be nice to him because he matters. He nodded in agreement, although he didn’t seem soothed. Then I asked if I could say a prayer for him.

“Oh, yes!” His face brightened and relaxed as I took his hand. My prayers for Edward are very basic: “Dear God, please look over your child and let him know that you are always with him, you always love him, and you will always take care of him. Amen.” When I finished this time I saw that Edward still appeared to be praying. His eyes were closed and his face tilted downward as if in concentration. His mouth was open and a thin line of drool escaped his lower lip. He didn’t notice.

Then he opened his eyes and leaned in to me until we were nose to nose. “Can I have one of those…” he muttered, gesturing in frustration with his hand, “One of those…one of those…” Suddenly I understood. “A hug? Do you want a hug?” “Yes!” again his face brightened and relaxed.

I put my arms around him and we embraced. I patted his back telling him again that he was a nice person, an important person.

Then I heard him say, clear as a bell, right into my ear, “God doesn’t forget. God doesn’t forget. God doesn’t forget.”

Amen, Edward. God doesn’t forget.

As we approach Holy Week, I am reminded of the words of our Lord on the cross, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?” Even Jesus had a moment of doubt. But Edward, who has been forgotten by all but a few dedicated volunteers, who no longer plays a role in day to day society, who is not always sure where he is, still knows that he matters to God. He knows that God has not forgotten him. He comes to the Kingdom with the simplicity of a child.

As my husband and I prepared to leave him, Edward pulled me close again and muttered, “I’m sorry I can’t give you any money.” Even though I knew this was his dementia speaking, I had to laugh. Give me money? I should have paid him for the precious gift he gave me.

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

In just nine days we arrive at Ash Wednesday. This sacred day marks the beginning of Lent and the suspension of Ordinary Time.

What is Ordinary time? Ordinary time is observed in two segments, from the Monday following the Baptism of Our Lord up to Ash Wednesday, and from Pentecost Monday to the First Sunday of Advent. The combined length makes it the greater part of the liturgical year.

What makes it “Ordinary”? The term, like so many in Catholicism, comes from the Latin – ordinalis – which refers to ordered numbers in a series. The weeks in Ordinary Time are numbered and represent the ordered life of the Church. The Gospel which begins Ordinary Time will present either John the Baptist’s acknowledgment of Christ as the Lamb of God or Christ’s first miracle, the transformation of water into wine at the wedding at Cana. Ordinary Time indicates the time of Christ’s ministry, the time he walked among us as the Word Incarnate.

But is that all there is to “ordinary”?

Last month I became an Extraordinary Minister of Communion to the Sick. That means that as a lay representative of the Church, I can administer the Eucharist to those who are unable to attend mass. I perform this ministry in local nursing homes. The first time I heard my official title, I had to chuckle. The definition that comes to my mind when I hear the word “extraordinary” is the one most common in modern usage: that which is beyond what is usual; exceptional in character, amount, extent, degree.

I certainly don’t feel uncommon or exceptional when I take the Eucharist to the seniors suffering from dementia or physical deterioration. I feel humbled by their trust, their gratitude, and their faith. Even those who are not able to consume the communion wafer will grasp my hand for prayer. One elderly gentleman won’t let me leave without giving me a kiss on the cheek. I feel less like I am dispensing a sacrament to them and more like I am receiving grace from them.

And I realize that in the Church, the term Extraordinary Minister refers to a lay person, one who is not ordained, one outside or additional, having a special, often temporary task or responsibility. But I have to admit, the secular definition gives me something to which I can aspire.

So does Lent. In the 40 days that we meditate on the Passion of Our Lord, we are called to look at our lives in a way that is beyond the usual. The ending of Ordinary Time propels us into a season when we contemplate the most extraordinary love and sacrifice imaginable. I’m glad I have 40 days to focus on something that is exceptional to that amount and degree. I only hope I can even begin to wrap my heart and mind around it.

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

The child is mother of the woman. Forgive me if I apply a gender twist to Wordsworth’s line “The Child is father of the Man.” Taken from the poem “My Heart Leaps Up,” this line speaks to his childhood awe of nature’s splendor, a sensation which has stayed — and, he emphatically hopes, will continue to stay — with him his entire life. Paraphrased more loosely and less in context: the child in us knows what we truly love, and we must honor that and be guided by it.

The Child is Mother of the Woman

As I approach my 56th birthday this month, I look at the significant choices I have made in my life recently and see how all of them were rooted in childhood dreams or desires.

I had one Catholic parent, but I was not raised in the Catholic church and had little exposure to it. But before I even started (public) school I began to “play nun” by putting a towel over my head and kneeling to pray by the night stand next to my bed. I made a “rosary” by taping two toothpicks together to form a cross and then taping them to a string of my mother’s beads. Had I ever seen a rosary before? I have no memory of it. How I even knew what one was or how to use it still remains a mystery to me.

In a long and winding way I left the Protestant church of my childhood, and in my mid-30’s joined the Jewish community for many years. (The reasons for that are deeply personal and a long story for another day.) But in 2009 as my mother lay dying and I sat by her bed, helpless and grief-stricken, I found myself swaying back and forth reciting, “Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee…” Two years later I went through RCIA and, with the support of my loving Jewish husband, “officially” became Catholic. My friends and family were surprised, but for me it was as though I had finally caught up with that little girl who knelt next to the night stand with her mother’s beads in her hand.

In August of 2011 I retired from a 32-year teaching career. I can’t tell you any specific reason why I left other than I just knew it was time to do something else. With the support of my loving husband, I began to paint — pictures of the Blessed Mother. These paintings, which you see on my webpage, became note cards, and, with the addition of two more paintings and more text, will become a Marian devotional book. Somewhere in the box of keepsakes I took from my mother’s apartment after her death is a hand-made book of notebook paper folded in half and stitched down the middle, covered with large scrawling letters and somewhat abstract drawings. It is my first book, Fun on the Farm, which I created for my grandmother when I was four. Katey Duffy wrote and illustrated a book for her Gramma Belle. Kate Duffy Sim is writing and illustrating a book for her Blessed Mother Mary.

Last Friday I loaded up my Puggle, Duffy, a stray we adopted two years ago, into my station wagon, and the two of us made a six-hour round trip to northern Indiana. Well, on the way home we were three. In the back seat with Duffy was Daisy, another Puggle, recently fostered through the good people at Kentuckiana Pug Rescue. The entire story is not fully known, but through abuse or neglect in her former home, Daisy sustained an injury that required amputation of her left front leg. Feel righteous anger for the unnecessary pain she endured, but don’t feel sorry for her now. This plucky little Puggle runs up and down the stairs with more agility than her four-legged counterparts.

This is our third dog. Mazel Tov, a Bichon-Poodle mix, came from a puppy mill eight years ago. With the support of my loving husband, I’ve brought two more “throw away” animals into our home. Three dogs may seem like a lot. Unless you knew me “when.” From the ages of 9 until — well, until now, actually — I have been a dog lover. In school I checked out every library book I could find about dogs and memorized them until I could identify all the AKC registered breeds. I drew pictures of dogs. I wrote stories about dogs. I fantasized about owning a kennel. I’ll stop at three dogs, but the child inside me laughs with delight when I see those cast-off creatures romping happily in our yard, or sleeping securely in my husband’s lap. Look at the photos at the top of this post. You can see the same joy in my face today as in 1971, when my father captured the image of my play with the neighbors’ puppies.

None of these interests was a passing childhood fancy, but all were indications of personality type, talent, and, yes, I believe God’s plan for my life. And, if you noticed, I included my loving husband’s support in each of these endeavors. We all have unfulfilled childhood dreams that are waiting to help us grow into the adults we are meant to be. Encourage your children in their dreams. Remember who you were when you were young and what burned as your heart’s desire. Find people who love and believe in you and will give you space to grow. Listen to your inner child and let it parent you.

The full poem by Wordsworth is below. Enjoy.

Wishing you a space for grace in your life today,

Kate

William Wordsworth – My Heart Leaps Up

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky.
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

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

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

Grace appears where you least expect it. I certainly wasn’t looking for it when I made the rounds at the St. Augustine Home rummage sale early this December. But there among the rubber gloves, sheet sets, and mismatched luggage, I was ambushed by grace.

It appeared in the form of a crèche, or nativity scene, displayed on emerald felt. It wasn’t the only manger scene for sale that day, but what made me stop  — and wipe away an errant wistful tear – was that this set was identical to the one my family put up every Christmas when I was a child.

Made in Italy half a century ago from a material that seems to be a mixture of papier mache and clay, the figures are painted in bright colors and in admirable detail. Kneeling, Mary holds slender hands to her breast, her sky blue robe folding over a pink gown. Joseph, gray-haired and dressed in brown and purple, is barefoot, supporting himself on one knee with the help of a staff.  Both seem pensive, although Mary smiles in quiet joy. There are three shepherds with adoring expressions; the three kings are richly gowned and two have dark complexions.  An angel suspended from a nail blesses the rickety wooden barn that contains the scene. There are four sheep, a wobbly camel, a cow with horns of twisted wire, a donkey, a dog, and a goat.

The jewel of the collection is, of course, the Christ Child, lying on a white drape in his manger of hay, his dreamy pointed face surrounded by sandy curls and a gold halo. His posture is ironically reminiscent of His impending crucifixion: arms outstretched, one knee raised higher than the other, a loin cloth gathered at one side. But the loin cloth is baby blue, and his knees are painted with rosy high lights. The entire figure is no more than three inches long, two inches wide, and no heavier than a walnut.

Every Christmas I can remember, until I married and left home, it was my “job” to arrange the crèche. My mother and I would create a different barn every year, usually from a shoe box and salt dough, or pop cicle sticks, but I alone got to decide how the figures would be positioned. Who was on the right, Mary or Joseph? Who would be closest to the Baby Jesus? The shepherds? The Kings? The animals? Usually I opted for the animals.

But it didn’t matter where I initially placed them, because they moved all during Advent. My mother wisely knew that these figures were not items for display, but living characters in a child’s mind. Again and again I acted out the story from the Gospel of Luke, moving the shepherds and wise men closer and closer to the miraculous discovery. Sometimes I would place myself in the story and bring “treasures,” usually sequins and shiny buttons from my mother’s sewing box, to place at the feet of the Infant Christ.

Time and six moves took their toll on my family’s nativity set. Spindly legs snapped off the sheep and the dog, and I had to prop them against the human figures. A decapitated shepherd was made whole again by a necklace of glue. Joseph’s original wire staff disappeared and was replaced with straightened hair pins or paper clips. By the end of my mother’s life, the set was down to only a few figures: the Holy Family, a shepherd, an angel, and a chalky white replacement sheep (made in Japan) purchased at Woolworths for twenty-five cents in the 1960’s. But my mother still set them out with her other Christmas decorations, and it gave me a thrill to see them every year in her apartment.

My mother died in November 2009, and in all the chaos that came with quickly emptying her apartment before the next month’s rent was due, the nativity set vanished. I don’t know if it was accidentally placed in the Goodwill pile, or thrown out with the empty boxes. I just know it didn’t come home with me, and I was doubly heartbroken, missing more than my mother that Christmas.

But grace blindsided me at a rummage sale this month, leading me to a duplicate of our original set, 19 pieces, all complete and undamaged. After I dried my eyes I took out my check book.

The “new/old” set now graces an antique chest next to our Christmas tree.  The pieces are, of course, smaller than I remember. When I was a child the Baby Jesus figure filled my hand. Now it covers only half of my palm. But this year as I carefully, lovingly put the figures into place, I asked myself the same old questions. Who goes on the right, Mary or Joseph? Who will be closest to the Baby Jesus? The shepherds? The Kings? The animals? I opted for the animals. I was nine years old again, filled with the wonder of Christmas and the peace that comes from grace.

Wishing you a space for grace in your life today,

Kate

This evening I lit the first candle in my advent wreath. I especially like this wreath. I purchased it at a fund-raising market from an organization called HOOP (Helping Our Own People), which works with the homeless in Indianapolis, and for the small I paid price it’s well constructed. The base is a disk sliced from a large tree branch, still rough around the edges with bark. Holes drilled in the wood keep the candles secure, and artificial greenery and clear faceted beads on silver wire adorn the base. The final garnish is a silver ribbon twining around the candles and through the greenery.

None of the wreaths at the HOOP booth was identical to another. I could have had something bigger or smaller, or less sparkly. This year I went with the bling, and I love the twinkle of the beads and wire in the ambient candle light. This is also the first year I haven’t made my own wreath from a wire form or Styrofoam ring, and I appreciate the sturdy secure wooden base. The best part is that the purple candles are really purple, not the winey or maroonish candles I’ve had to settle for in the past. Do you know how hard it is to find purple candles in Indianapolis? These were special ordered by a HOOP volunteer with foresight and Internet shopping skills.

It’s a win-win. A good cause got a donation, and I got a beautiful tool to help me prepare for the coming of the Christ Child during Advent.

But here’s what I like best about my advent wreath. I  like the way it reflects in the window of the kitchen alcove where it will spend the next month. Tonight I turned out the lights and just watched as the first purple candle put forth a steady orb of light – and then watched the twin orb in the window glass. Already this first light of Advent has been multiplied by itself. I imagined what the wreath will look like week to week as the rest of the candles are lit and the window reflects their light. Immediately I thought of the mass when our congregation hold hands for the Our Father, stepping out into the aisles and reaching over the tops of seats in order to form one continuous chain of faith. Each of us is a light reflecting the inner light of the One within and we form our own prayer wreath.

When I was growing up one particular song was a favorite at youth group meetings, retreats, and camps: “Pass it On” by Kurt Kaiser. Some of you may know it.

“It only takes a spark to get a fire going,

And soon all those around can warm up to its glowing.

That’s how it is with God’s love,

Once you’ve experienced it.

You spread the love to everyone,

You want to pass it on.”

Every week a new light, and that light reflected. What a wonderful opportunity this Advent to pass along God’s love.

Wishing you a space for grace in your life today,

Kate