Earlier this month I had the pleasure of attending an open house at the Mass Ave. studio of local glass artist Krista Bermeo, whose finely crafted items marry color and light. It was a beautiful fall Sunday, and later, as I drove home along Washington Boulevard, I was repeatedly struck by the intense colors of the autumnal leaves. I couldn’t remember ever having seen them so vibrant, the colors so rich and deep. Several times I interrupted a conversation with the friend riding with me to exclaim, “Look at the trees!”

Each block revealed a different display of reds and golds glittering like gems and coins suspended in the branches. Again I exclaimed, “The trees are beautiful!”

After a few of these outcries, I realized my friend was not sharing my enthusiasm.  She’s not the kind to be offended if you speak out suddenly. She is a dyed in the wool nature lover, a gardener, hiker, and canoe enthusiast. Her response to the trees was affirmative, but it lacked my joy. Couldn’t she see what I saw? These trees were spectacular! Unique!

Ah — yes. I put one finger to my nose and slid my glasses down a couple of inches. That was it. I’d forgotten I was wearing sun glasses with amber lenses. Without my glasses the trees were pretty, but no prettier than any fall trees on any street in any year. They were red and yellow, not ruby and gold. My friend had been seeing them in natural light, while I had been seeing them amplified through my lenses.

I made the decision to slide my glasses back up and enjoy the show. But I wondered, was I seeing a happy delusion and my friend seeing a less joyful reality?

After turning it over in my mind for a while, I’ve decided that we both saw reality. Basic art theory teaches us that color is light. Red is never an absolute. Put a red ball on your yard and look at it at 6 a.m., noon, 6 p.m., and midnight. It will be a different color each time. And in July it will be a different red than it will in November.

I was enjoying the colors of the leaves because I was looking at them through lenses that altered the light. I think grace is like that because I think love is like light. It enables us to see what is around us, to see what is. But seeing people and events amplified through the lenses of grace makes them even more vibrant, more beautiful — spectacular, and unique. We want to cry out in joy at our discovery.

Maybe that’s not seeing the “real” world, but, again, I think “real” is what you make it. You can look at your surroundings the way you always have and see something good, but nothing that makes you exclaim and proclaim a wonder. Or, you can put on your glasses of grace and see life in a way that is amplified, enriched, and makes you want more.

I’m leaving my glasses on.

Wishing you a space for grace in your life today,

Kate

Saturday I decided to take advantage  of the  afternoon sunshine and attempt to photograph my most recent painting outside on the driveway behind the house. The house next door to ours is under renovation and painting crews had been dodging the rain all week trying to finish their work. They were back at it with the same notion I had  — take advantage of the afternoon sun.

After finding a sunny spot on the asphalt, I set up my easel. Then, camera over my shoulder, I carried out the new painting I titled The Ark of the New Covenant in which a pregnant Madonna, cradling her unborn child with her hands, looks slightly off to the side, smiling in beatific contemplation. It will be one of my Christmas card images, with an inside text reading, “Love is born at Christmas.” I know it may be unexpected, even a little jarring for some folks to see Mary depicted as obviously pregnant, but for me that’s always been what Advent is about: expecting a miracle.  I especially like this image because I based it (loosely) on my cousin, who is bringing the next member of the Duffy clan into the world some time this month. But I understand it may not be to everyone’s taste, and I have had some qualms about even printing up the cards and trying to sell or distribute them. Would anyone want them?

Just as I was trying to figure out the best camera angle to photograph my expectant mother, I heard, “That’s a beautiful picture.”

It was one of the young men working next door who had turned away from the trim he was touching up to smile at me over the fence.

I laughed, “Thank you. I’m a painter too, but a different kind of painter.”

He continued to look at the picture. “She’s beautiful,” he repeated dreamily. Then he suddenly asked, “Do you do portraits?” I said yes I could, although most of my work consisted of religious pictures.

He went on, “The reason I asked is my mom died when I was 14. I’ve wanted a portrait of her, but I never thought I could get one.”

Immediately I was touched. I conveyed my sympathies as he went on to tell me that his mother died of a brain tumor just like another member of the family who had a similar genetic predisposition.  I didn’t know which moved me more – the fact that he’d lost his mother at such a young age or that he wanted to honor her memory with a portrait.

Although I hardly consider myself a professional portrait artist, on impulse, I said to the young painter, “If you have a picture of your mom, I’d be glad to take a look at it.” He didn’t have one with him, he said. He only had two pictures of her, and neither was very good.

Two pictures of a mother he would never see again in this life. I lost my father to cancer when I was 20 years old and he was 50. I’ve already outlived him by 5 years. Before her death in 2009, a loss from which I am still reeling, my mother was widowed for  33 years; they were only married for 22. Some times it’s almost as though my dad never existed — until I go through the boxes and boxes of photographs, yearbooks, and slides that show him at all stages of life from infancy to middle age. I have pictures of him with his parents and siblings; as a grave young corpsman with the Third Marine Division on Iwo Jima; with me and my mother and my cousins; with his friends; pictures of him in serious studious poses like the poet and scholar he was, and pictures of him clowning to the camera like the consummate actor he was.   I have my father’s life captured in photographs (I even painted his portrait once), and when I want a good belly laugh or a few wistful tears in his memory, I have a wealth of material from which to choose. At the bottom of this post I have placed a picture of the two of us in 1960 on the lot where my parents would build their only new home — with a VA loan. I love that we are looking off into the same direction. It was my father who taught me to have a vision.

The young painter has two pictures of a mother he lost at age 14, six years younger than I was when I lost my much-photographed dad.

Unfortunately, before the two of us could speak further, the wind picked up and blew the painting off the easel. The painter cried out in dismay, but the canvas fell flat on the asphalt driveway undamaged. I’m pretty casual with my paintings in the way they are stored and displayed, but I can’t photograph a moving object, so I had to go inside to ask my husband to come out and help hold down the canvas. The young man returned to his work, repeating, “It’s a beautiful picture.”

After a couple of snaps we picked up my gear and took everything inside. It was just too windy. And, it turns out, too sunny. The picture threw back too much glare to make a useful photo.  An hour later, my husband, who had returned to the back yard to corral our errant dogs, came in the house to get one of my business cards. The young painter had requested it.

Whether or not he’ll commission a portrait I don’t know — and I wonder if he even has a photograph suitable for a portrait artist to work from. I think what moved him was not the quality of my work, but the subject, the fact that the Holy Mother is so obviously pregnant, so obviously in love with her unborn child. And by extension she is also in love with us because she is the Mother of the World. Each one of us is her child, and she carries and nurtures us, bringing us to new life in the love and spirit of her son. Not to employ cliche, but I believe the young painter saw her image and felt the love. I don’t care now what anyone else thinks of that picture, or if I sell a single card. The one person who was meant to see it saw it.

I know the Blessed Mother watches over this motherless young man, and I believed she showed herself to him for a reason. I pray that he feels her loving presence, and, keeping that presence in mind and heart, remembers that under her protection none of us is ever orphaned, a promise which deeply comforts me as well.

Wishing you a space for grace in your life today,

Kate

In my July 9 post titled “Not All Who Wonder Are Lost” I stated my intention to expand my volunteer duties at a local senior residence run by the Little Sisters of the Poor. After the sudden death of Margaret, one of the women I had been visiting, I sent a note of condolence to her sister Mary, a resident of the same facility. I had every intention of visiting Mary to learn more about Margaret, who had been a dedicated pediatric nurse and tireless volunteer in the years before Alzheimer’s eroded her fine mind and depleted her energy.

Like many fine intentions, this one was derailed by life’s minor complications. I was out of the country, I got sick, I was trying to get a new business launched…And all the time I was questioning my decisions and second guessing my abilities. My lagging self-esteem was not improved by a chiding nudge to do even more in my volunteering. I kept guility telling myself, “next week.” My conscience was especially pricked last week after picking up a copy of Fr.  Michael E. Gaitley’s Consoling the Heart of Jesus, in which he writes, “…we console the heart of Jesus not only when we trust in him but also when we show mercy to our neighbor.” That Sunday I vowed to drop in on Mary as soon as I could.  Then came Monday, then Tuesday, then Wednesday…

Then Mary called me.

She had kept my note of condolence. I don’t know how she got my phone number. I’m assuming she asked one of the nuns to retrieve it from the volunteer directory. She left a message on my home voice mail saying that my note showed an understanding of Margaret that saw past the Alzheimer’s to the real value of her sister’s life. And could I come by and visit? I returned her call as soon as I got the message and made a date for the next day. Mary didn’t chastise me for not coming sooner. She just genuinely wanted to see me as soon as I could come.

Mary is an absolute delight. Her sweet disposition undoubtedly made her a wonderful special ed teacher, a career she held for over 30 years. She showed me pictures of Margaret as a young and middle aged woman and told me about her sister’s dreams, aspirations, and personal demons. Neither sister ever married, but had shared a home as long as they were capable of living independently. Even in their final years they shared the same residence under the care of the Little Sisters. I can’t imagine the depth of Mary’s loss. My little note had apparently done something to console her heart, and the visit apparently did more.

But as much as she wanted to tell me about Margaret, Mary wanted to know about me. She was genuinely interested in my family, my marriage, my career, and my art. I brought copies of my paintings and she praised them again and again. More than once she smiled broadly and said, “You’ve got it made.” Amen to that. And how wonderful to be with someone who rejoiced for me and affirmed my new direction. That was consolation to my heart in a time when I was second guessing major life changes.

We parted with a kiss and I promised to visit again  next week. I don’t see that promise as a duty to fulfill, but as an event to be happily anticipated. And I don’t believe for a minute that Mary’s call came out of the blue. The book, the phone call — the timing can’t be coincidence. Father Gaitley quotes the Blessed John Paul II, “‘An act of merciful love is only really such when we are deeply convinced at the moment that we perform it that we are at the same time receiving mercy from the people who are accepting it from us.'”

The heart that consoles is itself consoled.

Wishing you a space for grace in your life today,

Kate

This is my first blog post on my new website! I’m grateful that this inaugural post can be on the subject of renewal.

The past few weeks have been challenging. I’ve been beset by the busy-ness of business: launching a website, creating inventory, sending out marketing material, compiling mailing lists for more marketing material, logging expenses, negotiating on-line bank accounts…the list goes on and on. For someone who has spent 32 years in the classroom, this is a steep learning curve. Technology and I have always been little more than nodding acquaintances, and now, it seems, we must become daily  partners. Many is the time this month when I have pushed away from the computer in frustration and self-doubt. Not only have I doubted my ability to “run” a business, but I also felt I had allowed my true intention to become obscured. The name of my company is My Mother’s Grace. How do I remain in and aware of grace when I am ticking items off an endless to-do list and numbers swarm in front of my eyes like gnats? I slumped at the computer, my eyes were crossed, my vision lost.

Fortunately, perhaps ironically, the remedy came from a business connection.

Through a Catholic business organization, of which I am a member, I learned of a Catholic women’s conference in my city. The conference emphasizes “Treasuring Womanhood” —  through a Marian perspective. Surely I would find something there to clear my sight and restore my vision.

Today’s conference included music, speakers, the Rosary, mass, adoration of the Eucharist – and, of course, lunch. There is something uplifting and sweet about hearing a chorus of women’s voices in praise and petition. There were women from all throughout the diocese in all age ranges, races, professions, and vocations. I saw women I knew and met women I would like to know better. During all parts of the day I had access to texts and music that glorified the Blessed Mother.

It was during the Rosary that I first began to feel truly peaceful and centered. In that setting I wasn’t ticking items off a to-do list. I was ticking off the beads of my French rosary, red wooden beads, carved in the shape of roses, a gift from my godmother.  The familiar prayers have been my anchor during my husband’s trips to the oncologist, my mother’s dying hours, and all those times, like today, when I needed to slow down the frenetic pace of the world and enter a place of peace. In fact, I consider the Rosary to be an actual place where I meet Our Lady and share sacred space with members of my family who now rest in the arms of God. But that’s a topic for another day.

Calmed and focused I entered into mass. As we began the Eucharist there was the expected movement. Over a hundred women poured  into the center aisle, ushered by members of the Knights of Columbus in full regalia, easily visible in the crowd by the white plumes on the tops of their hats. But as we continued our slow circular procession toward the feast, I thought I felt a different kind of movement in the crowd, an energy moving counter to the direction of the altar, as though it originated from the altar. In my mind’s eye I had an immediate vision of Christ moving among His sisters, rejoicing in their celebration, and stopping to whisper blessings in the ears of the faithful. A smile spread across my face as I imagined the grace of that blessing, so happy for those who would hear His voice. What might He say, I wondered. Words of encouragement; a promise of healing; confirmation of a secret yearning? What might Christ be saying to those lucky women for whom I was so glad?

Then I heard, softly, in my right ear, “I love you.”

Wishing you a space for grace in your life today,

Kate

For me, one of the most compelling elements of the mass is the sharing of intentions. I find comfort in knowing that we are uniting in prayer for the wisdom and well-being of our nation, our church, our world-wide community. But even more, I am moved by the personal prayers that come from the individual members of the congregation each Sunday as they stand and request before their brothers and sisters in Christ healing for a family member with cancer, share celebration over a recent birth, or speak loss and confusion over an aging and ailing parent. There are tears, there is laughter, sometimes applause. Sunday by Sunday as the litany goes on, we often recognize the intention before the speaker makes the petition. This one will speak about leukemia, this one for the youth group, this one about hand guns and violence. I feel sorrow for their sorrow, joy for their joy, and I have stood with my own petitions for loved ones. But always I am touched by the reaching out, by the comfort of community.

Last Sunday I was sitting beside my godmother, listening with ears pricked to the personal intentions. My ears pricked more as I heard a familiar name being mentioned by a man standing to my left. Although she was not a member of our parish, her name was known there for her tireless volunteer work for the food pantry. She was known to me as one of the seniors I visited at the Catholic retirement home where I volunteer. Ms. Margaret. She had died the previous week, and the intentions were for her soul and for the comfort of her family in their loss.

She died on the feast of Corpus Christi, the Sunday that I was singing at the front of the church with the gospel choir, swaying, clapping, and praising God. I’d like to think that I gave Ms. Margaret a little bit of a joyful send off that day. I was — I am, quite fond of her. I was aware her departure was growing imminent. During my last actual visit with her I saw the tell tale signs around her eyes, the withdrawal into the shadows from which there is no return. I’d seen it before in my parents and in a co-worker. The following week when I walked past her room, she wasn’t there. Her name was still on the door, but the furniture had been rearranged. I didn’t know if she had gone to therapy or to a doctor’s appointment, and there was no one around to ask at the time, but I made a mental note of it. Now I knew why.

Before I began my visitations with Ms. Margaret, I was given a brief — very brief — description by the sister in charge of volunteer assignments. She told me Ms. Margaret was “a career woman with an interesting life.” But just a few minutes into my first visit I became aware that her short term memory had all but deserted her. As I tried to engage her in conversation about her life in the retirement home, I realized that at that moment she believed she was back in a hospital, nursing in a children’s ward. So — she had been a nurse. When I told her I was a volunteer, she thought I meant a volunteer at the hospital where she worked. Our first conversation was about the duties of working a shift and getting along with other staff. Although out of context, the instruction was practical and compassionate.

On another visit I asked about the framed photographs of children in her room. She had no names, no reference for them, the children in her present life. Instead, she began to tell me about the children in the ward where she believed she was still working, instructing me as to the specific care they required. One little boy cried unless he could sleep in the same room as his sister. Another little girl would sleep only with a favorite stuffed animal. Although these children are now at least my age, possibly older, they unquestionably received tender loving nursing at the hands of Ms. Margaret.

On yet another visit I learned how her father used family connections and business savvy to ensure that any of his children who desired such, daughters included, received a college education. In that hour I heard the same story in a number of iterations, but always with the same theme. Her father had done her an act of loving service by sending her — a girl — to college and she was still grateful.

Other conversations touched on the borders of random memories: young men going off to war, the first time she saw an airplane, children playing in a yard, twelve family member living in the house. But she always came back to the same topic — nursing.

Usually when I visited her she was dozing in her chair and I had to gently wake her to engage her in conversation. I wondered many times if it was the right thing to do. Why not leave her in her reverie rather than bring her back to a state of confusion? Did my visits do anything — stimulate her brain, shorten her day, help her relive happier times? Did she have any memory of a visitor, any recollection that someone took interest in her? As I left the room, stepped out into the hallway, I would turn around and see her already sleeping again in her chair.

I raised my quandry to my husband, who has spent most of his adult life working in social services, and whom I have come to treasure as my ethical sounding board and moral compass. What difference do my visits make, I asked him? That’s a good question, he replied, adding that there are theories that volunteer work does more to improve the life of the giver than the receiver. Well, that was true. I had gained a great deal of admiration for a woman who had been a professional pioneer and given her life to service of others. But I wanted to do something for her. What could that be?

After I learned of Ms. Margaret’s death, I looked up her obituary. I learned, among other things, that she lived to the age of 89 (as did my mother), that she was educated in Catholic schools, and that she earned her nursing license through the Army Nurses Corps program. She had over 100 nieces and nephews (who knew?), and of the original nine siblings, a brother and sister survived her.

After talking to residents and staff at the retirement home, I learned she and her surviving sister, also a career woman, never married and had shared an apartment for most of their lives, with the sister later becoming a caretaker.  The sister is now a resident of the same retirement home with a room on the same floor. Even in their last years they found a way to stay together. My heart ached for the sister. The void in her life will be profound — beyond words.

What difference did I make? Perhaps my visits didn’t add to the quality of Ms. Margaret’s life (although I would like to believe they did). But my brief visits with her were enough to make me want to share time with her sister, to learn more about these pioneering women who went to college in the 1940s, who participated in the war effort, and who devoted their lives to the career of caring for other people’s children. Next week when I visit the retirement home I will stop by the sister’s room and, if she is open to company, I will ask her to tell me her memories of Ms. Margaret. Any and as much as she wishes to share.

One of my favorite bumper stickers proclaims, “Not All Who Wander Are Lost.” I’ve taken a little liberty with that to title this post “Not All Who Wonder Are Lost.” I wondered what difference my visits made to Ms. Margaret. Perhaps, for her, those were efforts lost. But  I realize now I was simply being prepared to take up another path, and, perhaps, with God’s grace, I can assist with last Sunday’s prayer intention to address the grief of her family. And I ask for your prayers in that endeavor.

Wishing you a space for grace in your life today,

Kate

Today is the Feast of the Visitation of the Blessed Mother, the day that celebrates Mary’s visit to her cousin Elizabeth to share the miraculous news of the immaculate conception.

The story is told in the Gospel of Luke 1:39-56, and I love the passage for a variety of reasons. It contains what is called the Canticle of Mary: “My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord; my spirit rejoices in God my saviour…” And in Elizabeth’s response we see the salutation of the rosary: “Most blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb.” For those of us who center our faith in Marian prayer and devotion, these verses give birth to the heart of our practice.

But there is another reason this story is so dear to me: Mary reveals the staggering news and makes her profession of faith not defensively to her intended husband, not proudly to the priests, not pedantically  in the marketplace, not even spinning on a mountain top like Julie Andrews. She speaks in confidence to her female cousin. In fact, her cousin realizes that something magnificent has happened before Mary even breaks the news: “For the moment the sound of your greeting reached my ears, the infant in my womb leaped for joy.”

Now, I realize that in that time and place women had fewer rights and liberties and that most of their conversation took place within their own circles. But even so, it is not her mother, nor an aunt, nor a sister, nor a close friend in whom Mary confides. It’s her cousin.And while we can argue that this passage establishes the familial relationship between Jesus and John the Baptist, it is Mary’s cousin who truly recognizes the destiny of her kinswoman. The angel brings the news of Mary’s favored status. Cousin Elizabeth is the first human being to profess Mary’s divine purpose: “Blessed are you who believed that what  was spoken to you by the Lord would be fulfilled.”

I have lots of cousins. On my father’s side alone I am one of 32 grandchildren. Now that my cousins have children and grandchildren, I have literally dozens of cousins. We’re beyond family — we’re a clan. Through their marriages and their children’s marriages my cousins have combined our DNA with that of other races, nationalities, and cultures. It’s a thrill for me to feel related to a larger world. My cousins have ennriched and expanded my life beyond measure. Cousins provide a sense of familial connection and the grounding of identity without the inescapable intimacy that sometimes (not often, but sometimes) sours siblings.

I don’t have to explain who I am to my cousins. They share my history and help me make sense of it. In them and in their lives, I can see myself once removed, and learn more about my own journey and the choices I make. I marvel at how similar we are despite distances of age and geography. Whether it’s online, via social network, or face to face, I treasure “cousin talk.” I might be puzzling out genealogy with energetic Brian, identifying old photographs with faithful David, sharing parenting and gardening stories with sweet Sue, laughing at family eccentricities with spunky Kay, or celebrating the greatness of God with beautiful Colleen…and I could go on and on. I don’t have to prove myself to my cousins. I am immediately “in” simply by virtue of genetics.

So I’m not at all surprised that Mary chose to reveal her destiny to her cousin and that her cousin received her in faith and celebration. I will never have news of that profound significance to share (who would?!) but I know that whatever I do reveal to my cousins about my life and my faith, I will be supported and celebrated, just as I would do the same for them.

Mary is at the heart of the Holy Family, but she was also anchored in her biological family, and I love Her all the more for that.

Wishing you a space for grace in your life today,

Kate

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