The neighborhoods of my youth were safe playgrounds. On a summer morning, a score of sparkling kids would tumble out onto the bricks like polished marbles rolling to their sparsely equipped games. Occasionally, some kid would have a new pimple ball, prompting an hours-long boxball game, guttered corners serving as bases.
When, over the weeks, that ball grew smooth and airless, we cut it in half, grabbed a doctored broomstick, and hit the halfball up over the electric wires fringing our city street. Top one wire, a single; top two, a double. Lose it on the roof and you had to find a four-inch length of hose to replace it. This until the next kid lost a tooth, got a dime from the tooth fairy, and contributed a new ball.
On those afternoons, the surrounding porches and stoops were dotted with grandparents in folding chairs, escaping the swelter of the unairconditioned houses. They served to arbitrate any particularly sticky play, precursors of instant replay. Behind the houses, our mothers held council together over their billowing clotheslines.
By the time our dads came home, carrying their empty black lunch pails, we shiny kids were dusty with city soot. The beach-chaired elders had solved all the problems of world affairs and our moms had rendered the house ready for the daily family dinner liturgy.
These were such simple times, so simple that they may seem even naïve in today’s complex society. But their symbols assure me that, though things change, they remain the same. The shared play, the community of conversation, the neighborly support group, the evening gathering to home – these were the holy anchors that fed our spirits and honed our souls.
The outline of these sacramentals may look different today, but their substance must remain if we are ever to be happy people – people who live in the world as playmates, neighbors, friends, and family. That, dear friends, is what we were created to be.
Music: Won’t You Be My Neighbor?
For Your Reflection:
What feelings or reactions do I have after reading this reflection?
Do my feelings or reactions remind me of any passage or event in scripture, especially in the life of Christ?
What actions might I take today because of my response to these readings?
There was a quote floating around the internet some time ago. It was a loose translation from the classic poem “The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam”. The quote, popularized through the film “Unfaithful”, goes like this:
“Be happy for this moment. This moment is your life.”
There are so many ways to interpret this quote! We might see it as a cheap excuse to ignore the responsibilities of life and live in a fantasyland (along the lines of that famous song, “Don’t Worry. Be Happy”). We might see the quote as a failure to acknowledge the suffering and difficulty life sometimes brings us. Or we may see it as an invitation to let nothing in life destroy our joy.
How we interpret this saying has a lot to do with our personal definition of the word “happy.” If we think of happiness as freedom from any sorrow, burden, or difficulty, then the quote is unattainable. But if we view happiness as a deep, abiding peace and self-confidence, steadfast in the face of challenge, then the quote can open up a rich world of application.
With this deeper view of what it means to be happy, the quote invites us to live in our “now”. This particular moment is all that we really have. We can no longer influence the past, and the future is beyond our grasp. This moment is where we have the power to create possibility. In the action of this moment, we shape our world. Most of us won’t ever make the newspaper headlines or history books. Simple things – the things we need to pay attention to in our everyday lives – will make our mark on the world.
Each day, there seem to be so many realities asking for our attention. Certainly our families, our work, our communities are all seeking our focus. But other inanimate things call us as well: that undiagnosed knock in our car engine, the leak in the basement, the bad weather forecast, the unpaid bills on the kitchen table. All of these call on our attention, and can block us from living in the moment fully and joyously. But with discipline, it is possible.
We’ve all been around people who live in the deep moment. They pay exquisite attention to us, and to the life we share with all Creation. They seem able to peel away what is unimportant and to re-focus us on the essentials. They don’t do a lot of talking, but they do a lot of quality listening. When they speak, their words plant themselves inside us and create a sheltering shade for our decisions.
How do these “deep moment” people do that? The secret may lie in a few simple intentional choices: • know to whom your life belongs and trust that Creator to sustain you no matter what happens. • build some time – no matter how brief – into each day to acknowledge and connect to that Abiding Presence in your life. • continually choose to see every person and every encounter as an opportunity for grace and possibility.
Living in such a way is simple but it is not easy. It requires the commitment of a spiritual athlete whose goal is to fully engage life. But look at it this way. Wouldn’t it be sad to come to the end of this one precious life and to realize that we had missed the whole point!
Music: Jesu, Joy of Our Desiring – J. S. Bach (New Age version by Lanfranco Perini)
For Your Reflection:
What feelings or reactions do I have after reading this reflection?
Do my feelings or reactions remind me of any passage or event in scripture, especially in the life of Christ?
What actions might I take today because of my response to these readings?
After my mother died, it was my sad honor to sift through our home in preparation for its sale. The long years of our family’s story had accumulated in closets, cabinets, and a few storage boxes. So many half-forgotten treasures lay hidden in the corners and niches of our now-empty home.
Among these ordinary reliquaries was one unique spot, reserved for the most precious markers on our ancestral line. It was a 19th century “games table” whose leaf folded and whose top swiveled to reveal a hidden compartment. Inside this table, in a shallow space spiced with the essence of history, lay our family’s sad and joyful relics.
Each was a treasure, but as Memorial Day dawns, I remember one in particular. The telegram had been tear-stained and folded into a three-inch square, almost as if to hold the words inside and prevent them from wounding again. Its message, like so many messages down through the ages, fell like a guillotine on the heart of another “Gold Star Mother”: “We deeply regret to inform you that your son James…”
None of our currently living family ever met Uncle Jim. But his memory lives with us. The dreaded telegram resides with me. His Purple Heart and other medals are with my brother. A cousin treasures a picture of Jim’s memorial at the USS Arizona. The story of his death on the shores of Iwo Jima saddens us. Although we never knew his presence, we have espoused his legend as part of our legacy.
But beyond his legend, we need to embrace his truth: he must have been a frightened hero, as are most heroes. He was a 19-year-old boy who loved his country and was brave enough to stand for its ideal of freedom. But he was nonetheless conscripted to an untimely death because more powerful men succumbed to the moral failures of aggression, greed, rampant nationalism, and war.
Each Memorial Day offers us the challenge to balance two eternally contradictory realities: the awesome self-sacrifice of our brave warriors against the moral imperative to disavow war as a means to peace.
Sadly, every family has its fallen and broken heroes. Their relics may rest on our mantle pieces or hide folded in our cedar-scented wardrobes. They may be creased and softened with age or as painfully fresh as the rip of yesterday’s mail.
On Memorial Day, let us remember and honor these heroes for their courage, generosity, and hope. Let us treasure their willingness to stand in harm’s way for us and for their belief that war could be won.
But let us recognize in their loss that wars are never won. War’s collateral loss — fractured bodies, stunted dreams, orphaned children, victimized women, hopeless elders, and a ravaged earth — is a price too great to pay. These expenses of war break the heart of God and God’s people. War, despite its profound costs, is a cheap answer to the failed pursuit of peace.
Let us commit ourselves and commission our leaders to do the daunting work of building true peace through honest politics, globally sensitive financial policies, mutual nation-building, and respect for human life. The sacrifice of our heroes demands it of us. The unfolded memory of Uncle Jim demands it of me.
For Your Reflection
What feelings or reactions do I have after reading this reflection?
Do my feelings or reactions remind me of any passage or event in scripture, especially in the life of Christ?
Like many of our immigrant ancestors, my early family was rather poor. They and their neighbors labored to put food on the table and to keep the house warm. I remember one neighbor in particular from my very early childhood. Widowed young and unskilled, she struggled to raise three children in a two-room house. My mother saw her devastation. Financially strapped herself, Mom would “hire” Rae about four times a year to help her house clean – – this rather than embarrass her with a direct handout.
Rae quietly and gratefully acknowledged my mother’s secret strategy. We would be rewarded with a pot of Rae’s famous “Pepper Pot Soup”. This was a poor person’s soup, made from scraps the butcher might otherwise discard. But, through her generous mutuality, Rae transformed it into a gourmet meal. She grew the spices for cooking in a little plot behind her house. I savored their scent which has never been quite repeated in my life.
I haven’t tasted Rae’s soup in nearly seventy years, but I can still savor the divine dimension of my mother’s generosity and of Rae’s gratitude. These women left me a glimpse of glory – an insight into how God sees, loves, and responds – both to our unspoken needs and our deliberate generosities.
1 pound honeycomb beef tripe
5 slices bacon, diced
3 medium leeks, chopped
2 medium green bell peppers, diced
1 bunch fresh parsley, chopped
½ cup chopped onion
½ cup chopped celery
2 quarts beef stock
1 teaspoon ground black pepper
½ teaspoon dried marjoram
½ teaspoon ground cloves (Optional)
¼ teaspoon dried thyme
¼ teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes
1 large bay leaf
2 large carrots, diced
1 large potato, peeled and diced
4 tablespoons butter
4 tablespoons all-purpose flour
Music: A Little a This and That – Pete Seeger (Lyrics below)
My grandma, she can make a soup, With a little a’ this ‘n’ that. She can feed the whole sloop group, With a little a’ this ‘n’ that. Stone soup! You know the story. Stone soup! Who needs the glory? But with grandma cooking, no need to worry. Just a little a’ this ‘n’ that.
Grandma likes to make a garden grow, With a little a’ this ‘n’ that. But she likes to have the ground just so, With a little a’ this ‘n’ that. Not too loose and not too firm. In the spring, the ground’s all got to be turned. In the fall, lots of compost, to feed the worms, With a little a’ this ‘n’ that.
Grandma knows we can build a future, With a little a’ this ‘n’ that. And a few arguments never ever hurt ya, With a little a’ this ‘n’ that. True, this world’s in a helluva fix, And some say oil and water don’t mix. But they don’t know a salad-maker’s tricks, With a little a’ this ‘n’ that.
The world to come may be like a song, With a little a’ this ‘n’ that. To make ev’rybody want to sing along, With a little a’ this ‘n’ that. A little dissonance ain’t no sin, A little skylarking to give us all a grin. Who knows but God’s got a plan for the people to win, With a little a’ this ‘n’ that.
For Your Reflection
What feelings or reactions do I have after reading this reflection?
Do my feelings or reactions remind me of any passage or event in scripture, especially in the life of Christ?
What actions might I take today because of my response to these readings?
I had been away – busy and incommunicado for several days. The message was the last one on my answering machine when I got home. It lay curled like a wounded kitten at the end of a long line of incidentals.
Mag had died at 101 years of age – the long faithful friend of my grandmother, my mother, and me.
My Grandmother
The manner of Mag’s faithfulness to each of our generations had been different: a companion to Grandmom, a guide and confidant to Mom, a distant but vigilant observer and encourager of my life in my mother’s stead after Mom had died.
When I called back to acknowledge the message, there was only one meaningful way to announce myself: “This is Eleanor’s daughter.” Just that said everything – it paid tribute to both Mag’s and my mother’s lives. It recognized the duty I owed in both their names. Mag’s daughter said, “We don’t expect you to come… we just wanted you to know.” My mother’s voice spoke in the silence of my heart – “Of course, you will go.”
Eleanor, my Mother
So I traveled to the place where I grew up. There will never be any place that you know more intimately than your childhood neighborhood. You ran through its alleyways and knew its secret hiding places. You explored every inch of its terrain and, to this day, can remember its textures, smells, dangers, and promises. That day, I drove into its heart, remembering.
As I approached the neighborhood, I saw that its edge had frayed like a tattered fabric. The industrial and commercial corridor that had hemmed the old neighborhood had disappeared. Abandoned lots had replaced the thriving factories and immigrant-run shops of my youth. The bustling avenues where I had once threaded my shiny Schwinn bike now echoed like empty canyons under my tires. Loss rose up in my throat like a bitter aftertaste.
But as I neared the church, the fabric began to re-weave. People still lived in the houses and gathered on the brick pavements. I saw neighbors walking to church, as my family had when I was young. I was to learn that the deep human links that had embraced our parish family remained unbroken.
It had been nearly fifty years since I last worshipped in St. Michael’s, but the church of my childhood was perfectly intact. Not only had it been physically restored to the perfection of its 200-year-old origin, but the descendants of many original families remained or had returned for the funeral. During the wake, we reconnected, weaving names and histories into a warm swaddling of belonging.
During preparation for the solemn funeral service, many people came to visit me in the silence of my heart: my parents who had taught me to pray, the sisters and priests who had nurtured my call to religious life, my neighbors and friends whose lives had found graceful regeneration each Sunday in this sanctuary. This place had been the heart of our “village”. It was where we learned and acknowledged that we live life together, not alone – and that the myriad pieces which make up who we are belong in some way to every person who has ever touched us. Every one of us attending Mag’s funeral was paying honor to that reality.
It takes a lifetime to fully learn the office of honor. As a teenager, I was uncomfortable accompanying my mother on her many dutiful journeys: not wanting to visit my old maiden aunts in their very Victorian home, to take a pot of soup to a house in mourning, not knowing what to say at a neighbor’s wake. I remember my mother’s words on such occasions: “We show up. It’s what we do – because it’s all that we can do. It’s an honor to be with someone at these moments of their lives.”
I am old enough now to cherish that role of honor guard. I have learned its beauty and character from the many – including Mag — who have kept vigil beside me and my family in the challenges and blessings of life. I went to Mag’s funeral privileged to exercise that role in my mother’s name – to assume the duty of our family to “show up”.
To stand within duty is to be like a surfer poised inside the huge curl of a powerful wave. It is to ride on an energy that does not belong to you – to open yourself to it with gratitude, awe, and trust. It is to know – in an indescribable way – the profound power of God that holds all life together beyond time and beyond burden.
At Mag’s funeral, I was – once again – proud to be Eleanor’s daughter. I know that she and Mag smiled as I rejoiced in that pride. On this Mother’s Day, I remember that day as a very intentional gift to me, and I treasure it beyond telling.
Mom and I when Pope John Paul II visited for the Eucharistic Congress
Music: Thank You
For Your Reflection
What feelings or reactions do I have after reading this reflection?
Do my feelings or reactions remind me of any passage or event in scripture, especially in the life of Christ?
What actions might I take today because of my response to these readings?
Suggested Scripture: Proverbs 31 (Adaptation)
Who can find a valiant woman? She is worth far more than rubies. Her family has full confidence in her and lacks nothing of value. She brings them good, not harm, all the days of her life. She gets up while it is still night; she provides food for her neighbors and portions for the very poor. She considers a field and buys it; out of her earnings she plants a vineyard. She sets about her work vigorously; her arms are strong for her tasks. She sees that her work is fruitful, and her lamp does not go out at night. In her hand she holds the distaff and grasps the spindle with her fingers. She opens her arms to the poor and extends her hands to the needy. When it snows, she has no fear for her household; for all of them are clothed in scarlet. She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come. She speaks with wisdom, and faithful instruction is on her tongue. She watches over the affairs of her beloveds and does not eat the bread of idleness. Her neighbors arise and call her blessed; her family also praises her: “Many women do noble things, but you surpass them all.” Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a generous woman is to be praised. Honor her for all that her hands have done, and let her works bring her praise at the heavenly gate.
I know that readers of this blog are people of deep prayer. Your faith, love, and generosity have built my spirit and lifted my heart many times.
On this National Day of Prayer, I encourage us all to focus on our deepest beliefs about what sustains us in life. Ask that Source of Love, Peace, and Wisdom – by whatever Name you give – to heal our broken world and to make us people of truth, generosity, and goodness.
As we pray, remember those who struggle with life, with faith, with hope. Wrap your prayer around their need this day. If you are one who struggles today with these things, let your spirit hand that struggle over to the prayers of those who lift you up and to the Source of Life Who longs to embrace you.
The Creator and Source of Life wants to heal and encourage us all. Today, in a more conscious way, let us seek that healing and encouragement together. In particular, let us pray for our nation and for our world, that we may find healing from the terrible divisions generated among us by political aggression and despotic greed.
Prose: from C.S. Lewis
For many years after my conversion, I never used any ready-made forms except the Lord’s Prayer. In fact, I tried to pray without words at all – not to verbalize the mental acts. Even in praying for others, I believe I tended to avoid their names and substituted mental images of them. I still think that the prayer without words is the best – if one can really achieve it.
Music: The Prayer – Celine Dion, Andrea Bocelli
For Your Reflection
What feelings or reactions do I have after reading this reflection?
Do my feelings or reactions remind me of any passage or event in scripture, especially in the life of Christ?
What actions might I take today because of my response to these readings?
A Sister of Mercy, visiting from Honduras, was scheduled to dine out with my friend. One spoke only Spanish; the other only English. Thus, the dinner party was widened to include another American friend who had spent many years in Peru and spoke both languages.
Language can both bind and divide us. So often, people speak to each other in the same language but share no true level of understanding. I think of the venomous rhetoric that has poisoned our political culture and am saddened to see the beautiful gift of language used in such hateful ways.
But at other times, even without a shared spoken language, we can communicate with clarity and respect.
I remember a chance meeting a friend and I – two unilingual North Americans– had with one of our Peruvian sisters. We connected at an airport, each preparing to return to our widely-distant homes. She spoke very little English, and I– only the stilted, useless phrases of a high school curriculum. Still, with a few gaps and miscommunications, we enjoyed lunch in one other’s company. By combining signs, gestures, guesses, and silence, we grew comfortable in each other’s hospitality and care.
There are so many languages beyond the spoken word. The language of kindness, respect, compassion, mutuality– these are the elements of the multilingual world we all should yearn to master. No one is so distant from us that they do not understand a smile, an extended hand, or the offer to share a meal. And in that offer, we may just learn that we are “multi-lingual” after all.
Poetry: Silent Language – Thomas Burbidge (1860-1892)
Speak it no more—no more with words profane What only for the language of the eye Is fit—what only can be told thereby! The heart has tones which words cannot contain, And feelings which to speak is to restrain. Like scent with scent commixed invisibly, Or rays of neighbour planets in the sky Inter-confused; or, as in some deep strain Of music, heavenly passion is combined With thought, and tone with tone in harmony, Thus be the meeting of our hearts, dear love! The pure communion of mind with mind, Above poor symbols of this earth,—above All that can baulk or cramp,—can change or die.
Music: Love in Any Language – Sandy Patty
For Your Reflection
What feelings or reactions do I have after reading this reflection?
Do my feelings or reactions remind me of any passage or event in scripture, especially in the life of Christ?
What actions might I take today because of my response to these readings?
Spring is on the horizon! The long winter watch is almost over. But before we shake off its dark velvet wraps for good, it might be well to think about what winter teaches us.
The stretch of time between November and April is all about waiting. Bulbs wait under the frozen earth. Bears hibernate in the cold mountains. Birds migrate, their old nests empty until the spring. All creation seems to enter a time of patience and unrealized expectation. But it is not a time of desolation. It is a time of hope for things yet unseen.
Human beings also experience “winter” – not simply the seasonal one – but “winters of the spirit”. We all go through times when our nests have been emptied; times when all the beautiful flowering aspects of our lives seem dormant; times when our vigor and strength seem to hide in the cave of depression or sadness.
These “winters” take many forms. We may find ourselves sick of a job we had always loved. We may find a long, committed relationship wavering. We may find the burdens of age or economics overwhelming us. We may be the unwilling bearers of responsibilities we had not bargained for.
But if we listen, under the deep silence of any winter, the wind rustles. It carries the hint of a new season. It carries the hope of the renewing cycle of our lives. In that silence, we may be able to hear our heartbeat more clearly. We may come to a clearer understanding of what is most important in our lives. In the stillness, we may be forced to know and understand ourselves more deeply.
Others may reach out to us in their “winters”. They may be ill, experiencing confusion, or overwhelmed by the demands of their lives. They are asking for reassurance that some form of spring is coming. They yearn to feel the warmth and hope of renewed life. Our compassion for their needs will grow if we can remember our own winters. Surely, there has been a time when someone lifted the ice and blew warm breath over our fears, grief, or isolation. Someone held hope out to us to grab hold.
I think of a powerful image from the works of St. Teresa of Avila. She imagines God as a warm healer leaning over our frozen world, setting free the beauty of our spirits. This is what she says:
And God is always there, if you feel wounded. God kneels over this earth like a divine medic, and God’s love thaws the holy in us.
Teresa of Avila
When we are compassionate and offer one another hope and light, we free what is sacred and do a holy work. Every time you touch another person’s life, you have the chance to change winter into spring. You have a chance to be like God.
Music: I Will Carry You – Sean Clive
For Your Reflection
What feelings or reactions do I have after reading this reflection?
Do my feelings or reactions remind me of any passage or event in scripture, especially in the life of Christ?
What actions might I take today because of my response to these readings?
Fickle March hesitates on the edge of Spring. It can’t quite decide: “Shall I wear my chilly or my warm personality today?” We too are still wearing our “March personalities”. Every morning, we say hopeful things to one another. “Getting warmer.“ “Hint of spring today.” But hidden in those cheery remarks is the memory of past March blizzards that buried us in a foot of crushed expectations.
Still, the fact is that, as you read this article, we have almost made it through another winter. Abundant, colorful life is ready to break through the cold brown barrenness. In the annual championship bout, April always KOs March!
This analogy should give us great hope for our lives. Our lives are “seasonal” too – full of chills and heat waves, fallow and fruitful cycles. Sometimes we find ourselves in a harsh, interminable winter. The hope of Spring – a sprig of new life – seems impossible. We feel frozen in a powerless situation.
But haven’t we all known people who, no matter what, live in their heart’s Spring? They understand the difference between healing and cure, between pleasure and joy, between possession and fulfillment. Even amid chilling burdens, a deep hope and a joyous freedom guide them through their winters.
It is so important for us to be aware of the power we have over another person’s life. The one encouraging word we offer may be that ray of hope that breaks through someone’s isolation. That one small, patient moment we muster in the face of frustration may be the only glimmer of color in a person’s otherwise bleak landscape.
When you were little and Aunt Polly asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”, wouldn’t she have been surprised if you had answered, “I think I’m gonna’ be a bearer of spring, a shower of hope, a sweet light after the winter.” But that is what you are!
This is Spring – this is your season! For your own sake and the sake of your dear ones, may everything in your lives warm and blossom.
Poetry: from Emily Dickinson
If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain; If I can ease one life the aching, Or cool one pain, Or help one fainting robin Unto his nest again, I shall not live in vain.
Music: Serenade to Spring – Secret Garden
For Your Reflection
What feelings or reactions do I have after reading this reflection?
Do my feelings or reactions remind me of any passage or event in scripture, especially in the life of Christ?
What actions might I take today because of my response to these readings?
On March 6, 1984, a man named Martin Niemoeller died. He had been a German U-boat commander in WWI. After that war, he became a Lutheran pastor and initially supported Hitler. But as the years moved toward WWII, Niemoeller became more and more critical of Hitler. Arrested several times, he finally spent seven years in various concentration camps beginning in 1938. He was liberated from Dachau in 1945.
Martin Niemoeller wrote the following words:
“They came for the Communists, but I was not a Communist so I did not speak out. They came for the Socialists and trade unionists, but I was neither, so I did not speak out. They came for the Jews but I was not a Jew, so I did not speak out. Then they came for me, and there was no one to speak for me.”
As the world deals with interminable war, terrorism, racism, and cloaked fascism, we should remember that true justice and peace always include BOTH understanding and standing up.
Music: Show Me How to Stand for Justice – Martin Leckebusch
Lavish Mercy 