Faith

“You’ve got to stop doing that.” My friend Netty spoke the words with her usual smile but her expression was tinged with a serious look in the beautiful dark eyes. Netty is a rare woman who has suffered more than most and that suffering frames her faith and love of God. At home I have an antique picture frame that is hanging over a most graphic torturous crucifix. It is made up of hundreds of large thorns and is actually painful to the touch. I have placed it framing Christ hanging upon the cross. His bones are sticking out in all the wrong places, and He is ashen grey. He is certainly dead, the tangible image of a tortured man. It is not the stylized and sanitized crucifix that is most often found in Catholic homes, nor is it the empty cross, proclaiming victory and deliverance found in Protestant homes. No, it is the image of real tangible human suffering.

Netty’s words to me were at once, both a reproof and

an inspiration. No matter what Netty has suffered and is suffering, her delight in God and her confidence in His goodness is the theme on her lips. I on the other hand, fail more often than not to even recognize His mercies. I see through eyes clouded with a Gaelic/ Germanic mist of doubt and pessimism.

If God is all knowing, all powerful and all good why does he allow so much suffering in the lives of His devoted followers?

If “prayer works” as the cliché goes, why does He let us remain lost in darkness and confusion, when He knows all? Why does he delay in answering tortured souls? I know this is the proverbial question that goes back to the story of Job.
I long to be like Netty who accepts with love and trust the crosses that God has chosen for her. She loves Him and that love has produced such deep-seated trust that she seems able to disconnect her suffering from the omnipotence of God and that is where I fail. She and I both know that God is not the cause and source of her suffering but she seems to accept her suffering without even desiring deliverance from those sufferings. That is a virtue foreign to me. I instead, instinctively look directly to Him as my deliverer from suffering and when He seemingly does not act, I confess that I harbor unconscious resentment towards His goodness. This is wrong and the pained look in Netty’s eyes reveals my sin. I know consciously my mistake, but it is my unconscious expectations towards God which still drives my interior responses to Him. Lord I pray, “Grant me a new and fresh revelation of your person. May I know you better and will You lift the cloud of mist that blurs my vision of You?” Amen.

Trust

Trust

Last week, when I was teaching my weekly, fifth grade religion class at St. James, one little boy asked me what I meant when I told the class to trust in God. I remember an acquaintance commenting long ago as we discussed the nature of modern schooling, that children should not go to school to learn things but rather to learn ‘how’ to learn things. His words rang very true both then and now to my own way of thinking. I have always employed the art of the question whenever I have taken upon myself the responsibility to educate another, whether I am teaching painting or attempting to enlighten others to what I know of God. This little boy’s question lighted a candle on my own lack of trust in God, a trust that has eluded me for many years.

“Jesus I trust in you” These words are always attached to the beautiful image of Jesus as the “Divine Mercy”, His arms, outstretched as rays of red and white light flow out of His Heart. Trust is such a little word, a simple one even, but for the Christian, it is essential. It is inextricably intertwined with faith, being necessary for us to please God. I responded to the little boy this way. If your mother tells you to go clean your room and she knows in her heart that you will indeed go to your room and you will indeed do exactly as she has asked, then she trusts you. She knows you well enough to know that you will do exactly what she has asked you to do. Of course she may know that rather than cleaning your room, you will instead go and play a video game. Either way she knows you well enough to know, what you will do. If I told you to go home and finish the chapter that we are working on, do I trust that you will?

Do I know you well enough to know what you will choose to do?


As I said these words for the first time l realized the spirit of the word trust, a reality that has eluded me for so long. Father H---- always maintains that he learns by teaching. He is so right. I have been praying fervently, for many months, entrusting to the heart of God a certain beloved person and her needs. I have had no peace, no certainty, and no joy in my praying. Instead I have had abundant fear and sadness. I really didn’t know how to trust God. I didn’t even know that I wasn’t trusting God. I would say, “God I trust you with this, please help”, and then I would cry out my sadness but upon asking my question to that little boy I came to realize that indeed I do not trust God. I have held firmly onto my burden while asking God to take it and I have done this because I don’t trust that He will take good care, fix the problem and save the DAY. Oh, the strange life of faith! As I came to know my lack of faith and trust, I almost immediately had the revelation that Jesus will do as I have asked. He will heal my beloved friend. He will because I know Him and I know His heart on this matter. We have been intimate long enough for me to know what he will do and what His intentions are. I can trust Him and I do trust Him. “Come to me all you who are heavy laden and I will give you rest”. I am still daily lifting my prayers and intentions heavenward but I have the gift of hope and the sure knowledge that Jesus will do as I have asked and although I have not yet seen the deliverance and help that I seek, I know that My Lord is working on it and I do not need to fear the outcome. Praise God and His faithful and kind heart.

Communion of Saints

Communion of Saints



Communion of Saints




A friend recently expressed an idea that praying to the Saints can open a door for Satan to enter in. I wasn’t quite sure that I had heard him correctly. Actually I am still not sure that what I heard was his intended thought. It was an odd moment for me and in my own impatience and certain pride I did not listen, as I should have. Only In writing this am I seeing clearly that in my own monumental desire to convince otherwise, I lost the opportunity to really understand his fears about the Catholic practice of praying with and through the saints.

As a Catholic who loves the Church in all of its seemingly odd and sometimes confusing practices, I readily admit my desire to share the Catholic view and indeed to convince the ill-informed and sometimes even the hostile, to that view. I have recently been praying a beautiful Litany of Humility. “Deliver me oh Lord from the desire of being consulted . . . That in the opinion of the world others may be esteemed more than I, Jesus grant me the desire to desire it.” There are many other beautiful ejaculations within this particular litany but this is the one the strikes me in the heart. It is a sword that reveals the true state of my healthy and still thriving Ego. As my priest expressed in his Sunday sermon past, the Ego is the ever present “I”. It is this very “I” that the Lord wishes to slay within the soul of the Christian and indeed in every man.

If there is one area that I truly lack humility more than another, it is in this: “Listen to ME my friend for I know better than you.” How many opportunities have I personally missed when I, like the quoted fool, “rushed in where angels feared to tread”? One day, when I gain some humility of heart, I will be able to truly listen to the souls I am privileged to spend time with.

“Learn of me for I am meek and humble of heart. ” Can anyone quote another place in scripture where Jesus specifically directs us to a virtue of His own heart that he wishes for us to imitate? It must be this particular quality that is most essential to our becoming "holy" as God wishes us to become. It is strange that as I have journeyed this life of faith, having tread many different paths, from nominal Catholicism to fervent Evangelicalism, back to devout Catholicism, that only recently have I begun to grasp the need for humility in certain areas of my life. The more readily I have submitted my mind to the mind of the Church that Christ founded, the more aware that I have become of the great and evil pride dwelling within me, so much so, that I hesitate today to describe myself as a devout Catholic, falling as I do, so short of the expressed desire of the Savior.

"Be ready at all times to give a reasoned defense for the hope within you"

Watch out!!!!! Louise on A SOAPBOX



Dear Friend,

Thank you for your gift to me because I know that it is an expression of your love and concern. You fear that I have veered onto the dangerously wrong path of Catholicism. My dear friend, I am moved to share with you, the depth of my commitment to Christ and the ancient Catholic Church. I actually love my faith, the oldest of all Christian denominations, Catholicism! As you love Christ, so also do I love Him but my love is bound inextricably to the historic original Church that alone traces its lineage directly from the twelve apostles. My reversion back to my childhood faith was not an emotional decision at all. I was not lured back to Catholicism with any emotional high or drama. If I had relied on my own feelings and wishes I would have surely remained a Protestant. No, it was rather study, conviction and I believe grace that led me back to the Catholic Church.

I do understand clearly many of the differences in doctrine, especially regarding salvation between our two faiths. As you are aware, I too, was committed to the ‘faith alone’ teaching for many years. The Catholic position is that we are NOT saved by faith alone but rather we are, as scripture states “saved by GRACE through faith so that no man may boast” Eph 2:8. As such it is not belief and profession alone but rather grace that saves. It is the sovereign action of God in a soul’s life, through many means of grace, which draws a soul continually into a saving faith, a faith that lives out its convictions. The words, saved by 'faith alone’, simply are not found in scripture. There are many scriptures however, that connect grace to faith. This is what Catholic doctrine actually teaches and I am convinced of its truth. We are in agreement however, that salvation is the free gift of God. We do not, cannot merit it by any work, separated from living faith but our works do play a crucial role according to Scripture. James expresses the union clearly, “Faith without works is dead”. James 2:18 “You show me your faith without deeds and I will show you mine by what I do.” It is real faith, producing actual works or ‘fruit’ that Jesus Himself, uses as the means of His identifying (knowing) a true disciple. Thus, fruit is clearly integral to living faith. "You shall know them by their fruits." Matt 7:16

As you are aware, there is a kind of belief in God and a 'knowing' of Him and his true nature that does not produce fruit. James 2:14-26 “ the devils believe and tremble”. Obviously they not only refuse service to Christ but they are in fact, ‘workers of iniquity’. They tremble I assume, because they know who Christ is. I believe that our salvation resides not so much in our "knowing" Him, as in "HIS" knowing us. I remember when I was a Protestant, faith was all about ‘knowing the Lord’. “ Do you know the Lord”? I asked and was asked that question many times. These words of Christ are worth considering. (Matt-21: 7) “Not everyone who says to me Lord, Lord, will enter the kingdom of heaven, but rather he who does the will of my Father, who is in heaven, will enter.” His applicants go on to claim to have done great works for Him, in His name even, yet He declares to them, “I never knew you. Depart from me you evildoers”. "Many will say to Me in that day, 'Lord, Lord, have we not prophesied in Your name, cast out demons in Your name, and done many wonders in Your name?' And then I will declare to them, 'I never knew you; depart from Me, you who practice lawlessness! " Matt 7:21-23. Christ rejects them, based on the fact that He does not recognize them as His own, (He does not 'know' THEM) and He uses the criterion of their behavior to determine this 'knowing'. They are “ workers of “iniquity” as some translations recount. They are "evilDOERS." They DO evil! So, while they lay claim to salvation based on having done works for Jesus, the Lord rejects them instead, as doers of iniquity, or those who practice lawlessness. They are lost despite their spiritual works and their 'KNOWING' Him because He does not "KNOW" them. They have rejected God by continuing in sin and despite the many positive spiritual works they have performed in His name, He outright rejects them for being lawbreakers and evildoers. The law is surely God’s Moral Law, and iniquity, is offence to that law, yet they know Him enough to call Him rightly, "Lord, Lord" and perform mighty works in His name. This passage, it seems to me, should give great pause to those who take their salvation for granted. What a person believes, ultimately bears great weight on how that person will live and how a person lives, (according to Jesus Himself) will determine whether or not the Lord "KNOWS" him or her on judgment day.

I also have had the "born again" experience, but although it was powerful gift of grace in my life, I do not consider IT my salvation. In light of Catholic understanding, these words of Paul concerning salvation make perfect sense, “Work out your salvation with fear and trembling.” If salvation is a process in which we ‘work it out’ then surely fear and trembling are legitimate and we indeed play a crucial part in finishing the race, as St. Paul declares. “run the race as if to gain the prize”, “I was saved, I am saved, I am being saved”. These scriptures and many, many more, indicate that our salvation is an ongoing action/process not a one-time event. As such, I do not presume salvation but rather, I hope for it with the assurance of an ever-deepening faith, and an ever deepening committment to the living out of that faith.

Perhaps you don’t accept that free will is a gift of God to humanity, but I am convinced of it. Being a firm believer in this, I understand our freedom to choose, as an indispensable characteristic of being human. It is free will that places us a little lower than the angels and indeed ‘made’ in God’s image. We were made ‘able’ to choose good and or evil by God’s will, by His decision. Joshua 24:15 “ Choose this day whom you will serve”. “But as for me and my house . . . we will serve the Lord”. We are able to choose by God’s will and His design.

He will woo us, He will graces us, He will chastises us but he will never force anyone to serve Him, not even someone who formerly pursued and followed Him, such as the infamous Judas. This has been my experience anyway. For God to force salvation on an unwilling soul, even one who was once willing, contradicts everything I know personally of God. It undermines, I believe, a certain dignity that God has bestowed on man and seems also to presume too much about the state of another person’s soul, at any given moment.

So the notion that once a person “Accepts Christ, he then forfeits free will and can never again reject Christ’s lordship, contradicts not only my own personal knowledge of God but also the plain words of scripture. It simply is not a reality that I recognize. I know several people who fall into this category, people who were once 'believers' and who now choose their own path in rejection of Christ's morality. The Fundamentalist answer to this seems to be that his or her original ‘salvation’ didn’t actually, truly happen, or that he is currently backslidden and is destined as one of the elect, to return to the Lord's service, or is saved regardless of his or her own sinful choices and behavior and lack of fruit or even willingness to call out the words “Lord, Lord”. In light of Protestant thinking these interpretations makes some sense, except for the overriding issue of free will. The Catholic position of salvation being a process in which we are radically free at any moment to either choose discipleship through obedience or to reject God by disobedience, makes far greater sense to me. The Catholic teaching produces what I consider a Holy fear of the Lord. If our salvation is bound to our own choices then truly we must become humble people willing to repent and seek grace each time we fall, that is, if we are to have any hope at all of finishing the race. It produces humility. By contrast the fundamental Protestant teaching, produces in effect, an indifferentism to the moral law. For example most Mainline Protestant denominations take no stand at all against abortion a clear moral travesty!. If adhering to the moral law ultimately does not matter to salvation, then human nature, such as it is, will choose the downward path. I fear the words of Christ on this issue. They are a clear warning against ignoring the moral law which is an embodiment of His Spirit.

Catholic thinking on this most crucial issue is simple and clear. God gives us grace to choose to serve Him. We are free at any time to serve him or to reject His Lordship and serve another, our own sinful desires, wealth, riches etc. God’s love will not force service to himself. He will, however, never stop trying to draw a lost and sinful soul back home to Himself by His great love and mercy. The choice of sin results in the loss of grace for a soul. Grace can be and is restored through the Sacraments and true sorrow and repentance or Confession. We are saved by grace through faith. The nature of Sacrament is also radically incarnational


A careful reading of Heb 10:26-30 clarifies Catholic teaching on this and simply put, makes sense.

This passage in Hebrews clearly refers to a fallen away believer, someone who has received the truth, has been “sanctified” and then has “deliberately” chosen to continue in sin, trampling the “Son of God underfoot”, and insulting the “spirit of grace”, indicating an already existing relationship with both the Lord and the Holy Spirit.

These topics my dear friend, are only some that I have thought about and considered deeply. I have come to appreciate and accept Catholic teaching on them. In fact I have yet to find a truly Catholic explanation of any problematic topic that I have not found to satisfy my deepest concerns and questions and God knows that I certainly ask a lot of questions. I have thoroughly explored various issues of morality from birth control, abortion, divorce and remarriage, human sexuality etc. and have found the Catholic viewpoint to be both scriptural and life giving. BUT . . .

Mostly, the reason I will never again leave the Catholic Church is that I am completely and thoroughly IN LOVE WITH!!! , the central doctrine of the real presence of Jesus, body blood soul and divinity in the Holy Eucharist. “This is my body. This is my blood. Take and eat." . ."My flesh is true food my blood is true drink” John (6:55). “I am the true manna which came down from heaven”, versus what kind of manna? Is not always the fulfillment greater than the Old Testament “shadow”? In the Old Testament, God miraculously gave the Israelites real food from heaven, food that sustained them physically for forty years in the desert. Jesus gave real food as well, but as could be expected. . . it is a real food that (in His own words) superceeds immeasurably the Old testament manna. He gave us Himself, which is food both physical and divine, superceding the O.T. ‘shadow’ beyond human comprehension. It is food for our journey through this life. He clearly declares it to be so. In (John: 6) take note of why Christ’s followers left Him! They took Him literally about eating his flesh and drinking his blood, and He DID NOT correct them. When He made no further clarification they left Him, declaring, “This is a hard saying. Who can believe it?” How can a man eat another’s flesh?" Their incredulity at His words reveals the true nature of His intent. They simply could not understand and accept the radical nature of His meaning. It would have been so simple for Jesus to have just explained to them that He only meant a symbolic presence. He didn't.

I truly believe that in giving us His body and blood, Jesus gave us the greatest parting gift that he could. What does a person do if he knows he is going to die? He gives an inheritance to those he loves, that which is most precious to Himself. “Unless you eat my body and drink my blood, you have no life in you.” If the Old Testament Manna was a foreshadowing of its final fulfillment in the Last Supper, is it really logical to think that only a symbol, as most of Protestantism teaches, is the completed fulfillment of the real, actual miracle of Manna raining down from heaven, a miracle which sustained the Israelites physically throughout their journey of forty years? The New Testament fufillment is always greater than its Old Testament shadow! Do you remember the offering Melchizadek made to God in the Old Testament? It was bread and wine, another foreshadowing. I believe this is the only place in scripture that refers to bread and wine as a priestly offering to God. (Gen14: 18) The scripture declares that Jesus is a priest in the order of Melchizadek. What does the Catholic priest still offer to God today in obedience to the command of Christ at the last Passover/ first Mass? Bread and wine and in return the Father gives back the True Manna, which comes down from heaven, Jesus. And what about the first Passover? What exactly did the Jews do with the lamb after it was slaughtered, after the blood was smeared on the lintels?" They ate it. They literally ate the sacrifical lamb and it became their sustenance.


The following passage from Malachi is another O.T. foreshadowing which points to the Mass.

Malachi 1:11 KJV
For from the rising of the sun even unto the going down of the same my name shall be great among the GENTILES; and in EVERY PLACE incense shall be offered unto my name, and a PURE offering: for my name shall be great among the heathen, saith the Lord of hosts.

Today there is indeed one sacrifice that is still being offered from the rising of the sun to its setting in every place . . . continuing even today from the very founding of Catholicism, the ongoing sacrifice of the Mass, found in every nation and among the all of the ‘heathens’ just as Malachi predicted. Malachi was obviously not referring to a Jewish sacrifice in the Jewish temple, but rather a sacrifice offered everywhere on the earth among all peoples “the heathen”. Where else on Earth is there a universal sacrifice that is EVERYWHERE, ONGOING and PURE? I know of only one, the Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodox liturgies, both offering bread and wine, by the Apostolic Priesthood, which then becomes the true manna the PURE sacrifice, every single day, pretty much everywhere, Jesus the Lord! There is nothing even resembling the fulfillment of Malachi’s prophecy within fundamentalism. There is no ongoing universal and pure sacrifice within Protestantism. What about Malachi?

Only Jesus is PURE and thus only Jesus can be the fufillment of Malachi's phophecy. Protestantism must spiritualize the meaning of Malachi's words for it to make any sense at all. The very religion which prides itself on 'Sola Scriptura' cannot take Malachi literally, because that same system fundamentally rejects the literal words of Christ on the all important issue of the Eucharist. In every place that the Lord Himself emphasizes His Body and Blood as true food, The Protestant doctrine must and does reject the literal in favor of the spiritual. It spiritualizes Christs words while Catholicism accepts His words on faith. For the past two millenium the Catholic Mass has presented to God the Father a pure sacrifice daily, from the rising of the sun to its setting, indeed from its very conception, fufilling this beautiful prophecy of Malachi for the Gentile heathen.


It makes perfect sense to me then, that Jesus meant exactly what He said when he spoke of His body and blood. Catholics take Him literally. We take Him at his word. If a symbolic understanding of communion is the great fulfillment, Jesus last wish, (“Eagerly have I desired to eat this Pasch with you.”) Luke 22, then why have so many fundamentalist churches abandoned the practice altogether? His parting gift being relegated to once a month or as is practice in some churches, once a year? Having now received Jesus into me during Holy Communion at least twice a week for many years, I realize that I can never again leave the Catholic Communion. It is the source and summit of my faith just as the Church declares it should be for Catholics. Jesus is the Center of my life and my ability to take him literally into my very being, is a treasure that I thank Him for each time I attend Mass.

So _______, please be at ease about me. My faith is certain and my life will, I trust, bear out my faith. I fully intend to cross the finish line as one who races for the prize. I know you do also. I do not fear for your salvation because I know that you follow your beliefs wholeheartedly and it is the heart that God judges. I wish for you the same confidence about my walk with the Lord. Rather in charitable love, we must continue to pray for one another as true sisters in Christ, holding firm to that which we do share, our mutual love for God. We can be an example of charity in understanding our differing views of salvation and religion. Although there are many things we disagree on, we can both agree, I trust, that we both know, it is Jesus who ultimately saves us! I have written you all of this, so that you understand that I have not come to my convictions lightly, but only after much sincere seeking, study and growth. Ultimately the proof is in the putting so to speak and you shall know them by their fruit. Knowing myself better I believe that my Catholic faith has helped me to conform better and with a more loving heart to Christ and my neighbor.

Love always,
Your sister in Christ,

Thoghts on Love of God, Mary and Church

A Journey Of Love


Jesus, Mary, and the Catholic Church, these three I love, first God, then by grace His Mother, and now finally His Church as embodied in the historical 2000 plus year old institution called the Catholic Church. During all of the years that I spent as born-again believer, I cannot remember ever loving Protestantism. I did love God’s Word but not the theology of Protestantism. I must admit that in the throws of conversion I was thrilled by the notions of salvation being eternal and best of all free but it was the Word of God that I loved not the specific theology I had begun adhering to. That changed daily as I listened daily to different bible teachers on radio in bible study and at worship. No I can’t say that I loved Protestantism. What I can say is that I loved the Bible itself. Rightly discerned and taken into the heart the Bible is much more than just a collection of books. The Gospel of John commences, ”In the beginning was the Word, and the word was with God and the word was God.” I admit it an odd idea, that one should love an institution, but then again, the Church and the Word on which it is founded is not actually an institution in the way that we usually consider such things, just as the Bible is not simply a book in the normal order of books.

If the Catholic Church’s claim about itself is true, and I believe it is, as an institution, it is something far greater. It is in reality, the physical living embodiment of the person of Christ. It is that embodiment which explains my experience of “love” for what appears to many, to be only an institution and a gravely imperfect one at that. To the natural mind as displayed by the modernist Catholic, this deeply flawed institution is in great need of overhaul. Hence the many and sundry attempts to diminish the hidden glory of the Mass. Communion today is believed by the majority of Catholics for example to be merely symbolic, exhibiting just how much the glory of Truth has been obscured. The Cathechism (1324) of the Catholic Church declares that the Blessed Eucharist is the height and summit of the Christian life. As such, how is it possible that barely more than 30 % of Catholics today, even believe that the Eucharist is the actual body, blood, soul, and divinity of our Lord, as declared in official Catholic teaching? (Catholic Catechism, 1374)

One day, after having just celebrated the morning Mass, a visiting priest tried to convince me of his modernist views. He claimed that the Blessed Eucharist is only the spiritual presence of Christ, not the physical. When I questioned his theology, he grabbed my hand in obvious disdain, emphasizing his belief in my utter foolishness, holding as I do to the Real Presence. “This . . . this is physical,” he declared as he thrust my hand from side to side. This same priest makes it a regular practice to change up the words of the Mass adding commentary here or there, removing or changing words, lecturing Mass attendees on how certain saints were certainly off track in their theology/spirituality etc. and of course never, never, elevating the Host during consecration. This seems to be a tenant of the contemporary modernist priest, never, never elevate the Blessed Eucharist, after all someone might get the wrong idea and actually believe that Jesus, really is physically present. The lowered sweeping hand holding the Consecrated cup during Mass always raises my modernist antenna. I presume, in Christian charity, that his novel additions and subtractions in celebrating what used to be rightly called the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, are all in his pursuit of making all that stuff more interesting and relevant for us, the unlearned, bored as we must be by the common Mass. I’m not sure exactly what brand of theology that particular priest adheres to but it is certainly not historic, authentic Catholicism.

We live in a time when the commandments of God seem to many, to be mere suggestions made by a kindly and concerned father figure who fortunately lives far enough away from us, that we need not be too concerned about pleasing Him. Luckily for us the Church is made of more than simply earthly stuff for if it were not supernatural in nature, it would have shriveled up and blown away long ago. On the contrary, it is in fact a living “breathing” person, the mystical yet physical reality of the person of Christ. It is not merely a collection of like-minded individuals gathering together in communal union of belief as so many other institutions are.

I’ve met several people who simply would not remain any longer within an “institution” that allowed, provided for, and even protected the perpetrators of the priestly pedophile scandal which was exposed to the light of day, several years ago. It is a difficult subject to address in light of the gravity and evil that many in the hierarchy of this institution, “my beloved Church” are indeed responsible for. The rage I feel at their betrayal of the body of Christ is tangible. Remaining Catholic seems almost indefensible, yet I steadfastly remain a member of the “One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church” as bequeathed to us by Christ Himself. Those in the Catholic hierarchy who are responsible for the perpetuation of evil are not defensible and I believe they have done more harm to the body of Christ than even the sexual predators themselves. If it were within my power, they would be in prison. The gravity of their sins has wounded Christ’s Body in unspeakable ways, yet the holy nature of Christ’s True Church remains holy just as Christ is holy. It can be neither dependent on the holiness of man nor diminished by his sin.

As a child the nuns taught us, that the Catholic Church was different from all of the other Christian churches. The Catholic Church alone professes the fullness of truth. I heard and believed without having the faintest idea of what they meant. It was a long while later when I struggled, as Jacob wrestling with the angel struggled, in my own battle with truth and was subdued. Today it is not easy to find the fullness of truth, at least in many local parishes, unless you seek and search it out for yourself as the Lord said, “with your whole heart.” For instance, I cannot recall a time when a priest of the ‘One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church’, preached unequivocally against the travesty of legalized abortion. I have never heard a sermon from the pulpit, against either fornication nor divorce and remarriage although these sins are as prevalent in the Catholic population as they are in the wider populace. These sins tangibly weaken the body and its ability to reveal the Light of Christ to the world, yet our leaders, priests and theologians in large part refuse to even acknowledge let alone rebuke the cancers eating away at the health of the body. So with weakness of leadership, weakness of preached doctrine, weakness of will, is it any wonder that the Church is in decline as a source of light and life in the world. How then can I remain a dedicated committed Catholic ‘in love’ with this Church which is failing on so many levels to live up to its calling, to be Christ to the world?

Simply said, it (the Church) remains still Christ to the world despite its weakened glow and because it is Christ’s body where else can I go? Just as Peter in the Gospel responded to Jesus’ inquiry after the bread of life discourse, “Will you also leave me?” Despite its many and myriad failings, it remains The One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church founded by God Himself. It is Christ’s body. The sin of man cannot diminish truth. It can diminish our seeing truth however and our ability to recognize it. The Church remains in essence the embodiment of the person of Jesus Christ who is perfect and holy. It remains holy despite the ungodliness of its members. It remains true, despite theologians who preach untruths in its name. The fullness of truth is still found in its official doctrines and timeless Tradition, if not in its theologians and not often in the mouths of its priests. In a way the very failings of those within its walls, binds me ever more closely to the perfection of its eternal truth as found in the incarnate Christ. The Church is a living embodiment of Christ’s word and the fact that Christ has bound himself irrevocably to His fleshly creatures in the perpetuation of His living Presence as found in the “Church” causes within me, at the same time a deep sense of gratitude along with a commensurate sorrow.

I am reminded of an old photograph that I recently found. The picture was of my husband with our then, two-year old son Gabe, working together, building our back porch. Our son’s little arm dangling down barely able to lift the hammer in his attempt to help his father, more of a hindrance than a help. So too, our heavenly father has invited us to join ourselves with Him, incarnate truth, having been baptized into his body. Not only are we invited but we are in fact obligated to aid Him in the building of his Kingdom. No doubt our human sinful natures have dimmed the Light of Christ rather than magnified it, as did Our Lady. In her Magnificat she declared, “ My soul doth magnify the Lord”, and so should our goal be but how often do our weak, faulty and sometimes even sinful efforts diminish rather than magnify the light of Christ in the world? Would it not be easier if God were simply to take our hammer’s away and lay them aside?

Never-the-less, the unfathomable remains true that God has bound Himself to us, though by and large we continue to sin, creating a union of perfection with imperfection working together to bring the light of Christ to the world. There have ever been traitors of the Lord working alongside Him. They do no purposeful good and often cause great harm. I am not suggesting that it must be so. I would far prefer that those who do not believe would leave rather than try to convert the Catholic Church into the modern relativistic imposter that I have seen grow in strength over my life time. The One Holy Catholic Apostolic Church remains intact and whole yet there are those who tenaciously reject its tenets and continue to lay claim to the name Catholic working tirelessly to obscure the timeless doctrines of Catholic Truth as expressed in Sacred tradition and the Catechism of the Catholic Church.

Not so long ago I found myself in the strangely odd position of having to remove my teenage daughter from the local Catholic High school in an attempt to preserve her faith. I did and it did. After a mere month of tenth grade religion class my young daughter was expressing her new and growing conviction that hell is not a real place at all but is rather mere symbolism, after all, a loving God would not send his creatures to a place of everlasting torment. Unwilling to enter debate on the subject, I promptly asked to see her religion book. I suspected immediately the origin of her rather nice ideas on the nature of hell and found upon inspection, to my growing anger, a curriculum that seemed inordinately concerned with undermining, weakening, and diminishing any and all elements of supernatural action on the part of God. The writer of the commentary seemed exclusively concerned with explaining why and how the Old Testament miracles simply couldn’t have happened, throwing into doubt, as a byproduct, any and all of scripture and its dependability. Not only were the miracles suspect but also even such stories as Abraham offering up his son Isaac as a victim sacrifice were denied as a possibility. The theological commentary accompanying the scripture texts were alarming in their utter jettisoning of the need of faith, and were outrageously presumptuous in denying the plain texts as written. The commentary writer actually had the audacity to say that God would never have asked Abraham to sacrifice his son Isaac and therefore we must assume that Abraham misunderstood God’s request. I guess we should be comforted that the twenty-first century theologian, whoever he or she was, had insight into God’s intent that apparently Abraham was lacking at the time. In the face of such arrogance I can only blush. In light of the fact that Pope Pius the X condemned modernism as the “synthesis of all heresies” in his encyclical Pascendi Doninici gregis 1907, I am confounded as to why it has permeated Catholic thought and teaching to such a degree, and continues to do so. It seems that to the modernist mind, faith is an unnecessary component in the religious equation. All religion must be accepted and understood within the context of a modern, humanistic, scientific and most of all rationalistic mindset. There is only one problem with this approach other than that it has already been condemned. God made man, man did not make God and there will always be mystery in our relationship with Him at least this side of the veil.

It is small comfort but I do find the odd and extreme contortions of modernist theologians at times comic relief in this vale of tears. If the plain text of scripture requires any element of trust for instance, containing as it does mystery, and yes-even obscurity, . . . then of course the modernist theologian must find a rational excuse for the ‘difficult’ passage. For instance, one commentary explained that Jesus didn’t necessarily walk on water. It is possible that Peter simply tripped while walking along the shoreline and Jesus bent down to help him back to his feet. It just seemed to Peter that Jesus was walking on water because of his vantage point and Jesus’ proximity to the shoreline. One wonders, if that were the case, why the gospel writer would want to have recorded the incident at all? Was it to display Peter’s tendency to tell ‘Big Fish’ stories, or rather to reveal to us that Jesus was kind of a nice guy? Why not just ‘get to it’ and declare that the Gospel stories are only that, fictional stories made up for our edification. I actually heard a sermon, expounding this naturalistic explanation and when I questioned the priest on whether he didn’t believe that Jesus could walk on water, he was taken aback and explained it was just something he had read in the commentary when preparing for his talk. The theological conceit of some commentary writers is simply unending. I dare to question how they dare advise souls that Gods word is open for any and all kind of interpretation as long as that interpretation isn’t hindered by the need for faith!

What is more astounding to me however than the contemporary lack of faith permeating contemporary Catholic catechesis and the commensurate ascendancy of man’s pride, is, by contrast, the continuing and utter humility of Christ. Having once united Himself with us in human flesh, He continues to unite his perfection with our imperfection in his mystical body. He continues to subject himself to his representatives adhering invariably to the radical notion of incarnation. The priest says the words of consecration lifting up the bread and in so doing Christ obligates himself to become our food; body, blood, soul and divinity, regardless of either the holiness or the sinfulness of the priest himself. One could almost say that such behavior is unbecoming in an all-powerful Holy God. Is it not? We most certainly have an odd God!. Why would a holy God submit and obligate His action to a mere man and perhaps a gravely sinful man? It makes no sense to the modern mind, and in fact was a point of great confusion to me in my return to the Catholic faith. How can a priest consecrate a wafer of bread, a glass of wine if he himself lacks faith and holiness? Perhaps he is even an unbeliever or perhaps he is in the state of mortal sin? Is the consecration valid? The answer is yes.

Thus is displayed, the radical humility of God, God, subjugating himself to man, once again. Just as he once subjected himself to the Jewish authorities and to the Romans, to be beaten and abused, so today he suffers Himself to be made truly present at Mass making himself subject to the greatest saint who presents himself for communion as much as to the lukewarm heart who doesn’t even recognize His real presence and then to even the grave sinner who refuses repentance, taking the pure and holy God against his will, captive into a dirty and despicable cell once again. How greatly must Christ long for union with souls who love Him, that He subjects himself to all possibility of humiliation? The priest’s ability to consecrate the Eucharist is conferred upon him through the line of apostolic succession and cannot be destroyed by the state of his priestly soul whether good or evil. As his power is in no way due to his own holiness, so to, his sin has no power to remove his priestly office.

NOW SOME THOUGHTS ON MARY

When I started this little essay it was my desire and intent to consider my “love” for The Blessed Mother but quickly I veered off track into the realm of love of Church. Perhaps this is because they are actually one and the same ‘love’. When I first converted, my love was fully and completely centered on the person of Jesus. I was enthralled with Him and the notion of His love for me but perhaps I have not veered so far after all. Perhaps my ‘love’ for Mary and the Church is actually one and the same. The love I have for Mary and the Church are manifestations after all of the same Body. Mary has been called the first church, for good reason, she being the first believer, follower and disciple of Christ. She was the first to receive Jesus as her Lord and to know Him intimately.

It seems to me that Christ has invited me into a very special relationship with His mother, unique in the communion of saints. He has given her to me in a personal way so to speak, to be my mother as well. It is His love for her that He is so generously inviting me into, welcoming me into His relationship with His own human mother. So many of our Protestant brethren misunderstand Catholic love for Mary as a detraction, a misdirection of sorts, when in reality, she is a delight to God and He in His generosity wishes that she be our delight too, because He wills to withhold no good thing from us and she indeed is a good thing. Her soul doth magnify the Lord.

Many years ago before my personal conversion, an odd thing happened to me. In all of my life I had never experienced what I would consider an intervention from heaven, a non-rationalistic, unexplainable, ‘s u p e r n a t u r a l’ experience. I can recall many instances as children growing up, when my closest friend Monica would lay claim to God’s intervention in her life. Truth told, I was secretly jealous of her faith-filled relationship with the unseen God but I didn’t believe any of what she told me at the time. I had always wanted to be close to Him myself, and consciously tried to be, for a long time. I never decided against belief in God. It just seemed that He was intangible and He wanted it that way. I was way too Catholic to ever deny His existence. No, I was simply not “In the know” as she was. She would pray for everything and she always had since childhood. Strangely, from my perspective, her life situations seemed to always work out for her best, but I assumed only that it was by mere chance. I am not suggesting that my friend’s life was charmed and easy, quite the contrary. No indeed as I reflect on what I know about her, she has suffered more than most people that I know. It is an odd and disquieting realization that I have come to. Those who are intimate with God, suffer. Suffering and intimacy with God seem like train tracks running parallel to one another and intersecting upon occasion. Just yesterday in speaking with another friend on this same subject, we agreed that there are two sorts, suffering in and with God and suffering without faith and without Him. The first seems to transform a soul into a reflection of God, shining light and warmth and the second possibly into something less than man. cold and dark. Suffering is not a good in and of itself but can become a good by the mercy and grace of God. It seems to me.

I will never forget these whispered words. I was twenty-two at the time. “It’ll be o.k.” Spoken twice to me when I was in a most desperate situation. I was alone and in great need, lying on a cold floor, in a cold room in a very cold, dark time of my life. I was suffering but it was earned suffering. My own decisions had put me there. They were whispered words yet audible. They were feminine. The gentle whispered voice of a woman telling me that it would be ok.

That voice was so natural and so gentle that its effect upon me was instantly calming. To be clear, I don’t think I realized at the time, that I had heard a spoken audible voice. This is hard to explain. I heard the audible and seemingly human voice of a woman, but I didn’t realize it at the time. I would say, that it was about three days later when I consciously remembered the voice, almost like a dream image returns when an experience triggers its’ subconscious rise into consciousness. I only know that the effect it had upon me at the time was to calm me down, and give me strength to do what I needed to do in order to remove myself from that bad situation. I have since repeated those same words when trying to comfort someone in sorrow but never with the same effect that they had upon me. I never questioned what I ‘d heard nor did I even really wonder about who had spoken to me that night, but the voice and its message pole-vaulted me subconsciously into a spiritual journey that led me to seek out love and ultimately truth. That journey is one that has not ended and continues yet today.


Many years later I began to think about that voice and having by that time committed myself to following Christ, I considered it as belonging probably to my guardian angel. I don’t think so any more. Now I am fairly certain that it was the voice of Mary, the Blessed Mother as many Catholics call her. I slowly have come to that belief after becoming more intimate with her over the years. Perhaps my favorite mystery of the rosary is the “Wedding Feast of Cana”. When praying this mystery I always imagine Mary, head bowed, approaching her son with her request. I imagine their eyes meeting his in knowledge and intimacy. Even as His words give her reason to doubt his intentions, she knows that He will do as she desires, and her desire is just so sweet. She being a woman, a mother, a homemaker, and a caretaker, has seen the practical need of her friends. They are low on wine and the wedding celebration is just getting going. They are no doubt poor and could not afford to have provided more for their guests. Her heart is moved, wishing to help and so she approaches her son knowing that He alone can meet the need she has noticed.

I, for instance, always know when we are low on milk or bread or cat food or if the dog needs water or where to find the pediatricians phone number. My husband doesn’t. Women by and large, are concerned with these kinds of details of daily life and are deeply concerned with bringing happiness to those they care about. This story tells me so much about Mary. She is proactive, she is kind and compassionate, she will put her own needs least and last and she has great sway over Jesus’ heart! When Jesus responds to her request, “Woman, what is that to me? My time has not yet come,” we are given to understand that this public display of his power will be the beginning of Jesus’ three year journey to the cross and he wasn’t planning on starting it quite yet. Mary was in a very real sense placing her son onto the very path that would lead to his torturous death. I believe that she knew the import of her words when she uttered them. She knew that when her son fulfilled her request, then her own journey to the suffering of the cross would begin as well. What mother would send her son to die for love of others? In a real sense, Mary’s self-sacrificing request of Jesus is a reversing of the curse that began with Eve’s outstretched arm, offering Adam the forbidden fruit. Eve initiated the fall of man and in this subtle encounter between Mary and her son, Jesus, I see the reversal of the selfish request of Eve inviting her husband into disobedience. Here is Mary, quietly inviting her son to begin his journey to the cross of our salvation and she offers up her own partaking in this suffering out of love for us. Her love is of the sacrificial tough love variety, when it comes to her own willingness to suffer. She doesn’t ask twice, she just knows that He will comply with her wishes and tells the servants to “Do as he tells you.” What those words cost her in personal sacrifice reveal the depth of her motherly love for all of us.

“A sword too, shall your heart pierce” Luke 2:35, these were the words spoken to Mary at Jesus’ ‘Presentation in the Temple’, shortly after His birth. They were spoken by Simeon and to understand them rightly it must be known that every firstborn Jewish son was dedicated as a sacrifice to the Lord in the Temple. The parents would then redeem their infant with a living, animal sacrifice to be killed in his stead. In Jesus’ case two doves became the living, bloody sacrifice to be offered for his release. When the Holy family appeared in the Jewish temple the wait of a lifetime ended for Simeon and Anna. The one, true sacrifice, Israel’s messiah, the nation’s hope had finally appeared, in the form of this little child. Jesus was the true and final sacrifice that would put to an end once and for all the need of any further substitutionary shedding of blood. All of Jewish hope, desire and history were summed up in that very moment when Simeon uttered those words. Simeon had waited and was rewarded. He had seen the Messiah, the savior. The Messiah had come and was here being offered, as expressed in the future words of Caiaphas (John 11:50) “nor do you take into account that it is expedient for you that one man die for the people, and that the whole nation not perish.” The prophetic words that Simeon spoke that day, to Mary of her future suffering were said to her in the context of a firstborn son being sacrificed to the Lord, as a restitutional sacrifice for the forgiveness of sin and revealed her continuing role in salvation history.


Those familiar with the Gospels will recall the description of the sword piercing the heart of Christ upon the cross. Blood and water flowed forth from his side as the cruel blade entered the already dead body of Jesus Christ. Mary was present at this last indignity and she, being still very much alive, felt the prophesied sword pierce her heart that day. Often in devout Catholic homes a visitor can still find what might seem an odd picture to venerate, two hearts beating side by side one thorn pierced, one with a sword thrust through. Not only was the physical dead heart of Jesus pierced that day, but also the tender and broken living heart of Mary. Her suffering in a very real sense, continued the pain of redemption and fulfilled the prophecy of Simeon.

There is an Idea in Catholic thought of Mary as Coredemptrix (meaning, with the redeemer). It is again a concept of Mary that is deeply misunderstood in Protestant thinking. Mary the new “Eve” suffers in and with her son adding her pain to His cross. It is the idea, if I am not mistaken, that just as God desires and requires, the use of our ‘hammers’ in the building up of His kingdom, it was His good pleasure that Mary suffer alongside her son Jesus during his passion and that her suffering would not be without value in the work of salvation. The fall of man did not happen because of the sin of Eve. Eve proceeded from Adam but Adam proceeded directly from God. It was Adam’s sin, as father of the human race that plunged humanity into Hell, not Eve’s. Although Eve played a crucial part in that tragic Passion play, it was Adam’s sin that brought eternal death to the human race. So to, it is Jesus’ obedient suffering and death on the cross that obtains our redemption but Mary also plays a role in that redemption by the will of God. She in a sense represents the ‘hammer’ of the human race. Is there anything more beautiful than that? Even in this, God humbles himself and includes Mary, his own creation, representing us, in all of our frailty and simple humanity in the act of accomplishing redemption and ultimately salvation. He allows Mary a role in His plan. Her obedience and suffering, by the grace and will of God, is added to the redemption that her son obtained for us, by His sacrifice. Just as Eve’s sin led to Adam’s sin which caused the fall of man, literally Mary’s obedience, gave the world its savior and her own motherly suffering is a participation in the sufferings of the cross as an acceptable sacrifice. Thus, God in perfect balance reversed the curse of Adam on the human race. Although Mary cannot save us, by the will of God, she can participate in our redemption. Mary’s suffering out of love for Jesus has great value to God in the mystery of that redemption. Pope John Paul II, explained it this way, Mary’s intense sufferings, united with those of her Son were “also a contribution to the redemption of us all” (Salvifici Doloris.n.25)


Mother’s know the nature of suffering alongside and ‘within’ when their children are suffering. A mother suffers with her children. It seems to be part of the job. So when I reflect on that time of suffering in my life, and the quiet whispered voice telling me “It’ll be O.K.”, I believe now that it was Mary speaking to me, practical words of help and comfort, words which initiated my own journey into the unknown mystery of a life of faith. Mary as my loving mother noticed me, saw my need for her Son and quietly intervened in my confused life. As I finished up writing these thoughts the Beatle’s tune Let it Be began playing in my mind, “When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me speaking words of wisdom, “let it be, let it be, whisper words of wisdom let it be”.

Source of Joy

Source of Joy


There was a moment, when as young mother, I became thoroughly ashamed of myself. I was at the end of my rope as the expression goes. The moment when you’ve been grasping onto a life line and your arms are shaking and fingers cramp and you simply can no longer cling to that last thread . . . and a fit, something like desperation overcomes you and you let go without really letting go at all because you are still trying to grasp the lifeline but you simply cannot hold onto it any longer. The will is there but the ability has literally slipped through your fingers. Have you ever been there? Well I remember a particular day when I was in that state of trying to hold onto my balance as a sane rational adult parent dealing with a little but far more powerful force of nature than I could ever be, and then, losing my lifeline. I utterly lost my cool and reverted interiorly to a small child myself, having a temper tantrum, without malice aforethought, without any intention of harm, without noble reserve, I suddenly without warning, lost my grip and swung my leg back, letting go a kick right in the shins of my little five year old. (Rest assured . . . she had no bruise) I checked.


Five years earlier, the greatest challenge of my life was born into our family. Abigail, “Source of Joy’ as her name signifies. A bundle of exuberance to be sure, Abby was a difficult child from the very start of our acquaintance, the victim of colic and a thoroughly discontented unhappy screaming baby that could neither sleep nor wake in peace. Everything about her babyhood was difficult, yet she was a joyful infant in the few moments when the colic, whatever that monster was, would leave her in peace. I remember lifting her up high above me when she was about 2 or 3 months old and she would start shaking, her face a mixture of surprise and shock. She was having a seizure! I was certain of it. She was shaking uncontrollably. This strange shaking would overcome her whenever I held her high. I consulted the doctor and even demonstrated the phenomenon yet he seemed blithely unconcerned with my diagnosis of seizures. He assured me that she was only laughing. Laughing?! I had by this time, in my life as a mother, learned a few things and I had never seen this kind of laughing in an infant. It was whole body laughing whole body expression of an intense inner abandon, if it was laughing. I’m still not quite sure but I am convinced today, that her destiny is one of joy.

I have vivid memories still of desperately attempting to quiet my small child. She would simply scream for hours on end as an infant. I don’t remember being able to hold her, cuddling her, and experiencing the usual bonding of mother and child, the quiet shared gaze of mother and baby, common to the newborn/mother relationship and somewhat similar to the gaze of falling in love. One day, after nursing her, when she had finally quieted, I grasped the opportunity to look deeply into her ever-bluing eyes. Without warning, her little finger shot upward with unexpected force and poked me straight on in the eye. Eyes burning, in sudden pain, I squeezed them tight becoming almost afraid to open them again exposing them to any further assault. With great care and some fear I peeked through copious tearing at my beloved and ‘helpless’ infant.

In general she seemed to be in pain, but of what kind? Physical? Colic it seems is still a mystery. Some theories go way beyond gas pain to the possibility of sensory brain involvement. I did discover a method of sorts, my own version of short-term parental/infant care relief. When Abby was about four months old, I could put her in the baby backpack and turn on loud rock music, the louder the better. Only hard rock worked. For as long as I could jump up and down to the beat, she would stop screaming. If the neighbors wondered at my taste in music and my punk dancing, as I leapt up and down and around in the back room at odd times of day and night, to very loud rock music, they never questioned me directly. I am partial to the sensory stimulation theory of colic. On our trips home from visiting family on the North Shore, we had exactly ten minutes of quiet, and at the time when most babies would drift off into peaceful slumber ours would suddenly, as if on cue, start screaming as loud as young healthy lungs would allow. For the next 50 minutes or so we would as a family, unwillingly develop the skill of patience. I finally discovered a new method of car travel with our Baby on Board. All passengers would take turns making loud and silly noises. “Brinnnng zing zoo zooo dinga dinga ding ZZZZ pading re de de de de de de and on. . . .,” for as long as we could keep up the Zinging we could stave off the screaming. We were motivated and all took turns. But the moment we stopped. . . the screaming started.


From the time I could first reason with my second born, I realized that reason could be overrated. Sometimes reason has no place in childrearing, and sometimes it can even undermine reality. I remember when two-year-old Abby toddled into our living room. I was working on a painting and I caught sight of her as she wobbled over to the ancient couch, which was currently the resting place of our old tomcat named Tony. My painting hand suspended midair, paint dripping, I watched with a quiet sense of foreboding. Her little hand was gently traveling the length of Tony’s somewhat roughened coat, extending to the short stub of a tail, all that was left of his cat’s pride after a feline encounter of some kind. He looked peaceful in a sleeping predatory sort of way. As I watched her hand traverse the same territory for a second time, I saw with a certain inner sight, her intention. Her tiny little hand suddenly stopped mid-journey resting momentarily on the softly exposed underbelly. I watched feeling as if I were a fly suddenly caught in a web, unable to free myself, impotent and unable to avoid sudden and certain disaster. As she lifted her hand high, she turned her head instantly locking her eyes to my own, like she was sighting coordinates before pushing the button, ready to release a ten thousand pound bomb.

“ Don’t you hit that cat?” I said in a quiet yet firm voice. We had suddenly and irreversibly entered into the first battle of what would become, during the teenage years outright WAR. The intensity of her eyes, which by age two, had become the stunning blue of a summer sky held my own without revealing any weakness or intimidation at my quiet command. Her hand lifted a little in response to my words as she prepared to strike her intended target. I repeated myself concealing my inner doubts “Don’t you dare hit that cat.” My eyes, though not as clear as hers or nearly as intense of color, held her gaze by the force of my own motherly conviction. Our wills were now locked in an epic battle, the outcome of which I had no Idea. We probably would be spending the night in the local emergency room fending off Cat Scratch Fever. I was almost certain.

As a child I remember playing a game with my cousin Maryanne. We called it stare down. Stare into your opponent’s eyes until one of you cracks and starts laughing. It wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t as hard as this. My eyes were seriously drying out as were hers. We stood there blinking at one another, neither one willing to give an inch in field of battle. I’m not sure how long we continued in the stare down, but one thing I knew, laughter would not be the sign of defeat.

It seemed an age but it was probably only two minutes of intense staring when I knew I had won. For the most fleeting of moments she glanced out the window at the fair weather clouds drifting by and I knew… I exulted in my victory!!! I had won! I rejoiced! I knew it in my bones. When her eyes took up the banner once again and engaged my own, the certainty of my victory had imbued me with an inner confidence that we would not be spending the night in Milford Hospital. I purposely resumed my painting in a dignified manner neither rushing nor hesitating. Slowly with only the subtlest of motions, her hand slid downward through the air only just missing the target, as I watched her surreptitiously. She toddled away and I breathed a small sigh of relief.

The age of two was momentous time in little Abby’s life; it meant the change from crib to bed, not that we were on a time schedule. We just didn’t have a bed for her before then. When I introduced her to her new sleeping arrangements, she took to it like a fish to water. She wanted to be a BIG girl after all, and what signifies big girl more than a big girl bed? She had always wanted to be a big girl. So the transition was easy, in fact it was too easy. Her new bed arrived on Tuesday and on Friday we made the mistake of visiting Oma and Gramp in Lynn. When in Lynn, bedtime had arrived and passed itself by the time Abby and I ascended the stairs to our sleeping arrangements. In the corner of our temporary bedroom, was the playpen, the bed for visiting babies/toddlers. Directly, I became aware of the DANGER inherent in the CRIBLIKE playpen. What should I do? Was the danger too great? There was no way to know for sure. If I brought her into the big bed with us . . . we would not sleep. Of this I was certain, as we had on occasion attempted to sleep with her in our own bed at home. She would toss turn and hit us. I’m afraid to admit that I made the selfish and imprudent decision to guarantee her father and I a full nights rest and I put her into the playpen for the duration of our visit, which ended up being two nights.
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I would only too soon regret my decision.

Sunday night arrived and our imminent return home raised the specter of my prescient concerns. Home, It is always good to return home to one’s own bed. Well, it’s usually good to return to one’s own bed. That night proved to be a different sort of night altogether. All was well until ten minutes past lights out at the Winant homestead. Abby had fallen into her new BIG bed as any exhausted toddler should, prayers said, story read, then goodnight kiss and lights out! A short ten minutes later however the screaming began. I knew about this already, as the task of bedtime had never been an easy one when it came to Abby. I had been proud of myself in how, with patient persistence, I had gradually weaned her away from the nightly tantrums of facing bedtime. My long suffered efforts over the past year, which had finally found success, were abruptly replaced with wild and uncontrollable crying. I was armed with many and sundry child help and advice books detailing the process of aiding one’s little child to a safe and peaceful sleep. I had used them with some success in the past. “Let the child cry for five minutes and then enter the room, pat her back comforting her with your presence, add a minute each time, lengthening the time between visits. Soon your consistent returning visits will reassure her of her safety and she will shortly be sound asleep.” I hoped rather than believed that this good advice would work now. Five minute intervals of intense screaming became six minutes, became ten-minute intervals, became twenty-minute intervals, and became thirty-minute intervals with out any sign of her tiring or weakening at all. Perhaps she enjoyed the back rubs in between.

Midway through the first night my Husband told me to give in and bring her into bed with us. I knew that if I did my opponent’s strength would be increased tenfold and we would perhaps never, never be allowed a full night’s rest again in our own bed without her agitated presence between us. By the third night, her crying continued with as much vigor and determination as when she had first begun her crying marathon. John had a pillow wrapped completely around his head belted on for some permanency. Somehow, he had managed to fall asleep despite the auditory chaos. I on the other hand, was lying wide-awake for the third sleepless dreamless night in a row. My nerves were on edge.

As I lay there staring into the dark, trying to block out the strident notes of Abby’s shrieks I found myself unexpectedly yelling at God. “ God what should I do,” I yelled aloud? Now, I was a praying woman, but quite honestly it hadn’t occurred to me to ask His advice on this topic. It was 3AM, three nights into the battle and I knew that I was losing. “Help me!” I cried out again. “You have to help me,” No sooner had I finished my demand when a thought popped into my conscious mind. Why had I waited so long? I considered the “idea” and immediately agreed. “You’re right” I thought, “O.K. I’ll do it.” I hopped out of bed and headed for the attic. I rooted around in the dark for a few moments, echoes of the screeching below bouncing off the rafters around me. I found it, the ancient wooden playpen, and an antique in its own right. I struggled to extract it from the pile of junk and drag it out of the cobwebs. Finally freed, I lugged it down the narrow stairwell and promptly set it up. Without losing a moment I darted into Abby’s bedroom swept her, screaming, off her bed and into the living room where the PLAYPEN awaited us. I rather angrily plopped her on my knee. “Do you see that playpen.”? I asked. Her crying had stopped as she stared intensely at me from under lowered brow. “That playpen is for babies.” I said. “You are a baby because you are crying like a baby. Now do you want to sleep in that playpen like a baby or do you want to be a big girl and sleep in your big girl bed?” She glared at me and stated in very clipped but determined words “ I want to sleep in my big girl bed.” I warned her that I would only give her one chance to sleep in her new bed but if she started crying, off to the playpen with her! I placed her into her own bed patted her back one last time and then left the room with only the smallest measure of hope. I lay myself down and waited anxiously, tentatively, three minutes, and four minutes, passed. By the fifth minute, the night air was once again split with a piercing cry. I leapt out of bed, scooped up her substantial (one hundred and tenth percentile on the growth charts) little frame and purposely plopped her into the playpen. She promptly rolled over and went to sleep. The next night I took down the ancient wooden playpen folded it up and put it away. She went directly to sleep in her big bed without any fuss at all. No clue why that worked, only God knows.

In June of 1991 Mount Pinatubo erupted, the second largest volcanic eruption of the twentieth century and in August of that summer we made plans to spend a day at the beach. We invited my dad to join us. He was the kind of father who had played and swum with his children and some of my happiest memories are from the times we had spent together with him at the beach. That day, as I recall, it was about 65 degrees outside, the coldest summer temperature I had ever experienced in late August thanks to mount Pinatubo. The whole summer had been cool verging on cold, because of still-drifting ash in the upper stratosphere.
When we arrived at Good Harbor Beach, in Gloucester MA, I laid out our beach blanket and pulled out the sweatshirts that I had brought along to fend off the cold breezes. John, Sarah, my dad and I pulled on our sweatshirts without delay, all of us that is except for Abby. She was then 3 ½ years old and I had not given her one. My dad, being a dad still, noticed that I had not put a sweatshirt on Abby. He looked me directly in the eyes and asked in a forgivably critical voice, “Aren’t you going to put a sweatshirt on that child?” I thought over his question interiorly. Being still comparatively new to parenting, my insecurities as a mother bubbled up to the surface of my self-awareness with his question. Was I? Nope, I decided, not worth it. He continued to express his dismay over my lack of good judgment and my failure in being a responsible parent. I was quiet for a long moment before I pulled out the sweatshirt, child’s size four. I extended my arm to my father. “Here you go dad, you put it on her.” I knew Abby well enough to know that in her mind, she had already decided, that at a beach in the summer, ‘you do not wear a sweatshirt.’ It is probably a well-known phenomenon that dads loom larger than reality in the minds of their children and I was no different. My dad was not a small man either physically or in any other way and after all he had raised three boys and me. Perhaps he would put it on her.

My vindication shortly arrived, however, when about twenty minutes later, utterly deflated, my father, threw down the sweatshirt onto the sand, exclaiming, “ What the hell is wrong with that child?” Now he understood.


Returning to the day of my shame, it was a very stressful time in our lives. I had just recently given birth to our third child, Gabriel “Strength of God”. He was probably only around the age of three months old and I was seriously sleep deprived. We were not making enough money and were struggling in many ways. I was working several part time jobs to help out with our financial woes but still we were not only the charity case at church, we were the poorest family in our neighborhood, to be sure. I worked teaching and running the arts and crafts program for the elderly in our town and I also worked several nights a week in local company doing photo graphics. During the days that I was at home, I provided childcare for a neighbor’s infant, who as I recall, was never a happy camper. My neighbor’s baby cried incessantly and I was sadly aware that my own infant’s quiet nature demanded so little, that I barely held him at all during the days in which I cared for poor miserable little Joey.
My husband was currently employed as a woodworker but was concentrating his time mostly on his sculpture career. Much of our money went to support his studio at the Franklin mills, where he had been working for several years on a single body of work comprising about thirty sculptures. It was nearly complete. The household chores fell to me during that period as well, both indoor and out, as he was rarely home.

I was only thirty-one but I was feeling worn out, tired, worried and anxious all together at once. I didn’t have the luxury of shopping for non-necessities. We lived very frugally and it had been a long time since I had bought anything new for myself or for either of our daughters. Family, friends and church members were very kind and I will always remember the generosity of the many souls who crossed our path during those years. On the particular day, aforementioned, I can recall the intensity of feeling but not the exact specifics of incident. It was early morning. Sarah had caught the first bus, and then it was Abby’s turn to catch hers. She must have been five years old, kindergarten age. We were waiting in the front hall and I had brought her down a jacket from our apartment. It was cold outside, a late fall day. “Abby you need to put on your jacket.” I was feeling keenly, our ostracism by the majority of our neighbors as Abby and I stood together in the front hall. We had a car that was not registered because we could not afford to have it fixed. In fact we could not afford to have it towed away and thus it sat in our yard. One of our ‘neighbors’ had found a regulation in the town bylaws disallowing any public exposure of an uninsured vehicle and indeed, had just recently sent the local police to our door to inform us that we needed to dispose of the offending vehicle as soon as possible. The irony was that the man who was so offended by our old car was a car mechanic. He fixed old cars for a living! We would have given it to him if he had just asked for it.

Being already painfully aware of the fact that we were not acceptable to the majority of our neighbors, having been pointedly left out of several neighborhood parties, well I just felt hurt. “Abby you need to wear a jacket,” I repeated myself. Her little chin thrust forward, eyes glowered “No I don’t” I won’t wear it.” I am sure that my unease with our lack of financial wear with all compared with the relative wealth of our peers was influencing my determination to have Abby put on the jacket. At least she had a jacket, it wasn’t a new jacket but it would do. I was conscious of the fact that I was already suspect by the other mothers in the neighborhood. “Abby put on the Jacket. It is cold outside.” I’m not going to and you can’t make me.” I don’t know what her rationale was. I’m fairly certain that it was sensible to her, as I have since found her, to have sound, although original thinking, when it comes to reason. Probably some kid had dissed her jacket the day before. I was not then in a state to understand, nor give credence to her originality however. It was a fight I chose to pick out of wounded pride. “Abby you need to put on the jacket if you want to go to the bus stop.” Well it rapidly devolved from there and I abruptly, without warning, let go of that thread that I had been clinging to and kicked her in the shins and she put on the jacket.


She marched out the door without another word to me and I broke down and cried. The rest of the day I cried and felt thoroughly ashamed of myself. I felt literally as if I had sunk to the level of an out of control five year old, which I had. I’d lost control. I’d never lost control with Abby before, no matter how she had tested and tried my metal. I had always withstood the fire of her personality. I had always won the battle with quiet strength and purposeful reserve. This time I had won the battle but lost the war. The rest of the day I sank into a sea of sorrow. All day I called out to my God not asking for forgiveness, but rather telling Him over and over that I wished that He was real and that He could just come down to me and hold me in His arms and give me a hug. I felt as if I was a five year old myself and that I was desperately in need of a hug. “I just wish You were here and You could give me a hug.” I must have said that to God a hundred times that day. The weight of my failure weighed heavily upon me and increased as the day wore on. How could I have done that? How could I have kicked Abby?


About mid-day, a friend of mine dropped by. I can’t even recall her name now. She was a little older than me and we had been in a Bible study together. She came upon me in the throws of my self-recrimination, and I confessed my crime almost immediately. Her eyes widened a bit. I’m sure she was shocked at my deplorable lack of motherly restraint! She prayed over me as I continued to lament my sin. She said to me, “Louise there is a healing service tonight at Fatima Shrine. I think you should come.” So I did. Fatima Shrine is Catholic community over in Holliston MA that would periodically host healing Masses. I wasn’t too familiar with them but knew I needed help and I am not one to turn down help from whatever quarters it may be offered. So later that night my friend came by and picked me up. I was a little nervous and feeling a shameful sense of guilt. After the Mass, there were prayer stations set up around the church with lay people dressed in white robes. They were praying over anyone who wanted prayer.
I got in Mr. Kerr’s line because I knew him from my church in Medway. He was a kind man. As I walked up to him I reached out, still feeling as if I had somehow strangely morphed into a very little girl. He wore around his neck a big wooden cross and without thinking I took his cross in my hands, my head down and eyes wet. “Do you like my Cross?” He said in a sing songy sort of voice, for all the world sounding as if he were talking to a five year old. I nodded silently and responded in a tiny voice, “Yes.” “I got it when I went to Medgorje” he continued. “Oh” I said and then he surprised me. “Louise God gave me a message tonight before I came here. I didn’t know who it was for, but I think it is for you.” I looked up from his cross, which I had still been grasping onto like a lifeline, and stared in the eyes. “God wants you to know something . . . “You know how when at the consecration, the priest holds up the Eucharist?” I nodded. “Well you know how the Eucharist goes around?” Then Mr. Kerr extended his arms above his head imitating a priest, and he made his forefingers and thumbs join together in a circle as if they were a host held high. Then he began rocking them back and forth, touching forefinger-to-forefinger and thumb-to-thumb, “Well God told me to tell you that those are his arms and every time you receive Him in communion He is putting his arms around you and giving you a hug.” TRUE STORY

 Source and Summit

 

 

 

(Source) the place where something begins

(Summit)  the highest point, level or degree

 

 

     I’ve scaled some very small mountains, and hiked some higher cliffs without actually reaching the summit but even those climbs were grueling for an untrained out of shape mother type.

 

 

   Many years ago, I ‘found’ Jesus, little understanding at the time, that it was not really me who did the finding at all. It was more of a returning home really after a lengthy vacation abroad.  After I ‘found’ Jesus anew and was enlightened to His reality, I really thought my enlightenment was complete and my Christian growth was only a matter of filling in the few blanks remaining of what I didn’t know.  I realized how little I did know, and so began my quest to learn everything I could of exactly what I didn’t know! 

     After my conversion and return to Jesus I found myself firmly in the camp of Protestantism.  I had much to protest!  Mainly I simply could not understand how I could have missed this new found friend of mine named Jesus, in all of the years I had attended Catholic school and Mass.  How was it possible to miss the point so drastically as to miss the point??    I   almost immediately realized that my former ‘lost ness’ was clearly the fault of the cold, distant, authoritarian and misleading Catholic Church.   This conviction grew at the same rate as the fervor for my newfound love of God grew.  It grew as a rival plant in my carefully tended heart, supporting the great conviction of Solo Jesus, me Jesus and the Bible against the world.   I watered this plant into a growing suspicion of anything and even anyone ‘Catholic’. I was convinced that the Church was apostate and was leading many astray.  I’m sure my mother and father could attest to my strong convictions at that time, and of my insistence of their need to leave the apostate church.  It wasn’t long before I developed a firm resentment for things Catholic, distrusting the relationships Catholics had with their Savior.  I was certain that they, like myself, had been naively deceived and were living a distant fear-based religion that could not save them, as only  “Jesus Saves”.  It seems strange to me now that my great love affair with God engendered fear of and almost a hate for the Catholic Church. 

     To be fair, I was listening then, in my newfound fervor, to many a preacher promoting that very view.  My attitude was, I think, more reflective of Peter than Paul.  The Apostle Paul gave passive assent, by holding the cloaks of the men stoning Stephen, while Peter, leaping into action, thrust aggressively at the enemy of Christ slicing off the offending ear!  Both disciples had fervency, surety, and a strong desire to defend God, but perhaps I was more like Peter in his active pursuit of ‘helping’ God.  It is an odd kind of ‘help’ that seeks the destruction of the objects of God’s love. I think it is fairly indicative of the fundamental sin that has plagued our race from Adam’s time. Pride.  God must need ME to defend Him, at least that much was clear to me. 

 

     How, when and why my heart changed is still a mystery to me.  Grace was involved I know, but by whose love and prayers I won’t fully realize this side of the veil. I have come to appreciate the good humor of the original comedian, so to speak.   I’ve found that God rather delights in demonstrating to me my innate foolishness, all in good measure, of course. The fervent anti-Catholic fundamentalist Sola Scriptura evangelical has permanently altered into a fundamentally orthodox, traditional old-school Catholic firmly committed and rooted in …… obeying, the Magesterium in all things.

 

Man that’s weird!

 

   It seems today only the slimmest minority of Catholics actually believe that the “Magisterium in union with the Pope’s” teachings is the authentic voice of Christ, speaking on faith and morals in the world, even though this understanding is the actual “Catholic” teaching. It seems that Catholics willing to follow these teachings are even a smaller slice of the pie.  As a protestant I was very comfortable believing what I believed based on what I believed. As a Catholic I have struggled with conscience and reason and understanding on many moral issues, but when all is said and done I have yet to disagree with any official Catholic teaching in the realm of morals or faith whether it be abortion contraception or divorce.  This is also the product of a will that has already assented to the claims of Catholicism. The more I’ve investigated when conflict has arisen in my mind, the more I have come to accept and believe. The Church’s positions when clearly understood seem eminently reasonable to me.   Now, that is amazing, for someone who is a spiritual knowledge junkie needing the intellectual assent to faith.

 

 

     I remember a woman I met while I was still a Protestant believer. She and I had just left a bible study at the little congregational church I attended at the time, and as we conversed, she revealed to me that she attended both the Catholic Church and the protestant church. This oddity perked my interest of course and I probed her strange behavior.  She responded, “It’s just that the Catholic writings are so much deeper than the protestant offerings.”    I wasn’t sure what she meant. I did know that most contemporary Christian books were of the self-help spiritual variety and did leave me also wanting something deeper. I asked her to explain and she shared with me some of her journey. It was a little thing, but being a “thinker type” at least according to a personality test I once took, it explains the staying power of her little comment about the spiritual depth she found in Catholic writings.   Around that time a friend introduced me to Thomas Merton, who was a deceased, artistic atheist become Catholic convert, monk and writer.  His words opened a world of spiritual thought, depth and pondering to me. No Man Is an Island, Thoughts in Solitude are some of the writings that stimulated within me a growing hunger for even greater depth and richness. I simply consumed his thoughts and although I couldn’t always grasp his exact meanings, I got the gist of his expression and a greater yearning stirred within me. I developed a voracious appetite for reading other Catholic writings, such as the History of the Church by Esubieus written sometime in the early 300’s AD and various other extra-biblical works by the early Church Fathers. It was a journey once begun that led almost directly across the street.  

 

    Saint Joseph’s Catholic Church, Village St Medway Ma. situated diagonally across and only a stones throw away from my church, the Medway Village Congregational Church hosted a pro-life meeting one evening.  I attended.  It is difficult to give credit where credit is due in this case, but it is an undeniable truth that National Public Radio aided my reversion back to the Catholic faith. NPR was and had been for several years the source of my nightly fare of information, and as information is what I constantly crave, I listened every night.  The subject at hand involved abortion, although that term wasn’t exactly used. It rarely is in polite discussion of the topic. The pro-life movement in today’s vernacular is always coined as either anti-choice (a self-proclaiming bad thing since anyone against choice must be bad) or anti-abortion (two negatives) verses the obviously enlightened position of pro-choice (two positives) the choice being to abort an unborn human, that is. Sometimes the obvious bias in expression is so mainstream in acceptance that even I, a thinker type, am slightly confused about who is who and what is what and who am I.  In any case, that particular evening the bias in favor of abortion expressed by the host was so verbally deceptive that my gut and mind revolted suddenly, violently and completely against receiving any more sustenance from such a morally poisoned silo. I have never by ‘choice’ listened again to NPR despite the fact that my husband loves All Things Considered!

 

      I did however begin to seek out avenues supporting the pro-life cause and so a short time later, I became involved with Saint Joseph’s Catholic Church, as it alone, of the four churches in Medway, took a stand against abortion and was actually attempting to do something to oppose it.  I found there, a few people of moral courage coupled with what I thought was extraordinary kindness and so began a convergence of thought, experience and desire that led in the end to our family’s final walk across the street. 

 

    

    It was five minutes to ten on a Sunday morning.  Our two daughters separated John and me in the seat; Sarah age six and Abby age two.  Our ‘Church Family’ was just beginning to finally quiet down after a loud and friendly time of warm fellowship when the worship music finally began. John and I glanced at each other as married couples sometimes do, and our eyes locked, communicating an abrupt convergence of thought.  He whispered to me “We don’t belong here anymore”. “I Know” I replied in a whisper of my own.  What are we going to do?”  “I don’t know” Why don’t you take Abby out that door and I’ll take Sarah out the other door and we’ll meet out front.”  “OK” was all I could manage, so as inconspicuously as possible I slid out of the row in one direction and made for the basement exit while John headed for the side door.   We had been discussing changing churches for a while and had even visited a few.  We were considering the Episcopal Church, but john’s feeling was that if we were moving in ‘that’ direction, why not go all the way!  I was not yet convinced of the Catholic Church’s validity, the validity of its claims that is. John never cared a jot nor even understood its claims of teaching infallibility. It wasn’t even a consideration to him. I must say that it did become so later on in the living out of those claims!  At the time, however and still today, he will declare the same basis for leading us across Village St.  and into the ancient Church of Rome. He converted to Catholicism because he wanted to kneel.  His grandmother Isabel had arthritic knees and would kneel despite her pain. She was Church of England.   John out of deference to his Grandmother’s painful stiff knees simply liked the way Catholics are forever kneeling and how it sometimes hurts.

 

     So, we met in front of Medway Village Church, held the hands of our two young children, and crossed Village St. just in time for the 10:00 am Mass.  I closed my eyes, head down and prayed a prayer as we walked across the street.  I said, ”Lord I’ll do this but only if what the Catholic Church claims is actually true, otherwise I just can’t and P.S. you’ll have to prove it to me.”  I knew that I simply wouldn’t join the Catholic Church if I didn’t believe its claims of authority.  I also knew that what the Church claimed required more faith than I actually had.  Besides, I really liked the protestant church and I didn’t want to leave it! The people at MWV church had been good to us and I was afraid to leave the ready-made support system we had there.   Never the less

Within a month we were on the fast track to officially joining the Mother Church.  John was enrolled in the RCIA program for adult converts and I had once again received the sacrament of confession and communion.  Father McKenzie was more than a little pleased with our presence in the Church, as there had been a steady flow of parishioners leaving and crossing the road in the other direction.  We it seems were rather unique.

 

     One by one my doctrinal doubts came into focus and one by one I became convinced of the “Fullness of Truth” preserved in official Catholic Teaching.  As a child the nuns would always say that phrase, in referring to the Catholic Church, and its unique place in Christendom but I never had understood before exactly they meant.  My heart was wide open and I wanted only the truth.  There was one very important doctrine left that I needed clarified in order for me to fully accept my destiny as a devout Catholic. All of the others made sense to me but for almost seven years I had attended churches in which communion was proclaimed as a symbolic act only.  It was indeed, as claimed, in the Protestant churches only bread and Welch’s grape juice, yet now, I was expected to believe that Jesus himself, present in the form of bread and wine, was to be my food.  I was receiving, yet I simply didn’t know if it was bread or the flesh of God.  It is rather an important distinction. How is one to know for certain such a thing!  We were attending Mass for perhaps two months when I began to wonder and question and then to even to worry about it. Before that time I really hadn’t given it much thought.  In the bread of life discourse in the Gospel of John 6, Jesus himself declares:  

 

     “Amen, amen, I say to you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you do not have life within you.  Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life. And I will raise him up on the last day.  For my flesh is true food and my blood is true drink.  Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me and I in him.”  After Jesus declared this seeming absurdity the scripture declares plainly that hundreds of his followers simply abandoned him. They apparently thought He was a madman after all. They understood him to mean a literal eating of his flesh and He did not correct their thinking, He did not assure them that he only meant a symbolic eating…. He allowed them to leave. He let them go. Only the twelve remained and Christ turned to them with the question, “Will you also leave me”?  Jesus was neither softening his teaching nor changing it in any way.  I instinctively understood when facing my own doubts that The Eucharist is the dividing line, just as those early followers had realized.  They said,  “This is a hard teaching, who can accept it?’

 

I too knew that if I could not accept it then I could not remain Catholic no matter how many other doctrines I was coming to appreciate and even to love.

 

 

    Now to my mini miracle.

 

     I began to dwell on my doubts more and more, especially at Mass.  The moment of worship when the priest raises the host above all and holds it suspended above the congregation for a second or two longer than is absolutely necessary. That moment demonstrates the historical faith in the sacrament, and I challenged it by my doubts each time I attended Mass.    How was I to know?  I finally decided that maybe I should be simple about my dilemma and just ask.  So that’s what I did. “Lord are you really present or not? I really have to know.”

      As a young Child I simply accepted what I was taught about my faith, but my spiritual journey had changed all that. Now I wanted to know. I needed to know.   There is another scripture that comes to mind, ‘Seek Me with your whole heart and you will find Me.’ Lord knows I did that. God is interested in the heart. It’s the heart that has the power to love God and accept Him as well as the power to hate Him, reject Him or even simply disregard Him.

 

 

     It was probably a week or so later when God answered me.  It was a bright sunny autumn day and I was chosen to be a chaperone for Abby’s fall field trip to the Big Apple, an orchard located only a few miles away in Mendon.  As we waited in the bus for the nursery schoolers to board, my mind was mulling over the day’s expectations.  Abby settled down next to me and I put my arm around her.  Soon we would be eating apple dumplings or maybe even a candied apple.  There was a small turn around in front of our former church, which was the home of “The Good Shepherd Nursery School.”   John had carved the school’s sign a few years earlier when the church had begun the ministry and I had done the design.  My thoughts were set on the beauty of the day and the happy time I hoped for.  As the bus driver made the turn around I was thinking autumn colors and of the apple pie I would bake for dinner. I glanced out the window to my left as we passed Medway Village Church, still daydreaming of fall delights.  Then we began to pass Saint Joe’s on my right and I gazed in that direction.  We hadn’t quite passed when a very odd thing happened to me.  The best way to describe it is by directing you to the image of the Sacred Heart.  Jesus, His heart exposed, thorns atop, heart on fire.   My heart began to burn.  That’s the best way to describe it.  It wasn’t a painful burn but it was an intense sensation that was physical, right in my heart.  It felt like Love made tangible, physical, as if you could hold it in your hand.  The memory of that feeling still resonates in my being although I’ve never felt it again.  Remember I spoke earlier of a glance married couples share in a moment of understanding?  At the exact moment when I fixed my eyes on St.Joe’s, I felt the burn and I knew beyond doubt that our hearts had joined and that Jesus was telling me of his real Presence in the tabernacle.  He said to my heart, it is because “I Am here”.  I have never doubted the truth of His Real presence since. It is indeed the source and summit of my faith just as the Church teaches.  It is the single reason that I will never leave the safety of the Ark again. How could I?   To quote Peter (John 6:67,68) When Jesus asked him, “Will you also leave me?”  “Lord, to whom shall we go?  You alone have the words of life.”  Only the twelve remained, all other’s had left Jesus over the “hard” saying regarding eating his flesh and drinking his blood.

     Now when I genuflect, upon entering the pew, for the celebration of Mass, I have one consistent prayer on my lips and in my heart.  I say,  “Thank you Lord for letting me be here. And please don’t ever allow me leave.”