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  • Leaving no stone unturned on our spiritual journey

    Even in winter, there is no better way for me to clear my head when I am having trouble writing than a walk along the shore. Most often, the wind is No stone nicolas-cool-113897-unsplash
     biting and there is a soul-deep solitude hard to define.

    Sometimes I attribute it to the grayness of things; sky, water, boardwalk, even the skyline of the amusement pier is clouded in gray mist. At other times it seems the dearth of neighbors leaves a tinge of loneliness that, in summer, would be welcomed respite. Today, I realize I am missing the birds, most especially the sandpipers.

    The beach is devoid of their frenetic activity this morning, as these lucky birds are wintering in South America. Among that group is a bird named the Ruddy Turnstone, so called because of its habit of turning over pebbles, shells and twigs to find food. To watch one at work is to see life breathed into the adage, “no stone left unturned.”

    As I considered the days of Lent, that phrase kept coming to mind, as did the image of those stout little birds investing all their energy into discovering the food that would sustain them on the journey to their Arctic breeding grounds.

    Discovery has always appealed to me as an important aspect of both the human and spiritual journey, and stones have fascinated me since my childhood days of digging for quartz with my dad in Thatcher Park. I soon became intrigued with blending the two together as a different way of doing Lent.

    What might be the benefit of leaving no stone unturned during this season of Lent?

    Scripture, I was to discover, is filled with references to stones with both positive and negative connotations. One concordance listed 69 New Testament references, certainly more than is needed for one penitential season!

    In Exodus, stones of remembrance are engraved with the names of the sons of Israel; in Genesis, Jacob uses a stone for a pillow; David kills Goliath with a stone and slingshot; Matthew reminds us that “God is able from these stones to raise up children for Abraham,” and the devil attempts to use stones as a temptation for Jesus during his 40 days in the desert, saying, “If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread.”

    Among all the symbolism, and images of stones in Scripture, two stand out for me as a focus for this Lenten journey of discovery – obstacle and transformation.

    St. Paul writes, “They have stumbled over the stumbling stone, as it is written, ‘See, I am laying in Zion a stone that will make people stumble, a rock that will make them fall.’ ”

    This reference to Jesus as an obstacle to those who have no faith in him served as an opportunity to consider the many stumbling stones in my own life, rocks of my own creation. If I turn over the stone of pride, will I discover humility? If I dislodge the rock of fear, will I discover trust? If I turn over the stone of anger, will I discover patience?

    No doubt I am not alone in being able to create a list of some substance identifying the stones that need transformation into manna. This can happen, Jesus assures us, if we only ask. After all, he points out, “Is there anyone among you who, if your child asks for bread, will give a stone?” God will certainly do no less.

    Surely, Jesus, through the power of the Holy Spirit, could have transformed those simple stones into bread in the desert, but that would have been inconsequential compared to the Paschal Mystery, transforming the stone of death into the Bread of Eternal Life.

    For us, as Christians, the pivotal stone of transformation is the tomb stone, overturned by God for our sake: “And behold, there was a great earthquake, for an angel of the Lord descended from heaven and came and rolled back the stone and sat on it” (Matt.28.2).

  • Remembering holy moments of simplicity and love

    Some of my favorite childhood memories recall taking rides with my parents. Sometimes we would take the bridge over the Normanskill Creek and Wade-lambert-767095-unsplash
    stop for ice cream at Tasty Freeze, or drive around on election day evening looking for bonfires, or ride up and down city streets admiring Christmas lights.

    Sundays meant Mass, visiting with family and the occasional drives to nowhere in particular, taking in the scenery, looking at old houses and barns. There were no cell phones to distract us from each other, or the view out the window and very little money to spend. Still, we almost always ended up in the local diner for dinner – and conversation.

    On Saturdays, my dad and I would take a trip to Montgomery Ward. We didn’t go to shop, we went to people watch, wandering around the store, stopping in the tool and garden sections, and then heading to the cafeteria for lunch.

    I always felt so special sliding that tray down the metal railings, picking out my own hot lunch, which always meant mashed potatoes and gravy, and ending with homemade chocolate pudding in a real parfait glass. My favorite part was the chocolate “skin” on top of the pudding.

    While we were eating, may dad would point out different people and ask me questions about them. What kind of work did I think they did? Were they married? Why were they in the store? He would point out different things to study – their shoes, their hands, their clothes, how groomed they were. He taught me to be observant, to pause, to listen, especially for stories.

    He made me believe that what I thought was important, and let me know I was loved because he chose to spend this time with me.

    It was really hard for me to move away from home when I got married. I missed my parents terribly, but more than that, my children missed out on more time spent with devoted grandparents. So, as often as possible, I took the three hour drive to Albany with all six of my kids packed in to a nine passenger station wagon.

    Again, no cell phones, just a wing and prayer that we would get there safely and I wouldn’t lose any of them at the rest stops.

    When my mom became terminally ill, and my dad became her caretaker, my heart broke to know their plans for retirement would be unrealized dreams, and their times of taking long drives to anywhere were over.

    One day, my dad mentioned that he always wanted to visit Olana, an historic site in Hudson, N.Y., about a half hour from our family home – a unique castle built on a hill overlooking the Hudson River.

    So I made arrangements for someone to stay with my mom for a full day, and drove up to Albany to pick up my dad and visit the 150-year-old middle-eastern inspired mansion built by the famed Hudson River Valley School artist Fredrick Church.

    We spent the day touring the estate, listening to the fascinating history, sitting on the balcony admiring the awe inspiring, expansive views over the Hudson River and imagining what life was like back then.

    It was like being in the cafeteria of Montgomery Wards, only more beautiful.

    We ate at a rest stop on the Thruway, at a time when there were still places that served you food, like in a diner. We talked, about things we had never talked about before, like his trip home on a train, while a solider, when he met Eleanor Roosevelt who was traveling to her home in Hyde Park, N.Y.

    That day was a perfect day. It was a holy day.

    Remembering these times, made me resolve to do Lent differently this year. At this point in my life, there is a need for a broader perspective for a spiritual discipline that will transform not only 40 days but the rest of my life. 

    This Lent will be a time of creating holy days and holy moments, giving up the many distractions that prevent us from being present to others, and to God.

    Wade Lambert photo on Unsplash

  • A New Year is time for a new way of seeing and being

     “So shall we come to look at the world with new eyes.”                                                                                                                        New eyes edi-libedinsky-711483-unsplash

    What an extraordinary way to begin the New Year – if only we could do it.

    The words are those of American philosopher and essayist, Ralph Waldo Emerson, from his essay, “Nature,” in which he reflects on the spirituality of the natural world.

    Though Emerson was not expounding on the New Year when he wrote those words, we often find relevance in ideas out of context. I took his words to heart years ago when I entered a New Year struggling with losses. A new perspective seemed so much more valuable than a new diet.

    It was then that I began to write, seriously, looking at the world through the eyes of acceptance. For a time, I had seen things only through the lens of pain and loss. I began to recognize the value of accepting reality and spending time dealing with the seemingly ever-changing emotions that would overtake me on any day.

    While reflecting on my own experience of emptiness, even while raising a large family, I began to understand that grief hones us in the fire of love, gratitude gives expression to that love and fear can always be conquered by love.

    My healing began when I realized that every friend, acquaintance, neighbor, co-worker, boss, and stranger I crossed paths with on any given day was coping with their own pain and losses, their own brokeness, and trying to make the best of life within their unique circumstances.

    I began to truly understand that while we each walk our own path, we all share a similar journey.

    Who would have thought Emerson’s words about the power of nature to change us would serve as such a powerful catalyst of insight for me?

    This year, my New Year’s inspiration came about through a commercial, something I ordinarily despise, about a product I never use, whiskey.

    The commercial stressed that their product was exceptional because they age, blend, and age again. “Gee,” I thought, chuckling to myself, “that’s the same process I go through every day!”

    Then I realized it was actually the process every person goes through from the day they are born.

    Aging is not just an ailment of the old, though our society has made it seem so. Aging is the natural process of growth and eventual decline, at least physically. The blending that goes on throughout our lifetimes, the multitude of experiences, friendships and emotions which become part of who we are, results in a unique vintage for each person.

    Spiritually, aging is the road to wisdom, if we can muster up the courage to accept our mortality and reflect on our lives honestly. We have the opportunity to become a gift to others by being mentors and guides and companions on life’s journey.

    The world needs wisdom keepers, especially our youth.

    Now, for the coming year, keeping in mind my whiskey inspiration and the brilliance of aging and blending, I’ve adapted Emerson’s words: “So shall we come to look at ourselves with new eyes.”

    Isn’t it true that the person who is often the most critical of us, is us? Our faults and shortcomings glare back at us from the mirror like a bad haircut or new wrinkles.

    It’s time for us to look at ourselves with new eyes, with God’s eyes, to be amazed at what we see, and to remember the truth of the psalmist, “For I am fearfully, wonderfully made.”

    “Remember not the events of the past, the things of long ago consider not; See, I am doing something new! Now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?” Isaiah 43:18-19

    Edi Libedinsky photo on Unsplash.

  • Hope is the reason for joy, even in difficult times

    On the first Christmas, the angel of the Lord appeared to the shepherds, assuring them, “I bring you tidings of great joy;” news bringing them not an Nicole-honeywill-486550-unsplash ephemeral experience of happiness, but a deep, abiding experience of peace and an assurance of God’s love.

    “Joy is the air Christians breathe,” Pope Francis has said, and as a fruit of the Holy Spirit, “it cannot be purchased or forced.” This truth is often difficult to remember in light of a contemporary culture’s secular Christmas, beginning mid-year in an effort to raise spirits and encourage spending.

    For Msgr. Sam A. Sirianni, rector of St. Robert Bellarmine Co-Cathedral, Freehold, Advent and the Christmas season are fruitful times to help parishioners come to a fuller understanding of the meaning of Christian joy, since joy is inherent in this holy time of the Church.

    “Christian joy is rooted in hope, and our hope is in Christ and in a sense that life has meaning,” Msgr. Sirianni stressed.

    Reflecting on the lessons to be found in the growing trend of cookie-cutter holiday movies, Msgr. Sirianni pointed out that these feel-good scripts always work out in the end, and viewers are always able to see the conclusion.

    “The reality is that life doesn’t always work out the way we expect, and we might not see the conclusion of our works or our hopes,” Msgr. Sirianni said. “But if I don’t always see the results of my efforts, I can still be joyful,” he suggested. The key is trust in God.

    Father Jerome Guld, parochial vicar of St. Joseph Parish, Toms River, offered, “Living in joy is a gift from God. … Our choice and responsibility is to recognize his gifts in all their forms. Those things that appear to rob us of joy and satisfaction may be the very gifts of God which are meant to humble us, bring us closer to him, and fill us with joy.”

    Since it is human nature for people to get caught up in their woundedness, Msgr. Sirianni said, there are a number of anxieties and sufferings that serve as obstacles to joy, among them fear, self-doubt, deep-seated anger and the experience of change. These powerful emotions can erode trust and hope in God.  When people are stuck in those emotions, grappling with how they impact the person and those around them, it’s important to begin a process of reconciliation.

    “When we seek to be forgiven, we are really trying to let go of something. This takes time, it takes prayer, it may even take counseling,” he said, pointing out, “It’s not so much a question of does God forgive us, because he does, but can we forgive ourselves.”

    “Forgiveness in difficult situations always frees a person from some bondage, which constrains a person’s spirit,” said Father Guld, who recently facilitated two parish forgiveness workshops in which participants reflected on learning to trust, forgive and move forward, and to place all in God’s hands.

    “Any sort of bondage to that which is not from God is going to get in the way of joy,” he said. “Many people have experienced both a spiritual and even physical lifting when a long-sought moment of forgiveness arrives.”

    Msgr. Sirianni’s strong belief in the power of forgiveness can be seen as he speaks to parishioners weekly in a YouTube series, sitting at a desk over which the word C.O.F.F.E.E. is stenciled on the wall. Below it is the sub-title, Christ Offers Forgiveness for Everyone Everywhere.

    This simple acronym and message of forgiveness is a reminder that God forgives and so should his Church, Msgr. Sirianni explained. “It reminds us of the business we are in, and it reminds me of the times I’ve been forgiven and of times when I need to be forgiven, so I can walk with people who also need to be forgiven.”

    He also recalled that, over the years, he has often heard from parishioners who felt like Christmas just wasn’t the same for them anymore, usually because of some loss, like poor health, a death, aging, employment or simply children growing up and moving away, which brings people face to face with the reality that “the Christmas of our youth won’t be with us forever.”

    Change affects everyone, Msgr. Sirianni acknowledged, but there’s something to be said for the grace of gratitude. “For myself, I need to focus on who’s around the table today,” he reflected. “While we may not always feel happy, we can always be joy-filled.  The foundation to our joy is the belief that ‘God loves me.’ When Jesus was born, God was telling humanity, ‘You are worth it.’”

    Still, there is often a sense of the elusiveness of joy.

    “God does not try to make joy difficult, or hold it high over our heads just out of reach,” Father Guld said. “The world, on the other hand, is always distracting us and pulling us one way or another, preventing us from grasping the true joy God offers. We are often convinced that forgiveness will be both difficult and unsatisfying. On the contrary, mercy is the very essence of Jesus’ mission and Gospel of reconciliation, and therefore is always not only worth the effort, but also adds to life’s joy.”

    This story first appeared in the Dec. 13 issue of The Monitor, Diocese of Trenton.

  • Sweet scents, storms and memories

    Today I was watching a movie about Samuel Clemens. He was getting into a stagecoach and smoking a cigar. It annoyed the female passenger next Thomas-stephan-1014159-unsplashto him, but instead of throwing it out the window, Samuel simply waved his hand at her and told her she’d get used to it.

    At first I chuckled, then I got choked up, because at one time I hated the smell of cigars … until Walter.

    Walter was the original owner of our house in Ortley Beach. I never knew him, while he was alive anyway, but I met him in a different way during my writing weekends in our little cottage. In the middle of winter, when my summer neighbors had all headed home for the colder months, I would often sit down at my writing desk at night and suddenly smell the aroma of cigar.

    The first few times it happened, I would go outside to see if any neighbors were around, but there was never anyone there. Our house was set back from the street so there was little chance of anyone walking nearby, especially in the dead of winter when winds from the ocean magnified the bitter cold.

    At first, the experience was a bit disconcerting. Except for one friend, who lived four houses away, I was alone, in the house and in the neighborhood.

    One afternoon, while visiting my friend, I had an opportunity to chat with a woman who had lived on our street her entire life.

    I asked her if she knew Walter and Betty, the original owners. “Oh, yes,” she assured me. I asked her if Walter smoked a cigar. Again, she said, “Why, yes. He loved his cigars.”

    That night, I waited expectantly for Walter to arrive. Sure enough, as the wind howled outside and the T.V. played softly from the other room, I caught a wispy scent of tobacco. I smiled to myself and greeted my guest, “Hi, Walter,” I said out loud. “You made me quite nervous with your cigar for a while, but now that I know it’s you, I’m really happy to have the company. Sometimes it’s scary being here all alone. Thank you for visiting.”

    And so began my unusual friendship with Walter, and my growing appreciation for the lingering smell of cigar smoke.

    I shared with him how much I loved the house, and my hopes that he was happy with the renovations we had made. I apologized for my husband’s decision to paint the beautiful dark wood moldings white “because renters liked airy colors best,” and promised that one day there would be no renters, just me and my husband and any family members who enjoyed being there as much as we did.

    My last night with Walter was in October of 2012, the night before Superstorm Sandy hit.  I never imagined I would never again sit at my desk in my little cottage to write, or be comforted by the smell of cigar while winds rattled the windows and the tea kettle whistled.

    Sometimes, when walking across a parking lot, I get a whiff of someone smoking a cigar. It’s a bittersweet moment.

    Sweet memories can be like that.

  • Understanding the Christmas gift should come with time

    “I hear that in many places something has happened to Christmas; that it is changing from a time of merriment and carefree gaiety to a holiday Christmas wish2which is filled with tedium; that many people dread the day and the obligation to give Christmas presents is a nightmare to weary, bored souls; that the children of enlightened parents no longer believe in Santa Claus; that all in all, the effort to be happy and have pleasure makes many honest hearts grow dark with despair instead of beaming with good will and cheerfulness.”

    Many of us would shake our heads in agreement, and imagine that the sentiments above were from someone who has experienced the contemporary morphing of Christmas into a marketing holiday.

    Surprisingly, the quote is from  the 1934 work, “A Plantation Christmas” written by Southern author and Pulitzer Prize winner Julia Peterkin.

    Twenty years earlier, five months into WWI, Pope Benedict XV suggested a temporary cease fire to the fighting for the celebration of Christmas. Soldiers in the trenches  took heed, though their countries would not make it official.

    According to history.com: “Starting on Christmas Eve, many German and British troops sang Christmas carols to each other across the lines, and at certain points the Allied soldiers even heard brass bands joining the Germans in their joyous singing.

    “At the first light of dawn on Christmas Day, some German soldiers emerged from their trenches and approached the Allied lines across no-man’s-land, calling out “Merry Christmas” in their enemies’ native tongues. At first, the Allied soldiers feared it was a trick, but seeing the Germans unarmed they climbed out of their trenches and shook hands with the enemy soldiers. The men exchanged presents of cigarettes and plum puddings and sang carols and songs. There was even a documented case of soldiers from opposing sides playing a good-natured game of soccer.

    “Some soldiers used this short-lived ceasefire for a more somber task: the retrieval of the bodies of fellow combatants who had fallen within the no-man’s land between the lines.

    "The so-called Christmas Truce of 1914 … served as heartening proof, however brief, that beneath the brutal clash of weapons, the soldiers’ essential humanity endured.

    “During World War I, the soldiers on the Western Front did not expect to celebrate on the battlefield, but even a world war could not destroy the Christmas spirit.”

    It seems hard to believe that Christmas, almost 85 years ago, would be a source of dread and obligation as it is for many today, but while the passing of years may not improve our cultural Christmas, our maturity should enlighten us to the true gift of Christmas, demonstrated by soldiers so long ago – our humanity.

    God deemed it gift enough to be incarnate as the Christ child, who taught us how to be human, how to be in relationship with God and others, how to love and create peace in the world.

    Christmas is the celebration that reminds us of how we were gifted. The rest of the year is the time when we are called to live the gift.

    Annie Spratt photo on Unsplash 

  • Celebrating the feast of memories and love

    As the October anniversary of my mother’s death passes, and the Feast of All Souls approaches, it is inevitable that I Zuza-galczynska-763528-unsplashwould recall the many wakes and funerals of my loved ones.

    There were particularly memorable moments at each one – some painful, some disturbing and some actually funny.

    When my grandmother died I was thirteen and it was one of my first wakes. My cousin and I stood next to casket, supposedly praying. I leaned over and touched my grandmother’s face.  When my cousin asked me how she felt, I whispered, “Like a cold potato.” Unfortunately, we couldn’t stifle our laughter and were summarily dismissed from the room by horrified aunts.

    For my mom, it was the moment the casket arrived from New Jersey to the funeral parlor in Albany, New York, from which she would be buried. I was horrified to learn, just hours before the wake, that the funeral parlor in New Jersey had not “prepared” her – she had no makeup, her hair was not done, and she looked as bad as one might expect.

    The new funeral directors tried their best to make her look presentable, but my mom wouldn’t have been happy.

    One of the most painful memories was during my father’s wake. My youngest son had chosen to express his grief and love by drawing pictures and writing “I love you, Poppy” on little pieces of paper and placing them around my father’s body as it lay in repose. Crosses, hearts and crooked XXXs and OOOs were lined up with as much importance as the American flag, folded and resting on the casket.

    His demonstrations of love had brought most of the adults in the funeral parlor to tears and one elderly on-looker was heard to say, “Oh look, he’s just like a little person.”

    With that my son crawled up on my lap and said stoically, “I don’t like being a little person. It hurts too much.”

    I hugged him tightly to myself and whispered in his ear, “I know. It hurts to be a big person, too.” In an incredibly touching moment he looked up at me and brushed large tears off my cheeks. We understood each other. We shared in the grief. He reminded me of a painful truth – it’s hard to be human.

    It’s hard to be human because it hurts to be human, and it hurts for the same reason that it’s a joy – because we love. And it seems the more we love, the more we are open to hurt from loving and the experience may leave us wondering if love is worth it; if the vulnerability that is required of real love isn’t more something to be feared than something to be valued.

    When my parents died within a year of each other, I designed a headstone that captured their uniqueness – carvings of a Celtic cross on my dad’s side, and an Orthodox cross on my mom’s, both graced with irises, my dad’s favorite flower. I chose a quote from one of my mother’s favorite musicals, “Brigadoon,” because it spoke to my grief, which felt eternal: “Here forever lies my heart. Your loving daughter, Mary.”

    Thinking about it now, so many years later, I believe my dad, ever the Irishman, may have preferred a sentiment already written on a headstone in Ireland: “Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.”

    Sure it would be the memories of a lifetime of love that he would want to leave as a legacy – the joy, the laughter, the lessons, and even the pain, because pain means that we have loved and there’s no better memory than that.

    So, on this upcoming Feast of All Souls, may we celebrate loved shared, memories made and our journey together, with God.

     

    Photo by Zuza Galcznska on Unsplash                  

  • Often God directs our journey through a tap on the shoulder

    Many years ago, I was asked to cover a concert for the diocesan newspaper where I worked. I already had another event Alex-iby-204703-unsplash

    scheduled that day, but something nudged me to rearrange my schedule and accept the assignment in a nearby church. The music was being performed by a group of familiar singers and musicians, some of whom were also part of the choir I had recently joined.

    They filled the sanctuary, women in long black gowns, men in neat tuxedos, flanked by musicians on string and wind instruments. Percussionists were tucked under a soaring arch nearby. Many were professionally trained, some were parish music directors and cantors, all just amazingly talented.

    As I listened in awe to their sound, I found myself wishing I could sing with them, but the complexity of the music seemed daunting. How can they sing eight-part harmony so effortlessly, I wondered?

    I resigned myself to the reality that I wasn’t good enough to do what they were doing.

    A short time later, during choir rehearsal, I felt a tap on my shoulder and someone behind me leaned forward, saying, “I was wondering if you would be interested in singing with us.”

    I turned around to see the director of the group I had heard in concert just weeks earlier. I know my first thought was, “Me? You want me to sing with you? Why?”

    Fortunately, my self-deprecating thoughts didn’t rule the day and I accepted the invitation, with amazement and in spite of my fear of failure.

    That was more than 12 years ago, and my time with this group has been some of the best of my life, the most challenging, the most fun, the most satisfying; time that inspired me to work harder at developing the gifts I had without comparing them to the extraordinary gifts of others.

    When we look back over our lives, we may be surprised at how many times life has changed for the better because of a tap on the shoulder, the gentle unexpected nudge in the right direction even when we had no idea we were standing still or on the wrong course.

    For me, some of these nudges included the invitation to become a catechist; to start a pre-school program; to be a stringer for the diocesan newspaper; to join the parish choir; become a Hospice volunteer; see a therapist; to change jobs, more than once. All these God-taps, often delivered by friends or family or even strangers, led to life unfolding in ways I never expected.

    I often wonder what I missed those times when I didn’t accept God’s invitation to something new.  Those were the times when I let fear rule, when I chose to stay where I was comfortable rather than face the unknown. Those were the times when I failed to abide in God’s love because of my own human weakness.

    Fortunately, God never gives up on us. Taps on the shoulder, nudges, invitations continue, unless we shut the door on God.

    When we allow ourselves to say yes to God’s invitations, to step out in faith in spite of our fear, God-taps inevitably lead to times of growth. While it is true that when we accept God’s invitations, we are often forced to push past our limitations or grapple with pain and loss, the journey is always a journey toward wholeness.

    Prayer, and time to listen to God’s whisperings, helps us remember ours is a God of love – and possibilities.

    Alex Iby photo on Unsplash.

  • For little ones, only parents have special monster spray

    When it comes to nightmares, it’s all relative.                                                                                                                                         Annie-spratt-593481-unsplash

    Last night, while watching an engrossing movie with my son and daughter-in-law, we suddenly heard inconsolable cries coming from my four-year-old granddaughter sleeping upstairs.

    “She’s having a nightmare,” her mom said, as both parents scrambled off the couch to check on her. A few minutes later my son came down the stairs laughing.

    “What are you laughing about? Is she OK” I asked.

    “I’m laughing at her nightmare,” he chuckled. “I asked her what was wrong and she said, ‘I wanted chocolate milk. Nobody would give me chocolate milk!”

    Surely, this could be an upsetting situation for a four-year old, though perhaps not nightmare worthy for an adult. Still, there were copious tears, soothed away by her parents and the rest of the night was a peaceful sleep.

    One of my sons used to have night terrors at the same age. He would stand up on his bed and shrink to the corner, yelling at something he imagined in the room and telling it to go away. I would have to calm him down, do some yelling myself at his scary images, and spend some time in his room until he was able to go back to sleep.

    Parents have the magic, wrItes Dr. Elana Pearl Ben-Joseph on KidsHealth.org. “With preschoolers and young school-age kids who have vivid imaginations, the magical powers of your love and protection can work wonders. You might be able to make the pretend monsters disappear with a dose of pretend monster spray. Go ahead and check the closet and under the bed, reassuring your child that all's clear.”

    On the Nemours Childrens’ Health System blog, Dr. Ben-Joseph discusses the topic of nightmares for children.

    “No one knows exactly what causes nightmares. Dreams — and nightmares — seem to be one way kids process thoughts and feelings about situations they face, and to work through worries and concerns. …

    “Nightmares aren't completely preventable, but parents can set the stage for a peaceful night's rest. …

    “When kids awaken from a nightmare, its images are still fresh and can seem real. So it's natural for them to feel afraid and upset and to call out to a parent for comfort. …

     “Reassure your child that you're there. Your calm presence helps your child feel safe and protected after waking up feeling afraid. Knowing you'll be there helps strengthen your child's sense of security.”

    But what if a child calls out to a parent for comfort and there are no parents there to be the calm presence? What if their nightmares stem from an experience of being taken away from their parents, churning up emotions of dread and fear and isolation in a strange place with strange people that continues days, weeks, months on end?

    For our immigrant children being detained away from their parents, the nightmare is real even when they are awake.

    Children are children, no matter where they are from.  Scripture recounts Jesus’ love and respect for children, never qualifying they must be from Judea or Galilee, but not Samaria: “And people were bringing children to him that he might touch them, but the disciples rebuked them. When Jesus saw this he became indignant and said to them, ‘Let the children come to me; do not prevent them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.’”

    Jesus was angry. Perhaps not turning the tables over in the temple angry, but he saw the injustice and quickly put a stop to it. He was also adamant in the Gospel of Luke: "It would be better for him if a millstone were hung around his neck and he were thrown into the sea, than that he would cause one of these little ones to stumble.”

    Somehow, I don’t think Jesus would be interested to hear our excuses about why so many of his little ones are having trouble sleeping.

    “Let the children come to me…” Jesus

    Annie Spratt photo on Unsplash.

  • A change of heart is possible in any season

    Pumpkin spice coffee is making its comeback, to the delight of some and the chagrin of many. Tyler-nix-420916-unsplash

    T’is not the season for pumpkin, they say. Those who wait out the winter with dreams of sun, sand and sea are not ready, mid-August, to move into fall.

    Me … I can’t wait.

    So, on a day of monsoon rains and cooler temperatures I brew a mug of spice tea and pop in a DVD . Not a feel good kind of movie, but one I watch at least once a year to remind me of what it means to be a disciple of Christ.

    “Romero” is the powerful story of Archbishop Oscar Arnulfo Romero of El Salvador and his commitment to social justice and the poor. It is a disturbing movie, not only because of the violence, which was an historical reality, but because it challenges us as Christians to a moral vision that moves us from complacency and calls us, as Church, to live what Jesus preached through a preferential option for the poor.

    What unfolds during the movie is a dynamic journey of faith demonstrating that conversion is always possible, even for a bishop.

    A timid, orthodox, predictable bookworm, Bishop Romero was elected as archbishop in February of 1977 by conservative bishops who believed he would not make waves in a land ravished by conflict as rich and poor, brother and sister, fought against each other in the struggle for land reform.

    Just one month later, following the brutal death of his friend, Father Rutilio Grande, along with two parishioners – a peasant farmer and a seven-year-old child – Archbishop Romero experienced a turning point, a transformation that would stir up its own storm leading to his assassination on the altar three years later as he raised the consecrated host and prayed.

    Soon after Father Grande’s death, the archbishop would say, prophetically, “We must learn this invitation of Christ: ‘Those who wish to come after me must renounce themselves.’ Let them renounce themselves, renounce their comforts, renounce their personal opinions, and follow only the mind of Christ, which can lead us to death but will surely also lead us to resurrection.”

    Then, in a hospital chapel in March, 1980, Archbishop Romero spoke his last words before an assassin’s bullet took his life: “We know that every effort to better society, especially when injustice and sin are so ingrained, is an effort that God blesses, that God wants, that God demands of us.”

    Archbishop Romero surely walked in the footsteps of Christ, and his journey has led him to sainthood.

    Pope Francis will declare him a saint of the Church on Oct. 14 during the Bishops’ Synod on Youth, recognizing him as a martyr who died defending human rights, justice and peace.

    Though I have watched “Romero” innumerable times over the years, it continues to be a stark reminder of how far I often travel away from the path Jesus calls me to follow, the path of service and humility and surrender to God’s will.

    Once, after showing the movie to my adult faith formation class, one of my students sat in silence for a long time after the movie, finally saying to me, “I hate when you do that. You ask me to think about how I’m living my faith. I was comfortable with it all before this movie. Now I’m not comfortable anymore.”

    Archbishop Romero reminds us that “we must overturn so many idols, the idol of self first of all, so that we can be humble, and only from our humility can learn to be redeemers, can learn to work together in the way the world really needs.”

    There is no right season for conversion. It happens in all times and places – on street corners, in prison cells, in the work place, in our classrooms, and in our homes.

    The important thing is that, with hearts open to God, it happens.

    “It may be hard for an egg to turn into a bird: it would be a jolly sight harder for it to learn to fly while remaining an egg. …We must be hatched or go bad."    ~ C.S. Lewis

    Photo by Tyler Nix on Unsplash