Speak to Me Sunday: Foolish Actions

Once Upon a Time, two elderly gentlemen knocked on our door. They were missionaries wanting to spread God’s word and were so polite, lovely really, that I chatted with them a few minutes. We spoke about God and faith and how the two are becoming increasingly pushed aside in culture and society. They had some pamphlets, but I told them I was secure in my faith and to save them for others who might need them more. I thanked them for sharing God with others, we shook hands, and they left.

A few minutes later I had an idea: I should have offered those nice gentlemen some bottled water and snacks for the road! It was a thought that came out of nowhere and so I felt it was divinely inspired. It was not too late!

I gathered the items and looked out the window. The gentlemen were no longer on our street. No problem! I jumped in the car and drove around the neighborhood looking for them.

And I could not find them anywhere.

Huh. I drove back home a little deflated because, after all, hadn’t I been answering a spiritual prompting? Hadn’t I been obedient to the whispers of the Holy Spirit spurring me into action?

Apparently not. Truthfully, I felt a little more than a little foolish. This is not the first time that I believed I was listening to the Holy Spirit, acted on it, only to arrive at a complete and total dead end.

A few days later came the announcement that Robert F. Kennedy, Jr. had suspended his presidential bid and was offering his support for “the other side.” “Political suicide,” said some. “A betrayal,” said others. “Foolish,” said many. There were opinions and commentaries aplenty.

But I was not listening to any of it because in the midst of all that hoopla I saw a man who was brave enough to forge a new path and stand by his convictions, all without knowing how this would all play out. Whatever one may think of his decision, it was incredibly courageous to leave a party he was no longer comfortable with and to do so despite the protests of his very influential political family. On the current political stage where there is so much talk without substance, RFK Jr. listened to his inner convictions and gave us something different … whether or not you think him a fool for doing so.

Again, this is not a political commentary, but it did get me thinking: one cannot know if a conviction, or a spiritual prompting, is valid unless it is acted upon. And does it not take faith to take that step when the outcome is unknown? And courage to stand strong against the naysayers?

In the ways of the world, a “yes” to any of the above can be seen as foolish. 

But that can be a good thing.  

Thinking back to that day with the missionaries, I see now that it did not matter my actions did not turn out the way I had imagined they would, that my good intentions fell flat.

Instead, what mattered was I felt a spiritual prompting, and on blind faith I acted.

And sometimes, it is the action (and not the result!) that is the point.

Speak to Me Sunday: Sustenance

Once Upon a Time, we were traveling with my parents in southern Italy. One day we took the train from Naples to Sorrento, then a boat to the island of Capri where we spent several hours enjoying that very hilly island. When we made the return trip, we decided to stop in Sorrento to explore. For some reason, my dad had not been privy to that decision and therefore got a little grumpy about even more walking. So, we did the only thing that would remedy the situation: we settled him in a pizzeria, ordered him a pizza, and all was right with the world.

I was reminded of this story during church last weekend. The reading was about Elijah, sitting under a broom tree, essentially telling God that he was tired and did not want to go on. So, what did God do? He sent an angel to deliver a hearth cake and a jug of water. Elijah ate, then took a nap, after which the angel woke him up and told him to eat again. After two meals and a good nap, Elijah then walked 40 days and 40 nights.

I love these Biblical glimpses of human shortcomings—not the kind due to sin, but to the simple fact that we are limited by bodies that get tired, thirsty, and hungry. Both the Old and New Testaments provide instances when God, or an angel, or a Good Samaritan saw to a person’s physical needs. Often, food or drink were provided before a miracle or a spiritual lesson. When Jesus heals Jarius’ daughter, he tells her parents to give her something to eat (Mark 5:40-43). At his mother’s request for more wine, Jesus performs his first miracle in Cana. The story of Martha and Mary juxtaposes human nourishment (Martha) with that of spiritual fulfillment (Mary). And Jesus' compassion for the multitude of people coming to hear him speak results in the miracle of the multiplication of loaves and fishes, and with their physical needs met the next day Jesus gives them his Bread of Life Discourse.

Hospitality, kindness, fellowship, compassion can all be made manifest by the offering of food and drink. Eat to live, or live to eat? I believe the two go hand-in-hand because food is so much more than sustenance. We eat to celebrate and to mourn. We toast a new bride and groom. We bring meals to a neighbor and send care packages to a college student. We light candles on a birthday cake and bake cookies for a fundraiser.

All this to say that food is a Love Language, one which has taken on new significance in light of my father’s cancer journey. My father (praise God!) has finished his cancer treatments, but for a while he will continue to experience the effects of the weekly radiation and chemotherapy treatments; namely, loss of appetite and a throat that is incredibly raw. For some time, he has been unable to eat anything. All the things that one would ordinarily do for someone who is ill—the chicken noodle soup, homemade bread, nourishing meals, vanilla milkshakes—have been removed from the equation, and we have had to re-think how to fill that gap.

It is harder than you would think to offer comfort, distraction, and sustenance in ways which do not involve food. We have had to think beyond the kitchen table. So, we make movie suggestions and bring my parents interesting magazines or books. We visit. My dad paints and draws, my mom goes through old photos and notebooks, and they both take a morning walk. My mom makes a big production of labeling the syringes of protein my dad takes as “appetizer” or “entrée” or “dessert” because laughter helps. They go to Mass, sitting quietly in the back to limit contact. We still gather every Sunday, but not for a meal; instead, we play cards.

Sustenance, but not from food, and if we are being honest there is a little spark of joy missing. We miss sharing a meal together, we miss seeing the grin on my father’s face as he enjoys a grilled steak, we miss the clinking of forks and knives and the hustle and bustle in the kitchen as we prepare a meal. My dad misses ALL food, but when asked about what he is most looking forward to eating once this is over, he replies, “Popeye’s fried chicken.”  

Okay, then.

Leaning against the wall in my parents’ kitchen is a bulletin board calendar with the days in June, July, and August marked off with large X’s, each one representing a day of treatment. The footprints of those red X’s highlight how far my father has come. It has been hard, but not impossible. And my father, who once grumbled about “more walking” while on a vacation in Sorrento, will soon get his pizza.

Except this time, it will be Popeye’s fried chicken.

When All You Have to Do is Wave Goodbye

Two years ago, we helped Timothy move into O-House at UGA; one year ago, we helped him move into a house rental just off campus.

Today, Timothy is again leaving to go back to school, and what are Joe and I doing to help?

Absolutely nothing.

This week Timothy told us not to make a fuss. He’s going back to the same house, with the same buddies, and his room is just as he left it. Before he left campus, he cleaned his bedroom and bathroom, as well as washed and folded his sheets so he can make his bed as soon as he returns. He still has pantry supplies. The only thing he needs to take back are the clothes he brought home for the summer.

Joe and I keep trying: what about groceries? (me) or A/C filters? (Joe) or toiletries? (me) or toilet paper? (joe). What about school supplies? (Timothy: already done)

No fuss. And he means it.

It is fun watching him straddle two worlds. On one hand, he still sprawls on the couch while watching YouTube videos, loves Legos, eats anything with watermelon or cotton candy flavor, and STILL does not like to read anything except instruction manuals or car magazines. On the other hand, the majority of the summer he worked 40-hours a week as an engineering intern, spent an evening standing on a ladder to change Nonna and Nonno’s laundry room light fixture, pushed Nonno’s wheelchair through the craziness at the Seattle airport, and is not afraid to express his opinion on current events. He is the one who suggests we go to confession before Saturday evening Mass.

We will miss him. Joe will not have his Friday golfing buddy, and I will miss someone who makes me laugh—like, really laugh. He is funny, that one. When Timothy is around Joe and I are more cognizant of not falling into “old” routines—eating dinner at 5:30 or going to bed before 11 pm. While in Hilton Head he convinced us to go jet-skiing, and he helped organize my workouts into “leg days” and “arm days” with days for back and core sprinkled in.

So, no fuss today. No air filters or groceries or toilet paper. No accompanying him to campus.

As parents, we raised him to go off into the world, to make decisions and be independent, but it still comes as a shock when all this actually happens.

And when it does, like today, we will stand in the driveway waving goodbye.