Speak to Me Sunday: Polishing Silver

 “The best way to polish silver is to use it.”

That was one of the first lessons I learned four years ago when I started working part-time at Angevine’s Fine Silver & Gifts, and as someone who was getting a crash course on silver and flatware patterns, I appreciated the simplicity of that lesson. It was something I could share while maneuvering through the antique silver world: when a customer would come in to buy silver polish but was complaining about having to polish their Christmas silver, I could now say, “Well, you know what they say. The best way to polish silver is to use it.”

Simple. Helpful. Useful. True. And that simple phrase is pregnant with a life lesson.

Picture it. A pair of candlesticks, stored in a cupboard, hidden away and slowly turning a brown that is not rust, but rather a thin black layer of silver sulfide. All the shininess is lost, all the sparkle that makes that item special is gone.

To be sure, the shininess still is there, but it is buried, and the more time passes the harder it becomes to return it to its former shiny state. It takes time to buff and polish and wash, and when the effort becomes too overwhelming, the candlesticks are returned to the cupboard for next time. Except next time gets postponed to another next time. And so it goes.

The best way to polish silver is to use it may be more elegant than saying use it or lose it, but the sentiment is the same.  

So here it is January, bringing with it resolutions and brand-new beginnings riding on the coat tails of all the sparkle and shine from the holidays, as well as a reminder of  the paradox that the only way to keep something in working form—so we can continue to use it!—is simply to use it.

This is nothing new, nothing we do not already know, but somehow it is easily pushed aside. 

Which brings me to my one-word resolution, something I do every year. Just one word (or phrase) to provide focus, clarity, and direction in the new year. In the past, I have chosen words such as spontaneity, embrace, or pronto (“now” or “I am ready”).

But this year … this year my word is argento. The Italian word for silver.

Argento. To remind me to use the silver.

Argento. To encourage me to exercise my body, nurture my mind, explore my talents, grow in faith.

Argento. To remind me to stay polished.  

Speak to Me Sunday: The Gift of Again

Today, we put away Christmas.

We packed away the ribbons and tags; we stored away packages, boxes, and bags.

We basically undid everything we did a month and a half ago. All that fuss to prepare and just like that it is over. Next December we will repeat the process again.

As I watched all the vestiges of Christmas disappear, it dawned on me how much of life is comprised of repeated actions: decorate for Christmas, undecorate for Christmas; throw a load in the washer, and two days later another load goes in; rake the leaves, and do it again after a windy day; say “no” to a toddler, and repeat that one word for the next 18 years; go to church on Sunday, go to church EVERY Sunday. Then there are birthday celebrations, wellness checkups, New Year resolutions, good intentions, and yes, even mistakes. All done on repeat.

The pessimists of the world may see this as drudgery, that with the repetitions we are like Sisyphus in Greek mythology, doomed for all eternity to push a huge boulder to the top of the mountain only to have to repeat the process when it rolls back down again.

But by putting away Christmas, in repeating a process I will do again, I recognized it for what it was: the Gift of Again.

The life we live, in big ways and small, reflects and works in harmony with the seasons in nature, the cycles of the moon, the rising and setting of the sun, the liturgical seasons of the church, the passage of time. And between the bookends of birth and death, the Gift of Again allows us to see, breathe, taste, feel, and experience the same things, but in different ways.

What a precious gift to have the chance to relive and build upon. A moment to straddle yesterday and tomorrow and to merge the two for a more meaningful present.

So, I packed away the ribbons and tags, the packages, boxes, and bags. Again.

Hallelujah!

Speak to Me Sunday: Lessons from a Nun

Last week we hosted Sister Gaudiosa, a nun from Tanzania, in our home. This was her fifth visit with us and, coming on the heels of headlines involving school shootings, assassinations, rioting, and hateful rhetoric, I was craving serenity. And as always, I found that with Sister.

We spent the first evening talking, on the back deck, then at the kitchen table, finally moving to the family room. Sister told us about her work with disabled adults. Every day she provides the basic necessities of bathing, feeding, dressing. She told us stories of the residents—the woman who has to have a radio with her at all times; the man who eats so fast that they cut his food into tiny pieces so he will not choke. It is not an easy job, and many of the residents are not even aware of her presence, but she spoke of them with such love and tenderness.

And she spoke with gratitude. This is one thing I had forgotten about Sister, how she walks through the world with a grateful heart. She says “God is good” and “thank you” so often that we start thinking like that. Yes! Thank you! YES! God IS good!

As in past visits, we had made plans for the week, the first being a day trip to the University of Georgia.

When Sister first met Timothy, he was just three years old. Over the years, through letters, photos, and visits, she has watched him grow into a young man. But she had yet to see College Timothy, so we drove to Athens for the day where Timothy and two of his housemates greeted us, lined up like the von Trapp children, freshly showered and beaming. (And the house was spotless.) Timothy gave us a campus tour, we ate lunch at Bolton so Sister could experience a college dining hall, and we visited the Catholic Center. She was very impressed with Sanford Stadium.

We also visited my sister in Columbia who fed us a delicious lunch and taught us how to make beaded pens. Sister loved the colorful beads, and I loved seeing them, two sisters, seated side-by-side at the dining room table, one biological and one just as dear. Sister left Columbia with over twenty pens to hand out to her fellow sisters back at the convent.

One afternoon Joe was watching golf and Sister wanted to know about the game. He explained the basics and the next day we took her to Putt-Putt.

When we got out of the car, she was excited to see Africa so well represented: an elephant (tembo), a giraffe (twiga), and a hippo (kiboko)! She wanted to take photos to send home to Tanzania. Then, because we did not want her to think that a round of golf always includes fun animals and waterfalls, we explained that this was PRETEND golf, that Joe played REAL golf. And right there, on the FIRST hole, Sister made a hole-in-one!

Oh, how she laughed!

(An aside: I also made a hole-in-one on that very same hole. And Joe, who plays REAL golf, made it in two.)

When we finished playing, we noticed a large group of disabled adults who were sitting under the patio waiting for their caretakers. Sister walked right in their midst and boldy, yet humbly, stood there with a smile. “Hello!” she said quietly. It was a beautiful thing to see, this way of being bold in a humble way. One by one, everyone perked up. A few of the adults waved, or responded verbally, and the caretakers came forward to talk to Sister.

I love witnessing how people respond to Sister. For some, the response comes from a shared faith. For others, it is a curiosity. But what I genuinely love is the response from those who are not Catholic, or who do not belong to any faith, but who will still recognize her outward expression of faith and are moved by it, this “something” that they cannot explain. And it brings out “something” in them that they cannot name. I witnessed this when we drove to Athens and stopped at a gas station where, inside, were men playing on video poker machines. They all looked up when we walked in. Instantly, one sat up straighter, one smiled, and another one actually tipped his hat.

The week went by so quickly. We stayed busy during the day, and in the evening we talked and watched two movies: Hidden Figures (the true story of three African-American women who were essential to the success of early spaceflight at NASA) and The Way (the story of a grieving father making a pilgrimage on the Camino de Santiago while carrying the cremated remains of his son). She loved both movies and wrote them down for the next time the sisters at the convent have a movie night.

On the morning of Sister’s departure, I drove her to the airport for her early morning flight. It was very dark on Bobby Jones Expressway. There were no other cars around. And because the world was still sleeping, we were taking quietly. Sister led us in prayer. As I drove, I realized that I could not see beyond the beam of the headlights. If I thought too hard about it, it would have been scary, but I trusted that as I moved forward in the darkness the headlights would reveal the road ahead.

And that is what Sister taught me this week. Having arrived in the midst of political, social, religious, and cultural upheaval emblazoned across the headlines, her presence reminded me that if you surround yourself with what is good, pure, brave, and humble, if you are grateful, if you walk by the light of God, carry it with you and allow it to be your guide, then not only does the world where you are standing becomes a brighter place, but you can light the way for others who come into your path.  

Speak to Me Sunday: A Fool for God

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 we shared a conversation. We spoke about God and faith and how the two are becoming increasingly pushed aside in culture and society. They had 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 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, packaged them nicely, and looked out the window. The gentlemen were no longer on our street. No problem! I grabbed my keys, jumped in the car, and drove around the entire neighborhood looking for them.

And I could not find them anywhere.

Okay, then. I drove back home a little deflated because things did not turn out as I imagined they would. And I was confused. Hadn’t I answered 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 I listened to the Holy Spirit, acted on it, only to arrive at a complete and total Dead End.

Had I been a fool for God?

I argued with myself. How does one know if a conviction, or a spiritual prompting, is valid unless acted upon? Does it not take faith to step forward when the outcome is unknown? And does it not take courage to act on something as tenuous as a thought, a feeling, or a spiritual prompting?

In the ways of the world, a “yes” to any of the above can be seen as foolish, but a fool by the world’s standards can be transformative by God’s.

Thinking back to that day with the missionaries, I came to realize 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: 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.

Speak to Me Sunday: Ripples in a Pond

It was a blustery morning, dark and cold, when I entered a local grocery store. Working there was a cashier, an Indian woman, who always smiled warmly at me when she rang up my groceries. I always felt as if I knew her, and the way she interacted with me I felt as if she knew me too, but it never went beyond exchanging smiles and pleasantries.

On that morning, however, with the storm raging outside and the store mostly empty, she stopped ringing up my purchases and leaned forward.

“I don’t know if you remember, but in 2015 you gave me a note with a gift card,” she said quietly. “Do you remember?”

I shook my head.

“I have always kept it. It was such a nice thing to do, and I always wanted to speak to you about it. Then this morning I woke up and said a prayer for you. I prayed you would come in today, but with the storm I did not think it was possible. And yet, here you are.”

“And here I am,” I said, smiling.

As we talked, a vague memory surfaced of a handwritten note but not of the circumstances or the reasons behind it. And I recognized this for what it was, a George Bailey moment whereby I was offered a glimpse of a past action—something I could not even remember—and the impact it had on someone, so much so that she brought it up nine years later.

Every action, no matter how tiny, can change the course of someone’s day. We know this. But it was strangely humbling to be reminded it does not stop there for that single, tiny action—a smile, note, gesture, or kindness—can grow, expand, and reach out in ways we cannot even imagine. Or see. Like ripples in a pond that continue expanding beyond our line of vision, beyond that moment, or even that day.

Sometimes life can be overwhelming, making it all too easy to give up, take a step back, and think there is nothing, absolutely nothing that you can do to make a difference. It becomes all too easy to set up an all or nothing scenario, of dismissing the littles things that have become overshadowed by bigger, louder issues. It becomes all too easy to think “What does it matter?”

But as I was reminded on that stormy morning, it does matter.

More than you think.

“I alone cannot change the world,” Mother Teresa said. “But I can cast a pebble across the water to create many ripples.”

Speak to Me Sunday: Praying with a Stranger

 Last week I drove to the Kroc center for a workout. As I parked, I heard an enormous crash, metal on metal. Having been in two bad car accidents, I knew that sound. Sure enough, when I looked in my rearview mirror I saw there had been a head-on collision involving a car and a U-Haul truck at the intersection I had passed through only moments earlier.

By the time I finished parking, there were already people running toward the accident to help; in fact, a patrol car showed up moments later. So I stood in the parking lot, wanting to see if the driver of the car exited the vehicle. He/she did not.

A woman came to stand next to me.

“Oh, Jesus. Help them,” she whispered. “Protect them. Oh Jesus, please shine your mercy on them. Oh, Jesus.”

Two fire trucks and an ambulance arrived.

I turned to the woman. “Do you want to say an ‘Our Father’ together?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” she said, as she grabbed my hand.

And we prayed. Slowly and with meaning. Afterwards, we embraced, not awkwardly or with hesitation, but fully and tightly. I felt an incredible outpouring of love. I was awash in it.

I cannot even begin to describe what a powerful, moving, emotional moment that was. Two women who were complete strangers, standing in the Kroc Center parking lot, holding hands while praying the Our Father. Doing the only thing they could to help other strangers in need.

“We can go now,” she said after the embrace. “They are in good hands.”

Together, we walked toward the entrance of the gym. She told me her name, and I asked her to spell it for me. I wanted to remember her. Remember this moment when two strangers on God’s magnificent earth shared a prayer together.

Her name?

Ebelechukwu, which in Nigeria means “God’s mercy.”

Albrecht Dürer (1471-1528)

Speak to Me Sunday: Come to the Quiet

On March 27, 2020 our family gathered around the television to watch Pope Francis give an Urbi et Orbi blessing. Translated from Latin (to the city [of Rome] and to the world) this blessing is usually given on three occasions: when a pope is elected Successor of Peter, at Christmas, and at Easter. On this date, however, the Pope delivered an extraordinary blessing as he prayed for an end to a pandemic that had brought the world to its knees.

That night it was raining in Rome. We watched the Pope walk to the sagrato of St Peter’s Basilica and, facing an empty square, addressed the world. It was hauntingly moving—St. Peter’s Square, glistening in the evening rain, and a solitary figure calling the world to prayer. His was a lone voice, echoing throughout the quiet piazza. After the blessing, the Pope then spent time before the Blessed Sacrament.

And there was silence in Rome. Silence from our television. Silence in our home.

It was a moment that profoundly moved me.

We live in a noisy world. A busy world. There are jobs to do, problems to solve, goals to reach, children to raise; there is sickness, unemployment, and doubt. There is worry and fear.  

And yet, it is in the midst of all this—the problems of the world—that God whispers, “Come to the quiet.”

Recently I watched the movie Paul, Apostle of Christ. There is a scene in the movie of total bedlam—Rome is burning, Paul is imprisoned, the Christians are being persecuted, killed, or thrown into Nero's Circus, and Luke and the Christians are debating whether to flee Rome, stay and minister, or take up arms and fight back. Then Luke, who stands strong on his belief in front of others but privately expresses his doubts to Paul, reminds them that Christ's love. "We live in the world,” he says. “But we do not wage war as the world does. Peace be with you."

There among the fires, fear, indecision, death and agony, the early Christians found the quiet and, subsequently, God’s peace. They may have had to dig through the rubble and roll aside the stones of fear, doubt, loss, and feelings of abandonment, but the only way they could move forward was to seek the silence and find God’s peace.

As humans we don’t always do what is best for us: we like to complain about our busy lives even as we pencil in another event on the calendar; we feel burdened, and then add to that burden by doing unnecessary tasks; we allow ourselves to get so caught up in the noise and confusion that we become part of it. What to do?

“Come to the quiet,” God whispers.

It sounds simple, but sometimes the way to find silence is to carve it out for yourself—through prayer, a walk in the woods, staying home—and allow yourself to be cocooned in God’s gift of silence. Stillness. And in that silence, removed from things of the world, you will find the gifts of hope, faith, peace, fortitude.

Such blessings, from a little silence.

Speak to Me Sunday: The Man in the Fog

One morning, in the mountains of North Carolina, Joe and I went hiking. It had rained the night before, so our footsteps made no sound as we walked along a trail carpeted with sodden leaves. The air was cool, but still damp, and a thick fog, or mist, swirled around us. We could not see the path ahead.

The hike was energizing, but my mind, heart, and spirit were tired. We had just come through a pandemic that brought the world to its knees, and travel restrictions, mask controversy, and contentious politics only added to the bickering, squabbling, finger pointing, and protesting, all of it done with the righteous indignation of people serving as both judge and jury against everyone except the person looking back in the mirror. The ensuing consequence pitted brother against brother, friend against friend, city against state, and people against government.

I was tired of all of it. Although the hike was quiet, I knew once we descended the mountain I would be in the real world again. And so I turned inward and began to pray. About nothing. About everything. I was not even sure what I was praying about. My prayer was not neat, or eloquent, but just words exhaled with every step as we silently climbed up and up.

Suddenly, like the parting of a curtain, a man emerged from the fog in front of us. He was alone, carrying a backpack and a trekking pole. We exchanged pleasantries—how are you, good weather for hiking—and then asked if he could give us a book. I hesitated for a fraction of a second and then said, “Sure. Are you an author?”

He was, in fact, an author. As he opened his backpack and pulled out a book, he explained he was also a retired pastor who currently trains and mentors pastoral leaders. I thanked him as he handed me the book, and he said goodbye. When I turned around to see where he had gone, the fog had already swallowed him up.

I looked down at the book. The cover featured a watercolor drawing of a hiker, carrying a backpack and trekking pole, and at the top was the title, Finding Your Place in the Father’s Heart.

The title alone spoke to me, and just like that I realized I had been going about this all wrong. In trying to sift through the turmoil, in my feeble attempts to make sense of a nonsensical world, I had turned inward with whispered prayers and questions, my introspection swirling fog-like until, like the mountain pathway I was hiking, I could not see the way.

But it was not my heart I needed to turn to, but my Father’s, not so much to find answers, but to find myself.

Turning my introspection outward, I appreciated how the fog, while preventing us from seeing the road ahead, did not impede our hike; that the pathway revealed itself with every step I took.

And there, on top of a mountain in North Carolina, on a remote hiking trail engulfed in fog, I recognized this as the dramatic moment that it was. Sometimes parables and beatitudes and morals are adequate to teach and console and show us the way, but sometimes they offer ambiguity and require interpretation when we are simply yearning for clarity. 

Sometimes we need a little drama—a thunderbolt, choirs of angels, the temple curtain torn in two.

Or a man emerging from the fog on top of a mountain in North Carolina.

Speak to Me Sunday: Polishing Silver, a Mitsubishi Eclipse, and God

This is a story about polishing silver, a 23-year-old car, and God. Seemingly random topics, but if you stick with me everything will come together…

“The best way to polish silver is to use it.”

That was one of the first lessons I learned last spring when I started working at Angevine’s Fine Silver & Gifts, and as someone who was getting a crash course on silver and flatware patterns, I appreciated the simplicity of that lesson. And it was something I could share while maneuvering through the antique silver world: when a customer came in to buy silver polish but was complaining about having to polish their Christmas silver, I would say, “Well, you know what they say. The best way to polish silver is to use it.”

Simple. Helpful. Useful. True.

(Now, here is where I deviate, but trust me. It will all come together.)

Two months after starting this part-time job, we dropped off our youngest son at the University of Georgia to begin his freshman year. We had gone back and forth whether Timothy would need his car on campus, and after discussing all the pros and cons, Timothy decided to leave his beloved 2000 Mitsubishi Eclipse at home with the STRICT instructions that we had to occasionally drive his car because it was not good for a 23-year-old car to sit idle.

So once a week, Joe and I fire it up (and I use those words because that car ROARS to life) and drive it to the Kroc Center. (Once we drove it to church, but we got a little self-conscious the sound of that engine coming to life was ruining everyone’s post-Mass glow.)

(Now pay attention. Here is where things begin to make sense.)

So yesterday we took off the cover and drove the 2000 Mitsubishi eclipse to the Kroc Center where, in the middle of a workout, I started thinking how so much of life is this paradox: to use what is given to us, we need to use it to keep on using it.

Whether it is our bodies, our minds, or our talents, the only way to keep them in working form so we can continue to use them, is to use them.

Simple. Helpful. Useful. True.

The same can be said of our spiritual life. There is a reason our walk with God is referred to as the “road less traveled” because it takes work, effort, and perseverance. We have to use our legs to stay on the path, our minds to be aware, our hearts to discern God’s will. But like that Christmas silver, if we stay “polished”, if we use our legs and minds and hearts, it becomes easier to do what we need to keep on journeying; and like the Mitsubishi eclipse, if we don’t hide our light under a bushel, if we use scripture and share our talents, idleness become fruitful.

At this point I am sure you are thinking: Whoa, Maria. Polishing silver, a 23-year-old car, God … you think way too much. So I will pack it up, tie the proverbial red bow, and bring it full circle.

Challenge your mind. Move your body. Share your talents. Read the bible. Drive the car.

And use the silver.

Speak to Me Sunday: Standing Tall

(A little insomnia, a Broadway quote, and I was down the rabbit hole. Too much deep thinking with too little sleep. Coffee please...)

There is a line from the hit musical, Hamilton, in which the opinionated Alexander Hamilton says to the obfuscating Aaron Burr: “If you stand for nothing, Burr, what will you fall for?”

It is a profound question, one which compels one to explore our beliefs, morals, convictions, and affiliations. It probes our intentions and incites us into action. Most importantly, it inspires one to stand strong in a tide as opposed to being swept up in one.

It is a thinking question, and it cannot be answered quickly. Or lightly. What do you stand for?

The question leaves no room for obfuscating. To answer honestly and with conviction, one must have a voice that is not simply an echo of what is being said by others; furthermore, the weight of it pins one down, and to squirm, dodge, or even deflect the question is very revealing.

Conversely, one can broaden the question’s scope to ask this: If you stand for EVERYTHING, then what will you fight for? This, too, is telling. If one believes all things, panders to all people, and tries to be something for everyone … then what does that person ACTUALLY believe?

A person who is vague about what he believes is equally as dangerous as someone who believes in everything. Both go wherever the wind takes them. It is only when you have both ends of the equation—knowing where a person stands and knowing where you stand—that one can choose courage to take a step forward, or honesty to step back and reevaluate.

Society today may not be any better than it was in Hamilton’s time, but we can glean some lessons. In the election of 1800 Hamilton had to decide whether to endorse Thomas Jefferson (a person he never once agreed with) or Aaron Burr (his political adversary). In the end, Hamilton chose Jefferson, simply because Jefferson had beliefs whereas Burr had none.

What do you stand for?

Delve deep for an answer. And then proceed with strength, conviction and, most of all, understanding of others who are grappling with this very same question.

Hero Worship and Silent Heroes

We are all ordinary. We are all boring. We are all spectacular. We are all shy. We are all bold. We are all heroes. We are all helpless. It just depends on the day.

~Brad Meltzer, author of Heroes for My Son

Perhaps it’s because I am all too aware of my own imperfections that I am very cautious about putting someone on a pedestal. To be sure, there are people I admire and respect, but there's a difference between admiring someone and thinking they hang the moon.

I am bothered by the fact that many times people are held in high esteem for no other reason other than they can throw a football, or look pretty on television, or lose weight, or make multi-million dollar deals. And I am bothered at how willing some of us are to look up to someone who is, when it comes down to it, very human.

When you cross the line into hero worship, you are basically setting yourself up to be less than that person . . . which is almost like saying God (who made us in his image) somehow made a mistake in how he made you.

I once accompanied a group of local doctors to Haiti for a 10-day mission trip. Part of that experience included a lot of rough travel, the most grueling of which was a 14-hour truck ride through mountains, desert and jungle until we reached the small village of Jean-Rabel.

During that long, long trip I was surrounded by doctors and missionaries who spent that time talking. One discussion involved the misdirection of youth, and a young missionary made a comment that the distractions offered by today's society were nothing more than a substitute for the Holy Spirit.

Oh, brother! I remember thinking.

But over time I’ve come to realize what she was trying to say. There’s nothing wrong with getting excited during a rock concert, or cheering a star athlete, or looking up to someone, or recognizing them as a leader.

The problem occurs when we lose sight of the First Commandment and lay those feelings of enthusiasm, admiration and even hope at the feet of someone who is merely human.

The problem occurs when we measure our own self-worth by human rather than spiritual standards.

The problem occurs when we don't see the value in  those around us (teammates, co-workers, family members) because we are so blinded by the star quality of one individual.

I am grateful that the world is full of many wonderful people -- people I admire and respect and who inspire me to be a better person. But putting them on a pedestal?

I know of only One who can hang the moon.

In response to this post, my zia Tiziana left this comment about the silent hero (like my Nonna). After almost 14 years of blogging this comment is one of my favorite.

"How true are your words. We all have heroes, and sometimes it is difficult to believe that they are only poor humans like us, with faults and weaknesses. For our Nonna, however, the true heroes were people like her parents who, even though they weren’t rich, worked hard – without running water, heat, electricity, refrigerator, washing machine, dishwasher, iron, television, etc. – and yet they were able to raise their four daughters in serenity, happiness and faith. Nonna always remembered her childhood as the happiest time of her life. She would always say, 'Yes, we were poor, but how much fun we had running in the fields, talking and singing in the barn (the warmest place to gather), and we appreciated the simplest things.' Maybe the true heroes are those who silently help others and perhaps they are the only ones who can truly help God 'hang the moon'”.

~Tizi

Speak to Me Sunday: Memory and Hope (First Sunday of Advent)

Before Mass last night I reflected on the past few days of our family gathering and how, despite a tumultuous 2020, there was still so much to celebrate. And the fact that Thanksgiving slides effortlessly into the Advent season, a season which embraces memory and hope, is just as it should be ...

Readiness in Memory and Hope

Yesterday I pulled out my 2021 planner, something I do every year at this time. It's a beautiful planner. There are pages with quotes and blank spaces to write down goals; most importantly, 365 empty squares are lined up like stepping stones going forth into a year of tomorrows. 

It dawned on me how, in big ways and in small, each of those stepping stones leads me on a journey propelled by Time which marches forward in seconds, minutes, days and years.  With every breath, with every step, with every thought or action or prayer, I am on a journey.

We are all on a journey.

Sometimes the journey is planned and carefully mapped out, but other times it yanks and pulls and drags us where we do not want to go -- through illness, incarceration or grief as we recognize what without understanding why. 

Sometimes the journey can be a battle with inner demons of self-doubt, alcoholism, or drugs. Sometimes it calls us to foreign lands, a new career path, marriage, or a religious vocation. 

Often the journey is exciting and adventurous, but just as often it’s a whirlwind of ordinary with carpool, dinner, laundry, work, and children.

I turned the pages of my brand new planner, and as I filled in the squares with birthdays and anniversaries and family trips, I saw all the empty squares more as stepping stones of hope rather than blank squares of the unknown. 

I then looked at my old planner, at the squares of yesterdays which were once tomorrows, and saw stepping stones of memory.

Tonight, we will light a candle to mark Advent’s passage, and I am grateful for this season with its gift of time to both recognize the journey and reflect on it -- to gather and learn and step forward in readiness. In his book, Seek that Which is Above, Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger (Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI) describes Advent as a connection between memory and hope; that is, the healing memory of the God who became a child, and the hope that memory brings.

Memory. Hope. A readiness to journey onward.

Isola San Giulio

The Way of Contemplation

"Every journey begins near you"

Speak to Me Sunday: Things Unseen

We look not to what is seen but to what is unseen;

for what is seen is transitory, but what is unseen is eternal.

~2 Corinthians 4:18

The problem about trying to live in this world is there is so much that is unseen, and it is those unseen parts that are often the most relevant.

Once I was driving down the road on a busy Friday afternoon, the traffic pinning me behind a terribly slow driver. I was beyond irritated. I had places I needed to be, things I needed to do. But I could not get around the car and I truly believed the driver was purposely ruining my day.

And then we happened to pull into the same strip mall. And then I noticed him emerge from the car on two artificial legs. And then I saw him hold on to the car as he walked to the trunk and pulled out a walker. And then I saw him use his walker to maneuver slowly to the storefront. And then I sat in my car, ashamed.

I had judged that man based on what I could see: a slow car, driven by an elderly man, one who braked constantly and took forever to execute a turn. All of that was true. My eyes had witnessed this. 

And yet, I made a sweeping judgment and thought I knew everything about this man.

Benjamin Franklin once said that whatever is begun in anger ends in shame, and the anger I had felt behind the wheel was replaced with shame when I realized that what I could not see had been much more important than what I could.

I just had not bothered to see beyond what was presented to me.

How much of what we “see” is just the tip of the iceberg? How many times have we made sweeping judgments based on what we saw on the news or read in a newspaper article? How can we presume to know anything if we only look with our eyes? Or if we narrow our vision? Or, if we look, but do not see?

During Mass tonight I was thinking about all that is unseen in the world: things like a thought, air, and sound, but also things like a soul, a belief, and tomorrow.

Unseen things like faith, hope, and love.

The very fact I was sitting in church before a God I could not see reminded me how so much of what is beautiful in the world is, in fact, unseen. Philippians 4: 6-9 reminds us of this with the call to love what is true, honorable, just, pure, lovely, gracious, excellent, and worthy of praise. All these unseen things which, paradoxically, become seen when acted upon.

Ultimately, so much about life is walking by faith. Not by sight. Not by what we believe. Not by what we are told. But by faith. Sometimes, walking with faith is all we get. And we are tested. And so we are tempted to take what we have and run with it, to assume and jump to conclusions and make sweeping judgments.

But sometimes, when we are walking in the darkness and clinging to that faith, when we are patient and truly looking beyond, God’s grace shines through and allows us to see the entire picture—such as when God showed me the entire man, and not just what I saw with my eyes.

It is only when we look for “the rest of the story” that we are able to look beyond what is in front of us.

And see the unseen. 

Speak to Me Sunday: Choose, Create, Give

Once Upon a Time there lived a king who offered a prize to the artist who could create the most beautiful painting depicting peace. Many great painters from across the kingdom sent in their finest works. One painting in particular caught everyone's attention. It was a painting of a calm lake surrounded by majestic, snow-capped mountains. Overhead, the blue sky was dotted with fluffy clouds that were mirrored on the lake's surface. Everyone agreed that this painting, more than any of the others, portrayed peace.

But when the king announced the winner, everyone was shocked. He awarded the prize to a different painting, one which featured mountains that were rugged and bare; instead of a crystal blue sky, the heavens were dark and angry with flashes of lightning. The overall effect was stormy rather than peaceful. 

The people gathered around the painting, trying to understand. And then they looked closely. In the corner of the painting was a tiny bush growing in the cracks of a rock, and in the bush a mother bird had built a nest. The entire painting was an angry swirl of grays and blacks, and yet the mother bird had created a place of peace. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chances are you know someone who voted for the opposite candidate; chances are that a cashier, dentist, pastor, or neighbor had political views opposite of yours; chances are that this election cast seeds of dissension among friends and even family members; chances are that someone made a sweeping judgment based solely on party affiliation.

Chances are you are tired of it all. 

For months we have been living in a heavy atmosphere of accusations and lies coming at us from every direction; for months we have been caught up in a pulsing, breathing riptide of discord and strife; for far too long we have thought in terms of Us versus Them. 

Maybe it is time to take a deep breath and decide how to move forward, no matter how you voted. 

Maybe it is time to create a place among the angry swirls of black and gray and choose a peace you create. 

And from that place, reach out to friends and members of your family; reach out to the cashier, dentist, pastor, and neighbor. Reach out to all those who, before the storm, used to matter and show them how to see color even among the angry swirls of gray and black. 

Eleanor Roosevelt once said that it is not enough to talk about peace, but to believe in it; that it is not enough to believe in it, but to work at it.

And it is hard work. You will have to do it despite people calling you weak, or a traitor, or naive, or gullible. But what those people do not realize is that you are simply choosing to do things a different way. 

Peace. Do not wish for it.

Choose it.

Create it.

Give it. 

*story is adapted is from All Time Short Stories

Speak to Me Sunday: Three Strangers

 Usually I travel in a pack, either with my guys or with a gaggle of girlfriends. But two years ago when I found myself traveling alone, I met three strangers … 

My husband and I were headed to Lancaster, Pennsylvania for his 35^th high school reunion. We left Thursday afternoon and stopped outside Charlotte (NC) to spend the night before continuing our trip on Friday. Shortly after midnight we got a call from our son, Nicholas, who was experiencing chest pains and numbness in his left arm. While we thought he had been suffering from a stomach bug all week, these were new (and alarming) symptoms. We conferred with my brother (the family doctor), and after a flurry of phone calls it was decided that I would fly to Little Rock, and Joe would drive back home since he had to leave for Albuquerque in a few days. So at 3 a.m. we checked out of the hotel and drove to the airport where I caught the first flight out to Little Rock.

On the plane, I was tense. I knew that as were preparing for takeoff, Nicholas was checking into the Emergency Room. I knew that once airborne, I would be incommunicado for over two hours. And I was feeling alone—everything had been so hurried, worked out in the darkness of the early morning, and saying goodbye to Joe and then walking to my gate had been surreal since it usually happened the other way around.   

I dreaded the next couple of hours where I would be alone with my thoughts (and prayers).

But God had sent a distraction. Sitting next to me was a gentleman traveling with four other men—all engineers from Husqvarna who were flying back to Little Rock after visiting their facility in Charlotte. He was a good conversationalist and I welcomed the distraction. He told me about his team project—the Husqvarna robot lawn mower—and showed me a video of it in action. When he found out I worked as a writer, he didn’t ask the usual question (What do you write about?), but wanted to know about the writing process and asked for advice on how he could organize his thoughts when giving a presentation. Later, when I told him the reason for my visit to Little Rock, he shared how something similar happened to one of his children. Time passed quickly, and before I even realized it we were making our final descent into Little Rock.

“Listen,” the Husqvarna man said to me after we landed. “I know I am a stranger, and that you don’t really know me, but I want you to know that I would be more than happy to drive you to wherever your son is. It would be my pleasure.”

I was touched. I know he was being sincere, and I thanked him for it, but Nicholas had just sent a text saying he was back home so I told him I would take an Uber. When we exited the plane he stayed with me until I got my luggage and then wished me well. 

A few minutes later I was standing outside of Baggage Claim. While I have used Uber several times, this was the first time I was doing so alone and for some reason I couldn't get my app to work. I was clearly doing something wrong. Standing nearby was a college student, so I approached her and asked if she could help. She gave me her full attention. She could have easily answered my question in half a second, but she took her time to explain what I had done wrong. We chatted for a few minutes until her Uber arrived, and before she got in the car she looked at my iPhone to verify that my ride was on its way. We smile and waved to each other as she drove away.

When my Uber arrived a few minutes later, I hesitated at the sight of the big pickup truck that, while nice and shiny and clean, was decorated in camouflage—inside and out. And the driver, while not dressed in camouflage, still looked like he was ready to go deer hunting. He did not look like an Uber driver at all. Every episode of Criminal Minds or Law and Order ran through my mind (solo female + stranger + pickup truck = murder mystery), but the truck license matched the info on my app and the driver matched the photo I had been sent. Absolutely everything checked out.

And he turned out to be the nicest man. As he drove he pointed out interesting sites, told me local stories of this bridge or that street, and shared how he was a driver for Sysco five days a week and for Uber on the weekends. He was solicitous. Was I warm enough? He was a gentleman. Here, let me get that for you. He was gracious. Have a blessed visit with your son.  

Three complete strangers, on the same day, who turned out to be nothing but kind.

What started out as something scary turned into a blessing—five days of one-on-one time with my son where we holed up in his apartment and watched Arrested Development on Netflix, made gourmet feasts of rice and broth with Jell-O for dessert, and watched “comfort movies” such as Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade and Back to the Future. He also let me rearrange his kitchen cabinets and clean his apartment so just like that I was in MY HAPPY PLACE.

Nicholas is okay; he’s still struggling with some digestive disorder (severe upper gastrointestinal spasms were causing the chest pains and numbness), and every meal still causes discomfort, but he’s better than he was and progress in baby steps is still progress.

When I think back on that time—it was only five days!—I am amazed how God gave us what we needed to handle the unknown. When a simple phone call had us scrambling to reschedule, think fast, and make decisions on the fly, grace and strength sustained us. But mostly, I remember the strangers God sent my way--strangers who didn’t do anything extraordinary, but whose smile, conversation, concern, and friendliness grounded me, pulling me out of my worry and reminding me of God’s love and the wonderful interconnectedness of humanity.

Sadly, we live in a world in which we are wary of strangers. We see ulterior motives, hidden agendas, or even unspeakable evils lurking behind the graphic t-shirt, foreign accent, burqa, or Goth outfit. We distrust the poor, fear the homeless, and avoid the disabled. We see race, or political affiliation, or religion as a justification to build barriers.

And yet, the sad fact is that we need to be wary. We need to be aware. And on some level we need to be fearful. But then I think of the strangers I met, strangers who were good, kind and helpful, and I also know that I can’t let wariness or fear dictate basic human interaction.

That sometimes we need to be a little brave, have a little faith, and trust in the goodness of strangers.

Speak to Me Sunday: TruthandLove

A few months ago we attended Mass at St. James Catholic Church in Madison, Georgia.

The church was tiny, with maybe 75 parishioners in attendance, most of them retired. Timothy was the youngest one there, and Joe and I might have been, too.

But the priest from that tiny church packed quite a punch with his homily on truth and love. Before his homily I thought of truth and love as two separate concepts, but now I see how important it is to live them as one -- truthandlove. While he spoke within the context of our faith, I think his words hold meaning to all areas of our life, whether we're in school, work, home, the sports arena, or even the political one.

Here are some quotes from his homily, and I love how there is an underlying theme of balance and moderation ...

"Christ calls us to live in truth and love. Not truth or love. Not truth over here and love over there. But truth and love. Together. Like the vine and the branches."

"Those who live truth to the extreme point fingers at others and accuse them of being wrong or tell them they're going to hell. This isn't love."

"Those who live love to the extreme keep the truth buried. They embrace the idea -- popular in today's society -- that love means getting along and doing or saying anything to keep everyone happy. They become afraid to speak the truth for fear of offending anyone. This isn't truth."

"Although it will cause a reaction, both good and bad, practice truth and love as one -- love the truth, but live it with love."

truthandlove