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: Finding God in the Ordinary

 Once Upon a Time I signed up to work as a camp counselor in Savannah, Georgia during one of the hottest summers on record. My job would be working with older children, spearheading various programs, and playing the guitar during daily Mass.

On my first day on the job, however, my vision of sitting around bonfires and singing camp songs was shattered when we were informed that first we had to clean the camp facilities (dormitories, mess hall, kitchen, bathrooms, and classrooms) from top to bottom to make it ready for the campers.  You can imagine the mold, spider webs, nests, and dirt which had accumulated since the previous summer, and we had several days of hard work ahead of us. Before long I was standing in a bathroom stall holding a toilet brush (and my breath) and decidedly grumpy about the whole thing. The summer ahead no longer shined so brightly.

But later that night, as I read quietly while the cicadas droned outside, I realized that grumpiness and bad attitude are not only exhausting, but hard work. I was reminded of Catherine Marshall's book, A Man Called Peter, in which she tells the story of her husband, Peter Marshall, who came to this country as a poor, Scottish immigrant but who eventually became Chaplain of the United States Senate. During the course of his life Peter wrote some truly wonderful sermons, but there was one in particular I was thinking about that night in Savannah: The importance of finding God in the ordinariness of our daily lives.

Peter truly believed it was important "to make the distinction between worship and work and play less sharp", and that we should seek God in our kitchen, on the playground, and in our typewriter. He wrote that our lives would have absolutely no meaning if we weren't able to see God in the mundane, day-to-day chores that make up our lives; that sometimes what we need most "is the God of the humdrum... the commonplace . . . the everyday."

That next morning, as I faced yet another day of cleaning bathrooms, I took inspiration from Peter Marshall’s sermon and would try to look for God in those dirty, smelly, disgusting camp bathrooms.

So I prayed for the grace to do this job willingly and with a joyful heart. I gathered my cleaning supplies and wandered through a small auditorium where I found an old record player and ONE scratchy record -- Louis Armstrong singing It's a Wonderful World -- and set it up in the hallway outside the bathrooms.

I listened to that record over and over again at full volume as I scrubbed those toilets. I sang along. My fellow counselors then joined in. We scrubbed those toilets, laughed, talked about everything and nothing, and danced wearing rubber gloves on our hands and waving toilet brushes in the air.

And there, in those muggy, dirty camp bathrooms, we were insanely happy.

We had found God in the humdrum and mundane. We had found Him in the ordinary.

February Catch-Up

 

The No-Birthday Month

Every February I write an introspective post to commemorate my birthday. But this month my birthday came and went without a blip. I was recovering from Vascular surgery (left leg), and not only was Joe out of town but even MY PARENTS were out of town. So, I spent a quiet birthday, holed up inside the house during what was a blustery week. My birthday meal included Chicken Salad Chick and a box of Milk Duds for dessert (do not judge). But it was a good birthday with some alone time to think, read, and watch the last season of Peaky Blinders.

Yikes, though. Those Peaky Blinders.

Babysitting

I also spent my birthday babysitting the work crew replacing our backyard fence (which was destroyed due to the hurricane). What was supposed to take 2-3 days instead took TWO WEEKS. The crew would come, work two hours, then leave for lunch and not come back until the next day. One day Joe had the idea of providing them with lunch, thus encouraging them to stay and (maybe) work longer. So, he treated them to Chick-fil-A—food, drinks, super-sized fries—the works. The crew thanked him, ate their lunch, and thirty minutes later disappeared until the next day. Joe was hopping mad.

New fence? Check. What's next: sod and general landscaping

 

Book Recommendation

This week our Book Club discussed Allen Levi’s book, Theo of Golden.

Stop what you are doing right now. Go. Read the book. One of the best I have read in a long time. It will restore your hope in humanity. Everyone has a Theo inside of them.

 

Something new

Thanks to a daughter-in-law who introduced me to the game, and to a class I took with some friends, I am learning to play Mahjong. Makes you think, does Mahjong.

I am also taking German lessons via the Duo language app. Hallo. Ich heiße Maria. Ich Komme aus Augusta, eine stadt in Georgia.  

The Reason for the German Lessons

The 2025 Girls’ Trip to Italy and Alpine Europe! Twenty-six women have signed on for this grand adventure. A few highlights: a Mozart concert and dinner, a train ride on the Bernina express, a cruise on Lake Como, and a visit to a Neuschwanstein and Hohenschwangau castles. There are a few spots left. Want to come along? 

(Photo: Lake Como, Italy. On Day 7 we will be cruising along its beautiful shores.)

Finding the Pause

This morning's Gospel reading of Mary's fiat brings to mind Adrea della Robbia's masterpiece, "The Annunciation", which I saw several years ago at the Sanctuary of La Verna in Italy.

This familiar scene has been reduced to the essentials in which everyone is waiting for Mary's reply. The angel, God, the cherubs, and even the wings of the dove are waiting in suspense for the free will decision of Mary. Her face is thoughtful; one hand rests on the passage from Isaiah (Behold, a virgin shall conceive...) while her other hand rests on her heart, searching for God's will.

This incredible work demonstrates the moment—that silent moment—just before Mary gives her fiat. And her words, not yet uttered, are inscribed on the base: "You see before you the handmaid of the Lord, let it be done to me as you say."

It is a hold-your-breath kind of moment, a little drama before something monumental happens.

One can find that same thing happening in the caesura dividing the two stanzas of the Hail Mary. The first stanza ends with the words "blessed is the fruit of your womb" (hence, Mary is with child). In the silence of the caesura separating the first stanza from the second stanza (which begins with the words "Holy Mary, Mother of God"), Mary has given birth and is now a mother.

A lot happens in the silence of a pause, and in our busy, every day lives it can be incredibly beneficial to find that silence: before speaking, before an important decision, in prayer to hear what God has to say, as a way to begin, or end, the day.

A simple pause where silence can speak volumes.

[photo: The Annunciation, Andrea della Robbia, La Verna, Italy

Advent Sunday 3: Journeys (Verso l'Alto)

This is part III of a series called Journeys, personal reflections on the season of Advent presented in four parts – Readiness in Memory and Hope, Setting Forth, Verso l’Alto, and The Return. Join me in following in the footsteps of Joseph and Mary as they traveled to Bethlehem and the Wise Men as they followed the star.

Verso l'Alto

Last Friday I attended an evening Christmas concert at St. Teresa’s. Sitting in the semi-dark church, listening to the performance of the choir and the orchestra, my gaze kept shifting upwards: to the crucifix, the ceiling, the beautiful stained-glass windows illuminated by candlelight. And sitting there, taking it all in, it wasn't long before my very soul was uplifted. 

So much about the architecture of a church is about that upward movement: the vaulted ceilings, towering columns, pointed arches, tall candlesticks, raised altar area, and hanging crucifix all draw our eyes upward.

Even the rituals of Mass direct our eyes heavenward: the Book of Gospels is lifted on high, incense curls toward the heavens, candle smoke drifts heavenward, the consecrated host is raised, and even our voices are elevated in praise and prayer.

After the Christmas concert, we wandered outside on the church grounds where spotlights illuminated the Three Wise Men figures positioned at the bottom of a hill. During Advent, they will slowly be moved up toward the stable perched on top of the hill. Again, the verticality of movement. 

When we returned home, I pulled out a prayer card with a photo taken in 1925 of Blessed Pier Giorgio Frassati climbing a mountain. Written across the top are the words Verso l’alto, which translated literally means towards the heights. Those words have become a rallying cry of what it means to walk on this earth while striving to reach the summit of eternal life.

It’s a simple idea, but while verso l’alto can refer to the physical act of climbing, on a deeper level it refers to what we are doing while climbing: who we are as a child of God; how we act, forgive, live our faith, help the sick, love our neighbor. And during Advent, this season of preparation, we are reminded of those things we need in order to find meaning and purpose on our climb. 

Verso l'alto. 

Advent Sunday 2: Journeys (Setting Forth)

During these Sundays in Advent, I am posting a series called Journeys, personal reflections on the season of Advent presented in four parts – Readiness in Memory and Hope, Setting Forth, Verso l’Alto, and The Return. Join me in following in the footsteps of Joseph and Mary as they traveled to Bethlehem and the Wise Men as they followed the star, and let’s reflect on this journey we call life.

 Setting Forth

The suitcases were packed and standing in a line by the back door; I was in that in-between place of being ready, but not yet going, balanced between two worlds: the one I was coming from (familiar and safe) and the one I was going to (full of the unknown).

Incredibly exciting.

Equally as frightening.

Trip, journey, pilgrimage, sojourn … there are so many ways to describe that act of going forth, of venturing into what is unknown because any movement into the future will have the unexpected, the unplanned for, the closed doors and detours.

This past August I was standing next to my father on the stern of an Alaskan cruise ship. This cruise, sandwiched between my father’s lengthy hospital stay and his unexpected cancer diagnosis, had become a metaphor for sailing into unchartered waters of radiation and chemotherapy treatments, all of which awaited my father once we returned home.

There were so many unspoken questions with no clear answers, but sometimes you just have to live the question and take that first step of a journey, whether physical or metaphorical, and trust that with faith, hope, and more than a little courage the path will be illuminated with every step.

But oh …  it is that first step, when you have to let go of the known and grasp the unknown, which is the most challenging because we know, deep in our soul, that we are about to be changed.

During this Advent as we embark on a journey connecting memory and hope, Joseph and Mary show us what it is like to take that step into the unknown. And by their example, we are reminded how any journey – spiritual, physical, redemptive, etc. – begins with that first step. It may be the biggest step you may ever have to take, seemingly impossible and impossibly difficult; it may be a hesitant step, or a bold one; it may even be a forced one.

But that one step can become a leap of faith.

 

Advent Sunday 1: Journeys (Readiness in Memory and Hope)

For the next four Sundays I will share a series called Journeys, personal reflections on the season of Advent presented in four parts: Readiness in Memory and Hope, Setting Forth, Verso l’Alto, and The Return. Join me in this Advent journey toward that stable in Bethlehem.

Journeys: Readiness in Memory and Hope

Yesterday I ordered my 2025 planner. I always look forward to its arrival: empty pages with quotes and blank spaces to write down goals and, most importantly, the 365 empty squares lined up like stepping stones going forth into a year of tomorrows.

In big ways and in small, each of those stepping stones will lead 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, it will all be a journey.

Sometimes the journey will be planned and carefully mapped out, but other times it will yank and pull and drag us where we do not want to go—the illnesses, tears, and hardships that give us "what" without understanding "why". Sometimes the journey will be a battle with inner demons of self-doubt. Sometimes it will call us to foreign lands, a new career path, or a religious vocation. Oftentimes the journey will be exciting and adventurous, but just as often it will be a whirlwind of the ordinary with carpool, dinner, chores, work, and children.

I will turn the pages of my brand new planner. I will fill in the squares with birthdays and anniversaries and family trips. I will embrace the empty squares as stepping stones of hope rather than blank squares of the unknown.

Then, I will put away my old planner, its squares of yesterdays which were once tomorrows but are now 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 to reflect on it—to gather and learn and step forward in readiness.

In his book, Seek that Which is Above, Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger (Pope 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.