A View on Perspective

Do you know what I find discouraging? There is no perspective anymore. As a society, we are spoon-fed by the media and the stories written and images projected only offer a telescopic view of what is America. And what is even more discouraging is that the rest of the world is offered this same narrow view and thinks, “That is America.”

But it is not.

According to the latest statistics (2024), there are 340 million people living in the United States.

According to the latest statistics (2019), there are 19,500 incorporated cities, towns, and villages in the United States.

Every night Headline News claims that the United States is in a crisis and that political, social, and economic division is ripping the country apart,

that systemic racism is rampant in all levels of our society,

or that every city is plagued by riots and civil unrest and looting.

But chances are, despite all these things, you listen to news anchors, watch the news clips, and think, "That's not my experience. That is not my country, or my city. That is not me."

Because most of the 19,500 incorporated cities, towns, and villages in the United States are NOT Chicago, Seattle, Los Angeles, or New York City. 

Because most of the 340 million people living in the United States are citizens who work side by side, play together at recess, socialize at parties, and worship at churches, synagogues, temples, or mosques. They rebuild each other’s houses after a hurricane, bring food to a neighbor, volunteer at homeless shelters. And they do all this despite differences in economic, social, political, racial, or religious differences. 

This does not mean that problems should not be acknowledged and that we should not step forward to be part of a collective change. As citizens, we carry the responsibility to not only promote the ideals of our country, but to remind each other (and the world) that we are not defined by large inner cities, strident politicians, famous movie stars, or media news outlets.

We are the “rest of the story.” The one not told.

Ultimately, we are all imperfect parts that make up the whole, but focus through a telescopic lens on the former and you lose sight of the latter—a country which covers 3.8 million square miles, its land as varied, complex, colorful, and complicated as its people. 

This is America, from sea to shining sea.

Holy Saturday: 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.

something, nothing at all

i can sing a silly song

of sixpence

or croon a lullaby

ignoring high notes

or really low ones

half mindful of sharps and flats

 

i can dance a dance

of two-step or four-square

with someone

or no one at all

twirling and twisting to a rhythm

or the drumming of my heart

 

i can draw a drawing

with ink on parchment

or do a pencil sketch

color curlicues of flowers

or starry starry nights

with crayola crayons

 

i can weave a tapestry of words

long sentence-threads

climbing and looping

into paragraphs and pages

essays and stories

this poem

 

i can do many things

but no thing well

 

i’m a songbird in my mind

a ballerina in my head

caravaggio stirs my soul

and shakespeare my thoughts

a jill of all trades

master of none

*from the files of very bad poetry by bia

Happy Birthday to the Bambino on His 21st Birthday

Today, my bambino turns 21. I should probably stop calling Timothy “my bambino” but I’m the mom and I can do what I want😉; besides, how is it even possible that I am a mom to a 21-year-old?

So. Twenty-one. I could write an introspective post on what a mature, responsible young man he has turned out to be. Or that he is still holding a 4.0 grade point average, all while being involved in campus activities, the Catholic Center, and intramural sports. Or how he keeps us entertained, knows everything there is to know about cars, and would like to meet the guys from Top Gear. I could also mention that he does NOT like to read fiction (a definite flaw in an otherwise stellar young man) but you know that already.

What I really want to talk about is Timothy, my Travel Buddy. He may be Joe’s Sports Buddy, but he is my very own Travel Buddy. Whenever we accompany Joe on one of his work trips—Washington DC, Kansas City, California, etc.—Timothy and I are on our own while Joe attends meetings. We take the subway into DC, the train into San Francisco, and a rental car through the serpentine roads of Lake Tahoe. We map out our days, plan our meals, and look for adventure. He (begrudgingly) takes a selfie of the two of us. He has excellent navigation and map skills.

He is also a good sport because in his role as Travel Buddy he has been dragged to many an art museum—ALL the art museums in Washington DC, the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art in Kansas City (this one TWICE), the outdoor sculpture garden in New Orleans, the High Museum in Atlanta, and many, many more. Excluding myself, he has probably been to more art museums than anyone else in the family. See? A good sport. Of course, each visit comes with assurances of lunch, a souvenir (usually a Lego), and a promise that we will leave at a predetermined time. 

And yes, he groans and he moans and he complains but we manage to have fun ... especially with modern art because it makes us laugh. That red triangle on canvas? A piece of pizza! That rope sculpture? A brownie! When he is not associating artwork with food, Timothy is the most articulate art critic and uses words such as stupid, dumb, boring, and idiotic. 

All this to say that I love my Travel Buddy, whether or not he loves art museums.

So, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Timothy!

 

 

lifetimes

 lifetimes

come in, come in!

such a pleasant surprise, this

sunshine at my doorstep!

excuse the dust, the clutter

we must …

but first, coffee? tea?

please, sit

 

YOU are here

you ARE here

you are HERE

 

remember when?

what happened to?

did you ever?

 

cascading thoughts

overlapping sentences

avalanche of words

babel, but not

 

laughing through tears

healing through scars

lives re-lived

 

echoes

from a lifetime of yesterdays

converge in the now

 

this moment,

the two of us

sitting at a kitchen table

with memories etched on its surface,

holding court

to a lifetime of tomorrows

 

*from the files of very bad poetry by bia

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.