Bookmarks

It’s been a hectic two weeks. My oldest son finished his high school spring baseball season with the junior varsity and was called to swing up with the varsity as they make their post-season run. My middle son began his little league baseball practices and is finishing up his initial soccer season. We are spending time with our daughter teaching her how to catch, throw and hit a softball as her first year of micro-softball begins later this summer. I’m trying to keep up with the mowing, planning a home renovation project, learning to pray a new breviary (and learn a little Latin along the way) spending time with Buster the Beagle, and trying to be a husband and father in all things.

And of course there’s my day job.

I’ve stopped and started many a blog and have filled my designated hard drive folder with incomplete and random thoughts. Some of them having to do with whether or not I’ll continue to blog. Others with books. Some are of a political concern. One or two are more whimsical. None of them high enough on my busy priority list to make time to post them.

Allow me to report that no, I’m “not dead yet.” Just busy. (See the embedded video below in case you’re unfamiliar with the reference. My wee bit o’ whimsy for the day.)

The reason for my questioning as to whether I’ll continue to blog or not (or at least in what limited capacity I may do so) has to do with a renewed interest in contemplative prayer. Not only am I learning the 1962 era Divine Office (which I intend to write about at length later), but I have been reevaluating my calling, or gifts if you want to call them that. I had always thought my calling was to teach, and that writing was my means of teaching. But events lately have aligned that have caused me to consider that writing really isn’t my calling.

Or perhaps it’s just a loss of confidence in my ability to say anything worthy of reading by anyone.

So while I continue to wade through the busy spring I thought I’d share something I read last week during Session 9 of Fr. Barron’s Catholicism series. The session was about prayer and looked in particular at Thomas Merton (one of my favorites), Saint John of the Cross and Saint Teresa of Avila.

In the session’s section on St. Teresa a brief poem was brought to light. It is known as “Bookmark” because it was found in her prayer book after her death in 1582. Composed in Spanish, it has been variously translated into English and has been very widely circulated.

Let nothing disturb you,
Let nothing frighten you,
All things are passing away:
God never changes.
Patience obtains all things.
Whoever has God lacks nothing;
God alone suffices.

During this busy, often hectic, time of transition in my personal life as well as the frantic nature of our lives as parents, children, employees, neighbors, community members, informed (or uninformed) citizens, parishioners, and all of the rest of it, this is a poem and a prayer I am keeping close to my heart. In fact I’ve printed it out for use as a bookmark before I begin to pray each of the hours of the Divine Office.

So yes, “Bookmark” is my bookmark. In a life filled with stops and starts and misplaced bookmarks of varying kinds this one has entered my life at just the right time.

*****

Unclogging the drain

There’s a lot of construction going on downtown and apparently somebody made a boo-boo by cutting through a power line. Our entire office building went dark (as did a large portion of downtown Lincoln) and while the power was off for only ten minutes we’re still waiting for our networks to get back online. So while I wait I’m going to try to get this stuff that’s been collecting in my head and on scraps of paper into some sort of coherent form. Forgive me my bullet points.

• It seems I’ve become aware of a lot of death lately. People I know, people I don’t know, people who I don’t know but are known by people I know. From infants to teenagers to adults. Every one of them someone’s child. Every one of them leaving behind a grieving parent or parents. Death is a part of life…the great “circle of life” and all that. I get it, believe me. As a Catholic I believe I’m more acutely aware of it than I ever was pre-Catholicism and I’m glad my children don’t think of death as some foreign icky thing to be avoided at all cost. I wish I had more time to explain this now but unfortunately I don’t.
• Back to the recent awareness with death. A good friend of mine lost a son recently. He was in his twenties. Stacye is a writer and once some time passed she did as I knew she’d do: she wrote about it. And then did so again. And again. Beautifully in fact, and with the grace I knew she possessed. Naturally she has cut way back on posting things on Facebook and writing in general, at least publically. She may be keeping a private journal of her own thoughts. I hope she is. Because if I’m right she needs to write…needs to bring order to her thoughts and the swirling whirling emotions that have surrounded her in this time.
• Confession: I really hate writing. I hate it for the very reason stated above. Because I find myself almost hourly finding a subject to write about, some of them even interesting, that I want to share with others. But also that I want to share with myself and in some small way bring an order to the massive globstopper in my brain that seems to clutter up the place. I have to write it down as a means of eliminating clutter, and if I can help someone along the way by means of an understanding than it’s a bonus, baby. By placing it in the trash, or at times the recycling bin, I am able to keep it from growing out of control and stinking up the place. But damn it I wish it wasn’t that way sometimes. I wish I could just take something in by means of one of the senses and immediately let it go. But instead it ferments too long and then I don’t get wine. I get grape juice. And really crappy grape juice at that that leaves nothing but a headache behind. So I hate writing.

Not being able to write didn't work out so well for this guy.

• And that is precisely why I love to write.
• About the same time as my friend’s loss the dad I know across the street from our house also lost a child, his 16-year old son. I’ve written a little about it here. A few weeks later he and I were standing on his curb talking. While we spoke he kept glancing into my front yard where my two youngest were running and screaming and playing. “They grow up so fast, Jeff,” he said. And then he told me three things: “Play with your kids. Take them out for ice cream. Remember all of it.” And then he hugged me and went inside his house.
• Here’s what’s been marinating since he told me these three things. I am a steward of my children. I think all parents know this on some level. My oldest is 16, but I’m making a note to ask my friend Stacye sometime how she feels about it. My guess is that it never stops. As a Christian when talk turns to the principles of stewardship we mention three: time, talent and treasure. Time is another word for prayer; Talent is our service towards the Church and our fellow man; and Treasure is our tithing or monetary contributions towards worthy causes. So for weeks now I’ve been trying to fit a square peg into a round hole and write a clever blogpost about what this father said to me, kids, parenting and stewardship. The closest I came was
  • Time = Remember all of it.
  • Talent = Play with your kids.
  • Treasure = Take them out for ice cream.
• Or something like that. Either way, I thought his advice was pitch-perfect. But I couldn’t seem to unclog the drain and write it down.
• In both instances, Stacye and the dad across the street, I failed to reach out to them. I don’t know why I froze up when it counted, but I did. I told myself that I’d give them time to get through the first few days and week or so of numbness and being overwhelmed by it all, including all of the visitors and well-wishers. After that initial rush we are left alone, and that is when we need someone the most. So I waited. And then I began to feel I’d waited too long. Then I felt uncomfortable for having waited too long and I certainly couldn’t call or talk to them then, right? I cannot believe how poorly I did at this. Fail.
• A little over a week ago this email landed in one of my inboxes: “Special prayers are needed for Kirk N. and Family (wife Tania, sons Jordan, Ethan, & Gabriel) as they lost their unborn baby girl Thursday night. May God fill their hearts with strength & courage during this time of extreme sorrow.” Almost to the second I got a text from my wife to call her. She’d heard the news too.
• I didn’t meet Kirk until last fall when he initiated a men’s Bible Study/Prayer program at our parish called “That Man Is You”. We met for 13 weeks in the fall, took a break for Christmas/New Year’s, and just finished up the 13 weeks of the spring “semester.” We met every Wednesday morning from 6:30 to 7:30am (“we” being around 50 men) and it has been a real blessing to us men and our marriages, relationships, etc. Kirk is a quiet, unassuming man who once you get to know him…well, let’s just say the well runs deep within him. He’s one of those guys who doesn’t say much, but when he does you want to listen.
• Kirk’s wife Tania had just entered into the Catholic faith at the Easter Vigil under two weeks ago. A week ago on Wednesday morning as our prayer group was finishing up I asked Kirk how the Vigil had gone. He smiled broadly and said it was fantastic and that the boys (in grades 7, 4 and 1) were all so happy for their mom. And in just a few weeks they would be welcoming their new daughter. Life was wonderful.
• Except that twenty-four hours later it wasn’t so wonderful. Having noticed that she hadn’t felt the baby move that day Tania went to her doctor. There she received the worst news any of us could receive. For reasons unknown her little girl had died. Sunday morning at 3am she was induced and delivered little Sophia Gianna Therese. Our pastor was there to baptize Sophia and mourn with the family. Gianna was the confirmation name Tania had chosen when she became Catholic just a week before. St. Gianna Beretta Molla, pray for them.
• I found a short, beautiful poem when I was writing this.
• Yesterday morning I attended the funeral Mass for little Sophia. Her dad and her grandfather carried her tiny white coffin to the front of our church where it rested on the tiniest funeral bier I’ve seen. I went early, so as to sit in the pew alone with my thoughts. I prayed the Office for the Dead from the Liturgy of the Hours. The last lines of the opening hymn are

In him all our sorrow,
in him all our joy.

In him hope of glory,
in him all our love.

In him our redemption,
in him all our grace.

In him our salvation,
in him all our peace.

• I find Catholic funerals much more comforting, and I suppose that comes as no great surprise. I do because like a proper Catholic wedding, the main reason we are there is to honor God. God is the center and the emphasis of the event. Not the bride or the happy couple. And not the honored dead. Of course, they are prominent and we are there to honor them and their memory, but the focus remains on God and our faith, whether within the Sacrament of Marriage and the union of the man and woman, or in the hope of joining Christ in the Resurrection.
• The readings, music, and homily by Fr. Johnson were perfect. I was a mess through the first part of the Mass but I composed myself and focused on the liturgy. That was a tremendous help.
• And then the three brothers processed to the front with the offeratory gifts before the Liturgy of the Eucharist while the pianist sang a moving version of Ten Thousand Angels. Cue water faucets.
• For some reason I thought back to when I was a teenager and my thoughts turned to funerals. I remember thinking that for my own funeral I wanted something angst-ridden like Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here” or “Dust in the Wind” by Kansas played at my funeral. Thank God that didn’t happen.
• And not just because of the crappy funeral music. But because I’m still, you know…here.
• If I were to choose now, I’d lean more towards having a slower version of this song played at my funeral Mass. That and a little Mozart for good measure.
• Kirk said a few brief words at the end of his daughter’s funeral about how much the family had appreciated all the prayers to give them strength to get through this time. He mentioned a quote by Saint Faustina that he’d read in her diary (a book I highly recommend as one of the pillars of spiritual reading). I wish I’d captured it correctly, but paraphrasing her she’d said “Sometimes God creates children for his own purposes.” Kirk said it brought him great comfort to think that perhaps that was his daughter’s role.
• While I can’t recall  the exact quote above, I did find this one from an early Father of the Church, St. Gregory of Nyssa:

Well, your child may have departed from you, but he has gone to Christ the Lord. For you his eyes have been shut, but they are opened to the eternal light: he is gone from your table, but is now added to the table of angels. The plant was uprooted from here, but planted in paradise. From the earthly kingdom he was transferred to the heavenly kingdom. You see what was exchanged for what. Are you sad because you no longer see the beauty of the face of your child? But this happens, because you do not see the real beauty of the soul with which he rejoices in the heavenly feast. How beautiful indeed is the eye that sees God! How sweet indeed is the mouth that is adorned with divine melodies!

• All of these events remind us that life does go on. It really is a big, and whole, circle. We’re born, we live, we die. We recently spent forty days of preparation for Easter, experiencing the triumph of Palm Sunday, and the agonies of Christ’s Passion. We celebrated the victory of Easter and the Resurrection, and thus began fifty days of celebration. Forty days to prepare for a fifty day party. I’ll take it. But even during the party there will be reminders that the struggle on this earthly plane continue. Since Easter we celebrated Divine Mercy Sunday, children have received their First Holy Communion, prayer groups continue as do weddings and funerals. We have mourned and we have celebrated. We continue to be the best stewards we can be. We are the Church Militant on earth, waiting to ultimately join the Church Triumphant in Heaven.
• Last thoughts: After the funeral I went home to change for work. The house was empty except for our beagle puppy Buster, so I took him out to the backyard to enjoy some sunshine before I had to drive to work. I sat on the park bench in the little garden area (a work in progress) while he frolicked in the warm sunshine, rolling around in the grass and soaking in every ray of the sun possible.
• While I sat there a squirrel perched in one of the tall evergreen trees in our fence line chirked angrily at Buster. And I mean this squirrel went off. I laughed out loud because years ago when we still had our first dog, Fenway, we rented a house that had a large oak tree in the middle of the small back yard where he would trap squirrels. They were climb down to the lowest branch possible and chew him out for treeing them. I love that memory. Looks like I’ll be hearing more of it (the chirking) going forward.
• Sitting on the weatherworn bench I make a note to myself to replace the wood slats. These are getting a little weak having been exposed to the elements for a few years. Twelve small pieces of lumber should do the trick. And then I decide it’s time to build the wooden arbor trellis over the bench, too. And thus a summer project is born.
• Is there anything more wonderful than working with our hands? For my money there is nothing more satisfying than creating or working on something in this manner. It’s almost divine. Maybe it is.
• Before going inside I decide to join Buster for a roll around the grass and soak up some of the sun’s rays. Why should he have all the fun? So I do. Therapy.
• I hate writing. I love it so.

***

Plunger to the face image source.

The Presence of Christmas

The Presence of Christmas
by William Arthur Ward

Christmas is not just a season,
Christmas is not just a day,
Christmas is more than a reason
For parties, presents and play.

Christmas is truly the essence
Of joy that the Savior brings;
Christmas is surely the presence
Of Jesus, the Kings of Kings!

*****

The seasonal parties are over: the office party, school party, family Christmas parties and the year-end celebrations. All that remains for some is a day on the couch spent with college football bowl games.

The presents have all been opened. The wrapping paper and battery packaging is being recycled or headed for the landfill. The newness and excitement of some presents has already worn off for some. Some may be broken from exhuberant use upon being opened by enthusiastic children. For some the bill will come due in next month’s credit card statement.

It’s no wonder we’re worn down from all the play. The miles traveled via highways and airways. Preparations for hosting parties or traveling to them. Christmas shopping, holiday programs at school. Church services. Putting up all the decorations during Thanksgiving five weeks ago and most are putting them all away just a few weeks later. Stored in boxes and totes and carried up or down stairs. Christmas has been “put away” for another year.

Only it has not been put away. You or I can no more put away Christmas than we can stop the sun from rising in the east each morning. It is always Christmas somewhere where its essence lives and its joy is present.

Today the Church commemorates the feast of St. Basil the Great (330 – 379) and St. Gregory Nazianzen (330 – 389), two friends from the 4th century. I read a quote from St. Gregory this morning in one of his sermons in which he  was talking about he and St. Basil’s lifelong friendship, pursuit of learning and of holiness. At it’s end he said:

Different men have different names, which they owe to their parents or to themselves, that is, to their own pursuits and achievements. But our great pursuit, the great name we wanted, was to be Christians, to be called Christians.

The pursuit of that end, to be Christian, is to experience His essence and His joy. He is present in us and through us. In this way we will always have Christmas.

Be born in my heart

Remember then how our fathers worked out their salvation; remember the sufferings through which the Church has grown, and the storms the ship of Peter has weathered because it has Christ on board. Remember how the crown was attained by those whose sufferings gave new radiance to their faith. The whole company of saints bears witness to the unfailing truth that without real effort no one wins the crown. ~ from a letter written by St. Thomas Becket

Meister Eckhart once said: ‘What good is it that Christ was born 2,000 years ago if he is not born now in your heart?’

“Lord, we do far too much celebrating your actual coming in our hearts. I believe in God, but do I believe in God-in-me? I believe in God in heaven, but do I believe in God-on-earth? I believe in God out there, but do I believe in God-with-us?

“Lord, be born in my heart. Come alive in me this Christmas! Amen.”

(Living Faith, Vol. 4, # 3)

In his letter St. Thomas speaks of how many are needed to plant and water the faith that is spreading across the lands after the Incarnation. Eckhart, speaking more intimately to us as individuals, asks whether we can believe in our personal relationship with the babe. To kings and governments who see themselves as lords on Earth both thoughts are dangerous to their insecure grasping at power. History is replete with the results, and here are but two: Herod slaughtering babies in Bethlehem in order to kill the infant Jesus; Henry II inflaming four swordsmen to murder his former best friend Thomas in his own cathedral on December 29, 1170.

Today is the feast day for St. Thomas Becket (1118-1170). Becket was born in London and became a close friend of King Henry II. He was only a deacon when he was appointed chancellor of England. When he was ordained as archbishop of Canterbury, he underwent an abrupt conversion of life and began to defend the Church’s rights against the king. Becket had led a very debauched and worldly life and was placed into his position by his best friend Henry II in order to be a puppet of the state. Henry could not have foreseen the changes that his friend underwent once he became archbishop, however, and the two became enemies.

While the Christmas season is a time of unbridled joy, we need also recognize that not everyone shares our joy. Having the courage to follow the Holy Infant may gain you some enemies in this life. It is a courage that many lack as they love the opinions of friends or family more. Becket could have continued to live a long and easy life in the service of his friend and king. Instead he loved Christ; a love born in his heart.

If you’ve never seen it, you owe it to yourself to watch at least once the 1964 movie Becket. Peter O’Toole and Richard Burton are magnificent in bringing this story to life.

“Keep it simple!”

Edward Hays, writing in A Pilgrim’s Almanac, said:

It is fitting that the feast of St. Nicholas comes at the beginning of Advent and the beginning of the shopper’s season. As the patron saint of shoppers he proclaims, “Keep it simple!” Keep it simple enough to fit in a shoe or a stocking.

One gift that could fit in a shoe, or in a stocking hanging on the fireplace, is a note that speaks of one of our most precious gifts, the gift of time. Such a St. Nicholas note might read: “The gift I give to you is half an hour of quality conversation each night right after the dishes are done.” Or, “The gift I give to you is one Saturday a month to be with you and do whatever you want to do.” We can appreciate the value of such a gift if we keep in mind that according to a recent survey, the average married couple in America has only 30 minutes a week of communication outside of exchanges that take place at the dinner table, and between parent and child is only 14 minutes. As you can see, the possibilities are almost unlimited for these St. Nicholas shoe gifts.

Come, St. Nicholas, patron of shoppers and gift-seekers, and make Christmas this year fun, creative and love-filled.

*****

St. Nicholas, whose feast we celebrate today, while still in his youth was very generous with the fortune he had inherited from his wealthy parents. For this reason we honor him as an intercessor in all our material and financial needs. Born in Italy around the year 270, Nicholas was the bishop of Myra in Lycia (now part of Turkey). Nicholas died in the middle of the fourth century and, particularly since the tenth century, has been honored by the whole Church. He had a reputation for secret gift-giving, such as putting coins in the shoes of those who left them out for him, and thus became the model for Santa Claus. His feastday and gift-giving traditions in some countries are celebrated on December 6.

This is a great example of Christian celebrations that are based on a tradition of giving and of generosity. In our world today the advertising at Christmas time can lead to a focus way too much on receiving. This year, remember the example of the real Saint Nick upon whom that jolly old elf is based but whose image is warped and distorted by Madison Avenue. Focus on the giving, and not just the giving of things. Give a little of the most precious commodity any of us own to your loved ones: time.

[Admin - I admit that I'd never heard of the tradition of shoe notes or gifts to celebrate his feast day until recently. To see great examples of the tradition in action, visit GardenMama, Everyday Beauty, or The German Foodie.]

The Longing of Saints

I wanted to write something about today being All Saints Day but was stymied. Drawing a blank last night and this morning during a break at work it wasn’t until I went to noon Mass at St. Mary’s to be present at the Communion of Saints that an outline came into focus.

During the Mass readings I hear the responsorial psalm from Psalm 24. We repeat the response four times: Lord, this is the people that longs to see your face.

Soon after I hear today’s Gospel reading. It is from Matthew, the famous teaching by Jesus known at The Beatitudes in which he teaches:

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they who mourn, for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the land. Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be satisfied. Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy. Blessed are the clean of heart, for they will see God. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God. Blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness, for theirs is the Kingdom of heaven. Blessed are you when they insult you and persecute you and utter every kind of evil against you falsely because of me. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward will be great in heaven.”

Later, I walk forward, hands folded at my chest. Fr. Dietrich holds the host before me saying “The body of Christ.”

“Amen,” I respond and tilt back my head to receive the source and summit of my faith on my tongue. Making the sign of the cross I walk back to my pew to kneel while the host dissolves on my tongue. I pray the Amina Christi, a prayer from the 14th century:

Soul of Christ, sanctify me.
Body of Christ, save me.
Blood of Christ, inebriate me.
Water from the side of Christ, wash me.
Passion of Christ, strengthen me.
O Good Jesus, hear me.
Within your wounds hide me.
Permit me not to be separated from you.
From the wicked foe, defend me.
At the hour of my death, call me
and bid me come to you
That with your saints I may praise you
For ever and ever. Amen.

I repeat a line: That with your saints I may praise you. I thought of how we are all called to be saints. Each and every one of us, called to live the best lives we can. Called to be merciful. To be clean of heart. To be peacemakers. To be persecuted for the sake of righteousness. Called to rejoice when faced with such persecution for a great reward in Heaven. One of mine will surely be a reunion with my unborn son who is waiting for me.

Lord, this is the people that longs to see your face.

Adam Udai

These thoughts stayed with me as I enjoyed a warm, sunny walk back to my office under a clear, blue sky. While settling back to my desk with my lunch I read a headline about remembering a terrorist attack on an ancient church in Baghdad  a year ago. This is a church founded by St. Thomas (the doubting apostle) prior to his journeying into India. Once thriving and responsible for so much missionary good in the region and the world, it is yet another community of Christians facing extinction in their ancient homeland, much like the Copts in Egypt.

On October 31, 2010 Al-Qaeda terrorists attacked Our Lady of Deliverance Chaldean Catholic Church in Baghdad during a Sunday evening church service. The terrorists shot at parishioners and set fire to their explosives, ultimately killing 58 parishioners, including two priests. The youngest victim was Adam Udai, aged 3, who pleaded with one of the terrorists to “please stop” and cried out “Enough!” before the terrorists put a gun to his head and murdered him.

Lord, this is the people that longs to see your face.

This morning in the Office of Readings for today, I had read Saint Bernard’s words: “The saints want us to be with them, and we are indifferent. The souls of the just await us, and we ignore them . . . we must seek the world which is above and set our mind on the things of heaven. Let us long for those who are longing for us, hasten to those who are waiting for us, and ask those who look for our coming to intercede for us. . .  We should not only want to be with the saints, we should also hope to possess their happiness.”

These words come back to me while I read the accounts of little Adam’s pleas and the ordeal that I’m ashamed to admit I’d forgotten about. I do grow indifferent. I do ignore the examples set by those who came before me or who are among us still. I can wallow too much in the trials and tribulations of today and forget to keep my eyes on what lies beyond this world. I profusely mourned the loss of our son Nathan when it happened almost a decade ago, going through the classic grieving process. Especially anger. I was angry for my loss as much if not more than for his. His pain was over while mine continued. I read the stories of children like Adam and become angry. But we are not called to be angry. For it we are, where does it end? When you have examples of those who gave up their lives for their faith (History is full of them. There were more Christian martyrs in the 20th century than the previous nineteen combined.) you learn to draw strength from their example. I strive to possess their happiness. They are members of the Church Triumphant. I am still a member of the Church Militant. The Ecclesia Militans. My, and our, struggle continues. We bear witness like the brave Christians of Iraq do in the video I’ve attached at the end.

While writing this piece I peek ahead and see that during Vespers tonight will be read this prayer and intercession: “You gave the martyrs the strength to bear witness even if it meant shedding their blood: make Christians faithful witnesses to your Son. – Lord, bring us salvation through the intercession of the saints.”

Lord, we are the people that longs to see your face.

And you Christians of Iraq, when sadness fills your soul and you do not see a future, look upwards, to the God of Heaven and Earth, and remember well who you are and let the world know!

We witness with our lives, so that the world can see what is happening to us, so that those who have plugged their ears and those who have shut their mouths will speak about who we are. We are the Christians of Iraq!

Walking with God and St. Francis

God Would Kneel Down
by Saint Francis of Assisi

I think God might be a little prejudiced.
For once He asked me to join Him on a walk
through this world,

and we gazed into every heart on this earth,
and I noticed He lingered a bit longer
before any face that was weeping,

and before any eyes that were laughing.

And sometimes when we passed
a soul in worship

God too would kneel down.

I have come to learn:
God adores His creation.

Source: Poet Seers

Awake the silence of the morn

I awoke this morning to a sea of fog. Not the normal fog that is my thought process before the first cup of coffee mind you, but an actual blanket of mist that had settled upon our neighborhood and city last night. I quickly brewed a cup of coffee and headed out to our back patio with the Liturgy of the Hours tucked under my arm.

Today the Church celebrates St. Monica (b. 333 – d. 387), the mother of St. Augustine. She was a remarkable woman and a model for all of us, most especially for mothers. Before I settled in to my chair to pray I snapped a quick photo of the tree line. Had I been out just 20-30 minutes sooner the photo would have been very gray, with just the shadows of the trees evident. But you get the idea.

Selections from this morning’s readings:

Dawn finds me ready to welcome you, My God.

Now as our anthems, upward borne,
Awake the silence of the morn,
Enrich us with thy gifts of grace,
From heaven, thy blissful dwelling place!

Truly calm and quiet I have made my spirit:
quiet as a weaned child in its mother’s arms –
like an infant is my soul.

The second reading from the Office of Readings this morning is a selection from St. Augustine’s Confessions, in which he is describing the final days of Monica’s life. From my seat in my backyard I felt connected to them as I read his description of he and his ill mom leaning against a window and looking into the yard.

Because the day when she was to leave this life was drawing near – a day known to you, though we were ignorant of it – she and I happened to be alone, through (as I believe) the mysterious workings of your will. We stood leaning against a window which looked out on a garden within the house where we were staying, at Ostia on the Tiber; for there, far from the crowds, we were recruiting our strength after the long journey, in order to prepare ourselves for our voyage overseas. We were alone, conferring very intimately. Forgetting what lay in the past, and stretching out to what was ahead, we enquired between ourselves, in the light of present truth, into what you are and what the eternal life of the saints would be like, for Eye has not seen nor ear heard nor human heart conceived it.

An anniversary, and a medal lost

I have a small figurine of a monk on my desk at work that I purchased over a year ago at my local Catholic bookstore. It is a figurine of one of my greatest heroes, a Catholic saint and priest. It wasn’t long ago that someone asked me who it is. It was a sincere question, differing from a few that I’ve received that are of the more snide or snickering variety that ask who the cute little action figure is supposed to be.

I explained that this man, Prisoner #16670, died on August 14, 1941, in cell block 13, the worst of all punishments handed out by the National Socialists in Auschwitz prior to the employment of the ovens and gas chambers that would later follow with malicious efficiency.

Maximilian Kolbe, a Roman Catholic priest, had been taken prisoner by the Nazis, as had been vast numbers of his fellow men, Poles, Jews, Catholics, and Lutherans. He was captured by the Nazis in 1941 and was sent to the concentration camp Auschwitz on the 17th of February of that year. The Catholic priests in this camp were singled out for cruel treatment and Maximilian Kolbe was no exception. He was horse-whipped by a guard 50 times and was left for dead. Father Kolbe survived the beating and returned to comforting those suffering and dying.

On the last day of July, 1941, a prisoner had attempted to escape the terror camp. As punishment, and to discourage any future escape attempts, the commandant called out ten names—the names of those to be starved to death in retribution for the one man trying to escape. One of the names called had belonged to a husband and father named Francis Gajowniczek. As Gajowniczek pleaded his case, Father Kolbe came forward and offered his life for that man. The commandant, probably rather shocked, agreed, and Kolbe, along with nine others, stripped naked and entered the 3-foot high concrete bunker. Deprived of food, water, light, and toilets, the men died one at a time. Kolbe survived the longest, comforting the other nine men during their torture and death. When the commandant had the room searched two weeks later and found Father Kolbe alive, he furiously ordered him to be injected with carbolic acid. And thus he died.

The man who removed Kolbe’s body offered a wondrous testimony under oath. Kolbe, he said, had been in a state of definite ecstasy, his eyes focused on something far beyond the bunker, his arm outstretched, ready to accept the death by the chemicals to be injected into him.

That’s no mere action figure sitting on my desk. It is a representation of the saint of the twentieth century: patron to over 200 million men, women, and children murdered by their governments because they were each an unrepeatable center for dignity and freedom, made for beauty and eternity, not for the whim of a governor, bureaucrat, commandant or ideologue.

Seventy years ago yesterday, August 14, my adopted patron was murdered by fanatics. Father Kolbe was a pioneer in the art of communications and publishing. He also promoted the wearing of the Miraculous Medal. I’ve written of it before.

I’ve worn my medal faithfully around my neck for ten years. Or at least I did. Yesterday, on the 70^th anniversary of St. Max’s martyrdom, I lost my medal. I’ve lost it several times before as it persisted in falling off the 30 inch sterling silver chain that held it around my neck. But it was never lost for long and always came back. And once again I’d attempt to repair the ring that kept it on the chain. Alas, this time it appears it’s gone for good as I lost it last night at a picnic celebrating my oldest son’s baseball team and their achievements this summer. I didn’t discover it was missing until I removed the chain before bed to place it on my dresser.

I have several more medals however, several of them are sent to me each year by this or that charity appeal. I plan on attaching a new one this week. And I still have the rosary I made by hand six years ago this month (see photo below). I used garnet stones (my birthstone) for the Our Father beads, and silver rose petal beads for the Hail Marys. The centerpiece is a St. Max medal, and the crucifix is what’s known as a “penal” cross. Since St. Max was martyred in the prison of Auschwitz, I thought it appropriate.

I’m not superstitious. The lost medal held no powers. It was not a “good luck charm”. It was a reminder to me of Mary’s message to St. Catherine Laboure in 1830. It was a reminder of Father Kolbe’s life and death. It was a reminder of the power of prayer and contained the following prayer on the front of the medal:

“Oh Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to thee.”

And so on the anniversary of St. Max’s greatest triumph, I lost a treasured possession. But we are taught by Jesus not to be tied to our possessions aren’t we? It will be replaced, and I will continue to remember my friend Max. I will also continue to pray, as it seems to me that in these times we need it more than ever.

Whither Valentine?

Lacy hearts, Cupid and candy. Charlie Brown and the little red haired girl. Hallmark and ProFlowers. All are things that immediately come to mind whenever Valentine’s Day approaches. But lost in what the more cynical among us claim is a holiday foisted upon us by retailers in the long post-Christmas spending spree is knowing who Valentine was. Origins are a bit sketch on this point and almost nothing is known about these early Christian men other that they died for love. More specifically they died for their love of Christ. Here’s a primer.

At least three different Saint Valentines, all of them martyrs, are mentioned in the early martyrologies under date of 14 February. One is described as a priest at Rome, another as bishop of Interamna, and these two seem both to have suffered in the second half of the third century and to have been buried on the Flaminian Way, but at different distances from the city. Of the third Saint Valentine, who suffered in Africa with a number of companions, nothing further is known. Some sources cite as many as fourteen martyrs who shared the name Valentine.

The origin of St. Valentine, and how many St. Valentines there were, remains a mystery. One opinion is that he was a Roman martyred for refusing to give up his Christian faith. Other historians hold that St. Valentine was a temple priest jailed for defiance during the reign of Claudius. Whoever he was, Valentine really existed because archaeologists have unearthed a Roman catacomb and an ancient church dedicated to Saint Valentine. In 496 AD Pope Gelasius marked February 14th as a celebration in honor of his martyrdom.

The most known Valentine was a priest in Rome, who, with St. Marius and his family, assisted the martyrs in the persecution under Claudius II, known as Claudius Gothicus. He was apprehended imprisoned upon being caught marrying Christian couples and otherwise aiding Christians who were being persecuted by Claudius in Rome, which was a crime at the time. He was sent by the emperor to the prefect of Rome, who, on finding all his promises to make him renounce his faith in effectual, condemned him to be beaten with clubs and stones. When that failed to kill him he was beheaded outside of the Flaminian Gate on February 14, about the year 270.

The popular customs associated with Saint Valentine’s Day had their origin in a conventional belief generally received in England and France during the Middle Ages, that on 14 February, i.e. half way through the second month of the year, the birds began to pair. Thus in Chaucer’s Parliament of Foules we read:

For this was sent on Seynt Valentyne’s day
Whan every foul cometh ther to choose his mate.

For this reason the day was looked upon as specially consecrated to lovers and as a proper occasion for writing love letters and sending lovers’ tokens. Those who chose each other under these circumstances seem to have been called by each other their Valentines. In the Paston Letters, Dame Elizabeth Brews writes about a match she hopes to make for her daughter, addressing the favored suitor:

And, cousin mine, upon Monday is Saint Valentine’s Day and every bird chooses himself a mate, and if it like you to come on Thursday night, and make provision that you may abide till then, I trust to God that ye shall speak to my husband and I shall pray that we may bring the matter to a conclusion.

Shortly after the young lady herself wrote a letter to the same man addressing it “Unto my rightwell beloved Valentine, John Paston Esquire”.

This feast day of St. Valentine, becoming associated with romantic love, along with the medieval revival of interest in classic literature, led to the practice of using Cupid in place of the Christian martyr. In Roman mythology, Cupid, the son of Venus, was a winged immortal who had the mischievous habit of shooting invisible arrows into the hearts of mortals, which inflamed them with blind and helpless passion – for the next person they might see.

The flower crowned skull of St Valentine is exhibited in the Basilica of Santa Maria in Cosmedin, Rome. Not exactly what you think of when you picture that cherub Cupid, is it?

Sources: catholic.org, newadvent.com, lonekeep.com, Wikipedia.