St. Kateri Tekakwitha’s Shrine

We’re reminded throughout the year and the Liturgical calendar of many of the saints through their feast days. Recently, we’ve observed Sts. Simon and Jude, the North American Martyrs and Pope St. John XXIII and Pope St. John Paul II.

Today is All Saints’ Day; that day on the calendar that honors all the saints. Although not today, it is often a holy day of obligation where Catholics are expected to attend Mass. I did attend this morning, and since there is no specific saint mentioned it is a good time to remember the saints that are important to us.

The saint I chose for my confirmation name is St. Elen (of Caernarfon). I wrote about her back when I was going through my sacraments.

Last week was my annual fall retreat, and today I get to tell you about one of the unexpected directions I was sent on during that week: the National Shrine of St. Kateri Tekakwitha.

She was one of the three saints I considered for my confirmation before I was finally led to St. Elen.

I contemplated having St. Kateri because:

She was local,
She was Native American, and
Her name began with a K like mine.

When I read her story what stood out to me was how she was the only Christian among her relatives, and that struck a chord with me during my conversion. I was the only one moved to follow Jesus Christ, and so was the only one talking about Scriptural things. Obviously, I wasn’t trying to convert my family, but that single similarity stayed with me.

At four, Kateri lost her immediate family to a small pox outbreak. She had contracted the virus, and was left scarred by her illness. Upon her death, witnesses say her scars disappeared.

She appeared to three people in the days after her death, and one year later, she appeared again to Father Chauchetière who painted what is considered the oldest portrait of the saint:

Two of the four National Shrines that honor St. Kateri are in two small nearby villages in upstate New York about a five hour drive south from her burial place in Quebec.

I had heard of Kateri before I became a Catholic, but really only knew that she had been beatified and her place was local. I’ve had a strong connection to Native Americans since I was a child. I think I find myself drawn to cultures other than my own. I had just begun attending Mass when Kateri was canonized in 2012. I received a wallet card from the Shrine as they celebrated her canonization and our whole Diocese celebrated, and I’ve carried that with me since that day in October.

That day in October also held an unrelated significance for me as well: it was the original due date of my middle child, who decided to be two weeks early, lucky for both of us since as it was, the day he was born I was in labor for two days, unbeknownst to me.

I had no intention of traveling to a saint’s shrine on my retreat, but when I glanced at a map and saw how close it was to where I had been on Saturday, I realized that I didn’t have many opportunities to visit something so significant, and since she did have some inspiration for me, I was excited to go once it had been pointed out to me.

It was raining when I got there, so I browsed around the gift shop until it was a light enough mist for me to walk around. The buildings of the shrine close this weekend for the winter (because none of the buildings have heat), so my timing couldn’t have been more perfect. I plan to return when they have one of their events through the spring and summer.

I wandered through the museum first and then upstairs to St. Peter’s Chapel, which is a commemoration to the chapel that Kateri was baptized in. The nearby spring that was used to baptize her (and other converts at that time) still flows. Visitors claim healings and cures after drawing from the holy spring and praying for intercession by St. Kateri.

She lived in the village up the hill for most of her life. It is currently the only completely excavated Iroquois site in the country. Although the area had a history, it hadn’t been a shrine to her until Pope St. John Paul II beatified her in 1980.

The air was cool, the mist was wet and the sky was grey. I hadn’t realized until last week how much that type of weather is my weather. Very often I talk about my trip to Wales; more like pilgrimage, and when something reminds me of Wales, it is much more than the anecdote of a week’s vacation. There are so many non-religious, spiritual things associated with the simple phrase, it reminds me of Wales.

The fact that walking around the wet grass, seeing the bright yet muted oranges and reds against the greens, browns and greys as light played off the puddles was so reminiscent of my Wales that I had to sit and catch my breath. I was also moved to sit for quite a while in the chapel reading James Martin’s second prayer. The spirit was truly with me on this day. It was the perfect reading for the place; a perfect place to meditate on the Gospel, on Fr. Martin’s reflections, and to feel my own.

I walked.

I sat.

I prayed.

I meditated.

It was very consoling; reassuring of all that is right in the world.

It was exceptionally reflective and it gave me the impulse and the space to be reflective.

It reminded me of why I became a Catholic as well as why I became a writer. Both are similar answers even though they don’t come easily to the conscious mind: I can’t be anything else. Neither was anything that I was looking for, but instead they found me. Both are faith driven, both are involuntary, instinctive, and they both need caring to keep them potent.

Let me share the beauty of St. Kateri Tekakwitha’s Shrine with you:

Bell Tower

Follow Me (My Personal Reflection on Mark 1:17)

Prior to two years ago, I hadn’t known much about Jesus, either the man or the Son of G-d. As a child, we never learned about his Jewish heritage, and anyone who had ever reminded us that He was Jewish did so in a condescending, but ‘he’s better now’ way.

Growing up, most of our friends were Christian, but our neighborhoods and schools were mixed, so being either was not terribly strange for us. I understood that Christmas was Jesus’ birthday, although I really did not understand Easter at all. It seemed strange to me, but all in all it wasn’t that big a deal.

I’ve always believed in G-d. Despite that most Jews don’t, I’ve always believed in an afterlife. I have this love-hate relationship with a Shirley Temple movie that takes place on a boat with a boy and it’s supposed to be heaven, both pre-birth and after-death, I don’t know. I feel the same way about Dead Again and DOA.

I follow the traditions of my family’s holidays, and carried that over to my married and family life. While we didn’t have a Seder, we did observe Passover, and consumed no bread for eight days. My kids would bring bag lunches to school during the holiday. We still use my parents’ menorahs at Chanukah.

When I wandered into the church two years ago in March, no one, especially me would have expected that twenty-five months later, I would be baptized Catholic. It hadn’t occurred to me. Not even for a moment.

Afterwards, the hardest question I have been asked sounds so simple: “Why did you decide to become Catholic?” Or alternatively, “why did you decide to join the Catholic Church?”

Unfortunately, for simple questions there is no simple answer.

The most truthful answer is that I didn’t choose anything, but there is no thirty-second sound bite to follow that introduction to the answer of my conversion or as I like to describe it, my transition.

In the middle of an unexpected crisis, I took the words of the Count of Monte Cristo (wait and hope) and a sign in Schenectady (Job) and together they were a sign that I needed a place to think. Not an hour before, I thought I would stop in and hide myself in a pew, but thought that idea was slightly crazy. Now, with Job leading the way, I drove back towards home and went in.

There were two main reasons that I allowed myself to go. One, no one would ask me why I was there, and two, no one would ask me to leave. Somehow, deep down, I knew both of those things.

That evening, a friend, G in Philadelphia posted a choir rendition of Psalm 23 and T in Nebraska sent me an uplifting, supportive message. Two weeks later, T suggested that I stay for Mass, telling me that Easter Masses were really beautiful. I couldn’t be there for Easter Day (family plans), but I began on the Tuesday during Holy Week in 2012.

I have gone to daily Mass ever since.

Sometime after that, I was still continuing to wander in when the spirit moved me (whether this was the Holy Spirit or just some paranormal poke, I didn’t know at the time, but strongly believed in the latter more than the former.)

So far, every time I had been there randomly, the odd verse or Scripture that I read or more frighteningly the chosen Gospel or reading for that day spoke to me in very real ways. Not the typical, you will overcome what is ailing you, but very specific, the person you’ve avoided for the last three days will call you after dark.

Obviously, that’s not really a scripture, but it was specific like that.

The first time, I was upset; I was crying, and I sat down, picked up the missalette, opened it to a random page, and read, “Cry to me in distress and I will hear you.”

I looked around, thinking Candid Camera, but it was pretty much on the mark and it never disappointed.

The incense would remind me of something long forgotten. The tree in my line of sight reminded me so strongly of Wales that I would tear up. When someone would shake my hand, it was electric. I’d ask a question, ask for a sign, and the bells would chime, and I would know the answer.

When my priest returned from his pilgrimage to Rome, the way he talked about Rome was the way I felt about Wales. He told a story of a red steamer trunk that first week, and that has stayed with me, and motivates me as I try to declutter my life, mostly my mind, and hopefully the rest will follow.

One day, I was sitting there, just thinking quietly. I don’t even remember what I was thinking about, if there was something specific or if I was asking for guidance, or just strength, but there was a moment of uncertainty, a hesitation. I still don’t know if it was mine or someone – something – else’s.

As unbelievable as it sounds, I turned my head and there was this bright light. Not the shape of a man, not the shape of an angel, but a glowing, shimmery white light, broader across the top, tapering at the bottom. No cross, no halo, just light.

I didn’t hear any words, and I didn’t speak.

I just stared into the light.

Just before it faded, I knew.

I just knew.

Everything.

I didn’t need an explanation. I didn’t need to hear the words, “Follow me.” I didn’t need a history book or witnesses to miracles.

I just believed.

I understood; well, as much as anyone can.

I finally grasped what Easter meant.

I had no doubt who Jesus was; that he was Son of Man and Son of G-d. There was no more, ‘hows or whys.’

I didn’t even think about joining the Church; I was happy just knowing, just having the remarkable experience of Jesus metaphorically taking my hand and leading me out of darkness.

My visits to Mass became more meaningful after that. I don’t know when I knew that I was truly missing something during the Eucharist, but once I began with my first Communion at Easter, I knew that a piece of me was returned.

The Train Station

Apart from a variety of subways and commuter trains, I’ve only taken long distance trains twice for traveling. The first was across the UK in the 80s, which was a blast, and the second was last year to visit my friend and his friends to watch and celebrate the Supernatural ninth season finale.

I loved the visit, but the train travel made up half of the fun. It was an adventure.

My anxiety gave me bits to worry about, and I would have to stay over in Penn Station from 2am to 7am until my last train home, but all the parts in between were new and wondrous, and sleeping on my suitcase at 3am in Penn Station was not actually as bad as I was expecting.

I have always called this my retreat week, and as I mentioned earlier in the week, that may not be the correct word to use. In my search for a better word, journey came to mind, and while I still haven’t settled on it (or any other), I was zapped with creative lightning, better known as inspiration and actually said out loud: What better place to begin this week’s journey than at the train station.

It wasn’t bright and early, but I managed to get myself to the Amtrak station at the tail end of Sunday morning, and began by taking photos outside.

I don’t remember the old station, but the new one is very attractive and welcoming. (I sound like a tourist guide.)The last time I was there was Easter week and it was cold and cloudy and rushed.

When I went in this time, I took inventory of the place – coffee shop, gift store, waiting area, ticket counter, post office section and people.

I didn’t look too out of place – I had my briefcase with my notebooks, an umbrella, so I more or less fit in with most of the other travelers.

I found a seat and people watched for a few minutes, trying to squint my eyes enough to see the departures board as if I needed to see when that train was getting into DC.

For a second, I forgot that I wasn’t actually going anywhere.

I still felt like pretending. I took out my Kindle and that was where the unexpected urge to begin James Martin’s Together on Retreat with the First Prayer appeared. Seriously – I was just going to play a game and see what I wanted to do there.

My space wasn’t silent; it was barely still, but even so I felt the solitude in spite of the people milling about, hugging, taking pictures, checking the sizes of their carry-ons, calling each other from across the station. I noticed a Tardis hat, and the Red Caps finding wheelchairs and carting luggage around.

I could feel myself inwardly smiling.

It reminded me of the sensation of traveling: the list making, the packing, the plans, and the heartbeat of excitement that is the mix of adventure and anxiety – that typical but not typical wonder, not of getting from point A to point B, but the thrill of everything that comes in between.

I began to read.

His first prayer is to reflect on the scripture Mark 1:16-20, the call of the first disciples. This was very dramatic for me, having only recently been called. Once He (Jesus) beckons them, they follow. There’s no real suspense for us, the reader, knowing the outcome of this nearly two thousand year old book, but the part of me at home in the train station was envious, not only of their first-hand account of Jesus’ teachings but of their impending travel to parts unknown.

I wonder if they thought about the new things they’d see; or the old things they’d see with new eyes. Did they just go without a second thought or was there deliberation in hindsight?

This is one of the reasons that much of my writing, even the non-travely writing often has travel and journeying metaphors. Moving from one place to the next, whether physically or emotionally remains how I describe the changes in my life, physically and metaphysically.

I’m walking a path, parts of it are dark, parts of it are scary, but portions are also light and exciting. Sometimes we have a traveling partner, a companion, and sometimes, for some sections of it, we travel alone. Well, not quite alone. Walking with G-d, we are never alone.

And so the train station was so many things that day. I didn’t notice how long I’d been just sitting there, reading, contemplating, meditating and writing. It was more of jotting things down, and typing notes into my Kindle where I agreed with Father Martin. He was like a whisper in my ear, sharing his time in the Holy Land, and letting me take his experiences and use them to create an oasis of Holy Land around my seat by the window.

For a moment, I wondered if I could afford one round trip ticket. What is the cheapest ticket that I could buy and still get back by tonight? I didn’t bother to check. Sometimes, the journey isn’t getting on the train; it’s finding the next place on the map and heading thataway.

There are so many things to think about this week.

No point sitting still; I hear the whistle; it’s time to go!

Luke 5:1-11

This is the second prayer used by James Martin’s Together on Retreat. I read and meditated on this at the St. Kateri Tekakwitha’s National Shrine, a beautiful place to sit and pray and meditate, even in the rain. Maybe especially in the rain. 😉

Once while Jesus was standing beside the lake of Gennesaret, and the crowd was pressing in on him to hear the word of God, he saw two boats there at the shore of the lake; the fishermen had gone out of them and were washing their nets. He got into one of the boats, the one belonging to Simon, and asked him to put out a little way from the shore. Then he sat down and taught the crowds from the boat. When he had finished speaking, he said to Simon, “Put out into the deep water and let down your nets for a catch.” Simon answered, “Master, we have worked all night long but have caught nothing. Yet if you say so, I will let down the nets.” When they had done this, they caught so many fish that their nets were beginning to break. So they signaled to their partners in the other boat to come and help them. And they came and filled both boats, so that they began to sink. But when Simon Peter saw it, he fell down at Jesus’ knees, saying, “Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!” For he and all who were with him were amazed at the catch of fish that they had taken; and so also were James and John, sons of Zebedee, who were partners with Simon. Then Jesus said to Simon, “Do not be afraid; from now on you will be catching people.” When they had brought their boats to shore, they left everything and followed him.

Martin, James (2013-02-19). Together on Retreat (Enhanced Edition): Meeting Jesus in Prayer (Kindle Locations 644-650). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

Mark 1:16-20

This was the first prayer used by James Martin’s Together on Retreat. I read and meditated on this at the train station. Not quite the silent meditation that Father Martin might have hoped, but I’ve found the spiritual in the oddest of places. My reflections on his chosen prayers (and my own choices) won’t be posted yet. They have yet to be written.

As Jesus passed along the Sea of Galilee, he saw Simon and his brother Andrew casting a net into the sea—for they were fishermen. And Jesus said to them, “Follow me and I will make you fish for people.” And immediately they left their nets and followed him. As he went a little farther, he saw James son of Zebedee and his brother John, who were in their boat mending the nets. Immediately he called them; and they left their father Zebedee in the boat with the hired men, and followed him.

Martin, James (2013-02-19). Together on Retreat (Enhanced Edition): Meeting Jesus in Prayer (Kindle Locations 459-463). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

October Recharge, 2014

When my writer’s conference up and left to parts unaffordable, I tried to set up my own writer’s retreats; a solid week to concentrate on me as the writer with minimal upheaval to my family and my pocketbook. I would be home in the morning to send the kids to school, and then after Mass, I’d spend the day out, writing, visiting places I didn’t typically get to visit, taking photographs and making plans.

And, of course, writing.

It was good for my depression, and good for my soul, and fortunately, it didn’t upset the household balance too much.

Oftentimes, it reminded me of my solo trip to Wales that was a godsend and a challenge and spiritual and so many other things that five years later, I still write about the wonder of it all; about the aloneness but the comfort in that aloneness; that sense I had of self, and the want to do it all again.

Yes, even the driving on the wrong side of the road, which is less a string of expletives and more a warm musing of my adventures.

The Spring Enrichment offered by our Diocese fed my soul in a similar way, although I’m not sure I would call that a retreat per se. Some parts of it were certainly that positive aloneness, time to meditate, but other portions were too exhilarating; too mind racing to be mistaken for a private retreat. It was less solitary, but it also led me out of my comfort zone in several other ways: asking questions, introducing myself to speakers and strangers alike, getting involved in conversations, offering my opinions. I was comfortable enough to be me for a little while.

This past summer, I had the opportunity to attend a spiritual retreat. I hadn’t ever gone on one before; everything there was new to me. This was a weekend of prayer and artistry, no artistic talent needed. A retreat director, artist Brother Mickey McGrath guided us through his five sessions giving our creativity an outlet through prayer and bringing us closer to G-d, whether or not we were drawing religious symbols or objects from nature, like flowers and leaves. Except for our private rooms, we shared classes, prayer and group meals.

For this retreat, I’d need drawing paper and colored pencils and as I mentioned I’d have my own room. It was very exciting, and it was a little intimidating, and very much out of my comfort zone, but for the most part, I was looking forward to it.

All of it.

The packing, the unpacking, the communal bathroom down the hall, meeting strangers, all here for our own reasons seeking our own spiritual fortunes; the quiet, the nature, the prayer, the wonder of something new and old at the same time, all taking place in G-d’s presence.

Typically, I’m not much for being alone, but this was different. For starters, I loved my room. A bed, a chair, a desk. It sounds spartan, but it was homey. There was a ceiling fan and a big window next to the bed. I almost didn’t want to leave the room. The wifi didn’t reach the room and cell service was spotty, but that was a good thing. It gave me the quiet space to meditate, to think, to write.

It was two and a half days of good food, good company, and good meditating time. I was surprised by my drawings. I enjoyed doing the mandalas. I also think I did pretty well; my drawings came out better than I expected since I’m not much of an artist. I drew my favorite flower – the daffodil. I drew the triquetra that’s been so important to me lately.

Once I got home, I started drawing small circular badges to use on my website. It made me feel like I’ve accomplished something artistically. I wasn’t overly critical of myself as I usually had a tendency to be.

I prayed. We had prayer services every day, and Mass on Saturday night plus I sat in the courtyard with my journal and prayed the rosary. It was the first time I felt connected to the rosary in a meaningful way, and it started me praying with it a little more regularly once the retreat was over.

This is my introduction to this week’s retreat. I’m doing something a little bit unlike what I’ve done before on my other ‘retreats’.

I’ve done the writing retreat and now I’ve done the spiritual retreat. Last year, I was fortunate enough to travel to Williamsburg, a gift from my best friend, which was a kind of retreat in itself.

However, beginning tomorrow (maybe even parts of today), I’m doing both, maybe more. If I can plan it out and prepare my family, I should be able to recharge my batteries on so many levels before the holidays surprise us like they do every year.

For regular readers here, I have had the new weekly format in place for two weeks now, and it seems that people like it. I do. I’m very comfortable with it, and since my family is always taking my computer, I’ve even made sure that I can post the first couple of days each week from my Kindle, my very favorite piece of technology that I own.

This week it’s hard to say if my posts will be feast or famine.

I do have plans, reflections I want to write, places I want to pray, thoughts and scripture that I want to meditate on, continuing my creative recovery through The Artist’s Way book, ending next Saturday with a full day creative retreat at a nearby Dominican Retreat Center.

I’m also using Fr. James Martin’s book, Together on Retreat as the basis for the spiritual guide for me. Having just finished his recent book, Jesus: A Pilgrimage, I love his tone, his style of writing and his insights which more often than not match my own. Where we diverge, he offers questions for my own meditations. I’m looking forward to sharing my week with you.

There are so many things flying around in my head that I’m hoping to and trying to set them up in their own homes, rooms if you will, and organize them into manageable chunks.

As anxious as I am for this weekend and succeeding at my retreat, I’m also very excited.

My primary theme is to center myself spiritually through prayer and writing. Writing is my lifeblood. It is the second point of my triquetra.

My secondary theme is taking care of myself.

Focusing on me, pulling my creativity along, seeking past my comfort zone, and finding me because I’m still lost, but also combining all the positives as coping and managing tools, mechanisms for living with my depression and anxiety and letting me be me, and then be able to introduce myself to the people around me.

Yom Kippur

I kind of failed Rosh Hashanah this year. I mean it’s still my responsibility to model for my kids and teach them how to observe. I feel as though I’m failing them in this area. I am also not ready to give up all of my traditions, and Yom Kippur is one of those thoughtful observances that gives you a mandatory stop and take inventory of where you are, where you’ve been, and we’re you’re going.

Yom Kippur is a little different today. For me, it’s less about what you can’t do, but what you can; what you do.

Fasting isn’t the absence of food; it is the presence of G-d as reminder of not only my failings of the past year, but also where I’ve succeeded.

Lighting candles for my parents. The reminder of where I’ve come from, how much I miss the every day, and it tells them that they are not forgotten.

Not working. No writing has always driven me crazy, but it has also afforded me the opportunity to slow down and think; to meditate. I am “forced” to something else.

My usual Yom Kippur activity is reading. Harry Potter was one of my Jewish holiday books and look at all my life has changed because of that beginning of that New Year. Overall, wonderful things from deep friendship to finding parts of me and knowing that are still parts missing; left to find.

This year’s book is Jesus: A Pilgrimage by James Martin. I know, an unusual choice for Yom Kippur. I’ve wanted to read it for some time. It was a gift from my godmother, and I look at the spine nearly every day and thinking I don’t have the time, I go back to my Kindle.

Yom Kippur will give me the time.

It is a whole day where I can read, pray, meditate, pray the rosary, light candles and no one questions the whys or the wherefores.

It is the one day out of the year where I don’t have to explain my actions.

It simply is.

Why are you….?

Because it’s Yom Kippur.

The simplicity of not apologizing for who I am or who I am becoming is part of my day’s meditation.

I do ask guidance and forgiveness for those I’ve wronged even with the best of intentions. Enlighten me how I can do better and I will do my best to try.

I will let my faith continue to guide me.

I will question what I don’t understand.

I will defend the wronged.

I will be the friend I’m supposed to be.

I will be the person I’m supposed to be.

Sept 22 (Luke 8, Proverbs 3) Reflection

There were several things in Monday’s Mass that struck at me with familiarity. The first was the Reading: Proverbs 3:27-34, in particularly verse 27:

“Refuse no one the good on which he has a claim when it is in your power to do it for him.”

And the Gospel of Luke 8: 16-18

¹⁶“Now no one after lighting a lamp covers it over with a container, or puts it under a bed; but he puts it on a lampstand, so that those who come in may see the light.¹⁷For nothing is hidden that will not become evident, nor anything secret that will not be known and come to light.¹⁸So take care how you listen; for whoever has, to him more shall be given; and whoever does not have, even what he^[e]thinks he has shall be taken away from him.”

How many reminders in the Scriptures are there for helping your neighbor? And we all know that it isn’t always literal neighbor, but a euphemism for fellow man or rather mankind.

If you have the ability, as Proverbs says you should help without questioning yourself, your neighbor’s motives or needs or whether or not you feel like it. It can be just as hard to ask for that person or more than it is to go without.

And Luke. How many passages do we read that have to do with light shining in the darkness? Following the well-lit path? Showing someone else your own light?

The light is so many things – our lives, our faith, the brightness in a child’s eyes, the glow of the sun’s rays through stained glass as it skitters across a wooden or stone floor. When I first came into the church, I couldn’t help but notice the different lights: the skylight, the small stained glass windows, the large Blessed Mother in the front, the large windowed cross in the back and of course the candles and how each light reflected itself, but also shown differently in the shadows; to be more nuanced than simply light and dark.

I saw Christ in the light – the proverbial awakening of my soul through the spirit.

I have come full circle through most of the passages. It won’t be complete until the third year of Gospels, but for some of the readings I’ve heard them before, and they still jump out at me as I recognize their impact on my heart.

Monday’s Antiphon was the first one I ever read, and that was a random picking of a page back when:

I am the salvation of the people, says the Lord. Should they cry to me in any distress, I will hear them, and I will be their Lord for ever.

He did.

And He is.

Sept 21 (Matthew 20) Gospel Reflection

Since beginning my Catholic education that led to my recent baptism this past Easter, I have continually been astonished at how much I’ve learned that I already believed. I’ve never had any formal teaching in any Christian religion. I had attended a handful of Masses with friends or for their weddings, a christening or three, and I’ve had one or two who believed in evangelizing and brought me pamphlets and materials to read and consider.

One of the things I always had a problem with was Judgment Day and whether or not and who would make it into Heaven. My belief had been, and I apologize for the flippancy in which it sounds, but my belief was always that even if I didn’t believe, if Jesus was real, He would forgive my ignorance. He would take me into his flock because that’s what he does. It’s His thing.

Honestly, I tried to avoid this conversation because it does sound disrespectful and I’d never meant it in a tongue-sticking-out way, but in my head, it was just a logical assumption.

Over the course of the last year (it is almost exactly a year since I began in the program), I have had the privilege of taking several classes and workshops. I also ask a lot of questions, and I am so happy to say that they are always answered. My questioning is welcome and I find that when I can ask anything, it is easier to allow myself to think and decide what it is that I believe within the religious framework that I’ve been seeking.

In addition to daily Mass for the past two years, I’ve gone to lectures on Matthew’s Gospel by a local priest, and one of the things he expressed was this feeling, this statement that whenever you come to Christ, you are accepted. You can be the last one in the door, and still you are welcome. (He also had a few things to say about Judgment Day which I also believed in my heart since forever, but that is another essay.)

In hearing Sunday’s Gospel (Matthew 20: 1-16), it reaffirmed that and what I’d always thought.

If I have made a conscientious choice with no malice, and I was mistaken, not through hubris, but through faith and reasoning, I would not be punished for my opinion. Jesus wasn’t that kind of a person. (Again, in my Jewish faith, I thought of Jesus as a person, not divine; this has changed in the last two years.)

He would not turn me away.

I’m not the last one in the door, but I have still found this to be true. I have been welcomed; not only by Jesus and His example, but by his representatives in the church and parish community.

Here is an excerpt from the New American Bible of Matthew 20: 1-16 that made me smile on Sunday:

20 “For the kingdom of heaven is like ^[a]a landowner who went out early in the morning to hire laborers for his vineyard. ²When he had agreed with the laborers for a^[b]denarius for the day, he sent them into his vineyard. ³And he went out about the ^[c]third hour and saw others standing idle in the market place; ⁴and to those he said, ‘You also go into the vineyard, and whatever is right I will give you.’ And so they went. ⁵Again he went out about the ^[d]sixth and the ninth hour, and did ^[e]the same thing. ⁶And about the^[f]eleventh hour he went out and found others standing around; and he *said to them, ‘Why have you been standing here idle all day long?’ ⁷They *said to him, ‘Because no one hired us.’ He *said to them, ‘You go into the vineyard too.’

⁸“When evening came, the ^[g]owner of the vineyard *said to his foreman, ‘Call the laborers and pay them their wages, beginning with the last group to the first.’ ⁹When those hired about the eleventh hour came, each one received a^[h]denarius. ¹⁰When those hired first came, they thought that they would receive more; ^[i]but each of them also received a denarius. ¹¹When they received it, they grumbled at the landowner, ¹²saying, ‘These last men have worked only one hour, and you have made them equal to us who have borne the burden and the scorching heat of the day.’ ¹³But he answered and said to one of them, ‘Friend, I am doing you no wrong; did you not agree with me for a denarius? ¹⁴Take what is yours and go, but I wish to give to this last man the same as to you. ¹⁵Is it not lawful for me to do what I wish with what is my own? Or is your eye ^[j]envious because I am^[k]generous?’ ¹⁶So the last shall be first, and the first last.”

Mixed Feelings (Rosh Hashanah)

I have mixed feelings about Rosh Hashanah this year.

I had planned on observing it and keeping the kids home from school on the first day of the holiday, but it wasn’t on my calendar and I’ve made a committment to drive on of the elderly ladies to our memoir workshop, which is on Thursday (the first day of the holiday). I thought of maybe observing the second day instead of the first, but if I make a nice holiday dinner on Thursday, my husband won’t be home because he’s going to the high school for back to school night.

I may have to split the difference and do parts of each day. Have the dinner tomorrow night, go the workshop and then come home and continue with my own observance.

The liturgical year also starts in the fall, closer to November I think, I’d have to check, but that just reinforces my beliefs that becoming Catholic is an extension of my Jewish life, especially if you look at the New Testament as a part II, then my being Catholic after being Jewish is also a part II, a next chapter.

Once you are aware of all of the holidays, you can truly see the overlap, Rosh Hashanah, Passover, etc. I actually gave my take on Passover/The Last Supper to one of the presenters at the Spring Enrichment. It’s nice to be able to contribute with something I kind of know.

It’s also one of the reasons that I think joining the adult enrichment ministry is a good fit for me.

Griffins and Ginger Snaps

-I write, and I have a blog because of course I do-

Spiritual