My Rosary Story

The first time I prayed the rosary was sometime in the Spring of 2003. I had returned to the Church only a few months before and I was only acquainted with two or three people there and I didn’t know them well enough to ask them to teach me how to pray it. So, I learned how to pray the rosary online. There were many websites with diagrams and the basic prayers, most of which I already knew.

I had two sets of rosary beads. One was a set that my eldest son received when he made his First Holy Communion. They were very long and the chain was very light, almost flimsy, so they were a bit unwieldy for a novice to manage. The other beads were a tiny white plastic set. I literally had to look at each bead as I prayed or I got hopelessly lost. So, armed with my tiny beads and my computer I prayed my first Rosary. It felt very Catholic to me and I liked it.

As I searched different websites I began to see that the rosary was not a prayer reserved for little old Portuguese ladies in black veils (at that time my parish had quite a few of those.) Lots of people, including young ones like me (I was 38 at the time) also prayed it.

I prayed the rosary a few more times. I’d get the order of the mysteries mixed up but I wasn’t too worried about that. As long as I covered all five mysteries for that day that was enough. God wasn’t keeping score.

One afternoon I felt the urge to pray the rosary but realized I had already prayed it in the morning. I didn’t know you could pray it multiple times a day!

The first time I heard the rosary prayed in a group was right after St. Pope John Paul II died. We had a prayer service and I was captivated by all the voices praying in unison. Many people were also on their knees. It was a beautiful and holy experience.

Around that time, aside from a few special occasions, the rosary was only prayed in a group on Tuesday night after Mass. Sometimes I would stay for it and I longed to lead a decade but different people would lead and it seemed each one had “their” mystery and there was to be no deviation from the “schedule.”

In recent years the rosary became a daily occurrence, either before or after most Masses. Finally, I was given the opportunity to lead a decade once in a while. At first it was nerve wracking but as I became more comfortable it became easier. There were even times when I was allowed to lead the entire thing.

In the last 23 days I have prayed the rosary every day as part of preparation to renew my consecration to Mary. Twenty-three more days to go! Using a form of Ignatian spirituality I have received new insights into the mysteries these last few weeks and I may share some of these ideas this month. 

The rosary is such a simple set of prayers yet it is so profound. It illuminates the life of Jesus but also demonstrates how intrinsic Mary is to the plan of our salvation.

If it’s been a while since you “called your mother” I invite you to pick up your beads right now and speak and pray with Mama Mary today. She’ll be so happy to hear your voice.

Marian Consecration - Part III

Marian Consecration Part I is HERE and Part II is HERE.

The last few days before my Marian consecration was spent reviewing the lessons of the past 4 weeks. The book also reminded me of the duties I would be pledging to carry out and also the corresponding obligations Mary would take on in response. I liked it that it wasn’t all on me and it wasn’t all on Mary. We were doing this together, like mother and daughter.

A few days before the consecration I went to confession. I always find that a good confession facilitates an even more powerful experience of God working in my life, no matter what I am involved in. It’s like clearing a blocked pipe – everything runs more smoothly and efficiently after the junk is gone. Retreats, pilgrimages, teaching RCIA, praying for others, all of it is enriched and more effective after receiving the Sacrament of Reconciliation.

I also needed a Miraculous Medal to wear as a sign of my consecration. Thankfully I already had one so on the day of the consecration I wore it and had my priest bless it.

Finally, the Big Day arrived! I was grateful that I had chosen January 1, the Solemnity of Mary, the Holy Mother of God, to be consecrated as it is a holy day of obligation. I went to Mass and immediately after I received Holy Communion, I prayed the Consecration Prayer. It was a more moving experience than I had anticipated.

The rest of 2016 was relatively uneventful though I did find new employment. I also participated in the Life in the Spirit seminars which I found tremendously rewarding. I would say that my consecration began to pave the way to fulfilling one of my lifelong dreams the following year, my pilgrimage to Lourdes. I’ll discuss that in another series of blog posts in the future.

Marian Consecration - Part II

So what is Marian consecration? Consecration is the solemn dedication to a special purpose or service. The word consecration literally means "association with the sacred". You can see why I was initially hesitant to take this on – it is serious stuff.

I decided to go ahead with it because for the first time in my life I had the time to reflect on the material in the book. I also felt I had matured sufficiently in the spiritual life to see this through to the end. It wouldn’t be my typical mode of "start strong and end with a thud."

The timing couldn’t have been better as it was nearly Advent. As the liturgical year moved forward in preparation for the celebration of the Nativity, and in anticipation of the eventual return of Jesus, Mother Mary and I would be travelling together in purpose and service.

Despite the gravity of this undertaking, Fr. Gaitley promised his book would be an easy and updated way to enter into the blessings of being consecrated to Mary, and it was. It only took a few minutes to prayerfully read the daily chapter. Sometimes I would journal my thoughts or write notes in the margins. Daily pondering bore spiritual fruit -  praying the rosary took on a deeper meaning,  the fullness of Mary’s free will became clearer, and the role of the Holy Spirit was even more dynamic than I had imagined. I also found this method of preparation worked well with my natural tendencies as I tend to get bored or tune out when reciting long prayers, which make up a portion of St. Louis de Montfort’s True Devotion to Mary. 

Before I knew it, Advent was over, and Christmas Day arrived. My consecration date was one week away.

Continue here…

Marian Consecration - Part I

I had just been laid off and the days at home were endless. After working steadily for 25 years the time lay heavy on my hands. It was mid-November so the days were getting shorter and darker. My employed friends were at work all day and my retired friends had their own things to do. I was lonely and depressed. 

Thankfully I had a friend who had a day off during the week so we decided to meet for breakfast. As I approached our table I saw she was reading a book. The cover seemed familiar. It turns out I had seen it displayed at the religious goods counter at church. It was 33 Days to Morning Glory by Fr. Michael Gaitley. I was intrigued.

I had thought about making a Marian consecration before. I had tried to read St. Louis de Montfort’s True Devotion to Mary but the florid language put me off. I couldn’t make it past the first chapter. I was also wary of entering into a promise to the Mother of God that I might not be able to keep. I didn't  know how much Mary was going to require of me.

I asked my friend some questions about the process and she was very encouraging.  She gave me the book to flip through and I saw that the daily readings weren’t more than 2 or 3 pages long and they were written in Fr. Gaitley’s engaging and conversational style. As we talked about the preparation and subsequent consecration, I began to feel a sense of hope and excitement that I had not felt in a long time.

The book suggested following St. Louis’s advice to schedule the 33 days of preparation so they would end on the vigil (the evening before) of a Marian feast day. There was a handy chart to consult; the earliest I could start was Nov. 29 and I would be consecrated on January 1, Solemnity of Mary, the Holy Mother of God. It sounded like a very good way to start 2016.

Click here to continue…

Spiritual Dryness

I’ve been hunting through miscellaneous journals, workbooks, and clippings for blog inspiration. I found some good advice for dealing with adult children, prep work for RCIA classes, and notes on my trip to Lourdes. All good stuff! Today I also found some notes I’d made about spiritual dryness. I have a terrible habit of writing down quotes from others but not noting the author’s name. What follows is probably from another writer, maybe two, and I can also hear my own voice take over at times.

When we are dry, we are no longer giving to others out of our fullness. We feel empty or weary. We feel an inner reluctance or resistance to serve because we have no choice. Our motivation is that others are relying on us and we want to honor that commitment but we feel we really have nothing to offer spiritually. We distance ourselves from God.

I don’t need constant consolation to believe in him but there is a silence that isn’t normal. He hasn’t withdrawn – as a baptized Christian I know he is always in my soul. But there’s a blankness. It’s such a physical feeling of weariness that if Sunday wasn’t a holy day of obligation I wouldn’t bother to go.

It has nothing to do with trauma or any particular event – you just wake up one morning depleted. It’s like someone took a drawer out of a dresser. The frame is still there and the space that is left can still accommodate the drawer. You could pile up more stuff underneath but there’s still that void. You can’t 'fix' it. Doing the usual things like going to Mass and praying the rosary are just joyless items on the to-do list like dusting or dishes. They’re there, you do them, but you do it mindlessly.

The first time I had a dry spell I felt shocked. Why would God leave me? I did everything I was supposed to do – Mass, confession, bible reading, my ministries, I even had a good Lent. But faith isn’t about doing. I think he was showing me that for a time I just had to be a place for him.       

Eventually, the feelings of lethargy and nothingness lifted. I don’t want to go back to that place but sometimes I do let myself think about that time so I can balance my Martha tendencies with the necessity to also be a Mary.             

Crossing the Hecate Strait

I boarded the ferry to the Queen Charlotte Islands, as Haida Gwaii was known in those days, and found a seat for the 6-hour trip across the Hecate Strait. I made sure I was seated so I could face the window. The seasoned passengers had booked cabins so they could leave their possessions safely while they roamed the decks or went to the cafeteria. Other travellers bunked down around the perimeter of the main lounge with their sleeping bags and packsacks. I tried to settle in my seat but the back was at an uncomfortable angle. It was going to be a long trip.

In those pre-internet days, we read books, played cards, or talked to our travelling companions while we were on a journey. I opened my book and tried to concentrate but the young couple sitting behind me were talking and distracting me.

The man told his wife that the Lord had told him several things. She responded that the Lord had also communicated with her. They were very confident and self-assured about this. On and on it went, the two of them describing their mission from God. I was not used to people of faith talking about their relationship with Jesus. I thought it was bizarre and obnoxious.  I wondered if they were making a big show of it for my benefit.  I also wondered why they didn’t speak in hushed tones about their faith. You know, like a Catholic would.

Not that I really had a clue about what a Catholic would do. Even though I got myself to church fairly regularly I couldn’t have given you a confident and clear answer on much of anything the Church taught. My faith was more of a vague spirituality and a list of don’ts. 

After about 15 minutes of listening to this couple talk about their direct line to God, I was thoroughly annoyed and I tried to find another seat. I ended up near another couple. Listening to them speak German, which I barely understood, was preferable to listening to the Christian couple speak in English about things I could not understand at all.

Even in my aggravation I was also envious that they had this freedom to speak out loud about their beliefs and experiences. I really wanted that for myself but I didn't know how a Catholic could do that. I suspected Catholic Charismatics might be able to, but they were so foreign to me I didn't think I could bridge that gap or would even want to. Perhaps the Holy Spirit led me to that particular seat so he could stir my conscience and my soul, though it would be at least another 10 years before I experienced any real conversion.  

"For your mercies’ sake, O Lord my God, tell me what you are to me. Say to my soul: “I am your salvation.” So, speak that I may hear, O Lord; my heart is listening; open it that it may hear you, and say to my soul: “I am your salvation.”

After hearing this word, may I come in haste to take hold of you. Hide not your face from me. Let me see your face even if I die, lest I die with longing to see it.

The house of my soul is too small to receive you; let it be enlarged by you. It is all in ruins; do you repair it.

There are things in it – I confess and I know – that must offend your sight. But who shall cleanse it? Or to what others besides you shall I cry out?

From my secret sins cleanse me, O Lord, and from those of others spare your servant. Amen."

- St. Augustine

From Jealousy to Joy!

It shouldn’t amaze me that God can use our basest emotions to draw us to himself, but he does. You’d think God would call on our noble qualities, our quest for goodness, or our use of logic. Maybe he does with other people but not with me; he used my intense jealousy.

After my initial adult conversion at 22, I attended Mass regularly. By the time I was 24 I was getting divorced and between my ignorance of the Church, my non-compliant streak, and how often I slept in after a night out, I wasn’t attending Mass very often.

By the time my eldest child was preparing to leave for college, I had been remarried civilly for several years and my life had stabilized. With my children growing up I began to feel an emptiness that was deeper than just experiencing an empty nest. I considered going back to church consistently, but I felt like the Catholics wouldn’t want me as I was divorced. I had looked into a decree of nullity a few years earlier but the priest seemed insensitive so I hadn’t pursued it further. I considered going to the Christian Reformed church because of our shared Dutch background, but I didn’t think I could fit into their mold. I also thought about going to the Anglican church but I could not accept their beliefs on their communion. Then the sex abuse scandal exploded onto the front pages. I announced I was done with the Catholic church forever.

At the same time I would cry in frustration when I drove by the Church due to my self-inflicted exile. I still believed in the Real Presence and wanted to receive Communion, but I had not resolved my marriage impediment. I still desired to belong to a spiritual institution, but couldn't figure out where I fit in. As the abuse scandals raged on in the media I remembered our former bishop had to resign in disgrace 6 years earlier. I should've been happy I wasn't involved with the Catholic church but I was not. 

Then a family member began dating a girl who would bring him to Mass on Sundays. I figured he was mainly doing it to impress her because he had never shown the slightest interest in the church prior to this. I don’t know if he received the Eucharist but he could’ve – he wasn’t the one with a divorce and a subsequent civil marriage – I was! I was insanely jealous that he had the opportunity to receive Communion and I could not. I told myself that I understood the Eucharist, I knew it was Jesus, I had taught children preparing for their First Communions, and I had even been an Extraordinary Minister of Communion at one time. I was outraged!

It’s almost comical to look back on my reaction to this situation but at the time I was truly indignant. And jealous – so jealous! I wasn’t angry with my family member – I was angry with myself. I had painted myself into a corner by my own actions. So, I did the only thing I could do after announcing I was done with the Church – I went back!

It was the first Sunday of Advent and the parish had just welcomed their new priest that very day. He said he was from New York City and I felt an instant connection. Near the end of the homily, he invited lapsed Catholics to come and talk to him about correcting their situations. I was in tears before Mass was over and I sobbed all the way home. The Holy Spirit knew I needed to hear that invitation.

There were still obstacles to overcome but being invited to come back and work with the priest to sort things out was very appealing. I had always felt like a loner at church but this invitation made me feel I belonged. There was so much power in that invitation. I am so thankful that the priest was open to the promptings of the Spirit, to be the voice of Jesus inviting me home.  

Inspired by Corrie ten Boom

How many times have I written, “when I returned to the Church,” – so many times! But it’s a story worth telling and there are many facets to it. There was even a particular Protestant writer that helped me come back to the Church. 

I spent Advent 2002 going to Mass every Sunday. I went to the Christmas Mass. And then…nothing. This was my typical cycle. Start strong, end with a thud. Then just before Lent 2003 began, the parish priest contacted me to ask what we were going to do about the decree of nullity for my first marriage, as I had not yet followed through with that.

Thus, began my search for my baptismal records (a long story), which led me to a Catholic Q&A forum, and also to my local public library. I didn’t know the parish had a library or I might have explored what they had to offer. In the end, I think I was meant to end up at the public library because I learned some important lessons there.

I found the religion section in the library and started looking for books with a Catholic theme. I found a biography of a Catholic priest who left the Church so he could get married. I also found an author who contributed to publications that didn’t promote authentic Catholic teaching, though I was ignorant of that at the time. During my search, I also came across the books of Corrie ten Boom, a Dutch woman who had been active in the resistance during World War II. She belonged to the Christian Reformed church but I was intrigued by the blurb on her book, The Hiding Place, as I was very interested in the experiences of those who had lived through the war, especially in Holland.

I read the entire book by the former Catholic priest. I was not impressed with his story and his abandonment of his vows. I read part of the book by the other Catholic author, whose name I am purposely withholding. Even with my lack of Catholic knowledge and experience, I could recognize the falsehoods he was perpetrating. I was disgusted. 

The book by Corrie ten Boom was the complete opposite. It completely captivated me in my search for truth. She wrote about Jesus like he was her personal friend, which he was.  He led her in her daily decisions and how she treated people. The bible was not a list of optional suggestions and platitudes, it was her life. She lived and breathed the word of God. I could trust her. She kept her eyes on Jesus, I needed to do the same.

That was my last trip to the public library for religious books. I found an online bookseller shortly after that and began to fill my shelves with orthodox materials. I spent a few more years on the Q&A forum but eventually, I had the basics down and I could trust my instincts regarding reading and viewing materials. I also ended up buying The Hiding Place so I could always have a copy of a Protestant book that made me a more faithful Catholic. I think Corrie would be OK with that. 😄

Knowledge vs. Knowing

When I first returned to the Church it was a very exciting time. Aside from going to Mass several times a week I spent a lot of time reading apologetics books. I was also a member of an online Q & A forum where Doubting Thomases could ask questions and knowledgeable and faithful Catholics would give answers that aligned with actual Church teaching. I just couldn’t get enough of it. I would eat breakfast and lunch at the computer while reading the forum and then go back after dinner for more. When I wasn’t on the computer, I was inhaling books. I was utterly saturated and I loved it. I ‘drank the Kool-Aid’ long enough, now I was drinking the spiritual milk.

I wanted to join the RCIA team to share all of my ‘abundant knowledge and wisdom.’ Truthfully, I think I wanted to show off.  The group at that time were either seasoned and trained school teachers or experienced prayer group and bible study leaders. All of them had been involved in various ministries almost longer than I had been alive. I was completely and utterly out of my depth! Thankfully they tolerated my presence and, in their wisdom, I don’t think they ever called on me to lead a class. If they did, they surely picked up the considerable slack as I was often tongue-tied when it came to actually speaking about what I had read. This went on for a few years and the annual repetition of the lessons probably benefited me more than anyone that ever came through that program! So, I ended up knowing a lot about Jesus but I didn't really know him.

At some point, I realized I wasn’t making much progress in my spiritual life anymore and it was time to receive deep healing.  This took place over several years through different ministries in the Church, but clearing that initial dam of sin made a significant difference in how God was able to use me from that time on. This happened after I was prayed over for a release of my spiritual gifts and when I was baptized in the Holy Spirit.  It was like going from black and white to technicolor. I went from knowing intellectually that God loves me and all other human beings, to encountering the risen and living Christ. Finally, I knew Jesus, not just about him, and finally, I could share him with others!

Real Confusion Meets the Real Presence

In a previous chapter of my life which I might title “Before Conversion,” I knew very little about what the Church actually taught. Amazingly, I did know that the bread that the priest consecrated at Mass was Jesus. It wasn’t a symbol, it wasn’t Jesus beside or around the bread, it wasn’t half Jesus and half bread. It was truly all Jesus and It only looked like bread. 

When I was invited to my friend’s First Holy Communion, I was about 7 years old. I had never received any religious instruction but I was riveted by the long lines of people going up the aisle to receive a “round white thing.” I knew there was something special and significant about that.  I also remember wondering why some people received it in their hands and some on their tongues. The event left a deep impression on me. 

When I was 15 years old another friend invited me to a First Holy Communion Mass, this one for her little brother. I was a little older so I began to ask questions about the Sacrament. My friend loaned me her brother’s sacramental prep book so I could learn more about it. This is where I learned that Transubstantiation is the changing of the bread’s substance into the substance of Christ's body. The book didn’t use those exact words as it was written for 7-year old children but that is what it taught. I believed it instantly, completely, and wholeheartedly. What a grace!

That does not mean I always treated the Eucharist with the respect It deserved. I made excuses for my behaviour and received Communion anyway, telling myself I needed Jesus. Yes, I did need Jesus but I didn’t understand that the way I was living my life meant that I was profaning the Body and Blood of the Lord.

Not only that, and perhaps this is less significant in the scheme of things, but I thought Eucharistic Adoration was idol worship. Let me explain! As I was baptized but not raised in the church, and because this devotion had all but disappeared when I was growing up, I knew nothing about it. I only remember when it returned to my parish I read about it in the bulletin but there was no explanation as to what it was. The older folks remembered it from their youth, but for someone like me that fell between the cracks, I had no context for it. Perhaps I had seen a picture of a monstrance and was repulsed by it’s ostentatious golden and bejeweled decoration, but that was all I “knew” of it. Sad, isn’t it?

When I look back at these experiences it’s a wonder to me that I am Catholic at all. I am thankful that through the grace I received through my two friends inviting me to Mass, I was able to encounter the Real Presence of Jesus in the Eucharist. Ultimately that desire to receive Him is what drew me back permanently. 

The Little Lunchtime Miracle

 When I wrote about the lady who wanted to alter her clothes it brought back memories of another person who crossed my path that needed help in a small way.

I was at work one day sitting at the reception desk. I was enjoying a quiet moment as both my supervisor and my boss were away at lunch. The conference room across from my station was being used for a meeting but the door was closed.

A few minutes later a man who had been in the conference room came to my desk. I asked if I could help him assuming he needed more coffee but he said he needed a private room to say his midday prayers. I immediately went into a state of hypervigilance. Not because he was Muslim but because he was a man of faith and my coworkers were decidedly not.

Quickly I raced through the possibilities of where I could put him. Not my supervisor’s office – she was a very unsympathetic person and I could hear her shrill reaction if she caught him in there. None of the offices upstairs would work as they all had large windows. I decided to put the man in my boss’s office. If the boss walked in during the prayer time, he might be insensitive to the situation but not hostile.  I then prayed with all my might that nobody would disturb the man.

Amazingly, both my boss and supervisor returned from lunch much later than usual that day, long after the man had completed his devotions and returned to the conference room. This was such a departure from their normal routine I could scarcely believe it.

I love these little moments that God gifts us. They are an opportunity for us to help others and also to build our faith and to learn how to trust in Him.

A New Garment

I love it when beautiful random memories pop up. This is one of them. 💕

It was a very warm day when she wandered into the shop where I was working. She walked up to my counter and asked me for a pair of scissors. I probably took a step back mentally if not physically. I wondered if she wanted to hurt herself.

I slowly opened my drawer and took the scissors out. I reluctantly handed them to her and asked her what she needed them for. She told me she was hot and was going to cut the long sleeves off her shirt. I am sure I looked at her like she was crazy.

She took the scissors to her left sleeve and started cutting. She was serious! It was more difficult to cut the right sleeve with her left hand. As she did this, she babbled away to me, telling me she was in town for a relative’s funeral and in her culture, and she was supposed to wear the same clothes for several days. I wasn’t sure if she was putting me on or not, and I wasn’t going to ask because she was holding a sharp object!

She then announced she was going to cut her pant legs shorter. By this time, she had won my heart with her openness so I offered to cut the pant legs for her. It was coffee time in the shop and the managers were out back so I quickly sent up a prayer that they wouldn’t decide to return early, and also that the phone would not ring.

I went around the counter and proceeded to cut her outfit. I didn’t do a very good job – the cuts were somewhat jagged. I could have sent her into the public washroom and asked her to hand her pants out to me but I figured that was going to backfire. I knew if the managers saw what was happening, they’d be making rude and cruel remarks about this woman for the rest of the day. I couldn’t bear the thought of that happening.

When I was done, I stood up and she gave me a delighted grin. She reached for my hands and held them in hers and thanked me. I gave her a little blessing and she thanked me again. Then she was off into the hot sunshine in her new “shorts.” I wondered if she might regret her actions and come back to berate me but I never saw her again.

Wherever she is, I hope she is well.

He Leadeth Me

If you’re an impulsive person like me it can be very confusing when you are trying to discern if God is speaking to you or not. When your first instinct is always to react to emotions this can often lead you down the wrong path. Eventually, you get older and you either learn from your mistakes or you are just too tired to chase down every inspiration. If you are fortunate enough you can find a balance between your feelings, your experiences, and when the Lord is truly leading you.

I want to tell you about a particular time in my life where God led me by the hand to my little emerald island to speak to me and show me his great Heart.

Shortly after I left New York I went to meet up with my husband so we could visit my in-laws in Nova Scotia. We had a few little day trips planned but nothing major. We like to stick around where the folks are because they are getting older and well, you just never know what’s going to happen.

A few days after we arrived, we thought we might go to Prince Edward Island for a day and we’d pack a bag in case we stayed overnight. Or maybe we wouldn’t go at all. We’d been many times before so we weren’t concerned if we put it off to another time.

The next day one of my children phoned. He told me he was sorry to give me bad news on my vacation. He had waited until I left New York in order not to put any more stress on me while I was there taking care of my other son and his family, but he had a tumor and he couldn’t keep it from me anymore. I felt time stop. I was caught in that horrific moment and I could not move. I felt like someone had punched me in the gut. I tried to be strong because if Mama is losing it then the world is surely ending.

Nobody knew for sure if the tumor was cancerous. Only surgery and a biopsy could confirm it. I wanted to know when the surgery was but it had not been scheduled yet. I told my son I was packing up and leaving Nova Scotia as soon as possible but he was adamant that I stay where I was. I reluctantly agreed. 

I had been in the house for some time so my husband came to see what was taking me so long. He said we should go home but I told him we were to stay where we were. I asked him to tell his brother and sister-in-law our news but I would not be making an appearance poolside that evening. I also made my husband promise not to tell anyone else about the diagnosis until we had more answers.

It was very difficult to sleep that night. I sat in the TV room trying to find flights home on my phone even though I had promised to stay put. No matter what I tried I could not find flights or make my phone cooperate. I didn’t have access to a computer or laptop and calling the airline was not an option. Finally, I went to bed.

I couldn’t face anyone the next morning so I told my husband I wanted to go to PEI after all. He didn’t want to, but at this point he was willing to do anything so I wouldn’t start crying again so we packed an overnight bag, checked the ferry schedule, and headed out.

As we waited for the ferry, I remember it was a beautiful sunny day. I flipped through some travel brochures while I had a coffee. I decided we should go to the western part of the island as it as less touristy. The last thing I wanted on this trip was to keep coming face to face with the cheerful and eccentric Anne of Green Gables.

I can’t remember if it was a photo of the place or the description that caught my attention but there was an old Catholic girls school that had been converted into an inn in Tignish. It had a Mary garden complete with a grotto. Instantly I wanted to go there. I called the number but I wasn’t hopeful. August on the island is very busy. A lady with a kind voice and a strong Maritime accent answered the phone and yes, there was exactly one room left. I immediately booked it.

As we got closer to Tignish I began to notice that there were quite a few roadside shrines to the Blessed Mother. Some were the regular ‘bathtub Mary’ version but there was one in particular that was quite large and made of rocks, like a grotto. It was very comforting to me at that time to see this as it reminded me of Lourdes, a place of many healing miracles.

As we drove up to the inn, I saw there was a beautiful old brick church right next door. We asked about Mass times but one had already been celebrated in the morning and there wouldn’t be another until tomorrow evening. However, a famous organist would be playing a selection of music after supper.

After dropping off our bag in the room we headed over to the church. It was like a balm to my aching heart. There were beautiful paintings on the walls, traditional gold stars on the ceiling, and statues of all my favorite saints. We lit some candles and there was even a book where we could write prayer requests. It was like a hug from heaven. And of course, Jesus was there in the Tabernacle.

After the organ recital, I noticed there was Eucharistic Adoration in the little chapel next door. I couldn’t believe that out there, practically in the middle of nowhere, there was an Adoration chapel. My husband headed back to our room and I was able to spend some quiet time praying with Jesus. I slept well that night.

I was still scared for my son but our impromptu pilgrimage to the little emerald island had given me the strength I needed to get through the next few weeks. It was so clear to me that we had been led there to be ministered to, and tenderly cared for, by Jesus and His mother. I still feel dazed by their love and overwhelmed by how personal it was. Even the motto of the province is Parva Sub Ingenti - the small under the protection of the great. 💕

 

An Unexpected Gem

Anybody that knows me knows that I love going on pilgrimages and retreats. I love travelling to places where nobody knows me or my story or my past and I can just be. We often find God in these places because we are open to him and because very often these locations are anointed by healing or an apparition or both.

Two years ago, I was helping one of my children with his family’s health situation. Everyone was stable but they wanted some moral support (and help with the laundry and scrubbing the toilet!) and I was happy to be needed. Almost every day for 18 days I went to the hospital so I decided I would try to make each day a mini-pilgrimage. I was in New York City so it was easy to find many different churches to visit when I needed a break.

There were 2 churches that I passed regularly while walking from Penn Station to the hospital. I didn’t go to Mass at either one but I did stop in to pay my respects to the Blessed Sacrament and offer up prayers of thanksgiving for the healing of my family. Also, air conditioning! It was August when I was there so it was a real blessing to get a break from the heat and humidity.

One day I took the wrong exit out of the train station. When I got to street level, I looked around and could see a steeple topped by a cross. I hoped it was a Catholic church. I walked in that direction but there was some construction going on so I had to go around the block. I wondered if there was indeed a church, would it be boarded up like some others I had seen in my daily travels. I kept walking because I had to find out!

When I finally arrived at St. John the Baptist church, I took one look inside through the open doors and knew I was home! This little gem of a church is beautifully decorated in traditional style. There were statues with kneelers, candles, paintings, even a little shrine to St. Padre Pio that contained one of his socks and one of his gloves. I walked around this treasure for a few minutes undisturbed. Although this church is right in the heart of midtown it was an oasis of quiet. It was hard to pray in there, though. There were too many beautiful things I wanted to look at!

At one point a very kind gentlemen greeted me. He was obviously familiar with the place and told me about the fire that had occurred there and about his sister, a parishioner at this church before she died. When I meet people like that, I always think of St. Paul’s letter to the Hebrews when he reminds us that we need to, ‘show hospitality to strangers, for by this some have entertained angels without knowing it.’

There were a few other churches that I visited on that trip but the most special one had to be this little jewel in Midtown.

To be continued…

Empty Prayers

Eleven years ago, my son was deployed to Afghanistan. He wanted to be a soldier since he was 10 years old so none of this came as a surprise. He was well trained and is very intuitive so I knew he had done everything he could to prepare for his mission.

I’ve often had a sense if something will ultimately turn out or not but I was coming up blank about this situation. I felt hyper-aware and dead at the same time. Someone told me I would get through this because I was a person of faith but I told them that faith is not an anesthetic. I lay awake many nights wondering what my son was doing but trying not to count the days until he was home.  I would be positive one second and down the next. There was simply no middle ground.

In an effort to do something with all these turbulent feelings I started collecting holy cards of saints that had some connection to the military or the safety of soldiers. I planned to pray for their intercession every day. I made a list of all the prayers I would say each day for the 7 months my son was gone - the Rosary, the Chaplet of Divine Mercy, and other devotions and litanies as well. I determined I would attend Mass as often as possible and be as attentive as possible. I think I lasted a week. It was simply too much to sustain under those stressful circumstances. If I prayed at all, the only prayer I could muster up was Lord, please keep my son safe.

Thankfully God knows us well so he sends his Spirit to help us. In Romans 8:26-27 St. Paul writes,

Likewise, the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words. And God, who searches the heart, knows what is the mind of the Spirit because the Spirit intercedes for the saints according to the will of God.

So that was how I prayed for months, with sighs and groans too deep for words. Thankfully I also had the church community and other Christian friends praying. When I could not pray, they did.

These days are also stressful and we are also laying in wait for hidden enemies to show up.  There will be times we feel so depleted and distracted it will be hard to pray. Yet even under these extraordinary circumstances, we have continued to make time to be with our friends. If we can do that then let’s try to meet each day with Jesus at an appointed time and rejoice in our time together – just like we do with our other friends. 💗

A Shower of Roses on Assumption

Today is the Feast of the Assumption of Mary. I love this feast because it celebrates Mary’s body and soul entering into heaven and being reunited with her Son. It’s also a bittersweet day because it’s the anniversary of my mother’s passing.

My mother was far away from the Church when she died although she wasn’t hostile towards it. She was no feminist but she felt in some ways the Church was somewhat old fashioned. She also grew up in a time when a lot of what passed for church teaching was more misunderstanding and even superstition. You know, like if I pray this prayer for 9 days in a row then X will be guaranteed to happen. She told me that as a child she was sure she would go straight to hell if she ate meat on Fridays. She came of age just as Vatican II got underway so there was even more confusion. She loved Pope St. John XXIII and the whole idea of ‘opening windows in the Church’ yet I don’t remember her ever going to Mass except for my grandmother’s funeral. Still, she believed in a good God and she was a very loving, kind, patient, and generous mother to my brother and me.

A few years ago, it was the 20th anniversary of her passing. Every year this anniversary was brutal. Right after my birthday in the middle of July, I would start going into a depression in anticipation of it. I was laying in bed that morning and I was probably crying. In desperation, I prayed for St. Therese’s intercession. I prayed she would send me a rose to let me know if my mother was alright. I asked her to send a very clear sign, something as obvious as a 2 x 4 to the head as I didn’t want to second guess myself. I wasn’t sure it was the right thing to pray for because we are not supposed to ask for signs, we are supposed to have faith, especially when things don’t look very promising. At the same time, Therese had promised that ‘When I die, I will send down a shower of roses from the heavens, I will spend my heaven by doing good on earth.’  So, I got up and I went about my business that morning and tried not to think much more about it.

At noon the mail arrived and right on the top of the pile was an envelope from the Society of the Little Flower featuring 3 red roses and stating that my St. Therese Rosary was enclosed. On the back of the envelope was a picture of St. Therese and a statement that she was known for her love of roses and is often called on to have one sent from her heavenly garden as a sign of hope.  I opened the envelope and pulled out the letter addressed to me. The first line read, ‘There’s nothing like a mother’s love, is there?’ And then I really started to cry! Therese had clearly sent me a rose as a sign of hope.

I had not ordered this rosary or expected any correspondence from this society. I had never even heard of them before. It was actually a letter seeking donations so my name and address had been sold to them by somebody. At the same time, I did not care that this came about in such a worldly way. Events had been put into place in anticipation of this day so that my prayer would be answered and I was grateful. After all, had I not prayed this same prayer every year since my mother died?

Many will chalk up this particular event to coincidence but time and time again God has shown me his love and care exactly when I needed it most. He made us to be tactile beings and will use earthly signs to connect with us and respond to us. 

As for the yearly depression in anticipation of the anniversary of my mother’s passing, that’s gone. I now feel peace on this day. I still miss my earthly mother but my hope is that she is now enjoying Eternity with our Blessed Mother and her Son. Amen! 🌹🌹🌹

A Lesson From the Past

I just have to say I love writing this blog. I will think I have a topic and I'm all set to write about that but then the Holy Spirit pops into my mind with other ideas (I call it Popcorn from the Holy Spirit) and off we go in whatever direction He wills. Today's post is definitely one of those posts. 😄🔥

Facebook Messenger…where messages never die. I bet I could find some lost socks from the dryer in my FB mailbox too. I was scrolling through old messages and deleting them when I hit paydirt! I found a series of long-lost messages between me and one of my cousins about our uncle’s decision to be euthanized (blog post coming soon). I found a very terse message written to someone I had a very difficult relationship with. I also discovered a scathing review of a certain person’s behaviour at a wedding I attended. I had no idea I could be that vicious. Wow. This is what is so fabulous about writing – you can see how you have (hopefully!) grown, matured and mellowed...and forgiven.

The messages were all dated 2011. It’s hard to believe that was 9 years ago already! The following year I attended my first healing retreat and that’s when I started down the road to living my life in the Spirit. Up until that time I had been laying a foundation that was all about following the letter of the law. I knew all the rules and regulations, when to do this particular thing, when to do that thing, for how long, what to read, what to say, what to think. I was very scrupulous because worldly values had only hurt me. I figured if I followed all these church rules, I would be safe. I suppose I was but I am quite sure I did not attract one person to a life of faith with my rigidity. I had my piety in order but to a degree, I was still dead inside.

Each healing retreat I went on could be the subject of individual blog posts but that will come at another time. The two things they all had in common though was that forgiveness and repentance are the keys to freedom. But don’t ask me how you can measure and calculate that because it will be different for each person and each situation you need to deal with. Different retreats will have different methods to help you get to the root of your particular circumstances but I’ve made the most progress at ones that have daily Mass, plenty of opportunities for the Sacrament of Reconciliation, group time, private one on one time with a leader, and free time. And Kleenex. Lots and lots and lots of Kleenex!

I’ve been on retreats where I cried multiple times a day for 9 days in a row. It was like a dam breaking. All that pent up hurt and all those thoughts I couldn’t bear to express or didn’t have the words to articulate, they all came gushing out. And just when you think you’re done there’s more. But it’s good, it’s all good.

In a way, a retreat is like going up a ladder. You can’t climb to the top in one giant step. You have to go up rung by rung. Sometimes you have to examine the rung to make sure your foot is actually on it and then you can reach up and go a little higher. The further up you go the more disoriented you may feel but if you’ve got your spotter and the ladder is on a steady foundation then you will get there.

I bought a lot of books over the years trying to figure out how to find peace. I’ve talked to a lot of people about what has hurt me. Some were friends, some were paid professionals. I’ve journaled until my pen ran out of ink or my laptop overheated. But in the end, there are just some things that only Jesus can heal.

My Sixteenth Year - Part 2

Continued from Part l

It was a pretty rotten start to our visit but life had to continue. My mother had to go to her father’s home to see how he was doing so she told me I had to stay at my cousin’s and have a nap. You can imagine how a 16-year-old feels about being told to take a nap but one look at my mother’s face and you could see something had died inside of her. I went to bed.

I lay there with the biggest lump in my throat. I was almost choking. I have never in my life felt so terrible even when my parents died years later. But the lump wasn’t from grief, it was from guilt. It wasn’t because my cousin said our grandma had a heart attack from the excitement of seeing us. It was because I had been angry with my grandma before we even left for the trip and now, she was dead.

When my father and his wife had visited Amsterdam earlier that year my mom’s sisters and mother had paid a surprise visit to them. I liked my father’s wife and we got along very well so I couldn’t understand why they did this when everyone else had clearly moved on. 

So, I lay in bed with the most enormous burden on my conscience. There was no way I could talk to my mother or anyone else about this. It was almost as if the enormous choking lump in my throat was a physical manifestation of that guilt. I think I was even too ashamed to pray for help. I didn’t know a lot about God but I did acknowledge his existence and I didn’t feel I deserved his help or his mercy.

If only I could have gone to confession to speak to a priest. I would have had a safe haven to unburden myself, listen to some wise words, and be absolved of this grudge. Surely the priest would’ve told me that my angry thoughts towards my grandmother did not kill her. I had not heard of magical thinking at that time but that’s exactly what I was experiencing. I know now that the only thing that killed her was blocked arteries, not the personal thoughts of a teenaged granddaughter or her somewhat ill-considered visit to her former son-in-law.

A few days after her death we celebrated my grandmother’s funeral Mass at her church. The church was beautiful, built of warm brick with gorgeous stained glass, patterned tile floors, and with stunning artwork of saints and biblical scenes painted on the walls. I was captivated by it.

I wasn’t overly familiar with the order of the Mass but I had been going to church with a friend earlier in the year so I knew there would be a fair bit of getting up, sitting down, getting up again. And then I realized with horror that there would be Holy Communion. Well, Holy Communion was not horrific. What was dreadful was that I knew I should not receive It as I had not made my First Communion nor had any instruction to prepare me for that event. Amazingly I did know the consecrated hosts were Jesus. I didn’t know much more than that but I knew this was not just ordinary bread and I must not trifle with it.

As we shuffled down the pew toward the aisle, I told my mother that I shouldn’t go up for Communion. I’m not sure why I didn’t just sit it out as I did in my friend's church. She gave me a stunned look as she was surely wondering where all this sudden piety had come from. I can’t remember how she replied but I knew I better not make a scene in church, especially on this day, and so I am sad to say that was my first experience of receiving Holy Communion.

My Sixteenth Year - Part 1

 I was 16 years and we were finally going back to visit “the old country.” We hadn’t been back to Amsterdam in six years and we knew from experience how much can change in such a short time.

My aunt and her husband picked us up from the airport and took us to their home where we would be staying with them for the next three weeks. I was sharing a room with my 14-year-old cousin so she took me down the hall to show me where to put my things. We were catching up on the latest news when I heard a strange sound from the living room. I asked my cousin if she thought it sounded like laughing or crying. Oh crying, she said. She then blurted out that our grandmother had dropped dead that morning. I was so stunned I could barely take it in.

What had happened is that my grandmother had gone to wash her hair that morning in preparation for our arrival and had suffered a heart attack. My grandfather found her dead on the floor. My cousin said the excitement of our visit might have caused it – she was never known for being subtle.

It was difficult to process this because it was so sudden. It also seemed especially cruel because my mother hadn’t seen her own mom in 2 years. She had been looking forward to showing her parents that my brother and I were turning out OK despite our parents’ divorce. My grandparents had wanted us to come back to Holland after my father left but my mother had refused. I actually didn’t know about that until 20 years later.

How different my life would’ve been surrounded by family and old friends. At the same time, I wonder if I would’ve ever come to faith while living in Europe.

…to be continued.

Opa's Gift

I have a crucifix in every room of my house. One was a gift from my in-laws, one belonged to my uncle who had Down syndrome, another comes from Mexico. The one in my kitchen was attached to a wall rosary that was 6 feet long. But the one I love most hangs right beside the front door.

That crucifix hung in our home when I was a child and was a gift from my paternal grandfather. I always remember it hanging over the doorway in my parent’s bedroom in Amsterdam and later on in Canada, but I’m not sure why it was there because we didn’t go to church.

After my parents split up the crucifix ended up in the bottom drawer of my mother's dresser. When I left home, I took the crucifix without asking. I don’t remember why I felt the need to have it. I just did. And I don’t know why I didn’t ask if I could have it because my mother would surely have given it to me. I hung it up in my new home but in a somewhat hidden spot. I didn’t want to look “too religious.”

This particular crucifix consisted of two separate pieces. The cross portion was made by my grandfather who happened to be a carpenter. But the metal corpus had come to him while he was on a journey.

During WWII my grandfather had been arrested by the Nazis. I don’t know why and it’s unlikely I will ever find out. The War was not something we were allowed to talk about with my grandparents. We weren’t taught that this was wrong, there was just an unwritten rule that it was not done.

Somehow my grandfather escaped from the Nazis and he went into hiding. Some cousins suggested he hid in a convent in northern France. Perhaps he hid closer to home. We will never know for sure. But at some point, after the war ended Opa returned to Amsterdam, and as the story goes found this particular corpus in a bombed-out building in Rotterdam.

In my twenties I went through some very difficult times and the crucifix went back into a dark bottom drawer and stayed there for a long time. Sometimes I would take it out and look at it as I found it rather beautiful in a melancholy way. I wondered who the original owner was and what had happened to them during the war. I imagined my grandfather finding the corpus and carrying it home with him. Was it still with its original wooden cross then? How did my grandfather feel when he drove the little nails into the wood to attach the body to the new cross?

Eventually, I returned to the Church and I resurrected my crucifix from its tomb in the bottom drawer of my desk. It was dusted and blessed and hung in a place where it would not be overlooked by anyone in my home. Wherever it journeys in the future I pray it will always be in a visible place, sparking conversations around its origins but even more so about Who it depicts.