News - February 2019 RSS Feed

My brother, Jimmy, was a senior at the University of Notre Dame when our dad discovered that he was skydiving in his spare time. Generally a kind and considerate parent, Dad called Jimmy and asked what it was that he enjoyed so much about jumping out of airplanes. “It’s so quiet, Dad.” Our father sat very still for a moment (I assume imagining his son in free-fall), then said, “So is the library, son, so is the library.” Perhaps there is a genetic attraction to quiet for I too seek it out - not by skydiving, rather by turning off the radio in the car, walking at Radnor Lake or going on silent retreats. For me, silence helps me connect with a spiritual dimension within myself.  Wasn’t it John of the Cross who wrote, “Silence is God’s first language” - and Thomas Keating who added, “Everything else is a bad translation”? In the silence, I connect to a Mystery that dwells deep within me and all around me.  In the noisy world in which we live, I find it feels healthy and holy to quiet my self, to listen in silence. This practice is a means of kenosis - of emptying my small self to make room for an inpouring of grace, a means of connecting to a larger awareness of Self. May we all find ways to listen for God in silence - at the altitude of our choice.

Our annual Mardi Gras Party will take place on Saturday, March 2nd after the 4:30 Mass. Join us for a fun evening with a New Orleans flavor.

What's Your Next Step? Think About Your Own Story.

Having just received word that my father had had a stroke, I called my husband and asked him to book me a flight to Florida. Within a short amount of time, I had handed off work assignments and made arrangements for my children. As I was leaving the office, a co-worker stopped me, saying “I’ll be praying for you.” I gave her a half smile, thanked her and drove home to pack my suitcase. But something had  happened. The anxiety that had been building up in me began to drained away; a sense of peace took its place. On the way to the airport, on the flight; I felt a uncharacteristic calmness carrying me towards my father’s hospital bed. His stroke affected the right side of his body, but doctors assured us that in time, with therapy, he would partially recover. “I recommend Mr. Dawson stay in our rehabilitation facility for about a week before having therapists come to your home to continue his treatment,” the lead doctor said to Mom and me. Dad had been itching to get out of the hospital since the day I arrived. It was a hard sell but we convinced him to go to the rehab center, promising that we would visit him first thing in the morning to see how he was doing. As we pulled into the parking lot that morning, Dad was sitting on a bench with his suitcase next to him. “He’s apparently checked himself out,” my mother said flatly. I was to fly home that afternoon. All I could think to say to my mom was, “I’ll be praying for you.” She gave me a half-smile.  

What's Your Next Step? Consider the human and divine faces of the Church.

Having just received word that my father had had a stroke, I called my husband and asked him to book me a flight to Florida. Within a short amount of time, I had handed off work assignments and made arrangements for my children. As I was leaving the office, a co-worker stopped me, saying “I’ll be praying for you.” I gave her a half smile, thanked her and drove home to pack my suitcase. But something had  happened. The anxiety that had been building up in me began to drained away; a sense of peace took its place. On the way to the airport, on the flight; I felt a uncharacteristic calmness carrying me towards my father’s hospital bed. His stroke affected the right side of his body, but doctors assured us that in time, with therapy, he would partially recover. “I recommend Mr. Dawson stay in our rehabilitation facility for about a week before having therapists come to your home to continue his treatment,” the lead doctor said to Mom and me. Dad had been itching to get out of the hospital since the day I arrived. It was a hard sell but we convinced him to go to the rehab center, promising that we would visit him first thing in the morning to see how he was doing. As we pulled into the parking lot that morning, Dad was sitting on a bench with his suitcase next to him. “He’s apparently checked himself out,” my mother said flatly. I was to fly home that afternoon. All I could think to say to my mom was, “I’ll be praying for you.” She gave me a half-smile.  

What's your next step? Pay attention to your breathing.

My father was a young man when nationalism infected the people of Germany. At age eighteen, he volunteered for the military. My siblings and I always assumed that the large, knotty scars on the side of his body were from the war, but our dad said very little about World War II. Having met many veterans at Room in the Inn who are dealing with addiction issues, I have sometimes wondered if my father’s alcoholism was in any way affected by his experiences on the European front.  One thing my siblings and I did know about Dad - when he was age twenty, he was in the Battle of the Bulge. Years later, my sister, eyeing his ample stomach, would tease Dad about winning the Battle of the Bulge in the war, but loosing it on the home front. Dad did admit that, after that bloody battle, he never wanted to be that cold or that hungry ever again. So our home was always set on a very comfortable temperature, our refrigerator was always well stocked. In fact, we used to tease Dad when he made breakfast for us.  As he tossed the last breakfast pancake into our dog’s dish, he would ask us children what we wanted for lunch. Each Sunday, as we pray “for peace, again and again for peace,” I think of my father. I wonder what his life, what my life, might have been like if he had not witnessed the violence of war.  And I pray, again and again, for peace.