Tag: Faith

Posted on

The Story

He approached me along an empty Sunday morning street.  Unsteady on his feet and reeking of liquor, he politely asked for spare change. I gave him a coin and a smile, assuming he would move on. Instead, what followed was 10 minutes of pure grace.

Surprised by the coin, he steadied himself. He searched my face through filthy spectacles. Satisfied, he said, “You know that coin you gave me is going right down my throat, don’t you? I’m on the drink. I can’t help it. I just thought you should know. I don’t want to take advantage of your generosity”. I nodded without judgement, amazed by his honesty.

He then asked my name. It turns out we are namesakes. As proof, he pulled out a crumpled birth certificate which, for reasons unknown, he carries in his back pocket. Charles is 62, short, stout, weathered from a hard life. He is a native of the small English town where we met that morning. He spent a few happy years in Canada, another bond between us. He now lives in a shelter run by the local church that he describes as “Nice folk, but with their head up their ass.”

Standing together on the empty village street, his story flowed out. There was no boasting and no desire for pity in its telling. It was not the afflicted drunken ramble of someone in a bar. His only purpose was connection. For my part I mostly just listened, humbled by the unselfconscious honesty of this man, gently sharing his brokenness without wallowing in it.

Charles’ wife died of cancer in her 40s and left him with four kids. He stole cars to make ends meet, did some time in prison. He wept as he recalled his two girls killed in a car crash. He opened his shirt to show me their names tattooed over his heart. I asked about the angry scar on his collar bone. Knifed by some arse-hole in a pub in Wales. He often drinks in Wales since most local pubs have banned him.

The names of his boys, Bradley and Kevin, are inked on each arm. Bradley has two kids: “Them grandkids love me. Think I’m the greatest bloke alive. They’re the reason I never give up. Even at rock bottom on the drink, I will never give up. Never.” As he said this, I knew it to be true.

He caught my eye as I glanced down at his massive, bruised hands.  He remarked that he had knocked someone out with a single blow at the pub the previous evening. When I asked why, he said “You just can’t talk filth in front of ladies like that Charles. I mean, I had a daughter and a wife. Nobody should talk to a lady like that bloke was doing last night. Next time, he’ll think about it”.

As my bus approached he reached into his pocket and pulled out a shiny copper penny. It had a hairpin bent around it. He gave it to me. “I do this when I find a new penny lying about”, he said. “Give this to someone you love Charles”. We shook hands in parting, his iron grip like that of a stonemason. It’s the only time in my life that I wished for my bus to be late.

[If you know others who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

Posted on

The Iguana

[I would like to thank the many people who have reached out to me in response to last week’s post about dad’s death. Your support has been overwhelming and uplifting. I am deeply grateful.]

After the recent death of my father, I have now turned to the task of “taming the iguana” – dad’s own term for the hundreds of random sticky notes, files, and mislabelled boxes that fill his home. Doing so has uncorked both laughter and tears, as well it should. These two emotions often arrive together.

Facing the iguana is like living in a scene from “A Beautiful Mind”: number of yellow sticky pads strewn randomly about dad’s house–114; number of yellow sticky pads containing useful information–7.  Almost every box is simply labelled “mementos”. Thanks dad.

I have yet to locate an original copy of dad’s will. But I have found three boxes of interstate roadmaps from the 1970s. I also came across water bills from 1992. They were in a box labelled “mementos”.

There are two bedroom closets upstairs. One contains just two pieces of clothing: my mother’s wedding dress and dad’s old boy scout uniform. The other contains dad’s extensive collection of flannel pajama pants and nerdy t-shirts.  My favourite is one that says “Technically, Moses was the first person to download data from the cloud to a tablet”. I once gave him a shirt from the CERN particle accelerator that says “I think your Boson is giving me a Hadron”. But I can’t find the shirt. I think dad must have discarded it for fear of appearing rude.  I have no such scruples.

Dad supported dozens of charities. His desk is piled high with aid appeals from dozens more that he had not yet gotten round to supporting but that he did not have the heart to turn down.

I smile each time I encounter dad’s two prized refrigerator magnets (which is often). One says:

o   “To Do is to Be” – Nietzsche

o   “To Be is to Do” – Kant

o   “Do Be Do Be Do” – Sinatra

The other magnet simply states: “Without ice cream, there would be darkness and chaos”.

It is the photographs that most elicit laughter and tears. Each one is a physical reminder of dad with my mother, with grandkids, family, and beloved friends. This is also true of the photos we have received in recent weeks from friends and family. Like the one enclosed. When my son’s best friend heard of the death, he commemorated dad on his basketball shoes.

The Irish have a term, “thin place”. It is where this world and the next one are barely indistinguishable, like the wardrobe in Narnia. The hospital room during dad’s final moments was a “thin place”. If you reached out there you could almost push through into where dad was going. In recent weeks, Dad’s house has become a “thin place”, thanks to the iguana.

 

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

Posted on

Dad

My dad died peacefully last week. I miss him terribly. His death, and indeed his entire life, is a powerful testament to the Words for the Weary spirit of “lighthearted stories about everyday things”.

Two weeks ago we arrived at his home to find him in an armchair. He was connected to oxygen and wearing slippers shaped like hamburgers. He cheerily engaged with everyone while consuming vast amounts of ice cream. His faith and humor and grace remained intact despite the cancer. This was no stoic façade: it’s how dad was hardwired from a lifetime of love.

On one occasion during the ensuing days, as I reconnected his oxygen, he took a deep breath and said “Ah, oxygen. Great stuff. They should put more of it in the air…”.

After moving to narcotic pain medication he quipped “My first drug trip. So this is what all the fuss was about in the 1970s. I suppose I must be hip now with the younger generation.”

We returned one night from the hospital to find a neighbor’s note: “Tater-tot hot dish in the refrigerator”.  I love Midwestern neighbors. And I love tater-tots.

Dad was never strong on administration. His account passwords are kept on little yellow sticky notes that absolutely cover his desk. Each note contains a complex mathematical formula which, when solved, reveals a password. I asked him how I was ever to sort out his affairs. He smiled and suggested that if I took a step back and looked at the sticky notes with the correct perspective, they were artfully arranged in the shape of an iguana. Thanks dad.

We prayed together. When speech left him, we prayed for him. Or we simply held hands and gazed upon one another with such love that words were not required.

His decline was remarkably fast – a week before he died he was playing the piano. His final days and the moments of his death were profound. You could squeegee the love out of the air, it was so saturated with grace and light.  He died surrounded by his closest loved ones, utterly at peace with his life and with God.

He was the greatest man I have ever known. He also happened to be my dad. No amount of thanks seems sufficient for such a gift.

[This post is dedicated to my late father. His obituary, written by my sister late one night in just a few minutes, can be found here]

Posted on

Peace

The Jesuit training center where I attend a monthly course is normally filled with joy and peace. Not today. Today, there is a disturbance in The Force.

Some months back I came to the center to interview for a place on the course. I was anxious. My anxiety was put to rest the moment I met him. Well into his 80s, he looked like a leprechaun.  Short, trim, prominent nose, gray hair parted to the side. He held the door open and welcomed me to the center in a sing-song Irish accent. He wore faded cotton trousers, slippers, and a cardigan knit long ago by a loved one. He asked me my name. He told me he would pray for me. Then he ambled off down the corridor, humming.

He reappeared throughout that first day, popping up in random places. He didn’t seem to be working, but rather drifting peacefully through the training center on some invisible current, as a fish might do in a huge aquarium. Each occasion when we passed he would stop, clasp my hand, say my name, and remind me of his prayers for me. His eyes twinkled. He hummed merrily to himself as he floated away.

I learned that he had once been a renowned expert in the practice of prayer. He had been a sought after retreat leader and author of several classic works. In recent years he has spent his days padding around in slippers, praying for people and radiating peace. He is perhaps the most peaceful human that I have ever encountered.

For 21 years he lived on the second floor of the training center in a small bedroom between the elevator shaft and the utility storage closet. The room has a tiny window with a distant view of the Irish Sea. Today he is being relocated to another Jesuit community. I suspect he is being eased out to pasture.

We met this morning in the stairwell. He did not recognize me. He held a box of paperclips in his hand. He told me he was cleaning out his small room and wanted to be sure the paper clips were put to good use at the reception desk.  I spontaneously gave him a bar of chocolate that I had in my backpack. I told him how grateful I was for his peaceful presence. His eyes welled with tears.

This afternoon I watched from a distance as the small group of remaining Jesuits escorted him to the taxi. They held him lovingly by the elbow as they walked together. Everything he owns fit into a garment bag and a single suitcase.

Headlines of predatory priests and politicians get me down. Today, however, I was reminded of the legions of truly great people who never make the papers.  These anonymous heroes make the world go round by quietly going about their life’s work.  As this gentle man has done his whole life, sowing peace.

Posted on

The Nuns of St-Loup

Deep joy flows from them like a breaking wave. It surges through withered hands as they greet you. It twinkles in eyes gleaming behind thick spectacles. It spills over in easy laughter.

They are only a remnant now. Perhaps 30 or so remain from an original strength of hundreds. For over a century they ran The St-Loup hospital located on the Via Francigena, a 1,000 mile footpath connecting Canterbury England to Rome. But they are too old and too few now to run a pilgrim hospital. So instead they care for the infirm at the nearby hospice, and they welcome modern pilgrims to their retreat house.

Our retreat group is invited to join their mid-day meal. We file silently into the simple dining room. We are shown to long tables. The center seats at each table are reserved for a nun, one facing another across the table. These two sisters pass the food, always counterclockwise, in simple tin serving plates. The nuns take their portion last. This ritual is orderly, meticulous, and a source of obvious delight.

When everyone is served one nun sings the first line of grace in French. The chorus then joins her in rich, four-part harmony. The hair on my neck tingles as they sing. The woman seated beside me weeps quietly from the beauty of it. I pass her my napkin. I won’t need it: my shirt usually becomes my napkin.

The meal is taken in silence. It consists of simple vegetables from their garden, polenta, and overcooked pork chops. The nun at our table is well over 70 and weighs perhaps 90 pounds. She whistles through her nose when she breathes and she eats more than I do. Each time we make eye contact she stifles a giggle. I suspect it is from the food slopped on my shirt. Dessert is homemade yoghurt with honey, the best I have ever eaten. The dessert spoon is silver.

The cleanup is equally choreographed. Cutlery is collected in red plastic sandbox pails wrapped in wicker. The aged nuns then shuffle out to bring light into the world and to wheel the infirm around the flower garden.

The wifi password at the retreat center is “Proverbes4:23” – Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]image002

Posted on

My Great Aunt – 13/11/2017

One hot summer day at a family reunion, someone gave my great aunt a margarita and a water gun. She was in her late 80s. She knocked the drink back like it was Kool-aid. Then she drank another. Before the end of the day she was dancing on the picnic table in her Baskin-Robbins-esque polyester pant suit, squirting people with water.

Later she was playing a ball-toss game with a priest. He made a throw and missed the target altogether. Picture a woman in her late 80s, cradling her drink like Dean Martin, turning to the clergyman and saying, “IS THAT THE BEST YOU’VE GOT, HOLY BOY?” She trash-talked a priest. Then she squirted him with water. Then she went and got another margarita.

She taught us kids how to gamble, playing Royal Rummy for pennies at her kitchen table. She let us sip beer from little paper cups from as early as I can remember. She asked about our lives. She patiently listened to our response.  She modeled faith in action, sending her prayers and her money to schools in South America, Africa, Native reserves, and inner city slums. She never had any children of her own, but man did she have a heart for them.

She also nearly killed us with her driving. The finer points of gentle acceleration and gradual braking were lost on her. When the light turned green she would pin it, and at the next red light she would hammer on the brake inches before the intersection. Naturally we kids loved this, being flung all over the car in the days before seatbelts.

She was hard of hearing. Even with hearing aids she SPOKE LOUDLY, her volume the same regardless of subject matter. Once she went to the hospital to visit a family member with an infection who would sit up in his bed, hallucinating and bathed in sweat, and yell about the rising river water. In walks my great aunt. She sizes up the situation and then randomly blurts, “LAST NIGHT MY UTERUS DROPPED, AND NOW I HAVE TO WIPE TWICE WHEN I TINKLE”. She honestly said that. At that moment said family member sat up and yelled, “Everyone get the hell out, the river’s flooding!” He honestly said that. You can’t make this stuff up.

They broke the mold with my great aunt. Last week she would have been 104. Happy Birthday dear one, and how we miss you!

 

 

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]