Author Kathy Hauiesen recently invited me to share a guest post on her blog, How Wise Then. She asked me to talk about the evolution of my life as a writer, along with any advice for aspiring authors. Here’s the post, which gives a bit of back story even my faithful readers haven’t heard before!
Warning: this is a LONG rumination! Read it when you are in the mood for something to chew on.
When I traveled with Maryknoll missionaries to campus ministry sites in Peru and Bolivia in 2001, I felt prepared for anything. In my suitcase—one of the largest in our group—I had clothes for every climate, remedies for every malady, and even “hostess” gifts for every community: four one-pound Whitman Sampler boxes! With difficulty, I dragged that giant bag up and down the stairs of each new residence; with embarrassment, I watched our guides strain to get it to the top of the bus each time we changed cities.
At the other end of the packing spectrum was Fr. Claude, an older Canadian priest, who carried only a duffel bag. A smallish duffel bag at that—and it was not full. He wore the same sweater every day, and washed his socks and underwear in the bathroom sink each night. My chocolate weighed more than his luggage! Watching him hop up and down steps and on and off buses with that thing, I experienced a wee bit of judgment (no one was turning to him for Band-Aids or Pepto-Bismol) and a hefty dose of jealousy. Fr. Claude might not have brought any presents, but he was so unencumbered that he was free to share the gift of his presence everywhere we went.
Fr. Claude might not have brought any presents, but he was so unencumbered that he was free to share the gift of his presence everywhere we went.
That experience, almost twenty years ago, stirred my lasting interest in packing—both logistically and as a metaphor—as it shows up in life, in literature, and even in Scripture. Cleaning out deceased loved ones’ houses, downsizing, and giving up my office (AKA overflow storage) added a new intensity to my wrestling match with “stuff.” And now, as I plan for the Ignatian Camino this fall, I realize I will finally be taking a page from Fr. Claude’s book: in Spain, I will be washing my (limited) unmentionables in the sink each night!Continue reading
“Try to think of it as a long thread,” Jim said. “Il filo, in Italian.”
This past Monday night, my church choir was practicing for Christmas, working on a new song that was not yet pretty enough for prime time (AKA Midnight Mass at St. Vincent’s). Our accompanist, Jim Primosh, was trying to help us sing more smoothly by getting us to think beyond individual words or notes to the “through line” carried on our breath, unbroken and continuous. He encouraged us to picture il filo—the long thread running through the music. This image helped our singing a great deal, but what really caught my attention was that it was the second time I’d encountered “following the thread” as an analogy in less than a week.
The first time was at a mentoring breakfast last Friday. I was talking with a wonderful young man who had just changed majors, following his passion away from a clear career path. We were discussing my recent shift from campus ministry to freelance work—also a leap into the less clear. Andrew observed, “All the things you really loved, you’re still doing—just in a different context.” The image of the continuous thread came to me (though I hadn’t heard the lovely Italian yet), and I described the things that matter most to me as a thread running through everything I’ve done. “Find your own thread,” I encouraged Andrew. “If you can see where it’s been, you can follow it forward.”
We talked about personal mission, and the concept of a “six word mission statement” from a leadership training session at Gwynedd Mercy University. For a long time, I’ve been using the six-word tag line: Connecting Scripture, Spirituality, and Everyday Life. Challenged to come up with a more personal motto, however, I found myself drawing on the words of the Baltimore Catechism (which, NO, I am not old enough to remember, but that didn’t stop my mom from teaching it to me). Why am I here? Six words: Help others know / love / serve God. That’s a clear thread. The context doesn’t matter nearly as much as making sure whatever I’m doing serves that goal.
Through subsequent conversation with Jim Primosch (who happens to be an acclaimed composer and brilliant pianist as well as a parishioner of St. Vincent’s and an incredibly patient music teacher), I learned that an even more elegant term for il filo is the French la grande ligne, the main or “pure, true line” running through great music. Jim pointed me to an article that brings together theology and music around this concept of la grande ligne:
“The more that music, however complicated it is internally, gives off a pure, true line, the more intelligible it is—and that’s why nine out of ten developments, which are not integral parts of the form, but some sort of filler for the blank spaces between the essential points, are false and wearisome.”(Letter from composer and music teacher Nadia Boulanger, cited in Jeanice Brooks The Musical Work of Nadia Boulanger: Performing Past and Future Between the Wars.)
In this season of Advent—a time in which we are called to create space for God—I am intrigued by that image of “false and wearisome” things that are just “filler for the blank spaces between essential points.” It’s like St. Paul’s prayer in Philippians 1:10: May you learn to value the things that really matter, up to the very day of Christ. (That’s the 1970 NAB, no longer in use liturgically, but gosh, I do love some of the phrasing.) This is a season for noticing the false and wearisome filler that keeps us from spotting and following the divine thread in our lives. Instead of filling up the blank spaces with chatter, frittering, or mindless acquisition, can we grow more willing to rest in them? Can we pause in the darkness long enough to let the essential points of our life come clear?
This image of il filo or la grande ligne also can help us make sense of our disjointed personal history. If we’ve been through significant changes, our life narrative can begin to seem more like a collection of short stories than one great mystery novel. We change schools, jobs, and homes; we find and lose life partners; we are healthy, then we’re not. In the midst of such flux, it is helpful to remember what is unchanging in our lives. This includes our deepest passions and convictions, loves that continue beyond the grave, and—at the heart of it all—our relationship with God, described by the Hindu poet Tagore as “the one companion of my endless life, who links my heart with bonds of joy to the unfamiliar.”
That’s the thread.
In this Advent season, at Christmastime, and always, may you follow it with confidence into the unknown future.
On this fifth anniversary of my dad’s death, I’ll let my brother’s words speak for me. Sending love to all those who mourn . . .
Today is the five year anniversary of my father’s death and I’ve been wondering for a few weeks what I might say about it. I’ve been wondering how I would feel about it, and honestly, nut much is coming up. It feels like an important date to pause and offer a quiet prayer of thanksgiving for his life and for everything I learned through his death.
I’m conscious, however, of how many people in my life are currently experiencing grief from the loss of a parent, a loved one, or a sudden turn of health. Losing my parents at a relatively young age made me a kind of pioneer in this rugged terrain of grief. “Welcome to the Dead Parents Club,” my now-dead cousin Susan said to me way back in 2007 after we said goodbye to my mom.
In my previous blog post, I wrote about…
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Double back, or press on?
The trail map of Monhegan Island (population 65) clearly identified three walks recommended for day-trippers, so we had chosen the pleasant, 25-minute stroll to Lobster Cove. We sat on a sunny rock and ate our peanut-butter-on-raisin-bread sandwiches (standard picnic fare), watching the sparkling ocean and enjoying a lone seagull who seemed pretty content on a rock of its own. The view was pretty, but we had grown accustomed to longer hikes during these last two weeks in Maine. We decided to walk out along the Cliff Trail a ways, just to see what the vista was like from a bit higher, then return the way we came.
We would have preferred to stay on the Cliff Trail all the way around the east side of the island, then cut back down the middle to the ferry dock, but again, the map was clear: two sections of the trail ahead were marked in red, identified as “particularly challenging.” The map was also clear about what happened to tourists who overestimated their abilities and got into trouble. No medical service on the island. No guarantee that there would be enough cell signal to call 911. No way for a vehicle or even a boat to reach some of the places a middle-aged woman in sneakers might injure herself. For added drama, the remains of a tugboat wreck dotted the landscape around of us like a rusting cautionary tale.
Which is why we were going to double back. Except . . .
It was so beautiful! Scary, but beautiful. We scrambled up and down rocks, avoided tree roots and swampy bits, and took at least one false turn, but over and over we looked up and discovered a stunning new view of the sea. It had already been hard, so the thought of turning back and retracing our steps was, frankly, a bummer. We didn’t know if the trail ahead was dramatically harder, of if we’d already done the worst of it. And so we pressed on. (I fought rising panic by singing the jaunty rendition of Psalm 23 that was jogging through my head.)
Porter took the lead—having under his belt both longer legs and more years of scouting. He figured out the safest steps, and gave me a hand when I needed it. This gave me frequent opportunities to soak in the beauty around us, as well as the chance to begin musing about the “harder paths” offered to us in everyday life.
I found myself remembering the two months my father was in home hospice care, when I took FMLA leave and moved in, along with my brother, Stephen, to care for him. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Every few days, Dad’s abilities dropped off, and the tasks required of us grew more demanding. As on the Cliff Trail, we wondered how much worse it would get, and whether we would hit a point where we couldn’t do it anymore. Yet there was so much beauty.
Even five years later, I have such warm memories of that time-out-of-time: our cousin Mike keeping me company on Wednesday nights when Stephen was back in Baltimore; our cousin Tish sitting with my dad one afternoon so I could take a shower; our uncle Len dragging a vast quantity of recycling to the curb each week as we cleared out the decades of tests, notebooks, and newspaper clippings which the home of two teachers had accumulated. I still savor the way I sat around the fireplace visiting with relatives and friends on weekends, took Stephen’s dog for walks around the old neighborhood in the mornings, and had long, consoling phone calls with distant loved ones at night. And I remember my favorite visit: my friend Liz walking in the door with homemade pizza, an assortment of craft beer, and flowers without a vase—because she figured (rightly) that we already had enough of them.
Those eight weeks were intensely challenging, but I still miss the camaraderie of that special kairos-time.
There is no dramatic ending to my Monhegan story. No one was injured. We didn’t even have any hair-raising near-misses. Eventually, the Cliff Trail intersected with the Burnt Head Trail: a gentle path that led us down an easy slope back into the village, where we shared a blueberry soda (because, Maine) and got back on the Balmy Days II for a ride around the island and return to the mainland.
A few days out, my lingering feeling is great satisfaction with having successfully taken the harder path, mingled with lingering curiosity about life’s harder paths. I keep wondering: when is doing it the hard way worth the beauty and the reward? When is it just too much? When does challenge shade into folly? And how do we know if it’s time to turn around?
I don’t know. But I do know that I want to keep exploring the questions—on foot as well as in prayer. And I know is that getting myself out into nature here in Maine—moving my body in unaccustomed ways and seeing unfamiliar sights—has opened my spirit to fresh metaphors for the spiritual life, and given me a renewed awareness of God’s presence in it all.
The sort of practicing that I did on Monhegan—taking something in the natural world and working the metaphor—will be part of a lovely half-day retreat I’m offering at the Cranaleith Spiritual Center next month. Together, we’ll take a wide-eyed look at the small things in life, and notice the presence of God, hidden in plain sight. The retreat is Sunday, October 6, from 1-4. If you are able to join me, you can register here.
But for now, I invite you to reflect on the harder paths in your own life. What have you tackled that you weren’t sure you could do? Where did you find beauty, or reward? What choice of path lies ahead of you now? How are you being led? Who has your hand? I’d love to hear your stories.
Along whatever path you walk, may your ordinary days be extraordinarily blessed!
The rays of sunset over the bay angled their way between condominiums all the way to the ocean, casting golden beams along the shoreline. I had gone for a walk to clear my mind and prepare for a book discussion the following week. As I enjoyed the enthusiastic remnant of people, dogs, and birds with whom I was sharing the waning beach day, a colorful glint from the surf caught my eye.
I’m not much of a shell collector, but this one was a color I’d never seen. Such a vibrant blue—could it be just a trick of the lingering light? Or was it not a shell at all, but a piece of sea glass revealed by a receding wave? The shops in these towns are full of sea glass souvenirs; could I finally be spotting one in its natural element?
Breaking my stride, I walked over to investigate. The royal blue color held. I dug it out of the wet sand, and discovered that the brilliant object in my hand was indeed glass. Broken glass. (Probably a shard of some pricey water bottle, judging from the color.)
Had I been in a different mood, this would have prompted quite the internal rant. Why does a company waste precious resources creating such a thing? Why does anyone buy it? But if they must, why not at least recycle it properly, instead of doing whatever led to this fragment’s washing up on shore, just waiting for some little kid to slice a foot on it?
These thoughts did cross my mind (obviously, since I just wrote them here). But as I held onto my disappointing treasure, it occured to me what a potent metaphor it was for the need for discernment.
How many shiny things catch our attention each day? From objects no one needs to own, to arguments no one needs to have, the distracting temptations are limitless. Then there are life’s bigger choices. Who hasn’t fallen for a sparkly person only to discover that he or she is far from the partner of our dreams, or pursued a job opportunity that seemed lucrative only to be felled by its soul-crushing day-to-day tasks?
These dilemmas of decision-making were on my mind because so many choices lie ahead of me right now. Two weeks into my “encore career,” I have left behind a steady paycheck and daily routines to pursue the dream of a freelance existence. Invitations are beckoning; a quick glance at my Speaker Page will reveal only some of what’s on the horizon. I’m also preparing an online class that starts at the end of this month, and pondering possibilities for 2020 that could take me as far as Nome, Alaska or northern Spain. (And of course everyone keeps asking me if I’ve started my next book . . . do I even have time for that?) How do I choose what do do with my hours, my days? How do I—in the words of a poem I jotted on an art retreat at Cranaleith this summer—
with tender patience
fierce urgency of
that would fill
the arms of my
with everything that
raised its hand
My sunset walk didn’t answer these questions, but I’m hanging on to the shard of “sea” glass. (And not just to save a child’s foot.) I want to keep it before me as one small reminder of the need to pause in the face of shimmery possibilities . . . to investigate, pray, ponder, discern. What is God really inviting me to? What’s just an accident waiting to happen?
To the One who is endlessly communicating—even through trash on the beach—I give endless thanks.
And to the wonderful women of the Cornerstone group at St. Anne’s Church in Fair Lawn, NJ–whose invitation propelled me on my beach walk–thank you for such a warm welcome and engaging conversation (not to mention astoundingly good coffee cake)!
May your ordinary days be extraordinarily blessed.
“Mary has chosen the better part, and it will not be taken from her.” – Luke 10:42
For many of us, these words of Jesus to Martha do not sit well. “Raise your hand if you feel sorry for Martha,” I often ask. Inevitably, more than three-quarters of the hands in the room go up. The poor woman was just trying to put dinner on the table, for Pete’s sake. (And for James’ sake, and John’s, and Andrew’s . . . . those guys were hungry!)
The “Mary/Martha Incident” is one of my most requested dramatic interpretations, no doubt because it touches into a tension present in church folks everywhere. Call it action vs. contemplation, or doing vs. being. As busy, busy people, deeply involved in families and communities and ministries, we may actually draw our identity from going the extra mile on a regular basis. We don’t want to hear that we’ve missed the mark—that doing better would somehow involve doing less.
Yesterday, the Mary/Martha Gospel was one of the assigned readings for Mass. Today, I want to share one new insight that came as I pondered it with my parish faith-sharing group last week.
The insight came because of the pairing of Luke’s Gospel with the Genesis story of Abraham offering hospitality to three visitors. The Roman Catholic Lectionary is arranged so that the first reading, usually from the Hebrew Scriptures, echoes the theme of the day’s Gospel reading. So, before hearing Jesus chastise Martha for griping about being “burdened with much serving,” we hear Abraham being rewarded for offering lavish hospitality to strangers, who turned out to be God and a couple of angels. (That’s a dramatically over-simplified take on the readings, I know. Hang in there with me.)
One big difference between the two stories, of course, is that Abraham had help. He didn’t make the rolls himself; Sarah did. He didn’t roast the steer himself; his servant did. (I can almost feel Martha rolling her eyes.)
But here’s the new thing that really caught me this week. Running to Sarah, Abraham says, “Quick; three measures of fine flour! Knead it and make rolls.” And then he selects the aforementioned choice steer, and gives it to a servant, who “quickly prepared it.”
I’m sorry; what?
If you’ve ever made bread, you know: if you’re starting with flour, rolls are going to take a while. Like, hours, waiting for the yeast to rise. It also takes hours to make a roast—and that’s when you’re starting with a nice package from the Acme, not a live animal frolicking in your field. The double use of the word “quick” in this story may mean that the characters hastened, but it doesn’t make it a quick visit by any means.
How long did the three visitors sit in the shade of the tree, bathing their feet and sipping a cool drink and chatting with Abraham? What did they talk about? What else might Abraham have had to do that afternoon, that he let go of because being present to these strangers was more important?
“Do not neglect hospitality, for through it some have unknowingly entertained angels.”Hebrews 13:2
And there’s the rub. For many of us, it is easier to perform quality actions than to pay quality attention. To let the interruption of our day become the substance of our day, without resentment. To take the time–whatever time it takes–to be with those God has placed in our path, entertaining angels knowingly or unknowingly.
I am not always good at this. I empathize with Jesus’ description of Martha in my Spanish Bible: Tu andas preocupada y pierdes en mil cosas. (“You go about worried and lose yourself in a thousand things.”) But I appreciated the reminder, this week, of what I’m called to do.
In the words of Henri Frederic Amiel (1821-1881):
Life is short,
And we do not have much time
to gladden the hearts of those who
make the journey with us.
So… be swift to love,
and make haste to be kind.
And the blessing of God,
who made us,
who loves us,
and who travels with us
be with you now and forever.
As always, may your ordinary days be extraordinarily blessed–especially when they are interrupted!
When I was a senior in college, I played Emily in Our Town. You may recall that the play treats its audience to a few days in the lives of two families in a small New Hampshire town at the turn of the last century. The first two acts are a long, loving look at the ordinary, but the third act takes place in the town cemetery, where Emily (having just died in childbirth) has been laid to rest, but is not yet restful. Venerable English professor Frank Olley was directing Our Town at St. Joseph’s University for the third time in as many decades. Asked how it was different this time, he pondered for a moment, then said simply, “The third act looms larger.”
In October of 2016–almost thirty years after Doc Olley uttered that line–I began working on an essay called Act III, reflecting on the ways that the untimely deaths in my own life had caused me to reevaluate my priorities. I wrote:
I find myself less willing to store my dreams in the “someday” column. And so I have to ask: when am I going to stop gazing longingly at every RV that I pass on the highway, ante up, and hit the road? When am I going to bear down and actually write the book that’s been noodling around in my head for a decade? When am I going to quit my day job and become the “freelance me” that I’ve spent the last 15 years telling people I want to be when I grow up? Although I don’t know when the curtain will rise on my own Act III, it is starting to loom larger. It’s time to take more risks.
The RV purchase remains a question. (Where would I park it?) But I did indeed bear down on the book. Less than four months after committing that question to paper, I was curled up on a sofa at When Words Count, writing Finding God in Ordinary Time. And now I have an answer to the third question as well. When am I going to quit my day job and become the “freelance me” I’ve talked about forever? July 31.
That’s right . . . after twenty-six years as a campus minister, I am stepping down from my position at Gwynedd Mercy University at the end of this month. I am leaving a field I have loved extravagantly, peeling off a label I’ve used to identify myself for almost half my life. People keep asking me if I’m sad, or scared, and the answer really is no to both. This is what God is calling me to at this point in my life. It’s time.
Shortly after writing the essay about Act III, I started a file on my computer called “Plan 54.” I was 51 years old at the time, and figured it would take me about three years to lay the groundwork for the future I was dreaming of. With no clear idea how to get from there to here, I named the file aspirationally, and got to work.
Today is my 54th birthday.
In the final chapter of Finding God, I wrote about my cousin Susan, whose death (seven years ago yesterday) at age 46 was one of the losses that inspired my soul-searching about priorities. I closed the chapter by saying:
Will I take a risk to pursue a dream?
It is, as they say, a matter of life and death.
That is exactly what I’m doing now: taking a risk to pursue a dream. It may look fanciful, but deep down, it is highly practical.
When I talk about time management at work, I often say this: do what only you can do. If you’re up against a deadline on a report that only you can write, and the copier’s out of toner, ask someone else to change the toner; sometimes it really is that simple. This life change is based on a similar principle: someone else can take the helm of Gwynedd’s campus ministry quite capably; only I can offer the retreats I want to give, talk about the topics I’m passionate about, and write my next book.
The details are still a bit fuzzy. I have a slate of speaking engagements lined up throughout the fall and well into winter. But first, I’ll be spending three weeks in September at a cottage in Maine. I want to give myself a definitive break. At the time of year ordinarily reserved for countless back-to-school activities, I plan to go for long walks, cook leisurely meals, and watch the ebb and flow of the harbor tide as I ponder the ebb and flow of prayer and productivity that will anchor my new life. It is something I must discover and decide as I go. I look forward to sharing the fruits of this adventure with you here.
If you, too, have a dream that requires some risk, may I suggest this: go ahead and give it a name.
Who knows what could happen?
Last week, Gwynedd Mercy University held a retirement celebration for Sister Kati McMahon, RSM, our Vice President of Mission Integration, who is stepping down after serving her alma mater in myriad capacities for 36 years. I was privileged to give the reflection at the prayer service that began the celebration. More accurately, I unabashedly seized for myself the opportunity to give the reflection, entitled, “Everything I Needed to Know, I Learned from Sister Kati.” There’s wisdom here for everyone, so—to continue to honor her as she deserves—I’m sharing my words here.
I hope you have a Sister Kati in your life, but if you don’t, please borrow however much of our own Sister Kati’s sage advice as you can use!
Everything I Needed to Know, I Learned from Sister Kati
Kati has been my supervisor for 15 years, which I’m pretty sure makes me one of the luckiest people in the room. Because, unless put off by vacation, hospitalization, or Middle States, I have gotten to sit down with Kati once a week for fifteen years, to talk about work and life and ministry. So despite the title of this reflection (which I just couldn’t help), this is not a roast or even exactly a tribute. Today’s gathering is a prayer of gratitude and blessing, and so I want to reflect briefly on the wisdom I am grateful to have learned from Kati, wisdom that I hope will be a blessing to many of you as well.
1) Begin with the end in mind. (Yes, I know it’s really Stephen Covey!)
Kati can tell you how much I came kicking and screaming to the practice of assessment. But I have to say, I now have a little internalized Kati voice in my head, which is forever asking “What is our desired outcome?” I ask it not only when sitting down to do planning in campus ministry, but when making an agenda for a parish meeting, planning a dinner outing with friends, even heading into the occasional argument with my sweetheart. (Believe me, there’s nothing Porter likes more than hearing me ask, “What’s the desired outcome of this conversation?”)
From S. Kati, I learned that to begin with the end in mind is the only way to make sure you get where you want to go. As we are always on the brink of something, as a university and as individuals, it is always worth pausing, to make sure that we have set our sights on the right thing, before we set out.
2) Respect the process.
I have watched S. Kati craft incredibly collaborative processes for things she probably could have sat down with a pencil and done all by herself in a couple of hours. One of these processes involved over 200 people, and took the better part of two academic years. Was the outcome better than it would have been if she’d just done it herself? Maybe. But it certainly had more buy-in. (Which is—see previous point—one of the desired outcomes.) S. Kati taught me that it doesn’t matter how fast you get there, if you leave people behind. And so, as we set out to do new things, let’s always remember to look around, see who’s not with us, and find a way to invite them in.
3) Be careful what you are busy about.
I can be a very fussy person. I fuss about work; I fuss about church; I fuss about family. For the last 15 years, S. Kati has been on the receiving end of a lot of that fussing. And here is what she taught me. If I am fussing about something that I cannot possibly do anything about, that is a waste of emotional energy—not to mention brain space. And so I have learned to ask myself, is this situation in my circle of influence? Will my involving myself in this effect any kind of positive change? If not, I shouldn’t be busy about it. And even if it is in my circle of influence, and I can make a positive change, it’s still not worth being “busy” about, when instead I could simply pray about it then contribute what I can. Just think how much more peaceful and productive we would all be if we could remember not to be busy about things that are none of our business! Which brings me to . . .
4) Know when to work on your weak points, and when to run with your strengths.
I arrived at this job 15 years ago with most of the skills I needed to be a good campus minister and maybe—maybe—half the skills I needed to be a good administrator. S. Kati was incredibly patient about helping me grow, acquire new skills, and learn from my mistakes. But she was also realistic about the fact that no one is good at everything, and that while chiseling at a block of marble sometimes reveals a beautiful statue underneath, jackhammering away at it just makes a mess. She understood that at some point, the energy that we could exert trying to get better at what we’re bad at could be much better spent doing the things we actually love and are good at. So, the next time you’re running up against the stone wall of your own limitations, think of S. Kati, consider whether it might just be time to stop, turn around, and run with your strengths instead.
5) Show up.
Kati shows up. As Vice President of Mission, she shows up for funerals. As Vice President of Student Services, she showed up for games (and probably funerals too). She shows up for events. She shows up for supervision, week after month after year. She has not yet learned to bi- or tri-locate, so sometimes she can’t be there physically. But she shows up with grateful emails after a job well done, and she shows up with holiday wishes when the rest of us are just focused on getting out of the building. At a time when the world is only moving faster, and when a personal touch is so desperately needed, we would all do well to remember those two simple words. Whenever we can, show up.
6) Pay more attention to other people’s pain than your own.
Kati’s body has not always been her friend. Okay, that’s not really true. S. Kati’s body has rarely been her friend. She would say that she suffers from an excess of Mercy hospitality—a body that flings wide the door for everything from sinus infection to arterial obstruction. Despite how cruddy Kati may be feeling on any given day, in my experience, she has never allowed her pain to diminish her compassionate response to the pain of others. She doesn’t pull out her Likert scale of suffering to assess whether you merit her empathy. In this she embodies CS Lewis’ definition of humility: not thinking less of yourself, but thinking of yourself less. That kind of humility flows graciously from S. Kati’s merciful heart. And speaking of Mercy . . .
7) Remember that Mercy is not fluffy.
More than any other person, S. Kati has helped me understand that Mercy is not just about being nice, or being friendly, or making people feel better (though sometimes it involves all those things). Mercy is about wading deep enough into a distressing situation to know what people really need, and having the courage to respond in practical ways. Sometimes people need a second chance, and sometimes they need accountability, and sometimes they need a fierce advocate, and none of that is fluffy. S. Kati has shown me the face of Mercy, in all its tough and tender manifestations, and for that I will be forever grateful.
Begin with the end in mind. Respect the process. Be careful what you are busy about. Know when to work on your weak points, and when to run with your strengths. Show up. Pay more attention to other people’s pain than your own. And remember that Mercy is not fluffy.
If we can hold onto even some of these things, as people and as an institution, then S. Kati’s legacy here at Gwynedd Mercy will be us. And that is really something to be grateful for.
Snow has begun to fall in Philadelphia. After a flurry of morning errands, I’m sitting at my kitchen counter, savoring a third cup of coffee. On my campus, only “essential personnel” are working. The people who plow the snow and salt the walks—as well as those who feed our students and who ensure their safety—are all on the job.
Already this morning I’ve interacted with so many working people: the postal service clerk who accepted the package I mailed; the man at Acme who sold me salmon for tonight’s dinner and the lady who rang it up; the woman at the corner bakery where I got some fresh bagels. They are all at jobs from which they will have to make their way home in weather, having provided services which were lovely and convenient for me to receive, though hardly essential.
And that’s not even to mention the largely invisible (to me) network of people hard at work doing all sorts of critical jobs: nurses and doctors and police officers and firefighters and utility workers, to name just a few.
I know that I haven’t posted anything in a while, so this seems like a good moment to share the chapter from my book that addresses the dignity of work and worker. This goes out with my thanks to anyone who’s on the job today. May you be safe, warm, appreciated, and well-compensated!
Finding God at My Feet
If I, therefore, the master and teacher, have washed your feet, you ought to wash one another’s feet. — John 13:14
“Shine your shoes, lady?”
I was in Nuevo Laredo, Mexico, just south of Laredo, Texas, where I was leading a week of spring break service. My students and I were headed back to the border after experiencing the infamous bridge crossing—Mexicans going one way to work, Americans going the other way to shop. At the moment, I was busy pretending not to hear the fellow calling out to me from the street corner.
I am not a person who gets shoeshines. Having bad feet, I buy footwear that’s as practical and supportive as a good friend. And because I accept (yet resent) the fact that I am never going to skip around in pretty little flats or sexy stilettos, I generally ignore my shoes unless they hurt. But there was no ignoring this persistent young man.
“Shine your shoes?” he called again, literally running with his shoeshine kit down the block to catch up with me. “Look at your shoes!” he cried. “I’ll shine them fast, good price!” Only then did I glance at my sturdy black boots. Scuffed and dusty, they looked like something I’d fished out of a dumpster. The man had a point. I acquiesced, and he went to work—right in the middle of the sidewalk.
I was mortified. Standing there with four of my students while this young Mexican man knelt at my feet for what seemed like an eternity, I felt as conspicuous as if I had purchased a giant sombrero with the words frivolous American embroidered across the brim. Unaccustomed to being served in this manner, I prayed that no one had a camera.
Then I noticed something. He was doing a really good job. He polished and buffed vigorously; he was in the zone. The man was a professional, doing his job with flair and efficiency. My shoes had never looked better—even right out of the box.
As a further mortification, I needed to borrow money from a student to pay him—a “good price” being higher than I had expected, but worth every peso.
What lingers from that encounter is confusion about my own discomfort. The inequality I experienced as the young man knelt at my feet could have gone either way. On the one hand, I was a tourist “rich” enough to hire someone to do this menial task for me, and he was a laborer stuck hustling business in the street. But to leave it there would be to deny the dignity of work and worker. To be on the receiving end of his skill was humbling, for he was a good shoe-shiner, and I am a crummy one. He deserved his good price, and my respect. I’m glad he got both.
Think of the many people who provide services for you (trash collector, grocery clerk) and hold them in prayer, one by one. How do you show your gratitude for their good work, and respect for their dignity as children of God?