Dreams can come true. It can happen to you...

There are a few things I've always wanted to do...or be a part of. Some I imagined as a kid and have yet to fulfill in even the smallest measure. Some I realized as an adult and have pursued rather imperfectly to some success. Here are a few of them:

1. Play the banjo.

When my dad pursued songwriting in Nashville, TN, he knew some very talented studio musicians, and one of these gentleman played the banjo. Dad thought he was a virtuoso, and when he brought home a record of this banjo player, I knew I loved the instrument.

Do I play? Nah. But I did take one small step toward the goal of doing so when I picked up my dad's guitar at age 18 and asked him to teach me. I drove my parents nuts playing the melancholy western tune Red River Valley over and over and over. I play better these many years later - mostly Christmas songs - but don't play as well as my dad or Uncle Reuben, certainly not well enough to pick up the fancy finger-picking style necessary to tickle the banjo strings....but someday, I hope.

2. Hike the Camino de Santiago

I didn't at first learn of this awesome trek because I am Catholic. I learned about it from the fun PBS show Spain...On The Road Again that explores the cuisine, culture, and history of Spain. It's a quirky travel/food show hosted by chefs and actresses. In one episode Mario Batali taught Gwyneth Paltrow about the Camino de Santiago as they walked part of it, and I was enchanted. A dream was born to hike the Camino, eat the rich food of Spain on the way, and lose myself in the glorious history of such a journey.

I recently saw the movie The Way with Martin Sheen and Emilio Estevez, and I loved the part where the father (Sheen) sees his dead son (Estevez), smiling and pulling the ropes with monks to swing the huge incense censer over the heads of those kneeling in Santiago de Compostelo cathedral.

3. Visit Gettysburg

Wow, I can say I did this - and in the 150th anniversary year of the battle. How did this happen? Well, I wrote on Facebook several months earlier that I wished to go and invited others to join me, told my husband we should go, and then my fabulous big sister Vinca suggested we drive to Pennsylvania when we visited her in Virginia last summer. Gotta love that woman!

I do wish, however, that I had read Michael Shaara's novel, Killer Angels, before I went. I would have been able to visualize the positions of the men, generals, and the lay of the battle in my head as I gazed across that wide, verdant space much better. But, honestly, I really feel I would have to live in the pretty town of Gettysburg and hike the trails through the fields, woods, graveyards and hollows every day in order to attempt to get a proper feel of it. Nevertheless, I am so very grateful to Vinca, my brother Dave and my husband Matthew for going with me to such a hallowed place. What an opportunity - the experience of which I will always, always cherish.

4. Get paid to be a writer

Five bucks. Anything.

I've wanted to be a writer ever since I was eight-years-old.

The delusional thing is that, unlike more reasonable people, I imagine I am a writer even though I am not paid for my work. My humor pieces have been published regularly - just not for payment. Sheesh! I don't want to talk about it.

No, really. I will not be accepting questions, jeers or commiseration at this time.

5. Surround myself with a Bonsai Garden that I clip with agonizing precision and talk to when no one is looking

Gosh, I love trees. I don't just hug them; I talk to them, too. My love has grown for them even more since moving to a desert city. Spend one day at a sporting event in 115 degree temps and tell me how much you appreciate the kind shade of a palo verde or eucalyptus.  Sure, it might be 110 in the shade, as John Fogerty sang, but it's better than the alternative.

But as for Bonsai, we all know these beautiful, ancient-looking living things cannot provide shade or habitat, but I have wanted one since seeing an episode of CBS Sunday Morning in which people talked about their serene Bonsai lifestyles, surrounded by dozens of the artistic little trees. Again a dream was born, and now I can say I have begun to live it:

While my husband was out of town last week, I received a package in the mail. At first I assumed a relative had sent a gift to my daughter Ana, or it was something my man had ordered off Amazon. But the package was strange and Berto pointed to a sticker that said, "Open Immediately! Live plant."

Well, I was not going to open that package, my friends, in case Anthrax spores was what was meant by "live plant". I sure as heck was not expecting any such package alive with goodness knows what. I raked the box over with my eyes to find an address, and sure as anything it was meant for me. Curiosity climaxing, I ripped the thing open and saw a beautiful little tree wrapped in a plastic bag - Bonsaaaiiii!

It was a 13th wedding anniversary gift. The card with it read, "I Am The Man...."

I knew then it was from my guy, and the card was stating how awesome he was for giving his woman the realization of her dream.

Only when he came home did he inform me that by his card he was referencing our song: Peter Cetera's The Glory of Love, the theme song from Karate Kid II. (Yes, we did grow up in the 80s, and we feel quite nostalgic watching Ferris Beuller's Day Off, thank you.)

"I can't believe you didn't get my card," he said.

I couldn't believe it, either, just as I can't believe I have my very own juniper Bonsai tree. I would love a new tiny tree every anniversary if my man is willing.

As a woman who has annihilated everything from mums, orchids, hydrangea to succulents and lantana, however, I pray I don't kill it. It should be the first of many, so that one day I can be a crazy old lady on her front porch, just picking her banjo like Steve Martin and singing to her beautiful bonsais.

Sunlight on the Forest Floor: A Personal Encounter with Christ

I was going to write a post about the theology of the Eucharist this week - can you believe the audacity of that? I was going to dive into the heart of this mystery of faith, because this past Sunday was the Solemnity of the Body and Blood of Christ.

Our deacon in his homily at Mass said a high school student once challenged a pastor, "Why are you Catholic?"

The pastor at first responded, "Because of the resurrection."

The student wasn't having it.

"No, that is why you are Christian, but why are you Catholic?"

After thinking a bit the pastor replied, "The Eucharist."

Yes, it is certainly not because we have livelier music or more dynamic preachers or a more "progressive", hipper congregation (for truth is truth and cannot be altered by the mere passage of time; it is not an ever-shifting target, for then it could not be truth). It is the Eucharist, and most truly engaged Catholics would tell you so.

So I prepared to write a post, and I went to read again John 6:32-69. I reflected on Christ's words, Amen, Amen, I say to you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you do not have life within you, and how Catholic theologians have pointed out that Jesus would not have lost that day, by His Bread of Life discourse, many disciples if they had understood him to mean by flesh and blood simply the words which he spoke. Some protest perhaps that Christ said hard things simply to weed out fickle disciples as his passion approached. This opens up the negation of all his teachings which we dislike. No, Christ was truth; he spoke truth. His words were not gimmicks meant to manipulate people. You either accepted them or you moved on, as he said, Whoever has ears ought to hear. He was either the Son of God or a lunatic. I have faith in the Truth of His Words, and he has promised that they will set me free.

Yet I found I couldn't write about what I grasp with my heart but cannot wrap my head around at all. I am not going to explain why I agree with the Catholic interpretation of John Chapter 6, Corinthians 10:14-17, and Corinthians 11:23-32 (a rather scary one that warns us about eating the bread or drinking the cup of the Lord unworthily, something which has applied to me personally and which in itself cements that this is a vital matter of our faith). If anyone wishes, they can also go here, http://www.catholic.com/tracts/the-real-presence, to read what some of the earliest Christians from the 2nd, 3rd, 4th centuries believed and stated.

There I stop with theology. I realized as I struggled along in my research for this post, becoming frustrated with my poor understanding and disheartened by all the Christian quarreling and disparate interpretations of the very same Scripture - that I am neither clever nor conceited enough (for one possessing so little understanding and knowledge) to even attempt a full explanation about why I believe in The Real Presence. What then can I give?

Just my witness.

For a decade or so I took communion without proper instruction and preparation. This will shock my fellow Catholics rather badly, I'm afraid. I was not part of any church - my dad baptized me in a creek - not even the one, holy, catholic (derived from a Greek word meaning universal), apostolic church whose Mass I attended and loved and whose communion I accepted. I loved the Eucharist, but I did not grasp what I should have grasped of its meaning in my receiving it. I cherished my ignorance. My devout sister-in-law told me bluntly I should not be taking it, but she did not explain why. I retorted it was my right as a disciple of Christ to accept what he had prescribed for his followers at the Last Supper. Later, a nun told me I should pray very hard about taking it - that it seemed like I knew what I was receiving but I should really discern through prayer if I was right. I prayed half-heartedly for a few days before giving it up. Of course I was right! Jesus would want me to receive Him - I just knew it. But a few years later when my newly confirmed Catholic sister told me I shouldn't be receiving it, I had a momentary quite painful pang of concern. Perhaps she was right. If I was wrong that was a very serious concern for my spiritual well-being.

It pains me to say that I continued in my ignorance after that rebuke from someone I trusted, but I did. It was only when I entered RCIA (Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults) as a mere matter of course in order to be confirmed before my oldest son that I got my wake-up call.

(I'll talk more about the meaning of the sacrament of Confirmation and its Biblical roots later. Suffice it to say my Protestant pride had deemed it something unnecessary, a matter of form. I cannot tell you how wrong I was except to say that once I was confirmed I began to understand some pretty important things, began to realize just how much I did not understand, and began to be ravenous for greater understanding.)

I abstained from communion during RCIA - again as a matter of form and also respect for the beliefs of the Catholic Church, those beliefs that I had not bothered to learn about - but yet I may never have come to a realization of my prideful error in receiving communion were it not for the grace of Christ by which I stand and receive Him more fully now. Just a few weeks before I was to be confirmed, having gone through the classes with the same fog of ignorance with which I approached too many things, a new priest took over our instruction and jolted me awake with his spirit. Because of his influence I truly read for the first time the RCIA book that explained why Catholics believe what we do and stumbled onto a pertinent section on communion, how by partaking of it we symbolize our unity in the One Body of Christ, as St Paul said:

Because the loaf of bread is one, we, though many, are one body, for we all partake of the one loaf.  Corinthians 10:17

To take it without professing unity would be a lie. To take it without believing in the Real Presence would be a lie. To take it without confessing serious sin would be judgment.

I was in a bad way. Immediately I poured my heart out to that priest in a long, long email, telling him of most of my mistakes and how I arrived at them. Miraculously, he did not express to me his horror, if he felt any - which I am quite certain he must have. He did not expel me from class, telling me I was hopeless in my ignorance. But he did not respond except by inviting me to the next class. I understand why he did not respond now. How could he?

After I wrote that email to the parish priest, I remember sitting in my rocking chair with my littlest boy asleep in my arms, tears streaming down my face as I said to Jesus over and over and over again, "I'm sorry." That was where Christ brought me. I do believe it was what Catholics would call a perfect act of contrition. I was not sorry simply because I feared consequences. I was not sorry merely for not educating myself on Catholic doctrine, thereby offending my now fellow Catholics. I was sorry for offending my Lord Jesus through my foolish pride, the One has given me so many wonderful things and so great a foundation through my parents. When I sobbed I felt I was looking up into His face, offering up all my regret over my many mistakes.

So where can this sad story about a pitiful, ignorant girl end? Why, at immeasurable joy and comfort.

I truly received the Eucharist for the first time at Easter Vigil. This is what I wrote about the experience soon after my confirmation:

But what I will always remember most about that night is Communion. I have told you that I was seated in the very first pew. The catechumens and the candidates were to receive the Sacrament first. When the priest came down from the altar, I looked across the aisle to the catechumens, not wanting to jump before others. They hesitated, because many of them were young kids, and Father hastily motioned me forward. In that moment, my lovely sponsor stepped out of the way to let me proceed, and I realized I would be the first in my parish to receive the Eucharist at Easter Vigil. It didn't strike me fully until after I had received it and returned to the kneeler. Then moisture leaked from my eyes, and unfortunately my nose as well, in a flood. I offered up a spontaneous prayer of thanksgiving, God is merciful. His Mercy endures forever. Thank you, thank you for Your mercy. While doing so I glanced up to see my little children, who had behaved so well at such a late service, receive a blessing from the priest and watched my husband receive Communion, and my gratitude increased. (My eldest son would himself be confirmed in another month. I had for some time held the hope that we could be confirmed in the same year.)

Things got too moist and messy, and not knowing how else to battle my wet face without lifting up my skirt, I begged several tissues from my friend and sponsor. I felt embarrassed; I was the only one who seemed to be reacting in such a powerful and obvious way for others to see. Still, more than embarrassment at having my emotion exposed, I felt God had conferred on me a special blessing that night. In that holy gift of His Son, He was telling me my mistake no longer mattered, His love for me was boundless, and His mercy truly does endure forever.

That was the night when I felt Jesus washing it all away. I was assured of His mercy and was completely overcome. I felt His Love in so powerful a way that it will always be a bolstering memory and a moment too profound to describe. I felt His meekness and humility and was completely humbled by it.

That is why I believe in the Real Presence of my Lord in the Eucharist. It is a beautiful, personal encounter with Christ. It is the Body of Christ.

Amen.

Happy Virus Reunion

When you have waited years to see your parents, because one thing or another always prevented a reunion, the visit will be cursed in relation to the number of years that have passed since your last meeting.

Three years had passed, so it could have been worse, I suppose.

Because of a more active summer schedule than planned and a gradual decaying of my standards over the years, I didn't get the house all spic-and-span for my parents. It was more like dust-and-blah. I didn't even get around to calling my folks to ask them what they might like to eat and drink while they were here, so my dad called me the day before their flight: "You do remember that Mom and I will be in town tomorrow, right?" I assured him the kids had been counting the days; we couldn't wait!

When Paca and Grandmama (as my children know them) arrived that Monday, our Daniel had a really bad fever that was climbing rapidly higher. That morning he had crawled into bed beside me saying, "Mama, I don't feel well," as he tugged on my hair. When his grandparents walked in whom he hadn't seen since babyhood, he was listless, his eyes flush with fever. We had to monitor him closely, putting him regularly in lukewarm baths throughout the day to bring down the temperature that the medicine wouldn't tame.

On Sunday I had gobbled up a piece of cake from which Daniel had swiped all the frosting, so Tuesday morning I woke up with a grizzly bear in my throat, and then I turned into one. I fussed at my husband when he returned from the store laden with much needed groceries, half of which qualified as "too much fruit" - at least 10 kilos of apples, a thousand blueberries and a ton of grapes I estimated. I complained that, when not eaten in due time, I'm always the one who has to cook up the moldy, bruised, squashy, discolored fruit into something edible. Mom defended my embattled husband, assuring me that she adored fruit and would eat half of it herself - and that very night, too!

Unfortunately, Mama couldn't do that, because I said, "Boo...tag! You're it!", and she began to feel crummy because of contact with a contaminated coworker a couple days earlier. By that afternoon we both deserted Dad, who was starting to get that warm, fuzzy feeling of impending virus warfare in his gut, leaving him with the kids so we could sleep. He played endless rounds of twenty questions with the grandkids, bribing for naps with TV, a sleeping Matthew supporting him from afar in the recliner. That evening as I lay in the chair that Matthew had vacated - feverish, my eyes glazed and that grizzly still gripping my throat - Matthew hinted I should probably be making dinner. The grizzly reared, and Matthew resentfully began to push cube steak around in a pan. I conceded to boil rice in a display of good hostile will.

By Wednesday, Paca, Grandmama and myself were all ill in unison, and the long-awaited reunion had turned into a vulgar virus exchange of Texan and Arizonan germs, for just when we felt we might be getting better, we got sucker-punched by the other state's virus, becoming one, big, germ-mutated family. That day we abandoned the kids to the cruel, mind-sucking, time-warping influence of the TV.

By late afternoon, my dad had gone to bed to pass out in fever-induced delirium. When Mama, finally improved, went to check on him, he asked, "When did you get home from work?!" The next time she went to check on him and take him water, she told me I could say a quick goodnight if I wanted. I walked into the room right after her and said, "Goodnight, Papa." To which salutation I received a snore in response. The virus, the interminable twenty questions or both had done my poor dad in.

That evening Matthew went out to get Analisa her gift from her siblings; her birthday was the very next day. Having already made her cake with Grandmama, I read Little House on the Prairie to my almost 10-year-old, which brought back good memories for my Mom of when Dad had read it to our family in Tennessee. After the kids went to bed, Mama and I had a good, long, emotional conversation - the kind men avoid if they can, usually. Perhaps we felt safe to vent our feelings with Dad zonked out and Matthew running over Phoenix searching for the Frozen DVD.

When Matthew returned he started Ana's birthday banner (that I had completely forgotten), and Mama and I got crayons to help him. The poor man had been so gracious in the face of my orneriness.

Thursday morning we fed our bodies Krispy Kreme donuts in honor of Ana's birthday, thumbing our noses at the proper nutrition necessary to ward off a virus apocalypse, and I made the blue frosting for her sun cake. Then, heaven help us, we somehow roused ourselves to go shopping and out to lunch; Grandmama wanted to buy her girl a stylish hat, and Mama still needed to get her one last birthday book.

The lunch was actually to be in honor of my mother's coming birthday. My beautiful mother announced that if we were to go out for lunch, she was - by Jove! - going to change into something more suitable. My mouth fell open, and I just stared, then looked around at the others for confirmation of my astonishment. My mother had looked gorgeous every moment of every day of their visit in her shiny, spiky heels that drove our Yorkie mad, her elaborate, musical jewelry and her flowing blouses and fitted jackets. What on earth was deemed more suitable than the lovely garments and jewels with which she had already adorned herself, and all while fighting a nasty bug? Already she was far more dressed up than most people would be to meet the president!

But changed she did into an elegant "sun" (sun goddess?) dress. So I got myself up to change my own attire, rounded up the children, and told them all to get out of the pitiful threads they were wearing, for heavens sake, and put on something nice for Grandmama.

After being the crabbiest shopping comrade in the history of mall crusades, I felt a little funny taking my glowing mother to a New York/Jewish diner for her birthday dinner. It's one of the nicest places my husband and I know. Obviously, we should get out more - a lot more. At least they have good cheesecake, and my mama loves cheesecake. As for me, I just had soup and cocoa; I was cold with a renewed onslaught of fever, hugging my Matthew with arms and legs and coughing into the elegant, diaphanous wrap my mama insisted I wear for comfort.

At home Matthew decorated Ana's cake with the bright frosting, those thousand blueberries and some simple whipping cream. We lit the candles on her sun cake and on Grandmama's cheesecake, and we sang to each in turn. Ana looked lovely in her new cowgirl hat that Grandmama had found for her, and my mother - now in her third outfit, one fit for traveling....to meet the Queen of England perhaps - laughed and smiled with the effervescent spirit of a young woman.

Then, feeling the weight of impending separation, Mama and I engaged in the time-honored family tradition of love offerings. I remember my sister Vinca once giving my mother a beautiful antique hat case because my mother said she liked it and asked where she might find one. So Mama gave me the rest of her bottle of perfume, Paris, because it reminded me of Idaho and of my own Grandmama (my mother had worn it at her mother's funeral). She tried to give me a whole stack of gold bangle bracelets which I could not accept. I gave her a Keith Green CD - because it happened to be on in the car, and she remarked how she missed listening to his music - and a fancy beaded wrap that I had worn but once and knew she would appreciate.

My little girls teared up at the airport as they grasped their grandparents' hands. Analisa had cuddled with Grandmama every chance she got, and Ella had followed Paca around like he was a long lost superhero. Berto simply smiled his million-dollar smile, even while knowing in his heart that he had lost his best twenty-questions ally, and Daniel seemed confused, quiet. I, of course, finally broke down, tears squeezing out my puffy, viral eyelids as I hugged my folks twenty times each and pronounced my love for them.

My mother's tears had started before we'd left for the airport and had continued as she held my hand in the car. Matthew and Papa had talked comfortably about sports and work in the front seat. I hated to see my parents leave, but we were brave, maintaining that other time-honored family tradition of waving until we can't see head or tail of each other anymore.

As we pulled away from the terminal curb, Berto said, "Hey isn't that Grandmama still waving?"

"Wave everyone!" I ordered, and we waved vigorously at my Darling Mama who was standing just around a corner in the airport, leaning out.

Once on the freeway, Danny Sam asked, "Are they going out to lunch?"

I glanced at Matthew, and then said to my little boy, "No, baby. Paca and Grandmama are flying home. That was the airport."

After a minute he said tremulously, tears sprouting, "I'm going to miss them."

"Me too, baby. Me too."

Sunlight on the Forest Floor: Mass and Liturgy

My husband Matthew, recently confirmed, invited me to Mass one Sunday when we were dating. With the decision to join him, I embarked on a sort of odyssey, but it would be years before I reached any kind of shore.

I had this notion that Catholic Mass was very rigid, probably boring, and I had heard many people say that it left no room for the movement of the Holy Spirit; it was too scripted.

Mass is indeed scripted according to the words of the most awesome Author; it follows Scripture. That was what struck me that first Sunday.

I heard the most basic, scriptural teaching of our faith in the Nicene Creed, and the line that struck me most forcibly that first time was, He will come again to judge the living and the dead/ And his kingdom will have no end (Acts 10:42-43, Isaiah 9:6-7). I held hands with others as we prayed the Lord's Prayer just as Christ had taught when the apostles asked of Him, "Lord, teach us to pray just as John taught his disciples." (Luke 11:1-4). Then came the exchange of, "Peace be with you," in imitation of Jesus' greeting to his disciples after the resurrection, followed by the response, "And with your spirit." (John 20:19, John 14:27, 2 Corinthians 13:13, Ephesians 6:23) And we proclaimed with those in Jerusalem who watched Jesus pass on a humble colt as the Lord entered the city before his passion, "Hosanna! Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord." (Mark 11:7-9, Psalm 118:26)

All that still may not have been enough to make me fall in love with this strange Mass. Then....I heard the words of Christ at the Last Supper pronounced by the priest at the consecration, and I fell. I was in awe. The priest used the exact words of Christ Himself; he cannot add or omit anything. Nor did he begin or conclude, as I have so often heard elsewhere, "Now, this is merely symbolic..." I had never seen communion treated with such reverence anywhere. I have been in a few churches where tiny plastic containers holding wafers and grape juice were passed out. To me that was not communion. Who could put Christ, or something they believe is symbolic of Him, in a plastic tube with a peel-off wrapper?

So with the consecration I began to get somewhere through the grace of God, but more amazing is that it continues these nearly twelve years later. The more I attend and listen at Mass the deeper I delve into the mystery of Scripture. For instance, I have never been a lover of the Psalms, despite the fact that I have listened to them sung at every Mass for years. Recently, however, I have found myself paying far greater attention to them, because it was pointed out to me that these songs were prayed by Jesus, too, in the Jewish synagogue. Through studying them more openly, I have learned that these songs of David are wonderful inspiration for prayer at diverse moments in our life. In Psalm 51:11-14 we find a poignant plea for mercy to guide all repentant hearts and in 118:19-25 a joyous prayer of thanksgiving and praise.

But I have not only discovered the Psalms. Just a mere two years or so ago on this journey, I also began to truly listen to and appreciate the words we pray right before receiving the Eucharist:

Lord I am not worthy
that you should enter under my roof
but only say the word
and my soul shall be healed

Here we echo Matthew 8:5-8 in the words of the centurion, the man of whom Jesus said, "Amen, I say to you, in no one in Israel have I found such faith." We do this every Mass. Every Mass we declare Jesus Christ is Lord and join in faith with that faith-filled centurion who professed that he was not worthy for Christ to enter his home but believed Jesus could heal his paralyzed servant simply by saying the words. And He did. And so we believe he can heal our souls in the same way. That is beautiful.

I leave here now with this thought:

Is it even possible that this liturgy, overflowing as it is with the Word, could fail to invite the Holy Spirit to move among the hearts of the faithful? Yes, I have been in a Protestant church and felt the exhilarating presence of God's Spirit, because God was there - that does not surprise me. But I have also felt Him surrounding me as I listened to the communion hymn sung by the Christian family in my parish, my head bowed over a kneeler in silent Thanksgiving.

One Bread, one body, one Lord of all

One cup of blessing which we bless

And we, though many, throughout the earth

We are one body in this one Lord

 

From One Bread, One Body, music composed by John Foley and words based on 1 Corinthians 10:16-17, Galatians3:28, Ephesians 4:4-6

Hummingbird questions - guest post by Berto

collaborative picture by Berto, Ana, Ella and their mama

Hey, small guy
Why do you fly so fast?
Do you like to show off your wings,
or your little green mask?
Why do you turn your head sometimes?
And why do you like flowers?
Well I have to go now,
because I looked at my watch,
and it's time for supper!
So fly along now,
because it's time for yours too,
And I'll come back tomorrow,
and learn all your answers,
and I hope they are good ones,
Mr. Fast Flyer!


Berto wrote this in 2nd or 3rd grade. I have not edited it in any way. I loved this poem when I first saw it, and as the paper is very wrinkled and torn now, I thought I would post it here for keeps.