God Moments – Page 2 – The Monica Chronicles

July 14, 2015

The Right Tough

Late this afternoon Dave and I returned from a weeklong visit with my family in Georgia. Over the next few days I’ll be unpacking not only my luggage but also a huge load of memories. Dave decided to work out the kinks of sitting in the car by cutting the grass while I am starting deal with all the dirty clothes we accumulated. Thankfully my memory pile is much larger than my laundry pile, so I have lots of things to share. Here is one of them.

A couple of nights ago, my Dad, Dave and I were sitting on my parents’ front porch enjoying the cool of the evening watching the comings and goings of the birds at their feeders and chatting about all kinds of things, past, present and future. Unexpectedly, a rain shower popped up, interrupting our bird watching and changing the tenor of the conversation.

As the rain drops rhythmically tapped on the porch roof, Dad began to recall his role as a young father with a sad note of regret. He said he’d wished he hadn’t been so hard on us kids. It made me sad to think he thought he had failed as a father in any way. He has always been the epitome of what a dad should be.

I guess I never thought of my Dad as tough. I saw him as a man with high expectations for his children and the expectations were more about core values than personal success. There was never any ambiguity about how any of us were expected to behave and there was little or no bartering. He and Mom were in charge. Honestly, I don’t know how else they could have managed so many of us. The lack of clear leadership would have resulted in bedlam!

Dad worked hard for his family, putting aside his own needs and wants to ensure we were all properly cared for. One year he skipped his lunch for months to save enough money to buy four of us bikes for Christmas. I never knew this until the other night, but it is an example of what kind of father he was to us.

My dad could fix anything; plumbing, electrical stuff, carpentry. He even built a large addition to our home. In fact, the only time I can recall our ever calling a repairman into our home was when the television went on the blink. In my wee youth, TVs were full of long glass tubes and every once in a while, one would blow and our local repairman, Junior would come out to the house with a couple of large black cases full of tubes and a bright light he’d position in the back of the set to help him diagnose the problem once he removed the back of the set. As a five-year old, it was a sight to see!

From watching my Dad at work around the house, I learned so many things that most women my age don’t. I not only know the names of the basic tools in a household toolbox, but I can and have used most of them more than once. As long as I have directions, I have confidence I can tackle most household repairs. These days I prefer not to, having gone down more than one rabbit hole on a plumbing project, but nonetheless, if need be, I can thanks to my dad.

Most of all, my dad has proved his love and devotion for our family in countless ways, no more so than in the sharing of a marriage with my mom which has lasted more than 60 years. Modeling a loving marriage for us has been a precious gift.

Yeah, my dad was tough on us. He loved us, sheltered us, fed us, clothed us, and chauffeured us to umpteen million activities. He taught us how to talk to people with respect, how to behave, how to discern wants from needs, how to solve problems and how to work for something you really want. In return, he expected us to be honest, well-behaved and helpful.

Many years ago while attending a workshop at church, I heard a priest make the comment that a person’s view of God is in large part shaped by what kind of father they have. In this respect, I know just how lucky I’ve been to have John Farner as my dad. My dad’s example has allowed me to see God as loving, kind, approachable, giving, forgiving, funny and constant. Because of the unconditional love he has shown me, I can accept the God’s loving embrace as naturally as I can one from my dad.

My family unit the year before I left for college.

Honestly Dad, if you were tough on me, I just don’t remember it that way. I know I wouldn’t have become the person I am today without the guidance I received from you and Mom. I suppose you used the right amount of tough because whenever I think about growing up in our home, all I ever remember is how much you loved me and how much I loved you. And I still do. XOXOXOXO!

June 3, 2015

Stories From Under the Sink

Yesterday we had new countertops installed in our kitchen. I never really minded the old ones, formica is okay with me but these days it seems that homebuyers insist on solid surface countertops. We’re not selling our home since we added an island to our kitchen, our current tops were not big enough and knowing we’ll have to sell sometime down the road, we elected to pay the extra now.

The best part of the new countertops is my new under-mount sink. That is one thing I have long coveted. The thought of not having to scrape built-up kitchen goo from around the rim of a sink sends shivers down my spine!

After allowing a period of settling for the new sink, this afternoon my plumber, Wayne stopped by to hook up all the drain fittings and faucet. I am perfectly capable of doing all that myself, but I have learned that plumbing projects many times involve an element of surprise that are not pleasant. Having Wayne do the job meant that if there were any surprises, he was more than able to handle them. Besides, I enjoy being the “helper” a lot more than the person who contorts themselves under the sink.

As he worked we chatted. It takes a really cold duck to avoid chatting with me while working in my house. Usually we chat about the weather, or some local doings. Today though, Wayne shared an amazing story from his life, about how he became a plumber.

Not long after he graduated from high school, Wayne was involved in a head on collision which left him with severe head trauma and in a coma for six months. Just days before his family were planning to remove him from life-support, he regained consciousness but was unable to talk and his entire left side was paralyzed.

From the hospital he went to a rehab center where he spent another two years re-learning how to talk and walk. His memory had been pretty much wiped clean and his family worked with him to fill in the gaps of his life story.

During his time in the rehab center, he met a man who told him to give him a call when he got out and he would give him a job. Wayne didn’t know what kind of job he would have but was happy to have a job to go to.

The first day he reported to work, the man wasn’t there. Some other men gave him a broom and told him to start sweeping. A little while later, when the man showed up, he said,”I didn’t hire you to sweep. You’re going to be a plumber!”

The rest is history. Wayne was trained as a plumber and has reached master plumber status. He is certain that he is on this earth due solely to God’s grace and his faith is quiet and genuine. Hearing the story of his survival of the accident and long road back amazed me. I don’t know what I’d expect someone with that kind of story to look like, but certainly not like Wayne.

With all the commotion in my kitchen the past couple of days, I’ve been distracted and missed my daily time with God. As always, when I fail to talk to God, God finds ways to talk to me.

Thank you God!

May 5, 2015

Vinefest

Version 2 This past Saturday Dave and I joined a group of our friends at the Montpelier Wine Festival on the grounds of James and Dolley Madison’s beloved home. Weather-wise, it was one of the warmest, most beautiful days we’ve enjoyed all spring. Combined with great friends, Virginia wine and snacks, it was the perfect recipe for some much-needed down time.

Much earlier that morning I’d gotten up at “0’dark thirty” to work at a charity ticket sale at a local department store to raise funds for our local Habitat for Humanity organization. I was there from 5:20 am until 10:00 am. By the time we arrived at the winefest at one o’clock, I’d already been up for nine hours. Luckily, I had just enough energy to enjoy the afternoon with our friends.

Sunday morning we were up early again for Mass at 8:30 and afterwards grabbed some breakfast with church friends before returning to the church to pack meals for Stop Hunger Now.

SHN packing 2015

This is the second year our parish has held the event. Throughout the year, we hold fund-raising events to cover the costs of the meals, culminating in the packing event where volunteers donned in hairnets, measure ingredients into bags, weigh the bags for consistency, seal the bags and pack them into boxes. Each time 1,000 meals are packed, a gong is struck to spur us on. Volunteers range in age from elementary age children to senior adults, all working as a team, each doing what they can. Together, we packed almost 14,000 meals in just under two hours.

I couldn’t help but see this event as a living example of Sunday’s Gospel (John 15:1-8), the story of the vine and the branches. We were all working as parts of the same vine, the older branches and the new shoots. As I thought more about it, I realized that my weekend, with its fullness of stuff echoed the same theme where my own branch was pruned a bit; my time was pruned but the result was new life in the seeing of the Gospel coming to life and in the lives of those I’ve helped, although I will probably never seen them.

It also didn’t escape me that my time at the winefest was also vine related. And, after realizing that, I discovered a title for today’s thought.

If you’d like more information on Stop Hunger Now and how you might like to be involved, here is their web address: http://www.stophungernow.org.

April 29, 2015

Your Tears Will Be Turned Into Dancing!

cursillo-chicken

Women often reflect the world around them in their countenance, posture and attitude. When we are tired, we drop our shoulders. When we are attempting to find balance in our lives, we can seem controlling. And when we are is despair, we can appear distant and cold. We build walls to protect us from harm and hand curtains to hide our hurt from others.

Just as we religiously apply our BB cream every morning to blend in the dark spots, we, like Eleanor Rigby, put on our face that we keep in a jar by the door and face the world. We are determined not to share our hurt, guilt, shame and disappointments, all at a very dear price; our own peace.

At this weekend’s Women’s Cursillo, I witnessed what happens when a group of women are gathered and freed from their daily responsibilities and given a place where they are not only allowed to be who they are but celebrated for being no more than who they are; daughters of God, warts, bumps, scars and all!

Women stood taller. Women smiled more freely and laughed heartily. Women sang in incredible harmonies and danced like their bodies had been aching to move for a long, long time. The transformation was a thing of awe.

Granted, this metanoia was fueled by a lack of sleep and overabundance of chocolate, but similar to the vision quests young native Americans would take, the great Spirit came down upon each one of us this weekend and refreshed and renewed our souls.

The Spirit did not make us holy, we already were in God’s eyes. Instead, our eyes were opened and we were able to see our holiness, some of us for the first time.

My name is Monica and I made my Cursillo at Camp Overlook in October, 2012 at the table of the Seekers of the Light Within. I was blessed with the opportunity to serve on this past weekend’s preparation team. I hope I’ve given you a teasing glimpse of what Cursillo is and how it can lift your soul. (I can’t tell you more or I’d have to kill you! lol)

If you’d like more information about Cursillo in Central Virginia, please contact Valley Cursillo at www.valleycursillo.com. If you live outside our area, check out www.cursillo.org. You’ll be glad you did!

www.youtube.com/watch?v=-zRAUH8yBcQ

April 22, 2015

Pagan Babies Revisited

Pagan Baby Certificate

When I was a little girl the Sisters at Bishop Conroy Memorial School taught us about Catholic missionaries working in remote places of the world spreading God’s word to the pagans. (To us, a pagan was anyone who wasn’t Christian.) In our classroom we had a competition between the boys and girls to raise money to support the missions. Two jars sat on Sister’s desk, one for the boys and one for the girls. Every time we raised $5.00, we were issued a beautiful certificate of adoption by the Pontifical Association of the Hold Childhood as a “souvenir of the ransom and baptism of an adopted pagan baby” which also included the name we had chosen for our newly adopted child. By the end of the school year, certificates proudly circled the walls of our classroom.

Looking back it seems like a silly thing to do, but in those days we sincerely worried about the fate of the poor pagan babies living in darkness without Jesus in their lives. We were so sheltered in our world we were totally unaware that God was in their lives even if Jesus wasn’t. It never occurred to me that just maybe these “pagans” had their own faith in God and way to worship, or how the peoples in Africa felt when European missionaries arrived and set their worlds upside down….until now.

Last year our parish was assigned a new administrator. Our previous pastor had become ill and could no longer fill the needs of two rural parishes in Central Virginia with a mountain between them. Due to a shortage of priests in our diocese, the bishop looked to other countries where there is an excess of clergy to fill our empty rectories. Our new priest, Fr. Michael, came to us from Uganda.

Since his arrival, I have thought of the pagan babies many times. Not because I think he was a pagan baby, but because in many ways, he appears to be like a missionary to us.

Naturally there are some cultural differences. Fr. Michael is much more conservative/traditional than most American priests I’ve known in my lifetime. He wears a cassock when he is in his official capacity as priest and embraces many of the old “smells and bells” of the pre-Vatican church. Although these things are familiar to me because of my age, I find myself very uncomfortable with the return of the old ways. In some ways I feel like I am the “pagan baby”. Our ways are not his ways and the impression is that our ways are incorrect and must be changed.

He is a good and kind man, but I’m not so sure he has spent much of his clerical life working with the laity. Because our parish has always had a non-resident pastor, the lay folk have pitched in and have done almost everything, with little direction. Leadership in a group like this is not easy.

Somehow we will have to find middle-ground for our parish to thrive. Our congregation is graying and there are fewer young folks joining to take on the added burdens being set aside by those ready for rest. It is a sad thing when the “young folk” are in their fifties and nearing sixties.

I don’t know what the answer is. The good news is that I’ve realized I don’t have to find the solution; which has been a weight lifted from my shoulders. I’m praying that the answer will eventually be revealed.

March 31, 2015

Tooth Truth

Did you ever consider that some of the everyday errands you run could be envied by somebody else?

compromising tooth

Last week I while I sat waiting for my name to be called at the dentist’s office for a routine cleaning and exam, I witnessed a scene that I haven’t been able to shake from my mind.

A woman came in and quietly asked the receptionist if they were accepting new patients. Yes, they were. Her next question concerned the type of dental insurance the office accepted. No, they didn’t accept her insurance.

“How much does it cost to get an exam and cleaning? ” the woman asked. The receptionist answered that the charges for the initial visit were almost $400.

Visibly disappointed, the woman said she would need to check to see who carried her insurance because she really needed to see a dentist, she’d lost a tooth the previous week and others were loose. Although the receptionist was kind and compassionate to the woman, she didn’t have a solution to the woman’s problem. With her head low, she left.

I have been blessed with regular dental care my entire life, even in the years when there was no such thing as dental insurance. It was a sacrifice for my parents to provide me with the care I needed, but it was a priority for them and they found the resources to make it happen. As a result, except for #31, I still have all my own teeth. And, while I realized long ago that others have not been so fortunate, I’ve rarely witnessed the yearning for healthy teeth first hand.

Here in rural Virginia, it is not uncommon to run into folks with teeth missing, not in the back, like my #31, but right up front for all the world to see, or to see middle-aged adults with no teeth at all.

As a child, I lived for more than three years with a gap where my right front incisor should have been. Family photos reflect years of me smiling with my lips tight. Because of this I’m very sensitive to the feelings of people with missing teeth. I felt like the ugly duckling and it affected my self-esteem for a long time.

This is the first image I got when I Googled, "Hillbilly clipart". — This is the first image I got when I Googled, “Hillbilly clipart”.

Let’s face it, our culture takes great liberty at the expense of people with missing and crooked teeth, equating them with ignorance, lack of good hygiene and labeling them as lower class. It’s part of the cultural lexicon, the hillbilly with the random teeth, or the mentally challenged with the crooked or buck teeth. I’m no expert, but I would be willing to bet that most folks, given the financial opportunity, would choose to have a full set of straight pearly whites.

In a perfect world, everyone would have access. But, the world is far from perfect and I’m not advocating that we should institute universal dental coverage. What I am suggesting is that when you see someone with a tooth or two missing, don’t be so quick to judge them and if you are able to pay for regular dental care, don’t take it for granted.

If you have dental insurance or can afford the cost out-of-pocket, you are one of the lucky ones. For what ever reason, God has chosen you to be one of the ones who are gifted with this. The fact that someone else has not, is not a punishment, it simply is.

So that was my epiphany in the waiting room at the dentist’s. I could have spent the time mindlessly playing a word game on my phone, but instead spent some time with Spirit. After she left, I said a prayer for the woman that she gets what she needs because I certainly received a reality check I needed.

March 4, 2015

Becoming Mothers

My Grandma Gray as a new mother with my mom, Peggy, on her lap.

After months of holding a special secret close to my heart, I am now able to shout to the world the marvelous news that Dave and I will be welcoming a new grandchild into our family later this summer! Maggie gave us her news before Christmas but asked that we keep it on the q.t. until after her first trimester had passed. Keeping such wonderful news under wraps is not an easy thing to do. I’d like to say I was able to honor her request to the letter but found myself letting the news slip from time to time, unable to contain my joy.

Babies change everything. This baby, like all babies before her (wishful thinking on my part) will transform the lives of her mother and father, Maggie and Jan as they enter into a new dimension of their relationship together as parents. She will transform Teresa into a grandmother and Isolde into an aunt. For Dave, Any and me, we will be transformed into the grandparents and uncle of this incredible new little person. For Seth and Caleb, this new child of God will be a sister (or brother) in this amazing, patch-worked, incredibly functional family that is us.

Change is not always easy and neither is pregnancy. While some women seem to skid through the nine months without even a hiccough, Maggie is plagued by nausea and migraines making some days very difficult to bear. Combining this constant feeling of physical un-wellness with a long dreary winter can result in not a fairy tale ending but an overwhelming feeling of being in a long dark tunnel with the heavy burdens of parenthood at the end. And so, as in all things, there are good days and bad.

We had a long phone chat a couple days ago and she shared some of her fears and doubts about parenthood. As I fumbled for words to reassure her that all would be well (because it will be) I remembered my first few hours totally alone with infant Maggie. Dave was deployed and a neighbor had brought us home from the hospital and dropped us off at the house. For that first night, it was just her and me.

I remember looking at her little body, swaddled in a flannel blanket, sleeping in a converted dog bed and thinking, “I am someone’s mother!” I guess it was in that very moment that I took ownership of my new role. That first night alone with her were so intimate. Her body still fed off of mine and there was no one else to hear her squeak in that special way infants do. I slept on the couch with her dog bed on the table beside me, recording in a little notebook each time she ate and pooped, as if a chronicle had to be kept of her every moment of life. Fortunately my mother arrived the next day to spend a few weeks with me and my record keeping on paper was suspended. In its place I have a heart full of memories, each recording our mother/daughter history from those first few moments.

For me, motherhood, although not always easy or even pleasant, has always been such a gift. God gifted me with such an incredible daughter and son who have completed me in ways I could never have imagined. I know it will be same for Maggie and Jan. They too will have their challenges and obstacles, but outmeasuring those will be moments of sublime joy and satisfaction in their children.

February 23, 2015

For the Birds

Dave and I are avid bird lovers. Every house we’ve lived in has had a feeding station in our back yard within easy few from the kitchen. Through the years we’ve gotten pretty good at identifying the different species of birds on the East Coast by sight and in some cases even by call or song.

Our copy of the Peterson Field Guide for Eastern Birds is well worn with use and is notated with dates some of the more unusual birds have been spotted at our feeders. Properly identification is serious business in our house with the occasional disagreement over which exact species of sparrow or finch has come to visit.

We’ve learned the seasonal routines of our feathered friends; the juncos arrive with the cold weather and leave as spring approaches, the Baltimore Orioles come for a short visit around Mother’s Day and the hummers arrive at the end of May and stay until the end of September. This kind of stuff is important in determining which feeders to put out and who eats what when.

My love for birdwatching is rooted in my childhood, where I would spend time at my Grandma Gray’s kitchen table. The table was pushed up against the wall fronting a large bay window that looked out onto her back yard. Binoculars and bird books sat on the ledge. As a little girl, I liked to play with the binoculars but learned from an early age, they were not toys, they were tools to get a better look at the birds. Even the names of the birds were like music to my ears; chickadee, titmouse, goldfinch and cardinals. Before I knew which birds were which, I knew their names. Knowing their names made them each special and watching the keen interest my grandmother had for these little creatures, instilled in me a desire to learn more about them.

My faith has been passed onto me in much the same way. As a child, I memorized names and stories which were weighted with value because I saw how much they meant to my parents and grandparents. A desire to learn more was planted deep within my soul and nourished throughout my life. Like my Peterson Guide, my bible is also underscored and marked with notes in the margins as “sightings” of God’s kingdom come into view.

I know I have successful in passing down my love of backyard bird watching to my children, my prayer is that I have been as productive in handing down my faith and desire to know God better.

On a lighter note, we had some unusual visitors to our yard last week, in between snow falls. Last Saturday was very windy and the treetops were swaying mightily from side to side apparently making for unsteady perching. So, a large group of vultures descended to our yard and rested in the sun. It was kind of creepy, for sure, but at the same time exciting to see these giant birds (relatively speaking) up close.

January 27, 2015

Forever Stamps

Forever Stamp I took advantage of a few quiet moments yesterday morning to write notes to two friends who were suffering the loss of loved ones.

The first note was to my friend Ellie, whose mother passed away on Saturday, just a few weeks after celebrating her 100th birthday. Her life was a long fruitful one. Although her mind was sharp, her body was failing badly and she was very limited in mobility. Her death was not a surprise, she was ready to be with God and her family was as prepared as they could be.

The second note was to my friend Teresa who is approaching the end of the first year since the death of her husband. He was a young man, in excellent physical health and his death was sudden, unexpected and almost surgical in the manner he was so swiftly removed from our lives. There was no time for preparation.

Coming up with the perfect words to use in sympathy notes is nearly impossible. I’m never quite sure what to say and it is my hope that my feeble attempt to provide comfort will come through in my words.

As I sealed the envelopes this feeling inadequacy overwhelmed me. How could my awkward words of consolation really help anyone through the pain of losing a mother or husband? I reached for my stamps and carefully placed them in the right hand corners when the image on the face caught my attention. It was a simple picture of paper-white blossoms with the word, “FOREVER” beneath it.

To me, both were a reminder that death is not the end of life, but the beginning of the next phase. The paper-white, a member of the narcissus family, begins life as a dried, lifeless looking bulb. When potted and watered it sprouts life and eventually produces lovely, fragrant blooms. It is a symbol of everlasting life. The word, FOREVER, underscored that fact.

How silly of me to have forgotten that all I can really offer is support. True comfort comes only from faith in God and the promise of His covenant with His people. In God’s eyes we are all stamped “FOREVER.” We do not have expiration dates; instead we move from one phase to another.

I’m not sure this realization will make my notes anymore eloquent, but I certainly do appreciate the reminder.

January 12, 2015

Packing and Unpacking Christmas

All the Christmas decorations are stowed away for another year.

Yesterday marked the official end of the Christmas Season on the Catholic Church’s calendar with the Feast of the Baptism of the Lord. It is when the decorations come down and the Church transitions into ordinary time until Lent begins. As I packed up the trappings of the holiday, I began to “unpack” the events of the Christmas Season.

I know many people believe that the focus of the Christmas holiday is the birth of Baby Jesus and to some extent I’ll go along with that. Seeing the baby in the stable is a good image for children to gain an understanding of just how Jesus humbled himself by allowing himself to be born in such a modest way. For us grown-ups though, I just think it stops there. To coin a phrase of a dear friend of mine, “And so what?” Aside from the warm fuzzy initial feelings most of us get when we see images of a newborn, what other responses should we have to the birth of the Christ child into the world?

I had an epiphany on Christmas Eve as I listened to the Gospel. We’d had a potluck dinner before Mass and I was having a touch time settling myself. Our priest is newly arrived from Africa, and paying close attention is required to understand his words. Despite these challenges, the Spirit came through and I heard Luke’s story in a very different way. I began to think of the story of the birth in the stable with quite a different perspective.

It’s only natural to place yourself in character in these stories, to empathize with the ready-to-pop expectant mother having spent hours on the back of a donkey, just waiting for a place to rest for a while or Joseph, the tired father, feeling the tremendous urgency to find a safe place for his wife to stay but what about the inn keeper?

We’ve all seen portrayals of the inn keeper in the movies, plays or on tv, often as a grumpy, frustrated or even kindly man doing his best to accommodate the couple but this year I took the idea of being the inn keeper in a different direction, looking at the story of the inn keeper as a parable.

During the Advent Season, our focus is to prepare for the coming of the child by reflecting on the barriers in our lives that distract and distance us from God. By the time Christmas arrives, if we’ve done our job, we are ready; the nursery is complete, the crib up and there is plenty of room to welcome the child into our lives. But, often we get so caught up in the details of our lives that we lose focus and when we welcome God into our lives, we don’t have the room we’d like to have, so we try to cram the baby into whatever spot we may have available, like a stable. And let’s face it, even the cleanest stable isn’t a nice place to give birth to any baby let alone the son of God.

Taking the parable one step further, now that we have received the Christ child, what do we do next? Take down the creche and pack it away to try again next year? I don’t think so.

Instead, I believe our answer to the question, “And so what?”, despite where the baby is received should be to nurture to adulthood the mission of the child; to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, give hope to the despairing, shelter the homeless, comfort the sick and set the captives free. If we are Christians, our baptisms have charged us with these challenges.

This year I think I’ve at least intellectually put the pieces together. My personal challenge for this year will be remember to not pack my Christmas epiphany away. I’ll need to start now to clear away the clutter, a little bit at a time to make room for the babe before next Christmas. Four weeks of Advent is just not enough time to prepare for the coming of a child!

Babies are born on this planet every micro-second. Each is a child of God, created in God’s image