I was watching an episode of Star Trek Voyager in which the crew is stuck in a storm, and order to pass the time, the holodeck is opened to the entire crew to come and go from the village of Fair Haven. It is exciting for the crew is to interact and become part of the life of a 19th Irish village. The exhilaration that the crew feels is tangible as some use the time in the “Old Country” to take their mind of the stresses and monotony of living on a star ship while others use the time to explore and relive their own ancestor’s way of life and traditions.
Watching this episode today quickly brought me back to me the exhilaration and anticipation of visiting my ancestral home as I was fortunate enough this past winter to have had the opportunity to visit Ireland.
I understand the significance of this anticipation and restlessness, as I grew up with this longing for insight and understanding of the life of my ancestors. I grew with a feeling that I am not only a boy from Montana, but a boy whose essence encompassed generations and places that were well beyond the scope of my surroundings and experiences What causes this longing, this restlessness, this necessity to come into contact with the ancient?
Being of Irish descent, I have grown up with an unspoken understanding that we have an innate sixth sense that directs us back to the motherland. It is my belief that there is a force that draws us back to the Emerald Isle in a way that is tangible, but inexplicable.
The trip to Ireland was all too short and there was so much about the country that was new and strange. Some of the differences of language were at times somewhat difficult and cumbersome, the plumbing was a new experience, driving and finding road signs a challenge.
Yet, amidst the insecurities of being in a foreign country there was an internal warmth and familiarity that that I can not explain. The rolling green hills, the wild daffodils and the thatched roofs all were part of who I am. The earthy, somewhat musky smell of burning peat elicited a wave of memories that I have never experienced. The brogue was familiar and comforting.
I was able to experience a very limited area of Ireland and was unable to visit any of the actual areas where we know my family comes from; I did, however, learn much about myself. I learned that who I am, is not only determined by the house I in which I was nurtured and the extended family that helped mold and shape me; but by centuries of tradition and history, by wars and famine, by stories and legends. I learned that I am me and more, I am Irish.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Saturday, August 16, 2008
What are Friends For?
I have been so blessed lately, through modern technology, to be able to re-connect with some of the nicest people I have ever known; friends from that period of my life when I was young and gangly, unsure and ashamed of myself and often at odds with the world around me. This has made me very thankful for these people, but it has started me thinking about friends and how and why people come and go in our lives.
Our lives as humans, are often relatively short, but in that brief period of time we will experience hundreds, even thousands of people and each one that we interact with, makes a huge impact; whether for good or ill, we are affected someway, somehow by each and every one; be it the loud obnoxious checker at the grocery store that comments on the items you are purchasing (I really hate that) or a receptionist at the dentist that is cheery and is truly concerned for your well being, or that person that you consider your best friend.
Most individuals would reason that the clerk or receptionist would not affect our lives, but they do. Depending on our mood or our stress level, each of these interactions can, if we let it, either smooth or ruffle feathers depending on how we react. In the big picture, these people are not really important to our daily well being, we don’t count them as friends, yet they can impact us tremendously.
Then we have acquaintances, these are the people we know through others, persons that we are not intimate with, but that we can carry on a conversation with in a social situation without feeling awkward. These individuals are the ones we have polite conversations with over the price of fresh fruit at the grocery store and then not think so much about them when we get home.
Then there are those people that we consider friends. People we love to share our lives with, people that we laugh and cry with, people that truly have an impact on who we are and who we become. These people are the warriors of life, they for us and us for them; together we do battle on daily basis. We work in tandem with each other and we make life worth living. These are the persons we work with, the people that we worship with, the people that we carpool with, the people in our card groups and the parents of the kids our kids play with.
The unfortunate and unique part of these friends is that often this friendship is for a limited amount of time. People that we can feel so close to at one point in our lives are, often a few years later, a memory. Is it that these individuals are un-important to us? Is it that they are merely a passing fancy, something to amuse us during a certain period of time? My belief is that individuals come into our life for a certain period of time to help mold and shape us into the human beings that we are called to be, and when their job is complete they fade away for reasons that are often mundane (such as a job transfer), but that we don’t see in the grand scheme of the universe.
Fortunately, some of these people will often come and go in our lives when we need them most. It is amazing to me how I can lose track of someone I consider a dear friend only to find them later when I need them again. I think this kind of friend is more like a guardian angel; there to support and uphold us when we need them, but hovering out of site till God summons them back into our lives.
Then, there are those friends that we consider our best friends. These special individuals are such an important part of who we are; but that are really, few in number. These are the few intimates that we truly let know us, the person or persons that often know us as much or better than we know ourselves. These are the friends that share life with us for years and years at a time. People that share in life and death issues with us, people by reason of love share in sickness and in health and people that know just when to call because the connection is so strong that in their gut they know that something is amiss. These “best” friends, these intimates are really the backbone of our life. These are the people that support us no matter what and that give life meaning.
I often wonder if those people that we encounter that are mean and unhappy ever had a best friend? Did they ever know the joy of telling a secret to someone, knowing that it would be kept? Did they ever have that wonderful experience of being in a group conversation look across the table, and with a smirk on their face let their best friend know they knew exactly what he/she was thinking?
I have been blessed in my life to have a couple of people that I am truly connected with. These persons are who I am and who I will become. We share things that no one can ever take away from me, and for that I am grateful. One of these friends was taken from me early in life. I felt his death in the very depths of my being, yet I know that he has truly never left me. I know that on those days when I am overwrought and beyond consolation, and I see his face, I know I am not alone, that even in death our friendship remains, and I am made stronger once again.
Our lives as humans, are often relatively short, but in that brief period of time we will experience hundreds, even thousands of people and each one that we interact with, makes a huge impact; whether for good or ill, we are affected someway, somehow by each and every one; be it the loud obnoxious checker at the grocery store that comments on the items you are purchasing (I really hate that) or a receptionist at the dentist that is cheery and is truly concerned for your well being, or that person that you consider your best friend.
Most individuals would reason that the clerk or receptionist would not affect our lives, but they do. Depending on our mood or our stress level, each of these interactions can, if we let it, either smooth or ruffle feathers depending on how we react. In the big picture, these people are not really important to our daily well being, we don’t count them as friends, yet they can impact us tremendously.
Then we have acquaintances, these are the people we know through others, persons that we are not intimate with, but that we can carry on a conversation with in a social situation without feeling awkward. These individuals are the ones we have polite conversations with over the price of fresh fruit at the grocery store and then not think so much about them when we get home.
Then there are those people that we consider friends. People we love to share our lives with, people that we laugh and cry with, people that truly have an impact on who we are and who we become. These people are the warriors of life, they for us and us for them; together we do battle on daily basis. We work in tandem with each other and we make life worth living. These are the persons we work with, the people that we worship with, the people that we carpool with, the people in our card groups and the parents of the kids our kids play with.
The unfortunate and unique part of these friends is that often this friendship is for a limited amount of time. People that we can feel so close to at one point in our lives are, often a few years later, a memory. Is it that these individuals are un-important to us? Is it that they are merely a passing fancy, something to amuse us during a certain period of time? My belief is that individuals come into our life for a certain period of time to help mold and shape us into the human beings that we are called to be, and when their job is complete they fade away for reasons that are often mundane (such as a job transfer), but that we don’t see in the grand scheme of the universe.
Fortunately, some of these people will often come and go in our lives when we need them most. It is amazing to me how I can lose track of someone I consider a dear friend only to find them later when I need them again. I think this kind of friend is more like a guardian angel; there to support and uphold us when we need them, but hovering out of site till God summons them back into our lives.
Then, there are those friends that we consider our best friends. These special individuals are such an important part of who we are; but that are really, few in number. These are the few intimates that we truly let know us, the person or persons that often know us as much or better than we know ourselves. These are the friends that share life with us for years and years at a time. People that share in life and death issues with us, people by reason of love share in sickness and in health and people that know just when to call because the connection is so strong that in their gut they know that something is amiss. These “best” friends, these intimates are really the backbone of our life. These are the people that support us no matter what and that give life meaning.
I often wonder if those people that we encounter that are mean and unhappy ever had a best friend? Did they ever know the joy of telling a secret to someone, knowing that it would be kept? Did they ever have that wonderful experience of being in a group conversation look across the table, and with a smirk on their face let their best friend know they knew exactly what he/she was thinking?
I have been blessed in my life to have a couple of people that I am truly connected with. These persons are who I am and who I will become. We share things that no one can ever take away from me, and for that I am grateful. One of these friends was taken from me early in life. I felt his death in the very depths of my being, yet I know that he has truly never left me. I know that on those days when I am overwrought and beyond consolation, and I see his face, I know I am not alone, that even in death our friendship remains, and I am made stronger once again.
Friday, August 15, 2008
On this Day O' Beautiful Mother
Today we celebrate the Feast of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary. For Roman Catholics, Anglicans, Episcopalians and others, this Feast Day is one of the larger ones and one that we take great pride in. Churches all over the world will be full of candles and incense, flowers and processions, Masses will be offered for the souls of our departed, expecting mothers will be blessed for safe and healthy babies and easy deliveries. The Church rejoices this day!
Theologians have spent hundreds of years trying to understand the mystery of the relationship of Mary and Jesus and that of Mary to the Church. Mary has been given many titles through the years and countless books have been written on her great powers, miracles have been attributed to her, stories upon stories of visions and apparitions have been told to us for centuries now, but now, today, centuries later we still do not really know the depth of this relationship and the roll that Mary plays in our lives.
I will admit that most of my theology in my early life was shaped by the Benedictine Sisters that taught at our little Catholic grade school. These humble and dedicated women were not theologians, they were dedicated servants that were doing their best to continue the traditions and teaching of the church to those children entrusted to their care, but much of what we were taught was really a somewhat simplistic and methodical view of this strange and wonderful woman.
One of the great things about education is having our thought processes challenged, and hopefully through maturation we can articulate those things that we grew up with and yet make them our own. This is kind of how I feel about Mary. Mary is such an integral part of who I am, yet I no longer say the rosary daily, I don’t go out of my way to light candles in front of every statue I find and I don’t wear my holy medals anymore.
But what do I do? I find comfort in her presence in my life. I try and model my life as a Christian in the same form that she did; that willingness to be open to the sacred, to be free to let God influence our lives by giving up our self will to do Gods will, to be willing to walk with those carrying their cross and share in their pain and grief.
There is always so much discussion about was she a virgin or wasn’t she? Did she have other children or was she, like I was taught, solely the mother of Jesus? Was she assumed into heaven body and spirit or did she really die a death like the rest of us? I am not sure all of this really matters. What matters is that she did have a role in our faith, she did open herself to the holy, and that she continues to direct us to the redeeming power of her son.
I will admit though, there are times when I still feel like a third grader, sitting amid the other kids at our school Mass and I hear:
On this day, O Beautiful Mother,
On this day we give thee our love,
Near the Madonna, fondly we hover……
Theologians have spent hundreds of years trying to understand the mystery of the relationship of Mary and Jesus and that of Mary to the Church. Mary has been given many titles through the years and countless books have been written on her great powers, miracles have been attributed to her, stories upon stories of visions and apparitions have been told to us for centuries now, but now, today, centuries later we still do not really know the depth of this relationship and the roll that Mary plays in our lives.
I will admit that most of my theology in my early life was shaped by the Benedictine Sisters that taught at our little Catholic grade school. These humble and dedicated women were not theologians, they were dedicated servants that were doing their best to continue the traditions and teaching of the church to those children entrusted to their care, but much of what we were taught was really a somewhat simplistic and methodical view of this strange and wonderful woman.
One of the great things about education is having our thought processes challenged, and hopefully through maturation we can articulate those things that we grew up with and yet make them our own. This is kind of how I feel about Mary. Mary is such an integral part of who I am, yet I no longer say the rosary daily, I don’t go out of my way to light candles in front of every statue I find and I don’t wear my holy medals anymore.
But what do I do? I find comfort in her presence in my life. I try and model my life as a Christian in the same form that she did; that willingness to be open to the sacred, to be free to let God influence our lives by giving up our self will to do Gods will, to be willing to walk with those carrying their cross and share in their pain and grief.
There is always so much discussion about was she a virgin or wasn’t she? Did she have other children or was she, like I was taught, solely the mother of Jesus? Was she assumed into heaven body and spirit or did she really die a death like the rest of us? I am not sure all of this really matters. What matters is that she did have a role in our faith, she did open herself to the holy, and that she continues to direct us to the redeeming power of her son.
I will admit though, there are times when I still feel like a third grader, sitting amid the other kids at our school Mass and I hear:
On this day, O Beautiful Mother,
On this day we give thee our love,
Near the Madonna, fondly we hover……
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Memories
I was walking between the long term care center and the hospital today and the smell of the wild clover was just overwhelming. Smell is one of the strongest of the senses that evokes memories and as is true to form, recollections of my childhood started flooding over me.
Dry land farming is the primary form of farming in the high, rolling plains of Montana, and I spent most of my life praying for no rain in the spring so the farmers could get their crops planted, then the next three months praying for rain so that the crops would grow and then the next month and a half holding our breath while everyone tried to get their crops in. Rumors of hail here or there would roll through the county like the winds over the prairie grasses and every lightening storm would strike fear into the heart of even the most seasoned farmers lest it start a prairie fire undulating across their land, taking everything they worked for. In winter the cycle would start again with prayers for heavy snowfall.
There were those farmers that were lucky enough to have a few acres in the river valley that were able irrigate their farmlands. This fertile and moisture laden area of the high prairie is perfect for alfalfa, that lovely sweet member of the pea family would fill acres of acres of farmland that would be “hayed” and stacked in bales for winter feed for cattle and horses. The bright green foliage and purple flowers would create a lovely vision in the summer and if it was a really great summer, a farmer could get two and sometimes three cuttings of the alfalfa, which would create great stores for his herd or to be sold to those that had a need for it.
Along the highway’s and gravel roads of these lower river areas grows the cousin of alfalfa, sweet clover. In the afternoons and early evenings the smell of this small fragrant pinkish-white flower would waft over the Milk River Valley, spreading its heady fragrance into every aspect of my life. The seventeen miles between our home and the home of my dad’s twin brother is impregnated in my memory and my senses through this weed, the wild sweet clover.
This smell, this fragrance, this elixir, elicits memories of Sunday dinners, hours running around the farm with my cousins, sitting on the old broken down tractor of my grandfather’s, of county fairs and sleepy rides home.
Just before my Uncle Bob died, he had for lack of a better term, “passed over.” After he came back from his initial view of eternal life, he talked and talked about how beautiful it was and the flowers were amazing and the fragrance was indescribable; and he could not wait to go back. Personally, I think Uncle Bob was standing in a field of sweet clover, and today, I think I know he felt.
Dry land farming is the primary form of farming in the high, rolling plains of Montana, and I spent most of my life praying for no rain in the spring so the farmers could get their crops planted, then the next three months praying for rain so that the crops would grow and then the next month and a half holding our breath while everyone tried to get their crops in. Rumors of hail here or there would roll through the county like the winds over the prairie grasses and every lightening storm would strike fear into the heart of even the most seasoned farmers lest it start a prairie fire undulating across their land, taking everything they worked for. In winter the cycle would start again with prayers for heavy snowfall.
There were those farmers that were lucky enough to have a few acres in the river valley that were able irrigate their farmlands. This fertile and moisture laden area of the high prairie is perfect for alfalfa, that lovely sweet member of the pea family would fill acres of acres of farmland that would be “hayed” and stacked in bales for winter feed for cattle and horses. The bright green foliage and purple flowers would create a lovely vision in the summer and if it was a really great summer, a farmer could get two and sometimes three cuttings of the alfalfa, which would create great stores for his herd or to be sold to those that had a need for it.
Along the highway’s and gravel roads of these lower river areas grows the cousin of alfalfa, sweet clover. In the afternoons and early evenings the smell of this small fragrant pinkish-white flower would waft over the Milk River Valley, spreading its heady fragrance into every aspect of my life. The seventeen miles between our home and the home of my dad’s twin brother is impregnated in my memory and my senses through this weed, the wild sweet clover.
This smell, this fragrance, this elixir, elicits memories of Sunday dinners, hours running around the farm with my cousins, sitting on the old broken down tractor of my grandfather’s, of county fairs and sleepy rides home.
Just before my Uncle Bob died, he had for lack of a better term, “passed over.” After he came back from his initial view of eternal life, he talked and talked about how beautiful it was and the flowers were amazing and the fragrance was indescribable; and he could not wait to go back. Personally, I think Uncle Bob was standing in a field of sweet clover, and today, I think I know he felt.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Let the Little Children Come to Me.
But Jesus called the children to him and said, "Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it."
Sometimes the pain of life is so overwhelming and the ache in my heart is so great that I find it difficult to figure out the opportunities for ministries that God is placing before me and the call to be focused and prayerful for those that need ministering too, but to whom I am not called to minister. This has been of particular difficulty lately because of the new and difficult ministry to which God seems to have directed my life.
I had been told for years that I should consider foster parenting and I avoided it. Although I have always wanted to be a father, I never wanted to get attached and then be broken hearted when the child returned home or was put in a permanent placement.
And then came Emma……
The only reason I said yes to Emma, and brought her into my home, is that I was told that she was un-adoptable. Emma, the five pound baby that did not know love, the baby that had no one to speak for her, the baby that did not know how to touch, and the baby that no one wanted. Emma grew and blossomed beyond all expectations, and became such an amazing blessing to the house, my parish and even to our city. Fortunately and un-fortunately, Emma has now been adopted by her new family and a huge hole has been left in my heart, but I know that I answered the call that God placed before me.
The selfish part of me wants to close the door on this ministry, to concede that the pain and hurt is to much for me to bear and that I did my share and now I can walk away, but I know that God’s plan is different and that the pain and hurt I feel is nothing compared to the pain and hurt that each one of these children has had to endure.
Every time I get a call from the state about anther possible placement, I have to think and pray and be deliberate about the abilities I have and those I wish I had. It breaks my heart to think that any of these children are in the system to begin with, and even though I want to hold each of them to me, to try and protect them, I know that I am limited in my capacity to do so.
The question now, what child will I next be called to minister to, to share the love of God with in a positive and supportive house? A house that is hopefully full of fun and laughter, support and consistency, structured but yet spontaneous enough to make life worth living?
Sometimes the pain of life is so overwhelming and the ache in my heart is so great that I find it difficult to figure out the opportunities for ministries that God is placing before me and the call to be focused and prayerful for those that need ministering too, but to whom I am not called to minister. This has been of particular difficulty lately because of the new and difficult ministry to which God seems to have directed my life.
I had been told for years that I should consider foster parenting and I avoided it. Although I have always wanted to be a father, I never wanted to get attached and then be broken hearted when the child returned home or was put in a permanent placement.
And then came Emma……
The only reason I said yes to Emma, and brought her into my home, is that I was told that she was un-adoptable. Emma, the five pound baby that did not know love, the baby that had no one to speak for her, the baby that did not know how to touch, and the baby that no one wanted. Emma grew and blossomed beyond all expectations, and became such an amazing blessing to the house, my parish and even to our city. Fortunately and un-fortunately, Emma has now been adopted by her new family and a huge hole has been left in my heart, but I know that I answered the call that God placed before me.
The selfish part of me wants to close the door on this ministry, to concede that the pain and hurt is to much for me to bear and that I did my share and now I can walk away, but I know that God’s plan is different and that the pain and hurt I feel is nothing compared to the pain and hurt that each one of these children has had to endure.
Every time I get a call from the state about anther possible placement, I have to think and pray and be deliberate about the abilities I have and those I wish I had. It breaks my heart to think that any of these children are in the system to begin with, and even though I want to hold each of them to me, to try and protect them, I know that I am limited in my capacity to do so.
The question now, what child will I next be called to minister to, to share the love of God with in a positive and supportive house? A house that is hopefully full of fun and laughter, support and consistency, structured but yet spontaneous enough to make life worth living?
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Why blog?
I, alas, have joined the modern age and started blogging. I am still not sure if this is a good idea or if this is a symptom of trying to keep up with the Jones'. But today I was thinking about why people blog, I had several different thought and was trying to figure out where I fit in any of my theories.
My first theory is that people that blog are keeping diaries and this new electronic media is a comfortable way for them to keep it. They can share it with those they want to know their feelings and keep it secret from those they don’t.
My second theory is that some people can use this forum to make a statement or vent their feelings about the things happening around them that they feel that they have no control over. They can find people that share their views and will post comments that reflect their point of view. This I think can be helpful in heated political climates or when people are grieving.
My third theory is that too many people have way to much time on their hands and they have nothing better to do.
I also think that there is something extremely voyeuristic in all of this. Will I get caught? Who will read my blog? Who will comment? Will the responses be positive or negative? Will the blog be read by people I know or complete strangers? How far can I push the envelope? What can I say that will shock people? This bit of voyeurism adds a sense of excitement and euphoria that writing in a diary or journal can never fulfill.
So, why am I blogging? I blame peer pressure.
My first theory is that people that blog are keeping diaries and this new electronic media is a comfortable way for them to keep it. They can share it with those they want to know their feelings and keep it secret from those they don’t.
My second theory is that some people can use this forum to make a statement or vent their feelings about the things happening around them that they feel that they have no control over. They can find people that share their views and will post comments that reflect their point of view. This I think can be helpful in heated political climates or when people are grieving.
My third theory is that too many people have way to much time on their hands and they have nothing better to do.
I also think that there is something extremely voyeuristic in all of this. Will I get caught? Who will read my blog? Who will comment? Will the responses be positive or negative? Will the blog be read by people I know or complete strangers? How far can I push the envelope? What can I say that will shock people? This bit of voyeurism adds a sense of excitement and euphoria that writing in a diary or journal can never fulfill.
So, why am I blogging? I blame peer pressure.
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