This week we’re reminded constantly to be thankful. Afterall, tomorrow is Thanksgiving and it’s a national holiday and we’re supposed to stuff ourselves with turkey and all the other good stuff and count our blessings. So, while I’m feasting on a sumptuous meal, I’m supposed to carve out, forgive the play on words, a moment to be thankful that I’m able to gorge myself like Henry VIII or someone from Overeaters Anonymous. Seems like food for thought – again sorry for the metaphor.
Don’t get me wrong. I love food. And I love celebrating with family and friends. My wife is an amazing cook, and our house will be decorated perfectly, and our tables will be set beautifully. Everyone will bring a special dish and hopefully a healthy appetite, and I promise there will be a seasonal cocktail thrown in for good measure. Plenty for which to be thankful. Still, some years with all the shopping, and cooking and cleaning and table setting, it seems like we’ve bit off more than we can chew – oops, there I go again.
The truth is this apple didn’t fall far from the tree (I promise that’s probably the last one). My Mom loved to feed us, and she made special occasions really special with her attention to every detail and Dad loved to be up in the middle of family gatherings. So, to honor their memories and to thank God for their example, we will make every effort to make it seem effortless. We will be gracious and refrain from complaining about the expense, and how much work it was to get the house ready, and to prepare the meal. Because we have far too many frenetic, attention deprived, days in this world with which we find ourselves, we need to actually enjoy a little elegance. We need a day set apart. We need a day with cloth napkins. We need a day without fast food or microwave meals. We need a day where we dress up just little bit. We need to bring out the “good” dishes and polish the silver. We need a day where we can have a moment to be thankful for the abundance in our lives.
And after that second slice of pumpkin pie, while we’re sitting around chewing the fat (okay, really that’s the last one), we can truly be thankful for the blessings in our lives. We can reminisce about Thanksgivings gone by. We can plan for Thanksgivings of the future. The meals. The specials table settings. And most importantly, the love.
My friend Bob is a wine maker. It’s a hobby, but his wines are extraordinary, and they just keep getting better. Recently we had the pleasure (and sore muscles) of helping him crush his 400+ pounds of grapes. No, we didn’t stomp on the grapes like that episode on “I Love Lucy”. Ours was a more sanitary process with nitrile gloves and crushing by hand. It took a team. Plenty of laughter and previous vintages were enjoyed by all.
It occurred to me that vintners must be optimists. You spend a lot of time and money and more time and more money to achieve the perfect blend. The “crush” is the just the first step in wine making. Then you must wait. You wait until the fermentation process begins and add acid and bacteria and “press” and “punch” the grapes and on and on. A lot of dedication and science and more waiting is required. Finally, weeks? months? later the stuff is bottled. And then the real waiting begins. 3 years? 5 years? 10 years? Only an optimist would work that hard on something that might not come to fruition. Or the wine might outlive you before it can be decanted! But my friend Bob is a “glass half full” kind of guy. In his case, it’s a glass half full of wine. God bless him.
Worrying about stuff is something I’m good at. It’s not exactly a hobby but it does consume a lot of my time. I worry about climate change, the wars in Europe and the Middle East, the sad state of U.S. political discourse, gun violence, racism, sexism, terrorism, and all the other “isms” that keep me awake at night. I worry about my grandchildren for all the regular kid stuff plus the extra crap that they’re carrying around now (active shooter drills, road rage, papillomavirus, the internet, bullying, cheating in school by using smart phones and hair styles from the 1970’s).
Where I get myself into trouble isn’t the worrying, it’s the whining. I whine about the how terrible things are or are going to be. I wring my hands and that hurts because of arthritis, and I bitch about that, too. In fact, my whining becomes contagious. It encourages others to whine. And often the pity-party ensues. Oh, woe are we! Everything is terrible and is only going to get worse. I used to scoff when my mother would proclaim that “the world is going to hell in a handbasket” and now I feel her pain. But whining doesn’t help anything or anyone. So, what’s a whining worrier to do?
Prayer helps. And looking forward. And hope.
Mostly I find my solace in the joy of others. Their optimism is transformative. My granddaughter Anna is an honor student and an actress and a student ambassador at her school. She is actively involved in the teen program at her church. She is also a rock-climber (which honestly worries me) who towers cliffs. But she is undaunted. She is so full of life! She is constantly attaining new heights both literally and figuratively. The entire world is in front of her, and nothing seems to slow her down or discourage her from achieving her goals. She’s crushing it! Mostly, she has the gift of being a joy-giver. She is that rare breed of person who makes you feel better by any encounter with her.
So, Bob and Anna remind me that the future is bright and worth waiting for. I thank God for their witness and their faith. They give me hope. And sometimes a really nice glass of wine.
It’s some grandparents’ prerogative to think that their grandchild is exceptional. It’s my prerogative to knowthat mine is. I have been living vicariously through my grandson Noah since his birth. He has afforded me an exception to every adult rule. It was okay to giggle, make funny faces, or even cry sometimes when he was a baby. It was perfectly acceptable to roll around on the floor and play with toys when he was a toddler. Taking those first steps and mastering each new skill assured us both of our invincibility. Singing silly sounds and laughing too loudly was practically expected when he was a preschooler. School days and sports activities gave us a chance to learn (and learn anew) the value of education and teamwork. Receiving sacraments and praying together brought us closer to God and to one another. Many times, I have thought, “I wish I had been a better student, a better athlete, a better friend”. Then I see him achieving things that I could have only dreamed of, and I realize that he is my second chance. An opportunity to live those dreams through him. That’s a lot to put on a little guy, but he loves me, and he lets me come along for the ride. It’s been sublime.
Today he becomes a teenager. A TEENAGER. This is unchartered territory. He’s never been there, and I’ve forgotten or blocked out most of my teen years. Will we share the angst? Will we share the joys and heartaches together? I guess it’s time to ‘buckle-up’. I do remember that my teenage years were bumpy. I pray that his will be better.
Someone once said that Noah is the ‘complete package’ – straight “A” student, good athlete, faith-filled, joyful, kind, and loving. I know of course that I am incomplete. His witness fills those hollow places in my heart and my soul.
I realize that I may soon become irrelevant. It’s not malicious; it’s just how life sometimes works out. Grandparents are easy to ‘put-on-shelf’ so to speak. Drag them out for holidays, birthdays, etc. If that happens, my hope is that I can handle it with grace and dignity. Still, I’ll keep living vicariously through Noah. He won’t need to know that I’ll be learning (again) how to drive and how to deal with the ups and downs of team sports and how to navigate the mysterious world of the opposite sex, and trigonometry. It’s okay if he begins to keep me at arms-length. I will be perfectly fine just sitting on the sidelines and watching this beautiful boy become a man.
As long as I can cheer and fear and pray, he will be with me, and I will be with him. You see, I’m not quite ready to grow up. I believe that we still have some amazing years ahead of us. He likely has no idea how much I need to live those years through him and with him. But I hope that he knows I’m always here when (and if) he needs me.
Peace,
Denis
Noah found favor in the eyes of the Lord ~ Genesis 6:8
I feel that lately I spend a lot of time trying to hear something or someone. In this world of constantly evolving technological advancements, we have FaceTime and Zoom and Hands-Free mobile phone calls and Smart TV’s that adjust the sound according to what we’re watching (except commercials, those are always too loud). Still, I often myself not hearing well enough. My wife believes that I need hearing aids, but I believe what I truly need are ‘listening’ aids.
There’s a lot of noise out there and I have tinnitus which only adds to the cacophony. My struggle is parsing what I need to hear from that which is just noise. It’s not easy. Because I don’t want to miss anything, I try to listen to everything. And my nearly constant, “I’m sorry, what was that?”, becomes annoying to those around me. I’ve even tried to stop talking so much in an attempt to hear others speak, but I’ve proven to be a failure at that particular skill.
So, what’s a poor listener to do?
First, I need to remind myself that everyone has a story to tell. How often have I heard the phrase or seen the plaques that read, “Tell Your Story, Sing Your Song”? What I need is a plaque that reads, “Listen to Their Story, Listen to Their Song, but First: Put Yourself in Their Shoes”. Not as catchy and not ready for the Hallmark® shelves but if you find it on Etsy®, I should probably get some royalties.
How often do I ask someone, “How are you?”, only to be told, “I’m fine.” And I’m off and running. Rarely does anyone tell me how they really are and sadly, if they do, chances are I really don’t want to hear the details. “Fine” is just fine. Putting on my brakes and listening, really listening takes time and requires me to engage; to be present; to care. This is not always convenient. And it’s definitely not easy. Listening is something that I must consciously choose to do. Listening requires patience, thoughtfulness and commitment. These are things that I often find in short supply.
As I often do in times of frustration, uncertainty, self-doubt or just plain, old stupidity, I pray. I pray that God grants me the patience to listen (really listen) to others. I pray for discernment to tune out the noise in order to focus on the present. I pray for the empathy to walk in another’s shoes. I pray that I fight the urge to compose a response in my head while others are still trying to tell me their story.
When I was a young father, I was pretty hands-on. Changing diapers. Mending knees. Drying tears. My wife worked part-time opposite my schedule so we could avoid daycare as much as possible. There were nights when I was exhausted, but homework and baths and bedtime prayers were still required. The truly exhausting part was the worry. Worry about finances. Worry about education. Worry about too much television, not enough healthy food. Worry about the friends they had or didn’t have.
Mostly I worried about screwing EVERYTHING up. Unwittingly doing some irreparable harm by not protecting them; preparing them; guiding them. There is something almost primal about a father’s need to love and protect his children – maybe its self-preservation. I don’t know, maybe when the first dad (Adam?) crawled out of the primordial ooze we were already pre-wired to protect our offspring in order to make certain our species would survive.
Lately I’ve been observing young fathers. There was a father at church yesterday who was comforting his baby daughter. This dad has three daughters – so he gets to go straight to heaven. But anyway, yesterday the little fussy one needed daddy to stand up and bounce her around in his arms. Which of course he did. Several times. At one point, I walked over and put my arm around him and reminded him that fatherhood means “doing whatever you think she needs for the rest of your life”.
I’m encouraged by the time and attention that I see young fathers affording their children today. I see dads lugging the diaper bags and pushing the strollers and holding the hands of their progeny. I watch and I recall that often when I was younger it seemed novel that I would be the one doing those things. Maybe in my father’s generation men were still the hunter-gatherers and womenfolk tended the children. But evolution has prevailed and now dads hunt and gather and bounce their babies, hold their hands, wipe up their spills, tie their shoes, and mend broken their hearts.
Sometimes when I see these young dads, I think about Saint Joseph. We know little about Joseph. We know that he had doubts. We also know that he said yes. He protected Mary and Jesus. Joseph is often depicted as an old man. But I believe Joseph was young when Jesus was born. A worker. A teacher. A companion. A Dad. Frightened but courageous. Ill prepared but undaunted. Beleaguered but bouncing Jesus if required to keep him still in the Temple. And I ask his intercession to protect all of us fathers.
My children are in their forties now. And I still worry, but I believe that our history together prepares them; guides them; protects them. “Look at what I did. Look at the mistakes that I made. Be smarter. Do better. And remember, to never stop loving beyond reason.”
(There’s a lot of Barbie® hype out there right now, so I thought my beautiful wife’s birthday would be a good time to update this post originally published 12 years ago).
When my wife was a little girl, she wanted to be Barbie – tall and blonde and all the rest. But instead, God decided to make her Midge® – Barbie’s best friend. Midge was shorter and brunette and NOT BARBIE. But even though Midge (Deb) is ‘vertically challenged’ you shouldn’t be fooled by her size. She is larger than life. Her circle of influence is boundless. She dreams big. She has more class in her little finger than most folks have in their entire body. And she has more friends today than I have had in my entire life.
Most descriptions of her include phrases like big heart; generous spirit; huge smile; hearty laugh; giving friend; loving mother, and grandmother. These are hardly the images of a mousey little Midge. And Deb does things in a big way, too. Meals are an event. You’ll never leave her table hungry. Holidays are a time for elegant decorating and grand entertaining, and fabulous food. She works hard and she plays hard, too.
And if you are in need, she’s the friend/sister/daughter/mother/grandmother to call on. If you need a laugh, she will always deliver. If you need someone to hold or if you need to be held, her arms are always wide open. If you need to cry, she will cry, too. Debbie has this incredible gift of making you feel that when she’s with you, no one else is more important or more needed at that moment than you. You have her complete undivided attention. She gives her entire self.
Her children and grandchildren will also tell you that she is a ‘force to be reckoned with’. And most importantly, you should NEVER attempt to hurt one of her children or grandchildren – she’s like a lioness in her need to protect them. And I believe that she would stare down the devil if the need arose.
As for me, well when Deb walks in the room it’s like everyone else fades into the background. All the light in the space seems to be emanating from her. She just gets to me. She always tells our granddaughters “To be pretty; you have to act pretty”. And she lives those words, too. Her beauty shines through.
Barbie, you might be a statuesque blonde, but you are empty inside, I’ll take ‘ma femme petite belle’ over you any day!
Even though I’m over a foot taller than she, I know that Deb stands well above me in terms of heart and soul.
Peace,
Denis
Debbie – Happy Birthday! It’s been my pleasure and an honor to look up to you all these many years. I love all four feet eleven inches of you and this life we share. ~ D
A few days ago, a neighbor was walking by and complimented our yard saying, “Everything looks so beautiful. You must be an avid gardener.” I thanked her as she walked on, and I thought to myself, I’m not truly an avid gardener; I’m more of a rabid gardener. Let me explain: I love the trees and flowers. I love spring and summer and the bounty of blossoms and greenery. But I neglect the gardens. I let things get a little out of hand. And I step outside and realize that I must get things under control! So, instead of patiently tending the gardens each day, I instead go into manic-mode and work in a frenzy until I’m a hot, achy, sweaty mess who is really too tired to enjoy his labor.
Hence, I attack the gardens like a rabid animal, but I get the job done. And I accept the compliments of a neighbor and ignore things for another week or so and then repeat the cycle. It’s exhausting. But it works.
I know of course that daily weeding and more careful tending of my gardens would in the long run ease my burden and then I might just become an avid gardener instead of a rabid one. There is always room for improvement.
This morning I was thinking that my faith life is somewhat like my gardening. I don’t give it the daily attention that I should. Instead, I let things go sometimes until they get out of hand. I fail to see God’s presence in my life. I often ignore the blessings in my life. I become cynical and defiant. And when things are a mess, I turn to God in my frenzy and my weakness, and I finally pray. When I am overwhelmed with pain and conflict and loss, I panic, I plead, I cry. In frantic desperation, I pray “God help me!” And somehow God answers the prayers of this simple man. When the weeds of sin and destruction are choking out the flowers in the garden of my life, Jesus still restores my soul. I pray selfishly, but it works.
Still, I realize that if I focus some attention on prayers of thanksgiving for the bountiful blessings in my life, my panic will lessen. My disappointments and heartache will be easier to shoulder when I remember that I am never alone. The struggles in my life will always remain but perhaps the ability to deal with those challenges will improve if I could just turn them over to God daily. There is always room for improvement.
It’s not perfect but, in the grand scheme of things my life has been remarkably blessed. And my gardens don’t look too bad either. I will continue to thank God for both.
Peace,
Denis
Pray without ceasing. In all circumstances give thanks. 1 Thessalonians 5: 17-18
Below is a song about prayer. It’s heart rending but it reminds me to thank God as often as I beg for help.
Sadly, I’m often surprised when a stranger is kind. Kindness, friendliness, and courtesy seem to have gone out of fashion these days. Recently at a grocery store someone offered my wife a shopping cart. It was a simple gesture but was much appreciated. When we headed into the store, we realized that the woman had left her mobile phone in the cart. I ran out of the store and found her about to exit the parking lot. Crisis averted. Many thanks were offered for such a simple act. Later in the store the cashier was friendly and engaging and made our mundane shopping experience actually pleasant. Later my wife and I remarked that kindness is so seldom offered that it has become remarkable. It is a sad commentary. Why is it that friendliness and kindness are remarkable?
I’m part of the problem. I admit that I am quick to judge. I blame it on my professional experience, years of sizing up customers and suppliers. Calling “bullshit” on the bullshitters. That’s an easy way out. The truth is, I’m a judger and I usually think that I know who I’m dealing with before a word is spoken. But what if I’m wrong? Suppose the person that I’ve encountered is battling illness or financial hardship or a failed relationship. And then I’m put out because they aren’t friendly enough to me? How pompous and arrogant! Many folks may be carrying pain beyond my comprehension and perhaps friendliness is just something that they cannot muster. My wife, who is kind and friendly by nature, often reminds me that not everyone is living a happy or healthy life.
Perhaps kindness begets kindness. So, I try (again) to be courteous to strangers. I try to be friendly. Then I look in the mirror and study my heavy brow line and my strong chin and realize that a smile can even improve my stern Germanic countenance. “Remember to smile and speak more softly”, I tell myself. But genetics and learned behaviors are hard to overcome. Then I pray. I pray that somehow, I will remember to be a reconciling presence in our world. God gives us the grace to mend hearts and share love with others. I can start in the grocery store, and in my own backyard. I can share God’s grace.
The people that I admire most are the folks who carry a quiet joy in their hearts. They’re not the dealmakers, or loud back slappers or the big jokesters but the kind, graceful people who offer me a smile, an occasional shopping cart, and a role model, even in my saddest, darkest, ugliest moments.
Perhaps kindness begets kindness. And grace. And redemption.
Peace,
Denis
From his fullness we have all received, grace in place of grace. John 1:16
When I was a boy, my heroes were cowboys. Not the real ones, but the TV variety. I had a Roy Rogers lunchbox, and EVERY BOY in my “midwestern suburban wilderness” had a holster and six-shooter. We were Marshall Dillon and Buffalo Bill Cody. We were Lucas McCain and The Lone Ranger. We were cowboys who made our own rules and lived in the sweet freedom of the range until Mom called us home for dinner. Truth be told, horses are big and kind of scary and I’ve never even held a real gun, but I was a tough little cowboy back in the day.
As I grew, those childhood fantasies were packed away, never to see the light of day. The teenage years gave way to cars and girls and jobs. The dangers “waiting around the bend” were real. I hung up my holster and the dream of becoming a cowboy was covered in the dust of a forgotten trail. As an adult I learned that Trigger, Roy Rogers’s beloved horse, had been stuffed and placed in a museum. It seemed a fitting coda to my cowboy life. Over. Gone. Dead.
A few weeks ago, we took a trip to South Dakota. We had been there before, but this time we traveled with our three youngest grandchildren. Somehow seeing the Badlands through their eyes brought back memories of my cowboy days. From Sioux Falls to Mount Rushmore to Wind Cave to Custer State Park, with each new vista we were bathed in the beauty and majesty of God’s creation. The buffalo, elk, prong horn sheep and prairie dog sightings were spellbinding. Every mountain range and stream, every meadow and vast prairie carried us on to the next adventure. Experiencing these things this time, through the eyes of our grandchildren, added depth and wonder to my travels. I was “saddled up” once again.
The joy of experiencing the beauty and wonder of South Dakota was only surpassed by the pride in my grandchildren on the journey. The 7-year-old and 9-year-old, who as all sisters do, sometimes bicker and get on each other’s nerves. There is often some competition or some perceived injustice. “It’s not fair!” is a rallying cry for a persecuted 7-year-old. Little do they know that I am impervious to the eye-rolling and “death stares” I receive when handing down my judgments. My wife is usually Miss Kitty to my Matt Dillon and the little criminals take solace in her heart of gold. But without order, the West would truly be wild. Miraculously, there were no quarrels, no disagreements, or whining on our trip. I was able to keep my pistol holstered. Their joy was contagious. They were two of the toughest little cowgirls on the range. No complaints, no fear, no hesitation to climb the next hill or wade into the next stream. My prayer is that this newfound confidence will serve them well into the future.
My 12-year-old grandson was Chester to my Marshall Dillon. He was my trusted aide, my confidant, and my sidekick. And he was the only other male on our westward journey. Our job was to “take care” of the womenfolk. His confidence and thrill of the next challenge was matched by the care he afforded his younger cousins. At times, unsolicited, he took the hand of one of the girls to steady their gait on a particularly steep or treacherous path. He showed patience and tenderness beyond his age. He encouraged them and comforted them. He is a hero that the West had never before seen. My prayer is that someday he has a grandson who will be his hero as well.
The thought of a road trip to South Dakota seemed daunting. The hours in the van, the potential exhaustion, the likelihood of whining (mostly mine), the possibility of bad weather, and the expense, gave me pause. “Maybe we shouldn’t…” kept me awake a few nights prior to our trip. But the experience was transformative. The girls were braver than they have ever been before. Our grandson became a young man before our eyes.
And this old cowboy got to come along for the ride.
I spent last week in McAllen, Texas at our southern border. I volunteered at the Humanitarian Respite Center which is affiliated with Catholic Charities of the Rio Grande Valley. Staffed by dedicated personnel as well as volunteers and supported by donations, the center provides a place for the countless refugees and asylum seekers, who have entered our country legally, to rest, have a meal, a change of clothes, and receive medicine and other supplies. Most families are at the center only 24 hours before continuing on their journey into the United States. They travel by plane or bus to their host family destinations.
There is so much reported on cable news shows about the “crisis” at the border that I wanted to see it for myself. I did and I am changed. The people that we served were refugees seeking asylum. The United Nations 1951 Convention and 1967 Protocol define a refugee as a person who is unable or unwilling to return to his or her home country, and cannot obtain protection in that country, due to past persecution or a well-founded fear of being persecuted in the future “on account of race, religion, nationality, membership in a particular social group, or political opinion.”I was overwhelmed by the need, but even more so by the gratitude and love shared from those we served. Each small act of kindness was followed by countless “gracias”.
I traveled with my friend Bob, who is veteran of service at the Respite Center. I’m certain I would not have survived without Bob’s tutelage. We stayed at a hotel in San Juan, Texas which is next door to a beautiful Basilica which reminded me of The Shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Mexico City and provided meditation, prayer and worship with a mariachi band thrown in for good measure. I was feeling anxious about my poor Spanish skills and reached out to my friend Alberto in Mexico. He assured that if I just said “bienvenido” my actions would speak the rest. He was right! (Alberto mi hermano te amo)
Sometimes you just have to jump into the deep end headfirst. And I did. On Day One we served lunch to about 75 persons. The Haitians would thank us with “gracias” although clearly not their native tongue. There was one little girl about 2 or 3 who would shyly smile at me every time we met. I wanted to squeeze her and tell her that all would be alright but who knows? Walking a man to the bus station, he thanked me for my kindness and then he put his arm around me and took a selfie of us. Smiles all around! I was touched by an angel.
On Day Two we met a young man (probably a teenager) who needed his knees bandaged and was all alone. We learned that he had been abducted by a gang and had somehow escaped. No way to know what he had endured. A little boy named David about 6 years old asked me to throw a paper airplane. We played for at least 30 minutes. His joy was contagious. It was like playing whiffle ball with my grandson Noah. He asked my name and thanked me. His grin was from ear to ear.
Day Three was much busier. 300+ people served. We served families from Cuba, Guatemala, Ecuador, Venezuela, Haiti, China, Colombia, El Salvador, Honduras, and Chile. “Mucho gracias” from every smiling face. Parents looked exhausted. Kids were always ready to play. Highlight of the day was meeting Sr. Norma Pimentel. She is the Executive Director of Catholic Charities in the Rio Grande Valley and the founder of the HRC. She was named one of Time’s Most Influential People in 2020. She was so down-to-earth and so welcoming. Later that day, I attempted to help a man from China get cash for his taxi ride to the airport. We tried several things but to no avail. I was relieved to learn the following morning that somehow, he was successful.
Day Four was another very busy start to the day. We ran out of Pedialyte and baby bottles but a volunteer family from Kansas went and bought some more. Often as supplies are depleted, they miraculously reappear. I filled two emergency clothing orders. One was a family with a 2-year-old boy and a 3 three-year-old girl. I found a brand-new outfit for the girl. The mother couldn’t stop thanking me. Another mother had an 18-month-old who was completely naked. I gave him more than I was supposed to. This one brought me to tears. A woman prayed for the longest time at the image of Our Lady of Guadeloupe. Perhaps she was praying for a better life or thanking God for getting her this far.
On Day Five a little girl from Honduras tried to teach me Spanish while I tried to teach her English. She was the better student. We had some late arrivals that day. Managed to get them settled in and served a late lunch. A little girl who suffered a seizure was taken to the hospital as we were leaving that night.
On my last day we delivered 35 meals to the Siesta Inn, a hotel that is housing men traveling alone and anyone who had tested positive for Covid-19 (yes, it’s still out there for the unvaccinated). I put together care packages of toiletries and I packed lunches for air or bus travel.
Each day as the immigrants arrived, I remembered my “Bienvenido” and each day as they departed, I offered a “Via con Dios.” I prayed every night their journeys might bring them safely to a new life. I will continue to pray for each of them as I see their faces in my mind. I wonder if they are well and welcomed.
During each day there were plenty of “Que necesitas?” And as I struggled with each request, I was supported by some of the most amazing volunteers that I have ever met. Of course, I am blessed to know my good friend (and traveling companion) Bob. Also blessed by, Lara, Philip, Cecilia, Pat and Mary: all local volunteers, Joe from Notre Dame, Nick from D.C, Julie from Kansas, and Dan from Colorado, Father Patrick Russell, the students and administrators from Saint Dominic High School in my hometown, the Jesuits who said mass on Tuesday and Thursday at the Center, and countless others. They gave of themselves effortlessly, with compassion and joy. They were truly the hands and feet of Christ. I am humbled by their witness.
I pray that these weary travelers we served were offered a glimmer of hope and a glimpse of heaven.
Bienvenido – thanks for the advice, Alberto! It served me well.
Journeying & Journaling 