God Talk and Tea

There's an angel over my shoulder! ~ by Jennifer Britton, guest blogger

As Sept. 29, the Feast of the Archangels, and Oct. 2, the Feast of our Guardian Angels, quickly approaches, I find myself reflecting back on the many, and unexpected, signs I have received over the last seven years from “my” angels.

As Christians, we learn that we all have a Guardian Angel, given to us from the time of our birth, acting as a protector, to watch over and guide us. I never really thought about it much until the passing of my father – a time in my life that was very difficult for me.

It wasn’t long after his passing that I awoke in the middle of the night and saw my father sitting at the end of my bed. Was it really him or was I dreaming? For several weeks after that he appeared in my dreams, the same dream over and over again. Dad was standing next to the car looking into the window at me.

When I woke each time, it seemed as if it had really happened. It was all very unsettling. Was I just not dealing with his passing or was there a message being conveyed? After a few weeks the dreams stopped and I started to forget about them.

As time passed, I continued to struggle with his death. Not many days went by that I didn’t think about him in some way.

Soon, “other” signs started to appear. First it was dimes, showing up right in front of me in the middle of nowhere. I’ve heard of “pennies from heaven,” but dimes? Was it Dad again? He did always have a great sense of humor.

Every time I stumbled upon a dime it would become a ritual to bend down and pick it up, look toward Heaven and say, “Thanks, Dad, I’m thinking about you, too, but could you send some bills!”

For some strange reason, I felt like I was receiving a message that he was watching over me and that he was ok and at peace. I didn’t feel that same unsettling that I felt with the dreams.

It wasn’t long before I stumbled upon my first feather in a parking lot while taking a walk on my lunch break. I stopped in my tracks, lifted it from the pavement and thought, “What are you trying to tell me Dad?”

That first feather found a resting place on my shelf next to my desk. It’s still there, and I look at every day. Those feathers would continue to find me in strangest places, even inside my house. While walking down my stairway, there was a small white feather just sitting on my step, which was very unusual for a clean freak like me.

Butterflies were next. I was becoming an empty nester and needed a hobby to fill my time, so I began gardening. I’ve always loved flowers, but never really had the time to spend on a garden. My dad loved to tinker in the garden. He had a green thumb, found it relaxing and grew some beautiful flowers to boot.

Amateur gardener that I was, I picked up a random bush on clearance to plant in the garden. That’s when the butterflies started to visit me and follow me around the yard. I had planted a butterfly bush. It was yet another message.

Butterflies were something Dad and I had in common. When I was a teenager I loved butterflies, my room was decorated with blue and lavender butterflies and all my jewelry pieces were butterflies. He always teased me about my passion for these beautiful creatures.

I now find it relaxing, and emotional, when I prune that bush, which is often during its growing months and the butterflies that surround me remind me of my father and bring a broad smile to my face.

Looking back, it seems as though those signs came when I needed them most, when I was contemplating something that was weighing heavy on my heart or I was struggling with some type of change in my life. They were a blessing in disguise that gave me reassurance that there is a greater, pure and spiritual heavenly being guarding and guiding me always. And I am reminded how wonderful God’s creations are.

It is reassuring to know that my Guardian Angel and my Father are forever over my shoulder.

These powerful messengers of God will be present before, during and after their feast days, so pay close attention…they may send you a sign!

Jennifer Britton works in the communications industry, is a wife, DIY mom of two who believes life is one big opportunity to Sparkle!

Oh, to have gratitude like the fishes

The stories of the saints are chock full of inspiration, so when I had the chance to speak to more than 400 Catholic school teachers recently, I decided to share one of my favorite stories, attributed to an event in the life of St. Anthony, a powerful preacher and insightful teacher.

When preaching in a town near Padua, where there were heretics in great numbers, St. Anthony became frustrated that his words and teaching about Christ were falling on deaf ears. So, after a prayerful discussion with God, he made his way to the shore to preach to the fish.

“"Listen to the word of God, O ye fishes of the sea and of the river, seeing that the faithless heretics refuse to do so," St. Anthony proclaimed.

No sooner had he spoken these words than a great multitude of fishes, both large and small, swam to the bank where St. Anthony stood. All the fish held their heads out of the water and seemed to be keeping their attention on St Anthony's face.

St. Anthony began to preach to them, saying: "My brothers the fishes, you are bound, as much as is in your power, to return thanks to your Creator, who has given you so noble an element for your dwelling; for you have at your choice both sweet water and salt; you have many places of refuge from the tempest; you have likewise a pure and transparent element for your nourishment.

“God, your bountiful and kind Creator, when he made you, ordered you to increase and multiply, and gave you his blessing. In the universal deluge, all other creatures perished; you alone did God preserve from all harm.

“He has given you fins to enable you to go where you will. To you was it granted, according to the commandment of God, to keep the prophet Jonah, and after three days to throw him safe and sound on dry land. … Because of all these things you are bound to praise and bless the Lord, who has given you blessings so many and so much greater than to other creatures."

At these words the fish began to open their mouths, and bow their heads, expressing reverence and praise for God in their own way.

There is more to the story, of course, and it turns out well for the heretics, as you might expect. But what resonated with me the most, at least the first time I read the story, is the honor and praise of the fish, offered out of gratitude for the many blessings of God.

But the image that will stay with me from my recent presentation came from a creative group of teachers who pointed out that fish come to the surface of the water when they are being fed. It was an observation and a lesson powerful in its simplicity, which good teaching most often is. I know I will never look at fish in the same way again, especially those in a fish tank or fish bowl.

They will always be a symbol and a reminder of the need to come up to the surface from the deep recesses of our lives to be fed by the Word of God. They will bring to mind the many blessings that call us to gratitude, especially those we have failed to consider. And they will help me to remember that we are unique, among God’s creatures and among our sisters and brothers.

Just as a fish will not sing God’s praise with the voice of a sparrow, we must offer our love and gratitude to God in our own voice, with our unique gifts through the work of our own hands and hearts.

May the New Year be a time of imitating the fishes – being grateful, being ourselves and praising our God.

"Blessed be the eternal God; for the fishes of the sea honor him more than men without faith, and animals without reason listen to his word with greater attention than sinful heretics."  St. Anthony 

 

Hidden saints: Learning from the legend of the lamed vavnicks

One of the things I love about my home is the small library created for me by my husband, a gifted
carpenter.  Whitewashed shelves and crown molding wrap around three walls, giving me a lovely
place to house my oversized collection of books.

Over the years, it seems I have developed a habit of writing notes, poems and prayers and then saving them in a favorite book. So recently, as often happens when I pull out a long untouched volume, a small piece of paper fell from between the pages.

Unfolding the paper, I saw a circle in which I had written two letters of the Hebrew alphabet – Lamed and Vav.  I have no recollection of why I wrote them, unless it was one of my rushed attempts to simply practice the alphabet when reading Hebrew was a requirement of my graduate degree.

Curious to remember what I had forgotten, I decided to Google the letters to find out what they meant and soon discovered the Jewish “Legend of the Lamed Vavniks.”

To understand the legend one has to first know a bit about Hebrew numerology, where each letter has a numerical value – lamed is 30 and vav is six. Together, the two letters equal 36 – the number, so the legend goes, of the righteous in every generation whose virtue keeps the world from destruction.

If the concept sounds familiar it’s because the legend is based, in part, on the story of Abraham who beseeched God to save Sodom and Gomorrah for the sake of a small group of righteous people. God replied to Abraham, “For the sake of ten I will not destroy it.”

So, what is the work of the lamed vavniks? They are fonts of loving-kindness, pouring compassion on the world and using the gifts and talents they were given by God to raise up those around them.

“Without their acts of lovingkindness,” writes Rabbi Rami Shapiro, “life on this planet would implode under the weight of human selfishness, anger, ignorance, and greed.”

In his book, “The Sacred Art of Lovingkindness,” Rabbi Shapiro explains, “Cultivating the sacred art of lovingkindness is enrolling yourself in the ranks of the lamed-vavniks.

“The tipping point for maintaining human life on this planet is thirty-six people practicing the sacred art of lovingkindness at any given moment. These need not be the same thirty-six people at each moment, however. I believe that people step into and out of the lamed-vavnik role, and that at any given moment thirty-six people are stepping in.”

The heart of this legend is meaningful for people of all faiths, and is reflective of the lives of so many saints who lived with a knowledge of God’s presence and a desire to be God’s love for a wounded world and wounded people.

Rabbi Shapiro calls us to a similar mission, and offers some sage advice. He writes, “Once you realize that the whole world depends on you for its very survival, you will not lack in opportunities to serve. Just remember that you are a hidden saint. While it is fine to invite others to join with you, make sure you don't advertise your own saintliness. While being a lamed-vavnik may be good for your soul, it doesn't belong on a resume."

 

Irresponsible saucing creates worlds of pain

On a recent fast food run, my son brought home a bag of tacos and more than a few packages of
spicy condiments.  As I tore open a package I noticed the words: Sauce responsibly.

I have to admit, I chuckled, having on more than one occasion been irresponsible with the jalapeno pepper sauce. Wow.

Soon, a flurry of other “responsibly” options were running through my head, like “walk responsibly,” as in look up from your cell phone before you step in front of my car in the supermarket parking lot. There have been way too many close calls on shopping trips.

Or “Facebook responsibly,” with more reasons than could ever be addressed in this brief column.

But related to this is an option that holds the most meaning for me: “Use words responsibly.”

I never bought into the “sticks and stones can break my bones but words can never hurt me,” adage.

It has been my experience that poorly, thoughtlessly or maliciously used words can be as damaging to the human spirit as a bruised body or broken bones.

Four hundred years ago, William Shakespeare wrote:  “Words without thoughts never to heaven go.”

Considered by many to be the greatest writer, and most certainly the greatest dramatist, in the English language, Shakespeare understood the power of words as well as he understood the intricate workings of the human spirit.

However, compared to Scripture, Shakespeare’s prediction for words without thoughts is very generous. In the Gospel of Matthew we are warned, “I tell you, on the day of judgment people will render an account for every careless word they speak.”

Scripture is clear that words, through us, have the ability to create or destroy, to heal, to injure or to bless.

As such, our ability to create with words and to influence others through our creation comes with a serious responsibility for meaning and truth, presented in a way that reflects our dignity as children of God.

One of the problems with today’s social media is the temptation for an immediate response, a problem warned of in Proverbs some 3,000 years ago: “Do you see someone hasty in speech? There is more hope for a fool!”

Throwing caution and good sense to the wind, and often feeling empowered by the digital distance afforded by the medium, we spout words, emotions and ideas better suited for the recycle bin than the eyes, hearts and minds of family, friends or strangers around the globe.

The Psalmist reminds us often that God created the world with words. God spoke and all that exists came into being.

As God’s children we have been gifted with a similar ability to create, but as human beings we need to prayerfully ask ourselves the question: What kind of worlds are we creating with our words?

Are we creating worlds in which relationships are strengthened, where bridges of understanding are being built, where healing has a chance, where people come to recognize their own ability for holiness?

If our honest answer is no, then we have another choice which has as much power as any word – silence.

 “Let your speech always be gracious, seasoned with salt, so that you know how you should respond to each one.” Colossians 4:6

Googles   images - original source unknown.  Information welcomed.

Taking a page from Things My Parents Taught Me

A mother never knows just how much attention her children are paying to her, but every once in a while she discovers they know her better than she thinks they do.

That was my discovery when my son, an eighth grade language arts teacher sent me an email explaining that they were writing memoirs in class, and, I guess while his students were writing, he was inspired to write a “Slice of Life” piece which was inspired by my style of writing.

Always the wise guy, as all my sons seem to be, he titled it as being from Things My Parents Taught Me (a take-off on my long-running column, Things My Father Taught Me). I share it with pride, and a tear or two. It seems he does know me – not just my style of writing – better than I thought, though he probably doesn't know how often I've read and re-read this brief reflection, and treasured the wisdom he shares.

There’s a weathered house around the corner from me, where the bushes grow feverishly, aiming to devour the tattered relic.

Where a faded American flag flutters solitarily. It’s a home where a shutter gracefully dangles on paint-chipped cedar shingles. Where cracked windows are marked with the battle scars of childhood rock throwing. Where a gate sways on a hinge, drunkenly guarding the distant memories etched in the house’s history. Where a broken rocking chair sits on time warped planks, grayed by years of weather. It’s the kind of place many passer-bys would miss.

It’s the kind of place my mother would love.

She’s always had a penchant for gentle simplicity and for distinguished houses. The kind of house that needs some work and calls for that special someone to restore the beauty, to realize the potential. I think a dream exists for her – a dream of moving into a house around the corner and accepting the challenges that await, even if they are daunting.

She is not one to shy away from difficulty, to allow the task to leave its mark on her. She would see the house for what it could be – and who knows, maybe she would bring her husband to help, because it seems he’s pretty good with his hands, and I’m sure there would be a leaky roof and damaged walls and worn floorboards.

But I also know that it’s easy to miss that house, if we’re not looking for it. And it seems that often we, as people, don’t see it. We don’t see that we have become like the house around the corner, battered by many storms, grayed by time.

We don’t realize that we have left too many repairs unattended, that we have forgotten to make an investment in ourselves and in others. And as we examine who we are or who we have become, hopefully we see that, in the end, we are worth restoring.

I wish I wrote that.

God’s stories are powerfully told in the hospital

Every writer needs a favorite place where they can scribble notes on napkins or complete
manuscripts while the noise of living plays in the background.

Hemingway had La Closerie des Lilas, his favorite restaurant in Montparnasse, Paris.

I have the Terrace Café in JFK Hospital, Edison, New Jersey.

Certainly, a smoke-filled café on the left bank of Paris, where such artistic geniuses as Pablo Picasso, William Faulkner, Salvador Dali and Dorothy Parker gathered to create and exchange ideas, cannot be compared to my little hospital café.

But for me, spending close to two months in the hospital within a year while doctors and nurses worked to heal my son and then my husband, this flourescent and formica restaurant overlooking the hospital parking lot has provided a much appreciated place of respite with plenty of coffee, the daily newspaper and really great soup.

Simple blessings are often the most meaningful.

My fellow patrons may not have included the literary or artistic giants of our time, but their conversations—their tears, their frustration, their laughter, their resiliency—revealed the stuff of inspirational writing.

One afternoon, when I was too tired to even write a word, I took a table near the window with my back to most of the room. Even a smile would have been too much to muster. But the noise of living crept in behind me where a very elderly dad sat eating at a small table across from his senior son.

While they ate their voices rose in anger and accusation.

“You’re a useless son!”

“You’re a terrible father!”

“You’re a drunk!”

“You’re selfish!!

It went on for 30 minutes before the son stormed out and left the father holding his head in his hands. What became clear to me, in his face and beneath all the anger, was an unspoken fear—of pain and dying or, maybe, of being alone or unloved. Certainly these two men loved each other, but for some reason had just not learned how to do it well.

Theirs was a story of the human condition, taking one step toward love and two steps back in our weakness and frailty. Jesus understood this condition and shared the secret, “Love one another as I have loved you.” But dying to self is not a challenge easily met.

Any stay in the hospital, as a patient or a loved one, will confirm a basic truth—being human is not easy. We suffer physically because we are mortal, but we suffer more deeply because we love. It was these stories of love’s suffering and giving and rising above fear that filled my brown stenographer’s notebook every day when I visited the Terrace Café, drank my coffee and was warmed by my soup. Every visit brought new opportunities to consider what was really important in life and how I could do it all better.

Someday I may have the chance to create something meaningful with the notes I scribbled, but for now I’m just grateful for the lessons and the not so simple blessings of health for my family, good doctors, caring nurses and the unfailing support of my friends.

Above all I am grateful for the glimpses of God caught through the human stories encountered each day and the light of hope that shines through the indomitable human spirit.

'A perfect dose of grace' for all seasons

 This small but powerful book of stories is the perfect read for you when you want to reward yourself with some well-deserved quiet time! Rabbi Irwin Kula, author of “Yearnings: Embracing the Sacred Messiness of Life” wrote, “If you want to find God, know love, and truly understand these are the same, read this beautiful book. But be prepared to have your heart opened up, to laugh and to cry, to take many deep breaths of awe and wonder, and to shout out to the Heavens and to the people in your life, Thank You! Hallelujah! What a perfect dose of grace this book is for people of all backgrounds!"  

You can deliver this book now to your e-reader by visiting Things My Father Taught Me About Love, Kindle edition.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

LIving with the paradox of a sunset

It seems an unlikely marriage, beauty and despair, but creations of the human spirit in crisis are among the most meaningful and beautiful in existence. Art, music, literature, even prayer, flowing from a heart of pain, resonate with creatures who must face their mortality with every passing moment. What are we to do with this life which is ours for such a short time? How do we give it meaning? Where do we find our joy? How best can we navigate an existence fraught with paradox and insecurities?

Vincent Van Gogh painted.  In the grip of mental illness and a soul-searing loneliness, this Dutch painter gave the world hundreds of paintings, haunting, filled with light and beauty and depth. During the year preceding his suicide, from an asylum in Saint Remy, France, Van Gogh painted more than 100 works, including two of his most famous – Starry Night and Irises, a painting that sold for $54 million dollars in 1987 and remains on the list of the most expensive paintings ever sold.

Irises have great meaning for me. As my father’s favorite flower, my childhood was filled with their rainbow of color. The image of their graceful sway sat at the periphery of long summer conversations with my dad on the mysteries of life. I miss him, and so I fill my space with irises, paintings of all sizes and shapes, among them some of Van Gogh’s brilliant still-lifes. 

These images hold memories of presence, of sharing, of love, the experiences that give life true meaning. They also remind me of the fluidness of time, slipping through our fingers and gone before our limited brains can process its going.  As I grow older, and wiser, my father’s lesson to live with awareness transforms the slip of time into an opportunity, into a graced experience of the potential within each of us.

And so I stand each night at the edge of the bay, watching in wonder as the sun seemingly slips beneath the horizon in a haunting display of color, a moment breathtakingly beautiful, yet painfully marking the passing of another day of our earthly journey – God’s painting, reminding us to live, and love, well.

Photo of the bay at Lavalette at sundown.

Refresh the happiness page of life

Being the founder and facilitator of an on-line network of intercessory pray-ers has had an    unexpected perk – outside of the privilege of praying for others. The payer network, and the daily requests of those who carry the cross of Christ, has the unique ability to keep me grounded in gratitude, encouraging me to refresh the happiness page of life when I  allow the ordinary challenges of being human to become extraordinary problems draining me of joy.

In any given day I may receive requests to pray for families whose children are suffering with cancer, or who have lost an infant or toddler to illness or accidents. Others may be grieving for loved ones who are missing, or who have committed suicide. Vibrant, healthy people are struck down in the prime of life by freak accidents or debilitating illness, while others have lost their jobs, their life savings and their homes, perhaps living in a shelter or relying on the generosity of family or friends.

Then there are those families who are struck again and again with one tragedy after another.  For them, especially, my heart breaks. At the same time, I am humbled by their continued strength and perseverance, something I have often lost in less trying times.

I have one such friend who will always be an inspiration to me. In the space of two months she lost her husband, her mom and dad, and her brother.  As I watched her move from one funeral Mass to the next, and in the months following, I marveled at her ability to carry on – and to smile whenever I saw her. I asked her how she was handling so much and she simply said, “If I didn’t have my faith, I wouldn’t have anything.”

Famed English poet and playwright, John Dryden once wrote, “We first make our habits, then our habits make us.”  It seems my friend’s faith has enabled her to make a habit of happiness, and that's the kind of habit that's worth cultivating.

Extraordinary moments and extraordinary people add richness to life

  Perhaps one of the most extraordinary moments in my life came when I was given the privilege of photographing Mother Teresa on her visit to our diocese. I was so nervous I failed miserably at the shots I took, but I was delighted to snap one image of her laughing with her fellow sisters.

 

In looking through the few photos I have left, I also realized that what was most extraordinary was sharing the moment with other people who have made a mark on my life, most especially Bishop Edward T. Hughes.

 

It is sad that during our lifetimes, the people who have had the greatest impact on us often never realize how they’ve touched us. Perhaps we are not aware of it ourselves, until they have left us, or we find it difficult to express our gratitude. Perhaps we just never think of it.

 

Perhaps this is the year when we should change all that—returning to the long lost art of the handwritten note (taking a cue from my dear friend, Pat G., whose notes never fail to make me smile).

 

For now, I will just say, it was an extraordinary moment when I held Mother Teresa’s hand, but more meaningful for me were the years when I worked in the presence of an extraordinary man and took away wisdom that will last a lifetime.

 

Many thanks, Bishop Hughes, and may God continue to bless you with good health!