A Call to Be Beautiful

August – Ordinary Time

“Non bere il vino,” the usher joked as he handed my husband the cut-glass vessels of wine and water. I received the plate of unconsecrated hosts and together, my husband and I walked down the aisle to the altar where we offered these humble gifts to the priest. We attend the Italian Mass at Holy Rosary Church in Washington, D.C, so the admonition in Italian to “not drink the wine” seemed quite appropriate!

Not often, but just now and then, my husband and I have been tapped on the shoulder and asked to participate in the Presentation of the Gifts at Mass. When this happens, I feel honored. It’s like we have been given a glimpse into what it must have been like to have been with Jesus at the Last Supper. As Catholics, we experience those final moments each week in the Holy Eucharist. To participate in this awesome celebration is truly, like a dear friend noted after Mass, a “God moment.”

Sometimes I feel like the only tether on my own cobbled path through this incredibly complicated world is my faith. It seems that my grasp on those woven fibers is tested by the hateful ways I see projected on the screens I obsessively turn to from when I start scrolling in the morning until I shut off the television before going to bed. Breaking habits – even choosing to pray in the morning before turning to the news – brings with it a certain calm, but in the quiet, I become distracted by questions and doubts that arise when I juxtapose what I have been born to believe with what all around me defines reality.

Reflection, contemplation, and prayer…it’s hard work. The constructs of my religion are too often battered by frailty, stubbornness, and ego. It’s difficult to ponder anything when all I hear is the noise of humans being…human. Maybe we don’t try hard enough; maybe we try too hard.

I recently read a quotation from Thomas Merton, “It seems to me that I have a greater peace and am closer to God when I am not ‘trying to be a contemplative,’ or trying to be anything special, but simply orienting my life fully and completely towards what seems to be required of a man like me at a time like this.” (Thanks to Terry Hershey’s Sabbath Moment for including this in one of his recent newsletters: https://www.terryhershey.com/sabbath-moment/)

Being asked to carry the gifts at Mass somehow makes me feel closer to God. Something else happened recently that also resonated. As Christians, we seek opportunities to pray for each other. We say it all the time: “I’ll pray for you.” We hear it all the time: “Please pray for me.” I think we might take this gesture for granted. I worry that I have forgotten someone who asked me to pray for them and try to summarize my daily prayers with something like: “Please hold in your loving arms all those who have asked for my prayers.” Not perfect…but still trying!

So, I cannot even begin to express how touched and surprised my husband and I were when a friend texted us a copy of a card and intention for a Mass to be said in our name at Our Lady of the Rosary church in San Diego’s Little Italy neighborhood. I am used to doing this for others and am not aware of ever being on the receiving end of this gracious gesture – especially at a church we love to attend when visiting Southern California.

Nearly 2,700 miles from San Diego, my husband’s job in the wild west of the east coast in Washington, D.C. has come with unfathomable challenges that have affected not only our lives but those of our family and friends. To say the least, we are sustained and bolstered by the prayers of our community. That prayer intention from the sister of a dear friend meant so much to us.

Back to church. After Mass at Holy Rosary in D.C., we usually walk downstairs to Casa Italiana, the church hall. There, we order espresso or cappuccino and then sit for a half an hour or so to talk with friends we have made over the past five years. Children run between their parents’ legs and around the tables as young and old converse in both Italian and English. This past weekend, one of the matriarchs of the parish came over to wish us good morning. We greeted each other with a kiss on each cheek, and then I introduced her to friends visiting from out of town.

“Anna was the first person,” I explained, “to say hello to us when we began coming to Holy Rosary. We felt welcome from the very beginning.”

“You are beautiful,” she said, squeezing me into a hug and then sweeping her arms to encompass those at our table. “We are a family here, a community.”

Moments like these fill the cracks of doubt that reach into the shadowed corners of my soul where the core of my faith continues to require tender nurturing. This core, though strong, feels battered lately by a woke world that is really quite asleep, by a hurricane force political climate whose winds change every news cycle, and by a sometimes consumer-driven catechism in conflict with spiritual resilience, curiosity, and tolerance.

God moments may seem small, but for me, they are manifested in the invitation to walk to the altar, a surprise prayer intention, the bittersweet sip of espresso after Mass, and in the potential of what happens when strangers accept the opportunity to become family. “You are beautiful,” she said, conveying a most important message across the wrinkled landscape of our faces – a message not of beauty but a call to be beautiful.

Lessons of Us

(my gift to a former student)

May – Ordinary Time

I was recently blessed to spend a day with one of my former students, Samantha, during her visit to Washington, D.C. for her graduation from Catholic University of America. She is the first graduate from Catholic University’s Tucson, Arizona campus where students can earn a bachelor’s degree in business management through coursework and internships closer to their homes in the Southwest. As we discussed her future, Samantha began to express emotions that tumbled between joyful relief that she completed the program to wary nervousness about next steps. She admitted to suffering from “imposter syndrome.”

I totally understand.

The knowledge that you have the credentials to take those next steps doesn’t necessarily come with all the tools you need. With time and experience, the obtuse worry over not fitting in may go dormant, but it never really goes away as we strive to become our best selves.

I just turned the page of another year on the odyssey through my sixth decade. Despite the words of encouragement I shared with Samantha about mustering her confidence and believing in herself, I also battle the reality that even a whisper of constructive criticism or a fumble with technology during one of the training sessions I do in my consulting work…honestly, even a bad hair day or waking up with the realization that things don’t always turn out the way I planned…all of this can send me scurrying down a rabbit hole where I let myself hide in the darkness of feeling “not good enough.”

When “not good enough” settles in, I am unable to engage in activities that normally ground me like writing, exploring a new route on my frequent walks, reaching out to friends, and accepting that my hair will never look the way I want it to on a humid day! I lose sight of the rich history of my past accomplishments. But then, the sun comes up again and a glimmer of light penetrates the cozy hole where I have burrowed. I see a foothold – one I fully attribute to God. My faith most often does not present itself in obvious holy moments, but more through a life’s worth of practice and discipline. I know that even if I go through the motions, eventually the exercise of my religion will pay off (and it always does thanks to the Holy Spirit who I know lives as that gift within me that I often do not recognize until I fully surrender my stubbornness!).

Writing is what I love to do, but during vulnerable moments, I struggle to find words – not because I don’t have enough of them roaming around my mind, but I worry that IF someone reads them, they just won’t be “good enough.” Months may go by, and then my body somehow lets me know when I physically need to write. So here I am. I began a new journal the other day; however, there are still no words in it – just a Mother’s Day prayer I pasted in from our church bulletin (in Italian), and a pressed buttercup I found on a path near the Potomac River the other day.

I persevere. I start small. I make pasta. I just mixed together a batch of cavatelli for dinner. The process is pleasantly slow and the ingredients simple. Semolina, salt, and water. Each piece of pasta is formed one at a time – yet out of simplicity comes dinner!

I knit. The repetition is therapeutic and, once again, the ingredients are simple (yarn and needles) and from this process, stitch by stitch, comes a hat, a sweater, a baby blanket!

I write – one letter at a time on the canvas of my keyboard.

With this “practice” of both faith and patient accomplishment of meaningful tasks, I muster the courage to tackle bigger things. Dare I ponder the plans I had, revise them, and turn them again into goals I aspire to reach?

The lessons of me are really lessons of us. None of us are imposters – we are who we are and somehow end up where we are supposed to be. This lesson – while I am no longer in a school classroom – is one I gift to Samantha as she embarks on her next steps. I can’t wait to hear how her story unfolds!

Advent at the Airport

December – Advent

The definition of Advent denotes the arrival of a “notable person, thing, or event.” What better place to ponder this than at the airport.

“Welcome back Lynn,” is the message splayed across my phone’s screen as I sign in once again to wi-fi at the Houston Hobby Airport. How many times have I crossed the country between Tucson, Arizona and Washington, D.C. over the past four and a half years of my husband’s “temporary” employment in our nation’s capital? Long enough, I think, to have an automatic login at several airports in between!

Today, I am perched on a stool at Gate 51 in the Southwest terminal. About two hours into a nearly five-hour layover, I have had time to linger over the “All American Breakfast” at the Hubcap Bar and Grill, page through magazines at the CNBC shop, and visit the ladies’ room twice. (I like those sinks that have soap, water, and air all in one place; however, the air doesn’t work most of the time and you still have to wave your wet hands under the automatic paper towel dispensers located by the exit doors.)

As tedious as this might sound, I don’t mind long layovers. People watching remains one of my favorite pastimes. In Houston, some of the men wear real cowboy hats and it’s fun to listen to the Texas accents of the natives wearing Cowboy jerseys. During my breakfast, I was able to observe everyone around me – all while flipping through email and scrolling through breaking news. I eavesdropped on a table of businessmen enjoying morning Bloody Mary’s with their cheese omelets and discussing their days in the Army, an elderly man (in a cowboy hat) drinking a pink smoothie and reading his newspaper, a young couple in their college sweatshirts sharing a burger, and women like me, traveling alone, checking our phones, and texting family to let them know when they will land wherever their final destination takes them.

Of course, I called my husband to let him know my position on this step of the journey. Tied to his work, he will follow in my exact footsteps next week when he makes this trip home across the country for Christmas.

I got up at 3:45 a.m. EST to make my 6:05 a.m. flight. It is now 10:34 CT in Houston (11:34 in D.C. and 9:34 in Tucson MST). The clock keeps ticking. I am reminded of when I taught junior high, and my students and I were studying H.G. Wells’ The Time Machine. I so enjoyed our banter about whether time travel could even be possible. My argument – frequent flyer that I am – is that we travel through time…all the time. My time machine just happens to be a 737 Max8!

If I had to get to a point in this stream of conscious blog post, it would be to acknowledge the way time seems to expand at the airport in the sense that I have time to fill in ways that differ from everything I usually do to fill it at home. There is no laundry to do at the airport, no Zoom meeting to attend, no shopping for dinner…nothing that pulls me in the many directions of my normal days.

Here, my exercise comes from walking through terminals, and my entertainment pours freely from a book I haven’t had a chance to read since I downloaded it from the library nearly two weeks ago. I can plug my earbuds in and listen to words of wisdom from the Hallow app or learn about creative methods to cast-on yarn in a knitting podcast…all without feeling like I should be “doing” something else.

Perhaps it is because I do have time that my thoughts have found their way to contemplating Advent at the airport. I am inspired to make the connection between Advent’s literal definition of arrivals and departures to the connoted coming and going and coming and eventual coming again of Jesus. I consider this as I continue to watch people seated around me at Gate 51. There are those like me tapping at their computers and others culling through social media. There is a woman in a wheelchair, assisted to the gate by one of the guardian angels who kindly shepherd our elderly through the airports.

There is also an infant, cradled now in his grandmother’s arms, attended to by his mother who tucks a fluffy blanket around him. There are also two sibling toddlers, overjoyed at being set free from the confines of their stroller, twirling, jumping, and falling over each other like puppies while they roam under the watchful eyes of their parents.

It is in the children’s dance that I am brought back to thoughts of Advent. Their joyful laughter fills me with excitement and reminds me of the coming of Christmas. I look forward to being welcomed home by our son, daughter-in-law, and grandchildren who I anticipate will be waiting when I land. We truly experience a little bit of Advent every day in the comings and goings of the notable people we encounter…even at the airport.

I have about an hour left until we board – just enough time to grab a coffee, play a Scrabble word in the ongoing virtual game I endure with my sister, and settle in to read a few chapters of that book that is probably due back to the library next week.

“The Lord is coming, always coming. When you have ears to hear and eyes to see, you will recognize him at any moment of your life. Life is Advent; life is recognizing the coming of the Lord.”

– Henri Nouwen

Family Reunion

August/September – Ordinary Time

The three of us were sniffling and sneezing through the newest wave of Covid that is trying to tarnish the final rays of this summer. Two of us had tested positive; one of us refused to test thinking that if she didn’t it wasn’t happening! On Day 3 of our isolation, while playing a board game and reaching into each other’s contagious spaces across the dining room table, my mother, my aunt, and I realized that despite this unexpected consequence of the previous weekend’s family reunion, we truly were experiencing a positive resulting from…well, positives.

Months ago, my mother had decided she was going to her family reunion. This would take place in a small town about a half hour from our native Utica, New York, at the camp the family has owned for more than 100 years. In attendance would be the eldest remaining cousins – offspring of the 13 children of my mother’s grandparents. Several months ago, I decided I would surprise my mom and simply appear at my aunt’s house in Utica the day before the reunion so I could be with her at what may be her last opportunity to attend these once in a decade gatherings.

I landed in Syracuse, secured a ride to Utica, and then nestled myself into a hanging chair on the porch of my aunt’s house. With a few quiet agreed upon instructions to my first cousin (who I had never met prior), my mom and aunt moved from the backyard where they had been sipping tea spiked with raspberry brandy to the cooler shade of the side porch. When my mom sat down, I turned my chair.

Everyone has read novels about families that have been separated over the years not only by distance but by the dramatic events that change the path of their lives forever. That is how I have always looked at the stories my mom has shared with my sisters and me. We grew up knowing that my mother’s mother (my grandmother) had died during the birth of her second child (my aunt). My mom was only six years old. This devastated my grandfather. Because he needed to care for my mother while also carrying on responsibilities in the family’s Italian bakery, the decision was made that the new baby would be raised by an aunt and uncle who the family agreed would be able to best provide for her. As a result, my mom and aunt saw each other often but knew each other more as cousins than sisters. All the while, their lives circled and intertwined with those of their many relatives. My sisters and I have seen pictures and heard tales of mom and her cousins at the camp – sleeping on cots in the big upstairs dormer, eating Aunt Josephine’s pies, playing Monopoly on the porch, and catching fireflies. Six of the eldest were at the reunion, and I will forever remember them sitting next to each other on the couch, my mom clutching the hands of her cousins. Although their bodies bear the marks of nearly 90 years, I am sure they saw themselves as kids, piling out of the family’s bakery truck and spilling into the yard of their summer camp.

A note about the reunion: There were more than 100 relatives in attendance. The camp has been lovingly restored and easily accommodated all of us in expanded inside and outside spaces. I cherish the exclamations from Mom and her cousins as they watched a video compilation of their summer escapades. And the food…Utica is known for its “chicken riggies” and spicy “greens.” I also filled my plate with sausage and peppers, a meatball, and of course, a huge slice of Italian bread!

When I was three years old, my parents moved from Utica to Maryland and began forging the adventures that would define our own little family. Over the years, we moved from Maryland to Delaware to Wisconsin and finally, to Arizona. During our summer vacations, my sisters and I would often spend time in Utica, but mostly with my father’s side of the family. I crave the taste of Italian bread soaked in olive oil and the juices of the fresh-from-the garden tomato and basil salads my grandmother made. I nurture pots of African violets in honor of those flowers that always bloomed on the windowsill of grandma’s kitchen. We grew to appreciate the Italian culture that marks the boundaries of East Utica. Occasionally, we would visit my mom’s family, but I never met her father and many of the cousins until much later in my adult life. And for sure, until this trip, I had never known my aunt’s four children – my first cousins.

About 20 years ago, my aunt visited Mom in Arizona. They still talk about the mixed emotions that had and continue to have about discovering the tiny thread of sisterhood that has tenuously bound them together without them even knowing. Not only do they look alike, but they also share many of the same mannerisms and characteristics. The recent reunion was a chance to bridge that distance one more time.

We approached our first couple of days of Covid with resignation. We drank a lot of tea (some spiked with that raspberry brandy) and I read an entire book. In between, we prayed, we dozed, and we talked. Through the fog of my clogged ears and stuffed nose, I began to see the blessings. We had never spent this much time together. Ever.

Forty-eight hours later, we woke feeling exponentially better. Mom and I would be leaving the next day and we needed to “do” something. So, we “did” everything! This included entering my aunt’s art studio (she is a very accomplished painter) and getting creative! We had so much fun splattering acrylic paints on gelli plates, imbedding textural components and rolling our prints onto fabric. (A gelli printing tutorial from YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nAAc-5Yphu8).

While making art, one of my aunt’s grandchildren (my newly discovered second cousin) spent hours with us sharing his own amazing creative gift of videography. Seated in the sanctuary of my aunt’s magical gardens, he interviewed my aunt and my mom about their lives. I felt something begin to shift in me. I knew then that my decision to attend the reunion all boiled down to these last hours of my trip. By the time my cousin had completed his gentle questioning, we were all crying, including him. The impact those years had on my mom and her sister is profound. Their story is only one brush stroke on the ever-evolving painting of our family. The result is rich, messy, and as beautiful as the abstract art we created that afternoon. It is also steeped in our Italian culture, which in all its diverse manifestations, has etched itself deep in our souls from the moments my great-grandparents came to America in the late 1800s.

The tears we shed that afternoon not only reflect the heartaches that both my mom and aunt experienced in their separation, but also the joy of having re-discovered each other at this time in their lives. My cousin finally snapped the lens cap in place over his camera just as the sun’s waning light cast peaceful shadows over all of us. We looked at each other and decided that even though we felt better, we had no energy left to cook dinner. There is a great restaurant down the street. Did someone say “chicken riggies?”

An Urgent SOS

June – Ordinary Time

I was listening to Bishop Robert Barron’s “Summer with the Psalms” on Hallow when I sensed a tap from one of my muses: “I am like a growing olive tree in the house of God…” (from Psalm 52). Diverted by that ripple in my stream of consciousness, I then scrolled through my iPhone Notes to find a potential poem starter I had inscribed a couple of years ago and up until now had not revisited:

The olive tree
Deeply rooted in the desert of my backyard
Sends an urgent SOS
To its ancestors

What is it about olives that inspires me? In addition to my passion for eating them at almost every meal, I realize I am often drawn literally and metaphorically to the olive tree and the fruit it produces. I remember being a cub reporter on the local political beat in Tucson shortly after graduating from college. One of the stories I covered was when the county board of supervisors banned the future planting of olive trees because so many are allergic to the seasonal pollen. Judging by the thousands of trees still blooming in Tucson, the success of that decree may still be up for debate. The fortitude of the single olive tree in our backyard is also testament of this when each year it drops a bushel of olives from its branches despite its advertised “non-fruit bearing” status!

Prayers among the olive trees at St. Augustine Catholic High School

I delighted in the prolific olive trees at my former school. One year, during my tenure as principal at St. Augustine Catholic High School, I carried empty buckets into the courtyard to harvest a crop of black and green olives to share with my neighbors. We scoured the Internet for methods to cure the fruit of its unyielding bitterness. After a month of brining them in saltwater baths, we preserved them in olive oil, lemon peel, and fresh herbs. So good.

During my recent trip to Israel, fellow pilgrims remarked about my meal choices while observing me fill my plate at breakfast, lunch, and dinner with a handful of those salty jewels, which I graced with a drizzle of oil, a sprinkle of Za’atar, and a side of fresh feta. I had to increase my water intake substantially during those two weeks to counteract the salt-induced swelling in my fingers.

Photo my husband took in Crete: 3,000 year old “Monumental Olive Tree of Vuves”

It is not the simple joy of eating olives that has drawn me to the Bible and back to my poem (or not) starter. I am discovering new meaning in the Psalms, and not necessarily for reasons that could be defined as holy. I feel tuned into the way the authors – David, Solomon, Moses. Asaph, and others – don’t seem afraid to say it like it is. They recognize times and people in Israel’s diverse history that were both tragic and filled with hope. While some of their words are quite colorful, critical, and harsh about the actions of their fellow man, they also express a deeply-rooted longing for what is divine and true.

I limit myself in what I express out loud about the world, its leaders, its politics, and its problems. After all, everyone is entitled to their own opinions, and I try to be very respectful of that. Those who know me often accuse me of being “too nice.” Yet, I should not have to apologize for striving to be someone who always seeks the good in others and places high expectations on herself to model that good. That is not to say, however, that my resolve does not waiver at times. For example, these lines from Psalm 73 also recently caught my attention: “How good God is to the upright, to those who are pure of heart: But, as for me, my feet had almost stumbled; my step had nearly slipped because I was envious of the arrogant, when I saw the prosperity of the wicked. For they suffer no pain, their bodies are healthy and sleek, they are free of the burdens of life, they are not afflicted like others…They say, ‘Does God really know? Does the Most High have any knowledge?’ Such then, are the wicked, always carefree.” (Asaph).

The trunk of an olive tree at a winery & olive distillery I visited in Calabria, Italy

I cannot even remember the last time I felt carefree. When I read that psalm, I do not visualize Israel. Rather, I see and hear the news broadcast from every channel on my television. I witness the incessant “breaking” updates that flash across my phone’s screen. I cringe at the arrogance and skewed statistics barked from the mouths of those we elect to be our voices as they interrogate those who have chosen to serve their country. I cannot escape what I observe. My “feet almost stumble,” my “step nearly slips.”

But then…olives.

Olives I could not resist in the Holy Land!

I reflect on the olive tree in my Arizona backyard. I see me – still green in so many ways – in this garden of God. I observe the sturdy trunk that has thickened over the years, the fragrant blossoms persistently hanging to the branches despite being battered by desert monsoons, the gnarled roots continuing their journey outward and downward. I whisper a prayer of my own design, sending words to play among wind-tossed leaves – “an SOS” to our ancestors. Like that olive tree referenced in Psalm 52, “I trust in God’s mercy forever and ever…. I will put my hope in your name – for it is good.” Thank you Asaph, David, Moses. Thank you dear ancestors.

Conversation with AI

May – Easter

I wanted to compare an article I had written myself with one generated through artificial intelligence, so I prompted ChatGPT to draft a blog for me on my recent trip to Israel. My parameters were simple: write from the perspective of a former Catholic school educator who went on a pilgrimage. Within seconds, this latest of all headline grabbers spun a well-written account of “my” trip in “my” voice about many of the sights and wonders I experienced in “my” two-week visit to the Holy Land. Thus began my conversation with Artificial Intelligence (AI).

Compare Chat’s first sentences with the original blog I previously posted on this site.

Me: Visiting the birthplace of Christianity proved to be as disconcerting as it was inspirational. I felt like I had jumped into the pages of a book I had been required to read my whole life but still didn’t fully comprehend. As a Roman Catholic, the sacraments of baptism, reconciliation, communion, confirmation, and marriage have put flesh on the bones of my very being.

AI: As a Catholic school educator from Arizona, I have dedicated my entire career to nurturing the hearts and minds of my students. While my passion for teaching is unwavering, I am always seeking new opportunities to learn and grow myself. That’s why, when I had the chance to embark on a trip to Israel, I seized it with open arms, excited to explore the rich history and cultural diversity of the Holy Land. In this blog post, I’ll share some of my most memorable experiences and takeaways from my journey.

Immediately, I felt defensive – quick to point out that the last sentence of Chat’s first paragraph should be deleted. Just tell the story…don’t tell me you are going to tell the story! One point for me, one less for AI!

Then, I asked Chat to turn the blog into an assignment I could use with middle school students. The bot proceeded to chop the blog into manageable chunks, turn it into third person, and generate a list of questions. While I might have edited the pronouns, I’ll give this point to AI…I used to spend hours scavenging for ideas to help me develop engaging assignments for my students.

AI assignment: A Catholic school teacher from Arizona recently visited Israel to learn more about the history, culture, and religious significance of the region. This trip allowed the teacher to visit important sites for Christianity, Judaism, and Islam, as well as experience the beauty of the Israeli desert and the Dead Sea.

During the trip, the teacher visited Jerusalem’s Old City, where they felt a deep connection to their faith while standing inside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. They also visited the Western Wall, where they saw Jewish worshippers placing handwritten prayers into the ancient stones. In the desert, the teacher learned about the resilience of the human spirit at the ancient fortress of Masada. Finally, they experienced the serenity of the Dead Sea, floating effortlessly in its mineral-rich waters.

Throughout the journey, the teacher engaged in conversations with locals, fellow travelers, and tour guides to gain new insights and ideas. They plan to use these experiences to inspire their students to develop a global mindset and a lifelong love for learning.

Questions:

Name two religious sites the teacher visited during their trip and explain their significance.
What was the teacher’s experience at the Dead Sea, and why was it important?
Why do you think engaging in conversations with locals and fellow travelers was valuable for the teacher?

Optional Activity:

Imagine you have the opportunity to visit a foreign country with a rich history and diverse culture. Choose a country and write a short paragraph explaining why you would like to visit that country and what you hope to learn from the experience.

This entire conversation with and about AI evolved over lunch with one of my former students who now lives and works in Washington, D.C. While my husband and I chatted with him across the table over wood-fired pizza and a tossed salad, I reminded him about our first encounter about a decade ago at St. Augustine Catholic High School in Tucson, Arizona. It was my first year at the school. He was a junior. He came to my office inquiring about an online Latin class he might take in lieu of the on-site Spanish classes we offered. Less than 10 years ago, accredited online classes were just becoming viable options for students searching for curriculum beyond our course catalogs. I called him my “test pilot.” Little did any of us know how vital online learning would become over the next several years.

“And now,” I said to him, “we have artificial intelligence. Enlighten us.”

Apologizing to us for taking his phone out at lunch, he said it would be easier to show us some examples rather than trying to explain. And just like that, we had the blog post on Israel, the middle school assignment, and before we could get a refill on our iced teas, we also had a Shakespearian sonnet based on the blog:

Upon the Holy Land our teacher flew,
From desert sands of Arizona’s clime.
To learn of sacred truths and stories new,
In Israel, they ventured for a time.

In Jerusalem, where ancient echoes ring,
The teacher stood within the hallowed place,
Where once our Savior’s cross and tomb did cling,
And felt connection to His love and grace.

At Western Wall, the prayers of faithful rose,
And in the desert’s heart, at Masada’s peak,
Resilience of spirit our teacher knows,
And Dead Sea’s waters gentle solace seek.

So read this tale and ponder questions wise,
For in these words a world of knowledge lies

Okay, that is kind of amazing! Another point for AI!

How many more plays could Shakespeare have written if he didn’t have to concentrate so hard on the syntax!?

While I could easily feel intimidated – even existentially challenged – by this technology, my educator mind has kicked into high gear. It is true that students are probably “writing” everything from five-paragraph essays to AP compositions with ChatGPT, but this may finally be what we need to inspire a huge shift in how we teach and learn. Imagine using AI to assist students in their research and then assigning those students to act on what they have found through a performance-based assessment. Think about generating examples of thesis statements and asking students to debate the effectiveness of those samples. Instead of spending two weeks on “how to write a thesis statement,” we can now potentially re-direct that time into developing, supporting, and refining the thesis. And when it comes to iambic pentameter…the possibilities are endless! How many more plays could Shakespeare have written if he didn’t have to concentrate so hard on the syntax!?

Of course, there are negatives and positives – certainly fodder for stories circulating by the dozens in news and social media. There are and should be debates on ethical use of AI and beyond-the-Jetsons (remember that television show?) implications of a society potentially manipulated by non-human forces. I have participated in the information revolution since joining the career force during the late 70s. AI is re-igniting my curiosity.

In my heart of hearts, however, I believe that AI will never destroy humanity’s greatest gift – the one that allows us to nurture and build relationships with one another. We do this by embracing our God-given talents that will always include hands on expressions through the arts and sciences. If isolation during the pandemic taught us anything, I hope it is that while we can physically survive without each other, we need human connections to bring dimension, meaning, and purpose to our lives.

To all my students, especially those who have reached out over the years since their graduations, I say thank you for allowing me to learn from you too. God created an amazing machine when he made us…there is nothing artificial about that!

Easter Bread

April – Easter

Shortening or butter? Whole milk? Dyed eggs? Mom’s recipe or one of the Italian bakers on YouTube? These are the conversations my sisters and I have each year as we – each in our own kitchens – carry on the Holy Week tradition of making Easter bread.

I made my bread the other day using Mom’s recipe that originated in the family’s bakery where she grew up in Utica, NY. Being me, I modified it slightly by incorporating softened butter instead of shortening and almond milk in place of cow’s milk. I am known in the wry circle of my sisters to intentionally start with a proven recipe and then to change it up – just a little. (Most often I do this because my pantry is missing an ingredient and I am too caught up in the moment to stop and go to the grocery store.)

What never changes, however, is the magic that happens when you melt a couple of teaspoons of yeast in warm water and add it to flour. When my hands are kneading dough, all is right in the world. I am momentarily connected by simple ingredients to what has nurtured humanity since the beginning of time – bread.

Tradition says our braided Easter wreaths represent the crown of thorns Jesus wore at his Crucifixion. Tradition also says the addition of an egg tucked in the nest of dough reminds us of the Resurrection, rebirth, new life. Some bakers braid their bread into the shape of a cross; others form it into loaves. Just like the recipe itself, our traditions bear the marks of individual bakers while uniting us with each other in the physical act of working the dough…and waiting for it to rise.

Following my trip to the Holy Land earlier this year, my perspective of the Lenten season has taken on a new dimension. I have walked the same streets Jesus walked on a journey that culminated in the transformation of his own body into the true bread of life. In quiet moments, I feel his presence as he kneads the dough of my life – loving, patient, often stretching me in different directions, and sometimes letting me rest as I continually seek to know him better. I am saddened by escalating violence in Israel. My heart aches as the television beams in images of worshipers attacked in their churches and of rocket fire streaking across man-made borders that continue to separate the rich cultures that define the Middle East. We have all become witnesses to another chapter in the complicated story of a land where perhaps some of the original “yeast” of our human history first began to bloom.

This year, my family will not be together for Easter. One sister is in Nevada. Another is in Italy where “Pane di Pasqua” is called “Cuzuppa” in the dialect of Calabria. Our mother and another sister are in Arizona, and I am in Virginia. Despite the distance between us, texts and Facebook videos keep the kitchen conversations going – along with our annual Easter bread stories. How did you keep it from burning on the bottom? Did you use sprinkles or colored sugar to decorate? Did it turn out fluffy or a little dense? Mom, did you really use oat milk this year? And…don’t you just love it toasted for breakfast!

Happy Easter.

“My Trip to Israel”

March – Lent

Since returning home from my recent pilgrimage to the Holy Land, I have been struggling to find the words to describe not only the people and places I encountered, but more significantly, the heritage of my own faith formation.

After a couple of weeks of beginning, and then deleting, this blog post, I chose to organize my thoughts like the English teacher I am. The elements of plot (and an overabundance of metaphors) have once again come to my rescue!

Exposition: Visiting the birthplace of Christianity proved to be as disconcerting as it was inspirational. I felt like I had jumped into the pages of a book I had been required to read my whole life but still didn’t fully comprehend. As a Roman Catholic, the sacraments of baptism, reconciliation, communion, confirmation, and marriage have put flesh on the bones of my very being. Skipping through the chapters of Jesus’s life as we traced a path around the map of Israel offered me a glimpse into his humanity from his birthplace to the city where he began his ministry to the banks of the sea and along the rocky paths that led to the sights of his death and resurrection. Along the way, I discovered a conflict in the plot of my own life – one that, even in my sixth decade, is rocking me from my comfortable cradle of Catholicism and into the very thorny realm of deeper thought.

Setting: Israel is about 270 miles long and only 85 miles at its widest point (roughly the size of New Jersey!). It is bordered on the north by Lebanon, the northeast by Syria, the east by Jordan, the southwest by Egypt, and the west by the Mediterranean Sea. I can’t even begin to scrape the top layer off the fledgling knowledge I have about Israel’s history. Ongoing archeological excavations have uncovered a pre-Biblical world that has evolved through the Roman and Byzantine empires, Islamic dynasties, the Crusades, and onward to the end of World War I when it was placed under the control of the British. Only in 1948 did Israel become an independent state, which has further enunciated the divisions between its current residents, Israelis and Palestinians. Discernible tension is marked by territories divided not only by neighborhoods, but also by checkpoints and barbed-wire fortified settlements. Disputes continue over land and the status of refugees. In any newspaper, there is usually at least one article a day about the often-deadly conflicts that arise in this small but strategic corner of the world.

Rising Action: In Tel Aviv where we boarded the bus on the first morning of our pilgrimage, our guide Nassar introduced himself as a “Palestinian Christian Israeli Arab.” During the next few hours, we stopped for visits in Caesarea Maritima to see the ruins of Herod the Great’s palace and then continued to Haifa and Mt. Carmel. Nassar explained that out of 9.8 million people in Israel, only 165,000 are Christian and that number is decreasing. About three-fourths of the Christians are Arab. Most of Israel’s population is Muslim, followed by those of the Jewish faith. In addition, there are Bedouins, Druze, Soviet refugees, and several other groups within groups of religious and cultural denominations. A living example of this erased the lines of history as we drove past a Bedouin camp adjacent to Israel’s modern main highway. Although they had been given land to settle on, many Bedouin families have chosen to live in traditional temporary neighborhoods comprised of tents and makeshift structures (some even with satellite dishes on their “roofs”)!

Conflict: While many conflicts exist in Israel, this is where the plot became personal to me. I became a character rather than a voyeur in the story. Being “in” the scenes where Christianity was born and where it is obviously a minority religion, I found myself constantly asking, “Would I have accepted Christianity at the time of Jesus?” and “Who, way back in my family’s history, was the first person who chose to become a Christian?” (This certainly doesn’t show up in my Ancestry.com report!)

Over our 12-day pilgrimage, we walked in the footsteps of Jesus, his family, and his disciples. We visited the Church of the Annunciation in the area where Mary said “yes” to becoming the Mother of God. We saw where tradition says places the workshop of Joseph. We ate lunch at Christian pilgrim houses and said grace before our meals while through the windows we heard Muslims being called to prayer over the speakers of the surrounding mosques. We celebrated the renewal of wedding vows in Cana for the couples on our trip. We stood on the path Jesus walked from Nazareth to the Sea of Galilee. We visited Capernaum (Kfar Nahum), said to be the hometown of Matthew and the apostles and where Jesus spent much of his time in ministry. We sailed on the Sea of Galilee. We visited Jericho, Bethlehem, and Jerusalem. We spoke with student ambassadors at Bethlehem University who shared not only a tasty meal from their culinary school, but insights about their own cultures and religious practices – living normal lives as young adults of all faiths within the boundaries drawn between neighborhoods and communities in this small state. We spent three days within the walls of the Old City of Jerusalem and visited the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, located in the Christian Quarter. There, we walked past the site where Jesus was crucified and touched the empty tomb that marks the place of his resurrection. We walked the Via Dolorosa, each of us taking turns to carry the cross. It was also an honor to pray at the Western Wall alongside sisters of the Jewish faith.

Climax: Each stop along the way of the cross humbled me…and unsettled me. More questions: Would I have been one of Jesus’s followers? Would I have been one of his those jeering at him? Would I have been working at one of the shops in the city, and barely looked up when I saw the commotion along the street that day Jesus was led to his crucifixion? How was I chosen to be a Christian and born into membership of the Catholic Church?

Much of my faith formation has been based on practices including church on Sundays, the sacraments, teaching at Catholic schools, and a catechism that I often call my “rules for the road.” Nowadays, I find myself hungry for more. I am studying the catechism. I am making connections between the theology and my life through a new lens.

Falling Action (or perhaps not): I confess that the stranger assigned to the seat next to me on the airplane ride from Tel Aviv back to the United States tested my pilgrimage peace with un-Christian like thoughts that ranged from anxiety to frustration. Fifteen hours, six movies, a couple of glasses of wine, and a myriad of deep-breathing exercises matched with poor attempts at prayer made me want to kiss the ground even before my husband when I finally got home! But now that I have had time to do laundry, disperse gifts, organize photos, and read my journal, I can truly say that what I experienced was not a vacation. It was a pilgrimage.

Resolution: There is grace to be found in conflict. I have re-discovered a passion to learn more about the history of Christianity that has shaped me as a woman of faith in this complicated kaleidoscope of a world. I desire more theological knowledge and am grateful to finally have time in my retirement to study. Last year’s Bible in A Year program with Father Mike Schmitz was fresh in my mind as I visited the sights on our pilgrimage – mostly because I now have a “visual” of Old and New Testament readings. This is being reinforced by the Catechism in a Year program I am pursuing this year. I am adding titles to my reading list titles of books I own but have never read – those by Scott Hahn, Peter Kreeft, Thomas Merton, and even Saint Augustine!

While the conflict I touched upon during my trip made me ponder my own Christian roots and the person who I would have been 2,000 years ago, it also has led me into an even more determined conviction to share my faith. The number of Christians are not only dwindling in Israel, but they are also falling in the United States. Pew Center statistics estimate that in 2020, about 64 percent of Americans, including children, were Christian. Those religiously unaffiliated accounted for 30 percent. Other religions – including Jews, Muslims, Hindus, and Buddhists – totaled about 6 percent. The study further notes that if these rates continue, projections show Christians of all ages will shrink to 54 percent by 2070 and the unaffiliated could rise to anywhere between 34 and 52 percent of the population. https://www.pewresearch.org/religion/2022/09/13/modeling-the-future-of-religion-in-america/

I realize that in trying to summarize my trip, this account is drafted solely from my perspective – from the times in which I have lived, my upbringing, books I have read, places I have traveled, and Mass every week since I was baptized into this life. One way for me to reign in the experience of my pilgrimage has been to constrain it along a plot line. Although I am compelled as a writer to share my observations, I understand that the story line is flawed because it is written by an author whose journey through this life is still very much a work in progress. What is not flawed, however, is my conviction that I know I would have walked with the women who followed Jesus along the Via Dolorosa. This, I sincerely believe, will guide me to the ultimate resolution. “At present we see indistinctly, as in a mirror, but then face to face. At present I know partially; then I shall know fully, as I am fully known” (1Cor 13:12).

God’s Touchdown

January – Epiphany

During his homily on the Feast of the Epiphany, our 78-year-old priest danced across the floor in front of the altar singing Herod’s offbeat version of Scripture: “So, you are the Christ, you’re the great Jesus Christ. Prove to me that you’re no fool – walk across my swimming pool.”

Laughter erupted from those who immediately harkened back to the memorable lyrics of the 1970s rock opera Jesus Christ Superstar. Smiles also tickled the faces of the younger members, entertained by the vision of their pastor singing in his Irish lilt, fanning the flame of those iconic bohemian words in his priestly robes.

Epiphany: The manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles, brought to us year after liturgical year through the story of the Magi. As many times as I have heard the annual readings, when Father came from behind the podium and into the congregation to highlight the central theme of our very human desire for signs of Christ’s presence, it caught my attention in a new way. Be it a star in the night sky, the multiplication of fish, healing the sick, or walking across the Sea of Galilee (or Herod’s “swimming pool”), we human beings take a wary approach to “belief” without having “proof.” Sometimes it takes a dancing priest to drive home that point.

My recent commitment to the Catechism of the Year program facilitated by Father Mike Schmitz and my completion of the Bible in a Year last year has fueled my hunger to continue nurturing my faith both academically and spiritually. Perhaps this focus is making me hyper aware of what I call “Epiphany moments.” This past week has been filled with them.

Anyone who gets news alerts has heard of Damar Hamlin, the Buffalo Bills football player who collapsed and who was ultimately resuscitated during Monday Night Football on January 2. As the country became aware of what was happening, time froze. Immediately, players from both teams turned to one another, fell to their knees, and began to pray. The news cameras caught it all on film.

A couple of days later, the Wall Street Journal carried an article headlined “How Damar Hamlin Drove a Nation to Pray.” Noting prevailing controversies surrounding the appropriateness of prayer at sporting events and other public places, the author wrote: “The game was suspended, and suddenly prayer was back on the list of things anybody could talk about or do on camera.” Later in the article, he added, “Suddenly prayer—the ancient activity of speaking to God in the belief that he can hear and respond—was everywhere.”

That same week, members of the U.S. House of Representatives began their history-making 15-round vote-a-thon over choosing the Speaker of the House for the 118^th Congress. Politics aside, House Chaplain, Margaret Grun Kibben opened the session on January 3 with these words: “Eternal God, You spoke and the Earth brought forth life. With a word, Your spirit breathed into humanity the essence and purpose of our very being. Speak to us now, O Lord, and breathe into the body of the 118th Congress Your word of truth and justice, compassion, and wisdom.” We can argue all day long about the separation of church and state, but the traditions of our country are deeply rooted in the faith of its founders.

The Feast of the Epiphany reminds me that I don’t need signs that pack as big a punch as the healing of a leper or the opening of a blind man’s eyes. I live the “proof” of God’s love in the giggles of my grandchildren, in the faces of former students, in the smiles of strangers, and most importantly in the ways people reach around the complicated walls of society to help each other simply to survive. Mankind’s ability to trip over itself in a myriad of good and bad ways has been recorded for ages. (Change the scenery, flip the calendars over centuries, and think about it…we bear more in common with the people of the Old Testament than we probably would like to admit.)

The Catechism of the Catholic Church states that “God communicates himself to man gradually” (CCC 53). This past week, however, we as a nation witnessed a man literally come back to life at the able hands of fellow men, bolstered by the prayers of other men. I believe God literally “walked over the water” of our souls and right into the stadium where we play our games. It certainly caught our attention.

During his Christmas Advent reflections, Dynamic Catholic leader Matthew Kelly offered these four words as a reflection – words that come into focus for me as I ponder the events of the past week and also Father’s Sunday homily. “Trust. Surrender. Believe. Receive.”

Speaking of a “receiving,” the Buffalo Bills took to the field again on January 8 while a thankfully recovering Damar Hamlin tuned in from his hospital bed. During the first play, the Bills running back, Nyheim Hines, returned the opening kickoff and ran 96 yards for a touchdown. Several news outlets quoted quarterback Josh Allen who said after the game, “I can’t remember a play that touched me like that, I don’t think in my life. It was just spiritual. I was going around to my teammates and saying, ‘God’s real.’ You can’t draw that one up or write that one up any better.”

The touchdown goes to God.