Category: Writing

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!

Front of the Mass card we received

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. 

Walking, Ducks & Finding Good in D.C.

June – Ordinary Time

My family jokes that if I were dropped from a helicopter into any situation in the world, I would find “good” wherever I landed. As someone who strives to greet life from a place of unwavering faith in God and a mostly optimistic worldview, I must admit that age has tempered me somewhat. Giving in to the undertow of the “dark side” drags at me more often than I would like to admit – especially during the past five years of living right in the thick of our nation’s capital city.

Still…

Over the past several weeks, we have welcomed visitors and have accompanied them on various D.C. excursions to include a tour of the U.S. Capitol, long walks from the Smithsonian metro station to the World War II Memorial, along the length of the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool, and up the stairs to marvel at the massive sculpture of our 16th President. From there, we have made our way around to the Vietnam Memorial, and then to the wonder-filled Smithsonian museums.

I never tire of exploring. As long as I can move, I will never say never when it comes to walking. Just give me a decent pair of tennis shoes, and I am ready for anything!

Observing Washington D.C. through another’s eyes also helps me to shift my perspective from what I see in the news every day toward a fresh appreciation of what it took to build this country from days stemming back to the Revolutionary War. Each time I walk past monuments and memorials, I observe people from all over the world who actually want to see America. I hear them expressing their wonder in a symphony of languages as the stare at this city’s impressive architecture. I feel proud knowing that many of the buildings were touched by artists and tradesmen from Italy where my family originally immigrated. Crowds endure long lines to marvel at the original documents – the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, the Bill of Rights. I love peering through tempered glass at the historic parchment to discover editing marks, creative signatures, poetic form…all spelling out the human effort it took to draft a new country. 

Tourists never tire of taking photos in front of the White House – now massively barricaded and fenced, but still visible. They wander in awe past a kaleidoscope of cherry blossoms around the Tidal Basin as they experience the Jefferson, Roosevelt, and Martin Luther King memorials. On a recent visit, one of our cousins remarked that he had “never been so moved in his whole life” than when he walked along the path of the Vietnam War Memorial. His tears and ours, I believe, not only express emotion for the more than 58,000 service men and women who died during that nearly 20-year period, but also for the future of our country, riddled today with complex dissension that spans from within our borders out into the universe.

Knowing my passion for walking, my son (an avid runner!) recently gave me the book, Walking, by Erling Kagge. The author’s adventures far exceed my own; he is known to be the first person to have completed on foot the Three Pole Challenge – the North Pole, South Pole, and summit of Mount Everest. However, this book is not about those experiences, but rather about what happens when one steps back to step forward – one step at a time. Walking facilitates this literally and figuratively.

“Everything,” Kagge writes, “moves more slowly when I walk, the world seems softer and for a short while, I am not doing….” He describes how walking helps us become acquainted with our surroundings. This takes time, he says, but “it’s like building a friendship.”  We can stop when we want, move where we want. We can experience the thrill of observing people and places…and along the way, find a path that leads to an “inner voyage of discovery.”

Walking through this complicated world compels me to slow down and to keep my hands free. While I walk, I am not tempted to scroll through phone messages or call someone to talk. (Although sometimes I do pull my phone out to take a photo!) Most importantly, my vision clears and even if I am beginning to feel like the helicopter dropped me some place I would rather not be, I continue to be joyfully startled at what I discover on my path.

On our most recent visit, I strolled along the Reflecting Pool and was absolutely delighted by a mother duck and her ducklings nestled on the sidewalk. I am used to seeing the ducks in the water, but in this case, they seemed to simply be enjoying the warmth of the concrete beneath them – relatively oblivious of the tourists walking by. There was something almost magical in zooming for a moment or two into the world of that tiny, feathered family. Something I may never have noticed if I hadn’t slowed myself down became an integral part of the painting of that day, the scene brushed further into focus by the human families streaming by on foot, pushing baby strollers, gliding on scooters…

Back to the helicopter. A couple of weeks ago, our son, daughter-in-law, and grandchildren were visiting D.C. and on that particular walk, we actually did see a helicopter; it was Marine One and it landed right on the lawn of the White House. Not that I would ever be on that plane with the President, but the thought did cross my mind that I had in essence been dropped in D.C. five years ago when my husband’s work took us here. Despite what is projected over the airways, we have met wonderful colleagues and friends who are doing amazing work in service to their country. It has been quite an adventure. What I continue to make of this experience is mine to interpret…let me just say, it would not be the same without the ducks!

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

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.

Mom’s Easter bread with eggs

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. 

My version!

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.

Janice’s bread ready to braid

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.

Lori’s bread

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.

Mary will enjoy “Cuzuppa” from Calabria

“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!)

Shore of the Sea of Galilee

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.

My Mom carrying the cross!

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!

Jerusalem – the Old City and the New

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).

Bambinelli

December – Advent

In 1969, a mere nine years after I was born, St. John Paul II instituted the Advent “Blessing of the Bambinelli” when children are invited to bring the baby Jesus from their nativity sets to the altar for a blessing. This sweet celebration provides a visual connection, especially for our little ones, between home and church as we all prepare ourselves for one of the holiest days of the year.

Last Sunday, at the conclusion of Mass at Holy Rosary Church in Washington, D.C., the priest motioned for parishioners to participate in this very celebration. I was so touched as I watched not only children, but also many of the elder members walk toward the altar, each clutching the precious centerpiece of their family’s nativity scene. 

How is it even possible that I had never witnessed this blessing before? I continue to be astonished that after six decades of life I can still be surprised by what I don’t know – especially when it comes to Catholic traditions.

Holy Rosary has become our church away from home as we continue to travel between Arizona and Washington. According to its history, Holy Rosary was established in 1913 as an “Italian” church where immigrants would be welcome to a parish that nurtured their spirituality while also keeping their Italian culture alive. To this day, one Mass each weekend is said in Italian, and the parish is home to a robust school where children and adults learn and practice the language and culture. We felt welcomed the first day we walked up the steps and into the church artfully filled with murals and statues of the Blessed Mother and Holy Family. Sun pours through stained glassed windows and into the church, which is styled in the form of a medieval Roman basilica. After Mass, we usually walk next door to Casa Italiana, the church hall, to visit with friends (and sip espresso) before going our separate ways into Sunday and a new week (https://honoringmary.cua.edu/index.html%3Fp=7121.html).

I have been to churches in Indonesia, in Canada, in Mexico, and in Italy. No matter where I am, I find deep meaning in experiencing the Eucharist even when I don’t understand the words. I am fortunate to speak enough Italian to communicate, but I certainly do not grasp every word and nuance. This forces me to listen in a more focused manner to the readings, the Gospel, and the homily. The music at Holy Rosary is spectacular, and I now feel comfortable singing along, relishing the musical syntax of the Italian language as I try to manage a host of vowels tripping across my tongue!

The manger scene at Holy Rosary Church, Washington, DC

Years ago when we were stationed in Naples, Italy, I looked forward to holiday visits to churches throughout the city where “presepi” depicted the Christmas nativity. These elaborate scenes include townspeople, shepherds, animals, magi, musicians…and of course, the Holy Family. Presepi are not limited to churches; they can be found in store windows, piazzas, and in alcoves tucked along several of Naples’s narrow, meandering streets. One of my favorite places in the world is what we Americans call “Christmas Alley” located along Via San Gregorio Armeno in Old Naples. There, craftsmen and vendors make and sell pieces for the presepi. I have several in my own Nativity set at home.

I am a believer in sacred moments. While I am a little embarrassed that I had not heard about this nativity blessing before, I think this must be the year I was meant to learn about the Bambinelli.  We are spending Christmas on the east coast instead of our desert southwest. We will not be watching our grandbabies opening their gifts from Santa, and I won’t be making pounds of pasta and dozens of cookies for the family dinner (although I did make a scaled down batch of Italian butter cookies for friends here). On the other hand, my husband and I will be together and able to spend quality time with our Philadelphia family and friends. I have placed a small manger scene on a table in our Virginia apartment. On the kitchen counter, I have a rosemary plant shaped like a tree that I bought at Trader Joes! There are even a few ornaments hanging from the scented branches. I thought I would be sad, yet, with each passing day, I find myself experiencing the Advent journey toward Christmas from a fresh perspective and with a quiet joy I did not anticipate. 

When we got home from church last week, I went to my computer to discover a bit more about the tradition of the Bambinelli blessing. I found Pope Francis’s blessing for this year:

“And now I will bless the ‘Bambinelli,’ the little statuettes of the Infant Jesus that you, dear boys and girls, have brought here and then, returning home, will place in the Nativity scene. I invite you to pray, before the creche, that the Nativity of the Lord will bring a ray of peace to children all over the world especially to those forced to live through the terrible days and darknesses of war, this terrible war in Ukraine that is destroying so many lives, and so many children. I wish you all a blessed Sunday and a good journey towards the Nativity of the Lord.”

Buon Natale.

Evolution of a Tree

December – Advent

Rooted securely in my mind since childhood is the maple I planted and nurtured from seed to sapling to tree in our front yard in Easton, Maryland. Up until we moved from the Eastern Shore when I was in sixth grade, that tree served as the background for what would become many of my formative memories – a favorite nesting place to read, a live scene on the set of our neighborhood skits, a second base in kickball games, a place to gather with friends to have serious pre-teen talks about growing up. No matter how many times I have moved to new states and countries, knowing that tree was there has been the foundation of my definition of “home.” 

My tree is gone.

We recently had the opportunity to spend a weekend in St. Michael’s, a picture-perfect bayside town located less than a half an hour from Easton. As we drove along Route 50, my husband responded warily when I asked him to turn left at an upcoming intersection. He has this way of raising an eyebrow when I ignore the GPS and assume I know where I am going. (I call it exploring; he calls it getting lost.)

We turned onto Dutchman’s Lane, made a right at the next street, and pulled into the driveway of one of our neighbors who I knew still lived next door to our former house. While it seemed much smaller than what I remembered, our two-story Cape Cod looked beautiful. Current owners had added shutters and a rich coat of blue paint. Trimmed shrubs and summer’s faded marigolds filled the front garden – vestiges of our original landscaping. I remember the lingering smell of those pungent blossoms that our father assigned us to pluck from their stems once they had lost their golden vigor. That non-allowanced yard duty was at least a little better than picking mushrooms from the backyard that would sprout overnight after a humid rain.

When the tree (at the right of the photo) was just a few years old! Check out all those marigolds…and the station wagon in the driveway!

I looked up into the two dormer windows on the second floor and pictured shadows of my sisters and I playing in our shared rooms. How many days did I spend at my built-in desk, writing and drawing and sometimes doing homework as I daydreamed while peering out of those very same windows? I remembered my turtle, Mr. Sassafras, who lived for a while in a terrarium I kept on my desk along with various creeping charlie ivies, spider plants and other “stuff” I collected back then. I imagined the breeze that would flutter the sheer curtains bringing a welcome breath of cool air into our room as we talked and tried to settle ourselves to sleep after heated summer evenings of playing marbles and catching fireflies.

My sisters and my parents occasionally have had the opportunity to visit friends in the old neighborhood.  Through photos, I saw my tree grow from its (and my adolescence) into maturity, branches reaching higher than our house, its trunk thickening almost humanlike over the years. But now, my tree is gone, a bald round patch in the grass the only sign it ever existed in the first place.

My husband stayed in the car as I walked up to our neighbor’s house and knocked on the front door, something I had done probably hundreds of times in years past when I would ask if my best friend could come out and play. I had already planned to meet her and her daughter for lunch, but I thought it would be fun to surprise her and offer a ride instead. Nearly 50 years older than we were back then, our hug transcended time. The lines between past and future dissolved. We are moms and daughters, neighbors and friends.

“What happened to my tree?”

“I think it got sick. They had to cut it down this past year. You can see how big that spot in the grass is. ”

“I am so sad.”

All I could think of as we got into the car to go to lunch was that maybe the grass would not ever cover the spot where my tree lived. Could there still exist a tiny seed of life that might push itself up through the ground again? Probably not, but that’s where my defiant thoughts went anyway. 

Just a few days after we got home from our weekend trip, I chanced upon this Bible verse from 2 Corinthians Ch. 4:16, 18. Honestly, it startled me out of the contemplative funk I had been fighting about the passage of time, life, death…and trees. “So we do not lose heart. Though our outer nature is wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed every day…for the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal.” Maybe a little girl lives in our old house now. Maybe she will find a whirlybird helicopter pod one day and ask her dad if she can plant it. She will point to a perfect spot in the front yard, bury the seed, and water it every day knowing intuitively that if she believes, it will grow.

Heavenly Highlights

December – Advent

I was just about to click “purchase” when I saw the bold face message above my order advising that I had already bought this book eight years earlier in August 2014. Perplexed, I reached for my Kindle and searched my library. 2014?  I had to call my mother. 

“Mom,” I spluttered into the phone, “that book, the one we are supposed to read before we go on our trip to the Holy Land… I already own it. Apparently, I have also read it. I have absolutely no recollection of ever buying it, yet alone reading it. I was the Principal at St. Augustine then. Were we doing a book study?  I honestly can’t remember.”

“It’s a long book,” she laughed. “You might want to get started now – again.”

My mother and I are going to Israel at the end of January. In anticipation, our Bishop, who is leading the pilgrimage from the Diocese of Tucson, suggested we read Jesus: A Pilgrimage, by Father James Martin.

I am not sure whether I feel awe or intense anxiety when something resurfaces that I have buried in a file folder deep in the back of my mind. Have I finally reached an age when I forget more than I remember? Or is this yet another reminder of my humble place in a universe that was created way out of my existential control?

So, I begin reading (re-reading). Within pages, I am startled by various highlights and notes I must have made during my first experience with this book. I tend to be compulsive about annotating text. This helps me interact with what I read, and often inspires me to deeper learning. Even in digital works, I continue to annotate while also believing I will probably never go back and see my notes. Normally I do not. Until now.

One of the first highlights I bump into comes in the second chapter in which Father Martin writes about Mary and her “yes” to a future she cannot begin to comprehend. He says, “God begins a conversation with Mary, as God does with us, breaking into our lives in unexpected ways…. And we think, why am I feeling these feelings…? This is God beginning a conversation.” I like that thought. (I highlight it again.) Maybe God is picking up the threads of a conversation He began with me eight years ago when I downloaded this book for the first time. 

Mary embraced God’s request without understanding why she was chosen to do so. I had also highlighted the next sentence or so in the same chapter that mentioned teaching: “We accept a position as a teacher and our lives are changed by our students. More simply, we say yes to God and are completely transformed.” Okay, that makes sense; I had most certainly been reading the book from the perspective of an educator. And I have undoubtedly been transformed by my students in so many ways.

As I continue to read, I latch on to not only Father Martin’s spiritual and theological reflections, but also his observations as a tourist to the places he visited that are also on the agenda for our upcoming pilgrimage. I enjoy his very human response to the congested traffic, the hotels and convents where he stayed, the crowded buses, and lack of signage along the roads. I have a need to know this as I contemplate which shoes to pack, the winter weather in Jerusalem, and how many dollars to convert to shekels. 

Next, I encounter this: “God meets us where we are…. In other words, God comes to us in ways that we can understand and appreciate, even if only partially or incompletely.” I wonder what compelled me to underline this before. Today, I read this phrase through the lens of eight years of hindsight. I never would have thought then that I would be where I am today as I travel back and forth between home in Tucson and my husband’s workplace in Washington, D.C. I am mostly retired. I am a grandmother. I knit hats. In addition, I recognize my tiny position in a vast global world that God sees in its entirety – a place where we have all been so weathered and affected by the pandemic, tumultuous politics, and moral issues that test our faith in so many complicated (perhaps Biblical) ways.

According to my Kindle, I am 20% into my current journey through this book. I downloaded a hard copy of my previous notes just in case I am inspired to jot down a few other thoughts along the way. While I don’t re-read books very often (there are too many others to read first), I am blessed with time to prepare for this pilgrimage, especially during Advent when all of us are called to look anew at what we have experienced before and to look ahead at what is to come through the transcendent life of Jesus.

This leads me to one more quotation from Father Martin’s book: “There is one person in a variety of times, the past informing the present. God is at work at all times.” I think about this while swiping my finger across the bottom of my Kindle to turn the page. I sense the Holy Spirit reading alongside me, nudging me to discover and welcome more “heavenly highlights” along the way. 

Note: Quotes highlighted are from Jesus: A Pilgrimage by Father James Martin (Kindle edition, published March 2014)

The Road to Oracle

November – Ordinary Time

Less than an hour from our home in Tucson, Arizona where we have lived for more than twenty years, we took a right turn. I glanced over at my son who was driving. It was 6 a.m., and we were on our way to the Town of Oracle where he was set to time the Oracle Run, a 5/10K race that was marking its 40th year on this “sky island” perched at about 4,500 feet at the base of the Catalina Mountains. I am not a runner, but after years of being a track mom, I continue to volunteer to assist when needed. I was also looking forward to seeing our daughter-in-law and grandbabies when they would meet us an hour or so later. 

“Why have I never been on this road?” 

My sister, also in the car and preparing to run the 10K, sipped her Starbucks coffee and noted that I should prepare myself to step back in time and simply enjoy the morning. She first ran here a couple of years ago and came from Phoenix the night before to participate in this iconic race in this equally iconic town.

I have lived in nine states and two countries and have traveled through several more on various adventures. But just then, as has happened a few times in my life, I was physically steered away from a road I have driven many times and onto another that significantly jostled my perception of where I have always lived, worked, shopped, and eaten. How could I be so oblivious to potential experiences hidden “just around the corner” from my established routines?

“Walk around and explore Mom,” my son advised while he was setting up his timing equipment. “Everything begins and ends in the museum over there,” he said, pointing to the weathered ranch-style building with a huge wrap-around porch adjacent from where we parked. I knew he meant that the race’s base camp had been set up at the entrance of the museum, but as I discovered, there were lots of beginnings and endings to explore up the wooden steps and through the front door.

The museum is operated by the Oracle Historical Society and is housed in what used to be the Acadia Ranch, built in 1882 by Edwin and Lillian Dodge. It not only served as a boarding house and guest ranch, but also as a tuberculosis sanatorium. According to information posted on the museum’s website: “It was at the turn of the last century that Oracle gained international fame as an ideal cure for those suffering from ‘consumption,’ the name given to tuberculosis and other lung afflictions at a time before penicillin. After an article was published in the leading medical journal, many came to Oracle in the belief the fresh air would restore them to good health.”  (There is a wealth of information about the museum, history, and culture of Oracle to be found on the museum’s website: https://www.oraclehistoricalsociety.org).

Each room of the inn opened my eyes to not just time gone by, but time eternal. The first room was dedicated to a mixed display honoring the tradition of Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead). Photos of family members were interspersed on tables laden with colorful representations of papier maché food, painted skulls, sheet draped ghosts, and lanky skeletons. Perched against a wall was an unrelated sign outlining Mine Rules dating back to the early 1900s from the nearby San Manuel copper mine.

The adjoining rooms led to a kitchen, dining hall, sitting area, and guest quarters, complete with a metal framed bed and assorted medical instruments for those in treatment for their lung ailments. I couldn’t resist lifting the heavy kettle from the kitchen stove and trying to put myself in place of those who came before me. The best part of this museum is the ability to touch and feel the history – hardly anything is locked under glass, including shards of pottery that date even further back to when the Hohokam and Apache settled in the area a thousand or so years before the inn was even conceived.

I wandered the grounds surrounding the main building and discovered the ranch’s tack room and icehouse. In the time before the starting gun fired, I found a quiet spot on the porch to sit and enjoy my own cup of coffee. I have always loved those gliders that go back and forth on rusty springs. I filled my lungs with the cool morning air and completely understood the healing energy to be found in this mixed climate of desert and mountain currents. I marveled at a landscape that not only nurtured cacti, but also pine trees.

I didn’t run the race, and I honestly didn’t help my son with any of his timing duties, but I did rack up nearly 5K worth of steps running a “race” with my three-year-old grandson and guiding our one-year-old granddaughter over the bumps in the road she toddled over. I felt totally justified in buying the t-shirt!

Proud of my sister for winning her age group in the 10K and just as proud of my son for timing with no glitches, I thanked them both for inviting me along. “Glad I could help,” I said, acknowledging their eye rolls with a smile. 

I felt revitalized not only by Oracle’s healing breezes, but also by the gift of being nudged, via a right turn, toward a new road on my own personal odyssey.  There are so many treasures to discover just “around the corner.”

Note: So what is a sky island? A sky island is defined as an isolated mountain range separated from other mountains and surrounding lowlands of a different environment – such as a forest surrounded by desert. There are several examples of these sky islands in southern Arizona and northern Mexico. (Find more information at https://skyislandalliance.org).

I Wait for Rain

October – Ordinary Time

“Each night before we go to sleep, we read a book or two, say prayers, and reluctantly close our eyes to the day. Thank God, the sun comes up in the morning and we can begin again.”

-Welcome to the World Journal, September 1993

Our son had just turned four when I wrote those words at the tail end of my journal entry. How can it be that the sun has traced its pattern across the horizon more than 10,000 times since then? My four-year-old now has a wife and two precious babies. Each night, they nestle themselves on the bed with an assortment of books, say their prayers, and set a clock that shuts it eyes when the lights go off and signals a new day when it is time to “wake up” (at an appropriate hour)! 

Thirty years after I tucked my baby into bed, I still say my evening prayers, always beginning the way my parents taught me when they tucked me in: “God bless mommy and daddy, grandma and grandpa and everyone else.” Sometimes, I add, “P.S. Please let it rain.”

I am a woman of the desert. My days usually begin with light creeping under the window shades that I leave partially raised so I don’t miss the dawn. I bask in the dusty pink-orange rays of promising light, whisper a prayer of thanksgiving for a new day, and make my way to the kitchen and espresso pot. I stubbornly admit there are mornings when I gather the covers around me and secretly harbor tempestuous thoughts, ones that defy the predictability of the golden star’s eternal creep through my windows and into my half-closed eyes. Perhaps this is my imperfect attempt to slow down the passage of time, a desire to settle into a soft comfort of cloudy gray – one that blankets me like an old fleece and allows me the freedom of deeper thoughts and memories.

I wait for rain.

I should have been a meteorologist.  In addition to being a fan of the Weather Channel, I spend too many minutes scrolling through the MyRadar phone app searching for colorful masses that predict an elusive weather pattern. I watch for a blip on the screen that could potentially snake its way up the Baja Peninsula, across the international border, and over the craggy Sierra Nevadas as highs and lows collide, gathering energy into a cloudy fist whose only outlet will be to burst open and replenish the cells of the dehydrated saguaro and my thirsty soul.

Our family lived in Yuma, Arizona for a few years during our son’s elementary days. Yuma is cradled into the southwestern corner of Arizona and often records some of the hottest temperatures in the nation. We would escape to San Diego when we craved a more moderate climate and a sandy beach adjacent to the Pacific Ocean. When we could not leave, there were afternoons we would drive through the carwash and pretend it was raining for a few minutes as the water pelted the roof of our automobile! Our subsequent move to Tucson included a pool in the backyard where, come rain or shine, the water is always there for us and for the families of mourning doves who stop by for random sips of refreshment in “their” pond.

As I write this, I am in Virginia, miles from my desert home. I spent the morning paging through old journals for a project I am compiling. (That’s where I discovered the letter to my son and the idea for this reflection!) Needing a break from my laptop, I put on my oversized University of Arizona sweatshirt to go for a walk. I glanced out toward the patio of our apartment (our home away from home during this stage of life). It was raining, the remnants of horrible hurricane Ian whipping its tailwinds up the Atlantic seaboard on its way out to sea.

So much for lofty thoughts filled with too many adjectives. I had known it might rain; I just thought it was coming later. God always answers my prayers further prompting me to take advantage of this particular weather pattern! I tied my shoes, grabbed the umbrella, and pointed myself in the direction of the Potomac River. It might be nice to see how the geese were holding up on this unusually cool and wet day.

There weren’t too many people on the trail; however, the ones who were smiled as I passed, secretly sharing their own needs to experience a day without sunshine. Only half-trying to avoid puddles, I simply put one foot in front of the other, not really thinking of anything. That, in and of itself, proved therapeutic.

All morning, I had been pondering the passage of time (and several of the old journal entries I had decided to toss in the trashcan.) Walking, I slowly let those thoughts go. I subconsciously began to focus on my immediate landscape – leaves succumbing to autumn, fat acorns that crunched as I stepped on them, dots of vibrant color in the defiant blooms of summer’s final flowers, a turtle perched on the one rock not submerged by a rising tide. And the ducks and geese – quite impervious as they glided along the shoreline.

I silently conversed with God as I continued, experiencing peace punctuated by a darker thought as I selfishly drank in the aftermath of this hurricane, knowing how others continue to suffer the eye of that storm. I allowed myself to be a conduit of both the light and the dark.

The breeze shifted and the temperature dropped a degree or two as I turned up one of Old Town Alexandria’s cobbled streets and headed home. It was still drizzling and there was not even a tiny sliver of an opening in the dense clouds.

I wait for sunshine.

Home again and at my keyboard, I reconcile myself with the grace of this day – one that I know I will have to reluctantly close my eyes to later this evening. “Thank God, the sun comes up each morning and we can begin again.”  

Chasing Metaphors

September – Ordinary Time

Today, the metaphors were pooled at my feet in a pile of unraveled yarn. I had knitted and purled this variegated project too many times – a scarf with a lace inset, no…a hat with a cable…better yet, the front panel of a sweater. All went well until I twisted a stitch, dropped a stitch, forgot a stitch. So much for trying to find a pattern to match the skein of yarn I found on sale a few weeks ago at Michaels!

I frogged the frazzled wool (for the third time) back to the cast on row. I had just spent 15 minutes that turned into two hours accomplishing absolutely nothing. Frustrated, I gathered the tangled jumble, walked to my bedroom, and stashed the entire mess into a dark corner of the closet. Mustering a surge of guilty energy, I then managed to wash the breakfast dishes, take a shower, write an email, and scrabble through the bills in record time. I was driven solely by a compulsion to have something concrete to report later when my husband and I would share details of our day over dinner (which I had not planned yet).

It’s been almost three years since I took my name off the door of the Principal’s office at St. Augustine Catholic High School in Tucson, Arizona to follow my husband’s job to Washington, D.C. As much as I have tried to define my purpose as we hopscotch between the east coast and our “real” home in Arizona, I find my unemployed retired self often feeling just as tangled as the knots now hidden in my closet.

I am untitled.

And although my epitaph will someday include daughter, wife, mother, grandma, journalist, teacher, and principal, those titles have become somewhat honorary if I am being honest. Today, my signature block simply reads “Lynn.”

After my morning of discontent, I laced my tennis shoes and headed out for a long walk from our apartment through the ever-quaint streets of Old Town Alexandria. I ultimately ended up seated at a favorite bench looking out over the Potomac River. Inserting my earbuds, I tuned into Day 269 of Father Mike Schmitz’s Bible in a Year Podcast. (I am proud of myself to committing to this endeavor!)

“For whoever has despised a day of small things shall rejoice” (Zechariah 4:10). Is it ironic or coincidental that this particular quotation trickled into my ears today?

While I am no longer tasked with doing what I consider great things like educating children and running a school, what do I really have to complain about? I berate myself for feeling selfish. Haven’t I always said, “When I retire, I will have time to read, to write, to travel, to volunteer, to study, to take afternoon walks, to knit?” (Actually, I never aspired to knit.)

When I truly reflect on it, I haven’t completely wasted my time over the past few years. I taught English to middle schoolers online during the pandemic. I work now and then training teachers in curriculum development. I have traveled to Italy with my sisters. I have time to explore the historical sights of our country’s Capital City. I am able to spend quality time in Arizona with our grand babies and also in Pennsylvania with my husband’s family. I completed a class on Jane Austen. I am going to the Holy Land with my mother early next year. I have even knitted a couple of blankets to donate to the Christ Child Society – an organization I hope to volunteer with when we finally settle back in Arizona again.

More importantly, I am re-discovering the joy of spending quality time with my husband. Nearly 40 years ago, we began our marriage in a two-bedroom apartment, and now, we share a two-bedroom apartment while living in D.C. (The first was HUD-subsidized; this one is not!) I have time to plan and cook healthy meals. It is enjoyable to market shop – three blocks to the to fish store to buy fresh scallops, just down the street to the Thursday afternoon farmers market for in-season produce. Sometimes, I take the metro and meet Joe in Georgetown for dinner at one of our new favorite restaurants. We have reconnected with colleagues from our college and Air Force days who have settled in the area. On Sundays, we go to Holy Rosary Church downtown where Mass is said in Italian. After church, we enjoy an espresso in the parish hall with new friends who have become like family over the past three years.

Despite this complicated world and all the conflicts that tend to tie me in knots both externally and internally, I realize what I already know – there are treasures to be found in the “small things.” After all, every beautiful tapestry is a collection of single stitches. It is within the patterns of small things that I am slowly discerning that it is less important to be titled and more important to focus on what is Still (Extra) Ordinary Time.

Full disclosure: On my way to the bench along the Potomac, I walked through Old Town and to my favorite knitting store. Pattern in hand (not the other way around), I purchased the yarn I would need for my next project. When I got home, I went straight to my closet, pulled out the mess I had stashed there earlier and threw it in the trash can.

Sometimes, you have to take charge of those tangled metaphors and put them where they belong.

No Excuses

Finding Restfulness in the Midst of Restlessness

Holy Week – April

It took a $38.20 charge to my PayPal account to jolt me out of my isolated lethargy of the past several weeks. I assumed WordPress would charge me for next year’s subscription close to the date it would renew, not the month before. Alas, I am in no mood to fight. 

“Perhaps,” my lazy gadfly whispers, “this might be a sign for you to whack through the weeds of your creative intentions, face your pandemic of doubt, and channel your blighted energy into your unmanicured fingertips where they meet the keyboard.”

“Yeah, whatever,” I mumble (nowadays, talking to oneself is survival, not a sign of dementia). “I’m back to my blog because I hate wasting money!”

I have no excuse. I have recently discovered that 24 hours is plenty of time in a day. For years, I have been able to safely dream outside my cone of reality knowing that I would probably “never have time” to do those things I always said I would do “if I had the time.” There were always good reasons for my procrastination like raising a child, building a career, planting flowers in the spring, and pulling weeds in the summer. It’s so much easier to plan than to do.

But here I am.

I was just getting used to semi-retirement and a recent move to the eastern seaboard when the Coronavirus seeped into every area of our world’s semblance of order. I had spent the past few months searching and exploring everything from restaurants, coffee bars, and nail salons to museums and national monuments. Where I had been able to stay busy with the mechanics of settling into a new environment, I, like so many of us, now have hours and hours to fill as I experiment with the new vocabulary of isolation and social distancing. What an opportunity, right?

I will give myself some credit. I am dabbling with – not necessarily embracing – the loftier goals of my “when I have time” ventures. I signed up for an online class focused on spirituality and prayer. I bought a new journal. I ordered a few books written by authors who kept journals. I logged into a yoga channel on YouTube. I bought six skeins of yarn. I started two writing projects. I began to track my daily Weight Watchers points.

So far, I have had some success. I follow a pretty regular morning yoga ritual. I prepare healthy meals for my husband and me. And, my obsession with knitting has inspired shock and awe among my family. My mother’s unsuccessful attempts to seed my crafting abilities took more than 40 years to germinate…but now, I am out of control. To date (since October), I have knitted three scarves, a baby blanket, six hats, three potholders, and am currently more than 60 rows into an afghan!

I am challenging myself to write, but I must admit that I suffer nagging and existential doubts that test the waters of evolving authorship. On positive days, I tell myself it doesn’t matter if anyone ever wants to read my stories; on negative days, I stop writing. 

I am exploring my religion. I have always tried to honor Church with sincerity and devotion. As I enter this stage of my older life, I find myself searching for ways that lead me beyond the rituals of my faith – which I deeply revere – and into a more contemplative place where my rational self doesn’t always have to get in the way. When I signed up for the online class on centering prayer, my intentions were well positioned, but I admit that I was probably looking for a template that would give me all the tools, provide the instruction, and then quiz me on my success. Obviously, it doesn’t work that way. As I diligently persisted through the modules facilitated by the late Father Thomas Keating, I also read one of the books that has been on my someday list for years – Thomas Merton’s Seven Storey Mountain. I was inspired by Merton’s journey but naively caught myself wondering how anyone other than a Trappist monk could ever have the time and space to live such a full life, study the great religious doctors, and then ultimately find a certain freedom in literally letting much of it go. For me, when I try to sit for even 20 minutes and focus on not focusing, I begin to itch – literally and figuratively.  Perhaps that is what the centering prayer is all about – discovering those things in our lives that make us “itch” and then turning those irritants over to God. I’m trying.

Another book I am reading is called The Naked Now by Franciscan friar and contemporary author, Richard Rohr. If I am interpreting correctly, the ability to truly wake up spiritually is to let go of pre-conceived notions of how we view the world. There doesn’t always have to be a right way or a wrong way in prayer or politics or all those other big ideas that bog us down (what Rohr calls dualistic thinking). I mean really, if this virus is teaching us anything, it is to let go of almost everything except the common relational bond we have with each other to simply survive.

“Contemplation,” Rohr writes, “is an exercise in keeping your heart and mind spaces open long enough for the mind to see the other hidden material.” This makes sense to me. Right now, I believe I am discovering a purpose in the exercise…much like I do in working through a mindful pose in yoga, losing hours in the creative practice of writing, or mindlessly stitching the patterns of a knitting project. In the process, I am unearthing some of the hidden material in my life and starting to feel a little more restful even in the midst of my restlessness.

I also feel justified in accidentally marking the auto-renewal box of my WordPress subscription.  Here’s to more than a penny for my thoughts – $38.20 to be exact!