The Candle Story (Part 1)

 For the last five years I've wanted to share this story.  It's a true story that I've shared with some friends and they have encouraged me to share it with you. I've made it into installments so it's not such a chore to read.  I hope you find something within it to grow your faith.  

To GOD be the praise, 

To Him be the Glory.

He is the author 

of EVERY great story. 

In March of 2020 the whole world shifted. Do you remember? A new kind of sickness, a coronavirus known as COVID-19 was spreading worldwide, and the CDC was trying to get a handle on it. The whole world became gripped with a crippling fear of catching or spreading this deadly virus and people were encouraged to avoid each other LITERALLY “like the plague”. This threat quickly reached pandemic proportions and drove everyone indoors. Schools shut down. Businesses closed and many employees had to learn how to work from home, except for those deemed “essential workers”. Medical staff, food service workers, and many others continued to go to work in person to try to keep the world running.  Our familiar way of life quickly became uncharted territory as we learned how to navigate life in these “unprecedented times” without making actual physical contact with each other. We wiped down our groceries before bringing them into the house, changed our clothes when we had been around other people, and wore masks EVERYWHERE when we had to leave the house. People kept a “social distance” of 6 feet apart. We were all going to have to get creative to get through this pandemic.   

I should probably explain something about March in Michigan. In March, it's cold, dark, and wet. It is winter’s last hurrah, and the last bits of spending 4–5-months indoors. It's the final few weeks of hibernation and the people inside the house are chomping at the bit to burst back into life.  However, in March of 2020, “shelter in place” was the name of the game. Instead of the usual five months of being indoors, interspersed with outings for celebrations and basketball games, shopping and visiting friends, we were just… waiting. With our own people. Really…  really…  really… together. It was the tail end of winter, cold and dark, still indoors… and in 2020, it seemed like it would never end.

On March 19^th, our Bishop Paul Bradley of the Diocese of Kalamazoo, Michigan, sent a public letter, which included the following.   

 “I must admit that this is the most difficult challenge and heart-wrenching decision I have faced, not only as your Bishop, but in my life as a priest. Never could I imagine that I would be faced with such a need to restrict our people from coming together to celebrate this greatest act of worship that Jesus has given to us in the Eucharistic Celebration of the Holy Mass, especially as our Diocese is observing our “Year of the Eucharist”…

However, in cooperation with the directives of the Center for Disease Control and the Governor of the State of Michigan, and in concert with my brother Bishops throughout the Province and our country, beginning on Friday, March 20, 2020, all public celebrations of the Holy Mass are suspended until at least April 5, 2020…”

Lent began on February 26^th that year, so this pandemic started right smack in the middle of it. There were things we had all given up, and the running joke was that Covid was what everyone WANTED to give up for Lent this year. It was like the whole world was given this external Lenten penance. A new era was being born.  If you wanted to be Catholic, you had to BE CATHOLIC, intentionally finding ways to live your faith. There was no more just showing up at a church on Sunday morning for an hour. If you wanted that connection, you had to work for it.  Masses were offered virtually on Zoom, Skype, Facebook live, and a variety of other platforms. If you wanted to worship, you had to PLAN for it, SEEK IT OUT, and we did.  We went to outdoor Eucharistic Adoration. We attended drive-up confessions, we did our very best to stay Catholic, but one thing was missing.  

I missed the Mass. That is a MASSIVE understatement.  It had been several weeks since I had been able to attend Mass in person, and with 2020 being the “Year of the Eucharist”, I hungered and thirsted for it.  “As a deer longs for flowing streams, so my soul longs for you, O God.” (Psalm 42:1 NSRV) Okay, that doesn’t seem strong enough to express my need and desire for the actual body and blood, soul and divinity of my Lord and Savior in the flesh, but I’ve also never been a thirsty deer, so maybe it’s spot on. They say you want most what you can’t have, and I was STARVING for the Eucharist.                                       

Easter Sunday was April 12, so there was still some hope that we would be back in person in time for celebrating the Easter Triduum (Three Days) that is the Superbowl of Catholic worship. As days and weeks stretched on, it became clear that this year’s Triduum and Holy Week would be nothing like what we were used to.  There would be no worshipping together with all our friends and family. There would be no choir. No lights. No dressing up to celebrate. There would be no Friday stations of the cross, or soup and bread dinners. There would be emptiness like the silence of the tomb. The depth of my sadness caught me by surprise.

On Good Friday, all the lights in the church are extinguished. Every single candle. It is a vital part of the Triduum. The light of the world is unavailable, then when all seems lost, a new fire is lit on Holy Saturday evening. That light dispels the darkness of the grave and begins our Easter celebration as first one candle is lit from a new fire outdoors, and then the flame is passed from candle to candle, held by our brothers and sisters, friends and family, until the entire church is aglow with HIS light!  It’s so BEAUTIFUL! Seeing the candlelight spread and the joy in everyone’s hearts, and the singing begins, and the grand, glorious EXULTANT Halleluia is sung and the WHOLE STORY IS TOLD, and people are getting baptized and joining the church and we’re all REVELING in the VICTORY that Christ has won for all of us! 

But it was 2020… and, well… COVID. 

I had questions. Concerns, really. Maybe even a little fear. Would a new fire be coming into the Church if there was no one there to share it with? Would it all still happen, even if we aren't there to participate? I consulted Father Chris Ankley, my dear friend, and he ensured me that the Triduum would be celebrated by those priests living at the rectory together.  I asked if he would light a candle for me from that new fire. I figured having that holy light in our home would be a connection to the light burning in the church. One fire, two flames.  Father Chris said he'd be happy to light a candle from the new fire for me. He said was saying Mass at 8:00 AM on Easter Sunday morning, and I could come to the church to get it.  

To be continued…

The One That You Love

When you read a story from the gospel, put yourself in the story. Ask yourself which character you are. Are you just watching it all take place, or are you a main player in the tale being told?  Look around the scene and observe what it would look like, smell like, feel like, taste like. If you could pause the scene and talk with Jesus, what would you say? Father Chris spoke just a little about this Ignatian Imaginative prayer in Mass today, and I am all about it.  Be warned, if you are an imaginative person, it's gonna be intense.  If you're NOT an imaginative person, try to pretend someone just slipped a pair of VR glasses on you and you're suddenly immersed into this whole new scene.  Except it's in your mind.  (Imagination...) 

Try it.  The gospel reading at Mass today was John 11:1-45. It's the lengthy story of Lazarus getting sick, his sisters letting Jesus know, Lazarus dying, Jesus coming to see them, ---Jesus wept--- and Lazarus being raised from the dead "for the glory of God, that the Son of God may be glorified through it.” 

Now read it for real and live in it. Read the whole thing, then come back to the beginning with me.  The beginning of this chapter tells us who we're talking about.  These are his friends. He's spent time with them and shared meals with them.  Can you feel it?  Jesus and the guys hanging out with Lazarus and Mary while Martha makes some food. Mary rubs his feet with expensive oil and wipes them with her hair.  They're laughing and talking and Jesus is sharing the important things with them. He LOVES them. They know it. It's not because of the food or the wine, or anything particular. It's friendship. It's just... Jesus. He just loves them.    

"So the sisters sent word to him, saying, “Master, the one you love is ill.”"-John 11:3

So, using our imaginative prayer, Who am I in THIS verse? I am definitely not the Master.  I'd mess that up in a hurry.

I am sometimes the one who is ill. I do have a heart condition. It's also that time of year when the inhabitants of the elementary school where I work share every possible germ and virus, They're pickers and lickers, but I love them. (More about them another day.)  

It feels vain to say it, but I know I am the one he loves. Even so, am I fully trusting that he will help me? If his help is long in coming, or if it isn't playing out the way I think it should happen, can I trust that the outcome will be for the Glory of God? Can the Son of God be glorified through MY illness? I'm working on it. 

The only other option is to be one of the sisters. This is it. It's real and raw and sometimes brutal, but this is where I am. I don't just sense or imagine the desperation in Mary and Martha's message, I remember it. I remember being in the hospital with my mom as she was dying. I remember visiting in the hospital with Levi, my grandson, before and after his heart surgery.  In all of those moments, I remember "sending word" to Jesus in prayer.

"Master, the one you love is ill."

"Master, the one you love has cancer."

"Master, the one you love had a stroke."

"Master, the one you love is lost, broken and scared."

"Master, the one you love is fading, losing strength and hope."

"Master, the one you love has a heart that won't work right."

"Master, the one you love is barely holding on." 

"Master, the one you love is dying."

"Master, the one you love is grieving."

"Master, the one you love, I LOVE TOO, and I can't fix it."

That last part breaks my heart. As I'm sobbing over here, I am encouraged by some other words in this reading... Jesus wept. Same. 

But also, 

"Master, the one you love is encouraged!"

"Master, the one you love is redeemed."

"Master, the one you love loves you back."

   

Father Chris challenged us to ponder these words as our homework from Mass. I think you just read my homework.  I recommend you do it too! Write your own words to the Master, and remember that YOU are the one Jesus loves!

A Different View from This Old Shoe!

 

“There was an old woman who lived in a shoe. She had so many children she didn’t know what to do…” That’s how the old nursery rhyme starts, and that’s how this blog started 15 years ago.  I was that woman.  I was knee deep in ankle-biters.  My home was a cacophony of cracker-cruncher chaos.  I loved it. 

A lot has changed. We’ve lost friends and family members and gained some new ones. The kids are grown, and life is different, and still amazing.  GOD IS SO GOOD! 

I don’t think there are any more verses to that nursery rhyme, but there are lots of verses for our little corner of the world. It would sound something like this:   

So out of the house each one left as they grew.  They became young adults, as all children must do. To the Army! To college! To their work they all run! Creating their own lives, each daughter and son.

The shoe has grown quiet, with a soft empty hush. No overbooked schedules, no reason to rush. The quiet was piercing, what an awkward transition. I find myself now in a different position.

It’s just me and my spouse all alone in this shoe.  Now we go when we want, and we do what we do. We were tourists in Paris, and Pilgrims in Rome. We prayed in Assisi and then came back home.   

We love all those children and grandbabies, too. When they all come home, it’s a very full shoe. So I’ll share our adventures, (we’re having a hoot!) The “View From the Shoe” will now get a REBOOT!

  I’m hoping to share more of the amazing things God has done in our lives, and some of the things He’s taught me.  It’s important to stay teachable at every age.  I CAN NOT BELIEVE the amazing things I’ve been blessed to see and do and be a part of. (And I was THERE!)

Stay tuned and buckle up.  God writes the best stories!   

Looking into the darkness

 Several times in my life, I’ve found myself in the dark, dark, desolation. Sometimes I’ve been completely engulfed in it, even though I could detect the soft glow of light on the edges, coming from who knows where. All I could perceive is bleak, cold, emptiness. 

I’ve been there. In that place. I’ve curled up in the fetal position and sobbed in that lonely darkness. Alone. Afraid. Unable to see anything real or true or beautiful. 

If you’re there, there’s something I want you to know. 

You, my friend, are looking into your own shadow. 

So was I.  Trapped in my own thoughts and feelings, I felt there was nothing good to be seen, but I was mistaken. Shadows only happen when something gets in the way of a source of light. I don’t know how I got there, but I was in the way. I got all turned around. My sadness and my fear had me looking straight down and only right in front of me. I covered my eyes to hide from the dark, which only made it darker. 

Open your eyes. Move around and watch that shadow mimic you. Go ahead. Make a bird with your hands. Can you see it now? It’s a shadow! So there has to be a light shining somewhere. Look around and see that light being reflected off the things (and people) around you. Where is it coming from?

That light is behind you. Turn around, if you can. 

Next time you’re in the dark and it feels  hopeless and forever, please hold on. 

This is only a shadow. There’s still a light. It’s shining on you. 

Much love. 

The Other Stuff

 I've been uncomfortable and out of sorts lately. My thoughts have been going to the OTHER STUFF.  You know, the OTHER STUFF you would be doing if you weren't doing the things you're currently doing? Sometimes the fact that I'm not doing the OTHER STUFF makes me question if I've correctly prioritized the stuff I AM doing. Maybe the stuff I'm doing isn't the best stuff to bring God glory, and to leave the world a more loving place, which are my life goals. There are so many good options, it's hard to know what to do.  

I love my job of teaching kids how to read, problem-solve, and communicate. There are lots of other things I've taught them, like the word "biohazard", that rubbing bologna on the table is just a bad idea, and that "there ain't no 'a' in they".  Girl, I could write a book. but I digress. I've been doing my job professionally for 14 years, and I'm good at it. I've gained a treasure trove of tips, and strategies from so many fantastic education professionals, and from the kids themselves. I know all about phonemic awareness, and onset/rime. I know what a "schwa" is, and how to help kids decode correctly.  I get to be fully myself while I sing the "Walking Feet" song down the hallway, and some days I get to dress like a total FREAK, because Mrs. Swager don't play when it comes to Crazy Hair Day! So why do I sometimes wonder what else I can do?  

I'm blaming it on my candles.  

I always have a candle lit in my home.  I lit a candle from the new fire on Holy Saturday (yes, at Easter), and that flame continues to burn in my home.  I have to replace the wax and wicks, but the fire itself hasn't been extinguished.  I just move it from candle to candle. This latest batch of candles doesn't burn very brightly.  In fact, they barely stay lit at all, and I have to really keep an eye on them.  When the wick has burned all the way to the bottom, there's still a thick layer of wax clinging to the outside of the jar. This gets me thinking about the candle being like my life.  

The flame represents the inner spark of life (which is love itself), and the wick of my lifetime carries it. The wax is the life I'm living outside of myself: experiences, people I love, and things I do. This new box of candles represents the intensity with which I'm currently living my life, and right now, I'm leaving a lot behind, and not burning as brightly as I could. This makes me wonder what I'm leaving "on the table" as it were. Who wants to get to the end of their wick to find out there was so much more wax there to melt? 

So here I am, pondering the OTHER STUFF, and as I write this, I realize that I do not know why these candles aren't as bright. I could guess that they have bad wicks, but don't we all have challenges in our "wicks"?  My heart issues, and lack of a thyroid tend to slow me down, but they don't slow me down nearly as much as my slothfulness. I nap. I'm practically gifted at it.  I could teach a master class. The problem with the candles may be the wick, but that's not my problem.

Truth is, it doesn't matter which STUFF I'm doing.  What really matters is if I'm doing it with love.  The wick of my lifetime won't get longer.  That's not how lifetimes work.  If I want to make sure I use up the entire supply of wax in the candle of my life, I need to love more. If I want my life to be well spent, (and completely spent) I need to love with my whole self.  No matter what STUFF I'm doing, I need to remember what really matters.    

         

   

The Family Shrub

I walked out into my back yard and was met with this lovely sight.  This same Rose of Sharon once grew in the front yard of my Grandma and Grandpa Thompson's house in Steubenville Ohio. It has lots of new shoots popping up, but then, so do my grandparents, really. We're just prolific that way. That might be what got me thinking more deeply. I can see my whole family in this shrubbery.  

The first thing I see is the bloom on this beautiful Rose of Sharon (also known as a Hibiscus tree.) The bloom is large, as big as my hand, and the deep burgundy base of the petals make the white part look even whiter!  This bloom will only last a day or two (three if it's lucky) which makes this a big deal, kind of like childhood. Right now, this bloom is having the time of it's life. It's radiant and beautiful, and you can't help but smile just watching it. I love seeing the joy in those little blossoms of mine.    

Have another look at the photo.  What else do you see?  I mean, the bloom is lovely, but there's no bloom without the greenery.  Every single leaf is basking in the sun, soaking up all that warmth, and turning it into chlorophyll.  Each leaf is making the food and feeding the plant, so really, that greenery is what keeps it all together.  When the petals fall off (as petals do) that exquisite foliage remains. Just look at it!  Look what a beautiful shade of green, and those delicate scalloped edges. It surrounds the blooms, and lifts them up, and seems to be enjoying their beauty as much as the rest of us are. Just. Like Us. We, the parents and we, the aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends.  All of us make up the foliage of our families.  We feed them and nourish them, and rejoice in their blooming. We are beautiful in our own right, with our lush green scalloped edges, and in the way we stay together, working to keep each other healthy and well.  

There's one more thing I see, and it makes me a bit sad. Just above the bloom and to the left, you will see the brown seed pods. They already had their turn to bloom, and they were spectacular. Now they have a new purpose. They contain within themselves the priceless treasure of their knowledge, experience, and creativity.  They must break to share what they have nurtured within, but it's so hard to watch them become such brittle, fragile versions of who they once were. They are ready to share the means by which something old becomes new again, and they'll share their pearls of wisdom with the Earth. 

Then a new shoot will begin.   

First one small leaf, then another.  The leaves will give way to a stem which makes more leaves and more. The next "little bud" in our family is due to bloom in December. Our family keeps growing. I'm thankful for the blooming, and for the opportunity to be the foliage.  I hope when it's my turn, I break gracefully, surrounded by leaves and blooms.     

     

Mrs. Woodworth’s lessons

Jill Woodworth was a teacher.

If you knew her, you knew that. As a teacher at Climax-Scotts, she had a hand in educating the kids of our small community for three decades. She’s taught countless kids how to read, how to do math, and how to LOVE learning. She’s taught them to tie shoes and zip coats, and she’s put hundreds of baby teeth into little baggies to be taken home and shown to doting parents. She’s read thousands of stories, graded thousands of papers, and planned thousands of lessons, and she did all that...Because she’s a teacher.  

Did she teach you?  

Jill had a million tiny things about her that each of us hold dear.  They’re those classic Jill Woodworth things that made everything seem A-OK in the world. That giggle. Her smile. Her quiet presence. The sigh. The way she would tell kids,”You CAN hang up your coat, now go back and try.” Everyone felt safe, felt like they belonged, and learned in her classroom. There were frequently caterpillars or chrysalises, or some other bit of nature to explore. The kids knew that she cared about their reading skills, and also about them as a person.  She was the constant, calm presence in a chaotic world for so many students, past and present. Even kids who never had her as a teacher spoke of her being kind to them when they crossed paths in the hallway. She was teaching everywhere she went.

Some classes are always more challenging than others, and she managed each one with so much grace and patience. If kids were acting out, screaming, throwing papers, or any number of other poor choices, she just kept on caring and teaching and pushing on through until the end of the day when she could joyfully wave goodbye as the busses pulled away.  She never gave up on her kids, even when they pushed her to tears. Those moments were rare, but they were real. She taught us to be human. She reminded us that each child is worth the time to listen to, and really hear what they’re saying. She didn’t need to be flashy or loud. You can create Thanksgiving memories with pancakes and sausage just as well as if you’d put on a Broadway show! She taught THIRTY YEARS of students!  

Now she’s teaching us something new, and this is the hard part.  It’s the lesson no one wants to learn. She’s teaching us how to go on without her. It’s not written in the Common Core Standards, but if it was, it might sound like this:  I can be sad sometimes. I can miss her. I can feel her quiet, calming presence, and see her handiwork all around the school. I can giggle again and laugh again. I can share wonderful memories of Mrs. Woodworth.  I can cherish the people around me, and tell them so. I can keep her smile in my mind. I can remember her with love.

Thank you, Jill Woodworth, for all of the work you’ve put into helping each of us become the best we can be.