A Priest Forever

Today, my mom and I went to the nearby hospital to visit a dear, elderly Franciscan who recently took a turn for the worse and now needs the constant presence of someone to help meet his basic needs. We sought to offer comfort in whatever small ways possible...food, water, and conversation being some chief ways. I sang and read from one of my sister's brilliant Scripture exegeses to help take his mind off the pain of his tired body. Despite his physical weakness, Father's famous wit was still strong, and spontaneous plays-on-words interspersed his dialogue in the charming way they always have.

It was difficult yet meaningful — and especially Lenten — to watch a dear one suffer and be able to do very little about it. I also couldn't think of a more grace-filled way to spend a Sunday afternoon than experiencing this spiritual work of mercy.

The thing that struck me most, however, was when this suffering priest of 80-something years imparted his farewell blessing to his visitors. Despite the fact that the littlest movement was torturous for him, he made every effort to raise the arm lying limp on the pillow in order to bless us not only with his words, but with his I.V.-laden hand. Such a picture of fidelity. Such a picture of a priest whose identity runs in every fiber of his being! Such a picture of Christ.

Today's Pick-Me-Up

I admit, I was succumbing to a bit of self-pity and restlessness the last day or two. But after 8am Mass this morning, that all changed.

I watched a sweet elderly lady balance herself and her cane against a pew to put on her scarf, and realized she must have come to church alone. I know her from seeing her regularly at daily Mass, but couldn't remember her name.

"Did you drive here all by yourself?" I approached, thinking to help her get to her car.

"Oh, no -- I walked," came the sweet reply, to my incredulous expression. (Mind you, it was all of 25 degrees F here this morning!)

"I've been told it's 18 blocks round-trip," she continued rosily while zipping her coat, "but I always tell people 14 because I don't like to sound like a show-off."

"And how old are you, again?" I queried.

"I'm 92 and —what's today?— 32 days."

She proceeded to kiss me goodbye on the cheek. "Love ya. And you have such a sweet dimple!"

That was just the inspirational kick I needed. Here is a precious lady who doesn't drive and who can barely walk steadily, yet who rises early on icy mornings to walk 8+ blocks one way to Church and who is always there on time... and here is 22-year-old me, who too many mornings (especially lately) weakly allows myself "just a few more minutes" under the warm covers and then arrives late to Mass.

The joyful witness of such fidelity moves me to strive for greater discipline this Advent, and reminds much I still need to learn about denying myself...

Thank you, Mary Ann! May your reward be great.

Of a boy and his lunch

Apparently, 'tis the week to enjoy small-boyish antics! ;) I have made various sandwiches for my brother David's lunches this week, and today when I asked mom what she'd like for lunch, he piped up, "Please, not a sandwich."

"But that is yummy bread, and with garden tomatoes..." I pointed out, "You should be grateful you can eat those things!" (I'm gluten-sensitive and allergic to tomatoes)

He comes downstairs to the kitchen a bit later and asks, "Where's my food?"

"Well, I was thinking of ham and cheese..." I answer. "But now that you're down here, you can make it yourself."

"Oh!" he reasons. "I guess I better disappear for a while. Bye!" He pops out the back door, but is inside again a moment later.

"Claire, are you making my sandwich?" (insert puppy dog eyes)

"Maybe."

"Oh, thank you!" (He plants a kiss on my cheek and opens the fridge.) "Now in the meantime, I'm going to eat a snack...er, I mean, an appetizer!"

*Fast forward a few minutes*

David: (watching me prepare it) "Mmm...hot ham and cheese."

Me: "But David, you don't like sandwiches."

David: "Um, I thought I didn't."

Few bites into the sandwich: "Claire, why didn't you tell me this would be a good sandwich?"

Three-quarters done: "You can make me a sandwich like this every day!"

=)

O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree, How Ever-Gone Your Branches

Yesterday was Candlemas Day. The Feast of the Presentation. And the traditional close of the Christmas Season. Duly so, our tree was taken down and hauled to the curb last Saturday.

A great deal of family tradition is wrapped up in our Christmas Tree...is it progressively decorated throughout the four weeks of Advent, in order to be completed by Christmas, and is left intact and lovely for the Christmastide celebration through the end of January.

But this season, our tree was even more special than usual. I know, I probably say that every year, but allow me to elaborate. In part, because the day this story happened, my parting comment was, "Well, at least it'll make a good blog post!" (And no, I didn't get to it). And in part because Veronica made sure to remind me this week that "Claire, you never did do your Christmas Tree post!"

So, in honor of the close of Christmas, the adventure this year's tree-cutting comes to you now, in style.

It was the first Sunday of Advent: over the last few years, we've established a pattern of cutting down our Christmas tree (the self-cutting down being a long-standing tradition for us) on the first Sunday of Advent. We then bring it home, rearrange our dining room to make room for it, and give it the honored placed in the big front window, where it sits in water for a week before anything more is done to it. The second week of Advent, lights are added; ornaments, the third; and finishing touches (namely, hand-done strings of cranberries and popcorn -- a custom from Mom's childhood) in the fourth week. Thus, the state of our tree progresses with the observance of Advent -- a decorating method which works very well for us.

But back to the cutting on the first Sunday of Advent...which, by the way, just so happened to be bitterly cold this season (a little like today -- we're talking wind chill here!). We had just had our first big snowfall of the winter a few days earlier, and this had come after a good rain-turned-to-ice storm. This didn't deter us, though: we simply bundled up like eskimos and went to the tree farm. Now, our all-time favorite type of tree is a Frasier Fur, and this took us to the far back field of the farm where they were located. We children hopped out of the car and took off in all directions, as we always seem to do upon reaching the tree field. ("Look at this one!" "No, this one's better!" "I found a good one over here!") In a moment or so we spotted some nicer-looking trees in the next lot over, and so scampered over there. Mom followed at a somewhat slower pace, and Dad decided to bring the car around.

(Significant detail: The rain-turned-to-ice storm meant lower sections of the mud road were covered with frozen-over water.) "Turning the car around" entailed driving over a section of ice...

"Okay, but don't get stuck!" were Mom's last words before she started to cross the field on foot toward us.

"Don't worry, I won't", Dad assured.

Next thing we know: Dad waving to us from across the field.

Yep, he was stuck...rather, the tires were cracked clear through the ice to the 8 inches or so of water underneath!

Well, we tried pushing. Which colored things up a bit (literally), because Dad had Sarah in the diver's seat with her foot on the gas and the car in reverse, while the rest of us tried pushing against the hood.

"Step on it a little," Dad instructed as we groaned and feet slipped. She did. "A little more...wait, not that much!" Thank goodness Dad was wearing full cover-alls, because they were now fully splattered with muddy water from those spinning tires! It's laughable...now. :)

When all our pushing efforts only produced more spinning tires and spurting muddy water, Veronica and I hiked back to the front of the farm (and I mean hiked!) to get some help.

"Sir?" I approached the gentlemen in the paying booth. "We're...stuck."

We didn't feel quite so silly when this very patient man said he'd spent hours the day before pulling other unfortunate (unwise?) cars from the same predicament. His truck, a chain, and some prayers got us out...but we still had the somewhat small detail left of getting the tree we came for. At this point, just about any tree looked rather nice, so we pretty much walked up to one nearby and said, "It's good; let's cut it." We got out of the cold and took our tree home.

But what Mom thought was the funniest part is that when we got it into the tree stand that night and looked at it again after all that adventure, we realized...it wasn't even a Frasier Fur.


(P.S. Everyone agreed the tree was worth it.)

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