When I realized I had done the same thing to my son that my mom had done to me…
“You are like the Samaritan woman,” my spiritual director said as he prayed over me.
His words shook me.
“I’m like the Samaritan woman,” I asked.
He nodded.
His words stung but his wise brown eyes were pools of compassion. He was no ordinary priest. I had been meeting with him for years and had had difficult and extraordinary experiences of God through him. Every time I met with him, the waiting room outside his office was filled with people from different parts of the world, who had heard of him and were waiting to see him for healing or encouragement. This quiet, humble and holy man had been God’s instrument for years and I had brought countless people to see him.
On the way home, I wrestled with his comparison. The Samaritan Woman? I didn’t have five husbands and the man I was living with was my husband. And then it occurred to me that maybe I was like the Samaritan Woman, because after her encounter with Christ, she ran into town to tell everyone that she had met the Messiah. Maybe that is what he meant.
Little did I know that his comparison would be prophetic…
Over the years, conflicts and problems in the home escalated and I ended up in therapy. For all my knowledge of the Catholic faith, I had very little self-awareness. I believed that I was holy because I was a devout Catholic who lived the sacramental life and was generous with my time and attention. Yet in Confession after Confession, I continued to admit committing the same sins over and over again. Much of my Confession time was focused on the sins of those closest to me and how they needed to change. Even while I listened to homilies at Mass, I thought more of the people that were not present, but needed to hear what I was hearing. I was certain that I was righteous, and that God was on my side. . .
Therapy began a journey of personal unveiling. I had been living in a House of Shame instead of a House of Grace and I had hurt the people closest to me and damaged our relationships. Each day brought opportunities for change, but it was not easy.
“Can you watch your sister for me for an hour or two? I need to run errands,” I asked my high school son who had just walked in from school and was headed up the stairs. In a nasty tone he said, “No.”
It was not what I had expected, and I was mad. I wanted to put him in his place and to level accusations like, ‘How dare you talk to me like that! You are a disrespectful and ungrateful brat. You’ve been away all weekend with your friends, and you can’t sit with your sister for an hour or two? How selfish of you.’
The battle with my ego was in full swing. Help me Jesus, I prayed. I remembered one of my first therapy sessions. “Ignore your first inclinations.”
I took a breath and shifted my focus away from myself and onto my son. I could see that his reaction was not equal to my request. He was mad. There was more behind his indignant refusal, and I wanted to know what it was.
“You are really mad. This isn’t like you. What’s going on,” I asked sincerely.
“It’s always me. You never ask my brothers,” he snapped.
The voice in my head retaliated, ‘He’s wrong! His brothers watch her when he isn’t around. He’s accusing you of being unfair, it’s not true.’
Jesus, help me stomp my pride and my ego.
My cheeks flushed. I felt exposed and ashamed.
Do I want to be right, or do I want to understand him and connect with him, I asked myself? Deep down I knew he was right. He was the one I always asked, because I believed he was the most responsible.
“You’re right, I always ask you,” I admitted.
His face softened.
“Well, it’s not fair.” His voice trailed off and his emotions intensified.
“You left me to take care of her when she was a tiny baby, and I was a wreck the whole time you were away because I didn’t feel like I was capable,” he said.
My mind flashed back to a memory. I was very young and home alone with my two brothers who were babies. I remembered the panic I had felt. I stood there looking up at him shocked by the realization that I had done the same thing to him that my mom had done to me.
“Tell me about it,” I murmured gently.
With deep emotion he recounted what he remembered. I moved closer to him.
“That’s awful. I should never have put you in that situation. My mom did the same thing to me. She thought I was more capable than my siblings, and she leaned heavily on me, depending on me for things I should never have been responsible for. I’m really sorry,” I admitted shakily.
Full of regret and pain from the hurt I had caused him, I resolved to make a change.
Remembering how I had felt as a child, and acknowledging my own anger and resentment toward my mom and siblings had helped me see the subtle ways I had unfairly leaned on him and avoided giving his brothers an opportunity to grow in responsibility. Worse, I began to see and accept that some of the tasks I had enlisted his help for were burdens meant for me or my husband to carry.
I made a concerted effort to split the responsibilities more fairly.
Our relationship improved, and as the pressure of responsibility was relieved, he felt less resentment towards his brothers.
Although conflicts continued to present opportunities for self-awareness, improved relationships increased my desire to squash my ego, extinguish the voice of accusations in my head, and accept and grow from my imperfections and mistakes.
One morning after Mass my sister-in-law approached me.
“I found a quote from a priest. I think it sums up what you mean when you say you are learning to move from a House of Shame to a House of Grace,” she said as she scrolled through her phone.
“Here, I found it,” she said.
“When the amount of your spirituality is equal to the amount of truth you can endure about yourself without escaping it, this is a sign of deep spirituality. That’s how transformation of the heart happens. Only Truth can set us free. And then we’ll be true adorers of the Lord. We will adore the Lord in spirit and in truth,” she said.
“Yes! That’s it,” I declared. “For so many years I thought all I needed was to know the truth of the Church. But there’s another truth I need. It’s a truth I can’t easily see or admit to in myself. It’s the battle within my heart and soul to live in a House of Grace rather than a House of Shame. And I can’t do it without Jesus.”
On the way home, I wondered where I had heard ‘Adore the Lord in spirit and in truth?’ As soon as I got home, I grabbed the Bible and found those exact words at the end of the Samaritan woman story. Chills ran down my spine. When Jesus exposed a personal truth about her to her, she acknowledged it instead of denying it, opening the floodgates of grace. “Come and see a man who told me everything I ever did. Could he be the Messiah?” (John 4:29)
My spiritual director was right. I am like the Samaritan woman.
Rosanne Pappas is an artist, author, and speaker. Pappas inspires others as she shares personal stories of God’s grace in her life. Married for over 35 years, she and her husband live in Florida, and they have four children.
From being a healthy Uni-student to a paraplegic, I refused to be confined to a wheelchair… In the initial years of University, I slipped a disc. Doctors assured me that being young and active, physiotherapy, and exercises could make me better, but despite all effort, I was in pain every day. I had acute episodes every few months, which kept me in bed for weeks and led to repeated hospital visits. Nevertheless, I held on to hope, until I slipped a second disc. That's when I realized my life had changed. Angry at God! I was born in Poland. My mom teaches theology, so I was brought up in the Catholic faith. Even when I moved to Scotland for University and then to England, I held onto it dearly, maybe not in a do-or-die manner, but it was always there. The initial phase of moving to a new country wasn’t easy. My home had been a furnace, with my parents fighting among themselves most of the time, so I had practically run away to this alien land. Leaving my difficult childhood behind, I wanted to enjoy my youth. Now, this pain was making it difficult for me to hold down jobs and keep myself financially balanced. I was angry at God. Yet, He wasn’t willing to let me go. Trapped at home in acute pain, I resorted to the only available pastime—my mother’s collection of religious books. Slowly, the retreats I attended and the books I read led me to realize that despite my distrust, God really wanted my relationship with Him to be strengthened. But I was also not totally over the anger that He wasn’t healing me yet. Eventually, I came to believe God was angry at me and didn’t want to heal me so I thought maybe I could trick him. I started looking for a holy priest with good ‘statistics’ for healing so that I could get healed when God was busy doing other things. Needless to say, that never happened. A Twist in My Journey One similar day in a prayer group, I was in so much pain. Fearing an acute episode, I was planning to leave when one of the members there asked if there was something I would like them to pray for. I was having some trouble at work, so I said yes. As they were praying, one of the men asked if there was some physical illness that I needed praying over. They were way down on my ‘healing rating’ list, so I didn’t trust that I would receive any relief, but I said ‘Yes’ anyway. They prayed and my pain was gone. I returned home, and it was still gone. I started jumping and twisting and moving around, and I was still okay. But nobody believed me when I told them I was healed. So, I stopped telling people; instead, I went to Medjugorje to thank Our Lady. There, I had an encounter with a man who was doing Reiki and wanted to pray over me. I refused, but before leaving he gave me a goodbye hug which left me worried because I recalled his words that his touch has power. I allowed fear to take over and falsely believed this evil’s touch was stronger than God. I woke up the next morning in excruciating pain, unable to walk. After four months of relief, my pain returned so acutely that I thought I wouldn’t even be able to make it back to the UK. When I returned, I found that my discs were touching the nerves, causing even more drastic pain for months. After six or seven months, the doctors decided that they needed to do the risky procedure on my spine that they had been keeping off for a long time. The surgery damaged a nerve in my leg, and my left leg was paralyzed knee-down. A new journey began there and then, a different one. I Know You Can Do it The very first time I arrived home in a wheelchair, my parents were terrified, but I was filled with joy. I loved all the technological stuff…every single time someone pressed a button on my wheelchair, I was excited like a kid. It was over the Christmas period, when my paralysis started regressing that I realized the extent of damage to my nerves. I was admitted to a hospital in Poland for a while. I didn't know how I was going to live. I was just praying to God that I needed another healing: “I need to find you again because I know you can do it.” So, I found a healing service and was convinced that I would be healed. A Moment You Don’t Wanna Miss It was Saturday and my father had initially not wanted to go. I just told him: “You don't want to miss out when your daughter is healed.” The original schedule had a Mass, followed by the healing service with Adoration. But when we arrived, the priest said they had to change the plan as the team that was meant to lead the healing service was not there. I remember thinking I don’t need any team: “I only need Jesus.” When the Mass started, I did not hear a single word. We were sitting on the side where there was a Divine Mercy picture. I looked at Jesus like I had never seen Him before. It was a stunning image. He looked so beautiful! I never saw that picture anywhere after that. All through Mass, the Holy Spirit was enveloping my soul. I was simply saying in my head ‘Thank you’ even though I didn’t know what I was thankful for. I wasn’t able to ask for healing, and it was frustrating because I needed healing. When adoration started I asked my mom to take me to the front, as close to Jesus as possible. There, seated up front, I felt someone touching, and massaging my back. I was getting so warm and cozy that I felt like I would fall asleep. So, I decided to walk back to the bench, forgetting that I could not ‘walk.’ I just walked back and my mom ran after me with my crutches, praising God, saying: “You are walking, you are walking.” I was healed, by Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament. As soon as I sat down, I heard a voice saying: “Your faith has healed you.” In my mind, I saw the image of the woman touching the cloak of Jesus when He was passing. Her story reminds me of mine. Nothing was helping until I reached this point where I started trusting Jesus. The healing came when I accepted Him and told Him: “You are all I need.” My left leg had lost all its muscles and even that grew back overnight. It was very significant because the doctors were measuring it before, and they found an astounding, unexplainable change. Shouting it Out This time around when I received the healing, I wanted to share it with everyone. I wasn't embarrassed anymore. I wanted everyone to know how amazing God is and how much He loves all of us. I'm no one special and I haven't done anything special to receive this healing. Being healed also doesn't mean that my life became super-comfortable overnight. There are still difficulties, but they are much lighter. I take them to the Eucharistic Adoration and He gives me solutions, or ideas on how I can deal with them, as well as the assurance and trust that He will deal with them.
By: Ania Graglewska
MoreWhat would you do when a stranger knocks at your door? What if the stranger turns out to be a difficult person? He says his name with emphasis, in Spanish, with a certain pride and dignity, so you’ll remember who he is—Jose Luis Sandoval Castro. He ended up on our doorstep at Saint Edward Catholic Church in Stockton, California, on a Sunday evening when we were celebrating our patron feast day. Somebody had dropped him off in our relatively poor, working-class neighborhood. The music and the crowd of people apparently drew him like a magnet to our parish grounds. Unveiling the Truth He was a man of mysterious origins—we did not know how he arrived at the church, let alone who and where his family was. What we did know was that he was 76 years old, bespectacled, dressed in a light-colored, well-worn vest, and was pulling his luggage by hand. He carried a document from the Immigration and Naturalization Service granting him permission to enter the country from Mexico. He had been robbed of his personal documents and carried no other identification with him. We set about exploring and discovering who Jose Luis was, his roots, his relatives, and whether they had any contact with him. He hailed from the town of Los Mochis in the state of Sinaloa, Mexico. Anger, vitriol, and venom spewed from his mouth. He claimed that his relatives had ripped him off and robbed him of his pension in the United States, where he had worked for years, as he went back and forth to Mexico. The relatives we contacted claimed they tried to help him on various occasions, yet he called them thieves. Who were we to believe? All we knew was that we had a wandering, regular drifter from Mexico in our hands, and we could not abandon him nor put the old, infirm man out on the street. Coldly, callously, one relative said: “Let him fend for himself on the streets.” He was a man of bluster, bravado, and gruffness, yet he flashed signs of vulnerability again and again. His eyes would water, and he would almost sob as he told how people had wronged and betrayed him. It seemed like he was all alone, deserted by others. The truth was—it was not easy to help him. He was ornery, stubborn, and proud. The oatmeal was either too chewy or not smooth enough, the coffee was too bitter and not sweet enough. He found fault with everything. He was a man with a gigantic chip on his shoulders, angry and disappointed with life. “People are bad and mean, they’ll hurt you,” he lamented. To that, I retorted that there were ‘Buena gente’ (good people) too. He was in the arena of the world where good and evil intersect, where people of goodness and kindness mixed together, like the wheat and chaff of the Gospel. More than a Welcome No matter his defects, no matter his attitude or his past, we knew we should welcome him and help him as one of the least of the brothers and sisters of Jesus. “When you welcomed the stranger, you welcomed me.” We were ministering to Jesus himself, opening the doors of hospitality to him. Lalo Lopez, one of our parishioners who took him in for a night, introduced him to his family, and took him to his son’s baseball game, observed: “God is testing us to see how good and obedient we are, as His children.” For several days, we put him up in the rectory. He was weak, spitting out phlegm every morning. It was obvious he could no longer roam and drift freely as he was accustomed to doing in his younger days. He had high blood pressure, over 200. On one visit to Stockton, he said he was hit behind the neck near a downtown church. A son in Culiacan, Mexico, said he “engendered me” and that he never really knew him as his dad, for he was never around, always traveling, heading for El Norte. The story of his life began to unfold. He had worked in the fields, harvesting cherries, many years ago. He had also sold ice cream in front of a local church a few years ago. He was, to quote the Bob Dylan classic song, “like one with no direction home, like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone.” As Jesus left the 99 sheep behind to rescue one stray sheep, we turned our attention to this one man, apparently shunned by his own. We welcomed him, housed him, fed him, and befriended him. We came to know his roots and his history, the dignity and sacredness of him as a person, and not just as another throwaway on the streets of the city. His plight was publicized on Facebook by a woman who transmits video messages of missing persons to Mexico. People asked: “How can we help?” One man said: “I’ll pay for his ticket home.” Jose Luis, an illiterate man, rough and unrefined, came to our parish fiesta, and by the grace of God, we tried, in some small way, to emulate the example of Saint Mother Teresa, who welcomed the poor, the lame, the sick, and the outcasts of the world into her circle of love, the banquet of life. In the words of Saint John Paul II, solidarity with others is not a feeling of vague compassion or shallow distress at the misfortunes of others. It is a reminder that we commit to the good of all because we are all responsible for one another.
By: Father Alvaro Delgado
MoreMy husband was given a death sentence; I did not want to live on without him, but his firm convictions surprised me. Five years ago, my world came crashing down when my husband was diagnosed with a terminal disease. The life and the future I envisioned were forever changed in an instant. It was terrifying and confusing; the most hopeless and helpless I’ve ever felt. It was as though I had been plunged into an abyss of constant fear and despair. I had only my faith to cling onto as I faced the darkest days I’ve ever known. Days of caring for my dying husband and days of preparing to face a life completely different than what I had planned. Chris and I had been together since we were teenagers. We were best friends and nearly inseparable. We had been married for over twenty years and were happily raising our four children in what seemed like an idyllic life. Now he was given a death sentence, and I didn’t know how I could live without him. In truth, part of me didn’t want to. One day, in a moment of brokenness, I confided in him that I thought I might die of a broken heart if I had to live without him. His reaction was not as desperate. He sternly but empathetically told me that I had to keep living until God called me home; that I couldn’t wish or waste my life away because his was coming to an end. He confidently assured me that he would be watching over me and our children from the other side of the veil. The Other Side of Grief Chris had an unshakeable faith in God’s love and mercy. Convinced that we wouldn’t be separated forever, he would often recite the phrase: “It’s just for a little while.” This was our constant reminder that no heartache lasts forever—and these words gave me boundless hope. Hope that God will guide us through this, and hope that I will be reunited with Chris in the next life. During these dark days, we clung to Our Lady in the Rosary—a devotion we were already familiar with. The Sorrowful Mysteries were recited more often than not because contemplating the suffering and death of Our Lord brought us closer to Him in our own suffering. The Divine Mercy Chaplet was a new devotion that we added to our daily routine. Like the Rosary, this was a humbling reminder of what Jesus willingly endured for our salvation, and somehow it made the cross we had been given seem less heavy. We began to more clearly see the beauty in suffering and sacrifice. I would mentally repeat the small prayer: “Oh, Most Sacred Heart of Jesus, I place all my trust in You” every hour of the day. It would bring a wave of calm over me whenever I felt a rush of uncertainty or fear. During this time, our prayer life deepened tremendously and gave us hope that Our Lord would be merciful to Chris and our family as we endured this painful journey. Today, it gives me hope that Chris is at peace, watching over and interceding for us from the other side—just as he promised. In these uncertain days of my new life, it’s hope that keeps me going and gives me strength. It has given me immeasurable gratitude for God’s endless love and tender mercy. Hope is a tremendous gift; an inextinguishable interior glow to focus on when we feel broken. Hope calms, hope strengthens, and hope heals. Hope takes courage to hold onto. As Saint John Paul II said: “I plead with you! Never, ever give up on hope. Never doubt, never tire and never become discouraged. Be not afraid.”
By: Mary Therese Emmons
MoreMartin de Porres was born in 16th-century Peru; he grew up facing the stigmas of both his mixed race and illegitimacy. After a barber-medical apprenticeship in his young years, he joined the Dominicans as a ‘lay helper’ and continued his barber work in the monastery. One day, Brother Francis Velasco Carabantes approached Martin, desiring to talk to this man whom people were already starting to believe was saintly. Martin was busy with his barber work; he absent-mindedly grabbed this novice and placed him in the barber’s chair. Brother Francis had no inclination to have his head shaved; he disliked the hairstyle that the Dominicans used. Before he could resist, Martin had finished his job, and Brother Francis was angry beyond expression. He started to shout, calling Martin all sorts of curse words. Martin was lost in prayer, and by the time he noticed that this novice was shouting, one of the rectors had seen the commotion and was scolding Brother Francis, who was severely punished and sent away. Martin, once he came to realize what had happened, went to the rector with all possible excuses. He begged forgiveness for this person who had verbally abused him, trying even to explain away the curse words used. Finally, he told the rector: “Everyone knows what a sinner I am.” The rector, who was aware of Martin’s saintly life, gave in to his request and forgave Brother Francis. Not satisfied with this, Brother Martin even sent fresh fruit, which was a rare delicacy in the monastery, to Brother Francis. How many times have we rejoiced in the ‘just’ punishments that our transgressors received? Let us pray to Saint Martin for the virtue of humility, to forgive and show the other cheek, as Jesus taught us to do.
By: Shalom Tidings
MoreWhen a terrible loss led Josh Blakesley into the light, music from his soul became a balm to many bleeding hearts. Growing up in the small town of Alexandria, Josh was a carefree child. He grew up listening to his Dad’s music; two elder sisters with a great music collection was a bonus that nurtured his musical taste. Without professional training or theoretical inputs, in an age with no internet and YouTube, Josh had what he would later call ‘a side entry’ into the world of music. Starting on the drums and simultaneously learning to sing, he was enamored by the likes of Don Henley and Phil Collins, following their legendary works through magazines and books. With his mother, though, Church was a non-negotiable matter. Thanks to her insistence, he went to Mass every Sunday. But he would leave God there and live the rest of his life on a totally different plane. Diving Deeper They met in Spanish class when he was 15, and unlike any other 15-year-old, she took him along to a prayer meeting. This was new and different from anything he had experienced before. Teenagers his age were coming together to worship the Lord. This worship experience was modern and engaging…with music, talks, and skits by people his age! He was intrigued, but he wouldn’t have kept coming back every week if Jenny hadn’t asked him to. Several months later, Jenny was hit by a drunk driver and killed in an accident. Her loss was a huge blow to the entire community. As he struggled with the grief of losing her, it triggered a realization that life here is finite, and there must be purpose in it, a reason that we are living. From that very moment, he began a journey, searching for answers to the questions that fascinated him…‘What is the reason for me? What is the purpose of what I’m doing right now? Why has God put me on this planet? What’s my role while I’m here?’ He started diving more into why we were here on this planet. In realizing that his gifts were from God, and in searching for a purpose in the use of these gifts, he realized that he wanted to give back to God and return the love. A Bolt of Realization He started playing music for Mass and getting involved in the liturgy. As he puts it: “There has been a faith part to my music and a music part to my faith as well. Those are still ingrained. I pray through music a lot”. And it is this experience of prayer that he tries to hand over to his brethren through writing and playing music. The “awesome and overwhelming” experience of leading people into worship and hearing them singing along makes him whisper so often: “The Lord is moving right now, and I don’t have to work.” Bridging the Gap Josh is now a full-time singer, songwriter, producer, music director, husband, and dad. Even while leading the music at Mass every Sunday, Josh knows that Mass can happen without music—what a musician does at Mass doesn’t bring Jesus any greater into the room; He is there regardless. What a musician can do is “elevate the worship of the faithful by bringing some extra beauty through music.” This indeed, is one of his life goals—to try and bridge that gap and bring quality music into the liturgy. But he doesn’t stop there; in addition to adding beauty to the Sacramental experience, he goes another mile to bring God to the people. Right from His Heart As a Catholic musician, Josh writes songs for the Mass and writes from the heart. Sometimes, when it comes out, it might not be out rightly Mass-material, but what comes out is still a tribute to God for the gift of music. He relates that his song Even in This was such an experience right from his heart. The Church community he was part of had just lost a teen, and seeing them go through the pain, the tragedy, and the devastation took him back to his own experience of losing a dear friend in his teenage years. Diving into the pain, he wrote that even in these darkest nights, God is with us. In the ‘valleys of pain’, in the ‘shattered, broken things’, in the ' hurt you cannot hide’ and the ‘fear you cannot fight’, he reassures his listeners that though you cannot see God, “You are not alone.” This is one message Josh wants to repeat to the world: “God is moving with you.”
By: Josh Blakesley
MoreI remember a time in my ministry when I had felt a fellow minister distancing himself from me for no apparent reason. It seemed like he was struggling, but he wouldn’t share it with me. One Lenten day, burdened by this thought, I stood in my office and cried out to the Lord in my heart: “Jesus, I feel so left out of this person’s life.” Immediately, I heard Jesus respond with these sad words: “I know how you feel. It happens to Me every day.” Wow! I felt my own heart pierced, and tears flooded my eyes. I knew these words were a treasure. I continued for months to unpack that grace. Since my Baptism in the Holy Spirit twenty years ago, I had considered myself to have a deep personal relationship with Jesus. But this Word from my precious Savior and Lord opened a whole new insight into Jesus’ Heart. “Yes, Jesus, so many people forget You, don’t they? And me too—how often am I going about my tasks, forgetting to bring my problems and thoughts to You? All the while, You wait for me to turn back to You, who looks on me with such love.” In my prayer, I kept processing those words. “I know better now how You feel when someone rejects You, accuses or blames You, or does not talk to You for days or even years.” I would more consciously take my own sorrows to Jesus and tell Him: “Jesus, my Beloved, You feel this same sadness that I am feeling. I offer my little hurt to console You for so many people, including myself, who fail to console You.” I saw in a new way my favorite image, Jesus with His Sacred Heart’s rays of love flowing out, lamenting to Saint Margaret Mary: “Look at My Heart that loves people so much—but receives so little love in return.” Truly, Jesus gives me little trials daily so I can have a tiny taste of what He endured for us. I will always remember that moment of agony that brought me closer to the amazing, tender, long-suffering love of our dear Lord Jesus.
By: Sister Jane M. Abeln SMIC
MoreWould my life ever return to normal? How can I possibly continue my work? Brooding over these, a terrible solution popped into my head… I was finding life extremely stressful. In my fifth year at college, the onset of bipolar disorder was hindering my efforts to complete my teaching degree. I had no diagnosis yet, but I was plagued with insomnia, and I looked frazzled and unkempt, which impeded my prospects of employment as a teacher. Since I had strong natural tendencies toward perfectionism, I felt so ashamed and feared that I was letting everyone down. I spiraled into anger, despondency, and depression. People were concerned about my decline and tried to help. I was even sent to the hospital by ambulance from the school, but doctors could find nothing wrong except elevated blood pressure. I prayed but found no consolation. Even Easter Mass—my favorite time—didn’t break the vicious cycle. Why wouldn’t Jesus help me? I felt so angry with Him. Finally, I just stopped praying. As this continued, day after day, month after month, I didn’t know what to do. Would my life ever return to normal? It seemed unlikely. As graduation approached, my fear increased. Teaching is a tough job with few breaks, and the students would need me to remain level-headed while dealing with their many needs and providing a good learning environment. How could I possibly do this in my current state? A terrible solution popped into my head: “You should just kill yourself.” Instead of casting off that thought and sending it straight back to hell where it belonged, I let it sit. It seemed like a simple, logical answer to my dilemma. I just wanted to be numb instead of under constant attack. To my utter regret, I chose despair. But, in what I expected to be my last moments, I thought of my family and the type of person I had once been. In genuine remorse, I raised my head to the heavens and said: “I’m so sorry, Jesus. Sorry for everything. Just give me what I deserve.” I thought those would be the last words I would utter in this life. But God had other plans. Listening to the Divine My mother was, by providence, praying the Divine Mercy Chaplet at that very moment. Suddenly, she heard the words loud and clear in her heart “Go find Ellen.” She obediently set aside her rosary beads and found me on the floor of the garage. She caught on quickly, exclaiming in horror: “What are you doing?!” while she pulled me into the house. My parents were heartbroken. There’s no rulebook for times such as these, but they decided to take me to Mass. I was totally broken, and I needed a Savior more than ever before. I longed for a come-to-Jesus moment, but I was convinced that I was the last person in the world He would ever want to see. I wanted to believe that Jesus is my Shepherd and would come after His lost sheep, but it was hard because nothing had changed. I was still consumed by intense self-hatred, oppressed by darkness. It was almost physically painful. During the preparation of the gifts, I broke down in tears. I had not cried for a really long time, but once I started, I couldn’t stop. I was at the end of my own strength, with no idea where to go next. But as I wept, the weight slowly lifted, and I felt myself enfolded in His Divine Mercy. I didn’t deserve it, but He gave me the gift of Himself, and I knew that He loved me the same at my lowest point as much as He loved me at my highest point. In Pursuit of Love In the days to come, I could barely face God, but He kept showing up and pursuing me in the little things. I re-established communication with Jesus with the aid of a Divine Mercy picture in our living room. I tried to talk, mostly complaining about the struggle and then feeling bad about it in light of the recent rescue. Weirdly, I thought I could hear a tender voice whispering: “Did you really think I would leave you to die? I love you. I will never forsake you. I promise to never leave you. All is forgiven. Trust in my mercy.” I wanted to believe this, but I couldn’t trust that it was true. I was growing discouraged at the walls I was erecting, but I kept chatting with Jesus: “How do I learn to trust You?” The answer surprised me. Where do you go when you feel no hope but have to go on living? When you feel totally unlovable, too proud to accept anything yet desperately wanting to be humble? In other words, where do you want to go when you want a full reconciliation with the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit but are too scared and disbelieving of a loving reception to find your way home? The answer is the Blessed Virgin Mary, Mother of God, and Queen of Heaven. While I was learning to trust, my awkward attempts did not displease Jesus. He was calling me closer, closer to His Sacred Heart, through His Blessed Mother. I fell in love with Him and His faithfulness. I could admit everything to Mary. Although I feared that I could not keep my promise to my earthly mother because, on my own, I was still barely mustering the will to live, my mother inspired me to consecrate my life to Mary, trusting that she would help me get through this. I didn’t know much about what that meant, but 33 Days to Morning Glory and Consoling the Heart of Jesus by Father Michael E. Gaitley, MIC, helped me understand. The Blessed Mother is always willing to be our intercessor, and she will never turn down a request from a child wanting to return to Jesus. As I went through the consecration, I resolved never to attempt suicide again with the words: “No matter what happens, I will not quit.” Meanwhile, I started taking long walks on the beach while I talked with God the Father and meditated on the parable of the prodigal son. I tried to put myself in the shoes of the prodigal son, but it took me some time to get close to God the Father. First, I imagined Him at a distance, then walking toward me. Another day, I pictured Him running towards me even though it made Him look ridiculous to His friends and neighbors. Finally, the day came when I could picture myself in the arms of the Father, then being welcomed not just to His home but to my seat at the family table. As I envisaged Him pulling out a chair for me, I was no longer a headstrong young woman but a 10-year-old girl with ridiculous glasses and a bob haircut. When I accepted the Father’s love for me, I became like a little child again, living in the present moment and trusting Him completely. I fell in love with God and His faithfulness. My Good Shepherd has saved me from the prison of fear and anger, continuing to lead me along the safe path and carrying me when I falter. Now, I want to share my story so that everyone can know God’s goodness and love. His Sacred Heart is welling up with tender love and mercy just for you. He wants to love you lavishly, and I encourage you to welcome Him without fear. He will never abandon you or let you down. Step into His light and come home.
By: Ellen Wilson
MoreThrough the darkest valleys and toughest nights, Belinda heard a voice that kept calling her back. My mother walked out on us when I was around eleven. At the time, I thought that she left because she didn't want me. But in fact, after years of silently suffering through marital abuse, she couldn’t hold on anymore. As much as she wanted to save us, my father had threatened to kill her if she took us with her. It was too much to take in at such a young age, and as I was striving hard to navigate through this difficult time, my father started a cycle of abuse that would haunt me for years to come. Valleys and Hills To numb the pain of my father’s abuse and compensate for the loneliness of my mother’s abandonment, I started resorting to all kinds of ‘relief’ mechanisms. And at a point when I couldn’t stand the abuse anymore, I ran away with Charles, my boyfriend from school. I reconnected with my mother during this time and lived with her and her new husband for a while. At 17, I married Charles. His family had a history of incarceration, and he followed suit soon enough. I kept hanging out with the same bunch of people, and eventually, I, too, fell into crime. At 19, I got sentenced to prison for the first time—five years for aggravated assault. In prison, I felt more alone than I had ever been in my life. Everyone who was supposed to love and nurture me had abandoned me, used me, and abused me. I remember giving up, even trying to end my life. For a long time, I kept on spiraling downwards until I met Sharon and Joyce. They had given their lives to the Lord. Though I had no clue about Jesus, I thought I'd give it a try as I didn't have anything else. There, trapped inside those walls, I started a new life with Christ. Falling, Rising, Learning… About a year and a half into my sentence, I came up for parole. Somehow in my heart, I just knew I was going to make parole because I'd been living for Jesus. I felt like I was doing all the right things, so when the denial came back with a year set off, I just didn't understand. I started questioning God and was quite angry. It was at this time that I was transferred to another correctional facility. At the end of the church services, when the chaplain reached out for a handshake, I flinched and withdrew. He was a Spirit-filled man, and the Holy Spirit had shown him that I had been hurt. The next morning, he asked to see me. There in his office, as he asked about what had happened to me and how I was hurting, I opened up and shared for the first time in my life. Finally, out of prison and in private rehab, I started a job and was slowly getting a hold on my new life when I met Steven. I started going out with him, and we got pregnant. I remember being excited about it. As he wanted to make it right, we got married and started a family. That marked the beginning of probably the worst 17 years of my life, marked by his physical abuse and infidelity and the continuing influence of drugs and crime. He would even go on to hurt our kids, and this once sent me into a rage—I wanted to shoot him. At that moment, I heard these verses: “Vengeance is mine, I will repay.” (Romans 12:19) and “The Lord will fight for you” (Exodus 14:14), and that prompted me to let him go. Never a Criminal I was never able to be a criminal for long; God would just arrest me and try to get me back on track. In spite of His repeated efforts, I wasn't living for Him. I always kept God back, although I knew He was there. After a series of arrests and releases, I finally came home for good in 1996. I got back in touch with the Church and finally started building a true and sincere relationship with Jesus. The Church slowly became my life; I never really had that kind of a relationship with Jesus before. I just couldn't get enough of it because I started to see that it's not the things that I've done but who I am in Christ that's going to keep me on this road. But, the real conversion happened with Bridges to Life*. How can I Not? Even though I hadn’t been a participant in the program as an offender, being able to facilitate in those small groups was a blessing I hadn’t anticipated—one that would change my life in beautiful ways. When I heard other women and men share their stories, something clicked inside of me. It affirmed me that I was not the only one and encouraged me to show up time and again. I would be so tired and worn out from work, but I would walk into the prisons and just be rejuvenated because I knew that that was where I was supposed to be. Bridges to Life is about learning to forgive yourself; not only did helping others help me become whole, it also helped me heal…and I am still healing. First, it was my mother. She had cancer, and I brought her home; I looked after her for as long as she stayed until she passed away peacefully at my home. In 2005, my father’s cancer came back, and the doctors estimated he had at most six months. I brought him home too. Everybody told me not to take in this man after what he did to me. I asked: “how can I not?” Jesus forgave me, and I feel that God would want me to do this. Had I chosen to hold on to the bitterness or hatred toward my parents for the abandonment and the abuse, I don't know if they would have given their lives to the Lord. Just looking back over my life, I see how Jesus kept pursuing me and trying to help me. I was so resistant to feeling what was new, and it was so easy to stay in what was comfortable, but I am grateful to Jesus that I was able to finally completely surrender to Him. He is my Savior, He is my rock, and He is my friend. I just cannot imagine a life without Jesus.
By: Belinda Honey
MoreAre you quick to judge others? Are you hesitant to help someone in need? Then, it’s time to reflect! It was just another day for me. Returning from the market, weary from the day’s labor, collecting Roofus from the Synagogue school… However, something felt different that day. The wind was whispering in my ear, and even the sky was more expressive than usual. Commotion from a crowd in the streets confirmed for me that today, something was going to change. Then, I saw Him—His body so disfigured that I turned Roofus away from this fearful sight. The poor boy gripped my arm with all his might—he was terrified. The way this man, well, what was left of Him, was being handled must mean he had done something terrible. I could not bear to stand and watch, but as I began to leave, I was seized by a Roman soldier. To my horror, they commanded me to help this man to bear His heavy load. I knew this meant trouble. Despite resisting, they asked me to help Him. What a mess! I did not want to associate with a sinner. How humiliating! To carry a cross whilst all of them watched? I knew there was no escape, though, so I asked my neighbor Vanessa to take Roofus home because this trial would take a while. I walked over to Him—filthy, bloody, and disfigured. I wondered what he had done to deserve this. Whatever be it, this punishment was way too cruel. The bystanders were yelling out ‘blasphemer,’ ‘liar,’ and ‘King of the Jews,’ whilst others were spitting at him and abusing him. I had never been so humiliated and mentally tortured like this before. After taking only about ten to fifteen steps with him, he fell to the ground, face first. For this trial to end, he needed to get up, so I bent over to help him up. Then, in his eyes, I saw something that changed me. I saw compassion and love? How could this be? No fear, no anger, no hatred—just love and sympathy. I was taken aback, whilst with those eyes, He looked at me and held my hand to get back up. I could no longer hear or see the people around me. As I held the Cross on my one shoulder and Him on my other, I could only keep looking at Him. I saw the blood, the wounds, the spit, the dirt, everything that could no longer hide the divinity of His face. Now I heard only the beating of His heart and His labored breathing…He was struggling, yet so very, very strong. Amid all the noise of the people screaming, abusing, and scurrying about, I felt as though He was speaking to me. Everything else I had done till that point, good or bad, seemed pointless. When the Roman soldiers pulled Him from me to drag Him to the place of crucifixion, they shoved me aside, and I fell to the ground. He had to continue on His own. I lay there on the ground as people trampled over me. I did not know what to do next. All I knew was that Iife was never going to be the same again. I could no longer hear the crowd but only the silence and the sound of my heart beating. I was reminded of the sound of His tender heart. A few hours later, as I was about to get up to leave, the expressive sky from earlier began to speak. The ground beneath me shook! I looked ahead at the top of Calvary and saw Him, arms stretched and head bowed, for me. I know now that the blood splattered on my garment that day belonged to the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world. He cleansed me with His blood. *** *** *** This is how I imagine Simon of Cyrene recalling his experience of the day he was asked to help Jesus carry the Cross to Calvary. He had probably heard very little of Jesus till that day, but I am very sure that he was not the same person after he helped the Savior carry that Cross. This Lenten season, Simon asks us to look into ourselves: Have we been too quick to judge people? Sometimes, we are too quick to believe what our instincts tell us about somebody. Just like Simon, we may let our judgments come in the way of helping others. Simon saw Jesus being scourged and assumed that He ought to have done something wrong. There might have been times when we let our presumptions about a person come in the way of loving them as Christ called us to. Are we hesitant to help some people? Shouldn’t we see Jesus in others and reach out to help them? Jesus asks us to love not only our friends but also strangers and enemies. Mother Teresa, being the perfect example of loving strangers, showed us how to see the face of Jesus in everyone. Who better to point at for an example of loving enemies than Jesus Christ Himself? He loved those who hated Him and prayed for those who persecuted Him. Like Simon, we may feel hesitant about reaching out to strangers or enemies, but Christ calls us to love our brothers and sisters just as He did. He died for their sins as much as He died for yours. Lord Jesus, thank You for giving us the example of Simon of Cyrene, who became a great witness for following Your Way. Heavenly Father, grant us the grace to become Your witnesses by reaching out to those in need.
By: Mishael Devassy
MoreJudging others is easy, but often enough, we go totally wrong in our judgment about others. I remember an old fellow who used to come to Saturday night Mass. He was much in need of a bath and clean clothes. Quite frankly, he stunk. You can't blame those who didn't want to be subject to this awful smell. He walked two or three miles every day around our little town, picking up trash, and lived in an old, run-down shack all by himself. It is easy for us to judge appearances. Isn't it? I suppose it is a natural part of being human. I don't know how many times my judgments about a person were totally wrong. In fact, it is quite difficult, if not impossible, to look beyond appearances without God's help. This man, for instance, despite his odd personality, was very faithful about participating in Mass every week. One day, I decided I would sit next to him at Mass regularly. Yes, he stunk, but he was also in need of love from others. By God's grace, the stink didn't bother me much. During the sign of peace, I would look him in the eye, smile, and greet him with a sincere: “Peace of Christ be with you.” Never Miss This When I entertain judgments about a person, I miss the opportunity that God wants to give me—an opportunity to see beyond the physical appearance and look into the person's heart. That is what Jesus did to each person He encountered on His journey, and He continues to look beyond our yuck and look at our hearts. I remember a time, being many years away from my Catholic faith, I sat in the Church parking lot, trying to muster enough courage to walk through the doors to attend Mass. I was so afraid that others would judge me and not welcome me back. I asked Jesus to walk in with me. Upon entering the Church, I was greeted by the Deacon, who gave me a big smile and a hug, and said: “Welcome.” That smile and hug were what I needed to feel like I belonged and was home again. Choosing to sit with the old man who stunk was my way of “paying it forward.” I knew how desperately I wanted to feel welcomed, to feel that I belonged and I mattered. Let us not hesitate to welcome each other, especially those who are difficult to be around.
By: Connie Beckman
MoreAs a radio reporter, I had covered everything from Presidential visits to prison riots, trying to find the lasting meaning behind the news events of the day. It could be exciting, but also heartbreaking—serving as a witness to history. It was a job that I had loved from the very beginning, and I found it tough to let go of my work each day and ease back into life on the home front. It seemed as if there were always stories begging to be covered, and I was on a continual quest to discover the story that would lead to the next award—a recognition that would fill the hole within my heart—the God-shaped hole that only the Almighty could close and bring me true healing. One of the final stories I covered as a secular news reporter was a seemingly simple feature about a service project at a nursing home. It would never make the national news, but it ended up profoundly changing my life in a way that I could not have anticipated. A group of teenagers had been recruited to create a garden at the nursing home. The teens had experienced their share of troubles, and the organizer of the project thought that the physical labor might do their souls some good. The surprising element in this tale was how enthusiastic these young people were to create this garden. They went well beyond the requirements of the assignment, fashioning a floral masterpiece, complete with a waterfall. The garden proved to be an oasis of serenity for the senior citizens at the facility. One resident who was largely uncommunicative had been touched by the kindness of these strangers, and her corner of the world became more beautiful. It occurred to me that these teenagers had overcome their personal struggles and had fulfilled the vision that God had intended. The situation made me think if I was living the life that God intended? Ultimately, I left the world of secular broadcasting behind and began working for a non-profit dedicated to the needs of pregnant women and their children. Ironically, through podcasts, radio, and television interviews, I am still using my voice to bring attention to stories that sing of the power and promise of the human spirit. Speaking from experience, I can now say that life is, in fact, more beautiful when I allow the Master Gardener, the Creator of all things, to plan out my days. I have surrendered to Him and found a peace I never dreamed possible. I invite you to turn to Him and ask Him to direct your path. Once you let the Lord into the secret garden that lies deep within your heart, you would be surprised by the roses you find there.
By: Maria V. Gallagher
MoreAll that we have is a gift from Above, but ever thought what God intended when He gave it to you? By the time I was born as the youngest of three boys, my family was Christian but non-practicing. My parents weren’t Catholic to start with, so on my first day as a freshman at Providence Catholic High School, I remember being scared to death because I had never met a priest or a religious sister. I did not know the first thing about the Catholic Mass but was told to attend all Masses at school. I had to take theology courses, too, but since my intention of going there was their baseball program, I didn’t mind. Searching for Something… As a 14-year-old, one of my biggest fears was being embarrassed in front of my peers–that I’d be asked the most basic question of the faith and be unable to answer. But Sister Margaret, who taught us freshman theology, never put me on the spot. One day after class, she waited at the doorway for me. I had every intention of walking right by, but she stopped me, looked into my eyes, and said: “Burke, you're searching for something.” I tried to walk away, but again she stopped me and said: “Read this.” She gave me my first Bible. That evening, after my baseball practice, homework, and dinner, I went to my room, shut the doors, and started reading the gospel of Matthew from the Bible. It really intrigued me in such a way that this became a habit. Gradually, theology became one of my favorite classes. During the all-school Masses, I'd watch my friends go for Communion and be curious about their reverence for this piece of bread they were receiving. On one of our junior retreats, during the final day of Mass, I had a profound encounter with the Eucharist that made me realize the power of God within me. The priest gathered us around the altar for the Consecration and Communion; I'd never been that close to the altar. During Communion, the priest came to each of us with the Eucharist; I didn’t know what to do. As he approached me and said: “The body of Christ,” my intention was to tell him that I'm not Catholic. But as I opened my mouth, he placed the Consecrated Host on my tongue. I felt at that moment the power of God going through my entire body. Though I now know that for an unbaptized person–for that matter, even a baptized person who doesn’t believe in the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist–it isn’t right to receive the Eucharist, the circumstances were such that I received my first Communion by accident! This incident changed my life in profound ways; I started off by studying more about the faith, and by the time I moved to Mississippi, I had become a Catholic who could receive Christ for real every day. The Ebb and Flow Baseball was going well, and the team was often ranked nationally. During my senior year, when I got into the zone, I hit a grand slam which got us to the College World Series. I was named the Most Valuable Player of that tournament. But a couple of errors in the following three games scrapped it all. During the World Series Major League Draft, eight of my teammates were drafted, but my phone remained silent. I was crushed. I came home not knowing what to do. A couple of weeks later, my former high school baseball coach who had become a coach for the Chicago White Sox called and told me about the tryout to play professional baseball. That went well for me, as the next day, I signed a contract with the White Sox. But it didn't go as I had planned. At the end of the season, they said: “Burke, you do everything well and nothing great, we're looking for greatness.” They didn't renew my contract. I kept on trying for a while, but finally, I had to face the fact that it was over. I was 23 years old with just a degree in Math. Someone mentioned that there was a possible career in actuarial science, so I got a job and made a lot of money. But the stress was so low that it got boring, so I quit my job. After completing my Master's from Ohio University, I landed a job with the Kane County Cougars, a minor league baseball team. After four years, I had two job offers on the table–two dream jobs in baseball at the same time! I had just started dating Stephanie, who I'd met at the local church. One night, we were out for dinner and as we were leaving the restaurant, she said: “Let's stop by the Church for Eucharistic Adoration.” Although I had been Catholic for at least eight or nine years, I had never heard of Eucharistic Adoration. She explained that we would be spending an hour of quiet prayer before the Blessed Sacrament. There, I realized that in silence, we encounter God. We started to go every Tuesday night for an hour of Adoration, and I went from being afraid of silence to craving for silence. It became the most peaceful hour of my week. And in my heart, priesthood kept rising to the surface. It was like God was asking me to be a priest; a gentle invitation over and over. My family members, friends, and even complete strangers started coming to me saying they thought I would make a good priest. I felt that the Holy Spirit was working both internally and externally. So, I talked to Stephanie, and she told me that if that was my call, I had to follow it. I had every intention of going to the seminary for a year and then returning to Stephanie. But as I walked through the doors of the seminary, I felt this peace that never went away. It was during May of ‘98, the end of my first year of seminary, when I received a call from my dad asking to go home immediately because my mom was diagnosed with lung cancer, which had spread to the brain and liver. I dropped everything and went home. It was stage four. Though we kept hoping, two months later, she collapsed into my arms while watching television. It was horrific. As I looked out the window and saw my mom's car in the driveway, I imagined my mother coming face-to-face with God. God was not asking her about the kind of car she drove or how much money she made, but instead, something more fundamental, like: “Did you love the Lord your God with your whole heart, mind, and soul, and love your neighbor as yourself?” My mother, even though she wasn't a churchgoer, had taught us about God’s love. Better than Ever I went through a crisis of faith. I even wondered if there was life after death. I was angry with God for taking away the most important person in my life, but as it turned out, God saw me through that. I stayed and was ordained a priest. I thank God that I never made it to the major leagues because the joy and peace that I've experienced as a priest are far beyond anything that I had ever experienced on the baseball field. I have not only been the Catholic chaplain for the Chicago Cubs, but I have also established Catholic sports camps, which are now expanding. It's just one way God allowed me to assimilate what I love in sports and bring it into my ministry. God gives us gifts for a reason, and he wishes for us to use those gifts for His glory, in ways that we never imagined.
By: Father Burke Masters
MoreI had to finally accept that my singing was terrible, but I was not ready to give up, not yet… “If God calls you to be a religious sister, He will give you what you need to become one!” This was one of the vaguest pieces of advice I received before becoming a postulant in the Dominican Sisters of Mary Immaculate Province. However, it proved to be the most practical advice in the first year of my religious life when I encountered a great challenge—my singing voice. Of course, I can Sing! I entered the convent thinking and believing that I had a beautiful voice; a voice that I could use to praise God. And I did use it to participate in the reverent worship that took place daily in the convent’s chapel. I sang the hymns and recited the divine office with all my being and of course, with all of my strength and volume. I thought that I pleased God and impressed everyone during our common prayer time. However, two weeks into the postulancy, my postulant classmate, Phi, revealed to me the painful truth that I cannot sing. With admirable courage, Phi put her hand on my shoulder and sincerely asked me one day: “Do you know that you sing flat?” Although I had taken a music appreciation class in college and had a sense of what Phi meant, I brazened myself: “What is flat?” “You know, it is when your voice goes off key and you cannot sing higher…” Phi tried to explain. Embarrassed, I pretended not to understand her. “I don’t know what you mean.” I walked away from her thinking that she must be jealous of my voice. But this disillusionment did not last very long. One novice sister tactfully dropped a hint one evening before vespers without speaking directly about me: “What strange noise there is in the chapel these past few days!” I felt conscious of her words, but still, I did not accept the truth. My pride clouded my mind. However, another postulant, Karen, encouraged me: “If you can sing, sing loudly. If you can’t sing, sing twice as loud so as to get even with God.” I followed her advice and sang even louder than before to get even with God for not gifting me a lovely singing voice. My community was tortured every time I was in the chapel. What if You Can’t? It was only when I was offered voice lessons instead of the desired piano lessons like the other postulants that I came to the full realization of the truth—I must have sung horribly to have merited these lessons. My pride was deflated. I was dejected. Then, I remembered the advice that was given to me: “If God calls you to be a religious sister, He will give you what you need to become one!” In tears and embarrassment, I went to the chapel and told the Lord that I needed a singing voice good enough to offer Him praises without doing harm to the sisters’ eardrums. I added a twist to this request though—that it would also be a sign of my vocation as a Dominican sister if I could also cantor at the community’s Sunday Mass. God met my request and challenge. But of course, He did not instantly grant me a miracle without having me sweat for it. That would totally spoil me! Yet like an excellent father, He allowed me to experience the pain of voice training and to persevere in daily practice. He also gave me what I needed, namely, time and space for voice lessons and a dedicated and patient voice teacher, Sister Anna Pauline. Through those weekly and rigorous private voice lessons, I gradually made improvements. At the end of the sixth month, I was asked to cantor at the community’s Mass and many times afterward. I will Keep on…Singing However, the definitive affirmation of my vocation as a Dominican sister came as a delightful surprise one day when I was teaching a religion class. While most of my kindergarten students were sitting quietly and listening attentively to my retelling of the story of the Good Shepherd, many were antsy and distracted. I decided to draw their attention to this loving story, so I sang the song instead. Gabby, who was stretching herself out on the classroom rug a little far off from the rest of her classmates, suddenly exclaimed: “Sister, you have a beautiful voice!” Then she moved closer to me. Somehow, my singing captured Gabby’s attention and the rest of the class that day. So, for the rest of my years as an elementary religion teacher, I used that God-given voice to teach my students about God’s love. I am sure that God gave me a singing voice not to puff up my pride but to aid me in my service of His kingdom. My vocation is thus affirmed. If God calls you to any vocation, be assured that He will give you whatever you need—even a singing voice.
By: Sister Theresa Joseph Nguyen, O.P.
MoreLearning to drive was a repeated big hurdle in my life. This incident changed that for me! Ten years ago, God connected me with my husband-to-be for the first time. I was living in Sri Lanka at the time while he lived in Australia. Filled with the new energy that falling in love brings, I signed up with a driving school to prepare for driving in ‘the land down under’ once I moved there. Having never driven before, I was anxious yet determined, and by the grace of God, I obtained my driving license on the first attempt. Starting Small Soon after moving to Australia, I signed up with a local driving school and purchased a second-hand car to keep up the practice. The first mistake I made was to let my husband attempt to teach me. You can well imagine how that turned out! My own fears kept pulling me back no matter how much I learnt. I would do alright until a car drove up behind me and this would make me nervous, as though I was under scrutiny and in its way—a very illogical fear for someone in their late twenties. Taking lessons from a driving instructor didn’t help either. I became hesitant to practice and my car slowly gathered dust while I tried to convince myself that driving was not for me. To get to work and back, I took two buses and a train each way but could not bring myself to drive. I sold my car. Reluctant to Give Up This way of life was clearly not working for us, so I decided to try once more. It was now 2017 and I signed up with a new instructor. There seemed to be some improvement. However, during my first driving test, it was all butterflies once more. My instructor was quite cross, and while the examiner left to assess my score, she said I would certainly fail. Disappointed and with a heavy heart, I walked into the driving center to receive the verdict. The examiner said that I had passed! Shocked and in disbelief, I thanked God with all my heart. My husband was overjoyed as well, and based on my newfound confidence, we purchased a second-hand car again, very hopeful that it was going to work this time around. It started well and then slowly but surely, it all started creeping back in—the nervousness, the fear, the hesitation. A little over six months, and I had lost all confidence again. I sold my car. My patient husband believed I wasn’t doing justice to my abilities, so he not only prayed for me but also kept believing in me even when I couldn’t find the courage to. Knock Knock Years rolled on…In 2020, we were participating in an online inner-healing service. The moving service was nearing its end, and I hadn’t felt anything specifically until then. It must have been my husband’s prayers that moved Heaven for when the priest was praying for healing of inner wounds, I had a vivid memory of playing bumper cars in a theme park. I must have been about six years old and had been very eager to try this out. Picking out a little pink car, I hopped in and was happily driving it when suddenly, I felt the car behind bump into mine repeatedly. Although this was part of the game, I felt attacked and now in that present moment, reliving that gripping fear and uneasiness which was exactly how I felt while driving! I remember being anxious to have my father get me out of there as soon as possible. This was a memory that hadn’t occurred to me even once in all those years since the incident. Our Lord Jesus Christ was healing me of the root cause of the problem. It was also a profound statement to me that God our Father had created me with the ability to drive, which is what I had been questioning constantly. Eager to get back on the road, I drove a long way with my husband and the liberation was evident. I had improved immensely and was no longer bothered by the car right behind me. One would think this was the final jolt I needed to turn our life around. Incorrigible as I was, and since my driving practice was not persistent, I was still not at my best. With our newborn filling up a large part of my life, my priorities had shifted. The little city apartment we lived in was unsuitable for raising our little one. A suburban life would be more in line with the upbringing we wished to provide him with, and we could make this move if I could drive around with ease. Santo Niño to the Rescue My mother-in-law was visiting us at the time. An ardent devotee of the Infant Jesus of Prague, she gave me a Novena to the Infant Jesus, and I said the prayer daily, pleading for a miracle. One first Friday soon after completing the Novena, we were looking for a church to celebrate Holy Mass in honor of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. All the churches we visited were closed until we finally arrived at one that was not only open but celebrating the feast of Santo Niño* (Holy Child). The special Holy Mass and celebrations were filled with reverence and love for the child Jesus. The end of the celebration was marked by the choir playing a powerful, resounding drumbeat that filled the atmosphere. Every strike of that drum pierced my soul and I felt all those fears take flight. A new courage and hope took its place. My confidence no longer being in my own abilities, but in what Jesus could do within me. God’s steadfast love had been running after me in spite of my shortcomings and it was about time I surrendered all to Him. Completing a new set of lessons with a driving instructor, we packed up and moved to the suburbs. My father and father-in-law helped me with ironing out the last few kinks in my driving and my mother prayed for me. Fast forward seven years since obtaining a license; I am now driving daily with ease. Cruising along a five-lane stretch of the freeway at 100 kilometers an hour is a constant reminder to me of the unfathomable power and mercy of our God. All glory, honor, and praise be to Jesus for taking the steering wheel and turning my family’s life around. “I can do all things through Him who strengthens me.” - Philippians 4:13 * The Santo Niño de Cebú is a miraculous image of the Infant Jesus venerated by the Filipino Catholic community
By: Michelle Harold
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