Who knew that the Real Housewives of New Jersey followed the Sunday Scripture readings from the Common Lectionary? I was knocked on my keister with that discovery.
If you think your family is nuts, spend five minutes watching the Real Housewives of New Jersey on the Bravo Network and you'll see family disfunction ratcheted up to a whole new level. This Sunday, four of the five featured "housewives" appeared on the second part of the season wrap up reunion show, where they rehashed much of the season's antics. While an hour of finger pointing, head bobbing and hair tossing was truly entertaining, I was dumbfounded when host Andy Cohen asked the women a question I'd expect to hear at a Bible study: "What does the word 'family' mean to you?"
The women didn't miss a beat. They easily shifted from endless accusations of copycatting, lying and cheating--to philosophical musings. And they did this without rolling their eyes or pushing up their breasts--not once (well maybe only once). In an instant they were transformed from mindless bimbos to serious sages. It was truly remarkable. Of course since these were the New Jersey Housewives, their thoughts on family included self-serving digs veiled in words like "respect" and "integrity."
I was immediately reminded of the Gospel readings from the past four Sundays in which the Pharisees bombarded our Lord with seemingly simple questions, all with the purpose of trapping him. Surely he would say something they could use against him. This Sunday's question was, "Which commandment is the greatest?"
In Luke's version of this same story, after Jesus tells his questioners that the greatest commendments are to love God and to love your neighbor, a lawyer asks a logical follow up question, "Who is my neighbor?" To me, that's when the story gets really interesting and the dialogue on family involving the New Jersey Housewives became particularly poignant.
The New Jersey Housewives sounded amazingly Pharisaical in their answers. Family, they all agreed, share a common bond of blood--and that even though you may fight and squabble, family is always there when you need them. Unlike "friends" who come and go, family is a constant bedrock you can depend on. However, the pat answers about family began to unravel when the women had to explain their own actions regarding how they treated family members. It was clear that to these women inlaws weren't fully family--afterall they married into the family for selfish reasons. And even full blood relatives were only "real" family as long as they fulfilled the needs of the person speaking.
The Pharisees in Jesus' day weren't all that different. If obeying God's law required loving their neighbors, then they would define "neighbor" in the narrowest way, allowing them to hate and exclude people who were foreign or who refused to follow their interpretation of Scripture. Loving your neighbor meant loving the people you liked, all the while believing God approved of you hating and scheming against those whom you disapproved. What a neat system.
Jesus, however, turned self-serving relationships on their head. Not much of a stretch really to love people who like you and do what you demand. Loving your enemy, serving the Samaritan, and opening your heart to all who would enter, well that's way too difficult. It's also why we read the Gospels and study the saints. People who recognize that "family" includes our entire human race are so exceptional, so rare, that their stories seem somehow unreal.
The New Jersey Housewives may be clowns looking to exploit family members and personal relationships all for a few moments of fame, but are they really so different than the rest of us? Are we close-minded and self serving in our relationships or are we truly able to see every human person as a brother or sister created in God's image?
Jesus only condemned those who would use their power or position to abuse others. However, for even the vilest of sinners, Jesus always used words of love and acceptance.
So as you look at the people you encounter today and this week, ask yourself, "What is family?" And, "Who is my neighbor?" As you answer these questions, look into your heart and see whether you're sounding more like a New Jersey Housewife or a disciple of Jesus Christ.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Monday, September 19, 2011
The Hex is Ex
In the summer of 1987 Ronald Reagan was in Berlin challenging Mikhail Gorbachev to "tear down that wall." Axl Rose was on the airwaves singing "Welcome to the Jungle." And I . . . well I was training for my first-ever olympic-distance triathlon in suburban Chicago.
To say I was training is a bit of a stretch. I swam laps at a local pool, ran five miles three times a week, and, after buying a used Schwinn 10-speed, did some biking as well. As my wife sometimes tells me ignorance is a sin. And, on this day, my ignorance nearly cost me my life.
Race day began at Navy Pier in downtown Chicago. At 7:00 a.m., it was already 80 degrees. Chicago was wilting with Africa hot, sticky air blanketing the city. Determined to race, I gamely stroked through my first-ever open-water swim in choppy water, then furiously pedaled my inadequate bicycle up and down Lake Shore Drive, and, feeling totally exhausted, I attempted the run.
The heat was unrelenting. By 11 a.m. when I donned running shoes, the mercury had climbed well above 90 degrees. I struggled through the course. By the time I reached mile 6, fewer than 250 yards from the finish line, I collapsed in a heap, done in by a heat stroke and poor preparation.
As I regained consciousness in an ambulance that whisking me off to Northwestern Hospital, I remember praying, "Dear God, if you let me live, I'll never do anything this stupid again." And, true to my word, I hung up my running shoes and got rid of the Schwinn. My racing days were over.
Fast forward 23 years. It's 2010 and I'm trying to encourage my daughter with her own foray into endurance racing. She wanted to run triathlons--and I needed to get in shape. So I began training with her. And, when she started entering races, I started to think. Maybe that prayer in the ambulance was a little rash. Maybe by vowing "never to do anything that stupid again" I meant entering a triathlon without proper training. God would understand, wouldn't he?
In June 2010 I entered my first triathlon as a mature adult. This time I competed in the sprint triathlon category, which is half the distance of the race I failed to complete years earlier. And, this time, I finished the race. Like before, I struggled through the open-water swim, pedaled furiously on an antiquated bike (found another Schwinn 10-speed), and ran with pretty good speed. Flush with success, I entered a second sprint race in August, and finished that one as well.
As racing season ended, I started to think about "next year." Since I will celebrate my 50th birthday in October 2011, I knew that I would compete all season as a 50-year-old athlete. Rather than being the oldest guy in the 45-49 group, I would be the youngest guy competing against 50-54 year olds. And, I found a group of people to train with who were serious competitors. With year-round training, a better bike, and some expert coaching, I dreamed of triathlon glory. The 2011 race season couldn't come fast enough!
These dreams almost went unrealized. In January 2011 I needed a double hernia repair, brought on by aggressive swim training. My recovery took a while. I was out of the pool for two months. I was barely running, either. In March when I started swimming again, I hurt my shoulder. Dreams of my "breakout" season were slowly slipping away.
But, in April, I started training again. Very slowly at first, and then picked up speed. As June arrived, I decided I could sign up for a sprint triathlon. Though not in my best shape, I was better prepared than I had ever been for an endurance race. Further, for the first time I rented a wetsuit for the swim and borrowed a "real" bike. On race day my finish times improved significantly. I felt back in business.
However, finding follow-up races proved difficult. My mother's health was in rapid decline, and I got busy fixing up my rental property. Further, several weekends were spent packing up Amelia for her trip to Chile and with our preparations for a two-week trip to Madrid. All of a sudden summer was almost over and I had not entered any more races.
Then I noticed two September races: one in Tawas in northern Michigan, the other in Detroit on Belle Isle. After the death of my mother, I was ready for a personal "pick me up" and I believed a race was the right tonic. And, I wanted to run olympic distance (1.5 kilometer swim, 40 kilometer bike, 10 kilometer run). Opportunity knocked when Clarisa and I were at dinner with another married couple. In the course of the evening I shared with the husband, "Hey, there's a race I'm thinking about entering near your cottage." He responded, "Let's go together." I had a place to stay and a companion for the trip.
The race in Tawas, Michigan was billed as one of the most beautiful courses in the state. The swim was in Lake Huron. The bike ride largely took place in a national forest. And the run was a flat course along the lakefront. It sounded ideal.
Day of the race dawned sunny. Temperatures were perfect: 62 degrees at 7 a.m., with expected highs that day around 70. The water was 68 degrees, warm enough for me. I was finally going to finish an olympic distance race! I knew it.
The swim portion went well. In and out of the water in less than 30 minutes. I mounted my bike and headed for the woods. It was a gorgeous late summer day--and I truly enjoyed the ride. I turned the corner on the bike course at midpoint, and started the return to the transition area. Never before had I felt so strong this far in an endurance race. My mind started imagining my finish. Maybe today I could earn a spot on the podium with a top-three finish. Yet my dreams of glory quickly evaporated when I ran over a sharp rock . . . twice! Both the front and back tires of my borrowed Cannondale racer quickly went flat.
There I was by the side of the road--racers whizzing by me. I had a spare tube and air with me. But repair two flats? Impossible. My race was over. I telephoned my friend, who picked me up and we left. I avoided all post-race activities. I was not going to stand around listening to athletes talk about their races while I repeated my sad sack story of defeat. For penance I returned to my friend's cottage and pulled weeds. So much for my breakthrough triathlon season.
But there was one more race left on the calendar.
Friends and family encouraged me to try again. After all, I was in good shape and the race was close to home. So I signed up.
At first I doubted my decision. The weather that week turned wet and cold. Repairing the borrowed bike also proved a challenge. Immediately after the race I took the bike to a shop in northern Michigan and replaced the blown inner tubes. Back home on Tuesday, three days later, I took the bike out for a spin--only to hear, barely five minutes into my ride, a sickening sound yet again of a tire going flat. Fortunately I was close to a local bike shop--the same shop where my daughter bought the bike.
I walked in and they fixed my flat. "Hey I don't have any money with me. I'll be right back with some cash," I said to the guy who fixed the flat. "Yeah, likely story," he replied with a smile.
I quickly pedaled home, grabbed my wallet, and went back to the shop. After paying, I rolled out of the store and, within two blocks, "POP". Flat again. Same tire. My fourth flat in three days. The triathlon gods were frowning on me for sure!
My resolve began to flag. Maybe this was all a big mistake. Maybe God was warning me to give up the dream. No. Maybe instead of doubting I needed to listen to Kanye's words, "Now th-that don't kill me. Only makes me stronger." I would plod on.
Sunday morning dawned. Fifty-six degrees outside with clear skies. Not bad. I loaded up my gear and headed for Belle Isle. My "racing chip" (you wear for accurate timing) was handed to me by a friendly face, a classmate of my son Isaac's who was working as a volunteer. "Good luck Mr. Piecuch," she said with a broad smile. Another good sign. Next I went to body marking where they wrote my race number on my upper arm and left hand. On the left calf they wrote "T"--which indicated my race. On the left calf, the number 50. My racing age. I then donned my wetsuit, borrowed from a friend, and headed to the water front.
The olympic distance men were the first "wave" or group to enter the water. Five additional "waves" started in five-minute intervals behind us. The water was surprisingly warm. Sixty-seven degrees. Another good sign
We lined up at the starting gate, a horn blasted, and we were off.
Swimming in the Detroit River can be a challenge. Unlike the crystal clear waters of Lake Huron, the river is murky and sometimes has floating debris. The first leg stayed close to the beach and took swimmers to the Detroit Yacht Club. Along the way we swam through beds of weeds and water so shallow I actually touched bottom with my arms at one point.
At the Yacht Club, the course turned left and then left again as we swam back toward the starting point, this time in considerably deeper water that had a nice downstream current. The wetsuit adds to your bouyancy, and I felt like a cork bobbing along on a moving sidewalk. I dug in hard after making the final turn and swam to the beach. Trotting out of the water I felt OK considering I swallowed a little more of the river than I planned. "I hope I don't get sick from this," flashed through my brain. Fortunately at the first watering station I chugged some Gatorade, which washed the nasty taste away.
Pulled off the wetsuit pretty quickly, threw on my bike shoes, helmet and sun glasses and I was off. Four laps around the island. Not too bad at first, and then made my first big turn--and hit a stiff head wind. I downshifted--and fretted as serious bikers whizzed by on their five-thousand dollar Italian bicycles wearing aerodynamic helmets that looked like headgear worn by the Greek God Mercury. Actually my borrowed Cannondale was a huge step up from my Schwinn 10-speed. My goal was simply to hang on and not lose too much ground. And, I vowed as biker after biker passed me, "I'll see you again on the run."
After each lap my children Lonelli and Isaac screamed, "Way to go Piecuch!" They had cheered me out of the water as well. And now, going into the run, they encouraged me yet again. "You're almost done!" they shouted.
At first I took the run slowly--stretching out my hamstrings cramped after forty kilometers on the bike. The course was two laps of a five kilometer loop. While I didn't feel fast, I definitely felt strong enough to finish. Toward the end of the first loop I saw my friend Joe who loaned me the wetsuit. A two-time ironman and frequent training partner, he asked me, "How do you feel?" I said, "great." He said, "you look fresh." I smiled. As I passed, Joe urged, "Pick 'em off one at a time." Immediately I set my sights on a guy in black running shorts and picked up my pace.
Throughout the second lap I continued to press. And, as the last mile rolled around. I decided to go for broke. I rapidly passed a number of flagging athletes and I caught up with a woman who had sprinted ahead of me at the begining of the run. We had 100 yards to go and I had caught her. "Let's pick up the pace," I urged as we ran neck and neck. "I'll try," she said, but she couldn't and I blew past. Later I found she had ran the fastest 10 kilometer run among all the women athletes. And I ran faster!
I dashed across the finish line with Isaac matching me stride for stride. Both he and Lonelli were there to congratulate me. Isaac also telephoned my wife who expressed her enthusiastic praise as well. Twenty-four years later, I finally conquered the olympic distance triathlon. And I crossed the finish line, cheered on by family and friends, feeling elated.
Turns out, my times weren't too bad, either. My 48-minute run was the fastest I'd run 10 kilometers in twenty-five years. My 26-minute swim was a personal best as well. The bike . . . well let's just say I have lots of room from improvement. When the results were posted, I was stunned to see my name listed third among the men aged 50-54. It was a "podium finish." I earned a medal given during the awards ceremony. Not a bad way to end racing season.
Assuming God grants me long life, I expect I will remember 2011 as a difficult year. We've experienced four family deaths. My employment situation remains unsettled. And, family relationships have proven more challenging than usual. However, September 18 will stand out as a personal victory. Even old guys like me need encouragement to bolster our courage to face obstacles we see every day. But, whatever the obstacle, I feel extra pride that no matter the challenge, I face it knowing I'm the third-best triathlete in Michigan!
Troubled times better get moving! Kevin is in the house.
To say I was training is a bit of a stretch. I swam laps at a local pool, ran five miles three times a week, and, after buying a used Schwinn 10-speed, did some biking as well. As my wife sometimes tells me ignorance is a sin. And, on this day, my ignorance nearly cost me my life.
Race day began at Navy Pier in downtown Chicago. At 7:00 a.m., it was already 80 degrees. Chicago was wilting with Africa hot, sticky air blanketing the city. Determined to race, I gamely stroked through my first-ever open-water swim in choppy water, then furiously pedaled my inadequate bicycle up and down Lake Shore Drive, and, feeling totally exhausted, I attempted the run.
The heat was unrelenting. By 11 a.m. when I donned running shoes, the mercury had climbed well above 90 degrees. I struggled through the course. By the time I reached mile 6, fewer than 250 yards from the finish line, I collapsed in a heap, done in by a heat stroke and poor preparation.
As I regained consciousness in an ambulance that whisking me off to Northwestern Hospital, I remember praying, "Dear God, if you let me live, I'll never do anything this stupid again." And, true to my word, I hung up my running shoes and got rid of the Schwinn. My racing days were over.
Fast forward 23 years. It's 2010 and I'm trying to encourage my daughter with her own foray into endurance racing. She wanted to run triathlons--and I needed to get in shape. So I began training with her. And, when she started entering races, I started to think. Maybe that prayer in the ambulance was a little rash. Maybe by vowing "never to do anything that stupid again" I meant entering a triathlon without proper training. God would understand, wouldn't he?
In June 2010 I entered my first triathlon as a mature adult. This time I competed in the sprint triathlon category, which is half the distance of the race I failed to complete years earlier. And, this time, I finished the race. Like before, I struggled through the open-water swim, pedaled furiously on an antiquated bike (found another Schwinn 10-speed), and ran with pretty good speed. Flush with success, I entered a second sprint race in August, and finished that one as well.
As racing season ended, I started to think about "next year." Since I will celebrate my 50th birthday in October 2011, I knew that I would compete all season as a 50-year-old athlete. Rather than being the oldest guy in the 45-49 group, I would be the youngest guy competing against 50-54 year olds. And, I found a group of people to train with who were serious competitors. With year-round training, a better bike, and some expert coaching, I dreamed of triathlon glory. The 2011 race season couldn't come fast enough!
These dreams almost went unrealized. In January 2011 I needed a double hernia repair, brought on by aggressive swim training. My recovery took a while. I was out of the pool for two months. I was barely running, either. In March when I started swimming again, I hurt my shoulder. Dreams of my "breakout" season were slowly slipping away.
But, in April, I started training again. Very slowly at first, and then picked up speed. As June arrived, I decided I could sign up for a sprint triathlon. Though not in my best shape, I was better prepared than I had ever been for an endurance race. Further, for the first time I rented a wetsuit for the swim and borrowed a "real" bike. On race day my finish times improved significantly. I felt back in business.
However, finding follow-up races proved difficult. My mother's health was in rapid decline, and I got busy fixing up my rental property. Further, several weekends were spent packing up Amelia for her trip to Chile and with our preparations for a two-week trip to Madrid. All of a sudden summer was almost over and I had not entered any more races.
Then I noticed two September races: one in Tawas in northern Michigan, the other in Detroit on Belle Isle. After the death of my mother, I was ready for a personal "pick me up" and I believed a race was the right tonic. And, I wanted to run olympic distance (1.5 kilometer swim, 40 kilometer bike, 10 kilometer run). Opportunity knocked when Clarisa and I were at dinner with another married couple. In the course of the evening I shared with the husband, "Hey, there's a race I'm thinking about entering near your cottage." He responded, "Let's go together." I had a place to stay and a companion for the trip.
The race in Tawas, Michigan was billed as one of the most beautiful courses in the state. The swim was in Lake Huron. The bike ride largely took place in a national forest. And the run was a flat course along the lakefront. It sounded ideal.
Day of the race dawned sunny. Temperatures were perfect: 62 degrees at 7 a.m., with expected highs that day around 70. The water was 68 degrees, warm enough for me. I was finally going to finish an olympic distance race! I knew it.
The swim portion went well. In and out of the water in less than 30 minutes. I mounted my bike and headed for the woods. It was a gorgeous late summer day--and I truly enjoyed the ride. I turned the corner on the bike course at midpoint, and started the return to the transition area. Never before had I felt so strong this far in an endurance race. My mind started imagining my finish. Maybe today I could earn a spot on the podium with a top-three finish. Yet my dreams of glory quickly evaporated when I ran over a sharp rock . . . twice! Both the front and back tires of my borrowed Cannondale racer quickly went flat.
There I was by the side of the road--racers whizzing by me. I had a spare tube and air with me. But repair two flats? Impossible. My race was over. I telephoned my friend, who picked me up and we left. I avoided all post-race activities. I was not going to stand around listening to athletes talk about their races while I repeated my sad sack story of defeat. For penance I returned to my friend's cottage and pulled weeds. So much for my breakthrough triathlon season.
But there was one more race left on the calendar.
Friends and family encouraged me to try again. After all, I was in good shape and the race was close to home. So I signed up.
At first I doubted my decision. The weather that week turned wet and cold. Repairing the borrowed bike also proved a challenge. Immediately after the race I took the bike to a shop in northern Michigan and replaced the blown inner tubes. Back home on Tuesday, three days later, I took the bike out for a spin--only to hear, barely five minutes into my ride, a sickening sound yet again of a tire going flat. Fortunately I was close to a local bike shop--the same shop where my daughter bought the bike.
I walked in and they fixed my flat. "Hey I don't have any money with me. I'll be right back with some cash," I said to the guy who fixed the flat. "Yeah, likely story," he replied with a smile.
I quickly pedaled home, grabbed my wallet, and went back to the shop. After paying, I rolled out of the store and, within two blocks, "POP". Flat again. Same tire. My fourth flat in three days. The triathlon gods were frowning on me for sure!
My resolve began to flag. Maybe this was all a big mistake. Maybe God was warning me to give up the dream. No. Maybe instead of doubting I needed to listen to Kanye's words, "Now th-that don't kill me. Only makes me stronger." I would plod on.
Sunday morning dawned. Fifty-six degrees outside with clear skies. Not bad. I loaded up my gear and headed for Belle Isle. My "racing chip" (you wear for accurate timing) was handed to me by a friendly face, a classmate of my son Isaac's who was working as a volunteer. "Good luck Mr. Piecuch," she said with a broad smile. Another good sign. Next I went to body marking where they wrote my race number on my upper arm and left hand. On the left calf they wrote "T"--which indicated my race. On the left calf, the number 50. My racing age. I then donned my wetsuit, borrowed from a friend, and headed to the water front.
The olympic distance men were the first "wave" or group to enter the water. Five additional "waves" started in five-minute intervals behind us. The water was surprisingly warm. Sixty-seven degrees. Another good sign
We lined up at the starting gate, a horn blasted, and we were off.
Swimming in the Detroit River can be a challenge. Unlike the crystal clear waters of Lake Huron, the river is murky and sometimes has floating debris. The first leg stayed close to the beach and took swimmers to the Detroit Yacht Club. Along the way we swam through beds of weeds and water so shallow I actually touched bottom with my arms at one point.
At the Yacht Club, the course turned left and then left again as we swam back toward the starting point, this time in considerably deeper water that had a nice downstream current. The wetsuit adds to your bouyancy, and I felt like a cork bobbing along on a moving sidewalk. I dug in hard after making the final turn and swam to the beach. Trotting out of the water I felt OK considering I swallowed a little more of the river than I planned. "I hope I don't get sick from this," flashed through my brain. Fortunately at the first watering station I chugged some Gatorade, which washed the nasty taste away.
Pulled off the wetsuit pretty quickly, threw on my bike shoes, helmet and sun glasses and I was off. Four laps around the island. Not too bad at first, and then made my first big turn--and hit a stiff head wind. I downshifted--and fretted as serious bikers whizzed by on their five-thousand dollar Italian bicycles wearing aerodynamic helmets that looked like headgear worn by the Greek God Mercury. Actually my borrowed Cannondale was a huge step up from my Schwinn 10-speed. My goal was simply to hang on and not lose too much ground. And, I vowed as biker after biker passed me, "I'll see you again on the run."
After each lap my children Lonelli and Isaac screamed, "Way to go Piecuch!" They had cheered me out of the water as well. And now, going into the run, they encouraged me yet again. "You're almost done!" they shouted.
At first I took the run slowly--stretching out my hamstrings cramped after forty kilometers on the bike. The course was two laps of a five kilometer loop. While I didn't feel fast, I definitely felt strong enough to finish. Toward the end of the first loop I saw my friend Joe who loaned me the wetsuit. A two-time ironman and frequent training partner, he asked me, "How do you feel?" I said, "great." He said, "you look fresh." I smiled. As I passed, Joe urged, "Pick 'em off one at a time." Immediately I set my sights on a guy in black running shorts and picked up my pace.
Throughout the second lap I continued to press. And, as the last mile rolled around. I decided to go for broke. I rapidly passed a number of flagging athletes and I caught up with a woman who had sprinted ahead of me at the begining of the run. We had 100 yards to go and I had caught her. "Let's pick up the pace," I urged as we ran neck and neck. "I'll try," she said, but she couldn't and I blew past. Later I found she had ran the fastest 10 kilometer run among all the women athletes. And I ran faster!
I dashed across the finish line with Isaac matching me stride for stride. Both he and Lonelli were there to congratulate me. Isaac also telephoned my wife who expressed her enthusiastic praise as well. Twenty-four years later, I finally conquered the olympic distance triathlon. And I crossed the finish line, cheered on by family and friends, feeling elated.
Turns out, my times weren't too bad, either. My 48-minute run was the fastest I'd run 10 kilometers in twenty-five years. My 26-minute swim was a personal best as well. The bike . . . well let's just say I have lots of room from improvement. When the results were posted, I was stunned to see my name listed third among the men aged 50-54. It was a "podium finish." I earned a medal given during the awards ceremony. Not a bad way to end racing season.
Assuming God grants me long life, I expect I will remember 2011 as a difficult year. We've experienced four family deaths. My employment situation remains unsettled. And, family relationships have proven more challenging than usual. However, September 18 will stand out as a personal victory. Even old guys like me need encouragement to bolster our courage to face obstacles we see every day. But, whatever the obstacle, I feel extra pride that no matter the challenge, I face it knowing I'm the third-best triathlete in Michigan!
Troubled times better get moving! Kevin is in the house.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Hasta Luego Madrid!
Just got back from Madrid after a visit with Pope Benedict. Had a good time as the Pope and 1.5 million of his closest friends hung out, heard mass, listened to music, slept under the stars, and generally chilled. It was a blast. The following is a report I wrote about the trip for my church newletter. Hope you don't mind the more journalistic style.
A group of seven persons—three chaperones and four youth—represented St. Ambrose Church at the World Youth Day (WYD) gathering in Madrid, Spain. Our group was part of a larger, 300+-member delegation from churches within the Archdiocese of Detroit. Officially, all participants in WYD are known as pilgrims.
Though WYD officially opened on Tuesday, August 16 with an evening, open-air mass in downtown Madrid’s Cibeles Square, the St. Ambrose pilgrims arrived two days earlier on Sunday, August 14. WYD officially concluded with another open-air mass following an overnight vigil on Sunday, August 21. Pope Benedict presided at that mass where an estimated 1.5 million pilgrims were gathered at a Madrid air field. “Firm in the Faith” was the theme for WYD 2011. The St. Ambrose pilgrims returned to Michigan on Wednesday, August 24.
Among the highlights the visit: touring the world-renowned Prado Museum; mass at the stunning Almudena Cathedral in central Madrid; singing, catechism, worship and mass featuring Cardinal George Pell of Sydney Australia; Stations of the Cross in downtown Madrid; a catechism session led by Cardinal Francis George of Chicago; the 8-kilometer hike and day-long vigil prior to the closing mass; a day-trip to Toledo; and an afternoon visit to the Royal Monastery at Escorial.
These events each were unforgettable. But there were other treats as well. For example, we all were greatly relieved by the quality of our overnight accommodations. Our group was housed at the Autonomous University in Canto Blanco, a suburb north of Madrid. The modern dorm rooms were clean and included two beds. Each room was air conditioned and had its own private bathroom.
Other pluses of our accommodations included a cafeteria where we could buy inexpensive food and drink and the ability to meet and mix informally with pilgrims from other U.S. states and foreign countries. Our group met Californians, North Dakotans, Scots and Australians in the dorm. St. Ambrose pilgrims forged a particularly close bond with the pilgrims from Good Shepherd Church in Lincoln Park. We ended up sharing many experiences with the Lincoln Park pilgrims during the week and we look forward to continuing our new friendships.
Our accommodations also were located on a stop on Madrid’s excellent train/subway system. Each pilgrim received a pass giving us free passage on the trains for an entire week. This allowed our group to travel freely around Madrid. We became quite good at reading local maps (Bernie Degnan truly excelled in finding routes) and we found every WYD event held in locations scattered across the city.
More than events and meetings, people connections made WYD a valuable experience. Our pilgrims met youth and adults from around the world. We traded pins and other items with pilgrims from every continent. As the week progressed, our youth became progressively more and more outgoing, freely approaching pilgrims on the street—unafraid to shake hands, trade items, share Facebook names, sing songs, and feel the deep, common bond of faith that brought us all together. These connections will not be soon forgotten.
Finally, it was eye-opening for our youth to see how joyful a life guided by faith in Jesus Christ can be. We all proudly wore crosses, said rosaries, went to reconciliation, sang hymns enthusiastically, and listened with rapt attention to catechists and speakers. Further, we saw hundreds of priests and religious persons who freely shared their experiences and encouraged youth to consider their own callings. For this week, faith was not a quiet, personal matter, but something we shared easily and openly. This is something our young pilgrims had never previously experienced.
At the end of the week, however, the pilgrims left the mountaintop and returned home. Pope Benedict himself personally urged all pilgrims to find ways to share the WYD experience with their friends and fellow parishioners at home. This is a challenge the St. Ambrose pilgrims freely embrace.
As we look forward to the next WYD that will be held in July 2013 in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, the St. Ambrose pilgrims are determined to encourage more youth and young adults from our parish to share the WYD experience. Further, we know that through prayer and study we can better prepare ourselves for a future encounter. Because the next gathering is less than two years away, we will share with our parish throughout the year lessons learned at WYD 2011. Then, by next August, our efforts will focus on WYD 2013.
Thanks to Fr. Tim and all those from St. Ambrose who prayed for us and offered excellent advice and support that helped make our experience so meaningful.
Stay tuned—more to come!
A group of seven persons—three chaperones and four youth—represented St. Ambrose Church at the World Youth Day (WYD) gathering in Madrid, Spain. Our group was part of a larger, 300+-member delegation from churches within the Archdiocese of Detroit. Officially, all participants in WYD are known as pilgrims.
Though WYD officially opened on Tuesday, August 16 with an evening, open-air mass in downtown Madrid’s Cibeles Square, the St. Ambrose pilgrims arrived two days earlier on Sunday, August 14. WYD officially concluded with another open-air mass following an overnight vigil on Sunday, August 21. Pope Benedict presided at that mass where an estimated 1.5 million pilgrims were gathered at a Madrid air field. “Firm in the Faith” was the theme for WYD 2011. The St. Ambrose pilgrims returned to Michigan on Wednesday, August 24.
Among the highlights the visit: touring the world-renowned Prado Museum; mass at the stunning Almudena Cathedral in central Madrid; singing, catechism, worship and mass featuring Cardinal George Pell of Sydney Australia; Stations of the Cross in downtown Madrid; a catechism session led by Cardinal Francis George of Chicago; the 8-kilometer hike and day-long vigil prior to the closing mass; a day-trip to Toledo; and an afternoon visit to the Royal Monastery at Escorial.
These events each were unforgettable. But there were other treats as well. For example, we all were greatly relieved by the quality of our overnight accommodations. Our group was housed at the Autonomous University in Canto Blanco, a suburb north of Madrid. The modern dorm rooms were clean and included two beds. Each room was air conditioned and had its own private bathroom.
Other pluses of our accommodations included a cafeteria where we could buy inexpensive food and drink and the ability to meet and mix informally with pilgrims from other U.S. states and foreign countries. Our group met Californians, North Dakotans, Scots and Australians in the dorm. St. Ambrose pilgrims forged a particularly close bond with the pilgrims from Good Shepherd Church in Lincoln Park. We ended up sharing many experiences with the Lincoln Park pilgrims during the week and we look forward to continuing our new friendships.
Our accommodations also were located on a stop on Madrid’s excellent train/subway system. Each pilgrim received a pass giving us free passage on the trains for an entire week. This allowed our group to travel freely around Madrid. We became quite good at reading local maps (Bernie Degnan truly excelled in finding routes) and we found every WYD event held in locations scattered across the city.
More than events and meetings, people connections made WYD a valuable experience. Our pilgrims met youth and adults from around the world. We traded pins and other items with pilgrims from every continent. As the week progressed, our youth became progressively more and more outgoing, freely approaching pilgrims on the street—unafraid to shake hands, trade items, share Facebook names, sing songs, and feel the deep, common bond of faith that brought us all together. These connections will not be soon forgotten.
Finally, it was eye-opening for our youth to see how joyful a life guided by faith in Jesus Christ can be. We all proudly wore crosses, said rosaries, went to reconciliation, sang hymns enthusiastically, and listened with rapt attention to catechists and speakers. Further, we saw hundreds of priests and religious persons who freely shared their experiences and encouraged youth to consider their own callings. For this week, faith was not a quiet, personal matter, but something we shared easily and openly. This is something our young pilgrims had never previously experienced.
At the end of the week, however, the pilgrims left the mountaintop and returned home. Pope Benedict himself personally urged all pilgrims to find ways to share the WYD experience with their friends and fellow parishioners at home. This is a challenge the St. Ambrose pilgrims freely embrace.
As we look forward to the next WYD that will be held in July 2013 in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, the St. Ambrose pilgrims are determined to encourage more youth and young adults from our parish to share the WYD experience. Further, we know that through prayer and study we can better prepare ourselves for a future encounter. Because the next gathering is less than two years away, we will share with our parish throughout the year lessons learned at WYD 2011. Then, by next August, our efforts will focus on WYD 2013.
Thanks to Fr. Tim and all those from St. Ambrose who prayed for us and offered excellent advice and support that helped make our experience so meaningful.
Stay tuned—more to come!
Thursday, July 28, 2011
I'm feeling sick . . .
Could it be because . . .
. . . my tonsils are so swollen I can barely swallow.
. . . I ate Kentucky Fried Chicken yesterday (original recipe) for the first time in sixteen years. I also had some of the Colonel's mashed potatoes and gravy. ughh!
. . . the Tiger's blew a one-run game in Chicago last night.
. . . speaking of baseball, Isaac's last game of the season was cancelled. Why? Well rain of course.
. . . I just spent two hours scrubbing black mold off my basement walls. Nothing beats the smell of Clorox on your hands. Mmm.
. . . I have hampers of ironing to do and my diet pill is wearing off (extra points if you can name the movie).
Well, I just popped two Motrins and happy hour is minutes away.
Relief is in sight!
. . . my tonsils are so swollen I can barely swallow.
. . . I ate Kentucky Fried Chicken yesterday (original recipe) for the first time in sixteen years. I also had some of the Colonel's mashed potatoes and gravy. ughh!
. . . the Tiger's blew a one-run game in Chicago last night.
. . . speaking of baseball, Isaac's last game of the season was cancelled. Why? Well rain of course.
. . . I just spent two hours scrubbing black mold off my basement walls. Nothing beats the smell of Clorox on your hands. Mmm.
. . . I have hampers of ironing to do and my diet pill is wearing off (extra points if you can name the movie).
Well, I just popped two Motrins and happy hour is minutes away.
Relief is in sight!
Monday, July 25, 2011
Producing Pearls
Yesterday's sermon at St. Ambrose Church included reflections upon a well-known biblical parable--about the guy who searches the world to find a pearl of great value. And, when he finds it, he sells everything that he owns to buy it. The point is clear, that the Word of God is a like a valuable pearl. It may be small and is easily lost. But to look at a perfect pearl is to see great beauty of unestimatable (is that a word?) value. It's worth searching the world to find.
Rather than focus on the big and flashy, sometimes it's what's small, beautiful and hard to find that is of real value. Sometimes small, hidden things are worth much more than what we show the world. When walking down the street we notice the flashy dressers, and the showy jewelry, but a generous spirit and a joyful heart are not immediately evident. Sometimes we need to search long and hard to find them. Like Neil Young sang, "Keep me searching for a heart of gold. I am a miner for a heart of gold. And I'm getting old."
Second point of Father Tim's sermon yesterday--and yes, I was listening despite all evidence otherwise--relates to how pearls are formed. It starts as a grain of sand, an irritant, that get's inside the oyster. To protect itself from this irritant, the oyster secretes a substance that surrounds the grain of sand, and, in time, a pearl is formed. Without on obnoxious intruder, that grain of sand, there would be no pearl.
The point to reflect upon is to think about those things in our life that annoy us, but make us better in the end. As Kanye West said so eloquently, "Th-th-that that don't kill me, can only make me stronger." Sometimes the irritating action require physical activity when we'd rather rest--like cutting the grass in the summer heat, or taking the dog for a walk after dinner. Those are things I'd rather not do, but in the end make me stronger. But more than the physical, there are chores in our lives, things we do out of a sense of responsibility, that help us be better persons.
Visiting my mother in her hospital, talking to Clarisa's 95-year-old great uncle on the telephone, passing the peace to every person within ten feet of me, requires me to stretch oh so slightly. But, in the end, I'm better for extending myself. Kindness and thoughtfulness require effort. It's so much easier to remain wrapped in my own thoughts than to empathize with others, especially those in pain. Empathy sometimes requires putting yourself in the shoes of someone old and alone. It sometimes means touching a person I'm not attracted to.
If your life was always smooth, with no pain or irritants, then we'd never change or grow. We'd just keep going along as always. However, as we encounter difficulties in life, irritants that drive us crazy, we find opportunities for growth and even beauty to emerge. It's as we adapt to hardship that the best parts of our character develop. As we deal with difficulty, we create for ourselves and for other pearls of inestimatable value.
Think about that next time you lend a hand to that annoying neighbor.
Rather than focus on the big and flashy, sometimes it's what's small, beautiful and hard to find that is of real value. Sometimes small, hidden things are worth much more than what we show the world. When walking down the street we notice the flashy dressers, and the showy jewelry, but a generous spirit and a joyful heart are not immediately evident. Sometimes we need to search long and hard to find them. Like Neil Young sang, "Keep me searching for a heart of gold. I am a miner for a heart of gold. And I'm getting old."
Second point of Father Tim's sermon yesterday--and yes, I was listening despite all evidence otherwise--relates to how pearls are formed. It starts as a grain of sand, an irritant, that get's inside the oyster. To protect itself from this irritant, the oyster secretes a substance that surrounds the grain of sand, and, in time, a pearl is formed. Without on obnoxious intruder, that grain of sand, there would be no pearl.
The point to reflect upon is to think about those things in our life that annoy us, but make us better in the end. As Kanye West said so eloquently, "Th-th-that that don't kill me, can only make me stronger." Sometimes the irritating action require physical activity when we'd rather rest--like cutting the grass in the summer heat, or taking the dog for a walk after dinner. Those are things I'd rather not do, but in the end make me stronger. But more than the physical, there are chores in our lives, things we do out of a sense of responsibility, that help us be better persons.
Visiting my mother in her hospital, talking to Clarisa's 95-year-old great uncle on the telephone, passing the peace to every person within ten feet of me, requires me to stretch oh so slightly. But, in the end, I'm better for extending myself. Kindness and thoughtfulness require effort. It's so much easier to remain wrapped in my own thoughts than to empathize with others, especially those in pain. Empathy sometimes requires putting yourself in the shoes of someone old and alone. It sometimes means touching a person I'm not attracted to.
If your life was always smooth, with no pain or irritants, then we'd never change or grow. We'd just keep going along as always. However, as we encounter difficulties in life, irritants that drive us crazy, we find opportunities for growth and even beauty to emerge. It's as we adapt to hardship that the best parts of our character develop. As we deal with difficulty, we create for ourselves and for other pearls of inestimatable value.
Think about that next time you lend a hand to that annoying neighbor.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Let's Do the Time Warp Again
While I'm not much of a Rocky Horror Picture Show fan, nor did I really like the endless film loop known as Groundhog Day, the idea of reliving parts of your life over and over, until you finally get it right appeals to me. Yet at some point in your life relentless replays can become exhausting, especially if you never seem to get that aspect of your life right.
As you've grown older/wiser/more mature, what have you gotten better at. Me? I think I've become a better parent--finding that balance between discipline and encouragement is easier with practice. However, I can't seem to figure out friendships--how to open myself to relationships outside my family circle.
I'd love to hear your stories/observations about personal growth and areas where it's the same thing over and over. We have one life to live, and the more help we get along the way, the better our chances for success.
Cheers!
As you've grown older/wiser/more mature, what have you gotten better at. Me? I think I've become a better parent--finding that balance between discipline and encouragement is easier with practice. However, I can't seem to figure out friendships--how to open myself to relationships outside my family circle.
I'd love to hear your stories/observations about personal growth and areas where it's the same thing over and over. We have one life to live, and the more help we get along the way, the better our chances for success.
Cheers!
Saturday, July 9, 2011
So Says the Doctor
"It's severe arthritis," the doctor said.
We immediately were relieved, having feared a worse diagnosis.
"Look at the spinal column," the doctor explained. We studied the x-ray film closely. "The lumbar are supposed to be flush with each other, but see these raised areas between each vertebrae? That's what arthritis looks like."
It looked painful. "So what do we do?" we asked the doctor.
"Well, with medication, continued exercise and daily doses of Glucosamine, she should be able to walk normally, even run some," the doctor said reassuringly. But now I understood what I had noticed over the last few months. Long a faithful running partner, this year we walked more and ran less. Sometimes, at night, she preferred to stay downstairs rather than climb stairs. The signs of her declining physical abilities were obvious, I just overlooked them. But, earlier that morning, I feared a much worse outcome from our doctor's visit.
Shortly after waking up I found her in the kitchen where she had remained all night. She hadn't even gone to bed. When I tried to help her move, she winced in pain. Had she broken her hip? Was it a stroke? Was her life in danger?
But Carly is not yet ten years old. She suffered no apparent trauma. Yet, seemingly in one day she went from being a vibrant companion with a puppy's spirit to a cautious old dog. And I was concerned.
Carly is my first-ever dog. My parents didn't approve of pets and I carried that bias into my family as well. However, when a free Labrador Retriever puppy became available, even I succumbed to my children's pleadings. "But, if she ever starts costing me money," I warned the children, "I'll put her down in a heartbeat."
Now, almost 10 years later, I was willing to pay a veterinarian whatever it cost to make Carly comfortable. "How long do labs typically live?" I asked the vet. "Ten to twelve years," he replied.
I was astounded. "That's all? I thought dogs lived about fifteen years." "Not big dogs like labs," said the vet.
It felt like a slap in my face. In my heart I know Carly has only a few more years left in her, but the vet's words felt like a death sentence. "Yeah, if you're lucky she could reach fourteen," he added, seeing despair flash across my face. All of a sudden the ongoing conversation about getting a second dog flashed in my mind. I've joked that the same year Isaac, our youngest child, leaves for college, might be the year Carly dies. Talk about an empty nest! We should get another pet soon, BEFORE Carly passes.
I always said Clarisa needed a "pet in reserve," but honestly, hearing from the vet that Carly's demise really is imminent, put me in a panic. What would I do without my dog?
I never expected that I would become attached to an animal. And, I've inwardly chuckled at persons who express humanlike affection toward their animals. But, now that I know what it like to care about a pet, I understand those feelings.
Fortunately Carly is chowing down her meds like a champion and she's moving around now with seemingly less pain. She walked five miles today, and looks like she can do it again tomorrow.
The old girl has a few more years in her--but I'm aware now that the days are numbered and that difficult times await us as she wears down further. I hope Carly understands that her family will walk with her each and ever step until the day she passes.
Reading this I can't believe I feel this way about a dog!
We immediately were relieved, having feared a worse diagnosis.
"Look at the spinal column," the doctor explained. We studied the x-ray film closely. "The lumbar are supposed to be flush with each other, but see these raised areas between each vertebrae? That's what arthritis looks like."
It looked painful. "So what do we do?" we asked the doctor.
"Well, with medication, continued exercise and daily doses of Glucosamine, she should be able to walk normally, even run some," the doctor said reassuringly. But now I understood what I had noticed over the last few months. Long a faithful running partner, this year we walked more and ran less. Sometimes, at night, she preferred to stay downstairs rather than climb stairs. The signs of her declining physical abilities were obvious, I just overlooked them. But, earlier that morning, I feared a much worse outcome from our doctor's visit.
Shortly after waking up I found her in the kitchen where she had remained all night. She hadn't even gone to bed. When I tried to help her move, she winced in pain. Had she broken her hip? Was it a stroke? Was her life in danger?
But Carly is not yet ten years old. She suffered no apparent trauma. Yet, seemingly in one day she went from being a vibrant companion with a puppy's spirit to a cautious old dog. And I was concerned.
Carly is my first-ever dog. My parents didn't approve of pets and I carried that bias into my family as well. However, when a free Labrador Retriever puppy became available, even I succumbed to my children's pleadings. "But, if she ever starts costing me money," I warned the children, "I'll put her down in a heartbeat."
Now, almost 10 years later, I was willing to pay a veterinarian whatever it cost to make Carly comfortable. "How long do labs typically live?" I asked the vet. "Ten to twelve years," he replied.
I was astounded. "That's all? I thought dogs lived about fifteen years." "Not big dogs like labs," said the vet.
It felt like a slap in my face. In my heart I know Carly has only a few more years left in her, but the vet's words felt like a death sentence. "Yeah, if you're lucky she could reach fourteen," he added, seeing despair flash across my face. All of a sudden the ongoing conversation about getting a second dog flashed in my mind. I've joked that the same year Isaac, our youngest child, leaves for college, might be the year Carly dies. Talk about an empty nest! We should get another pet soon, BEFORE Carly passes.
I always said Clarisa needed a "pet in reserve," but honestly, hearing from the vet that Carly's demise really is imminent, put me in a panic. What would I do without my dog?
I never expected that I would become attached to an animal. And, I've inwardly chuckled at persons who express humanlike affection toward their animals. But, now that I know what it like to care about a pet, I understand those feelings.
Fortunately Carly is chowing down her meds like a champion and she's moving around now with seemingly less pain. She walked five miles today, and looks like she can do it again tomorrow.
The old girl has a few more years in her--but I'm aware now that the days are numbered and that difficult times await us as she wears down further. I hope Carly understands that her family will walk with her each and ever step until the day she passes.
Reading this I can't believe I feel this way about a dog!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)