Mi Papa or Patrem Meum

My papa…..no, this is not about the Holy Pope, this is about MY PAPA.  With all the media hoopla over our new Pope, it is understandable that Catholics and even non Catholis are rejoicing over the election of our spiritual father. I can’t help but think that in one week’s time or less they will be crushing him to death, as our media does with their “celebrity of the minute”.   However, as Christians we understand that this man, chosen to be our Pope, leader of over 1 billion Catholics, but also a spiritual leader for all humanity (as Vicar of Christ)  is human; we are aware that God always calls us out of ourselves to serve others.  We are blessed that this new Pope said yes and he deserves our prayers, as he so humbly asked for, as he appeared on the balcony and looked upon  many of his  family gathered  around him in St. Peter’s Square.   

As I have watched and shared the news since Wednesday I can’t help but also think of my own Papa.  One reason is that many have shared how much the new Pope looks like my dad (which is quite funny, he kind of does) but more striking for me is that the way the Pope came out on the balcony in simple fashion, without some of the regalia of bygone Popes, that side of him does remind me of my own father.

We all have biological fathers and if we are blessed we also have spiritual fathers who shaped us and were examples for us. No father is perfect, none of us are.  Jesus said only our Father in Heaven is perfect. (Which is what he meant when he also said don’t call anyone else ‘Father’, he was referring to the perfect Father.) So although we know we can’t be perfect, we are all called to be holy and my father represents for me many qualities that I would say qualify him for sainthood. I would like to tell you why.

My dad is the opposite of my mom in some ways.  He is reserved, yet he is not afraid to speak what’s on his mind.  With my dad, you always know where you stand with him.  He is forgiving; often times I hear him humbly apologize to my mom, or others, for speaking without listening, for example.

My dad made mistakes as we grew up, but he never gave up trying.  He bravely took us out of a country that had become inhumanely restricted in natural freedoms.  He cut himself from his roots, he left behind a family and a country he loved and he created a new home for us in a new country. Having had a profession, a college graduate, in this country he found and worked menial jobs, lowpaying jobs, working odd hours. He learned a new language and new customs.  He invited others in our home to share what little we had.  He was always sending what little money we had to missions (especially to Native American missions here). He worked overtime to send money, clothing and medicines to our family overseas, in Cuba and Spain.  In my dad I always saw a spirit of service to others.

Now, did I say that my dad is not perfect? He had a temper and he was strict, with a capital S.  I respected him and feared him as a young teen. He held me up to high standards.  I did not want to make him mad, because I knew my punishment would be to be grounded for life, with no chance of parole. I would try to build up my alliances in the family, but everyone knew that when my dad spoke, his word was law.  He did not allow me to wear make up until I was 13 ½ ….what? Dad, just lip-gloss? I was convinced I had the meanest dad in the world! I couldn’t go anywhere with my friends without an adult chaperone….what?  Dad, we’re just going to a football game!  Yes, definitely the meanest dad!

Yet today, I am grateful because I see that what he did for me was to protect me from the world at a time when I would easily be swayed by the luring attraction of rebellion.  I think he knew that I loved rebellion, but I feared my dad more.  So, I followed his rules (most of the time!) and when I didn’t, I could be found in my bed room without a phone, without friends, just me and my Teen Magazines that would just add to my misery as I would dream about all the cool things I could be doing with my cool friends wearing cool clothes.  That was what was important to me during my early teens.

My dad’s goal for me was to keep my heart pure, stay healthy, develop my mind, and be nice to my grandparents. (Let me also confess here that I was not easy to live with as a teen, a handful, the most melodramatic teen, I know now because I go back and read my diaries and you would think I lived in total misery). 

Eventually, I matured and I went away to college to study artchitecture and design at the University of Florida. (One has to understand what a big leap in faith this was for my dad.)  My parents at first were totally dead set against my leaving, but they realized that as an adult that this was a decision I now had to make.  When I left for Gainesville my dad gave me a small statue of the Virgin Mary.  It was simple and lovely work of art, all white porcelain, and it stood on my dresser drawer throughout my years away.  It reminded me of my dad’s faith in me and in our Lord.  He knew that Our Lord and our holy mother would watch over me, when he wouldn’t be around to do so anymore.  I still have that statue, and I cherish it because it reminds me of my dad’s love for me.  He loved me and trusted in me and my future enough to let me go.

Now, in our later years, my dad is much more sentimental than he was when I was young. I saw him care for each of my four grandparents until they passed away in his and  mom’s care.  I see him care for my mother now as they get older, I see him care for his grandchildren, I see him still worry for my brother and I. I also see him more in prayer.  I see him trust in God more, I see him in a process of conversion that says to me….we are all works in progress. He did the best he could as a man, and I am so thankful that when God called him to be a father to me and my brother he said “yes”.  I think this is what it means to be a father, to say yes to God, and then allow God’s grace to transform us so we can be more than we think we are capable of.  My dad was called to serve his family; he did and he continues to serve us well, not perfect, but really well!! My father loves me.  I am proud to say he is my spiritual and Holy Papa!!!

Una Tacita de Te

My Abuela "Longa" would have celebrated 97 years last week.  It has been five years when she left us after dying peacefully in her bed at home under the care of Hospice.  I was teaching a class that morning, awaiting the dreaded call; my husband and my parents were with her.   Her last few weeks were hard because she suffered, her heart had grown tired.  It became more and more difficult for her to breath, however, she never lost her smiling eyes and  her faith in the power of love. 

Today I poured myself a cup of  Earl Grey tea (her favorite) and it reminded me of the teas we shared together her last few years whenever she would come over to my house, so I could watch her while my parents went out.  She would have preferred to be at  home, she relished her independence, but having had a few perilous falls my parents were cautious to leave her alone anymore. These visits provided us time to just hang out. She always enjoyed telling me of her past.  Through her  stories I learned a lot about growing up without a mother's love, overcoming struggles, the importance of family, and the value of kindness.  I am thankful that although the politics between Cuba and the US separated us for many years, I was able to enjoy her final chapters here in Tampa and Houston, where she shared time between two of her three daughters. ( Her youngest never left Cuba). Her regret was not able to see her third daughter before she passed.

This prose is written as a dedication to her, strangely writing in spanish (which is not as easy for me as in English) seems natural today as I am remembering how we always enjoyed English tea together and how fresh her memory of her adventures as a young woman, as she came of age in a small town outside of Havana.  Interesting how our simple ritual of tea can bring back so many memories for me. She taught me to pass on our memories with love...so I am doing just that through these words.

 

 "Una tacita de Te"

 

Una simple tacita de te caliente le brindaba  a mi abuelita

Y con su sonrisa genial de mi la recibía con cuidado

Y me decía que sabroso el té que yo compartía con ella

Juntas pasamos tardes en mi casa de esta manera

La veo en mi mente todavía sentada en su silla favorita

 

De ahí  ella me hablaba de muchas cosas

Le gustaba contar de cómo un joven militar la conquisto

Me contaba  de su dulce pasado en su tierra natal, y yo curiosa

Con  imaginación la veía  una Cubanita joven, lista, y sabía

Recuerdo sentirme  que yo bebía sus palabras

 

Con sus manos envejecidas tomaba el te ingles y me preguntaba de donde era

Y yo le recordaba que era el mismo que tomamos la última vez

Abría sus ojos azules y sorprendida decía que no recordaba

Aunque su memoria de la niñez que vivió siempre fue fresca y puro

Y ella seguía soltando al aire sus lindas anécdotas

 

Hoy contemplo  esas tardes y noches que compartimos juntas

Ahora me doy cuenta que bella  lección de humildad y amor ella me brindaba

Cuando hoy  me serví  una simple tacita de te vi sus ojitos de flor

 Con una lágrima yo le brinde gracias por lo que aprendí más de ella

Que nuestras melosas memorias son regalos de Papa Dios quien es Amor.

 

Por CCayon-Marzo 12, 2013

 

Celebrating a Scrutiny is frightful!

Grant me, Lord, to know what
I ought to know,
to love what I ought to love,
to praise what delights you most,
to value what is precious in your sight,
to hate what is offensive to you.
Do not allow me to judge according
to appearances,
nor to pass sentence following
the judgment of the ignorant,
but to discern with true judgment
between things visible and spiritual,
and, above all things,
to seek to know what is the good
pleasure of your will. Amen
Thomas A. Kempis

 Today I am getting ready to celebrate the Second Scrutiny at Mass this Sunday with our RCIA group and parish community.  As we reflected last Sunday in our group, after our First Scrutiny, someone shared how frightful they had been when they heard that they would be celebrating a Scrutiny at Mass!  Although I thought I had done a good job preparing us all for the Scrutinies, this person reminded me that I had forgotten to see outside of my lens.  Of course! This should be frightful for anyone who is taking this celebration seriously.

Our group has been journeying together for many months now and together they began by inquiring of the community what our Catholic faith is really about. Together we have been scrutinizing our parish community. Our group has examined what the Church believes and how it responds to what it believes.  That process is painful at times, because our Church is made up of sinners and we can’t white wash the times when whom we said we were and how we acted were in conflict with one another.

Most times it is the newcomer who points out the good in our Church.  They will share the good news of what led them to the Catholic Church, how the Holy Spirit pointed the way to our church through a person, an event, or an experience.  This is where I am renewed in my own faith, when I see how God continues to call everyone to Himself, without discriminating between ethnicity, nationality, race, class, sexuality, age, etc.  Each person who visits us through RCIA is someone whom God has moved their heart enough to "come and see" for themselves.

Now during the period of Lent, the Rites of Scrutinies are meant to be for each one of us; whether we are coming into the Church, or already part of the Church through our baptism, the Church uses this period to nudge us to scrutinize ourselves.  Yes, that should be frightening, because if we are honest we should see ourselves for who we really are:  how we may have deviated from the path that Christ calls us to each day.  We discern: Where have I not loved what I ought to love?  When have I not delighted in God’s blessings?  When I have not rejected what is offensive to God? When have I judged others and not been compassionate enough to share in their pain; instead I may have distracted myself with selfish goals or numbed myself of my pain with destructive addictions?  The answers to these questions can disturb us, because we may consider ourselves to be “ok” or even worse “not sinful”.  Part of the journey of Lent is to see our sinfulness, accept that we need the Lord as our savior and we need his sacraments to nourish us on our walk of faith.  On our own we are easily lost.  Together we rejoice that our Lord has already redeemed us. 

So, now I prepare the Rite and I reflect on my own faith journey I am touched by the conversations I am having with the group and realizing once more that it is through our Elect that God reminds me  to “move outside of my box” and allow myself to be “frightened” enough to respond humbly in prayer…. “God I am a sinner. Thank you for loving me anyway!”

 

Popes matter

Many are writing about our Pope’s retirement and my husband with a bit of incredibility asked me why I hadn’t yet written a reflection on this historic event in our Church.

Partly because I am still filtering through what all this means to me, as a Catholic woman, what it means for our Church at large and what it means to all the world; I find that I still am working through it all in my mind and I am still combing through a large web of thoughts, hopes, and admiration for the man whose scholarly scriptural work I attempted to read and understand while pursuing my Master’s Degree in Theology.  He was quite the biblical scholar and his writings engendered in me a desire to learn German so I could read his work in his native language. (But perhaps he wrote them in Latin? no matter, the fact is he made me want to know and read other German-Catholic theologians!)

This reflection is not so much on the man or on the office of “Seat of Peter”.  There is a lot of historical significance for this office, and happens to be one of the most enduring in world history. As institution, the Santa Sede (Holy See) is the leader of the Roman Catholic and Eastern Rite Churches,  with a recorded lineage that begins with the apostle Peter, regarded as the first “Holy Father” (Pope- meaning pappas in greek, an endearing term for father). As a political figure today the Pope is regarded as a head of state: El Vaticano, located in Italy.

There are many who use this time to criticize the Catholic church, its closed minded ways of thinking (which in most cases proves to have some validity), the sex scandals of the present age, the times the Church has turned inward as a way to protect itself instead of focusing on its founder (Jesus Christ) and his mission for us….etc., etc.  As a Catholic I am very aware of the sinful nature of our Church as much as I am aware of its holy nature.

As I attended morning Mass yesterday, the last day he would be known as Pope, my mind could not help but be drawn to the spiritual significance of his role; this would be the last Mass that at my church I would liturgically pray for our Pope, Benedict XVI. Yesterday was a turning point in our church history that I was living through and my mind wondered on past Popes in my life. 

My first memory of the concept of Pope brings me to my abuela’s bedroom in Tampa.  She and my abuelo were Catholic, my abuela being the  “outwardly” religious one.  She had a rocking chair in her room next to her bed. Every night after dinner  she and I cleaned up the kitchen (mostly her, I must admit), she would retire to her chair to read from her scriptures(Missal), pray her rosary, and many times I would lay down beside her on her bed.  I would watch her short arthritic fingers moving  her black beads along,  her lips quietly moving as she prayed softly, her long black and grey eyelashes closed  shut at times, as she meditated on Jesus' life.  I enjoyed her self imposed silence, while in the background, noise of the rest of our household let me know that evening work was still going on; my abuela was oblivious to it all. This was a sacred time for her.  My eyes would span around the room, resting on her dresser top where she had a jewelry box made out of iridescent shells, a beautifully kitsch plastic triptych of a European looking Broque altar with a crucifix of Jesus as its focus, a Hummel like ceramic musical statue of two children under an umbrella and they all sat near glass bottles of her two favorite fragrances:  Emeraude by Coty and Eau de Cologne 4711.  Finally my eyes couldn’t help but land on a long vertical calendar on her wall with a picture of Pope John VI at the top.  This man with reverant yet soft brown expressive eyes was wearing a white beanie. His image of his face was printed onto a textured paper and he looked very dignified, and Italian (maybe because he was), and sort of Jewish (because of his hat). Later I would learn all the important writings that this man gifted our world with, but at that time, for me he was a man my grandmother admired enough to have his face looking down on her each morning and every night as she prayed.

Pope John VI died in 1978; at that point Popes held no significance anymore for me because it was about that time that I began walking away from my Catholic traditions and faith. Not really intending it, when I left for college I had proclaimed myself as “Pope”. 

My interest in Popes came again under the charismatic servant who took the name of Pope John Paul II.  My first attraction was a TV coverage of his trip to the US, when he visited St. Louis. The theme of his trip to the US was “Family” and perhaps because this was 1988 and I was in the midst of creating, forming and nurturing a family, I watched and listened. I remember he was greeted by President and Mrs. Clinton, where the President praised the work he, as Pope, had done for 20 years. Shamefully I realized that I hadn’t really been paying attention, and yet our non Catholic President had found profound social value in it. Then in his opening statement Pope JPII addressed the social evils that had permeated our world, “…..Today, the conflict is between a culture that affirms and celebrates the gift of life, and a culture that seeks to declare entire groups of human beings--the unborn, the terminally ill, the handicapped, and others considered unuseful--to be outside the boundaries of legal protection." The pope pleaded with America, the world leader, to affirm a culture of life. The Pope had captured my attention once again. I was now ready to listen….and learn.

I also was drawn in by the over 20,00 youth who chanted over and over "John Paul II, we love you!"  Who was this John Paul? I wanted to know what I did not know.

There is much more I can write about JPII.  He  became a beacon of hope for me as I continued my search for God in my world; for now I will leave my reflection here, as I am still relishing the fact that Popes do matter, what they signify matters, how they lead matters, and the retirement of Benedict XVI has made me think about this in a new way.