2022: A Year of Air and Grace

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Airbnb, Ascension Press, BIAY, Bible in a Year, Fr. Mike Schmitz, Marigny Cottage

I am beginning this annual pictorial review much later than usual – 8:16 PM on New Year’s Eve.  As I sit at the keyboard with a glass of champagne and contemplate all that has transpired in the past twelve months, I can be nothing but grateful.  The year was a tough one and as it winds to a close we finally see light again. Oh, that beautiful light.

The long and short of it is that just as spring was blooming on 2022 a neighbor’s loss became our gain when their house and property were sold at auction. With much prayer and no small amount of blind faith, we had the opportunity to be the purchasers.  In the process we were hated. I understand that they simply could not see past the pain to recognize reason. Forgiveness was a daily task (isn’t it always?). Some days I didn’t think I could do it.  But I went to bed every night thanking God for His blessings.  I covered our family and theirs in prayer even when I didn’t feel like praying.  I cannot adequately put into words all that I have thought through this process. If that day ever comes I will be sure to write those thoughts down because they are simultaneously painful and beautiful. This was the year that God said to me, “I’ve got you. And I’ve got them. I know where this is going. You just have to follow and trust.” This was the year I longed to listen and actually heard Him. This was the year I put each day in His hands. This was the year of air and grace, both given and received.

My tradition has been to celebrate the milder moments of the year with humor sprinkled in sarcasm, regardless of the more poignant days. But the poignant days made this particular trip around the sun what it is in the rearview, and they deserve to be celebrated here. So, as we close the book on 2022 I offer a few snapshots of life as we lived it.

January

My girl-crew, the French Toast Mafia, in my kitchen on the day I taught them how to make French bread and yeast rolls. Here’s me, Kendell, Claire, Brandy, Amy and Bailey. I love these ladies. I always will.

February

Max’s birthday is celebrated on the last day of February. We do all the celebrating. He does all the tolerating.

March

Morning reading and prayer time with Fr. Mike Schmitz and the Bible in a Year podcast.  Every day. 365 days. The most beautiful routine I have. Here’s the morning sun shining across my living room and casting its rainbow on my bible.

April

Easter Sunday – the whole fam came for our first-ever shrimp boil. The shrimp left a lot to be desired. But the company – Heaven on earth!

May

We purchased the new property in early May. The pond on the property is one of the many blessings, as it provided a bit of peace and joy when we were able to avert our minds and hands from the work required by the rest of the property. We got to spend a few evenings fishing in it before the summer heat kept us indoors.

June

I finally managed to hang one of my grandparents’ hammocks near the pond, thinking that when we opened the house up as an Airbnb, the hammock would be a great addition. I was squashed in the hammock and flopped around like one of the fish we had caught, but my wine glass was happy.

July

Victoria and her friends all went to the beach, so we kept the furbabies.  Here are Socko and Rico, two of my three O-boys.  My third O-boy is Leo, Victoria’s boyfriend’s yellow lab, and I have dubbed myself Nonna to all of them.  Yes, I’m that lady.

August

Thinking I needed to embark on a writing career, I had my niece Bella come over to snap some photos of me for a writing portfolio. I’m not much on photos of myself, but seriously…August did me no other favors.  To follow up, my employment hasn’t changed. I just had to hear God’s voice through the noise. Again.

September

As I started painting furniture and decor for the Airbnb, my paper plate paint palette started to look like a new Halloween decoration.  Total accident.  Total coolness.

October

In the month that the hubster turned 50 I have not a single pic of him. I do, however, have this… the reason I can look back on this year and smile. You can be a part of the Bible in a Year community too. It’s never too late. ❤

November

My parents both turned 70 in November and I managed to pull off a surprise party complete with family, friends and peeps they hadn’t seen in years. Before I pat myself on the back too much, I have to confess that I neglected to get a photo of them together at the party. Epic fail on my part. But, here is my dad with his brother, my Uncle Floyd. 

December

The chaos of the year finally stilled and the Airbnb opened at the beginning of the month.  As we hosted our third family of guests in the newly named Marigny Cottage right before Christmas, we also celebrated our second annual Feast of Seven Fishes at home, a formal-ish seven-course seafood meal that Dom and I prepare and serve at Christmas. We had 16 people present this year for dinner, and Bella helped us cook and serve. It was a lot of work, but it was also a thing of beauty, and we can’t wait to do it again next December.

The year of air and grace.  It feels good to breathe again. It feels good to know my God and to trust Him. It feels good to be thankful. In closing the year, I’d like to borrow from the Bible a prayer for each of you.

May the Lord bless you and keep you.  May the Lord make his face to shine upon you and be gracious to you.  May the Lord lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace.

Peace indeed, my friends. For you and for everyone. Love always…

Bonus Pic:

Fireworks are in high gear either down our street or neighborhoods away, and Max is about to come right out of his fur.  Uninvited, our freckle-footed fur factory jumped into the chair with Dom for comfort, shaking and shedding all the way. It’s gonna be a long night.  

The Vaulted Files: Reflections on Advent (2010)

My latest project is recipe scrapbooks into which I am compiling recipes, photos and stories.  As I scrolled through my vault of writings in search of holiday themed essays, I came across this one from 2010. I think it was written as a way for me to reconcile my Catholicism with my love for Christmas decorations.  My kids, now on the brink of full-blown adulthood, are not as likely anymore to gather around the Advent wreath with me for prayers, or collect stars from the Advent calendar as we count down the days to Christmas Eve. But this narrative reminds me of all the joy that is still present in the season, even as my family scatters like dandelion seeds to fulfill the duties of our days.  Happy Advent, everyone. 

While the city is alive with Christmas decorations and as families are planning their gifts and activities and preparing their homes, we Catholics are reminded throughout the Advent season that it is not, in fact, Christmas just yet.  Sometimes, I attend Mass only to leave feeling guilty for having already put up my Christmas tree. Obviously, I need to work through these feelings.

I love the Christmas season, whether it is celebrated liturgically or secularly. I love it for the lights and decorations, for the magic and mystery.  I love the planning and preparing – both in my home and in my heart.    I am generally cheery and positive, but let’s face it – I am waaaaay more joyous during December.  I find that I smile more, I giggle more, and I am more generous with both my time and my treasure.

Every time I look at my office doorway and see the red stocking peeking in, I am reminded of the season’s magic.  I love the signs of the season, and I want to display them as early as possible because I love the feeling that I have during the holidays.

I know the season is not all about presents, shopping and Santa.  I know it is about celebrating the birth of Christ.  I love the liturgical significance of Advent in that it tells us to “prepare.”  I want my children to feel the Christmas spirit all year long, because the reason for Christmas is with us all year long.  I also want them to understand the liturgical significance, so we have an Advent calendar and an Advent wreath.  We say daily prayers during Advent, and we do our best to prepare room in our hearts and home for the Christ Child. Advent is a time to recollect and ready ourselves for Christ. I always thought that meant I had to chill on Christmas until December 24 and allow Advent in as a time to rest and wait.  But that’s virtually impossible for me to do.  I want Christmas, like all. the. time.

To me personally, Advent is about anticipation, not delaying. Preparing, not waiting. We should be busy now – preparation is not a passive thing. May each Advent – whether busy or restful – lead our hearts to the perfect Christmas.

Not All Who Wander…

I said some day I would write this down.  Figure it all out. Make the story make sense.  Because I am a figurer… and a planner… and a puzzle solver.  It’s what I do.  I may do it on a small scale, but I do it whole-heartedly.  And often.

It was 2014 when I said to Dom, “What if I went back to school? What if I wanted a master’s degree? Would you be cool with that?”

I wasn’t asking permission to expand my horizons, mind you; Dom would never hold me back from what I felt called to do with my time. But we are a team, and I needed to know if he could sacrifice some dinners or pitch in with the housework while I studied for the next two years. I knew this would not be easy on any of us.   I would publicly state two years later, “If I ever say that I want to go back to school for a  third time, someone hit me in the head with a rock.” It was an adequate statement, and I sensed it before I even began.

So there I was, rocking along toward an MBA.  Dinners were still relatively on schedule.  Dom was becoming a laundry KING. I was stressed out and stretched too thin, but I was killing it, or so I thought. And then the bottom fell out.

October 2015.  I’d been in school for a year. One down, one to go.  Mid-way through Halloween decorations and smack in the middle of terms, my mother-in-law was diagnosed with Stage 3 pancreatic cancer.  We live right next door to her, and of the six of us “kids” (her three sons and their wives) I had the most flexible work schedule.  So I rose to the occasion.  I managed to balance school and work and doctors’ appointments.  Against all odds, Mom lived.  Hell, she was outright cured.  I fell to my knees in gratitude and when I rose I danced and cried and danced some more.  I had plenty to be thankful for and I was ready to shout it from the rooftops.

Six months after the doctors looked at my mother-in-law in astonishment and I thanked God and every saint I could name, I finished that dang program and got my MBA.  The trials were over; the dust had settled.  There was light at the end of our tunnel.

I thought the achievement of the degree would satisfy me, but a desire to do more started murmuring in my head and wouldn’t shut up.  What good was that degree if I wasn’t going to use it? What had all the struggle been for if nothing was going to change? Why did I pay that tuition if my family would never see some return on the investment?

So I said to Dom one morning, standing at our bathroom sinks, “Among those companies that your company works with, if you hear of any job opening that I might be good at, let me know, okay?”

I don’t know how much time passed between that statement and a certain phone call.  “Hey, remember when you said for me to keep an ear open for jobs?” he asked.  “OIB is looking for a credit analyst.”

“A what?”

Seriously.  That’s how this journey unfolds.  The next thing I knew, I had an interview.  I’ll never forget it – March 30, 2017.  My father-in-law had a doctor’s appointment that morning at the same time as my interview.  After two years of my accompanying them to every appointment and my helpful ability to recall dates and details so that I was almost a walking medical file on my mother-in-law, Pop wanted me there at his appointment.  “That’s alright,” I remember him saying. “They’re just going to look at my esophagus and figure out why I can’t swallow. It’s no big deal.”  That wasn’t self-pitying sarcasm; he genuinely meant it and I believed him.

I had my interview and came back to my office at the Catholic Center to tell my co-workers, “Y’all, I bombed that thing! There is no way I’m getting that job.”

Within an hour my phone was ringing.  Remember that light at the end of my tunnel? Turns out, it was another train.  Dom told me that Pop’s appointment that morning had taken a morbid turn. Esophageal tumor.  A biopsy had been scheduled, but it was most likely cancer.  No. Just, no.

Sometime in the next three weeks, Pop’s diagnosis and treatment were confirmed, and I got the job.  It was bittersweet, to say the least.  In a new work environment with entry-level vacation time, there was no way I could attend all of Pop’s appointments as I had attended Mom’s.  Everything felt upside down and I felt guilty for so many things –  for being happy about new opportunity when those I loved were so distraught, and also for not being available to my extended family when they needed me.

I cannot imagine that I was much good those first six months of my employment at the bank.  My family was going through some tough stuff – scary, and yet too familiar all at the same time – and I did not have my same confidantes and supporters in my day-to-day world.  I had new people. Wonderful people, but not those onto whom I thought I could dump all my crazy and still keep my job.  I held it in, for the most part.  I only let out the little bits that I thought wouldn’t send my new coworkers running for the hills or searching for the nearest straightjacket.  I know now that I did not give them nearly enough credit.

As 2017 drew to a close I experienced my first series of working holidays. Switching careers from the Catholic Church to banking is culture shock, to say the least.  We work on Christmas Eve?? Are you kidding me?? Perhaps I would not have been as selfish with my holidays if I were not watching Pop dwindle in strength and spirit with each passing day.  I managed to take some time off after Christmas that year, and I vividly recall taking a phone call from my new friend and supervisor as I stood in the backyard on a partly cloudy, cold December day.  She was informing me that our community bank was being bought by a larger bank. Our merger would be complete in February.

I spent that last week of December mentally willing myself to see the silver lining in our merger.  Maybe I would start to grow into my position and gain some confidence. I had not been with the community bank long enough to feel credibility in how I did my job; maybe that would change.  I don’t know if I was tricking myself, but I managed to feel hopeful about the whole thing.  Maybe this was why God led me into banking. Perhaps I would find my footing after all.

Three days into 2018 Pop succumbed to the cancer we could not beat.  I don’t have to tell you how badly that hurt.  I started comparing the timelines and sizing up his cancer journey and my OIB journey.  Both began on the same day. Both ended within just a few weeks of each other. Both turned my world upside down.  Both were beautiful and painful. Both would leave permanent marks on my heart.

The following month I spent my birthday in training for the new bank.  My heart was still heavy, my body was still tired, and my head hurt with too much new information. While I had only six months of procedures to re-learn, my co-workers had years’ worth. I was quite surprised (and somewhat ashamed) at the relief I felt as more and more people joined me in my unsteady little boat of The Unknown.  I finally felt like we were all on the same ground, rather than me being in a pit while everyone else stood far above me. To be fair, some days we were all above the pit, and some days we were all down in it, but at least we were together.  Misery does indeed love company.

It was somewhat similar at home.  Some days we were all smiles and some days we were just weepy messes. Oh, I could talk a good game – God’s plan for our lives, waiting patiently on the Lord, no need to worry about tomorrow, blah blah blah.  I was saying it, but I wasn’t instantly buying into it even as the words were passing my lips.  Okay, yes, my heart knew the truth.  But it was like my brain had just been through a war-zone video game that it couldn’t shake even though the game was over.  There were no winners in that game, by the way; it was all just destruction and shambles – programmed blood and pixelated gore that I couldn’t unsee.  There was real loss that I couldn’t unfeel.

I recall one particular Spring day when I was feeling especially down and I was complaining to Dom that making new friends at work had not been easy, that I missed terribly the sisterhood I left behind at the Catholic Center, and that I didn’t know if I’d ever have that level of emotional camaraderie again.  His response gutted me. “I know how you feel,” he said. “Think of who I hung out with, who I shared everything with when I wasn’t with you. Daddy was my best friend; we did everything together. If I wasn’t with you or at work, I was with him. I don’t have that anymore.”

The realization stung as it sunk in.  I had been so laser-focused on what I was missing that I failed to see the innumerable layers to Dom’s loss.  My selfishness had known no bounds.

I wasn’t willing to ignore our feelings at home, and fortunately neither was Dom.  We began to set aside time every night just to be together and talk about our day with no distractions. We tried to make sense of where we were, both personally and professionally.  Did we want what we had? Did we like who we were? Were we simply too scared to change? The answers varied, depending on the day’s events, but ultimately we realized that we had been changed by our experiences, not ruined by them.  The question that remained was simply, “What now?”

In the midst of our grief-filled year, we had some pretty significant events – Aaron graduated from high school and we dropped him off at college. I managed to distract myself from the additional changes in our home by focusing on travel, crafts and holiday party plans.  But December found me at my lowest point. For the first time in memory, my favorite season of all was not filled with hope and wonder and peace. I had no spare vacation time and was working through Christmas. I came home one night in tears and vowed to Dom, “I will not do this to another Christmas season. I have to have a different job before this time next year.”

As 2018 became dust and shadows I realized that we had been to Mass approximately four times during the year, not counting Pop’s funeral.  How had I been such an idiot?  No wonder the year had been so hard.  I prayed still, but my prayers were more akin to venting sessions with the hopes of a magic eraser.  They lacked gratitude.  I began to see that as a general rule, I lacked gratitude.  This had to change.

“We gotta go to Mass,” I finally told Dom after the year anniversary of Pop’s death.  “We gotta get our butts back in a pew or we are never going to recover from this.”

He nodded.  “I feel it too.  We need a major change, though.  Maybe a different church.”

I could be on board with this.  I understood the sentiment.  We needed a drastic enough change that we could see and feel a fresh, new start. “Okay,” I said. “But, can I ask one thing?  When we change churches, can we still be Catholic?”

“I’m not gonna quit being Catholic!” he exclaimed, and then we both laughed – he with amusement and I with relief.

There were so many issues with changing churches that my stomach soured at the thought of addressing them all.  Victoria was in the middle of her Confirmation year; I served on the church finance council; our church had a new pastor whom I deeply respected and whose feelings I did not want to hurt; we had grown to love so many of the congregation members, and all of those people had supported us and loved us through the highs and lows of the previous twelve years. There was no way leaving wasn’t going to be awkward.

I decided to start with the pastor of the church we would attend: the church where it all started – where I fell in love with Midnight Mass, where I became Catholic, where we were married, where our children first learned how to sit still in a pew. In other words, home.  I called Father Tim, whom I know from my days at the Catholic Center, and said, “I need confession and consultation.”  He came to my office and we talked about all my issues. There wasn’t a single problem I brought up for which he didn’t have a reassuring answer. It was not official, sacramental “confession,” though I did share with him all the ways I had gone wrong in the past year and my general state of discontent.

“You need to come back and work for the church,” he said.  I laughed.  He didn’t.  “Why not?”

It was the question that would start the healing I needed.  The next time I saw him, he outlined a job description for a new position he was creating. I didn’t tell him right away, but that description was exactly what I had decided I wanted to do – a little HR, a little insurance, budgeting, facility management – basically, managing a small business.  I just never thought that business would be a church.  But, if I’m qualified for anything, it’s a church job. We touched base with each other several times over the next two months while he fine-tuned the position and took applications and I prayed for direction.

“You still interested?” he’d ask.

“Yep.” I handed him my resume. “You still hiring?”

“Yep.”

It became official on April 17, 2019, just a few weeks past the two-year anniversary of the kick-off of my journey. I got the job.  I’m back in the fold.  I’m going home.

In The Lord of the Rings epic, Tolkien wrote, “Not all those who wander are lost.” It feels like I have wandered for two solid years, and I frequently felt lost. Hindsight is 20/20, and only now I can look back and see that I may have lost myself but God never lost me.  Even when I let go of his hand, he still had my back.  He blessed me with new, dear friends and a bank “family” who consoled me in my loss and lifted me with their daily presence for two years. Perhaps he blessed me with a little darkness so that I could appreciate the light. And he blessed me with opportunity – to sacrifice, to grow and to love.  My mental image is of me as a child, toddling away toward something shiny while God gently reaches out and holds a belt loop to keep me steady. The toddler, oblivious to everything in the periphery, is only aiming for what’s ahead, and what’s ahead is always going to be unknown to us.  But we learn when we wander.  We learn so much.

 

** Since this post contains Dom’s feelings as well as mine, I had him read it to be sure he was okay with my sharing and required no edits before this was published.  He said he had only one edit from my original draft: that I share my mental image of God as Henry Blake from M*A*S*H. It’s true.  From the time I was little, I envisioned God with Colonel Blake’s quirky hat and fishing vest, complete the the pinned lures. I have no idea why I made that association at such a young age, but there it is.  Since Henry Blake was always smiling and happy, yet still Large-and-In-Charge, I suppose it’s fitting in its own way.  I can definitely picture him corralling a toddler by the belt loop.  And that’s good enough for me.

Bittersweetness

I have been writing this post for three solid weeks.  Its publishing is planned for the exact moment that my employment at the Catholic Center ends, 4:30 p.m. on Friday, June 2nd. After two decades of laughter, busyness, craziness and fun this very good and beloved thing is coming to an end. As this post makes its way onto the internet I will leave the Catholic Center as an employee for the very last time.  It is a bittersweet day.

I will have a week of vacation before I embark on a new career in banking.  One week to “move the anchor” from what I knew and loved to what I hope to learn and love.  As I found from leaving one house for another, I desperately need this time to ground myself and set my mind for what lay ahead while at the same time honoring where I’ve come from and what I have experienced so far.  Part of being able to move forward is a healthy identification of what is being left behind – memories, experiences, and the comfort of the job I know so well.

I used to joke that I grew up in an animal hospital, and while that is quite literally pretty true, considering the summers of my formative years that I spent huddled up on top of the filing cabinets or exploring the kennels and treatment rooms of Bossier Animal Hospital, I did my most beneficial growing at the Catholic Center.  It is the place I have called my second home for my entire adult life.  I love the people I have worked with as if they were family.  Who am I kidding?  They are family.   The friendships that I have come to treasure and rely on are what made the memories I’m sharing here, and why I am likely crying my eyes out as I drive away from the building today. (You know I’m a softie.  Don’t judge.)

I remember the day I met Elaine. I witnessed co-workers talking negatively about another co-worker when they turned to Elaine for her agreement. She disappointed them by saying the person in question had always been pleasant to her, so she really had nothing to contribute to their discussion. The gossip came to a sputtering halt, and I knew instantly that I liked Elaine.

I remember standing next to Jill in the Line Avenue kitchen and her straight forward question: “When are you going to come work with us in the Business Office?” It would take another six years, but I would eventually get there.  It is quite possible that I will leave a large piece of my heart in that department.

I remember the Director for Child Nutrition hysterically sharing with me that she had just been chewed out by a parent who was angry over the school lunch menu. “Chicken Tetrazini” had been mis-relayed by a child to her parent, and the mother was livid that the school would dare to serve “Chicken Tits and Weenies.”

I remember the day I turned quickly to enter Gary’s office with my arms full of files, caught my foot on a phone cord and fell flat on the floor in front of him, unable to catch myself or break my fall because I was unwilling to drop the files I was holding. I lay on the floor for only a second with my long skirt splayed about me in a most unladylike fashion, but I recall him looking down at me in surprise and asking, “Are you okay?” before he began to giggle.

I remember the phone ringing off the wall after one particular work day had ended. Wondering why the caller wouldn’t just leave a message and desperate to make the ringing stop, I answered it to learn that our friend and co-worker, Sheila, had died in a car wreck an hour earlier.  Nearly twenty years later, I still tense when I hear the main phone ringing incessantly after 4:30.

I remember Bishop Friend’s jokes.  And Doris’ jokes.  And the jokes they would volley off of each other in the staff kitchen.  They could go for days.  I’m sure they are entertaining the saints together now.

I remember needing information on how to do part of my job, and I asked everyone within earshot for direction. No one in my building could help me, so I called the Vatican.  After two transfers I finally got a kind, English-speaking priest who helped me immensely.  I also remember our Business Administrator closing his eyes and shaking his head when I told him what to expect on the phone bill.

I remember worrying about Doris one morning when she didn’t report to work and none of us knew why. Concerned for her safety, I brought her absence to Sr. Margaret’s attention and asked if one of us should go to Doris’ home to check on her.  Sr. Margaret snapped that Doris was a grown woman and didn’t need us mothering her and, by the way, Doris was at the dentist.

I remember the day my childhood dog died. I left work early that afternoon.  When I came in the next morning, Christine had printed a poem about the love and loyalty of dogs and signed it from her own pups.  I still have it in a scrapbook and I cry every time I read it.

I remember getting quite aggravated at a missing community staple remover and the resulting email I sent to the whole building questioning my fellow employees’ integrity and demanding the stolen item be returned. I also remember Elaine laughing so hard she was crying while she admonished me, “Don’t you ever, ever, EVAH send an email like that without running it by me first!!”

I remember the White Elephant/Dirty Santa gift exchanges at the early staff Christmas parties and how John Mark would encourage everyone to “display their gifts on high” so we could all see them and thus admire (or laugh at) them.  Jim would often model his unwrapped gift ala Vanna White in hopes some other soul would steal it.  I also remember one of the more eye-popping gifts – a metal silhouette lamp of two entwined bodies –  and the laughter that almost threw me out of my chair when I found out my boss had brought it.

I remember moving to the building on Fairfield when I was halfway through my first pregnancy. I would pace the long hall outside my office to settle Aaron down on his especially active days. I also remember the day the air conditioning went out in July and I swore I was either going to die or go into labor.  Neither happened, though it felt like both.

I remember that on the morning of September 11, 2001 we all crowded around the television in the staff lounge to console each other as we watched the horror of the day unfold.

I remember Doris’ strong enunciation when she answered the phones as she boldly proclaimed, “CATH-o-lic CEN-Ter.” She explained to me one day that she emphasized the “t” in Center because she didn’t want her greeting to sound like “Catholic sinner.”

I remember many days of trying to decide where to lunch with Elaine and Patricia.  Elaine always – without fail – wanted Ming Garden.  Most days before Elaine could even cast her vote, Patricia would give her the hand and state firmly, “No Ming!”

I remember an especially difficult day in the Superintendent’s Office when we felt defeated by circumstances beyond our control.  At the end of our depressing conversation, Sr. Carol stood up and said, “Well, let’s get back to work.”  I know there were a million questions written on my face, but she continued gently: “Keep in mind, no matter how bad things seem we still have a job to do.”  I have heard those words echo in my thoughts over the years, and am grateful for the extra wind they always put in my sails.

I remember making Elaine go with me on an errand to Fairview House, the priest residences at the other end of our office building. Walking over there always creeped me out since I had heard of certain hauntings that I had no desire to verify personally.  On the second floor of Fairview House, Elaine and I heard a definite sound behind us and we almost broke our own legs trying to scurry over each other to get the hell out of Dodge.

I remember how my toddler Victoria loved John Mark’s voice.  She would hear him from across a room and seek him out.  She did so at a staff Christmas party and spent the rest of the afternoon in his arms.

Victoria and JM

I remember meeting Jill at Schlotzky’s to discuss my move to the Business Office.  I was almost too nervous to eat, but I learned on that day that Jill has a way of putting my fears at ease with her confident and honest nature.  (Side note: I haven’t thought about Schlotzky’s in years.  Now I’m hungry.)

I remember the eccentric phone calls we would get from the general public.  Sometimes people just need someone to listen to them, but we began to notice that the more bizarre conversations were always in sync with the lunar cycle. My favorite was the repeated request from an elderly lady who wanted us to fly the Pope to her house for a private audience.  Elaine and I would patiently listen to the various callers before hanging up and asking each other to look at a calendar.  “Yep,” came the oft-heard reply. “It’s a full moon.”

I remember Jill pulling me and Elaine into her office, closing the door, and sitting down to retrieve something from her wallet.  She smoothed a piece of paper and showed us the ultrasound picture. We were so happy, I think we all cried.

I remember an email Elaine sent to me and Patricia which accidentally got sent to Father Dave too.  When I saw his name on the list, I panicked and raced to Patricia’s office to see if she could use her IT skills to stop the email from reaching him and save Elaine from eternal mortification.  Sadly, it was too late, and mere mention of that email now can send us howling. Patricia later told Elaine, “Lori is white anyway, but she was REALLY white when she came running into my office!!” Needless to say, we don’t share embarrassing things in emails anymore.

I remember my 18-month stint out of the Business Office in another department and the day I learned that my old job in Business was open again.  I called Jill from Bishop’s reception room.  Her first words: “I hope you’re calling for the reason I think you’re calling.”  My reply: “Can I come home?”

I remember planning Jessica’s first baby shower – Beatles themed – and all the intricate details I crafted that I wanted to be so perfect. I worked a literal hard day’s night making a cake decorated like a vinyl record, then I got sick and missed the whole darn party.

I remember – heck, I will ALWAYS remember – the Harry Potter Halloween.  And I remember that afterward, as we tossed out ideas for the following year’s celebration, Father Dave’s eyes lit up at the mention of Lord of the Rings.

Staff and students of Hogwarts with Bishop Duca

I remember Margie’s holiday headbands: glittery shamrock antennae, reindeer antlers, bunny ears…  I also remember realizing that Margie has more Christmas decorations than the North Pole.

I remember Mickey’s sage advice about raising teenagers and the three things she could promise me: 1) all teenagers lie; 2) they really can’t help being stupid; and 3) you will like them again.

I remember that Msgr. Moore would call me on June 28^th every year to remind me that his auto insurance was expiring in two days and he needed a new ID card from me.  And every year I would sweetly assure him that I would get it to him in time, come hell or high water.

I remember decking our hallway each year for Christmas right after Thanksgiving, which infuriated the Advent purists at the other end of the building. I hung the stockings while Mike supplied the tree and décor. Blanca, Jessica and Mickey could always be counted on to help string lights and hang ornaments.  Sometimes we’d hook up someone’s phone to speakers and play Christmas tunes while we decorated.

I remember trying to sneak into the building with a box of t-shirts we would all wear as a birthday surprise for Bishop Duca.  My foot caught on the door facing and I was down for the count, certain I had just broken my arm. (Because once again, I didn’t want to let go of what I was carrying.) I lay on my back on the cement floor mentally assessing my damage as Mickey, who had been holding the door open for me, looked down in surprise at my prone form.  She later commented that I fall very quietly.  Dominic just happened to stop by my office that day. He saw me with an ice pack on my elbow and he and Jill together decided that my clumsy butt was going to the doctor. It was the only time my name was ever attached to a work comp injury, and I could not wait for that claim to roll off the insurance reports I had to download each month.

I remember Starbucks Fridays, where I would brave the morning crowd with a handful of co-workers’ gift cards so I could order each person’s favorite beverage. I can still name each of their go-to drinks.

I remember 8:00 a.m. Mass in the Catholic Center chapel before the seven stained glass windows were installed on the east wall. The morning sun would stream into the chapel though the clear glass panes, illuminating the pews in picturesque, if not blinding, rays of gold.  If there’s a chapel in Heaven I believe it will look just like that.

I remember taking departmental pictures for staff features in The Catholic Connection.  The Business Office did pose for one dignified, professional looking photo which was used in the publication, but we thought this picture suited us much better. It is still one of my all-time favorites.

Mickey, Guy, Jill, Margie and me

I remember John Mark chastising me over my failure to keep my car washed.  Hey, it’s clean on the inside.

I remember seeing Mike with a diet soda after I had spent several years sharing my ingredient research and enlightenment with those closest to me. I nearly yanked the bottle out of his hand before checking myself and admitting to him that true, it was none of my business what he drank, but I rather cared for his health and it would be great if he wouldn’t poison himself.

I remember a myriad of conversations with Jessica as we geeked out over books, characters and storylines. I’ll be forever grateful for her bringing me into the worlds of Neil Gaiman, Cassandra Clare and Deborah Harkness.

I remember coming back to the office from countless doctors’ appointments while Charolette was being treated for cancer. Mickey and Jill had declared our work area to be my safe space and they allowed me to cry and be comforted there each and every week.

I remember when Emily sent me this clipart picture.  She said it made her think of me. I’m pretty sure everyone who knows me will agree.

I remember telling Jill that I was going to send my resume out. She reacted just as I knew and hoped she would – with love and support for my development and little regard for her own inconvenience.

I remember the day of my first job interview in 21 years. I came back to my office that afternoon to the news that Pop had a tumor that would later be diagnosed as cancer.  Mickey, Margie and Jill rallied around me and let me sob all over again.

I remember telling Elaine that I had gotten the job I applied for.  She was on vacation at the time.  When she returned on Monday she called me and said, “I’m back, but I can’t look at you yet.”

Today is indeed bittersweet.  Keeping these memories and friends close in my heart will help ease the bitter part of leaving.  I thank my dear co-workers – each and every one – for sharing their lives with me and being not only good and decent friends but the sweetest part of my life at the Catholic Center.  I love you all.

Elaine and Me – June 1, 2017

The Most Reverend

Tags

Memories and Stories, Most Rev. William B. Friend

Back in the day, at the “old” Catholic Center housed in a square two-story building on Line Avenue, the secretaries of various departments would share what we called “phone duty” in which we were assigned a rotation of days to relieve the receptionist for her lunch hour. This ensured that the phone was always answered by a live person between the working hours of 8:00 to 4:30. On one such day, as I sat at the reception desk during the lunch hour, an elderly gentleman came to the office to pay on his stewardship pledge. While he stood at the reception window handing me his check, Bishop Friend strode casually through the front door. The man before me turned to see who had come in behind him and, upon watching Bishop Friend enter his passcode into the security system which would open the interior suite door, turned back to me, eyes wide.

“That’s the Bishop!” he whispered excitedly to me, as if we’d just seen a mythical being and didn’t want to frighten it away.

“Yes, sir,” I replied.

“I’ve never met him. Do you…do you think…well…” His voice trailed off as the wish formed and vanished like mist before he could finish speaking it.

“Would you like to meet him?” I asked.

“Really? Meet the Bishop?” He could barely contain his awe. His eyes danced with excitement and wonder. “Surely he’s too busy to meet me,” he mused, his doubt lined with a tangible hope.

“Hold on just a moment. Let me see if he has a little time.” I left the gentleman at the front desk and went to Bishop’s office. As I approached his always-open door, Bishop Friend was removing his hat, an ivy cap which he frequently wore. I knocked gently on the door frame and tentatively asked, “Bishop?”

“Ahh, hello, Lori. Do come in! I was just fixing my hair.” (These comments always elicited smiles, as Bishop Friend was “follicly challenged.”)

“Bishop, there is a gentleman at the front desk who just came in to drop off his pledge payment, but he seems very excited just to be standing in the same building as you, and well, I wonder if you might have a minute to say hi to him? I think it would make his day.”

“Oh, Lori,” he replied with that grandfatherly smile. “No good deed shall go unpunished. Please bring him in. It will be my pleasure to meet him.”

And so I did. As I led the man to Bishop’s office, his feet seemed to not touch the ground. I lingered at the doorway just long enough to see the gentleman reach for Bishop Friend’s hand, his head bowed in reverence, as Bishop Friend shook his hand enthusiastically and began conversation with him.

The brief meeting lasted for a few minutes, long enough for me to resume my post at the front desk and field a couple of phone calls. When the gentleman exited through the same door he had seen Bishop enter, he waved happily to me and said, “Thank you! Thank you so much! Oh, my wife will be so happy to hear that I met the Bishop! Thank you!”

I thought it amusing at the time, that this man was so excited to see a figure I had the pleasure of working with every day. I turned my head to see Bishop Friend walking toward the kitchen for a cup of coffee, or perhaps for the purpose of visiting any employees who were lunching in the staff lounge. Bishop Friend looked over at me and winked as he walked by, and I smiled gratefully at him.

That is my favorite personal memory of Bishop Friend. I recall vividly several snapshot moments… the wide grin on his face as he greeted us each day, his head-thrown-back laughter as a large group of us dined together on his return visits after retirement, his smile as he watched a toddler-size Victoria play with the telephone on his desk.

Bishop Friend with our favorite troublemaker.

There is no shortage of Bishop Friend lore. The impact of events in which he participated seems as large as he was tall. My favorite story took place before I ever met him, at a time when Shreveport was rife with gang violence. The Crips and the Bloods held our community in a vice-grip, incinerating the inner-city in turf wars. Bishop Friend called a meeting of the two gang heads. As the story goes, the leaders of the rival gangs came to the Catholic Center to meet with each other and Bishop Friend. On behalf of our Catholic elementary school that served the inner-city, Bishop implored the gang leaders to pledge to keep the violence away from the schools in the war-riddled neighborhoods. Through a long and tense meeting, an agreement was struck and the school children remained out of harm’s way. Few people would have placed themselves in the middle of such a potentially volatile meeting in an effort for peace. But such was the character of our Bishop.

I worked under Bishop Friend for ten years and six months. In all that time, I never saw him in a bad mood. There was but one time that he was noticeably upset, when he pulled us all together to tell us that there was no budgetary way to offer pay increases for one year. Otherwise, he was the same happy man every single time I saw him, every single day. That’s not to say that it was always easy. He was a leader, and leaders can never please all people at the same time. I heard him answer attacks with blessings; I watched him pray for people who cursed him. There were days that surely must have tried his soul, but he did not show it. Each and every one of his decisions was made in prayer with the good of everyone else’s soul in mind. He was the first man I ever knew to be made of this precise fiber.

Pope John Paul II with Bishop Friend

When Bishop Friend retired in 2006, I felt the absence of his calm and easy-going nature throughout our building. Since then, we at the Catholic Center have taken many opportunities to regale each other with memories and stories of our beloved first Bishop. But now memories and stories are all we have left of him. Our hearts will forever know the boldness of his laugh, the softness of his voice. Most Reverend William Benedict Friend, Bishop Emeritus of Shreveport, passed away just this morning. Our hearts are heavy, our memories are stirred. But it is fitting, at least to me, that he would leave our earthly realm on Holy Thursday. As he himself died with Christ, he rises again with Christ this Easter. Bishop Friend was a man of great faith, a man who walked the walk, a man who led his assigned flock with humility and gentleness and love. I believe his homecoming is well-timed.

I keep on my desk a card that was given on the 25th anniversary of his ordination as a Bishop. The reverse of the card cites a prayer from St. Augustine, and it summarizes best the man whom I knew:

Breathe in me, O Holy Spirit, that my thoughts may always be holy.
Act in me, O Holy Spirit, that my work, too, may be holy.
Draw my heart, O Holy Spirit, that I love but what is holy.
Strengthen me, O Holy Spirit, to defend all that is holy.
Guard me then, O Holy Spirit, that I always may be holy.

We pray for the peaceful repose of Bishop Friend’s soul, that he who “Lived in the Spirit” may also rest in the Spirit. And we take comfort in knowing that he will continue to pray for us, as he always promised.

The Tap on my Shoulder

My favorite inspirational author is Max Lucado.  I have a shelf full of “Max books” and I have read them each multiple times.  His writings somehow resonate with me at the intersection of who I am and who I should be.  Often, his words remind me of truths my heart has always known, even if my thoughts have obscured them. 

I have in my office a flip-calendar called Grace for the Moment, Volume II which contains snippets from his various books .  If you ever see my little flip-book, you will notice that it is permanently displaying October 31.  I have not yet read Max’s book Traveling Light, but the excerpt from it which is the meditation for that day spoke loudly to me several years ago when I first flipped to it.  

It speaks even more loudly today.

No person lives one day more or less than God intends. 

‘All the days planned for me were written in your book before I was one day old.’ (Psalm 139:16)

…We speak of a short life, but compared to eternity, who has a long one?  A person’s days on earth may appear as a drop in the ocean.  Yours and mine may seem like a thimbleful.  But compared to the Pacific of eternity, even the years of Methuselah filled no more than a glass…

In God’s plan every life is long enough and every death is timely.

Peace to all who mourn. 

Two Souls

Tags

Catholic priests, Death, funerals, Margaret Richter, Rev. David T. Richter

I wrote the post on Father David Richter early Sunday morning, almost immediately upon hearing of his sudden and unexpected death, a death which came only three days after the passing of his own mother. After three phone calls, with vision blurred by tears that would not cease, I sat at the computer and wrote. I poured it all out as I usually do, knowing that I would come back to it later and clean it up, make sense of it, try to make it worthy of the man it represented. As I waited throughout the morning for an official, public social media announcement from our Bishop or Vicar General, I read and re-read what I had written. Surprisingly, I changed nothing. Once I was certain my writing would not be the initial notification of his death to anyone close to him, I published it. The outpouring of sympathy and prayers for Father’s family and even for us was overwhelming.

Father Dave’s family is now preparing for a double-funeral on Saturday, where we will mourn together as we commend to our Creator the exceptional souls of him and his mother. To be honest, I have always expected Father Dave to celebrate my funeral Mass. Attending his feels like taking a fastball to the cheekbone.

And so I write through the grief.

Sometimes, in the moving and re-assigning of priests within a diocese, we grow considerably attached to one in particular. The priest becomes a staple in our lives and at our gatherings. We claim him as our own. We invite him into our homes and into our families. We call him for everything. We ask him to baptize our children and visit our sick relatives. We give him the comfy recliner when he comes over to watch a football game. We weep a bit, and we keep in touch when he is reassigned to another parish. We make a point to meet up whenever he is in town. For the Mainiero family and a small portion of Ebarbs in Shreveport, Father Dave was ours.

As much as our family embraced Father Dave, his mother embraced us. She, too, became family. I recall her offering gentle advice before my wedding, when she said to me, “The wedding reception is just a celebration. Be sure you plan for the marriage. The life you two will have together – that’s the real party.”

From my perspective her own marriage seemed one to emulate. When Father Dave was pastor of St. Elizabeth and we would all gather for Sunday morning Mass, I would see Mr. & Mrs. Richter seated about four pews ahead, always together, always smiling. Even from my vantage point behind them I could see their bond, their faithfulness. And I could certainly see parental joy radiate from both of them every time their son celebrated Mass.

Mrs. Richter was proud of all her boys. No one who knew her, even on a limited basis, could ever doubt that she had immense reverence for who her sons are. She spoke so highly of them that I respected each of Father Dave’s brothers long before I met them. I assumed that my own mother-in-law’s duty to Father Dave as his secretary and the resulting care for all things that concerned him was the impetus that initially bonded Charolette and Mrs. Richter. I later came to understand it was likely the shared experience of mothering all boys, together with a fierce love and protection for their families, that solidified their friendship.

It feels natural to celebrate with gratitude the life of Mrs. Richter and the gift of her friendship to us. It is painful for me to think of Father Dave in past tense. My heart, along with thousands of others, is broken with his death. As I struggled to wrap my head around why this happened – a question I know I cannot answer – I imagined a scenario in which Mrs. Richter, upon entering Heaven, saw something that wasn’t quite right. Then, straightening to her full height and with a glint in her narrowed eyes she stated succinctly, “Well. My David can fix this!” And modeling his life after the Master whom he served, Father Dave simply would not deny his mother’s request.

We will each struggle in the days ahead to reconcile our gratitude for a life long-lived and our ache for a life cut short. I thank God that this faith which we share affords us the peace of knowing that we will see these two beautiful souls again.

Father Dave

He was my first office-job boss. He confirmed me. He heard my first confession. He married me and Dom. He baptized our first child. He blessed the land on which we built our home. He was the first priest I ever saw drink a beer.

He was part of our family in so many ways that including him in everything from the most special of occasions to the most mundane came naturally. He often attended family holiday gatherings where he witnessed first-hand our wrapping paper mayhem.

I had the privilege of working for Father Dave twice. During my senior year in college I was an office assistant at St. Elizabeth Ann Seton Church where he was pastor. Later, I worked as his secretary in the Chancery of our diocese where he served as Vicar General. In our second working relationship he asked me only once to take some mail to his apartment which was located on the other side of our office building. Inside his home I confirmed what I had always suspected – that he lived simply and neatly with very little fluff.

Usually serious and pensive, Father Dave had a unique funny side. To this day he is the only priest who has ever shot me with a rubber band. I will never forget the look on his face as he peered around a filing cabinet, professionally wrapped the band over his cocked thumb and took aim.

Father Dave had his favorites, too. He was a staunch fan of the Dallas Cowboys and all things Star Wars. As I stooped to take a book from the bottom shelf in his office one day, I was shocked to find that I was face-to-face with a twelve-inch tall Yoda perched on the bookcase. I gave a startled gasp before laughing out loud, only to turn and find Father Dave rocking back in his chair, hands folded across his chest, nodding with a sly grin.

He was soft-spoken and witty, and he gave great consideration to his words before he spoke them. He was kind and hard working, gentle and good, quiet and reserved. He was far too young and his leaving came far too soon.

Soon will I rest, yes, forever sleep.  Earned it I have.  Twilight is upon me, soon night must fall…Death is a natural part of life. Rejoice for those around you who transform into the Force. Mourn them do not. Miss them do not.

Oh, Yoda, if only it were that easy.

Father Dave blessing our property before construction. June 2012

 

Farewell Fourteen!

If I were a glass-half-empty kind of girl, I would have to say that 2014 sucked Shrek’s big toe. Our litany of misery reads like a warped version of the Twelve Days of Christmas. One seizure (Dom), triple-bypass (Pops), four family funerals, six months of chauffeuring, and seven months without our favorite of all God’s creatures, the incomparable Mason.

True, 2014 was a roller coaster of blessing and curse, bitter and sweet. And yet, it seemed to me that each time we sunk into the valley of emptiness and grief and the fear of what could have been, our faith buoyed our souls out of shadow and into sunlight, reminding us not only to be grateful for each day we have with those we love, but also that the end of what we can see on Earth is not an end at all.

So with my glass half full, I present our Pictoral Year in Review:

January: Let’s just go ahead and start this off with the one wonky, unrelated-to-anything photo of the year.  Here is a show-stopping pic of our trampoline on the first icy day of January.  As you see, sleet does not keep my kids from bouncing, or, er…sliding.

February: Aaron was in 8th grade and getting ready to celebrate Mardi Gras in high style with the Class of 2018.  Here he is dressed to impress – or at least dressed to make me cry!  (Never mind that his Daddy was dressed EXACTLY LIKE THIS the first time I saw him!) I noticed Aaron’s height compared to the mantle’s edge as I posted this, and was pleased to show him that he’s grown four inches this year!

March: Victoria made her musical debut at my grandmother’s house by playing the water glasses.  She’s not nicknamed Gracie Lou Freebush for nothing!

April: I’m not entirely sure this happened in April, but it is in the right place on the timeline of my camera roll, so it gets the billing, even if it’s not really a “picture.” I was joking in the last line of my reply, but this really did make me proud!

May:  Paw prints and heartbreak.

June:  Headed to Grandmama and Granddaddy’s house on a Saturday.  We decided to take Mabel so she wouldn’t be home all alone.  Here she is propped in the backseat and grateful for the outing.

July: Victoria and her sweet friends gave Mabel a spa day.

August: You know those moments when you’re just hanging out, enjoying life, and you suddenly feel like you’re witnessing the present and the future all at the same time?  Yeah, this was one of those moments.

September: My boss came over and taught us and our parents how to make Italian sausage.  Primo!!!!  Here Dom and my dad are learning to case the sausage. October: My first fully-completed Pinterest project.  I started this back in March, I think.  Finished it in October.  My favorite literary places. I’d spend a lifetime on Blackfriar’s Bridge just to catch a glimpse of Tessa and Jem. November: Dom and I headed to a fancy-schmancy dinner one evening, and he asked Vic to take our picture before we left.  So glad he did.  Wish I’d had the foresight to put the ironing board up first. December: All I asked for was one sweet photo of my darling children together.  This is what I got, which is pretty typical of them nowadays.  {sigh} Teenagers! There it is, folks.  Our 2014 in a nutshell.  Come to think of it, my glass runneth over.

Ballot Blues

Tags

candidates, elections, mud-slinging, November 4, politics, voting

Where elections are concerned, I used to have a hard and fast rule: I would not vote for ANYONE who bashed his or her opponent in campaign advertisements. It didn’t matter what I thought about the issues or the candidates. If a candidate couldn’t spend his or her energy telling me how good a job he or she was planning to do, and instead focused on telling me how bad a job his or her opponent was going to do, then I deemed that the candidate was not of the character that deserved my vote, and I discarded him immediately.

And then came the day that my own rule left me no one to vote for. Not a single candidate stood without a stone in his hand.

So I didn’t vote that year.

And I regretted it. Not immediately, and not as a direct result of the winners’ actions. I regretted it eventually through an understanding – and an acceptance – of our political process.

Newsflash: there are no perfect politicians.

Closer-to-home newsflash: there are no perfect people. I should really stop looking for them and expecting them to run for office.

It is human nature, when attacked, to fight back. Rare is the person who can turn the other cheek. Even more rare the person who can turn the other cheek and still win an election. But I believe that any response should be an answer to the original accusation, not an attempt to deflect attention to an entirely separate issue. As an example:

Accusation: “My opponent voted 9 times out of 10 to kill puppies.”

Unacceptable Response: “My opponent says I voted to kill puppies. What he didn’t tell you is that he voted to open strip clubs in every school district in the state. If you care about your children, you’ll vote for me.”

Preferred Response: “What my opponent has stated about me is false. My record shows that I voted consistently against the killing of puppies. If I am elected to serve you fine people, I will continue to vote against puppy-cide and work to implement a puppy protection agency where people can anonymously report incidents of puppy abuse.”

I mean really, is that so hard???

I wanted so badly to just abstain from voting again this year. Fuming one recent morning over my perceived lack of quality candidates, I stopped dead in my tracks as I entered my office building. This poster greeted me and gave me cause to re-think my position on the whole political mess.

I do hold a prejudice against politicians in general. I assume kickbacks and special-interests and pockets lined with thirty pieces of silver. But prejudices are unfair. They are stereotypes. And they don’t serve to make me or my community any better. What will make my community better? My active participation in the process.

So, despite the fact that there was not a single campaign advertisement on my television that did not slander and defile political opponents, I voted this morning. I put all the negativity out of my mind, and I voted for the people whom I hope are not inherently opposed to my core values.

It was the best I could do.