February 16 - Lent, Day 4 - Contracts and Covenants

Today's question: Do I treasure my brothers and sisters in the faith? What could I do today to express my love for a fellow believer?

Yes, I think I do. My faith is the culmination of years of searching for my father, healing, and wholeness; for my father's family (that turned out to be enormous - like a small tribe). I am profoundly aware, when I am at church, that I am with my family, that these are "my people."

I express my love for fellow believers when I donate my time and talent in the music ministry; or when I take a young friend who's thinking of becoming Catholic to Mass with me; or, when I'm out and about in public, if I recognize someone from church, or recognize (by way of jewelry or or words spoken) that a stranger is a fellow Catholic - I feel a special kinship and kindness towards that person. I also have a sense that I am in this faith family for life, "for better or worse" (especially as someone who tried life outside the family for a period of time).

(Short entry today so I can catch a ferry to go and pick up my daughter-in-law and two of my grandbabies.)

February 15 - Lent, Day 3 - Temporal Loss-Eternal Gain

Dr. Hahn asks today, Is there clutter in my life that I've been clinging to? What could I do to simplify my life and sharpen my eternal focus?

The photo above is of my dining room in its present state, and depicts the process of reorganizing after my move from Brookline this past spring; a process of consolidating two storage closets (three if you count the fact that some of this stuff will go into storage in my Plantingfield Way house).

I hate clutter. I literally cannot start my work day until my space is clean and organized (OCD? ADHD? or simply delay tactics?). After many years living in a home cluttered with kids, pets, baseball bats, shoes everywhere, laundry I couldn't keep up with, I luxuriate in living alone in a peaceful, organized, pet-hair-free home, and live close to the adage, "A place for everything and everything in its place."

While the above photo is a depiction of my physical clutter (that has to be dealt with today, in preparation for my grandchildrens' imminent week-long visit; this room, God willing, will be in perfect order by the end of the morning), I think that what Dr. Hahn is referring to is the mental clutter - the busyness - that prevents us from entering the stillness of God's presence.

Here is just a partial list of the clutter of my life:

Two houses to maintain (mostly alone - repairs, renovations, upkeep).
Cameras that require maintenance.
Phones, and devices that require monitoring (I have three devices with which to check my e-mail or Facebook page), all with batteries that need to be charged.
Many instruments that need to be played and practiced and maintained.
Many more songs to write and to learn.
Many interests: sewing, weaving, knitting, building, creating, gardening, surfing, walking.
Photos to take, edit, organize, and print.
Book ideas.
The news media that fills my mind with mostly useless garbage and fosters fear rather than faith.
A Facebook stream that fills my mind with mostly useless and trivial garbage; rarely edifying. Add: too many people's psyches to monitor.
Being accountable to and enjoying the company of friends and family.

Along the lines of the discipline I developed living as a Jew, observing the Sabbath every week - clearing the slate of all work, worry, and worldly thoughts for twenty-five hours (this is every bit as difficult as it sounds) - taught me how to create Sabbath moments, or hours; a way to compartmentalize my life, to be able to say, "During this time period, I am only doing ___________, and nothing else." Simplifying my life and sharpening my eternal focus will certainly call on my skill in creating Sabbath moments.

Lord, I pray to remember to create Sabbath moments, to empty my mind of everything except You.

February 14 - Lent, Day 2 - Divine Discipline

Dr. Hahn's question for today: What additional sacrifice can I make today to affirm my desire to be disciplined this Lent?


Being Jewish for twelve years taught me nothing, if not discipline: the discipline to separate meat from milk, meat utensils from dairy utensils, and purchasing (and eating) only kosher food and household items (including plastic wrap and dish soap); the discipline to keep an even higher level of kashrut during the eight days of Passover, including scouring my home, every square inch in preparation and eating no wheat or leaven; the discipline of lighting the Sabbath candles every Friday night and abstaining from doing almost anything for 25 hours; the discipline of fasting on Yom Kippur, and much more.

Lately I've been wondering about how much discipline I have. Being on a somewhat free-lance schedule, working mostly from home, is not conducive to a living a disciplined life, I find. How many days do I have every intention of accomplishing X, Y, and Z, and by 2pm realize I haven't even started on X? How many nights do I not even bother to eat dinner until 9:30 pm? Or sometimes, simply call a couple of beers and a bag of chips dinner? How many times during the course of the day do I need to check my (evil, time-wasting-worse-than-cigarette-addiction) Facebook page for some vital message?

I will say, though, I have been very disciplined in getting myself to daily Mass, missing few mornings since June. Even mornings when I really don't want to go out (most), I make myself, and am always glad when I have gotten myself up and out the door; glad to be hearing holy and edifying words and receiving Communion, glad to be outside of my own space, glad to be seeing friends. Having someplace to go every morning is not a bad thing - almost like having a real job, I guess (but better, because then I get to come home and get involved with my own projects).

So, coming into Lent for the first time in twelve years, I now bring with me my Jewish background of discipline and structure and order, and I must say - I welcome it. Someone posted onto Facebook yesterday, "I've decided that for Lent this year I'm going to do something positive for the world instead of giving something up. I don't think that giving up chocolates or red meat will make me a better person." A statement that was applauded by her peers (30-somethings), and to my mind is indicative of where we are in our culture; a culture that says, "I'm going to do things my way. 2,000 years of tradition is outdated and stupid; I've got a better idea." I think that doing something positive for the world is a great idea, but is only half of the equation. Giving something up - trite as it may seem - is a physical, muscle-memory-building act that builds character as well as unites us to the Sacrifice on the cross, which is what this season is all about.

I have given up beer - wish me luck, as there are few things I love at the end of the day than a beer or two - giving up beer for the eight days of Passover was a walk in the park compared to these six weeks. I am also throwing in speaking disparagingly of people and swearing, for extra measure.

The good news is, I don't have to do it alone - all of this will be possible with God's help (I even found the discipline to write in this journal for the second day in a row even though I have 100 things pressing in on me).

Dear God, I pray for the strength to be disciplined for these next 39 days - and beyond.

February 13 - Lent, Day 1 - God's Unfailing Love

Ash Wednesday. Inspired by Scott Hahn's Lenten Reflections; A Father Who Keeps His Promise, a daily reader for the six weeks of Lent with a question at the end of each short chapter, I will attempt to record my own Lenten journey for the next forty days, here. The first question is, do I have the discipline to do this? Discipline, in itself, being a key to the Lenten journey in general, I suppose. So yeah, along with the thing I've given up, this journal is part of my offering for Lent.

These thoughts, along with the music I'm preparing for the 12 noon Liturgy of the Word, and again at 6pm - even though there are many other things I could and should be doing today - are my Ash Wednesday meditation and preparation for Lent. May these offerings be acceptable in your sight, Oh Lord.

Dr. Hahn's question for today: How has my earthly father shaped my understanding of God as Father? Do I believe that my heavenly Father loves me with an unfailing love?

Wow, great question. My earthly father - or lack of - has shaped my entire life, including and especially my understanding of God as Father. Indeed, one of the Hebrew names I chose for myself is Aviya, which means "God is my Father." (Avi: my father; Ya: a name for God) This name sums up my entire life; is both the question and the answer to my life. Coming into this world with no father, essentially being born with a broken heart, caused me to search for healing and meaning, which led me to find my Father in Heaven. I now know two things: one: God has always been with me (as it says many times in scripture, God has a special place in his heart for - and admonishes us, also, to care for - the widow, the orphan, and the fatherless), and for most of my adult life was the only father I knew; two: so also has my earthly father always been with me and indeed is very much a part of who I am. The latter knowledge having been understood only in recent years, aided by a special letter I found in which he expresses his love for me; visiting his grave (where he communicated directly to me); and the most miraculous occurrence of all: having been found, this past October - on my birthday - by his gigantic Italian family, a most wonderful, healing experience that continues daily as more and more of us cousins find each other (my father had 62 first cousins).

So yes, having no earthly father led me to my Heavenly Father, for which, after all is said and done (and many parts of this journey were not particularly fun), I am very grateful. Aviya: God is my Father; and yes, both of my fathers love me very much.

PS: As an aside, a few months ago I went up to Norwell to play at an Irish session with friends at The Tinker's Son. Peter and Pamela Smith graciously opened their home to me. I had a wonderful night's sleep in their guest bedroom, but when I got home that night I realized that the Miraculous Medal I carry in my jeans pocket was missing. The last place I saw it was that morning at the Smith's. I described it to them and asked if they'd found it. No luck. Still, I was positive it was in that house. The next time I used my mainland car I searched diligently - under and inside every possible surface - for the medal, thinking perhaps it had fallen out of my pocket while driving. The next time I stayed at the Smith's, I searched every square inch of the guest bedroom - to no avail. Okay, no big deal. It's a piece of metal - but blessed by the priest, with supposed miraculous properties; a medal that had some sentimental value because not only did my (supposedly non-religious) daughter, Maria, wear it twice while flying between the US and Europe, it's one of the few objects I have that links me to my devoutly Catholic years 12-15 years ago. I'm not even sure where it came from, to be honest. I think it was a gift. Anyway - last night I received a message from the Smiths: "We found your medallion..." Yes, I knew it was in that house. And now, the eve of Ash Wednesday it turns up. This is a sign, I believe, for good (yes, I was eventually going to purchase another one, but I will be very happy to have this one back); a miracle.

Power

The voice of the Lord is over the waters;
the God of glory thunders,
the Lord thunders over the mighty waters.
The voice of the Lord is powerful;
the voice of the Lord is majestic.
(Psalm 29: 3-4)



South Beach, Hurricane Sandy.

Best Birthday Present, Ever

Where do I start, except to say that the past few days have been amazing, beginning with a random, out-of-the blue e-mail from Janis Ann Tanner who turns out to be a second cousin from my long-lost Piazza family.

I am now in touch with two more cousins, Annette Valentinetti Facciponti and Andrea Rasulo - these names are beautiful music! - and with my grandparents' generation having numbered 65 siblings and first cousins, this is the tip of the iceberg.

To understand the significance of all of this, one must first know that I never met my father, have only known a few details of his life (this is one of only two photos I have of him, and I only saw these for the first time at age 30), and have never met anyone on that side of the family. Imagine that half of who you are is a black hole, an emptiness that never goes away (and yeah, I've done a pretty fine job of making up for all of that, I'd say); and now, suddenly - ON MY BIRTHDAY - I am given the most incredible gift, the best gift ever: at least three cousins with names and faces and common history, with more to come.

I've spent my whole life adopting myself out to friends and neighbors with big families, never knowing, of course, that I had a very large family of my very own.

I knew they'd come for me.

Catholics Come Home

During the recent ten years that I lived in Coolidge Corner, Brookline, my almost-daily walks usually included a brisk walk along Harvard St. through Brookline Village past St. Mary's Roman Catholic Church, a towering and magnificent display of architecture. On some level, I think it must have brought me comfort, all those years I was so far from home - both geographically and religiously - simply to walk by the place. I could just as easily have walked west on Harvard Street, or up or down Beacon Street, or chosen a multitude of directions and neighborhoods in which to walk, but I almost always chose to walk through the Village.

In those ten years, out of deference to the Judaism I had embraced, even though I often wondered what it looked like inside, I never went in to St. Mary's (except for the one Palm Sunday a few years back when I popped in ever-so-quickly, not even daring to gaze beyond the narthex, in order to grab a palm to take to my godmother who was in a nearby hospital).

Today, since I was in Boston for the weekend, and in need of going to church, I attended the 10:30 Mass at St. Mary's. It was a beautiful Mass, with beautiful music, in a jaw-droppingly gorgeous sanctuary that felt more like being in a European cathedral than being in suburban Boston. It was wonderful being back in Brookline, and even more joyous being in St. Mary's, finally inside that big church I had walked past almost every day but hadn't even dared to peek into. It was especially meaningful being there as a fully-home-again Catholic.  Nobody sang louder than I did today. 

For the past few years there's been a sign on the front of St. Mary's, part of a church-wide campaign to reach out to fallen away Catholics (a category in which I, very interestingly, thought that being a convert to Judaism I was exempt from), that proclaims: Catholics Come Home (which I had been "mistakenly" reading as an invitation all this time, as in: Catholics, Come Home).

I now know that that sign was placed there specifically for me.

Catholics come home.

Indeed, they do.

These photos, from my phone, do not even begin to do justice to the magnificence that is St. Mary's Church in Brookline (nor do the words above even begin to describe my joy at having attended Sunday Mass there):

Okay, I knew I had a few St. Mary's photos on file (these are from March 17, 2011):