Well no, not really, but plenty of funny things happened WHILE we were
protesting OUTSIDE the Cathedral on Ordination Saturday. People;
priests, lay and otherwise walked past us winking, nodding, whispering-
thank you for doing this, or good for you! - People passing by not
familiar with the Catholic religion would ask the dozen of us present,
"what do your signs about faith and inclusion mean?" I explained that
the church continues with its discriminatory practice of not giving
women an equal place at the table. Their response to our action was
encouraging; "Good, I am glad you are speaking out!" they'd say.
Not all comments were positive. Like the man who told us that any
opposition to the Church was a sin. Any opposition? I wanted to ask;
because we oppose the way the Church has handled the child molestation
crisis that too is a sin? Talk about falling into the rabbit hole!
Then there was the man who told us to take our "shit" and go
somewhere else. He quickly turned around and scurried into the
church. A man and woman looking like they were going to a high end
fashion show told us to join the Episcopalians. So much for inclusion,
the message was clear; YOU are not welcomed HERE. This is supposed to
be a silent vigil, in others words I have to keep my big mouth shut.
It's hard, especially when I wanted to yell back----
"Why should I leave? it is MY church too ya know?" But I did not yell,
not that time.
I did, however, fail to keep quiet when a woman drove by with a sign
written on the flap of an old cardboard box in what looked like
eyeliner stating; "we love our priests." She hung out the car window
while holding the sign screaming at the top of her lungs:
"WEEEE LOOOOVE OUR PRIIIIIIESTS!"
Sorry, it was automatic, the words just tumbled out my mouth…..oh if
"Sr. Eileen" had been there she would have looked at me with that Irish
twinkle in her eyes and pursed lips sweetly saying "now Lourdes,
silence please." So, so sorry…..but I yelled back, yes I did yell
back, not in an angry tone, but I do sheepishly admit to yelling, I did
want to be heard after all…..
"SO DO WEEEEEE!"
What makes her think we don't love our priests? Well, maybe not the
lily-livered priests, I don't particularly care much for them. I
don't much care for the ones who showed up in the nice new, luxury
vehicles either. There was one priest being taxied in a Hummer. Can
you imagine Jesus showing up in a Hummer? Or a Cadillac? Or a Lincoln?
Or a Lexus? Or a BMW? No, He probably would have gotten off the city bus, picked up a sign and walked with the twelve of us.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Saturday, April 3, 2010
The Mindless Menace of Violence-Remembering Bobby Kennedy
Dr. Martin Luther king, Jr. was killed 42 years ago today, April 4th, 1968. Bobby Kennedy was so devastated by this tragic and vicious act of violence that he gave the following speech. It is urgent that we take a stand against the mindless menace of violence not only in America, but around the world.
BOBBY KENNEDY
City Club of Cleveland, Cleveland, Ohio
April 5, 1968
"This is a time of shame and sorrow. It is not a day for politics. I have saved this one opportunity, my only event of today, to speak briefly to you about the mindless menace of violence in America which again stains our land and every one of our lives.
It is not the concern of any one race. The victims of the violence are black and white, rich and poor, young and old, famous and unknown. They are, most important of all, human beings whom other human beings loved and needed. No one - no matter where he lives or what he does - can be certain who will suffer from some senseless act of bloodshed. And yet it goes on and on and on in this country of ours.
Why? What has violence ever accomplished? What has it ever created? No martyr's cause has ever been stilled by an assassin's bullet.
No wrongs have ever been righted by riots and civil disorders. A sniper is only a coward, not a hero; and an uncontrolled, uncontrollable mob is only the voice of madness, not the voice of reason.
Whenever any American's life is taken by another American unnecessarily - whether it is done in the name of the law or in the defiance of the law, by one man or a gang, in cold blood or in passion, in an attack of violence or in response to violence - whenever we tear at the fabric of the life which another man has painfully and clumsily woven for himself and his children, the whole nation is degraded.
"Among free men," said Abraham Lincoln, "there can be no successful appeal from the ballot to the bullet; and those who take such appeal are sure to lose their cause and pay the costs."
Yet we seemingly tolerate a rising level of violence that ignores our common humanity and our claims to civilization alike. We calmly accept newspaper reports of civilian slaughter in far-off lands. We glorify killing on movie and television screens and call it entertainment. We make it easy for men of all shades of sanity to acquire whatever weapons and ammunition they desire.
Too often we honor swagger and bluster and wielders of force; too often we excuse those who are willing to build their own lives on the shattered dreams of others. Some Americans who preach non-violence abroad fail to practice it here at home. Some who accuse others of inciting riots have by their own conduct invited them.
Some look for scapegoats, others look for conspiracies, but this much is clear: violence breeds violence, repression brings retaliation, and only a cleansing of our whole society can remove this sickness from our soul.
For there is another kind of violence, slower but just as deadly destructive as the shot or the bomb in the night. This is the violence of institutions; indifference and inaction and slow decay. This is the violence that afflicts the poor, that poisons relations between men because their skin has different colors. This is the slow destruction of a child by hunger, and schools without books and homes without heat in the winter.
This is the breaking of a man's spirit by denying him the chance to stand as a father and as a man among other men. And this too afflicts us all.
I have not come here to propose a set of specific remedies nor is there a single set. For a broad and adequate outline we know what must be done. When you teach a man to hate and fear his brother, when you teach that he is a lesser man because of his color or his beliefs or the policies he pursues, when you teach that those who differ from you threaten your freedom or your job or your family, then you also learn to confront others not as fellow citizens but as enemies, to be met not with cooperation but with conquest; to be subjugated and mastered.
We learn, at the last, to look at our brothers as aliens, men with whom we share a city, but not a community; men bound to us in common dwelling, but not in common effort. We learn to share only a common fear, only a common desire to retreat from each other, only a common impulse to meet disagreement with force. For all this, there are no final answers.
Yet we know what we must do. It is to achieve true justice among our fellow citizens. The question is not what programs we should seek to enact. The question is whether we can find in our own midst and in our own hearts that leadership of humane purpose that will recognize the terrible truths of our existence.
We must admit the vanity of our false distinctions among men and learn to find our own advancement in the search for the advancement of others. We must admit in ourselves that our own children's future cannot be built on the misfortunes of others. We must recognize that this short life can neither be ennobled or enriched by hatred or revenge.
Our lives on this planet are too short and the work to be done too great to let this spirit flourish any longer in our land. Of course we cannot vanquish it with a program, nor with a resolution.
But we can perhaps remember, if only for a time, that those who live with us are our brothers, that they share with us the same short moment of life; that they seek, as do we, nothing but the chance to live out their lives in purpose and in happiness, winning what satisfaction and fulfillment they can.
Surely, this bond of common faith, this bond of common goal, can begin to teach us something. Surely, we can learn, at least, to look at those around us as fellow men, and surely we can begin to work a little harder to bind up the wounds among us and to become in our own hearts brothers and countrymen once again."
BOBBY KENNEDY
City Club of Cleveland, Cleveland, Ohio
April 5, 1968
"This is a time of shame and sorrow. It is not a day for politics. I have saved this one opportunity, my only event of today, to speak briefly to you about the mindless menace of violence in America which again stains our land and every one of our lives.
It is not the concern of any one race. The victims of the violence are black and white, rich and poor, young and old, famous and unknown. They are, most important of all, human beings whom other human beings loved and needed. No one - no matter where he lives or what he does - can be certain who will suffer from some senseless act of bloodshed. And yet it goes on and on and on in this country of ours.
Why? What has violence ever accomplished? What has it ever created? No martyr's cause has ever been stilled by an assassin's bullet.
No wrongs have ever been righted by riots and civil disorders. A sniper is only a coward, not a hero; and an uncontrolled, uncontrollable mob is only the voice of madness, not the voice of reason.
Whenever any American's life is taken by another American unnecessarily - whether it is done in the name of the law or in the defiance of the law, by one man or a gang, in cold blood or in passion, in an attack of violence or in response to violence - whenever we tear at the fabric of the life which another man has painfully and clumsily woven for himself and his children, the whole nation is degraded.
"Among free men," said Abraham Lincoln, "there can be no successful appeal from the ballot to the bullet; and those who take such appeal are sure to lose their cause and pay the costs."
Yet we seemingly tolerate a rising level of violence that ignores our common humanity and our claims to civilization alike. We calmly accept newspaper reports of civilian slaughter in far-off lands. We glorify killing on movie and television screens and call it entertainment. We make it easy for men of all shades of sanity to acquire whatever weapons and ammunition they desire.
Too often we honor swagger and bluster and wielders of force; too often we excuse those who are willing to build their own lives on the shattered dreams of others. Some Americans who preach non-violence abroad fail to practice it here at home. Some who accuse others of inciting riots have by their own conduct invited them.
Some look for scapegoats, others look for conspiracies, but this much is clear: violence breeds violence, repression brings retaliation, and only a cleansing of our whole society can remove this sickness from our soul.
For there is another kind of violence, slower but just as deadly destructive as the shot or the bomb in the night. This is the violence of institutions; indifference and inaction and slow decay. This is the violence that afflicts the poor, that poisons relations between men because their skin has different colors. This is the slow destruction of a child by hunger, and schools without books and homes without heat in the winter.
This is the breaking of a man's spirit by denying him the chance to stand as a father and as a man among other men. And this too afflicts us all.
I have not come here to propose a set of specific remedies nor is there a single set. For a broad and adequate outline we know what must be done. When you teach a man to hate and fear his brother, when you teach that he is a lesser man because of his color or his beliefs or the policies he pursues, when you teach that those who differ from you threaten your freedom or your job or your family, then you also learn to confront others not as fellow citizens but as enemies, to be met not with cooperation but with conquest; to be subjugated and mastered.
We learn, at the last, to look at our brothers as aliens, men with whom we share a city, but not a community; men bound to us in common dwelling, but not in common effort. We learn to share only a common fear, only a common desire to retreat from each other, only a common impulse to meet disagreement with force. For all this, there are no final answers.
Yet we know what we must do. It is to achieve true justice among our fellow citizens. The question is not what programs we should seek to enact. The question is whether we can find in our own midst and in our own hearts that leadership of humane purpose that will recognize the terrible truths of our existence.
We must admit the vanity of our false distinctions among men and learn to find our own advancement in the search for the advancement of others. We must admit in ourselves that our own children's future cannot be built on the misfortunes of others. We must recognize that this short life can neither be ennobled or enriched by hatred or revenge.
Our lives on this planet are too short and the work to be done too great to let this spirit flourish any longer in our land. Of course we cannot vanquish it with a program, nor with a resolution.
But we can perhaps remember, if only for a time, that those who live with us are our brothers, that they share with us the same short moment of life; that they seek, as do we, nothing but the chance to live out their lives in purpose and in happiness, winning what satisfaction and fulfillment they can.
Surely, this bond of common faith, this bond of common goal, can begin to teach us something. Surely, we can learn, at least, to look at those around us as fellow men, and surely we can begin to work a little harder to bind up the wounds among us and to become in our own hearts brothers and countrymen once again."
Friday, March 12, 2010
Waco, the City of Good Samaritans
My husband and I recently attended a concert in a city about 30 miles from our home. I had been excited about the Avett Brothers coming to Ann Arbor since having discovered their music. They are a band from North Carolina and play great music. Their style is difficult to describe because they are their own unique genre; a combination of bluegrass, folk, country, alternative, rock, all rolled up into four storytelling musicians…Since we NEVER and I mean NEVER go to concerts I was thrilled. We could have gone to see Michael Franti recently, but passed up on the opportunity mainly because Michael was playing with John Mayer. And although I like John Mayer's music and think he is talented, I cannot put up with his sophomoric style of kiss-and-tell antics (John, I'd like you to meet Lily Allen…I think you two will hit it off fabulously...) So there I was clapping, dancing, singing along to the AB's music, when my phone buzzed. I think the Avett Brothers were playing their penultimate song; Robert (my husband) took the phone call in the lobby. It was our daughter telling him to immediately call a friend's daughter. His friend, Christine Calloway, a former employee, had been my husband's driver for several years until her husband, Tim, became ill and died from a rare disease. Christine had quit working to take care of him. Christine and Robert developed a very special relationship when they worked together. He became a son to her and for Robert, Christine was his 2nd mother. Christine never recovered from her broken heart after Tim died. And quite frankly, that is what we think she died of, a broken heart. Her daughter tells my husband that she and her brother found Christine in her bed, still in her night clothes. She died in her sleep.
The entire ride home, Robert and I were in shock, saying all the things in between tears, laughter and sadness that one says after learning of such devastating news. We couldn't believe it, this was so unexpected, so quick, we never got to say goodbye. How could we accept her being gone? Little did we know that this was the beginning of a very bad evening. Bad can become worse sometimes and it did. Shortly after we arrived home, the phone rang. It's true what they say; when the phone rings at one in the morning it is never good news. It was my mother on the other end. My 82 year old father and 70-something-year-old mother decided they were fit and sprite enough to trek across the country and into Mexico. My dad, as always, would do the solo driving as my mother does not drive. This is quite a task for an 82 with a failing memory, severe diabetes and high blood pressure. They had made it as far as Waco Texas, and now my worst possible fear had become reality. My mother tells me that my father is missing, and that he has been missing for five hours already! What?!!? How can that be? What do you mean missing? How did this happen? Already with a sad heart, I am now terrified. My husband, next to me, listens on with an equally mortified look on his face. Our blood has now dropped to our feet, the room is spinning and we are stuck in the centrifuge of a nightmare. My mother tells me a police officer is with her, and his colleagues have checked hospitals, the morgue, jails..., anywhere he may possibly be but he is no where. We know he is somewhere, but where? In a strange twist, the police officer tells my mother that the police had pulled him over earlier; he had been driving the wrong way on a country road. I now picture every awful, terrorizing scenario that can befall an 82 year old elderly man; he is in a ditch, he is bound in some bad person's trunk, he is slumped over the steering wheel of his vehicle, he is dead. Wherever he is, I know he is in trouble and needs help. My mother and the kind City of Waco police officer tell me they will call back and give updates.
My husband is distraught, first Christine and now my father. He is also battling a virus. I tell him to go to bed and get some rest before he gets sicker, I will keep vigil. The clock ticks away the seconds, the minutes, the hours my father is missing. I keep busy, doing laundry, praying, washing dishes, praying, folding laundry, praying, tidying up, praying, praying, praying. I send a note to a friend who is connected with the IHMs (Immaculate Heart of Mary Sisters) asking for prayer. I begin to pray the rosary, but fall asleep. My dear friend, Heather, told me once that when one falls asleep in prayer the angels finish them for you. Thank you angels, but can you please find my father and protect him? I also send a note to my dad's favorite godson. He has a sister, my childhood friend, in the television business; perhaps she has a T.V. news connection in Waco. Sometime early Wednesday morning, the phone rang. It was that sweet police officer who has watched over my mother throughout this ordeal. My father has been found. We do not know the details, but he is okay although a bit confused and disoriented. His blood sugar level dropped. Diabetes is a wicked disease affecting body, mind and affect. But Waco is full of angels and good Samaritans.
My mother wanted to stretch her legs and walk; there was a hamburger place three blocks away. She told my father she would walk there while he rested and pick up their dinner. My father felt she had been gone too long, so he set out to look for her. Past dinner, his blood sugar began to dip to dangerously low levels. He became confused and drove into a field of high prairie Texan grass and became stuck in mud. He got out of the vehicle and began to walk when he fell. He knew that he could be hit by a car in middle of a country road with poor lighting so he dragged himself to the end of the road. At that time, it just so happened that a man who owns a party store a couple of blocks down the road was driving by. He saw him, stopped the vehicle and asked him what had happened. My father told him he was diabetic and had fallen and was too weak to get himself up. The man helped him up and took him to his store where he gave him a sugary soda and called an ambulance. Since the moment my mother reported my father missing kindness from strangers has abound. Everyone coming in contact with them has been kind and generous in words and in deeds. My mother has not been alone. From the Days Inn hotel manager to the City of Waco police department to the party store owner to the hospital staff....all have welcomed these weary and troubled travelers! My father is hospitalized and my brother is on his way to pick them up and bring them home.
We understand we have been tremendously fortunate. The outcome could have been tragic. Now I have been given an insight not experienced before. I know the anguish experienced by family members when a loved one goes missing. Those first few hours are agonizing, nothing compares to it. I found myself in between sobs and hope, in between despair and prayer. From now on, I will say special prayers for those who are searching for their lost loved ones and I will remember to treat strangers with the same kindness afforded to my parents.
The entire ride home, Robert and I were in shock, saying all the things in between tears, laughter and sadness that one says after learning of such devastating news. We couldn't believe it, this was so unexpected, so quick, we never got to say goodbye. How could we accept her being gone? Little did we know that this was the beginning of a very bad evening. Bad can become worse sometimes and it did. Shortly after we arrived home, the phone rang. It's true what they say; when the phone rings at one in the morning it is never good news. It was my mother on the other end. My 82 year old father and 70-something-year-old mother decided they were fit and sprite enough to trek across the country and into Mexico. My dad, as always, would do the solo driving as my mother does not drive. This is quite a task for an 82 with a failing memory, severe diabetes and high blood pressure. They had made it as far as Waco Texas, and now my worst possible fear had become reality. My mother tells me that my father is missing, and that he has been missing for five hours already! What?!!? How can that be? What do you mean missing? How did this happen? Already with a sad heart, I am now terrified. My husband, next to me, listens on with an equally mortified look on his face. Our blood has now dropped to our feet, the room is spinning and we are stuck in the centrifuge of a nightmare. My mother tells me a police officer is with her, and his colleagues have checked hospitals, the morgue, jails..., anywhere he may possibly be but he is no where. We know he is somewhere, but where? In a strange twist, the police officer tells my mother that the police had pulled him over earlier; he had been driving the wrong way on a country road. I now picture every awful, terrorizing scenario that can befall an 82 year old elderly man; he is in a ditch, he is bound in some bad person's trunk, he is slumped over the steering wheel of his vehicle, he is dead. Wherever he is, I know he is in trouble and needs help. My mother and the kind City of Waco police officer tell me they will call back and give updates.
My husband is distraught, first Christine and now my father. He is also battling a virus. I tell him to go to bed and get some rest before he gets sicker, I will keep vigil. The clock ticks away the seconds, the minutes, the hours my father is missing. I keep busy, doing laundry, praying, washing dishes, praying, folding laundry, praying, tidying up, praying, praying, praying. I send a note to a friend who is connected with the IHMs (Immaculate Heart of Mary Sisters) asking for prayer. I begin to pray the rosary, but fall asleep. My dear friend, Heather, told me once that when one falls asleep in prayer the angels finish them for you. Thank you angels, but can you please find my father and protect him? I also send a note to my dad's favorite godson. He has a sister, my childhood friend, in the television business; perhaps she has a T.V. news connection in Waco. Sometime early Wednesday morning, the phone rang. It was that sweet police officer who has watched over my mother throughout this ordeal. My father has been found. We do not know the details, but he is okay although a bit confused and disoriented. His blood sugar level dropped. Diabetes is a wicked disease affecting body, mind and affect. But Waco is full of angels and good Samaritans.
My mother wanted to stretch her legs and walk; there was a hamburger place three blocks away. She told my father she would walk there while he rested and pick up their dinner. My father felt she had been gone too long, so he set out to look for her. Past dinner, his blood sugar began to dip to dangerously low levels. He became confused and drove into a field of high prairie Texan grass and became stuck in mud. He got out of the vehicle and began to walk when he fell. He knew that he could be hit by a car in middle of a country road with poor lighting so he dragged himself to the end of the road. At that time, it just so happened that a man who owns a party store a couple of blocks down the road was driving by. He saw him, stopped the vehicle and asked him what had happened. My father told him he was diabetic and had fallen and was too weak to get himself up. The man helped him up and took him to his store where he gave him a sugary soda and called an ambulance. Since the moment my mother reported my father missing kindness from strangers has abound. Everyone coming in contact with them has been kind and generous in words and in deeds. My mother has not been alone. From the Days Inn hotel manager to the City of Waco police department to the party store owner to the hospital staff....all have welcomed these weary and troubled travelers! My father is hospitalized and my brother is on his way to pick them up and bring them home.
We understand we have been tremendously fortunate. The outcome could have been tragic. Now I have been given an insight not experienced before. I know the anguish experienced by family members when a loved one goes missing. Those first few hours are agonizing, nothing compares to it. I found myself in between sobs and hope, in between despair and prayer. From now on, I will say special prayers for those who are searching for their lost loved ones and I will remember to treat strangers with the same kindness afforded to my parents.
Monday, February 22, 2010
the promise of spring
I know, I know, we are in midst of the season's worst snow storm. Mama Nature has waved her wand over Metro Detroit and snow is falling mercilessly. We are covered in a white blanket, almost 8 inches thick!
But it doesn't matter. Why? because I have seen the promise of spring.
Yesterday, before the snow began to fall, I was in my sleeping garden. But believe me she is sleeping no more. My garden has started to stir as she does at this time every year. She is turning over and kicking off the winter, stretching her long legs and waving her arms. In February the deep sleep begins to lift and and life begins to unfold. She is stretching and yawning, slowly sending shoots up. My tulips are peeking above the ground, along with the crocuses, hyacinths and daffodils. They are surveying the early dawn of spring, waiting for that long stretch of sun and tepid weather to grow a little more. My lilac bush, the one that gives my senses so much pleasure and joy with her fragrant purple flowers has swelling branches and pregnant buds. It's just a matter of time. My roses are also getting ready to showcase their royal and majestic beauty with their hues of various pinks and apricot colours. The robins are preparing to leave the warmth of Central America where they spend their winter to visit us again. I hear the birds at the birdfeeder chirping and chatting about spring as well. Before long they will be busy building their nests, welcoming their new chirpers and chatterers. Soon my garden with its many colours and florid scents will invite the monarch butterflies and tropical hummingbirds to hover amongst her blooms. Yes spring is in the air, and so is love, as we have received the first wedding invitation of the season; Congratulations Gerry and Ying! Thank you for bringing the formal announcement of spring!
But it doesn't matter. Why? because I have seen the promise of spring.
Yesterday, before the snow began to fall, I was in my sleeping garden. But believe me she is sleeping no more. My garden has started to stir as she does at this time every year. She is turning over and kicking off the winter, stretching her long legs and waving her arms. In February the deep sleep begins to lift and and life begins to unfold. She is stretching and yawning, slowly sending shoots up. My tulips are peeking above the ground, along with the crocuses, hyacinths and daffodils. They are surveying the early dawn of spring, waiting for that long stretch of sun and tepid weather to grow a little more. My lilac bush, the one that gives my senses so much pleasure and joy with her fragrant purple flowers has swelling branches and pregnant buds. It's just a matter of time. My roses are also getting ready to showcase their royal and majestic beauty with their hues of various pinks and apricot colours. The robins are preparing to leave the warmth of Central America where they spend their winter to visit us again. I hear the birds at the birdfeeder chirping and chatting about spring as well. Before long they will be busy building their nests, welcoming their new chirpers and chatterers. Soon my garden with its many colours and florid scents will invite the monarch butterflies and tropical hummingbirds to hover amongst her blooms. Yes spring is in the air, and so is love, as we have received the first wedding invitation of the season; Congratulations Gerry and Ying! Thank you for bringing the formal announcement of spring!
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Bishop Gumbleton's Appeal for Haitian Aide
Dear Friends and Family----
Please view the following video where Bishop Thomas Gumbleton makes an appeal for the Haitian clinic he established last year.
(you will have to copy and paste or click on the link to the left of this script.)
http://www.youtube.com/user/imakevideo#p/a/u/1/z3o-H-yePJ4
All my love,
Lourdes
Please view the following video where Bishop Thomas Gumbleton makes an appeal for the Haitian clinic he established last year.
(you will have to copy and paste or click on the link to the left of this script.)
http://www.youtube.com/user/imakevideo#p/a/u/1/z3o-H-yePJ4
All my love,
Lourdes
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