Friday, March 25, 2011

Would Have Been Nice to Know That

Eyes open just a little. Light creeping in. Rub the sleep out. Man I'm rested. Surprisingly light outside.

Glance at cell phone: 7:56. Oh crap.

Heart racing. Panic. 4 minutes til prayer. Go or not go. Go or not go. Go or not go. Go.

3 minutes left.

Covers off. Feet on the floor. Pants. Shirt. Shirt backwards. Shirt straight.

2 minutes left. No time for a belt.

Mouth wash. Hair; forget it—nothing’s going to save that.

Breviary. Where is it; where is it; where is it??? Oh yeah, where I left it.

1 minute left. I'm never gonna make it. Never gonna make it. Never gonna make it.

Out the door. Look down. Woops, better zip that up.

Running, sprinting, racing. Stairs. Corners. Cleaners. Corners. Almost there. Slow up; act cool.

Bells ring. I'm late. Great. Begin walk of shame. Tip toe into Narthex.

No organ. No chant. No people. What the?

Check cell phone.


Thursday, March 17, 2011

This Place

I hand this over to you: this once simple place where now lines are blurred and colors coalesce.

I hand this over to you: this wanton expanse searching for the purity that possesses its peace.

I hand this over to you: though I am not sure what I hand in my hand since my feeling is faulty.

I hand this over to you: this that falters and fails though fairly fondled with forgiveness.

I hand this over to you: this place which I no longer want to hold helplessly on my own.

I hand this over to you: take it; possess it; hold it; and hand it back when it is whole.

Saturday, March 5, 2011

A Tribute

Elaine Wozniak-Mullin, my grandmother, died on Sunday night around 8 pm. She was in a nursing home surrounded by her five kids, many grandkids, and still more great grandkids. As they were praying around her bed, with tears softly rolling down their eyes, her family told her that it was time to leave them. Soon after she breathed her last breath, and her soul separated from her body.

As I write from my home in Minnesota I can look across the street and see the house where once my grandma lived. It is challenging to believe that I cannot just walk across the street and say hi; walk across the street and have a beer on her patio; walk across the street and give her a hug. There is great sadness in her death, but the legacy of my grandmother lives on in her children and their children. Though from many backgrounds and faiths, with various struggles and experiences, her family, our family, became even more united in her death and we were able to celebrate her earthly life and rejoice in her new life in Heaven, along with mourn our own loss together.

I may have learned more about the priesthood in the last few days since my grandmother's death than in five or six years of formation. Yet, probably more realistically, the five or six years of formation helped me to embrace and experience as fully as possible these last few days. Those who have walked with me on this journey thus far were in my heart whether I was crying myself, listening to someone else swim through her grief, speaking in front of others, serving the Mass, or attending at the grave site, I was supported with great love in my heart from those who have been a part of helping me along my journey to priesthood.

What a beautiful thing life is. Thank you Grandma.