Always go to the funeral

Most of you reading this blog, have lived enough life, that you’ve lost someone you loved.  They day of the funeral goes by fast enough.  The eulogy, the kind words, the well wishes.  There’s a moment however, where you look around and notice how full the church is.  Your not proud of it, but you use this as some sort of barometer of an authentic life lived.  Did they build relationships with others?  Did they make an impact in lives outside of their own?  You can’t help but notice who showed up.  You can't help but notice who couldn't find the time.  Are these empty pews a testament of the person in the casket, or the rest of us, trying to discern while we are still here, what it is that really matters?

I still remember seeing Father Stanger at the Presbyterian church at my father’s funeral.  I was telling a story about my Dad and I looked back and noticed a priest sitting in the back pew.  He hadn’t been pastor of Holy Infant for more than a few weeks.  I never forgot it.

I think of the words Bob Costas spoke about the eulogy he gave at Mickey Mantle’s funeral:

“People asked me, 'How did you avoid breaking down when up there talking?'  And I told those who asked that, yes, there was one moment, and the moment was this:

As you stood there, you look out, and I tried not to make eye contact with his family. But everywhere you looked across the church, there would be Whitey Ford or Yogi Berra or Duke Snider or Reggie Jackson or Commissioner Selig. Everywhere you looked, baseball luminaries who had been connected to Mickey’s life as teammates or those who shared New York; and they sat in a special VIP section. (Billy Crystal, who idolized him, was there.) And they were in a little section down to the right. And at one point, midway through, I just kinda looked up to glance around the room the way you do when you’re not looking at anyone in particular and you’re looking out over the crowd, and I saw, against the wall at the end of a pew about a third of the way back by himself, Stan Musial. And in that moment I was struck by the sheer decency of that simple act.

Nobody would’ve marked Stan Musial absent that day. Never played with Mickey, except in All-Star games.  Never played against him, wasn’t in the same league, wasn’t linked with him like Willie Mays was. No one would’ve marked him absent. And it struck me in that split second as I turned away, because I didn’t want to continue the eye contact because I knew what would happen to me, it struck me that a 74-, 75-year-old man, who had battled prostate cancer, had gotten out of bed that morning and gone to Lambert.  He got on a flight by himself and had flown out with no special treatment, to pay his respects to a man who respected him so much, and to try and comfort a family that was in a great deal of pain."

In my life, the daily battles I face aren’t between good and evil.  Most days it is doing good versus doing nothing.  The things that represent only an inconvenience to me, but the world to the other guy.  Going to that painfully unattended birthday party.  The hospital visit during happy hour.  Doing the right thing even though you really, really don’t feel like it.

So as I rush around in my hurried life, I remind myself of those words that become an anthem when applied to your every day………..always go to the funeral.

Make this Year Different

With the current string of beautiful days and warmer weather here in Ballwin, you may be forgiven to think that Winter has come to an end. But it is still February, and I am quite certain that there are a few more chilling days in store before we taste fully the rejuvenating nectar of Spring.

This thought brings to mind the liturgical season of Lent, which believe it or not begins next week. I am always caught off guard by the start of this season, not expecting it, not prepared to meet it with the attention it deserves. It is like I am just trodding along, enjoying the comfort and anonymity of an unexamined life, and then all of the sudden the wave of frigid air hits as I am asked to look deeper, to travel along a more treacherous path. Without preparation, the focus of a goal and the gathering of the needed tools, I instinctively grab for anything available to at least appear to be on the journey. I'm guessing you all now how that ends from similar experience...

My intention is to make this year different. I have this coming week to do some recon work, to ask for and discover in prayer and silence some knowledge of the path God is asking me to walk. Knowing at least a little bit about Our Lord, I have no doubt that the route will look dangerous, outside of what I am comfortable with. This fear of the unknown will likely stir doubt and uncertainty. To calm these feelings, I plan to ask Him for a guide to show me the way and walk with me, and He will send the Holy Spirit. Once I've established contact with him, we together will gather the necessary provisions that will provide sustenance and support for the 40 days ahead.

And when Ash Wednesday comes, we will set out in confidence, prepared to make the journey fruitful and primed to reach our final destination.


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Here are a few previous posts regarding Lent. These might be a good place to start in formulating your Lenten plans:

http://himenpx90.blogspot.com/2014/04/the-wepons-of-war.html

http://himenpx90.blogspot.com/2016/03/how-to-survive-torture.html

http://himenpx90.blogspot.com/2016/02/the-hard-places.html

http://himenpx90.blogspot.com/2014/04/engage.html

Run the Good Race!

“Hey coach! You runnin’ in those boats!”  A former student teased referencing my court shoes as I attempted to dissolve into the midnight running crowd.  As a football, basketball, baseball athlete, sprinting facilitated my game.  I failed to understand the hype distance running attracted.  The air horn startled me.  The rambunctious wave of humanity carried me forward under what was supposed to be a full moon.  However, the race organizer unfamiliar with the lunar cycle followed an outdated almanac’s reference to a full moon.  Fortunately, flashing LEDs attached to waists, ponytails, and hats wound downhill through S-curves like fireflies in a summer night’s dream. 

            As I lagged, my 8-yr old daughter growing impatient, weaved between mailboxes and curbside trees winding a loop around me begging, “Can I just go and run?”

            Figuring her little legs would tucker at about a mile, I’d find her parked on the curb.  “Ok, I’ll catch you.”  … and off she ran, her light swarmed by so many others blinking and then disappearing into the night around the corner.

            Approaching a mile, panic settled in … no daughter!  I wheezed and stammered forward failing to throttle up a gear.  At two miles, … no daughter … exhausted, questioning my wisdom as a father, I prayed to see my daughter safely before I passed away!

            Though willing, my body succumbed to fatigue as the third mile constricted my lungs thieving time.  I trudged along in my boats beginning to set anchor.  The “finish” archway in sight, I like a penguin recognized a voice among hundreds cheering.  “Go, dad!  Go!  Run harder!  You’re gonna set a record!  Go dad!”  My daughter’s enthusiasm, cheers, fist pumps into the air lifted my spirit to limp across and finish.  Nobody else laughing and visiting seemed to care as they mulled around like cattle beneath the stars.  But a little body safe and excited lunged into my arms reunited, overjoyed we’d completed our first 5K!

            This night … God ambushed me!

I wandered toward the timing panel scrolling results illuminating darkness.  I spied my time fit for a ‘moondial’ in my age class.  Embarrassed, I backpedaled.  Others studied their results.  Suddenly, a woman in her low 30’s sprang into celebration!  “I did it!” she proclaimed to a pair of her running buddies.  “52 seconds faster!” She pointed to her name in lights.  Her arms wrapped her friends in elation.  Was she on drugs as she walked away high-fiving?  She occupied the cellar in her age category! 

Folks like bugs buzzing around a night light checked their results.  Overall, winners far, far outnumbered the disappointed.  Winners’ characteristics included new “pr’s” or personal records, supporting friends to become better runners, camaraderie drinking nature’s freshness, promoting the featured charity, improving physical fitness, making something bigger and better than it would have been without them. 

Sight unseen, the Spirit invaded!  I cannot stand still in my spiritual life.  I cannot take a break in my relationship with God.  I understand and treat running like most aspects of my life to be more than metaphors of my faith.  Running and the spiritual are designed to be entangled!  If I compartmentalize or relegate my experience with scripture or experience in Mass to a separate thread divergent from secular life, my professional, social, and family life … I miss the spiritual gifts in everyday life.  The threads must be entangled, woven together!

What’s that look like in your life of faith?  Knots, loops, weaves?

The running community hosts its winners and losers as do so many aspects of our lives.  At an early age, youngsters imprint on the world of comparisons.  The world constantly compares me to colleagues, neighbors, competitors.  The Pharisees focused on the belief they were better than everybody else.  This dynamic infects every organization, club, religion, and association worldwide.  One of the most damaging metamorphosis one can incorporate is to compare oneself to others.

Though reserved about it, I frequently compare myself to others.  And if or when I receive recognition, the pervasive Pharisee camp colonizes.  Fortunately, my students keep me honest.  Several years ago, I entered teaching committed to a philosophy and emphasized for my students.  Matthew Kelly so elegantly phrases it … “for you to become the best version of yourself.” God compares me to my former self.  Every day God invites me to improve upon my former self.  I have no problem striving for ideality … however, expecting it may be detrimental.

Initially, my running style mirrored my prayer life; sprint or run hard for a short time and walk, then repeat.  There was always one unsuspecting, steady soul that I’d repass perhaps fifteen times only for me to fall short of their relentless pace to the finish.  With time, the distances I actually ran increased while time walking diminished.  I’ve marveled among the running arthritic prophets, those 80 years of age and beyond, male and female, still measuring their steps in strength, perseverance, endurance and grace.  I’ve chased the wing chariots, those racing with their arms powering the wheels. Each time I step into a crowd, I dedicate my run to the goodness of the cause.  I listen as others share stories for which the event assists.

My conviction to improve my spiritual life influenced my effort to improve my physiological life to drop pounds, my psychological fortitude to stay in motion.  Each enhances the other.  Less fatigued, I psychologically fought the urge to stop and break rather than continue to run.  (Come to me, all you who are weary … and I will refresh you.  Mt. 11:28)  Nature’s divinity breathes life into each individual.  (-the Lord God formed man … and blew into his nostrils the breath of life …  Gn 2:7)

My steps toward improvement have been small both in faith and running.   I settle in the back of the pack before the horn blast.  (The last shall be first and the first shall be last.  Mt. 20:16) Nothing’s more demoralizing as a mom or dad pushing a baby stroller prances past me.  Why demoralized?  I still compare!  I also get boosts as I pass others, but remain nameless as I encourage them to persevere to keep the faith, to go farther, faster.  I watch adults skirt morning puddles and chuckle as children dance and splash.  As I’ve tired, names I’ve never captured, often less athletic have passed encouraging, “Stay with it!  Keep going!  Hang tough!”  They modeled and I followed.  (He called them, and immediately they abandoned boat and father to follow him.  Mt. 4:22)   I witness more genuine happiness among runners, walkers, and three-wheelers … and those cheering them to become better versions of themselves. 

While I ascend grueling climbs, I call aloud the names of those I know who fight. 

“This is for you, Joan! (struggling with ALS)  Climb, Helen! (Heart failure)  Battle, Mark! (job loss)  Beat this, John! (alcohol addiction)  Kill it, Terri. (cancer)”

            “Give me a little of that!” A stranger requests gasping beside me.

            “Name?” I inhale.

            “Dani.”

            “You go, Dani!” (grace delivered … Dani leaves me behind surging ahead to be the best version of herself!)

            Often among the trees, I lift my arms in boisterous praise, energy spilling from my small universe giving thanks to my Creator for inspiring me to become a better version of myself.  If I had allowed my comparisons (many erroneous) to others in my initial long distance race, I’d have never raced again.  Running is not a onetime event, but a process just as conversion is not a onetime experience.  Running, walking, wheeling … grace … leads through struggles, dark nights, injuries, disappointments, … to new friends, sunrises, surprises, better health, reflections, … a better entangled version of yourself in spirit, mind, and body. 

Today, I’m running complete 5K’s and setting new pr’s.  Each time I race, it’s an event, a mini-retreat.  Can’t run?  Walk!  Can’t walk?  Roll on a little!  Get out.  Drag along friend or foe.  Be with your community!

… and did I tell you … an event is coming your way!  Don’t miss the grace in the Shamrock Shuffle!

 

When Was the Last Time You Went to Confession?

by Mike Hey

2 Corinthians 5:18-21 “And all this is from God, who has reconciled us to himself through Christ and given us the ministry of reconciliation, namely, God was reconciling the world to himself in Christ, not counting their trespasses against them and entrusting to us the message of reconciliation. So we are ambassadors for Christ, as if God were appealing through us. We implore you on behalf of Christ, be reconciled to God.”

At one time in the not too distant past it had been 40 years for me, at least. Standing outside Father Anstoetter’s confessional that Saturday morning after PX90 was one of the longest 10 minutes of my life. This was the last remaining roadblock of my return to the Church and I was determined to get through it. Standing there thinking about what I might possibly confess (my memory sucks); I remembered the prayer passage like it was yesterday; “Bless me Father for I have sinned. It has been A LONG TIME since my last confession”! To this day receiving that long-awaited absolution was one of the best things that ever happened to me. It literally was like the weight of the world being lifted off of me, and I had completed my journey home.