Franciscan at Home

God has illuminated his work in my life as a catechist in many ways. Perhaps the most enlightening of these experiences happened when I was about 30 years old. A sophomore in my Sacraments class asked, “Mr. Digmann, did anything change for you after your confirmation? Did you feel any different?” I am always very open and honest with my students, and after a moment of pause to consider, I replied, “No. However, God is at work in our lives whether we notice it or not, or whether we feel it or not.” I encouraged them to continue to be open to God and his work in their lives during their own confirmation preparation process, even if they didn’t notice that work right away.

But my answer really bothered me. It was a day or two later when I was mowing my lawn, continuing to wrestle with this question and my response, that it hit me. I stopped the mower, literally lifted my hands to God, and praised and thanked him for revealing to me how he had worked the most significant spiritual experience of my life without me even realizing the sacramental root of it all.

It was a Sunday just like any other. At the end of Mass, the priest said, “Next week, bring a non-Catholic to Mass.” I turned to my wife and whispered, “I have someone in mind.”

I had a Chinese coworker whom I will call “John.” He and I often talked about philosophical topics such as the meaning of life. At first, John was an atheist, but through our conversations, he had moved into agnosticism. Accepting Thomas Aquinas’ arguments for the existence of God wasn’t too hard for John because he often praised Aristotle, and Aquinas seemed like a continuation of Aristotle.

Discussing Aquinas was good progress in our conversational catechesis, but getting from Aquinas to Jesus seemed far off. So one day I decided to jump right to it and asked point-blank:

“Who do you say that Jesus is?” John was surprised by my question.

“My understanding is that he founded Christianity,” he responded politely, “but I need to read more about his philosophy.”

Not knowing where to go from there, I told John that I would find some material and get back to him. But I felt lost. Should I talk about the historicity of the Gospels? Should I explain that Jesus is the only person in history to be preannounced? Should I tell John that Jesus is God?

Before I could find the material that I had I promised to give John, I found myself at church, at that liturgy, with Father encouraging us to bring a non-Catholic to Mass. So, back at work, I took the plunge and said to John, “The best way to understand Jesus is by taking you to Mass next Sunday.” He didn’t hesitate to accept my invitation.

When Sunday came, I waited for John in the parking lot, and then my family and I accompanied him into the church. I could tell he was curious about the reverence parishioners showed toward the altar. As the Mass began, I waited for the priest to say something along the lines of, “Welcome all non-Catholics; I will explain the Mass.” However, he began celebrating the Mass as usual. It was a beautiful liturgy, as always, and the priest gave a wonderful homily—but he made no special mention to acknowledge any guests.

Last year was my first year as a high school campus minister. Part of my job was also teaching an “Approaches to Leadership in the Faith” class. Students had to apply and interview to be in this class, and they were then selected to be the retreat leaders, and leaders in our school community, for the year. I had a lot of freedom when it came to how I instructed the students and what I decided to teach them. I felt as though the most valuable thing I could do is take them to the chapel for the first 20 minutes of class each time I had them. To me, having them develop a personal relationship with Christ was the most important thing in which to invest.

While we were in the chapel, I would introduce the students to different forms of prayer. We would do lectio divina, intercessory prayer, praise and worship, reflections for the liturgical seasons, etc. I always ended our time in the chapel by lifting up our prayers and intentions to Jesus through Mary, and then we would pray a Hail Mary together. After a while of me leading the Hail Mary, I had one of my students, Gabriella, ask if she could do it. I was more than happy to allow her to take the lead on our closing prayer!

Last year was one of the most difficult years of my life. It was my first year as a theology teacher, and even though I had been well prepared through my secondary education program and ministry experience, I was not prepared for the constant criticism and judgment I would receive from my coworkers. These comments filled my mind with self-doubt, anxiety, and fear. 

One month into teaching, I decided to be honest with my students about how I was feeling. I was not at my best that day, and I told my class, “I’m sorry if I’m not giving you my full attention and energy today. I’ve been experiencing a lot of anxiety recently, and I think it might be getting the best of me today. It has nothing to do with you; it’s just internal.” Immediately after class, one of my students approached me with tears in her eyes. Let’s just call her “Christina.” She said, “Thank you for sharing your feelings with us. I have severe anxiety and depression, so hearing you talk about your struggles makes me feel like I’m not alone.” 

We talked about how she has been attending therapy and about her struggle with having a relationship with God. I learned that Christina grew up in a Christian home, but cried every time she attended a church service. From then on, I began praying for Christina daily. The following week, Christina asked if I could sit with her and her friends during break. This quickly led to me sitting with Christina at break and lunch regularly, where we’d have conversations about mental health, our love of Crumbl cookies, and what it looks like to know Jesus Christ. Those moments didn’t seem like much at the time, but I wholeheartedly believe that God was working in them. 

I was a Catholic kid in the public school system in the mid 1960s. This meant, of course, that I was destined for Sunday school. My parents remained true to the promise they made to God on the day they were married to bring their children up in the faith. So, off I went. I have no recollection of how I found my way to the classroom (I was only six or seven), but what I do remember, what I will never forget, is the feeling I got when I walked in.

Hanging on the wall was a rather large crucifix, and tucked into a niche high up on the wall was a statue of Mary. I imagined both images looking down at me. Both were definitely mysterious to me—the public school classrooms did not have this, and neither did my family home. Imagine my bewilderment. I did trust my parents, so I accepted that I was supposed to be there. I was just not exactly sure why.

I was intrigued by and drawn to the statues, and I looked forward to returning to the classroom the following weeks. They caused a kind of spiritual longing in me that is hard to put into words. A seed had been planted by God and nourished by the Holy Spirit through these unexpected wood and plaster depictions of the most important characters in the story of salvation history.

How much worse off we would all be without physical pain! As counterintuitive as it sounds, pain is your friend. Pain is a mechanism to warn you that something is wrong. Imagine a scenario where there was no physical pain. When you get sick with a virus, you don’t feel bad, so you don’t take care of yourself. The virus spreads rapidly because there is no way to know that you have it until it is too late. Death or relentless monitoring become the only two ways to know that something is physically awry. Who would want to live like that? Dramatically shortened lifespans and constant paranoia? No thanks!

Twenty years ago, when I was first diagnosed with cancer, it was pain that made me go see a doctor. Thank goodness the pain arrived in time! The doctors found the cancer and treated it before it was too late. I’ve received 20 additional years on this good earth because of this good friend, pain. If it weren’t for pain, I wouldn’t be alive to write this today. I am grateful!

Because it is so familiar, physical pain is no longer very intimidating to me. Of course I don’t like it, but it’s manageable. Besides alerting me to something being amiss, it is helpful because it is purifying. It calls me to something higher. For instance, when a tech comes into my hospital room to wake me up in the middle of the night to draw blood, I am challenged to respond with kindness and docility. She appears abruptly with a bright light and sharp needle to do her job. This is rather unpleasant for me, but it’s also for my good. The least I can do is be pleasant to her regardless of how I am feeling. Subtle sighs or groans of annoyance or self-pity only serve to assault her with an air of needless negativity. What good does that do? I admit that sometimes I fail, but the pain offers me a great opportunity. It calls me to become the best version of myself.

I come here often. Sometimes I come in gratitude. Other times I come here to beg. I come alone. I come with my wife and our kids.

Growing up, it took thirty minutes to get here. Back country roads. Flat. Everything level and straight. Fields speckled with the occasional woods, a barn, a farmhouse. It was practically in my backyard. But then I moved. Now, it takes about three hours. I drive up the long interstate to those familiar country roads that lead into the village.

The sleepy, two-stoplight town is something of a time warp. Life just moves slower in Carey, Ohio. The rural way of life is simpler than the suburban variety.

I stay for hours, or for twenty minutes. Being here is all that matters.

Yes, I come here often. It’s in my blood.

I am a pilgrim.

Basilica and National Shrine of Our Lady of Consolation

In June of 1873, Fr. Joseph Peter Gloden was entrusted with the mission in Carey, Ohio: thirteen families and an unfinished church building. The people were discouraged. But Fr. Gloden rallied the small band of Catholics, and the nascent congregation finished the construction of the church. It was given the title Our Lady of Consolation, for, as Gloden said, “We are not yet at the end of our difficulties and we need a good, loving and powerful comforter.”[1]

After the church was dedicated, Gloden, originally from Remerschen, Luxembourg, sought to obtain a copy of the statue of Luxembourg’s Our Lady of Consolation. The statue was made of oak and adorned with a fabric dress. The replica of the statue from the Cathedral of Luxembourg arrived in Carey in March 1875. To give Our Lady’s statue a most solemn entrance into her new home, Fr. Gloden and his parishioners decided on a seven-mile procession to the church in Carey from the nearby parish in Frenchtown, Ohio.

The big event was to take place on May 24, 1875. The day before, a heavy storm swept through the area. On the morning of the proposed procession, another storm threatened. Lightning could be seen across the horizon. Gloden urged the crowd not to scatter, calling out, “Let the procession proceed; there is no danger.”[2] And so they charged into a thunderstorm. The rest is history. Rain poured all around the procession, but nobody in the procession got wet. Once the statue reached the church and was safely inside, the rain pelted the earth.[3] From the beginning, the whole thing was viewed as a miraculous event—a light prelude to events that would happen in Fatima some decades later. On that day in rural Ohio, Mary protected her beloved little ones from the elements.

When I close my eyes I can still see her. The woman who had just stepped to the front of the room preferred not to use the microphone, but her soft voice just didn’t carry in the small meeting area seating a posse of teenagers. We were on retreat, one of the few required prior to our confirmation.

In prayer after receiving Holy Communion, I recognized in my heart the voice of God the Father. “I want you to be radically available.” As Director of Religious Education in a large parish, I had an idea of what it meant to be radically available while working full time. It meant being available to God by showing up for daily Mass and prayer. It meant being available to my family for quick phone calls or spontaneous lunch meetings and for celebrations and vacations. It meant planning ahead but holding my plans loosely so I was interruptible. It meant keeping my office door open, welcoming parents or catechists who needed to talk.

Available to Rest in God’s Love

But why, I wondered, did God speak this phrase to me as I was retiring? I concluded that I was not to make any ongoing volunteer commitments but to trust God to lead me each day. For a couple of weeks, I delighted in unhurried phone conversations, invitations to travel, writing letters, cleaning neglected closets and corners, and catching up with friends over coffee after morning Mass.

Yet, I wondered, had I rightly understood the call to radical availability? Wasn’t it selfish of me to say no when my calendar was empty and I was qualified to help? What if I was taking the idea of radical availability too far? When I took my doubts to my husband and my spiritual director, they affirmed my discernment and encouraged me to stay the course.

During the summer after my senior year in college in 1990, I experienced a return and deepening of my faith through the intercession of our Blessed Mother. The following January, as a 23-year-old seminarian, I began attending Mass every day. Today—32 years later—I have since gone to Mass and received Holy Communion over 10,000 times. Little by little, bit by bit, these 10,000 Communions have transformed me. Only in retrospect can I appreciate how much I needed to be transformed. Today, I am still a work in progress, but the Eucharist is the center of my life, the daily event around which I plan all things. It is probably not surprising, then, that most significant events in my life somehow seem to get intertwined with my relationship with Jesus in the Eucharist.

The fact that I had a heart attack in 2021 is nothing extraordinary. People have heart attacks all the time—over 800,000 in the US every year. What makes mine remarkable are the circumstances surrounding it.

On Ash Wednesday that year, I went away on a three-day silent retreat with a friend. I fast during Lent and find it helpful to get my Lent started at a place with perpetual Eucharistic adoration and no food temptations. While praying in front of the Blessed Sacrament, I often pray using symbolic images of my heart. Sometimes, I sit silently and ask our Lord to make my heart beat in sync with his. Sometimes, I ask him to heal it. Oftentimes, I imagine him reaching into my chest with both of his warm hands; together, they completely cover my heart. I then imagine him lifting it out of my body and bringing it toward his face, where he carefully blows on it with his warm breath, melting the ice and making it healthy again.

As I spent these days in prayer before the Blessed Sacrament, I received an unexpected and confusing thought during my prayer. While I prayed, I kept hearing that something was wrong with my heart. At first, I took this to mean a reference to my spiritual heart, so, naturally, I prayed for him to heal and transform it. But instead of a comforting, satisfying prayer, I felt increasingly agitated and unfulfilled. This was very frustrating, and it led me to question what this message meant. As we drove home on Saturday I shared this experience with my friend, and we concluded that I should schedule an appointment to get my heart checked out. At the time, I had no conscious awareness that anything might be wrong with it. Both of us agreed, however, that given my medical background—three bouts of cancer, two stem cell transplants, thirty lifetime surgeries, eighteen years of constant hospitalizations, etc.—it was probably a prudent thing to do.