Franciscan at Home

Long before Alexandria, Egypt became a center of Christian life and thought, it was one of the intellectual hubs of the ancient world. Its library is well known, but it was also a center of Greek philosophy and Jewish learning. The version of Christianity that emerged in Alexandria built on the best of the city’s cosmopolitan, scholarly traditions and, in its maturity under master teachers like Clement (c. 150–215), Origen (c. 185–251), and Didymus the Blind (c. 313–398), developed a distinctive approach to catechesis and Christian life that impressed scholars from Eusebius to John Henry Newman.

Petroc Willey’s book seeks to recover the Alexandrian catechetical approach and to make it accessible and relevant for catechists today. This is a scholarly book, but it is not merely a scholarly book. Willey is convinced, as was Pope John Paul II, that the Alexandrian approach has much to offer to the atomized, individualistic, consumeristic society of our day. The book, therefore, has the two main tasks of explaining the history, philosophy, and practice of Alexandrian catechesis and then illuminating what an Alexandrian-influenced catechesis might look like today. In both tasks, it excels.

The Alexandrian catechists, Willey shows, had a great appreciation for their city and its many cultural, social, and academic achievements. As they instructed their catechumens in the faith, they did so in a manner that emphasized Christ and the Church as complements and completions, not as replacements or rejections. They had a universal and holistic understanding of the faith, a sense of Christ not just as the fulfillment of Hebrew prophecy but also as the actualization of the best hopes and dreams of the Greeks and the Egyptians. Christianity was, in a sense, the true philosophy and the best way of life.

In Going, Going, Gone: The Dynamics of Disaffiliation in Young Catholics, the Center for Applied Research in the Apostolate identified a disturbing statistic: the median age of disaffiliation for young Catholics is 13 years old, with 74 percent of the sample saying they lost their faith between the ages of 10 and 20.[1] Clearly, the stakes are high for the religious education and formation of our young Catholics, and it is clear to me that the way that we approach Catholic education in our schools is contributing to this trend.

I have spent the past four years as a diocesan-level administrator for the Archdiocese of St. Louis. We approach all subjects with the conviction that all students can learn at a high level. In order to make this lofty goal a reality, we borrow from Rick Dufour’s formula of four questions: (1) What is it that we want students to know and be able to do? (2) How will we know when each student has learned it? (3) How will we respond when some students don’t learn it? (4) How will we extend the learning for some students who have demonstrated proficiency?[2] This approach has proven its value in traditional school subjects, and I believe it can have a powerful effect in faith education. Let’s briefly consider how we can approach each of these.

Question 1: With Respect to Their Life of Catholic faith, What Is It That We Want Students to Know and Be Able to Do?

My guess is that most schools, systems of schools sponsored by orders, and entire (Arch)dioceses have not yet answered this question. In Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, one of Stephen Covey’s recommended habits is to begin with the end in mind.[3] As basic as this sounds, I have observed that many teachers do not take this approach. In most of these cases, it is because these teachers have allowed textbooks to drive education in their classrooms: The plan for success is to start at page one of the textbook and get as far as circumstances allow. Over the years, I have lost count of how many times I have heard a comment along the lines of “I got further in my book than I ever have before” or “with this class, I probably won’t make it very far this year.” While there are, of course, counterexamples, often religion teachers—many who may mean well but who are not necessarily well versed in the faith—take this same approach of flipping pages and doing class reads of the textbook until time runs out in the school year.

What is needed are clear priorities from the top all the way down for guiding the decisions of what students should know and do when it comes to the area of religion. If we don’t begin with the end in mind when it comes to faith outcomes, we certainly won’t achieve them. In our Archdiocese, a committee including personnel from the offices of the archbishop and auxiliary bishop, the Office of Catholic Education and Formation, the seminary, the curia of the Archdiocese of St. Louis, and others drafted a unified framework of religion standards. The introduction to the framework reads:

The Archdiocesan Religion Standards PreK–8 represent the introduction and progression of the Catholic faith at age-appropriate levels. The standards contain content, beliefs, and practices to guide educators in forming students in the faith. It is built upon the foundations of the four pillars of the Catechism of the Catholic Church represented by the domains: We Believe, We Worship, We Live, and We Pray. The strands represent beliefs and practices to support and clarify each domain. The ultimate goal of the standards is to form students as witnesses of our faith through sharing the story of Christ and His gospel.[4]

While there have been many conversations about the Depth of Knowledge (DOK) or verb choice of certain standards and changes that will likely happen over time, our Archdiocese has begun our most important task, the faith development of our young Catholics, with the end in mind. As anyone who has been involved in curriculum writing knows, standards like these are just the beginning. More work is needed to have students actually achieve these goals in the classroom.[5] The involvement of the practitioners is essential because the closer the designer is to the students, the more likely the plan becomes reality instead of a theoretical exercise.[6]

Because each school and situation is different, the framework leaves space for teacher individualization of the guiding standards for school charism and for different cultural celebrations within the Catholic tradition. A city parish school with a primarily Latino population in St. Louis City, for example, has many different but equally beautiful religious celebrations and traditions than a St. Louis County parish school staffed for years by Irish religious sisters.

This combination of clear guidance from the Church with school-level leaders and practitioners making the theoretical into something operational can deliver transformational experiences for our young Catholics.

Art: Christ and His Mother Studying the Scriptures; 
Henry Ossawa Tanner, American, 1859 - 1937; 
Dallas Museum of Art, Deaccession Funds.

To view a full resolution of this artwork on a smartboard, click here.

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God; all things were made through him, and without him was not anything made that was made. In him was life, and the life was the light of all men. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” —(John 1:1–5)

The first words of the Gospel of John prompt readers to shift their approach from following a narrative to entering a mystery that requires meditation. With this framing, the words transcend a literal meaning to suggest a poetic reality that can only be discerned through the heart. Inspired by Sacred Scripture, Henry Ossawa Tanner’s religious paintings reveal a heart enriched through poetic meditation. An American living in France and devout Methodist, Tanner was encouraged by France’s culturally Catholic environment to explore Sacred Scripture in his work. This can be seen in his Christ and His Mother Studying the Scriptures (1908), in which Tanner uses composition and technique to enliven a simple domestic scene and suggest a spiritual significance. Painting with a teacher’s heart, he offers a meditation on education and the mystery of the Incarnation.

The scene is deceptively simple: A mother supports her son as he follows the words on the scroll with his finger to aid his reading. It is a quiet scene as the mother listens attentively to her son, giving voice to the words. The pyramidal structure of the composition—with the heads of the figures at the apex and the horizontal base emphasized by the striped carpet—communicates stability, instilling this home with a sense of peace.

Yet, the stability of the scene does not make it feel static. Rather, the painting breathes with life through design and technique. The scroll unravels as a ribbon, offering a calligraphic quality to a scene dominated by more angular shapes. Tanner’s hand is shown through the lively brushwork, offering texture and energy while remaining well ordered through his attention to the direction of each mark. The vivid color stays within the realm of representation while going beyond what the eye directly observes in nature. It is as if the artist turned every painting dial up one notch. It is a painting of a mother simply helping her son learn how to read. But this ordinary experience is shown as extraordinary on Tanner’s canvas.

As the “hero” of the Book of Job illustrates, the life of the believer is often beset with difficulty—even, and perhaps often, great difficulty. This is the way of human life in a fallen world, and as Job and many others illustrate, a living faith provides no immunity from undergoing such difficulties. Though God has promised “that in everything [he] works for good with those who love him” (Rom 8:28) so that we can ultimately rest secure in him (see Rom 8:18–21), he does not guarantee freedom from bodily pain and spiritual sorrow. This problem, the problem of suffering, is the knife’s edge of the problem of evil, for it is evil, both natural and moral, that brings suffering upon us. But how do we bear such suffering and its source in the evil we find both in ourselves and in one another? And how do we learn to live a good life in the face of evil and suffering—a life filled with hope and love, a life oriented toward God?

Faith Secured

Of course, the answer is to be found in the Catholic faith—that is, in our faith in Jesus Christ and his Mystical Body, the Church. In the practice of our faith, we learn—sometimes slowly, sometimes swiftly—to cling to Christ in his Church and thereby to receive his gift of redemption. This gift can then become increasingly effectual as we deal with life’s inevitable vagaries, and we can even begin to participate in Christ’s holiness and live a life of friendship with God. But, as Jesus counsels us, in order to enter into his salvific company we must daily deny ourselves, take up our crosses, and follow him (see Mt 16:24). Just so, we learn to humbly surrender to his love and begin to experience the intimacy of his presence. This is the way of Christian life, a way St. Teresa Benedicta of the Cross (Edith Stein) calls “the science of the cross.”[1] It is an unusual science inasmuch as it is never learned in a general and theoretical way but only ever in a singular and existential way—it is a science learned only by the individual, and only individually. And it is precisely by remaining close to Christ in this way, by clinging to him in the difficulties of life, that we begin to learn how to suffer well in the face of evil.

Yet, every believer worth his salt knows this already, for every Christian knows that God loves him and that he must unite his particular cross to Christ’s. But a difficulty presents itself here. When we experience the suffering that follows upon natural and moral evil, when we are in pain and are sorrowful, we can begin to waver in our practice of the faith. Though we may perhaps think we are secure from such problems, that these difficulties are only for the weak of faith, none of us are really so secure that we are exempt from this temptation—which we ask the Father to “lead us not into” (see Mt 6:13). It is generally true that when we are hurt by evil and suffer its cost, we can often get annoyed and cover over our hurt with defensive anger; with anger comes the possibility of growing frustrated with life and its difficulties; if the frustrated anger is chronic, we can become entrenched in resentment and bitterness; and finally, we may begin to struggle to believe in a truly good God and may even doubt his existence.

Now, it is right here, at this point of struggle, that we find a most biting existential question. When we face evil and are filled with its suffering, we are questioned, so to speak, by its presence. It says to us, “Is God still good? Even now, while I suffer?” And again: “Does a good God even exist? If he is good, how could he let this awfulness happen to me?” But how are we to handle this difficulty, a difficulty we all face, or at least will face? When our faith is tested and evil begins to rattle its very foundations, perhaps tempting us toward disbelief, how do we withstand this trial and bolster ourselves against such a temptation? In a way, the answer is simple: Christ has suffered for me and with me; Christ has conquered evil and borne the weight of my suffering. Or, in the words the beautiful paschal troparion of the Byzantines, “By death he conquered death, and to those in the grave, he granted life.”[2]

Yet, when we suffer, since we can also evidently stumble, we would be wise to secure our faith and that of others against this patent threat to the life of faith—which, ultimately considered, is the only real threat. There are numerous ways within the practice of the faith itself to fortify the individual against evil and suffering, but there is also something external to faith strictly considered that supports its integrity: its foundation in natural knowledge of (not belief in) the existence of the good God.

Properly speaking, assent to the truth of the existence of God and his goodness are not articles of faith. Though the individual believer can rely on faith to accept these truths, they are actually knowable in a purely natural way, through reflecting on the nature of the world and its creatures. Indeed, this possibility is itself something revealed, for example, when St. Paul says, “What can be known about God is plain to them, because God has shown it to them. Ever since the creation of the world his invisible nature, namely, his eternal power and deity, has been clearly perceived in the things that have been made” (Rom 1:19–20; see also Ps 19:1–6). This scaffolding of natural knowledge of God supports the supernatural act of faith so that the believer’s faith is rightly substantiated and appropriately coordinated (a particular application of the dictum “grace perfects nature”[3]).

In light of this possibility, we could reflect on the Western tradition’s numerous philosophical demonstrations of the existence of God, those of Sts. Thomas, Bonaventure, and Anselm, together with many others. But for this article, allow me to take all these proofs for granted in order to look a little closer at the reality of creation itself—that is, the startling fact of being a creature created by the Creator. This is an awesome reality, and one well worth pondering at length.

When we consider the Mass as a place of encounter with the Lord, we frequently jump right to receiving Communion as the most important catechetical point to highlight. Of course, our joy at receiving the Lord is always called for, but we cannot neglect the rich and valuable moments that precede this summit. Every action of the liturgy is a place of incarnate encounter with the Lord, who first entered into our world of time and material; and in a special way, we should take notice of the beginning of the Liturgy of the Eucharist, which is marked by the presentation of the gifts.

It is easy to gloss over the importance of this rite. Far too often we can find ourselves considering the preparation of the altar and the presentation of the gifts as a type of intermission in the drama of the liturgy. Yet, this rite, too, has rich and beautiful meaning and symbolism, and we would do well to approach this moment of Mass with gratitude for the gift of the Word and joyful anticipation for what has yet to happen within the liturgy.

To truly understand the offertory procession, we must consider what it is that we do during this time. It is crucial that we view the offertory as more than a material procession of goods for a utilitarian purpose. When we bring to the altar the bread and the wine, it is not merely a material gift; indeed, symbolized by this gift is the Bride of Christ, the whole People of God which is the Church. Symbolically, we give bread—made from pure wheat flour and water—and wine—made from grapes, yeast, and water—to represent all we have. The bread, made from two elements, calls us to acknowledge Christ, fully God and fully man. And the wine calls us to acknowledge the three divine persons of God. These truths, themselves a gift to man, are all we have to offer.

It was my freshman year of high school, and I was attending a youth retreat focused on the Theology of the Body. My 15-year-old self had no idea what the Theology of the Body really meant, but I had heard someone throw around the words “sex and dating,” so it intrigued me enough to attend. I was raised in the Catholic faith; my parents took us to Mass each Sunday and even taught our religious education classes. At this point in my life, I knew the faith was a priority for my family, and I believed in God, but I also had my own priorities in high school, like being popular and well-liked. But what I thought would be a fun weekend with friends to giggle about the word “sex” turned out to be a life-changing weekend.

My youth minister had invited two theology graduate students, Amber and Chris, to give the talks on the retreat. When Amber and Chris spoke about God’s plan for relationships and his desire for an intimate relationship with each of us, my heart was drawn into this beautiful concept of a personal relationship with the Lord. As they spoke about this personal God who desired an intimate relationship with us, it was as if my heart began to burn within me. I began to realize a deep desire for an intimate relationship with God. It was from this place of intimacy with the Lord that they taught us about God’s plan for intimacy in marriage and the sexual act. Chris and Amber gave examples of how God had brought real freedom into their own lives through his grace. When they spoke about these topics of sex and dating, it was not as if I was hearing an empty theological lecture. It was clear that they were speaking from a place of living this intimate relationship with the Lord.

The catechist’s chief task is to teach the true, good, and beautiful, focusing on illuminating the splendor of the deposit of faith. There are moments, however, when the topic that needs to be taught is a truth knowable for the most part by reason in addition to being knowable fully by faith. At this current moment in history, a primary truth at stake is the sexual difference of man and woman. The topic presses itself from all sides. Full-scale rejections of the reality of man and woman or distorted, reductive proposals abound. Yet, as in all eras of Church history, when a truth is being called into question, the Church responds by means of an even deeper contemplation and joyful proclamation of the unchanging truth, now fleshly enlightened.

The Church’s current response to confusion regarding man and woman is being fueled by positive developments in theological anthropology that have occurred during the past century. At their core is the articulation of the nature of man and woman via the notion of complementarity. This notion has emerged as the primary way of describing the reciprocal relationship between man and woman and the ordering of both to an interpersonal communion of love. Pope St. John Paul II is the most prominent contemporary promoter, with “reciprocal complementarity” being his preferred way of describing man and woman.[1] Given the necessity for catechetical initiatives to include the teaching of God’s plan for man and woman, it behooves one to ask the crucial question: What does it mean to say that man and woman are reciprocally complementary? With John Paul II as our guide, we will outline key principles of sexual complementarity that teachers of the faith must know in order to effectively catechize and evangelize our modern world. In short, man and woman, who are equal yet significantly different, are complementary because they are made for each other and for the fruitful expansion of love.[2] We will conclude by indicating a few points regarding man–woman complementarity and the new evangelization.

The Common Humanity and Equal Dignity of Man and Woman

The first and foundational principle of the complementarity of man and woman is their fundamental equality. Both are fully human persons; each one is an “I,” a someone not something, created in the image and likeness of God (Gn 1:26–27), willed for his or her own sake, created for eternal communion with God. Man and woman have the same rational human nature, involving an intellect and will, with all the concomitant essential properties that pertain to this nature (a soul as substantial form in hylomorphic unity with the material body). John Paul II affirms: “Woman complements man, just as man complements woman: men and women are complementary. Womanhood expresses the ‘human’ as much as manhood does, but in a different and complementary way.”[3]

Complementarity in general presupposes equality. For example, two nations’ economies can be complementary because both are nations, or two musical instruments can play together complementarily because both are musical instruments. This is even more true with human sexual complementarity: there can only be a mutual correspondence between man and woman if both are equally human persons. This is eloquently expressed in the biblical imagery of God forming Eve from the side of Adam—from his very substance—attesting to their primordial unity, equality, and intrinsic ordering to each other (see Gn 2:21–23).

“Is it time for Narnia yet?” The beseeching eyes of my seven and eight-year-old students implored me to say a definitive yes. Smiling, I set my teacher’s book aside and picked up my copy of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. In an instant, the children were sitting in front of me, eagerly awaiting the next installment of the seven-book fantasy series penned by C. S. Lewis.

It was 2022. I was on the cusp of leaving teaching to enter a monastery, and as a parting gift to my students, I had decided to read the Chronicles of Narnia aloud to them over the course of a few months. Why? I firmly believed that in years to come, their memories of this series could potentially ignite embers of faith in their hearts or even fan them vigorously into flame. Yes, the language can be old-fashioned in parts; yes, some may recoil at the traditional gender roles or turns of phrase; and yet, there is something so delightfully compelling about these stories. Fans can easily relate, for instance, to what Kurt Bruner and Jim Ware describe as a “delicious” combination of pleasure and nourishment: “Both the dreams of fairyland and the promise of heaven invade the imagination at the same time, baptizing it with wonderful and unexpected effects.”[1]

The Catechetical Power of Fairy Tales

Recognition of the power of quality literature and story in stirring or deepening faith is not a new phenomenon. C. S. Lewis, for instance, attributed one of the keystones of his eventual conversion to reading George MacDonald’s Phantastes. Steeped in rich spiritual overtones, this story features a young man named Anodos whose desire for “fairy country,” kindled upon reading a fairy tale, stirs him to embark on a perilous yet delightful journey through an enchanted wood.[2] Notably, as David Downing outlines, Anodos becomes more attuned to the natural world around him and discovers within himself a “capacity for simple happiness.”[3] From a catechetical point of view, there is an almost Edenlike quality to this. Thomas Howard, for instance, alludes to it when he describes Narnia as the “forgotten country” residing deep in the inner sanctum of our imagination. Similarly, Joseph Pearce highlights our inclination to forget the divine image in which we were made and, hence, the heavenly homeland to which we truly belong.[4] Our natural longing for God and heaven, planted in us at the dawn of our existence, can be easily buried by the clutter and chaos of life.

Fairy tales can awaken this longing within us and reconnect us, paradoxically, with what is truly real. For instance, Lewis found himself enchanted by what he describes as the “quality of the real universe” found in MacDonald’s fantasies.[5] They seemed to prompt an enhanced appreciation of the hidden, illustrious qualities of the world around him or, in his words, “the divine magical, terrifying and ecstatic reality in which we all live.”[6] This parallels Joseph Pearce’s claim that, far from one’s immersion in a good story constituting a diversion from reality, it is instead a delightful reversion to it.[7] The good “magic” of fairyland, he says, has a sacramental quality: the capacity to reflect heavenly realities to us and provide us with a lens through which we can perceive them.[8] Moreover, one can be both delighted and caught off guard by talking animals, fauns, centaurs, unicorns, and personified trees, and thus more receptive to the truths behind them. If, like Lucy, one of the major heroines of the series, we “see” with the humility and purity of a child, we may in fact be granted a “fleeting glimpse of Eden.”[9]

For adults, however, the many concerns and fast-paced nature of life can stifle our natural capacity for wonder and thus counteract this manner of “seeing.” When we consider, as the Directory for Catechesis outlines, that many sacramental recipients or aspirants have not actually experienced an explicit encounter with Christ and therefore are often unacquainted with the deep power and warmth of the faith, we can ponder the possibility of a disconnect between intellect and imagination.[10] As important as knowledge about Christ and the Church is, it is not enough to recall facts. We need to be immersed in the wonder of it all, to stand in awe of this divine spark within us, the luminous reality of which we are part, and the glorious destiny to which we are called. As such, before the work of catechesis can achieve its desired end of deeper and enduring intimacy with Christ, one of its preliminary tasks may be to unearth and kindle our capacity and natural longing for wonder. One possible avenue is the use of quality literature in catechesis, which opens up a whole world of possibility.

The Church recognizes that every parish community includes members with disabilities and earnestly desires their active participation. . . . Catholic adults and children with disabilities, and their families, earnestly desire full and meaningful participation in the sacramental life of the Church.[1]

The parish is where the local Church lives as family, called together by the Lord, amidst all the peace, goodness, beauty, joys, struggles, and sufferings of this world.[2] People with impairments belong in our families and parishes,[3] and the US bishops in their teaching about disciples with impairments and their families, highlight the essential role of the parish, the local and visible expression of the Eucharistic community.[4] This invitation to think not only about individuals but about the whole parish family is instructive and offers an opportunity to reimagine aspects of catechesis.

Turning to the Directory for Catechesis, we similarly find an exposition of multiple facets of the parish and sacramental life, including emphases on: staying close to families of people with impairments, solidarity, inclusion, shared ministry, and a recognition that people with impairments are not passive but active members of the parish.[5] I suggest that the Directory also encourages us to consider that the above characteristics are to be grounded in a fraternal and deeply personal love embodied in close Christian community—not just on Sundays but on each day of the week and not only in parish buildings but wherever Christians gather. We might consider what such love in the parish could look like through four interrelated perspectives on the ordinary, conversion, friendship, and new life.

The Ordinary

While it may sound odd to phrase it this way, the parish is to be for us an ordinary environment—that is, a normative expression of our shared life as Church.[6] And in that sense, to the degree that human impairment is part of this world, we lose out on some of the richness of this ordinary life when those with impairments and their families are separated physically or socially from the parish, perhaps in subtle or unrecognized ways[7] (such as not being made welcome at Mass or at parish events or being left out of parish planning), and pushed behind forbidding walls of strangeness, to adapt a phrase from Miguel Romero.[8] In contrast, a family unity among Catholics with and without impairments, lived out in the Church and the parish, should be a quite ordinary and usual exercise of faith that simultaneously provides a profoundly attractive witness to fellow Christians and to the world.[9]

Such unity is a striking illustration of Pope Leo XIV’s motto: “In the One, we are one.” Working together as a parish family to overcome some of the social barriers and negative stereotypes surrounding impairment and impaired people is a beautiful mission consistent with the Gospel and the witness of the apostolic Church. The communal tasks of discovering and embracing each other’s gifts no matter how out of sight, of listening closely for new voices of peace no matter how muted, and of dismantling social walls no matter how high can help a parish to flourish as a community of love (1 Cor 12:4–11).

Imagine a parish breakfast at which it goes without saying that some enjoying the food and company need help with eating or with having a conversation. Picture a gift bearer at Sunday Mass whose speech is to some extent inarticulate as a result of a traumatic brain injury, or an altar server or lector who is a regular at the Sunday Mass but sometimes takes him- or herself off the schedule due to the cyclical nature of a psychiatric disorder, or a faith formation team with a catechetical leader who uses a wheelchair.[10] All this and more should be ordinary for the parish.

In the summer of 2002, I had a health crisis, and left a community where I had been discerning a vocation to consecrated life. Feeling alone, and at a loss as to how to move forward, I went home to my parents to recover. About a year later, my mother developed ALS, and after eight months in hospice care, went home to Jesus. I was still in poor health, without work, and grieving. I could not foresee how the Lord would come to my aid. Then my sister invited me to come to Michigan to help her homeschool her seven children, to a town and parish where, she claimed, the Catholic community was amazing. I had been in many places where I’d experienced rich community and was a little skeptical. But I felt deep peace and even certainty that this was the right next step—at least for a little while.

Six months after I arrived in my sister’s town, some new friends asked me how I liked being there. I answered: “I’d like to be buried here.” I was not being morbid. Rather, after spending several years in Europe, Washington DC, and Canada, I’d at last found a place to settle, to rest in, to belong.

As I cared for and instructed my three very young nieces and nephew, my soul began to come to life again and let go of grief. Through my sister and her friends, I found myself adopted into a vibrant group of Catholic families, most of whom homeschooled. The parents were serious about living their faith and forming their children in it. I looked forward to the weekly mom’s coffee and play group, and soon I was “Aunt Liz” to a host of children.

One day not long after I’d arrived in Michigan, I stayed to pray after daily Mass at the parish, and the grief over my recent losses surfaced. Crying, I was surprised to see a woman I did not know tap me on the shoulder, asking if she could pray with me. I said yes, and that was the beginning of a beautiful Christian friendship. It was also my introduction to a community where praying with others was a normal occurrence. In those early days, I took advantage of all kinds of opportunities for healing prayer, basking in the love and consolation I received.

Because there was no space for me in my sister’s house, I was invited to live with a family from the parish who lived down the street. They became fast friends. The father of the family enlisted my service on the evangelization committee at the parish. We promoted and facilitated new small groups, and soon I was meeting folks of all ages from all walks of life and welcoming them into the community of which I was still a new member.

The more people I met, the more I was amazed by the witness of faith. Funerals at the parish were powerful experiences of hope, and I left them inspired and eager to run the race well. One image in particular remains emblazoned in my memory. It was the memorial Mass for the adult son of a couple who had already lost their other son. During the opening hymn, the father stood in the front row of the church with his hands raised, praising God with full voice. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and yet, his faith in God’s goodness and mercy impelled him to give thanks even in the midst of heartache.