Editor’s note: this is a longer version of the article that appears in the Sept. 5, 2008 issue of the National Catholic Reporter.
Being Catholic means living in the realm of sacraments; it means having a sacramental imagination; seeing the Divine in all things. It’s a special way to live.
To help us appreciate this Catholic heritage and to embolden our collective Catholic imaginations, NCR editors, while recognizing our church’s seven official sacraments, thought we’d turn our attention to our unlimited personal sacraments. We asked a number of readers to share some of the images, symbols, encounters, experiences and rituals that reveal life’s special connection to God. What follows are readers’ responses, in edited form.
First, we asked Thomas Groome, professor of theology and religious education at Boston College, to introduce the subject. — NCR editors
Thomas Groome
Catholics are called to a sacramental consciousness, to recognize the traces of God’s presence and love that permeates every time and place, empowering our responses. A Catholic imagination calls us to recognize “the more” in the midst of the ordinary, the Ultimate in the immediate, the Transcendent in the immanent, the Divine in the human, the Creator in the created order.
In the summary phrase of St. Ignatius of Loyola, Catholicism’s sacramental principle calls us “to see God in all things.”
Let me share with you a sacramental moment I experienced recently, one that came out of fear and moved into light, or maybe even a bit of enlightenment.
I’d been gone for almost a week and away from my little boy. I reassured myself: the trip had been planned long before Ted came home to us; I couldn’t have done it — to Australia — in less time; I’d left him a little gift to open for every day I was gone. But he was mad at me, nonetheless, when I tried to explain — to a 2-year-old — that I’d be away awhile. Now I wondered if he’d still love me, have missed me, or remember me at all?
I arrived home at his bedtime. I tiptoed up the stairs and peeked in; the little eyes were half closed. Suddenly, Ted was on his feet, arms outstretched and yelling with glee, “Dadda, Dadda.” We hugged and kissed and hugged and kissed again, with his little arms clenched around my neck and head under my chin. Never before had I such a welcome home. In that embrace, I recognized that Ted’s love reflected God’s love as well; both Ted and God love me.
As Catholic Christians we cherish our seven sacraments, those powerful symbols that mediate God’s grace, regularly and at the milestones of life. As the Catechism of the Catholic Church summarizes, “Celebrated worthily in faith, the sacraments confer the grace they signify. They are efficacious because in them Christ himself is at work,” and likewise “the power of the Holy Spirit.”
However, our seven great sacraments are simply the high points — like the tips of icebergs — of what Jesuit Fr. Karl Rahner called “the sacramentality of life in the world.” The sacramental principle, so central to Catholic faith, is the conviction that God’s presence and effective love — grace — reaches into our lives through the ordinary and everyday, and that we respond likewise through the daily. As we embrace this principle, it is not much of a stretch to assemble in our churches and to really believe that our God comes looking for us through bread and wine, water and oil, words and community, and lovemaking in marriage (a sacrament only upon consummation). The seven that we celebrate in church flow out of and back into the sacramentality of life.
Besides the seven sacraments, Catholics have long had the practice of “sacramentals” — anything used to bless (for example, holy water) or to be a means of blessing (for example, the sign of the cross. The catechism describes them as “sacred signs that bear a resemblance to the sacraments.”
One aspect of the liturgical reforms of Vatican II, however, was to wean Catholics away from excessive attention to sacramentals and to re-center the liturgy in our worship. We are called to “full, conscious and active participation” in the liturgy of the altar rather than focusing on statues to the side. Now the time may be ripe to reclaim some of our sacramental practices, while keeping them in proper perspective. However, the richer spiritual opportunity is to deepen our sacramental imagination, making ourselves more alert for the presence and grace of God at work in daily life — as in the hug of a child. - TG.
Carol Luebering
Some years ago I got a phone call from a young woman whose name I could not place. “You knew me as an infant,” she told me, but still no bells rang until she said, “I think I’m your daughter.” And so she was — the daughter I had given up for adoption 35 years earlier.
I had kept my secret so well hardly anyone knew. As I began to tell the story of meeting her at last, I got a lot of hugs. What healing those gestures brought! I could at last give my unhappy teenage self a hug myself.
And only then did I realize that she had become the best part of me. Giving up that baby left a hole in my life that made room for a lot of girls and young women whom I came to call my “other daughters.” The grief I could never speak led me into ministry to sorrowing folks.
Jesus “opened his arms on the cross” according to one liturgical prayer. In that gesture he surely gave sacramental meaning to a simple but powerfully affirming gesture.
Vic Hummert
Having a vegetarian dinner with good friends in a Chinese restaurant seated at a round table (for equality) is a sacramental occasion for me
Benedictine Sr. Barbara Mayer
As dawn breaks arpeggios pierce the air and I am struck by the clarity of a bird’s song. It is vibrant, penetrating, thrilling, and I am swept away by the musical beauty this cardinal brings to my mornings. I can never see the bird amid the braches, so he remains a mysterious presence.
Even though I am groggy with sleep and in need of caffeine, the bird jars my somnolence with his perky song. He never seems to grow weary whether anyone acknowledges his virtuosity or not. I’m not sure if it’s a mating call or if he is just practicing his morning scales, but he gets my attention.
He becomes for me a sign of God breaking into my world when I am not quite awake. God’s persistence is not unlike this redbird’s, morning after morning, rain or shine. It could be a mating call from the Beloved, wanting me to spend some time with him before the busyness of the day. Or perhaps it’s a reminder that even though I can’t see God, he is always there, captivating me with love songs that only I can hear.
Ursuline Sr. Bridget Haase
One warm spring day, my third-graders were playing kickball, rhyming jump rope, and running wild as they let winter out of their bones on the noisy playground. My eye caught Corey, sitting quietly alone on the wooden bench, lost in thought and staring straight ahead. It was unusual behavior for this dynamic, sensitive child. Certain he was dealing with hurt feelings, I sauntered over and sat beside him. He didn’t budge. Gently I touched his arm and asked him what was the matter. He jerked out of his trance and whispered in his lisp, “Nothin’, Sister, I’m just listenin’ to the boids.” Sure enough, from a nearby bush, came melodious chirping and twittering. Swept up in this chorus, Corey began to hum in unison.
Amazed but not surprised, once again, I heard God sing.
Ed Horvat
I enjoy the time of year when the veil between the physical and spiritual world is said to be thinnest. The Roman church celebrates All Souls Day Nov. 2, and our Mexican neighbors turn this into a festival, the Day of the Dead. The creed we proclaim during liturgy says that we believe in the seen and the unseen, the visible and the invisible. I do believe.
My father was a coal miner and he became part of a rescue effort when an explosion claimed the lives of 37 miners. Four years later he became ill and eventually died after a two-year fight for life. Weeks prior to his death, my mother entered the ICU and said Dad had a sense of peace about him she had not seen before. He was glad to see her and told her he had some visitors while she was out — his father, who died six months earlier, arrived with two of dad’s close friends who perished in the mine explosion. The three of them told my dad not to worry, because they would help him over to the other side when it was time. He maintained that sense of peace until he let go of hands of loved ones here, and took hold of the hands of loved ones waiting on the other side.
In my many years of hospice and hospital experience, I have witnessed similar occurrences with other families. The veil is always thin, not only near All Souls Day. Our passage from life in the body to the life beyond is something we all have to look forward to! So crack open a brew, Mexican or otherwise; pour some out on Mother Earth for our loved ones waiting for us on the other side, and drink the rest in celebration of the life we share with them in the body of Christ. Dia de los Muertos! Fiesta!
Doris Murphy
Picking strawberries is part of the summer ritual where I live. Some people pick 100 quarts and make strawberry jam for the entire winter season. Others pick a few quarts to savor, eating them one at a time for a day or two, or making shortcake or ice cream sundaes.
To grow luscious and large, juicy and sweet, the berries have to be “kissed by the sun” and enjoy just the right combination of moisture, heat and soft wind. And, they must be caressed by the hands of the growers. The berries are tended lovingly for the moment when swarms of people descend on the strawberry patch with buckets and crates to be filled. It is for this the berries have waited.
Sister of Charity Colette Hanlon
In the long-term care facility where I minister, I have lower sacramental experiences almost every day. One example occurred as a result of an interfaith group we call Biblical Meditation where we center, read a passage from scripture, sit silently with it, reflect together on what message it might have for us, re-read the section, ponder further and close with the “Our Father.”
The story this day was that of Jesus at Simon’s house when the woman washed his feet with her tears and dried them with her hair. When questioned by his host as to why he allowed a loose woman to touch him, Jesus reminded Simon that she was capable of great love because she had been abundantly forgiven.
As the chaplain, I never know whether or not the residents are following the train of thought, especially those with serious memory issues. Later that day God sent me a powerful message.
A pleasantly forgetful woman I’ll call Marcie, had told me many times about her abusive father who made life difficult for her mother and her siblings who lived on a farm in the Berkshires. On this day, several hours after our chapel reflection, I met Marcie, sitting in her wheelchair. “Oh,” she said, “that was good today. It made me think that it is about time I forgave my father.” A sacramental moment indeed!
Another insight came from “Mabel,” who was with us a short time for therapy. She was sitting in the chapel when an employee entered. He asked her if he might come in for prayer before his nursing shift began. When she smiled and welcomed him, he placed his prayer rug on the floor, knelt down, and entered into silent conversation with his God.
When he was done, she thanked him for his witness to her and he acknowledged that seeing her at prayer encouraged him. With tears in her eyes this wise woman said, “If we all lived our spiritualities, wouldn’t this be a better, more peaceful world?”
Sean Collins
My mother died of metastatic pancreatic cancer. In the course of just a few weeks, it had spread throughout her gut, involving the chest wall, the stomach, the bowel. She had stopped eating. She asked her oncologist to discontinue the nutrition she was receiving by vein. She got things in order, said some goodbyes, tried to fix a relationship that was broken, and talked with her kids. It was an amazing three weeks.
On the day she would die she woke me up and asked if I remembered where a certain bakery was in the town where I’d grown up but no longer lived. I said I did. She said “They make a great apple strudel. Take my car and go get one. I’ll get the nurse to bring us a pot of coffee.” So I left the hospital just after dawn to find a bakery I remembered from my youth. When I returned, the coffee was there — a pot and two cups. My mom and I had some of the strudel. She was right: It was delicious. It was the first thing she’d eaten in weeks, and the last thing she would eat on earth. She died late that night.
The moment was sacramental: a shared bite, something sweet, the bitter coffee, the hours and the years of caring — all there, shared, remembered, made real, in thanksgiving.
Elizabeth Williams
I couldn’t help but notice how suddenly dusting fell off of my to-do list when I found out that Paul, my future son-in-law, would not make it to a recent family gathering. Our three oldest grown children would be our only guests. I gladly turned my attention to the meal we would share. But I wondered about my spontaneous shift in priorities. I knew I shouldn’t dismiss it, but I didn’t want to analyze it to death, either, so I told myself: “Just pay attention to it.”
The saying comes from my yoga class where I spend 90 minutes each Tuesday focusing on my breath and exploring how it feels to move into various poses. This hour and a half of living this consciously — in my body and in the present moment — feels holy. My yoga practice frees me from ordinary distractions. Instead I pay attention to my body, how it moves and feels. I notice my abilities and my limitations and contemplate moving with greater ease and grace. And, when a particular movement or pose challenges or causes me discomfort, our wise, always solicitous instructor advises me: “Just pay attention to it. Just notice it.”
I want very much to welcome and accept Paul into our family, as much as possible as one of our own. But mother-in-law is a new posture for me. I wonder how well I’ll do it. I also know it is a great gift. Already its challenge draws me into the holiness of paying attention.
Deborah Halter
I planted yellow mums under the giant Spanish Oak and placed St. Joseph among them. The squirrels came and, in their zeal to claim the coveted perch atop St. Joe’s head, made a path through the mums, breaking and browning the otherwise hearty blooms. I thought about replanting, but squirrels are generally unimpressed with such efforts. So I removed the trodden flowers and cleared a path for the squirrels, who now sit comfortably atop Joseph’s head and throw their acorn leftovers into the leafy mums.
Christopher Loetscher
Shortly before his death in 2001, I had a conversation with Bishop Raymond Lucker. He was terminally ill with cancer, and he was facing his imminent death with patience, trusting in God. He spoke of his love for his family and friends, for his caregivers, for God and the church. He was not anxious about unfinished business. He said that each person (and the church itself) was “on pilgrimage.” Over the years he’d come to realize the importance of each day’s leg of the journey.
In his last public homily, he said that a single truth — “God is here” — had penetrated his being. Anxieties about the past or future should not distract us from God’s presence — which is always at hand.
Mary E. Waldron
In the course of some 19 years of Catholic education I was subjected to a great deal of instruction on how to behave in the presence of God. Prayer that involved words I could handle. However, when the retreat director or spiritual mentor moved on to meditation or contemplative prayer, I wandered off the page.
Years later, I became acquainted with my newborn “courtesy” great-niece (the granddaughter of my best friend). It became my happy task to watch her for a few hours each day from the time her Dad left for work until her Mom returned from college classes. Many newborns, especially “preemies,” demand, or at least desire, to be held as much as possible. So hold her I did. Over the next months I learned more about contemplative love than I ever learned from reading books, listening to sermons and attending retreats. I would simply gaze at this precious being, so graciously given to us by our loving God, an infant who could easily have been lost to us. I found that I couldn’t look away, couldn’t think of anything else, couldn’t even pray — in words. I would watch her breathe, watch her delicately shadowed eyelids, closed so peacefully and trustingly as she lay in my arms. I basked in an ambience of gratitude and wondered at her perfection and beauty.
Michael Dolan
After saying prayers with my daughter, then telling her a short story with only the nightlight on, we spend a few quiet minutes rocking in a peaceful meditation before I place her in her crib for the night.
On one such night I broke the silence, feeling especially grateful.
I whispered to her, “Daddy loves Molly.”
She repeated me, using her word for “me” — “mine”, saying “Daddy loves mine.”
I went on: “Mommy loves Molly.”
Again she repeated: “Mommy loves mine.”
I told her that her little brother loves her: “Michael loves Molly.”
She echoed: “Michael loves mine.”
And then with her inseparable stuffed animal: “Ducky loves Molly.”
“Ducky loves mine,” she repeated.
I smiled and nodded in affirmation at my little girl. A silent minute went by and then she looked me in the eyes and proclaimed, “Molly loves mine!”
I smiled at her wisdom.
What a lesson to be taught — to love oneself!
Marian Noll
Dark woods
entangled deadfall
aged trees endure.
A sudden white amazement:
radiance — white arms wide, held high
surprising grace!
Oh, hope!
As journeying continues
crone wisdom will thrive
darkness yes but light returns
plant a seed of love each day
nurture hope — and trust.
Paige Byrne Shortal
Marriage is an upper-case sacrament, signifying the love of Christ for the church, but my husband has always been for me a lower-case sacrament, signifying God’s hands-off style of loving. Not that kind of hands-off, thank you very much, brother-and-sister marriage not being our ideal. But Pat has the rare ability to be fully engaged with others and yet not impose his will upon them. He prefers instead to encourage and inspire by quiet example. We were married five years before I knew he prayed every day. I wondered at the neatness of his closet until I noticed that he gives away something for every new thing acquired. This quiet example is attractive. Our sons jockey for time alone with him. The grandchildren race past me with cries of, “Pawpaw!” The goats bleat and the chickens come running when his truck pulls in the lane. And if it’s me driving the truck — well, can goats and chickens really look disappointed or is it my imagination?
This low-impact, fully engaged loving extends to all creatures. For a day he fed a baby bird with an eye dropper, knowing it would die, but at least die as someone cared. God’s eye is on the sparrow, and so is Pat’s. I know what his mother meant when she warned me shortly after we were married: “Now you’ll find out what it’s like to be married to a saint.” Maybe not an upper-case saint, but a lower-case saint for sure.
Patrick J. Waide Jr.
A sacred moment in my life is when I visit the Jeanne Jugan Residence of the Little Sisters of the Poor. The Little Sisters’ mission is to take care of the aged poor from their admission to the home until their deaths.
Taking care of the aged frequently is a challenging assignment, particularly for patients or residents affected with serious illness and/or at the beginning stage of dementia. Nevertheless, there always is a sincere happiness in the Little Sisters’ greeting and in their demeanor and as they perform their work. They approach their work as if they were taking care of Jesus Christ in the person of their residents.
When one is with any Little Sister, one appreciates their grace-filled lives and collective happiness, their joy in living the beatitudes of caring for the sick and the poor. One leaves their home knowing it is a special place and one’s life is enriched in being associated with them, even in a small way.
Regina Schulte
Walking leisurely in a light rain is a sensory experience that draws me both inward to an awareness of my “being” in God and outward to my “being” in oneness with all creation. Because I cannot stop the rain, I am reminded to accept in life that which I cannot change. The result is peace — with God, myself, and with what the future may bring.
Clarence Thomson
Can a chocolate malt be sacramental? Mine was. I was 17 and away from home for the first time. I came from a small town where people didn’t stay away overnight. I was achingly lonely for my big, noisy family 200 miles away.
So I decided I would be happy in one way or another. I decided to eat only what I really liked. I loved chocolate malts. So I had them for breakfast, lunch and supper for three days.
On the third day, as I finished my delicious chocolate malt, I realized I could not make myself happy. I could only be happy if I made others happy. Appetite was not the answer, relationships were. I began to think about how I could bring some joy into other people’s lives.
Suzanne Beebe
I walked into a kitchen once, where a cup of hot coffee sat on a counter with steam rising into the cool air of the winter afternoon. There was nothing unusual about the day, the time or the atmosphere. And yet, in that microsecond, the veil between infinity and creation was dissolved and everything seemed suspended in one all-embracing moment of eternity.
I’m not sure how long that moment lasted. But it was one of those moments that change one’s perception and experience of life indelibly. The ordinariness of the time and place attested to the reality of the presence, charging it with inner life.
God comes to us in many ways. But sometimes, perhaps in a moment of inner readiness, we step into God through portals as simple yet remarkable as a coffee cup steaming on a kitchen counter.
Edmund Chia
The late Venerable Dr. K. Sri Dhammananda was not only a Malaysian intellectual; he was also the chief monk of the country’s Buddhist community. More important, he was a personable character, forever smiling, disarming and always one for cracking jokes and cheering the group. Try picturing the image of the laughing Buddha; Dhammananda was very much like one. An encounter with this great man, who passed away more than two years ago, was in itself a sacrament.
Once when Dhammananda took ill and was in the hospital, a Christian pastor paid him a visit. As Dhammananda was in hospital attire, the pastor did not know who he was, except an elderly, bald-headed gentleman who looked quite sickly. The pastor introduced himself as one who had come to bring the Good News and invited the old man to receive Jesus Christ as Lord and savior. Dhammananda accepted the invitation, was prayed upon in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, and received the blessings from the pastor.
Later as the pastor was leaving the hospital, he passed by Dhammananda’s room. Imagine the shock when he saw a group of young Buddhist monks clad in saffron robes kneeling by the old man’s bedside. They looked as if they were receiving some sort of blessing and teaching.
As the young monks were leaving the room the pastor asked one of them who the old man was. “He is our chief,” came the reply. Troubled, the pastor rushed into the room and asked for forgiveness: “I am sorry, Sir. I did not know you are the chief Buddhist monk. I didn’t mean to insult your religion. Had I known who you are I would not have invited you to receive the Lord Jesus Christ.”
Surprised, the Venerable Dhammananda said: “Young man, I don’t know why you have come to apologize. You offered me something good graciously and I accepted it willingly. I thank you for the wonderful gift and blessing of the Lord Jesus Christ. Go in peace.”
Virginia Saldanha
My early morning walks to the beach are an uplifting experience, especially after a rain shower. The rising sun bathes the city in sparkling new light and one can see for miles. The sky seems bluer and my soul is uplifted to praise and thank God for the vision of this beauty. The ugliness and stress of living in an overcrowded metro like Mumbai [India] seems to be washed away in this beautiful light. The soothing sound of the sea spreads peace that penetrates my being, making me thank God for the gift of life. I forget the oppressive heat, dust and crowds. I am filled with a new hope and I return to start my day with new vigor.
Bryan Cones
Every morning I get on the Brown Line for a 45-minute ride to my office in downtown Chicago, and every evening I get back on for the ride home. Though my head is usually stuck in a newspaper or my ears plugged by my iPod, it’s not uncommon for one of my companions to catch my attention. Some mornings it is the father who herds his 4- and 2-year-old sons downtown during rush hour, doing what he can to keep them from disturbing the eerie silence that can exist only on a full train car at 8 a.m. The afternoon rush brings the exhausted, disheveled hordes back for the return trip: the panhandler trying to turn that last buck; teenagers on their way God knows where, full of spunk and unconcerned with the eyebrows that rise at their sometimes surprising conversations. God has many likenesses.
Today there is a woman, mid-40s, and her son, maybe 13. She looks weary, but he can’t stop pestering her. Here, take my Gameboy. Into the bulging purse it goes. Scoot over, he seems to say, as he squeezes himself unbidden to share her single seat. She is ever tolerant — hardly smiling — but her love is sufficient to put up with his fidgeting. Like God, I can’t help but think, maybe more patient.
“Holy, holy, holy” — the old hymn sometimes plays in my mind as I watch this procession of worldly saints. “This train is bound for glory,” Bob Dylan sings, and we along with it.
Sister of Charity Deborah L. Humphreys
When wind swirls/the leaf pile rises/a flaming bush. A message to a visual believer who best finds her way through in curious, squint-eyed meditation. The textures of a city, nicknamed Brick City, the juxtaposition of sounds harsh and tender, and confidences shared in many languages on city stoops. This sort of hide and seek game with an aha/gotcha moment and a lot of searching may be my best confirmation that the sacrament has taken hold.
I have always wanted to be brave. However, the requirements for bravery have changed over time. The courage I had as a young nun was born of not knowing, of willing into possibility all good things. The bonfire of first fervor.
Today adrenaline rush is replaced by perseverance, bravery by tenacity. There are days when the imposition of hands feels like just that — an imposition. Away from my desk, my clients are paraprofessionals I supervise in preschool centers. Some of these family workers were not even born the year I came to the city, but have lived lifetimes already. Disappointments, diverted dreams and profound losses.
We begin our work — through resistances, issues of trust, fears of being found not good enough and the everyday challenges of limited resources and enormous need. This moves me to a feeling not so much of courage, but of wanting — wanting to know more, despite the obstacles. An exploration where I bring with me my own moments of feeling alone, discouraged or fearful.
I look outside my back window as night approaches. The reflection of the setting sun against the houses reminds me of a fireplace long into the night. I pull out my notebook to record this next message in my hide and seek adventure. A long day. Ashes/a banked fire/waiting to be stirred.
Christopher Zaker
“Dad, Dad,” my 7 year old whispered at 4 a.m. one morning, “Dad, lets go hear the birds.”
“They’re not up yet, Josh,” I suggest half asleep, “come lie down here a little bit first.”
Half an hour later: “Dad, Dad, come on let’s go listen for the birds.” I wait in the dark, hoping he will fall back asleep. “Dad, I hear one, come on.”
So groggily I take his hand and we go sit on our back porch. Somewhere in the darkness a chickadee calls out and another one answers back.
“Did you hear that?!” he smiles.
As I slowly wake up, so do the birds. Pretty soon it is a flood of birds calling from all around the shadowed yard. For a long time we don’t say a word. We just watch and listen and smile together.
After a bit, I glance down at Josh and he is sound asleep in my arms. I kiss the top of his head and watch the sunrise as his soft breathing keeps rhythm on my chest. What a precious gift; to see with the wonder of a 7-year-old, and to be able to say thank you as an adult.
Benedictine Sr. Suzanne Zuercher
Above all, my cat is a sacramental for me. I watch him stretch out in a patch of sunshine and I tap into a longing for leisure in my busy life. He focuses on a brilliant maple leaf tossing in the wind, and I remember the importance of disciplined attention. He gives out a territorial yowl to our neighboring cat, and I see my own efforts to control my world, sometimes hidden in civilized refinement. He accepts me when I’m angry, with his detached green- and blue-eyed stare that roughly translates as “Who says nice people never blow up?”
The God who challenges me and who accepts me as I am visits me daily in this feline creature who arrived starving at the door 17 years ago. He unmasks me; he makes me honest; he offers me an opportunity for humility, that straightforward look at what is so. He and the God who sent him cannot be fooled by my pretenses.
Joni Woelfel
Joseph had his magnificent coat of many colors — and I have my old, beat-up paint shirt of many colors. I’ve had it for more than a decade and it is spangled with paint and glue from an untold number of projects. A fond memory preserver of many years of life transitions, it also serves as an ordinary symbol of recovery, healing, the joy of creativity — and most of all, the saving grace of change. Whenever I put it on, it reminds me to trust in renewal and reinventing the old: my old life, my old beliefs — my old furniture and collectibles.
As personal faith evolves, we do not abandon the old, but cherish it for what it was. I was thinking about that the other day, when I was missing the childhoods of our grown sons. I wished that I could go back in time and be with them when they were young, their pockets filled with baby snakes, stones, sticky bubble gum and fishing lures. I recalled the smell of their sweaty hair from playing outside in the sun, how they ran barefoot through our driveway mud puddles after a summer rain, their bikes flung in the flower beds, tennis shoes discarded haphazardly all over the house. Now, our boys are young adults and I cherish the small boys that they were, pondering where they went — in awe of the great mystery that they are one and the same.
Ned Barker
One of the most sacramental moments of my life occurred on May 22, 1968. I had just met a woman named Mary the week before on a Better World Retreat in Santa Cruz, Calif., and on this day invited her to go for a walk with me on Mount Diablo in the East Bay. It was clear that we were strongly attracted to each other. I wanted to set her straight so that she wouldn’t have a mistaken high impression of me, and so I confessed something that I felt was very wrong about myself.
Her reaction was to stop walking and throw her arms around me. I will never forget her words: “Oh, Ned, I just love you so much!” Such a reaction to such a confession of wrongdoing! She loved me for the person she saw me to be, despite anything I had done in the past.
I heard the voice of God in Mary’s voice: “Oh, Ned, I love you so much, even though you have done, and still do, and will do foolish and wrong and hurtful things — I still love you so much, and I always will.” That was the most lifesaving, life changing, reassuring, salvific moment of absolution and God’s love that I have ever experienced.
Mary and I finally married in 1975, and God blessed us with a happy marriage for 30 years until she died three years ago. I think of her many times each day. I still hear her voice — and God’s voice — reassuring me with those beautiful, powerful words: “Oh, Ned, I love you so much!”
Patricia Datchuck Sanchez
Sacraments can be more than seven. Sickness, for example, can be a saving grace and a sacred place for encountering God. Outwardly, sickness may seem like weakness or decay but inwardly and so, so intimately, there is strength and life.
In the oftentimes strange and strained world of sickness, faith deepens and hope learns how to hold out its hand to allow another to grasp it with assurance. In the solitary place that is sickness, sensitivity to the suffering of others grows and forms a bond that says, “You are not alone.”
Sickness — a saving grace where light enters in — a sacred place where God brings healing or not.
Holy Cross Br. Dave Andrews
When I lived in Iowa I traveled by car to work every day. I was frequently by the sides of rivers, passing through fields. It was easy to find a kind of silent communion with the Divine when coming across a sunrise or sunset, traveling over a hill to see a panorama of flora ahead. Watching the slow, smooth flight of water birds by water courses in state parks kept me rapt for hours.
Now I live in a metropolis, Washington, D.C. Riding in the subway, daily bus trips to catch the metro, occasional short and long jaunts on the train. These regular patterns provide glimpses into the lives of hundreds of fellow travelers. Their snippets of conversation, overheard or attended to for human interest, display the cares, woes and desires of all kinds of people. Often, too, I meet folks in coffee shops and cafes, and the conversations surrounding me go on steadily. Sometimes I am struck by the loud telephone conversations that cellular phones provide their owners, people walking on the sidewalks, waiting in a hall, sitting by themselves, discussing love, paying bills, pleading for understanding, sharing stories of their health.
The quiet, easy contemplation of stars and sunsets, hillsides and green groves has given way to numberless daily dialogues as I troop to one destination or another. No longer a silent communion, now the foreground displays another kind of biodiversity, not the garden variety but the personhood variety. Kind of a neat shift of context for me.
