Before New Purpose: Nativity BVM

As the Winter came to a close this year, I was invited by the community development office at the community center to document a Catholic school here in Philadelphia that is being re-purposed in the coming months. Once a thriving Catholic educational institution, Nativity BVM school will soon be gutted and remodeled as senior housing for the aging population in the Port Richmond neighborhood of the city. It is an exciting new project and being allowed into the old, now empty building before it is re-form was an artist's dream. I hope you enjoy the sights and can find the beauty that I discovered in the impending rebirth of Nativity.

Grace at the Midpoint

Disclaimer: If you are looking forward to the SSJ Mission Corps Winter Newsletter, you probably shouldn't read the following entry, as it is my piece in the newsletter. Consider yourself warned. If you're not waiting on the newsletter (or just can't wait), dive on in!

It was midway through my conversation with Vladimir, the Bevilacqua Center’s new maintenance director, that I realized I was talking to Christ. Believe it or not, this wasn’t the first time I had discovered the Divine among our mops and brooms at the center. Dorian, our former maintenance man, and I had shared conversations of faith and conviction prior to his return to Mexico right before the New Year. I can’t say I’m surprised God came through to me in Vladimir but then again, I always find myself astonished when I realize the conversation I am having speaks volumes beyond just the two people present in the room.

Vladimir had started by asking a question of what had led me to Philadelphia and my family’s reaction to the move and all I was doing. Soon enough though we were uncovering what it means to follow your heart.

“After years of doing lots of things you realize that all that really matters comes from here,” he said pointing to his heart.

“Sometimes when I’m talking to God, I ask ‘Daddy, are you really sure?’” he continued as our sharing got deeper and my soul took note that the Divine was in the room, “and God says to me ‘What did I tell you? What did I put in your heart?’ He’s saying do that, silly.”

Midpoints are important places. From the middle you can both look forward and backward. There you are given hindsight enough to make changes as well as foresight enough to know that much more remains to be uncovered.

Six months into this year, I have reached such a midway point. The past six months have flown by and there is no doubt that the remaining months in our year here in the Mission Corps will soon come to pass. The question of what to do next year certainly looms large. I could apply to graduate schools like I intended when this experience started. I could apply for a second year in the Mission Corps. I could choose to stay in Philadelphia beyond this year or I could not. Such choice is the nature of the midpoint; from here I have the ability to set, alter, or maintain a specific course in my life.

It is also the middle of winter, a place of scattered darkness and slow restoration. Here, in this middle, signs of life flitter in fits and starts. Life in community is more familiar than it was in the fall. Winter in community means more time together indoors growing in relationship. That growth is a blessing and a challenge; it involves living with two wonderful women, who teach me something new about myself and what in means to live in relationship each day. This growth also requires us to learn to live in community under new circumstances, absent of the initial formalities and cordialities, which fell away months ago. At the same time, winter in community also means laying the groundwork for renewal and restoration. Examining our life together on retreat in January made clear our need for such renewal- a call to live more deeply and truly the values of the SSJ Mission we signed on to just a few short months ago.

Restoration and renewal also take hold of my being this winter. As the dusk light recovers itself and blue tones fill the five o’clock hour, new hope returns as well. I feel as the Spirit goes deeper and my soul once stripped bare, in the midst of winter doldrums, begins to bud and turn towards the light. Within me there is a distinct shift towards resting in God and being in relationship with those around me, opening myself to them so that all might benefit.

Midway in my ministry marks ever evolving new ground, made greener by an enjoyment and gratification in and of the work I do. Such satisfaction is marked by a growing comfort that comes simply from having been able to grow in my position at the community center everyday over the course of the last half year.

Part of that growth comes from those I work with and ultimately those I work for each day. The neighbors that I visit and assist are the people whose lives I am most often able to bear witness to, finding life in their stories and gaining perspective from them as we work together for something better. Yet, this is not the only place this occurs in my ministry. Each and every person I encounter has a window to the soul ready to be opened- that is, if I look hard enough and those I encounter are willing to share. And sometimes, like with Vladimir, I don’t even realize I am looking until I am already peering in, gently sharing in life with another. At this point, our lives have converged and a new midpoint is made, marked by the past when we didn’t know each other and a future where we cannot forget one another.

This is perhaps the most important midpoint. It is the convergence point and it is the place where hearts can be changed. Here is where I happened to realize God was there. I note as my heart jumps in my chest that there is something there to follow, something that I hope I have been following. Looking back on moments and months, I can see it at play in my heart, looking forward I await where it leads, and for now, I rest in it- saying every now and then ‘are you sure?’, only to be reassured that if God meant for something else I wouldn’t be here, silly.

Inaudible Hearing: a poem

Inaudible Hearing

A Poem for Sunshine

What does God's voice sound like?

It sounds like the sigh I let out right before I fall asleep.

A sigh full of exhaustion and contentment

that wakes me from time to time as I hear it

and it jars me from sleep.

It sounds like the breath that passes my lips.

It emits a light that warms, a light that spreads from the smallest spark.

I feel it on the back of my eyelids

It sits in the center of my chest.

That voice speaks clearly in the muffled fuzz of a discerning heart.

Among the swirling feeling, there it is.

From deep within and yet from deep without.

I recognize it and the most fitting response is a murmur,

almost indistinguishable except for its feeling.

Words unformed but known by you.

I cannot say them

for I know them but my lips cannot form them.

My heart speaks.

Your heart speaks.

Voice is there.

I feel my mother's thumb trace a cross on my forehead

The sound,

the grace of her fingerprint running over the tiny hairs on my brow.

I could be 2 or 10 or 20, no matter.

Peace & blessing arrive, the inaudible sound of flesh on flesh calls them-

God's voice in action.

What does God's voice sound like?

I don't know.

But I surely know when I hear it.

Discovering the Visible

February has come and gone. The shortest month of the year was not lacking in fullness for sure, as you can tell by the more than a week's post time on this post. But February was also a month that allowed me to get back outside to take pictures. Visits from friends and family enriched my lens and gave me perspective on what I do. By the end of the month I was in need of time to reflect, which would come in March as I face the choices of what to do next year/ after June. Philadelphia is a city of murals- commissioned and not. Around every corner there is an artistic vision waiting to be discovered... Below are those I've been blessed to find-may they give you new vision and reveal what your eyes are meant to see.

"Let my voice be heard."

That's what God seems to be saying lately.

In the midst of a busy schedule, the dullness of late winter, and the trying process of looking at what may be ahead while also being present to the current moment, God seems to cry out within me, "Let my voice be heard!"

In a way, I guess, God says that to each one of us in one way or another. Sometimes we need to listen to what others are saying to us; other times we need to pause to hear and give credence the voice deep within ourselves. And beyond listening, sometimes God cries out for us to speak up. After all, if God's gonna speak in the world s/he's gonna need someone's voice, so why not yours or mine?

With such things stirring in me, I guess it should be no surprise that following spiritual direction last week, and a growing pull towards encountering the divine voice as I rest in its presence, a call to receptiveness seems to be in order.

My blogging energies lately have been devoted to other writing projects and to an entry on Fordham's Lost? Conference that should (fingers crossed) go up in the next week. But blogging energy or not, the Spirit still moves. Stories grow and characters surface in your life from situations you can't really explain... God speaks. You listen.

There's been a lot of that going on in my life lately. First there was Sister India.

No, that isn't a pseudonym for one of the SSJs I work with or who is involved with the Mission Corps. Sister India's real name is Mary, but if you ask for Mary on Mascher Street no one will have any idea who you're looking for. So it's no wonder it took us so long to locate her home when a group of my social work interns and myself were out on home visits last week.

The corner of Mascher and Cambria is not the type of place you dwell for very long. The two bodegas that lie caddy corner to one another can sell you much more than eggs and bread, if you catch my drift. Well actually that's a lie, the bodegas won't sell you anything but the perpetual patrons of these establishments who transiently move in and out of the stores and occupy the corner with a sense of both command and complete anonymity. Everyone knows who they are but no one takes much notice.

When we arrived Mary was nowhere to be found. The street level door to her second floor apartment was barred and with no bell in sight, the prospect of reaching her seemed dim. Unable to remember how she had gotten on to my schedule of visits and/or if she spoke English, I had an intern call her. We were early but the faster we could get off the corner the better. Mary answered our call and said she was a few blocks over visiting a friend and would run right back to visit with us.

Being an unseasonably warm day, the ten minute wait wasn't too bad. I became acquainted with the details of my shoes in the meantime, choosing to maintain the anonymity of my corner dwelling friends amid the sound of dirt bikes riding through the streets and knowing that all eyes on Mascher were fixed, if only peripherally, on me and my companions. Soon enough, a vaguely familiar face came around the corner- Mary.

Originally from Puerto Rico and resident of numerous states up and down the east coast over the last few decades, Mary told us upfront to call her Sister India, "Everyone around here does." The reason was easy to see, Mary was extremely outgoing and her Indian heritage was apparent from the get go. Voila, Sister India.

There was no way to escape her charisma and joy. A coke addict for nearly 16 years, Sister India at 39 years old had seen her share of trials but found her way through to sobriety with only a few relapses over the last year. After years of dazed confusion, India had found Jesus and, in time, turned her life around. It hadn't been easy, but after years denial and substituting love of God with love of drugs, she had turned her self over to "the greatest rock in the world." Under those conditions finding Sister India in this neighborhood was a surprise- talk about opening yourself to temptation- yet sometimes means dictate where you can live. On her way to meet us even she had been solicited to buy crack, she cast the dealer behind her and kept on walking. For India, it was a voice inside her she had finally chosen to listen to and now she wanted to share with everyone.

The phrase "God will provide" permeated the air and there was no denying God had. India had found supportive community in the Christian community of local churches. Her apartment had come on the tip of a pastor and the scarce amount of furniture that she did have had come from those she encountered at church. "I have been blessed and I'm being called to pass it along," she said. Recounting stories of ministering to strung out prostitutes in the neighborhood and reassuring us that our presence was another way of God working in her life, I soaked it in. Sister India was great, but God was greater. You want a reminder that God is watching out for you and will provide in the midst of everything? Listen to the conviction in the voice of a recovering addict and witness the faith of a woman who's found something better. That's a voice to hear.

Then there was Bob the Postman. We mailed the community center's inaugural newsletter this past week, a process that was full of much learning and frustration. After writing and laying out the entire thing, I was sure that I was going to see the thing through to it's completion. Reaching that point led me to Bob. Two months of work led us to a 7 hour ordeal at bulk mail in Northeast Philadelphia. Knowing that the post office isn't the most joyful of places, I had prepared myself for a long day, especially since both Karen (my boss) and I had never gone through the bulk mailing process.

After going to the wrong postal desk and being redirected to a back room, we met Bob. From the start we explain that we were new to this, in the hopes of gaining sympathy from the system. Sympathy was slow coming. We began by reordering the nearly 500 letter by ZIP code and then making an exact count by holding container of the letters. Not having brought any paperwork with us we filled it out there and Bob was cordial enough, having patience and mercy on us. Then we met a snag: for bulk mail the USPS doesn't take credit. That meant a 45 minute drive back to Kensington to get cash to put in our permit account, an hour and a half round trip. Bob told us he'd wait and graciously let us take our letters with us in the bins we had already sorted them in. Three hours later we returned with cash in hand.

As Karen went to fill our account, I set to work calculating postage with Bob's calculator alone in his back office with him. The room was quiet except for my tapping on the calculator's keys. I was intent on making the write calculation to finish our time with Bob and the silence between us seemed content enough. I punched the numbers again. "So, are you two nuns?" Bob asked. I've gotten this question before (it kind of comes with the turf of being a volunteer with an order of sisters) but the last place I expected it was from a postal worker who I'd only known for the past 5 hours.

The conversation that followed was God-filled for sure. It turned out Bob was a former Catholic, former priest, and former alcoholic; those revelations came independently and in varied order, but they all came in a voice that needed to be heard and was laced through with the divine. By the time Karen returned, I knew a lot more about Bob than I ever thought I would, was getting an invitation to his church in Northeast Philly, and had found God at the post office (of all places).

In the silence of a back room, a voice called out. Bob spoke. I spoke. God Spoke. We all listened (and got a good deal of wisdom (and on postage, to boot.))

Then I found that if you find yourself speaking, a voice still cries out. Eleanor's eyes did the speaking. They cried out silently and let God's voice be heard.

I had been cautioned about visiting Eleanor's house. The priests who sent me explained she could be a handful- a filthy house, an attitude that could turn on a dime, and the challenge of helping someone in need who didn't want help. Yet, I found myself on her stoop early Sunday afternoon with a group of high school youth from New York City. These youth had come to Camden and Philadelphia for a service immersion program with the Romero Center, a group that we often partner with to give students an experience of relational ministry with our neighbors in need.

When I knocked on the front door, Eleanor called us into the house. I introduced myself to our host, who was confined to a hospital bed in her living room, and whereas I had planned to leave the group at the house to clean while I went back to the center to get some other work done I soon realized I needed to stay.

I needed to stay to reassure the group and to make sure they could hear Eleanor. I needed to stay to reassure Eleanor that someone was here to listen and that she, despite all she didn't have control of, could simply be talked to in love. I needed to stay because her eyes told me I needed to. God was reflected in her eyes.

"Let my voice be heard," they said, twinkling with Light.

"Let my voice be heard," Bob whispered as we stood together united in the most unexpected of places.

"Let my voice be heard," Sister India intoned, for if I could hear her God was surely speaking and providing.

God cries out in it all. There's a lot to hear and I'm not sure if I get it all, but I'm trying. The good news is God doesn't waste breath; s/he uses it to bring new life.

"Let my voice be heard... let it dance across your spirit... let it spur new life... let my voice be heard in you and through you" that's what God seems to be saying lately.

Nothing, but Blue Skies

A few months back I pondered the importance of taking notice, of simply pausing to see the beauty of a moment. Looking up at the sky that day I took in the opportunity I was being given and the opportunity God gives me each and every day to bear witness to Wonder in my own life.

As is so often the case though, life came along and I was swept up. Administrative needs at work overtook my schedule of home visits. The drama of life decisions and looking towards next year overwhelmed my ability to be fully present to the Mission Corps experience here and now. Concern for a loved one's loss and jumbled thoughts about who I am and who my generation is in the Church eclipsed simple joy with confusion, anger, and unknowingness. And I was left with nothing.

There are some things you don't realize you miss until they're gone: contact with those you serve, the ability to hear their stories and give hope if but through an ear to listen, connection in prayer and a deepening of that relationship with God, and blue skies.

To have nothing and to regain those things can be a great relief and a great blessing. Depending on the moment you catch me at, I'll agree. At the moments I am without, though, I am burdened and misguided. Those are the toughest moments. They are the times you tell yourself it's bound to get better, stoking the fires of hope, if only with the desperate need to have such hope still aflame within you beneath grey skies and muddled thoughts.

My first reaction is to say those moments are ones to be pushed through (we've all tried that, haven't we?) but slowly I am realizing the need to look up at those dreary, murky clouds and see the shades of grey among them. Not necessarily to muscle your way through but to look at what you're facing. And maybe, just maybe, invite God into those moments.

Such invitations can seemingly go unanswered, like letters sent but never opened. Others can come back not necessarily in the prescribed manner of response. In lots of ways we invite God, just as God invites us. I can invite God in, but am I, in all honesty, ready for God to come rushing in? If I want to be vulnerable am I able to be "capable of and susceptible to being wounded or hurt", as that word's definition implies? All are good questions but they aren't the ones you ask in those moments. Distinguishing shades of grey and waking up each day to bleak January skies, you just want to see blue, to find God, to make some sort of connection.

This past week that was my hope. To move beyond nothing to, at the very least, nothing, but blue skies.

This morning I awoke to what seemed to be the first clear sky I'd seen in weeks. The crisp air complemented the clouds and the sheets of ice on the pavement kept me on my toes. I was aware as well of a dream I had last night. In the midst of all this confusion, I've been passing out at night, awaking somewhat rested (my brain not having reached a resting state from the previous day.) Yet this morning, one tidbit still remained in my mind.

For some reason I was being evaluated (why? who really knows with dreams?) on my quality of life. The woman sitting with me would ask a question and then based on my response and manner of response she would tell me how I was doing (certainly not protocol for study -I assure you!)

I don't know if I passed the evaluation or not... I could care less, but the only question I remembered when I woke up this morning was "Do you pause and reflect on 5 moments of beauty each day?" In the dream I hesitated, then reassured myself that I must do so, and then answered accordingly. The woman marked her paper and said bluntly, "You either do or you don't, making up answers doesn't help either one of us." Ouch. Subconscious anyone? Needless to say I had a lot to chew on as my day went forth.

Knowing beauty hadn't been my forte lately, I set to work. The blue sky didn't hurt matters. Neither did the fact that I was able to go out on home visits for the first time in nearly 3 weeks. That helped to center me, as it always does, and gave me perspective in the midst of other work around the community center. Dinner with a lovely community of sisters rounded out the day and completed my list of 5. All in all, thought, it gave me hope. The Spirit stirred in it (as I imagine it has been this entire time, all be it beneath my radar.)

Tomorrow may hold murk and grey; I can't control that. I just need to be (and have been) reassured that what feels and reeks of nothing may bring me to something, if only blue skies. Nothing but blue skies.