Season's End

"Hanging the Laundry Out to Dry" by Berthe Morisot
1875
National Gallery of Art. 
This image is in the public domain because its copyright has expired. 
Courtesy of Wikipedia

Season's End

By Marianna Bartholomew

It's sweater weather 
says the voice on the radio 

and stepping outside

is like walking off a cliff into fall.

The air snaps

like freshly-hung laundry.

You see a cardinal, a female.

I pinch shriveled blooms from the rosebush 

and scatter petals like confetti.

The grass is still green

but looks uncombed.

The garden crunches underfoot

like stale toast.

I pull my jacket tighter

over skin still peeling from our day at the dunes.

Was it just last week?

The waves were like hedges

rolling and green.

We vaulted over them for hours

then rode them to shore.

There were clouds then, too

but harmless puffs
like lamb's wool.

The clouds today are flannel.




Thought I'd share this poem I wrote as a newly-wed, in my 20's...Just for the love of words! 

Part II: Bridging Cultural Divides Can Be Inspiring

Happy Columbus Day!

What do we love most 

about America? 

Hopefully, her people...

America is a melting pot and we should enjoy that reality.
Photo by Bartholomew Family

Attending a Catholic conference alone near Chicago one year, I sat amidst a sea of Filipinos. Some people understandably hate ice-breakers, but I figured I'd might as well be a good sport. Before the conference officially opened, I joined in singing a jaunty little tune that had everyone nodding and greeting each other: "Roll over the ocean, roll over the sea, open up your hearts and build community." 

It sounds corny, and it was. We rolled our arms 1970's disco fashion to represent the ocean. (I hesitate admitting this, since such activities get some people skittling for the door!) During the refrain, "It's you, it's you, it's you who build community," we all nodded, grinned and pointed to each other.  

Sounds like the stuff of nightmares? It was a bit surreal! But then I got over myself. Here I was on a Saturday morning, singing to a little, elderly Filipino man, who had this mischievous expression in his eyes as he belted out the song in heavily-accented English. I learned you absolutely cannot sing a bouncy song and point your finger at someone, while keeping a straight face. All the work-week cares, family conflicts, traffic aggravations seemed to lift off that crowd and fly out the window. Along with cultural divides, of course. By God's grace, we were building community. All ages, all ethnic groups were one in that moment, simply giving in to the goofiness and amiability of it all. Afterwards, we sat predisposed to glean good out of the talks and prayer, the Mass and Eucharistic Adoration. Was that song dignified? No, it was childlike. It gave me a kick to see adults lightening up in that moment. Something important clicked inside me, or I wouldn't remember the scene so clearly after all these years. I can sing that tune even today.

Why should we try bridging cultural divides? 

Father Augustine Tolton, the first

African-American priest, fervently

bridged cultural divides. 

"When we look beneath the surface of our national life, we see that the septic undercurrent of racism flows largely unabated," writes Deacon Harold Burke-Sivers in the forward of the 2006 edition of From Slave to Priest (by sister Caroline Hemesath, SSF), about the first African-American Catholic priest, Father Augustine Tolton. "Racism is alive and well, and is intricately woven into the fabric of American culture. But unlike the 1950's and 60's, where racism was overt, extreme...racism today is more subtle and covert." Racism today, writes the deacon, is characterized by a "now unconscious and tacit philosophy of dehumanization." Whether it's antagonism toward African-Americans, Anglos, Hispanics or Laotians, that "septic undercurrent" is one of the fallen characteristics of human nature. 


But who wants to live in a sewer?


We're all God's children and created equal. The Apostles reached out to different peoples, and so should we. We're surrounded by a wide variety of ethnic groups and cultures, and should make extra effort to be neighborly. After all, America is a melting pot. We should enjoy it. What's the alternative? Isolationism. Misunderstandings. Even terrorism. Ultimately, if we're willing to embrace the beauty of other heritages and step out of our comfort zone, real living awaits.  We have to be prudent. Not everyone can be a friend, and obviously, some will mean us harm. But often, it's all so simple. What a pity we don't approach friendship like little children. I remember clasping hands with my friends as we ran off to play. We didn't need many words to have a fabulous time. 

In Part I of this series, I wrote about how food can help bridge cultural divides. But faith is the most powerful unifier. Attending Mass delves us into worship on a global scale. I've felt just at home at Mass in Chicago as I have in Italy, Canada or Austria. I always marvel at all the different cultures mixing with the Holy Father at World Youth Days. 

Dehumanizing the "other" leads to 

tragedy. Above are survivors of the

Wounded Knee Massacre. We should 

continue to pray for healing for a 

troubled America, with its often

sorrowful history. May all life be 

respected. http://www.

nebraskahistory.org/images/

lib-arch/research/treasures/103392.jpg

A couple weeks ago, a Maryknoll priest spoke at Mass about his 30-plus years serving in China. He told how people had kept the Faith for decades, praying the Rosary, baptizing their children and teaching them the Faith, after Communists murdered clergy and religious, and forced the Catholic Church underground. When September 11th occurred, these Chinese people grieved with America. The missionary ended his homily with a Chinese blessing, exotic in the confines of our suburban church. Missionaries' tales are always such a great wake up call. We're in a universal Church. The first step in spreading the light of faith is befriending people. To do that, we have to allow God to change our "hearts of stone" into "hearts of flesh," scripturally speaking. God thought "outside the box" in forming so many diverse types of people, and  so should we, in opening our hearts and minds to enjoy His creativity -- a creativity visible through each other's very existence.


Back to that song mentioned at the beginning...."Roll over the ocean, roll over the sea, open up your hearts and build community." Columbus "rolled over the ocean," and I'm grateful. We should pray for healing for this troubled land with its complex and often sorrowful history (genocide of native peoples and the pre-born, slavery, corporate and individual greed, dishonest politics, etc.) But how I love this nation with all its diverse peoples! As for getting along, it's like any family -- not easy, although eminently worth the effort. Listening respectfully to others, then standing up for our beliefs, is always in season, if done with genuine warm-heartedness and appreciation of the other. If we fall flat on our face, we can always remind ourselves how drab it would be if all our friends looked, acted, thought and ate, just like us. Having just commemorated the 10-year-anniversary of September 11th, let's pray the world learns to seek the face of God in all its varied beauty. Different cultures are a gift. May we all enrich each other. 

Photo by Marianna Bartholomew

Steve Jobs, Rest In Peace

My husband and I were heading to a coffee shop tonight to have a short business meeting about household expenses. Before packing up my Mac to bring along (to help track expenditures on Microsoft Excel), I opened my Safari browser, which automatically defaulted to the Apple home page. A portrait of Steve Jobs, in his trademark black mock turtleneck, stood dramatically against a stark, white background. I saw the "1955-2011" tagline, and knew significant history had just been made. 


Eternal rest grant unto Steve Jobs, O Lord, and may perpetual light shine upon him.


For someone who knew little about this co-founder of Apple and Pixar (animation studio that produced kid's favorites like Finding Nemo, WALL-E, and Toy Story), I'm one of a fan club of millions hugely impacted by his work. I witnessed Catholic home mission EXTENSION Magazine transition from more manual laying out of "boards" to prepare pages for the printer, to using desktop publishing. We were among the very first Catholic mission magazines to use this technology. My wonderful editor Bradley Collins was positively intrepid in learning to use this technology and getting the magazine transitioned. He'd give his staff lessons, then encourage us to play around a bit with the Mac, until we were confident using it for design work. I experienced history in the making! I remember having to write ridiculously long codes in the early, pre-Mac days, just to typeset fonts into italic, etc, for every title, subhead and set of quotation marks. Tedious. Then, Macs arrived, and we all experienced a sharp learning curve! But the resultant leap in efficiency was fantastic.


I never foresaw in those early days, that such technology would one day be available to the average school child. Even packing up my computer to discuss bills with my husband, shows a climate shift in how technology now penetrates modern lives, down to the most mundane details. It's amazing how techie advances dreamed up by a brilliant "computer nerd" could impact the world. (As an interesting aside, Steve Jobs was adopted. Today, when one in three babies conceived are aborted, Jobs might never have seen light of day. But he was born in the 1950's, so the world received the benefit of his conception.)


Described by many as having a complex, driving personality, Jobs was known for insisting on functionality with elegance. My first reaction at seeing a Mac laptop was awe at its sleekness and ease of use. Two years ago, my husband thrilled me by taking me to an Apple store and suggesting we buy a Mac. With all my writing, he thought it would prove useful, versus our clunkier, older computers at home. What an inspired idea. With the Mac came an iPod touch. I didn't know quite what to do with it. My then-10-year-old offered to give me a few lessons, my other two kids filled in the gaps, and voila, the iTouch took up useful residence in my purse. Now it's fished out daily for keeping appointments in order, and I seem to discover new, handy uses for that little gadget all the time -- not to mention the fun of having a ready-made Scrabble game on hand for long car trips. When my kids tire of playing, I can always challenge the computer. 


As for my lightweight laptop, what an incredible blessing. Desperate for writing time a few weeks ago, I found myself up at 5:20 AM to walk my husband to the train for work. With 6:15 AM Mass offered at a church near the train station, it made perfect sense for me to pack along my computer, attend Mass, then head to a nearby coffee shop for an hour of writing before returning home to officially start my day. My little laptop slung in a backpack made this efficient use of time and portable office possible. I credit my Mac with starting me on the road to blogging, tweeting and writing more easily a young adult novel, now in final stages of editing.


Of course, it's all about balance. When I was a kid, it was hard enough to keep off the telephone and away from TV. Now we have devices like iPhone, iTouch, and laptops so miniscule they travel anywhere. Steve Jobs either invented or influenced much of this technology. I wouldn't want to do without it. I thank God for it! But I'm also determined to stay philosophical and detached. I want to be able to let go easily if I ever, for some reason, have to go tech-free. 


In the end, Mr. Jobs faced that challenge. All his technology couldn't prolong his life. This husband and father of four faced that final moment when all that mattered was himself and his Creator. His loved ones released a statement saying he had died quietly, surrounded by family. Steve Jobs, Rest in Peace.

Bridging cultural divides can be delicious

Photo by Marianna Bartholomew

Through junior high, my best friend was a black, Haitian-American girl named Gina. We sang in our Catholic church choir and whenever we were together. Her voice was as smooth and rich as hazelnut latte. Both her parents were cultured, well-spoken doctors. Aunt Regi helped care for the family, and when I visited, this ample Haitian in cotton housedress grinned and embraced me. I don't remember how much English she boasted, but I thought her French beautiful. For dinner, Aunt Regi fed us herbed chicken, fried plantains (like bananas, but not as sweet) and warm coke. If friendship had a taste, it would be that savory chicken! I wish I could replicate that meal just once. I've tried, but lack this jovial woman's hand with the spice jar. I'm actually test-driving a new recipe for Haitian chicken tonight. We'll see what happens!

A Filipino friend made my husband and I Pancit. 
Pancit means "noodle" in their language.
 Photo by Chboogs Putipina.

In college, friends joked I was an honorary member of the Asian Club, because many of my buddies were Filipino. I enjoyed standing eye-to-eye with someone for a change (I'm 5'00" tall), and liked their gentle ways. One Filipino welcomed my future husband and I into her apartment, and served yet another delicious chicken dish called pancit -- shredded chicken and vegetables on rice noodles. Ah, another dish to add to my "Friendship and Food" file.

One of these days. I'd love to try replicating the
handmade tamales a coworker at EXTENSION made. 
(Photo by Tatsuroo at Photobucket.)

At EXTENSION Magazine, I worked with African-Americans, Hispanics, Asians and Anglos, and pot-luck parties were spectacular. I threw in my own contributions of Shoo-fly pie and Irish soda bread (from my Pennsylvania Dutch and Celtic heritage), tried okra in my first authentic soul food, learned to crave handcrafted tamales in their cornhusk sleeves and the sweet custard flan, and sampled refreshing Asian salads, homemade pierogies and kolaches. Savoring everyone's favorite dishes, I gained wonderful memories, good friends and an extra pound or two! (These days, I bring Boursin cheese to parties -- adding the French herb chervil -- a nod to the third part of my ancestry).

Granddaughter of Catholic catechist
and Oglala Sioux Nicholas Black Elk
(cousin of Chief Crazy Horse),
welcomed me into her home and
served up the best meatloaf I've
ever had! I'll never forget her warmth
and hospitality. Photo above shows
Black Elk with his wife and daughter.

Fine meals punctuate memories like bookmarks. I'll never forget regional cuisines I sampled when writing about missions for EXTENSION. Maybe these events etched so deeply in my mind because I lived in an efficiency apartment in Chicago and cooked meals on a hotplate. In the South Dakota home of a granddaughter of the famous Black Elk, I was served the best meatloaf ever. (Okay, not a Native American delicacy, but it was so good. Several times, I've tried Indian fry bread, which tastes good, although it probably has about a million calories.) In a tiny Appalachian trailer, a little elderly woman sat me down and fed me succulent  peach pie. On a Cajun family's shrimp boat in Louisiana, I sampled delicate crab just pulled from the waters and boiled up in a pot on deck. Every time, food presented a safe topic for conversation, until we established a comfort level and could wade into deeper waters. Missionaries have a special name for this: pre-evangelization. It means being present to people, sharing meals and lives, to lay a foundation of trust and friendship.  

On assignment at Brother Thomas Pettite's homeless shelter -- Lazarus House in Lawrence, Massachusetts -- I felt overwhelmed at first by the dozens of clients who poured in at mealtime. Volunteers and the homeless shared prayer time in the chapel, before enjoying a delicious, hot meal. I remember mashed potatoes were on the menu -- and birthday cake, for one little, homeless girl. The weary clients bending over coffee put aside troubles to smile and sing for the girl. After the meal, I sat on the stoop with a young blond man who said he had spent much of his childhood "under the bed instead of in it," because of alcoholic, abusive parents. Freshly-emerged from sleeping under bridges, he was articulate, gentle and steering toward a better life. He helped me see how homelessness affects every demographic.

A comforting meal and a birthday cake 

lightened up the atmosphere and got 

people talking at a homeless center 

I visited in Lawrence, Massachusetts.

On the lighter side, my kids still cherish the night we dined with a Thai co-worker of my husband's. I always thought it was so brave of a bachelor to host a family of five. He cooked up Pad Thai and other savory dishes, and my family reciprocated later with barbecued ribs and apple pie. Years ago, another co-worker of my husband's invited us for Indian food. Although the roof of my mouth nearly blew off from the spiciness of the dishes, they were tasty and unforgettable, as was the scarcity of furniture in the spacious home, and the quantity of silk pillows and mats.


Befriending people of all cultures can be delicious as well as fascinating, because gabbing about our various backgrounds so often takes place around a table laden with unique dishes. Even so, have you ever felt out of your element trying to bridge the cultural divide? I did, years ago, when I was invited into a Mexican-American's household for dinner. I felt shy and overwhelmed as one of two Anglos (my two-year-old daughter was the other), amidst a sea of Spanish-speakers, and never got over that feeling all evening! Of course, it didn't help that this was a new, next door neighbor, and I had accepted a spontaneous invite over the fence to come share a family barbecue. It was a mild, summer evening, and I responded so eagerly, I stepped through the gate without any shoes. The event started with the sweet mother and I chatting, but her children, their friends, and then, extended family, poured in at an astonishing rate. My husband was in bed with a migraine, so I spent the evening trying to hide my feet, checking on my husband through our bedroom window screen that faced our neighbor's house, keeping my active toddler from knocking everything over, and doing a lot of nodding and smiling. 


When we feel that awkward, I guess we just have to laugh it off and try again. Later, my husband and I attended a feast day celebration of Our Lady of Guadalupe at a Chicago Hispanic parish. This time, I felt welcomed and comfortable as I watched the colorful procession honoring Our Lady. Children wore festive, traditional dress and a mariachi band strummed. The feasting later in the parish hall offered great company, and food better than at my favorite Mexican restaurant.

Honoring Our Lady of
Guadalupe is often
accompanied by feasting.

Food and friendship just seem to flow, one into the other. Often, we first experience this reality in a warm home environment (thanks, Mom!), and learn to extend this hospitality to others. A friend of Italian heritage, her mother, and her daughter, an Anglophile, just hosted my 17-year-old daughter and me for an elaborate "tea." Cucumber and roast beef sandwiches, orange spice cake, champagne grapes, pumpkin crackers, and lingering conversation over our tea, made a real event of the afternoon. Inter-generational talk about fine literature and art flows on such occasions, and I'm always excited to see how much great literature our daughters have read, and the fun they have discussing various plot lines, historical periods, etc. It's a treat swapping gardening ideas with the mom, an artist who's recently turned her back yard into a sanctuary for native prairie plants. It's also fascinating to listen to the grandmother -- of Italian heritage, but raised in Argentina -- speak a combination of Castilian Spanish and English. She abounds with tales about how her mother, a resident of Argentina, got trapped in Italy for seven years during World War I, and was taken in by cloistered nuns in Florence. 


A Catholic, Anglo friend hosts "Secret Garden" gatherings at her city property. Married to a Catholic, African-American husband, she invites women of various backgrounds and faiths. Her five children play host to pre-teen and teen guests, while women congregate under trees, and in outdoor "rooms" contrived from strategically-placed, salvaged architecture, wild ferns and blooms. Conversations spark as dusk falls. Faces flicker from the light of two brick fireplaces and dozens of candles. Tempting dishes are laid out on an assortment of fine linens, (gleaned from creative resale shopping). 


Oral traditions proliferate on these evenings, and people chuckle about the time an errant raccoon reached a hand from outside the circle onto one of the tables to snag a snack, or heavy winds threatened to peel the tarp off an outdoor party room. Perhaps these "Secret Gardens" have continued over the years because it's so much easier befriending someone new in a mysterious space resembling a scene from Narnia, and over a heartening bowl of tortellini soup, white-chocolate covered grapes, or chocolate ginger cookies. Newly-met guests at a Secret Garden this past Friday recommended good reads to each other, from The Long Walk by Slawomir Rawicz, about prisoners escaping Siberia, to the inspiring writings of Immaculee Ilibagiza, who personifies forgiveness, after surviving the 1994 Rwandan genocide (she escaped by hiding 91 days in a tiny bathroom with seven other women).

Not everyone has a solid family

tradition of eating together.
Father Leo Patalinghug
created this inspiring
cookbook to teach people
 how to build healthy relationships
 by preparing and sharing good food. 

Comfort food is a great icebreaker, a natural conversation-starter -- and it's becoming more rare as people with frantic schedules jam in fast food meals. Preparing and enjoying home-cooked dishes and serving them up in style is actually a virtue, and one to be shared! And if it helps bridge a cultural divide or two (or even helps heal relationships within our families), all the better!

See these sites, where Jeff Young (The Catholic Foodie) and Father Leo Patalinghug (Grace Before Meals) blog about a growing movement to encourage families and friends to draw closer to their faith and each other, by cooking and eating together: The Catholic Foodie; Grace Before Meals.


(To come, Part II: Bridging Cultural Divides through 
Faith and Fine Arts)

Fruits of our labor

"In all things of nature there is something of the marvelous"...Aristotle

I gathered the above veggies out of my garden for lunch, and was so struck by their beauty, color and form, I just had to take a picture...Soon after, I scrubbed, chopped and plopped them into a pot with water, making rich, thick, tasty vegetable soup. See the luxurious, plum color of the eggplant at left, and the eye-popping orange of the first carrots I've ever successfully grown. I recently blogged, "Walking with God in the Garden," but my garden is so like a jungle now, "walking" is out of the question. I play Twister with squash and cucumber vines, creeping, stooping or balancing precariously and bobbing like one of those goofy drinking birds, to harvest the fruit. By the time I've loaded my basket full of good things, I've gotten quite a workout navigating my organic obstacle course. I have pumpkins growing up arbor vitae! I guess more trellises are in order.

Oh, if we could always see such tangible fruits of our labor! But never fear, even when we don't see results, labor is good for us. Labor...it's our very nature. And, as Aristotle said, it can be "marvelous."

"...man, created in the image of God, shares by his work in the activity of the Creator," wrote Blessed John Paul II in his encyclical Laborem Exercens. This year marks the 30th anniversary of this powerful document exploring the dignity of work. 

Spending most our lives in labor, it forms us, yet should never enslave us:

No labor's lost

Labor

defining days

often, unavoidably, evenings

Varied, intense, exhilarating

repetitious, draining, dry

We are made for this

digging deep into labor

sparks the soul 

plants and waters

the nourishing kernel that makes us whole

enervates each day

If deadly dull, seek meaning

Each task done bitterly

drains life

like a schoolyard insult

signals opportunity lost

Duty done boldly

like a toe reach over that final hurdle

or the last notes breathed by symphony players

outdoors on a humid evening

ennobles

Duty dignifies

if done heartily

with humor

purpose

and for that one great goal

a sigh to God

and the uplifting

beautifying

sanctifying

of humanity

Labor saves

Simplifies

Yes, and can even

be savored

By Marianna Bartholomew

"Entrust your works to the Lord and your plans will succeed." Proverbs 16:3

Happy Labor Day!

Happy Birthday, First Born!

First Born

You were born
and the poetry left me
for a time


Perhaps because
you are poetry embodied


I stand before you
mute with wonder


By Marianna Bartholomew


Tenses mix in this poem I wrote a year or so after my oldest child's birth. The first stanza refers, in past tense, to a certain happening in my history...while the second and third stanzas speak of an ongoing reality. My child arrived and the poetry did "leave me." However, my daughter is "poetry embodied," leaving me "mute with wonder."


Becoming a mother was so disorienting in a wonderful way, that I didn't return to composing poems and articles until I was well settled into my new maternal identity. At first, I lacked time and inclination to write much of anything amidst the novel intricacies of nursing, diapering and nurturing my newborn.


As youngest of seven children, I had almost never held or cared for a baby before my own arrived. My first time changing a diaper came at Chicago's Northwestern Memorial Hospital when the nurse chucked my daughter to me for a necessary refreshing. I held up a diaper and asked, "Um, is there something special I'm supposed to know about this?" Clueless.


My first "grand experiment" in child rearing, my daughter arrived on this planet in dramatic fashion, suiting her artistic nature. I mentioned in my prior post that my daughter met and received a blessing from Blessed John Paul II in Rome when she was around ten weeks in utero.


What I didn't mention, was our fall into a tomb in the Catacombs of Saint Callixtus on that same trip. Looking up to examine what appeared to be bones in a high up niche, I stepped back into oblivion. I don't know how far was that descent into the recessed tomb, but I do know the impact was spectacular. I remember that surreal moment so well...people's hands reaching out to grasp mine, our fingers brushing, as I slipped back and down. By the time I was hauled out of the pit and had the red clay beaten off my long, black wool coat, I was weak with laughter and clinging desperately to the hope that the baby nested within had napped through the jolt and suffered no harm. I refused to let worry ruin the trip. I had felt called to Rome, and if I was dumb enough to prematurely bury myself and my babe, well, I figured God would safely haul us from the abyss. 


Seven months later, after an 18-hour labor and emergency C-section, I gave birth to a baby that had everyone in the delivery room hooting and cheering. Yes, the baby looked 3-months old. Yes, this 5'00" tall woman really had given birth to a whopping 9 lb 7 oz baby. Only later, did my husband tell me big babies ran in his family!


My daughter has remained "big," in how she has transformed my husband and my lives, as have her two younger brothers.


"Remember how we actually used to run out of things to do?" my husband asked the other day, referring to those first days of marriage in our one-bedroom apartment -- "B.B." -- "Before Babies."


I do remember a feeling of emptiness in the place and in my soul, as I longed deeply for a baby to "make us three."


Today is my first born's 17th birthday. An artist, she drew the above sketch of a baby for a picture book I was working on a couple years ago. How can it be, that these years since she was a baby, have flown so quickly? 


Happy birthday, Daughter, and God bless you! I love who you are, and who you are becoming...

What's the point of World Youth Day?

What’s the point of World Youth Day (WYD)?

The Chicago Tribune said it well six years before the first WYD, covering the visit of Blessed John Paul II to the city October of 1979: “For forty hours, the visitor from Rome unites the city in spirit.”

I was 15-years-old at the time, and thrilled that Mom took my brothers and I from high school to attend the three-hour Mass in Grant Park that attracted an estimated 200,000 people. We jammed onto a train full of spirited people who spontaneously broke into singing familiar hymns as we headed east. Streets downtown were cordoned off and crowds surged toward Grant Park, praying, singing and introducing themselves to fellow pilgrims.

We stood at a curb for hours, waiting for the Holy Father to pass and Mass to begin.  A battalion of Knights of Columbus formed an honor guard along the street, and I despaired of seeing a thing. But when John Paul II passed in an open-air vehicle (no Popemobiles back then) and buoyantly greeted the crowd, I poked my head through the crooked arm of a caped Knight, and caught a full-face glimpse of the Holy Father. I’ll never forget his joy, the crowd's, nor mine.

Not every day do you experience 200,000 people fervently voicing together their Alleluias. During his homily, Pope John Paul II said, "Looking at you, I see people who have thrown their destinies together and now write a common history. . . This is the way America was conceived; this is what she was called to be. . .But there is another reality that I see when I look at you. . .your unity as members of the People of God."

Somehow, priests managed to distribute communion to the massive crowd. Silence at that moment was profound, broken only by priests murmuring “The Body of Christ,” and people affirming, “Amen (so be it),” as they received the Eucharist.

Later, we walked to Union Station and wended home in a standing-room-only railcar, again joining in spontaneous bursts of song.

Impressed by the joviality and kindness of a Knight of Columbus I had befriended that day, I wrote to the Knights sharing my growing conviction that I had a religious vocation. One wrote back, encouraging me to live prayerfully as a teen and focus on home duties and studies, while I continued praying and discerning God’s call.

My attraction to religious life faded, but when post-college desperation to find a job drove me to answer a blind ad looking for a secretarial assistant, I arrived for the interview to discover that EXTENSION was a Catholic home mission magazine. That led to my writing about the Faith and home missions for more than twenty years – a job that has blessed and enlivened my life and soul in more ways than I could number.

In January, 1994, I headed to Rome to attend the elevation to bishop of then head of Extension Society, Edward J. Slattery, now Bishop of Tulsa, Oklahoma.

My group attended a private audience with Pope John Paul II, and when the aged pontiff met my eyes and grasped my hand, I believe he said three words to me: “Family, family, family.” I was around ten weeks pregnant with my first child at the time.

When I think of my life’s formative events, experiencing Blessed John Paul II’s visit to Chicago, and meeting him in Rome number right up there with my Wedding, Confirmation and First Communion. When I’ve strayed or my spirit’s flagged, I’ve always had the inspiration from those encounters drawing me back.

What’s the point of World Youth Day? Look at all the crowds of young people gathered with Pope Benedict XVI in Madrid, with the Holy Spirit’s work hidden but active in each soul. Who knows how this encounter with the Holy Father and each other will impact each life? The meaning of World Youth Day is eternal, but for the needs of our suffering world NOW.