VIEW FROM THE PEW
It was a long visit, returning to the midwest roots and stepping back into the embrace of loved ones who are usually in long distance communication, not within reach for hugs.
It’s an annual pilgrimage, reentry into our childhood homeland for two “maturing” people who migrated to Hawaii so long ago. We seemed to be operating at our normal pace creating evening meals for the working younger folks as our daily focus, watching spring greenery and blossoms unfold on hours-long expeditions to reach distant family and friends, returns to favorite restaurant, shop and bookstore, exploring a pub or two with an Irish cousin. It’s a comfortable repeated journey, all about our people, not so much sightseeing and exploring. People who do adventure vacations can’t fathom ours, might die of boredom.
At the time it seemed we were in our usual meandering mode — linger to chat in everyone’s kitchens, repeat the stories we already told and, shame on me, lay back with a book while someone else washes the dishes or the clothes. But when I got back to my solitude at sunset life in Hawaii, I was thinking of the trip in terms of movie previews: a frantic flicker of action changing at every blink, surprises, changes from plan A to plan B, too much information to absorb. It was constant close encounters, some warm, even grand, some sad, some overwhelming.
The spring family renewal was all about togetherness, but in reflecting later, I was focusing on differences among us.
“We’re different in Hawaii” is actually a theme in our story-telling. I tried to explain it after going to Mass in a church full of only haole faces. I extolled the blessing of my Honolulu parish where the color is not just in the stained glass windows but in the faces of every ethnicity in line for communion, in the Samoan choir, the Asian priest.
Staying in a northern city, which officials as well as activists affirm is one of the most segregated cities in America, we talked about the wonder of Hawaii, where our neighborhoods and workplaces aren’t identified by racial makeup. A friend made sure to point out the “other” race of a doctor just visited, sparking me to recite a litany of diversity in my health care orbit, topped off by the Tibetan Buddhist doctor of Jewish ethnicity.
We joined my niece for a lunchtime program at Medical College of Wisconsin for one in a series on diversity. More than 100 faculty and employees came to see a film featuring religious leaders from several faiths describe what they all have in common, as the Dalai Lama said “different ways of approach to create a better human being.” Audience folks shared experiences: at my table that included a Catholic woman who was proud of having Lutheran friends, another delighted to be invited to a Passover meal by Jewish neighbors, a third admitted to struggling with her daughter’s decision to become Buddhist. I became a motormouth about the wonderful interfaith collaborations I have observed in Hawaii, all the while feeling superficial superiority to people enclosed by that community’s barriers. Looking back, I think they were sincerely, consciously seeking to get beyond the walls.
The Medical College of Wisconsin’s Diversity and Inclusion Office was sponsoring another six-part workshop on “Unlearning Racism” organized by the YMCA. It’s just one of many organizations, churches, businesses trying to remedy the differences in their divided society. Despite my rainbow glasses, there is a lot for us to take away. “Six ways to confront a bigot” by Tegan Jones is findable online and a tool for our far from perfect island culture.
The level of Catholic activism in social issues is awesome in Milwaukee. Find the umbrella group at the catholicsforpeaceandjustice.org website. We can’t begin to match the efforts of Catholics in that city the same size as Honolulu. There are groups working on immigration issues, anti-segregation, inner city safety, prison reform, the dignity of work and creating jobs, child poverty, climate change. It’s not diocesan organized but hordes of Catholics living their beliefs to bridge differences and make change. At this time of divisions among us, sometimes government induced, I recommend tapping the web page’s essay on “What is Catholic social teaching.”
A highlight of the trip was the celebration of a childhood friend’s 60th jubilee as a priest. It was in a tiny rural church with a spacious parish hall, tables loaded with the bounty of a down-home potluck. Father Gene, after a California pastoral career, was not allowed to retire but is a circuit rider subbing for priests around the county. Fluent in Spanish, he presides at Masses for the considerable community of Hispanic agricultural workers in the area. None of them were among the haole crowd at the jubilee party. I don’t believe they were invited but then, neither were people from more distant parishes, because of space limitations I was told. Perhaps I’m wallowing in my judgmental perspective of differences.
Us oldtimers, known throughout the family and friends as “the girls,” constantly emphasize one outstanding difference. To tell the truth, it’s no longer cute or funny to proclaim being dinosaurs, ignorant of technology, clinging to the little folding cellphones, unable to master electronics. I’ve never caught anyone at it, but I can just feel eyes rolling whenever we take that line in conversation. The fates aligned to slam me with a punchline to that story: I returned home to find the evil cable company cut off my TV, the ancient wifi modem crashed leaving me without computer use, and my car … oh, enough of that line.
I’ve thought about how my age and path through life have fossilized my thinking. I tried to be a supportive listener but I came away feeling that I failed a young family member who is struggling at the beginning of adulthood, working hard and seeking independence, perhaps a bit clueless about financial security. The last thing she needs is my story about back-in-the-day. People in multi-generational households are now rolling their eyes at my hermit awakening.
A most striking awareness about differences comes to mind every trip because so few in the family believe practicing our Catholic faith is relevant for them. I talk about praying and some of them occasionally read my column, but I mostly wimp out as a missionary to the dropouts.
Differences about faith and hope and beliefs were extremely painful for me this trip. My brother, who is dying of cancer, had the Serenity Prayer in his repertoire for the past three decades as he succeeded in conquering his alcohol addiction. Alcoholics Anonymous became his spiritual and social foundation, and I know one of its precepts is to recognize a “higher power.” He will mark his own jubilee of sorts on his July 20 anniversary of sobriety, alas with no grand celebration likely, certainly not in church.
A substantial tribe of children and grandchildren bring joy and light into his life and pretty much set the boundary of conversation. If I envisioned having a profound and philosophical exchange of views in what were our last conversations on this earth, that must have been the plot of a book I read once.
There’s a thread of evangelical Christianity in the life of his daughter, who has assumed responsibility for his care. That gives me comfort.
Timing and circumstances thwarted another meaningful conversation I anticipated with the family who will direct the celebration of life when the time comes. Gleeful, mischievous, noisy children will drown out a solemn, mournful topic every time. I suppose it’s still something we can talk about long distance. Or was that you, Lord, putting a stopper in my preachy, judgmental mouth and mind?!
Some little time spent in St. Patrick Church in my hometown was an oasis of meditation. I wished my brother could be there so I could point out that stained glass depiction of a boat from which Jesus preached at the shore of Galilee; we always laughed at how the sail made it look like Donald Duck. And then childhood memories brought ghostly characters from the past marching back into the pews, but no one was there to share the memories. Mine bring me comfort and some chuckles but I know that’s not all so true for someone whose path through life was different from mine. You know me, Lord, here I am trying to stage manage again. Smiles and tears.
But then, I decided to get up to a little church lady mischief. I went to the office and put his name on the list for a prayer group, and paid for a Mass intention in his name next St. Patrick’s Day. Too late, can’t change it. I win.
I observe people weekly who corral Father after Mass, clutching his hand to hold him in place while they unload their worries, fears, complaints, judgments. I became one of them, sorry to say. There I was in the midst of happy howdy time at the Kendall, Wisconsin, parish hall, competing with the stream of well wishers to get the ear of good old Father Gene. Lucky for him, I did edit the above saga of how I’ve failed to tell everyone what to do. But no luck editing out the tears.
“When you get home, have a Mass said for your brother,” said he. “Then put it in God’s hands.”
I’m trying. I’ve found the whole Serenity Prayer in a tattered old prayerbook. There’s more to it than the first couple lines that we all know.
“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.
“Living one day at a time, enjoying one moment at a time, accepting hardship as a pathway to peace.
“Taking, as Jesus did, this sinful world as it is, not as I would have it. Trusting that you will make all things right if I surrender to your will, so that I may be reasonably happy in this life, and supremely happy with you forever in the next. Amen.”
