Cup O Joe with Angela O

Saint Angela Merici

2012-01-27T07:39:00.002-05:00

Today, January 27, is a specialday in the Catholic Church calendar, a "feast," that is, a holy dayto commemorate a sacred mystery or event, or, as in today's feast, to celebratethe life of a particular Saint. In our modern culture, we take note of thebirth dates of famous figures. In the Church, the birth date we rememberis the one that launched them from this life to the next. Today marks thedate that Saint Angela Merici followed Jesus into glory. That holds special significancefor me because I look to Saint Angela as my "Patron Saint" . . . and the inspiration for my writing identity. (The picture featured is from the Ursuline Sisters of Mount Saint Joseph, Maple Mount, Kentucky.)

When I made my profession offaith in the Catholic Church, I had the choice of whether to take the name of aSaint. At the urging of some close prayer partners, I prepared for confirmationby exploring the lives of some of the Saints and asking the Lord who, ifanyone, I should select. So prayerfully I pondered this, learned a lot aboutothers who have gone before us with holy lives, and on the eve of myconfirmation I felt a strong sense that the Lord was introducing me to SaintAngela. I liked her from the moment we met. If this lady and I had lived in thesame community, I've no doubt we would have enjoyed many delightfulconversations over a cup o' Joe.

I confess, one of the thingsthat initially drew me to her was her name and her culture. I love the nameAngela, and given my own cultural heritage, I was pleased to connect withanother Italian. I learned that when she was 10, she and her sister wereorphaned and went to live with an uncle. When she was growing up, theunexpected death of her older sister troubled her deeply: She wantedreassurance that her sister was with the Lord. It is said that the Lord gaveher a vision, revealing that her older sister was indeed in heaven with theSaints. And that was another thing that drew me to Angela—the relationship shehad with her sister. Over the years, my sister Jeanette and I have had sort ofa tag-team relationship when it comes to spiritual things, a dynamic that beganwhen I was 10. I could imagine Angela and her sister as another version ofJeanette and me, albeit 500 years earlier.

On the threshold of her adultyears, Angela's uncle died, and she decided to return to her paternal home inDesenzano, Italy. It was there that she felt a burden for the girls and youngwomen in her community, the desire to find a way for them to receive aneducation, particularly in the basics of their Christian faith. So she startedher own school. (Yes, it was at this point when I began to realize, Hereis a soul mate. . . .) Her school enjoyed such great success thatshe was invited to come to nearby Brescia and began another work there amongthe girls and young women. Angela was light years ahead of her time in hervision for educating single women, and that didn't escape the notice of peoplein high places.

In1525 Pope Clement VII heard of Angela’s success as an educator and invited hercome to Rome, to use her skills there to fulfill needs. But it wasn't simplyher abilities that commended Angela to the Holy See. It was dramatic evidenceof her intimate relationship with the Lord.

In 1524, Angela had purposed tomake a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Midway on her journey, while on the islandof Crete, she suddenly became blind. That traumatic experience did not dissuadeher. She continued her journey and visited the Holy Places as planned. A fewweeks later, on her return home, she stopped at the same place where she hadbecome blind. There she prayed before a crucifix . . . and there she regainedher sight.

This sounds like the stuff oflegends, but historical documents testify to the substance of her story.Indeed, the validity of her experiences had traveled before her to the Popehimself. When they finally met, Pope Clement requested that Angela oversee areligious order of sisters who practiced nursing. She said no.

It was at this point when Iknew, I like this woman a lot, not because she refused the Pope'soffer, but because she realized she had to be true to her calling. Her passionwas stirred by seeing the needs of those around her, single women who, in thatday and age, would have been denied an education were it not for Angela'svision and leadership. This was radical thinking in her day. Ilike her style. Angelawent on to establish a formal group of women that would grow and continue afterher lifetime, later known as "Angela's Company of Saint Ursula," orthe "Ursulines," the first group of "women religious" (I know—thatphrase sounds odd) to work outside the cloister. Angela felt it was importantfor young women to connect with the people in their world—they had so much tooffer. The work she founded went on to become the first teaching order ofwomen.

In 1540, at age 70, SaintAngela knew she was about to cross over. Even near death she comforted thewomen in her order, who dreaded losing her: "I shall continue to be morealive than I was in this life, and I shall see you better and shall love morethe good deeds which I shall see you doing continually, and I shall be able tohelp you more." (Catholic Online at www.catholic.org/) [Another reliablesource: Catholic Encyclopedia at www.advent.org/] (You can learn more about Saint Angela and read a collection of her writings at http://www.ursulinesmsj.org/.)

“Therefore, since we aresurrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, led us rid ourselves of everyburden and sin that clings to us and persevere in running the race that liesbefore us, keeping our eyes fixed on Jesus. . . ." (Hebrews12:1,2).

Thanks for letting me introduceyou to one of my close friends.

Runnin’ with a bucket,

“Angela”

Cup O' Joe With Angela O

Every picture tells a story. . . .

The Voice

2012-01-05T11:55:00.002-05:00

“If you enter this writing contest,” she bribed, “you’ll get extra credit.”

We were seniors in high school, caving to the grade-grubbing pressures inflamed by our English lit teacher, Mary Garner, fondly known as “Bloody Mary.”

The contest was sponsored by Guideposts magazine, and it centered on a topic that resonated with me: “The Day My Faith Meant Most to Me.”

In those days, whenever I had to write anything, I found that I couldn’t sit still. I had to go take a walk. Often I would pray, begging for some stroke of inspiration. I figured it wasn’t just a coincidence that our teacher would dangle this type of an assignment under my nose. After all, this wasn’t a parochial school. I had a feeling God was in this.

I was delighted when an idea finally came to me, and I raced home to record my thoughts. There—this should win points with our class. They loved funny stories. But as I finished writing my essay, I felt uneasy. Something wasn’t right. . . . I took another walk. Sigh. . . . The Hound of Heaven was hot on my trail, relentless in his pursuit.

There was another story that came to mind, but it was painfully serious and terribly embarrassing. “All right” I said. “You win. I’ll write that story, too. But I’m not going to read it to the class, okay?”

So the next day, I shared my first story with the class. It was received as I had envisioned. . . . Ah, the wonderful sounds of laughter and applause. Then I mentioned my second story to the teacher. I told her I would submit both stories to Guideposts, but I didn’t wish to read the second one. She took the hint.

Each day as I walked past our school library, the contest poster on the window reminded me of the entry I shared with the class—and the one that was strictly between me and God. The poster featured previous contest winners standing in front of the Capitol. As I stared at the images, I found myself drifting off in reflection, imagining what it would be like if I were one of the winners. . . . Then I noticed that winning contestants would bring a chaperone, and the only stipulation was “must be 21 years or older.”

Wow! I thought. I could bring anyone I want—as long as that person is at least 21. I wondered who I might bring. . . . Then I thought of my sister Jeanette, who was 23. We were not best buddies growing up, but we eventually learned to bridge the gap . . . about the same time she went off to college. I imagined her response if I won the contest and asked her to be my chaperone—she would be shocked. The thought of that made me smile. Then I thought, Wouldn’t that be a great way to say, “I love you”?

Immediately, I heard a voice say, “I’m going to give that to you.”

Now in spite of my vivid imagination, I was not accustomed to hearing voices. This was a startling new experience. Was that voice who I thought itwas?

It was an inner voice, not an audible one, but it was so clear and so distinct that I knew it was not my own. Was this really Someone’s response to my ponderings, evidence of a dialogue?

I was willing to gamble on theside of faith. As an “I believe you” token, I walked into thelibrary and asked if I could have the poster, since the contest deadline hadpassed. It was my way of saying, I believe.

Several months passed, and it was now January 5, 1974. For teenagers, two months is an eternity, and I had entirely forgotten about the essay contest.

I looked forward to sledding at a friend’s house after school, certain that no one knew it was my birthday. Turns out that the sledding party was a ploy, and my friends were pleased that they managed to pull one over on me. But that wasn’t the only surprise in store. . . .

When I left my friends and arrived home, I learned that I had just missed a visitor—from New York. Now my parents didn’t know I had entered an essay contest, and our small town of 6,000 in Washington State wasn’t exactly a magnet for magazine moguls. So when Guideposts Editor Van Varner showed up on our doorstep, he was met with some suspicion. My parents were thinking, Is this guy legitimate? Maybe he’s on the take. . . .

So there I was, on my 18^th birthday, learning that the Guideposts Editor from New York had come to my home. Of course, no one at Guideposts knew it was my birthday. But Someone knew. . . .

Then I remembered the voice, responding to my unspoken gesture of love: “I’m going to give that to you.” Who would have guessed it would be a birthday gift? Nice touch, I thought.

There is something about love(and loving relationships) that triggers the heart of God, something that callsout to him and wins his seal of approval. Intertwined with this dramatic giftfrom God was evidence of another love relationship. How is it that the God ofthe universe should take note of one insignificant person and reveal hispresence?

It took a while for the details to sink in with my parents: I had entered a writing contest and was one of the winners. I knew, of course, that the editor was legit, and I was ecstatic to get the news. But a burning question loomed before me: Which one of my stories had won?

Winners of this contest would receive a scholarship, an all-expense-paid trip to Washington, D.C., and the promise of having that essay published in Guideposts—a magazine that boasted a circulation of more than four million readers.

Give you one guess which story had won. . . . There he was again, the Hound of Heaven, grinning at his handiwork.

Runnin' with a bucket,

Angela

Cup O' Joe With Angela O

Every picture tells a story. . . .

A Divine Appointment

2012-01-01T17:23:00.000-05:00

It was New Year's Eve, seven years ago, and we were sitting at thedinner table. My husband Kevin is a fairly even-keeled, easy going person, notgiven to great highs or deep lows. So it surprised me when he gave voice tosome rather melancholy reflections. "It's kind of sad," he said,"not to have anybody left in your family, especially during theholidays."

I remember the sharp pang I felt as he spoke those words. I havefour older brothers and sisters, and even though they live clear across thecountry, they are there for me. We email, we call, we are there for each otherat a moment's notice. But who did Kevin have? His mom had recently passed away.His brother John had passed away a few years before that. And his sister,Gloria, died when Kevin was only 10 months old. He never knew her. That wasit—there was no one left in his family. . . . Or was there?

My mind raced back to a scene two years earlier. After my mother in-law passedaway, my husband was sorting through some of her old documents. A puzzled lookcame over his face as he picked up his father's military discharge papers.Kevin's dad had served in the Navy during WWII, but the odd thing about thisdocument was the personal status. He was listed as "married" when hewas discharged.

"Look at this," Kevin said. "The Navy made an erroron his discharge papers. I wonder if he even noticed that?"

I’m a journalist. My first thought was, Hmmm. . . . What if . . . ? So gently, I put the question to my husband.

"Kev, I know this sounds crazy, but . . . what if that wasn'ta mistake?"

"I thought about that, too," he said. "I don't evenwant to go there. If my dad had a previous marriage and no one told me, thenI'm not so sure I want to know about it."

Well, I do! I thought. And I did. What if Kevin's dad had been married previously? What if he had other children? What ifKevin had siblings he didn't know about? What if our daughter unknowinglystruck up a relationship with someone who turned out to be . . . her owncousin!

A few days later, I decided I couldn’t resist. I dialed the numberfor vital statistics in the county office where Kevin's dad grew up. But as Iwaited on hold, something held me back. What if this opens up a Pandora's Box? Maybe Kevin is right. Andit isn't exactly a trust builder to do this behind my husband's back. So I gave up the idea . . . but not entirely.

The kicker on my blog is the thread that sews these stories together on Cup O Joe:

When it comes to prayer,

we are likebeggars holding a meager tin cup.

If only I had known you better,

I’d havecome runnin’ with a bucket.

I stumbled over that bucket rather early in life. Clinging to mytin cup, I offered it up believing that I would get something in return. To myastonishment, I was rarely disappointed. So I became bolder in my requests, andit wasn’t long before I connected the dots: If you want to see specific answers to prayer, pray in specificways.

So on this occasion, I traded my investigative project for anintercessory prayer. It went something like this:

“Lord, I have a feeling that those discharge papers were not inerror. Did Kevin's father have a previous marriage? Does Kevin have anysiblings that we don't know about?"

I decided to shoot the whole wad: "Lord, if Kevin does have asibling that he doesn't know about, I pray that you would reveal it to him,that you would make it known."

Two years passed, and I had almost forgotten I even prayed thatprayer. A surge of excitement rose through me as I put the pieces together. Now is the time. Kevin doeswant to know about his background.

Don’t ask me why I did this, because looking back, it seems sooutrageous. I slipped away from the dinner table, raced downstairs to myoffice, and googled “O’Donoghue Clan.” I saw a genealogy forum in the listingand called it up. I wasn't reading for very long, when my eyes landed on amessage that gave me goose bumps.

Someone had posted a request, asking if anyone knew anything about. . . and there I saw the names of Kevin's aunts, uncles and father—all of themlisted in order. It was signed "G Bade," whoever that was. Then Ilooked more closely—the message was two years old. The person who wrote this might not even be using that email anymore. .. . Then again, what were the odds that I should find something like this?

"Kevin!" I yelled.

I was shaking with excitement as I showed him my screen."Look at this! I googled an O'Donoghue genealogy site and found this onthe message board. This message is asking about your aunts and uncles!"

Kevin did not recognize the sender’s name. “G Bade.” Was this aman or a woman? One thing was certain: This person had to be a relative.All six of the siblings in Kevin’s father’s family were listed—in order. Iprinted out the message and handed it to Kevin.

“Here you go. It’s worth a try. I know the message is two yearsold, but maybe the sender still has the same email address.”

I’ll never forget that night and what happened next. . . .

Kevin sent an email to "G Bade," wondering who thisperson could possibly be. Late that night we got a piece of the puzzle.

G Bade sent Kevin a reply. It began with her sharing some picturesvia e-mail. My even-keeled husband was visibly excited: "Look at this! Iremember this spot. One of my earliest memories is playing in that backyard."

Our lives were forever changed by that email. It turns out thatGerry's grandma and Kevin's father were siblings.

We came to find out that a first cousin, whom we assumed had diedtragically, was very much alive and well—and the uncle of Gerry Bade. He wouldbe the oldest person in Kevin's generation. If any cousin would know aboutKevin's father, surely it would be him. . . .

Using his gifts of tact and diplomacy, Kevin asked as gently as hecould what Gerry knew about Kevin's dad. He felt safe enough to ask the bigone: "Was my dad married when he lived in Galena?"

We later learned that this question tipped off a Red Alert. Gerryconsulted her Uncle Jeff, Kevin's long-lost and oldest cousin. Jeff's wife,Nadine, immediately knew where this was going and cautioned, "MayDay." Her warnings to her niece were couched in wisdom. And since Jeffdidn't get into e-mailing, Nadine accepted the delicate task of acting as hismouthpiece, Aaron speaking for Moses—the one who just might lead us to thePromised Land.

After welcoming us to the family, Nadine rounded out the picturefor us regarding their personal lives, sharing details that provided info anddeveloped trust. I didn’t realize it then, but she was also creating a cushionfor a safe landing.

Kevin found it easy to connect with Nadine. So did I. He put thequestion directly to her. “About my dad . . . I have a document that says hewas married when he was dismissed from the Navy at the end of WWII. But myparents didn’t get married until 1949. Was that document in error, or did mydad have a previous marriage?”

We learned that, yes, Kevin’s dad had been married before. Nadinerelayed the info Jeff had given her: When they were married, where they lived.. . . They divorced shortly after he returned from the war.

Of course, that led to the next question: “Did they have anychildren?”

Nadine was a godsend. Knowing that this was coming, she had leanedhard on Jeff. “This is important to these kids. You know what they’re going toask me. What can you remember? Think!”

Nadine relayed his response: “Jeff says that he can remember alittle girl. Her nickname was Tiny. . . .”

I can’t begin to tell you the emotions I felt, so imagine how thisimpacted Kevin. How do you handle news like that?

We had far more questions than answers. And the few answers we didhave were so vague that if this wasn’t deadly serious, it would have beenlaughable. Jeff didn’t know where she lived now, nor was he sure how old shewas. They lost touch early in childhood, and he had to dig deep into his memoryjust to recall her nickname.

What about Tiny’s mom? No one knew where she lived either. But wedid learn her name—June Smith. Do you know how many billions of Smiths are inthe data banks?

Fortunately for us, Nadine was an expert at genealogy, and all ofher skills and expertise were at our disposal. Over the next days and weeks, itbecame a family project between us and our newfound family members. We haddaily reply-to-all emails. We were bonded by a quest—find Kevin’s sister. Iremember at one point saying to Kevin, “You know what? This whole venture cameout of a deep desire to give you an extended family. I hope we find yoursister. But even if we don’t, we have already been given a treasure trove—lookhow much these guys care. If this isn’t family, what is?”

Yes, we had indeed been given a treasure. But Pandora’s Box hadbeen opened. . . .

After weeks of combing through online records and sharing leads, Kevin and Iand our newly found cousins had drawn closer in our bond but not closer to ourgoal—the quest of finding Kevin’s sister. All we knew was that her nickname wasTiny. We didn’t even know her real name. For that matter, we didn’t even knowif she was still alive.

By February we decided it was time for a new tact. We would make atrip to Galena, Illinois, where Kevin’s father grew up. This called for softdiplomacy. Presidents’ Day weekend was coming up, and we would travel there onpretext of a ski trip. One of Kevin’s cousins still lived in the area. We wouldcheck records on our own but also spend time with Cousin Mary and broach thesubject to her.

It had been 20 years since we last saw Mary and there was a lot ofcatching up to do. I found myself feeling anxious, waiting for Kevin to cutthrough Mary’s old photos, their family memories, the latest on who was doingwhat. Finally, a segue: “Say, Mary, I was going through some of my mom’sthings, and I found my dad’s discharge papers from the Navy. It said that hewas married. Was that an error, or did my dad have a previous marriage?”

Mary paused with a look of surprise. “Oh, I thought you knew. . .. Your dad was married here in Galena. They divorced sometime after he returnedfrom the Navy.”

“Did they have any kids?”

Mary paused again, realizing we really were clueless. Then shebegan to tell us about Sylvia. . . .

Sylvia was the same age as Mary—20 years older than Kevin. Marycould remember playing with Sylvia when they were young, but they lost touchwhen they were growing up.

Mary’s recollections seemed like a bump in the road, and all toosoon she was back to sharing other memories that had nothing to do with Sylvia.Kevin was so patient, just listening to Mary take the conversation in adifferent course. Finally, when I could stand it no longer, I said, “Mary, haveyou ever tried to make contact with Sylvia?”

“Well, no. I just figured she wasn’t interested in keeping intouch with the family.”

“But does she realize she had some siblings? Do you think maybeshe might want to know that she has a brother?”

Mary cocked her head and a puzzled expression came over her. Itappeared she had never considered that. For the first time I saw a glimmer ofhope. Perhaps now Mary was starting to get it—this was a big deal to us to findKevin’s sister, and maybe, just maybe, Sylvia might want to find him, too.

We spent most of our weekend playing detective—going through localchurch records, government documents, newspaper archives, even high schoolyearbooks. The thrill of the chase was exciting, and we did uncover a lot offamily info, including some golden nuggets. I paged through a paperboundcentennial booklet that had been created by the local Catholic parish. There Istumbled onto a picture of some children, boys wearing knickers, and theadorable one on the end particularly caught my eye. The caption underneathread, “John Donohue.” That was Kevin’s father, at age eight. Until then, we hadnever seen any pictures of his dad as a child.

Our time in Galena would end with a Sunday dinner at Mary’s house.It was fun seeing Mary’s kids and grandkids and getting reacquainted. I washoping we could probe further about Sylvia, but it just didn’t seem appropriatein the context of this family gathering.

As we walked outside toward our car, Mary came up beside us with asmall piece of paper in her hand. “I have something for you.”

The “what if . . .” pleas on Friday night had apparently struck achord. Over the weekend, Mary had managed to contact Sylvia’s aunt. Togetherthey had decided that Kevin should contact his sister. Through Mary, the auntgave Kevin the information he needed. Sylvia was living in Eureka, Nevada. Eureka—how appropriate is that?

I drove us home, the whole trip from Galena, and while I drove,Kevin sat with his laptop open, writing the most difficult letter of his life.He labored over that letter for an entire week, writing and re-writing what wason his heart. I was dying to know what he said but didn’t ask to see it. OnSaturday my wish was fulfilled.

“Here, read this and tell me what you think.”

Not knowing how much Sylvia knew, or whether she would even wantto hear from him, Kevin painstakingly introduced himself and his siblings. Hisself-deprecating humor made me cry. “My brother John was a genius. . . . I’mtold Gloria was a ham. . . . And me, I could never spell, so I became anelectrical engineer.”

Kevin’s carefully crafted letter led up to the sense of loss hefelt in not knowing her for all these years. He promised he would not botherher if she did not care to make contact. Then he left it in her court, shadesof “Tie a Yellow Ribbon.”

The letter was mailed Saturday night. On Monday, while we sat atthe dinner table, the phone rang. “I’ll get it,” Kevin said, as he sprang fromhis chair. “Oh, Sylvia, hi. . . .” Then, after a few minutes, I heard him roarwith laughter and say, “Yeah, well, rumors of my death have been greatlyexaggerated.”

About an hour later, Kevin hung up the phone, returned to thetable, and, trying to mask his smile, said very nonchalantly, “That was mysister.”

Was it a good connection? It was a gift from God—for both of them.Sylvia's mother had later re-married but there were no children from thatmarriage. So Kevin was Sylvia’s only living sibling, and she his. In fact,Kevin learned that Sylvia had tried to contact him about 15 years earlier. Butshe gave up when a relative told her that “Kevin was dead.”

The two of them calledeach other frequently, about every other week that first year. The first summerfollowing our initial contact (seven years ago), we went to Nevada for a familyreunion to meet Sylvia and her family. The picture above featuresKevin with a king-sized grin, looking like he won the lottery, his arm around aprize beyond measure.

And to think, it all began with a prayer. . . .

Runnin’ with a bucket,

Angela

Cup O' Joe with Angela O
Every picture tells a story . . .