Prodigal Catholic Writer

The Scapegoating of Catholic Priests in Prison

2011-11-26T20:04:00.021-05:00

by Charlene C. Duline

Through my ministry to Catholic priests in prison, I have learned the meaning of sadness, and the reality of what it's like to be abandoned by an institution these priests once served.

No, I haven’t written in awhile. I’ve been upset and torn by the vilification of Father John Corapi, Father Frank Pavone, Father David Deibel, Father Gordon MacRae, and of course, my priests in prison for whom my heart bleeds daily. Every morning during my meditation, each one is named in prayer.

I find it exceedingly difficult to pray for their bishops – our bishops – our shepherds who would lead us out of the forest into the jungle. I guess I will finally have to admit that the U.S. Conference of Bishops (USCBB) is an old boys group who are thumbing their noses at American Catholics as they continue to crucify any priest accused. Can’t they see beyond their noses that people are popping up like jumping jacks to say, “Father so-and-so touched me in 1945”? Or, “I just remembered that in 1960, a priest raped me”? As a victim of rape at the age of eleven, with a gun held to my head, I assure you it is impossible to forget being raped. I wish I could forget it. That rape affected the rest of my life. Money would not have helped me.

Yet the SNAP lawyers would have us believe that millions of dollars for every “accuser” is the cure for “touching” and for “rape.” Somehow they seem to have convinced many Americans that money, and only money, will soothe the ravaged souls of the “accusers.” The bottom line is money. We have been taught that money is the root of all evil. We know that to be true. Our bishops have not yet learned that.

The bishops in their wisdom hoped that by accepting an accuser’s word about being abused by a priest, they would give them the amount of money they wanted and that would make accusers go away. Instead, the prospect of obtaining money without showing any proof, has become the trademark of these miserable lawyers who are now millionaires. Unscrupulous lawyers advertise for people to come forth and make accusations. The vindictive members of SNAP seize every opportunity to shame the Catholic Church. And they call themselves “Catholic”? They hate the Church and are in cahoots with their hateful millionaire lawyers to bankrupt the Catholic Church. Have you noticed that people are not coming out of the woodwork to sue the public schools, or other religions? And why is that? It is because any person with an ounce of intelligence knows that it is only the Catholic Church that doles out money without asking any questions! How unfair to the accused priests and to parishioners. After all, it's our money!

A recent meeting of the USCCB would have been the perfect time to rethink the Dallas Charter. Unless and until that Charter is rescinded, no Catholic priest or parish can relax. I know there are some bishops who abhor the Dallas Charter, and some quietly work to serve priests in prison. There is little they can do except write to the men, and visit them in prison – as our Lord exhorted us to do. The horror is that no accused priest has access to a canon lawyer. According to Canon Law, an accused priest is to be given funds for a canon lawyer by his bishop. Most priests cannot afford a civil attorney and a canon law specialist at the same time. The bishops will not make a canon lawyer available to help an accused priest, and they rush about getting their own lawyers funded by their parishioners’ donations. What a mockery of parishioners and the Church.

Our bishops simply want to rid themselves of any priest who is accused. This is so unfair to men who have devoted their lives to the Church and its people. Among these are some priests who have died, who now have their memories tarnished and their names removed from schools, churches, and other places of honor. I’m told one bishop even had a priest’s body disinterred from holy ground. Can you feel the horror, the unfairness of it all? I can, maybe because I am in touch with many of our priests in prison. I received a letter from one such priest yesterday. I cried as I read the ending:

“Charlene, I enjoyed so much hearing from you and feeling your acceptance of who I am despite what I have done in the past – and it is past. My suffering is small compensation and penance. I know God is loving and forgiving and it is heartening to know that there are people like yourself who are as well. My prayers are daily offered with a remembrance of you and your good works. I beg a remembrance in your prayers. “

These priests have been so vilified that even when one died in prison a few years ago, his family wanted his death kept quiet for fear of the media and SNAP. Father died in a Western state and seven of us journeyed to his funeral concelebrated by four priests in a funeral home. We had been advised not to seek a Catholic Church because the bishop would not permit Father to have a Catholic funeral. Father had been buried, and after the Mass the seven of us went out to the cemetery to place flowers on his grave. We also knelt and sang at his final resting place. He will never be forgotten.

These days I intervene when an incarcerated priest is sick and cannot get medical attention. I rattle the cage of his bishop and parish to intercede, but whether they do or not, I demand medical care, and we usually get action. A committed soul who helps me is Dolores N. Crowley. She writes and cares for six inmates. I try to keep in touch with about 30. We send spiritual books to priests in prison, money for telephone calls, and a little money for commissary items to supplement their extremely poor prison diets. I always thought inmates had to be served balanced meals with meat, veggies and a starch. Not so! They serve them any food items that are recalled and deemed unfit for human consumption. Prisons grab such foods because they are cheap, and that is the bottom line. Many Departments of Corrections are turning over their prisons to private contractors and getting rid of state employees. Inmates say their meals will become worse because private prisons are in the business to show DOCs that they can save them money – even at the expense of the inmates’ health. The inmates are forced to buy additional food items from the commissary in order not to starve. The inmates who have no income or help from family and friends are forced to eat the muck that is served in the prison.

If my parish priest were sentenced to prison for sexual abuse, I would look beyond that, and write to him. I would send him cards on holidays, especially on his birthday. I would send articles from magazines and newspapers that I thought would interest him. I would encourage him to become involved in ministry in his prison. He is still a priest, even if he has been laicized. I am told that very few parishioners contact their priests in prison. I beg you to please contact your priest if he is incarcerated. Do not judge these men. Yes, some are sick men. Some are innocent. They are all human, and humans do make mistakes.

Last Sunday I smiled as the homilist spoke about Jesus’ admonition to visit the sick and the imprisoned – “As you did it to one of the least of my brethren, you did it to me.” (Matt. 25:31-46)

I will remember that…always.

God's Gonna Trouble the Waters....

2011-09-10T23:14:00.005-04:00

It was a few minutes before 9:00 a.m. and I turned over in bed, reached for the TV remote and turned on the “Today” show with Matt Lauer and Katie Curic so that I could get the local news and weather before getting up for the day. I needed to know how to dress before taking my doggie, Ebony, out for her walk. The screen showed a tall building and smoke pouring out. Matt and Katie were talking, but I didn’t hear what they were saying. My eyes were riveted on that building. I knew people were inside that building. And while I was still wrapping my mind around that, another plane came into view and slammed into a second building. Matt and Katie gasped as did most people watching this scene. By now we knew it was no accident; this was deliberate. We saw people running down the street covered in black soot; we could see people in windows screaming for help – help that was on its way, help that itself would be snuffed out.

We saw our heroic men and women fire fighters and police and emergency ambulance personnel run into the building falling down around them. We were told that people were jumping from the buildings rather than be burned alive. What courage it must have taken to take the hands of another human, trust your soul to God, and jump knowing that there was no force on earth that could save you. What would I have done? I have often asked myself this question. Once I realized that there was no way out other than windows and the choice was to be burned alive or to jump. Either way I would know that I was going to die. I don’t know which choice I would have taken.

My sister-friend, Bernie, was coming over that day. I called her and for awhile we watched TV together. I finally got out of bed to take Ebony out, and we had a quick walk. I had to get back to hear the stories, to see the survivors, to hear the tales of those whose loved ones called to say goodbye before death reached them. Bernie came over and the rest of the day we sat before the TV screen and talked about who could be responsible for this disaster. We learned that President Bush was at a school across the country and someone had whispered the news to him. He was very cool. He continued with the business there, but left as soon as possible. He wanted to go back to Washington but the Secret Service overruled him and hustled him to a bunker. After a few hours he knew he needed to be at the helm in Washington, D.C. and he demanded to go there. I must admit that I felt a bit odd knowing that the leader of our country was hunkered down in a bunker somewhere and the rest of us were hung out to dry. I didn’t like it a bit!

And then the word drifted out of people realizing that they were going to die who called home and said goodbye to a spouse, a friend, or other loved one. Some left farewell messages on answering machines. One woman, the wife of a top U.S. official, called him and told him her plane had been hijacked, and he managed to tell her what he knew at that point. She knew she would die shortly. He must have felt totally helpless and he was. And then there was the plane that passengers brought down in Pennsylvania, not where the terrorists wanted it to be brought down. One hero on that plane called his mother and told her they had been hijacked. She told him of the other planes. By then the passengers had surmised what was going to happen and had decided to take matters into their own hands. One man called a telephone center, spoke to a supervisor, asked questions about what was happening, and left a farewell message for his wife, and then said to his fellow passengers, “Let’s roll.” That was code for: Let’s take down the terrorists before they can do more damage to our country and its people. What brave men and women they must have been. I would like to think that I would have been in the vanguard with those ready to bring down the terrorists.

I have always rushed forward rather than wait for danger to reach me. It is scarier to me to sit and wait when something bad is about to happen, than it is to go to meet the danger. I remember an evening in Tanzania I had dinner at the home of friends. The husband left to take the visitors back to their hotel. His wife knew that she should have locked the door immediately behind him, but she was sprawled on the sofa and I was going to stay until her husband returned. A few minutes later we heard the front door open, close, and then we heard footsteps coming toward the room we were in. We looked at each other with wide, scared eyes. I then leaped up from my chair and ran to the door. I had to know who was coming in. I could not sit in that chair, scared to death, and wait for whatever was coming toward us. I remember Vivian kept saying, “How could you run to the doorway to see who was coming in?” I had to. I could no more sit there and wait for danger, than I would walk on the moon. So, once the decision had been made to take down the terrorists with a slim chance of any of us surviving, I think I would have been one of the first to say, “OK, give me some kind of weapon and I’ll take on one of them (a terrorist).” Foolish? Maybe. But once I realized that we were going to die no matter what, the response is simple: take them down with you. If I am going to die, so are they, and preferably at my hand.

There was United Airlines Flight 93 where the passengers quickly found out what was in store for them, and met the challenge head on. God bless them! What brave folks were on that plane. They knew they were going to die anyway, but decided to try to save a lot of other lives by forcing the hand of the terrorists and prevented the loss of even more lives. A chill runs through me when I think of those on the plane – some dead and some injured. Yet, the few able bodied ones left were ready to die to save the lives of a lot of others. “We who are about to die…will not go gladly …” Some left telephoned messages for their loved ones. One man spent some time talking to a telephone company official and to this stranger he entrusted a precious message to his wife. He also asked her to pray with him. What a sad, sad day it was for all of America.

That day changed more than the United States. Recently I was in Italy, and I was shocked to see that everyone had to go through a metal detector at The Vatican. Even The Vatican! The lines were long, but we went in with a licensed tour guide at The Vatican, so we did not have to endure the long lines. But I was dismayed that evil might also touch The Vatican. I suppose every country has had to tighten its security in the wake of 9/11.

The stories of people on the four planes are heart-breaking. Some were subbing for colleagues; some changed their flights at the last moment; some expected to return home within a few days. No one except the terrorists knew that day would be their last day on Earth. It is so difficult to forgive evil men who killed so many people in the name of their religion. They killed Americans along with many other nationalities, including, I’m sure, some who shared their same religion. It was a bloody day in our history and in our country.

Ten years ago evil came to America big-time. I still find it incredible that those targeting us are so eager to die because of their insane hatred of the U.S. They are unaccustomed to the freedoms we have, and yet they want nothing more than to come to the U.S. to enjoy those freedoms. They are welcomed here because Americans are incredibly welcoming and generous to foreigners. For this, they hate us. How sad.

I can only pray that I can forgive them. It will take a lot of prayer, but that is what is needed. How does one forgive those who kill and maim and try to destroy the things we hold holy – life itself? We all ask the Lord why. There is no answer for now. By and by, hopefully, we will understand. God will come again, in His own time and when he does . . . God’s gonna trouble the waters.

ITALY (cont.)

2011-07-24T17:49:00.012-04:00

Up at 7:00 am to head for Foggia. We took a “high speed train” that left Rome at 10:50 a.m. It cruised along at about 40 mph. Three hours later we arrived at Foggia where we took a bus to San Giovanni Rotondo – the home of St. Padre Pio as he is fondly called. In Foggia we met a nun from the Philippines who needed help with her luggage, and in getting on and off the bus. We were happy to assist her…. Although at that point, I could have used some help myself.

When we arrived at our destination, Dee telephoned the nun she had talked to when she reserved a room at the convent. There was no answer. A shopkeeper said they must be at siesta. Siesta indeed! Dee wanted to take a taxi to the convent. No taxis. The shopkeeper said they were on siesta also. But not to despair. He saw a friend of his and got him to drive us to the convent. We got there and rang and rang and rang. Nobody came to the door. I continued ringing while Dee called on the phone. No answer.

Then a car stopped and a woman got out and came to see if she could help us. In the car with her was the nun we had met when we transferred from the train to the bus. We explained our situation, and she called the hotel that had been recommended to us, and learned that they had a room for us. Only when the hotel is full do the nuns open the convent. Suddenly we saw a nun in full habit hustling down the hilly street toward us. Then we saw a second nun trotting as fast as she could behind the first nun. The streets were narrow and steep. The nuns explained that there had been a cancellation and they had a room for us at the hotel. Hallelujah!! The nuns insisted on hiking back up the hill while we were more than happy to get in the car with our angel lady.

At the hotel we registered, tossed our bags into the room, and headed for St. Pio’s tomb. By now it was around 2 pm and few tourists were around. In the huge, new church there was no tomb. We walked around and around, up and down, and finally we were in the presence of St. Pio. His tomb is located in a very modern, stylistic chapel nestled behind the main Church. His body is no longer on display, but one can view and touch the cloth covering his casket.

Before leaving the holy place, I arranged for a Mass to be celebrated for Fr. Gordon J. MacRae (www.TheseStoneWalls.com). I also wrote a letter to St. Pio asking his help to free Fr. Gordon. The monks there will keep him in their prayers. On both sides of the hallway leading away from St. Pio’s chapel are scenes of St. Pio’s life on one side and St. Francis’ life on the other side: both monks, both Franciscans, both stigmatists. We marveled at the vivid scenes, took photos and finally left to attend the 4:30 Mass in the big Church.

As we walked toward the Church for Mass, suddenly we noticed an old friar walking in front of us. He was slightly bent over and his grey hair and grey beard were reminiscent of St. Pio. I commented that maybe it was St. Pio. Nothing would have surprised me. One felt in the presence of great spirituality. A holy man had walked these hills day after day. His spirit is here. We walked faster. I had to see his face. I was almost convinced that it was indeed St. Pio. Alas, it was not, but for a fleeting moment, there was hope.

There is a huge hospital located at the highest point in the city, called Home for the Relief of Suffering. This hospital, founded by Padre Pio in 1940 and completed in 1956, is known for its technology and is considered one of the best in Europe. The hospital dominates San Giovanni Rotondo.

Early the next morning we began the trip back to Rome. I thought when I left Peru I would never again be in a bus or car riding white-knuckled around mountains with steep, steep drop-offs. Yet, here I was hanging onto the seat in front of me as our huge bus took the sharp curves. There was very little traffic. In fact, the bus ride was considerably faster than the “high speed trains.” With my penchant for worrying, I hoped the brakes were in good working order.

ASSISI
And then there was Assisi. Ah, what a place. We took a train from Rome to Perugia, and another train from Perugia to Foligno, and finally another bus to Assisi. Ah, the beautiful Assisi where one immediately feels the spirituality and St. Francis’ presence is everywhere. I felt at home here. Our hostess had arranged for a seasoned tour guide who lives in Assisi to show us as much as possible in 24 hours. He met us at the station, and we began our tour in the valley.

The Basilica of Santa Maria degli Angeli is the first structure we saw. This gorgeous basilica was built to protect the Portiuncola Chapel, the tiny chapel St. Francis fled to when he left his family. He restored the chapel and founded the Franciscan Order. Because so many pilgrims visited this hallowed chapel, the basilica was built to accommodate them. The Portiuncola is a jewel in the basilica. We walked inside and saw where St. Francis lived and preached; we offered prayers; admired the art work, the frescoes, and were overwhelmed by the sanctity of this exquisite chapel. No photos are allowed in the basilica, so we walked through very slowly trying to take in all the history that surrounded us. We descended to the lower Church to visit St. Francis’ tomb.

As we stepped outside the Basilica, we saw a life-size statue of St. Francis. His hands are out-stretched and they hold a large basket. To our amazement there were white doves in the basket. Our guide said, “Yes, they are real.” Since the days of St. Francis, white doves have been coming here. Remember that St. Francis talked to birds and other animals about God. He saved white doves from being sold and probably killed. This is their haven. The doves were gorgeous. They were eating, and occasionally they looked at us and then continued with the business of eating. They were totally unafraid of people. They knew they were safe there. It was an extraordinary sight.

As we entered the rose garden via the sacristy, we saw the beautiful roses that do not have thorns. It seems that St. Francis rolled naked in the bramble thorns one night because he felt tempted to abandon his holy life. He wanted to overcome the temptation. As soon as his body came into contact with the thorns, the thorns disappeared and to this day, those roses are completely without thorns. Our guide said people have tried to plant those roses elsewhere, but they will only bloom in that particular rose garden. Wow, our St. Francis was amazing, n’est-ce-pas?

Later we visited St. Francis’ cell and walked up and down stairs, and ducked our heads beneath low thresholds. We walked in the garden with its one-mile length for exercise for the friars, and we stood at the site where the monks celebrate Christmas Eve Mass as St. Francis celebrated it. St. Francis was the originator of the Creche and popular devotion to the Holy Family scene that we've come to associate with a Catholic celebration of Christmas. He used live animals and people for his manger scene. How I would love to have witnessed that!

AN AUDIENCE AT THE VATICAN AND MORE, by Charlene C. Duline

2011-06-16T14:16:00.021-04:00

I have been blessed to see two of our Popes in person; one I saw two times. Now, in Rome again, I was going to see Pope Benedict XVI. Dee’s archbishop in Anchorage wrote for tickets for us, and when we picked up our tickets we were told that we must be special because our tickets were for the area on the same level as the Pope. The audience was to begin at 10:30 a.m. I was excited and wide awake and ready to get up at 6 a.m., but remained quiet until shortly before 7 a.m. We arrived at St. Peter’s around 8:30 a.m., thanks to a taxi driver who was good, but kept me gasping with his near hits. No, those were not near misses, they were definitely near hits!

At St. Peter’s we went through security and passed thousands of people already there. Our seats were up on a dais close to the Pope. I put on my huge straw hat and sunscreen as the sun bore down. Some people had umbrellas up shielding them from the sun. We knew they knew they were going to have to lower those umbrellas when the Pope arrived. It got hotter and hotter. Several bishops came in along with their friends.

We saw a young priest enter with an older priest. The senior man went to the area closest to the Pope. The junior man came to our row looking for a seat. Apparently he was told the seats were all taken. He turned away dejected and went to the other side to sit where he could only see the back of the Pope’s head. There was an empty seat next to me, and Dee went over and brought him back. He was a young Cistercian who was the private secretary to the Abbott of the order who now sat near the Pope’s chair. I was delighted that he joined us because it gave Dee somebody else to talk to since she had exhausted the family from Texas on the other side of us. Just kidding...sorta!

And suddenly people at the front began standing, and like a wave, people in row after row stood and there in his Pope mobile was the Vicar of Christ himself. Pope Benedict XVI stood waving and smiling, and the applause broke out and didn’t stop. He went up and down row after row, and smiled as if he was as thrilled as we were. Maybe he was. Finally the car drove right up to the dais and the Pope walked to his chair. The readings began. They were about Sodom and Gomorrah. And then the Pope spoke about our society, and in so many words, apologized again for the abuse by some priests. Methinks he has apologized enough because every time he does several hundred false claimants reach for the phone to call Jeffrey Anderson or some other lowlife attorney for some spending money to the detriment of some innocent priests!

Greetings began in various languages. The Pope always added his own special message when the presenter finished speaking. There was one language that we could not identify. Dee said she knew the Pope was not going to speak in that language. Wrong! Ah, what a Pope we have!

I took a number of items to be blessed by the Pope and I was holding them in both hands. I was barely able to make the Sign of the Cross. But I was blessed along with my “family” which includes my family of broken priests, my “other parents” – Mama Gladys and Daddy Dougie, my sisters, and if Ebony had been here, she too would have gotten a blessing. Those items are very, very special and most will be given to my “family” members. Unfortunately I can only share prayer cards with my priests in prison.

It was a magical day even though there were thousands of pilgrims seated in St. Peter’s Square, and hundreds more standing around. Pope Benedict always has a serene expression on his face and when he smiles, his face seems to light up. An aura of holiness surrounds him. He appears to be a man of peace, and a man at peace. What a burden he carries. There is a room in the Vatican called the “Crying Room.” It is the room into which the Pope-designate goes to ponder the burden the cardinals have asked him to undertake – to guide the Roman Catholics of the world. He meditates and prays in this room. Then he dresses in his papal garb, and comes out to lead the Church. It is said that every man has come out of that room in tears. I can understand why.

The first pope I saw was Pope Paul VI who visited the United Nations in 1965. He requested a special audience with the common folk, i.e., clerical staff and others who were not members of a diplomatic delegation to the UN. I was thrilled until I learned that each office would have a certain number of tickets allotted, and we would have to draw for a ticket. My boss was the head of two departments: Archives and Records Retirement. I was the only Catholic in my office, and I desperately wanted to win a ticket. Shortly after the drawing, my boss’ secretary from Archives called me. Frieda was Jewish. She said, “Charlene, I just drew a ticket to see the Pope. I want to see him, but I know it would mean so much to you to hear him, so I want to give you my ticket.” What an offer! I was overwhelmed, but I was able to tell Frieda that I too had drawn a ticket. She rejoiced with me, and together, the two of us, a Catholic and a Jew, attended the special meeting sought by Pope Paul VI. She was as excited as I was to see and hear the Pope. During his talk he told us that he brought each of us a present. I could hardly wait to receive my present.

After two weeks and no present, I called the office of the Secretary-General to ask about it. I was told that the presents would be given out shortly. I waited another two weeks and I called again. This time I said I was going to contact the Pope and tell him the UN was not giving us our presents. And this time I was told the truth: the Pope had not brought enough medals for the staff, and they had to figure out a diplomat way to tell him, and then he had to have additional medals made. So they held onto the medals the Pope had brought with him, and waited for him to send the rest of them. I waited not exactly patiently, but I waited. And then came the day we received our presents!

Each bronze medal was nestled in a small, suede-like bag. It is about two inches in diameter. On one side of the medal is the Pope’s coat of arms and the words Paulus .VI. Pont. VI. UN.4.Oct.1965 [Paul VI Supreme Pontiff, United Nations, 4 October, 1965]. On the other side is a burning bush and the words “Amoris Alumna Pax,” student of love and peace. What a thrill it was for all of us at the UN to receive a bronze medal, a blessed gift from the Pope himself. I had my medal encased, and I now wear it around my neck on special occasions. It is one of my most precious possessions… a gift from a Pope, the Vicar of Christ.
Two years later I visited Rome for the first time enroute to East Pakistan for a two year UN assignment. I managed to get a ticket for an audience with Paul VI, and imagine my surprise to find myself in an audience of several thousands. It was still a treat to see the pontiff.

I have been blessed three times to see two different Popes. The one I yearned to see was Blessed Pope John Paul II. He was my favorite because he made everyone feel special, went everywhere, met all kinds of people, forgave his would-be killer, kissed the ground when he arrived in a country (how often I have wanted to do that in sheer relief at landing safely!), and everybody loved him, even people who were not Catholic. He suffered much before he died. He showed us how to die although few of us, if any, will die with thousands of people beneath our window praying for us, wanting us to remain with them, but knowing that God waited for him on the other side. Blessed John Paul almost gave his life for us. It was our Blessed Mother who took him in her arms that day and saved him. No, selfishly I didn’t want him to leave us, but he deserved to rest in peace with our Lord. I doubt that there will ever be another Pope with such a scintillating personality, deep spirituality, obvious joie de vivre, and who will be so loved, especially by the youth. In their words, “The Pope rocks!” High acclaim indeed.

PILGRIMAGE TO ROME AND STOPS ALONG THE WAY

2011-06-06T21:38:00.002-04:00

When I told people that I was taking a cruise to Italy they immediately asked what cruise ship left from Indy. They doubted that my carrier of choice, Royal Caribbean, would cruise up or down our White River, the only body of water anywhere near us. They were right. We were going to arrive at our carrier in Ft. Lauderdale via the old Greyhound bus. My penchant for traveling by any mode except planes has just about done me in. My traveling companion, Dee, and I took a 22 plus hour bus trip to Ft. Lauderdale. The driving was fine, but getting off and on the bus got tiresome fast! It was get off for them to clean the bus, or get off because it’s a rest stop (then let me rest!), or get off to change buses (once in Atlanta).

We arrived safely in Florida. During check in at the hotel, Dee started talking to folks – as she is wont to do! - who were also going to Europe, on another ship. In our room Dee announced that the couple wanted us to go out to dinner with them. I grimaced, and said I was going to get a shower and climb into bed to rest. I felt that my clothes should be peeled off me, and I didn’t know if I should brush or shave my teeth. They felt fuzzy. I wanted no contact with anybody until I had a shower, bed, and some rest in order to regain my good humor which had been absent since I left home.

When Dee returned from dinner hours later, I was resting in bed and watching the news about the killing of Osama bin Laden. My last thought before I slept was: the bastard’s death raises the price on every American’s head. Next morning I was rested, but my mood had not improved. As we approached the pier we saw our ship - it dwarfed all the other ships. It was the Royal Caribbean’s Navigator of the Seas – a H U G E ship/city. This is a ship with cafes and shops along the Royal Promenade, a five-story theatre, an ice-skating rink, three-story dining room, a basketball court, etc.

NAVIGATOR OF THE SEAS
The boarding went smoothly. I was recovering from a cold and checked the “yes” box on the ship’s form asking if one had a cold. A nurse was dispatched to take my temperature, check ears and nose, to be sure that I was not going to contaminate other passengers. On previous cruises I noticed that crew members were stationed at the doorway of all restaurants, to be sure that passengers entering would use the hand sanitizer. There were no crew members keeping watch this time, and most passengers used the sanitizers, but some simply walked by it.

Our stateroom was ready and I was ready for it. Still exhausted from the bus trip, I wanted to sleep for a week, but adventure awaited! There was no life jacket drill for which I was grateful. I usually just put the life jacket around my neck and wait for an attendant to get it hooked correctly. If I ever have to use one, methinks I’ll just go down with the ship. We met our cabin attendant, a delightful young man from Jamaica, and we began exploring our home city for the next 13 nights.

At dinner we met our tablemates, a delightful elderly couple from Finland who now live in Florida. They were going home for the summer. We had wonderful waiters as I’ve always experienced on Royal Caribbean. After dinner Dee and I hit the casino and the slot machines. We didn’t do too badly.

Up fairly early the next day, well, earlier than I’m accustomed to. Dee was ready to continue exploring. I quickly discovered that whenever we left our stateroom, we had to walk about a mile to get anywhere! Dee was positively giddy because of this unexpected – not to mention unwanted – opportunity for me to exercise. It seemed that everything was at the end of the ship where we were not, and we were in what they called the “middle.” There were a lot of activities and things to do, but they were all early in the morning. That eliminated them for me. On our third night there was a Welcome Reception, a photo op with the Captain of the ship, and champagne.

We met people – how could we not when Dee is determined to meet any and everybody in the vicinity, who pass by, stand in a line, or are on the elevator. In view of the bin Laden killing, I asked her to stop telling people that I am a retired U.S. diplomat. I pointed out that U.S. diplomats would be first on the hit list of bin Laden’s foot soldiers. As we sat sipping our champagne and chatting with a Canadian guy, she went into her usual monologue about my background. Her voice carries and she cannot speak softly. I noticed we had gotten the attention of a group at a nearby table. When we stood to leave one of the women called me over to ask if I really was a retired diplomat and where I had served. Sigh…

I dreaded going anywhere because I knew we would always encounter people, and Dee would start raving about my book and my background. I joke that she’s the best agent I never had. I do appreciate her help, but I had asked her before the trip to allow me to travel in peace. I don’t like being on display ALL the time – and it is ALL the time when I’m with her.

Via our ship’s newspaper, “The Compass,” we learned there was a Catholic priest onboard. We planned to attend his 8 a.m. Mass on Day 4. When our 7 a.m. wake-up call came, the ship was rocking like a cradle. We grabbed our Sea-Band wristbands to stop the motion sickness before it began, and went back to sleep.

Day 5 arrived and escargots were on the dinner menu as an appetizer and as a main course. I live for this on every Royal Caribbean cruise! I ordered snails for my appetizer and snails for my main dish. Dee ordered them as an appetizer. Hers arrived and she dived in. To her credit, she shared one with me. My mouth watered. What can I say? I love French food, especially escargots. Suddenly the head waiter came over and said to me, “I’m sorry, but all the escargots are gone.” Surely he jested. I sat there waiting for him to smile and to bring my escargots. He then said they had run out of snails because so many people ordered them. I was flabbergasted! Later I realized that Americans were in the minority on this ship, most of the passengers were Europeans and, of course, they would enjoy escargots. The waiter apologized profusely, but there was no consoling me. He said they would have snails the next evening. I didn’t believe him. He asked me to order something else, but I didn’t want anything else. He then brought me two coupes of large shrimp with cocktail sauce. I ate the six, and was sharing the other coupe when the head waiter placed before me two plates of escargots! I began beaming. He said he had searched high and low for those two plates. He had gone to all of the specialty restaurants to find them. He never had a more appreciative diner.

We finally got to Mass on Mother’s Day. It was celebrated by Fr. David Remy from the Diocese of Pensacola-Tallahassee. Several hundred Catholics attended, and it was a lovely service with an excellent homily.

I forgot to attend the Welcome Back Party for previous RC guests. I was tired and simply forgot. I didn’t forget the next formal night which was the Captain’s Invitation-Only Reception where the champagne flowed. There was also a special invitation-only event to visit the ice-skating rink. We were told to “dress warmly.” As guests arrived, waiters walked around with trays of champagne, beer, red and white wine, and mixed drinks. Hors d’oeuvres were also available. There was a short talk by the Captain about the ice skating rink, and an introduction to some of their stars on ice. The Captain also shared some information about the newest RC ship which will be available in 2013. It will be another behemoth and will carry 5000 passengers (as opposed to our Navigator of the Seas which carried 3,000 passengers and over 1,000 crew. That means one will have to walk twice as far as we walked on this mammoth. I can hardly wait! We attended the ice show which was spectacular. Even with the rough seas, the skaters performed flawlessly!

Each night there was a performance in the theatre. There were singers, comedians, along with the RC dancers and singers. Wonderful performances. The only night I skipped the performance was the tribute to the Beatles. Sorry, I’m not a Beatles fan.

The Captain announced one day that the next morning at 6 a.m. we would see the Rock of Gibraltar. I woke up at 5 and again at 6. I could barely see the balcony. Back to sleep. Later we learned that the wrong information had been given out; it was the next day that we would see the Rock. Or whoever was up at 6 a.m. would see it.

NIGHTMARE IN CIVITAVECCHIA
The ship posted information that the train station in the port city of Civitavecchia was about “three blocks” from the ship. Because of the amount of luggage we had, we opted to take the shuttle bus to the train station to get the train for Rome. We rode for about 20 min. before reaching the train station. We passed one family walking, or trying to. I prayed that a taxi would drive by for them. Information in English was often incorrect or inaccurate. [We thought of offering our services to teach English to most of the crew who were lacking in English in exchange for free cruises. We’ve already selected the ports we want to visit.]

We arrived at the train station – all several hundreds of us - to get a train into Rome. Dee got in line to buy our tickets while I guarded the five pieces of luggage. She had warned me about gypsies and pickpockets so I was on guard. The tiny station was mobbed. With tickets in hand, we went out to the platform and stood for about 20 min. At that time word began circulating that our train would leave from the platform on the other side of the tracks. We had to descend a long flight of stairs and up a steep flight to the other platform. Dee pulled the two heaviest suitcases, and I had the others. Halfway down the steps my right arm gave out. Dee asked a man descending the stairs to help us. He did, and even took the bags up the stairs to the other side. We were so grateful. He would not hear of accepting any money from us. God bless him.

We hoped we were on the right platform. A Canadian couple wanted to help us but feared we could all be separated. More people arrived and pushed us further back on the platform. The Canadian couple protested loudly that the newcomers should get behind those who were there first. That fell on deaf ears. Finally the train arrived and we all crowded on. We managed to get ourselves and our suitcases into the tiny standing area between the cars, and there we stood. We could not move. More people jammed on. At some stations we refused to open the doors to allow others to even try to cram on. Two men we had to knock about to get on the train turned out to be quite helpful. I gave them hell earlier. They didn’t get angry, just said it was a crazy situation and if everybody (mainly me methinks!) remained calm, we would all be happier. Ha! At the Rome station they got our bags off first, and we parted with smiles and thanks.

We had finally arrived in the Eternal City. Look out, Pope Benedict, here we come!

ANOTHER FALLEN ANGEL IS LEAVING US

2011-04-08T22:50:00.003-04:00

Another of my fallen angels is dying, a priest who was thrown out of our Church, who was so loved, but was accused, who did so many wonderful things before and after, and now he is heaven-bound. Until his health began to fail, he worked very hard to establish a place where other men go for solace and soul restoration; a place where they can use their hands to help build a chapel, or walk among the gentle llamas. It is a place where priests hold retreats, or visit to be alone as they soul-search, or they can be with other men who, like themselves, need a respite from what has become a daily grind – being a priest. It is also a place where Father gives men fresh out of jail or prison a second chance and a place to stay, and only asks in return that they do some chores on the ranch.

When several of us visited his ranch, he took me to meet his herd of llamas knowing of my great love for animals. The llamas greeted us, and I lovingly rubbed their furry faces, and met a baby llama born the day before. Father’s dog who had accompanied us saw the new addition to the llama family and he wanted to meet the baby. But the baby was skittish and wanted no parts of the dog. The baby’s mother lay on the ground contentedly chewing her cud. Whenever the dog got too close the baby would jump over her mother to the other side. The mother was not concerned because she knew the dog meant no harm to them. Baby was not of the same mind. It was a funny scenario.

Finally we left, taking the dog with us in the truck and returned to the house. There were several buildings on the property in various stages of construction. Father could not do it all, and when he had helping hands, they would often begin other projects. The result was a number of projects half finished or half done – viewers’ choice. That evening Father celebrated Mass in his tiny chapel. He warned us that mice in the unfinished ceiling sometimes peeked at visitors during Mass. I looked forward to seeing them, but they never showed.

This priest is dearly loved by all who know him. He has walked among many of you. I met Father a few years ago when he concelebrated at a memorial Mass for another fallen angel in New Mexico. There were four priests concelebrating that day, along with three women in attendance. I will never forget that Mass for one of the first priests I met via letters. He wanted nothing more than to apologize to those he abused, but that was not possible. He suffered from his past behavior, but only God could judge him. Very few showed him the love and compassion that our Church teaches us to do. That priest died of neglect – sheer neglect from the prison staff, and indifference from his diocese – and I vowed to never let that happen again.

Back to the wonderful priest I am writing about. Occasionally he and I spoke on the phone. He always referred to me as, “Excellency” because of my diplomatic career. I called him the same. He would tell me that the llamas were asking for me. They were so precious and he was so gentle with them, along with the two dogs and a cat who recently joined the household. Father’s health has been declining, and when we were unable to reach him, we were concerned. The same thing happened near the end of last year. We learned that he had been in the hospital. Now we wondered if he had been hospitalized again. Dee, who has known Father for many years, finally contacted the local church to see if anybody there had news of Father. It was from the church secretary that we learned that Father is very, very sick. Dee called him and then she called me and gave me the news. She also managed to speak to a nurse who visits Father daily.

I just had a brief conversation with Father on the phone. His voice is very weak and he spoke with difficulty. I tried desperately to fight back tears. At one point he said to me, “It’s not that bad, it’s just that I am not used to being sick.” It is not that bad, no, it’s far worse than he knows. For the past two or three years Father has battled a number of illnesses. We are told that that this will be his final battle. A nurse visits daily and tries to keep him comfortable. Two friends are there looking after him, and other old friends are pouring in to see him. He knows he is loved.
This is reminiscent of the death of Bishop Pat Ziemann not long ago. Dee and I spoke to him the day before he died. I remember Dee telling him that her husband, John, would greet him at Heaven’s gate. Through tears I told him I loved him and was praying for him. I wanted to ask for his blessing, but I knew he was too weak.

And so another of my fallen angels goes forth to meet our God. I know his heart and God knows his soul. We all know that he is ready to meet his Savior, but what a loss to those of us who know and love him. After we spoke, I hung up the telephone, bowed my head and talked tearfully to our Lord. I asked Him to take His beloved priest into His arms, that he not suffer, that he be received into Heaven where he can pray for his brother priests. I thanked God for allowing me to know this gentle, loving man who is forever a priest in that sacred Order of Melchizedek.

May God shed His grace on us, one and all.

ONE MUST NOT LIE TO GOD!

2011-04-03T23:41:00.002-04:00

Something sort of funny happened today. They say it’s not nice to fool Mother Nature, well, it definitely not nice to try to fool God. During Mass today I felt so moved by the homily, and in such a good mood that I told our Lord I was not going to holler and cuss other drivers on the road, that I was going to be a good, good person on my way back home.

I wasn’t bothered by the usual drivers who drive fast and get right on your rear, and then have to jam on the brakes. I was not going to lose my temper. I stopped at a store to pick up a few items and then I was homeward bound.

My next stop was at the post office. I had some envelopes to mail and I was going to drop them into the drive-up mail box. There was a car ahead of me and I saw a little old, old woman standing outside her car putting mail in the mailbox. She then got back in her car and sat there. She had to know that a car was behind her, besides my headlights were on. I sat and she sat. I suddenly noticed that she was looking in a mirror and fixing her hair! Whoa! Without a second thought I hit my horn!! There went my good intention and it was all her fault! She sat for another few seconds and before my inner woman came completely out of me, she drove off. I was furious! I drove up to the mailbox, reached out to put my mail in, and a gust of wind took one envelope out of my hand and into the air it went! Meanwhile, a car pulled up behind me. Without a thought to that waiting car, I had to get out of my car, find the damned envelope, catch it between wind gusts, and place it in the mailbox. I stomped back to my car, crawled in and moved a few feet so that I could attach my seat belt. And then I guffawed! I suddenly remembered my promise to God! He had thumped my forehead! He was teaching me a lesson! Well done, Lord, well done.

In my own defense, I must admit my feelings that old, old people should not be allowed to drive, especially if they can barely see over the steering wheel, want to creep along at 30 mph, and can barely see in general! They should not be on the roads! Nothing gets my ire up more than some old person in some huge car, just meandering down the road as if they have no place to go and no time to be there. I am 73, but far from old, and besides, I definitely am not one of those slow old drivers!

Awhile back, I was at a stop light. My light turned green. Meanwhile, 3 old coots were driving trucks, and one turned left in front of me when his light was yellow. The second old coot turned on his red light, and the third one was coming out into the street when I laid on my horn, and began moving. What the hell was going on? Didn’t they see the stop lights? What did they think the lights were there for? Old drivers are positively scary! They oughta be kept off the streets!

When I moved into my new neighborhood a few years ago, I was driving slowly down a street and looking around. An old man driving behind me was furious. In the rear view mirror I could see him gesturing wildly and his mouth was moving and I knew he didn't learn those words in Sunday School. I ignored him. Finally, he pulled out from behind me and into the left lane.
He yelled, “You’re supposed to be doing 45 miles an hour!”
I yelled back, “No, 45 is the limit. I can drive 10 MPH if I want to! And I want to!”
He pulled ahead like he had been shot out of a cannon, jumped back into my lane, and made a right turn at the corner.

See what I mean? Old people are terrible drivers, run red lights, and holler at people. I only honk my horn. I must admit that I holler at them inside my car, but they can’t hear me. And that is indeed a good thing!

AN ODE TO PEACE AND QUIET...ALL GONE!

2011-03-29T12:49:00.000-04:00

AN ODE TO PEACE AND QUIET … ALL GONE
(With apologies to all poets.)

A few years ago I moved into this quiet haven seemingly designed for seniors and those who wanted no mowing, watering, snow-shoveling, etc.

After a few years, we began to notice the gradual increase of small children. The Board of Directors received complaints about kids running, jumping, bumping and the like, all in the second floor units.

In my building we reveled in our peace and quiet. I never heard one sound from those who lived over me. And then a couple moved into the condo over me. When they walk, the walls shake. It sounded as if giants walked overhead. I gritted my teeth.

And then little ones began arriving. My peace was over. I could even tell who was walking at any given moment. I named them Big Foot, Little Big Foot, and the Kid.
A neighbor and I recently commiserated with each other. A child lives over her also. Kids never walk when they can run. Running through an apartment doesn’t make much sense, but it’s what they do. Parents never think of the people who live under them until it’s brought to their attention that their lil darlings are disturbing other residents. And then the parents resent being asked to control their children and stop annoying the hell out of other residents!

I have enjoyed my little haven these 16 years, but now I fear I’ll have to find another haven. I will let somebody else “enjoy” the elephants overhead. I can only pray that when prospective buyers come to see my unit, the folks upstairs will be out or asleep. Nobody is going to willingly live underneath what sounds like a herd of elephants? Have you noticed that people with children almost always live in upstairs units? Should be a law against it!

THE DEATH OF A PRIEST

2010-12-31T22:43:00.003-05:00

As 2010 comes to an end, my mind, my heart, and my thoughts go to the priests who are no longer with us, to those who took their own lives when their lives began crumbling around them due to an accusation. Imagine the angst of a priest who commits suicide. A priest, of all people, knows the seriousness of suicide; he also knows that God forgives us all our sins, and yet when faced with such a crushing accusation of sexual abuse, he thinks that not even God will forgive him. Not only does he think this, but he knows with certainty that his Church will never forgive him. Such an accusation is akin to a death sentence. The accused priest instantly becomes a leper, an untouchable, a throw-away.

His bishop, like Pilate, immediately washes his hands of the troublesome priest lest the hate groups march on him. Terrified of retribution, he hides and points out that the Church has gotten rid of this priest. The rest he leaves to the courts, the paid mouthpieces, and the slimy accusers. His only question is how much money does the accuser want. Whatever happened to “innocent until proven guilty”? Our bishops threw out that concept when they agreed to hand over without question any amount of money an accuser demands. They have done a grave injustice to every priest who wears the collar of the Catholic Church. Every priest in the Catholic Church is at risk. Anyone can accuse a priest, and without any proof whatsoever, his bishop will immediately order him out of the rectory and into the night, caring not where the priest goes or if he even has a place to go to. Oh, it is so sad.

Gluttonous attorneys and people with no morals are having a field day accusing priests, and raking in the money of parishioners. The blood of every priest who has committed suicide after being accused, guilty or innocent, is on the hands of lying accusers and their money-grubbing attorneys. It is blood money. An old adage says a fool and his money are soon parted. Amend that to say a fool and his money are quickly parted. It is said that “God don’t like ugly and He ain’t set on pretty.” Some of us should be very, very concerned about Judgment Day.
We can only pray that someday the bishops who do not help their brother priests, will follow the lead of the few good bishops who DO visit priests in prison, who DO write to priests in prison, who DO what Christ would do. I correspond with a number of priests in prison, and they tell me how grateful they are when they are visited by a bishop, or receive a letter from a bishop. They are so grateful that every one in the Catholic Church has not abandoned them.

I often cry when I read their letters. They thank me for “being Christ” to them. I am not worthy of such an honor. Each of the Christmas letters and cards I received from priests in prison, was full of thanks and praise for my concern for them and my faithfulness in writing, talking to them on the telephone, sending books, etc. Their letters always bring tears because I am only doing what our Lord said we are to do. How can I do less? As long as I have breath in me, I will not abandon our priests in prison. God loves them and so do I, each and every one. I don’t need to know their sins, God knows. I only know that they need prayers and a helping hand, and we reach out to each other. I consider it a blessing to have them in my life.

Our Church has been changed forever. It has done a disservice to many of its priests. There is no way for an innocent priest to regain his reputation after it has been announced at every Sunday Mass that he has been suspended for sexual abuse, guilty or not. Why did none of the bishops think of that when they signed off on the Dallas Charter? There will never be a time when a litigious attorney will not find somebody willing to lie, accuse a priest, and demand money. This will go on and on and on … until every Catholic Church is completely and utterly penniless. Maybe, just maybe then, the greedy attorneys, their clients, SNAP, and VOTF will be satisfied. Somehow, I doubt it.

Father Gordon J. MacRae of www.TheseStoneWalls.com writes eloquently of what priests suffer who are accused:

THE DARK NIGHT OF A PRIESTLY SOUL
By Rev. Gordon J. MacRae

“It seems to the soul in this night that it is being carried out of itself by afflictions . . . This night is a painful disturbance involving many fears, imaginings, and struggles within a man. Due to the apprehension and feeling of his miseries, he suspects that he is lost and that his blessings are gone forever.” (St. John of the Cross, The Dark Night, Ch. 9, 5, 7)

In his new book, Secular Sabotage (FaithWords, 2009), Catholic League President Bill Donohue wrote masterfully of the front lines of the culture war between the sacred and the secular. More than at any other time of the year, these two forces face off in the Christmas season in a culture seemingly at war with its own soul.

When I was a younger priest, the period from Thanksgiving to New Year’s Day always felt like a mixed blessing. The demands on a parish priest at Christmas are very great. A spiritual observance of Advent and Christmas is an exhausting challenge against an ever-advancing tide of secular materialism.

We priests experience in the Christmas season both the hope of the Incarnation and the limits of our human condition. It’s a spiritually vulnerable time that can heighten the intensity of loneliness, the pain of personal struggles and alienation, the agony of loss. Christmas can bring with it a deeply felt awareness of suffering and shadow, of spiritual and emotional vulnerability. It’s a time when, for some, the spring of hope can feel a lot more like the winter of despair.

When I was asked to write for Priests in Crisis at Christmas, I felt very limited in scope. I was about to mark my sixteenth Christmas in prison. Frankly, Christmas in here is simply not what it is out there. It’s a time when the people around me suffer a great deal. Those with families and children are separated from them by impenetrable prison walls. Those who are alone have their loneliness magnified by the onslaught of Christmas imagery.

I set out to write something warm and fuzzy for other priests at Christmas, but, well, it just wasn’t coming. I kept being drawn to some unfinished business, something that has gnawed at me for seven years. Justice requires that I try to make some spiritual sense of it. Now is the time. What I am about to write may be very painful for some to read. Whether you are a lay Catholic, or a priest, deacon, or religious, if you are reading this, I beg you to read carefully and understand.

Seven years ago today, on December 29, 2002, a brother priest in my diocese took his own life. Father Richard Lower was 57 years old. He was a popular and very gifted – and giving – priest and human being. Father Lower had served Our Lady of Fatima Parish in New London, New Hampshire for the previous thirteen years, and he was much beloved by his parish family. There was a lot that happened in Father Lower’s personal life over the preceding year. He had undergone his sixth painful back surgery. Then he developed septicemia for which he was hospitalized again. Father Lower’s mother died that November. These factors, and likely others that are unknown, left Father Lower physically, emotionally, and spiritually bereft to face the newest terror that was to enter his life two days after Christmas seven years ago.

NO CRUELER TYRANNIES
On December 27th, every priest’s worst modern nightmare was visited upon Father Richard Lower. He was informed by a diocesan official that a claim of sexual abuse had been lodged against him from thirty years earlier in 1972. Father Lower had never been previously accused. The accusation stood alone, but was enough – three decades later – to abruptly end a life of ministry and priestly self-giving.
Based on the single, uncorroborated thirty-year-old claim, Father Lower was informed that the police would be notified. In accordance with the “zero tolerance” policy of the U.S. Bishops’ new Charter for the Protection of Children and Young People, he was suspended from ministry and told that he must immediately vacate the parish he had served for thirteen years.

As was every priest in the Diocese of Manchester, Father Lower was also painfully aware of an announcement from his bishop and diocese made just weeks earlier. In an unprecedented agreement between the Diocese and the State announced in December, 2002, the files and details of every accusation against any priest – regardless from however long ago – would be included in a vast public release of documents in March of 2003. Any privacy rights of the individual priests under canon or civil law were summarily discarded and waived by the signing of this agreement.

Two days after celebrating Christ’s birth with the parish community he loved and served for thirteen years, Father Richard Lower lived Christ’s scourging, and was about to live the Scandal of the Cross in a way for which he had no defense. Succumbing to the darkest night of his soul, this good priest, walking alone in the valley of darkness, took his own life.

Father Lower died without having either acknowledged or denied the 30-year-old claim brought against him. He died alone, apparently having reached out to no one. He left no note. A lot of people – including a number of priests – lamented that they could only imagine what Father Lower went through in those three days after Christmas.  I did not have to imagine anything. I knew exactly what he went through: the feeling of living in a vacuum, the sense of isolation, the feeling of powerlessness, the utter despair of never, ever being able to erase the scarlet letter indelibly marking the accused – guilty and innocent alike; the sheer impossibility of any defense after the passage of three decades; the overwhelming despair of exactly what Saint John of the Cross described in his Dark Night of the Soul:
“Due to the apprehension and feeling of his miseries, he suspects that
he is lost and that his blessings are gone forever.”

Do you know what you were doing on any given day in 1972? Can you document your answer? If you’re a Catholic priest, you may have to, and your very life may depend on it. Innocent or guilty, what Father Richard Lower faced in those days after Christmas seven years ago is a hopelessness unlike anything one could imagine without going through it. It was for good reason that Dorothy Rabinowitz entitled her 2005 book about the power of false sex abuse claims, No Crueler Tyrannies: Accusation, False Witness, and Other Terrors of Our Times.

In my prison cell a few days after Christmas in 2002, my eyes closed when I read the headline story. I knew Father Richard Lower. He was a priest I admired, and one of only three priests of my Diocese who ever wrote to me in prison. Nine months before he was accused, Father Lower wrote to another friend lamenting the terror being visited upon other priests. When so many others looked away in silence, Father Lower wrote courageously to challenge the lack of due process and presumption of guilt when other priests were accused. From an April, 2002 letter of Father Lower to a friend:
“The minute a man is accused, he’s immediately suspended. He is forced to leave his rectory
within the hour. The result of this horrendous policy is that the priest is seen to be
guilty until proven innocent.”

With reference to his back surgery and other pressures, Father Lower reacted to the media attack that had so consumed the priesthood that year. In the same letter, he wrote:  “With all the bad press the Church has received lately, it is very difficult to either work as a priest in public or even to recuperate as a priest … As always, the press has had a heyday with this topic and reported things whether true or untrue. Because the Church did not handle it properly in the past, they now have a policy of no tolerance … Another fallout to the scandal is that a ‘witch hunt’ has begun. It feels like all priests are suspects and no one can be trusted. Please pray for us.”

After Father Lower’s tragic death, an official of the Diocese of Manchester acknowledged the truth of exactly what Father Lower-feared, but also defended the policy. In a local news article, Father Edward Arsenault was quoted thusly:
“In parish communities where priests have been put on leave, parishioners already
believe them guilty. I know there is some expense.  But I am confident that our policy
is fair.”

TREASURE AND TRAGEDY
It has been documented that some twenty-five American Catholic priests have taken their lives after being accused. Some in the news media have implied that their despair is evidence of guilt. How sad and shallow.

People of justice and conscience have expressed concern that our use of the death penalty in criminal cases may have resulted in the execution of some innocent men. Given the hundreds of innocent men who have been wrongly imprisoned for rape and other crimes, then exonerated by retesting DNA evidence, the concern is justified.

But isn’t it just as likely that some innocent priests were on that list of twenty-five who lost hope? Isn’t it possible that what some of them despaired most was the apparent end of justice and fairness, the sheer impossibility of defending themselves? Believe me on this, accusations of sexual abuse are far more devastating for the innocent than for the guilty. I believe that others who have been falsely accused will corroborate this fact.

Absent clear and convincing evidence – and there has been none – I presume Father Richard Lower’s innocence. It’s what the United States Constitution bids me to do. It’s what the rule of law – both Church and civil – bids me to do, and it’s what the Gospel bids me to do. To presume anything else, absent evidence to the contrary, would belie a heart too jaded to claim to live justly and fairly, to claim to live the Gospel of Mercy.

After the tragic suicide of another priest, Father William Rosensteel, in June, 2007, Catholic columnist Matt C. Abbott published a powerful statement on http://www.RenewAmerica.com. It was from an unnamed supporter of Father Rosensteel:

“We need to remember how important a person’s good name is. To knowingly  harm a person’s
reputation without cause and clear evidence is a serious violation of the Eighth
Commandment. The consequences of such violations are far-reaching and irreversible.
Even a priest who is known to be guilty of the crime of child abuse should not be
required to forfeit his life to satisfy attorneys, insurance companies, the media and
plaintiffs. How much more is this true of a priest whose ‘case’ has not yet been
decided?” (RenewAmerica, August 7, 2007)

As I held the local newspaper in my hand on December 30, 2002, with a headline declaring the scandal of a priest’s suicide, I would have given anything to be on that wooded path that day with Father Lower at what he feared was the end of all things he held dear. I now wish I had the means to write in 2002 what I am writing here. It may have saved this good priest’s life. Even now there is hope – for Father Lower and for us.

First, there’s a lesson to be learned. It’s especially important that priests and lay people reach out to priests burdened with the tyranny of decades-old claims of abuse. In “The Sacred Priesthood,” an essay for the Year of the Priest Father John Zuhlsdorf wrote:
“The sacred priesthood is the common treasure and responsibility of the whole Church.”

Doesn’t that treasure warrant the benefit of the doubt for priests accused? Doesn’t it call us to support them with our words, our prayers, our mercy, and – if needed – our forgiveness?
“Today, the Church prays for persons who have taken their own lives” (Catechism of the Catholic Church 2283) recognizing that people who commit suicide suffer from anguish that can mitigate moral responsibility. I don’t think anyone can look justly at what happened to Father Lower and not see anguish there.

This Year of the Priest is a time to have hope for Father Richard Lower’s soul, and, from our practice of mercy, for ourselves. We owe it to him and other priests who lost all hope to assist them still with our prayers and Masses, with our Gospel mandate to be merciful. We owe it to our spiritual brothers and fathers in the priesthood to resolve to never again let another priest walk alone through the valley of darkness.

For my brother, Father Richard Lower:

“Softly and gently, dearly-ransomed soul, In my most loving arms I now enfold thee, And, o’er the
penal waters, as they roll, I poise thee, and I lower thee, and hold thee. And carefully I dip
thee in the lake, And thou, without a sob or a resistance, Dost through the flood thy rapid passage take, Sinking deep, deeper, into the dim distance. Angels, to whom the willing task is given, Shall tend, and nurse, and lull thee, as thou liest; And Masses on the earth and prayers in heaven, Shall aid thee at the throne of the most Highest. Farewell, but not forever! Brother dear, Be brave and patient on thy bed of sorrow; Swiftly shall pass thy night of trial here, And I will come and wake thee on the morrow.”

John Henry Cardinal Newman, Conclusion: “The Dream of Gerontius.”   

Fr. Gordon MacRae writes weekly for http://www.TheseStoneWalls.com. His writings from prison have also appeared in First Things, The Catholic Response, Catalyst, and many online Catholic venues. The above article was adapted from an article previously published by Fr. MacRae at www.PriestsinCrisis.com.  

ANOTHER DAY IN PARADISE....

2010-12-07T21:56:00.000-05:00

ANOTHER DAY IN PARADISE

Problems cannot be solved at the same level of
awareness that created them.
Albert Einstein

[We’ve had torrential rains these past few days (before the snows began), and it reminded me very much of the kind of rains in the tropics.

[Warning: this was written in Panama, in anger, unrelenting heat, and fear. The language is mine, all mine!]

Another day in paradise is what I said to myself during the umpteenth day of rain when leather shoes, purses and everything else was covered with mildew due to constant dampness; when the power went out taking the air-conditioning with it; when I couldn’t get water from the tap because the pressure was too low; when I bathed in dirty water for two days in a row; when bomb threats forced me to flee the office; when I was sick and didn’t know which end to throw over the toilet first, and just when I thought things could get no worse, they did.

We’re not talking Peace Corps here; we’re talking the Diplomatic Service, the U.S. Foreign Service. The American public thinks we live in mansions, have servants waiting on us, drink champagne for breakfast, and do little else. Ha! We live in some wretched conditions, compounded by stiflying heat, snakes – the two-legged kind and the slithering kind, and every other critter known to man that flies or crawls; uncooperative government officials, and then the real kicker now – a hurricane.

It was October 18, and Hurricane Joan was heading toward Panama. Our boss said we should stock up on water and get out the flashlights because the radio reported that power and water would probably go. He said that we would know whether or not to go into work the next day. I suppose if the wind is blowing down everything in sight that’ll be a clue to stay at home. What next? We’ve had an attempted coup; a regime in power that we refuse to recognize; the constitutional president is in hiding; yellow fever is back in the country; dengue fever is on the way with no protection against it; Americans are on everybody’s hit list, and then up jumps a friggin’ hurricane! At home I dutifully filled the two bathtubs and every vessel with water. The Southern Command Network said there would be a “little” rain for most of the next day. I thought that was probably an understatement. I knew in my heart of hearts that it would be raining polecats the next day! The least bit of rain and the damn streets were flooded and we plowed – and I do mean plowed – through the water.

It didn’t help that I was right on the ocean. The waves had been dashing the hell out of the rocks ever since I got home that evening. When Hurricane Gilbert was nowhere near Panama, we caught hell. My apartment was alive and everything shook all night long – the doors, the windows, and me. I felt, as a friend was fond of saying, that if it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have any luck. Another day in paradise.

All U.S. diplomatic license plates were going to expire in January and since we didn’t recognize the reigning government, there would be no more license plates issued to American embassy personnel. All American diplomats will then be driving illegally, and there was a strong possibility that our cars would be confiscated. I ran that risk everyday since I had been driving with expired plates for months. I could not drive outside the city – not that I ever wanted to - because there were car checks for proper documents. However, the embassy didn’t dwell on unpleasant matters until the ambassador was going to be affected, then the embassy got concerned. They had no answers as usual. They would think about that tomorrow. Meanwhile, just another day in paradise.

On the whole, life was interesting during those days. Our scholarship program was huge, and university students were clamoring for more scholarships to enable them to study in the U.S. despite the pro-Noriega newspaper blasting my office, the U.S. Information Agency (USIA) for “infiltrating” the university. One newspaper’s headline read: “CIA-USIA infiltration at the University of Panama.” I was invited by the students in international relations to help them put on a fair. Their leader got the leaders of the rowdier movements to agree to have no protests while I was on the campus. They welcomed me, and I felt very comfortable. I was invited back to help judge an English speech contest. I sent books to help build the university’s library., and the director of the new Center of Latin Studies at the university met with me to ask for our help. So much for infiltration.

The New York Times and The Washington Post published stories that American diplomats in Panama were operating in the same circumstances as our colleagues were in Iran when they were taken and held hostage for 444 days. I wondered why our media was so anxious to give Noriega ideas! It was a scary time. One of our political officers was quoted in the New York Times as saying, "Noriega has not harmed a hair on an American head, and yet we are all terrified." We knew what he was capable of doing.

As we prepared to greet a new year, we ate, drank and tried to make merry, despite knowing that at any moment all hell could break loose. Our orders from the embassy were to get to one of our six military bases on the outskirts of Panama City. We were aware that the Panamanian military would block the main streets. Once before they blocked access to our bases to show us that it could be done. I was painfully aware that I probably would not be able to reach one of our bases. My secretary was as afraid for me as I was, and she suggested that I drive my car to within a mile or so of her house, leave it, and walk to her house. That was our plan.

Many of us knew this would be the last year for the Panama that we knew. There was little hope. The Americans were to save the Panamanians from General Manuel Noriega, but he was no longer listening to us, and we weren't talking to him.

A few days later, a consular colleague was groaning about an American who had been arrested. The consular officer had finally gotten the authorities to agree to release the man, but his passport and plane ticket had been stolen, and he had no money. He was desperate to leave the country.
My colleague asked, “How can I tell him that nothing can be done until tomorrow or the next day?”
I grinned, “Tell him he has another day in paradise.”

***

November 23, 1963

2010-11-22T19:36:00.001-05:00

Dateline: Cuzco, Peru

Thursday evening, November 22nd my roommate, Beverly, and I went into the city of Cuzco to buy groceries and to have our monthly bath. Some other volunteers were also in the city and on Friday, November 23, several of us lunched together, compared notes on our Peace Corps work in the various villages, and afterwards a few of us went to a grocery store.
As we stood in the checkout line another volunteer came up and said, “These people are always starting rumors.” We laughed. Somebody asked, “What now?” He replied, “They are saying that President Kennedy has been killed.” In unison, we all said, “Oh, for pity’s sake.” It went in one ear and out the other. No one gave it a second thought. Everybody loved President Kennedy, or so we thought. No, it was just another of those rampant rumors.

We all left the store together, said our good-byes outside, and went our separate ways. John, a Cuzco city volunteer, and I stopped at the dry cleaners. Bev returned to the hotel. I arrived at the hotel a few moments later and headed for our room. I glanced at the desk clerks who stared at me as I entered, but that was nothing new. People in Peru always stared at me. I was quite the novelty. Today, the stares were not the usual stares. Something about the stares was different.

When I opened the door to our room Bev was crying as if her heart were breaking. I had never seen her cry before. Obviously something was wrong, yet I never asked her what was wrong. I will never understand my reaction. I hung up the dry cleaning and said to her, “It’s time to go to the dentist. Let’s go!”
She turned up a tear-stained, sorrowful face to me and said in a whisper, “Charlene, it’s true.” I wanted to slap her! Between clenched teeth I said, “I don’t know what you are talking about, and I don’t want to know!” I had no clue as to why she was so upset. Or did I know without knowing how I knew? Why was I so angry? Why didn’t I want to know what was wrong? Why didn’t I want to know what was “true”? Only God knows. I left the room. Bev trailed behind me. I could hear her crying. My mind was absolutely blank. I had no idea why she was crying. But the one thing that I was certain of, was that I did not WANT to know. That I knew for certain.

We walked the few blocks to the dentist’s office. There was no one in the waiting room, so we sat down to wait. Bev continued sobbing. I was still angry. At who? At what? I did not know then, and I don’t know now. A radio was on in the background and there was a lot of static. But suddenly the station cleared and we clearly heard the announcement in Spanish, “President Kennedy has been assassinated!”

Like zombies we got up and walked out. In a daze we walked down the street. We passed a group of students and one laughingly said, “Your president is dead!” Bev lunged for him. I grabbed her and whispered, “He would not want this.”

We didn’t have the heart to seek out other volunteers. We returned to the hotel, and when we entered the lobby I realized what was different about the stares of the desk clerks: the stares were not of curiosity, but of pity.

Beverly and I wondered what was going on back home? Who could have done such an act? I prayed that the assassin was not black. I remembered a black woman stabbing Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. in New York City. I wonder how many other ethnic groups prayed the killer was not one of theirs. We had no way to call home to find out what was going on. We were worried about our families and what they were going through. I knew there were many tears in my family over this man who was seen as a sort of savior of black people. He and his brother, Robert Kennedy, the Attorney-General, had sent troops south to protect black kids trying to integrate so-called white schools, schools for which their parents’ taxes paid, while the black students attended substandard schools. Black people knew the Kennedys were going to end the de facto segregation in the United States. What would happen now? Johnson was a Texan, there were rumors that he and Kennedy did not always agree on important matters. What would happen to black people with him in charge? Would he try to reverse decisions made by President Kennedy? I prayed the Lord would steady and guide his hands.

Somehow we got through the night. The next morning other volunteers picked us up to drive us to our village. We were all sad, confused, and uncertain of our future, or our country’s future. We piled into two jeeps and headed for the first stop, our village of Quiquijana. Cuzco’s mountainous roads were never pleasant to drive on. They are narrow, steep and dangerous. The drop-offs were steep. There were crosses all along the roads where people had died. At some places there were numerous crosses. I was in the first jeep with John. Bev was in the second jeep with Mike and two others. At one point we rounded a curve and saw a bus coming toward us. There was barely enough room for two vehicles to pass. Both usually slowed down and crept past each other. The bus barreled toward us, and we realized he had no intention of slowing down. In fact, he was aiming for us. We glimpsed the bus driver’s face and it was the face of pure evil. We had nowhere to go but over and thousands of feet down! John yelled, “Hold on!” and deliberately went over a huge hump which stopped the jeep and kept us from hurtling to the bottom of the mountain. I held on, but my head hit the top of the jeep. Somehow he managed to stop the car a few feet from oblivion! The bus drove on. The second jeep stopped and everyone jumped out. I was thoroughly shaken. John kept saying, “The guy aimed for us! He aimed for us! Why?” Why indeed! Was it open season on Americans as we grieved for our dead president?

We entered the school grounds and our house without seeing anyone. The news of President Kennedy’s death had not yet reached Quiquijana. The guys dropped us and left. Bev and I were unusually silent the rest of the day and most of the next day. Each of us was lost in her own thoughts. On Sunday we cooked a chicken we purchased in Cuzco. We had no refrigeration, but chicken usually lasted a few days in the cold climate.

After eating lunch and giving the two resident dogs the leftovers, I noticed one dog throwing up. I wondered what he had eaten. I soon found out. An hour or so later I became nauseous and began vomiting. I was also terribly thirsty. The minute the water hit the bottom of my stomach, I had to be on the way outside to vomit in the weeds. There was no way I could trot the block or so to our outhouse. Bev pleaded with me not to drink the water. Even though I knew I would throw up the second the water hit my stomach, I had to have it. My thirst demanded water. I would drink it fast, while standing at the open back door and then dash out to throw up immediately.

An hour later Bev became ill. We looked at each other and said it must have been the chicken. I became delirious. I could hear myself babbling over and over that we were going to die and no one would ever know. Of course it didn’t make any sense. The thirst was indescribable! We were hot and feverish. Bev had more control than I did. She resisted drinking the water despite her thirst. We were two sick puppies all day Sunday.

By Monday morning the village knew about President Kennedy, and villagers began coming to pay their respects beginning at 7:00 a.m. We were usually up by 5:00 a.m., but not that day because we were too sick. Peru’s president had declared Monday as a national day of mourning for President Kennedy. Bev and I took turns getting out of bed to open the door to visitors and fall back into bed. The visitors had to come into the bedroom. We were in no shape to stand. Neither of us knew who was there because it was all we could do to get up, open the door, and stagger back to bed. I vaguely remember people standing over us.

Around 10 a.m. Julia, one of the teachers at our nuclear school arrived, and seeing our conditions, she said no more visitors. She left her teenaged daughter to tell people that we were too sick to see anyone. I remember opening my eyes at one point and three or four people were standing in the bedroom looking at us. We were too sick to talk to them or even to each other. The house was cold. We didn’t have the energy to turn on our little kerosene burner. I remember someone piled more covers on us, lit the stove, and wiped our faces. There was nothing left in us to throw up or out, and since we were so feverish, we slept a lot.

By Tuesday we were beginning to feel human again. Around 8:00 p.m. that evening I was returning from the outhouse with our dogs. Suddenly they stopped as if they heard something. I too stopped, listened, and way in the distance I could hear an engine. I saw lights coming down our road and was astonished to see the jeep of our Peace Corps doctor and his wife. Never were two people more welcomed. They had returned to Cuzco from visiting other sick volunteers, and had an urgent telegraphed message from our school principal that we were deathly sick and needed a doctor immediately. They didn’t unpack; just got back in their jeep and came to see about us. The doctor determined that we had food poisoning, but we were well on the way to recovery. He and his wife spread their sleeping bags on our dirt floor and spent the night. They brought news of President Kennedy’s death and the assassin.

I will always regret not being able to greet each visitor who came to express condolences that day in Quiquijana. Americans were not the only ones who mourned our fallen president. The Quechua Indians of Peru looked to Kennedy and the U.S. as a way for their children to have better lives than the parents had. We were the first links in that chain of progress.

Epilogue: I joined the United Nations as an international secretary after Peace Corps. In 1966 the UN Movie Club showed the new movie, “Years of Lightening, Day of Drums.” The movie was made by the U.S. Information Agency whose work could not be shown in the United States. It was only for overseas distribution. However, since the United Nations is NOT on U.S. territory, it could show the movie. From the opening credits, I began crying and could not stop. For the first time I was able to see what all Americans and most of the world had seen – the mourning, the muffled drums, the dignity of Mrs. Kennedy and her children, the hundreds of foreign leaders who walked shoulder to shoulder with her down Pennsylvania Avenue, and the thousands and thousands of Americans who lined the streets to honor a fallen leader, it was overwhelming. I was not in the country during those terrible, terrible days when most of the civilized world mourned a man cut down in his prime. Seeing the movie was cathartic for me. At last, my grief had an outlet. Later Congress passed a law allowing the government to show the movie to Americans. I saw it once again. It was unforgettable.

********

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOTHER

2010-11-04T11:30:00.001-04:00

Happy Birthday, Mother,

It’s your 88th birthday. You left us 15 years ago. You didn’t have many happy birthdays, but I want to apologize to you with this letter, and maybe say some things you never knew. Today is also Mama’s birthday, your mother, and my beloved grandmother.

I spent most of my life trying to make up to you what you lost because of my birth: your youth, a bright future, and a loving husband. You got none of that. You were not quite 15 when I was born, so your mother took over my upbringing. She and I lived in one room in a rooming house. I can remember how happy I was in that one room with Mama. We each had a rocking chair and Mama smoked her pipe. I never understood why Mama could not help me print or to learn the alphabet. I didn’t know that she had not gone to school and could not read or write.

Mama wanted me to get a good education because nobody in our family had gone to high school; some didn’t finish grade school. After kindergarten, Mama enrolled me in St. Bridget’s Catholic School at the other end of our block. Life could not have been better. I loved the nuns and loved the Masses and I wanted to be a Catholic. On Sundays I attended Mass, and then went with Mama to her Baptist church across the street where folks shouted and “got happy.” It scared me. I never complained because I knew that the next morning I would be back at my Catholic Church where incense rose, and the dimly lit Church echoed with beautiful sounding chants and soft music.

Mother, when you came home on weekends from Chicago, you treated me like a little princess. We went to the Automat where I put in quarters and the food selections went around and around and then I chose what I wanted. We always went to a Betty Davis or Joan Crawford movie. Sometimes we went to the bowling alley and I watched you bowl. I was so happy.

When I was nine Mama died and life as I knew it came to a crashing end, and so did yours, Mother. You gave up your job in Chicago to move back home to take care of Mama in her last weeks of life. We moved into the home of Aunt Bess and Uncle Frank. After Mama died, you and I were adrift. We didn’t have anywhere to go. Uncle Frank introduced you to Walter Parks. I heard Aunt Bess urging you to marry him because he could give us a home. I didn’t want that to happen. I wanted you to marry Willie who was my heart. He would have been a wonderful father to me. I already loved him because he was funny, and he liked to do fun things with us. He drove us to Kentucky to bury Mama and when Uncle Honey handed that little fur ball to me, it was Willie who urged you to let me keep him. I named the fur ball “Sweetmeat” because he was so sweet.

Suddenly you were married to a man named Walter Parks and we moved into a large house in an affluent part of the city where few blacks lived. Mr. Walt had never said one word to me. Suddenly we were all living together. I didn’t know how to address him, so I began calling him “Mr. Walt.” It was a lonely life for me. I didn’t know anyone in the neighborhood. You said I was too young to take public transportation to get to St. Bridget’s School. I would be going to a public school and I would be bused because I could not attend the all-white school a few blocks from our house.

Mother, I know how hard you worked to help pay for that house. I know that some days you went without lunch at work so that I could have lunch at school. There was no love in that house. I kept silent and spent most time in my bedroom with Sweetmeat. I cried in his fur because I missed Mama; I missed my school; I missed my Catholic Church; I missed my friends, and I felt that I was an albatross around your neck. I knew that you didn’t know anything about raising children. I tried not to cause problems for you. I never missed school where I was a good student. I did well in school. I loved school. Mr. Parks ignored me, but his eyes never left my developing body. When I began menstruating he kept tabs on my periods. I found that strange. He told you when he thought I should begin wearing a bra. I cringed whenever I had to walk in front of him. You took an all night job at RCA because it paid more. I didn’t like being alone with him, but I had no say.

And then came that night when I woke up with a gun to my head and Mr. Walt in my bed. He raped me, Mother. He said that when he finished raping me, we were going to the basement and he was going to kill both of us. At 11 years old I was not afraid of death. My only thought was of you coming home in the morning, and finding us dead. I did not want that to happen. I knew you would never get over it. At first I said nothing to him, but then I said I would not tell anyone, and I didn’t. I never said a word because I knew that Uncle Charlie and Uncle Rabbit would kill him and go to prison. I did not want that to happen. Your two brothers were the best uncles a girl could ever have. They loved me and they would have given their lives to protect me. I loved them too, and I chose to protect them. But I began sleeping with a butcher knife under my pillow. I had decided that that beast would never rape me again. As for people who say they didn’t remember being raped for 40 or 50 years, I say bull! There is no way one can ever forget any second of that horrendous act!

You remember you took me to the doctor the next month when my period did not begin on time. I was traumatized I suppose. And then every day thereafter that Parks called me to the basement and yelled over and over who did I have sex with, who was the father if I was pregnant, and if I was pregnant I would find myself on the street. I kept my mouth shut and just looked at him with as much hate as I could. I don’t know how I got through my classes while worrying about being pregnant. I didn’t know what I would do. I had no one to talk to. I wanted to run away, but I knew that I could not take care of Sweetmeat and myself on the streets. I was far from the Catholic Church that I loved, but I knew how to pray and I never stopped praying. My period finally started, and soon thereafter Aunt Annie came to live with us. The happiest day in my life was when I turned 16 years old because four years earlier I had asked you if I could be baptized a Catholic. You said if I still felt that way at 16, then I could. I never said another word about it during those four years, but I never forgot. The day after my 16th birthday I reminded you of your promise. Thereafter, everybody in the family always said if they promised me anything, they had to live up to it. I was the only Catholic in the family, but they all seemed very proud of that fact. Whenever I was introduced to somebody, my aunts or uncles said proudly, “This is my niece, Charlene. She’s Catholic.” I thought it odd, but we were an odd family.

When I went to New York to “visit” Aunt Alma, I knew I would never return to that house. I got a wonderful job as receptionist with a Wall St. law firm and then came the Peace Corps and the United Nations and the world. When I returned after two wonderful years in the Andes Mountains of Peru, we went directly from the airport to Aunt Bess’ home. You told me that Mr. Walt said he did not want me in the house. I didn’t ask why. I knew that he hated me for being successful. Also his conscience was kicking him in the butt. You said you were going to divorce him. I said nothing, just bowed my head, and began making plans to move back to New York as quickly as possible.

Mother, I guess I blamed you for my miserable life after Mama died. I tried not to, but the hurt and the anger were there. I had buried the anger in my heart for so many years, and each time I was with you, the anger seemed to come out. That man tried to turn you against me, and sometimes I thought he was successful. Remember the time you asked me if I was having sex with my dog?? I remember looking at you and wondering if you were losing your mind. And then you said Parks suggested that. What a wicked man. He told you lie after lie about me. I was taught to respect adults and all I could say was, “No, Mother, I didn’t do that.” You didn’t believe me, and that hurt most of all.

And so, Mother, as a child, I could not talk back to you, but as an adult, I took out my anger, hurt and fear on you. I know you sometimes flinched at my harsh words. You didn’t understand why I seemed to be so angry with you. Sometimes I didn’t even know, I just knew that I was angry. But, as you know, God has been good to me. He allowed me to show you some of the world that I lived in, the world of diplomacy. I know you worried about me in some countries – most countries I served in had serious problems – but you knew that I loved my career, and I loved living abroad. I hated leaving you alone, but I wanted to live my life and I did. When I retired in ’95 I thought we could travel the US so that I could see some of my country. But God had other plans. Four months after I returned, you died.

Today I remember your birthday, Mother, with great sadness. I remember your life and hard times. You were tiny, but had the heart of a lion. You had so many tragedies in your life, but each one just made you stronger. As an adult, I marveled at your bravery. You were stronger than any of us knew. Life was not kind to you, yet you always had a smile on your face. You lost your mother when you were very young, and you were thrust into being a mother and a new wife at the same time. I felt sorry for you. You lived in pain, and I know you died in pain because your little fist was clinched. At the viewing I tried to straighten it, but the funeral director told me it couldn’t be straightened after the embalming fluid was inserted. I wanted to scream, “Then why didn’t you unclench her fist before using the embalming fluid.” You were born in pain, and you died in pain.

I am sorry, Mother. Sorry for all the sorrow that I caused you. Sorry that your marriage didn’t work out. Sorry that the world was so unforgiving. Sorry that I never got to show you more of the world. Sorry that I spoke harshly to you. Sorry that you felt inferior to others. Remember how angry I got and I said to you, “DON’T YOU EVER FEEL INFERIOR TO ANYONE! IF ANYTHING YOU ARE SUPERIOR TO MOST!” I hope you never forgot that.

On your last Mother’s Day you were happy as a lark – as you always was – when I treated you as you thought mothers should be treated – and we dined at a cafeteria-style eatery because I had not thought to make reservations at a decent restaurant. You sat eating and smiling, and you handed me a Mother’s Day card. In it you wrote, “Thank you for teaching me.” I wanted to ask what I taught you, but I didn’t. I concluded that you were thanking me for teaching you that you had a lot to offer the world, that everyone loved you, and you had no need to feel inferior to anyone. Happy birthday, Mother. May you rest in peace.

BLACK LIKE WHO?

2010-10-16T18:33:00.000-04:00

BLACK LIKE WHO?
by Charlene C. Duline

Recently in our local Catholic weekly newspaper, there was an editorial that was very much ado about nothing. The writer was harshly critical of a statement made by the U.S. Ambassador to the Vatican, Miguel Diaz, who needs no lessons from anyone on how to speak or to conduct himself. I don’t pretend to know what was in Ambassador Diaz’s heart when he uttered the words, “Once Americans elect a president, they must stand behind him – no matter what.” I doubt that he thought anyone would write an editorial diagramming and dissecting every word, and conclude that the Ambassador was somehow speaking about morality or abortion! Good grief! What a stretch for the journalist to conjure up a long editorial critiquing the ambassador because he asked for simple respect for President Obama.

The writer said he “assumed” that Ambassador Diaz “was simply overstating the importance of giving the president the respect that is due to him as our elected leader.” Well, good for the ambassador! It is high time that somebody spoke up about respecting President Obama because from where I sit, I see nothing but total and utter disrespect for the man and for the office since he became president.

The author said he found it “troubling” that Ambassador Diaz used the words “no matter what.” He said it’s OK if the ambassador meant that all of us must stand behind the president, but he draws the line at “blind obedience” as if President Obama will order the citizenry to march off a mountain into the sea like lemmings.

President Obama has become a lightning rod for everything that is wrong with America. There is a lot of hate out there. The numbers of militia groups running around in the woods with guns has increased from 170 before President Obama was elected, to 500 and still counting.
It is with incredible sadness that I finally have to recognize what my black sisters and brothers have seen for over one year – that our nation is drifting back to the bad, old days when black people were treated as second class citizens. Ah, you say, “But we have a black president.” Surprise! We do not have a black president.

Let me tell you something that most people don’t know. President Barack Obama is not a “black” man. Let me be emphatic: Obama is not a black man - at least not as white Americans traditionally think of African-Americans pas being “black.” He did not grow up in the mean streets of some rundown neighborhood in the U.S. He grew up in a Caucasian family, and lived in Hawaii and Indonesia. His father was a black African from Kenya. His mother was white and from Kansas. Obama is “black” only in that he has more than “one drop of black blood,” which decades ago our nation’s majority race decided meant that one is officially “black.” His life experiences did not expose him to the segregation, the ignorance, and the constant reminders that if one was not “white” then one was not intelligent, industrious, or beautiful and could never be. He grew up in multi-cultural societies, and his worldview is as different from that of his U.S. brothers as - well, as different as day and night or black and white.

Nobody was more surprised when he was elected president than “black” Americans. None of us thought a black man could ever be elected president, and certainly never in our lifetime. And we were right. The vast majority of Americans did not see Obama as a typical “black” man, and indeed he is not. Fast forward to today. Many white Americans who voted for Obama thought of him as being an extraordinary black man who has risen above the heap. They say he’s “intelligent” as if the country has never seen an intelligent black man. They say he is well educated. Well, I could introduce you to quite a few black men and women who are “well educated,” present company included. Some point out that his charisma is welcomed by our European allies as an antidote to the Bush years when diplomacy and common sense were seldom seen and almost never practiced. Some probably thought that after eight years of Bush/Cheney anybody would be better. Certainly our European allies greeted Obama as a man they could relate to.

The little putdowns of the nation’s first “black” president began on Inauguration Day. As cameras were poised at Blair House waiting for President-elect Obama and his family to leave for the Capitol, a television reporter told us how many minutes late Obama was, and he said, not without disdain, “This will be the last time he (Obama) will be late. From now on his time will be [handled] by the Secret Service, and he will always be on time.” That crack did not go unnoticed by black people. We are acutely aware that blacks have a reputation – deserved or not – for being late. For the record, the president is in charge, not his handlers.

Then we had the ridiculous spectacle of the Secret Service allowing a couple - a white couple - to enter the White House for a state dinner without an invitation. Talk about chutzpah! They sashayed into the White House, passed through two sets of Secret Service agents even though their names were not on either list, and managed to hobnob with the rest of the guests, along with President and Mrs. Obama. They left only when they realized they would have no seats at the formal dinner. I asked myself why the Secret Service was so lax when a black president is in office. Can you imagine that happening with any other president? Try real hard to imagine that. What if I had ambled in, dressed to the nines, and had no invitation? An alarm would have been sounded immediately, and I would have been hauled off to a DC jail faster than a speeding bullet. No, they would not have let me pass. Why? Perhaps because I’m “too dark to pass.” Remember that famous line in West Side Story?

The next spectacle was the congressman shouting at President Obama in the middle of his health care address before Congress and the nation. Rep. Joe Wilson (R-SC) shouted, “You lie!” as the President spoke. We have never witnessed such incivility and disrespect of a president. And then Rep. Wilson did what others do who should have bitten their tongues before opening their mouths and sticking in both feet, he apologized for his outburst. Those apologies are becoming old and ringing false.

During the debate about the health care bill, cameras caught some Republican congressmen as they leaned over the balcony taunting black members of Congress, and at the same time urging on the protestors to new lows. Some protestors took great pleasure in calling our black Congressmen derogatory names. For the most part, these were elderly black men who paid their dues during the Civil Rights struggle. They were taunted and spit upon. What a spectacle that was.

And then came the sickening display of people openly carrying guns in Arizona and New Hampshire. As the President spoke at the convention center in Phoenix, outside some protesters were filmed carrying guns. One tough customer had a rifle on his back. What a message that sent. Nobody seemed the least bit concerned except black people. Yes, we were alarmed at armed protesters near the president. That is asking for an “accident” to happen. As I recall during the Bush years, protesters protesting against anything (!) were swiftly hustled away. For protestors to carry firearms near a President is totally unheard of. Yes, in Arizona and New Hampshire it is legal to carry guns openly, but no one has ever dared or been permitted to carry them near a president. A Washington Post columnist, Courtland Milloy, wrote recently:

”Had [a] black rifleman showed for, say, Ronald Reagan's "states' rights" speech
in Philadelphia, Miss., back in 1980, they might still be dredging the Pearl River
for his remains.”

I find it extremely troubling when the citizenry begins carrying guns to or near events at which the president is speaking. Yes, they are making a political statement- albeit a provocative one - which they have a right to do, but it is the beginning of something we Americans are unaccustomed to. Our active and moneyed gun lobbyists have gotten gun laws passed that allow more and more people to carry guns in public, to the workplace, to bars, etc. This sorry spectacle is an additional omen of the unraveling of civility, and a return to rule by gun. Bush was not a particularly popular president and people grumbled and groused, but never did they take up arms and cart them around in his presence. They knew better. People were “invited” to his town hall meetings. None of his public appearances were ever open to the public. Members of the audience were “invited.” And the instant there was an outburst, husky men quickly reached the protestor and he was out on his butt. No dissent was tolerated from the citizenry, at least not in the august presence of President Bush or Vice-President Cheney. Cheney was especially scary. He kept his own records; answered to no one, including the president; had his own Shadow Kitchen Cabinet, and basically thumbed his nose at anyone daring to point out to him the “openness” part of the executive branch of government. We still have no idea of the extent to which he damaged the country.

Something scarier is happening. According to the Southern Poverty Law Center that monitors militia groups, many of these hate groups use a photo of President Obama for target practice. Milloy says:

“Imagine that the inauguration of President George W. Bush had sparked an explosive rise in African American militia groups. Suppose thousands of heavily armed black men began gathering at training camps in wooded areas throughout the country, devising military tactics for "taking back their country" after what they believed was an electoral coup. Do you think Bush and Vice President Dick Cheney would have reacted to a black militia buildup as coolly as President Obama has to the phenomenal growth of white militias?
'If the people we saw running around armed to the teeth were black, I think their organizations would be destroyed in a matter of hours,’ Mark Potok, director of the So u Southern Poverty Law Center's Intelligence Project, [said]. ‘If people saw on their TV screens photos of black militia members shooting at images of a white president, I don't think they would last.’ ”

Blacks and whites somehow usually manage to see the same happening with different eyes. One viewpoint comes from white privilege. The other viewpoint comes from a black perspective in which one can be certain beyond the shadow of a doubt that if a black did the same outrageous thing as a white, we would very soon find ourselves back in slavery. I'm not so sure that such is a long way off. I exaggerate to make a point. I often felt that we were heading that way during the years of Reagan, and Bush/Cheney.

Some say those among us who are the most flawed – i.e., racists - can change. Yes, they CAN change, but will they? I have my doubts. It’s a nice thought and a pious hope, and I want to believe it, but history tells me it is not going to happen. We are seeing more stories in the news about black men being dragged to their death. The blood lust continues. Instead of lynching by hanging, now it’s lynching by dragging a human behind a moving vehicle leaving skin, blood, and body parts all along the road. How cruel can we become?

Let us not forget the Florida urologist, Dr. Jack Cassell, who placed a sign on his office door:
“If you voted for Obama…seek urologic care elsewhere. Changes to your
health care begin right now, not in four years.”

When was the last time you saw something like that? Cowards get bolder when somebody else sets the pace. Then they crawl out of their holes in wild abandonment of the rules of civility.

We then had the Wal-mart incidents. On two occasions a New Jersey teen used a courtesy phone at two different Wal-Mart stores to announce: “All black people leave the store now.” The latest incident was in April. The 16 yr. old boy’s identity was not released due to his age. The identity of his parents should have been blared all over the state and surrounding environs. People need to know who he is. His photo should be circulated to every store in the state so that when he enters a store, he will see his picture, and be on notice that his nonsense will not be tolerated. Obviously his parents cannot control him, unless, of course, they concur.

A few weeks after this incident a 14 yr. old girl in a Whole Foods Market, also in New Jersey, grabbed a mike at the courtesy desk and ordered “All blacks leave the store.” What kind of people are being spawned in New Jersey? Again, her identity is kept secret due to her age. Again, some parents get to hide behind their teens’ atrocious behavior. Outrageous!

One of the most unsettling events occurred when General Stanley McChrystal, head of our armed forces in Afghanistan, waxed ineloquently and rudely to a magazine crew about his Commander in Chief and White House staff. That is a definite no-no and a scary scenario. When a military commander begins flapping his gums about his commander, in some countries the next step is an army takeover. When a civilian leader, such as in a democracy like ours, is held up to ridicule and contempt, those around the man with the mouth begin to believe that everybody else is ignorant. Then those with the guns encourage their followers to savor ideas of “what could be” and as they become more and more critical of their civilian leaders, conditions become ripe for a coup. Arrogance does not make for a good military commander, and neither does bashing one’s superior. Be careful, America, be very careful. I have seen democracies and dictatorships fall for far fewer reasons.

Prejudice will always be with us, but so should common decency. Let us be true to ourselves and recognize that some of us harbor evil feelings toward those who are not the same color or creed. Let us pray that we as a nation can move beyond hate and feelings of superiority.

Thank you, Ambassador Diaz, for the gentle reminder that one who holds the highest and most honored office in the land deserves our respect even if he is not of our political party, or has other distinguishing characteristics unpleasing to us.

"We are so accustomed to disguise ourselves to others that in the end we become disguised to ourselves." François de La Rochefoucauld

***

A VACATION TO FORGET

2010-10-02T14:01:00.000-04:00

If anything simply cannot go wrong, it will anyway.
-Murphy’s Law

During life as a Peace Corps volunteer (PVC), another volunteer, Lucy St. Cyr, and I saved our living allowance money for a grand vacation. We gave up smoking and buying American canned food, our only luxuries, and we saved a bundle. We took a bus from Cuzco, Peru to Tacna, a border city. It should have been as simple as walking across the street from Peru to Chile, but it was a holiday on the Chilean side.

Chile was celebrating its retention of Arica taken during a dispute between Peru and Chile in the early 1900s. It was a dispute settled in 1927 by U.S. President Herbert Hoover who made a proposal that both countries accepted. Under Hoover’s proposal, Chile returned Tacna to Peru, but retained Arica. It was our misfortune to arrive in Tacna on a day that Peru had little to celebrate. Accordingly, the border was not open, but we were assured that since we were Peace Corps volunteers, that we would be allowed to cross into Chile. First, we had to hunt down the official to stamp our passports, and to authorize the border opening. Since we were PCVs our search was made easier, and we quickly found the official who stamped our passports after wondering aloud why we would want to go to Chile. Finally we walked across the border to Arica to get a plane to Santiago. In Arica we had an indescribably delicious five-course meal, including a marvelous Chilean wine, for about $2.00.

Our plane was five hours late leaving Arica because of bad weather in Santiago. I thought if the plane couldn’t leave Santiago, how was it going to get back? I hoped the airline would cancel the flight, but to my chagrin they did not. Finally I told Lucy that I would fly only if none of the arriving passengers looked upset. They all strolled into the terminal looking very relaxed and quite happy. Too late it occurred to me that they were probably so relieved at setting foot on the ground that of course they would look happy. And so against my better judgment I flew, and the flight was wonderful. We didn’t hit one air pocket. Of course I stayed awake because everybody else was sleeping and I didn’t want the pilot to get any ideas about napping too. The cockpit door was open, and I actually rattled the pages of the magazine I wasn’t reading, cleared my throat, and even coughed a bit so that the pilot would know that somebody was awake and had an eye on him.

Santiago was a lovely city. People stared at us, but not in an unkind manner. I assumed it was because we were so different. Lucy was blonde and white, while I was black and brown. We definitely stood out. People everywhere immediately identified us as Peace Corps volunteers and welcomed us. It was as if we wore signs. Hotel rates, restaurant prices, and even train rates were reduced for us. It was incredible. Those were the days that the Peace Corps name was magical and opened all doors. We walked and toured the city and thoroughly enjoyed being in Chile. I also noticed there were no other black people around. Once again I stood out. Later I learned that years ago Chile killed off its Indian and black populations.

I looked forward to flying from Santiago to Buenos Aires, Argentina. The morning was clear and the skies were bright. It would be a short trip, only two hours and 45 minutes. I sat in the air terminal and began a mystery story about a plane crash. I felt great. My fear of flying was over. And then I got on the damned plane. Five minutes out of Santiago we started dropping. We climbed back up and dropped again. Something was obviously wrong. I wondered why the pilot didn’t go back to the airport before we got too far from it. The skies darkened and he gamely continued. Fool! I thought. Soon I noticed something new. We no longer dropped straight down, we were now dropping sideways. I wondered if we were about to spin. So I closed the curtain at the window and looked at Lucy. She was sprawled in her seat napping. The two stewardesses had retired to the rear of the plane and sat down. Only the tall, handsome steward patrolled the aisle. I kept peeking over the seat ahead of me to see if the “fasten seat belt” sign was on and it remained on. Finally I held my stomach with one hand and clutched the seat with the other. With each drop I would snatch the curtain back, glance out, rip the curtain shut and collapse against my seat.

Suddenly I looked up to see the steward smiling down and saying something silly, “What’s the matter?”
I managed to show a tooth or two and said, “Heh, heh, is it always like this?”
He played innocent: “Like what?”
“This bumping up and down.”
“Bad roads,” he grinned and walked on.

I wondered why the pilot didn’t go up. I didn’t want to consider his going down! The steward kept taking little bags to the woman seated in front of me. I wondered if she was sick or writing farewell messages on them. Finally that damned seat belt sign went off and we sailed along smoothly. The crew brought out lunch trays and began serving. I couldn’t eat, but I managed to enjoy two glasses of delicious Chilean red wine.

Lucy surprised me by saying, “Whew, was I scared.”

Suddenly the stewardesses snatched away the lunch trays as the plane started hitting “bad roads” again. I wondered how much more buffeting the plane could take, not to mention me. I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth and prayed. Soon the steward announced our landing in Buenos Aires. As we descended, I opened the curtain and peeped out. It was early afternoon, but outside it was pitch black. On our first attempt, we overshot the field. That means we were almost on the ground, not the runway. We could clearly see airport personnel standing in doorways waiting for our plane to crash. We zoomed back up. The steward announced that due to a bad storm we would have to circle for a few minutes. We circled for 30 minutes. I decided that in the event that they had to return to Chile, they would probably have to knock me out. I wanted off that plane.

I never did believe the song, “All God’s Children Got Wings” and I certainly wasn’t ready to test it then. Lucy and I clutched hands as tears streamed down our faces. We were thinking of our families so far away. The steward leaned over us and said something. I didn’t hear what he said, but I had had enough of him. I waved him away. Let us die in peace.

Just before our third attempt to land, the steward announced, in a voice that I can only describe as one of certain doom, that the pilot was going to land. His voice sounded like this is it! Somehow we landed safely. Lucy and I staggered off the plane on jelly legs. For some reason in Latin America often there are photographers at planeside when one lands. True to form, in Buenos Aires there was a photographer who took a picture of us as we descended the steps of the plane, and we looked like two wild, wild women who had escaped from an execution squad. Lucy and did not discuss the flight because we both were painfully aware that we had to return to Cuzco. But I knew what she didn’t know: that my return would not be on a plane.

That evening we went to see Alfred Hitchcock’s, “The Birds.” In the middle of the movie Lucy, who had been relatively calm during that wretched flight, suddenly became ill and we had to leave. She was having a delayed reaction, whereas I, who had nearly whooped and hollered throughout the flight, was perfectly fine. The next day I called our director in Cuzco and told him about the flight. I said we were making train reservations, but some of the passes the train had to cross were closed due to snow, and I frankly didn’t know when we would get back to Cuzco. I told him that we might have to stay in Buenos Aires till spring.

Buenos Aires was a gorgeous city. It looked exactly the way I imagined European cities looked. Here was the home of the famed Argentine gauchos (cowboys), pampas (prairies), incredible beef, and the tango. There were lovely boutiques, fine wines, wide boulevards, and the stunning Casa Rosada, The Pink House, the equivalent of The White House. I could have lived there happily until spring or until our money ran out.

We strolled down the world’s widest avenue, Nueve de Julio, with its centered Obelisk that resembles the Washington Monument. We bought souvenirs such as mate (an herbal tea) cups trimmed in silver, along with a matching silver spoon/straw, some inexpensive leather goods, including a leather stationery case with the map of Latin America on the cover. What better place to hunker down until spring? I bought tons of souvenirs, my plane and train tickets, hotel rooms, food, etc. and I only spent a grand total of $250! We took a fabulous five-day train trip from Buenos Aires to Cochabamba, Bolivia. We played cards, chatted with fellow travelers, ate, and napped. We were just going to overnight in La Paz. What a mistake that was!

****

H O T N E W S!! PORNCHAI MOONTRI AND THE ART OF MODEL SHIPBUILDING

2010-09-10T13:37:00.009-04:00

PORNCHAI MOONTRI - "Come, Sail Away! Pornchai Moontri and the Art of Model Shipbuilding"

To see exquisitely carved model ships handcrafted by my talented Godson, Pornchai Moontri, go to

http://www.thesestonewalls.com/gordon-macrae/come-sail-away-pornchai-moontri-and-the-art-of-model-shipbuilding/

... and be amazed!! He is incredibly talented! Go now!

ZANZIBAR

2010-09-07T17:46:00.000-04:00

ZANZIBAR

Unity among the cattle makes the lion lie down hungry.
Swahili

Zanzibar was the place I ran to when I tired of Dar es Salaam. How I loved that spice island. The first time visited, I flew over on a Fokker Friendship, a tiny plane that held about 14 people. I expected to smell cloves the moment I stepped off the plane. I never did smell cloves, despite this island being the home of cloves. Zanzibar was calming and luscious in an enchanting, old, quaint manner. The people were beautiful and stately, kind and welcoming, and I adored the old, exquisitely carved wooden doors that adorned buildings. I close my eyes and I see old courtyards shuttered by those elaborately carved doors. The island is also known for its ornately carved, wooden chests that range from miniature boxes to larger chests for linens or a trousseau, all done by master carvers who inherited their skills from their forefathers.

This island was once a nation, a tiny one, but still a nation. It thrived and was a wealthy island. Its people are beautiful blends of the African women of Zanzibar, and the Arab sultans who ruled. Zanzibar is also the site of bloody massacres.The more peaceful a place, it seems to me, the bloodier its history. The kinder the people are, the more fire they have come through. Zanzibar and Haiti are two examples of nations whose history is written in blood, and yet both have incredibly gracious, and welcoming people.

Zanzibar was always wealthier than the mainland of Tanganyika, and considerably more modern. It had a thriving television station and those who could afford televisions had them. When the two countries joined and became Tanzania, television remained forbidden on the mainland. President Julius Nyerere said television would never be permitted on the mainland until everybody could afford one.

Once, instead of the 20-minute flight on a Fokker Friendship plane, or 17 minutes on the newly acquired jets, I decided to take a leisurely boat trip over to the island. The trip took four hours. There were hundreds of people on the ship. I napped and read in my cabin until we arrived. After we docked I left my cabin. The women were lined up on one side of the door leading to the gangplank, and men lined the other side. I noticed only the line of men was moving. The women began pushing to get off. To my horror the men pushed them right back. I looked around but could see no ship attendants to maintain order. There were more men than women and that indicated that we would be the last off the ship. One of our Fulbright professors was waiting for me at the dock, and I knew he thought – as did I - that a diplomat would be among the first off. It was not going to happen that day. Diplomat or no, I got in line with the rest of the women and let myself be jostled and pushed as they were. I resented the fact that the ship’s crew were nowhere in sight, and I was furious that the men had so little regard for the women.

When I finally reached the deck I saw that the gangplank went straight down instead of sloping onto the dock. A young American man tried to help me off. He said the gangplank was the one used for cattle. Somehow the ship crew was unable to “find” the gangplank for humans. Women were falling into the water as the men pushed them out of their way. The women tried desperately to hang onto their belongings. It was a scene from hell. It was as if somebody had yelled, “Fire!” The young man stayed behind me to try to keep me from being pushed and pummeled, but when I reached the gangplank I balked at going down. I knew I would fall into the water. He was encouraging me to go down, but I was too scared. I needed space before venturing down that gangplank. When I hesitated, I was immediately shoved aside.

My new friend managed to get off, and stood on the dock yelling at me to throw my huge handbag so that I could use both hands to help myself disembark. I did not want to throw my handbag to a total stranger. I didn’t know his name or anything about him. In my purse were my passport, money, my diplomatic carnet (I.D. card) from the Tanzanian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and I was going to hang onto it no matter what else happened.

I tried putting my handbag around my neck, but it almost choked me because it was so heavy. I also had an overnight bag, but he never asked me to throw that. All around me women were screaming and pushing and being pushed. The men wanted the women to get out of their way. The young man continued trying to coax me down the cattle ramp, but my feet were unable to get the leverage I needed to go down the ramp. Finally, I saw him leaving the dock.

I tried to plant my feet and maintain a stance to prepare to go down the gangplank. I had to push people away from me, and finally I was able to make the dangerous trek down and onto the dock. I wore a dress that had tiny buttons down the front. I never unbuttoned it all the way because there were about 40 buttons. When I got off the ship I looked down, and every button was undone. My dress stood wide open. It took a lot of rubbing, gyrating, and twisting to get 40 buttons undone, but undone they were. And so was I! I was hot, sweaty, and looked as if I had come through a battle, which I had. I calmly put my overnight bag down and continuing to hang onto my purse, managed to button every single damned button on that dress that I never wore again.

It had taken me over an hour to disembark, and the Fulbright professor had left the dock, assuming that I was not on the ship since I was not among the first to get off. I took a taxi to my hotel and immediately made arrangements to return to Dar es Salaam via plane. I had had enough of Tanzanian ships.

The Zanzibaris are warm and outgoing. Fatma was a dear friend who was a curator at the museum in Zanzibar. Periodically she would come to the mainland and spend a week or longer with me. She was a wonderful cook, and she loved cooking. Before she returned to Zanzibar, she always prepared food for me to freeze and have after she left. She told me once that “security people” in Zanzibar had warned her that she should not become too friendly with Americans. I told her not to endanger herself. She pooh-poohed the idea that there was any danger and continued visiting me.

In December of 1979, Fatma came to spend Christmas with me. Fatma was Muslim, and I suppose she wanted to see how Christians celebrated the birth of Christ. I had also invited an elderly American woman, Ruby, a professor from Temple University who had been staying at the dingy YWCA, and who came into my office to get some information. I could not see her remaining in that dingy YWCA over the holidays, and I invited her to move into my residence. After all, I had four bedrooms and four baths. I welcomed the company. The three of us were invited to the homes of embassy families, and I hosted a big Christmas party with dancing. The three of us laughed a lot, and had a wonderful time. I went off to Mass on Christmas Day after leaving tiny presents for my two guests. We were invited to the home of the USAID Director for a traditional Christmas Dinner. Everyone made Fatma and Ruby feel welcomed, and I felt especially blessed in having such delightful houseguests at Christmastime.

{Note: In 1985 I was back on assignment in Washington, DC when I had a telephone call from Fatma. She was working at the Tanzanian Embassy in London as a Foreign Service Officer. It was wonderful hearing from her. We talked about visiting each other soon. Later, she wrote that she had been diagnosed with cancer, and within a few months I learned that she had died. I was devastated. I will always remember her laughter and the fun we had together. Religion was never a factor in our friendship because we respected each other’s religion. Why can’t the rest of the world be as accepting as Fatma and I were of each other? I treasure her friendship, and I miss her terribly.}

MEETING UNCLE MICHAEL

2010-08-04T23:04:00.000-04:00

MEETING UNCLE MICHAEL
by Ebony B. Duline (a miniature poodle and adorable)

The first time I met Uncle Michael I wasn’t too impressed with him. If truth be told, I wasn’t impressed at all. He and Auntie Queen rushed in one Friday afternoon from Washington, D.C. A lot of other things had been going on in our house and I knew it had to do with Granny Bertha. My mommy was crying and people were coming in and out and I was all but forgotten…until they left at night, and then my mommy cuddled and talked to me.

When the DC-ites arrived they all ran over to Granny Bertha’s apartment and brought back some things. The next day they spent all day over there and when they came back, they were chattering about how hard Uncle Michael worked and what he had accomplished. Hey, what a big word for a little person like me! Mommy always says I’m my own little person, so I guess that means I’m a person. I still wasn’t impressed with Mikey as I thought of him. He seemed preoccupied and all but ignored me. Auntie Queen was sweet, but even so, I could tell that she was not real crazy about me. My attitude was that they could head back to Washington, and the sooner the better.

The three of them came in long enough to shower and change clothes, have a glass of wine……and, oh, that’s another thing. That Mikey was slurping down anything liquid! Mommy had bought him a six pack of some foreign beer. He swallowed that down like it was water and was looking for some more. She seemed surprised that the six pack was not going to last until Sunday. Mikey then looked around and began drinking wine. He could drink and he never got drunk!

Mommy gave me a quick walk – emphasis on quick! – and they were off to dinner at Granny Gladys’ and Grandpa Dougie’s. And why didn’t they take me? That is my question! I had been to my grandparent’s home before. But oh, no, they left me home alone. I had time to think about this visit and my thoughts were not nice!

It wasn’t enough that Mommy gave Auntie Queen the master, oops, the mistress’ suite while we slept in the library as she loves calling that little hole. I call it the black hole of Calcutta cause all you can see is books and magazines piled on top of more books and magazines. A computer sticks up out of the chaos. And that was where I had to sleep while Auntie Queen lolled in MY suite. I was loath to understand why I had to give up my bed just cause Mommy wanted Qwenie to be comfy. So there Mommy and me were stuffed in the library for two nights. There was hardly room for me to turn my ass-sets around. The sofa bed took up all of the space. So, I was not too happy about the sleeping arrangements. Plus, I had been alone all day and now they were going out for half the night.

The next morning Mikey said he would take me walking. Humph. I didn’t want him taking me anywhere. He’d barely said hello to me in two days, and now he wanted to take me walking. What an experience that would be! Mommy was so happy that she didn’t have to change out of her nightgown and take me out. She could get breakfast started. I wasn’t happy worth a dime.

Off I went with Mr. Mikey! He chatted as we walked and I ignored him. I did my bidness and told him to take me home. I led the way. He didn’t know anything about walking me. I wanted my mommy to walk me.
When we got back home, Mikey went into the guest bathroom to wash his hands. Mommy was in the kitchen rattling pots and pans. I decided it was time to let everybody know what I thought of the way I was being treated. I got in the middle of the living room floor. I squatted and I peed and peed just as Mikey walked in, and at the same time Mommy came out of the kitchen. My timing was impeccable! There’s another one of those big words that I know! Mommy shrieked, “Ebony, what are you doing?!” She could see that I was peeing. Mikey yelled, “What a nasty, disgusting little dog!” I was gonna show him disgusting!

Mommy asked Mikey what I did outside. He said I did everything. Neither of them knew then that we doggie persons don’t let out all of our urine at once. We always save some in case we come across a spot that needs to be marked. And the living room definitely needed to be marked as MY territory and not Mikey’s! Mikey retreated to his room in disgust. Mommy’s face looked like a thundercloud. She was hotter than a firecracker as Uncle Rabbit used to say. She grabbed paper towels, stain remover, rubber gloves, and I ran into the library and out of sight. I could hear her talking out loud, and I was pretty certain she had not learned those words in Sunday school. Later, I heard her telling Mikey and Qwenie that Granny Bertha’s death and all the excitement caused by that probably caused me to act out. I really wanted to get into Mikey’s room to pee on his suitcase or on his clothes, or worse. But I never got the opportunity. I wanted to make another statement.

Finally that afternoon the limo arrived to take those DC characters back to the airport. When they said goodbye to me, I replied, “Good riddance.” They didn’t speak my language, but I think they got the message. When Mommy returned from the airport it was just the two of us again. I cuddled up to her and all was forgiven. What a good doggie I am!

***

Death of a Priest (Summer Re-run) by Charlene C. Duline

2010-07-13T22:12:00.000-04:00

GOD LOVES YOU AND YOU ARE HIS

I am strength for all the despairing, healing for the ones who dwell in shame…
- David Haas *

In January I journeyed to New Mexico to attend a Memorial Mass for a priest who died in prison. His name will be omitted here because of his family’s concerns about hate groups. Father was the first incarcerated priest to write to me when I reached out to ask how priests were being treated in prison. He never asked for sympathy. He was forthright about his imprisonment, other inmates, and he answered all of my questions. We wrote regularly to each other as friends until his death late last year.

Father died in November but we didn’t learn of his death until mid-December when a priest friend of his went to the prison to visit him. He walked out of the prison in shock and numb. He telephoned me as he sat in a nearby park and we cried together as we mourned the death of our friend.

I will come to you in the silence
I will lift you from all your fear

In January this priest arranged for a Memorial Mass to be held for Father in New Mexico. On January 28, 2009, four noble priests of the order of Melchizedek concelebrated a Mass for Father. Also present were three women there to honor a man and a priest who had been so vilified. Due to the past negligence of the diocese in New Mexico, we concluded that permission to have a Mass said for Father in a Catholic Church would have been refused, so the Mass was held at another location. Those present came from California, Texas, New Mexico and Indiana.

The readings for that day spoke of priests and seeds planted and nourished, as we remembered Father's joy in the small garden he planted and tended. On the altar were flowers and a framed watercolor painted by Father, a gifted artist. Our Mass cards featured an exquisite water color painting done by him. Some letters written to us by him were laid at the base of the "altar." Those letters spoke of his dark night of the soul, his love of his priesthood and his faith, his angst over his sins, his search for forgiveness, and his acceptance of his punishment. Pain hung heavy in that room. One celebrant asked if a man should be remembered for the worst thing he ever did and no thought be given to the good things he did. We remembered Father for his priestly ministry that he tried hard to live.

You will hear My voice
I claim you as My choice

As we prayed and sang, I felt like the early Christians must have felt when they met in secret in the catacombs. Twice I heard loud sounds from somewhere in the building and I wondered if our Mass was going to be disrupted by hateful factions. After Mass the seven of us went to the cemetery to visit Father’s grave where we placed flowers, prayed, and sang. Each of us knelt for a moment and touched his grave. We were not able to be with Father when he died, but we were with him that day, and he was certainly with each one of us.

I am hope for all who are hopeless
I am eyes for all who long to see

This priest’s suffering went beyond his prison sentence. His talented fingers were broken once when he refused to give an inmate some of his artwork. On a visit to a doctor, his ankles and legs were shackled so tightly that the doctor was unable to examine him and complained to the warden. He was never taken back to the doctor. Instead, every morning he was given an aspirin and some “lotion” for his legs. Nobody in the diocese cared enough to check on him, despite phone calls asking them to do so.

In the shadows of the night,
I will be your light

In his final days, a guard put him in solitary for a trumped-up charge. He was supposed to be there for two days, but he was “forgotten” and left there for two weeks. There were apologies, but at that point Father had lost his will to live.

Come and rest in Me

On November 13, Father wrote what would be his last letter to the priest who visited him monthly. In the letter he indicated that he had made funeral arrangements because, “I feared the New Mexico prison system will treat my dead body with the same disrespect with which they have treated my living body.” He died of a broken heart. He is buried in a plot donated by an order of nuns.

Do not be afraid, I am with you
I have called you each by name

There is no doubt in my mind that this wounded priest is in heaven with our Lord.

In Psalms 85 we are told that – “Love and truth will meet; justice and peace will kiss.” I pray that it will happen during our lifetime.

I will bring you home
I love you and you are Mine.

Fr. Gordon J. MacRae: A Curious Case

2010-06-20T19:51:00.004-04:00

Fr. Gordon J. MacRae: A Curious Case
by Charlene C. Duline

Precious Lord, take my hand

Thus ends the Year of the Priest. It might also signal the end of the priesthood as we know it. The terrible tar brush of sexual abuse accusations dating from 50 years ago now touches every priest in the United States. Every diocesan priest now is aware that he is only one phone call away from having his priesthood destroyed. One phone call away from being a respected priest and spiritual adviser to his parishioners, to being looked upon as a pervert operating as a priest in order to molest children. Every diocesan priest knows that he is on his own; there is no support from his bishop.

A good example of this is the curious case of Fr. Gordon MacRae, a priest of the Diocese of Manchester in New Hampshire. When Fr. MacRae was accused, his bishop offered to help fund his legal expenses. It is the rare diocesan priest who has the money to pay for a legal defense. Fr. MacRae accepted his offer. That was the last he heard of the offer. Not one word of help or hope has been issued from his diocese since. His accusers were paid $700,000 and a good priest went to prison for, in effect, the rest of his life. The betrayals continued.

Lead me on, let me stand

Fr. MacRae never stood a chance. During his trial, the judge, Arthur Brennan, apparently had decided that the defendant was guilty and needed to be made an example for others. He instructed the jury to disregard the multitude of inconsistencies in the testimony of the accuser; refused to allow Fr. MacRae and his attorney access to the accuser’s juvenile and adult criminal records, and ignored signals given to the accuser from a witness in the courtroom. The prosecutor was running for a state office, and the conviction of Fr. MacRae was a very public notch on his belt. Between the judge and the prosecutor, it was a match made in hell.

The judge castigated Fr. MacRae for maintaining his innocence, and he also had extremely harsh words for Fr. MacRae’s canon lawyer who testified on Fr. MacRae’s behalf. Furious with Fr. MacRae for insisting that he was innocent, the judge sentenced Fr. MacRae to 33 ½ - 67 yrs for crimes that never happened. Later his accusers said they had been assured that Fr. MacRae would take the plea bargain offered to him, and he would be out of prison in one or two years. Their twisted minds could not fathom that someone with the religious convictions of Fr. MacRae would not succumb to such an offer. They might have been sorry that Fr. MacRae went to prison for the rest of his life, but apparently they were not sorry enough to return the money they obtained fraudulently. Be that as it may, Fr. MacRae knows that he will be delivered one way or another, for didn’t God deliver Daniel from the lions’ den, and David from Goliath, and Jonah from the belly of the whale? Fr. MacRae's faith is what keeps him strong, decisive, brilliant and priestly.

Through the storm, through the night…

When this good priest went to prison, he was greeted by the usual welcoming party reserved for those accused of molesting children: late at night three hooded men came into his cell armed with broomsticks, and beat and kicked him mercilessly. He woke up in the prison’s infirmary where he spent several days recovering from his injuries. From the infirmary he was sent to the “hole,” solitary confinement, for several months. What was he guilty of you ask? He was guilty of being a high profile prisoner, and that made his attackers almost kill him. It was all his fault that he was brutally beaten, and for that he went to solitary for months. Now 16 years later the results of those injuries are manifesting themselves. Fr. MacRae is in constant pain from two collapsed disks in the fourth and fifth vertebrae, highly likely to have been caused by the beating delivered that terrible night so long ago. He says it is unlikely that the prison officials will allow him to have an MRI to determine the extent of his back damage because of the expense. For now, Fr. MacRae is given an over-the-counter pain medication which does nothing to begin to mask the pain, he says. It is becoming increasingly difficult for him to turn his head or to sit for hours on a plastic bucket typing letters or his blog.

I’m tired. I’m weak. I’m worn …

Medical treatment in prison is neither a given, nor is it a right. No matter how sick an inmate is, he has to line up for hours, and hope to see a nurse or someone who has read a first-aid manual. Then, and only then, if that first-aid manual graduate decides the inmate doesn’t need to see a doctor, he won’t see a doctor. Not long ago, one New Hampshire lawmaker proposed hiring veterinarians instead of medical doctors to look after prisoners’ medical needs. His attitude was that prisoners are only slightly above animals, so why shouldn’t they have a veterinarian to look after them, and it would be cheaper. Fortunately his fellow lawmakers did not agree with him.

Fr. MacRae, this priest, this holy man, this noble person, offered to withdraw his defense and remain silent in prison for the rest of his life if his bishop asked him to do so for the good of the Church. “Bishop McCormack later told me that he considered my overture.” The bishop CONSIDERED asking Fr. MacRae to sit quietly in prison for the rest of his life without attempting to save himself, even though the bishop said he knew Fr. MacRae was innocent? That is absolutely unfathomable to me. I’d like to shake both of them - the one for even considering that idiotic notion of staying in prison in order not to embarrass the Church, and the other one for considering such an asinine offer to save his hide. Dear God, forgive me, I just cannot believe You would allow such cruelty, such inconsiderateness, such stupidity to reign in the name of Your Church. What does go on in the minds of men?

Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home …

The traditional day of ordination in my Archdiocese is the first Saturday in June. This year there were no men kneeling before the Archbishop for the powerful words ordaining them to the priesthood. Will this change next year? On one hand, we lament this dearth of seminarians. On the other hand, one has to wonder who in his right mind would want to join the number of priests being cast asunder.

Consider the numbers of good priests who proselytize by their very being, who are loved by their parishioners, who work tirelessly, and only during the dark, lonely nights let down their guard and tell our Lord of their struggles. Think how incredibly difficult is for our priests to represent our Church while fearing the wrath of the heathen, and even the wrath of some of their parishioners? One priest said to me, “I now shake hands with the altar servers (the children) and I hug the adults.” He thought that was safe, and so did I at the time. But now I realize that it’s not so safe - God forbid that his hug should accidentally touch a woman’s breast. If she’s a certain type of woman, she’ll be on her way to SNAP and our Archdiocese will be held up by some grubby attorney for millions of dollars. No, our dear priests are not safe anyplace, especially in Church.

Hear my cry, hear my call

I know that our Lord forgave sinners and preached love, compassion and forgiveness. So far, I have heard NONE of that directed to priests in prison. All the rhetoric is about the “victims.” Well, many years ago I was a victim, and nobody has ever apologized to me; nobody has ever thrown any money at me; nobody knows what I still suffer. So, who do I take to court? Is there a Diocese out there with money it can’t give away fast enough, and some attorney who makes his living by suing the Catholic Church, who could help me get some of that money? I could certainly use it for incarcerated priests - to purchase books, magazine and newspaper subscriptions, money for commissary items, money for telephone calls, for postage stamps, for toilet tissue, for shaving cream, shoes, craft projects, etc.

Hold my hand lest I fall …

As for Fr. MacRae, in prison he is saving souls and converting inmates solely by his own example. Those around him feel his spirituality even before they learn that he is a priest. The toughest of the tough hang out at his cell. One precious soul sits in a corner in the cell that Fr. MacRae shares with Pornchai, my Godson, and watches television. Skooter has a cell now that he shares with another inmate, but he prefers to sit on the floor in a corner in the cell of this holy man. Inmates stand in the cell and outside the cell asking for Fr. MacRae’s help with any and everything. His patience is unlimited. He turns no one away. He is amazing. As the song goes: “ … more than amazing, more than marvelous; more than miraculous could ever be …** that’s what Fr. MacRae is to those who live with him, to those who know and love him. His is indeed a curious case that gets “Curiouser and curiouser!”

Read it for yourself: www.TheseStoneWalls.com.

Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home*

*Written by Thomas A. Dorsey
** Sandi Patty

THANK YOU, BRITTANY!

2010-05-26T19:40:00.000-04:00

Thanks to a very special snake, a ball python named Brittany, I no longer throw across the room magazines with pictures of snakes, or feel repulsed at the sight of snakes. Indeed, I actually cuddled Brittany and other snakes at the zoo where I volunteered, and loved every minute of it. These amazing and adorable ambassadors of their species have undoubtedly helped to change attitudes of many who have met them. It was a special privilege to work with them. At the zoo, an adoring public can touch an exotic animal, learn what it eats in the wild versus its zoo diet, learn how it reacts when confronted with danger, its reproduction cycle, and other interesting facts. My greatest joy was introducing a critter to a child. Innocence meets innocence and a connection is made. Thus, children grow up knowing that animals are precious beings whose care and protection has been entrusted to mankind, and that animals are to be respected and loved, not hurt.

Being an volunteer animal handler was an invaluable learning experience. I handled animals I had never heard of, i.e., blue-tongued skinks, leopard geckos, bearded dragons, radiated tortoises and chinchillas, among others. I enjoyed working with all of the animals, but I was proudest of myself for overcoming my fear of snakes.

I remember the day I picked up our daily newspaper and read that the zoo needed volunteer animal handlers. Fantastic, I thought! That was me! I promptly showed up at the zoo and told the volunteer director that I loooooved ALL animals except snakes! I stopped short of telling her my REAL feeling: that all snakes should be rounded up and set on fire! And my ears were closed to the arguments that snakes had a place in the environment. They certainly had no place in my environment! When she said I would have to work with snakes as well as the other program animals, she might as well have said I would have to work with the devil himself.
I shook my head and sadly said, “I can never touch a snake.”
She smiled and replied, “Oh, yes you can, and you will come to love them.”
I thought the woman had lost her mind! Love and snakes was an oxymoron! It seemed that my animal handling was over before it began. The woman extolled the virtues of snakes. My mind closed down. Nothing good could ever be said about snakes. She asked me to give it a try. I joined the training class and tried not to think of the session when we would meet the reptiles.

Our first training session taught us about the cuddly animals we would work with. We met the cute, furry critters: ferrets, chinchillas, rabbits and guinea pigs. It was a heavenly experience. Our training continued with parrots, nun pigeons, and the like. And then came the night we were to come face to face with – shudder - reptiles.
I talked to St. Francis at length. I have always prayed that I could be like St. Francis and walk among wild animals without fear, to be able to talk to them and to have them listen to me. In fact, I tried to talk to birds, butterflies and a few stray cats, but they were far too busy to stop to listen to me. I wondered how on earth St. Francis ever got wolves and adders still long enough to listen to him. Now, I was closer to realizing my dream of being like St. Francis, and the only thing that could stop it was a snake. I asked my family and friends to pray that I would not throw the snake one way and run the other way. I knew that definitely would be the end of my animal handling career. By the time that evening arrived, I was crazed with fear! I thought mean and evil thoughts about snakes. Why, oh why, would anyone want to see one, to touch one, or to listen to anything about a snake? I had no answers.

Several people were absent from our class that evening and there were snickers that they were afraid of snakes. I swallowed hard, and concentrated on not trembling. The first animal was a leopard gecko, a type of lizard with leopard coloring. He was tiny, beautiful, and fit right in my hand. The bearded dragon was awesome and gentle. I was in love. The next critter was a blue-tongued skink from Australia. He was awesome. He cuddled right up to me. When I put him away, our trainer said, “Charlene, you have just handled a snake with feet.”
I replied, “Yes, but those feet make all the difference in the world!"

And then the trainer brought out a cloth bag knotted at the top. She carefully rolled the top down, reached in and pulled out a snake. I gulped, shut my eyes briefly, took a deep breath and said a little prayer. This was it. This is where the animal handlers are separated from the would-be-animal handlers. The snake was a ball python named Brittany. She was about four feet long. There was no getting around it, she was a snake. I have never been more afraid of anything else in my life! She was passed from hand to hand so that everyone could get a feel – pardon the pun - for her. I announced that I would be the last to hold her. Much later I realized that being the last person to handle Brittany could have been a mistake. She might have tired of being handed around. I barely noticed the reactions of the other volunteers; I was concentrating on the snake. And then she was placed in my outstretched hands. She had worked herself into a huge bow with her face in the middle. She was very still. She looked at me as if she knew that I was terrified.
Barely breathing, I said, “Hi, Brittany. Ooh, you are being so good. You’re not moving.”
And something passed between us that let me know I had nothing to fear from her. She had the sweetest, dearest little face. Snakes I had seen in magazines and on television had evil faces, and looked positively wicked. But not Brittany. Her face exuded gentleness and goodness. I knew without knowing how that she would not harm me. Brittany and I bonded! People guffaw when I say this, but it’s so true. And then she began moving and I handed her to the instructor. After our training ended, I went in several times and worked with the instructor and Brittany. I learned that snakes feel their surroundings with their tongue. I learned to let Brittany do that to me. I stood very still and as she flicked her tongue over my arms and hands and I became quite comfortable with her.

For our final exam each volunteer had to go into a different room and handle and talk about the animal in that room. I did fine with most of them. The chinchilla got away from me when I was putting him back in his carrying case. The instructor and I ran around the office trying to catch him. I was thankful that we were not out in a park! The last room I walked into contained a pillowcase tied at the top. I knew a snake was in there. I prayed tht it was Brittany, but I couldn’t be sure. I looked at the bag and I looked at the tester. If Brittany was in the bag I knew I would be fine, but if another snake was in there, I didn’t know what I would do. I began shaking. I was not ready to handle another snake – I only felt safe with Brittany. I knew the snakes were not vicious and they were not poisonous. None of that mattered. I did not want to come face to face with some strange snake. I had only been introduced to Brittany and I only wanted to see Brittany. I was terrified. I began visibly shaking. I was scared and disappointed in myself, and then the tears began to flow. I knew my dearest dream of working with animals was ended because I could not open that bag. I timidly asked if Brittany was in the bag. The tester said he could not tell me. I was paralyzed. There was no way I was going to open that bag. I stood staring at the bag, and he waited. Finally he asked me to tell him about Brittany and I did. I knew all about ball pythons and why they were called that, what they ate in the wild and what they ate at the zoo and on and on. I could barely talk. I was so upset and I could not take my eyes off the bag. I wanted to get out of that room before whatever was in the bag got out of the bag. I finished and fled. I returned to the instructor’s office feeling very dejected and disappointed in myself. There was just no way I oculd open that bag and no way could I handle any snake other than Brittany. I learned that Brittany had been in the bag. The instructor comforted me by saying that I was too hard on myself and she insisted that I would be a wonderful volunteer who would come to love snakes. She was partly right; I was a good volunteer, and while I enjoyed working with all of the snakes, the ball pythons were always my favorites.

And then I met our other program snakes: corn snakes, milk snakes, the majestic king snake and later, the most awesome snake ever, Bob, a huge ball python who was a gentle giant. Bob was extremely heavy and when I took him out to do a program, I could only hold him for so long. He was an awesome snake, and he was so laid back. I enjoyed taking Bob out to meet people. Not too many wanted to meet him, but he seemed to look forward to meeting them.

We were taught to watch for signs of stress in all of our animals. If too many people surrounded an animal, or if too many people tried to touch it at once, it could become stressed, and it might bite its handler. None of the volunteers was ever bitten. The reptiles, like our other program animals, did not seem to mind being touched and rubbed by children and adults alike. Most people think snakes are cold and slimy. In fact, they feel like a basketball and they are not slimy at all, as many people learned. It was such a joy to present to an admiring public the wonderful, fascinating, wild creatures who share our world. I felt blessed and privileged that these animal ambassadors trusted me to be gentle with them, and to introduce them to the public.

The Bible tells us that when peace and justice prevail, the wolf will be the guest of the lamb, instead of the lamb being the dinner of the wolf; the leopard will nap with the goat, and the baby calf and the baby lion will graze together. The cow and the bear will be neighbors. A baby will play happily beside the cobra's den. And no harm will come to any of them. What a glorious day. I will caress the mane of a majestic lion; tickle the tummy of a black bear; walk on ice with a polar bear and her cub, knowing that they will take care of me. I'll rub the tusk of a rhino, admire the ivory teeth of a hippo, and talk to an anaconda snake about his life in the rain forest. I'll caress the chin of a majestic elephant, and cuddle her baby; kneel down to chat with a gigantic tortoise, and each of us will understand the other's language.

Imagine the joy of St. Francis who had the amazing ability to speak to animals about God, and they listened! He spoke to the birds, and wolves, and other wild things. They never harmed him. What a gift God gave to St. Frances. Oh, that I could come close to having a small part of that same gift. And in some ways, my request has been granted.

When the first African elephant conceived through artificial insemination was born in the Indy zoo, I was among the volunteers privileged to meet her when she was about three months old. She was adorable. She and her mother were in their exercise yard. Amali greeted each of us. She kept coming over to the fence to me and I put my fingers through to rub her little trunk. She was like all babies, curious, extremely sociable, and mama Kubwa was content to see her baby having a great time with humans who obviously adored her. Animals feel love.

When we received our three white rhinos from South Africa, volunteers were allowed to meet them early on. My first question was, “Can we pet them?” “Yes,” was the reply! I was in heaven. I could pet a rhino. Well, they had had a mud bath the day before and the mud was caked on them. It was like petting a Mack truck! I doubt that they even felt the petting. It was weird to pet an animal whose skin you could not feel. I only felt that thick coating of mud. I didn’t feel that I was petting an animal, but it was still a treat to be up close and personal with rhinos.

My hat is off to all the awesome creatures that allowed me to introduce them to their public, but especially to Brittany for taking away my terrible fear and loathing of snakes, for which I will always be grateful. Thank you, Brittany!

EBONY: THE DAY I CRIED

2010-04-19T19:40:00.001-04:00

EBONY: THE DAY I CRIED

On the last day of my life I watched my mommy get out of bed. She came over to my little bed, smiled and said, “Good morning, Ebbie. How’s my baby?”

I said in my own way, “Not good, but I won’t let you know it. I’m tired and I hurt, but I don’t want you to worry.”

As we went out for our morning walk I stopped and peed a tiny bit on the welcome mat outside our door. Mommy looked at me, but didn’t say anything. She knew my kidneys were very weak now and nothing I did these days seemed to bother her. Rather, I know it bothered her, but she hid it well.

Outside I tried to walk normally, but my hip hurt. I hurt all over. I tried to have a bowel movement, but nothing came out. I strained and strained.

Mommy said, “Maybe later today you’ll have one.”

I hung my head. She tried to be so optimistic, but I knew my end was near. Back at home she called my doctor and told him I must be constipated because I had not had a movement for three days. I lay in my bed and watched and listened. She was looking at me, and suddenly her eyes filled with tears. Then the tears poured down her face and she turned away from me. I could hear plain as day the vet’s voice:
“It’s time to let Ebony go. You’ve done all you can do, and more than most. Let her have peace.”

Mommy spoke a few more words and hung up. We gazed at each other and we both thought of our twelve years together. She sat on the bed crying. I always went to her when she cried, but today I was not able to.

After a few minutes Mommy called Mary, a friend who lived nearby, and asked her to take us to the vet. She wrapped me in my baby blanket given to me by Granny Bertha when she presented me to Mommy on her birthday twelve years ago. Mommy carried me out of our little apartment for the last time. She held me tightly and talked to me as Mary drove. She told me how much she loved me. She thanked me for being her daughter. I wanted to thank her for being a wonderful mommy. I hoped she felt my tiny heart thanking her. She also said I would be happy and healthy and I was going to heaven to play with Granny Bertha, who would be so happy to see me.

She said, “Ebony, thank you for being a beautiful, loving and protective little daughter. I will never forget you.”

I could feel Mary’s nervousness as she drove through the busy streets to my vet. When we arrived and Mommy opened the car door to get out, Mary must have said something because Mommy replied, “She can’t hear you.”

Mary then touched me gently and I turned to look at her.

She said, “Goodbye, Ebony.”

I tried to give her a smile.

Outside the car Mommy put me on the grass as she always did so that I could pee. I squatted and I could not get up. Mommy waited and then she seemed to realize that I could not straighten up. She wrapped me in my blanket and we went inside. A woman was standing at the desk apparently waiting for the technicians to bring out her dog. She began smiling when she saw me, but then she saw the tears streaming down Mommy’s face and her smile disappeared. Lynette and Valerie were at the desk. They were somber today, not jovial as they usually were. Nobody said anything.

Lynette looked down at the desk. Valerie came toward us and opened a door into an examining room and Mommy carried me inside. Mommy laid me on the table and Valerie asked some questions. Mommy just nodded; she couldn’t stop crying. I knew this visit was different. I knew this was the end. Mommy signed some papers and came back to me. She leaned down, kissed me and told me she loved me.

Valerie gently gathered me in her arms and said Dr. Hurd was waiting for me. She hugged Mommy. Mommy turned to leave. I don’t think she could see because of the tears. She found the door knob and left the room. Valerie stood for a moment and I heard the woman who had smiled at me ask Mommy if she could give her a hug. I didn’t hear Mommy’s reply, but I’m sure that she nodded. In my mind’s eye I saw the woman envelop Mommy in a huge hug. I then heard Mary come into the office asking Mommy if she was OK.

Mommy didn’t speak, probably because she couldn’t speak. Her mind and her heart were still with me, the little daughter she would no longer be taking home.

Valerie took me to Dr. Hurd, who was waiting for me. I heard his soothing voice say, “Ebony, you won’t hurt anymore.” He gave me an injection.

I closed my eyes and my last thoughts were of my loving Mommy and what she would do without me. We loved each other so much. I didn’t want to leave her, but I couldn’t help it.

And for the first time in my doggie life, I cried.

THE GENTLEMANLY MOUSE

2010-03-22T13:02:00.000-04:00

A few years ago I lived in a high-rise condominium in Washington, DC. I arrived home one evening in November, walked into my bedroom, opened the closet door and out ran a mouse. As I watched, he ran under my bed. I did not jump and scream because I am not afraid of mice, but I knew he could not live there with me. I called the desk and raved that I had a mouse in my sixth floor apartment. A maintenance man was sent up, but Mouse was nowhere to be found. The maintenance guy put some glue traps in my closet, bedroom and the kitchen.

After he left, I fumed. I was NOT going to live with mice in my apartment. I wondered how many more were around. I peeped under beds and sofas, and moved baskets and sculptures looking for the mouse. I had no idea what I would do if I found him, but I was determined that he would have no peace in my home.

A few nights later I was awakened in the middle of the night to the sound of paper rattling. When I sat up in bed the sound ceased. I laid back down and it began again. When I moved the noise ceased; when I lay still the crunching continued. I got up, got the flashlight and searched under the bed. Nothing. I knew it had to be Mouse but where was he? The rattle of paper sounded so near. A few days later when I went into the linen closet next to my bedroom to get out some gift wrap, I saw that Mouse had been busy munching on tissue paper and gift wrap. I wanted to strangle him.

I could just imagine him and his family living behind the range. Someone suggested that perhaps Mouse got in through a hole behind the gas range. When the range was pulled out we found that the hole in the wall was stuffed with steel wool, and there were no signs of mice. Everyday I checked the glue traps. I hoped against hope that nothing would be attached, certainly not a mouse. Yet I wanted Mouse gone. I was more afraid of dead mice than live ones.

On a cold, dreary Thanksgiving morning I got up feeling blessed. I planned to serve dinner at a home for battered women. And then I walked into the living room. Mouse had left me presents. He had used the back of my white sofa as his own private indoor outhouse. I vibrated with anger. Mouse had also left droppings along the top of the white drapes as if to decorate them. I spent the rest of the morning cleaning the sofa and drapes, and, oh yes, cursing. I was distraught. Mouse wisely stayed out of sight. That did it! Mouse had to go. I had even begun to sort of mellow and thought maybe we could co-exist, but now, never!

One of my adopted brothers came over later that day. As we sat chatting in the living room, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move. There standing in the kitchen doorway was Mouse looking directly at us. I said softly, “Michael, look. It’s Mouse.” Michael got up from his chair to look. Mouse didn’t move. He apparently wanted an introduction to Michael. The three of us gazed at each other. Mouse stood there fearlessly as if he had every right to be there and to know who the visitor was. After several moments he ran back under the range. Yes, this was indeed a different kind of mouse.

I alternated between despair and euphoria, and rage and passivity. One minute I was telling our property manager that there would be no peace in the kingdom until an exterminator got rid of Mouse. Other moments found me daydreaming about making Mouse a pet. Friends thought my situation was hilarious. One friend said Mouse knew how much I loved animals and felt very welcomed in my apartment. I said he was not welcomed, especially since he was not housebroken and was wont to use my sofa and drapes as his private privy!

Finally the building manager sent an exterminator from an environmentally correct company. He said mice can get through or under anything because they have no bones in their bodies. He checked every inch of the apartment and finally found a tiny area underneath my hall door which allowed Mouse to get in. I wanted him to get out. I asked if Mouse would be able to find his way out. The exterminator assured me that Mouse would get out the same way he got in. He then made little balls of something poisonous to mice, but environmentally correct. He placed the little balls in strategic places and said he would return in a few days. I did not see or hear Mouse during those days.

When the exterminator returned he checked the bait and said, “Well, some of it has been eaten. A mouse is dying somewhere.” Oh no! I felt bad for Mouse. The exterminator added, "Let's hope he got out and didn't die inside the walls, or that will be another problem." My heart sank. I hoped that he had gotten out before finding the bait. I never saw or heard Mouse again.

I have wondered over the years why he was not afraid of me. Was it because I did not run and scream whenever I saw him? That must have been a nice change for him to meet a human who was not terrified of him. Mouse seemed to be a gentle creature who wanted only to nestle in gift paper in the linen closet, or nap in my clothes closet, and keep warm underneath the kitchen range. Of course Mouse had to eat too, and since they don’t sell mouse food, Mouse and I would have fallen out when he began nibbling on my food items.

Still, there was something about the little rascal. He seemed to be social because he obviously wanted to meet Michael and gazed at us from the kitchen doorway before retiring back under the range. I had visions of a nest of mice under there. And in my mind’s eye I could see them taking over my apartment and throwing me out when I became too worrisome!

I often think of the evening that I turned on the oven and Mouse came out and stood glaring at me. When I looked down and saw him, I almost burst out laughing. The range had gotten hot and Mouse clearly was unhappy with me. His silence was eloquent. He took up an indignant stance almost with his hands on his hips, and all but shouted about the indignity that had befallen him. My amusement quickly turned to anger and I yelled at Mouse. He did the unmanly, but no doubt, mousely thing, and ran out of the kitchen, down the hallway and into my bedroom! I wanted to hurl curses in mouse language at him, but I’m sure that he got my message.

I’m disappointed that Mouse and I never became better acquainted. I often wonder if Mouse could have become domesticated or would he have remained or reverted to being the disgusting, nibbling-on-everything vermin that people think mice are. Mouse never had a chance to show me. How disappointed he must have been when he realized, as he writhed in agony, that this human being was like all the other humans who only wanted him dead.

I’m sorry, Mouse.

PORNCHAI MOONTRI IS WORTH SAVING

2010-03-08T23:18:00.028-05:00

This is a plea for an attorney to take on a worthy pro bono case. Perhaps you have met my godson-to-be, Pornchai Moontri,(Ponch)through his cellmate, Fr. Gordon MacRae (http://www.thesestonewalls.com/Files/PornchaisPathtotheNarrowGate.pdf) He is from the beautiful Kingdom of Thailand, and he is 36 years old. Pornchai has been in prison since he was 18 years old which is exactly half of his life. To read his complete story go to: http://www.thesestonewalls.com/Files/Pornchais_Story.pdf.

Prior to that he was in prison of another kind. Pornchai and I have much in common; we have both been through the fire. We were both abused; we both suffered, and we still do. I often wish I could hug Pornchai and promise him that nothing will ever harm him again, that his nightmares about that abuse will never haunt his dreams again, but unfortunately I cannot. I can only promise that he will always have the love of God, my love and the love of those who know him through Fr. Gordon.

In the Beginning

Pornchai has known little in his young life except misery. His mother left him when he was two, and he grew up in the country home of a distant relative where he labored in the rice fields and raised water buffalo. He had no opportunity to attend school. His mother reclaimed him when he was eleven. She introduced him and his brother to his new stepfather, an American from Maine where the family immediately moved to. Nothing was ever the same for Pornchai. In Maine there was only wretchedness at the hands of his stepfather who forcibly abused him for three years. Any resistance from Pornchai caused violence against him and his mother. By the age of 14 Pornchai ran away from “home” time and time again. The police picked him up and took him “home” time and time again. He fled again as soon as he could. After being kicked out of a juvenile home for fighting, he lived on the streets. Occasionally his mother would seek him out and take food to him. Pornchai fought everything and everybody. Anger was the only thing he had.

The Incident

Pornchai began carrying a knife to protect himself from others also on those mean streets. He barely remembers the night that resulted in his imprisonment. He was out drinking with friends. They went into a supermarket to buy cigarettes. Pornchai, already drunk, opened a bottle of beer in the store and began drinking it. The manager ordered him to leave, but as he tried to leave, the manager and other employees tried to detain him. Pornchai fought them off and stumbled out of the store. Outside, a manager from another store who had seen the incident, tackled Pornchai and they fell to the ground. Pornchai says “’IT’ was happening again!” As he was pinned down by the much heavier man, memories of his stepfather’s assaults flooded back. Pornchai panicked and remembers nothing after that.

The Trial

In jail he was told that he had stabbed the man who died a few hours later. His mother went to the jail to tearfully plead with Pornchai to protect her and “the family” by not revealing what his stepfather had done to him. He honored his mother’s plea. The family of Pornchai’s co-defendant could afford to hire an attorney, and he received a sentence of nine years. Pornchai was assigned a public defender who offered no defense, and he was convicted of “Class A murder with deliberate indifference.” At age 18 he was sentenced to 45 years in prison. In effect, it was a life sentence (a death sentence to Pornchai) because Maine has no parole. Pornchai was sent to Maine’s “supermax” prison. “Supermax” means super maximum security and it is for the most violent offenders. Prisoners are locked into a cell for 23 hours a day; no radio or TV allowed; no books; three showers a week; under constant observation by video cameras; lights on day and night; total isolation. For the one hour of recreation a day, a prisoner is taken outside and put into a “cage” where he can do limited exercises, but as Pornchai says, “At least you are outside and smelling fresh air.” Pornchai spent the next 13 years in and out of the supermax facility. He fought with everybody – guards and other prisoners. Although he didn’t remember the murder, he regretted taking a life. Remorse and anger in prison are, as he puts it, a toxic mix.

The Aftermath

The night that he learned his mother and stepfather had moved to Guam, he also learned that his mother had been murdered by being pushed off a cliff. His stepfather was the only suspect, but there was no evidence. Pornchai suffered in his cell with his guilt, anger, and now the bitter loss of his mother. As his anger deepened, so did his rage. When Maine officials decided to rid themselves of this troubled youth, he was sent to New Hampshire. He welcomed his new facility by promptly getting into a fight and being sent to solitary confinement. Later he met an Indonesian waiting to be deported who introduced him to Fr. Gordon. Pornchai says, “Gordon seemed to be the only person who ... cared.” A few months later Pornchai was moved to the same unit as Fr. Gordon. He says: “By patience, and especially by example, Gordon helped change the course of my life. “ They became friends. Little by little, Pornchai’s anger abated. He gradually realized that there is more to life than anger. Now he spends his time educating himself and being an example for other young prisoners. With the help of Fr. Gordon he obtained a scholarship to take courses in Catholic studies at the Catholic Distance University. He excelled in his studies. He has completed courses in the prison in Anger Management, Victim Impact, etc. He is also taking culinary courses. Pornchai is a master wood carver and model ship builder. He spends thousands of hours hand carving every part of the ships he creates. Some are sold in the prison gift shop and others are available by special request. On the outside his hand carved masterpieces would sell for thousands of dollars, but he has no one to represent him in this endeavor.

Pornchai says he has now become a man. I might add that he is a man that any mother would be proud of. I know that his mother loved him. She thought she had found a safety net for her little family. How she must have suffered over Pornchai’s mistreatment at the hands of his stepfather. He loves his mother very much and speaks of her in such a loving manner. He does not hold her responsible for any of his misfortunes. I tell him that his mother watches over him from heaven, and she helps Fr. Gordon and me to watch over him on earth.

Fr. Gordon is immensely proud of who Pornchai has become. He knows the path Pornchai trod before reaching this point. Recently he was a mentor in a prison program for young offenders helping them to study for their GED certificates. Pornchai is extremely effective in tutoring inmates in all forms of mathematics. He was also a leader and tutor for the prison’s Fast Track, a program for young, first-time offenders. He designed the Physical Fitness Training plan and was responsible for developing new exercise routines for it. He led inmates through challenging routines twice a day. The program was very popular and a waiting list developed of inmates who wanted to join the class. Unfortunately the prison discontinued the program at the end of the last season. It seems that whenever a program becomes successful and helps inmates, prison officials find a reason to discontinue it. It’s as if they would rather have inmates sitting around discontented and idle. Those are grounds for trouble and trouble seems to be what they want.

The Future

Foreigners convicted of a crime in the US are deported to their home country at the end of their sentence. In 2007 Pornchai was ordered by the Immigration and Naturalization Service to be deported to Thailand upon completion of his sentence – when he is 62 years old. Pornchai will return to a country where he has no known relatives and limited use of the language. He has never written or read Thai, and hasn’t spoken it since he was a child. Fr. Gordon was instrumental in getting prison officials to allow Pornchai to obtain Thai language materials, some donated, and to use them on the computer in the prison library.

It’s been rough going for Pornchai, but he has persevered. I pray for legal help for this exceptional young man. He has come a long, long way. Life has not been fair to him. He did not ask to be born. He did not ask to be yanked from his country and brought to the U.S. He did not ask to be abused by a horrible, horrible man. He did not intend to take a life.

A few months ago, Cardinal Michai Kitbunchu, recently retired Archbishop of Bangkok, replied to a letter I wrote to him about Pornchai.

Cardinal Michai Kitbunchu wrote:

“The story of Pornchai really touched my heart and I found the story very amazing since God has His plan. He has been working through Father MacRae, you and in the good heart of Pornchai. The Archdiocese of Bangkok would give you a hand and would do whatever possible to help….So when he will be deported to Thailand, I hope he will try to contact the Archdiocese of Bangkok referring to me or to Father Surachai.”

That was wonderful news. Pornchai knows that when he returns to his home country the Catholic Church will welcome him. He will never be alone where there is Christ.

For now, Pornchai desperately needs an attorney to ask for a reduction or commutation of his remaining sentence so that he may return to Thailand at an age at which he is still employable and can build a life. In Thailand, as in many developing countries, the mandatory retirement is 50 years. If he completes his sentence he will be 62 when he returns to Thailand. He does not want to be a vagrant in his own country – a country basically unknown to him now.

For more on this amazing person please read: http://www.thesestonewalls.com/Files/PornchaisPathtotheNarrowGate.pdf

We desperately need pro bono legal help in getting Pornchai’s sentence reduced, suspended, commuted or perhaps there are options I don’t know about. If you know of an attorney who is willing to help Pornchai, please have him contact:

Pornchai Moontri
P.O. Box 14 - #77948
Concord, NH 03302-0014

Or I can be contacted at ccduline@gmail.com.

I pray that an attorney will come forward to help Pornchai. Divine Intervention put Pornchai in Fr. Gordon’s path. Divine intervention put both of them in our path. How can we not help? Pornchai desperately needs a helping hand. Is there an attorney out there who will help him?

Thank you. God's blessings on all.

QUIRKY AND QRAZY: THE AMERICAN CHARACTER

2010-02-23T19:45:00.002-05:00

During my many years of living abroad, I always found people curious to know what Americans are really like, what makes us run. Recently I gave it some thought and I concluded that we are more complicated than we know, that we are basically quirky and qrazy!

It’s the quirky, qrazy things that make Americans what we are proudest of being: American. For most Americans it is difficult to avoid the superlative when discussing our country and its attributes. We are brave, creative, compassionate, and silly. Sometimes we are all of those things at the same time. We are a mélange of offbeat colors, cultures, and creeds, but all of us believe in the law of the land that defines America: liberty and justice for all. That creed inspires awe in those who don’t have such freedoms.

We Americans want to be loved and admired. We are arguably among the most envied, the most imitated, and the most hated people in the world. We Americans are distinctive in our dress or undress, in our often-strident voices, in our love for the underdog, in our idiosyncrasies, and in our fierce independence.

We believe that with the honor and privilege of being the wealthiest and most technologically advanced democracy in the world there comes an obligation to fight for the same rights for everyone else on Planet Earth. We willingly send our first-born or only-born to distant lands to defend and help those less fortunate. Despite our generosity – to a fault some say – we are often castigated for our capabilities and extraordinary willingness to share. We reach out to the world through our government agencies, UN agencies, and private exchange groups, and are among the first to assist in relief efforts in any part of the world.

Americans have a zest for living. We treasure our traditional values of freedom of the press, of religion, of assembly, and of individual rights. We believe that to disagree with our leaders is as natural as taking the next breath. We believe in assembling peacefully – and sometimes not so peacefully - to air our grievances. America was forged in the revolution of 1776 when the colonists revolted against British colonial rule. That revolution continues to inspire. The freedoms demanded in 1776 are the same freedoms desired by millions of people who make desperate attempts to reach American shores.

Americans believe in the dignity of hard work and we know with an inborn certainty that with hard work anything can be achieved. Americans worship, or not, as our spirit dictates, but we demand the freedom to do either, and we defend everybody else’s right to do the same. Slavery and segregation are an ugly part of American history, but the nation rose from the horrors of that shameful past, and through laws and the goodwill of most Americans, established the goal of liberty and justice for every American.

Americans are an extremely generous and giving people. We are the people some love to hate; however, on a one-on-one basis, most nationalities love us. The success of the Peace Corps demonstrates that. Young and old, we Americans take our expertise abroad, and spend two years living in rustic conditions, endeavoring to uplift the lives of the poor by demonstrating what can be accomplished with meager resources. In return, the volunteers learn about other cultures, are sensitized to the poor, and discover that feet were indeed made for walking.

Americans want to live well and we obsess over how to live extremely well. A two-car garage is no longer to be wished for, but is mandatory. Americans are contradictory. Families love to eat out, yet we search for restaurants that feature “home cooking,” and, as at home, we want “all you can eat.” Americans have a love affair with their cars, and enjoy hitting the open road. There is a strange reluctance to get out of our cars until we get back home. For that reason there are drive-up banks, drive-up restaurants, drive-up telephones, drive-up laundry-dry cleaners, and someone is working on a gadget to enable Americans to pump gas without getting out of the car.

The bywords of the younger generations are wash and wear, carry out, and the all-time favorite, buy now-pay later. Instant gratification is the order of the day. Americans no longer carry money. We carry plastic credit cards that are used to pay for groceries, movies, fast foods, clothing, mortgages, in short, almost everything. Of course that means that a considerable number of Americans are deep in debt; however, we go on happily charging whatever our hearts desire and adding to our liabilities.

Americans visiting other countries are sometimes gregarious, loud, and obnoxious. This usually comes from feelings of inadequacy in not knowing the local language. It is only in the recent past that we have recognized the need to learn a foreign language. The attitude previously, odd though it may seem, was that everybody in the world should speak English. And as quiet as it is kept, English is not the official language of the United States. This news does not lessen our insistence that everyone coming to our shores should speak English.

Ah, yes, Americans are people of great humanity with a unique sense of justice and fair play. We are proud of living in a democratic country, and are patriotic to a fault. We are at our best in times of adversity. An outrage committed against one American is one committed against all Americans, and the country bonds in solidarity. We Americans are magnificent in our collective mourning and outrage. In times of great tragedy we wave the Stars and Stripes, the national symbol of unity, a rallying declaration that as long as that flag flies, Americans will not be defeated by whatever tragedy. We come together in anger and grief to demonstrate our support for the fallen, and to make a potent statement of our pride in being Americans.

When Americans, and others, were attacked and killed in places with strange sounding names – Beirut, Dar es Salaam and Nairobi – our compatriots shuddered, but felt certain that such death and devastation could never happen on American soil. September 11, 2001 shattered forever our notions of safety at home, and changed the welcoming character of Americans. We no longer welcome the world’s tired, poor and hungry because they might be terrorists.

When America sneezes, some countries catch a cold, or come down with other unpleasant maladies, and they feel it most in their bare money coffers. During the years of the Cold War, the United States and Russia competed against each other by pouring money and aid into countries they had interests in, in an attempt to win those nations over to their side. An African proverb says when elephants fight, it is the grass that suffers. And so it was when the two powers engaged in tugs of war over small countries. When the Cold War ended many of those countries learned to their great surprise that America, as other nations, has interests, not friends. It was then that the “grass” truly suffered.

Americans have some quirks that are more distinctive than others. Perhaps the French invented perfume, but Americans have the market on deodorants. While some cultures might prefer natural body odors to the use of deodorants, Americans have an anathema to body odors – our own and anybody else’s. We are personally offended if we get a whiff of anything from anybody that doesn’t have soap, spices or flowers in it. That might help to explain the other oddity to foreigners. Americans do not want people to stand too close. We value our personal space. When we talk to a foreign visitor, we stand several feet from the visitor. This causes the visitor to get closer. We inch backward and this weird dance continues until a wall is reached. At that point we Americans make a hasty exit.

When Americans say, “Time is money,” we mean it. We want to meet, greet, and get on with the business at hand. We do not mean to be rude; we just don’t want to waste time. In some cultures it is customary to meet, sip tea, and inquire about the person’s nephew’s cousin’s step-uncle, the weather, and current events on Mars. By the time the foreign person asks about the American’s fifth cousin’s step-niece, the American’s eyes have glazed over, and he might appear to be in a catatonic state.

Such are the ways of Americans, a people courageous, gentle, noble, warm, funny, generous, and above all, quirky – the ultimate word that can be used to adequately describe those of us who proudly call ourselves Americans.
***

POWER, PRIVILEGE AND INJUSTICE

2010-02-09T17:36:00.001-05:00

We the People are the Church. Since that is so, then why are we allowing our so-called leaders to herd us out of the forest and into the swamp? Each time a priest is accused of sexual misconduct, each time a priest goes to prison without any proof of his misbehavior, each time a million dollar payment is made to an accuser and to a contingency lawyer, we, the People, allow our Church to be dishonored in the worst manner. We the Church have become the “victims” of greedy lawyers, liars, and thieves, as well as the hateful groups trying to bring down the Church in order to create one in their own warped image. This is what power is and what power does.

Much of what the bishops do is done behind closed doors and little if anything is communicated to the rest of us, we the Church. They seem to be even above the Pope. When the U.S. bishops decided to do away with canon law and conduct their own inquisitions of accused priests - even to the point of sending directives to the Vatican that a priest be “laicized” and have it done - the genie was out of the bottle.

Our priests are kicked out of Church properties and the guilty along with the innocent are left to stand in the dock with only a public defender as their voice. The wife of one public defender was in court to hear her husband’s case, and she said to the priest being tried, “I don’t know why we’re here. My husband knows you’re guilty!” Unfortunately the priest was too befuddled to report this comment to the judge. A mistrial might have been declared. In most cases the accusers don’t have to produce any proof, not that they would be able to anyway. The lack of having to prove one’s case is something new in the history of the American justice system.

More and more priests are simply summoned to the bishop’s office where they are faced with the bishop and his minions. The priests are not allowed to have even one trusted person accompanying them. They are told there is an accusation against them, usually of some 40 or 50 years ago, told to vacate the rectory, and sent on their way. Where is he to go? A priest in Ohio who was kicked out of his rectory had suffered several heart attacks and a kind parishioner took him in. For her good deed she received a blistering letter from her bishop condemning her for what she had done. The woman saved the priest’s life. He had nowhere to go except under a bridge or a homeless shelter. What manner of bishop would want that on his conscience?

Yes, this is what American priests are facing. Who in his right mind would become a priest during the reign of such bishops? This is the ultimate act of betrayal of our priests. We the People allow the bishops to behave towards our priests as if they are beggars at the table of the bishops. They serve at the pleasure of the bishops. What about the pleasure of the Church, we the People? Not one iota of thought is ever given to the good name and reputation of that priest? The parishioners are left stunned and without a beloved priest.

A few weeks ago Cardinal Sean O’Malley in Boston gave six elderly priests in a residential home orders to leave immediately because somebody popped up on the radar and said they remembered being abused by those priests. These men had served the Church well with no accusations and without one whit of proof – Cardinal O’Malley ordered those elderly, sick men on the streets. Two of the priests died from the shock and horror of being kicked while down by their bishop, and two others are missing and feared stranded somewhere or dead. Is that the behavior of a good shepherd? Shame on Cardinal O’Malley who is so proud of his Order that he always wears his Franciscan habit; he of the Franciscans who preach that “fraternity with all creatures is fraternity with all men”; he whose Order takes care of their own in prison and thereafter; he, the proud Franciscan bishop who orders the old and infirm diocesan priests out of Catholic residences and into the mean streets. What spiritual strength it must take to muster the nerve to flaunt both the Franciscan Order and God Almighty. For more on Cardinal O’Malley see Carol McKinley’s blog: http://throwthebumsoutin2010.blogspot.com (The Civil and Canonical Rights of Roman Catholic Priests in Boston). It sends a chilling message.

More and more parishioners are standing up for their priests. They must! The priests have nobody else – just us, the people, the Church. We cannot allow them to be kicked out of OUR Church on the sole word of an accuser, with no proof. Our priests have no protection. They are human. They are men. They sin. They are forgiven by God, by some of us, but it seems never by the Church. We are the Church, are we not? The shepherds of the Church have disappointed me to an insurmountable degree. They have cast out some sick priests and many innocent priests on the sole word of some seeking only to enrich themselves at the cost of the lives of the accused. Priests are held to a higher standard than other men, but bishops are held to an even higher standard and they are failing.

The Holy Father’s theme for Lent is justice. The definition of justice he said, “implies ‘to render to every man his due.’ […] In reality, however … what man needs most cannot be guaranteed to him by law.” What priests need most are bishops unafraid of hateful groups and contingency attorneys, both of whom have made suing the Catholic Church a livelihood. Priests need bishops unafraid to speak out about the injustice and unfairness now rampant. Early on there probably were some genuine victims, but now anybody without a conscience and with a need for greed can accuse any priest.

Has anyone asked himself why decent, caring bishops don’t speak up, and stop the nonsense of pushing good priests into tragedy? We know there are good and holy bishops out there who work quietly to help accused, rejected and dejected priests. Their voices can only be heard in the background now because the power grabbers make the most noise. But someday soon the decent bishops will be called upon to restore faith in the Church. We the People wait and pray for their time to come. When the Church is completely bankrupt, or when there are no more priests to accuse, or when married priests are brought back into the Church, or when women are…gasp…ordained as priests, maybe then, just maybe, some errant bishop will stand up and say, “Maybe we made a mistake.”

As for power, privilege and injustice, I wonder if Pope Paul VI had the current crop of bishops in mind when he said the “smoke of Satan has entered the Church.”

***

IN THEIR OWN WORDS: PRIESTS IN PRISON WRITE

2010-01-30T19:07:00.000-05:00

Today I share with you comments from letters to me from priests in prison. I won’t identify them for the sake of their privacy. This is the ministry dearest to my heart, ministering to incarcerated priests. Others involved in prison ministry include Fr. Paul Sauerbier, Fr. Pat Hanser, and Dolores N. Crowley.

• “I’ve been using a cane for four years. The orthopedic doctor told me the only thing that would help is a knee replacement. He said they don’t do that kind of surgery on ‘people of confinement’ because of the danger of infection in a prison environment. So I just continue to hurt and hobble. I’ve discovered over the years that medical treatment in prison is like the food – as little as possible … as cheaply as possible.”
Note: He is the second priest to tell me that a surgeon refused to do a knee replacement because of the very real risk of infection once the man returns to the filthy prison.

• “Last year I suffered a mild heart attack. When I was sent to the infirmary, they sent me back saying nothing was wrong. The officer on our tier had the presence of mind to send me back to the infirmary an hour later and told them something was wrong with me. That night I wound up in intensive care in a hospital a few hours away. I will keep in mind your offer to “do battle” for me. What a wonderful offer!”
Note: A sick inmate gets little care unless someone “on the outside” rattles the rafters. This is my mission this year! Bishops can be certain that they will hear from me when a sick priest in prison needs medical help, regardless of the diocese he’s from. I wrote to one bishop after a priest died. The bishop had ignored our pleas to at least express some concern to the warden. The bishop replied to me saying the deceased was not from his diocese. And so, like Pilate, he washed his hands of the priest. I pray our Lord does the same when the bishop faces Him.

• “You’ve done much traveling through the year. Much of it, it seems, to spread the Gospel message of love and peace. … "

• “I thank the ‘Good God’ above for blessing you with this extraordinary ministry in caring for his fallen angels. I thank you for the good work you are doing by your prayers and support you give us in our needs. I lost the small family and friend I had. But now I know I have a new family in you and Dolores (Crowley).”

• “Thank you for the support and caring to me and all my brother priests who are presently incarcerated. In the midst of misunderstanding and abandonment, it is consoling to know that there are good people…who care for us priests who have gone astray.”
Note: How could a Christian do anything less??

• “For the last 10 years, I’ve worked in the laundry… In August the laundry was restructured and I was assigned to the yard for one day. When they realized I couldn’t hold a rake or any other tool in one hand and a cane in the other, I was assigned as a cell block orderly. I wipe things down every day. It isn’t very strenuous…”
Note: Did you know that inmates who are unable to work or cannot find work are unable to purchase food from the commissary to supplement the pitifully non-nourishing meals served in the chow hall? Did you know that when there are food recalls, prison officials purchase it for inmates to eat? There is no concern that it might make them sick or cause death.

• “Recently I was taken to medical and eventually to the hospital because of my chronic heart condition. It is true that if someone like you stirs things up the Dept. of Corrections moves quickly to rectify. Thanks for your guardianship to ‘fallen angels.’ ”

• “When I received your letter I thought who is this person, but when I read about you and your intentions, it felt kind of good. There aren’t many people with thoughts like yours (or who are) brave enough to support someone in our kind of situation.”

• “After I was arrested I called the parish to let them know what was going on because that’s the only source I have in the US. I have no family members in America. I can understand that the parish was devastated, and it was a difficult time for them too. After receiving a few collect calls, the pastor (whom I lived with for almost three years) told me they can’t take or afford any more collect calls. That was the beginning of my abandonment. They even announced in the parish and the diocese that no one should contact me.”
Note: Shame on that diocese for abandoning one of their own!

• Excerpts from a letter to a doctor from a retired priest:

“I visited 80 yr. old (name withheld) …and saw the severe bruising in the area of his ankles and wrists. I want to thank you for initiating some action on elder abuse on his behalf.

He may be the victim of societal vengeance which touches the correctional system, the media, and the Church. He has been convicted of some very abusive things but he is still a human being. Often those who seem to deserve the least are those who need to be loved the most. It is not like he needs to be chained up because he will run away since he has limited feeling in his feet.

I am sure that the Archbishop … and who has a degree in Church Law would want to be of assistance in pursuing adequate care for one of the Archdiocese’s former priests, especially since sacramentally he is still a priest… I’m also sure that Warden…would not want elder abuse perpetrated in his name by those who transport inmates for medical attention.”
Note: The priest who wrote this was wrong: the Archbishop did not want to be of assistance and wasn’t! The ailing priest was never taken back to the doctor. He suffered and died. Father’s death left a hole in my heart. But in following his example, I pray that his accusers will find it in their hearts to forgive him. He was a suffering soul. He knew that his crimes called for a prison sentence, but he never understood that prison guards were often as cruel as inmates. Neither did he know that he would be abandoned by brother priests and the bishop he had served. He died knowing that he was loved by a few of us. Father did not die alone. I firmly believe that our Lord took Father into His arms and welcomed him into paradise. Father paid for his sins and he was ready to leave the brutality of those surrounding him. May he rest in peace.

• “Conscientious doctors who come here do not stay long because of a lack of cooperation from the staff, the lack of necessary medical supplies and abusive treatment of inmates by many guards.”

• “I was awakened at 11:30 pm and told that I was on the chain to medical which is … a two hour drive from here. I had to pack up my property and present it at 12:30 am. I got back to my cell at 1 a.m. and was awakened at 3 a.m. to go to breakfast and then wait for the bus which arrived at 5 am. There were seven of us going for medical. I was chained to a young man that I have nick-named Gizmo …he looks like Gizmo from the movie, “Gremlins.” We arrived in… at 7:30 am and waited in a huge waiting room until 10 am. when I was escorted to the urology department. I was seen by an intern and waited for a medication packet that never came until 3 pm. I went back to the waiting room to wait until 6 pm for the bus and guards to chain us, board us and take us back to… but we had to stop at five other units to let off men, thus getting to my unit at 10 pm for supper and a shower. I finally got to bed at 11pm.”

• “I had two friends paroled this month. One was a 39 year old man. He was 17 when he came into the system. After 22 years the daughter of the man he murdered wanted to meet him. She expected a tattooed, rude, mean, gang member. What she met was a young man who looks under 30, kind, small and full of faith. The woman was shocked and this led to various meetings between the two. The woman asked that he be released. She did not want this young man to die in prison. He left this week. We had the opportunity to sit in the chapel for a few minutes so he could tell me some things. He made me cry with the words, “I love you and thank you for teaching me to be strong in my faith. I am truly blessed to be a Catholic and to belong to such a great Church.” I tell you this not to blow my own horn, but rather to let you know that these men …can be touched by love, faith and just caring for them. (My friend) is young and will learn how to use a cell phone, a computer, get a savings account, credit cards and hopefully find a wife and have a family. I have much faith in him … There is still hope for men and women who are cared for, loved, listened to and guided. I thank God daily that I can be a brother to them here. ”

• “Thanks again for being you. God is so proud of you. May He/She continue to bless you in your love for His/Her ‘Fallen Angels.’ ”

• “I thank from the bottom of my heart all those family members and friends who have stood by me through thick and thin. I know it has not been easy to be a part of a plan for one who has fallen to the depths that I had fallen, but in my heart of hearts I know and believe that I will never betray ever again the trust of those who love me and cared enough to help me heal and will help me achieve my freedom. I do not want anyone to ever regret extending their hand to me in my time of greatest need. God so loved the world that He gave us His Son, and whoever believes in Him will have eternal life, and a friend forever more. That has been my promise, His promise to us all. I lean on it.”

• “Re ‘fallen angels’: “I think I can say …the word most of us would prefer to ‘angels’ is ‘priests.’ I personally don’t have a problem with the notion of ‘fallen,’ although I think of myself as one who fell – and got up again, by God’s grace, prison notwithstanding. I like the idea of ‘wounded priests,’ as in Henri Nouwen’s ‘Wounded Healer.’ I suppose that adjective could be (mis)construed as an attempt to paint the priests as victims. Still, wounded we are; and we need people like you to minister to our woundedness -- especially since our pastors, for the most part, have bailed out on that responsibility.”

• “I have been in recovery from triple-by-pass surgery. I had the heart surgery at …The cardiac team was so supportive – I was a patient first and not a prisoner to them. The surgeon was excellent. We all prayed before the surgery. They also waited for a priest to visit and give me the sacraments before they would do the surgery. Our Lady of Lourdes was always near along with her son, Jesus. Thank you for your prayers. They were also a part of all going well.”

• “The bishops of the United States appear to have discerned that they cannot minister to both victims and accused; that they cannot be church to both; that they cannot be Christ to both, I suggest that in this way, they fail their own vocations and betray their witness to the Gospel. It’s a scandal within the scandal, a crisis within the crisis, and points to a profound deficit of faith and courage.”

• “… every incarcerated priest I know, and almost every accused priest I know, (diocesan priests, that is) has been fully, totally, and usually publicly abandoned by his bishop, his diocese and most of his former colleagues. …Moreover, in every public statement regarding the abuse crisis, the archdiocese/archbishop always declares that they are praying for the victims and survivors (as well they should, of course); but never -- as in absolutely never, as far as I know – pledges prayers for the accused priests and their families. I make that observation not so much because it points to a failure of the archbishop to pray for us (Who know? Maybe he does pray for us!), but rather because it points to the institutionalization of cowardice; they are afraid to express even enough concern for us as might be reflected in a promise to pray for us.”
Note: This observation is so true and so painful not only to the priests in prison but to any compassionate Catholic who believes in the Gospel.

• “Christmas is always a difficult time in prison. All of us miss our loved ones. As difficult as it is for me, it must be more difficult for those who are married and have small children. The birth of our Savior is a sure reminder of just how much our Lord loves us and wants to reconcile us to His Father. If only all could know His immense love, then Christmas would be filled with forgiveness, mercy, and a unity that the world has never known.”

Amen.

Christ is Present

Into this world, this demented inn,
in which there is no room for him at all,
Christ has come uninvited.
But because he cannot be at home in it,
His place is with those who do not belong,
who are rejected by power
because they are regarded as weak,
those who are discredited,
who are denied the status of persons,
tortured and exterminated.
With those for whom there is no room,
Christ is present in this world.
He is mysteriously present in those
for whom there seems to be nothing
but the world at its worst.

- Thomas Merton

THROWAWAY PRIESTS

2009-12-27T15:24:00.000-05:00

This article was printed in the National Catholic Reporter on July 20, 2007. Someone asked that it be reprinted here.
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Viewpoint This week's stories | Home Page

Issue Date: July 20, 2007

Throwaway priests

Dishonored and disgraced for their crimes, fallen priests deserve our sympathy

By CHARLENE C. DULINE

Does the Catholic Church remember its fallen priests, the priests who molested children and are now serving time in prisons? Who among us has asked for blessings for them as they serve their time behind bars? The hands that once consecrated the host that became the body of Christ now reek of ammonia from cleaning toilets.

Amid the flurry of accusations, trials, more accusations, payoffs, and dioceses declaring bankruptcy, I began to wonder about the treatment of priests in prison. I wondered how their fellow inmates treated them. Were they revered as men of the cloth or debased as child molesters?
To abuse a child is a horrific act. I know because I was an abused child. Some might find it astonishing that I, the victim of such abuse many years ago, could feel sorry for these fallen priests. Despite the desire for revenge that still burns deep in my heart, something in me wanted to reach out to these men who had served God despite their failings. I wondered if our church ministered to them in any form.

Through the Internet I was able to get information on the accused priests, their sentences and where they were serving their time. I wrote to some of them. I also posted my desire to hear from them on Web sites sympathetic to the defrocked men. Some of their responses astounded me. They all asked to remain anonymous. Most of the priests I heard from indicated that they had no access to Catholic chaplains or materials, including retirement monies they thought they had a right to. It seems that the church that once embraced them and covered up their crimes has abandoned them. They have been defrocked or laicized and are now treated as pariahs. Their situation in prison is not pleasant.

One priest, now 79 years old, wrote, “Mistreatment by the young inmates is continually horrendous. Insults, curses, spitting and assaults are daily. From one attack I received 42 bruises.”

During the 11 years this priest has been in prison, several close family members, including his mother, have died. Other family members do not communicate with him because he “embarrassed the family.” He believes that he will die a lonely death in prison. He’s probably right.

While reading the three-page, handwritten letter, I had to stop several times because tears blinded me. I wept for our “lost sheep” as this priest calls himself and other convicted priests. He feels the church has thrown them away, and it is difficult to disagree with his assessment.

Another priest wrote from prison: “From the start, I was subjected to foul comments and slurs related to my crime of indecent liberties with a minor. Most inmates are tolerant, and some seek information of a religious nature. The biggest offenders are young, angry white men between 19 and 30 years old. Most black men say nothing. I have, as yet, not been physically harmed. I’ve had a TV set tampered with so it could no longer be used. I’ve had feces spread on my blanket and pillowcase, etc. Sex offenders are at the bottom of the ladder in prison. Life behind bars is a total waste of time other than when one spiritualizes it as an opportunity to expiate for one’s sins.”

Still another priest said his fingers were broken by an inmate who wanted a painting the priest had just completed. When he refused the demand, the fingers on his painting hand were broken like matchsticks.

The attorney for an 83-year-old former priest responded that his client “is an older man and his memory is substantially infirmed. I doubt that he has an accurate memory of his stay at a local jail (no prison time). I arranged for a private cell and no contact with jail inmates.”
I ask myself if sentencing men in their 70s and 80s to 200 years in prison makes us better Christians or relieves the pain of those molested. Our church ignored the problem for years and suddenly it’s first in line to condemn. There is no denying that punishment is deserved, but so is forgiveness.

Nobody knows better than victims of sexual abuse the pain and the torment that remains with us for the rest of our lives. We go through the daily motions of living as if nothing had happened to rob us of our childhood, but we suffer in silence. Rape is a vile, violent act. I weep for the children who were abused by priests. I know their pain. I used to fantasize about ways to torture the man who raped me. I wanted him to die a slow, agonizing death.

Forgiving an abuser takes more love and compassion than many of us can muster right now. Yet forgiveness is essential for our own spiritual survival. To forgive is not to forget, but rather to believe that the Lord in his wisdom is still in control and that all wrongs will be righted someday. God is loving and just to both the victim and to the abuser, and I pray that all of us who have suffered abuse will one day be able to forgive our abusers.

Charlene Duline is a retired Foreign Service officer, a former Peace Corps volunteer and a member of St. Monica Catholic Church in Indianapolis.
National Catholic Reporter, July 20, 2007

THE HOLIEST NIGHT

2009-12-24T14:21:00.001-05:00

[This story was selected by Angels on Earth as one of the prize winning stories in their Christmas Story Contest a few years ago. Contestants were to write their version of the Christmas story from the point of view of Mary, Joseph, the baby Jesus, one of the wise men, the innkeeper, a shepherd, or an animal in the stable. I chose to write about a stray dog, Marian, who was there. I’m pleased to share my story with you for Christmas.]

THE HOLIEST NIGHT

It was a bitterly cold night in Bethlehem, but the little pregnant dog pushed on to her destination. Marian, as she was called, was not sure where she was going, but she only knew that she had to get there. A large, glistening star overhead seemed to guide her. Her human family had put her out into the cold saying they had no room or food for one more mouth. They had taken her in when they saw her begging for scraps of food in the marketplace. They didn’t know then that she was going to have puppies. She was grateful when they took her home with them, but as her tiny stomach began to swell with her progeny, she was tossed back onto the streets. Now, she only knew that she had to follow that glowing star.

She stopped for a moment to rest. She was cold, hungry and sad. She was too cold to sleep, and too tired to walk further, but her instinct told her that she had to follow that star, that something wonderful awaited her when she reached the place where the star shone down. She knew it would be there where her babies would be born. Marian picked up a scent, actually several scents, of animals. Suddenly she saw a pack of wild dogs coming toward her. She summoned up her last ounce of courage; she knew she would have to fight these dogs. The leader of the pack halted the group a few feet from her. He walked slowly toward her. She sensed no animosity from him, but she stood her ground. The lead dog noted her hanging teats and enlarged abdomen. He understood that she had been abandoned as had the rest of the dogs in the pack. He sniffed Marian, and then turned to his pack and sent a silent signal to them. Two female dogs came forward and went to Marian. They rubbed muzzles and stood close to her. They urged Marian to follow them into the woods where they would find pine branches for her to lay on to give birth. But Marian raised her head to the heavens, and when the other dogs looked up, they saw the dazzling star beckoning them. Marian hurried on her way, followed by the pack of wild dogs, all following the star.

Suddenly, in the distance Marian saw a tiny stable. She saw shepherds, sheep, lambs, and donkeys around a manger. A scent of welcoming emanated from the stable. The dogs hurried forward, unafraid of the huge farm animals standing around. Marian looked into the face of a baby, and at that moment every person and animal present went down on their knees before the baby, including Marian. The Baby Jesus stretched out His tiny hand as if to bid Marian to come to Him. Marian looked at the parents of the baby, seated on either side of the manger, silently asking their permission. The parents’ smiling eyes gave consent. Marian limped into the stable and went up close to the baby. He held out His hand and touched her nose. The touch was brief and barely felt, but Marian knew without knowing how that all was right with her little world, the world of abandoned dogs. She knew this was the savior she had heard people talking about in the marketplace. She knew she had been blessed by that savior. She knew also that she and her babies would be saved because she had been touched by this special baby boy. She knew that nothing in her life or the life of the world would ever be the same.

She bowed her head before the baby and limped out of the stable. The pack of dogs had disappeared. Behind the stable Marian lay down in a patch of dry grass, and there she delivered her six puppies. Each was born with a star on its forehead. As they suckled, one of the shepherds came to check on her. He gathered up Marian and her little family, and took them home with him. Before Marian closed her eyes in sleep on that starry night, the once abandoned and frightened little dog, looked once again to the star that had drawn her to the special baby boy. She bowed her head in homage to the King of Kings, and the Savior of the world. Marian rested, knowing that she had been privileged to see the one who came to save the world.

©

END

EBONY: WARRIOR PRINCESS

2009-12-21T19:40:00.000-05:00

EBONY, WARRIOR PRINCESS

[I'm pleased to share with you a chapter from "Ebony: Warrior Princess," a book about my adorable miniature poodle daughter who crossed the rainbow bridge two years ago. I still mourn her death.]

Warrior princess? Where did that come from? I am a queen in my house. My mommy thinks she is the queen, but I have her number. Ha,ha. Whenever a door is opened, I am the first one out! Mommy tries to hold me back, and she tries to step out ahead of me, but I hold back, and when she steps back to see what I’m doing, I lunge out the door. I know Mommy has read those books on training DOGS that say the boss is supposed to go out the door first. Well, that’s true. But I am the boss and she needs to learn that. When she takes me walking, I lead the way. I go where I want to go and she has to follow. Sometimes when I crisscross the road, she gets tired of that, and tries to tell me that I have to walk on one side or the other. Why I wonder? Why can’t I run from one side to the other if that is what I want to do? She just has to keep up. Actually she should take off the damned leash and let me run. I’m not afraid of any dogs that might be around. If people are around, I want to go up to them to allow them the pleasure of petting me, and oohing and aahing over me. They love me! Mommy gets upset when I see people and I start “talking.” My talking is vocal rumblings of pleasure that there is somebody who would dearly love to pet me. For who wouldn’t love to pet me, the Warrior Princess?

When I lived with my biological mother, Snowie, I thought we were the only two beings like us. I had no idea that there were so many things called dogs out there. When my mommy got me, she decided to take me to obedience school. I was fine until then. But at obedience school there were a lot of big mutts in the class. There was one dog smaller than me. He was a little white doggie named Blizzard. When those big dogs ran over to snift Blizzard, he would roll over on his back and they would sniff him and nuzzle him and then go about their business. But then another one would go over to him and another. He spent all of his time rolling and groveling. Somebody said that’s what small dogs are to do. Well, not this Warrior Princess! The first night of class the owners took off the leashes. Doggies were all over the floor. I tried to stay close to Mommy. I could hear the instructor yelling at Mommy to walk away from me. Those dogs followed me as I followed her. Finally I decided that I was not going to run away from them. I then turned and showed them my teeth and snarled so they would know to leave me alone. Most of them did. There was no way I was going to roll over and let some beast sniff me. Oh no, they had another thought coming. Just let one try it!

Once a baby chocolate Labrador named Hershey was standing behind us. Hershey wanted to play with me. I do not play with dogs. He kept getting closer and closer to me. His owner kept pulling him away. I snarled at him a few times and Mommy scolded me. I heard Hershey’s owner ask him, “Do you want to get bitten?” He knew I was about to tackle Hershey to teach him a good lesson. Mommy apologized to Hershey and petted him. Hmph. I turned my head. I wanted no parts of that puppy. I’m grown; I don’t play with puppies.

There was a time when I would play with other poodles. But then obedience school cured me of all that. I was quite a sweetie before my mommy dragged me off to school. And I would have been fine there if those animals had left me alone. I simply wanted to be left alone. I was not going to be sniffed. And for goodness sakes, why do those animals usually want to sniff one’s butt? I don’t do that. What’s wrong with them? I guess that’s why they call them animals – cause they are! There was a little doggie I used to play with during our morning walks. Her owner would let her out when she saw us coming. Finally, I got tired of her, and one day we walked by and she wanted to play, and I didn’t. I snarled at her. She ran back to her house. I got scolded, but I didn’t care. I was in a bad mood that day I suppose. The next time I saw her I was ready to play. She ignored me. Of all the nerve! I didn’t understand that. I thought we were friends, but the little bitch wouldn’t play with me, and ran back to her house. Thereafter, my mommy wouldn’t even let me stop and pee at the bitch’s house. I hope you know by now that bitch is the word for female dogs. I love using it for obvious reasons!! That little bitch just got on my last nerve! Ha,ha!!

Sometimes Mommy says I’m a piece of work, whatever that means. I am not a piece of anything. I am a jet black, miniature poodle, age eleven, with red bows in my hair. I am too cute. Everybody tells me so.

****

INTENTS AND PURPOSES

2009-11-30T20:03:00.000-05:00

On November 4, 1979, Americans learned that the U.S. embassy in Tehran, Iran had been overtaken and militants had captured 66 American diplomats. Some Americans escaped, and some were released a few days later, but 52 were held as hostages for 444 days. The news of that takeover of our embassy sent chills through every American serving in a U.S. embassy. I was at the beginning of my second year in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania. Almost immediately rumors began that other countries might take hostages. Security measures were tightened, none of which made me feel any better, especially since I lived alone in a huge, three-story, 4 bedroom, 4 bathroom house.

U.S. ambassadors throughout the world were ordered to make “demarches,” i.e., diplomatic initiatives to the prime ministers of their country for assistance in getting our people released. Tanzania was non-committal, not to mention non-cooperative. It was a Socialist country and was friendlier to the forces opposed to the United States than to the United States. The Tanzanian government would not budge from its position to not assist the U.S. We Americans serving there were quite unhappy with that decision. It was interesting that none of our contacts or “friends” mentioned the hostage situation when talking to us. Tanzanians continued to come to our library and to cultural events. They continued to visit our offices in quest of fellowships to U.S. universities or for 30 day visits to the U.S. during which time they met with professionals in their fields. Those programs were especially for people identified by the U.S. government as likely to be key leaders in the future. The capture of Americans in Iran wasn't even the leading news of any of Tanzania’s media. It was almost as if it had not happened.

On January 16, 1979, the Shah of Iran had fled the country when his proposals for economic and social reforms, but not much in the way of political reforms, failed. The country was thrown into much violence by the nationalists, and the Shah and his family had to flee. The Ayatollah Khomeini who had been arrested and exiled, and who was an opponent of the U.S., returned to the country and added his anti-American rhetoric to the calls for revolution. The rest is history.

We had gotten some news about of the treatment of our people in Iran and the news was frightening. We knew the hostages had been split up and taken to different locations. One woman had remained at our library in Iran with an open telephone line telling officials in Washington what was going on. After a few days the Iranians picked her up. Shortly thereafter, 13 women and blacks were released. The woman who had been on the telephone refused to leave without her colleagues, and she and another woman remained as hostages for the entire time. Some of us thought the U.S. would consult Israel because they always managed to get their people out of tight situations. We remembered Entebbe in Uganda. And then came the devastating news that President Carter had tried to free the hostages. The plan failed, and eight U.S. servicemen were killed. We were horrified and angry that the U.S. would attempt such an escape. I know that President Carter’s intentions were good, but most of us felt that any attempted rescue would put our people in greater danger if not get them killed.

Then came the astonishing news that six Americans hiding in the Canadian Embassy in Iran for three months were free and back in the U.S. The Canadian Ambassador, Kenneth Taylor, had courageously hidden the six at great risk to himself and his Canadian staff. Our people were able to leave Iran disguised as Canadians. American diplomats everywhere rejoiced. I screamed with glee when I heard the news. More sobering were thoughts of what Iran’s reaction would be to.

I called the Canadian Embassy and asked for a photo of Ambassador Taylor. I had our staff blow up the picture and put it on an easel in the front window of our office, facing the main street. On each side of the photo I placed U.S. and Canadian flags, and beneath the picture of the ambassador in two foot high letters was a sign that read: “THANK YOU, AMBASSADOR TAYLOR!” The Canadians were thrilled and came to take photos to send home. Several Tanzanians asked what were we thanking the Canadians for. I had to take a deep breath, bite my tongue, clear my throat, and then I said we were thanking the Canadians for having the courage to hide our American colleagues who were in grave danger, when other countries were too cowardly to speak out; that they did this humane act despite the possible danger to their entire embassy and staff, and lastly for spiriting our people out of the country to safety. It turned out that the families of the six knew that they were in hiding, as did Canadian and American officials and several news reporters. Not one word was breathed because of the incredible danger those in hiding and their hosts would have been in. Two years later when I was working at our embassy in Liberia I watched a movie about the escape from Iran and even though I knew the ending, I still stood and cheered when they were safely out of Iran.

When our hostages were released I was in Washington recuperating from an unplanned gall bladder surgery and enroute to Liberia. (This was back in the days when they slashed you wide open and you had to recuperate for six weeks). Shortly after the inauguration of President Ronald Reagan, it was announced that the hostages had been freed. President Carter looked stricken. What a slap in his face by the Iranians. I felt very sorry for him. He was a good person and he meant well.

Our people were coming home! All of the U.S. rejoiced. Yellow ribbon became difficult to find because every tree and doorway sprouted yellow ribbons. Algeria lent its services to fly the hostages out of Iran. My heart bled as I watched my colleagues blindfolded, going through a gauntlet of jeering and spitting Iranians. Our people didn’t know where they were going. For all they knew, they were going to another Moslem country, instead of home. We watched the hostages board the Algerian plane and watched them cheer when the pilot announced that they were out of Iranian air space. Later I learned that the Algerians had not accepted food prepared by the Iranians for the Algerian flight crew and the Americans. They were taking no chances that the food might have been tampered with.

In Algeria our people disembarked wearing warm jackets. They looked a bit more cheerful, but still not completely aware that they were free. A few of them waved as they left the plane. Inside the terminal they were hugged by the American ambassador Ulric Haynes, Jr. and his wife, and the U.S. Deputy Secretary of State Warren Christopher. Finally, they realized they were completely free of Iran and its terrorists. Within moments they boarded another plane to be flown to Germany for medical care and debriefing. When they arrived in Germany at an American base, they were greeted by many, many fellow Americans waving yellow ribbons and cheering. The military men were in uniform and they gave crisp salutes to the officers welcoming them. The other former hostages were dressed smartly, and their wide smiles telegraphed their joy to the world.

And then they came home to the United States, and what a homecoming it was! As each officer appeared in the doorway of the plane and began his or her descent, the noise of the crowd overwhelmed them. They stood straight and proud. They were Americans and they were home again! These were our heroines and heroes and I wanted to honor them. I wanted desperately to be in that crowd, but it was too soon after my surgery for me to be out. Buses met them upon their arrival and as their caravan moved slowly into Washington, DC, crowds along the way cheered and waved, and the former captives leaned out of the bus windows acknowledging the welcome. All of Washington was awash in yellow. Yellow ribbons fluttered from every tree and doorway. The caravan came down Pennsylvania Avenue, past the White House, and then on to the Department of State. The entire country was in a festive mood. Free at last! Free at last! Our hostages were free at last! We cried, we laughed, we prayed and we saluted our brave, indomitable men and women who never let the bastards get them down, but who remained what they always were – proud, dignified Americans who had been held for 444 days.

It wasn’t until 1987 that the American public learned that the “honorable” President Reagan had gotten the hostages released in exchange for giving weapons to Iran. He and his campaign strategist, William Casey, later named head of the CIA, determined that if the hostages were released before the presidential election, President Carter would probably win. Therefore, despicably, Reagan’s people held secret meetings with the Iranians and instructed them to hold the hostages until after Reagan was sworn in.

***

A BLESSED THANKSGIVING

2009-11-23T23:57:00.001-05:00

Greetings:

I wish you a blessed Thanksgiving Day and month and year. Sometimes it is difficult to see what there is to be thankful for. But then I remember our priests in prison and I am so thankful that they are in my life. Our Lord seems to have put us together and here we are. I am the better person for knowing and loving each and every one of them.

Tears fall when as I remember family and friends who are no longer here. I just wish I could tell them now how much they meant to me. We always seem to think that our loved ones will be with us forever. We dare not think of the unthinkable. Everyone in my small family is gone. I had no siblings. My mother had 6 siblings and they are all gone. My last aunt, Aunt Bess, died six years ago at 98 yrs. of age. I used to tell her that she had to make it to 100. She tried. During her last stay in the hospital I told her that it was just the two of us left and she could not leave me. She nodded. And she tried. Two weeks later, the last time I saw her, I realized how selfish I was being. I told her that it was OK to leave me. I said, “Your mother and brothers and sisters are waiting to greet you. It’s OK to leave me. I’ll be fine.” She smiled and nodded, and within hours she was gone. She and I were the ones other family members looked to for advice. She was my support and then she was gone. But I was not alone, not without love.

The Lord blessed me with “other parents,” Mama Gladys (Mother’s best friend) and Daddy Dougie. I love those two people. They have always introduced me as their daughter and they have taken good care of me during these retirement years. They are both 86 yrs. old. I have “sisters” Bernie and Joyce who have been best friends of mine since grade school at St. Bridget’s. Bernie and I entered first grade together. They were my support system during those dark days when I felt so alone in the world.

I threw myself into volunteering: animal handler at the zoo; Crown Hill Cemetery tour guide; volunteering for everything at the Women’s Prison, teaching a weekly class there, and establishing a Prison Ministry at my church. And then because I asked a question some incredible priests responded and my life changed. I had a new ministry. Somebody needed me. We hugged each other through our letters as they poured out their hearts and souls to me.

I have become their advocate. I will never let another diocese ignore a priest’s health if I know he is sick in prison. I will beat down the doors of some bishop’s office to get medical care for him. I promise I will never let a diocese ignore their health as it did another priest who died on my watch. Dolores Crowley, another dear sister, called the diocese several times trying to get medical help, but she was ignored. When I learned of that priest’s death – due to mistreatment in prison and lack of medical care – I was shocked, hurt and outraged. I promise them by all that is holy that I will never let that happen again. Church officials tremble at the thought of SNAP or VOTF knocking at their doors. Just wait until I call upon them.

I will tolerate no mistreatment of my fallen angels and I will storm heaven and earth to see that justice is done. They are serving prison sentences as their punishment according to law. That does not include additional punishment such as mistreatment by guards or other inmates; deliberate withholding of medical treatment; food that animals won’t eat, or the lack of Catholic Masses or access to Catholic priests and/or Deacons and Catholic materials. I have only to know!

Last year one of my fallen angels had open heart surgery. I was extremely worried. I didn’t hear from him for weeks. I then began calling the prison. At first they refused to give me any information about him since I was not a family member. I only wanted to know if he had survived the surgery and was back at the prison. I had to rant and rave and threaten to contact everybody from the governor down. Finally I was connected to the medical unit and the nurse did not want to give me any information, but he realized that I was not going to go away quietly. There would be blood! He then told me that the priest was back on his pod. That meant he was out of the hospital and apparently doing well.

A few days later I received a letter from Father.
“Nurse H. told me some woman was asking about me but ... as per prison policy he was not able to tell you anything. I wondered who was so caring. I did thinkit might have been you or Dolores. I had the heart surgery..The cardiac team was so supportive – I was a patient first and not ever a prisoner to them. We all prayedbefore the surgery. They also waited for a priest to visit and give me the Sacraments before they would do the surgery!”

Yes, Dolores Crowley and I are hell on wheels (and off wheels too, truth be known!) She cares as much about priests in prison as I do. Twice we have visited a priest in prison in California. Last month we drove to Ohio to visit another priest in prison, and on her way back to CA she stopped to visit Fr. K. in Texas.

She had been told that she could not have a contact visit with him since she was not a relative or a spiritual advisor. She reluctantly accepted that. When she arrived at the prison amazingly enough she was allowed a contact visit with him for 4 hours! Methinks Dolores could talk her way out of hell! Surely she won’t have to, but she could!

And so, this Thanksgiving month I am most thankful for all the fallen angels in my life. I thank them for coming into my life. I thank them for their love and their prayers. I am humbled and honored. Yes, tears still fall, but they are tears of great humility and thankfulness.

As I always say to priests in prison - Never forget: God loves you and so do I.

The Lord’s Peace, always

GOD LOVES YOU AND YOU ARE HIS

2009-11-09T15:10:00.021-05:00

GOD LOVES YOU AND YOU ARE HIS

I am strength for all the despairing, healing for the ones who dwell in shame…

- David Haas *

In January I journeyed to New Mexico to attend a Memorial Mass for a priest who died in prison. His name will be omitted here because of his family’s concerns about hate groups. Father was the first incarcerated priest to write to me when I reached out to ask how priests were being treated in prison. He never asked for sympathy. He was forthright about his imprisonment, other inmates, and he answered all of my questions. We wrote regularly to each other as friends until his death late last year.

Father died in November but we didn’t learn of his death until mid-December when a priest friend of his went to the prison to visit him. He walked out of the prison in shock and numb. He telephoned me as he sat in a nearby park and we cried together as we mourned the death of our friend.

I will come to you in the silence

I will lift you from all your fear

In January this priest arranged for a Memorial Mass to be held for Father in New Mexico. On January 28, 2009, four noble priests of the order of Melchizedek concelebrated a Mass for Father. Also present were three women there to honor a man and a priest who had been so vilified. Due to the past negligence of the diocese in New Mexico, we concluded that permission to have a Mass said for Father in a Catholic Church would have been refused, so the Mass was held at another location. Those present came from California, Texas, New Mexico and Indiana.

The readings for that day spoke of priests and seeds planted and nourished, as we remembered Father's joy in the small garden he planted and tended. On the altar were flowers and a framed watercolor painted by Father, a gifted artist. Our Mass cards featured an exquisite water color painting done by him. Some letters written to us by him were laid at the base of the "altar." Those letters spoke of his dark night of the soul, his love of his priesthood and his faith, his angst over his sins, his search for forgiveness, and his acceptance of his punishment. Pain hung heavy in that room. One celebrant asked if a man should be remembered for the worst thing he ever did and no thought be given to the good things he did. We remembered Father for his priestly ministry that he tried hard to live.

You will hear My voice

I claim you as My choice

As we prayed and sang, I felt like the early Christians must have felt when they met in secret in the catacombs. Twice I heard loud sounds from somewhere in the building and I wondered if our Mass was going to be disrupted by hateful factions. After Mass the seven of us went to the cemetery to visit Father’s grave where we placed flowers, prayed, and sang. Each of us knelt for a moment and touched his grave. We were not able to be with Father when he died, but we were with him that day, and he was certainly with each one of us.

I am hope for all who are hopeless

I am eyes for all who long to see

This priest’s suffering went beyond his prison sentence. His talented fingers were broken once when he refused to give an inmate some of his artwork. On a visit to a doctor, his ankles and legs were shackled so tightly that the doctor was unable to examine him and complained to the warden. He was never taken back to the doctor. Instead, every morning he was given an aspirin and some “lotion” for his legs. Nobody in the diocese cared enough to check on him, despite phone calls asking them to do so.

In the shadows of the night,

I will be your light

In his final days, a guard put him in solitary for a trumped-up charge. He was supposed to be there for two days, but he was “forgotten” and left there for two weeks. There were apologies, but at that point Father had lost his will to live.

Come and rest in Me

On November 13, Father wrote what would be his last letter to the priest who visited him monthly. In the letter he indicated that he had made funeral arrangements because, “I feared the New Mexico prison system will treat my dead body with the same disrespect with which they have treated my living body.” He died of a broken heart. He is buried in a plot donated by an order of nuns.

Do not be afraid, I am with you

I have called you each by name

There is no doubt in my mind that this wounded priest is in heaven with our Lord.

In Psalms 85 we are told that – “Love and truth will meet; justice and peace will kiss.” I pray that it will happen during our lifetime.

I will bring you home

I love you and you are Mine.

*You Are Mine”

by David Haas

SPIRIT

2009-11-06T15:05:00.000-05:00

SPIRIT

"The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can

be judged by the way its animals are treated."

- Gandhi

The black and white dog dragged herself along the deserted street with great difficulty. She had to get further away from those who had injured her so badly. Every step caused excruciating pain. Someone had placed a firecracker in her rectum and ignited it. When it exploded she frantically tried to remove the painful, fiery thing with her mouth. Now her mouth was burned and was as painful as her backside. She knew she was badly injured. Humans had caused her injuries, but she knew in her heart that all humans were not like the bad ones who hurt her. She searched for a caring human.

As she rounded a corner she saw a car just drawing to a stop in front of a house. The dog limped to the driver’s door. When the car door opened, a woman got out and the injured dog managed to crawl into the car. The woman and her daughter, who was still in the car, saw the singed fur and terrible burns on the animal. They realized she was badly injured. While the daughter remained in the car and spoke softly to the dog, her mother ran inside to call the Humane Society. She was told to bring in the dog and they drove frantically across town.

That evening a shocked public watched, and many cried, as the TV nightly news showed the courageous animal struggling bravely to walk from the car. Veterinarians examined her and despite the tremendous pain, she bore it all bravely. The firecracker had caused appalling damage. She was burned inside her rectum and all around it, and her mouth was burned when she tried to remove the burning firecracker.

The Humane Society caregivers named her Spirit because of her gutsy nature. She won the hearts of everyone who read about her or heard about her. She underwent all the painful treatments with a resolve that was awesome. Spirit caught the attention of an admiring public and checks poured in for her extensive and expensive medical care. Ebony and I took toys, blankets, pillows, treats, and more poured into the shelter. Spirit happily shared them with the other animals. A lot of prayers were said, especially to St. Francis, to help Spirit’s healing. Her condition was updated daily by the TV stations.

The Humane Society reported that Spirit wore a collar and appeared to have been taken care of. Where were her owners now? People wanted answers as to who tortured this precious being. No one ever came forth to claim her. Some speculated that someone in the family that owned Spirit had injured her and the family did not claim her for fear of prosecution.

Spirit spent several weeks recovering at the Humane Society. Hundreds of people wanted to adopt her. One lucky woman who had worked with Spirit during those long, painful weeks became her adopted mother. When Spirit healed and was ready to leave for her new home, the public was invited to meet her. The Humane Society held a farewell party for Spirit so that her friends and admirers could meet this wonderful, loving dog whose spirit had touched so many. Spirit was indeed spirited at the party. She greeted each guest, wolfed down her special cake, said her good-byes, and walked majestically out the door and into a new life, healed in body and spirit.

Wicked people critically injured her; her owners turned their backs on her, but with that incredibly lovable manner of dogs, Spirit remained trusting and gentle. Should Spirit ever meet her torturers in the future, she would, in the extraordinarily wonderful nature of dogs, undoubtedly greet them with warmth and affection.

Spirit is owed a debt of gratitude and thanks for the valuable lesson she taught us about love and forgiveness.

Why can’t people be more like animals?

***

Who Am I?

2009-10-31T11:33:00.001-04:00

WHO AM I?

The best passion is compassion.

- Jamaica

You may be asking yourself that question, as well you should. Let me introduce myself. I am black, Catholic and female. I know what it is to be a pariah. I also know what it is to be a victim of a violent rape. But I am a child of God, and His loving mercy allows me to minister to priests in prison for the same offense that I suffered – not at the hands of a priest. In the past few weeks some of our more visible entertainers have said rape is not rape when committed by a celebrity, and they seem to conclude that there are degrees of rape. Rape is rape – always has been and always will be.

I hasten to add that not all priests in prison are guilty, and not all accused priests are guilty. Yes, many have fallen from grace, but they remain priests because that special mark can never be erased. Most of our Church leaders are so afraid of being heckled by the likes of SNAP and VOTF that in their haste to dispense with the priests they view as troublesome, they have swiftly thrown those priests to the wolves, slammed shut the Church doors, and seemingly have forbidden the priests in their dioceses from having any contact with imprisoned priests. Indeed, they have willingly sacrificed their common sense.

As a victim of rape at age 11, held down on a bed with a gun to my head, I know there is no way that I can ever forget that. I am surprised that anybody believes that a rape victim suddenly remembers being raped some 30 or 40 yrs. later. As the Church offered more and more money, many “victims” suddenly began to “remember” being raped by a priest. Those millionaires and their greedy lawyers are enjoying their money now, but they will have to face the Lord on Judgment Day. I would love to be a fly on the wall on that Day.

Some of you may remember reading the article I wrote that was published in the National Catholic Reporter on July 20, 2007, titled, “Throwaway Priests.” I wanted to know how our Catholic priests in prison were being treated. The response was overwhelming. I heard from priests in dioceses, priests in prison, priests who married, and priests who had left the Church for various reasons. I now write to some 30-40 priests in prison who have opened their hearts to me. I ask what they need and try to obtain newspaper and magazine subscriptions; books; money for telephone and commissary items. Friends who initially frowned on my ministry are now helping a bit. Every now and then someone will send $25 or so to purchase paper, ink cartridges, or stamps. I am thrilled with that. I have asked friends not to send me any more birthday or Christmas presents, but instead to send the money to Fr. Gordon J. MacRae’s defense fund.

Our priests in prison don’t want sympathy and they don’t whine. They don’t hate anyone and they aren’t angry at anyone. For the most part, they are puzzled as to the silence from their brother priests. That is what hurts them most of all: the lack of visits or messages from their brother priests, some of whom have had the audacity to tell these wounded priests that they want no contact with them. What a slap in the face. It’s as if their being in prison is contagious, and a letter to or from them will contaminate those outside. In fact, every priest is only one telephone call away from being behind iron bars themselves. I remind you again that every priest in prison is not guilty.

The Catholic Church that I joined (after much angst from a reluctant mother), taught about love, forgiveness, compassion, and justice. I have seen precious little of that vis-a-vis our priests in prison, and they are OUR priests in prison. Many of the imprisoned priests are very elderly and don’t have family members still alive. Priests in prison suffer from the lack of Catholic materials. Few have access to a priest or a confessor. Some imprisoned close to their home parish have never had a visitor from anyone connected to that parish. Their families live in fear that some organization unworthy of being named here, will find out where they live and picket their neighborhoods, and on it goes. I call that unabated hate and ignorance. What kind of people are we who sit by silently, never asking publicly for prayers for priests in prison? No one ever speaks of forgiveness and compassion in their regard. No one ever asks What Would Jesus Do? Why? Because they know the answer.

From their pulpits our bishops literally embrace “victims” and beseech us to pray for them as they, the “victims” reach for the money being thrown at them which is probably more welcomed than the prayers. Few of their former parishioners care enough to reach out to them. I have felt the presence of our Lord every day since the night a gun was held to my head. I was going to die that night; the rapist told me so. He said he was going to kill both of us after that horrible act. I could only think of my mother walking in and finding us dead. I had to spare her that. I was traumatized, but the Lord must have given me the words to convince him that I would remain silent. I was silent for 45 years, but I never forgot. I wish I could have.

I pray that we may be responsible, forgiving, compassionate and loving members of our Church.

I pray that we see the plank in our eyes before we complain about the splinter in the eyes of others.

I pray that our Lord will wrap our incarcerated priests in His loving mercy.

I pray that priests who live under bridges as vagrants, will somehow find comfort in the words of our Lord that He will never abandon them.

I pray that the love that we have for each other will be enough to share with our sick and wounded priests.

I pray.

Death of Bishop Pat Ziemann by Charlene C. Duline

2009-10-23T23:01:00.003-04:00

"A mighty oak has fallen..."

An African proverb

Today I learned that Bishop Pat Ziemann died yesterday at the Holy Trinity Monastery in Arizona. A few weeks ago I learned of his illness and pending death. He was dying of pancreatic cancer. Bishop Pat, as I called him, is as a monsignor referred to him, “head and shoulders above the rest.” This bishop was crucified like Christ, not guilty of any sins against children, but of a personal indiscretion with an adult who tried to blackmail him. He suffered and now he’s gone.

A few days earlier Fr. Gordon MacRae asked for prayers for a bishop who was dying of pancreatic cancer. He would not say who the bishop was because of the bishop's concern that the media and agenda - driven groups would use this information for their own ends.

*Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.

I met Bishop Pat eight months ago at the monastery where he resided. He was an humble figure, a man, a priest, who cheerfully waited on tables and washed dishes after dinner. There were quite a few visitors at the monastery. Most were there in their splendiferous motor homes parked on monastery property. They come yearly to help the monks repair, paint, etc. and to enjoy the quietness, the spirituality, the interaction with Bishop Pat and others.

I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.

I was introduced to Bishop Pat by a longtime friend of his, Dolores Crowley. She and her late husband, Dr. John Crowley, spent many wonderful times with Bishop Pat. They did not desert the bishop after his fall from grace. We visited him at the monastery and he told me that his fall was the best thing that could have happened to him. He said, “It put me back in touch with my spirituality. As a bishop I was too focused on management... (and other tangibles).” Now he had dispensed with all of the trappings of being a bishop and humbly served others dining at the monastery. I was very impressed with his humility. On our last night in Benson Bishop Pat took us out to dinner at one of his favorite Mexican tiendas. What a fun evening it was. We ate and laughed. I hear his laughter now. I see his smile.

I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush

Dolores was visiting me when she brought up her home newspaper on her computer.
She looked at me in shock and gasped, “Bishop Pat is dying!”

And then I was in shock! What on earth was she talking about? Bishop Pat dying? Yet, from her ashen face I knew she was not joking. Who could joke about such a thing? I sank down on the nearest sofa and waited for an explanation. I barely understood what she said. It was something about the Press Democrat, pancreatic cancer, few weeks to live, and we both began to cry. Not Bishop Pat. Not the gentle, humble man I had come to know and love. Not the man designated by a friend of his to head a group to assist priests coming out of prison and with no place to go. His friend envisioned setting up a place isolated from the likes of SNAP, VOTF and the media; a safe place where priests released from prison could go to reorder their lives, figure out what they wanted to do in the future, and be safe from those who feel it’s their duty to cause these men to suffer for the rest of their lives. He wanted medical personnel in place, spiritual advisers, psychologists, and any therapists the priests would need in order to succeed in the next phase of their broken lives. Bishop Pat won’t be here to head the innovative and desperately needed organization, but his imprint is on the man who conceived the idea, the man who attended the seminary with Bishop Pat, the man who decided not to become a priest, but whose “brother," Bishop Pat, made him the caring man that he is today.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

A few nights after we placed a call to Bishop Pat, he returned our call. His voice was weak. He apologized to Dolores for not telling her himself of his fatal illness. I told him how much it meant to me to meet him and to spend a few days at the monastery. I wanted to ask for his blessing, but I could hear that it was an effort for him to speak. I tried unsuccessfully to choke back tears. I managed to tell Bishop Pat that I loved him, and I handed the phone to Dolores. She told him that her husband, John, will be standing at the gates of heaven to greet him. Bishop Pat said he was ready to go to his heavenly home. I’ve never blessed a bishop before, but in my heart I blessed Bishop Pat. May he go in peace. May he rest in peace.

No, the letter Z in the title of this blog does not represent Bishop Pat’s last name. The Greek letter Z means he lives. Bishop Patrick Ziemann will never die, for he lives on in the hearts of those who know and love him.

Peace,

Cee

*"Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep," Mary E. Frye