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!
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Monday, April 19, 2010
EBONY: THE DAY I CRIED
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.
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.
Monday, March 22, 2010
THE GENTLEMANLY MOUSE
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.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
QUIRKY AND QRAZY: THE AMERICAN CHARACTER
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.
***
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.
***
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
POWER, PRIVILEGE AND INJUSTICE
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.”
***
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.”
***
Saturday, January 30, 2010
IN THEIR OWN WORDS: PRIESTS IN PRISON WRITE
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
• “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
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