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.
***
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
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
Sunday, December 27, 2009
THROWAWAY PRIESTS
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
-------------
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
Thursday, December 24, 2009
THE HOLIEST NIGHT
[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.]
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.
©
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
Monday, December 21, 2009
EBONY: WARRIOR PRINCESS
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.
[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.
****
Monday, November 30, 2009
INTENTS AND PURPOSES
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.
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.
***
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