Handled or Healed?

This spring I shared about a homily we heard from Father Columba Jordan, CFR, while visiting Gabe and his fellow postulants in Harlem. Father Columba asked if we were handing our problems over to the Lord or squeezing Him like a stress ball while we tried to handle them ourselves. Surrender is more than admitting we need help or even asking for help—it means relinquishing control and receiving His help, in whatever form it comes.

Fast-forward to this month: After years of talking about it, Jodi and I decided to work on our marriage together by participating in the Healing the Whole Person study at the church this summer. By most measures, our marriage is healthy and strong, but anyone who has spent decades living with the same person can point to areas in need of healing: issues that consistently cause anxiety or anger, conversations that invariably go sideways, little things that drive us crazy in disproportionately big ways. And we don’t want to settle for that.

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Book Backlog: Three Diverse Reads

For a host of reasons, I’ve not been doing as much personal writing in recent years. I won’t promise that’s going to change yet, but I’m going to make a start, at least, with short “reviews” of three very different books I’ve read in the last year: a chance spiritual read called Beautiful Outlaw by John Eldridge; Cannery Row, a great short novel by John Steinbeck; and Shantyboat, a non-fiction account of a married couple’s journey from Ohio to New Orleans in a homemade driftboat in the 1940s, by artist and writer Harlan Hubbard.

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Everything He Has Is Ours

This post also appeared in the Sunday, March 17, issue of the St. Michael Catholic Church bulletin.

A few weeks ago I was blessed to attend a day-long silent retreat for church staff, led by Father Park. It had been a long while since my last silent retreat, and the time was truly blessed.

One of the scripture passages given to us for reflection was an old standby: the Parable of the Prodigal Son (Luke 15:11-32). Like many of you, I’ve heard this story countless times and sometimes approach it like an old friend I know well, slipping into familiar patterns without a second look or thought.

This time was different. Instead of focusing on the father’s forgiveness, the younger son’s repentance, or the older son’s hardness of heart, what struck me was the father’s unflagging generosity with both his sons.

Or, more specifically, our Heavenly Father’s unfailing generosity with me.

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The Dad-Roll and Other Defensive Maneuvers

I am not naturally graceful. As a boy, I cast a shadow like a keyhole—a melon head atop a stick-figure body, careening through the world in whatever direction my topmost orb led me. As a teen, I lived in a narrow trailer house with my folks and spent two miserable weeks after my dad’s foot surgery finding every possible way to pinball into his elevated leg and throbbing big toe.

Today I am much the same: I move effortlessly, like an October acorn pinging from roof to car to driveway. I still drift the way I’m leaning and collide with stationary objects, softly as a poolside preschooler wearing swim-fins.

And yet, somewhere on the outer ends of my Y-chromosome is coded an instinct for self-preservation, which (to date) has kept me physically intact and free of broken bones or stitches.

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Friday Flashback: Secret Stash

A few days ago I was exiting the church offices and saw Father McGinnis in the vestibule. He was preparing to leave, as well, but he was standing near a small table, the top of which was open like the lid to a chest. I had never noticed that it opened before, and for a split second, it appeared as though he was gathering belongings he has stashed near the door for his convenience.

In reality, he had also noticed for the first time that the table opened and simply wanted to see what, if anything, was inside. But the initial impression called me back, back…

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