suffering

Wednesday Witness: Borders and Boundaries

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A few years ago, I worked for the Church of Saint Andrew in Elk River. The parish had a strong charism of service to those in need and a growing Hispanic community. I was able to get to know a few immigrant families through the Faith Formation and sacrament programs, as well as the parish’s Hispanic liaison. The experience gave my valuable perspective on the conditions that might cause someone to uproot their family and cross our southern border (whether legally or illegally) in search of a better life.

Saint Andrew also had an annual mission trip to Mexico. Invariably, the parishioners who traveled and served in the barrios south of the border came back with one overriding impression: Poverty there is often a deeper, darker thing than poverty here at home.

As a result of these encounters, I often found myself asking: What would I be willing to do to protect and provide for my family?

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Book Break: Hillbilly Elegy by JD Vance

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Last summer, when we were visiting Jodi’s parents, her mom gave me a copy of JD Vance’s memoir Hillybilly Elegy. I think she had picked it up for herself, but we were talking about the upcoming election, and she thought I had a better chance of reading it sometime in the near future. She said I could tell her about it when I did.

Well, Momma Venjohn, here you go.

In case you avoid the news: JD Vance is a young, former US senator for the state of Ohio, now vice president of the United States of America. He is a Marine Corps veteran, a graduate of Ohio State University and Yale Law School, and the author of the afore-mentioned memoir, a book-length reflection on a traumatic childhood, poverty and addiction in Appalachia and the Rust Belt, and the dysfunctional family connections that somehow got him through where so many others flounder.

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A Year Apart: Reflecting on My Father’s Passing

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One year ago today, my father passed away.

I flew to Michigan early that morning with the experienced observation of a close family friend ringing in my head: It won’t be long. The flight was flawless and landed early. When the rental car clerk learned why I was in Michigan, he expedited everything, and I was on the road in minutes. Traffic moved. The pavement was dry. I drove the limit and made myself relax, reflecting that this was unfolding in God’s time, and I would arrive when I should.

I arrived just in time. My sister came out to greet me in the driveway and said she thought Dad may have just stopped breathing. I went in and held his hand, which was warmer to my touch than it had been in years. I spoke to him softly, telling him it was okay, telling him to go to the Lord and not to be afraid, telling him we were okay and would take care of each other. 

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Wednesday Witness: Step Outside Yourself

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But God said to him, “You fool, this night your life will be demanded of you; and the things you have prepared, to whom will they belong?” – Luke 12:20

Not long ago I met a woman going through serious medical and financial difficulties. For many weeks, she had been off work and in severe pain due to a spinal injury. She was behind on her bills, immobile most of the time, barely able to care for herself and her child. Friends and family offered what support they could, but even the very best prognosis put her a month away from working again, provided she still had a job.

At the end of a tearful conversation, I offered to pray with her and for her. She gratefully accepted, and I asked the Lord to heal her, to address her challenges, to protect her family, and to guide those around her to know how best to help.

When I stopped to ask if she would like to add anything, she said yes—and then proceeded to pray for a friend who was going through hard times and needed a spiritual boost. She prayed earnestly, by name, for this other person, then thanked God for all the help He has provided to her so far. She never once mentioned her own situation.

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Wednesday Witness: Take a Minute

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In last week’s Wednesday Witness column, I described one of several homeless men and women who frequented Yale’s campus when I attended in the 1990s. I worked for the graduate School of Music all four years, and one of my first and primary duties was walking the entire campus, distributing or hanging concert flyers and posters at various buildings, businesses, and kiosks. I made the rounds at least once a week; as a result, I saw the local homeless frequently, and they saw me.

During my first year, one man, in particular, kept his eyes open for my brown leather ballcap and black poster portfolio. He was an older fellow, creased and grimy from years on the street, with lank and thinning gray hair, well-worn workman’s clothing, and the unmistakable aroma of body odor and booze. Whenever he saw me, his pale eyes would pull into focus, and his mouth would break into a smile that was equal parts crooked yellow teeth and no teeth at all. He would rise (if seated), reach out to shake my hand, and start the same conversation.

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