<![CDATA[Like a Piazza

<![CDATA[Like a Piazza - Blog]]>Tue, 29 Dec 2020 19:51:03 -0800Weebly<![CDATA[Star of Wonder]]>Tue, 29 Dec 2020 15:38:58 GMThttp://likeapiazza.weebly.com/blog/star-of-wonderI first heard the song “Don’t Forget The Star” during a drive home last month. It was barely past Thanksgiving, but the Christian music station I listen to had already switched to their Christmas playlist. Amidst the traditional songs, an unfamiliar tune caught my attention. I turned up the volume to follow the story in the lyrics. “Don’t Forget The Star” begins with a flashback to Christmas as a child, to a time when Christmas meant presents and new toys. The grandpa in the song, however, pointed to the star on top of the tree and taught the child the true meaning of Christmas, in the promise of God’s son. When the child in the song grew up, he passed along this lesson to his own child.

A "card" from Grandpa: "Orriganel Han Made for Merryannn, Made in USA"

The Christian band Sidewalk Prophets released “Don’t Forget The Star” in 2013, but I was glad it came into my life this year. My own grandpa had been in assisted living following a stroke last October, and visits became more challenging after the onset of the pandemic. Mom and I would show up outside the window of his room and call his phone. “Who are you?” he’d say, holding the receiver to his ear and squinting at us through the window. He knew it was us, but we received the same greeting each time. “Are you lost? Or are you sellin’ something?” During one hot summer visit, Mom and I brought an umbrella to use as a parasol. Grandpa teased that it was raining sunshine.

Since we often visited around the dinner hour, he asked if we wanted something to eat, or if we planned to visit at any other windows. “It’ll be gettin’ dark soon. Do you think you can find your way home?” he’d ask as the conversation drew to a close, and we assured him we would be fine. We’d exchange “so longs”—never “goodbyes”—until our next visit.

Looking back, perhaps this ritual was our own version of The Posada, a Christmas tradition in Latin America and among Hispanic communities. A procession of musicians and children knock on doors to reenact Mary and Joseph’s search for a room at the inn. I imagine my grandpa’s remarks fitting into the traditional exchanges: “Are you lost?” “Can you find your way?” “Try another room.” At the end of The Posada festival, children break open a star-shaped piñata.

Our family doesn’t have a set Christmas tradition. Over the years, our traditions have evolved with our family. The early Christmases of my childhood began with my grandparents joining us for breakfast and gifts. After my grandma passed away, Grandpa took over gift-giving and became quite creative in his wrapping techniques. He covered presents in layers of newspaper and empty chip bags, secured with a combination of masking, electric, and pilfer-proof packing tape. In recent years, our family has gathered for a belated Christmas meal and gift-exchange at Blazing Bills, Grandpa’s favorite rib place down the road from his home in Burton, Ohio.

Grandpa loved his old century farmhouse, overlooking the garden and wooded land that he referred to as “God’s ten acres.” He ordered seeds from a catalog each spring, and when it became too difficult to plant them himself, he recruited my sisters and me to help. The seeds looked like stars scattered across the dark, well-tended dirt. “Maybe the earth is a seed,” Grandpa once said, “just sittin’ out there in space, waiting to grow up.” He was fascinated by life’s mysteries.

On December 21, three days after Grandpa passed away, Jupiter and Saturn crossed paths in the night sky. This conjunction, also known as the Star of Bethlehem, had guided the Magi on their journey two-thousand years ago. Unfortunately, Cleveland was covered in a thick blanket of clouds all week, like a solid layer of pilfer-proof tape. The only time the clouds parted was during Grandpa’s funeral service—the sun shining briefly during the sounding of Taps. The clouds returned by dusk, before we could catch a glimpse of the Christmas Star.

Even though I never saw it myself, I think of the grandpa's lesson in the Sidewalk Prophets song: Don’t forget the star. Past the clouds, in the great expanse of sky, I hear my own grandpa’s voice reminding me of mysteries, mysteries, mysteries we as humans never will understand.

]]><![CDATA[Harmony]]>Wed, 19 Aug 2020 07:00:00 GMThttp://likeapiazza.weebly.com/blog/harmonyOne Friday evening, I was sitting on my front porch when a neighbor called over to me, “There’s going to be a concert in the park, if you want to come check it out--”

“And you need to wear a mask!” the girl skipping alongside her added.

The woman smiled. “And you need to wear a mask. Spread the word!”

I looked up from what I was doing and noticed that several other families were filing down the street towards our little neighborhood park. The weather was beautiful and the summer sun had just dipped below the treetops. I couldn’t resist. I grabbed my mask and keys and followed along.

That evening’s lineup included some talented teens singing a variety of genres, from contemporary pop to classic barbershop tunes. A local professor of Turkish culture also performed folk songs on a wooden-framed bendir drum. There was clapping and laughing and dancing--and a sing-along, too. Behind the masks, I was sure people were smiling. The music brought us together.

A year ago, last August, I had gathered with 30,000 people to listen to the Christian bands at The Fest. In comparison, the concert in my neighborhood park was a much more intimate gathering of about 30 people. But live music is powerful, no matter what the scale. I realized how much I missed singing hymns and listening to the choir in church each week, which was not allowed under current public health guidelines. Large gatherings were also prohibited, which meant that The Fest 2020 would take place online.

The Fest website was set up like the physical grounds of the Borromeo Seminary, where The Fest typically took place. We streamed musical performances from the “Main Stage” section of the website. I also wandered over to the “Fest Grounds” section of the website to explore the prayer resources. From my family room couch, I prayed the home blessing:

Bless this house and those within
Bless our giving and receiving
Bless our words and conversation
Bless our hands and recreation.

Bless our sowing and our growing
Bless our coming and our going
Bless all who enter and depart
Bless this house, your peace impart.

May the peace of God reign in this place
And the love of God forever hold you tight.
May the Spirit of God flow through your life
And the joy of God uphold you day and night.

As I concluded with “Amen,” I wondered how many other families had prayed this home blessing as well. It united us while we were physically apart. Even the Christian music celebrities, who I was used to listening to from my home, were now performing music for me from their homes. I couldn’t feel the physical energy of the crowds or the thunder of applause, but I knew that the 30,000 fans I gathered with each year would be tuning in from their own homes, like me.

Music, like prayer, is a powerful force that collapses time and space. When I had been a Companion in Mission with the Ursulines, I remembered Sister Mary Ann showing me her copy of The Liturgy of the Hours that she kept in her sitting room. She prayed the Divine Office by herself each morning, but she knew she was joining in prayer with Christians all over the world who also observed this tradition.

The experience of streaming The Fest created community in the same way. In fact, The Fest 2020 felt even bigger than the typical crowd of 30,000 who gathered on the seminary grounds. The physical gatherings were limited to people in the Cleveland area. In a virtual space, geography is no longer a barrier. I was reminded of this when people all over the world offered intercessions in their own language:

...To seek the gentle voice of God calling us to a deeper love and more abundant peace so that we can put an end to violence and hatred in every form.

...For compassion, to care for all who suffer. Working together, may all healthcare workers find a quick end to the pandemic and healing for God’s people.

...For the safety of all who protect us, for the unemployed and underemployed, and for the one person we know who needs our prayers the most.

These are the prayers we hold closest to us, and they are also the prayers we share with our whole human family. This worldwide family was praying with me, just as my own family was praying with me here in our home. And together, we celebrated the Fest finale with a powerful call for peace, echoing the words of the home blessing: “May the peace of God reign in this place / And the joy of God uphold you day and night.”

]]><![CDATA[Finding Balance]]>Fri, 24 Apr 2020 07:00:00 GMThttp://likeapiazza.weebly.com/blog/finding-balanceThe snow had stopped by the time we gathered in the Motherhouse library for Saturday morning yoga. It was a quiet and cold winter morning, but the sun streamed through the windows and filled the room. I relaxed into my seat as I joined the guided breathing exercises, followed by gentle stretching. The instructor invited us to stand behind our chairs with our hands gripping the backrest. We lifted ourselves onto our toes and moved our gaze from left to right, then let go of the chair and flapped our arms like we were splashing in a pool. “Let yourself wobble,” our instructor urged us as we explored these new movements and sensations. In order to improve our balance, she explained, we needed to let ourselves get off-balance.

My long weekend at the Motherhouse helped strengthen my sense of balance, though I encountered challenges along the way. Widespread snow swept through Ohio the day before I was scheduled to leave for Youngstown, and Cleveland was in the midst of a lake effect snow warning. I watched the snow continue to pile up outside my window and worried whether I could make the trip. Sister Norma was on her way to daily mass when I made the decision to drive to Youngstown, and she assured me that she would be praying for a safe journey. Those prayers were answered, and I pulled up the Motherhouse driveway an hour later, grateful to find far less snow than I’d left behind in Cleveland.

That evening, visiting actress and playwright Terri Bays was performing a one-woman play about Sister Joan Chittister. The audience was a diverse mix of Humility of Mary nuns as well as Ursuline Sisters and Associates, and I found a seat among some familiar faces. The one-woman play was not a linear narrative, but much like my yoga practice, it inspired a more complex sense of balance. Bays alternated between the two sides of the stage to alternate between the intersecting stories of her mother and Sister Joan. The early scars of injustice and abuse became transformed through faith. And ultimately forgiveness, according to Sister Joan, is when love equals pain.

Joan Chittister is a Benedictine nun, but I heard hints of Saint Angela’s call to live courageously as women of faith in Sister Joan’s story. It set the tone for my weekend with the Ursulines, which included a Lenten retreat about the Gospel of John. “The coming of Christ truly changed the world--and our lives,” Sister Lisa Marie explained as she guided us through the retreat. We learned about the brutality of ancient Rome. We learned how the vertical Roman hierarchy was challenged by Christ’s preaching of a much more horizontal world order, one based on service. His love encompassed those who followed him and those who persecuted him. It knocked the world off-balance and restored balance all at once.

In order to improve our balance, we need to let ourselves get off-balance. And in order to expand our capacity to love, we need to love the people who are most difficult to love.

Lent is traditionally a time when we realign our spiritual balance and challenge ourselves to grow in Christ’s love. We abstain from meat on Fridays. We fast on holy days. We empty ourselves, just as the baptismal and holy water fonts are emptied.

This year amidst the Coronavirus outbreak, our routines have been even more visibly disrupted. General Superior Sister Mary McCormick wrote in the Spring 2020 Ursuline newsletter: “We are just days away from Easter. And the Lenten fast that has been imposed on us--a fast from social gatherings, a fast from freedom of movement, and a fast from the Eucharist and other sacraments and church rituals—will continue for some weeks.” On Easter morning, our family gathered around the radio and listened to the mass as it was broadcast from the cathedral. Later that day, we wished my grandpa a Happy Easter through the window of his room at the nursing home. It didn’t feel like a holiday.

Where can the peace and promise of Easter be found, if not in the usual places? I continued to pray my daily devotional, and the reflection on the Second Sunday of Easter resonated with our current situation:

“We tend to think of the ‘Bread of Life’ as the Eucharist. But in our tradition, it refers to both the Scriptures and the Eucharist. This may come as a surprise to some because of the apparent emphasis the Catholic Church places on the Eucharist. However, traditional Catholic theology considers each, in its own way, the ‘real presence.’ To pray the Scriptures is to eat with the Lord.”

The peace and the promise I was seeking was already here with me, even in the middle of the storm.

]]><![CDATA[Seeds of Hollyhock]]>Thu, 22 Aug 2019 07:00:00 GMThttp://likeapiazza.weebly.com/blog/seeds-of-hollyhockI have gathered with the Ursuline community on many different occasions, and the constant theme of these interactions has been the Ursulines’ hospitality. No matter where I join them in celebration—even in a physically new place—it becomes home.

I felt this energy as I arrived at our St. Louis hotel for the 2019 North American Ursuline Convocation. On opening night, one of the Ursuline sisters of the Roman Union approached the podium to greet us. She spoke of the city’s many claims to fame, the richness of its history, and the diversity of its people. Then she took a deep breath and said, “I am a Cubs fan welcoming you to Cardinal Nation.”

It is easy to be hospitable within our comfort zone, but Saint Angela calls us to extend a much broader hospitality. Art teacher Annette Zobel, who sculpted the statue of Saint Angela (our convocation logo), likened Saint Angela’s hospitality to a magnificent tree—“grounded in earth, graceful in movement, reaching to heaven.” Likewise, the Ursuline family tree has established strong roots over its 500-year history, anchored in Saint Angela’s Counsels, Legacies, and Rule. These roots are not meant to lock us into one set spot. A healthy root system nurtures growth so that we can achieve new heights.

During the opening ritual of the convocation, we planted seeds in the centerpieces of our tables. We prayed with Saint Angela, whose heart cultivated the seeds of service and community that continue to unite us today. We, too, carry these seeds in our hearts, nurtured in the time we spend together.

These seeds germinated as we gathered around the tables for discussion. They swelled with life as our keynote speaker Sister Teresa Maya, CCVI, invited each of us to consider: “What is your ‘why’ as part of Angela’s family?” Sister Teresa herself, as a Sister of Charity of the Incarnate Word, also reflected on this question. Historically, the Ursulines hosted many religious communities, including the Sisters of Charity, as they arrived in North America. As Sister Teresa’s community in San Antonio celebrates its 150th anniversary, she felt honored to speak at this Ursuline gathering as a “cousin” of our spiritual family.

The hospitality of our Ursuline ancestors reminds us that the call to create community is in our roots, dating back to Saint Angela’s writings. “Build community wherever you go,” Saint Angela writes in her 5th Counsel. She is speaking to us. It is the unique gift that the Ursuline community brings to our Church and our world today.

I had the opportunity to live out this call in a special way as I left the convocation early to attend my friend Sarah’s wedding. Sarah was born in Bangladesh, and in the many years that I have known Sarah, the Bengali community—like the Ursuline community—has extended incredible hospitality. The Bengali community has strong roots and rich traditions, and even a tree with such solid roots can move and dance gracefully in the breeze as it grows. I see this embodied in Sarah’s love for her husband and in their intercultural wedding ceremony that so beautifully blended their traditions.
At the reception, guests received packets of seeds as wedding favors. The story on the back of the packet described the teaching fellowship that originally brought Sarah and her husband together:

“As a parting gift from the fellowship, Sarah & Damon (and their fellow attendees) received hollyhock seeds to ‘bloom where they are needed.’ Inspired by this purpose, these two teachers want to pass on their love for hollyhock—and all this opportunity has offered them—to all of you. Known for their hardiness and resilience, hollyhocks represent the fight for all things worth fighting for: justice, service, and of course, love.”

I’m not sure what kind of seeds we had planted at the Ursuline convocation in the centerpieces of our tables. We had tucked those seeds into the soil, unnamed. But I hope that the seeds planted in our hearts follow the tradition of the hollyhock. And I hope our hearts are open to receive these seeds so that they may take root.

I traced these roots to the “Parable of the Sower” Gospel reading, which I had heard when I had joined the Ursulines for daily mass at the Basilica of Saint Louis:

“A sower went out to sow. And as he sowed, some seed fell on the path, and birds came and ate it up. Some fell on rocky ground, where it had little soil. It sprang up at once because the soil was not deep, and when the sun rose it was scorched, and it withered for lack of roots. Some seed fell among thorns, and the thorns grew up and choked it. But some seed fell on rich soil, and produced fruit, a hundred or sixty or thirtyfold” (Matthew 13:3-8)

As I boarded the plane back to Ohio, I gently placed the packet of seeds from Sarah and Damon’s wedding in my purse. The seeds were small but full of promise. May they bloom where they are needed.

]]><![CDATA[Good Morning]]>Mon, 15 Apr 2019 07:00:00 GMThttp://likeapiazza.weebly.com/blog/good-morningThere are spaces in our lives that feel as comfortable as a warm bed. A cup of tea with a lifelong friend. A walk along a well-worn path. A song that you can sing by heart. Our most cherished memories wrap us like a cozy blanket, inviting us to drift off and dream. These spaces offer a chance to rest and re-energize. The body settles easily and begs us to stay, just a little longer. Then, life wakes us up.

This year for Lent, I’ve given up the snooze button. My alarm goes off in the still-dark morning, and I resist the urge to sleep through this void that looks and sounds like the middle of the night. I pull myself from bed, quiet the alarm, and stretch away any remnants of sleep. I repeat this routine at the start of each new day, but my Lenten practice does not end with breakfast and a morning cup of tea.

Other kinds of snooze buttons tempt us throughout the day. We hit “snooze” when we idle away time on our devices. We hit “snooze” when we choose not to say what’s on our minds. We hit “snooze” when we shy away from our dreams. The resolution to stop hitting snooze is not just a part of the morning routine; it is a new outlook on the gift of each day.

The Gospel reminds us that the disciples themselves faced this temptation. On Transfiguration Sunday, we join Peter, John and James to see Jesus revealed in a radiant light as the Son of the Living God. Luke’s account makes note that on this night, the disciples had been “heavy with sleep; and having awoken fully, they saw His glory” (Luke 9:32). The weight of weariness lifts into light as we become physically and spiritually awake. And again, in the Gospel reading for Palm Sunday, Jesus asked his disciples to keep watch as he prayed at the Mount of Olives. The disciples were to pray that they wouldn’t be tempted, but when Jesus returned to them, he found that they had fallen asleep, "exhausted from sorrow" (Luke 22:46). The journey, after all, is long and it is easy to become weary.

Miracles wake us up. Former Cleveland radio host Trapper Jack shared this message when he kicked off our church's Lenten speaker series. In his talk, Trapper Jack described his years away from the church and the miracles that rekindled his faith. He recalled one day when he was lying in bed, and though he had already begun to lose his eyesight, everything around him became perfectly illuminated. In that moment, he became aware of God’s presence in the room with him, inviting conversation. We may doubt whether God will join in dialogue with us as we pray, but Trapper Jack used a radio metaphor to suggest that we may simply need to tune into the same “frequency.”

I grew up listening to the Trapper Jack in the Morning Show on our local Cleveland station. His voice animated our dusty radio, signaling that it was time to wake up and start the day. As his familiar voice filled our church this Lenten season, I instinctively recognized it as a signal to wake up, now in a spiritual sense.

Not long after attending Trapper Jack's event, I took a step of faith along my own journey. My friend had invited me to move in with her and another friend, and I accepted. Since then, I've been learning to navigate a new neighborhood, a new commute, and a new routine. I've also begun attending a new church. On Palm Sunday, I folded palm leaves into crosses as I listened to the reading of the Passion. I placed the folded palms next to me in the pew and remembered my sisters, who began this tradition with me many years ago. After mass, a young girl walked past and then turned away and whispered, "Mommy, how do you make crosses?" I offered a folded palm to her and her sister. Miracles come in all sizes.

So stop hitting snooze. Open the curtains. Rise to meet the day. The sun sings Mandisa’s “Good Morning” as it stretches its warm, golden rays.

]]><![CDATA[Be Still]]>Thu, 03 Jan 2019 08:00:00 GMThttp://likeapiazza.weebly.com/blog/be-stillAnxiety cannot be cured, only managed. Fifteen years since the diagnosis, my therapist offered this gentle reminder as I returned to her office for my now weekly appointment. The anxiety had been at a manageable distance for the past decade. During that time, I had been to China twice. I had lived on my own in a different state where I didn’t know anyone. I had spoken in front of crowds of a hundred people. Each milestone chiseled the anxiety into a pocket-sized problem that I could tuck out of sight.

By the time I graduated with my master’s degree and landed my first full-time job, I believed I could create a life without the anxiety. I was an adult now. I could manage any remnants of the panic privately and on my own. It would be unprofessional to talk about mental health at work. These were the rules I created for myself in order to be perfect. I thought that was what was expected of me.

Meanwhile, the anxiety loomed on the horizon and drew nearer. I felt it within me, hardening walnut-tough. I tried a different medication, but the capsules I swallowed each morning only made the anxiety bigger and louder. It found me everywhere I went, even in situations that had never bothered me before. There were hotspots all around.

The panic attacks spanned hours and consumed my whole body. One evening, about an hour into an attack, I sank to my bedroom floor and hugged my knees to my chest. I felt so far away from the familiar space around me. Even the air became more and more difficult to draw into my lungs. I felt like I was drowning in anxiety, and I clung to Avril Lavigne’s “Head Above Water” like a piece of driftwood, playing her song on repeat until my body stopped shaking. I knew I needed help.

Several of my coworkers, I learned, could relate to what I was going through. One friend from work offered me a small stone to carry in my pocket. I could hold it in my hand if the anxiety became too intense and allow the energy of the earth to heal me. Another friend sat by my side as the anxiety hit its peak. “Breathe with me,” she said, and she led me through an exercise to focus on my breath. Yet another friend showed me a picture pinned by her desk. The black-and-white image revealed a tree whose roots burrowed into the stony ground. Life could take root even in rock-hard places.

I came across a quote that an Ursuline associate had posted online, and its message also made the shadows a bit lighter: “When you’re in a dark place, you sometimes tend to think you’ve been buried. Perhaps you’ve been planted. Bloom.” It offered hope that I wasn’t being swallowed up by the anxiety; I was growing. If I could soak in the rain, I would soon feel the sun. The image of a seed reminded me of a verse I’d sung many Sundays: Unless a grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies, it remains what it was—a single grain; but if it dies, it yields a rich harvest (John 12:24). The panic attacks were a very physical expression of what the process of falling and crumbling felt like, but I needed to trust that it wasn’t an end. It was just a shell breaking away.

My doctor helped me rebalance the medication. I assessed when to push myself and when to step back. As my therapist put it, sometimes you board the windows and bear the storm, and sometimes you evacuate. I began mornings with a cup of tea and Danny Gokey’s “Tell Your Heart to Beat Again” as I continued along the journey step by step. Still, the path of healing seemed so long, and I was already exhausted.

I gradually began having more good days, but the bad ones still wore me down. Once when I was trying to rebound from a rough morning, a friend at work offered some guidance. “You are not your thoughts,” she said, and she let me reflect on those words as she sat at her desk for an afternoon meditation. Several minutes later, she took out her earbuds and called over to me, “You’re not going to believe this. Today’s theme is ‘you are not your thoughts.’” She set her phone on my desk, open to Oprah & Deepak’s 21-Day Meditation Experience. Sure enough, as soon as I pressed play, I heard Oprah’s voice echoing what my friend had just told me. Oprah explained that we are not the thoughts that relentlessly march across our mind like a news ticker; rather, we are the stillness beneath the surface.

Later that evening, I listened to Oprah’s interviews with spiritual writer Eckhart Tolle as they dove deeper into this concept. Tolle explained that the voice of the ego—the mental news ticker—is constantly pulling us toward our past regrets and future desires. All that we truly have is the present moment, and that is where we find peace. Tolle traces this ancient wisdom to the Psalms, in the words: Be still and know that I am God (Psalm 46:10). We encounter the divine as we penetrate through the noise of this world.

I recognize this thread in the story of Elijah, as God appeared to him on the holy mountain at Sinai:

The Lord said, “Go out and stand on the mountain in the presence of the Lord, for the Lord is about to pass by.” Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper. When Elijah heard it, he pulled his cloak over his face and went out and stood at the mouth of the cave (1 Kings 19:11-13)

I’ve felt the power of the storm in my tightening chest, my quickening heartbeat, my shaking limbs. I've felt it in the thoughts that rushed like driving rain. The anxiety could consume my body and my mind, but it wasn’t me. I could let it go. I could stand at the mouth of the cave and find healing in the stillness.

This wisdom is all around us. Listen. Nature teaches calm presence, beckoning us not with words but with the quiet energy we long for. As a friend from work put it, our thoughts are like clouds. We can acknowledge them, then we can watch them float away to reveal the warmth of the sun and the energy of a blue sky.

As winter quietly blankets the earth, I bloom.

]]><![CDATA[Be the Light]]>Mon, 27 Aug 2018 07:00:00 GMThttp://likeapiazza.weebly.com/blog/be-the-lightThe sun was setting over the seminary grounds in Wickliffe. Food trucks and vendors had put away their goods. The Christian bands who had filled the summer air with song had played their final numbers. The daylight would soon give way to a warm August night, but the Fest was not over yet. The outdoor mass was about to begin.

In his homily, Bishop Perez reflected on the theme of this year’s Fest: “Be the Light.” As Christians, we are called to bring the joy and hope of Christ to light the darkness of our world. We are called to be the light. But, as Bishop Perez explained, you can’t be something you don’t have. In order to be the light, you first need to have the light, which comes from our relationship with Christ.

His words called to mind the Easter Vigil mass my family attends each year. At the start of the Vigil, we file into a dark church and sit in the pews holding unlit candles. We wait for the procession to enter the church with the paschal candle. Parishioners pass its flame, wick to wick, as the church slowly grows brighter. We receive the flame, and we become the light.

The Fest concluded with the call to perform acts of kindness in our community. Our goal, shared by all, was to collectively achieve one million acts of light.

A couple weeks after attending the Fest, I had the opportunity to live out its message to “Be the Light.” My company allows us to use one day each year as a Volunteer Day, and I chose to spend that day with the Ursuline Sisters. I also scheduled some time to stay with the sisters at the motherhouse. The weekend offered an opportunity for personal reflection, followed by service. In the words of the Fest, it was a chance to rekindle the light within me and, in turn, share it with others.

I arrived at the motherhouse on a quiet Saturday afternoon. Sister Dorothy greeted me and showed me to the guest room. It had been about six months since my last visit to the motherhouse, and it had been over two years since I had done my last extended internship with the sisters. As my life’s journey unfolds and as I continue to grow and change, something continues to draw me back to the community. This wasn’t something I verbalized to Sister Dorothy that afternoon, but as our conversation went on, she responded to my unspoken thoughts.

Sister Dorothy told me about a book she was reading called Something More: Excavating Your Authentic Self. The premise of the book is that we seek out the people who mean the most to us because they are reflections of our own soul, our most authentic self. Her words resonated with my return to the motherhouse and the relationships I have developed with the sisters over the years. By spending time in their presence and immersing myself in their stories, I receive new clarity into my own journey.

During my weekend with the sisters, I enjoyed talking with them and doing puzzles together, and we even shared a beautiful outdoor picnic. I also had the opportunity to join the sisters for mass on Sunday morning. On the eve of my day of service, I listened carefully to the words of Psalm 34: Taste and see that the Lord is good; blessed is the one who takes refuge in him. The priest’s homily described how we are constantly bombarded with advertisements that appeal to our human needs, whereas Psalm 34 appeals to our spiritual needs. As the priest explained, we are called not only to see Christ in the Eucharist itself, but in the people who receive it. For my flesh is real food and my blood is real drink. Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me, and I in them (John 6:55-56). In the Eucharist, we receive the Bread of Life. We become the light.

Those words were my stepping stones as I left for the Antonine Village the next morning. I greeted Sister Marie, who was finishing breakfast with a couple residents of the assisted living facility. I would be shadowing her for the first half of my day, which began with praying the rosary. Sister Marie and I waited in chapel as the residents filed in. They shared the concerns on their minds that day, and I prayed with them for their intentions. Sister Marie and I then went to the memory care unit, where we prayed and sang songs with the residents. A 99-year-old Italian woman smiled as we played “C'e La Luna Mezz'o Mare” and “Tarantella Neapoletana.”

After lunch, I met up with Sister Martha at Saint Columba parish. Our time together began with a tour of the cathedral. Sister Martha led me along the bright white walkway to the front of the building, where Bishop Murray’s coat of arms was engraved in the stone, along with his motto: “Christ My Light.” The words echoed back to the homily given by the bishop of my own diocese of Cleveland on the evening of the Fest, who had told us to “Be the Light.” Those words had lit the path along my journey to Youngstown, where the flame now continued to glow. I carried that light back to the rectory, where I helped Sister Martha prepare bags for their food pantry. She encouraged me to pray as I packed the bags of food, that those who receive it may be nourished.

To end the day, I joined Sister Martha at the Youngstown State University volunteer fair. We set up a booth for the Saint Columba food pantry, where I would help recruit student volunteers to do the work that I had been doing that day. We spoke to many students who seemed excited about the work Sister Martha was doing, including one boy who said his experience as a grocery store cashier would come in handy.

By the time I arrived back home, I felt tired from a busy day but also re-energized from a weekend of reflection and service. The night sky shone with one million acts of light. My day of service was a single constellation in an infinite expanse of stars.

]]><![CDATA[The Start of the Story]]>Sat, 17 Mar 2018 18:39:39 GMThttp://likeapiazza.weebly.com/blog/the-start-of-the-storySnow swirled across the road like wisps of smoke, illuminating in the headlight beams then fading into the night. I had begun my drive to Youngstown after a busy day at work, and the momentum of the day propelled me. My thoughts spun like the wind-whipped snow.

The first full day of our retreat continued at a quick pace as we visited a variety of ministries. Who would Jesus serve today? That question, we learned, was what founded the HIV/AIDs ministry over twenty years ago. That question was also answered in the story of the immigrant creating a life for her family in America, and in the story of a mother and her two daughters who left a shelter in Cleveland to seek the support of Beatitude House.

We had opened a book in the middle and were turning page after page, engaged in a beautiful and touching story. But, like all stories, it had a beginning. As the first day drew to a close, the pages stopped turning and we flipped back to page one. Sister Regina met with us after dinner to share the history of religious life, beginning with Jesus’ disciples. She described the changes in social norms and people’s needs over the centuries, connected by a constant commitment to serve the poor and grow in faith. We listened to the issues that confronted previous generations, then took some time to consider the issues that pervade our own world.

The second day of our retreat gave us the chance to pause the flipping pages in our own lives and turn back to page one. During our Spirituality and Gospel service with Sister Patricia, we were invited to consider the earliest roots of faith and service in our lives. Later that afternoon, we also created mandalas, an art form founded in circles. The twists and turns met back at the beginning.

When we joined in prayer, Sister Norma suggested we pause between each stanza and share how we saw Saint Angela’s vision reflected in today’s world. We prayed to Angela, the pilgrim and peacemaker, then prayed for the beauty of diversity in our world. With Angela, we prayed for women of love and joy, then prayed for all those who are discerning.

It was a weekend of energy and also a weekend of rest. By the time I left Youngstown on Sunday afternoon, the snow had melted and the wind had stilled. My path back home was lit by sunshine.

This reflection also appears in Voices from Angela’s Villa

]]><![CDATA[In the Name of the Father]]>Thu, 15 Feb 2018 08:00:00 GMThttp://likeapiazza.weebly.com/blog/in-the-name-of-the-fatherAt the Temple of Yu Fei in Hangzhou, China, a student approached me to practice her English. She pointed to a nearby tree and proudly told me that it was over 700 years old. We were standing outside of a temple built in honor of a twelfth century military hero, but I wasn’t aware that I was standing on the precipice of history until that moment. I gazed at the calloused bark and realized that the tree was older than my country.

China prides itself on its ancient heritage. During my time there, I was immersed in artifacts and traditions that spanned generations and could be traced back to early dynasties. Its legacy gives the country a dimension that is smoothed flat in a young country like the US.

Last week, Father Albert Haase, OFM, came to our church to lead our parish mission. His topic was the sign of the cross. As he invited us to cross ourselves at the start of his homily, he said that Christians have been making this gesture for 1,800 years. The number echoed in the air, too big to grasp. In the Catholic Church, like ancient China, I have roots that penetrate deep.

Father Albert and I also share common roots in our fascination with China. He served there as a missionary for eleven years and describes that opportunity as a great grace. After mass last Sunday, he smiled when I told him about my two trips to China and the five years I’ve spent learning the language. I showed him a picture of the cathedral in Beijing where I spent my first Easter away from home. Now, he was here at my home parish to lead us through our pre-Lenten journey.

In the book Saying Yes: Discovering and Responding to God’s Will in Your Life, Father Albert reminds us that we are shaped by our past. As we adopt an attitude of discernment, we are aware of how our past affects our tendencies and inclinations. Father Albert remembers once, as a young boy, seeing an image of a Franciscan friar crossing a river in China on the back of an animal. That image inspired a dream that came true later in his life when the General Minister of the Franciscan Order asked for volunteers to minister to the Chinese.

In the light of our past, discernment unfolds in the present moment. God speaks to us in the small, mundane moments of each day and the people we meet. He speaks to us through our life. Discernment, then, is engaging in that conversation and our evolving role in God’s great plan.

God doesn’t have a preset mold for us to fill. Our future is uncertain and yet dawning with possibility. Discernment requires humility and trust as God reaches out to us, like the suitor in Father Albert’s story who tells the blind maiden, “Can you come to trust me enough to lead you through your darkness into tomorrow?”

We end our prayer with the sign of the cross, Father Albert says, with our hands moving east to west like the path of the sun.

]]><![CDATA[Come Celebrate]]>Thu, 02 Feb 2017 15:20:43 GMThttp://likeapiazza.weebly.com/blog/come-celebrate“Come celebrate with us,” Sister Dorothy said when I spoke with her on the phone earlier this month. The Ursuline Sisters and Associates were preparing their annual celebration for the Feast Day of Saint Angela Merici, their founder. For the past few years, I was already back at West Virginia University by this time, the spring semester well underway, and I hadn’t been able to attend a Feast Day celebration. Now was my chance.

Last Thursday night, on the eve of the actual Feast Day, my mom and I arrived at the Motherhouse as the Ursuline Sisters and Associates began gathering in chapel. I smiled back at many familiar faces and hugged my friends who I hadn’t seen for several months or years, now within arm’s reach. We began mass by singing “All Are Welcome” and listened to the presider’s homily about humility. He cited the writings of Saint Angela, in which she referred to herself as an “unworthy servant of Jesus Christ.” As the priest explained, humility does not mean being a “wallflower,” but being attentive to the needs of others.

In fact, the Feast Day homily continued to resonate the following Sunday at my home parish, as the pastor gave a homily about the Beatitudes: “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven…Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth”—their wisdom often goes against secular logic. The pastor at my parish recalled a visit to the grotto where Jesus was born. The entry way was low, so he had to stoop to enter, a posture of humility. The pastor’s story seemed to respond so inherently to the words of Saint Angela, shared at the Feast Day celebration. It was a small memento I could hold onto and carry with me.

Following the Feast Day mass and initiation of the new associates, we gathered in the Motherhouse dining room for a delicious meal. The tables displayed pictures of Saint Angela. The smell of Italian food gave testament to the Ursuline’s proud heritage. A palpable energy of laughter and camaraderie reminded us of Saint Angela’s presence. As we gathered in her honor, she was with us.

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