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Mountains

Nancy Jo Sullivan — Fri, 06 Apr 2012 17:00:33 +0000

Good Friday. It’s a day to cherish and honor the suffering of Christ. It’s also a time to find meaning in the crosses that we carry. As a mother, my greatest cross has been grieving the loss of my child. It’s been a difficult journey, but I’ve gained some unexpected insights that have transformed my faith. The following story best summarizes what I’ve learned…

Mountains

Just a few weeks before my daughter passed away, something beautiful happened. That January night, I was sitting on the couch in our family room watching the nightly news. As I listened to the weather forecast for “another four inches of snow,” Sarah drew near and settled in next to me.

Sarah was twenty three years old but still a young girl in so many ways. With Down syndrome, she wore a pink-flannel nightgown trimmed with ruffles. The light in her eyes reminded me of sunshine.

Sarah’s two younger sisters were grown up, one in her late teens and the other away at college, but Sarah had remained home with me. I had grown used to the steadiness of her presence and the predictability of her happy countenance.

For a moment, we just smiled at each other. Eighteen months earlier, the doctors had diagnosed her with Pulmonary Hypertension and told us, “The pressures in her lungs cannot sustain life much longer.”

Ever since then, I had convinced myself that Sarah’s healing depended on my faith. As a Catholic, I had grown up believing that if I followed a formula of fervent prayer, made regular trips to Mass, and performed a checklist of good deeds, God would surely answer the pleas of my heart.

I had done everything a committed believer would do. I had taken Sarah to healing services. I had asked friends and family to pray for a miracle. Each day, I had repeated the same Bible verse: “For I truly tell you, if you have faith the size of a mustard seed, you will say to this mountain, ‘move from here to there,’ and it will move; and nothing will be impossible for you.” (Matthew 17:20)

But it was becoming clear that my faith wasn’t going to move mountains. As the months passed, Sarah ate less and slept more. She was growing weaker by the day, and I felt myself losing control. As her mother, my basic instinct was to protect her from harm. But I was powerless to help her. Many nights I tossed and turned in my bed, angrily fighting it out with God: “How can you turn away from my prayer? Why are you allowing this to happen?”

Yet that night, as Sarah sat next to me, an unexplainable calmness came over me. A voice within seemed to say: “Remember this moment.”

I began memorizing the way Sarah looked, the happy glow of her freckled face, the radiance of her dimpled grin, the way her chestnut-brown hair caught the light of a nearby lamp. A mother-daughter love flickered between us like a candle that could never be snuffed out.

She wrapped her hand around mine, clasping it tightly. “You’ve been a…a…good mom,” she stuttered softly. Her words warmed me as the winter winds blew beyond the window.

Sarah was saying goodbye. She was beckoning me to cherish the past—all the small cumulative moments we had experienced on our journey together. A hundred memories flashed before me. I remembered the small things she had taught me to treasure: dandelions, peanut-butter bars, Starbucks, pink fingernail polish, fairy tales at bedtime, love songs, kitchen table chats, opening Christmas presents, holding hands, and dancing together in the living room.

“You’ve been a good daughter,” I said, brushing my hand over her hair. I didn’t want to miss this opportunity to tell her what an honor it had been to be her mom. She just grinned as if she already knew.

As the newscast ended, Sarah laid her head on my shoulder and began falling asleep. For the first time in months, I felt all the muscles in my neck relax. It had been such a long time since I had rested.

It was the strangest moment. I still felt fearful. My anger at God lingered. These were very natural and necessary feelings and I could not deny their presence. But in that moment, I no longer felt a need to pray for Sarah’s healing.

Instead, a much different prayer rose up in me like a mighty peak ascending from a dark valley. “Lord, you’ve been a good father. I trust you with Sarah’s life. Thy will be done.”

It was just a small mustard seed of prayer, but it moved the biggest mountain of all; my fear of trusting God completely.

Almost four years have passed since Sarah’s death. It’s been a difficult journey. Like most bereaved parents, I will never “get over” her loss; but with the support of loved ones, I have been able to rise from the dark tomb of grief.

I miss Sarah terribly, and not one day goes by that I don’t think of her. But now, I often find myself praying in gratitude for the gift of her life. I am especially appreciative of the time we spent together in our family room on that cold January evening. God gave us the time to say good-bye to each other. In that sacred farewell came a new understanding of faith.

Although grabbing hold of Bible verses and praying for miracles are wonderful ways to express our faith, we can never predict how the Lord will respond. I’m learning that God is an awesome mystery, beautiful and incomprehensible. Sometimes he answers our prayers in mighty ways. Other times, he settles in next to us as the snow of our suffering falls.

God cherishes our past and will always give us courage to face the future, whatever it might hold. In his presence, we can stop pounding the doors of heaven and quietly place our trust in him.

As we rest in him, mountains will indeed move. We will learn to trust. We will discover the power of true faith. We will come to believe, despite all the whys, that God is good.

Excerpted from Small Mercies: Glimpses of God in Everyday Life by Nancy Jo Sullivan (Loyola Press, 2012). Reprinted with permission of Loyola Press. To order copies call 1-800-621-1008 or go to www.loyolapress.com/sullivan.

John at the Cross

Nancy Jo Sullivan — Thu, 05 Apr 2012 23:00:40 +0000

Editor’s note: Today we continue our Lenten series of reflections by Nancy Jo Sullivan and Jane Kise. With “We Can Only Imagine: Inspiration for Your Lenten Journey”, we hope you will be inspired, moved and uplifted as you journey towards Holy Week and Easter. LMH

“I have told you these things so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” John 16:33

Jesus was honest with his disciples. He told them that they would have trouble. Even at the last supper he foretold the challenges they would face: “This night, all of you will have your faith in me shaken” (Matthew 26:31)

Within a few hours, Jesus was arrested and marched toward a trial at the home of Annas, the high priest. Only Peter and one other disciple followed. The rest scattered in fear. Perhaps the other disciple was John. Later, he was the only disciple at the foot of the cross…

IMAGINE IT:

The inner courtyard was lit by a charcoal fire. John crouched against a stone wall in the darkness, far from the fire. On this night, he did not want to be seen here at the home of Annas, the high priest. Simply being in this courtyard was risky. But at least I’m here with Jesus, he told himself. Just he and Peter. The rest of the disciples had scattered when Jesus was arrested. Had an hour or all of eternity passed since the soldiers surrounded them in the garden?

A cold wind seeped through John’s robe. From where he stood, he could see Peter warming his hands over the fire. Though guards and servants encircled Peter, all of them shivering, no one seemed to recognize Johns’ friend, at least not yet.

He strained his neck to catch a glimpse of Jesus as the high priest interrogated him, but too many officials surrounded the Messiah. The brightly-colored robes of Annas and the other officials seemed to glow in the light of the fire.

“Jesus, you’re accused of teaching heresies in secret,” Annas shouted. “How do you answer to these charges?”

“I taught openly in the temples and synagogues. Ask those who heard me,” Jesus answered, his calm voice echoing across the court.

Even from a distance, John could see the priest’s eyes bulging with rage. Then, the unmistakable sound of a sharp slap as one of the officials struck Jesus’s face. John cringed. Jesus was a man of peace. He taught peace. He lived peace. How could anyone strike the son of God?

The interrogation continued as more witnesses testified against Jesus. It was all John could do to keep still, to not cry out, “What do you know of the Kingdom of God?”

He buried his head in his hands, trying to recall the words that Jesus had spoken earlier that night. John and the other eleven disciples had gathered with Jesus to celebrate the Passover feast. While breaking bread and sharing wine, Jesus had spoken words of hope that John would never forget. “In this world you shall have trouble…I have overcome the world…ask anything in my name and you will receive it…”

Now, as John caught a glimpse of the welts on Jesus’s face, he wondered if he had understood anything about his master.

Jesus…You are the son of God…you can overcome all this…

John struggled to form words of prayer. He could only whisper one word: “Jesus…”

Images of the supper he had just shared with the disciples came to mind. In his minds eyes, he saw Jesus breaking bread and passing a cup of wine.

This is my body given up for you…

John froze in his steps as the guards pushed and shoved Jesus out of the courtyard, propelling him to yet another trial. There was nothing John could do but try to blend in with the crowd of curious gawkers.

LIVE IT:

The scriptures tell us that John was with Jesus, even as he hung on the cross. He ignored the dangers of being identified as a follower of Christ. We too, are called to stay close to Jesus, even when it means that we will face troubles.

Yet, even in the midst of our greatest challenges and fears, we must take heart.

God has overcome the world.

Jane Kise, Ed.D, is a consultant and free-lance writer, with extensive experience in the fields of team building and school staff development. In addition to consulting, she teaches seminars and speaks across North America on prayer, constructive use of differences, and unlocking our lives for God. Her books include LifeKeys: Discover Who You Are and Differentiated Coaching: A Framework for Helping Teachers Change.

Children of a King

Nancy Jo Sullivan — Sun, 01 Apr 2012 16:00:18 +0000

“Blessed is the King who comes in the name of the Lord” Luke 19:38

The scriptures tell us that our God has many names including King, Lord and Prince of Peace.

My favorite is King.

The image brings to mind an insight that “Sarah”, my Downs syndrome daughter shared with me years ago. That morning, she was sitting at the kitchen table paging through a book of illustrated fairy tales. Wearing pink-framed glasses, she was about 8 years old.

“Mom…I’m the child of a…a…great king” she stuttered.

I was preoccupied. As I made her breakfast, I kept thinking about my to-do list for the day.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Because…I…I…am wearing an invisible crown.” She answered.

Even though Sarah was limited in every way, she understood an important truth that Jesus imparts to each of us.

We are all children of a great king.

During these days of Lent, claim your identity. In the name of your King, wear your crown proudly.

For additional Lenten Reflections, visit Loyola Press’ Daily 3 Minute Retreat

A Wedding Story: Do Whatever He Tells You

Nancy Jo Sullivan — Wed, 28 Mar 2012 21:00:58 +0000

Weddings. months of planning, worrying, counting pennies, and checking details. Even two thousand years ago, weddings called for careful preparation. However, the ceremony only marked the beginning of festivities that lasted as long as seven days. For working class families in Galilee, weddings were a well-deserved break from constant labor, but a strain on the bridegroom’s family. After all, hospitality was viewed as a sacred duty. To not provide for your guests brought disgrace.

John’s gospel tells us that Jesus attended a wedding just days after he began his public ministry and called the first of his disciples. The bride or groom may have been a close friend or relative, for Jesus’ mother also attended the wedding.

Perhaps this was the first time Mary was with Jesus after he began his public ministry. Yes, Jesus was her son, but what could she ask of him now?

IMAGINE IT:

The little home in Galilee shook with the joy of the wedding feast at the guests sang, danced, and offered toasts to the bride and groom. Even the servants hummed merrily as they replaced empty food platters with plates stacked with honey cakes, meats and olives.

Jesus sat with some of his newly chosen disciples at a long table covered with a linen cloth. Mary, his mother, stood nearby. She and her friends chatted as they arranged another tray of grapes into a rainbows of red, purple and green. “Mother,” Jesus called out. ”Come and meet some of my friends.”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” Mary answered. She was looking forward to spending a few moments with her son. Lately, he’d been gone more than he he’d been home. “My Jesus has so many new companions,” Mary thought to herself.

While the musicians played familiar wedding dances on the flute and lyre, memories from that life-changing day so many years ago flooded through her mind. She’d been drawing water from the well as the sun rose over her home town of Nazareth. Suddenly a bright light tumbled down all around her. The light soon took form, becoming a man dressed in white, an angel. Frightened, Mary buried her head in her hands.

“Do not be afraid.” the angel told her. Mary listened intently as the angel explained that she would soon give birth to a son. “You shall name him Jesus. He will be very great and will be called the Son of the Most High.”

Mary sighed. She remembered Jesus as a boy, the way he and Joseph used to work together in the carpenter shop, the errands he would run for her and the small, everyday moments they had shared as a family. Now, she gazed in wonder as her grown son talked to acquaintences she’d never seen before. “So much has changed…” she told herself.

Suddenly, one of the female guests tapped Mary on the shoulder and whispered: “It’s gone!”

“What’s gone?” Mary asked.

“The wine…” she replied as she pointed to a small room where servants were trying desperately to squeeze drops of wine from empty wineskins.

Mary saw a relative of the bride approach the servants. She could see embarrassment on his face. How humiliating.

Mary made her way through the crowd toward Jesus. But just before she reached his table, she paused. “My Jesus is the Son of the Most High…He will know what to do…”

Jesus caught her eye as she approached. “My son,” Mary said softly, “They’ve run out of wine.”

Jesus looked toward the servants who were counting all the empty wineskins. “My time has not yet come,” he told his mother. His voice was firm.

Mary nodded. After all, he had always belonged to God, not her. She put her hand on his shoulder and told the servants: “Do whatever he tells you!”

LIVE IT:

Jesus responded to Mary’s request for help with a miracle After telling the servants to fill several jars of water, Jesus instructed the servants to “dip some out and take it to the masters of ceremonies” (John 2:8) In the end, the master of the banquet declared that it was the finest vintage of the feast.

Mary shows us that when we place our complete trust in her son, we too can become candidates for a miracle.

As Holy Week approaches, come to Jesus as Mary did. Give him your smallest problem or your greatest need. Then, do whatever he tells you to do. Maybe you’ll witness a miracle.

Bartimaeus: What Do You Want from Me?

Nancy Jo Sullivan — Fri, 23 Mar 2012 13:00:35 +0000

“If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!”
Matthew 7:11

In Jesus’ time, the crippled and the blind shared a common fate. Their only source of income was begging. People willingly gave them money, considering it a godly act to share with the poor, but they still looked down on beggars. After all, why were they crippled? Was it because they had sinned? Would God punish people who were truly righteous?

The crowds would have been used to beggars like Bartimaeus, who sat alongside the road that thousands of pilgrims took from Jericho to Jerusalem for the Passover feast. They would’ve tossed a coin his way without a word or acknowledgement that he was human. That’s the way it was. Beggars got used to it. Until Jesus came along…

IMAGINE IT:

Bartimaeus sat at the side of the road, clutching a beggar’s pouch. Pilgrims on their way to Jerusalem for Passover tried to ignore him, their sandals crunching past on a path covered with pebbles and dry, dusty dirt. He listened as men and women conversed about the beautiful wildflowers that colored the surrounding hills and the temple that glistened in the distance. I wonder what it all looks like, he thought as he breathed in the fragrance of the lilies.

Someone threw him a coin. Grateful as Bartimaeus was for the gift, he couldn’t help but feel empty. None of the pilgrims ever spoke to him. He sighed. Being blind didn’t bother him half as much as the way that people passed him by.

Be content…at least you aren’t an unclean leper…Bartimaeus told himself.

Laughing children skipped past the beggar. Mother’s with young-sounding voices followed, their robes swishing in the breeze. Bartimaeus listened as they talked about a man named Jesus. I hear he can heal the sick…He’s a miracle worker…the mothers said.

Countless times, while sitting by this road, Bartimaeus had turned his ear to hear similar stories. “I wish I could meet this Jesus” the beggar said. No one paid attention to him.

Bartimaeus heard the clomping of donkey and the sounds of more and more people. The crowd was becoming bigger, noisier. He felt someone kick his foot, muttering, “Move out of the way beggar!”

He scrambled back, accustomed to being ordered about. But then, he tugged on the robe of a man standing right in front of him.

“Please, kind sir, what is happening?”

The man ignored him, so Bartimaeus asked again, excitedly, “Why is the crowd growing louder?”

“It’s Jesus—Jesus of Nazareth is coming.” The man shouted.

Jesus? What if Jesus could heal me? Bartimaeus cried out: “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” But his voice was quickly drowned out by the crowd.

“Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” He called out again. Soon the people around him grew irritated with his loud pleas for help. “Shush! Stop your yelling!” A woman told him.

“Quiet—Hush! Jesus has no time for the likes of you,” whirled the voices all around him. It was no use. How could Jesus hear the cries of a beggar, hidden from sight behind the throngs who crowded the roadway?

Then, like a rush of air, silence fell over the crowd. “Jesus wants to talk with the blind man,” someone said.

“He’s calling you, beggar. Quick, on your feet” said another man.

Bartimaeus could hear the sounds of people moving to different sides of the road, like the Red sea parting. Then, the sound of slow-moving footsteps, walking toward him.

“Jesus?” Bartimaeus asked his throat now raw from shouting. Shaking, he tried to get to his feet, but caught a toe in the folds of his cloak. No matter. Someone’s hand reached out to help him untangle himself. Someone’s hand helped him to rise. Someone’s hand stayed clasped in his.

“Bartimaeus, What do you want from me?” a man asked. His voice was warm and kind.

Bartimaeus tried to catch his breath. He knew he was standing in front of Jesus.

“Rabbi, I want to see…” the blind man said in almost a whisper.

Bartimaeus felt the hands of Jesus touch his eyes. Ever so slowly, he began to see colors, reds and greens and blues. “Flowers!” The blind man proclaimed as he pointed to the hillsides. The crowd watched in amazement as a stunned Bartimaeus gazed at the rocks on the road and the sun that shone above. Then, turning his glance toward Jesus, Bartimaeus studied the face of the one who had restored his sight. “Go” Jesus told him. “Your faith has healed you.”

Bartimaeus mouthed words of thanks, but no sounds came out. He spun around, toward where he had been sitting. Off in the distance, he saw the rooftops of Jerusalem, the City of David, gleaming. “I’ve only imagined the temple in my dreams” he said, his eyes misting.

Several children gathered around him while their mother’s looked on. “C’mon, the children told the healed man. “We’ll show you the way to Jerusalem.”

LIVE IT:
At times, we all find ourselves sitting on the roadside of life, blinded by the unexpected challenges that fill our days. But like Bartimaeus, Jesus always notices us, especially when we need a miracle.

Lent is a time to listen closely for the footsteps of our savior and to clasp our hands tightly in his.

It’s a time to answer God’s question: “What do you want from me?”

It’s Never Too Late for Healing

Nancy Jo Sullivan — Sun, 18 Mar 2012 15:00:26 +0000

Last week, I bought a bag of chocolate coins at the drug store. A stocky teenage boy rang up my purchase. “Whatcha gonna do with these?” he said.

“I’m work at a church” I told him. “I’m teaching the children about Judas and his betrayal of Jesus.”

“Oh yeah… Judas and the silver coins! Do you think God healed him of his sin? ” the boy asked.

“That’s a great question. I don’t know…” I told him.

“Well when I get to heaven, the first thing I’m gonna do is look for Judas. I wanna see if he made it…” the teen replied.

As I drove home, I started wondering about the last moments of Judas. As he hung himself on that infamous tree, did he ever voice his repentance to God?

We’ll never know, at least not while we live here on earth.

What we do know is that God is merciful. He died on a tree too, but for a very different reason than Judas. He gave his life so that sins would be forgiven. As the scriptures say: “By his wounds you have been healed.” (I Peter 2:24)

This Lent, voice your repentance to God. It’s never too late for healing.

For additional Lenten Reflections, visit Loyola Press’ Daily 3 Minute Retreat

Martha and Mary: Resting in Christ

Nancy Jo Sullivan — Wed, 14 Mar 2012 00:00:21 +0000

Martha and Mary

Martha and Mary were keenly aware of two things; the sacred responsibility of hosting guests in their culture and the gracious, life-giving way Jesus treated women. Like all Jewish women, Mary and Martha were used to sitting at the rear of the synagogue. They deferred to men in all matters concerning Religion-and most other aspects of life.

But Jesus welcomed women, listened to them, spoke with them, and healed them. A group of women even traveled with Jesus and his disciples; Mary Magdalene, Joanna and many others, according to Luke.

Jesus stopped more than once in Bethany, the little town where Mary and Martha lived. The sisters may have heard of the crowds that gathered to hear him teach. Perhaps Mary Magdelene invited Mary and Martha to join the other women so they could hear better—not at the rear of the crowd, but in the midst of all the disciples. Imagine how excited the sisters must have been to have Jesus dine with them.

IMAGINE IT:

The fragrant aroma of roasting meat and simmering vegetables wafted through Mary and Martha’s home. Outside, the evening sun was just beginning to set, its orange rays casting a warm glow over the small town of Bethany.

“Mary!” Martha called from the front room, “They’ve come home with me. Jesus is here!”

Martha bustled into the kitchen, fussing over a basket filled with figs.

“Everything must be perfect,” she added.

Mary pulled the last loaf of bread out of the stone oven, rubbed the flour from her hands, and then brushed off the front of her robe as she hurried out of the kitchen to meet Jesus. The meal could wait a bit, she thought as she clapped her hands in applause of his arrival.

“Jesus,” she said. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Just then Martha flashed past again.

Jesus said, “Martha, I’ve so looked forward to this evening. Come sit with us.”

Martha didn’t even make eye contact with her guest as she headed out the door.

“I need to borrow some trays from the neighbor,” she said over her shoulder.

Jesus gazed after her for a moment, then pulled up a small stool and sat down as his friends and disciples gathered around him, some of them leaning against the wall, others sitting cross-legged on the floor. After Mary passed around glasses of water, she knelt at Jesus feet.

“Tell us a story” she begged. Both she and Martha had learned so much about the greatness of God from his stories. An hour flew by as she listened.

“What shall I compare the kingdom of God to?” Jesus asked as he smiled at Mary. But suddenly Jesus stopped and looked across the room. Martha was holding a plate of freshly baked bread in her hands, sparks in her eyes.

“Lord, Martha said, “Don’t you care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself?” Tell her to help me!”

Mary’s face was hot as she immediately stood up. Her sister was right, how could she have been so selfish as to just sit here?”

But Jesus motioned for Martha to come close. He took a piece of bread from the plate.

“Martha, to what shall I compare the kingdom of God?”

Martha looked confused. Jesus raised the bread as a welcoming smile spread across his face. “It is like yeast that a woman took and mixed into a large amount of flour, until it is worked through the whole dough. But then the dough rests.”

He gestured her to sit down, then began passing the tray of bread around the room as he added, “Martha, Martha, you’ve spent so much time preparing food that perishes. I am the Bread of Life…Take time for me…”

LIVE IT:

Do you have a quiet place in your life where you can rest in the presence of God?

For me, it’s my kitchen table in the moments just before the sun rises. There, with my open Bible, I give the Lord all my cares for the upcoming day; issues at work, problems in my family, worries and cares about the future. Even though I’m sometimes distracted, I know that the Lord’s nourishing presence fills me with warmth and peace; My Bread of Life.

It’s not all that difficult to rest in Christ. Simply make a commitment to spend some time each day quieting your heart. Cease from your work, even if it’s only for a few moments. Close your eyes and turn your ear to him. Imagine yourself resting at his feet. Listen closely to the stories he tells and receive the lessons he longs to impart.

It will be worth your time.

Readiness

Nancy Jo Sullivan — Sun, 11 Mar 2012 18:00:01 +0000

“Anoint your head and wash your face….” Matthew 6: 17

About 6 years ago Sarah, my Downs syndrome daughter was asked to the senior prom by Chris, a disabled boy she had known since birth. Before Chris and his parents arrived at our home, we helped Sarah get ready.

Dressed in a powder blue gown, Sarah stood in front of her bedroom mirror, beaming. “I am going to…to… look beautiful,” she stuttered as her two teenage sisters curled her hair and polished her nails.

Her freckled face glowed as I brushed some color onto her cheeks. While helping her put on a strand of pearls, I told her: “Sarah….You look like a queen…”

As Sarah carefully centered a silver tiara on her head, she smiled at her reflection. “Now I’m ready for… for… the prince.” she said.

During this season of Lent, take some time to stand in front of the mirror of God’s love. Adorn your face with the glow of hope. Polish your heart and remember the Lord died for you. Don the garment of faith and anoint your head with the crown of salvation.

Get ready for Easter. Your risen Prince will be here soon.

For additional Lenten Reflections, visit Loyola Press’ Daily 3 Minute Retreat

TAKE THE LENTEN CHALLENGE:

During the Lenten Season, be purposeful about preparing for the risen Christ. Fast from fear and fretting. Give the alms of your compassion to someone in need. As you carry your cross, pray that you will be made into the image and likeness of Christ.

Moses: God Always Listens to Our Questions

Nancy Jo Sullivan — Sat, 10 Mar 2012 01:30:53 +0000

Editor’s note: Today we begin a new Lenten series of reflections by Nancy Jo Sullivan and Jane Kise. With “We Can Only Imagine: Inspiration for Your Lenten Journey”, we hope you will be inspired, moved and uplifted as you journey towards Holy Week and Easter. LMH

AND GOD SAID, “I will be with you. And this will be the sign to you that it is I who have sent you. When you have brought the people out of Egypt, you will worship God. Exodus 4:12

God chose Moses for a huge task, to go before Pharaoh to tell him: “Let my people go. Free the Israelites.” Who but Moses could God send? Yes, Moses was the son of Hebrew slaves, but he’d been raised by Pharaoh’s daughter. He knew the ways of palace life and the manners of the powerful.

But Moses had good reason to stay away from Egypt. He’d fled after killing a brutal slave master. Pharaoh had tried to put Moses to death for that. Now Moses had a new life in the desert as a shepherd, along with a wife and family. Egypt was nothing but a memory, long ago and far away…

IMAGINE IT

Moses wiped the sweat from his brow and scanned the rocky terrain. The afternoon sun radiated from the bluffs and peaks that surrounded him. As a shepherd, Moses was searching for missing sheep. “Just one more to find…” he told himself as he turned his glance toward a craggy nook, shaded with large white stones.

Drawing near, a whiff of smoke caught him off guard. Who would have a fire around here? Moses thought. The smoky scent grew stronger. He crept around a large rock that was as tall as he was and stopped in his tracks. There, in front of the rock, a bush was burning.

“How strange” he said to himself. Moving closer, he watched the blaze. Every small twig of the bush was on fire yet none of the gangly branches were succumbing to the flame. Not even the leaves were being consumed.

“How can this be? ” Moses called out, his voice echoing against the rocks. Taking small, slow steps, he drew even closer.

“Moses! Moses!” Someone was calling him. Spinning around, the shepherd wondered if Jethro, his father-in-law, had followed him. Struggling to catch his breath, Moses felt a wave of fear rush over him. There was no one around. No one.

Softly, Moses answered the voice. “Here I am,” he said as he took another step.
Sparks flew from the fire, rising above him. Moses drew his cloak over his face. “Take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy ground. I am the God of Abraham, of Isaac, of Jacob.

Now shoeless and trembling, Moses sank to his knees. From the burning flames, the mysterious voice continued. “I have heard my people crying. You must go back to Egypt. You must tell Pharaoh to free the Israelites.

Go back to Egypt? Me? No! Moses trembled as he imagined himself asking for an audience with Pharaoh. “Who am I to do this?” asked Moses.

The voice answered, “I will be with you.”

Moses shook his head in disbelief. God, the merciful, the mighty, was speaking to him. As an ordinary man, Moses knew he had no right to question the Almighty but he needed to know more. “But how do I tell them who you are?”

The voice thundered, I AM WHO I AM. Tell the Israelites that I AM have sent me to you.

Not daring to even raise his eyes towards the fire, Moses bowed lower to the ground, trembling. Why would anyone believe that God had spoken to him from a burning bush? In a panic, he asked, “What if they don’t believe me?”

What’s that in your hand?” The Lord asked.

Moses was holding a Shepherds crook. “It’s a staff” replied Moses.

Throw it on the ground. Moses obeyed and the staff quivered and coiled, then became a hissing serpent. Moses started to run but God called him back. “Take hold of the snake’s tail,” the Lord commanded. When Moses touched the serpent, it immediately changed back into his staff.

Rising to his feet, he held the staff close to his chest. Questions raced through his mind. Why had God chosen him for such a momentous mission? He was good at leading sheep, not people. Didn’t God know he was a quiet man that words didn’t come easily to him? “Lord,” Moses stammered. “I’m…I’m not a good speaker. Please send someone else. ”

Moses waited for God’s response. For several minutes he did nothing but stare at the wordless bush. “Please send someone else…” begged Moses.

The orange flames crackled with warmth. “Moses,” the voice began again, this time with the tone of a loving father. “Who made you? Who gave you sight and hearing? I will assist you in speaking and I will teach you what to say…”

At that the flames flared high into the sky. This time the Lord’s voice was tinged with firmness. “Then your brother Aaron will speak for you. I will assist both of you.

Now take your staff and go. And remember, the great I AM is with you.

LIVE IT

In the Bible, the bigger the task God is asking someone to tackle, the longer the conversation lasts. Moses was allowed to ask a lot of questions before God ran out of patience. Note, though, that the conversation wasn’t exactly an argument. Moses was doing his best to listen to God, to comprehend the role he was to play in event of cosmic proportion.

Each question touched on a different area as his conversation with God continued. Why me? Who are you? What if they don’t believe me? How can I speak the right words?

God responds to each question with reassuring answers. Only when Moses stops listening and tries to convince God that he can’t speak, does God become impatient with him.

In my own prayer life, I’ve often had “burning bush moments.” After my first child was born with Downs’s syndrome, I came before God and fired a litany of questions at him: Why this child? Why our family? What does the future hold?

As I listened for his response, I didn’t get audible answers like Moses did. Instead, the presence of the Great “I AM” filled me with warmth and reassurance. The light of God’s love became my staff as I journeyed through the Egypt of mothering a handicapped child. “I will assist you….” God often said. (And he did!)

Lent is a great time to have a good conversation with God, to take off your shoes and pray through your questions. When you pray though, be sure to turn your ear to the great I AM. He always has the right answers.

Possessions

Nancy Jo Sullivan — Sun, 04 Mar 2012 18:00:24 +0000

The young man said to him, “All of these I have observed. What do I still lack?”

Jesus said to him, “If you wish to be perfect, go sell what you have and give to the poor and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come follow me.” When the young man heard the statement, he went away sad, for he had many possessions” Matthew 19:20-22

In today’s gospel, Jesus invites a man to invest in eternity. Give to the poor and you will have treasure in heaven…

But the investment is too risky. The man simply cannot surrender his possessions.

The story challenges each of us to ask: Are my things keeping me from serving the needy?

Is my flat screen TV preventing me from volunteering at the local food shelf or woman’s shelter? Is my comfortable home isolating me from my neighbor in need? Is my ringing cell phone deafening my ears to the cry of the homeless, the handicapped or the lonely?

In heaven, we will stand with those we have served on earth, our lives inter-twined forever. As the radiance of God’s presence shines upon us, treasures will be ours. We will live in mansions, eat at banquets and dance together on streets of gold.

So prepare for eternity. Give to the poor. Make an investment in streets of gold.

For additional Lenten Reflections, visit Loyola Press’ Daily 3 Minute Retreat

TAKE THE LENTEN CHALLENGE:

Find some creative ways to serve the poor. If your checkbook allows, surprise an unemployed family with a basket that includes gift certificates, chocolates and movie theatre tickets. If you are experiencing financial struggle, find joy in baking a plate of cookies for an elderly person on a fixed budget. When driving your kids to school, make eye contact with the man who stands on the street corner holding the “Will work for food” sign. Give him your extra change or even a ten dollar bill. Your act of kindness, no matter how small, will be noticed by God.

Transformed by Prayer

Nancy Jo Sullivan — Sun, 26 Feb 2012 21:00:20 +0000

When Jesus prayed, his clothes became dazzling. In some translations, we are told that his clothing was “as bright as a flash of lightning.”

When I think of the shimmering savior, thoughts of my friend Cynde come to mind. At 56 years of age, she stands about 4 foot 6. With Lupus and Leukemia, every bone in her body is brittle. She could break a rib by simply turning in her bed at night.

Despite her physical limitations, she spends her days reading the scriptures and praying. When I visit her, I am greeted by the radiance of her smile. Her wisdom brings warmth to my life. “My purpose in life is to pray for others” she often says

Like Jesus, Cynde’s life has been transformed by prayer. In Christ, she knows what she is called to do and be.

Today, spend some time praying. Find your purpose. Be dazzled by the light of Christ.

For additional Lenten Reflections, visit Loyola Press’ Daily 3 Minute Retreat

TAKE THE LENTEN CHALLENGE:

During these weeks of Lent, ponder the brightness of Christ. When you pray, place a lit candle before you. Let the beaming presence of Jesus dispel the darkness of all your fears and uncertainties. Trust that you are being led by the light of the world.

Smile Wrinkles by Nancy Jo Sullivan

Nancy Jo Sullivan — Fri, 05 Mar 2010 20:00:57 +0000

Last week, on a lazy Sunday afternoon, I found myself watching an infomercial on TV. As I lounged on the couch, a well-groomed woman, middle aged and very blond, pitched the virtues of a wrinkle reducing cream.

“It’ a miracle. The cream saved me. My fine lines have disappeared.” She said. The inflections in her voice rise and fell like she was giving and impassioned sermon.

I sat up. I watched with wide eyes as she wisped a silky hand over her wrinkle-less face.

“Wow…Maybe I should order some” I said.

As the mother of two college-aged kids, I was beginning to notice some fine lines on my face that had never been there before.

“I’m getting older” I told myself.

I listened as several other women shared compelling testimonies, their dramatic before and after photos flashing across the screen. Then, a memory from my childhood began to surface.

I was nine years old again, standing in my grandmother’s kitchen. It was snowing outside but I could feel the warmth of the bright December sun that streamed in through the windows above her stove. With her short grey hair waved into pin curls, “Mema” as we called her, wore an oversized shirt and plaid polysester pants. She stirred a pan of bubbling sugar and water, twirling a wooden spoon round and round. I stood close by, under my grandmother’s watchful eye, pouring a cup of corn syrup into the mixture.

I loved being with Mema. A gentle light radiated from her sweetly furrowed face, a comforting glow that always wrapped around me like and invisible embrace.

Her bright countenance was a sharp contrast to the dark moments she had lived through in her earlier years. Time and time again, my mother had told me about the hardships she had endured during the great depression; losing the family farm, poverty, and the death of her nineteen year old son during World War II.

Nonetheless, an irrepressible joy poured forth from Mema. As a child, I always wondered why relatives called her a “rock of faith” given the heartaches of her past.

“God always works everything out.” Mema often said.

The candy mixture came to a hard boil as steam rose from the pan.

“It’s time to add the licorice” Mema said. She reached into a cupboard and handed me a small bottle trimmed with a red label.

“This is my favorite part,” I told Mema as I opened the bottle of spice, just to breathe in the familiar scent. “It smells like Christmas.” I said.

My grandmother stood in the winter sunlight, her curled strands glistening like tinsel. Her brown eyes twinkled like two candles, shining beneath her thick, bifocaled glasses. The lines on her face all curved upward like a hundred grins.

“Mema, your wrinkles look like smiles.” I told her.

Mema laughed. She wiped her hand on the apron that wrapped around her waist.

“Wrinkles are God’s beauty marks,” she said, hugging me. “Don’t ever forget that.”

The blond television host continued promoting her product. She waved her arm over several anti-aging creams that were displayed on a table. “For only three easy payments of $19.99, we will send the wrinkle reducer and the cleanser at no extra charge.”

As the commercial continued, I found myself pondering Mema’s life in a whole new way. The challenges she had faced in life were the tools God had used to impart lessons of trust. Though her youthful appearance had faded, she had become wise in matters of faith. It was Mema’s wisdom, born of adversity, that had made her beautiful, inside and out. And every smiling wrinkle on her face proclaimed her loveliness.

I turned the television off. I drew near to a mirror in a nearby hallway. As I stood in the sunlight, I could see all the fine lines that framed my eyes. “I’ve earned these” I said as I thought about some of the challenges that I had faced in my own life. Though I would not have asked for any of the struggles I had been given, God had been faithful to me. Like my grandmother, I had learned to trust. Now, my wrinkles were holy impressions, markings of the inner wisdom I had gained. I smiled. “God always works everything out” I whispered.

Wisdom. It’ not a miracle cure for wrinkles. It won’t save anyone from crows feet. You can’t purchase it with three easy payments of $19.99.

Yet, in the eighth chapter of Proverbs we are told:

“For wisdom is more precious than rubies, and nothing you desire can compare with her.” Proverbs 8:11.

This is good news for those of us who are often distracted by a culture that emphasizes external beauty. Each day, television presents non-stop images of airbrushed faces, skinny thighs and flawless hair. Women’s magazines are packed with articles that highlight the importance of loosing weight and developing six-pack abs. On any given trip to the drug store, the average woman will be bombarded with products that shout: “Don’t do it! Don’t get older!”

Today, no matter what your age, ask yourself this question: How have I gained inner beauty?

Then, take a moment to look at yourself in the mirror. Do you see your inner radiance?

It’s there. The light of God’s wisdom. Let’s its warmth wrap itself around you like an invisible embrace.

Then rejoice.
Your wisdom is the beauty mark of God.
And that’s something to smile about.

Welcome to Heaven by Nancy Jo Sullivan

Nancy Jo Sullivan — Wed, 10 Feb 2010 18:11:18 +0000

When I was growing up, our family life often revolved around the game of hockey. Every winter, my father would make a skating rink in our back yard. My sisters and brothers, all nine of us, learned to skate, twirl and shoot a puck on that bumpy make-shift ice.

My Dad loved watching our winter performances. He was always a constant presence, keeping vigil by the snow banks that framed the rink. Now that my siblings and I are all hockey parents ourselves, we often reminisce about my father and his love of the game.

In today’s column, I’d like to share one of my favorite hockey stories, a winter remembrance that has become a family classic.

The story is written from the perspective of Timmy, my youngest brother. I hope this reflection reminds you that a father’s love is one of God’s greatest gifts.

Back in the winter of 1969, when I was a little boy, my dad and I made an ice-skating rink in our backyard. Set against the frozen Minnesota moonlight, I held a garden hose with mittened hands, the water freezing on its way to the ground.

My dad stood by, a six-foot-four giant in a puffy down jacket.

“It’s like heaven out here,” he said, the smoke from his cigarette melding with the smell of hardening ice.

I looked upward, following Dad’s gaze to a starlit sky. My toes were numb, curling inside my boots. My water-soaked mittens were growing a thin coat of ice.

“Heaven?” I asked. I didn’t know what he meant.

The winter weeks passed while Dad and I spent many nights skating together on that homemade rink. While wind chills dipped well below zero, Dad taught me how to grip a hockey stick and how to “slap shoot” a puck. Beneath a snowy firmament, Dad and I would glide around a makeshift net made of shovels and sheets, the metal blades of our skates etching lines on the ice.

“C’mon. Shoot it! Go for a breakaway! Don’t hit the goal post!” Dad would shout, his voice echoing against the snow banks.

He was loud and gruff. But at the end of every evening, as we gathered up equipment, Dad would quiet himself, lifting his eyes to the sky.

I knew that Dad stored the Lord in his heart, but he seldom used words to express his faith. This nightly reflection was a prayer of sorts, his way of showing me that God was important.

One night, I got tired of waiting for him to finish up his intercessions. I was cold and Mom had hot chocolate waiting for us in the kitchen.

“It’ll feel like heaven when we get inside,” I yelled, trying to pry him away from his winter worship.

Dad pulled off my stocking cap and started tickling me. We laughed all the way to the kitchen door.

Winter after winter, Dad was at my side, helping me to perfect the game. He taught me how to speed skate around orange construction cones, how to pass a puck, how to guard a goal post.

By the time I made captain of our high school hockey team, Dad was content to watch me from the sides of a new indoor arena.

At the state tournament, as I scored a goal, the standing room only crowd began to clap and cheer.

But I skated past the crowded bleachers, racing my way to the goal post. There, behind the plexi-glass, dad stood alone. I tapped the glass with my stick. Dad gave me thumbs up.

“Heaven!” he shouted.

As my high school years came to a close, I signed scholarship papers to attend Providence College in Rhode Island. The school was miles away from Minnesota.

It was an honor to wear the Providence uniform. I made a lot of new friends and played against the best hockey teams in the country.

Every week, I’d write Dad, sending him team programs and newspaper clippings. The truth was, I get homesick whenever I skated in unfamiliar arenas. The space behind the plexi-glass was always empty.

Then one Friday night, back in March of 1985, Providence played Michigan State, a national championship game.

Before the game, as I laced up my skates, my coach told me I had a visitor waiting outside the locker room. It was my dad.

“Hey,” I said, greeting him with a friendly punch in the arm.

“Not too bad a drive from Minnesota,” my father quipped.

Standing in my skates, suited up in shoulder pads and thick breezers, I suddenly realized I was looking down on him.

He lingered fro a while, trying to put his thoughts into words.

“The good Lord is proud of you,” he said, patting me on the back. It was seldom that I heard Dad talk like this.

“The good Lord is proud of you too,” I replied.

The game began. As I skated past the cheering crowds, I searched for Dad behind the goal post, but found him sitting with my mom in the bleachers, right behind the players’ bench.

As our eyes met, Dad pointed to a banner posted high above the rink-it spanned the entire arena.

Intended to highlight the superior skill and strength of the opposing team, the banner read: Welcome to Heaven.”

I laughed to myself as the referee dropped the puck to begin the opening face-off.

The crowd roared. Minute by minute, Providence maintained a two point lead with Michigan State. With five minutes left in the game, our team scored a goal.

Looking up toward the bleachers where Dad was sitting, I expected to see him give me thumbs up. Instead, I saw the team chaplain and a doctor huddled over him. There was a look of shock on my moms face.

As an ambulance pulled up in front of an entryway that overlooked the goalpost, my coach ushered me through the jammed crowd.

Dad died 15 minutes after I arrived at the hospital.

While the team chaplain comforted my mom, I slipped away to a large lobby window. Still c lad in my skates and uniform, I watched a snow shower blanket the city. I began to recount the last few hours.

How fitting it seemed that a “Welcome to Heaven” banner had decorated the arena where Dad had passed away.

I was certain that eternity was now within his reach, a reward for teaching me about the love of God.

He taught me about this love, not with well-spoken words, but in the time he spent with me. Throughout the years, Dad had stood by my side, like an ever-present heavenly father, teaching me how to perfect the game of life.

How to share laughter.

How to offer the gift of presence.

How to pray without uttering a sound.

As I stood there, a passage from Matthew’s gospel came to mind: “The kingdom of heaven is near.” Matthew 3:2.

I understood a little better that the love between a father and a son is a bit of heaven on earth.

It’s been over twenty five years since that night in Michigan. Now, I have three little boys of my own.

This past winter, my youngest son and I made an ice skating rink in our backyard. As he held the garden hose with his small mittened hands, I stood by, dressed in a puffy down jacket.

Though wind chills dipped well below zero, I looked upward and smiled.

“It’s like heaven out here” I said softly.

Used by permission of Waterbrook Multnomah, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc.

The Divine Touch by Nancy Jo Sullivan

Nancy Jo Sullivan — Fri, 08 Jan 2010 23:39:50 +0000

Over two decades ago, on a snowy November night, our first baby was born with Downs’s syndrome. It was a winter filled with the despair of dashed hopes and dreams. But it was also a season when the warmth of God touched my life, in a most unusual way.

The following story, originally published in Guideposts magazine, reminds me that even when we walk through cold valleys of uncertainty, God’s presence always lights our way.

I happily share it with you.

That winter, now twenty five years ago, it got so cold that ice formed inside the kitchen windowpanes. Gasoline froze in the tank of our family car. Bare, brittle limbs snapped in the breeze, and newscasters warned of wind-chill and frostbite. Despite the bitter weather, I walked alone each morning through our new neighborhood, dressed in layers of down and wool.

I walked and I walked. Maybe defying the elements made me feel I had some control over my life. That year, I had lost two loved ones to death, and our first baby was born with Down’s syndrome. As much as I loved our child, I still felt stunned. God seemed concealed, hidden somewhere in this cold winter of death and disappointment. So I trudged in solitude, day after freezing day. Only in front of a stranger’s brick house did I become gradually aware of a presence, a kind of peace. Here, for a moment each morning, I felt something promising, hopeful, and reassuring. I didn’t know why.

Spring finally did come, and children once again pedaled bicycles on the side-walk, men swung golf clubs on the green fairways, and I exchanged my down and wool layers for jerseys and faded blue jeans.

One morning, I took my newborn, Sarah, with me on my walk. In the bright sunlight in front of the brick house, I saw a mother playing with her young twin daughters.

I watched as she gently guided the girls’ hands over rough bark and offered them lilac blooms to smell. Just when I realized the children were blind, the mother greeted me with a wave.

“May they touch your baby?” she asked. While the two girls softly stroked Sarah’s face, brushed her fine chestnut brown hair, and held her tiny pink hands, their mother spoke about what it had been like when her children were born and what unexpected blessings she had found in those early years. “In adversity, we must be on alert,” she said, “for God will find a way, somehow, to touch us.

I wondered if I should tell her about my walks. Finally, I said, “Last winter when I passed by your home each morning, I felt strangely reassured and comforted. Warmed.”

My new friend smiled. “You must be the person I felt compelled to pray for this winter,” she said. “I thought someone in this neighborhood was going through a difficult time. Now I know it was you.”

www.guideposts.com

No part of this publication may be reproduced without prior permission from the author.

Oh Little Town by Nancy Jo Sullivan

Nancy Jo Sullivan — Thu, 24 Dec 2009 20:00:21 +0000

The December stars twinkled above the small Minnesota town where I live. A light snow fell as I walked through the streets of our neighborhood. Though my breath froze in the chilly evening air, I was warmly bundled in a down jacket and boots lined with fleece.

“It’s so peaceful,” I said to myself. That evening my daughters, Christina and Rachael, both of them home for a long winter break, had decided to make Christmas cookies. “Mom, we’ll help you get ready for the holidays,” they said.

“Sure. That would be great,” I replied. Now the counters in my kitchen, usually clutter-free, were covered with cookbooks, cookie sheets, and smudges of chocolate and flour. Loud rock music reverberated from a radio in our living room.

“You guys have fun. I’ll be back in awhile,” I told them. From the kitchen window, I saw them waving goodbye to me, happily.

As my boots crunched over the snow, I passed an outdoor skating rink where children played a game of pick-up hockey underneath tall street lights. I could hear the slap of hockey sticks and the distinct whoosh of a puck sliding down the ice. I smiled as I walked past homes donned with dazzling holiday lights and blinking angels.

Rounding a corner, my glance turned toward a small manger scene displayed in the yard of a two story home, just a few blocks from my house. There, a lone light bulb, attached to a nearby wheelchair ramp, cast a dim glow over the Christmas crèche.

“I wonder how Cara is doing,” I thought to myself.

A few years earlier, Cara, the occupant of the home, had been diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. She was a single mother of two children and recently her disease had progressed. Once a healthy young woman, active in her children’s sports and school life, Cara was now in a wheelchair, unable to walk, speak, or feed herself. Her aging parents had moved in with Cara and bore the dual responsibility of raising their grandchildren while at the same time, caring for their disabled daughter.

While I had never met Cara personally, my daughters had babysat her children during previous summers. I had come to know Cara only through the stories that Christina and Rachael had shared.

“It must be so hard,” I said to myself.

The winter winds whirled around me. I thought about the sacrifices that were quietly offered, each day, within the walls of this snow-covered home. Here, an aging mother spoon-fed her daughter, three meals a day while an elderly father regularly shoveled a wheelchair ramp. Here, a young mother silently surrendered the minutes, hours, and years of her life to a disease she had no absolutely no control over.

I fixed my glance on the manger scene. I began recalling some of the hardships that the holy family endured. Mary courageously faced the realities of an unplanned pregnancy. Joseph raised and loved a child that was not his own. Jesus, the son entrusted to them by God, suffered and died on a cross.

Yet, on that Holy night, so many years ago, one lone star shone for the Holy Family. This heavenly light was a twinkling affirmation that God was present and that all was well, even in the midst of their uncertainty.

So too, Cara’s family was giving testimony to the message imparted in the Christmas star. Their humbly lit crèche was a reminder that God’ presence doesn’t always dazzle. Sometimes his presence is more like a bulb faintly glowing on a wheelchair ramp, a light in the darkness that guides us to hope.

Soon, the words of an age-old carol came to mind:

“Oh little town of Bethlehem,

How still we see thee lie,

Above thy deep and dreamless sleep,

The silent stars go by,

Yet in thy dark streets shineth,

The everlasting light,

The hopes and fears of all the years,

Are met in thee tonight.”

As I made my way home, winding my way through the streets I knew so well, I found myself praying for Cara’s family. “Show me what I can do for her,” I prayed.

When I opened the front door of my home, much to my surprise, I heard the sound of my favorite Christmas CD playing from the radio in the living room. The kitchen counters were spotless and the dishes were washed. Several plates of freshly baked cookies had been wrapped in cellophane and trimmed with red ribbon.

“Mom! We made cookies for all the neighbors,” my daughters said in unison. They gestured their hands over the baked treasures like they were presenting Academy Awards.

“I’m so impressed,” I said.

On one of the plates of cookies, the girls had attached a handwritten card that read: “Cara’s family.”

My prayer had been answered.

No part of this publication may be reproduced without prior permission from the author.

Good Company by Nancy Jo Sullivan

Nancy Jo Sullivan — Tue, 08 Dec 2009 23:43:34 +0000

The windows of the coffee shop were decorated with pine garland and strands of cranberries. As the snow fell outside the shop, I stomped the snow from my boots.

It was early December, the first week of Advent.

“I’ll have a medium latte with a shot of hazelnut.” I told the clerk

The coffee machines whirred as I took off my gloves and loosened my wool scarf. I could smell mocha and cinnamon.

“Can I get that to go?” I added.

While I waited for my drink, I began going through a mental checklist of upcoming tasks that I needed to complete at work. I was the coordinator of a large Faith Formation program. My December calendar was already packed with a host of seasonal activities: projects, prayer services, and weekly classes for the children.

“It’s good to be busy,” I told myself.

Eleven months earlier, my oldest daughter, Sarah, had passed away at the age of twenty-three due to complications with her Downs syndrome. Though I had weathered the worst of my grief, and I had two other daughters who brought untold joy to my life, this first Christmas after her death was indescribably difficult. Sarah was gone. And we missed her.

“Latte to go,” the clerk called out.

“Thanks,” I said as I put a plastic lid of my cup of hot coffee.

As I made my way to the door, I noticed an elderly woman sitting at a table near the counter. With her gray hair neatly curled and styled, she wore a red blazer trimmed with a Christmas tree pin. Her face looked welcoming and kind, covered with wrinkles that looked like little smiles. She was dipping a tea bag into a ceramic cup filled with hot water.

“I wonder if she is waiting for someone. I hope she isn’t alone,” I thought.

I turned my glance toward the decorated windows. There, another elderly woman sat by herself drinking from a shiny red mug. She was dressed up too, donned in a pine green sweater and pearls.

As I stood by the door, holding my coffee-to-go with gloved hands, I watched as the woman in pearls got up and made her way with slow shuffled steps towards the table where the other lady sat.

“May I join you?” she asked, her aged hands wrapped tightly around the mug she had carried across the room.

“Why yes, I’d love to have the company,” said the seated woman as she happily pulled out an empty chair.

The two strangers sat together and began getting acquainted. I couldn’t help but overhear their conversation: ” I grew up a few blocks from here…My husband passed away five years back…My grandchildren are coming to visit for the Christmas holidays….” they told one another. They talked with the ease of friends who had known each other for years.

I looked at my watch. Though I was running late for work, I left the coffee shop with a smile on my face. Trudging through the snow to my car, I couldn’t stop thinking about the newly forged friendship of these two beautiful ladies.

They had illustrated, in a metaphorical way, the wonder of that first long-ago Christmas. Over 2000 years ago, God left his heavenly throne and visited the coffee shop of our humanity. When he noticed that were alone, in wait of a savior, he befriended us.

“He came to keep us company,” I told myself as I drove to work and my windshield wipers whooshed away the flakes of snow.

The chill of my grief began to melt as God’s presence warmed me like soft flames crackling in a fireplace.

A passage from Matthew came to mind, an Advent verse that I had memorized years earlier:

“Behold, the virgin shall be with child and bear a son, and they shall name him Emmanuel, which means “God is with us.” Matthew 1:23

“I’m not alone.” I thought. Even amid the sorrow of this season, Emmanuel was near. His cup of compassion was mine to share.

As I drove home, I felt something I hadn’t felt since Sarah’s passing. Hope.

A year has passed since that winter morning. Once again, it’s early December, the second week of Advent. I’m at a much different place than I was last year at this time. Over the past months, the gift of hope, given to me by the women in the coffee shop, has continued to influence my life.

While it’s true that I still grieve the loss of my Sarah, this past year, Emmanuel has remained my loyal companion. Each morning, he has drawn near to the table of my heart. Time and time again, I’ve heard him whisper, “May I join you?” It is his unwavering presence that has given me the strength to go on.

This Advent, if you are feeling the chill of loss, let the presence of Emmanuel fill you with warmth and comfort. Pull up a chair for him at the table of your heart. He’d love to have the company.

No part of this publication may be reproduced without prior permission from the author.

A Holy Interruption by Nancy Jo Sullivan

Nancy Jo Sullivan — Fri, 23 Oct 2009 17:00:20 +0000

I like the idea that Rachael, my youngest daughter, attends a college just twenty five minutes from our home. At nineteen years of age, she has her independence but still gets home quite often to do her laundry or just to hang out with the family.

Last Saturday afternoon, as she studied for an anatomy test at the kitchen table, I sat across from her, typing on a laptop computer. Working feverishly on an article that had a Monday morning deadline, my glasses kept falling down on my nose. As I pecked out paragraphs, the computer keys clicking, Rachael began memorizing the names of facial muscles, repeating each multi-syllabled term, out loud.

“Buccinator…it’s the muscle that makes the lips whistle” she said. Her eyes were fixed on a thick textbook entitled, Human Anatomy. Wearing an oversized school sweatshirt, her long hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

As I tried to concentrate on writing my article, she slurped coffee from a ceramic mug and kept reciting terms.

“Zygomaticus…the smiling muscle…” she called out while mimicking a pseudo grin. I kept right on typing. “Frontalis…it raises the eyebrows and wrinkles the forehead…” From the corner of my eye, I watched as she purposely furrowed her brow.

I turned off my computer. I was distracted. “Are you hungry for lunch?” I asked.

“Thanks mom…” she said without even looking up from her book.

While I stood at the counter, fixing turkey sandwiches, Rachael fixed her gaze on the anatomical diagrams in her book. Then, suddenly, she turned and made eye contact with me, her face glowing with enlightenment.

“Mom…Come here and look at this drawing…” she said as she pointed to an open page. Setting our lunches on the table, I glanced at a sketch of a human skull.

“This is amazing…the bones of the skull are joined by sutures…It’s like God sewed us together…” she said.

Though I had taken an anatomy class in college, I looked at the diagram with a sense of new-found wonder.

“The sutures look just like stitches…” Rachael said.

“You’re right.” I replied, adjusting my glasses. Sure enough, the thin connective tissues that held together the bones of the skull had the appearance of thread.

Words from Psalm 139 whispered to me:

“You formed my inmost being; you knit me in my mother’s womb.
I praise you, so wonderfully you made me; wonderful are your works!
My very self you knew, my bones were not hidden from you,
When I was being made in secret, fashioned in the depths of the earth…”
Psalm 139, 13-15

As we ate our lunch, she continued to study and I found myself thinking back on the months that I carried her in my womb. So many years ago, God had fashioned every part of her perfectly, a myriad of tiny muscles, tendons, and tissues that now enabled her to smile, whistle and wrinkle her brow. Before I even saw her, her little bones were being stitched together, the threads of God’s love, fastening her humanness, forever, to heaven.

Rachael took one last bite of her sandwich and handed me her textbook. “Mom, will you help memorize the neck muscles?” she asked. She was completely unaware of the gratitude that was welling up inside of me. “You can read the names of the muscles and I’ll tell you what their function is…” she added.

“Deltoid” I said. Looking at her through my glasses, I jokingly lifted one arm in the air and waved to her.

Rachael laughed. “It’s the muscle that raises the arm.” she said.

I could work on my article later. This was a holy interruption, a sacred moment to recall my daughter’s beginnings and to praise God for the person she was becoming, a woman who understood, on a deep and profound level, the miraculous power of grace.

Today, if your children distract you, be sure to stop, look and listen. God may have something to say.

National Council of Catholic Women by Nancy Jo Sullivan

Nancy Jo Sullivan — Fri, 02 Oct 2009 17:40:55 +0000

This past week, I spoke at the National Council of Catholic Women convention in Jacksonville, Florida. Over 900 women, representing a host of parishes from across the country, attended the three day gathering. It was a time set apart to share faith, friendship and fellowship.

On the last day of the convention, I spoke at the NCCW author breakfast which took place in the ballroom of Hyatt Riverfront Hotel. Some of the attendees at the convention have asked if I would post my presentation on the Catholicmom.com website. Here’s the speech, in its entirety:

Good morning and Thank you.

I was born and raised in Minnesota. Where I’m from, we pride ourselves in surviving the long, cold winters that often last from Thanksgiving to Easter. We are used to blizzards, ice storms and wind chills that dip well below zero.

But a couple of weeks ago, as I was preparing for this trip, a friend called and said: “Nanc…did you know that late September is peak hurricane season in Florida?”

I must admit, it was the first time in a long time that I can remember getting nervous about the weather.

But today, it’s a beautiful morning in Florida.

And as we gather together on this day that the Lord hath made, I find myself thinking of another sun-lit morning that occurred 2000 years ago.

It was the first day of the week. Mary, along with some of her women friends, were approaching a tomb sealed with a large stone. They were heavy-hearted, grappling with grief. Three days earlier, Jesus had been crucified.

Here’s what the apostle Matthew tells us about that morning:

(As they approached the tomb) there was a great earthquake, for an angel of the Lord descended from heaven, approached, rolled back the stone and sat upon it. His appearance was like lighting and his clothing was white as snow. Then the angel said to the women: “Do not be afraid, Jesus has been raised from the dead.” And the women went away quickly from the tomb, fearful yet overjoyed…” Matthew 28

Let me read that last line again: “The women went away quickly from the tomb, fearful yet overjoyed…”

Let’s take a moment to ponder this passage.

As the pre-dawn darkness shrouds their grieving hearts, a bright light from heaven shines upon the women.

At a tomb of death, they hear a message of hope.

Right in the middle of their fear, sadness and confusion, the mysterious, glorious, inexplicable joy of the Lord settles upon them.

This morning, I’m going to be sharing some stories about someone who has taught me a lot about this very special kind of joy; Sarah my Downs Syndrome daughter.

Though it’s been 24 years since Sarah’s birth, I remember that day like it was yesterday.

It was early morning and my hospital room was filled with darkness, all except for a few streams of light that filtered in from the hallway. Right next to my bed, newborn Sarah slept peacefully in an incubator.

Just a few hours earlier, the doctors had delivered their ominous report. “We’ve noticed some symptoms; some tendencies…our preliminary findings indicate that your child has Downs Syndrome…”

I turned my glance toward my new baby. It was hard to believe that her handicap was completely non-negotiable. She looked so fresh from heaven, her tiny face glowing with the newness of life.

Questions, all of them unanswerable, filled my thoughts. Why this baby? Why our family? What does the future hold?

I was scared and confused. And, I was angry at God. I had prayed for a child much different than the one I received. As I looked at my new baby, I found it hard to imagine how I could be a good mother to a child with so many limitations. “Why have you allowed this?” I asked God.

But during the first few weeks of Sarah’s life, something amazing happened. I began to fall in love with this amazing, little girl.

As a baby, Sarah always smiled. Always.

She never went through her terrible twos or threes or fours. She was too busy defying her disability, grinning widely as she slowly learned to walk and talk and sing and dance.

I remember when she took her first steps. My entire extended family came over for a party. We decorated the house with balloons and ate cake and blew kazoos. It was a celebration of joy that I will never forget.

When Sarah was about 8 years old, I got into the routine of reading to her every afternoon, along with her two younger sisters. As the kids and I cuddled together on the couch, we would page through fairy tales about kings and castles and crowns.

Sarah would listen as I read the stories, her eyes shimmering through her thick framed glasses. One afternoon, she pointed to an illustration of a beautiful princess clad in all her regal glory, “That’s me…,” Sarah said emphatically.

I think Sarah’s fascination with fairy tales had something to do with her innate sense that she was part of these stories. Like Cinderella, Sarah had such a pure and innocent heart. I think she identified with the poor young maidens, who, by the power of love, were transformed into royalty. Love was very important to Sarah.

As a pre-teen, Sarah began collecting crowns and second hand prom dresses from the Goodwill store. And, she started writing her own fairy tales.

Often, she would sit at the kitchen table, dressed in one of her jazzy gowns, jotting down her thoughts on a pad of paper. One afternoon, as I passed by the table, holding a basket of wash, I took a peek at her work. Though her words were backwards and misspelled, she had written, “My name is Princess Sarah and I’m going to live forever….” “That’s a nice story….” I told her. I was too busy with the mundane tasks of motherhood to really pay attention to what she was saying.

As Sarah grew into a young woman, she remained, in so many ways, a little girl. And even though she never progressed, academically, further than a second grader, she grew into a profound understanding of who she was in Christ. Over time, I came to understand that God had bestowed upon her a wisdom that came straight from heaven.

I realized the power of this wisdom one ordinary afternoon when Sarah was in her early twenties, about a year before she passed always. As I prepared dinner in the kitchen, she drew near and tapped me on the shoulder. “Mom…” she said. “I’m wearing a crown….you just can’t see it….”

I continued stirring the mashed potatoes. It was a busy night, my other daughter had a hockey game and I needed to pick up some of her friends before the game. “How do you know your wearing a crown?” I asked. I was preoccupied with the tasks at hand.

“Because I’m the daughter of a great king…”

I stopped stirring. I looked at her freckled face. She was beaming.

“Mom…” she said. “You’re wearing a crown too…”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Because you’re the daughter of a great king too…”

As I stood there, a great joy welled up inside of me. The God who created the universe, the king of heaven, loved me. It was such a simple lesson, one that I had, over the years, heard time and time again as I had read the Scriptures and listened to the Gospel readings at church. Now, though, it all made so much more sense. Sarah had given me new image of my loving heavenly father, one that I continue to cherish even though she is now in heaven, safe and sound with her king.

I think Sarah’s simple teaching about God’s love should give us all pause for great joy.

We are all sons and daughters of a great king. At this very moment, we are all wearing crowns, invisible crowns that affirm that God is deeply in love with us.

Imagine how we might live if each day, if we woke up and believed, truly believed that we were royalty, beloved by a King.

Perhaps we wouldn’t be as fearful as we walked along the dark roads of doubt and uncertainty. Maybe as we stood before the tombs of our dashed dreams, we might remember that angels watch over us and that a “happily ever after” awaits us, if not in this life, certainly in the next. Maybe amid our greatest hurts, and our deepest sorrows, we might close our eyes to take a deep breath and imagine the jewels that bedeck our invisible crowns.

Sarah taught me that God’s joy is not reserved for sunlit mornings when all is well with our lives. No, the true joy of the Lord shines brightest on those dark, pre-dawn mornings when all hope seems lost. Mornings when we wake up in a hospital room after an unexpected diagnosis and wonder what the future holds. Mornings when we realize there is no longer a job to get dressed for, a spouse to talk to or a paycheck to provide for us. Mornings when a friend disappoints, a child chooses a wayward path, or a new stage of life overwhelms us.

On those mornings, we, like the women at the tomb, and like Sarah, need to remember that we are beloved children of a great King and that we are never, ever, alone.

In Romans 8 we read:

“For I am sure that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in creation will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

On this beautiful morning, with the prayer of Saint Francis in my heart, I’m wishing each of you light in your darkness, faith in your doubt, and divine joy in your times of sadness.

But most all, I’m praying that tomorrow, when you wake up, far from this convention in Florida, that you will take a moment to look at yourself in the mirror and imagine the crown that God has placed upon your head. And as you see yourself, in all your regal glory, let the mysterious, glorious, inexplicable joy of the Lord settle over you.

After all, we are ALL children of a great King.

Thank you.

Bedtime Blessings by Nancy Jo Sullivan

Nancy Jo Sullivan — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 16:00:07 +0000

On Saturday, September 26th Nancy Jo Sullivan will be the featured presenter at the Author’s Breakfast for the 2009 Convention of the National Council of Catholic Women. In January of 2008, Nancy Jo’s Down Syndrome daughter, Sarah, passed away at the age of 23. Nancy Jo’s book about Sarah, What I’Ve Learned from My Daughter: Blessings from a Special Child, was featured as a NCCW book club selection. Nancy will speak at the Author’s Breakfast about Sarah, the book, and the unexpected moments of hope she experienced as she grieved Sarah’s death. Nancy Jo will also explore the question: Why does God allow suffering? Her talk will speak to the bereaved and to those who are facing other life-altering losses such as sickness, financial uncertainty, the empty nest and even aging. For additional information on this event, visit NCCW.org.

We had some pretty nasty thunderstorms move through Saint Paul last Wednesday afternoon. Looking out my kitchen window, the trees in our backyard swayed in the swirling wind as flashes of lightning lit the darkened sky. While torrents of rain pattered on my roof, a memory from my past wrapped itself around me like a warm hug, a lovely remembrance of Sarah, my now deceased daughter.

Today, I offer you this memory in the form of a story I wrote about 7 years ago. I hope this little reflection reminds you to cherish all those understated and beautifully insignificant moments of motherhood.

Bedtime Blessings

(First published in Stories for the Heart: The second collection)

I had a bad cold that evening and I crawled into bed much earlier than usual. While the kids watched a movie downstairs, I huddled under blankets, my body achy and chilled. A soft rain shower fell outside my bedroom window. I started to relax. The sound of the dropping rain had a soothing rhythm, a soft, pattering cadence that calmed me like a lullaby.

Just as I began drifting off to sleep, I noticed Sarah, my Down syndrome daughter, standing in the doorway. With her curly hair pulled into pigtails, she was wearing a long robe and fluffy pink slippers. Her petite silhouette was shadowed by a light in the hallway.

“Mom…you…you…forgot to tuck me in,” she stuttered in a respectful whisper.

For Sarah, daily patterns and routines were very important. Even though she was sixteen years old, she still functioned at the level of a second grader. I knew this “tucking in” ritual brought closure to her day and predictability to her life. “Let’s wait awhile.” I suggested as I motioned Sarah near. Without making a sound, Sarah sat down on the edge of the bed. For a moment, the two of us just listened to the rain drumming on the roof above us.

“The rrain is nice…” Sarah said.

I took her hand in mine. “It is,” I said as I began remembering her early childhood and the many mother-daughter moments I had spent at her bedside. Night after night, I had tucked her in, snuggling a quilt over her shoulders and tracing a small cross on her forehead.

I remembered one night when Sarah was about nine years old. I decided it was time to teach her a bedtime prayer. While Sarah nestled beneath her blankets, surrounded by pink-checked pillows, I slowly repeated a rhyming passage about God and guardian angels, a simple four-line prayer.

“It’s…It’s…too hard for me,” Sarah admitted with a sigh of dismay.

Stroking her hair, I saw her brow wrinkle with frustration.

“Sarah, what do want to tell God?” I asked as I gently folded her small hands into a clasp of prayer.

Sarah closed her eyes as if formulating her thoughts. “Dear God…I…I…love…my mom,” she said.

Throughout the years, though Sarah never learned to recite familiar childhood prayers, she developed her own unique way of communicating with God. Her “end of the day” conversations with God always rose from a place deep within her, a sacred place of gratitude and grace.

Now, as the rain fell outside my room, I felt Sarah tug my bedspread over my shoulders, gently smoothing out each crease of the quilt.

“Mom, what…what… ddo you want to tell God?” She asked as she traced a small cross on my forehead.

I closed my eyes. I felt like a child again, safe and secure. “Dear God…I love Sarah…” I said.

Sarah smiled. The prayer lingered. The rain continued to fall in song-like beats, covering our home and shimmering down my window in small streams. So too, a shower of Gods love was raining down on us from heaven, blessing us.

I began to doze as Sarah quietly tiptoed to her room across the hall. I heard the squeak of her box spring and the rumpling of covers as she crawled into bed. I wondered if I should help her settle in for the night. “She’s growing up…let her go,” an inner voice whispered.

Curling up in the comfort and warmth of my bed, I called out to her: “Sarah, are you an angel?” I heard her giggling. She thought I was joking.

From across the hall she called back. ” I…I…am.” And the rain kept falling.

There Must Be Sparrows in Heaven by Nancy Jo Sullivan

Nancy Jo Sullivan — Mon, 03 Aug 2009 15:00:09 +0000

On summer mornings, I have a routine I never break. After going for a quick jog with my neighbor, I grab a cup of coffee and make my way through the glass doors that lead to our backyard deck.

It’s there, in a rod iron chair, cushioned with red striped pillows, that I get ready for my day. Hemmed in by the natural beauty of my backyard, I often feel like I’m in the middle of a wooded preserve. Towering pine trees, as tall as two garages, shade a nearby garden filled with woodchips and hostas. Ivy vines climb alongside of the house, all the way up to the roof. Three wandering rose bushes, one for each of my daughters, trail over a chain link fence. But what I love most about most about my yard are the birds that perch on nearby branches, a chirping choir of finches, cardinals and hummingbirds.

Over these past summer weeks as I’ve settled into my regular morning retreat, I’ve tried to discipline myself to be still, to simply listen to the voice of God. Maybe this need to be quiet before the Lord has something to do with the recent death of Sarah, my Down’s syndrome daughter. At the age of twenty three, she passed away due to complications with her respiratory system. Since her death, now 17 months ago, I’ve been working through a whirlwind of emotions and trying to adjust to a myriad of changes that have come to my life. Grief has taken a lot out of me. During this season of mourning, as I’ve slowly transitioned into a new way of living, I have, admittedly, found it hard to pray.

But Last Tuesday morning, a beautiful prayer rose unexpectedly from a place deep within me. That morning, as I sat on the deck, I began remembering a summer day two years earlier. Sarah and I were planting flowers in the shade garden, the two of us wearing faded blue jeans and oversized shirts smudged with dirt. As I dug holes with a small garden shovel, Sarah plopped brightly colored plants, one by one, into the earth. Side by side, we worked as Sarah teased me about my passion for flowers. “Mom…you and yyour gggarden….” she stuttered with a chuckle. Underneath pink framed glasses, her joyful eyes twinkled in the summer sun.

The memory quickly faded as a soft breeze blew through the yard.

“I miss her…” I told God.

Then, I turned my glance toward the sliding doors of the deck and noticed a small sparrow lying still and lifeless, on the wood planks of the deck floor. “The poor thing…It’ must’ve flown into the glass doors…” I told myself.

The sun filtered through the pine trees and a patch of morning light circled over the breathless bird. “She’s all alone….” I said. Soon words from the 10th chapter of Matthew came to mind: “Are not two sparrows sold for a small coin? Yet not one of them falls to the ground without your Father’s knowledge.” Matthew 10:28

“This sparrow is a lot like you….” an inner voice prompted.

“Me?” I said softy.

I drew near to the tiny winged creature. I began thinking about the months I had spent mourning the loss of my daughter. Time and time again, I had bumped into a wall of unrelenting sorrow and fallen to the cold, hard ground of grief. In my sadness, I had often felt alone, isolated from God, unable to offer him prayers or praise. Like this sparrow, I’d felt dead inside, unable to sing even the smallest song of hope.

“I’ve never left you…” the inner voice continued.

In the distance, I could hear the songs of birds that were happily flitting through the pine trees. “God knows what I’ve been through…” I said. Through all the days of incomprehensible pain, through all the lonely moments, through all the times of missing Sarah and wishing things could’ve turned out differently, God had kept a loving vigil over my life.

I closed my eyes. I whispered two simple words, a hushed prayer that felt like an offering of boundless praise: Thank you…

Later that morning, as I carefully cradled the sparrow in a small garden, I layed it to rest underneath the rosebushes.

Covering the bird with leaves, I looked upward. The mid-morning sun felt warm and comforting.

“There must be sparrows in heaven…” I said with a grin.

I knew that Sarah was looking down on me, smiling.

Hope Is The Thing With Feathers

Hope is the thing with feathers-

That perches in the soul-

And sings the tune without the words-

And never stops at all-

And sweetest in the gale is heard-

And sore must be the storm-

That could abash the little bird

That kept so many warm-

I’ve heard it in the chillest land-

And on the strangest sea-

Yet- never- in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me.

Emily Dickinson