“Little Nellie of Holy God”–The Toddler Who Inspired a Pope*

Ellen Organ was born on August 24, 1903 in what was known as the “married quarters” of the Royal Infantry Barracks in Waterford, Ireland. Her dad, William, was a soldier in the British army. Shortly after Ellen’s birth she was baptized into the faith at the Church of the Trinity. No one knows why, but from that point on Ellen Organ was called “Nellie.”

By William Organ - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, Link

By William OrganOwn work, CC BY-SA 3.0, Link

By the age of two, Nellie displayed a pronounced spirituality rarely seen in a child, especially one so young. While walking to Mass holding her dad’s hand she would constantly talk about seeing “Holy God.” This was something she began saying without having heard such an expression. Even her dad admitted years later he had no idea why his daughter began saying “Holy God.” Nellie’s parents were both devout Catholics and her mom, Mary, had an especially deep devotion to the Blessed Mother. She would take walks with Nellie, always talking about Jesus and Mary. She and her husband also made it a family custom to pray the family Rosary every day. Nellie, doing as her mom showed her,  always kissed the Crucifix and the large beads between decades. The first words she learned were “Jesus” and “Mary.”

Nellie’s life and the lives of her brothers, Thomas, David and their sister, Mary, were about to change dramatically. Their mom became very ill with tuberculosis. Nellie, the youngest of her siblings, was by her side constantly and was actually hugging her mom when she died in January of 1907. Nellie was three years old.

The children’s dad could not provide proper care for them. Consequently, he turned to his parish priest for help. Thomas, who was the oldest at age nine,  was sent to the Christian Brothers and David to the Sisters of Mercy. Mary and Nellie were taken in by the Good Shepherd Sisters in Cork City. They arrived there on May 11, 1907. The sisters treated them kindly and were very good to the girls. Nellie was happy to call all of the sisters, “Mothers.”

Nellie was three years and nine months old when she arrived at the Good Shepherd Sisters home. A young girl named Mary Long slept next to Nellie. Nellie never complained but Mary heard her crying and coughing during he night. She told the sisters and Nellie was moved to the school infirmary.

Upon examination it was discovered that Nellie had a crooked spine (the result of a serious fall) that required special care.  Sitting up was very painful for the child and sitting still for any length of time caused her great pain. Her hip and her back were out of joint. She was only three and she tried to hide her pain. But she could not “fake” feeling well. All the sisters could do was make the child as comfortable as possible.

Nellie astonished the nuns with her insight and knowledge of the Catholic faith. The sisters and others that cared for Nellie Organ believed without reservation that the child was spiritually gifted. Nellie loved to visit the chapel which she called “the House of Holy God.” She referred to the tabernacle as “Holy God’s lockdown.”  And she embraced the Stations of the Cross. Upon being carried to each station she would burst into tears seeing how Holy God suffered for us. She also developed an acute perception of the Blessed Sacrament.

One day Nellie was given a box of beads and some string. Being a three-year-old she put some in her mouth and inadvertently swallowed them. People saw her gagging and choking and rushed her into the infirmary. The doctor present was able to remove the beads from Nellie’s throat.

They were all amazed how brave the little girl remained as the doctor probed  into her throat, removing the objects. She never made a sound. At this time it was discovered that, just like her mom,  she had advanced tuberculosis. The doctor told the sisters there was no hope for recovery and gave Nellie only a few months to live.

Nellie loved the Holy Eucharist deeply. She would ask the sisters to kiss her when they were coming back from Communion so she could share their Holy Communion. She desperately wanted to receive her First Communion. But the rule of the Church was a minimum age of 12. Nellie was only three.

Nellie told of visions she was having of “Holy God” as a child and the Blessed Mother standing nearby. Her faith was so pronounced that the Bishop agreed (since she was close to death) to confirm her. She received her Confirmation on October 8, 1907. Then, on December 6, 1907, after considering all the facts, the local bishop, in consult with the priests, allowed Nellie Organ to receive her First Holy Communion. Nellie Organ died on February 2, 1908.

Nellie Organ’s story spread throughout Europe and reached the Vatican. It was presented to Pope Pius X by his Secretary of State, Cardinal Merry del Val. It was providential because the Holy Father had been looking for a reason to lower the age of receiving First Communion to the age of seven but was not sure about doing it.

When Pius X read the documents about “Little Nellie of Holy God,” he immediately took this as a sign to lower the age. The Pope immediately issued a Papal Decree called Quam Singulari, changing the age of receiving First Holy Communion from 12 years old to age seven.

Pope Pius X, who would become St. Pius X, after issuing Quam Singulari, took up his pen and wrote, “May God enrich with every blessing — all those who recommend frequent Communion to little boys and girls, proposing Nellie as their model. –Pope Pius X. June 4th, 1912.”

*edited version published in Aleteia on March 3, 2017

©Copyright Larry Peterson 2017 All Right Reserved

Running for the End Zone

By Janice Lane Palko

I recently celebrated my birthday. Now that I’m past the fifty-yard line of life and heading to the end zone, I can no longer deny that I am aging. When I was in my twenties and thirties, I could ignore the subtle signs of the advancing clock, and in my forties, platitudes like “forty is the new thirty” provided a flimsy veil of denial that I was growing older. However, when you hit your fifties, your children are grown, you are now called grandma, and conversations with friends gravitate toward aging parents, physical ailments, and possible retirement dates, there is no denying the obvious: I am getting older.

Many of us take a passive approach to our advancing years, believing that how one ages is out of one’s control–that it’s something that just happens to you. Others go into warrior mode and fight the “dying of the light” with hair plugs, Botox, and sundry other remedies in an attempt to vanquish the inevitable. This birthday spurred me to examine how I wanted to age. I decided I didn’t want to take the “curl up and die” approach and surrender to Father Time, but I also decided that I didn’t want to take the “aging rock star” approach and look foolish trying to cling to my youth at all cost. So how to approach this process of growing older? The second chapter of Luke’s Gospel provides the prescription. This last line jumped out at me as this chapter concludes: And Jesus increased in wisdom, and age, and grace with God and men.

It may seem odd talking about growing older when considering the immortality of Jesus. Though human and divine at the same time, Jesus, nevertheless, did age in body as is evident from his progression from birth as an infant to his culmination as an adult man in his thirties. Therefore, Jesus knew what it was to grow older, and as in all things, He provides the example for all humanity. This verse from Luke is His prescriptive on aging, and it implies that it should be an active, deliberative process that includes three aspects.

The first aspect is to grow in wisdom. To age following Jesus’s example, we must actively pursue wisdom. What exactly is wisdom? Proverbs 9: 10 tells us that “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.” Fear in this sense does not mean wariness of God, but of a healthy knowledge of His magnificence and our place and God’s place in His grand design. To acquire wisdom is not to gain knowledge but to be always persevering to know God and know ourselves in relation to Him.

The second aspect is to grow in age. While we know that Jesus advanced in years, many commentaries say that this phrase actually means to mature. Not only did Jesus grow in wisdom, but he flourished into our Savoir. What does it mean to mature? It means to become what God intended you to be, to embrace and fulfill your mission on earth. So, we are not only to gain knowledge of God and ourselves, but we are also to channel that wisdom into serving God by becoming exactly who He intended us to be.

Finally, we must grow in grace. Now, if Jesus is perfect, he could not have grown in grace as we usually think of it. Most biblical scholars take this passage to mean that Jesus performed greater and greater works for men and for God. Therefore, to follow in Jesus’s example, we must continue to acquire knowledge of God and ourselves and strive to fulfill our mission on earth. However, unlike Christ we are not perfected in grace. As such, we must rely on God to help us do greater and greater works in His name.

So, our golden years are designed not to be a passive time of acceptance of the elapsing years or an unreasonable attachment to bodily youth, but to enjoy a dynamic time of continued growth and development. We are to continue our run all the way to the end zone—perhaps with flagging physical strength and failing breath—but, nevertheless, with a vibrant spirit filled with wisdom, maturity, and grace.

This Year, Experiencing Death and Resurrection during Holy Week became a Personal Reality

Author’s note: The following was written during Holy Week. It has to do with my wife’s death, funeral and the fresh grief that followed. I thought I should share it here. 

Marty’s funeral was April 6th. Everything was perfect; the Mass, the music, the people, the cemetery and the traditional “fellowship” that followed. I arrived back home about 3:30 pm and headed to the dining room table. I looked around and the reality of the moment sent a shiver though my body. I realized I was alone . . . very alone. I began to cry (yes, men do cry).

So I sat down and sobbed and fought hard to stop. I blew my nose, took few deep breaths and unconsciously stared at the paperback book in front of me. It was an old book of quotes. I have no memory of placing it there but I must have. Just like that it was in my hand. (In retrospect I believe someone unseen guided my hand to it).

I flipped it open and read the first quote staring at me. It was from Edgar Allan Poe about his wife: “Deep in the earth my love is lying and I must weep alone.” I read it again and thought how pathetic that was. The quote from the great writer embraced nothingness. It was so sad. It also jump started my brain. My crying turned into deep breaths and then my thoughts jumped to Holy Week and Resurrection. I was supposed to be rejoicing. Whatever was my problem?

Well, like everyone else, I am human. The death of a spouse leaves a deep hole inside you. When you get back home after everything is over you see her everywhere. That’s the way it is. You are wounded and bleeding. (I know–I lost my first wife 14 years ago to cancer.) Slowly, over time, the wound closes. Inevitably it leaves an unseen ugly scar which you learn to live with.

Once again I mentally dashed to my citadel, aka my Catholic faith. It was that pitiful quote from Poe that made me realize I had been witness to a great journey. I had stood by as my wife received all she needed from her Catholic faith to advance from this earthly life to the next. I even posted on Facebook how she had received her “Jesus hug” when she arrived.

There is a grief process we all go through when struck by the death of a loved one. But our magnificent and comforting faith can become our “fortress of solitude.” It eases the pain; it can dull the ache in your stomach; it can help you fall asleep. (For me, a Rosary in hand is more powerful than any Xanax.) Most of all, our faith helps us to make sense of what has happened.

My wife was blessed to receive an Apostolic Pardon when she was on life-support. Seven days later she came off life support and the next day received Holy Communion. Two days after that, she was still breathing on her own but unconscious. The infection had traveled to her heart.

She was transferred to Hospice House and, upon her arrival, my son and I said a Chaplet of Divine Mercy at her bedside . The next day a group from the church came by and said a Rosary and a Chaplet in her room. The last morning of her life an old friend of mine from the SVDP Society came in and we said a Chaplet together. The Chaplet is very powerful when said by someone’s death bed. If I count the Apostolic Pardon, the Chaplets, and the Rosaries, plus Holy Communion, she was most definitely prepared for her impending journey.

Holy Week is upon us. We journey with Christ through His passion and death and then we rejoice at His Resurrection. It was all done for us for one reason—Love. This year my wife gets to witness it all, up close and personal. I can see that great smile of hers beaming everywhere. I have absolutely nothing to cry about, do I?  But, since I am human, I’m sure a few more tears will find their way into the days ahead. But it is all GOOD.

Happy Easter everyone.

Copyright 2017 Larry Peterson
This article was originally published at Aleteia.org on April 17, 2017.

When Picking up Your Pen Is Picking up Your Cross

By Janice Lane Palko

How do you regard your writing career? Perhaps you’re like me. I’ve been putting words on paper for more than 20 years, and I’ve always regarded my propensity to write as a being a blessing and as a calling of sorts. I wrote last month how God and, to a lesser extent, we humans can take something meant for harm and turn it into good. My writing has been a blessing wrought from misery.

I’m a natural-born worrier. Some families seem to pass on the proclivity to become addicted to alcohol, drugs, or gambling while others seem to be prone to divorce or commit suicide, but my family’s fatal foible is to fret. We are world-class worriers. After my third and last child was born, now nearly 25 years ago, I began to experience panic attacks. At first, I didn’t know what was happening to me, but as a worrier, I, of course, assumed it had to be something catastrophic like a brain tumor. After consulting my family doctor and a visit to a therapist, it became apparent that I was under too much stress—a lot of which I was putting upon myself. In addition to having three small children at the time and getting no sleep and experiencing several family health crises, I have a vivid imagination. As such, I realized through some introspection and prayer, that I was using my God-given imagination to terrorize myself. For instance, if I saw a carjacking on the news, I would cast myself as a victim and play out the scenario in detail in my mind of what it would be like to be taken captive and held by brutal criminals.

Through prayer, reprioritizing my things in my life, and discovering that I could terrorize people on the page through writing instead of myself, I found a happier, more peaceful, and more productive life. That’s why I’ve always viewed my writing career as a blessing in my life. It refocused my mind on more productive things.

During this Lent, however, I’ve come to another perspective–one that seems contradictory since I love writing so much. I’ve become aware that writing may also be my cross. Not to trivialize Jesus’s passion and death by comparing it to the life of a writer, but when you are a writer, life is not all sunshine and roses. There is suffering. How many of us could paper the walls with rejection slips? How many of us have had a piece you’ve sweated over fall flat? How many of us have looked at a paltry royalty check and wondered if it’s all worth it? How many of us have watched as books like Fifty Shades of Grey soar to the top of the bestseller’s list while our writing attempts to edify and inspire bump along the bottom of the Amazon charts? How many of us have put in a full day’s work or spent all day taking care of a home and children only to use what little “me time” there is to eke out some writing?

In writing this piece, I did some research on what it means for Catholics to “take up their cross.” It seems that passage of scripture is often difficult to define, but I like this thought on it that Saint Pope John Paul II gave during World Youth Day in 2001.

“As the cross can be reduced to being an ornament, ‘to carry the cross’ can become just a manner of speaking. In the teaching of Jesus, however, it does not imply the pre-eminence of mortification and denial. It does not refer primarily to the need to endure patiently the great and small tribulations of life, or, even less, to the exaltation of pain as a means of pleasing God. It is not suffering for its own sake that a Christian seeks, but love. When the cross is embraced, it becomes a sign of love and of total self-giving. To carry it behind Christ means to be united with him in offering the greatest proof of love.”

Like the proverbial double-edge sword, I’ve come to see my writing as both a blessing and a cross much as Jesus’s cross is both a curse as it spelled suffering and death and yet, at the same time, was the greatest sign of His love for us. Suffering and love are always intertwined.

Therefore, as we come to another Easter, I’m going to dwell less on the suffering endured as a writer and strive to be more like Jesus and take up my cross and offer everything I put on the page as a great proof of love.

Alzheimer’s Keeps Reminding Me Why I Love being Catholic

I have written about my wife, Marty’s, Alzheimer’s Disease several times. This is another. It was unplanned and spontaneous, triggered by the unique world she and I have come to share together.

I was trying to write something but I was stuck in “neutral.” No pencil scratching, no pen sliding, no keyboard clicking. Then Marty came in and stood there just looking at me and not saying anything. I smiled at her and said, “What’s going on?”

She shakes her head and says, “I really do not feel like going to work tomorrow.” (She has not worked in almost ten years.)

I nonchalantly reply, “Okay, then don’t.”

“Larry, please don’t start with me. You know I have bills to pay.”

“Well then, I’ll call in for you. I’ll tell them you are not feeling good.”

She quickly throws a curve at me. I back away, surprised at the sudden diversion. Raising her voice, she says, “We had better get a few things straight. I have standards and I am not going to be living in sin. I cannot be living here if we are not married.”

I did not know what that had to do with her ‘job” but I mentally bobbed and weaved and circled around. Quickly I said, “We are married.”

She was stunned. She stared at me and I stared back. A moment passed and she said, “We are?”

“Yes, Marty, we have been married for ten years.”

“I suppose you know this for a fact? How can you be sure?”

“We have the papers to prove it.”

I quickly said an emergency “Hail Mary” asking for help. God knew I was in over my head and immediately sent one of His special people. Maybe it was St. Therese or St. Joseph or maybe St. Martha. I really did not care who it was but just like that I had a “thought.” (These folks do not fool around when sent on a mission.)

I had her sit down on the sofa and wait for me. I headed back to my “office” (some may call it a man-cave) and began rifling through the file cabinet in the corner. The top drawer is stuffed with all sorts of “important” papers and I knew that somewhere amongst the mass of disorganized stuff was our marriage license. I started scratching away, peeling papers apart.

I did not keep track of the time but when I looked at the mess of papers I had strewn about it must have been fifteen minutes. Then I hit pay dirt. I found our marriage license. I was sure this would prove to her once and for all that we were, in fact, married.

I hurried back to the sofa and to the woman who immediately asked if I had just gotten home. “Yes,” I shouted. “And look what I have.”

The Pinellas County Marriage License was too confusing for her to understand. The print was small and even though our names were legible and the paper was emblazoned with the words, “Marriage Record,” it did not convince her. I realized she needed “Catholic” proof. That was why she had used the words “living in sin.” Now we come to why I wrote this in the first place.

I slowly headed back to the file cabinet to put the marriage license away. But I had not noticed when pulling the marriage license out that behind it was the 8 X 11 marriage certificate that the church had given us. It was behind the license the whole time. I could not believe it.

It was not a legal document but it was a BEAUTIFUL CATHOLIC document. It had our names on it. On the left side was a Cross with connected wedding bands connected to it. The church’s name was there and it was signed by the deacon and the pastor. It was also perfect for framing.

I had an 11 x 14 frame that was unused. Ten minutes later I brought it out to her. I had her sit next to me on the sofa. “Are you ready?” I asked.

“For what?”

I held this framed certificate up in front of her. She stared and stared at it and then she looked at me and began to cry. She put her head on my shoulder and cried some more. We have used the Hail Mary and the Rosary to help us over some rough Alzheimer’s moments. This time the purely Catholic marriage document was the answer to the prayer. It now hangs in the Florida room and she can see it every day anytime she needs to. Damn—I love being Catholic.

Copyright 2017 Larry Peterson

Who Do You Say That I Am?

By Janice Lane Palko

You’ve seen those Ancestry commercials about people who believe they are one race or nationality and then take a DNA test and find out they are not who they thought they were. My husband could be featured in one of those commercials.

This past Christmas, I bought him a DNA test because my parents had had their DNA tested as a gift for me and my siblings. Hence, I thought testing my husband would give our children a clearer picture of their genetic heritage.

My parents’ tests confirmed what my great-grandparents and grandparents had always told me—that I was predominantly Irish, with a splash of English, Welsh, and German. My hubby has always believed that he is half Italian and half Slovak. Imagine our surprise then when I opened the Ancestry email two days after Christmas and learned that he was 29 percent Italian, 25 percent Slovak, and, faith and begorrah, 19 percent Irish! Where did his green roots come from? We still have no idea.

My mother, whose maiden name is Hughes, registered 11 percent Irish and 50 percent Great Britain. Technically, my husband was more Irish than my Irish mother. The target of good-natured jokes from my family over the decades for not being Irish, my hubby now is one of the clan. He has taken great delight in his newly found heritage, lording it over my family, prompting him to don his “Who’s Your Paddy?” T-shirt reserved only for St. Patrick’s Day wear. The axis of our world has shifted a bit, and now I will have to throw away the “Honorary Irishman” button I gave him 36 years ago when we were first dating.

Accompanying the DNA test came a free month’s subscription to the Ancestry website, and I took full advantage of it. I discovered some things along the way. I learned that one paternal great-grandfather, James Lane, had a mother named Mary, a sister named Mary, two wives named Mary as well as a daughter named Mary, which made keeping all the Marys straight very difficult. I learned that a maternal great-great grandfather, who the family had been told had died when my great-grandmother was very young, most likely skipped town to take up with another woman in Colorado. I also learned that my English great-great grandmother who owned a bar, smoked a pipe, had a tattoo, and a pet parrot (I must have descended from sea captains.) and had 13 children was not widowed as had been reported by my late grandfather. She had divorced her husband as her marriage license to her second husband, my great-great-grandfather, stated because of “cruelty and barbaric abuse.” She went on to have a set of twins, one of whom was my great-grandmother. While Catholics dominated my heritage (hence the myriad Marys), I did find some Welsh Baptists and Cornish Methodists among the lot.

However, the most stunning discovery was that I had a fifth great-grandfather, Martin Short, (not to be confused with the comedian and actor), who came from Dublin in 1750 to the U.S. and fought at the battles of Bunker Hill and Yorktown and crossed the Delaware with General George Washington.

In addition, I learned some other, more important things. First, life matters. Although in this day and age, we treat it rather cavalierly, why, if life were not so important, would our ancestors have taken such pains to record births and deaths and chronicle who we have descended from?

Second, as writers, we provide a link to the past. I taught memoir writing for a number of years, and I always urge everyone to write their life story. What we put on paper today may one day offer clues, insights, or inspiration to someone yet to be born.

Third, you are dead for a very long time. My searches revealed a few relatives who died days after birth or as young children and one centenarian. However, no matter how long any of them lived, most have now been dead longer than they were alive, and with each passing day, they are even “deader.”

We will all eventually be dead longer than we have been alive. Therefore, plan accordingly. Make the most of your time on stage. Dream big, write beautifully, love with passion, leave a legacy. And all the while, prepare for your eternity. What you do now will determine where you will be later.

Finally, whether you think you are one nationality or ethnicity and you find out that you are not, or whether you find heroes or scoundrels or just common housekeepers, coal miners, railroad laborers, or shopkeepers in your background or not, it really doesn’t matter. Jesus posed this question of his disciples: Who do you say that I am? We should also ponder the converse. Who does He say that we are? What is our real identity? What He tells us is that we are His fallen creation, who He reclaimed for Himself on the cross so that we could become His beloved children and live with Him in eternity.

While it is interesting to know where you’ve come from, it’s more important to know where you’re going. That supersedes any knowledge of our earthly identity. Cling to your heavenly heritage because it’s the only one that truly lasts.

Pick up the Orange

By Janice Lane Palko

Some people receive profound promptings from the Holy Spirit. Me? I get messages like “pick up the orange.”

A few weeks ago, I walked into my local grocery store and saw a woman select some oranges and put them in a plastic bag. As she walked away out of the corner of my eye, I saw an orange fall from the display and roll across the floor.

You should pick up the orange, said that still small voice.

Instantly, I began rationalizing. I didn’t dislodge the orange. Why should I pick it up? They have stock boys to do that. I’ll look stupid, like I have OCD or something, if I pick it up and put it back where it belongs. Let somebody else do it.

Then my better nature joined the debate. Will it kill you to pick up an orange? Geez, Mother Teresa picked up dying people from the streets, and you’re freaking out over an orange. How shallow are you? Who cares what people think? Someone may trip over it. You will be doing a good deed, no matter how insignificant.

So, I pushed my grocery cart over, picked up the orange, and put it back in the display. But then something else happened.

As I was about to press on with my grocery shopping, I caught a glimpse of a woman to my side bend and pick up another orange, one that I hadn’t even noticed had escaped with the other orange, and replace it in the display.

I was astounded. This woman was following my example.

That little interlude set me to thinking about life, and for those of us who write, about what our toils to turn a phrase may mean in the big scheme of things.

Several months ago, fellow CWG member Cathy Gilmore posted an article from the Catholic News Agency titled The Catholic Church Desperately Needs Artists by Mary Rezac. It detailed how the world so sorely needs creative people who can bring beauty and truth to the culture.

I don’t know about you, but I’ve been writing for more than twenty years, and the monetary return on my artistic endeavors has yet to land me a summer home at the beach, a six-figure deal, or a stint on Oprah.

I attend a weekly Bible study, and shortly after the orange incident, our leader asked us to share our all-time favorite inspirational books. One woman recommended He and I by Gabrielle Bossis, a French, Catholic woman who lived from 1874-1950. He and I chronicles the interior conversation she and God shared. When she was putting these conversations on paper, Bossis didn’t know that after her death, they would be published, translated into many languages, and cherished by so many readers.

At times, it may be frustrating when we think of how much time and effort we put into our literary endeavors compared to the remuneration we receive in turn. However, I don’t, and I’m sure many of you don’t, write solely for financial gain. Then, take heart, fellow creatives. Though we may never know the extent of our influence, like Bossis, our work may do good long after we are gone.

I don’t know if God intends for me to be a best-selling author or not. But what I do know is that I’ll be fine with whatever magnitude of success I achieve. I’ll continue to write and strive to bring beauty and truth to the world through my work with the hope of glorifying God.

I may be only a stepping stone for someone who comes after me, a toehold for another writer on their climb to achieving loftier success in reviving what has been a hallmark of the Catholic Church throughout its existence: excellence in artistic expression for the glory of God.

Therefore, as this new year begins, I’m going to pick up that orange and keep on writing. I urge you to do the same. You never know who is watching us or reading works or being inspired by our example. We don’t know who may decide to follow us, who may bend down to pick up that orange we didn’t even realize had also rolled away.

Visiting Homebound Elder-Catholics—A Privilege and Sometimes, an Unexpected Challenge

I have been an EMHC (Extraordinary Minister of Holy Communion) for over twenty years. I have had the honor and privilege of bringing Holy Communion to many people in many places: hospitals, nursing homes, hospice centers, assisted living facilities,and, of course, to the homebound. I love being part of this ministry and it has brought me in touch with some amazing people who have lived their Catholic lives quietly, faithfully and without fanfare or notoriety.

Most of those I visit are Elder-Catholics.These are the Catholic faithful who have, throughout their lives, supported their church, been active in various ministries and carried on the faith that was and still is, part of their very being. Some were born into the Faith and it was nurtured in them by their parents and oftentimes by nuns, brothers, priests and Catholic laypersons.  They in turn have passed it on to their own children. Some found the faith as adults and converted. (I so admire those people.) And so, as is the way of things, the Church continues.

I would like to share a story about one of these people. His name is John. I have been bringing  Holy Communion to John every Sunday for a little more than a year. He is ninety years old, an Army veteran who spent almost thirty years in the Far East and was married for sixty years. His wife, Mary, passed away several years ago. He loved her dearly and misses her greatly. John is not delusional, or suffering from dementia or anything like that. His mind is sharp and clear. Physically, John is  deaf (hearing aids help a tiny bit) and wheelchair bound.

When I arrive at his front door, I push the doorbell. I hear a chime; he does not. Inside, several strobe lights begin to flash, notifying him someone is at the door. He is expecting me and the front door is unlocked. I walk in and he gives out a big, “Hey, hey, good morning.”

I more or less holler back, “Hey John, how you doing today?”

He is always wearing  a smile. He says, “Well, I’m still here.” We both laugh.

John is facing a dilemma. He picks up the newspaper from a few days before and points to a story. “Have you gotten any feedback on this?” I look at the paper he has opened to an article dealing with the church’s newly revised guidelines on cremation. I shrug and tell him I have not. He says, “I have a problem and maybe you can help me out. I need some guidance.”

I am not “Father Larry” or “Deacon Larry”…I’m just Larry. I immediately feel a bit insecure because I do not like telling folks what they should or should not do when it comes to their personal faith issues. I quietly ask the Holy Spirit to quickly help me out. Then I say, “I’ll try, John. But I may not be able to. I will go to Father Anthony and ask him if necessary.”

Being part of this ministry can have unexpected rewards. God was about to bless me with a glimpse into the hearts of two Catholics, a man and a woman, people of faith who married in the faith and lived it and who shared a love that did not die upon the death of one–rather, it simply continued and still existed. John says to me, “You know, I am upset about this article. It says we Catholics must bury the ashes of loved ones in sacred ground.”

I said, “That isn’t anything new. Some folks are scattering ashes over the Gulf of Mexico or off mountaintops or sharing them among family members. Those kinds of things are not approved of.”

“Look”, he says. “I have Mary’s ashes here with me. I talk to her every day. I’m all alone and I feel she never really left and I get such comfort from that. Do I have to get her over to the cemetery?”

I’m looking at him and tears are filling his eyes. He wants to be a GOOD Catholic man and he loves his wife and wants to be loyal to her. He will give her up if the Church requires it even though the pain he will feel is unimaginable. It did not matter. He would be true to his faith no matter what. I was looking at a man who would have gladly embraced a martyr’s crown if he had been called upon to do so.

I knew that cremated remains are supposed to be kept intact and placed in a proper vessel. Nervously I began to answer but he continued. “I have a spot down at the VA for both of us. I made arrangements with the funeral home and when I pass they are going to take us together down to the VA and bury us next to each other.”

I breathed a sigh of great relief. Casting doubt to the wind, I told him, “John, that is great. She can stay here with you. She is encased in a vessel and is scheduled for burial. You will make the trip to the VA together. Don’t worry about a thing.”

I will never forget the smile that broke out across his face. I’m not sure if I gave him  proper “guidance.” No matter; in this case I am sure the Holy Spirit helped me out. I will check with the priest when I see him.

©Copyright Larry Peterson 2016. All Rights Reserved

The Catholic Writers Conference Online is Coming Soon

CWCOiconIt’s almost here! CWCO – the biennial online conference for writers – is set for March 4-6. 2016.  This faith-focused authors conference offers presentations covering all aspects of writing from finding your calling as a writer to publishing and marketing your books.  There will also be online pitch sessions with noted Catholic publishers and secular publishers.

Attendees must register by Feb 27 at on the CWCO website or this direct link. However, if we get 200 attendees, we will close registration early. Don’t delay!

This year, the conference will be held using webinar software, making the experience more personal and immediate.

“We’ve had people asking for webinar formats in the past, but this is the first year we felt comfortable with the technology and the ability of our attendees to stream live presentations,” said organizer Karina Fabian. Fabian said the workshops offer terrific opportunities to ask in-depth questions and get feedback from knowledgeable instructors.

This year’s sessions include an emphasis on the faith aspects of writing no matter what the genre. Speakers like Gary Zimak, author of Faith, Hope and Clarity; Joe Wetterling, President of the Catholic Writer’s Guild, horror author Jonathan Ryan and others will speak on writing as a calling, a literary revolution, and an evangelization. In addition, there are practical workshops including legal issues, techniques for characterization and plotting, how to journal, and time management.

Pitch sessions give authors with finished books a chance to personally interest a publisher.  Pitch sessions include well known Catholic publishers like Servant Books and Ligouri, smaller presses like Liberty Island and Dragon Moon Press, and ebook publishers like eTreasures. (Find the still-growing list here.)

“Every year, we hear back from an author who finished a book, started a project, or got a publishing contract thanks to the Catholic Writers’ Conference Online.  Plus people make contacts and good friends.  It’s a terrific opportunity, especially for those who can’t afford to attend a live conference,” Fabian said.

This year’s conference is $40; $25 for members of the Catholic Writers’ Guild. To register or for more information, go to http://www.catholicwritersconference.com.

From the President’s Desk – World Meeting Recap

CatholicWritersRetreatLogo2011iiiiI’m currently preparing to leave for the Catholic Writers Retreat (Your Word is My Delight) in Dewitt, Michigan. It begins on Sunday. If you’re attending, I look forward to seeing you there!

World Meeting of Families
My husband and I had a wonderful time last month at the World Meeting of Families in Philadelphia. We attended as exhibitors (manning the Catholic Writers Guild booth.) Special thanks to Erin McCole Cupp for helping set up the booth!

We spoke to many people, answered questions and gave out hundreds of Guild brochures and business cards. A few CWG members stopped by the booth to visit. We were there as exhibitors, but we also attended the keynote presentations and daily Masses.

CWG Booth, photo E. Hrkach

CWG Booth, photo E. Hrkach

Sacramental Life
Attending Mass daily with 17,500 other people was a unique experience. The Convention Center hall where Mass and the keynote presentations took place is an enormous indoor auditorium capable of seating 20,000 or more. There were Jumbotrons (big screens) that allowed us to see the altar up close. There was a bit of a Disneyland atmosphere and rarely could people remain quiet before Mass (despite the multi-language messages asking for prayerful reverence), but it was understandable given the numbers of people and the once-in-a-lifetime experience of the World Meeting of Families. There were also ample opportunities for adoration and confession.

Multicultural Experience
Each Mass was trilingual: English, Spanish and Vietnamese. The reading was proclaimed in one of the three languages and the Gospel in another language. The parts of the Mass varied in language, but our little Mass booklet always included the English translation. The homilies were in English and were given by the celebrant (usually a cardinal or bishop). Some of the break out sessions and keynote presentations were in different languages or translated for attendees.

On various occasions, while sitting in the lobby trying to access the internet, or in the washrooms, or in the narrow hallways, different languages could be heard by attendees. The Nigerian attendees dressed colorfully and identically, with a different vibrant outfit for each day, and on the first day, they could be heard chanting an exuberant African song in the halls of the Convention Center. A Vietnamese choir sang a beautiful hymn at one of the Masses and a large group of Spanish attendees enthusiastically chanted after one of the Masses.

With two members of the Nigerian group!

With two members of the Nigerian group!

Exhibits
The exhibit hall contained over 500 exhibitors from all over the world. EWTN, Knights of Columbus, many religious orders, publishers, Catholic stores and tee shirt companies sold items that one would normally have to purchase online and pay shipping. Some offered special deals. Unfortunately, because of “security concerns” with the Pope’s impending arrival, the World Meeting of Families organizers closed down the exhibit hall one day early, so many attendees didn’t have a chance to peruse the exhibits.

At the booth in the huge exhibit hall. We were right across from Ave Maria Press. Photo by L. Power

At the booth in the huge exhibit hall. We were right across from Ave Maria Press. Photo by L. Power

World Meeting of Families Mural
Attendees also had the unique opportunity to paint a small section of the World Meeting of Families mural, which will be permanently displayed on the side of St. Malachy’s School in Philadelphia when it is completed. The mural will be listed in the Guinness Book of World Records as the “Mural with the highest number of contributors!”

My husband, James, painting a small section of the WMOF Mural. Photo by E. Hrkach

My husband, James, painting a small section of the WMOF Mural. Photo by E. Hrkach

Festival of Families and Papal Mass
It was edifying to see hundreds of thousands of Catholics and non-Catholics enthusiastically welcoming the Holy Father. Security was tight at both public transportation stations and security checkpoints to the ticketed area where both the Festival of Families and the Papal Mass were held. Digital devices were turned on to make sure they were actual devices. No one was exempt from the security, including all religious sisters and priests. Apples, oranges and hard fruits were taken away (because, we were told, they could be used as weapons). The confiscated fruit was donated to the local food bank and homeless shelter.

Because we arrived at the Ben Franklin Parkway early on Sunday morning, we managed to find a spot that had an excellent view of the altar. After walking 30 blocks (3.5 miles) our feet ached, but our hearts were full with anticipation as we waited for the Holy Father to arrive. A group of Spanish pilgrims chanted “Papa Francesco!” When Pope Francis finally passed by during the motorcade, I was too short to see him (although I was able to see the top of his white-capped head going by). Fortunately, my husband managed to take this excellent close up photograph of Pope Francis.

Photo courtesy James Hrkach

Photo courtesy James Hrkach

All in all, we were happy to have attended and promoted the Catholic Writers Guild. However, we were equally happy to be home as it was an exhausting trip!

CWG Elections!!
Elections are coming soon! Watch for an email that you’ll be receiving with information about voting!

If you have any questions, comments or concerns, please don’t hesitate to ask! president(at)catholicwritersguild(dot)org.

In Jesus and Mary,

Ellen Gable Hrkach
President, CWG