What Was Intended for Harm

By Janice Lane Palko

Several years ago, my family and I were seated in lawn chairs in a shopping center parking lot that overlooked Pittsburgh’s skyline. As darkness descended, we gazed at the sky awaiting the city’s Fourth of July fireworks when my soon-to-be son-in-law bolted from his chair and made a beeline to a store.

“Where’s he going?” I asked my daughter, wondering why her fiancé suddenly had a need to go to the dollar store, which was about to close.

“Remember when he was in high school and he worked for that mean store owner? How that guy was always calling him an idiot and telling him that he would never amount to anything?” I nodded. “The guy in that dollar store is that mean owner. He’s going to go tell him that he was wrong, that he’d graduated with an engineering degree, and that he was now working for a defense contractor designing technology that would keep his miserable butt safe.”

My son-in-law is a quiet, gentle, hard-working person, and since this was now eight years after he had spent a summer unpacking boxes at this man’s dollar store, I knew that the store owner’s unfair and demoralizing criticism of my son-in-law must have really lodged in his psyche.

Each year when my daughter was in grade school, the school participated in a reading competition sponsored by Pizza Hut. Students were required to read a certain number of books to get a free pan pizza. When she was in fourth grade, she was required to read ten books. One of my favorite books as a young girl was Louisa Mae Alcott’s Little Women, and I couldn’t wait for her to be able to read it and discover what a delight it was. A good reader, she asked her teacher if instead of reading ten smaller books, could she read Little Women.

Her teacher vehemently refused to even consider it. “No. You cannot read it. That book is too advanced for a fourth-grader. You’ll never be able to read that large of a book by the deadline. Read Ramona or Babysitters Club books,” said the teacher. My daughter relayed that conversation to me, and then set her jaw. “I’ll show her,” she said. “I’ll read Little Women and the ten stupid Babysitters Club books!” And she did, much to her teacher’s dismay.

I’m sure you’ve had an experience like those of my daughter and son-in-law sometime in your life. I have. More than twenty years ago, I began writing, and after having had several articles published (for pay!) and writing a column for a local newspaper, I was encouraged to join a writing organization. This statewide organization billed itself as a group that encouraged writers and worked on their behalf. I had to submit proof that I was a professional writer to be considered for membership. Imagine my surprise when I received this message from the man in charge of recruiting members: “I congratulate you on your moderate success and welcome you to the organization. Moderate success? I had no illusions that I was Nora Roberts or James Patterson, but who purports to encourage by diminishing? I shook my head and laughed. I’ll fix you, I thought. I’ll keep on writing.

We all know the value of encouragement. It warms the soul to dish it out, and it is even more palatable to consume. Humanity seems to gravitate to the negative, and ironically, it’s often the “discouragers” that make an even greater impression on our hopes and dreams than the “encouragers.” When faced with this kind of slap in the face, you have two options: You can either let the discouragers crush you, or you can hitch your pants higher and get to work disproving them. Sometimes, I think God allows these negative Nancy’s into our lives because they are exceptionally powerful motivators.

How do you rise above your detractors whether in regard to your writing, your goals, or any other aspect of your life? Here are some things to keep in mind. First, know God. If God has put this dream on your heart or endowed you with a certain talent, remember, there is nothing that will stop His will. Only you can thwart it by using your own free will to resist it. Second, know yourself. Had I been wobbly in my confidence of my dream or my abilities, I would have been devastated by that backhanded compliment from that writing organization. Deep down, however, I knew writing was for me, and there was nothing he or anyone could have said to discourage me from pursuing it.

One of the most wonderful aspects of God is his power to transform the negative into a positive. We see it in the story of Joseph in the Old Testament. He takes a boy sold into slavery and transforms him into a leader who will come to rescue his people. We see a young carpenter nailed to a cross transform that suffering into salvation. Through grace, God gives us that power to transform bad into good too.

In conclusion, if you are in God’s will for you, whenever you come up against a discourager, keep in mind this: With God’s help, you have the power to change what was intended for harm into something for good.

“Ad Orientem”—the Symbolism is Truly Beautiful

“Ad Orientem”—the Symbolism is Truly Beautiful (by Larry Peterson; Catholic Writers Guild)

By Mariapanhagia (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0], via Wikimedia Commons

Long ago, in a Church somewhat different, I was an altar boy (it was pre-Vatican II and we never used the term altar server.) It was a time when the Mass was said in Latin and the priest always faced ad orientem. (This actually means “toward the East” but, since so many churches do not have their altars facing east, it also refers to the priest offering the Holy Sacrifice with his back to the people.)

When offering Mass ad orientem the priest has no distractions that are facing him. The congregation behind him is, in effect, present at the Last Supper. The altar boy rings the bells to bring attention to this miraculous moment taking place before our very eyes. The people have just witnessed the most profound mystery of our faith and it all took place in only a few minutes. The reason for this symbolism is profound and beautiful. The sun rises in the East and we are coming out of the darkness to see the sun. The priest, who will stand in the shoes of Christ during the Consecration, is facing the newly-risen sun, ergo, God. At that moment, the priest, upon elevating the consecrated host toward the EAST, is actually Jesus saying to God, “This is MY body which will be given for you.” Then the consecrated wine is also elevated to the Father.

And there we kneel, the faithful, some watching and adoring the Body and Blood of Christ while many others are looking around, fidgeting, checking their watches, yawning, skimming through the church bulletin they should wait to read when they get home, not having a clue as to what is going on at the Mass they are attending. But that’s okay because at least they made it to Mass and are not home “sleeping in.” What has just happened is beyond description and the very answer to life itself. Yet it all presents to many as a grand paradox.

A friend of mine was injured in an accident years ago. He has a pronounced limp and uses a cane. Every week he comes to Sunday Mass and sits in the exact same seat. Every Sunday, without fail, he gets up at the beginning of the Consecration and slowly limps off to the bathroom. He always comes back after the wine is consecrated. He receives Holy Communion and, at a slightly accelerated pace, leaves Church before Communion is even finished being distributed. There are several others who, without fail, come every Sunday and miss the Consecration. They must not have a clue as to what is going on yet there they are, week after week.

Of course we all just had are influx of the C & E Catholics for Christmas. Although not “packed,” my church was definitely crowded. Interestingly, most every person at Mass received Holy Communion. Am I getting paradoxical yet? Is this why we have the phrase “cafeteria Catholics” in our 21st-century Catholic jargon?

Back in 1966, when Pope Benedict XVI was still Joseph Ratzinger, he said,

“Is it actually that important to see the priest in the face or is it not truly healing to think that he is also another Christian like all the others and that he is turning with them towards God and to say with everyone ‘Our Father’?”

Pope Benedict XVI showed his love of ad orientem 50 years ago. On October 12, 2016, (while meeting with Ecumenical Patriarch of Constantinople, Bartholomew I, he reiterated his preferences in a reflection letter published in L’osservatore Romano:

“In the liturgy’s orientation to the East, we see that Christians, together with the Lord, want to progress toward the salvation of creation in its entirety. Christ, the crucified and risen Lord, is at the same time also the “sun” that illumines the world. Faith is also always directed toward the totality of creation. Therefore, Patriarch Bartholomew fulfills an essential aspect of his priestly mission precisely with his commitment to creation.”

© 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.

Christmas is a Time for Miracles: Our Family Experienced One

Christmas Season is still with us, so I thought I would share this true story about a Christmas miracle.

During the Christmas season I believe God’s loving hand sweeps down and touches many of us with a little extra something when we might need it most. Haven’t you ever, after having something unexpected and wonderful happen, blurted out, “I can’t believe it; it’s a miracle!”

Sometimes what happens to you or someone close to you is inexplicable, mystifying and mysterious and you just know in your heart that God had His hand in the mix. The following is true and it happened to my family during the Christmas season of 1960. I can remember it as if it happened today. There is no logical explanation, save God intervened and gave us an unexpected Christmas gift.

Our Mom had just turned forty and suddenly was going back and forth to the hospital for two or three days at a time. I had just turned 16 and was more or less oblivious to most everything except Barbara McMahon, who lived around the corner. Every time Mom came home she looked worse. My sister, Carolyn, 13, told me the black and blue marks on Mom’s arms were from IV needles. I figured she knew what was up, especially since she wanted to be a nurse.

Dad just kept telling us it was the “grippe” (today we call it the flu). “Don’t worry,” he’d say, “It’s just a real bad grippe.” Grandma, who lived with us, embraced that concept without question. Today, the psychology experts call that Denial. Grandma proved to be really good at it.

Mom was home for Thanksgiving but Grandma was doing most of the work, using my poor sister as her trainee. I know that it was sometime after Thanksgiving that Mom went back into the hospital. Then came December 18. That was the day Dad, Grandma, Carolyn and myself, took the subway down to Lenox Hill Hospital in Manhattan for a simple Sunday visit with the woman who was the wife, mother and daughter in our lives. Christmas was one week away, and that visit turned out to be anything but simple.

Mom was on the third floor and when we got to her room a several doctors and nurses were standing around her bed. Mom was on the bed, her head on the pillow and turned to one side. Her eyes were closed. I remember how still she was. I was instantly frightened. Carolyn and I looked at each other, and she too was filled with fear. It is amazing how fast fear can embrace you.

Grandma placed her hand over her mouth and started to cry. One of the doctors pulled our dad to the side and quietly talked to him. I watched him shake his head ever so slightly. Then he came over to me and (this is a direct quote from him on that day), “Please take your sister and Grandma to the chapel and say a rosary together. Your Mom needs all the prayers she can get right now.”

Trying to grow into a man in a matter of seconds, I put my arm around Grandma’s shoulder and said, “C’mon Grandma, let’s do what Dad asked.” She was so distraught she simply complied and followed my lead. As we headed to the inter-denominational chapel a priest hurried towards Mom’s room.

I have no idea how long we were in that little chapel but I do know we had prayed two rosaries when a nurse came in and asked us to come back to the room. We were a bit shocked because the nurse was smiling. Grandma, with her worn out arthritic knees, jumped up and broke into the funkiest sprint I have ever seen. She had erased thirty years just like that.

When we walked into that room we were confronted with a sight to behold. Mom was sitting up in bed, smiling. Dad was next to her with his arm around her shoulder. He was sporting a grin that spread across his entire face and tears were streaming down his cheeks. Standing on the other side of the bed was the priest we had seen in the hallway. He was standing there with his hands clasped together with a look on his face I cannot describe. For me, it was a moment etched indelibly in my mind and I can see it as clearly as I did back then.

Our Mom, who we thought was dead, extended her arms and said, “Well, don’t I get a hug from you two? C’mon, get over here.”

Mom was not only better, she was ALL better. Her arms were clear, her face had color and her eyes were bright and cheerful. Several doctors were outside huddled together in disbelief. They had no explanation for her sudden recovery. We finally learned that Mom had leukemia, and in 1960, your chances with that disease were virtually non-existent. We also learned that Dad had asked us to go to the chapel because the doctor had told him she only had moments left. He did not want us to see her pass on.

My father and the priest believed they had witnessed a miracle. Grandma, Carolyn and I witnessed the results of that miracle. Mom came home the next afternoon.

Christmas of 1960 was spiritual and fabulous. What had happened filled us all with an awe-inspired sense of what Christmas means….New Life. As for Mom, she was fine until the end of January. She enjoyed Johnny’s second birthday and Danny’s eleventh birthday. In early February she was back in the hospital. She died on February 18, 1961. God gave her back to us for one last Christmas, and it was the best Christmas ever.

So please, trust me when I tell you: Christmas is really a time for miracles.

©Copyright Larry Peterson 2016
(An edited version of this ran in Aleteia on December 23)

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

My Yearly Faith Challenge: The Annual Prostate Exam

October was Breast Cancer Awareness Month across the nation. This is a good and noble fight and I am glad that “pink” is everywhere down to the shoes and wrist bands the NFL players wear to the pink bats MLB players use. But I would like to share about a cancer that is not talked about very much. I would like to share about the  second leading cancer killer among men–prostate cancer. (Lung cancer is the leading killer of both men and women in the USA). The following is personal aka”about me.”

I remember it like it was yesterday. The doctor waltzed into the exam room and matter of factly said, “Well, you have a cancer in the prostate.”

As he stood there flipping through and staring at the sheets on his clipboard, I was thinking—Huh? What? Wait a minute—Huh? Then came the frightened stare as I looked at this guy who in the briefest of moments had changed my life with unexpected news about ME. Cancer? No way!

It had not been a knockout punch but I had surely been sly-rapped and dazed. He calmed me down and, as I slowly cleared my head, he said, “Don’t worry, Larry. We did twelve cuts when we biopsied and there was cancer only in one. I think we found it early. I recommend you get it out now and you will most likely be finished with it.”

That was in March of 2007. On May 10 of that year I underwent a radical prostatectomy. Robotic surgery was brand new and unavailable to me so I had it done the “old-fashioned” way, by hand. They took it out. All of it. I have been cancer free ever since, with some residual side effects (another story for another day).  So what is my faith challenge?

My annual checkup is every September. Every year, as the day approaches, the anxiety  in me builds. I cannot help it. I have never forgotten that initial announcement about my having “a” cancer. Anyway, the protocol is that I go for a PSA one week week and the following week I see the Doc for the results.

The results  have to be .003, yes, ZERO, and then I can breathe easy and go home for another year. So far, the results have been ZERO, nine years in a row. That is considered ‘probably’ cured. Praise the Lord, right?

That is my challenge. I like to consider myself a man of faith. “Trust in the Lord with all of your heart,” right? I have this illusion that I do, but when it comes to this damn yearly test I get weak in the knees. I can’t shake it. Maybe I am a “man of faith” only when everything is hunky-dory. In other words, my “faith” is not nearly as strong as I may think it is. Am I a faith wuss?

I don’t know. I just want to go to the doctor like I’m going for a haircut and not give it a second thought. I tell myself God has my back. I think I believe that no matter what happens, it fits into God’s plan. Jesus loves me, I’m sure of it. So whatever is my problem? Is my faith journey all smoke and mirrors?

Here are a few numbers. One in seven American men will have prostate cancer during his lifetime. It is the second leading cause of cancer death among American men. Every 20 minutes another American man dies of prostate cancer, which factors out to 71 deaths per day. That means 26,120 men will die this year from this type of cancer. Early detection is the key to survival.

Next March I will be ten years out from my diagnosis. I should be kicking my heels and jumping for joy. Don’t get me wrong; I do thank God every day for my good health and cancer-free existence. I just think that I should be able to ignore the possible downside to my test results.

Maybe it is all part of the human equation. We just can’t help recoiling when confronted with our own mortality. My faith has, without a doubt, carried me through this and all aspects of my life. I have been blessed and I hope the Good Lord has patience for a faith wuss such as me.

There is one glaring fact that is as obvious to me as the sun shining on a clear summer day. Until I draw my last breath, my faith journey will always be a work in progress and I shall never take it for granted.

By the way–the color for prostate cancer awareness is pale blue or powder blue. Not many people know that.

© Larry Peterson 2016. All Rights Reserved

There is a Crisis of “Fatherless” Children in America; We Should Turn to St. Joseph for Help

by Larry Peterson

I call St. Joseph the “Shadow Saint.” That is because so little is known about him. He never spoke a word that was recorded. He never wrote anything that was saved on parchment. It does not matter. This young man, a “righteous Jew” true to the law, was confronted with being engaged to a woman pregnant with someone else’s child. The reality was a terrible thing for him to bear.

But Joseph was a man of faith and God was with him. The penalty for his betrothed could have been death by stoning. Joseph would have none of that. His Mary would not be harmed. He loved her. So he took her in and married her. The child she carried would be his.

St. Joseph’s example of selflessness is something that needs to be talked about with admiration, respect and pride. It might be used as a guide for so many who have, in this secular-driven world, fathered children and then abandoned them.

There is a crisis of “fatherless” children in America. Next to the disrespect and disregard for unborn life, this could be the most dangerous threat to our society. “Fatherlessness” is an ongoing tragedy that can find its roots planted when Roe vs. Wade was passed in 1973. When the destruction of human life was legalized, the downward spiral of respect for life followed.

"There is a crisis of Fatherless Children in America. We should turn to St. Joseph for help." by Larry Peterson for Catholic Writers Guild blog

By BeniCufi (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0], via Wikimedia Commons

Statistics show that in fatherless homes poverty is four times  higher than average, teen pregnancy increases by a multiple of seven, abuse and neglect are much more widespread, and drug use is more prevalent. The list goes on and on. There is a “father factor”  involved in virtually all aspects of American life today. Yes, many homes still have fathers, but many children live in homes with absentee fathers and the societal effects are felt all across the spectrum of American life.

St. Joseph could be used as a shining example for all men to emulate. He was poor, he was chaste and he respected women, especially his teenage bride. He was a man of faith and stayed true to the laws of God and man. Foremost in his life was his faith in God. This was his strength. This is what fortified him. This is what is missing in so many lives today.

Joseph of Nazareth is an example of how one should respect the law. We could explain to young people how he had to put his teenage pregnant wife on the back of a donkey and then walk over rocky, dusty roads for over 80 miles, a journey that probably took three days. And why did he do this? He did this because he was required to go to Bethlehem for the census. It was the law.

The story of young Joseph, taking his teenage wife and baby boy and escaping Bethlehem because King Herod wanted to kill his son, Jesus, would make any young person’s pulse amp up. The poor guy’s child was being hunted by Herod’s soldiers. His wife was recovering from childbirth. He had to make it to Egypt. And he did…for his family. This is what a REAL man would do, or at least try to do.

Joseph did whatever he had to do to take care of his wife and son. He worked hard to keep a roof over their heads, to feed them, clothe them, and protect them. He did not care about himself. His family came first, no matter what. He would have gladly died for them if necessary. He was a real MAN. His sacrifice and efforts for his wife and son allowed them to survive so that the salvific narrative would be fulfilled. We owe him so much.

His faith, courage, integrity and love of God resonate like the smashing of cymbals and the banging of drums for all of us to listen to. We need to follow his example. We need to celebrate his life. We need to honor his commitment to his responsibilities. We should cherish his devotion to family.

I realize the possibility of teaching about this quiet hero in public schools might be a pipe dream but  I would hope Catholic schools would use him as an example for students to look up to and respect as a role model for what a husband and dad should try to be like.

St. Joseph, two thousand years after his death, is still the finest role model for not only husbands and fathers, but for all men for all time.

Addendum: Re: Election 2016: I am keeping it simple. I will heed the words of Pope St. John Paul II; “A nation that kills its own children is a nation without hope.” 

At this time there is only one candidate that has a pro-life agenda. That person will get my vote. End of story.

© Larry Peterson 2016

The “Protector” Saint of the Mexican Border*

By Larry Peterson

Since there is so much discussion about the Mexican border I thought I would share this column I wrote about two months ago. Meet St.Toribio Romo,The Protector of the Mexican Border.

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Sometime during the early summer of 1973, Jesus Gaytan and two friends began making their way north to the United States. They were planning to ‘”sneak” across the border and find work as farmhands. They did not care where, they just wanted to work.

At the border their plans quickly unraveled. They were spotted by the Border Patrol and, frightened, ran back toward Mexico. Jesus became separated from his friends and began wandering around the desert. He had no idea where he was. After several days of walking and wandering and without any food or water left, Jesus was sure he would die.

As he stared across the bleak landscape peering through the undulating heat waves rising from the ground, he saw a pickup truck coming his way. Not knowing who was approaching, he became instantly afraid and yet also relieved. The truck pulled up and a young man with light skin and blue eyes stepped out. He smiled and gave Jesus food and water. Then he directed him to a nearby farm where they needed workers. He also gave Jesus a few dollars to keep in his pocket. Jesus thanked him profusely and asked him where he could return the money to him.

Speaking perfect Spanish the man said to him, “When you finally get a job and money, look for me in Santa Ana de Guadalupe, Jalisco. Ask for Toribio Romo.”

And so the story goes that years later Jesus Gaytan did make that trip to Santa Ana de Gaudalupe. When he arrived he asked how he could find Toribio Romo. He was directed to the small church nearby. Hanging on the outside of the chapel was a large picture. Jesus stared wide-eyed looking up at the picture. It was the man from the desert, Toribio Romo.

Jesus had arrived at Toribio’s shrine where his remains were kept. He was shocked to learn that the man who had helped him in the desert 20 years before had been beatified in 1992 by Pope John Paul II. He was doubly shocked that his rescuer had been murdered in 1928 during the Cristero War.  Jesus Gaytan realized he had been saved by a man sent from heaven.

Luciano Lopez tells of being on his way to Colorado to find work when he got lost in the encapsulating heat of the Arizona desert. Luciano tells of seeing a “shadowy” figure standing next to what appeared to be an ocean. Luciano told how the person waved him to him and how he began walking. He was led right to a rest-stop with food and water and he was saved. When he told his wife back in Mexico she said, “It was St. Toribio, the migrant-smuggling saint, leading you to safety. I have been praying to him for your well-being.”

Toribio Romo was born on April 16, 1900 in Santa Ana de Guadalupe, Jalisco, Mexico. He was, with permission from the bishop, ordained a priest at the young age of 22. His age did not matter to the authorities. The anti-religious Constitution of Mexico had been enacted in 1917. Toribio may have been only 22 but he was immediately placed under watch by the government. Then along came the fateful year of 1927. That was the year that the Catholic hating president of Mexico, Plutarco Ellas Cartes, ordered his soldiers to strictly enforce the anti-religious Constitution of 1917.

Besides saying Mass “under the radar” and making sick calls and hearing confessions, Father Toribio had also been teaching catechism to both children and adults. Now he was told to confine himself to his residence and to not say the Rosary in public or offer Mass. The young priest took up refuge in an old factory near a town called Agua Caliente. Here he defied the secular authority and celebrated Mass and tended to his ministry the best he could.

On February 22, 1928,  Father Toribio, began organizing his parish registry. He finished doing that on February 24. Father Toribio knew the danger he was in and he was afraid. He prayed daily for God’s grace and strength but would not let his fears stop him from doing his work. It was 4:00 am on February 25 when the young priest climbed into his bed to get some sleep.

An hour later government troops stormed the place and broke into the priest’s bedroom. One soldier shouted, “I have found the priest. Kill him!”

Father Toribio said, “Here I am, but you do not have to kill me.”

The soldiers did not care. One soldier fired and the wounded priest stood up and began to walk toward the soldiers. After a few steps they opened fire and Father Toribio Romo fell dead. The story of the young priest’s martyrdom spread quickly and his popularity soared. Many Mexicans who have headed north tell inspiring stories about how their lives were saved through the intervention of Father Toribio.

In 2000, Pope John Paul II canonized Father Toribio and 24 other martyrs murdered for their faith during the Cristero War. Today, Santo Toribio Romo, is honored as the Patron Saint of Mexican migrants and “border crossers.” He is a saint who all Mexican and American Catholics should pray to for help with the border crisis confronting us today.

Saint Toribio Romo, pray for us.

*This article appeared in Aleteia in June of 2016

©Larry Peterson 2016 All Rights Reserved

Alzheimer’s Disease Has Turned Me into a “Guilt-Free Liar”

By Larry Peterson

My wife, Marty, has Alzheimer’s Disease, which can lead to the unexpected, like this essay. I did not plan on writing what follows but certain things, silly things, happened last night that I found myself still thinking about this morning. I thought this might provide some insight into the daily world of Alzheimer’s patients and their primary caregivers.

After dinner (by the way, I am turning into a pretty good cook) Marty asked me, “What time is my show on?”

Reflexively I asked her, “What show?” (I know she has no favorite show. I also know she has stepped into what I call ‘Uh-oh time.’ I call it this because these are the moments that can lead her to become quickly frustrated and agitated).

She looked at me and I could see her tensing up. Raising her voice a decibel or two, she said, “You know what show. Just tell me what time it comes on.”

Quickly I became a liar. I have become a guilt-free, therapeutic liar because, in my world, I have to survive. My realization is that without me she is alone and she can no longer survive on her own. “Sorry, sweetie, your show is not on tonight. There is a special about sharks, and you don’t care about sharks, do you?”

“You know I don’t like sharks. But that’s okay. I can watch the news, right?”

“Absolutely.”

She headed to the sofa, sat down and picks up her puzzle book. She always was good at doing the anacrostics (I find them incredibly difficult) but now she more or less looks at the page, holding the pencil on it. The pencil never moves. Then she said, “Do I have to go to work tomorrow? I’m so tired. I really could use a day off.”

Two years ago I might have tried to explain to her that she does not have a job and has not worked in seven or eight years. However, with my Liar’s Hat still in place I answered, “You’re right. You do look tired. I think you need a day off too. Don’t worry, I’ll call in for you and tell them you’re sick.”

“You would do that for me? That’s’ so nice. I’m so glad I don’t have to get up and go in. Is today Sunday?”

Whew, a relief question. I could tell the truth. “No, it’s Wednesday.”

“Wednesday, are you sure?”

“Yes, it’s Wednesday.”

Things were quiet for a while. It was about 9 p.m. when I walked back to the bathroom. Suddenly I heard smashing and banging coming from the utility room off the kitchen. I headed in there and Marty had, in a matter of minutes, emptied the wall cabinet of all the plastic containers, glasses and cups and other things that were inside and stacked them all on the washer and dryer below. “Hey, hon, what are you doing?”

She looked at me and I could see she was agitated. “We have all this junk. We have to get rid of it. Why do we have all this junk? We have to throw it out.”

Immediately, I switched back to my Liar’s Hat. “Okay, when should we throw it all out?”

“I don’t know; maybe right now?”

“Well, it is kind of late. Maybe we can do it in the morning.”

“I don’t feel like putting it all back tonight.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll do it.”

“Oh, thanks. I’m too tired.”

There was one final question. She looked at me and asked, “We’re married, right?”

“Yes Marty, we are married.”

She got into bed about 9:30 and was asleep in about two minutes. I was mentally worn out but I looked at her and realized that the innocence of childhood has come back from an unknown place and once again embraced her. I also knew that when she awakes in the morning she will not remember anything of what has happened.

Since I do not “punch a clock” I have the joy of being able to attend daily Mass at 8 AM. Marty will wake up at about 7 AM, and she always asks me, “Are you going to church?”

I answer, “Yup.”

She will ask, “Will you take me with you?”

“Of course.”

From 1 Corinthians 13:4-5

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.

As a caregiver to a child of God, I have been blessed.

Being a caregiver for his wife with Alzheimer's Disease has turned Larry Peterson into a guilt-free liar.

By GelonidaOwn work, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=29513537

©Larry Peterson 2016 All Rights Reserved