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Reflection: Awe - PG# 5404 (2010/2011)
by Tom McGrath

My dear friend, Margaret Silf, has the gift of helping people see the deeper reality behind the surface of things. In her book, “Compass Points,” Margaret tells about the first time she went to the top of the Empire State building. On the way up, people were laughing and chattering, but as the doors of the elevator opened to the observation deck, everyone grew silent. They were in awe, stunned by the amazingly beautiful view spread out before them.

Margaret wondered, “How has this spectacle come about? It isn’t some lavish Hollywood show, put on to draw the crowds. It is simply the result of millions of ordinary people switching on the lights right where they live. None of them will have thought for a moment that they are contributing to a vision that can take your breath away.”

I love this idea of individuals making the choice to “turn the light on where they live,” and what a difference each individual light can make. Ever since Margaret told me that story, I’ve become more aware of the ways I choose to turn my light on, and the ways I hide my light under a bushel basket. Are you willing to let your light shine? It might just turn someone’s darkness into brilliance.

 

Reflection: Call (10/11)
by Tom McGrath

Did you hear about the guy at the party who was asked, “What do you do?” and he replied, “When?”

The question “What do you do?” is not an easy question to answer. Each of us could respond to that question in a number of ways: A guy might say, “I sell computer software, I love my wife, I play golf with my friends, I go to church, I vote, I whistle while I do chores around the house, I shovel the snow for my invalid neighbor, and I make life delightful with my culinary abilities and my sense of humor.”

Our lives are rich blends of many different traits and talents and roles and responsibilities. Yet underneath all our multiple tasks, life is sweetest when we know not only WHAT we do but also WHY we do it, and WHO we do it for. It’s like the two laborers who were asked what they were up to. One replied, “I’m lugging stone from here to there.” The other beamed, “I’m building a Cathedral to honor my God.”

The truth is, our entire life is our work. And if we live it to the full in faithfulness and integrity, we will have found and followed our true calling.
 

Whether I am starting a new business, tending my children, or searching the want ads, I have the opportunity to somehow do it for God. I can offer my life and my work as a contribution to the common good. When I see my work as being done for God, everything I do becomes charged with meaning and purpose and beauty. Even when I’m home scouring the tub.

 

Reflection: Compassion - PG# 5417 (2010/2011)
by Tom McGrath

I was running for the bus one morning and I tripped head first onto the sidewalk like a baseball player sliding into second base. At first I thought only my ego had been bruised, but when I got on the crowded bus I looked down and saw my hands had been shredded by my fall.

The bus was so jammed that I couldn’t reach around to my backpack where I hoped I could find a tissue or a napkin. As bus riders do on a crowded bus, everyone ignored me, all but one elderly woman seated a few seats away from me. She looked like the central-casting version of a homeless woman, the kind of woman, I hate to admit, I often overlook as I ride public transportation. This woman looked at my hands and then she looked me in the eye. I was struck by the kindness in her look. She reached into her bags and in due time she pulled out a pristine, new, packet of tissues, which she handed to me. I mouthed the words, “Thank you,” to her and tended to my wounds.

Now, there were a lot of people on the bus that day. Some I’d seen at church, and some who ride the bus with their heads in their Bibles or other holy books. Some sat with sour expression, ear buds tuned to the self-righteous talk of radio pontificators. But I ask you, who was my neighbor that day? I keep an eye out for this angel of mercy, but I haven’t seen her since. I guess I’ll just have to acknowledge her compassion and find a way to pass it on.

 

 

Reflection: Environment (10/11)
by Tom McGrath

Years ago I was a camp counselor up in the North woods, responsible for sixteen young campers. Every morning we spent time at the lake. Our little stretch of beach was set among reeds and lily pads and a huge fallen tree created a kind of harbor that sparked the boys’ imaginations, becoming their space capsule, pirate ship, diving board, or fort.

On the third day of camp, the boys were eagerly running down the hill toward “our beach” when they stopped short. There in front of us was Old Pete, the caretaker of the camp. As we approached Pete dumped a bag and all its contents on the shore. He said, “This is what you left here the past few days,” and he poured out a pile of soda cans and candy wrappers, broken toys, a T-shirt and even an old shoe. “If you keep this up,” he said, “by the time you leave, even God won’t recognize this place.”

As Pete walked away, the boys and I sat on the sand and were silent. We took in the beauty of the day: sunlight through the trees, dragonflies flitting, birds calling, and the clear water lapping the shore. It was as if we were seeing the place for the first time and from that day forward we spent the last few minutes of our beach time cleaning up after ourselves—leaving no trace.

We learned our lesson. God created the world as an act of pure gift. We can use and abuse this gift, or we can receive it with gratitude. Gratitude or grasping. It’s our choice.

 

 

Reflection: "Fear: Shadow Boxing" - PG# 5111 (2007/2008)
by Tom McGrath

I learned a lesson about fear one summer when my mother finally agreed to let her two young sons sleep overnight in our screened-in patio. One side of the patio faced the alley so Mom hung a sheet to cover the screens on that side. She also turned on the porch light in the back of our house.

At midnight I woke up terrified. I sat up in my cot and there on the sheet I saw an ominous shadow. My heart was racing. I ducked down and the shadow disappeared. I popped my head up again, and the shadow reappeared.

I’m embarrassed to say it took me quite a few of those popping up and ducking down routines before I finally realized I was being frightened by my own shadow. Now, when I pray, I ask for the grace to recognize that most of my fears in life are just as insubstantial as that shadow on the wall.

 

Reflection: First Impressions (09/10)
by Tom McGrath

First impressions don’t tell the whole story.

My family and I went to Vancouver one summer. The evening we arrived I decided to go for a quick run. The hotel doorman advised me, “Go down this street about a mile and you’ll run into Stanley Park.” And so I did.

In a mile I came to an open, grassy area with a sign saying “Stanley Park.” There was a nice little pond with a fountain, which I circled twice and then turned back to the hotel. I decided, “There’s not much to that park.”

The next day dawned bright and sunny and we went off to see the sights. When we came to that small patch of greenery with the Stanley Park sign I realized that this was actually the entrance to the park, not the park itself. It turns out that Stanley Park is an amazing place, with six miles of shoreline, gardens, beaches, restaurants and miles of hiking trails through old-growth forests with towering trees over 250 feet tall. Clearly Stanley Park had more to offer than what first met my eye.

And isn’t that true of the people we meet, too? Who can tell at first glance all the God-given wonders that another person holds inside? Now, when I meet new people I recall my experience with Stanley Park and wonder, “What surprises will I discover when I get to know more about you?”

 

Reflection: "Forgiveness: Let go and be free"  - PG# 5123 (2007/2008)
by Tom McGrath

I used to think I could hold on to secret resentments and no one would be harmed.

Then one Sunday at Mass our pastor changed my mind. He had put little slips of paper in the pews. He asked us to write down the name of someone we held a resentment against. Then he instructed us to fold the paper and hold it tightly—and he stressed tightly—in our hands. He then proceeded to give his homily.

After a minute my hand started aching. A minute later it started shaking. Soon after, it became numb. When Father Tom finally asked us to open our hands, our fingers had grown inflexible and stiff. “This is like your heart,” he told us. “But if we ask, God can take our stony hearts and turn them into hearts of flesh.” I got the message: open your hand, open your heart.

 

Reflection: The Gift (09/10)
by Tom McGrath 

I took my daughters ice skating one day—oh, about 20 years ago—and I witnessed an incident between a dad and his 8-year-old son. The kid was a sweet kid who wasn’t a particularly good ice skater but wanted to be. Most of all, he just wanted his dad’s attention. But his Dad had met some men from the neighborhood who had just finished playing hockey and he wanted to chat with them—the kind of macho, showing-off chatting that guys can get into. And the son kept flailing around on the ice and falling down and soon he got frustrated and cried. This embarrassed the Dad in front of his buddies and he turned and yelled: “Stop your darned crying or I’ll give you something to cry about!”

I was shocked. I wanted to tell the father, “Don’t worry, Pal. You’ve given him plenty to cry about.” And I wonder sometimes what happened to this boy—whether that was his father’s one lapse or whether it was something the boy grew up with. He’s about 28 right now and I wonder if he’s an angry young man, angry at God and taking it out on women and children. Are there times he’s in a tough situation on the job or in a relationship and instead of feeling what he’s feeling and getting help he sits there numbly clutching the gift his Dad gave him that day—something to cry about?

 

Reflection: Grateful for it all  (07/08)
by Tom McGrath

I was visiting my father a few weeks before he died. That day had been a hard one for him. As I arrived, the hospice nurse was administering a new medicine that offered Dad blessed relief. As I sat next to his bed, Dad finally relaxed into a deep and welcome rest.

Ten minutes later he awoke again, refreshed. He looked over, smiling, and said, “All in all, Tom, we’re in pretty good shape.”

I was astounded. Clearly Dad would not be considered in good shape by any passing observer. Yet Dad was not delusional. He knew he was dying and in pain. But these were words I’d heard him say throughout his life. They reflected the attitude of gratitude he brought to every situation. This attitude had become yet one more gift to his family. Even in his torment Dad knew that NOTHING—not pain, nor suffering, nor even death can separate us from the sustaining love of God.

 

Reflection: Inspiration/creativity  (04/05)
by Tom McGrath

Howard Ikemoto is an artist. One day his seven-year-old daughter asked him what he did when he went off to work. “I told her I worked at the college, and that my job was to teach people how to draw.” His daughter stared back at him, startled, and said, ‘You mean they forget?’”

Yes, indeed we do forget just how creative we really are. My friend Jean Unsworth is also an artist who loves to visit schools. When she asks first and second graders, “Who in this class is good at drawing?” they all wave their hands enthusiastically. When she asks the same question of the eighth graders, only a few raise a hand, and most of them do it sheepishly.

What happens as we grow up that gives us the idea we can’t draw, we can’t sing, we can’t dance, and we’re not artists? Maybe the creativity we lack is the ability to recognize the ways we are creative.

Maybe you’re creative at solving problems at home or at work. Or perhaps you’re a great mechanic or gardener or storyteller. Maybe your particular brand of creativity is noticing when a friend is down, or is just bursting with good news she wants to tell you about.

My wife’s former spiritual director, the late Father Ray Novacek, advised her to do something creative every day. He said it’s a way to be a partner with God, the creator of all that is. So why not be creatively you? You haven’t forgotten how to do that, have you?

 

Reflection: Joy (04/05)
by Tom McGrath

 When I was a kid, hearing someone on the block yell "The ice cream man is coming!" sent me running down the street—even if I didn't have the price of a fudgcicle in my pocket.  I wonder how long it's been since I've felt such joy.

Maybe it was easier to feel joy as a kid. I remember being elated at the first real snow each November and when I got my first valentine from Patty O’Rourke. Waking up and realizing it was Saturday was itself cause for joy.

Joy is a doorway into the presence of God. It’s a recognition that we were made for delight. In fact I believe God delights in us when our hearts are full of joy.

Of all the occasions for joy in my youth, the season of summer took first place. Here’s a poem I wrote to capture that spirit of easy joy.

Because I’ve caught crayfish in August in the creek by the railroad tracks,
And because I’ve lolled in a hammock after lunch, Reading Aquaman comics,
Waiting a full hour before returning to the backyard pool,
And because I’ve chased grasshoppers by day and fireflies by night
Watched a zillion stars light up a blackened sky,
And tasted the sweetness of a root-beer float on a country highway after dark,
And because I’ve heard scary stories told, and told a few as well,
And walked a wooded path with friends I knew were pals for keeps.
And built a clubhouse and played Red Rover,
Swung on a rope to splash in a slow brown river,
Rolled down dunes and watched a turtle doze in dappled sunlight—
My heart may know why Jesus said you must be like a kid before you enter the kingdom of heaven.

(sound of bells off camera)
“Is that the ice-cream man I hear?”

 

Reflection:Kindness (10/11)
by Tom McGrath

Whenever I drive past the Jellystone Park Camp ground near Chesterton, Indiana I think of my mother-in-law, Pearl. It’s not that Pearl was into camping--far from it. In fact Pearl’s idea of roughing it was playing canasta with her sisters-in-law.

Pearl was on her way to join those sisters-in-law at a summer house on the Michiana shores when she got a flat tire—right alongside the Jellystone Park Camp Ground. Pearl was up in years and we had offered to drive her, but she was independent and wanted to make the trip on her own. But now this diminutive lady, impeccably dressed as always, stood on the side of the road looking sadly into the trunk of her car.

It just so happens that a couple of guys at the campground were sitting around in lawn chairs, shooting the breeze. They spotted Pearl and, without hesitation, decided to help. They jumped the fence between their campsite and the highway, and in no time the tire was changed and Pearl was ready to go. They wouldn’t even think of accepting the tip she offered.

Now every time I pass that spot along I-94 I get a warm feeling in my heart. I imagine all the many small acts of kindness that take place each and every day around the globe without much fanfare. I know that each act, however small, helps heal a wounded world.

And I also know that the best way to thank those two unsung heroes who helped Pearl when she was a damsel in distress is to keep my eyes and my heart open for the next time I see a person who could use a bit of kindness and simply pass it on.

 

Reflection: Mesa (09/10)
by Tom McGrath

Have you spent time in the desert? It’s a place where God can really surprise you.

A few years back, I spent a week on retreat at Ghost Ranch, New Mexico. I’d become accustomed to the desert’s muted tones: the tans, the browns, the dusty green of the sage. And then I climbed atop a mesa I’d been noticing all week. When I got to the top I saw in the distance what seemed to be a ribbon of green and gold spread out on the desert floor. It was the golden Fall cottonwoods and green shrubs that thrive along the banks of the Rio Grande as it flows through that land. Here, life was abundant—all because water flows in the desert.

Sometimes modern society can seem like a desert. That ribbon of green and gold reminded me of the life that thrives in local churches, those places where people come to refresh and nurture themselves in faith. It called to mind all the meals served to the hungry, beds provided for the homeless, counseling offered to the troubled, and joy and companionship shared with the elderly. I thought of teens who recently raised money to supply a medical mission to Colombia, and a local men’s group that coaches those who have lost their jobs, and so much more.

Grace flows like water in the desert, and where there is grace, life abounds. Why not come to the water?

 

Reflection: Peace - PG# 5402 (2010/2011)
by Tom McGrath

I was on retreat and the leader asked me to recall a time when I felt truly peaceful. I thought and thought and then breathed a deep, peaceful sigh. What I recalled was a recent hiking trip which took me deep into the forest, miles from civilization. Each year my buddy Tom Wright and I hike another stretch of the Superior Hiking Trail that runs along the north shore of Lake Superior in Northern Minnesota. Everything we’re going to need we have to haul in on our backs. Food, shelter, clothing, chocolate—all the necessities. So here’s the paradox: How is it that I’m most peaceful when I’m least secure? There’s no deadbolt lock on the tent. There’s no phone coverage. The closest 7-11 is more than fifty miles away. Some years we don’t see any other humans for days at a time.

Isn’t it ironic that when I leave the so-called protection of all my personal security systems I finally experience peace? I think the same is true in all areas of my life. When I let down my guard and greet strangers, I make new friends. When I speak the hard truth to my wife—the thing I don’t want to say—the chasm between us melts away and we become close once again. When I quiet my troubled mind and trust all my worries to God, peace floods my soul.

Security measures are fine, as far as they go. But in seeking peace, no chains, locks, or alarm systems can ever match openness, vulnerability, and trust.

 

 

Reflection: Peace & Justice (04/05)
by Tom McGrath

A noticeable “buzz” spread throughout the banquet hall. Great-uncle Louie and Great-Uncle Sal were going to be in the same place at the same time. These guys were brothers who had been so close growing up but they hadn’t spoken to each other in more than 20 years. No one but the two of them knew what had caused the rift, but now they were both attending a family wedding and everyone wondered how it would go.

They each walked in and went to separate tables. They wouldn’t even acknowledge each other. Emissaries flitted from one to the other, trying to cajole them into making peace. They wouldn’t budge. They ignored each other. But wine flowed and the meal was good with lots of food from the old country. Then the band began to play and people got up to dance. The two old men sat alone at their separate tables scowling.

One brother looked over at the other one. The other brother looked back. They glared at each other. The glares turned to smirks. Smirks turned into grins. And soon the two men were laughing—at who knows what? They both stood up and walked to a third table and sat down next to each other. They shared few words, but once again, a celebration of love brought two enemies together. And all around them their families danced.

Peace is a risk. It means moving out of a cramped way of living into an expansive place where we can travel beyond our petty fears. Coming into the open may feel dangerous, but it’s the only place where we can be big enough people to achieve what is uniquely human—forgiveness, reconciliation, and peace.

 

Reflection: "Peace: Who’s listening?" (07/08)
by Tom McGrath

My grandmother taught me to pray—but probably not in the way you think.

Sure, I often saw my grandmother praying, and a well-worn prayer book was on her night stand. But she never actually took me aside and taught me what to say and how to say it. Instead, she provided me valuable clues about the One I would be praying to.

You see, grandma loved us with a love that was fierce, unwavering, and radically faithful. I knew she would move mountains to protect me or any of her great brood of grandchildren. We could ask anything of her and know that she would be on our side and at our side.

Because of her great example, I have come to rely on that same promise of fierce love and protection from God, the One who creates us in his own image. It was in grandma that I most clearly noticed the family resemblance.

 

Reflection: Prayer (04/05)
by Tom McGrath

I was hanging around my friend Billy Callahan’s kitchen, waiting for him to finish his chores so we could go out and play. He was the oldest of nine kids and I loved being at his house because there was always so much life there. As I waited, Billy’s mom stood at the counter and dealt out the bread for eight sandwiches—16 pieces of bread side-by-side for the six kids who were in school, and for the two sandwiches her husband would take to work with him.

One after another she spread mustard on the left-hand slice of bread, and one-by one she placed two slabs of lunch meat on the right-hand side. She deftly brought the two parts of the sandwich together and wrapped the bundle tightly in waxed paper. She placed each sandwich in a bag with two cookies and an apple and lined the bags in rows in their refrigerator—placing her husband’s on the top shelf.

Years later when I was preparing my daughters’ school lunches I thought of Billy’s mom and wondered just how many sandwiches she has made in her lifetime. And how much love she poured into these simple, repetitive actions. Her actions that day long ago remain in my mind like a prayer—a prayer of generosity and self-offering. Each day when the kids grabbed their brown-bag lunch, they took a little bit of their Mom’s love with them, to nurture them and strengthen them for whatever challenges the day would bring.

Every moment of our life can be a prayer: Making sandwiches, weeding the garden, ironing shirts and blouses, waiting for a bus or commuter train. All we need to do is to be aware—mindful of the love that we bring to that moment and the Great Love of God that sustains us.

 

Reflection: Troubles (09/10)
by Tom McGrath

"I have known a lot of troubles in my life, most of which never happened."

Mark Twain said that, and I’ve lived it. I can be like the traveler driving down a desolate road on a stormy night. He soon hears the thump, thump, thump of a flat tire. Realizing there’s not a service station for miles, he gets out to fix the flat. As he’s getting the jack out of the trunk—with cold rain dripping down the back of his neck—he realizes there is no jack handle. After expressing his dismay in crude and colorful language, he wraps his coat tightly around him and heads off to find a service station.

Along the way he mutters to himself—“They probably won’t have a jack handle to sell. And if they DO, they’ll make me pay a fortune for it.” On and on, he works himself into a lather. Finally, he comes to a service station. As he walks through the door a pleasant young man says, “Good evening sir. How can I help you?” Our traveler demands, “Well, do you have a jack handle?” The young man says, “Why yes sir, we do.” And our traveler screams, “Well you can take that jack handle and ….”

Well, I’ll leave it to your imagination what he said. But I know that I can act like that. No wonder Psalm 36 advises, “Do not fret—it only leads to evil.”

 

Reflection: The Vow of Stability (09/10)
by Tom McGrath

When my two daughters were young we had a little ritual. At the end of each month I’d give one of them in turn my recently expired commuter train pass. They seemed fascinated by these magic passes with their hologram images that let me board the train bound for the excitement of downtown Chicago.

It started out as fun and I just never stopped. It was just one of those goofy family habits that took on a life of its own.

Years later, when moving one of those daughters into her college dorm room, I spied a thick stack of train passes tucked away in one of the boxes. I got a glimpse of what those passes might have meant to my daughters. Were these an emblem of my commitment to these girls, this family? Was each pass a sign of my constancy at my job, and in my promise to return each night on the 5:23 northwest line?

When I was young and single and, quite frankly, awfully foolish, I always doubted my ability to commit, to go the distance, to follow through on anything really worthwhile. But here amid her CDs and diaries and letters from her friends was a stack of passes—a symbol of my vow before God to this family—that I will be here. And I will provide for you. Sometimes little things mean quite a lot.

 

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