Confessions of an 8 Year Old Bandit

I got my start in business at a very early age; actual business and funny business. In the summer of 1966, I was the assistant-cashier-shelf stocker-sawdust spreader-feather duster-inventory control manager-and general side kick to my grandpa Oliver, at his corner grocery store in Ottumwa, Iowa. We were inseparable that summer. We enjoyed drinking “pops,” and eating liver cheese sandwiches on dark bread (unfortunately I discovered what liver cheese was made of a few years later… ugh!)

I ruled the roost of that little store from my Bob Cratchit-like perch behind the front counter.  I sat regally along side the wood cased cash register; behind me was a wall of candy, gum, pills, tonics, pipe tobaccos, and cigarettes…I developed a pretty bad “cigarette gum” habit that summer. After a few weeks on the job I had noticed a shiny pearl handled silver six shooter with a brown leather-like holster temptingly hanging on the toy rack right next to the bright red Coca Cola ice-box.  All day long the drink box hummed away, full of swirling icy water, and “pops.” Since I was the beverage inventory control manager as well, each time I replenished the stock, the pistol called out my name.

After just a few days of fantasizing about joining up with the Lone Ranger or Marshall Matt Dillon, I made the bold decision to simply take the gun and holster for my own. I didn’t want to go to the trouble of asking my grandfather for it. I was too proud to ask. So I simply walked over one afternoon while no one was looking, and I ripped it off the toy rack.  I then made tracks to the only place I could think of to enjoy it -my grandparent’s basement in their house right next door to the store.

There in the dark, cool, quiet confines of my grandparent’s cellar, I tore open the plastic packaging and I savored the cold steel of the prized pearl handled six shooter in my greedy little hands. I strapped on the vinyl brown holster belt and began gunning down bad guys and bringing justice to the Old West.
However, after a while of blissful pretend playing, I realized I had a problem. I couldn’t take the gun out into the world and show it to anyone, after all, it was stolen property. I was pretty much confined to the basement, to clean up the Old West. And then it hit me: regret. I regretted taking the gun and holster, because I couldn’t really do anything with it, except play in the basement, and what was so fun about that? But even more than that, a worse feeling settled in. I regretted stealing from my grandfather.

He probably knew the minute I did it. Surely he noticed the guilt in my quiet, standoffish demeanor for the next few days, but he never said a word about it. I think we must have established an uncomfortable, but mutual understanding for those few days.  I took something I shouldn’t have, and he knew it. But, he was going to patiently let me sort it out. So, on the third day, I couldn’t take it anymore. I finally broke down.

“Grandpa, I took a toy gun from the store, …and I’m sorry” I told him with my eyes firmly focused on the ground. My quavering voice squeaked out the …and I’m sorry.  And then I just cried, and cried and cried. He leaned down and reached out and brought me to him; he hugged me and maybe laughed just a bit as my tears trickled into the white apron he always wore in the store. He held me long enough to let the warm embrace and the tears soak in.

“Timmy,” he said, “all you had to do was ask me and I’d have given it to you. Anything in this store you could have -all you have to do is ask.” That made me cry all the more. But as I felt his large hands embracing me around my trembling shoulders, pulling me in tighter, I knew at that moment we were back to being partners. I knew our bond was put back together.

For me, so many years later, this is my experience with the sacrament of reconciliation. When I sin, I realize the sin isn’t as shiny, or attractive as I thought it would be, but instead it has put me in a cold dark lonely place.  It does no good to pile a guilt trip on myself and simply acknowledge personally it was wrong. When I sin, and when I acknowledge that is an offense against God, I have to go to God, and I have to say the words: this what I’ve done, and I’m sorry. For me, in that exchange there’s heavenly grace; it’s nothing less than a miracle that comes from this sacrament.

Today, I see myself as my grandpa Oliver. I think of the bonds and the relationships with my children, and now my own grandchild.   I believe this is a glimpse into the way God sees us as his children. And I think of that re-bonding I did with my grandfather so many years ago. What a miracle it is that I get to re-bond in a similar way with God in the sacrament of reconciliation.  When that happens, my inner spiritual tears of joy flow just as freely as they did, down my freckled little cheeks on that Iowa summer day so many years ago.

Stay Here and Watch With Me

In your relationships, have you ever been in attendance, but not really present; or have you ever wondered why a close friend suddenly becomes distant and out of reach? Have you ever been frustrated by the thought -hey, I’m doing all the heavy lifting here…how about some help?

I am reminded by my friendships that it takes two full participants to make a true relationship. It’s the same with my relationship with God. I need to remember that God is always knocking at my door. To be in proper relationship with him, I need to be present, not just in attendance, at the door; and I need to be watching with the eyes of faith. I need to be prepared to answer at whatever door or form he reveals himself to me.

Some years ago I recall I was regularly in attendance but not present with God. I remember over twenty years ago, our first Sunday at our new church; I quietly surveyed the large congregation, and I zeroed in on our “new” pew. I led the family to the vacant 3rd pew from the back of the church. I did this quickly to head off my wife’s preference for sitting at or near the front of the church. At this point of my spiritual life, I was an attend-at-the-back-of-the-church, preferably under-an-hour-Mass, kind of guy.
I wanted to worship at the altar of parish anonymity. From our new pew, staring at the backs of the heads of nearly 700 total strangers this fit the bill perfectly. Sitting up front, someone might notice us, and invite us for coffee and donuts, or ask us to join some committee or club. No sir, not me. I’m just here for my Sunday hour obligation.  It’s funny how God can have other ideas.

We settled into our new pew, about a mile and a half from the altar. My wife started to cool down from my insistence we sit so far away. I heard the choir start to tune up, the candles were lit, and I sat back for a nice hour (with luck…) of random thoughts about the upcoming week’s activities, a game on TV later on that day, where we’d eat lunch, etc. As I drifted off into my pre-Mass thoughts, I felt a firm tap on my shoulder.

“Would you and your family like to bring up the gifts today,” a friendly older usher asked? His kindly face smiled. However, his big farmer-sized hand remained solidly on my shoulder waiting on an answer.

I am hard headed. I admit that. And in that hard-headedness, I refused to respond to God’s call that Sunday morning. Oh, we did take up the gifts, I didn’t want to mess with that usher, but right after the recessional hymn I hurried our family out of the church; and then I barely did more than fulfill my minimum religious obligations …for the next six years!

In the Gospel Jesus tells me: “Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks, receives; and the one who seeks, finds; and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened.” (Matthew 7:7-8)

So how does this work? It’s mysterious and all that, but on the one hand, I’m surfing along the outer margins of any kind of spiritual life, and God -through that usher, taps me on the shoulder, knocks on my door. But I don’t answer; I’m spiritually AWOL. And then there are times, when I’m knocking, knocking, knocking on God’s door, but no one seems to be at home? It can be very frustrating. God must have the same thought over the years about me.

This reminds me of an essential piece of good relationships: patience. God called me. I wasn’t ready and so he waited. He quietly, but persistently hung around, just like a good friend would do. And then, I need to be patient too. When I can’t find God in my life, maybe I should take a break from knocking down doors where I think he is, and just sit in his quiet for a while, and listen. Maybe then I can hear his tap at a door I wasn’t even watching before.

As you search for God, keep in mind, he is always reaching out to you too. But if your search is isn’t producing fruit, ask yourself: do I have my eyes focused on something else, or on one particular door -the one door I’ve chosen; am I being patient enough to allow God to speak to me?

Good friends always know how to find each other. With God, sometimes that means being present at all the doors of your spiritual home, fully present, with patience.

Born Again, Catholic

Here in the “buckle of the Bible-belt,” we hear a lot about born-again experiences. Well, in 1996 I had a born-again-Catholic experience.

I was born and raised Catholic by two amazing, faithful, Catholic parents who dearly loved the Faith. They practiced what they preached, in love and charity. All through my life, I lived as a Catholic, however with varying degrees of devotion and spiritual intimacy.  There were many times of my life I was just going through the motions, as if the Faith were a club to belong to with a checklist of rules and regulations to follow -like going to Mass as an hour obligation to check off the list of weekly things to do.

So, fast forward to my early 30’s; I am confronted with 3 major challenges. My wife had been dealing with multiple sclerosis for two especially difficult years. My father was diagnosed with cancer. I was trying to decide if I should leave my job and start a new business. In the midst of this turmoil, I felt a longing for something more. I’m sure at some level I was seeking peace, but I also felt like I needed something to fill a gap inside me -while all this crap was going on around me. About that same time, our parish welcomed three new priests.

The new pastor was a youthful, energetic, great-hugging Italian, with a wonderful singing voice. One of the associate pastors was newly ordained and extremely personable. The other associate pastor looked frightened as he introduced himself from the altar that first Sunday. Father Bruce and Father David had made eloquent and humorous self-introductions, but this one … “My name is Father Ed, and I’m glad to be here,” was all he said. He then quietly stepped back to his chair. In my not-so-holy attitude at the time, I thought to myself, “Wow, this one’s going to be a gem at homilies; a real spellbinder. I need to find out when he’s scheduled so we can skip that mass and hit another.” And then I checked my watch to see how my hour obligation was coming along.

I came to learn there was however, something to Father Ed’s homilies. At first I approached them with misgivings and apathy, but something was coming through. In his simple manner; in his quiet demeanor; in his dour look, there was humor; there was warmth; there was …love. And it was penetrating the clutter of my crusted outer shell, not like a knife, but like a needle. He was needling me with the kindest, gentlest, most remarkable conveyance of the message I had ever heard. There was a lot of crust to break through, but it was working its way to my core. And Lent was approaching.
I remember going to Ash Wednesday Mass that year. It was a school mass with all the children of the parish school. As I sat in my back pew, I felt I wanted to belong. I wanted to have some of the innocence I saw in the faces of the uniformed kids that filled the church that morning. I wanted something more than I had.

The Holy Spirit whispered into my ear during that Mass to do something. I didn’t want to listen to this. I didn’t want to do this. …But, I decided to go to confession at the next opportunity.
The following Saturday afternoon, February 24th 1996, I approached the church with a sense of dread and anxiety, and yet feeling an irresistible power drawing me in. I had been reading about perfect contrition, and in order to achieve this I had to tell all. It had been more than a few years since my last confession, so I had a few things to share. Poor Father David; he got the full double barrel story. (He still speaks to me to this day, so maybe he’s heard worse…)

I walked out of that confessional, a new man. There was a peace within me like I had never felt before. I felt like I was floating into the church to say my penance. And afterwards, I floated out of the church into a completely new sunshine. I continued to float for months, years afterwards. To this day, reconciliation is still a favorite sacramental experience. I feel the special grace in the sacrament. I feel the renewal. I feel the spiritual intimacy like no other experience. That’s not a knock on beautiful sunsets, or holding my grandson, or seeing my wife laugh and smile, or even the Eucharist; it’s just very special for me.

So, it’s been 18 years. They haven’t been all floating on clouds. I’ve had my dry times, desperate times; I’ve strayed from the path. In the Gospel the father with a sick son says to Jesus, “I do believe, help my unbelief.” (Mark 9:24) That’s me, many, many days. I hope I’ve matured in my faith, and yet kept a sense of the humble, and the simple that Father Ed continues to preach today. I’m still figuring it out, and still searching. When I get frustrated I think of what Peter said to Jesus after many followers abandoned him, “Master, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.” (John 6:68)

As we journey through Lent, if you are Catholic and haven’t been to reconciliation in a while, I encourage you to give it another try. If you aren’t Catholic and you have something that keeps you from being close to God, try giving up whatever it is for you. If you’ve hurt someone, tell them you are sorry. If you’ve been avoiding God, tell him you’re sorry, and then open up to the possibility of getting your relationship going again. If you’re searching for something, if there’s a space in you, a place that needs filling, St. Augustine said: “Thou hast made us for thyself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it finds its rest in thee."

Peace!