This year was my first Lent, and it was an ordeal. In fact, Lent proved an emotional period of transition, accompanied by a spike in blood pressure, not one but two fender benders (caused by me!) and sleepless nights wondering about this journey.
The first accident involved me driving into a post at a gas station. The second one was worse. It involved me, driving a car, hitting two parked cars at an Advanced Auto Parts shop. One car owner, Janessa, worked there. As we waited for the police to arrive, she went into the store and brought me – me, the one who had just demolished her only way to get to work, and she held down two jobs – a bottle of water. I was overwhelmed by her kindness. So I invited her to my Baptism. We are now friends.
Before all that, on a very rainy Sunday, February 18, my RCIA class went up to the county-wide Cathedral in Palm Beach, where candidates for renewal of their baptismal vows or converts from other religions were to be blessed by Bishop Barbarito. It marked the official beginning of our journey toward Baptism. We mingled with 500 others from 52 churches to attend this Rite of Election.
The service was conducted in English and Spanish, a reflection of the energy Florida churches draw from the Hispanic community. The music was inspiring, the bishop was charming, and the size of the congregation offered a tribute to faith at a time of secular indifference to religion. I was so caught up in the majesty of the thing it didn’t hit me until the very end the enormity of what I am undertaking. I, born of the Hebrews, was to become a Catholic. I wondered what Jesus would say. Probably something like, “What took you so long?” Only about 2,000 years.
Two weeks later we were back at St. Vincent Ferrer for our First Scrutiny. We sat in reserved seats in front of the congregation. Deacon Phillip delivered a homily meant for our ears. He talked about when he was sent to serve as a hospital chaplain, and how he mourned the passing of patients he had befriended. He raged at God for their deaths, and told us to know it was okay to be angry at God, to yell at him in your heart, to know that you would understand, later, why he sent you somewhere.
Then Father Dennis called us up, and we repeated his affirmations. I was overwhelmed. Then the church choir sang a hymn I had not heard before. I loved it.
I Hear the Voice of Jesus Say
As the service ended, I felt weak from emotion, faint with the earnestness of it all.
For Lent, I had pondered deeply about what to sacrifice, or how to serve. I am a purist in food and exercise, so nothing to give up there – although for the first time in my life, I understood why folks in New Orleans call Mardi Gras “Fat Tuesday.” This citywide party — the one with beads, food & music — takes place the last day before Ash Wednesday, when many start abstaining from sweets. Riddle solved.
But finally, I settled on giving up judgments, training myself not to judge others but to accept them as they are. One day in yoga class the woman next to me caused a ruckus. Her loud breathing and body twitches annoyed those practicing near her. I was one of them. Then I thought Jesus was testing me – offering me a chance to make good on my vow. I focused on staying within myself, letting her be her and me be me. Afterwards, other yogis came up and praised me for how calmly I handled the situation. I waved them off. I knew I deserved no praise. But I did feel a better person. I understood now that judgments were a form a gossip, talking about someone else not behind their back but inside your head.
I still saw stereotypes. If people were critical of me, I assumed they were authoritarians, control freaks. If they were loud, well, New Yorkers. Were these venal, moral sins to which I should confess? And if so, how could I correct course, what saint could I appeal to as a role model of seeing goodness in people?
We had been asked, as converts, to select a saint for our confirmation inspiration. At first, I was drawn to St. Paul – he was a writer, and a convert – but decided he was too fraught with controversy. Then I pondered St. Margaret, sometimes called St. Marina of Antioch. She was the patron saint of kidney disease. I figured I would need her along the journey. In the end, that seemed a selfish reason. The search continued.
On my search engine, I typed “saints kindness.” That’s how I discovered St. Veronica.
Little is known about this lady, like me a widow, except that as Jesus was made to walk carrying his own cross to Calvary, she noticed the blood and sweat on his forehead and offered him her veil so he could wipe it off. When he handed the veil back to her, it reflected, miraculously, his image. The resulting artifact, called the Veil of Veronica, or perhaps a replica of it (many were made), is now housed at the Vatican.
Veronica is the patron saint of textile weavers, photographers and laundry workers. To me, her value is in her kindness. I was delighted when I found this prayer to her.
O My Jesus, Saint Veronica served You on the way to Calvary by wiping Your beloved face with a towel on which Your sacred image then appeared. She protected this treasure, and whenever people touched it, they were miraculously healed. I ask her to pray for the growth of my ability to see Your sacred image in others, to recognize their hurts, to stop and join them on their difficult journeys, and to feel the same compassion for them as she did for you. Show me how to wipe their faces, serve their needs, and heal their wounds, reminding me that as I do this for them, I also do this for You. Saint Veronica, pray for me. Amen
Toward the end of the 40 days of Lent, I started to feel better. My doctor had doubled my blood pressure meds and that helped. Plus I noticed that in my mind — or maybe it was my heart — I had acquired a new habit — turning judgments into prayers. If someone does something untoward, I think there must be a reason, so I send them love and good energy to find a gentler way. If I notice someone indulging in too much food or drink, I pray they will find a healthier way, a happier way.
Turns out that following Jesus – even if imperfectly – is its own joy.
This made me realize that all these months I had been asking the wrong question – about how Jesus could be a God. Instead, the question was whether I, in following him, can become more compassionate, a person walking in his image, as Veronica did.
And now, to the Baptism.
To be Continued
Truly Beautiful!!
A perfect example that there is goodness and opportunity for connection if you remain open to it.