The weekend of stellar saints begins. The congregation of the Blessed Sacrament kicked things off with a novena dedicated to the life of St. Peter Julian Eymard, a communal Holy Hour of song and prayer. God dealt my fixation upon maturity a slight of hand, an interspersing of adolescence his call of command. A stage of development prior to maturity leading the Holy Hour. Teenagers partaking of a three day Eucharistic retreat directed the novena. As an individual, the youths, stood at a sanctuary podium, leading the novena, reading a lengthy prayer defining a significant occurrence in the life of the founding saint. My heart and prayer intentions envisioned sanctity for the courageous young ones growing up in such a secularly demanding world. There were roughly twelve of them, mostly girls, a few boys. Overall, the turnout was decent. I did no socializing, realizing I will be spending almost ten hours tomorrow at the adult day retreat. This will be the second time they fed me, and tomorrow will be breakfast and lunch. I purchased an offering, lots of delicious looking red raspberries. I saw several faces I recognized, shaking a couple of hands and smiling at others.
The lasting impression is the depth of the Eucharist magnified by the magnificence of creation. A photo of St Paschal Baylon is posted after this paragraph. Noticed the towering window walls. The tallest are the backdrop of the sanctuary. Realize the view. The passing vista of a bordering on stormy cumulus cloudy sky–a strong background of pristine blue decorated with enormous cottony white clouds, serving as the milieu for the adoring of the Eucharist. Beautiful. Majestic. There would be a lengthy moment of reflection, silence between the prayer and hymn. The mentally quieted concentration into the Eucharist, while absorbing the enormity of the window framed sky was imposing. The clouds were moving fast, grand perceptible movement apart of ruminations. The time between the nine meditations allowed a different panorama to take center stage. A dramatic display of clouds and sky were a part of adoration. The Eucharist posed before the splendor of the sky.
St Paschal Baylon Highland Heights, Ohio
I am porch sitting, watching night set in, welcoming my neighbors. There are four. I thought there were three. I do not know what to make of them. The house next door has problems, a Chinese owner. Dwelling in their attic is, count them, four, raccoons. I put the peanuts out I feed my squirrels to watch them. I knew they would come. As soon as the night set in, they came and ate, showing their numbers. They are definitely mischievous creatures of the night.
My sister has been calling lately, concerned, perplexed with my mother. I called my mother driving to visit with Dr. Nichta. She sold my father’s SUV, which means she has abandoned all plans of learning to drive. She wept tremendously regarding the decision to sell the vehicle. I became firm with her, scolding a bit. She cried harder, saying she was terribly depressed, not knowing what to do. My strong mother, the arrogant one of regress, the one willing to abide within delusion in order to maintain rationalizations–she admitted defeat. She surrendered over the phone. Graces from prayer and the Eucharist emerged, words pouring forth, strong and stern. I reprimanded my mother for negative ways. The suffering she endured the consequence of broken ways. God intended joy for her, not the wallowing state of self-pity she has become entrenched within. It is necessary for her to bottom out in order to purely start anew. I said everything clear and firm, dismissing her with the demand of attending daily mass, receiving the Eucharist every day, increasing a social life with a tremendous parish, structure and routine beginning her day. She whined about not being able to get there. I offered names. She offered excuses, willing to be a martyr rather than seek solutions. I hung up with a gentle good-bye, a salutation of blessings and love. I will spend next weekend with her. I preceded to call Our Lady of Mount Carmel in Temperance, Michigan. The secretary and I fell into a tremendous Holy Spirit inspired exchange. She is on the mission of finding someone to drive my mother. She connected me with Father’s voicemail. For a man who does not speak well words sprouted forth, clearly and distinctly detailing my desire for my mother to become a daily communicate. I ended with a plea: ‘Father please help me get my mother to daily mass, to receive the Eucharist every day’. Dr. Nichta offered insightful, caring advice, spoken words to be expressed. He is a Godsend.
