saint of the week

Last week I just happened to look down and notice that my Golden Retriever's nails were painted red.  I honestly laughed out loud.  You see, for prior two weeks,  I have had the flu, then bronchitis.

With Thera Flu and albuterol I could basically function, but certainly not nearly at the pace that I maintain on healthier days.  Needless to say, my daughter and I have stayed home.

I guess the dogs nails were a causality of a rainy day, a sick mom and new, just-got-for-my-birthday nail polish and an inventive nine year old.  I wish I was a fly on the wall to see how this endeavor went down; especially how she got the dog to put her paw in the ladybug nail dryer. (I assume the dog's nails were dry because there is not a speck of nail polish to be found anywhere on the floor). 

 

They say that where there is a will, there is a way.  So it is.  This is also true when it comes to our faith.  For thousands of years, Christianity has been put upon by one group on another, yet it flourishes. 

 

Where there is a will there is a way.

I think of the "Black Robes' who came to this country, the courageous folks like Maximilian Kolbe who preached and practiced Catholicism in the face of Nazi occupation, the Irish priests who hid in holes and men like Andrew Dung-Lac who were martyred in Viet Nam.

 

Catholicism was brought to Vietnam by the Portuguese in the 1600's.  It had never been embraced by the governments. (That was a nice way of saying, Catholics were persecuted).Andrew Dung-Lac was born in 1785. He was a Vietnamese priest; certainly not a safe occupation in this era. But where there is will there is way.

In 1820 Andrew and some 100 other Catholics were martyred. St. Andrew was actually beheaded for doing nothing more than being a priest. All toll in the sixty years that followed somewhere between 100,000 and 300,000 Catholics were either martyred or abused.

 

Yet in Vietnam Catholicism survives. It struggles, but it survives. A dear friend of mine is a missionary there right now. She works through various, discrete means to nourish the souls of those hungry for Christ.

 

Let us pray now that God will instill in us the will to preach the gospel and the ways or opportunities to do so.  While you're at it, put in a good word for my friend and all of the strong-willed missionaries who are out there everyday finding ways

 

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"All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well". St. Julian of Norwich


Jamie Dillon

saint of the week.

St. Jean Baptiste Marie Vianney

 

For many years, my husband and some of his friends ran the "Great Race".  The "Great Race" is a 10K through the city of Pittsburgh that usually attracts some 10,000 runners.  I am not a runner. I am one of the 25,000 who line the streets waiting to catch a glimpse of their loved one.  Yes, you battle for a first line position, wait indefinitely, wave and clap furiously then compete in your own little race as you head down to the finish line at the point.

 

Truly the Great Race is quite an event.  Beyond the Finish line it is just a big party.  Friends and family cheer as the runners cross the finish line.  There is food, beverages, balloons, entertainment, award ceremonies and a host of other activities.  Everyone is happy.  Tired and sore perhaps, but happy.  We usually hang around for a while milling about the crowd visit with friends. This particular year the race was held on a particularly beautiful day.  This added to the breath taking view of the Point State Park.  After about an hour of the runners sharing their tales of day, eating bananas and drinking Gatorade we began to make our way back to the car.  We walked back past the Paramedics, the stage (the band was tearing down their equipment) and the presentation of the awards. When we walked past the finish line something caught my husband's eye.  He stopped dead in his tracks. He pointed as to direct my attention the lone runner making his way to the finish line.  He was limping badly.  As he drew near we could see that he was disabled, his right leg dragged, his right arm was bent and twisted.  Not looking up or breaking his persistent stride, he crossed the finish line.  No band; No one there cheering; No one even paying attention.  Yet, here was a man who was an inspiration to us all.  He was the embodiment of the human spirit.  He is the true winner.

 

It took him close to 2 hours to run the 6.2 miles, but he did it.  My eyes filled with tears as I watched him cross the finish line.  My husband and I clapped, but I don't think that he heard us . . . although to him, I don't think that it mattered.

 

St. Jean Baptiste Marie Vianney was born in Lyons, France in 1786.  He was not a great student, despite the long hours that he put in.  When he was inducted into the army he missed the departure of his regiment because he was in the chapel praying.  Knowing that he would be treated like a deserter, the Mayor empathized with his plight and gave him a job teaching school.  His father however, was greatly disappointed.  After the war, he entered the seminary but failed his final exams.  After repeating his studies, he passed.

He was a wonderful pastor, giving sound common sense, yet faith filled advice.

He lived a life that was humble, patient and cheerful.  Many miracles are attributed to St. John Vianney.

 

Both of these men tell us to run, run with our arms wide open to find what brings us joy.  Run like there's no one looking . . . and smile.

 

--
"All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well". St. Julian of Norwich


Jamie Dillon