lora

At the age of 10, I started to play the organ for mass at my local parish. It
was my first paying job-- $2 per mass. I played the organ at St.
Bernadette Parish for the next 15 years, but never had a real relationship
with God. Playing the organ was a job and a way to get positive attention
by giving a good performance. In my family, going to Sunday Mass was an
obligation. My mother, Marie, had a great love for the Blessed Virgin Mary
and a large collection of Marian statuary, but other than that, there were
no devotions in our home. I can never recall praying in our home.

My mother and I had a very rocky relationship. I had an eating disorder
when I was young, and she would do just about anything to get me to eat.
She was afflicted by very high levels of anxiety and worry throughout her
life. I learned very early that I could outlast her in just about any battle of
wills. As a teenager, I would often lie to mom to avoid conflicts. We both
had very strong wills. I remember feeling controlled at my confirmation
when she decided that my name would be Barbara after her mother, and
that my sponsor would be her best friend. I really just wanted to get away
from her nagging and attempts to control me.

My husband (I'll call him Sam) and I eloped during my senior year of
college, and were secretly married for 6 months. Getting married was a
compromise. He wanted to live together, but I felt that was wrong, so we
were married by a justice of the peace. Sam refused to be married in the
Catholic Church. When my mother found out that we were married in a civil
ceremony, she called the priest at our parish and arranged for us to be
married again by him, but I refused saying that we were already married.
She was so angry with me that she threw a chair at me, along with my
baptismal candle, breaking it in two.

Sam who is 5 years older than me was raised in a non-denominational
Christian Church (part of the Stone-Campbell movement). We had thought
at one time about trying to find a compromise faith together, and early on
we did go to some other churches to see what they had to offer. It never
felt like home. I went with him sometimes to his church, and helped to
teach a toddler's Bible class. I would sometimes help there by playing the
organ, but disliked the types of hymns they sang mainly because of the
lyrics that were, surprisingly, not based much on the Bible. In all of the
times I attended, I was never once was tempted to join that church, nor to
partake of the Lord's supper-- slivers of bread on a silver tray, followed by
tiny cups of grape juice. I knew that this was an empty symbol. I missed
the liturgy. I did not understand why they did not read the Bible in context,
but picked out verses here and there. I disliked the long and rambling
prayers of the elders, since their tradition was opposed to formalized
words in prayer.

In the early years of our marriage, I went to my church and Sam went to
his, sometimes with me going to both. We moved to a new part of town
and I noticed that the Catholic Church there printed the names of all
monetary donors and the amount they gave in the bulletin each week. I
was appalled because this practice seemed so contrary to Christianity. I
wrote a letter voicing my objections to the pastor. He wrote back and
complimented my on how well-written and nicely typed my letter was, and
asked if I might want to volunteer to help with clerical work in the parish
office. I was so offended that I stopped going to Mass all together. I
rationalized this by saying that I had "built-up mass credits" from many
years of playing up to five masses each weekend.

For the next twenty years, I never went to Mass except when my parents
were in town or for funerals or weddings. I was a cafeteria Catholic and
disagreed with many of the Church's teachings. I lived a secular life and
focused my attentions on my career and acquiring things. I avoided all but
the most necessary family gatherings. I tried to be a "good person," and
regularly volunteered my time for various causes and charities. During
those years, there were only a few moments when I felt a divine presence
in my life.

One was when my Sam who has multiple health issues was finally called to
receive his kidney/pancreas transplant. I was enveloped in calm. After he
was taken into the OR for the 8-hour surgery, I went home to sleep in my
own bed because I knew that I would need strength for the days ahead.
Even when a complication three days later meant a return to surgery, I
was calm and accepting. I just knew everything would be all right. There
were also many "coincidences" that occurred relative to his transplant:
Sam's dialysis machine broke the night before he was called; another
patient who had an almost identical name and also had a transplant, died
the day that Sam received his transplant; friends and acquaintances that
we'd known from work and volunteering came together in unexpected
ways to help.

For most of my time away from the Church, my parents lived in another
state, but they returned home when my father retired. Sam and I decided
that we should make an effort to spend more time with them. We would go
on double dates to the movies, concerts or to dinner. As an adult, I had
finally developed a healthy relationship with my mother.

My mother developed a serious lung disease and ultimately collapsed at
her 75th birthday party, just after dinner. Even without the gift of faith, I
noticed the amazing ways that event unfolded to minimized the trauma on
our family. Prior to mom's collapse, my brother-in-law had taken the small
children out to get some air. There were two doctors in the restaurant to
perform CPR. They brought mom back to consciousness long enough for
her to tell her eldest granddaughter, "I love you," one last time. The next
day after a CT scan confirmed brain death, mom was taken off of the
ventilator. My sisters, my dad and I sat around her bedside, stroking her
skin, when I suggested that we pray. "Where did that come from," I
wondered. The only prayer I could remember was the Hail Mary, so that is
what we said.

I decided to return to going to Sunday Mass to be in the choir with my Dad
who loves to sing. I was angry with God over my mother's death, and was
just going through the motions. Leading up to Easter, Fr. Tony, the
parochial vicar at our parish did a powerful series of homilies on the
Eucharist and I remember being impressed by the depth of his faith.

On Good Friday, we were singing during the veneration of the cross. I did
not recall ever having seen that devotion, and I remember thinking how
ridiculous it seemed. I was standing there singing and hoping that we could
just keep on singing so we wouldn't have to join the line to kiss the cross.
When we sang the next song, "O Sacred Head Surrounded," something
happened. I heard amazing harmonies and beautiful voices, far beyond the
humble capabilities of our amateur choir. It sounded like a heavenly choir
and it took my breath away.

After the Good Friday service and throughout the next day in my car, I was
listening to the CD from the musical Jesus Christ Superstar. I always like
the song, Gethsemane, from that musical and I remember playing it over
and over and contemplating the fact that Jesus as God chose to accept the
Father's will. I found myself reflecting on the image of Jesus' arms
stretched wide on the cross. He was open, vulnerable and submissive. He
gave absolutely everything. His yes resulted in the greatest good, our
salvation, and gave us the perfect example.

I still could not comprehend why my mother suffered and died, and though
I now had a blossoming faith, my heart was still not open. I had agreed to
play the organ for the overflow mass on Easter Sunday morning, and I
remember being miserable about doing it. Sam and I went to my sister's
house for Easter dinner and accidentally left my camera there. I drove back
to her house on my own to retrieve it, and it was then that I gained the
sure knowledge that everything the Catholic Church teaches is true. If I
picked it apart, I would tear the essential threads of the fabric that holds it
all together into a beautiful tapestry.

What seemed like senseless tragedy on Good Friday was really the start of
the everlasting life. The Easter mystery is the paradox of our faith, and yet
it made sense to me for the very first time. I was drawn to stop back to my
parish church, which thankfully was open, because I wanted to pick up a
pamphlet on how to go to confession. I later learned that Easter that year
was on the feast of St. Bernadette.

The parish office was closed the following day and it was all I could do to
wait for the opportunity to talk with a priest. I felt convicted about the
circumstances of my marriage and the fact that I had broken every
commandment, but I could not wait to go on confession. I finally was able
to make an appointment with Fr. Tony who was so amazingly kind. He told
me that I could return to full communion and stay with my husband if we
lived like "brother and sister." This was not an obstacle for me since the
intimacy of our marriage had stopped several years prior due to Sam's
health, causing me much bitterness and anxiety. Through God's grace, this
loss became a blessing. I had brought piles of tissues with me, expecting
to cry, but I was just filled with joy and felt so happy to be home. I felt the
real presence of the Holy Spirit sustaining me since Easter evening, and I
had never felt so loved and so contented.

I had remembered reading in my mother's journals after her death that
she would often try to go to daily Mass. I started to go to Mass before
work, and found that God always answered my prayer to make it possible
for me to work that into my daily schedule. At first it was just a couple of
days because it seemed excessive to go every day, but then I came to
love it so much, I didn't want to have to choose which day to miss. Mass is
now the foundation of my life, and I find that daily mass in particular is so
wonderful because everyone in the congregation truly wants to be there.
There is no sense of obligation, just love, and the privilege to be able to
experience God's love in such an intimate way. Early on in my conversion,
I finally realized that the church is ALL about love which may seem
obvious, but it was something that I managed to miss as a poorly
catechized, cultural Catholic growing up in the 1960s and 70s.

I read an incredible number of great books that left a big impression on me
in the early months of my conversion including Thomas Merton's Seven
Storey Mountain, the Confessions of St. Augustine and the Lamb's Supper
by Scott Hahn. I was so hungry for knowledge about the faith, and
endeavored to learn all I could from the internet, podcasts and good
books.

With my new found faith came the understanding that we all are called to
give everything. This fueled my dormant desire to become a living kidney
donor. I woke repeatedly at 3 A.M., night after night, with that thought. In
discerning whether this was God's will for me, I read Thomas a Kempis'
Imitation of Christ which was a major influence on me during the donation
process.

God qualifies the called. My experiences and state in life had qualified me
for this path.
I had not yet decided whether this might be God's will for me when we
were asked to help at a kidney foundation dinner. The nurse who cared for
Sam immediately after his transplant was there. She now worked for our
local organ procurement agency, coordinating living altruistic donors. I
already knew the person in our community who could get me started.

I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. (Phil 4:13)
For years, a plaque with this verse hung unnoticed over my home
computer. After starting tests to be cleared for the transplant, I was
frightened and unsure. Would I have the courage to follow through, or
might I disappoint my chosen recipient. Reading the writing on my wall
changed my perspective. I realized that on my own, I was powerless to
make this sacrifice. Only with the strength of Christ could I be a living
organ donor.

All I could control was whether or not to say "yes." This was the answer to
my prayers that dispelled all anxiety. With my passive acceptance, all
anxiety vanished and I was enveloped in transformational peace of God,
unlike anything that I had ever experienced before or since.
It goes against our nature to give unconditionally, without strings, without
counting the cost. Yet that is what Jesus did for us on the cross. And that is
what my husband's donor family did. By emulating their generosity and
passive acceptance, I experienced the counterintuitive abundance
promised in the gospels. Like the loaves and fish, God takes our gifts and
transforms and multiples them.

I got so much more than I gave.

I am blessed by a loving relationship with my kidney recipient, a woman
near my mother's age. My gift renewed her ability to be a gift to her
husband, her five children and their children. She endured six long years of
dialysis and had almost lost hope when our paths converged. My health
continues to be excellent, and most days I don't even notice the fading
scar. My yes helped everyone waiting for a kidney to move one donor
closer to new life.

God used so many things to bring me home. By returning to the church
choir, I opened the door of my heart just a crack. He used the homilies of a
faith-filled priest and my love of music to do the rest. I do believe that
upon entering into eternal life, my mother experienced the mercy and
goodness of God, and interceded along with Our Lady of Lourdes and St.
Bernadette to nudge me back on course. I continue to be delighted by the
evidence of Divine Providence in my life, using every circumstance and
wasting nothing, to bring about His will.