God Within

Jeff Peterson CVV 3

It is a testament to CVV that twenty years after leaving 1732 Pearl St, what I experienced and learned continues to shape the decisions I make for myself, my family and my community.  Sometimes these are small, daily decisions like when I make a point of taking a route in my home of Portland, Maine that leads me down the street where many of my homeless neighbors live.  I live a life of privilege. Heading down Preble Street requires that, at least for a moment, I see the face of someone struggling with food insecurity, addiction or mental illness. CVV reminds me that I must look into these faces.  Sometimes my trips past Preble Street remind me that my life of material comfort also insulates me from the joys of community as I watch these neighbors laugh and sing together, eat together, and support one another, while I, alone in my car, head home, pull into my driveway, and nod to my neighbor if I see them at all.

CVV also continues to shape larger decisions in my life.  I suspect that I am part of a relatively small group of CVVers that is not Catholic and never was Catholic.  I was raised in a Pentecostal Christian home and now am a practicing Quaker. Quakers believe that there is “that of God within everyone” and that “the Light” can be found in everyone and in all of creation.  For Quakers, truth is ever unfolding as we listen to “that of God” within, in the lives of others, in artistic creation and in the natural world. This is a spirituality that flows from what I experienced at CVV.  

My daughters attend a Quaker school here in Portland, and for several years I served on the board of the school.  During my time on the board, the school was faced with needing to move from it’s lovely island location just off the Maine coast.  The board was tasked with finding a new home for the school. During the process of relocating, I found myself feeling very passionately that the school move into the city of Portland.  Maine is a very white state, and the only place of any real ethnic diversity are in its downtowns. A move like this would have meant that the children would have spent much less time in the outdoors, but my experiences at CVV taught the absolute need, as followers of Christ, to be among –physically among – the poor.  Being part of a private school was already an exclusive experience and, I worried, that moving even further would increase that separation. For many important reasons, the school is now not in the city, and instead on 25 beautiful wooded acres. But I remember feeling a tightness in my chest and a lump in my throat as we made that decision.  I believe that sensation was God within, reminding me of the testimony of the poor that I heard while at CVV.

Patrick with his friends in Honduras

God’s Timing

Patrick Kluesner, CVV 17

When I think back before I started CVV, it was not what I had pictured myself doing after college.  I am a planner and I had a five year plan for myself.  I wanted to go abroad right after graduation and serve in a Spanish speaking country for the first year.  This is not what God had planned for me at the time.  It was not until three years after college that I got the opportunity to serve abroad. Through this I’ve realized I don’t live on my own time but on God’s time.

During my year at CVV, I was not completely in my comfort zone when it came to my work at Arrupe Jesuit High School.  I loved Arrupe, but I was still growing as a person and could not fully use all my gifts I had as an individual there.  I was coming from a household in rural Kentucky with both parents, who worked, and that I thought the world of.  At Arrupe, I was working with inner city high schoolers from underprivileged backgrounds and many of them came from tough homes.  I was not yet comfortable in my skin and up for the challenge of developing relationships with students of a diverse background and who had no problem challenging authority.  Even though I was not my best self at Arrupe, CVV was there to help foster my growth, especially in terms of community.  

Like most CVVers, community was a big part of my year.  It set the standard for the three communities that I would have afterward.  The idea of intentionality became very important to me.  I learned to seek out those relationships with community members that were not the best at cultivating them to make them better.  In addition, I learned that intentionality looked different to everyone in community.  Many times I found myself in the kitchen during the year to be around others, and this is what I thought intentionality was in community.  Those who were not in the kitchen, were not being intentional, but thankfully this thought changed as my year went on.  Having this model of community to fall back on really helped me in other communities when I was struggling.

CVV set me on the path of God’s timing which eventually led me to Amigos de Jesus.  In 2014, three years after college, I went to Amigos de Jesus, a children’s home in Honduras.  In Honduras, I was exposed to new challenges of learning a new language, adapting to a new culture, developing new relationships, and forming a new community of volunteers who were all experiencing the same thing as me.  Again I was put in position working with youth of a different background than me, but this time I felt more at ease dealing with them.  With all these new challenges, community was one of the most difficult because we were all processing this experience differently.  With CVV’s background, though difficult at times, I felt comfortable enough to be intentional with my community members and push for the community support that I found in CVV. 

Even with these new challenges at Amigos, I felt comfortable at my new home, making relationships with the children and caretakers in a different culture and language.  I extended my one year commitment to two.  It is a place that I have fallen in love with.  I have since made the trip back three times, I am writing this article while there visiting for my entire teacher summer break.

I wonder what my first year would have looked like out of college if I was serving abroad instead of at CVV. I am thankful God led me to both CVV and Amigos on his time.  Without the experience of Arrupe and the tools that CVV gave me, my experience at Amigos would have looked very different.  In my life there have been many things that I planned out to complete by a certain time, but it never seems to work out.  I am thankful God has the perfect time line for me. 

Everyone Has a Story

Humberto Camarena, CVV 14

In the wake of Anthony Bourdain’s death, Brené Brown very wisely stated the following, “Everyone has a story that will break your heart. And, if you’re really paying attention, most people have a story that will bring you to your knees.” Even though I’ve been saying the same thing for years, I’ll let Brené Brown take credit.

If you haven’t read much of Brené’s work or seen her TedTalk, she’s highly recommended. I think she would fit right in with the CVV crew. She manages to verbalize what for me are many intangible values and ideas that I have tried very hard to cultivate and reinforce. Things that I am very proud to say are an inherent and a core part of who I am. Empathy. Vulnerability. Dignity. Justice. Brené offers an important voice of reflection, which manages to make us question seemingly little things that are actually quite significant, and for that opportunity to pause and reflect, I am grateful. It takes those opportunities to pause, critique, and change in order for us to grow into better versions of ourselves.

I want to go back to the original statement. “Everyone has a story that will break your heart. And, if you’re really paying attention, most people have a story that will bring you to your knees.” One of the aspects of social justice work that I am very passionate about is acknowledging that everyone has their own story. People are fascinating, and in the almost 10 years since embarking on the CVV journey, I have had the privilege of accompanying many people on their journeys in various capacities. Regardless of what you might see on the outside, everyone has their own internal scars and their own internal badges of honor. People are complex, and with that complexity comes rich memories of tears, sighs, pride, bliss, love, heartbreak, betrayal, laughter, understanding, loneliness, hope. We can all recall these and other life-changing memories of our own.

We yearn for connection, but we often are too shy or embarrassed to ask for it. One of the wonderful aspects of CVV was putting ourselves out there and being vulnerable around each other. It’s why when I chat with one of my fellow companions, the ability to dive deep into an extremely intimate conversation is easy and comforting.

In the various roles I play in people’s lives, I find that one of the most important things I can do for others is acknowledge and validate the complexity of their experiences and do my best to try to (as Brené says) “feel with them,” though I know I will never understand what they are feeling in the same way. Recently, I’ve found that suicide and depression is all around me. It’s a quiet, gradual mist that is at once hard to notice and easy to ignore. Though these stories are uncomfortable to face, I hope to continue listening empathetically to others’ stories. Be in the moment when others are expressing their complexities. Acknowledging their highs as well as their lows, and understanding my role—both it’s opportunities and limitations. There’s so much that people need, and so much of it is simply feeling a connection with a genuine, empathetic heart. Hearing of stories, like Anthony Bourdain’s can be shocking, and can create a sense of helplessness. Let’s also remember that just like him, many others around us are looking for a connection and want to share their stories. Be there with them. Feel with them. And maybe we can contribute just a little bit to making things a little bit better for those around us.

Community

Erin Casey-DaCosta, CVV 16

Dearest Friend,

The Merriam Webster dictionary defines community as “a unified body of individuals, such as people with common interests living in a particular area.”  Yes! This is, in the simplest of terms, community. However, what Merriam Webster doesn’t acknowledge in this basic definition is the depth and breadth of an intentional service community.  A mere definition cannot do justice to the emotions, stories, and people who comprise any given service community. True, a service community is indeed a unified body of individuals with common interests living in a particular area.  In fact, this is exactly what I thought when I packed my bags and moved to Denver, CO for my year of service with the Colorado Vincentian Volunteers (CVV). I knew I was living with nine other individuals who had committed a year of their lives to service, simplicity, and prayer.  We had this in common, and this made us community. So simple! Or so I thought…

What I could not even begin to fathom prior to my arrival in Colorado was the multitude of moments that defined community.  When I stepped through the door of my new home in downtown Denver, I had no idea my life was going to be forever changed by these complete strangers.  I could not predict the ups and downs of the year that lay ahead, and the people that would journey alongside me, answering tough questions, challenging each other, and growing to love as a community of ten.

I wish someone had told me that community could simultaneously be the most joyous and tumultuous thing one could ever experience.  I wish someone had told me how incredibly challenging it was to grocery shop on a tight budget with nine others. I wish someone had told me that communication was key, and that tears were inevitable.  I wish someone had told me that community was about challenging one another in healthy ways. I wish someone had told me that community didn’t mean you were the best of friends. I wish someone had told me that sometimes community was awful, and that was okay.  I wish someone had told me that sometimes community meant anger, and frustration. I wish someone had told me that simply because we were all committed to social justice, it didn’t necessarily mean we engaged with the world in the same ways.

But more importantly than that, I wish someone had told me how incredibly beautiful community could be.  I wish someone had told me that community could mean running around your new city crazily, as you embarked on a wild team building scavenger hunt.  I wish someone had told me that community might mean sobbing in your roommate’s arms after a challenging day at work. I wish someone had told me that community meant starting weird traditions, like hiding ugly stuffed animals throughout the house.  I wish someone had told me community meant laughing so hard you cried, regularly. I wish someone had told me that the little moments are the big ones, and before you know it, the year will be over, and even if your community doesn’t always like one another, you love one another, and that love is fierce and unshakeable.  

What no one could have told me was that eight years later, my community would be scattered across the United States.  When we left Denver for our next chapters, we had no idea that in the following decade we would gain new last names, new spouses, new babies and new jobs.  Eight years and hundreds of group emails later, we are still be connected, despite seeing each other only sporadically over the years. We laugh about our year, shake our heads at our year, and know that without it, none of us would be who we are today.  Eight years later, we are still members of CVV 16. Our emails and phone calls may be less frequent as the years pass, but the bond between us is unshakeable.

Cherish your community, future volunteer.  Savor the good times, and yes, even the challenging times.  Realize that these are your people, and will be for life, whether you recognize it now or not.  Community is absolutely incredible, and so much more than a simple definition could ever capture.

God Bless,

Erin  

On April 7, 2018, Colorado Vincentian Volunteers had the pleasure of hosting The Blind Café Experience for about 70 of our incredible #CVVAlum and current volunteers.  It was a powerful evening of dinner in the dark, rich conversation, an active music listening experience, and of course, lots of companionship.  It was all held entirely in 100% darkness with no blindfolds and facilitated by the Blind Ambassadors. 

We hope you enjoy reading a few reflections, including the reflection offered by Katie Cassady (CVV 12 and former CVV staff member), from the night of this unique and unforgettable experience.

***

Good evening. I’m really excited to be gathered with this group tonight—or any night. I’m looking forward to experiencing this event together as we all put ourselves out there a little bit, into a place of vulnerability and solidarity.  I’m feeling a little vulnerable myself right now, because I’m completely off-script tonight which is not my comfort zone. I’d also add that it’s an odd exchange when Mary Frances calls and says they’re looking for a person to speak to spiritual blindness and, Katie, you came to mind!

So, I’m calling on the name of Providence tonight to guide this conversation and my bumbling thoughts on how our limited spiritual sight can perhaps illuminate our vision.

I’ve got to tell you that this year has been a poignant one when it comes to lessons of sight.  Close family friends have learned that their two oldest children are going blind from a genetic disorder.  I attended my first Blind Café experience in Boulder in March.  I thought of Snowmass and trekking to vigils at 4am.  My eyes spent a good part of the evening scouring the room for light, which I couldn’t find. But, how telling that even in our darkness, our instinct is to seek out the Light?

I have listened to the Easter readings with a new awareness of our shared and universal experiences of spiritual blindness—those times when our own parameters, or perhaps God’s timing, actually prevent us from seeing what is directly before us.

• Mary Magdalene—so stricken with grief in the garden that she believes the Risen Christ to be the gardener until he calls her by name.
• The disciples didn’t trust their vision of the Risen Lord. They feared that they were seeing a ghost, until Jesus had breakfast with them.
• On the road to Emmaus when the disciples meet Jesus, they are walking with him, but do not physically recognize him until the breaking of the bread. Only then do they remember: ‘Were not our hearts burning within us while he talked with us on the road?”
• The Gospel this weekend is the one of the ‘Doubting Thomas’, in which Thomas cannot believe just his eyes but instead must physically touch the wounds and scars Christ suffered in order to believe. Jesus says to him, “Have you come to believe because you have seen? Blessed are those who have not seen and believed.”

If there is something to be gleaned from these Easter readings, it might be that although we engage the world easily with our sight, perhaps it is not how we best engage the Risen Christ.

Certainly my attention has been on these themes because of this event at the Blind Café, and due to the experience of our family friends; but I think this language from Luke’s Gospel calls us back in a particular way to our volunteer years, too.  “Were not our hearts burning within us?!”

Were not our hearts burning within us? 

     When we recognized the names read at the homeless memorial vigil that Christmas?

Were not our hearts burning within us?

     When we helped an intoxicated man find clean pants after he’d soiled himself in the shelter?

Were our hearts not burning within us?

     When we listened to the vision of a woman in Juarez and the love for the children she serves?

Were our hearts not burning within us?

     When we witnessed that first step toward self-confidence in our client, our community member, ourselves?

The Good News/The Easter message I am hearing this year is one that seems to be taken in with nearly all of the senses but sight (alone).

This seems fitting at a time when we’re sitting here in the dark, eyes struggling to adjust.  But I think it’s telling, too, that even at our time of greatest joy and reassurance, there is evidence that our eyes may deceive us.  As St. Paul instructs: “I pray that they eyes of your hearts may be opened.”

The Blind Café team along with Blind Ambassadors Richie, Esha, and Garrick.

***

Most of us came into the evening with only a faint idea of what to expect.  I tried to let go of my expectations entirely.  Be present.  Be aware.  Let the experience come to me.  Don’t miss anything.

Forced to get up and use the restroom, I had to miss something.  Ironically, this is when the most memorable moment occurred.  We were instructed beforehand that if we needed to leave the dark room for any reason, we had to call for a blind ambassador to escort us out.  Otherwise, we might accidentally allow light to seep into the pitch-black room, contaminating the experience for others. 

I called the name of one of the Blind Ambassadors, “Esha.”  She responded, “How can I help? Place your hand on my shoulder.  I will lead the way.” I got up from my chair and like a child walking either fearfully or wonderfully in the dark, reached out to carefully feel for my surroundings, and found Esha’s shoulder.  In that moment, I felt like a lost sheep comforted by its shepherd. 

CVV Alum, Brian Vander Heiden (CVV 21), Matthew Norris (CVV 20), Mary Joseph (CVV 20), Mary Arczynski (CVV 21), Tammy Clarke (CVV 6), and Chuck Lutz-Priefert (CVV 21) beginning the Entering the Darkness portion of the evening

***

What did it mean to sit with myself in the dark, free from visual distractions?  What was it like to only be aware of others’ voices, as if we were all sound boxes, sputtering out and receiving nervous words?  Why was the live music, with its melodies, lyrics, and guitar chords, such welcome solace from the chaos of hundreds of unseen, conversing voices? 

A member of the Blind Café team preparing the room for complete darkness

***

Having a shared experience of the unique and intentional Blind Café with CVV alum from various years, led us to a place nearby to have theological reflection on the night after the formal program concluded!   The opportunity for a common experience was a beautiful spark of a new bond with other alum.

Andy Nowak, members of the Slow Food Denver crew, and CVV Alum, Chris Morgan (CVV 17) and Erin Kennedy (CVV 17) crafting a delicious meal for the Breaking of Bread In The Dark portion of the evening

Colin McDonald, CVV 19

First week of Lent

As a current fourth year medical student at the University of Missouri, the past four years have been a whirlwind of meeting new healthcare providers, struggling to learn new procedures (let alone the physiology of the entire human body) and interviewing a diverse, multitude of patients. Everyday has brought an immense amount of hardship but also allowed me to witness the face of God in the pages of daunting textbooks and in the spoken words of a laboring patient. Most evenings when I head home from a long day at the hospital, the Holy Spirit is burning bright in my heart as I offer up thanksgiving for the privilege of being a minister of medicine.

But some days, the rigors of the healthcare field weigh heavy on my mind and my prayers are filled with only desolations. I struggle to find God’s light in individuals who repeatedly lose their battle with alcohol, patients who are resistant to life-saving medical advice and pronouncing a patient dead despite all medical interventions.

I recently attended a Family Medicine physician conference that focused on medical student education in Austin, TX and this theme of mounting emotional stress resulting in rising numbers of physician burnout was discussed during one of the mainstage lectures. The speaker repeatedly asked throughout the talk, “Who ministers to the minister?” This question still lingers in my mind, especially since in a few months I move from medical student to physician and know many more desolations are in my future.

I also was reminded of my time in CVV as I, along with my housemates, grappled with self-doubt and frustration at our respective service sites as we came face to face with the bleakness of the cycle of poverty. There were days when we got back to WoHo and all we wanted was to be alone and sit in our despair. We could do nothing to change the circumstances of a homeless youth at Urban Peak or find some way to better assist a family of eight who could still not provide enough food for their kids after a stop at Metro Caring.

On those difficult evenings, I witnessed the power of community. The simple act of being present for someone who was processing their confusion and emotional turmoil over dinner or through a one on one discussion in the kitchen nook, always stands with me as what true community looks like. We each were ministers at our Denver service sites, but my nine fellow housemates were my companions and support system on the year long journey of CVV. 

As I prepare for Easter and my impending medical school graduation this May, I pray that I am able to strengthen the community I have surrounded myself with. The healing ministry I have ventured down has only begun, but as I learned during my time in CVV, I need to prepare and allow myself to be vulnerable to my fellow physicians, wife, family, friends (that includes you, CVV 19, near and far) and God. Even Christ called out for aide as he was put to death. I too must humble myself and ask for support as continue to encounter desolations and heartbreak from caring for patients. I challenge you this Lenten season to ask yourself, “Who ministers to me?”  

Casey Sharp, CVV 18

Second week of Lent

“Hope Above Optimism”

We often abuse the concept of hope. Despite the complexity and absurdity of the English language, we have certain words that we lazily throw about in too many situations to the point where they lose all meaning. “Love” is another one. I love my family. I also “love” burritos. I hope that good ultimately triumphs over evil in the world. I also “hope” I do not get stuck in traffic here in Atlanta (that is usually a vain hope). We often quote our English translations of one verse in particular, which wraps the weightiest words into one easily ignored package. “But now these three remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.” Truly, “love” is the greatest, but in this 2018 Lenten season we would do well to pause for a moment on hope.

Hope is subtle, and it easily gets lost in the noise of faith and love. Pundits on network news weaponized faith, and we wage cultural wars – or literal wars – over the defense of whatever dogmas we bundle together under the banner of faith. This is not unique to religious folk either. Atheism or any of the non-theisms of the world have their own faith, and it has its own value even if defined by what their faith is not, and all the faiths of the world have done violence to one another. Still, faith good and beautiful when properly managed and expressed. Most people act out of motivations they are ignorant of themselves, and they use “faith” after the fact to justify them, but when properly attuned and built “faith” constructs the profound actions of our greatest leaders like Martin Luther King Jr., and its force is unstoppable. Faith then serves as the scaffolding that structures our love, which is the greatest of the three. Likewise, love is very loud. Love is an action. Otherwise, it is not love. Speaking of love without action is a misnomer which only refers to a chemical reaction within the brain. That may feel good, but if love does not manifest itself in the world – in the way we live our lives and treat others – then it is not the love referred to in our English translations of Corinthians.

Pope Francis said, “It’s best to not confuse optimism with hope. Optimism is a psychological attitude towards life. Hope goes further. It is an anchor that one hurls towards the future. It’s what lets you pull on the line and reach what you’re aiming for.”

Hope is faith plus expectation. It isn’t necessarily rational either. Optimism is rational. I have seen and experienced good things, and my brain has calculated the probability of more of the same. Hope exists without clear evidence. It is faith reaching out and expecting love, which is always tangibly manifest in the world, if it is real love. I spent some years living in the Holy Land after my time at CVV, and I continue to work with groups that promote dialogue in the Israeli/Palestinian conflict. I am not optimistic about the outcome of that conflict. Rationally, I expect a third Intifada sooner rather than later, and many innocent people will die. Still, I hope that the work I have done there has some good impact on the region, even if it only changes the lives of a few individuals. That is of infinite worth. I hope in some goodness, even if I cannot rationally see it.

Turn on the news, and you have little reason to be optimistic. You are not obligated to be optimistic either. If you are chronically pessimistic to the point of morbidity, we can help that psychological state with proper community, professional therapy, and maybe even medication. Some shred of optimism – a psychological state – is important to survive, but it is not the same as hope. Some days I have little reason for optimism. I see a President embraced by millions for his hatred of others and vulgarity. I watch an economy driven by the worst greed in a country with a widening wealth gap with no signs of stopping and wages that have not risen for most Americans since the 1970s. I see lost young men recruited by hate groups here in the US or Jihadi groups and violent nationalist movements around the world. I even see the alleged champions of morality within our churches abusing the dignity of women and LGBTQ people made in the image of God. In some sense, it is our responsibility as informed and compassionate people to stare into the abyss of current events, though on occasion we need to delete our Twitter accounts and turn off the onslaught of tragedy bolstered by ad revenue (another depressing fact) and make what room we can for hope before diving back into the fray of society.

I have little reason to be optimistic when I calculate the probable results in many headlines, or even difficult situations in my personal life, but – this might sound strange – I am very hopeful. I see incredible people rising up out of nowhere to stand against these waves of violence, hatred, and inequality. They are the underdogs, and they may lose, but I have hope in them. I also have hope in myself – that I will not fall victim to morbid despair. I’ve seen Israeli and Palestinian children embrace across divides that are seemingly impossible to bridge. I hear of a neo Nazi who abandons his path of hatred and embraces love for others. I see workers organize, and I even read of a very wealthy CEO who recognize the injustice of his gross advantage and uses his influence to advocate for something better. I see a hateful President repeatedly rejected. I see refugees welcomed by good people. I see gay couples celebrated in my Catholic parish. I may have little optimism, but I see the beginning of a pendulum swinging back in the other direction, and I am hopeful.

Hope is the anchor thrown out into the ocean where we cannot see the bottom. In the Koine Greek of the New Testament the usual term for hope “el-pē’s” carries a connotation of expectation. It is knowing something is around the corner. In the Old Testament, the usual Hebrew word for hope is “yä·khal’” or sometimes “kä·vä’,” which are both used in the context of watchful waiting. Hope is not quietly patient. It waits, but it is constantly looking out the window for what it expects. Hope is eager. Sometimes our faith becomes stale. Sometimes love and charity appears lost for a time. In those spaces hope remains.

River Simpson, CVV 22

Third week of Lent

 “Living Out Lent”

 Entering Lent, we often feel called to give up some bad personal habit, some unnecessary thing in our lives, essentially we feel called to prune off the actions and stuff in our lives that hinder our relationship with God.

Admittedly, this is something we all find very hard to do as we can easily choose something so small that we forget about it or so big that we feel overwhelmed by our sacrifice and give up. Lord knows I have often chosen to give up dessert and then been bogged down in questions as to whether cookies count as dessert if eaten as a snack. The answer is no, but it takes all my will power and reliance on God in order to make it through Lent keeping that answer the same.

All this interior frustration self-denial is worth it, though, because by journeying through our own spiritual desert of temptation and purification like Jesus did, we may prepare ourselves for the joy of Easter at the resurrected Christ. For, by recognizing who we aren’t and by taking away what we don’t need, we realize who we truly are and what we truly need. That is, we come to realize that we are beloved children of God who are in desperate need of His love and redemption. By accepting this great truth, we may look earnestly at our lives and alter them for the better because now we finally know who to turn to in order to be who we are and get what we need.

However, this personal pruning and realization of our true selves is only half of what Lent calls us to do. We now need to act on it. Look at Jesus. He entered the desert to find His true self, but he didn’t just stay there or said, “That was just a good thing to do for 40 days.” Firmly assured in His personal identity, He left the dessert as the man He found there in order to begin His God-given ministry on Earth. As followers of Christ, we must do the same to honor our God. For, as St. Irenaeus once said, “The glory of God is man fully alive,” and we humans have no greater goal than to give God glory and we are no fuller alive than when we live true to ourselves and act out our vocations.

As such, let’s begin this Lent in the same spirit of openness and dedication to God’s will as Jesus did, so that we may find and become our true selves. Knowing that if and when we fail, we will be found, redeemed, and set aright by God ever nearer His path for us.

Magda Hernandez, CVV 5

Fourth week of Lent

“Community First!”

“Housing will never solve homelessness, but community will.” -Alan Graham

When does your heart swell with love? Lately, my heart has been leading to the Community First! Village here in Austin, Texas again and again. Most recently the coordinator for the Genesis Garden shared with us how this vision unfolded over the last 20 years. She described how Alan Graham and his crew delivered meals with Mobile Loaves and Fishes on the streets of our city. These simple interactions created opportunities for making connections human to human and evolved into friendships. There was still something more to this mission – a desire to get the chronically homeless off the streets. The purpose become more profound as he received guidance from his friends that were formerly homeless. There was one key piece to this vision. Community. C-O-M-M-U-N-I-T-Y. Community. Graham explains it this way, “The single greatest cause of homelessness is a profound, catastrophic loss of family, whether by forces like death or divorce, or institutional failures in the criminal justice and foster care systems. When the family unit is dissolved, the remaining members can become adrift and vulnerable, with no one there to pick them back up if and when they fall down.” 

From the outside, onlookers might think the physical design is beyond measure. While it is beautiful, there is more to this setup that makes it sacred. You see, residents actually get together frequently to share a meal. They have no indoor plumbing in their tiny homes so they must take turns in the community bathrooms/showers and they even share an outdoor kitchen.  Missionals also live on the grounds with the intention of checking on their neighbors and building relationships. I think this is the part that keeps bringing me back. The fact that brothers and sisters are spending their energy building relationships. This reminds me of the quote, “When all basic human needs have been met. What humans long for the most… is to be witnessed, to be loved, and to be heard.” 

Part of the mission reads “We provide food and clothing, cultivate community and promote dignity to our homeless brothers and sisters in need.” You can see the endless effort being put into cultivating community with the way the village is taken care of by volunteers and residents. “Promote dignity” reminds me of one of our activities with Mary Frances where we had written what we thought were our 7 core values. Slowly she had presented circumstances that caused us to lose one core value at a time. When it came down to the end, I distinctly remember being left with only my dignity. In that activity I remember thinking how awful it would feel to be treated as invisible. I could see myself shouting at passersby, “I’m still here! I used to be you. I’m still here!” 

So what does this mean for us in our daily lives? Where can we have compassion outside of our circles in order to build community? Are we really in tune with the needs of our community members? My friend shared with me that our society has this habit of asking, “How are you?” Most of time we get responses like, “I’m fine,” or “Good.” We all know that there has to be more to those automatic responses. She said that in other cultures it would translate to, “How’s your heart?” Our society likes to be busy and that has pushed us into being disconnected. Imagine how relationships would change. And when you really don’t have time to listen, simply acknowledge the person and say, “It’s good to see you.” While we are at it, how about we learn people’s names and use it when we see them at the grocery store, on the bus, at our workplace from our boss to the custodian, and even our neighbors. After all, we are ALL significant because we are One Body.

 Community First! Village – A New Movement

https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=7&v=27XDnHnzdck

Alan Graham: The Man behind Mobile Loaves and Fishes

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X44I_8Kbp9g

Chris Morgan, CVV 17

Fifth week of Lent

Our relationships bring our values into focus. They ask us to show our priorities. They can hold up a mirror to our lives. What is your relationship with God calling you to do this Lenten season?

Abraham’s relationship with God called him to move into a foreign land and to be willing to give up his only son. Moses’ relationship with God called him to speak truth to power. David’s relationship with God called him to repent. Jeremiah’s relationship with God called him to lament. John’s relationship with God called him to proclaim the coming of the Messiah. Paul’s relationship with God called him to travel the world preaching. 

What is your relationship with God calling forth from you in this season? What act(s) of faith is God placing before you that would realize that relationship in the world?

When I was in CVV, a housemate and I tried so hard to live well together but would inevitably trigger the other into conflict, even as we tried to repair what was broken. One day during Lent, we were scheduled to cook dinner together. We had our predictable conflicts, and I found myself saying, “I have no idea what to do with you. I’ve tried everything I know, and I still come up short. I don’t know how to go forward.” She said the same, and that’s exactly what we needed. My relationship with God at that point called me to continue to return to life with this person. It called forth honesty, and God made it fruitful.

This process never ends. Relationships are always asking something from us, so live in the moment. What is that one thing God has placed before you this Lent, today? What is the next right thing? May God show you your next step in relationship and give you the courage to step out in faith, trusting God will provide for you.

Maura Martin, CVV 10

Holy Week

 “Blessed be, Ashia”

 My morning is beginning, as all mornings do, with the preparation of breakfast.  Most cooking is done outdoors here in Cameroon, so although we are one of the few families with an indoor kitchen, it lacks some things that, if I had planned it, I would have included.  The most necessary is light.  It has one very small window and a lightbulb that hangs from the corner of the narrow room.  Often the electricity is out and even with it on, I prefer to have the back door open to flood the room with fresh air and sunlight.

This tiny room has become one of my favorite places, which is good considering how much time I spend here.  I think it is because of the back door, though, that it has won a place in my heart.  As I cook, I can look out over our communal yard.  Often our children play here with the children from the quarter below.  From this place I can see our neighbors’ outdoor kitchen. The space between my stove and their fire is not far. We share greetings and laughter daily.  In the evenings, dinner prep and dish cleanup is done with the beauty of the sunset through the banana and eucalyptus trees with the city lying in the valley below.

Life here has been challenging.  We came to live in solidarity, and even with the luxury of a stove, we have met some success in this desire.  Although “success” is not a term that many would attach to our experience.  We now know what it is to go without water and electricity for days on end. We have experienced illness, malaria and infection, without the “Urgent Care” that I took for granted at home.  We know the trauma of threatened violence, and the grief of the fetal loss of our miscarried twins.  We have suffered and my heart has been broken.  I had wanted to bring the “Joy of the Gospel,” yet I know I am more closely related to the wounded Christ, than I am to Christ the healer, in this moment.  Christ’s passion has taken on new meaning.

Some of the suffering has been excruciating, and yet, in this suffering, we are not alone. The crosses, although heavy for us, are minuscule in comparison to what our neighbors have carried. Although we came as missionaries, more often than not, we are on the receiving end of the Good News.  And yet, Jesus promised that this is where we would meet Him, with the “least of these.”  Which leaves me wondering, who are the “least of these,” me or them?

This morning is ordinary in my doings, but it is extraordinary in its revelation. As I am preparing my family’s breakfast, the song of my neighbor meets my ears.  It occurs to me as I listen to her voice lifted in song that everyone sings here.  Everyone dances.  The statement “I can’t sing, I can’t dance” so commonly heard at home, is never uttered.  If you can give voice, you sing, if you can move, you dance.  I hear the Good News.  We never talk of Christ’s passion, without his resurrection.  My neighbors know the Truth of this, they live it.  The courage of their song and dance hits me.  Their faith is a lived one. 

In the beginning, every time we met some struggle, we were offered this word “ashia.”

We had been told that it meant “sorry.”  It wasn’t long before I came to find irritation with this word.  One day I expressed my frustration to my husband Ryan over the inadequacy of this expression. I was surprised by his response, “I don’t think it means ‘sorry.’” He explained that although it was used for great suffering, our neighbors often offered it to each other during work, and work is a blessing.  We sat a Cameroonian friend down to get a clearer definition.  She explained that although it offers consolation, it also offers courage.  “I see your struggle, but have courage, this struggle does not have the last word.”  I am told that the “Blessed be” in the beatitudes was put there because there is no English word for the word that Jesus used “ash rae.”  It was explained to me that “Ash rae” means “I see, I witness your struggle, but have courage this struggle does not have the last word.”

Ashia, Ash rae, those who mourn, they will be comforted.

Jesus’ words from the cross “My God, My God why have you forsaken me” Psalm 22, which is immediately followed by Psalm 23 “The Lord is my shepherd, there is nothing I lack.”

There is never passion, without resurrection. This is the courage to dance and sing.

Blindness

Jennifer Gordon, SCL – CVV 4

I had the opportunity recently to attend a performance of Stomp at the Denver Center for the Performing Arts.  It was a remarkable experience to watch a percussion troupe create music for both the ears and the eyes.  In the performers’ skilled hands, everyday household items – brooms, lighters, PVC pipe, kitchen sinks, buckets, garbage cans, newspapers and plastic bags – became sources of endless delight and fascination.

As I walked home from the show, I was reflecting on the percussionists’ ability not just to use something differently but first to see it differently.  In my traditional way of seeing things, brooms are for sweeping, newspapers are for reading, and bags are for carrying things.  But these men and women saw something different.  They saw – and heard – potential, and syncopation, and laughter.  And they helped us, the audience, to see and hear it, too.

I like to think that I have pretty good vision – at least when I am wearing my contact lenses – but the Stomp performers reminded me that I am, in some ways, blind.  I am, at times, blinded by what I think I know.  My eyes see the broom just fine, but without the performers’ insight and vision, I couldn’t see that it could be used for something other than sweeping. 

In Mark 10, when Jesus asks a blind man what he wants Jesus to do for him, the man responds, “Rabbi, I want to see.”  In these Lenten days, I believe that we, too, are invited to ask Jesus for the same grace.  Help us to see not just with our eyes, but with our minds and hearts and imaginations, too.  Through that lens, matchboxes and brooms – and everything else that makes up the ordinariness of our daily living – can become instruments of joy.

If you are an alumni of CVV interested in the upcoming CVV Blind Cafe Experience on April 7th, learn more on our Upcoming Events page.  Spots are limited so register soon!

I Protest

Jenna Carbone, CVV 12

I protest because so many of our brothers and sisters in this county are scared right now, and they need to know that we are behind them, that we will fight for them. They must know we will speak loudly and protect fiercely on their behalf. I protest because I am horrified that refugees who have already endured so much- famine, war, violence, political unrest- would be turned away from this county when they are in their most dire need. They must know we will fight to provide a safe haven for them and reassure them that they are needed, wanted, and welcomed here.

I protest because the world needs to see that America is not a place that believes all of what President Trump does. They must know that we believe our diversity is our greatest strength and our communities are beautiful because they are filled with different cultures, customs, and histories.

I protest because walls only serve to separate and divide us. We hold tightly to the belief that our neighbors are our greatest allies, and empathize with those seeking to enter this country as they give up everything-family, friends, familiarity- in some small hope of finding a better life. I protest because I will not be a part of fear mongering, hate, and discrimination. We refuse to let history repeat itself under our watch.

I protest because I feel a great responsibility to the world and believe that to those whom much is given, much is expected. We cannot sit idly by while injustices are being committed to our brothers and sisters, as we are all one body. I protest because I believe that people can change.

We march and rally in hopes that those who see or hear our movement may be moved as well, that their hearts are opened to see the value that all people have.

I protest because as Elie Wiesel said, “Wherever men or women are persecuted because of their race, religion, or political views, that place must- at that moment- become the center of the universe.”

I believe that moment is now.

Called By Name

Katie Kerr, CVV 13

“The measure of our compassion lies not in our service to those on the margins, but in our willingness to see ourselves in kinship.  And that means the decided movement towards awe and giant steps away from judgement.”  -Greg Boyle, SJ

A few weeks ago, I walked into a documentation room at the hospital where I work in order to speak with a physician regarding a patient.   The patient had landed on our doorstep, homeless, vulnerable, and with some behavioral challenges that made caring for him and getting him to engage in treatment quite difficult.  As some staff had requested assistance identifying resources and an appropriate care plan, I re-introduced myself to the fairly new physician.  “Oh, are you here to talk about Darth Vader?” he asked, referring to a rather distinct tattoo that the patient had on his body.  

I took a deep breath and asked, “Oh, did he ask you to call him that?”  Pausing for a brief second , I added “I heard he likes to be called Bob.”

I work in mission integration in a small Catholic hospital in New England.  Charged with ensuring that our Catholic identity permeates throughout the organization, I find myself responding to patient issues, modeling empathy toward challenging patients for staff at risk of burnout, and generally putting out fires all day long.  In a fractured and fragmented system, we aim each day to do healthcare a little… differently.  We work to make sure that we are living out our call to provide excellent care with special concern for the poor and disadvantaged.  One tiny way to do that?  To be a place where we call our patients by their chosen name.

I’ve been thinking lately about reverence.   As I have started thinking about ways to invite, remind, and challenge my colleagues to see the people we serve and serve alongside as just like us, I realize that I’m forgetting a piece of the puzzle.  And namely, that piece is a lesson from St. Vincent – that we invite people from all walks of life to join us in service.  We invite all people into kinship.  We introduce the person who preaches personal responsibility to the person who lost his job and has to choose between prescriptions and food for his kids.  I befriend the person whose political beliefs challenge me to the core.  And here – instead of dismissing a physician for an (inappropriate) off the cuff remark, I lean in.  Why is he comfortable saying that?  What is his experience?  Wonder why he is feeling so jaded so early in his tenure with us?  The beauty here is that I’m no longer a client advocate working on the outside for a tiny community health non-profit.  I work in administration at the hospital; I have a leadership role.  It’s up to me to effect some change here.  And leaning into the lived experience of another person?   That’s how we transition into fulling living the conviction that all people deserve our respect and our reverence, that all people are made in the image and likeness of God.

More kinship.  Less judgement.  Boundless compassion (borrowed from the title of Greg Boyle’s book)  just might be my phrase for the next year.  The world – and our health care system – definitely needs it.  Here we go, 2018.