A Matter of Faith

The story is everywhere.

You cannot get away from it.

It is unfathomable. It is sickening.

As a Catholic, which I don't say out loud much these days, I cannot wrap my head around the recently released grand jury report. You've seen the news stories so I won't go into any details. Many of us are struggling. I know this because I've spoken with fellow Catholics, family and friends, and we just don't know where to go from here.

I am not a practicing Roman Catholic. I was baptized in the Byzantine Rite, which falls under the Catholic umbrella and puts us under the leadership of the Pope, but we have our own bishops and governing hierarchy. Our services are more Orthodox than Roman oriented. Since setting out on my own, I have been practicing the Byzantine faith steadily for about 20 years.

When I was little, my family would attend Roman Catholic services occasionally if we could not make it to our usual 11 a.m. Divine Liturgy. I never attended Roman services enough to become particularly close with any of the priests until college.

During my freshman year at the University of Pittsburgh at Johnstown, I often attended Sunday mass. It was comforting for my mom to know I was going to church while away at school and, even though there was not a Byzantine service in our non-denominational chapel, there was a Roman Catholic one each Sunday. My attendance each week led me to come to know the priest who celebrated mass, Fr. Joe, and I eventually joined the Newman Group, a club for young Catholics like myself.

This group was very important to me because I was living away from home for the first time and I needed to be a part of something familiar. I had a lot of questions and concerns and our meetings provided an opportunity to pray, discuss different topics and get a fresh perspective from a priest who felt like one of us.

He was down to earth, and easy to talk to. He was different from any priest I had encountered up to that point. He made me feel like a peer instead of a kid. Fr. Joe was someone I could go to and talk and I really needed that freshman year as my parents were going through a tough time back home. I needed security and the Newman Group provided that.

We even went on a weekend retreat to a local bed and breakfast. We made our own meals, ate tons of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups covered in whipped cream and had rap sessions at night. It was nice to talk candidly with a priest and be taken seriously. I felt like he answered our questions without the fire and brimstone answers we were used to getting. It made me feel good to know things weren't as black and white as they had always seemed growing up. I felt like I grew in my faith that year and that God seemed more approachable than ever before.

Three years ago, I saw Fr. Joe's picture in an online news story about a priest who had molested children at a homeless center in Honduras. I was in shock. I wanted to be sure it was my Fr. Joe and once I confirmed the last name and his affiliation with UPJ, there was no denying it was him.

Apparently, Joe would help raise money in the Altoona-Johnstown diocese to help support orphaned children in Central and South America and then make a couple of trips during the year to deliver money and supplies. His trips, unfortunately, were more than missions of charity. He is currently serving a 16 year, 8 month prison sentence and will face lifetime probation upon release.

I am not alone. Many people have stories about special priests who led a secret life. I have asked myself how could Joe have done this? How could this person, who helped me during a rough time in my life, also masquerade as a child predator - this man of God? I also wonder about the weekend retreats our Newman Group took back in college. Was someone in our group molested? Is he or she walking around with emotional scars that won't ever heal?

It is a hard time to be Catholic. It is a hard time to have faith but now is when we need it most. I am writing this not because I have the answers or any new insight on this horrible story. I am writing this because personally, I, need to find a way to move forward.

 A few years ago, Fr. Joe was just a priest I knew who was sick and had a serious problem. Now, he is one of hundreds across the state. My feelings are at the surface again, but I can't push them down this time. Where does the Catholic Church go from here? God help us.

Welcome Home

How many times have we heard that phrase? Welcome home. It is a nice little group of words that evoke a feeling of warmth and belonging to something familiar, home.

Imagine being far away from home. On a trip you didn't set out to take. In a place you didn't want to be. Doing things you didn't want to do for a period of time that probably felt like an eternity. It seems to me, in that situation, home would be constantly on your mind.

This scenario played out for my father almost 50 years ago. He was in a place called Vietnam after being drafted at age 18. I am sure at such a young age there were lots of things on his mind besides taking care of men who were wounded in a war that wasn't really understood. He was told he was fighting communism. That seems like a big fight for thousands of young American guys. Romantic even.

I have always been curious about my father's time in Vietnam. It was a subject that didn't come up much and when it did, the stories were benign - the R&R trips he took, the shots he had to administer, and the food he ate. There is one sad Christmas story I remember about being so homesick it was almost unbearable. There's that word again...home.

So if those were the stories I got, it made sense that I didn't get the full story about coming home. He didn't tell me how bad it was - the names he was called and how insensitively he and countless other veterans were treated across the country.

Recently, I had a co-worker tell me he took his uniform off on the plane during his flight home because, upon landing, he didn't want anyone at the airport to know he had served his country for fear of what someone might do or say. Not long after returning home, he eventually had to steer clear of mentioning his military service on a job application or resume, just so he could get a call back. Yes, welcome home indeed.

These stories make me sad and angry and I know I am not alone, but my dad's story is so personal to me for selfish reasons. I know despite his treatment when his tour was over, it beat the alternative of not coming home at all. Seeing the traveling Vietnam Wall that was recently in McKeesport, bearing 58,318 names, it became real that my dad could have easily been one of those lost but, his return paved the way for me and the life I have been able to enjoy.

A beautiful opening ceremony was held in Renzie Park last Thursday, to kick off a four day period during which The Wall That Heals could be viewed. The ceremony was thoughtfully crafted and really brought the audience full circle with the Vietnam experience. Although the focus of the Wall is to honor the dead, local elected officials also had the opportunity to recognize the living Vietnam veterans who never received a proper homecoming.  The names of 80 men were read, most of whom came forward, and they were presented with a commemorative pin and a Vietnam Veteran hat.

I can honestly say, I have never been more proud of my dad then when I watched him approach the podium to be recognized. It seemed like time went in slow motion as his hand went up to greet state Senator Jim Brewster, who was a classmate of his at McKeesport High School. Their embrace did me in and the waterworks began in earnest. Watching him stand along the wall with others who had served as the audience erupted in applause is a moment I will never forget.

Leaving Renzie Park that night, although overwhelmed with pride, I felt sad because it took that long for my dad and other veterans to get properly recognized for their service and sacrifice. But I came to the conclusion that for my dad, the wait provided 11 people with an opportunity to see something they would have missed had it happened 50 years ago.

When my dad returned to his seat in the audience, he was met by a storm of hugs and kisses from his family - three children, five grandchildren, sons-in law and, last but not least, his wife of 45 years.  If that isn't a proper homecoming, I don't know what is and I am thankful I was lucky enough to be a part of it.

Welcome home, dad.

They Say Its Your Birth Month

Even though I am almost 44, I still get excited as August approaches.

It seems very silly at this point, but one internet meme I've seen pretty much sums it up. It shows a young lady getting a tiara placed on her head with the words, 'Me on the first day of my birth month.' And that about sums it up, until the day after my birthday when the "party" is over.

In a perfect world I would do a bunch of celebratory things to commemorate my birth - polo matches, yacht races, wine tastings. Yes, the princess would like another please. But as an adult and parent, it is even harder to have the perfect day when you have that pesky responsibility of taking care of other people and the world does not, even for one day, revolve around you. Many a year my sister and I have consoled each other after a not so perfect birthday, knowing if we were still kids, the day would have rocked.

I blame my parents for this. Birthdays were very special in our house growing up. There was always breakfast in bed, a party and a big deal made over another trip around the sun. But the celebrations for me started right out of the gate, the very first day I began my earthly journey, which I don't remember very clearly, or at all for that matter, but I hear some rules were broken. My dad bought the biggest stuffed animals he could find from Bloom's Cut Rate in McKeesport and brought them to the hospital. As my mom's room was filling up with these large creatures, a nurse angrily commented to my mom, "You tell your husband this is not a zoo."

My mom, still dazed and confused, as she was completely sedated for my arrival, probably thought the animals were family and friends and probably had been chatting them up thinking she was at a party. (Just kidding mom, I know you gave that nurse what for - telling her, "Its his baby and he can do what he wants to.")

From my understanding, each of my siblings also got a large stuffed animal but none of them was as big or had the longevity of mine. My bear was so big, I could sit on its lap. I could put his arms around me. And I could cry on him when I was feeling sad. I don't think I ever gave him a name, I probably just called him 'Bear',  but he seemed to always be there in times of trouble. (Paul had Mother Mary and I had Bear.)

As I got older, 'Bear' did too. The little white, probably toxic, asbestos pellets (circa 1970's)  that gave him his girth, started finding escape routes, through small holes in his mouth, through his arms and through his feet. As a young teen, I would have to vacuum the carpet in my room (yes, he was still in my room at that point) to collect the pellets.

I am not exactly sure when 'Bear' made his final exit, but I am sure there was quite the clean up.

As you can see, from the beginning, birthdays were very special occasions. But as I got older, the birthday excitement translated to my children while my own birthday lacked the pomp and circumstance a build up that begins the first day of August would dictate. (Although over the years, I have received plenty of homemade cards with large colorful numbers featured prominently on the front or on the inside so I would not forget the number of years gone by.)

Last year I tried something different. I had each of my kids pick out something special they wanted to do with me, just one on one. This meant they were forced to put some thought into what they wanted to do, and it proved to be a day I will treasure. My youngest and I went to the trampoline park and played video games, my oldest treated me to lunch at Panera and my daughter and I got a pedicure. By the time the day was winding down, there was barely enough time to squeeze in dinner with the hubby and have my parents join us for cake.

Not sure what the plan is to commemorate my 44th loop around the sun. But I have about two weeks to walk around wearing my imaginary tiara, with visions of a decadent chocolate cake dancing in my head.

The Stewart twins helped break in 'Bear' at my baptism party. As you can see, Bear was huge.