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.

Batter Up

Baseball has always been a part of my life...whether I liked it or not.

As a child of a man who once tried out for the Pirates, it was inevitable.

My first recollection of baseball is hearing We Are Family by Sister Sledge, when our Buccos were unstoppable for the final time...when they won the World Series back in 1979. Now I don't remember any games or plays. (I was all of 5 years old), but I do remember the excitement and the names of the players. John Candelaria, Ed Ott, Kent Tekulve, Manny Sanguillen and who can forget Willie Stargell? These guys were in my brother's baseball card collection and in some ways actually seemed like family. The way people page through old photo albums of loved ones from days of yore, we would look through stacks of Topps baseball cards.

I'm embarrassed to say that I recognize more names from the 1979 team than from today's current Pirates roster. But that is partially because I've got a new team I've been following -the EA Wildcats.

Yes, my 7 year old is playing baseball for the third year in a row, but something happened this season to make this go around a little bit different. I have been a reluctant fan all my life because I was kinda forced into the baseball scene. I had to go to my younger brother's games and while I really enjoyed the Happy Meals after a win, (one of his teams was sponsored by McDonalds) I wasn't so much into the game. I liked when he got a hit and made it on base but the rest was bore -ing.

My oldest son tried baseball for a season and that was just painful. He ended up hating it, but because he had made a commitment we made him finish it out. Our favorite memory was when he played catcher and hid from the ball. I guess if you put it in perspective - it is scary to have a fast object coming at your face and your job is to stop it and you are all of 3 ft. 10 inches tall.

While my three children are talented in their own ways, my youngest is Mr. Sporty. He is in constant motion and has not met a sport he doesn't like. From hockey to football to frisbee, he can do it all. Prior to this year, he played baseball, but I don't remember being that into the games. The ball was still being hit off of a tee and my son was still a little immature and liked playing in the dirt and had separation issues, so the games were a bit of a hassle. But this year the games were good.

Don't get me wrong. The season started slow, but with each game I started to see the kids' potential. A good play here, a good hit there, glimmers of hope kept coming and the kids were showing they were understanding the game. By the end of the season, the team had really gelled.

Last year, I would do anything to get out of a game. This year, I wouldn't miss a game for anything and I never regretted juggling my schedule to make that happen. (Except that one game when it was really cold early in April and I ran out of hot tea.  It was a night game and I was tired and cranky.)

I have tried to pin down what made this season so special. Was it because the kids are getting older and understand what they are supposed to be doing? Was it because the kids are older and want to be better? Was the coaching staff a cohesive unit that worked well together thus were able to get the kids to do better?

I'm thinking it was a combination of all three. But I do have to hand it to our coaches. These guys work hard and truly care about teaching these kids the fundamentals of baseball. They work all day at their regular job and then a couple days a week have to report to a game or practice. There were plenty of weekend games too, but they always seemed to enjoy what they were doing and took their role seriously.

I admire people who coach because, it is not easy. It is time away from family, dealing with parents and sometimes watching kids make a mistake after you have told them 100 times not to watch the ball when they get a hit, not to slow down when they are running to first base and not to swing at bad pitches. I'm sure there are frustrating times when these guys asked themselves why they still do it, but then there are times when a kid makes a good catch, gets their first in the park home run or slides safely into second. Yes, those are good days.

Last Saturday, my son's team played in a tournament. They got clobbered the first game but the second was full of excitement and just plain good baseball. There was even a controversial call at second when a kid forgot to call time out when he tried to stand after sliding into the base. He was tagged out and I watched as the coaches tried to argue their case. The umpire made a good call but was it fair in game filled with 7 and 8 year olds?  Yes, it was frustrating and that call in the end may have cost us the game (we lost by 1 run) but the staff used the play as a teaching tool and celebrated the kids performance in what was probably the best game of the season.

I am starting to love baseball not because I have to or because it is in my DNA, but because I love watching kids get it. I love when a little guy throws the ball to first with only a second to spare to get that out. I love watching kids run with all they've got to get to make it safely to first base. Who knows, the next Tim Foli or Omar Moreno may be on deck. Sister Sledge better be working on a sequel.

Ooo La La

I always thought Millvale was on the other side of the world.

Growing up in McKeesport, my family stuck to an area within a ten mile radius. When I was little, downtown meant downtown McKeesport. We didn't go to Oakmont or Allison Park or Etna. In fact, I didn't know anything about Munhall until I was in college and I started dating a guy whose mom happened to live there.

My first trip to Millvale was shortly after we moved back to Pittsburgh 2006ish. I went there to buy pastries at the French bakery on North Street for Mother's Day. I had heard over the years about the flooding those poor people have had to endure. The worst came when Hurricane Ivan struck back in 2004. (Since then the Army Corp. of Engineers dredged Girty's Run in the hopes of removing built up sedimentation to prevent serious flooding from happening again.) The town was nice, but kind of out of the way for someone who lives in North Versailles.

That was the last time I was there, until last Friday.

On the 4th of July, I was talking to a friend of mine about recent flooding in the North Hills. The summer storms were not discriminating anymore and instead of just plaguing the South Hills area it was now affecting the northern streets of McKnight Road and Babcock Boulevard. During our conversation, I said, "You don't hear much about flooding in Millvale anymore since they took care of Girty's Run." Then the morning of July 5th happened and the town was back in the news. Quickly water rose, due to a slow moving storm, creating a river in the streets. Many homes and businesses were flooded.

The water reached the doorway of the French bakery on North Street overtaking the couple steps leading into the establishment, but then suddenly, the water began to recede. The proprietor posted video on Facebook saying that a miracle had happened and his business was spared. That is when I decided it was time to go back to Millvale. It took nearly a week to get the town cleaned up from the flooding, but on July 10, Jean-Marc Chatellier's French Bakery was open for business.

In honor of Bastille Day, July 14, a national day of celebration in France, similar to our Independence Day, we made the trip along with my mom.  She was very excited to see Millvale, a place she had never been. (You can take the girl out of the 'Port but you cannot take the 'Port out of the girl.) It was a scorcher, but we were determined to do it up right.

We put our tourist hats on as I parallel parked smack dab in front of the bakery. (It only took three tries, thank you.) I would liken our experience to a scene from a movie that apparently only my sister and I have watched from the 80's called Baby Boom where these rich tourists walked into a country store and started buying up all the gourmet baby food. (Bran, that reference is for you.) That pretty much was us, but without the rich part or the baby food.

My mom wanted six of these, one of those, a handful of these and, God bless us, we tried to pronounce the French names. We stood in the bakery and took photos like total tourons (tourist + moron)  and I just went with it and rode my mom's wave. She asked if I wanted some of their coffee and I said, "Heck, yeah" knowing it would rock my world once we got outside in the 90+ degree day with 110% humidity, but it was part of the experience and well worth it.

The people who worked there were good sports for sure and were probably a little sad (wink wink) to see us go when we made our way to the quaint tables and chairs outside. But seriously, once we got out there, for a brief moment, I experienced what it must be like in actual France, paying no attention to the folding chair I got out of my car since we were shy one seat. (Baseball parents, always with the chairs, am I right?) As I sat eating my chocolate croissant watching my youngest eat his macaron, we were 'oh la la' and 'oui, oui-ing' it up like champs...Elysees. (Sorry, a little French humor.) Looking at the Eiffel Tower replica in the window, I savored every last bite.

My oldest was born on Bastille Day and although we are not French, I've always admired French culture and even studied the language for six years. That really came in handy while in Epcot Center in Florida a few years back where I was able to order a chocolate croissant in a complete French sentence. I always thought he could have a France themed birthday party with French Toast and French Fries - the total carb experience but... I was never given the green light. Last Friday's pre-Bastille Day celebration was as close as I will ever come.

Yesterday I ate the last of the French shortbread and oooh it was so good. Looks like I might be headed back to Millvale sooner than I thought.

Is It Almost Over?

I have been celebrating the 4th of July since June 16.

Why June 16th, you ask? Well, that is the day my neighbors started shooting off fireworks in my neighborhood. Now don't get me wrong. I love America. I am red, white and blue through and through but seriously, three weeks of boom booms is three too many.

I have never been a big fan of fireworks. Being the oldest of three, I was cautious, fearful. My brother was the one who had a lighter and would ignite the little black snakes on the sidewalk. He was also the one who got in trouble for having his own stash of pyrotechnics. I am not sure if it is a guy thing, but I never had an interest in lighting things on fire especially after seeing those 4th of July PSA's where the dummy was ablaze after a firework went wrong.

 My dad's shirt caught fire one year at the annual July 4th party my family would attend. He was not one to ever play with fireworks, ever, but this particular day, after a few drinks, he became incredibly adventurous. For my siblings and I, this was exciting. Our Daddy was about to do something we had never seen him do before. We were jumping up and down waiting for the little plane, with a wick, to take off and explode.

 My dad lit the wick and instead of the plane flying away from him, it flew toward him. The burning hot firework went the wrong way and ricocheted off of my dad's chest. It was dark outside as we watched our overly excited dad running toward and jumping in a swimming pool. When he got out,  we saw a huge hole in his shirt. Luckily, he did not get burned, but it looked like he did his best Incredible Hulk impression and had become very angry.

That incident may be a contributing factor to my standoffishness toward fireworks. But this year, their sheer proximity to my home was more than I could handle. We have always had neighbors set off fireworks. The ones set off a few houses down from us are nice enough for us to stand on our porch and admire. This family usually gets in on the act as soon as the fireworks tents go up at area shopping centers, and they even set aside a few for other random occasions like a Thursday in August.

But this year, another neighbor got into the act. His fireworks were exploding above my house and the sound was so loud you could not stand on the porch to view them or even look out the window in my bedroom, the closest room facing the stage of ignition. It was so loud I could possibly imagine what it might be like in a war zone. Plus, the sound reverberated off of a nearby brick building, which only intensified the volume. Maybe it is because my ears are 43 now, but I prefer quiet peaceful sounds like birds chirping, water running, air conditioners whirring, and even silence.

I told myself things would probably be their worst on July 4 and until 12:15 a.m. it was pretty darn loud. Luckily, most of the other nights, the neighborhood boom booms wrapped up by 10. Not last Sunday though, it was almost 10:30.

Again, I get it. Fireworks are pretty and possibly the most popular pastime associated with the 4th of July and I am a fun person but...is this really what Thomas Jefferson and the boys envisioned for future generations celebrating this most important day of our country's history?

In a letter to his wife Abigail, John Adams wrote Independence Day should be celebrated, "with Pomp and Parade, with Shews (shows), Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfires and Illuminations from one end of this continent to the other from this time forward forever more." But if I am interpreting this correctly, he meant on the 4th not the 9th or the 1st and I'm sure he wasn't talking about any days in June.

So, tonight this ol' gal is sitting in her side porch oasis. I'm hearing my favorite sounds - breeze blowing, birds chirping. My pursuit of happiness is going pretty well. Will the bombs bursting in air soon cause a freedom ring in my ears? Oh John Adams, look what you started.

Summer In The City

The first day of summer is my favorite day of the year. Yes, better than my birthday, better than Arbor Day.

As a Leo, the astrological sign ruled by the sun, I thrive in summer. I am not really big into astrology, but it might explain why I love the warm, long, hot days of summer and why the summer solstice is a big day for me.

So it stands without saying that I try to make the day extra special. We usually stay outside longer than normal, eat ice cream, listen to happy 60's rock and catch fire flies. This year though, it was a little more smashing than I expected.

The Carnegie Science Center has Snowball Day each year on the first day of summer. People are encouraged to bring snowballs from winter for 'name your own admission price' and then you can chuck them into the Mon River. I made a few snowballs after our late March snow and kept them in our freezer.

The kids and I schlepped down to the big city with our little Spider-Man cooler and got ready for the big splash. I was a little disappointed as the instruments the kids chose to launch their snowballs did not give it the air time I expected. Both snowballs landed splat in the dirty river just inches from where we were standing.

No problem. We were still able to enjoy our day at the science center followed by a trip to Rita's for their Italian Ice sale. By the time we were headed home everyone was bushed. The car was quiet as I listened to the summer song tribute on local radio station WYEP. I was immersed in the sounds of Eddie Vedder's 'Hard Sun' as we were in a line of cars, slowly about to enter the Route 30 detour through East Pittsburgh, when all of a sudden BAM! The van was pushed forward by the impact of the car behind.

For a moment I was alone. I was startled and a bit disoriented. Then I remembered all three kids were in the car. My youngest was in the farthest seat back and would have sustained the greatest impact. I became a little hysterical repeating "Are you ok? Are you ok? Are you ok?" as tears streamed down my face.

I then wanted to call the police but knew we had to pull over first. I wasn't sure where that was going to happen since we were stuck in traffic with no where really to go. There was a little gravel area ahead and I set my sights on getting there as I tried to calm myself down not wanting the driver that hit me to see my emotion running down my face.

The driver pulled up next to me and very calmly told me to pull down the street. He said his business was not far and I could follow him. Once we got down there I looked at the van and amazingly, there was no damage. The driver's car also had no damage. He described the accident as a 'kiss' which I didn't understand at first. I thought maybe, like my husband does at times, tries to steal a kiss at a stop light or in traffic. I thought maybe that was how the driver got distracted, but he meant since our cars "tapped" and not crashed.

We both inquired if the other was ok and he asked about the kid in the car. I corrected him and said, "All three of my children are in the car and they are ok."  He told me his soda bottle fell on the floor and the short time it took him to bend down and pick it up was enough time to lose track of the traffic flow. Although he was at fault, his calm and friendly personality really diffused my anxiety and took a sad song and made it better.

He told me if I needed anything to contact him and then he proceeded to direct traffic so I could back out onto the road. I drove away thankful that no one was hurt, thankful that my van was ok, and thankful that the driver that hit me was who God chose to put in my path.

I don't think my kids and I will ever forget our first day of summer crash. As we pulled away we recounted other minor accidents we were in. Each of us had a few to recall except my little guy. He proudly said, "This was my first one!" and I said, "Buddy, I hope it's one and done and this is it."

Nolan fires his snowball toward the Mon.