Though my career in photography was short-lived, I still admire those who see the world around us differently than I do. It’s a gift that all visual artists have—and it’s something I’ve envied my entire life. They see beauty in things my eyes too easily pass over. They not only live in the present moment, but they can capture it on film, a computer screen, or a canvas to share with the world. It’s a wonderful gift.

Learn more with Susie Forrester’s stunning photo story on the beauty of creation. With her camera, she captures the majesty of the world around us in ways the naked eye cannot. “As a body of work, I hope something resonates with the viewer,” Forrester says, “a feeling within that speaks to them of the sacred connection we all have to one another through our shared humanness.”

Speaking of beauty, you might notice that the magazine in your hands looks different. Thanks to the good work of our art director, Mary Catherine Kozusko, and Mark Sullivan, Franciscan Media’s creative director, St. Anthony Messenger has been given a complete visual refresh. It’s our first redesign in over four years, and we feel these changes bring new life to the words and images in these pages.

We hope you have a blessed Easter!

Jackson Briggs (Channing Tatum) is a former Army Ranger recovering from a traumatic brain injury (TBI) that he received in combat in Afghanistan. After three years, he feels ready to return to active duty—all he needs is a reference letter from Commanding Officer Jones (Luke Forbes). Jones offers Briggs a final test before he will write the letter: He must drive Lulu, a Belgian Malinois, to the funeral of her former handler, Riley Rodriguez (Eric Urbiztondo), in Arizona. From there, Briggs is to drop off Lulu at an army base where troubled dogs are put down.

Briggs thinks the assignment will be easy, but he has no idea that the heavily muzzled Lulu is suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Briggs’ life and the well-being of his fully restored 1984 Ford Bronco are at stake.

As they drive down the Pacific Coast Highway, they have many adventures over the course of a few days. At one point, Lulu tears her travel kennel apart and jumps out of the truck to follow the smell of cannabis. Briggs chases her into the forest where he is accosted by Gus (Kevin Nash), who thinks he is a cop. While in the house, Tamara (Jane Adams) has completely soothed Lulu simply by talking to her. Tamara instinctively knows that Lulu wants to sleep in a real bed. Briggs then poses as a blind veteran and pins Rodriguez’s Purple Heart onto Lulu to get a free night in a hotel. They flee after Lulu causes some comedic havoc.

In some ways, Dog is a predictable road trip-buddy film with laughs along the way. But when they stop at the home of Briggs’ former wife hoping to see his young daughter, he is disappointed. They visit former Ranger Noah (Ethan Suplee), who is caring for Lulu’s sibling that also has PTSD but seems to have adapted. Noah shares a valuable lesson with Briggs: “When he stopped struggling, I realized maybe I could too.”

Dog was directed by both Reid Carolin and Tatum in their directorial debut. Based on the HBO documentary the pair produced called War Dog: A Soldier’s Best Friend, this fictional story shows the bond between a soldier and his four-legged companion. It also highlights the reality of veterans with TBIs and PTSD, human and canine alike, who continue to suffer from their injuries. Lulu and Briggs set off on a mutual journey toward healing, forgiveness, and love. Dog is playing in theaters.

A-3, PG-13‚ References to animal euthanasia, suicide, marijuana, lying, war, mature themes.

Sneakerella

El (Chosen Jacobs) works as a stock boy in the sneaker shop started by his late mother in Astoria, Queens. His secret desire is to become a famous sneaker designer. His stressed stepfather, Trey (Bryan Terrell Clark), works hard to run the store, while his two mean stepbrothers expect him to cook their meals. The only people who know about his dreams are his best friend, Sami (Devyn Nekoda), and the good-hearted Gustavo (Juan Chioran).

With a dash of fairy dust from his fairy godfather, El and Sami go to the “sneaker event of the year,” where shoe tycoon Darius King (John Salley) will be showcasing his latest kicks. While in line, they meet Kira (Lexi Underwood), Darius’ daughter, and El is smitten. Not wanting to break their curfew, as El and Sami run down the stairs, El loses a sneaker that catches the eye of Sneakerhead (Elia Press), who is always looking out for the latest design trends.

Sneakerella, streaming on Disney+, is a vibrant, gender-switching, hip-hop reimagining of the classic Cinderella with lots of rap and dancing. Its diverse cast is charming and engaging. Ably directed by Elizabeth Allen Rosenbaum, the film celebrates creativity, talent, family, friends, and second chances, especially for El when he lies about who he is. Empathy and being true to oneself are key themes too. But while the film celebrates the youth and the sneaker culture, it fails to address how consumerism confuses needs with wants, the cost of name-brand sneakers that many cannot afford, and that, as recently as 2021, kids have been killed for their sneakers.

Not yet rated ‚ Lying, consumerism.

Torn

This superb NatGeo documentary, streaming on Disney+, is the story of mountain climber Alex Lowe, the 40th American to summit Mt. Everest (which he did twice). He was an exuberant outdoor risk-taker from a young age, but when he married his girlfriend, Jennifer, he took a regular job. After a year, however, the mountains called him back, and he joined his climbing partner, Conrad Anker, for new adventures. But tragedy struck when, in 1999, Lowe and cameraman David Bridges died in an avalanche while crossing a glacier on Tibet’s Mt. Shishapangma. Anker sustained injuries but survived.

Torn, directed by Alex’s eldest son, Max, who was 10 years old when his father died, is divided into several parts: Alex’s life, his personality, his achievements, and his death. The film also explores the family and the role that Anker came to play in their lives, as well as their journey to Tibet where the bodies of Lowe and Bridges were discovered.

The film is commendable because of how it deals so sensitively and honestly with Alex’s struggle to choose between family and his passion for mountain climbing. It also shows how the family and Anker have navigated life emotionally and practically over the years: grief, survivor’s guilt, identity, family, and love in the shadow of legend Alex Lowe.

Not yet rated, Mature themes.

Parish restructuring has become a reality for many US dioceses. While initially painful, the process can ultimately lead to healing and renewal.

When Alicia Nava Attended Mass during her more than 20 years as a parishioner at St. Mary in Davenport, Iowa, she usually sat near the large painting of the assumption of Mary that hung behind the altar.

But last July, the parish merged with St. Anthony Catholic Church. Nava, along with the Latino community that belonged to St. Mary, moved about a mile to a new parish. Her 154-year-old former church was sold to a nonprofit, but Nava still hoped the painting she loves would find a place in her new church.

This wasn’t the first move for Nava, who had to leave a different parish in 1999 to join St. Mary. About 150 of the community’s families are again putting down roots as best they can during the COVID-19 pandemic, but Nava wonders, “Is this going to be it, or do we have to merge again?”

In dioceses across the country, Catholics like Nava are grappling with feelings of confusion, anger, and sadness as their parishes are restructured. Whether through a merger or a decision to partner with one or more parishes, restructuring impacts parish life, identity, and sometimes beloved church property.

Decades after the first waves of US parish mergers, dioceses have improved the process of consolidating parishes and have sought to make it a means of spiritual renewal to meet the needs of the Church today. For some Catholics, the years following the restructuring continue to be painful, but with time, others have experienced healing and growth.

Parish restructuring reflects the reality of fewer priests. In 2019, the US Church had just under 36,000 priests, a decline of almost 40 percent from 1970, according to the Center for Applied Research in the Apostolate (CARA) at Georgetown University. During the same period, the number of US parishes declined by about seven percent, according to CARA.

Restructuring may be necessary because a parish no longer serves large immigrant congregations of another era. Or parishes may find themselves with dwindling membership and resources, especially during the COVID-19 pandemic.

The Pain of Closing Churches

Before St. Thecla Parish merged with two other parishes on Chicago’s northwest side to form a new parish, St. Elizabeth of the Trinity, in July 2020, it had little debt and an independent school. But Mass attendance was down and there were few ministries, according to longtime parishioners Shannon and Jerry Nelson.

With the merger, the three nearly 100-year-old parishes located within a three-mile radius were canonically suppressed, which means they went out of existence. The church in the middle of the three, St. Tarcissus, was chosen as the new parish’s site and the other two sites, St. Thecla and St. Cornelius, were closed.

No one at St. Thecla expected that their church would close and possibly be sold in the merger, or that many parishioners would decide not to be part of the new parish, Shannon Nelson says. Eight months after the merger, only about 10 percent were actively participating, taking into account COVID-19 Mass attendance restrictions. Among those staying away are her brother and sister-in-law.

“We weren’t just losing a building we’d come to know,” says Shannon. “We were going to be losing all those relationships because if they’d all said, ‘OK, fine, we’ll go to the new building,’ we still would have had St. Thecla in spirit and in people,” she says. “For the great majority, they will not be part of St. Elizabeth of the Trinity because they are so angry with the decision.”

St. Cornelius parishioners didn’t react as strongly in part because they had merged their school with that of St. Tarcissus and two other parishes five years earlier, says Father Michael Grisolano, pastor of Elizabeth of the Trinity and previous St. Tarcissus pastor. That will be that parish’s only school.

Parish mergers, which involve both civil and canon law processes, consist of two or more parishes joining together to create a single legal and canonical entity. Most often, one or more of the parishes are suppressed, allowing for consolidation into an existing parish or into a newly created one.

The three parishes that became St. Elizabeth of the Trinity were grouped as part of the Chicago Archdiocese’s Renew My Church plan and asked to discern how they would live out Christ’s mission and ministry in their area, whether or not that involved restructuring.

Following the discernment process, the Chicago Archdiocese announced the merger and selection of the St. Tarcissus site in November 2019.

Based on the archdiocese’s metrics, it was clear that none of the parishes was strong enough to stand alone. Combining them into one made sense to everyone, though it wasn’t clear which site would be best, says Father Grisolano. The St. Tarcissus site was chosen for its size, central location, and proximity to the school.

The Chicago Archdiocese has formed 98 groupings of its 344 parishes. At the end of 2020, 108 archdiocesan parishes had formed 45 parishes, 33 churches will no longer be used on a regular basis for Mass, and 17 churches have formally closed, said Bishop Robert Casey, the Chicago Archdiocese’s vicar general.

Jerry Nelson remembered his initial feelings over the St. Thecla closure. “You start to think about the history that you’ve had,” he says. “We got married there, our kids were baptized, and then that sadness of your last child can’t finish [eighth grade at St. Thecla School]. It’s not just our child, but it’s every child beyond that too.”

COVID-19 has prevented members of the new parish from gathering to form relationships and parish ministries, including the new parish council, Shannon says. Communication during the pandemic has been complicated by the difficulty of reaching older parishioners who don’t use computers. It’s also been challenging for incoming parishioners to integrate into existing ministries.

“It feels like I’m joining St. Tarcissus, and I’m trying to follow along with what they do in a sense,” Jerry says. “There’s that overwhelming feeling of this idea that something’s already going on. We’re not creating anything new.”

One Parish with Two Worship Sites

Ten years ago, when a new parish, Good Shepherd, was formed from two Wayland, Massachusetts, parishes, “there was a lot of resistance and people being territorial,” says parishioner Sue Muldoon, who is also the parish’s religious education and family ministries director. “Sometimes it was about a traditional connection and feel. Sometimes it was about even convenience of what end of town and how much further they needed to go to come to programs. Sometimes it was just, ‘This is where we grew up.'”

The former parishes, St. Zepherin and St. Ann, were canonically suppressed in the merger, but the new parish continues to use both church sites, which are just over two miles apart.

Maintaining two sites is sometimes challenging for Father David O’Leary, pastor, who has no associates but hopes to bring in a priest to help on weekends.

Parish leaders also worked to balance scheduling liturgies and programs between the sites, Muldoon says. “People just felt like it was a huge ask to have to go up the street or have to cross over ” to the other parish, she says, adding that gradually, “People move on, for the most part people really do, a lot.”

In 2020, Good Shepherd made significant improvements to both of its churches‚ evidence it plans to expand, not retreat, Father O’Leary says. “People recognize it’s one parish with two worship sites, so what we have is what we’re keeping.”

After a decade of working to unify the parish despite cultural, liturgical, geographic, and socioeconomic differences, new growth is seen in relationships parishioners have formed with families who had belonged to the other parish, Muldoon says.

Encouraging relationships between members of different cultural backgrounds is another challenge of restructuring. Nava and the St. Mary’s community in Davenport brought to St. Anthony their mostly Mexican culture and Spanish language. The parish has added a Sunday Mass in Spanish, but at first, the new members weren’t sure if they’d be welcomed.

“There was a lot going on because you don’t know what’s going to happen to your community, how the other people from the other parish where you’re going will react,” Nava says. “We have our own culture, and it’s not easy to come to another parish and try to do what you’ve been doing for many, many years.”

To unite the groups, St. Anthony Pastor Father Rudolph Juarez is facilitating communication between them. Young people from St. Mary are bringing energy to the merged parish, and he says he’d also like to see other parishioners who are engaged in their faith and the parish stepping up to serve. “Without laypeople who have skin in the game, this would be very difficult.”

Parish Collaboratives

In 2015, Brian Hanson was concerned when he learned that his parish, St. John the Evangelist in Wellesley, Massachusetts, would begin partnering with the nearby parish of St. Paul to share a pastor, pastoral team, and council, as well as finance, administrative, and facilities personnel. He wondered, “Is everything OK? Why are we doing this? Is our parish in trouble, and we just weren’t as aware of it?”

With the many mergers that took place in the Boston Archdiocese in previous decades, Hanson had seen parishes struggle and close, but he didn’t expect the parish he and his family have belonged to for 10 years to be affected.

St. John and St. Paul were forming what the Boston Archdiocese calls a “collaborative” of two or more parishes that maintain distinct identities, finances, and property but share a pastor or priests and in some cases staff, resources, and planning. Other dioceses use the term “cluster” to describe parishes sharing resources. Collaboratives that allow parishes to keep their identity have become the dominant model of restructuring in the Boston Archdiocese, and some choose to merge after they have partnered for some time, says Father Paul Soper, archdiocesan secretary for evangelization and discipleship.

To help members of the two parishes focus on what they could do together, the collaborative’s pastor, Father James Laughlin, brought in facilitators to lead forums. He also emphasized parishioners’ common faith in Christ and their desire to celebrate the Eucharist and serve those in need.

“You can’t start with ‘You just have to unite,'” Father Laughlin says. “People need to be able to go through a process of grieving because they are giving up things exactly the way that they were, and people feel passionately about their parish communities.”

Hanson’s concerns have been resolved as he’s seen the St. John-St. Paul Catholic Collaborative forming something he believes is greater than the sum of its parts.

“All the talented people in each parish and their treasures that they bring, their strengths, and best practices instead of just experiencing what your one parish has to offer in each of those categories, which can be great or . . . maybe not as strong‚Äînow you have a chance to really get the best of two parishes,” he says.

An example of the new synergy is the Sunday evening youth Mass, which before the COVID-19 pandemic was bringing together parishioners of different ages from both parishes, Hanson said. The Mass has been suspended during the pandemic.

“My guess is one of the parishes would not have been able to single-handedly support [the youth Mass], but together there’s a strong demand for it when you bring an offering like that to two parishes instead of one,” he says.

Collaborative members also serve the community together through the conference of the Society of St. Vincent de Paul that they run, Father Laughlin says.

In Chicago, St. Elizabeth of the Trinity’s food pantry, which opened after the merger at one of its campuses, also gives parishioners an opportunity to serve together. But they need to realize that more must be done to unite the parish and ensure its future, Shannon Nelson says.

The Work of Rebuilding and Healing

“What we really have to understand is there are actions we need to take right now in order to make sure that there are still viable infrastructures in place for us to practice our faith moving forward,” Shannon says. “That is something that really needs to be digested by folks. Like it or not, what [the merger] is intended to do is to provide a vibrant community for us to continue to practice and grow in Catholic faith and provide a structure that ideally is going to be a strong foundation for the future.”

Grieving changes brought about by restructuring and uniting to build something new requires time, Father Laughlin says.

“I think [it requires] being gentle and pastoral and also taking the time necessary to work through those things,” he says. “Mergers are not accomplished overnight. Coming together as a collaborative does not happen overnight. It takes years of careful listening and pastoral care.”

It will take more time for Nava to fully adjust to St. Anthony, but she was glad to learn that the Assumption painting from her old church would be brought to her new parish.

“I do feel like I’m part of St. Anthony’s, but it’s not complete because I don’t know a lot of people yet,” she says. “I’m getting used to new things. They do things differently, so we have to kind of see how we’re going to work together. They are always there asking if we need anything, so they’ve been good.”

Pandemic Presents Challenges and Opportunities

The COVID-19 Pandemic has complicated merging parishes’ efforts to unite, but it’s also motivated other parishes to merge in order to make the most of their resources.

Following the July 2020 merger of three Chicago parishes to form St. Elizabeth of the Trinity, Father Michael Grisolano emailed parishioners to find out if they planned to attend the new parish. COVID-19 restrictions have affected Mass attendance, so it hasn’t been a good indicator of interest.

Some of the parishioners from St. Mary in Davenport, Iowa, haven’t started coming to St. Anthony since the two parishes merged last July, says parishioner Alicia Nava. Those who are attending the parish have also had more challenges in getting to know each other.

“We have been having Zoom meetings, but it’s not the same thing to talk one-on-one and to get to know people,” she says. St. Anthony Pastor Father Rudolph Juarez has called parishioners. But until COVID-19 recedes, he has few options other than reaching out to them virtually.

Along with making it difficult to stay in contact with parishioners, the pandemic has stressed parishes financially. Some in the Boston Archdiocese that have a history of working together are deciding to merge in part so they can be more secure financially, says Father Paul Soper, the archdiocese’s secretary for evangelization and discipleship.

Before merging, the parishes were known as collaboratives, which the Boston Archdiocese defines as two or more parishes that maintain distinct identities, finances, and property but share a pastor or priests and in some cases staff, resources, and planning. Since July 2019, 25 collaboratives requested to merge and form new canonical parishes that have the same identity, finances, and property, Father Soper says.

“Part of it has been driven by the desire to make the parishes more secure during the difficult financial times brought on by the pandemic,” he says, “and part of it is just once you get a certain amount of momentum going with these parishes, looking at this and saying, ‘Well, why wouldn’t that make sense for us?'”

Walking through our own pain, with God’s help, leads us to reach out to others.

They’re everywhere. In this age of COVID-19, of worry and sickness, of paralyzing fear and deepening sadness, these brave souls can be found on the front lines: wounded healers. I am one myself. It all began with a single book.

Have you ever read a book that changed your life? I have read many that influenced me in important ways. Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird gave me a role model for being a father. Carl Rogers’ On Becoming a Person guided my early efforts in learning to be a psychotherapist. John Sanford’s The Kingdom Within opened me to the spiritual potential of my nighttime dreams. But there is only one book that really changed my life.

As I left the Army and entered private practice, I found myself longing to find some sort of bridge between my psychological profession and my spiritual life. After lunch one day, I went to a bookstore and passed by a title that intrigued me. That book was The Wounded Healer, by Henri Nouwen.

I read the book and embraced Nouwen’s notion that our wounds can become a source of healing in our relationships with others. I found myself nodding to words such as these: “Whether [the helper] tries to enter into a dislocated world, relate to a convulsive generation, or speak to a dying man, his service will not be perceived as authentic unless it comes from a heart wounded by the suffering about which he speaks.”

I embraced his notion, and then conveniently filed it away. Then, in 1983, I found myself drawn to read the book again. As I read it, I found myself returning to this thought: “You know what your biggest wound is. Now face it!” I resisted for a few more weeks, but the thought and Nouwen’s book wouldn’t leave me. Finally, through my clearest experience of grace, I woke up (literally, as well as symbolically) on June 2, 1983. I confronted my addiction and began the process of seeking help. I faced my deepest wound. That journey has never been easy and continues to this day. But it has deepened my understanding of what it means to try to become a wounded healer.

Since then, I have come to know many other wounded healers. Some are professional therapists, but most are not. But all of these special people have a firsthand understanding of pain, healing, and the spiritual power found by facing our troubles.

I think of the many addicts I have known, and their reaching out to other addicts. I think of a woman married to a man with schizophrenia, and her reaching out to other families with a member who suffers from mental illness. I think of many veterans struggling with the horrors of post-traumatic stress disorder, yet sharing with others their learnings as they try to heal.

These people have chosen to learn what they can from their own journeys of woundedness, and to share that learning with others.

The Original Healer

The saints are also replete with wounded healers. St. Paul draws on his own struggles to deepen an understanding of moral battles. St. Thomas More battled fear and depression as he struggled to speak his conscience.

Even Mother Teresa acknowledged struggles with the darkness of doubt. This honesty deepens her credibility, especially to someone like me for whom doubting is an ongoing part of the journey. Thus, when I encounter a saint who faced inner darkness and tried to build an edifice of compassion on those wounds, I feel these are people I can approach.

We have other modern-day examples as well. Bill W., the cofounder of Alcoholics Anonymous, drew on his own addiction to build an organization that now helps addicts worldwide. Psychiatrist Viktor Frankl drew upon his experiences in the Nazi death camps to formulate logotherapy, one of the few psychotherapies that talks directly about suffering. Harold Kushner drew upon his own family tragedy to write When Bad Things Happen to Good People, a work that has helped millions face senseless suffering.

What I’ve come to see is that wounded healers offer many things: knowledge, resources, and creative problem solving. But what they offer more than anything else is that most elusive, yet most important, spiritual and psychological experience: hope.

Offering Hope

We all know that the three cornerstones of the Christian message are faith, hope, and charity. I have heard many sermons on faith and charity, but few on hope. Hope, in many ways, may be the greatest need we have as we struggle to live in an increasingly troubled world. I’ve come to see that my own work involves helping people find it. Without hope, there is little motivation to face wounds, to heal, and to make changes.

Quite simply, the message is, “If I can heal, so can you.” What wounded healers then do is to help each sufferer find within himself or herself the seed of healing. I cannot heal anyone. But I believe within each of us is everything we need to heal. We just don’t always believe that. God didn’t just dump us into this world with a pat on the back and a wish of “Good luck!” Rather, God, knowing how challenging life can be, equipped us with everything we need to cope and to grow. Most of us stumble along the way and lose sight of this.

As we grope in the darkness, we may believe that hope and healing are found externally—perhaps in religion, perhaps in therapy, perhaps in some New Age guru. Much like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, we go through all kinds of misadventures trying to find our way home. If we’re blessed, we may cross paths with someone who helps us see that the answer we seek was within all along.

Does such a point of view leave no room for God? The healing potential within each of us comes from God! But we must find and activate it. Jesus gave us a clue when he said, “The kingdom of God is within you.” I have come to believe that this is one of Jesus’ strongest sayings, and it is one of the ones that got him killed. It is a revolutionary thought: God is residing within each one of us, waiting.

It is this healing power that a wounded healer models. He or she is living proof of the existence of the kingdom within. I know I never would have healed myself. I’d tried that, but it didn’t work. I needed that infusion of grace as well as an introduction to a roomful of wounded healers who, by their sharing, helped me find and maintain the hope that I, too, could heal.

An Ongoing Process

The common ground we find with a wounded healer can sometimes be surprising. As I was battling denial early on, I heard the testimony of a man who was a stereotypical alcoholic. He had literally been dragged out of a gutter by a policeman.

I thought I had nothing in common with this man. But then he spoke of self-hatred. His words have stayed with me: “When I looked in a mirror, I hated who I saw.” That experience I knew. Though he and I differed on the surface, we were brothers underneath. Thus, help can often come in unexpected ways. As Anne Morrow Lindbergh (herself a wounded healer) wrote in her book Gift from the Sea: “We must use any signposts that exist to help us through the wilderness.” For me, a grubby homeless man, unshaven and dirty, was one of those signposts.

There is an irony here. Wounded healers don’t heal. They know the power to heal comes from a spiritual source and that each one of us has the potential to connect with that source. This is one powerful aspect of Jesus’ rich statement, “The kingdom of God is among you.” The wounded healer— whatever his or her spiritual path—does not pridefully take credit for the healing. He or she is simply passing something along.

I have known many people who try to be helpers without facing their own wounds. I remember one man training to be a therapist. I suggested there might be a need for him to consult with a therapist himself. His response? “I’d never do anything like that!” Not a good sign. As one heals on the path to becoming a wounded healer, it is very tempting to rest on one’s laurels, being content simply to enjoy one’s new life.

As one person early in recovery said to me, “I’m not drinking. Why would I want to hang around with a bunch of drunks?” I pointed out to him that these weren’t a bunch of drunks hanging out in a bar. It was a bunch of drunks trying to help each other “keep the plug in the jug.” Beyond that, I pointed out to him that he might have something to offer to others and that the helping of others might help him stay sober. He went back to his meetings.

Becoming a wounded healer is always a process—never a finished project. There is always more to learn about being of help to others. Thus, I must always remember first to listen and remember that the wounded healer path may begin when I face my wounds, but it continues for a lifetime.

Light Conquers Darkness

About a year after he died, I read a book titled Wounded Prophet: A Portrait of Henri J.M. Nouwen, by Michael Ford. In this book, it was revealed that Nouwen had been gay. Apparently there had been pressure on him to “out” himself while he was living, but he did not.

I had no opinion then and don’t now on that issue. What I do know is that when I learned about Nouwen’s struggle, I loved him even more. I always sensed that he struggled. Now I knew a bit more of how. His credibility in death grew with me.

It seems appropriate then to leave you with one of Nouwen’s many rich thoughts on woundedness: “The more I try to disentangle myself from the darkness, the darker it becomes. I need light to conquer my darkness, and that I cannot bring about myself.”

Sidebar: Steps to Becoming a Wounded Healer

1) In your journal, take an inventory of your wounds—healed or unhealed. Don’t judge. Just notice.

2) Assess what steps you need to take to face those wounds. What gets in the way? Pride? Shame? Fear?

3) Decide which healing path might work for you: support groups, 12-step programs, spiritual guides, or psychotherapists. Reach out.

4) As you heal, be grateful and celebrate. Gratitude is a key attitude of the humble wounded healer. Celebration is sharing in God’s joy.

The loss of a live oak leads to a new conception of the seven lively virtues.

Pope Francis’ encyclical Laudato Si’—like the poem by St. Francis on which it is based—speaks of the fragility of our ecology due in large part to the weakness of our morality. Unless we value each creature as integral to our humanity, we cannot act as responsible stewards of a global community.

As a Franciscan working with undergraduates, I was pondering the significance of the pope’s words for my ministry when an old friend died: a southern oak, older than anyone on campus. Students called this majestic tree the “smoking oak,” because it was where they were allowed to light up. But I thought of it as smoking because, at every dawn, it was a billowing, black silhouette against a horizon glowing like a firestorm. It was my faithful friend, next to whom I prayed every dawn in any weather.

But now it had perished and was being hacked by chain saws before being hauled away to the school’s annual bonfire. When the creaking and chain sawing began, I wanted to flee somewhere quiet where it would be easier to pray. But my love and admiration for this paradigm of perseverance overcame me. How tragic if such a great life would die alone and unlamented. Nothing so strong and faithful should die with no one at its side. So I stayed to grieve the tree, standing watch to pray that our ancient champion would pass gently, and suddenly death invited me to reflect intently.

In death, this live oak became a micro metaphor for the global reach of Laudato Si’, which states: “Consequently, we can ascend from created things ‘to the greatness of God and to his loving mercy’” (#77). If creation is a book of revelation, then meditation on nature may lead us to a deeper appreciation and understanding of the nature of God’s mercy. Thus, even before our oak burned in a bonfire, it fueled my contemplation upon the seven lively virtues, which I share here with readers as I have preached to our undergraduates. Like our oak tree, each virtue demonstrates the nature of God’s mercy: We become merciful only by receiving the mercy of God.

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Humility. While I seek recognition, our oak was taken for granted for so long that it seemed a permanent feature of the landscape, like a hill or a lake. Humility comes from the Latin word for dirt. Would that I were as firmly planted in humility as the tree was in the humble earth, but too often my pride drives me to desire acknowledgment and appreciation for my actions. I pray through God’s mercy to become as unpretentious as an acorn.

Generosity. Our oak’s outstretched boughs bestowed endless benediction. Its leaves held countless confidential conversations and it witnessed many pets, prayers, and parties. The roots were deep because it had many memories to share. Compared to the tree, my generosity is but a small twig. I do not open my arms, my heart, my wallet, or my time like our oak—abundantly and without exception—welcomed any passerby. Thus, I pray through God’s mercy to sink my roots deeply into the same rich liberality whose bounty was our oak’s beauty.

Meekness. The oaken wood had withstood hurricane and drought, pests and plagues. I’m not even meek and patient when the tater tots are cold, much less when my own compulsions become pests or the moods of family members seem as changeable as the weather. The oak did not approve of evil, yet endured it. I, however, sway like a sapling in the wind, blown about by my anger at adversity. Therefore, I pray through God’s mercy for the docility of those slender sprouts of spring that turn all things to the good of those who serve their Creator.

Zeal. Our oak exuded life. In its branches birds nested, in its shade we rested, upon its bark lichen and moss contested. Our oak was so exuberant with life that mites munched its marrow. There was nothing slothful about our noble guardian, which surrendered its body so others might live. I, however, stem exuberance, quiver like a twig before fanaticism, and easily branch into apathy. I pray God’s mercy makes me passionate about giving life to others even when I’m tired to death.

Solicitude. Our oak envied no one, begrudged nothing. It admired birds, but was content not to fly. It welcomed prattling squirrels, but was happy with its own silence. Solicitude is the ability to assume the good about others and rejoice in their fine fortunes. In a political season during which rancor reigns and debating opinions degenerate into debasing opponents, I resolve to show solicitude. I will not truncate compliments to students nor appreciation for our maintenance workers, the kitchen staff, and secretaries. Like our tree, I will reflect the true nature of God’s mercy.

Temperance. During all its long life, our live oak never took more than it needed. It never gorged itself on water or gobbled more nutrients than it required. What would the world’s environment be like today if the human race had been as temperate as oaks rather than as gluttonous as ogres? Every sin against creation is a sin against the Creator. Consequently, I pray through God’s mercy that upon my death I can sincerely say that, like our oak, the earth was more enriched than depleted by my life. What a crowning canopy!

Chastity. What can an old oak teach the young people on our campus about chastity? Channeling the sap of life through chastity rather than rebelling against self-mastery is exactly what Pope Francis means by “fertile chastity”—that is, the begetting of spiritual children just as the Virgin Mary did.

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Praise God, Always

Who knows more about such fertile chastity than our ancient oak? It fed a forest! It was a live oak and it was alive not with a craving to consume, but with a desire to donate. I recall every sparking sunrise made holy as my spirit struggled upward, while our live oak’s branches soared heavenward, straining like me to ignite with the object of its desire: the sun afire. While in this life, our oak could never reach the heights of its fiery desire. Live wood cannot combust.

Like Christ, who died upon another tree, our oak had to expire in order to inspire. Through its death by bonfire, our oak was resurrected as spirals of sparks billowing from its oaken heart to rise higher and higher.

Death ignited the oak to brightly proclaim that we, too, must serve as fuel for the Spirit, burning like wood to its flame. Laudato Si’—praise God’s majesty in creation and in crucifixion! Laudato Si’—praise God for the earth from which burst the Resurrection! Laudato Si’—praise and bless and thank the Lord for the nature of God’s mercy.

Pandemic isolation forced this photographer to capture the intricate and beautiful world around her.

As the world became smaller, the world around me became larger. For more than two years, we have endured the changes that COVID-19 has brought: businesses shuttered, campuses emptied, travel slowed. We hunkered down in our homes to protect ourselves and our neighbors. Stay inside. Wash your hands. Socially distance. Wear a mask.

Each day I’d walk out my door to greet the day and breathe the air. I’d walk around my yard, pull a few weeds, admire the sprouting plants, and just look. The quiet was palpable.

I had been taking photos of my garden for years. Each day that I walked in my yard, I looked a little longer, a little deeper. I always prided myself on being observant and appreciating the little things in life. But there were a lot of distractions as well: scrolling through social media, buying things I couldn’t afford and didn’t need, watching Netflix, and other interruptions.

The slowed pace of the pandemic started to slow me down too. I started to shoot more with my macro lens, which is like looking through a microscope. Tiny flowers and insects appeared larger than life. I began looking not just at a flower, but inside the flower: the architectural design of the flower and the movement of it. What life! How could I not have noticed these little things before?

The wings of a fly are intricately designed, like a fine etching. The back of a lady’s mantle leaf is like a scalloped shell. The stalks and stems of flowers and vegetables are hairy. The wing of the katydid looks like a green leaf.

I never felt more connected with the world around me than during this time. The quiet ritual of walking outside and simply looking around was a walking meditation. It brought me to a closer union with the sacred world around me.

I understood what St. Francis of Assisi meant when he called plants and animals his brothers and sisters. It was his true connection. It is something I felt with a subject when I photographed it: wonder, respect, and acknowledgment. It seemed as if, in some small and quiet way, we communicated. We respected each other. Many writers, poets, ecologists, naturalists, and saints have written about their experiences in the same way. I believe we are all connected and that all beings and all parts of nature contain the divine.

These photographs are a quiet invitation to step closer when we have been asked to step back and keep distant. These quiet moments are a call to move inward—to become more intimate with the world around us. Move closer, pause, behold, move closer again, and feel the sacredness of the moment.

Invitation to Quiet. The song of the divine is always singing. When I set aside my worries, self-loathing, frustrations, plans for tomorrow, and my pervasive ego, I simply look around. I open myself to see and hear this call of God.

I see God in the setting sun upon the sweet-smelling lilacs, in the tiny black swallowtail caterpillar creeping up the stem of the rue plant (above), in the mandala-like roundness of the zinnia, and in the glorious folds of the mallow bud. I am called—we are called—to share in the glorious banquet of God’s love.

Related and Connected. When I take the time to remember where I am, who is with me, and what is around me, I come to my senses. Why these moments are fleeting, I cannot explain. But in these moments, I notice my breathing. I sense the breath in my body. I notice the breeze upon my face and smell the gentle aroma of the swaying flower in the garden. I am participating in this moment—and it is truly sacred. I see the tiny flowers of the forget-me-not, those blue gems that are the size of my fingernail. Their blueness pulses to life, calling me to delight in the beauty of God’s love.

The carpenter ant looks at me, or so it seems. And why not? If we are present to the moment, the insects and flowers sense this presence and respond to this connection. And I am reminded again that we are related. We are connected. I understand that sometimes the mind likes to feel separate. But time and again, I am humbled in my humanness. When I see this interconnectedness with the world around me—the life cycles of these flowers and insects in my garden—I feel connected. And there’s nowhere else I want to be.

Beauty to Behold. The unfolding of the lady’s mantle is similar to my own unfolding. Letting go is difficult, and the curled leaf, to me, is a symbol of my resistance, my armor. Like the ridges and tiny hairs on the petals of a lady’s mantle, I experience the grace of unfolding when I let go and let love in.

The newly emergent leaf slipping out of the seed of the purple hyacinth is shiny, ridged, and crisp. To me, it resembles the wing of an insect. Its green color is saturated with freshness and vitality. Life is pulsating. God’s love is calling to us through this tiny and immense world. The beauty in such flowers and insects is a reminder to appreciate the beauty in myself and in those around me.

When we slow down and take the time to behold a flower, a weed, an insect, a loved one, we form a connection to this being. The gaze of God holds us as we take the time to behold his creations. We behold the divine creation around us and are simultaneously held in God’s embrace. God holds us when we behold his presence in all of these tiny bursts of life magnified in a flower, in an insect, in ourselves.

About the Photographer

Susie Forrester has been a photographer since she got her first camera at the age of 12. She has worked as a freelance photographer since 1992, photographing weddings, pets, landscapes, portraits, college campuses, circuses, dog shows, family members, and much more.

In her words: “For as long as I’ve been shooting, I feel the photo. It resonates with me. I see the image and immediately have an emotional response to it. The spirit of the moment is what I strive to photograph. There is a deep quiet, an almost palpable stillness to these visual moments. They become anchors or tethering points to keep me in the present. It is a connection to my soul, my Higher Power, our shared humanness that photography gives to me. It’s my way of speaking when I can’t find the words to express.

Susie’s work has been shown in many exhibitions in San Francisco, Washington, DC, Philadelphia, and most recently in the Art of the State in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. She taught photography at Blair Academy in New Jersey for several years and has conducted photo workshops for both children and adults. Currently, Susie is a studio assistant and archivist for photographer Larry Fink. She resides in Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania. See her work at Instagram.com/susie_forrester and SusieForrester.com.