Fortify and Encourage, Thursday’s Prayer for Priests


Father, be with the leaders of your flock in their needs today. Help your bishops and priests to interpret the Gospel message with clarity and urgency, witnessing in their own lives to the teaching and example of Christ.

Fortify and encourage those among them who are fearful and confused; be truly a Father to those who have fallen away.

Bless those who are involved in new responses to contemporary needs; guide those who direct and foster dialogue with other Christians, with non-Christians and with the secular city.

Assist those who are trying to promote Christian values, that with zeal tempered by prudence, and in the framework of lawful authority, they may help to build up a truly Christian world for man.

Send your Holy Spirit in a new outpouring, so that under these leaders chosen by you, the entire People of God may progress in a harmonious cooperation towards their final consummation in unity, truth and love by, with and in your Son Jesus Christ.


~Te Deum laudamus, Twenty One Days of Prayers for Priests, 2006.

Image by Pasja at 

The Stark Contrast of Imperfect Love


I was sitting in the nave of the church near the sanctuary. My friend’s final words, “allow yourself to be loved,” were printed on the front of her funeral leaflet. Just below is a picture of her on a trip she took to India, between scheduled bouts of chemotherapy. The photo shows her hugging her sponsored child. My friend’s pale and thinned skin is in stark contrast with the teenage girl’s glowing dark complexion and black hair.

It was her Requiem Mass, though her body was in a lab somewhere donated for research. In front of the altar was her picture and a few floral arrangements strategically placed nearby.

While attending her Mass I felt odd and out of place, something I rarely feel at church. I couldn’t put my finger on the discomfort, but something was amiss. Was it because the usual muted reverence before a service was displaced by loud conversations among huddled groups?

Entering the church I was greeted by the needy and the misfits whom she befriended, who were there with all their quirks to show their love for her. They paced nervously in the back vestibule and left long before Mass had ended.

There was lamenting and tears as people greeted the widower. Mass began and the readers for the service struggled to maintain their composure. The seven priests and three deacons crowded the sanctuary in white and gold chasubles and stoles. They extolled her virtues and contributions to the community as each took his turn eulogizing.

I became increasingly uncomfortable, squirming in the pew, when a long-past-middle-aged Liturgical dancer took to the floor in her overly revealing white leotards, tights, and long flowing skirt. Music began to play loudly over the speakers as she stepped and leapt about the altar, arms up and then expressively lowered.

Her appearance and movements jarred harshly against the backdrop of the Gothic architecture of the church and the formalities of a Roman Catholic Requiem Mass. The priests were sitting stoic and secure near the tabernacle and averted their eyes, choosing to look past the dancer at the congregation. Much of the congregation was watching the priests. I felt sad for the dancer whose gift to our departed friend was lost—to many of us—in the traditional rituals of Catholicism.

The Mass ended and a few final words from the pastor indicated a special farewell from the husband of the deceased. The widower stood in the middle of the church and sang flatly a capella to the picture of his wife. I’m not sure why I rolled my eyes and felt embarrassed. All I knew is that I needed to leave, and quickly, and bypass the luncheon following the service. The whole funeral Mass felt more like a carnival midway with all its strangeness temporarily displacing the dignity of the Requiem.

I had heard my friend say on more than one occasion “allow yourself to be loved.” She allowed us to love her through her cancer. She allowed the marginalized to love her through their oddities. She made arrangements to allow her friends to love her with their “special” gifts at her funeral.  She allowed herself to love and be loved in a marriage I never understood.

Her final words were a challenge, and fitting for a consummate spiritual director pointing us towards God. To heed those words and follow their calling is to embrace the very basic teachings of our Church, to embrace charity and all that it means as Christians.

She allowed more than I can imagine tolerating. Maybe this is where my discomfort comes from. I am embarrassed by my own shortcomings when it comes to receiving imperfect love.

Image by Suju at


Seeding the Holy Spirit, Tuesday’s Prayer for Sisters and Nuns


Heavenly Father,

Today, once more, sow your words in the hearts of our Sisters and Nuns. Till patiently the soil of their souls so they may continue to be fruitful and bring to you a rich harvest.

Let their nourished souls bring the Holy Spirit to nourish our lives. We ask all this in Jesus name.


Image by Margaret Rose Realy, Obl. OSB, all rights reserved.


Holy Week’s Prayer for Priests (and Deacons)


Beloved Lord, grace your priests and deacons with endurance in these holy days filled with rituals and prayers. Guide them, strengthen them, uphold them through the work they must do in honor to your son Jesus, in honor to his Passion, in honor to all of us who in our suffering remember the sufferings of the Christ. We pray the  consecrated hearts and hands of your priests do not grow weary through these blessed days through Easter. In Jesus name and with Mother Mary hear our prayers of perseverance for our priests and deacons. Amen.

Image by Helmut H Kroiss at

Ladybug Blunders


When the hibernating ladybugs appear on the inside of my window frames I know spring is just around the corner.

These ferocious mini-carnivores are the darlings of my gardens. As a child I would tip the leaf they were crawling on so the ladybug would fall onto my soiled hand.  Then I would rotate my hand as it scurried across palm and fingers, tickling as it went. Eventually the little red bug would tire of my game and suddenly rocket into flight so fast that I never saw from where its wings had come.

I delight in seeing a few of them appear on my windowsills in late winter. My Franciscan heart won’t let me squish the little visitors, so I end up attending to their needs. Yes, it’s true; I give food and water to a bug. Plucking a leaf from a nearby houseplant, I place a droplet of water in the center and then lay it near the wandering red dot. Invariably these tiny creatures are thirsty and motor quickly aboard to have a drink.

After placing the leaf with its passenger onto the soil of a houseplant I lay a very tiny piece of apple nearby. I am not surprised when I check back on my tiny pet I find it sharing a meal with a few of its buddies. Eventually, weather permitting, they are released outside.

So there it was, a ladybug on the sill of the kitchen window. I was happy to see one after a long winter and I placed a drop of water near it. I laughed out loud as it latched onto the side of the droplet and was suddenly set afloat with its tiny black legs swimming frantically while its pincers sucked the water thirstily.

It must have tried to fly off because the next thing I knew it was upside down in the drain to the sink. To avert the impending doom I placed my fingertip nearby for it to latch on to, which it did, and pulled it to what should have been safety.

But my elderly hands desensitized by arthritis had moved in too hard and unintentionally injured the little creature. While lifting it back to the sill it slowly released itself from my finger and fell on to the counter and stopped moving. I was disheartened and chastised myself for being upset…it was JUST a bug for goodness sakes!

Reflecting as I tossed the expired ladybug into the waste-bin, I was reminded that at times our good intentions can go awry. Our desire to help and encourage if brought forth too abruptly can harm. The response “I didn’t mean to do it” says a lot about not having thought things through. And sometimes it’s impossible to undo what’s been done.

When I’ve done something wrong, something I can’t undo and I feel discouraged and despondent, I am reminded of the words from St. Francis de Sales that encourage me. He guides me to know that it is important to acknowledge what I have done, in all my weakness and humanness, and having done what I could to remedy it—move on with awareness to avoid its repeating.

And when I screw up it is usually much bigger than a ladybug.

(Originally ran 4/2013, and I liked it…so here it is again!)

Image by Myriams-Foto at