My faith has always been an essential part of my life.  When I was a child, I ‘talked’ to God constantly.  I told Him about my joys, my fears, my troubles ... everything.  I made up songs for Him and sang them for hours on end.  A couple of my children do the same thing.

My First Communion and Confirmation (both on May 13) are days that shine clearly in my memory.  I was so excited to have these ways to draw closer to my Lord.  Although I expected bells and fireworks, which obviously did not happen, the day was still filled with a joy that is indescribable.  There are still times when my heart threatens to burst after Communion.

However, I have not always been steadily fixed on the truth.

Going to college in Wisconsin in the seventies, opened up the world for me.  Not much solid Catholic support was available.  So, in my quest for growing in the closeness I had always felt with my Lord, I fell in with Campus Crusade and Inter Varsity Christian Fellowship.  Both claim to be interdenominational groups, but have a decidedly anti-Catholic bent.

I probably attended just about all denominations - and non denominational - churches around at one point or another.  Not conducive to solid spiritual footing. 

The Bible studies brought wonderful insight.  Yet, it did not take long to realize that much ‘Biblically based’ teaching was contradictory.  It was as though the ‘latest’ and ‘greatest’ was dependent on what wind blew the strongest at a particular time.

At one point, I came face to face with the anti-Catholic nature of one of the groups.  The incident drove me back to the Catholic Church.  I found an off campus church a half hour walk from my dorm. 

The next year found me at a vocations retreat with a Benedictine priory.  I love the Liturgy of the Hours and the communal life.  The sister I traveled with was quite perceptive and helped me sort out a good number of things.  I came away from the weekend with a lot to think about.

I spent my Easter break with several ladies and the vocations director.  It was the most phenomenal Easter I have ever had.  I always loved Holy Week, but that particular year I found a much deeper meaning to the celebration of Christ’s passion, death, and resurrection.  Perhaps I will write about that week another time....

My family had a big negative reaction to the idea of a vocation to the religious life.  My Mom declared that I couldn’t cheat her out of a wedding (she had only two daughters – bookends for her six children).  So I did not follow through. 

It turns out that the particular priory has gone in a different direction than orthodoxy.  In retrospect, the Holy Spirit has His way with me.  I experienced Easter in a new way, but went on to other pursuits.

I ran into some serious prejudice in both the music program and the elementary education track at the college I attended.  So, I burned out on school and stopped out after my junior year. 

I moved back in with my parents.  They had moved from New York to Florida while I was off at college. 

Within the year, I got itching feet and took a summer ‘camp’ job at an Jewish institution in Far Rockaway, New York.  The institution was run by and for Hasidic Jews. 

At the end of the summer, I signed on as a house-parent with the same program.  I learned a lot about orthodox Jewish faith and lifestyle.

Living in New York City was quite the experience.  I lived there for two years – I often say: ‘...Two years too long; but I grew up fast.’ 

I started taking guitar lessons from a fellow in Flushing, Queens – you know, Archie Bunker’s neighborhood. 

Bob was Jewish, as were most of his friends.  They were very different Jews from the ones I associated with at work, however.  Bob claimed to be an atheist.  The others made no bones about being ‘cultural Jews.’  Can you say: ‘Steeped in the New Age’?

He helped to run a Wednesday night coffee house.  So I was invited to participate in the ‘Flushing Local Coffee House.’  The regular performers were singers, songwriters, and poets.  They became my friends in short order. 

Both years I was there, I was invited to celebrate the Passover with various friends.  Passover lasts a whole week, so I was able to go to seven very different celebrations, although the basic form remained.  I did learn to love the feast.  What a celebration of freedom.  Whenever I have the chance, I still celebrate Passover during Holy Week.

The leaders of the group took me under their wings.  Judy and Elliot were very spiritual, loving, and open people.  I admired them as musicians.  Judy made sure she checked her horoscope before she got out of bed each morning.  They were also strict vegetarians and taught me a lot about natural healing.

We stayed in contact for years afterwards.  Judy even tracked me down recently to re-establish contact.

Needless to say, I wandered far from the faith of my mother (my Daddy has no faith that he identifies with - he kinda does his own thing).  My contacts with the healing community introduced me to all sorts of ‘energy’ modalities.  I generally stayed away from the obvious Wiccan groups.  But a number of questionable characters attached themselves to me.

Meanwhile, my mother was slipping in her faith as well.  She was doing her own investigation into natural healing and her Catholic community was not very active. 

In the late ‘eighties, Mom was diagnosed with Congestive Heart Disease.  She called me frequently for advice and support.  The doctors were amazed that she lived, and very actively, for five years with eight percent of her heart function. 

I lived several states away, so I was unable to be close enough to give the intensive support she really needed.  So she found some ‘alternative’ practitioners that were also practicing ‘energy’ therapies and had odd spiritual leanings.

While my Mom was ailing, God started to correct my course. 

We took a train trip from our home in Alabama to Massachusetts one October.  The leaves were lovely, of course. 

We visited with a number of my older relatives, interviewing them for family history research. 

My Mom’s oldest brother, Joe, was married to Aunt Anne.  I had few memories of Uncle Joe and Aunt Anne from my youth.  Still, we had a terrific interview.  I learned a lot about the family in which my Mom grew up.  Uncle Joe told me a bit about my grandfather’s herbal knowledge.  He also spoke freely of his own favorite remedies.

Aunt Anne, it turns out, is an avid Marian.  She traveled to all the Marian shrines in Europe at one time or another.  Aunt Anne suggested that we visit the local shrine in Stockbridge.

We spent a gorgeous afternoon in Stockbridge.  Through that trip, we were introduced to the Chaplet of the Divine Mercy.  I fell in love with it at once.  Once we got home, it became a indispensable part of our daily routine.

On the way home, God showed me the power of the prayer. 

I settled down to sleep around nine o’clock with my nursling, who was not quite a year old.  Our train traveled through the Carolinas in the middle of the night. 

Suddenly, I awoke with an urgent feeling that I needed to pray the Chaplet.

“But, Lord, I don’t know it well enough.”  I countered.  The baby was sound asleep, and it was dark.  I could not dig for the pamphlet.

The urgency did not abate.  So I figured that I would just pray what I could remember of it.

After some time, I fell back to sleep.

In the morning, the train was running several hours behind schedule.  People inquired about the reason for its delay.  As the day progressed, a story emerged. 

Apparently, in the middle of the night, a woman in the back of our car began to have heart attack symptoms.  So the train stopped, in the middle of nowhere, and an ambulance was called.

By the time the ambulance arrived, the woman was no longer suffering.  So she refused to get in the ambulance.  She rode the rest of the way to Alabama to meet her sister.

We were less than an hour late coming into the station.

My family joined a charismatic prayer group.  Every Wednesday night, the six of us trouped over to the Buttaccio’s home for Rosary and praise music.  A number of people in the group ate wholesome food and favored a more natural approach to health. 

One prayer group member, Miss Vicki came each Thursday to take us to run errands.  We went to the grocery store and health food store.

Often, Miss Vicki had other plans as well.   She stopped often to pray with people.  We found ourselves visiting nursing homes, handicapped people, and even outside an abortion mill, praying and holding signs.  Always, we ended up at Mass.  And at three o’clock, we prayed the Chaplet of Divine Mercy, wherever we happened to be. 

My children cherish their memories of Miss Vicki.

I found I had less and less affinity for the New Age aspects of healing.  People of faith began to show up with lessons on healing prayer. 

I found that the Catholic Church has a long history of healing on the physical, as well as the spiritual level.  Monasteries often had extensive herb gardens. 

Many saints had healing ministries.  I was introduced to St. Panteleomon, St. Blaise, St. Cyril, and St. Methodius.  All were doctors who used prayer and herbs for sometimes miraculous healing.  Some were martyrs because of the jealousy of other doctors.

Now I had come full circle, returning to my grandfather’s legacy, and to his faith.  And I felt an urgency to learn all that I could.