Community

Recently, I've been spending a great deal of time pondering the changing definition of the word "community." Like so many things in this world, what we know for certain today becomes redefined tomorrow and those 'facts' eventually take on a different shape and meaning. Shades of grey inevitably creep in around the edges of the neat and tidy lines we've drawn for ourselves.

When my wife and I first moved south of Boston - an area we rarely visited and certainly never planned on calling home - we spent a great deal of time visiting different churches and parishes in the surrounding towns so we could find the best fit. We both come from devout Catholic families, did our time attending Catholic schools and have always regarded church as more than just the place we visit for an hour (almost) every Sunday. It's a place where our children will celebrate the Sacraments and, as a result, become part of a larger family. It's a place where water is poured over your head at Baptism, where you'll make the most solemn of oaths to the one you love and it's the last stop we'll all make on the way to the cemetery. It's a place where life is lived.

There's a Catholic church right at the end of my road, but it never quite felt 'right' there so we settled on a parish that is just a couple of towns over... a short 10 minute drive away from home. The pastor is a local guy, complete with the infamous "missing r" New England accent, and he reveals God's word in sermons based on anecdotes and observations versus the "hellfire and brimstone" approach we've experienced with other priests. The congregation was warm and welcoming. They have great programs for kids. In short, this parish felt like home.

My wife and I are, I believe, somewhat typical examples of many Catholics in my neck of the woods. Our regular attendance at Church may wax and wane - oscillating between every week to once a month, depending upon the behavior and health of our three children - but our love and dedication to Christ is unwavering. We have had our moments of doubt about Catholicism as an institution - she having issues with the male-dominated elements of the church, and me angered by the recent scandals and reports of abuse - but we have both been blessed to have positive and nurturing priests in our lives to-date, so we fought our way through these challenges and remained strong in our walk.

Every now and then, however, God likes to throw a curve ball or two.

In late December, just a couple of days after Christmas, our oldest son came down with a terrible cold. Sneezing, coughing, runny nose... the typical price one pays for growing up in New England. A few days later, the stomach bug hit and, after 24 hours, that passed as well. The cough, however, didn't seem to disappear. By New Year's the cough was so extreme and so persistent that he had already made several trips to the pediatrician's office, experienced a late night trip to the Emergency Room and had more than a few X-Rays taken of his head, chest and neck.

The doctors we had been visiting for a decade - the folks who had helped us through every sniffle, every check-up and every set of booster shots - couldn't seem to pinpoint what was wrong. The only answers offered to us came in the form of prescriptions, referrals to other physicians or more tests. So, as directed, we dutifully fed our son an endless array of pills and syrups, yet his cough worsened.

Eventually we began to visit specialists of every stripe - allergists, ENT specialists, now a team including pulomonologists and gastrointerologists are on the case - still to no avail. A skinny kid to begin with, he had lost at least 10 pounds and was surviving on shakes made with Carnation Instant Breakfast. Every test came back normal. Each hope of finding a solution to the problem ended in frustration.

My wife and I hadn't slept in the same bed in well over a month. She would sleep on the sofa at the beginning of the night while I stayed up with my son until his evening coughing jag - lasting anywhere from 90 minutes to four hours - ended and he finally collapsed into sleep. When he would wake a couple of hours later with another coughing jag, typically lasting just as long, we would trade-off and I would sleep on the sofa while she tried to comfort him. And so it went for weeks. A bizarre experiment in sleep depravation for all but the two youngest members of our household.

The weeks of incessant coughing were beginning to take a visible toll on my son. In addition to the weight loss, the lack of sleep was carving deep blue circles under his eyes. He would catnap during the day when he would catch a rare break from the coughing and, when he did speak, his voice came in rapid whispers as he tried to get everything out before the next coughing spell would send him into spasms. He complained of constant muscle pain in his neck, shoulders, chest and stomach. He lost interest in everything which once brought him joy. In short, he was becoming frail and withdrawn. If we were powerless to help him with his physical symptoms, I resolved that we redouble our efforts spiritually.

During every challenging time of my life, when those people and Earthly institutions I relied upon the most failed me, I could always rely on my faith to buoy my spirits and show me the way forward. Throughout this ordeal, I prayed more ardently than I had in years. I ran through the array of prayers I learned as a child. I searched the Internet for prayers written specifically for sick children. I even spoke out loud to God as if He were in the same room and we were sharing a Sam Adams. (Perhaps this is a blasphemous approach, but it's the best way I can convey the "You know what, Jesus... I'm so worried about my kid" conversations that I had.) There isn't a doubt in my mind that these prayers were heard and, by virtue of the fact that my wife and I stayed strong for each other and didn't suffer a major meltdown, were answered. However, like our son, we were slipping into a dark hole as well. Neither of us spent time with friends or family as we simply hunkered-down and focused all our energies on helping our son get well while maintaining a relatively normal routine for our two youngest children. It wasn't easy, but we were getting by.

One Sunday in particular, I woke up from my usual position in the corner of the sofa and felt an urge that we all needed to go to church together. We had skipped mass for a few weeks due to our son's incessant coughing and our toddler's usual patience-trying mass time antics. This morning, however, I was compelled to break us all from our ruts and get out of the house as a family. So we had a quick breakfast, got dressed and out we went.

When we arrived at church, my wife and son immediately went to the small kids' chapel in the back... a warm little soundproof room affectionately known as 'the crying room' by some in the congregation. My son, due to his coughing, felt less disruptive and less the center of attention in there. My daughter opted to stay in that room too while my toddler (who my Twitter friends know as "SamWow") decided to brave mass in one of the vacant pews at the back in the proper part of the church. In front of us sat a family consisting of mother, father and four children, so I felt I was among kindred spirits.

Whether expressed formally or informally, the notion of our parish as a living community of support and shared faith is one which runs as a common thread throughout every service and sermon. Given everything my family was gong through, and given the fact that I have been consistently praying for help and guidance, I believed God had put it into my heart that we NEEDED to be at service today because there I would find some answers. There, at the very least, we would finally be among others who would support us in prayer and lift up our sagging spirits.

As the service went on, SamWow was doing his thing. Being a bit loud, getting a bit fussy from time-to-time, but certainly being no less rambunctious than usual. On a few occasions I debated joining the rest of the family in the small room at the back, but a quick glance revealed that room was packed as well. I did my best to entertain Sam, reading to him in whispers and feeding him Goldfish crackers, and things were relatively under control. I was exhausted, a bit high-strung as I always am when trying to keep my two-year-old quiet and still for over an hour, but otherwise doing fine.

At the time during the service when we are to offer each other the sign of peace, I was actually looking forward to exchanging a smile, a 'peace be with you' and a handshake with a fellow parishioner. The reassurance of an expression of faith I have known my whole life was a welcome departure from the heavy routine of the past several weeks and, as the priest stated the words "let us offer each other the sign of peace," I shifted Sam to my left hip and freed-up my right hand to extend to the family in front of me.

I don't know if there's a 'traditional' protocol for sharing the sign of peace among families, but the vast majority of parishioners all do the same thing: first exchange the sign of peace within your family, then turn to those around you and shake hands. I waited for the family in front of me to do just that, smiling as I watched them hug each other, and waited for them to turn and shake my hand. No one turned around. The oldest son made brief eye contact and shot a nervous smile my way. I thought it unlikely the mother and father didn't notice me, since SamWow is near impossible to ignore, but I cleared my throat loudly and moved to extend my hand to the father and mother who were standing three feet in front of me. They didn't move. The father shifted his weight, shot a somewhat annoyed look in my direction without actually making eye contact, then fixed his gaze straight ahead.

At a time when a simple handshake or even a smile would have meant the world to me, I instead received the distinct and unmistakable impression that I was a nuisance. At that moment, I felt more anger and indignation than I had in any other time in my life. The rest of my family came out to join me just before communion and, after receiving the Host, we walked straight to the parking lot.

We had an errand or two to run that morning and, sensing I was upset about something, my wife asked what was going on. As my kids watched movies on the DVD player or listened to iPods, I uncorked... every feeling of hypocrisy I harbored about the Catholic church rose to the surface. I never questioned my faith in Christ, but the so-called "community" that gathered in His name was the target of my venting. For several Sundays afterward, we didn't even make an attempt to go to church, choosing instead to pray at home and simply be together as a family... surely a better way to celebrate God's word than by sitting among THOSE people, right?

It was during one of those Sundays - a time when the house was uncharacteristically quiet - that I truly began to ponder the word 'community' and what it means today. Throughout this ordeal with my son, I have been sharing updates on the goings-on via Twitter. Sharing the stress and fear of dealing with my son's health issues seemed oddly natural. Despite the fact that communication is limited to 140-character sound bites, these were individuals with whom I interacted on a daily basis on topics ranging from politics to parenting to baseball and everything in-between. When I would Tweet a prayer request before one of my son's appointments or in the midst of a particularly long night, my Twitter stream was flooded with responses. It was heartwarming... a stark contrast to the feeling I received that day in church.

This collection of individuals, most of whom I have never 'met' in the traditional sense, have become a community in a way that is just as real and, at the time, perhaps more meaningful than many of those who live just minutes away. We know what's going on in each others' lives. We have shared jokes, debated the topics of the day and - now in times of need - have received prayers and spiritual support. For that, I am profoundly grateful.

Although his cough hasn't disappeared completely, it has become much better. For the past week or so he has been sleeping through the night and he's beginning to spend time with friends again. We've even weaned him from those Carnation shakes. In short, he's on the mend. Our normal routines are making a comeback and we're even planning to brave this Sunday's 8:30 mass as a family again... a miracle in and of itself.

So as I wrap-up this blog post, an hour or so before we leave the house for another round of specialist visits, I can do as I do most every day of my life: sit back, count my blessings and thank God for what I've been lucky enough to receive.

We will each encounter peaks and valleys in our life, but sometimes you need to stand in a bit of darkness to be reminded of the light.

Comments

[Kristen Robie]

I just started following you on twitter (via obie_one) so I had no idea that you were going through a medical crisis with your son. We have gone through quite a few with my family. First my son was dx'd with Autism (he is doing incredible now), then my daughter with Type 1 Diabetes and lastly my 1 year old with benign myoclonic epilepsy and failure to thrive.(3 year span) Twitter and Facebook have been one of our rocks getting through this last battle with our family. They were not around with the first two. Our idea of community has definately changed since joining twitter and facebook. The Diabetes community is incredible on Twitter. I hope your sons cough gets better soon!
@SassyKR

[Mike Ketchum]

Thanks for the honesty in this post. I will say that your experience at church is not a product of the church rather a flaw in people. We had a time where a person at a church did us wrong and one of my now best friends told me "people will let you down". I kind of live by that now not expecting anything less than failure from people. When they do more than failure, it's like a bonus.

Mike

[Beth Nixon]

Awesome post sir!

I've often felt that way about twitter in the past. I take little on again off again attempts at staying regular on twitter, and sadly, a lot of my good friends have left. But it is often much more a community of honest caring people that really help in times like this.

My mother-in-law had a stroke a couple years ago. In all our pain and confusion coping with things in the beginning, we were inundated with people who genuinely cared and offered their support.

Best wishes for you and your family, and I hope that cough gets better!

dizzibloom