The jail (at Christmas time)

Tonight there was no jail ministry, though we didn't know that until we got there. Programs being canceled is not unusual; this is actually the third week in the row where for a variety of reasons the prison either goes on lock down, something is being fixed or cleaned, an inmate is being taken elsewhere, there is a staff shortage, etc. and we are not allowed up. Typically when this happens, we arrive at the front desk and they simply tell us we can't go upstairs (sometimes telling us why, sometimes not). Tonight was unique, however, in that we didn't know things were off until making it through the first two deputy/security check points, signing in, gathering our cart o' Catholic stuff (hymn books, a few images for the room, the table cloth and candles - never lit) and walking to the multipurpose room when we realized something was up and, indeed, our program was canceled.

I stood outside the hallway looking through the glass windows at a room that normally would be empty. It is bland; light gray cinder block walls, dark plastic chairs, fluorescent lights, a few tables and a white board. Tonight, though, there was an entirely new scene: young mothers, all inmates, surrounded by their children. The tables were covered in gingerbread houses, tubes of cake frosting, bowls of candy, green and red table cloths and Christmas decorations. The little room was alive, lively, with the activity of these little broken families celebrating Christmas together as best they could. As I walked by, separated only by a pane of glass running along the hallway, none of them looked up, so caught up in the moment were they and their children.

I can't stress enough how odd a scene this is to see. For one thing, I rarely see female inmates. This detention center has only one floor for women, and they don't often make it to our meeting, for whatever reason. And of course, one does not see children in jail, either. Aside from those surface issues, though, is the bizarre disparity between the physical circumstances in which this was happening, and the bigger picture of these women drawing their children to them at Christmas time. I couldn't help but wonder how these women, in their matching blue jumpsuit uniforms, felt. Were they embarrassed? Did they feel they had failed their kids? Or simply happy to have them there, accepting that time as better than nothing? How would they cope when it was time for the children to leave? And for those kids, sucking on peppermints in their mothers' laps, making gingerbread houses in a county facility - were they scared? Used to it? Just happy to be there?

And yet the biggest thing was the joy. Everyone was smiling. There was laughter, hugging and kissing, and that is really what suffused the bland little room and made it different. It was a little hard for me to understand how that kind of love can show itself in a physical way beyond the gestures of everyone involved, to the actual aura of the room, but there it was.

I stayed for just a moment to double check with the deputy that there would be no program. She was apologetic that we were not notified earlier, and as I left I glanced one more time at the little scene in front of me. In that moment, things were happening too quickly and I was distracted by the thought that by the time I see our regular inmates next it will have been five weeks total. Just a self-serving moment of "Ah, poor me." Then one more fleeting thought came and went as I buzzed out: although I was too distracted in that moment to show any real emotion, I think one day there will come a time, maybe after I have had children of my own and celebrated Christmas with them, that I will remember that scene and cry in hopelessness. That is all I feel I can offer them aside from prayers, but sometimes I think you just have to see the reality of human suffering and accept it, and in that way, share in it. What else is there to do?

But then, there was real joy in that room, and that is probably more important. It is the same love and joy that exists everywhere in the world, but somehow it managed to exist under these circumstances. This is God at work. And perhaps this is why, although our plans did not come to fruition, He called us to the jail all the same tonight, to see what He was doing.

Advent and Mary

I  have discovered a new favorite writer over at the UK Catholic Herald, Laura Keynes, and read this article by her today, "What Advent and pregnancy have in common."

What I love is not just her writing style, but the comparison of her own experience as an expectant mother with that of the Blessed Mother, and how the waiting of pregnancy is akin to the waiting in faith during Advent. "This year I’ve been forced to slow down and trust in God that things will be accomplished in the fullness of time. Waiting is difficult though," she writes. It is a beautiful lesson and one I have been reflecting on. I am not impatient, but Advent sort of seems like one long, unbroken meditation session, or like being in a theater as the lights dim, waiting for the play to start. But in the waiting, there is purpose and the opportunity to grow closer to God, through prayer, acts of charity and so on. That's a very beautiful thought and makes me wonder what other parts of my life, which appear like just the prelude, are actually the main event. I appreciate that Advent asks me to slow down, look and listen. 

By the way, she also published an incredibly moving piece on her experience with abortion, "My burden lifted forever." From believing the media and culture lie that, "abortion is good for women, a 'right' no less," Laura experienced abortion and learned this was not true - quite the opposite. The story of how she returned to the faith afterward is beautiful, and proof that God can always bring good from bad.

I recommend reading both!

Allocutio 11-2-15: On the Acies Ceremony

Tomorrow night's spiritual reading will cover the Acies ceremony, an annual event all Legionaries attend to consecrate (or re-consecrate) themselves to Mary. This year was my first Acies and the allocutio is on how moving the ceremony was for me personally.

Ch. 30, Part 1: Acies

Earlier this year, in March, we all gathered at St. Agnes for the Acies, and a few memories stand out to me from that ceremony.

In particular was a conversation I had afterward with an active Legionary from another parish. He was an older man, past his 50s and most likely retired. He was wearing a sort of sporty wind breaker, some gold chains and looked a lot like my uncles and male cousins from the northeast. As we stood in line after the ceremony to enter the parish hall for refreshments, we got to talking about the ceremony and he confessed, “I couldn’t help it, I cried like a baby during the ceremony. I guess I’m just a sentimental old Italian.”

It was funny, not just because he wasn’t someone I expected would cry, but because I had the same experience, and I don’t think it had to do with being Italian and sentimental (though I, too, am both those things). It had more to do with a very real feeling during the Acies of being watched over by Mary. Of being led by the hand to the Legion, a realization of how my life had changed since joining and how my soul has softened and therefore my perspective has softened. It felt like that although sometimes God feels distant, He was suddenly very present – He and Mary were there, watching over me, very aware of my life and what they wanted for me. That is what made me cry.

And then to come to the part of the ceremony where we say, “I am all yours, my Queen, my Mother, and all that I have is yours” - I meant it. What I have is not my own. Whatever I own or have, as good as my life is, I owe all to the Blessed Mother and her Son. That knowledge made me cry, too.

Frank Duff stresses the Acies ceremony as a time for unification and reunion, wherein all of Mary’s “soldiers” are brought together, not operating out in the world via individual praesidia. It is a time for consecration, renewal and remembering the promise we take as Legionaries to serve our Lord and His Mother. This is particularly poignant when we are reunited with Legionaries from all over who share in this special devotion and calling, whose faith can help renew our own. That feeling of community is one of the most special parts of being in the Legion of Mary and the feeling is strengthened by the spirit of Mary, very present in a real way at the Acies.

The next Acies is now only about three months away. In the next three months we can continue to focus on this idea of a consecration to Mary, and look forward to the opportunity to loudly declare ourselves all Hers alongside our fellow Legionaries.