Touching South America - Pieces of Hogar (Part 2)

My first mention here of Hogar Sagrado Corazón was in September 2010. It was then that our daughter M arrived in her new (temporary) home in Bolivia.

As described on the Salesian Lay Missioners website, “Hogar Sagrado Corazón (Sacred Heart Home) houses 100+ girls who have been abandoned, orphaned, or were in some way being abused in their homes. According to one of the Sisters here, about 30-40% have been victims of rape. The volunteers’ number one job here is to love them...”

And at just over nine months and counting, our M remains there selflessly loving her way through a year given to mission work.

My image of the place over many months had been growing and increasing in realism. As we would hear stories from M and as we would see the few disconnected pictures that she had managed to snap off to us I had tried to arrange things in my mind and to imagine the place and the girls and their lives at the Hogar as they might have really been.

Soon I began to realize that what I had developed was more an abstract image of jumbled places and disjoined people. So I began to pay closer attention and look and listen for signs that would help me to arrange the puzzling pieces of place correctly in my mind.

It was at this point where what was once a lackluster acceptance of our upcoming travel to Bolivia became a combination (in equal parts) of eager anticipation and disquieting dread.

What had my mind created from all these fragmented images? Was my image complete and accurate or faulty in some (or many) respects? Mild apprehension settled in.  What chimera awaited me? Would my sweet little M be living as Maria von Trapp or Miss Hannigan? In any case, my image of the place was on course with a reckoning.

And so it was that on Friday, May 6 Denise, my imagination and I boarded a plane for Bolivia – or more accurately from Omaha to Chicago to Miami to LaPaz, Bolivia and finally to Santa Cruz, Bolivia.

Finding Good Cultures (Part 1)

It has been nine months since our daughter M turned and walked toward the security checkpoint at our local airport in Omaha en route to a year of mission work in Bolivia. And as the distance grew between her and her lingering parents we each missed the other’s welling of tears and tugging of heart - or perhaps not.

Since that day we have clung to the hope of visiting her and witnessing first-hand the wonderful job being done at the Hogar Sagrado Corazón. Our plans began to materialize in October and came to pass in May. And so it is that Denise and I just returned from a trip to Bolivia and Peru with our only real agenda item being a rendezvous with M. And although this experience has proven to be an incredible and fulfilling “vacation”, it is safe to say that we are both quite content to be back at home.

Since our return I’ve struggled with an answer to the many friends and family who have begged the details of our trip and words that describe our rendezvous with M, our Madre hosts, the children of the Hogar, the people and places we experienced, and our travels in general. Despite its negative connotation, the best characterization that I have found is “arduous”. And yet somewhere within and around all the rigors of travel, the struggle with unknown language and culture, the absence of familiar convenience, the foreboding causality of poverty and abuse and the heart wrenching face of orphanhood, we saw hope.

Readying one’s self for travel to Bolivia is difficult. There is the VISA process (which is anything but intuitive) and the necessary immunizations for typhoid fever, yellow fever, multiple hepatitis A and B injections not to mention getting current on tetanus and several strains of influenza. We elected to pass on the rabies vaccinations and malaria medication and take our chances that we could somehow avoid any harmful animal and insect bites. But we secured medication to boost our "good intestinal bacteria" to protect us from the effects of internal parasites and to alleviate the onset of altitude sickness. In all this preparation was a six month process that concluded just before travel with a three week regimen of daily yogurt consumption as a belt and suspenders approach to building good cultures. That last bit may have been a trick by my wife to evoke in me a healthier attitude towards breakfast.

Also, we know very little Spanish. And by “very little” I really mean Denise knows none and I possess what little stuck in my brain from a two week stint of Spanish language in the fourth grade. Incidentally fourth grade Spanish was followed by a couple of weeks wasted on the metric system – neither of which ever lived up to their promised (threatened) usefulness until now.

Incidentally, M sent us a list of Spanish words that she thought would be good for us to know. I expected the usual uno, dos, tres, si, gracias, buenos dias, adios, como esta, maybe even ¿Dónde está el baño, and for certain más cerveza por favor. But, I forgot that we were staying at an orphanage. So, in addition to a few niceties, our Spanish study words for this vacation were as follows:

siETate - sit down (to one child)
paRAte - stand up
caca - poop
pipi - pee
TIEnes que HACer pipi? - do you have to go to the bathroom?
paNYal - diaper
MUco - snot
SALud! - Bless you!
DONde esTAS? - where are you?
cuiDAte - take care of yourself, be careful
ten cuiDADo - be careful
OYe - Hey! Listen!
baHAte - get down, climb down
LORo - parrot
no YORas - don't cry
BASTa! - Enough! Stop!

And packing was interesting. We packed quite light considering 10 days of travel that had to accommodate hot and cold days, hot and cold nights, sunshine and rain and lots of walking and playtime. Between the two of us, and in addition to the clothes that we wore, we brought one small carryon bag and two small book-bag size weatherproof backpacks. This included clothing, foot ware, jackets, toiletries, camera gear, travel information and confirmations, trusted (emergency) snack food, etc.

In addition to our meager necessities, we brought two full-size suitcases filled with things more difficult to explain to a Spanish speaking Customs agent. We had toothbrushes, toothpaste and floss for 135 girls. We brought art supplies such as construction paper, colored pencils and markers. We had an abundant supply of girls’ underwear in various sizes. We brought a gift for our hosts at the convent. We packed a few hard to find (in Bolivia) items for the volunteer’s kitchen shared by M and the other three Missionaries there. We packed a few additional clothing items, toiletries and craved snacks for M’s personal use. We brought a reconditioned old laptop computer (M’s from collage) to donate to the Hogar’s library. And we found a Spanish language keyboarding skills computer program for the older girls at the Hogar. I remember a feeling of relief as I passed surreptitiously through two thorough searches at the Bolivian Customs and Bolivian Drug Police checkpoints with my suitcase completely filled with snack foods, toothpaste, candy and little girls’ panties.

But in the end, all the cost, concern, annoyance and anxiety of our months of preparation was quite literally squeezed from our mind and body in the not so quiet embrace of daughter and parents at the arrivals gate in Viru Viru International Airport in Santa Cruz, Bolivia at 7:45 a.m. on Saturday, 7 May.

Our Lenten Walk with Jesus (and beer)

"I’ve never met the Devil (yet) but I imagine it’s a pretty scary experience. But then again I guess that’s the point."

-Brian Andreas

I trust that you’ll find more humor than blasphemy in my title to this post. And if its irony causes some uneasiness well, it was kind of intentional – like the word “(yet)” in the above Andreas quote.

For the record I consider myself to be a rather religious person. But my God does not impose much shouldering of burden in return for my belief and ultimate salvation. My God expects no ritualistic puppetry, no habitual chant or showy whaling. My God loves me and wants me to live in comfort and to be happy. He demands no weighty sacrifice - no dragging cross. And as such my piety desires quiet, intimate privacy and speaks mostly in the form of deed and moral conviction. And with that my God is happy and I am at peace.

My beliefs notwithstanding, the Lenten season is upon us. And what better way to gain forgiveness for past sins than by a little show of self-sacrifice. Catholic tradition “demands” this in the form of the relinquishment of one’s carnivorous desires for the forty days between Ash Wednesday and Easter. And despite the ever-present threat of eternal damnation and the punitive portent of casting disobedient flock into the fires of Hell, their belief structure is reasonable. And so tradition goes no meat during Lent...but only on Fridays. No meat, that is, except fish. And no meat, that is, unless a Lenten Friday falls on a Saintly Feast Day or, God forbid, a Lenten Friday coincides with St Patrick’s Day whereby special dispensation is granted and the obedient flock is free to enjoy corned beef and cabbage without fear of persecution. But this leniency, and Friday meat, is served rarely.

And so despite our Protestant-ness, for the six Friday’s of every Lenten season we willingly allow ourselves to become “children of a lesser meat” as it were. We celebrate this abstinence by gathering with a dozen or so good Catholic friends and joining together with many thousands of others intent upon the same selfless sacrifice in the traditional practice of the Friday Fish Fry – an Omaha tradition.

In Omaha the Friday Fish Fries of the Lenten season are well organized fundraisers for local Parishes. And although there are many to choose from, we typically attend the one at Mary Our Queen Church. The meal is served in the cafeteria of the Church’s elementary school and the multitudes of repentant sinners create a food line that weaves its way through the halls of the school.

On a typical Friday, we’ll wait in line somewhere between two and three hours – yes “hours”. But the time passes quickly as we enjoy the company of our good friends, conversation with newly acquainted line standers and the constant serving of beer – yes “beer”. 

Omaha's Mary Our Queen Elementary School is said to tap between 50 and 60 kegs on any given Friday during Lent. Ah, now we get to the gist of thing! Certainly the felowship, fish and associated forgiveness are worthy of maybe thirty minutes of queuing but the free flowing brew accounts for a good two or three more hours of line standing tolerance. And line cutting is encouraged. There's nothing worse than an intolerably short line at a fish fry. Amen.
[Click here or a few more pictures]

I’ll end with the only Lenten joke I know...

John Smith was the only Protestant to move into a large Catholic neighborhood. On the first Friday of Lent, John was outside grilling a big juicy steak on his grill. Meanwhile, all of his neighbors were fixing fish. This went on each Friday of Lent. On the last Friday of Lent, the neighborhood men got together and decided that something had to be done about John - he was tempting them to eat meat each Friday of Lent, and they couldn't take it anymore.

They decided to try and convert John to the Catholic faith. They organized a group who went over and talked to him. And they were so happy when John decided to join all of his neighbors and become a Catholic. They took him to Church, and with a sprinkling of water the Priest said, "You were born a Methodist, you were raised a Methodist, and now you are a Catholic." The men were so relieved, now their biggest Lenten temptation was resolved.

The next year's first Friday of Lent came, and just at dinner time, when the neighborhood was sitting down to their fish dinner, there came the wafting smell of steak cooking on a grill. The neighborhood men could not believe their noses! What was happening? They again organized and decided to meet over at John's place to see if he had forgotten it was the first Friday of Lent. The group arrived just in time to see John standing over his grill. And as John sprinkled water over the grill they heard him say, "You were born a cow, you were raised a cow, and now you are a fish."

Valentine

Sometimes,
All I need is the air that I breathe -
And to love you.
-Albert Hammond

If I had a dream of my future I’d dream of a chair – a worn leather chair in a warm cozy room with a little hearth and a big window that opened up to a view of the city. And beyond the window would stand an old street lamp that would light up the still of the night and whatever the changing seasons would bring. The light in the air would show soft drizzling rain or the falling of snow and would faithfully shine through all but the thickest blankets of fog.

And in this dream of my future I’d stroll down my street in the crisp morning air. And there a young mother would be escorting her most precious little treasure to school. The older would speak words of encouragement and confidence as the younger would dodge cracks in the walk in her warm woolen jacket. And while eyeing the hat on the passing old man the younger would listen.

And with habitual practice I'd sit at the corner cafe', people inside and out, some busy some not, all coming and going on paths toward eventual futures. And in time I’d lend ear to familiar accord from the table next - dreamers both. They’d utter things now foreseen to enrich the city and better the lives of those who passed along and within her outstretched arms. And their words would be right and wrong but they’d carry me away through their dreams back into my own and then they’d be gone.

And as moon replaced sun in my dream of the future I'd duck down my street and into a pub. There I'd sip on a pint and listen and learn and give and receive so much with so many. And nearby me my dream would place pupil with scholar who'd voice tales of fun and frolic and travel and guests and the toiling of work and of school time teachings. And I'd hear as they spoke with such passion for others as could ever be imagined. They’d share gifts of their day and I’d think of my own and of all of the rest.

And this day would end as the others before; back in my room with my chair and my hearth - and with her. She's the one whom I’ve known and have loved so much and have shown too little. It's with her I've discerned all my thoughts and ambitions through all that we've seen and have faithfuly shared for nearly all of the days of our lives.

We'd continue this dream of the future together. And recalling the people therein we'd reflect on the souls of our children so eagerly seen in those of this day – not each being one but each being all.

And we'd want for nothing...

Home for Christmas

Faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see.
-Hebrews 11:1

I awoke to the sound of a faraway barking dog. I had not heard the rain or its pattering on the window. But the barking was different. This spirited voice carried mystically through the crisp winter air and sliced with purpose through the pre-dawn darkness to find its way to my waking ear - its distance uncertain. And I sensed the presence of cool air drafting in from the open window though the reality of its chill was averted by a heavy layering of blankets.

Some things like the cold beyond the blankets and the sound of a distant dog require no physical viewing to believe in their existence. I know that when I rise from the bed I will experience the cold and if I were to follow the persistent barking I would eventually find its predictable source. And as I lay there waking on this Christmas Eve morn prolonging my exposure to the cold, I thought to myself of the other unseen yet trusted “barking” in our lives on this holiday season.

I thought of the infant who comes with tomorrow's light, born unto us all in a distant time and place yet so near to our present-day hearts and souls.

I thought of our daughters, each at times distant in a physical sense but as ever-present in our home and hearts as if they’d never grown and moved on to their new lives beyond our wanting arms. And I’m so thankful for the invisible blanket of love and respect that is so lovingly tucked in around us by our children. I know that I'll never find adequate words to describe this.

I thought of our dear friends. And I imagined them each in their homes celebrating their own traditions of Christmas with their families. I look so forward to gathering together with them to each share our treasured Christmas memories. We have been so blessed with such good and faithful friends.

I thought of my precious M readying for Christmas with the children at Hogar Sagrado Corazon in Bolivia. So far away from home M has been charged with bringing Christmas to 120 orphans. And she has unwittingly adopted the spirit of St. Nicholas in her giving to so many young girls in such need of knowing that someone cares. How better to fulfill the spirit of Christmas. I’m so proud of her and despite her distance I can feel her presence as the indirect fruits of her labors fill my proud heart.

And this year with M in Bolivia we too have ventured away from our family home for Christmas – thus fleeing the obvious void in our collective hearts. We packed up our gifts and together with K we’ve traversed the Country to the Pacific Northwest. This year we’ll celebrate the joys of Christmas in Matt and Jenna’s new home in Sammamish, Washington. And I trust that our decorated trees and lighted Omaha home will know a quieter Christmas this year and will await our return with a welcome that we’ve created over our many years there.

Christmas Eve will find me,
Where the love-light gleams.
I'll be home for Christmas,
If only in my dreams.
-Home for Christmas, 1946

Thanksgiving

Most people don't know there are angels whose only job is to make sure you don't get too comfortable and fall asleep and miss your life.

-Brian Andreas

This morning I find myself sitting alone in the dark in the glow of our fireplace. A motor malfunction has prevented our furnace from firing since yesterday and of course it's a holiday weekend. But we have the fireplace and a fresh stock of wood to burn. And although the chill of night has drawn our indoor temperature down to a brisk 57°F (14°C), I can feel the fire's heat as it cuts through the darkness and penetrates my outer body in search of my bones. And as I sip my pre-sunrise coffee it warms my chest and stirs the fog in my sleepy head. It's quite here except for the crackling fire and I can almost hear the soft breathing of Denise and K asleep upstairs in the warmth and comfort of their heavy blankets and pleasant dreams. And here in the wake of the Thanksgiving holiday I am keenly aware of how fortunate we are to have been dealt such a mundane inconvenience as a couple of days with a chilly house.

Our family has been blessed with much success and happiness. And I could rattle off a lengthy list of people and things that we are so thankful for this year. But in spite of my own thoughts of thankfulness, it has occurred to me that our daughters have taught us so much more this fall about giving thanks.

Through various discussions about her chosen field of study, elementary education, K has taught us to recognize the true value of those who educate our children. Their tireless efforts to provide care and knowledge to a parent's most valued assets serve both a short and long term need. I still recall fond memories of many of my own childhood teachers. Elementary teachers hold such an important and special place in the minds and lives of the children they inspire and I am proud that my daughter will one day hold such timeless importance to so many children and their parents.

M's ongoing mission work in a Bolivian orphanage has reminded us the value of family and the ease with which we take our lifestyle and comforts for granted. Being made so aware of so many children who have never known a loving family or simple comforts is heartbreaking. As M says: "...These things are not givens here. And so many don't have parents, or their parents abuse them, or abandon them. It is painful to see what a child's soul looks like who does not know true unconditional love."

Jenna and Matt have maintained their blog this month by daily postings of the little (and big) things in their lives that they are most thankful for. Following this all month I've found myself thinking how we deliver ourselves toward such a very comfortable existence and yet our busy lives make it difficult to notice and we seldom stop to appreciate what we have. Their blog has been a good reminder to count our blessings before they are gone.

Taking this all in I see that our comforts are many. But considering the utter despair felt by so many of God's children, our relative discomforts seem petty. So with this in mind, I'm thankful for a furnace to fix, snow to shovel, college tuition to finance, clothes to wash, food to prepare, bills to pay, Christmas shopping crowds to endure, weight to lose, daughters to miss, aging parents to attend to, careers to obey, darkness to navigate to and from work, and personal sacrifices to make. Many are not so blessed as to have even these.

First Snow

The inevitable conclusion to a splendid fall has arrived in the form of the year’s first snowfall. And despite the first day of meteorological and astronomical winter in the northern hemisphere being four weeks away, and despite the certainty today of a speedy melt, the effects of the first snow, especially a measurable one, combined with our foreshortened daylight hours, produce a lasting effect on ones psyche. It seems like winter.

And I love winter. I know there's snow and cold and dark morning drives to work and dark evening drives home and then more snow and more cold and more darkness. I know that. But there's also coffee outside in the brisk morning air. There's the sound of shovels on pavement off in the distance through the morning darkness. There's the absolute stillness of afternoons with genle snowfall to be viewed from the warmth behind a window. And to walk outside and enjoy the city from my office, or to enjoy our neighborhood from our home, each struck silent by the abscence of people and the acoustic white blanket of fresh fallen snow is unparelleled. You can't get that feeling in the summer. There's the distant view of smoke rising from the many chimneys as viewed from our home near the crest of a hill - each telling the story of parents' efforts to keep their family warm and safe. There's our own fireplace and the cold winter evenings sitting in darkness and seeing the faces of loved ones in it's flickering glow. And then there's the holidays. Time to remember. Time to be thankful. Time to give. Time to celebrate.
I love winter.     

Click here for more pictures of the year’s first snow.

Good Day

Today is my birthday. It's been a fine day at home with some purposeful relaxation in an otherwise frenzied fall.

K is home for the weekend and I'm reminded how much her presence adds to the personality of our home. We're spending the evening by the fireplace with some good wine and two games to track. We are monitoring game 3 of the World Series - Texas v San Francisco (the only concievable matchup that would cause me to root for Texas). But we are watching the Pittsburgh Steelers v New Orleans Saints.

  

As for the wine, I've found myself tending towards a favored Argentine Malbec of late. Somehow I feel closer to M in Bolivia when I open a bottle of this wine. And tonight is no different.

 

Of coarse the quite is shattered every few minutes by the doorbell - trick-or-treat. But I love seeing the eager children in costume as they select their treats from our bowl of candy and fruit snacks. Remarkably the fruit snacks have been the hot item tonight and my precious butterfingers remain mostly untouched for my later enjoyment.

And I've thought about J&M in their new suburban Sammaamish, Washington home and their new prospects for Halloween treat-seekers. This year's volume of treats should prove far different from that of their past years in their more rural Redmond location.

Ahhh, Denise is here to fill my glass as the fire dwindles and the doorbell subsides. It's been a good day. 

Hi, This is Thembi

Few, if any, stories of world suffering ever reach my heart. They never get the chance because I don’t listen to them. Moreover, I struggle to keep them out – not because I am cold and hard but because I fear my softness. (I presume myself to have too much of my Mother in me.) And when I feel this softening of mind, I bristle. But not today…

As I drove from work I was tired - my guard was down. And it got me. It penetrated my defenses like an invisible parasite worming its way in under my skin and through my veins. It passed undetected until it was far too late. And before I knew it, it was all over. She had gotten to my heart. Damnit!

Local public radio was airing the audio diary of Thembi Ngubane recorded five years ago when she was 19. Her year long account details her life with AIDS, the pain of telling her parents, her visits to her doctor, her love for her young daughter (HIV Negative) and her reluctance to leave this all behind. She died in July, 2009.

This is a fascinating story of personal courage and grace under extreme adversity. And it is so captivating that I finished it sitting transfixed in my parked car unable to turn off the radio.

And I cannot do the story justice here – no one can. The story must be told in her words with her own voice. The story is rivetting, her voice is haunting and beautiful and her mettle is inspirational.

This is her story. [Click Here] and then click on the play button on the audio player beneath Thembi's photograph. It is 23 minutes.

The Giving

“I know God won't give me anything I can't handle; I just wish He didn't trust me so much.”

-Mother Teresa

Following her graduation in May, M has taken a volunteer position in South America. For the next fourteen months she will be living and working in an orphanage in Montero, Bolivia. Together with another young missioner and six resident nuns, M will be a helper, a tutor, a mentor, an authority figure, a spiritual guide and a friend to 120 abused or abandoned girls aged 0 to 18. Her post-graduation preparations conclude with 4 weeks of rigorous one-on-one Spanish language schooling in Sucre, Bolivia. She is there now and staying in the keep of a local family who speaks no English.

In preparation for this lengthy departure, we enjoyed the rare occurrence of three daughters, all together, in our Omaha home. We are very close and these opportunities are far too rare. But we make due and see each other often, albeit not as a full company of five - six now. And this mission is sure to fill all of our collective family photos with an obvious void - like the ones we have while M was in Rome.

The week of three daughters was filled with much activity as M busied herself consolidating belongings and readying mind, body and spirit for a prolonged absence from home and family and friends and comforts. And among the laughter and joys of all this family togetherness, the mission was was everpresent - foremost on everybody’s mind. And it’s more than a Mission I think. I think of M’s departure as a Giving. And we are all here to support her. And we are all “giving”. Giving of daughter. Giving of Sister. Giving of Self. Giving of life.

On our last evening all together M surprised us with gifts. She described them whimsically as "treasures straight from her heart...and also from her bedroom!" And their simplicity was profound. She gave each of her sisters and Denise one of her treasured miraculous medals. These were acquired by M at various faith-significant moments in her life and she had worn these on a necklace every day for several years. This was an amazing gesture of selfless giving and strengthened the already tight bonds of our family – bolstering our ties in preparation for distance.

Her gift to me was wonderful. It was to all of us really as we each searched for reasons why God had chosen M for this mission that was about to snatch her from us for a very long time. She gave me a story...

During her weeks in New York, each prospective missioner was assigned the task of preparing and delivering the story of how they chose to follow their call to give so much of themselves to their mission. M’s story was a hand fashioned collage from various items that she had at her disposal. It is long and narrow and is depicted below in three parts.

It began, she explained with her parents. She told of the careful nurturing she received and the loving example set for her and her sisters in their youth. Then she was accepted into the Notre Dame family and the school of Architecture. There she learned a great deal and met many wonderful friends.

While at Notre Dame she spent time volunteering in the Appellatian Mountains of Virginia where she helped renovate the home of an impoverished coal mining family. She went to Mexico and helped build a home for a single mother whose family had no prior shelter. These “missions’ touched her spirit and furthered her commitment to help others.

Then her studies at Notre Dame carried her away to Roma for two semesters of study abroad. And she fell in love with the city and Her architecture, history, art and the everpresent spirt of God and all the Saints. She had many experiences – each shaping her mind and strengthening her faith.

It was in Rome where she met several Deacons at Seminary. They had reached out to offer spiritual guidance to the Notre Dame Architecture students. She became close friends with Deacons Joe and David and eventually traveled across the US upon invitation to their Priestly Ordinations.

Over time she has come to respect and rely upon several of the Saints. They are depicted above as Mother Teresa (white), St. Francis (brown), St. Therese of Liseux of the Little Flower (black) and St. Joan of Arc (gray). She said she loves the saints "because the more you learn about them, the more real they become as people with faults and shortcomings, but with such an awesome outlook on life and God". And it was one of these influences that inspired her choosing of her confirmand name last year upon entering the Catholic Faith – Joan. Young Joan of Arc was courageous and ultimately victorious (except, I guess, for that burned at the stake part) against all who would doubt her abilities. (And I like to image her name choosing was also, perhaps not so coincidentally, for my mother - Joan.)

Then through it all she heard the calling of God and after much thought and prayer she chose her way of Giving…thus the celebratory fireworks at the far edge of her story.

And after all the giving she came and sat on my lap in the darkness of our living room like the little girl I remember and cherish so much. and there she thanked me for everything and I thanked her. At the time I had been trying to think of what I could possibly send her away with that would help carry us all through this trying time apart. And then it came to me. My special gift from my heart would be my mother. Since her death I’ve often spoken to her during difficult or troubled times. And it has always been a comfort to know that she is there for me in spirit. I told M that I had decided to dispatch my mother to Montero - to watch over M as she has me. And I explained that I would manage for awhile without her but that I expected M to bring her back to me. M hugged me and smiled as we wiped away the tears.

And later that week at the airport, Denise and I watched as M turned and walked away. And we tried to find confort in this giving by knowing that she carried with her a deep faith, many prayers, her family’s hearts and my mother’s good graces.

Godspeed My Precious!

Gimme Shelter

I’ve always had a natural (or maybe unnatural) aversion to summertime heat. Unusual I suppose but I can’t help it. Shade is one of my favorite things. Perhaps it’s mental - some sort of sweataphobia. Or perhaps it’s hereditary – some lurking dermis gene of my northern European ancestry. And considering today’s 95°F (32°C) weather in Omaha compared to say Oslo’s 70°F (21°C) or Copenhagen’s 61°F (16°C) or Belfast’s 59°F (15°C) perhaps there’s some truth to this theory. In any case, history has proven that my threshold of temperature tolerance rests precisely at a moderately uncomfortable (to me) 79.5°F (26.4°C).

That being said, every summer I seem to find myself not only out in the heat but working in it…hard. Three summers ago I rebuilt the deck on our home. This task consumed about six weeks in sweltering summer sun. By my recollection I worked in full sun in temperatures that ranged between 90 and 98 degrees farenhight. And although I received some much needed and much appreciated help from several neighbors, I swore it would be my last home construction project.

Two summers ago I completed a few minor things on the deck stairs and railings and added accommodations for torches and rail lighting and then since it had been a year and the deck floor boards had a full battery of seasons to dry cure and shrink to their final dimensions, I sanded the deck floor smooth and added a waterproofing sealer. This took a couple of weeks and the temperature always hovered around 100°F. Again, my last project.

Last summer I moved a bazillion cubic feet (probably more realistically sixteen cubic feet) of soil, rock, mulch, an old tree stump and several hundred pounds of retaining wall stones. This was rearranged to create a nice planting area and space for a new aspen tree. And then I suffered 97 degrees in full sun to remove and replace some deteriorating siding on the back side of our house. Later I walked down the street to a neighbor who runs a small remodeling company and hired him to finish the job. Finally I had wised-up.

This summer I again chose the hottest weekend of the year to relace the two year old rope lites that nestle neatly below the top railing of our deck. 

The sun today was straight overhead and pounding down upon me. What was I thinking?

I did at least check with the weather service in the hopes of toiling outside on a summer day with some cloud cover. According to the weather service, today's temperature is 95°F but unfortunately due to the  with the high humidity it "feels like" 112°F. And of course the weather service also claims that "right now" Omaha is under a "partly cloudy" sky.

Partly cloudy...really? By the photo above I would say "not so much". And the photo below captures the nature of todays cloudiness in its entirety. At least I think that's a cloud.

Next summer I think I'll work in the basement - or in Oslo.

Love Thee Notre Dame

"Follow your desire as long as you live"

-Ptah Hotep, 5th Centrury BC Egypt

It was July 30, 2004 when I first drove with M into South Bend, Indiana and onto the legendary grounds of the University of Norte Dame du Lac. We were there to tour the Notre Dame campus and to meet with faculty and students of the School of Architecture. And this tour was only one part was part of a larger issue - where M would spend the next years of her life and indeed what people and events would shape her future...and ours. 

We had already toured the Universities of Yale, Cornell, Penn, Texas, Iowa State and Michigan. And as we approached South Bend on our way home from Ann Arbor, we debated whether or not to just keep driving. Ultimately though we decided to stop and complete the formality of “crossing it off of our list” - or so we had thought. But within minutes the beauty and rich tradition seemingly everywhere on campus, the feeling of goodness and sincerity emanating from the impassioned faculty and learned students and the rich curriculum of traditional architecture, watercolor presentations and the mandatory third year studio in Rome had thoroughly won her over. The University of Notre Dame had found its way back from its former position near the bottom of her shortlist of Universities to its permanent position alone at the top. And the result would be a lifetime of friends and memories not to be traded for the world. (Pictures of Campus)

And now, nearly six years later, my father and I sit silently on a bench in the shade waiting for the return of M following her ceremony of Commencement. Just minutes prior, this University attesting that M had “…so well merited as to be proclaimed publicly and solemnly Bachelor of Architecture cum laude”. The famed golden dome atop the Main Building, the world's most recognized campus landmark, gleamed above us in the sunlight in all it's glory. And I realized the usual sense of tradition intensifying and the spirits of legends stirring. And as we sat there together sharing and unspoken pride, I remembered everything…

I remembered the words she wrote to "introduced herself" to the University of Notre Dame and the School of Architecture as part of her application for admission. The letter started with a quote from a 25th Century BC ancient Egyptian scholar Ptah Hotep - "Follow your desire as long as you live." In her letter she spoke of her passion for ancient civilizations, art, art history and mathematics. And it's ending still melts my heart. I've never forgotten the words in this letter and how upon reading them I was absolutely convinced of her eminent admission to Notre Dame. I wondered if I had ever told her this. (The full text of this letter is printed at the end of this post.) And I recalled her expression of joy as she told us of the contents of her acceptance letter. And I thought about all her eager preparation that followed her commitment to attend this University.

I thought about our invitation to the annual send off reception by the Notre Dame Club of Omaha. And I remembered the apparent deep friendships that we witnesses that all seemed to have been born by sharing the common experience of attending Notre Dame albeit over the span of several generations of time. The timing didn’t seem to matter. We fully wouldn't understand this sense of loyal kinship until months later. 

I thought of the Notre Dame tradition of student assignments to dormitories as a freshman and the pride and the fraternalistic loyalty built over the three or four years that almost all students spend in their initially assigned collegate home.

I remembered the full throttle excitement of the freshman year move in to Breen-Philips dorm. The three day weekend was packed with activities - first as groups of families and then slowly progressing towards separation into groups of parents and groups of students. Thinking back this was obviously a subtle weaning process carefully orchestrated to soften the distress of parent-child separation.

I heard again the distant and nearing sounds of the marching band try outs during move in weekend. They played the Notre Dame Fight Song and other Irish favorites as they practiced marching all around campus.

I thought of our first visit to South Dining hall and its intricate stonework and wood carving and its distinctive appearance reminiscent of a medieval guild hall – think Harry Potter and the dining hall at Hogwarts.

I recalled the wonderful imagery of the springtime flowers on campus and all the fresh blooming tulips along the sidewalks. And then by contract the equally gorgeous fall colors.

I recalled memories of seeing the glimmering moonlight and the golden dome reflecting on St. Mary’s Lake as we would approach the Grotto or Bond Hall from the west at night.

I recalled walking into the Hammes Bookstore for the first time and thinking what a magnificent building it was for a campus bookstore. And I thought of the many friends from Omaha who would request shirts, or hats or mugs or other treasures from the bookstore on our various visits. Everyone, it seems, is a soft Notre Dame fan or knows a hard core one.

I thought of the astounding 95% rate of volunteerism among Notre Dame’s students. And I recalled the stories of M’s spring breaks spent on volunteer efforts – once on a home renovation for a coal mining family in the Appellation Mountains of W Virginia and once on a home construction project for a single mother in a smallish village in northern Mexico.

I recalled our family trip to Detroit to spend Thanksgiving with M and the family of one of her closest friends. And I recalled the surprise on M’s face when we produced the two stowaway dogs who had accompanied us on our lengthy car ride – later dubbed “Lexi and Dover’s Big Adventure”.

Then I turned my thoughts towards football and the excitement of walking through campus on game day amidst all the tradition of the various tailgate festivities. (Gameday pictures)

I remembered the feeling I got when I first heard the sound of bagpipes in the distance, marching in rhythm somewhere on campus.

I thought of first Irish game in Notre Dame Stadium – Notre Dame vs. Stanford and the spectacular air force flyover signaling the climax of our National Anthem.

I thought of the crazy Lepraucan mascot on the sidelines and hearing M explain how competitive it is to attain that position.

I thought of the pageantry of the Irish Guard and how for the first time ever, in M’s freshman year, a lone female made the cut in a highly competitive squad of ten 6’-2” ceremonial “body guards” to the Notre Dame marching band.

I remembered that emotional ending of every football game when the entire team gathers in front of the student section of the stands and sway together as one with the singing of Notre Dame our Mother, their Alma Mater.

I remembered the pounding rhythm of the midnight drummer circle pep rally in the dark under the Dome at the steps of the Notre Dame Administration Building and the whipped up frenzy that ensued within the gathered crowd of enthusiastic students, drummers and fans.

I thought of the ritualistic pregame gathering of the marching band on the steps of Bond Hall, home of the School of Architecture. We often would watch from the inside on the top floor. And viewing the hundreds of gathered fans and hearing the booming sounds from this unique perspective was enjoyed by only a scarce few with the correct building access privileges on their key cards. And I thought of the “parade” that followed as hundreds of joyous fans followed their marching band from Bond Hall as they traversed campus to make their way into the stadium to begin the pre-game festivities. And that memorable Fight Song.

And I remember the humbling image of the entire football team, dressed in black suits exiting their traditional pregame Mass, walking together to the stadium to dress for the game.

I was reminded of watching the 1993 movie Rudy for the first time and not knowing what a powerfully inspiring movie it was.

I thought of M’s dear friends at Carroll Hall who I grew to know so well from the few times we met and the many stories and pictures shared with us by M. She’s always called them “my boys” and by all accounts they seem to all be true lifelong friends.

I thought of the great times we had spent with M’s friends and the families of those friends during each of our many trips to South Bend over the last five years. (Pictures of visits) We felt so blessed with the opportunity to spend time with these friends over dinner at various restaurants in South Bend and Mishawaka. And I thought of the pizza at Rocco's, the Salsa at La Esperanza and the Guinness at Fiddlers Hearth – my personal favorites.

I remembered calling Fiddlers one evening from home when we knew M was there studying for finals. We secretly ordered her the most decadent desert on the menu – a brownie with ice cream and hot fudge. They delivered it to the corner table where she sat alone and told her it was from her parents.

I thought of the M’s favorite coffee shops – Café Poche in the basement of Bond Hall, Chicory Café in South Bend and Lula’s Café near campus. And then I thought of the coffee of Rome.

I thought of the treasure of M’s two concurrent semesters of classical architectural study in Rome and all the memories of friends and travels shared with her family. (Pictures from Roma)

I remembered my trip alone to Rome to spend a week with M in October 2007. I still remember the oddity of so much free time alone to explore the City. I’d wake early each morning to meet M for Espresso and walk her to studio in the cool October morning air. Then I’d be off to wherever, each day in a different direction, to see, hear, touch, taste and smell all the history that is Rome. And in the evening, we would meet for dinner, wine and stories of our day. That was a great week!

I remember the thrill of walking with M into the Pantheon for the first time and, standing at the center looking up at the open sky, I wondered aloud how anyone could have possibly managed to create such a marvelous space.

I recalled discovering again Bramante’s Tempieto thirty years after first seeing this wonderfully secluded little martyrium in the courtyard of San Pietro in Montorio on Rome’s Janiculum Hill.

Then I thought of December when Denise and I had assembled all of our daughters and J’s (future) fiancé together in Italy. We spent most of two weeks in Rome, Pisa, Sienna, Montalcino and Venice. And when Denise and the others returned home, I stayed with M for another week to ensure the continuity of Christmas with family.

I recalled the joy of the Christmas season in Austria and our travels together through the decorated streets of Salzburg and Vienna. I can still feel the excitement of seeing the gently falling snow, visible through the darkness against the dim streetlights on Christmas Eve. We walked through Vienna in this majestic snow to attend a Mozart Concerto. And I remember the excitement of Christmas morning and our makeshift stockings on the fireplace in our Hotel. And later we made our way to the Hofburg Imperial Palace in Vienna and enjoyed the angelic music of the Wiener Sängerknaben (Vienna Boys Choir) during their Christmas morning Mass.

I thought of my reunion with an old friend, currently living in Prague, who I’d not seen or heard from since my (our) study abroad days in London twenty-five years prior. And the irony of sharing this thrill on Christmas day together with M as part of her own experience of study abroad.

I recalled the enlistment of one of M’s friends to post an announcement on their studio door on M’s birthday. The announcement was a collage of several pictures that I had of M eating gelato in front of her favorite gelateria and invited everyone to Gelateria Giolitti near the Pantheon - arguably the best gelato in Rome for a special birthday treat. Remarkably this treat was enjoyed by most of her classmates.

I thought about M’s early return from her European tour following her year in Rome so she could attend the Commencement ceremony of her boys from Carroll Hall. The Commencement speaker was the President of the United States – a longstanding tradition for the first year of the first term for each president (except Clinton) since Dwight Eisenhower.

I remembered the stories of her many talks with several Decons at Seminary in Rome and the comfort provided to a student far from home and to her parents far away. And I tried again to image her competitive side glowing once again on the basketball court as she was invited to join these Decons in their Thursday night league at some gym in the Vatican City. And then I thought of the emotional Ordinations for two of these fine Deacons that we were blessed to have attended, first for Father Joe Freedy in Pittsburgh and then for Father David Kutner in Spokane. I'm still amaized and touched by the stories of M's gifts of art and self and faith to each of these new priests - "Young St. Joseph" to Fr. Joe and "Faith in a Tea Pot" to Fr. David.

I thought of M’s challenge to me to join her and her 48 classmates to study, enroll and pass the U.S. Green Building Council’s examination as a LEED Accredited Professional before they graduated. Through great effort amidst the “normal” grueling academic routine, M became the first female student and third overall to pass….and so too did I.

I remembered hearing about M’s summertime trip to Los Angeles to tour and meet with residents and community leaders in the area of Chinatown in preparation for a semester long design project. Their task was to create a more natural transition between the urban cultures of Chinatown and an adjacent Hispanic district.

I thought about M’s efforts together with many of her classmates to raise funds and organize themselves to in an effort to design and construct a grade school in Uganda. And the culmination of these efforts was for her to accompany a contingent of six students as they were dispatched to Uganda for three weeks to assist in the commencement of work to build the school.

I remembered M’s telling of countless 24/7s spent holed up in Bond Hall toiling on design projects and of her many bleary-eyes treks from Bond Hall to Starbucks in the nearby LaFortune Hall. And how on one such trip, upon stepping outside, she was immediately approached by a giggling gaggle of young high school girls on a campus sponsored tour that included a photographic scavenger hunt. In sadistic recognition of their reclusive nature during the last several weeks of the semester, the bonus prize for their scavenging adventure was to attempt to gain a photograph of themselves outside with an Architecture student. M playfully obliged. “They were lucky to catch me outside” she had said.

I thought of M’s recent Confirmation into the Catholic faith at the Basilica of the Sacred Heart at Notre Dame. It was a glorious ceremony that was attended by Denise and I and so many of M’s dearest friends.

I thought of M’s thesis work to save and transform a dying mall (Crossroads) in Omaha. Several months into her research this same mall became the topic of many news articles regarding the revelation of its Owner’s loan default, its sale at auction and much speculation about its future use.

I thought of the many motivational cards we had sent to M near the end of every semester as all the various academic deadlines crushed down upon the same few hours of the last few days. And I recalled the final card sent to her and a dozen or so of her friends that we had grown to know and respect over the years. As they all approached the grips of final exams, the crunch of thesis completion, the cold reality of job seeking and the prospect of graduation and leaving this place that they called home, our card read “Now is the time for Guts and Grace”. Remarkably, a couple of hours later I would hear their class Valedictorian recite her speech to the outgoing Class of 2010 entitled “Guts and Grace” - inspired by our card to her.

I remembered the arrival today at Commencement of the students from the School of architecture and their traditional gown, stole and mortar board cap and tassel precariously surmounted by a hand-sculpted scale model of a building of certain importance to each graduate. M’s model was her studio building in Rome. (Pictures of Graduation week)

I thought of the stirring volunteer send-off ceremony in front of a standing room only crowd at the DeBartolo Performing Arts Center where the many students, including M, who had devoted the next year of their lives to mission work, stood at the podium to voice their intentions and were individually honored and sent forth with much respect and countless prayers.

And I thought about M’s earned Diploma and all of the years of continuous dedication, courage, sacrifice and empathy (Guts and Grace) that it represents.

Then I saw her approach, walking and laughing with a friend. I’d seen this image many times before although not under these circumstances and perhaps not so overwhelmed with this gathering sense of adulation. I remained seated there in the shade and watched with a full heart as she approached. And I thought about how indescribably proud I am to know her like a friend and to have her and to love her as a daughter. Amen.

ND Application reprinted in part...

25 October 2004 

Personal Statement - An introduction of myself to the University of Notre Dame and the School of Architecure.

by M West, Senior MNHS

"Follow your desire as long as you live.”

-Ptah-Hotep

In elementary school, I dreamed of being an archeologist. I was captivated with Ancient Egypt, and the mysteries of sites such as the Great Pyramid at Giza. I later became fascinated with other ancient civilizations including the Mayan and Aztec empires of Latin America. In high school, I have become equally passionate about my artistic and mathematical studies. This interest in history and my love for art and math has inspired me to follow Ptah-Hotep’s words, and pursue the study of architecture.

My love for art blossomed when my sophomore art class began to study and imitate major historical periods of art. This awakened me to the critical and contextual layers hidden beneath the surface of visual art. With this new found depth, the sensations I could portray through my work struck deeper. I could create things visually which surpassed words, and conveyed emotions, allowing me to connect with others through my art. I am currently welding sheets of copper and stainless steel into a fountain. This sculpture resembles a heart, and has the central theme that love transcends life. My inspiration for this piece was found while volunteering at the Make-A-Wish Foundation. My fountain also reveals my desire for challenges. I had never worked with metals before, and am currently learning the techniques of welding outside of class.

In contrast, I enjoy the challenge and beauty in my advanced mathematics courses. I love the fact that on the surface, math is studied and practiced with a set process and a series of steps. But beneath this plane, lies an intriguing mix of patterns and logical connections that are complex yet elegant. For instance, last year my class spent a day investigating the flocking patterns of birds and schools of fish. These migrations of self-organization are explained by the underlying principles of chaos theory. The animals follow simple guidelines about their relation to one another, but they produce highly complex behaviors within flocks.

These two disciplines, art and math, can easily be seen as opposites, yet I have found connections. My Extended Essay for my International Baccalaureate Diploma explores the mathematical underpinnings in the composition and symbolism of Leonardo da Vinci’s The Last Supper, and Salvador Dalì’s The Sacrament of the Last Supper. I also see art and math as complimentary in my chosen field of interest. I am drawn to architecture for its fusion of aesthetic principles with the logical reality of mathematics. Architecture empowers the design elements of art to withstand the physical laws of nature, while also improving the welfare of the society for which it is designed. My interest in architecture also stems from my father, an Architect. I enjoy seeing his drawings, visiting his firm; absorbing the combination of abstract thoughts and concrete details. I hope to merge my interests in art and math to find my own balance of passionate expression, as I have witnessed from the desk next to my father’s for years.

-M West