I have always believed in Jesus. As a child, he looked like the picture with a flock of sheep holding a wee lamb on his shoulders. He had long brown hair, a gentle face and was lean and strong in appearance. He was far away from me as he lived in heaven. My parents provided good lessons and I learned well knowing he was my savior; however, did I know what that meant? Probably not, as I thought it depended on me to be “good” if I was to make it into heaven. I honestly didn’t give him much thought as a child.
By the time I was a young adult, I knew right from wrong and strived on my own to do right. Despite my good intentions I did much wrong harming others in my life’s journey, never intentionally you must understand, but due to selfish ambitions, jealousies and wrong judgments. Over time, I developed the malady of the known world order, guilt and condemnation. It settled on me as a pall of low self-esteem and all that entails basically depression. I wasn’t much fun as you can well imagine and I had to pretend to be cheerful and happy. I accepted my situation as my unfortunate lot in life hoping against hope when in church every Sunday that I would make it into Purgatory should I die.
Dad shocked the hell out of me when he said, “When I pray, it’s to get all my kids into Heaven. If they are not working themselves there, then I ask Jesus to come and get them now before they tarnish themselves even more.” I think about this often. Dad was clever enough to eliminate the guilt of being sinful. Did he really mean it? My father was saying he would rather have his children die than lead sinful lives. What a unique way to make me think about my relationship with Jesus. As a teenager growing up on a dairy farm in Northern Vermont, this message had a profound influence on me. I watched him, and defiantly said in my teenage voice, “Prove it.” And, he did.
It all starts with a loving family, and that was her blessing and privilege. Grandparents, loving and hardworking parents, and the good old-fashioned Irish neighborhood of Chicago’s Austin Boulevard cement her values and outlook on life. Her Irish girlfriends went to church faithfully, and Marysue always tagged along.
What is it about me, Lord, that scratches my soul, tenses my shoulders and lets me fall asleep with clenched hands? I’m in my early 60s, single and have what’s expected for a woman my age—a college education, a supportive family, nice physical features and some income. My bi-polar disease is well controlled—so why am I not happy?
All the warning lights suddenly turned on. Then the engine died. Heart thudding, I stared at the glowing dashboard.
I credit the Bible prophet, Amos, for bringing me closer to Jesus. I heard reference to him twice before. Admittedly, I knew very little about Amos and the Bible. Imagine me in a Sunday School setting in 1999, and Amos is the name I hear. Curious yet inattentive, I just let it go. Eight years later, I am standing in the same Sunday School setting, and again I hear the name—Amos. Curious and attentive and mad, I hit the ground running.
At the time my husband and I married in the Catholic Church, we had both been away from the church for a very long time. Before making our vows, we arrived early to simply sit before the tabernacle in silence. Yet it seemed nothing changed, and we continued to be absent at Mass on Sunday.
