Thank you Father Mike

Father Mychal Judge was a Franciscan friar and a chaplain to the New York City Fire Department. On September 11, 2001, he rushed into the first World Trade Center tower along side the firefighters he had ministered to, supported, and comforted over the years. On 9/11 he earned the unfortunate distinction of becoming the first recorded death of that tragic day.


This morning, as I drank my coffee and packed school lunches I listened to an NPR story about Mychal Judge, or Father Mike as he was known. He was described as a devout and irreverent priest with large comforting hands, colorful language, and a huge heart. He was a man who remembered small details about the lives of the many people he encountered and who always made time for them when they needed him. He was once quoted as saying  " I don't need a thing in the world. I am the happiest man on the face of the earth. Why am I so blessed? I don't deserve it." He touched the lives of many New Yorkers, 3,000 of whom paid their respects at his funeral.


As I listened to the story, I was filled with tenderness and awe for the people Father Mike left behind. It was their stories, the personal truths each of them pulled from this tragedy, that touched me so deeply this morning. Each of the people interviewed drew their own meaning from Father Mike's death and it has shaped the way they live their lives.


This need, this ability to search for meaning, to question, to try to understand, is one of the most beautiful traits we humans share. Some believe our life paths are the product of divine intervention. Others steadfastly believe that there is no rhyme or reason to life. And still others choose to understand life experiences as the consequences of our choices and actions. What touched me about the stories from Father Mike's survivors, was not what each of them believed or how they came to that belief, but rather that each of them sought to understand and find some truth in Father Mike's death. 


Bill Cosgrove, a retired police lieutenant, was one of the people interviewed. He became the subject of an iconic 9/11 photo. In the photo he and several firefighters are carrying  Mychal Judge's body out of the wreckage. It is a powerful image to be sure. Lt. Cosgrove had never met Judge, but literally stumbled upon his body as he rushed in to help when the first of the World Trade Center towers was struck. He says of Father Mike:

"He's always been on my mind ever since then, because it's my firm belief that the only reason I'm here today is because of him. I know that sounds weird, but everybody you see in that picture was saved. And I'm sure had he not been there, I would have been trying to look for other people. And when that North Tower fell, I would have been right in the middle of it, just like the rest of the firemen were, and some of my cops. But nothing was going to happen that day. At least, not to me."

Craig Monahan, a firefighter who knew Father Mike and barely survived that day, believes that his death was a fitting end to his life.

"I think he wouldn't have had it any other way. It was as if he took the lead, all those angels, right through heaven's gates, you know. That's what it seemed like to us. And I guess if any of those guys were confused on the way up, he was there to kind of ease the transition from this life to the next."

Father Michael Duffy, a Franciscan brother and long time friend of Father Mychal Judge had many fond memories and stories of their long friendship. He delivered the eulogy at Judge's funeral.

"Mychal Judge's body was the first one released from Ground Zero. His death certificate has the number '1' on the top. Of the thousands of people who perished in that terrible holocaust, why was Mychal Judge number one? And I think I know the reason. Mychal's goal and purpose in life was to bring the firemen to the point of death so they would be ready to meet their maker. Mychal Judge could not have ministered to them all. It was physically impossible — in this life."

I believe the important thing about seeking truth and meaning in our lives is, not so much the answers we find, but what we do with them. How do the truths we find inform our lives and guide us in how we live them?  The losses of 9/11 would be far more tragic than they already are if we did not attempt to understand them. There are as many truths to be found from that day as there are seekers. The questions we must ask ourselves are, what do we do with these truths? How do we use them to guide our lives? As a nation it is imperative that we ask these questions. 


As significant as 9/11 is in our national history (it is one of those days that everyone remembers where they were and what they were doing), we should not limit our search for truth to events of great tragedy or joy. We have the opportunity to find meaning in our lives every day if we only take the time to look. Our own small lives are full of stories. And if we begin to pay attention to these stories, we begin to see the wisdom they hold. And from there, we might begin to see the direction our lives should take next.


These are the truths I found in the story of Father Mychal Judge and those who knew him: We are all seekers. We all have the ability to find truth and meaning in the events of our lives. Even if we share an experience, my truth may not be the same as yours. We do well to use the answers we find to guide us in our lives. I find it awe inspiring that, not only did Mychal Judge touch the lives of thousands of New Yorkers in both his life and his death, but ten years later he touched the life of a woman from California who hadn't even heard of him until this morning. Thank you Father Mike.


To read or listen to the NPR story about Father Mychal Judge visit http://www.npr.org/2011/09/09/140293993/slain-priest-bury-his-heart-but-not-his-love

Wells of strength, some hidden

"just thinking about trees and their indifferent majesty and our love for them teaches us how ridiculous we are - vile parasites squirming on the surface of the earth - and at the same time how deserving of life we can be, when we can honor this beauty that owes us nothing."

-Muriel Barbery

The Elegance of the Hedgehog

book I read while backpacking

Standing waist deep in a small, chilly Sierra Lake I listened. All I could hear was the wind rustling the pine trees and my dog sniffing out treasures in the bushes. I looked around. This small lake was cradled by mountains on all sides, snow capped and jagged. The sky was cloudless and deep blue. I breathed in clean, fresh mountain air. As the wind stopped to catch its' breath,  I plunged my head under the clear water of that mountain lake and broke the surface refreshed. This was a peak experience if ever there was one. This was a baptism.

I have only been backpacking twice in my life: Once last summer and once this summer. The grand total of miles I have hiked with a 30 pound pack on my back: About 10. Total number of nights spent away from running water and electricity: 5. But I am hooked now. After years of hiking and car camping, I have found the joy of camping with less stuff and fewer people in more remote places.

I never thought I would enjoy backpacking. I didn't think I had the guts. I've always loved to hike, but not with a heavy pack strapped to my back.  I'm afraid of bears. The prospect of a bear sniffing around my tent in the night sent chills down my spine.  And there's all that darkness and quiet at night. I didn't think I could survive without a lantern and the sound of other campers chatting around their campfires. Finally, what about bodily functions. I truly hate pit toilets, but digging a hole and, well, you know. Not for me thanks.

Then my friend Chrissie, a woman who is fearless in the face of physical challenges and has backpacked with Grizzly bears in Alaska, got it into her head that we should tack a couple of nights of backpacking onto our annual week long car camping vacation to June Lake.  I looked at her as if she'd just suggested we walk on hot coals while juggling flaming torches.  The problem was, I was the only one giving her that look as we sat in our camp chairs drinking cold beers on the June Lake shore. Other friends were seriously considering this prospect. Some of them were downright enthusiastic.

Shannah, another woman eager for adventure,  took this crazy idea and made it into an actual plan for the following summer. Picking dates and obtaining permits, she got the ball rolling. Tammy, the consummate organizer, started making supply lists and planning backpacking meals. To make matters worse, my kids were all for it, assuring me that I would never be forgiven if our family missed out on this adventure. And my beloved husband Paul, who can always be depended on for the skeptical response, was  game to give it a try. I had no choice.

E-mails circulated for the better part of the year containing packing lists, backpacking tips, permit information, meal planning, trail information, and weather predictions. We began looking for packs, tents, bear canisters and backpacking stoves to borrow. The planning and preparations wore me out. On top of that, I still had to prepare for our regular "luxury" car camping trip to June Lake. Whose idea of a vacation was this?

Finally the day of our departure arrived. It was clear and warm. We had spent a week at June Lake, elevation 7,500 feet. We gathered at Mosquito Flats, elevation 10,000 feet, departure point for Little Lakes Valley. Our destination, Chickenfoot Lake, was less than three miles away with little elevation gain. We were to camp for two nights. Wearing borrowed packs, we were less then comfortable on the hike. Four people and a dog crammed into a small tent did not lend itself to restful nights. Our borrowed stove proved to be temperamental, and our meals were boring. But the views along the trail were breathtaking, Chickenfoot Lake was postcard perfect. We were with good friends. The kids eagerly embraced the freedom they found in the wilderness. The dogs (5 on that trip) were leash free and loving it. There was booze at happy hour. And we had perfect weather. OK, maybe I CAN do this.

This summer we returned to Chickenfoot Lake for three nights. Having invested in packs of our own, we were much happier along the trail. Two small tents allowed for more comfortable nights. And our food was tastier and more varied. The kids and dogs were again free of leashes. The happy hour drinks were better (or at least stronger). And we were with some of our closest friends in one of the most beautiful places on the planet.

As we hiked out on the last day I knew I was hooked on backpacking and I was filled with gratitude for how I had gotten to this place. I am part of a community of friends who challenge me to try new things, test my courage, step out of my comfort zone and embrace life. I am blessed with friends who lift me up, watch my back, laugh with me, cry with me, muddle through the day to day with me, listen to me, talk to me, inspire me, and create moments of beauty and joy with me. How lucky am I? What an amazing source of strength they are.

And on that hike out I also realized that I am stronger than I think. I left my fears and reservations at the trailhead and found that I am capable of carrying a heavy load, sleeping in the dark, and living without certain comforts of home, at least for a few days. I had it in me all along. Sometimes it just takes the right people and the right moment to tap into a well of strength we didn't know we had. How many other wells are just waiting to be tapped? This is what it means to grow.

Why Don't We Just Start?.

Beloved educator and children's musician, Tom Hunter, begins one of his recordings by asking his fellow musicians, "How to begin?" After a moment of guitar noodling he answers his own question. "Why don't we just start."


Why don't we just start? I designed this blog many months ago. I searched for the perfect title, the perfect photos, just the right quote. I did everything except actually write. This turn of events was not surprising. My life's history is littered with ideas, dreams, and plans that never materialized, largely due to my own inaction. So why don't I just start?


It's tempting to say that I'm afraid to fail, or even afraid to succeed. And both of these are true. Existentialists might conclude that I'm afraid of death, trying to fend off the inevitable by not really starting to live. (If you don't live, you can't die, right?) I suspect there is some truth in this as well. When I was nine years old my dad turned 32. He winked at me and announced that that was it for him. He would remain 32 forever. I thought this was a fine idea and agreed to live my life as a nine year old. It was our deal. And in spite of all evidence to the contrary: the continuation of birthdays, the onset of puberty, college, marriage, two kids and a body that keeps on aging, part of me still tries to maintain my end of that deal. 


But I don't think that's the whole story either. For as long as I can remember, one of my dreams has been to sing. When I was in high school I would come home after school and stand in front of a mirror singing along with Carole King's Tapestry album over and over again. I had every nuance of every song down pat. And when I went to brush my teeth at night, I would stand in front of the bathroom mirror imagining myself on the Merv Griffin show. Merv would ask me questions about my amazing voice and my meteoric rise to fame. And I would dole out wise and witty answers like they were candy. Ah success.


In real life, however, I mostly sang in the privacy of my bedroom. Painfully shy and terrified of failure and public humiliation, I chose to keep the dream of singing largely in the realm of fantasy. But along with fear, there was disconnection with the process of becoming a singer. I wanted to be Carol King being interviewed by Merv Griffin. I didn't really want to practice. I didn't want to grow and progress slowly. I wanted to be loved by all immediately. Anything short of that smacked of failure. And where was the sparkle and glamour in practicing scales or learning to play bar chords on the guitar? I didn't want to put time and energy into the process; I wanted success. Now.


I suspect I am not alone. As a culture we are taught to be goal oriented, to set our eyes on the prize and do whatever it takes to get there. Some of us plow on ahead to great success. Others are afraid to try. There are huge costs in this kind of living. We are not taught to live in the moment, to relish the journey, to find wisdom in the process, and joy in the ordinary. When we narrow our life's focus to reaching goals (or not), we don't really live our lives. We miss out on our days. We don't value the feeling that comes from just sitting down and spending an hour writing, even if we never publish anything. We forget that setting the table for a family meal is an act of love, that  there is beauty in the ritual of making a cup of coffee, tenderness in wiping a child's face clean. We don't notice the shifting light outside, or breathe in the quiet moments of early morning. We forget to go for a walk, just because. 


What is our life, if not the day to day living of it? And how can we do what we love or love what we do if we are not present for it? There is a quote I keep tucked away in the back of my mind. Unfortunately, I heard it second hand and never learned the original author. But the words are wise just the same: "Perfection is the enemy of excellence." What if being a singer just meant singing, and being a writer just meant writing? What if being human just meant showing up and really being there? What if we tried to live with presence and love and gratitude in everything we do? Why don't we just start?