Seasons of Grace

Does anyone know where the love of God goes
When the waves turn the minutes to hours…

-Gordon Lightfoot, “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald”

It was circa July 1973, and my husband and I—young, free-wheeling and in love, with more dreams than experience—embarked on a driving trip through upper Michigan. We’d never been much farther north than Lansing at that point. We pitched a tent along the way, getting to know Grayling and Mio, the Au Sable River and the Traverse City wine country, finally turning back when we reached Lake of the Clouds in Michigan’s Porcupine Mountains.

Along the way, we stopped at Sault Ste. Marie, on the St. Mary’s River. Originally called “Sault du Gastogne” by early French fur traders, it was renamed by Jesuit missionary Pere Jacques Marquette in 1633, to honor the Virgin Mary.

The St. Mary’s River is the only water connection between Lake Superior and the Great Lakes; but there is a section of the river known as the St. Mary’s Rapids, where the water falls about 21 feet from the level of Lake Superior to the level of the lower lakes. With ingenuity and persistence, the settlers built a series of locks, called the “Soo Locks,” to bypass the dangerous waters of the river—and in 1855, the steamer Illinois passed through the locks in less than an hour. The four locks in use today permit shipping through the Great Lakes into the waters of Lake Michigan, connecting the American Midwest to the Atlantic Ocean.

Standing there at the Locks in 1973, Jerry and I watched as a freighter passed through the locks, the ship’s crew “manning the rails,” a tradition which showed that they had no evil intent. We snapped 35 mm photos which were later developed into slides.

Only years later did we review the slides and realize that the ship we’d seen that day was the mighty and legendary Edmund Fitzgerald, destined for immortality as a “ghost ship.”

On November 10, 1975, just two years after we captured the ship and its crew on film, the Edmund Fitzgerald—en route from Wisconsin to Detroit’s Zug Island—sank in the waters of Lake Superior during a storm. The ship broke in two, its crew of 29 were lost, and Gordon Lightfoot wrote his ode to the ship and its brave crew. Today, 35 years after the loss, Old Mariner’s Church in Detroit still sounds its bells 29 times each day in honor of the sailors who lost their lives in this most famous of Michigan’s many shipwrecks.

Looking at the photographs today, I remember that these men—most in their 40s or 50s, and some as young as 21—were not planning to die that day. They left loving wives, children, parents, and friends, drawn to the depths of the sea and the arms of their Creator. Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord.

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A few days ago, a Connecticut jury voted to invoke the death penalty for convicted “home invasion” murderer Steven Hayes. Within minutes of the announcement, on news and commentary sites across the liberal/ conservative spectrum, Americans celebrated the verdict. I watched as 200, then 300 and more “likes” popped up on Fox News’ Facebook report.

But why? What satisfaction can be gained by the taking of yet another life?

Granted, Hayes’ crimes were heinous. In the deadly home invasion, Hayes had brutalized Jennifer Hawke-Petit and her daughters, 17-year-old Hayley and 11-year-old Michaela—sexually assaulting them, then dousing their wounded bodies with gasoline before setting their house ablaze. A comment heard frequently during the trial phase was that if ever a crime was deserving of death, this was it.

In the face of such abject evil, public rage catapulted toward revenge, fostering an “eye for an eye” retributive hatred.

Such vengeance, while understandable, does nothing to restore the victims to life; but it does potentially impede the action of God in the heart of the offender. As Jesus asks that we turn the other cheek; likewise, the Catechism of the Catholic Church insists that capital punishment not be used unless there is no other recourse.

In a nutshell, the Church asserts that:

• The State has a right and responsibility to protect the human rights of its citizens, and to preserve the common good.
• Legitimate public authority (a police force) may inflict penalties commensurate with the gravity of the crime. This penalty serves the purpose of redressing the disorder, and—as much as possible—should help in restoring the offender.
• In certain situations (such as during wartime), when capital punishment is the only practical way to defend human lives against the aggressor, it is not wrong to employ the death penalty.
• However—and this is most important—if bloodless means are available to defend against the aggressor and to protect the safety of persons, public authority should limit itself to such means.
• In contemporary American society, when the option of secure imprisonment is available, cases of absolute necessity are very rare, if not practically non-existent.

The Church hopes with Christ that the sinner—even the very great sinner—will freely repent and be reconciled with Christ. To forcibly take the life of a criminal, thereby taking from him the opportunity for repentance, would be wrong.

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For a tourist in Rome, there is wonder around every corner. Priceless antiquities are everywhere—the Colosseum rises beside the freeway, obelisks jut skyward in shopping malls, and ancient relics sit amid the Vespas in crowded parking garages. Pop into a church along your walk, and you’re likely to see the remains of St. Agnes or a painting by Caravaggio. Even the local McDonald’s is constructed of precious marble.

The largest and most famous of Rome’s great basilicas is St. Peter’s, which is constructed over the bones of the apostle to whom Jesus gave the Keys of the Kingdom. But St. Peter’s is not the oldest and is not the primary basilica in Rome; that honor is accorded to the Basilica of St. John Lateran, the pope’s own church, the dedication of which is celebrated in the liturgical calendar on November 9. Dating back to the fourth century, St. John Lateran carries the title of “ecumenical mother church,” the mother church of the whole inhabited world.

It’s rare that a liturgical feast turns our eyes to a building, rather than to a holy person. But that’s missing the point: We are challenged to look within the four marbled walls to see what’s really important: the “chair of Peter.” In Exodus 18:13, Moses sat upon his chair, and the Israelites understood that from that honored throne, he ruled in judgment of his people. In the Scriptures, the authority of the chair was passed on to Joshua. Jesus recognized the authority of the chair, and so conferred upon Peter both His own authority, and the authority of Moses. In St. John Lateran, the locus of the Catholic Faith, the Church proclaims itself to be truly one (that is, united in faith), holy, catholic (or universal), and apostolic (continuing unceasing from the time of the apostles).

The second scripture reading in the liturgy for the feast is drawn from St. Paul’s First Letter to the Corinthians. It’s about a building—but then again, it’s not. As we celebrate the great feast of the great basilica, we are reminded that like the great basilica, we are temples of God. We are holy, for we are made in the image and likeness of God. Inspired by the Holy Spirit, Paul cautions that God will destroy anyone—hear this, ANYONE—who destroys His temple.

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I love it when I learn a new word. Sometimes I hear the word on the radio as I’m driving, and I scribble it on a napkin while revving the engine at a red light. Sometimes I run across the word while reading, just before sleep overtakes me; and I grab a highlighter from the bedside drawer to mark my new treasure, thus preventing the word from drifting off to join my forgotten dreams.

Nancy Pelosi earned sneers and eyerolls earlier this year for a word of her own, when she explained that she must pursue public policies “in keeping with the values” of Jesus Christ, “the Word Made Flesh.”

James Earl Jones, the actor perhaps best known as the voice of Darth Vader, said, “One of the hardest things in life is having words in your heart that you can’t utter.”

Today’s word, boys and girls, is “uxorious.” When I heard this melodious word roll off the tongue of an NPR broadcaster, I understood the gist of it: It had to do with great love within a marriage, the devotion—the utter smittenness—of one spouse toward the other. “That’s it!” I thought, remembering my dear husband’s kindness and gentleness and wisdom and playfulness and holiness…. “Yes, I am UXORIOUS!”

BUT I’M NOT. A spot check of my Random House Unabridged Dictionary tells me that uxoriousness is that attitude which a doting husband may have toward his wife, but not the reverse. Despite my best efforts, I’ve not found the appropriate antonym to describe a wife’s effervescent love for her husband.

So, dearest Jerry, I love many things about you: your steadfastness in things great and small; the twinkle in your eye when you tease little children; your generous pacifism when arguments arise. I even, I think, love your perfectionist tendencies, although your high standards mean that you’ll never trust me to wield a paint brush with sufficient care at the point where the tan wall intersects with the white doorframe.

You once picked me up when I fell asleep on the bus and passed my stop. You showed up with the spare keys, when I locked both the keys and the baby in the car with the motor running. Through the years you’ve balanced my checkbook, repaired the washing machine, and surprised me with that spectacular fireplace project last Christmas.

I love the way you love our children, and the way you speak gently of your own mother. I love to enter our room and find you in quiet prayer, and I know that your love for God will certainly enrich the love between the two of us. We’ve faced some big bumps along the way, but after 35 years, I love you more today than ever.

But I am a woman; and you might be a nice guy, but I am not—and will never be!- uxorious. Sorry, honey.

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I saw Rebecca Kiessling tonight. Perhaps you’ve heard of her: Rebecca is a family life attorney, a lanky blonde fireball who has built a career out of telling her life story.

You see, Rebecca’s mom was raped. It was 1970, just three years before Roe v. Wade became the law of the land—and here in Michigan, where the brutal crime occurred, abortion was illegal. Rebecca’s mom thought hard about obtaining a “back alley” abortion; but the callous attitude of the abortionist frightened her off, and she gave birth to a baby girl whom she placed for adoption.

Perhaps you consider yourself pro-life, “except in cases of rape or incest.”

Or perhaps you are pro-choice (at least you support choice for the mother, if not for the child), but noting the gravity of the consequences for a rape victim who is impregnated by her attacker, you support abortion “especially in cases of rape.”

Rebecca stands as a reminder that ALL children, regardless of the circumstances of their conception, have an intrinsic and inestimable worth. All are created in the image of God.

When Rebecca first learned the truth about her father, a serial rapist, she wrestled with feelings of inadequacy, guilt and shame. Even now, from her platform as a successful professional and a loving wife and mother, Rebecca’s vulnerability is evident. She herself explains it best:

“Have you ever considered how really insulting it is to say to someone, ‘I think your mother should have been able to abort you’? It’s like saying, ‘If I had my way, you’d be dead right now.’ And that is the reality with which I live every time someone says they are pro-choice or pro-life “except in cases of rape” because I absolutely would have been aborted had it been legal at the time…. I know that most people don’t put a face to this issue—for them, abortion is just a concept—with a quick cliché, they sweep it under the rug and forget about it.”

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