Before I packed a
bag, filled the gas tank and made the trip from Missouri to northeast Iowa, I
knew I was about to meet someone very special. Days before the trip, the parish
secretary sent me an email that began like this: I need to tell you a little bit about the woman you will be staying
with while you are here.
From that email, I
discovered that Rachel was well into her 80s. She still worked at the local
grocery story, cleaned the church and rectory, and kept a yard and garden that
rivaled all others in town. She walked wherever she wanted to go, because she
didn’t own a car, and she preferred it that way. She’s on the fast track to sainthood, the secretary said.
And that summed up
Rachel to a T.
In these last
seven years as a Catholic, I’ve often wondered what it would have been like to
have a Catholic grandmother. In March of 2011, Rachel showed me.
Every room of her
house was inundated with holy things. In the guest room, there were two
pictures on one wall: the Sacred Heart of Jesus and the Immaculate Heart of
Mary. In the bathroom, there was a framed clipping from an old newspaper. It
was an ode to John F. Kennedy and a prayer for those who grieve. At the top of
the stairs, there was a peg board with numerous rosaries hanging from it. Each
rosary had a story.
As we talked that
weekend, Rachel would pause in the middle of our conversations and dash off to
find a sacred object, prayer card or Catholic magazine. I returned to Missouri
with many of them. She insisted on it.
I also returned
with two baby blankets, gifts for my infant grandsons. Rachel distributes the
baptismal gifts at St. Joseph’s Parish, and she invited me to choose from her
baptismal stash. I secretly wondered if there was anything this woman didn’t do
for the parish.
Rachel has
survived two floods and one house fire. A few years ago, she was hit by a car
as she walked home from church. Undaunted, she still walks everywhere.
Someone at the
local grocery store asked her if she believes in all that God stuff. “I sure
do!” She replied with complete confidence. “He’s the reason I’m still around.”
And she’s not
exaggerating. In 1964, Rachel’s husband died unexpectedly. She was left to
raise their two small children on her own.
She never
remarried.
Rachel turned to
her faith and her God, and she kept on going. She worked hard and surrounded
herself with holy reminders. The Saints found a way to triumph over tragedy,
and she was determined to do it, too.
This dear woman
invited me into her home. She fed me. She gave me blankets for my grandbabies.
She showed me to a bedroom with a white chenille bedspread and pictures of
Jesus and Mary on the walls. She gave me a bottle of 7-up and glasses of water
when I couldn’t stop coughing. She prayed that my cold wouldn’t sabotage the
talks I was scheduled to give during the parish Lenten mission. She squeezed my
hand hard after the last talk was done. I’d made it through, thanks to Rachel’s
prayers and God’s goodness.
Rachel told me
that I was something special, a saint in the making, she said. I shook my head.
“Rachel, you are wrong. You are the one
showing me what it means to live out the faith.” She didn’t believe me. I could
tell. But I know better. It’s easy to talk about conversion. The journey from
where I’ve been to where I have landed is a delight to tell. I would go almost
anywhere just to be able to speak of this great joy.
But that doesn’t
make me a saint. Not even close.
When I was a
stranger, Rachel let me in. When my grandsons were short on blankets, she gave
me two. When I needed a bed and a good night’s sleep, she showed me to a quiet
room. When my throat was sore, and I couldn’t stop coughing, she gave me
something to drink. When I was hungry – and even when I wasn’t – she gave me
something to eat.
She prayed for me.
That’s faith in
action. Sermon-on-the-Mount faith. The kind of faith that makes us sheep
instead of goats. Saints instead of sinners.
It’s easy to write
about becoming Catholic. It’s a joy to talk about it. Talk is easy.
Many people say
that converts make the best Catholics. Not so. The people who
love-and-live-Jesus make the best Catholics. The question I’ve yet to answer is
whether or not I can spend a lifetime living
out the Gospel. The saints did it. As a convert, I’m just getting started.
But, His grace is sufficient for even one like me.
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