Growing in Truth, Beauty, and Goodness Amid Our Differences
presented by Wendy Redroad October 15, 2022

Trees

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair.

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

Written by Joyce Kilmer

Five years ago, I embraced Catholicism wholeheartedly and with an open mind. Catholicism embraced me right back. The warmth and acceptance you’ve offered me is a shining example of the truth, beauty, and goodness of our vocation to love. You and your families continue to nourish me as I establish roots in my Catholic faith. Thank you . . .

So, how does a Protestant Christian, with over a decade of service in women’s outreach, arrive at a Catholic parish, and in RCIA classes, to boot! It’s simple, really. I was tired and longing for more, with no idea of what “more” looked like. One day I confided in a friend who happened to be Catholic, about the restlessness and fatigue I was experiencing. Before that day, we’d never discussed our faith. We met in a salsa fitness class for women with the united desire to burn calories and shake our booties. So, other than praying over shared meals, we didn’t discuss the differences in Christian faith.

A decade later, our friendship had evolved and perfectly timed as God would have it, we began talking about our faith journeys. I told her that church sermons were beginning to feel more like pep rallies. That I’d been sitting in my closet for an hour at a time, basking in the presence of God, but what I really needed was a place to do this between work and home.

“Oh, you should go to adoration at my parish.”

“What’s that?, “I asked.

It’s a place where people go to sit quietly and adore Christ for an hour. It’s quiet and calm. You’re Native American, you’ll love it. And no one will bother me? Attempt to collect my information? Hand me a coffee cup adorned with a church logo which I will promptly give away.

“They will not. I mean, if walk past someone as your walking in or leaving they’re likely to acknowledge you, but that’s it.

“Where do I go, and what do I do?”

Three times a week I went to adoration on the way home from work. I still remember the quiet hum of the air conditioner. How it felt to sit in silence for the first time in my life and gaze upon a crucifix. To contemplate the wounds inflicted upon the Christ—who died for “the Saint that is just me.” And slowly, little pieces of my soul were revived in adoration.

Next, my friend invited me to a speaker series that would be offered in the evening. Speaker nights are great opportunities to invite non-Catholics because it’s not mass. It’s familiar, like a Sunday sermon. (So, no one’s walking away disgruntled with their arms crossed.) Also, it’s a great time to offer a tour of your parish and answer questions.

Enter, Good Shepherd Catholic Community, Colleyville, TX. Circa 2017.

I join my friend for speaker night, and I love it. Afterwards I have my own personal Catholic tour guide. We walk and talk. Blah blah blah, this is this, that is that—and THIS is the Eucharistic chapel, where Jesus is.

“What are you talking about?”

“Jesus, He’s in there.” (She points to the tabernacle.)

“Whoa there, Nelly, Jesus, is in HERE.” (I point to my heart.)

Yes, but He’s also in THERE." (She points to the tabernacle.)

“No, Jesus is in HERE. (I point to my heart a second time.)

“I know Christ lives in your heart, Wendy. But the presence of Christ is also in there--in the tabernacle.

We were like that old comedy skit, “Who’s on first” by Abbott and Costello. The comedy channel for the Church Triumph where female saints shake their heads, and male saints laugh hysterically.

I graciously gave up. Obviously, my friend didn’t get it. But because she had no personal agenda to “grow a Catholic,” I stuck around. I went to adoration 3-5 times a week, and on Sundays, I attended my non-denominational church.

[It was only a matter of time . . .]

My friend invited me to Maundy Thursday. This time around, when she answered my questions, I didn’t argue. And then I attended my first Easter Sunday mass. The reverence, Tradition, Sacraments . . . I knew right then and there, I was home. The great tilling of my faith began. I went to mass on Sundays, and my gym-friend became my RCIA sponsor.

RCIA classes were held on Monday evenings. Questions were warmly received and never shamed. I looked forward to our weekly gatherings—AND the snack foods were fabulous! Never underestimate the discipleship witness of Doritos and Dr. Pepper. (I’m just saying—it’s a winning combination.)

The pastor, Fr. Richard Eldridge, who’s since passed away, dropped in one evening to answer our questions; our thinking was so different, but it never felt “tense.” I especially enjoyed the bantering between Fr. Richard and Fr. Ronald— “the wit of the staircase” as the French call it. Laughter is a witness of its own.

Any hoo, Fr. Richard said something one night that stuck:

There are no abstracts in Catholicism. Through apostolic tradition and Sacraments, you can touch it, you can taste it, you can smell it, you can hear it, and you can see. And it all bears witness to the presence of God who we cannot tangibly see.

I didn’t have the privilege of growing up in Church. Faith formation was a foreign concept. There were no prayers before meals or before bedtime—other than a child’s silent hope for protection. There was no mystery of faith to embrace. I grew up in survival mode. It’s the reason I’m so passionate about spiritual works of mercy. And why I am so grateful for the discipleship witness of family amid our differences. Especially little discipleship witnesses.

I was headed into mass one Sunday when I noticed a small girl standing in front of a basin filled with holy water. She was dressed in a floral cotton dress, standing on her tip toes, and she was barefoot. Straight away, I was intrigued. I’d not been Catholic for very long. No one else in my family was Catholic, so every Sunday I sat alone in a field of families. Grateful as I was to be Catholic, at times I felt lonely.

So, on this day, I was overcome with delight to see a tiny free-spirited girl dip her sweet hand in holy water and carefully make the sign of the cross. There are two schools of thought with creative people: Less is more. And more is more. This child was an expression of the later.

She paused as if she were thinking before dipping her hand in a second time. This time her hairline was wet, and the water trickled down her sweet face. It was ON. I watched her repeatedly scoop small handfuls of water on her head until the front of her hair and dress were saturated with holy water.

From the corner of my eye, I saw a tall man holding the door open to the sanctuary. He was her father. The poetic irony in this scenario is the stark contrast in height between them. He towered over her. It was 8:45 on a Sunday morning and he looked completely defeated.

“I’m really sorry,” he said.

“It’s okay. She just made my day.!

And off I went into mass.

There’s a large baptismal in the front of the pews at my parish and depending on where you receive communion, you may find yourself walking right past it. This sweet family was in line behind me. And guess where we were headed? Just as we walked past the baptismal, her mother said under her breath, “Don’t even think about it.”

Truth, Beauty, Goodness . . . I met this child’s mother for the first time just a few months ago. When I told her this story, she immediately knew which kid I was it was. Awe . . . Marie. I don’t know what I’m going to do with her.

This leads me to my first point:

We are one body— “God’s field,” each with unique giftings that are rooted in the image and likeness of God—even amid our differences.

 The Scripture Reference for this talk is 1 Corinthians 3:6—9 NAB, and I’d like to read it aloud.

“I planted, Apollos watered, but God causes the growth. Therefore, neither the one who plants nor the one who waters is anything, but only God who causes the growth. The one who plants and the one who waters are equal, and each will receive wage in proportion to his labor. For we are God's co-workers; you are God's field, God’s building.”

“Twenty-two years ago, I built my first house. Because I have a love for nature to rival St. Francis of Assisi, I couldn’t wait to landscape. I told the builder where not to place sod and imagined my garden in full bloom. I had specific ideas about how my garden would grow. My plants would be strong and sturdy witnesses that reflected my values and faithful care.

To non-gardening onlookers, my blank canvas was an empty bed of dirt. But no matter. I prepped my soil for healthy plant growth. Most folks bypass this step, but two winters ago after that crazy Texas freeze, my plants not only survived, but they also thrived. While my neighbors were digging up dead shrubs in the spring, my garden was in full bloom.

I’m not just a gardener. I am nerdy gardener. In the fall, I harvest the seeds from my flowers and separate them on a tray as I watch movies. And then I store them in labeled baggies. My sons tell me that this looks like a highly suspicious activity.

No matter the season. I know the contents of the soil. I know the potential of every seed. I know what lies beneath the surface on a cold winter’s day. And every spring I’m overcome with nerdy excitement when I see the first sign of growth stretch through the ground. I can almost hear God say, “Wake up, sleepy head!”

Of course, I also had a vision for tall trees. So, twenty-two years ago, off to the tree farm I went. I still remember the nerdy tree-farmers name, Ricki. I say this with great affection. Tree farming was his life. (I get it.) I walked up and down several rows of trees with the careful observation one might give to an automobile at a dealership. That’s when Ricki laughed at me. When I asked what was so funny, he said, folks tend to fixate on the size and shape of these baby trees, forgetting that these trees are living things; destined by nature to grow and twist and turn. To change every day and with every season.

2nd point:

When we yield to God—who causes growth, our differences serve as divine seeds of transformation.

I have three grown sons, all very different in temperament. Two free spirits and one intellectual-agnostic. I’ve noticed this past year that when I pray over the meals we share, the son who refuses to step inside a church, bows his head—I secretly celebrate this tiny sprout without drawing wordy attention to it. This is what it means to “weed the garden.”

Throughout their teenage years, they were all headstrong, rebellious at times. But one of my sons was rebellious for what felt like an endless stretch of time. He fought me on everything. If I asked him to pass the salt, he’d hand me pepper.

He especially didn’t want anything to do with my Christian faith unless of course he was trying to argue with me about Jesus. His little brother created a magnetic popsicle-stick cross in Sunday school, which I proudly displayed on the fridge. Every night he turned it upside down. Every morning I turned it right side up—without a word. We laugh about things like this today, but back then nothing was funny. Many days I feared that we weren’t going to make it, and the fact that I didn’t know what not making it would look like, frightened me all the more.

At times I felt too angry or fatigued to say prayers for him, so I wrote Scriptures on small pieces of paper and placed them under his mattress and in his pillowcase. I wrote Scriptures on the bottom of his shoes and on the back of creepy posters. When he went to school during the day, I played Christian music in his room, and when he slept at night, I quietly slid an open Bible into his room, and removed it before he woke the next day.

When he graduated from high school, he moved out right away. All I could think was that I’d failed him. (That I was failing all three of them.) Of course, that’s when I was divinely interrupted. As if God were to say, excuse me, who do you think you are? I have the final word on this. My word does not return void.

When he was 22 years old, he came for a visit and asked me if I had an extra Bible. Turns out, he had a mysterious attraction to the written Word. A decade later, when I converted to Catholicism, he accused me of joining a cult. And to prove his point, he signed up for inquiry at my parish. Clearly, I didn’t get it and he was going to set me straight and rescue me.

“You know how much I love Jesus,” I’d say. If you stick around, you’ll understand why I’m Catholic.”

Once again, God used our differences to serve as seeds of transformation. And then He grew those seeds into my son’s conversion to Catholicism.

And then to postulancy. And then he grew my son into a Brother as a first year novitiate at the Saint Elizabeth Friary in Loretto, PA.

Will God grow him to make temporary vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience this May? I pray so if it’s His will. But I cannot grow a priest.

I cannot live my son’s lives for them. They cannot live mine for me.

Incidentally, last Easter, my 76-year-old mother converted to Catholicism. God grew another Catholic . . . and then there were three!

My friend and her husband invited me to see their new house. Before we toured the inside, we walked the perimeter of the property. She pointed to an area around the house and said, “Richard, this is a perfect place for a garden!” To which he replied, “Babe, where there is no Gardener, there is no garden.”

Third and final point:

Our vocation to love prepares us to grow in holiness, “but only God causes the growth.”

“As uniquely and lovingly as a single plant is selected and planted in a garden, we must not lose focus on the Gardener, who causes the growth. Our vocation to love shines through our fervent prayers and the care we offer to the plants he’s given us to nurture. And this includes having the discernment to know when to leave well enough alone. Have you ever over-watered a plant?

As our time together comes to an end, I’ll leave you with a poem I came across that illuminates our Scripture Reference.

December 18, 2017