As Lent begins, I return to Christmas with my annual letter.
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January
2016
It is
uncommon to hear the voices of angels singing.
Not so rare, however, that I was not tempted to stop as I drove between
Kadoka and Martin on Christmas Eve as the moon shone full on the snow covered Badlands
and prairie lighting them in hues of silver and indigo. Surely had I paused, I would have heard them
celebrating the Holy Night when Christ was born. But I hurried onward. The Holy Mass is delayed for no one, not even
melodious angels.
I arrived
in my new set of parishes six months ago excited and anxious, with vigor and
with trepidation, grateful for the prairie and sad to leave the hills. A half year later, the angst has disappeared,
and a routine of Mass, confessions, teaching, and driving has taken its
place. With around a thousand miles to
drive for ministerial purposes each month, I am glad for the natural beauty of
my new home. I am less glad for the
kamikaze deer, suicidal pheasants, and AWOL cattle. These creatures and I are engaged in a cold
war, deterred from armed engagement only by our shared acknowledgement of
mutually assured annihilation.
No such
friction exists between the bipedal residents of my parish and me. The Lord has blessed me with kind and
generous people who are eager to help me, gentle in chastising me, and willing
to try new things (or at least not to complain much when I decide to try new
things). The Lord constantly catches me
off guard with moments of grace as I come to know my new people more
deeply. I find myself awed at their own
experiences of God’s love. In truth, I
find myself caught off guard by God’s love more often than I ought. By now I should know that he is generous
giver, and yet I was still moved nearly to tears during my annual retreat as he
once again reaffirmed his love for me despite my own inadequacy.
Driving
recently, I contemplated the question of when one actually becomes an
adult. Two conditions, I concluded, must
be met. One must possess an armchair of
one’s own, and one must have spent Christmas Day apart from one’s family. Early in my priesthood, I had already met the
second of these conditions. It was strange, nevertheless, to come home to an empty
house after sharing Christmas Dinner with Deacon Cal and his family. My chair, however, was eager to welcome
me.
To own an armchair
was something I achieved only in my second month in Martin. It is brown, it appears to be leather, it
reclines, and when I sit, it embraces me with a tenderness usually reserved to
lovers. It has become, as it were, the
sign of my ascendancy. It troubles me
that I occasionally find myself speaking to it.
Even without the chair, though, I would be happy. In spite of icy roads, snowy drives, and the
lack of a stream to fly fish for trout, I find myself exceedingly content and
filled with gratitude that God has entrusted the souls of this place to
me. Martin and Kadoka have become
home.
There is a
great deal for which I thank God these days.
Among the gifts he has given me is you.
Thank you for your kind words and deeds, and all your generosity toward
me. Know that I am praying for you. May all of God’s richest blessings be yours
in this New Year.
