Clutching My Blessings

One of the readings in last Sunday's mass was the story of the prodigal son. In the course of his wonderful homily, Father Jim reminded us that the word 'prodigal' is used to describe someone who spends extravagantly, and noted that were are called to be prodigal in a different way: we are to take the abundant grace we receive and lavish it on the world around us. It is not ours to be bottled up and kept.

Our graces and blessings may come in many forms: wisdom, talent, wealth, and time, to name a few. Whatever the form, we should consider how they can be shared with others in service to the Father. Blessed Charles de Foucald, whose own youth is said to have been spent in a fair degree of prodigality, once said, "If God allows some people to pile up riches instead of making themselves poor as Jesus did, it is so they may use what He has entrusted to them as loyal servants, in accordance with the Master's will, to do spiritual and temporal good to others." This is true not only of monetary riches but of all that we have been given.

Many years ago my father-in-law, Joe, took my oldest son Evan to the barber. After Evan's hairs had been properly cut, Joe gave him money to pay for the service - plus a little extra for the tip. However, after paying Evan pocketed the extra cash; he was young then and didn't quite understand the concept of tipping. When Joe explained that the bills he had pocketed were intended for the barber, Ev somewhat angrily shoved his hand in his pocket, clenched the bills in his little fist, and argued that they had been given to him and were his.

When Joe related the story to us, it immediately made me consider the blessings I receive. How often do I clench them tightly in my fist and selfishly think of them as having been given to me for my own use? I am richly blessed; I must remember that these blessings were not so much intended to be given to me as to be given through me.

Learning My Place (or, The Waffle Story)

My entire audience (that is, my cousin Sheri - hi, Sheri!) has made a deal with me and my side of that deal is to spend more time writing. I'm taking this deal because the whole world will be a better place when she fulfills her side of it.

I offer this as the first installment. Since I'm not particularly creative, I'll be digging up an old story. It won't be the last time.

At about midnight one night several  years ago, I was just getting into bed when 3 year-old Molly stepped quietly into the room and asked, "Dad, would you carry me down the stairs and make me a waffle with syrup on a plate and milk?"

"No, sweetheart. It's midnight and time for bed. Go lay down and you can have a waffle in the morning."

"Please, Daddy? I'm hungry! Please make me a waffle with syrup on a plate and milk!"

"Sweetie, go to bed. I have to get up early."

"Can I ask Momma?"

Ri is a light sleeper and will pop out of bed like a flash when she hears the sound of a child getting sick. But there is no way on this green earth she will pop out of bed to prepare meals in the middle of the night. It's just not going to happen. Everyone knows that. So I answered, "Sure, go ahead."

Molly grabbed the side of the bed, crawled over my head, leaned in and quietly whispered, "Momma?"

"Hmph?" replied Ri, half opening one eye."

"Can Daddy go downstairs and make me a waffle?"

"What?!" I yelped, half sitting up in disbelief.

"Sure, baby; he'd love to."

"Yay! Let's go, Daddy! Momma said yes!" exclaimed a delighted Molly as she wrapped her arms around my neck for a piggy-back ride downstairs.

She did get her waffle; I just had to reward the out-of-the-box thinking.