When I was in second grade I had a marvelous teacher. Her name was Sister Genevieve Marie. I could write that she taught me The Faith but that wouldn’t be true. My Mother taught me The Faith. I am the man I’ve become because my Mother taught me through her example and through her education.
I did not learn at my Mother’s knee; I learned at my Mother’s side. She taught as she prayed, and as she loved, and as she worked, and as she served. I won’t blog about that. Some things I don’t wish to put into words. Some memories are my treasures.
Sister Genevieve Marie taught me the love of vocation and the discipline of obedience. When a boy is queried about what he’ll be when he grows up, he usually answers which route with a rote: fireman, policeman, or athlete. I did not. When quizzed, I always answered “a priest.” Sister Genevieve Marie fostered the seed but she did not plant it. As a child of eight, I began to diligently acquire the knowledge of The Church. I read the rules. I studied the structure. I amassed the grace.
At the age of 13, I decided that I wanted to pursue my passion in a minor seminary. I asked my parents for their permission. They denied my petition. They encouraged my vocation but wouldn’t allow me to encroach on my childhood. They knew I was too young and they insisted I wait until I graduated from high school. I thought they were so wrong. Now I know they were so right. I remember I stood at the dining room table and I screamed, “God knows I’m going to be a priest. And I know I’m going to be a priest. You can’t stop me.” Nothing screams youth like breaking the fourth commandment in defense of what you believe.
I went to a public high school and I maintained a private faith. I didn’t date much in high school; I didn’t see the point. I didn’t participate in athleticism; I saw the sin of competition. And so I waited. I waited and I watched.
There’s a requirement to enlightenment. There’s a cost. For those who can see what others overlook, or understand what others ignore, or acquire what others leave behind, there is a responsibility to bear a true witness to the actions of God. It meant I had to observe when I wanted to participate. It meant I had to educate when I only wanted to experience. It meant the spiritual took precedence over the physical and the philosophical took antecedence over the carnal. Enlightenment carries a price tag. And although zealousness can assume part of the cost, it’s just a fraction of the price. The rest of the fees can be fractionated into factions of loneliness or solitude or ostracism. My Mother taught me, “When you stand Mark, never look to see who is behind you. When you stand, you stand alone.”
I entered a seminary as a freshman in college. It was the first time I was surrounded by men who thought as I thought and conspired toward the same aspirations. I embraced the notions of community and agape. I was a young man from a public high school who rarely dated and never played - the notion of the like-minded was attractive. I enjoyed the fraternity. I coveted the exchange of ideas.
One may assume that the like-minded rarely disagree, but the parallelism 
of the goal does not mean the paths toward its attainment share collateral concepts. There were those who were traditional and there were those who were liberal. There were those who were indoctrinated. There were those who believed in the induction of socialism. They all clashed and cliqued. The structure wasn’t what I anticipated. The dogma disagreed with my doctrine. And the seeds of my faith disseminated within the walls of the seminary. The foundation of my faith crumbled and dusted my shoes. I could fight or flee; I cowered and fled. It was not what I expected it to be.
But how could it be? I had ten years of romanticism and yearning wrapped into an ideal. And then I saw my expectations weren’t real. And I removed the rose-colored glasses from my eyes. My vision was blurred by my tears. I took no vow of poverty or obedience. I vowed to never see again. I vowed to be blind to responsibility. I had been blindsided. And I got off my knees and I walked away from the sun. There is no light in darkness. And night holds no vision.
Recently I told a friend about how I burnt to be blue in my youth. I had defined that sentence as burning both ends to be blue as in a code blue. And I thought about that. No; that’s not true. I burnt to be blind. If ever a day should pass when they gather around to gossip of my days, most they’ll say will be true. I’m not proud of what I did. I did not fail in my faults. I could have vaults for my faults. I lived years without reflection and recompense.
Yet I continually felt remorse. I could shave without reflection; I could wound without reimbursement. But the aspect of closing one’s eyes we rarely consider is that light and shadows still remain behind the lashes. We can lash out but we can’t put a lid on it even when we try. The pupils can still learn. Revelation can offer insight within the blink of an eye. I knew what I was. I knew what I chose. I learned that when I closed my eyes, I stumbled. I fell. I scraped. I wounded my shins. And I bruised until I grew numb. And then I didn’t care if I saw. I thought it wouldn’t matter to me. No matter what I sought, I was brought to my knees. So I opened my eyes. And I saw what I had done. And I saw what I had failed to do. And I had insight into incite. I vowed to make amends. I am not the man I should have been but I’m trying to become the man that I should be.
I sat in the hall the other day at the hospital and I watched as a young man pushed his younger brother in a wheelchair. Both of the men were in their middle teens. As they waited for the elevator, the man who pushed bent at the waist and kissed the head of his companion in the chair. The act was so tender and my heart was so touched. I witnessed the fraternity of humanity. And I thanked God that He showed me the sight.
I spent Mother’s Day with my Mother. I learned everything of life at her side. We spoke today about her loss of hearing and I thought, “Oh God, the only person who listened soon won’t hear.” And I wailed inside at the loss. It’s a sorrow I do not know I can endure. And then I thought it over and I considered the selfishness of my response. And then I considered that I could still listen and I could still hear. And perhaps it isn’t my turn to talk anymore.
