My Call to be a Eucharistic Minister

While living in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, our Catholic parish had put out their annual sign up invitation for new Extraordinary Ministers of Holy Communion. Eagerly I put an X in the box and waited to be called. Sadly, over the next year my call never came. I was certain I had a calling to this ministry, and I didn't understand why I wasn't notified. I pondered my calling each Sunday. Every time the communion ministers went forward I felt a yearning to be participating. I  knew in my heart this is what I was to do. 

The next time  stewardship Sunday came around, I talked to my parish priest. I thought maybe there was a reason I hadn't been called. Father reassured me saying I must have fallen through the cracks and to please sign up again. So I signed up again. The desire in my heart was to bring the Sacred Body of the Lord to the sick and homebound. I was too shy to serve at Mass, so my plan was to quietly serve without being seen at our large parish's Sunday Mass. Part of my hesitation was the awareness of my limp because of continuing hip problems from birth. I was very self conscious and wanted to stay unnoticed.

When the long-awaited call for EM training finally came, I was both thrilled and terrified. I had been told I could only go to the homebound if I also served at Sunday Mass. Our parish sent forth the Eucharistic Ministers directly from Mass to the homebound as a sign of the parish’s care and concern. My desire to serve was so strong that I knew I had to overcome this fearful obstacle of serving at Mass.

My first day of serving as an Extraordinary Minister finally arrived after a year of waiting and anticipating. As the Eucharistic Prayer was being said I could feel my heart beating faster. I thought about all my fears and concerns . I could start coughing or trip or do something wrong. I prayed that I would be able to follow thorough with this blessed calling without my imagined fears. Finally it was time to approach the Table of the Lord.

Standing around the altar at the Breaking of the Bread, I blinked my eyes. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Across the altar I saw a smiling Jesus. In my heart I felt Him tell me, “see, you made it”. I marveled at how I could look right through my image of Jesus and see the Church wall through Him. A little later I was even more amazed when I realized He had appeared to me at the corner of the altar where there was a large drop off.  I thought He wasn't even touching the floor. 

As I held the ciborium giving out Holy Communion, I had to occasionally stop and look down at my feet. I felt I was floating three feet off the ground. The experience is forever etched in my memory. I spent many years as a Eucharistic Minister, serving at Mass and bringing Communion to the homebound. I was even able to give my son, Paul, his First Communion. What a wonderful blessing for a Mother. Another of my very favorite times was volunteering at the Pastoral Care department at the Catholic hospital bringing communion to the patients. The faith I saw in the patients and their families remains a strong witness to me even today. I treasure the years I was able to be a Eucharistic Minister. 

Driving the Nuns

I grew up in the days when nuns wore habits and traveled in pairs. As a young girl, I became particularly knowledgeable about nuns because my great aunt, Sr. Mary David, was a Religious Sister of Mercy. Every holiday or on Sundays since I was a wee tot we would visit the convent . The nuns knew me very well. Over the years observing the nuns I acquired the unspoken insight that the nuns didn't drive. The nuns relied on generous souls to transport them. I never understood how these carpools were arranged, but I did know one result was an unexpected drop-in visit at our home on Saturday mornings.

On these Saturday mornings I might be found lounging around the house, with my radio on, teen magazines spread around the floor, and my hair in rollers. Suddenly  my mom or sister would shriek, “the nuns are here." Somehow my aunt and a travelling companion had found someone to drive them for a drop-in visit at our house on a weekend morning.  I knew at the first darkening of the door step, my aunt would declare, “I want to see Rita’s room." With the one minute warning from when the car was spotted in the driveway until the nuns reached the door, I would dash around my room frantically pulling up the bed covers, sliding extraneous clutter under the bed, opening the shades, turning off the radio, and flash a final, panicked glance around the room for any tell-tale hints of inappropriate belongings (like misplaced underwear). My reward was Sister’s announcement, “your room looks good." Then the nuns were happy to sit and visit awhile.

A few years later I became better aware of how life in the convent was arranged, especially when a ride was needed. I was a budding new driver myself. My parents let me have the family’s second car for special events. This car was a classic 1955 Pontiac. One Saturday morning Sr. Mary David called, asked for me, and directed that I was to pick her up at the convent at 1:00 p.m. I was to drive her to the hospital to visit the sick. My teenage thoughts were, “What if I had other plans?” Fortunately, I knew better than to question the request. Obediently, I promptly arrived at the convent  as the chauffeur-of-the-day. Immediately my aunt and another nun came out the front door and climbed into the back seat of the car.  I really felt  like a chauffeur then, as  my teenage friends would at least sit in front when I drove them.

I knew my driving privileges with Mom and Dad were on the line with this driving trip. A report of my driving abilities would be a future topic of conversation among my parents, my grandma and Sr. Mary David. With the two sisters visible in my rear view mirror, I turned every corner carefully so as not to shift them around in the back seat. I stopped slowly at every stop light and pressed gently upon the accelerator so as not to go too fast. My hands gripped the wheel of the car until my knuckles were white. Finally, with the nuns safely deposited at the curb of the hospital’s front entrance, I exhaled a huge sigh of relief. Suddenly Sister turned around and leaning into the car from the curb, said “be here to pick us up at 3:00 p.m.” Which I did, of course, with great efficiency.

My reward for chauffeuring the nuns came later that week when the report filtered through the grapevine that “Rita was a good driver and didn’t scare the nuns with her driving”. 

Things have changed now. Many sisters dress like the rest of us; they drive their own cars and vans and live in apartments. I treasure the memories of my insight into the mysterious life of the Religious Sisters of Mercy. My own children have never known the white-knuckle fear of transporting God’s holy ladies!

Confession and Catholic Children

I’m beginning to believe that raising Catholic children, including teaching them and assisting them in participation in all the sacraments, is a very underappreciated part of parenthood. My husband and I have taken teaching the Catholic faith to our five children very seriously. We have overseen our five children being baptized, receiving the Sacraments of Reconciliation and Eucharist. Each has been confirmed and all five have had Catholic weddings. Even with all our efforts, sometimes things are still out of our control. This became obvious to me one evening at a parish communal penance service (with individual Sacrament of Reconciliation) when our three youngest children were still young enough to need our guidance. 

Before the service, we discussed whether each person wanted to go "face-to-face" or "anonymously". My husband chose the former, the rest of the family took the latter. As we got in long lines, my husband went to another part of the church. I whispered to each of the children to make sure they were familiar with “the little box” since most of their experiences had been face-to-face confession with a priest. As each took their turn, I noticed my daughter came out all too soon. The person on the other side should have exited first, and she hadn’t come out yet. After inquiry, I discovered that my daughter had thought she had been forgotten and gave up and came out when she talked and no one answered.

Eventually, with the three children finished with their confessions and kneeling in a pew, it was my turn in the confessional. While kneeling in the dark, I suddenly heard a ruckus in the pew right outside my door. I knew that was exactly the pew where my children were. As the noise got louder and louder, and I was still waiting, I wondered if I should open the door and shake my finger at the children and tell them to settle down and be quiet. Before I could go into action, the sliding door in the confessional opened and it was my turn to confess my sins. After absolution, as I went out the door I noticed that at least my children had enough sense to remove themselves from Church for whatever the reason of the noise. I set out to find them. They hadn’t gone far as they were each anxious to tell me their story. The oldest of the three, Andrew, then fifteen, had started the problem when he asked little eight-year-old brother, Matthew, if he had gotten his candy from the priest in the confessional. Andrew explained that there was a little hole that Father pushes candy through. Of course, Matthew, didn’t get his candy and had no idea that he was just being teased.

Their sister, Mary, then twelve, agreed with the tall tale. Andrew and Mary even told Matthew what kind of candy they got from Father. I now understood the ruckus was from Mathew's tears and frustration. Knowing him he was also attempting to grab the phantom candy from his sibling's hands and pockets. Now as a mother, I had to suppress a grin at the ingenuity and creative story that had been spun, but my biggest concern was whether I should I send all three back through the confession line for their behavior. After all, we weren‘t even out of Church yet. It took some talking to convince Matthew that his older siblings were just teasing and that no one received any candy in the confessional. I came home that night frustrated and maybe a lttle embarrassed knowing they provided plenty of entertainment for the people waiting in line. I wondered what’s a parent to do? Finally I decided to send an email to a priest friend. I explained to him that I thought as a priest he should know what Catholic parents go through in trying to raise a child Catholic. He wrote back in capital letters that my efforts have been duly noted in heaven’s book. What a relief to know my efforts as a Catholic parent do count. I got credit for trying.

Prayer to Saint Michael the Archangel

PRAYER TO

SAINT MICHAEL

THE ARCHANGEL

St. Michael the Archangel,

defend us in battle.

Be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the Devil.

May God rebuke him, we humbly pray,

and do thou,

O Prince of the heavenly hosts,

by the power of God,

cast into hell Satan,

and all the evil spirits,

who prowl about the world

seeking the ruin of souls. Amen..

Picture taken at St. Joan of Arc Catholic Church, Arvada, Colorado

Read more:http://www.ewtn.com/devotionals/prayers/michael.htm#ixzz27LwbWSJh

Welcome to Rita on Pilgrimage

Ad maiorem Dei gloriam

"For the greater glory of God".

Thank you for visiting Rita on Pilgrimage. I started this blog to share my journey as a Catholic woman, wife, mother and grandmother.  I have a wonderful husband, Rex, and we’ve been married 39 years. Almost 25 of those years have been while he has served as a Permanent Deacon in the Catholic Church. We have five children and our 6th grandchild, a girl, will be joining our clan in January or February, 2013. I have lots of stories I want to write about and I have plenty of material to chose from. I hope you enjoy sharing my journey as I seek and find the Lord in everyday life.