Do You See What I See? by Stephanie Gray

Glass half empty or glass half full?  It’s a question that shows how the same thing can be viewed two entirely different ways—the negative or the positive.  How we see something determines everything.  It’s all about perspective.

If you walk into an assisted living home for the elderly, you might see this:

•    An empty piano alongside a blaring TV with a row of wheelchairs in front of the latter, with the occupants of said chairs ranging from sleeping to zoned-out watching.
•    A drooling old man, wearing an oversized bib, sitting alone, slumped against a table.
•    A crippled, toothless person sitting alone in a room staring out the door to an empty hallway.
•    An elderly lady who refuses to leave her dark room for breakfast.

And if you see that, you might just support euthanasia. 

But I’d like to tell you what I see:

•    I see people to give the gift of music to, entertaining them by a person playing the piano.
•    I see an elderly lady who can be given an opportunity to come alive with music, giving her a chance to joyfully reminisce about her days when she attended musicals.  I see that lady not just standing, but dancing to the beat, swinging her arms, and singing along.
•    I see an opportunity to wipe the face of someone who, decades before, wiped the faces of many other souls.
•    I see a chance to slide open curtains and share the sunshine with a lady who didn’t know it was there.
•    I see someone with ears to speak to.
•    I see lips to be provoked into a smile.
•    I see sweet ladies to listen to and laugh with.
•    I see a fragile, soft hand to hold and give the gift of touch to.
•    I see people in wheelchairs to push into the brilliance and beauty of the outdoors.

And if you see that, you might just thank these people for being.  You might just realize their existence is enough to warrant our attention.  You might just realize

we have something to give,

something to learn,

and most importantly, someone to love.

Indeed, how we see something—especially someone—determines everything.

When I Went to Auschwitz, by Stephanie Gray

Nine years ago I travelled to Poland; while there, I visited Auschwitz.  That came to mind today, August 14, because this day marks the day that a saint, Father Maximillian Kolbe, was murdered by the Nazis.  I went to the very cell where that atrocity occurred, and this was my reflection to family and friends back home:

Our next morning was extremely sobering as we went to Auschwitz I and Auschwitz II/Birkenau concentration camps.  I'm finding it difficult to find the words to describe the experience of walking around a place built for such evil.  It was gut-wrenching.

We were shown how the SS viewed everything about the Jews and other prisoners as a commodity and refused to let anything go to waste. They used clothes for soldiers and other Germans; they used hair for socks, felt stockings, and yarn; they used even human ashes from the ovens for fertilizer.  Human life was viewed as disposable, an object to be used or discarded.

Two images stand out in my mind in particular: 1) a newborn baby's white knitted sweater amidst rows of clothes and 2) piles of medical aids (crutches, leg braces, etc).  Children?!  Sick people?!  It is impossible to understand how they could harm anyone, but one is especially bewildered at how they could attack the most weak and vulnerable.

At the entry to one of the buildings, the museum placed this quote by George Santayana, "The one who does not remember history is bound to live through it again."

And this is how, regrettably, the tragedy of the Holocaust lives on.  While society may remember the specific event of the Holocaust, it seems to forget the philosophy behind it.  When we fail to recognize the inherent dignity of human life, when we persist in considering the sick and the young (pre-born) as a burden, an inconvenience, or as having a low quality of life (the Nazis believed in “lives unworthy of life”) then our society maintains the very mentality that drove the SS to such destruction.

LIGHT AMIDST DARKNESS

This is why a Polish man who lived during the time of the Holocaust is such an inspiration to me: St. Maximillian Kolbe.  He was God's gift to a dark world, bringing an example and a message of hope for “such as a time as this.”

One of the most emotional moments at Auschwitz I was at Building 11 (execution block), cell 18, the cement basement cell where Father Kolbe was killed, a priest who freely offered to take the place of a fellow prisoner who had been sentenced to death.  For two weeks Kolbe sat cold and naked without food or water.  He helped calm those within the cell and surrounding ones by singing and praying.  The museum made a memorial to Kolbe in that cell and tells his story by saying the following: “Within concentration camps there were some resistance movements that were organized.  We tell Kolbe's story because he showed the greatest resistance to the Nazis: by staying human.”

In preparation for that trip, I had read a book about St. Kolbe called A Man for Others, by Patricia Treece.  In it is this powerful quote from Saint Kolbe, worth remembering on this day in particular:

“When grace fires in our hearts, it stirs up in them a true thirst for suffering...to show...to what extent we love Our Heavenly Father..for it is only through suffering that we learn how to love...In suffering and persecution [we]...reach a high degree of sanctity and, at the same time...bring our persecutors to God.”

Butterfly Children, by Stephanie Gray

     If you want to figure out if something is truly necessary in life, ask yourself, “Without it, would I die?”  In light of that perspective, one can certainly conclude that food is a necessity for survival.  It would therefore make sense that consuming food would bring nourishment that makes us feel good, not bad.  Consider, though, the case of Jonathan Pitre, a 14-year-old boy growing up in Ontario.  While food does nourish his body, it comes with a painful cost: eating causes blisters inside his throat. 

     Jonathan has a rare and excruciatingly painful genetic condition called epidermolysis bullosa (EB).  It is so debilitating that friction on his skin causes blisters on his body too.  In a moving documentary that can be seen here, one is exposed to the horrifying effects this condition has on Jonathan’s body: bandages that daily wrap around his fragile, skeletal frame, are removed to reveal his scaly, blistered, and cracking red skin.

     People like Jonathan are described as “Butterfly Children.”  When asked to explain why that is, Jonathan says, “They call us butterfly children because our skin is as fragile as a butterfly’s wings.  As much as a butterfly is pretty and gentle, we have the heart of warriors.  We very much are stronger than we appear.”

     A warrior Jonathan most certainly is.  Indeed, this small-in-stature teenager who relies heavily on others (such as his fiercely devoted mother) to daily care for him, has a strength to endure unimaginable pain.  He has a strength to continue moving forward in life, showing that hope is possible amidst suffering.

     How?  In reflecting on the documentary, three answers come to mind as highlighted in Jonathan’s life:

1.      The necessity of community.

2.      The importance of a shared experience.

3.      The power of the human will.

     When asked where his strength comes from, Jonathan reflects, “[My] strength comes from people around me, ‘cause they do believe in me, that I can get through it.”  Indeed, there is something about the encouragement and “cheerleading” of another that can drive us forward.  Consider why business people hire personal coaches, or why gyms offer personal trainers— it's because we humans thrive on relationship with others. We need their encouragement. We weren't meant to be alone.

     Indeed, when Jonathan had the opportunity to watch an Ottawa Senator’s game, and asked if he would be watching one player in particular, he responded, “A team isn’t just made of one player, it’s all of them, so I’ll be watching the whole team.”

     Jonathan not only experienced the necessity of community, but also the importance of a shared experience.  A life-changing moment for him was in 2012 when he attended an EB conference.  Why?  Because previously he had met no one with his condition.  Suddenly, a whole new world was opened up to him, a world of being “understood” in a deep and profound way.  He said, “I knew that I wasn’t alone anymore.”

     What is striking, is the effect meeting others like him had on him—it expanded his empathy and his desire to look outward.  He said, “I knew since then that I was going to become an ambassador.  I want to start helping other people with EB.”  This conviction of his brings to life the words of Holocaust-survivor Viktor Frankl who wrote, “The more one forgets himself—by giving himself to a cause to serve or another person to love—the more human he is and the more he actualizes himself.”

     Finally, Jonathan shows us the power of the human will.  There are others like him, with profound suffering, who don’t have the positive outlook on life that he has.  So while many can share the same experience—suffering—not all share the same response.  The response is what we individually choose.  And we can choose optimism, persistence, and drive, just like Jonathan has.  This reflects the power of the human will, which Frankl also speaks about:

     “Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.”

Making All Things New, by Stephanie Gray

Photo Attribution: Texas Radio & The Big Beast

There are some emotional pains that are so excruciating, so deep, and so overwhelming that words are inadequate to describe the agony.  In such experiences, the deepest and most guttural of sobs seem to provide no relief.

That kind of suffering came to mind when I met a beautiful college student at my recent talk at an American university this past week.  She approached me afterwards to thank me for giving her something she didn’t have previously: a way to articulate the reasons behind the pro-life position in order to make “The Case for Life” (the title for my talk in which I equipped the audience to persuasively defend the right to life of pre-born children).  After she thanked me, she made a significant disclosure:

“I had a baby last December.”

She then told me her story: her parents wanted her to have an abortion.  She didn’t know back then how to make the case for life to convince them it was wrong to meet their wishes, but she nonetheless knew it in her heart.  And so, even if she couldn’t articulate it with her tongue, she would not allow abortion to be the answer.

An unplanned pregnancy. 

An unmarried student. 

A betrayal by one’s own parents who wanted their grandchild dismembered. 

Agony. 

Utter agony.

As she walked through that trial, a parallel suffering was being lived by two others: there was a married couple who lost not one, not two, but three children to sudden deaths.  Children should expect to one day bury their parents, but parents should never have to bury their children.  This couple had to bury three.  Torture.

But these parallel journeys would intersect.  Two crises would meet and mysteriously produce beauty: “I gave my baby up for adoption,” the student told me, “to a couple I knew for four years who had had three children and all of them died.”

She took out her phone and showed me a most precious picture of her baby girl. What joy for her to know that she played a role in bringing the gift of life, and its fruits of joy, to a couple who had known such deep sadness.  What a joy for the adoptive parents to know that they played a role in receiving the gift of life and affirming the courageous and loving choice of this young woman.  What a joy for both parties to know that when faced with the neediness of a little child, their response was a spirit of responsibility, generosity, and love.

Amidst the crisis pregnancy, the stirring in this student’s heart to consider adoption was as though God was whispering what He said in Revelation 21:5 “Behold I make all things new.”

Amidst the great loss of their children’s deaths, the adoptive couple’s reception of new life was as though God was breathing into them, “Behold, I make all things new.”

And 24 hours after that baby girl’s birth, her grandfather who had previously wished her aborted, called his daughter to apologize, and to thank her for giving life to his grandchild that he had held the day before—in that moment of mercy, it was as though the written word of God came to life yet again:

“Behold, I make all things new.”

Lessons from a Fire, by Stephanie Gray

Photo by MICHAEL MANIEZZO

One year ago, shortly after 7am, on a morning I had planned to sleep in, I was awoken by a fire.  Yelling startled me awake and when I looked out my bedroom window where I used to live in Brampton, Ontario, I saw that my breathtakingly beautiful place of worship, an all-wood onion-domed Ukrainian Catholic Church, was surrounded by fire trucks.  Initially, I just saw smoke.  But it quickly turned to flames.  And it didn’t take long until the whole building was engulfed by a fiery inferno.

Six days before, I had experienced deep serenity as I stepped onto my patio to watch the setting sun light up the evening sky, illuminating the church’s dramatic silhouette.  It was as though a piece of a Ukrainian village had fallen from the sky and landed in a field in Brampton, bringing quiet and peace to the most populated part of Canada, the Greater Toronto Area.  People of all faiths and backgrounds regularly drove up to take in the awe and wonder of St. Elias the Prophet’s magnificent architecture.  When people would walk in, they would be hushed by the presence of the sacred.  The smell of incense and beeswax candles (the only form of lighting for the whole sanctuary, excepting sun beams shining through windows) were sweet to the senses.  The floor to dome iconography that took 10 years to complete was breathtaking to behold.  St. Elias was an experience of Heaven on earth.  In every way, it drew the human experience to heights that went beyond this world.

But less than one week later, I sat stunned and in shock as I watched St. Elias burn—literally—to the ground.  I can’t quite get an image out of my head, of my dear shepherd, Fr. Roman Galadza, sitting on the frozen ground between the rectory and the church, his black cassock blowing in the bitter wind, head in hands, as he watched what he had labored to build for over 25 years disappear before his eyes.  Agonizing.

I have so many memories from that day—hearing gut wrenching sobs, hundreds of people flocking to grieve, religious leaders of all kinds coming to express condolences, but what stands out most is two-fold, and both are Fr. Roman’s example.  Amidst this loss, Father knew what was most important—who the church was built for, not the building itself.  And so, with deep concern for the Body of Christ, he asked the firemen if they would attempt to rescue Our Lord.  Donning their oxygen masks, several brave men entered the inferno and successfully collected the Body of Christ and His holy word—The Gospel Book.  A fireman told me later that when he saw his colleague walking from the church, hunched over, carrying something wrapped in a blanket, he panicked thinking, “A body! Oh my gosh! There was a child in there.”  No, there was not, but what—who—his colleague was carrying demanded a kind of reverence with which he so carefully cradled the Sacred, that which we would give to a precious child—and more.

Then there was what Father did only a couple hours after the fire.  As more and more people flocked to the parish house, Father quickly prepared a prayer service for us all—and it was a service of thanksgiving.  That is right: amidst anguish and loss, he immediately focused our perspective by leading us to give thanks.

In his booming voice he recited from Job 1:21, “The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away,” and we responded as Job once did: “Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

And a second time he boldly declared, “The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away!”

“Blessed be the name of the Lord!” we cried.

And a third time his voice thundered: “The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away!”

We shouted, “Blessed be the name of the Lord!”

This example has stayed with me ever since, and has been a source of consolation in trying times.  It is easy to give praise when life is good—but can we give praise when life gets difficult?  Can we maintain the perspective that no matter what we experience, God is good?  Can we continually give God the praise He is due?

At St. Elias on April 5, 2014, it was so tempting to only lament what we had lost, but the leadership of Fr. Roman challenged us to give thanks for what we had received—to remember the 25 beautiful years the church building had been a sanctuary for prayer, praise, and healing. 

Life delivers both joys and sorrows, and we cannot always control these.  But what we can control is our response—and look for opportunities to express gratitude and praise amidst the most trying of times.  Moreover, while objects may cease to exist, subjects do not.  How much more tragic than the destruction of a beautiful building is the destruction of a beautiful soul?  Protecting and nourishing the temple of the Holy Spirit should be our primary aim.

Indeed, each Sunday at St. Elias, and now in a school gym until the new church is built, the congregation lifts its voices and reverently sings,

“Let us who mystically represent the Cherubim, and sing the Thrice-holy Hymn to the life-giving Trinity, now lay aside all cares of life, that we may receive the King of all, escorted invisibly by ranks of angels. Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.”

As we continue in this Easter season, let us remember that material possessions or not, we can receive the King of all.  So let us lay aside all cares of life.

40 Days by Stephanie Gray

We are now at the half-way point of Lent.  It is also the half-way point of an international movement: the 40 Days for Life Campaign which consists of three elements: 1) prayer and fasting, 2) constant vigil, and 3) community outreach in response to the killing of the youngest of our kind through abortion.  On Sunday in Vancouver we marked the middle of this campaign with a rally outside Vancouver’s largest abortion clinic.

 At that gathering I gave a speech about 4 principles we need to take to heart as we follow the call to be salt and light, and those lessons are extracted from Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s words in his Letter from Birmingham Jail:

“There was a time when the church was very powerful -- in the time when the early Christians rejoiced at being deemed worthy to suffer for what they believed. In those days the church was not merely a thermometer that recorded the ideas and principles of popular opinion; it was a thermostat that transformed the mores of society. Whenever the early Christians entered a town, the people in power became disturbed and immediately sought to convict the Christians for being ‘disturbers of the peace’ and ‘outside agitators.’ But the Christians pressed on, in the conviction that they were ‘a colony of heaven,’ called to obey Gad rather than man. Small in number, they were big in commitment. They were too God-intoxicated to be ‘astronomically intimidated.’ By their effort and example they brought an end to such ancient evils as infanticide and gladiatorial contests.”

Just as the early Church, through God’s grace, brought an end to historical evils, we too can help bring an end to present-day evils by seeking Dr. King’s advice to

1)      Be thermostats,

2)      Enter a town,

3)      Press on, and

4)      Obey God

If you consider a thermostat in contrast to a thermometer, the latter merely records the temperature—it tells us something, whereas the former actually adjusts the temperature.  A thermostat is the controller which turns heat or cool air on or off to ensure an environment is at the proper temperature.  Likewise, we must step back and say what is the ideal “temperature” for our culture—how ought things be?  And when we identify what should be the way (i.e., respect all human life) then we must work to bring our culture up to that level. 

One 40 Days for Life volunteer in Wisconsin did just that.  Standing alone on a cold day, praying outside an abortion clinic, he saw a couple whose hearts were cold as they walked into that clinic to kill their child.  But the volunteer adjusted the temperature—he conveyed warmth by lovingly looking at them and saying, “God bless you two.  No, wait—God bless all three of you!”  That’s all it took—a witness, a kind gesture, a correction of words for greater accuracy and the couple was changed.  They left the clinic and months later a baby boy was born.

Not only must we be thermostats, we must “enter a town”—in other words, in order to change the culture we must engage the culture.  The early Christians reached many because they took their message directly to the people.  We all ought to do an inventory of who we know, or who has been placed in our path, and how we can reach out to them. 

Not only should we create opportunities to engage those we know, but we should seize opportunities that arise.  Unfortunately I didn’t do that a couple days ago, and hope others can learn from my mistake: I was at my cousin’s house alone when the doorbell rang.  A Liberal party candidate was canvassing the neighborhood and I simply said, “The homeowners aren’t here” so she gave me a flyer for them and that was it.  As I took the flyer to the kitchen I realized I had just missed an important opportunity—knowing that that candidate’s leader Justin Trudeau’s abortion-supporting views are so extreme he said he will force MPs in his caucus to vote against any legislation restricting abortion, I should have engaged the candidate in a discussion about that.

Thankfully pro-life students at UBC did seize a similar opportunity just last week when they decided to throw together a protest in response to Justin Trudeau speaking on their campus.  When I joined them at this demonstration, I spoke with a student who initially thought abortion was okay, but when he looked at an image of an abortion victim and when I took him through basic pro-life reasoning about human rights, he admitted that that made sense and thanked me.  That exchange wouldn’t have happened if we hadn’t engaged the culture—so let’s re-capture the spirit of the early church and do just that.

Of course, we also need to press on—and that can be difficult when an injustice seems never-ending and when we don’t always see the results.  Several years ago a friend of mine told me that even though she was raised in a pro-life home and was taught and believed that abortion was wrong, when she got pregnant in her twenties everything changed—she told her doctor she wanted an abortion and was given a number to a clinic where she was going to get it done.  But one day when she was driving to work she noticed a mini-van in front of her with a bumper sticker which displayed a quote by Mother Teresa: “It is a poverty to decide a child must die so that you may live as you wish.”  Her heart softened, she rejected abortion, and several months later gave birth to a baby boy. 

The people in the blue mini-van have no idea that their pro-life proclamation saved a baby—but it did.  That is proof that we may never see the fruits but our job is to press on, and trust that God will use our efforts to bring about great good.

Finally, in all things we need to obey God, remembering that all His commands are summed into one: Love.  We are called to love God and love neighbor, and love is wanting the other’s good.  That’s what drives pro-lifers to stand and pray and reach out and circulate the pro-life message—it is willing the good of the pre-born as well as the born.  Of course, it is love which drove Jesus to the cross.  And so, at this mid-way point of this 40-day journey, let us remember to take up our cross and follow Christ, just as the early church martyrs did.

Learning to Weep by Stephanie Gray

Image source: File:Sépulcre_Arc-en-Barrois_111008_12.jpg

I can still remember the day—it was pouring rain.  Water was dripping from my hood and the guy I was speaking with, who was equally soaked, moved with me under a roof overhang.  I had just met this student on a university campus where he revealed profound suffering: he had been sodomized as a child, was so poor that he and his single mother had lived on food stamps, and he struggled with suicidal tendencies.  I remember at one point in the conversation, as I prayed for inspiration for the right words to say, all I could do was weep.  And as I let the tears pour down my cheeks, the rain continued to fall from the sky as if the Heavens were also weeping at his pain.

That encounter came to mind when I heard about Pope Francis’ recent visit to the Philippines when he was asked by a 12-year-old, who had suffered great poverty and abuse, why God allows innocent children to suffer.  And Pope Francis echoed a sentiment then that he’s expressed several times throughout his pontificate: Let us learn how to weep.  When we do so, we seek to understand—we seek to acknowledge the painful journey of the other. 

Let us learn how to weep.

It has been said, “Tears are words the heart can’t express,” and in the face of another’s wounds, it is often the best way to communicate sympathy.  I remember a team member coming to me on a university campus where I’d trained her to dialogue with students about abortion.  She had had a particularly tough encounter with a very angry young man who was a homeless student and spoke about horrible evils he’d experienced in life.  He had been threatening, had been yelling and swearing.  And she came to me in tears.  But her tears weren’t because she feared for her own safety.  They weren’t tears of feeling hurt by him.  They were tears of hurting for him.  She told me she felt his pain so deeply that she was overcome with sorrow.

Let us learn how to weep.

Several years ago when I spoke at a camp for the National Evangelization Team (NET), training young Catholic missionaries in pro-life apologetics, I arrived an evening early and took part in their night of Mass, prayer, and praise and worship.  In the preceding days I had met many university students who had shared their stories of suffering with me, including the horror of rape.  During that night of prayer and song, I remember being overcome with tears as I thought about all the pain these young souls were carrying.   

Let us learn how to weep.  When we do so, we maintain a softness to our spirit that allows us to be gentle with peoples’ fragility and sensitive to their suffering and needs. 

In 2013, Pope Francis spoke in Lampedusa, a small island off the coast of Italy where migrants often travel there by sea from Africa, many of them losing their lives during the rough journey.  In remembering such tragedies there, Pope Francis said the following during his visit:

“Who among us has wept for these things and things like this?  Who has wept for the deaths of these brothers and sisters?  Who has wept for the mothers carrying their babies?  For these men who wanted something to support their families?  We are a society that has forgotten the experience of weeping, of suffering with.”

Let us learn how to weep.

Seek Beauty

This morning as I sat down to begin my workday, I was awestruck at the beauty of Vancouver’s winter sunrise: as I peered from a window through some trees’ naked branches, pinks and yellows and blues filled the vast sky.

Lately I have reflected more and more about the power of beauty—and the importance of seeking it out in our daily lives.  Several years ago, the Sisters of Life published their newsletter with the theme “Beauty Everywhere,” and they wrote,

"The beauty of nature has the power to lead one to the healing truth of God’s goodness and love.  Before a sunset, snow-capped mountain, a golden meadow, whatever the scene might be, if we allow ourselves to pause from our busy lives and begin to listen, we are drawn to a mystery accessible to all, a truth that confirms our identity: the wonder and goodness of existence, of being.”

In a world where terror and violence sow discord and death in places like Nigeria and France, it can be tempting to become overwhelmed by the ugliness in our midst; but more than ever, we need beauty to draw us to the “healing truth of God’s goodness and love.”  So several times a week I make a habit of reflecting on beauty in my day, and have found that when I become intentional about making these observations, I discover beauty truly is everywhere.

One time it was my 1-year-old niece tenderly holding her stuffed monkey and smiling, while caressing it and squeezing it close to her chest, showing that even at the earliest of ages we humans are drawn to give affection.  Another time it was my sister who, even with messy hair and a tired body, radiated beauty as she got up early, after one of many short nights, to feed and serve and love her four children.  Beauty.

Or another time, just two weeks ago, it was a choral concert by Motet (www.motet.ca).  One singer in particular radiated such joy and beauty that as he sang of the heavens, to the heavens, I was drawn like a magnet to his inner light and just stared at him, smiling.  Then there was the music he and the others sang—I have discovered there’s something profoundly beautiful about sacred music, and I think it’s because it takes us beyond this world, to another place, a reminder that it is that place which is our final destination.

Beauty.  It lifts the soul and gives a moment of reprieve in this world of imperfection, enabling us to have perspective and to maintain peace amidst any storms.

So when today comes to a close, or next time you’re interacting with a loved one, pause and ask, “Where did you see beauty in your day?” 

This blog was originally published at Dynamic Women of Faith: www.dynamicwomenfaith.com