When Women Go Down to the Sea in Ships...

     Today we are celebrating the death of a woman who was like a mother to us when we were newly married and just beginning our family. We were invited to attend a Mass in her memory in Casa Grand this evening, but were unable to go. So JoAnne asked if I would like to reflect on her life and how she touched us. What JoAnne doesn't know is how she continues to touch me.
     Dorothy Campbell was in the U.S. Navy during the Second World War. From the moment I met her she impressed me with her strong, no-nonsense approach to life, to family, and to the world. When one of her sons showed signs of a learning disorder, she trained herself in advocacy and spent many years teaching families their rights--and school systems their responsibilities--where children with special needs are concerned. When Dorothy came calling, one soon learned not to argue. She spoke with authority, and her children grew up with confidence, all of them sharing her gift for reaching out to others in need.
     About a year and a half ago Dorothy was diagnosed with fast-spreading cancer and given no real hope of a cure. She began going to hospitals, and during one stay her children moved her to hospice care. That was our cue to make the journey to Casa Grand.
    As it happens, we were newly admitted into the Secular Franciscan Candidacy program. At a touching ceremony we were blessed and given small, wooden crosses to wear, the TAO of Saint Francis. I thought it was lovely, reminding me of days long ago when such signs were common among youth groups in the early days of the Liturgical Renewal. I had been keeping the cross in a drawer, wearing it only to church on Sunday mornings and putting it away in between. This day I decided to take it along, so I hung it around my neck.
     We got on the highway heading south at rush hour, so there was plenty to do just concentrating on traffic. The weather was changing. There were big clouds blowing in, and a steady wind across the desert that raised dust and curtained the sky. I was thinking about Dorothy and imagined her in the car with us, laughing as she so easily did. Ahead, the clouds were lining up. They reminded me of Navy ships in line, about to leave for the open sea. As they got under way they trailed rope ladders for last-minute sailors to climb aboard. I knew what Dorothy was thinking. She was eyeing one of the big ships. She had a new assignment and it was time to get on board. The wind picked up.
     "You'll never make it," I said. When Dorothy faced a challenge, she had a famous look. You saw it whenever someone said it was impossible. She gave me that look, as if she couldn't believe my lack of faith.
     "Well you just watch me!" she promised. And off she went, running across the desert. The golden ladder dangled down and Dorothy made a mighty leap, catching the rope in her hand and climbing on board. It was a big ship, a gunship, and as soon as she reported for duty, it came around and set off in a new direction. I had a sense they were taking directions from a new Captain...
     We found the Hospice center and went inside to discover not simply the whole family, but dozens of friends and relations. And they were singing, right there in Dorothy's room, as she lay quietly, eyes closed, already far away. I walked in wearing blue jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt and right away people treated me in an unusual way. Not everyone there was Catholic, and I began to understand after awhile that many people there mistook me for a preacher. So I took the role of introducing and leading some prayers, reading from a Bible I borrowed from one of the nurses. It was a rich moment when people surrendered to the simple authority of one man reading the words of grace. From Revelations I read about the promises to all who live in faith, the hope to which we all cleave in Christ. And then, with her whole family gathered around her bed singing, Dorothy went on ahead, marked by the sign of faith.

     JoAnne feels all such anniversaries deeply. It is her gift. I have the memory of Dorothy leaping into her new life, for in our faith, life doesn't end, but goes on both in service to and in the presence of God. It is the one great hope to which we all cling in times of difficulty, doubt or waiting. Our time will come. We will each of us walk that road to Heaven (some may fly, some may sail...) and hopefully in that time those we leave behind temporarilly will give witness to the vibrancy and light of our faith. We are never truly separated, for in Christ there is no end, no distance. Even should we die, we will live forever. But Dorothy left me something.

     When she entered her new life, I was wearing my Tao, openly, clearly, and I was embracing the role that came with it, proclaiming the Gospel, giving witness to God's presence. Though I don't wear it openly every day, yet, I try to wear it outside every sunday. I have noticed that when I wear it out in the world, people notice and they defer to the sign as though I were commissioned to the task. They see it and they expect me to be Christian, to be Christ-like, to believe.
     I'm beginning to wonder if the greatest gift of becoming Franciscan will be the way the world holds me to the Gospel ideal: to go forth and bear witness among all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, and proclaiming to them the Good News of Salvation. It may prove that the community--encountering the grace of a public faith--invokes the power of conversion.
     I have a feeling that the day is coming--perhaps it is already near at hand--when I will stop tucking my Tao inside my collar and begin wearing it, and my faith, publicly, come what may. I needn't feel nervous. Whatever lies ahead, I know there is an old Sailor in a big gunboat just over the horizon...