Katrina and me (ten years later)

So much can happen in ten years.

Usually, we mark our decades by the birthdays ending in zero. But ever since August 29, 2005, I have found myself marking the years New Orleans style, as K+. This year marks K+10.

In these ten years, both of my parents have gone home to God, as have four of their siblings; two of my sisters got married; a new niece was born, another niece married and gave birth to two precious children; I gained a niece and a nephew when my sister married their dad. My brothers started their own law firm, and a niece is one of the lawyers there. A Pope retired, and his successor is still full of surprises. I went to Italy (twice!) and lived in England. But through it all, Hurricane Katrina remained my temporal reference point. Everything that happened took place "so many years after Katrina." But for me, it didn't exactly start with the hurricane. It started with Mom and Dad's Golden Anniversary.

Two weeks before the storm; Dad is singing
"Yo te quiero mucho, mucho, mucho..."
It was the first time I ever heard him sing.

The timing of my parent's 50th anniversary meant that my home visit was ending just as an ominously rotating storm was getting teasingly close to the Gulf of Mexico. Even as I got on the plane back to Chicago that Friday, I was telling my parents, "If that thing comes anywhere near New Orleans, please just evacuate!" They smiled indulgently, having never evacuated for a hurricane in their lives. Besides, Monday morning they were heading to Europe: Dad was finally going to show Mom the places where he served in the Army. He had always dreamed of taking his wife to Germany.

By Saturday, New Orleans was in the cross-hairs, but Mom and Dad weren't budging.

Sunday morning I woke up frantic. Why weren't they picking up the phone? I kept getting the answering machine. (At least there was still electricity.) I left a message in a strained and nervous voice: "I sure hope the reason you didn't pick up is because you evacuated!!!" Hours later I got the call. They were in north Louisiana, staying in a cabin my brother's in-laws used as a hunting lodge.

Just about everyone was there: My brother and his family, of course. Mom and Dad (my brother swept by the house at midnight to pick them up; they each had an overnight bag). My sister and her dogs (she even adopted a puppy on Saturday, knowing that the rescue shelters were not going to be evacuating the animals). Another sister and her cats (and dog). A third sister would come later; she was on duty at the only hospital that continued operating through the storm. A niece would be evacuated to Baton Rouge later; she couldn't get off work. A brother took his family to Houston where his teenagers were welcomed to the classes at the Jesuit and Dominican high schools; my brother-in-law brought his two teens to his sister's house in Mississippi (the other two members of the family are the sister and niece who stayed at work).

Little by little, I found out where other family members had ended up. Dad was worried about his widowed sister, but she didn't have a cell phone and no one knew her children's phone numbers. I Googled her eldest son's name and found a lead. When the receptionist at his Michigan workplace asked who was calling, I just said, "His cousin from New Orleans" and got put right through. (Dad was happy to hear that Aunt Shirley was in Houston with her daughter and grandchildren, staying with a son there.) My godmother, an aunt and a whole lot of cousins were staying in a couple of towns over from my parents; a cousin had just set her son up in an apartment for his first semester of college. (These were not the roommates he had anticipated.)

I kept checking Google Earth to see if there were pictures of Mom and Dad's house. Not yet. No way to know. I just kept watching TV (not the best thing), hypnotized by the transformation of a city I had just left days earlier. Biblical passages related to exile became painfully meaningful. I felt as uprooted as my family.  "How can I sing a song of the Lord in a foreign land? If I forget you, Jerusalem, may my tongue cleave to my palate!" "There's no place like home" isn't very comforting when you're watching the flood waters spread and don't know if there even is a hometown there anymore.

If you have to either laugh or
cry, choose laughing.

Wretchedly in need of something to do, I stuffed a "care package" for my family with Bibles, rosaries, recipe clippings (there was one for trout meuniere, something Dad had ordered on their first date), a Calvin and Hobbes book. (Filling that box brought me immense relief, but I wish they had brought Calvin back when they came back home!)

After a week at the hospital (sleeping on the floor in halls in between shifts and eating sandwiches and fresh tomatoes from the Salvation Army), my sister drove around to check out the family's dwellings. (A hospital ID got her past the military at the various roadblocks.) Her house, miraculously, was "high and dry," with only the refrigerator and freezer ruined by food that rotted when the power went out. At Mom and Dad's she entered the front door and felt the squishy carpet underfoot. "You got water," she told them by phone. Ditto for two more sisters.  (For a year after, when New Orleanians would encounter someone they hadn't seen since before Katrina, that became the standard greeting: "Did you get water?") One poor neighbor made the mistake of testing the lights in a still-sodden house. The place blew up.

My godmother had three feet of water in her uptown home. But the old house had been built for hurricanes, with an artificial terrace: the living quarters were untouched, but everything in the ground-level "basement" was soaked. Miraculously, her father's memoirs (which she hadn't even known existed) were salvageable, and later published. Another aunt's home was deluged. Six to eight feet of mud and water ruined the one-of-a-kind home designed by her long-since deceased architect husband. Somewhere in the mud was the diamond ring he had given her; in the rush to evacuate, it hadn't occurred to her to get it. (Believe it or not, the ring was found in the muck some months later.)

Mom and Dad's house during the gutting. The fence
had collapsed, too.

By October, Dad couldn't take living in the woods any more. He and Mom moved back home, living on the second floor while the first floor was gutted and renovated. Dad was still working most days, and on coming home would trudge painfully up the stairs hauling bags of ice (they had a tiny dorm-style fridge, too). In January, I went down to help them empty the living room of moldy books and videos, staying at the Daughters of St Paul convent which had suffered some roof damage, but no flooding. I could just walk between the convent and my parents' home. (I had to get a tetanus shot for the nail that went through my shoe on one of those trips.) Dinner was whatever could be prepared in a microwave or between two slices of bread. Eventually the fast-food places began reopening, and the grocery stores started to restock. The house was well-along by July, but the first year of recovery from Katrina ended up being the last year of my Dad's life.

An abandoned house I pass every time I go to visit my godmother.
The dumpster hints that it's finally getting some attention.

I've been to New Orleans every year since Katrina, twice for a painfully extended periods while we kept vigil with Dad (the year after the storm), and then Mom. For the first few years, the city was visibly picking up: every time I went home I saw more blue tarps  replaced by roofs;  lights began going on in different neighborhoods; businesses re-opened. Now the pace has slowed. There are still areas that are blighted or unevenly restored. Housing is still limited and expensive. One neighborhood that I drive through on the way to my godmother's house has beautifully restored shotgun houses next door to collapsing homes with trees growing out of the roof. Many people started fresh elsewhere, bringing unexpected pockets of New Orleans culture to other parts of the country. In Atlanta recently, I met one of those transplants. She loves New Orleans, but has no intention of moving back: she's raising her family in Atlanta now. The need for labor drew in many immigrants, especially Latinos. You don't see them so much any more, but for many years post-Katrina, day laborers could be hired right in front of the home improvement stores. Now these new New Orleanians are settling down and raising families in a city that, for a significant part of its history, was under Spanish dominion. 

The week of the wedding, Dad
kept saying, "No matter 
what happens, go ahead with the
plans. I'll be there one way or the 
other." (The wedding was the 
day after his funeral.)

Hurricane Katrina brought my family a lot of misery, but it did not bring death or permanent loss. In fact, it led to one huge blessing (answering 30+ years of prayer): My sister Jane, required to be on duty in the hospital lab one month after the storm, was living in a trailer in her front yard. The trailer had all kinds of plumbing problems and, being a microbiologist, Jane was not too keen on the organisms that were being incubated in those pipes. The trailer repairman had to make numerous service calls.

His name is Jim. He had come in from Michigan, knowing that there would be work in New Orleans.

They celebrate their 9th wedding anniversary in November.

Singing Nuns at Fenway Park

Wally (the Big Green Monster) and the choir. (Original Big
Green Monster in the background.)

In case you weren't watching KC@BOS yesterday, the Red Sox lost. But it was a good game, even better (at least for half an inning) after the seventh-inning stretch when the Daughters of St Paul choir came onto the rain-drenched field to sing "God Bless America" with the 30,000+ fans in the packed stadium!

Waiting in "Canvas Alley"

It was a lot of fun for us, arriving in the morning for a quick sound check, then returning to Fenway Park after lunch to find that we had tickets in the Grandstand behind home plate! We cheered and we jeered with the Boston fans until, in the 6th inning, we were escorted to "Canvas Alley" to await the middle of the 7th inning.


A soaking rain was falling steadily and the Royals managed to stretch their turn at bat for a very long time, while we stood away from the drops, repeating our opening note and practicing a few times. Then: "Okay, Sisters: follow me!" And onto the field we strode to get into formation around the two mics that had been hastily set up for us. The Man with the Baseball Stadium Voice introduced us, and minute and a half later, it was done--and the crowd went wild!!! (Watch it here!)

We had prayed that people's hearts would, in some mysterious way, be touched. (As Sr Tracey said, "God will respond to any invitation he gets.") As we left the stadium, people greeted us enthusastically.  "Great job, Sisters!" "Can we take a picture with you?" Every nun they had ever seen, learned from or encountered was made present to them that day through us. "I work with the Sisters of Notre Dame! Can I get a picture of my little girl with you sisters to show them?" "Sister Mary Euphrasia was my math teacher! I never forgot her!" You could see the tremendous influence of the many orders of sisters who served in the Boston area (and way beyond). Even people who hadn't been in the stadium were greeting us on the street as they came out of the sports bars, since our two minutes of fame had been broadcast on the New England Sports Network.

Enjoy the pictures! You can find more (and additional video links) on our choir's Facebook page. (Like us if you don't already!)

Our view of the game.

How about that World Series ring?

Holy Hour of Reparation for Sins against Life (Updated link)

Today across the country, thousands are gathering to protest the horrors that have been revealed over this summer; crimes (even if they are technically "legal") against the human person and the human body, which has been reduced to a source of spare parts for experimentation even without the consent (never fully "informed") of the mother.

I am unable to attend the local protest. (In fact, as soon as I post this I will be taking another migraine pill and turning the lights out.) But I figured there are many others who would be willing to join in, but for whatever reason cannot. So I have put together an outline for a Holy Hour of Reparation that can be our contribution to today's pro-life efforts. Perhaps through our quiet presence before the Lord today, we can obtain and "channel" the graces most needed by the people whose hands are so stained with blood or greed.

Please feel free to share this outline with as many people as possible. "Whatever you ask the Father in my name, He will give you," Jesus said. Let us ask the grace of interior conversion for everyone involved in the abortion industry, for our politicians and for the media who protect the status quo, and for the medical researchers who are driving the marketplace demand for fetal organs.

Holy Hour of Reparation

Community Update: Late Summer Edition

I am back in my office (presumably for a stretch of time) after retreat, community "encounter" (updating seminar), a concert practice week and the profession celebration for two of the novices. It has been a packed few weeks, made all the more interesting (and packed) for me by the return of back

pain so severe that I offered it up for people who were being tortured. Speaking of which, please pray for my Middle Eastern friend "Samir" (not his real name) who has now broken all contact with me and the other Christians he had been communicating with. It seems that his cell phone was found by a family member, who saw Samir's illegal declaration of intent to become a Christian. We have no idea if the family will turn him in to the religious authorities, or protect him but keep him in isolation so that he does not endanger himself (and them) by his desire. (Samir had earlier written to me of his fear of being killed or taken to the "no mercy place.")

Our summer updating seminar was on the vow of obedience, and was led by Sister Sara Butler, MSBT, a former member of the Vatican's International Theological Commission (kind of a theological think-tank at the service of the Pope). Sister Sara is also a member of the Academy of Catholic Theology, a fairly new organization of high-level scholars. I was happy to learn about it! It was fascinating to hear from a scholar of her rank about the origins of a great deal of confusion in religious life during and after Vatican II. I think her findings are going to be released soon in a book form, so I will not break any implicit embargo by trying to express them here, other than to say I was surprised to learn that the upheaval in religious life that I witnessed as a child and young person was not at all inspired by the document on religious life ("Perfectae Caritatis"), but was from a proposed set of interpretive notes on "Lumen Gentium" in a phrase that had been "voted off the island" by the bishops!

My retreat started the second day after the seminar, and that's when the back trouble also roared to life, causing me to spend approximately half of my retreat week in the chiropractor's office. I even found a doctor in the neighborhood of the retreat house to cut down on the time I had to suffer the Boston traffic in my search for relief. Since the time not spent in the chiropractor's office was spent with an ice pack, my retreat was characterized by the recitation of many,  many rosaries and a lot of reflection on the mystery of suffering. I am in much, much better shape now, thanks be to God and the good doctors, whose caring spirit was so obvious.

Singing before the Vow Day Mass.

I had to leave the retreat house as soon as the retreat ended, so as to be in the sound studio the next morning to begin working with the other choir members on our Christmas concert program. We spent all last week revisiting songs, learning parts and sketching out our places "on stage." We have until Thanksgiving to learn the music (and hopefully those stage spots) by heart, and then we'll practice together in earnest. Meanwhile, Sister Julia has been learning to play the harp (would you believe she received a harp as a gift?????), so we hope to include that celestial instrument in the program, too.

I had to miss choir practice a couple of times in order to share with our junior professed sisters a study I did years ago on a contribution of our Founder to our manual of prayers, a 30-station "way of humanity" (like the way of the Cross, but covering the entirety of Salvation History; the Founder's favorite word was "tutto: everything!"). It was good revisiting the notes and beginning to update them. Sister Donna thought there was something in there worth publishing; we'll see--eventually!

Sister Charitas (left) gets her first glimpse of Sister Carly Paula
wearing the habit. Sister Chelsea Bethany is just behind the two.

Saturday was the Mass of Religious Profession for our novices, who have now taken their new names and their new assignments as Daughters of St. Paul. Sister Chelsea Bethany is headed for Chicago, and Sister Carly Paula to New Orleans, so I have lots of contacts for them to connect with. At the celebratory meal, I sat next to Sister Chelsea Bethany's grandmother and learned that one of her "grands" just started his freshman year at NC State, where my nephew is also a freshman. Both young men plan to major in engineering. I hope they can get to know each other! After the meal, all the guests were invited outside for a fun video shoot. It took four attempts, but now it's (as they say) in the can.

Sunday the choir members (with a few ad hoc members!) head to historic Fenway Park where the Boston Red Sox and the Kansas City Royals will play ball. And where the sisters will sing "God Bless America" for the 7th inning stretch. (Special thanks to Dreux Montegut, Music Director of St. Louis Cathedral in New Orleans, for the arrangement!)

Over the past two weeks, six of our sisters were visited by bereavements. I knew only one of the deceased, the father of the sister who runs our IT works. He was a delightful, genuinely loveable man, a father of seven married 68 years. I remember him telling me the role his then-girlfriend had in his conversion to Catholicism. He had jokingly (and confidently) asked which she would choose, if it came to that: him or her Catholic faith. "Why, my faith of course!" That's when he realized that if he wanted her hand, he had better take a look at her Church. He became a daily communicant and, as the old poem goes, "the Daddy of a nun." May he and the loved ones of all of our mourning sisters, rest in peace!

As I shift back into "ordinary time" in the Lord's service, my first task is to pull together our autumn fund-raising "webathon." I'll also be preparing a talk for a quick trip to Cleveland in early October: more details when I get them. And get ready for those Christmas concerts if you live in the areas of Staten Island, Piscataway, Rahway, Philadelphia (St Katharine's), Marshfield or...Jamaica Plain!

Asking Prayers (and promising them) during retreat

As you read this, I will have begun the annual eight days of silence. (I'm writing this pre-retreat, but scheduling the post for when NunBlog readers are more likely to see it.) The spiritual exercises (mandated by Canon Law!) put a halt to all outwardly "productive" work, allowing the interior space to hear the Word of God in a more focused manner, letting that Word cast its own light on the past

We had some bats visiting from the belfry this
past week, but the hatch was closed and we hope
 to be undistracted by further visits!

and issue its (sometimes unexpected) invitations for the future. The retreat schedule also provides more time for that sublime human activity, rest. (When I was a novice, I used to joke that my favorite Catholic prayer was the "Eternal Rest.") An extra, somewhat unexpected challenge for me right now is that I will attempt the extra, hopefully focused prayer with the decided distraction of back pain. (After two years without an incident, I thought I was home free. Alas, not so!)

My last annual retreat was made under somewhat unusual conditions last November, about two weeks after I returned from the UK. I was in my new Boston community, keeping the basic community schedule as far as community prayer and meals went, but outside of that it was Jesus, me and a set of audio conferences by an Italian theologian. I didn't even finish the whole set of conferences, the content was so rich: I kept listening to talk 3 over and over. (I think I may revisit it again this week.) This year, I am at the retreat house with almost 40 other sisters. I am scheduled for daily meetings with a spiritual director (who was himself just named Superior General of his own religious congregation), and so far the weather promises to be particularly indulgent, promising me lots of rosaries prayed while walking down the country lane. Best of all, the second reading of this Sunday's Mass is practically a retreat in itself, guided by none other than St Paul!

"You must no longer live as the Gentiles do, in the futility of their minds; that is not how you learned Christ, assuming that you have heard of him and were taught in him, as truth is in Jesus, that you should put away the old self of your former way of life, corrupted through deceitful desires, and be renewed in the spirit of your minds, and put on the new self, created in God's way in righteousness and holiness of truth."

As I formulate my intentions for this week of prayer, I am including in a special way all the readers who have entrusted their special prayer requests to me throughout the year. I ask you to also remember a person I have "met" online this year, whom I will call "Samir" (not his real name). Samir desires to know more about Jesus and to become a Christian. The very desires he has expressed openly to me on social media put him at risk in his country. He has already been detained for hours to explain to the religious police why he has not attended the weekly services of the official religion into which he was born. Although the US has military installations in the country, Christian ministry is limited to the military installation and personnel.  In his honor-based society, should Samir be accused of changing religion (already against the law in itself), his being sentenced would bring great shame upon his whole family, and break his mother's heart. I have not heard from him in a week, a fact which concerns me greatly. So please pray for "Samir" and others like him who desire to come to Jesus, but are effectively prevented. And let us pray for our own "free" world, that the social, political and financial pressures may not tempt our federal lawmakers to (once again) choose the status quo rather than free up for actual women's health care the half-billion dollars given annual to abortion giant (and lucrative fetal organ supplier) Planned Parenthood...