Cardiology Blog
Down to Earth
Is there an area in your life that you would like to transform so it more accurately reflects your true identity and purpose?
Recently for me, it was my front yard. You see: my front yard was a lawn – grass but unfortunately too many weeds as well. This demanded a lot of unsustainable attention: pulling weeds, weed killer, paying a gardener his cut, and of course the water bill. As an owner, I did not find joy in this front yard, which is designed to reflect the curb appeal of our home. So, we sat down as a family (my wife and 3 teenage kids) and I sketched my vision of a new front yard which would truly reflect the identity and purpose of our family in the community. Instead of a “lawn”, we would integrate three areas like a venn diagram: two functional areas (2 vegetable gardens and an ornamental garden) and a structural area (a decorative stone walking pathway). The costly irrigation system would be changed to an economical drip system. The family was hesitant because there was an obvious fear of change: an upfront investment of time and money, specific tasks/chores for the kids to initiate and maintain the new area. Nevertheless, they came to realize this was the right thing to do and with moral conviction, we pulled-up our sleeves and got to work. Eventually, our vision came to fruition and my whole family participates in the growing process. Outsiders continue to challenge and remind me that it is much “cheaper” to buy vegetables in the market. However, I enjoy planting seeds and watching them grow. Their growth reflects my growth as a person; isn’t that what life is all about?
Listening to the Heart: A Journey towards Health (Part 1)
My hand in hers, we enter the antechamber of the Church. Solemnly stationed in the center along the marble-tiled wall of the vestibule, the iron rack of candles drew me closer. Flames flickered amongst other dormant candles, 2×1.5 in cylinders of beeswax awaiting for their wicks to be ignited. With her free hand, my mother reached for a dry match stick and gracefully poised it in the flame of the votive candle. With a spark and a burst of energy, my mother transferred the flame to a new candle wanting to be consumed. As she extinguished the match stick with her breath, I inhaled the scent of smoke. She pulled me to the kneeler. Releasing my hand from hers, I mimicked her posture of prayer before the statue of the sacred heart of Jesus.
As a child, form impressed me more than function, and I seemed to always have a feeling that I belong to something bigger. That would include my family. I was the second youngest of seven of an Irish Catholic family. In the Delaware County ( aka DELCO) of Pennsylvania, size really matters. A large family inferred genetic prowess in the social world and steadfast piety in the religious world. These parallel worlds were one in the same in the Archdiocese of Philadelphia. The parochial system was organized around the parish, connecting families by three powerful forces – religion, education and sports. The parish provided communal solidarity, but it also placed us in competition with neighboring parishes and non-parishioners of the same community. This is the culture in which I was raised.
Parish life for most families consisted of attending Sunday mass. For our parents, this was compulsory and any excuse had to be sanctioned by a power greater than God. The 10:30 AM mass was the most popular mass and it was difficult to find seats (especially for the tardy). This, of course, was a challenge my father did not want to miss. At approximately 10:28 AM, my father would gather the rest of troops – my mother, my three sisters and three brothers. Packed in a station wagon, we would roll through every Drexel Hill stop sign from Mansion road to St. Dorothy’s Church. Dressed in his Sunday’s best suit, my father would ceremoniously march us through the nave around the time of the first liturgical reading. This probably explains my estrangement with the Old Testament. For some reason, the entire parish seemed to be familiar with our family name.
My childhood attendance at mass was largely a passive experience of exposure. I can recall one mass which demanded my active participation…