Decade

In previous blog posts I allude to struggles in my faith life such as my inability, yet desire, to hear God speaking to me. The Old Testament has dozens of stories of prophets who audibly heard the voice of God. Just last week the first reading in the mass was 1 Samuel 3, the story of God calling Samuel in a voice as if he was standing in the next room waiting on an answer. I’ve also heard stories of some people in this current time who see the physical body of Christ on the altar during the consecration. And let’s not forget the stigmatic Saint Padre Pio, who bore the physical wounds of Christ’s crucifixion. I have experienced none of these things, but I am learning, very slowly and a bit begrudgingly, that I do hear God’s voice in a more subtle way. It usually comes in the form of being awakened in the earliest morning hours asking me to take dictation. Earlier this week it was in the midnight hour that my eyes popped open in a full body sweat from a steroid shot I had the day before. It was 25 degrees outside and I was experiencing the heat wave from July. After extricating myself from my blanket cocoon the words started flowing in my mind. I know these experience must be the voice of the Holy Spirit because the words are given to me in a way I would never speak with my own voice. I wanted to block it and go back to sleep, but in an attempt to be obedient I trudged out of bed and tried to recall every word He told me to tell about St. Fabian Catholic Church.

 

Ten years ago today I wrote a blog post where I mention attending the inaugural mass at a brand new parish formed in my community. You can read it here if you can bear to muddle through my other odd musings of the day. Ironically, I also mention some dental work, not realizing at the time that the parish only exists because of a generous donation of land from my childhood dentist, Dr. Richard Fabian McCarthy.  That man did so much dental work on me I feel like I am truly invested financially in the church as well as spiritually.  It was Dr. McCarthy’s wish that a church be built on the land and it be named St. Fabian as a tribute to his namesake, Sister Fabian whose namesake was St. Fabian, a third century pope with an interesting story I don’t have room to tell.

Ten years ago I was in a difficult place spiritually. Life and familial circumstances generated lies that I allowed to become my truths. Leading us off path is Satan’s greatest talent, so tread carefully when doubt begins to trouble your soul. I knew I needed and wanted to return to mass, so I stepped out of my comfort zone and attended the first St. Fabian mass that was held in the Lake Serene community’s club house. The priest/pastor was and still is Fr. Tommy Conway, a charismatic Irishman who can lead the proverbial horse to water and make it drink. I’ve known Fr. Tommy since his first years in the priesthood at Sacred Heart when he officiated my wedding. Where Fr. Tommy goes people follow, which is why there were no empty seats and I had to stand for the entire mass in front of the kitchen serving area of the community center. I was reminded of my earlier years getting to mass at St. Thomas five minutes late and having to stand in the back next to the restrooms that had the loudest doors on the planet.

It wasn’t long into the mass when I began to feel something different in the air. The lies that had become my truths began to fade and a new hope sparked in me. The real Way, Truth, and Life was present to me that night giving me a sense of belonging I have never felt in a church before. I knew it was up to me to make the feeling a reality. Jesus will show you the path but if you refuse to follow it you will never get to where He is leading you to go.

St. Fabian Way is more than just the address of the property left to the church by Dr. McCarthy. It is a feeling. I’ve never known Catholics who speak so confidently of their faith like they do at St. Fabian. But then again, I’ve never allowed myself to meet many people in a church. Those first years of one mass a week in a borrowed school gymnasium lent an air of closeness that bound you to get to know the people who sat around you. 

Ten years later we have our own building and although we have more space and have grown into two weekend masses I still get that feeling of home when I walk through the doors. This would not be the case had I not stepped out of my comfort zone and attended mass on a random Monday night. 

Congratulations, St. Fabian parish, for ten years of service to God and to the community as a whole.  I pray you are still here and standing strong in ten times ten years.