Kathryn Griffin Swegart's Blog, page 10

Battles in the Garden

Watch that woman standing on the farmer’s porch. She pulls on her work jeans that still show patches of garden dirt. She sprays insect repellent on her work boots, arms, and neck. Next comes a mesh insect protection net that loops under her armpits and covers her entire head. With great precision, she dons her work gloves and picks up a garden fork. She is ready for war. Not just any war. She is ready for jungle warfare. Now comes an all-out attack on tangles of weeds that threaten to take over the garden.

You probably have guessed that I am that woman. My personal war on weeds was a response to the pandemic that engulfed our world, leaving us with feelings of helplessness. One dreary day in March, snow still covered the landscape. Lilac bushes were breaking under the weight of a late snowstorm that dumped a foot of snow. Suddenly, from the depths of my being came a desire, no, a need to rid the ground of weeds and plant a flower garden. Just the thought of brightly colored flowers warmed my heart.

I was transformed from a woman in despair to a woman on a mission. Once the snow disappeared, I discovered that weeds had taken over the hill in front of our house. Virginia Creepers had a sprawling underground network ready to drain all nutrients from the soil. The evil bindweed twined around delicate fruit saplings, choking out all life. I had a deep dislike for ditch lilies that can take over a garden, claiming territories like Napoleon on the march. Ah yes, the world was out of control, but I was eliminating insidious weeds one dig at a time.

Once the enemy was eliminated (I have taught my grandson that weeds are the enemy), I drove to the local garden store. At the entrance was a rack of paper packets filled with flower seeds, all with enchanting names. I bought with reckless abandon. Triumphant, I carried home Ruby Parfait Celosia, Pacific Beauty Mix Calendula and best of all, Cupcake Cosmos. My husband questioned these purchases.

“Were they on sale?” he asked.

“Nope,” I replied.

That ended the conversation. He sensed I was on a mission and dropped the subject.

After a few weeks, I began to question my motivations. After all, this was dirty, back-breaking work. It soon became apparent that I was more relaxed after working in the garden. Hope flickered as I dropped flower seeds in a little hole, sprinkled them with soil, and gave them a little pat.

I wondered. Does gardening reduce stress? One scientific test chose 30 gardeners to work the soil for 30 minutes. Cortisol (the stress hormone) was repeatedly measured. In a second test, the gardeners were asked to read a book for 30 minutes and told not to garden. Both reading and gardening reduced cortisol, but decreases were significantly stronger in the gardening group. Researchers concluded “positive moods were fully restored after gardening. These findings provide the first experimental evidence that gardening can promote relief from acute stress.”

What started as a war on weeds now became a war on stress. I reduced my intake of dire news stories. I increased my prayer time. I spent more time outside listening to bumble bees foraging among the apple blossoms. Earthworms made their silent appearance. I watched them wiggle in the moist topsoil.  Spring birdcalls filled the air. Chickadees, sparrows, and goldfinch visited the bird feeder. I sensed the harmony of nature and the hand of God, firmly in control.

I pulled a dandelion out by its roots and paused to reflect on my time in the garden. It is strange to think that digging deeply into the soil should make me feel more connected to God. Scientific tests do not mention the supreme, reasonable Person. He regulates the movement of stars and earthworms, all given through His unfailing love. Therein lies our peace.

The Secret of Christmas Cove

An old woman ambled down a dirt road from her cottage on Christmas Cove along the coast of Maine. Hilda Hamlin was her name and she had a secret. It was a secret kept in her pocket. Now on her way back from the post office, she fumbled in her pocket for little treasures brought back from her native England. In one sweep of her hand, she cast lupine seeds to her left then to her right. A quiver of homesickness stirred inside her as she thought of Bristol, England and the life she left behind at age fifteen. Somehow the lupine made her feel at home in this land across the sea. No one had to know about this little hobby.

In early summer, lupine sprouted in her backyard and along roadsides, tall plants with blue, purple, rose and white flowers. Neighbors noticed and scooped up seeds from Lupine stalks to plant in their yards. Soon, Lupine covered the fields in this tranquil village. Hilda became known as the Lupine lady. Years later, Hilda’s story came to the attention of woman who also lived on the Maine coast.

Twenty miles down the road in Damariscotta, Barbara Cooney heard the story of Hilda Hamlin. Seeds of a story grew. Cooney, a renowned writer and illustrator, retreated to her study and began to write. A character formed in her mind. Cooney named her Miss Rumphius, an old woman who traveled the world and settled in a cottage by the sea. Miss Rumphius looked out about the sparkling waters and remembered words told to her as a child. 

“You must do something to make the world more beautiful,” said her uncle.

Miss Rumphius procured lupine seeds and trod the meadows and roadsides planting seeds. Children gathered at her feet and listened to the old woman tell of her long life and her many adventures. They left with lupine seeds in their pockets.

Barbara Cooney’s book, Miss Rumphius became a classic in children’s literature, awarded the prestigious National book award in 1983.

 Hilda Hamlin died before the publication of Miss Rumphius. I think that she would have been surprised that her little secret became known to thousands of young readers around the world, inspiring them to make the world more beautiful.

Miracles of the Sacred Heart

Today we celebrate the Solemnity of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, first celebrated on August 31, 1670 in Rennes, France. Devotion to the Sacred Heart became a universal celebration based on the visions of St. Margaret Mary Alacoque on June 16, 1675, thus establishing the solemnity to be celebrated during the octave of the Feast of Corpus Christi.

For Catholics, Eucharistic miracles form a scientific connection to this feast day. One of the most famous Eucharistic Miracles is the miracle of Lanciano, Italy. In the year 750 in the Church of St. Francis, a host turned to flesh during the consecration at Mass. To this day, that Host is intact and kept in a reliquary in Italy.

In 1970, the Archbishop of Lanciano ordered a scientific study of the relic. Dr. Edward Linoli, a professor of anatomy, histology, chemistry, and clinical microscopy studied the mysterious flesh, 1200 years after it appeared on an altar. On March 4,1971, he released a detailed study that concluded the substance was authentic flesh consisting of muscular striated tissue of the myocardium, that is heart muscle.

In the 1990’s a similar transformation of the Host occurred during Mass at a church in Argentina. The flesh was studied by a pathology lab with this result:

This sample is a fragment of a human heart. There were many white blood cells. This means the heart was alive when the sample was taken. White blood cells will die without a living organism. In addition, the white blood cells penetrated the tissue. Therefore, the heart was under severe stress as if the owner was severely beaten.

What a powerful meditation this is for us as we approach the sacred Host, prepared to receive the tremendous gift of Jesus in the Eucharist, not a symbol, but His Real Presence.

Trapped by a Deadly Tornado

Ten years ago on June first, I had a brush with death. Here is the hair-raising story…

In the quiet of a library, I first heard news of the tornado watch. A mother and her young daughter gave clues that danger was afoot. Hurriedly, she gathered up an armload of books. “Radar shows that an F-3 tornado has touched down 50 miles away. We are leaving.” Tornadoes were not on my radar. After all, I was a New Englander living in western Massachusetts, not exactly in Tornado Alley. Still, I was a houseparent at MacDuffie School, a college prep school that served a population of international students. I had responsibility for the safety of twelve high school students, so I drove back home, picking up Chinese food for the boys on the way back to campus. 

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, although it was unusually warm for early June. I did notice that hot winds stirred the tops of sturdy old shade trees. Thinking back, all these signs should have been a warning to me. Instead, I was dismissive. I drove onto campus, past colonial style stone houses, parked, and entered the main school building. All was quiet on the first floor. That was strange. Where was the receptionist? Where were the students? Where were the teachers? I thought nothing of it and went downstairs to the mailroom to check my box. I was delighted to find a sizable tax refund from the IRS. Sweet, my husband will be happy, I thought. Life was good. Students were preparing to leave. Summer was on the way and I had a fat check in my hand.

 I walked down a corridor and saw a curious sight. Instead of the usual teenage bantering, I saw worried students clustered tightly in a narrow aisle between lockers. The dean of students stood in the middle of the group, ordering everyone to stay together on the basement level. “Should I bring my students back from the student home?” I asked. “There is not time,” she replied grimly. 

In the next few minutes, some people would say I acted bravely. Others would say I acted foolishly. All I knew was that I had to protect those young men still in the student home. I went upstairs, out the front door, and outside just as the tornado slammed into our campus. Meteorologists observed radar characteristics akin to an historic supercell that had devastated Tuscaloosa, Alabama a month earlier. The Springfield tornado was rated high-end EF-3 (severe) — on the cusp of EF-4 (violent), packing 160-mile-per-hour winds. Three people died in this cyclone; hundreds were left injured and homeless. Every building in the small town of Monson was destroyed. Nearby Cathedral High School sustained heavy damage and ultimately had to be torn down. Pieces of the school were thrown 43 miles away. 

Look now at me: a bespectacled grandmother running into the heart of a killer tornado. One woman saw me disappear behind a building and knew for sure that I was dead, flung somewhere above the treetops of Springfield, like Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. Yes, I was about to die and I knew it. I sensed extreme danger. I felt hot, swirling winds sucking up dirt and hurling debris at me. Objects hurtled through the air — Frisbees, sticks, rocks — each with the potential to cause serious injury. There was no turning back; I could only keep running. As the cyclone roared through campus, I was swept off my feet, carried away and out of control. Ahead was a brick wall. Ahead was the end of my life. 

Now, I know that you are waiting for a different end to this story. After all, I did not die because I am telling you this scary story. How did I survive? As I flew off my feet, some mysterious force pulled me down to the ground. That just does not happen in a tornado. Objects — like the MacDuffie gazebo — are thrown up into the air. It felt like I had been lassoed around the ankles, cowboy-style. I crashed into a lamp post in front of the student home, rolled on my belly, and crawled to safety under bushes. I covered my head as flying debris continued to smack me. Seconds later, all was quiet; danger had passed. 

I went into the house, covered in dirt with my eyeglasses askew, and checked on the students. They were all safe and stared at this wild lady who rode a tornado like Pecos Bill. One student looked me over and asked for the Chinese food. I ignored that question, as you can well imagine. However, I did have something in my hand: the fat check. After all, how could I explain to the federal government that I lost my refund check in a tornado? IRS workers would have been put on hold for weeks. It took many months to heal from this experience. My leg was black from bashing into the lamp post. I had nightmares, depression, and nervousness on windy days. I thought hard about that moment when I felt pulled down by invisible hands. Over the years, I have heard stories about guardian angels intervening in dangerous situations. As a child, Mother Angelica also felt invisible hands lift her out of the way of a speeding car. I believe that my guardian angel saved me from certain death.

Lucia of Fatima!

Good news for followers of this blog and other friends! My newest book, Lucia of Fatima, is published!

Here is the incredible true story of three children who witnessed visions of the Blessed Virgin Mary on a hillside in Portugal 107 years ago today. Two years in the making, I relied on the memoirs of Lucia and her Carmelite sisters to portray all the visions, ensuing turmoil, and holiness of Lucia, St. Jacinta, and St. Francisco. My intent is to cast a fresh eye on this famous story, to engage young readers, and to feel like we are walking in the footsteps of Lucia. 

Here is the opening paragraph:

 Imagine that you are a little girl standing in a pasture tending sheep. Suddenly you see a beautiful lady standing on a small tree in front of you. Would you run away in fear? Would you think that you were dreaming? The story you are about to read recounts the experiences of a child favored by extraordinary visions on a Portugal hillside in 1917. Turn the page and begin a journey into the life of Lucia dos Santos, chosen by God to receive supernatural messages for the world.

Once again, artist John Folley shared his talents to create engaging illustrations for this book. Here is a sample of his work in which we see the mayor kidnapping the children.

How amazing that Lucia of Fatima was published this week, just in time for the memorial of Our Lady of Fatima. Now that’s what I call providential!

 Lucia of Fatima is written as historical fiction for ages 10 and up.

Hero in the Trenches

This is a true story of a man I will call Joseph. Now Joseph is a handsome man who stands strong and tall at the age of 84. You and I might imagine reaching that age and deciding to relax in an easy chair. Not Joseph. Let me explain.

Joseph and his wife led the comfortable days of a retired couple. It was a quiet life, for they never had children of their own. That all changed when Joseph turned 78. Joseph received a call that his young grandniece and grandnephew, ages three and nine, were in trouble. Hard times came upon the biological parents and they were unable to care for their children. With no hint of hesitation, Joseph and his wife jumped into the breech. 

“Yes, we will take these children into our home,” they said.

I, personally, cannot imagine this scenario. Joseph had never dealt with child temper tantrums, runny noses, missing socks, troubles at school, and waking up in the middle of the night to the sound of children crying. Against all odds, they carried on their mission.

Last November Joseph’s wife died, and he was left alone to care for the children. Undaunted, Joseph faced more challenges. His grandnephew (I will call him Paul) went to live with his biological grandmother. Soon after, the grandmother passed away. The step-grandfather worked a job that required him to go to work at two in the morning. Not a problem for Joseph. 

“Drop him off at my house after supper and he can sleep at my house,” he said.

Now Paul was struggling in school and needed help. Not a problem for Joseph. He spent $10,000 to pay for a special tutoring program. Paul thrived. 

In the midst of all this drama, enter the biological mother who had become sober, wanted to make amends to all those she had hurt, and enter into the lives of her children. That created a problem. Mom lived a distance away and the children would have to leave the area, disrupting their lives once again. Not a problem for Joseph. He plans to buy a house for the family so they can stay in the area.

I will tell you that Joseph’s sister is a religious sister who told me this story. As you might guess, she prays often, as does Joseph. All of the twists and turns in this story leads me to believe that God had a hand in protecting these children.

As for Joseph, I don’t think he will spend hours relaxing in his easy chair. He is, after all, always on call.

A Tribute to Dr. King

Zoom in now on the photograph. Picture this man in jail. It is a narrow cell with dim light. You might imagine that he would stare at a dirty wall and do nothing. That is not the case. In fact, he sits on the bed and begins to write. First, he writes on the narrow margins of a newspaper and runs out of space. The man forages for more paper and finds scraps of writing paper. He keeps writing…and writing…and writing. 

The man is Martin Luther King, Jr. and the date is April 12,1963. His “Letter Written in a Birmingham Jail” became an historic part of the American Civil Rights movement.

Not too long ago, my son gently challenged our family to reflect on how we have helped to build a more just society for all people. I named a few examples. I decided to dig more deeply and discovered Dr.King’s eloquent letter. I clicked on a link archived by Stanford University and listened to Reverend King read his letter. I was enthralled.

By way of background, Reverend King led a series of marches and sit-ins protesting segregation laws, racism, and violence against black citizens. He also protested in Birmingham, Alabama, at that time considered the most segregated city in the country. He was arrested and put in jail.

His letter reflects a deep a commitment to nonviolent direct action. Time after time, he quotes philosophers back to Socrates, the Bible, St. Augustine, and St. Thomas Aquinas, giving a clinic on the subject of justice. Laws fall into two categories—just and unjust. It is our moral responsibility to obey just laws. He then quotes St. Augustine that “an unjust law is no law at all.”

How are we to recognize a just law? He turns to Thomas Aquinas who wrote that laws must be rooted in both eternal and natural law. Just laws “uplift the personality”. Segregation fails to see the spark of divinity in every human being.

Dr. King continues:

“I submit that an individual who breaks a law that conscience tells him is unjust, and who willingly accepts the penalty of imprisonment in order to arouse the conscience of the community over its injustice, is in reality expressing the highest respect for law.”

He also warned that to reject nonviolent protests will lead to black nationalist ideologies that promote violence. We would then be living in “a national nightmare.” Sound familiar?

I sorely wish that we had leaders like Dr. King who took peaceful action against unjust laws. He certainly would not have approved of “taking a knee” in disrespect for this noble American experiment, this democratic republic envisioned by our forefathers, in which “all men are created equal”. Political correctness did not exist in his mind. The phrase had not been invented. He did not jump on ideological bandwagons. He had to think for himself. He had to read lengthy books and spend time in prayer. He had to risk being sprayed by firehoses, kicked, and beaten. Ultimately, he gave his life, struck down by an assassin’s bullet in 1968.

I listened to the voice of Dr. King and heard a voice of humility. I smiled at the conclusion of his famous letter. He apologized for the length, but mused, “what else can you do when you are alone for days in the dull monotony of a narrow jail?”

I end this blog post in solidarity with Dr. King who ended his letter “Yours for the Cause of Peace and Brotherhood.”

A Most Peculiar Picnic

My dear husband can, at times, be a puzzling gentleman. Perhaps you can relate to this statement. I present to you a case in point.

On the Solemnity of the Annunciation, he wished to celebrate the feast in a unique way. He conjured up the perplexing idea of having a picnic. That may sound fine to you, but we live in central Maine, near the Canadian tundra. Technically, spring had arrived. A peek out the window told a different story. Clouds shrouded the sky and temperatures were a chilly 45 degrees. Heavy mist hung over the lake, still covered with ice. 

“Let’s have supper at the lake!” he declared.

Now that is a surprising announcement considering his dislike of cold weather. Still, I ( grudgingly) packed a simple meal in the wicker picnic basket and we drove off for our next adventure. Thus began a dreary hour in which I wrapped myself in a blanket and munched on sourdough bread. All was solitary until a majestic bald eagle soared overhead and swooped down on us in search of fish carcasses. My husband gasped in delight and tried to capture the moment on video.

Attention now shifted westerly to dense, low-lying fog that floated over the ice, undulating in patterns, drifting like ghosts. I was enraptured, but soon it was time to pack up and leave. We drove home in silence as I pondered how this wintry picnic celebrated the Annunciation. That night I got my answer.

At dawn I woke up with a start. Images of the mystical fog came to mind. Yes, white fog hovered like the finger of God, real as that Incarnate moment of the Annunciation and of Mary’s Magnificat. 

The Most Famous Photo Ever Taken

Turin , Italy – 1898. Excitement was in the air as Secondo Pia set up his photographic equipment to take what was to become one of the most famous photographs in history. Big preparations were underway for the 400th anniversary celebration of Turin Cathedral. Pia, an amateur photographer and lawyer, was given permission by King Umberto I to photograph the mysterious Shroud of Turin, believed by many to be the burial cloth of Jesus Christ.

On the evening of May 28th, Pia entered the darkened cathedral, accompanied by two friends.  His first job was to set up two electric lamps, using a portable generator. In those days, few buildings had electricity and the cathedral was no exception. The ingenious Secondo became the first photographer to use electric light bulbs in a photo shoot. All preparations were complete. It was time. Pia squinted into the viewfinder. All he could see was the faint image of a face, almost impossible to discern with the naked eye. After fussing with exposures, he aimed and clicked the button. Eager to see his results, all three men rushed to the darkroom. Carefully, Pia prepared the photographic plates and immersed them in a chemical bath. A face appeared to them, clear as a bell. It was the face of a bearded man with long hair. It was the face of a tortured man who had been beaten and crowned with thorns.  In this shocking moment, Pia nearly dropped the plate. Secondo had photographed a negative image, thus producing a positive image on his negative film. On June 2, 1898, the exhibition ended and the shroud was returned to a casket.

Over the next few years, the photograph became subject to much debate. Some thought Secondo Pia had tampered with the plates. Others believed the photograph to be of supernatural origins. For three decades, Secondo’s photograph remained an enigma. In 1931, Giuseppe Enrie, photographed the shroud, producing the same results.

Scientific study of the shroud ramped up in 1978. In that year, the Shroud of Turin Research Project (STURP) was granted permission to study the shroud. Thirty-three scientists from twenty major research institutions studied the shroud, round the clock, for five days. Results were released in 1981. “The shroud image is that of a real human form of a scourged, crucified man. It is not the product of an artist.  The blood stains are composed of hemoglobin and also give a positive test for serum albumin. No physical, chemical, or medical circumstance could adequately account for the image.”  STURP scientists stated that the shroud “remains now, as it has in the past, a mystery.”

Skeptics believe that the shroud is a painting rendered by an artist in the15thcentury. That would take a leap in faith. After all, the shroud is a negative image. Photography was not invented until 1839. No paint or pigments have been found on the cloth. No brush strokes are visible. Modern science has not been able to duplicate the image, even with laser technology. In 1988, carbon 14 tests determined the cloth to be from medieval times. Since then, flaws in protocol were uncovered. In 2005, a National Geographicarticle concluded,  “The findings greatly increase the possibility that the shroud may be as old as Christianity itself.”

Author Susan Tassone viewed the Shroud of Turin in a 1998 exposition. She wrote, “I was awestruck. I could not say a word. It was overwhelming to see it up front face-to-face. The shroud made me realize the brutal sufferings of Jesus-Jesus was beyond brutally beaten. It made me realized the suffering-beyond belief-that he went through for our sake. You felt it was just for you he did that.”

Lessons from a Robin

Death first smacked me one day as I was walking to school. I was a Shirley Temple-type kid with blond banana curls and wide, innocent eyes. Back in the olden days, neighborhood children walked to school with not a responsible adult in sight. In fall, I shuffled through dried leaves piled up on sidewalks, picking up horse chestnuts along the way. One spring day, I saw my first baby robin lying dead on the sidewalk. Teachers may have noticed that I looked somber that day. None could have guessed what images danced in my head. Poor baby robin! His lifeless body lay flat on the cement, surrounded by broken pieces of pale blue eggshells. He never had a chance to breathe fresh air or to fly or to eat a worm. I honored that dead chick. I gently picked up bits of eggshells and put them in my pocket. 

Many years later, robins taught me another lesson. Propped up by bed pillows, I gazed down at my infant daughter. In the darkness before dawn, I nursed this little one and longed to sleep; strange how loneliness creeps in at these moments. A bird song broke the silence. This solitary robin sensed the sun edging upward and announced the arrival of a new day. Gratitude touched my heart. Miracles awaited me. I watched my little one discover her dimpled hands. Perhaps today she would smile at me for the first time. 

Now I am a grandmother and still wake up before dawn. It is dark, but I listen and wait for the first song from our friendly robin. That sound twangs my heart and acts like a time machine — zipping me back to old Cape Cod, to our starter home with weathered shingles and picket fence. In my mind’s eye, I picture little children playing in the sandbox and our collie pup romping in the backyard. Those children have grown, moved away, and have lives of their own.

Life seems to be all about change, but I believe some things never change.  I believe that nature draws us toward beauty and the transcendent nature of life. I believe that God’s love is immutable, like the chirp of a robin at dawn.