THE BISHOP, THE ACTOR AND IN DARKNESS, LIGHT

It's been a tough week to remember that there are good people in this world. But a surprise visit, even on the worst of Election Days, was a reminder that there are lights in the darkness.

Last Tuesday I volunteered as a poll challenger along with the staff and volunteer teams at Rising Voices. In addition to campaigning for months for Harris and a slate of statewide candidates, we signed up to work election protection, and so under the guidance of Promote the Vote our people and partners were spread out over 75 polling locations to monitor and make sure votes got cast and counted.

The night before I was nervous, as there had been a lot of worried discussions about possible violence at the polls. The staff had undergone de-escalation exercises in addition to our certification training and a network of on-call legal experts and support staff would be on hand, but it was still nerve-wracking to say the least. Though already exhausted from the campaign it was hard to force myself to sleep to make the 5am call and I ended up doomscrolling on my phone for distraction.

A memory on Facebook popped up: a photo of me and my cousin Yolanda, at dinner at SheWolf Pasticio restaurant in Detroit. And with us at the table behind a mound of pistachio gelato in the foreground, Bishop Gumbleton. The date was November 5, 2023.

I didn't realize that Election Day 2024 would be exactly one year to the day since I last spent time with Tom.

Tears started to come down. The fears and anxiety and exhaustion of the election combined with grief were too much for the moment. It was one thing to miss a friend; it was entirely another thing to miss a friend whose life and presence was an example of good people of conscience doing the work of justice in the world. The ugly rhetoric, violence and sheer despair that hung around the election made the absence of the Jedi Master acutely painful.

I missed Tom terribly. There was nothing to do but curl up under the blanket and cry myself to sleep. 

Just a few hours later, David and I reported to Precincts 12 and 15 in St. Clair Shores, where we had been randomly assigned. Both polling locations were in one building, the VFW Hall. After introducing ourselves to the precinct chairs and running through our checklists I set myself to walking back and forth across the large room between the two precincts to observe while David stationed himself at the public viewing area and occasionally walked outside to estimate waiting times for each line. Though apprehensive, we found that the poll workers had set up an efficient operation and voting commenced promptly without major delays. 

No major issues cropped up, and certainly nothing as violent as we feared. For the most part, the poll workers were genial and accommodating and the voters were respectful and polite. I chatted pleasantly with the precinct chairs, who were kind and patient. But as the morning wore on I began to notice from a growing number of voters and a couple poll workers a palpable discomfort beneath the polite interactions.  

It was an experience that would no doubt be familiar to most people of color in an all-white space: a feeling of strained tolerance for one’s presence, the discomfort of being stared at and having one’s credibility evaluated, glances of suspicion, and beneath it all a palpable undercurrent of resentment and anger. A few voters came in with MAGA hats and shirts on, though they were promptly told by poll workers to remove them. Another man stared me down, then whispered angrily to his wife. An older blonde woman in a sweater decorated with an American flag glared at me with defiance, as if to say “I belong here, you don’t, and we are going to teach you people a lesson.” There was no doubt that many of the voters coming in with absolute determination to support Trump and everything he promised them: a white, Christian nation with people like me put back into place at the bottom of the heap where we belong.

It felt pretty damn lonely. 

I started to feel depressed.

I missed Tom more than ever.

But then—across the room, a voice called out: “Jasmine! David! IT’S ME, BISHOP GUMBLETON!”

And there, standing in line to vote at one of the precincts was Jonathan Stewart, the actor who had played Tom in my short film American Prophet. It had been nearly ten years since we had last seen each other in New York City, but Jonathan was the same: tall, lanky and sweet, only sporting a beard and the more tired stance of a father of three young children. He was waving wildly with a huge smile on his face, and I stared at him, dumbfounded.

“JONATHAN!”

I ran up to hug the guy. Poll challengers are not allowed to talk to voters unless first approached, but to hell with the protocols. Out of the thousands of polling precincts in the United States Jonathan had walked into the one that I was assigned to, during my shift, and exactly when I needed something or someone to lift my heart out of its loneliness.

David and I chatted with Jonathan as the line moved along, then left him to do his civic duty and cast his ballot. When he finished I walked out with him and we talked more outside on the porch, catching up on family news and film careers and life in general. We talked about moving back home to family from LA and NYC. We talked about missing Tom. Jonathan talked about missing his beloved grandfather. And we promised to reach out and make sure we stayed connected, not just on film sets but as people who had once shared an incredible experience of making art and had no excuse to not remain friends.

Jonathan left, and David and I finished out our shift. Later I commented on the incredible odds of Jonathan walking into our precinct and we agreed that if this meeting was a nudge from Tom in Heaven, it was definitely right on the nose.

______________

In the wake of the election results, I like so many others am heartbroken and exhausted. I don’t know what to make of the state of our country and the people who decided to support a person who stands against everything I have been taught to be good. I don’t know what to make of the future, and as a leader for my organization I don’t have answers or strategy or a clear path forward for the enormous work we have to do. Like so many I feel stymied, wounded and lost.

Election Day in 2024 will forever be a dark day of reckoning with the reality of our national character and the people around us we thought we could trust, including loved ones and family who seem to have thrown us under the bus. The utterly baffling choice they made to thrown their lot in with a rapist and white supremacist is a decision set to haunt us for years to come. 

But I think about Jonathan’s miraculous appearance that morning, and wonder what the universe meant by it. It could simply be coincidental, to be sure. It could also be an opportunity to remember that even in the midst of loneliness, fear and hate there are people in the world who are loving, kind and good. 

When Jonathan was cast as Tom for the film, he was faced with the daunting task of playing a person who was known and beloved by many people worldwide. The sheer pressure of having to fill those shoes as an actor was no doubt terrifying. But instead of being left to struggle alone, Jonathan was supported by a vast community of people who wished him well and wanted him to succeed—friends of Tom who had known him for decades, his secretaries who took Jonathan under their wing, the priests and hockey coaches and family who came out to give Jonathan the knowledge and support he needed to do the work he had to do.

It is amazing what a beloved community can achieve when called together to create something beautiful.

I also think about that last dinner with Tom. I think about how Yolanda and I waited for him to say grace when our food arrived, but instead of praying he gave us a linguistics lesson: “In the Bible there is a saying in one of the scriptures, ‘estote eucharisteo’. Do you know what that means? It means ‘be gratitude’. Some people translate it incorrectly as ‘give thanks’. That’s not it. It’s like my bishop’s motto, ‘Estote Factores Verbi’, which means ‘Be Doers of the Word’. The phrase ‘estote eucharisteo’ really means ‘BE gratitude.’ EMBODY gratitude. Let that be your very being, every part of you.” 

And so even in the midst of the pain and bewilderment of these past days and the inevitable grief that is to come, I hold that memory close. I try to remember and practice estote eucharisteo despite the onslaught of fear and sadness this coming administration brings. I try to be gratitude, not just for myself, but for the beloved community we need to build in order to survive the coming years. I hold gratitude for the example of Tom's life and the fight for justice he never abandoned despite countless heartbreaks and setbacks. I hold gratitude for Jonathan, not just his hard work on the film but also for his calling out my name across the polling station, and the light he brought in the midst of that difficult day. I thank him for doing his civic duty, and I thank the universe for sending me a reminder of loving kindness when I most needed it.

There are good people in this world.

There are lights in the darkness if we reach out. 

We can get through this together. And for that, I remember to be gratitude itself.

THE BISHOP AND THE BROKEN MICROPHONE

This essay was originally posted in 2019 at the time of the release of the film American Prophet on Amazon Prime.

Today is Pentecost.

This is a story of Pentecost.

A few years ago, when I was preparing to move from New York City back home to Detroit to shoot my short film American Prophet, I experienced a period of intense doubt and misgivings about what I had planned to do. I wondered if it was wise to leave NYC and embark on such a crazed project—a movie about hockey-playing priests—and if I would be better off working in the big city where the film industry was thriving and where I had spent nearly a decade building a life for myself. I worried that a film based on the life of Bishop Thomas Gumbleton could not do justice to his legacy, and I worried that the film might be seen as my full endorsement of the Catholic Church, with which I had many issues with regards to women, race, power and colonial history.

I was due to leave the Monday after Pentecost, and spent the weekend packing my final items. As I inventoried my clothing on Saturday evening, I turned on National Public Radio and listened to an interview that featured a priest and author I admired on the program On Being. The interview was an in-depth conversation about faith and the definition of love, and so I half-listened with mild interest as I folded, distracted by the amount of packing I had yet to do.

Then the reporter asked Father point blank if he thought women should be priests.

I paused in my packing, straining to hear his answer. For Catholic priests, any support for women clergy would incur punishment from their superiors; the ordination of a woman in the Catholic Church is grounds for excommunication. I had always hated this fact, which had played a large part in driving me away from the faith of my family. I knew that many good priests trapped by this rule were frustrated by a choice between speaking up for women and a threat to their ministries, many vital in poor communities. To ask a priest to answer such a question publicly is to ask him to endanger his life’s work. Despite this, I held out hope that Father would say something to say about the Church’s injustice and misogyny. I waited to hear him come to the defense of women.

Father cleared his throat nervously as he chose his words carefully.

“I know of many people who would like to see women as pastors,” he said.

“But do you think they should be priests?” pressed the interviewer.

“Well,” Father said. “As I said, there are many people who would like to see women in clergy. Many people have opinions on that question.”

“But you yourself?”

“Many people have opinions on that subject.”

There was a long pause, and it was clear no further answer would be forthcoming. The reporter moved on to ask about a different topic. But I did not bother to listen to the rest. I was livid.

I balled up the clothes in my hands and shoved them into a box. Fuck all this, I thought. Why the hell would I give up my life in NYC to produce a film about a Catholic priest? The Church that fundamentally denies women like me the priesthood, on the grounds that we cannot embody Christ? The Church responsible for the sexual abuse of children? The Church that excommunicated women priests but not its own pedophile predators? Fuck. This. Shit.

I snapped off the radio and curled up in the bed with tears of frustration welling in my eyes. I can’t do this, I thought. This whole thing is crazy. Leaving NYC will be a huge mistake.

I had resolved earlier that day to attend Sunday Mass the next day for the last time at the church north of Columbia’s campus that I had been attending as part of my writing research. But after this interview and in the midst of my fears and frustration, I vowed not to go. Screw that, I thought. I curled up and wept myself to sleep.

******

In the morning, I felt a little better. I knew the previous night’s tears were a manifestation of my fears of moving home, but I was determined to shake them off. My choice had been made, and I was moving back to Detroit. As I rose, I also became aware that while asleep I had dreamt in the night—strange, deep dreams that I could not remember, but felt as if they must have been ultimately uplifting. I could not say how or why or what happened, but I was grateful for their healing.

I looked at my clock: 9AM. Okay, I thought begrudgingly. I owe the Divine at least a thank you for all that has happened to me here in this place. I’ll go to Mass.

I felt strangely compelled by some instinct to go to church, which had never happened before. I dragged myself out of bed, washed up, caught the bus up Broadway to 121st Street and walked stealthily into Corpus Christi Church, a tiny parish sandwiched between apartment buildings on a nondescript street. Across Broadway from the church was Union Theological Seminary, where I would write in the afternoons to avoid the crowds at Columbia’s Butler Library. Union was famous for its distinguished faculty and alumni, including Reinhold Niebuhr, who had taught there, and Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the German theologian who had been executed by the Nazis as part of the Resistance plot to assassinate Hitler. The windows above the seminary entrance were part of the set of rooms called by the students the “Prophet’s Chamber”, where distinguished guests were housed. One of them was Bonhoeffer, who had been invited to teach at Union, but ultimately returned back to Germany after making the agonizing decision to join the Resistance there rather than flee the country. I liked to imagine the shade of Bonhoeffer looking through the windows above, contemplating his fate.

As was my habit, I was late for Mass, arriving soon after the first reading and taking my seat in the back. The other Catholic churches near Columbia were unappealing, spectacular in design but cold and musty in feeling. In contrast, Corpus Christi had its own elementary school, and held a children’s Mass on Sundays featuring students who did readings and served at the altar. The pews were filled with families and squirming children, and so it had a warmer sense of community than many other parishes I found in New York.

At the rear of the church was a small alcove that contained a stone baptismal font, enclosed by a gate. It was at this baptismal font that Thomas Merton, the famous Trappist monk and writer, was baptized while a student at Columbia. I had read about his wild life before conversion, his university days and travels that some say produced an illegitimate child in his book The Seven Storey Mountain. It was therefore comforting to me to be in a place that welcomed the sinner and led to new life of contemplation. It was here that Merton had been seized with divine inspiration, a call to the faith that was inexorable and complete. Lightning had struck the young man years ago in this church, and it was moving to be at the site of his transformation.

In the pew, I was weary, tired by my late night and dreams, of which I could not remember but felt acutely. Whatever I had dreamed, it had rejuvenated yet exhausted me, though I could not recall what had happened to make me feel so drained.

I only noticed then that the congregation was dressed gaily in red, and that the priest and servers were also wearing red albs and stoles. The altar was draped in a red banner, and red flowers were clustered at its foot. The day was Pentecost, the last day of the Easter season, and the parish was celebrating the presence of the Holy Spirit as it had descended as tongues of fire on the disciples as they were sent out into the world to share the Good News.

The priest, a tiny man with round glasses and an Einstein-like shock of white hair, mounted the lectern and opened up the Scriptures. The congregation stood respectfully as he read us the Gospel for that day:

When the time for Pentecost was fulfilled,

they were all in one place together.

And suddenly there came from the sky

a noise like a strong driving wind,

and it filled the entire house in which they were.

Then there appeared to them tongues as of fire,

which parted and came to rest on each one of them.

And they were all filled with the Holy Spirit

and began to speak in different tongues,

as the Spirit enabled them to proclaim.

And suddenly, in the pew, I bolted upright. My dreams from last night came rushing back upon me, vivid and clear, unmistakable in their veracity. The images exploded in my head, and my mind’s eye reeled as they unfolded in my memory:

*****

I was sitting in the pews near the altar dais of St. Leo the Great Church in Detroit, my home parish. Sunday Mass was in progress, and on one side of the altar sat Bishop Gumbleton, accompanied by the Eucharistic ministers. He wore a green alb, which I knew indicated Ordinary Time in the church calendar. And on his head was a white miter.

I thought this unusual, as the bishop did not like to wear what he jokingly called his “funny hat”, as per his dislike for formality and pomp. He only wore the miter for formal occasions and confirmations, which called for the majestic presence of a bishop in regalia. I wondered in the dream why he was wearing it.

I looked out into the congregation, and before me were rows and rows of parishioners, reaching out into infinity. The walls of the St. Leo sanctuary were the same save for the back wall, which appeared to have another church attached to it. That church was entirely different in architectural style, featuring sloping roofs and dramatic columns. The parishioners in that church also filled the pews, and behind them stretched another different church, filled to the brim with people. Another church appended that one, hundreds and hundreds of thousands, reaching into infinity. I could hear a low, echoing murmur of the crowd as they seemed to anticipate closely the Mass to come.

The bishop walked forward to deliver his homily, Bible in hand. As he stepped to the edge of the dais, he motioned to one of the ministers, who came to him and began to adjust the lavaliere microphone on his robe. I could see the bishop’s mouth moving but could not hear his words. The microphone was malfunctioning.

We waited for a minute, but gradually a low murmur began in the huge congregation. Two ministers came to him and began adjusting the lapel mic. The bishop attempted to speak, but nothing could be heard. He turned to the audience, gesticulating, but the murmur grew louder and people began to call, “We can’t hear you!”

“There’s no sound. The sound’s not working!”

“There’s something wrong with the mic!”

I glanced at the parishioners, who were beginning to shift in their seats, threatening to leave. The ministers tried to work faster, to no avail.

After a few more frantic moments, the bishop gently waved the ministers away. He turned from the lectern towards the pews—and walked up to me. In his hand was the broken lav microphone. He smiled as he put it into my hands.

I looked into his eyes, and down to the mic. Suddenly, I knew what to do, and with a few adjustments put the broken pieces together. I handed the mic back to the bishop, who fastened it onto his alb. He smiled and patted my hand in thanks.

He then turned to the congregation. “My brothers and sisters,” he began. “Can you hear me now?” His voice echoed through the sweeping arches of the multiple churches. The crowd clapped joyously.

“We can hear you now,” they called. “We can hear you!”

The bishop turned towards me and smiled.

Then I woke up.

*****

Back on the pew at Corpus Christi, tears coursed down my cheeks. Around me the children and congregation were singing, all dressed in red, honoring the solemnity of a Holy Spirit that had struck the apostles and Mary with divine inspiration:

There appeared to them tongues as of fire,

which parted and came to rest on each one of them.

I knew then that the universe needed me to do the work it had inspired me to do. To pay tribute to a bishop whose life work included advocacy for women, the defense of children from abuse, the care for the poor and marginalized and love for the LGBT community. A person who, despite the worst violations of the institutional Church, embodied a distillation of the Gospel message to “love one another”. Fear, doubt and uncertainty would test me, but I was prepared to fight.

When the service ended, I walked out of the Church, renewed and at peace. I paused by Thomas Merton’s baptismal font and reached in between the bars, touching the stone rim. “Thank you,” I whispered. And I left.

*****

Years later, the vision of the Prophet came true.

The premiere of American Prophet was held at the Detroit Film Theatre, a glorious art deco masterpiece within the Detroit Institute of Arts that holds more than a thousand seats. After years of writing, research, fundraising, preproduction, principal photography and post-production editing, the film would finally be screened for the Detroit community and the hundreds of people who had donated and volunteered to make the film happen. In anticipation of a large audience I had asked the DFT if we could screen the film at their venue and miraculously they offered to do so, for free.

I arrived for the premiere in a state of panic, beset with intense anxiety that only increased as people greeted me warmly. I had arrived with the bishop himself, who was promptly swept into an enthusiastic crowd. Cast members and production crew members mingled, laughing over memories of the shoot. Donors and family members ran forward to congratulate me as we walked into the auditorium.

As I greeted guests, I saw that the entrance of the DFT was in a state of loud commotion. Astonished, I watch as more and more people walked through the doors into the theater, hundreds of them streaming in from a clogged lobby where DFT staff struggled to direct them down the aisles. In disbelief, I turned to see the mezzanines and balconies filled to the brim with people who had come from all over the United States just to see the film. The DFT ushers ran frantically down the aisles, desperate to find empty seats for the people crowding in.

The audience noise was overwhelming, filled with excitement and anticipation for the film, but after a long delay the head usher declared the theater filled to capacity and the lights went down as the film began. The crowd hushed itself quickly and watched as the opening credits unfolded across the screen.

I sat next to the bishop, gripping my arm rests as the scenes flashed by. I anxiously glanced over to him, but he was watching quietly and I could not read his face in the darkness. When laughs erupted from the audience for jokes and comedic bits, I jumped inwardly, never having experienced such a reaction during the long hours of editing. When drama rose and the audience gasped at the final action scenes, I was amazed to see people responding to the film, experiencing a story that had once only played through my head during my days in New York.

When at last the credits began to roll, I gently took the bishop’s arm and we went backstage behind the screen to wait for the film to end. As the last notes of the soundtrack faded, we walked onstage and the audience got to its feet, showering us with thunderous applause and cheers.

A stagehand ran out and handed me two microphones. “One for you and one for him. The ushers are asking that you please tell the audience not to crowd the reception in the gallery,” he said. “And we can’t take too long with the Q and A.”

“No problem, “ I said. “I’ll be brief. It’s him they want to talk to.” And I handed the microphone to Bishop Gumbleton.

*****

Since the premiere of American Prophet, the film has gone through a long festival run, screening at events ranging from international festivals to church basement gatherings. Audiences have been responsive, with some moved to tears. Requests for DVDs and copies have been constant.

Though assured by many that the film is beautiful and moving, like every director and artist every time I’ve watched the movie it has been with a critical and an unforgiving eye, seeing only errors on my part as the filmmaker. I have dreaded releasing it for home viewing, convinced that others will see the errors and failures of my inexperienced direction, engendering only disappointment. I am at times overwhelmed by these fears, whatever artwork I attempt.

But today is Pentecost. The vision I had years ago demands that I continue to amplify the bishop’s voice beyond the confines of my ego and anxieties. A prophetic dream came to me not once, but many times, first to inspire my writing of the film, to move me from New York to the uncertainty of Detroit, to strengthen me through a difficult editing process, to give me completion as the DFT audience applauded a tribute to the bishop’s life and work.

The very last scene of the film takes place in a church, filled with parishioners dressed in red, singing joyously. And so I release the film today, on Pentecost, in gratitude for a holy spirit that has blessed me for many years with fire and love and inspiration. I hope others encounter that spirit as well, in whatever they do.

THE BISHOP AND THE BUTTERFLY WHO LISTENED

Yesterday was the fortieth day.

In the Philippines, the fortieth day after the passing of a loved one is when their soul finally ascends to heaven. For forty days after death, the soul is able to explore the world in a way that was before impossible in life, as a spirit liberated from the confines of our physical limitations. Though not the most orthodox or canonically Catholic of spiritual concepts I liked this idea, especially for Tom, who had endured the hardships of travel across the world while subject to itineraries and plane tickets and luggage and all manner of human inconvenience, including an aging body. I also liked the idea of a measure of time for the spirit to linger, a chance to visit friends and loved ones to comfort, bless them and say goodbye.

And so I ventured back to the cemetery where Tom had been laid to rest, seeking out the lone, two-trunked tree that sheltered the burial site in the section where priests were laid, in the little corner dedicated to the auxiliary bishops who had served Detroit.

Tom’s grave was still bare, without a headstone or grass, only a mound of newly turned earth. There was no marker, no indicator of the person who had been laid there or the monumental life that had touched the earth for more than nine decades.

The day was hot, the sky cloudless. The only sounds were of birds and the faint drone of a lawn mower being driven somewhere between the headstones on the other side of the cemetery. A small, warm breeze bent the grass gently over the graves, stirring tiny Vatican flags planted on some of the priests’ headstones.

During the initial burial, I had stood with Tom’s family and loved ones, our faces stricken by tears as the casket was lowered into the ground. There had been no way to see beauty at that moment. But now, alone in the quiet sunlight of this day, there was a deep sense of peace. Breathing it in, I sat on the pavement stones next to the mound and took out the little silver rosary ring that Tom had sometimes used for his prayers.

With apologies to the Divine, I began the rosary, stumbling awkwardly through prayers I had not spoken in decades. Tom had for many years prayed the rosary at least three times a day, a practice I had observed in Rome and while waiting in the hospital with him for doctors to make their rounds. I, on the other hand, was not as adept. I’m sorry, I thought as I turned the ring in my hand. I’m not sure how to work this thing. I’m doing the best I can.

I tried to concentrate, struggling to remember what mysteries were appropriate for the day, but was also distracted by fear that I would be trapped in the cemetery, which was to close shortly. Due to my work schedule I had arrived late, and so glancing nervously at my watch with frustration and more apologies to the Divine I began to pray faster. HailMaryfullofgracetheLordiswiththeeblessedartthou….I began to feel ridiculous. A fraud that didn’t deserve to be there. Tears began to stream down my face.

It was at that moment that the butterfly appeared.

It fluttered down gracefully, landing on the pavement stone directly in front of me. Its wings were black, tipped in orange and white.

I looked round to see where the butterfly had come from or if there were flowers nearby that had drawn it, but there was only grass and the tree branches above.

I looked at the butterfly.

The butterfly looked at me.

I had paused in surprise, startled by the arrival of this little messenger. But as we continued to regard one another I started to pray again—softly, slowly. Time seemed to stand still. My anxiety disappeared and the words began to flow.

The butterfly stayed, as if listening.

A smile broke open on my face, my heart lifting. Hello, Tom. Thank you. Godspeed.

And with a flutter of wings like a benediction the butterfly flew off, leaving me in the sunlight and silence.

BE GRATITUDE ITSELF

The following was previously posted on Facebook on 11/5/23:

A teaching from the Jedi Master:

In a time of war, overwhelmed with sorrow and exhaustion, one might feel compelled to sit at the feet of elders for guidance. If one of those elders is a renowned peacemaker who has worked in the Middle East, met with the people of Gaza, championed the Palestinian cause, and worked for peace all his life around the world, even better. So, if he’s free for an evening and has a known fondness for Italian food and pistachio gelato, you can apply for an audience over pasta.

Years ago, my cousin Yolanda and I once accompanied the Jedi Master on a rather crazy trip to Rome (another story to tell another time), so SheWolf Pastificio, which specializes in Roman cuisine, was a logical venue for our travelers’ reunion. In Rome, the bishop had given us a dizzying tour of the city, setting a relentless pace that had my cousin and I, fifty years his junior, panting for breath as he walked yards ahead of us. These days, the bishop is much slower and fragile, and quietly held our elbows as we helped him out of the car and up the stairs. He was bewildered by the chic sleekness of the décor, the fashionable crowd, and seemingly sudden appearance of a high-end Roman restaurant on Cass Corridor that did not square with his ninety-plus years of a battered, post-industrial Motor City. “Incredible,” he kept saying. “When was this built? Where did it come from? Amazing.”

When our focaccia and pâté appetizers arrived, Yolanda and I didn’t pick up our forks. Instead, we looked expectantly at him. “Ummm…shall we have grace?” I asked.

The Master paused for a moment. I expected some form of the prayer that had been drilled into us at Catholic school, the one that we mindlessly droned before meals, “blessusdearlordforthesethygiftswhichweareabouttoreceive...” But he thought for a moment and smiled.

“You know,” he began. “In the Bible there is a saying in one of the scriptures, ‘estote eucharisteo’. Do you know what that means? It means ‘be gratitude’. Some people translate it incorrectly as ‘give thanks’. That’s not it. It’s like my bishop’s motto, ‘Estote Factores Verbi’, which means ‘Be Doers of the Word’. The phrase ‘estote eucharisteo’ really means ‘BE gratitude.’ EMBODY gratitude. Let that be your very being, every part of you.”

He picked up his wine glass for a toast. “This, being with friends, experiencing love, it’s a blessing, it’s gratitude. Embody that.”

And he dug into his cannelloni.

I never ended up asking the Master about the Middle East that dinner. The little homily of grace was his teaching. Despite a world of anguish, hopelessness and relentless sorrow, there can still be room for love, life and thankfulness. Do what you can to make the world a better place, yes, no matter how small it seems. But have faith in that good work. Be gratitude itself and go in peace.

Let the Church say Amen.

THE BISHOP AND THE ISLAND OF MARTYRS

On the way to Rome, my cousin and I told Tom, “We have no agenda as to what we want to see. We only want to go where you want to go. Show us the places you love.” And he did. With this mandate, he led us all over Rome in a grueling marathon tour, as if to squeeze all memories of his time there as a student during Vatican II in the 60s and all his subsequent visits over the years into one weekend. One of my most enduring memories of Tom will forever be the white soles of his sneakers slapping the pavement in an unrelenting march around the city, Yolanda and I following behind like exhausted ducklings.

One of the places he loved was the Basilica of San Bartolomeo all’Isola, located on an island in the middle of the Tiber River. The basilica is the home to the Sanctuary of the New Martyrs of the Twentieth and Twenty-First Centuries, a memorial to people like Saint Maximillian Kolbe, executed by the Nazis; the Monks of the Tibhirine, executed by extremists in Algeria in the 1990s; and Blessed Father Stanley Francis Rother, killed in Guatemala in 1981 due to his defense of the local indigenous communities. And of course, among the relics are those of Saint Oscar Romero, patron of El Salvador and Tom’s hero and model.

After a grueling walk through the Trastevere, we arrived at the church, which seemed deserted. The sanctuary was barely lit with only a few candles, but Tom led us straight to the altar dedicated to the Martyrs of the Americas where the crosier, vestments and missal used by Romero during his last mass when he was assassinated were displayed. Tom immediately bowed his head and began to pray.

Yolanda and I wandered a bit, but came back to Tom, who was still at the Romero altar. At some point, my cousin quietly snapped this photograph of him standing in front of the altar, deep in prayer. It wasn’t until days later when we sifted through the hundreds of photos we took that we realized the profound beauty of the moment.

I love this photograph, deeply infused with faith and humility, capturing a hero for so many paying respects to his own hero. But it also gives me chills. In Rome, Yolanda and I were completely unaware of the implications of this scene and the context of Tom’s life and work woven through it. For the children of his parish he was only the warm, loving pastor we saw every Sunday, and were only vaguely aware that during the week he traveled to places like Iraq, Chiapas, El Salvador, Honduras, Vietnam. The list of countries had impressed us, but we did not know the scale of the work he was doing in those places, in circumstances where he could easily have been killed while working on behalf of the communities who had begged him to come. 

We were totally unaware. And as I read his biography now, I have to set it down at times, overwhelmed and a little frightened to know that the person I had hung out with at the beach, yelled at Tigers games, came over for dinner, ate all my dark chocolate supplies and watched movies with was someone whose own vestments and crosier could have easily ended up at the Basilica of San Bartolomeo. 

It’s been a month after his passing, but my heart still aches as I cycle through the various stages of grief: denial, bargaining, anger. Anger at myself for not having been around more near the end, angry at Tom for not telling me how he was really doing. “Oh, I’m doing great,” he said on the phone shortly before he passed. “Feeling good, all clear!” But he knew what was happening to him. That he was preparing for another journey.

And that was his MO. A lifetime of keeping his travel schedule close to the vest, not telling people he was headed off to a war zone or a village deep in Central America where priests were being targeted by death squads. Not telling friends he was circling in planes over Iraq in severely angled flight paths to avoid anti-aircraft missiles, hiking through mountains during lightning storms or slipping completely off rough plank bridges into open sewers in Mexico. After scaring his poor, sainted mother while traveling to Iran to visit the hostages in 1979, he knew that to do his work he had to go it alone, hidden from view, often to the hurt frustration and consternation of friends who had to resign themselves to loving a person who was also a Maximillian Kolbe, a Father Rother, an Oscar Romero. 

To love Tom, you had to be at peace and be prepared to let him go so he could fully be himself.  It’s a lesson of loving and deep friendship that I am only now learning. 

I miss him a lot. It’s hard to let Tom go.