K Grieve • May 12, 2025
Faith, found and misplaced
My mother Marjorie ensured I grew up Catholic - deeply, thoroughly, unmistakably Catholic. The kind of Catholic that meant school uniforms, fish on Fridays, and Mass every Sunday whether you wanted to be there or not. But more than rituals and doctrine, what stayed with me - even now, when I’m no longer a practicing Catholic - is the former Pope Francis’s heartfelt call to justice, unity and looking out for the persecuted and forgotten. Those are still part of me, even if my church attendance record would suggest otherwise.
I went to an all girls Catholic school, and as I recall, it was in grade 11 that I first ran afoul of my faith. Sister Agatha (pseudonym) taught us religious studies that year and she gave us an assignment to present an aspect of faith to the class. Now I can’t claim that I was a regular reader of Time magazine. But somehow I came across that publication that posed the question “Is God Dead?” on its cover.
Perhaps I saw the cover of Time on a newspaper stand in the grocery store. Whatever! I somehow managed to notice the publication’s headline asking “Is God Dead?”. That sounded unabashedly provocative and at that stage of my life , I was steadfastly taking any opportunity to provoke. In light of that, I asked myself: “Why not give a talk that caused a bit of a stir? My topic was solidified: “Is God Dead?” I was naive not expect it to spark recrimination, not to mention bigger questions about change, meaning and permanence.
I spoke to the class confidently and with determination, as if I really understood the topic. Waxing poetic, I somehow managed to mention some well known Jesuit priests, the Berrigan brothers, Daniel and Phillip who were antiwar activists and who came to to be part of a Catholic movement know as liberation theologians. (There is much more the the Berrigan brothers’ story. If interested read “Disarmed and Dangerous:The Radical Life and Times of Daniel and Phillip Berrigan, Brothers in Religious Faith and Disobedience”)
To say the least, Sister Agatha did not think I was being clever. She was outraged. The next day she approached me in the hallway. Menacingly wagging her finger in my face, she declared I was in deep danger of losing my faith. She followed up with a phone call to my mother reiterating her concern. I was straying from the path. I might be forever lost.
My mother - actually to my surprise - rose to my defense and stood up for me. She told Sister Agatha that I was thinking, questioning and engaging. “Isn’t that what faith should be?” she pronounced. “If belief can’t survive a teenager asking questions, maybe the problem isn’t the teenager. WOW!!Thanks Mom.
That moment has stuck with me my whole life — not because of the challenging repercussions but because I learned what it is like to hold both tradition and curiosity in the same hand. To cherish where you came from, even as you dispute some parts of it.
And despite all my doubt, despite my distance from the Church, there is one Catholic habit I have never shaken: Praying to St. Anthony.
You may have heard of him? St. Anthony. He is the patron saint of lost things. You lose your keys, your wallet, a ring, an earring - you pray to St. Anthony. “Tony, Tony, look around, something’s lost and must be found.”
I have endless stories of how praying to St Anthony for lost objects has mysteriously recovered the misplaced. The most recent incident involves my husband who for three days could not find his passport. Searching everywhere, retracing his steps, Ross was stymied. He carries what I call a “murse” aka a man purse. Consumed with retrieving his passport, Ross called everywhere he could remember where he had been with his passport. Interspersed with that, he kept rechecking his murse - like about 4 times. At this point I intervened. Pray to St. Anthony I told him. And I insisted he promise to donate money to a charity of his choice. Failure to pay up results in St. Anthony striking you from his “list”. “ So I was thinking $25.00” Ross said. “No way,” I replied. “A passport is worth at least $200.” It was not long after this conversation that Ross took one last dive into his murse. He came to me with an Cheshire Cat on his face. The passport was found!
I have no logical explanation for this phenomena. But I have story after story where I swore I had looked everywhere, given up hope - and then, sometimes minutes or even months after that whispered prayer, the lost object was found. A necklace under a rug. A set of keys in a pocket I’d checked five times. A photo wedged between pages. Coincidence? Maybe. But I keep praying. And things keep showing up.
That’s faith, in a way I think. Or maybe it’s just hope expressed differently. Either way, I find it comforting.
So no, I don’t go to Mass every week. I don’t memorize encyclicals or make religious retreats. (Although I can, to this day, recite almost all of the Baltimore catechism-including listing the seven gifts of the Holy Ghost). But I do believe in social justice. I believe in community. I believe in standing up when someone tries to shut you down. I believe in mystery, and ritual, and that strange feeling when something lost is found again.
And I still reach out to St. Anthony when I’ve misplaced my car keys.
Some things, it seems, you never really lose.
Kathy's Blog
“Helen Mirren, who turned 80 in 2025, rejects the term “aging gracefully,” preferring to describe her approach as "aging with fun, commitment, and unapologetic realism". She advocates for embracing the natural process of getting older as a "beautiful thing" rather than fighting it, encouraging others to live in the moment and accept physical changes.” Aging is not for the faint of heart! It creeps up on you before you actually know it’s happening. It demands courage, boldness, wisdom, resilience, and realism. Add to that, growing older centers on the stories you carry and the memories you hold. For me, many of those lessons were learned from stories about my mother’s life, her choices, and the way she met hardship and joy. How Mom lived her life gave me my first understanding of what it means to live and to age with determination. My mother Marjorie lived until 95. Mom’s married life was pretty much emblematic of her generation. A devout Catholic, she learned the hard way that the ‘Rhythm Method’ (the practice of choosing specific days for intimacy to avoid pregnancy) of birth control was not in the least dependable. Think five kids with the last, our youngest brother Doug, born when my mom was 40. She smoked Crave M cigarettes. Back then, you could send a kid to the local drugstore with a quarter and a note to the pharmacist to get your cigarettes. Unheard of in today’s world. Almost weekly, my mom made homemade bread which filled the house with a yeasty and comforting smell. And her doughnuts were the talk of the neighborhood. Deep-fried and laid out on brown paper to cool, she dipped them in sugar, and we ate them while they were still warm. It was one of Mom’s ways of showing us love: one delicious donut at a time! My mom’s early life was less typical. Born in 1921 in Saskatchewan, she was a child of the Dust Bowl era. The middle child of six kids, she had a pleasing personality and was known as a hard worker. Perhaps that explains why, when she was just nine years old, she was sent to her Aunt Kate, where she helped in the Red and White store that Kate managed. Mom cried her eyes out for a year after she arrived because she missed home. Seven years later, she cried her eyes out when she was sent back home. My mom met those challenging years away from home with realism that helped to shape her resolve and solidified her perseverance. Her way of handling hardships and setbacks helped shape my understanding of how to approach life’s highs and lows. Looking back, it’s hard not to appreciate Mom’s handling of her early life challenges. At a time when most children are living with their parents and siblings, she learned to adapt, work, and endure separation. The tears marked her sadness, but the fact that she endured it speaks to her strength and courage. As she aged, life asked more of her, not less. She met aging the only way she knew: steadily and cheerfully. Aging didn’t soften her resolve; it strengthened it. My mother was lucky in many important ways. She was surrounded by her family and wonderful caregivers that went above and beyond the call of duty. In the last chapter of her life, she lived with my sister Gail and her partner Andrew. Helped by my other siblings, she was given something money can’t buy: a life that felt like hers. One special caregiver, Helen, understood that caring for another is more than schedules and medications. She would play one of Mom’s favourite songs, and the two would dance, smiling and giggling as they moved to the rhythm of the song. And God only knows why Mom had a parrot for a pet; a parrot that hated everyone but Mom. That bird squawked and tried to attack anyone who entered: except my mom. Strange as it may seem, that annoying parrot triggered my mom’s lifelong ability to tolerate difficult personalities. It seems to me that Mom’s life may have slowed, but it remained rich. Hearing my mom’s stories showed me that tears do not mean fragility. Tears mark courage, determination, and boldness. Now, as I grow older, I begin to see these same qualities as the core to aging. Aging hasn’t softened me: it has required me to stand more firmly, speak more directly, and, like Mom, to keep moving forward with resolve. “Do not go gentle into the night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” (Dylan Thomas) For most of my life, I believe I have been considered outspoken. But with aging, I have honed that characteristic to a fine point. Not long ago, I was part of a conversation about “the state of the world.” All of us were well into our seventies. We lamented days gone by and talked about how chaotic and fractured everything seems and how our reality is disturbing and disconcerting. The group represented different points of view, and the talk moved rather awkwardly but cautiously into politics. Definitive statements were made as if all would agree. Boldness took over me! I spoke up, standing my ground without apology. I felt something in me shift. It would have been easy to try to smooth things over, but instead, I chose to be bold and stand my ground. I am older now and believe aging is not about retreating from the world. It’s about resolve and courage in the face of opposition. Aging, of course, isn’t just philosophical. It shows up in physical ways. Knees and hips need replacing, bodies that don’t bounce back the way they used to, medications and vitamins galore to swallow. And tragically for some, illnesses occur that can be life-threatening. There is no bravery in pretending otherwise. But boldness and courage still have a place here. They help in deciding to face head-on what lies ahead, to ask the right questions, and to endure treatment and recovery. Aging asks us to be realistic, accepting the challenges aging can present. Aging isn’t always about changes to ones body but the evolving nature of our character. Inspired by my mother, I now feel that I am entering a period of my life where I am more determined to uphold my principles and stand up for the things that I believe. Time won’t always be on your side. It’s the simple truth, and it’s no surprise. But now and then, like my mom, there is still time for a dance!! “The years teach much which the days never know.” (Ralph Waldo Emerson)
Inside One Inner City School and the People Who Refused to Look Away Every morning, there are children who walk to an inner city elementary school in Edmonton Alberta carrying backpacks far heavier than books. Some of the weight is invisible: fear, hunger, worry. Burdens that no child should be forced to endure. The daily journey to school is not the “stuff” of fairytales. These young students must step carefully over sleeping bodies-the smell of alcohol and human waste filling the air. They pass by unhoused men and women bundled up in rotting blankets as they huddle on concrete doorways. People shooting up drugs is a regular scene. Some of these people the kids know-some are even family members. Shocking? unthinkable? Not for many of these children. It is simply the reality of their childhood. Inside the school walls, conversations are a chorus of languages and a mosaic of accents and cultures. Many have emigrated to Canada and English isn’t their first language. Some are Indigenous children. Some are housed in shelters or even live on their own. Most are trying to learn how to be heard, struggling with how to tell teachers they have a tummy ache or to confess they are afraid. Yet they are all determined to belong, to be noticed, to be loved and to have hope. Far too many arrive hungry, their empty stomachs growling. Food insecurity is a reality. No breakfast nor lunch packed in cute little personalized lunchboxes. Kim, a dedicated teacher at the school told me there is a breakfast program the school calls “morning meal” that is available to all kids. It may be simple but it matters greatly-yogurt, bananas and sandwiches are given to any child who needs it. There is no formal lunch program, so when extra food is available, it is saved for students without lunch. Slim pickings by most standards. During the school day, these children carry a heavy weight of uncertainty; they are not sure how to make sense of addition and subtraction, not sure what the teacher is saying, not sure where their next meal is coming from, not if the person greeting them at home is friend or foe. The uncertainty fuels their anxiety. The uncertainty robs them of joy. The uncertainty intensifies their fear. Beyond this there are stories even more disturbing. Abuse. Neglect. Physical violence. These realities have taught some children to be on their guard and to always be on the defensive. These children are not “difficult.” They are hurt. A number of the children arrive each day living in what we adults call “fight or flight”. Their antennae are on high alert. Teachers gently tell them how to breathe, how to name feelings and how to calm their bodies. As if these challenges weren’t already overwhelming, the school faces a constant battle with head lice. Despite these struggles, teachers and school administrators show up, day after day, ready to provide stability and predictability. They notice who hasn’t eaten or who is wearing the same clothes day after day. These teachers wear many hats. They are educators, counsellors and protectors. Most classrooms in this school follow a “trauma informed approach”: soft lighting, minimal clutter, consistent routines and predictable schedules. For children whose lives are filled with trepidation, school becomes their dependable constant. The goal isn’t just academics-it’s helping children feel safe and strong enough to begin to heal. Enter my friend Deb! Deb, who is affectionately called Miss Deb, volunteers at this challenging school. Two to three times a week she shows up at the school and does what committed school volunteers do. She gives her time, her heart and her presence to children who need all three. Kim says this about Deb. “I can recall a moment this fall where a student was upset. I was trying to distract him and get him thinking positively so he would calm down. I asked him to tell me things that made him happy. He listed three things. One of them was Miss Deb.” That says it all. But for Deb the stories she hears about the kids have keep her up at night, anxious and worrying. Could there be some tangible way to help? Deb knew the principal and staff had been working for a long time to secure the funding needed to build a new playground for the school. They managed to raise some of the money but were short by $35,000 to make the playground a reality. And for that reason, Deb sent out a heartfelt plea to community members to help fund the long needed play ground. This could not be some ordinary playground. Because of the surrounding environment, it needed to be “ special”: fully enclosed and carefully designed to protect the kids from hazards, like discarded needles from drug use. This playground had to be designed to prevent it from being used as sleeping spaces for the homeless or individuals affected by addiction. What should be a simple place to play must also be a protected space where children can feel safe and simply just be children. And then something special happened. Deb’s plea did not fall on deaf ears. Within minutes of Deb’s email being sent, the local community stepped up. The response was overwhelming. One donor, a well known Edmonton philanthropist, immediately responded and pledged the full $35,000! Others stepped up as well. And most recently a charitable foundation matched the $35,000 which will fund other critical school priorities. It was an astonishing level of generosity and a reminder of how much people care when they are asked. As a former teacher and one who has spent years in public service in Edmonton, I have witnessed first hand how these serious struggles intersect - each intensifying emotional and physical strain. Poverty, homelessness, addiction and family violence are profoundly intensified by our already strained and outdated support systems. Certainly, this local community response was remarkable. It’s proof of the power of a combination of compassion and generosity. This story exemplifies that help can be available when need is shared; it underscores the positive and critical impact of volunteerism. “Sometimes miracles are just good people with kind hearts” But it also leaves us with a bigger and more disturbing question: What can we do as a society to address the deep challenges that at-risk children face? How can we break the cycle that has trapped them? How can we help them envision a brighter future? A playground is a powerful beginning, but it cannot carry the weight.