Author: patcamerino

During the first month I was with Baylor College of Medicine, I had received a telephone call from Tom Malone, my first mentor at the NIH, who now held the position of Associate Director for Extramural Programs, once filled by John Sherman and then by Ronald Lamont-Havers. Tom, learning I had left the University of Massachusetts, inquired if I might be interested in returning to the NIH to be part of his office and become a potential senior member of the agency. I was strongly tempted at the time, having greatly enjoyed being part of the federal administration. However, I thought it would not be “good form,” having recently accepted positions with Dr. Gotto and Dr. Butler, to leave the College so abruptly. I declined Tom’s offer.

Had I accepted Tom’s proposition, my entire life – and that of my family – would have been radically different. Until my last year with the College, I was happily and gainfully employed. I have also been very content with all of the corollary results: my marriage, my children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and with my ministry at Christ the Good Shepherd and within the Diocese of Galveston-Houston as an ordained Permanent Deacon. None of this would have likely occurred if I had not remained with BCM in Houston, Texas.

However, my career with the College did have its unique puzzlement. I did little journal writing during my years in Houston. Evidently, I was too involved in trying to figure out what I was doing or, more important, what I was expected to be doing. I was never told what these expectations might be. By the end of that first year, I finally concluded I was hired to do what I thought needed to be done and if others seemed to accept my actions, the results would be sufficient for my employment to be continued. This conclusion was valid, perhaps, too valid.

For twenty-one years, from 1977 through 1998, my efforts were accepted by William Butler, M.D., the President of Baylor College of Medicine. There were slight changes in the person to whom I directly reported. In 1981, I no longer reported to Tony Gotto as his departmental Administrator and gave up any responsibility for managing the Department of Medicine on a day-to-day basis. Three years later, in 1984, I also relinquished administration of the DeBakey Heart Center, which had grown beyond its NIH funding as a research and demonstration center.

Having relinquished my management ties to the Department of Medicine, I retained, under a variety of titles, responsibility for research grant administration and for the appointment of faculty members to the medical school. My direct supervisors to whom I reported changed. At first, there was Tony Gorry, Ph.D., who was the Vice President for Information and Technology. When Gorry became a Vice President at Rice University, Bobby Alford, M.D., who remained as Chairman of the Department of Otorhinolaryngology, was appointed as the Dean of Medicine and became my direct superior. I have more than a dozen Christmas nutcrackers received from him over those years, as remembrances of our association.

When Bill Butler became President Emeritus in 1998, Ralph Feigin, M.D. was appointed as the new President of BCM. Unfortunately, I had annoyed Ralph when he was Chairman of the Department of Pediatrics. There had been times when he wanted to do things his way, even though this would have been inappropriate, administratively. I was able to accommodate his desires by offering alternatives; however, he was not pleased when I explained to him that what he wanted me to do, could not be done directly “his way.” Shortly after Feigin became President, Bobby Alford notified me that my contract would not be renewed for the following academic year. I would be given twelve months to find another position in one of the College’s departments. I decided July 1, 1999, would be a good date on which to retire.

At the end of June, Karen and I left for a two-week vacation in England. I never returned to work after my final vacation.

Although I did not maintain a diary during those years at BCM, I did – from time to time – enter a reflection into a small notebook I carried with me on trips to professional meetings or on site visits I continued to make for the NIH. Here are a few entries from those journals.

Tuesday, Oct. 2, 1979 (San Francisco, CA):
       Here I am in my hotel room, alone, in San Francisco, a city advertised as one of the most exciting cities in the country. Yes, it could be; but not when you’re alone and when the woman you love is 1,500 miles away. San Francisco is for couples. I learned that. It really isn’t a town for a single man who has no interest in picking up a woman – nor another man! Even if this town is known for that as well as its fog and charm.
       Right now I, myself, feel foggy – and not at all charming. I’m cool and damp, I cover, obscure, all that I touch. I crave a warmth to burn it all away. Perhaps in this writing I can.
      It’s now a few minutes after 10 o’clock. I just returned from getting a cheeseburger at a greasy-spoon a block from the hotel – over on O’Farrell. A safe distance away. A left turn, up the hill from the Hilton and a block to the right. “Never turn down hill!” The printed program for the meeting carries that admonition. Yet, down-hill doesn’t look all that bad. No more sleazy than some areas I’ve seen in Washington, D. C. I suppose “down-hill” never does look that bad when you are at the top.
        How do I feel right now? The question, of course, was prompted by an assessment of where I am on my own personal hill. The first response is: introspective. Why not? After all, if I didn’t feel that way, I probably would not be writing this right now.
       The next one is: puzzled. Yes, that’s a good term. It implies, to me, that I’m in several pieces that need putting back together. I want to see what the picture looks like. I am a jig-saw puzzle. Who cut up the pieces, I wonder? Was there once a whole picture and somehow it got cut up? Or is that what life is all about?
       Is God a puzzle maker, a master at constructing a jig-saw puzzle? We’re born all of a tumble, pieces scattered from a box. So many years are spent turning all of the pieces right-side-up. Then comes the time for finding the ones with a straight edge so that the frame can be built first. Finally, one hopes to build up the rest of the picture, to see what God intended right from the start.
      Where am I in all of this?
      I think I’ve turned over all of my pieces during the first thirty-eight years of my life. To be sure, some were turned over more recently. During the last five to six years. I’ve been building the frame, finding the straight edges. I’ve even found several inside pieces that seem to match. In fact, during the last six months, a number of aggregates have been constructed. They await the right time to be inserted into the picture.
      This is surely what “encounter with self” is all about – an attempt to turn the pieces the right way and begin the work of putting them together.
      What does my puzzle look like so far?
      There appear to be a lot of rosy colors. Karen has found most of them for me and put them together in large aggregates. In fact, she has concentrated on most of the bright pieces. I’ve been obsessed with the dark and dull ones. I see mainly my shortcomings.
     I see my anger, my annoyance, my intolerance. She sees my tenderness, my gentleness, my ability to comfort. In fact, she has pointed out how some of the dull, grey pieces are really lilac when put together.
     I see my drive to achieve, she sees my concern and need to help others. I serve two masters: me and others. I strive to please others so that I can please myself. I want others to accept me for who I am so that I can accept myself for who I am – and not for what I do.
     Yet, how can I separate the two? How can I really “be” without doing. Only God can be; all else must do in order to exist. Only God can exist without doing something to show there is existence. That’s an essential characteristic. God is; man does. Everything does. Atoms move; without movement nothing exists. A basic condition of physics, so I’m told. At absolute zero, there is no movement; at absolute zero, there is no existence as we think of existence.
     Everything must do something. Everything is known by what it does, by what it can do. Why should I be different?
      It’s ok for me to be accepted for what I can do. What I can do for others. It’s a necessary condition. The question then becomes: what should I do, what can I do? How do the two relate? Satisfaction comes from doing what should be done.
     I should help – rather than harm – other people. When I can help, and not harm, then I am accomplishing what I should do. Then I should be satisfied. Can I be satisfied?
     What a confusing web our, or at least, my words weave!
     And without benefit of a scotch!
     I brought back a cup of Sanka. It’s almost gone. Perhaps I should quit now. I’ve been writing for almost an hour. I should read for a while. Let my thoughts unwind. Begin a new web tomorrow.

I kept the notebook and used it once more, several months later.

Monday, January 14, 1980 (New York City, NY):
      In a way New York City is not much different from San Francisco. Yet there are subtle changes – in the environment and certainly in me.
     Yes, I’ve re-read my West Coast reflections, sitting now in the lobby of the Hotel Tudor. I really can’t abide my cell of a room. If it were in a monastery there would be more atmosphere! So here I am, Muzak bombarded, with people wandering by.
      I want my life to have some meaning. I’m not sure what meaning it really has now. Yes, I know it has meaning when it comes to Karen and me. My meaning in life is to love her, to be present to her when she needs me. That really means a lot to me. I so want her to need me – as I need her.
      This is what my life is all about.
      Strange. My life really began here in New York City, March 1957. Pictures come to mind. Karen in a blue-green coat on a Staten Island ferry boat. Her auburn hair blowing in the wind. I see her face, creamy in my mind’s eye. A Maureen O’Sullivan look! And her green eyes.
      I see her beside me at Rockefeller Center, at St Patrick’s, in a subway station late at night. At a restaurant called the Californian. At Sarde’s with “hambourger” that is four inches high and steak-tartare inside. At the Latin Quarter. Sleeping thorough the “Potting Shed.”
       Back then, Times Square held excitement and crispness, not the sleaziness of today’s walk among the porn shops and movie houses. That New York of twenty-three years ago is our New York. Then – a street vendor of hot pretzels offered a kingly repast; now I’m thankful he sells his wares and hands me the hot dough wrapped in a paper napkin.
      Then – there were lovely smoke-rings from the Camel’s ad on Times Square; now it’s been replaced by air pollution from cabs splashing dirty water on any who venture too near the curb. Each block held a new adventure; now a hint of violence, of ugliness. Baghdad-on-the-Hudson has become Tehran!

Two years later I returned for another site visit to San Francisco; the following words come from my notebook:

July 6, 1982 (San Francisco, CA):
      I’d forgotten what the smell of pine is like! A gentle fragrance, a tickle on the nose. A green aroma drawn deep into the lungs. I’m awash in it, here in an isolated spot in the Japanese Tea Garden of Golden Gate Park in San Francisco. How I wish Karen were here with me. A hint of her perfume would match the exotic odors of the candelabra pines around me. They stand like tiered birthday cakes, wedding cakes is more like it. In shades of green – shadow darkened, sun spotted. Delicate feathers waltzing in the breeze.
     A change of venue! To a post at the foot of a waterfall. Silver threads past a tapestry of red and green. Grey rocks spotted, like knurled hands, with lots of moss. Azure sky above the hill. The orange flash of a pagoda. Miniature daisies at my feet. Sunlight on my back. The Lord is good!
      How many shades of green are there!?
      For a moment the people had gone. I was alone with Karen and with God.
      The Tea House itself. With jasmine tea and a dish of nibble cookies/crackers. Crunch and sweet. And still the fragrance of pine.
It is difficult to exist in the now! I’ve spent the last hour or so looking at thousand-year-old jade carvings in the de Young museum. And now I’m sitting in the dappled sun-shade of the arboretum. I’ve tried to slow down, not to plan what I’m going to do next, how I’m going to invest my time to get the largest yield on the rental car. So much to see. Even more to perceive.
Why can I not rest here for awhile? To feel the cool breeze, to tune out the auto-noise of civilization which trespasses in this abode of rustling leaves, of a gibbering bird. Technological pollution of nature’s orchestra. Discordant blasts to stifle what I’d like to hear – to be.

Our first home in Houston was actually in the suburb of Spring, Texas, or perhaps “greater” Spring, since I was never able to locate anything that might have been “downtown” Spring, unless it had once been the area now known as Old Town Spring. The shops found in Old Town were marvelous for quaint sightseeing and browsing. The menu for the Wunsche Brothers Café and Saloon, opened in 1902, was magnificently German. The sauerkraut balls, which had some sausage mixed with the kraut, could satisfy my appetite completely, but I usually had a ‘burger, as well. In 2015, the building was destroyed in a fire. For several years, there were promises it would be rebuilt. Finally, it was reopened in 2021. I haven’t tried the restored sauerkraut balls but hope they haven’t changed.

The suburbs of Houston continue to hold a few Germanic sparks from early settlers in Texas. The Hispanic influence has gradually increased during the four decades we have lived here, along with a Southeast Asian arrival of Vietnamese, who have joined the previously existing Chinese culture. There are sections of Houston where the street signs are in Chinese; they are usually not direct translations of the English name. Another cultural influence has been the result of the influx of residents from New Orleans, with their French-Arcadian-Creole elements, following the aftermath of hurricane Katrina, which devastated southern Louisiana and the Crescent City several years ago.

Our own home on Grand Valley Drive was a French-Colonial house with a front balcony and wrought-iron railings. Grand Valley, itself, was located on flat land on the edge of a “hundred-year flood plain.” When we moved in, we Yankees had no idea what this term really meant. Our house was near Greens Bayou, a waterway prone to overflow after a heavy rain. Later, we learned the bayous surrounding Houston were a significant part of the city’s drainage system. They were designed by nature to carry water rapidly into the Gulf of Mexico, especially after a major storm or hurricane. Tropical storm Allison, which, in 1989, sat over our house for twenty-four hours, taught us about a “hundred-year flood plain.”

During the storm, we anxiously watched the water rise slowly into our front yard. We knew something was not right when more water began to ooze between the tiles in our entryway. We moved as much of our belongings as we could to the second floor and spent the evening with friends in the neighborhood, albeit several blocks farther from the bayou. Twenty-four hours later, the foot of water had drained from our first floor. We stood on our balcony and watched motorboats speed down the street.

This was the spring prior to Ken’s wedding with Tracey. For several months, we lived through a reconstruction involving the tearing out of downstairs walls, to a height of fourteen inches, and the elimination of our carpeting, stuffed furniture, and bookcases broken apart by swollen books. We were amazed at how rapidly discarded furniture disappeared from our curb, lugged off by passersby.

Since we were living on the “last street in the 100-year flood plain,” we had been required to purchase flood insurance. Our friends on the next street did not have this requirement and suffered losses not covered by any insurance. We, at least, received about $40,000 for the damages done by Allison. As for Ken’s wedding, it went as planned in August, but their engagement party was held in the home of Karen’s dear friend, Sally G.

With respect to normal living in our home on Grand Valley, before and after Allison, I continued to enjoy gardening, although my enthusiasm was diminished by several conditions not directly related to flooding. Of course, weather was the major one. I had not realized what it would be like to work outdoors in a climate as humid as the one we found here. Furthermore, I had to learn about entirely new species which would survive in an everyday garden. My beloved forsythia, lilacs and rhododendrons, common to New England, were replaced with azaleas and camellias, along with elephant-ear greenery. The area left for grass was much smaller than what we had in Amherst.

The ground floor had a large living room, dining room, and family room with adjoining dining nook, kitchen and a guest bathroom. We lived on Grand Valley for eighteen years and, until the flood, did little to change the inherited wallpaper and carpets. We had kept the weird wallpaper with its shining peacocks as part of the hallway decor, along with the wallpaper in the dining room (flocked) and kitchen (wide stripes)! We even kept the green-shag carpet in the family room, until the “reconstruction” after Allison allowed for its replacement! Indeed, good results can come from bad events.

Once again, Ken and Kip had their own spaces. I regained a study only after Ken went off to college. Although much of the time Deb was away at Syracuse University, we retained her own bedroom for her use during the summer, and as a guest room, in case any arrived. (Few did.) A master bedroom, with its bath and walk-in closet, opened onto our balcony through a French door.

Although our residence on Grand Valley Drive was a comfortable house, which held all of our colonial furniture and possessions from New England, it did not, for me, really replace the beloved home we had in Amherst. My nostalgic feelings about a place to live, comfortably, in Texas, were finally addressed when, several anxious years after Allison, we were able to sell our French Colonial and move to Cypress, Texas.

The only way to see a city is to be a tourist. This is a requirement for those who reside in one as much as it is for someone passing though. When we first arrived in Houston, we knew very little about our new city. Unlike Washington, D.C., which had different destinations we could examine each weekend, our new location did not lend itself to weekend sightseeing. So, on occasion, we became tourists. We would rent a room in a hotel downtown or near the Galleria for use as a center from which we would make our walking excursions.

The Warwick Hotel, on the edge of Hermann Park overlooking the Mecom Fountain, was an example of a truly “grand hotel.” It now has the improbable name: Hotel ZaZa Houston, having been bought by a luxury hotel chain. Karen and I were originally introduced to the Warwick when BCM made reservations there for our first visit to the medical school. Later, we thought it would make an excellent headquarters for a tourist visit to the Park with its zoological and botanical gardens and to the nearby Museum District.

We enjoyed the ability to spend time exploring the sites around us, both natural and artificial. The weather was pleasant. We had chosen an appropriate time during the spring season, when riding the train through the Park presented lively views of people and places. We pinched leaves in the herb garden to induce aromas distinct from the fragrances of plants in bloom in the nearby rose garden. We were surprised when we came upon a young lady and her photographer using one of the smaller, pillared fountain-colonnades as the venue for the usual bridal poses. I recognized her as being a member of our own parish, Christ the Good Shepherd, in Spring. Our interaction led me to realize that Houston may be a smaller town than I had once thought it to be.

The Modern Arts Museum, of course, cannot be appreciated in only a single visit. However, our tourist-weekend afforded an introduction to expeditions we made over the many years which followed. I have a special delight for works from the Middle Ages and the Italian Renaissance. Houston has a very worthwhile permanent exhibit for these periods. During our early years in Houston, I made visits to several traveling exhibits in the museum’s galleries. When they were young, I even took two of our grandsons to the King Tut show. Later, they found the Star Wars exhibit to be of greater interest.

During the last decades, Hermann Park and the Museum District have made significant enhancements. Unfortunately, I have not taken the time to experience them. My interest in art and nature readily available in Houston has not changed but my physical reluctance for waking through new locations has increased. I’m pleased I made use of the time I had years ago to see as much of Houston as I did.

My interest in the performing arts has continued, but, again, there is a case of the spirit being willing, but the joints are weak. In earlier times, while I was still employed downtown at Baylor Med, I would remain in the city after my working hours and Karen would join me for dinner and an evening performance in one of the sites in the Theater District. We never became regular customers at Biraporetti’s but it was our usual place to eat before taking in a performance scheduled for the Broadway Series or for Theater-Under-the-Stars. This was during the era when TUTS had become an indoor venue for traveling musicals.

Among my possessions is a Little Tin Box stuffed with ticket stubs from such events as Brigadoon, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, West Side Story, Thoroughly Modern Millie, Hair, Music Man, A Chorus Line, The King and I, Peter Pan, Singing in the Rain, Fiddler on the Roof, The Lion King, Mama Mia, South Pacific, My Fair Lady, Oliver, and of course: Man of La Mancha. Since Karen had a particular interest in horses, there are also stubs for performances for Cavalia, in which the rider and the ridden seem to become one, and for the more traditional Lipizzaner Stallions appearing at the Compaq Center, since we were able to attend only their practice session on one of our visits to Vienna.

My own Little Tin Box is filled with physical mementos – ticket stubs for times of past enjoyments. Karen gave the box to me many years ago. Among its other contents there is a very tiny book written by Edward Hays, a true storyteller, who believes all of life is a narrative we tell one another. His tale of the Little Tin Box contains the line: “The purpose of any possession … is to make memories! The purpose of money – the only purpose – is to make memories. Things and possessions only rust and age, but memories … are like fine wine – they grow in value with time.”

In Hays’ story, his main characters, Tommy and his wife, have their own twin boxes which hold invisible memories they could take out for warming reflections, until the day when Tommy’s box clicked shut for the last time. In the funeral parlor, his wife replaces the rosary, clasped in his hands, with his Little Tin Box, as he lay in his coffin – an action much to the displeasure of their Polish priest. In response to his pious indignation, she says the memories it contains are Tommy’s daily beads for prayer. That night, her own tin box clicks shut for the final time.

My own Little Tin Box bears the name: Cameos and Carousels: Legacy in Words. I intend to place more memories into it before it clicks shut, the final time.

Organized religion has been a significant part of my life since my earliest days with Our Lady of Mt. Carmel, my home parish in Niles, Ohio. Although I did withdraw my allegiance during my college days at Kent State, there was a modest return, under Karen’s influence, with the Newman Center at Cornell. In the following years, with each new move, we became affiliated with another parish. The closeness I felt to the parish usually depended upon the nature of the pastor. Although each parish and each pastor had an influence on me, the greatest impact came with Christ the Good Shepherd and its pastor, Fr. Ed Abell.

Father Ed appeared in our life, shortly after our settlement in Spring, Texas. We had been attending a parish associated with our particular neighborhood, Ponderosa Forest. One Sunday, Fr. Ed was a visiting priest who spoke about a new community he was establishing in the area. We listened but thought we should remain with our current parish, St. Edward’s, until our sons had completed their preparation for Confirmation. After that, we could make a decision about a change for our Sunday worship. Following their Confirmation, we began to attend services at the newly established CGS.

The transfer made geographic sense. Although both parishes were about the same distance from where we lived, we would no longer need to encounter Interstate 45, even on a Sunday morning, in order to get to Mass. The change did mean we would be returning to services in a public-school building for several years, but relinquishing those traffic hassles made this change of venue worthwhile. At the time, we had no idea how amazing life would become when it was centered, for the first months, at Benfer Elementary School and then at Strack Intermediate School. In a very short time, these sites became endeared to us and our new friends as “Saint Benfer’s” and “Our Lady of Strack.” While Sunday services were celebrated at these locations, the social-religious life of the parish was focused on a storefront building at a strip shopping-center on FM 1960. Our parish life became more than getting to Mass on Sunday mornings.

Fr. Ed and several members of the parish were active in a group called Marriage Encounter, a new program that encouraged a married couple to grow more closely together in their faith and love for one another. Karen and I, over the years, had participated in other programs we thought were probably similar to “ME.” In New Hampshire, we had joined the Christian Family Movement, (CFM) an outgrowth of recent changes brought about by the Second Vatican Council of the late sixties. We thought that ME, like the CFM, might expand the number of people we knew. Little did we realize how earthshaking this “encounter” would prove to be.

The weekend retreat, held in a local motel, was led by a priest and three married couples who gave brief talks about their lives, with a particular focus on “feelings.” After each presentation, the couples in attendance wrote a “love letter” to their spouse. Assigned topics for each letter were variations of the question: “How do I feel when you ….”

Karen and I had written letters to one another for many years, mainly while she remained for her senior year at Kent State and I was in graduate school. In fact, it was an early letter that prompted the beginning of our dating in college. Although we had continued to write to one another, when we were separated by individual vacations at our parents’ homes or by my work-related travel, the content of these new exchanges was radically different. We quickly learned that the “feelings,” the sentiments, expressed in our letters over the years were actually superficial. Of course, we had meant them at the time we wrote, but the intensity had not been equal to what erupted when we wrote letters to one another on our original Marriage Encounter Weekend. We, indeed, learned how to “encounter” one another at levels we had rarely experienced, except (perhaps) in our earliest years of marriage.

At the completion of the weekend, we were invited to consider becoming a presenting team. This would require us to continue to write daily “love letters” to one another on “How do I feel when you … ?” We were also required to attend a so-called Deeper weekend in Kansas City, where we would learn more about what it would be like to be a “presenting team.” We agreed to both conditions, little appreciating, at the time, how greatly our lives would change by saying “yes” to a simple invitation.

On our first Marriage Encounter Weekend, I re-found my deep love for Karen. On our second, Deeper ME Weekend, I re-found my love for fellow Catholics and for the Roman Catholic Church.

Upon leaving that first ME Weekend, we were greeted by a room-full of people we knew and did not yet know, who offered us a fellowship I had never experienced – except for rare times with fraternity brothers decades ago. They gave us their love, because of who we were and not for what we did or did not do. In the following weeks, we met with a small circle of them to share meals and fellowship conversations. From such beginnings, we developed close relationships with couples that lasted for many years – until death or natural geography intervened.

Karen and I continued to write daily love letters to one another. I learned how to express feelings with words and at depths I had never truly realized before. Over the intervening years we had – as have many, if not most, couples – drifted apart. We were icebergs floating over cold waters, most of our existence hidden from sight from all who passed silently by us. Frigid mists encompassed our passages, parting only momentarily just before a collision might occur. It was during these new, halcyon days that we rediscovered our passion for one another and for life.

We journeyed to Kansas City, Kansas for our second, Deeper ME weekend. The love letters we wrote in Kansas City had topics not unlike those we had responded to at the Marriot Inn on I-45 in Houston, but somehow, the feelings, the illumination, I now experienced went beyond the two of us. At the Eucharistic celebration completing the weekend, I felt an intense oneness with those couples who had participated in our fellowship and had made commitments to bring this encounter to others.

The following months and years were not always easy. We met with other team-couples as we developed our own presentations for ME Weekends we would be giving. I learned I did not welcome criticism, especially “constructive” criticism, regarding my descriptions of a personal life over which my soul-searching had labored for many hours. But I did learn to rethink and to rewrite, so that what I said might prompt listeners to undergo their own metamorphoses. I learned that true metanoia comes neither cheaply nor immediately.

Our lifestyles changed. Karen gave up her job as a secretary with Petroleum Publishing, perhaps without much reluctance, and became the underpaid secretary for Fr. Drew Wood, the director of the Vocations Office for the Diocese of Galveston-Houston. This Chancery office was downtown, giving us an opportunity for a mutual commute and replacing our separate drives to the Galleria and the Texas Medical Center.

Meanwhile, we did act as a presenting team-couple for Marriage Encounter Weekends throughout Houston. We continued to meet routinely with our ME circle of friends.

We also became active within CGS. Our major joint-ministry was to be part of the Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults (RCIA), which was the process used for bringing new members into the Catholic Church. The parish program, nicknamed Maranatha, was directed by Sister Alice Meeham, who was a model of what an “elderly” nun should be. At the time, she was well into her “late sixties” or “early seventies” and had once been a cloistered nun for the Maryknoll Sisters. Karen and I, as well as many of our friends at CGS, were amazed at how active a person of this age could be! She even taught yoga! Oh, how much we had to learn over our next forty years about the process of aging!

Sister Alice was not the only model for our new lives. Fr. Ed was, by far, the most exemplary one. I have never seen a priest so enraptured when celebrating Eucharist as I had when given the privilege to observe him consecrating mere bread and wine to become, indeed, the “body and blood of Christ.” And yes, I was later in a position to recognize that he, too, had human foibles, but ones which scarcely mattered in the long run. Fr. Ed presided at the twenty-fifth and fiftieth wedding-anniversary Masses offered in our honor. He had agreed to preside at our funeral services, as well, but predecease us several years ago.

His encouragement, along with that of several other clergy, was behind my own decision to become a Permanent Deacon. The “story” in our family is, however, that since Karen, who worked in the Vocations Office, could not get either of our sons to become priests, she donated me to become a deacon. The story is only partially true; Fr. Ed had his role, too.

Change comes about gradually. Encouragement for change also comes from a spectrum of people rather than from a specific guru. In fact, I would doubt the permanency of change resulting from the influence of only one human person, no matter how insightful that one might be. We are the result of the influence of many people rather than of one outstanding exemplar. Rocks are worn down by a constant flow of water droplets. A torrent can toss them aside, move them to different locations and result in a catastrophe rather than in a long-lasting modification of shape and form.

Before meeting Steve LaBonte, I never knew there were such men as “Permanent Deacons” in the Catholic Church. I had heard of deacons and archdeacons in the historic church, in the early days of Christianity. But somehow, this reintroduction of a ministry resulting from the Second Vatican Council was not part of my personal experience. It was Deacon Steve, a newly ordained clerical member of CGS, who demonstrated to many of us what a true “servant” could be. In addition, Steve and his wife, Carol, were from Boston, and it was comforting to hear bean-town accents once again. My spiritual leaders now consisted of a trinitarian Fr. Ed, Deacon Steve and Sister Alice. They were augmented by the Associate Pastor, Fr. John Keller, and by others I encountered through “Good Shepherd.”

With their initial encouragement, I had attended that Marriage Encounter Weekend, had agreed to become, with Karen, a presenting-couple for other weekend retreats, and a willing participant in fellowship gatherings within the neighborhood where we lived. My interests were expanded by magnificent liturgical and social-justice leaders within the parish who were also well-known throughout the diocese. In some mystical way, Karen and I found ourselves to be part of one of the leading parishes of the Diocese of Galveston-Houston.

We were not alone. As a result of the encouragement present within the parish, five men (and their wives) entered the Permanent Diaconate program and were ordained four years later. Al and Pat O’Brien, John and Jan Charnisky, Barry and Kitty Beckman, and Bob and Beth DeGrave became our close friends during our years together at CGS and over the decades which led us to diverse paths in our worldly life and life-everlasting. The burial plot Karen and I purchased many years ago is close-by the one now occupied by Barry and Kitty.

Together we attended weekly classes on theology, scripture, ecclesiology, church history, and morality. We prayed together at monthly retreats at the Holy Name Passionist Retreat Center. We became listening hearts and open minds for one another. We shared hopes and dreams, along with the reality of raising families. Within the parish, Karen and I became involved as lectors and worship coordinators. Learning how to turn on the power for the lighting and sound systems in the church building can be as essential as learning how to pronounce Biblical names and locations.

The ten of us comprised a very special team that helped us in our mutual and overlapping ministries during the next decades. The five of us were joined by deacons who had preceded us at CGS (Steve LaBonte and Glen Cuiper) and those ordained shortly after us (John Rooney and Les Cooper). At formal, monthly meetings we shared what each of us had learned or experienced separately. But more important, we shared meals and laughter, a true fellowship. John Rooney, who was more adept spiritually than the rest of us, gave the neonate deacons instructions in how to participate, daily, in the Liturgy of the Hours, a feat that required tearfully confused lessons, but which I have continued to practice for almost a half-century.

However, the nine of us shared more than spiritual development. We even shared “white elephants” for Christmas exchanges. How else could Steve and Carol get rid of a huge, burnt orange overstuffed sofa that remained on our front porch for several days before we could have it hauled off for a proper burial? Not every change is a rapid one; getting rid of furniture and other burdens can, indeed, take time.

It takes time to actually become a Permanent Deacon. A time for more than classes, lectures and reading. The remaining decades turned me into a true deacon, a better servant, with my interactions with members of CGS and the Archdiocese of Galveston-Houston.

Marriage preparation was a cornerstone of my ministry. I enjoyed and learned much about life from my interaction with young couples who desired to be married in the Catholic Church. Parish and diocesan policy required they meet several times with a deacon or priest who would witness their exchange of vows. My own procedure was to have an initial conversation in which we would get to know one another. Then, there would be two or three hour-long sessions on content, those issues important for consideration with regard to a long-lasting marriage. A session would follow for the completion of paperwork required by the diocese. The final interaction would be the planning of the liturgical celebration, itself.

Our initial interaction was usually a pleasant one for my learning about the bride and groom to be: how they met, what they saw in one another, why they wanted to get married. Our concluding discussion for that initial evening together was always interesting.

I asked them a question that no one had ever asked them before: “tell me about your God.” There was no single, “correct” answer, of course, but I did work with them to reach a conclusion that each one of them had a personal divinity, a power beyond themselves that could be called “God” and that they had an individual relationship with this “being.” Our conversation focused on the concept that they were about to enter a lifelong covenant relationship with one another and with this God. If they could not accept this concept, they should not get married in the Catholic Church. They should enter into a contract with a Justice of the Peace as their witness. In thirty-plus years of interacting with couples, I never had any one of them conclude otherwise. They may not have been a Catholic, or even a Christian, but they all had a personal divinity with whom they could relate and with whom they desired to enter a libeling covenant along with their spouse.

Over the years there were only a few couples about whom I had doubts that they would be able to work through the issues ahead of them. I never told them they should not get married, but I did extend their intermediary sessions beyond the usual two or three meetings – often until they, themselves, reached the conclusion that their marriage was premature, and they would stop coming to our sessions. A few times they would call me months later and we would resume the preparation.

Our intermediate discussions included the usual issues of family history (they were marrying more than a single spouse; they were marrying each other’s relatives, as well) and finances (along with plans and desires for work, housing and purchases.) They seemed to enjoy the question about how much could each spend without a prior notification or spousal agreement, along with the suggestion that there might be three accounts: a joint one for all family expenses and two separate, modest ones for each of them so they could buy “surprise” presents for each other or save up for individual personal expenditures that would be difficult to “justify” to someone else but were important to their own interests. Parenting issues were also important, including their plans about when and how many children each wanted, as well as their feelings about what might they do if having their own, biological children might not be possible.

By the time we had completed these conversations, I never had a problem when it came to the evening for “paperwork” and the formal agreements by the Catholic party in so-called mixed marriages. Neither the Catholic nor the non-Catholic partner had any issues about the formal dispensation process.

Of course, it was usually a fun evening to plan the wedding. They had few problems choosing the options available from walking in with a parent or two, to what readings to have, and how they should be “introduced” as a newlywed couple as they left the assembly.

I was fortunate in having to deal with only one horrible-mother-of-the-bride in more than two hundred weddings I witnessed. When I learned from the wedding-coordinator that this MoB really had not wanted to give me a stipend, I never cashed the check she gave me. On the other hand, I did not always receive a stipend from a couple; it’s no surprise that Catholic clergy could not survive if they did not receive a minimal salary from the Diocese along with room and board – and a car-allowance. It’s economically advantageous for the Diocese that Permanent Deacons usually have outside employment.

It was more fun preparing couples for the sacrament of matrimony than it was in advising them how to determine that one never took place and that an annulment could be sought so that a rite of marriage could be performed in the Catholic Church. Over the years, I met with many individuals who needed such assistance, especially those who wanted to become a Roman Catholic through the RCIA process and required a “valid” marriage for the completion of this desire.

There is, basically, only one way in which an exchange of vows is not really an exchange of vows: when one party, at least, should have said “no” but said “yes.” There are several formal ways in which one can seek an annulment of a marriage: when the exchange of vows is “forced” rather than being given freely, for example, or when one party cannot really make a libeling commitment or does not really desire to parent children as part of that commitment of mutual love. In each instance, either the bride or the groom (or both!) should have said “no – we should not get married.” Nevertheless, they did. It then became my responsibility to help the petitioner remember the circumstances of the wedding and why it should not have taken place.

Over the thirty years of my active ministry, I probably averaged one person a month who came to me to learn about getting an annulment. In almost every case, I thought I saw a valid reason why one or the other partner should have said “no,” making the possibility of obtaining a formal annulment likely. However, after the initial conversation, few came back to pursue the matter. Evidently, they believed the process would be too painful or, in some way, not possible. That was their individual choice. I never encouraged any of them to do what they did not choose to do, willingly. For those who did return and to whom I offered formal assistance, the vast majority ultimately were granted an annulment, and I could then proceed to work with them for a “con validation” of their current marriage.

I recall one instance in which the husband had been dating two women simultaneously. He married one of them. The other had known about the duplicity but was unwilling to state formally to the Tribunal reviewing the petition that she had been dating the man during his courtship of another woman. Since he had been very “discrete” in his dual relationships, no one else was a witness to his actions. The Tribunal declined his petition for a decree of nullity.

The easiest, formal petitions were those in which the marriage took place because the couple had engaged in active intercourse at a time when they each believed such an interaction must end with a marriage, even if a true love was missing in their relationship. If the respondent agreed the impending birth was the major reason for the wedding, the petitioner usually was granted a decree of nullity.

The petitioner often had to wait a year for the granting of the decree but welcomed the result. In each instance, the petitioner recognized that neither partner had caused the separation and divorce through their “bad” behavior. This was a more consoling view than the one they had when the civil divorce had been granted. If “handled” appropriately, the annulment process was actually a healing procedure in the life of a formerly married couple. The con validation process which followed usually led to a more fruitful preparation than had been experienced the first-time-around. Helping those seeking an annulment became a benefit to me as I prepared others for their first and only sacrament of matrimony.

On the other hand, the petitions which took the least amount of effort on my part were those in which a Catholic married someone without their exchange of vows being witnessed by a priest or deacon. In those cases, I merely had to review all of the paperwork: Catholic baptismal record showing one partner was indeed a Roman Catholic, a wedding license showing the ceremony had not been conducted by a priest or deacon, and a civil divorce decree indicating the legal union was no longer valid. The petitioner had to take time to locate all of the forms, but I had it easy. Even when I encountered my own “woman at the well” who was a Catholic who had been married multiple times but always “outside” the Church.

Helping couples prepare for marriage and assisting those whose marriages ended, were the major interactions I had with others. I must admit my hesitation in giving comfort to the physically ill and to those who lost loved ones through death. I very seldom made visits to either hospitals or funeral homes. I never visited a prison. It was fortunate that my active role as a Permanent Deacon occurred during a time when we were not formally assigned a non-parish ministry by the Archdiocese. I like to believe that my ministry was effective, but there have been tremendous gaps in what I have failed to do. I pray my ministry was sufficient, but there have been times I have had my doubts.

There was more in my ministry of being a Permanent Deacon than spiritual counseling of those seeking marriage or its dissolution! The vast majority of my time and effort was dedicated to being a teacher. My role in the religious education of adults was the most enjoyable part of my ministry within the parish and the diocese.

At CGS, my focus was on presentations for those soon-to-be Catholics who were part of our Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults (RCIA) program. Recently, I have continued to teach part of the RCIA program at Epiphany of the Lord, where we are current members. The major topics I have presented include: “Christology” (Who is Jesus?); “Prayer” (How do we interact with God?); “Sacraments” (How does God continue to offer us His grace through Baptism, Confirmation, Eucharist (the sacraments of initiation); through Reconciliation and Anointing (ways of healing and reunion); and through our vocations (Matrimony and Holy Orders.) The fourth major topic has been: “Social Service and Social Justice” (How do we respond with our own actions as we follow Christ into his Kingdom?)

Although the specific titles have varied, these four general areas have comprised much of what I offered as part of the diocesan series in its Formation Toward Christian Ministry (FTCM) program required for laity who want to become associated with religious education at a parish level.

Within the FTCM, I offered multiple-week sessions on History of the Church; Prayer and Spirituality; Ministry; and Christology. Within the parish, my multiple-week courses for adult education included Basic Beliefs of the Catholic Church, which was a summary of Catholic doctrine and practice. Since my favorite topic was the history of the Church, I also presented an additional five-week series on History of the Catholic Church in America: Catholic Americans/American Catholics.

Another course that gave me great pleasure was one I facilitated on Comparative Christianity in which there were guest ministers representing Lutheran, Episcopalian, Presbyterian, Methodist, Baptist, and United Church of Christ perspectives. One evening included a discussion by a bishop from the Church of Latter-Day Saints.

Of course, I also offered presentations on each of the four gospels: Mark, Matthew, Luke and John. It was only after my retirement and residence at Eagle’s Trace that I expanded my Bible study in adult education to include all the rest of the New Testament scripture (Acts, Epistles, and Revelation) and all of the books of the Hebrew Scriptures – from Genesis through the prophets, histories and wisdom literature.

For more than thirty years, there have been very few topics on religion that I might have omitted. These events gave me pleasure and, I like to think, they yielded insights to those who participated in my classes, no matter where they were held.

And why did I do this? What really motivated my deep desire to be a teacher? My enjoyment began at a very early age. I spent many summers during my days at Lincoln Elementary, “playing school” with neighborhood kids or with cousins. Most of the time, they seemed to like doing it – otherwise, they would not have agreed to be part of my ongoing entertainment.

So, yes, being a teacher gave me pleasant reinforcements; I was accepted and respected for what I was able to do. I had no athletic ability; my artistic talent was limited (I could draw, but definitely avoided singing; piano lessons did not “take,” either!). But I could teach.

This early activity obviously led to my seeking a B.S. in Education. However, it was my experience in practice-teaching in high school chemistry and mathematics that rapidly convinced me to seek a Ph.D. and a career in which the provision of content was preferred to that of motivation to learn.

Throughout my life I have firmly believed the process of education is related to its Latin origin: educo – to lead forth. Knowledge, the ability to know, was held within the student, the learner, and was awaiting to be led forth by another person; to be released in a new insight stimulated by the teacher.

This is how I have viewed my purpose in life: to help others gain insight into what they already possess, already know. Except for brief periods during my postdoctoral years at Dartmouth and Oregon State, I was not given a teaching position as part of my academic career. Although the desire was there, I never became a university professor. Instead, my ministry in the Church has substituted for that desire to lead others in order for them to engage fully in the illumination held within them. I have tried to follow the true Teacher and become someone who leads forth the knowledge they already hold.