The story of Lazarus, read at some liturgies this weekend, is rich with meaning and foreshadowing. It is also the story of a family. Sisters, Mary and Martha watched as their brother sank into illness and died. They were bereft and as friends of Jesus they knew the death of their brother would cause him to grieve as well. They also believed that Jesus was the Son of God and had the power to save their brother.

This story of resurrection became personal to me many years ago when one of my brothers was dying from the complications of AIDS. Initially, when his diagnosis came through it didn’t seem real. Even though men were dying all around us in the early ’90s from HIV it was one of those things that only happened to other people. Some politicians and church leaders said the virus was a punishment for sinning as it was mostly gay men who were dying.

There was the implication that the illnesses and in most cases the subsequent deaths were of their own making. It was a difficult time.

Everyone in the family was affected by my brother's illness. There was a great deal of shame surrounding AIDS. Would we hide his illness or share the story?  He had lost his accounting job when he became sick. He had been in the seminary for high school and college and had many priest friends. Would they stay at his side? What would we tell all the nieces and nephews?

It was during this period that I clung to the story of Jesus raising Lazarus. If I prayed enough, believed enough could there be a miracle like the one the family of Mary and Martha experienced? I so wanted the story of Lazarus to be the story of my brother, Mark.

The miracle of Lazarus was not to be the miracle of my brother. But there were other miracles.

My mother stood up at his funeral in front of a full church and an altar crowded with priests to talk about the struggle of AIDS. My father often talked about how he prayed to Mark for guidance. The family overall learned a great deal about judgment and inclusion. As the years passed I summed up the courage to talk about my brother’s life and death at workshops and retreats which in turn gave others courage to talk about their journey. All of these can be considered miracles given the culture of the day.

We are not so different from the family of Martha and Mary. Surely they had children, cousins, and countless relatives who witnessed the miracle of Lazarus if not in person then by word of mouth. Our miracles, even the smallest, are rooted in faith. Let's be sure to share them.

Peace,

Anne 

This wonderful book presents nuggets of wisdom from the writings of Pope Francis. The summaries of his writing is helpful when time is short.

Betsy Potts, an Ignatians West volunteer, shares a playful story about St. Joseph whom we celebrate this week. The practice of burying a statue of St. Joseph is said to have started in the 1500's when a nun was looking for land for a new convent.

St. Joseph to the Rescue

By Betsy Potts

Ok, I am a Catholic. I know who St. Joseph is…the husband of Mary, foster father of Jesus, a carpenter.

I had also heard that he is a real estate agent, but these stories always made my head roll–or at least my eyes.

My story: We put up our home of 31 years for sale. We bought a house about 90 miles away. Two days after our move, our house fell out of escrow. YIKES!!

A few days after that, I drove up to an alum event at the Catholic school where I had worked for 42 years. Towards the end of the evening, a former student asked about our move. I told her my tale of woe. “Have you buried a statue of St. Joseph?” she asked. Well, admittedly some time ago I had heard that if you buried a statue of St. Joseph upside down on your property, your house would sell. But seriously?

Prior to that my only interaction with St. Joseph had been in the office of one of my principals where St. Joseph was sometimes being punished (well, his statue was). He would be turned to the wall. The only way Sister told me St. Joseph could get out of the corner was if I did such and such and so and so. Payment would be “a higher place in heaven.” I mean who wouldn’t want that? I always said yes.

So when the alum asked me if I had buried St. Joseph on my property, I was skeptical. But willing. She met me after Mass the following day and gave me two tiny plastic statues, plus a head of St. Joseph. Apparently, his head had fallen off at some point in his life and the rest of the statue could not be found.

Armed with the statues, another alum went with me to our now vacant house. She had been my former aide and one of the few people I know that would willingly kneel in the dirt on my behalf. She buried the detached head by the for-sale sign, a statue upside down in a planter and the other in the back yard. I drove back to my new home and waited.

The next day around noon, the realtor called. A bid on the house. Would we accept. YES!! When the house closed escrow recently, I sent my aide to retrieve the statues. However, she was unable to fine the lone head…I told her heads would roll—(I couldn’t help myself).

The house closed escrow last week. And St. Joseph, the realtor? I’m a believer. Besides the better part of him is still looking over things.

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