LETTING GO

By Fr. Glenn Sudano, C.F.R.

Although only five, I felt like a condemned criminal before the bench. The dark robed judge stood but a few feet from me staring stone-faced at the floor listening intently to some counsel. I remained very still hoping to catch every syllable of a cryptic conversation that I knew would determine my very freedom. Suddenly, I heard words uttered which literally took the wind out of me: “school in September…” Ever so slowly, I felt a black woolen blanket heavy and dripping with ice water being draped over my little shoulders. I stood there stunned and helpless. As I sensed their muted deliberations coming to an end, I feared the gavel in hand would come down with a crash thereby sealing my fate forever. So I ran headlong toward my mother, grabbed hold of her sleeve and screamed, “Mommy! I don’t want to go to school!”

The mind is amazing. This infamous “court case” took place over forty years ago, yet it still retains a certain freshness as if it happened but four days ago. Of course, certain details are gone forever, but I can still see my mom standing in the corner of the kitchen in a blue terry cloth bathrobe talking to my Aunt Mary over a hefty black rotary phone. For the life of me, I can’t recall just why I was so afraid of going to school. My two older brothers seemed happy enough marching off to school each morning with lunch box and school bag. In fact, I distinctly remember being somewhat jealous that I didn’t have a school uniform - crisp white shirt, navy blue tie with matching jacket and pants adorned with baby blue piping running down the side of each leg - cool! But for whatever the reason, I obviously wasn’t ready to put aside my play clothes.

Yes, in 1958, there was no happier boy in Brooklyn. Every day was like a sunny Saturday in May. In fact, most days the adventure would begin but minutes after my little feet hit the floor. When you’re five most things are exciting - even breakfast! I remember racing into the kitchen and almost climbing into a big box of sweet cereal. Well, at least my arm to the elbow! I can still hear the crunch-crunch-crunch as my hand wiggled and burrowed to the bottom of a bowed box of Trix! Woe to my still slumbering family if the buried treasure was a bright plastic whistle! Woe to the carpenter ant colony in the backyard if my efforts extracted a magnifying glass!

Although I wasn’t permitted to go down the block - that mysterious land where adults dissolved and disappeared - my world was big enough. Our driveway was more like an airport runway. In fact, I remember sprinting up and down our alley with a new pair of Keds thinking, “Wow, if I could run just a little bit faster, I could fly! We also had a front porch with steps which rivaled the White House. Unfortunately, I do have to report that two years ago, an unexpected attack of nostalgia brought me back to the old neighborhood. Sad to say, things have changed considerably. Evidently renovations by successive owners have drastically reduced the size of everything, including the entire house!

As we all know, wet weather may bridle a boy’s unbounded energy but certainly not his imagination. Even indoors, I had lots to do. How could I be bored with such a large box of Crayolas? It was exciting enough just to flip open the lid and see them all standing there like soldiers or a bank of bright multicolored missiles ready to fly. Let it rain! I had a life-sized (4 foot) Joe Palooka punching bag and a Zorro costume complete with mask, sword, and cape. Everyone and everything, including Sparky our Boston terrier, was marked with a “Z.” I could also spend hours squishing Silly Putty on the Sunday color comics or trying to figure out how to draw circles on my Etch-O- Sketch.

Of course, there was always television. Remember, in the late ‘50’s T.V. was like life - black and white and supremely uncomplicated. Unlike the televisions of today, they took time to warm up, signed off around midnight, and sometimes needed a good slap on the side to provide better reception. We were allowed to watch anything because everything was either interesting, amusing, or educational. This was the time when televisions dispensed popcorn, not poison. Oh yes, I almost forgot, there was one thing we were forbidden to watch - Superman. Evidently some kid somewhere in Kansas thought he was Steeve Reeves, tied a towel around his neck and jumped out his bedroom window. When my mother heard of this tragic story on the news, she issued a solemn decree to her three boys banning the program. We responded by laughing ourselves sick thinking that both, the kid from Kansas and our mother were absolutely crazy. Besides, my bedroom was on the first floor. Needless to say, my mother’s prohibition was as ineffectual as the Prohibition.

So, now you know why hearing the words, “school in September” made me flinch like hearing the words, “root canal.” Why the fear? Simply put, I was attached - to myself and to my own little world. But thanks to wise parents, I was lovingly but forcibly exiled from my magic kingdom and ushered me aboard the bus of life. How tempting it is to stay put on our own exotic island! To stay put in some place or pleasure where we feel safe and secure! The problem at hand is this: as a child, we were push out of the nest, as adults, we feather them. Yes, as adults we become our own jury and judge, but honestly, most times we lack both courage and conviction to evict ourselves from ideas and attitudes and opinions which are quite comfortable but all too confining. We become like the town drunk who prefers a warm week behind bars rather than brave the winter’s wind on the street.

How true it is, growing up is not simply growing old. Everyone ages and even the most vain must march along to the sound of a ticking clock. Flaxen hair becomes frosted, paper smooth skin turns to parchment, and what was once strong now sags. You know you’ve hit the other side of the hill when you groan getting up and sigh sitting down! Yes, growing up really means becoming the person God created us to be. This involves making choices which bring us beyond the boundaries of our own strength and self interest. This power does not come naturally to us, but it does come supernaturally. Becoming an adult is a matter of biology, becoming human a matter of theology, that is, knowing and responding to Divine revelation to which we order our lives. This means every day and in every way, we are called not only to avoid evil, not only to choose the good, but to embrace the best. The beauty and adventure of growing old is found in letting go of land and launching out into the deep. It’s pulling up the anchor of fear, turning on the engine of trust and heading straight into the storm.

No, it’s not easy letting go, especially the good and beautiful things in life. Parents, for example, must let their children grow up and leave the house, in time and turn, the children must watch their parents grow old and leave this world. No matter who we are, life presents us with a million and one ways of reminding us we have to let go. Sometimes it’s sudden and tragic like an untimely death of an infant, other times it’s slow and sweet like a young woman’s call to the cloister. In the past few months our community had to bid farewell to nine brothers to serve in the missions. As vocation director, I knew each of them from their first nervous phone call. As postulant and novice director, I had the privilege of guiding them through some of the dark tunnels and dizzy tailspins of formation. Now, as Community Servant, I have the job of sending them away. Talk about a bitter-sweet responsibility! So you think celibacy freezes hearts? Oh friend, you’re very wrong, it enflames them. God knows how my heart almost burst filled with so much pain and pride at that boarding gate. There, at the airport, I was reminded once again why I am called “Father.”

If we find it hard letting go of those who are a blessing, what about those who burden us? Should we not let them go too? No doubt, the sharp pain of betrayal, rejection or injustice is tough to take, by why do we hold on to the hurt? How sad it is when some people make a profession of grinding old axes. The word resentment comes from two Latin words, re which means “again” and sentire which means “to feel.” When we hold resentment in our hearts we feel the hurt, again, again, and again. We all know the most painful wounds are not physical but emotional. A broken bone mends in six weeks, while a broken heart can still bleed after sixty. Like car crashes, most emotional accidents happen close to home. In-laws can become outlaws overnight, while people who used to caress each other now crush each other. It is also curious to note that some of life’s deepest wounds are self-inflicted: abortion, infidelity, and addictions of all stripes. These most especially need to be confessed, but again, like the drunk in jail, we barter our liberty for comfort. Grace not only reveals the weight of these wet sandbags which keep us down, but gives us the courage to cut them open. And you wondered why the basket and balloon of your life never took off. When is the last time you floated out of a confessional?

I cannot conclude without honoring a great man who embodied all the ideas and ideals of this article: our late beloved Archbishop, John Cardinal O’ Connor. It’s hard to believe that last May he stood so strong in the sanctuary of St. Patrick’s raising our little reform to become a Diocesan Institute, yet almost one later he was unable even to raise a spoon. Not only New Yorkers, but the world watched as his crosier slowly become a cane. True admiral to the end, he did not abandon his helm and when weakness weaned him away from the pulpit, his very life became a most stirring sermon. Despite the humiliation which accompanied his illness, he never hid himself, became embittered or complained. This man was a master of letting go. Although he was often personally and publicly ridiculed, he never reacted but always responded in the most measured and respectful way. This prince of a man in scarlet laid no man out in lavender. Like a true shepherd he used his powerful staff only to help, never to hurt.

So here I sit, middle-aged me, long out of school yet learning new lessons. Although approaching fifty, I sometimes slide back to five forgetting that life is not a Garden of Eden, but rather a Garden of Gethsemane. Life is not about getting everything, but giving everything. Maturing means we face challenges and make choices which are truly painful yet promise true peace. Yes, I have learned this most sublime lesson not only from great men but from the God-man Himself. He did not cling to His golden throne but rather took hold of wooden ones: a crib in a cave, a cross high on a hill. He left behind the most beautiful mother a man could ever have in order to heal the most wounded and ugly of men. He accepted both, the Beloved’s sweet embrace and His betrayer’s bitter kiss knowing that one day we would receive the same.

So the next time you find yourself shaking in the shadow of a pain-filled chalice, call upon the Christ within. Like Him, indeed with Him look for and lay hold only what is eternal, namely, love and truth, let the rest fall like dust at your feet. And with graceful abandon plunge headlong into that dark and fearful abyss echoing His anthem aloud, “not my will, but Thy will be done.” Yes, Glenn, this is what life is all about, making leaps for love with Love because becoming a man is not only a matter of growing old, but really, of letting go.