Surprising Grace

One of my earliest memories of my father is of him driving me to school. I must have been about 7 or 8. I have never been good at early mornings, and was half asleep in the car. When we got to the school’s side gate, he stopped the car and I managed to get out, blinking sleepily on the pavement. He got out too, came round the side of the car, and bent down to give me a good-bye kiss. Then I walked up the school steps, knowing he would watch a while and then get back into the car and drive off to that mysterious place called “work”. What he did there we never knew, but we knew we would see him again when he came back in the evening. As a child I was always aware of “Dad” as a faithful and tender presence. He could always be relied on to drive us around when we needed a ride, to school or to church. He never went to church himself, not being Catholic, but must have spent countless hours waiting around outside for us to finish. He would be persuaded to come in, though, for special oc

  Today is exactly five years to the day when I joined the FCJ Society as a postulant, on Pentecost of 2014. That Pentecost weekend is still very clear my memory. Waving goodbye to my parents at the airport, my eyes misting as I turned away, knowing their unhappiness. Arriving at the airport in Manila, following the careful instructions that had been emailed to me, and seeing two figures - one tall and the other short - waving wildly as they ran up to welcome me. Having a simple lunch in a strange house with people I didn’t know, until someone asked, “How are your parents?” And then, floodgates opening, running to my new, strange room to be alone with painful feelings. I don’t remember much about my acceptance ceremony, but laugh now to look at the photos - everyone else dressed in nice, formal clothes for the occasion and me standing out in my sleeveless blouse and short denim skirt, not having known what to expect. After that we had a nice dinner, followed by a round of Bailey