princesses and thunderstorms

the first altar

Dear Family and Friends,

“Are you sure?” I asked. “It’s raining cats and dogs out there!”

“Father, we have to do this, the girls have been preparing all day for it.”

It was the last day of the Cinderella-themed Girls Summer Camp I was chaplain at last week in Wisconsin.  The weather had been amazing all week long – gentle breezes, light and fluffy clouds, temperatures in the 70’s. But then came the last day. Severe thunderstorms vied with each other for the upper hand. Puddles formed everywhere.

During a break in the rain, the four teams of girls had each set up and decorated an outdoor altar for our evening Eucharistic Procession.

My proposal, as the rain beat against the windows, was to move everything indoors: “We can have a procession around the chapel,” I suggested.

“Don’t worry about the rain, father. Someone will be holding an umbrella over you and Jesus,” answered one of the consecrated women of Regnum Christi, who were running the camp.

And so we headed out into the rain. I carried the monstrance with Jesus inside, a camper held an umbrella over us, and three more campers went in front, two with candles and one with incense. Each of the altars had been moved under some sort of roof, but between each one we had to walk several hundred feet in pouring rain.

“Pouring” is an understatement. It was really “driving” rain. An umbrella can’t stop rain drops that fall sideways. And I was the only one in the group of forty who had an umbrella!

The girls who prepared the first altar had written their own prayers which they said out loud; beautiful, simple prayers. I could feel the smile on Jesus’ face.

After, I gave benediction, tracing the sign of the cross over everyone with the monstrance. 

at the second altar

Then it was out into the rain again. We had to cross two fields and a road. It took a while just to find a place in the road where the puddles were less than ankle deep. Eventually we found one, but not until many feet were soaking wet.

Arriving at the altar, placed under an overhang outside a gym, we again prayed and I gave the benediction. Again the girls read their prayers. 

third altar

Then we headed into the gym for the third altar. At least inside the rain couldn’t touch us, but we still had one more altar outside, and there were those two fields and the road to cross back over again.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        

Was I imagining things, or as we were stepping into the gym, was that a patch of clear sky in the distance?

Everything went smoothly at this third altar, the girls said their prayers, I gave benediction, and out we headed again into the – not rain. The rain had stopped. The grass was still dripping wet, puddles covered the ground, but the rain was gone. As the girl holding the umbrella closed it up, Gospel words came to my mind, “Oh you of little faith!”

processing

The fourth altar was under a gazebo. I set Jesus upon the altar and gave Him thanks for this most recent little miracle of His. Looking at the weather radar afterwards, it was like the storm had divided right above where we were, gone around us, and left us in peace. And it certainly was a peaceful night: the moon was out now and even one bright star glimmered down through the retreating clouds. The girls gathered close around the gazebo, and I could feel their prayerfulness and their gratitude too.

I gave benediction, and then we headed back across the fields. And what was this – the storm was still there in front of us, dark clouds, flashing lightning and all – but now it only formed a beautiful backdrop to our procession. It was like all nature wanted to join us too. And I had wanted to stay inside!

back in the chapel

We returned to our chapel and the girls took turns all night spending time with Jesus in Eucharistic Adoration.

Afterwards, one of the Consecreated Women reminded me of the prayer I had directed at the first altar: “Jesus doesn’t always stop the storm, but He does walk with us through it. And then when we embrace the storm, He clears away the clouds.” 

What made me laugh was the next day walking to breakfast with the girls across those same fields we had crossed the night before. One of the girls – one who isn’t Catholic but had decided to try out the Catholic girls camp – came up to me and asked, “Father, guess how long I spent in adoration last night?” I shrugged my shoulders, expecting her to say, “An hour.”

“Five and a half hours,” she said with a smile.

“How long did you sleep?” I asked, trying not to choke.

“Oh, four hours,” she replied without skipping a beat.

I would have rather she slept a bit more, but she spent that time in adoration of her own free will. I don’t think I’ve ever gone that long, and I’m a priest!!!

This was just one little part of a blessed week, a week in which I was “Blessed among women.”  :) We prayed, sang, did archery, canoed, rode horses, had a talent show, did arts and crafts, and so much more.

“Why do we have this camp?” asked Marial, one of the Consecrated Women, at the closing ceremony. “We have this camp so that at least for one week of the year, Jesus can have a place to come and rest and be at peace.”

I wholeheartedly agree. And I got to come and rest and be at peace all week long with Him!

Wishing you all a restful summer,

Father Kevin

my brother's blades

Dear Family and Friends,

It took me nineteen years to find someone who loves ice skating more than I do. And of all people, it’s someone who will never wear ice skates.

Let me back up a little.

I’m the third of nine children. Each of us is so different and unique: I couldn’t imagine life with any one missing.

All of us have left home now, except for my littlest brother, John Paul. He probably never will. He can’t walk, he can’t hear very well, he can’t speak like you and I do. He wasn’t ever supposed to live more than a few days. Down syndrome, Autism, Cerebral Palsy, Blindness – these are just some of the conditions he lives with.

I remember asking my mom and dad many times if they thought he even understood anything that we told him. Did it matter if I said goodbye or hello to him? Could he hear at all? Both my mom and dad said they didn’t know, but that they thought we should always speak to him like anyone else, in case he really did understand.

It was ice skating that did the trick.

My mom had often suggested taking little John Paul, in his wheelchair, to the hockey rink.

tired little hockey players: my older brothers Brian on the left, Dan on the right, and yours truly in the middle

I grew up on skates, almost. The Saint Louis Blues practice rink was literally down the street from my house. Then I played pond hockey for five years straight, all winter long, every day the weather permitted. I’m not a grisly, tooth-missing hockey monster, but I love to play hockey and I love to skate.

I was hesitant about taking John Paul. Who could tell if he would like it, or if it would even work at all? Finally on one visit home from my studies in Rome I took my mom up on her suggestion. Again, uncertain if he would even understand, I asked my mom if I should tell John Paul what we were about to do. "Sure you should,” she said.

So I did. “John Paul, I’m taking you ice skating,” I said as we set about lifting him from his bed into his wheelchair.

His brow furrowed. Hmm. I hadn’t seen him react like that before to anything that I’d ever said. It was just the kind of thing I’d do if someone had told me they were going to take me to do something I’d never done before. “Kevin, I’m taking you sky diving”. “You’re what?”

It was simple, I would take him to the rink, put on my skates, and push him around during a public skating session.  My mom had checked with the rink before and they even had a special ramp for me to push him onto the ice with, wheelchair and all.

At 17, John was skinny, but very tall, so it would take herculean efforts to maneuver him into my dad’s old mobility van. Instead I just pushed him in his wheelchair the quarter mile or so from my house to the rink. We got a lot of stares as we crossed a busy five-lane boulevard. And even more stares came as I sat down on the bench and put on my skates, John Paul rocking rhythmically beside me in his chair, like he always does.

 

starting to skate

As soon as I pushed him onto the ice, I could feel his body tense with uncertainty. He had never felt anything like this before.

We started slow. With the brakes on his wheelchair locked, he slid smoothly across the ice.

People gawked at us as we slid past. Little children stared like they were seeing an apparition. One little boy stared so long he forgot where he was going and crashed into one of the side walls, picking himself up quickly.

It was after maybe the second time around that John Paul started laughing, his deep chuckles resounding off the ice and boards. He was loving it.

When we’d go down the straightaways he’d rock quickly, almost as if he was riding a horse and willing it to go faster. Then when we’d hit a turn he’d squeal with delight and clap his hands.

After a few laps, I tried something new. When we’d come to a turn, I’d do a loop de loop. At first the tension returned to John Paul’s body, then he made clear that he really really liked the loop de loops. Every straight away he’d start hollering and building up his excitement until we hit the turn and did one, two, or three loop de loops, and he would squeal with glee. My dad even videotaped us a bit, and you can hear his laughter at the end.

 

hyper speed!

When one of the skating rink attendants had to ask us to slow down, I realized just how much fun I was having as well. As we left the rink and headed for home, sweat dripped from my exhausted body. John Paul still chuckled every so often, the memories of our time on the ice rippling through his body.

 

my dad even pushed John Paul

I’d never connected with him like this before.

Perhaps the proof of the pudding was the next time I came home, a year later or so. I walked in the door and asked John Paul, “John, would you like to go skating?”

He started laughing and squealing, ready to go it seemed. When we were about to lift him from his bed into his wheelchair, I told him what we were about to do, and he said, “K”, which I soon realized was his way of saying, “Ok.”

And I had thought he’d never be able to understand anything I said to him. It took ice skating to bridge that gap between us. My parents now believe he understands most everything we say around him. Every time I go home I try to take him for a spin at the local rink. And he loves it. And I love him.

My little brother loves ice skating just as much as I do, maybe even more!

May God bless you,

Father Kevin

PS: My dad is entered in a contest, just during May, to try to win a new mobility van to transport John Paul in, would you please cast a vote for him? Here’s the link: http://www.mobilityawarenessmonth.com/entrant/bill-mckenzie-st-louis-mo/ If you would like to receive daily email reminders until the end of May, just let me know.

5 more reasons I love being a priest

Dear Family and Friends,

I still love being a priest, here are five more reasons why:

 

office decked out for my birthday this year

1.    Birthday celebrity status - I must have received a world-record number of birthday cards from the kids last birthday. Took me literally hours to just read them all!

2.    Mass Bell-Bombers – Little John Paul, all of 2 year-old, likes to run up and ring the bells whenever he gets a chance during mass. I love it!

3.    I get to hang out with the Minions!

4.    Christ-bearing - I love it whenever anyone asks me to bring communion to the sick or elderly or those in the hospital. I get to carry the Eucharist around in a little golden container - called a pyx. Sure helps you pray a lot when God is in your shirt-pocket!

5.    Bringing Pope Francis to the children - Ever since Pope Francis swapped hats with me last year (see here), I've had the greatest show-and-tell piece ever. My absolute favorite have been the times when I've been able to visit Children's Hospital and bring our Holy Father's presence, at least a little, to these little ones so close to God's heart.

I thank God for this great gift of His, the priesthood, and all the signs, little and big, of His daily love for His priests. (though I’ll have to write sometime about the way He usually shows his love for this priest – chocolate chip cookies!!!)

May He bless you abundantly!

Father Kevin

For the first five reasons I love being a priest, go here

a new saint

soon-to-be Saint Jose Sanchez del Rio

Dear family and friends,

Yesterday I received an early birthday present: Pope Francis has approved the canonization of Blessed José Sánchez del Río, a 14 year-old Mexican martyr. Soon we can call him “Saint José”.

Now I’ve written one book in my life, “Blessed José”, and it was about this very same 14 year-old. So how was it that José and I got started… let me think… oh yeah!

It was 6^th grade, and I was 12. A little seminarian was substitute-teaching our religion class. He told us the story of a 14 year-old boy who had run off to join an army fighting for religious freedom. Captured and offered his freedom in exchange for denying his faith on numerous occasions, the boy refused, and in the end he was brutally tortured and martyred.

Hearing that story in all its detail lit off fireworks in the heart of a certain little boy. “If a 14 year old can go and do that, then I can do something for God!” I remember thinking. After school that day, my mom instantly noticed something was different about me and she took me on a date to get the truth out of me. I poured out my story to her over spaghetti and meatballs, and I know she pondered much on what I told her. Months later, inspired in great part by Blessed José, I entered a school for boys who want to be priests, and even more amazing yet, my parents let me!

Now I have always loved reading lives of the saints – especially book-length stories where you really get to become friendsgood friends with the saint. But when I looked for a good book about José, there was nothing available in English. In Spanish I could only find short snippets or dry bios.

my book!

Years later, I felt it my duty to Blessed José to tell his story in a way that would inspire young people like he has always inspired me. So I spent about 7 years researching, then 3 years writing, (mostly during siesta time while studying philosophy and theology in Rome) finally coming up with my homage to this boy martyr. It’s called “Blessed José” and is available in print and ebook here.

  

signing books

It was partially in hope of advancing Blessed José’s being named “Saint” that I wrote my book. But he needed a miracle to his name for that.

Last year I heard about a possible miracle. In 2008, a 3 month-old baby girl named Ximena, from Sahuyao, José’s hometown, was brought to the hospital and diagnosed with pulmonary tuberculosis. Her condition worsened and the doctors told her parents she was already brain-dead and had hours to live. That night, her parents joined with others to pray to Blessed José to intercede with a miracle. They prayed from 10pm to 4am. The doctor says that precisely at 4am, the little girl’s condition improved dramatically and only got better from then on. When asked later whether she thought Blessed José had intervened, the doctor said, “I don’t know about that. The only thing I know is that someone intervened, and this girl whom we thought would die, didn’t die. The most interesting thing is that with this girl, there are no complications, whereas children that manage to survive this always do very poorly.” Ximena is now a healthy seven year-old. Her miracle was all Pope Francis needed to clear the way for “Saint José Sánchez del Río”.

I still love reading the lives of the saints. They show us, in a way that no theory or idea can, that loving God and being totally transformed by His love is really possible. “Perfect Joy” may seem unattainable, until you learn about Saint Phillip Neri. “Charity” is a nice idea, until we see someone like Mother Theresa of Calcutta literally incarnate it. And “Courage”, at least for me, was only theory until I heard the story of Blessed José.

May his story, and the stories of all the saints, inspire you to be the saint you can be!

Father Kevin

Bless-the-Baby-Jesus

blessing baby Jesus figurines after mass yesterday

Dear family and friends,

Yesterday was our Bless-the-Baby-Jesus mass for the preschool. At the end of mass, all the children came up to the front of the Church and got ready to bless their baby Jesus figurines individually. It was then that we heard a CRASH! - one little boy had dropped his porcelain baby Jesus on the floor! He immediately burst into tears and ran to his mom.

book i used for the blessing

The funny thing was that I had just used the prayer of blessing from a children’s book called “Bambinelli Sunday: a Christmas Blessing”, which is all about a little boy who drops his own baby Jesus figurine before he can bring it to Rome to be blessed by the Pope. And even more helpful, some friends of mine had just given me my own baby Jesus figurine, a little wooden one, which I was able to loan to my forlorn little friend. Once he had quieted down, we read him the story and he managed to smile.

my little wooden Baby Jesus

Everything ended well, and who knows, maybe some super glue will make his baby Jesus come to life again!

Tomorrow I head to Rome with 26 pilgrims for our annual Family Pilgrimage. Can’t wait! Some of the highlights will be mass December 6^th at the chapel of San Pellegrino in Vaticano, oldest church in Vatican City and the site of my first mass as a priest. I wrote about a powerful experience I had there here: http://www.cblstones.com/2014/12/remembering-year-ago-today.html .

 

after mass with my fellow seminarians in the chapel of San Pellegrino

We will have mass the next day at the tomb of Saint Pope John Paul II. I have always wanted to celebrate mass there, I owe so much to him! Usually you have to reserve his altar months in advance, but I sent an email the other day and they had a slot open exactly when we wanted to come. God is good!

The Jubilee year of Mercy will start December 8^th, and we will be there with Pope Francis. It will be the beginning of a whole year where we can celebrate in an extra-special way the mercy of God our Father.

There’s a lot more, you can follow our itinerary here: http://romepilgrimage.weebly.com/

I also wanted to let you know my own needs, in case you feel called to help. Would you be willing to support my ministry? I receive a part-time stipend ($12,000), which pays for a little over half of my yearly expenses. Healthcare, transportation, clothes, food, and other supplies cost me about $22,000 a year. Would you please ask Jesus what he would have you do to support my mission as a priest and missionary? You can donate, pray, or even get something – like handkerchiefs – for me off my wishlist!

My Amazon wishlist is: https://www.amazon.com/gp/registry/wishlist/1LMTSLHHX9BN8/ref=cm_sw_su_w

You can make a donation to my religious community here in Cincinnati via our website http://www.ohiolc.com/support-us.html , or send a check to

LC Pastoral Services

8162 Chestershire Drive

Cincinnati, OH 45241

You and your loved ones will be in my prayers this Advent, and especially as I visit the holy places in Rome and Assisi!

May God bless you abundantly!!!!

Father Kevin

standing on the shoulders of giants

Dear family and friends,

Yesterday I visited my great Aunt, my grandmother’s sister. My grandmother passed away years ago, and I loved her dearly, so it was quite a treat for me to be able to see her little sister.

For a long time I’ve been wondering where my calling came from. I mean, certainly God can call anyone He wants, whenever He wants. But I believe the great graces God gives us in life come often as a result of the goodness of others, especially our own families. The good in us isn’t due to our good decisions alone, it’s also due to theirs.

 

My sister Monica

I’m a priest, and my sister is a Franciscan Sister. Those are two little miracles right there, so I’d always wondered where they came from. My grandmother’s second cousin, Sister Marguerite Marie, was a cloistered Visitation nun in Annecy, France for over 60 years. I went to visit her once and was amazed by her goodness and grace.

Sister Marguerite Marie

But it was my great Aunt yesterday who filled in one of the great missing links. We were talking about her father, my great grandfather. She told me how he was a medic in the first World War, stationed in France. While on guard duty one night, peering through the fog, he caught sight of a figure moving about. My grandfather shouted “halt!” But the person paid no attention. Now my grandfather was the type who never had the heart to shoot any living thing – that was why he was the medic. So he went closer and realized that the figure in the night was a nun. She was bent over the soldiers’ garbage heap, scooping out the coffee grinds of the day. She was going to reuse them at her convent. It was then that my grandfather realized the sisters were starving.

my great grandfather

Going back to the camp, he filled his arms – he had huge arms – with the extra bread from the soldiers. He brought it to the sister and gave it all to her. From then on, as long as he was stationed there, he would bring the bread and place it behind a statue by the convent. When it came time for his unit to move on, he left a note to tell the sister. The last time he went to leave bread, she had left a rosary as a gift for him.

my great aunt

Later on, when everyone in his unit was getting wounded or worse, they were stationed by Domrémy, France – Joan of Arc’s hometown. He went to the parish Church one day and prayed to Saint Joan, promising that if he made it back alive, he would name his first daughter after her. That daughter was Joan, my grandmother.

Bernard of Clairvaux said that we are “Standing on the shoulders of giants”. I certainly am: my parents, my grandparents, my great grandparents, Saint Joan, and certainly so many others whose names I’ll only know in heaven. My vocation, my priesthood, is such a gift, but it is not my own.

Makes my heart swell with gratitude. A thanksgiving, not just for the gifts of food and plenty, but even more a gratitude for the gift of those who’ve gone before us, and those who surround us, our families and friends.

Hoping you have a wonderful Thanksgiving,

Father Kevin

Big Mac

Big Mac in his element

Dear Family and Friends,

I never thought something so small could make so many people smile. Let me explain.

My friend raises dogs - long-haired daschunds. I went over to visit her and her family one Sunday afternoon and she showed me a litter of puppies.

Now there were five pups in this litter, 4 girls and one boy. As I stooped down to look at them, all the pups scooted away except one. He let me pick him up and hold him without fussing. “That’s Big Mac” my friend said, “He’s the boy.”

Dognapping!

The funny thing is, “Big Mac” was my nickname back in High School. I was a little bigger than most of the guys, and my last name is McKenzie, so somebody thought that up and it stuck.

Little Big Mac and big Big Mac got along quite well from day one, to say the least.

So it was that a few weeks ago, I “dognapped” Big Mac for a day. I couldn’t help it! He was so adorable! He gave no complaints, just wanted to sit in my lap all the way home.

Big Mac as a little pup

I took him for a walk, but, well, walks aren’t his thing. His short little legs can’t move fast at all and then his walk is more a zig zag than a line, so it was all I could do to avoid stepping on him about every three steps.

Walking back inside, my old backpack called to me from the corner. It was Big Mac-sized. The little daschund let me slip him inside backwards. Just his head stuck out, and the backpack was a perfect fit.

Happy doggy

I slung him on my shoulders and jumped on a bike. He just smiled and stuck his head out, now by my right ear, now by my left.

We went to the park. I go to the park quite often. It’s where I’m writing this story right now. When I go for a jog there, some people say hi as you pass them, some might even wave… but with Big Mac in my backpack, everything changed.

Before I even got there two people struck up conversations with me. At the park, people waved and laughed. Mothers pointed him out to their children, “Look at the doggy!” Everyone smiled. Everyone. Dog owners stopped to chat, as did several others. Some wanted to pet, “that adorable dog” as they called him. Big Mac was a star!

And I was flabbergasted. All Big Mac had done was, well, nothing. He had let me put him in my backpack, and then he just smiled. And he spread so much joy! It was a totally different bike ride, I’ll tell you that much!

Big Mac at Prayer

There is much more to love about Big Mac. I went to the little chapel in our house and knelt down to pray, and in he came and put his little paws up on a kneeler too, like he knew exactly what he was doing! Then I went to celebrate mass, and he sat by my feet the whole time. Praying, I suppose!

Big Mac made friends with everyone. And he really didn’t do much. Reminds me of the kind of person that pleases God most, the childlike. What a lesson such a little dog can teach us! In many ways, we please God more by who we are than by what we accomplish. Instead of the harsh judge who at times we make Him out to be, perhaps we should let Him be the gentle and loving father, “Abba” as Jesus calls Him.

Hoping you are enjoying these last days of fall,

Father Kevin