Monica Seelman, BVM and John Perkins do a retreat activity.

This autumn, as I have for the past 34 years, I am starting up our spirituality/religious education program for mentally challenged adults. At our first planning meeting, I always ask the volunteer catechists, “Why are you in the program this year?” And we search our souls and psyches for our answer.

Today I ask myself, “Why do you continue this work? How does it affect your own moral values?”

I reach deep back into my childhood for part of my answer. My Aunt Jane, Mom's youngest sister, gave birth to Christin, her third child, in the early '50s. The family doctor told Aunt Jane (over the phone) that Christin was profoundly retarded, that she had suffered extensive brain damage before birth and would never walk, talk or recognize her family. “Put her away now” was his only advice.

Her parents kept their baby for two and a half years. However, her health was fragile and she died at age five. Her short life touched us all, even crusty old relatives. Her smile was beautiful and we felt blessed by her. I still cherish the memory of Christin. Her parents considered it all part of God's mystery that her brief and limited life made such a difference.

I grew up, joined the BVMs and went to Butte , Mont. , (my first assignment) to teach 1st grade at St. Ann 's School. During my six Butte years, I met Kathy Ruckdaschel and Johnny Whelan. Kathy had serious learning problems; she often visited my classroom with her brother Joey, one of my students.

Johnny, on the other hand, had Down's syndrome and was one of seven children. His sisters were in my classroom. Neither child attended our school or our CCD classes. “They're little angels. They don't need religion classes” was one comment I remember.

Another opinion wrote them off—"The families would be better off if they died.” Neither attitude struck me as right. Kathy and Johnny were children who deserved better from us!

When I moved to Chicago from Butte and learned about the SPRED Program, I was relieved and excited. At last a religion program tailored to persons with developmental delays.

I volunteered as a catechist and have been involved in ministry to the handicapped ever since. When my friends and mentors Nancy Petulla and BVM Diane Rapozo (Malia) moved away, I became director of their independent religion program for younger handicapped adults.

Those young people have aged along with me. The adolescents and young adults I met in 1971 are now in their 50s. The original focus on “religious education” has changed to “spiritual formation.” Folks have died, new members joined and catechists changed.

But the force that drives me to write the program, administer our small treasury, brave the snow and ice on the jaunt across town is the same. My passionate belief is that we must respect our more handicapped people; we must provide them with a praying community. We must nourish the faith in each so they can experience God, participate in the Sacraments, learn to pray, become more conscious of the spiritual in their lives.

That's the first half of my answer to the question, “Why do I continue this ministry?” The second half comes from my interaction with the handicapped persons in the group.

The gift of each is unique. If you've seen the movie “Fahrenheit 451,” you may remember the final scene. The book burning regime has been successful in its campaign: the written word is gone, books are outlawed and have vanished from society. But there still lives a secret colony where each person has memorized a book. One person relates David Copperfield ; another quotes from War and Peace .

Like the “book people,” a single truth colors and informs the whole spirituality of each of our 19 men and women—the way they act, pray, deal with each other. Their central truths are the gifts which have enriched me, awed me, and sent me to examine my own values.

They mirror inclusivity and a welcoming attitude, responsibility to the group, or the problem of suffering and Jesus' death. They come with the gift of prayer and the gift of dance—Billy Bunce, Danny Casale, Frank Ryan, Isabelle Schmitz and Eugene Husfield—my gift givers.

Billy Bunce 

Billy Bunce teaches me to be inclusive and welcoming. Whenever we have a visitor to our center, he is the first to rush up, hold out his hand and say, “Welcome. I'm Billy. I'm from St. Eulalia's Parish. What's your name?” He never fails in his role as greeter!

Danny Casale, on the other hand, calls us all to be there for each other at every meeting. Even though our sessions with the handicapped meet on alternate Thursdays, Danny knows and remembers who was missing two weeks ago and is now present at the session. He announces to the group, “Let's have a hand for Mary. She's back!” Danny misses us when we're not there. We get the message!

Frank's gift and central truth takes the form of a question. It almost blew me over years ago when he asked it for the first time in his hesitant speech.

“Sister Monica,” said Frank, “Jesus, uh, Jesus died—on the cross. Uh, right?”

“Right, Frank,” I answered.

“Why did He do that? Uh, why did he do that? Didn't that hurt?”

In a re-enactment of the Passion, Frank Ryan as Jesus is crowned with thorns by Carol Johnstone, Eddie Zine and Tim Moore.

No matter how each of us (myself, other catechists, BVM Doris Walsh, visiting priests, etc.) try to answer, Frank is never satisfied. When he looks at a crucifix, he thinks of Jesus. Why did Jesus have to die? Can any of us really answer Frank? Or do we each have to live and struggle with the question?

Frank is our theologian. Isabelle Schmitz used to call us to prayer. Close to 300 pounds and born with Down's syndrome, Isabelle was an imp, an elf, who played practical jokes (like hiding the tape recorder from me) and teased us all constantly. However when she prayed, she was close to angelic. She had a profound sense of the sacred.

At the end of each session, I go to each person and “give them the message of the day.” I take their hand and say something like “Isabelle, Jesus says to you today, you are precious in my sight.” Isabelle always waited for me—eyes closed, so still and so focused that I felt I was giving her the Eucharist. It was a sacred moment.

I use the past in speaking of Isabelle because the elf, the practical joker, the still point that was Isabelle died ten years ago. Her gift, her sense of the sacred, stays with me, reminding me to value the quiet moments of life. I am grateful, Isabelle.

Eugene Husfield dances to “Be Not Afraid.”

Like Isabelle, Eugene Husfield's gift, his central truth, is his prayerful attitude. However, Eugene expresses his in dance. Each year at our annual overnight retreat, Eugene brings his “dancing shoes” and I promise to have a boom box and tape of “Be Not Afraid.”

Saturday evening's traditional talent show provides Eugene 's stage. He dedicates his dance each year to the “new people” on the retreat. Then, before his reverent audience, he circles the meeting room.

With bows and kisses to the group, he twirls and steps to the music, his face a study of deep concentration and prayer. All of us sense his awareness of God, his faith, his hope expressed in his interpretation of “Be Not Afraid.” Another gift to keep and cherish. Like David, Eugene dances before the Lord.

So we're starting another year: gathering the crayons and markers, finding scripture and activities for the year's theme (“Food in Scripture” this year), phoning catechists, writing and mailing registration forms.

I've answered my question. I do this ministry because, in the midst of all this activity, I know that catechists, handicapped, their parents, and I will grow and question, seek and search, give and receive the gifts that we share. Together we will discover the Loving God in our very midst.

How can I not be changed?

About the author: Monica Seelman, BVM (Alvin) directs the religious education program for mentally challenged adults at St. Gregory the Great Parish, Chicago, Ill.

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© 2006 Sisters of Charity, BVM