Yesterday

WRAPPED IN LOVE

by Cheryl Ann Smith

YESTERDAY, a soft rap at the door pulled me out of bed. I had been expecting it, really. All night, I had taken turns sleeping and praying, finally just keeping vigil for the last two hours. And so I wasn’t surprised to open the door to Maureen, our nurse. "Jim died at 6:15 this morning," she said gently.

Even though I’d known this moment was coming, a sadness flooded me and left me with no words. I was glad his suffering was over and that he was on his way to God, who was already wrapping him in love. Yet this world without Jim’s physical presence was going to be just a little dimmer.

"Gentleman Jim" would no longer run up to a door to open it for one of his sisters or help her with her coat—although in the last few months, his weakened and suffering body did not give him the energy to carry out those gallant acts.

No longer would we hear his infectious laughter following some outrageous comment he’d just made. But again, his fading life force and almost total deafness had been gradually silencing that laugh. Yes, Jim had been taking a steady departure since spring, and much of my grief had already been spilled.

I made some necessary phone calls and then prayed. I realized that in my two-hour vigil before Maureen came to the door, I had been accompanying Jim in the hour leading to his last breath, and as he began his journey into the fullness of God’s presence.

I wasn’t the only one: I later learned that Fr. Brière had been celebrating Mass at Jim’s bedside moments after his death, since by God’s tender providence, they had been sharing the same hospital room.

Moreover, other staff from around the world, I later learned, had been dreaming of Jim, or were aware of him, at this same hour. Our unity in God is fathomless.

I knew that in the next few days, story upon story would be told about our brother: some stories would be hilarious; some would highlight his radical way of living out poverty and identifying with the poorest of the poor; some would reveal the power of his intellect, or the depth of his holiness, or the all-pervasive humility that sought to hide all of this behind his humor and his playing the fool.

The stories would be from different times in Jim’s life. Before his life as a lay apostle, this life included, among other things, an Irish-American childhood in Dearborn, Michigan, four years as a communications officer in the U.S. Navy during World War II, seven months as a postulant in a Trappist monastery, and a year as an instructor of English at the University of Detroit.

After that, passionately dedicated to God and to social and interracial justice, he joined Catherine Doherty’s earlier apostolate, Friendship House, where he served from 1948 until 1959.

Then as a member of Madonna House since 1960, among other things, he served in three of our mission houses (Edmonton for thirteen years), was director general of the laymen for eight years, and last of all, spent three days a week in poustinia and doing whichever humble jobs he was asked to do. (Up until two weeks before his death, he was raking the pine needles around the island chapel.)

Friends from these different stages of his life would join us for the wakes, funeral and "story night" when we would tell these stories.

We would all take part in our farewell to Jim: one of our men had already made a simple coffin from local pine wood; our brothers would dig his grave, and after we’d all shovel in some dirt, they would completely fill the grave.

Before the burial, we would watch with his body for two days, and would touch, kiss, pray beside that beloved face. We would weep, laugh, say goodbye – and then proceed to besiege him with requests for help! No doubt he’s already in heaven!

One of our guests once asked why we caress the bodies of those who have died. The lightning fast response was, "They’d never allow it while alive!" It’s true: I cannot imagine Jim allowing such a fuss, and such love lavished upon him. And yet, his sister could get away with it.

Even though he was 83 years of age, Jim was still a little brother to Sister Margie Guinan. Her last visit to Combermere was just a month ago. One evening at supper, we had been laughing uproariously. Normally, Jim would be the cause of such hilarity, and he wanted to know what was so funny. (He was almost deaf by this point).

She turned to her younger brother, and in a gesture so full of affection and compassion, gently took his face in her hands. It was a poignant moment, and one that we will so soon take up, as we gaze upon that face that has been so very dear to us.

All these thoughts flowed through me, as I prayed in those early hours.

Suddenly, I remembered another early morning awakening. On December 14th 1985, I happened to be spending the night in the cabin beside the one I’m in now. It was 5:30 AM, when Jean Fox cracked the door open and whispered, "She’s gone, Mary." We all knew what that meant.

Catherine Doherty had just died, and Jean wanted Mary Davis, one of Catherine’s dearest spiritual daughters, to be the first to know. We threw on clothes, and went to Catherine’s bedside.

Fr. Brière was already there, and within no time, we had all gathered in that little cabin. We prayed, we stood in silence, and someone sang, "Salve Regina." We stood in awe and unity around the woman who had allowed God to consume her in creating this spiritual family.

As we finally left Catherine’s cabin that early December morning, the sun was rising in breathtaking splendor over the Madawaska River.

In a cold surely reminiscent of the most extreme Russian winter, mist mingled with rosy streaks of dawn light, creating almost unearthly beauty. It was not hard to "see" Catherine’s soul leave us and become fully one with her dearly Beloved One. Silence filled us that day, as we began our farewell to this great woman.

Yesterday, as I sat in my little cabin, looking out on this same river and praying for Jim in his final journey, I sang lines from one of the last hymns we will sing at his funeral: "In my body I shall look on God my Savior. I myself shall see Him; my own eyes will gaze on Him. I know that my Redeemer lives, and on the last day I shall rise again."

 

 

Combermere Diary

WE JUST KEEP PLUGGIN’

by Alma Coffman

"It’s a great life if you just keep pluggin’ and doin’ the best you can." Jim would so often say this as he passed you by. And it was on a day like this one that he would have said it – an ordinary workday.

Outside my window at the other end of the snow-covered vegetable garden at St. Mary’s are the figures of St. Joseph and Mary, who is on a donkey. We can watch them going "to Bethlehem," for every day someone moves them closer to the house.

For though it will be February or close to it when you receive this paper, I am writing this in late December. So, even though Christmas will have come and gone by then, I will, among other things, be telling you about our celebration of some of the feasts in Advent.

Also outside my window past the garden and the Holy Family is the partly-frozen river with fog rising from the open waters. In the sky a raven is flying. In the open water American Golden-eye ducks are swimming and diving, and a beaver poked his head out of the water.

Our wonderful winter weather – cold and sunny – has given Sherman the needed encouragement to prepare the ice at the edge of the river for ice skating. Since this is a job which takes a great deal of work – shoveling the snow and then flooding the ice with water to make a smooth surface - we have an ice rink only for Christmastime.

And on the occasional Christmastime evening, we even have a bonfire by the rink.

On Saturday mornings at St. Mary’s, when everyone cleans the house, I often clean the stairs—four flights of them, each containing forty stairs. As I clean these stairs, I reflect on and pray for the people who use these stairs and the activities they lead us to.

At the top of the stairwell by the main door is the auditorium where one Sunday evening we gathered to watch The Despicable Files, a play written and directed by Helen Porthouse. Dawn Kobewka played the devil and Maryana Erzinger, a modern young woman torn between modern despair and belief in God’s love.

On another evening we gathered there again for a lecture in the winter series, “The Symbolism of Icons’’ by Jacob Krekhovetsky, a lecturer at the University of Toronto.

Also up those stairs is the men’s machine shop where our machines are fixed. Yesterday Tom White and Paul Mitchell were trouble-shooting about the cooling plates on the freezer in the main house.

Across the hall from the machine shop is the wool room where Mary Davis and her crew are doing their winter work of cleaning and carding the wool from our sheep.

Further down the hall are a couple of art studios. Recently Rae Stanley had the idea of making prints of the paintings of Donna Surprenant and the icons of Marysia Kowalchyk into cards, and these are now on sale in our gift shop.

In winter our Madonna House men "keep pluggin’ along" with the snow removal and the work with wood. The men applicants, for example, are responsible for keeping the paths to Our Lady of Combermere sanded for all those who walk on them to pray.

Other men chop wood or carry it to the stoves. Mike Huffman keeps his watch set so that he can feed the furnace at St. Mary’s every hour or so. Meanwhile the bush crew chops trees and hauls the wood needed for two years from now.

On St. Nicholas Day, December 6th, according to our custom, we were each given delicious gingerbread and, on a beautifully-decorated piece of paper, the name of a person in the community to pray for the coming year.

Then on December 9th we celebrated the feast of the Immaculate Conception and on December 14th, the anniversary of Catherine Doherty’s death. On the anniversary, on the wall of the dining room at St. Mary’s hung a calligraphy of the words Archbishop Neil MacNeil spoke to Catherine in 1934: "Catherine, I beg you to persevere. If you do your apostolate will cover the world."

It is now seventeen years since Catherine died and, with the passing of the years, this prophecy is in the process of being fulfilled.

An example of our growing internationalism occurred on the feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe on December 12th.

In addition to the usual presentation of the story of Our Lady of Guadalupe, we had a beautiful Mexican folk dance. Margarita Guerrero, who is Mexican-American, taught it and the performers (some of our guests), included individuals from Korea, Grenada, Brazil, the United States, and Canada. (The Koreans added a Korean variation to the dance.)

Also for the first time, for the celebration of this feast, we were encouraged to wear our national costumes. Those who did so wore the clothing of such nations as India, Korea (two people), Scottish Canada (three people), French Canada, Austria, Russia, the West Indies, and the Middle East. Some of us found this the most beautiful celebration of Our Lady of Guadalupe ever.

Snow covers the grave of Jim Guinan like a blanket of God’s love giving him a blessing. Almost every day more snow falls and erases the footprints of those who visited the grave of this man who lived our ordinary life in an extraordinary way.

Jim’s poustinia, the little cabin where he lived during his later years, is now available to the laymen as a place for them to pray.

For it is prayer that gives them, and all of us, the grace to do ordinary things well for love of God – clean the chimneys, mail out Restoration, keep the cars in running order, make yogurt, clean the boiler, build shelves, and bring bedding for the livestock . Yes, we all together, try to "just keep pluggin’ and doin’ the best we can."

 

 

The Pope’s Corner

OUR DEEPEST NEED

by Pope John Paul II

The following is excerpted from an address delivered at a general audience on December 27, 1978.

———-

Man is a being who searches. His whole history confirms it. Many are the fields in which man seeks and seeks again and then finds and sometimes, after having found, he begins to seek again.

Among all these fields in which man is revealed as a being who seeks, there is one which is the deepest. It is the one which penetrates most intimately into the very essence of the human being. It is the one most closely united with the meaning of the whole of human life.

Man is the being who seeks God.

The ways of this search vary. The histories of human souls along these paths are multiple. Sometimes the ways seem very simple and near. At other times they are difficult, complicated, distant.

Now man arrives at his "eureka": "I have found!" Now he struggles with difficulties, as if he could not penetrate himself and the world, and above all, as if he could not understand the evil that there is in the world. But even in the context of the Nativity stories, this evil showed its threatening face.

Many have described their search for God. Even more numerous are those who are silent, those who consider everything they have experienced along the way as their own deepest and most intimate mystery: what they experienced, how they searched, how they lost their sense of direction, and how they found it again.

Man is the being who seeks God.

And even after finding him, he continues to seek him. As, for example, in a famous quote from the French philosopher, Pascal, Jesus says to man, "Take comfort. You would not be looking for me if you had not already found me" (B. Pascal, Pensées, p. 553: le mystère de Jésus).

This is the truth about man. It cannot be falsified. Nor can it be destroyed. It must be left to man because it defines him.

What can be said of atheism in the light of this truth? A great many things should be said, more than can be enclosed in this short address of mine. But at least one thing must be said: it is indispensable to apply a criterion, that is, the criterion of the freedom of the human spirit.

Atheism cannot be reconciled with this criterion—a fundamental criterion—either when it denies, a priori, that man is the being that seeks God, or when it mutilates this search in various ways in social, public, and cultural life. This attitude is contrary to the fundamental rights of man.

But I do not wish to dwell on this. It I mention it, I do so to show the beauty and dignity of the search for God.

Why was Christ born? Why did he come into the world?

He came into the world in order that those who look for him can find him. Just as the shepherds and the magi found him.

I will say even more. Jesus came into the world to reveal to us the dignity and nobility of the search for God, which is the deepest need of the human soul, and to meet this search halfway.

 

 

MH Combermere

HE DID IT EVERY DAY

by Fr. Bob Pelton

This is the homily from Jim Guinan’s funeral Mass.

———-

We are very aware today that we are sending to the Lord an extremely holy person. Fr. Zoeller said the other evening that everything Jim did in his life was ordinary —except that he did it every day! He did little things exceedingly well every day. He kept on plugging and doing the best he could every day.

How many people can truthfully say that they are doing the best they can? In the Byzantine Liturgy we pray for "a good answer at the awesome judgment seat of Christ."

At one time I thought it would be good to have my answer ready. "I tried to love everybody," I would say. When that didn’t ring true to me, I thought maybe I could say, "I did the best I could," but that didn’t ring true either. Then I arrived at the normal answer: "Lord, have mercy!"

Jim will have to say, "Lord, have mercy" just like everyone else, but he can also truthfully say, "I did the best I could."

Yet those of us who knew Jim well—and I’m sure he doesn’t mind now if we say it publicly—know that Jim had a very sharp thorn, not in his flesh, but in his mind. This brilliant man with a truly Catholic mind had a deep spiritual sensitivity that was somehow vulnerable to anxiety, especially anxiety about receiving the Eucharist worthily.

He would often come to me with the most astounding questions about receiving Holy Communion. Was there any problem if some of the Precious Blood was left on his lips? Did this or that break the Eucharistic fast?

I always tried to show the deepest respect to these questions because they were a real suffering for him, but one spring a couple of years ago, Jim asked me if it would break the fast if a bug flew into his mouth while he was walking and he swallowed it! I assured him as kindly as I could two or three times that he had nothing to worry about—but I did think, Now this is really absurd!

A few days later I was hurrying to a meeting. As I passed our chapel, I was not more than fifty feet from the Blessed Sacrament, and I was saying to the Lord, "Poor Jim! This one is truly absurd!"

And just as I opened my mouth to laugh, a bug flew into it! As I look back, I realize that the Lord was saying to me, "I decide what is absurd, not you!" Jim was a fool for Christ, but he was not absurd.

Recently Mary Pennefather wrote me a little note about a dream in which Our Lady encouraged her to pray for "the graces that do not shine." For anyone with eyes to see, all graces shine. How could they not when they are a manifestation of God’s life and work? God sees all of his graces shine, as do all the saints and angels in heaven, but here on earth we often do not see graces shine.

Courage usually shines for us, and magnanimity and joy and serenity, but a crucified heart doesn’t shine for many of us. Patience and hiddenness —all the beatitudes—don’t always shine for us. Humble service often doesn’t shine.

I have been meditating for some weeks on the simple truth that it is much easier and more acceptable to serve rather than really to desire to be a servant. When I serve—wash the dishes, mop the floor, listen to someone, change the diapers—at some point I stop, and choose what I’m going to do next.

A servant rarely chooses and never stops. Yes, doing so could be a powerful expression of charity, but few of us would choose to be servants if it were not for the fact that the eternal Son of God, Jesus Christ our Lord, totally and gladly chose to be a servant.

Christ is infinitely more than that, but as he receives all that he is from the Father, so on earth when he was with us visibly, he expressed his complete receptivity by loving to be his Father’s servant and ours—at home in Nazareth, in his ministry, in his passion and death.

Even now he serves us in a way beyond all understanding. And the Lord told us how to be servants and so to live in the blessedness of the Father: Learn from me, for I am meek and humble of heart (Mt 11:29).

Meekness: it’s a tough sell for us, even for those of us who are trying to live it. Meekness conjures up nightmares of burnout and breakdown, doormat and depression.

If we look at Our Lord to discover the true meaning of meekness, we can’t philosophize. We need to look deeply, to enter his heart, to know what meekness is. What we find is complete openness to the Father—and to us.

Some months ago, I came across a poem entitled, "Who the Meek Are Not." Our image of the meek is one of laboring peasants and long-faced monks, but this poem shows us a great stallion at full gallop in a meadow who, at his master’s command, seizes up to a stunned but instant halt, and then waits there, everything ready to move, muscles, nerves all ready to go—when the voice says, "Go!"

So meekness is listening. It is not reserved for mystics or for those who are sure of their vocation to contemplation. Listening is for all of us. And what happens when someone really listens? This is what we saw in Jim: whoever really listens, truly hears.

Years ago Fr. Brière brought back from Russia for me the photo of an icon called "Listening to God." It is the image of a monk in complete stillness, eyes wide open. Whoever listens, hears.

Whoever hears has a grateful heart. A servant is not sad or gloomy. This person whose boundaries in a sense no longer exist because his or her life and time and energy and everything else are in the hands of God, has a grateful heart.

Of course natural and supernatural needs remain, but the one who listens and waits upon the Lord to hear, has a grateful heart. He is given the treasure of trust, and the Voice he hears is the voice of infinite love and truth, and it bears the fullness of freedom and joy.

Therefore a grateful heart is a Eucharistic heart, a heart filled with thanksgiving and praise. This is a heart of communion—how could a eucharistic heart not be a heart of communion?

This means that even in great darkness, silence, and pain, there is an unbreakable bond with the life of the Most Holy Trinity. There is also God’s own power of communion with every person the eucharistic heart meets.

So—this blessed person has a Kingdom heart, is a Kingdom person. This person is not only filled with the life of the Kingdom, which is simply the divine Trinitarian life shared with all the blessed, but is also radiating the life of the Kingdom to everyone he or she meets.

This is the person the Lord put in our midst for more than forty years. We will miss Jim, but how could we ever forget what a gift the Lord has given us, both in radiating the Kingdom through his servant’s heart to all of us and revealing to each of us the joy of living that meek life of Christ our Lord ourselves?

 

 

Marian Centre Edmonton

LOVE WITHOUT LABELS

by Mike Fagan

I was in Marian Centre, Edmonton, for twelve years, and for several of those years Jim Guinan was the director of that house. The first thing I noticed in him was his tremendous respect and love for the poorest of the poor, the men who came to our house for the basic necessities of food, clothing, and shelter from the winter’s cold.

He had the patience of Job and that rare ability to listen to and accept people where they are, and not in any way pressure them to change to meet his own moral standards and hidden agenda. "Do-goodism," paternalism, and any other ism that degrade rather than uplift the human spirit were foreign to Jim.

And though he was aware of the new developments in medical science, physical and psychological, he never used the categorizing labels of these professions to describe the human person. His sense of the presence of God in every man and the eternal destiny of every man freed him from the trap of determinism and imprisonment by such labels.

Some stories come to me now that point to this hidden quality of love that resided within Jim.

Never in all my encounters with Jim did I hear him speak uncharitably about anyone. I did, however, see his frustration and anger at times. This came out when people were not well-treated, especially those "under his care."

One day, for example, he gave a transient man a ticket for a bed at a local mission that housed people. The man returned an hour later to say that he was denied admission and that, when he protested, the security man threw him down the stairs.

On hearing this insult to the dignity of this man, Jim was incensed. Puffing heavily on his pipe, he put on his winter coat and travelled with the man to see this man who had ousted him.

Using the power of his office (director of Marian Centre), he first reprimanded the security guard and then insisted that he let this man in or else. Not only did the security man refuse, but he grabbed Jim, as he had done the homeless man, and physically threw him down the stairs.

Back at Marian Centre, Jim fumed and puffed and puffed. It was my turn to listen him down in his humiliation and rage. "That man should never have a job like this. I will see his boss in the morning and have him removed. Etc. Etc."

After he cooled down, I couldn’t help reminding him gently that perhaps he was now experiencing what St. Francis would call "perfect joy." I don’t think that at the time Jim appreciated my spiritual insight.

But the fact was that he was now one with the poor man’s humiliation, and he knew that humiliation in his very being. The next day, nevertheless, Jim went to this man’s boss and got him changed to a different job.

For justice and concern for the common good was a very strong principle in him. Jim spoke up loud and clear for the rights of the poor and was always looking for ways and means to better their welfare.

It was Jim who started the first workers’ co-op (The City Centre Co-op) among the unemployed men. Marian Centre provided an office for them. The men themselves, for the most part, kept it going and held regular meetings with Jim or me present. Many men found dignity and jobs through this organization.

And it was seeing the desperate need of the homeless men in winter that prompted Jim to co-operate diligently with such caring people as George Spady, a United Church minister, in establishing the first emergency overnight shelter in downtown Edmonton.

Now called the George Spady Centre, it has evolved since then into a government-run facility which includes a de-tox unit.

This was just one example of Jim’s working behind the scenes to encourage and support anyone genuinely endeavoring to help the poor.

Jim loved the poor and there is no doubt that the poor loved him. He didn’t "work among the poor," he was poor.

Jim played the fool, and they say that fools rush in where angels fear to tread. He walked a thin line when he broke social conventions and cultural taboos by introducing people to each other on elevators, trains, and buses. His infectious laugh saved him especially when some people were tempted to strangle him for disturbing their fear-filled silence and isolationism.

But there was another side to Jim as well. He was a philosopher, one with a very Catholic mind, one who loved G.K. Chesterton and read him all his life. With a beer in his hand, in the company of like-minded "philosopher-kings," he would wax eloquent over the nature of reality. Perhaps this was his greatest relaxation.

Jim seldom spoke about himself. His interior life and private self were reserved for intimacy with his God and King. The "fool" in him, his quick wit and prayerful servant’s heart, it seems, were his protection from a prying, analytical, and destructive culture that is more prone to scoff than to worship its creator.

Jim died as he lived—a poor man. He was a personification of Madonna House spirituality, an example to all of us. He was an unbelievable character who was my mentor and a true gift of God to all of us.

 

 

FH Washington

THE HAPPY WARRIOR

by Paulette Curran

Before Catherine Doherty founded Madonna House—in the ’30s and ’40s—she founded and directed an apostolate called "Friendship House." It was from these Friendship houses, which were known mainly for their service to the poor and their work for social justice and the elimination of discrimination and racism, that Madonna House was born.

Jim Guinan was a member of Friendship House from 1948 until 1959, first in Harlem, an African-American neighborhood in New York City, and later in Washington D.C. where he was director. Like other FH members and volunteers, he was deeply formed by the experience.

Many marriages and life-long friendships came out of Friendship House. And though FH Washington closed in 1959, some of its former staff who still live in the area continue to get together on a regular basis.

These people remember Jim with great love and, after he died, they had a Mass for him and a gathering afterwards at MH Washington, a gathering at which they reminisced about Jim and about their time in Friendship House.

Fr. Sam Craig, one of our associate priests, was the celebrant of the Mass. Calling Jim "the happy warrior," he said, "He made you feel like the hairiest problem wasn’t the hairiest problem."

To the former FH staff, Fr. Sam said, "Each generation sees a little bit further because the succeeding generation is standing on the shoulders of the ones who have gone before them. You are our older brothers and sisters. Because you were there, I am here. We owe you a debt of gratitude."

These are some of the stories the FH people told about Jim and about Friendship House:

———-

I’d only been at FH a few days when I was riding on the trolley with Jim on the way to the Wonder Bread Bakery to buy day-old bread. Jim turned to the fellow across the way, introduced himself to him, got his name, and then asked for a match. He then turned to someone else, introduced himself and said, "I have a match. Do you have a cigarette?"

Floyd Agostinelli

———-

We used to participate in sit-ins, going to soda fountains at drug stores and ordering coffee and, when they wouldn’t serve the blacks among us, we’d just sit there.

Dolores Kendrick

———-

When we sold the Catholic Interracialist, the FH newspaper, outside of churches on Sundays, many people would react angrily to us, calling us communists and some would even spit at us. I wondered why, when I was doing good, they would call me a communist

Edna Gasperetti

———-

There weren’t a lot of goodies on the table in FH. One day, Jim said, "What’s the matter with this margarine? Is it rancid?" "No, Jim," I said. "It’s butter."

Regina Martin

———-

Jim hitch-hiked from Washington to New York with only enough money for a subway ride to FH Harlem. Unfortunately, the fares had risen since he left. So he asked a policeman for the subway fare.

Barry Shay

———-

In Virginia, near Washington, association of blacks with whites was so rare that when we were in a car together, we were often stopped by the police. Jim’s humor would help to break the tension.

A Former FH staffworker

———-

At the end of the gathering, Cathy Mitchell of MH Washington said, "It’s easy to see that the fire of love that burned in Jim’s heart for God and for all people is that same fire that still burns in the hearts of the men and women who joined us to remember Jim. It was a joy to remember Jim with our ‘older brothers and sisters’ in the lay apostolate, and we give thanks to God for each of them and for the strength of the foundation that was laid."’

 

MH Combermere

HE JUST KEPT PLUGGIN’

by Mike Fagan

I still remember the excitement and joy in Catherine Doherty’s voice in 1959 as she introduced Jim and announced to the whole dining room that Jim Guinan had come to join Madonna House. He had been in Friendship House, Catherine’s earlier apostolate, for eleven years, the seven most recent of them in Washington D.C. where he was director.

I remember particularly his distinctive laugh which, like a light bulb, I later discovered, lit up the dark corners of people’s hearts and surroundings.

But the honeymoon of greeting and acceptance into the family soon gave way to the ordinariness of daily living. Our man from Washington was now shedding his city clothes and was attired in a workingman’s coveralls that were two sizes too big.

Nevertheless our Jim was not dismayed or embarrassed. Life had its absurdities and this humble man of God, with his unique laugh and ever-present pipe, was ready to embrace it.

One of his first assignments was to assist the gardener with planting the seeds in boxes in our greenhouse. Of course some preliminary work had to be done first—such as shoveling the mounds of snow at the entrance door and repairing the greenhouse windows.

Incidentally the gardener was yours truly whose knowledge of this ancient art of seed-planting was very limited. My instruction to Jim was what I did myself: when in doubt, read the instructions on the seed packet.

It was a case of the blind leading the blind. However, in spite of our limited knowledge and experience, the plants grew, and we had a good crop. I think Jim’s servant’s heart and prayerful disposition convinced the angels to give us a break and a helping hand.

Manual workingmen, be they tradesmen or common laborers, are usually equipped with the skill and physical strength to accomplish the task at hand. Jim was very limited in this regard. However, he attempted every task with meticulous determination even if his performance would never qualify him for the Hall of Fame.

He learned, for example, to paint outdoor tables and chairs relatively well in spite of the fact that he usually got paint on his coveralls, hands, and face.

Another example of Jim’s manual work that I remember well is his chimney-sweeping, a job which he assigned himself to when he was director general of men. In days of old, this was a skill that was passed down from father to son, a skill which requires the agility of youth, the absence of fear of heights, and the maneuverability of a cat. Jim possessed none of these.

One could see this man in his fifties climbing up our tall ladders and walking on the roofs. Most of the time he completed the work without fanfare or bragging.

One time, however, the ladder slipped with him on it, and he fell and broke both wrists. This resulted in several months of severe pain and embarrassing handicap. Imagine, dear reader, what the inability to use his hands entailed!

Then in his later years, he stripped insulation off copper wire. It’s not an easy job under the best of conditions. Did any of you ever try to do it with weakened wrists? But most days, if you went into St. Goupil’s basement, you could see this elderly man performing this service with the tenacity and concentration of a tiger.

Most recently, that is, when he was in his eighties, one of his jobs was raking. Now every leaf and pine needle will miss the gentle feathered raking of our beloved Jim. He gathered those leaves and needles like a hen gathering its chicks.

For "the duty of the moment" was a sacred task which he did not only in spirit but according to the letter as well. "It’s a great life if you just keep plugging and doing the best you can," was his motto, and he said it to us over and over. What an example he was to us all in doing this!

 

 

My Dear Family

WALKING TO WORK SLOWLY

by Catherine Doherty

In this article Catherine writes about Friendship House in Harlem, New York, in the late 1930s.

———-

When an apostolic group like ours hits a place like Harlem, where even the ordinary necessities of life are lacking, (and this in contrast to the luxuries of the richest city in the richest country in the world) it is quite obvious that they will direct their primary attention to fulfilling those needs.

But it must be remembered that not by bread alone does man live (Dt 8:3). Friendship House Apostolate, even as Madonna House Apostolate, always realized this immense truth.

However it is much more difficult to describe this part of our apostolic work than to describe the corporal works of mercy or even the spiritual works of mercy which we performed. How is one to put the intangibles on paper?

How is one to explain what we call that strange "chit-chat apostolate" that we always indulged in? It is but another way of speaking of friendships that are formed apparently casually, yet not so casually.

Take, for instance, the simple act of walking half a block from my apartment on 138th Street to Lenox Avenue, then down three blocks on Lenox Avenue, then half a block on 135th Street to our library.

Every day, with few exceptions, around 9:30 a.m. or so, I made that walk. One can walk filled with one’s own thoughts, unconcerned about the people one meets. Or one can love and be concerned about everyone—every step of the way.

I will speak only of myself, knowing all the while, though, that every member of Friendship House did what I did, perhaps in a different manner, but with the same motivation and the same results.

All along the four blocks there were stores with people in them. At that hour the store owners and their sales clerks were busy, sweeping the sidewalks, washing windows, or cleaning their stores and getting ready for the day’s work.

I made it a point to stop at each place and drop in, if the people were not outside. At least I stuck my head through the door to bid them a cheery good morning and ask how their business was. This led, naturally, as time went on, to conversations that were a little longer.

At one corner, for example, there was a pawn shop owned by a Jewish man. The clerks were Negroes. I got to be quite friendly with everybody. If I missed a day or two, for one reason or another, they were concerned about me and glad to see me back.

Over a period of time, I got to know all about the families of the staff and the owner. We had most cordial relations, and even, if I say so myself, deeply friendly ones.

There were no stores on the half block on 135th Street, but there were brownstone fronts, around which children played and women chatted together. Since it was a time of unemployment, men joined them or formed groups of their own.

Daily to each and everyone I met, I simply wished a good morning. If I didn’t know them too well, I just nodded and smiled.

Usually my progress was slow, for I would stop at every little stairway and "visit" with the women and men and even the children. Out of this "chit-chat" apostolate, the intangibles came forth. The identification with the people took place —the hardest part of any lay apostolate.

Then there was another way in which we practiced this same chit-chat apostolate. This was our delivery of clothing and other goods directly to families in need.

Let’s say a mother came to our clothing room with a list of things for several of her children, and we could only give her enough for three. Knowing how difficult it was for her to leave her house, we promised, as soon as we could, to deliver what she needed in person.

This we would do, and she, in her tremendous hospitality, (the poor are so hospitable), would offer us a cup of coffee which we would invariably accept.

How many things were revealed over that cup of coffee! How much sorrow, pain, worry, and even a few little joys were told to us over a kitchen table. Things like that are the essence of any apostolate of love and always will be. They were the core and essence of Friendship House as they are of Madonna House today.

It would have been impossible to identify ourselves with the Negroes in Harlem if we had not lived in Harlem. We had to be poor as they were poor. We had to experience the way they lived. We had to know the hot, crowded apartments with poor ventilation —unbearably hot in the summer, unbearably cold in the winter.

We had to deal with the "plumbing" that, at times, even threatened our lives as it did theirs. One had to accept all that, and the bedbugs, the cockroaches, the noisy streets, and the blaring radios that vied with one another all day and night making day and night hideous indeed.

Yes, this and much more that cannot be described in human words but must come from loving human hearts, is what we mean by "identification." And this is what we attempted to do in Harlem.

And because we attempted to do this, and succeeded in many ways, the corporal works of mercy and the spiritual works of mercy, which we practiced, were not just "Lady Bountiful" affectation, but living, pulsating proofs of our love toward those we served.

I don’t think I exaggerate when I say that we gave ourselves with the gifts we begged from others, for we knew we had to be empty-handed ourselves. We had to be beggars; taking from those who had, giving it to those who had not; never keeping much for ourselves.

Because this was so, those who received from us did not hate us. They began to love us. And the law of love, the law of Christ, began to work in Harlem in a tangible way. This, of course, was the cement of the whole structure of love and of the works of the apostolate.

But that cement is not easily made. Its source is God and, of course, prayer was the channel through which it came to us from him.

From an unpublished manuscript (History of the Apostolate, Vol. 1).

 

 

STORIES ABOUT JIM

One of the women staff and Jim went together for their doctor’s appointments and had lunch in a restaurant. She ordered a grilled cheese sandwich, and Jim had the same. "Oh, do you like grilled cheese sandwiches, too?" she asked. "I just love them." After that, on the occasional time they had lunch together, they would both order grilled cheese sandwiches, and talk about them. It became a bond between them. It was only years later that she learned that Jim didn’t particularly like grilled cheese sandwiches.

Paulette Curran

———-

Sometimes things got rough in Marian Centre. One day one of the men got very angry at Jim and punched him, not very hard, but it broke his pipe. In those days, Jim always had a pipe in his mouth, lit or unlit. Jim came storming out and into the staff room. I was concerned about his being hurt. But not Jim! "He broke my pipe!" he fumed.

Mary McNamara

———-

Judy Sullivan, a friend of MH Moncton, often sells MH books at Catholic events. She said that, one of these times, a man asked if Jim Guinan is "still around." "He saved my life," he said. "I had lost my job and was thinking of committing suicide. I went into a church and Jim was there and he introduced himself to me. He took me on and walked with me every day. Finally, I got a job. Jim turned my life around."

Helen Porthouse

———-

We couldn’t persuade Jim to get a new jacket when his wore out. So we would keep keep an eye on the incoming clothing donations until something similar came in. Then when something did, one of us men would move his things from the pockets of his old jacket to the new one, take the old jacket away, and leave the new one. Jim never knew.

Tom Egan

———-

This story is from when Jim was on staff in our house in Portland, Oregon. We had recently seen the movie, Lawrence of Arabia, and had gone to the beach. Jim climbed up on a sand dune and swooped down—just like in the movie. Jim had a very sharp, incisive mind, a philosopher’s mind, but he also had a simple heart—guileless like a child.

Mary Kay Rowland

———-

I’ve known him for fifty years. He’s the most humble man I’ve ever met.

Joe Hogan

———-

When Jim fell off the ladder and broke both wrists, we were told that he was in considerable pain. Just a couple of days after the accident, expecting to find him lying in bed looking miserable, I decided to visit him to try to cheer him up. What did I find? Four or five others there ahead of me. One person was serving refreshments, all were laughing and thoroughly enjoying themselves, and Jim was, as always, the gracious host and cause of the fun.

Paulette Curran

———-

Once when I was driving with him and got out of the car, he made me get back in so that he could open the door for me.

Marg Stobie

———-

He really built people up; he talked to everyone like they were his best friend. Though he’s been gone for twenty-five years, even today the men in Edmonton still ask for him.

Lupe Zabaco

———-

A number of years ago, I was giving a tour, and when we neared the island chapel, we passed Jim. He was in the dirty cover-alls he wore to clean chimneys, and he had soot on his nose. "Are you going in?" he asked, tipping his hat. "Say one for me."

Inside the chapel, one of the women on the tour asked me, "Do you have many handicapped adults here?" I explained, to her amazement, that this particular "handicapped adult" was the director general of the laymen of Madonna House.

Fr. Ron Cafeo

———-

Jim really enjoyed the occasional beer. However, when a good friend of his, an alcoholic, was struggling to stop drinking, Jim gave up drinking permanently as an offering to help him. This was a great sacrifice for Jim. In his later years he also gave up some other little pleasures he enjoyed so much—like smoking his pipe and even coffee!

Mary Kay Rowland

———-

One day when we were just about to park the car, someone stole our spot. I was annoyed, but Jim just said, "It’s okay. He’s happy."

Mike Lopez

———-

One day when he was recovering from illness, I passed by and asked him if there was anything he needed. "Oh no," he said, "Fr. David is coming to give me communion."

Gloria Lawton

———-

Whenever I asked Jim how he was or how things were going, he would answer, "Real good, ol’ girl, real good." Finally one day, feeling cynical about his never-changing answer, I said a bit sarcastically, "Oh Jim, things are always good." "Oh but they are," he protested. "Whatever God does is good!"

Paulette Curran

———-

One day in Marian Centre a man in the recreation room was creating a disturbance and bothering the other men. Jim asked him to leave and, when he escorted him to the door, the man threatened to kill him. When I later mentioned the threat to Jim, he peacefully said, "He’s not the first. He’ll have to stand in line."

Beverly Maciag

———-

When Jim walked in the fields saying the rosary, the sheep would gather around him. I saw this over and over.

Fr. Bob Pelton

———-

One day when I was visiting Marian Centre, while we were eating lunch, some loud noises came from the recreation room. All the men were fighting. Jim, who was the director of the house, never said a word. He just walked through the midst of it. It was like the parting of the Red Sea. By the time he got to the other side, there was not a sound. There was total peace.

Jean Fox

———-

In the mid-’70s, before I was a priest, Jim and I were in Edmonton together. One day an inebriated man came in asking for "Jimmy."

"Jim’s away," I told him. "Would you like to see Mike?" "No! I want to talk to Jimmy."

"Oh, you like Jim a lot?"

"That Jimmy is a **##!! saint!" he said.

Fr. Ron Cafeo

 

 

MH Combermere

HOW DID HE DO IT?

by Mary Speicher

Was it the twinkle in those blue eyes? Was it the heart that welcomed me? Was it that I just knew that he loved me as I was?

All I knew was that I had met someone whose kindness, hospitality, selflessness, and unconditional love gave me hope. I had never met anyone so Christlike. How did he do it? These were the questions in my heart and mind when I met Jim Guinan the first time I visited Madonna House in November 1990.

Jim was then in his seventies and serving the community by spending three days a week in poustinia and helping with maintenance. He introduced himself to every new guest and, with his contagious humor, his interest in you, and just his presence, made you feel special and loved.

All I knew was that, one day, I wanted to be like him. For he radiated Christ and Christ was what I wanted. That desire was so strong that I knew that whatever he had gone through to get there, I was willing to go through, too. I knew that there would be great pain but I did not care. For I knew that there was something bigger, something beyond the cross—holiness and union with God.

I saw all this in Jim and suddenly I realized that, if it was possible for him, it was possible for me. And I also felt that, what God desired for Jim, he also desired for me.

But how did he do it? All I knew was that I had to return to Madonna House. So in January 1991, I came to stay as a long-term guest.

Then several years later, full of fear that I could never live the Madonna House life, I became an applicant. I had one consolation. According to a custom at Madonna House, on St. Nicholas Day each person draws the name of someone to pray for for the coming year, and Jim Guinan had drawn my name. So, for the coming year, he was obligated to pray for me. That thought gave me peace and strength.

I made it through applicancy and became a member of Madonna House on June 8, 1996.

After that, even when I was in one of our mission houses, I stayed in touch with Jim and knew that I could always count on his prayers.

The years passed, and a few days ago, Jim died. As I write this article on the day of his funeral, I am filled with Alleluia songs and with great gratitude. Jim persevered to the end, and now he is filled with the glory of God.

How did he do it? He counted on God and said "yes" to whatever God asked of him. He stayed close to the Mother of God and had complete confidence in her. He served humbly and hiddenly. He desired only to love without counting the cost.

And because he had the courage to do this, I know that I can do it, too. Yes, all things are possible with God, and I, too, can become another Christ and shine for the world to see. I, too, can be fully alive and free. I, too, can be who I really am. The cost: my life. But the joy and glory will last forever.

Thank you, Jim, for giving me that goal, and thank you for showing me that it is possible—for me and for everyone else.

 

 

MH Combermere

GENTLEMAN JIM

by Miriam Stulberg

In Madonna House, as in every family, every death seems different. With Jim’s, there is a sense of life completed, a goal achieved. Jim’s death brings unshadowed joy for him, accompanied by sadness at losing an especially beloved brother. He was, without a doubt, ready to die; it is just hard to let him go.

We are going to remember him so vividly. For notwithstanding his age or his severe hearing loss, Jim somehow remained at the center of our community life.

You would see him shuffling to St. Pete’s where he worked in the men’s office—his ever-present suit jacket, his ever-present fedora pulled down over his ears, his head scrunched between his shoulders.

We all wear second-hand clothes in our own way. (Some staff wear gardening clothes as if they were attending a garden party; others dress for Sunday only as a concession to community protocol.) On Sundays in honor of the Lord’s day and out of love of the brethren, Jim always looked spiffy. On weekdays, however, he had his own style: gentlemanly and threadbare. It kind of reminded us of the Brother Christophers he loved so much!

"Gentleman Jim" would run in front of you (if you were a woman) with little steps to open the door, and you would laugh with him at his ostentatious graciousness—and be warmed by it.

We were used to seeing him in the island chapel in the late afternoon saying his rosary. At Mass, when he repeated a prayer intention someone had just offered, but which he hadn’t heard, our smiles were laden with love for him.

He didn’t take himself seriously, and he made you laugh at yourself also. His humor was such that you found yourself laughing before you realized that his remark referred to you, but you didn’t hold it against him because it revealed the truth.

One time the staff in Winslow, Arizona, were lamenting that they couldn’t get out to visit people because so many people were visiting them. Jim, who was there on vacation there, quipped, "So why don’t you tell people to go home so that you can go see them?"

In his later years, Jim often invited individual staff to his cabin for an evening visit. Reluctant to talk about himself, he was a master at drawing out other people.

I remember as a young staff worker, seeing Jim at evening teatime, night after night, sitting with precisely the person from whom I wanted to escape. He gave her the impression that there was no one he would rather be with.

Jim’s humor was a way of deflecting attention from himself and a vehicle of a urodivoi, a "fool for God."And underlying his laughter and gregariousness was a total incarnation of Madonna House spirituality—a life of service, dedication, and self-effacement.

I don’t think Jim had a lot of spiritual "perks" in his life. I don’t pretend to know him that well, but it wasn’t characteristic of his generation or upbringing to focus on them. He was a witness to those of my own and later generations that one’s personal emotional satisfaction doesn’t really enter into the equation.

Whatever struggles Jim had, he communicated joy. That joy was the fruit of his inner life with God, and he spread it freely to everyone.

When Jim, after finishing his term as director general of men, went off happily to live for a year as a poustinik among other pensioners in a run-down boarding house in Halifax, walking the streets and praying in the churches, we knew that he was fulfilling his heart’s desire. I have the same sense now, as he takes up his new residence in our Father’s mansion.

 

 

Marian Centre Edmonton

LIVING WITH DAVEY

by Jim Guinan

Our mission houses regularly write newsletters to the rest of Madonna House. The following stories are taken from two such letters that Jim wrote from Marian Centre, Edmonton, in 1966. Both are about the men our house there serves—homeless men, street people, those we in MH call "Brother Christophers," which means "bearers of Christ."

———-

His name is Joe. For uncounted times during the year, Joe would take one of the staff aside and make the following revelation in a very secretive manner:

"You know what I just did? I bought two more tickets on the Irish Sweepstakes! And do you know what I’m going to do if I win? I’m going to give $5,000 to the Marian Centre. Yessir, five thousand dollars!"

No one on the staff doubts that Joe will come across when he wins, even though most of us feel that chances are we may have a long wait.

The other day I was on my way to deposit the meager weekly monies of the City Centre Co-op Club at the bank when Joe fell in alongside of me and the following conversation ensued:

"Those teenagers are really a problem up my way." "Is that right, Joe?" "Yes, and you know, one of the worst of the lot is the son of a poor widow. It’s a shame; it’s not her fault." "No, Joe."

"She lost her husband during the war, and I told her she shouldn’t feel bad. It’s not her fault. And where would we be if her husband hadn’t gone to war and got killed for us?" "Sure, Joe."

Sometimes Joe catches you without the ability to comment because you just can’t think of the proper words demanded by the situation. One day in the office he was telling me about his experience in church the day before:

"You know, I went in there in the afternoon to make my visit, and there was a fellow drinking from a bottle right in the back of the church!" "No, Joe!"

"Yes, and so I went over and told him that you can’t drink in here; that this is a church. But he didn’t stop. He was a big fellow, and I didn’t know what to do. So I went up to the front to pray."

"Good, Joe."

"Well, I said the rosary, and I got strength. And, you know, I went to the back of the church and threw him out!"

No comment!

———-

A good portion of my time is spent in talking with the men in the recreation room. Whether or not the talk proves helpful to the men, a good deal of it is both entertaining and edifying for me.

A few days ago, George was in. By the way, he was asking for Bill Jakali (one of the staff who used to be at Marian Centre). George wouldn’t give me his last name, but he helped Bill on some dirt removal or lawn work around Marian Centre several years ago.

Anyway George was in a talkative mood. Not having had a tape recorder on hand, I will try to recreate from memory a couple of his stories:

"I drink a good deal, but Davey uses me to do good, too. Yesterday I was walking down Jasper Avenue and I saw this blind man with a white cane coming down the street. I helped him down the steps and over across the street. A policeman came up to me and said that that was a real nice thing to do. It was Davey that got me to do it."

"Who’s Davey?"

"I used to recite my prayers, you know, just a recitation. Then one day before I started to pray, I saw him there on the cross bleeding. That’s Davey. I call him ‘Davey.’ Now, before I pray, I have to see him hanging there on the cross first, and then I pray.

"Once I was in this town and went into this bar. I don’t know why I went into that particular bar, because it wasn’t the one I usually go to, but anyway there I was.

"I was sitting at a table all by myself with a couple of glasses of beer, just sipping. Well, I looked around and there was a fellow at one of the other tables just sitting there all by himself with beer on the table but not drinking and something told me I should try to help him.

"So I went over to his table and asked if he would mind my sitting with him. He said no and offered to buy me some beer. But I said I had my own and brought my beer over.

"Well, I sat talking with him there for a long time, and finally he told me to look in the paper bag he had at the side of his chair. I said why, but he said to go ahead and look.

"Well, inside the bag there was a long coil of rope. He told me that he had bought the rope at the hardware store, and before he met me he had planned to go home and hang himself. ‘But now,’ he said, ‘I’m going to take that rope to the hardware store and get my money back..’ It was Davey that got me to do that."

God bless George and all of the other men with drinking problems, many of whom are doing much more for "Davey" than some of us who carry lighter burdens.

 

 

FH Harlem

SCENE ON A NEW YORK SUBWAY

Pat O’Connell

Jim Guinan’s unique "apostolate" on the New York City subways was a legend among us long before he died. In 1950, someone wrote an article about it for the Friendship House newspaper.

———-

The night is dark and dreary, the travelers tired and lonesome, as a group of us from Harlem’s Friendship House boards a subway train for anywhere, any night.

The night’s dreariness disappears, the tired and lonesome travelers become revived and friendly, if Jim Guinan, Friendship House staff worker, is aboard.

His technique is simple but very unusual for this tall, lonesome city.

After finding what seats are available, Jim, with his infectious smile sizes up the crowd. If he finds a person who will return his smile, Jim says, "Good evening. We are from Friendship House, and we would like to meet you. And what is your name?" Although a bit embarrassed, the person usually answers.

"Tom. Now that’s a nice name," Jim will say. "I want you to meet Ann. Ann’s from Friendship House. Ann meet Tom." Ann smiles and says hello to Tom. Tom smiles back. Then turning to the rest of the Friendship House gang, he continues with the introductions, "Tom, I want you to meet Fred."

"Hello, Tom," Fred will say from his position in the car. And the procedure is repeated. Tom will meet Leon, Gerard, Mary, Jim, Claire, Audrey, Pat, and the rest.

By now, Jim will be taking command. Other people on the car will be eyeing this curiosity, carefully. After Tom has been introduced all the way around, Jim moves on to the nearest person. That nearest person, if bashful, has probably already taken refuge deep behind his paper.

"Sir," Jim will say as he attempts to get his attention. "I want you to meet all these nice people. What is your name?"

A blushing face may emerge from the paper and say something quite unintelligible. "I didn’t quite get that name, sir," Jim is quick to say loudly. By now most of the car is watching and listening to this person invading the supposed friendlessness of New York City’s subway trains.

"Frank," the man will say as he reacts to the broad smile on Jim’s face.

"Frank. Now that’s another nice name." Jim’s real and spontaneous laugh is as loud as the noise of the subway train. "Frank, meet Tom."

If Tom thinks his role is finished, he is surprised. The two men smile at each other if only feebly. And now two men who entered as complete strangers are at least nodding acquaintances. And the rest of the passengers know them by their first names.

Soon the rest of the Friendship House crowd meet Frank. Frank nods to all, as they are cheerfully introduced by Jim Guinan.

The passengers are deep in the spirit of the game now, convinced that this person isn’t trying to hurt them and isn’t a wise guy. They are smiling at this unusual character; smiling because everyone else is smiling; smiling because they really prefer to smile anyhow.

At each station stop, people come and go. The newcomers are ordinarily surprised at the mirth prevailing but are quick to participate with their smiles, or with their names. And so it goes until we reach our destination. We disembark, leaving a cheerful carload of people who are going somewhere; now going somewhere to make other people cheerful, we hope.

What if Jim doesn’t get the right responses? Then he leads us all in song, pleasant songs that make people feel pleasant. But no matter, when Jim boards a subway train, the result is, most often, happier people.

An unusual fellow, this man Guinan from Friendship House.

From Catholic Interracialist, April 1950, "His Name is Jim! You Know of Him."