The Banyan Tree

This large banyan tree is in the park across from the downtown post office in Hilo.
Like the story I began yesterday on this new blog, the banyan tree is composed of a multitude of interconnecting strands that imbue it with its "tree-ness". Interestingly, the banyan tree is actually composed of hundreds of fig trees, that adhere and multiply onto a host tree.
My story is more complicated than a banyan tree. I'll try to keep it simple.
In order to try to make sense of my life in high school, I began reading more serious literature. I was fascinated with A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce. Stephen Dadealus's loss of faith seemed to coincide with my own deep questioning of my faith.
I read philosophy, history, Russian literature (Dostoevsky and Tolstoy), German literature (Hesse and Mann), poetry (Whitman - Leaves of Grass) and theology and existentialism. Then, I read The Seven Story Mountain by Thomas Merton, and I was stunned.
Merton led a very worldly life until he realized he was called to monasticism. He joined a monastery, and dedicated himself to prayer and writing.
Several weeks later, I was in the midst of what I now realize was a depression. I wandered about the campus at the University of Delaware on a quiet Saturday afternoon, and knew that I needed to confess and renounce my sinful life. From reading Confessions by Augustine of Hippo, I had a deeper insight into what constituted my sinfulness, and I was frankly filled with dread of what might become of me. I decided I needed to partake of the Catholic sacrament of Confession or Reconciliation, and I went immediately to the campus chaplains' office, where I confessed the many roots and branches of my sinful life.
More to follow.

The "Painted Church"

Welcome to the Star of the Sea Catholic Church. This church is located near Kalapano on the Big Island of Hawaii. Just a few miles from this church is the area where St. Damien of Molokai was first assigned as a new missionary from Belgium in 1864.
When I visited this church last week, I was struck by the vivid paintings inside the church. I was also touched by the name of the church, which is the same name as the church in which my grandmother was baptized in Malin Head, Co. Donegal, Ireland, in 1898. That church was near the sea, the North Atlantic Ocean, on another small island.
My grandmother's name was Elizabeth Mullin Dougherty. She encouraged me to consider becoming a priest when I was very young. I had the feeling that doing so would deeply please my grandmother, and bring great graces to our family.
As I grew older, the feeling of being "called" grew in me. I was drawn to God and to do good in my life.
As soon as I could, I became an altar boy. This was a privilege and an honor, and I took it very seriously. I felt wonderful serving with the priest on the altar. I was allowed to serve Mass in the chapel in the sisters' convent, where no child or males were normally permitted to go. I felt special.
As I grew older, I lost interest for several years in becoming a priest. With the onset of puberty, I could not recomcile my changing emotional state with a life of holiness, but the call re-emerged in my teen years, and then again in my late teens.
I will finish this story in my next posting.
Thanks for reading my new Blog.