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It was a giant rooster, no doubt about it, standing in all its glory on the grounds of Queen of Peace Catholic Church. Not something one typically comes upon every day. Yet there it was. about six feet in stature if I had to guess. I was so enthralled that I asked Dan to drive by it so I could snap a photo.

Where had it come from? How long had it been there? How on earth had I never noticed it before?

“Come to think of it, there are other roosters here too,” Dan said.

“Hmm… You’re right!” I said. “One that sits on a shelf to the right of the altar.”

“There’s at least one more, too,” he said, describing a black rooster in the courtyard.”

I was stumped. Roosters. Three of ’em. But why?

The obvious answer would be a reminder of Peter’s three-time denial of Jesus. As both Matthew and Luke tell us, upon hearing the cock crow, Peter wept bitterly. Perhaps the roosters are reminders of repentance.

But that seemed way too obvious. Surely there was more to it. Especially in light of the fact that some scholars believe the cock-crowing Jesus referred to wasn’t a rooster at all, but a trumpet that was blown to signify the changing of the Roman guard.

Not to mention that the Sanhedrin didn’t allow poultry in the city of Jerusalem. And sure, the roosters’ crows could’ve traveled, but let’s stay on track, shall we?

Anyway, back to the roosters. Were there more of them, hidden throughout the grounds or slipped into the beautiful artwork and stained glass that adorn our church? Was this rooster hunt Fr. O’Doherty’s Catholic version of Where’s Waldo?

I wondered.

Knowing an answer to my question wasn’t coming immediately roosters, I pulled out my best research tools and searched for further connections between roosters and Christendom. (OK, so I Googled it.)

Throughout the centuries, roosters have symbolized a number of things. The early morning crows represent the dawning of a new day—an awakening. It’s a symbol of change and hope and a reminder of Christ’s unending mercy.

Pope Nicolas I ordered all Catholic churches to install a rooster weathervane on the steeple. Another pope, Gregory I, believed the rooster should be the official insignia for all of Christianity.

And while that was all well

and good, I wasn’t going to be satisfied until I discovered the rooster’s significance at my church.

So I met with the man himself, Fr. O’Doherty, and asked him to set the record straight. Was it a reminder of repentance that’s always available? A symbol of hope? Something more?

Turns out, none of my speculations had been accurate. Because it was not the affinity for said poultry that came first. It was the rooster itself—moreover it was the large rooster mentioned in the first paragraph. It’s actually about five feet tall and was a gift from a parishioner. And that one gift opened the proverbial chicken coop if you will, to a host of other cock-a-doodle-doos.

To date, I’ve uncovered several more roosters in and around Queen of Peace—most with Fr. O’Doherty’s help—bringing my total count to about eight or nine. He believes that’s about the extent of them.

At the end of the day, it’ll be up to the parishioners to interpret the roosters as they see fit. If nothing else, it leaves the door open for further speculation and stories—all of them true in their own way, of course. And as Father is fond of saying, “some of them actually happened.”

 

Author’s Note: As we mark the 23rd anniversary of 9/11, I’d like to share the story of Rick Rescorla. Chances are you know who he is — several documentaries feature his story as a 9/11 hero. He was also in the battle of Ia Drang. Remember the book and movie, WeWere Soldiers Once… and Young? That’s him on the cover of that book jacket.

On the 10th anniversary of 9/11, I came to know his widow Susan, who asked me to keep his story alive. In an effort to keep that promise, here’s the story I wrote about Rick after our conversations. It first appeared in Canada Free Press on Sept. 10, 2011.

Moments after the first airliner slammed into the North Tower, Rick Rescorla threw on his suit jacket and left his office on the 44th floor of 2 World Trade Center, bullhorn, walkie-talkie and cell phone in hand. It was shortly after 8:46 a.m. on Sept. 11, 2001, and an otherwise cloudless sky was filling with thick black smoke that now poured from the North Tower. The Port Authority of New York, the World Trade Center’s owner and operator, urged South Tower occupants to stay at their desks – an urging Rescorla promptly cast aside.

One could argue that Rescorla’s life had led to this point in time. Originally from the seaport town of Hayle, Cornwall, England, he’d spent his life leading and serving – as a British paratrooper, a military intelligence officer in Cyprus, a commando in Rhodesia, and a detective for Scotland Yard’s famous “Flying Squad.”

In 1963, he took the advice of his best friend Dan Hill and came to the United States. He attended basic training, applied to and later graduated from Officer Candidate School in Fort Benning, Ga., before heading overseas again – this time as an officer in the U.S. Army, where he fought in the legendary Battle of Ia Drang, his bravery and courage earning him the nickname of “Hard Core.”

Rick Rescorla
A soldier of honor to be certain, he was also a man of great humor and striking intellect, undying compassion and loyalty, Rescorla held dying soldiers in his arms, comforting them, telling them they’d be fine, no matter their condition. He sang songs he’d learned as a young boy in his native town of Hayle, his baritone voice bringing a sense of reassurance when all hope seemed lost in that valley in Vietnam. And he vowed to never leave a soldier behind.

When his deployment was over, Rescorla returned to the U.S. and became an American citizen. He believed that America was the place where anyone could accomplish anything they wanted to. He was only 28 years old, but his character was already admired by all who knew him. For Rescorla, there was no other way to live, but with honor. Such was the life he continued to create for himself over the next 30 years.

In 1984, Rescorla was hired as director of security by Dean Witter Securities, where he implemented various safeguards, including evacuation plans and drills. His security staff numbered almost 200, and each man was expected to dress in a suit and tie. Rescorla pulled money from his own pocket for those who couldn’t afford to abide by the dress code. Similarly, he rewarded those for a job well done – again, out of his own pocket.

When Pan Am flight 103 was bombed, his concerns centered on the safety of the employees. He warned the Port Authority that radical Islam would now set its sights on the United States of America, and the World Trade Center would be the perfect target. But his warnings were ignored, even after the 1993 bombing left six people dead.

He knew another hit would come, and predicted it would come from the air. Again, his warnings were left unheeded.

In 1998, Dean Witter merged with Morgan Stanley and Rescorla was promoted to vice president of security. While the Port Authority seemed to take a cavalier attitude where the threat of terrorism was concerned, Morgan Stanley did not, allowing Rescorla to develop and execute his own evacuation training. Under his direction, two guards would patrol each of the 21 floors occupied by the firm. Employees also served as fire marshals. Visitors were not allowed unless accompanied by a Morgan Stanley escort. Deliveries were not brought into the office until they’d been inspected on the ground floor. The treads of the stairwell steps were marked with fluorescent tape

Mandatory – and unannounced – evacuation drills began immediately.

That same year, Rescorla met the love of his life, Susan, who he married in February of 1999. A highly decorated officer, he rarely talked about his days in the military. He focused on his life with Susan and their plans and goals for the future. They even discussed his retirement.

But on that September morning in 2001, fate had other plans.

Rescorla was already evacuating his people when he called Dan Hill. Both suspected the first hit had been the act of terrorists. At one point, Rescorla briefly broke away from their conversation. Dan heard him singing again, just as he had in Vietnam:

Men of Cornwall, stand ye ready;
It cannot be ever said ye
For the battle were not ready;
Stand and never yield!

By 9:03 a.m., under Rescorla’s leadership, many of his people had made it out of the tower – or were at least on their way down – when United Airlines Flight 175 took a sharp left turn in the lower Manhattan sky and plowed into 2 World Trade Center, causing it to sway from side to side like a piece of tin foil on impact. As the building snapped back to vertical, people made a run for the nearest stairwell. It was filled with smoke and panic was setting in. The comforting sound of Rescorla’s voice over his bullhorn, urging them to be calm – there was another staircase. Once he verified that the second stairwell was clear, he reminded everyone to follow what they’d practiced during countless prior drills – to stay calm, get a partner, and move downstairs and out of the building as quickly as possible.

As they streamed into the stairwell, Rescorla’s voice belted out the songs he’d sung many times before. Some often wondered why he was always singing. Today, they were grateful to hear his familiar baritone voice belting out, “God Bless America.”

Shortly after helping them to the stairwell, Rescorla paused briefly to call his bride, who was sobbing almost uncontrollably.

His voice was confident and comforting. “I have to get all of my people out, and if something happens to me, I want you to know you made my life.”

The call had been short, but long enough for Susan to hear a certain finality in his voice just before the line went dead.

Dan Hill reached Rescorla one more time, pleading with him to get out of the building. The second plane hit shattered any notion that this had been an accident. The United States of America was under attack.

“I’ve got people to take care of,” he said, asking his best friend to call Susan and calm her down. The line went dead, dropping their connection.

Rescorla persisted in evacuating the building as the heat continued to build in the stairwell. But he never removed his jacket. Never quit singing. And never quit comforting all who were weary, scared, tired and without hope.

“Today is a day to be proud to be an American, tomorrow the world will be looking at you,” he said.
Fellow co-workers pleaded with him to leave the tower. He obliged them all, adding but one condition:
I’ll get out – after I’m sure everyone else is out.

Rescorla headed back up the stairwell with his deputy Wesley Mercer and two security guards. He hadn’t talked much about his days as a soldier, but in his heart, he was still a warrior, willing to sacrifice his own life if it meant no one would be left behind. Rescorla was continuing his ascent in the stairwell at 9:59 a.m., when 2 World Trade Center imploded.

Rick Rescorla’s remains were never located. But 23 years later, he lives on in the hearts of all who remember him. I hope you’ll remember him too. As for me, I’ll never forget.

He appeared out of nowhere, a little boy bouncing with little boy energy. Not one to waste time, he approached Dan and I without hesitation and began talking in toddler-speak. And we all know toddler-speak is hard to interpret, especially when it’s not being spoken in English.

But I digress.

After acknowledging him with a doting smile, we did what any normal grandparents would do. We looked around for his parents, who were nowhere to be found. Which isn’t the best case scenario when you’re on a beach awaiting the sunset—much less anywhere else. So we did the other thing normal grandparents would do. We stayed put and instituted Operation Lost Child.

As he played in the sand building little mounds around us, the obvious conversation between Dan and I began.

“You don’t think he got lost, do you?”

“Nah, I’m sure they’ll show up any minute,” Dan said. And while I heard what he said, I saw the look on his face. “Hey, hon. I’ll be right back—gonna take a few photos.”

Which was his way of saying, “Stay here with him, and hopefully when I get back, his parents will be here.”

Except that they weren’t.

“Where’s Mama?” I said to the little boy. (Thank goodness for universal words, am I right?!).

“Mama!” he exclaimed as he looked at me and smiled.

I felt like I was living a page straight out of P.D. Eastman’s book, Are You My Mother? What’s worse is I started wondering what the odds were that such a scenario—ie I would be his new mother—would shake out.

At this point, Dan was at about a 2.5 on the DEFCON scale, as he entertained visions of he and I carting the little one to the nearest police station—without a car seat, no less—to explain what had happened. And of course the leap from police station to adoption seemed the logical next step. And just like that, Dan’s dreams of retirement, daily golf, and our vacations around the world would necessarily be replaced by hockey lessons and CCD classes.

I, on the other hand, was taking a more motherly approach to the situation. He’d need a name of course. So we’d name him Francisco Liguori Cotter. Franco for short. Because nobody would mess with a name like that. Obviously, we’d need to do a full immersion into his native language, as well.

I’d order a closet full of clothes from @Gymboree, and throw in a few bow ties for Mass. We’d send him to the finest Catholic schools and groom him for the priesthood. And just as I was planning the party to follow his ordination, a woman approached us on the beach.

“Would you like me to take a photo of the three of you?”

Through nervous laughter we declined her offer, explaining that he wasn’t ours. At least not yet. She did take a photo of Dan and I, though.

After that, I took another look around the beach. A new couple had take a seat on a bench several yards away and dozens of people had come—and gone—since our ordeal began. So I decided to ask little Franco about his parents one more time.

“Where’s Mama?”

This time, he looked around and pointed to the couple on the bench.

“Mama!”

I gotta tell ya. It’s tough to say which emotion was stronger in that moment: was it relief? or disappointment for what could have been? Because in the past 15 minutes, we’d had an opportunity to let our imaginations run wild with the thought of taking in another child just as we’d emptied our own nest of children. At the end of the day though, we were elated to see him reunite with his real mama and papa.

As fate would have it, I attended Mass the next day and discovered to my amazement that it was the Feast Day of none other than Saint Alphonsus Liguori. Of course it was.

In retrospect, I sure wish we’d have agreed to that photo, if for no other reason than posterity. Regardless, the memories of little Franco will likely stay with us for years to come. And if you ever meet a priest by the name of Francisco Liguori, give us a call, won’t you?

#catholiclife #catholicwriters #catholicwritersofinstagram #venicefl #storiesfromthebeach #saintalphonsusliguori #memories #catholicparents #catholicgrandparents #goodandholypriests #sunsetsonthebeach

 

Christianity and Independence. Perhaps at first glance they seem unrelated. After all, Christians know we are dependent on God for our every breath. On the other hand, independence is nothing if not an I’ll-do-it-myself notion.

But as I was pondering the upcoming Fourth of July holiday this morning, something else occurred to me that linked these two events in an unexpected (or perhaps overlooked) way.

Certainly both repre

sent man’s freedom from tyranny. America’s independence rejected the tyranny of British rule. The death and resurrection of Christ defeated the tyranny of Satan and the powers of darkness.

The men and women who lived through these times were set apart by their unshakeable belief in their cause, whether it be the notion that all men were created equal or the promise of eternal life. So much so that each was willing to give all for the cause, up to and includ

ing their own lives.

The signers of the Declaration of Independence likewise paid a high price for their commitment to the cause of freedom. A handful were captured and brutally tortured by the British. Some lost their farms and gristmills, homes and possessions. One died in rags. Others were forced to stay on the move, never again able to settle in one location for fear of being captured by the British troops that tracked them. Much like the Apostles, they believed in the cause of freedom and the Republic they were creating. They mutually pledged their lives, fortunes and sacred honor for the cause in which they so strongly believed.
Eleven of the 12 apostles were brutally martyred in a variety of ways, to include being stoned to death, beheaded, flayed, crucified upside-down, sawn in half and stabbed to death.

Such strength and courage—such faith—is in short supply these days. Many would maintain that the world has outgrown the need for both religion and freedom—that comfort and convenience are today’s gold standard.

One quick look a

t the news is evidence that the world at large has gone mad, with America leading the way. God has been replaced by the seven deadly sins on steroids while the chains of tyranny have slowly taken root over the years.

If ever there was a time to return to God, it most certainly would be now. I often wonder, though. Is it too late? Have things gone too far. Will we soon face a great chastisement? Only God knows.

In the meantime, we still have the examples of the Apostles and America’s founders. All of them knew God was in charge. All of them knew without God, their cause was for naught.

They also knew that with God, nothing is impossible. As we ponder America’s future this Fourth of July, may we hold on to that promise and walk into the future with the same unshakeable faith—may we commit unabashedly to and maintain an unshakeable faith in God. May we speak up when it’s needed, even when facing the scorn and ridicule of those intent on shutting us down. And may we be ever vigilant in our defense of the things we treasure most: God, family, country.
Our Lady of Guadalupe, pray for us and these United States of America!

Earlier this week, Dan and I had the opportunity to pray to Saint Jude and venerate his arm, which was separated from his remains centuries ago. Now encased in a wooden reliquary, the relic is making its way across the U.S.

Saint Jude’s popularity stretches far and wide, and for good reason. Known as the Apostle of the Impossible, hehas interceded for the faithful for centuries.

Danny Thomas, actor and founder of @stjude, is perhaps one of the most well-known recipients of Saint Jude’s intercession. When he was a young husband with a child on the way, Mr. Thomas was struggling to make ends meet, so he turned to the saint in a time of desperation.

“Show me my way in life,” Thomas said, “and I will build you a shrine.”

The rest, as they say, is history.

Which leads me to recall what @grinnanedward once shared from a priest:

 

“Today,” the priest said, “we celebrate the feast of St. Jude, often called the saint of hopeless causes. Yet I believe Jude is the saint of hopeful causes, because all who come to the Lord through him in prayer believe that even the most difficult problems can be made right by God.”

May we remember that the next time we face a daunting situation and turn to Saint Jude with renewed hope.

 

Saint Jude, ora pro nobis!
#livecatholic #stjude #veneration #prayer #catholicwriter