Real Catholics Don't Just Sit There

Just before Christmas 1999, my eldest sister, Nancy, was diagnosed with breast cancer. Until then, no one in my immediate family had been seriously ill, so I had never really given much thought to death.

My spiritual life before my sister's illness was also casual. What's sad is that I thought I was a fantastic Catholic. I thought this because I attended Mass every Sunday, fed the homeless from time to time and went to confession at least once a year.

Nancy's illness changed me, though. I can't pinpoint the exact moment I realized my spiritual life needed to deepen. There was no burning bush. No visits from an angel.

All I remember, during the first few months after my sister's diagnosis, was being very scared — not only for her, but also for myself. I became aware, for the first time, how little control I had over my own life and how little I really knew of my own faith.

During this time, my wife and I were living in New York City. I was working at the New York Times, doing research for an op-ed columnist. One of the subjects my boss wrote about was abortion. Like most liberal journalists, he was in favor of it. As a practicing pro-life Catholic, I was always deeply troubled by his pro-choice views. But I was making good money, the Times was a prestigious place to work and my boss was very personable. So I never once thought about leaving my job.

In other words, I was a Catholic pretending to be Catholic.

Leo Tolstoy, the great Russian novelist, put it a little more poetically: “A man who professes an external law is like someone standing in the light of a lantern fixed to a post. It is a light all around him, but there is nowhere further for him to walk. A man who professes the teaching of Christ is like a man carrying a lantern before him on a long pole: The light is in front of him, always lighting up fresh ground and always encouraging him to walk further.”

Reflecting on that insight, I knew I had to embark on a spiritual quest.

As the months went by, I began to read dozens of books by and about faith-filled Catholics. I read the Bible. My wife and I went on pilgrimage to Lourdes. I prayed and, in the fall of 2000, found the courage to quit my job. I discerned that God wanted me to apply my talents to teaching poor youths, so I headed to Harlem to do that.

Then, last July, my 79-year-old father, who lives near Tampa, Fla., suffered a stroke.

I flew down to see my parents and was only going to be in town briefly before heading home to New York. More tests, however, revealed that my dad was beginning to suffer from Alzheimer's. My wife and I were faced with a choice: Do we live far away or do we move closer since my mom doesn't drive and her health is starting to decline as well? Nancy lives the closest to them, in Miami, but her cancer has now spread to her liver.

Recognizing that sacrificial loving is the heart of Jesus' message on the cross, we made our decision based on faith: We moved to Florida.

Now we live close enough to help take care of them. I'm happier now, knowing that I'm doing what God wants and not just going through the motions. I'm happier because I have the faith and trust that his love for me will be like a lantern on a pole illuminating the way to heaven.

Carlos Briceno writes from Seminole, Florida.