Job ministry a "candle of hope" for those in career transition

“The loss of my job came as a lethal blow,” said a member of the St. John Neumann Job Network (SJN2) recently. “I was a dedicated employee with every intention of retiring from this company.”

That theme is echoed time and again by members of the parish’s employment ministry.

“I was with the company for 13 years and stuck through the highs and the lows,” said another person. “I really felt betrayed. I was very loyal to them.”

Nevertheless, “I was hurt, but felt God wanted me to move on and, without this happening, I probably never would have done that. I am now concentrating on the future instead of the past,” she said.

Moving on from employment loss is important, according to counselors and experts familiar with this all-too-common situation in today’s economy. Often, people identify themselves by what they do—“I’m an engineer” or “I am an executive”—that they lose not only their jobs and their income, but also part of their identity, their self-esteem and their relationships with others. Many job seekers go through stages of grief, similar to losing a loved one.

“The best advice is to let go of the anger—and do this immediately,” counseled an SJN2 member from Fairview Park. “Although you may have some self-doubt in your abilities due to being downsized, once you begin to approach your job search as a journey of growth and discovery, you will find that there is a whole new world out there.

“The church groups helped to fill the outplacement void,” he continued, “and they have had an open door to help those in need.”

“To say that my faith has been tested is an understatement,” said another member. “The job search process has been an interesting and powerful personal journey.

“I was lucky that, through volunteer work, I met some people who noticed me and offered me contract work,” she continued. “After 16 months of diligently searching—and more interviews than I care to count—I was offered a full-time position with benefits earning 50% less than my previous income.

“Luckily, I have learned humility in my search process and accepted the position after only an hour to think and pray about it.

“When God closes a door, a window always opens. However, it can be lonely in the hallway. The hallway is where we need our support groups.”

“It is human nature to feel shame and embarrassment when you find yourself in a position of helplessness,” said a member. “You put on a happy face and create an illusion that everything is OK, but in truth, you watch in horror as you consume your resources. You’re shocked that the financial security that took you years to build is being exhausted at an alarming rate. You go through periods of panic attacks, nightmares, depression and despair.”

“As far as the role SJN2 plays,” said the first person above, “well, it holds up a candle of hope. It gives you a constructive direction in which to move…In unity there is strength. We need one another to hold us up when we can’t do it alone.”

The St. John Neumann Job Network is a faith-based community outreach ministry of the parish that has been meeting since March 2009. Having grown to more than 230 members, it is open to all and free of charge, regardless of religious affiliation or residence. Most members are business professionals from the ranks of middle management, technical and operational fields.

“I look at the St. John Neumann job club as a ministry,” said a member from Broadview Heights, “and have been warmly welcomed into this group even though I am not a member or the church or a Catholic. I think this shows that God is at work in good times and bad, and that SJN2 is an outreach to the community rather than an exclusive club for parishioners.”

An ongoing need is for parishioners to serve as network contacts for members. If you learn of a job opening, are willing to make introductions at your place of employment or can acquaint a member with your field of work, you are a needed addition to the group.

“The biggest thing the parishioners can do is notify you when they hear of an opening at their place of employment and maybe a contact or referral to anyone who is qualified for the position from our group,” explained another member.

If you would like to join SJN2 as a job seeker or serve as a network contact, contact Joe Wollet at (440) 846-8080 or jwollet@gmail.com or visit the group’s next monthly meeting 7:30-8:30 p.m. Wed., May 18 in the Gathering Room.

El Salvador trip makes mark on missioners; return visit under consideration for 2012

A year after returning from El Salvador, parishioners who made the trip are still feeling its effects.

“The trip to El Salvador was one of those events in life that truly impacted the way I think about things like serving others, trying to be generous and valuing my Catholic faith,” said Marty Zachlin, one of 12 St. John Neumann parishioners to visit the Central American nation. “I have thought about and prayed for the people in Chiltiupán every day since we returned.”

“More than anything, visiting El Salvador was like going to the moon and looking back,” observed Bill Scheible. “It made me realize the enormity and diversity of God’s creation and how—even in the most desperate of circumstances—each of us has a role to play in His church.”

The mission group in January 2010 spent four nights at a modern hotel with all comforts and conveniences on a Pacific beach. While there, they traveled to the mountain village of Chiltiupán, where they met many residents, local business leaders and school children. Time was balanced between educational meetings, a service project and social events to build relationships with residents.

The parish’s El Salvador mission team is considering another trip in early 2012. Salvadoran weather in January is warm and dry, a welcome getaway from a Cleveland winter. Physical demands are minimal, so the trip can be made easily by everyone from high school-aged students through seniors.

“The trip was a chance of a lifetime,” said Alexa Davis, one of two parish staff members to travel with the group. “To see people who have virtually nothing—but are still happy—gives you a greater appreciation for all the things we have. Meeting the people was truly the best part of the trip.”

“They were the poorest and yet the most faith-filled people I have ever met,” continued Zachlin. “I am so glad I went on the mission trip and I highly recommend the opportunity to anyone else who is considering going on the second mission trip.”

“El Salvador means ‘Our Savior,’ or ‘Our Deliverer’,” explained Scheible, “and my visit to El Salvador delivered me from complacency and narrow-mindedness in my comfortable life. I will return when God shows me the way back because I left a part of myself in Chiltiupán.”

Anyone who is interested in making a trip to Chiltiupán in 2012 or has questions about the itinerary is asked to contact parishioner Joe Wollet at (440) 846-8080 or jwollet@gmail.com. Space is limited to 12–15 persons, so call or email Wollet soon to express your interest.

Eulogy for Joseph F. Wollet, Sr.

Delivered Oct. 25, 2010

Dad might be somewhat humbled by the number of people who visited the funeral home yesterday and came to Mass today. He was a shy man who never sought fanfare or attention for himself. When he was invited to The White House to have his Silver Star medal presented by President Harry Truman, Dad would not go. For him, he had seen enough of war and didn’t want to bring back its memories.

Dad came to Cleveland during the war—World War II. Like so many people in the Greatest Generation, the depression and the cataclysmic events of World War II played a pivotal role in defining him in so many ways.

Born in Jefferson, WI, to a stay-at-home mother and a woodworking father—with eight brothers and sisters, Dad had a typical small-town childhood. He played center on the high school football team. He built gas-powered model airplanes, ice skated on the Rock River and ran home on school days for a home-cooked lunch.

The war changed him a lot, though. He entered the Wisconsin National Guard, then was sent off to the infantry. Since his days building model airplanes, Dad had wanted to fly. The military gave him a chance by allowing him to join a program that brought him to Cleveland, where he attended classes at Fenn College so he could learn to fly. Dad fell in love here too, but the war and the army wouldn’t let him stay. His education ended abruptly when his flight program was cancelled and all soldiers with previous infantry experience were ordered back to the infantry.

On Christmas Eve 1944, Dad entered combat in the Ardennes forest in Belgium—the Battle of the Bulge. The things he did that night were gallant, heroic even, but they would haunt him for the rest of his days. Fast forward 25 years now, to a Christmas Eve in Walton Hills, and picture Dad trying to enjoy the holiday season with Mom, his daughter and his three sons. While the kids eagerly waited for Santa, Dad wept silently, haunted by the demons of the war.

Dad returned to Cleveland after his military service and became an auto mechanic. He eventually took up the trade of his father, his brother and several of his nephews—working with wood. As a carpenter, he built houses, including his own on Kydan Lane, but got special satisfaction from cabinet-making, crafting beautiful yet functional pieces of art with a miter saw, a lathe and the other tools he used so skillfully.

When he wasn’t working, Dad loved fishing, camping and boating with Mom and us boys at Kelleys Island. After they became empty nesters, they escaped Cleveland’s winters by heading to Naples, FL. They did that together until a year or so before Mom died, 15 years ago last night.

Dad wasn’t much for speaking, but lived his life humbly through his deeds. He exemplified:

* Courage, sacrifice, honor and perseverance in living through both the depression and the war.

* Dedication, care, hard work and quiet pride, both in his craft and in raising his family. He always said how proud he was of each of his children.

* Generosity to his children, his grandchildren and his great-grandchildren.

He was always ready to crack a joke, even up to his last week alive, and seemed to have a permanent smile on his face. Dad’s legacy won’t be in buildings or foundations or highways named after him, but in the dwellings he built for others and in the values he instilled in his family. He graced us with his love, often expressed in his own quiet way, for 87 years. Today he’s with Mom in a new dwelling place built for him.

Demos Gracias Al Señor

On a trip to Chiltiupán, El Salvador this past January, members of our group were taught this song. It has a simple melody that's easy to follow and learn.

Whenever I hear the song, I'm taken back to the chapel where we learned it, the site where Sister Dorothy Kazel and three other American church women were buried in shallow graves after being murdered by the Salvadoran government.

Demos gracias al Señor, demos gracias,
Demos gracias al Señor (2 veces)

1. Por las mañanas las aves cantan
las alabanzas a Cristo el Salvador (2)

2. Y por las tardes las flores cantan
las alabanzas a Cristo el Salvador (2)

3. Y por las noches los cielos cantan
las alabanzas a Cristo el Salvador (2 veces)

4. Y a todas las horas los hombres cantan
las alabanzas.a Cristo el Salvador (2)

5. Y tú hermano por qué no cantas
las alabanzas a Cristo el Salvador (2)

On happiness

A friend posed a question yesterday about happiness. Why it is that some people exude happiness and others do not? What makes people happy?

Although I am no expert, I do have the benefit of 54 years of experience. Happiness, in my view, is in the mind and heart of the beholder. Money, accolades, stature in life or similar values have no relevance in defining one's happiness. I've known people who made a quarter of a million dollars a year who were as dour as anyone could be. I've met people with impressive titles and honors in whose shoes I would not want to walk.

On the contrary, I've met people who have little in the way of worldly goods who have been extremely happy people. People who put other people before themselves. People who value family and friends. People whose faith abides.

Happiness is what you make it. If you want happiness, you will be happy. If you feel down and out, you will be down and out. So enjoy life, enjoy what God has given you. Count your blessings and don't compare yourself to what others have. That will do you no good whatsoever.

Concern yourself with giving happiness and you will reap happiness in return.

Kent State at 40

My dad was driving me home that day when we heard the news on the car radio. I clearly remember we were on Northfield Road in Bedford, not too far from Chanel High School, heading south.

"It's about time somebody did something about those hippies," or words to that effect, came from my dad's mouth. A World War II veteran, Dad was not very tolerant of anti-war protests, thinking it was unpatriotic to question the government. Years later, though, he admitted he was wrong about the war, realizing it was very, very different from his war.

"My God," I thought, "four years from now, that could be me." A freshman in high school, I was horrified that soldiers would turn and fire live ammo at a group of students. I distinctly remember wondering what my dad's thoughts would be if it was me on campus that terrifying day.

In part because of the Kent State shootings, I decided to attend Bowling Green State Unviersity. The idea of going to Kent was just too chilling.

While at Bowling Green, I worked for the student newspaper, The BG News, which always commemorated the shootings. On May 4, 1977, during my tenure as editor-in-chief of The BG News, we ran John Filo's photo of Mary Ann Vecchio screaming in anguish over the dead body of a fellow student, together with an editorial reminding our fellow students not to forget.

In the years since then, I've often paused to remember the shootings and how they affected not only me, but our nation. On May 4, 1995, I was flying to Cleveland with my young son. We were living in Alabama at the time, but coming home to visit my dying mother. As the plane made its final approach to Cleveland Hopkins airport, I remember thinking how it seemed impossible that 25 years had passed since the shootings.

The day is indelibly etched in my mind. Before we had Sept. 11, 2001, our generation had May 4, 1970.

We must never forget.

Five successful years

Five years ago this morning, I was laid out in the operating room, getting my gut cut open for an RNY gastric bypass procedure. It was the best thing I've ever done for myself. If I had to do it over again, I'd do it in a heartbeat.

Before I started, I tipped the scales at 428 lbs. When I weighed myself yesterday, I was 244 lbs. In between, I dropped as low as 216 lbs. before bouncing back a bit. Gastric bypass probably saved my life, as I can now do things I had only imagined previously, like a 73-mile backpacking trip last summer.

I'm grateful to the surgeons, nurses, nutritionists and other medical professionals who did my procedure. I'm most grateful to my family and the online buddies I made at ObesityHelp.com. What a great support system!

Petroglyphs in the canyon

Saturday, January 23, 2010

Mauricio escorts Regis and me on a hike to the canyon of the river to see 2,000-year-old petroglyphs. We ride in his pickup truck down a bumpy dirt road to a turnaround point, then continue on foot until we reach the river.

From there, we hop boulders about a mile downstream, then up a small side canyon about 50 feet to see the petroglyphs. Mauricio says the petroglyphs are only found here. He doesn’t know who carved them, but they are extremely detailed carvings. He points out a couple that represent monkeys, including a baby monkey.

The hike back up out of the canyon is grueling for me. The steep trail and the heat of the midday sun conspire against me. Regis does well, but is also a bit winded, whereas Mauricio—at 62 or 63—barely breaks a sweat.

Back in Chiltiupan, Mauricio takes us to his home, where he and his wife bring out a fan to cool us, then offer fresh lemonade and delicious slices of pineapple, papaya and mango.

Sister Rose meets us at Mauricio's house, then drives Regis and me back to La Libertad to meet up with the rest of our group. Shortly, we all depart for an afternoon in San Salvador.

Left behind in Chiltiupan

January 22, 2010

Today we met with a group of women embroiderers. Some time ago, Sr. Rose found a trunk of yarn and gave it to a group of local women who either knew how to crochet and embroider or wanted to learn. The craftwork was beautiful and the women's stories touching.

Later we visited a woman making ground corn flour tortillas. Each member of our group had an opportunity to make a tortilla. We asked how much one tortilla cost and the woman who taught us said five cents each. I bought a bag of 6-8 tortillas and gave her $2.00. She didn’t want that much, but I urged her to keep it.

After that, we returned to Sr. Rose’s house for lunch. Sister had fixed sloppy joes with fresh fruit and vegetables, plus a few hot pupusas filled with cheese. The tortillas I bought, as well as the pupusas, were quite delicious.

They say no good deed goes unpunished. After lunch, the group departed to see the handiwork of yesterday’s service project, but they left without me.

I had to visit the restroom and knew it would take me a few minutes, so I held back until everyone else had an opportunity to use it. Even though I did my business very quickly, when I went out I found the house vacant except for Sister’s housekeeper. They had already gone.

There’s no one left except me and no way for me to catch up with them. I wouldn’t even know where to tell someone to go, as Sister just described it as a Mass in a canton after visiting Trini and Andres.

I walk up to the square by the church of Santo Domingo, sit down on a bench and watch what’s going on in the town. An old orange Datsun pickup truck loaded with cabbages and melons parks in front of the church. A young boy of 10 or 11 gets out, followed by his father. They pick out a pair of huge cabbages for sale to prospective customers. The lady who makes tortillas in the little stand across the square turns down the boy’s offer, but the father appears to have made a sale to another customer.

Vendors in trucks and vans with loudspeakers mounted on the roof go up and down the streets playing recordings to hawk their wares.

“Hot personal pizza with ham and mozzarella cheese, Italian style, one dollar!” crows the recorded voice repeatedly from one truck.

I need to find out why Santo Domingo de Guzman is shown with a dog. Both the large statue on top of the church and another statue I have seen both show him with a dog.

Local men stop outside the church to greet me, including the man I saw yesterday with a Webelos Scout cap on. He tells me his name is Luis and I think he’s waiting to go to the clinic. I think he says he needs glasses.

Luis wears worn black leather dress shoes, one with a piece of cheap aqua nylon twine as a shoelace. A thin cord holds up his trousers in lieu of a belt.

I walk the town, see a young kitten and make an instant friend. Two dogs see me as a threat on their turf and bark menacingly. I retreat to a little shop, where I buy a cold beer for a dollar.

From there, it’s back to Sister’s house, where the housekeeper, Luce, recognizes me. I share my story of being left behind through a mixture of English, Spanish and gestures. She says she understands.

I take a chair to Sister’s front porch and pass the time people-watching.

The lady who taught us to make tortillas comes down the hill with a big basket of empanadas con leche. I buy one for twenty cents and it is very tasty. The custard is warm and sweet, the dough warm and crumbly, like a shortbread cookie.

It is so peaceful here. Across the street, people in the small shop chat while waiting on customers. Latin music emanates from a loudspeaker. Dogs and cats wander past.

Roosters crow and turkeys gobble. In the distance—a block or two away—I hear pigeons cooing too.

Missionaries of another faith pass by, along with other foot traffic and an assortment of vehicles.

In some respects, the houses vary so much. In town, the main streets have pleasant adobe and stucco construction, handsomely crafted metal grates or grillwork over the doors and windows, and colorfully painted walls.

Just a block or two away, the quality of housing drops quickly. The tin-roofed shacks are mere hovels with dirt floors, yet they are home to very lovely people.

As I sit writing, two boys—Juan and Jose—stop to see me. Perhaps they intend to visit Sister Rose. Then again, it just might be that I am a curiosity. They tell me their names and ages—eight and nine—but quickly tire of this foreigner who cannot speak Spanish, so they move on.

Our group must be in Santa Lucia now. Mass will be over, but I’m not sure what they are supposed to be doing next. On one hand, it bugs me not to be along just because I was last in line for the restroom. On the other hand, though, I am enjoying the “silencio” of sitting and writing.

Chris and Terri will be working hard finishing the findings and recommendations for our client in Chicago, so I feel a small bit of guilt being here, so far removed from work. Still, I feel I’m learning a lot here and, in some small way, can take back what I learned and share it with people at home.

Dawn breaks in La Libertad

Friday, January 22,2010 -- La Libertad

The night security guard, wearing a baseball cap, a red Mickey Mouse sweatshirt and dark slacks to ward off the morning chill, greets me with a wave and a warm bueno’ dia’ as he makes his rounds carrying a shiny sawed-off shotgun.

Just in the first five minutes on the hotel terrace this morning, the guard’s appearance illustrates to me the contradictions I see in El Salvador. His warm greeting is juxtaposed against his firearm.

The people we have seen and met are rich in family and faith, yet poor in material goods. The land, the mountains and the Pacific coast are all beautiful, yet the guard’s shotgun represents ongoing violence here from street gangs and drugs.

The sun is coming up quickly and the workaday noises of an awakening city increase. An attendant skims the hotel pool while another man prepares coffee behind the bar. On the mountain in the distance behind the pool, ramshackle homes of corrugated steel dot the hillside.

One small boat plies grey Pacific waters heading west while 18-wheelers and buses toot airhorns as they head east on the highway out front. A cool easterly breeze puts a little nip in the air.