Tag: travel

A Tale of Two Sites: A Franciscan Reflection from Baltimore

By a Secular Franciscan Observer

When I arrived in Baltimore for the National Chapter meeting, I expected fellowship, prayer, and peace—and I found all of that. Yet I also encountered something unexpected: a quiet spiritual tension.

As I walked the grounds of the places we visited, I carried with me certain difficult truths I had come to know beforehand. They became part of my inner dialogue throughout the gathering. Two sites—each beautiful, each steeped in history—led me into a deeper reflection on what it means to live our Catholic and Franciscan vocation with honesty and compassion.

A Peaceful Place That Stirred a Deep Memory

Our meeting was held at a serene retreat center owned by the Sisters of Bon Secours. The setting was peaceful, and our time together was filled with moments of grace—especially when Carolyn Towns received the annual Justice, Peace, and Integrity of Creation (JPIC) Award.

While nothing was said about the past, I found myself quietly recalling something I had previously learned about the Bon Secours Mother and Baby Homes in Ireland. There, long ago, vulnerable women were placed in institutions where many served without pay, and many of their children died and were buried in unmarked graves.

No one spoke of this at the retreat, nor did I expect them to. It was simply something that came with me, unbidden, as I walked the grounds—a reminder of how our Church’s history holds both great love and real sorrow. That awareness did not diminish the beauty of the place or the kindness of the sisters who welcomed us. It simply deepened my prayer, making it more tender.

Echoes Across Continents

Those quiet thoughts also called to mind similar histories closer to home, such as the Indian residential schools in Canada and the United States, where Indigenous children were taken from their families, stripped of their identities, and often never returned. These stories, too, are part of our shared Catholic past.

They reminded me how easily institutions created to nurture can also cause harm—and how healing begins with honest remembrance. This was not part of our gathering, yet it was part of what I carried in my heart as I prayed for peace and justice.

A Quiet Moment of Honesty at the Shrine

Later in the week, we visited the St. Anthony Shrine. The shrine stands on land once owned by Charles Carroll of Carrollton—the largest Catholic slaveholder in U.S. history and the only Catholic signer of the Declaration of Independence.

Our tour included not only the grounds but also the interior of the complex, which has been cared for by the Conventual Franciscan Friars since they purchased the property in the 1920s. Inside, there was abundant evidence of our rich Franciscan heritage—statues, devotional artwork, and architectural details that spoke to nearly a century of prayer and ministry by the friars.

Yet as I walked through the buildings and grounds, something quietly stirred in me. I saw no visible remembrance or images of the enslaved people who had lived and labored there long before the friars arrived—no pictorial history of the slave quarters once on the property, no mention of the slave cemetery that has since been discovered, and no acknowledgment of the enslaved people who are believed to have built at least one of the original structures still standing.

This absence was not something I took as neglect or erasure; rather, it simply struck me as a silence. It reminded me that these stories often remain hidden unless we choose to seek them out and name them. And it deepened the impact of what came next.

In a quiet and heartfelt moment, our guide Ray, a fellow Secular Franciscan, gently pointed to a distant field where the enslaved once lived and, after I asked about the history of the land, he told me that a cemetery had been discovered there. It was a simple act of truth-telling. Hearing the story spoken aloud in that beautiful space felt like a small act of healing—acknowledging that our sacred places can hold both sorrow and grace, and that remembering is itself a form of love.

The Franciscan Call to Hold Truth Gently

What stayed with me most from both sites is this: as Franciscans, we are not called to turn away from the world’s pain, nor to condemn, but to hold the whole truth gently—in prayer, in humility, and with hope.

The Sisters of Bon Secours offered us gracious hospitality. The shrine offered quiet beauty and reverence. And my heart brought its own history to both places. That mix of grace and sorrow, welcome and memory, reminded me that true peace begins when we dare to see all of it, and still choose love.

Finding Peace in the Woods of Northern Michigan:

I feel the pull of the woods in my bones—a call to return, to refresh, to reconnect with the simplicity and peace that St. Francis so cherished in nature. Growing up in Northern Michigan, straddling the Upper and Lower Peninsulas, the forests, rivers, and lakes shaped me. They were my sanctuary then, and they remain so now. Life has a way of pulling me away, but the woods always beckon me back, offering the renewal my soul craves.

The Au Sable River: A Baptism of Joy

There’s something sacred about the Au Sable River, its cool waters winding through the trees. As a child, I’d splash in its shallows, the sound of my laughter mingling with the current. Fishing there was a lesson in patience—waiting for a trout to nibble, pole in hand, the sun filtering through the pines. Today, fishermen from all over the world call it the “Holy Waters,” drawn to its legendary trout and tranquil beauty. Even now, the memory of those moments washes over me like a baptism, cleansing the clutter from my mind and reminding me of life’s simple joys.

Lake Huron: Running Free

The beaches of Lake Huron were my endless playground. I’d run along the shore, the sand soft beneath my feet, the wind pushing me forward as the waves roared their approval. That freedom, that expanse of water stretching to the horizon, felt like God’s own invitation to let go and live. Today, when the world feels heavy, I long to return to that shore, to run again and feel the weight lift with every step.

Lake Superior: Treasures in the Stones

Sitting on the rocky shores of Lake Superior, I’d hunt for agates—those gleaming gems polished by time and tide. Each one was a small miracle, a gift from the Creator hidden among the ordinary stones. That quiet search, with the waves lapping and the gulls crying overhead, taught me to look for beauty in the overlooked. I need that stillness again, that slow, deliberate peace that only Superior’s shores can offer.

Bridges of Memory

The Mackinac Bridge looms large in my past, a towering link between my two homes—the Upper and Lower Peninsulas. Every trip across was an event, the water sparkling below, the hum of the car on the grates a song of adventure. I also remember watching the International Bridge to Canada take shape, a marvel rising from the earth, connecting my world to something bigger. Those bridges still call me back, promising passage to the places that hold my heart.

Mackinac Island: A Timeless Escape

Even now, I return to Mackinac Island with my wife, Kathleen, finding refuge in its timeless charm. Together, we sit at our favorite watering hole, a bourbon in hand, watching the world drift by in peaceful rhythm. The island is our escape, a haven where we can breathe deeply and feel the presence of God in the stillness. It’s a place where time unwinds, where the clatter of modern life gives way to the clip-clop of hooves and the scent of fudge on the breeze. Returning there with her has deepened its magic, blending nostalgia with new memories as we share in its serenity.

The Wild Ones: Eagles, Wolves, and Whispers of Sasquatch

The woods of Northern Michigan teem with life—eagles slicing through the sky, their wings a testament to grace and power; wolves moving silent through the trees, guardians of the wild; mountain lions, rare and elusive, a whisper of the untamed. And then there are the tales of Sasquatch, that mysterious figure lurking in the shadows. I smile at the thought—whether real or legend, it adds a spark of wonder to my woodland home. These creatures, known and unknown, remind me of the vastness of creation, a divine tapestry I’m privileged to witness.

Home, My Peace

Northern Michigan is more than a place—it’s my peace, my roots, my refuge. The woods, the waters, the wildlife—they call me back when my spirit grows weary. I hear God’s voice most clearly here, in the rustle of leaves, the ripple of a river, the cry of an eagle. St. Francis praised the Creator through all He made, and in these woods, I do the same. I need to return, to walk those familiar paths, to sit by those shores, to find my peace again. It’s my home, and it always will be.

Peace, Mike