is getting revamped

Many of you know that I’ve been dedicating my life to finishing a new film about Medjugorje. It’s called The Triumph, and it is almost ready for release.

Unfortunately that meant I had a little time for other important aspects of my work, such as the Catholic Daily network of blogs. We got hit by a virus and a number of other problems arose all at the same time, and I began to feel like “something” was trying to distract me from finishing what I believe is the most important film I’ve ever done. So, I had to ignore all the problems and focus on the film. I apologize to all the bloggers who no longer had their blogs headlined… the blogs themselves were never affected, it was the main homepage that was.

Now, however, I’m rebuilding to be a much simpler website where the blogs and the articles by the bloggers are the main focus. It’s no longer a news website, it is now primarily a blog website. You can see it so far at More features are to come, but for a start, all blog posts will be immediately headlined automatically when our bloggers publish them on their blogs. Also, the new RSS feature will allow outside sites to more easily syndicate the blog posts.

I will update you again soon, but I encourage all of our bloggers to come back and share your reflections on the many amazing events taking place in the Catholic Church right now. I will ensure that plenty of readers come your way.

Thank you and God bless,


St. John the Lateran Cathedral

Just thought I’d pass on this little known fact of the Catholic world. Today, November 9, 2011, is the feast of St. John the Lateran. The Archbasilica of St. John Lateran is the cathedral of the Church of Rome, which makes it the official ecclesiastical seat of the Bishop of Rome, the Pope!

St. John the Lateran

It is the oldest among the four major basilicas of Rome and has the title of ecumenical mother church, or mother church of the whole inhabited world. All of this and it’s not even located within the geographical boundaries of Vatican City.

I visited the St. John Lateran Cathedral in Rome last year with my wife, Lisa, and our two children, Anna and James. It was a wonderful place filled with ancient Christian artwork and a very palpable peace. On this particular day, the light was streaming into the cathedral just above the altar, making for a truly ethereal experience. We snapped many photos, including the one on this post.

Today, November 9, is also my mother’s birthday, and, incidentally, also the one-year anniversary of my grandfather’s passing (see the story about his life and death here). If that were not enough of a coincidence, one of my grandmothers died last week very suddenly from pancreatic cancer, and her funeral is being held today. Please pray for both my grandfather, Patrick, and my grandmother, Nancy.

Returning from San Francisco

I’m soaring above the United States right now, reveling in the wonders of modern technology and experiencing in-flight WiFi for the very first time. Whereas long flights used to give me a chance to catch up on praying, reading, or sleeping, now I’m finding myself working.

It’s almost impossible to be disconnected these days. Sometimes I love to see that my Blackberry is devoid of service, but it is getting increasingly difficult to stray far enough off the beaten path to enjoy such peace and isolation from the modern world. Now, for better or worse, I find myself connected to the Internet in a jet some 30,000 feet above the earth. At least it gives me a chance to send out this update.

My last blog post was about my upcoming trip to Brazil. It was an absolutely amazing adventure, and I met some wonderful Brazilian people that I hope to stay in contact with for the rest of my life. One highlight was celebrating Mass with the bishop of Rio de Janeiro in the small chapel that’s located just below “Cristo,” the statue of Jesus that towers above a mountain known as Corcovado. We were there on the 80th anniversary of that magnificent statue. Another highlight was celebrating the feast day of Our Lady of Aparacida with hundreds of thousands of Brazilians. More on this later.

Right now I’m heading home from a double-showing of my new film, If Only We Had Listened, in Antioch, California, near San Francisco. I presented the film in the historic, beautifully-restored El Campanil Theater and answered questions from the audience while standing on a stage that I was later told had once been graced by the likes of Bob Hope and dozens of other famous entertainers. The response to the film was wonderful and very encouraging. Please consider helping Immaculee and I promote the film and spread the message of Kibeho in advance of the upcoming 30th anniversary of the apparitions: November 28, 2011. Anyone can host a screening at a church or theater, and we can help you. Here’s some more information.

Thank you for reading, and God bless.

Off to Brazil

This evening, I’m flying to Rio de Janeiro, and I will be in Brazil for the next several days.  I was asked to film Immaculee Ilibagiza while she speaks to a crowd of over 100,000 people.  It seems that Immaculee’s message of forgiveness and peace has struck a chord with the Brazilians, and now, although they may not know it, they are also about to learn about Kibeho.

In case you’re not aware, Immaculee is a survivor of the genocide in Rwanda.  Nearly her entire family was killed, and she survived by hiding in a small bathroom with seven other women for 90 days.  She entered the bathroom weighing 115 pounds; when the genocide had ended and she emerged, she only weighed about 60 pounds.

The book she wrote about her experiences, called LEFT TO TELL, became a New York Times bestseller.  Within that powerful book, Immaculee recounts how the power of prayer and faith carried her through unimaginable darkness and despair.

She and I produced a film together, called IF ONLY WE HAD LISTENED, which tells the story of the apparitions of Kibeho and how the Virgin Mary warned about the genocide before it happened.  I have come to learn that although Immaculee’s message of forgiveness is close to heart, she’s happiest when she gets the chance to speak about Our Lady of Kibeho.  The apparitions and messages of Kibeho are constantly on her mind.

In fact, Immaculee is trying to encourage people, including you, to help promote Kibeho by celebrating the upcoming feast day, Nov. 28, 2011, which also happens to be the 30th anniversary of the apparitions.  That date will also be the 10th anniversary of the Vatican’s approval of the first three Kibeho visionaries, Alphonsine, Anathalie and Marie Claire.  More on that later.

Now, as I prepare to go to Brazil, please pray that the people there will not only embrace Immaculee’s story of forgiveness, but also the messages of Kibeho. I will write a follow-up post about my trip after my return.

The great divide between life and death

The hospice ward where my grandfather lay dying was on the same floor as the hospital’s maternity ward.  I found it comforting and beautiful to think that people were entering this world in such close proximity to where they were also exiting it.  For some, their missions were concluding; for others, they had just begun.

As I waited by my grandfather’s side with a rosary in my hand, I saw an orderly walk by pushing a gurney upon which there was a body covered by a sheet.  At that exact moment, I heard the faint wail of a newborn infant, and I imagined the soul who was leaving giving advice to the one who was just starting out.

Don’t take one moment for granted. 

It will be over before you know it.

Be nice to everyone you meet.

Love with all your heart.

I laughed when I thought about my grandfather’s playful sense of humor and what he might say, instead, to someone just coming to this world.

Work hard and be good, but not too good. 

Adopt at least one mutt in your life; it will be the best dog you’ve ever had. 

Be a fan of the Miami Dolphins, even if they never win a game. 

Go fishing often, even if you don’t wet a line. 

Never trust a man who doesn’t drink.

The infant—who was likely now coddled in his mother’s arms for the first time—stopped crying.  I looked down at my grandfather.  Now in his final hours, he, too, had become like an infant, unable to speak, incapable of feeding himself, vulnerable yet beautiful.  His eyes reminded me of how the eyes of my own children looked in their first moments: dark, foggy, and rarely open.

I took his large, calloused hand in mine and held it tightly as his body trembled.  When he was young, my grandfather—Patrick was his name, but people affectionately called him Pat—was tall, handsome, and blonde-haired.  Everyone loved his sense of humor and, according to my grandmother, the ladies, herself included, were enamored with his blue eyes and large, kissable lips.  After college, Pat had joined the US Marines and was sent to the Korean War.  He had hoped to fight for his country but instead arrived after the battles had ceased, so he passed his time hunting pheasants.  He enlisted a Korean boy to retrieve the birds.

After the war, my grandfather married my grandmother and they moved to Florida at a time when air-conditioning was non-existent.  Back then, it was like moving to the frontier, but far hotter and replete with mosquitos.  He took a job as a sales agent for Pratt & Whitney, an aerospace company in Florida, and started a family with my grandmother.  They had two children: Daniel, my father, and Patricia, my aunt.

Grandpa’s smile and sense of humor led to success at his job, but it was how he lived outside of work that really made him special.  He took full advantage of the wildness and adventure that still existed in Florida at that time.  He built a swamp buggy and took his friends and family camping in the Everglades where they shot empty beer cans with .22 rifles and caught rattlesnakes with burlap sacks.  He fixed up an old boat and went fishing for sailfish and mahi mahi in the Gulf Stream, telling my grandmother he was out hunting for mermaids.  He took the family on road trips to the Keys where they caught lobster from the reefs and scoured break-walls for driftwood treasures, although his idea of treasure might be considered trash by many.

He lived life to the fullest, and, although I only knew him in the last thirty-two years of his life, a big part of him made its way into me. There are certain things that I will never forget about him. For example, he smoked Tiparillo cigars for many years; I still use some of his empty cigar boxes to hold my keepsakes, and the smell of the smoke from a Tiparillo is etched into my senses.  He loved old Country Western music, war movies, dogs of all kinds, and his riding lawnmower which he used like a little tractor, hauling firewood and junk.  He found peace in nature.  He carved out a “jungle trail” in the wooded lot next to his home and nailed coffee cans to the pine trees which he filled with pecans, hoping to befriend the squirrels. My fondest memory, though, is sitting on his lap on the balcony of his waterfront house early one morning; in silence, we watched the sun rise over the St. Lucie River as white egrets erupted from their mangrove perches like angels taking flight.

I thank God for his influence in my life. God, however, was one of the few things that he and I never talked about, and as he began to slip away in the hospice, I started to wonder what he believed.  I had no doubts that he had faith.  He was an altar server during his childhood and came from a devout Irish Catholic background, but I had never really known him to attend Mass.

On the day after he passed away, I would find out the reason for this when I asked my grandmother about grandpa’s beliefs.

“When he was a young man, Pat was very much a Catholic,” she said.  “He had a stronger belief in God than I did.  He had no doubts.  But when he got married the first time—”

“Whoa, what?” I interrupted her.  “Grandpa was married before you?”

She smiled.  “I wasn’t sure if you knew that.  Yes, he married a girl named Anna, in a Catholic wedding, right before he went off to Korea.  While he was there, they kept in touch through letters, but, one day, she stopped responding.  When he got back from Korea, she was gone.  She had just disappeared, and he never heard from her or saw her again.”

I was shocked.  I had never even considered the possibility that my grandfather had been married to someone else.  “And then he met you?” I asked.

“That’s right,” said my grandmother, trying to hold back her tears.  “We wanted to get married, but the Church would not allow it.  Your grandfather really wanted to get married in a Catholic Church—his faith was so strong—but the clergy said ‘no’ because of his previous marriage to Anna.  Well, we wanted to start a family together, so we had a simple non-church wedding, which made it so that we could no longer receive Communion. Your grandfather was very hurt by the Church. He didn’t understand how they could be so rigid about his previous marriage, and he stopped going to Mass.”

I was sad for my grandfather.  I explained to my grandmother that the Catholic Church had made great strides since then, especially in cases of annulments for extenuating circumstances.

“I know,” she said with a smile.  “Not long ago, your grandfather and I got married again.”

“You did what?”

“We got married again, but we didn’t tell anyone.  The Church finally annulled his previous marriage, and he was able to fulfill one of his biggest wishes in life… for us to be married in a Catholic Church.”

That night as my grandfather lay dying, however, I did not know anything about his previous marriage nor his history with the Church.  All I knew was that he was the kindest, most loving man I had ever known.  As the sun began to set, I decided that I would do everything I could to ensure that his transition to the next world would be a peaceful one.  He had, after all, done so much for me in my life, and I was finally presented with a way that I could help him. I loved him dearly. And, by the end of that night, I would have three experiences that confirmed to me that God loved him dearly, too.

It began with a song.  My grandmother and aunt had spent the entire day with my grandfather.  As they were about to leave, the hospital chaplain—a bubbly Baptist man with a calm, Southern voice—asked if we could all pray together around my grandfather.  We were all a little bit uncomfortable with his suggestion at first—we’re Catholics, thank you very much—but we reluctantly held hands with the chaplain in a circle around my sleeping grandfather.  The prayer was simple and non-denominational enough: blessings for Pat and his family, and a reminder of Jesus’ love.  But then, quite suddenly, the chaplain announced that he felt called to sing.

Oh no, I thought to myself, and I could see that my grandmother and aunt were equally nervous.  What was he going to sing?  A Baptist hymn?

But then, suddenly, he opened his mouth and the most beautiful song came out.  Ave Maria.

As the chaplain belted out the Latin in a deep, melodic voice that seemed like it could have come out of Pavarotti, we were all shocked and intensely moved.  My grandfather, too, reacted to the song, moving his hands up and down slightly; I imagined that, in his mind, he was probably joking around and pretending to be conducting a symphony.  When the song was over, the chaplain looked just as surprised as we were, and he thanked us and hurried towards the door.

“Wait,” I said.  “Can you call the nearest Catholic church and see if a priest can come give my grandfather the blessing of the sick today?”

The chaplain smiled, nodded, and walked out.  I told my grandmother that I wanted to stay with my grandfather alone that night at the hospice.  I did not know why; I just felt a strong urge to be there with him the entire night.  My grandmother was happy that I wanted to stay, and she headed home with my aunt.  She had barely gotten any rest since my grandfather’s debilitating stroke that had happened the previous week, so I was hopeful that she would sleep peacefully knowing that I was there with him.

Moments after she left, the chaplain stuck his head in the door.  “I called the church,” he said, “but they can’t send a priest until tomorrow.”

“OK,” I said.  “Hopefully that’s enough time.”

It was November 8, 2010—the night before my mother’s birthday—and so I called her from the hospice. I explained that the nurses and doctors said that my grandfather was passing away, and that it might be a few days or a week before he finally died.

“You should pray the Divine Mercy chaplet,” she said.  My mother had recently developed a strong devotion to Divine Mercy, which involves messages that Jesus gave to St. Faustina illustrating his unfathomable love for mankind.

“I will,” I promised.  Minutes later I was Googling the chaplet and I came across this quote:

As for the Chaplet of The Divine Mercy, Jesus told St. Faustina: “My daughter, encourage souls to say the chaplet which I have given to you. It pleases Me to grant everything they ask of Me by saying this chaplet… Write that when they say this chaplet in the presence of the dying, I will stand between My Father and the dying person, not as the just Judge but as the merciful Savior.”

That was all I needed to read.  I grabbed my rosary and knelt down next to my grandfather’s bed, but I felt like I should go to Confession before beginning, if for no other reason than to be spiritually pure for such an important prayer.  My thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.  I turned around and, to my astonishment, a Catholic priest was coming into the room.

“I thought you couldn’t come until tomorrow,” I said.

He nodded.  “Yes, but then right after I got off the phone with the chaplain, something came up that I have to do tomorrow, and my schedule became free tonight. So, here I am.”

“Will you hear my Confession?” I blurted out.  The priest was a bit stunned at first, but then he smiled, and I could sense that he understood the reason for my wish.

“Sure, I can do that,” he said, and there—in that cold, dark hospice room—I cleansed my soul.

The priest then prayed over my grandfather for a long time and anointed him with oil, but afterwards he did not seem to want to leave, and I was happy about that.  For the next hour, he led me in prayers for my grandfather.  We held his hands as we recited the litany of saints, imploring them to carry my grandfather home.

This is what Catholicism is all about, I thought to myself.  It’s the bridge between this world and the next, the apex of the Great Divide.

By the time the priest did depart, a palpable peace had filled the room. I like to think of that peace as a symbol of my grandfather—moved by the kindness of that priest—making amends with the Church that he had loved so much.

Filled with God’s love, I knelt beside by grandfather and prayed the entire Divine Mercy chaplet, and then I fell asleep in the chair next to him while praying the rosary.  It reminded me of the times I slept in the hospital room beside my wife while she was in labor, and—as the first glimmer of sunlight woke me the next day—I rose with the same vague sense of an impending miracle that I had on the days my children were born.

I sat in the chair and sipped a cup of coffee as rays from the rising sun began to fill the room with soft, orange light. I heard my grandfather take a deep, slow breath, followed by a long exhale. I slowly turned to look at him.

“Grandpa?” I said, knowing he would not answer.  I watched his chest for his next breath but it never came; the previous one had been his last.

It was faint at first—the smell of roses.  But then it filled the room, and I breathed in deeply several times to be sure I wasn’t imagining it.  There were no flowers in the room, and, besides, I had never smelled any flower as fragrant as what I smelled then.  My eyes filled with tears; I was overwhelmed by a mixture of emotions.  I felt grief at the realization that my grandfather had just died, but I also felt intense joy knowing that the flowers were a sign of God’s presence in the room.  I knew then that my grandfather was in good hands.

I stood there and prayed for a moment, and then I informed the hospice staff that my grandfather had passed, and they confirmed it with one look.  The orderly asked me to leave the room while he prepared my grandfather’s body for my grandmother to see him; they had called her and she was already on her way with my aunt.  I left and went into the hospice waiting room, wiping tears from my eyes.  I noticed a bookshelf, and my eyes were drawn to one book in particular.  It was an old National Geographic hardcover with photographs of the Rocky Mountains.

I smiled when I read the title: The Great Divide.


*Days after he passed away, it seems that my grandfather wanted to let his family know that he was in a better place, and he made it known in a rather beautiful way.  This will be the subject of a future blog post, so please subscribe to my blog and we will notify you when it is posted. God bless.  -Sean Bloomfield

What is your most profound spiritual experience?  Discuss it below or click here to discuss it with other believers at the Catholic Daily forum.

We are all just Rwandans

I recently returned from a trip to Kibeho, Rwanda. It was, in fact, the third time I had been there since 2007.  I feel at home in Rwanda, and my heart is at peace—there are literally no worldly things to worry about, as relatively few “things of the world” exist there.

When a person hears the word “Rwanda,” another word almost always pops out of their mouth: “Genocide.” There’s no getting around that. The Rwandan genocide, which happened in 1994, was like hell on earth. Neighbors began killing neighbors, friends killed friends, children killed parents, and pastors killed their parishioners. Bodies littered the streets and homes. The world watched in horror, but did relatively nothing to stop it.
Now, however, when I hear the word “Rwanda,” my mind is filled with beautiful images. I see happy children surrounding me.  They stare at me, wide-eyed and smiling, as I film them. They call me Mazungu, a word that can be translated as “aimless traveler,” but is used by Rwandans as a somewhat affectionate term for a white man. I flip over the camera’s viewfinder and let the children see themselves. Screams of delight ring out.  Most of these children have never seen themselves; there are no mirrors, let alone cameras, in their mud huts and open-air schools.

As difficult as it is for outsiders to believe, Rwanda is no longer a place of murder and carnage; amid the bones of a million victims, it’s now a place of healing and forgiveness. And, yes, bones are everywhere. Shards and fragments of human bones can be seen whenever a garden is freshly-tilled, peeking out of the dirt as if eager to tell their stories. The more intact bones, however, are displayed like works of art in the many genocide memorials that dot the country, such as the one at Nyamata, near the capitol, Kigali. Leg and arm bones, for example, are stacked like firewood in one section of the memorial’s crypt.  The rib bones are heaped in a neat pile in another section.  Skulls are arranged side-by-side on a shelf like bowling balls.  Most difficult to look at, however, are the crude indentations on many of the bones—scars that indicate the vulgarity of the most popular weapon during the genocide, the machete.

This may all sound horrible, but there’s a purpose behind these memorials.  Despite these constant reminders of what happened in 1994—or perhaps because of them—most Rwandans are determined to shed the tribal identities that helped foment the war and, instead, focus on peace and reconciliation.

“We are no longer Tutsis and Hutus,” I was told by a man who lost his wife and children in the genocide. “We are all just Rwandans now.”

Kibeho, Rwanda NOTE: During the early Eighties, the genocide was foretold by the Virgin Mary when she appeared to several children in Kibeho, Rwanda, but few heeded her warnings. Kibeho was the focus of the documentary I produced with genocide survivor Immaculee Ilibagiza, titled If Only We Had Listened, and the reason I went to Rwanda. More on that later.

He shot himself in the heart

This weekend I went to the funeral of my father-in-law’s former best friend and business partner. Yes, his former best friend and business partner.

His name was Ted. In life, he was a yacht broker, and he loved deep-sea fishing, Jimmy Buffett music, island-themed bars, and deserted beaches, not unlike me.

His three daughters and his wife of 35 years were in the front row at the viewing, hovering around the open casket as the pale face of their father and husband peeked above the mahogany and silk.

When I went to hug them, I couldn’t help staring at Ted.  He did not look like the Ted I knew… Ted, the man who never let anyone have a bad time at a party. Ted, the man whose infectious laugh will always reverberate through my mind. Instead, he looked like any corpse, with sunken cheeks and an ugly, drooping chin.  His pallid skin was all the more striking due to the fact that, in life, Ted was always suntanned.  This was no longer Ted.  It was a body.

Ted was a suicide victim, although that term is sadly dismissive; the real victims of Ted’s suicide were his wife and daughters, as well as his grandchild who was about to be born, the little girl who will never know his bear-hugs, his booming laugh, or his crooked pirate smile (Jimmy Buffett reference in Ted’s honor).

Ted had written his suicide note approximately one week before he followed through with it.  No doubt the pressures of life had been boiling within him for a while.  His business which sold high-end yachts to high-end people had been going downhill since before the recession even began; the high fuel prices that preceded the recession had already devastated the gas-guzzling yacht market before anyone even knew that Fannie Mae and Freddy Mac weren’t actual people. To stay afloat (pun intended, again in the victim’s honor), Ted began borrowing money, lots of it, but not from banks; he borrowed hundreds of thousands of dollars from friends, and my father-in-law was one of those generous folks.

Needless to say, his relationships with his longtime friends had recently gone sour due to the obvious fact that Ted would never be able to pay the loans back.  With no hope left, and no laughter or good times on the horizon, Ted first tried to kill himself in the parking lot of a Winn Dixie supermarket, but his family talked him out of it. On the night of September 13, 2011, however, two days before his 57th birthday, Ted succeeded; he put a gun to his heart and left this world with the simple act of pulling of a trigger.

What caused Ted to find himself in such darkness that he believed the only way out was death?  And where is he now?  Those are questions that can only be answered by God.  But could anything have saved Ted when he was teetering on the edge of his darkest hour?  I do know that faith could have helped; Jesus gave us an antidote to the problems and pressures of life when he said this to his disciples:

“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat; or about your body, what you will wear. Life is more than food, and the body more than clothes. Consider the ravens: They do not sow or reap, they have no storeroom or barn; yet God feeds them. And how much more valuable you are than birds! Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life? Since you cannot do this very little thing, why do you worry about the rest?”

Please pray for Ted and his family. One thing I do know is that your prayers are more powerful than all the money in the world.


Another hot one

Greetings from sunny Florida. It’s another hot and muggy September day here, the type where you melt when you walk out the door and you constantly find yourself thanking God for air-conditioning. The funny thing is that I actually don’t mind this weather too much; I’m a native Floridian, and I guess I’m used to it.

Floridians have to deal with intensely hot, humid summers where we run from one air-conditioned place to another, but we always compare this to the people living up north and what they do in the wintertime: run from one heated place to another.  I can certainly take the heat better than the cold, and there’s nothing better than jumping into the sea on a warm Florida afternoon. The temperature is something akin to a jacuzzi.

We often forget the importance of thanking God for what might seem like mundane, everyday things.  When was the last time you thanked God—and I mean really thanked Him—for the air-conditioning on a sweltering day, or for the heater on a frigid one, or even for running water and electricity?

Many people, myself included, are so used to these things that we often forget that much of the rest of the world goes without these “basic necessities” every day.  As strange as it sounds, I’m thankful for the several hurricanes that have hit our area this decade and left us without electricity and running water for days, sometimes weeks, on end.  I’m also thankful for the primitive places that my filmmaking has taken me, such as Kibeho, Rwanda, where I often had to bathe with a bucket of cold water and read by moonlight.  Otherwise, I wouldn’t understand how lucky I really am.

And so, as I sit here in a cool and constant 75-degrees while, outside, the air is hot and feels as thick as syrup, I find myself once again appreciative.

Where am I going with all this? Good question. I’m going to the beach.