Fuzzy Theology

Names are important. And sometimes, there’s no name more important than a nickname because while names show you know of someone –

Nicknames show you know someone.

Nicknames are born from long evenings spent laughing late into the night, from mildly to wildly embarrassing childhood stories, from deep love, from strong compassion, and from an unbreakable feeling of belonging. Nicknames evoke a sense of family, of friendship, of relationship.

There is shared responsibility for ownership and creation when it comes to nicknames. There is gentle give and take. Nicknames must be given and accepted with the same heartfelt love and compassion. Anything else and it no longer becomes a nickname. To be clear, nicknames are not mean-spirited, hurtful, or used to ostracize someone. That’s name-calling and not the same thing.

If you’ve read my About Me page, you’ll know I go by the nickname Fuzz and this hasn’t been some passing nickname, come and gone in an era of life. No, my nickname lived past my youth ministry days, beyond the point where my teens had grown up and moved on, circling back to seeing them with families of their own. There are parishioners who only know me by that name and who couldn’t pick my real name out of a line up. At times, the strength of my nickname outweighs the strength of my given name.

One clear way to tell when your nickname has become permanent is when your parish priest calls you out from the altar by that name. Not once. Not twice. But anytime he spoke of you.

And as with all nicknames, mine was born from a story. While I would love to tell you that story, I can’t. Legend has it that long ago the story was shared widely and with anyone interested to listen, but no more. Over time, treaties and rules were forged surrounding the story of my nickname that prevents me from sharing it unless certain criteria are met.

In the first, a listener must be the first person on the second day of a retreat to ask, and once the story is shared, it may not be spoken about again. I should also note since I’m sharing this criteria with the wider world, that we must be on the same retreat together. But if that’s not an option for you, there’s always the second way: you must perform a miracle and have it signed by seven priests.

I can tell you in all honesty that I have shared this story under both criteria.

The story of my nickname has become a legend and as with all legends, the mystery that surrounds it is thick. It develops a life of its own with myths and fables, heroes and villains, and both happy and tragic endings. Hearing the story became a badge of honor which only further shrouded the original in deeper mythology. And in truth, the stories surrounding my nickname mean more to me than the story of my nickname itself.

So no, I can’t tell you why I’m called Fuzz. (Not yet anyway.)

But I can share a few legends my nickname has created. Each story has taken on a life of its own, and has been shared down through the generations as new students, new parishioners, new friends get to know my nickname and join the ranks of those who haven’t yet heard “The Fuzz Story.”

Cabin 7H

You would think seniors, close to graduation, would be most anxious to hear the Fuzz Story. With limited retreats opportunities left, their time was about to run out – unless they were capable of performing miracles. But in reality, underclassmen were often the more enthusiastic when it came to crafting plans and following through with them.

And at one retreat, this was no different.

I’d heard a rumor that an underclassman had developed what he thought was a foolproof plan to hear the Fuzz Story before anyone else. This plan involved finding my cabin, and knocking on my door at one minute past midnight. This would ensure he was the first person on the second day of the retreat to ask me. The teens that knew me tried to warn him this plan wouldn’t work. They didn’t know how but they were sure a foolproof plan wasn’t so solid when I was involved.

But he was convinced and unfortunately for him, I’d gotten wind of his plan.

I don’t know about you, but sleep on retreats is a precious thing. Between late nights talking with small groups and ensuring camp safety, and early mornings going to daily Mass, there is little opportunity for sleep on a youth retreat. And when someone threatens that…

I’d like to tell you that I was hero of this story.
I wasn’t.

As the teen approached me to ask my cabin number, and thoughts of being awoken in the middle of the night filled my head, the phrase “Cabin 7H” rolled off my tongue. The cabins at our camp were numbered 1 – 6 and the rooms were lettered A – G.

There was no Cabin 7H.

At that moment, I could have laughed it off as a joke and corrected my statement. However, I was standing with my fellow youth ministers when he’d asked. They knew the situation, and their quick acknowledgement of my fake cabin number solidified this teen’s plan.

We found him later jogging lap after lap around our camp looking for Cabin 7H.

I’m happy to report that he was the first person to ask me on the second day of the retreat, but please remember that I am not the hero of this story. So when he asked to hear the story, I looked at him in earnest and asked if he’d really wanted the hear the story alone. Surely, he wanted to hear it with his friends.

In a heartbeat, he dashed off to find them and as he left, a teen from another parish – someone I didn’t know and who had no idea how precious this Fuzz Story had become – turned and asked me to share it.

I did.

Finishing just when my teen ran back up to me.

Later that morning, I’d never seen someone so sad while eating bacon. His foolproof plan had been foiled.

But from that, he developed a secret society and named it 7H with the goal of ensuring everyone had the opportunity to hear the Fuzz Story. Its members grew quickly and social media groups were formed. There were dossiers and secret memos, battle plans and Fuzz Story “sightings”. At one point, I’d needed bodyguards – all in good fun.

The stories surrounding the Fuzz Story became greater than the Fuzz Story itself.

And rumor has it, it’s not even that great of a story.

Mini Everyday Miracles

There comes a point in ministry when we may question our “why”. Why am I continuing here? Am I really making a difference? Am I needed here or should I be prepared to move on? It’s a natural feeling in the course of human life and one that shows growth of spirit but one that also requires heartfelt conversations and deep discerning prayer.

Even still, sometimes, we are never truly given an answer of whether we should move on or not. There is no call, no spiritual push or pull, guiding us one way or another.

But sometimes, there is.

And for me, this happened after I’d left youth ministry and answered the call to become a teacher at our parish school. It was during those first few years where I was transitioning from the more unstructured schedule of hosting teen events and bible studies to the rigid rules a school implies. But being a teacher was what I’d gone to college for, what I’d always wanted to be.

And I knew those first few years as teacher were going to be hard, but I didn’t realize just how hard they could be.

But I was done.

Whatever call I had felt, whatever hope I’d had for the teacher I’d thought I could be, vanished, squished by a series of events, of challenging interactions, and impossible situations.

I couldn’t tell you the exact details of what led to that moment. Their memories have been lost to the fuzziness of the past. But I can tell you that the heaviness in my heart that day outweighed the smiles on my students’ faces.

Like I said, we don’t often hear the answer to our prayers in loud, clear voices.
But that day, I did.

It was after dismissal, after the students and most of the teachers had gone home, when I’d checked my teacher mailbox. Amid the stacks of paperwork, the things I needed to add to my ever-growing to-do list, and my latest teacher evaluation, was an envelope.

My name – my real name – was addressed on the outside so I had a feeling that whatever was inside wouldn’t be the answer to my prayers.

But I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Tucked inside this envelope, was a letter. More specifically, it was a letter written by a former student, and someone who was part of my youth ministry program. In this letter, she thanked me for conversations we’d had in my classroom, for talks I’d given in youth ministry, even for assignments I’d asked my classes to complete. And it was the voice I needed to hear in that moment.

When I was questioning everything.

When my frustrations were louder than my why’s.

Her letter was an answer to my prayers – and the mini miracle I needed to quiet those frustrations, even for the moment.

And I made the mistake of telling her how much of a miracle it was to me.

May I remind you of the criteria for hearing the story of my nickname?

No, it wasn’t an earth-shaking healing of the sick, but it was a soul-shaking healing of the spirit and it more than qualified to serve as a miracle. In my life it was, and will remain to be.

Not to be underestimated, my former student wrote another letter, describing how God used her words to work a miracle in my life. She’d then sought out seven priests – all of whom were happy to sign the letter. Yes, this was a miracle. Yes, it qualified.

And yes, I shared the story with her – but not with the seven priests, all of whom were now curious about the story and why she’d needed a miracle to hear it. As I said, the stories surrounding the tale of my nickname took on a life of their own.

And they continue to.

But they also continue to work miracles.

“We are nothing without God, but if we put our lives in God’s hands, miracles happen.”

– St. Teresa of Calcutta

As I look through my life with eyes of faith, I can see the moments God blessed my walk with mini-everyday-miracles.

They are small moments, sometimes unnoticeable, especially in the busyness and noise of our overly complicated, scheduled-packed, highly digital, highly visible life.

But they are there.

Like the letter with a voice of thanks when I needed it most.

To the phone call right when my sanity seemed at its end.

And the hug delivered at Mass when my world was crumbling.

Each of these are mini miracles.

Mini moments someone let God speak, and move, and heal through them.

And no, they may never be recognized by the Vatican as true spiritual wonders, but in my life those miracles mean everything.

When God calls us all to sainthood, He doesn’t expect perfection. He’s rather good at making the imperfect whole and equipping the ill-equipped.

What he does expect is for us to be open to His call.

To let Him move through us.

And to help Him by becoming His hands, His feet, and His Words on Earth.

“Christ has no body on Earth but yours, no hands but yours, no feet but yours. You are the eyes for which Christ’s compassion for the world is to look out. You are the feet with which He is to go about doing good; and yours are the hands with which He is to bless us now.”

– St. Teresa of Avila

Thank you for joining me in another Adventure in Youth Ministry! If you want to hear more about my stories, click here. I would love to connect with you. Drop me a comment below with one of your mini miracles or follow me on Twitter (X) @FuzzyTheology.

You are in my prayers!