Glenn

Looking back, I realize I hit the lottery with my childhood. I was born in Brooklyn, grew up in Boston, raised Irish Catholic in a middle-class suburban neighborhood just west of Boston. I had a great life. I was one of six—one girl, five boys. I got the golden ticket coming out of the gate. I couldn’t ask for a better landing spot or better parents. We had fun.

As a kid, I wanted to be a priest, but I also wanted a family. That tension stayed with me. I loved my Roman Catholic faith, and I wanted to have children, and I wanted to be a priest—so I had a dilemma going on inside. Over time I realized that faith isn’t just about a personal relationship with God; it’s about fellowship. I now realize the Church needs fellowship to survive. If everybody thought like I did then, we wouldn’t have churches.

I went to college to play soccer, but I didn’t apply myself to schoolwork. Instead, I chased adventure, hitchhiking to Southern California. That trip changed me. I found my way into carpentry, loving the satisfaction of building something with my hands. You build something, you see the product, and you feel a sense of accomplishment.

I got married in my late twenties, had three children, and after fourteen years, my marriage ended. To fail at that is tough. You don’t get do-overs with the people you love. It put me into a tailspin for a long time. I turned to alcohol, first for fun, then to ease the pain. It got out of control in the sense that I was a workaholic—I was functioning—but I was medicating myself.

I wrestled with the idea of alcoholism as a disease, hoping I wouldn’t pass it on to my kids. But in the end, I learned, each of us needs to rely on—well, for me, I rely on my faith. I rely on God, a higher power. I can’t be God, even to my own children. They need to find their own. That’s something ISP has shown me, because I try to fix everything.

There were years of loneliness and pain. One winter day I was sitting in a Boston church lobby by the heater, reading the bulletin board. A small business card caught my eye—Ignatian Spirituality Project: “Spiritual Tune-Ups in Boston,” for people in addiction and homelessness seeking spiritual fellowship. I tucked it in my wallet—thinking first of guys I knew who wanted to go deeper. I carried that card for two years.

Then one morning at St. Francis House—a day shelter in Boston—I went in for a razor or socks, sat down, and looked up to see a big poster of that same ISP card: “ISP Spiritual Tune-Up, Wednesday.” It was Wednesday. The clock said 9:57; the tune-up was at 10. I said, “I guess I’m going to my first tune-up.” I never got the socks or the razor. I walked across the room—and it’s been one of the greatest blessings of my life.

ISP gave me the fellowship I needed. By sharing my story—my experience, strength, hope, and faith—that’s exactly where I’m supposed to be and what I’m supposed to be doing.

Now, I facilitate retreats and travel as part of the Ambassadors of Hope program. I’ve learned that we’re not made to do this alone. It’s in community. ISP showed me that.

For anyone struggling, my message is simple: You’re not alone. You need to realize you’re not alone. People who are homeless and hopeless have to realize they’re not alone. They have to let someone help them. That’s the only way I see people being reached.

Today, I find joy in service, in sharing hope, and in reminding myself and others: Experience matters. Lived lives matter. Share your story. It’s not to be perfected or corrected or even edited. Speak from your heart. Tell your truth. Share it.

Glenn, Boston