On Homelessness, RCIA, Sacraments, and Crazy- NOT Crazy People

I lived in a very liberal town in Northern California for over thirty years. I met my husband there in 1988, and of course, he was a liberal. 
Because I was a land developer at the time it seemed that we would never manage as a married couple. He was a “Dead Head”, “Earth Firster” and I was a Land Developer having begun my career during the “Silicon Valley Boom”. Our arguments were often about this subject, but somehow, we managed to not only stay married, but to also raise eight children together. 
My husband “Will” went to daily Mass with his mother every morning since the day he turned seven years old at 7AM every morning at the Poor Clares Monastery which was precariously sited on the edge of a very busy Freeway on ramp, this is what the first generation Irish from the old country considered “catechesis”.  
When the time came for him to receive his First Communion, she instructed him and sent him down the aisle to receive his Sacrament in a new red tie, after of course being thrust into the confessional to fend for himself. 

I was raised in the San Fernando Valley, received excellent catechesis from the now notorious “Immaculate Heart Nuns” before Vatican II, which was fortunate. I however wanted to be a professional singer and songwriter in Los Angeles where in the seventy's religion was not “cool” and left the Church after my High School graduation until I returned at age thirty-four. This was my age when my business partner Carole who was very devout, took me with her to see a commissioned replica of the Tilma of Our Lady of Guadalupe after seeding the event by giving me a book about The Shroud of Turin which after reading, I learned that the Tilma was also created by a “Thermal Burn”. 
All of this led me to read “Humanae Vitae”, which led me to finally engage my own faith journey with a vengeance. 
Our parish priest asked my husband Will and I about a year or two later to sponsor an enquirer who wanted to be a Catholic. It turned out he was someone who was known by me as the homeless guy that I would see almost daily riding his bike, wearing a tee-shirt like a turban over his face and head, and a pair of Ray Ban sunglasses as he rode from one end of town to the other daily sometimes yelling out rants on the sidewalk after nearly being struck by cars on highway one. 
My husband unlike myself was a very patient man and attended RCIA classes with the tee-shirt turbaned man who refused even at night to take off the sunglasses. He would often come home from class with “Amani” who changed his name during the instruction process to “Amani De La Cruz”. Amani would also spend his time in class correcting the instructor (an after Vatican II notorious “Immaculate Heart Nun” who questioned “The Resurrection” of Christ, “Purgatory” by yelling out during class the correct teaching for all to hear. 
 
Finally came Easter Vigil.  
Amani had not shown so Will and I stood at the entrance to the Church waiting for him to show until the entrance song began to play, and we sadly assumed that Amani had given up. 
Not to be deterred Amani came running up to us ranting that the Parish Priest had told him that for his baptism he would have to remove the tee shirt turban and sunglasses which created a crisis for Amani, in fact he was yelling at the top of his lungs. 
When I asked the Parish priest about allowing him to leave his cover on, the Parish Priest refused. At that point I asked Amani why he was so afraid to take off the tee shirt turban and the Ray Ban sunglasses, it was then he told us that he used to go to the Catholic Church near his home in a very bad part of Baltimore and watch the children in their starched white uniform shirts and pants and jumpers walking up the stairs to go to class and had always dreamed of being a Catholic even after his Father beat him and knocked all of his teeth out of which he felt very ashamed. 
I again spoke to the Parish Priest who refused to allow Amani to wear his tee-shirt turban, and sunglasses, not only that but, it was our turn to head up the aisle to the baptismal font. As we walked toward the pool of water dragging Amani with us toothless and without the turban, Amani began to scream at us loudly and to the other parishioners who were attending Vigil Mass saying, 
 
“Help me, Get me a New Sponsors!!!!” 
“I hate these people! Someone help me!” over and over, and increasingly loudly.  
The priest looked me in the eyes and pointed us to the baptismal font where, when my husband and Amani got there, my husband with one finger, pushed him in. Down he went into the waters for what seemed like minutes flailing and seemingly drowning, when the water became calm and out of the center of the font emerged Amani, yelling out and praising God as if he were back at his “Black Church” in Baltimore singing Gospel. 
That was my first understanding of how “other forces” are at work, in the scheme of things. 
 After his Confirmation, Amani attended daily Mass every day. 
Whenever we would attend the same Mass, I would hear Amani shout instruction to the priest at the prayer of the Faithful at the top of his lungs reminding him “YOU DIDNT PRAY FOR THE SOULS IN PURGATORY”!  And then he would yell out, “I pray for the entire “M***” Family (Thats us) every day until he passed away a few years later from Cancer.