The Office of Communications and the Catholic Campaign for Human Development (CCHD) Office of the Diocese of Toledo announce the CCHD 2008 Multi-Media Youth Arts Contest.

Students attending a Catholic parish or school may enter the contest to help raise awareness of the plight of poverty in the United States. The theme of this year’s contest is “This is the Real World — Poverty USA” and students are encouraged to create works of art that reflect that theme and Catholic social teaching in the categories of audio-visual (i.e., music, video, Web site, combination of audio and visual) literature (poetry, prose, drama, short story, essay) and visual arts (painting, photography, drawing).

Entries will be entered in two age categories: seventh through ninth grade and 10th through 12th grade. Multiple works of art are encouraged as are group entries.

In order to participate in the contest students must submit entries to their individual parishes for judging, and each parish must then send one entry to Germaine Kirk in the diocesan CCHD office. From all the entries sent to the diocese a committee will select two entries (one from each age group) to send on to the National CCHD office in Washington, D.C.

Entries must be in the CCHD office no later than March 19.

Last year, a student from the Diocese of Toledo was chosen as a National Honorable Mention winner in the contest. Kayla Wrasman from Delphos St. John High School submitted a short story titled “Little Things” and was mentioned in the national press release and materials sent by the national CCHD office.

“The story was beautifully done and displayed the artist’s talents and creativity,” said Jill Rauh, youth and young adult coordinator for the national CCHD office, of Kayla’s story.

More information on this year’s contest is available on the Toledo diocesan Web site, www.toledodiocese.org. Official entry forms are available at local parish and Catholic school offices.

“Little Things”
By Kayla Wrasman
Delphos St. John’s High School

Once again I was jolted awake by the sound of Chef Bruno cursing at me in Italian. I had a feeling that I would have to sleep somewhere besides on Bruno’s bench tonight. He has been threatening to call the cops on me for three days now.

“Mamma Mia! How many times do I have to tell you? I cannot have you sleeping in front of me restaurant! You scare away my costumers. This is the last time I will tolerate your behavior! Now scram. Get out of here!” yelled Chef Bruno with his usual string of Italian curses. “If you had a job you would know how bad you are for business!”

I slowly peeled myself off the hard, wooden bench and trudged down the street pushing my shopping cart. It was a fifteen minute walk to the soup kitchen and the whole way I was fuming. Chef Bruno and everyone else in this biased town didn’t seem to realize that at one time I had a job. They all insist that we street people must be bad people and deserve to live in a box. No one has ever said this to me but don’t think I’m fooled. I can tell by the way working people never meet my eye and try to stay as far away from me as possible. It breaks my heart because at one time I was exactly like them. I had been a successful employee at a bank, a happy single mom, a good Catholic, and a model citizen. I was very close to my parents but when they died in a car crash that I survived I gave in to my grief.

As I came within sight of the soup kitchen it was obvious that once again it was inundated with people. Even if I wasted my time waiting in line there would be no food left when I got there. I quickly made a decision and turned left towards McDonald’s instead of crossing the busy highway.

I had not thought about my past in years and now that I was I could not stop. My thoughts drifted back to the crash. It did no lasting physical damage to me except that I, to this day, cannot remember anything about it. When the doctors informed me about my parents I became depressed and then quickly became addicted to anti-depressants. I drained my bank account but the thing I regret the most is what I did to my kids. It hurt them so bad but I was blind to their pain. All I could think of was my own. I remember one conversation with my eight year old son, Joey, in particular.

“Why are you doing this Mom?” he had cried in desperation and then ran out of the room when he watched me empty another bottle of pills. But what he said made something inside my head click. It took about two months but I quit for my kids, Joey and Kalian. I finally realized how important we were to each other. Still I was too late. Before I could get my financial situation back on track social services decided that enough was enough and took my babies away. That led to my undoing.

In less than a day I was back on those cursed pills and then drinking too. I sold everything I had for drugs until I ran out of resources. Still today I am shocked that I survived the withdrawal. When I was discharged from the hospital I had no where to go. Living on the streets was almost welcome because on the streets I had no memories. Now three years later all I have is my shopping cart, some scraggly blankets, and a newspaper with my kids’ addresses scrawled on them.

The smell of slightly stale, greasy French fries wafted over me, tormenting me. I went through every trash can, each one more frantic than the last, but I didn’t find a single chicken nugget or even half a French fry. I plopped down on the sidewalk bawling my head off. Once again I had failed. I had not eaten in so long, and now I had a hunch that today I would die of hunger. I sat there on the sidewalk thinking about how disappointing I was. I let down my parents, my kids, and my boss all because I was selfish and weak. Now I couldn’t even find anything to eat. I was pathetic.

The door next to me swung open, and I cringed expecting to be yelled at for cluttering the sidewalk. To my surprise a young man, probably just out of college, walked up to me. Even more curious, he knelt down beside me.

“Ma’am?” he inquired. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” I squeaked still looking at him puzzled.

“I saw you crying from inside, and it looked like you could use some cheering up,” he explained with a smile tugging at his lips. “I hope it helps.” He set a bag down beside me and stood up.

I slowly unrolled the top of the crinkled bag and peered inside. Immediately the smell of heaven hit my nostrils. I gasped. Inside were a large fry, a Big Mac, and a fruit and yogurt parfait. He had given me life in a bag.

“But why?!” I asked astonished, gawking at the man who was almost inside again.

“It’s the little things that count the most,” he replied simply and was gone.

It all came flooding back to me as I savored the meal. The sermons I had heard every Sunday when I went to church with my parents. One kept echoing in my head.

“God forgives when people don’t and the little things count the most.” is what my priest had said.

Refreshed I scrambled up with purpose, and I set off into my future to turn my life around.