love never fails

As part of the spiritual book club at church, I am reading Paul, a novel, by Walter Wangerin, Jr. It is fictionalized, and is, I've been told I'll find, clearly not Catholic in nature. Still, the reason it was chosen was to give a perspective on the life of a man that a dear friend calls "a great Bible dude." I'm enjoying the story, told from the perspectives of many of Paul's friends and followers, as well as Paul himself.

Some of the parts that affect me the most are not related to Paul's teachings (at least, I haven't seen the connection yet!) per se. I'm becoming attached to Prisca in particular. She and Aquila, tent-makers by trade, take Paul in when he arrives in Corinth. She taken in by his voice and teachings. In her musings, she begins to touch on deep feelings that I can relate to, regarding grief combined with anger and bitterness.

So then I was suffering something infinitely more killing than loneliness. Anguish of the heart. Violent, physical spasms of guilt. Poor Aquila watched with a heavy-handed helplessness. Do you know?--I felt such sympathy for him in those days. And there was a part of me that wanted terribly to comfort him. But it was the smallest part. I couldn't help my husband either, could only cry, would not control my tears -- causing him his own sort of loneliness. (p. 211)

I could feel her pain. I could feel her desire to reach out to another who was grieving. Prisca's father had said cruel words to her about her mother's death, wanting to make her feel as though she was the reason; that their leaving Rome may have contributed to her death. The reasons for Prisca's pain were much greater, on a much grander scale than any pain I have suffered. And yet, the pain of shared loneliness is something I am familiar with.

For Prisca and Aquila, the cycle was broken by the arrival of Paul. In many ways, I can relate to that, too. Paul wrote and taught of Love. There is nothing greater than Love. But Love needs an entrance. That loneliness combined with guilt built a wall; reinforced a barrier between two hearts. I've been there, feeling as though I should comfort, but wishing (who am I kidding? Demanding!) for more comfort toward me.

Like Prisca, I now realize that an outpouring of love is what allows comfort. And an outpouring, and acceptance, of Love. One comes from those around us, who may or may not know and understand our pain, but are willing to listen, to hear, to cry and laugh, to hug, and even to ask difficult questions from time to time. The other comes from Someone Greater. One who does understand our pain and suffering, and would never minimize it, but can help us to put it into perspective.

I am forever grateful to a dear person I consider a friend who insisted that Love Heals All Wounds. He was right. I'm pleased to be in the transcendent company of one who heard those words first from Paul (where, honestly, I had heard them, too; I just had never thought to apply them to my own life when it really counted!), and then went on to share them with others. At least in this story.

Regardless, the lesson is the same. It is real. Love is Real.

no crystal ball

Yesterday, I sat in a room full of professionals wondering just what they all know, and how they got to where they are. I listened to a former co-worker talk about his new position, and still daydreaming about an interview in a faraway place.

It got me thinking about my own future, yet again. For so many years, I have thought about my life in parts and pieces--work, home, faith were all separate parts of my life, so naturally should be developed individually, right? I've been coming to realize that I would really prefer that all the facets of my person need to be cultivated in a common direction as one glorious gem, sparkling in the light. While this has been coming together in my mind, my heart is lagging a wee bit behind...a resistance to a mindset that I have a difficult time admitting to. Sitting in that room, I felt a little of that barrier crumbling (it felt good!), and let my mind wander into wishes and daydreams.

The result was a series of related thoughts about travel, learning, knowledge, trust and risk. I've been yearning for a train trip for the past year or so, and had been intrigued by the work of passenger service. I remembered that I want to look into flight lessons for our son, who recently asked how much they are, and I wondered when that motorcycle safety class is going to be offered next. But mostly I realized that I am ready to tackle something new. The following text exchange between me and my husband:

So, here's what I'm thinking: I wanna find a challenge.
What's that mean?
Not sure, exactly. Pondering.

Twenty minutes later, I got an email from a job posting site that I've subscribed to since 2010 or so:

"Again, you can't connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something - your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. This approach has never let me down, and it has made all the difference in my life."
~Steve Jobs

I saw this as confirmation. I've been thinking so much lately, and working on coming to grips with what I really do feel is where I should be going. The words I hear in my mind surprise and thrill me, but are such a deviation from what I thought I wanted that I have a hard time qualifying them.

My status update last night:

Had a good day, and somewhere along the way, realized I'm ready for the challenge. I'm just not quite clear what that means yet.... :)

Encouragement and suggestions followed, and I know I always have support. What I know for sure is that I need to open myself a little bit more. In the meantime, I've scheduled my exam for work, which could lead to any manner of changes and challenges, and I will continue to pray and ponder. I'm anxious and antsy, and for the first time in a very long time, that results in excitement about the anticipation. Active involvement in this carving, cutting and shaping is making me feel so alive!

merci

My story:

While researching the life and time of St. Therese for a book club discussion of The Story of a Soul, I came across a novena. All my life, I had heard of novenas, but it wasn't until recently that I knew what a novena is.* At the bottom of the page, the instructions said to say the novena, and after nine days, St Therese "will present you with a rose!" By now, I not only realize the metaphorical nature of answered prayers, I've come to embrace it, although at times I still miss the subtleties. Knowing that with prayer, there is nothing to lose, and wondering just what the rose could possibly be, I jumped in. Or, rather, planned when to begin.

The last thing I wanted to do was lose count, so I decided to start on a Monday, and to make the prayer my usual morning offering, at my desk, at work. I tucked the prayer into my bag. On the selected Monday, I pulled the paper out, started the prayer (which is below), and stopped short when I got to the part where I was to add my special intention. I had completely forgotten I would need to pray the novena for something! After some quick thinking, I determined that my offering would be for a couple I had been asked to pray for. I was just about finished with St Therese's little book, and didn't feel as though there was anything I needed for myself, or for my family. She spent a lifetime praying for others she had never seen or met. I was so inspired.

Each morning, I would say the prayer, read my minute meditation, and continue with my day. I remembered to take the paper home with me for the weekend, and only almost forgot to say the prayer on Saturday. Tuesday was the last day, but I said the prayer one last time on Wednesday, just in case. And I felt such peace. I hoped that the people for whom I'd been praying could feel blessings, warmth, love. There was also a very distinct feeling that perhaps just having finished, and feeling refreshed by the exercise was itself the rose.

Then it happened.

Thursday was our son's birthday. I woke happy with memories of his life with us, and especially of the day he was born: a beautiful, perfect spring day. We spent the morning with friends, enjoying the weather, their son and daughter playing with our two sons, and then going out to an early lunch so the kids could nap. I napped, too, and woke with a tightness I'd never felt before. The family we'd spent the morning with had long before agreed to keep our boys when the baby was born, so we called, and headed back over. In the hospital, the doctor told us how happy he was that the baby was polite enough to wait until he'd taught his son to ride a bike before making his appearance. (He is still very polite!) Although I think of that family often, we haven't seen them in years--the kids went to different schools, they had different interests, time and life got in the way.

Similarly, my godparents, with whom I have always felt close, have always lived far away from me. My godmother's sister, however, attends the same church that we do, and I have been seeing her fairly often in the past few months. When she went to visit her sister, I sent her with a note and some pictures, as a surprise. My godmother and I used to be prolific pen pals--she guiding me more than she'll ever know through the bumps and switchbacks of growing up. Life, travel, small children (my own and her grandchildren), and all kinds of other little things got in the way of sharing the long, newsy pages we used to share. I miss it. She sends cards, without fail, for each of the boys' birthdays (including the 'big boy!').

Back to the birthday on Thursday. The card in the mailbox also contained a rose-petal pink envelope, with the most lovely note, addressed to me. I wept as I read it; both for the words it contained, and for the memories wrapped in love and joy brought back as I recognized her wit and turn of phrase. I bloomed, and agreed with all those who say that the world has lost something in the quick send/receive of email and text communication. Yet, in typical Stephanie fashion, I did not recognize the rose in my hand. (Hit me over the head, Lord! is my usual prayer!)

After dinner, instead of cake, we went to the fro-yo cafe we like. As I started to explain to Mom how it all worked (a salad bar of sundae toppings, basically), I happened to look up and see.......the woman who had cared for our boys while our birthday boy was born. She may have been surprised at the hug I gave her without even thinking about the years since the last one, but I knew immediately that she was, in fact, my rose. The first thing she said to me was that she thinks of us from time to time, and I was so excited to tell her that I had been thinking about her that very day--most of the day, in fact--and that we were celebrating that very same day, 15 years ago. We chatted--me forgetting that the boys' fro-yo would be melting--and parted ways both feeling lighthearted. As I topped my coconut and dutch chocolate with yumminess, I thanked St Therese, and said another little prayer for my special couple.

How could I be so sure, immediately, of my rose when I hadn't even realized about the note? (as soon as we walked back in the house that night, I put together those pieces) Because the church that family attended way back when was St Theresa of the Infant Jesus--the Little Flower herself. God must have told her to hit me over the head.

O Little Therese of the Child Jesus,
Please pick a rose for me
From the heavenly gardens
And send it to me
As a message of love.
O little flower of Jesus,
Ask God today to grant the favors
I now place with confidence
In your hands.
(Mention your specific requests)
St. Therese,
help me to always believe,
As you did,
In God's great love for me,
So that I might imitate your
"Little Way" each day. Amen


*A novena, according to The free dictionary, is a recitation of prayers and devotions for a special purpose during nine consecutive days.There is also a Flying Novena, which Mother Theresa used in emergencies. Another story, another time.

from above

Confidence of man in man is the fundamental sanction that upholds every secure title to wealth.

I saw this while walking downtown today; it is carved along the top of the Finance building across from my building. A few minutes before, I read some comments from a couple of friends, and a couple of people I didn't even know, regarding Kermit Gosnell, his patients, his victims......These friends and I have been having a very difficult time processing the information, the news, the pain associated with the story.

At one time, I would have thought that those most affected by news of late term abortions could be pigeonholed: militantly religious, mostly. At one time, not even bothering to learn anything about any abortion procedures, let alone late term, I truly believed in the need for abortion to be legal, but only because I knew that women would have them--legal or not--and I foolishly believed that if they were legal, they would at least be done in a safe environment.

That was before I lost a baby of my own. That was after the two times I feared I was pregnant, but wasn't. For the most part, I simply avoided the topic at all costs. I put my head in the sand, and then busied myself with the family we later started. I've been having second thoughts about my younger idealistic fantasies about the ways of the world. Then I heard about this man in Philadelphia. Originally, I heard about him a few years ago: a short little something about a guy performing partial-birth abortions--delivering the head, severing the spinal cord, then removing (rather than delivering) the rest of the baby. Apparently, since most of the body was still inside the mother, he was not murdering the babies, he was simply performing a variation on a perfectly legal and acceptable procedure. I was discomfited, but naively believed that his was an isolated case. Further, since I never heard anything else about it, I allowed myself to believe that it was over; that everyone knew that it was awful, and that it wouldn't happen again.

About a week or so ago, a friend posted a story. For a couple of reasons, I decided I needed more proof, or for certain friends to verify.....for the news to pick up the story. I had forgotten about hearing it all before. Until those things happened, I wasn't even going to read the story. Could be about anything. Turns out, more than just the friends I hoped would clarify started posting. Then I not only read the story, but watched a documentary-in-progress, and realized that I had been fooled for so long about the clinical cleanliness of abortions. My world has been turned upside down, my soul cries, and there is a strange feeling in the pit of my being. I couldn't explain it, or find words to express the anguish--the first steps in healing and moving forward.

Then I read the comments, and saw the words (literally!) above, and I realized what I feel. I've lost confidence in my fellow man. Not the people near and dear to me that I can share this with, but the people who could have addressed this more clearly, made more noise. I live in the state of Pennsylvania, for Pete's sake, and never heard anything about the hearings happening just a couple of miles from my home. Nothing in the news, on 20/20, on the cover of some magazine at the grocery store. The mainstream media has instead been concerned with trivia.

As for the comments......my prayers are for the mothers, the patients, the families. I pray that the babies comfort those here suffering a loss, of any kind; that they have found peace in Heaven; that their presence there can somehow work toward restoring faith for someone. As a nation, as a world, I wonder if wealth is even a possible descriptor in the future. I am small; I am but one. I see a wealth of faith in my close friends, my family of the heart. I pray that each and every one of us can spread just one spark of faith, of confidence, to restore the wealth of human spirit.

The rest of the quote carved on the building:

The foundations of general prosperity are laid in the industry and integrity of the people.

 I hope so.

things in common

Tonight, we "discussed" the Story of a Soul. Really, the words of Saint Therese of Lisieux were just the jumping off point of, what I found to be, a great discussion on all kinds of "little" things that were far more related than they may have seemed. None of us had finished the book, and in fact, one of us hadn't even started, but Therese is right in saying that her Little Way is Simple. Please note that the word "simple" was used, and not the word "easy!" Following her formula for sainthood is something that she worked at for her whole life. I'm already nearly twice the age she was when she died, and am only beginning to be able to consider my own littleness, let alone embrace my own faults and shortcomings!

My takeaway, as so often lately, is that I am not alone. My journey's rest stops, historical markers, dives and great sights are all being visited by others headed in the same direction. I'm not the only one that's realized a feeling of missing the Lenten season--for the first time ever! And I'm not the only one wondering if that's just a little nutty! I'm not the only one who has worried that having questions, or being confused, or just plain not knowing sets me apart, separates me from those with 'more' faith, or 'stronger' faith. [I just now realized, with my computer on my lap, that some of those people with 'more' or 'stronger' faith might just be louder than me. Just like in my secular life. Why have I always felt there must be a dividing line? Why have I been afraid?] We all have obstacles, and we all need to determine how to face them.

For a long, long time, I faced them on my own. I looked at a problem, and figured out what I would need to do to solve it, fix it, get around it. And it's funny, because typing that, I could hear my husband saying to me, "Use your resources," by which he means, "Call me if you have a question about that," referring to some programs and packages I use at work. It made me smile because the greatest resource I have at my disposal (other than my husband's computer expertise) can be summed up in what has become almost my mantra: Guide me.

The direction is not always clear, and I don't always remember to ask. And I am not always as patient as I probably should be. [can you say, "understatement?"] But I have found that each and every time I have sincerely said, "Guide me," or the more familiar version, "Thy will be done," I have come out in a much better place than I know I would have, left to my own devices. I'm learning. I'm learning to listen for the guidance, and I'm learning to follow. It's slow going sometimes, and there are times when I feel as though I'm stuck, and I'm concerned at times that I will run up against a wall, or some other test, that will wear me down.

Saint Therese says to be as a child; to bear all things that come to you; to admit shortcomings, and honor them as things to work on. The more I work on these things, the more I will find in the story of her short life to inspire me. I plan to read it again. And again. And when I feel as though my progress is slow, I will follow her advice and persevere.

Together with others who need God's love.

diary thoughts

Topping off my coffee cup this morning before running out to the car, I smiled and shook my head. There was a time when we were competitive with each other, over everything, it seemed. Including the last drops of coffee in the pot. Who would get more in their second cup?

Today, as I poured, my first thought was that there was plenty there; that after he dropped me off at work, and came back home to work for the morning, he would have plenty of coffee to carry him through. And I was glad.

And we got here following the path of Another. Few roads are easy, and I've come to believe that a good part of the reason is related to highway hypnosis: that phenomenon whereby the driver is lulled into a dull state of less-than-high awareness of the road because of the rhythmic motion of wheels on the road. Looking back at everywhere I've been, I see that I've learned and grown far more from the bumpy bits than the straightaways.

My tendency was once to outwardly ignore what's bothering me, regardless of the cause (meaning myself of someone else), while inwardly stewing, steaming and percolating. There came a time when I finally needed to open myself to the power of goodness and mercy. I resisted, but when I was offered an invitation to just try, to make up my own mind whether I wanted to, or could, forgive, I found that the effort was far less than I had ever imagined.

St. Ignatius says, "Our one desire and choice should be what is more conducive to the end for which we are created." (First Principle and Foundation) Mercy: forgiveness beyond that which we deserve, or believe we deserve. We were created to love. Love wins. Love never ends.

Coffee?

wild blue yonder

My husband drops me off at work every morning, and picks me up at the end of the day. These little five-minute trips have become treasured time for us, and sometimes the face of everything can change in that span.

Roughly nine months out of the year, he is coaching 5-7 days a week, in addition to a full-time job and a couple of special volunteer positions that are dear to him. The three months he's off (not all in a row!) are also golden time that we have come to cherish. (It hasn't always been that way--we've known our share of crankiness and resentment, but we're grownng, learning, evolving. We've started to appreciate the blessing of the time we share.) Added to this juggling act is the time we need to nurture our own friendships and needs. It's not easy. (My Minute Meditation for today: Faith is not a cushion to rest easy upon. Faith takes work and dedication. Another one of those not so coincidental things!)

Anyway, yesterday, a friend and I made plans to have some girl time tonight. While I have been looking forward to it, I also know that Guy is off tonight. That wasn't going to stop me from going (he wouldn't have let me cancel, anyway!), but a small part of me felt bad for making plans on a night he's home. This morning, he asked what I thought of his asking a friend of his about going out tonight, too. I thought it a marvelous idea! Both of us need to work harder at cultivating our friendships in order to enrich our relationship with each other, and with our family. When he picked me up today, he said he'd asked his friend.

"Just read my messages!" Instead of going out later, while I would be out with the girls, he had an invitation to go flying. "When?" I asked.

In a flash, he was saying, "Be careful, you're on speaker!" They would meet after dropping me off at home. I mentioned that I was trying not to be jealous.

By the time we got home, conversing about the appointment he'd taken Mom to today, I realized there was not a bit of jealousy in me. I am ecstatic for him! He gets to spend some time with a good friend, doing something I don't think he's ever done before, and it's a gorgeous day. What more could I ask for my husband? Later, I will get to see the excitement in his eyes as he tells me all about it, and he'll get to relive my girls night with me, too.

As he pulled out of the driveway, I said a prayer of thanksgiving, and laughed with joy.

on staying young

Gramma Katie told me, as I was getting set to leave for college, "Never grow up." For twenty years or so, I have interpreted that to mean I shouldn't get "old:" dull, boring, complacent, crotchety. Aging we cannot help, and to a certain extent, major health concerns related to that number and our genetics are out of our control. As a result, I've worked toward a balance between the maturity necessary to fulfill my obligations, and the fun needed to keep me young.

However, the other day, I read this:

Even amongst the poor, while a child is still small, he is given what is necessary; but, once he is grown up, his father wil no longer feed him, and tells him to seek work and support himself. Well, it was to avoid hearing this, that I have never wished to grow up, for I feel incapable of earning my livelihood, which is Life Eternal. (St. Therese of Lisieux, The story of a soul: the Autobiography of The Little Flower. Kindle edition, Location 2770)

Sitting at the table in the Bistro, I suddenly saw my dear Gramma Katie's smile--reaching all the way to her hairline!--and wondered. She was a spiritual woman herself, quietly observing fasts and holy days, and walking the few blocks to Church for morning Mass more often than I ever considered (as a child and teenager) that I would. She told me once that if at morning Mass she learned there would be a funeral, she would often stay, just to keep the mourners company. Then she winked at me and said that she'd also happily enjoy a slice of cake! (These funerals were mostly people she'd never met personally, but for whom she'd prayed, as members of the parish. She enjoyed the funeral Masses as much as the luncheons that followed!)*

I know that Gramma Katie was a reader, and a lover of art, too. And learning. Part of the advice she had given me, I always believed, was related to that willingness and desire to learn keeping the mind and soul young. But the moment I saw her face superimposed on Soeur Therese's words, I wondered if there was far more to the tidbit she was offering. As a teenager, with my life laid out before me in all it's possibilities, had I missed the greater offering of her experience? Was she offering me spiritual advice that it has taken me another lifetime to even touch upon? Could she have been offering me something to hold onto to carry my faith with me as I traveled on my faith journey.

Did she, in her own 'little' way, plant that mustard seed?

My favorite Bible story has always been Matthew 19:13-15. The one where Jesus says to let the children come to Him. It's just three short verses, but when I was a kid, I had a picture book [when I was a kid--haha....the book still sits on the shelf by my bed!] of the story, and I had my parents read it to me again and again, until I could read it myself. All this time, I've honestly thought He literally meant "children." A few months ago, at Faith Matters, in a discussion about Mary, I made the personal connection to "being as children."

Learning is a beautiful and glorious thing, and making connections to one's own life and experience is the most wondrous of all! Thank you, Gramma Katie, for your love and wisdom, that you still share with me 25 years later.

journeys begin

Shoes are my least favorite article of attire. Socks, I like, shoes, though, I wear because I have to. As soon as I walk in the door, off they go. When I learned (many years ago!) that leaving shoes at the door helps in keeping the house just a tad cleaner, I rejoiced! And immediately started training my family to leave their shoes by the door. True, they sometimes get in the way of our everyday life (we have neither a "mudroom" nor entrance hall--or even a closet!), but my happy feet enjoy freedom from the time I get home until I have to leave the confines of our humble abode. Summer is awesome, because other than work and Church, I'm all about flip-flops or naked pigs. (In the colder months, I also get to indulge my penchant for sliding on the wood floors! Never grow up!)

I try, with varying degrees of success, to keep my shoes out of the way, if not organized. However, my sneakers make up a pile of their own between the radiator and the cupboard. I have the pair I wear for running, and I few pairs I wore out running that I keep around for various reasons: rainy walks, long standing up days, just in case the running shoes blow out unexpectedly. My work and dress shoes I try to keep in the closet in our bedroom, but there are usually a pair or two stashed around the room; removed in haste, of course.

About three times over the past week or so, I've reached for a pair of shoes and come up with two different shoes. That much didn't surprise me as much as the fact that every time, it has been two right shoes. Normally when I put my running shoes on, it's in the early morning dark, so I look for the subtle variations that are visible by the streetlight shining through the window, and sometimes end up with a mixed pair at first. Two right running shoes happened twice. (All the more strange because after our run, the pair of shoes is together at the top of the pile.) The third time, I reached down to grab my shoes on the way out of our bedroom before work, got downstairs, and discovered I had two black shoes, both the right side of a pair. And they look nothing alike!

After the second time, I suspected there might be a reason, but after the third time, I began to wonder just what the message could be! This morning, I began to realize that I had an inkling. As I've certainly mentioned before, I'm not one for subtle signs (directed at me!), and have often prayed that messages thunk my over the head. The meditations in my little morning book this week, the prayer I decided to read from an app on my phone, even some little something from our retreat orientation last night have all had a theme that I didn't pick up on until lunchtime, reading the last little bit of Soeur Therese of Lisieux's story.

When I was a kid, dancing, my teacher found it odd that I was left-footed when I am right-handed. Turns to the left, kicks, lunges, all were more instinctual to the left. The right caught up, eventually. (Interestingly, my left hand did not cooperate with choreography quite as well, presenting some challenges!) I had all but forgotten. Standing backstage during a facility tour two nights ago, I suddenly had a feeling that something should be clicking. I missed the performing, or rather, the anticipation of performing, that I had done so many times. For a fleeting moment, I thought the message was to "put my best foot forward."

Still, it took me a while to realize that was only part of the lesson. Slowly, the pieces began to fall into place; the meditations and prayers were about doing one's best--at work, at play. Getting dressed this morning, the quote on my mirror caught my eye: "Your work is to discover your world, and then with all your heart give yourself to it."* I marvelled that a similar sentiment was brought out last night, with regard to the Sacred Heart.

Then Soeur Therese.....What clicked really had little to do with anything in the book. Reading today, I made the connection between "right" and "just" and my shoes. Put my best foot forward; not my right foot, but my Right foot. A little reading about Grace and Mercy. A comment on the journey of faith. A journey that starts with a single step, but strives to continue with right steps. It all came together, just before I read this: "...I see clearly that you are mistaking the road, and that you will never arrive at the end of your journey. You want to climb the mountain, whereas God wishes you to descend it. He is awaiting you in the fruitful valley of humility." (The story of a soul)

To top it all off, I listened to a CD while waiting for track practice to end, and heard Fulton Sheen say that far too many people say they wish to lift up their cross and follow Jesus then say their cross is too difficult, too heavy, certainly not what God would intend. I've been there. I've been to the darkest and dreariest parts of my soul. By the Grace of God, and with the help of many along the way, I take one step at a time. I falter, I wander off the path, I still sometimes feel lost, but I try again each time.

*quote is attributed to Buddha