Yesterday I made cookies. I was somewhere through the creaming and adding when I was filled with something that made me stop and wonder just what I was feeling. Looking into the bowl of thick, gloppy stuff, I realized it was some combination of peace and hope and memory. Gratitude.
Not long ago it was fairly frequent that I figured a bowl of cookie dough and a glass of whiskey made a really tasty and reasonable supper. They were nights I hadn't fully prepared for, nights that were regular and predictable, but would still sneak up on me every week. Every week, I judged myself. Some weeks I made cookie dough. I was very blessed in that time to have two people in particular who would simply sit with me, without judgment of any kind, and share cookie dough. One would also share whiskey. Both would let me talk if I needed to, or sit quietly and eat. Or we would watch something on Netflix to make us laugh or cry.
The gratitude I felt yesterday was related to all of those things. And because that time is behind me. And for the memory itself. I'm grateful that I have dear friends who know my heart - not simply because they do, but also because they are willing to listen to me, to look at me and into me. To play "worst case" with me, and also to talk about far-fetched dreams that really mean something else I'm truly aiming for.
Once upon a time, I thought I had hope, that I knew what hope was, is. The other day, emailing a friend, I said that I felt something I couldn't quite define, but it was small, deep, and good. I liked it. In the course of describing it, I realized what I was feeling was real, honest to goodness hope. It's smaller than I pictured it, but stronger, in a nebulous and changing kind of way. Where I'd thought hope was supposed to be something grand and visible to everyone around me, I discovered this hope is mine and mine alone. This hope is attached to the dreams I have that develop into goals - goals that are changeable, malleable, flexible, and even discardable. This hope feeds my soul, rather than my judgment. I spent a whole lot of my life thinking that a goal was permanent; once it was set, it had to be attained, or failure was the result. I never knew there were other options - modifying goals, maybe (but only to make them harder to reach), but scrapping them? Never. Hope, I'm discovering, is related to true humility - seeing yourself for who and what you really are. Knowing, acknowledging gifts and flaws, and working to improve both. I think hope is what feeds that growth.
this hope is what came from those cookie dough and whiskey nights. It's what had me washing those dishes the next morning, and making it through another week. It's what's pulled me away from that self-judgment zone; or rather, is pulling me away, as I still run into it more often than I'd like. It's what brings me peace when the unavoidable "unpleasantries" crop up, as they do almost daily. Because it's always there. The Big Hope I thought was so definitive seemed easier to lose, to have to look for and work for. That hope left me feeling hopeless, and therefore like a failure in some ways for having lost it or let it go. This new hope, this small nugget of reality, is with me regardless of what I see in front of me. Quite often it peeks around my shoulder and looks at me without saying a word until I realize its presence and smile. Like the best of friends, like a lover. This hope stands by me in the pain and hurt, and in the good times, too. This hope says, "yep, that'll be fun, if we get there" without ever saying "that's impossible." Sometimes it does ask "is that really what you want?" And sometimes my response is "yes, it is what I want, even though I am fully aware that it's not what I need, or maybe even not what's best for me, but for today, it's what I want to dream about and wish for." And there's no guilt in the wishing. This hope laughs with me and cries with me, and showed me how far I've come - with a bowl of cookie dough.
I have miles to go. And I'm looking forward to every one of them: steep and rocky, rough and uncharted, smooth and freshly paved, fast, slow, and in between. I have hope as a companion.
Showing posts with label hope. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hope. Show all posts
Sunday, March 5, 2017
Tuesday, December 27, 2016
open doors
Many times in life we find ourselves in a place we didn't expect to be. Sometimes the surprise is quite pleasant; other times, especially painful. Unfortunately, some of us, many of us, perhaps even all of us at one point or another, see others in their places and try to imagine ourselves there, saying "I could never..." "I wouldn't want to...." "How does one survive...." The thing is, could and will, want to and have to, are so closely related they are indistinguishable in real life. Survive is a misnomer. Much relies on mindset, and support. I never would have imagined myself a single mother with no job at the age of 47, and if I had, I certainly wouldn't have considered using words like "free," "happy," "loved" to describe myself. And yet, that's where I am. My household is preparing for all possibilities, which means being open and honest with each other - something new to all of us. For the first time in my life I'm not hiding some part of my feelings, some chamber of my heart. We're sharing appropriately, which is also new (and sounds really, really odd in writing!) and so very refreshing!
Last week my therapist and I talked about the surprises that have come along, like the support of those around me - even people I didn't know 6 months ago. Some of it is luck; I happened into them, and they are who they are. But some of that luck was made, too, in that I have learned about opening up, blossoming, and the proper conditions for it. In blossoming, the surrounding beauty becomes clearer. I have an inner circle, a core group of friends who have stood by me through what I thought was insurmountable, and now share in my hopefulness, because this latest place also is only the mountain I make it. This group of friends is no longer a surprise to me, although they once were. I'm blessed by the fact that they have never been anything but real, themselves, thereby teaching me ever so gently to be me. Truly me. Being wholly me allows the surprises to be waves to ride, rather than tidal forces that overwhelm. Together, in many different ways, we look at each other and say, "That was a good one!" or "What a dud." It's marvelous.
One day, not long ago (and yet a lifetime of experience ago) I was chatting with someone about karma, and that it always does catch up. It was a painful day, and I was bumping up against less than charitable thoughts. "The trouble with karma being eventual is that then I don't get to see it in action and today I just want to know that it'll suck." We laughed, because we both knew I didn't really mean it that way, and I was then able to let the pain of the day go; to release it to God and His timing. A week or so ago while at the gym, I was struck that there may be those who wish me ill will, see my 'current situation' and think "Karma." I smiled - may have even laughed out loud - and thought, "I hope so!" Why? Because I am a sum of all I've done and experienced. I am not a difference, but I can - and have - make one, and will continue to do so. Perhaps in a different way or place, but I am not done yet. I may not be here by my own accord, but I am able to be here because I have grown, learned, loved, prayed, cried, pushed, fought, rejoiced, taught, failed, and succeeded.
Where is 'here'? In the very middle of hope. My anchor is secure - in fact, more secure now than a month ago, or a year. "Let him in the damn boat," my spiritual director told me many months ago. Pull up anchor. Let go. Be content. Know your worth (more than many sparrows). Toot your own horn. Home is where the heart is. Home. A home filled with hope. A home that is Love.
Last week my therapist and I talked about the surprises that have come along, like the support of those around me - even people I didn't know 6 months ago. Some of it is luck; I happened into them, and they are who they are. But some of that luck was made, too, in that I have learned about opening up, blossoming, and the proper conditions for it. In blossoming, the surrounding beauty becomes clearer. I have an inner circle, a core group of friends who have stood by me through what I thought was insurmountable, and now share in my hopefulness, because this latest place also is only the mountain I make it. This group of friends is no longer a surprise to me, although they once were. I'm blessed by the fact that they have never been anything but real, themselves, thereby teaching me ever so gently to be me. Truly me. Being wholly me allows the surprises to be waves to ride, rather than tidal forces that overwhelm. Together, in many different ways, we look at each other and say, "That was a good one!" or "What a dud." It's marvelous.
One day, not long ago (and yet a lifetime of experience ago) I was chatting with someone about karma, and that it always does catch up. It was a painful day, and I was bumping up against less than charitable thoughts. "The trouble with karma being eventual is that then I don't get to see it in action and today I just want to know that it'll suck." We laughed, because we both knew I didn't really mean it that way, and I was then able to let the pain of the day go; to release it to God and His timing. A week or so ago while at the gym, I was struck that there may be those who wish me ill will, see my 'current situation' and think "Karma." I smiled - may have even laughed out loud - and thought, "I hope so!" Why? Because I am a sum of all I've done and experienced. I am not a difference, but I can - and have - make one, and will continue to do so. Perhaps in a different way or place, but I am not done yet. I may not be here by my own accord, but I am able to be here because I have grown, learned, loved, prayed, cried, pushed, fought, rejoiced, taught, failed, and succeeded.
Where is 'here'? In the very middle of hope. My anchor is secure - in fact, more secure now than a month ago, or a year. "Let him in the damn boat," my spiritual director told me many months ago. Pull up anchor. Let go. Be content. Know your worth (more than many sparrows). Toot your own horn. Home is where the heart is. Home. A home filled with hope. A home that is Love.
Tuesday, September 27, 2016
first position
Yesterday I told a friend I needed my dad. It happens sometimes, though not as frequently as it once did. There are days when it's the sitting and talking together while the coffee somehow doesn't get cold despite the hours and hours in our pajamas at the breakfast table that I miss. Then there are the late nights as a young adult sitting in the kitchen counter while he sat in a chair and we debated some decision - the pros and cons and everything in between - until we couldn't remember what the dilemma was in the first place. The left arm hugs from the side with the side of my head playfully smushed to his face. "You done good, kid."
Yesterday what I missed was the crawling onto his lap and curling up there part. I haven't actually done that since I was about 10, but he had a way of making the comfort of it all come back when I needed it most. For the third time in three years, my heart is being broken. I would say that all were circumstances mostly outside my control, but the fact is only one started beyond me. The other two are very closely related, and as a result I chose as I did. It's the realization of the similarities that hurts the most.
I don't know how much Dad really could help, but he always had that safe place for me, snuggled up against his chest.
Anyway, last night one of my sons and I were chatting, and I heard in him that same comfort. It wasn't until afterward, when we told each other good night, that I realized. And later I tucked myself into bed knowing that Dad had been there, too. Not in any supernatural way, but in the way he taught me by example to teach my kids. And not just my own kids - all the kids I've ever worked with.
Being genuine.
Last week I was twice asked about dancing (just about a week apart, actually). The first asked if I miss teaching; something I've been thinking about quite a bit lately. The second asked about lessons, but in such a way that I felt a gentle reassurance that I really should be taking lessons. I'm well aware dance is a passion for me; something that makes me tick. In those moments I know Dad was urging me to take steps across the floor - risk others seeing me should I stumble and land on the floor in some awkward akimbo position. Is forgotten that was the fear, that's what causes the nerves. I'd grown so accustomed to not taking the chances. Not because they would make me look bad, but because it made someone else uncomfortable.
Dad never once made me feel like my choices, my steps, my movements, my dance would reflect on him. And yet the joy he showed at seeing me be felt like a spotlight; a warm and cozy place in the sun.
My son said to me, "You are good at this, and anyone who acknowledges that deserves some help." You, my son, are a good man. Your grampa would likely have put it something like that. Thank you, Lord, for putting them both in my life.
Tuesday, November 24, 2015
behind the glass
This morning I woke wondering if there really is a point to my prayer, yet knowing there is. I said so in my prayer; mentioned both thoughts. Tried to wait for a response, but really felt a need to sit, quietly, pray and listen. Pulling into the parking lot, I found myself wishing I could find some silence inside, but I know there is no silence at that time of day in our church. Mass and construction at the same time. I sat behind glass, watching mass, fully aware that there was more than a metaphor in the moment.
Last week, sitting with my spiritual director, I talked about the edges of my soul feeling frayed, blurry. Bottom line, we were talking about a weakness, a slub in the fabric of my faith -- something that on another day might look beautiful; accidental, perhaps, but a natural part of the landscape of me. On that day, however, to me it looked and felt like a fault, like something I was missing, had broken, or worse, something I had shoved in haphazardly to hold up the rest temporarily and then forgotten about fixing.
I walked the classroom wing, forgetting there would be people there. My desire to be alone with God was being thwarted by the very One I was seeking. Yes, I know He was likely telling me to be with others; that community is the cure for this ache in my soul. But there is a keen feeling of distrust, unease -- related completely and totally to my own desire to focus at work. The fact is, I feel uncared for in some moments. Yet I have a network of those who do care -- deeply. I so rarely see them face to face. They are words on a screen, voices in my phone. They have no arms to wrap around me, no shoulders to lean on, no breath to feel on my hair, no fabric to catch my tears, no eyes to light up when we laugh or smile, no gaze to fall under as we pray together. As I thought all these things, I heard someone call to me, felt swept into a hug, no words were necessary; I realized I was fighting despair and had been sent an angel -- a friend who often surprises me by the very friendship.
After a very brief conversation, I took my coffee and stood outside the door, again looking at the Lord through glass, and wondered: If we had a chapel, could I take my coffee there and visit? Could I sit alone with God while sipping my coffee and really talking like I would with a friend in the early morning hours? Or can I only do that at home, or in the office at my desk in the dark? With my friends, I can go to public places and sit with coffee for hours. In these years of learning and growing in faith, I've come to know that I spent many years keeping God separate from my world. I've worked at breaking down that wall, that barrier to unity in my mind, heart and soul. When I hit publish on this post, I will have a few minutes and I'll go lay on the floor in front of Jesus. I have learned to find comfort there, to be comfortable (an imperfect word) in that place - the actual place of the floor in the church. But there are constraints that I still don't know -- are they actual, or contrived? Are they real, or my own hangups? I ask -- beg -- for answers because there is an emptiness that only God can fill, but if I can't pry the lid off, how will He ever get in?
Last week, sitting with my spiritual director, I talked about the edges of my soul feeling frayed, blurry. Bottom line, we were talking about a weakness, a slub in the fabric of my faith -- something that on another day might look beautiful; accidental, perhaps, but a natural part of the landscape of me. On that day, however, to me it looked and felt like a fault, like something I was missing, had broken, or worse, something I had shoved in haphazardly to hold up the rest temporarily and then forgotten about fixing.
I walked the classroom wing, forgetting there would be people there. My desire to be alone with God was being thwarted by the very One I was seeking. Yes, I know He was likely telling me to be with others; that community is the cure for this ache in my soul. But there is a keen feeling of distrust, unease -- related completely and totally to my own desire to focus at work. The fact is, I feel uncared for in some moments. Yet I have a network of those who do care -- deeply. I so rarely see them face to face. They are words on a screen, voices in my phone. They have no arms to wrap around me, no shoulders to lean on, no breath to feel on my hair, no fabric to catch my tears, no eyes to light up when we laugh or smile, no gaze to fall under as we pray together. As I thought all these things, I heard someone call to me, felt swept into a hug, no words were necessary; I realized I was fighting despair and had been sent an angel -- a friend who often surprises me by the very friendship.
After a very brief conversation, I took my coffee and stood outside the door, again looking at the Lord through glass, and wondered: If we had a chapel, could I take my coffee there and visit? Could I sit alone with God while sipping my coffee and really talking like I would with a friend in the early morning hours? Or can I only do that at home, or in the office at my desk in the dark? With my friends, I can go to public places and sit with coffee for hours. In these years of learning and growing in faith, I've come to know that I spent many years keeping God separate from my world. I've worked at breaking down that wall, that barrier to unity in my mind, heart and soul. When I hit publish on this post, I will have a few minutes and I'll go lay on the floor in front of Jesus. I have learned to find comfort there, to be comfortable (an imperfect word) in that place - the actual place of the floor in the church. But there are constraints that I still don't know -- are they actual, or contrived? Are they real, or my own hangups? I ask -- beg -- for answers because there is an emptiness that only God can fill, but if I can't pry the lid off, how will He ever get in?
Tuesday, November 10, 2015
today is different
This morning as I left the bathroom to dress for work, I happened to catch myself in the mirror. For the past few years, I have only looked at myself as parts when in front of a mirror -- checking my eyebrows, my teeth, nostrils, arranging or styling my hair, analyzing the effect of an outfit. Today was different.
Having spent a good portion of my life in front of mirrors as a dancer in endless classes (that have, unfortunately, stopped very temporarily), I have rarely been afraid of the reflection, and sometimes been somewhat unaware of the image in front of me. There have been times when I have been startled by my own reflection, like Bambi the first time seeing himself in the pond. And there have been times when I found myself making comparisons in the mirror -- to others beside me, to a former self, to the doctored images in magazines -- and coming away ashamed, embarrassed, uncomfortable. On rare occasions, I have seen myself and made promises to change a routine, a habit; made resolutions to 'work on' my physical appearance.
Today was different.
There have been far too few times that I have looked objectively at the image staring back at me. Instead, I allow the image to control my reactions. The interesting thing is that the image is not even what others see. As a reverse, my reflection highlights flaws through no fault of its own. That's just how it is. I cannot see what others see, especially if that's what I'm looking for. The closer I look at my image, the more I scrutinize it, the less reality I see. Self awareness needs to come from the inside. The true me is someone I can only see from my perspective inside of me -- and only I can truly see her. All of her. I've forgotten to look at her. In the neglect I've felt and experienced, I have developed a habit of practicing the same. The key to my future is locked within my own hands, and is related to allowing me to come out of myself, to step into the light of my own eyes, to be seen not as a mirror image, but as a daughter of God.
Today was different.
As I left the bathroom to dress for work, out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of a woman I hadn't even realized was smiling. The image I saw was filled with joy, anticipation (and not trepidation - the curious and interested kind), and happiness. The face looking over me filled me with hope. She's not the entirety of me, but a glimmer of what is to come. And she changed my outlook. Time and again, I ask God to show me where I'm headed, who He sees in me, what I am to do next in the grand scheme. He answers my plea on occasion in my interactions with people I know, and strangers I meet. Today was different. That quick glance, that solid image from the corner of my eye, though not a perfect replica of me, did show where my inner self is heading.
I have hope. I have faith. I have Love. I have a future - a future that embraces my past and my present as honest and important truths of who I am, who I will be, who I am becoming. I am on my way.
Today is different.
Having spent a good portion of my life in front of mirrors as a dancer in endless classes (that have, unfortunately, stopped very temporarily), I have rarely been afraid of the reflection, and sometimes been somewhat unaware of the image in front of me. There have been times when I have been startled by my own reflection, like Bambi the first time seeing himself in the pond. And there have been times when I found myself making comparisons in the mirror -- to others beside me, to a former self, to the doctored images in magazines -- and coming away ashamed, embarrassed, uncomfortable. On rare occasions, I have seen myself and made promises to change a routine, a habit; made resolutions to 'work on' my physical appearance.
Today was different.
There have been far too few times that I have looked objectively at the image staring back at me. Instead, I allow the image to control my reactions. The interesting thing is that the image is not even what others see. As a reverse, my reflection highlights flaws through no fault of its own. That's just how it is. I cannot see what others see, especially if that's what I'm looking for. The closer I look at my image, the more I scrutinize it, the less reality I see. Self awareness needs to come from the inside. The true me is someone I can only see from my perspective inside of me -- and only I can truly see her. All of her. I've forgotten to look at her. In the neglect I've felt and experienced, I have developed a habit of practicing the same. The key to my future is locked within my own hands, and is related to allowing me to come out of myself, to step into the light of my own eyes, to be seen not as a mirror image, but as a daughter of God.
Today was different.
As I left the bathroom to dress for work, out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of a woman I hadn't even realized was smiling. The image I saw was filled with joy, anticipation (and not trepidation - the curious and interested kind), and happiness. The face looking over me filled me with hope. She's not the entirety of me, but a glimmer of what is to come. And she changed my outlook. Time and again, I ask God to show me where I'm headed, who He sees in me, what I am to do next in the grand scheme. He answers my plea on occasion in my interactions with people I know, and strangers I meet. Today was different. That quick glance, that solid image from the corner of my eye, though not a perfect replica of me, did show where my inner self is heading.
I have hope. I have faith. I have Love. I have a future - a future that embraces my past and my present as honest and important truths of who I am, who I will be, who I am becoming. I am on my way.
Today is different.
Sunday, August 23, 2015
oyster shells
We try to avoid asking "Why" questions in therapy. As a result, walking along the shore, I found myself asking, "What is it about the shore, the beach, the sea that draws me? There must be a reason You call me here, Lord." I wasn't yet done with the thought when I was transported to the shore of the Sea of Galilee on a beautiful day early last spring. "Ah!" I smiled. "It's our home."
The hours I spent on the beach Thursday evening and Friday morning were definitely a homecoming. I walked along as my feet were gently caressed by the waves, or my knees soaked. To my left, the infinite expanse of the Atlantic Ocean; to my right and up a bit, the sand. Along the edge of the waves' reach was a swath of shells. Hundreds of thousands of them, looking almost orderly in their arrangement. I found myself admiring the colors and the shapes, until I realized that in essence, they were all alike: clam shells of various sizes and colors, but the same shape. I thought about the times friends had gone to the beach and returned with a shell or two as a gift, all very much alike. There is a perfection in their shape, in the sturdiness of the thick shell, and the colors are amazingly varied, As I began to wonder which represented me, I caught sight of an oyster shell. Half buried in the sand, it was wet, black, and bumpy; irregular and angular in comparison to its mates in the sand. Reaching for it, I thought it was the most beautiful shell I'd seen in the mile I'd walked.
"Its beauty," I said aloud, "is not only in its imperfection, but in the result of its pain and suffering." I felt a kinship to this oyster, tucking it into the palm of my hand. Occasionally I would see another to add to my palm, getting sand under my fingernails, and dropping it on my clothes as I walked. At one point, I stopped and turned to look to the horizon, again seeing the Sea of Galilee. The beach there, I was surprised to find, was made up of millions of the tiniest shells I had ever seen. I thought of Abraham and the promise that his descendants would number the stars and the grains of sand -- and wondered that I was one of them. A grain of sand, the tiniest of shells, in the grand scheme of things. I was so grateful, I cried and laughed as I said a prayer of thanks and praise. What a blessing to be one of so many! And to see the magnitude of the metaphor. Overwhelmed, I opened my hand to again see the beauty of the oyster shells.
They had become white as they dried.
Again I cried out with joy! Like the shells, I am carried, always, in the hands of the Father. And while I am there, in His love, I am made new. Each and every day, if I ask Him. And even if I don't ask Him, He is working for my good, waiting for me to need Him, to want Him, to invite Him in. Any of my pain and sorrow I offer Him, He transforms into pearls of great beauty. Like the oyster, I am learning to feel whatever is stuck in me -- the joys and pains -- and let them transform. I am still me, still Stephanie, and always will be, but the pearls of wisdom, of growth, and faith are my gifts to share with the world in my work, my play, my actions, and even my protection. All these gifts come from God, and it is to Him that I offer them. It does me no good to have them, and keep them clenched tightly in my hands.
The hours I spent on the beach Thursday evening and Friday morning were definitely a homecoming. I walked along as my feet were gently caressed by the waves, or my knees soaked. To my left, the infinite expanse of the Atlantic Ocean; to my right and up a bit, the sand. Along the edge of the waves' reach was a swath of shells. Hundreds of thousands of them, looking almost orderly in their arrangement. I found myself admiring the colors and the shapes, until I realized that in essence, they were all alike: clam shells of various sizes and colors, but the same shape. I thought about the times friends had gone to the beach and returned with a shell or two as a gift, all very much alike. There is a perfection in their shape, in the sturdiness of the thick shell, and the colors are amazingly varied, As I began to wonder which represented me, I caught sight of an oyster shell. Half buried in the sand, it was wet, black, and bumpy; irregular and angular in comparison to its mates in the sand. Reaching for it, I thought it was the most beautiful shell I'd seen in the mile I'd walked.
"Its beauty," I said aloud, "is not only in its imperfection, but in the result of its pain and suffering." I felt a kinship to this oyster, tucking it into the palm of my hand. Occasionally I would see another to add to my palm, getting sand under my fingernails, and dropping it on my clothes as I walked. At one point, I stopped and turned to look to the horizon, again seeing the Sea of Galilee. The beach there, I was surprised to find, was made up of millions of the tiniest shells I had ever seen. I thought of Abraham and the promise that his descendants would number the stars and the grains of sand -- and wondered that I was one of them. A grain of sand, the tiniest of shells, in the grand scheme of things. I was so grateful, I cried and laughed as I said a prayer of thanks and praise. What a blessing to be one of so many! And to see the magnitude of the metaphor. Overwhelmed, I opened my hand to again see the beauty of the oyster shells.
They had become white as they dried.
Again I cried out with joy! Like the shells, I am carried, always, in the hands of the Father. And while I am there, in His love, I am made new. Each and every day, if I ask Him. And even if I don't ask Him, He is working for my good, waiting for me to need Him, to want Him, to invite Him in. Any of my pain and sorrow I offer Him, He transforms into pearls of great beauty. Like the oyster, I am learning to feel whatever is stuck in me -- the joys and pains -- and let them transform. I am still me, still Stephanie, and always will be, but the pearls of wisdom, of growth, and faith are my gifts to share with the world in my work, my play, my actions, and even my protection. All these gifts come from God, and it is to Him that I offer them. It does me no good to have them, and keep them clenched tightly in my hands.
Friday, August 14, 2015
into an embrace
As I walked into the church this morning for mass, I was struck with an urge to run. A strong desire to run laps in the aisles. To become breathless in the presence of the Lord. I knelt and in my heart ran to the Father instead.
"Lord, all I want in this moment is to run, full throttle, into your outstretched arms, where you would catch me up, spin around and hold me in your embrace."
"Come," he said, and stretched toward me.
As I felt his arms around me, his face in my neck, I rested my head on his, eyes closed to take in every sensation available - the scent of heaven, the warmth of him against me, the gentle strength of his arms wrapped around me, the sound of our breathing, the beat of my heart, and the softness of the air surrounding us. With my eyes closed I could see nothing but my own smile, my own face, framed by an unmistakable aura of love. Of Love and peace and promise.
"Thank you. How did you know?" I asked, without moving a muscle.
"You are mine. I always know. I am always here, right here, for you." He held me closer as the bell rang to begin.
Once before I felt an urge to run while at mass, and that time I did fairly fly out of the church as soon as the last person was out of my way. Today I realize it was an invitation that I misinterpreted. An invitation to spend all my energy and fall -- collapse -- into the arms of the One who has loved me since before time existed. He asks me to run to him in my pain and in my joy; when I feel confident and when I feel lost. All simply because I am. And he is.
God is.
Comfort.
"Lord, all I want in this moment is to run, full throttle, into your outstretched arms, where you would catch me up, spin around and hold me in your embrace."
"Come," he said, and stretched toward me.
As I felt his arms around me, his face in my neck, I rested my head on his, eyes closed to take in every sensation available - the scent of heaven, the warmth of him against me, the gentle strength of his arms wrapped around me, the sound of our breathing, the beat of my heart, and the softness of the air surrounding us. With my eyes closed I could see nothing but my own smile, my own face, framed by an unmistakable aura of love. Of Love and peace and promise.
"Thank you. How did you know?" I asked, without moving a muscle.
"You are mine. I always know. I am always here, right here, for you." He held me closer as the bell rang to begin.
Once before I felt an urge to run while at mass, and that time I did fairly fly out of the church as soon as the last person was out of my way. Today I realize it was an invitation that I misinterpreted. An invitation to spend all my energy and fall -- collapse -- into the arms of the One who has loved me since before time existed. He asks me to run to him in my pain and in my joy; when I feel confident and when I feel lost. All simply because I am. And he is.
God is.
Comfort.
Tuesday, June 23, 2015
ears of my heart
For the second time this week, I've been racked with silent sobs at daily Mass. Mind you, it's Tuesday.
Neither time has it been about the Message in the Book as much as it has been a message to my heart. One that is less in words as it is in feeling. Less decipherable than knowable.
And yet I have very little idea what it could be.
Unable even to recite the words of the Lord's Prayer for the emotion, and instead being enveloped in the words as they are spoken around me, feeling simultaneously confused and grateful, I know something is there, is coming, is so very near. I know Someone is standing beside me.
And the thought of it is overwhelming.
And the silent sobs come. I let them.
Mind you, it's Tuesday.
Sunday, April 12, 2015
meant to be
“Because sometimes you have to step outside of the person you’ve been, and remember the person you were meant to be, the person you wanted to be, the person you are.”
H.G. Wells
A friend posted this quote this morning, and I haven't been able to get it out of my head. Funny thing is, for a good part of the day yesterday the thought ran through my mind again and again, although not in quite the same words. Friday at work I had a glimpse of some mission statements, and something about them bothered me. I hadn't slept well the night before and figured whatever it was would either come to me, or wasn't all that important. As I woke yesterday, there was still a niggling something, so I focused on it, trying to puzzle it out.
It occurred to me that I don't want to, never intended to, live in anticipation of life. So much time was spent in wondering and talking about what I "wanted to be" when I grew up (I still don't know) as opposed to "who I am" right now. Would I be further along in my quest for finding me if I looked more deliberately at who I am now? At what talents I possess now? Often I stumble upon my "potential" and end up disappointed in myself. When I bring it up with my therapist, he tends to ask what I've accomplished. We sometimes talk about how I could have handled something differently, but bottom line is, i did. I do. I have. I am. When we talk about the future, he recommends dreaming big, and then analyzing the feasibility, rather than looking at what my resources are first. Sort of a "God will provide" attitude, I suppose, as long as the aspiration is in line with my real future -- the future God has intended for me.
Maybe.
My big dreams surprise even me. As a result, I have yet to share them, or even write them down. Someone recommended asking God to show me how He sees me, where He sees me. What I see when I ask is always the same, always fills me with peace, and always surprises me. It's not what -- or where -- I'd expect. Again, it's not something I've really shared. I don't quite know how. Or with whom. In some ways I'm isolating myself again, but in a different way, and for different reasons. Yet it feels so much the same.
After lunch yesterday, I felt an urge to purge, to make a pile of things to get rid of. I've come to realize that the need to actually see a pile of stuff to drop off for a yard sale or consignment is related to another very real need. A need to clean out a closet in my mind or heart. To clean up something in my life that I have more control over than I realize. To take a hard look at myself, where I am, what I'm doing. To step outside myself and see if I am headed toward the person I'm meant to be. There's a pile of old cookbooks by the door now, and a pile of clothes that will get bagged up. Before long, I'll need to open the door on a closet I haven't paid enough attention to, and see what's been gathering dust in my soul.
Friday, June 20, 2014
light is darkness
And if your light is darkness, how deep will be the darkness! (Matthew 6:15)
This is the second translation of this verse I read this evening. I read the first three times without being able to begin to understand it. I decided to try reading the next verse to see if it made more sense, and in my Bible, this was the translation. Sitting in the gathering gloaming, I found it fitting to think of light and darkness. And just what this particular verse means -- to me, today.
Near as I can tell, light and darkness are at times relative. For a few months, I've been trying to determine which spirit is talking to me: the spirit of Light, or the spirit of darkness. There are questions to ask, and faith to go on, but in the end, it is still hard for me to determine which is which. Not always, but often enough.
Tonight I feel particularly battered. And for no reason related to today, or even this week. I think, really, it's a level of recovery marked by deep pain. Earlier this evening, trying to define it, all I could come up with is that feeling of knowing that used to belong to the days leading up to a breakup with my high school boyfriend. We dated for just about five years, and broke up about every six months or so. There was an awful lot to that time, and I wouldn't go back to relive it all over again, but there is something to be said for revisiting the why of at least some of it.
And if your light is darkness, how deep will be the darkness!
Wondering why I got that feeling earlier is a key to a door that I previously never knew existed. I need to determine whether it should be opened, or simply passed by. My light is darkness. At least some of it. Things that I have always believed about myself are not all true. Some are not at all true. Some are indeed true, but only in certain circumstances. Some are completely true, but not necessarily great to acknowledge. But mostly, I would say that I have a good amount of darkness where a measure of light belongs. If I continue to believe in that darkness as my light, the truth of me, then I will, first of all, continue to find myself in dark places that frighten me, and consume me. The darkness -- the actual darkness -- truly is deeper, darker.
Good decisions are not always easy, and do not always look like the ones that others would choose. And all too often, judgments are made that only reinforce the dark. Every decision comes with a cost, and even the cost is not necessarily what one would think. Earlier this week, I found myself saying, "It's not worth it to say something," and was met with the response, "It's always worth it to say something." I've been thinking about that. One of my favorite songs is John Mayer's Say. "Say what you need to say....Fighting with the shadows in your head....Knowing you'd be better off instead if you could only....Say what you need to say.....It's better to say too much than never to say what you need to say." When I hear it, I know that each verse is truth. And yet, I usually find myself closer to Billy Joel's words in And So It Goes: "And still I feel I've said too much, My silence is my self defense." My darkness, my light, has for too long come with silence.
And if your light is darkness, how deep will be the darkness!
The two songs come together on one stanza from each song: "But if my silence made you leave, Then that would be my worst mistake," (Joel) "Have no fear for giving in, Have no fear for giving over.....Even if your hands are shaking, And your faith is broken....Do it with a heart wide open" (Mayer). Opening a heart, my heart, requires a key. Rather, it will require many keys, none of which seem to be hanging neatly by the door, readily accessible. I am fighting with the shadows in my head, and have been for a very long time. Trouble is, I had no idea for so long, because my light has been darkness. Hope is my light; dim at times, but constant.
And that's where I am today.
This is the second translation of this verse I read this evening. I read the first three times without being able to begin to understand it. I decided to try reading the next verse to see if it made more sense, and in my Bible, this was the translation. Sitting in the gathering gloaming, I found it fitting to think of light and darkness. And just what this particular verse means -- to me, today.
Near as I can tell, light and darkness are at times relative. For a few months, I've been trying to determine which spirit is talking to me: the spirit of Light, or the spirit of darkness. There are questions to ask, and faith to go on, but in the end, it is still hard for me to determine which is which. Not always, but often enough.
Tonight I feel particularly battered. And for no reason related to today, or even this week. I think, really, it's a level of recovery marked by deep pain. Earlier this evening, trying to define it, all I could come up with is that feeling of knowing that used to belong to the days leading up to a breakup with my high school boyfriend. We dated for just about five years, and broke up about every six months or so. There was an awful lot to that time, and I wouldn't go back to relive it all over again, but there is something to be said for revisiting the why of at least some of it.
And if your light is darkness, how deep will be the darkness!
Wondering why I got that feeling earlier is a key to a door that I previously never knew existed. I need to determine whether it should be opened, or simply passed by. My light is darkness. At least some of it. Things that I have always believed about myself are not all true. Some are not at all true. Some are indeed true, but only in certain circumstances. Some are completely true, but not necessarily great to acknowledge. But mostly, I would say that I have a good amount of darkness where a measure of light belongs. If I continue to believe in that darkness as my light, the truth of me, then I will, first of all, continue to find myself in dark places that frighten me, and consume me. The darkness -- the actual darkness -- truly is deeper, darker.
Good decisions are not always easy, and do not always look like the ones that others would choose. And all too often, judgments are made that only reinforce the dark. Every decision comes with a cost, and even the cost is not necessarily what one would think. Earlier this week, I found myself saying, "It's not worth it to say something," and was met with the response, "It's always worth it to say something." I've been thinking about that. One of my favorite songs is John Mayer's Say. "Say what you need to say....Fighting with the shadows in your head....Knowing you'd be better off instead if you could only....Say what you need to say.....It's better to say too much than never to say what you need to say." When I hear it, I know that each verse is truth. And yet, I usually find myself closer to Billy Joel's words in And So It Goes: "And still I feel I've said too much, My silence is my self defense." My darkness, my light, has for too long come with silence.
And if your light is darkness, how deep will be the darkness!
The two songs come together on one stanza from each song: "But if my silence made you leave, Then that would be my worst mistake," (Joel) "Have no fear for giving in, Have no fear for giving over.....Even if your hands are shaking, And your faith is broken....Do it with a heart wide open" (Mayer). Opening a heart, my heart, requires a key. Rather, it will require many keys, none of which seem to be hanging neatly by the door, readily accessible. I am fighting with the shadows in my head, and have been for a very long time. Trouble is, I had no idea for so long, because my light has been darkness. Hope is my light; dim at times, but constant.
And that's where I am today.
Sunday, June 8, 2014
three minutes
Opening my notebook tonight, planning to jot some things down for book club (Mere Christianity, by CS Lewis), I came across some other words I'd worked on a while ago. I remembered at the time being frustrated and disappointed with them, but could not recall whether I had ever shared them. At a meeting, an 'assignment' was given to write up a 3-minute version of our own faith story. I know I never delivered it at the next meeting, but thought I might have posted it. Poking around my blog posts to see, I learned quite a bit about myself. Earlier this evening, I had asked for some clarity in pinpointing a question or two I need to ask. The posts helped a bit.
Anyway, the words. The request was for three minutes on my faith journey, a conversion story. I found a post about my frustration with it (the elusive three). Here is what I finished with. (You could say, where I gave up.) Today, I find it to be spot on in describing where I'd been!
At one time, I thought faith was something we "got," probably at birth. Either we had it or we didn't. And if that was the case, I was very blessed, inheriting faithful attitudes from my parents and grandparents, and attending Catholic school for 8 years.
In reality, I was a faith trust fund brat, never learning about or internalizing what I was exposed to. Never learning how things worked--mostly because I was afraid asking questions would make me sound dumb. I squandered my faith by petitioning all the time, thanking occasionally, and rarely making any real effort.
One day, in the middle of a personal crisis, I realized I was down to my last faith dollar--and I really needed help. I took that last dollar, and told God I was giving it to him. I had nothing to lose. Thy will be done. His will. And I breathed and I laughed, and he told me to keep the dollar and invest it.
I prayed; for the first time I really prayed. I spoke, I listened. I laughed, and I began to ask questions; to look for answers. I started to get personal with God, to think of Jesus as a friend, to remember that the Holy Spirit was in me.
It's not always easy. I'm not always the most attentive friend.* But every day I start fresh, looking toward God, knowing that Jesus is the best kind of friend: the kind that is always looking out for me, always ready to listen, always offering a hand to guide me. Prayer and learning are my best investments in faith. I still have tons of questions, and some of them have answers someone else can give me. Quite a few, the ones that offer the most in return, are the ones that require deeper searching--in my heart, walking with the Lord. And I've never felt so rich.
*I forget. I get stuck. I get scared.
Saturday, February 1, 2014
on my way
There's something truly special about moments when things come together as a result of careful planning and coordination. All the hard work developing ideas and finding ways to implement them seems worth the effort, the time and energy, and even the stress and headaches that may have been a part of the planning.
Why, then, does it sometimes seem strange to see when things come together by some other means? I sometimes allow myself to believe, I think, that I am the only one working on plans for me. I make calendars and lists of goals, hopes, wishes, chores. I plan out times for grocery shopping, exercise, reading, cleaning. I determine who and what I will or will not allow to shape my moods, my feelings, my days.
Sometimes, though, those plans get derailed. Sometimes even hijacked. For a long time, I chalked it up to 'life.' Things happen--or don't--for many reasons, and though I always believed that the reasons must have validity, whether I ever saw it or not, I never really thought much about where 'life' was taking me. Instead, I would consider how this curve ball could be fit into my plan. I spent a good deal of energy on molding my own mud.
As I've learned about faith in general, and my own faith, I've begun to see things a little differently. For a time, I tried to find patterns. I was actively searching for the arrows on my path. I kept asking God to make the directions clear for me because I am not good at subtlety. After a while, I realized that wasn't getting me very far. Looking outward was not going to lead me where I needed to go.
So I started looking at the people around me. I cleaned house, so to speak, and seriously considered (again) who was in my life, in my circles, in my world. Some I began to share more with, and some less, and I thought I was finally on the right track. Until I realized that no one else was going to get me where I needed to go.
I thought I was back where I started, and I was a bit confused. What was I missing? I was working on focusing my energies, I was praying, I was talking to people so I wouldn't lose myself in that dark place in my head that I'd found myself in so many times before. Not knowing where to turn, I stopped. Right where I was, and sat myself down right in the middle of the path. "Where do I go now? What am I missing?"
Looking inside is harder. Understanding personal motivation is difficult; sometimes even painful. Seeing and hearing what comes out of one's own heart can be humbling, frightening. The only place for me to go, to move forward, was inward. I cut myself off a little, without withdrawing completely. From the shelter of my heart, I watched what was happening around me; listened to the sounds around me--voices, noise, music. As I watched, listened, read, I paid close attention to what my heart said, how I felt, what emotions and memories were stirred. And then I asked myself why. Why that memory? Why that emotion? Was the reaction expected, surprising, welcome? Some things hurt. Some things were surprisingly beautiful. Oddly, some memories that had always seemed painful began to feel joyful. Even more strange, I felt far less confused. Frustrated, yes; looking inside, it's easy to get lost.
About this time, probably because I was not focusing outward, I began to see connections. Still, I thought little about them, other than the fact that they were there, and I was seeing them. Nothing fancy or earth shattering, nothing truly exciting, but I did find myself sharing them sometimes with the people close to my heart. A couple of months ago, all of a sudden, I was overwhelmed with connections. My heart raced, my head swam, and I was terrified because I could see all these pieces coming together, but I couldn't see what they had to do with each other. It was like a hundred lights pointing at one spot in the distance, just outside of my range of vision. In a moment when I felt I needed a spiritual advisor or a prayer partner, I had no one to turn to. I wouldn't have known which to call anyway, so I texted a friend who suggested I start writing a list, and that I pray for courage.
Making the list somehow reminded me to be thankful for each point of light. And also helped me to see other connections. Seeing them doesn't overwhelm me nearly as much these days. Possibly because I'm allowing them to shape my mud. I'm remembering to thank God for the timing of things, for the unexpected, even for the painful. I still don't know where I'm going, but I don't really expect to know. For a long time, I thought knowing where I was going was the important part of the plan of me. I'm getting more comfortable with following, allowing.
I'm on my way.
Why, then, does it sometimes seem strange to see when things come together by some other means? I sometimes allow myself to believe, I think, that I am the only one working on plans for me. I make calendars and lists of goals, hopes, wishes, chores. I plan out times for grocery shopping, exercise, reading, cleaning. I determine who and what I will or will not allow to shape my moods, my feelings, my days.
Sometimes, though, those plans get derailed. Sometimes even hijacked. For a long time, I chalked it up to 'life.' Things happen--or don't--for many reasons, and though I always believed that the reasons must have validity, whether I ever saw it or not, I never really thought much about where 'life' was taking me. Instead, I would consider how this curve ball could be fit into my plan. I spent a good deal of energy on molding my own mud.
As I've learned about faith in general, and my own faith, I've begun to see things a little differently. For a time, I tried to find patterns. I was actively searching for the arrows on my path. I kept asking God to make the directions clear for me because I am not good at subtlety. After a while, I realized that wasn't getting me very far. Looking outward was not going to lead me where I needed to go.
So I started looking at the people around me. I cleaned house, so to speak, and seriously considered (again) who was in my life, in my circles, in my world. Some I began to share more with, and some less, and I thought I was finally on the right track. Until I realized that no one else was going to get me where I needed to go.
I thought I was back where I started, and I was a bit confused. What was I missing? I was working on focusing my energies, I was praying, I was talking to people so I wouldn't lose myself in that dark place in my head that I'd found myself in so many times before. Not knowing where to turn, I stopped. Right where I was, and sat myself down right in the middle of the path. "Where do I go now? What am I missing?"
Looking inside is harder. Understanding personal motivation is difficult; sometimes even painful. Seeing and hearing what comes out of one's own heart can be humbling, frightening. The only place for me to go, to move forward, was inward. I cut myself off a little, without withdrawing completely. From the shelter of my heart, I watched what was happening around me; listened to the sounds around me--voices, noise, music. As I watched, listened, read, I paid close attention to what my heart said, how I felt, what emotions and memories were stirred. And then I asked myself why. Why that memory? Why that emotion? Was the reaction expected, surprising, welcome? Some things hurt. Some things were surprisingly beautiful. Oddly, some memories that had always seemed painful began to feel joyful. Even more strange, I felt far less confused. Frustrated, yes; looking inside, it's easy to get lost.
About this time, probably because I was not focusing outward, I began to see connections. Still, I thought little about them, other than the fact that they were there, and I was seeing them. Nothing fancy or earth shattering, nothing truly exciting, but I did find myself sharing them sometimes with the people close to my heart. A couple of months ago, all of a sudden, I was overwhelmed with connections. My heart raced, my head swam, and I was terrified because I could see all these pieces coming together, but I couldn't see what they had to do with each other. It was like a hundred lights pointing at one spot in the distance, just outside of my range of vision. In a moment when I felt I needed a spiritual advisor or a prayer partner, I had no one to turn to. I wouldn't have known which to call anyway, so I texted a friend who suggested I start writing a list, and that I pray for courage.
Making the list somehow reminded me to be thankful for each point of light. And also helped me to see other connections. Seeing them doesn't overwhelm me nearly as much these days. Possibly because I'm allowing them to shape my mud. I'm remembering to thank God for the timing of things, for the unexpected, even for the painful. I still don't know where I'm going, but I don't really expect to know. For a long time, I thought knowing where I was going was the important part of the plan of me. I'm getting more comfortable with following, allowing.
I'm on my way.
Sunday, November 3, 2013
turn, turn, turn
This afternoon, I closed up the porches for the season (though not the patio--I'm seeing at least one more fireside before it gets way too cold!). The furniture was put away, and the table folded up, the floors swept, and the rug rolled. Many other years, this process has frustrated and depressed me. Getting someone to help me out with carrying and moving, or simply not grumble while doing so has stressed me and irritated me far more than even I thought necessary.
Today, though, was different. The boys went out to rake, and when I joined them, they reminded me that there weren't enough rakes for me to help them. They got the leaves moved (and worked well together, to boot! Bonus!), and I told them I would take care of the furniture. As I worked, I thought about how much had happened on those porches this summer: the laughter, the tears, the growth, the pain. I thought about the prayer, the reading, the learning, the friendships that formed and developed, the wine that was poured, and the food that was shared. I reflected on the moments, the memories, the Love. Instead of sorrow, I felt joy at having spent the time well, and at the prospect of opening up again in the spring. For the first time, the seasonality of outdoor living areas became revitalizing in the hibernation phase.
Last night I heard news of a young woman--the age of our eldest--who died suddenly. Guy and I prayed for her, her family, her roommates and classmates, friends and relatives. We don't know her, but that's irrelevant; we are parents. We care. We talked then about hard topics, prayers, God, trust, peace and lamentation. This morning at church, three of the songs we sang were favorites of Dad's--songs he would either sing out especially energetically at church, or that he would sing at home as he wandered around, puttering. At communion, after we sang, and while the piano continued, I was suddenly filled with the joy of knowing that Dad had been one of the souls there to welcome her home. That's what Dad would do, that's who he was. Once again, I found myself smiling and chuckling while tears streamed down my cheeks as I gazed at the statue of the risen Lord over the altar.
Closing up the porches was a welcome today; a welcome home to the heart of our home. Expanding onto the porches for the warmer seasons is the open armed embrace of our family spirit. Filling them with the people we know and love, and even occasionally with strangers, feels like the group hugs I often crave when I'm out and about. Dad was always involved in those, and in them I felt safe, loved, elevated. In the spring, I hope that I remember today, and the marvelous interplay of emotions and the thankfulness in my heart. More than anything else I have in my life, I am thankful for the faith I have, and for the Relationship made possible through it.
Today, though, was different. The boys went out to rake, and when I joined them, they reminded me that there weren't enough rakes for me to help them. They got the leaves moved (and worked well together, to boot! Bonus!), and I told them I would take care of the furniture. As I worked, I thought about how much had happened on those porches this summer: the laughter, the tears, the growth, the pain. I thought about the prayer, the reading, the learning, the friendships that formed and developed, the wine that was poured, and the food that was shared. I reflected on the moments, the memories, the Love. Instead of sorrow, I felt joy at having spent the time well, and at the prospect of opening up again in the spring. For the first time, the seasonality of outdoor living areas became revitalizing in the hibernation phase.
Last night I heard news of a young woman--the age of our eldest--who died suddenly. Guy and I prayed for her, her family, her roommates and classmates, friends and relatives. We don't know her, but that's irrelevant; we are parents. We care. We talked then about hard topics, prayers, God, trust, peace and lamentation. This morning at church, three of the songs we sang were favorites of Dad's--songs he would either sing out especially energetically at church, or that he would sing at home as he wandered around, puttering. At communion, after we sang, and while the piano continued, I was suddenly filled with the joy of knowing that Dad had been one of the souls there to welcome her home. That's what Dad would do, that's who he was. Once again, I found myself smiling and chuckling while tears streamed down my cheeks as I gazed at the statue of the risen Lord over the altar.
Closing up the porches was a welcome today; a welcome home to the heart of our home. Expanding onto the porches for the warmer seasons is the open armed embrace of our family spirit. Filling them with the people we know and love, and even occasionally with strangers, feels like the group hugs I often crave when I'm out and about. Dad was always involved in those, and in them I felt safe, loved, elevated. In the spring, I hope that I remember today, and the marvelous interplay of emotions and the thankfulness in my heart. More than anything else I have in my life, I am thankful for the faith I have, and for the Relationship made possible through it.
Sunday, September 8, 2013
teardrops and laughter
A couple of months ago, reading Thomas Merton's No Man Is an Island, I grew to expect the emotional roller coaster elicited by his words. Before long, I came to realize that if I was laughing out loud in the middle of one page, I would likely be sobbing on the next, and vice verse. In all honesty, it was cleansing, though disconcerting at first! There were times when I wondered if the book was written just for me, finding myself incredibly grateful when one of my fellow readers was similarly moved. I wondered, too, if the gut-wrenching was purposely juxtaposed with the humorous, of if my sense of humor is just warped enough to find them together. [I realize that it all was more than likely purposeful. In our discussion, there was quite a consensus that he had Help.]
Tonight, in the midst of a text conversation with a friend, I realized I've been living a similar roller coaster, with a twist. A couple of weeks ago, while driving and contemplating some questions, I was struck by irrepressible laughter accompanied by relief at knowing what answer I was to give. Not just once, but twice, on the highway, and then a third time as I later parked the car. Each time I was filled with an amazing sense of joy--kind of an "ah, ha! moment" times 100. I messaged someone that it seemed that God was speaking in laughter, and that I could get used to that!
That's when I began to be moved to tears. Often. I'm beginning to think that perhaps blessings feel like little trails of salt water. In fact, this evening, I chuckled when the thought came to mind that I love the sea air on my cheeks. The difference, though--the twist--is that the tears that came while reading Merton were difficult realizations, or painful observations that I really didn't want to fit, but did. These tears lately are realizations, but of the awe-inspired variety. When I feel something I've always known, but never understood. When a piece of music touches the heart of a message. When a prayer reassures. When a verse I've heard hundreds of times is taught in such a way that the clarity is instantaneous, and so applicable to my being that I overflow with relief, and joy, and even sorrow.
A few months ago, I asked a friend why it is that I cry whenever I pray. Tears are more than just cleansing; they are a way for the excess to escape. Sometimes that excess is pain, hurt, sorrow. But other times that excess is beauty, joy, happiness. And then there are the times when the excess is relief, or understanding, or even Wow! At the moment, I'm relishing the feel and taste of salt water tears, and the realization that I have come a long way in patiently listening. I still need to work on waiting for one question to be answered before asking ten more, but this is progress! Not long ago, I didn't even know I could ask questions!
Tonight, in the midst of a text conversation with a friend, I realized I've been living a similar roller coaster, with a twist. A couple of weeks ago, while driving and contemplating some questions, I was struck by irrepressible laughter accompanied by relief at knowing what answer I was to give. Not just once, but twice, on the highway, and then a third time as I later parked the car. Each time I was filled with an amazing sense of joy--kind of an "ah, ha! moment" times 100. I messaged someone that it seemed that God was speaking in laughter, and that I could get used to that!
That's when I began to be moved to tears. Often. I'm beginning to think that perhaps blessings feel like little trails of salt water. In fact, this evening, I chuckled when the thought came to mind that I love the sea air on my cheeks. The difference, though--the twist--is that the tears that came while reading Merton were difficult realizations, or painful observations that I really didn't want to fit, but did. These tears lately are realizations, but of the awe-inspired variety. When I feel something I've always known, but never understood. When a piece of music touches the heart of a message. When a prayer reassures. When a verse I've heard hundreds of times is taught in such a way that the clarity is instantaneous, and so applicable to my being that I overflow with relief, and joy, and even sorrow.
A few months ago, I asked a friend why it is that I cry whenever I pray. Tears are more than just cleansing; they are a way for the excess to escape. Sometimes that excess is pain, hurt, sorrow. But other times that excess is beauty, joy, happiness. And then there are the times when the excess is relief, or understanding, or even Wow! At the moment, I'm relishing the feel and taste of salt water tears, and the realization that I have come a long way in patiently listening. I still need to work on waiting for one question to be answered before asking ten more, but this is progress! Not long ago, I didn't even know I could ask questions!
Sunday, August 18, 2013
here and now
What an amazing and glorious week! As Guy and I weeded this evening, he looked at me and said, "I feel like I've been on a week-long retreat!" He then listed the activities that have driven us forward on our journey this week.
Grace Uncorked on Tuesday, where Fr Michael Gaitley talked about God's Mercy and the Sacred Heart. And where we met some people whose faces we'd seen many times, as well as some we'd never seen. Where we shared wine, snacks, and fellowship, laughter, knowledge, and even a few tears. And where Mom rediscovered the joy of helping out.
Mass for the Feast of the Assumption on Wednesday with Joseph, who actually asked one of his Monsignor questions, and got a really good answer. And where we ordered some Boy Scout popcorn.
A fireside with dear friends, and dear friends of theirs, where we talked about all kinds of things, with faith stories and questions mixed in, and marshmallows and s'mores, too.
A birthday dinner on Friday, celebrating not just his 19th birthday, but 20 years of living here in PA. And afterwards, talking with Mom about prayers and people who need them.
Saturday, we spent on the river, paddling with a group of adventurers from our church and another. Where we came upon a 'water path' through a grass island, and I asked Drew if he thought maybe Eden had a stream like the one we were on. And where we saw swathes of purple flowers, herons and cranes. Such beauty, such peace, such power.....
Afterwards, we picked Mom up and ate dinner with our fellow adventurers. Love, laughter and stories, food and wine, unexpected interconnectedness and forever friendships. And a feeling that we've known each other before, or forever, or both.
This morning at Mass, hearing a Missionary speak about his life in Ethiopia, and the children and families he works with there, and the amazing faith he exuded. Then the sudden realization that that familiar feeling comes from the folding of time, and actually sharing in the same prayerful events, putting us in the same place--the Sacred Heart--and being so thankful I cried.
Then later going to meet that same Missionary at a friend's house, and discovered I was sitting and (literally) breaking bread with someone very special: certainly a living Saint. He shared more stories of the people, the children, the challenges, the love, the miracles he's seen. He blessed a young man who stopped by and is leaving for Marine Corps basic training in the morning, and gave him a Miraculous Medal to keep him safe. After the young man left, he asked questions about the training, with genuine concern. He promised to pray for the boy by name. I have no doubt that he will. Before we went, I was figuring we would be there for half an hour or so, and excuse ourselves; two and a half hours later, we were wishing he did not have to leave for another speaking engagement.
The blessings of this week are many and great. I know that I am being prepared to give back in equal measure (circling back to Tuesday's talk and lessons), and the amazing and fantastic thing is, I am not only prepared, I am so looking forward to it! I don't know exactly what will be asked of me, but I have never been more willing. I looked at Guy tonight, sitting by the fire, and said that I thought this week had been the best week. "Ever," he added, with a smile and a nod.
I am, we are, right where we need to be.
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