my role model

A few weeks ago, I was asked "Who is your role model? What inspires you about this person?" I was in a bit of a rough place, and feeling let down by a whole lot of people I always thought 'should' be in the position of role modeling. I was set to respond with "It depends on the day" or "I don't have one. I prefer to model myself after attributes rather than people." The truth is, what I wanted to say is that I avoid letting anyone into that position now so they cannot disappoint or hurt me. The question was part of a survey I had to do - it was not optional - and there was no reason to say anything on it that wasn't the absolute truth. But, despite the truth in what I wanted to say, I knew, deep down, that it was temporary; the way that moment in time was shining on me. Or raining on me, I suppose.

I stepped away from my computer and thought about all the people I love, and who love me; my family of the heart, and my kids.Can a role model be a regular person? How could I have forgotten that? How could I have forgotten that the best role models are the ones that are right there, showing themselves - their true selves - in little ways. The people that had hurt me so much hadn't, really. I mean, yes, they did, but in the long run - a year, a decade, even a month down the road - the ways they had disappointed me would be long gone; the hurt healed over into a golden scar, strengthening the once broken parts of my heart. I considered who, really, was a role model to me, and how I could answer the question honestly. Truly honestly. An answer that would hold true in the future (days later, when discussing it, or a decade later, when I reflected on it), as well as the past. Was there anyone? Had I ever really let anyone be a role model? Of course. This is my response:

My dad. He could befriend anyone, in any situation. Along the way, he would find the best in people; everyone was his favorite. And he made that believable. From his example, I have learned that everyone has some gift to share, and I try to remember that, even with unpleasant interactions. His legacy to me is an admiration of the human spirit.

Today is Dad's birthday. Today marks ten years of no Happy Birthday phone calls. No left arm hugs. No coffee in pajamas all morning, until it's time to get dressed so we can have lunch and talk some more. No last glass of wine after lights out. I wish sometimes I had asked him what gift it is that he saw that I had to share. I wish sometimes that I had told him about my hurts, more about my joys, my dreams. I never asked him for real reasons on some things, like why he discouraged me from being a helicopter pilot, or going to the West Coast for college. I know the reasons he told me at the time, but I also know there was more behind it. The truth is, despite all the talking we did, and the love we shared, I didn't want him to know me that well. I was afraid, and I'm only beginning to learn what I was afraid of. The truth is, even as a little girl, I was already broken, and I really didn't want to know, or face, that he was, too, in some way. I didn't want that in common with him. The truth is, he's the reason I stayed. The reason I stayed at home, the reason I stayed in my marriage, the reason I stayed with at least a couple of jobs. I can't (yet) explain how he was, because I don't (yet) have the words. But I now know that to be truth. I love him for it. And I also wish I could talk it out with him, because it only makes so much sense, then it falls off into some realm I don't want to visit alone.

Another one of the questions on that survey was about a desert island:

If you were shipwrecked and stranded on an island without any supplies, fellow humans, etc., what do you do first? Why?
Cry, because I’ve never even considered learning how to build a fire without matches, and I know fire is the best way to protect myself from wild animals, prepare food to eat, and signal for help. Then I would pull myself together and explore. 

At the discussion afterward, we talked about sushi. In another conversation, my therapist said he knew there was something else I would do before I cried, because I am me. He said I would realize and be thankful that I am alive. And it clicked: I'm a survivor. The legacy of admiration for the human spirit is related to being a survivor. Dad taught me to survive. And from that survival, I am learning to thrive.

As I write this, the Morning Doves have returned. Dad used to whistle the Morning Dove's call, and always as a kid, because of the sound, I was convinced they were called Mourning Doves. Hearing them today is a gift from him, from Him. One year they nested in the crook of the tree right outside the window, and the boys and I watched them each day, sitting on eggs and staring at us. I like to think Dad watches over us, but I also hope that's not all he does. I miss him. I love him. And I'm grateful for all he taught me, and even the things he didn't, because they make him all the more real to me. Happy Birthday, Dad. I know you would understand.

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.

sheep stuff

The other day, while going through a box of "mystery stuff" by my desk, I came across a meditation on the lost sheep. It began by describing a hole in the fence that the one sheep wandered through, curious and a bit oblivious of the dangers. Presently, the shepherd went through the same hole in the fence, leaving 99 sheep inside, and also leaving the hole in the fence. After some time of searching, the shepherd finds the one sheep, and they return to the sheepfold, but the shepherd does not mend the fence.

The first questions on the meditation were the usual type, about the one who wandered off. But then there were questions about the 99. How did they feel about being left on their own? Why didn't they just follow the shepherd through the hole? How did they feel about the one returning to them?

Time and again I've heard the parable of the lost sheep, and time and again I've heard that each of us is the lost sheep. This meditation, however, puts us also in the position of the 'unlost,' of those who haven't strayed, who have been trusted to stay home without supervision. Sometimes a shifted focus, a different angle, makes a huge difference in reception, as well as perception.

That afternoon, putting myself with the 99 for the first time, I wondered about my own recent feelings of being somewhat lost while at the same time being immersed. I've been confused at the juxtaposition. As I sat on the floor with that paper in my hand, I wondered if those 99 sheep felt concern when their shepherd left them - concern that they didn't know what would come next, if he would be back, if they could take care of themselves - or if they confidently continued with their daily sheep business without even noticing he was gone. Or something in between. I pictured 99 sheep on a hillside - a large number of them together in some centralized location, some smaller groups, and the occasional lone sheep, slightly apart from the others, but near enough that inclusion was obvious. Each with their own thoughts, their own level of experience and confidence. Where did I fit?

A picture really can convey 1,000 words. Looking at the hillside of sheep, I realized that even when I feel lost, I'm not necessarily the sheep that found the hole in the fence. I can be any of those 99 and still wonder where I am. It's not about my physical, emotional, or spiritual location. Rather, my focus, my view, my willingness to trust my shepherd - or my confidence in his trust in me! - is what matters. In that picture I saw that sometimes the shepherd needs to trust that the majority of the sheep will simply stay put. The key then is whether they do! And there may be times when staying in one place, continuing to do what has become routine (because I don't know what else to do), even when it feels less than productive, is the only thing to do.

There is joy in being found. And there is joy in the return. There is joy for all.  

a shared space

The purpose of a pilgrimage to the Holy Land is not to visit a place; it is to find a God: the God made visible in His Son Jesus, who walked these lands; and with each step made not only this place, but the whole world holy.
~Fr. Chet Snyder, A Sabbath Shared

Perhaps this is why I still have a hard time knowing what to say when people ask about my trip. There was a priest I spoke with on the roof of Notre Dame, overlooking the Old City of Jerusalem, who told me that he preferred Jerusalem to Rome, not because of the sites and location, but because of the people who visit. He told me the disposition of the heart seemed different: those visiting Rome tended to be visiting the place, while those visiting Israel were looking to know a Man.

Not long ago, my pastor asked where I would go back to, which site, which spot would I choose to go to and stay for a few hours. Without hesitation I replied, "The hotel lobby in Jerusalem." I knew it seemed an odd answer to him, but I had been considering the question since our return (without thinking I'd ever be asked), so I had a ready explanation. Jerusalem was our last hotel, and we stayed there three nights. Each day when we returned to the hotel, I'd go up to the room and drop off packages, freshen up, and go to the lobby. Sometimes alone, sometimes with others, always with a glass of wine or a cup of espresso. And I would unpack the day, the sites, the sounds, the very air. Whether I was engaged in conversation or sitting alone, I truly pondered how everything was fitting together. In that lobby is where we saw the group come in wearing their Purim costumes, heading to a party, so we Googled Purim and wondered at the marvelous timing of our trip. We watched and heard interactions in a language and custom we didn't know or understand. That lobby is where I began to really know some others on the trip; where we shared feelings, doubts, questions, personal histories. But all the while, I was very aware that Christ was in our midst, sitting with us, listening, laughing, sharing.



Reading Fr Snyder's words this morning, I was again sitting in the lobby, only my physical self was in Pennsylvania at our dining room table. Lately, when I think of God, of praying, of finding comfort, I am sitting in an armchair in the Leonardo in Jerusalem. Actually, that was the point of the question from my friend. We were talking about prayer. His advice was to ask Jesus to join me in the lobby for a glass of wine or a cup of espresso, and spend time together unpacking the day: the good and the bad, the challenges for the next day, and the celebrations in my heart. And I do. Not every day, as I probably should, but certainly more often than I had been reviewing, preparing, praying with Him as a Friend. My laptop won't recognize my phone since my return, so the nine hundred or so photos I've taken are in limbo. As I think of sharing them, I email them to myself, or pull from Facebook something I've posted there. I've wondered why this inconvenience doesn't bother me terribly. And I've wondered, too, why I'm not more frustrated by the technology. The thing is, what's most important about going to Israel, being there, is in my heart, not on my phone in digital photographs. Eventually I will manage to get them to my computer and print a few. In the meantime, I have the clearest pictures in my mind, because I'm still there most days, for at least a little while.

even for me

On our last day with Iyad, we traveled the Via Dolorosa -- the Way of the Cross. We followed each of the traditional fourteen stations on a road that was nothing like what I had ever pictured. In our Faith Matters class, we had seen the Via Dolorosa in video, in modern times. I had gone to see the IMAX film, Jerusalem 3D, and still, I was not prepared. The streets were narrower than I expected, and although they were not as crowded the day we were there as in the videos I'd seen, it amazed me just how close the quarters were. I found myself wondering from time to time how the crowds I'd seen on the screen could even fit in the space, and where those who live there go at those times. It's difficult for me to explain how that walk felt to me. I took very few pictures -- partly because I wanted to immerse myself in the walking, in being a part of His carrying the Cross, and partly because (well, mostly because) I did not want this day to be a tourist day. I wanted to observe through the eyes of my heart, not through a camera lens.

And yet, at the end of the day, when asked about my impressions, I realized that it was not my day to be moved. That sounds horrible, I suppose, but what I mean is, that day was about the part of Jesus' life that I'd known all my life; the story I'd heard again and again. The spots that moved me were the stations with the women -- Mary, Veronica, the women and children of Jerusalem. Three of the fourteen. Despite my best intentions, I did feel like a tourist most of the rest of the time. Throughout, I prayed, asking God what I was missing, and being continually reassured that I was where I needed to be. I was, indeed, moved by the tomb in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre: the silence inside was overwhelming, especially after the hubbub of the building itself.

But this piece of artwork stopped me in my tracks.

Just to the side of the tomb was the chapel where we had Mass that day. Another island of silence in an otherwise crazy atmosphere. This ironwork depiction of the stations of the cross hung directly across from the door. I gazed at it, transfixed, unable to cross the threshold. The simplicity, the stark contrast in color to the stone walls, the small scale of the figures relative to the room, the fact that it was painstakingly wrought from the same type of material that fastened Jesus to the cross.....but what strikes me most, even now, is the single line connecting each station. An underline for emphasis. A single line from the ancient to now; from the past to the present. From me to Jesus himself. And a line that underscores the fifteenth station added here -- the Resurrection. As I stood in the doorway, I could, for maybe the first time ever, see that all of it was for me. Me as one, individual child of God.

And that, I think, is why the rest of the day didn't touch me the way I'd anticipated. All my life I'd been taught that Jesus died for us all, for everyone, to save the world. Which is very true. But in those moments in the doorway, for the first time, I realized and understood a subtle difference: Jesus died for each of us. Semantics? Perhaps. But the thing is, for the past few years (most of my life?) I've been struggling with the idea that I matter in the eyes of God. I've been coming to terms with the idea that I am not invisible to Him, that I cannot hide, no matter how much I want to, or try to. I am His, regardless of what I think about that. More and more I have accepted and embraced that truth. This piece of artwork is a spear that drove that truth into my heart.

At Mass, I sat beneath Mary, greeting her Son, knowing she had raised him for this day, this mission. Knowing that she had raised him that I might know him. It was all I could do to pay attention at Mass that day -- the only day I was not completely engrossed in the ritual, the readings, the responses, so moved to gaze at this iron above me, and thinking I needed to resist that urge. Today is Good Friday, and my mind keeps wandering back to the Holy Land, to the sights and sounds, the air and the water, the people, and the way of the cross. All of it.

And I cannot stop the flow of tears.

Nor do I want to.

All I do, Lord, I do for you. Because of what you did for me.

a side note

Weirdly enough, after asking about my favorite thing in Israel, and then about the food, the next question is inevitably about my hair. How it figures into the story, I'm not quite sure, but I happily answer.

Yes, I am letting the natural color grow out. Yes, that white is my natural color. And really you want to know how long I've had grey hair? Well, the first streak was discovered on my first visit to a hairdresser (a friend of my Mom's) when I was in fourth grade. I could even show you about where it was, but I know no one is really that curious! Occasionally, there is a follow-up question of "why?" That answer is a little more complicated.

I started having my hair colored not long after becoming a mom. I always looked tired. Heck, I always was tired! A friend suggested that the few stray grey hairs may be exaggerating the overall effect of tired mom-ness. And, actually, she was right. I did feel better about myself when I could look in the mirror and see freshness. After a while, it just got to be fun to change my color with the seasons, with the cut, with fashion and for pure experimentation. I remember one day at the theater, sitting on the stage with the staff at lunchtime, and the statement made to me: "Admit it. When you change the color of your hair, you change -- your mood, your character, who you present to the world." It was true.

The hard fact is, though, it was easy to do because I really didn't know myself. Getting to know me was frightening, and letting anyone else know me even more so. As I've journeyed toward me, toward my place in my own life, I've come to appreciate me more. The me that's real and whole and genuine. I still liked getting my hair colored -- a little redder in the winter, a little blonder for the summer. But something began to change. Little by little people would mention my mood or my health at odd times, telling me I looked ill or angry when I felt distinctly the opposite. One day it occurred to me that for some, my roots showing indicated something unsaid. I would mention it from time to time "No, it's just my roots showing." I began to see who knew me and who didn't, because my friends could see the erroneous correlation; those who knew me less well insisted it couldn't possibly be true, because "I didn't know you even colored your hair!" (Seriously?? How could anyone miss it if they saw me more than a couple times a year?)

Slowly I realized that I was fighting with my roots more than was reasonable, and something that started out as a fun thing to make me feel more confident and healthy, more like myself, was doing just the opposite. I was heading toward being obsessive. Years earlier I had read an article by a woman who had decided to go natural. She said the process took quite a while. About a year, actually. I was intrigued, but knew my natural color was still not anywhere near even. It took me nearly two years to work up the courage to ask my husband and my hairdresser what they thought. I also sent an informal text poll to some friends. Overwhelmingly, the men I asked gave positive responses. Many of the women were leery of the idea. Some asked if the question was financially motivated. (At first, on the surface, yes; but on the most basic level, no.) Nevertheless, I decided I was going to go for it, but the question was, How?

So we made a plan, my hairdresser and I, and now people ask about my hair. Especially when we're talking about Israel. People are funny. And, in all honesty, I have never felt more free. A couple of people have mentioned that the color is flattering to my skin tone and my eyes. My response: "I figure since God put me together in the first place, the combination must be reasonably good." It's so much more than that. So much more.

page eighty-six

For over a year, I've been working on this book. While it came highly recommended, and I really do want to finish it, I honestly don't devote a whole heck of a lot of time to it. I'd like to, but it's the kind of book that takes digesting and pondering. On an average day in the past year, I can't quite devote enough focus to it. Frankly, for me discussion is likely necessary, too. Why else would 140 pages (including the index) take over a year to chew through? It's highlighted and underlined and bracketed, and I'm already looking forward to starting it again once I finish.
When I realized that my usual reading times were not going to work with this book, I began taking it with me to adoration. In that hour of time alone, with no distractions, I manage about 20-30 minutes lost in its pages. Once, I fell asleep reading it (yes, at adoration), and when I awoke with a start a few minutes later, the words had changed. I flipped the page forward and back thinking perhaps I'd lost my place, but I think the explanation is that I needed to hear something different from the words, and was put to sleep. (A story for another time, maybe.)
The title is The Divine Milieu, and the author a priest - a Jesuit - who died in 1955, by the name of Pierre Teilhard de Chardin. Two-thirds of the way through the book he says that we have finally gotten enough background to get to the point. I like to think Dad and I would have discussed him. And occasionally I think perhaps Dad tried to discuss Teilhard's work with me, but I was not where I needed to be.
At any rate, on Friday afternoon, with impeccable timing to fit my life, as God's timing always is, I read:

However vast the divine milieu may be, it is in reality a centre. It therefore has the properties of a centre...the absolute and final power to unite...all beings within its breast. In the divine milieu all the elements of the universe touch each other by that which is most inward and ultimate in them. There they concentrate...all that is purest and most attractive in them without loss and without danger of subsequent corruption....Let those seek refuge there who are saddened by the separations, the meannesses and the wastefulnesses of the world. In the external spheres of the world, man is always torn by the separations which set distance between bodies, which set the impossibility of mutual understanding between souls, which set death between lives....All that desolation is only on the surface. (p. 86)

Spoken directly to my heart that day. A series of frustrations had me feeling alone and lonely. I was already grateful for the scheduled visit to the chapel, but these words more than doubled that gratitude. Looking up, through tears, I asked what I should do next, how to get through the next few days. Clearly my heart heard, "Trust the Lord with all your heart." I smiled and said that I already do. [I often get to speak aloud, as most days no one else is there with us] Again, the same words, clear and direct. And then, "There are those who love you."
"All that desolation is only on the surface." As such, its not nearly as important as we make it out to be. Not nearly as impactful as we determine to allow it to be. The surface, you see, is nothing but a shell, a skin, maybe even a barrier to the real, the beautiful, the true. If you're looking for me, I'll be seeking refuge in the centre.

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.

Book Talk

Happy are you poor, by Thomas Dubay

Book Club discussion on May 13

What struck me most was the consistent theme that a person in love can think of nothing else; the world fades away and nothing matters. There is great truth in that sentiment! Each day I find myself falling more and more deeply in love with God, with Jesus, with my faith, our faith. And in that love, I find I can more easily accept even that which I do not understand.

 

The next thing that made me think hard about where I am is giving from my need, rather than just from my excess. The author was right in pointing out that giving is easy when it's what I can afford, or am willing to part with. Since coming across this point, I've been more inclined to simply give. And I've been prepared to hand things over, just for the asking. I've also offered food and shelter to strangers. Knowing that it's outside my comfort a bit (personally and monetarily) has been far outweighed by the knowledge that it's the right thing to do. God will provide, in whatever way He sees the need.

 

That brings me to another point I've been pondering. What I perceive to be my needs are not necessarily what I truly need. My faith has deepened with the idea that there is so very little that I need, as opposed to what I have to give. I've taken a huge leap of faith (2 actually) and the fruits are already ripening. Opening my heart to trust in the gifts I've been given, and to use and act upon them came as much from learning about being poor in spirit as from any other book we've read.

 

I also saw many parallels with St. Therese, Thomas Merton, Bonhoeffer, St. Paul, and even Andrew Comiskey's works. Each opening of the heart leading to another. Living faith out loud, rather than quietly and alone. Giving from an emotional and spiritual standpoint, as much as from a monetary (physical) one. I feel more prepared to live as an example to our children, too, although I know there are still some things I am not yet ready to give up or let go of. I'm willing to admit and "own" them, though, and that is progress toward eventually giving all.

 

In the giving, I've also started to ask. There are things that money cannot buy, but that we shouldn't do without--a shoulder to lean on, a heart to connect with, advice. These are things I've always had a hard time asking for in my moments of need, though I give them freely. I love that the concepts in this book, and our last, have given me permission to need those things, and also to say so.

 

living and dead

A couple of months ago, as our book club discussion started, I was asked why we had to read that particular book anyway. That's pretty much how the question went. Only somewhat apologetically I explained that the title and the cover had caught my eye, the topic was interesting, and, quite frankly, it had been on sale, so I picked it up and added it to the list. Unsatisfied, my fellow bibliophile asked, "But why? What did he want us to get out of it?" Laughing, I replied that he had nothing to do with the book selections; "he" being our pastor. It turns out, though, He may have had His reasons.

That book was The Pope Who Quit (Sweeney), about Peter Morrone, who became Pope Celestine V, and then retired shortly thereafter, and I picked it up on the heels of Pope Emeritus Benedict's resignation. The author made quite a point of mentioning that Celestine V figured in Dante's Inferno, another book I picked up on that sale-rack day, and had already planned on putting on the reading list--eventually. When I saw the connection between the books, I put Inferno on the calendar for the next meeting. The feedback from everyone in the first week or so of reading Inferno was so overwhelmingly positive, despite the difficulty with some translations, that we all agreed that we would continue with Purgatorio and Paradiso before moving on from the Middle Ages.

Next week, right smack dab in the middle of November, we will meet to discus our impressions of Purgatory. The profundity of reading this book over the feasts of All Saints and All Souls is not lost on me--although I did need a tap on the shoulder. Upon his entrance to Purgatory, an angel carves seven P's on Dante's forehead, representing the sins atoned for on each of the seven terraces. I heard a similar (though quite unrelated) reference in one of the readings over the last week or so, and that's when the connection really hit me. Ever since, I have been even more deeply moved by the poetry, the imagery, and the story.

As in the Inferno, where the punishments fit the crimes so precisely, those in Purgatory are circling the mountain making up for their mistakes and missteps. As I read about the weight of each of the penitents' sins, and their requests for prayers from the living to shorten their time, I keep thinking about those I know that have died. We cannot know what others are suffering, or what is in their hearts, what things might keep them from real rest. On Saturday morning, we heard a bit about lamentation, and the beauty of allowing ourselves to feel, express, and even embrace the sorrow and pain that can come with memories of our loved ones who have died--even years after they are gone.

The result is that as I read, in this month of remembering and honoring the dead, I find myself occasionally flooded with memories of people I love, but cannot see or call. And I let the memories come, noting how the memory might relate to the Canto I am reading, while coming to the understanding and acceptance that passage through each of the terraces is probably a given. The book is fascinating, and the fact that God put a half price book in my sights to get me to read Purgatory in November is the most amazing and unexpected blessing.

When reading Inferno, I struggled through Longfellow's translation--the most widely recognized and used in scholarly environs. I understood about half of what I read, but enjoyed the imagery nonetheless, even when I had no idea what it meant. I was also in a rather deserted place in my soul at the time, so I may not have absorbed much anyway. For the next two books in the Commedia, I am using the Penguin Classic: The Portable Dante, edited by Mark Musa. I highly recommend it!

standing still

I've found myself at a standstill. Last week, I had this sense of.....what? I could only identify it as darkness, but that didn't seem quite right. Since I really didn't know what it was, I began to push against panic that darkness was going to descend, long before any darktime weather. I almost called a couple of friends to alert them; to have their warm thoughts shore me up. I resisted (and instead overdid social time, to the detriment of my psyche, and my belly). When I stopped to consider why this sense of something, I realized there was no darkness, only calm. The kind of calm and quiet that is palpable and strong enough to keep me in one place.

At one time, this kind of standstill would have pushed me to wonder why, or what I had done wrong, or not done, to be stuck when I had been moving right along (albeit slowly most of the time!). Today, though, seemed like an opportune time to turn around and look at where I've been, how far I've come. Each day on this journey, I've been reminded, in one way or another, how far I have yet to go. And how far I am behind where I could have been, had I made different turns and avoided some detours and unnecessary exits. (This latter part is always argued--without those fits and starts, I would not be who I am, and therefore could not be where I am now, which is right where I'm supposed to be. While I know this, the thought still creeps in on occasion, and must be pushed away or dealt with.) For the first time, looking back over the course, there is no feeling that I've missed something, or left something behind. I'm pleasantly surprised to see that I have actually covered quite a bit of ground! The place I left from is far in the distance, not just a step back, as I've sometimes feared.

This part of my journey has been moving toward, not away, and I can almost see the change in my stride at that transition. My steps may be slower, but they are surer, stronger and steadier. This view is breathtaking and humbling and uplifting, all at the same time. And I find myself grateful for the standstill; for the time to allow this all to sink in, to take root, to sprout wings. For the first time, I do not find myself resisting the inertia. And I wonder if past resistance has brought on the listlessness and dejection that I find in the darktime (which is still a long way off!); if perhaps there was more looking out I should have done, when the tendency was for me to look inward when the spinning of the world slows......

Should have done matters little. Outward I shall look, and use this glance behind as incentive to move ahead. If I can come this far, I can go this far again plus one step more, and then yet again this doubled distance plus one. And when it's time to move forward again--tonight, tomorrow, next week--I will be ready, willing, with eagerness anew. Into a sunrise.



"The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it."
~Henry David Thoreau
(thanks, Lee!)

paper and pencil

I find myself looking at blank piece of paper. When I realized it, I almost laughed out loud, but had to contain myself in that moment. Instead, I laughed right out loud in my soul, expanding the very walls of my being. The laughter, and the paper, cleared some cobwebs from my mind, and pushed away some anxiety that has been lurking in the corners of my heart, constricting it and keeping me from opening the windows of my self wide to allow the gentle breezes of joy and mercy to blow freely in.

This paper may or may not be the one that haunted me as I asked for answers a few months ago. It's quite possible that it is the answer I was seeking; but it is equally possible that this is one more challenge to face, embrace, and ultimately use as a stepping stone on my journey. This paper is literal, where the other was a vision in my periphery: a frustration borne of trying a wee bit too hard to see what I should wait patiently to discover. This paper honestly paralyzed me for a moment when I saw it, lying on the table in front of me where I had dropped it. How can a piece of paper have this effect? Essay questions. Short answers. About me. About my journey, my hopes, my self.

The thought of answering them was almost a deal-breaker. For about 20 seconds. Then I recognized the anxiety--the No--that had stopped me from taking so many steps that should have been easy when taken with trust. I realized in that moment--well, after the 20 seconds, anyway--that trust is what had been missing so many times when all I needed to do was say Yes.

Tonight, I changed the question, and only just realized it. Once again, that seems to be the key. (I believe Merton said as much somewhere in No Man Is an Island!) Where I had been asking, "What is the answer?" I today asked, "Please, help me with the answers. Guide my hand in writing the words. I am just your little pencil.*" That's when I realized, when my soul laughed, when I saw smiles in front of me, and a nodding head.

I have come to a new place. And recognized it for the beauty, and for the miracle that discovery is.

*Mother Theresa described herself as "God's little pencil." I fell in love with the metaphor!

know no know

A dear friend of mine tells me from time to time, "You know more than you know." Although I don't think I've ever heard him speak these words to me (he usually tells me via text message or email), I hear his voice saying the words. And they echo in my mind, sometimes taking on various forms and meanings:

You know more than you know.

You no more than you know.

You know more than you no.

Each is equally uncomfortable.

I've struggled at times with "no-ing" without thinking. There are times, as Momma, that I have been caught in a No battle, saying the word before really thinking about it. Then I would be stuck in a conundrum of either backtracking or holding to the automatic response when I realized that No was not really the best answer. More recently, I realized I was using the tactic to avoid giving the most honest response: I was asked if perhaps I could be called to lead a Bible study, and my first response was a series of Late Night Top Ten reasons why it would be a questionable idea. I left off Reason #1, though: I've read so little of the Bible it's a bit embarrassing to admit. In the end, after a whole lot of searching and a number of things hitting me right in the head, I had to admit that I No'd too automatically: the real answer was "It's possible." I do No more than I Know sometimes.

And last night, I was at a youth ministry informational meeting, the leader, in response to something I didn't hear, said, "How many theology degrees did St. Peter have?" It was just what I needed to hear. I blurted out that I feel like I don't know anything.  Our pastor, sitting next to me, said that I know more than I think (something that, under different circumstances, would have really bugged me), but there was a chorus of others who said they felt the same way. A discussion followed, about hearing and listening, learning and growing, resources and comfort levels. All the while, I heard my friend's voice in my ear.

I don't think it's any coincidence that the story of Jesus on the Road to Emmaus (Luke 24:13-35) was presented to me twice yesterday. I story that I had heard of, but had never, to my recollection, heard. In a nutshell, Jesus appears to these two guys walking along, and asks them what they are talking about. They tell him the story of Jesus' death and resurrection, and they they all have communion together, at which point they realize to whom they are talking. The point being that Jesus will come to us, where we are. On my journey, I am right where I am supposed to be, at this moment, and where I am is where He will be, if I let him travel with me. I've read a number of times over the past few months that the key is to travel with, not ahead of, and not behind.

How do I ever know what I know? It's funny, because I recognize when I no what I know, and when I know what I no, but knowing what I know is harder to see. It's far more nebulous than even I care to admit. Frankly, it frightens me to think about. I wish I knew why. I wish I knew where to start thinking, contemplating, pondering. I wish I knew how, or when, or who, or if I should ask for guidance, or if it's just something to figure out on my porch when I'm alone.

You know more than you know.

Tell me what it is.

everything, something, nothing

Far from knowing everything, I muddle through. Truthfully, I wouldn't want to know everything; the burden would be too great. Often it seems that bliss comes from knowing Very Little. Or knowing Just Enough.

And yet, there have always been people that, in my mind, know everything. Not Everything, mind you, that's way more than I would wish on anyone! Simply everything. Chatting about this the other night, I came to the realization that if I believe that someone else, someone "in charge" or who is leading, knows everything, I can go about my business making believe that I know Nothing. If I believe, or pretend to believe, that someone else knows everything, I don't need to step outside myself to see just how much I do know. And I also don't have to face that awkward moment when I know something that the Someone Else doesn't know. Does it really matter who that Someone Else might be? No. It can be awkward, regardless.

I also came to realize how hugely unfair I was being. There are people I go to for answers. Sometimes big answers, and sometimes smaller. I don't remember Dad ever saying, "I don't know." He would sometimes make something up. Other times he would say something that wasn't much of an answer at all, then come back later and explain or clarify. Occasionally, his answers would begin with "I wonder...." Around my kids, he would say things like, "Let's try it" or "What do you think?" Or "Go see what you can find out, and then we'll talk about it." I know he read voraciously, so he did know Quite a Bit. But I wonder now if he felt pressured to know everything because he was the dad.

Over the past few days, I've come to realize how truly wonderful it is that I know Something. And that I know Enough to know that I have so much More to Learn! I've written before about my penchant for questioning, and my trepidation when it comes to asking. Perhaps that anxiety is related to not being asked; I don't exactly know. And perhaps it is related to the very strong anxiety I have when it comes to offering that I do know Something!

That simple bliss of knowing Very Little doesn't really exist in my heart. By allowing (or encouraging!) anyone to believe that I know Nothing, I am inadvertently deflating my own spirit. That's not what I'm here to do! I would like to know More, but I also would like to share my own Something.

notebooks

When I was a teenager, Dad frequently gave me blank journals and diaries. He said it might be good for me to write things down, to work things out; that writing in them might help me to better understand myself. Occasionally, I would start writing on the blank pages--mostly about boy troubles--but only about ten of those pages remain. Most of them were torn out and burned in the woodstove within weeks of being written. There was a part of me that suspected that Dad really wanted me to write in journals so he could better understand me. Every time I wrote the kinds of things that I thought diaries were for, I was quite concerned that someone else might read them. There was quite a chorus of "if no one should know...." in my head when I was a teen.

This past week, I was reminded of those journal gifts when I pulled out my notebook as part of my routine when reading. I've kept notebooks for years--lines from books that touch my heart, notes on lectures, thoughts on what I've read, heard or seen. And the fact that this blog is, as Anna Nalick says, "my diary screaming out loud," is not lost on me. I had forgotten about all those journals, though.

When the memory caught me, I was (am still) in the midst of pondering a question posed to me. Pieces had been falling into place, slowly--as they do, and probably should, but the picture was still unclear. Many times when I'm feeling particularly befuddled, I think of Dad. At times, he comes to me, with that feeling of an arm over my shoulders, a glimpse of his thoughtful eyes, and once his clear voice speaking in my head. More often, though, there is something much more subtle: I come across something he'd given me, whether concrete or abstract. Pulling out the notebook brought him to mind, which, of course made me wonder why. As I opened my book to read, I found my answer--another piece to my current puzzle. Possibly the most important piece so far--and, interestingly, a lesson I now know Dad had been trying to teach me since those days when he gave me the journals.

One of my goals is to get my notebooks in order, and consolidate where I can, to make a cohesive order. My notebooks are all over the place, and sometimes even consist of loose sheets of paper stuffed into books that may or may not bear any reference to the notes. It'll be quite an undertaking, but worth the lessons about me I will learn. Ordering the notes will not necessarily order my mind, but that is quite all right. If nothing else, the consolidating will unclutter my heart.

Anxiety is fatal to recollection because recollection depends ultimately on faith, and anxiety eats into the heart of faith. Anxiety usually comes from strain, and strain is caused by too complete a dependence on ourselves, on our own devices, our own plans, our own idea of what we are able to do.

~Thomas Merton, No Man Is an Island, p. 224.

tintinnabulation

The church bells are missing. Every evening for the past 18 years that we have lived here, I've heard them, with varying degrees of awareness. Often as background to cleaning up from dinner, sometimes as accompaniment with dinner or the visits that go along with mealtime. Frequently the songs are ones I know, and I sing along in my heart. Occasionally, an unknown song plays, and I wonder what it's about. The week of July 4th, patriotic songs were in the mix, making me think of Dad and his funeral (the not-so-painful parts).

There was a time, quite a while ago, when I wondered if being agnostic would be better than the limbo I felt I was in. The church bells were part of the reason I stuck with my faith, lukewarm as it was. They were too beautifully reminding me of songs and messages I had always loved. [I realize now that I was likely suffering from mild depression, rather than a lack of faith, per se. But I imagine the feeling is similar.]

Lately, the bells have served their traditionally intended purpose: a call to prayer. At 6:00 each evening, I have been beautifully and gently reminded that if I haven't yet said my prayers, I should make the time before the evening gets away from me. I often sit on our balcony and pray the rosary or another devotion, or do some spiritual reading, with the sound of bells in the air.

Monday night, I had somewhere to be from 6-7, and as I got in the car, I realized the new weekly appointment would mean that I wouldn't hear the bells. But I reassured myself that it was for a very good reason, so it was okay. Tuesday night, I wondered around 6:30 just what I had been so busy doing that I didn't even hear them. I'm pretty sure whatever I'd been doing, I should have been able to hear them, but perhaps I was just preoccupied or distracted. Wednesday was one of those days when I just felt like my life was crumbling; like I'd made the wrong decisions, and there was no way to reset. A dear friend and I "chatted" for a while in between weeding, and something he said resonated with me: "Your faith exploration has been wonderful and it seems to have been feeding you." He had been asking about coping mechanisms, and how most of my usual ones were on summer hiatus. [and it's been far too hot, although that hasn't stopped me from doing more yard work than is usual for me! And I've been enjoying it, too!] This morning another friend said, after I told her that I find myself wondering where I'd gone wrong, that she figures that God must find himself asking the same question about His children.

Tonight, when I made myself very aware of the 6:00 hour approaching, and no music started, I realized that I may have come to depend on the bells in a way. I sat on the the balcony and missed the church bells. There was thunder, so I was well aware of not being alone in any way. But the bells are missing. I'm not one of those who is against change, or new things, but I do miss things. I hope the bells are on vacation. I'm off Tuesday, so if they haven't been found by then, I think I will walk over and enquire. They truly are one of the perks of living here.

for many reasons

This entry begun on January 18, 2013. I don't know why I didn't finish it, but I suspect because the direction was not quite right, although the content is quite precise.


"Why are you here?" was the question, and was meant to be contemplative. The question, while directed at a specific person to help clarify another question, struck me as the one I needed to contemplate and pray on.

Why am I there? At first, my presence was a by-product of my desire to do something for someone else. And I got hooked and found myself learning more about myself and my religion than I thought I wanted to. Before long, I was there for me, and the someone else was a nice addition to the evenings. At some point, my focus shifted, and I felt peace. That was a different gathering, or class, if you will. A study.

This one is different. This one is about history, too, but not in the same way. This one is also about self--self-sacrifice, contemplation.

a hug

Yesterday began with a hug from a near stranger. Not often does something so unexpected seem so comfortable and familiar. Hours later, another hug from someone else, along with the words, "You give great hugs." Just a simple statement of fact, and I realized one more of the pieces of "me" I have let go somewhere along the way. As I heard the words spoken close to my ear, almost feeling as though they were inside my head rather than outside, I heard echos of the same from loved ones now flung far and wide, physically and spiritually.

Dad used to comment on my hugs; usually with a simple word of thanks. Mostly our hugs were unconventional--a squeeze of the hand, or his left arm around my shoulders and my head on his, my right cheek on his chest. Recently, I recalled in that moment, someone else had told me about missing my hugs, but I can't for the life of me remember who. And that's when I realized and remembered how much I miss the genuine, spontaneous, joy-filled hugs that used to explode out of me everywhere.

I've been watching for the me things, the gifts I've been given, entrusted with, and that I should be honing, sharing, returning. A number of years ago, I lamented to a friend that I was missing the hugs I used to share with classmates, co-workers, and oftentimes, people I'd just met. He immediately hugged me, and offered to receive any hugs I might have pent up. He is still a very dear friend (who also is an amazing hugger!), but I don't see him often at all. Luckily, I have a family--both of heart and of blood) who hug hello and goodbye.

Somewhere in there, in what I can only describe as an effort to fit in, I have turned myself into a square peg trying to fit into the round hole that is reality; that is my space in this world.

Paddling on the water yesterday, I found a piece of me. One that I had forgotten was missing. Our fearless canoe adventure leader told me that she leads this group because on the water is where she found God again, and in sharing the wonder of nature, she is doing what she can to give praise. While she did not emphasize the "again" part, I could completely identify. I found him again on a highway. And ever since, I've been letting him lead me back to me. To him. And what I'm finding is that being myself is enough. The true myself: the one that wants to be comforted like a child; the one that wants to comfort; the hugger, the laughter, the listener; the hermit; the butterfly---the one that is me.

There are days when I am contentedly moving forward at a snail's pace, but what is really awesome is that I am not spinning my wheels, lost and alone. I am right where I am, and right where I am supposed to be.

Armed with a hug.

momma mia

Over the past few days, I have been getting gentle reminders of the importance of my Momma-ing. And the complexity of the job. All of these reminders are little bits of consolation related to wherever it is that I'm headed.

We've already had our discussion at Book Club about Thomas Merton, but I am still working my way through the book. Although I know I will never be "done" with this book, I have also not yet finished it. One of the very common threads I've run into (you might find something else, or I might the next time I read through it) is the gentle admonishment to be myself, to be the self I was created and intended to be. I know with certainty that a good part of that self is a mother, or mother figure. I also know that as Momma, I muddle through, partly relying on what I've learned from other mothers I admire, partly making it up as I go along, and often asking for guidance.

In the past, asking for guidance came more in the panicked moments when I felt at the end of my rope, stretched too thin, or terribly frightened. In the past year, I've put on a different spin. Nowadays, I ask daily--well, almost daily--for reminders that I am Momma for a reason, or at the very least, for help remembering that much of what I do is an example to my children. In the end, I'm probably asking for guidance, help and support just as much as I always did, but the end result is so much different! Whereas I used to find myself stressed, used up, tired, afraid--in reality, depressed--I now feel more strength to face the challenges, and actual joy that I have them to face. Being a mother is not easy; there are times when no one is happy with the outcome of making and following rules, or following through with consequences. But time and again, even my children have told me how important it is that we do just that.

There have been times when I've told myself there must be more to my life than being their mother. That when they are grown, I will need to find something else, and for that reason, I need to develop other aspects of me. I'm finding that the other aspects of "me" develop best in the context of my identity of "mother." Thomas Merton has helped me to realize just how far-reaching "vocation" is. In an essay on marriage [below], I found the most amazing joy that what I knew was another vocation of mine (marriage) was another shining facet of me. It sounds crazy, but I've lived with a misguided inclination to compartmentalize my roles in order to really show who I am, and, frankly, it's always made me quite uncomfortable in my skin! In actuality, the facets cannot be separated. A prism may separate the colors, but they are always united, touching and attached to each other. I am always, at once, mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend, employee, co-worker, student--all are me. Not simply pieces of me that I can pull out as I need them.

In this knowledge, I've found freedom. Freedom to choose growth and forward motion. Freedom to be the me I was created and intended to be. I still do not know precisely what that means beyond this moment, but I'm also free to follow the road where it leads. Building the road myself was getting me nowhere. Fast. Progress is still slow at times, but the view is far more spectacular when I can free myself of every last detail.



        We would be better able to understand the beauty of the religious vocation if we remembered that marriage too is a vocation. The religious life is a special way of sanctity, reserved for comparatively few. The ordinary way to holiness and to the fullness of Christian life is marriage. Most men and women will become saints in the married state. And yet so many Christians who are not called to religious life or to the priesthood say of themselves: "I have no vocation!" What a mistake! They have a wonderful vocation, all the more wonderful because of its relative freedom and lack of formality. For the "society" which is the family loves beautifully by its own spontaneous inner laws. It has no need of codified rule and custom. Love is its rule, and all its customs are the living expression of deep and sincere affection. In a certain sense, the vocation to the married state is more desirable than any other, becuase of the fact that this spontaneity, this spirit of freedom and union in charity is so easily accessible, for the ordinary man, in family life. The formalism and artificiality which creep into religious communities are with difficulty admitted into the circle of a family where powerful human values triumphantly resist the incursions of falsity.
        Married people, then, instead of lamenting their supposed "lack of vocation," should highly value the vocation they have actually received. They should thank God for the fact that this vocation, with all its responsibilites and hardships, is a safe and secure way to become holy without being warped or shriveled up by pious conventionalism. The married man and the mother of a Christian family, if they are faithful to their obligations, will fulfill a mission that is as great as it is consoling: that of bringing into the world and forming young souls capable of happiness and love, souls capable of sanctification and transformation in Christ. Living in close union with God the creator and source of life, they will understand better than others the mystery of His infinite fecundity, in which it is their privilege to share. Raising children in difficult social circumstances, they will enter perhaps more deeply into the mystery of divine Providence than others who, by their vow of poverty, ought ideally to be more directly dependent on God than they, but who in fact are never made to feel the anguish of insecurity.

No Man Is an Island, Thomas Merton, p. 152-153

together and apart

All day long, I knew what I wanted to say. Now that I can sit with my laptop, I don't know how to begin. Ordinarily, this moment would have me humming from the Sound of Music, and starting at the very beginning. Trouble is, part of the words that have now escaped me spin the beginning to now, and the now back to before.

Reading Thomas Merton has been an interesting experience, to say the least. Most of the experience has had me looking forward, and there has been plenty of soul searching; all of which I expected. Some of that soul searching has been direct, with essays about finding self, being self, giving self, and losing self. But yesterday, I read something that made me stop and remember. A chapter on sacrifice had me lost until the first steps toward deeper explanation were taken. (Where Ignatius Loyola uses repetition, Merton seems to use spirals, I think.) Somewhere in the explanation, he talks of Baptism, our names, our selves (yet again!), and the way that Baptism draws us in--to faith, to community, to Christ himself.

"But every sacrament of union is also a sacrament of separation." (p. 82). This is where the memory blew into my mind in full color.

When we got married, there was quite a hullabaloo regarding our unity candle. Of all the things that could have caused arguments and/or issues, who would ever have thought such a ritual could be so BIG, for lack of a better word. First, we chose a set of candle holders that were not attached to each other in any way. They matched, but I wanted to be able to use the candle holders regularly and often. To be honest, I didn't understand why we needed a set in the first place. Mom and Dad's unity candle was just one candle. They didn't use tapers to light it; simply used wicks to transfer the flame from the Easter candle to the unity candle. Simple as that. I figured if we were going to use tapers, we might as well be able to burn them, and we both loved eating by candlelight. The idea that I might ever separate the pieces of the set was the first issue.

The bigger problem, though, came with the actual lighting. We said we wanted to keep the tapers lit, having three candle flames, rather than one flame and two dead candles. For one thing, I thought that would look silly, but the more important reason was that we didn't want to extinguish our selves because we were married. This was the point that hit me yesterday, and I hope I can express it. All those years ago, we may or may not have had a memory of yesterday. We were ahead of ourselves: we stuck to our guns and kept three candles lit. In the years since, we have been strongest as a couple when we are both truly ourselves, and when we each have supported the other in that effort of being individuals. Any time one or the other of us (and occasionally both of us) has tried to conform to some ideal we thought the other wanted, the entity that is us has suffered. Worse, there have been times when we've tried to conform to something outside of us; something worldly.

Continuing from the line above: "In making us members of one another, baptism also more clearly distinguishes us, not only from those who do not live in Christ, but also and even especially from one another. For it gives us our personal, incommunicable vocation to reproduce in our own lives the life and sufferings and charity of Christ in a way unknown to anyone else who has ever lived under the sun." I think it's true of marriage, too. My life, his life, our life together--none are like anyone else's, no matter how much aspects of everyone's lives and relationships are similar. No one will ever experience exactly the life--with its ups and downs, joys and sorrows, sufferings and gratitude--that has been set before me. The truest wife, mother, daughter, friend I have ever been has been when I am the me I am meant to be. The more separate I am, the more connected I feel, and in this instance, the separateness I'm referring to is not insular!

There's a good chance I'll spend a few more days on this paragraph, thanks to some good advice I was offered. Although I've moved ahead in the chapter, I have begun and ended my 'reading moments' with that paragraph. It seems to encapsulate the bits of self I've been working on realizing.