grace and gratitude

There are scones in the oven, a pie waiting to be baked, dishes in the sink, but there is coffee in my mug, and I'm going to savor it. One of the lovely 'perks' of using a French press is that there is no thermal carafe, so I am gently encouraged to slow down a little and appreciate some little things. Like hot coffee, and the memories and dreams that swirl therein.

On this Thanksgiving morning, in these early moments before any of the boys wake, I sit in my newly painted kitchen, delighted that my dearest friends are with their families, as am I. Thanksgiving has long been my favorite holiday. In my mind, it's about simplicity -- favorite foods, favorite people, wine, coffee, conversation, and pie. There is introspection, which (in moderation, I'm finding!), is beneficial to dreaming, planning, goal-setting. [As a matter of fact, Thursday is my favorite day. This past week, for the first time, I put the two together and wondered if there is a relationship between these favorites. I may begin a new experiment and make every Thursday a thanksgiving day....]

Over the past week, I've had a few people make a point of telling me "There is still so much to be thankful for." I agreed with each of them. They are all well meaning and dear, but the truth is, I never needed that reminder. I am thankful. I am even grateful. Nothing in life can take that away from me; certainly not court dates and postponed grocery shopping. On the contrary, these are precisely some of the things that remind me how wonderful my life really is. I am reminded more often how thoughtful my sons are, how understanding; how deep the true friendships are, and how shallow some have shown to be; the bright future (that I admit needing reminders about from time to time) ahead of me, and that the future begins in each moment. I am truly grateful and thankful for each of these things, these people.

In the past few months, I have begun to learn to receive. Interestingly, I had no idea that I hadn't quite grasped that concept. God has prepared me to receive in ways I never would have imagined, and not having asked for this lesson makes it difficult to understand, to process, to accept; and yet, I knew about a year ago how important it is as I argued the difference between accepting a gift and receiving one in a meeting. So much in my life I accepted without truly receiving -- good and bad -- and as a result I didn't share what I could have. "If you don't give away the gifts you have, there is no space to receive." That from a priest in confession last summer, as he showed me where in my life I was clenching my fists; accepting, but not receiving.I am thankful for the lesson, even as it continues, even as painful as it can be at times. I am grateful.

On this Thanksgiving morning, as my mug is drained, the scones are done, the faucet drips in the silence broken only by the keyboard keys, I am more grateful than I have ever been. I am thankful for the family I have discovered in my dearest friends who manage to take turns every single day telling me they love me (and meaning it more than anyone ever has). For some unexpected friends who pop into my day from time to time offering just the right words (thank you for listening to the Voice that nudges you gently to ask, to speak, to text). For the staff I work with, which includes two amazing Core Teams I coordinate, not all of whom know much about me at all, but who lift me up in prayer, in laughter, in concern for jobs well done, and sometimes in tears and frustration; their position in my heart is unexpectedly beautiful. In the church community, who we tell the teens are a family -- I have found more genuine joy in simple handshakes, smiles, and hugs than I can adequately express. Their intuition as a whole is incredible and humbling. For the absolutely amazing network of youth ministers that has accepted me as a member of their crew, imperfections and all. Never have I felt a greater sense of belonging in a group than I have with these people. There is so much I learn from them every day, so much strength to continue I garner from them, personally and professionally, knowing that truly everything that I receive from them comes from God. For my children, from whom I learn constantly. Their grace humbles and encourages me. Their love floors me. The fact that God entrusted them to this imperfection......a thought that leaves me speechless every time.

I am blessed beyond measure, and never have I been more aware of the blessings. Bottom line, I am beginning to believe my favorite verse "Are not five sparrows sold for two small coins? Yet not one of them has escaped the notice of God. Even the hairs of your head have all been counted. Do not be afraid. You are worth more than many sparrows" (Luke 12:6-7). I am a child of God. No one can take that away from me, and no one can Love me as much as He. Happy Thanksgiving!

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.

joy and sorrow

 Then a woman said, "Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow."       And he answered:       Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.       And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.       And how else can it be?       The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.       Is not the cup that hold your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?       And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?      When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.       When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.       Some of you say, "Joy is greater than sorrow," and others say, "Nay, sorrow is the greater."       But I say unto you, they are inseparable.       Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.       Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.      Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.       When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall. ~Khalil Gibran, The Prophet

This is reflective of a conversation today. Joy and sorrow are so tightly intermingled, so woven together. Sometimes that idea is soothing, but other times painful, uncomfortable, or downright frightening. There is so much about the connection between joy and sorrow that has been on my mind most of my life, it seems. 

Yet the sorrow we talked about today isn't anything I can fathom. At one point, I said that I know what I would think, where I could have identified some of my pain, if it were me. But at the same time, we both knew, very well, that it wasn't. Harder still, though we both wanted to talk about it with each other, there was something very specific that got in the way -- in both directions. Oddly, ironically, what got in the way is the same thing that led me to the passage above: faith. More specifically, my faith. 

Hearing part of this passage this evening, I immediately thought of my friend. Of her pain, her sorrow, her sharing today. And I also thought of the immense joy that is a huge part of who she is as a woman, as a friend, as a sister. I learned so much from her today as we talked. I could relate to so much of what hurts, but not exactly, and that is okay. There are no platitudes that can help ease her suffering. I can't make any of it better, and we both know that. But I can continue to do what I've been doing for her: I can pray. Where she is afraid, I can pray. When she is angry, I can pray. In her sorrow and in her joy, I can offer prayer for her, because I know she can't right now. I know because she told me. I know because I've been there.

I firmly believe we are all here as people of faith to carry each other through from time to time. Praying and praising is sometimes easy, understandable and free. Other times, it feels pointless, useless, exhausting. When our self-sufficiency melts away into nothingness, and we feel empty inside, sometimes we can pray on our own.....but mostly, for me, the best thing I can find to be a blessing is the knowledge that someone else is doing my praying for me; bending God's ear on my behalf. He's always there, even when we can't feel His presence -- or when we don't really want to admit that we don't want to feel it. He's there. He asks for us, calls us, opens His arms to hold us. 

I wish the wishes could come true. That the facts, the time, the events could be changed or modified, improved. But that's my broken, confused, human self wanting what I think would be best. It will all be as it should be, but for now, we pray and embrace through the now. 

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.  

dig in

So, here's the thing -- I've been needing depth. Depth in conversation, depth in faith, depth in learning. I feel stuck. Questions come to mind about all kinds of things, and I want to dig in. Trouble is, I don't know where to go, I can't afford to go back to school at the moment, and I can't do it alone. I need some fellow diggers. People with questions of their own. People who want to talk about their questions; not just to find the answers, but the explore the possibilities. To laugh at the ridiculous, while also realizing there's no such thing if the heart is pure. This need for depth, this need for exploration and inquisition, has me off-kilter. When I'm off-kilter, I fixate on things, and lately that fixation is the questions.

Who's in?

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.

shedding tears

When I sit down to pray, I cry. I sob, actually. I don't quite know why, but it seems to replace the words that used to come when I would sit to pray.
While it cleanses my heart, I seem to feel my head filling with something else. Something thick and heavy. A velvet curtain of some kind, with large sandbags in the fly. Although it may be for protection, I don't feel entirely protected. Leastwise, inside my head.
My heart feels free.
It's disconcerting, this crying. I don't expect it. Don't feel triggered in the least. It just comes. And goes as quickly and unexpectedly. There was I time when I would wonder about my sanity, but there is utter and pure comfort in these tears. I don't understand it, but I feel it. And I won't stop.

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.

 

elusive expression

Yesterday, Christmas morning, I awoke with some thoughts in my heart and in my bones that made me want to write. They weren't exactly words, though, and I decided to think on them a bit first. By late morning I thought what I really wanted to write was a letter to a friend; along the lines of a thank you, but a little more related to one of those Christmas letters that get included in cards (of which I am not very fond). Still. Considering the points to include, the realization came that I could reasonably include a number of friends, but realizing that I had no idea how to create a list of "undisclosed recipients," I started to consider a blog post, and just hope that the right people saw it. 

Then it got loud, we went to the beach, I had to start dinner, and my fingers did not find the keyboard; the thoughts did not crystalize into words on a page. 

At long last I sat with the keyboard on my lap, and all of it was gone. 

Not the intent, or the feeling of thankfulness, or the desire to share it all. Not the slight feeling that I had more than one person I wanted to address. What was gone was the tangible feeling of words flowing through my fingertips. Normally, now for instance, I can quite perceptibly feel the words moving through my head, behind my eyes, going directly to my fingertips as they touch the keys. The hardest to write, to release, are the words that make their way to my heart from that space behind my eyes. Those are the words that I fear will take a piece of me with them, leaving my far too vulnerable to the reader. Those are the words that mean the most to me, and that I am usually fairly certain sound like gibberish to anyone but me. Those are the type of words I had playing around inside yesterday.

Until the keyboard sat in front of me. 

There were plenty of other distractions. I knew I was not in the space I needed to be in to write. Truthfully, although I sort of hoped I could lose myself in the blank screen in front of me, I knew there was no way I'd be able to express myself well 'on paper' in the middle of a living room full of people with the television on. In some ways, by then, I wondered if it was too late to share the words. If it would come across as an afterthought, or worse--an obligation. 

Instead, I read old posts: advice I'd been given, but had avoided, and then circumvented. Turns out I may not have seen what I needed to see. Either that, or what I saw with thankfulness in my heart is different from what I may have needed to see at the time. It's funny, because I know that what is taken from the written word is intrinsically related to the reader, and at times I wonder if perhaps that is even stronger than the relationship to the author. I think of my brother who says he used to ask his English teachers if they had spoken to the poet; if they really could say "this is what he meant" without that personal discourse. 

An then I realize that there are times when I finish one of those heart-word posts, and it looks like gibberish to me, but I post it anyway, and someone comes back and says they saw something they needed, or a memory was triggered. Sometimes the words just need to get out. And it doesn't always make sense to me. Yesterday the words decided to stay in to make me think and feel just a little bit more. Indeed, the thankfulness, and the desire to share it is as strong today, as real. 

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!

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.

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.

dream state

Last night, I dreamt of finding a room in my house. Although it was a house I knew well, it was a house I've never seen in my waking life. And it was also distinctly "mine," as opposed to "our" house.

This was one of those dreams that is simultaneously real and an active exercise of imagination. I knew I was in a dream, and actively participated.

We had discovered some ants on a shelf. It seems every year (much like my real life house), we'd been dealing with the ants, and we had been waiting for the to show up. This time, our goal was to find where they were going, since stopping them from coming in had never done much good. So we followed their progress and discovered tjat the back of the shelf was actually a stone. Removing it, we discovered a fireplace, and beyond that, a beautiful--if dusty and empty--room with wood floors.

Funny that the rest of the room mattered little. All I could take in was the wide open space, the wide plank wood floors, and the dust. And I was as perplexed as I was contended at finally finding another secret room.

When I was a kid, and even into my 20's, I had a recurrent dream about a secret room in Grammy and Grampy's house. At the top of the stairs was a ledge that we would sometimes sit on when we were feeling brave and sure we would not get caught. I was terrified to stand or walk on it, figuring the wall behind me could never offer me enough support or balance.

In my dream, I would walk confidently to the end of the ledge and open the door that was only there in my dreams. On the other side was a beautifully appointed bedroom, fit for a queen. Too nice for me to touch much of anything, but a great place to sit by the window and read.

When we first moved to Pennsylvania, I dreamt of the house I thought we should buy and live in. To this day I can remember how excited I was when I first discovered the secret room in that house! It was almost another house, with a garden patio and French doors.

While in my dream last night, I wondered what I should be learning. I took in what came to me as important: wood floors, space, light, a fireplace, dust. And then I noticed that I was looking down into this room, and realized that had been true of the last secret room, although the room of my childhood was on my own level.

I awoke, as I always have after such dreams, happy and curious. Poised and at peace, but ready to get busy. Thoroughly confused, yet quite comforted. I hope it comes again.

from one hermit to another

Frequently, my Minute Meditation is just that: minute, and by that I mean that I know I am not associating enough significance to it. I read, I nod, I blink twice, and I move on. More and more often lately, I've been going back to read it again after lunch. The second time through seems to sink in just a bit more. Today I had a different experience. By lunchtime today, I had completely forgotten what the meditation had been. I remembered reading it, but (perhaps because I was a little off-kilter from weird sleep last night) I could not recall anything about it when I returned from lunch.

During my lunch, I was reading a bit of my Thomas Merton book* about signs (or lack thereof), intention, and will. I've been having quite a yo-yo experience in this section on Pure Intention, and have been wondering about direction and discernment. The first part of what I read at noontime was about seeing the signs, recognizing them as signs, and the fact that the sign is not the end; merely an indicator of a direction. A suggestion, in some cases, rather than a conclusion. I had mixed feelings about this, but it was clear to me that this was an essay I could ponder deeply. Merton was speaking directly to me, and clarifying, somewhat, the complicated topic of God's will versus man's will--my will, in particular. What really got me, after being drawn in by analogies I could relate to, were the gems that followed. "He does not need our sacrifices, He asks for our selves." "...what God wants of me is myself." "And that is why the will of God so often manifests itself in demands that I sacrifice myself. Why? Because in order to find my true self in Christ, I must go beyond the limits of my own narrow egoism." and most moving for me:

"God's will for us is not only that we should be the persons He means us to be, but that we should share in His work of creation and help Him to make us into the persons He means us to be. Always, and in all things, God's will for me is that I should shape my own destiny, work out my own salvation, forge my own eternal happiness, in the way He has planned it for me. And since no man is an island, since we all depend on one another, I cannot work out God's will in my own life unless I also consciously help other men to work out His will in theirs." (p. 63-64)

While reading (crying) and contemplating these words, my phone dinged a message. I waited while everything sank in and settled in my mind and heart, then took a look at the message. It was from Daily Catholic Quotes, and read, "God gave Himself to you; give yourself to God" (Blessed Robert Southwell). I couldn't help but connect the quote (and the timing of the pushed email) to Merton's words. Then something made me stop and wonder how many threads were weaving through my day. I went back to my meditation from this morning and re-read this: "...there is only one way to go to the father: the fulfillment of His holy will!"

Merton has cautioned me against putting too much interpretation of signs, but has also taught me to recognize them when they appear. I've stopped asking to be hit over the head with signs and signals, because I have come to realize that doesn't fit me--the me I was made to be. But this seemed pretty clear to me. See, yesterday I spent the afternoon with some fellow parishioners on a pilgrimage to the oldest stone church in North America. I knew or recognized most everyone there, either from Mass or from other social events, though many I had never spoken with. Together we marvelled at the splendor of this beautiful place dedicated to the Sacred Heart, in the middle of farmland. We admired artwork and builders' skill; laughed at some corny jokes; and learned quite a bit about a particular church, the Church, and American history. We took pictures, chatted, become a little more united in our shared faith.

Later, recalling the day, I laughed right out loud. There's a bit of irony that reveals a bit about how far I have come on my journey. Twice at the chapel I used the metaphor of a milkweed pod, growing and about to burst forth. Both times I was referring to the parish family. It wasn't until my laugh out loud moment that I realized I was really talking about myself. Here's the thing: when we joined the parish, I was happy to be smiled and nodded at, but to be a face in the crowd; one of many. When we bought a house outside the parish boundaries, we stayed on as members because we didn't want to belong to a church in the neighborhood, where the kids' classmates would attend, the neighbors; we didn't want to see the same people day in and day out. Almost twenty years later, I can't get enough of the people I've met at our church out of town. Where I once felt that I just needed a building to go to where I could listen and choose my own level of participation, I now find myself participating in ways I never thought I would consider. I am the seed pod. I feel myself ready to split at the seams, waiting for just the right moment, the right conditions, the perfect breeze to carry my joy farther than I can even imagine. I no longer consider myself a face in the crowd; rather, I am one of many making up one body of faith.

Both the pod, and a single seed.


*No Man Is an Island--Book Club at church on June 25!

water water everywhere

In the shower this morning, while washing my hair, I was thinking about how sometimes I feel as though I am drifting on this journey. My very next thought was that I have many of my best thoughts in the shower; it's a good thinking place, and I've had a number of friends tell me the same, so it's likely that you, too, have had this experience. (Some of my niftiest tap combinations were born in the shower, although by necessity, were tested elsewhere!) Knowing that these are the thoughts that often mean something important, I went back to the feeling of drifting. And then I thought, "Wait a minute! How can I feel like I'm drifting?"

Here's the odd thing: when I consider my journey (previously, my life journey, and more recently my faith life journey), I always see it as a road or a path. Something to be travelled on foot, and occasionally in a car, though how the car gets from where I leave it to where I need it again, I have no idea whatsoever! From time to time, the path is actually a rocky hill or mountain that I have to pick through carefully, or scale with tenacity. Now and then, there is a nice diversion--a hot air balloon from which to get a nice overall view of where I've been and where it looks like I might be headed (mostly looking back, though. Usually there is mist in the forward, and that is quite alright.), or a tree to rest under or perch in to see what and who might pass by.

I took myself back to the drifting feeling, wondering why I chose that word, and recognized the gently rock and sway of a boat or kayak with no direction or propulsion. The word was accurately describing the moment (it's a good drifting, the kind that feels peaceful, restful, a respite) and I welcomed the awareness. Next thing I knew, I was shaking my head because I was seeing a road, a path--a riverbank! I was really in the same place, going in a direction, with the current. A river is a road in many respects. I knew this from history classes, but had never applied it (like too many things) to my own life.

Last weekend, gazing out at the Atlantic and at the Bay, I felt an amazing sense of freedom, as I always do at wide expanses of sea. I wondered why. What the magnetism comes from. I've heard many theories, ranging from the pull of the moon that makes the tides, to the salt to water ratio in the sea being similar to that of our bodies. This morning, I realized in my quick succession of thoughts, that for me, the attraction is the lack of forced direction. There are no sides, no defining edges, as a road has, a path, or even a stream. (Now that I think about it, I'm attracted to mud puddles for the same reason, so it's not just the salt water, as I often thought!) On my way into work, I saw a quote that made me think about last weekend. I'd seen it before, and when I read it, I thought it was an answer to my question about the attraction: "The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears or the sea." (Isak Dinesen)

Throughout the day, as I pondered the connections, the threads that would tie all these thoughts together, I realized the beginning of my real answer lies in the borders, or limits, I put on myself, keeping to the path. Even in my contented drifting, I am fearful of straying from what I know. It's not that I don't take chances, or try new things; it's just that I like to know that there is a safety net. If I am really going to reconcile the two sides of my life into one 'real' life, I need to be true to myself in all things, including my journey. I have to be willing--eager even!--to see the wide open possibilities of faith. Trust that the path I follow doesn't just end at the shoreline, or follow its edge, but may--no, will go directly across the ocean from time to time. I need to look directly into the eyes of Love and take one step, and then another. I need to feel in my soul what I feel when I stand on the shore.

Faith, hope and love, and I'm working on all three.

apart or a part

Everywhere I turn lately there seem to be reminders of who I am, or where I've been. I like where I am now, even when the road is more like a rocky cliff-face than a broad highway. I've also frequently been reminded of how I've gotten here. One such reminder came in my response to a post. The post read, in part:

[Spiritual life] is not something we can tackle alone. No, the wisdom of Jesus is that He founded a Church and did not merely convey a philosophy of life. In his homily yesterday, Deacon David Hall recalled the popular notion that spirituality can be disconnected from religiosity: "I don’t need a church; I have Jesus."  However, among the very first things that Jesus did when starting His public ministry was to surround Himself with others. Every gospel writer considered that fact so important that the call of the apostles is described near the beginning of all four gospels. 
Yesterday the Church celebrated the Feast of the Holy Trinity. This mystery itself is a compelling reminder that God Himself, in whose image we are created, is not an isolated singularity but a community of persons in relationship. The normal Christian life is also lived in relationship, not isolated, not alone.

There was a time when I really did feel that having faith was enough. Saying that it was there in my heart, and believing that being "near" to God was all I really needed. That going to church was nice, but not necessary to being faithful or a good person. But I also knew something was missing, and for a long time, I found that something to be related to religion itself. I thought that religion and faith left me with more questions than answers. Oh, I asked the questions, but--whether purposely or not--I asked them of people who had no basis upon which to answer. I would, actually, wait until someone had voiced a question similar to one of my own. Something along the lines of, "Yeah, what about that?" would flow from my lips, while simultaneously darkening my heart. My faith was hollow, as it was not filled with trust. I was separating myself from what I did know about faith, while telling myself that I was at least following what I understood.

Since that day when I felt I had nothing more to lose, and I said, with all my heart (because it had worked before), "Guide me. Wherever you need me to go, I will go," my journey has changed. That night, I turned to someone I never thought I would, and was met with a message of hope, trust and, most of all, love. Not exactly: I was met with a message of Hope, Trust and Love--all with capital letters. There were a number of "faith moments" shared over the course of that long weekend, and each of them made a huge impact on my heart. The darkness, the hardness dissipated, and in its place, I felt lightness and peace. Joy. Most of all, togetherness.

Afterwards, I looked at the moments in church differently. I began to see more similarities than differences in the people gathered. I began to want to find real answers to some of my questions. I've learned that the answers don't always come in order--because the order is not for me to determine. There are still things that frustrate me, confuse and confound me; there are still times when I find myself pulling back into myself, because I have made a habit of using my nature as an excuse to isolate. What I've learned about myself far outweighs anything I ever thought I could learn; it's sometimes painful, but mostly marvelous. I've begun to reach beyond myself; I've found that I can.

I will always be more introverted than extroverted, but I've learned that there is a difference between embracing the facets of myself, and using them as a shield to keep myself isolated, alone. Apart. My response to the post above:

The times when I've felt alone on my journey have all been times when I told myself I didn't need to go to a building or a service to believe. Now, I'd much rather be a part than apart!

I still find faith outside and away, but I no longer feel like an outsider. I am a part of the whole because I do not place myself apart from the whole.

pen and paper

Often, lately, I find myself faced with a blank sheet of paper. I know what question has led me to it, but I keep wondering what answer it holds. I found myself actively seeking the answer, pushing myself to understand its meaning, questioning my ability to understand or even recognize the answer when it comes. When I realized what I was doing, I made the decision to stop trying so hard, and to just look at the paper when it appeared in my mind's eye. Passive thinking--Pondering (which I have found to be a far more effective tool of faith for me!)--led me to the conclusion that the paper was waiting for dictation. [Which made perfect sense, as that was a reminder of the question in the first place! Why am I surprised by that? Why am I surprised by anything?]

Then I realized there is no pen.

This caused a fleeting panic, but fortunately I caught it before it ran away with my mind and heart. Then I laughed! There is no pen! Why? Because I don't need it yet. Things need to happen first, events need to unfold, hearts need to listen, and souls to speak.

None of these realizations came quickly, and yet they did. There was a late night "conversation" or two that reminded me of the importance of waiting. Not just patience, but waiting. Waiting and the relative passage of time. God's time is transcendent, while ours is relative. In my prayer life, I have been experiencing the joys of that transcendence, but--yet again!--have been having a difficult time translating it to my secular life. In actuality, I should be working on not separating the two; conditioning that will take [relative] time, patience and practice, the likes of which I have not yet seen, I'd bet! I keep telling myself that I believe that I am prepared, but I also know (now) that telling myself amounts to stalling [I'm getting to know myself, day by day] and that I should admit that I either need to jump forward, or get pushed.

With regard to the missing pen: I find peace in my mind when I write. At times, words bump and rush through my head, and I find myself frustrated that I have no time to write them down, or that I don't have access to my keyboard to let them flow out. However, at times when I have questions, I recognize the danger that I might try to make answers as I write, rather than allow them to come in their own time (in God's time, in this case). I'm guessing that has something to do with the missing pen. So many words have bustled around my brain, but instead of trying to get them onto 'paper,' I have let them run freely. Some have continued to spin and swirl, but others have made themselves known, then run through the rocks that filter my skull. What has remained is a calming beauty; an atmosphere more conducive to further pondering.

And a feeling of being beside, neither in front nor behind. I've run from myself for a long time. It's only recently that I have had faith enough in myself to lose myself in my Faith. I have work to do, and steps to take, and things come to terms with, and so very much to learn. But the learning!! There is such beauty in the learning! When I look behind me, I see such a long road I have traveled, and when I look before me, I see even more. And although I keep trying to run that road, I must remind myself that I am, in fact, taking baby steps: wonderfully slow and steady baby steps, and I have never been alone.

prompts, prompting

So many thoughts and ideas. So many wonderful and amazing insights. Where to start? With a list.....

-fingerprints (wow--that one is a biggie! "There's a homily there!")

-formulas and differentiation (and how introspection could help)

-introspection!

-the difference between today's "me" (faith, experience, and expertise) & the me of 15-20 years ago

-the wonder and joy of searching

-blessings, like diamonds, belong to everyone :) (that one hit me than so many pearls)

-the affirmation that so many others are "in the same boat" (did I really just say that? Because it's very true!)

-the world is a scary place. We have to do something. My something......

-YES. I can. I would love to--more than I thought I might!

-models--5, and they are all right and good, and work together to raise the roof--provided we recognize and appreciate the gifts of each "We're all in the same pew" (made of wood like a boat. tee hee!)

It was a good night! Grace Uncorked--poured forth into each cup.....

my cup runneth over.....and yet there is room for so much more.

"I thirst"-- for grace, for peace, for love. I can pour......

merci

My story:

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

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

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

Then it happened.

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

wild blue yonder

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

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

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

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

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

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

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