motivated by purpose

I know what motivates me. This is exciting because yesterday I was stumped and asked for some thoughts on how to answer the question. Lots of great thoughts and ideas were offered, and I tucked it all in the back of my mind for pondering. My brand of pondering tends to let the thoughts alone back there to work things out a little with others, and I let them come out when they are ready. Possibly because some of those ideas challenged me - something I've been missing in my life for a while - the creative part of my mind seems to have jumped in to assist. I digress....

Today I was asked to take an assessment as part of an application process. Fairly similar to one I completed a few months ago for another company, as I answered the questions I thought about my verbal response to the results when the time comes, since I was unprepared the last time. Many of the questions lacked context that could change my answer dramatically, and I made mental notes of them, more for my own analysis later than anything else. Since I spent that 40 minutes essentially preparing for an interview question or two, the motivation question came to mind. "What does motivate me?" I asked myself as I curled up with a cup of hot chocolate. I closed my eyes and chuckled. One of my friends said yesterday that there are only two real motivators: Love and fear. When the hiring manager asked, my first thought was to say, "Well, it's not fear!" But I didn't know what it was. Then the images came to me.

Faces filled with gratitude. With understanding, new found knowledge. Delighted at having a new idea, a new skill, a new future. Some were faces of people I'd actually met, worked with, or encountered. Others were strangers from ads or marketing materials, but not models or actors; actual delighted people. Still others were faces I've not yet seen, made up in my imagination years ago or just now it's hard to say, but the answer was clear. I'm motivated by helping others, I thought, but realized there's more to it than that. All of it is wrapped up in my first memory of life goals in addition to being a mom. I then remembered details of my dream of having a job that required me to wear a hat and carry a clipboard - a cap, a hardhat, a uniform hat of some kind - and that my mother was mortified by the thought. (Which amused me as much tonight as it did back then!) But it's what I always wanted to do; that much I remembered vividly as I thought.

One Christmas while I was in high school, I read in the paper about the Arctic League and asked my dad if we could help. At the time, I was surprised at how readily he agreed (as a mom and former youth minister, I now know that if a kid asks to do something like that, you make it possible!) and on Christmas morning, we got up at some ungodly hour to drive a half hour to the warehouse and stand in a tremendous line in the cold and snow, and it was so worth it. The world was so quiet, between the hour, the darkness, the foot or so of snow everywhere, the hats, scarves, mittens and down enveloping all the volunteers. It was Christmas morning, but even more magical than usual, because we were going to be Santa. I was awed, touched, humbled. The line moved quickly, efficiently, and cheerfully, with hot chocolate handed out while we waited, maybe cookies, some friendly small talk among strangers. At the head of the line, we were given our deliveries and our map: 5 bags of treasures to deliver to areas I didn't even know existed. Dad found each address expertly, and together we would take the bag to the door, knocking quietly as we were instructed, so the sleeping children would have no idea we'd been there. I was profoundly affected that early, early morning by the faces of each person answering the door. No words were spoken, other than a whispered "Merry Christmas" and the corresponding "Thank you." But the faces. A picture may speak 1,000 words, but those faces, those eyes, they spoke ever so much more. Shortly thereafter I began looking into the Make-a-Wish Foundation and Habitat for Humanity, and even the Peace Corps. For reasons I neither remember the details of nor understood even at the time, I was discouraged from pursuing careers in such organizations.

But I held tightly to the tail end of the dream, like the end of a kite string.

It all came back to me tonight in that question: "What does motivate me." Love, yes; not fear. Good, that was cleared up. Helping people, yes; but in what context? Can sales goals motivate me, given the right argument of helping someone? Maybe - if some donation to a cause I believe in is involved, perhaps. I knew there was more brewing. What did all those faces that played like a movie in my mind have in common - in a concise, interview answer way? What did the jobs that meant the most to me have in common that I saw in those faces? And how did that relate to the jobs that I didn't like so well - what was missing in them?

And I realized the Love that motivates me is Purpose. Habitat, Wishes, Arctic League, youth ministry, Reading with the Lions, teaching dance and making choreography -- all of them gave me, or have inherent in them, a sense of purpose; a specific goal of helping people with something in particular. That's what motivates me: knowing without a doubt that the intent of the job is to help someone in some defined way, with a project flow to make it happen. I'm motivated by purpose that allows my process-oriented mind to get creative and find the map, and bring life to the journey. Because life is about the journey; the journey is the purpose, and the purpose is Love.

alongside of me

God knows I need time. He patiently waits with me - not across the heavens or even across the table. He stands, sits, and lays beside me; silently. He knows he needn't convince me of this because his presence is enough. His presence is enough because I am enough; he made me so. We don't talk because right now that is not what we need to get close. We both know it will not last forever. He better than I, and that is why he waits with me. Not to prove anything; rather, for understanding to process. It is well. I make mistakes in the meantime - I am a child testing my limits with the ONE who loves me without question. He is, indeed, my one. He is the gardener, the weeding is his. People often misunderstand the silence I'm holding with God. A trusted guide tells me the silence is prayer; a form I'd not previously experienced or expected. A form I'm not entirely comfortable with, yet not quite uncomfortable. Every deepened relationship allows for the silences, the times when self-reflection supersedes. He supports me through this, he smiles on me, laughs when I laugh - he laughs when I cry sometimes. He knows what I need and is allowing me the time to feel. And he graciously allows me to feel this pain, this fear, this process of healing. He knows that time alone feels like the (forced) isolation to which I've grown accustomed, easing me through those times, whether that means leading others to me, me to others, actions, activity, what may look like "more" to those who don't understand. 

thinking it through

"You must be so proud!"

Actually, I'm proud, yes, but no more proud than I was yesterday, or the day before, or when he was 2, for that matter. My sons do what they do and are who they are because they were raised that way. They were raised with the expectation that they would become fine young men, and they are. Each and every one of them. I've always been proud of them. I've always loved them. I've always known they would be uniquely and truly them. Who else could they possibly be? 

Nor can I take credit for them taking to heart all that they were raised hearing. If I could, the dishes would always be done and the laundry put away on laundry day. In truth, I'm quite humbled when I think about the men they are becoming. The young women my two oldest are dating are beautiful, inside and out; self-assured, kind, warm -- exactly the kind of woman I would want in my sons' lives. But again, I'm not at all surprised. Their friends have always been the sort that I was happy to have around. All of the boys' friends have been solid people. I've loved them all, and still do, with all my heart. 

"You must be so proud!" The intonation is often tinged with surprise, or something like it. Proud, yes, but not at all surprised. We've been talking about this for a long time, whichever this this is. And we're probably more aware of any possible pitfalls than you can imagine, because devil's advocate is a fun game sometimes, and sarcasm is not always veiled anger -- it can also be just plain funny when used properly. 

Here's the thing, I'm recovering from long-term external definition of my emotions: someone else telling me (or trying to tell me) how and what I'm feeling. So, frankly, when you say "You must be..." my hackles get raised. Immediately. My problem, I know. And I know I don't always handle it as well as I'd like, so I've been working out how to improve the interaction. Clearly I can't tell every you all of this every time. I will tell you now, though, it lands on me as you telling me what I feel. Even when you are someone who doesn't know me well. Which is exactly who you are, because the people who do know me don't say things like that, although there are precious few of them with whom I've talked about this. They just know to express their own feelings. When you tell me how I feel, my instant reaction is a desire to say, "No, I'm actually rather nonplussed," because I'd like to see how many people know what that even means. But that is misplaced sarcasm, the sort that is veiled anger. 

"Drew, I want you to know that I am proud of you, but no more proud of you for this than I was proud of you when you were 2. Is that okay?"
"Actually, I think that makes sense coming from you. I mean, you're my mom. If someone else were to say that, it might be weird."
"Then that's what I might say: 'I've always been proud of him!'"
"Sounds good to me."

And pray for him. And for me. And for all of them. I do, every single day. 

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!

behind the glass

This morning I woke wondering if there really is a point to my prayer, yet knowing there is. I said so in my prayer; mentioned both thoughts. Tried to wait for a response, but really felt a need to sit, quietly, pray and listen. Pulling into the parking lot, I found myself wishing I could find some silence inside, but I know there is no silence at that time of day in our church. Mass and construction at the same time. I sat behind glass, watching mass, fully aware that there was more than a metaphor in the moment.

Last week, sitting with my spiritual director, I talked about the edges of my soul feeling frayed, blurry. Bottom line, we were talking about a weakness, a slub in the fabric of my faith -- something that on another day might look beautiful; accidental, perhaps, but a natural part of the landscape of me. On that day, however, to me it looked and felt like a fault, like something I was missing, had broken, or worse, something I had shoved in haphazardly to hold up the rest temporarily and then forgotten about fixing.

I walked the classroom wing, forgetting there would be people there. My desire to be alone with God was being thwarted by the very One I was seeking. Yes, I know He was likely telling me to be with others; that community is the cure for this ache in my soul. But there is a keen feeling of distrust, unease -- related completely and totally to my own desire to focus at work. The fact is, I feel uncared for in some moments. Yet I have a network of those who do care -- deeply. I so rarely see them face to face. They are words on a screen, voices in my phone. They have no arms to wrap around me, no shoulders to lean on, no breath to feel on my hair, no fabric to catch my tears, no eyes to light up when we laugh or smile, no gaze to fall under as we pray together. As I thought all these things, I heard someone call to me, felt swept into a hug, no words were necessary; I realized I was fighting despair and had been sent an angel -- a friend who often surprises me by the very friendship.

After a very brief conversation, I took my coffee and stood outside the door, again looking at the Lord through glass, and wondered: If we had a chapel, could I take my coffee there and visit? Could I sit alone with God while sipping my coffee and really talking like I would with a friend in the early morning hours? Or can I only do that at home, or in the office at my desk in the dark? With my friends, I can go to public places and sit with coffee for hours. In these years of learning and growing in faith, I've come to know that I spent many years keeping God separate from my world. I've worked at breaking down that wall, that barrier to unity in my mind, heart and soul. When I hit publish on this post, I will have a few minutes and I'll go lay on the floor in front of Jesus. I have learned to find comfort there, to be comfortable (an imperfect word) in that place - the actual place of the floor in the church. But there are constraints that I still don't know -- are they actual, or contrived? Are they real, or my own hangups? I ask -- beg -- for answers because there is an emptiness that only God can fill, but if I can't pry the lid off, how will He ever get in?

grains of sand

Today I was asked a question. It was a simple question, really, about a word. One that ordinarily should have been easy or fun for me to think about, turn over quickly, and respond to. But lately it's the small things that stump me. And in that place of being stumped, mentally confounded, I become mired. 

Yesterday it was a dark hallway. I simply didn't have the wherewithal to flip the switch - the two switches - ahead of me. Instead we sat on the floor in the hallway for our meeting. The day before I couldn't even see the label on a dial - one that I've used in the past, but couldn't for the life of me recognize. 

I hurt, and in that place, I am finding the most incredible comfort. But each time I first need to recognize the tiny grain of sand that has caused my gears to grind to a halt. Often I've read the saying about the caterpillar becoming a butterfly; heard that a seed must first endure crushing pressure before breaking open to grow into stem and leaf. The hurt I feel is the hurt of anticipating something wonderful; that of labor. The uncertainty mingled with surety; the clear purpose of the moments that stretch ahead for an indeterminate amount of time. The mental understanding dueling with the desires of the heart, and the natural tendencies of nature and body. 

In my hurt I sometimes forget that I do wait surely for the Lord (Ps 40) knowing that He will reach down for me, lift me up and place me exactly where I belong. And until I get there, He is holding me - sometimes in His arms as a swaddled baby, and other times on His shoulders in unadulterated joy. 

I did ask Him into the boat this week. I've spent the days since wishing I could paint the image I felt. I revisit it like a favorite YouTube video, waiting for the right time to paint it in words. 

In my hurt, I feel joy, gratitude, hope - Love like I've never known from any person. The hurt from persons is pale, this hurt is overwhelming goodness and faith, which may sound paradoxical, but has no other explanation. Despite all, I still wouldn't trade a minute. This life is the one I am to live for a purpose I may never understand, but that I am willing to give to Him, completely. 

In the meantime, I pray those around me continue to remind me of the anchor of God's love. In gratitude I will forever point to their patience, support, understanding. In fact, their very presence. The hugs - virtual and physical - the laughter, the occasional tears I am able to release, the acceptance of my repetitive times, and the distractions. 

Lord, I thank you for the grains of sand that make my world grind to a halt each day. They give me a moment to pause and reflect on Your place in my heart. Break my resistance to You that I might better become Your pearl. 

limitless possibilities

The air in the room was thick with chocolate; as the door opened, the aroma emerged as a presence. Standing amid the display cases filled with delectable treats, she inhaled the atmosphere. "What do you want?" he asked her. Gazing through the glass, she was surprised by the question. Who had ever asked her this before? Had she ever heard the question?

Could she answer?

"What do you want? Pick something."

Her eyes lingered on the confections, deeply inhaling and imagining the flavor, the texture of each. "I can't bite this. I can't chew that." Aware of her aching jaw; the numbness in her gum and lip.

"I didn't ask what you can't have. I asked what you want to have. Choose something. Whatever you like." His insistence surprised her; brought to life something previously dormant. She looked around, narrowing her choices, almost watching herself from outside. Her mind's eye saw pieces fitting together: smell, sight, desire -- and a realization that she was about to be treated, "spoiled," indulged. Unused to the mix of feelings, she was about to, out of habit, allow the moment to pass with a murmured, "Nothing, thank you," when another voice interrupted her reverie. "Which are you getting?" the second voice asked.

"That one looks good," she said, sounding rather vague even to herself. He spoke again, "So one of those, and what else. Pick another." Suddenly she realized she quite literally was a kid in a candy store, and for a moment, all of it was hers. She could choose anything. She needed only to believe it possible. More definitively she said, "I'd like that, too." She watched in amazement as the treats were bagged and paid for, still unsure of their final destination. Her belief from a moment before flagged....but remembered; imprinted on her heart and nurtured when later she found the bag at her place at the table, the contents undisturbed, unadulterated.

And she began to feel alive.

into an embrace

As I walked into the church this morning for mass, I was struck with an urge to run. A strong desire to run laps in the aisles. To become breathless in the presence of the Lord. I knelt and in my heart ran to the Father instead.
"Lord, all I want in this moment is to run, full throttle, into your outstretched arms, where you would catch me up, spin around and hold me in your embrace."
"Come," he said, and stretched toward me.
As I felt his arms around me, his face in my neck, I rested my head on his, eyes closed to take in every sensation available - the scent of heaven, the warmth of him against me, the gentle strength of his arms wrapped around me, the sound of our breathing, the beat of my heart, and the softness of the air surrounding us. With my eyes closed I could see nothing but my own smile, my own face, framed by an unmistakable aura of love. Of Love and peace and promise.
"Thank you. How did you know?" I asked, without moving a muscle.
"You are mine. I always know. I am always here, right here, for you." He held me closer as the bell rang to begin.
Once before I felt an urge to run while at mass, and that time I did fairly fly out of the church as soon as the last person was out of my way. Today I realize it was an invitation that I misinterpreted. An invitation to spend all my energy and fall -- collapse -- into the arms of the One who has loved me since before time existed. He asks me to run to him in my pain and in my joy; when I feel confident and when I feel lost. All simply because I am. And he is.
God is.
Comfort.

exactly four weeks

It's February. My favorite month. Always has been. That's a wee bit funny, because my favorite season is fall, but that is what it is. That's me. So many wonderful things packed into such a short month! Actually, I think the fact that it's short is part of the appeal for me. Of course, the month starts with my birthday, and sometimes ends with an extra day (a bonus!), so the in between should be super, right? When I was a kid, we always had a week off in February -- time for me to enjoy all the books I'd gotten for Christmas and my birthday, or to go sledding in the 'forest' next door, or simply wander in the snow making trails when I'd gotten a little older and felt the need.

My dad died in February, and his funeral was on Valentine's Day, so for a time I thought that February would never be the same. At some point, I realized I still liked February, despite that pain and sorrow that still hits me (often when I least expect it) not only this month, but throughout the year. I kept it to myself. Who would understand? Who would believe me? What would happen if I shared? I realize now that if I share, I will be true to myself -- thereby honoring Dad.

So there you have it -- I love February!

Dad's birthday was in February, too, and a lot of really neat people I've met have birthdays that begin with 2. A couple of my very best friends (who also happen to be related to me) were married in February. Our first baby was due in February. There's Candlemas Day, and the Feast of St. Blaise. And there is snow while the days get progressively longer. That's what hit me this morning: the sunlight lasts noticeably longer in February. And that's when I realized I could share.

I love February. I love that Dad's birthday was in February, and that this year it's Ash Wednesday. I love that I can see the sunlight on the snow in the evening. I love that it's been snowing! I love that usually by the last day of February our forsythia bush is covered in buds, and occasionally the first crocus pops up unexpectedly. I love that February is short and sweet, and that the dates are exactly the same as March, except in Leap Year. I love that when I think about February, I remember the good stuff more than the bad, and that I know before long we will be complaining about something other than cold. The end of the school year suddenly seems possible, close, and the prospect of lazy summer evenings on the porch or by the fire is close to real.

I love this sweet little month. Even when it hurts.

sparrow

Where once I thought
The wall was built of brick and stone,
Mortared and fast,
I now see
An eggshell quality:

Sturdy for a time
But ready to give
At just the right pressure,
With just the right point.
Breakable.

You are breaking through
From the outside.
But from the inside
I must do my part,
With courage.

Praying for strength
Has not been the key.
What I need is courage
To face to light that until now
Has been diffused.

Guide my hand and my heart,
That I might strike through,
Stretch my wings,
And fly.
A sparrow.

heart and mind

Almost two weeks ago, I finished a book of reflection. It was a daily devotional that touched my heart deeply. On the last day, as I began the last paragraphs, I sobbed uncontrollably.  Having to wait to read until my tears subsided was both painful and relief. I was about to say I had never felt such emotion, but then I remembered that I most certainlu have--in prayer.

That bliss - that indescribably intense emotional response - is sometimes frightening. And yet the 'realness' of it is at the same time reassuring, comforting, peaceful. In those moments, time is irrelevant and space is immaterial. I'm not alone and no one is with me. I find myself deep within my own heart and nowhere at once. Every time, there have been tears, and often laughter or an uncontrollably broad smile.

I'd thought that deep state of prayerful being was only possible once in a while, but I'm thinking now there might be more to the story. I tried starting the book over. Not in an effort to recreate, but because I had learned so much through the first reading, and I know there is always more. But the pages may well have been blank: I saw nothing but black marks on a page. I gave up after three days. I miss it.

My heart of hearts knows that prayer is within me. Every day. My mind is suddenly interfering. Love will win out; Love never fails.

prayer, peace, purgatory

My favorite passage in Purgatorio so far is the beginning of Canto IV, because it so vividly placed me in the center of my most intense Communion of Saints moment (that lasted an hour--it felt like only a moment, though). In San Antonio at a LifeTeen training conference, during XLT--an especially moving Adoration and exultation experience--I found myself quietly alone with the Lord in the middle of a room crowded with people and music. Sitting on the floor, I was (for once) Mary not Martha; carefree in the presence of a Man with stories to tell. We laughed together as I cried tears of joy. Over the last month, in the moments when I feel rushed, stressed, pushed, overwhelmed, I stop and feel that moment.

When any of our senses is aroused,
to intensity of pleasure or of pain,
the soul gives itself up to that one sense,

oblivious to all its other powers.
This fact serves to refute the false belief
that in our bodies more than one soul burns.

And so it is that when we see or hear
something which wholly captivates the soul,
we easily can lose all sense of time.

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!

ask why

When I was in high school, I had a boyfriend I thought was all that. After dating him for about three months, I invited him to a New Year's Eve party that my parents were taking us to. I knew there would be very few kids our age there, and really didn't want to spend the evening with just my sister to keep me company. Did I "forget" to mention to him that there would be Mass at midnight? Probably--which means, of course I did! In my own awkward and unpracticed way, I was trying to invite him into something our family did together without it being weird. Did I realize that less weird for me might be more weird for him? Did I care enough to wonder? No way. I was 15--I was concerned more about me, and how I felt.

Everything was going great--we were hanging out with my sister, maybe we watched TV or played cards. The thing I remember most about that night was Mass. The adults started filing downstairs to the basement where we had been all evening, and that was his first clue that something was going on. I tried to play it off as something I saw all the time. In truth, I was a little freaked out at them coming downstairs--Mass in a basement with no windows is weird. And there is a ridiculous amount of discomfort associated with the realization that you purposely yet unwittingly tricked someone into being trapped in a basement with no escape. I tried to ignore the daggers he shot at me, until, about halfway through, he leaned over and asked, "Why do Catholics do that? Why do they sway like that? It's weird." I turned my head and saw what he saw: everyone swaying--not side to side as one would do when holding a baby, or dancing to music--forward and back. And so was I.

I answered him honestly. "I don't know. I never really noticed before." But it was the last time I did. For months afterward, focusing on not swaying occupied all my attention. Then it became habit to stand stock still. Save for the days (years!) when I baby-swayed, I haven't moved at church. I sit, stand and kneel, but no swaying.

At the time, I had all the answers. I had all A's in school, read a lot, and felt like I knew everything. That question that stumped me was hard to take. It made me doubt myself, my gifts, even, for reasons I may never understand, my faith. Up to that point, I had thought of faith as a given, but with one question, I was thrown. For one simple reason: I didn't know who I could ask. Even then, I figured it had something to do with equilibrium and some other physiological factors, but at church was the only place I ever saw it. I was never told I was supposed to, or that people do for various reasons, nothing. It was a void, a black hole.

Black holes suck in the stuff around them, and this one sucked in quite a bit of goodness. It sucked in just about all the faith that I had. I started asking some questions, but without a clear idea of who to ask, I wasn't really looking for answers. Instead, I was asking questions to point out what I didn't like, the quirks, the stuff I didn't understand--all in such a way that I really was making fun of what I didn't know. And it got to the point that I thought asking questions was a bad thing. If I didn't know, there must be something wrong with me. Funny thing is, though, I only felt that way about questions related to faith and its practice.

Fast forward. I met a great guy. We got married. Had kids. Went to church. Got busy. Time passed. Life was crazy, but good. We were showing our kids faith. They weren't asking too many questions. Nobody had to know what I didn't know--not even me. It was good. Or so I thought.

When Dad died, I started to realize there was something missing in my faith. It wasn't a given. I did a lot of taking in the days, months and years that followed. In many ways, I was still that 15-year-old girl, at least as far as my faith is concerned. Had I considered that might be a legitimate question to ask, had I had someone to go to, high school, for me, may have been very different. All that taking and selfishness turned me more and more inward. I still went to church, I still did the things I thought faith-filled people did, and eventually I hit a wall. And I kept hitting my head against it.

Fortunately, that was mistaken for knocking, and a door was opened. I was having a miserable time, feeling like everything was falling apart, and someone I didn't even know very well told me that if I wanted or needed to, I could call. Just the invitation opened another door: the one in my heart. Soon after, I offered to take Mom to Faith Matters at church, and, lo and behold! Within a couple of weeks, I heard that questions are good. Ask them. Look for answers. And don't stop until you understand. It didn't take long for me to realize that was my nature; in my "real life," I asked questions all the time. Relentlessly, sometimes!

I still don't know about that swaying, but I have had many questions answered--most of which lead to more questions. (I'm in heaven!) And my kids have been asking questions, which makes me so proud of them, especially when they humble me by asking one I can't answer. I love telling them we'll find out together, or to direct them to someone who might know. I've gotten to know the person who offered that invitation, and although I have never called, I have emailed, texted and messaged--a LOT!

And I am forever grateful. My heart dances.

closed doors, open hearts

The door and Dad's ladder

The porch project was started a year or so ago, and is, as of today, just about finished. But the biggest part of it was even older than that. Some time ago, we moved a door and a window, flip-flopping their positions to make more room in our kitchen, and also on the porch. It took a while to get all the trim reapplied, and there was  a bit that didn't quite fit right after the move. At this point, I should probably clarify that when I say "we moved," I really mean that Guy, Dad and a good friend took a sledgehammer and a saw to the side of our house, while I took the kids to a park to play; and that the trim was finally applied with my sister's help. But it was Dad who often said that he would rework the trim sometime, and then paint. Something else always came up, or the weather just didn't co-operate, and the tidying up was put off again and again. The last time Dad was here, he mentioned it, saying that if he felt better, he would tackle it.

I painted it yesterday.

Some days I miss him more than others, and often the timing is inexplicable. This weekend I miss him, and it is completely and totally explicable. I've been having discussions of faith that have caused me to really dig deep into what I know, what I've learned, and what I know I am able to share. There was a time when I would have followed up the discussions with a "debriefing" with Dad. Of course, that time was long, long before the door thing, but the discussions still serve as a reminder that I won't hear his voice at the end of the day. Painting the rafters on the porch--the aim of this weekend's project--also involved using Dad's ladder, which bordered on rickety when he left it here for us, and has certainly not gotten any better! (As far as I can tell, it's no worse than it was, but we should probably get a new one one of these days.) Pulling the ladder out to work on a project always gets me thinking of him, and about the fact that usually I disregard his #1 rule about using a ladder: ALWAYS have one of your kids hold the other side. I never knew if it was for safety or for company, but I loved when I was the kid holding the wrong side of this ladder.

The door is broken. We can't use it to get in the house, although we could use it to escape in an emergency. Dad hoped to fix that, too.

As anyone who has suffered a profound loss knows, there is no recovery. The pain ebbs and flows, and you (hopefully) learn to surround yourself with people who can allow you to ride the tide. Painting the door frame was a big thing. But only to me, I'd wager. I still need to scrape the paint off the transom, which won't take long, but will probably remind me that yesterday I took a 1" sash brush loaded with paint and covered up his penciled note "facing out." The real reason I hadn't painted the trim before. Yesterday, with the first coat of paint, that hurt far less than the second coat today, but I started in that corner today, whereas I had finished there yesterday. The reminder at the beginning today gave me time to remember, to think, to ponder, to pray.

I remembered going with him to help build the playground at church; a parallel to the project Guy was helping with today at church, where I later joined him.

I thought about the limbs we were going to remove at Mom's even later today, and how that was a project Dad would have done. Then I came to the really difficult realization that he would not have done it. I remember him as he was, which is a blessing. Today was the first time I really thought about the fact that he, too, would have aged. Even if he was here today, we still would need to get those limbs, in all likelihood. That's a hard pill to swallow. And that's when I really felt broken. I figure he was holding the other side of the ladder, and that he's the one who knocked the brush bucket off a couple of times, trying to get my attention. It worked. I got the message.

The door is still broken, and probably will be for a while. Dad was our handyman, and our teacher for tinkering. One of these days, we'll have someone fix it up, but in the meantime, it's just a wall anyway, so it's no big deal. The trim on the outside looks good, even if it doesn't fit right. Next, I'll paint the threshold (which could get tricky, and could take another year!), but that has no special significance to me.

My heart is broken, too. But the thing I've found is that if I let it, the broken part becomes an open part. When I feel that hurt, when I miss him, I've learned--at least on days like today--to allow the goodness of his example to flow into that space and fill it with the joy of his being. This morning we left church with Ode to Joy in our ears. Dad loved that one, and would dance his way out of church after it. Ode to Joy was the recessional at our wedding, and Dad danced his way to the receiving line. That joy, that silly dance that he couldn't NOT do--that's what filled the open part today.

hold my hand

Lately, I've been thinking about hands. On Father's Day, as I held hands with my husband and one of our sons, I realized how different those hands felt. And I also remembered how Dad's hand felt when he held mine.

Ever since, hands have become a part of many of my days. Most of all, I have become more acutely aware of the hand on my shoulder. When I feel it, I picture Dad, or my Uncle, but I know that is only because I loved their hands.

Dad's hands were slightly calloused, warm, and always very clean. He would hold my hand often, even when I'd grown, and always there was a stronger squeeze before he let go. I learned from him the importance of that particular physical connection to another person. I'm a hugger, but I also deeply appreciate the simple helpfulness of a hand to hold.

My uncle drew a pair of folded hands. He talked about the effort he put in, the frustration he felt trying to make them look right. Soon after, in an art class, the teacher said that hands are only perfectly formed by God. Recreating them is especially difficult for any artist and takes extra effort. I remember picturing his drawing, and hearing his very similar sentiments. 

I'm comforted and comfortable with the hand on my shoulder,  the hands in my mind's eye. They are so real, so tangible. Clearly not something I've tried to create myself.

For years, as Christmas presents, we would paint the boys' hands and craft something for Mom and Dad and the boys' godparents: an angel, a Christmas tree, Rudolph. The hand prints were intended to help chronicle their growth to loved ones who didn't get to see them often enough. Hands to hold from far away.

I'm looking forward to where these hands will lead me. I'm open to the possibilities they offer. And I'm enjoying the memories they are stirring.  

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.

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.

heart homes

I spent the day today in a place that I came to realize was a "heart home." There was time with family of the heart,  too, but there was also specialness in the places. 

In this geographical place, I found my husband, my wings and some roots, as well. But this place is also pretty in a way that's unconventional. Driving around, I remembered the feelings that inspired me to come to school here.

But the water is my heart home, my place of refreshment, renewal and rejuvenation. Standing on the shore, feeling the salty air, hearing the waves, is where I 'belong' -- like going home when I was a kid.

It's kind of funny because I didn't grow up, or even spend much time, around water. That makes me wonder where that home feeling comes from. Is it something natural and inborn? Or is it something I came to love somewhere along the way? We did vacation on Cape Cod one summer, but in my memory, the water/home connection has a chicken and egg quality.
Perhaps there is something more for me to grasp. I took pictures today, which will surround me for a while. If there's more to know, the answers will come in time. Until then, my heart's windows are opened wide once again.

face, embrace, release

I stained a door today. More precisely, I stained half a door today. We bought the door (a bi-fold) a few months ago (before Easter) to replace the closet door in our bathroom. Since we brought it home, it has stood in our dining room, where I (we, and anyone else who came in the house!) could see it. I knew that if we put it out of sight, it would never get stained. Never get installed. Then swim team practice started up again, and I had nearly given up hope of ever getting it done.

Weeks ago, I had gone to get the stain and other materials needed, intending to--or rather, determined to--get the staining portion done while my husband was out of town college visiting with our son. Something got in the way--likely weather, possibly time, probably something else entirely--and here the door stood, waiting. Last week, texting with a dear friend, I finally came to the bottom of my hesitation. Her husband is the ultimate Mr. Fixit-DoItHimselfer. She told me that every family needs someone like him, and I told her, "That was my dad."

That's what it came down to: Dad would have had it done in no time, and I would have been amazed and impressed. After seeing how quickly I finished what I did today, even with the drying time between coats, I can see why he was always so modest about that kind of stuff. After I finished the second coat on the first side of the door, I found myself thinking, "Well, that was easy enough!"

Truth be told, I was hoping I wouldn't be the one staining the door. I took Mom this morning to meet up with my sister, who then took Mom up to her house for the weekend. Guy had swim team and lessons. Both of us were scheduled to be back home at nearly the same time this afternoon. The deal was, whoever got home first would work on the door. It wasn't until I pulled in the driveway that I realized that taking my lunch to go at Subway was my mistake! I had no choice but to get changed, and get started. Why it all seemed so daunting is difficult to explain; mostly because the reasons are not what most people see in me. I had read the directions again and again--at least four times in the store alone! And this was not even the first time I'd stained something. Grammy and Grampy's kitchen table and chairs had come out pretty well, but that had been about fifteen years ago. And somewhere in the intervening years, I had been reintroduced to some serious feelings of inadequacy and sadness. That's what I realized in the conversation with my friend: I needed to face those feelings once and for all.

Last summer, on a particularly bad day, I asked another friend a question about dealing with a problem. He told me to Face it, Embrace it, and Let It Go. I will never forget that. It was a real turning point for me, and has become quite a motto in almost everything I do. It'll take more than just a door to expel the demons from my past, but one small step is all it takes to begin a journey--or to continue on. In the Faith Matters group at church, we've been working through a personal retreat on Consoling the Heart of Jesus, and talking quite a bit about Mercy, and Love. I've learned that loving others is not enough; I need to face and embrace everything about myself, too; the good, the bad, and everything in between. The stuff from my adult life, I've been able to look at (fairly) clearly. It's the stuff from long ago that sometimes bubbles up, and then gets pressed back down by the parts of me that have not been ready to face them. Nothing is major, really, in the grand scheme of things, but I'm positive that at least some of it would help the boys tremendously if I could reveal it to myself enough to share with them.

Tomorrow I will finish staining the door, and hopefully by Monday night, we'll have a beautiful new door for the bathroom closet. And I will have vanquished at least one of the dark shadows in my mind.