waiting

Playlist on the drive:

Lord, I'm Ready Now, by Lauren Daigle

Be Held, by Casting Crowns 

Go ahead; look them up on YouTube. This can wait. 

Now look up psalm 40 (or 39). The one that starts "Surely, I wait for the Lord..."

It's the next part that I'm counting on so many times. The part about lifting me up and placing my feet on solid ground; on rock. In safety, far from the mire, the muck, the raging sea. I heard those songs, one followed by the other, and repeated again and again "surely, I wait" on my way to the adoration chapel, where I now sit, alone except for the company of the Lord; blessed by the silence and solitude where I can cry out to Him and ask again, "what is it You want from me?"

To let go. As the song says, to let go and be held. To let Him hold me, rather than the other way around. Even as I hold my faith, I realize I need to give it away. I need to let it go if I hope to keep it. 

Surely, I wait. 

I wait for the strength to let go. 

I have an anchor tattoo on the inside of my left wrist. It's been there about two months. Before that, I drew an anchor in the same spot for six weeks or so. Some people ask about it; some do not. Some pretend not to see it while they rather obviously "sneak" glances while talking with me. The anchor is a symbol for hope, but that's not exactly what I was thinking of when I fist started using an anchor as my reminder to pray always. Rather, I was thinking of despair. 

Surely, I wait for the Lord. 

When I first read this verse, it was part of a penance - select a psalm, any psalm, and pray through it. All of it. For a long time, I couldn't get past the first few verses, and could only really concentrate on this first message: Surely, I wait. The wait threatened to consume me, to distract me. Slowly I realized that surely, in context, held more confidence than I was attributing to it. I reread: confidently, I wait for the Lord, and He heard my prayers. Again and again I tell the kids I work with to pray because God will and does listen. Again and again I wish someone would remind me. Because again and again I find myself focused on the wait. Not the anticipation, the wait. 

The anchor and the grappling hook have much in common. Both hold fast. Both require the user to trust, to have confidence, to be sure. My anchor keeps me from drifting, whether in calm waters or raging storms. My grappling hook keeps me from falling, assisting me in my climb. I was told once that "God could have flashed lightening and kept this from happening, but He didn't. There must be a reason." 

Surely, I wait for the Lord. He could lift me, literally, if He wanted to, and literally place me on solid ground. Or He could be my grappling hook, holding my rope fast to the rock that is my destination. Or He could be my anchor that keeps my boat from being tossed around unnecessarily, and crushed against some obstacle. I am prepared: I have a hook, an anchor, some faith. 

I've been concerned that what I am holding is some big, imposing falsehood disguised as truth or need in my life. But what if what I'm holding is simply a mustard seed? Doesn't it, too, need to go? Mustn't it fall to the ground to grow? 

Surely, I wait for the Lord. 

Surely, I wait. 

Surely. 

I wait. 

I wait, in anticipation. 

Surely. Just be held. I'm ready now. 

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. 

open your hands

At times, the feeling is so strong, I can feel my nails digging into my palms. But when I look down at them, they are open; not clenched. My own eyes deceive me, because my mind's eye still sees that there is something I'm holding.

"What I see is that you are holding tight to something," the priest said to me. He was a stranger; a confessor at a conference that I would never see again. Yet he understood my heart in a way that was eerie, comforting, and challenging. "In order to receive, you must let go. I get the impression what you are holding is your gift; something meant to be shared that you are afraid to show. You must open your hands to let it flow out of you. Otherwise, you will be unable to receive more to give." Like the servant with the single talent, I hold tight to what is most me out of fear of losing myself.

On those few occasions when I have managed to open a finger or two to the view of a trusted few, what shines forth between us is indescribably beautiful. In those precious moments, I feel invested, encouraged. Safe.

But they are few and far between.

I feel the pressure of whatever it is that I am gripping. I look down at my hands on my lap, on the table, or hanging by my sides, and there is nothing there, but I know that is a lie. I'm holding, tightly, to something that is not mine. Not something worldly, but something that's been entrusted to me to give to the world. I feel unable, unworthy, and I hold on. Waiting until I know I am in the right place -- and knowing also that there is no knowing. There is trust.

Lord, if I let go...
"When you let go."
Lord, when I let go, what will happen?
"You will be held."
Lord, when I let go, if you hold me -- when you hold me -- I will be helpless. I will feel helpless.
"You will be helped. You will be held."
To what am I holding so tightly? It's something in my heart, and the thought of letting it go -- it isn't that it scares me; it eludes me. I look at my hands and it isn't there, but I can feel its weight, its gravity. The need to loosen its grip on me, and mine upon it, is visible, tangible, obvious.
How do I let go? How do I open up to receive?
"Just do."

"Let go. Receive."

Perhaps I need to rethink letting go; what it means. As long as letting go means giving up in terms of sacrifice, I may not see progress. I may not be willing to take the chance. I will be held. I will be caught if I fall; swept up into arms of Love. Embraced and soothed for as long as is necessary. Forever. How do I let go? How do I open my fists to set free my being? What is this last thing I cannot release?

almost empty

I went for a run today. I've been running quite a bit again lately. Wondering, actually, why I really took a break from it. The answers to that are myriad. Complicated. Maybe even irrelevant. My runs lately are a break. A time to refocus my mind, body, and energy so that I can clean out cobwebs in my mind. I begin my run with a prayer - a conversation with St Sebastian, the patron of athletes. I ask him to run with me, to encourage me, to push me to work harder or to rest as appropriate. I then pray my way through three miles, generally the rosary. Two rosaries, to be specific. My training tool, as it were.
The last two times I've gone out, today and Friday, my route was blocked, quite near the beginning. I had to change direction, determine the course on the go. Be satisfied - delighted, actually - by the unexpected change in plans. Friday the variation was slight, but added a quarter mile to my run. Today, I changed the route entirely when I came to the blockade.
Another unusual similarity in my treks: both days I had someone pull up and ask me directions. Simple things in both cases, the same direction, really. "Continue straight ahead and you'll be there." Very grateful faces looked back at me. Both times I gave the directions out of breath, sweating, and red-faced from running. Both times as they drove off I wondered about crossed paths.
My run today became a walk home when tight muscles and raw emotions combined to draw me to contemplation. As I let myself catch my breath, the roadblock - a bridge out on a path through the park - those asking directions, and a text I saw this morning came to mind and worked their way into my thoughts, the more conscious ones. I found myself encouraged to continue where I'm going. To trust my instincts because they are being led by Love, and to guard myself against any idea that I am either on my own, or able to make my way on my own. I am not my own light. I am, however, guided by a Light that will never fade.
There was a season when I ran from. All my running was to leave something behind. Eventually my running evolved into running to; an effort to reach or find something for which I was searching. Something that turned out to be both inside and outside of me. After I returned home, watching TV with my kids, I realized I am in this season running with. I hope I remember to continue that way, regardless of the detours.

oyster shells

We try to avoid asking "Why" questions in therapy. As a result, walking along the shore, I found myself asking, "What is it about the shore, the beach, the sea that draws me? There must be a reason You call me here, Lord." I wasn't yet done with the thought when I was transported to the shore of the Sea of Galilee on a beautiful day early last spring. "Ah!" I smiled. "It's our home."

The hours I spent on the beach Thursday evening and Friday morning were definitely a homecoming. I walked along as my feet were gently caressed by the waves, or my knees soaked. To my left, the infinite expanse of the Atlantic Ocean; to my right and up a bit, the sand. Along the edge of the waves' reach was a swath of shells. Hundreds of thousands of them, looking almost orderly in their arrangement. I found myself admiring the colors and the shapes, until I realized that in essence, they were all alike: clam shells of various sizes and colors, but the same shape. I thought about the times friends had gone to the beach and returned with a shell or two as a gift, all very much alike. There is a perfection in their shape, in the sturdiness of the thick shell, and the colors are amazingly varied, As I began to wonder which represented me, I caught sight of an oyster shell. Half buried in the sand, it was wet, black, and bumpy; irregular and angular in comparison to its mates in the sand. Reaching for it, I thought it was the most beautiful shell I'd seen in the mile I'd walked.

"Its beauty," I said aloud, "is not only in its imperfection, but in the result of its pain and suffering." I felt a kinship to this oyster, tucking it into the palm of my hand. Occasionally I would see another to add to my palm, getting sand under my fingernails, and dropping it on my clothes as I walked. At one point, I stopped and turned to look to the horizon, again seeing the Sea of Galilee. The beach there, I was surprised to find, was made up of millions of the tiniest shells I had ever seen. I thought of Abraham and the promise that his descendants would number the stars and the grains of sand -- and wondered that I was one of them. A grain of sand, the tiniest of shells, in the grand scheme of things. I was so grateful, I cried and laughed as I said a prayer of thanks and praise. What a blessing to be one of so many! And to see the magnitude of the metaphor. Overwhelmed, I opened my hand to again see the beauty of the oyster shells.

They had become white as they dried.

Again I cried out with joy! Like the shells, I am carried, always, in the hands of the Father. And while I am there, in His love, I am made new. Each and every day, if I ask Him. And even if I don't ask Him, He is working for my good, waiting for me to need Him, to want Him, to invite Him in. Any of my pain and sorrow I offer Him, He transforms into pearls of great beauty. Like the oyster, I am learning to feel whatever is stuck in me -- the joys and pains -- and let them transform. I am still me, still Stephanie, and always will be, but the pearls of wisdom, of growth, and faith are my gifts to share with the world in my work, my play, my actions, and even my protection. All these gifts come from God, and it is to Him that I offer them. It does me no good to have them, and keep them clenched tightly in my hands.

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.

confessing and renewal

The funny thing about confession, the sacrament of reconciliation, is that it works to make you feel better. It really, truly does.

Today as I walked away from the priest who spoke to me as Christ, I felt lighter, more real, and truly determined to move forward. To go forth and improve where and who I am.

With Your help. With Your help, Lord. Thank you for listening to me, for knowing my heart, and for also being my voice. I love you, Jesus.

sheep stuff

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

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

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

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

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

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

a shared space

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

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

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



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

even for me

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

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

But this piece of artwork stopped me in my tracks.

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

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

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

And I cannot stop the flow of tears.

Nor do I want to.

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

time and time

The strangest and most wonderful thing that happened in Israel -- and the most puzzling -- may not even be believable. If you can open your heart, and open your mind, read on. Otherwise, skip ahead to whatever I post next time.

As we toured sites I'd heard and read about, and others I hadn't, there came times when we stood on ground I recognized. My heart leaped or sank, without necessarily corresponding to the details of the location. I remembered people there, what they wore, how they looked, expressions on faces. And each time, I felt at home. It's difficult to explain, and when I look at the pictures now, I can't tell you which places held me so. All I know is that I know. And never once did it seem out of the ordinary. Not a feeling of deja-vu, or vague memories of movie scenes or well-written descriptions. Rather, what I felt was sure, complete, and vivid. I knew at the time I should have written down where they happened, and what was going on, but I didn't, choosing instead to allow the feeling to wash over me, envelope me, and be in each of those moments.

Usually, it was the women. I was among them, watching, serving, often silent, but smiling, and more than just occasionally laughing. Most of all, though, what I can still feel is the warmth of being with others who knew me, and allowed me to know them -- men and women alike. Interestingly, it's the same feeling I have when I try to imagine myself in the boat with the disciples and Jesus when the storm came up on the Sea of Galilee -- every time, I feel like I am exactly where I belong, with the knowledge that all is well (not 'will be well,' is well). Sometimes I was working alongside someone. Sometimes I was alone with someone. Other times I was sitting with so many others, feeling peaceful and joyful.

All of this only makes sense, I think, in the context of the communion of saints. There are many ways to describe or explain it, but my favorite includes the idea that time, to God, doesn't exist as we know it. Rather, it folds in upon itself in every one of our moments, and because it does, we can be in a moment that happened so very long ago. Once I looked at a friend across the church during Mass and realized we'd been together at the foot of the Cross. We really had. There have been times at Adoration, when I am the only one there, that I've been sitting with Mary while Martha prepared dinner -- sitting there not even noticing that anyone else was around, other than Jesus, feeling his robes against my elbow or my shoulder. But the moments in Israel were longer. And I can only say that I could feel them more than see or hear; the same way I still see, hear and feel Dad and his hugs. The same way I know that many times when I pray, I sit on a rock with Jesus, and toss sticks and pebbles into the water flowing gently by us.

There is a temptation to try to recreate the feeling, to hunt for it in my memory and my heart until I find it and feel it again, exactly the way I did on the trip. I know that I can't force it that way. The best I can do is remember that it happened, and be grateful for the experience, the peace, the joy. And continue to pray, learn, lean, and celebrate the love that allowed me into those moments. Along the way, I think I need to get to know some of the women I 'met' while walking the sands of time in the Holy Land. Who are they? I'm not exactly sure, but I feel certain we will recognize each other when the time is again right.

not just a field

Since returning from Israel, people often ask about my favorite thing, or what made the biggest impression. The most honest answer is "all of it," which very few find satisfying. The next best thing I can come up with is that it depends on the current moment. The fact is, I don't categorize things that way -- I don't have favorites in much of anything. For a really long time I thought that made me fickle at best, and abnormal at worst. In reality, it's just the way I'm wired. I loved the whole place! I can tell you about the one meal and "tour" I didn't like, or the one shopkeeper who made me really uncomfortable, or even about the only church that wasn't to my taste, but none of those things matter much. I was there and got to experience each of those things!

There is a setting on my phone that I haven't found yet. It's the one that makes my phone connect to my computer so I can download my pictures. Before I left, I shut it off, just in case, and have no idea where it is. It'll turn up. But the place I keep coming back to in my heart since we've been back I didn't even take a picture of. I was so overcome by a multitude of feelings, questions, memories and amazement that I forgot to get a picture.

Shepherd's Field in Bethlehem was nothing like I could ever have imagined. As a girl, we lived quite near a farm with cows. (I've always assumed a dairy farm, but I never asked!) They had a field, a pasture, where the cows spent the day. It was open, green, and fairly flat -- a vast expanse, considering the neighborhoods and developments nearby. I knew the shepherds probably didn't have something like that, so instead I envisioned something like Scotland: rolling hills of grass and herb-ey flowers, dotted with rocks here and there. (Mind you, I've never been to Scotland, and even this vision is mostly self-constructed.) What I saw when we arrived at Shepherd's Field took my breath away.

There was very little green; tufts of grass and grass-like vegetation sprouted up among jagged rocks and boulders. Lots of rocks and boulders. And there was absolutely nothing flat about it. The 'field' with all its rocks and bits of green lay at something near a forty-five degree angle. It was steep, stark, rugged, and dangerous. I imagined it dotted also with sheep, maybe a donkey, or even a dog. I pictured how difficult it must have been to see wolves and other predators among the shadows that were everywhere. And I thought about a man leading a donkey with a laboring woman up that craggy slope, looking for shelter. The road we walked in on was paved, wide and smooth, leading us to a pretty park and fountain overlooking the field. Beyond were chapels built into the cave Joseph and Mary were given for birthing a beautiful baby boy.

Perhaps part of my reaction was related to the juxtaposition of the modern road, the traditional, and the very real and unchangeable landscape. The road and park against the backdrop of the field jolted me most especially when a newborn baby was added to the mix. Inside the chapel cave was a baby Jesus statue, about the size of my own boys when they were born. That's when I felt the bewildering sense of where we were. There was nothing safe about that night when He was born, and yet, the cave was cozy, the family together, the promise ahead.

Sitting alone, looking out over the field, I was struck by the danger a shepherd faced out there with his sheep. I thought of the parable of the Good Shepherd, when he goes and looks for the one sheep that wandered off and got lost. In so doing, the shepherd took his own life in his hands to search among rocks -- boulders, really, caves and the associated wildlife. Knowing this, and hearing this, are one thing, but seeing what it looked like was something else entirely.

One of the sites that changed my sight.

growing closer

Sitting on a rock by a stream this morning, shoulder to shoulder with a friend, both of us in jeans and jerseys and tossing pieces of stick into the water, I shared my heart.  What was there was hard to share. I thought it would, at best, hurt my friend's feelings, and at worst, wreck our friendship completely. Instead the response my friend gave was a simple, "yeah, I know." Relieved but still shaken from sharing, I asked how it could be okay, why there was no anger, no yelling, no judgement. In response, "you are where you should be."

This is how it goes sometimes when I pray, especially when I have something difficult to share. I find myself sitting alongside Jesus, often on a boulder-like rock, our feet off the ground, and the sun on our backs, usually shoulder to shoulder, as close friends often are. I don't get to see his face, but I do feel his warmth.
Through today's prayer, and the subsequent flow of thoughts throughout the morning, I kept remembering that I need to work on having more such conversations with people. Especially when the subjects are hard, like today's. Those human interactions help me to know myself, so in turn I can know Christ. That's hard for me. Something that makes me worry I might repel Jesus sure isn't something I'm going to rush to tell a person! And yet when I shared the same sentiments with a person today, and then another, the responses were not that much different from his. The responses I feared turned out to be related to my own self-judgement. No big surprise there, but I have made great strides in that area. One day I hope to find I'm only doing a quick analysis, but for now, steps in the right direction are enough.
I know there's something missing; something that will be leading to more difficult conversations about faith and direction. And I know there will have to be people involved in them, too. They can't all happen in some supernatural place by a perfectly picturesque stream. And not all of them will end well. But, so far the Lord's been gentle with me, leading me to those who are willing and/or able to hear my heart in my words. 
Lord, I need You. Friends, I need you. I am blessed to have you.

not the same

Tonight's homily contained a thought that really stuck with me, as a good homily should. (Actually, there were a number of good points to ponder, but then there was this one....) It went something like this, "Not one of us is the same person we were last New Year's Eve."
How very true.
If asked to specify changes, I'd be hard pressed, but all I need is a quick look inward to see a difference. Although there are individuals who would question or disagree, I can say with certainty that I wouldn't go back. I have a long way to go, but I have traveled far on this journey.
At the moment, I'm in a rough spot, kind of between, and difficult to define, but I'm learning the vocabulary to speak and live it. Augustine said something along the lines of his search for God leading to a search for himself.  That when he finally found his own heart, his true self, he found where God had been all along. I feel a certain affinity for Augustine. I've been looking at various areas of my life - past and present - and trying to find God in them. Some are easier than others, but what I'm slowly realizing is that I think the places I'm finding it hard are the times I was least myself; when I was working to please, impress, or blend in. The question may need to change from "where were You?" to "where was I?"
In the past year, I've begun to learn to stand firmly for myself. And to be consistent and firm in that, while also being calm and willing to receive what comes of it. I've made mistakes, but that's how we learn, we humans. I told my therapist yesterday that I have always hated 'practicing.' "As a dancer?" he laughed, "And yet you found a way." As we talked about that, he said that practice is an inefficient word for what we were really talking about. A better word?
Living.
And I realized he is right (as he often is) and that living is what I've had a hard time doing consistently. I do - have done - an awful lot of waiting. I'm moving forward. One step at a time, complete with stumbles, trips, scrapes and bruises. But I am not - am never - alone. God is with me, whether I recognize Him or not. I am not the person I was a year ago. And I am grateful to all who have helped me along.

fibers and focus

Today is a stitching day. I'll be spending it at my sewing machine and ironing board, focusing on straight and even lines of thread. This act of focus often allows me to let my mind wander, a form of hypnosis, I suppose. As I link the pieces of fabric together, I also begin to stitch together memories, questions, dreams. Today I have some special prayers to meditate on, and while I sew, I'll offer them up.

With my sewing project, I know the end result, my aim. I don't know entirely what I'm seeking as I pray. Sometimes that's why I sew or knit when I have questions or when I talk to God. It's like those helpful parenting articles I used to read (in my mother's magazines as a teenager myself, actually) that suggested talking to kids about "tough topics" while driving in the car. There is both a level of distraction in not having to be face-to-face, and a level of captivity in sitting in a moving vehicle. When I work a project while I pray, I'm a little trapped by the scope, a little distracted in my focus on something else.

That's not to say I don't pray face-to-face. Or that I don't ever focus exclusively on the One to whom I'm conversing. Just that today, with the needs I have - both in my heart and in Christmas preparation - I am grateful that the Lord and I can work side by side today. That I can have time with Him always. And that we both know that I will, at some point today (when my alarm goes off) I will simply sit at His feet.

obstacle or bridge

The image memory is kinetic. I can feel each muscle as I strain against the arm around my waist, screaming and shaking my head so hard I can feel my brain. Punching my fists at someone, and feeling the soft tissue give under the blows. I try to kick, but need my feet under me for balance, for stability.
It's been a long time since I've seen this scene play out in my mind's eye. In fact, every time a teacher in oh, probably junior high, said the words "mind's eye," this is what I saw first. It's pretty dark, and the space is smallish, but I want OUT!
It used to be, when I felt this memory - and I only call it that because it's always been so vivid - or dream, I forced it away, fearful that it was how I would behave if I wasn't careful. That it was some primal, perhaps evil, instinct that could derail all of my dreams, my life. I'd see this on days when I was at the end of my rope: tired, stressed, lonely, isolated. Essentially, when I let my guard down.
Today, after enough time that I had forgotten, but not enough time to not remember, I again felt the intense feeling that I actually was there, in the vision. And I was struck by my reaction. First, I wondered if it was just me - the real, true me - wanting to come out; to break the mold of my false self (the one that's trying to please and impress). I wondered why I wouldn't let myself out. Second, I wondered if it was not a dreamed or imagined image, but an actual memory of an actual event. Only then did I remember the other feelings that had always been part of the package.
Tonight, I'd let my guard down. I was at the Adoration chapel, trying to be patient, to wait, to feel and hear. I wrote for a while, words that flowed freely to God today, but had been getting stuck lately, leaving me frustrated, and my soul tense. I went back and read some journal entries from a few months ago, and found some of myself I'd been ignoring again. I sat and waited. "Father, love me." Each time I say it, my heart opens just a little more, my eyes get more and more wet.
It's an interesting thing that happens when I allow my heart to open. I actually feel like the spaces between my ribs are widening. Usually at the point that I feel that, I get scared. I stop allowing for the presence I'm hoping for. Not tonight. And what I saw was not what I expected. Another turn in the path. An obstacle to overcome, or a bridge to cross?

cool little story

Yesterday, I shared a cool little story with a new friend, and he said, "Sometimes the answer is right there in plain sight. We just miss it." Or forget to look. My story in a nutshell: I was having trouble with a meditation on the Centurion whose servant was healed. I wrote about my difficulty in the devotional book, and my son came and read a passage from his book--mostly unrelated. The next night, he told me about leafing through his bible and coming across a story he found interesting....the story of a Centurion whose servant was healed. He proceeded to tell me about the footnotes and references that explained--very neatly--just what it was I'd been having trouble with. I thanked him for sharing, and told him about my frustration the night before. Then I thanked God for the wink.

This morning, driving to church, I remembered that I had not read the daily readings in a couple of weeks, and had missed at least a day in my devotional, and wondered (yet again!) why it is so hard to develop and keep good habits, when bad habits--even new ones--seem to develop on their own. The next thought I had was that the answer is right there in plain sight. That's when I realized what I was missing. The answer really was right there.

God gave us free will. We tell the kids that all the time. We talk about it. We know it. I know it. And that is the answer to my question. I fall easily into bad habits because I simply don't make a choice. Here's the thing: when I choose, or decide, to make a change for the good--to pray with my devotional, for example--each day I need to further make the choice to follow through with the decision. Each and every day. Why? Because I have free will. When I don't decide, when I let my guard down, or just wait too long to say, "now it's time to read this and pray," there is a golden opportunity for someone else to make an offer. It's far simpler and easier for me to just sit and do nothing at all, or to play on my phone, or even to do the dishes just because they are sitting there, than it is to determine that it is now time to pray--or exercise, or whatever else it is that would be the good habit to form.

I've recognized this before. I blogged once about reading some advice regarding the decision to be married each day. The fact that I am a married woman is not changeable, but how I feel about that--on days when one or both of us is stressed or grumpy, sick, or whatever--is something I can decide to work with or against. I can't necessarily change how the daily situation makes me feel, but I can determine how, or if, or when, I will deal with it. Making that decision purposefully has been a game changer for me. Why I did not apply it to other aspects of my life is one of the mysteries I am still working on solving.

My life is a prayer, and I am working toward seeing it that way each day, not just when I remember to think about it.

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.

a daughter

A few weeks ago, I read a quote from Friedrich Nietzsche that I disagreed with:
"All truly great thoughts are conceived while walking."


The moment I read it, I wondered if the man had ever showered. That's where I do some of my best and clearest thinking. I was reminded of this mental transaction as I thought, and cried, in the shower today.


Lately I've been experiencing some deep inner conflict. In some ways it is very familiar, and in others, just plain strange. I don't know how best to deal with it, except by experiencing it--none of the methods I had used for much of my life have managed to eliminate these particular pangs, so I'm trying a different tactic: letting go. This means something different to me now. I grew up being told that 'letting go' means forgetting and never thinking about that thing, that feeling, that hurt ever again. The reason that has never worked for me is that it's incomplete.


My tearful thoughts this morning had to do with steps forward; with positive changes in my life. This deep inner conflict has coincided with the confirmation of a new job, a new direction, a dream coming true, to a certain extent. As a kid (and by that I mean at any point in my life before having to start helping my own kids with conflict, I think), I began to see good change as something to be wary of. With good change came discord, conflict, internal or physical pain unrelated to anything really happening to me. Sometimes it was small, and sometimes it was big, but in the end, what I learned was that good stuff comes at a price, and it was up to me to determine whether the unknown price was going to be worth it. It was like agreeing to sign a contract without first knowing the terms.


This morning I recognized what I had thought of as some kind of balance to be, in actuality, something trying to keep me from finding comfort. In Mere Christianity, C.S. Lewis says, "In religion, as in war and everything else, comfort is the one thing you cannot get by looking for it. If you look for truth, you may find comfort in the end: if you look for comfort you will not get either comfort or truth--only soft soap and wishful thinking to being with and, in the end, despair." (HarperOne, p.41) Turns out, this explains more of my inner turmoil than the turmoil ever can itself. I was looking for comfort (goodness, happiness, joy) in what I was doing, rather than in the doing itself. As a result, I was putting my trust in the wrong place.


A few weeks ago, I also had a conversation with my son about plans. We had stopped at Habitat for Humanity's local ReStore, and on the way home, I told him when I was his age, I had wanted to work for Habitat, or MakeAWish, or the Peace Corps. Unfortunately, I didn't know who to talk to to find out about these options as career choices. I only knew them as places to volunteer temporarily, whether regularly or intermittently. Years later, taking my management courses, I told my brother and my husband that I really felt like non-profit work was a far better fit for me than anything else. And now, as I look forward to beginning a job at our church, I find myself facing the same inner demons I tried to fight off at those times.


Eerily the same.


When I realized it this morning, I also realized the difference now in my life. Until recently, I have worked hard at living my life for me. Growing up, I was told I could grow up to be whatever I wanted to be; I could do whatever I set out to do. That I had potential in any direction I chose. But then I found roadblocks to every dream I ever wanted to make come true. I was being selfish, making my destiny, my purpose, my own instead of part of something bigger. That's why I lost the fight. Every time. I was trying to do it all myself, the way I had been taught.


This time, I'm reacting to a question that came from outside of me. I said yes to a question, a request, a call, that I didn't hear as much as I felt. I was drawn to the place I'm going, without knowing the whys and hows of my reason for being there. I'm going to a job for which I was chosen, rather than one that I would have chosen myself. About the new chapter I am curious and excited and joyful. And yet I have this pain that keeps pushing out in weird directions, making me question even my sanity at times. The difference? I'm not going to fight this demon alone. I've identified the need for others to be there, in my heart. I've started the process (difficult, uncomfortable and unfamiliar though it is) of letting them in, of cracking open the shell I've created around my heart.


I was never meant to be whatever I wanted to be when I grew up. I was meant to be what God wanted me to be. And that's what I'm working on.