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.

lighter, fresh and new

Tonight I went to confession. Our parish had an Advent communal penance service. Not too long ago, I told myself -- convinced myself completely -- that attending and saying the Act of Contrition with everyone else was enough. For years I didn't sit one-on-one with a priest. Many years, indeed.

Some people I've talked to speak of bad confession experiences. Others doubt the need to speak sins aloud. Still others have told me they don't ever do anything that would require confessing. I didn't go because I'm a crier. Lots of things make me cry and I simply didn't know if that was okay.

A couple of years ago, I started thinking about going again. I worried, I fretted, I tried to talk myself out of it, but I went. And as I confessed, I felt lighter. And I felt like there was a possibility that I really was forgiven. Still, it took a bit of encouragement from my pastor before I considered going again.

Now I go frequently (comparatively speaking, anyway), every month or two. I've had some interesting experiences -- Like the time I realized that through my tears the priest had misunderstood me, and was absolving me of some other sin entirely! And the time the priest asked "Is that it?" when I finished. (To be fair, there is a way to finish up that I always forget. Something about "for these and all my other sins...") But all in all, it's always worth the planning, the soul searching, and the standing in line.

Tonight as we read the Act of Contrition together as a parish family, I thought of all those I love who were not there. I thought of some new friends of mine who wonder just what the sacrament is. I thought of those who don't celebrate the sacrament any more for various reasons. I thought of how much of my heart each of them occupies, and about how much more of the Father's heart we occupy, and how, really, everything pales in comparison.

I confessed where I knew I'd fallen short in faith, hope and love. And now I feel lighter. Ready to start again, fresh and new. Wrapped in God's embrace.

giving thanks

After Mass this morning, amid the joyful greetings of faith family members, one in particular stood out. A woman I've seen, whom I recognize but had never matched a name to, approached and hugged me. She wished me a happy Thanksgiving, then said, "I've been praying for you." When I thanked her, lowering my eyes, she continued: "I realize we've never actually met, but I really wanted to pray for you both." She was referring to a drive I took halfway across the country with a friend about a month ago. "I'm glad you had a safe trip," she concluded, and moved on.

There is so much about the exchange that stirs my heart. There is simple gratitude for the prayers, and the very true acknowledgement that I felt them, even without knowing where or who was offering them. Beyond that is the greater wonder of what made the exchange possible in the first place; the journey that continues to teach me so much about gratitude.
I've gone to church just about all my life. A majority of that time, I went out of simple obligation - to my parents, to my husband, to my kids, to my designation as Catholic - rather than any appreciation for my faith, or gratitude for what faith means. There was a time when I would willingly say that I went despite the lack of meaning to me personally. In a nutshell, I went so I could say that I did.

So much has changed for me in recent years. God's mercy is such that I am still welcome in this place that I used so casually, so carelessly. Welcomed by near strangers as easily as by thise who have become dear friends - family, even. Welcomed by Him at any time, day or night, even though I am still sometimes wracked with guilt for how cavalier I've sometimes been. My home, my true home, is with God, and every single time I walk into His house (wherever that roof happens to be) I am overwhelmed with gratitude for the opportunity. In His mercy, I am renewed, refreshed.

For what am I most thankful today? That's the question that came to mind when I first woke this morning. The answer has been floating through my mind and heart all morning. Clearly there are the most obvious: home, family, friends, jobs. But lately the word in my prayer has been 'more.' I've wondered what that could mean - more for, more from, more to? For today, more means all that I have and all that's coming. I already have more than I could ever have imagined, and yet someone I really didn't know offered me more this morning. There is no way to measure the love and mercy of God.

For that, I am most thankful today. 

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.

lighten the load

The gist of my thought for the day:
Often, I have heard people saying that they have 'more baggage' than others. In my view, God gives us what we are intended to handle. He knows, after all, just what He is giving. Whether a change purse or a steamer trunk from another's outside perspective, the weight and density, ultimately, are roughly equivalent because they are personal.




From my reflection today:

The feeding of the five thousand shows the remarkable generosity of God and his great kindness towards us. When God gives, he gives abundantly. He gives more than we need for ourselves so that we may have something to share with others, especially those who lack what they need. God takes the little we have and multiplies is for the good of others. Do you trust in God's provision for you and do you share freely with others, especially those who are in need? (Laudate app for Android, 5/2/14)

My thought as I read:
Would He not also give abundantly of our troubles (our 'blessings in disguise'), so we might share them with others? In this sharing, we help each other: a burden is lightened, and a feeling of being alone is alleviated.






I'm not saying that past hurts, pains, questions or brokenness mean little. Quite the contrary! What I'm saying is that everyone has them. Ev-er-y-one. All of us. We all have baggage, and some of it is visible, and some of it is not. For some, dropping pieces of it here and there is easy--or looks it--and others can't seem to lose it no matter how hard they try.

Each of us has brokenness; each of us as human beings. And no one’s brokenness is more important, bigger, or harder than anyone else’s. Nor is it any less. It’s just simply their own. To think that someone has more reason to be broken than any other is to diminish the other--and one’s own. No one -- anywhere or anytime -- has the ability to judge or rate anyone else’s brokenness, pain, sorrow, woundedness.

Rather, our purpose as family -- God’s family -- is to share in that need that our brothers and sisters have; acknowledging its existence, having a willingness to help bear it, admitting that we, too, need support. None is more broken than another, and no one is too old or too young to be broken or wounded.


Dietrich Bonhoeffer writes:

God loves man. God loves the world. It is not an ideal man that he loves, but man as he is; not an ideal world, but the real world. ... God becomes man, real man. While we are trying to grow out beyond our manhood, to leave the man behind us, God becomes man and we have to recognize that God wishes us men, too, to be real men. ... God makes no distinction at all in his love for the real man. He does not permit us to classify men and the world according to our own standards and to set ourselves up as judges over them. He leads us by himself becoming a real man and a companion of sinners and thereby compelling us to become the judges of God. ... God sides with the real man and with the real world against all their accusers. (Ethics, p. 52-56, edited by Aileen Taylor)

My thought:
God became us, with everything that we are, feel, hope. Maximizing one's own baggage is to lessen the strength and weight of His cross--His ultimate baggage. In the cross, He carried all of our baggage, didn't He? Although my hurts may not have been my fault, how I handle, carry, react, behave may have caused my sin to be added to that weight. If I were to say, "I have more baggage than you," would I be implying that the weight I carry is comparable to, or even more than, the weight of the world; the weight of the cross that saved us? I'm learning to be grateful for what I carry, hard as that may be, because it gives me opportunities--for prayer, for fellowship, for growth, for strength. All in my weakness and inability to carry it all by myself.

Baggage is not a competition. And more: pointing out 'more' versus 'less' would certainly not help anyone who already feels overwhelmed. The unfortunate thing is the diminishing; the implication that someone else's burden is not as important, not as worth sharing. I have a friend who tells her kids "Don't ever let anyone make you feel less than." Comparing baggage piles just makes everyone feel less than. And, honestly, how much of that baggage is filled with garbage? I know most of mine is.

Strike that. All of mine is.

I just choose to carry some of it around with me, despite my best efforts. Not the choice I particularly like to have made, but I continue to work on my own. Not just sifting through it, but also learning to share it with others. Never do I hope to brag about any of the stuff I've got shoved into the depths of my heart. I may hope to compare notes, with the realization of "you, too?!" What's in there, or the combination thereof, is mine and mine alone, just as what you carry belongs to you. I think it's part of my journey to find the people who can help me to pull those broken pieces out, and arrange them on me to build a mosaic. And to help others find the mosaic inside of them.

portions of this post were previously written by me as both email and text messages

on my way

There's something truly special about moments when things come together as a result of careful planning and coordination. All the hard work developing ideas and finding ways to implement them seems worth the effort, the time and energy, and even the stress and headaches that may have been a part of the planning.

Why, then, does it sometimes seem strange to see when things come together by some other means? I sometimes allow myself to believe, I think, that I am the only one working on plans for me. I make calendars and lists of goals, hopes, wishes, chores. I plan out times for grocery shopping, exercise, reading, cleaning. I determine who and what I will or will not allow to shape my moods, my feelings, my days.

Sometimes, though, those plans get derailed. Sometimes even hijacked. For a long time, I chalked it up to 'life.' Things happen--or don't--for many reasons, and though I always believed that the reasons must have validity, whether I ever saw it or not, I never really thought much about where 'life' was taking me. Instead, I would consider how this curve ball could be fit into my plan. I spent a good deal of energy on molding my own mud.

As I've learned about faith in general, and my own faith, I've begun to see things a little differently. For a time, I tried to find patterns. I was actively searching for the arrows on my path. I kept asking God to make the directions clear for me because I am not good at subtlety. After a while, I realized that wasn't getting me very far. Looking outward was not going to lead me where I needed to go.

So I started looking at the people around me. I cleaned house, so to speak, and seriously considered (again) who was in my life, in my circles, in my world. Some I began to share more with, and some less, and I thought I was finally on the right track. Until I realized that no one else was going to get me where I needed to go.

I thought I was back where I started, and I was a bit confused. What was I missing? I was working on focusing my energies, I was praying, I was talking to people so I wouldn't lose myself in that dark place in my head that I'd found myself in so many times before. Not knowing where to turn, I stopped. Right where I was, and sat myself down right in the middle of the path. "Where do I go now? What am I missing?"

Looking inside is harder. Understanding personal motivation is difficult; sometimes even painful. Seeing and hearing what comes out of one's own heart can be humbling, frightening. The only place for me to go, to move forward, was inward. I cut myself off a little, without withdrawing completely. From the shelter of my heart, I watched what was happening around me; listened to the sounds around me--voices, noise, music. As I watched, listened, read, I paid close attention to what my heart said, how I felt, what emotions and memories were stirred. And then I asked myself why. Why that memory? Why that emotion? Was the reaction expected, surprising, welcome? Some things hurt. Some things were surprisingly beautiful. Oddly, some memories that had always seemed painful began to feel joyful. Even more strange, I felt far less confused. Frustrated, yes; looking inside, it's easy to get lost.

About this time, probably because I was not focusing outward, I began to see connections. Still, I thought little about them, other than the fact that they were there, and I was seeing them. Nothing fancy or earth shattering, nothing truly exciting, but I did find myself sharing them sometimes with the people close to my heart. A couple of months ago, all of a sudden, I was overwhelmed with connections. My heart raced, my head swam, and I was terrified because I could see all these pieces coming together, but I couldn't see what they had to do with each other. It was like a hundred lights pointing at one spot in the distance, just outside of my range of vision. In a moment when I felt I needed a spiritual advisor or a prayer partner, I had no one to turn to. I wouldn't have known which to call anyway, so I texted a friend who suggested I start writing a list, and that I pray for courage.

Making the list somehow reminded me to be thankful for each point of light. And also helped me to see other connections. Seeing them doesn't overwhelm me nearly as much these days. Possibly because I'm allowing them to shape my mud. I'm remembering to thank God for the timing of things, for the unexpected, even for the painful. I still don't know where I'm going, but I don't really expect to know. For a long time, I thought knowing where I was going was the important part of the plan of me. I'm getting more comfortable with following, allowing.

I'm on my way.

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.

teardrops and laughter

A couple of months ago, reading Thomas Merton's No Man Is an Island, I grew to expect the emotional roller coaster elicited by his words. Before long, I came to realize that if I was laughing out loud in the middle of one page, I would likely be sobbing on the next, and vice verse. In all honesty, it was cleansing, though disconcerting at first! There were times when I wondered if the book was written just for me, finding myself incredibly grateful when one of my fellow readers was similarly moved. I wondered, too, if the gut-wrenching was purposely juxtaposed with the humorous, of if my sense of humor is just warped enough to find them together. [I realize that it all was more than likely purposeful. In our discussion, there was quite a consensus that he had Help.]

Tonight, in the midst of a text conversation with a friend, I realized I've been living a similar roller coaster, with a twist. A couple of weeks ago, while driving and contemplating some questions, I was struck by irrepressible laughter accompanied by relief at knowing what answer I was to give. Not just once, but twice, on the highway, and then a third time as I later parked the car. Each time I was filled with an amazing sense of joy--kind of an "ah, ha! moment" times 100. I messaged someone that it seemed that God was speaking in laughter, and that I could get used to that!

That's when I began to be moved to tears. Often. I'm beginning to think that perhaps blessings feel like little trails of salt water. In fact, this evening, I chuckled when the thought came to mind that I love the sea air on my cheeks. The difference, though--the twist--is that the tears that came while reading Merton were difficult realizations, or painful observations that I really didn't want to fit, but did. These tears lately are realizations, but of the awe-inspired variety. When I feel something I've always known, but never understood. When a piece of music touches the heart of a message. When a prayer reassures. When a verse I've heard hundreds of times is taught in such a way that the clarity is instantaneous, and so applicable to my being that I overflow with relief, and joy, and even sorrow.

A few months ago, I asked a friend why it is that I cry whenever I pray. Tears are more than just cleansing; they are a way for the excess to escape. Sometimes that excess is pain, hurt, sorrow. But other times that excess is beauty, joy, happiness. And then there are the times when the excess is relief, or understanding, or even Wow! At the moment, I'm relishing the feel and taste of salt water tears, and the realization that I have come a long way in patiently listening. I still need to work on waiting for one question to be answered before asking ten more, but this is progress! Not long ago, I didn't even know I could ask questions!

dream state

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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