Sew It Seams by Stephanie was born out of an idea and a desire. It was intended as a way to help offset my car payment, but really for some extra dollars once in a while. This morning I realized it should be for another purpose......
My son, Drew, is going off to seminary in the fall, to be educated and trained as a priest of the Diocese of Harrisburg. Nothing about this next chapter of the story of him surprises me. Since the moment of his birth he has been teaching me about life, coping, love, faith, admiration - everything that is truly important. As a third child, he was trundled off in many directions, often exactly at nap time. He had no trouble adapting these constant changes to his routine, more than any of his brothers ever did. As a toddler, he would occupy himself playing with Lego's and building the most interesting sculptures that were as delicate and fragile as they were intricate. He was the only one who could move or handle them; at anyone else's touch they would crumble. In preschool he developed an amazing eye and ability for drawing and painting, taking classes and winning awards through all his school years. In high school, he made the very difficult decision to drop art as a class to make room for some other subjects, but never gave up his sketchbook or pencils, winning an award at the Classics Festival with a painting he did for Latin. He prays. I never prayed in high school. (I spent my time at mass looking for boys my age because there weren't many!) His sense of humor and quirky taste shines through all he does, including his discussions and questions about bible stories, homilies, Life Nights, Edge lessons. His strength of character has helped me through the past year as much as the support from my therapist, spiritual director, friends in the know. I'm proud to know him, and humbled beyond words that God entrusted him to me, of all people. He wanted to be a farmer growing up, and at the beginning of this discernment would occasionally talk about living on a farm with an art studio school and a chapel. My mother sent Drew a card recently reminding him of this dream, saying that he will now be a farmer helping to raise animals with much less fur. [she put it differently, but I'm working from memory, and emotion.]
Last week, when Drew got his letter of acceptance from St Charles, a friend asked if I would now begin hosting spaghetti dinners to help fund his education. That's the moment it all became more real. Child support for Drew ends next week when he graduates from high school. Since February when I filled out the paperwork to terminate it, I've wondered what I might do to make up that difference, especially when he goes off to Philadelphia. This morning as I weeded, I discovered I'd been praying without realizing it when it occurred to me that Sew It Seams is really for Drew.
So many people have encouraged this endeavor in small to big ways. Shawna agreed to work on my marketing and has taken beautiful pictures of the items, even coming up with the name of the page. Ed encouraged my creative side by consistently telling me I have talent, and that I should capitalize on it. Jonathan, Henry, and Ellie shared the page almost the moment it went live. Heather keeps visiting and liking items. Elise tells me I can do anything - and that she loves that if I don't know how, I'm still willing to give it a go. And I remember the times my Dad complimented things I'd made, and especially the time he saw a monogram - SDT - and said, "Who is that?" When I made a set of bags for Ellie's graduation, Drew and Henry were my sounding board, and the first to really encourage the idea that finally came to be: showing my stuff to strangers.
And then today's prayer. Everything that is sold through Sew It Seams will go to Drew. Everything that hits the PayPal account (stephsewstoo@gmail.com) will be used for his time at seminary, from extra daily expenses to his suit and tie, cassock, surplice, transportation and tolls. In addition to the items in the album and on the page, I can do custom work, although prices may vary a bit. All the current items were made from savaged, extra, or otherwise 'found' textiles. Everything is one of a kind. And I do other stuff, too, not just sewing. In short, I sew, paint, create, and want to do it all to help my son.
If you would rather make a tax-deductible donation to help the Diocese of Harrisburg defray the cost of supporting all clergy in the diocese, you can donate here. While this will not go to Drew exclusively, it will help him directly in conjunction with his classmates and others. Questions about priestly formation and other vocations can be directed to the Office of Vocations.
Please pass this on and forward. This is a huge leap of faith for me. [more on that in another post] I have never been one to ask for help, and neither is Drew. His willingness to give of himself to the world is again humbling me, impressing me, an example to me. And, yes, there will undoubtedly be some spaghetti dinners and other events in the coming years. Along with lots of requests for prayer!
Showing posts with label spiritual writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label spiritual writing. Show all posts
Saturday, May 28, 2016
Saturday, May 7, 2016
at the door
She stands at the door, poised to exit; her hand pressed to the wood, her torso twisted back in response to those who have last things to say. The star-studded darkness beckons her quietly, while gently those inside continue to offer all she's needed, always. And yet, it is not those closest to the door who speak and reach out, but those in the furthest corners of the room; their tender love rooting her to the spot on the threshold. Those nearby, with whom she spent the most time at the gathering are nonplussed, as if finished with her company, making her wonder if this lingering matters to them, annoys them, if they even notice she is so close to leaving, perhaps for good.
She recognizes the feeling in all its complicated layers. So long ago thinking that being disappeared would matter to no one. More recently, realizing that being replaced unceremoniously is a recurring theme in her life. Always staying in place because of the example she'd admired from childhood; wondering all this time - all her life, really - whether the promise was worth the effort. All the while knowing that it must be, and yet....
So she stands, talking,smiling, laughing over the heads of those nearest, knowing those on the edges are holding her, while torn and broken inside. Turning away would be so easy. Pushing the door open and stepping into the darkness. An argument in her very core: the darkness may be Darkness; the darkness may be the moments before sunrise and glorious Light. Her eyes fool her, as do her feelings. Her mind tells her the door may be locked from the outside; there is no return. Her heart tells her that even if that were true, those on the edges of the room would undoubtedly open if she knocked - if they can hear her, of if they can push their way past the oblivious ones nearer the door - those who are unaware of their role in this moment, despite the strength of their message.
She smiles and talks, laughing with those on the edges who, in their hearts truly know, and cry along with her; tears of sadness, hope, joy, love. Love. Love is on the edges of the room.
"The image is clear and sharp in your mind because it is the one that represents everything that has ever happened in your life." Again and again. Painfully true. She wonders about pushing through the door. About trust and faith. About steadfast Love. And friendship - true, deep, intimate friendship. And the nearness of God.
She recognizes the feeling in all its complicated layers. So long ago thinking that being disappeared would matter to no one. More recently, realizing that being replaced unceremoniously is a recurring theme in her life. Always staying in place because of the example she'd admired from childhood; wondering all this time - all her life, really - whether the promise was worth the effort. All the while knowing that it must be, and yet....
So she stands, talking,smiling, laughing over the heads of those nearest, knowing those on the edges are holding her, while torn and broken inside. Turning away would be so easy. Pushing the door open and stepping into the darkness. An argument in her very core: the darkness may be Darkness; the darkness may be the moments before sunrise and glorious Light. Her eyes fool her, as do her feelings. Her mind tells her the door may be locked from the outside; there is no return. Her heart tells her that even if that were true, those on the edges of the room would undoubtedly open if she knocked - if they can hear her, of if they can push their way past the oblivious ones nearer the door - those who are unaware of their role in this moment, despite the strength of their message.
She smiles and talks, laughing with those on the edges who, in their hearts truly know, and cry along with her; tears of sadness, hope, joy, love. Love. Love is on the edges of the room.
"The image is clear and sharp in your mind because it is the one that represents everything that has ever happened in your life." Again and again. Painfully true. She wonders about pushing through the door. About trust and faith. About steadfast Love. And friendship - true, deep, intimate friendship. And the nearness of God.
Tuesday, February 16, 2016
an interesting combination
Over the weekend, I painted my bedroom. It was a long, three day weekend -- three glorious days in a row that I didn't have to work, plus the usual Friday afternoon I have off to almost make up for my usual 6-day workweek. I used every spare moment last week to prep the room, moving furniture away from walls, moving furniture out of the room, taping cracks, filling holes. Friday into the evening I sanded. The ladder and I circled the perimeter, getting intimately close with the walls that hold stories of all kinds. I love prepping a room for painting. I was already sore when the boys and I sat down to relax a bit at dinner time. Reaching and the consistent gentle pressure for sanding affecting my shoulders, my upper back, my hands. And I was delighted.
Saturday morning brought wall washing; another aspect to experience rather than simply get through. Changing the water halfway through, I considered the illusion of surfaces. Nothing could have indicated to me how just plain dirty the walls were when I was using nothing but my eyes to judge. There was no mistaking the black water I poured down the drain, the grit that remained in the bottom of the bucket until I rinsed and re-rinsed, filling it with fresh water and detergent. "I am that wall," I thought, happily, joyfully, I might add! Prepping, sanding, washing, painting, it's all like getting to know a friend, acknowledging the rough places, helping to smooth them over, but never meaning to eliminate or completely forget them. Making the cracks and holes bearable is a friend's responsibility, isn't it? Or at least helping them to be.
While I worked, I did talk to some friends; most via text, but one on the phone. As I relayed my plans for the room, beyond painting (I have some projects involving power tools in mind!), I was told, "You have talents. You should use them; show them off. I can see you on your own somewhere beautiful prepping, painting, and building beautiful things for people. It'd be great." It would be great. (My friend also mentioned being near water, which was interesting as there was no reason for this new friend to know this about me; that I am drawn to water, sand, islands.) That call made me smile for a good while. Some of the conversations led to tearful thinking; some to out and out sobbing. All of it was cleansing, refreshing, as much a renewal for my heart as my work was to the room.
Last week, during a break in prepping, I was asked about the color of the trim. "I never worry about that unless I have to," I said, which in reality is not entirely true. My bedroom has 5 doors and 3 windows, meaning there is a ridiculous amount of trim to consider. Truth be told, I had turned a blind eye to the trim, hoping against hope that the world could, too. It only took about three feet of painted wall to show me how imperative the trim work would be. Again I thought of the parallels: what we see and what we wish we see can only run next too each other for so long. Reality bites sometimes, and requires that we do the careful detail work, on our knees, sometimes holding our breath to be sure to get the bead just right. I trekked back to the paint store to get a nice glossy white. The friend who asked about the trim was right, of course, the trim makes the color pop even more, it pulls the room together, finishes the overall effect. Painting the baseboard requires the use of two brushes: both 1" and 1 1/2" sash brushes. My well-being requires the use of two types of prayer: speaking (1") and listening (1 1/2"). When I try to rush through with only one, the results are less than satisfying. There's more area that requires the larger brush. The edge, where the smaller brush is used, is more difficult, more painful and frightening to navigate. The way they work together to unify, though, is more than worth the effort. And in reality, it's not that hard -- and doesn't take that long. I have two walls of baseboard done, so I could move the larger pieces of furniture back in, and will work on the rest of the trim throughout the next week or so. It'll be a longer process than the walls, but that is as it should be.
Next, I will create plans for the bookcases and radiator cover, and figure out the best timing for purchasing and assembling. I have the paint, and I'm ready (and willing) to use it. The most exciting project I have planned is for the door, the details of which I must review a few more times. A sliding barn door made of wood and canvas, painted with some as yet unknown design....part of the reasoning behind this description of me, observed by my friend on the phone: "artsy, funny, pretty, detailed - an interesting combination." I'm looking forward to seeing where this life will take me; where God has me going. I'm finding more of myself, along with even more joy in sharing, although that can be so very painful. Spending time with the walls in my room, I was many times struck by the power of memories, and the force with which they will present themselves when necessary. Many of them, related to the time of year, were unpleasant, ugly, and had been hidden far below my seemingly clean surface. Some surprised me, others made me think "you again," but presented some different side or view to consider. All of them brought intense emotion; some a strong desire to act out. Instead I reached out, again and again. That's something new to me, and I was strangely surprised at how helpful it was. Even when the reaching out was repeated, in the same words, to the same person, more than once. Mercy is a beautiful thing.
My bedroom is painted, and like any good project (including myself), the work has just begun, and will continue for quite a while. I'm excited about the challenges and successes to come -- and even the bumps along the way. I know, without a doubt, that I am not alone, and never will be, even when I work in solitude.
Saturday morning brought wall washing; another aspect to experience rather than simply get through. Changing the water halfway through, I considered the illusion of surfaces. Nothing could have indicated to me how just plain dirty the walls were when I was using nothing but my eyes to judge. There was no mistaking the black water I poured down the drain, the grit that remained in the bottom of the bucket until I rinsed and re-rinsed, filling it with fresh water and detergent. "I am that wall," I thought, happily, joyfully, I might add! Prepping, sanding, washing, painting, it's all like getting to know a friend, acknowledging the rough places, helping to smooth them over, but never meaning to eliminate or completely forget them. Making the cracks and holes bearable is a friend's responsibility, isn't it? Or at least helping them to be.
While I worked, I did talk to some friends; most via text, but one on the phone. As I relayed my plans for the room, beyond painting (I have some projects involving power tools in mind!), I was told, "You have talents. You should use them; show them off. I can see you on your own somewhere beautiful prepping, painting, and building beautiful things for people. It'd be great." It would be great. (My friend also mentioned being near water, which was interesting as there was no reason for this new friend to know this about me; that I am drawn to water, sand, islands.) That call made me smile for a good while. Some of the conversations led to tearful thinking; some to out and out sobbing. All of it was cleansing, refreshing, as much a renewal for my heart as my work was to the room.
Last week, during a break in prepping, I was asked about the color of the trim. "I never worry about that unless I have to," I said, which in reality is not entirely true. My bedroom has 5 doors and 3 windows, meaning there is a ridiculous amount of trim to consider. Truth be told, I had turned a blind eye to the trim, hoping against hope that the world could, too. It only took about three feet of painted wall to show me how imperative the trim work would be. Again I thought of the parallels: what we see and what we wish we see can only run next too each other for so long. Reality bites sometimes, and requires that we do the careful detail work, on our knees, sometimes holding our breath to be sure to get the bead just right. I trekked back to the paint store to get a nice glossy white. The friend who asked about the trim was right, of course, the trim makes the color pop even more, it pulls the room together, finishes the overall effect. Painting the baseboard requires the use of two brushes: both 1" and 1 1/2" sash brushes. My well-being requires the use of two types of prayer: speaking (1") and listening (1 1/2"). When I try to rush through with only one, the results are less than satisfying. There's more area that requires the larger brush. The edge, where the smaller brush is used, is more difficult, more painful and frightening to navigate. The way they work together to unify, though, is more than worth the effort. And in reality, it's not that hard -- and doesn't take that long. I have two walls of baseboard done, so I could move the larger pieces of furniture back in, and will work on the rest of the trim throughout the next week or so. It'll be a longer process than the walls, but that is as it should be.
Next, I will create plans for the bookcases and radiator cover, and figure out the best timing for purchasing and assembling. I have the paint, and I'm ready (and willing) to use it. The most exciting project I have planned is for the door, the details of which I must review a few more times. A sliding barn door made of wood and canvas, painted with some as yet unknown design....part of the reasoning behind this description of me, observed by my friend on the phone: "artsy, funny, pretty, detailed - an interesting combination." I'm looking forward to seeing where this life will take me; where God has me going. I'm finding more of myself, along with even more joy in sharing, although that can be so very painful. Spending time with the walls in my room, I was many times struck by the power of memories, and the force with which they will present themselves when necessary. Many of them, related to the time of year, were unpleasant, ugly, and had been hidden far below my seemingly clean surface. Some surprised me, others made me think "you again," but presented some different side or view to consider. All of them brought intense emotion; some a strong desire to act out. Instead I reached out, again and again. That's something new to me, and I was strangely surprised at how helpful it was. Even when the reaching out was repeated, in the same words, to the same person, more than once. Mercy is a beautiful thing.
My bedroom is painted, and like any good project (including myself), the work has just begun, and will continue for quite a while. I'm excited about the challenges and successes to come -- and even the bumps along the way. I know, without a doubt, that I am not alone, and never will be, even when I work in solitude.
Friday, January 29, 2016
not forgotten
This morning, sitting down with my coffee, I opened my bible study journal and read the prompt, psalm 142:6-7, and psalm 13:3. Which fits better today?
I cry out to you. Lord, I say, You are my refuge, my portion in the land of the living. Listen to my cry for help, for I am brought very low. Rescue me from my pursuers, for they are too strong for me. ps142:6-7
How long must I cry sorrow in my soul, grief in my heart day after day? How long will my enemy triumph over me? ps13:3In my notes, I had written that psalm 13 fit more what I felt today, or recently, although neither fit perfectly. After I worked through the prompts, I did what I usually do, and read the verses before and after; context is everything. The entirety of psalm 13 made my heart laugh and break at the same time.
How long, Lord? Will you utterly forget me? How long will you hide our face from me? How long must I carry sorrow in my soul, grief in my heart day after day? How long will my enemy triumph over me? Look upon me, answer me, Lord, my God! Give light to my eyes lest I sleep in death. Lest my enemy say, "I have prevailed," lest my foes rejoice at my downfall. But I trust in your mercy. Grant my heart joy in your salvation. I will sing to the Lord, for he has dealt bountifully with me!I laughed because of a comment from my spiritual director one day: "You have no problem demanding from God. Maybe you should just tell him how you feel." The demands at the start of the psalm are pretty much the ones I'd been making: show me; help me; love me. My heart broke because in all my recent journey, I have trusted in His mercy. I have seen Him at work in my present and my past from my new perspective. I have sung to Him, and been filled with immeasurable gratitude for His tremendous generosity. God amazes me because even in my most difficult moments, He will send the most personal of gifts for me alone, if only I am open and aware of His presence. This morning, psalm 13 did indeed fit best -- but not because of one single verse.
Tuesday, November 10, 2015
today is different
This morning as I left the bathroom to dress for work, I happened to catch myself in the mirror. For the past few years, I have only looked at myself as parts when in front of a mirror -- checking my eyebrows, my teeth, nostrils, arranging or styling my hair, analyzing the effect of an outfit. Today was different.
Having spent a good portion of my life in front of mirrors as a dancer in endless classes (that have, unfortunately, stopped very temporarily), I have rarely been afraid of the reflection, and sometimes been somewhat unaware of the image in front of me. There have been times when I have been startled by my own reflection, like Bambi the first time seeing himself in the pond. And there have been times when I found myself making comparisons in the mirror -- to others beside me, to a former self, to the doctored images in magazines -- and coming away ashamed, embarrassed, uncomfortable. On rare occasions, I have seen myself and made promises to change a routine, a habit; made resolutions to 'work on' my physical appearance.
Today was different.
There have been far too few times that I have looked objectively at the image staring back at me. Instead, I allow the image to control my reactions. The interesting thing is that the image is not even what others see. As a reverse, my reflection highlights flaws through no fault of its own. That's just how it is. I cannot see what others see, especially if that's what I'm looking for. The closer I look at my image, the more I scrutinize it, the less reality I see. Self awareness needs to come from the inside. The true me is someone I can only see from my perspective inside of me -- and only I can truly see her. All of her. I've forgotten to look at her. In the neglect I've felt and experienced, I have developed a habit of practicing the same. The key to my future is locked within my own hands, and is related to allowing me to come out of myself, to step into the light of my own eyes, to be seen not as a mirror image, but as a daughter of God.
Today was different.
As I left the bathroom to dress for work, out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of a woman I hadn't even realized was smiling. The image I saw was filled with joy, anticipation (and not trepidation - the curious and interested kind), and happiness. The face looking over me filled me with hope. She's not the entirety of me, but a glimmer of what is to come. And she changed my outlook. Time and again, I ask God to show me where I'm headed, who He sees in me, what I am to do next in the grand scheme. He answers my plea on occasion in my interactions with people I know, and strangers I meet. Today was different. That quick glance, that solid image from the corner of my eye, though not a perfect replica of me, did show where my inner self is heading.
I have hope. I have faith. I have Love. I have a future - a future that embraces my past and my present as honest and important truths of who I am, who I will be, who I am becoming. I am on my way.
Today is different.
Having spent a good portion of my life in front of mirrors as a dancer in endless classes (that have, unfortunately, stopped very temporarily), I have rarely been afraid of the reflection, and sometimes been somewhat unaware of the image in front of me. There have been times when I have been startled by my own reflection, like Bambi the first time seeing himself in the pond. And there have been times when I found myself making comparisons in the mirror -- to others beside me, to a former self, to the doctored images in magazines -- and coming away ashamed, embarrassed, uncomfortable. On rare occasions, I have seen myself and made promises to change a routine, a habit; made resolutions to 'work on' my physical appearance.
Today was different.
There have been far too few times that I have looked objectively at the image staring back at me. Instead, I allow the image to control my reactions. The interesting thing is that the image is not even what others see. As a reverse, my reflection highlights flaws through no fault of its own. That's just how it is. I cannot see what others see, especially if that's what I'm looking for. The closer I look at my image, the more I scrutinize it, the less reality I see. Self awareness needs to come from the inside. The true me is someone I can only see from my perspective inside of me -- and only I can truly see her. All of her. I've forgotten to look at her. In the neglect I've felt and experienced, I have developed a habit of practicing the same. The key to my future is locked within my own hands, and is related to allowing me to come out of myself, to step into the light of my own eyes, to be seen not as a mirror image, but as a daughter of God.
Today was different.
As I left the bathroom to dress for work, out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of a woman I hadn't even realized was smiling. The image I saw was filled with joy, anticipation (and not trepidation - the curious and interested kind), and happiness. The face looking over me filled me with hope. She's not the entirety of me, but a glimmer of what is to come. And she changed my outlook. Time and again, I ask God to show me where I'm headed, who He sees in me, what I am to do next in the grand scheme. He answers my plea on occasion in my interactions with people I know, and strangers I meet. Today was different. That quick glance, that solid image from the corner of my eye, though not a perfect replica of me, did show where my inner self is heading.
I have hope. I have faith. I have Love. I have a future - a future that embraces my past and my present as honest and important truths of who I am, who I will be, who I am becoming. I am on my way.
Today is different.
Sunday, August 23, 2015
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.
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.
Friday, August 14, 2015
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.
"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.
Thursday, June 18, 2015
three quiet visits
Three times today I sat and visited with Jesus, in three different places; two chapels and a church. And I learned for myself something that we tell the kids all the time: His presence is the same everywhere.
Not long ago, I had a really hard time praying. I couldn't figure out if it was Him or if it was me. If I was trying too hard, or not hard enough. If I needed to go, or if I needed to stay. I tried changing things up by picking different prayers, and even changing some spaces. Nothing seemed to help, but I kept trying, asking, searching.
Today's visits were kind of the opposite. The grand total of about 45 minutes felt very much like a continued conversation - the kind you have with any friend you might see here and there throughout the day. All of them were unplanned, for the most part, which made the encounters that much sweeter.
I'm still smiling.
Thursday, May 7, 2015
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.
Monday, March 30, 2015
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.
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.
Thursday, November 27, 2014
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.
Saturday, September 20, 2014
backleading....again
Today, while working on learning and getting comfortable with a tricky Foxtrot combination (though not beyond our skill level, we were repeatedly assured!), there were times when the steps, the motion, the fluidity just wasn't there. "I think that was me," I told my husband. "I'm not sure what I'm doing, but I think I'm off." Our instructor took my hand to lead me down the floor, and almost immediately told me (and everyone) that I was backleading; depending more on myself to get down the floor than on my partner. It's not a new problem or habit for me. In fact, it's rather familiar. Letting go a little made the combination flow better -- more fun and fluid for both of us.
I got back to the corner where we were starting our passes down the floor, and a classmate said, "It's all rather biblical." I agreed (it really, truly is) and took a quick stock of where I am, and why lately I've been feeling so 'independent' when we dance.
The truth is, how well I follow at dance class very closely corresponds to where I am in my heart and in my mind. And lately I've been working hard at mending, healing, becoming. And the road has not been smooth or easy. There's lots of skidding and jack-rabbit starts, lots of riding the brake, and wishing I could coast. I'm resisting, and although it seems to me that I'm the only one who could notice, it's glaringly obvious when I have a dance partner. This internal struggle, the fears related to it, and even the progress that I do see all combine to bind up some of the creativity that we are trying to unveil. Independence and resistance are more comfortable to me that I would like.
A couple of weeks ago, I was presented with an idea that is still radical to me: "You don't have to do this alone. You can, but it will take longer and will be harder. It's up to you." This was my therapist, encouraging me to seek out and trust further the people in my life that can help me to apply what I'm learning. Not only the skills, but the truth of who I am, in the eyes of others, and in the eyes of God. Almost immediately I shared the idea with a friend, and mulled it over. I don't have to do it alone. I can, but I don't have to. Realizing he was also talking about allowing God to work in my life didn't take long. Within hours of asking Him in, asking for continued guidance, support, help, little things began to happen that showed me who I could begin to lean on, to share with, the become with. Unexpected visits, encounters, messages each showed me the generous nature of God's love in my healing.
And yet I still resist some. A fearful, tearful meltdown on my kitchen floor. An emotional morning at work. A question of where I am on my journey. All related to resistance. "Just trust Him," I was told one night this week. I want to. I don't like to backlead. It takes the fun out of it, really, and removes a bit of the beauty and quite a bit of the magic. This week, when I did let go and trust, relaxing into the love of my Father, I was so truly blessed beyond my hopes and prayers. One would think that would be incentive enough to make leaning into that Love a habit, but fear and nerves prevail. Again. And I find myself dependent on me more than I intend.
The good thing is, I can feel that the dependence is ever so slightly less. I'm beginning, slowly, to see and feel a difference. In the meantime, I seem to wear my level of surrender in my dancing shoes, giving a barometer of my progress to my partner. Fortunately, he, too, is patient and kind.
I got back to the corner where we were starting our passes down the floor, and a classmate said, "It's all rather biblical." I agreed (it really, truly is) and took a quick stock of where I am, and why lately I've been feeling so 'independent' when we dance.
The truth is, how well I follow at dance class very closely corresponds to where I am in my heart and in my mind. And lately I've been working hard at mending, healing, becoming. And the road has not been smooth or easy. There's lots of skidding and jack-rabbit starts, lots of riding the brake, and wishing I could coast. I'm resisting, and although it seems to me that I'm the only one who could notice, it's glaringly obvious when I have a dance partner. This internal struggle, the fears related to it, and even the progress that I do see all combine to bind up some of the creativity that we are trying to unveil. Independence and resistance are more comfortable to me that I would like.
A couple of weeks ago, I was presented with an idea that is still radical to me: "You don't have to do this alone. You can, but it will take longer and will be harder. It's up to you." This was my therapist, encouraging me to seek out and trust further the people in my life that can help me to apply what I'm learning. Not only the skills, but the truth of who I am, in the eyes of others, and in the eyes of God. Almost immediately I shared the idea with a friend, and mulled it over. I don't have to do it alone. I can, but I don't have to. Realizing he was also talking about allowing God to work in my life didn't take long. Within hours of asking Him in, asking for continued guidance, support, help, little things began to happen that showed me who I could begin to lean on, to share with, the become with. Unexpected visits, encounters, messages each showed me the generous nature of God's love in my healing.
And yet I still resist some. A fearful, tearful meltdown on my kitchen floor. An emotional morning at work. A question of where I am on my journey. All related to resistance. "Just trust Him," I was told one night this week. I want to. I don't like to backlead. It takes the fun out of it, really, and removes a bit of the beauty and quite a bit of the magic. This week, when I did let go and trust, relaxing into the love of my Father, I was so truly blessed beyond my hopes and prayers. One would think that would be incentive enough to make leaning into that Love a habit, but fear and nerves prevail. Again. And I find myself dependent on me more than I intend.
The good thing is, I can feel that the dependence is ever so slightly less. I'm beginning, slowly, to see and feel a difference. In the meantime, I seem to wear my level of surrender in my dancing shoes, giving a barometer of my progress to my partner. Fortunately, he, too, is patient and kind.
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
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.
Friday, March 21, 2014
there you are
Earlier this week, plagued with vocal chords I had pushed far beyond their limits, I had to spend the day in silence. Or my best attempt at same. Everyone was gone for the day, to work or to school, and I was home alone. Given the fact that the strain of speaking made me a bit lightheaded, it would stand to reason that my own silence would be welcome. It turns out, when I am home alone, I speak aloud to myself more than I realized!
In between the squeaks and honks I emitted, I did manage to consider the day a silent retreat of sorts. I cleaned our spare room, top to bottom, and prayed some, meditating on the blessings of my usual every day.
The past few weeks have not been easy. There are quite a few things weighing on my mind, my heart. I found myself once again wishing for a cup of coffee with my dad. That became a little prayer: "Lord, please, I just want to have a little talk with Dad. I want to know what he'd tell me. I want, more than anything, to feel his hug."
Not ten minutes later, vacuuming under the dresser, I found one of my favorite pictures from our wedding day: me pinning Dad's corsage to his lapel. I hadn't even realized it had fallen down to the floor. I smiled, and silently thanked God and Dad for being in that moment. Later that day, and into the next, I prayed again that Dad might be near me. Last night, after a particularly tough discussion with two friends, I asked that we pray together. When we finished, one of them started singing. "A-amen. A-amen."
I burst into tears.
Dad was there in that moment. She had no idea that he sang that when he finished praying in a group. Every time. She had no idea that I'd been looking for him. I shared with them my grateful heart, and we went home. Late this afternoon, I got a phone call that led to an unexpected conversation that sounded oddly like coffee with Dad. As I hung up, I thanked God for answering such a small prayer. Talking with Dad was never about the answers. He had a way of leaving more questions on the table than answers, and really, that was the best part.
And, as it turns out, was a masterful lesson in faith.
Friday, March 14, 2014
it was good
I went to States today to see Henry swim. He was his usual amazingly athletic self, and the team did great, but the coolest thing was the way it became prayerful for me. Amongst the explanations to the newbies, and the cheering and excitement, I was profoundly touched be the realization that every ounce of what I was feeling was for Henry. Whether he knew it or not; whether he wanted or needed it or not. My love and pride and hopes and prayers were all for his focus. And in the middle of a hot, crowded, noisy natatorium, I heard the voice I'd been looking to hear.
And it was good.
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
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.
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
2. emotions: bliss
Warmth from the sun on the top of my head, as my hair flies freely behind then before me. Being pushed on a swing, high into the air by my father, I know, young as I am, how amazingly free Heaven must be.
Climbing onto the swing, anticipating what is to come even now brings a calming joy to my mind and heart. As he would pull the swing toward him, me moving backwards, blindly, trustingly, through space, I felt a safeness that was almost irrational. Trust that the hands would be steady and true, the arms strong enough to outlast my fascination with the combination of cadence, gravity and levity. Even when I learned to pump, and could have control over the duration of my adventure, I still preferred--or imagined--the experience of being pushed.
The first time I experienced bliss was on a common playground, flying through the air. When I see a swing, I remember, with every fiber of my being, that bliss, that joy, that time with my father. There are times when I feel that connection to my Father; times when I'm free falling in faith. Now is not one of those times. But I won't let go. The very fact that I can remember and recall, and feel the memory of that bliss means that it is not out of reach.
Climbing onto the swing, anticipating what is to come even now brings a calming joy to my mind and heart. As he would pull the swing toward him, me moving backwards, blindly, trustingly, through space, I felt a safeness that was almost irrational. Trust that the hands would be steady and true, the arms strong enough to outlast my fascination with the combination of cadence, gravity and levity. Even when I learned to pump, and could have control over the duration of my adventure, I still preferred--or imagined--the experience of being pushed.
The first time I experienced bliss was on a common playground, flying through the air. When I see a swing, I remember, with every fiber of my being, that bliss, that joy, that time with my father. There are times when I feel that connection to my Father; times when I'm free falling in faith. Now is not one of those times. But I won't let go. The very fact that I can remember and recall, and feel the memory of that bliss means that it is not out of reach.
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