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? ps13:3

In 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.

limitless possibilities

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

Could she answer?

"What do you want? Pick something."

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

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

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

And she began to feel alive.

castles and moats

There is a project I have due tomorrow, and I have been passively avoiding it. By that I mean I am allowing myself to get caught up in other 'business' like sewing, cleaning, Pinterest, counting pennies....just about anything that will seem productive when I look back at the day. [Yes, Pinterest. I made a board of projects I want to get done by fall. It had to be done sometime!] Today I grabbed hold of a piece of advice from my therapist and gave myself the command: "Do nothing but this project for the next hour and a half." It almost worked. I mean, I know where the project is going now (I think), but in the process, I sent a rather lengthy email (related, but likely not necessary) and also took a phone call. In so doing, I was trying to practice avoidance, but they managed to clarify and give direction and shape to the project, so I can maybe mark the 'done' box. Make that the 'started' box.

What came out of the morning was an admission. Not a new one, but a repeat that has never gotten me anywhere before. Here's the thing: the project has to do with opening my heart, baring my soul, and revealing old scars and wounds that may never heal fully, and letting Christ walk with me in the pain, toward healing. Trouble is, when I feel pain, I turn away from everyone, myself included, and isolate. Not to lick my wounds, but to ignore them. My heart, I'm afraid, is a mass of grisly, ugly scars that have tried to heal over despite getting infected from lack of attention. In my brokenness, I believe that pain is meant to be hidden away, ignored, unnamed. Eventually it will go away. And then we can forget about it. My therapist and I are working on that -- albeit slowly because I can't bring myself to look as deep as I need to, even in the safety of his office. On my walk of faith, my heartpain has been touched upon, but I kid myself into thinking that God will make his own way there without my assistance. I mean, he's God, right? Can't he do anything he wants?

Today I admitted that my turning inward is an addiction to me. I try (unsuccessfully) to convince myself that it doesn't affect anyone but me, since I'm alone. I know it's not in my best interest to keep it all to myself, yet I not only avoid sharing, I actively decide not to. To borrow a phrase from therapy, it's comfortable because it's familiar, not because it fits. And when I think something might begin to hurt, I've begun looking for the solitude, except that instead of being a refreshing break from contact with whatever or whomever is causing my distress, it's become extreme, to the point of desolation.

I read this today:

We need to withdraw from time to time
from all unnecessary cares and business.

Sound advice, yes? It's St. Teresa of Avila, and when similar advice was issued a few months ago, I got frustrated (angry?) because I knew this withdrawing I do is not healthy, that it hurts my soul more than it helps. Today, as I read those words, I realized they have the opposite meaning. The key word is 'unnecessary.' For my situation, withdrawing from unnecessary cares points toward contact with others. I need to withdraw from the unnecessary -- dwelling on the hurts and pains. I need to back away from my walled castle and cross the moat to meet those who can offer themselves to me. I need to begin the work of allowing myself to be heard, showing my pain, and ultimately asking for help in nursing my wounds. When others share their pain with me, I can feel it, and I welcome their sharing. Lightening their load is something I don't need to think twice about. But I claim my load to be mine and mine alone. I cannot carry it by myself. I don't know how to share it, how to give it over. Not even to God. I ask him to take it, but I pick and choose which bits he can carry. And that's not fair to either one of us.

Now to figure out how to lower this drawbridge...

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.

rocks and hard places

Looking out over the vista, grateful for the gifts of memory and review, I found myself excited to move forward, when the time was right. Not long after that post, there was a phone call, some earnest questions, the beginnings of some new life phases, and when I opened my eyes, I was surprised to see a pile of rocks and boulders in front of me. "Yep," I thought, "after that rest, it's time to climb. Thanks for the prep!" and up I scrambled.

First I picked my way around, hopping over the smaller rocks, and looking for footholds and handholds to make my way higher. Then I scrambled up the sloping rocks, and the boulders with flat spots, wondering just how high I would ultimately have to climb. Without warning, I've found myself in a crevice, and (having ignored some sage advice: "And when you want to go explore / The number you should have is 4) without a hand or a rope to pull me out.

It's given me time to think. (No need to panic. I'll find my way out; I'm sure of it.) What I realized is that despite how far I've come, something has not changed. Once again, the first thing I did was decide what I needed to do. In and of itself, this is not entirely bad. However, when courses of action are not even considered--let alone tossed aside as infeasible--things may not turn out as intended. I'm pretty sure, now that I'm heading on toward frustrated, that there were other very reasonable options.

It's entirely possible that I was supposed to choose a rock to carry, or that I was to move some of the rocks out of the way. It's also quite possible that I was looking at a rock waiting to be chiseled and molded into something else, some beautiful figure that only my eyes could have seen under the smooth, round surface. Or that someone else may have been stuck in the rocks, and I should have listened for their cries for help.

It's possible I was being invited to sit and watch more of the view developing.

I need to work on moving past my dependence on myself and myself alone. I thought I had. I forgot that moving forward does not mean forgetting what was behind; leaving missteps off the map. The good is in the journey. I have always believed that, but have often, in my full-steam ahead, missed the forest for the trees.

To dig or to jump or to wait. Something to think about.

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!

standing still

I've found myself at a standstill. Last week, I had this sense of.....what? I could only identify it as darkness, but that didn't seem quite right. Since I really didn't know what it was, I began to push against panic that darkness was going to descend, long before any darktime weather. I almost called a couple of friends to alert them; to have their warm thoughts shore me up. I resisted (and instead overdid social time, to the detriment of my psyche, and my belly). When I stopped to consider why this sense of something, I realized there was no darkness, only calm. The kind of calm and quiet that is palpable and strong enough to keep me in one place.

At one time, this kind of standstill would have pushed me to wonder why, or what I had done wrong, or not done, to be stuck when I had been moving right along (albeit slowly most of the time!). Today, though, seemed like an opportune time to turn around and look at where I've been, how far I've come. Each day on this journey, I've been reminded, in one way or another, how far I have yet to go. And how far I am behind where I could have been, had I made different turns and avoided some detours and unnecessary exits. (This latter part is always argued--without those fits and starts, I would not be who I am, and therefore could not be where I am now, which is right where I'm supposed to be. While I know this, the thought still creeps in on occasion, and must be pushed away or dealt with.) For the first time, looking back over the course, there is no feeling that I've missed something, or left something behind. I'm pleasantly surprised to see that I have actually covered quite a bit of ground! The place I left from is far in the distance, not just a step back, as I've sometimes feared.

This part of my journey has been moving toward, not away, and I can almost see the change in my stride at that transition. My steps may be slower, but they are surer, stronger and steadier. This view is breathtaking and humbling and uplifting, all at the same time. And I find myself grateful for the standstill; for the time to allow this all to sink in, to take root, to sprout wings. For the first time, I do not find myself resisting the inertia. And I wonder if past resistance has brought on the listlessness and dejection that I find in the darktime (which is still a long way off!); if perhaps there was more looking out I should have done, when the tendency was for me to look inward when the spinning of the world slows......

Should have done matters little. Outward I shall look, and use this glance behind as incentive to move ahead. If I can come this far, I can go this far again plus one step more, and then yet again this doubled distance plus one. And when it's time to move forward again--tonight, tomorrow, next week--I will be ready, willing, with eagerness anew. Into a sunrise.



"The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it."
~Henry David Thoreau
(thanks, Lee!)

know no know

A dear friend of mine tells me from time to time, "You know more than you know." Although I don't think I've ever heard him speak these words to me (he usually tells me via text message or email), I hear his voice saying the words. And they echo in my mind, sometimes taking on various forms and meanings:

You know more than you know.

You no more than you know.

You know more than you no.

Each is equally uncomfortable.

I've struggled at times with "no-ing" without thinking. There are times, as Momma, that I have been caught in a No battle, saying the word before really thinking about it. Then I would be stuck in a conundrum of either backtracking or holding to the automatic response when I realized that No was not really the best answer. More recently, I realized I was using the tactic to avoid giving the most honest response: I was asked if perhaps I could be called to lead a Bible study, and my first response was a series of Late Night Top Ten reasons why it would be a questionable idea. I left off Reason #1, though: I've read so little of the Bible it's a bit embarrassing to admit. In the end, after a whole lot of searching and a number of things hitting me right in the head, I had to admit that I No'd too automatically: the real answer was "It's possible." I do No more than I Know sometimes.

And last night, I was at a youth ministry informational meeting, the leader, in response to something I didn't hear, said, "How many theology degrees did St. Peter have?" It was just what I needed to hear. I blurted out that I feel like I don't know anything.  Our pastor, sitting next to me, said that I know more than I think (something that, under different circumstances, would have really bugged me), but there was a chorus of others who said they felt the same way. A discussion followed, about hearing and listening, learning and growing, resources and comfort levels. All the while, I heard my friend's voice in my ear.

I don't think it's any coincidence that the story of Jesus on the Road to Emmaus (Luke 24:13-35) was presented to me twice yesterday. I story that I had heard of, but had never, to my recollection, heard. In a nutshell, Jesus appears to these two guys walking along, and asks them what they are talking about. They tell him the story of Jesus' death and resurrection, and they they all have communion together, at which point they realize to whom they are talking. The point being that Jesus will come to us, where we are. On my journey, I am right where I am supposed to be, at this moment, and where I am is where He will be, if I let him travel with me. I've read a number of times over the past few months that the key is to travel with, not ahead of, and not behind.

How do I ever know what I know? It's funny, because I recognize when I no what I know, and when I know what I no, but knowing what I know is harder to see. It's far more nebulous than even I care to admit. Frankly, it frightens me to think about. I wish I knew why. I wish I knew where to start thinking, contemplating, pondering. I wish I knew how, or when, or who, or if I should ask for guidance, or if it's just something to figure out on my porch when I'm alone.

You know more than you know.

Tell me what it is.

water water everywhere

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

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

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

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

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

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

apart or a part

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

learning, searching, finding

This is, esentially, part two. My name does not define who I am, nor has my name been related to anyone's expectation of me, except for my own. I was named for my father who named himself for a martyr for Christ. The name (and expectation) I chose for myself was Anne, Mother of Mary. I chose the name for the vocation of motherhood that I was called to even by the age of knowing, by 8th grade. Why did I choose Anne instead of Mary? The idea of raising Mary seemed far less daunting to me than the idea of raising Jesus, is the simple answer. The more complex has to do with calling. Now, all these years later, I wonder if it had to do with being a smaller soul.

Although I will always be a mother, and my boys will always need me to some extent, as I still need my own mother, and the reverse will always be true, too, I have found myself in a transition lately that has caused an examination of self. I've found myself, this past week, realizing that I have forgotten or lost parts of who I am in my efforts to be the best I can be. Finding balance between work, faith and motherhood has caused me to attempt to put these things where they belong. A few things happened this week to remind me that I had the whole thing backwards. For a while now, I've been asking God to be more obvious in his answers to me; to hit me over the head, please. Last week I realized I don't learn that way, so it's not likely that God will do that--He made me to learn the way I learn, and I need to be more patient with myself. Answers come in His time, not mine. I stopped asking that, and kept the question, but tucked it away.

Last week, I attended a training for work. Although I knew the material would be dry, I was looking forward to the class: I love to learn. I found myself zoning out, all but sleeping, far more than I ever have in a class. The class was long, and all I wanted to do was move: stand up, walk, sit on the floor. It didn't take me long to remember I was not made for sitting still, nor was I made for extended focus on only one thing. My mind is its own wanderer, and clarity comes from twisting, turning and backtracking. I felt like my brain was tied to a chair. A friend said, "The active spiritual warrior prays with action." A clue. That night, I told a wise night owl (wiseguy! he'd likely say) that I was working on quieting my mind. The next morning, pouring coffee, I heard my mind say, "Well, I've been told I'm a good listener. But I know I'm not when I'm on the phone; then my mind wanders." Weirdly, this was a major lightbulb moment.

Then the diagnosis of mono and strep throat for one of the boys, some back and forth about how to get work home from school, and a conversation about examples of faith. And two comments that struck a chord that resonated for hours. At the Spiritual Book Club I host at church, a member of the group said that on the drive over, he was praying and thanked God for such a wonderful opportunity to read and discuss. Then later, when I expressed amazement at the questions my children ask me about faith (things I never would have considered at their age), another member of the group said I should see that as proof of my example.

That's when I realized the answer is coming, bit by bit, for me to understand in the way I do best. The first step is for me to find myself again. Not the myself that's easy to find: the worker who will do anything, and has many aptitudes and abilities. I need to get back to the parts of me that I have allowed to become small; the creative part, the jump in part, the mom part, the example part. In my attempts to be a better person, I have forgotten who I am. I've been trying to force stillness on myself in order to make time for my faith, instead of embedding my faith in what I do. In my effort to break down the (self-imposed) barrier between my spiritual life and my secular life, I have been creating new ones. My mindset needs to change slightly to accommodate my growth and my journey--I need to transition from my "life" to my "self" in order to live my faith. I think I once was there, at a time when I didn't feel so pressured to set an example (again, self-imposed). Before our kids were born, I think I lived my faith more. After they were born, I worried that wouldn't be enough. I hope they haven't seen my example as forced, or fake, because it's been real. There's a fullness now that I don't remember feeling before.

The question is not yet answered, and I'm okay with that. The answer, or answers, will come in due time. And until then, I have waiting and praying to do, journeying and guiding, learning, searching and finding. Ecce, here I am.

love never fails

As part of the spiritual book club at church, I am reading Paul, a novel, by Walter Wangerin, Jr. It is fictionalized, and is, I've been told I'll find, clearly not Catholic in nature. Still, the reason it was chosen was to give a perspective on the life of a man that a dear friend calls "a great Bible dude." I'm enjoying the story, told from the perspectives of many of Paul's friends and followers, as well as Paul himself.

Some of the parts that affect me the most are not related to Paul's teachings (at least, I haven't seen the connection yet!) per se. I'm becoming attached to Prisca in particular. She and Aquila, tent-makers by trade, take Paul in when he arrives in Corinth. She taken in by his voice and teachings. In her musings, she begins to touch on deep feelings that I can relate to, regarding grief combined with anger and bitterness.

So then I was suffering something infinitely more killing than loneliness. Anguish of the heart. Violent, physical spasms of guilt. Poor Aquila watched with a heavy-handed helplessness. Do you know?--I felt such sympathy for him in those days. And there was a part of me that wanted terribly to comfort him. But it was the smallest part. I couldn't help my husband either, could only cry, would not control my tears -- causing him his own sort of loneliness. (p. 211)

I could feel her pain. I could feel her desire to reach out to another who was grieving. Prisca's father had said cruel words to her about her mother's death, wanting to make her feel as though she was the reason; that their leaving Rome may have contributed to her death. The reasons for Prisca's pain were much greater, on a much grander scale than any pain I have suffered. And yet, the pain of shared loneliness is something I am familiar with.

For Prisca and Aquila, the cycle was broken by the arrival of Paul. In many ways, I can relate to that, too. Paul wrote and taught of Love. There is nothing greater than Love. But Love needs an entrance. That loneliness combined with guilt built a wall; reinforced a barrier between two hearts. I've been there, feeling as though I should comfort, but wishing (who am I kidding? Demanding!) for more comfort toward me.

Like Prisca, I now realize that an outpouring of love is what allows comfort. And an outpouring, and acceptance, of Love. One comes from those around us, who may or may not know and understand our pain, but are willing to listen, to hear, to cry and laugh, to hug, and even to ask difficult questions from time to time. The other comes from Someone Greater. One who does understand our pain and suffering, and would never minimize it, but can help us to put it into perspective.

I am forever grateful to a dear person I consider a friend who insisted that Love Heals All Wounds. He was right. I'm pleased to be in the transcendent company of one who heard those words first from Paul (where, honestly, I had heard them, too; I just had never thought to apply them to my own life when it really counted!), and then went on to share them with others. At least in this story.

Regardless, the lesson is the same. It is real. Love is Real.

things in common

Tonight, we "discussed" the Story of a Soul. Really, the words of Saint Therese of Lisieux were just the jumping off point of, what I found to be, a great discussion on all kinds of "little" things that were far more related than they may have seemed. None of us had finished the book, and in fact, one of us hadn't even started, but Therese is right in saying that her Little Way is Simple. Please note that the word "simple" was used, and not the word "easy!" Following her formula for sainthood is something that she worked at for her whole life. I'm already nearly twice the age she was when she died, and am only beginning to be able to consider my own littleness, let alone embrace my own faults and shortcomings!

My takeaway, as so often lately, is that I am not alone. My journey's rest stops, historical markers, dives and great sights are all being visited by others headed in the same direction. I'm not the only one that's realized a feeling of missing the Lenten season--for the first time ever! And I'm not the only one wondering if that's just a little nutty! I'm not the only one who has worried that having questions, or being confused, or just plain not knowing sets me apart, separates me from those with 'more' faith, or 'stronger' faith. [I just now realized, with my computer on my lap, that some of those people with 'more' or 'stronger' faith might just be louder than me. Just like in my secular life. Why have I always felt there must be a dividing line? Why have I been afraid?] We all have obstacles, and we all need to determine how to face them.

For a long, long time, I faced them on my own. I looked at a problem, and figured out what I would need to do to solve it, fix it, get around it. And it's funny, because typing that, I could hear my husband saying to me, "Use your resources," by which he means, "Call me if you have a question about that," referring to some programs and packages I use at work. It made me smile because the greatest resource I have at my disposal (other than my husband's computer expertise) can be summed up in what has become almost my mantra: Guide me.

The direction is not always clear, and I don't always remember to ask. And I am not always as patient as I probably should be. [can you say, "understatement?"] But I have found that each and every time I have sincerely said, "Guide me," or the more familiar version, "Thy will be done," I have come out in a much better place than I know I would have, left to my own devices. I'm learning. I'm learning to listen for the guidance, and I'm learning to follow. It's slow going sometimes, and there are times when I feel as though I'm stuck, and I'm concerned at times that I will run up against a wall, or some other test, that will wear me down.

Saint Therese says to be as a child; to bear all things that come to you; to admit shortcomings, and honor them as things to work on. The more I work on these things, the more I will find in the story of her short life to inspire me. I plan to read it again. And again. And when I feel as though my progress is slow, I will follow her advice and persevere.

Together with others who need God's love.

journeys begin

Shoes are my least favorite article of attire. Socks, I like, shoes, though, I wear because I have to. As soon as I walk in the door, off they go. When I learned (many years ago!) that leaving shoes at the door helps in keeping the house just a tad cleaner, I rejoiced! And immediately started training my family to leave their shoes by the door. True, they sometimes get in the way of our everyday life (we have neither a "mudroom" nor entrance hall--or even a closet!), but my happy feet enjoy freedom from the time I get home until I have to leave the confines of our humble abode. Summer is awesome, because other than work and Church, I'm all about flip-flops or naked pigs. (In the colder months, I also get to indulge my penchant for sliding on the wood floors! Never grow up!)

I try, with varying degrees of success, to keep my shoes out of the way, if not organized. However, my sneakers make up a pile of their own between the radiator and the cupboard. I have the pair I wear for running, and I few pairs I wore out running that I keep around for various reasons: rainy walks, long standing up days, just in case the running shoes blow out unexpectedly. My work and dress shoes I try to keep in the closet in our bedroom, but there are usually a pair or two stashed around the room; removed in haste, of course.

About three times over the past week or so, I've reached for a pair of shoes and come up with two different shoes. That much didn't surprise me as much as the fact that every time, it has been two right shoes. Normally when I put my running shoes on, it's in the early morning dark, so I look for the subtle variations that are visible by the streetlight shining through the window, and sometimes end up with a mixed pair at first. Two right running shoes happened twice. (All the more strange because after our run, the pair of shoes is together at the top of the pile.) The third time, I reached down to grab my shoes on the way out of our bedroom before work, got downstairs, and discovered I had two black shoes, both the right side of a pair. And they look nothing alike!

After the second time, I suspected there might be a reason, but after the third time, I began to wonder just what the message could be! This morning, I began to realize that I had an inkling. As I've certainly mentioned before, I'm not one for subtle signs (directed at me!), and have often prayed that messages thunk my over the head. The meditations in my little morning book this week, the prayer I decided to read from an app on my phone, even some little something from our retreat orientation last night have all had a theme that I didn't pick up on until lunchtime, reading the last little bit of Soeur Therese of Lisieux's story.

When I was a kid, dancing, my teacher found it odd that I was left-footed when I am right-handed. Turns to the left, kicks, lunges, all were more instinctual to the left. The right caught up, eventually. (Interestingly, my left hand did not cooperate with choreography quite as well, presenting some challenges!) I had all but forgotten. Standing backstage during a facility tour two nights ago, I suddenly had a feeling that something should be clicking. I missed the performing, or rather, the anticipation of performing, that I had done so many times. For a fleeting moment, I thought the message was to "put my best foot forward."

Still, it took me a while to realize that was only part of the lesson. Slowly, the pieces began to fall into place; the meditations and prayers were about doing one's best--at work, at play. Getting dressed this morning, the quote on my mirror caught my eye: "Your work is to discover your world, and then with all your heart give yourself to it."* I marvelled that a similar sentiment was brought out last night, with regard to the Sacred Heart.

Then Soeur Therese.....What clicked really had little to do with anything in the book. Reading today, I made the connection between "right" and "just" and my shoes. Put my best foot forward; not my right foot, but my Right foot. A little reading about Grace and Mercy. A comment on the journey of faith. A journey that starts with a single step, but strives to continue with right steps. It all came together, just before I read this: "...I see clearly that you are mistaking the road, and that you will never arrive at the end of your journey. You want to climb the mountain, whereas God wishes you to descend it. He is awaiting you in the fruitful valley of humility." (The story of a soul)

To top it all off, I listened to a CD while waiting for track practice to end, and heard Fulton Sheen say that far too many people say they wish to lift up their cross and follow Jesus then say their cross is too difficult, too heavy, certainly not what God would intend. I've been there. I've been to the darkest and dreariest parts of my soul. By the Grace of God, and with the help of many along the way, I take one step at a time. I falter, I wander off the path, I still sometimes feel lost, but I try again each time.

*quote is attributed to Buddha

answered prayers

This morning, as I climbed the stairs to work, I said my usual morning prayer to Mary. After my prayer, I usually have a little conversation with Mary, asking for her guidance, offering my day. Today, Good Friday, my prayer was a little different.

"Good morning, Mary. Today I want you to know that I wish I could console you. I wish I could be a shoulder for you. I cannot begin to imagine what it is to lose a child, let alone a son who is put to death. If I could, I would be there for you."

I went about my day, but got to head home early. When I arrived at home, and found no one home yet, I decided to take the quiet moments to say the Rosary. Friday: Sorrowful Mysteries. I have a new devotional book for the Rosary, but I had already been through the Sorrowful Mysteries in it, and knew what to expect, to a certain extent.

After four decades, I arrived at the Fifth Mystery: the Crucifixion. During the first Hail Mary, I noticed a catch in my throat; it puzzled me. By the third bead, my breathing was difficult, and by the fifth, I was crying. I finished the Rosary sobbing. (At the seventh bead, the meditation was, "I thirst," and I involuntarily let out a wail.)

After I finished, I thanked Mary for allowing me to share in her pain, her grief, and her sorrow. Never have I had such an experience. I was amazed and awed--as much by the sudden onslaught of emotion as by the sudden disappearance of the emotion afterwards. I was left with a feeling of calm and peacefulness.

as myself

Earlier today, I was stuck. I had thoughts, ideas, wonderings, concerns, questions that wanted out, but I wasn't quite sure where to begin. I'd been spooked a bit, and agitated by that, and as a result, I felt stuck and even a bit angry about it. I started to write, but it wasn't going where I wanted it to, so I drafted it. Sometime I might revisit the words and rework them into something that feels more coherent.

In the meantime, we attended vespers, and something I heard there struck a chord closely related to what I wanted to say. The reflection was presented by a judge who did  a wonderful job of explaining how he lives his faith while hearing cases of law. In his talk, he pointed to Jesus' words in Mark's Gospel: "Love your neighbor as yourself." (Mark 12:31). Something clicked in my mind when he soon after paraphrased the Golden Rule: Love your neighbor as you would like to be loved.

Many times I've talked about the time when our son, as a toddler, got in trouble at pre-school for a minor infraction--something like poking a particular classmate. When asked why he would do that, he said, in all seriousness, that clearly the other child wanted to be poked, as he had poked others. Obviously, the other classmate was treating others as he wanted to be treated himself. If that kid pokes, he wants to be poked. It took us quite a long time to adjust this interpretation--especially since his point was spot on, though skewed!

This memory only flitted through my mind, as I thought that the two 'rules' do not equate. Loving someone as you love yourself is not the same as treating someone the way you want to be treated. That revelation added perspective to the thoughts I'd had earlier. Consider this: If I do not love myself, if I have pain, sorrow or anger in my heart, things from my life, my past, the forgotten parts of my heart and mind, how can I appreciate that someone else does not have some level of self-enmity? If I dislike myself, do not trust myself, do not love myself, how, then, will I treat others. Still, I could keep that commandment by treating others the way I see myself.

I've been there. At times, in my life, I have felt trapped, closed in, under appreciated, lonely, faithless. During those dark times, I truly believed that I was treating others as I wanted to be treated, but in reality, I was not loving them as I loved myself. Most people, I was loving far more than I loved myself. Others I was treating as I wished they'd want me to treat them. I remember actually thinking these things; actually wishing that someone would ask why I thought more of them than I thought of myself. Thankfully, I am far from that place now, but hearing the reflection tonight, I realized again that some of the people I had previously admired for having what I thought I didn't have are likely stuck in their own internal struggles.

That sounds obvious, and, yes, I have always known that what happens inside my heart is not completely unique to me. If that were the case, psychology and sociology would make no sense whatsoever. We think inside our heads, and that tends to make us think that what's in our minds is ours alone. However, when we open our hearts to share our thoughts, we realize how united we really are. That's where I am now. Yesterday, I read, "...the more ways we discover to express, share, and be loving, the more we find ourselves surrounded by the feeling of love" (Carlson and Carlson, c1999, Don't sweat the small stuff in love, p.36). Love is reflexive. Giving love is getting love, but wanting love is different. Just wanting it doesn't make it so.

Our speaker this evening pointed out that neither loving others as ourselves nor treating others as we'd like to be treated is easy. But the effort, for me, has been worthwhile. I fall short. Everyone does. But I get back up, take a deep breath, and start again, asking for help every step of the way. This post may or may not be coherent to you, as the reader; but I know just what I am saying.

how sweet the sound

I did something tonight I haven't done in a really long time. And despite the fact that the line was long, and tears were shed, and there was a little something lost in the translation, and it was out of character for me (though it probably shouldn't be), I do feel better. Freer. More receptive to tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. Balanced. Peaceful.

Forgiven.

In fact, in the middle of sitting in that little room, listening with more than just my ears, trying (really hard!) to not get distracted by the temperature, I felt a beautiful melting of just what was holding my heart hostage. Quite literally. And I actually felt the love and peace that took it's place. I also realized, in a split second, that the choice was mine: accept or reject. I chose to open myself and drink in all the beauty of the moment; to be carried because I needed it for a space of time.

An experience like no other.

A special thank you to the lovely lady in blue who pretty much whacked me over the head. She was right: I did need to go, whether I liked it or not; whether I thought so or not.

Baby steps in leaps and bounds.

Amazing Grace.

mystery, militia, love

Usually by this time I have done my morning reading (it's 7:23am), but it's Saturday, for one thing, and, the far bigger reason, I have so many thoughts from yesterday's pondering that I want to put "on paper" so I don't lose them, ever. This final week of the retreat, we have three key words that are meant to sum up the reading (and lessons, and prayers) of a week.Yesterday, one of the words was "Love."

Maximilian Kolbe tells us, "If you have the will to love, you already have given proof that you love. What counts is the will to love. External feeling is also a fruit of grace, but it does not always follow the will." (p. 96) Just the night before, I had caught up on a blog that someone I know has started. As many bloggers do, he had written a post about what his blogs will be about. Part of it struck me as profoundly true, so that when I read the above from Kolbe, I thought of connections in my own life.

Love can heal the broken world, but love is not a feeling. Love is an act of the will - choosing to "will the good" of everyone we encounter not because of what we can get out of it, or because it feels good or because we want them to treat us well. That is not, primarily, love at all. That's a form of selfishness... it is pride. (Mike Creavey, Willing the Good)

I pondered both of these passages. In fact, I was still pondering Mike's words when I started to read Kolbe's, so they kind of melted together in my mind. (Interestingly, this is not like anything I got out of the week we shared with Kolbe. The other two words to contemplate yesterday, Mystery and Militia, were the ones I "got." For me, they must have overshadowed his teachings on Love. I even just went back and skimmed the week, and I had marked nothing of the sort.)

What I have learned about Love in these weeks of soul-searching, and in the months of undirected soul searching I've been doing, is wrapped up neatly in these lines. And yet, without the discoveries I've made in my own self, about me, about my life, about my past and future, they would be just words, I think. They touched me so deeply precisely because I have been looking at the essence of Love myself. I've given Love a chance to heal me, and my broken world. At one time--for a long time, actually--I did think of love as an emotion, a feeling, something I possessed or expressed. It was not until I thought of Love as something solely to give that I began to understand its power, its sheer magnitude.

This is not to say that I was stingy with my love before. I was loving and giving, and wore my heart on my sleeve, and, because I can't help it, I always will, I'm sure. But I used to pay more attention to how that made me feel than I should have. Yes, I carefully noted how our boys were shaping up, thanks, in good part, to the love we showered them with (and expressed not only with hugs, kisses and kind words, but with curfews, limits, rules and groundings!), but, as Mike pointed out, a part of me was looking far into the future: how would this love come back to me when I am old and they are the caregivers?

If you follow me at all, you know that I have been striving to live in the moment. That does not mean that I run around like my son and his friends, doing silly things and shouting, "YOLO!" [YOLO -- You Only Live Once] It does mean that I try to do what's right for the sake of doing what's right, whether it's related to health, exercise, food, our kids, money, work, whatever. The future does not loom so frighteningly at my door now; I see it on the horizon in each sunrise, in the beauty of each new beginning.

How does this all relate to our retreat? I'm more open, more available, to the Love of Mary, her Son, and our Father than I have ever been before. Even with my frequent doubts and questions, I can move forward. Shoot, for me, the moving forward is probably because of my doubts and questions, since they drive me to learn, to grow, to be. As I typed these last words for this morning, the sun peeked over my shoulder, warming the back of my neck. I feel it is a symbol of agreement; a one-armed hug from above.

fears: pt. 3

Then there's my scariest fear: trucks on the highway. There's a possibility that came about when I was behind a truck that had a blowout. It causes him to fishtail all over the highway, with large pieces of rubber and a bunch of smoke everywhere. The thing is, I don't remember that scaring me a whole lot. I was driving the station wagon I had learned to drive in, and I was alone in the car--I even remember the landmarks around me, and that it was a beautiful, sunny day.

No, I think this fear started much later, and may even be related to the 'visions' I had associated with my (at the time undiagnosed) hypothyroidism. That would put the beginning somewhere in my early 20s, when I really started doing a lot of highway driving. For sure I can place it before I worked at a department store a half hour away, during the early bird shift. That's when I shared the fear with a friend I carpooled with occasionally, who then told me that truck drivers are probably the safest drivers on the road.

The really odd thing about this fear is how it come and goes. Truthfully, it hadn't bothered me for a while, even with the long summer commute I have, and the long trips I've been on, driving by myself. Then I saw a truck swerve a little, and straddle the line for about a mile, and it all came back: the panic I have to force down so I can concentrate on driving, and the white knuckle grip on the steering wheel. Ever since, I am back to "the big lean" to the center of the car when my husband passes a truck, and my own speeding up after four deep breaths when I have to pass. (It's less of a problem for me when they pass me. Weird and inconsistent, I know--that's how I know it's not all that rational!) And all the while, I can see the same vision behind what my eyes are seeing.....

What is this vision? Put simply, me being squashed by a semi on the highway. The vision has always varied slightly, I think based on what size car I am primarily driving. When it was mostly a mini-van I was driving, I see me and my car pancaked against the jersey barrier (which also makes me have the irritated thought that it is a "jersey barrier" not a "new jersey barrier." See? Not rational!), and the truck just driving away, not even noticing. When I drive a smaller car, or when I was driving a station wagon, as the truck moves over to change lanes, it either runs right over the car, or the car becomes wedged underneath for a few miles. Either way, in my mind's eye, I hear a screeching of metal and tires, and I end up gone. Perhaps the fact that I have never seen myself dead in these visions is a positive, but I do know that I come out of the vision "knowing" that's how I'm going to die.

One summer, I had a similar fear, but of crossing bridges. Dad and Mom had decided we would vacation in Vermont, and I remember hiding on the floor of the car when we crossed one long, high bridge. My sister and our friend, Nancy, were trying to coax me out to see the view, my mother was exasperated, and my father felt terrible that he couldn't do anything about it but continue driving. Somehow, I seem to recall it starting as a joke, and ending up being a real fear that summer. Not afterwards, though--just on that trip.

None of this keeps me off the road, though. In fact, I love driving and taking trips in the car. Driving to Florida this summer was a wonderful treat, and I'm looking forward to a trip to Savannah in the next couple of weeks. Being on the road offers a different kind of freedom, and I wouldn't trade it for anything. Trucks, you won't beat me! We'll just share the road.


But the moment you turn a corner you see another straight stretch ahead and there comes some further challenge to your ambition. 
                                                                                                ~Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.

dare: the truth

Affirmation of honesty and truth. The real kind, that makes you realize just how lucky you are to have someone in your life--yet again! That's what I've had every day lately. The kind that makes you want to chest bump, high five--no high TEN! The kind that makes you feel like the women's beach volleyball teams when they scored (or the Australians whenever they finished a volley!) and makes you want to sing from a rooftop.

Yes, yesterday was the best day yet, finishing off even better than it started, and today has been that much sweeter. Feeling sappy, am I? Why, yes, I am, and I won't ever apologize for it! I've been literally handed proof that my husband is my rock, my love, my joy. My life is rich for the sweet honesty we share, and the example we can set for our children.

Would I trade any of my experiences? Not a chance--anymore! Each one has made me, molded me, formed me, into the strong, healthy and happy woman I am. And each one has been mortar for the stepping stones of my future.

Is honesty easy? No way. Is it worth the difficulty? Absolutely! Am I more in love today than I was yesterday, last week, last year? Oh, I am, and I wouldn't have it any other way. I've added a new prayer to my growing list: a prayer of deep thanksgiving for the life we have together, and for how it can withstand life's storms.