sisters and me

As long as I can remember, I've been fascinated by Martha and Mary: their relationship with Jesus, their relationship with each other, and more recently, just what they represent. I've written about this on at least one other occasion, but recently I've found a new twist. For almost two years now, I've been really almost obsessed at times with the story. It's a short little ditty in Luke's gospel, and when I read it or hear it, I'm always surprised at the impact these verses (38-42) have on me. I've wondered off and on how Mary could just sit, and I've wondered about why Martha can't (or won't!) sit - or at the very least, take a break. I grew up in a family of putterers; Dad and Grampy were always monkeying with something or other, Mom was always busy with her stuff, Grammy kept her fingers moving with yarn and needles if she wasn't cooking or baking or playing cards. Gramma Katie, though, could sit from time to time. It's her Kitchen Prayer, now hanging in my kitchen, that began my interest in the women: "Although I must have Martha's hands, I have a Mary mind..." She could sit and contemplate a jigsaw puzzle for hours, or sit and watch TV with us, without a book or craft in her lap - just her folded hands. I've come to realize that's a discipline; that she displayed a certain living in the moment that I strive toward. I digress....

Jesus comes to visit and, as is the custom, Martha sets about getting food ready, making sure everyone has drinks and is comfortable, and generally hostessing. Her sister, Mary, on the other hand, far outside of customary behavior, makes herself at home with Jesus and all the menfolk he brought with him. Martha, ticked off because Mary is getting out of doing chores and leaving her high and dry, tells Jesus to do something about it. (By the way, I figure they must be really good friends, otherwise Martha probably wouldn't be quite that bold. Then again....) He refuses, saying, "Martha, Martha, you are anxious and worried about many things. There is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part and it will not be taken from her." (NAB-RE) And that's that. That's where the story ends. About a year and a half ago, I heard a homily on this gospel, and it really got me thinking about how difficult it is for me to be still, to sit and listen - without thinking about what time it is, what's for dinner, whether I or anyone else needs anything - so that began to be my prayer. At 3:00 or so every day, I would say, "Lord, I will sit at your feet." And I've begun to be able to. Sometimes in absolute silence. Other times, I know that I'm at the foot of the Cross. And there are times when I sit at his feet and we laugh at the stories he's telling. Or I cry. But at his feet, where Mary sat, has become a refuge for me; time to which I look forward with hope, with joy. In my time at his feet, though, there is no Martha to come along and complain.

I kinda like it that way.

As a semi-reformed Martha, I like to be removed from that lifestyle. I don't know quite how else to put it. I used to be one who did, did, did, wishing I could manage to sit, but not really wanting to. I always thought it was because I couldn't sit still, or because I was too busy/important/needed - or too grumpy! - to be still. I used to think if I didn't do something, anything, it just wouldn't get done, and I'd only have to do it later, so I might as well get crackin' now. Truth be told, I was afraid to be Mary, although I didn't know it; nor could I have understood why.

Tuesday morning, the story of these two ladies, remarkable enough for Luke to include them in his writing, was the optional gospel for the Memorial of St Scholastica. Already feeling a bit pushed around and out of sorts, I was at first irritated because I was trying to follow along, and the optional reading wasn't on the app. Then I was irritated because I (being, of course, the only person in the universe at that moment) was convinced that the celebrant had chosen to read it as a message directed at me. I quickly realized it was not he who had a message for me, but He who did, further irritating me. Here's the thing, Mary may have been on to something good, but the fact is, Martha was complaining about it, and loudly. In the middle of the homily I found myself thinking, Hold on a minute! Do you get what that Martha behavior does to a Mary?

I stayed after Mass for a while to argue it out with Jesus. I went home rather discombobulated and out of sorts, still frustrated that all the Mary-ing in the world doesn't change the fact that the Marthas will complain loudly and persistently, no matter what. And the kicker is: People listen to them. People listen to Martha. [Jesus didn't. He could let it fall to the side. Can you?] It doesn't matter who Martha is, people listen, and then they tend to join in. It's our nature. We had a really long discussion about this whole story and how it was relating to my life that day, that moment, and how bugged I was about all of it. Bugged that in all the time I was Martha-ing - doing - I was really just trying not to be noticed. Bugged that I had to hear yet again that being a Mary was the better thing, the higher road, something to strive for. Bugged that when I finally felt like I could Mary, like I could allow the stories and lessons, the words and the messages to reach me, Martha's words could cut me so deeply. Bugged that Luke's story doesn't include how Mary might have felt in that moment. We know how Martha felt! We even know how Jesus felt, to a certain extent.

In the middle of a rant about how unfair the Marthas are to the Marys, I was filled with laughter. Along with it came a sense of calm, peace, and clarity. 'Don't you remember when Lazarus died? What happened then?' In John 11, Martha and Mary's brother has died, and when Jesus finally gets there, four days later, Martha goes to meet him, and gives him a hard time about not being there when they needed him. John's writing softens the emotions, but in that moment of laughter, I realized that Martha would always be Martha. She would always have something to say about how something should be done - even if she didn't really mean what she was saying. I also realized that my experience with Marthas has greatly affected the level of trust I have in others. Suddenly these five verses in Luke are so much more, as well as my affinity for the story. My notebook now has Mary and Martha points alongside Elijah and some sparrows and the hair on my head. One day it may all make sense, but in the meantime, I'm grateful for the moments that clarity comes.

The Kitchen PrayerLord of all the pots and pans and things, since I've not time to be
A saint by doing lovely things or watching late with Thee
Or dreaming in the dawn light or storming Heaven's gates
Make me a saint by getting meals and washing up the plates.
Although I must have Martha's hands, I have a Mary mind
And when I black the boots and shoes Thy sandals, Lord, I find.
I think of how they trod the earth, what time I scrub the floor
Accept this meditation Lord, I haven't time for more.
Warm all the kitchen with Thy love, and light it with Thy peace
Forgive me all my worrying and make my grumbling cease.
Thou who didst love to give men food, in room or by the sea
Accept this service that I do, I do it unto Thee.
~Klara Munkres

page eighty-six

For over a year, I've been working on this book. While it came highly recommended, and I really do want to finish it, I honestly don't devote a whole heck of a lot of time to it. I'd like to, but it's the kind of book that takes digesting and pondering. On an average day in the past year, I can't quite devote enough focus to it. Frankly, for me discussion is likely necessary, too. Why else would 140 pages (including the index) take over a year to chew through? It's highlighted and underlined and bracketed, and I'm already looking forward to starting it again once I finish.
When I realized that my usual reading times were not going to work with this book, I began taking it with me to adoration. In that hour of time alone, with no distractions, I manage about 20-30 minutes lost in its pages. Once, I fell asleep reading it (yes, at adoration), and when I awoke with a start a few minutes later, the words had changed. I flipped the page forward and back thinking perhaps I'd lost my place, but I think the explanation is that I needed to hear something different from the words, and was put to sleep. (A story for another time, maybe.)
The title is The Divine Milieu, and the author a priest - a Jesuit - who died in 1955, by the name of Pierre Teilhard de Chardin. Two-thirds of the way through the book he says that we have finally gotten enough background to get to the point. I like to think Dad and I would have discussed him. And occasionally I think perhaps Dad tried to discuss Teilhard's work with me, but I was not where I needed to be.
At any rate, on Friday afternoon, with impeccable timing to fit my life, as God's timing always is, I read:

However vast the divine milieu may be, it is in reality a centre. It therefore has the properties of a centre...the absolute and final power to unite...all beings within its breast. In the divine milieu all the elements of the universe touch each other by that which is most inward and ultimate in them. There they concentrate...all that is purest and most attractive in them without loss and without danger of subsequent corruption....Let those seek refuge there who are saddened by the separations, the meannesses and the wastefulnesses of the world. In the external spheres of the world, man is always torn by the separations which set distance between bodies, which set the impossibility of mutual understanding between souls, which set death between lives....All that desolation is only on the surface. (p. 86)

Spoken directly to my heart that day. A series of frustrations had me feeling alone and lonely. I was already grateful for the scheduled visit to the chapel, but these words more than doubled that gratitude. Looking up, through tears, I asked what I should do next, how to get through the next few days. Clearly my heart heard, "Trust the Lord with all your heart." I smiled and said that I already do. [I often get to speak aloud, as most days no one else is there with us] Again, the same words, clear and direct. And then, "There are those who love you."
"All that desolation is only on the surface." As such, its not nearly as important as we make it out to be. Not nearly as impactful as we determine to allow it to be. The surface, you see, is nothing but a shell, a skin, maybe even a barrier to the real, the beautiful, the true. If you're looking for me, I'll be seeking refuge in the centre.

exactly four weeks

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

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

So there you have it -- I love February!

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

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

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

showing up

God shows up. He really does. For the past couple of months, I've been having an internal battle where it comes to my faith. Not constant, and not fierce, but there have been plenty of times when I've felt like I was going through the motions of work, prayer, love, life in general. Not knowing what to do, how to break out of that feeling (it scared me, quite frankly), I simply tried harder to pray. "Lord, what do I need to do now?" Actually, I asked kind of frantically, and often, but rarely when I had any time to sit and listen. Part of the problem was that I simply didn't feel like I had time to sit and listen, or sit and talk, or sit. At the same time, I was spending quite a bit of time goofing off on my smartphone; isolating myself with some intention of insulating myself. I would rather have been reading, studying, 'interfacing' with my husband, my friends, my kids.*

One day, feeling truly disconnected from not only God but myself, I sent a text to a dear and wonderful friend who lives just far enough away that I couldn't say, "Hey, can I come over?" but who is sweet enough to 'talk' when I need to. I took a chance, and told her what was going on. Poured my heart out (as much as one can in a couple short text messages) and waited for a response. And waited. And waited. Just after I sent a followup text saying something along the lines of realizing there was likely now no basis for our friendship, she got back to me. Someone had come to the door and she couldn't respond right away. Relief doesn't begin to describe what washed over me. We chatted a bit, and I felt better, not only because of what she had to say, but also because I reached out. Past where I wanted or intended to. And the response was love.

Last weekend, there was a gospel in which Jesus' family thought he was a little nuts. Sipping coffee Saturday morning, I read the words from Mark, laughed right out loud, and told God that I could relate. I still imagine his relatives and their actions and reactions. I figure it was likely those on Mary's side -- the same crowd that had trouble with Zechariah and Elizabeth naming their son (Jesus' cousin) John, since it wasn't a family name. I can see Elizabeth rolling her eyes at them, and turning to Mary, shaking her head, both women knowing that Jesus was going to do whatever he needed to do. None of this is based on anything but my imagination, but it helps to make the image real sometimes, familiar. I poured my heart out about my doubts, my fears, my dreams, my questions. It felt really good, but I also felt funny about it, like it was somehow inappropriate, out of line. I had surprised myself with my honesty, and didn't know what to do about it. So, I did what I do when I figure I might be about to get in trouble: I told a person, and then another person.

What I found in each case was that no one was shocked. None of these people said they thought I was crazy, or wrong, or anything I expected. And neither did God. In fact, since then, he has methodically responded to each of my doubts and fears, to each of my frustrations, gently showing me that he was listening and hearing my cries. And that he appreciated my honesty -- finally.

The two experiences are connected, and closely so. The first time, I had this great pause before a response, and in that time, which was a gift, I was able to really experience what it felt like to be vulnerable in my faith. Frankly, it was really uncomfortable! But in all that time, not once did I second guess my feelings. I wondered if it had been wise to share them via text message rather than face to face, but I knew, no matter what the outcome, I had told the truth about myself: who I was, where I was, where I wished and hoped I could be. And my friend's response came out of love, and full of love. Tender love. Last week, I knew not only that I was being honest, but that I really had to share, to open myself to my own community, to allow my friends to be a part of my journey. The reason for that may become even clearer, but I do know that it's related to my tendency to turn in. I also know it's related to making magic happen.

Last fall, I went to a training related to my job, and a presenter was talking about taking risks in order to get our point across in dealing with teens. He drew a simple Venn diagram with two circles -- one very small, labeled 'comfort zone,' and the other larger and completely separate, labeled 'where the magic happens.' I brought it home, used it a couple of times in meetings, and gave then gave it to my pastor, who added a couple of points. The whole diagram now shows exactly what this whole sharing of myself thing felt like -- feels like, because it's not meant to end anytime soon. With God's grace, I can face the fear associated with vulnerability: with people, yes, but more importantly, with God himself.

This morning, I wondered in my prayer about sharing that which God already knows about me. He knows my heart, so why do I really need to tell him what's scaring me, frustrating me, irking me? It didn't take long for me to realize that sharing it with Him, as aloud as my praying happens to be [which depends on how alone I am in the room....] puts me in a place of being honest with myself. That's something that is harder than I had previously thought. It finally occurred to me what a bit of dying to self means. For me, right now, it means letting go of my self-judgments and allowing for my mistakes, my questions, and even my demands to be truly mine, which doesn't mean that I expect any kind of response or resolution. On the contrary, it means I don't need to expect anything at all -- I can voice them, and let them hang in the air between me and God, and what happens with them, happens. I can move forward, through the place where I am afraid, to where the miracles happen. And they happen every day, if we look for them. If we just show up where we are meant to be.



*none of whom were being actively ignored -- they had their own activities out of the house, so I was alone in all this isolating time. Hold the bus: I can't honestly say that about my friends. I must confess that I was not even trying to connect with them.

rejoice for you

Life is a funny thing. A few years ago, I thought my life was the most important thing I had. I was convinced that living my life meant doing more, being more, seeing more. Then I found myself disappointed because there were too many constraints on my resources -- time and money, mostly -- to get out and do. Trying to convince myself that the free stuff would do, I would still get mired in the time part. Nothing could make it all make sense. Somewhere in that time, I did manage to have some sanity and finish my degree -- a time and money commitment that made sense for lots of reasons. Still, I thought there should be more for me to do and see. Time marching on made the whole time kind of frantic. The darktime of winter doesn't help.

At one time, there was no such thing. Growing up, I loved winter. I loved the sun and the moon on the snow. I loved the silence that snow brought to the air; the stillness that only came on a winter evening. The sparkle of individual snowflakes in the air and in a snowbank. True, I loved it all from a window most of the time, but fall and winter were my favorites. An outdoorsy girl I never was, and these were the inside seasons; more time indoors, and more time allowed to sit and read or daydream. The darktime crept in later, living on a busier street, young kids, and staying at home with them was the beginning, but ...

The other day I stopped to visit a friend at work. I see him often, but we rarely get to talk much. In fact, I really only get to talk with him when he's at work and I visit. It seems to be the only time no one else is around to interrupt. We talked shop a little, and then got to talking about some health problems another friend is having. He's often told me about praying for his friends, and how he wishes he could do more for them. As we talked, he said he often asks the Lord before closing his eyes for the night that it be the last time; that he might just be invited to be with Him. As tears sprung to my eyes, I looked at him and made a promise. "When that happens, I promise I will rejoice." I watched as tears welled up in his eyes, and continued, "I will be sad for me, but I promise that for you I will rejoice." And I meant it. I don't know anyone else I could say that to, and mean it as much as I do. He hugged me close, thanked me, and I headed home, grateful to have him as both a friend and an example of faith.

During that frantic time -- which sometimes tries to steal my peace -- I never could have said, or even thought, such a thing. During that frantic time, I was not looking for peace, as I thought I was. I was looking for fullness, for something to fill what was missing in my heart. What I've learned, slowly and late, is that when Augustine talked about the God-shaped hole in our hearts, he nailed it. It didn't matter how many places I went, or how much stuff I had or did, if I couldn't share it with Someone who was right beside me the entire time, there was no point. My friend has shown me that in small things that he does, that he says, in the way he sees each person he talks to as the only person in the world in that brief moment. There will be a day when I miss him, the touch of his hand at Mass in the morning, his smile crinkling his eyes to slits, but in the meantime, I will continue to pray for him. He reminds me of Dad; his arms always open for a hug when I need one, and his attention focused when he questions me.

My birthday is next week; another reason I loved winter. February is nice for a lot of reasons: it's a short month, it's full of birthdays (me, Dad, Uncle Flash, Washington, Lincoln, just to name a few), and it's pretty quiet, other than a groundhog frenzy at the beginning and hearts and flowers in the middle. When Dad died in February a few years ago, I thought that affinity was going to be gone. There are times when there is still a sharp pain in my very being when I think of him, and I have to admit, he's the first one I thought of as I left my friend's shop. but I'm beginning to find joy even in that pain. My heart has him to miss, and that's a great gift. I've been able to picture him welcoming so many others to heaven. And I've begun to learn to let him go so that I can become the woman I am.

There are people who come into our lives, and we learn from them, we lean on them, we grow because of them. I blessed to have so many.

growing closer

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

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

albatross or sparrow

Sometimes there are things that just don't matter. And sometimes there are things that really matter a great deal. And sometimes it's hard to tell where the line is. And then there are the times when one wonders how to tell when crossing that line, or even traveling close to it, is more important than any promises made.
What's particularly difficult is when the persons who might normally have been the obvious choices for hashing out the answers are integral parts of the question.
And then there's the unfortunate fact of 'timing.'
Here I am, working at balancing responsibilities, growing in faith and love, and changing the way I look at myself (all quite related), and suddenly finding myself trying to decide if this is an albatross or a sparrow on my shoulder. Frankly, I'm a little afraid to look, and as a result, in not knowing, the albatross wins. The question is, what to do? The subsequent question (and at least as important) is, does it really need to be recognized? Part of me figures that for my own peace of mind, yes, and look it in the eye. Another part of me says that it'll fly the coop on its own if I just let it go. But my heart wonders if I can count on that - or if facing it is worth whatever the price may be.
Lord, how I need you.