I've started two entries but never enough time to finish. These words I want to keep though, even if I can't finish the idea.
The lost key chain was found!
The shepherd rejoices!
The prophesy has been fulfilled!
Don't know how to write this...but then I never do. I prayed with a woman in the dark. Yesterday she sat in the light, but she has returned to the dark. She doesn't want Holy Communion, she doesn't even want to pray. Another woman tried to get back in bed and it takes all of her strength to do a very small task. I look at her eyes and face and think, "she has the face of my mother." How glad I would be to have my mother, sitting there, in that same suffering, rather than having to accept the fact that she died 25 years ago. I would gladly take her in any form at all, rather than having to let her go.
Nothing can truly describe that week properly. Almost a week has passed and I can report only that it seems good news is forthcoming for at least one of the saints I visited. How much I wish I could tell you about all of them, but perhaps that would be only interesting to me.
It seems as I continue this journey, I truly do see Jesus in every single person I meet. That doesn't completely discourage the weakness of my character in making judgments now and then. Far from perfect, but getting better at loving every day.
That week was so spiritually exhausting, I didn't even notice it until I decided to make blackeyed peas in my crock pot. Something about cooking slows me down.
I have this photo of a nun in the closet of what used to be my son's room. I keep all of my ministry files and a ton of other 'work' in that closet and as I turn to leave, I look up to see a magazine photo of a nun standing over a wood table chopping vegetables. She is in her habit complete with white apron and wearing what looks like Birkenstocks. This profile photo with the light from the window in the distance creating a kind of glow around here makes me feel safe and comfortable. I envy her. I envy the simplicity of her life. I envy her ability to choose to do the right thing, the best thing.
And then I remember what article the photo was placed with. This convent is on the land in Krakow, I think. It is the site of a Nazi concentration camp. The article is about how the Jewish population was having trouble with a cross placed on the property. I believe the nuns took it down because they realized the pain it caused.
I would have to go back and look to be sure. The photo of the nun just seems to fit my soul.
On the flip side of that photo is another article: about womenpriests in Washington state. A friend gave it to me and told me to think about it. This week, another friend gave me an article from the Dallas Morning News about womenpriests in Chicago. When I read it, a strong unidentifiable feeling came over me.
I choose to not allow politics interfere with the work I am supposed to do anymore. I leave it to God. I accept my feelings, which will rise and fall over the days, about what I can and cannot do for the church. I choose to not let my feelings on this matter interfere with my work. Besides, if it is pride or power that pulls on my heart to "stand up" for what I think is "right," well, then I would prefer to fail. Any changes that can or should be made must be done by God's grace alone.
I have a belief that soon we will become people of God in some new and marvelous way. I believe a great new connection will be created for all of us, one that people can hear and see and feel and desire to respond to in a new way. We are being primed for "the next thing."
But what that next thing is, I haven't a clue. Or rather, I do not trust my imagination. Signs seem to point to a rebirth of personal faith and a new understanding of God that transcends our desires to 'use' God as a means to an end. Perhaps the age of magic will end. The desire to manipulate God will end. But devotion will become more pure, more 'real' and thus, bring us to new understandings of how to love each other well.
Just a thought.
The simple gift is love. Receive it. Give it away. No price. Priceless. It is the core of what we should understand of what it means to be truly human. It is grace that is manifested through our connection to each other. It builds us and mends us.
I had the gift of speaking to not one but two priests this week. Their gifts to me offered both clarity and risk. And they listened...to my heart which is constantly spinning out ideas and observations of how and when and where I see God. They don't laugh at the things I think are outrageous. They encourage me to pray even more. They can see through my worries and wash out any darkness that tries to make a home in me.
Perhaps not so simple a gift, but we can all learn to listen to each other as priests do...we just have to be willing to try.
Be aware of what is in front of you. Speak to it. Receive it. Bless it. And when the time is right, let it go.
Must close now. Love one another.
Love,
Cindy
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Cooling Down
Women are so different from men. I think it would be very foolish to say we are alike and I'm not exactly sure about the word "equal" at all. "Equal under the Law" perhaps, "to be valued as highly" perhaps...but we are just not the same. For some mysterious reason, I prefer the company of men for conversation especially. Okay, some men. I am a thinker and I like to be surrounded by thinkers. Most thinkers seem to be men...or perhaps men are encouraged to think. It was clear in the 60s that boys were encouraged to do well in math, and girls were supposed to take home economics. One of my first deliberate moves to change the status quo was to take Electronics in the vocational building. Tell me I can't do something and just watch me. I grew up watching the stats for the Viet Nam war every night. Don't tell me war is a good thing. Don't tell me killing is okay. I used to think everyone had the 'right' to an abortion if she wanted it. And I think I still do, because we live in a world that does not value life: war, famine, selfishness, greed, hoarding...and only the ones who can afford it get health care.
But abortion is personal. Men in a field who shoot a gun don't see the faces of the people they kill, they don't really feel any loss of life deep within them. They aren't ever really certain that their personal bullet snuffed out the life of another human being, that a child might starve because a father is dead, or that child will grow up to hate because his father was killed, or that part of your own soul gets eaten away each time you do violence, "in the name of God."
Abortion is personal. A man suffers almost nothing for his few moments of pleasure but a woman must live with the results of his desire...and hers. I've yet to meet a woman who had an abortion who does not experience the pain of that choice every single day. It's personal. Not good enough to have a child. Not worth my time. The father won't help. My parents will kill me.
Too many times, I have heard from a woman my age whose mother told her to kill her own child, her granddaughter. I don't want to deal with it, you don't want to deal with it...so just flush the problem down the toilet and forget about it.
It just doesn't happen that way.
You can go to confession about it. That is, if you can swallow enough pride to admit you killed a life. You know it is your heart, but owning it is another thing entirely. Owning it enough to deal with it...ah, well, that takes grace.
But the confession, if you are a person that believes in confession, is only the first step. It is really hard. But the next step is harder. (I may have written about this before)
You have to forgive yourself. The canned answer to that problem is "If God has forgiven you, then do you think you are better than God?" Sometimes that will shame a person into forgiving herself, but generally that is only a bandaid on the wound.
You have to forgive yourself. Oh my, how hard that is to do!
We look out into the abyss and see the gates of heaven in the distance and there is no trail, no worn path, no light...but there is paradise, out there...and to get there you have to take a step into great darkness, thinking you are going alone and that death is immanent(?). "For it is in dying that we enter into eternal life."
Forgive yourself. I suppose I write about it because I have had such a hard time forgiving myself for so many sins, little ones and big ones. That grace thing is so hard to accept. It means I was/am not in control and I need help. Damn...what a place to be in!
In the midst of trouble, we rely on our own strength until we can no longer rely on our own strength. And then we either surrender to the dark forces that torment us or we give it over to God. Hell of a place to be.
So the abortion thing. I had to make that choice one and I chose life. I was lucky. I easily could have chosen something else. I wonder sometimes, if I had known I was adopted at that point in my life, if it would have been easy to kill Beth. (And yes, I'm calling her Beth on purpose...she was not just a mass of cells coming together) Who knows? What I am certain of is that I will never have the right to judge another woman for her choice. What I can do, it walk with her to the path that leads to healing. That's is, if she chooses me for that job.
I have my own dark places. One big one, one that I did not know was a big one, was "the shooting." In a very dramatic way, my actions caused pain and suffering to someone else. To many 'someone elses.' And I really never got over it until I heard Mary Lou's voice. I did run into another girl from that day, while teaching at CCCC. I saw in her face, as she made the connecting, a kind of recoiling from the memory...and instantly the pain was real again for me as well. How do you forgive yourself for such things?
Let me be clear, some people don't have any issues with guilt. God bless them! But for those that do, I continue to write. Things that have happened over this last week point me to writing about it.
How far is it to heaven? It is both within our next breath and as far away as the next universe. It depends entirely on us. We cannot achieve heaven on our own merit. But our free will allows us to say yes or no to the graces offered to us.
***********
After the shooting, and the little girl was released from the hospital, my mother handed me a cloth Snoopy overnight bag and told me to take it to her. Eight years old, I walked about six blocks to the apt. complex where she lived, where a lot of families of Viet Nam soldiers lived while their husbands were overseas. I knocked on the door and her mother answered. "May I see ??? (I do not recall her name)" The answer was abrupt, "She sleeping." (or something like that). She took the bag and I walked home, staring down at the aspalt on the street.
I can't undo this one. I must be evil. Being pulled out of Catholic School was proof enough. Not even good enough for Catholic school. And the girls whispered about me. Something wrong with her. Don't ask.
So I decided to be the smartest person on the planet. I was going to replace all those dark thoughts with statistics about astronomy. I had memorized our solar system. I looked up into the stars, thinking "I am going to understand them. I am going to find a place to go where darkness of the soul finds light again." I knew it was up in heaven somewhere.
God took my darkness and made it light. God cleaned my robe for me. God gave me the strength to forgive myself. And then he told me, "Go and do likewise."
More than once in this week, I have companioned saints as they ask those questions no one ever wants to ask.
Be aware and listen. There may be a hand reaching out to you. Take it. It's your gift.
Love,
Cindy
But abortion is personal. Men in a field who shoot a gun don't see the faces of the people they kill, they don't really feel any loss of life deep within them. They aren't ever really certain that their personal bullet snuffed out the life of another human being, that a child might starve because a father is dead, or that child will grow up to hate because his father was killed, or that part of your own soul gets eaten away each time you do violence, "in the name of God."
Abortion is personal. A man suffers almost nothing for his few moments of pleasure but a woman must live with the results of his desire...and hers. I've yet to meet a woman who had an abortion who does not experience the pain of that choice every single day. It's personal. Not good enough to have a child. Not worth my time. The father won't help. My parents will kill me.
Too many times, I have heard from a woman my age whose mother told her to kill her own child, her granddaughter. I don't want to deal with it, you don't want to deal with it...so just flush the problem down the toilet and forget about it.
It just doesn't happen that way.
You can go to confession about it. That is, if you can swallow enough pride to admit you killed a life. You know it is your heart, but owning it is another thing entirely. Owning it enough to deal with it...ah, well, that takes grace.
But the confession, if you are a person that believes in confession, is only the first step. It is really hard. But the next step is harder. (I may have written about this before)
You have to forgive yourself. The canned answer to that problem is "If God has forgiven you, then do you think you are better than God?" Sometimes that will shame a person into forgiving herself, but generally that is only a bandaid on the wound.
You have to forgive yourself. Oh my, how hard that is to do!
We look out into the abyss and see the gates of heaven in the distance and there is no trail, no worn path, no light...but there is paradise, out there...and to get there you have to take a step into great darkness, thinking you are going alone and that death is immanent(?). "For it is in dying that we enter into eternal life."
Forgive yourself. I suppose I write about it because I have had such a hard time forgiving myself for so many sins, little ones and big ones. That grace thing is so hard to accept. It means I was/am not in control and I need help. Damn...what a place to be in!
In the midst of trouble, we rely on our own strength until we can no longer rely on our own strength. And then we either surrender to the dark forces that torment us or we give it over to God. Hell of a place to be.
So the abortion thing. I had to make that choice one and I chose life. I was lucky. I easily could have chosen something else. I wonder sometimes, if I had known I was adopted at that point in my life, if it would have been easy to kill Beth. (And yes, I'm calling her Beth on purpose...she was not just a mass of cells coming together) Who knows? What I am certain of is that I will never have the right to judge another woman for her choice. What I can do, it walk with her to the path that leads to healing. That's is, if she chooses me for that job.
I have my own dark places. One big one, one that I did not know was a big one, was "the shooting." In a very dramatic way, my actions caused pain and suffering to someone else. To many 'someone elses.' And I really never got over it until I heard Mary Lou's voice. I did run into another girl from that day, while teaching at CCCC. I saw in her face, as she made the connecting, a kind of recoiling from the memory...and instantly the pain was real again for me as well. How do you forgive yourself for such things?
Let me be clear, some people don't have any issues with guilt. God bless them! But for those that do, I continue to write. Things that have happened over this last week point me to writing about it.
How far is it to heaven? It is both within our next breath and as far away as the next universe. It depends entirely on us. We cannot achieve heaven on our own merit. But our free will allows us to say yes or no to the graces offered to us.
***********
After the shooting, and the little girl was released from the hospital, my mother handed me a cloth Snoopy overnight bag and told me to take it to her. Eight years old, I walked about six blocks to the apt. complex where she lived, where a lot of families of Viet Nam soldiers lived while their husbands were overseas. I knocked on the door and her mother answered. "May I see ??? (I do not recall her name)" The answer was abrupt, "She sleeping." (or something like that). She took the bag and I walked home, staring down at the aspalt on the street.
I can't undo this one. I must be evil. Being pulled out of Catholic School was proof enough. Not even good enough for Catholic school. And the girls whispered about me. Something wrong with her. Don't ask.
So I decided to be the smartest person on the planet. I was going to replace all those dark thoughts with statistics about astronomy. I had memorized our solar system. I looked up into the stars, thinking "I am going to understand them. I am going to find a place to go where darkness of the soul finds light again." I knew it was up in heaven somewhere.
God took my darkness and made it light. God cleaned my robe for me. God gave me the strength to forgive myself. And then he told me, "Go and do likewise."
More than once in this week, I have companioned saints as they ask those questions no one ever wants to ask.
Be aware and listen. There may be a hand reaching out to you. Take it. It's your gift.
Love,
Cindy
Monday, January 18, 2010
Out of the Fire
I am having trouble finishing this one up, but I have a few people who need more information, so here is the beginning of the conclusion.
I'm trying to remember where I ended. I think I was still writing about sweet Mary Lou Hunt.
The day before I was to go on my Walk to Emmaus, my phone rang. It was Mary Lou. As soon as I heard her voice, I knew: She had forgiven me. It was a non-issue to her. And the heavy weight I felt on my back was lifted off.
So Mary Lou forgave me. We laughed a bit and then I went off on a retreat. It was like getting hit right between the eyes with love and then another couple of slams over the next four days. I must have cried off four pounds.
What I took a LONG time to write is that, as we encounter our sins and failures, while they are important to our spiritual health, they are often not as bad as we make them out to be. Once we know in our hearts we let God down, it weighs heavy on us. "My sin is ever before me." And we think the world is just going to end if we say it out loud, or confess it to a priest...or whomever you trust.
It is a scary narrow path to walk when you decide to tell the truth. How many words did I write just to get the idea down? How many were actually needed?
Answer: you write or speak as many as you need to get the job done. I've paid a lot of money to therapists to get me out of hell. (OK my ex-husband will tell you that HE paid for a lot of therapists) But they all helped me with understanding life. I never got out of hell, though. I just really understood that's where I was.
Confession got me out of hell. They call it "Reconciliation" now. But the important part for me was the confession. I had to say it, tell it and then pray like hell that it was the right thing to do. I cannot remember when over the last ten years, I was literally driven to church to do something I did not want to do.
It was a kind of dying. Over the weeks, I had been forced to see my life in a new light. I was suddenly aware that things that I thought we okay were not okay. I mean, I explained them away. I was innocent, I was stupid, I was ignorant. But I still did them. And they needed God's grace.
Returning to the original premise I set out to write about, the company of women. I feel a true call to face my thoughts about it. And so it ends up here on a blog. Writing the annulment papers, I realized how wonderful my male friends were to me and how I had very few female attachments.
Working on this ACTS retreat, which is 'inside, outside and upside down' about women, I feel called to connect with Mary, Mother of God, and to these women. I need to learn this, and to love it.
I'll have to finish this later.
God bless you for coming along for the ride.
Love,
Cindy
I'm trying to remember where I ended. I think I was still writing about sweet Mary Lou Hunt.
The day before I was to go on my Walk to Emmaus, my phone rang. It was Mary Lou. As soon as I heard her voice, I knew: She had forgiven me. It was a non-issue to her. And the heavy weight I felt on my back was lifted off.
So Mary Lou forgave me. We laughed a bit and then I went off on a retreat. It was like getting hit right between the eyes with love and then another couple of slams over the next four days. I must have cried off four pounds.
What I took a LONG time to write is that, as we encounter our sins and failures, while they are important to our spiritual health, they are often not as bad as we make them out to be. Once we know in our hearts we let God down, it weighs heavy on us. "My sin is ever before me." And we think the world is just going to end if we say it out loud, or confess it to a priest...or whomever you trust.
It is a scary narrow path to walk when you decide to tell the truth. How many words did I write just to get the idea down? How many were actually needed?
Answer: you write or speak as many as you need to get the job done. I've paid a lot of money to therapists to get me out of hell. (OK my ex-husband will tell you that HE paid for a lot of therapists) But they all helped me with understanding life. I never got out of hell, though. I just really understood that's where I was.
Confession got me out of hell. They call it "Reconciliation" now. But the important part for me was the confession. I had to say it, tell it and then pray like hell that it was the right thing to do. I cannot remember when over the last ten years, I was literally driven to church to do something I did not want to do.
It was a kind of dying. Over the weeks, I had been forced to see my life in a new light. I was suddenly aware that things that I thought we okay were not okay. I mean, I explained them away. I was innocent, I was stupid, I was ignorant. But I still did them. And they needed God's grace.
Returning to the original premise I set out to write about, the company of women. I feel a true call to face my thoughts about it. And so it ends up here on a blog. Writing the annulment papers, I realized how wonderful my male friends were to me and how I had very few female attachments.
Working on this ACTS retreat, which is 'inside, outside and upside down' about women, I feel called to connect with Mary, Mother of God, and to these women. I need to learn this, and to love it.
I'll have to finish this later.
God bless you for coming along for the ride.
Love,
Cindy
Friday, January 15, 2010
In the Fire
I've been trying for days to write this one down. Some things are very hard to do. Like finishing the paperwork for my annulment. Divorced nearly 14 years ago, but the annulment I thought I could ignore. I figured if I fell in love again, I would consider it. (The truth is that I have fallen in love again...with God, and giggle if you wish, but you try and it and see what it does to you...you'll giggle for a different reason then) But this annulment is a bit like those sins that are so old, you decide in your heart that God doesn't remember them...I mean the ones you didn't confess way back then because, well, you had such a good reason for doing what you did.
A good reason doesn't take away the guilt. Rationalizing that it doesn't matter anymore doesn't relieve us of the responsibility to 'fess up' to God about it. And as one who is working on dumping my own sins as God reveals them to me, I can tell you it feels great to hand them over and get on with living.
I have a bumper sticker on my freezer in the garage: "The Secret of Life is to Live it." Every time I pull into the garage, I see it. For too long a time, I was nothing more that the walking dead. I was asleep. I was going through the motions.I pretended to live. But "my sin was ever before me...for day and night your hand lay heavy upon me and my strength was dried up..." I always go back to that scripture verse. God really wants me as His own. No joke. And He is determined to "clean me up" so that I will not be afraid in His presence. Yes, I stand before Him sinful and sorrowful...but I also stand before Him with dancing for joy because the dark world I understood as the real thing is just an illusion, trying to drag us down...for the real world is light and joy and living in His Presence. Now I live, because Christ lives in me.
So here is what it is like to give it over to God (for me anyway):
Yesterday morning, before Mass, I did a 'drop open' the Bible for a prayer and it opened to Daniel 3: 51-90. The boys have been put into the furnace because they would not worship the golden statue Nebuchadnezzar set up.
This is a beautiful prayer. It asks the entire creation to "praise and glorify [the Lord] forever." Really quite beautiful. I don't recall reading it before, since I lost my original NJB Bible, I no longer have a history to refer to. I date my Bibles as I read them and comment shortly about how I felt. I write about everything.
It is one way for me to stay grounded. The curse of the only child, or the blessing. No one to talk to about stuff, so I write it down. Or I talk to God.
Oh, how I could write stories about how I talk to God, with God...and God talks with me. Sometimes I feel a bit like Emily Dickinson, who was pretty much of a recluse. Had she been in this century, I'm certain she would be on the computer, writing in the dark to no one in particular.
When I am in the company of women, I always feel challenged. I feel alone, I feel more different than when I am alone. I love these women and as I have gotten older, I have learned to love them better. It has been a long road. I both envy and cherish the closeness they seem to portray with each other as they gather together. I am participant and observer. Still consciously reaching out to them. I look forward to the day when my reaching out will be unconscious.
You see what I tend to remember is "mean girls." Not the early ones of Catholic school, although I always felt they all had the better lives: they had oodles of brothers and sisters and I was an only child. I was a bit jealous. OK I was a lot jealous. And I remember Molly Collins had a brother (or was is a cousin?) who was a priest. She was always very proud of that fact. Holier than the rest of us by association. It was hard for me to deal.
Things just looked better everywhere else. When you are a kid, when I was a kid, I longed to get back to school, where my teachers really cared about me. I suppose I looked pretty lost and lonely, being too smart (I had not learned yet how to play stupid so that I could make friends)and not really having anyone to lean on.
The nuns always said, "Turn the other cheek." So when I was hit by a girl friend, I turned and let her slug me on the other side. My mother tells me my legs were always black and blue. I remember thinking, really thinking, "better for her to hit me than someone else who couldn't take it." What a martyr I was! I just saw other people's anger as a lostness and pain, they didn't care who they hit, just as long as they got to hit something or someone. I could take it. I was strong.
Then, of course, there was the shooting.
I started reviewing my posts to see if I wrote about this one yet. I can't find it. I'm thinking I've written is many times, but always deleted it. But it's part of my journey. And it has never left my mind. So here goes.
You may not want to read beyond here. That's fine. I'm not certain I want to write it either. To walk in the light of the Lord, we have to give it all away. My apologies to the people I love. And if it is elsewhere, then maybe it had to be written again today. I don't know. God's in charge. And the truth is, while this event was tragic for me, I know for a fact that others have endured much greater challenges and done well. John 16:33 says no matter what, God wins. We must believe that with every cell in our bodies.
If this is a repeat, forgive me.
So maybe I was 8 or 9. I think 8. Some memories are hard to find. My dad bought a pellet rifle to shoot the squirrels that were eating his precious pecans. I think Col. Murphey talked him into it. That's a different story. But Dad had the gun, and as much as he may have loved me, he really wanted a son, I think and raised me like one. He decided to teach me how to shoot. And I was very proud of that. I had one lesson. He taught me how to pump it, how to shoot and how to put on the safety. So when the 30 or so Girl Scouts arrived at the house that Saturday morning, and the gun was on the back porch, I couldn't wait to show it to them. Me, who wouldn't even aim at a squirrel, was very excited to know this kind of power.
I recall taking the gun in my hands, keeping it low, and then flipping the safety. Just to make certain that I did it correctly, I pulled the trigger. Then I heard the screams. I shot one of the girls in the thigh. It hit an artery. There was so much blood. (And that is why this story came to my mind, when Bobby was first on the scene of that accident, he said, "There was so much blood")
Our bodies are filled with blood, the stuff that makes all the parts work. It is the connection between everything inside us. It carries in food and takes away waste. It is sacred. No wonder the Jews did not want to drink it. It was the essence of life. That belonged to God alone.
This event is like a news clip for me. I don't have any fluid memory of it, only parts of it. I traumatized not just one little girl, but about 30. I was eight years old. There is no way my brain could even begin to get around what happened. I didn't even know it 'mattered' so much (because no one ever talked with me about it, asked how I felt, told me anything) until I was 33. That was the time when I began to 'wake up.'
The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off. (That was on the wall at Children's Hospital where I was chaplain)
So I began to make my way through that pain finally. My therapist, who I think had dismissed me as just one more unhappy married woman, became very still when I off-handedly said something like "I can't believe Bob {my ex-husband] told my children about the shooting." (That was an event I never wanted them to know, I was furious with Bob for exposing it) She just got very still and began to listen to me with very different ears. I didn't know I needed healing. I was ignored when it happened
An old friend interrupted my train of thought at that point yesterday, told me her truth and asked for prayer. That was really nice, really sacred to me. And I looked at the time and knew I needed to be at the nursing home for a Mass. Turns out I got there much too early.
But I met Mary in the hall. We had become friends over the year, a little bit. I leaned down to her and she stared at my crucifix around my neck. Her hand reached out and so I knelt on one knee, by her wheelchair. She took the crucifix in her hand and pulled me close and she kissed the crucifix. She looked into my eyes and said so quietly, "It's beautiful." and I said, "Yes it is," and she kissed it again. I felt completely slain by her action. Somehow, we do good for each other when we bend into each other and just hold a hand. I felt emmersed in grace and it brought me down again...and picked me up again.
To return to the story, I didn't know how much I had been hurt by what happened during that Girl Scout meeting. All I could see was that I shot someone by accident, but the gun didn't 'just go off' like people say. I pulled the trigger. I knew that in my heart. It took some counseling to remember that I pulled the trigger to make certain the safety was on. Knowing that helped the pain. But I still shot a little girl. I don't remember her name. The event was so intense, I still don't have all the details. I am certain that when I meet God, He will help me understand things I cannot understand now.
There are many paths to turn on from here, but today, I'll opt for the forgiveness one. I was about 33 when I began to tell this truth, and I was really angry with my ex-husband for telling my daughter about it. She didn't need to know. (But I thought about the Joan of Arcadia episode, when Joan's mother finally tells Joan about being raped...the event had colored their relationship and Joan didn't understand why her mother was being so protective and cautious. She had to tell her daughter so they both could understand and love again) Beth and I have never talked about it. I supposed we should. But not today.
So I'm 'fessing up' to my therapist and I realize I didn't just hurt one little girl, I hurt 30 little girls. Everyone who witnessed what happened was as traumatized as I was. I knew in my heart I needed to pray hard for God to heal their hearts of that tragedy. I didn't dare ask God to help them forgive me yet. That was just too hard still.
So years later, I go through my first union with Christ, I have a vision, I hear distinct messages from God (no, I will not explain yet), things start falling into their places and I begin to very hard for these women to forgive me. Two weeks before I go on my Walk to Emmaus (1997), I see in the paper a huge picture of a woman, sitting on a bench, head bent over. I keep staring at her. It was one of those 'shadow pics' very dramatic. Something about her is important. And then I look at the caption. "Mary Lou Hunt rests from her missionary work in Bosnia." or something like that. Mary Lou Hunt. She was one of my 'Star Trek' gang. I was Kirk, she was McCoy. She was also at my house during the shooting.
I called the Dallas Morning News and told gave them my information and told them to give it to her. She was my childhood friend. The next week, the day before I was to go on the retreat that took my breath away and send me off to seminary, I got a phone call from Mary Lou. As soon as she said hello, I knew from her voice she had forgiven me for what I had done.
Mary Lou was in Bosnia as a missionary. She was supposed to meet a group of people for coffee and was too tired to go. She stayed home. The coffee shop was bombed and many of her friends were killed. From the survivors, she created a wheelchair basketball team that was building up the spirits of the people who witnessed the tragedy. So it made the Dallas paper.
I remember Mary Ann always as pushing her mother's wheelchair. I remember how kind and loving her mother was. I remember how they just "got on" with life and never batted an eye at their troubles. I don't know when Mary Lou's father died. But it was before we were in school together.
I know how long this is, and the story is only half told. I pray that I have been a benefit to someone on their own path.
The only unforgivable sin is the one for which we do not ask for forgiveness.
Love,
Cindy
A good reason doesn't take away the guilt. Rationalizing that it doesn't matter anymore doesn't relieve us of the responsibility to 'fess up' to God about it. And as one who is working on dumping my own sins as God reveals them to me, I can tell you it feels great to hand them over and get on with living.
I have a bumper sticker on my freezer in the garage: "The Secret of Life is to Live it." Every time I pull into the garage, I see it. For too long a time, I was nothing more that the walking dead. I was asleep. I was going through the motions.I pretended to live. But "my sin was ever before me...for day and night your hand lay heavy upon me and my strength was dried up..." I always go back to that scripture verse. God really wants me as His own. No joke. And He is determined to "clean me up" so that I will not be afraid in His presence. Yes, I stand before Him sinful and sorrowful...but I also stand before Him with dancing for joy because the dark world I understood as the real thing is just an illusion, trying to drag us down...for the real world is light and joy and living in His Presence. Now I live, because Christ lives in me.
So here is what it is like to give it over to God (for me anyway):
Yesterday morning, before Mass, I did a 'drop open' the Bible for a prayer and it opened to Daniel 3: 51-90. The boys have been put into the furnace because they would not worship the golden statue Nebuchadnezzar set up.
This is a beautiful prayer. It asks the entire creation to "praise and glorify [the Lord] forever." Really quite beautiful. I don't recall reading it before, since I lost my original NJB Bible, I no longer have a history to refer to. I date my Bibles as I read them and comment shortly about how I felt. I write about everything.
It is one way for me to stay grounded. The curse of the only child, or the blessing. No one to talk to about stuff, so I write it down. Or I talk to God.
Oh, how I could write stories about how I talk to God, with God...and God talks with me. Sometimes I feel a bit like Emily Dickinson, who was pretty much of a recluse. Had she been in this century, I'm certain she would be on the computer, writing in the dark to no one in particular.
When I am in the company of women, I always feel challenged. I feel alone, I feel more different than when I am alone. I love these women and as I have gotten older, I have learned to love them better. It has been a long road. I both envy and cherish the closeness they seem to portray with each other as they gather together. I am participant and observer. Still consciously reaching out to them. I look forward to the day when my reaching out will be unconscious.
You see what I tend to remember is "mean girls." Not the early ones of Catholic school, although I always felt they all had the better lives: they had oodles of brothers and sisters and I was an only child. I was a bit jealous. OK I was a lot jealous. And I remember Molly Collins had a brother (or was is a cousin?) who was a priest. She was always very proud of that fact. Holier than the rest of us by association. It was hard for me to deal.
Things just looked better everywhere else. When you are a kid, when I was a kid, I longed to get back to school, where my teachers really cared about me. I suppose I looked pretty lost and lonely, being too smart (I had not learned yet how to play stupid so that I could make friends)and not really having anyone to lean on.
The nuns always said, "Turn the other cheek." So when I was hit by a girl friend, I turned and let her slug me on the other side. My mother tells me my legs were always black and blue. I remember thinking, really thinking, "better for her to hit me than someone else who couldn't take it." What a martyr I was! I just saw other people's anger as a lostness and pain, they didn't care who they hit, just as long as they got to hit something or someone. I could take it. I was strong.
Then, of course, there was the shooting.
I started reviewing my posts to see if I wrote about this one yet. I can't find it. I'm thinking I've written is many times, but always deleted it. But it's part of my journey. And it has never left my mind. So here goes.
You may not want to read beyond here. That's fine. I'm not certain I want to write it either. To walk in the light of the Lord, we have to give it all away. My apologies to the people I love. And if it is elsewhere, then maybe it had to be written again today. I don't know. God's in charge. And the truth is, while this event was tragic for me, I know for a fact that others have endured much greater challenges and done well. John 16:33 says no matter what, God wins. We must believe that with every cell in our bodies.
If this is a repeat, forgive me.
So maybe I was 8 or 9. I think 8. Some memories are hard to find. My dad bought a pellet rifle to shoot the squirrels that were eating his precious pecans. I think Col. Murphey talked him into it. That's a different story. But Dad had the gun, and as much as he may have loved me, he really wanted a son, I think and raised me like one. He decided to teach me how to shoot. And I was very proud of that. I had one lesson. He taught me how to pump it, how to shoot and how to put on the safety. So when the 30 or so Girl Scouts arrived at the house that Saturday morning, and the gun was on the back porch, I couldn't wait to show it to them. Me, who wouldn't even aim at a squirrel, was very excited to know this kind of power.
I recall taking the gun in my hands, keeping it low, and then flipping the safety. Just to make certain that I did it correctly, I pulled the trigger. Then I heard the screams. I shot one of the girls in the thigh. It hit an artery. There was so much blood. (And that is why this story came to my mind, when Bobby was first on the scene of that accident, he said, "There was so much blood")
Our bodies are filled with blood, the stuff that makes all the parts work. It is the connection between everything inside us. It carries in food and takes away waste. It is sacred. No wonder the Jews did not want to drink it. It was the essence of life. That belonged to God alone.
This event is like a news clip for me. I don't have any fluid memory of it, only parts of it. I traumatized not just one little girl, but about 30. I was eight years old. There is no way my brain could even begin to get around what happened. I didn't even know it 'mattered' so much (because no one ever talked with me about it, asked how I felt, told me anything) until I was 33. That was the time when I began to 'wake up.'
The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off. (That was on the wall at Children's Hospital where I was chaplain)
So I began to make my way through that pain finally. My therapist, who I think had dismissed me as just one more unhappy married woman, became very still when I off-handedly said something like "I can't believe Bob {my ex-husband] told my children about the shooting." (That was an event I never wanted them to know, I was furious with Bob for exposing it) She just got very still and began to listen to me with very different ears. I didn't know I needed healing. I was ignored when it happened
An old friend interrupted my train of thought at that point yesterday, told me her truth and asked for prayer. That was really nice, really sacred to me. And I looked at the time and knew I needed to be at the nursing home for a Mass. Turns out I got there much too early.
But I met Mary in the hall. We had become friends over the year, a little bit. I leaned down to her and she stared at my crucifix around my neck. Her hand reached out and so I knelt on one knee, by her wheelchair. She took the crucifix in her hand and pulled me close and she kissed the crucifix. She looked into my eyes and said so quietly, "It's beautiful." and I said, "Yes it is," and she kissed it again. I felt completely slain by her action. Somehow, we do good for each other when we bend into each other and just hold a hand. I felt emmersed in grace and it brought me down again...and picked me up again.
To return to the story, I didn't know how much I had been hurt by what happened during that Girl Scout meeting. All I could see was that I shot someone by accident, but the gun didn't 'just go off' like people say. I pulled the trigger. I knew that in my heart. It took some counseling to remember that I pulled the trigger to make certain the safety was on. Knowing that helped the pain. But I still shot a little girl. I don't remember her name. The event was so intense, I still don't have all the details. I am certain that when I meet God, He will help me understand things I cannot understand now.
There are many paths to turn on from here, but today, I'll opt for the forgiveness one. I was about 33 when I began to tell this truth, and I was really angry with my ex-husband for telling my daughter about it. She didn't need to know. (But I thought about the Joan of Arcadia episode, when Joan's mother finally tells Joan about being raped...the event had colored their relationship and Joan didn't understand why her mother was being so protective and cautious. She had to tell her daughter so they both could understand and love again) Beth and I have never talked about it. I supposed we should. But not today.
So I'm 'fessing up' to my therapist and I realize I didn't just hurt one little girl, I hurt 30 little girls. Everyone who witnessed what happened was as traumatized as I was. I knew in my heart I needed to pray hard for God to heal their hearts of that tragedy. I didn't dare ask God to help them forgive me yet. That was just too hard still.
So years later, I go through my first union with Christ, I have a vision, I hear distinct messages from God (no, I will not explain yet), things start falling into their places and I begin to very hard for these women to forgive me. Two weeks before I go on my Walk to Emmaus (1997), I see in the paper a huge picture of a woman, sitting on a bench, head bent over. I keep staring at her. It was one of those 'shadow pics' very dramatic. Something about her is important. And then I look at the caption. "Mary Lou Hunt rests from her missionary work in Bosnia." or something like that. Mary Lou Hunt. She was one of my 'Star Trek' gang. I was Kirk, she was McCoy. She was also at my house during the shooting.
I called the Dallas Morning News and told gave them my information and told them to give it to her. She was my childhood friend. The next week, the day before I was to go on the retreat that took my breath away and send me off to seminary, I got a phone call from Mary Lou. As soon as she said hello, I knew from her voice she had forgiven me for what I had done.
Mary Lou was in Bosnia as a missionary. She was supposed to meet a group of people for coffee and was too tired to go. She stayed home. The coffee shop was bombed and many of her friends were killed. From the survivors, she created a wheelchair basketball team that was building up the spirits of the people who witnessed the tragedy. So it made the Dallas paper.
I remember Mary Ann always as pushing her mother's wheelchair. I remember how kind and loving her mother was. I remember how they just "got on" with life and never batted an eye at their troubles. I don't know when Mary Lou's father died. But it was before we were in school together.
I know how long this is, and the story is only half told. I pray that I have been a benefit to someone on their own path.
The only unforgivable sin is the one for which we do not ask for forgiveness.
Love,
Cindy
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Can't Stop the Music
This morning, after an interestingly restful sleep...woke up just after midnight with an "oh my goodness, did that really happen" feeling, I felt strangely content and ready to trust God with what might follow. Then this morning I read about Hannah's request of God. Like Jacob, "I will not let go until you bless me." And I was blessed. I don't get it, really. I mean I don't understand it. I just know.
Something important is coming soon.
Yesterday was a gift. For days, I felt an inner conflict about something important to me, about my relationship with God. God smoothed out the rough edges for me that morning. I didn't really get it until I was in the middle of it, and then whoa...I see what God is doing...and I think, does anyone else see what God is doing here? And it all makes me laugh inside. He takes my problems and they disappear. Totally cool.
As I review the sequence of events, I recall sitting next to the little statue of the Baby Jesus and taking my white 'mantle' and wrapping it around His little hand and then wrapping my hand in it as well. I shared with Him a special prayer. We're together is this. I was reminding Him. Just seemed like the thing to do. Call me a little girl, I don't care. It's all part of the adventure. You could argue I will find meaning in a single tear. In fact, I do.
So I'm shaking pretty hard inside once I realize and accept the gift. I sit in my car and can't believe the goodness of it. I feel myself changing again. I wonder what it might mean. Do I really get to do this work Lord? Really? Are you sure?
So night comes after a few tears and a Bible study in which, my energy already spent by the earlier events of the day, I'm yawning without hesitation just before 9 p.m. I fall into deep sleep at home and wake suddenly just after midnight, knowing that I have received a special gift. I am learning to let go of the whys and the fears...I am learning to accept everything from God as gift. Even the things that could be confusing. I simply refused to be confused. This is His path...and I get to walk along for awhile. Lucky me. Blessed me.
I spoke with a spiritual woman after Mass, she said something that affirmed what I think I knew. When our lives 'dance' along side the Scriptures, we are in union with God. This always feels like the case. I don't know if I am correct, but I'll write something, or read something, or meet someone...and when Scripture is read, it is as if the last piece to the puzzle is put in place and I can say "oh! I get that!" Her words made me cry. I don't know if what I am doing is going to make a difference to anyone anywhere, but I know I have got to try...even if I fail.
I got to church early today, no Starbucks run before Mass. I went into the Parish Hall and boldly sang along with my iPod, praying that no one would hear all my wrong notes. It was like in the days when I would wander in the woods and sing to God until I became hoarse or exhausted or both. The little birds and squirrels do not mind wrong notes or words that don't always make sense. So I sang, songs I used to sing to my children as they were growing up: Bobby's nighttime song from me was "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?" Hey, its no worse that "Memories," right? I liked to sing that song. Will my little boy still love me when he is all grown up and married? Actually, I think he's a pretty good guy. For Beth, it was Joni Mitchell's "The Circle Game." I can still hear her singing it with me as we rocked away in the white rocking chair that I painted yellow daisies on.
I sang away in the Parish Hall and chased the sun as the light came in through the windows. I felt a bit like a cat, who wants to perch in the warmest part of a room. And I remembered the conversations I had with God at St. Mark's in the early evenings, when the golds and reds of the stained glass lion would shine against the gray walls on the opposite side. I always believed if I could just learn the language of color, I would know what God really wanted of me. It was a joy back then, and it was a joy today.
Yeah, I know, there's a nice padded room waiting for me somewhere...
In You, O Lord, I place my trust
You have protected me since my youth
Do not abandon me in my old age
Remember what we shared when I was young
Remember our laughter and our tears
When I came to you with everything
When without reserve I gave you everything
I ever was and you held it in Your Hands
And told me,
"It's good, Cindy."
Today new life grows within, a new idea, a new thing, something beautiful for you.
Something good.
Thank you for sharing your love with me.
Love,
Cindy
Something important is coming soon.
Yesterday was a gift. For days, I felt an inner conflict about something important to me, about my relationship with God. God smoothed out the rough edges for me that morning. I didn't really get it until I was in the middle of it, and then whoa...I see what God is doing...and I think, does anyone else see what God is doing here? And it all makes me laugh inside. He takes my problems and they disappear. Totally cool.
As I review the sequence of events, I recall sitting next to the little statue of the Baby Jesus and taking my white 'mantle' and wrapping it around His little hand and then wrapping my hand in it as well. I shared with Him a special prayer. We're together is this. I was reminding Him. Just seemed like the thing to do. Call me a little girl, I don't care. It's all part of the adventure. You could argue I will find meaning in a single tear. In fact, I do.
So I'm shaking pretty hard inside once I realize and accept the gift. I sit in my car and can't believe the goodness of it. I feel myself changing again. I wonder what it might mean. Do I really get to do this work Lord? Really? Are you sure?
So night comes after a few tears and a Bible study in which, my energy already spent by the earlier events of the day, I'm yawning without hesitation just before 9 p.m. I fall into deep sleep at home and wake suddenly just after midnight, knowing that I have received a special gift. I am learning to let go of the whys and the fears...I am learning to accept everything from God as gift. Even the things that could be confusing. I simply refused to be confused. This is His path...and I get to walk along for awhile. Lucky me. Blessed me.
I spoke with a spiritual woman after Mass, she said something that affirmed what I think I knew. When our lives 'dance' along side the Scriptures, we are in union with God. This always feels like the case. I don't know if I am correct, but I'll write something, or read something, or meet someone...and when Scripture is read, it is as if the last piece to the puzzle is put in place and I can say "oh! I get that!" Her words made me cry. I don't know if what I am doing is going to make a difference to anyone anywhere, but I know I have got to try...even if I fail.
I got to church early today, no Starbucks run before Mass. I went into the Parish Hall and boldly sang along with my iPod, praying that no one would hear all my wrong notes. It was like in the days when I would wander in the woods and sing to God until I became hoarse or exhausted or both. The little birds and squirrels do not mind wrong notes or words that don't always make sense. So I sang, songs I used to sing to my children as they were growing up: Bobby's nighttime song from me was "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?" Hey, its no worse that "Memories," right? I liked to sing that song. Will my little boy still love me when he is all grown up and married? Actually, I think he's a pretty good guy. For Beth, it was Joni Mitchell's "The Circle Game." I can still hear her singing it with me as we rocked away in the white rocking chair that I painted yellow daisies on.
I sang away in the Parish Hall and chased the sun as the light came in through the windows. I felt a bit like a cat, who wants to perch in the warmest part of a room. And I remembered the conversations I had with God at St. Mark's in the early evenings, when the golds and reds of the stained glass lion would shine against the gray walls on the opposite side. I always believed if I could just learn the language of color, I would know what God really wanted of me. It was a joy back then, and it was a joy today.
Yeah, I know, there's a nice padded room waiting for me somewhere...
In You, O Lord, I place my trust
You have protected me since my youth
Do not abandon me in my old age
Remember what we shared when I was young
Remember our laughter and our tears
When I came to you with everything
When without reserve I gave you everything
I ever was and you held it in Your Hands
And told me,
"It's good, Cindy."
Today new life grows within, a new idea, a new thing, something beautiful for you.
Something good.
Thank you for sharing your love with me.
Love,
Cindy
Monday, January 11, 2010
The danger of looking back...
21 April 2004
Dearest Lord,
I've been stalling. I don't know how to write, don't know how to think...you would think a revelation of truth might bring some inner peace, but the truth I seem to embrace does not yet allow me a personal peace. Is it issues with authority and abandonment? I cannot think of any greater suffering than abandonment, but coupled with authority issues means not only has love been taken away from me on so many occasions, but then trusting others to have my best interests, or dare I say love me, is impossible. Can a human being live without love? I am proof that it can. Yet I see the flaw. Despite things, my children come around, though I feel it is out of pity or for money. I am not poor and barring any catastrophic illness, I will most likely survive a long time. My blood is good, according to the doctor, but my heart is broken...too long, I think
There is so much more written down, but even now, it is a challenge to get my head around who I was then and who I am now. I think it's important to remember and to record this little history, because it is a witness to the power of love. It is a witness to one woman's darkness (not to be confused with a Dark Night of the Soul...although they do have connections at times)and her movement back into the light. It is a witness to the kindness of strangers. It is a witness to God's grace and mercy.
Each day, there is a moment of overwhelming gratitude with a flash of realization again that I am not who I was...and yet I am. The history did not change, but it was rewritten in the light of grace, mercy and forgiveness. I can look back at these pages and not burn them because they are part of the journey.
We all have them, the stories we'd just as soon forget. And some of us work so very hard to forget them: drinking, smoking, eating, sex, obsessive/compulsive behaviors, neuroses, gambling, even making certain we are never alone with ourselves at any cost. No time to think about yourself, no silence and very definitely, no real time with God.
"I'm too busy praying to God for others, I have no time to pray for myself."
Really? Do you think I am going to buy into that load of ...?
In order for me to keep growing closer to God, I have to do the Examen with every ounce of energy I have to tell the truth about myself. And let me tell you, it is exhausting and it is very hard.
But it is very worth it.
In fact, I have never known any love as great or powerful as the one I feel today, which is slightly more than yesterday, and not anywhere close to what I know God is willing to give if we open ourselves up to Him.
It is a huge, huge risk, to let God into our inmost self. But dare I say, it is the most intimate act you will ever enter, to trust God will all of you. But once you get past the fear, the joy is boundless. I know.
I also know that there are most likely more dark nights for me before I leave this world. I know how very easy it would be to just rest in the goodness I have already received. But this kind of love is dynamic. It is always moving, growing, changing, making its place in space and time while at the same moments it feels eternal and unceasing. There will be dark days again, but I will remember both and know that the waves of my life will rise and fall, but never ever do I have to be alone on the waters. He stills them for me.
The danger of looking back is almost as great as the danger of not looking back. We have to see who we were to appreciate who we are. We have to always remember who was with us at the beginning, will be with us forever.
Love, Cindy
Dearest Lord,
I've been stalling. I don't know how to write, don't know how to think...you would think a revelation of truth might bring some inner peace, but the truth I seem to embrace does not yet allow me a personal peace. Is it issues with authority and abandonment? I cannot think of any greater suffering than abandonment, but coupled with authority issues means not only has love been taken away from me on so many occasions, but then trusting others to have my best interests, or dare I say love me, is impossible. Can a human being live without love? I am proof that it can. Yet I see the flaw. Despite things, my children come around, though I feel it is out of pity or for money. I am not poor and barring any catastrophic illness, I will most likely survive a long time. My blood is good, according to the doctor, but my heart is broken...too long, I think
There is so much more written down, but even now, it is a challenge to get my head around who I was then and who I am now. I think it's important to remember and to record this little history, because it is a witness to the power of love. It is a witness to one woman's darkness (not to be confused with a Dark Night of the Soul...although they do have connections at times)and her movement back into the light. It is a witness to the kindness of strangers. It is a witness to God's grace and mercy.
Each day, there is a moment of overwhelming gratitude with a flash of realization again that I am not who I was...and yet I am. The history did not change, but it was rewritten in the light of grace, mercy and forgiveness. I can look back at these pages and not burn them because they are part of the journey.
We all have them, the stories we'd just as soon forget. And some of us work so very hard to forget them: drinking, smoking, eating, sex, obsessive/compulsive behaviors, neuroses, gambling, even making certain we are never alone with ourselves at any cost. No time to think about yourself, no silence and very definitely, no real time with God.
"I'm too busy praying to God for others, I have no time to pray for myself."
Really? Do you think I am going to buy into that load of ...?
In order for me to keep growing closer to God, I have to do the Examen with every ounce of energy I have to tell the truth about myself. And let me tell you, it is exhausting and it is very hard.
But it is very worth it.
In fact, I have never known any love as great or powerful as the one I feel today, which is slightly more than yesterday, and not anywhere close to what I know God is willing to give if we open ourselves up to Him.
It is a huge, huge risk, to let God into our inmost self. But dare I say, it is the most intimate act you will ever enter, to trust God will all of you. But once you get past the fear, the joy is boundless. I know.
I also know that there are most likely more dark nights for me before I leave this world. I know how very easy it would be to just rest in the goodness I have already received. But this kind of love is dynamic. It is always moving, growing, changing, making its place in space and time while at the same moments it feels eternal and unceasing. There will be dark days again, but I will remember both and know that the waves of my life will rise and fall, but never ever do I have to be alone on the waters. He stills them for me.
The danger of looking back is almost as great as the danger of not looking back. We have to see who we were to appreciate who we are. We have to always remember who was with us at the beginning, will be with us forever.
Love, Cindy
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Visions and Dreams
This began on December 21, 2009:
I believe God speaks to us in many ways. I believe God is speaking to us all the time. We just have to open our ears and listen. We just have to open our eyes and see. This year, I have been transformed into a new being. I am not the woman I once was. She is...somewhere resting finally, all her wars with the world are over and she is happy. What remains is the beginning of the best part of who I am. That sounds a bit stuffy, perhaps...but I am so keenly aware of the fact that I see every encounter as a moment for celebration...and that is just not who I thought I was...that is surprises me every single time.
Each day I am glad to know that I have lived long enough to have this day. And this day is all I have, so I want to spend it well. I want to make the best memories I can with it, no matter what I am given.
I am thinking that all of this kind of connects to the events that happened some thirteen years ago. When my prayer life pretty much took on a life of its own. I mean instead of me praying a prayer, my prayer was praying me. I think that is an excellent way to describe it.
My prayer took on a life of its own and began to pray me. There is a helplessness and surrendering in this prayer. For how long did I cry out to God these words:
Search me Oh God
And know my heart
Test me and know my thoughts
See if there is any wicked way in me
And lead me in the way everlasting (Ps. 139)
And God would reveal to me my sins. And often I would become angry and afraid. "You can't possibly want me to give THAT up? I NEED it to survive!"
"I didn't do that, I was simply trying to....oh, crap...you are right again. I did do that. And I know why I did it. [other exclamations here are best left out]"
And then, back then I would end my prayers on one knee, like a knight in service to a great king...the greatest king. "I have come to do your will. Take me, make me, break me. I will stand watch with you. I will do the work. Always and forever." (I am certain I was much more flamboyant than that, but the general idea was that...each time I was blessed, I knew I was called to be a blessing to others. What is given cannot be kept. It must be passed on or it will die.)
I've been trying to go back at look over my humanity. The 2000 journal seemed to be a good snippet for analysis, the only partially filled one from Disney World was less satisfying, but still illuminating. It journals a youth trip I made with my son to Disneyworld in 1997. When I am alone, contentment reigns. But it looks pretty much like a typical youth trip, by the time the week has gone by, you want to get as far away as possible from the adults you have had to deal with for a week and maybe even a little distance between you and the kids feels really good, too. I, the constant observer, write about all the power plays and the patterns of behavior. The positioning for power, the expectation of power and the reality of working with people who just don't think like you.
It is so hard for us to get along sometimes.
When we are competitive, when we want to look good, when we think we deserve something, when we think we've earned respect, when we think we are smarter than everyone else in the room, we enter into conflict...especially being on a cramped bus for 10 hours at a time. We all bring in a whole lot more baggage than just the luggage we are carrying with us. And it all gets played out in cramped quarters.
What is truly cool is that we know that will happen and we do it anyway. Youth ministry is frustrating and rewarding. Youth choir is about the same times ten, because instead of the general angst of adolescence, you get the ego of adolescence. You go from "Nobody likes me here" to "Why do I have to sing with THEM?" It is all a big, exhausting mess...but a handful of people, who understand that "love thy neighbor" thing, dive in, get dirty and worn out and a few weeks out from the event, know in their hearts they did the right thing. A few, of course, will take ten years to forgive so and so for spilling Coke on their curlers, but hey, they tried. They stepped out. Some of us just sit and wait.
What has that got to do with prayer? Well, my HP spiritual director told me, after hearing one of my stories of my continuing adventures with God: "Ecstasy...and then the laundry."
Right now, I am on a kind of honeymoon with God. Right now, my eyes can only see one thing, even when I am looking at something else. Right now, I can only feel one thing, one "person," so to speak. Everything I think, do, feel, say, touch, smell...seems to be completely absorbed in my connection with God right now.
I am painfully aware of anything that pulls me away from the "closest place" next to, or inside, God. I don't want to walk 'over there.' I don't want to 'step out.' I just want to sit at Jesus' feet and listen. But Martha is calling and the laundry is waiting. It won't get done on its own.
But I am aware I must be very careful and respect the journey I have chosen. Thursday night, I felt I was too tired to be helpful when I was needed. Last night, I had a couple of glasses of wine and when God placed me in a sacred moment with someone in need, I feel I was not grace-filled. I spoke too quickly. I didn't listen. New lesson: one glass is enough. But I can't go back to that moment and re-do it. But maybe that's all God intended for me to do, just let someone know she wasn't alone. Sometimes that's all we need.
I feel like I'm standing still when I should be running. And I feel like I'm running when I should be standing still. I feel filled with potential energy and I'm seeking the lightning rod where I can release it...into some wonderful project that helps heal wounded souls. Some kind of resting place where living waters abide. I have to find that place and then give it to the world.
At some point, I'll have to get back on the plane that takes me home again, back to reality. For now, though, it's a fire on the beach and riding waves from dawn to dusk. The laundry waits. I'll keep close to the Light while I still have it. Seems like the right thing to do.
Love,
Cindy
I believe God speaks to us in many ways. I believe God is speaking to us all the time. We just have to open our ears and listen. We just have to open our eyes and see. This year, I have been transformed into a new being. I am not the woman I once was. She is...somewhere resting finally, all her wars with the world are over and she is happy. What remains is the beginning of the best part of who I am. That sounds a bit stuffy, perhaps...but I am so keenly aware of the fact that I see every encounter as a moment for celebration...and that is just not who I thought I was...that is surprises me every single time.
Each day I am glad to know that I have lived long enough to have this day. And this day is all I have, so I want to spend it well. I want to make the best memories I can with it, no matter what I am given.
I am thinking that all of this kind of connects to the events that happened some thirteen years ago. When my prayer life pretty much took on a life of its own. I mean instead of me praying a prayer, my prayer was praying me. I think that is an excellent way to describe it.
My prayer took on a life of its own and began to pray me. There is a helplessness and surrendering in this prayer. For how long did I cry out to God these words:
Search me Oh God
And know my heart
Test me and know my thoughts
See if there is any wicked way in me
And lead me in the way everlasting (Ps. 139)
And God would reveal to me my sins. And often I would become angry and afraid. "You can't possibly want me to give THAT up? I NEED it to survive!"
"I didn't do that, I was simply trying to....oh, crap...you are right again. I did do that. And I know why I did it. [other exclamations here are best left out]"
And then, back then I would end my prayers on one knee, like a knight in service to a great king...the greatest king. "I have come to do your will. Take me, make me, break me. I will stand watch with you. I will do the work. Always and forever." (I am certain I was much more flamboyant than that, but the general idea was that...each time I was blessed, I knew I was called to be a blessing to others. What is given cannot be kept. It must be passed on or it will die.)
I've been trying to go back at look over my humanity. The 2000 journal seemed to be a good snippet for analysis, the only partially filled one from Disney World was less satisfying, but still illuminating. It journals a youth trip I made with my son to Disneyworld in 1997. When I am alone, contentment reigns. But it looks pretty much like a typical youth trip, by the time the week has gone by, you want to get as far away as possible from the adults you have had to deal with for a week and maybe even a little distance between you and the kids feels really good, too. I, the constant observer, write about all the power plays and the patterns of behavior. The positioning for power, the expectation of power and the reality of working with people who just don't think like you.
It is so hard for us to get along sometimes.
When we are competitive, when we want to look good, when we think we deserve something, when we think we've earned respect, when we think we are smarter than everyone else in the room, we enter into conflict...especially being on a cramped bus for 10 hours at a time. We all bring in a whole lot more baggage than just the luggage we are carrying with us. And it all gets played out in cramped quarters.
What is truly cool is that we know that will happen and we do it anyway. Youth ministry is frustrating and rewarding. Youth choir is about the same times ten, because instead of the general angst of adolescence, you get the ego of adolescence. You go from "Nobody likes me here" to "Why do I have to sing with THEM?" It is all a big, exhausting mess...but a handful of people, who understand that "love thy neighbor" thing, dive in, get dirty and worn out and a few weeks out from the event, know in their hearts they did the right thing. A few, of course, will take ten years to forgive so and so for spilling Coke on their curlers, but hey, they tried. They stepped out. Some of us just sit and wait.
What has that got to do with prayer? Well, my HP spiritual director told me, after hearing one of my stories of my continuing adventures with God: "Ecstasy...and then the laundry."
Right now, I am on a kind of honeymoon with God. Right now, my eyes can only see one thing, even when I am looking at something else. Right now, I can only feel one thing, one "person," so to speak. Everything I think, do, feel, say, touch, smell...seems to be completely absorbed in my connection with God right now.
I am painfully aware of anything that pulls me away from the "closest place" next to, or inside, God. I don't want to walk 'over there.' I don't want to 'step out.' I just want to sit at Jesus' feet and listen. But Martha is calling and the laundry is waiting. It won't get done on its own.
But I am aware I must be very careful and respect the journey I have chosen. Thursday night, I felt I was too tired to be helpful when I was needed. Last night, I had a couple of glasses of wine and when God placed me in a sacred moment with someone in need, I feel I was not grace-filled. I spoke too quickly. I didn't listen. New lesson: one glass is enough. But I can't go back to that moment and re-do it. But maybe that's all God intended for me to do, just let someone know she wasn't alone. Sometimes that's all we need.
I feel like I'm standing still when I should be running. And I feel like I'm running when I should be standing still. I feel filled with potential energy and I'm seeking the lightning rod where I can release it...into some wonderful project that helps heal wounded souls. Some kind of resting place where living waters abide. I have to find that place and then give it to the world.
At some point, I'll have to get back on the plane that takes me home again, back to reality. For now, though, it's a fire on the beach and riding waves from dawn to dusk. The laundry waits. I'll keep close to the Light while I still have it. Seems like the right thing to do.
Love,
Cindy
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
White Roses I
Pulled a journal out from the giant tub in my closet that is only filled with my journals. Dropped open to a page:
9 june 2000
Dearest Lord,
I sat at the foot of the altar (St Marks) with my hands outstretched between the two sacred places with Mary in the distance of my eyes and the reflection of Joseph in the glass beside the choir loft. I was called to focus on the glass last night after praying for "A's" soul. I have never watched the glass so fervently when I saw the shadow of a man, the priest and I saw him drop to his knees as he prayed distantly and yet with me. I could feel the presence of him and his love for my soul and the work I must do and I felt his pain and hope and love so deeply in my heart, my chest ached and I decided not to let my brain see his prayer any longer so my eyes returned to the ground. Whether or not he left or stayed I do not know, nor do I really know what he prayed--it could have been my imagination yet I think not. He prayed with me. It disturbed me for a moment. I thought, I know you want me to stay, but I must do this work. Thought, if You, Lord, take it from me, I do not mind. I am so completely in love with you, my mate for all eternity, there is little you could bring that I would not gladly accept. IT has been a week of strange and wonderful gifts. I am in my element. "A" came to me in tears, needing desperately to talk out those horrid memories, those frightened dark feelings. Was I good to her? Could she feel Your love through me? She touched me often. So much pain, can I heal for you? And "B", walking in her own dark valley...she cried on my chest. Did I help her Lord? Was I a good servant for you? "C's" anger on Sunday. You seem to have made me a lightning rod for people lately and in their intense pain I am not drained. What peace you have given me in this great love. I pray that I may always feel and remember the gift...I have entered the state of priest, may I only honor you in it. It is even hard to call me what I understand to be, for it still hints of pride and ambition, but even those things you will and correct as needed...I made peace, I emptied in the power you gave me to empty and good things happened. I pray, but the priest--was it you--falling to your knees, that entered a new part of my heart. Someone was praying for me, someone loves me...I am being rebornd again and Mass tonight. How my heart leaped for joy with the unexpected surprise. The smile from the great lady and how my body shuddered in delight at being with you in Mass. Duffy's silly suspenders, bringing in the young couple to practice their marriage vows. How much I love them all. How I wish there was a place for me there, but I am joyful for the work you have given me and I pray that I honor you well in doing it...the Job paper is annoying but the librarian at CCCC let me keep the reference books for the weekend. That was an honor! I feel you moving through my veins and flesh and it is such a good thing. Please help me work well in my new job.
The Job paper eventually got published. The job started great but ended sadly. Reading the writing helps me remember more. Some of the women I met got unstuck. Some are still stuck. What I am most aware of is that I had what I wanted most right there in that Catholic Church and I got lost...
But He found me again...and carried me back home. It was a bumpy ride there on his back for a time, but I'm home.
There's no place like home.
Love, Cindy
9 june 2000
Dearest Lord,
I sat at the foot of the altar (St Marks) with my hands outstretched between the two sacred places with Mary in the distance of my eyes and the reflection of Joseph in the glass beside the choir loft. I was called to focus on the glass last night after praying for "A's" soul. I have never watched the glass so fervently when I saw the shadow of a man, the priest and I saw him drop to his knees as he prayed distantly and yet with me. I could feel the presence of him and his love for my soul and the work I must do and I felt his pain and hope and love so deeply in my heart, my chest ached and I decided not to let my brain see his prayer any longer so my eyes returned to the ground. Whether or not he left or stayed I do not know, nor do I really know what he prayed--it could have been my imagination yet I think not. He prayed with me. It disturbed me for a moment. I thought, I know you want me to stay, but I must do this work. Thought, if You, Lord, take it from me, I do not mind. I am so completely in love with you, my mate for all eternity, there is little you could bring that I would not gladly accept. IT has been a week of strange and wonderful gifts. I am in my element. "A" came to me in tears, needing desperately to talk out those horrid memories, those frightened dark feelings. Was I good to her? Could she feel Your love through me? She touched me often. So much pain, can I heal for you? And "B", walking in her own dark valley...she cried on my chest. Did I help her Lord? Was I a good servant for you? "C's" anger on Sunday. You seem to have made me a lightning rod for people lately and in their intense pain I am not drained. What peace you have given me in this great love. I pray that I may always feel and remember the gift...I have entered the state of priest, may I only honor you in it. It is even hard to call me what I understand to be, for it still hints of pride and ambition, but even those things you will and correct as needed...I made peace, I emptied in the power you gave me to empty and good things happened. I pray, but the priest--was it you--falling to your knees, that entered a new part of my heart. Someone was praying for me, someone loves me...I am being rebornd again and Mass tonight. How my heart leaped for joy with the unexpected surprise. The smile from the great lady and how my body shuddered in delight at being with you in Mass. Duffy's silly suspenders, bringing in the young couple to practice their marriage vows. How much I love them all. How I wish there was a place for me there, but I am joyful for the work you have given me and I pray that I honor you well in doing it...the Job paper is annoying but the librarian at CCCC let me keep the reference books for the weekend. That was an honor! I feel you moving through my veins and flesh and it is such a good thing. Please help me work well in my new job.
The Job paper eventually got published. The job started great but ended sadly. Reading the writing helps me remember more. Some of the women I met got unstuck. Some are still stuck. What I am most aware of is that I had what I wanted most right there in that Catholic Church and I got lost...
But He found me again...and carried me back home. It was a bumpy ride there on his back for a time, but I'm home.
There's no place like home.
Love, Cindy
Two Days of Miracles...
Time is 11:11p.m. Let's see if I can pull this off. Some time ago, I wrote about the cross. Lots of stories there. Under it, with it, on it...and so much keeps happening. Fr.Henry said something to me like, nothing is chance.
I agree. Signs and wonders abound.
What should come first? Tonight, I think. I brought the Light home with me tonight from St Elizabeth Ann Seton. Received a candle to use as I pray to write my talk for the ACTS retreat. I had wanted to give one specific talk, but God asked me to do another. A harder one, I thought. And as I drove home with the Light, it all began to form in my heart and head and again, I submit to the One who is so much wiser than me.
I showed up early tonight to pray. I felt I had fallen from a promise I made to God. "While I kept silent, my sin was ever before me. You hand lay heavy upon me and my strength was dried up as in the heat of summer" Ps. 51
I thought, how shall I recover? What must I do? And no, God I will not give up. I am in this for the long haul. Show me what to do.
I laid on the floor on my face before the His cross . Lord I am not worthy. Even on this small task, I let you down. I let myself down.
I prayed the Chaplet of Divine Mercy and moved to rest under the crucifix. I think I finished it, I don't know. I fell asleep and it was 7:15p.m. I was supposed to be in a meeting at 7p.m. I rushed out.
During the meeting I got my candle for my talk and women came up and whispered a private prayer in my ear. They touched me, hugged me, kissed me. Me, the unworthy one. And I knew what I had not known before, "Let their love in. Do not be so proud in your sin. This is love from God. Let it come in."
For me, that's a big deal. No one had a clue. I am finally learning how to love and be loved. And I know I am telling this poorly. But it will have to do for now.
Let the love in. Even if you don't think you deserve it. Let it in.
After the meeting, I went to the Eucharistic Chapel to pray. Someone was already praying there. She was there last week and we prayed together then. This week, I left her to her private prayer and continued with mine. I wasn't sure what to do or how to do it. Then I took the candle they gave me, with my name on it and lit it and set it next to the Tabernacle. I went to the back of the chapel and lay down on the floor, with my purse as a pillow. I covered myself with my coat and began to pray the Chaplet again.
Holy God, Holy Mighty One, Holy Immortal One, have mercy on us and the whole world.
Did I fall asleep again? I don't know. I just feel so calm and safe there. It is my home. And my little light glowed next to the Tabernacle that holds His precious Body and below His Light.
My little light, may it keep you warm, sweet Jesus, my Boy, for this little while. Let my light shine for you where is can, where you choose. Let me draw strength from you and let your light shine in me. Please.
I watched it for about an hour. Or tried. Let His Light come into me. Lord, let me work for you, be your hands if you choose, I am willing.
And then I took the light, my candle, out with me to my car, placed it in the cup-holder and drove slowly home. I listened to the Chaplet on CD. Then my Mary CD. And now the light I carried from St Elizabeth's sits on my dresser. I think that's kind of cool, actually. I carried the light all the way home.
Next, the crucifix. Have I already written this one? I lost my crucifix from the ACTS retreat on Christmas Eve. I had it while I was doing hospital visits, but when I reached for it at Midnight Mass it was gone. I bought another one on Tuesday after Christmas and it Fr. Jason bless it for me, along with prayer beads I was taking to a woman in a nursing facility I promised to visit. (I think I have written about this already.)But the miracle happened at Sam's Club yesterday. This new crucifix, slightly larger than the one from the ACTS retreat (it was all that Sacred Heart had) seemed to attract attention. I always saw people looking at it. I guess it was just big enough to be interesting. But the man in front of me at Sam's kept looking back and I was thinking "What?" and not feeling too warm about it. Then, just before he left he said to me, "I found this while I was walking at Bob Woodruff Park. I'm not a Catholic. Would you like it?" And he held out the ACTS crucifix, the one with the Trinity on it, exactly the right size of the one I lost. I told the man I lost one on Christmas Eve and said thank you very much.
Was it mine? Was it the one I lost? I don't recall going to Bob Woodruff on Christmas Eve, but God gave me 'back' my crucifix. Now that was cool too.
On Saturday, I do regular hospital visits to everyone, not just Catholics. I usually ask the nurses who might appreciate a visit and they have been amazing in knowing the needs of their patients. That morning I had already prayed with two families in CCU whose loved ones were probably not going to be here much longer. On the floor, a nurse said "You could go see Mr. Smith." and I saw a couple of the staff exchanging glances. "Don't send her THERE," one said. "OK," said the other, "Go see Mr. Jones" and again the glances. "He's in the next bed." and they smiled. I'll do it and let you know, I told them.
I go into the room and see the one near the window. "Would you like a prayer?" "No thanks, I'm fine" he tells me. So I walk to the next bed. "Would you like a prayer?" (from the other bed, I hear the man say, "Watch out")and the man nods a yes. I lean down but I can't understand him. The nurse sitting next to his bed tries to explain what he is trying to say. He then says very clearly to her, "I'm not talking to you." And he leans to me and asks again but I still can't understand him. Then I do, "Look what they've done to me." and I see his restraints. They have tied his arms to the bedrails. I try to offer comfort. I tell him they are trying to take care of him. That's all. I told him, when my father was very ill, we had to tie him to his bed, too, to keep his safe. We loved him and did not want him to get hurt. But the man kept saying "Look what they've done to me." and then, I don't know why, I whispered into his ear, "You know, they nailed Jesus' hands to a cross." (And I think, oh my goodness, why did I say that to him?!) But I see him think, and then he relaxes and I hold his hand and pray with him.
Did I do the right thing? I have no idea. But somehow, it seemed to help him. I think sometimes that's what we have to do, especially when we feel helpless. We can try to identify with Our Lord's suffering and offer our own suffering up to Him.
I just felt the need to write it all down. Since I keep losing my notebooks, here is as good a place as any for some things, not too personal...and if they can help you know what you might need to do next...well, all the better.
Thanks for putting up with me. My candle is still shining bright on my left.
Sweet dreams to all of you.
May Christ hold you close tonight.
Love, Cindy
I agree. Signs and wonders abound.
What should come first? Tonight, I think. I brought the Light home with me tonight from St Elizabeth Ann Seton. Received a candle to use as I pray to write my talk for the ACTS retreat. I had wanted to give one specific talk, but God asked me to do another. A harder one, I thought. And as I drove home with the Light, it all began to form in my heart and head and again, I submit to the One who is so much wiser than me.
I showed up early tonight to pray. I felt I had fallen from a promise I made to God. "While I kept silent, my sin was ever before me. You hand lay heavy upon me and my strength was dried up as in the heat of summer" Ps. 51
I thought, how shall I recover? What must I do? And no, God I will not give up. I am in this for the long haul. Show me what to do.
I laid on the floor on my face before the His cross . Lord I am not worthy. Even on this small task, I let you down. I let myself down.
I prayed the Chaplet of Divine Mercy and moved to rest under the crucifix. I think I finished it, I don't know. I fell asleep and it was 7:15p.m. I was supposed to be in a meeting at 7p.m. I rushed out.
During the meeting I got my candle for my talk and women came up and whispered a private prayer in my ear. They touched me, hugged me, kissed me. Me, the unworthy one. And I knew what I had not known before, "Let their love in. Do not be so proud in your sin. This is love from God. Let it come in."
For me, that's a big deal. No one had a clue. I am finally learning how to love and be loved. And I know I am telling this poorly. But it will have to do for now.
Let the love in. Even if you don't think you deserve it. Let it in.
After the meeting, I went to the Eucharistic Chapel to pray. Someone was already praying there. She was there last week and we prayed together then. This week, I left her to her private prayer and continued with mine. I wasn't sure what to do or how to do it. Then I took the candle they gave me, with my name on it and lit it and set it next to the Tabernacle. I went to the back of the chapel and lay down on the floor, with my purse as a pillow. I covered myself with my coat and began to pray the Chaplet again.
Holy God, Holy Mighty One, Holy Immortal One, have mercy on us and the whole world.
Did I fall asleep again? I don't know. I just feel so calm and safe there. It is my home. And my little light glowed next to the Tabernacle that holds His precious Body and below His Light.
My little light, may it keep you warm, sweet Jesus, my Boy, for this little while. Let my light shine for you where is can, where you choose. Let me draw strength from you and let your light shine in me. Please.
I watched it for about an hour. Or tried. Let His Light come into me. Lord, let me work for you, be your hands if you choose, I am willing.
And then I took the light, my candle, out with me to my car, placed it in the cup-holder and drove slowly home. I listened to the Chaplet on CD. Then my Mary CD. And now the light I carried from St Elizabeth's sits on my dresser. I think that's kind of cool, actually. I carried the light all the way home.
Next, the crucifix. Have I already written this one? I lost my crucifix from the ACTS retreat on Christmas Eve. I had it while I was doing hospital visits, but when I reached for it at Midnight Mass it was gone. I bought another one on Tuesday after Christmas and it Fr. Jason bless it for me, along with prayer beads I was taking to a woman in a nursing facility I promised to visit. (I think I have written about this already.)But the miracle happened at Sam's Club yesterday. This new crucifix, slightly larger than the one from the ACTS retreat (it was all that Sacred Heart had) seemed to attract attention. I always saw people looking at it. I guess it was just big enough to be interesting. But the man in front of me at Sam's kept looking back and I was thinking "What?" and not feeling too warm about it. Then, just before he left he said to me, "I found this while I was walking at Bob Woodruff Park. I'm not a Catholic. Would you like it?" And he held out the ACTS crucifix, the one with the Trinity on it, exactly the right size of the one I lost. I told the man I lost one on Christmas Eve and said thank you very much.
Was it mine? Was it the one I lost? I don't recall going to Bob Woodruff on Christmas Eve, but God gave me 'back' my crucifix. Now that was cool too.
On Saturday, I do regular hospital visits to everyone, not just Catholics. I usually ask the nurses who might appreciate a visit and they have been amazing in knowing the needs of their patients. That morning I had already prayed with two families in CCU whose loved ones were probably not going to be here much longer. On the floor, a nurse said "You could go see Mr. Smith." and I saw a couple of the staff exchanging glances. "Don't send her THERE," one said. "OK," said the other, "Go see Mr. Jones" and again the glances. "He's in the next bed." and they smiled. I'll do it and let you know, I told them.
I go into the room and see the one near the window. "Would you like a prayer?" "No thanks, I'm fine" he tells me. So I walk to the next bed. "Would you like a prayer?" (from the other bed, I hear the man say, "Watch out")and the man nods a yes. I lean down but I can't understand him. The nurse sitting next to his bed tries to explain what he is trying to say. He then says very clearly to her, "I'm not talking to you." And he leans to me and asks again but I still can't understand him. Then I do, "Look what they've done to me." and I see his restraints. They have tied his arms to the bedrails. I try to offer comfort. I tell him they are trying to take care of him. That's all. I told him, when my father was very ill, we had to tie him to his bed, too, to keep his safe. We loved him and did not want him to get hurt. But the man kept saying "Look what they've done to me." and then, I don't know why, I whispered into his ear, "You know, they nailed Jesus' hands to a cross." (And I think, oh my goodness, why did I say that to him?!) But I see him think, and then he relaxes and I hold his hand and pray with him.
Did I do the right thing? I have no idea. But somehow, it seemed to help him. I think sometimes that's what we have to do, especially when we feel helpless. We can try to identify with Our Lord's suffering and offer our own suffering up to Him.
I just felt the need to write it all down. Since I keep losing my notebooks, here is as good a place as any for some things, not too personal...and if they can help you know what you might need to do next...well, all the better.
Thanks for putting up with me. My candle is still shining bright on my left.
Sweet dreams to all of you.
May Christ hold you close tonight.
Love, Cindy
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
The Music of our prayers
There are several reasons why I am always in a church. A few days ago, Deacon Jack read the gospel about Anna, the prophetess. I had to laugh a bit inside about how God rings little bells in my heart with things that connect. On FB I played with one of those silly MC questionnaires and it said my name should be "Annie." Annie indeed. One thing I regret deeply is not listening better to my biological mother the one and only time we sat together in the DFW airport. She told me what she wanted to name me and I don't remember what she said. The only recording of her voice I have does not tell me it either. Sigh. I think is was either Carol or Catherine. I remember a C.
Don't let the important moments get away from you.
I am 'on call' for the hospital on Saturdays and I went to Marilyn, to see if she could help me switch my phone to vibrate. She played with it and I felt better because she couldn't figure it out either, BUT in the conversation, she told me that she had a machine at home that could take records and cassettes and convert them into MP3 files...I told her that I had a cassette of my biological mother that was now 24 years old and I really wanted it on CD. So she put it on CD for me. My mother's voice. What she wanted me to know before she died. It was found on the coffee table after they found her. She died by her own hand. She shot herself. It took me a long time to figure things out for myself. I didn't figure out it was a suicide for about five years. Some questions you just don't want to ask. But in 1989, I got the courage to ask. Just like I finally got the courage to ask if I had been adopted.
If you ask the question, you have to be willing to accept the answer.
But I digress again. Marilyn giving me the CD of my mother's voice was the greatest Christmas/birthday gift I could have ever received. I love her so much. I had her for seven days. The first seven days of my life and on Christmas Eve, she left me and did not see me again until I was 28 years old. God saw fit for our eyes to meet for one more time.
Didn't know I was going to that. I wonder if I can ever write enough so that I'll stop writing about her. But she had two requests of my new parents before she gave me away: that I be raised Catholic and that I be given a piano.
And it is all connected. It was when I returned to my study of piano that my life began to take drastic turns. As I played and grew in my abilities, I began to see that there was something beautiful inside me that was crying to get out. One day, I played the Brahms in the Choir Room at CCCC and when I finished, I knew I had done a perfect thing. The notes came out just as I heard them in my head...and I glanced out the window and saw three or four professors leaning over the railing upstairs and looking in the window.
Not only had I done something perfect, I had witnesses.
And it was almost too much to bear.
When a baby is born, at least for me, I looked at these little creations that came forth from my body and just marveled at their beauty. Beth was particularly perfect in every way. I saw immediately she was bright and beautiful. Thinking that someone wanted me to end her life before it began...how could I have ever even listened to such a request? This child was a perfect miracle and I got to be part of it. Why God would give me such a gift, it was almost too much to bear.
Beauty, perfection, goodness...sometimes when you really think about it...it is almost as difficult to bear as great sadness and loss. I think somewhere inside, we realize that both are gifts. The joy and the pain. They are part of this thing we call being human. They are part of our great song that we sing back to God while we are here.
Sometimes a waltz or a dirge, sometimes polonaise, or a ballade...or an impromptu piece...or a ditty...or maybe a great requiem...but all are songs to God. They are our prayers shaken and stirred into a song. Yesterday it was a quilt. Today it is a song.
But it is perfect. And that is hard to handle. Think about it. What happens to us when we encounter perfection? Really encounter perfection. Perfection is only found in God, so when recognize perfection, we are recognizing God in our midst. And that can and should slay us in our tracks.
And when we finally get up off the ground, knowing that we have encountered God, I think we should seek a way to tell the world all about it. Any real gift of perfection is not really private. It is for all of us. Some will see and some will not. Some will hear and some will not. Some will just show us their backs. It's part of the deal.
But we should sing out anyway.
I'm stopping here.
Love,
Cindy
Don't let the important moments get away from you.
I am 'on call' for the hospital on Saturdays and I went to Marilyn, to see if she could help me switch my phone to vibrate. She played with it and I felt better because she couldn't figure it out either, BUT in the conversation, she told me that she had a machine at home that could take records and cassettes and convert them into MP3 files...I told her that I had a cassette of my biological mother that was now 24 years old and I really wanted it on CD. So she put it on CD for me. My mother's voice. What she wanted me to know before she died. It was found on the coffee table after they found her. She died by her own hand. She shot herself. It took me a long time to figure things out for myself. I didn't figure out it was a suicide for about five years. Some questions you just don't want to ask. But in 1989, I got the courage to ask. Just like I finally got the courage to ask if I had been adopted.
If you ask the question, you have to be willing to accept the answer.
But I digress again. Marilyn giving me the CD of my mother's voice was the greatest Christmas/birthday gift I could have ever received. I love her so much. I had her for seven days. The first seven days of my life and on Christmas Eve, she left me and did not see me again until I was 28 years old. God saw fit for our eyes to meet for one more time.
Didn't know I was going to that. I wonder if I can ever write enough so that I'll stop writing about her. But she had two requests of my new parents before she gave me away: that I be raised Catholic and that I be given a piano.
And it is all connected. It was when I returned to my study of piano that my life began to take drastic turns. As I played and grew in my abilities, I began to see that there was something beautiful inside me that was crying to get out. One day, I played the Brahms in the Choir Room at CCCC and when I finished, I knew I had done a perfect thing. The notes came out just as I heard them in my head...and I glanced out the window and saw three or four professors leaning over the railing upstairs and looking in the window.
Not only had I done something perfect, I had witnesses.
And it was almost too much to bear.
When a baby is born, at least for me, I looked at these little creations that came forth from my body and just marveled at their beauty. Beth was particularly perfect in every way. I saw immediately she was bright and beautiful. Thinking that someone wanted me to end her life before it began...how could I have ever even listened to such a request? This child was a perfect miracle and I got to be part of it. Why God would give me such a gift, it was almost too much to bear.
Beauty, perfection, goodness...sometimes when you really think about it...it is almost as difficult to bear as great sadness and loss. I think somewhere inside, we realize that both are gifts. The joy and the pain. They are part of this thing we call being human. They are part of our great song that we sing back to God while we are here.
Sometimes a waltz or a dirge, sometimes polonaise, or a ballade...or an impromptu piece...or a ditty...or maybe a great requiem...but all are songs to God. They are our prayers shaken and stirred into a song. Yesterday it was a quilt. Today it is a song.
But it is perfect. And that is hard to handle. Think about it. What happens to us when we encounter perfection? Really encounter perfection. Perfection is only found in God, so when recognize perfection, we are recognizing God in our midst. And that can and should slay us in our tracks.
And when we finally get up off the ground, knowing that we have encountered God, I think we should seek a way to tell the world all about it. Any real gift of perfection is not really private. It is for all of us. Some will see and some will not. Some will hear and some will not. Some will just show us their backs. It's part of the deal.
But we should sing out anyway.
I'm stopping here.
Love,
Cindy
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Changes Ahead
New year, new decade. Eighth day of Christmas. Mary Mother of God. And many more new things. Hanging on and letting go. Can't talk much about it all yet. Today was a day of trust. Of new trust. I allowed someone to see the way I pray. Was that right or wrong? A good thing? A bad thing? I don't know. But I am certain it was a necessary thing. Part of spiritual growth is about observing and being observed. But still, it is prayer is a private thing and it is a holy thing. Yet it is a gift to be received with grace and given with grace.
I recall once at Perkins, one of my professors 'caught' me in prayer. At some point he decided to let me know he was present. I never quite know what happens when I pray, but I know we became fast friends. Especially in a Methodist school, where perhaps certain prayer styles are quite foreign, even to people who prefer to pray without a text. In one of the many books he wrote, he signed in it something like "to Cindy, whose caritas is great" (I could dig it out, but I am not at home) I never really wanted to explore what he meant, with knowledge comes responsibility. I have spent a great many years trying to 'down play' my relationship with God. As I am growing older, I am beginning to fear that God might not be pleased with me for hiding what I know to be true.
I thought becoming a Methodist minister would be sufficient for Him, truthfully for me. It was good, but not good enough. I thought that move was outrageously bold and I thoroughly expected to be stopped and called out for the fraud that I was. But it wasn't until I did something deliberately wrong (at least in my eyes) that I could go ahead and blame someone else for my failure in that work. But the truth is I never failed in the work I set out to do. For a handful of people, I did exactly the right thing. And that was enough for a lifetime. But with the changing of the guard, more demands were made of things I did not consider important and I lost respect for myself and my position.
I realized that I must either give all of myself to God or it was as if I was giving Him nothing at all. Now such criteria is not required of all lovers of God...at least I am not going to make the rules on this here, but for me, I cannot love anyone half-way. And if someone loves me, I expect that person to love me completely, just as I am (thank you Bridget Jones, for pointing that out)or please don't profess something you are not willing to give.
Now that appears to present problems. How could I ask anyone to take me just as I am? My question back is: How can anyone really love only part of a person? If you love only part of someone, you are in love with a particular behavior or status or physical attribute...and that is not love, in my opinion. Affection perhaps. I will have to think about this one some more to explain it better.
God calls us to love one another as we love ourselves. How do we love ourselves? In parts? Do I love my eyes only or do I love the wrinkles around them as well? Do I dissect myself and score myself on desirability? If I do, I remain miserable because there is always areas for improvement. On me, the list would be endless, so it is almost easy to let go of attainment of physical perfection. If I seek to correct a certain area (and I am focusing on a few this January) it is so that I can do the work I feel called to do more efficiently, knowing that even if I fail, God will get the work done without me.
I see I have left my original thoughts again for a rabbit trail. Prayer. That intimate relationship each of us has with God. Unique, dynamic, passionate, vulnerable. Exquisite. Priceless. Timeless.
Think about it. What we say to God in this one moment...or what God says to us in this one moment...is as timeless as the Word of God Himself. He hears our prayers to Him in a way that transcends time. Think of all the prayers you have ever prayed being woven into a wonderful warm quilt that God takes covers both us and Him into a snuggle where, if we ever knew a mother's love, it would be that kind of feeling. The one who gave you life, the one who created you and cherishes you, leans over you and bends into what has been created and covers you without ever resisting your individuality, giving you freedom within her protection.
You can crawl out from her arms, or his arms, and leave the quilt behind and stand in the cold world and try to do it on your own. God will not stop you, but when you grow tired of not finding what you want 'out there,' you can return to the quilt and to her arms and just say "Hold me until I feel better."
Such was yesterday for me. During my second prayer for the day, I laid down on the floor and I asked God to hold me. I have things to do now and I do not know how to do them. I'm a talker and I like to process out loud, but these thoughts are not for public consumption yet. But writing about thinking about the ideas helps. And if I write honestly, it may encourage someone out there to risk loving God completely.
Thank would make me very happy. Risk love with God. It makes it so much easier to risk love with everyone else.
Happy New Year!
Love, Cindy
I recall once at Perkins, one of my professors 'caught' me in prayer. At some point he decided to let me know he was present. I never quite know what happens when I pray, but I know we became fast friends. Especially in a Methodist school, where perhaps certain prayer styles are quite foreign, even to people who prefer to pray without a text. In one of the many books he wrote, he signed in it something like "to Cindy, whose caritas is great" (I could dig it out, but I am not at home) I never really wanted to explore what he meant, with knowledge comes responsibility. I have spent a great many years trying to 'down play' my relationship with God. As I am growing older, I am beginning to fear that God might not be pleased with me for hiding what I know to be true.
I thought becoming a Methodist minister would be sufficient for Him, truthfully for me. It was good, but not good enough. I thought that move was outrageously bold and I thoroughly expected to be stopped and called out for the fraud that I was. But it wasn't until I did something deliberately wrong (at least in my eyes) that I could go ahead and blame someone else for my failure in that work. But the truth is I never failed in the work I set out to do. For a handful of people, I did exactly the right thing. And that was enough for a lifetime. But with the changing of the guard, more demands were made of things I did not consider important and I lost respect for myself and my position.
I realized that I must either give all of myself to God or it was as if I was giving Him nothing at all. Now such criteria is not required of all lovers of God...at least I am not going to make the rules on this here, but for me, I cannot love anyone half-way. And if someone loves me, I expect that person to love me completely, just as I am (thank you Bridget Jones, for pointing that out)or please don't profess something you are not willing to give.
Now that appears to present problems. How could I ask anyone to take me just as I am? My question back is: How can anyone really love only part of a person? If you love only part of someone, you are in love with a particular behavior or status or physical attribute...and that is not love, in my opinion. Affection perhaps. I will have to think about this one some more to explain it better.
God calls us to love one another as we love ourselves. How do we love ourselves? In parts? Do I love my eyes only or do I love the wrinkles around them as well? Do I dissect myself and score myself on desirability? If I do, I remain miserable because there is always areas for improvement. On me, the list would be endless, so it is almost easy to let go of attainment of physical perfection. If I seek to correct a certain area (and I am focusing on a few this January) it is so that I can do the work I feel called to do more efficiently, knowing that even if I fail, God will get the work done without me.
I see I have left my original thoughts again for a rabbit trail. Prayer. That intimate relationship each of us has with God. Unique, dynamic, passionate, vulnerable. Exquisite. Priceless. Timeless.
Think about it. What we say to God in this one moment...or what God says to us in this one moment...is as timeless as the Word of God Himself. He hears our prayers to Him in a way that transcends time. Think of all the prayers you have ever prayed being woven into a wonderful warm quilt that God takes covers both us and Him into a snuggle where, if we ever knew a mother's love, it would be that kind of feeling. The one who gave you life, the one who created you and cherishes you, leans over you and bends into what has been created and covers you without ever resisting your individuality, giving you freedom within her protection.
You can crawl out from her arms, or his arms, and leave the quilt behind and stand in the cold world and try to do it on your own. God will not stop you, but when you grow tired of not finding what you want 'out there,' you can return to the quilt and to her arms and just say "Hold me until I feel better."
Such was yesterday for me. During my second prayer for the day, I laid down on the floor and I asked God to hold me. I have things to do now and I do not know how to do them. I'm a talker and I like to process out loud, but these thoughts are not for public consumption yet. But writing about thinking about the ideas helps. And if I write honestly, it may encourage someone out there to risk loving God completely.
Thank would make me very happy. Risk love with God. It makes it so much easier to risk love with everyone else.
Happy New Year!
Love, Cindy
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