I normally don't write this late in the day. The last entry, I think needs re-doing, but I'm leaving it alone. When the time comes to put 'the book' together and tell the story a bit better...maybe when I know where I will be in a year...maybe then.
I've got "Whale Rider" on TV. A great movie about a little girl born to be a leader, but because she was a girl, her grandfather did not believe she could lead. Watched it yesterday. Pulled a Hannah in the Sanctuary this morning and then went to a Bible Study where I realized I've been pulling "Hannah's" for some time, and then came home to lunch, hit play and there it was again: "Whale Rider."
Where do we belong? Who are we? What does God require? Add the phrase "of women" and the answers change dramatically.
Each morning of late, I stand before the dawn at the church, before I enter into the church, and pray St Patrick's Breastplate. Nothing quite like it at dawn. Christ before me. Christ in me. Christ on my right. Christ on my left. And all those other wonderful words: I arise today...in the belief in the threeness, in the confession of the oneness of the creator of creation.
And the sun shines on me. Or not. But if I don't pray it, my day just doesn't feel right.
Many times, I play the piano...usually three "Hail Marys" along with a silent recitation of the Angelus. Depends on how scared I am of the people who now keep showing up earlier and earlier to Mass. They like it when I play. They tolerate the wrong notes, but now they are comfortable enough with me to know when its a "good" day or a "bad" day with my music. I haven't mastered putting people out of my mind as I play. I admire any musician who can play for an audience. It still terrifies me.
Today I prayed. I stood at the altar, my back to the dawn, my face to the crucifix and a stillness came over me and I felt heavy, thinking if I could, I would turn to liquid and melt into the altar. Why, I can't tell you. I wept in just realizing the gift of my own life. And I wept for all the pain in the world. And I remembered staining the altar on 18th street with my tears 15 years ago. I wondered why I was still doing this. Why is it so satisfying and cleansing to weep?
I turned to the dawn and saw the lady who arrives sometimes before me, walking with her cane back to her car. She comes every morning to replace the votive candles that rest below the statues of Mary and St Joseph and St Elizabeth and some others. Her job is to make sure that when people come to pray, they have a candle to light.
Every day she comes. Sets the candles up and goes home.
I looked at her from the altar and wept more. I was watching beauty. I was watching the Body of Christ. He wasn't just next to me. He wasn't just before me. He was completely surrounding me. He was still in the pews that were empty at that moment, He was on the altar, before the altar, outside in the woman, in the tree and in the sun and in the sparkling of the stained glass windows.
Beauty. Grace. Mercy. Joy.
And when I'm around, tears.
Do I belong at the altar? God calls me there. God joins me there. But as a woman, do I belong there? I can't answer that question. But when I am there, the Father and I are One. I feel it. I know it. It is truth.
And what I receive there is more than peace or consolation, it seems even greater than love if there is a thing greater than love. It fills me up and says Go and do likewise. It alone makes me beautiful...or at least believe I am beautiful. And it shows me how deeply connected we are to each other.
So when no one looking and I think God and I are alone, I will return there and receive whatever He chooses to share...
and I'm kind of thinking, if I can just be open enough...that would be everything. He would share everything with me.
And being a woman simply wouldn't be an issue for Him.
Be brave. Ask for the miracle. Then open your hands to catch it!
Love, Cindy
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
For Ellen
What can I possibly say about a woman who has known me since I was twelve years old and still likes me? I can call her a saint. Before we were sixteen and while we were still saving our pennies to buy our "ten speed" bicycles, we would talk about the future we would share together. I never really thought we would share so much, but by God's grace, we have shared our lives in amazing ways. I think about the movie "Beaches" and that song "Wind Beneath My Wings." Ellen was that amazing friend who seemed to only see the best in me. She had eight brothers and sisters. I was an only child. I don't know how she had the time to think about me at all.
Our lives are so intertwined, so influenced by each other...although I think I was the one doing most of the influencing. Like Lucille Ball, I had a thousand hair-brained schemes, and my sweet Ellen went along for the ride...literally...on many occasions. Have ten-speed will travel. I could wait to fly out and away and I learned from Ellen that I didn't have to do it alone.
She was timid. I was brave. But I think she was and is a thousand times stronger than me. I love her so completely. I can never repay her for her love for me. And when I realize that God loves us even more than that...well...wow!
So here's to the bike story. One more time. We tell it every holiday we share together, like her six foot plus brother John running around in diapers on the driveway. Like Carter King, the guy I SHOULD have married...who was the most handsome man I have ever seen, but kissed like an 8th grader (sorry, Carter!)Ah, but Ellen loved his horse, Liz. Ellen was always more practical than me.
The greatest, and perhaps most dangerous adventure I talked her into was riding from San Antonio to New Braunfels. In cut-offs and halter-tops. Before the days of sunscreen. With maybe one bottle of water and two dollars between us.
Let's go to Stinky's and float down the river. Stinky's an old paper mill that had been shut down. It still had remnants of the building and the dam built to use the Comal River for energy to run part of the mill. Beautiful stone walls forced the water to flow in certain directions. You had to walk across an old wooden plank about six inched wide to get to the "deck" where all of us hippie wanna be's could sun ourselves. Float down about a half a mile and you would get to Warneke, where you had to pay a whole dollar to get in the water. But if you got in at Stinky's, you didn't have to pay anything.
Our thought was "God made the river, how come man has the right to charge a dollar for us to float in it?" That question was right up there with the "Why is there the Viet Nam War? HOw many boys are going to die today?"
Times were different.
Ellen agreed to the trip and we headed out from my house without telling anyone where we were going or what we were doing. Bandanas, halters, cut-offs and sandals. I even MADE my halter-top from a Butterick pattern using about a yard of cotton fabric. We were such earth mothers!
When we hit the hit at 1604 (where 1604 intersects Interstate 35--what they have still nick-named "death road," I saw the sign that said, "San Antonio 16 New Braunfels 16" and I thought wow, 32 miles one way. That's a bit longer than I thought it would be.
We rode on the access road...thank God there was one all the way to New Braunfels! I was always in the lead, urging Ellen to press on. Only once did a car almost hit her. Back then, bikes were not common on the road and definitely not common on highways. I kept yelling, pedal harder! as I watched the man who was not paying attention almost roll into her backside.
It did provide us with the adrenalin to get us the rest of the way to San Antonio Blvd in downtown New Braunfels. And oh, what reward to coast along the streets of New Braunfels and smell the water in everything around us.
Parked our bikes next to a sycamore, locked them up, threw my sandals aside and headed for the water. I was so hot and thirsty. Walked across the little board as if it wasn't there. Jumped in the cold (about 65 degree) water.
You can guess what happened next.
My legs went completely numb. Cramped up. I don't recall pain, I recall not being able to navigate the rushing water. I began to shout to the people lying around on the banks, "Help!" "Yo, dude!" I heard back...a little too stoned or drunk, they just waved and smiled and watched me float on the way to the Golf of Mexico...which is what I began to think would happen for real if I didn't find help soon. I know Ellen wasn't far away from me, but I was too scared to wonder how she was handling our little trip. Finally some lean, tanned dude in cut-offs stepped into the water and drew me to the bank.
"Thanks, man."
We probably made the float about three times. Muddy and happy, we were free spirits, hanging with the people who knew that all this war and corporate crap was a waste of human energy. Just gotta love your brother, man. Watergate, Viet Nam, Agent Orange, SALT Talks, Martin and Bobby, Chief Joseph, air pollution, water pollution, the Projects...just hang on the river, man. Buy three tacos for a dollar and Jack-in-the box and a gallon of Spanada (sangria wine) for about a buck-fifty and the rest of that stuff didn't matter. You had the river. God's river. And maybe the Doobie Brother's Black Water playing on a transistor radio of the bank tuned to KONO 86 AM.
Are you completely bored yet? I'm not.
All was fine until about 4-5 p.m. when it finally dawns on my little brain that we actually have to RIDE our bikes another 32 miles back home. I cannot begin to describe how much I think I grew up in those few moments when I realized what I had done, what I had talked Ellen into.
Seemed like a good episode for I Love Lucy to me.
Ellen, we have got to find a way home. Our parents will KILL us when the hear what we did. At least mine will. Ellen's gift of eight brothers and sisters guaranteed a little bit of mercy for her...but me, an only...I would hear about it FOREVER.
So we find a ride home. We put our bikes in the back of a beat up Ford or Chevy truck. I'm leaning against the side and enjoying the wind in my face and Ellen is sitting across from me.
Man, Ellen, I'm sure glad you knew this guy. I don't know how we would have gotten home without him.
I knew him? Cindy, I thought YOU knew him!
Ah, the adventure continues. The tall, lanky, shirtless, long curly haired dude unloads our bikes around Loop 410 and Nacadoches. (I'm misspelling that!)
Later, dude.
And oh my, our backs probably peeled for about a month!
And we've had something to talk about for almost 40 years.
You have those stories in you.
Write them down. Poorly if you have to, but write them down.
We are a people of the story. Our bodies will whither away to nothing. Our minds will forget. In old age, we might forget that we loved once and we loved well. We hurt once. We thought the world would end when our first love walked away.
Last night, at Heartpaths, we discussed rituals. Half of us in the room have lived through a divorce. We discussed our rituals that got us through the most painful times of our lives. And we laughed. Loudly. Because we lived through it.
Remembering that we lived through the darkness, that we persevered. That we still breathe.
And that ties into the Mass. The Liturgy. The Eucharistic Prayer. The Easter Vigil.
We remember who we are. We remember we survived. We remember the love.
When I thought about killing myself after the divorce, because I couldn't handle...or didn't want to handle the pain anymore, I thought of Ellen and that crazy bicycle adventure, when we could have cashed it in about a thousand times that day, but we didn't. We lived.
And I think about the love we have shared as friends for so long. And how that love never went away.
Like God's love. Even when we didn't think He was there, He was there.
And we take another step. And like this very moment, as I look out the window at Panera, the clouds burn away and the sun shines through. We need the rain as much as we need the sun.
The secret of life is to live it. Write it down. Someday someone will want to know who you were...
Love, Cindy
Our lives are so intertwined, so influenced by each other...although I think I was the one doing most of the influencing. Like Lucille Ball, I had a thousand hair-brained schemes, and my sweet Ellen went along for the ride...literally...on many occasions. Have ten-speed will travel. I could wait to fly out and away and I learned from Ellen that I didn't have to do it alone.
She was timid. I was brave. But I think she was and is a thousand times stronger than me. I love her so completely. I can never repay her for her love for me. And when I realize that God loves us even more than that...well...wow!
So here's to the bike story. One more time. We tell it every holiday we share together, like her six foot plus brother John running around in diapers on the driveway. Like Carter King, the guy I SHOULD have married...who was the most handsome man I have ever seen, but kissed like an 8th grader (sorry, Carter!)Ah, but Ellen loved his horse, Liz. Ellen was always more practical than me.
The greatest, and perhaps most dangerous adventure I talked her into was riding from San Antonio to New Braunfels. In cut-offs and halter-tops. Before the days of sunscreen. With maybe one bottle of water and two dollars between us.
Let's go to Stinky's and float down the river. Stinky's an old paper mill that had been shut down. It still had remnants of the building and the dam built to use the Comal River for energy to run part of the mill. Beautiful stone walls forced the water to flow in certain directions. You had to walk across an old wooden plank about six inched wide to get to the "deck" where all of us hippie wanna be's could sun ourselves. Float down about a half a mile and you would get to Warneke, where you had to pay a whole dollar to get in the water. But if you got in at Stinky's, you didn't have to pay anything.
Our thought was "God made the river, how come man has the right to charge a dollar for us to float in it?" That question was right up there with the "Why is there the Viet Nam War? HOw many boys are going to die today?"
Times were different.
Ellen agreed to the trip and we headed out from my house without telling anyone where we were going or what we were doing. Bandanas, halters, cut-offs and sandals. I even MADE my halter-top from a Butterick pattern using about a yard of cotton fabric. We were such earth mothers!
When we hit the hit at 1604 (where 1604 intersects Interstate 35--what they have still nick-named "death road," I saw the sign that said, "San Antonio 16 New Braunfels 16" and I thought wow, 32 miles one way. That's a bit longer than I thought it would be.
We rode on the access road...thank God there was one all the way to New Braunfels! I was always in the lead, urging Ellen to press on. Only once did a car almost hit her. Back then, bikes were not common on the road and definitely not common on highways. I kept yelling, pedal harder! as I watched the man who was not paying attention almost roll into her backside.
It did provide us with the adrenalin to get us the rest of the way to San Antonio Blvd in downtown New Braunfels. And oh, what reward to coast along the streets of New Braunfels and smell the water in everything around us.
Parked our bikes next to a sycamore, locked them up, threw my sandals aside and headed for the water. I was so hot and thirsty. Walked across the little board as if it wasn't there. Jumped in the cold (about 65 degree) water.
You can guess what happened next.
My legs went completely numb. Cramped up. I don't recall pain, I recall not being able to navigate the rushing water. I began to shout to the people lying around on the banks, "Help!" "Yo, dude!" I heard back...a little too stoned or drunk, they just waved and smiled and watched me float on the way to the Golf of Mexico...which is what I began to think would happen for real if I didn't find help soon. I know Ellen wasn't far away from me, but I was too scared to wonder how she was handling our little trip. Finally some lean, tanned dude in cut-offs stepped into the water and drew me to the bank.
"Thanks, man."
We probably made the float about three times. Muddy and happy, we were free spirits, hanging with the people who knew that all this war and corporate crap was a waste of human energy. Just gotta love your brother, man. Watergate, Viet Nam, Agent Orange, SALT Talks, Martin and Bobby, Chief Joseph, air pollution, water pollution, the Projects...just hang on the river, man. Buy three tacos for a dollar and Jack-in-the box and a gallon of Spanada (sangria wine) for about a buck-fifty and the rest of that stuff didn't matter. You had the river. God's river. And maybe the Doobie Brother's Black Water playing on a transistor radio of the bank tuned to KONO 86 AM.
Are you completely bored yet? I'm not.
All was fine until about 4-5 p.m. when it finally dawns on my little brain that we actually have to RIDE our bikes another 32 miles back home. I cannot begin to describe how much I think I grew up in those few moments when I realized what I had done, what I had talked Ellen into.
Seemed like a good episode for I Love Lucy to me.
Ellen, we have got to find a way home. Our parents will KILL us when the hear what we did. At least mine will. Ellen's gift of eight brothers and sisters guaranteed a little bit of mercy for her...but me, an only...I would hear about it FOREVER.
So we find a ride home. We put our bikes in the back of a beat up Ford or Chevy truck. I'm leaning against the side and enjoying the wind in my face and Ellen is sitting across from me.
Man, Ellen, I'm sure glad you knew this guy. I don't know how we would have gotten home without him.
I knew him? Cindy, I thought YOU knew him!
Ah, the adventure continues. The tall, lanky, shirtless, long curly haired dude unloads our bikes around Loop 410 and Nacadoches. (I'm misspelling that!)
Later, dude.
And oh my, our backs probably peeled for about a month!
And we've had something to talk about for almost 40 years.
You have those stories in you.
Write them down. Poorly if you have to, but write them down.
We are a people of the story. Our bodies will whither away to nothing. Our minds will forget. In old age, we might forget that we loved once and we loved well. We hurt once. We thought the world would end when our first love walked away.
Last night, at Heartpaths, we discussed rituals. Half of us in the room have lived through a divorce. We discussed our rituals that got us through the most painful times of our lives. And we laughed. Loudly. Because we lived through it.
Remembering that we lived through the darkness, that we persevered. That we still breathe.
And that ties into the Mass. The Liturgy. The Eucharistic Prayer. The Easter Vigil.
We remember who we are. We remember we survived. We remember the love.
When I thought about killing myself after the divorce, because I couldn't handle...or didn't want to handle the pain anymore, I thought of Ellen and that crazy bicycle adventure, when we could have cashed it in about a thousand times that day, but we didn't. We lived.
And I think about the love we have shared as friends for so long. And how that love never went away.
Like God's love. Even when we didn't think He was there, He was there.
And we take another step. And like this very moment, as I look out the window at Panera, the clouds burn away and the sun shines through. We need the rain as much as we need the sun.
The secret of life is to live it. Write it down. Someday someone will want to know who you were...
Love, Cindy
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Bread of Life
As Fr Henry was celebrating Mass, he spoke about our gift of Jesus through the sacrament. Our readings are John 6 this week, the whole "I am the Bread of Life" theme. I didn't intentionally write about that yesterday, but as it always happens, I am reminded that I have spiritual connection with God that 'tells' me what to do that day, and it sometimes scares me when I arrive at Mass or check out some Catholic source and find out that it is exactly what the Church is doing...OK, it kind of "creeps me out," too. Why am I so linked into that which so often frustrates me, that which I argue with incessantly? How does HE know...and why does HE want me to know...I have been aware of this 'link with the universe' for about 15 years, but when I reflect on my life, I see it has always been there.
AND I am certain, that if YOU actually take the time to reflect on your own personal journey...you are going to find God was there with you, too...every step of the way, even the ones you didn't want anyone to know about!
So Fr Henry talks about the astonishing gift of Eucharist and I am reminded of a teaching I harped on in the Methodist Church, something that people spoke back to be often...especially when they were frustrated.
I told them, probably on a retreat, that when we enter into the Sacrifice of the "Last Supper" (I am thinking I used that kind of terminology with them), we are morally bound within Jewish law to each other at the "table." I mean, in Jewish tradition, if you share a meal with someone, you no longer have the right to kill that person. I don't know where I got that idea. I'm sure someone said it to me. But, if I break bread with you...I lose my right to kill you. And that means in any form. Not only must I honor your human body, I must honor your human mind and soul and spirit.
Think about how cool that would be...if Mass is always "one Mass" united with the whole world, as we pray in the Eucharist prayer and spoken of in the gospel of John: "May they be one, just as you and I, Father, are One." Well, then, if we really listened, then we'd have to stop all the wars and violence and cruelty and slander toward each other...In fact, if we are One with Christ, then when we sin against another, we are also sinning against ourselves.
If I hurt you, then I am hurting me, too. Not to hard to get to that conclusion. If I forgive you, then I am forgiving me. Dare to believe it? Hope you try.
If I don't forgive you, then I don't forgive myself. I put a wall between me and the One who loves me best. What a foolish thing to do!
Jesus said, I am the Bread of Life
Holy Father...and today I call you Father...you love us in spite of our fear to give all we have to you. You wait at the door of your great home, watching down the road, the long dusty road we took so long ago because we thought we could do it ourselves, we thought faith was a sign of weakness and belief a marker of ignorance. We thought to be fully human we needed to cast aside any need for God, that the world could work just fine without You.
And then, as the world hit us again and again with senseless injury, we still believed we could do it alone. Belief was just a sign of weakness. All we needed was a bit more exercise, a few more books and we could figure it out and make it all right without You.
And then we were hit with the unimaginable. We found a problem we could not solve, or maybe we were just tired of trying. Some of us, sadly, give way to the darkness and end the gift of life rather than surrender to You.
Even those Lord, you continue to wait for at your door.
But when we grow tired of fighting the world alone, and winning, yet still feeling empty, we look at the ground, or a raindrop or a flower or maybe our own pain which will not leave us...and we start to connect again with the Divine.
The wind blows gently across our ear and we know it is the kiss of the Divine, your urging us to come home, that love waits there for us and longs for us.
What was that? The breeze? But we know it was not the breeze. It is you. A kiss. A reminder of what we had long ago. Of what we can have again. Just turn around and walk back home.
And the Father, who sees that we have turned, weeps with joy. And when the moment is just right, He picks up his robe and begins to run toward us...and when we finally lift our eyes from the ground, for all we could do in the beginning was just watch our feet taking one step after another, we look up and are amazed...He wants us back...He wants me back...really wants me back.
And the fire inside burns again as we come closer and closer to each other. So hot you think you will just burn up but you don't. Each step brings more healing, more joy. And suddenly, you know you have found your bliss.
Father, help them to know what you have shown me. Help them find their way. Make them brave. Give them water along the way. And set their hearts on fire for you...
I guess I could say that's how I pray without the books. Kind of out there, but hey, why not?
Love, Cindy
AND I am certain, that if YOU actually take the time to reflect on your own personal journey...you are going to find God was there with you, too...every step of the way, even the ones you didn't want anyone to know about!
So Fr Henry talks about the astonishing gift of Eucharist and I am reminded of a teaching I harped on in the Methodist Church, something that people spoke back to be often...especially when they were frustrated.
I told them, probably on a retreat, that when we enter into the Sacrifice of the "Last Supper" (I am thinking I used that kind of terminology with them), we are morally bound within Jewish law to each other at the "table." I mean, in Jewish tradition, if you share a meal with someone, you no longer have the right to kill that person. I don't know where I got that idea. I'm sure someone said it to me. But, if I break bread with you...I lose my right to kill you. And that means in any form. Not only must I honor your human body, I must honor your human mind and soul and spirit.
Think about how cool that would be...if Mass is always "one Mass" united with the whole world, as we pray in the Eucharist prayer and spoken of in the gospel of John: "May they be one, just as you and I, Father, are One." Well, then, if we really listened, then we'd have to stop all the wars and violence and cruelty and slander toward each other...In fact, if we are One with Christ, then when we sin against another, we are also sinning against ourselves.
If I hurt you, then I am hurting me, too. Not to hard to get to that conclusion. If I forgive you, then I am forgiving me. Dare to believe it? Hope you try.
If I don't forgive you, then I don't forgive myself. I put a wall between me and the One who loves me best. What a foolish thing to do!
Jesus said, I am the Bread of Life
Holy Father...and today I call you Father...you love us in spite of our fear to give all we have to you. You wait at the door of your great home, watching down the road, the long dusty road we took so long ago because we thought we could do it ourselves, we thought faith was a sign of weakness and belief a marker of ignorance. We thought to be fully human we needed to cast aside any need for God, that the world could work just fine without You.
And then, as the world hit us again and again with senseless injury, we still believed we could do it alone. Belief was just a sign of weakness. All we needed was a bit more exercise, a few more books and we could figure it out and make it all right without You.
And then we were hit with the unimaginable. We found a problem we could not solve, or maybe we were just tired of trying. Some of us, sadly, give way to the darkness and end the gift of life rather than surrender to You.
Even those Lord, you continue to wait for at your door.
But when we grow tired of fighting the world alone, and winning, yet still feeling empty, we look at the ground, or a raindrop or a flower or maybe our own pain which will not leave us...and we start to connect again with the Divine.
The wind blows gently across our ear and we know it is the kiss of the Divine, your urging us to come home, that love waits there for us and longs for us.
What was that? The breeze? But we know it was not the breeze. It is you. A kiss. A reminder of what we had long ago. Of what we can have again. Just turn around and walk back home.
And the Father, who sees that we have turned, weeps with joy. And when the moment is just right, He picks up his robe and begins to run toward us...and when we finally lift our eyes from the ground, for all we could do in the beginning was just watch our feet taking one step after another, we look up and are amazed...He wants us back...He wants me back...really wants me back.
And the fire inside burns again as we come closer and closer to each other. So hot you think you will just burn up but you don't. Each step brings more healing, more joy. And suddenly, you know you have found your bliss.
Father, help them to know what you have shown me. Help them find their way. Make them brave. Give them water along the way. And set their hearts on fire for you...
I guess I could say that's how I pray without the books. Kind of out there, but hey, why not?
Love, Cindy
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Homer Smith and Thomas a Kempis
I wrote that on the back of a hospital roster while driving in my car yesterday. I had a scathingly brilliant idea for a blog entry that now, even with those few words, I cannot recall their purpose. I tried carrying a tape recorder in the car back in the 80s and that didn't help either.
Why is it that all the great ideas arrive when you are doing something else?
I know I have written about peripheral vision before, but I don't know if I have written it here.
I was once married to an astronomer. Back in those days, at Texas A%M, things seemed so much simpler...and they were for awhile. I would teach undergraduate astronomy labs at night on the golf course, under the tutelage of my then boss, later husband and I sounded oh so smart to my students. Bob was an excellent teacher, one of the clearest thinkers I have known (at least in science!)so he made me look good to others.
One thing he taught me was how to properly look through a telescope. In those days, long ago, we would be out in the woods near Dr. Ron Schorn's house with maybe an 8" refractor telescope...may looking at M31...and I said, "I can't see it." and he told me to look off to the side and I would see it with my peripheral vision. I diverted my eyes to a corner in the viewer an lo! a small cloud of stars appeared in the corner of my eye! Perhaps a bit of irony here, this man, who taught me how to see, only had sight in one eye.
His lens was pierced by a pyracanths thorn when he was about ten years old. He had something like 13 eye operations on it before he was 20. A man with only one good eye decided to be an astronomer. Go figure.
But I would not have met him otherwise. My passions back then were music, theater and outer space. I wanted to live in the stars, play the piano and recite poetry on stage to a captive audience. I sang to God in the woods almost every morning before dawn. I know I bring that up often, but when I do, I can still smell the leaves and the earth...just as when I hear the morning birds offer their prayers, I go back to those moments when life was simple. Or simpler.
Pulled out Thomas a Kempis yesterday. Randomly select a CD. Put it in the car. "Chapter 5: Communion" Oh hell. I listen. Talk about Holy Communion and I get all strange inside. Body and Blood of Christ...I suppose I could write about it, but its just too much. Too personal. Can you believe that? Something I am not ready to share. Oh hell.
I pull out my Breviary. What's the topic yesterday? Communion. Argh!
Now I remember...
Thomas A Kempis tells us to think about what it might be like to only communicate (go to Holy Communion) once a year. A long time ago, that was how it was for people. Only on rare occasions did the congregation get to receive Communion. Only once in a great while were people allowed to receive the Body of Christ...and the Blood of Christ was not even an option until the 1960s. Thomas writes about that longing for God, that deep hunger for a physical encounter with the divine. And that is what happens with Holy Communion.
It's not just a memory of what happened 2000 years ago. It's a full, head-on encounter with the perfect, most loving, compassionate One who longs to be one with us even more than we long to be with Him. It is a primal hunger between the creator and the created. The separation desires to return itself to be complete again.
So that is in my mind, as I listen to Thomas' words...and I am thinking about longing and waiting...and suddenly I see in my head a scene from Lilies of the Field: I see these nuns walking down a dusty dirt road on their way to Mass on Sunday morning, several miles from their convent...to a diner on the highway where a priest celebrates Mass from the back of his truck. And all the Hispanic people gather out in the early morning heat of the Arizona desert...to receive Holy Communion.
And I think about how I get to go to Mass everyday...and how some people have to go to work...and others are too weak to drive or don't have a car...
and I think about those people who could be there, but they don't know, they don't understand...the gift that is given in these few minutes of their day
And I think, "I know" and "I can" and then I start to cry, because for some unexplained reason, God has allowed me this gift. This amazing gift. His gift of Himself.
When I look off to the side, as I am at Mass...I see all these things. And I want the world to see them, too.
I don't know if I explained this well enough, but like the note in the car...its a start.
Love,
Cindy
ilies of the Field is one of my top ten movies
Why is it that all the great ideas arrive when you are doing something else?
I know I have written about peripheral vision before, but I don't know if I have written it here.
I was once married to an astronomer. Back in those days, at Texas A%M, things seemed so much simpler...and they were for awhile. I would teach undergraduate astronomy labs at night on the golf course, under the tutelage of my then boss, later husband and I sounded oh so smart to my students. Bob was an excellent teacher, one of the clearest thinkers I have known (at least in science!)so he made me look good to others.
One thing he taught me was how to properly look through a telescope. In those days, long ago, we would be out in the woods near Dr. Ron Schorn's house with maybe an 8" refractor telescope...may looking at M31...and I said, "I can't see it." and he told me to look off to the side and I would see it with my peripheral vision. I diverted my eyes to a corner in the viewer an lo! a small cloud of stars appeared in the corner of my eye! Perhaps a bit of irony here, this man, who taught me how to see, only had sight in one eye.
His lens was pierced by a pyracanths thorn when he was about ten years old. He had something like 13 eye operations on it before he was 20. A man with only one good eye decided to be an astronomer. Go figure.
But I would not have met him otherwise. My passions back then were music, theater and outer space. I wanted to live in the stars, play the piano and recite poetry on stage to a captive audience. I sang to God in the woods almost every morning before dawn. I know I bring that up often, but when I do, I can still smell the leaves and the earth...just as when I hear the morning birds offer their prayers, I go back to those moments when life was simple. Or simpler.
Pulled out Thomas a Kempis yesterday. Randomly select a CD. Put it in the car. "Chapter 5: Communion" Oh hell. I listen. Talk about Holy Communion and I get all strange inside. Body and Blood of Christ...I suppose I could write about it, but its just too much. Too personal. Can you believe that? Something I am not ready to share. Oh hell.
I pull out my Breviary. What's the topic yesterday? Communion. Argh!
Now I remember...
Thomas A Kempis tells us to think about what it might be like to only communicate (go to Holy Communion) once a year. A long time ago, that was how it was for people. Only on rare occasions did the congregation get to receive Communion. Only once in a great while were people allowed to receive the Body of Christ...and the Blood of Christ was not even an option until the 1960s. Thomas writes about that longing for God, that deep hunger for a physical encounter with the divine. And that is what happens with Holy Communion.
It's not just a memory of what happened 2000 years ago. It's a full, head-on encounter with the perfect, most loving, compassionate One who longs to be one with us even more than we long to be with Him. It is a primal hunger between the creator and the created. The separation desires to return itself to be complete again.
So that is in my mind, as I listen to Thomas' words...and I am thinking about longing and waiting...and suddenly I see in my head a scene from Lilies of the Field: I see these nuns walking down a dusty dirt road on their way to Mass on Sunday morning, several miles from their convent...to a diner on the highway where a priest celebrates Mass from the back of his truck. And all the Hispanic people gather out in the early morning heat of the Arizona desert...to receive Holy Communion.
And I think about how I get to go to Mass everyday...and how some people have to go to work...and others are too weak to drive or don't have a car...
and I think about those people who could be there, but they don't know, they don't understand...the gift that is given in these few minutes of their day
And I think, "I know" and "I can" and then I start to cry, because for some unexplained reason, God has allowed me this gift. This amazing gift. His gift of Himself.
When I look off to the side, as I am at Mass...I see all these things. And I want the world to see them, too.
I don't know if I explained this well enough, but like the note in the car...its a start.
Love,
Cindy
ilies of the Field is one of my top ten movies
Sunday, April 18, 2010
addendum revised?
I posted this earlier. Then I took it off because I thought people were thinking it was about me. It really wasn't about me, it was about something that has upset me. When I see injustice, I have to fight it somehow. Generally, I've learned that just about everything that has happened in my life, good and bad, has a way of helping someone else. That makes both the bad and the good take on new meaning. It means that our lives are never wasted, we simply have to be present to what happens and why.
I have had some amazing couple of weeks. Just by being present an available to what is before me. Today, just by itself, took me by surprise. I'm thinking, if a person is in love with God...and God is in love with you...which He so very definitely is...then each day is full of surprise and meaning. I wish that for all of you.
I mean, I cannot believe for even a second that what is happening to me is particularly special. I just think that if you live each day as a gift from God and then give God that whole day back to him...well, even the bad stuff becomes good. I'm thinking that's how it might work.
Where can I start?
It is kind of mind-blowing for me to think that I have become a safe enough place for men to allow me to be present to their tears. I mean, I feel so blessed that a person can be real with me and not feel afraid. Women, I think, we women can cry together...but to have become a safe place for a man...well, I am humbled.
I am constantly "complimented" on my prayers. How can that be? I just listen to what they tell me and I pray it out loud. I didn't create the prayer, they did...but they think because it is my voice they hear, I'm saying it. But I am not saying it. They are saying it. Maybe I get to be brave for them. When the time comes, I'm sure, I'll need someone to be brave for me. But it is so warming inside to think I am helping. I can't hear my own voice, but people tell me I am a calming presence. Like my eyes, people say that they are beautiful, but I can't see them, so I have to take their word for it. I like to think God gave me these blue eyes to help others. Maybe they are the kind of eyes that make people feel safe. I hope so.
I am just so grateful for the work I get to do for God. I don't know how long I'll get to do it...it could all end tomorrow, but right now, I get to "love as He has loved me" and I'll just take today and let tomorrow be tomorrow.
I write this out for you, whoever reads this stuff, because I am begging you to do it too. Reach out, don't over-think it, don't set a goal, but really be present for the person God puts in front of you and see how He uses you to bless both of you. When the praise comes, and it will come, don't let your ego have it, just offer it back to God...thank God you have the chance to love someone for that moment and don't ask for more. I hope that makes some kind of sense.
If you fail, well, then that is grace too. It is all part of the lesson, the constant growth toward spiritual union with our beloved Father in heaven. If He wounds us, He heals us. If the world wounds us, He heals us.
But only if we let Him.
My challenge, I think, is how to be an advocate for someone who cannot yet speak for herself/himself. What might that look like? How do I help? What are my options?
But while I am trying to solve that problem, so many other wonderful things are happening.
Do you have any idea what it is like to pray a rosary with strangers? To teach someone how to pray? To tell them, Yes, of course Jesus wants you...and then get squeezed to tightly because it was the one thing they wanted to hear? To give/watch someone receive Holy Communion again for the first time in YEARS? To pray with someone who told you five minutes before "I don't want a prayer." To have someone tell you nothing, and then pray, and have them tell you everything that frightens them? And, for me, the hardest thing of all to hear is "thank you." How can anyone possible say thank you to me, when God alone deserves the thanks. Yet, I smile politely because it is the right thing to do and much to hard to explain during those moments...and would change the whole focus of the grace.
It's complicated. But it is not very hard to do. Just hard to explain.
If God gives you the opportunity to love, then love. Don't try to figure it out while it is happening. Just love...then write it down later, if you are like me...or go take a walk, or have a cup of tea...and just bask in the graces He gives you.
Probably should stop writing here...but oh, my so much more ahead!
May your week be blessed. May your eyes be open to see it, your ears open to hear it and your heart ready to feel it.
Love, Cindy
EARLIER POST RETURNED...the compliments I got about it have outweighed my insecurities about it...let it help those who need it Lord, and let those who don't just ignore it. It sounds a bit painful, I think...but the problem I am trying to solve is painful. I leave it here because I think I am reflecting back two very different views of the same things. I suppose I want to point out that grace works in a variety of ways. In the dark and in the light, it works. Grace doesn't care. It pours into all the spaces it can, the ones you know about...and delightfully all the ones you don't know about!
DNA
Part of my journey is a constant realization that everything and everyone is connected to everything and everyone else. We are all part of creation as we are all children of the creator.
In the challenges of my childhood, I longed for someone to hear me, someone to ask "What's wrong? Why are you sad?" But no one ever did. No one noticed. It would have been so nice back then to have had someone who noticed.
I think about that when I read that harsh passage in the back of Matthew's gospel: Lord, when did we see you hungry or naked or thirsty?
When you did/did not for the least of these, you did it for me.
So it the world does not listen, then one has to learn how to cry out differently.
Or you could be clever and use 'teacher' terms: 'act out' differently.
I say it over and over again, but all around me, I see most of us are just not listening. We don't want to hear anything but pleasant things and we are encouraged to be pleasant. Look good, play the role, and everything will be just fine. That's not really a bad thing to do...unless you are hurting and have no one to talk to.
So some of us run to God...some of us run to other things, perhaps things that don't really help but just distract us from our confusion and pain.
I found myself in a hospital room recently with a married couple who I have built up a relationship with. I don't know how to share, there is so much good and amazing things about this couple, they make me smile so often, but I can't tell you about those parts.
I can tell you that I walked in and he was looking out the window and crying. I could tell when I spoke with him on the phone last night that I needed to see him as much as I needed to see her. Yesterday I prayed and sang the Divine Mercy Chaplet with her, but today, God had provided and it belonged to him. We talked an hour.
I had a dozen other places I needed to be. I left my day unfinished. I was tired. But, I got to be with a real person. I got to be the listener. I was allowed by God to connect. I was honored with a story.
I have been honored with many stories. And I will listen until I go deaf. For a very selfish reason...no one ever listened to mine.
That is different now. Partly because I decided to try again. Partly because God brought me people who would really listen...and I have this unquenchable thirst for writing things down.
I learned to reach out in different ways. I learned from God that my tears are my gift. I leave them everywhere. In the beginning, it just happened. I'd look down at a church pew, on an a wooden altar and there they would be. In books, on clothes, over my hands and then onto the hands I touch. I am constantly aware of passing on part of who I am to who I am with. I bind us together in that moment of time, for all eternity. I will find a way. And it won't hurt you or frighten you and until today, no one would have ever thought about it at all.
But I am telling you because you need to know that you are connected, too. Each time you hear another person tell their truth, you are listening to God. Each time you you receied another person, you are living as Jesus lived. And Jesus, heal seals the bond with his covenant with us. He remembers what we did, why we did and how we did.
We leave our DNA on someone or on something where another person will reach out and touch and feel love, but will not know why she/he feels love. But a part of them will know, someone left this here for me. Someone is calling out. Someone is giving part of themselves to my journey.
In the midst of a week of great sadness, I held a young baby boy. A baby who I thought would not live, because he was born at a point when some women still abort their children...but this little one held on to life with all that he had. I remember the way the nurse walked away from his bed that first day and another nurse put her arm around her and held her. I remember praying and feeling helpless. I encountered nurses who shared hope and others who just wanted me to go away.
I sang to him "Jesus Loves Me" every time I saw him.
In the front of the church this week, I asked his parents Can I hold him? And mom covered my skin with antibacterial gel and then placed him in my arms. I felt the warmth of his head in bend of my elbow. At long last, we touched. He wasn't sure. And then I sang to him and he laughed and smiled the biggest smile that only babies can smile.
I looked at mom and dad, who having walked a long hard road, we beaming and proud. I thought, oh if every child could be surrounded by that much love our world would work as God intended.
There is more to say, but here is a good stopping point.
Touch each other. Leave your mark.
Love,
Cindy
I have had some amazing couple of weeks. Just by being present an available to what is before me. Today, just by itself, took me by surprise. I'm thinking, if a person is in love with God...and God is in love with you...which He so very definitely is...then each day is full of surprise and meaning. I wish that for all of you.
I mean, I cannot believe for even a second that what is happening to me is particularly special. I just think that if you live each day as a gift from God and then give God that whole day back to him...well, even the bad stuff becomes good. I'm thinking that's how it might work.
Where can I start?
It is kind of mind-blowing for me to think that I have become a safe enough place for men to allow me to be present to their tears. I mean, I feel so blessed that a person can be real with me and not feel afraid. Women, I think, we women can cry together...but to have become a safe place for a man...well, I am humbled.
I am constantly "complimented" on my prayers. How can that be? I just listen to what they tell me and I pray it out loud. I didn't create the prayer, they did...but they think because it is my voice they hear, I'm saying it. But I am not saying it. They are saying it. Maybe I get to be brave for them. When the time comes, I'm sure, I'll need someone to be brave for me. But it is so warming inside to think I am helping. I can't hear my own voice, but people tell me I am a calming presence. Like my eyes, people say that they are beautiful, but I can't see them, so I have to take their word for it. I like to think God gave me these blue eyes to help others. Maybe they are the kind of eyes that make people feel safe. I hope so.
I am just so grateful for the work I get to do for God. I don't know how long I'll get to do it...it could all end tomorrow, but right now, I get to "love as He has loved me" and I'll just take today and let tomorrow be tomorrow.
I write this out for you, whoever reads this stuff, because I am begging you to do it too. Reach out, don't over-think it, don't set a goal, but really be present for the person God puts in front of you and see how He uses you to bless both of you. When the praise comes, and it will come, don't let your ego have it, just offer it back to God...thank God you have the chance to love someone for that moment and don't ask for more. I hope that makes some kind of sense.
If you fail, well, then that is grace too. It is all part of the lesson, the constant growth toward spiritual union with our beloved Father in heaven. If He wounds us, He heals us. If the world wounds us, He heals us.
But only if we let Him.
My challenge, I think, is how to be an advocate for someone who cannot yet speak for herself/himself. What might that look like? How do I help? What are my options?
But while I am trying to solve that problem, so many other wonderful things are happening.
Do you have any idea what it is like to pray a rosary with strangers? To teach someone how to pray? To tell them, Yes, of course Jesus wants you...and then get squeezed to tightly because it was the one thing they wanted to hear? To give/watch someone receive Holy Communion again for the first time in YEARS? To pray with someone who told you five minutes before "I don't want a prayer." To have someone tell you nothing, and then pray, and have them tell you everything that frightens them? And, for me, the hardest thing of all to hear is "thank you." How can anyone possible say thank you to me, when God alone deserves the thanks. Yet, I smile politely because it is the right thing to do and much to hard to explain during those moments...and would change the whole focus of the grace.
It's complicated. But it is not very hard to do. Just hard to explain.
If God gives you the opportunity to love, then love. Don't try to figure it out while it is happening. Just love...then write it down later, if you are like me...or go take a walk, or have a cup of tea...and just bask in the graces He gives you.
Probably should stop writing here...but oh, my so much more ahead!
May your week be blessed. May your eyes be open to see it, your ears open to hear it and your heart ready to feel it.
Love, Cindy
EARLIER POST RETURNED...the compliments I got about it have outweighed my insecurities about it...let it help those who need it Lord, and let those who don't just ignore it. It sounds a bit painful, I think...but the problem I am trying to solve is painful. I leave it here because I think I am reflecting back two very different views of the same things. I suppose I want to point out that grace works in a variety of ways. In the dark and in the light, it works. Grace doesn't care. It pours into all the spaces it can, the ones you know about...and delightfully all the ones you don't know about!
DNA
Part of my journey is a constant realization that everything and everyone is connected to everything and everyone else. We are all part of creation as we are all children of the creator.
In the challenges of my childhood, I longed for someone to hear me, someone to ask "What's wrong? Why are you sad?" But no one ever did. No one noticed. It would have been so nice back then to have had someone who noticed.
I think about that when I read that harsh passage in the back of Matthew's gospel: Lord, when did we see you hungry or naked or thirsty?
When you did/did not for the least of these, you did it for me.
So it the world does not listen, then one has to learn how to cry out differently.
Or you could be clever and use 'teacher' terms: 'act out' differently.
I say it over and over again, but all around me, I see most of us are just not listening. We don't want to hear anything but pleasant things and we are encouraged to be pleasant. Look good, play the role, and everything will be just fine. That's not really a bad thing to do...unless you are hurting and have no one to talk to.
So some of us run to God...some of us run to other things, perhaps things that don't really help but just distract us from our confusion and pain.
I found myself in a hospital room recently with a married couple who I have built up a relationship with. I don't know how to share, there is so much good and amazing things about this couple, they make me smile so often, but I can't tell you about those parts.
I can tell you that I walked in and he was looking out the window and crying. I could tell when I spoke with him on the phone last night that I needed to see him as much as I needed to see her. Yesterday I prayed and sang the Divine Mercy Chaplet with her, but today, God had provided and it belonged to him. We talked an hour.
I had a dozen other places I needed to be. I left my day unfinished. I was tired. But, I got to be with a real person. I got to be the listener. I was allowed by God to connect. I was honored with a story.
I have been honored with many stories. And I will listen until I go deaf. For a very selfish reason...no one ever listened to mine.
That is different now. Partly because I decided to try again. Partly because God brought me people who would really listen...and I have this unquenchable thirst for writing things down.
I learned to reach out in different ways. I learned from God that my tears are my gift. I leave them everywhere. In the beginning, it just happened. I'd look down at a church pew, on an a wooden altar and there they would be. In books, on clothes, over my hands and then onto the hands I touch. I am constantly aware of passing on part of who I am to who I am with. I bind us together in that moment of time, for all eternity. I will find a way. And it won't hurt you or frighten you and until today, no one would have ever thought about it at all.
But I am telling you because you need to know that you are connected, too. Each time you hear another person tell their truth, you are listening to God. Each time you you receied another person, you are living as Jesus lived. And Jesus, heal seals the bond with his covenant with us. He remembers what we did, why we did and how we did.
We leave our DNA on someone or on something where another person will reach out and touch and feel love, but will not know why she/he feels love. But a part of them will know, someone left this here for me. Someone is calling out. Someone is giving part of themselves to my journey.
In the midst of a week of great sadness, I held a young baby boy. A baby who I thought would not live, because he was born at a point when some women still abort their children...but this little one held on to life with all that he had. I remember the way the nurse walked away from his bed that first day and another nurse put her arm around her and held her. I remember praying and feeling helpless. I encountered nurses who shared hope and others who just wanted me to go away.
I sang to him "Jesus Loves Me" every time I saw him.
In the front of the church this week, I asked his parents Can I hold him? And mom covered my skin with antibacterial gel and then placed him in my arms. I felt the warmth of his head in bend of my elbow. At long last, we touched. He wasn't sure. And then I sang to him and he laughed and smiled the biggest smile that only babies can smile.
I looked at mom and dad, who having walked a long hard road, we beaming and proud. I thought, oh if every child could be surrounded by that much love our world would work as God intended.
There is more to say, but here is a good stopping point.
Touch each other. Leave your mark.
Love,
Cindy
Monday, April 12, 2010
The Passion of Peter
A few months ago, my confessor pointed out to me that perhaps I am a bit like the apostle Peter. His observation took me by surprise and knocked me on the floor for a minute, but in my tears, I realized he was telling me something important about myself.
I am passionate for God. I suppose I always have been. Looking back with these eyes now, I see God's hand in everything, even in the darkest moments of my life. Teresa of Avila, yes, I bind to; Mother Mary, I hold in my own blood...but Peter...
And it made so much sense, once I could hear it. Peter claimed Yes Lord, more loudly and more often (perhaps) than the rest...and Peter fell from grace...often. But Peter had a tender heart and Jesus knew that heart could do His work well after he was gone, because Peter knew better than anyone else what it feels like to fall from grace and what it feels like to picked up and received in His arms again.
Peter was impulsive, capricious, passionate. He knew the truth about Jesus before the other apostles connected the dots. He professed his faith and then ran and hid. For a few moments Peter walked on water...until he took his eyes off of Jesus, perhaps because he was so excited or maybe for only a second began to question "How...?" and began to sink...and then Jesus quickly went to him and raised him up again.
He knew what it was like to believe...and then to doubt...and to believe again.
Yes, Lord, I will die with you.
I don't know him.
"Lord, you know everything, you know that I love you."
And Jesus says, "Feed my sheep."
Let the one who falls and fails lead my church.
And that is true. We are broken people, but we are still called to serve. Even in our brokenness...and maybe especially in our brokenness. For only one who has fallen can compassionately love those who have fallen, too.
So I suppose, for me, who has fallen so far from grace and still been received and blessed by grace...well, maybe I have something to give.
During an Ignatian Exercise experience about two years ago, I wept at the crucifix at Montserrat while on a private retreat. It was the first time I pulled the tears off my face and placed them on his feet and head. The crucifix was lower down behind the altar there. I poured my sadness onto Him who loved me anyway. It felt like the right thing to do. Mixing my DNA with his, in this moment of time, which is also eternity.
I have to post or I'll be bumped off...more soon.
Love, Cindy
I am passionate for God. I suppose I always have been. Looking back with these eyes now, I see God's hand in everything, even in the darkest moments of my life. Teresa of Avila, yes, I bind to; Mother Mary, I hold in my own blood...but Peter...
And it made so much sense, once I could hear it. Peter claimed Yes Lord, more loudly and more often (perhaps) than the rest...and Peter fell from grace...often. But Peter had a tender heart and Jesus knew that heart could do His work well after he was gone, because Peter knew better than anyone else what it feels like to fall from grace and what it feels like to picked up and received in His arms again.
Peter was impulsive, capricious, passionate. He knew the truth about Jesus before the other apostles connected the dots. He professed his faith and then ran and hid. For a few moments Peter walked on water...until he took his eyes off of Jesus, perhaps because he was so excited or maybe for only a second began to question "How...?" and began to sink...and then Jesus quickly went to him and raised him up again.
He knew what it was like to believe...and then to doubt...and to believe again.
Yes, Lord, I will die with you.
I don't know him.
"Lord, you know everything, you know that I love you."
And Jesus says, "Feed my sheep."
Let the one who falls and fails lead my church.
And that is true. We are broken people, but we are still called to serve. Even in our brokenness...and maybe especially in our brokenness. For only one who has fallen can compassionately love those who have fallen, too.
So I suppose, for me, who has fallen so far from grace and still been received and blessed by grace...well, maybe I have something to give.
During an Ignatian Exercise experience about two years ago, I wept at the crucifix at Montserrat while on a private retreat. It was the first time I pulled the tears off my face and placed them on his feet and head. The crucifix was lower down behind the altar there. I poured my sadness onto Him who loved me anyway. It felt like the right thing to do. Mixing my DNA with his, in this moment of time, which is also eternity.
I have to post or I'll be bumped off...more soon.
Love, Cindy
Friday, April 9, 2010
The Imitation of Christ
It has been such a holy week.
I sat behind my sweet Catie, whose parents came to her confirmation and reception into the Catholic Church. She was dressed all in white. The three days before, she wore black. But that night, she was dressed as a bride. She was the first to be confirmed and the last of the confirmands to receive the Eucharist. I tried to watch without her knowing I was watching her. I watched her receive Holy Communion,just as I saw her face rattle a little bit as the priest 'slapped' her on the cheek to remind her that she was to fight for Christ. Catie is already a fighter, that I know. Perhaps in that moment, she might realize that she is going to become even more than she knew she was supposed to be. That's what I think...time will tell.
I felt the energy of all the love in the church that night, from the fire at the beginning to the procession out of the church to the party almost four hours later. I don't think anyone felt bored or tired during that time. One dear young man compared the before and after of the vigil as seeing God through a screen door at the beginning of the service and finally having the door opened for him by the end of the Mass.
Notice I said 'service' and then Mass. That is because the vigil truly lasts from Thursday night with the institution of the Eucharist until midnight on Sunday morning. It has already been spoken of, but four cups of wine are shared at the Passover meal. Jesus did not complete the Passover celebration on Thursday night. After the third cup, he went into the garden and prayed and was then betrayed and then crucified. In his last moments of human life, he took a sip of the wine offered on the sponge and spoke "It is finished." And he died.
And that is what I saw in my "vision" back in 1997. I saw Jesus die on the cross. I was sitting on the hood of my car at First Methodist in Plano, waiting to talk with Keith about something...who knows what now...but I watched the sky and there He was. What struck me most about what I saw, which I didn't really understand what I was seeing while it was happening, was that He raised His head, seemed to look around and He smiled. Then He lowered His head and was suddenly gone from me.
It was the smile that held me. He wasn't looking at me. He was looking at them...and I could tell from the smile that He died knowing that it worked. That is was worth it. That nothing would ever be the same. We needed to trust that what He did was perfect. It was enough.
I was blown away. And consciously or unconsciously, I have been living off that vision ever since. I had been completely seduced by God. What I know, I can't explain to you. I just know. He wins. No matter how much we screw things up for ourselves, He wins anyway. You just have to quit fighting Him. Accept His love. It's okay. It was given to you, for you...and through you it can be passed on to every single person you meet. That's why I am not afraid to look everyone in the eyes.
I will look so deeply into your eyes that it might hurt, or make you feel a little afraid...but I don't know how to tell you what I know to be true any other way. Words just make it smaller...and what we have been given is great and powerful and perfect and exactly what we need.
It is enough to stop all the evil in this world. It is enough to heal every heart. It is enough so that no one will ever ben hungry again. No one will ever feel lonely again. It will bring the people you truly desire and need. It will cast out all evil desires. It is enough.
It is fire and water.
It is body and blood.
It is soul and divinity.
It is intimacy without fear.
It is truth and hope.
It is perfect love.
It is enough.
Love,
Cindy
I sat behind my sweet Catie, whose parents came to her confirmation and reception into the Catholic Church. She was dressed all in white. The three days before, she wore black. But that night, she was dressed as a bride. She was the first to be confirmed and the last of the confirmands to receive the Eucharist. I tried to watch without her knowing I was watching her. I watched her receive Holy Communion,just as I saw her face rattle a little bit as the priest 'slapped' her on the cheek to remind her that she was to fight for Christ. Catie is already a fighter, that I know. Perhaps in that moment, she might realize that she is going to become even more than she knew she was supposed to be. That's what I think...time will tell.
I felt the energy of all the love in the church that night, from the fire at the beginning to the procession out of the church to the party almost four hours later. I don't think anyone felt bored or tired during that time. One dear young man compared the before and after of the vigil as seeing God through a screen door at the beginning of the service and finally having the door opened for him by the end of the Mass.
Notice I said 'service' and then Mass. That is because the vigil truly lasts from Thursday night with the institution of the Eucharist until midnight on Sunday morning. It has already been spoken of, but four cups of wine are shared at the Passover meal. Jesus did not complete the Passover celebration on Thursday night. After the third cup, he went into the garden and prayed and was then betrayed and then crucified. In his last moments of human life, he took a sip of the wine offered on the sponge and spoke "It is finished." And he died.
And that is what I saw in my "vision" back in 1997. I saw Jesus die on the cross. I was sitting on the hood of my car at First Methodist in Plano, waiting to talk with Keith about something...who knows what now...but I watched the sky and there He was. What struck me most about what I saw, which I didn't really understand what I was seeing while it was happening, was that He raised His head, seemed to look around and He smiled. Then He lowered His head and was suddenly gone from me.
It was the smile that held me. He wasn't looking at me. He was looking at them...and I could tell from the smile that He died knowing that it worked. That is was worth it. That nothing would ever be the same. We needed to trust that what He did was perfect. It was enough.
I was blown away. And consciously or unconsciously, I have been living off that vision ever since. I had been completely seduced by God. What I know, I can't explain to you. I just know. He wins. No matter how much we screw things up for ourselves, He wins anyway. You just have to quit fighting Him. Accept His love. It's okay. It was given to you, for you...and through you it can be passed on to every single person you meet. That's why I am not afraid to look everyone in the eyes.
I will look so deeply into your eyes that it might hurt, or make you feel a little afraid...but I don't know how to tell you what I know to be true any other way. Words just make it smaller...and what we have been given is great and powerful and perfect and exactly what we need.
It is enough to stop all the evil in this world. It is enough to heal every heart. It is enough so that no one will ever ben hungry again. No one will ever feel lonely again. It will bring the people you truly desire and need. It will cast out all evil desires. It is enough.
It is fire and water.
It is body and blood.
It is soul and divinity.
It is intimacy without fear.
It is truth and hope.
It is perfect love.
It is enough.
Love,
Cindy
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
In Your Eyes
It has not escaped me that God has put this Peter Gabriel song my path more often during Holy Week than usual. A song I haven't heard in years suddenly continues to repeat itself throughout my day, in restaurants or events...and apparently there is a remake of it.
I remember the one around 1990.
But right now, all I can see is the face of Jesus in the Passion of Christ. And his mothers eyes. I can't stop thinking about them, perhaps if I write about them, I will be able to let it go.
I think what I connect to is the fact that I try to really see the people in front of me. The eyes are the window to the soul. They eyes will tell the truth when the mouth is saying something else completely. Some people know this truth and have mastered the skill of hiding their soul from me and from others who see, but they can't keep it up forever. Patience obtains all things. That's what Teresa of Avila writes. Be patient and you will see the real person.
Jesus and his mother, though, are forever open to each other. Each draws strength from the other. Each endures all things because they are doing it together. When one falls, the other reaches out. When one is weak, the other is strong. And between them, they will never know loneliness. The bond between Jesus and Mary reaches even beyond the eyes. But the eyes are something we, as observers, can see and measure. But as observers, we know what we see is only a small glimpse of the reality that together, they bring about the deal of the millenium. I never quite got that until I watched the movie.
The scene I cannot remove from my head is when Mary places her head on the stone floor. Jesus is tethered to the wall in chains below her. And they both know that they are together. They are not alone. And God is in the thick of it all.
I just can't let it go. It all seems to make more sense now. It even calms me a bit. Because I know that we are more than flesh and blood and bone. I can see it when I look into someone eyes. There is a truth there that ultimately wants to know and be known. The miracle occurs when we get brave, or humble, or both and let it out. Share it. Risk it. And oh my heavens, love it!
I am thinking about the priest who did not look into my eyes to understand me, who only looked on the surface...and understood nothing but what he knew from his books...or his experience...and was not present for the 'right now.' I'm not faulting him, most people can't bear to go into what is real.
Because "real" changes us. It bends us into something new and probably uncomfortable in the beginning. But real is so very cool, because it brings us closer to God. The false self always wants things in a nice order so that the false self can commend itself daily for the good job it does...productive, making money, complimented, promoted, rewarded...surrounded by wonderful early delights and everyone is envious of his life. Walter Mitty, perhaps.
But we all want to be really known. And accepted.
That's what I saw between Jesus and his mother. An earthly example of perfect love.
I see it in their eyes. But mostly I feel it in my heart.
Love,
Cindy
I remember the one around 1990.
But right now, all I can see is the face of Jesus in the Passion of Christ. And his mothers eyes. I can't stop thinking about them, perhaps if I write about them, I will be able to let it go.
I think what I connect to is the fact that I try to really see the people in front of me. The eyes are the window to the soul. They eyes will tell the truth when the mouth is saying something else completely. Some people know this truth and have mastered the skill of hiding their soul from me and from others who see, but they can't keep it up forever. Patience obtains all things. That's what Teresa of Avila writes. Be patient and you will see the real person.
Jesus and his mother, though, are forever open to each other. Each draws strength from the other. Each endures all things because they are doing it together. When one falls, the other reaches out. When one is weak, the other is strong. And between them, they will never know loneliness. The bond between Jesus and Mary reaches even beyond the eyes. But the eyes are something we, as observers, can see and measure. But as observers, we know what we see is only a small glimpse of the reality that together, they bring about the deal of the millenium. I never quite got that until I watched the movie.
The scene I cannot remove from my head is when Mary places her head on the stone floor. Jesus is tethered to the wall in chains below her. And they both know that they are together. They are not alone. And God is in the thick of it all.
I just can't let it go. It all seems to make more sense now. It even calms me a bit. Because I know that we are more than flesh and blood and bone. I can see it when I look into someone eyes. There is a truth there that ultimately wants to know and be known. The miracle occurs when we get brave, or humble, or both and let it out. Share it. Risk it. And oh my heavens, love it!
I am thinking about the priest who did not look into my eyes to understand me, who only looked on the surface...and understood nothing but what he knew from his books...or his experience...and was not present for the 'right now.' I'm not faulting him, most people can't bear to go into what is real.
Because "real" changes us. It bends us into something new and probably uncomfortable in the beginning. But real is so very cool, because it brings us closer to God. The false self always wants things in a nice order so that the false self can commend itself daily for the good job it does...productive, making money, complimented, promoted, rewarded...surrounded by wonderful early delights and everyone is envious of his life. Walter Mitty, perhaps.
But we all want to be really known. And accepted.
That's what I saw between Jesus and his mother. An earthly example of perfect love.
I see it in their eyes. But mostly I feel it in my heart.
Love,
Cindy
Mercy and Grace and Erasers
Some who choose to read this already know this one. One who knows handed me an eraser at a team meeting. She said she thought of me and had to buy it. I've been getting a few erasers from friends lately. It's nice.
When I was in Catholic School, the nuns broke off all the erasers from our pencils. If we got caught erasing, our paper was ceremoniously wadded up into a ball in front of the entire class and we were given a zero on the assignment.
Seeing that large woman, dressed mostly in black, stand before me with her pointer (often used as a weapon...excuse me, disciplinary tool) and crumble up my written work was traumatic sometimes. Let me be clear, though, we were allowed to draw a SINGLE LINE through a mistake. Two lines through an error would also receive a zero. Rules were very important to the nuns.
I suppose that's why I always set my sights on breaking them. But always for a good reason, always with the belief that I was performing some kind of civil disobedience. I was correcting, drawing attention to, something that I perceived was an injustice. All because I was not allowed to use an eraser.
Did I mention I write in hyperbole?
I mentioned that (about erasers) after a meditation one evening to the group of women I was with. Several women remembered and brought me erasers. Made me smile.
That's one way I view grace. Kind of an eraser God gives us so that we can get on with our lives. Perhaps a poor analogy, but I lived in an environment where forgiveness was rarely shared. I used to write about this issue a lot. I have relatives that let their siblings die alone over a diamond ring that was given to the wrong person, or because a birthday card came late, or maybe the Christmas present looked a little cheap. Or perhaps the wrapping didn't look like it was done with care.
I responded to all this foolishness my deliberately living a bit like a bohemian. I eat with my fingers, my housekeeping is atrocious, sometimes I wear my clothes two days in a row because I don't want to think about them too much (maybe THAT'S why I want to be a priest--the clothes are always the same!)I don't wrap gifts, I generally tell people thank you in person, I don't care if anyone remembers my birthday, I'd rather have your presence than your presents...I just live day to day.
I write that and know that today, it was clear I did care about something that happened a long time ago...still, and I had to give it over to God again. So I don't do it perfectly, but I keep trying.
But I was with a family after a death last Saturday and slowly...or perhaps quickly, some truths were told. I think that is important in those moments...you will never be braver than in a crisis, and what better person to share something with than someone you probably will never see again...and doesn't know about you and won't judge. But I could see the pride rising up, remarks about who wasn't present and why. Because I'm a volunteer at this work, I step a bit out. I make a general statement that mercy and grace needs to flow through the days ahead. Be gentle with each other...even with the ones you don't want to see. Lean into God's grace and mercy...I say this to people who when I pray, do not even know the Our Father (Lord's Prayer).
I always get a sadness inside when I pull that prayer into my impromptu prayers. To have gone through a life without knowing just those words from God breaks my heart. How does one live without God? Life is just to hard to do it alone.
And these sweet people definitely needed erasers. I could tell the next few days would bring forth anger and bitterness, just as I knew when I woke up that I would face at least one death that day. Certain things, like old people who can tell when its going to rain, I often know ahead of time what the day will probably bring.
But God surprises me to. And He makes me laugh. He brings to me exactly what I need and exactly when I need it. And it is all Him. Never me.
I walk into a hospital room or a nursing home room and He's already there. He knows how to make the encounter perfect. I am always aware when I try to force His hand...and sadly, there are days I still do.
I told my group last night at our Bible Study a bit more about Catholics. Most of them like it. At least one only tolerates me. In a discussion about the Book of Revelation, one asked about the Bride image. I told them, the nuns "marry" Jesus/God. The priest "marries" the Church(the Church is the Bride). That's kind of why the celibacy thing works. Those in deep service to God are betrothed. I also said that I thought the women get the better end of the deal. Definitely.
Point being I am, and I think we all are, much better off letting God run the show. However smart I might be, I still won't see all the variables in a situation. I need to give it to God. Let His mercy and grace take me where I need to be...and I had to suggest that to this family. I put the words on the table. They have every right to say no. But it needs to be offered.
Remember to offer God's word to each other...and especially to strangers. Remember to receive the mercy and grace yourself. Then give it away. It will grow into a beautiful garden for all of us.
When I was in Catholic School, the nuns broke off all the erasers from our pencils. If we got caught erasing, our paper was ceremoniously wadded up into a ball in front of the entire class and we were given a zero on the assignment.
Seeing that large woman, dressed mostly in black, stand before me with her pointer (often used as a weapon...excuse me, disciplinary tool) and crumble up my written work was traumatic sometimes. Let me be clear, though, we were allowed to draw a SINGLE LINE through a mistake. Two lines through an error would also receive a zero. Rules were very important to the nuns.
I suppose that's why I always set my sights on breaking them. But always for a good reason, always with the belief that I was performing some kind of civil disobedience. I was correcting, drawing attention to, something that I perceived was an injustice. All because I was not allowed to use an eraser.
Did I mention I write in hyperbole?
I mentioned that (about erasers) after a meditation one evening to the group of women I was with. Several women remembered and brought me erasers. Made me smile.
That's one way I view grace. Kind of an eraser God gives us so that we can get on with our lives. Perhaps a poor analogy, but I lived in an environment where forgiveness was rarely shared. I used to write about this issue a lot. I have relatives that let their siblings die alone over a diamond ring that was given to the wrong person, or because a birthday card came late, or maybe the Christmas present looked a little cheap. Or perhaps the wrapping didn't look like it was done with care.
I responded to all this foolishness my deliberately living a bit like a bohemian. I eat with my fingers, my housekeeping is atrocious, sometimes I wear my clothes two days in a row because I don't want to think about them too much (maybe THAT'S why I want to be a priest--the clothes are always the same!)I don't wrap gifts, I generally tell people thank you in person, I don't care if anyone remembers my birthday, I'd rather have your presence than your presents...I just live day to day.
I write that and know that today, it was clear I did care about something that happened a long time ago...still, and I had to give it over to God again. So I don't do it perfectly, but I keep trying.
But I was with a family after a death last Saturday and slowly...or perhaps quickly, some truths were told. I think that is important in those moments...you will never be braver than in a crisis, and what better person to share something with than someone you probably will never see again...and doesn't know about you and won't judge. But I could see the pride rising up, remarks about who wasn't present and why. Because I'm a volunteer at this work, I step a bit out. I make a general statement that mercy and grace needs to flow through the days ahead. Be gentle with each other...even with the ones you don't want to see. Lean into God's grace and mercy...I say this to people who when I pray, do not even know the Our Father (Lord's Prayer).
I always get a sadness inside when I pull that prayer into my impromptu prayers. To have gone through a life without knowing just those words from God breaks my heart. How does one live without God? Life is just to hard to do it alone.
And these sweet people definitely needed erasers. I could tell the next few days would bring forth anger and bitterness, just as I knew when I woke up that I would face at least one death that day. Certain things, like old people who can tell when its going to rain, I often know ahead of time what the day will probably bring.
But God surprises me to. And He makes me laugh. He brings to me exactly what I need and exactly when I need it. And it is all Him. Never me.
I walk into a hospital room or a nursing home room and He's already there. He knows how to make the encounter perfect. I am always aware when I try to force His hand...and sadly, there are days I still do.
I told my group last night at our Bible Study a bit more about Catholics. Most of them like it. At least one only tolerates me. In a discussion about the Book of Revelation, one asked about the Bride image. I told them, the nuns "marry" Jesus/God. The priest "marries" the Church(the Church is the Bride). That's kind of why the celibacy thing works. Those in deep service to God are betrothed. I also said that I thought the women get the better end of the deal. Definitely.
Point being I am, and I think we all are, much better off letting God run the show. However smart I might be, I still won't see all the variables in a situation. I need to give it to God. Let His mercy and grace take me where I need to be...and I had to suggest that to this family. I put the words on the table. They have every right to say no. But it needs to be offered.
Remember to offer God's word to each other...and especially to strangers. Remember to receive the mercy and grace yourself. Then give it away. It will grow into a beautiful garden for all of us.
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