Back when I was in seventh grade, my best friend, Ellen L. (not the bicycle Ellen), called me back to her. She was walking several feet behind me on our way home from school. She was doing that because my very first 'boyfriend' was walking beside me. She whispered in my ear:"If you put your books in your OTHER hand, he'll hold you hand." I walked back up to Darryl, switched my books to my left hand and lo! He held my hand! I was floating on air! Good thing I had a friend like Ellen to teach me how to do it!
Yesterday's Hours had the most beautiful passage from St Augustine's Confessions: "Late have I loved you, O Beauty ever ancient, ever new, late have I loved you!" and Augustine goes on to say how God gently wooed him into submission...waited for him to move his books into his other hand so that Augustine could hold His hand! "You called, you shouted and you broke through my deafness. You flashed, you shone, and you dispelled my blindness."
And when I realized what I held in my hand, I both rejoiced and wept...because of what I had found...and because I had waited so long to find it. All I had to do was put my books into my other hand. I didn't have to let them go or drop hem on the ground. I simply had to move them to another place...and lo! God took my hand and my heart leaped for joy.
I was reminded of this last year, when speaking with someone who felt helpless because his wife was dying. I told him, "You can hold her hand." And that seemed to comfort him a bit. So much is said without words as we hold someone's hand.
When I pray, I desperately want to touch the person I am praying with. Most of the time that is acceptable to the other. I know that my hand will say, with its own flesh and blood, all the things my words forget to say when I pray. It is the commonality of our human-ness that brings life to prayer. Sometimes the hand can touch the part that most hurts on the other, sometimes, it is the shoulder, the head and most often the hand. The energy is exchanged. The pain and suffering are shared. The ecstasy and joy are shared. Holding hands.
Yesterday, I held a man's hand as he woke from a deep sleep induced to keep him from feeling too much pain. His hand was so swollen and bruised, but it was a beautiful hand. I knew a little of the work it did as I got to know him over recent months. "Hello, Dan," I said as he opened his eyes. "We are glad to see you. It's going to be okay. I promise. I know for sure. It is going to be okay." And He squeezed my hand. A strong squeeze. And part of me just wanted to fall to the ground and weep or disappear. Some moments seem just too holy to bear.
And then other things happened that I cannot write about. I think I've written about holding hands before. Don't care. Some themes are worth repeating.
The Augustine passage, I think I read 10 times to 10 different people yesterday. I would glance up and their eyes would be closed and there would be a smile. Sometimes a sigh. And one person I shared it with (did not read it to), told me that yes, Augustine was a bit 'touchy-feely' and it sounded like him. Ah, well, parts of the Body of Christ...not every wants to know God the way I know Him. I always need reminding of that.
But you know, I actually read some passages from John Calvin that informed me that God had reached him on a "hand-holding" level, even in midst of his "total depravity" doctrines.
When we are caught up in the day's sadness, or the day's joys...share both with each other. Pray for each other. Touch each other. God gave us the gift to FEEL. Of course there is a risk!
Better one day of extraordinary that a lifetime of nothing special.
Love, Cindy
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Thursday, May 20, 2010
The Theory of Almost Right
Back in the early 90s, I was still working on my undergrad degree in mathematics. I studied phycics at TAMU and got married. I really enjoyed Richard Feinman's Lectures on Physics. Three red books that began to help me to think more clearly. Or were there four books? Bob would know. He never forgets anything. Unless of course, he forgets.
While at UNT, I began my upper level math classes with "Real Analysis." It is a study of getting close to things, in particular here, numbers. Most of the theorems deal with getting infinitely close to zero or one...and the truth is, once you understand how zero and one work, everything else falls into place. (Probably only mathematicians really understand that concept, sorry) But the truth is, once we have the idea of zero and one, or the idea of nothing and then something; well, it is much easier then to get to two and from there....to infinity and beyond! But real analysis concerns itself mostly with the stuff between zero and one. And there in another infinity existing between them.
To come up with axioms and proofs, you have to have some idea of where the proof is taking you. Are you heading to zero? Are you heading to one? What happens when you get really really close to one of the other? What you learn is that, while you can get really really close, you can never really get "there." You can only get really really close. And in this kind of mathematics, close is good enough.
As it always happens in my life, because I am a contemplative, I see the threads that move me from morning to evening in a particular way. I enjoy trying to write about those threads and happily, some people enjoy reading about them. Now the truth is that these threads I weave are only one path. It would be exhausting to try and write about all of the threads, and confusing. (As it is, so few people can understand this 'interesting' life I have lived, but I am blessed, they love me anyway.)But what I have said often, but never enough:
If it's worth doing, its worth doing poorly.
The secret of life it to live it. Don't spend too much time trying to figure out if you are doing it right, just live it. You can read all the books in the world, you can surround yourself with the wisest people on the planet, you can be blessed with a perfect body and perfect mind and generous soul...but you will never be able to completely get it right.
Perfection lies only in God. The rest of us have to settle for "close." The reality of real analysis: we can't ever get there...without God. Even if we behave as the holiest person ever who ever lived. Even if we build a cathedral or convert a million souls all on our own eloquence...we cannot get to heaven (that is, perfection) without God. And He can do it for the slob who just cut us off in traffic as easily and willingly as He can for me who talks with Him and prays with Him everyday.
Doesn't that create a wrinkle in the mathematical mind?
I drove from Kyle to San Antonio yesterday to go find Fr. Rihn. I drove past the Snake Farm in San Marcos/New Braunfels where I had been told that if you ask for change for a twenty dollar bill a guy could get laid in one of the trailers out back. I drove past the Reukle Road, where, if you head west, you will find the tree that, when I die, I will be sitting under and waiting for Jesus. I drove past Zeigler Glass. I went to school with Laurie Zeigler. I drove past the hospital where my mother died in my arms. And then I went under Loop 410, where Fred A, when he was too stoned to care, wrecked his Ford Falcon station wagon, and then past my junior high school, which was changed to a middle school shortly after I left. Then past the public library, where George the librarian, had really LONG fingernails, but was always helpful. And then on my right, was St. Pius X.
There trees where we played "Star Trek" were still there, but the honeysuckle bushes were gone. The tree I had to walk past to go to the confession was still there, but most if its branches were gone. Funny, how they chose to leave that old trunk there...I guess it means a lot to many of us. Kind of the last thing you look at before you go in and tell God you screwed up. The door has not been replaced. I used to walk in to choir practice that way, too. I look in the window and the girls and boys are laughing and playing basketball. You see, they turned my church into a gym. I look at the floor and remember the fall fairs and how my mom would bake bread in coffee cans to sell to raise money for the parish.
The memories flood in and almost drown me. There against the back wall, where the sisters used to live (that building has been torn down), I look at the bricks. There, right there, is where the water fountains used to be. The scars are still there. The pipes are cememnted over, but it is still there. I look to my right and I remember everything like it was yesterday. That was the day my parents decided to pull me out of Catholic School.
Suddenly I am exhausted.
I go to the Rectory to find Fr. Rihn. Turns out he lives right next to St Elizabeth Ann Seton in San Antonio. Go figure. I have his phone number in front of me at this very moment.
Should I call him? Will he remember me at all? Does he have any clue how important he was to me? Would it be a good thing for him to know he mattered in my life? After all, he baptized me.
But he didn't baptize me. And that's the point of writing today. I stared at the church records, beautifully hand-written. Fr. Bily baptized me. Who is Fr. Bily? I never met him...but I must have. But Fr. Rihn was in my life, all the time. Only I remembered it wrong. I was not the first baby baptized, I was not even the fourth. I was the fifteenth and I was baptized almost a year after I was born.
I stared at the page in disbelief. What I thought I remembered was wrong. All the religious dates of my life were recorded there. The book says I received my First Communion on December 2, 1964. But I know for certain that is wrong. It was December 20th. It was after my birthday and before Christmas. Someone just forgot the zero. The zero.
And I am exhausted again. I want to know the truth. I want to understand who I am and perhaps more importantly why I am.
And I realize I will never ever know. I will never be sure. I will never have the right answer. I can only get very, very close. And even then, I am still very far away.
If its worth doing, its worth doing poorly.
I'm thinking we have got to let go of needing to do it right and just do it. St Paul is correct. The Law is there to guide us toward the truth, but if we live by the Law, then we will most certainly die by it. There is no way on earth or in hell to get it right. We can only, at best, get very close.
And when we wake up and realize we have wandered very far away from Him, we need to remember that time and distance are human constructs designed to help us humans function in this world with each other in some kind of orderly fashion; but God needs none of our tools and toys to enter into our creation. He becomes incarnate in us and through us by His own means, which we have almost no understanding of at all. We could be wandering toward zero or toward one and never know the difference.
Heaven or hell are as close to each other as zero and one. And though we may live exemplary lives or lives of quiet desperation, it is only through God's grace that we find our true rest in His Perfect Love.
Go ahead and try to get it right. Try to line up the ducks, or herd the kittens or alphabetize your life and write that five year plan. If it makes you feel safe, do it. But remember, by God's grace alone do we find peace...and heaven.
We are important. What we do matters. How we love each other matters. But only grace brings us what we most desire. Only grace brings perfect love.
It's simply not linear. I can't write you an equation for it, or a law, or give you some kind of multiple choice test so that you can see how close you are to getting it right.
You just gotta trust. You gotta have faith. And then love anyway. Even if you think its poorly. I promise you that He doesn't see it that way. He cherishes all of it...He just wants us to give all we have, all we are, to Him.
That's how I think it works.
But I could be wrong.
Love,
Cindy
While at UNT, I began my upper level math classes with "Real Analysis." It is a study of getting close to things, in particular here, numbers. Most of the theorems deal with getting infinitely close to zero or one...and the truth is, once you understand how zero and one work, everything else falls into place. (Probably only mathematicians really understand that concept, sorry) But the truth is, once we have the idea of zero and one, or the idea of nothing and then something; well, it is much easier then to get to two and from there....to infinity and beyond! But real analysis concerns itself mostly with the stuff between zero and one. And there in another infinity existing between them.
To come up with axioms and proofs, you have to have some idea of where the proof is taking you. Are you heading to zero? Are you heading to one? What happens when you get really really close to one of the other? What you learn is that, while you can get really really close, you can never really get "there." You can only get really really close. And in this kind of mathematics, close is good enough.
As it always happens in my life, because I am a contemplative, I see the threads that move me from morning to evening in a particular way. I enjoy trying to write about those threads and happily, some people enjoy reading about them. Now the truth is that these threads I weave are only one path. It would be exhausting to try and write about all of the threads, and confusing. (As it is, so few people can understand this 'interesting' life I have lived, but I am blessed, they love me anyway.)But what I have said often, but never enough:
If it's worth doing, its worth doing poorly.
The secret of life it to live it. Don't spend too much time trying to figure out if you are doing it right, just live it. You can read all the books in the world, you can surround yourself with the wisest people on the planet, you can be blessed with a perfect body and perfect mind and generous soul...but you will never be able to completely get it right.
Perfection lies only in God. The rest of us have to settle for "close." The reality of real analysis: we can't ever get there...without God. Even if we behave as the holiest person ever who ever lived. Even if we build a cathedral or convert a million souls all on our own eloquence...we cannot get to heaven (that is, perfection) without God. And He can do it for the slob who just cut us off in traffic as easily and willingly as He can for me who talks with Him and prays with Him everyday.
Doesn't that create a wrinkle in the mathematical mind?
I drove from Kyle to San Antonio yesterday to go find Fr. Rihn. I drove past the Snake Farm in San Marcos/New Braunfels where I had been told that if you ask for change for a twenty dollar bill a guy could get laid in one of the trailers out back. I drove past the Reukle Road, where, if you head west, you will find the tree that, when I die, I will be sitting under and waiting for Jesus. I drove past Zeigler Glass. I went to school with Laurie Zeigler. I drove past the hospital where my mother died in my arms. And then I went under Loop 410, where Fred A, when he was too stoned to care, wrecked his Ford Falcon station wagon, and then past my junior high school, which was changed to a middle school shortly after I left. Then past the public library, where George the librarian, had really LONG fingernails, but was always helpful. And then on my right, was St. Pius X.
There trees where we played "Star Trek" were still there, but the honeysuckle bushes were gone. The tree I had to walk past to go to the confession was still there, but most if its branches were gone. Funny, how they chose to leave that old trunk there...I guess it means a lot to many of us. Kind of the last thing you look at before you go in and tell God you screwed up. The door has not been replaced. I used to walk in to choir practice that way, too. I look in the window and the girls and boys are laughing and playing basketball. You see, they turned my church into a gym. I look at the floor and remember the fall fairs and how my mom would bake bread in coffee cans to sell to raise money for the parish.
The memories flood in and almost drown me. There against the back wall, where the sisters used to live (that building has been torn down), I look at the bricks. There, right there, is where the water fountains used to be. The scars are still there. The pipes are cememnted over, but it is still there. I look to my right and I remember everything like it was yesterday. That was the day my parents decided to pull me out of Catholic School.
Suddenly I am exhausted.
I go to the Rectory to find Fr. Rihn. Turns out he lives right next to St Elizabeth Ann Seton in San Antonio. Go figure. I have his phone number in front of me at this very moment.
Should I call him? Will he remember me at all? Does he have any clue how important he was to me? Would it be a good thing for him to know he mattered in my life? After all, he baptized me.
But he didn't baptize me. And that's the point of writing today. I stared at the church records, beautifully hand-written. Fr. Bily baptized me. Who is Fr. Bily? I never met him...but I must have. But Fr. Rihn was in my life, all the time. Only I remembered it wrong. I was not the first baby baptized, I was not even the fourth. I was the fifteenth and I was baptized almost a year after I was born.
I stared at the page in disbelief. What I thought I remembered was wrong. All the religious dates of my life were recorded there. The book says I received my First Communion on December 2, 1964. But I know for certain that is wrong. It was December 20th. It was after my birthday and before Christmas. Someone just forgot the zero. The zero.
And I am exhausted again. I want to know the truth. I want to understand who I am and perhaps more importantly why I am.
And I realize I will never ever know. I will never be sure. I will never have the right answer. I can only get very, very close. And even then, I am still very far away.
If its worth doing, its worth doing poorly.
I'm thinking we have got to let go of needing to do it right and just do it. St Paul is correct. The Law is there to guide us toward the truth, but if we live by the Law, then we will most certainly die by it. There is no way on earth or in hell to get it right. We can only, at best, get very close.
And when we wake up and realize we have wandered very far away from Him, we need to remember that time and distance are human constructs designed to help us humans function in this world with each other in some kind of orderly fashion; but God needs none of our tools and toys to enter into our creation. He becomes incarnate in us and through us by His own means, which we have almost no understanding of at all. We could be wandering toward zero or toward one and never know the difference.
Heaven or hell are as close to each other as zero and one. And though we may live exemplary lives or lives of quiet desperation, it is only through God's grace that we find our true rest in His Perfect Love.
Go ahead and try to get it right. Try to line up the ducks, or herd the kittens or alphabetize your life and write that five year plan. If it makes you feel safe, do it. But remember, by God's grace alone do we find peace...and heaven.
We are important. What we do matters. How we love each other matters. But only grace brings us what we most desire. Only grace brings perfect love.
It's simply not linear. I can't write you an equation for it, or a law, or give you some kind of multiple choice test so that you can see how close you are to getting it right.
You just gotta trust. You gotta have faith. And then love anyway. Even if you think its poorly. I promise you that He doesn't see it that way. He cherishes all of it...He just wants us to give all we have, all we are, to Him.
That's how I think it works.
But I could be wrong.
Love,
Cindy
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Mud and water
Looking at photos of one of my daughter's best friends from her high school days bicycling through the mud in Austin has got me so homesick for the past. First, I was thin. Second, I was in great shape. Third, I never thought too much about how I looked, the point was always "Carpe Diem!"
God has a way of weaving ideas together for me as I encounter people. Right now I am lost in the love of my children and grandchildren. Even sweet R has now accepted me as part of the clan. She handles Mom and Dad heading out the door and hanging with me and her brothers and sisters. J is still not too thrilled about losing his treasured spot as the baby of the family. I don't blame him a bit. We all want those "you're the last one I'll get to [fill in the blank] with." The kids are all growing so fast. They greeted me at the door with their artwork, brightly colored papers of their view of life. They see life as brightly colored. I would love for all of us to see life that way for every day of our lives!
I got a bit serious about things in the last couple of blogs. I think it is important that you, in your spiritual journeys, have the chance to observe the process as well as the fruit. I pray that you become very comfortable in your our spirituality and in your own unique communion with God. It is the main way we can keep the bright colors of our lives vivid and present for us.
Last night, I got Mexican food to take home and...sigh...I saw the street Burleson and I knew the Catholic Church was on that street. I could just drive by, right? That's all. I'll just drive by.
The parking lot was filled with cars. Somethings going on here. And sure enough, an evening Mass (though not a Mass because the priest was out of town). The little chapel was full of people. The lector read Paul's words so beautifully. And the gospel of John...the prayers for His disciples...oh, my how often I read those aloud in the woods...or anywhere I can get away with it.
"Everything I have is yours."
There's a man here at Starbucks in a knit shirt, dressed for work, and nice boots...damn, how I love south Texas!
So I go into the church, just to get a bulletin...but of course, He beckons me to come closer. And I do. I hear the prayers of the people in the chapel. Just for a moment. And I watch and weep. These people of faith. Coming together because its the right thing to do. They get it. Oh, why don't the rest of us get it?!
So I bring the food home and much of the meal is soggy. Sigh...but I just had to pray for a minute, Bobby. He understands...or at least lets me think he understands. And the kids don't mind. K jumps up on my lap and kisses the crucifix around my neck.
Why do people keep doing that? It happens all the time. People...okay, women...reach out to my chest, and take my crucifix in their hands and kiss it. And frankly, I love it when they do. Something about that particular design, I think. It just draws people to it.
So I bought about 20 of them and had them blessed this week. I've given quite a few away already. But there is something going on here that transcends the image. It is a connection to the Divine.
But I intended to write about mud and water.
Golf story: my ball was in the rough on a country club golf course. I was maybe 16 years old. Nice white golf shoes, nice white shorts. Blue shirt. I go over to hit the ball and I sink up to my knees in the sand/mud. This is not a joke. My buddies are laughing too hard to realize I cannot get out. I am yelling at them, but oh this is too funny! Ha-ha! OK guys, you've got to pull me out.
And they finally do. But we are in a tournament and I can't walk away. So I have to play out the round in mud boots. HEAVY mud boots. My nice white shoes are a mess. I am dirty all over. But the game must go on!
Backyard story: A creek (actually a ditch) ran behind my home in San Antonio. The rains were great. The pecan trees in the very back of the yard by the ditch, were a measure for me during the storms. The trees would tell me that the water was 4-5 feet deep back there. Wait a few days and then it was time to get the mayonaise jars and go hunting for tadpoles and other critters the water would bring to me. Once we found a bullfrog so big we had to get a styrofoam Ice chest just to catch him in...and oh my, we'd come home so muddy and happy. My mother would take one look at us, turn on the hose and squirt us down...and we'd be laughing the whole time.
The mayo jars would sit on the back porch for a time. I'd watch the little back legs sprout on the tadpoles, and then the front ones...and it seemed before they really began to look like frogs, the jar would disappear from the porch. (I suppose my mother did not want a plague of frogs trying to invade her house)
Point being in all these ramblings: Go ahead and get dirty. Not in sin, mind you, but get dirty in really living your own life. Don't be afraid to go "there" with Him. Seize the day with Him. Every single blessed second of it. Help others out of the mud and ask for help when you get stuck. Take a handful of life and put it in a mayonaise jar and watch it grow. And take a shower once in awhile.
And when the opportunity arises, kiss the cross that set you free.
Love, Cindy
God has a way of weaving ideas together for me as I encounter people. Right now I am lost in the love of my children and grandchildren. Even sweet R has now accepted me as part of the clan. She handles Mom and Dad heading out the door and hanging with me and her brothers and sisters. J is still not too thrilled about losing his treasured spot as the baby of the family. I don't blame him a bit. We all want those "you're the last one I'll get to [fill in the blank] with." The kids are all growing so fast. They greeted me at the door with their artwork, brightly colored papers of their view of life. They see life as brightly colored. I would love for all of us to see life that way for every day of our lives!
I got a bit serious about things in the last couple of blogs. I think it is important that you, in your spiritual journeys, have the chance to observe the process as well as the fruit. I pray that you become very comfortable in your our spirituality and in your own unique communion with God. It is the main way we can keep the bright colors of our lives vivid and present for us.
Last night, I got Mexican food to take home and...sigh...I saw the street Burleson and I knew the Catholic Church was on that street. I could just drive by, right? That's all. I'll just drive by.
The parking lot was filled with cars. Somethings going on here. And sure enough, an evening Mass (though not a Mass because the priest was out of town). The little chapel was full of people. The lector read Paul's words so beautifully. And the gospel of John...the prayers for His disciples...oh, my how often I read those aloud in the woods...or anywhere I can get away with it.
"Everything I have is yours."
There's a man here at Starbucks in a knit shirt, dressed for work, and nice boots...damn, how I love south Texas!
So I go into the church, just to get a bulletin...but of course, He beckons me to come closer. And I do. I hear the prayers of the people in the chapel. Just for a moment. And I watch and weep. These people of faith. Coming together because its the right thing to do. They get it. Oh, why don't the rest of us get it?!
So I bring the food home and much of the meal is soggy. Sigh...but I just had to pray for a minute, Bobby. He understands...or at least lets me think he understands. And the kids don't mind. K jumps up on my lap and kisses the crucifix around my neck.
Why do people keep doing that? It happens all the time. People...okay, women...reach out to my chest, and take my crucifix in their hands and kiss it. And frankly, I love it when they do. Something about that particular design, I think. It just draws people to it.
So I bought about 20 of them and had them blessed this week. I've given quite a few away already. But there is something going on here that transcends the image. It is a connection to the Divine.
But I intended to write about mud and water.
Golf story: my ball was in the rough on a country club golf course. I was maybe 16 years old. Nice white golf shoes, nice white shorts. Blue shirt. I go over to hit the ball and I sink up to my knees in the sand/mud. This is not a joke. My buddies are laughing too hard to realize I cannot get out. I am yelling at them, but oh this is too funny! Ha-ha! OK guys, you've got to pull me out.
And they finally do. But we are in a tournament and I can't walk away. So I have to play out the round in mud boots. HEAVY mud boots. My nice white shoes are a mess. I am dirty all over. But the game must go on!
Backyard story: A creek (actually a ditch) ran behind my home in San Antonio. The rains were great. The pecan trees in the very back of the yard by the ditch, were a measure for me during the storms. The trees would tell me that the water was 4-5 feet deep back there. Wait a few days and then it was time to get the mayonaise jars and go hunting for tadpoles and other critters the water would bring to me. Once we found a bullfrog so big we had to get a styrofoam Ice chest just to catch him in...and oh my, we'd come home so muddy and happy. My mother would take one look at us, turn on the hose and squirt us down...and we'd be laughing the whole time.
The mayo jars would sit on the back porch for a time. I'd watch the little back legs sprout on the tadpoles, and then the front ones...and it seemed before they really began to look like frogs, the jar would disappear from the porch. (I suppose my mother did not want a plague of frogs trying to invade her house)
Point being in all these ramblings: Go ahead and get dirty. Not in sin, mind you, but get dirty in really living your own life. Don't be afraid to go "there" with Him. Seize the day with Him. Every single blessed second of it. Help others out of the mud and ask for help when you get stuck. Take a handful of life and put it in a mayonaise jar and watch it grow. And take a shower once in awhile.
And when the opportunity arises, kiss the cross that set you free.
Love, Cindy
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Moon-set
After Mass last night, I had a wonderful visit with new friends. I am just overwhelmed with the feelings of love I have for all the 'new' people in my life. I am truly convicted by John of the Cross' thesis: in order to have everything, one must desire to possess nothing. I derived this idea from his writings, "The Ascent of Mount Carmel."
During my second year of seminary, when I began to realize that I was actually going to succeed at getting my Masters of Divinity degree, I began to fear the true cost of the degree. Not monetary cost, but the 'price of knowledge' cost.
Two, or maybe three, of my professors watched and listened to my struggles. I am thinking Ed Sylvest put up with the most from me. I would sit in his office, his Methodist office, where statues and portraits of Mother Mary abounded, and he would close his eyes and smile as I would describe my very Catholic spirituality in a very Methodist school, but never once would he say to me, "You really should..." and take the responsibility of my choice off of me. Prof. Clifton Black connected me with a wonderful spiritual director in Grand Prairie...a wonderful Catholic spiritual director, who after three visits, told me that I was Catholic and needed to return to Holy Communion...and then I left her behind, believing that it just wasn't that important.
Then God hit me with Fr. Duffy who introduced me to Mark Link. I was surrounded by two Jesuits who were older and wiser and knew how to talk to a stubborn woman like me. Duffy laughed his way through my conversion and Mark Link provided arguments that I could not refute.
So what have I written here about those "first communions" when I returned to that life as a Catholic? Perhaps I have already bored you with those stories. Some days I have to pray to God as I walk in the line to the priest, "Please God, don't let me pass out up there." I can realize what is happening in receiving Communion, but only so far, in the presence of others. Back at St Marks, where nobody knew me, I could walk right out of the sanctuary and into the chapel and 'go ahead and feel' the gift of the sacrament. That was always nice and perfect.
But a person always has to change her behavior just a little, every time, so no one will know what is really happening. I suppose that is, until someone writes it down.
I am writing fiction all the time, right...just fiction. :-)
So last night, after laughing all too long with wonderful new friends, I began my private prayers much too late for my own good. They were different, they were what I would call my 'deep woods' prayers. These are prayers that I sing, perhaps a little too loudly and perhaps my notes aren't even close to being correct, but deep in the woods, I know only the animals and God hear me. The animals don't mind and God loves my wrong notes and words. The world, however, has other ideas about proper ways to pray.
So I went into my deep woods prayers and then found myself back on the ground again, deeply drowning in God's perfect love and not wanting to leave it. The word deep seems to prevail because, in the past, I felt God holding only the back of my head, as He often does...it is always a warning to me, kind of a 'something wonderful this way comes' kind of feeling and then it is so important to remain still and not be distracted by anyone or anything that enters the area. One can always say no to a union, and I know friends who have said no...but for me, I try to accept all gifts that come to me, unless I am driving or something like that.
Last night, the prayer was not just resting in His Hands, but I felt my entire brain being cherished. Kind of strange words I suppose, but I am hoping they might help someone who is walking the same path...I felt as if the neurons and dendrons...or whatever those synapses are called, were beginning to connect in new ways. It was so wonderful and not scary. I rested in it, hoping that God might 'reconnect' me so that I could be of more service to Him in my daily work. Perhaps he wiring me to listen better and love more.
And then I thought: I am lying on the ground. It is late at night. I look above me at the night sky and I can see Canis Major, but no, its Leo I see, and his large paws and I'm thinking I never saw that before. I'm thinking I really need to get up, but I don't want to. If God is 'fixing' me to be a better servant then I need to stay where I am and wait. "Let it never be about me, Lord." And then part of me begs for discernment. Let this be from God. I am on holy ground, right? I should be safe enough. How could I be feeling such peace and love if it was not from You, Lord? But one should always be wise during these things...if that is possible.
And other things happen, words are exchanged, many thanks are given...and the air is so delightfully still...and even the dog across the alley has gone to sleep...I breathe in the days, so rich and full of blessings, recall the moments in my head, wondering what parts God might want me to use and then I laugh...He wants me to use all of it silly woman! All of it is a gift! How can you think otherwise? What have you held that did not come from Me? What feeling did you know that I did not give to you? Exactly which breath did you take on your own? Silly woman! Abide in Me. The rest will all make sense...or not, but let it go. Rest in Me.
And then I go to my car, only I forgot where I parked. I laugh again.
Then I see my car. And off to the side, the crescent moon is a gentle orange color, just barely above the horizon. I think of Luke and his quest. I think of Don Quixote and his quest. And I think about my quest. It's all going to work, you know, with or without me...and whether I succeed or fail doesn't really matter. What matters is that I tried. That is a gift acceptable to God.
John 16:33 "In this world you will have hardship, but take care, I have conquered the world!"
Love, Cindy
During my second year of seminary, when I began to realize that I was actually going to succeed at getting my Masters of Divinity degree, I began to fear the true cost of the degree. Not monetary cost, but the 'price of knowledge' cost.
Two, or maybe three, of my professors watched and listened to my struggles. I am thinking Ed Sylvest put up with the most from me. I would sit in his office, his Methodist office, where statues and portraits of Mother Mary abounded, and he would close his eyes and smile as I would describe my very Catholic spirituality in a very Methodist school, but never once would he say to me, "You really should..." and take the responsibility of my choice off of me. Prof. Clifton Black connected me with a wonderful spiritual director in Grand Prairie...a wonderful Catholic spiritual director, who after three visits, told me that I was Catholic and needed to return to Holy Communion...and then I left her behind, believing that it just wasn't that important.
Then God hit me with Fr. Duffy who introduced me to Mark Link. I was surrounded by two Jesuits who were older and wiser and knew how to talk to a stubborn woman like me. Duffy laughed his way through my conversion and Mark Link provided arguments that I could not refute.
So what have I written here about those "first communions" when I returned to that life as a Catholic? Perhaps I have already bored you with those stories. Some days I have to pray to God as I walk in the line to the priest, "Please God, don't let me pass out up there." I can realize what is happening in receiving Communion, but only so far, in the presence of others. Back at St Marks, where nobody knew me, I could walk right out of the sanctuary and into the chapel and 'go ahead and feel' the gift of the sacrament. That was always nice and perfect.
But a person always has to change her behavior just a little, every time, so no one will know what is really happening. I suppose that is, until someone writes it down.
I am writing fiction all the time, right...just fiction. :-)
So last night, after laughing all too long with wonderful new friends, I began my private prayers much too late for my own good. They were different, they were what I would call my 'deep woods' prayers. These are prayers that I sing, perhaps a little too loudly and perhaps my notes aren't even close to being correct, but deep in the woods, I know only the animals and God hear me. The animals don't mind and God loves my wrong notes and words. The world, however, has other ideas about proper ways to pray.
So I went into my deep woods prayers and then found myself back on the ground again, deeply drowning in God's perfect love and not wanting to leave it. The word deep seems to prevail because, in the past, I felt God holding only the back of my head, as He often does...it is always a warning to me, kind of a 'something wonderful this way comes' kind of feeling and then it is so important to remain still and not be distracted by anyone or anything that enters the area. One can always say no to a union, and I know friends who have said no...but for me, I try to accept all gifts that come to me, unless I am driving or something like that.
Last night, the prayer was not just resting in His Hands, but I felt my entire brain being cherished. Kind of strange words I suppose, but I am hoping they might help someone who is walking the same path...I felt as if the neurons and dendrons...or whatever those synapses are called, were beginning to connect in new ways. It was so wonderful and not scary. I rested in it, hoping that God might 'reconnect' me so that I could be of more service to Him in my daily work. Perhaps he wiring me to listen better and love more.
And then I thought: I am lying on the ground. It is late at night. I look above me at the night sky and I can see Canis Major, but no, its Leo I see, and his large paws and I'm thinking I never saw that before. I'm thinking I really need to get up, but I don't want to. If God is 'fixing' me to be a better servant then I need to stay where I am and wait. "Let it never be about me, Lord." And then part of me begs for discernment. Let this be from God. I am on holy ground, right? I should be safe enough. How could I be feeling such peace and love if it was not from You, Lord? But one should always be wise during these things...if that is possible.
And other things happen, words are exchanged, many thanks are given...and the air is so delightfully still...and even the dog across the alley has gone to sleep...I breathe in the days, so rich and full of blessings, recall the moments in my head, wondering what parts God might want me to use and then I laugh...He wants me to use all of it silly woman! All of it is a gift! How can you think otherwise? What have you held that did not come from Me? What feeling did you know that I did not give to you? Exactly which breath did you take on your own? Silly woman! Abide in Me. The rest will all make sense...or not, but let it go. Rest in Me.
And then I go to my car, only I forgot where I parked. I laugh again.
Then I see my car. And off to the side, the crescent moon is a gentle orange color, just barely above the horizon. I think of Luke and his quest. I think of Don Quixote and his quest. And I think about my quest. It's all going to work, you know, with or without me...and whether I succeed or fail doesn't really matter. What matters is that I tried. That is a gift acceptable to God.
John 16:33 "In this world you will have hardship, but take care, I have conquered the world!"
Love, Cindy
Friday, May 14, 2010
Bird Song
Just got off the phone with my daughter-in-law, mother of my FIVE wonderful grandchildren. She was driving the van back home after taking Bobby to work.(I will interject here something I consider of value: for two years, after we moved to Dallas, I drove Bob (Ex-husband) to work because we only had one car. We were 'forced' into conversation twice a day for more than an hour. I firmly believe that our marriage started to disintegrate once we owned two cars. We stopped talking with each other. Those of you who are married, I hope you have sacred time with your spouse each day, where you only focus on each other as human persons, not with some particular agenda or list that needs attention. Don't allow yourselves to live together leading separate lives. What you have is too valuable to mistreat.)
That aside, Stacy and I spoke of many things and I noticed that she was driving and the car was so quiet. How can a car with FIVE children in it be quiet?! Stacy said that they had just dropped Bobby off, and Bobby has a lot of energy in him, so perhaps they were just resting from that energy moving to another place.
As we talked, the background sounds began to arise. The stirring of little persons, kind of waking up and embracing the next thing in their lives. It reminded me of my walks in the woods as dawn, as the birds wake to the day. Whether I know the species or not, I do know the order of the birds as they wake. I can tell, still lying in bed, how high the sun has risen by the sounds I hear outside my window as I wake to the next thing in my life. And I am aware of the bird songs of the evening, as they return to their resting place for the night and the nocturnal birds arise for their nightly journeys.
I pretty much thought everyone is aware of these things, but I have found that is not always true, so I share them with you. I desire for those of you who hunger to be fully present to creation as it unfolds...and I hope that as you discover what you know that you didn't realize you knew...you will share it with me sometime, so I can wake to your dawn also.
Last night, I was late at the Columbarium. How odd is seems to me, to desire to sit with the dead. And yet, I have found such peace there. There is enough unobstructed sky to feel as if God can hear me (and I can hear Him!) without filters.
Two nights ago, I quietly observed again what appears to be a ritual: persons coming and talking with family members about important things. What could not be said while one was alive is now said so deeply and lovingly in death. This is a holy place, where the living and the dead meet. And it takes a great faith in something so irrational to come here and believe that you are heard. I see that as a miracle: that we believe in things we cannot see or understand. It is truly one of the greatest gifts of humanity. Faith. Trust. Hope. Other creatures are not so blessed.
Last night, while praying, I noticed some kind of animal moving in and out of the white flowers. It took me awhile to realize that is was a hummingbird. She was so tiny and popped in and out of the petunias (I think they are petunias)...and I thought, she is as attracted to the scent as I am! It is her food, real food. For me it is a scent, a memory of a moment in time. Now the scent will remind me of her...the tiny birds who comes after sunset to fill her belly with food from this garden.
I spent a lot of time trying to be still last night. The darker side of my humanity was exposed much too often this week. My passion, when not directed toward or for God, can be unpleasant for me and anyone who happens into my path. But I will not write about that now. But I felt so small and unworthy and could think of nothing that I could offer God that was good...so I had to offer Him my anger (not in that moment, for I was not angry, but I was frustrated...what do you do when you want to give and think you have nothing to give to Him?). I began to realize that these things are gifts too. These are gifts acceptable to Him because they are part of me, even though they are dark gifts. And I began to quiet a bit, my restlessness seemed to subside.
I started to be more intentional about my examen and I told Him how frustrated I was that we did not honor the Ascension that day. The word "ascension" was enough, for in that moment, He came to me and rocked me in His arms. That was the word He wanted from me. He patiently waited for me to get to where He wanted me to be, and then we were One for a few moments. And it was so very good.
I have always hesitated about writing so specifically about things here. Thought they should be in a book somewhere, but that was my pride talking. I wanted to be remembered for what I wrote.
What is much more important, I realize, is that you seek God and that you find Him, in your own way, on your journey...before you meet Him at your human death. Someone I visited with yesterday said to me she was aware of how much I have changed and when I told her of my plans, I could see her eyes grow wide with a bit of disbelief but they were also filled with a kind of love, knowing I was finally becoming who I was created to be. She clearly found a comfort is the odd words I place here, so I will keep writing.
No one has to believe me. It's just the things people say to me kind of slay me. So if it helps, I open my heart to you as I have already opened it to God. And when you find Him there in your heart, I pray you will be brave enough to tell someone what you found.
Listen to His Song. He wrote it just for you!
Love,
Cindy
That aside, Stacy and I spoke of many things and I noticed that she was driving and the car was so quiet. How can a car with FIVE children in it be quiet?! Stacy said that they had just dropped Bobby off, and Bobby has a lot of energy in him, so perhaps they were just resting from that energy moving to another place.
As we talked, the background sounds began to arise. The stirring of little persons, kind of waking up and embracing the next thing in their lives. It reminded me of my walks in the woods as dawn, as the birds wake to the day. Whether I know the species or not, I do know the order of the birds as they wake. I can tell, still lying in bed, how high the sun has risen by the sounds I hear outside my window as I wake to the next thing in my life. And I am aware of the bird songs of the evening, as they return to their resting place for the night and the nocturnal birds arise for their nightly journeys.
I pretty much thought everyone is aware of these things, but I have found that is not always true, so I share them with you. I desire for those of you who hunger to be fully present to creation as it unfolds...and I hope that as you discover what you know that you didn't realize you knew...you will share it with me sometime, so I can wake to your dawn also.
Last night, I was late at the Columbarium. How odd is seems to me, to desire to sit with the dead. And yet, I have found such peace there. There is enough unobstructed sky to feel as if God can hear me (and I can hear Him!) without filters.
Two nights ago, I quietly observed again what appears to be a ritual: persons coming and talking with family members about important things. What could not be said while one was alive is now said so deeply and lovingly in death. This is a holy place, where the living and the dead meet. And it takes a great faith in something so irrational to come here and believe that you are heard. I see that as a miracle: that we believe in things we cannot see or understand. It is truly one of the greatest gifts of humanity. Faith. Trust. Hope. Other creatures are not so blessed.
Last night, while praying, I noticed some kind of animal moving in and out of the white flowers. It took me awhile to realize that is was a hummingbird. She was so tiny and popped in and out of the petunias (I think they are petunias)...and I thought, she is as attracted to the scent as I am! It is her food, real food. For me it is a scent, a memory of a moment in time. Now the scent will remind me of her...the tiny birds who comes after sunset to fill her belly with food from this garden.
I spent a lot of time trying to be still last night. The darker side of my humanity was exposed much too often this week. My passion, when not directed toward or for God, can be unpleasant for me and anyone who happens into my path. But I will not write about that now. But I felt so small and unworthy and could think of nothing that I could offer God that was good...so I had to offer Him my anger (not in that moment, for I was not angry, but I was frustrated...what do you do when you want to give and think you have nothing to give to Him?). I began to realize that these things are gifts too. These are gifts acceptable to Him because they are part of me, even though they are dark gifts. And I began to quiet a bit, my restlessness seemed to subside.
I started to be more intentional about my examen and I told Him how frustrated I was that we did not honor the Ascension that day. The word "ascension" was enough, for in that moment, He came to me and rocked me in His arms. That was the word He wanted from me. He patiently waited for me to get to where He wanted me to be, and then we were One for a few moments. And it was so very good.
I have always hesitated about writing so specifically about things here. Thought they should be in a book somewhere, but that was my pride talking. I wanted to be remembered for what I wrote.
What is much more important, I realize, is that you seek God and that you find Him, in your own way, on your journey...before you meet Him at your human death. Someone I visited with yesterday said to me she was aware of how much I have changed and when I told her of my plans, I could see her eyes grow wide with a bit of disbelief but they were also filled with a kind of love, knowing I was finally becoming who I was created to be. She clearly found a comfort is the odd words I place here, so I will keep writing.
No one has to believe me. It's just the things people say to me kind of slay me. So if it helps, I open my heart to you as I have already opened it to God. And when you find Him there in your heart, I pray you will be brave enough to tell someone what you found.
Listen to His Song. He wrote it just for you!
Love,
Cindy
Monday, May 10, 2010
Maybe I should give up on titles...
Oh but I love them so! I can think of great titles for books and stories. I can write amazing introductions and conclusions, but that middle part is always a challenge.
How do I tell a story so that it makes sense to someone besides me? I can you know the details? How much of my history do you have to know so that my ideas make sense? Where is there too much disclosure and where is there too little?
When I read Teresa of Avila, out loud, by the lake at Montserrat, it all makes perfect sense to me. This woman knew that the price for her union with God was, while she was on this earth, to know that she would never be a priest. In the last parts of her writings, she tells the nuns in her care something like, "do not aspire to do more than you are allowed to do. Make peace with what you have, what you can do." And oh, how I wept when I read those words.
Almost as much has those words from Jesus, "in a little while, I will be with you no longer, but I will send and Advocate, and He will remind you of all the things I told you."
I don't want Jesus to leave me. Ever. I want to hold him so close and rock him like a little baby in my arms. I want to make His pain go away. I want Him to not feel lonely. But when I am in the woods, reading the Scripture, or on the dock, reading Teresa, I know I don't get to hold on to anything...ever. The Holy Spirit is like the wind, it blows where it wills and if we are lucky, we catch the scent of Him in our nose, breathe Him into our lungs and then He flows into our blood and feeds our bodies. But I don't get to rock Him in my arms...and how I long to do that.
Even in the Pieta, when Mother Mary holds her sweet boy's lifeless body...move my child, do not be dead yet, we have so much more to say, to do, I'm just not ready to let you go. My life, my body, my blood is in you...oh that we could trade places...I don't want to let you go
I've seen it over and over again. Only in personal experience, I think if I stare hard enough, if my will was only strong enough, he would sit up again and smile at me one last time. Maybe they made a mistake, maybe he was just resting...
Death does things to us. Changes us forever. Every single one of them we encounter. They change who we are.
And often it is not until a death that we fully appreciate life. Until then, we live in a whole lot of selfishness, I think. Our desires are so different before we know death. And they are so much richer and relevant once we understand that we are mortal.
So His death, my Boy's death, changed the whole world. Sometimes when I pray, I call Him my Boy. I'm not sure why. I'll leave that to the psychologists in the group. Just sometimes, it feels right to hold Him as my child. Seems for me to just be part of the vastness in which I experience God. If you cannot deal with the contradictions, I can only offer that you pray harder and God will explain it to you as He chooses. Or not.
When I read this bit in John, I am lost in my love for Him as mother. I am never ready to let Him go. As Magdalene, it is easier. Magdalene is more practiced in letting go, but then her lessons are more about surrender, her lessons are about holding on. Mary surrendered to God the moment she said Yes. But the letting go is hard. I don't know about John. Peter, ah well, Peter's heart was broken whether its written down or not...I think Peter might have missed Jesus most of all.
But I digress. Teresa wrote that to love God as we do, and as a woman, there is a great risk and a great price. Since we are still in the world, we are bound by the world and its constructs. The world says I am a woman and I must live by the rules put in place because I am a woman. I can also say I am a white woman, not born in poverty, in south Texas in the 1950s. I am limited by time and by creation.
Play the cards you are dealt.
Don't try to swallow the whole thing at one. Take little bites.
Work with the ones God puts in front of you. Look at what you have. Don't look at what you lost. Don't think about acquiring more.
And that really is the key to earthly bliss: Give us this day our daily bread. Forgive: that means the past is the past. Let it go. Save us from trial: Don't worry about tomorrow. Live today. That is all we have.
Damn.
A consolation is only as perfect as you allow it to be...the very second you think beyond right now...it leaves. Happens every single time.
It is like Chicken Joe in "Surf's Up." (No, I am not completely insane) He's out there on his board and suddenly the wave catches him...he's not trying to catch the wave...and he is so simple-minded that he just rides it until he can't ride it anymore. Later someone says "You've won first prize." and He responds, "I did?!"
Consolation is a lot like that. You can't bring it on, you can only wait for it...and you really ought to be doing something good for God while you wait. Never let your work come before God. That way, when the wave comes, you can turn into it and ride every drop of it.
I like the wave image (there is so much energy in a wave) because it is hard to get distracted when you are in the midst of a really good thing. But you can distracted.
I know that on several times, my consolations were thwarted by a thought so simple as "oh this is wonderful!"
As soon as you add a thought to what's happening to you, the dynamics change and the mind wants control again...but the Holy Spirit doesn't want to be controlled or harnessed.
So Teresa urges her sisters to celebrate what you get and do not grieve when the world tries to take it away.
I'm still working on this. Figured I need to be writing it down.
Love, Cindy
How do I tell a story so that it makes sense to someone besides me? I can you know the details? How much of my history do you have to know so that my ideas make sense? Where is there too much disclosure and where is there too little?
When I read Teresa of Avila, out loud, by the lake at Montserrat, it all makes perfect sense to me. This woman knew that the price for her union with God was, while she was on this earth, to know that she would never be a priest. In the last parts of her writings, she tells the nuns in her care something like, "do not aspire to do more than you are allowed to do. Make peace with what you have, what you can do." And oh, how I wept when I read those words.
Almost as much has those words from Jesus, "in a little while, I will be with you no longer, but I will send and Advocate, and He will remind you of all the things I told you."
I don't want Jesus to leave me. Ever. I want to hold him so close and rock him like a little baby in my arms. I want to make His pain go away. I want Him to not feel lonely. But when I am in the woods, reading the Scripture, or on the dock, reading Teresa, I know I don't get to hold on to anything...ever. The Holy Spirit is like the wind, it blows where it wills and if we are lucky, we catch the scent of Him in our nose, breathe Him into our lungs and then He flows into our blood and feeds our bodies. But I don't get to rock Him in my arms...and how I long to do that.
Even in the Pieta, when Mother Mary holds her sweet boy's lifeless body...move my child, do not be dead yet, we have so much more to say, to do, I'm just not ready to let you go. My life, my body, my blood is in you...oh that we could trade places...I don't want to let you go
I've seen it over and over again. Only in personal experience, I think if I stare hard enough, if my will was only strong enough, he would sit up again and smile at me one last time. Maybe they made a mistake, maybe he was just resting...
Death does things to us. Changes us forever. Every single one of them we encounter. They change who we are.
And often it is not until a death that we fully appreciate life. Until then, we live in a whole lot of selfishness, I think. Our desires are so different before we know death. And they are so much richer and relevant once we understand that we are mortal.
So His death, my Boy's death, changed the whole world. Sometimes when I pray, I call Him my Boy. I'm not sure why. I'll leave that to the psychologists in the group. Just sometimes, it feels right to hold Him as my child. Seems for me to just be part of the vastness in which I experience God. If you cannot deal with the contradictions, I can only offer that you pray harder and God will explain it to you as He chooses. Or not.
When I read this bit in John, I am lost in my love for Him as mother. I am never ready to let Him go. As Magdalene, it is easier. Magdalene is more practiced in letting go, but then her lessons are more about surrender, her lessons are about holding on. Mary surrendered to God the moment she said Yes. But the letting go is hard. I don't know about John. Peter, ah well, Peter's heart was broken whether its written down or not...I think Peter might have missed Jesus most of all.
But I digress. Teresa wrote that to love God as we do, and as a woman, there is a great risk and a great price. Since we are still in the world, we are bound by the world and its constructs. The world says I am a woman and I must live by the rules put in place because I am a woman. I can also say I am a white woman, not born in poverty, in south Texas in the 1950s. I am limited by time and by creation.
Play the cards you are dealt.
Don't try to swallow the whole thing at one. Take little bites.
Work with the ones God puts in front of you. Look at what you have. Don't look at what you lost. Don't think about acquiring more.
And that really is the key to earthly bliss: Give us this day our daily bread. Forgive: that means the past is the past. Let it go. Save us from trial: Don't worry about tomorrow. Live today. That is all we have.
Damn.
A consolation is only as perfect as you allow it to be...the very second you think beyond right now...it leaves. Happens every single time.
It is like Chicken Joe in "Surf's Up." (No, I am not completely insane) He's out there on his board and suddenly the wave catches him...he's not trying to catch the wave...and he is so simple-minded that he just rides it until he can't ride it anymore. Later someone says "You've won first prize." and He responds, "I did?!"
Consolation is a lot like that. You can't bring it on, you can only wait for it...and you really ought to be doing something good for God while you wait. Never let your work come before God. That way, when the wave comes, you can turn into it and ride every drop of it.
I like the wave image (there is so much energy in a wave) because it is hard to get distracted when you are in the midst of a really good thing. But you can distracted.
I know that on several times, my consolations were thwarted by a thought so simple as "oh this is wonderful!"
As soon as you add a thought to what's happening to you, the dynamics change and the mind wants control again...but the Holy Spirit doesn't want to be controlled or harnessed.
So Teresa urges her sisters to celebrate what you get and do not grieve when the world tries to take it away.
I'm still working on this. Figured I need to be writing it down.
Love, Cindy
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Until You are Free
I only have a few minutes, but I've skipped the 7a.m. Mass this morning for the 8:15a.m. Mass. Go figure. The storm woke me at 4a.m. and I loved it. I walked outside and a huge bolt flashed across the sky. Are you mad at me God? Did I fail you? Have you been waiting long? Yes, I know I did not go out under the stars last night and tell you about my day, I was baking bread and stuff...but you ought to know that.
And of course, that is one way I pray. For me, that is part of what Teresa of Avila calls the First Dwelling Places. In here, all the noise of daily life continues to fog our brains and separate us from Him who loves us best. Teresa suggests that it is best to befriend the little critters scurrying around in our heads. Ignoring them just doesn't work. So you tell them to God...yep, this is part of the prayer: the laundry. Once they have their day in the sun, they usually let you go and you can get on with moving into the Second Dwelling Places...which is one step closer to union with Him.
But I'm not going to talk much about that now.
The point is that we have to work continuously until we are free.
We have to like everything about ourselves. I mean, we have to accept it. Stare into the mirror and say "that's good." Secrets kill us. I suppose they do in other relationships, but they really do their damage when we are trying to get closer to God.
Maybe our stuff really is bad, maybe we have some serious flaws that no one else has to deal with...but we have to bring them all to the altar and say "Here is my gift to you, Lord."
Just the way I am. Maybe its not what I want to be, maybe I'll never be what I want to be...but I have to be free enough to give it all to Him.
I had a conversation this week with a friend who is helping someone die. What a beautiful gift. First to be able to stand in the presence of someone who is daily losing any control over his body at all. To not stand in fear. To actually help and not simply ask unceasingly "What can I do for you?" To show respect by waiting for the person who is in need to ask for help...
Oh how I wish I could be more like that in everything I do!
And the, the beautiful other, who is gradually learning to let go of missing his power over his own body. I have to say it that way because like it or not, his body is shutting down. He cannot will it to work as it used to work. So he is forced to accept help...and he maintains some control by being able to ask for help.
These are miracle days for these two men...and I am the privileged soul who gets to hear part of the story.
But really, what I hear is really all about how we can be with God and each other.
God is respectful of us. He wants us to ask. And then He gives generously.
With our friends, we also must give and receive respect. We must ask. We must wait to be asked.
For me, this is very, very, very hard.
Got to leave now. The rain is falling on my skylight and sounds so wonderful
Love.
Cindy
And of course, that is one way I pray. For me, that is part of what Teresa of Avila calls the First Dwelling Places. In here, all the noise of daily life continues to fog our brains and separate us from Him who loves us best. Teresa suggests that it is best to befriend the little critters scurrying around in our heads. Ignoring them just doesn't work. So you tell them to God...yep, this is part of the prayer: the laundry. Once they have their day in the sun, they usually let you go and you can get on with moving into the Second Dwelling Places...which is one step closer to union with Him.
But I'm not going to talk much about that now.
The point is that we have to work continuously until we are free.
We have to like everything about ourselves. I mean, we have to accept it. Stare into the mirror and say "that's good." Secrets kill us. I suppose they do in other relationships, but they really do their damage when we are trying to get closer to God.
Maybe our stuff really is bad, maybe we have some serious flaws that no one else has to deal with...but we have to bring them all to the altar and say "Here is my gift to you, Lord."
Just the way I am. Maybe its not what I want to be, maybe I'll never be what I want to be...but I have to be free enough to give it all to Him.
I had a conversation this week with a friend who is helping someone die. What a beautiful gift. First to be able to stand in the presence of someone who is daily losing any control over his body at all. To not stand in fear. To actually help and not simply ask unceasingly "What can I do for you?" To show respect by waiting for the person who is in need to ask for help...
Oh how I wish I could be more like that in everything I do!
And the, the beautiful other, who is gradually learning to let go of missing his power over his own body. I have to say it that way because like it or not, his body is shutting down. He cannot will it to work as it used to work. So he is forced to accept help...and he maintains some control by being able to ask for help.
These are miracle days for these two men...and I am the privileged soul who gets to hear part of the story.
But really, what I hear is really all about how we can be with God and each other.
God is respectful of us. He wants us to ask. And then He gives generously.
With our friends, we also must give and receive respect. We must ask. We must wait to be asked.
For me, this is very, very, very hard.
Got to leave now. The rain is falling on my skylight and sounds so wonderful
Love.
Cindy
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Good Times
A friend once told me I liked to be "teacher's pet." She's right, I think, although I dislike the moniker. I always seek the best of everything that I value. When I discover excellence, I follow it doggedly. I do not relent until I have received what I thought I was looking for. Sometimes in the process, thinking that I am looking for one thing, I realize that was not what I was looking for...but in the looking, I discovered what I was really looking for.
It's kind of like that book "Blink." There is a part of our brain that immediately recognizes things and creates an internal response. It is before thought and probably primal in nature. A priest I know calls it beauty. I call it excellence. I seek it. I crave it. I assimilate it and then I look for the next thing. I do not possess it. I do not covet it. But I learn from it. I take what might be given but I never try to control it or manipulate it. You can't really learn much from someone or something you are trying to conquer.
As "Teacher's Pet," I seek the best teacher I can find and then I try to convince him or her that I am worthy of being taught. My favorite Star Wars movie is "Empire Strikes Back" and my favorite parts in the movie concern Luke and Yoda. Luke gets a vision from his first teacher who tells him to see out another teacher. Yoda doesn't think Luke is worth his time. When I find my teacher, I do not settle for the first dismissal. You will teach me, I think in my head. I will discover what you need and bring it to you and then you will teach me. You will want to teach me.
Does that sound manipulative? Maybe. But I am driven. For my goal is to grow continually closer to the Divine. That is a life-long education.
Now such behavior could be harmful if it was not deeply seated in love. Seeking the best while giving my best in return is a form of filial love. All life is encounter. So why not let each encounter be a learning experience? Actually, I wonder how each encounter can not be a learning experience.
Sometimes though, the teacher comes with no effort and simply by being who I am, the teacher takes an interest. The teacher sees potential when all I see is mud. Then he or she must create in me a desire to learn. I am less informed or observant about those encounters. I only really understand, and only in part, how I grow.
I have been rejected by teachers. And I have rejected teachers. The timing could be wrong. I may be driven by other interests. Some teachers just drive me crazy...and of course, I drive some of them crazy, too. I recall once a philosophy professor introduced me to one of his colleagues as his best student only for me to hand him my paperwork to drop his class.
But along the way, I have encountered great people. My first one was my kindergarten teacher in Catholic School. I remember how she looked and how she smelled. I desperately wanted to please her. I wanted her hugs every single day.
In high school, my goal was to get my speech coach to think I was worth her time. I thought she was amazing. From her perspective, I did not have that "killer instinct" in debate, and frankly I was not as smart as most of the kids on the team. But I persisted and worked day and night. Once I began to win trophies, she began to see I existed. We became good friends. She talked me out of getting married when I was 16. I would have done anything to get out of my house back then. She convinced me to stay in school, win more trophies and see what college might have to offer. I thank God she was part of my life. Leaving her was hard, but what I learned...what we learned together, still lies inside me, still informs me.
In college, surrounded by 'thinking' people, I was in heaven. I discovered that many of my professors were discouraged human beings. I could see they felt caught in a trap, that 'publish or perish' threat over their heads. So I knew my job immediately. Take an interest in their work. Ask the right questions. Wait for their eyes to light up and then help them remember why they came. Then they could teach me the really good stuff. They would show me the dusty books that no one bothered with. And together we'd come up with new ideas.
That is one of my gifts. Or my work. To help others see their own beauty. Their own excellence. Maybe even, to help them see themselves as God sees them.
That sounds so horribly female, doesn't it? A classic nurturer. Argh!
Seeing my own beauty, or excellence, is much harder. We need each other to see God in each other. We really can't do it alone. But it is a risk and there is always a price.
One of my professors wrote me a thank you note for a gift I gave him when I graduated. U have just reread some of his kind words to me.
"My days at Perkins would have been much poorer had not God entwined our paths. Your deep, persistent, and radiant faith has bolstered me more than you know..." How I wish I had his gift for words!
And his caritas for me has carried me through bad times more than once.
That is always my goal...to feed the hungry. And of course, I'm one of the hungry.
Yeah, I'll always strive to be "Teacher's pet." Of course, my greatest teacher is the one who I won't get to see until I leave this life behind.
Love,
Cindy
It's kind of like that book "Blink." There is a part of our brain that immediately recognizes things and creates an internal response. It is before thought and probably primal in nature. A priest I know calls it beauty. I call it excellence. I seek it. I crave it. I assimilate it and then I look for the next thing. I do not possess it. I do not covet it. But I learn from it. I take what might be given but I never try to control it or manipulate it. You can't really learn much from someone or something you are trying to conquer.
As "Teacher's Pet," I seek the best teacher I can find and then I try to convince him or her that I am worthy of being taught. My favorite Star Wars movie is "Empire Strikes Back" and my favorite parts in the movie concern Luke and Yoda. Luke gets a vision from his first teacher who tells him to see out another teacher. Yoda doesn't think Luke is worth his time. When I find my teacher, I do not settle for the first dismissal. You will teach me, I think in my head. I will discover what you need and bring it to you and then you will teach me. You will want to teach me.
Does that sound manipulative? Maybe. But I am driven. For my goal is to grow continually closer to the Divine. That is a life-long education.
Now such behavior could be harmful if it was not deeply seated in love. Seeking the best while giving my best in return is a form of filial love. All life is encounter. So why not let each encounter be a learning experience? Actually, I wonder how each encounter can not be a learning experience.
Sometimes though, the teacher comes with no effort and simply by being who I am, the teacher takes an interest. The teacher sees potential when all I see is mud. Then he or she must create in me a desire to learn. I am less informed or observant about those encounters. I only really understand, and only in part, how I grow.
I have been rejected by teachers. And I have rejected teachers. The timing could be wrong. I may be driven by other interests. Some teachers just drive me crazy...and of course, I drive some of them crazy, too. I recall once a philosophy professor introduced me to one of his colleagues as his best student only for me to hand him my paperwork to drop his class.
But along the way, I have encountered great people. My first one was my kindergarten teacher in Catholic School. I remember how she looked and how she smelled. I desperately wanted to please her. I wanted her hugs every single day.
In high school, my goal was to get my speech coach to think I was worth her time. I thought she was amazing. From her perspective, I did not have that "killer instinct" in debate, and frankly I was not as smart as most of the kids on the team. But I persisted and worked day and night. Once I began to win trophies, she began to see I existed. We became good friends. She talked me out of getting married when I was 16. I would have done anything to get out of my house back then. She convinced me to stay in school, win more trophies and see what college might have to offer. I thank God she was part of my life. Leaving her was hard, but what I learned...what we learned together, still lies inside me, still informs me.
In college, surrounded by 'thinking' people, I was in heaven. I discovered that many of my professors were discouraged human beings. I could see they felt caught in a trap, that 'publish or perish' threat over their heads. So I knew my job immediately. Take an interest in their work. Ask the right questions. Wait for their eyes to light up and then help them remember why they came. Then they could teach me the really good stuff. They would show me the dusty books that no one bothered with. And together we'd come up with new ideas.
That is one of my gifts. Or my work. To help others see their own beauty. Their own excellence. Maybe even, to help them see themselves as God sees them.
That sounds so horribly female, doesn't it? A classic nurturer. Argh!
Seeing my own beauty, or excellence, is much harder. We need each other to see God in each other. We really can't do it alone. But it is a risk and there is always a price.
One of my professors wrote me a thank you note for a gift I gave him when I graduated. U have just reread some of his kind words to me.
"My days at Perkins would have been much poorer had not God entwined our paths. Your deep, persistent, and radiant faith has bolstered me more than you know..." How I wish I had his gift for words!
And his caritas for me has carried me through bad times more than once.
That is always my goal...to feed the hungry. And of course, I'm one of the hungry.
Yeah, I'll always strive to be "Teacher's pet." Of course, my greatest teacher is the one who I won't get to see until I leave this life behind.
Love,
Cindy
Friday, May 7, 2010
River Rat
I haven't read much of the mystics lately. I seem to only read my breviary these days, which contains so much more than prayers. I've also been trying to read a book on Liturgy, although I have little deliberate time for it. Today I intended to read more, but twice today, God had other plans for me. I have encountered much of the divine in human form this week, in encounters with new people and with long established friends.
But last night, I realized even more the unusual blessings of my life...how fortunate I am to have them, and how even more fortunate I am to be able to recognize them. I listened to my companions in my class last night and I was struck by the truth that they were still deeply connected to the world. Or perhaps worldly things. I am not mentioning that as any kind of criticism, it's just that, for their worlds to function, they are still tired to that which is transitory.
I, on the other hand, have been given the privilege to remove myself from 'worldly things.' I have deliberately chosen what will be in my life and what will not. And I do so at my own risk.
I have not worked at a paying job in about two years, but I have been working. I am living out my vocation because I can. I watch the birds and I sing to them because I can. I write because I can. I reach out to anyone and everyone, not fearing rejection any longer because I can....because nothing is me any more. Or I can say at least that much of me is gone now...the parts of me that were not useful to the work I believe I am supposed to do.
There has been violence in the world since I have up TV in February. There are political scandals. I don't watch the news. More delightfully, I don't watch anyone's opinions about the news...and I try not to listen to opinions about the news, including politics, in private conversations.
If I hear the news, it is while I am in a hospital room before we pray. Or if someone needs to vent about what they saw, then I will listen...but it is s good to be ignorant, because I really don't have an opinion about what they are telling me. I can speak to an issue spiritually, but since I have not followed the story, I can't make a judgment on any events. I don't really want to anyway. The amount of stress I avoid by remaining ignorant is wonderful.
Now that is not to say that I am not involved. I am deeply involved with the person right in front of me.
I have observed my younger priest with great care. One of his gifts is his ability to be completely present for the person he is speaking with. Or at the very least, he gives the impression that he is only speaking to one person at a time. I found this behavior fascinating because I am often like a spy on a mission, I observe the entire room. I observe how people in the room respond to each other. I watch for potential problems, and potential praises. I see what seems to work and what doesn't. So this idea of being completely mindful of the person directly in front of me...when so much else is going on...is a skill that I am only beginning to learn. My almost ADD personality has to work very hard to stay still and focused.
But doing it, I am discovering great peace. And joy. My competitive nature has to be tamed to do this kind of work. Hard as it is, I am loving the learning of it. It is as if a whole new world is opening for me. By letting go of all the unnecessary stimulation that I could accept, I open myself only to just a little...that which God places before me in this one moment. And what an honor it is to be there.
I've always considered myself a kind of River Rat. I like the notion of being a scavenger, sleeping when I'm tired, wherever the ground is reasonably smooth. I like the idea of water that is always moving, always on its way to someplace else. I like jumping in without any plans, staying as long as I wish, and jumping out in a new place, shaking vigorously the excess wet away and then sniffing around to new friends and adventures.
Part of that is helpful to my work. I try to expect nothing from anyone. Hence almost everything is a gift. What I find is that, the more I lose my "demand desire," the more people want to be with me. The more they want to tell me, share with me, experience with me.
I am so very aware of these kinds of blessings now that I am also ultra-sensitive to recognizing the times when I am being demanding. Right now, it seems my demanding behavior is a choice. I see a situation and I demand a certain kind of response. I own the fact that that kind of power still resides in me. The difference seems to be that now, I am almost entirely demanding for/of only 'useful' things. Like respect. I still struggle with demanding respect from the people I encounter. Part of me still thinks I have a right to be treated respectfully, but as I pray about it, I begin to understand that the word means different things to different people. My opinion of what it means is only one of many. If someone is disrespectful to me and I feel my pride being hurt, I have to ask myself "why does it matter to me?" To be completely surrendered to God, I am thinking I really should not let such things control me. Because that is what happens. I get caught up in the should/oughts and I completely miss the human encounter that might have happened.
On the other side of the coin is though I should not care about how others treat me, I need to be completely respectful on the people I meet...even if I think they are undeserving...and oddly, I see that judgment of 'deserving/undeserving' as a sin also...something else to release. I need to treat everyone well. I need to be certain that, if my heart is in the room with someone, it better be a loving heart.
So you can see that there is no fairness about these ideas at all.
Not watching TV helps a lot. Most of what is out there is opinion. Very little is fact and even less is useful to daily living.
Humble thyself in he sight of the Lord.
Let me assure you that I have not mastered these skills. But I am working on them. And the more I learn, the more different I become. The less I fit in.
But oddly, I don't care. In my heart, I seem to believe what I am trying to do is right. Very hard, but right.
I will have to think more about it. These aren't new ideas, I'd say that they were all over Thomas a Kempis' writings and many other great spiritual writers...but I'm trying to explain them in my language...your job will be to explain them in your language. So you can understand and decide if you want to do it too.
Love,
Cindy
But last night, I realized even more the unusual blessings of my life...how fortunate I am to have them, and how even more fortunate I am to be able to recognize them. I listened to my companions in my class last night and I was struck by the truth that they were still deeply connected to the world. Or perhaps worldly things. I am not mentioning that as any kind of criticism, it's just that, for their worlds to function, they are still tired to that which is transitory.
I, on the other hand, have been given the privilege to remove myself from 'worldly things.' I have deliberately chosen what will be in my life and what will not. And I do so at my own risk.
I have not worked at a paying job in about two years, but I have been working. I am living out my vocation because I can. I watch the birds and I sing to them because I can. I write because I can. I reach out to anyone and everyone, not fearing rejection any longer because I can....because nothing is me any more. Or I can say at least that much of me is gone now...the parts of me that were not useful to the work I believe I am supposed to do.
There has been violence in the world since I have up TV in February. There are political scandals. I don't watch the news. More delightfully, I don't watch anyone's opinions about the news...and I try not to listen to opinions about the news, including politics, in private conversations.
If I hear the news, it is while I am in a hospital room before we pray. Or if someone needs to vent about what they saw, then I will listen...but it is s good to be ignorant, because I really don't have an opinion about what they are telling me. I can speak to an issue spiritually, but since I have not followed the story, I can't make a judgment on any events. I don't really want to anyway. The amount of stress I avoid by remaining ignorant is wonderful.
Now that is not to say that I am not involved. I am deeply involved with the person right in front of me.
I have observed my younger priest with great care. One of his gifts is his ability to be completely present for the person he is speaking with. Or at the very least, he gives the impression that he is only speaking to one person at a time. I found this behavior fascinating because I am often like a spy on a mission, I observe the entire room. I observe how people in the room respond to each other. I watch for potential problems, and potential praises. I see what seems to work and what doesn't. So this idea of being completely mindful of the person directly in front of me...when so much else is going on...is a skill that I am only beginning to learn. My almost ADD personality has to work very hard to stay still and focused.
But doing it, I am discovering great peace. And joy. My competitive nature has to be tamed to do this kind of work. Hard as it is, I am loving the learning of it. It is as if a whole new world is opening for me. By letting go of all the unnecessary stimulation that I could accept, I open myself only to just a little...that which God places before me in this one moment. And what an honor it is to be there.
I've always considered myself a kind of River Rat. I like the notion of being a scavenger, sleeping when I'm tired, wherever the ground is reasonably smooth. I like the idea of water that is always moving, always on its way to someplace else. I like jumping in without any plans, staying as long as I wish, and jumping out in a new place, shaking vigorously the excess wet away and then sniffing around to new friends and adventures.
Part of that is helpful to my work. I try to expect nothing from anyone. Hence almost everything is a gift. What I find is that, the more I lose my "demand desire," the more people want to be with me. The more they want to tell me, share with me, experience with me.
I am so very aware of these kinds of blessings now that I am also ultra-sensitive to recognizing the times when I am being demanding. Right now, it seems my demanding behavior is a choice. I see a situation and I demand a certain kind of response. I own the fact that that kind of power still resides in me. The difference seems to be that now, I am almost entirely demanding for/of only 'useful' things. Like respect. I still struggle with demanding respect from the people I encounter. Part of me still thinks I have a right to be treated respectfully, but as I pray about it, I begin to understand that the word means different things to different people. My opinion of what it means is only one of many. If someone is disrespectful to me and I feel my pride being hurt, I have to ask myself "why does it matter to me?" To be completely surrendered to God, I am thinking I really should not let such things control me. Because that is what happens. I get caught up in the should/oughts and I completely miss the human encounter that might have happened.
On the other side of the coin is though I should not care about how others treat me, I need to be completely respectful on the people I meet...even if I think they are undeserving...and oddly, I see that judgment of 'deserving/undeserving' as a sin also...something else to release. I need to treat everyone well. I need to be certain that, if my heart is in the room with someone, it better be a loving heart.
So you can see that there is no fairness about these ideas at all.
Not watching TV helps a lot. Most of what is out there is opinion. Very little is fact and even less is useful to daily living.
Humble thyself in he sight of the Lord.
Let me assure you that I have not mastered these skills. But I am working on them. And the more I learn, the more different I become. The less I fit in.
But oddly, I don't care. In my heart, I seem to believe what I am trying to do is right. Very hard, but right.
I will have to think more about it. These aren't new ideas, I'd say that they were all over Thomas a Kempis' writings and many other great spiritual writers...but I'm trying to explain them in my language...your job will be to explain them in your language. So you can understand and decide if you want to do it too.
Love,
Cindy
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Body and Soul
I was heading out of the church parking lot this morning, knowing in the back of my head I should go to the columbarium to pray. I drove near the elementary school and saw the police car waiting for people not paying attention to the school zone. Thought I was off the hook. Then I realized I left my coffee back in the church.
So I think, I'm supposed to go pray. Last night's prayers were scattered. I needed to make up for them. Or rather, I'm used to finally arriving at some kind of peace or conclusion in prayer. I hate it when God leaves me hanging.
I am such a child with God. Whatever He gives me, whenever He gives me, I still have the habit of looking around behind the gift and thinking, "Is there more?" In one way, that is good. I don't want to leave a drop of God behind. I don't want to miss out on the whole, entire, beautiful gift. On the other hand, looking around could imply that I am not grateful for what is in front of me. Or it could mean I'm greedy.
Am I over-thinking my prayers again?
A dear friend told me to watch a show on EWTN on Catherine of Sienna. She is a kind of muse for me. I have a female muse, and I think at least for a little while longer, I have a male muse. Actually the muse comes in many forms. I can be with someone and suddenly I feel my soul growing very still inside me. That's when I know I am encountering the divine. The waters around me suddenly stop splashing against my boat, the air gets thick...and then I see Him, I don't see the person before me any more. They are more like shadows, reflecting the God resides in them.
She tells me to watch this show on Catherine. Pay attention to it Cindy. So I figure out how to watch it on my iPhone. And the fire inside me burns a bit brighter. How does she know, Lord?
I think about all the women who have been born who may have inside them the call to "Holy Orders" and because they are born woman, they either ignore the gift or try to make it work in some other way. Or they die...and that is a shame. Wasting God's precious seeds because the puzzle pieces don't fit.
Makes me think about the movie "Contact." Astronomer Ellie was given all the pieces to the puzzle, but it did not make sense...only parts of the puzzle seemed to work together. Make one part 'fit' and then there's a loose end. Make the other parts fit, and you have a different loose end. So Hayden tells her, "Oh but all the pieces fit. You just have to think like a Vegan[planet near star Vega]." And he puts it together by not thinking linearly.
And that is a truth I have preached on before. Life is not linear. Yes, we can identify cause and effect. But nothing is just cause and effect.
Sometimes I get frustrated with the Catholic Church because it seems to remain so two-dimensional. It seems at times it only has one plane of understanding. It sees in length and width but not depth. Or it can see length and width and depth, but it forgets about time.
Let me be perfectly clear here, I am not claiming any superior knowledge here. I am simply observing and thinking out loud. But I believe in my heart, we are more than body. We are more than soul. We are body and soul.
And the Church does a fair job looking at this issue. But its thoughts are not the final thoughts. God is still writing the story. (Have I just committed heresy?)
The epistle reading today was Paul and Barnabas meeting with the elders and presbyters about the issue of circumcision. No, you didn't have to be circumcised to become a Christian. You don't have to become a Jew first. That's good.
But back then, even Paul had women in the positions of leadership within the early church. That eventually went away. I have to ask why. Was it that we were too hormonal to be steadfast leaders? The argument over circumcision was won because it was prudent to the faith to remove that obstacle. But women, whom Jesus honored more than any man in history has ever done, were disposable (the issue of women leaders) because the world would not receive them even if Jesus did.
How much of our beautiful faith has been slowed or lost because of this choice?
So the time has dawned again and then question arises. Why? How does it serve to take these gifted women and put them in a cage...metaphorical as it is?
But I suddenly realize, as I weep and struggle with these ideas...that I am thinking linearly again. I cannot see as God sees. What He wills for us His creation cannot be thwarted by any human powers, male or female. He calls us and puts us to work, if we remain in prayer and steadfast to our complete and total surrender to Him.
And the waters around me calm again. Only God is in charge. On Him alone will I rely. In Him only will I trust.
So I watch the show on Catherine of Sienna. OR most of it. I can feel her in my life. I can feel her life and my life sharing a space in that timeless heaven space with God. And I think, I am in touch with the divine.
She stood up to the Pope. She preached. She was illiterate. She changed lives. She died at 33. Had she been a learned woman, no one might have listened to her. They might have confused grace for cleverness. They might have thought she had a personal agenda. But by being exactly who she was in the time she lived, she changed the world.
And since I was old enough to think, I have wanted to change the world. Too early on, I saw so much suffering. We are such fools, feeding our miseries and demanding to be right, wanting our own form of justice...punishing those who cross us directly or passively, exacting vengeance over such minor things...it has to stop. That's what I decided maybe at age 6. I just know what I saw was wrong and it needed righting.
But I see this bit on Catherine and I think, I have done so little for you God. I have done so little. I have wasted so much time weeping over my own foolish life when there were people to feed and hearts to mend. How can I ever make it up to Him who loved me anyway?
But I am thinking linearly again. I go to the columbarium, I think, to pray. A woman follows me in. I sigh. But not too much. I know her. I like her. I love her.
Show me God, what you want me to know.
And He does.
Got a really nice card from someone in RCIA last night. He wrote words I wanted to hear. He wrote from his heart. The truth always sounds good eventually.
The woman I met yesterday. She gets Meals on Wheels everyday. I think, another ministry I should be doing. She wants to receive Holy Communion every day. I tell her I can come once a week (she receives on Sundays) if she would like. I tell I usually do that on Mondays. She tells me she would like Communion on Wednesdays...before 11 a.m. I smile. She's 90. She was probably 30 years old before she didn't have to use the "coloreds only" bathrooms in public buildings. She can have Communion whenever she wants it...if I am going to serve her.
The columbarium. We women talk. We are so different. And we are so alike. And I feel spiritually blessed in her presence. She tells me that one of her children works with deeply traumatized women in a psych hospital. (I am being vague on purpose) The intake includes hundreds of questions about their lives. One question is missing from the forms:
Did you ever have an abortion?
And I am stunned that the psychiatrists could be so stupid. As a woman, our ability to hold new life within us is probably the most important part of being a woman...in fact, it is why we needed male and female. The most important thing that defines us (and if you disagree, so be it)is ignored when trying to understand a woman's trauma.
So I've gone full circle. Does my having a womb disqualify me from being a healer in God's Church on earth? I'm thinking no.
All of this because I left my coffee cup in the church.
I just have to stop thinking in a line. :-)
Love, Cindy
So I think, I'm supposed to go pray. Last night's prayers were scattered. I needed to make up for them. Or rather, I'm used to finally arriving at some kind of peace or conclusion in prayer. I hate it when God leaves me hanging.
I am such a child with God. Whatever He gives me, whenever He gives me, I still have the habit of looking around behind the gift and thinking, "Is there more?" In one way, that is good. I don't want to leave a drop of God behind. I don't want to miss out on the whole, entire, beautiful gift. On the other hand, looking around could imply that I am not grateful for what is in front of me. Or it could mean I'm greedy.
Am I over-thinking my prayers again?
A dear friend told me to watch a show on EWTN on Catherine of Sienna. She is a kind of muse for me. I have a female muse, and I think at least for a little while longer, I have a male muse. Actually the muse comes in many forms. I can be with someone and suddenly I feel my soul growing very still inside me. That's when I know I am encountering the divine. The waters around me suddenly stop splashing against my boat, the air gets thick...and then I see Him, I don't see the person before me any more. They are more like shadows, reflecting the God resides in them.
She tells me to watch this show on Catherine. Pay attention to it Cindy. So I figure out how to watch it on my iPhone. And the fire inside me burns a bit brighter. How does she know, Lord?
I think about all the women who have been born who may have inside them the call to "Holy Orders" and because they are born woman, they either ignore the gift or try to make it work in some other way. Or they die...and that is a shame. Wasting God's precious seeds because the puzzle pieces don't fit.
Makes me think about the movie "Contact." Astronomer Ellie was given all the pieces to the puzzle, but it did not make sense...only parts of the puzzle seemed to work together. Make one part 'fit' and then there's a loose end. Make the other parts fit, and you have a different loose end. So Hayden tells her, "Oh but all the pieces fit. You just have to think like a Vegan[planet near star Vega]." And he puts it together by not thinking linearly.
And that is a truth I have preached on before. Life is not linear. Yes, we can identify cause and effect. But nothing is just cause and effect.
Sometimes I get frustrated with the Catholic Church because it seems to remain so two-dimensional. It seems at times it only has one plane of understanding. It sees in length and width but not depth. Or it can see length and width and depth, but it forgets about time.
Let me be perfectly clear here, I am not claiming any superior knowledge here. I am simply observing and thinking out loud. But I believe in my heart, we are more than body. We are more than soul. We are body and soul.
And the Church does a fair job looking at this issue. But its thoughts are not the final thoughts. God is still writing the story. (Have I just committed heresy?)
The epistle reading today was Paul and Barnabas meeting with the elders and presbyters about the issue of circumcision. No, you didn't have to be circumcised to become a Christian. You don't have to become a Jew first. That's good.
But back then, even Paul had women in the positions of leadership within the early church. That eventually went away. I have to ask why. Was it that we were too hormonal to be steadfast leaders? The argument over circumcision was won because it was prudent to the faith to remove that obstacle. But women, whom Jesus honored more than any man in history has ever done, were disposable (the issue of women leaders) because the world would not receive them even if Jesus did.
How much of our beautiful faith has been slowed or lost because of this choice?
So the time has dawned again and then question arises. Why? How does it serve to take these gifted women and put them in a cage...metaphorical as it is?
But I suddenly realize, as I weep and struggle with these ideas...that I am thinking linearly again. I cannot see as God sees. What He wills for us His creation cannot be thwarted by any human powers, male or female. He calls us and puts us to work, if we remain in prayer and steadfast to our complete and total surrender to Him.
And the waters around me calm again. Only God is in charge. On Him alone will I rely. In Him only will I trust.
So I watch the show on Catherine of Sienna. OR most of it. I can feel her in my life. I can feel her life and my life sharing a space in that timeless heaven space with God. And I think, I am in touch with the divine.
She stood up to the Pope. She preached. She was illiterate. She changed lives. She died at 33. Had she been a learned woman, no one might have listened to her. They might have confused grace for cleverness. They might have thought she had a personal agenda. But by being exactly who she was in the time she lived, she changed the world.
And since I was old enough to think, I have wanted to change the world. Too early on, I saw so much suffering. We are such fools, feeding our miseries and demanding to be right, wanting our own form of justice...punishing those who cross us directly or passively, exacting vengeance over such minor things...it has to stop. That's what I decided maybe at age 6. I just know what I saw was wrong and it needed righting.
But I see this bit on Catherine and I think, I have done so little for you God. I have done so little. I have wasted so much time weeping over my own foolish life when there were people to feed and hearts to mend. How can I ever make it up to Him who loved me anyway?
But I am thinking linearly again. I go to the columbarium, I think, to pray. A woman follows me in. I sigh. But not too much. I know her. I like her. I love her.
Show me God, what you want me to know.
And He does.
Got a really nice card from someone in RCIA last night. He wrote words I wanted to hear. He wrote from his heart. The truth always sounds good eventually.
The woman I met yesterday. She gets Meals on Wheels everyday. I think, another ministry I should be doing. She wants to receive Holy Communion every day. I tell her I can come once a week (she receives on Sundays) if she would like. I tell I usually do that on Mondays. She tells me she would like Communion on Wednesdays...before 11 a.m. I smile. She's 90. She was probably 30 years old before she didn't have to use the "coloreds only" bathrooms in public buildings. She can have Communion whenever she wants it...if I am going to serve her.
The columbarium. We women talk. We are so different. And we are so alike. And I feel spiritually blessed in her presence. She tells me that one of her children works with deeply traumatized women in a psych hospital. (I am being vague on purpose) The intake includes hundreds of questions about their lives. One question is missing from the forms:
Did you ever have an abortion?
And I am stunned that the psychiatrists could be so stupid. As a woman, our ability to hold new life within us is probably the most important part of being a woman...in fact, it is why we needed male and female. The most important thing that defines us (and if you disagree, so be it)is ignored when trying to understand a woman's trauma.
So I've gone full circle. Does my having a womb disqualify me from being a healer in God's Church on earth? I'm thinking no.
All of this because I left my coffee cup in the church.
I just have to stop thinking in a line. :-)
Love, Cindy
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Where's the fire?
Last night I read the concluding chapters to the Book of Revelation aloud in the sanctuary during a thunderstorm. I love thunderstorms. I love the clash of hot and cold air and all the physics that is associated with them. I gave my ex-husband a large photo of a thunderstorm at night in the Arizona desert. In it you saw the multiple shades of dark blue, lightning and cacti anchored in the desert sand. I thought it would remind him of me...as I was often a person who is very dramatic and when crossed, has the lightning and thorns to rival any summer desert storm.
Good thing I am not like that anymore...
Thomas A Kempis says passion is a handicap. One of my priests tells me that falling 'in love' with God might be a problem, because if you fall in love, you most likely will fall out of love someday.
True...perhaps. Falling in love is a disease. The writer Gabriel Marquez wrote of falling in love in "Love in the Time of Cholera" that one should "enjoy the disease while you have it." It is an irrational thing that brings people together. It makes no sense, it sees only what is wants to see...it is blind...and is happy to suffer.
It gets things started. But after the disease, after the antibodies heal you from that glorious irrational, you get to choose to stay or leave. The ride was a wild one, but as the priest says, real love is more than drama.
(Ah, but I think God loves drama. Part of that free will thing, you know. Yes, the ending is known...but the story...ah the story...is part of the joy at the end.)
But I am inclined, as I always am, to believe that things are never black and white. The storm of events that got me to fall "in love" with God have quieted some, but I would argue that the passion is always there. It is not a handicap, but there is a great price to be with God in this way.
There are deserts, and there are storms. There are mountaintop ecstasies and pits of despair. There is euphoria and there is dryness so dry that it hurts. But I wouldn't trade it for a level-headed choice of loving God because...well...its the right thing to do.
Let me fight with Him, let me argue with Him, let me try to knock Him to the ground...and let me lose to Him. Let me weep in my own willfulness, let me grieve my temper, but let me be who I am with Him! Let me be completely real for Him...and surprisingly enough...He becomes completely real for me.
Some days He is my Father. Some days He is my Son. Some days He is my Brother. Some days He is my Husband. And being who I am, I'll fight and argue with Him in every form...and I will love Him and defend Him with all of my being and with my very last breath.
We are sometimes that old married couple that I often visit in the nursing home. She is still giving her husband hell over every little thing, but watching them, there is no doubt in my mind of the deep love that they share.
Is it right to treat God that way? Should I stay at a distance, thinking that I'll only show Him the nice Cindy? Who am I kidding here? Does God really fall for manipulation? Do we think for a minute that He doesn't know the last thought in our heads? Do we think we can hide our envy or lust or laziness from Him?
Sigh...so I just go there, to Him, just as I am. A prickly cactus, a thunderstorm, a irritated porcupine...and so very often also as a frightened little girl who simply doesn't want to be alone at night. And He is there for the long haul. He never lets go, He never gives up. He hangs on when I am shaking in terror that maybe He is disappointed in what I did that day, or if I tried too hard, or if I thought for a minute that I was in control...
He's just there. Solid. Firm. Steadfast. Sure. Loving me just as I am.
Tell me, now, how can I not stay "in love" with Him?! From the time I was six years old, I knew I was His and He was mine. The child that dragged the ladder into the yard to get closer is the one today who writes Him letters with her tears...and the passion has not stopped for 50 years. I suspect it will continue for another 50, if I should live that long...
For me it was not just a coincidence that the thunder and lightning of last night coincided with my reading of certain passages from Revelation. The movement from light to dark during the 7:30 p.m. Mass on Sunday a week ago was not a coincidence. It was a gift. Realizing today yet another truth about the rings I wear...
or is it a truth? Who knows? I wear one ring on my right hand, rose gold with diamonds and rubies. Little ones. White and red, like the Divine Mercy vision of St Faustina. On my left hand, I wear a dome ring with ten diamonds. A larger diamond in the center with nine little diamonds 'floating' around it. That makes me think of the solar system, or the universe. It is on my wedding finger. On the finger next to it is my silver rosary ring that I had made for me when I entered seminary. Silver is a sign of redemption. It was/is my symbol for the Catholic Church.
So in my left hand, I am holding the cosmos(creation)and the Church. In my right hand is Divine Mercy. Sometimes at Mass, when I bow my head to pray, and my hands are folded, in the facets of the stones, I clearly see the crucifix behind the altar and sometimes I see the altar. And when I do, it shakes me to my bones.
Yeah, I like drama.
Think of it, in our hands, we hold the world...we hold creation. We hold the Church and we hold Mercy. We look into what we hold and there we see the Mass, never ending, unceasing...telling us we have within us the ability to make this world work...if we put Him first, if we put His love first.
That happened this morning in Mass.
Yeah, I like drama.
Love, Cindy
Good thing I am not like that anymore...
Thomas A Kempis says passion is a handicap. One of my priests tells me that falling 'in love' with God might be a problem, because if you fall in love, you most likely will fall out of love someday.
True...perhaps. Falling in love is a disease. The writer Gabriel Marquez wrote of falling in love in "Love in the Time of Cholera" that one should "enjoy the disease while you have it." It is an irrational thing that brings people together. It makes no sense, it sees only what is wants to see...it is blind...and is happy to suffer.
It gets things started. But after the disease, after the antibodies heal you from that glorious irrational, you get to choose to stay or leave. The ride was a wild one, but as the priest says, real love is more than drama.
(Ah, but I think God loves drama. Part of that free will thing, you know. Yes, the ending is known...but the story...ah the story...is part of the joy at the end.)
But I am inclined, as I always am, to believe that things are never black and white. The storm of events that got me to fall "in love" with God have quieted some, but I would argue that the passion is always there. It is not a handicap, but there is a great price to be with God in this way.
There are deserts, and there are storms. There are mountaintop ecstasies and pits of despair. There is euphoria and there is dryness so dry that it hurts. But I wouldn't trade it for a level-headed choice of loving God because...well...its the right thing to do.
Let me fight with Him, let me argue with Him, let me try to knock Him to the ground...and let me lose to Him. Let me weep in my own willfulness, let me grieve my temper, but let me be who I am with Him! Let me be completely real for Him...and surprisingly enough...He becomes completely real for me.
Some days He is my Father. Some days He is my Son. Some days He is my Brother. Some days He is my Husband. And being who I am, I'll fight and argue with Him in every form...and I will love Him and defend Him with all of my being and with my very last breath.
We are sometimes that old married couple that I often visit in the nursing home. She is still giving her husband hell over every little thing, but watching them, there is no doubt in my mind of the deep love that they share.
Is it right to treat God that way? Should I stay at a distance, thinking that I'll only show Him the nice Cindy? Who am I kidding here? Does God really fall for manipulation? Do we think for a minute that He doesn't know the last thought in our heads? Do we think we can hide our envy or lust or laziness from Him?
Sigh...so I just go there, to Him, just as I am. A prickly cactus, a thunderstorm, a irritated porcupine...and so very often also as a frightened little girl who simply doesn't want to be alone at night. And He is there for the long haul. He never lets go, He never gives up. He hangs on when I am shaking in terror that maybe He is disappointed in what I did that day, or if I tried too hard, or if I thought for a minute that I was in control...
He's just there. Solid. Firm. Steadfast. Sure. Loving me just as I am.
Tell me, now, how can I not stay "in love" with Him?! From the time I was six years old, I knew I was His and He was mine. The child that dragged the ladder into the yard to get closer is the one today who writes Him letters with her tears...and the passion has not stopped for 50 years. I suspect it will continue for another 50, if I should live that long...
For me it was not just a coincidence that the thunder and lightning of last night coincided with my reading of certain passages from Revelation. The movement from light to dark during the 7:30 p.m. Mass on Sunday a week ago was not a coincidence. It was a gift. Realizing today yet another truth about the rings I wear...
or is it a truth? Who knows? I wear one ring on my right hand, rose gold with diamonds and rubies. Little ones. White and red, like the Divine Mercy vision of St Faustina. On my left hand, I wear a dome ring with ten diamonds. A larger diamond in the center with nine little diamonds 'floating' around it. That makes me think of the solar system, or the universe. It is on my wedding finger. On the finger next to it is my silver rosary ring that I had made for me when I entered seminary. Silver is a sign of redemption. It was/is my symbol for the Catholic Church.
So in my left hand, I am holding the cosmos(creation)and the Church. In my right hand is Divine Mercy. Sometimes at Mass, when I bow my head to pray, and my hands are folded, in the facets of the stones, I clearly see the crucifix behind the altar and sometimes I see the altar. And when I do, it shakes me to my bones.
Yeah, I like drama.
Think of it, in our hands, we hold the world...we hold creation. We hold the Church and we hold Mercy. We look into what we hold and there we see the Mass, never ending, unceasing...telling us we have within us the ability to make this world work...if we put Him first, if we put His love first.
That happened this morning in Mass.
Yeah, I like drama.
Love, Cindy
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