Come Holy Spirit
Fill the hearts of your faithful
Kindle in them the fire of Your Love...
There are so many things I am supposed to do...worldly things and they are catching up with me. I have a relative in Florida who will probably call in a few days asking me why I haven't finished the work I was supposed to do.
"Well that's because I was doing other work" just isn't going to cut it with him anymore. I've got to get it done. And I am afraid.
**********************
Like how last night happened. Like how my whole life is just not really my own anymore. Like I make plans, but nothing ever quite goes as expected. Like there are things I was to write, but oh my...what if I did...I am afraid.
But I'll share a little. I got really ticked off at someone from the retreat I am working on. Trying to be helpful, she asked me, "Have you got your meditation for next week?" "I'm thinking about it," I told her. "Well, why don't you do the Divine Mercy Chaplet?" And inside myself, I just bubbled over. What I heard was: "Cindy, you are such a flake, you never get things done, so here's an answer because I want to know now what you are planning for next week. You are incompetent."
That's not what she said. But that's what I heard.
She's asking me what I am going to do in seven days. I usually don't have a clue what I will be doing in an hour, much less seven days from now. What I mean, is that, I make plans...but I remain always open to the Holy Spirit, and sometimes other things take priority. One was to look at that is gross irresponsibility. Another was to look at it is complete surrender to God. I'm really somewhere in the middle.
**************************
And I get...distracted...like just now...three hours after I started to write. Headed over to Mass at Seton. Got there and Josephine was in a little bit of a panic. Seems I forgot it was Cennacle Wednesday. I usually read on those Wednesdays. But it worked out. Josephine read in honor of her son Michael, as today is honoring angels Michael, Gabriel and Raphael...angels among us...like the angel I think must be mine: Clarence would be good, but probably Earl.
Clarence was the angel in Its a Wonderful Life...the one who showed George Bailey what the world would be like without him...and Earl is Grace's angel...Grace's last chance angel in "Saving Grace." "You're headed for hell, Grace," Earl tells her in the pilot of the show. "I'm just Fed Ex delivering a message."
And that, of course, is the whole point: What would God possibly want with a woman like me? And that was the conversation in the parking lot at St Rita's on Tuesday evening. Why would a woman, with such a colorful past as mine, desire to become a nun? I had a taste of the "other, worldly life. How can I possibly give that up or let it go? Can a woman who is not a virgin become a virgin again?
And that is the $64,000 question. That is the bottom line. That is the core of what and how we understand forgiveness and reconciliation. Is it really, really a clean slate? Does He forgive us when we are contrite and repentant? Of course. Can the world forgive and let go? Who knows. Can we forgive ourselves? Ah, now, that's the kicker.
How much penance is enough penance? At what point do we become whole again? Do we ever become whole again? Here is where we face what we truly believe. The place no one wants to look. Okay, maybe just me. It's damn hard. What mistake, what sin, is unforgivable? Abortion? Murder? Theft? Sloth? Deceit? Depends on the person. Depends on the life lived. That whole God-Incarnation thing...He died on the cross for my sins.
And yesterday while playing the piano, I got to thinking about a woman I visited for about three months before she died. The one Fr. Jason told me to see one Sunday...and when I met her I understood why he asked me to go. I've written about her before. Walked into her room and she was madder than a hornet's nest. Wanted to die and was damn mad at God for keeping her alive. I asked her if she had forgiven everyone. She said yes. Then she had some unkind things to say about her husband. I asked if she had forgive him. She said "Never!" and I said "Well, then I guess you're going to be here a long time."
And as I was laying on the floor, giving my back a rest from the piano and looking up at the crucifix that hung nearby, I was stunned by the obvious. Jesus didn't just die on the cross for our sins. He died to show us how to die. From His point of total vulnerability, He forgave everyone before He died.
You've got to forgive everyone. EVERYONE. Including yourself. Otherwise, you get to work it out in purgatory, where thank heavens time does not exist...and you can stay there until hell freezes over and you finally forgive yourself for your unforgivable crimes while here on earth...or maybe forgive someone who did complete evil against you...and I know about that, too.
Grace knew it, too. Most of the big sins we commit are a result of some sin committed against us. Also hard to embrace, especially for control freaks...and victims of violence are generally major control freaks. (Oh I am making so many assumptions here, forgive me!) Grace had to first realize her behavior was wrong, but to do that she had to look at her life, she had to give herself mercy so that she could see it...and to give mercy, she had to receive it...from Earl, who was exactly the right kind of angel for her.
George Bailey needed an innocent angel, ignorant of the selfish desires of men, ignorant to the fact that George hated himself for doing the right thing...every single time. He was the elder son in the Prodigal Son, wondering why he never got the fatted calf for his party. He couldn't see the blessings in his life because his sight was constantly clouded by all the things he wanted to do.
Good thing I don't know anybody like that.
Hell is the place filled with "if only's." I'm thinking of last Sunday's Scripture reading about Lazarus. Sure hell might be a place of fire and whatever...but I'm thinking the real hell is a place of constant regret: What I coulda, shoulda, woulda, but didn't. Worse yet, you are always in constant view of the ones who did it right...or perhaps more correctly, got to a place where they could forgive themselves for doing it wrong...or less perfectly. The ones who decided to let God be God. What a concept!
Where was I? Oh yeah: feeling insulted. Knowing I'm not good enough. And hating myself for it. So I spent a lot of time thinking about what I was going to do for the meditation on Tuesday. I came up with several ideas, including one where I thought I needed to break a mirror and then dismissed it because I thought someone could get hurt. We needed team building and healing. A chaplet would have had us all looking in the same direction, but not at each other.
I decided on what to do, then I decided, an hour before to go look for the book that went along with my idea. I leaned into the bookcase in my prayer room. Crack! I looked down and realized I had stepped on a mirror, the ones the nuns gave me at St Scholastica. It was shattered. What does that mean? Do they not want me anymore? Am I supposed to use the broken mirror tonight? But I don't remember why I needed a broken mirror...maybe that was just in a dream, that I broke the mirror.
And I couldn't find the book. An hour before I needed to leave the house. Sigh. What now? And then there is was. "The Dream Giver" by Eldridge. Hmmm. Looks interesting. I open it. It opens on the chapter named Sanctuary. I read it quickly. Yes, this will do...and I come up with several ways to use it. After all, God put it in my head for a reason, right?
Short version (yes, this really is the short version), I get to the meeting, I set up the room. I'm going to have them all touch each other deliberately. I'll have them rub each others' shoulders, like in drama class. That always bonds people together. And I'll have them hold hands...which Scripture verses to use Lord? You choose...I choose the book of John. Can't ever go wrong with John. And my Bible opens to John 15. Ah...perfect Lord, you choose well. Vine, branches, connected...I'll help them connect.
They sit in the circle of chairs and I watch them. Important people that should be here are not here. Don't think about that Cindy, it's not your call. The ones who are here are the ones who supposed to be here. Here is where the grace will work. You don't get to decide how it works. And I lay out my books behind me. A candle and a cross in the center of the circle. And I think of how I should begin, only it doesn't happen that way...He has other plans.
And without knowing it, I've begin the meditation. The words are coming out of my mouth, but they are not the words I had planned to say. Part of me is saying to myself, "Shut up Cindy. Shut up. This was not what you planned to do, it won't work this way." And then I realized it has already worked. I feel them calming down, settling into You, Lord. I can feel them getting to that sacred place where I find you so abundantly and deliciously...they've gone there with me...how did that happen? How did you do it Lord? What am I saying? Pay attention to what you are saying Cindy...tie it together...but how...how did I get here? And then I read the Scripture of John 15...I am the Vine...without me you can do nothing...and part of me is leading, I think...but only a little part...another part of me is excited and as surprised as they are about the words coming out of my mouth...they are taking me to you too, Lord...they are carrying me, these women...they are carrying me.
I had them pray separately and then together. Feel your own hand, then feel the hands of the person next to you...and I look around the room and they are clasped tightly together...and I am reading about the vine and the branches...and I an watching the branches grow...
But of course, they much be pruned...and then I suddenly realize why God told me to read the John Eldridge chapter on Sanctuary. "Give me your dream," the Dream Giver asks. "I can't give my dream. It's my dream...and you gave it to me. I'm not giving it back."
And I start to shake a bit inside because I realize that what He asked me to do for them, He has asked me to do for myself. And I almost can't go on...
Give me your Dream, Cindy. The one I gave to you. The perfect dream. The dream of being a priest. The dream of being a nun. A woman like me...oh hell, a woman like me with a dream like those. Give me your Dream Cindy. And I look around the room and see the women, who I had promised them that I would not make them cry...and I see their faces and realize once again how perfect and amazing God truly is.
It ain't just about you, Cindy. It's about all of us, all together. Staying on the vine, holding on to each other. Feeding each other. Loving each other. And giving back to Him the most precious thing He has given to us...
Love, Cindy
The woman I spoke about, she forgave her husband..she forgave them all...and she died well. She was lucky. I think about her every time I visit the columbarium.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Us and Them
From a couple of days ago:
I think I deleted over a thousand emails this morning. I found this cool button on the top of the screen that checks everything on the page. So I got to review this past year...while letting it all go.
Did I make a difference? Did I do what God asked? Have I been attentive to my brothers and sisters? Was I good and kind and loving? Was I selfish? Who mattered and who didn't? Is where I am now a better place than where I was then? Not being immediately neat has had its benefits today.
Thirty three years ago, I stood before a priest and said yes to marriage. Now I am working on papers that will essentially say that I was lying on that day. Kind of rough to think about. We make choices based on what we know, and as we learn, sometimes we change our mind.
I just spent the morning in a fruitless argument with someone who can only see his point of view. Ah, but then, perhaps I can only see my point of view. I have a friend that, when we get to a certain point in a discussion, she has learned to say, "I'm not going there with you." And she is wise. I cannot appreciate her point of view and she cannot understand mine. It is best, if you value the friendship, to let it go.
My car ran out of gas and I ended up married. That about sums up the biggest turning point in my life. I think I may have run out of gas too. I got tired of my life. So why not get married?
The fall is all about change. The fall is the time to die to things we don't need anymore, to let go of the things that don't work...summer is over and the fruit that is not eaten will spoil of we don't pack it up properly, or better yet, give it to people who need it more.
The Harvest Moon is the most beautiful moon of the year. It lets us see in the darkness. We get to see well enough to clean. And cleaning is the order for my day.
From NASA: "The Harvest Moon gets its name from agriculture. In the days before electric lights, farmers depended on bright moonlight to extend the workday beyond sunset. It was the only way they could gather their ripening crops in time for market. The full Moon closest to the autumnal equinox became "the Harvest Moon," and it was always a welcome sight. "
We always collect more than we need. We have an instinct for making certain we have enough for tomorrow. Many times though, we collect much more than we need. So much so that there are fights about who will get the extra after we die.
But it is "Us against Them," right? We have to survive. We have to protect what we think is ours. One good storm, physically mentally or emotionally and we suddenly discover that what we think we have is an illusion.
I'm starting to understand that most of the 'things' I have are a burden. I have to clean them store them, step over them, pay for their maintenance. They break and have to be replaced. I am a prisoner of my stuff. And in some cases, I am a prisoner of my own memory.
The fall fills me with memories. Good and bad. But very, very real. I bought a DVD some time ago that I finally decided to watch last night:"Prime Suspect." It caught and kept my attention because the story was about a 55 year old woman who was being encouraged to retire from police work. In the course of the story, she visits her father, who lives in a retirement community. He encourages her to retire. She looks over at a woman sleeping in a comfortable chair. Her father just doesn't get her at all. She is polite.
The story progresses and she uncovers a holocaust in Bosnia, perpetrated by Christians against Muslims. This was common not so long ago, but our news media doesn't speak of it often. Christians being the bad guys is not received well here. I watch the show and understand better why perhaps the population there tends to doubt God.
Near the end of the story, the woman visits again with her father. She tells him about the horror of the massacre she uncovered. Her father then decided to tell her about some things that happened to him in World War II. He weeps. And they connect on a deep level. They share their pain and as a side effect, they share their love.
My Dad was not always a nice man. Some people wonder why I chose to love him although he was sometimes cruel and brutal to me. I suppose because I knew that there was much more to the man than his occasional, and later quite often, meanness. In holy moments, he told me about his experiences in World War II. He wept. He wept when he told me about the war. He wept when he told me that he loved my mother. He wept when he told me about how much he wanted my mother to love him. But she just couldn't do it. She couldn't tell her stories. And they kept her in prison.
His stories, his memories, helped me to learn how I could love him. He showed me something real, not just a 'pretty picture,' not just making nice, or making victim...but real. We know when we are being respected with the real in someone else. And it is a gift of love...even when it hurts.
So the only 'treasure' we get to hang on to is memory...and I don't know if that follows us into heaven. But I can be certain that the things we collect here don't join us there.
That's about as far as I could go with the writing on Tuesday...or was it Wednesday? Never really know. I added the part about my father's tears. I had forgotten how he cried. I usually remember him screaming at me for some dust behind the toilet or grass leaves I left on the sidewalk...but there were other times.
Maggie asked me, how I could love a father who beat me. That's because I remember more than being beaten. Living is so much more than just diary entries. But as you are willing, I ask you to reflect on the "diary entries" in your life. What do you remember? What have you forgotten? Can remembering or forgetting help you now?
I spent a good hour on the phone with someone this morning. I hate talking on the phone. You only really get to hear about 40% of what is being said over the phone. Much of what is said comes in how we stand, when we make eye contact, when we look away, whether we are tired or frisky...so I was handicapped in being helpful, but I did my best.
What I told her, I knew I had to tell myself. Every conflict, every wound we receive, is a gift from God. Just like all the stuff we call good. Sometimes the good stuff can bite us in the behind later...and sometimes the greatest pain will bring the greatest pleasure once we understand it.
Her desire was to run away from the conflict. I suggested she hang in there and onto it. God had given her a great gift. Most of us recoil at confrontation. We like to "make nice." Especially those of us that are females. Put lipstick on it and call it beautiful. Sometimes that works. Sometimes though...
I know Therese of Lisieux had a real thorn in her side most of her short life. She chose to embrace the thorn as a gift. Paul talks about his thorn, appropriately to the whiny Corinthians, who thought they were too good to suffer.
I think perhaps it is not really the unpleasant words that people are saying around us or about us that makes us crazy, but that we are so weak that we believe what they are telling us...or we begin to doubt our own beliefs. Maybe our beliefs need to be doubted. Maybe the threat is a good one. But if there was just some way that we could hear each other without all that personal baggage attached to it. If we could hear freely, receive freely, accept freely or deny freely...each thing that enters our lives, we might be better people.
I'm probably not making much sense. I can love my father because, at times, he was real with me...and I respect real. God is real. When I feel the "real" with someone else, I feel God. It complicated. Even if you have something you think will be unpleasant to share with someone you love, I think that, if you pray about it first, and share your truth in love, ultimately love will win. God is always present in the truth. And God is always present in the love.
Suffering is a gift. It lets us see in the dark...like the full moon, it uncovers both the good and the bad and lets us know that we are real.
I see the moon and the moon sees me,
God bless the moon and God bless me.
Tell me why the stars do shine
Tell me why the ivy twines
Tell me why the sky's so blue
And I will tell you just why I love you...
Because God made, the stars do shine
Because God made, the ivy twine
Because God made the sky so blue
Because God made you is why I love you.
Love, Cindy
I think I deleted over a thousand emails this morning. I found this cool button on the top of the screen that checks everything on the page. So I got to review this past year...while letting it all go.
Did I make a difference? Did I do what God asked? Have I been attentive to my brothers and sisters? Was I good and kind and loving? Was I selfish? Who mattered and who didn't? Is where I am now a better place than where I was then? Not being immediately neat has had its benefits today.
Thirty three years ago, I stood before a priest and said yes to marriage. Now I am working on papers that will essentially say that I was lying on that day. Kind of rough to think about. We make choices based on what we know, and as we learn, sometimes we change our mind.
I just spent the morning in a fruitless argument with someone who can only see his point of view. Ah, but then, perhaps I can only see my point of view. I have a friend that, when we get to a certain point in a discussion, she has learned to say, "I'm not going there with you." And she is wise. I cannot appreciate her point of view and she cannot understand mine. It is best, if you value the friendship, to let it go.
My car ran out of gas and I ended up married. That about sums up the biggest turning point in my life. I think I may have run out of gas too. I got tired of my life. So why not get married?
The fall is all about change. The fall is the time to die to things we don't need anymore, to let go of the things that don't work...summer is over and the fruit that is not eaten will spoil of we don't pack it up properly, or better yet, give it to people who need it more.
The Harvest Moon is the most beautiful moon of the year. It lets us see in the darkness. We get to see well enough to clean. And cleaning is the order for my day.
From NASA: "The Harvest Moon gets its name from agriculture. In the days before electric lights, farmers depended on bright moonlight to extend the workday beyond sunset. It was the only way they could gather their ripening crops in time for market. The full Moon closest to the autumnal equinox became "the Harvest Moon," and it was always a welcome sight. "
We always collect more than we need. We have an instinct for making certain we have enough for tomorrow. Many times though, we collect much more than we need. So much so that there are fights about who will get the extra after we die.
But it is "Us against Them," right? We have to survive. We have to protect what we think is ours. One good storm, physically mentally or emotionally and we suddenly discover that what we think we have is an illusion.
I'm starting to understand that most of the 'things' I have are a burden. I have to clean them store them, step over them, pay for their maintenance. They break and have to be replaced. I am a prisoner of my stuff. And in some cases, I am a prisoner of my own memory.
The fall fills me with memories. Good and bad. But very, very real. I bought a DVD some time ago that I finally decided to watch last night:"Prime Suspect." It caught and kept my attention because the story was about a 55 year old woman who was being encouraged to retire from police work. In the course of the story, she visits her father, who lives in a retirement community. He encourages her to retire. She looks over at a woman sleeping in a comfortable chair. Her father just doesn't get her at all. She is polite.
The story progresses and she uncovers a holocaust in Bosnia, perpetrated by Christians against Muslims. This was common not so long ago, but our news media doesn't speak of it often. Christians being the bad guys is not received well here. I watch the show and understand better why perhaps the population there tends to doubt God.
Near the end of the story, the woman visits again with her father. She tells him about the horror of the massacre she uncovered. Her father then decided to tell her about some things that happened to him in World War II. He weeps. And they connect on a deep level. They share their pain and as a side effect, they share their love.
My Dad was not always a nice man. Some people wonder why I chose to love him although he was sometimes cruel and brutal to me. I suppose because I knew that there was much more to the man than his occasional, and later quite often, meanness. In holy moments, he told me about his experiences in World War II. He wept. He wept when he told me about the war. He wept when he told me that he loved my mother. He wept when he told me about how much he wanted my mother to love him. But she just couldn't do it. She couldn't tell her stories. And they kept her in prison.
His stories, his memories, helped me to learn how I could love him. He showed me something real, not just a 'pretty picture,' not just making nice, or making victim...but real. We know when we are being respected with the real in someone else. And it is a gift of love...even when it hurts.
So the only 'treasure' we get to hang on to is memory...and I don't know if that follows us into heaven. But I can be certain that the things we collect here don't join us there.
That's about as far as I could go with the writing on Tuesday...or was it Wednesday? Never really know. I added the part about my father's tears. I had forgotten how he cried. I usually remember him screaming at me for some dust behind the toilet or grass leaves I left on the sidewalk...but there were other times.
Maggie asked me, how I could love a father who beat me. That's because I remember more than being beaten. Living is so much more than just diary entries. But as you are willing, I ask you to reflect on the "diary entries" in your life. What do you remember? What have you forgotten? Can remembering or forgetting help you now?
I spent a good hour on the phone with someone this morning. I hate talking on the phone. You only really get to hear about 40% of what is being said over the phone. Much of what is said comes in how we stand, when we make eye contact, when we look away, whether we are tired or frisky...so I was handicapped in being helpful, but I did my best.
What I told her, I knew I had to tell myself. Every conflict, every wound we receive, is a gift from God. Just like all the stuff we call good. Sometimes the good stuff can bite us in the behind later...and sometimes the greatest pain will bring the greatest pleasure once we understand it.
Her desire was to run away from the conflict. I suggested she hang in there and onto it. God had given her a great gift. Most of us recoil at confrontation. We like to "make nice." Especially those of us that are females. Put lipstick on it and call it beautiful. Sometimes that works. Sometimes though...
I know Therese of Lisieux had a real thorn in her side most of her short life. She chose to embrace the thorn as a gift. Paul talks about his thorn, appropriately to the whiny Corinthians, who thought they were too good to suffer.
I think perhaps it is not really the unpleasant words that people are saying around us or about us that makes us crazy, but that we are so weak that we believe what they are telling us...or we begin to doubt our own beliefs. Maybe our beliefs need to be doubted. Maybe the threat is a good one. But if there was just some way that we could hear each other without all that personal baggage attached to it. If we could hear freely, receive freely, accept freely or deny freely...each thing that enters our lives, we might be better people.
I'm probably not making much sense. I can love my father because, at times, he was real with me...and I respect real. God is real. When I feel the "real" with someone else, I feel God. It complicated. Even if you have something you think will be unpleasant to share with someone you love, I think that, if you pray about it first, and share your truth in love, ultimately love will win. God is always present in the truth. And God is always present in the love.
Suffering is a gift. It lets us see in the dark...like the full moon, it uncovers both the good and the bad and lets us know that we are real.
I see the moon and the moon sees me,
God bless the moon and God bless me.
Tell me why the stars do shine
Tell me why the ivy twines
Tell me why the sky's so blue
And I will tell you just why I love you...
Because God made, the stars do shine
Because God made, the ivy twine
Because God made the sky so blue
Because God made you is why I love you.
Love, Cindy
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Light and Shadow
I haven't posted in a while. The days have been busy and the stimulations strong. Children's Hospital, 10th grade confirmation, exploration into prison ministry, getting up close and personal with the Missionaries of Charity, TOBET conference...all new things added to my usual list of work: hospitals, funerals, EM, Lectoring, home visits, two ACTS retreats before me and I am always looking for a priest to be in dialogue with. This week, I am blessed with Fr. Postell's company.
***************************
Somewhere in the middle of the night, I wrote:
I have about 200 unread emails in one account, and perhaps 500 in another email account that refuses to let me access it. I don't know if it matters anymore, all this so called correspondence. It is all just shadows of something that was once real: Communication. Contact. Relationship.
We pretend we have connections to people by virtue of electronic media. Having two hundred emails on one account and 800 on another I suppose could make some people feel like they are connected to others. They might feel popular, or needed. Right now, I think it is a reminder of how disconnected I am to everyone, and especially people that I would really like to have as friends.
And there is so much junk. I don't care about forwards. I detest threats of "bad luck" if I don't forward an email, that I am not American, not Christian, that I don't support the latest "flavor of the month" great social cause. I don't care if I am one of your "ten best friends" on "Women with facial hair" day...
For some people, these things have meaning. For me, it just makes me feel more lonely and disconnected. If you want to talk to me, call me. If I want to talk to you, I'll call you, but you don't have to answer the phone. A ringing bell does not require you to jump anymore than it requires me to jump.
It all just tells me that very few of us are real with each other. Very few of us are truly engaged in life and living. And the fact that I am writing at 3:11 a.m. speaks volumes about my personal connections to others.
I've been out walking in the moonlight. It is absolutely stunning out there. There is nothing more attractive to me than the moonlight...and moonshadow. I remember being on a date with Bob Crowley...and being the Cindy I have always been, hiding out in the back yard at the party, away from the crowd, wondering why God made me. And looking down into the St Augustine grass and seeing my moon shadow and then softly singing Cat Steven's song..."I'm being followed by a moon shadow, moon shadow, moon shadow..." and that usually led to another Cat Stevens song, "Father and Son." By then. Bob had found me and we talked about the constellation Orion.
I am a moon child. At night, I feel complete. At night I feel appreciated by God. At night, I really believe He hears me when I pray. It is the time when I think I am most honest with God...out there, in the middle of the night, when things are almost still, I can be honest with God. And generally, I can hear what He is trying to tell me.
But I am unsettled by the hypocrisy of some of the human relationships I am caught up in. Ones that I thought were important almost have no meaning at all now, and that is a bit sad, yet part of living life. It takes at two to create love...two to make the Trinity work...and only one to kill it. Funny how we always give the devil so much power.
I am aware of the inadequacies of some relationships that I thought were important by the amazing quality of the new relationships that have entered into my life. I realize that I have put up with fast food on the access road when I could have had paella in the mountains. (And for the person who thinks I am talking about her: I am not talking about her, I am being...ironic)
The cool thing is that God is showing me what is real and what is illusion, what is light and what is shadow, where I need to spend my time and energy and where I do not.
I am first and foremost a teacher. Call me Rabbi, and my head will swoon...call me Reverend and I will giggle, call me priest and I will try to hide. But I am a teacher. Right now I feel a bit like Yoda, with Luke Skywalker telling me he's ready for the fight and I'm telling him it's too soon. And at the same time, I am Luke, in a hurry to save the world. But those are just shadows.
The light is still far away and the shadows are long.
I am encountering amazing women these days. It was what I asked for in prayer. And they are in front of me, around me, behind me and before me. And they scare me because I think they look to me for answers. But I am looking to them for answers. And in its oddness, it works...we wander around, seeking God, and find Him in each other. And we find God in the shadows, too.
I have had an incredible week. I need to put it here before I forget some of it. Two days at downtown Children's Hospital. Reconnecting with old friends and memories. Recalling the things I did right and the things I did wrong. How much better I see today than ten years ago...and how much more merciful I am with myself now than I was back then.
Training for the 10th graders, I encounter again, the memories of what I did before: the Girl Scout stuff with my daughter and her friends, the Youth Groups I led: in confirmation and choir trips and ski trips and who knows what...the 15 little girls and my daughter...the maybe 8 teenage boys and my son...each seemed to look to me for some guidance...and I looked to them to teach me how to live. I look at the teens and see not much has changed
except the Catholic part....
Everything I ever wanted, everything that had been taken away from me, has been returned. Well, perhaps not everything yet...but I suspect it will all balance before I'm out of here. All the things I did once before, I now get to do as a Catholic. It is like it is my birthday everyday. I had no idea how much my faith tradition mattered to me. And oh my, it matters!
I am completely whole when I am in the company of and in service for the nuns. This summer, I felt complete while at St Scholastica. I felt a peace I had never known. I had found my resting place in God.
This week, I spent the night with women who were struggling to get their lives right. Some were open to healing, others are still angry with the whole world. Some think they are victims and others think they are powerful.
And I held these tiny babies...and I look with awe and a little terror. Which one will find love and which one will try to create love? Who will protect these children, now that they are out of the womb? No one protected me, I think. And I was one of the lucky ones. Who is going to protect these children?
I saw a Mass a young girl who I know needs protection. I tried to help, but the powers that be did the 'book/rule thing' and I was told nothing more could be done. It was out of my hands, I was told. Cindy, let it go. So during the Eucharistic prayer, I see her excuse herself from the seat and go with her brother outside of the church. I keep looking back and this young man in the pew behind me smiles at me, he thinks I am looking at him...I look back and look back. Did she leave the prayer because she needed the bathroom, or because she maybe thought God didn't love her. That the prayer was crap. I wonder these things because I thought them when I needed someone to protect me and no one bothered to look in my direction.
Junk mail. You're one of my ten best friends. I love you. Here's a hug. Now the world knows we are friends.
Just words...just words.
Give me the real thing, or give me nothing at all.
I have been in the midst of the real all week. I have seen the light and I have seen the shadow. I have to be very careful here, because if I continue, I will always be in the real....which is what I most want, most desire...but it is a scary place. And it is a lonely place.
Most people don't want to see the real. They want the illusion. They want the shadow. They like to stare at the wall of the cave and never come out. And maybe the shadow is really the best place for humans.
I wish I could put down on paper all the grace I experienced in the last seven days. I wish I could somehow explain that even though I write in this somewhat cynical style, I am completely slain by the tremendous in-pouring of love...the love that is flowing into my heart...but as that happens, the illusions are being flushed away. The desires I had for some things to work out a certain way, that I could make a difference in certain people's lives...I have to let go and not be angry or bitter that the El Greco painting that was once started will now lie in a corner, unfinished...and fresh canvas and paint are being picked up and examined. Some things will be just fine unfinished...and the others, the ones at risk...well, I will hold them when I am able, and then give them to God.
The babies, the prisoner, the people determined to have it their own way...the ones who think they have power, the ones who see only themselves in the mirror...the ones who just couldn't be open to possibility, the ones who don't want to listen, see, touch, taste, smell. These I have to let go...and it is hard for me.
I killed one hell of a big cockroach that liked the small of the bacon I was cooking Saturday morning. At first I thought I would just ignore him, but he stayed around...and now he's dead. I hate cockroaches. And I think, I don't have to see them very often. I get to go back to my house and my bed and my four hundred DVDs and three TVs and 1200 emails and feel important. But today, I live and serve those who don't have all those choices. And I am surrounded by a small group of women who, by choice, live a life of simplicity to be completely engaged with broken people. Their work never ends, there is no way to measure success or failure...you just keep doing. One foot in front of the other...and you pray.
The man in prison who thinks he got a raw deal. I can't even try to help him anymore. Will anyone be there for him? Who will clean his mirror?
Light and shadow. Suffering and pain and sacrifice. But always unceasing joy.
That happens when you are doing what you are supposed to be doing.
My mother died in my arms. A woman I did not like very much. A woman I could never please. A woman who told me to kill my child. She died in my arms. That's the light and the shadow. That's what loving really is all about. Not the getting, but the giving. It's not about me...and it was always about me.
To be fully human, you really have to die to self. To have everything, you must give up everything. To feel the joy, you have to be willing to feel the pain. To love fully, you have to die to all desire. Sounds crazy, huh...
well, I'm out of steam and need to crawl back in bed. Alone...and yet, never ever alone.
The moon will be full on the 23rd. I would have been married 33 years on that day. The autumnal equinox. As it turns out, my biological grandparents were married on that day. So perhaps my connection to the moon is just part of what makes me who I am. It will be so bright that night, it will be closest to the earth on that day. On that day, I will feel as close to God as I can get and still be human. On that day, I will feel perfect love. But the shadow will be very dark that day, also, because the light will be so very bright.
I wish I could explain better. Right now, I still just full of impressions. Full of feelings that needed coming out. I apologize for not being clear.
But I know who I am right now. Tomorrow it will be different. I may be confused again. In the daylight, it is harder to see clearly.
But tonight, I realize I am God's alone...and that is enough.
Embrace your light. Embrace your shadow. Both are gifts.
Love, Cindy
***************************
Somewhere in the middle of the night, I wrote:
I have about 200 unread emails in one account, and perhaps 500 in another email account that refuses to let me access it. I don't know if it matters anymore, all this so called correspondence. It is all just shadows of something that was once real: Communication. Contact. Relationship.
We pretend we have connections to people by virtue of electronic media. Having two hundred emails on one account and 800 on another I suppose could make some people feel like they are connected to others. They might feel popular, or needed. Right now, I think it is a reminder of how disconnected I am to everyone, and especially people that I would really like to have as friends.
And there is so much junk. I don't care about forwards. I detest threats of "bad luck" if I don't forward an email, that I am not American, not Christian, that I don't support the latest "flavor of the month" great social cause. I don't care if I am one of your "ten best friends" on "Women with facial hair" day...
For some people, these things have meaning. For me, it just makes me feel more lonely and disconnected. If you want to talk to me, call me. If I want to talk to you, I'll call you, but you don't have to answer the phone. A ringing bell does not require you to jump anymore than it requires me to jump.
It all just tells me that very few of us are real with each other. Very few of us are truly engaged in life and living. And the fact that I am writing at 3:11 a.m. speaks volumes about my personal connections to others.
I've been out walking in the moonlight. It is absolutely stunning out there. There is nothing more attractive to me than the moonlight...and moonshadow. I remember being on a date with Bob Crowley...and being the Cindy I have always been, hiding out in the back yard at the party, away from the crowd, wondering why God made me. And looking down into the St Augustine grass and seeing my moon shadow and then softly singing Cat Steven's song..."I'm being followed by a moon shadow, moon shadow, moon shadow..." and that usually led to another Cat Stevens song, "Father and Son." By then. Bob had found me and we talked about the constellation Orion.
I am a moon child. At night, I feel complete. At night I feel appreciated by God. At night, I really believe He hears me when I pray. It is the time when I think I am most honest with God...out there, in the middle of the night, when things are almost still, I can be honest with God. And generally, I can hear what He is trying to tell me.
But I am unsettled by the hypocrisy of some of the human relationships I am caught up in. Ones that I thought were important almost have no meaning at all now, and that is a bit sad, yet part of living life. It takes at two to create love...two to make the Trinity work...and only one to kill it. Funny how we always give the devil so much power.
I am aware of the inadequacies of some relationships that I thought were important by the amazing quality of the new relationships that have entered into my life. I realize that I have put up with fast food on the access road when I could have had paella in the mountains. (And for the person who thinks I am talking about her: I am not talking about her, I am being...ironic)
The cool thing is that God is showing me what is real and what is illusion, what is light and what is shadow, where I need to spend my time and energy and where I do not.
I am first and foremost a teacher. Call me Rabbi, and my head will swoon...call me Reverend and I will giggle, call me priest and I will try to hide. But I am a teacher. Right now I feel a bit like Yoda, with Luke Skywalker telling me he's ready for the fight and I'm telling him it's too soon. And at the same time, I am Luke, in a hurry to save the world. But those are just shadows.
The light is still far away and the shadows are long.
I am encountering amazing women these days. It was what I asked for in prayer. And they are in front of me, around me, behind me and before me. And they scare me because I think they look to me for answers. But I am looking to them for answers. And in its oddness, it works...we wander around, seeking God, and find Him in each other. And we find God in the shadows, too.
I have had an incredible week. I need to put it here before I forget some of it. Two days at downtown Children's Hospital. Reconnecting with old friends and memories. Recalling the things I did right and the things I did wrong. How much better I see today than ten years ago...and how much more merciful I am with myself now than I was back then.
Training for the 10th graders, I encounter again, the memories of what I did before: the Girl Scout stuff with my daughter and her friends, the Youth Groups I led: in confirmation and choir trips and ski trips and who knows what...the 15 little girls and my daughter...the maybe 8 teenage boys and my son...each seemed to look to me for some guidance...and I looked to them to teach me how to live. I look at the teens and see not much has changed
except the Catholic part....
Everything I ever wanted, everything that had been taken away from me, has been returned. Well, perhaps not everything yet...but I suspect it will all balance before I'm out of here. All the things I did once before, I now get to do as a Catholic. It is like it is my birthday everyday. I had no idea how much my faith tradition mattered to me. And oh my, it matters!
I am completely whole when I am in the company of and in service for the nuns. This summer, I felt complete while at St Scholastica. I felt a peace I had never known. I had found my resting place in God.
This week, I spent the night with women who were struggling to get their lives right. Some were open to healing, others are still angry with the whole world. Some think they are victims and others think they are powerful.
And I held these tiny babies...and I look with awe and a little terror. Which one will find love and which one will try to create love? Who will protect these children, now that they are out of the womb? No one protected me, I think. And I was one of the lucky ones. Who is going to protect these children?
I saw a Mass a young girl who I know needs protection. I tried to help, but the powers that be did the 'book/rule thing' and I was told nothing more could be done. It was out of my hands, I was told. Cindy, let it go. So during the Eucharistic prayer, I see her excuse herself from the seat and go with her brother outside of the church. I keep looking back and this young man in the pew behind me smiles at me, he thinks I am looking at him...I look back and look back. Did she leave the prayer because she needed the bathroom, or because she maybe thought God didn't love her. That the prayer was crap. I wonder these things because I thought them when I needed someone to protect me and no one bothered to look in my direction.
Junk mail. You're one of my ten best friends. I love you. Here's a hug. Now the world knows we are friends.
Just words...just words.
Give me the real thing, or give me nothing at all.
I have been in the midst of the real all week. I have seen the light and I have seen the shadow. I have to be very careful here, because if I continue, I will always be in the real....which is what I most want, most desire...but it is a scary place. And it is a lonely place.
Most people don't want to see the real. They want the illusion. They want the shadow. They like to stare at the wall of the cave and never come out. And maybe the shadow is really the best place for humans.
I wish I could put down on paper all the grace I experienced in the last seven days. I wish I could somehow explain that even though I write in this somewhat cynical style, I am completely slain by the tremendous in-pouring of love...the love that is flowing into my heart...but as that happens, the illusions are being flushed away. The desires I had for some things to work out a certain way, that I could make a difference in certain people's lives...I have to let go and not be angry or bitter that the El Greco painting that was once started will now lie in a corner, unfinished...and fresh canvas and paint are being picked up and examined. Some things will be just fine unfinished...and the others, the ones at risk...well, I will hold them when I am able, and then give them to God.
The babies, the prisoner, the people determined to have it their own way...the ones who think they have power, the ones who see only themselves in the mirror...the ones who just couldn't be open to possibility, the ones who don't want to listen, see, touch, taste, smell. These I have to let go...and it is hard for me.
I killed one hell of a big cockroach that liked the small of the bacon I was cooking Saturday morning. At first I thought I would just ignore him, but he stayed around...and now he's dead. I hate cockroaches. And I think, I don't have to see them very often. I get to go back to my house and my bed and my four hundred DVDs and three TVs and 1200 emails and feel important. But today, I live and serve those who don't have all those choices. And I am surrounded by a small group of women who, by choice, live a life of simplicity to be completely engaged with broken people. Their work never ends, there is no way to measure success or failure...you just keep doing. One foot in front of the other...and you pray.
The man in prison who thinks he got a raw deal. I can't even try to help him anymore. Will anyone be there for him? Who will clean his mirror?
Light and shadow. Suffering and pain and sacrifice. But always unceasing joy.
That happens when you are doing what you are supposed to be doing.
My mother died in my arms. A woman I did not like very much. A woman I could never please. A woman who told me to kill my child. She died in my arms. That's the light and the shadow. That's what loving really is all about. Not the getting, but the giving. It's not about me...and it was always about me.
To be fully human, you really have to die to self. To have everything, you must give up everything. To feel the joy, you have to be willing to feel the pain. To love fully, you have to die to all desire. Sounds crazy, huh...
well, I'm out of steam and need to crawl back in bed. Alone...and yet, never ever alone.
The moon will be full on the 23rd. I would have been married 33 years on that day. The autumnal equinox. As it turns out, my biological grandparents were married on that day. So perhaps my connection to the moon is just part of what makes me who I am. It will be so bright that night, it will be closest to the earth on that day. On that day, I will feel as close to God as I can get and still be human. On that day, I will feel perfect love. But the shadow will be very dark that day, also, because the light will be so very bright.
I wish I could explain better. Right now, I still just full of impressions. Full of feelings that needed coming out. I apologize for not being clear.
But I know who I am right now. Tomorrow it will be different. I may be confused again. In the daylight, it is harder to see clearly.
But tonight, I realize I am God's alone...and that is enough.
Embrace your light. Embrace your shadow. Both are gifts.
Love, Cindy
Friday, September 10, 2010
Non Nobis
Tried to get into the prison to visit a friend this week. Found out that I couldn't bring a gift, I couldn't bring a Bible, I couldn't bring Communion. Only my car keys and an ID. I can't even begin to imagine what it is like to be in prison, and I don't think I really ever want to know personally, what it would be like.
I saw the people sitting in chairs, waiting their turns to visit. I saw one woman talking with someone over a TV monitor. The woman in front of me had a little boy with her, a tall 2 year old, I found out. She helped me with the rules. Another woman with a little girl behind me...these children, coming to prison to visit their fathers. Just thinking about it could knock me down, so I'm not sure I want to think about it very much.
We all must be held accountable to our choices. All of us. All the time. I ate not one, but two ice cream bars yesterday. Today my jeans are uncomfortable. I needed the ice cream. God is showing me things I don't want to see right now. Suffering that I have not had time to think about, intellectualize, swallow.
That whole humility thing that happened to me at St James is still happening to me. A different kind of wound. Are you prepared to count the cost and go the distance anyway? He asks me.
But really, what choice do I have, God? To see the Samaritan on the side of the road and just keep walking? How can I walk away, I, who have been given so much, without earning it or deserving it, how can I walk away?
I had a conversation with someone earlier this week. Jesus forgave the repentant thief. And I found my mouth saying: Jesus knew all of his (the repentant thief) sins. What is his sin was more than a thief, but maybe he was a child molester or a murderer? Would God forgive those sins? The answer, of course, is yes, if the sinner is contrite and repentant. But it does take our minds (well my mind at least) to a different place. And what if Jesus was hanging on the cross next to a child molester? Would it make a difference in how we understand salvation? So we confess to a priest that we hit our brothers. We confess that we are jealous of our friends. We got angry with a coworker.
It all just seems so different as I am just beginning to be exposed to people with great sufferings. I don't know how to explain it.
I am being pushed to something new. I don't know what it is yet, and when I get there, I may not be able to write about it. Humility is across the board. What I do for the person in Las Colinas should be the same as what I do for the person at the Samaritan Inn. I should see them both with equally compassionate eyes. I should not envy one and pity the other. Can I receive into my heart each without judgment? Can I love unconditionally?
What am I going to do when I walk into that prison? How can I offer hope and healing?
***********************
From last week's readings: Corinthians 6:1-11
Brothers and sisters:
How can any one of you with a case against another
dare to bring it to the unjust for judgment
instead of to the holy ones?
Do you not know that the holy ones will judge the world?
If the world is to be judged by you,
are you unqualified for the lowest law courts?
Do you not know that we will judge angels?
Then why not everyday matters?
If, therefore, you have courts for everyday matters,
do you seat as judges people of no standing in the Church?
I say this to shame you.
Can it be that there is not one among you wise enough
to be able to settle a case between brothers?
But rather brother goes to court against brother,
and that before unbelievers?
Now indeed then it is, in any case,
a failure on your part that you have lawsuits against one another.
Why not rather put up with injustice?
Why not rather let yourselves be cheated?
Instead, you inflict injustice and cheat, and this to brothers.
Do you not know that the unjust will not inherit the Kingdom of God?
Do not be deceived;
neither fornicators nor idolaters nor adulterers
nor boy prostitutes nor sodomites nor thieves
nor the greedy nor drunkards nor slanderers nor robbers
will inherit the Kingdom of God.
That is what some of you used to be;
but now you have had yourselves washed, you were sanctified,
you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ
and in the Spirit of our God.
***********************************
Good News? Pretty harsh stuff. But we all fall short in God's eyes. Only mercy and grace will get us home. That's the good news.
So how do I love well? The biggest problem in Corinth was pride. Everyone was all about being on top. The winners, the smart ones, the clever ones, the holy ones...my spiritual gift is better than your spiritual gift...God loves me more...
And Paul tries to take them down a notch or two. Remember what you used to be. Remember why you are here. Remember what you are supposed to do. Remember who brought you back from hell. And be grateful.
How am I going to love them well? How do I get close without losing myself? How do I know what is enough and what is too much? How do I make certain that it is never, ever about me...insofar as it is not supposed to be about me? I mean, self-examination and reflection, the Ignatian Examen must be a part of this journey or I will fail. Humility means looking into the whole mirror, not just the parts we like. But it also means looking at my own wrinkles but not beating myself up over them.
Oh, Lord, this is so hard and I am not ready.
Be certain, I am saying yes to whatever God asks of me. Even if it ends poorly. And that kind of surrender feels pretty good.
I found myself is pleasant consolations yesterday, even in the midst of the 'heavens Lord, you don't really want me to do that?' In the midst of wondering about how I will approach the new ministries before me, I am excited, knowing that I will grow even more in a child of God...that with each challenge, I become more in union with Him and less need for human approval. For me, this is huge. And a paradox.
Loving better means less attachments. One of the goals of monasticism is to find peace in the chaos. If I go, it should not be because I desire to hide from the world, but that I might be able to love it more completely. It's not about me, but it is about me. When I am small, You are large. When I am weak, You are strong...so let me boast about my weakness, if in doing so, you begin to understand all the little deaths and resurrections in your own life, that draw you into Him who loved you first.
Psalm 115:1 in the King James Version.
It reads...
Non nobis, Domine, non nobis,
[Not to us, Lord, not to us]
Sed nomini tuo da gloriam.
[But to Thy name give the glory]
Love, Cindy
I saw the people sitting in chairs, waiting their turns to visit. I saw one woman talking with someone over a TV monitor. The woman in front of me had a little boy with her, a tall 2 year old, I found out. She helped me with the rules. Another woman with a little girl behind me...these children, coming to prison to visit their fathers. Just thinking about it could knock me down, so I'm not sure I want to think about it very much.
We all must be held accountable to our choices. All of us. All the time. I ate not one, but two ice cream bars yesterday. Today my jeans are uncomfortable. I needed the ice cream. God is showing me things I don't want to see right now. Suffering that I have not had time to think about, intellectualize, swallow.
That whole humility thing that happened to me at St James is still happening to me. A different kind of wound. Are you prepared to count the cost and go the distance anyway? He asks me.
But really, what choice do I have, God? To see the Samaritan on the side of the road and just keep walking? How can I walk away, I, who have been given so much, without earning it or deserving it, how can I walk away?
I had a conversation with someone earlier this week. Jesus forgave the repentant thief. And I found my mouth saying: Jesus knew all of his (the repentant thief) sins. What is his sin was more than a thief, but maybe he was a child molester or a murderer? Would God forgive those sins? The answer, of course, is yes, if the sinner is contrite and repentant. But it does take our minds (well my mind at least) to a different place. And what if Jesus was hanging on the cross next to a child molester? Would it make a difference in how we understand salvation? So we confess to a priest that we hit our brothers. We confess that we are jealous of our friends. We got angry with a coworker.
It all just seems so different as I am just beginning to be exposed to people with great sufferings. I don't know how to explain it.
I am being pushed to something new. I don't know what it is yet, and when I get there, I may not be able to write about it. Humility is across the board. What I do for the person in Las Colinas should be the same as what I do for the person at the Samaritan Inn. I should see them both with equally compassionate eyes. I should not envy one and pity the other. Can I receive into my heart each without judgment? Can I love unconditionally?
What am I going to do when I walk into that prison? How can I offer hope and healing?
***********************
From last week's readings: Corinthians 6:1-11
Brothers and sisters:
How can any one of you with a case against another
dare to bring it to the unjust for judgment
instead of to the holy ones?
Do you not know that the holy ones will judge the world?
If the world is to be judged by you,
are you unqualified for the lowest law courts?
Do you not know that we will judge angels?
Then why not everyday matters?
If, therefore, you have courts for everyday matters,
do you seat as judges people of no standing in the Church?
I say this to shame you.
Can it be that there is not one among you wise enough
to be able to settle a case between brothers?
But rather brother goes to court against brother,
and that before unbelievers?
Now indeed then it is, in any case,
a failure on your part that you have lawsuits against one another.
Why not rather put up with injustice?
Why not rather let yourselves be cheated?
Instead, you inflict injustice and cheat, and this to brothers.
Do you not know that the unjust will not inherit the Kingdom of God?
Do not be deceived;
neither fornicators nor idolaters nor adulterers
nor boy prostitutes nor sodomites nor thieves
nor the greedy nor drunkards nor slanderers nor robbers
will inherit the Kingdom of God.
That is what some of you used to be;
but now you have had yourselves washed, you were sanctified,
you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ
and in the Spirit of our God.
***********************************
Good News? Pretty harsh stuff. But we all fall short in God's eyes. Only mercy and grace will get us home. That's the good news.
So how do I love well? The biggest problem in Corinth was pride. Everyone was all about being on top. The winners, the smart ones, the clever ones, the holy ones...my spiritual gift is better than your spiritual gift...God loves me more...
And Paul tries to take them down a notch or two. Remember what you used to be. Remember why you are here. Remember what you are supposed to do. Remember who brought you back from hell. And be grateful.
How am I going to love them well? How do I get close without losing myself? How do I know what is enough and what is too much? How do I make certain that it is never, ever about me...insofar as it is not supposed to be about me? I mean, self-examination and reflection, the Ignatian Examen must be a part of this journey or I will fail. Humility means looking into the whole mirror, not just the parts we like. But it also means looking at my own wrinkles but not beating myself up over them.
Oh, Lord, this is so hard and I am not ready.
Be certain, I am saying yes to whatever God asks of me. Even if it ends poorly. And that kind of surrender feels pretty good.
I found myself is pleasant consolations yesterday, even in the midst of the 'heavens Lord, you don't really want me to do that?' In the midst of wondering about how I will approach the new ministries before me, I am excited, knowing that I will grow even more in a child of God...that with each challenge, I become more in union with Him and less need for human approval. For me, this is huge. And a paradox.
Loving better means less attachments. One of the goals of monasticism is to find peace in the chaos. If I go, it should not be because I desire to hide from the world, but that I might be able to love it more completely. It's not about me, but it is about me. When I am small, You are large. When I am weak, You are strong...so let me boast about my weakness, if in doing so, you begin to understand all the little deaths and resurrections in your own life, that draw you into Him who loved you first.
Psalm 115:1 in the King James Version.
It reads...
Non nobis, Domine, non nobis,
[Not to us, Lord, not to us]
Sed nomini tuo da gloriam.
[But to Thy name give the glory]
Love, Cindy
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
September rain
Third weekend of September. First speech tournament of the year. I'm reading "Mila 18" by Leon Uris, or maybe "Nightmare at Noon" by Stephen Vincent Benet, or maybe "The Bet" by Chekhov...whatever it is. I sit on the grass in front of New Braunfels High School alone and I am weeping a bit. I hear the flags flapping against the pole, I watch the Johnson grass bending to the wind and I wonder what kind of year it will be. It this my year to go to State? Will I like my teachers? Will I fall in love? Why can't I have normal parents? Why do I always feel so alone? Where are you God? Does any of this really matter?
A month of questions. Looking for something but not knowing what it is. I don't know why people call January the first month of the year. Clearly the first month of the year is September. I suppose it is connected to the birth of Christ, the beginning of something new, better, more perfect. The days begin to become more light. Yes, a beginning.
But the real beginning is in September. And the Church must have figured that out because today is called the birth of Mary. And frankly, without her, the Incarnation would never have happened.
For the birth to happen, the seed had to be planted. It had to go into fertile ground, a deep, dark place where it could be protected from the elements until it became strong enough to live in the world. It had to hide. To hide in the strongest creature on the planet, someone who was all about nurturing life, someone who was brave enough to love, to risk life so that another might live, and that can only happen one place: inside a woman. The world needed Mary first. To be human, God needed a mother.
And today, in the rain, I remember how that all works. I became fully female forty years ago in September. No matter what anyone says, that is one of the most holy, sacred days of a woman's life. In my usual fashion, never quite doing things as perhaps it is always done, I told my father first. He just held on to the steering wheel of the Plymouth, stared forward and said "Tell your mother." I really didn't get it. I was (and still am) that naive.
Growing up Catholic, being a woman in the likeness of Mary was always a part of our education. That being a woman part was big. It wasn't just human, it was holy and it was for God. And when we get there, we celebrate. Most of the time, it is a celebration among women. But I guarantee the young men's ears are never more sensitive when they know women are discussing life.
The most important things of our lives, we are so private about. So many of them need to stay private perhaps, and yet...they need to be shared with the people we love. I suspect in the old days, women talked with women about women things. We told each other what to expect, how to cope, what the rules were and maybe a little bit about what it means to be a woman of God. Then later, when the carrying of the the child, when the seed planted in the ground must at last flower, the women gather again to help a new mother bring life safely into the world. There were private rituals and prayers to protect both the life of the child and the life of the mother, for child-bearing is always a potentially life-threatening situation. That is why we women were created relational. We give and carry life at the risk of our own. The sacrifice is great. We have to stay connected to each other just to survive. A woman who walks the path of pregnancy alone is the most vulnerable human being in the world. If a woman chooses to kill her child, she does it because she feels alone.
We must love one another. All the time.
Where will I find food for my child, once it is here? How to I make a home for her? What will I teach him? How can I make sure she knows she is loved? How do I protect him from the world, which has an agenda all its own? Will the father stay around? How do I count on a future when I have no control over it? Will he grow well? Will she be happy? How do I hold on and let go at the same time? How do I teach her to love?
All this comes to mind when I think about Mary. I don't know why I'm writing it here. Then again, maybe I do. I'm not telling the whole story. Not yet. This feels vulnerable enough for now.
When I was teaching at CCCC, I had a Tanner print on the glass of the window in my door. It was Mary, sitting a bed, holding a scroll, while perhaps a 9-year-old Jesus is standing next to her and leaning into her. They are reading together.
My daughter leans against me in her bed and reads to me before she falls asleep. She is surrounded by Strawberry Shortcake everything: sheets, pillows, curtains, pink walls and few dolls...and Kitty...Kitty is always there. The first toy I made for her before she was born. And she is the most beautiful creature in the world. She is the most perfect creature in the world. She is the reason I came into the world.
Many years later, I sit with my son at the dining room table. He's perhaps 12 years old. He opens the Bible and begins to read to me. The passage is from Daniel. "What do you think, Mom?" and I shake inside. My child, my son, wants to discuss the Bible with me...and Daniel at that. Even though the forces around us have told us not to bring God here, God nevertheless has arrived. Perhaps He never left.
All because Mary said yes to the impossible.
September is perfect. The winds change. The weather gets cooler. I can bury my nose in new books and new notebooks. Seven new teachers, seven new classes. Tabular rasa. New clothes, new friends...old friends: Sam, Fred, Bill, Chris, John, David...and a few girls who weren't too girly. I suppose Stacy is on the top of the list, Cindi, Lisa, Lisa, Marti, Jackie, Kim, Charlie, Patty...wow, I had forgotten there were so many! But all the connections and reconnections were fresh and filled with hope. And Friday night football when I wasn't at tournaments.
September was perfect in every way. A new year.
All because she said yes. Happy Birthday, Mary. I wrote this for you.
Love, Cindy
A month of questions. Looking for something but not knowing what it is. I don't know why people call January the first month of the year. Clearly the first month of the year is September. I suppose it is connected to the birth of Christ, the beginning of something new, better, more perfect. The days begin to become more light. Yes, a beginning.
But the real beginning is in September. And the Church must have figured that out because today is called the birth of Mary. And frankly, without her, the Incarnation would never have happened.
For the birth to happen, the seed had to be planted. It had to go into fertile ground, a deep, dark place where it could be protected from the elements until it became strong enough to live in the world. It had to hide. To hide in the strongest creature on the planet, someone who was all about nurturing life, someone who was brave enough to love, to risk life so that another might live, and that can only happen one place: inside a woman. The world needed Mary first. To be human, God needed a mother.
And today, in the rain, I remember how that all works. I became fully female forty years ago in September. No matter what anyone says, that is one of the most holy, sacred days of a woman's life. In my usual fashion, never quite doing things as perhaps it is always done, I told my father first. He just held on to the steering wheel of the Plymouth, stared forward and said "Tell your mother." I really didn't get it. I was (and still am) that naive.
Growing up Catholic, being a woman in the likeness of Mary was always a part of our education. That being a woman part was big. It wasn't just human, it was holy and it was for God. And when we get there, we celebrate. Most of the time, it is a celebration among women. But I guarantee the young men's ears are never more sensitive when they know women are discussing life.
The most important things of our lives, we are so private about. So many of them need to stay private perhaps, and yet...they need to be shared with the people we love. I suspect in the old days, women talked with women about women things. We told each other what to expect, how to cope, what the rules were and maybe a little bit about what it means to be a woman of God. Then later, when the carrying of the the child, when the seed planted in the ground must at last flower, the women gather again to help a new mother bring life safely into the world. There were private rituals and prayers to protect both the life of the child and the life of the mother, for child-bearing is always a potentially life-threatening situation. That is why we women were created relational. We give and carry life at the risk of our own. The sacrifice is great. We have to stay connected to each other just to survive. A woman who walks the path of pregnancy alone is the most vulnerable human being in the world. If a woman chooses to kill her child, she does it because she feels alone.
We must love one another. All the time.
Where will I find food for my child, once it is here? How to I make a home for her? What will I teach him? How can I make sure she knows she is loved? How do I protect him from the world, which has an agenda all its own? Will the father stay around? How do I count on a future when I have no control over it? Will he grow well? Will she be happy? How do I hold on and let go at the same time? How do I teach her to love?
All this comes to mind when I think about Mary. I don't know why I'm writing it here. Then again, maybe I do. I'm not telling the whole story. Not yet. This feels vulnerable enough for now.
When I was teaching at CCCC, I had a Tanner print on the glass of the window in my door. It was Mary, sitting a bed, holding a scroll, while perhaps a 9-year-old Jesus is standing next to her and leaning into her. They are reading together.
My daughter leans against me in her bed and reads to me before she falls asleep. She is surrounded by Strawberry Shortcake everything: sheets, pillows, curtains, pink walls and few dolls...and Kitty...Kitty is always there. The first toy I made for her before she was born. And she is the most beautiful creature in the world. She is the most perfect creature in the world. She is the reason I came into the world.
Many years later, I sit with my son at the dining room table. He's perhaps 12 years old. He opens the Bible and begins to read to me. The passage is from Daniel. "What do you think, Mom?" and I shake inside. My child, my son, wants to discuss the Bible with me...and Daniel at that. Even though the forces around us have told us not to bring God here, God nevertheless has arrived. Perhaps He never left.
All because Mary said yes to the impossible.
September is perfect. The winds change. The weather gets cooler. I can bury my nose in new books and new notebooks. Seven new teachers, seven new classes. Tabular rasa. New clothes, new friends...old friends: Sam, Fred, Bill, Chris, John, David...and a few girls who weren't too girly. I suppose Stacy is on the top of the list, Cindi, Lisa, Lisa, Marti, Jackie, Kim, Charlie, Patty...wow, I had forgotten there were so many! But all the connections and reconnections were fresh and filled with hope. And Friday night football when I wasn't at tournaments.
September was perfect in every way. A new year.
All because she said yes. Happy Birthday, Mary. I wrote this for you.
Love, Cindy
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
We're on Holy Ground
My mind is still spinning along. What do I write? Too much? Too little? What can I do that will actually please God? How can I possibly know? I have my friends who are so safely bound by all the rules, and I know I have so much more to learn about rules. But...and there is always a but...I have the gift (or curse) of knowing when someone is lying to me. And I know when they are not telling me the whole truth, which is perhaps an aspect of lying, but only to 'legally-oriented' people, of which I am not. But of course, I am legally oriented! Because if I wasn't, I would trust more, in authority.
If you place a law in front of me and tell me that is true. You better be following it. Literally. Otherwise the door for mercy and grace is opened and just because you don't like my deviation from the law doesn't mean you can accuse me because you think your deviation from the law is acceptable. Did you follow that?
The whole big fight in government these days pretty much turns back on the Judicial Branch. The Court interprets the Law. This is done by human beings, flesh and blood, often with agendas and always with baggage.
Jesus always asked, "What does the Law say?"
And He takes your answer and turns it on you. The Law is death. No question. Necessary for us humans, but nevertheless, it is death.
Oh, how joyous it would be if we could just love one another! Oh how wonderful it would be if we really knew how to share our blessings and burdens with each other! Oh. how joyous is would be to have the law of God in our hearts and not just in our heads!
I was listening a moment to Guadalupe Radio this morning. Sometimes it is good and sometimes it is awful. I heard a priest after Mass once say, when a congregant said he listed to Guadalupe Radio, "That is NOT Catholic!" And I too a couple of steps back, thinking the explosion would hit me, too. But the congregant went on his merry way, I don't think he heard the priest because I didn't feel any conflict energy in front of me...but he could have...We all have opinions about the Law. Catholic Law. What it is, what it isn't.
Like I could write here: How can someone claim to be a Roman Catholic and call himself a Republican? Outrage ensues! Why would I make such a statement? What some people hear is that "Oh she is pro-abortion!" which I am not. But if we are supposed to love one another, give each other from our excess (at least!)...then how does the Republican agenda, which supports deep protection of excesses amounts of money for the people who "earned it," how is that Catholic or even Christian? Everything is from God. We are commissioned to care for each other.
Ah, but you tell me that the government doesn't need to tell you how to give your money away. You have the right to decide where is goes, to which health programs or food or schooling, because you want to support your brand of Christianity!
Really. You get to play God about who lives and who dies. And be assured, the argument I offer goes both ways. The sword that cuts your point of view also cuts mine. I am not more in the right than you are...and all of us are very far away from what God views as right. Only grace and mercy will save us. The need to be right, as I have said before, is a ticket straight to hell.
I know that you may argue this as well, but whatever we take in this life, we are always taking it from someone else. That's a kind of liberation theology. But think about it, just in terms of physics. Matter is neither created nor destroyed. (I am talking basic physics here...not making a theological statement. Only God creates. But within this system, matter is neither created nor destroyed. If I take from one place,that place from which I have taken now has less. It is mathematical. If I am rich, someone else is necessarily poor. Gluttony is ugly, now matter how you look at it.
So the idea should be that we only take what we need. Daily bread. Not tomorrow's bread, but daily bread.
I've been reading Joyce Rupp's book "Walking in a Relaxed Manner" about walking, at the age of 60, the Camino in Spain. She talks about food. She prides herself in eating healthy. On the Camino, you eat what is given to you, you sleep where you find space, you carry toilet paper with you because...well, just because.
I told my priest yesterday about my dreams, not the ones in my sleep, but my day dreams...of creating a place for women to feel safe and protected, valued and loved, without having to "settle" for a bad marriage or living with some guy just to make ends meet. I want to create a place of community where people expect you to participate in the spiritual, physical, and emotional health of others. A place where you share financial burdens, where you are expected to take turns in the physical labor of the place...but where not all property is community. A place where you have your 'day job' but you come home to pray. And of course, you are expected to create a way to love your neighbor...in a way that has been discerned with the help of others. Each would work a certain number of hours in the church...but each would have a personal private life that is in alignment with JPII's "Theology of the Body."
It's all about respect. It's all about sharing. It's all about loving.
I have met so many older women (say 35 and above)who feel the call to religious life, but there is no place for them... and I want to create a home. A place of safety and reasonable commitment. A place where people expect you to behave with dignity within the body God has given you, a place that holds you accountable to what you believe God has called you to do.
I'm not talking Third Orders here, no exclusive club...no special handshakes or collar...this work is to be done in complete humility, no identifying marks but the work you do for one another, for yourself.
But how? We are all so caught up in the Law! We have to have rules to keep order, which is fine, but when we use the rules to condemn each other, we die.
How can I create a community of love?
"Let me help." I will steal from a great Star Trek episode. "Captain Kirk, my alter-ego, will respond, "Let me help. A century from now, someone will write a book using those words...a famous book, and he will say those words are more important than "I love you." "
I'm tired of seeing so much suffering around me. I'm tired of all the complaining. I'm tired of the bitching about who is and isn't right.
It just doesn't matter. A thousand years from now, no one will care who was right. But if we don't love one another, if we don't take care of our brothers and sisters, enemies and friends...
we just won't be here in a thousand years...we will scorch the earth and if something resembling human is left, it won't be us.
The love must not die. He commands us to love one another. When we do, we are standing on holy ground.
Love, Cindy
If you place a law in front of me and tell me that is true. You better be following it. Literally. Otherwise the door for mercy and grace is opened and just because you don't like my deviation from the law doesn't mean you can accuse me because you think your deviation from the law is acceptable. Did you follow that?
The whole big fight in government these days pretty much turns back on the Judicial Branch. The Court interprets the Law. This is done by human beings, flesh and blood, often with agendas and always with baggage.
Jesus always asked, "What does the Law say?"
And He takes your answer and turns it on you. The Law is death. No question. Necessary for us humans, but nevertheless, it is death.
Oh, how joyous it would be if we could just love one another! Oh how wonderful it would be if we really knew how to share our blessings and burdens with each other! Oh. how joyous is would be to have the law of God in our hearts and not just in our heads!
I was listening a moment to Guadalupe Radio this morning. Sometimes it is good and sometimes it is awful. I heard a priest after Mass once say, when a congregant said he listed to Guadalupe Radio, "That is NOT Catholic!" And I too a couple of steps back, thinking the explosion would hit me, too. But the congregant went on his merry way, I don't think he heard the priest because I didn't feel any conflict energy in front of me...but he could have...We all have opinions about the Law. Catholic Law. What it is, what it isn't.
Like I could write here: How can someone claim to be a Roman Catholic and call himself a Republican? Outrage ensues! Why would I make such a statement? What some people hear is that "Oh she is pro-abortion!" which I am not. But if we are supposed to love one another, give each other from our excess (at least!)...then how does the Republican agenda, which supports deep protection of excesses amounts of money for the people who "earned it," how is that Catholic or even Christian? Everything is from God. We are commissioned to care for each other.
Ah, but you tell me that the government doesn't need to tell you how to give your money away. You have the right to decide where is goes, to which health programs or food or schooling, because you want to support your brand of Christianity!
Really. You get to play God about who lives and who dies. And be assured, the argument I offer goes both ways. The sword that cuts your point of view also cuts mine. I am not more in the right than you are...and all of us are very far away from what God views as right. Only grace and mercy will save us. The need to be right, as I have said before, is a ticket straight to hell.
I know that you may argue this as well, but whatever we take in this life, we are always taking it from someone else. That's a kind of liberation theology. But think about it, just in terms of physics. Matter is neither created nor destroyed. (I am talking basic physics here...not making a theological statement. Only God creates. But within this system, matter is neither created nor destroyed. If I take from one place,that place from which I have taken now has less. It is mathematical. If I am rich, someone else is necessarily poor. Gluttony is ugly, now matter how you look at it.
So the idea should be that we only take what we need. Daily bread. Not tomorrow's bread, but daily bread.
I've been reading Joyce Rupp's book "Walking in a Relaxed Manner" about walking, at the age of 60, the Camino in Spain. She talks about food. She prides herself in eating healthy. On the Camino, you eat what is given to you, you sleep where you find space, you carry toilet paper with you because...well, just because.
I told my priest yesterday about my dreams, not the ones in my sleep, but my day dreams...of creating a place for women to feel safe and protected, valued and loved, without having to "settle" for a bad marriage or living with some guy just to make ends meet. I want to create a place of community where people expect you to participate in the spiritual, physical, and emotional health of others. A place where you share financial burdens, where you are expected to take turns in the physical labor of the place...but where not all property is community. A place where you have your 'day job' but you come home to pray. And of course, you are expected to create a way to love your neighbor...in a way that has been discerned with the help of others. Each would work a certain number of hours in the church...but each would have a personal private life that is in alignment with JPII's "Theology of the Body."
It's all about respect. It's all about sharing. It's all about loving.
I have met so many older women (say 35 and above)who feel the call to religious life, but there is no place for them... and I want to create a home. A place of safety and reasonable commitment. A place where people expect you to behave with dignity within the body God has given you, a place that holds you accountable to what you believe God has called you to do.
I'm not talking Third Orders here, no exclusive club...no special handshakes or collar...this work is to be done in complete humility, no identifying marks but the work you do for one another, for yourself.
But how? We are all so caught up in the Law! We have to have rules to keep order, which is fine, but when we use the rules to condemn each other, we die.
How can I create a community of love?
"Let me help." I will steal from a great Star Trek episode. "Captain Kirk, my alter-ego, will respond, "Let me help. A century from now, someone will write a book using those words...a famous book, and he will say those words are more important than "I love you." "
I'm tired of seeing so much suffering around me. I'm tired of all the complaining. I'm tired of the bitching about who is and isn't right.
It just doesn't matter. A thousand years from now, no one will care who was right. But if we don't love one another, if we don't take care of our brothers and sisters, enemies and friends...
we just won't be here in a thousand years...we will scorch the earth and if something resembling human is left, it won't be us.
The love must not die. He commands us to love one another. When we do, we are standing on holy ground.
Love, Cindy
Monday, September 6, 2010
"Of priests, who are Levites and Descendants of Zadok..."
That would be Ezekiel 44:15. And verse 16: "They alone are to enter my sanctuary, they alone are to come near to my table to minister before me and perform my service." (NIV)
I had to call him. I realized I had taken the wrong road again. In the beginning, things looked familiar, the exit ramp, the highway, the Walmart on the right...even the names of a few exits...then I encountered the water. I don't remember water before. I've gotten off on the wrong road. I'm going to be late. Oh, why didn't I look at a map before I left? Why did I think I would remember how to get there?
I made the first call. "I'm on this road."
"That's the wrong road, Cindy. Go back to the beginning, when you get to this marker, call me. I'll tell you what to do."
Sigh...
I make the second call. "OK, now I'm on the right road. Things are starting to look familiar. What next?"
"Go to Exit 3313. Cross the railroad tracks. Stop in the parking lot. Call me again."
Sigh...
And things do look familiar. And I have to make a bathroom stop. I take the next exit. I think, 'Hey, this looks very familiar. This was where I got off the last time. Maybe he's forgotten. Maybe he thought I was somewhere else. Maybe I should go down this road instead. He gave me directions yesterday. Maybe I could just go from here and follow the directions I have. Then I wouldn't have to call him again.'
sigh...
I ask the kid working at the Burger King, "Do you know where Exit 3313 is?"
He looks at me and then walks into the back...comes back later. No one knows. "I just know how to get to the Walmart," he tells me.
sigh...
I look at the road I took before on my last visit. Then I think, not once has he ever led you astray. Not once has he ever been wrong. Why are you questioning him again?
sigh...
I think, 'Just do what he tells you do to.' And of course, there is a train coming down the tracks. I remember: "When you get across the tracks, stop in the parking lot and call me." Only I'm not on 3313 yet.
Trust him. I go through the light. I see the sign: 3313 Next Exit. I breathe a little easier. Now I have to wait for the train.
I simply have to do what he tells me to do. I hate bothering him. I hate having to be told twice. Three times. And I am embarrassed about how patient he is with me. He never makes anyone feel small. That's his nature to forgive our weaknesses.
The train passes. I cross the tracks. I pull into the gravel parking lot. I call him.
"Hello, it's me."
" OK. You have a pen? Here's what you do: first continue on this road for about 2 and a half miles. You'll go over three hills. At the third hill, you will make a right. The road does not have a name. Drive until you get to a dead end, then turn left. You will drive about 100 feet and then you will turn left on a road that has no name, but there is a red fire plug."
I am laughing now. "100 feet, right?"
"Yes. then go another 75 feet and turn left. I have a swing in the front yard."
I'm looking at this paper on the seat next to me...with all these little notes.
"You know I'm going to write about this."
He laughs. "See you in a few minutes."
I drive down an almost two lane road for about two miles. Each car or truck I pass waves a friendly hello to me. Reminds me of driving to TAMU, when everyone on the road was nice. I try to miss the pot holes. I don't miss all of them. I sometimes veer into the grassy fields on the right.
Is that the third hill or the second? And exactly what does he mean by hill anyway? Finally something looks right. I turn. I see houses. This looks promising. There is no name on the road, just a post where it used to be. 'Drive to the dead end and turn left.'
OK. Trust him. Listen to him.
I get to the dead end. I turn left. I drive the next 100 feet slowly...how do I know how far 100 feet is? But I see the red fire hydrant. I turn left. Ahead, I see the street I am looking for and I see the swing.
I pull up and grab the orchid I brought him from the back seat. It tipped over. Oh, well.
The priest opens the door, "You made it!" and he has a great big smile on his face. "Welcome!" and he introduces me to his sister, Sarah. I look at her and try to hold back my tears. I think about how good it is that she is here. What must it be like to have a brother? To have a brother who is a priest? To have a brother who is this priest? This priest, the one who 'came to me in a vision' when I thought I was going to die one night about 13 years ago. He matters in my journey.
Of course, he tells me he doesn't matter. Only God matters. Of course, I say. But you are stuck with me anyway. You are part of what has happened and are a part of what will happen.
He listens. I listen. In my head, I think about all the people whose lives he has touched and I trying to send him a message without speaking: Remember. Remember the good stuff. You changed my life. OK, God changed my life by using you. You said yes. You will never know in this life all the lives you have blessed with your kindness.
I'm thinking, why am I here? Because he has never led me astray. Because his words are true. Because he saw me when I was ugly and confused and saw me to the other side. Because if he says no, I will seriously consider no. But especially because, for whatever reason, he thinks I am a good person and that I will continue to do good work. And every now and then, I need to remember that about myself.
Yes, any priest would do that. Any good priest. Any holy man. Any true Levite and descendant of Zadok who is allowed to enter the sanctuary, whose only inheritance is God.
But he was the one who said, "Cindy, return to the Eucharist. Nothing else will make you happy."
And I listened. And I obeyed.
Before I left, I got his sister to take a picture of us. 15 years...really 26 years since I met him...and I only have a photo from a long distance. He gave me a blessing and walked me to the door.
He tells me how to get home. I said, I can remember how I got here. He says, "When you go home, you will be going a different way. It will be easier." Then he tells me. "You don't have to write it down. Just remember: two rights and then a left."
Theologically a thousand thoughts are running through my mind: Obedience and free will. Getting lost. traveling an often unmarked path to reach the goal. Having to trust. Having to ask. More than once. Not getting tempted to do what you think you know. Remembering who he is. Remembering why you are here. And all those things we talked about that aren't mentioned here.
"I'll be coming back." And you better be well, I think. Oh please, God, take care of him. I'm not ready to say goodbye. Does he know that's what I am afraid of?
He smiles. I start to get in my car.
Then he says, just before he closes the door, "Call me when you get to Waco."
Love, Cindy
I had to call him. I realized I had taken the wrong road again. In the beginning, things looked familiar, the exit ramp, the highway, the Walmart on the right...even the names of a few exits...then I encountered the water. I don't remember water before. I've gotten off on the wrong road. I'm going to be late. Oh, why didn't I look at a map before I left? Why did I think I would remember how to get there?
I made the first call. "I'm on this road."
"That's the wrong road, Cindy. Go back to the beginning, when you get to this marker, call me. I'll tell you what to do."
Sigh...
I make the second call. "OK, now I'm on the right road. Things are starting to look familiar. What next?"
"Go to Exit 3313. Cross the railroad tracks. Stop in the parking lot. Call me again."
Sigh...
And things do look familiar. And I have to make a bathroom stop. I take the next exit. I think, 'Hey, this looks very familiar. This was where I got off the last time. Maybe he's forgotten. Maybe he thought I was somewhere else. Maybe I should go down this road instead. He gave me directions yesterday. Maybe I could just go from here and follow the directions I have. Then I wouldn't have to call him again.'
sigh...
I ask the kid working at the Burger King, "Do you know where Exit 3313 is?"
He looks at me and then walks into the back...comes back later. No one knows. "I just know how to get to the Walmart," he tells me.
sigh...
I look at the road I took before on my last visit. Then I think, not once has he ever led you astray. Not once has he ever been wrong. Why are you questioning him again?
sigh...
I think, 'Just do what he tells you do to.' And of course, there is a train coming down the tracks. I remember: "When you get across the tracks, stop in the parking lot and call me." Only I'm not on 3313 yet.
Trust him. I go through the light. I see the sign: 3313 Next Exit. I breathe a little easier. Now I have to wait for the train.
I simply have to do what he tells me to do. I hate bothering him. I hate having to be told twice. Three times. And I am embarrassed about how patient he is with me. He never makes anyone feel small. That's his nature to forgive our weaknesses.
The train passes. I cross the tracks. I pull into the gravel parking lot. I call him.
"Hello, it's me."
" OK. You have a pen? Here's what you do: first continue on this road for about 2 and a half miles. You'll go over three hills. At the third hill, you will make a right. The road does not have a name. Drive until you get to a dead end, then turn left. You will drive about 100 feet and then you will turn left on a road that has no name, but there is a red fire plug."
I am laughing now. "100 feet, right?"
"Yes. then go another 75 feet and turn left. I have a swing in the front yard."
I'm looking at this paper on the seat next to me...with all these little notes.
"You know I'm going to write about this."
He laughs. "See you in a few minutes."
I drive down an almost two lane road for about two miles. Each car or truck I pass waves a friendly hello to me. Reminds me of driving to TAMU, when everyone on the road was nice. I try to miss the pot holes. I don't miss all of them. I sometimes veer into the grassy fields on the right.
Is that the third hill or the second? And exactly what does he mean by hill anyway? Finally something looks right. I turn. I see houses. This looks promising. There is no name on the road, just a post where it used to be. 'Drive to the dead end and turn left.'
OK. Trust him. Listen to him.
I get to the dead end. I turn left. I drive the next 100 feet slowly...how do I know how far 100 feet is? But I see the red fire hydrant. I turn left. Ahead, I see the street I am looking for and I see the swing.
I pull up and grab the orchid I brought him from the back seat. It tipped over. Oh, well.
The priest opens the door, "You made it!" and he has a great big smile on his face. "Welcome!" and he introduces me to his sister, Sarah. I look at her and try to hold back my tears. I think about how good it is that she is here. What must it be like to have a brother? To have a brother who is a priest? To have a brother who is this priest? This priest, the one who 'came to me in a vision' when I thought I was going to die one night about 13 years ago. He matters in my journey.
Of course, he tells me he doesn't matter. Only God matters. Of course, I say. But you are stuck with me anyway. You are part of what has happened and are a part of what will happen.
He listens. I listen. In my head, I think about all the people whose lives he has touched and I trying to send him a message without speaking: Remember. Remember the good stuff. You changed my life. OK, God changed my life by using you. You said yes. You will never know in this life all the lives you have blessed with your kindness.
I'm thinking, why am I here? Because he has never led me astray. Because his words are true. Because he saw me when I was ugly and confused and saw me to the other side. Because if he says no, I will seriously consider no. But especially because, for whatever reason, he thinks I am a good person and that I will continue to do good work. And every now and then, I need to remember that about myself.
Yes, any priest would do that. Any good priest. Any holy man. Any true Levite and descendant of Zadok who is allowed to enter the sanctuary, whose only inheritance is God.
But he was the one who said, "Cindy, return to the Eucharist. Nothing else will make you happy."
And I listened. And I obeyed.
Before I left, I got his sister to take a picture of us. 15 years...really 26 years since I met him...and I only have a photo from a long distance. He gave me a blessing and walked me to the door.
He tells me how to get home. I said, I can remember how I got here. He says, "When you go home, you will be going a different way. It will be easier." Then he tells me. "You don't have to write it down. Just remember: two rights and then a left."
Theologically a thousand thoughts are running through my mind: Obedience and free will. Getting lost. traveling an often unmarked path to reach the goal. Having to trust. Having to ask. More than once. Not getting tempted to do what you think you know. Remembering who he is. Remembering why you are here. And all those things we talked about that aren't mentioned here.
"I'll be coming back." And you better be well, I think. Oh please, God, take care of him. I'm not ready to say goodbye. Does he know that's what I am afraid of?
He smiles. I start to get in my car.
Then he says, just before he closes the door, "Call me when you get to Waco."
Love, Cindy
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Diamonds and Jade
I have some interesting pieces of jewelry. There was a time when I thought such things were symbols of love from one person to another, and more particularly a man to a wife. We women like pretty things. Shiny things. Sparkly reflective things.
Just like fish. Fish are drawn to the surface of the water by shiny little pieces of metal because they look like bait. And you know, sometimes that's all jewelry is. It is bait. And you get caught.
I have this one diamond ring, quite stunning. Belonged to my aunt. One of my little tests (and oh, I have so many of them!) is to wear the ring and watch people's eyes. Some are so drawn to the ring that they do not even know that they are staring at it. I'll start waving my hand around in some animated form of conversation and watch their heads move as if I was conducting a symphony. I suppose I should confess that to a priest. I am making fun with someone else's weaknesses.
Then there are the ones who pretend not to notice. They look when you think they are not looking. And they treat you differently because of what you wear. We are such shallow animals. We are so vain.
We think it is ALWAYS about us. Whatever happens, well, it is about us. It's about me: what I did or didn't do, where I was, who I spoke to, who I ignored, what I am wearing, who is noticing, why they are noticing, why they are ignoring, why...the whole damn world would just fall apart if I stopped thinking about it, right?
I am really stuck in trying to understand true humility, but I am thrilled that God is providing so very good, very hard lessons. The price for learning these lessons will be very high. In fact, much higher than I think I am willing or even able to pay.
Yet, if I survive these next few weeks, or this next year...I think I can really walk up to the door of the monastery, ring the bell, and stay on the steps for five days or longer if necessary, for them to let me in. I think maybe I can stand naked before them, as I grow, and willing admit that my love is so great for God that "even my body is no longer my own."
And that is what hit me so very hard at Mass this morning. I had forgotten that part of the Benedictine Rule. Not only would I not own any property, any sparkly jewelry to tease strangers with...I would not even own my body. That awakening has taken this whole strange journey of mine to another level.
I mean, such a "handing over" is a step so far beyond the humility that I have not even begun to grasp, that I wonder if it is even possible for me. Ah, but with God, all things are possible.
I love my friends. I look around this house and see so much baggage: physical, mental, emotional, spiritual. My very cool books, my chair, my skylight, my espresso machine...my journals, which are not just in tubs in the closet, but all over the house. Things I've written, started to write, notes that jog my memory to places I'd rather not go.
I'm sure you all have stuff like that. Things that are not your flesh and blood, but nevertheless feel like flesh and blood.
When I love perfectly, none of these things will matter anymore. And that, my dears, is the real cost of loving God. I kind of realize that now. These things and these relationships are surreal, they are illusions of the real...and yet, they need food and water and shelter and guidance and protection...they have to be cared for, but not owned. Not possessed. It hurts my head to think about it and I'm not sure if I really want to do it. But I know in my gut, it is the only way to be truly happy and truly free. Not free of God, mind you, but free within God.
Had a conversation with a priest who continually surprises me. Just doesn't seem like I would gain so much from him, yet he has a gift of telling me something I don't want to hear in such a way that I don't fight him on it. He's just so practical about it. Acts like it is not a big deal, and perhaps for him, it is not...but for me, who has been wrestling with God out in the woods for about 40 years, it's s big deal. Such encounters support the argument: if you get lost, go back to the beginning. For he works from the beginning...I am working from 'the wounds of my life.' So the priest says something annoying to me like, "Remember Cindy, even if you are not there, other people can get the job done, not just you."
And I think, "Yes, but...I have a style, it's special, it seems to do a lot of good." And oh hell, how I hate how the truth of that statement is unfolding for me. Jeez, putting me in stocks would feel more comfortable than the truth.
He gave me such a Catholic answer.
But he gave me the right answer.
Not one of us is going to change the world. Jesus Christ is going to change the world. He might use me for a time, and then He just might let me tread water for a month, a year, the rest of my life and I had better learn to be happy with that. He might ask me to spend my whole life pushing against a rock that will never move.
I don't get to advise God about anything. Certainly I can tell Him what is on my mind, but I don't get to change God's mind about anything. If I do what God wants, I'll feel joy and if I don't do what He wants, I'll feel pain...and He will get someone else to do it. And I shouldn't care. I should be glad that the work of the Kingdom is getting done.
I said one decade of the rosary aloud at St James this week, one evening. I did it because she asked me to do it. Sister asked me to do it. I sat in this church, where there is so much poverty and struggle, where people are not so 'book-educated' as I like, English is not the primary language here...the lines for confession are so long and the priests look so very tired...and I put my head down and read like a mouse. I close my eyes because I do not want to see anyone, because in seeing them, I have to see who I really am. I make out a little bit of the white with blue trim habits(?) of the Missionaries of Charity, but I look away quickly.
Oh, Lord, I am am not worthy to be here.
And for those moments of terror for me, a woman who has preached in front of so many in other places...I suddenly 'get it.' All the wrestling with God and with my spiritual sojourners, I feel in those moments that I have been fighting the wrong demons, trying to win the wrong arguments, looking for approval from the wrong people and not doing the real work he has called me to do.
For a few moments, I am humble. And it is wonderful and terrifying. And very scary. Part of myself was disappearing. A little death.
Am I ready for this? Can I be that kind of servant for Him?
Oh Lord, I am not worthy.
But since you have received me into your heart, let me open myself and receive you into mine.
Love, Cindy
Just like fish. Fish are drawn to the surface of the water by shiny little pieces of metal because they look like bait. And you know, sometimes that's all jewelry is. It is bait. And you get caught.
I have this one diamond ring, quite stunning. Belonged to my aunt. One of my little tests (and oh, I have so many of them!) is to wear the ring and watch people's eyes. Some are so drawn to the ring that they do not even know that they are staring at it. I'll start waving my hand around in some animated form of conversation and watch their heads move as if I was conducting a symphony. I suppose I should confess that to a priest. I am making fun with someone else's weaknesses.
Then there are the ones who pretend not to notice. They look when you think they are not looking. And they treat you differently because of what you wear. We are such shallow animals. We are so vain.
We think it is ALWAYS about us. Whatever happens, well, it is about us. It's about me: what I did or didn't do, where I was, who I spoke to, who I ignored, what I am wearing, who is noticing, why they are noticing, why they are ignoring, why...the whole damn world would just fall apart if I stopped thinking about it, right?
I am really stuck in trying to understand true humility, but I am thrilled that God is providing so very good, very hard lessons. The price for learning these lessons will be very high. In fact, much higher than I think I am willing or even able to pay.
Yet, if I survive these next few weeks, or this next year...I think I can really walk up to the door of the monastery, ring the bell, and stay on the steps for five days or longer if necessary, for them to let me in. I think maybe I can stand naked before them, as I grow, and willing admit that my love is so great for God that "even my body is no longer my own."
And that is what hit me so very hard at Mass this morning. I had forgotten that part of the Benedictine Rule. Not only would I not own any property, any sparkly jewelry to tease strangers with...I would not even own my body. That awakening has taken this whole strange journey of mine to another level.
I mean, such a "handing over" is a step so far beyond the humility that I have not even begun to grasp, that I wonder if it is even possible for me. Ah, but with God, all things are possible.
I love my friends. I look around this house and see so much baggage: physical, mental, emotional, spiritual. My very cool books, my chair, my skylight, my espresso machine...my journals, which are not just in tubs in the closet, but all over the house. Things I've written, started to write, notes that jog my memory to places I'd rather not go.
I'm sure you all have stuff like that. Things that are not your flesh and blood, but nevertheless feel like flesh and blood.
When I love perfectly, none of these things will matter anymore. And that, my dears, is the real cost of loving God. I kind of realize that now. These things and these relationships are surreal, they are illusions of the real...and yet, they need food and water and shelter and guidance and protection...they have to be cared for, but not owned. Not possessed. It hurts my head to think about it and I'm not sure if I really want to do it. But I know in my gut, it is the only way to be truly happy and truly free. Not free of God, mind you, but free within God.
Had a conversation with a priest who continually surprises me. Just doesn't seem like I would gain so much from him, yet he has a gift of telling me something I don't want to hear in such a way that I don't fight him on it. He's just so practical about it. Acts like it is not a big deal, and perhaps for him, it is not...but for me, who has been wrestling with God out in the woods for about 40 years, it's s big deal. Such encounters support the argument: if you get lost, go back to the beginning. For he works from the beginning...I am working from 'the wounds of my life.' So the priest says something annoying to me like, "Remember Cindy, even if you are not there, other people can get the job done, not just you."
And I think, "Yes, but...I have a style, it's special, it seems to do a lot of good." And oh hell, how I hate how the truth of that statement is unfolding for me. Jeez, putting me in stocks would feel more comfortable than the truth.
He gave me such a Catholic answer.
But he gave me the right answer.
Not one of us is going to change the world. Jesus Christ is going to change the world. He might use me for a time, and then He just might let me tread water for a month, a year, the rest of my life and I had better learn to be happy with that. He might ask me to spend my whole life pushing against a rock that will never move.
I don't get to advise God about anything. Certainly I can tell Him what is on my mind, but I don't get to change God's mind about anything. If I do what God wants, I'll feel joy and if I don't do what He wants, I'll feel pain...and He will get someone else to do it. And I shouldn't care. I should be glad that the work of the Kingdom is getting done.
I said one decade of the rosary aloud at St James this week, one evening. I did it because she asked me to do it. Sister asked me to do it. I sat in this church, where there is so much poverty and struggle, where people are not so 'book-educated' as I like, English is not the primary language here...the lines for confession are so long and the priests look so very tired...and I put my head down and read like a mouse. I close my eyes because I do not want to see anyone, because in seeing them, I have to see who I really am. I make out a little bit of the white with blue trim habits(?) of the Missionaries of Charity, but I look away quickly.
Oh, Lord, I am am not worthy to be here.
And for those moments of terror for me, a woman who has preached in front of so many in other places...I suddenly 'get it.' All the wrestling with God and with my spiritual sojourners, I feel in those moments that I have been fighting the wrong demons, trying to win the wrong arguments, looking for approval from the wrong people and not doing the real work he has called me to do.
For a few moments, I am humble. And it is wonderful and terrifying. And very scary. Part of myself was disappearing. A little death.
Am I ready for this? Can I be that kind of servant for Him?
Oh Lord, I am not worthy.
But since you have received me into your heart, let me open myself and receive you into mine.
Love, Cindy
Friday, September 3, 2010
Truck Drivers
I wonder if heaven will include a way for me to journal...This gift God has given me right now, the time to write...I wonder if I will get to write in heaven. I'm thinking not, for I have had a taste of heaven and it is nothing like anything we can imagine. But I want to write forever. That might me heaven for me, it is a kind of heaven now, but that is all it is, it brings personal pleasure and perhaps brings comfort to some others every now and then.
What is heaven? How far are we from heaven? I think we are kind of existing in heaven right now...and we are in hell right now...if you can get your head around the idea that time and space are human constructs, then the possibility that heaven and hell occupy the same space in which we exist might not seem so impossible. We just have to slow ourselves down enough to get a taste of it. We have to humble ourselves and make our ego sit in the corner, so that we can see something besides ourselves.
I suppose I am thinking about that because of all the deaths that have occurred in August, and in particular, the three little babies that the church buried yesterday. Trying to make sense out of tragedy...is really a touch of our egos trying to feel safe. Everything we have comes from God, belongs to God. He gives and we rejoice. He takes and we mourn. The more we do not attach, the happier we will be. Yet, who in their right mind would say that do a mother who is burying three children. I noticed the young nephews weeping. How young they are, to understand loss. How do we go about comforting each other, knowing what we know about the truth of God, and being present and active in the suffering of another? No platitudes are acceptable. We don't need to make noise to fill the air in the silence of suffering. Yet we still want to fill it. We don't really want to know our own pain and we don't want to know (and I am thinking the Biblical understanding of knowing here)anyone else's pain. And yet, it is knowing and being known that is the Body of Christ. Sharing one another's joys and sorrows. Feeding each other, holding each other, that's how it's supposed to work. Kind of a marriage vow shared between each Christian. To be with each other in good times and in bad. To endure it, to celebrate it, to encourage, to admonish, to hear each other, to provide, to be close and to step back. I suppose my analogy fails because I suppose the whole point of marriage is to procreate...but what if we were procreating...not physical human beings, but Christians...working together to build up the Body of Christ? Not everyone will be comfortable with the idea, I know...but stretch your mind...to think about it. As brothers and sisters in Christ, we are required to protect and care for each other within the Body, but as spouses, we are challenged to create in His image, the Life of Christ.
Okay, maybe I'm in the deep end of the pool. It's Friday. Humor me.
When my daughter was small and we are almost no money for anything, we drove across country (well, Tucson to Dallas) to visit the grandparents. Having no money for a motel room, we drove straight through, about a 24 hour drive. Bob and I traded off shifts. I offered to take the dead of the night. Bob's parents had loaned us their CB radio to use for the trip.
I recall a couple of things, first, that as I drove at sunset and after sunset, I found the road increasingly difficult to see. I thought I was tired. It was an hour or longer before I realized I was driving at night with my sunglasses still on. What a relief it was to discover that I was wearing them and I was not settling into early blindness.
When it gets dark, maybe you need to take off the glasses that helped you to see in the day. Not everything we have is meant forever. In fact, most of what we get in life is only for a season. Enjoy it and then let it go.
The second thing was the truck driver I "met" on the radio. While my husband slept, I was determined to keep driving and not fall asleep. The 18 wheeler in front of me was carrying toilet seats. (You don't forget something like that) He talked with me the entire night, driving through east New Mexico and then east of El Paso. I did not wake to have to wake my husband to take over. He needed his rest. The truck driver was friendly. I don't remember what we talked about, but he would occasionally say, "Little lady, you're getting a bit too close to my bumper, better back off a bit." And he would tell me about the places he had traveled to. He kept me going. He passed me off to another Truck driver somewhere around San Angelo as the sun began to rise, but I missed him and was glad Bob was rustling and we would soon stop for breakfast...at the next MacDonald's...
When we have a task in front of us, we need to not try to do it all alone. We need encouragers, someone with clear eyes and different baggage, to keep us on the road. We need someone who knows the path...the potholes and the detours and how to stay safe.
A baby being born into the world is hard work. And you don't get a break until it is done. The work, the labor will not rest until life arrives...and we need an encourager to focus on. It takes the pain of the work away, somehow, knowing you are not walking alone.
Like in the Passion of Christ, it had a surprising effect on me. This relationship between mother and son. Keep your eyes on me, Mary tells her Son. Keep your eyes on me, what you are giving life to will happen, the child will be born alive, look at me. Remember. You are not doing this alone. Look at me. The child will be born healthy. The child will live.
Guess I'll stop here and get to my hospital visiting. Be the firm hand others need when that lost feeling occurs and hell seems closer than ever. Help them find their way to heaven...
Love, Cindy
What is heaven? How far are we from heaven? I think we are kind of existing in heaven right now...and we are in hell right now...if you can get your head around the idea that time and space are human constructs, then the possibility that heaven and hell occupy the same space in which we exist might not seem so impossible. We just have to slow ourselves down enough to get a taste of it. We have to humble ourselves and make our ego sit in the corner, so that we can see something besides ourselves.
I suppose I am thinking about that because of all the deaths that have occurred in August, and in particular, the three little babies that the church buried yesterday. Trying to make sense out of tragedy...is really a touch of our egos trying to feel safe. Everything we have comes from God, belongs to God. He gives and we rejoice. He takes and we mourn. The more we do not attach, the happier we will be. Yet, who in their right mind would say that do a mother who is burying three children. I noticed the young nephews weeping. How young they are, to understand loss. How do we go about comforting each other, knowing what we know about the truth of God, and being present and active in the suffering of another? No platitudes are acceptable. We don't need to make noise to fill the air in the silence of suffering. Yet we still want to fill it. We don't really want to know our own pain and we don't want to know (and I am thinking the Biblical understanding of knowing here)anyone else's pain. And yet, it is knowing and being known that is the Body of Christ. Sharing one another's joys and sorrows. Feeding each other, holding each other, that's how it's supposed to work. Kind of a marriage vow shared between each Christian. To be with each other in good times and in bad. To endure it, to celebrate it, to encourage, to admonish, to hear each other, to provide, to be close and to step back. I suppose my analogy fails because I suppose the whole point of marriage is to procreate...but what if we were procreating...not physical human beings, but Christians...working together to build up the Body of Christ? Not everyone will be comfortable with the idea, I know...but stretch your mind...to think about it. As brothers and sisters in Christ, we are required to protect and care for each other within the Body, but as spouses, we are challenged to create in His image, the Life of Christ.
Okay, maybe I'm in the deep end of the pool. It's Friday. Humor me.
When my daughter was small and we are almost no money for anything, we drove across country (well, Tucson to Dallas) to visit the grandparents. Having no money for a motel room, we drove straight through, about a 24 hour drive. Bob and I traded off shifts. I offered to take the dead of the night. Bob's parents had loaned us their CB radio to use for the trip.
I recall a couple of things, first, that as I drove at sunset and after sunset, I found the road increasingly difficult to see. I thought I was tired. It was an hour or longer before I realized I was driving at night with my sunglasses still on. What a relief it was to discover that I was wearing them and I was not settling into early blindness.
When it gets dark, maybe you need to take off the glasses that helped you to see in the day. Not everything we have is meant forever. In fact, most of what we get in life is only for a season. Enjoy it and then let it go.
The second thing was the truck driver I "met" on the radio. While my husband slept, I was determined to keep driving and not fall asleep. The 18 wheeler in front of me was carrying toilet seats. (You don't forget something like that) He talked with me the entire night, driving through east New Mexico and then east of El Paso. I did not wake to have to wake my husband to take over. He needed his rest. The truck driver was friendly. I don't remember what we talked about, but he would occasionally say, "Little lady, you're getting a bit too close to my bumper, better back off a bit." And he would tell me about the places he had traveled to. He kept me going. He passed me off to another Truck driver somewhere around San Angelo as the sun began to rise, but I missed him and was glad Bob was rustling and we would soon stop for breakfast...at the next MacDonald's...
When we have a task in front of us, we need to not try to do it all alone. We need encouragers, someone with clear eyes and different baggage, to keep us on the road. We need someone who knows the path...the potholes and the detours and how to stay safe.
A baby being born into the world is hard work. And you don't get a break until it is done. The work, the labor will not rest until life arrives...and we need an encourager to focus on. It takes the pain of the work away, somehow, knowing you are not walking alone.
Like in the Passion of Christ, it had a surprising effect on me. This relationship between mother and son. Keep your eyes on me, Mary tells her Son. Keep your eyes on me, what you are giving life to will happen, the child will be born alive, look at me. Remember. You are not doing this alone. Look at me. The child will be born healthy. The child will live.
Guess I'll stop here and get to my hospital visiting. Be the firm hand others need when that lost feeling occurs and hell seems closer than ever. Help them find their way to heaven...
Love, Cindy
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Stratos
Votre tête a la tête dans les nuages
Su cabeza está en las nubes
הראש שלך בעננים
Το κεφάλι σας στα σύννεφα
I just found a way cool English language translator. Remember that the Hebrew is read from right to left, not left to right.
"Your head is in the clouds."
That's what my French teacher told me as I struggled with even the simplest phrases. I have four semesters in French, a year of eighth grade Spanish, two semesters of Hebrew and one semester of Greek. Just because I passed most of those classes with A's, I can remember very little of it now.
Why? Because I don't use it. Because I don't practice it.
I have to work a funeral this morning, so I need to leave in moments. But I thought this program was cool.
You want to have something inside you? You've got to practice. You've got to use it. You've got to give it your time. You've got to share it. You've got to find others who want it. You've got to live it.
Such as it is with God. Nobody really 'gets it' in the beginning. You've got to wander around in the dark a bit before the light shines...or you've got to get your eyes accustomed to the brightness of Him whom you most desire. You have to learn to rest in the unknowing before you can really get to the knowing. Break in the new shoes, wash the scratchy new shirt, get used to the smell of a new book. Make it your own by loving it. Truly, madly, deeply.
Love,
Cindy
Su cabeza está en las nubes
הראש שלך בעננים
Το κεφάλι σας στα σύννεφα
I just found a way cool English language translator. Remember that the Hebrew is read from right to left, not left to right.
"Your head is in the clouds."
That's what my French teacher told me as I struggled with even the simplest phrases. I have four semesters in French, a year of eighth grade Spanish, two semesters of Hebrew and one semester of Greek. Just because I passed most of those classes with A's, I can remember very little of it now.
Why? Because I don't use it. Because I don't practice it.
I have to work a funeral this morning, so I need to leave in moments. But I thought this program was cool.
You want to have something inside you? You've got to practice. You've got to use it. You've got to give it your time. You've got to share it. You've got to find others who want it. You've got to live it.
Such as it is with God. Nobody really 'gets it' in the beginning. You've got to wander around in the dark a bit before the light shines...or you've got to get your eyes accustomed to the brightness of Him whom you most desire. You have to learn to rest in the unknowing before you can really get to the knowing. Break in the new shoes, wash the scratchy new shirt, get used to the smell of a new book. Make it your own by loving it. Truly, madly, deeply.
Love,
Cindy
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Practice
Almost twenty years ago, I thought about becoming a concert pianist. Just thought about it, mind you. I was told by my not so warm and fuzzy piano teacher that I had reached the point that I could play anything. I still had misgivings about my left hand, which just doesn't respond as well as my right hand. Still, it was a nice thing for a piano teacher to say.
At that point, I had mastered enough for a fairly decent recital. A little Bach, Beethoven, Brahms, Chopin, Debussy. There were days when I played that I felt one with the universe, that I was singing to it and for it. (These were my days before I could say the word 'God') I did just fine until I smelled his coffee. Then I knew he was standing outside the door and listening. Why did he do that? I didn't get it. And of course, at the thought of an audience, I became stiff and fearful. It I even think someone is listening to me, I get horribly afraid.
I have severe performance anxiety. What I have learned many years later is that I have a huge, gigantic, enormous ego. An ego of this size cannot be ignored. It has to do with self-worth and how I was treated as a kid and what I thought people expected of me and what I expected of myself. I didn't want to let anyone down. I didn't want to let myself down. I knew that, with just a bit more practice, I could do it (my music, golfing, dancing, writing, art, hiking, climbing, 'priesting') perfectly.
Only God is perfect. The rest of us don't even make a close second. Pride. Narcissism. Hubris. There was a line in "Almost Famous," a fairly good movie about life in the 70s...a wasted guy is standing on the roof at a party and cries out "I am a god!" and jumps from the roof into a swimming pool. We seem...okay, I seem to swing my pendulum between feelings that I am going to change the world to feelings that I can't even change myself. And of course, the operative word here is "I."
I'm into pronouns. They say a whole lot about what we are saying and most of the time we don't even know we are doing it. I had a great conversation with someone yesterday about it. I thank God that He continually brings me the people I need to sort out my own puzzles...and perhaps in the sorting, I can be of use to others...but I went back to the pronoun topic; one I had wanted to write about 15 years ago.
Why do we speak in third person when we are in the hospital and talking with a doctor but are not the identified patient. "Stop talking as if I am not here!" We often hear that when something important is happening. We try to distance ourselves from the reality around us by changing our pronouns. I thought I was a genius for realizing that when I was reading and re-reading the mystics...but then I found out, from a Harvard professor, that psychologists have known that for YEARS. Sigh...I am not a genius after all.
Yet each "aha!" moment is relevant for our lives. Yes, the news may be known, but now it is known to ME. I recall a woman who refused to learn math and it was my job to get her through her first year of college. I kept telling her "Math is your friend." And she used words I will not put here about what she thought of math. Then one day, late in the semester, the idea of "x" (a variable) seemed to click. She looked at me with wide eyes and said, "Cindy! Math is my friend!"
No doubt, the apostles, maybe a few days after Jesus ascended into heaven...okay, maybe years for some of them...they "got" it. An aha moment. A mountaintop experience. A moment of holy ecstasy.
But to get there, we've got to let go of so many presumptions and wrong learnings. Pride is the most horrible of our vices...and yes, I'll call it a vice. Humility is damn near impossible. Especially when you have low self esteem...and you would be so very surprised that almost all of us are ill with that disease.
Thinking we are not good enough means that we will probably overcompensate for that which we think we lack. And that angry demon manifests in such clever ways. Like thinking we have to be perfect at everything. Like creating a Barbie doll, or Ken doll, image of what we think we are supposed to be. And that makes us posers. It make us plastic, superficial and it denies us the real pleasure of being human and being alive.
I had someone recently tell me "Keep your eyes on Jesus," and all I felt was the hypocrisy in the statement. I heard the litany that accompanied the statement. I felt the pride that it tried to hide. And I was pissed. You know that feeling, when you are struggling with something and a person says to you, when THEY can no longer handle your truth, or they just want to shut you up, or they disagree and really believe they are right and you are wrong, "I'll pray for you."
"I'll pray for you." was a statement I heard over and over again from my so-called Christian friends when I was still unwilling to see God again in my life. I recoiled at their inference of self-superiority. I recall how one "Christian" action drove my daughter from the church. I recall how I begged a relative to leave my husband alone as she pounded his with her reasons for why he should believe in God. She gave him a good reason to say no.
And all this holiness is dripping with pride.
Humility is a hard thing. It is am almost impossible thing...at least for me, because trusting anyone was not possible as a child, and unlearning those lessons has been slow and painful.
I look at the Missionaries of Charity (nuns) as I attend the Novena Masses for Mother Teresa...and I think, I will never be like them. There is no way I will ever be able to be so humble, so submissive, so obedient. And I love being in their presence. Two nights ago, two of the nuns shook my hand during Mass. I was humbled. They usually do not touch anyone.
I have a special talent on the piano, I am pretty sure. Even yesterday, as I was pounding away on reclaiming passages of pieces and trying to rebuild my muscles, a woman said as I was leaving, "That was beautiful." I wanted to argue with her, but I knew better...I learned better. My world and my issues are mine. I have no right to impose my baggage on her. I said thank you and smiled.
But I have kept my music to myself, not because of humility, but because of pride. I was too proud to make a mistake before others. I was too proud to allow God to use me as an instrument because I didn't want to be embarrassed or humiliated at not being perfect.
Can you see how warped that thinking is? I am willing to bet that you are hiding a great gift from God because you have decided you aren't "good enough." I heard a woman speak last night who told me she was 'uneducated' and without a doubt she is one of the wisest women I have ever met. I have been blessed with a multitude of steel magnolias who think that they are dandelions, victim to the winds of life.
Father and Son by Cat Stevens on the radio here. Just ran into another student I used to teach.
I better stop here. Time for Mass.
Be who God made you to be. Practice being real. Don't hide. He'll hold your hand and you will dance with Him for the stars.
Love, Cindy
At that point, I had mastered enough for a fairly decent recital. A little Bach, Beethoven, Brahms, Chopin, Debussy. There were days when I played that I felt one with the universe, that I was singing to it and for it. (These were my days before I could say the word 'God') I did just fine until I smelled his coffee. Then I knew he was standing outside the door and listening. Why did he do that? I didn't get it. And of course, at the thought of an audience, I became stiff and fearful. It I even think someone is listening to me, I get horribly afraid.
I have severe performance anxiety. What I have learned many years later is that I have a huge, gigantic, enormous ego. An ego of this size cannot be ignored. It has to do with self-worth and how I was treated as a kid and what I thought people expected of me and what I expected of myself. I didn't want to let anyone down. I didn't want to let myself down. I knew that, with just a bit more practice, I could do it (my music, golfing, dancing, writing, art, hiking, climbing, 'priesting') perfectly.
Only God is perfect. The rest of us don't even make a close second. Pride. Narcissism. Hubris. There was a line in "Almost Famous," a fairly good movie about life in the 70s...a wasted guy is standing on the roof at a party and cries out "I am a god!" and jumps from the roof into a swimming pool. We seem...okay, I seem to swing my pendulum between feelings that I am going to change the world to feelings that I can't even change myself. And of course, the operative word here is "I."
I'm into pronouns. They say a whole lot about what we are saying and most of the time we don't even know we are doing it. I had a great conversation with someone yesterday about it. I thank God that He continually brings me the people I need to sort out my own puzzles...and perhaps in the sorting, I can be of use to others...but I went back to the pronoun topic; one I had wanted to write about 15 years ago.
Why do we speak in third person when we are in the hospital and talking with a doctor but are not the identified patient. "Stop talking as if I am not here!" We often hear that when something important is happening. We try to distance ourselves from the reality around us by changing our pronouns. I thought I was a genius for realizing that when I was reading and re-reading the mystics...but then I found out, from a Harvard professor, that psychologists have known that for YEARS. Sigh...I am not a genius after all.
Yet each "aha!" moment is relevant for our lives. Yes, the news may be known, but now it is known to ME. I recall a woman who refused to learn math and it was my job to get her through her first year of college. I kept telling her "Math is your friend." And she used words I will not put here about what she thought of math. Then one day, late in the semester, the idea of "x" (a variable) seemed to click. She looked at me with wide eyes and said, "Cindy! Math is my friend!"
No doubt, the apostles, maybe a few days after Jesus ascended into heaven...okay, maybe years for some of them...they "got" it. An aha moment. A mountaintop experience. A moment of holy ecstasy.
But to get there, we've got to let go of so many presumptions and wrong learnings. Pride is the most horrible of our vices...and yes, I'll call it a vice. Humility is damn near impossible. Especially when you have low self esteem...and you would be so very surprised that almost all of us are ill with that disease.
Thinking we are not good enough means that we will probably overcompensate for that which we think we lack. And that angry demon manifests in such clever ways. Like thinking we have to be perfect at everything. Like creating a Barbie doll, or Ken doll, image of what we think we are supposed to be. And that makes us posers. It make us plastic, superficial and it denies us the real pleasure of being human and being alive.
I had someone recently tell me "Keep your eyes on Jesus," and all I felt was the hypocrisy in the statement. I heard the litany that accompanied the statement. I felt the pride that it tried to hide. And I was pissed. You know that feeling, when you are struggling with something and a person says to you, when THEY can no longer handle your truth, or they just want to shut you up, or they disagree and really believe they are right and you are wrong, "I'll pray for you."
"I'll pray for you." was a statement I heard over and over again from my so-called Christian friends when I was still unwilling to see God again in my life. I recoiled at their inference of self-superiority. I recall how one "Christian" action drove my daughter from the church. I recall how I begged a relative to leave my husband alone as she pounded his with her reasons for why he should believe in God. She gave him a good reason to say no.
And all this holiness is dripping with pride.
Humility is a hard thing. It is am almost impossible thing...at least for me, because trusting anyone was not possible as a child, and unlearning those lessons has been slow and painful.
I look at the Missionaries of Charity (nuns) as I attend the Novena Masses for Mother Teresa...and I think, I will never be like them. There is no way I will ever be able to be so humble, so submissive, so obedient. And I love being in their presence. Two nights ago, two of the nuns shook my hand during Mass. I was humbled. They usually do not touch anyone.
I have a special talent on the piano, I am pretty sure. Even yesterday, as I was pounding away on reclaiming passages of pieces and trying to rebuild my muscles, a woman said as I was leaving, "That was beautiful." I wanted to argue with her, but I knew better...I learned better. My world and my issues are mine. I have no right to impose my baggage on her. I said thank you and smiled.
But I have kept my music to myself, not because of humility, but because of pride. I was too proud to make a mistake before others. I was too proud to allow God to use me as an instrument because I didn't want to be embarrassed or humiliated at not being perfect.
Can you see how warped that thinking is? I am willing to bet that you are hiding a great gift from God because you have decided you aren't "good enough." I heard a woman speak last night who told me she was 'uneducated' and without a doubt she is one of the wisest women I have ever met. I have been blessed with a multitude of steel magnolias who think that they are dandelions, victim to the winds of life.
Father and Son by Cat Stevens on the radio here. Just ran into another student I used to teach.
I better stop here. Time for Mass.
Be who God made you to be. Practice being real. Don't hide. He'll hold your hand and you will dance with Him for the stars.
Love, Cindy
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