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
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