Monday, November 29, 2010
Peter Paul and Mary: Paul Stookey, The Wedding Song
From Monday:
Always loved this song, always thought I would have it played for my wedding. It seems very appropriate for this first Monday in Advent...I have much to think about in these days ahead.
I find myself back where I have always been: deeply in love with God. I have these memories of moments where I felt Him so very near to me. It is all so odd and not what I would expect and yet, exactly what I would expect. I just figured I would go to my grave and no one would ever know about this strange and wonderful love story. I figured I was crazy, but I wasn't going to let go of Him...and that was just fine...
but the convergence of events make it so very different now. Technology makes it possible to throw out our crazy ideas and then let the world pass its judgment on them. Maybe, just maybe, someone will say something or do something, and we will stop hurting each other, being mean to each other...and start really loving each other. Just maybe God has provided a way for us to all live again. Just maybe.
This past Sunday, I was double-booked for Communion services. I didn't realize my schedules overlapped until I got to Mass. And then, thank heaven, I did not really think about it until Mass was over. I hate it when I am not completely given to the Mass, and I am ashamed to receive Communion if my mind has wandered off to unimportant things. So as Mass ended, it all came to me.
I rushed to the first service and found two women in place facilitating, one reading the old testament reading. I began to walk away, but was vigorously motioned over to stay. In fact, she gave me the gospel to read, and I read it out of breath, pausing like one does in reading of the Hours, after every very words. Nancy looked at me and whispered, "you do the 'homily.'" Not really an issue, and often best if I don't think about it...knowing I border on Roman Catholic heresy here, I know I was born to preach. I know it in my marrow and I have known it since I was a little girl...when the adults around me would stop talking when I began to speak, they stopped and listened. What I could have said that mattered, I haven't a clue. It always seemed to happen. Restaurants, bars...I'd go off on a rabbit trail and people would just listen...it creeps me out sometimes. I don't want to matter that way. I don't want that responsibility.
And yet, it is my gift. My spiritual gift from God.
So I did my "thing" and thought it was broken theology at best...I was still trying to catch my breath. But something must have worked, because I heard thank you. And we shared Communion with them. I hugged everyone, apologized again for being late and ran off to my next encounter with God.
This time, I looked through the car and could not find my book. All I had was the day's readings. Could I do the 'Mass' from memory? Only if I did it the way I knew it. I didn't have time to think about what I could and couldn't say. I just introduced myself, apologized that I had forgotten my book and that I had to let the Holy Spirit run the communion service. (That was my quick, get out of jail card, in case there was somebody there who might say I used too many words) And in my head, I saw Fr. John, and just stepped into what I thought was of course, how all services begin:
The Lord be with you...and also with you.
As we begin this celebration, let us call to mind our sins and ask the Lord for His pardon and strength...
And oddly enough, it was all there...and it felt so good...
My mind seemed to do what it needed to keep it all fluid. I knew enough not to recite the Eucharistic Prayer and I left out of few of the other parts, that I could remember that I had to leave out...but it was all there in my head. And I was stunned that I had it all packed away in my brain. I was not out of breath, I was calm and happy. Even joyful. God gave me a gift. One that certainly will not be repeated, especially since I am writing it here now.
But at the end of time, when the wars come...I will remember the words of great comfort for people who can be comforted by them...I will be able to help...and that is enough. Sound crazy? Probably. A combination of which book, Farenheit 451, I think plus knowing that my children's grandfather was locked in a metal box for four years and tortured, I know in my gut we must remember, there will be a time when we won't have our books, only our memory...
We all have to have something to hold on to that no man can take away. My job, one of them, it to remember the Mass. Another goal is to memorize the Gospel of John. To make the extraordinary ordinary. To hold on to that which is precious. That which survives beyond time.
And then I offered a 'reflection.' Not a homily, because the church does not allow women or lay people to do homilies, so I offered a reflection on the Word of the day. I took what Fr. John said, gave him the credit and then added all the stuff I had learned from different priests that week. I told them about things said in a private conversation that, as I opened my mouth, I began to understand how all the details of my life weave together...and how each thing God gives me is a thing I must give away, at the appropriate time. I looked at them and I was stunned by how God makes everything work...and I became hungry and energized because I saw that my life as a lowly woman, less than (and yes, I see the Catholic Church as viewing women as less than...but that does not stop me from loving it anyway) yet I am stronger than I could ever be, had I been born a man and allowed to be a priest. In my lowliness, I can do so much work...until I am told to stop...and then I will simply do it differently...but I have now and now is beautiful.
I begged God to make me a healer. And in very small ways, I get to do that work. And in every way I can, I thank Him for letting me help.
I wonder exactly when I married God. Or Jesus...though for me, it is not Jesus that comes to my mind when I think spouse, I am really thinking God...the Trinity...the whole thing, not just one aspect. Was it when I was seven days old, on Christmas Eve, when my mother handed me over to the husband and wife that would shape my life? Was it that day that God said, "we are joined, we are One, and nothing will ever separate us again," or did it happen later?
Now where I am, I cannot even begin to imagine a moment when I existed and He was not there. Even in the dark days, He was there. Even when everything was taken from me, His Love was my Rock and I clung to Him in the strong winds that wanted me to go somewhere else.
Does this mean nun? I don't know. Can I stay in the Roman Catholic Church? I hope so. But only time will tell...
This I know: my first, last and best Love is the One who claimed me as His own long ago. My most perfect spouse. The Love of a lifetime. For a lifetime. The One to whom I offer back all that He has given me: my heart, my hands, my voice, every cell of my body.
I have six drafts going and a paper due Tuesday. But today is December 1st and every day of Advent has already brought something new.
Are your lives like that? Oh, I hope so! I hope every day you feel the joy of living and knowing that some day you will live differently in a better place. Now matters, too. I am amazed with every day.
In this past year, I have so many new people in my life! My relationships are healthier. They are passionate, but not possessive. They are immediate and not projecting. They are savored, not feared. They are celebrated and most often, there is little disappointment.
But this did not happen in a vacuum. I got really angry this year also. I got depressed. I wanted things my way and I let some people get under my skin. I have had relationships that were disappointing, but still appreciated. I've relationships flourish that I did not expect. I have had many answers to my prayers. I have seen the real grace in simplicity. I have seen the value of things I would have never wanted in the past. I have learned how to love myself more by loving myself less.
Somehow many of my hungers have been fed in unexpected ways. My thirst is quenched. I have given more of me away than I ever dreamed possible and as a result I have received more than I ever thought was possible.
I love now, not to be loved...though I am loved, but because it feels so good to give myself away. And it makes me laugh...because I throw myself out there, expecting nothing...and I keep getting so much more in return. It is insane, it does not make any logical sense.
I take a cup of my water and cast it out...and immediately I am drenched in water. I offer my hand to hold someone up and suddenly I discover that there are five hands holding me up.
Just like last night, when He let me play the piano...when the remodelers kept saying my name over and over..."Cindy, you play well. We want to hear you again"...they were so funny, and then the little boys who tried to turn the altar into a gym and I couldn't handle it, so I got one to read Isaiah for me, and he read so well. And the precious little boy who knelt before Mary...slayed me with his prayers. And trying to carry a wasp out of the sanctuary without getting stung but knowing I couldn't kill it. Veronica teasing me about being 20 minutes late to the ACTS meeting when she knew I was there before her.
I was praying, I explained...and I was. I had to wait for the people to go, to be alone, to tell God what I needed to confess and to be able to hear His answer.
And tonight, how He took my stress and anxiety and whining and just held me up, held me together and healed the broken parts in my heart.
Am I going to say Yes again?
I can still smell the chrism oil all over my left hand. There were three who were confirmed tonight at Mass. I cleaned up after Mass. I didn't realize there was oil in the lid and it went all over my hands...I panicked and then I laughed! There is no scent more sweet to me than that special oil. God's December 1st gift to me. His perfume. His mark.
We are one again. As if there was a time when we were not...
May you enjoy this love affair, too, in your own way. He's waiting for you.
Yes, Lord. Once again, I say yes.
Tell Him yes...and watch the world light up before you!
Sunday, November 28, 2010
This is My Body
The last of the three pending posts. I thought I had posted this one on Monday. If I have already put this one out, I apologize for the duplication. So much on my mind. And it has been a really long hard day. God did good to give me the new skirt. I think He should have given me ice cream also...I needed ice cream today.
Happy New Year, my friends!
New year. New books. New ideas. New clothes. New understanding. New love.
Reflecting on the past year, I recall how someone important taught me a great and wonderful lesson. Of to be very truthful, taught me the beginnings of a great virtue: waiting.
I am not a person who waits well. I have a colorful personality, an Irish personality traced out in a French temperament and that means the sparks fly when I don't get my own way....right now.
I saw Fr. John's eyes roll just a hair when I told him about being the first woman in electronics in high school. The tiny movement told this great hunter exactly what he was thinking. Or not...
When I decide I want something, I want it NOW. I could go down the tragic path and say that I've had so much violence in my life that I only know and understand a warrior's mind...and this captain wants her orders followed without question. It is one reason why I love and am satisfied with movies and shows of women warriors.
My body woke me at midnight to begin my new book of the Liturgy of the Hours. I wrote for an hour and then prayed an hour longer. Something inside me just knows what it is supposed to do, even when I don't.
Last night at Mass, I heard the Angelus bells and I dropped to my knees right where I was and prayed...and the usher came up to me and said, "Take your seat, please, we are starting Mass now>" And I am thinking, no you are not, the Mass does not begin until AFTER the bells stop...I have until then...leave me alone, but explaining that would have removed me from my prayer. I simply obeyed. And then I apologized after Mass.
Waiting is just not one of my strong points, but last year, I found someone to trust enough to learn how to wait. And I discovered a new great joy in it. This wild animal, this great hunter, is slowly becoming civilized.
It's about time.
Actually it's about "This is my Body."
Found myself in tears yesterday morning at Mass when I thought more about those words, which have always spoken to me deeply. I didn't hear those words yesterday.
What I heard was:
"This is my heart, given up for you."
And I wept because the it made sense, the whole thing: We must love because He first love us.
I imagined Jesus standing there, telling me, "I love you. You have my heart." and then microseconds later, "Use it."
Kind of an odd thing. If it is "This is my Body" then it is also:
This is my Heart: love one another
These are my Hands: feed my sheep
This is my Voice: sing me a new song
I have to leave now. But I just wanted to share it with you.
Happy New Year, Happy Anniversary. May your time of waiting be filled with joy.
The child you carry will carry us all.
Love, Cindy
Happy New Year, my friends!
New year. New books. New ideas. New clothes. New understanding. New love.
Reflecting on the past year, I recall how someone important taught me a great and wonderful lesson. Of to be very truthful, taught me the beginnings of a great virtue: waiting.
I am not a person who waits well. I have a colorful personality, an Irish personality traced out in a French temperament and that means the sparks fly when I don't get my own way....right now.
I saw Fr. John's eyes roll just a hair when I told him about being the first woman in electronics in high school. The tiny movement told this great hunter exactly what he was thinking. Or not...
When I decide I want something, I want it NOW. I could go down the tragic path and say that I've had so much violence in my life that I only know and understand a warrior's mind...and this captain wants her orders followed without question. It is one reason why I love and am satisfied with movies and shows of women warriors.
My body woke me at midnight to begin my new book of the Liturgy of the Hours. I wrote for an hour and then prayed an hour longer. Something inside me just knows what it is supposed to do, even when I don't.
Last night at Mass, I heard the Angelus bells and I dropped to my knees right where I was and prayed...and the usher came up to me and said, "Take your seat, please, we are starting Mass now>" And I am thinking, no you are not, the Mass does not begin until AFTER the bells stop...I have until then...leave me alone, but explaining that would have removed me from my prayer. I simply obeyed. And then I apologized after Mass.
Waiting is just not one of my strong points, but last year, I found someone to trust enough to learn how to wait. And I discovered a new great joy in it. This wild animal, this great hunter, is slowly becoming civilized.
It's about time.
Actually it's about "This is my Body."
Found myself in tears yesterday morning at Mass when I thought more about those words, which have always spoken to me deeply. I didn't hear those words yesterday.
What I heard was:
"This is my heart, given up for you."
And I wept because the it made sense, the whole thing: We must love because He first love us.
I imagined Jesus standing there, telling me, "I love you. You have my heart." and then microseconds later, "Use it."
Kind of an odd thing. If it is "This is my Body" then it is also:
This is my Heart: love one another
These are my Hands: feed my sheep
This is my Voice: sing me a new song
I have to leave now. But I just wanted to share it with you.
Happy New Year, Happy Anniversary. May your time of waiting be filled with joy.
The child you carry will carry us all.
Love, Cindy
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Panpsychism: Turkey or Ham?
Mortimer Adler wrote a book, "The Angels and Us." I have read pages out of the book, but not in order. Adler is a great author. What I remember from long ago is his book, "How to Speak How to Listen." And there was the book where I found him: "How to Read a Book." My ex-husband told me to read it. I still lament that that relationship could not have worked itself out. The man was a genius, and outside of the marriage, he was a great man.
Marriage changes everything. I don't care who you are, if you lived together or lied separately first, if you slept together or remained celibate in that relationship until marriage, if you were married before or not, if you both were virgins or not...marriage changes everything.
We carry unconscious illusions about marriage and married life inside us and we know exactly when and where and how our partner lives up to or breaks the rules. Very few couples actually discuss their approvals and disappointments concerning marriage because for those of us who are immature (and that would include me), well, "if he LOVES me, he SHOULD KNOW what I want and what I don't want." Play out that scenario in two people who are together and the whole things implodes sooner or later. After all, we all KNOW what marriage is.
I've seen Shrek, I Love Lucy, all the Doris Day/Rock Hudson movies, Love Story...The Big Chill, The Sandpiper, Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolf?, Sex Lies and Videotape...
Heavens, how do we survive?
Then there are the angels, which I not prepared to discuss at this moment, but oddly, they are right here with me.
I woke this morning to a strange sound, not unexpected in a house full of people again. I tiptoed into the kitchen and searched out the sound. Egads! Someone left the faucet running all night! I turned it off, tossed off the unfortunate waste of money and water and made my pot of coffee.
People just complicate things. I like my orderly (well, to me anyway), celibate life. I have complicated my life with men in the past, since the end of my marriage, and it has never worked out well. It always seemed like a struggle for power. More specifically control. I always joked in college that I like to have a man on my terms. You can go back into my writings and understand why.
At some point in my marriage, I decided to trust my husband...and that is what caused the marriage to fail. I changed the rules. I decided I wanted to be really married...and really married meant all of those cliches I saw in movies growing up. And my husband was not up to the challenge, not did he have a clue about what I wanted because I didn't tell him I changed the rules. He was just supposed to know.
I guess I am writing that here now because it's the holidays and we need to pay attention to our inner rule book. Most people don't know what the rules are, that is, what YOUR rules are. And the holidays are here now and so the rules are engaged even without you knowing that.
Remember the movie Flatliners? Perhaps the motto for that movie is "when you are going through hell, keep going."
And then consider that wonderful book by C.S. Lewis: "The Great Divorce." Purgatory and Hell exist for us because we are so afraid to really love...and to really love, we must face out truths. And to face out truths, we have to go through hell first. Little guilts and big guilts. Asking for and receiving help, from a husband, a daughter, a friend, a priest.
We can't do it alone because we weren't created in a vacuum. We are created as separate beings, but we are all connected. We are all intended to be One with Him.
Am I explaining it well? I don't think so. All I can do is try.
I am so sick of people hurting each other. I am so sick of people who hold grudges and won't forgive...and it breaks my heart into bits when I see people who will not forgive themselves.
And the holidays just shove all those wounds into our faces.
Maybe we need angels. Maybe we need people to come into our lives, strangers who don't know us and from whom we expect nothing, to listen to us...in our brilliance and stupidity and ignorance...and not know us enough to give an answer because they can't. They don't know us. But in their presence of unknowing, we finally come to know ourselves. And we get our "get out of hell" card finally. We get to get on the bus back to heaven and this time, we will choose to stay because we can finally choose life. Someone has heard us and we are finally at peace inside ourselves.
Turkey or Ham?
Are you the one gets "dumped on" during the holidays? Are you the one the family likes to embarrass for the hundredth time retelling the story of how you set the rug on fire or how you were madly in love with the boy across the street? Are you the turkey? Are you the proverbial prodigal son?
Or are you the one who has a litany of accomplishments that you need to share because you are the one who did everything right and the family needs to know you are the authority on everyone else's lives? Are you the ham? Are you the older son who is convinced that everyone would be just fine if they all followed your rules, which of course the right rules and the only rules that matter?
Or perhaps this year, you might be an angel. Someone who doesn't really change things, doesn't fix things, doesn't judge, but by their presence, their willingness to witness to this gift of life, holds a hand, really looks into the eyes and says maybe, "I understand only a little bit, but I'm listening and I love you."
I know the grammar is horrible. I don't care. I just know that I have seen a lot of hurting people this week and this is how I deal with it.
I love you because He loved me first.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Love, Cindy
Marriage changes everything. I don't care who you are, if you lived together or lied separately first, if you slept together or remained celibate in that relationship until marriage, if you were married before or not, if you both were virgins or not...marriage changes everything.
We carry unconscious illusions about marriage and married life inside us and we know exactly when and where and how our partner lives up to or breaks the rules. Very few couples actually discuss their approvals and disappointments concerning marriage because for those of us who are immature (and that would include me), well, "if he LOVES me, he SHOULD KNOW what I want and what I don't want." Play out that scenario in two people who are together and the whole things implodes sooner or later. After all, we all KNOW what marriage is.
I've seen Shrek, I Love Lucy, all the Doris Day/Rock Hudson movies, Love Story...The Big Chill, The Sandpiper, Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolf?, Sex Lies and Videotape...
Heavens, how do we survive?
Then there are the angels, which I not prepared to discuss at this moment, but oddly, they are right here with me.
I woke this morning to a strange sound, not unexpected in a house full of people again. I tiptoed into the kitchen and searched out the sound. Egads! Someone left the faucet running all night! I turned it off, tossed off the unfortunate waste of money and water and made my pot of coffee.
People just complicate things. I like my orderly (well, to me anyway), celibate life. I have complicated my life with men in the past, since the end of my marriage, and it has never worked out well. It always seemed like a struggle for power. More specifically control. I always joked in college that I like to have a man on my terms. You can go back into my writings and understand why.
At some point in my marriage, I decided to trust my husband...and that is what caused the marriage to fail. I changed the rules. I decided I wanted to be really married...and really married meant all of those cliches I saw in movies growing up. And my husband was not up to the challenge, not did he have a clue about what I wanted because I didn't tell him I changed the rules. He was just supposed to know.
I guess I am writing that here now because it's the holidays and we need to pay attention to our inner rule book. Most people don't know what the rules are, that is, what YOUR rules are. And the holidays are here now and so the rules are engaged even without you knowing that.
Remember the movie Flatliners? Perhaps the motto for that movie is "when you are going through hell, keep going."
And then consider that wonderful book by C.S. Lewis: "The Great Divorce." Purgatory and Hell exist for us because we are so afraid to really love...and to really love, we must face out truths. And to face out truths, we have to go through hell first. Little guilts and big guilts. Asking for and receiving help, from a husband, a daughter, a friend, a priest.
We can't do it alone because we weren't created in a vacuum. We are created as separate beings, but we are all connected. We are all intended to be One with Him.
Am I explaining it well? I don't think so. All I can do is try.
I am so sick of people hurting each other. I am so sick of people who hold grudges and won't forgive...and it breaks my heart into bits when I see people who will not forgive themselves.
And the holidays just shove all those wounds into our faces.
Maybe we need angels. Maybe we need people to come into our lives, strangers who don't know us and from whom we expect nothing, to listen to us...in our brilliance and stupidity and ignorance...and not know us enough to give an answer because they can't. They don't know us. But in their presence of unknowing, we finally come to know ourselves. And we get our "get out of hell" card finally. We get to get on the bus back to heaven and this time, we will choose to stay because we can finally choose life. Someone has heard us and we are finally at peace inside ourselves.
Turkey or Ham?
Are you the one gets "dumped on" during the holidays? Are you the one the family likes to embarrass for the hundredth time retelling the story of how you set the rug on fire or how you were madly in love with the boy across the street? Are you the turkey? Are you the proverbial prodigal son?
Or are you the one who has a litany of accomplishments that you need to share because you are the one who did everything right and the family needs to know you are the authority on everyone else's lives? Are you the ham? Are you the older son who is convinced that everyone would be just fine if they all followed your rules, which of course the right rules and the only rules that matter?
Or perhaps this year, you might be an angel. Someone who doesn't really change things, doesn't fix things, doesn't judge, but by their presence, their willingness to witness to this gift of life, holds a hand, really looks into the eyes and says maybe, "I understand only a little bit, but I'm listening and I love you."
I know the grammar is horrible. I don't care. I just know that I have seen a lot of hurting people this week and this is how I deal with it.
I love you because He loved me first.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Love, Cindy
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Tin Man
Listening to Fr Henry's sermon on Sunday, which he humbly said he was inspired by one of his best buds, Fr. Milam Joseph (who just happened to look a LOT like my father who raised me), got me to thinking about Dorothy and her quest to find the Wizard, who could do anything, including get her back home to Kansas.
Many times we seek a God who will perform magic for us. A God who will "get me a husband, a job, money, a college degree, a new car, a red sled for Christmas." Or maybe "a brain, courage or a heart."
I mean, God ought to DO something, right? After all, he's God.
But God is not like anything we can imagine, yet imagining is one of our human tools/gifts to be able to embrace him...or her. Without words, sometimes, is the absolute best way to let God inside us. What our soul craves, our minds cannot even conceive.
Suddenly as I write, all the pieces fit together. Godly play! Of course, how foolish and dense can I be, this is what He wants me to tell you: Godly play.
I received the prayer chalice on Sunday night. It was a full moon. It had been a long day. I sat for an hour with a woman whose baby only lived three hours. I watched this young woman, who had the face of a saint, speak of her faith and how she needed to take care of her family, be strong...and how she realized, in the midst of her grief, that a stranger is often the best person to grieve with...because there is no need to "take care" of them. The bond has not yet been created.
Maybe it is a good thing that God is invisible. Were He corporeal, we would probably keep trying to suck up to Him instead of love Him.
So in those holy moments, we talked about life and death and God. And how we take care of each other. The whole of the message from Jesus "Love God, Love your neighbor as yourself."
But in times of grief, and when we are very young, we do not have words for God. All we have is feeling, and most of the time, in times of great emotions, we don't have a clue how to name those feelings.
I know I dreamed intensely last night, but I cannot remember what I dreamed. Perhaps some good person will pull it out of me before the day is over. I talked yesterday with a friend who is not well at all. It broke my heart to tell him I could not visit this week because of family obligations. Yet, he is intimately a part of what I call family now. He was his usual jovial self. And I still don't know if I did the right thing. There will be a day when I will have to let him go. And on that day, the poetry will flow because I will have no other way to express my feelings...poetry is often how I grieve.
But tears and laughter are almost the same thing. They both are strong and healthy ways to release all the feelings pent up inside us. And quite frankly, neither one should be judged as good or bad. Laughter can be a way to avoid a truth, and tears can mask joy. Only as we go through them do we learn what they mean.
Back again at UD on Saturday (kind of scaring me being there), I asked a question of a philosopher (not a priest): "What is your greatest influence?" And he looked pointedly at me, (it was about the third question I had asked, the first being how CS Lewis' book, "The Last Divorce" might be a Protestant version of purgatory, which he answered reasonably well) and said, "Sin. Just like you." and the whole room burst into laughter.
I was very confused by his response and I did not think it was funny. But to be completely truthful, I do not recall reading his books...although I know I have read something of him. Sin? I thought. Sin is not the greatest influence in my life. God is the greatest influence in my life. And for a split second, I tried to understand what he meant and why that particular crowd thought it was funny. But I had an agenda and would not be distracted. I asked again. Another cute answer. So I asked a third time and this time I tried to be as clear as possible: "Consider Lewis, who admits to being strongly influenced by George MacDonald, who is the greatest influence in your life?" And then his listed off about ten very good philosophers. I thought about asking him about Bonhoeffer or Reinhold Neibuhr, ( I prefer him to Richard)but I doubted the Catholic audience would have appreciated it.
When I left, I decided that he is probably not a very happy man. All the books he has written, but I didn't hear love coming forth from his mouth. I heard a very well educated, actually polite and somewhat considerate man discuss his work. He simply didn't sound happy. I may be completely wrong about that, but it was what I was feeling inside me as he spoke. Kind of like a Tin Man, looking for a heart.
I thought: he needs to play.
I received the prayer chalice on Sunday night. My amazingly creative artist friend found me after Mass and hugged me. She said, "You have a special relationship with Fr. Henry, don't you?" I said, it's a work in progress. We get along some days. Other days, it is more of a struggle." Today is definitely a good day. And I was feeling playful. She asked if she could touch the chalice. Se had never touched a priest's chalice before. I said sure and not only that, "I'll take a picture of you with it." So we are out in the yard near the church. Sitting on the picnic table. And I am laughing a lot, telling her about the good and bad of the week. And about how I think just maybe God is tempting me with a man, who has enough qualities to turn my head and make me think about choosing a different path. I'm laughing, but I am really scared. I wonder if she can sense that. She is good at perception. She is also a gift from God to me. If she knows, she says nothing.
I look at the moon, which is full. I was in the columbarium earlier praying. I was glad to have that special time alone before Mass. And to be talking with God in that way...so the connection was already there. I took a photo of my friend with the chalice and told her she really needed to become an EM. Then I saw it. Here, do this I shouted excitedly. She held up the chalice, I adjusted myself for the proper alignment and there was a miracle before me. There was another perfect moment in my life. One almost as perfect as another moment last summer, in that area, when all the parts of my life seemed to fit together properly. All the confusion made sense for just a few minutes. That the purpose of my life was crystal clear. I understood my work and my work understood me...and there were no words to describe it, only feelings.
That was how it felt when I looked at the photo. Kind of a "creation story" in a photo. Man-made, woman-made all because God made. Woman on earth hold up the cup of suffering and life and offers it back to the God, the only God, who gave us both the Light and the Dark, created man and gave him a mind to create small things and a heart to love them. But no words can describe what I felt. A woman who had never held a chalice raised it up to God. And I was the scribe, using a camera, to help us remember. But of course, it was play. Godly play. In this world, only in Godly play can a woman make such an offering to God. And of course, she didn't see it. I did. And that's okay. Because I know my place. I know is not really about the beautiful chalice.
My chalice that I lift up is a paper cup in a hospital room as I drink in whatever needs to be said and done. Whatever makes healing possible. My chalice is my baggage swirling in the liquid with the one I am with...this cup is unique and will never be repeated again. But it must be given up, transformed and then consumed.
For me, it is godly play. To try to truly receive in the moment the complete understanding of the sacrifice of the Mass would be overwhelming and perhaps could really kill. The heart can receive only so much love at a time.
The mystics know this. But the mystics are sometimes so foolishly brave. The love is so rich and thick, it is hard to not want it all right now. But I kind of think maybe death will be like that. We are finally ready to receive all the love He wants to give us. Then there will be nothing left of us. Only love. His love.
We won't be playing anymore. We won't be Tin Men. We'll be real.
Love, Cindy
Many times we seek a God who will perform magic for us. A God who will "get me a husband, a job, money, a college degree, a new car, a red sled for Christmas." Or maybe "a brain, courage or a heart."
I mean, God ought to DO something, right? After all, he's God.
But God is not like anything we can imagine, yet imagining is one of our human tools/gifts to be able to embrace him...or her. Without words, sometimes, is the absolute best way to let God inside us. What our soul craves, our minds cannot even conceive.
Suddenly as I write, all the pieces fit together. Godly play! Of course, how foolish and dense can I be, this is what He wants me to tell you: Godly play.
I received the prayer chalice on Sunday night. It was a full moon. It had been a long day. I sat for an hour with a woman whose baby only lived three hours. I watched this young woman, who had the face of a saint, speak of her faith and how she needed to take care of her family, be strong...and how she realized, in the midst of her grief, that a stranger is often the best person to grieve with...because there is no need to "take care" of them. The bond has not yet been created.
Maybe it is a good thing that God is invisible. Were He corporeal, we would probably keep trying to suck up to Him instead of love Him.
So in those holy moments, we talked about life and death and God. And how we take care of each other. The whole of the message from Jesus "Love God, Love your neighbor as yourself."
But in times of grief, and when we are very young, we do not have words for God. All we have is feeling, and most of the time, in times of great emotions, we don't have a clue how to name those feelings.
I know I dreamed intensely last night, but I cannot remember what I dreamed. Perhaps some good person will pull it out of me before the day is over. I talked yesterday with a friend who is not well at all. It broke my heart to tell him I could not visit this week because of family obligations. Yet, he is intimately a part of what I call family now. He was his usual jovial self. And I still don't know if I did the right thing. There will be a day when I will have to let him go. And on that day, the poetry will flow because I will have no other way to express my feelings...poetry is often how I grieve.
But tears and laughter are almost the same thing. They both are strong and healthy ways to release all the feelings pent up inside us. And quite frankly, neither one should be judged as good or bad. Laughter can be a way to avoid a truth, and tears can mask joy. Only as we go through them do we learn what they mean.
Back again at UD on Saturday (kind of scaring me being there), I asked a question of a philosopher (not a priest): "What is your greatest influence?" And he looked pointedly at me, (it was about the third question I had asked, the first being how CS Lewis' book, "The Last Divorce" might be a Protestant version of purgatory, which he answered reasonably well) and said, "Sin. Just like you." and the whole room burst into laughter.
I was very confused by his response and I did not think it was funny. But to be completely truthful, I do not recall reading his books...although I know I have read something of him. Sin? I thought. Sin is not the greatest influence in my life. God is the greatest influence in my life. And for a split second, I tried to understand what he meant and why that particular crowd thought it was funny. But I had an agenda and would not be distracted. I asked again. Another cute answer. So I asked a third time and this time I tried to be as clear as possible: "Consider Lewis, who admits to being strongly influenced by George MacDonald, who is the greatest influence in your life?" And then his listed off about ten very good philosophers. I thought about asking him about Bonhoeffer or Reinhold Neibuhr, ( I prefer him to Richard)but I doubted the Catholic audience would have appreciated it.
When I left, I decided that he is probably not a very happy man. All the books he has written, but I didn't hear love coming forth from his mouth. I heard a very well educated, actually polite and somewhat considerate man discuss his work. He simply didn't sound happy. I may be completely wrong about that, but it was what I was feeling inside me as he spoke. Kind of like a Tin Man, looking for a heart.
I thought: he needs to play.
I received the prayer chalice on Sunday night. My amazingly creative artist friend found me after Mass and hugged me. She said, "You have a special relationship with Fr. Henry, don't you?" I said, it's a work in progress. We get along some days. Other days, it is more of a struggle." Today is definitely a good day. And I was feeling playful. She asked if she could touch the chalice. Se had never touched a priest's chalice before. I said sure and not only that, "I'll take a picture of you with it." So we are out in the yard near the church. Sitting on the picnic table. And I am laughing a lot, telling her about the good and bad of the week. And about how I think just maybe God is tempting me with a man, who has enough qualities to turn my head and make me think about choosing a different path. I'm laughing, but I am really scared. I wonder if she can sense that. She is good at perception. She is also a gift from God to me. If she knows, she says nothing.
I look at the moon, which is full. I was in the columbarium earlier praying. I was glad to have that special time alone before Mass. And to be talking with God in that way...so the connection was already there. I took a photo of my friend with the chalice and told her she really needed to become an EM. Then I saw it. Here, do this I shouted excitedly. She held up the chalice, I adjusted myself for the proper alignment and there was a miracle before me. There was another perfect moment in my life. One almost as perfect as another moment last summer, in that area, when all the parts of my life seemed to fit together properly. All the confusion made sense for just a few minutes. That the purpose of my life was crystal clear. I understood my work and my work understood me...and there were no words to describe it, only feelings.
That was how it felt when I looked at the photo. Kind of a "creation story" in a photo. Man-made, woman-made all because God made. Woman on earth hold up the cup of suffering and life and offers it back to the God, the only God, who gave us both the Light and the Dark, created man and gave him a mind to create small things and a heart to love them. But no words can describe what I felt. A woman who had never held a chalice raised it up to God. And I was the scribe, using a camera, to help us remember. But of course, it was play. Godly play. In this world, only in Godly play can a woman make such an offering to God. And of course, she didn't see it. I did. And that's okay. Because I know my place. I know is not really about the beautiful chalice.
My chalice that I lift up is a paper cup in a hospital room as I drink in whatever needs to be said and done. Whatever makes healing possible. My chalice is my baggage swirling in the liquid with the one I am with...this cup is unique and will never be repeated again. But it must be given up, transformed and then consumed.
For me, it is godly play. To try to truly receive in the moment the complete understanding of the sacrifice of the Mass would be overwhelming and perhaps could really kill. The heart can receive only so much love at a time.
The mystics know this. But the mystics are sometimes so foolishly brave. The love is so rich and thick, it is hard to not want it all right now. But I kind of think maybe death will be like that. We are finally ready to receive all the love He wants to give us. Then there will be nothing left of us. Only love. His love.
We won't be playing anymore. We won't be Tin Men. We'll be real.
Love, Cindy
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Faiith Hope and Love
I have been blessed with chaos. No two days are ever the same. Each day is better than the last, even the ones where I fall into great sadness and despair. I do not dare to write that those days are gone for good, but in many ways, I am learning to cope with them better.
I told a priest this morning, and I have actually had short conversations with four so far...a blessing for this woman who considers every priest a part of her family...I told this priest that when I get to the place where I do not speak out so quickly and strongly in my moments of intense emotion, I will be ready to become officially consecrated to God. That seemed like a pretty big revelation for me. I think God needs calm people as leaders. Never mind David, and his outbursts...we're talking New Testament here, where Jesus never really "re-acted" to anything. He was always in control of himself, even when he was angry.
I haven't learned how to do that yet. Or perhaps I have not yet received that grace, and I am thinking that is the real marker for a great priest. To be accused, misunderstood, mocked, hated, calumniated, forgotten...and still been able to love, no, not just love, but able to be loving. That is the real marker for a great priest.
One priest I spoke with told me how he understood his work and I know God put him there, at that very moment, to tell me that. Another gave me just enough time for me to find something I had lost. One reminded me of the work I've been called to do and yet another is giving me permission to do it. How about that for a half day?
This morning I got to sing Happy Birthday in the columbarium with a friend whose husband died earlier this year. Tears and laughter and hugs. And twins to be born in the spring! How many miracles is that so far? And those are just the ones I get to see.
I love because He loved me first. Thinking back over the years, learning to befriend the truths of my life, how very much fun I had in seminary and how it drove me crazy...all of it leading up to today. And then there will be tomorrow, which will include what I might learn today.
In seminary Anne said I walked around like a nun. Ha! Yesterday a man on the street assumed I was a minister and told me of his grief. In a group discussion, my supervisor had the nerve to point out how I had stilled the group when I began to speak from my heart the truth I know about God. He was right, the calm was there...nobody moved...and I am angry with him for drawing attention to it.
The paradox is that I choose to write about it.
My thought is again what Sister Maria Goretti 'asked' me the last day of my visit to the monastery: What gifts are you hiding and why?
I am convinced that if we, as the Body of Christ, live out even only a tenth of the graces God has given us, we can change the world. We can live in the Kingdom of God here, for it is here...in our hands, waiting to be to be seen. There is enough for everyone. No one should want in this Kingdom. No one will go hungry, no one will be cold, no one will ever feel alone. We don't have to live like we do. We can love, if we choose to love.
I put lots of words here. Personally because I like to write and would write even if the format was not available. I have tubs of journals at home holding my humanity over the last forty or so years. But here, is kind of like when the Paul began his journeys. The roads were available and so he used them.
The Kingdom of God is within you and all around you. Just open your eyes. Reach out to each other. Ask, if you are in need...and the Kingdom of God will give it to you. Pride and jealousy and fear and all the other tools of the Adversary cannot withstand the power of real love.
If God can take a fool like me, pull me out of the raging floods and say, "be on your way about the work I have called you to do," well then, He can do so much more for you.
Be about your gifts. Receive them. Say thank you. And love one another.
Love, Cindy
I told a priest this morning, and I have actually had short conversations with four so far...a blessing for this woman who considers every priest a part of her family...I told this priest that when I get to the place where I do not speak out so quickly and strongly in my moments of intense emotion, I will be ready to become officially consecrated to God. That seemed like a pretty big revelation for me. I think God needs calm people as leaders. Never mind David, and his outbursts...we're talking New Testament here, where Jesus never really "re-acted" to anything. He was always in control of himself, even when he was angry.
I haven't learned how to do that yet. Or perhaps I have not yet received that grace, and I am thinking that is the real marker for a great priest. To be accused, misunderstood, mocked, hated, calumniated, forgotten...and still been able to love, no, not just love, but able to be loving. That is the real marker for a great priest.
One priest I spoke with told me how he understood his work and I know God put him there, at that very moment, to tell me that. Another gave me just enough time for me to find something I had lost. One reminded me of the work I've been called to do and yet another is giving me permission to do it. How about that for a half day?
This morning I got to sing Happy Birthday in the columbarium with a friend whose husband died earlier this year. Tears and laughter and hugs. And twins to be born in the spring! How many miracles is that so far? And those are just the ones I get to see.
I love because He loved me first. Thinking back over the years, learning to befriend the truths of my life, how very much fun I had in seminary and how it drove me crazy...all of it leading up to today. And then there will be tomorrow, which will include what I might learn today.
In seminary Anne said I walked around like a nun. Ha! Yesterday a man on the street assumed I was a minister and told me of his grief. In a group discussion, my supervisor had the nerve to point out how I had stilled the group when I began to speak from my heart the truth I know about God. He was right, the calm was there...nobody moved...and I am angry with him for drawing attention to it.
The paradox is that I choose to write about it.
My thought is again what Sister Maria Goretti 'asked' me the last day of my visit to the monastery: What gifts are you hiding and why?
I am convinced that if we, as the Body of Christ, live out even only a tenth of the graces God has given us, we can change the world. We can live in the Kingdom of God here, for it is here...in our hands, waiting to be to be seen. There is enough for everyone. No one should want in this Kingdom. No one will go hungry, no one will be cold, no one will ever feel alone. We don't have to live like we do. We can love, if we choose to love.
I put lots of words here. Personally because I like to write and would write even if the format was not available. I have tubs of journals at home holding my humanity over the last forty or so years. But here, is kind of like when the Paul began his journeys. The roads were available and so he used them.
The Kingdom of God is within you and all around you. Just open your eyes. Reach out to each other. Ask, if you are in need...and the Kingdom of God will give it to you. Pride and jealousy and fear and all the other tools of the Adversary cannot withstand the power of real love.
If God can take a fool like me, pull me out of the raging floods and say, "be on your way about the work I have called you to do," well then, He can do so much more for you.
Be about your gifts. Receive them. Say thank you. And love one another.
Love, Cindy
Monday, November 15, 2010
The Sign of Our Faith
Can't write much now. But there's a creepy feeling associated with all this love in my heart, that death is imminent.I have an Orwellian attitude sometimes about things. If something good is happening to me, then the world must be coming to an end or something...
Tells me a lot about myself and about the life I have lived. Here's one I don't know if I have shared: when my kids were small, I was afraid that if I loved them too much, God would take them away from me. So I always tried to love them at a distance, to protect them, I thought, from harm. I am sure they never felt it that way. I am sure they were confused.
I had a great conversation with a priest last week. He said something to me like, "I cannot begin to imagine Cindy, what you feel. I was poor, but I was always surrounded by love."
So maybe God doesn't love me more than anyone else...that is probably true...but because of the ways my life unfolded, I am deeply aware of His love every single day. Eventually I get tired of asking the whys and hows of it and just accept it...breathe it in, swim in it, dance with it, and write...oh, I can never seem to find all the words that can express what I feel in my heart.
Not having to be perfect, failing so often, being oh so...human...and still having this love thing. Kind of creepy. Having something that no one can take away.
So all that non-love and fear of love I started out with in life is a real blessing, because I can see deep into the hearts of the people I meet. If I don't see, I at least feel their wounds and their fears. I am not afraid of them because I know how they once belonged to me too. And I know there is another side. There is a place beyond hell where paradise lives.
And that's what I can tell truthfully to others. I have seen and known hell and I have seen and known heaven. I suppose it is only God that I fear now. And I don't really fear God...I know He loves me...but sometimes I fear the lessons I must learn.
It is one of those days when I pray I will not be in an auto accident. You know, when the laundry piles up and you are left with the really ugly underwear...I will have to do wash tonight or I am in serious trouble.
I wonder though, if God will care...we are to be properly clothed at the time He calls us...does that mean cotton and wool and polyester weavings? I don't think so. We need to be awake enough to hear His voice. Willing to stand before Him and say this is me, take me. Take me home. A really messy house may bother my kids when I am gone, but I don't think God will use that as a prerequisite for resting in his arms. The kids came come up with some theological reflection concerning my love for God and my messy house...is cleanliness really next to godliness?
So this morning,with too much to do, I write again and again...I love to write. I throw on the dress hanging on the door to my bedroom. Oh! There is something heavy in the pocket!
What is it? A rosary. I look it over. Where did I get this one? My mind has to go over a bit of history. I have received a lot of rosaries this year...it is wonderful! Some I have asked for and some are just surprises. Like this one.
I got this one from Jean about two weeks ago. A divine mercy rosary. She used to be a nun. Back in the 90s, she was 110% behind me in becoming a Methodist minister. Hadn't seen her in years, but as I wander through town looking for places to pray, I found her again. And we were praying for the dead one night. She asked me to do a decade. I remember how Fr. Bruce used to tell me how much he loved the sound of my voice as I prayed the rosary...an odd thing to say, but Fr Bruce is a unique priest indeed. I was reminded of that when Jean asked me to pray.
I was praying for my biological mother, Jackie and my dear Aunt Dell...women I did not get to hold nearly enough. Anyway, she gave me the rosary and told me to keep it. That was cool.
That was a sign of our faith.
This Catholic faith.
This faith that is so hard to explain to people who can't or don't want to understand how some of us reach God in these little trinkets, stones to remind us of our individual past present and future and we recall a collective past present and future.
We are the Body of Christ, expanding well beyond our short lives into eternity by loving each other daily: truly, madly and deeply.
Love,
Cindy
Tells me a lot about myself and about the life I have lived. Here's one I don't know if I have shared: when my kids were small, I was afraid that if I loved them too much, God would take them away from me. So I always tried to love them at a distance, to protect them, I thought, from harm. I am sure they never felt it that way. I am sure they were confused.
I had a great conversation with a priest last week. He said something to me like, "I cannot begin to imagine Cindy, what you feel. I was poor, but I was always surrounded by love."
So maybe God doesn't love me more than anyone else...that is probably true...but because of the ways my life unfolded, I am deeply aware of His love every single day. Eventually I get tired of asking the whys and hows of it and just accept it...breathe it in, swim in it, dance with it, and write...oh, I can never seem to find all the words that can express what I feel in my heart.
Not having to be perfect, failing so often, being oh so...human...and still having this love thing. Kind of creepy. Having something that no one can take away.
So all that non-love and fear of love I started out with in life is a real blessing, because I can see deep into the hearts of the people I meet. If I don't see, I at least feel their wounds and their fears. I am not afraid of them because I know how they once belonged to me too. And I know there is another side. There is a place beyond hell where paradise lives.
And that's what I can tell truthfully to others. I have seen and known hell and I have seen and known heaven. I suppose it is only God that I fear now. And I don't really fear God...I know He loves me...but sometimes I fear the lessons I must learn.
It is one of those days when I pray I will not be in an auto accident. You know, when the laundry piles up and you are left with the really ugly underwear...I will have to do wash tonight or I am in serious trouble.
I wonder though, if God will care...we are to be properly clothed at the time He calls us...does that mean cotton and wool and polyester weavings? I don't think so. We need to be awake enough to hear His voice. Willing to stand before Him and say this is me, take me. Take me home. A really messy house may bother my kids when I am gone, but I don't think God will use that as a prerequisite for resting in his arms. The kids came come up with some theological reflection concerning my love for God and my messy house...is cleanliness really next to godliness?
So this morning,with too much to do, I write again and again...I love to write. I throw on the dress hanging on the door to my bedroom. Oh! There is something heavy in the pocket!
What is it? A rosary. I look it over. Where did I get this one? My mind has to go over a bit of history. I have received a lot of rosaries this year...it is wonderful! Some I have asked for and some are just surprises. Like this one.
I got this one from Jean about two weeks ago. A divine mercy rosary. She used to be a nun. Back in the 90s, she was 110% behind me in becoming a Methodist minister. Hadn't seen her in years, but as I wander through town looking for places to pray, I found her again. And we were praying for the dead one night. She asked me to do a decade. I remember how Fr. Bruce used to tell me how much he loved the sound of my voice as I prayed the rosary...an odd thing to say, but Fr Bruce is a unique priest indeed. I was reminded of that when Jean asked me to pray.
I was praying for my biological mother, Jackie and my dear Aunt Dell...women I did not get to hold nearly enough. Anyway, she gave me the rosary and told me to keep it. That was cool.
That was a sign of our faith.
This Catholic faith.
This faith that is so hard to explain to people who can't or don't want to understand how some of us reach God in these little trinkets, stones to remind us of our individual past present and future and we recall a collective past present and future.
We are the Body of Christ, expanding well beyond our short lives into eternity by loving each other daily: truly, madly and deeply.
Love,
Cindy
Saturday, November 13, 2010
No place like home...
Fleetwood Mac CD..."Over my Head"
Want to write about all that happened last night, but I've signed a paper for Children's Hospital to not write about it. I mean, I don't know what I can write, so I better not write.
But I got the tour. Five ICUs? I think that is right. Met a doctor or two. Met a lot of nurses...they all had beautiful teeth, I thought...such nice smiles. Watched one of them cry while bad news was delivered. But I can't write about that. Gave away my Mother Teresa medal. Someone needed it more.
ER was packed and I maneuvered through a sea of people and remembered ten years ago, when I stood by a little boy bleeding from his head and I thought how much I had changed from the girl who fainted in biology class in high school. And look at me now. Nearly a nun...or something anyway...
And it seems people are so attracted to that, to me. They look at me as if I am someone important, but I am not important at all...only He is important. I'm just a messenger. But people see something when they see me. I've been trying to figure it out: why and how I do what I do.
And really, it is not me at all, that they see, or hear, or touch...I'm just a shell or a shadow...but the Light is there. I feel it, I crave it, I breathe through it and that is what people see. Not me. Him.
It is absolutely insane to live this way. Yet I love it. And it is all so flawed and broken at the same time. I mean, we can't really leave our humanity behind. We carry it along, only it is not in charge anymore.
I have to write another talk for an ACTS retreat. I want to tell you about it here, but it has to stay secret for now. My "new" spiritual director, Fr. Joe, observed that I talk to a lot of priests...yeah, well maybe...but they are my brothers...everyone of them...and I need their protection because the world is not always nice and I am not always smart, I need them. They are family. He suggests that I just talk with God for a while.
He's asking an extrovert not to talk...ha! And when I talk just to God, well, things happen. I still need someone around to keep me grounded. Someone to grab my cloak and keep me from wandering too far off. I think I have found that person to keep me on the ground, but I'm not sure yet. I wonder how far I might reach into heaven, if I can trust this person as my anchor?
There is much more to write, but I'm not ready. It's time to get rid of the crystal and china and silver. Haven't used them in years. Don't really need them...and the thousands of books scattered throughout the house.
I'm over my head in my love for God...I give my life to Him...freely. Today. 7:17 a.m. Central Time. November 13, 2010.
Love, Cindy
Want to write about all that happened last night, but I've signed a paper for Children's Hospital to not write about it. I mean, I don't know what I can write, so I better not write.
But I got the tour. Five ICUs? I think that is right. Met a doctor or two. Met a lot of nurses...they all had beautiful teeth, I thought...such nice smiles. Watched one of them cry while bad news was delivered. But I can't write about that. Gave away my Mother Teresa medal. Someone needed it more.
ER was packed and I maneuvered through a sea of people and remembered ten years ago, when I stood by a little boy bleeding from his head and I thought how much I had changed from the girl who fainted in biology class in high school. And look at me now. Nearly a nun...or something anyway...
And it seems people are so attracted to that, to me. They look at me as if I am someone important, but I am not important at all...only He is important. I'm just a messenger. But people see something when they see me. I've been trying to figure it out: why and how I do what I do.
And really, it is not me at all, that they see, or hear, or touch...I'm just a shell or a shadow...but the Light is there. I feel it, I crave it, I breathe through it and that is what people see. Not me. Him.
It is absolutely insane to live this way. Yet I love it. And it is all so flawed and broken at the same time. I mean, we can't really leave our humanity behind. We carry it along, only it is not in charge anymore.
I have to write another talk for an ACTS retreat. I want to tell you about it here, but it has to stay secret for now. My "new" spiritual director, Fr. Joe, observed that I talk to a lot of priests...yeah, well maybe...but they are my brothers...everyone of them...and I need their protection because the world is not always nice and I am not always smart, I need them. They are family. He suggests that I just talk with God for a while.
He's asking an extrovert not to talk...ha! And when I talk just to God, well, things happen. I still need someone around to keep me grounded. Someone to grab my cloak and keep me from wandering too far off. I think I have found that person to keep me on the ground, but I'm not sure yet. I wonder how far I might reach into heaven, if I can trust this person as my anchor?
There is much more to write, but I'm not ready. It's time to get rid of the crystal and china and silver. Haven't used them in years. Don't really need them...and the thousands of books scattered throughout the house.
I'm over my head in my love for God...I give my life to Him...freely. Today. 7:17 a.m. Central Time. November 13, 2010.
Love, Cindy
Friday, November 12, 2010
Stand by me
The rain just came back, I first heard it on the skylight. I was really hoping that my car might dry out before I had to leave again...I left the roof open during noon Mass today. I told Fr John after Mass that when I first got married, there was a lot of rain in the middle of the night. My new husband's introduction to married life was to routinely go out into the rain in the middle of the might to roll up the window of my car.
Wives are so much work...and so much worth it. Right?
What does it really mean to be married? I thought of many cute paths to take here, the ways perhaps many young people view marriage, which is why they "play" at it so much...but I think it really comes down to three little words:
Stand by me.
A real relationship consists of being there, all the time, every time, for better or worse, mistakes, warts, confusion, rapture, suffering, success, births and deaths and colds and cancers, when the chiseled figure is not so chiseled, when he still sees you as a size 10 even though you left that number behind years ago.
It is simply and continuously:
Stand by me.
Take me as I am, not for what I was or what I might become, but as I am, here and now.
That really ought to be part of the marriage vows.
Love this person. Today and always. Bad breath and indigestion. Hair turning gray and in funny places. Babies healthy and babies not so healthy. When I'm learning and growing and when I am stagnant and stale. When I clever and when I am ignorant. When my socks match and when I wear the t-shirt with the holes. When the world adores me and when it walks away.
Stand by me.
Can't seem to think about much of anything else.
Thinking about rain in the middle of the night and someone who once loved me enough to roll up my windows...
It has been an interesting week...
Love, Cindy
Wives are so much work...and so much worth it. Right?
What does it really mean to be married? I thought of many cute paths to take here, the ways perhaps many young people view marriage, which is why they "play" at it so much...but I think it really comes down to three little words:
Stand by me.
A real relationship consists of being there, all the time, every time, for better or worse, mistakes, warts, confusion, rapture, suffering, success, births and deaths and colds and cancers, when the chiseled figure is not so chiseled, when he still sees you as a size 10 even though you left that number behind years ago.
It is simply and continuously:
Stand by me.
Take me as I am, not for what I was or what I might become, but as I am, here and now.
That really ought to be part of the marriage vows.
Love this person. Today and always. Bad breath and indigestion. Hair turning gray and in funny places. Babies healthy and babies not so healthy. When I'm learning and growing and when I am stagnant and stale. When I clever and when I am ignorant. When my socks match and when I wear the t-shirt with the holes. When the world adores me and when it walks away.
Stand by me.
Can't seem to think about much of anything else.
Thinking about rain in the middle of the night and someone who once loved me enough to roll up my windows...
It has been an interesting week...
Love, Cindy
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Friends are there...
Within that last 24 hours, twice have I tried to sum up my 53 years of living, in about an hour's time. What can I say? I drove one to tears and the other to a cigarette. I recall, perhaps ten years ago, I shared a moment of my life and watched a stranger, an older man, cry. I decided to not share stories much after that.
Then some years passed by and I began to understand how telling stories is often a path to healing and wholeness.
It's the point of the gospel, I think, to bear witness to the tradition of birth, challenge, confusion, understanding, relationships won and lost, and the ultimate triumph of God.
Right now, I feel like I am sitting on a raft in a gently rocking ocean. I feel the sun, hear the birds, occasionally I can hear a fish jump and I hear the wind against my ears. The sun is both hot and wonderful and when I wonder why I would have allowed myself to go out on that raft in that ocean without a hat, your hand reaches over and shadows my eyes...and I remember I did not go out into the ocean alone. You are with me, hiding me under the shadow of your wings...
I looked up and I tell God, "Make me a priest!" and He said to me, "You are a priest." And then I said, "Perhaps that is not what I wanted after all." And He said, "I thought you might say that, but you are still a priest."
Everything I have asked God for, I have received. Everything. My life is hardly my own anymore...and I have never loved it more. Each day is better than the one before. If I didn't know better, I would think I might have married the perfect husband...the love of my life, the one God chose for me. But I realize that the one God chose for me is...Him. Of course He would be the most perfect spouse! He would know my needs before I did, I would have shelter, enough food for the day, and His comforting arms around me in the night.
It's all so bizarre. Everything I ask for arrives. My heart almost cannot bear it. But how do I explain what is happening now? Something new. Something not expected and yet expected. I am resting on the raft, in the ocean...and I see two islands, maybe three...which one will be my home? All three are beautiful and perfect. All three have exactly the right food and shelter and comfort I need. All three are good and holy places. In all three, God is there, waiting to love me most perfectly. But which one will this raft declare as home?
I ask, "Where will I serve you best, my Lord?"
He tells me, "My dear child...everywhere."
"Where are you taking me?"
He says, "Wait."
I place my hand into the ocean and make my own little waves...
I take the blue and yellow blanket and wrap it around me again.
"Okay, I'll wait."
Love,
Cindy
Then some years passed by and I began to understand how telling stories is often a path to healing and wholeness.
It's the point of the gospel, I think, to bear witness to the tradition of birth, challenge, confusion, understanding, relationships won and lost, and the ultimate triumph of God.
Right now, I feel like I am sitting on a raft in a gently rocking ocean. I feel the sun, hear the birds, occasionally I can hear a fish jump and I hear the wind against my ears. The sun is both hot and wonderful and when I wonder why I would have allowed myself to go out on that raft in that ocean without a hat, your hand reaches over and shadows my eyes...and I remember I did not go out into the ocean alone. You are with me, hiding me under the shadow of your wings...
I looked up and I tell God, "Make me a priest!" and He said to me, "You are a priest." And then I said, "Perhaps that is not what I wanted after all." And He said, "I thought you might say that, but you are still a priest."
Everything I have asked God for, I have received. Everything. My life is hardly my own anymore...and I have never loved it more. Each day is better than the one before. If I didn't know better, I would think I might have married the perfect husband...the love of my life, the one God chose for me. But I realize that the one God chose for me is...Him. Of course He would be the most perfect spouse! He would know my needs before I did, I would have shelter, enough food for the day, and His comforting arms around me in the night.
It's all so bizarre. Everything I ask for arrives. My heart almost cannot bear it. But how do I explain what is happening now? Something new. Something not expected and yet expected. I am resting on the raft, in the ocean...and I see two islands, maybe three...which one will be my home? All three are beautiful and perfect. All three have exactly the right food and shelter and comfort I need. All three are good and holy places. In all three, God is there, waiting to love me most perfectly. But which one will this raft declare as home?
I ask, "Where will I serve you best, my Lord?"
He tells me, "My dear child...everywhere."
"Where are you taking me?"
He says, "Wait."
I place my hand into the ocean and make my own little waves...
I take the blue and yellow blanket and wrap it around me again.
"Okay, I'll wait."
Love,
Cindy
Monday, November 8, 2010
It Ain't Me
Credence Clearwater Revival: It ain't me. Maybe that's what I should do with these early morning posts. Just go with the radio. I remember that as a kid, after getting that first radio back in 1964 from Uncle Chuck and waking on Christmas morning with the story about the nuns and the snow (you'd have to look way back for that story)...and how I somehow knew that was important...I would stay in bed each morning, with the radio on and not get up until I heard "the" song I was supposed to hear that morning: the one that would tell me what kind of day I would have. I love waking to Michael Martin Murphy's "Wildfire." I thought that one described me best. I loved the piano solo at the beginning and at the end. And I had at least three boyfriends over the years give me Michael Murphy's record albums as Christmas presents. They didn't know about the song, but they kind of knew me.
My kids, when they were small, saw an Acura commercial: A little girl in kindergarten coloring a picture. The teacher was saying "Stay within the lines. The lines are our friend." The little girl grinned a big grin and began coloring all over the page...and then the scene went to a woman driving an Acura Integra. Both kids said almost at the same time, "Mommy, that's you!" I laughed.
And then I got my husband to buy me the Acura Integra.
And many years later, after the kids grew up and I got divorced, the car was given to my daughter Beth...and that car saved her life.
"Stay within the lines. The lines are our friend."
Ecclesiastes 3:
There is an appointed time for everything, and a time for every affair under the heavens.
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to uproot the plant.
A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to tear down, and a time to build. A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.
A time to scatter stones, and a time to gather them; a time to embrace, and a time to be far from embrace.
A time to seek, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away.
A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to be silent, and a time to speak.
A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.
The connection I want to make here is that there is a time for things to change and a time for things to stay the same.
Last Saturday night, I had the change to hear an articulate, educated Dominican nun offer a lecture "Reading the Scriptures with the Mind, Eyes and Heart of a Woman." She did a wonderful job. She used theologians that I have not always agreed with, but her work was clean, direct and informative. It was a good and healthy look at how very few women get to do what I have been allowed to do: think outside the box. It was not a feminist lecture by any stretch of the imagination, but it was distinctly female in color and taste.
In ancient times, the first female mathematician, Hypatia, was flayed alive and then burned at the stake. Because she dared to learn. To think. And that kind of behavior is still going on today. In Afghanistan, women carefully hide the fact that they are getting an education. If caught, the Taliban would most likely kill them. Why? Because the ignorant are easier to control. To manage. Look up the word 'maquiladores.' You will discover how this country uses the poor and innocent for profit.
Social justice has always been a primary goal and task of the Catholic Church. That is why the Methodist Church was so attractive to me. It had a bent toward social justice in a way that no other Protestant Church had. John Wesley said, Feed them. God will convert them.
This wonderful nun gave an excellent talk. Deeply Catholic audience. I watched. I observed. Only men asked questions. One woman spoke, but it was only to compliment her. I cringed.
But my reaction was set into play by the first question from a corner in the back of the room...it took no time at all to see what was going on..."Sister, how do you reconcile your lecture with what was spoken in 1990 about the ordination of women..." and she explained that was not what her talk was about. She even offered to speak with him later as he continued to press her on the question. she politely went on to another person.
Then another question, from a male religious, positing the question again from a different point of view.
No one seemed to hear what she had said. Somehow, a lecture on how women are treated for choosing to better themselves, their lives, their families, their relationship with God...got turned into a political question of power defined by gender.
The plight and learning experience from Sister's work in Chiapas disappeared because some people went down the slippery slope: educate women and they will take over the world...or something like that.
I sat and asked myself why had I returned to the Catholic Church. I had to remember what was good about it. And I realized that only death lies in front of me if I choose to fight a battle I cannot win.
The question that seemed to scare the man who sat in the back and only saw and heard what he wanted to see and hear...made me so sad. And angry. I thought, I could go to Mexico and help women learn math and the Bible. To understand what it really means to carry your cross...
It doesn't mean putting up with abuse, or destructive behaviors or immoral employers...but it does mean suffering for Christ's sake, for furthering the Kingdom of God here on earth. There is a fine line, and clever people use it to control others for their personal benefit. I want that to stop, but I also know there is a time when each will be held accountable to our choices...and they will be held accountable for what they did and did not do.
So I wonder, how to I build up the kingdom and not tear down? Many people, men and women, are afraid of smart women, educated women. This Sister showed with grace a problem and ways to deal with it. Then she encountered a Pharisee...who was all about the LAW...
I watched a living out of the gospel, in that room. Jesus spoke about the poor and the oppressed and that "love thy neighbor thing" and in the back was the question about the LAW.
I don't think I'm the woman who can show dignity and grace as well as Sister did. I wish I could, but I'm not there yet. It ain't me. But God may have other ideas. We shall see. I'll wait. For now.
Whose wife will she be in heaven? (referring to yesterday's reading) and I think Jesus might have withheld a laugh and a smile...you guys just don't get it at all, do you?
Our birth into the next place is like nothing you can imagine. But love now. Here. While you can. Because you can.
Because I loved you first.
Love, Cindy
My kids, when they were small, saw an Acura commercial: A little girl in kindergarten coloring a picture. The teacher was saying "Stay within the lines. The lines are our friend." The little girl grinned a big grin and began coloring all over the page...and then the scene went to a woman driving an Acura Integra. Both kids said almost at the same time, "Mommy, that's you!" I laughed.
And then I got my husband to buy me the Acura Integra.
And many years later, after the kids grew up and I got divorced, the car was given to my daughter Beth...and that car saved her life.
"Stay within the lines. The lines are our friend."
Ecclesiastes 3:
There is an appointed time for everything, and a time for every affair under the heavens.
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to uproot the plant.
A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to tear down, and a time to build. A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.
A time to scatter stones, and a time to gather them; a time to embrace, and a time to be far from embrace.
A time to seek, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away.
A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to be silent, and a time to speak.
A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.
The connection I want to make here is that there is a time for things to change and a time for things to stay the same.
Last Saturday night, I had the change to hear an articulate, educated Dominican nun offer a lecture "Reading the Scriptures with the Mind, Eyes and Heart of a Woman." She did a wonderful job. She used theologians that I have not always agreed with, but her work was clean, direct and informative. It was a good and healthy look at how very few women get to do what I have been allowed to do: think outside the box. It was not a feminist lecture by any stretch of the imagination, but it was distinctly female in color and taste.
In ancient times, the first female mathematician, Hypatia, was flayed alive and then burned at the stake. Because she dared to learn. To think. And that kind of behavior is still going on today. In Afghanistan, women carefully hide the fact that they are getting an education. If caught, the Taliban would most likely kill them. Why? Because the ignorant are easier to control. To manage. Look up the word 'maquiladores.' You will discover how this country uses the poor and innocent for profit.
Social justice has always been a primary goal and task of the Catholic Church. That is why the Methodist Church was so attractive to me. It had a bent toward social justice in a way that no other Protestant Church had. John Wesley said, Feed them. God will convert them.
This wonderful nun gave an excellent talk. Deeply Catholic audience. I watched. I observed. Only men asked questions. One woman spoke, but it was only to compliment her. I cringed.
But my reaction was set into play by the first question from a corner in the back of the room...it took no time at all to see what was going on..."Sister, how do you reconcile your lecture with what was spoken in 1990 about the ordination of women..." and she explained that was not what her talk was about. She even offered to speak with him later as he continued to press her on the question. she politely went on to another person.
Then another question, from a male religious, positing the question again from a different point of view.
No one seemed to hear what she had said. Somehow, a lecture on how women are treated for choosing to better themselves, their lives, their families, their relationship with God...got turned into a political question of power defined by gender.
The plight and learning experience from Sister's work in Chiapas disappeared because some people went down the slippery slope: educate women and they will take over the world...or something like that.
I sat and asked myself why had I returned to the Catholic Church. I had to remember what was good about it. And I realized that only death lies in front of me if I choose to fight a battle I cannot win.
The question that seemed to scare the man who sat in the back and only saw and heard what he wanted to see and hear...made me so sad. And angry. I thought, I could go to Mexico and help women learn math and the Bible. To understand what it really means to carry your cross...
It doesn't mean putting up with abuse, or destructive behaviors or immoral employers...but it does mean suffering for Christ's sake, for furthering the Kingdom of God here on earth. There is a fine line, and clever people use it to control others for their personal benefit. I want that to stop, but I also know there is a time when each will be held accountable to our choices...and they will be held accountable for what they did and did not do.
So I wonder, how to I build up the kingdom and not tear down? Many people, men and women, are afraid of smart women, educated women. This Sister showed with grace a problem and ways to deal with it. Then she encountered a Pharisee...who was all about the LAW...
I watched a living out of the gospel, in that room. Jesus spoke about the poor and the oppressed and that "love thy neighbor thing" and in the back was the question about the LAW.
I don't think I'm the woman who can show dignity and grace as well as Sister did. I wish I could, but I'm not there yet. It ain't me. But God may have other ideas. We shall see. I'll wait. For now.
Whose wife will she be in heaven? (referring to yesterday's reading) and I think Jesus might have withheld a laugh and a smile...you guys just don't get it at all, do you?
Our birth into the next place is like nothing you can imagine. But love now. Here. While you can. Because you can.
Because I loved you first.
Love, Cindy
Saturday, November 6, 2010
American Woman
Got the radio on: American Woman. My CPE supervisor rode my "behind" yesterday. He said I didn't write what he asked me to write. I know. I didn't know how to write it. (That's why I pay him the big bucks, to challenge me)So I have had it reassigned. Sigh. Then yesterday morning, one of the priests at my church chastised me on a morning when I did not do anything. Well, I set up Mass. But I kind of think he just woke up angry with me. Never quite know with priests...or fathers...they get up on the wrong side of the bed and the best thing to do is get out the door quickly. Nothing good going happen here today.
I have been "corrected" on many things, but this time...was interesting. I was asked to not sing when I was a lector. I smiled at him. I didn't take it personally. (Look at me, all growed up!)And I said fine. I told him I am always afraid with music. It terrifies me. I know I have an exceptional gift on the piano (not as a vocalist)...and a different priest (gentler, younger) once encouraged me to share my music. For me, singing is about prayer. It is not about perfection. I suspect something else was going on. Well, it was just interesting to understand his theology. I would not have expected his theology to be this way. But I learned something new today. Another day, I would have walked out. Another day, I might have cried. But I know, I have learned. The words that come out of a person's mouth say much more about him/her that what they actual words might mean. There is always subtext. Catching it, hearing it...is sometimes hard and definitely tricky to expose.
That's why I try so hard to surround myself with honest people. Save the bull and the southern hospitality for others. Tell me the truth or go home. Or perhaps I will get bored and fall asleep. That's not good because, even when people are misrepresenting themselves, they are telling you about themselves. It just takes more work to see.
So Father rode my...case... in the morning...and then I got to the hospital and my supervisor did his job. He told me I had more experience than anyone else attending and if I didn't want to learn why was I there. I was calm. I was not defensive. (I think!) And he pushed. You have got to stop defining yourself by what you are not, Cindy. You need to decide who you ARE.
And I retorted, "but that's all politicians do. They never say who they are, they just rant about how they are not like the other guy." He just looks at me.
Yes, I surround myself with smart people.
You can surround yourself with adoring fans. You can surround yourself with people who fear you. You can remove from your presence anyone and anything that does not agree with you. You can buy your position in life. You can marry it. You can shut out all the ugly, walk over Lazarus and only listen to "right" notes and words.
And you can think you are the best thing God ever created...or you can think you are God himself.
Or you can live in this world. Warped, flawed, disappointing, unpredictable, capricious, dangerous, sometimes alone...
And in the struggle, you can find joy, fulfillment, ecstasy, triumph, skill, beauty, connectedness.
Being perfect isn't all its cracked up to me. Looking like everybody else is just plain boring.
I am a woman. I am a priest. I am a confessor. I am a consoler. I am a pastor. I am a friend. I am child of God. I am a lover. I am a mother. I am a teacher. I am a sister. I am human. I bleed. I cry. I dance. I sing. I pray. I love.
Because He loved me first.
Who are you?
Love, Cindy
I have been "corrected" on many things, but this time...was interesting. I was asked to not sing when I was a lector. I smiled at him. I didn't take it personally. (Look at me, all growed up!)And I said fine. I told him I am always afraid with music. It terrifies me. I know I have an exceptional gift on the piano (not as a vocalist)...and a different priest (gentler, younger) once encouraged me to share my music. For me, singing is about prayer. It is not about perfection. I suspect something else was going on. Well, it was just interesting to understand his theology. I would not have expected his theology to be this way. But I learned something new today. Another day, I would have walked out. Another day, I might have cried. But I know, I have learned. The words that come out of a person's mouth say much more about him/her that what they actual words might mean. There is always subtext. Catching it, hearing it...is sometimes hard and definitely tricky to expose.
That's why I try so hard to surround myself with honest people. Save the bull and the southern hospitality for others. Tell me the truth or go home. Or perhaps I will get bored and fall asleep. That's not good because, even when people are misrepresenting themselves, they are telling you about themselves. It just takes more work to see.
So Father rode my...case... in the morning...and then I got to the hospital and my supervisor did his job. He told me I had more experience than anyone else attending and if I didn't want to learn why was I there. I was calm. I was not defensive. (I think!) And he pushed. You have got to stop defining yourself by what you are not, Cindy. You need to decide who you ARE.
And I retorted, "but that's all politicians do. They never say who they are, they just rant about how they are not like the other guy." He just looks at me.
Yes, I surround myself with smart people.
You can surround yourself with adoring fans. You can surround yourself with people who fear you. You can remove from your presence anyone and anything that does not agree with you. You can buy your position in life. You can marry it. You can shut out all the ugly, walk over Lazarus and only listen to "right" notes and words.
And you can think you are the best thing God ever created...or you can think you are God himself.
Or you can live in this world. Warped, flawed, disappointing, unpredictable, capricious, dangerous, sometimes alone...
And in the struggle, you can find joy, fulfillment, ecstasy, triumph, skill, beauty, connectedness.
Being perfect isn't all its cracked up to me. Looking like everybody else is just plain boring.
I am a woman. I am a priest. I am a confessor. I am a consoler. I am a pastor. I am a friend. I am child of God. I am a lover. I am a mother. I am a teacher. I am a sister. I am human. I bleed. I cry. I dance. I sing. I pray. I love.
Because He loved me first.
Who are you?
Love, Cindy
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Parts is parts...
My life keeps changing. I know for the better, but still, we grow attached to what we had. This morning I woke thinking about Corinthians 12:
To one is given through the Spirit the expression of wisdom; to another the expression of knowledge according to the same Spirit; to another faith by the same Spirit; to another gifts of healing by the one Spirit; to another mighty deeds; to another prophecy; to another discernment of spirits; to another varieties of tongues; to another interpretation of tongues.But one and the same Spirit produces all of these, distributing them individually to each person as he wishes.
I was wondering why certain prayer experiences had been changing for me. The most obvious reason is that I have filled my day with more "manual" labor. That is, I am with people more than I have been in the past. I am making human contact and that is always full. I miss my personal prayer times, but I am less inclined to attend to them because...simply enough, I have no one to speak with them about. I wondered why that might matter and decided that I was an incredibly shallow or weak person to need a guide, or a witness, to what happens.
None of that should matter. I recall deep moments with God as a child when no one was around, the walks in the woods, the bicycle rides, the tree climbing...God was there. I knew God was there...and it didn't matter if anyone knew.
But then adolescence hit and being noticed mattered. But what would an outsider think about these conversations with God? A risky business to share. But an even riskier business not to share.
I am a speaker in tongues, and an interpreter of tongues. Before you judge, let me explain: I offer clues to what I know...someone must interpret them for it to make sense; just as I listen and try to interpret what someone else is trying to tell me.
I am not talking about a strange language here...unless of course, you talk with a teenager, which is always in a strange tongue, or so it seems some days. But all of us offer clues to who we really are, ALL of us are being whispered to by God and ALL of us need interpreters for the journey.
Lately I've had to dig deep for interpreters. I have serious trust issues. So I may offer a little of what is going on and just watch and see how that person deals with the little bit, before I share the important stuff.
I think we all do that. Test the waters. See how we are treated when we are a little but vulnerable before allowing ourselves to be completely vulnerable.
And that, my dears, is where true ecstasy lies. In vulnerability. Share it with a human being and the risk is great...but sometimes a child is created...or more. Share it with God and you are never disappointed.
Having a conversation with someone can be like going into battle. You have your weapons of knowledge and maybe a talisman, like a crucifix or cross or Bible...you train for it, with prayer and exercise, you learn how to listen and then to speak in such a way that your words do not make a wall between you and the other. And if your words cut...then they need to be close to His words...so that they only cut to heal.
Have I completely lost you? Engagement and encounter. Close and far away. Empty and full. Perception. Experience. Tradition. Reason. Sacred Scripture. Gifts of the Spirit.
The horizontal and the vertical.
My complaint: an interpreter of tongues. Specifically an interpreter of my tongue. The bottom line of all theologies: "Why is this happening to me?" The question by itself implies dialogue, demands dialogue. Between you and me. Between me and God.
These parts of the Body. The only reason it works is that each of us is unique. We all have a song that is ours alone...and in particular, we each have a note that God has given us and he has given it to no one else.
If we don't sing our song and use our God given note...the world is less than what it has been designed to me. And how, my dear, can a song be heard if there is no one to listen?
Clear as mud? sigh
Love anyway,
Cindy
To one is given through the Spirit the expression of wisdom; to another the expression of knowledge according to the same Spirit; to another faith by the same Spirit; to another gifts of healing by the one Spirit; to another mighty deeds; to another prophecy; to another discernment of spirits; to another varieties of tongues; to another interpretation of tongues.But one and the same Spirit produces all of these, distributing them individually to each person as he wishes.
I was wondering why certain prayer experiences had been changing for me. The most obvious reason is that I have filled my day with more "manual" labor. That is, I am with people more than I have been in the past. I am making human contact and that is always full. I miss my personal prayer times, but I am less inclined to attend to them because...simply enough, I have no one to speak with them about. I wondered why that might matter and decided that I was an incredibly shallow or weak person to need a guide, or a witness, to what happens.
None of that should matter. I recall deep moments with God as a child when no one was around, the walks in the woods, the bicycle rides, the tree climbing...God was there. I knew God was there...and it didn't matter if anyone knew.
But then adolescence hit and being noticed mattered. But what would an outsider think about these conversations with God? A risky business to share. But an even riskier business not to share.
I am a speaker in tongues, and an interpreter of tongues. Before you judge, let me explain: I offer clues to what I know...someone must interpret them for it to make sense; just as I listen and try to interpret what someone else is trying to tell me.
I am not talking about a strange language here...unless of course, you talk with a teenager, which is always in a strange tongue, or so it seems some days. But all of us offer clues to who we really are, ALL of us are being whispered to by God and ALL of us need interpreters for the journey.
Lately I've had to dig deep for interpreters. I have serious trust issues. So I may offer a little of what is going on and just watch and see how that person deals with the little bit, before I share the important stuff.
I think we all do that. Test the waters. See how we are treated when we are a little but vulnerable before allowing ourselves to be completely vulnerable.
And that, my dears, is where true ecstasy lies. In vulnerability. Share it with a human being and the risk is great...but sometimes a child is created...or more. Share it with God and you are never disappointed.
Having a conversation with someone can be like going into battle. You have your weapons of knowledge and maybe a talisman, like a crucifix or cross or Bible...you train for it, with prayer and exercise, you learn how to listen and then to speak in such a way that your words do not make a wall between you and the other. And if your words cut...then they need to be close to His words...so that they only cut to heal.
Have I completely lost you? Engagement and encounter. Close and far away. Empty and full. Perception. Experience. Tradition. Reason. Sacred Scripture. Gifts of the Spirit.
The horizontal and the vertical.
My complaint: an interpreter of tongues. Specifically an interpreter of my tongue. The bottom line of all theologies: "Why is this happening to me?" The question by itself implies dialogue, demands dialogue. Between you and me. Between me and God.
These parts of the Body. The only reason it works is that each of us is unique. We all have a song that is ours alone...and in particular, we each have a note that God has given us and he has given it to no one else.
If we don't sing our song and use our God given note...the world is less than what it has been designed to me. And how, my dear, can a song be heard if there is no one to listen?
Clear as mud? sigh
Love anyway,
Cindy
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