The sound of her voice

I never intended to publish my thoughts from this week. I did my best to avoid too much thought about what has happened, what is happening. I'll blame it on the confluence of elements for which I have no defenses: spring weather, the full moon and the sound of my mother's voice.

Deliciously caught up in some spring cleaning, trying to put things in their proper places, which I never do...I came across an unmarked CD.  I thought perhaps it was a copy of some Benedictine chants from last summer at St Scholastica.  Without thinking, I plopped in into the CD player while in my prayer room. And from the first moment, there was no escape.

It was the sound of her voice, mingled with the sounds of robins and sparrows in the front yard.

"Hi Cindy.  I thought I'd give you a chance to laugh at my accent, since everybody else in this Tulsie town laughs at it...I have to say I really laughed when I read your letter yesterday...especially about those born again Christians...I am sure that many are very sincere..."

I try to plan when I am going to listen to this tape, now a CD.  It takes me to a really vulnerable part of my heart. For the then cassette tape was left of the coffee table for me when they found her body. It was mailed to me about a week later.I only listen to it every few years, because...well, it is hard to hear. A dear friend, Marilyn, took it and made it into an MP3 file so that I would never lose it. For the tape was 15 years old now...and fragile.

Funny how I found it, as I am discovering the love of my daughter and of my friends...and facing the anger of not having all the things I really should have had as a child...like this mother, who had to give me away.   Funny that God would make me listen to her voice after a stellar consolation on Wednesday night...like He was telling me: I love you. You can do this work. It's time to get angry with her, too, for leaving you.

The priest told me I lead a charmed life. No one would believe this life. No one would believe it is real. I don't believe it is real most of the time. I pulled out my cassettes of the early Pen Faulkner awards from the 1989-90-91.  Eudory Welti and Pat Conroy and many others speak on them about their beginnings...the things that made them great writers.  Pain made many of them great. Others, a deep unconditional love...most often by their fathers. There and there and there...all the beads of my life...keep added one on top of another...part of me really sees my life as extraordinary...but part of be believes that everyone's life is extraordinary and if I can just write well enough, many others will examine their lives for the extraordinariness of it. 

We are pearls of great price, you know. Each one of us. Our Father in heaven is willing to give up everything He has to buy us back...He wants us inside him again and He wants us to realize He is inside us.  Kind of cool. 

But I was made really vulnerable yesterday. I usually don't share much about my encounters with God...at least not those kinds of encounters.  However, I only shared the mechanics of the encounter, not the message.  I do not presume to know the mind of God...I will speak of His Love, but I will not attempt to speak about what I see in the world. My heart/mind tells me not to do it.  There are just a few basic things that matter in the long run: Let God love you. Allow yourself the grace of His forgiveness. Love one another with every cell of your body. That's about it.

The Franciscan monk I met yesterday was delightful. Reminded me of my son. Tall, skinny and with a beard. Clothes just hung on him. And sandals. And very, very kind. Told him about my son and a little of my journey as he told me about Nicaragua and his work. When I told him I had an MDiv from SMU he actually smiled."I was raised Anglican," he told me."The first of my generation to leave the family faith." And he was impressed that I tried to do the work.  We both understood how the Holy Eucharist was what made the difference.

The monk who did the Mass last night was a very different character...and character he was. He was from Canada and his accent betrayed him now and then...and it was delightful. He told a lot of stories...like I tell a lot of stories...but one was exceptional:

A mother was telling her 20-something son to get up and go to Mass with her. Her son was sitting in the lounge chair.  He said to her, "Aw, Mom, you know I don't much like the new new priest they have there." Mom replied, "Well, you don't care for the new bartender down the street either, but you still let him sell you drinks." 

I thought that was great. We put so many obstacles in the way of practicing our faith.  "He's to Irish, he's too German, he's to Vatican II, he's too pre-Vatican II...he's too slow, he's too fast...he's boring..." My goodness, you'll start sounding like a Protestant.  (My sweet Protestant friends...I am making a joke here!)

Why do we go to Mass?  To be entertained? To be affirmed? To find an excuse to dress up? (another joke) To let God at least think we are putting Him first?  Ah, well...He knows our hearts. If we are there for show, He will know. If we are there for selfish reasons, He will know.  If we are there because we are afraid of what will happen if we don't go, He will know. He wants our love. Our respect. And...dare I write it...obedience. How that plays out is between you and God. The more real you are with Him, the more real He can be with you.

So I write something lighter today to remind you of what I have to remind myself, as I continue to look at...all the consolations and desolations over the last 15 years...and ask myself, what is He teaching me? What am I to teach?  And this interesting factor becomes immediately present:   my encounters with God are deeply connected to the people in my life. When I am loving others selflessly, He takes me into heaven. When I try to shut the love of others out, or perhaps more correctly...when I try to "make" something happen, He takes a step back and that withdrawal hurts more deeply than any knife ever could. The more I let Him lead, the more beautiful the dance. Outside of His Love, at this point in my life, would tear me apart.

Let me be Mary most of the time...all of the time...not Martha...that will bother some people, I know...but Martha...in that moment of the story...was separated from God and felt it deeply...she was the older son in the tale of the prodigal...she was working and got caught in the "hey, what's in it for me?" mentality.  We can't work that way.  We can't keep score.

Right now, I am a bit embarrassed/concerned/worried that some people who saw me Wednesday night are judging me this very minute. Really need to toss that concern in the trash.  It's not about me. It was never about me. It's all about God.

Breathe deep. Hear the birdsong. Now go pack the bag for tonight.  Put the oil in my lamp. He's almost here.

Love, Cindy