Eucharist

I left this blog alone. Thought I was done with it. Perhaps I am.  The other one, the one started so long ago, with the name of my fantasy retreat center attached to it "Teresa's Gardens," is mostly about poetry. I am surrounded by a thousand books. And I have a proper pillow in the small of my back, to allow me to sit in this chair for long hours.
Last night with the guests at the Missionaries of Charity, one woman was still upset be the happenings earlier in the week. A mother had her baby and when the volunteer was busy with other things, she just left. That's it. She just walked out on her child, who was all of maybe five days old. The mama I was talking to couldn't understand. I tried to help. I don't know if I did.

I did know that there is much more suffering in this world than we will ever be able to grasp.  My daily work takes me into homes where the loneliness and fear is so thick, where the fear of forgiveness is greater than the fear of death. And I dare to push their buttons, but not too hard.

A month ago, I told a man who wanted to die that he needed to forgive everyone before he died. If he was really ready, he had to forgive. Each time I see him now, he tells me again why he won't forgive. I try again to explain what forgiveness means. It is not the absence of justice. But it is the death, the ending of the violence that continues to separate us all from God. I listen and I wait. When he is ready, I will be ready.

Much like the woman, who found her way back...who got tired of fighting and let God back in. Her choice makes me weep. She fought long and hard. She only saw what she deserved, not the gift God was offering her. But finally she said yes to grace. And I thought, stay away, Cindy. This is her time now. God did what needed to be done. You have other things to do. But it was so precious. I was informed she wanted to see me. I knocked on the door. "I've been waiting for you." she said. And we talked and smiled together. Her pain is not gone, but it doesn't wound her any longer. God gave me the gift of seeing her heart transformed...and in doing that, He also healed my heart just a little bit more.

What seems like now thousands of holy moments. I cannot imagine living any other life. Yet each day, I must remember it might all be over. I got stuck in horrible traffic yesterday and was like a spoiled child in it. I did all that I could to distract myself from where I had to be...in lane 4 on I-35 traveling a maximum of 20 mph.  It occurred to me that I chose to go down into Dallas on Friday to do some work for the Sisters. There are people stuck in this traffic hell every single day.  How can they calm themselves enough to pray?  How can they think of God in the stink and chaos and noise of the road...most often taking them to a place where they work to pay for the electricity and food and cars and educating their children...they have to be in it everyday. I get to choose when and how I drive these roads...at least for now. I am almost embarrassed and ashamed because I get to choose.
Maybe they choose, too. I don't know. And I know there will be a day that I can't do this work...and how sad I will be when it stops, or I become weak or sick...so I push onward to do the best I can, while I can, because His Voice is the only voice I can really hear. I don't much listen to the radio or even music too much...except the music that has become so ingrained in me that I really don't hear it...

This is my offering of thanks to He who loved me first. This woman. This body, mind, soul and spirit. This blood that still somehow manages to flow in my veins, despite my passive aggressive attempts to shorten my life with poor choices. Broken and bruised and bleeding...I give it back to Him...at some point...all used up. Wrinkles and gray hairs and a bit too much pasta and not enough wine...I give it back, every day, every way I can.

I could write more. Monday took me to another level. God showed me how strong I am on Monday...and how strong He is.  He showed me again that I might have to stand up for something I would prefer to leave alone. I may be called to speak about something unspeakable, but I wait...oh please, God...not yet! 

This power I gave away to priests...actually in the beginning of this particular adventure, to one priest...and then to others...God says I must take back. He has shown me what I needed to learn and how to grow. It just feels so uncomfortable, but it doesn't feel bad. It was what must happen. It was, is, part of my healing, my wholeness. 

I recall again, when I was 14, somewhere around 14...that conversation with God in my SPX Church, now recently leveled to build a new gym...I told Him I would go into hell for Him if it would help others find their way out. I told Him how I understood that my going into Hell was to teach me what the world was feeling and that the only way I could be be authentic and believed by people who were suffering was to suffer with them...

sound familiar?

Unconsciously, I got the message the Church was trying to teach. I took it on as my own. I believed every single word of it. I still do...except, maybe they (the Church) really didn't consider someone taking it all so seriously. Or maybe it did. There is something uniquely Catholic about Catholics. There is a willingness to enter into suffering that is not like their Protestant brothers and sisters. I can't speak to the real differences because, try as I might, I never really became Protestant...but like Luther, I am unrelenting in my challenge to the Catholic Church to see it grow into a richer and fuller faith tradition through discipline, education and a realistic social justice presence in the world.

Went to another Latin Mass this morning with the nuns.  Each time, I understand more. I like this learning. The Latin is far superior the the English translation simply because the English translation is so annoying male in its flavor.  The Latin hold less sexism...at least in my first few glances, it is more palatable than some of the phrases that will return in Advent.  I may actually have to start going to a Latin Mass weekly so that I do not become discouraged with the "for us men and for our [men] salvation"  phrasing that used to drive me crazy during the Mass, my head would immediately jump into the horrid archaic belief that women [and slaves and children] were saved by their relationship to their 'father/husband/owner.'  Always distracted me from prayer...and finally I had to conclude that God would never approve of such things, that the Catholic Church is always a work in progress and we just have to keep struggling along as we learn more and more about how to embrace the divine.

I can't waste my energy on politics when there is so much work to be done.

We must love one another. To play into the hands of the devil by trying to seek what is morally right in an institution that is not motivated to change will simply keep me from caring for the ones that need the basic things...the extravagance of trying to be right is just not important anymore. What is important are the men and women and children who need God's loving care through our hands, our feet, our eyes, and our hearts.  These are the things worth focusing on and dying for.

God help me. I can't do this without You. Thank you for my life.

Love, Cindy