I have at least 10 entries started. They all look fine until I get in touch with my anger and I just stop writing. A priest friend wrote about putting our laundry out of Facebook and suggesting it mught not be the best way to communicate with God. He might be right, but I have to go my own way.
A lifetime ago, I was stuck in a house where there was no real reprieve from some form of suffering. It changed, but it was always there. There was no escape for me. There was no happiness. There were successes and failures, but no joy. It is kind of astounding to me to think about that. Part of me wants to believe that there must have been some good. And I force myself to think: Cooking was good sometimes. At Christmas...a little bit. Working in the yard was good...sometimes...moments of joy. I have to believe they were there, or I would have turned out much darker,,,right?
The point being that long before Facebook, I used to leave little notes around the house, behind picture frames and in the bottoms of vases or in the holes of statues...about how I was hurting. I remember, after I was married a few years, my mother mentioned to me that she found very ugly things that I had written all over the house. I had forgotten about them. I had forgotten that was my way of crying out.
I'd show up at church, at the Catholic Church, but what I thought was so obvious, no one saw, no one asked questions...and if I felt lonely before, I was a hundred times more lonely there. Yet, when it was just "me and God," things were wonderful. He explained to me all the confusing things in my life. He explained how he would use my sufferings to reach others who were not as lucky as me.
So I told God it was okay to make me suffer more. And He did. Little girls don't know much about God's love. Yet, we do. We create our own theologies based on what we experience and observe. My crazy professor in seminary called it our "soteriology." We sort out what we know to figure out what might happen next and what we should do about it.
Tradition, Sctripture, Reason, Experience. For that, Wesley was a genius. The Catholic Church forms it almost exactly the same way, but seems to combine the ideas of reason and experience.
I know I am called by God into service. I've tried to live another kind of life and I can't. Well, I can, but I dislike myself there. The closer I get to God, less interesting is the ideas of success or conquest...and semblance of winning seems so ridiculous now. The idea of confining myself to a physical marriage, with all of its demands, seems like it would limit my ability to do work.
Yet, I am not gifted with political savy. As I go through my examen, which I don't do every day but wish I did...I see this last week as a powerful week. I spoke out about some things that were grating on me, really believing I would lose one more friend. But...over and over again...I receive love instead of a beating. See how those old tapes have not left. See how God continues to try to teach me about His love...and as good as it is, it always hurts. The ego does not want to be wrong. It wants to be right, it wants to be vindicated.
I am forced to deal with over and over again...how can you still love me? You cannot realize the depth of this pain unless you know what it was like to know what it is to not be loved...and to have raised yourself in light of the absence of it.
What makes me more sick inside than anything, is the truth that a whole lot more people understand what I am writing about than I want.
I felt real love this week. From more than one person, I felt deep, lasting, unconditional love. Yet, in the deep recesses of my mind, I know...I sense...their loneliness, too. Maybe that's how God wires us, to have some innate understanding of what it means to love. To have the ability to give it away even before we are able to know a mother's love, a father's love, the love of a husband or wife, or sister or brother. I don't quite understand why some of us reach for the light while others go to the dark side.
My goal in this life, however long I have, in whatever way I have, is to love as well as I can. God put on my heart a new understanding of my priesthood, my mission, my vocation...in ways I did not expect. The politics of the Church is so unimportant to me now...although with a little teasing, I'm sure I can work up a lather about it again if I want. I just have to keep working on not caring. I become ineffective if I let rivalries and judgments interfere with my thinking through the work in front of me.
All the writings of Benedict and Thomas a Kempis...surrendering the ego...but not the soul...I have them pounding in my head. I would be shattered if I let the pettiness of my own emotions interfere with the work I have been given to do.
Yet, I do need an outlet. We all do. That why we have poets and artists and musicians and dancers and storytellers and athletes...and every creative outet there is...our way of expressing our feelings so that they will not consume us or rule over us. We need that. It cleans us out and lets us love more and better.
So all the posts I do not post, I do not know what I will do with them. The notes behind pictures and in vases...I'll never know what they said, except perhaps they kept me from hurting myself when I felt so powerless. I get another chance to win. To let Him win, that is.
This week, I watched a mother lift her son to the sofa. Things are not going so well for them. Just not well at all. I averted my eyes politely to offer respect to them both...but really they did not care. They had their gift of each other. How much in my heart I wanted to fix it, make the pain go away. But I kept trying to remember what I read of Henri Nouwen, "Their suffering is their gift." And what Doug told me in the hospital in 1999: "You have no right to try to take it[their suffering] away from them." Hardest words I have ever heard...and at the time, I thought cold and brutal words. Yet those words free us to love as we were intended to love. There is no ownership in love. It just is. I looked at mother and son. There was love. Something I never got to know when I was a child...but I get to know it now. I get to see it, feel it, touch it, taste it, hear it...
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That was yesterday. We finally got rain last night. I think I woke around two to the sound of the raindrops falling on my back porch. I went into the den and listened to them falling on the skylight. I was so grateful...it has been just too dry too damn long.
I haven't really reread what I wrote yesterday. I had a strange meeting yesterday with friends. I think it went well enough. I am not convinced by it, but I know it is all I will get, so I will have to work with it. Perhaps someday, it will be better...or not. But I am setting that cross down. What I have to decide now is whether or not I am willing to work under these conditions. I haven't decided yet. God has something new for me to learn.
I suppose priests know that people only tell them only part of the story. The part that makes them look good...to get the desired response. I went to confession yesterday...I've been trying to go for two weeks. Made an appt. but it got cancelled. I suppose I can be a bit intimidating. I went yesterday to a nearby church. "Cindy, I'd like for you to be behind the screen." "I'm sorry Father, that is not possible." and I left and went to a different priest. If you can't look me in the eye, then we have nothing to talk about. Especially about my sin. I'm not going to give you that much power. If it's going to be like that, well, I can talk straight to God then...the whole point of the incarnational representation is to be the incarnate representative. And I want the whole ball of wax. not just a voice saying, "My child, your sins are forgiven."
Man, I'm really going to hell, aren't I?
But the last few weeks have been a constant reminder that the Church will never live up to my expectations. I ready to turn over a few tables myself. And I can promise you, I don't feel good about any of it. In the beginning, God gave me an idea, a vision...of the potential of goodness and greatness in his creation of human beings. The possibility to love...and we such young lovers...should I bend this way or that, so that our noses won't bump...should I get close or wait for him/her? I suppose that is what all these growing pains are about...surrendering to the Heart of God is pretty much surrendering to our own hearts as well.
I feel so close to God all the time. I can see and feel and taste and touch and hear His Kingdom in my body...what it can be, and slowly He gives me the tools to try to share it. But in my humanness, I get so frustrated when people are not authentic with me. I honestly don't want to waste my time with them. And then He whispers in my ear,
"Cindy, I still loved you when you were lying to me. I didn't give up on you. Can't you do the same for your sisters and brothers? Can't you try to love them as I have loved you?"
"Crap.,,I love you, Lord. I'd do anything for you. You know that....I'm sorry I was impatient."
And He brings my head to His chest, and gently caresses my hair. I breathe hard. I just realize I've been fighting with Him again. I cry.
"There, there...it's going to be alright." And He lets me rest a bit. He puts a glass of water to my lips. I drink. I wipe my face with the back of my hand. I look up into His eyes.
"Go now. You have much more to do."
"I love you," I tell Him. "I know," he replies. "Go."
Love, Cindy
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