Perhaps my favorite genre of fiction is the short story. If I could write one or two good short stories before I leave this world, that would be so very nice. I like a tale that can be told in one sitting, with enough color in it to have me thinking about it for an entire week, or longer. The short story...in the beginning of my life...was a bedtime story, though I cannot remember too often at all, my mother reading them to me. And of course, my father never read to me. Suddenly knowing that makes me very sad. I wish my father had read to me.
The theme this week always seems to be drawn back into "blessing." In all the conversations about the Pro-Life marches, I am forever drawn back into that reality: whether or not abortion is available and safe just doesn't seem that important to me. I would prefer it to not be necessary, to never have to be a consideration in people's lives...but as long as we continue to use or exploit each other, abortion will always be around. But don't try to convince me that abortion is more horrible than war. Death is death. The deliberate killing of another because they are interfering with your lifestyle is wrong in any situation. But that is not why I write.
The Pro-Life movement should be focused on life, not death. To define itself by fighting against something rather than fighting for something is just not good use of energy. Calling it Pro-Life, but speaking out unceasingly AGAINST abortion...is kind of contradictory. And choosing life, that should be at all stages, for all people. Pro-life means health care, education, safety, community, respect for ALL people. Pro-life means that wars will stop...because people will stop fighting.
And most importantly, this week for me at least, pro-lfe means Blessing.
Into each life, a blessing must come. A promise of commitment and hope...and unconditional love. A blessing for each of us. A blessing for all. That is true pro-life.
What I have found, is that women, who do not receive that blessing from their fathers, do not really know in their hearts that their life is precious, valued, and a gift. If the blessing does not come from the father for the daughter, the daughter will seek the blessing wherever she can find it...in whatever form it comes. And often, it arrives in a good-looking swaggering older man who will tell her anything to get what he wants in that moment for the moment. And then, when she trusts in that little bit of what she thinks is light, he wanders off to find the next piece of candy.
What is true also, is the man who wanders from woman to woman, has never received his blessing either. And my heart breaks.
A man shows up at the house where I stay, for the little girl, who is pregnant again...and I look at him with stern eyes, hoping he can read my mind: "Treat her with respect." And I pray that he does. He holds a look of humility, at least in my presence.
Not so the woman who sits in the chair, talking with another woman, who is lying on a bed. The woman in the chair holds a book, "Fifty Shades of Gray." I look at it. I look at her. I try to make a joke out of the pain of seeing her with that book causes me. "The Sisters would not be happy if I told them you were reading that book. " "Oh, please don't tell them." she asks. Her friend on the bed asks me, why I object to the book.
"Because it is the story about men who hurt women on purpose and how women like it. It teaches that it is okay to abuse women. It is a lie. I haven't read it. I simply know about it. It is not a good book."
I think about the poverty in front of me. These women do not yet know they are daughters of God. They are still slaves to the hungry one who will never love them. I don't know how to help...and I think my words will just make them laugh at me. I don't care. They'll remember what I said. Maybe they will wonder.
Last month, I found another young girl with a book, from the library, about how to please a man in sex. I confronted her, too. "Why do you want to do this? Where is he now?"
And I hurt inside as I understand. This is the only blessing these women have ever known: the lie from the snake: it will not kill you. It will make you like God.
Chaos.
The idea of the House is to create order in the lives of women who have never known order, or safety. They fight it at every turn. The gripe at me when it is time to go upstairs, to lock up the phones, no more cigarettes for the night, and then, in the morning, the gripe at me again...telling me their little lies: no one else makes up wake up, why are you setting the alarm now, you are doing it wrong...
And I remind them, if you keep breaking the rules, the house might be shut down. Do you want that? The other places they know about: some don't take pregnant women, some have only a mat on the floor to sleep on, some don't have hot meals at night and in the morning. Yes, there is no TV here...but you have enough to eat, and bars on the windows, to keep the bad people out. Here you can get your vitamins, your medicine for your babies, a private room with a bed, a bus pass...
Some catch on eventually...at least for a little while. I have worked there enough that the ones I saw in the beginning have returned, to sleep until their next child is born. This is pro-life. And it is hard, unceasing, sometimes discouraging work. But it is a step out of chaos for many women...it is the beginning of trying to accept a blessing...even if it cannot come from that very important "father."
Order.
Not to withhold life, but to set it truly free. I offer hints as much as I am able: Don't let them ever tell you you can't, you are not good enough...you are smart, you are beautiful, you are important. That is the blessing. And if it can't come from the father...then it must come from you.
Love, Cindy
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Friday, January 25, 2013
The Power of Women
I perhaps waste a lot of energy on wanting what the boys have...(and no, that is NOT what I want!). And when I take a step back, I start to see how silly it would be to try to be a boy...that was never my goal. My goal has always been to serve God with every cell of my body. I'm not sure why that matters so much, but it does.
And every step closer to human death seems to make it more urgent...it makes me more hungry to love well...and to live well. The last 24 hours have been very full of thoughts. Yesterday morning, I was on a tear about how to motivate the women I am blessed to be with...to get them fired up about the great beauty and joy of their own creation...and I was literally flying around my house...finding all the little trinkets and smiley things that people have given me over the years since I began ministry work some fifteen years ago.
And it all began when my husband left me...left us...me and the kids...because, at least he said, "I can't handle the stress anymore." (this coming from a man who doesn't joke when he says, "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.) Let me be fair, he's a good enough guy...but he can't see God...and I couldn't make him see God. But in my heart, I am still hopeful that someday he will understand why it got so messed up...and he will find his way to the good life.
I mention that today because recently, I was in conversation with someone I had just met. In the course of our talk, I said something and she looked shocked. She said, "You're not married?! But you look so much in love!"
I rolled my eyes and looked up to heaven...
"I'm in love with God."
And that struck her as a totally new and foreign idea.
"You are that happy without a man?"
(Oh, how hard it was to laugh only a little!)
And we had a great talk about what love is and is not. At least from my perspective. Which is damaged. And I owned that. And as we talked (she was so beautifully articulate and honest), I started to see another of those God moments where I am used to help someone else and God is using the Other to help me. All this praying...all this worry and fear...and this sweet stranger affirms for me that I have not lost my 'being in love' with God.
I have been trying to get my head around what is happening to me. I have had some powerful conversations this week, and as I looked up last night to the moon growing full, I knew God and creation were working with me to calm me. I feel determined to deal with the physical challenge as I deal with everything else...not in the ways the world expects. I know there will come a day when it most likely will blow up in my face...but that day is not today. As soon as I have overcome a few more fears, I will go to the gym...and see if I can handle the toys there. When I decided to do things a bit differently...my body seems to be feeling better...the scary noises it was making last week have stopped for now. And I seem to be assimilating iron better. All the positive comments about my 'appearance' yesterday seemed to affirm a movement in the right direction.
Yesterday, I spent some time with some of the women of the Bible. There is a tendency to think that men made history because...well...men wrote the history. They had time...women were raising children, educating them, baking, cleaning, sewing, washing...and praying. Some women did huge and wonderous things, like Esther...others did simple things, like Rebekah...some laughed, like Sarah...some were loyal, like Ruth...some brave, like Deborah...and some so humble...their womb and their blood mixed together to create the One fully human (of Mary's blood) and fully Divine (of God's everlasting bloodlife)...and so many others who did not make it into the books yet changed the world.
I saw on the news this morning a totally foolish news story about women being allowed into combat...and how having women in the crossfire would ultimately lead to more losses in small battles. The reporter tried to be confrontational using an argument about African Americans not being allowed to fight, but the historian would not bend to her thoughts.
There are some places where it is better that women not engage.
Can you believe I said that? Women are women...and should do women things. Men are men and should do men things. Okay, not a blanket statement or a rule here...free will is important...but I don't think the male-female attraction can be ignored, particularly in stressful situations. If you mind is not on your job...then lives will be lost.
Looking at it from another point of view: women on the front line might just wake the world up to the reality of how stupid and wasteful war is anyway. I get the feeling that men like to fight, they have energy to use up and football, wrestling...and war almost seems natural to them...part of their hormones perhaps, just as women are drawn to attachment and life giving events...but the darker side of women, prone to jealousies and power...are more subtle. What they lack in strength they make up for in cleverness.
Ah...I have just gone full circle, haven't I? Oh well...the women who want to be in battle, be in battle. But don't whine about it. It is what it is. Ugly. Unjust. Bloody. Even if you win.
And I thought I was going to be profound today...alas!
Dear Lord,
Teach me to pray. Teach me to think. Teach me to write.
Love, Cindy
And every step closer to human death seems to make it more urgent...it makes me more hungry to love well...and to live well. The last 24 hours have been very full of thoughts. Yesterday morning, I was on a tear about how to motivate the women I am blessed to be with...to get them fired up about the great beauty and joy of their own creation...and I was literally flying around my house...finding all the little trinkets and smiley things that people have given me over the years since I began ministry work some fifteen years ago.
And it all began when my husband left me...left us...me and the kids...because, at least he said, "I can't handle the stress anymore." (this coming from a man who doesn't joke when he says, "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.) Let me be fair, he's a good enough guy...but he can't see God...and I couldn't make him see God. But in my heart, I am still hopeful that someday he will understand why it got so messed up...and he will find his way to the good life.
I mention that today because recently, I was in conversation with someone I had just met. In the course of our talk, I said something and she looked shocked. She said, "You're not married?! But you look so much in love!"
I rolled my eyes and looked up to heaven...
"I'm in love with God."
And that struck her as a totally new and foreign idea.
"You are that happy without a man?"
(Oh, how hard it was to laugh only a little!)
And we had a great talk about what love is and is not. At least from my perspective. Which is damaged. And I owned that. And as we talked (she was so beautifully articulate and honest), I started to see another of those God moments where I am used to help someone else and God is using the Other to help me. All this praying...all this worry and fear...and this sweet stranger affirms for me that I have not lost my 'being in love' with God.
I have been trying to get my head around what is happening to me. I have had some powerful conversations this week, and as I looked up last night to the moon growing full, I knew God and creation were working with me to calm me. I feel determined to deal with the physical challenge as I deal with everything else...not in the ways the world expects. I know there will come a day when it most likely will blow up in my face...but that day is not today. As soon as I have overcome a few more fears, I will go to the gym...and see if I can handle the toys there. When I decided to do things a bit differently...my body seems to be feeling better...the scary noises it was making last week have stopped for now. And I seem to be assimilating iron better. All the positive comments about my 'appearance' yesterday seemed to affirm a movement in the right direction.
Yesterday, I spent some time with some of the women of the Bible. There is a tendency to think that men made history because...well...men wrote the history. They had time...women were raising children, educating them, baking, cleaning, sewing, washing...and praying. Some women did huge and wonderous things, like Esther...others did simple things, like Rebekah...some laughed, like Sarah...some were loyal, like Ruth...some brave, like Deborah...and some so humble...their womb and their blood mixed together to create the One fully human (of Mary's blood) and fully Divine (of God's everlasting bloodlife)...and so many others who did not make it into the books yet changed the world.
I saw on the news this morning a totally foolish news story about women being allowed into combat...and how having women in the crossfire would ultimately lead to more losses in small battles. The reporter tried to be confrontational using an argument about African Americans not being allowed to fight, but the historian would not bend to her thoughts.
There are some places where it is better that women not engage.
Can you believe I said that? Women are women...and should do women things. Men are men and should do men things. Okay, not a blanket statement or a rule here...free will is important...but I don't think the male-female attraction can be ignored, particularly in stressful situations. If you mind is not on your job...then lives will be lost.
Looking at it from another point of view: women on the front line might just wake the world up to the reality of how stupid and wasteful war is anyway. I get the feeling that men like to fight, they have energy to use up and football, wrestling...and war almost seems natural to them...part of their hormones perhaps, just as women are drawn to attachment and life giving events...but the darker side of women, prone to jealousies and power...are more subtle. What they lack in strength they make up for in cleverness.
Ah...I have just gone full circle, haven't I? Oh well...the women who want to be in battle, be in battle. But don't whine about it. It is what it is. Ugly. Unjust. Bloody. Even if you win.
And I thought I was going to be profound today...alas!
Dear Lord,
Teach me to pray. Teach me to think. Teach me to write.
Love, Cindy
Don't Mess with my Mass...
So I have learned more about the King of Hearts: the suicide king, or Charlemagne...interesting mythology surrounding the card. I suppose everything has a story of meaning behind it. Last night, we entered intot that strange part of Abraham's life...in later years, when he was visited by "the three" which became "the one," and LaCugna, a wonderful Catholic theologian who died some years ago of breast cancer, wrote a great paper on the Trinity using this passage and the icons painted of the visit to Abraham...in which Sarah "laughed" at the impossibility of her having a child in her old age.
Kind of like me wanting to be a priest. It just ain't gonna happen. This business of looking at my mortality...one of the big things for me this week: I'm going to die someday, and I will not die a priest. The lament of that seemed to hold me for several days. I am forced to ask: then why am I here? Why was I given this particular life, in the order and manner in which it was given? What will happen when I see God and God asks, "I gave you so much...why didn't you use your gifts?"
ink
At that point, the romanticism falls apart. My brain knows full well I don't need a collar to do good work. It would simply be wonderful to be able to make that kind of commitment to God. So again...always again...I must let go of what I want and just deal with what's in front of me. What I am allowed to do...in this very unhappy world. It doesn't matter to God, so it shouldn't matter to me.
And then, realizing that, I ask myself again and again...why am I a Catholic? The pretty answer is "When my mother gave me away, she had two requests of the people who would raise me: that I be given a piano and that I was raised a Catholic."
I think whatever faith tradition our parents give us a child is the one that is seared into our brains and nothing can or will ever replace it. Modified yes, but it is core in who we are.
I tried to work it out, I became a Methodist, and later a Methodist minister...and I always felt like I was letting God down. My sadness overtook me and I seriously shot myself in the foot...(I had help) and the idea of going back into that arena has long lost its appeal. I still have great love for the people I encountered along the way. The ones that knew me a bit more authentically I think somehow knew I would return to my Catholic roots, but cheered me on in love that I might outgrow my child like notions of God. The others, perhaps felt betrayed by my leaving...and still others were cheering as I left because my brand of Methodism was just a bit too 'out there.' But I still love them all, even the ones who disagreed with my point of view.
And I thought all was well enough...when I found a post on one of my Protestant friend's FB page. The comment went, "I was forced to go to a Mass, and I remembered all the things I hated about the Catholic Church. I remember why I left it." (Not a direct quote) And suddenly I became quite defensive inside. You can make all the comments you want about the Pope and I'll leave you alone. You can disapprove of priests and I won't argue with you. But if you slam my Mass...
And suddenly an old 60s Star Trek episode comes to mind. Scotty, asked by Kirk, about a fight he had gotten into with the Klingons. It went something like this:
"You did NOT hit the Klingon when he said I (Kirk) was a [slug worm], you hit hit him when he called the Enterprise a garbage skow(?) ?" To which Scotty replied, "Well, sir, this was a matter of pride!"
And I suddenly understood better why I am still connected to the Catholic Church. It is the Mass...the most perfect prayer ever created...that I cannot leave behind. It is the idea that it is presented, in an almost mirror-like manner, every single day, in nearly every moment of every day, somewhere throughout the world. It is the idea that God is present in the Mass...the God comes so close to us...and we come so close to God...inside the Mass is that break into creation that transcends time...and all disagreements and bitterness are suspended, during the act of the Mass...that we deny our own ego for just enough time to let God get close and transform us into something better.
Whether or not the priest is important is only between you and God. He is there to assure that the event follows an order, so you feel safe enough to reach out to God. He is a means to an end...no matter what he might think of himself, in his pretty clothes, he is still only a servant, a participant...albeit a very important participant...in the greatest prayer we could ever offer to God.
Does that make me a heathen? I don't know. Any priest who holds himself higher than servant will be in trouble quickly, and his soul at greater risk than those of us who do not dare to lead. But in the moment of the Mass, the priest is a means to an end...the end being union with God. I don't believe he was designed for more than that.
And I have problems with people who use the "hierarchy" of the church to discount the amazing gift of the Mass. Yes...the bells and whistles are grand. They are designed to inflame the heart for the desire of God. But not of a person, or a thing. And it is here that we must be so very careful.
All praise belongs to God alone. Not to some pretty building or some charismatic preacher/priest. We forget that sometimes.
Why are you here? What do you want?
Do you want to be healed?
Do you want forgiveness...or the power to forgive others?
Do you look for peace?
Are you in need of unconditional love?
Do you wish to see God?
I find these things in the Mass. And yes, it matters to me if a priest is authentic. You can tell the ones who think they are pretty special, just like protestant preachers...and you will separated from God because of that...you came to be healed...but instead, you were entertained...and you left hungry. Humility...find a leader who understands humility...and you will never go hungry again.
Find it where you will, what feeds you...but don't ever mess with my Mass.
I was going to edit this today, but I'm leaving it alone and just going to continue the thoughts on the next page...my apologies to those who might be offended with one of my perspectives on the Mass. Yet, yesterday, in the light of Frances de Sales...I am inclined to believe that he would agree with me. We are called to serve not to be served...
Love, Cindy
Kind of like me wanting to be a priest. It just ain't gonna happen. This business of looking at my mortality...one of the big things for me this week: I'm going to die someday, and I will not die a priest. The lament of that seemed to hold me for several days. I am forced to ask: then why am I here? Why was I given this particular life, in the order and manner in which it was given? What will happen when I see God and God asks, "I gave you so much...why didn't you use your gifts?"
ink
At that point, the romanticism falls apart. My brain knows full well I don't need a collar to do good work. It would simply be wonderful to be able to make that kind of commitment to God. So again...always again...I must let go of what I want and just deal with what's in front of me. What I am allowed to do...in this very unhappy world. It doesn't matter to God, so it shouldn't matter to me.
And then, realizing that, I ask myself again and again...why am I a Catholic? The pretty answer is "When my mother gave me away, she had two requests of the people who would raise me: that I be given a piano and that I was raised a Catholic."
I think whatever faith tradition our parents give us a child is the one that is seared into our brains and nothing can or will ever replace it. Modified yes, but it is core in who we are.
I tried to work it out, I became a Methodist, and later a Methodist minister...and I always felt like I was letting God down. My sadness overtook me and I seriously shot myself in the foot...(I had help) and the idea of going back into that arena has long lost its appeal. I still have great love for the people I encountered along the way. The ones that knew me a bit more authentically I think somehow knew I would return to my Catholic roots, but cheered me on in love that I might outgrow my child like notions of God. The others, perhaps felt betrayed by my leaving...and still others were cheering as I left because my brand of Methodism was just a bit too 'out there.' But I still love them all, even the ones who disagreed with my point of view.
And I thought all was well enough...when I found a post on one of my Protestant friend's FB page. The comment went, "I was forced to go to a Mass, and I remembered all the things I hated about the Catholic Church. I remember why I left it." (Not a direct quote) And suddenly I became quite defensive inside. You can make all the comments you want about the Pope and I'll leave you alone. You can disapprove of priests and I won't argue with you. But if you slam my Mass...
And suddenly an old 60s Star Trek episode comes to mind. Scotty, asked by Kirk, about a fight he had gotten into with the Klingons. It went something like this:
"You did NOT hit the Klingon when he said I (Kirk) was a [slug worm], you hit hit him when he called the Enterprise a garbage skow(?) ?" To which Scotty replied, "Well, sir, this was a matter of pride!"
And I suddenly understood better why I am still connected to the Catholic Church. It is the Mass...the most perfect prayer ever created...that I cannot leave behind. It is the idea that it is presented, in an almost mirror-like manner, every single day, in nearly every moment of every day, somewhere throughout the world. It is the idea that God is present in the Mass...the God comes so close to us...and we come so close to God...inside the Mass is that break into creation that transcends time...and all disagreements and bitterness are suspended, during the act of the Mass...that we deny our own ego for just enough time to let God get close and transform us into something better.
Whether or not the priest is important is only between you and God. He is there to assure that the event follows an order, so you feel safe enough to reach out to God. He is a means to an end...no matter what he might think of himself, in his pretty clothes, he is still only a servant, a participant...albeit a very important participant...in the greatest prayer we could ever offer to God.
Does that make me a heathen? I don't know. Any priest who holds himself higher than servant will be in trouble quickly, and his soul at greater risk than those of us who do not dare to lead. But in the moment of the Mass, the priest is a means to an end...the end being union with God. I don't believe he was designed for more than that.
And I have problems with people who use the "hierarchy" of the church to discount the amazing gift of the Mass. Yes...the bells and whistles are grand. They are designed to inflame the heart for the desire of God. But not of a person, or a thing. And it is here that we must be so very careful.
All praise belongs to God alone. Not to some pretty building or some charismatic preacher/priest. We forget that sometimes.
Why are you here? What do you want?
Do you want to be healed?
Do you want forgiveness...or the power to forgive others?
Do you look for peace?
Are you in need of unconditional love?
Do you wish to see God?
I find these things in the Mass. And yes, it matters to me if a priest is authentic. You can tell the ones who think they are pretty special, just like protestant preachers...and you will separated from God because of that...you came to be healed...but instead, you were entertained...and you left hungry. Humility...find a leader who understands humility...and you will never go hungry again.
Find it where you will, what feeds you...but don't ever mess with my Mass.
I was going to edit this today, but I'm leaving it alone and just going to continue the thoughts on the next page...my apologies to those who might be offended with one of my perspectives on the Mass. Yet, yesterday, in the light of Frances de Sales...I am inclined to believe that he would agree with me. We are called to serve not to be served...
Love, Cindy
Sunday, January 20, 2013
King of Hearts
King of Hearts. I haven't posted in some time. I have good reasons. I am doing what was asked of me: to let people love me. Actually, I was given that task about three years ago. I didn't think that was what was going on. I saw myself...helping someone else...and that was my only task. I was wrong. That was not my only task. It just seemed that way...or perhaps, it was the only task I could bring myself to look at.
God works in mysterious ways. Clever ways. Annoying ways.
Yesterday was a great and wonderful day. I think the morning could have lasted forever and I would have been happy. I spent it with my daughter...and we talked about real things, used real words. It was a time and a conversation I had been waiting for all my life. Even so, I still did not let it last too long...and I ask myself why. Because I didn't want to ruin it.
When good things arrive, I still approach with great caution. Much differently than walking boldly into danger, which was pretty much my standard when I was a kid.
I think about how we learn...and somewhere, close to the beginning, I somehow learned that my life had little value, other than a means to an end. As much as I hate writing that, I have found that to be the case with many women...and some men. We somehow learn we are simply a means to an end, and that affects all of our choices. Especially when it comes to love.
Why do some people marry? Do they marry for love? Or for safety? Do they marry because it is 'what people do when they get all growed up' or to they marry to escape their current reality? Do they marry to hurt someone else? To let someone go? Or are they just bored? Do they need money, food, security? Or do they just want to escape their own thoughts?
Of course, there are great and wonderful answers, too. But most often, I enter into people's live when they are asking the questions above...which can be summed up into perhaps this question: "Is that all there is?"
With real love, with true love, deep unchanging commitment to the good of the other...life never asks "Is that all there is?" because there is never an end to love. One is never too full, the filling space just grows along with the action of love. And it is not exclusive to marriage. Or to children.
There exists and encompassing self-giving that transcends any way we attempt to measure it. But it is not always idyllic, romantic or satisfying...love is sometimes quite painful.
I have a new watcher. He listens quite well. I don't have to hold back...I don't even have to think of holding back...and that is a sweet freedom to finally acquire. His entry into my life has allowed me to be even more authentic with all the other wonderful people in my life. It feels a bit like swimming in a lake with no bottom. The water is cool and clear, and no matter how far you look down, there seems to be just more clean beautiful water. Yet the thought still comes...what if there is a sea monster, a Leviathan, waiting...for that final surrender...when the kill might be so easy.
Such is the mind of someone learning to trust love.
And so odd that God would finally bring him in these moments of great challenge. I didn't think I would ever have to make the phone call where the person on the other end of the line would answer, "Texas Oncology." Heart disease, I expected someday. My biological mother had a bad heart. She also had trouble with love...or loving. The mother that raised me clearly had trouble with loving. So I have not had too much teaching in it, only what I could discern from watching my friends' families, who were sometimes darker than my own.
You see how I steer away...the blood I received in the transfusion was the greatest blessing. I was depressed because I was more and more unable to do much of anything...and then the pain began to increase all over my body. It was only when I could no longer put food into my mouth without having to fight pain, that I decided to go to the doctor. Let me be even more specific: when it became painful to receive Holy Communion, I knew that I had to do something.
I reacall Jill, on the cliff, in Aslan's country...in the book "The Silver Chair," which is the book on penance and reconciliation. The waters of life were before her...and she was so very thirsty...but a great and terrible lion sat at the edge of the waters. The lion said, "If you are thirsty, drink." And Jill said, "How do I know you will not kill me?" And Aslan told her she would not know, that he had killed many people...but he also told her if she did not drink she would die.
Such is the metaphor for love. You risk it, knowing you might die from it. And you might. The horrors of 2012, too many killings, too many broken hearts...and I believe all of it happened because of love...and the lack of it, the fear of it...and quite truthfully too much of it. But it is as Paul writes, the hunger for love killed to many people...it always does...because many of us don't have any real clue of what love is...and we can become very jealous of people who we think understand it.
I want to write so many things here...all the images in my head...of the love, the redemption, the forgiveness, the hope, the kindness...all swirling around in my bowl. My supervisor is correct, poetry may be the only way to communicate what seems to be forming in my head. There is just too much to explain.
The doctor does not know what is wrong with me, except that my blood is not working correctly. So now I must allow specialists into my life. All the work I have done as a chaplain, was it preparing me to act with grace in the moments I much now enter? I can say without question that my work has taken on greater humility and intention, as I examine my own fears: wanting a miracle, wanting courage, wanting good and helpful answers. And maybe it won't be cancer. I am optimistic enough to believe that the problem might be more manageable. But if it is not, then...I will face it.
And here's the kicker: in addition to this challenge refining my skills as a chaplain, God is forcing me into that place I have avoided for more than 50 years...I have to let people help me...and horror of horrors: I have to let people love me. When you have not grown up knowing what that looks like, I can assure you that it is as scary as hell. I had no idea how many walls I had put up, until I began the work of dismantling them. and I often feel great anger at the people who interferred with my life and upset my world.
Even more frustrating, I have to let people love me who I don't particularly like.
So I'm going to enjoy this good blood while it works. I am greatly fearful when the symptoms return. I am hyper-vigilant to the activity of my body right now. My thought is that we all are. It is the only reason I write here. Otherwise, I'd be writing in my journal. Slowly I am talking out the adventures which lead to now and what lie ahead...and I watch the eyes carefully. It is so curious to see love there...I had so convinced myself that I was merely a means to an end.
I must be careful here, let me assure you that I have never doubted God's love, and though I might kid around, I do not "blame" God for anything in my life. I wonder sometimes about the teachings, but they always seems quite profound once the teaching is complete...but God did not cause anything evil in my life...humanity did that...and it is humanity that I must forgive.
Father, forgive them for they do not know what they are doing. And I must forgive them. I was made for love and in love. I cannot deny my father, nor my mother, nor my spouse.
Do whatever He tells you.
Damn.
Even when I bend, when I give in,
He only asks for more.
And out of love, I must always say yes,
Because in love, I am...
And finally, quite oddly,
I have to let that love wound me all over again...or maybe for the very first time.
I went to a birthday party last night. I really did not want to go, but I loved my friend more than I wanted to stay home. I'm just not good company now. I am not entertaining. I am a burden. But I went, because I loved. Her. And I enjoyed watching her celebrate...and suddenly realizing I was celebrating with her. I did not have to be afraid of what was happening to me inside, because right then, it was a good day and everyone was having a good time. And I laughed at all the fun things going on...as I knew the stories of many in the room...and I thought, how marvelous we are, human beings, how resilient and strong and brave...and how very playful...and that being there reminded me quite rudely: I don't have to do any of this alone. This is a new world, a new Jerusalem...this is a taste of heaven.
The magician asked me to pick a card, and write my name on it.
I picked the King of Hearts.
And I wrote my name on His heart.
He sais put it back in the deck.
Then he chose a card, and scribbled lines on the back of it.
He said it was all messed up
So he shook it around...
and showed it to us...
and there is was,
My name.
MY name.
My NAME.
And he turned over the card...
And there
On the King of All Hearts...
was my name...
and everybody marveled at the magic
magic...
Love,
Cindy
God works in mysterious ways. Clever ways. Annoying ways.
Yesterday was a great and wonderful day. I think the morning could have lasted forever and I would have been happy. I spent it with my daughter...and we talked about real things, used real words. It was a time and a conversation I had been waiting for all my life. Even so, I still did not let it last too long...and I ask myself why. Because I didn't want to ruin it.
When good things arrive, I still approach with great caution. Much differently than walking boldly into danger, which was pretty much my standard when I was a kid.
I think about how we learn...and somewhere, close to the beginning, I somehow learned that my life had little value, other than a means to an end. As much as I hate writing that, I have found that to be the case with many women...and some men. We somehow learn we are simply a means to an end, and that affects all of our choices. Especially when it comes to love.
Why do some people marry? Do they marry for love? Or for safety? Do they marry because it is 'what people do when they get all growed up' or to they marry to escape their current reality? Do they marry to hurt someone else? To let someone go? Or are they just bored? Do they need money, food, security? Or do they just want to escape their own thoughts?
Of course, there are great and wonderful answers, too. But most often, I enter into people's live when they are asking the questions above...which can be summed up into perhaps this question: "Is that all there is?"
With real love, with true love, deep unchanging commitment to the good of the other...life never asks "Is that all there is?" because there is never an end to love. One is never too full, the filling space just grows along with the action of love. And it is not exclusive to marriage. Or to children.
There exists and encompassing self-giving that transcends any way we attempt to measure it. But it is not always idyllic, romantic or satisfying...love is sometimes quite painful.
I have a new watcher. He listens quite well. I don't have to hold back...I don't even have to think of holding back...and that is a sweet freedom to finally acquire. His entry into my life has allowed me to be even more authentic with all the other wonderful people in my life. It feels a bit like swimming in a lake with no bottom. The water is cool and clear, and no matter how far you look down, there seems to be just more clean beautiful water. Yet the thought still comes...what if there is a sea monster, a Leviathan, waiting...for that final surrender...when the kill might be so easy.
Such is the mind of someone learning to trust love.
And so odd that God would finally bring him in these moments of great challenge. I didn't think I would ever have to make the phone call where the person on the other end of the line would answer, "Texas Oncology." Heart disease, I expected someday. My biological mother had a bad heart. She also had trouble with love...or loving. The mother that raised me clearly had trouble with loving. So I have not had too much teaching in it, only what I could discern from watching my friends' families, who were sometimes darker than my own.
You see how I steer away...the blood I received in the transfusion was the greatest blessing. I was depressed because I was more and more unable to do much of anything...and then the pain began to increase all over my body. It was only when I could no longer put food into my mouth without having to fight pain, that I decided to go to the doctor. Let me be even more specific: when it became painful to receive Holy Communion, I knew that I had to do something.
I reacall Jill, on the cliff, in Aslan's country...in the book "The Silver Chair," which is the book on penance and reconciliation. The waters of life were before her...and she was so very thirsty...but a great and terrible lion sat at the edge of the waters. The lion said, "If you are thirsty, drink." And Jill said, "How do I know you will not kill me?" And Aslan told her she would not know, that he had killed many people...but he also told her if she did not drink she would die.
Such is the metaphor for love. You risk it, knowing you might die from it. And you might. The horrors of 2012, too many killings, too many broken hearts...and I believe all of it happened because of love...and the lack of it, the fear of it...and quite truthfully too much of it. But it is as Paul writes, the hunger for love killed to many people...it always does...because many of us don't have any real clue of what love is...and we can become very jealous of people who we think understand it.
I want to write so many things here...all the images in my head...of the love, the redemption, the forgiveness, the hope, the kindness...all swirling around in my bowl. My supervisor is correct, poetry may be the only way to communicate what seems to be forming in my head. There is just too much to explain.
The doctor does not know what is wrong with me, except that my blood is not working correctly. So now I must allow specialists into my life. All the work I have done as a chaplain, was it preparing me to act with grace in the moments I much now enter? I can say without question that my work has taken on greater humility and intention, as I examine my own fears: wanting a miracle, wanting courage, wanting good and helpful answers. And maybe it won't be cancer. I am optimistic enough to believe that the problem might be more manageable. But if it is not, then...I will face it.
And here's the kicker: in addition to this challenge refining my skills as a chaplain, God is forcing me into that place I have avoided for more than 50 years...I have to let people help me...and horror of horrors: I have to let people love me. When you have not grown up knowing what that looks like, I can assure you that it is as scary as hell. I had no idea how many walls I had put up, until I began the work of dismantling them. and I often feel great anger at the people who interferred with my life and upset my world.
Even more frustrating, I have to let people love me who I don't particularly like.
So I'm going to enjoy this good blood while it works. I am greatly fearful when the symptoms return. I am hyper-vigilant to the activity of my body right now. My thought is that we all are. It is the only reason I write here. Otherwise, I'd be writing in my journal. Slowly I am talking out the adventures which lead to now and what lie ahead...and I watch the eyes carefully. It is so curious to see love there...I had so convinced myself that I was merely a means to an end.
I must be careful here, let me assure you that I have never doubted God's love, and though I might kid around, I do not "blame" God for anything in my life. I wonder sometimes about the teachings, but they always seems quite profound once the teaching is complete...but God did not cause anything evil in my life...humanity did that...and it is humanity that I must forgive.
Father, forgive them for they do not know what they are doing. And I must forgive them. I was made for love and in love. I cannot deny my father, nor my mother, nor my spouse.
Do whatever He tells you.
Damn.
Even when I bend, when I give in,
He only asks for more.
And out of love, I must always say yes,
Because in love, I am...
And finally, quite oddly,
I have to let that love wound me all over again...or maybe for the very first time.
I went to a birthday party last night. I really did not want to go, but I loved my friend more than I wanted to stay home. I'm just not good company now. I am not entertaining. I am a burden. But I went, because I loved. Her. And I enjoyed watching her celebrate...and suddenly realizing I was celebrating with her. I did not have to be afraid of what was happening to me inside, because right then, it was a good day and everyone was having a good time. And I laughed at all the fun things going on...as I knew the stories of many in the room...and I thought, how marvelous we are, human beings, how resilient and strong and brave...and how very playful...and that being there reminded me quite rudely: I don't have to do any of this alone. This is a new world, a new Jerusalem...this is a taste of heaven.
The magician asked me to pick a card, and write my name on it.
I picked the King of Hearts.
And I wrote my name on His heart.
He sais put it back in the deck.
Then he chose a card, and scribbled lines on the back of it.
He said it was all messed up
So he shook it around...
and showed it to us...
and there is was,
My name.
MY name.
My NAME.
And he turned over the card...
And there
On the King of All Hearts...
was my name...
and everybody marveled at the magic
magic...
Love,
Cindy
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