I believe in the examen. That is, I believe in a daily examination of conscience. Each night, I try to review the day in my prayers, looking for those moments of great grace in both my successes and failures, and I offer them up to God in thanksgiving that I was allowed to be on this earth one more day.
Sadly, though, I still have the habit of obsessing over the failures...again and again...running them through my head as though I was looping a particular scene in a movie. This brings no comfort to me and solves no problem.
**********************************
From Luke 12:
"There is nothing concealed that will not be revealed, nor secret that will not be known. Therefore whatever you have said in the darkness will be heard in the light, and what you have whispered behind closed doors will be proclaimed on the housetops. I tell you, my friends, do not be afraid of those who kill the body but after that can do no more. I shall show you whom to fear. Be afraid of the one who after killing has the power to cast into Gehenna; yes, I tell you, be afraid of that one.
Are not five sparrows sold for two small coins? 4 Yet not one of them has escaped the notice of God. Even the hairs of your head have all been counted. Do not be afraid. You are worth more than many sparrows. I tell you, everyone who acknowledges me before others the Son of Man will acknowledge before the angels of God. But whoever denies me before others will be denied before the angels of God.
"Everyone who speaks a word against the Son of Man will be forgiven, but the one who blasphemes against the holy Spirit will not be forgiven. When they take you before synagogues and before rulers and authorities, do not worry about how or what your defense will be or about what you are to say. For the holy Spirit will teach you at that moment what you should say."
Someone in the crowd said to him, "Teacher, tell my brother to share the inheritance with me." He replied to him, "Friend, who appointed me as your judge and arbitrator?" Then he said to the crowd, "Take care to guard against all greed, for though one may be rich, one's life does not consist of possessions."
Then he told them a parable. "There was a rich man whose land produced a bountiful harvest. He asked himself, 'What shall I do, for I do not have space to store my harvest?' And he said, 'This is what I shall do: I shall tear down my barns and build larger ones. There I shall store all my grain and other goods and I shall say to myself, "Now as for you, you have so many good things stored up for many years, rest, eat, drink, be merry!" But God said to him, 'You fool, this night your life will be demanded of you; and the things you have prepared, to whom will they belong?' Thus will it be for the one who stores up treasure for himself but is not rich in what matters to God."
He said to (his) disciples, "Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life and what you will eat, or about your body and what you will wear. For life is more than food and the body more than clothing. Notice the ravens: they do not sow or reap; they have neither storehouse nor barn, yet God feeds them. How much more important are you than birds! Can any of you by worrying add a moment to your lifespan? If even the smallest things are beyond your control, why are you anxious about the rest?
Notice how the flowers grow. They do not toil or spin. But I tell you, not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of them. If God so clothes the grass in the field that grows today and is thrown into the oven tomorrow, will he not much more provide for you, O you of little faith?
As for you, do not seek what you are to eat and what you are to drink, and do not worry anymore. All the nations of the world seek for these things, and your Father knows that you need them. Instead, seek his kingdom, and these other things will be given you besides. Do not be afraid any longer, little flock, for your Father is pleased to give you the kingdom.
Sell your belongings and give alms. Provide money bags for yourselves that do not wear out, an inexhaustible treasure in heaven that no thief can reach nor moth destroy.
For where your treasure is, there also will your heart be.
*************************************
It is hard to cut any part of Luke 12 from a reading, but this one was the "word" given to me the night my ex-husband walked out. I remember very well that night, sleeping alone again for the first time in 18 years...and how terrified I felt. I did a "drop open" on the Bible and these are the words I read. And somehow, I made it through that first night.
So it is odd, as I become more familiar with Luke's words over the years, that I must be constantly reminded to not worry. I've written a lot of words this week, but have kept them private. They compose interior battles not ready for sharing: the constant reminder that, at least in this world, I have chosen to desire the one thing I am certain that I may never have.
And perhaps that is why I chose it. God has given me so very much. I am blessed almost to the point of embarrassment. Why would God give such a sinner so many graces? Nothing logical about that.
I pray daily to be a healer. I pray daily to be brave and to share what I see in the soul, my own and others. Such arrogance.
This week, I am embarrassed to say that I may have held a woman's hand too long. What does that mean, you may wonder? I thought if I held it long enough, her pain would go away. I begged God to use me...to be empty enough to make that happen...but I was not empty enough. And I am sad because I could not help. Arrogance. Confession. But if we do not ask for a miracle, how can we expect one?
The battle with evil never ceases. And like real love, it is difficult to put into words. I wish I was smarter, faster, more clever. I wish I was more obedient, empty, humble.
Do you understand Luke's gospel? What it means to deny the Holy Spirit? It means to not believe in miracles. It means faith cannot exist. It means the Incarnation was a waste of time. The whole point is about letting the Boy, as I so love to call Him, be real inside me. This idea of mustard seeds and birds. We are aware that God cares for the smallest things...and he cares for us. His power flows through us the more we believe. What we need, our own personal manna...is there for the taking...but only enough for the day. We can't hoard it or buy it or sell it. But always there is enough for each day. And when the day is gone, the bread is gone.
Why not eat our fill of what He so generously provides? Why long for that which cannot satisfy? Why look back unceasingly on what we left behind? Why wring our hands about the future, when He holds tomorrow?
Oh, if only it was that easy...
I thought I would die the night my husband left. I thought nothing would ever be right or good again. I thought I had failed at life.
I was wrong.
I still fight with Him who loves me best, you know...but...He still loves me...and waits for me...
Ah, what the sparrow knows...may God help me to know...
Love, Cindy
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Saturday, October 23, 2010
More than Words...
Today, I feel as if I may have met Jesus Christ in the flesh. Sounds a bit strange, but after the encounters I have had this weekend, I am not going to think anything is strange anymore. Nothing about life was ever normal. So I shouldn't be too surprised that nothing is normal now. In fact, odd is so natural for me, that normal would feel wrong.
I've been attending the Catholic Conference here in Dallas. My heart has been bouncing with joy, knowing so many people from so many places now, connecting them with others and then connecting to their friends. Part of me leaps for joy at all the good in my life...and then I look at the collars and I get slammed with a reality: "You will never be a priest." And it wounds me again and again when I have to remember that. But the wound does not cripple anymore, it does not send me down the drain of despair...but it still makes me sad, but only for moments.
A big moment was when I met the Bishop, though I really wasn't introduced formally. Another priest pulled me over and said, "Tell him (THE Bishop) what you told me. I just can't believe she said that, he tells the Bishop, she made my day." ( I look up at both of them and think, I don't have a clue what I said, or how I said it...you are asking me to actually remember something I did? You have got to be kidding! I don't plan anything, I just go with the Spirit...and HE never lets me in on His real plan...)
I don't have a clue what I said, but I remember the Bishop's eyes...and they weren't warm and fuzzy. Great,God...one more person who gets to know me out of context. Why do you do this to me?! And I suppose some clever person will respond, why do you do it to yourself?
Because I want to change the world. I want it to love one another for real, not out of fear of what God might do because we are not loving, but because we finally know in our hearts that loving one another is the right thing to do. And yes, I am a fool for love. And somewhere inside my silly little brain, I know that frivolous moment, something important was happening...getting closer to where I am supposed to be, an obstacle overcome...even if it wasn't the way I wanted it to happened...it was the way He wanted it to happen...and so the humiliation only makes me laugh...and love more.
Saw this priest who speaks on Fox News (I don't watch TV) and he was saying the same thing I've been saying...but because he's a priest, and because he is charismatic...they listen. I don't care how people listen, just as long as they do, so I was delighted that he was saying what I thought needed to be said. I think, if I had TV, I would watch him, even on Fox News. I think he's real. Authentic...
I hope so.
Then, only moments later, I went with a friend to hear a priest speak in Spanish. A priest from Spain. A priest with the grace of ten, no a hundred men. He sat in a chair, because he was too weak to stand. My friend secured us seats on the front row. I was captivated by him. I kept watching his hands, the skin on them seems to be more like clothing than skin. He gestured like a prophet. His eyes held me transfixed...and although I could understand only perhaps half of what he was saying, I felt him. His heart entered my heart...and I wept because he loved God so much. Vicky whispered in my ear something like, "He just said, "We need to stop trying to love God so much, what we really need to do is let Him love us." And then I lost myself completely. How dare he use such words around me? I could not fight him. I knew he was right...and I felt like I was meeting Jesus for the very first time.
I thought about how a deacon said the same words to me last summer and how different they sounded then. And how beautiful they sound now. Maybe how we say things is as important as what we say....
I thought about the night before, with the women I 'watched over' at the Missionaries of Charity house. How they couldn't understand why I wanted to be a nun and how could I possibly give up sex for the rest of my life...and I laughed and said, I am older you know...it's just not that big of a deal anymore...I have something better. And I looked at them, some with several children...and a long hard road ahead...and how can I tell them about God's love? How can I show them God's love? And so, in my foolishness, I read them the 139th psalm. One just kept her head low, some part of her liked it. Another said, maybe my life choice was really a good way to live, that she had an odd love for God, too. I kept wondering if I could help, how can I witness to what I have been given? How can I share in complete humility the gift of grace?
But as I was listening to this amazing priest...whose words were hard for me to follow...I thought about how strongly I had had been trying to give...when it occurred to me that I needed to receive.
Like at Holy Communion. I prefer to not receive in my hand. I don't want to be in control of how it happens. I want to be in a position of humility. That of a little child who needs to be fed. I need to receive, not take...I simply need to be open, like the birds in the next...nephesh...hungry.
It kind of took on a life of its own, this sermon that was more than words. The priest touched me because I could not rely on my usual skills to stay engaged...I had to be receptive in another way. Vulnerable.
So the newness came to a peak when his talk was finished and he was completely surrounded by people. The Spanish population is not as stiff-necked as we white people are sometimes. They are often not afraid to show emotion, or love, to others. I like to love that way, too...but I know it worries some people, they don't get me...that's okay. But these people surrounded him and kissed him. Cameras and phones flashed...the attendants had to move him off the stage because no one would leave him. They put him in a chair in the another room and the people continued to surround him.
My friend also wished for a photo, so we stayed and I took pictures...but as I witnessed the love, I got more curious...and I found myself reaching out to touch him...and he took my hand and pulled me down. His hand was the softest hand I had ever touched, and it truly held me. He pulled me closer and I kissed him on the cheek. Gracias, I said. Even I had surprised myself. This man understood what Jesus meant when he said "Love one another." He looked at me and pointed outward...they are trying to take your picture...and I am thinking what do I care? That's not what this is about. I've just met a really holy man. I can't forget how this feels...I don't need a picture. I close my eyes.
And I wondered, when I got up and started to cry on Vicky's shoulder, is this what it might have been like, to meet Jesus? Is this what they may have felt? I didn't really understand much of what he said, but I am certain everything he said was right...is this what it may have been like for them, way back then? How could I fall for this...holy man? How I longed to speak his language, but how grateful I was for the meeting.
The day was filled with words...but more than words loved my heart.
Love, Cindy
I've been attending the Catholic Conference here in Dallas. My heart has been bouncing with joy, knowing so many people from so many places now, connecting them with others and then connecting to their friends. Part of me leaps for joy at all the good in my life...and then I look at the collars and I get slammed with a reality: "You will never be a priest." And it wounds me again and again when I have to remember that. But the wound does not cripple anymore, it does not send me down the drain of despair...but it still makes me sad, but only for moments.
A big moment was when I met the Bishop, though I really wasn't introduced formally. Another priest pulled me over and said, "Tell him (THE Bishop) what you told me. I just can't believe she said that, he tells the Bishop, she made my day." ( I look up at both of them and think, I don't have a clue what I said, or how I said it...you are asking me to actually remember something I did? You have got to be kidding! I don't plan anything, I just go with the Spirit...and HE never lets me in on His real plan...)
I don't have a clue what I said, but I remember the Bishop's eyes...and they weren't warm and fuzzy. Great,God...one more person who gets to know me out of context. Why do you do this to me?! And I suppose some clever person will respond, why do you do it to yourself?
Because I want to change the world. I want it to love one another for real, not out of fear of what God might do because we are not loving, but because we finally know in our hearts that loving one another is the right thing to do. And yes, I am a fool for love. And somewhere inside my silly little brain, I know that frivolous moment, something important was happening...getting closer to where I am supposed to be, an obstacle overcome...even if it wasn't the way I wanted it to happened...it was the way He wanted it to happen...and so the humiliation only makes me laugh...and love more.
Saw this priest who speaks on Fox News (I don't watch TV) and he was saying the same thing I've been saying...but because he's a priest, and because he is charismatic...they listen. I don't care how people listen, just as long as they do, so I was delighted that he was saying what I thought needed to be said. I think, if I had TV, I would watch him, even on Fox News. I think he's real. Authentic...
I hope so.
Then, only moments later, I went with a friend to hear a priest speak in Spanish. A priest from Spain. A priest with the grace of ten, no a hundred men. He sat in a chair, because he was too weak to stand. My friend secured us seats on the front row. I was captivated by him. I kept watching his hands, the skin on them seems to be more like clothing than skin. He gestured like a prophet. His eyes held me transfixed...and although I could understand only perhaps half of what he was saying, I felt him. His heart entered my heart...and I wept because he loved God so much. Vicky whispered in my ear something like, "He just said, "We need to stop trying to love God so much, what we really need to do is let Him love us." And then I lost myself completely. How dare he use such words around me? I could not fight him. I knew he was right...and I felt like I was meeting Jesus for the very first time.
I thought about how a deacon said the same words to me last summer and how different they sounded then. And how beautiful they sound now. Maybe how we say things is as important as what we say....
I thought about the night before, with the women I 'watched over' at the Missionaries of Charity house. How they couldn't understand why I wanted to be a nun and how could I possibly give up sex for the rest of my life...and I laughed and said, I am older you know...it's just not that big of a deal anymore...I have something better. And I looked at them, some with several children...and a long hard road ahead...and how can I tell them about God's love? How can I show them God's love? And so, in my foolishness, I read them the 139th psalm. One just kept her head low, some part of her liked it. Another said, maybe my life choice was really a good way to live, that she had an odd love for God, too. I kept wondering if I could help, how can I witness to what I have been given? How can I share in complete humility the gift of grace?
But as I was listening to this amazing priest...whose words were hard for me to follow...I thought about how strongly I had had been trying to give...when it occurred to me that I needed to receive.
Like at Holy Communion. I prefer to not receive in my hand. I don't want to be in control of how it happens. I want to be in a position of humility. That of a little child who needs to be fed. I need to receive, not take...I simply need to be open, like the birds in the next...nephesh...hungry.
It kind of took on a life of its own, this sermon that was more than words. The priest touched me because I could not rely on my usual skills to stay engaged...I had to be receptive in another way. Vulnerable.
So the newness came to a peak when his talk was finished and he was completely surrounded by people. The Spanish population is not as stiff-necked as we white people are sometimes. They are often not afraid to show emotion, or love, to others. I like to love that way, too...but I know it worries some people, they don't get me...that's okay. But these people surrounded him and kissed him. Cameras and phones flashed...the attendants had to move him off the stage because no one would leave him. They put him in a chair in the another room and the people continued to surround him.
My friend also wished for a photo, so we stayed and I took pictures...but as I witnessed the love, I got more curious...and I found myself reaching out to touch him...and he took my hand and pulled me down. His hand was the softest hand I had ever touched, and it truly held me. He pulled me closer and I kissed him on the cheek. Gracias, I said. Even I had surprised myself. This man understood what Jesus meant when he said "Love one another." He looked at me and pointed outward...they are trying to take your picture...and I am thinking what do I care? That's not what this is about. I've just met a really holy man. I can't forget how this feels...I don't need a picture. I close my eyes.
And I wondered, when I got up and started to cry on Vicky's shoulder, is this what it might have been like, to meet Jesus? Is this what they may have felt? I didn't really understand much of what he said, but I am certain everything he said was right...is this what it may have been like for them, way back then? How could I fall for this...holy man? How I longed to speak his language, but how grateful I was for the meeting.
The day was filled with words...but more than words loved my heart.
Love, Cindy
Penumbra
pe·num·bra
/pɪˈnʌmbrə/[pi-nuhm-bruh]–noun,
1.Astronomy:
the partial or imperfect shadow outside the complete shadow of an opaque body, as a planet, where the light from the source of illumination is only partly cut off.
b.the grayish marginal portion of a sunspot.
2.a shadowy, indefinite, or marginal area.
Just coming off of my third ACTS retreat. It is the Catholic version of the Protestant version (Walk to Emmaus) of the Catholic "Cursillo," and has similarities to the evangelical "Tres Dias." I was not always the happy camper on the way up to the mountaintop, but once I got there, I was awed by the power of the Holy Spirit! Once again, as on the previous two retreats, God surprised me over and over again. Many things I cannot tell you, as a promise to the rules of the retreat. But I can speak to some feelings.
I was exhausted.
I was confused.
I was overwhelmed.
I was afraid.
I was discouraged.
I was angry.
I was disappointed.
I was disagreeable.
I was unforgiving.
I was judging.
I felt alone.
I was all too often in a state of sin.
But as I accept those truths about myself, I can also write:
I was elated.
I was surprised.
I was protected.
I was inspired.
I was impressed.
I was excited.
I was comforted.
I was helped.
I was forgiven.
I was cherished.
I was loved.
I was not alone.
I was in the shadow of His wing, swimming in His grace...
Our humanity, by its own definition, is always in a state of change, it is always in a state of confusion and it is always self-absorbed. But through the gift of Christ Jesus, humanity is also in, or can be in, a state of grace and mercy.
No good deed goes unpunished. No project is complete, things never quite happen as they are planned, but the Holy Spirit seems to make is all just perfect.
Dozens of things went wrong, but much more than that went right. We did our dancing, we sang our songs, we drew our pictures, we wrote our books...
perfectly and imperfectly.
We made new friends...and we forgave each other ALOT...and everything worked out. When we were exhausted beyond description, we stood and walked up the mountain again, sometimes holding our dear sisters of so carefully, glancing into each others eyes for that support that comes without words.
Each retreat is different, though the base plan always is the same: Living out examples of what it really means to love one another.
Oh if we could only do that every day!
But we can. Living always so close to both the shadow and the light, we try to keep our eyes on the Light, while it is there. We follow the light until we are fully bathed in it...thinking we have it all figured out and then, without really understanding why, the light leaves again and we are inconsolable.
As long as we are human, we will always live in the dark and in the light. We therefore need God so desperately, to keep us going, both in light and in darkness.
This was a few days ago...the full moon has arrived. New blessings have arrived. Stunned, awed, but it seems not really silenced by all the lives I am connected to now. I love being connected. It's about time.
To all those I love, and to all those I have yet to love: Thank you.
Love, Cindy
/pɪˈnʌmbrə/[pi-nuhm-bruh]–noun,
1.Astronomy:
the partial or imperfect shadow outside the complete shadow of an opaque body, as a planet, where the light from the source of illumination is only partly cut off.
b.the grayish marginal portion of a sunspot.
2.a shadowy, indefinite, or marginal area.
Just coming off of my third ACTS retreat. It is the Catholic version of the Protestant version (Walk to Emmaus) of the Catholic "Cursillo," and has similarities to the evangelical "Tres Dias." I was not always the happy camper on the way up to the mountaintop, but once I got there, I was awed by the power of the Holy Spirit! Once again, as on the previous two retreats, God surprised me over and over again. Many things I cannot tell you, as a promise to the rules of the retreat. But I can speak to some feelings.
I was exhausted.
I was confused.
I was overwhelmed.
I was afraid.
I was discouraged.
I was angry.
I was disappointed.
I was disagreeable.
I was unforgiving.
I was judging.
I felt alone.
I was all too often in a state of sin.
But as I accept those truths about myself, I can also write:
I was elated.
I was surprised.
I was protected.
I was inspired.
I was impressed.
I was excited.
I was comforted.
I was helped.
I was forgiven.
I was cherished.
I was loved.
I was not alone.
I was in the shadow of His wing, swimming in His grace...
Our humanity, by its own definition, is always in a state of change, it is always in a state of confusion and it is always self-absorbed. But through the gift of Christ Jesus, humanity is also in, or can be in, a state of grace and mercy.
No good deed goes unpunished. No project is complete, things never quite happen as they are planned, but the Holy Spirit seems to make is all just perfect.
Dozens of things went wrong, but much more than that went right. We did our dancing, we sang our songs, we drew our pictures, we wrote our books...
perfectly and imperfectly.
We made new friends...and we forgave each other ALOT...and everything worked out. When we were exhausted beyond description, we stood and walked up the mountain again, sometimes holding our dear sisters of so carefully, glancing into each others eyes for that support that comes without words.
Each retreat is different, though the base plan always is the same: Living out examples of what it really means to love one another.
Oh if we could only do that every day!
But we can. Living always so close to both the shadow and the light, we try to keep our eyes on the Light, while it is there. We follow the light until we are fully bathed in it...thinking we have it all figured out and then, without really understanding why, the light leaves again and we are inconsolable.
As long as we are human, we will always live in the dark and in the light. We therefore need God so desperately, to keep us going, both in light and in darkness.
This was a few days ago...the full moon has arrived. New blessings have arrived. Stunned, awed, but it seems not really silenced by all the lives I am connected to now. I love being connected. It's about time.
To all those I love, and to all those I have yet to love: Thank you.
Love, Cindy
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Mirror, mirror
I found him in the chapel. He was pretty bad off. He was also incredibly young. I don't know exactly how the conversation began, or how it got to where it did...I just sat and prayed, "Oh holy God...what do you want me to do?"
His grandmother's imminent death was triggering a truck load of memories for him. I just went along for the ride. "Oh God, give me the strength to hear him well!"
He talked about his life which seemed like a CSI television show with very few commercials. Seven funerals in two months. He was very clear with graphic descriptions of one suicide after another and then a murder...and so much else. He talked about his nightmares and how afraid he was of things that go bump in the night.
How do I tell him that I hear him? That I understand him? Much of what he said, I knew about from personal experience. But that he did not need to know. Still he needed to be reassured. I told him that all the things he was feeling were normal. He disliked being afraid. I told him he was brave. Fear is normal when you are faced with losing someone you love. Not running away is brave. And tears are not a sign of weakness but of strength. Ah tears, I have cried a lot of them. And in the last month, my shoulders have been wet with the tears of others.
When he was finished with what seemed like a litany of suffering, he rested a minute.
"Ma'am. I really need a cigarette."
And so we went outside and sat on the curb. He began to calm down a bit. He told me about what he was doing now. Good things. Better things. I couldn't stop thinking, he is so young.
We talked about God awhile. Yes, he loved God. We talked about school. We talked about the military. He said he wanted to be a singer. I smiled. He said he wanted to sing gospel music. I told him I thought that was a great idea and that that was what my son most loved to do too.
We talked about important things and not important things. And then, when I thought he might be ready, I asked him if we could go up and pray with his grandmother.
"I don't want to see her like this," he told me. He didn't want to remember it like his grandfather's death.
It will be okay. I'll be be there. You won't be alone again.
So we went to see his grandmother. Lots of tubes, lots of plastic bags with liquids and lots of machines. Walking into her room, he didn't look much over five years old in my eyes. We put on the gloves and the gown. I showed him how to do it.
I introduced him to the nurse, who I had talked with briefly to get permission to come into the room so late at night. She was amazing. I want a woman like her around me when my time comes.
And the three of us stood around her bed.
"Go ahead, Brian, tell her what you want her to know."
He reached under the sheets and found her hand, and he called to her and said a couple of words. The nurse and I stood with him.
He looks at me, "She's not waking up. I want her to wake up."
"I know you do." I tell him it may take time. He knows the doctors have said she will probably not make it through the night. We pray.
More silence.
"Why don't you sing to her?" I think about my dad, and how he woke up from his coma when he heard my grandchildren singing...
He stays quiet, so I start singing Amazing Grace and he joins in but he really doesn't know the words. I stop.
"Sing her a song you know she likes, Brian. I know it will make her happy."
And he sings. And his voice is stunningly beautiful. Stunningly clear. Stunning melodic. He does not sound like a boy at all.
And God just slams me to the ground. This is his gift, I think. God let me see this boy's gift. In the midst of the hits and punches of a hard life, he has a gift and he knows he has a gift. An angel's voice singing to his grandmother. She doesn't wake up. I watch grandma's face. No visible response. I'm thinking they have her deeply sedated...that voice could knock down the walls of Jericho. But I know she was listening.
The nurse smiles at him. "She heard you, Brian. She heard you."
I suppose I should not be writing this down so soon after it happened. I've changed parts of course, but perhaps it is not appropriate.
I've just be present for a deep feelings this fall. Hearing them, being a witness to them is important. We heal one another when we listen to them. Our broken pieces begin to mend. Each time we tell our story, we discover something new about ourselves. Don't ever think that you are boring someone with your witness to life. Yes, there will be people who constantly look at their watch, people who cannot yet be present for someone else, but there will be people who are able to hear...
Those of us who listen are blessed, too. Not just with the story in front of us, but in how God weaves that story into the fabric of our own lives.
You will hear the story of the Resurrection in church when you are small and can smell the crisply iron linen of your new Easter dress and hear the ruffles of two petticoats when you kneel in the pew. That is one Resurrection story. But in another moment of time, you may hear the Resurrection story holding the hand of the woman you love, that you plan to marry...and the story will mean something entirely different in that moment.
And years, later, you will sit in a hospital room with a parent and hear the story again...not because someone is reading to you the Bible, but because you look at what is in front of you and know that in moments, the familiar laughter, the smile, the moments of encouragement, the fishing trips, the hand that gave you strength...is, as expected, returning to its Maker...and you will have to believe and let go...let it happen...and thank God for the gift you had...even if it all feels much too short. It is still a gift.
John 12:
Jesus said to them, "The light will be among you only a little while. Walk while you have the light, so that darkness may not overcome you. Whoever walks in the dark does not know where he is going. While you have the light, believe in the light, so that you may become children of the light."
To live means to die also. That is part of the gift. Find your song and sing it for others while you are here. It is what we were created for. To sing for God.
And remember also the end of John 16, just before the passion begins:
Jesus answered them, "Do you believe now? Behold, the hour is coming and has arrived when each of you will be scattered to his own home and you will leave me alone. But I am not alone, because the Father is with me. I have told you this so that you might have peace in me. In the world you will have trouble, but take courage, I have conquered the world."
Sing.
Love, Cindy
His grandmother's imminent death was triggering a truck load of memories for him. I just went along for the ride. "Oh God, give me the strength to hear him well!"
He talked about his life which seemed like a CSI television show with very few commercials. Seven funerals in two months. He was very clear with graphic descriptions of one suicide after another and then a murder...and so much else. He talked about his nightmares and how afraid he was of things that go bump in the night.
How do I tell him that I hear him? That I understand him? Much of what he said, I knew about from personal experience. But that he did not need to know. Still he needed to be reassured. I told him that all the things he was feeling were normal. He disliked being afraid. I told him he was brave. Fear is normal when you are faced with losing someone you love. Not running away is brave. And tears are not a sign of weakness but of strength. Ah tears, I have cried a lot of them. And in the last month, my shoulders have been wet with the tears of others.
When he was finished with what seemed like a litany of suffering, he rested a minute.
"Ma'am. I really need a cigarette."
And so we went outside and sat on the curb. He began to calm down a bit. He told me about what he was doing now. Good things. Better things. I couldn't stop thinking, he is so young.
We talked about God awhile. Yes, he loved God. We talked about school. We talked about the military. He said he wanted to be a singer. I smiled. He said he wanted to sing gospel music. I told him I thought that was a great idea and that that was what my son most loved to do too.
We talked about important things and not important things. And then, when I thought he might be ready, I asked him if we could go up and pray with his grandmother.
"I don't want to see her like this," he told me. He didn't want to remember it like his grandfather's death.
It will be okay. I'll be be there. You won't be alone again.
So we went to see his grandmother. Lots of tubes, lots of plastic bags with liquids and lots of machines. Walking into her room, he didn't look much over five years old in my eyes. We put on the gloves and the gown. I showed him how to do it.
I introduced him to the nurse, who I had talked with briefly to get permission to come into the room so late at night. She was amazing. I want a woman like her around me when my time comes.
And the three of us stood around her bed.
"Go ahead, Brian, tell her what you want her to know."
He reached under the sheets and found her hand, and he called to her and said a couple of words. The nurse and I stood with him.
He looks at me, "She's not waking up. I want her to wake up."
"I know you do." I tell him it may take time. He knows the doctors have said she will probably not make it through the night. We pray.
More silence.
"Why don't you sing to her?" I think about my dad, and how he woke up from his coma when he heard my grandchildren singing...
He stays quiet, so I start singing Amazing Grace and he joins in but he really doesn't know the words. I stop.
"Sing her a song you know she likes, Brian. I know it will make her happy."
And he sings. And his voice is stunningly beautiful. Stunningly clear. Stunning melodic. He does not sound like a boy at all.
And God just slams me to the ground. This is his gift, I think. God let me see this boy's gift. In the midst of the hits and punches of a hard life, he has a gift and he knows he has a gift. An angel's voice singing to his grandmother. She doesn't wake up. I watch grandma's face. No visible response. I'm thinking they have her deeply sedated...that voice could knock down the walls of Jericho. But I know she was listening.
The nurse smiles at him. "She heard you, Brian. She heard you."
I suppose I should not be writing this down so soon after it happened. I've changed parts of course, but perhaps it is not appropriate.
I've just be present for a deep feelings this fall. Hearing them, being a witness to them is important. We heal one another when we listen to them. Our broken pieces begin to mend. Each time we tell our story, we discover something new about ourselves. Don't ever think that you are boring someone with your witness to life. Yes, there will be people who constantly look at their watch, people who cannot yet be present for someone else, but there will be people who are able to hear...
Those of us who listen are blessed, too. Not just with the story in front of us, but in how God weaves that story into the fabric of our own lives.
You will hear the story of the Resurrection in church when you are small and can smell the crisply iron linen of your new Easter dress and hear the ruffles of two petticoats when you kneel in the pew. That is one Resurrection story. But in another moment of time, you may hear the Resurrection story holding the hand of the woman you love, that you plan to marry...and the story will mean something entirely different in that moment.
And years, later, you will sit in a hospital room with a parent and hear the story again...not because someone is reading to you the Bible, but because you look at what is in front of you and know that in moments, the familiar laughter, the smile, the moments of encouragement, the fishing trips, the hand that gave you strength...is, as expected, returning to its Maker...and you will have to believe and let go...let it happen...and thank God for the gift you had...even if it all feels much too short. It is still a gift.
John 12:
Jesus said to them, "The light will be among you only a little while. Walk while you have the light, so that darkness may not overcome you. Whoever walks in the dark does not know where he is going. While you have the light, believe in the light, so that you may become children of the light."
To live means to die also. That is part of the gift. Find your song and sing it for others while you are here. It is what we were created for. To sing for God.
And remember also the end of John 16, just before the passion begins:
Jesus answered them, "Do you believe now? Behold, the hour is coming and has arrived when each of you will be scattered to his own home and you will leave me alone. But I am not alone, because the Father is with me. I have told you this so that you might have peace in me. In the world you will have trouble, but take courage, I have conquered the world."
Sing.
Love, Cindy
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Moonstrance II
How interesting in only a few hours things change. We consider our lives as dust in the wind, here today and tomorrow are gone and no one will remember who or what we were. I sat in the hospital with a Catholic family this morning. The mother asked me for an anointing for her child. I said I could bless, but not anoint. I made the comment that as a woman, I was not allowed to do that and because I had already been accused of doing that, formally, by a priest who had written my pastor that I was doing it.
Father called me aside one morning many months ago. "Cindy are you anointing people in the hospital?" "No!" I said emphatically. And he told me about the letter. I explained that I had gotten into a conversation concerning last rites and learned some new things and I shared what I had learned.
And like any good gossip, the fish got bigger and bigger until a priest heard about it and suddenly, I was a fallen woman. "No!" I told him. "Never done it. Won't do it." I explained what I thought may have happened. He sighed. I thought, yeah, well, if they aren't shooting at you, you aren't doing your job.
And I also thought, "well, Father, no one has ever asked me to anoint, so I haven't had to face what I would or would not do."
So when Mother asked me, I wanted to be very clear, that if the conversation returned to a priest, I let them know I knew the rules. I know the rules. I bend to the rules because within the Catholic Church, I can love God best.
SO what exactly do I do as a chaplain? What do I do as a Eucharistic Minister? Or an Extraordinary Minister? Or as a Lector? Or as a Catechist?
I don't do anything. God uses me to do His work. Just like He uses a priest.
Or not.
I went to my car, glad to have had the chance to pray with and provide Holy Communion to a family. It is the work that energizes me. But again, the questions arrive: What are you doing here? Why do you dare, you a sinner, to share the grace of God with anyone? And the question snowballs.
"Lord I am not worthy, to have you do anything for me, or for me to do anything for you, but if only you say the word...then I shall be healed."
Then I can serve you, then I can share your grace with others. Then you can use me to heal others.
And from the hospital to the next, the next painful thing...where I held on as the head rested on my shoulder and the tears flowed freely and maybe I did it all wrong...only time will tell...but I keep saying what I knew as truth "Better out than in" Cry it out, cry it away...this is your gift...let it heal you...and then in the midst, God wounded me again...and I let my tears flow, too.
What I have done for you, you must also do for others.
I walk into the fire, into the darkness and tell Him "yes" once more. I don't have a clue about whether or not I have followed the rules well enough to satisfy everyone...I know that, if my heart is right, He will straighten all the wrong angles. I simply have to continue to learn what it means to be obedient. That's hard. What is easy for some is so hard for me. What is hard for others is easy for me.
Today's reading:Gal 3:22-29
Brothers and sisters:
Scripture confined all things under the power of sin,
that through faith in Jesus Christ
the promise might be given to those who believe.
Before faith came, we were held in custody under law,
confined for the faith that was to be revealed.
Consequently, the law was our disciplinarian for Christ,
that we might be justified by faith.
But now that faith has come, we are no longer under a disciplinarian.
For through faith you are all children of God in Christ Jesus.
For all of you who were baptized into Christ
have clothed yourselves with Christ.
There is neither Jew nor Greek,
there is neither slave nor free person,
there is not male and female;
for you are all one in Christ Jesus.
And if you belong to Christ, then you are Abraham’s descendants,
heirs according to the promise.
Faith of a mustard seed. How long before I have the faith of a mustard seed?
New moon. New challenges. New temptations. New blessings. New birth.
Oh, Mother of the Most Holy Rosary, hold me close and keep me focused on Him.
Love, Cindy
Father called me aside one morning many months ago. "Cindy are you anointing people in the hospital?" "No!" I said emphatically. And he told me about the letter. I explained that I had gotten into a conversation concerning last rites and learned some new things and I shared what I had learned.
And like any good gossip, the fish got bigger and bigger until a priest heard about it and suddenly, I was a fallen woman. "No!" I told him. "Never done it. Won't do it." I explained what I thought may have happened. He sighed. I thought, yeah, well, if they aren't shooting at you, you aren't doing your job.
And I also thought, "well, Father, no one has ever asked me to anoint, so I haven't had to face what I would or would not do."
So when Mother asked me, I wanted to be very clear, that if the conversation returned to a priest, I let them know I knew the rules. I know the rules. I bend to the rules because within the Catholic Church, I can love God best.
SO what exactly do I do as a chaplain? What do I do as a Eucharistic Minister? Or an Extraordinary Minister? Or as a Lector? Or as a Catechist?
I don't do anything. God uses me to do His work. Just like He uses a priest.
Or not.
I went to my car, glad to have had the chance to pray with and provide Holy Communion to a family. It is the work that energizes me. But again, the questions arrive: What are you doing here? Why do you dare, you a sinner, to share the grace of God with anyone? And the question snowballs.
"Lord I am not worthy, to have you do anything for me, or for me to do anything for you, but if only you say the word...then I shall be healed."
Then I can serve you, then I can share your grace with others. Then you can use me to heal others.
And from the hospital to the next, the next painful thing...where I held on as the head rested on my shoulder and the tears flowed freely and maybe I did it all wrong...only time will tell...but I keep saying what I knew as truth "Better out than in" Cry it out, cry it away...this is your gift...let it heal you...and then in the midst, God wounded me again...and I let my tears flow, too.
What I have done for you, you must also do for others.
I walk into the fire, into the darkness and tell Him "yes" once more. I don't have a clue about whether or not I have followed the rules well enough to satisfy everyone...I know that, if my heart is right, He will straighten all the wrong angles. I simply have to continue to learn what it means to be obedient. That's hard. What is easy for some is so hard for me. What is hard for others is easy for me.
Today's reading:Gal 3:22-29
Brothers and sisters:
Scripture confined all things under the power of sin,
that through faith in Jesus Christ
the promise might be given to those who believe.
Before faith came, we were held in custody under law,
confined for the faith that was to be revealed.
Consequently, the law was our disciplinarian for Christ,
that we might be justified by faith.
But now that faith has come, we are no longer under a disciplinarian.
For through faith you are all children of God in Christ Jesus.
For all of you who were baptized into Christ
have clothed yourselves with Christ.
There is neither Jew nor Greek,
there is neither slave nor free person,
there is not male and female;
for you are all one in Christ Jesus.
And if you belong to Christ, then you are Abraham’s descendants,
heirs according to the promise.
Faith of a mustard seed. How long before I have the faith of a mustard seed?
New moon. New challenges. New temptations. New blessings. New birth.
Oh, Mother of the Most Holy Rosary, hold me close and keep me focused on Him.
Love, Cindy
Moonstrance
MONSTRANCE (emblem)
A symbol of the Blessed Sacrament since the monstrance is the sacred vessel which contains the consecrated Host when exposed or carried in procession. It is a well-known emblem of St. Clare, who is reported to have repulsed unbelievers who assaulted her convent of nuns by presenting to their gaze Christ in the monstrance. St. Peter Julian Eymard, founder of the Blessed Sacrament Fathers, is symbolized carrying the monstrance and blessing the people with it. St. Thomas Aquinas has the monstrance among his many emblems as the author of the famous hymns Lauda Sion and Pange Lingua, written to honor the Eucharistic Lord. St. John Neumann, who first established the forty hours' devotion in America, and St. Paschal Baylon, patron of Eucharistic Congresses, are both represented in art with the monstrance. (Etym. Latin monstrans, from monstrare, to show, point out, indicate.)
Very interesting week. Met with two priests and a nun. And an almost priest. And and artist. And then celebrated Mass with three nuns from the Missionaries of Charity. My Catholic friends will probably correct me: only priests celebrate the Mass. Ah yes...well, what to do we with the priesthood of believers...and isn't the Mass, in fact a communal effort? Those who gather celebrate. They also sacrifice.
Being a moon child, this week has significant meaning for me on many levels. Nine months ago I made a promise to God to live deliberately within His Light. Each day since then has been a step forward into that Light. It is both exhilirating and terrifying. And there is no turning back, there is only turning away. And that is something I do not wish to do.
The new moon was October 7th. Our Lady of the Holy Rosary was also October 7th. And for the last month or so, I have found myself in a spiritual plain that is exquisite and compelling. I have done my best to engage many different souls who are consecrated to God to discuss with them this journey. And with consecrated souls not, shall I say, formally decreed holy, but in knowing them...I know they are holy people.
God has provided me with a bouquet of men and women who make up parts of the Body of Christ who are willing to hear me and, at least in my presence, not judge the odd things I share with them.
It is truly a holiday of spirit.
I have allowed myself to lose myself in God this past month. I have wandered back into the mystery that I knew as a child. Of my experience of a truth that surpasses all human understandings and would, by its nature, sustain me through terrible evils and sufferings.
Such a thing is not unique. Please understand, I think God provides this for all of us, if we are willing to accept it. Not everyone accepts. Some are afraid. Some play it safe. Some have had it happen to them, but they can't or won't name it. But I'm putting the pieces together. And who knows what the picture will look like.
I have to go to Mass now, but I'm posting this. I'll finish it when I get home.
Love, Cindy
A symbol of the Blessed Sacrament since the monstrance is the sacred vessel which contains the consecrated Host when exposed or carried in procession. It is a well-known emblem of St. Clare, who is reported to have repulsed unbelievers who assaulted her convent of nuns by presenting to their gaze Christ in the monstrance. St. Peter Julian Eymard, founder of the Blessed Sacrament Fathers, is symbolized carrying the monstrance and blessing the people with it. St. Thomas Aquinas has the monstrance among his many emblems as the author of the famous hymns Lauda Sion and Pange Lingua, written to honor the Eucharistic Lord. St. John Neumann, who first established the forty hours' devotion in America, and St. Paschal Baylon, patron of Eucharistic Congresses, are both represented in art with the monstrance. (Etym. Latin monstrans, from monstrare, to show, point out, indicate.)
Very interesting week. Met with two priests and a nun. And an almost priest. And and artist. And then celebrated Mass with three nuns from the Missionaries of Charity. My Catholic friends will probably correct me: only priests celebrate the Mass. Ah yes...well, what to do we with the priesthood of believers...and isn't the Mass, in fact a communal effort? Those who gather celebrate. They also sacrifice.
Being a moon child, this week has significant meaning for me on many levels. Nine months ago I made a promise to God to live deliberately within His Light. Each day since then has been a step forward into that Light. It is both exhilirating and terrifying. And there is no turning back, there is only turning away. And that is something I do not wish to do.
The new moon was October 7th. Our Lady of the Holy Rosary was also October 7th. And for the last month or so, I have found myself in a spiritual plain that is exquisite and compelling. I have done my best to engage many different souls who are consecrated to God to discuss with them this journey. And with consecrated souls not, shall I say, formally decreed holy, but in knowing them...I know they are holy people.
God has provided me with a bouquet of men and women who make up parts of the Body of Christ who are willing to hear me and, at least in my presence, not judge the odd things I share with them.
It is truly a holiday of spirit.
I have allowed myself to lose myself in God this past month. I have wandered back into the mystery that I knew as a child. Of my experience of a truth that surpasses all human understandings and would, by its nature, sustain me through terrible evils and sufferings.
Such a thing is not unique. Please understand, I think God provides this for all of us, if we are willing to accept it. Not everyone accepts. Some are afraid. Some play it safe. Some have had it happen to them, but they can't or won't name it. But I'm putting the pieces together. And who knows what the picture will look like.
I have to go to Mass now, but I'm posting this. I'll finish it when I get home.
Love, Cindy
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Games People Play
Spending time here instead of with the Bible Study group. The weather is awesome and has my mind racing around ideas a longing for a friend or group of friends that might actually "get" my odd ways of thinking. People able to discern when I am being serious and when I am teasing. Knowing when I am testing and knowing when I am full of 'dog's droppings.' The more I long for it, the lonelier I get. And it is always, always in the fall.
God places a few exceptional minds in my path over the years: Ellen, Sam, Susan, Lisa, Tom, David, Bill,Kathleen, John...but I get so bummed not really having any great conversations anymore. When we were kids, before the drugs fried the brains of some great people, we were brave enough to say what was on our minds, and stupid enough to try to get other people to understand them...now we are old and all the fun is gone. We've made decisions to be old. To give up our dreams. To settle for what is in front of us.
Had a great lunch with a Jesuit priest last week. I asked him my one pressing question as a statement: "Give me one good reason why..." and he smiled and said he couldn't provide one for me. I explained how that was not helpful. He laughed. He said, "Cindy, you are how old now? Maybe it's time to grow up. You are not going to win this one."
No, I won't. Yesterday I got my weekly chair massage. The very nice therapist and I got to talking about suicide. I had just gotten off the phone with friend who had just attended a funeral for yet another young person who had killed himself. A Catholic. Want to say more here, but can't. I would give too much away. But over and over again, it just doesn't stop. The question "Why are we here?" gets too big for some people, and then they grow up, get old, think there is no possibility for change or hope, and they end the pain. So many people feel guilty. What could I have done? Why didn't I see it coming? Didn't he know how much I loved him? And then the truly arrogant thought, "How could she not know that God loves her?" Which is usually followed by the thought:"Good thing I don't think like that!"
I was watching my priest lift up the chalice during Mass this morning, and I remembered something I forgot: when my biological mother committed suicide (on Sept 1st, 1985), I recall thinking about how full my cup had gotten. I thought about that cup on the altar...the Bread is the Body which is the source of Life...but the Cup, while it is the Cup of Life, it is also the Cup of Death...in it we are reconciled to God. With it we are reconciled to God. In it are all the sins, the ones we commit, the ones committed against us, all the deaths, the killing we do each day, in our hearts and with our words, and sometimes with our actions...and to live, we've got to swallow it. We have to assimilate, to receive its truth and then give it to God. Much too much for us to hold inside, we have to share it...with our Christian brothers and sisters...but especially with God. Alone we die, connected...connected to the vine, we have a chance for life.
He was holding that chalice up high and I remembered, how much I endured...how I wanted to die so many times when the truth kept coming up...and those early years in the 80s, when I found my real mother, found out I had a real mother, and then, in the blink of an eye, she was taken from me...by her suicide and I looked at that chalice again and how I told people that my cup was already too full...and her suicide was that one drop that caused my cup to overflow...I couldn't take any more from anyone. I just shut down. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. Spiritually I had shut down many years before...or so I thought. But I didn't have God to lean on. I didn't know God was there. But I did know hell.
All of that came to me as he was holding the chalice. And I thought, how he just listened to generously to me the day before and how we really do have a way out of hell...only most people just don't know that.
And then they kill themselves.
Don't have TV, but been hearing bits and pieces about bullying on FB and the radio in the last 24 hours. And suicides. I have a friend on Facebook right now who took great pleasure in beating the hell out of me when we were kids. She was the person who brought me the greatest comfort at my adopted mother's funeral. Go figure.
Nothing is black and white. And it certainly is not gray, either...but rather, it is the full spectrum of color...sometimes angry reds and burning oranges, and sometimes the heart of love reds and warming oranges...we can reduce the things in our life to categories or to "a,b,c, d" answers. We are more than the flesh and blood that is tangible and measurable. We are part of the Christ. We began there and we long to be home with Him again...in all things.
To enter the kingdom of God, we must become children again. We have to not be old. I posted some stuff on FB, left some crumbs out there for the clever...or the bored...I'll connect a few dots: Shine, the movie: David Helfgott was a great pianist who had a major breakdown: his music condemned him and freed him. The Twilight Zone episode "Kick the Can:" the consequence of deciding to grow up. The Flight of the Bumblebee in a bar...finding beauty in the dark, offering beauty in the dark...and Steel Magnolias: the power of relationship, the gift of anger. Can you see it? This is my way of telling parables. In the 21st century.
The massage therapist was still feeling down six years after his best friend killed himself. I still miss Jackie every fall. But the bit about the chalice is new this year. We look at our demons and each year we grow a little stronger, a little better...but we do not grow up. I do not grow up.
I could grow up. I could decide to be old and let go of my dreams. I could settle. But God has given me the chance to do something different. As painful as it is sometimes, I really like the different. I kind of wish sometimes I was looking out the window to my car in the shade of an olive tree instead of a live oak, but the oak is a good tree, too. It also lives a long life.
I am hearing in the background, finally, my recordings from my iPhone on my computer...now I want so much to put them out here. What a narcissist I am! But it is my art, for whatever reason.
I hear:
Playing the Bach, I hit a wrong note: "Damn!" I hear myself on the recording. It took sitting in the cave of reconciliation last year to get me "over" my obsession for not sharing anything I had with others, for fear of my wrong notes. Not one of us is perfect...and not one of our friends are perfect...
I still want friends who will "get" me, but that's the perfectionist thinking again. Only my divine friend and spouse "gets" me. That should be enough.
MacDowell. Brahms. Recorded. Kind of cool. My ex-husband was right, I am best at playing Brahms. Argh...I still really hate wrong notes.
Why did I write these words this morning? Still on a crusade to stop suicide. To stop violence against the self. To stop bullying. To get us to connect. To hang on to each other, but give away the suffering..to help us allow our cups to overflows with blessings. To share in our brothers' burdens. And the share in their joys. To stay young. To forgive as a child forgives. To love as a child loves. To hope as a child hopes. To dream the dreams of a child. To sit in His lap and let Him love us.
To play games, like "Kick the Can."
Love, Cindy
God places a few exceptional minds in my path over the years: Ellen, Sam, Susan, Lisa, Tom, David, Bill,Kathleen, John...but I get so bummed not really having any great conversations anymore. When we were kids, before the drugs fried the brains of some great people, we were brave enough to say what was on our minds, and stupid enough to try to get other people to understand them...now we are old and all the fun is gone. We've made decisions to be old. To give up our dreams. To settle for what is in front of us.
Had a great lunch with a Jesuit priest last week. I asked him my one pressing question as a statement: "Give me one good reason why..." and he smiled and said he couldn't provide one for me. I explained how that was not helpful. He laughed. He said, "Cindy, you are how old now? Maybe it's time to grow up. You are not going to win this one."
No, I won't. Yesterday I got my weekly chair massage. The very nice therapist and I got to talking about suicide. I had just gotten off the phone with friend who had just attended a funeral for yet another young person who had killed himself. A Catholic. Want to say more here, but can't. I would give too much away. But over and over again, it just doesn't stop. The question "Why are we here?" gets too big for some people, and then they grow up, get old, think there is no possibility for change or hope, and they end the pain. So many people feel guilty. What could I have done? Why didn't I see it coming? Didn't he know how much I loved him? And then the truly arrogant thought, "How could she not know that God loves her?" Which is usually followed by the thought:"Good thing I don't think like that!"
I was watching my priest lift up the chalice during Mass this morning, and I remembered something I forgot: when my biological mother committed suicide (on Sept 1st, 1985), I recall thinking about how full my cup had gotten. I thought about that cup on the altar...the Bread is the Body which is the source of Life...but the Cup, while it is the Cup of Life, it is also the Cup of Death...in it we are reconciled to God. With it we are reconciled to God. In it are all the sins, the ones we commit, the ones committed against us, all the deaths, the killing we do each day, in our hearts and with our words, and sometimes with our actions...and to live, we've got to swallow it. We have to assimilate, to receive its truth and then give it to God. Much too much for us to hold inside, we have to share it...with our Christian brothers and sisters...but especially with God. Alone we die, connected...connected to the vine, we have a chance for life.
He was holding that chalice up high and I remembered, how much I endured...how I wanted to die so many times when the truth kept coming up...and those early years in the 80s, when I found my real mother, found out I had a real mother, and then, in the blink of an eye, she was taken from me...by her suicide and I looked at that chalice again and how I told people that my cup was already too full...and her suicide was that one drop that caused my cup to overflow...I couldn't take any more from anyone. I just shut down. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. Spiritually I had shut down many years before...or so I thought. But I didn't have God to lean on. I didn't know God was there. But I did know hell.
All of that came to me as he was holding the chalice. And I thought, how he just listened to generously to me the day before and how we really do have a way out of hell...only most people just don't know that.
And then they kill themselves.
Don't have TV, but been hearing bits and pieces about bullying on FB and the radio in the last 24 hours. And suicides. I have a friend on Facebook right now who took great pleasure in beating the hell out of me when we were kids. She was the person who brought me the greatest comfort at my adopted mother's funeral. Go figure.
Nothing is black and white. And it certainly is not gray, either...but rather, it is the full spectrum of color...sometimes angry reds and burning oranges, and sometimes the heart of love reds and warming oranges...we can reduce the things in our life to categories or to "a,b,c, d" answers. We are more than the flesh and blood that is tangible and measurable. We are part of the Christ. We began there and we long to be home with Him again...in all things.
To enter the kingdom of God, we must become children again. We have to not be old. I posted some stuff on FB, left some crumbs out there for the clever...or the bored...I'll connect a few dots: Shine, the movie: David Helfgott was a great pianist who had a major breakdown: his music condemned him and freed him. The Twilight Zone episode "Kick the Can:" the consequence of deciding to grow up. The Flight of the Bumblebee in a bar...finding beauty in the dark, offering beauty in the dark...and Steel Magnolias: the power of relationship, the gift of anger. Can you see it? This is my way of telling parables. In the 21st century.
The massage therapist was still feeling down six years after his best friend killed himself. I still miss Jackie every fall. But the bit about the chalice is new this year. We look at our demons and each year we grow a little stronger, a little better...but we do not grow up. I do not grow up.
I could grow up. I could decide to be old and let go of my dreams. I could settle. But God has given me the chance to do something different. As painful as it is sometimes, I really like the different. I kind of wish sometimes I was looking out the window to my car in the shade of an olive tree instead of a live oak, but the oak is a good tree, too. It also lives a long life.
I am hearing in the background, finally, my recordings from my iPhone on my computer...now I want so much to put them out here. What a narcissist I am! But it is my art, for whatever reason.
I hear:
Playing the Bach, I hit a wrong note: "Damn!" I hear myself on the recording. It took sitting in the cave of reconciliation last year to get me "over" my obsession for not sharing anything I had with others, for fear of my wrong notes. Not one of us is perfect...and not one of our friends are perfect...
I still want friends who will "get" me, but that's the perfectionist thinking again. Only my divine friend and spouse "gets" me. That should be enough.
MacDowell. Brahms. Recorded. Kind of cool. My ex-husband was right, I am best at playing Brahms. Argh...I still really hate wrong notes.
Why did I write these words this morning? Still on a crusade to stop suicide. To stop violence against the self. To stop bullying. To get us to connect. To hang on to each other, but give away the suffering..to help us allow our cups to overflows with blessings. To share in our brothers' burdens. And the share in their joys. To stay young. To forgive as a child forgives. To love as a child loves. To hope as a child hopes. To dream the dreams of a child. To sit in His lap and let Him love us.
To play games, like "Kick the Can."
Love, Cindy
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