Divine Mercy

The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.

That's our little platitude from Job to remind us we are not in charge. To remind us EVERYTHING is a gift from God.  The good, the bad, the ugly.  Not one piece of it belongs to us, can't take even a breath with us when we leave. Everything is a gift.

Me, I've been forced to look at my life AGAIN, since the beginning of Lent, with a blind woman who is all about goals. We have struggled together and anytime I try to give her power, she throws it back in my face. And the power I gave to priests...is back in my hands again. I don't want it. I know what it means to take it back. I preferred the fantasy that I could let them guide me closer to God. What I kind of realize now is that I was taking them closer to God...not to the God of Rome...but the God of all the earth. Sounds pretty outrageous and arrogant. Still, I know it is true.

Not by me. Not by the woman named Cindy. But by her life. By how they felt around her, how they reacted...what they learned about themselves. That's the whole point, you know. That's a vision of the Trinitarian God.  The one who entered humanity and loved it.

I don't matter. But what I do matters. Who I touch matters. What I say matters. Who touches me...and why.  This is the incarnation event. Not a noun but a verb.  Nothing about God stands still. We can measure everything else in the universe, but we will never be able to measure God, because God moves...is always moving...there is no time, no place, no word....of  God....these temporal events we have are the incarnation...when a human decided, for whatever reason, to wait, to listen, to the Divine. The human began to understand soul...and then spirit...and learned mercy.

Now take what I wrote and put it on you. Each encounter is holy. Each encounter is divine. Each moment of love that you deny is an outright denial of God.

I don't want that kind of power. I don't want to be aware of the moments I deny God's love. This grief is overwhelming: to realize that I have not loved. Or perhaps to demand love...one can never demand from God anything...although I have certainly given it my best shot. Knowing His Divine Mercy allows me to choose to live in this world that unrelentingly tried to kill every good thing in a human. Divine Mercy allows me to suffer the loneliness and betrayal of those closest to my heart and survive. Divine mercy allows me to forgive the unforgivable...and casts into Hell all that which torments me, reminds me where I have failed, what I ignored, or left behind.

I can't explain these last weeks too well yet. I do not like how I feel and I do not want to be around some people. The male bear in me wants to go into the cave and sort it out first...but the only way to sort it out is coming into the light. Can't solve problems in the dark.

So maybe I'll be resurrected on Divine Mercy Sunday. That would be nice.

Love, Cindy

Zuzu's petals

Thought I'd be walking the labyrinth by now. Gotta write a letter to a friend in prison. Interviewed for a job yesterday. I just might get it. Is that a good or a bad thing? I don't know. Talked to my priest friend yesterday. I was a bit shocked how much that calmed me, after all my work at 'reclaiming my personal power.'
A month ago, I pretty much woke up to all my foolishness in thinking that the priesthood was somehow going to 'redeem' me from my crazy life. I had two priests 'let me down' in less than an hour and a third within a day...and I asked God, "What the hell are you doing to me? How am I supposed to carry on, if not to trust these guys to help?" And It seemed God was saying, "That's not what they are here for." "Okay," I mouth back to Him without any warm fuzzy feelings, "Fine. What's next, God? Bring it on!" Then began the painful process of bringing my view of them back down to "just another guy on the street." That's how it works in me...the pendulum swings way too far one way, the pressure builds and it swings back in the other direction with a huge force...to the other extreme. And oh, I was angry...

I was terrified I was losing God, or at least the Catholic Church...and I felt I was completely alone. It just looked like a bunch of posers...all I could see was the dark side of the Church and it hurt. I saw myself as a fool, stupid, idyllic, romantic...thinking I could make a difference...I was a stupid fool placing my trust in these...men...

And the days went by. People, not priests, would find me...and tell me about my work...how much they appreciated it, how it made them feel...holy moments...one after the other...and at each one, I stood resistant to the love they were offering me. What a fraud, a hoax...an illusion I am. Always a different person came to me...people I didn't know, a few I did know...telling me how something I was doing brought them something good. And I was angry with God for doing that.  I was still stuck in the either/or thinking. That one belief necessarily had to be accompanied by others.

The poem about my dream of being the scruffy dog, denied entrance into the gate because she was not wearing the right uniform...I realize that maybe I don't belong in the uniform, or even inside the gate. That just maybe God has called me to do something else...than to be and look like everybody else. And why do I want to look like everybody else anyway? If I'm bored with conformity, why do I desire it?  That pendulum is swinging away...

I had an amazing visit with my son and his family last weekend. So much love...in the mess of living...Little house, lots of kids...laundry never stops, diapers to be changed, meals to be cooked, but lots and lots and lots of prayer. I see five children who know they are loved...I know because they show love without hesitation. I watch my son and daughter-in-law tame them with gentle encouragement. If they get out of line, they know it, they go to 'time out' and there is no begging, no bargaining...they come back, apologize if needed and start laughing again. My son and his wife understand their marriage as a covenant with God. I look at them in awe...they love and respect each other.

Then my son and I have a conversation about obedience to God. About what real kingdom living is all about. I tell him about my struggles with the Catholic Church. He talks...he sounds like a Catholic, but I don't tell him that. And this child, born of my body, says something...profound and true. I realize how right he is...even though I a fully aware that we each are holding onto different understandings of what he said...and I think...yes, this is what I have to do...and the pendulum is getting closer and closer to the middle. I marvel at our different journeys and yet how God brings them together.

I wonder if that is how Mary felt about Jesus.

So who do I lean on? How do I do the work I've been asked to do with authority, authenticity and sincerity?  How do I stay true to the gospel and true to my heart?  How do I love one another now?

I don't throw everything away. I don't give away the power God gave to me. I remain obedient to my Catholic faith as much as I am able. I allow myself to get angry...but not too angry. I don't isolate. I stay in the mess of being alive. I don't demand perfection. I strive to accept the humanity in the priests in my life, as I accept the humanity in my friends...and work to accept the humanity in myself: flawed, weak, inconsistent, capricious, and also loyal, devoted, passionate....the words all seem to point to one idea: trust.

There are days I look at my life and wish I had never been born. Days I think I would be better off dead. Days when I am so disappointed in myself and the choices I have made that I can't stand to look in the mirror...that I was a fool to love or trust anyone...and that I cannot trust even myself...

And then I hear that voice, the one I do trust. The one I would lay down my life for. The one who know my truths and whose blue eyes sparkle at me as if I was the most beautiful creature on earth. The one who would never hurt me, but protects me.  The one who tells me the hard things, but in ways that I can hear them. The person God gave to me to show me how to live...and how to love.

My own personal Clarence. The one who tells me I really have a wonderful life. The one who puts Zuzu's petals back into my pocket...

With me, it's always drama. This week, my drama seems so small compared to His. Soon I will go to the labyrinth and walk...and recall the story that changed the world. The God/man who changed the world...all because a young woman said yes to a really crazy idea...

What will He tell me as I wander back and forth through what looks like a maze...looks like you could get lost...but you never really do. Back and forth...thinking you are getting closer...then thinking you are getting farther away...but trusting the path to lead you into the center...where He is waiting to tell you something important. And all that wandering and flying back and forth was just to clean you out, to prepare you to listen well. Yeah, it doesn't make too much sense today...but stay faithful it will make sense soon. Trust me.

Love, Cindy

Rebirth: the first risk: March 1996 the first teacher

I watch your brown eyes
as you remove your glasses
They shift from one of my eyes to the other
and back again
They search for my soul
Trying to read me

I sit very still when you do that
Keeping my eyes still and my heart open
Inviting you into my soul
Through a path as straight and wide as I can make it
Come into the essence
That makes me different from every other human being ever created
Look around inside me
Water the plants
Dust off the books
Straighten the linens and
Find the lost key, the misplaced book
Open the curtains
Come inside

With you I am not afraid
I have opened all of myself to you
You do not treat me like an old sock
But like fine Spanish porcelain
Or a freshly budding rose..

I know there is a God
Because you are here
Because I have a soul
And you are holding it
In the palm of your hand

Eucharist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

sound familiar?

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

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

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

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

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

Love, Cindy

Ashes to...

Within the Stravinsky motif
A curious child tests her limits
Plays with fire
And burns brightly
Til she burns out

Enter the stag
Symbol of strength and trust
Pulls her broken body from the ashes
Nudges her back into action

She has only the strength to cry
And her tears bring life
To all that was dead inside her
**************************
I have been commissioned to sing my note
Inside this creation
Only pleasing to God and a few well trained ears
Yet sing it, I must

I stand both inside and out
Not yet knowing whether I belong inside
Or out
What I thought was true
Is illusion
What I thought was illusion
Is true
 *****************************
"Authority rests in Me," He tells me,
"I give to you the gift to heal.
No one on earth can take that from you.
What I bind on earth stays bound to me.
Do not doubt your gift."

"But how? I am just a woman." I tell Him.
"Do not say to Me, 'I am just a woman.'
I will show you the path to walk.
I pulled you out of the ashes
And breathed life into you.
It is okay to cry. Your woman tears
Will breathe life into the dead
And give hope to the discouraged.
Your woman tears are your greatest gift.
They, more than anything else you offer Me,
Pleases Me the most.
They cleanse you
They bathe you
They make you holy
And give you great power.
Do not be afraid of them.
I gave them to you.

Each tear brings life anew
Feeds the earth again
Your special rain creates life
Because you believe in Me.
Because you love Me.
Because I loved you first."

Cindy
copyright April 1, 2011

The Never Ending Story

Written yesterday, March 25, 2011:

This Lent I have pulled out all the stops. This will be a make or break year for me, this third year of deep immersion into my Catholicism.   I intend to face every devil, every demon that I can see, feel, taste, touch or smell...and then I will face all the others that I know are there. Fearing them instead of God seems so impractical.  Read that passage by St Hilary in the Liturgy of the Hours so many times yesterday, I can't help but have it sink into my head somehow. Fear of the Lord.

March 26, 2011:

I had a great awakening yesterday. My aunt's gift, God's gift...who knows. For several years now, I have been told by many different people that I had given too much power to priests. Perhaps that was one reason, one powerful reason, I wanted so very much to be one. I had the chance yesterday to see exactly what that looked like. I was not impressed with myself.

I have finally awakened from the dream. I must now find a different way to deal with the swamps of sadness and the wolves that lurk in the bushes. They will always be there, but several great things have changed. 

I now accept the power God has given me to affect change in this world. I don't need the collar to do it.

All the pieces are coming closer together. I have been almost here for a long, long time. For some reason, I woke up:2 a.m. I placed in the DVD player a different movie: The Never-Ending Story.  

The turtle, Mora just raised his head from the swamp.  The great young boy warrior finds him and demands a conversation. Some of the turtle's lines: "We haven't heard anyone for over a thousand years...so we started talking to ourselves." "We don't care. We don't even care whether or not we care." "No, we're allergic to you." "Not that it matters but yes."  "Die? That at least would be something."  "We're tired of sneezing, go away."  "Nothing matters".  "Ah, clever boy...we don't know, but you can ask the Southern Oracle..."

I recall thinking a few days ago that the Catholic Church was a lot like a turtle.  I don't know why exactly. I love the Catholic Church deeply...but it is at times to me, like a big old turtle that only talks to itself. Then I remembered this movie. That thought made me laugh in Mass, because I remember that my daughter's first word...in her whole life was not 'mom' or 'dad,' but 'turtle.' I laughed again at God's beautiful poetry. Now I look at these lines of the turtle...and I think perhaps there is more to think about.

But this blog, I know in my heart, is done. I will start something new now. Something different. I watched the people I visited this week. They don't care if I am a priest. They want my ministry as I offer it. And it is enough for them. I don't need to be a man. I don't need a collar. 

And I looked at these beautiful nuns from Mexico, visiting the both St Elizabeth's and St Mark's.  That option might actually be reasonable...but not today.  What a ride it has been!

My aunt's death, the proclamation to Mary.  My continued union with God, which began on or very near March 25, 1996. The joy of those unions...or better said...one union that never ceases, just changes shape now and then...

I always wanted them to be respected and believed. I realized yesterday that only those who desire this kind of wisdom will seek it and receive it. Simply because I know it to be perfect does not make it perfect for anyone else. I was slow to learn. But I have learned.

Thank you for being there. For helping me walk this path. For putting up with my noise. And my fear. I have walked past the oracle that examined my true heart and survived. I offer to God my heart, contrite and humbled, to use as He chooses...inside or outside the Catholic Church. His Will not mine. I am now standing before the mirror that will show me my true self...and I will not be afraid...I will befriend what I see. And then...I will be given a new name...and find the human child and name her: "God is with us."  

All the stories in the world begin and end in this one story, the never-ending story. The story of us and our walk with God. Sometimes close and sometimes far away. Sometimes with others. Sometimes alone. Sometimes we are being stoned and sometimes we are the ones doing the stoning. And when we fall, we get up again...and forgive...and be forgiven. But always always always, we do it all in love.

Last time here. Thanks for holding my hand. 3:14 a.m. Saturday. 3/26/11

Love, Cindy

You've got a friend

Being an only child, friends were essential for survival. I look back over the years and I have been blessed with great friends. Amazing friends. Genius friends...and the most loving friends any human being could ever wish for.

At the very end of the movie, "It's a Wonderful Life," Clarence leaves a book for George Bailey in the basket of music. (I believe it is a copy of Huckleberry Finn. ) and George dedicated the book to George: "Remember no man is a failure who has friends."

I just deleted an hour's writing.

In this Lenten journey, I have gone back and re-read many of my posts since this all started about two years ago.  I find myself incredibly boring, yet I understand my purpose for writing. It has little to do with me...the writing here, but I pray that it might be a catalyst for getting others to write their stories...perhaps not in a blog, but for themselves, to look into themselves and see who might be there.  

I am going through so much, here in this desert. I am beginning to realize why I write, the themes that dominate my life, and that there are more reasonable alternatives in how to live.  I am realizing more why I write about "nearly a nun" and "never a priest," fighting inside always between never being good enough and being completely frustrated with the human race. That perfection stuff really has to go.  The illusion that "if I could just get it right, the world, my world, would be better" needs to be buried for good.

I am paying attention to how much I was ignored as a child, dismissed, used...how unimportant I felt and how alone...how, if I was to survive in this world, I would have to do it all by myself. And now, how very much I don't want any child, any person to feel that way.  

I look at the proliferation of posts by others. Most of them are just 'reposting' something they found elsewhere and not an original thought or feeling among them, yet these are the things most people are attracted to.  I think Edwin Friedman is correct: We are addicted to 'information' and to 'experts.'  We 911 and 411 each other to death, but very few people speak to what lies in their hearts.  

When I get on Facebook, I don't look for the latest link to the latest thing I need to get upset about, or support, or whatever...I look for the posts like "I'm hungry."  "I just had dinner with my best friend." or "where is that yellow sock?"  These are the remarks of people.  I love photos of trees and sunsets and old cars and children laughing.  I love peering into the humanity of someone else. The rest, God bless us all, reminds me of debate in high school:  My quote will out-trump your quote.  And I remember my high school friend, David Burton, when being handed a 3X5 notecard as he challenged someone else's argument and saying aloud to the judge: "hmmm...ink still wet."  

This from a man who, when I was about to sneeze, and while I was holding a mountain of books in my lap, put his hand over my mouth to catch my...snot. I cannot remember a more humbling, yet practical experience from a guy in a suit who was not my boyfriend nor my brother.

We can always find some expert to speak for us. Someone on our side. Someone important that agrees...but I get the impression that no one really wants to tell anyone who they really are, what they are feeling, what they need...and what they want to give.  And that makes me a bit sad. We really do lead lives of quiet desperation.  

That said, I celebrate friends. People who love you enough to hold your hair back while you are throwing up in a restaurant toilet because you forgot the medication you were taking didn't mix with alcohol...the one who sits and listens to how excited you are because you started dating again the guy who broke your heart last year and never brings it up to you.  The one who lets you sleep on your sofa because you are too afraid to go home and listen to your parents tell you one more time you are not living up to your potential.  The friend who seems to know exactly what you need...and gives it to you and you think, "Oh my heavens, were you actually listening to me." The friend who talked you out of an affair because your marriage was feeling miserable that day, or believes in you when you decide to return to college or run for office...and stays the whole night with you when you lose. 

I look for the subtle, and not so subtle acts of love on Facebook.  And I celebrate that the cynicism of the world has not yet destroyed us all...try as it might to kill off humanity.  We are survivors. We are heroes. We are saints.

The world tries to kill us everyday with all of its unceasing and unmerciful expectations. I suppose I am moving out of my anger that the world does not love as it should...and into the reality that "it just is what it is." That doesn't mean putting up with 'man's inhumanity to man,' but rather not letting myself drown in its debris.

I looked up at the sky last night...it was a beautiful night...and I sang to God my silly songs, off key, but with passion and I asked Him...who will I be if I let go of my anger?  Is there anything left inside?  Who will I be if I stop fighting the whole world?  What spark is there that knows how to live without a fight, without a cause, without an impossible dream?  Who will I be if I give it up?  White bread?  A submissive boring woman? A rebel without a cause?  Will I succumb to letting a man back into my life...and 'live for him?' (ah, the anger is not gone yet, is it?)  What will not being angry look like?  Does it have a face?  

I look up at the night sky.  Orion's Belt. Sirius. Betelgeuse. Rigel.  The Pleiades and the Hyades. Studying these last two star clusters has determined that the escape velocity of the universe is greater than the gravitational pull of the objects within it. (I think that is correct) What I mean is that the universe is expanding and will never contract again.  I think Hubble is responsible for that information. We getting farther and farther apart...this universe will never again to return to that "Let there be light" stage again. We only have now...and the need to love now should never leave our minds. We get this one chance to be good to each other...or we can kill each other. Now is all we have.

I'm thinking, it's time to let go of what the world didn't give me and hold on to what it has given me. 

Well, duh.

Love, Cindy