The second box

s Reading 2 Heb 5:1-6

Brothers and sisters:
Every high priest is taken from among men
and made their representative before God,
to offer gifts and sacrifices for sins.
He is able to deal patiently with the ignorant and erring,
for he himself is beset by weakness
and so, for this reason, must make sin offerings for himself
as well as for the people.
No one takes this honor upon himself
but only when called by God,
just as Aaron was.
In the same way,
it was not Christ who glorified himself in becoming high priest,
but rather the one who said to him:
You are my son:
this day I have begotten you;
just as he says in another place:
You are a priest forever
according to the order of Melchizedek.

 

I have always been curious about Melchizedek.  He seems to be very important in all of this salvation history and yet, so little is known...or perhaps so little is told...about him.  In a fun little book, "The Alchemist," by Paulo Coehlo, the protagonist runs into Melchizedek early in the story.  Melchizedek recognizes immediately that the boy listens to the earth and is attentive to the signs around him. Melchizedek gives the boy a small bag with two precious stones, one black and one white. The boy almost never 'consults' the stones, and one time, when he tried, one of the stones fell out of the bag through a little hole, onto the ground. 

 

I have always wanted to understand Melchizedek, and why the Incarnation of God on earth might be compared to this king.  In my little world of understanding, I would think that one might compare something lesser to the greatest, and not the other way around. 

 

But those words ring for me, without understanding, belong to me: You are a priest forever according to the order of Melchizedek. Sounds a bit insane, perhaps...me being a girl...woman...female...and all.  Nevertheless, when I hear them, my heart races and I feel the great desire to pick up my sword and walk into the battle that I know I will lose...and die for that which I was created.

 

Further examination into the text, I find that I really don't want the job. I have acted out, during my life, in such ways, that would make an earthly trial convict me of grave error and sin.  Part of me has done this because I always knew I could never be, would never be, that which I was called to be.  If you know who you are...and you know the world wants no part of you...then you commit suicide: physically, spiritually, emotionally...sometimes you commit violence against yourself and/or others, secretly naming your sin of hope, and then disappear from any greatness God may have called you to be.  You give up. You settle. You kill yourself off because believing in the truth of who you are just hurts too much.  

 

Now, because of the games people play...people who have power...and want to keep power...many others gives their souls away in an effort to survive.  We must never condemn another for their choices, we never know what their hearts might be telling them, we do not know their pain. (Be certain, I am not suggesting an ignorance of sin here, but in a more general term, choices) But we do hold them accountable when they harm or exploit others...you know...those Ten Commandment things...these must be maintained for humankind to survive.  They are simple and they are hard, but they allow society to survive and possibly thrive when followed in mercy and grace.
I am not asking the world to change. I am simply wondering how I am supposed to live in it, given how God made me. If there is truly order ad reason in all created things, there where do I belong?  Why this life? Why now?  

Existential questions that all of us face at one time or another. How much of who we are do we give up in order to fit in?  How much compromise can we bear before lose sight or who we are and whose we are?

 *******
Do I believe I am called to be a priest?  Yes. Is believing that a sin? No. There is a difference between thought and action. Although thoughts can lead to action, our free will let's us choose. What we do with out thoughts, that is a marker of our character. And our ability to discipline our actions and regulate ourselves. I have two books by Piper: one called "Faith, Hope and Love" and the other, "The Four Virtues." I think all the laws and admonitions we have in our Catholic Church are not designed to ondemn us (although most of us use them that way), they are there to set us free. Some people enjoy beating other people with words...or a stick...and act a bit like Eve in the garden, taking a "restriction" (do not eat the fruit of the tree) and exaggerating it (lest you will die- God did not say that), and trying to shove erroneous doctrine down the throats of people whose lives may make them uncomfortable.
Sometimes, I think the first sin was the sin of exaggeration.  God speaks to us...and we run off with it...and write a thousand words about it...and suddenly we realize we completely forgot what God said.
And so did I. I struggle with my identity. But I do not struggle with my work. My work, I know. My work...gives my life the greatest love and satisfaction and peace.  And I did not find it easily.  I took the hard way.  I always do. 
*******
I started this entry a few days ago.  I always get weird inside when I have to face the "call to be a priest" Sunday.  I tried to be a Methodist minister.  It did not satisfy me.  I was still too proud to do much of anything good.  I did do good work though. But, I still was not that for which I was called.  I had to go back into the woods, or into the fire...and learn...and burn...off those things which were standing in the way. I am still trying allow God to burn them off. Without question, it hurts.

A conversation this week with a woman who needs to make a choice. She had many visitors over the week.  I was just one more, but I named the elephant in the room.  "You want a good death." She nodded.  And so we talked about what a good death might look like.  I was praying like a crazy woman in my head while we talked.  How many words should I say? What is enough? What is too little?  I thought about the little boy I met earlier in the week, facing the same challenge.  Are they that different?  We must talk about what we fear...or the fear will destroy us...in our thoughts.  The unnamed dragons and elephants that wander around in our heads...are more dangerous than any cancer.  Paul is right, we do not need to fear that which can kill the body. We should fear that which can kill the soul. 

And that is what I do, as best I can.  Or perhaps, I try to empty myself so completely, so that God can use me to heal them.  That is my prayer. To be His hands, His feet...His heart.

The first box says I will never be that for which I am called.
But there was a second box.
It didn't give me a name yet.
It simply said: Do the work. 

Love, Cindy

giving it all away...

My heart hurts. My body hurts. I'm exhausted. Still trying to get my head around what happened and why.  I've lived it all out as best I can. Today, I made the next sacrifice I needed to make. One that will bring me closer to the One who loved me first...

and I hurt like hell.  Just an expression. I've known hell and it's much worse.  But the expression is good enough. I told God "I love you this much to give this one last thing away."  And of course, I know it is not the last thing I will give away, but in this moment of spiritual cutting, it feels like the last thing, just as it feels like hell.

I think I told the truth well enough, but in that particular telling...of course, more is revealed.  The precious gifts given and received must now be used for other purposes, yet I resist the change that had to be made, or the flower would surely die.  So much sacrifice on both sides, yet to not do it, to hold back...would make it all so meaningless...one cannot really dive half-way off the board and suspend oneself in mid-air, hoping to stop what must happen from happening.

Such is the true nature of forgiveness. It is much like that Hebrew word, "hesed," meaning unconditional love. It is what I stive to be, to give. Obedience to the One Lord, Almighty and Eternal God...and unconditional love to His beautiful children.
For the moment, the pain is severe. This pruning, I would rather not do...I would perhaps prefer to live in the illusion. But being real is what I promised Him.  And what I pledged my life to.

The words the priest presented to me are still so hard to digest. His images suited well how I felt inside.  I think part of me understands...and part of me rebels it...to own it would require more grieving...more seeing the truth...more wondering just how strong I was so long ago...how much damage really had been done...and then, properly seeing it perhaps for the first time...giving it away for good...for God. 

This spiritual cutting is something I never imagined on my journey with God.  I suppose some part of me was naive enough to believe that a few Hail Marys and perhaps a spiritual book or two would have been enough work for me to become the healer I have begged God to make me...to use me for that work.  But this work of true forgiveness is like a monstrous dragon before me...pointing out the thousands of transgressions committed against me...and those I have committed...and it seems like the Devil himself is in the midst of it all, picking and choosing which ones will make me feel the most guilty...guilty enough to give it all up and just quit trying.

But I am way beyond turning back now.  This healing will continue until the day I die. I hold on to my sins as if they were precious pearls, that losing them might mean losing my fingers or my will to live at all.  And then I have to ask, is that how I feed myself? On being unforgiving of others and of myself?  Do I think I can avoid the pain of letting go?  Can I enter into love without feeling it sting me like alcohol on a cut?  Do I have the courage to love someone who can and will love me back? 

Only in forgiveness is this possible. My history, my path, will make a delicious story if it is ever told rightly...and I am not certain I have that much courage to do it...and how God was part of it...every step of the way. I would tell it if I thought the telling could save a life.  Save one who might love enough to change the world.  Oh so heroic am I!  Even to me, it sounds like foolishness! 

I document the struggle as I am able, because I am able.  That's about it. I wish I could be more clear, but all I can offer is authenticity. This is how one person feels...trying to let go of sin...and reach into the abyss for forgiveness.

Is God there? Will He hold my hand? How far must I fall before He catches me? How long does the pain last?

I have watched young children die. They shake...and its scary...I see the pain in the letting go of life, wondering how much they are aware that they have some place to go...that I know they shall be resurrected in a new form somewhere...fresh and free of the cancer that wounded them here...I will never forget their faces, their struggle...or their love.

Such is a spiritual death to those things that no longer serve me. Those things that separate me from God. The clinging to life that will die anyway is so very hard to release.

And it begins and ends in forgiveness. Soon I will take a cup of tea and sit in my prayer room...and cry. Perhaps feel a little sorry for myself, because I don't want to give up my sins. I wonder what will fill that empty space.  It will be a dangerous time, the emptying part, because "you-know-who" will be watching. He'll try again to convince me that I will always be alone...and misunderstood...and whatever else He knows I still fear.

I suppose I am all too dramatic for many people, but if my crazy writing can convince one person to let go of one 'favorite' sin...for good...then perhaps it is time not wasted.

Yet it must also be told that being noble is not that important as it is for me to let go of the sin...the ones I commit...and the ones committed against me. And then...to only let God's love fill the space. It is tricky to do this, but while I feel a bit abandoned, I must also admit God has not left me alone. 

It is all about seeing the truth...and the beauty...and saying yes.

Oh my heavens...I'm going to hit publish. I hope it serves someone besides me.

All my love,
Cindy

Holy Mary, Mother of God

There is a passage in Lewis' "The Screwtape Letters" in which Screwtape tells his protoge that the best way to keep a person from God is to deflect him my introducing a higher thought.  I mean that there are times, at least for me, when I feel so close to God...and sadly, new thoughts enter my brain...I get excited and ambitious.  I think like a poodle (no insult intended to the poodle), and my head scurries to all sorts of delicious ideas...perhaps I am truly ADD, or ADHD...and just maybe...people whose minds wander so much are just people who have figured out how to be with God...and the devil is working overtime to keep them from letting anyone else know...

Such is the playground of my mind.

Yesterday was the anniversary of my "mother-who-raised-me's" death.  I laugh inside, because of the way we make up names for people to express our feelings about them.  It worried me for a long time: a dear friend who has been married forever has been called by her husband, what seems like forever, "the beast."  It was a joke, of course, but every time he said it, it hurt me...and I am sure it hurt her.  The payback of this 'joke' has been unending...their relationship is damaged, their children's relationships are damaged...and I'm just angry inside because no one is honestly talking about how they really feel about each other.  All this unforgiveness clogging all the ateries that pump life into the heart of love.

I shared that because yesterday was the anniversary of my mother's death. (the one who raised me. See how I must distinguish the difference. My biological mother died on September 1st, 1985. This one died October 13th, 1995. Those ten years between were very hard for me and my relationship with my mothers. Who I was seemed to be in limbo. I felt like an Escher painting, or perhaps a Dali...surreal...the world was only a dream and someday, I would wake and all things would be neat and orderly again.  Alas, it has been...nearly 20 years...and I have not awakened from the dream. 

I chose to work a 15 hour shift at the hospital on that anniversary.  I'm not sure why.  But the conversations, with patients, family members and peers were (and still are) so deeply reflective. I've been trying to connect the dots from the week.  Mothering seems to be the primary theme...perhaps because I choose it to be. 

Took my grandchildren to the State Fair this week.  I always enjoy being with them...seeing my son and his wife love them and each other...work out their differences...learn and grow...and seeing how I fit in to the mix.  I had set a limit on how much money I would spend.  Then my contribution would be complete. We had the choice of two more rides before we went home: the tram across the park, or the ferris wheel.  The kids really wanted the ferris wheel.  Despite my deep awareness of the arthritis beginning in my hips and not wanting to walk much anymore...I knew I wanted to take them on the ferris wheel, too. 

The older children were excited to be "tall enough" to ride certain rides alone.  Sadness enveloped the younger ones who wanted to stay with the big ones, and I smiled when I thought about all the lessons they were learning about life: what you can and can't have, the pleasure of delayed gratification, the need to make choices, the thrills sometimes short, sometimes disappointing, sometimes lifechanging. 

We had already learned that, despite her age, the oldest did not care for roller-coasters.  The smiles that began the ride ended with tears.  It was not quite what she had expected. Agreeing to the ferris wheel, I did not yet learn what made her afraid.  I thought it was the speed, the little car, the unexpected rising and falling. 

I took the oldest three in one cage and my son and his wife took the youngest two.  As it turned out, we were not placed in cars next to each other, but at opposite ends of the wheel.  All were smiles until we got a little way up the circle.  Then the oldest girl leaped across the cage, glued herself to me and buried her head in my shoulder.

No one knew until that moment, she was afraid of heights.

"I want off NOW!"  and I held her and rocked her. We were about a quarter of the way up.
I began with a long litany of words. I am here for you. I won't let anything happen to you. You are safe with me. It's going to be okay. I'm not letting go. I wouldn't take you to any place that was not safe. Nothing is going to happen. It's going to be alright...See the beautiful sky?  There is GG's house, Can you see the ride we went on over there?  Look at the pretty colors. 

Nothing was going to budge her. And then I wondered what her fear was doing to the other children.  I spoke in my famous calming voice...the one I use when crisis hits...praying that the sound of it might bring comfort, because I knew in my heart I had absolutely no control of what could really happen on that ride (shadows of "the Five People You Meet in Heaven" came to my mind...it's all in God's hands, I thought, it's always in God's hands, I thought...but there's no way she can understand that...hell, most adults don't understand that)...I just seemed to know, in that moment...I needed to do my best to bring peace to the very immediate NOW.  And, quite secondary, I hoped to begin a healing to this wound of fear brought about by very unexpected circumstances. 

I hoped I was being a good grandmother.  I won't know for a time, because they have returned to their home...and we never got to talk about it.  I pray, that given the test, I might have passed somehow.

 

 

Thinking about that adventure as I was drawn into my work of my very long shift and the hospital, I was called upon again to use my "calming voice."  The other chaplain working with me kept speaking to me about it...about the power of a woman's voice to calm a crisis situation...about how I helped a child not to be fearful...he liked how I did my work.

 

And after a long night, I just did not want to go home yet.  I was still kind of processing...and I didn't want to go home to all those distractions that Screwtape so cleverly writes about...so I went to the Half Price books and got a coffee at the Black Forest Bakery inside, spoke with a girl who had a ring through her nose that looked horribly painful (one like a cow, the kind you put a chain on and pull the cow to where you want her to go)...and behind me in line was a cop who looked like he was all of seven years old...and the thought of him carrying a gun worried me a little...didn't want to see that boy get shot...oh how my mind was wandering!

I went to the theology section, which had moved...so I could find my favorite places to just let my mind wander on all those books...still kind of in "numb" mode...the children at the hospital, some with good families and some with...not-so-good families...all the tears, the sleeping in chairs, the helplessness...and my own thoughts of zipping up my mother's body bag that night, knowing that at least one war had ended...as well as can be expected...no, better than expected...and that was a gift from God. 

 

Feeling out of place in the theology section, I moved into the metaphysical section...and found a few gems: Anthony de Mello, Hugh Prather...a spiritual journey through gardening...and then I found the clearance section.  And, all my itself on a shelf in the clearance section, with a sticker that was dated 10/13/12, was a little book, for $3:  "I Am My Mother's Daughter" by Iris Krasnow: Under the title were these words: "making peace with mom before it's too late." 

 

And who dares to tell me that there is no God?

 

I took my coffee to a table, sat down and began to read. I heard a curly haired woman talk with her friends about twittering...and her friends laughed. I watched an older couple walk slowly through the store holding hands, I heard the sounds of the steam machine in the coffee shop, making a capucchino...and I tried to read. 

 

When I finish the book, I hope to have the courage to give it to my daughter.  In the last 15 years, I have heard the many stories of mothers and daughters...okay, perhaps all of my life I have heard them...but when my mothers died...I heard them differently...with very sacred feelings...very holy feelings...about living and dying and the meaning of life.

 

So many little cruel moments to forgive, so many blessings never recognized in the moment of happening, but recognized the telling of the story. I'm beginning to realize that living the story is only living half of a life. The other half of being alive is telling the story.  That is one of the greatest gifts from God: remembering. 

 

Of course it is a double edged sword.  How we remember is so very important. And on of the greatest gifts from the Incarnation, is the fact that we can "re-remember" a story so that it brings life to ourselves and to others.

 

Perhaps that is why my Emmaus Reunion group from nearly ten years ago, by the graces of one member, who brought us together again only a week or so ago.  God has called us together again to tell our stories to each other: our closest to God moments and our farthest from God moments. Only three days ago a friend came up to me and said, "Cindy, I really miss out Saturday morning talks.  Let's start them again."  (she is part of my Catholic group of women)...and I thought, how important it is for us women to gather, as women of God...not exclusively Protestant or Catholic...or whatever, but as women of faith...and she our motherings to each other, to ourselves...whether we have children or not...we have inside us always the capability to love as a woman...and as a mother.

 

So, in my little journey, when I made my promise to God, "til death do us part" on that January 1, 2010...on the feast(?) day of Mary, Mother of God...I had no idea what I  was doing. I did not understand how important it would be...and how now, with the annulment finalized, my commitment is to One alone.

 

These thoughts are far from complete or organized.  But something important is happening. If you are able, find you grace in these words, and take them out into your world. There is a need for healing so great, you must do your part...offer the healing sound of your voice to the frightened little girls and boys out there..offer your voice as Mary's voice to her Son:

 

"It's going to be okay. You can do this. I will never leave you."

 

 

Love, Cindy

 

 

Waiting for the cool

The last few weeks, I've been writing privately.  I've always had the desire to be an evangelist of sorts, but I think perhaps. in the topology of living, for the moment I felt a desire to leave the path of encourager to walk a path of being encouraged. I took a big leap of faith on Tuesday, jumped into the deep end with a new priest, I wasn't sure how I would feel about it, or if I was ready for it, but I know that I needed to restart my spiritual engines.  I didn't much care for where I had wandered on my own.  I needed a companion, a fresh one, hoping perhaps that, if I was careful, I might not wear this one out too soon. 
It all boils down to trust.  And a leap of faith. I suppose I 'interview' so many priests, I am not really shocked when most of them let me down.  What I have found, though, in the path of spiritual direction, is that women SDs often seem to me to have a personal agenda that I am not willing to accept.  The truth though, is that I expect different things from women than I do from men. I might truthfully say that perhaps I am not yet ready for women SDs. 
Yet I have women who are friends and spiritual companions. I am truly grateful for these women.  I will need them in the days ahead, as I allow my teachers to cut deep into my heart, so that I might bleed out the remnants of mistrust and fear and jealousy and envy, to name a few.  I will need them as God exposes my truth to me.
And that truth, seems for the moment, to be focused on forgiveness. Not uncommon, I've preached it often...but around October 1st, I've become more and more aware of how often I do not forgive.  And even more frighteningly, I am more aware of my need to ask for forgiveness.
It begins with some new faces on FB.  Not friends, but friends of friends.  People I have wronged long ago, some sins, I have asked for forgiveness...but others, faceless people who I wronged because I was hurting, or had been wronged by them...now, by the gift of technology, have faces.  Things I would have preferred to forget, are finding their way to the surface...and they aren't pretty.  Such a humbling experience, to have the story I created shown up by the truth.  Now, the sword that wounds is two sided.  Sometimes it is a merciful sword: what I thought I was guilty for, I discover I was not; but sometimes it is a sword of clarity, where all the rationalizations are stripped away...and the truth can be brutally painful.  But only through the wound can the healing begin. 
We can do it while we are alive, or we can wait for purgatory...but we will not get to heaven without seeing our truth, befriending it, and offering ourselves the mercy and grace of forgiveness. 

You would think I've been listening to "The Great Divorce," but in fact, the last three nights, I've been listening to "The Screwtape Letters."  In the GD, the truth of the books, for me, is that only good can get into heaven.  In SL, we are shown how the devil uses our fear of the truth to keep us from ever wanting heaven.  Screwtape suggests that we continue to live in our illusions of Christianity, feeling good about ourselves, rather than living out humility and hospitality.  All the rosaries in the world won't open the gates unless we allow God to transform us into loving, giving beings. 

As I begin to face my truth, and as it scares me, I woke last night to the hooting of an owl.  Being a person who believes in signs and wonders, this hooting around two a.m. brought cold into my bones.  I thought of the book, "I Heard the Owl Call My Name." I don't remember much about it, I read a lot that summer, but I remembered that death followed the call of the owl.  I have lived in this house for 18 years and I had never heard owls in my backyard.  It was a sign, perhaps my time was up.  That happened earlier this year, too. Oh heavens, I was growing into one of "those" women!  But the owl in October was haunting. 
I decided to confront it. 
I walked out in the yard...the sky was brilliant from a moon on its way to new.  The shadows of the leaves on the patio felt wonderful in my heart.  The hooting continued. I began to pray. 

 

Of course, the cool has finally arrived. I really do not know how to walk this next path. When I was 18, I woke at 4 a.m., got out of bed, put on my overalls and walked in the forest until dawn.  I never thought about it, I simply did it. It was a part of me...a great longing to be free of the house (the not so metaphorical cage of fear and unpredictability that I grew up in) and to just "walk in the woods" where I believed wild creatures were really friendly because they were allowed to be wild. They were "born free."  We humans are not born free. Even before we pop out of the womb, someone is alread making plans for us. Someone has decided whether we will live or die, most often based on whether we are male or female. Females get killed more readily and males, my priest frient told me. He didn't understand that.
I understood. A woman who finds herself inconveniently pregnant and without a protector will kill off a female because she knows the odds are good that the child she would give birth to would have to endure the same sufferings she did...so in the mother's mind, that is mercy killing.

I recall the M.A.S.H. episode that sends Hawkeye into the mental ward: He's on a bus with native civilians during the Korean War...ahem, Conflict... They are in enemy territory. The bus is broken down. They hear the troops marching, not to far off. If they on the bus remain silent, they just might survive the day. Hawkeye hears a chicken clucking and and he whispers out, strongly, comandingly as harsh as he can, "Shut that chicken up!" and then, after some time in the mental ward, he knows the truth: It wasn't a chicken, it was a baby.  And the mother did what she needed to do so that the rest on the bus might live: she smothered her child.

 

A dramatic representation of a story that is probably lived out every day.  Where is the guilt? Who is responsible? How have we offended God in this scenario?  Is anyone right?
Yes, we have the many Catholic Pharisees and Baptist Pharisees (and whoever else wants to put in their tradition) quoting their understandings of THE LAW and Holy Scripture, but is the LAW sufficient and sustainable in this situation? Is the LAW truly God's will here? And then, once the ones who have to be right get done with their arguing...we come to the question that matters most to me:

How do we find healing in this great suffering and pain?  How do we reconcile ourselves to God, if we choose to want to reconcile ourselves to God?
You see, I have put you in a very difficult situation. I told you the story, as I remember it. Now you are stuck with it. If you simply dismiss it, that is your answer to God about it. If you judge it, then that is your answer to God about it.  And whatever your thoughts...good or bad or indifferent...you can't unring a bell, you know...the story becomes a part of your story, however small...and in it there is a judgement, a guilt, an innocence and a truth.
For me today, this is the hard work of forgiveness. Yes, I think it is possible to choose to not do it and that life can be quite beautiful without going to that unhappy place of rough edges.

But I have chosen to go back into the woods.  This time, not as an innocent or ignorant, but willingly, knowing only a little of what I might find there.

In some way, I have turned my head and my heart back toward Jerusalem.  I recognize that there will be a death, but what kind I haven't a clue. I know I must do this because...somewhere in my bones, I know this is what I was born for, why I survived...

Not nearly as important as it sounds, I am turning back on that road to find my authentic self. It will mean a bloody death to things I have cherished: my sins. 
Can you follow me? Do you see how we cherish our sins? We protect them because giving them up, who might we become? Something worse?  And freedom from guilt and sin is such a scary thing...
I'm not talking about the sunshine and kittens and falling leaves kind of freedom.  I'm talking about looking our enemy in the eye (whatever that enemy might be) and perhaps fighting that last fight that God knows we need to fight...because (if you are like me, you want a good fight...I can think of a thousand examples in movies where we absolutely have to live out the battle first before we can rest) we must make ourselves tired of holding that which is still binding us to the fear (and anticipation) of hell.  Only when we are tired of doing it 'our way' do we even have a chance at forgiving and forgiveness.
For me, in some ways, it will be sorting out that bus scenario.  Who was I on that bus?  How did I help build up or tear down?  Can I forgive...myself...others...God...for what happened?  That is my work of October.
Growing every closer to God. Staying truly, madly and deeply in love.  And sharing it as best I can.  That's about it.
For now.
Guess I'll write about the owls later.

Love, Cindy

What breaks your heart?

That was the question for the day.  Want to discover what you need to work on?  Ask that question.

What breaks my heart?  Children who aren't loved by their parents.  Children who don't feel loved by their parents. Those  were the first answers I could find inside me...and I decided I really didn't want anything to do with it. I don't want to think about it...ever.

So I suppose that's where I'm supposed to go.  Now I'm wishing I had decided on another place to work this fall.  
************
Two nights ago, I dreamed about the priesthood. Last night, I dreamed I wore a cassock to the Methodist Church where I used to work.  The older people in the church were happy to see me. The female peer I used to work with just stared at the collar...oh, and I came to the church with a dog.  A little dog, somewhat like the one my children have...and it was the damn dog that kept me from leaving the church. He kept running around, in and out of the congregation and the pews...and I stood in the back and angrily whispered his name and to come.  I did not want this Protestant congregation to see me in my clerics.  Especially when it wasn't Halloween.
And at some point, I stopped worrying and looked down at my beautiful robe. I noticed how the fabric was so comfortable and breathed well.  I was not hot. I liked the freedom it provided...but I also knew I was not supposed to be wearing it. This beautiful dress was designed for men. Catholic men.
************
So perhaps the "parent" issue is not my greatest fear. Perhaps, in these nearly 500 posts, it is the Catholic Church...and that I will never be a priest. That is what breaks my heart. I am tired of that issue breaking my heart. I am well aware it is not worth my time to even discuss the issue with anyone that matters. I am also keenly aware that I am most likely unworthy to be a priest.  I have not led an exemplary life. If I am to be a priest, I am more like the Robert de Niro character from The Mission. I was a slave trader...and when the pressure comes, I may not be strong enough to not use my old ways to solve problems. It's not so much that the God would not forgive my sins, but we live in an unforgiving world. It takes pleasure in being angry.  It thrives on treating everyone like the enemy.
Or does it?
***********
The reality of the power of God far transcends any evil we can conjure up.  Most of the time, we forget that. Most of the time, I forget that. The priest who tried to back-pedal and yell at me, for whatever personal issues he may have had at the time...to scream at me and say, even if women could be priests, he didn't think I would make a good one...and the others, having changed their minds...thinking perhaps I was too progressive, too passionate, too dangerous...for whatever reason, they cease conversation with me...I think perhaps their fears are greater than mine. But I have matured to a place where I am not going to let their emotional reactions to my thoughts (statements) stop me from discovering the truth. 
I'm not going to suggest that, while I go through this process of living out the gospel, that I have somehow found a 'more correct' way to do it.  What I know is that I believe we all struggle with the Word of God, and the Tradition of God in this world.  To think, in this very male dominated world...that a woman might have thoughts worthy to think and speak...is a kind of blasphemy. It unsettles the status quo.  While it unsettles, we do not know if it will bring good or evil.  The timid will stand on the sidelines and wait...to see who or what wins.  Then, they will declare victory or defeat...but they will hold no badge of honor from the battle. They will not be able to say, "I made a difference." They will say, instead, "I survived."  And we need survivors, even if they are not heroes...but they will keep the human race going...and trying. 
*************
I am simply always aware that there is a lot of hatred for Catholics...Roman Catholics...and perhaps some of it is deserved.  But most often, hatred is based on what we think we know and not on what we do know.  Hatred is a by-product of fear. We are all afraid of something. We all have a deep dark secret fear...and that fear still governs our actions...and our feelings. Some of us have many fears. Those people are hardest to help, and perhaps hardest to love. But love them we must. Sometimes, those people are us. The one we see in the mirror.

This is my second year in CPE where I am the only Catholic.  I got to wondering why that keeps happening, and I realized...duh...that people put them through this hellish class because they desire to become more compassionate and better pastors. In the case of Catholicism, that refers to priests, not men or women of the Catholic faith who happen to want to do this work. I am an enigma.  I am that evolutionary mistake. I have an extra chromosome...or I am missing one.  Whatever it is, I should not be upset because I am always uncomfortable or feeling lonely.  I am the only one of my kind.  Or perhaps, I am the only one who admits it. 

Perhaps I am that black sheep has been given a bottle of white shoe polish and have been told, "Here. Got and make yourself look like us. You are scaring everyone."  I'm sure every person who has been marginalized knows this feeling.  Some of them gather together and have parades.  Some of them create a new church.  Some of them live a lie. Some of them just hang themselves in their bedrooms.  Some just go about the world...like zombies...
I wonder if that is why all these strange television shows are so popular.  People are drawn to finding their truth, they just don't know how to do it.
*************
What breaks your heart?  Hungry children?  Runaways?  Alcoholics?  Poor people?  The uneducated?  The lonely? The athiests? Those who do know know "your" God?  The lazy ones?  The thieves and robbers?  The wealthy? The politicians? The ones born different? The women? The men? The animals? The 'ones who have no one to pray for them?'
What breaks your heart?
************
Come and I will make you fishers of men. There is not one of us who is not called to help. As human beings, with souls, our lights cannot shine without the deliberate effort of "giving." Which is not just an attribute of loving, it is the central source of loving. Giving in the sacrifical sense. Giving without getting back. The irony is, whatever you give away...it always comes back...always. 
************
Henri Nouwen wrote a book, I can't recall the name, on the Eucharist. There's this amazing truth about Holy Communion: it is never still, it is never not breathing, it is never not alive. It is a giving and taking thing that cannot be ever understood as linear. God gives us, we receive...as best we can. We believe He is or He is not...there. And from the receieving of the "is" or "is not" we give back, first to God and then to ourselves and then to our brothers and sisters. And then to the neighbor and then to the stranger...which might be the same thing as neighbor.
************
I perceive the Body of Christ as a real thing. It comes to me in the most intimate way, through my mouth. I allow it to happen...and God is willing to give. It becomes part of me. It gives me life and I give it my life. I close my eyes and wait for the miracle, the transformation, to happen to me...so that I can give it away again during the day, through my actions...to the ones I meet. This Body of Christ is a great and mysterious thing. This meal I share...these people who are present are part of my family. I know some of their lives...they know some of mine.  Each day we meet, we grow closer together...and through that we help each other get through this world...filled with so much anger and loneliness. It's kind of a miracle.
It is a miracle.
************
And it breaks my heart...so that I am able to love.

Love, Cindy

Learning to Swim

I really want my grandchildren to become good swimmers.  I want to be able to take them out in the ocean and on the river.  I want so much to have them learn to love the things that have brought me the most joy and pleasure in life.  .

It is important to do what makes you happy, to follow your bliss.

I found myself crying almost uncontrollably at yesterday's funeral for an old friend.  But I was not crying for his death. I was crying for the one who should be a bishop.  I was surprised by these strong feelings I had, so strong they made me weep.  I listened to him speak with such a giftedness, a caring for the family, a truth telling with so much love and grace...and humor...and I thought, "This one can change the world."  And I realized that what I wanted for him would never happen.  I realized what drew me to him in the first place, back in 1984...He was/is the most real and true man of God that I have ever met. 

He is everything I want to be. God bless the many priests I have grown to love, but for me, he outshines them all. For me a perfect balance of truth and grace, of the Law and of mercy. It all made so much sense to me as he spoke about a very special man who is now in heaven.  I realized that God had made it possible for me to have the best teacher in the world. 

And he will never be a bishop. And I will never be a priest. I could not care less about myself, but I found myself overwhelmed with grief that he was not a bishop.  That all that beauty that I see is just...like a flower that you have to look really hard for...but finding it, you might sell all that you have, just to watch it grow, and to learn how to live from it.  To learn to be as beautiful as possible. 

At this same funeral, I saw another priest, who is not a priest anymore. It was so nice to see him surprised and happy to see me. Asked me if I ever made it to Gethsemene and I bowed my head in shame and said no.  He was one who was a good priest, but certain conservatives (I dislike using that word as a negative), certain rule oriented people made life hard for him because he was a convert and married. I suppose he got tired and left. But he was here today. And I had the chance to remember the gifts he brought into my life as well. 

There was another, I thought might be there, but I didn't see him.  That is a different story. More pain with that one.  But this funeral was the fourth in a line of deaths this year of people who affected my life in profound ways by the grace from God to accept me, in my wonderings, of who I am, who I was and who I might become. They went to God this year...and each one told me a beautiful story, somewhere in our friendship...of things they wanted, big and wonderful and glorious things...but they never got...or had to let go. I remember.

I went to visit a young man this week. Not too long ago, vibrant and silly and wonderful.  Now his hand shakes all the time, he is recovering from a stroke. A young woman, with very young children, dealing with cancer, discusses with me her options and where to find God in all of this. Another, afraid to speak to a priest about what troubles her, I show her how she is still Catholic...and I speak the Catechism (a miracle in itself for me) and her shoulders fall and she smiles, and receives communion. This is always my work: to hear the story, to really hear the story...and to be like my wonderful priest friend, to speak to the truth, the reality of what is in front of me...and to show the joy in it...to find the rainbow, while still acknowledging the rain.

Some of the things we must surrender are little things...and some are great things, but the truth is, like a camel going through the "eye of a needle," to enter heaven we have to let go of it all. And if the Kingdom is here as now as well as "over there," it is a constant event of learning to reach out and let go, over and over again. 

It's like juggling sometimes, and sometimes, it's like swimming.  I've got my graduate degree in swimming...but it wasn't until I was thrown into the water that I actually learned how to swim.  Correction: that I am still learning how to swim. 

I thought the priest would teach me, even though my initial reason to visit him, to befriend him, was to help him through a difficult time...in gratitude for him helping me through the darkest days of my life...but God had much more in mind.

He was going to teach me how to love myself and others in ways I could never have learned any other way. He was, and is teaching me, how hang on and how to let go.  And how to be grace-filled about it all.  And how to be real about it all. And how to be a priest. If things had not gone as they did...all the little parts, I would never have been allowed to learn these amazing and wonderful lessons. They day will come, if I am still around, to write about it not so vaguely, but in the real beauty that it is. That might be a better way to teach it.  To speak in generalities is the best I can do now.

I am flooded with feelings. Sometimes so much despair, I really don't want to live anymore. I get caught up in what I wanted so bad it comsumed me. I assessed my gifts and graces and thought, "This is what God wishes me to be, what God created me for."  And I never got to be that person, that woman.  I guess I failed...perhaps. I was disappointed.

In this world, that truly worships the rich and successful, very few lessons are taught on how to grieve, how to deal with disappointment or loss.  We are very good at taking pills to mask our sadness and pain, but we never really look at our negative feelings directly.  Oh, yes, someone of us bathe ourselves in sadness and self pity, wear our scars like medals of honor...and yes, I have my days like that...but no one really teaches us how argue without losing our self respect, or with respecting others. No one teaches us how to deal with failure, or loss or disappointment or regret...

Or did someone try to teach us that?

Matthew 5:
When he saw the crowds,^* he went up the mountain, and after he had sat down, his disciples came to him. He began to teach them, saying:

“Blessed are the poor in spirit,^*

for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are they who mourn,^b

for they will be comforted.

Blessed are the meek,^c

for they will inherit the land.

Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness,^*

for they will be satisfied.

Blessed are the merciful,

for they will be shown mercy.^d

Blessed are the clean of heart,^e

for they will see God.

Blessed are the peacemakers,

for they will be called children of God.

Blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness,^*

for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.^f

 

 

Okay, maybe someone tried to teach us that. 

 





To follow my bliss requires discipline and sacrifice, things I am not so good at.  I am a strategist.  I didn't know that about myself. I always thought of myself as wildly bohemian.  But I always have a plan. The funeral this week reminded me so much about how little I really understand...even about myself.
I have been blessed by extraordinary friends...perfect friends...not perfect in the way you might be thinking...they are perfect for me.  How quickly I lose sight of that truth when I am stuck in that place of wanting what I cannot have. It is a bit like the beattitudes.  When you realize you are poor, you can realize how much you really have. When you are sad, you can remember that you are happy, too. When you forgive, you realize that you are forgiven...when you realize what you don't have, you begin to realize how much you really have.

 

And when you get thrown into the water, you realize you already know how to swim...

 

Love, Cindy

Will there be another war?

Of course there will be.  There's always a war. You go off and you see a beautiful flower. You say, "I want that flower." But if you pick it, it will surely die. If you don't pick it, it will die anyway. But if it dies where it is planted, it will go to seed...and from the seeds we can grow many, many flowers.

Often, we don't want to wait for the seeds. Hence, the wars.  Long ago, when I began my contemplative life, God 'messaged' to me the word, "Enough."  Two hours of prayer and that was the result: Enough. But I knew what the one word meant. It meant I wasn't going to starve. I didn't need to worry. It meant that there was enough for all of us. In fact, there was more than enough. I've written about this before. God seemed to tell me so much back then.  And I ran away to seminary, trying to make sense of it all. I wanted to know I was not crazy.  Or I wanted to know I was crazy.  I just wanted to know.

I was yelling at God in Perkins chapel. I was saying something like, "Okay I'm here! Now what?  I've come to learn and I feel so out of place. What the hell do you want from me?" (I know I said a bit more, and I think I may have been swearing a bit...) A little man...oh hell, my New Testament professor, was sitting behind the pulpit, invisible to me until he stood up and coughed.

I stood mortified. In his usual polite, respectful manner, he said, "If you've come for the service, we are meeting in the back room." 
I kind of thought my whole career in seminary had ended in those few moments. My humiliation was deep and I deserved it. But there was more...I was interiorly exhuberant that I was working on a graduate degree in theology. At long last, I was finally doing something that I wanted to do instead of all the things I did because I thought someone else wanted me to do.
That was worth the humiliation of a prayer heard by a stranger. It was worth this professor minister knowing that perhaps I was a colorful character. I went to the back room...wondering if would ever speak to me again...and if he would ever be curious about the madness that brought me to Perkins. 
And you know, he did. He cared deeply. He cared honestly. And he found me a spiritual director.  A Catholic of all things. A curious beautiful Catholic woman, who, after two meetings, told me I was a Catholic and to return to the Eucharist.  And I decided to never visit with her again. 

The messages come from strange places...strange in my mind at least. And always with much drama. Most of the messages, I resist...I know immediately what they mean and my response seems to always be, "Oh, hell, no!" But like a woman deeply in love, after a bit of a struggle, I always give in.  But never without a struggle. I'm not like Bernadette in the movies. I do not have a gentle manner. I am a fighter, kicking and screaming still for my own way...why am I so resistant? Why must I do everything the hard way? 

So God brings these messengers, encounters with the Divine...and I laugh because I see that He is wooing me over and over again...why does He bother, when there are so many others who would play the Bernadette role...and look pretty and smile and be glad that...that they actually like that Ephesians 5 passage in the Bible.  I would rather be dead than submissive to a man...one who was probably not even as strong as me...just because he is a man does not give him the right to tell me what to do...and I get all fired up and bothered. Ain't nobody going break my heart again. Ain't nobody gonna slow me down...
And then, in the midst of the Mass...all my logic evaporates...and I realize all I want to be is submissive...to God. Completely and totally insane. And perfect. And nothing like all the things I have experienced in this world. Surrendering to an invisible being that seems to enter every cell of my body and calm me down. I rock in his arms and there is no greater peace. I have become Jello...and I protest, even as I rest inside this amazingly perfect love...I'll never give in...

Stumbling to Bethlehem...

Oh God, you have ravaged me...and you are all that I want...Oh God, would that you rescue me from this love, this power you hold over me...never. 

No one is going to understand...I don't understand...I write because I am in love...and I want you to be in love, too. Let this world's noise become a whisper in your ear. Get up and hold out your hand, and He'll take it and press it into His heart. He will fill you with all you need to be happy, no matter what is happening. Feel His heart beat, allow your heart to beat with His. You will have all your need to do the work, you will find peace, you will see beauty and you will love without bounds.

Where did this come from? I don't know.  Words really don't help much, but they are all I have.

Love, Cindy