Valley Time

This time spent at Children's Hospital is exactly the right last thing for me to do.  I have been called about a great job in hospice work for this area...and I can't remember the contact person's name. It was about this time last year that another job was "offered." I suppose people like to quit before the holidays, so that they can enjoy the holidays.  I understand that. But I am not so certain I want to start a big job over the holidays...because I know my mood will not be one of joy or hospitality if I am working at a time when I could be with my children and grandchildren.
No one really ticks me off as easily as my children.  A little glance is so easily read and interpreted as a judgement or opinion...without question, the ones I love the most are the ones most likely to tick me off. If I could just love them with as much hospitality as I do the people I see or minister to each day!  It is a dark valley sometimes, this love thing. 
In my head at this moment, I see a kind of perfect love (perfect for me anyway)...and all I can do is be angry at it. I wish I understood why I choose to be angry at love, in any form.  It makes me wonder if it is love that I am feeling, or perhaps something else. When humans are involved, I think I want them to be as perfect as God is perfect. I want them to not only know what I need, but give me what I need. And then I begin to see the truth about love.
Love is always a giving action. Love is a deliberate movement outward...beyond the boundaries of the body...into space...where chaos reigns...flying deliberately through miles of distracting winds and foul weathers...in the direction of its beloved...until it finds itself at home inside its one true love. I wish you could see what I am "feeling." Love is not a thing, it is an action. A giving away of self that always seems to empty into its own self that which is gives away.  If it does not move in this way, then it is not love. It is always sacrificial. It is always life-giving: to the one who gives and to the one who receives.
It is as Paul writes in Corinthians.   How less we would be as a Christian people, had Corinth been a loving group!  How we might have missed out on a great truth that might never have formed in Paul's brain if the people in Corinth had not been so self-absorbed in their own abundance of 'things.'

When I am jealous or angry, I am convicted of the sin of not loving. When I want, I am convicted...and as I want...I remain in hell, which is the absence of love.  All things can lead to love, all things created by God are good...but all have the potential of sending us into the dark valley. 

And even there, we are comforted, if we have been told:
"Yea, though I walk through the valley of death,
I will not fear...for Thou art with me." 

I may not feel God there...but I know God is there.   And I think that is what Frances de Sales and Thomas A Kempis were describing about faith.  Faith is a kind of knowing that God has not left us in the dark valley, even when we do not feel love...in that great alone-ness of our greatest existential fears...do I really exist? do I matter? why do I hurt? I am so alone? why is he hurting me? What will happen next? will the pain ever stop? why do I have cancer? why does my child have cancer? when will the suffering end? It there a place to go? do I dare to hope? when will this dark valley end?

Two people I love said exactly the same thing to me: they wanted to keep the other person happy.  They did not seem happy, but they made their choices based on what would make the other person happy.   Part of me sees that as a victim mentality, or a martyr mentality. 
"I'm doing this for you, because I love you." And that may be completely and honestly true. Or it could be "I'm doing this to get you to stop bothering me."  "I'm doing this so that I won't feel guilty."  "I'm doing this so that I can feel good about being the 'better one.'"  All of these responses are perfectly reasonable...but come across as manipulative. That is not love. There is such a fine line that defines the difference. At least, for me, there is a fine line...because love for me is still a very hard thing to grasp. 
Love is sacrificial, but not the contemporary understanding of martyr. I'm thinking of the Mom who says, "Go ahead, leave. I'll be fine." A child can tell the difference in a flash.  One is love...the other is guilt. And we dish out both randomly.  Okay, I dish out both randomly.  They happen that way because I am not completely clear on my own understanding of my own expectations.

"I want you to love me. I want you to need me. I want you to want me."
Isn't that how the song goes? 
The teacher in me asks you: are those words of love?
If you say yes, you are right. If you say no, you are right.  I think it depends on why you want such things.
I can hear God singing those lines and knowing that wanting God might me the greatest and most perfect thing to want. I can hear some guy singing those lines to me...and all I feel is manipulation.  I wonder if that is how atheists think about God: a seductive being that just wants to run their lives. To make them weak. And vulnerable.

And love does that. It makes you weak. It makes you vulnerable. It makes you walk in the dark valley...but never to walk there alone.

All love comes with a price. It cuts out part of who we are...and changes it...but real love...changes us into something better, something more...and pleases us so much...we hand over the knife and say, "cut more," knowing how much it will hurt...but knowing also how much that love will grow.  Love is a paradox. It kills that which we think we cannot live without and fills us with that which we can truly live with...

Okay, I'm going to stop here.  For the moment.

Love,

Cindy

Vulnerability.

It was a very long week.  I wish I was a more gifted writer. The things I've learned are good for everyone to know...and spin in their own pattern. Yesterday when the Sister and I talked about her tears, I realized again about the blessedness of life and living...and how I don't really live much of one for myself. 
My life is still caught in those days some 40 years ago, when I could not escape what had been given to me. Thanksgiving: when I first began journaling, perhaps in 1968, because I could not escape, I wrote. So many memories of the holidays, most of them not good, traumatic and/or life threatening.

I am tired of sleeping in that box.  And God is all around me, hitting me hard these days, with the puzzle pieces: "This is the way out, Cindy" He tells me with each one.
The NCIS episode "Call of Silence" about PTSD, about when you finally face your own truth, you find out you did the best you could in a horrible situation.
The event with the paramedics in my home, reminding me how I live: alone. Very alone.
The neighbor who brought me a light bulb.
The other neighbor who invited me in for coffee.
My friends who called...and said, in no uncertain terms: let me help.
Finding out that half of the stuff in my pantry had expired and needed to be thrown away.
My daughter, who is finally letting me into her life.
My ex-husband, who I hugged...twice...which meant I had forgiven him.
The long visits with the shut-ins and hospitalized.
The impending deaths of my friends' family members.
The television show about the saint.
The Color Purple, which I still cannot watch.
Alice Doesn't Live Here Any More, which I did not want to watch.
The damn poetry that I wrote this week, the work I doing.
The young woman who wants her son back (CPS took him)...
Finding my uncle's address in Rhode Island and writing him...
And all the things that went through my head too quickly to write them down.

I am starting to understand better what I have been praying for. I believe that is what you really need to do, to get close to God. That is, if you really want to get close. You have to wake up to your own life. You have to be awake enough to live it and observe it at the same time.  At least, I think that is the path to healing. It feels a bit like "grand unified theory" of relativity and quantum mechanics: you live your life, but you observe it also.  Perhaps I could call that the contemplative life.  Someone wrote "an unexamined life is not worth living."  I disagree. Probably a happy life would be to not think too much.  But with pain comes a desire to know why...and that leads to thinking...and it takes a long list of mental gyrations to get to that place of peace...depending on how intense the trauma might have been. 

My concern is about spirituality and contemplation. I watched a bit of a show on a saint on EWTN, a conservative Catholic TV station.  As the woman read the saint's writings, I thought, as I always have..."yes, of course, that is how it is...there is always a common signature when writing about experiences with God...her words are not far from my own..."  And then, the utter ridiculousness of comparing myself to a saint kind of short circuits my head.  No one would possibly understand how a "woman like me" might have these mystical encounters with God. 
But have them, I do. I always have had them, probably since before I was angry enough to begin writing things down.  And no one will believe me. That's really okay.  I don't write for the people who don't need it or don't want it. I write for the ones who get kicked hard by life and know in their hearts that evil isn't really what the world is...that the world is lost and hurting...and wants to be found.
I don't understand how I can think and feel and "be" like these holy ones, knowing I am nothing like them...but the encounters with God are always the same. The infusion of peace and love, the understanding of wealth, the desire always to go deeper into the mystery, the detachment from the imperfect and the binding moves into the perfect, the feeling of coolness, and flight, and light...some part of me believes that is what all human beings crave: to move into the Light, which has been, and always will be home. 

I write the poetry about hungers and disappointments...so that in the midst of the sufferings of others...I can hold their hands and their hearts with great love and respect...to create the safe space where they can be real. 
I had one woman last week, finally let down her wall...and for a few seconds I saw her soul...and now she doesn't answer the phone when I call. That doesn't bother me. She got what she needed most. I think she is more ready to face the death that is not far away, and the time left will be good time.  The funny thing is, when she said her most important words...I could not understand them, but I knew enough from the sound of them, that I did not ask her to repeat them. They were holy words, not really meant for me. She just needed a witness.
Most of what I do, I do not fully understand. I think it's better that way.  If I knew, I might be more afraid to do it. I'm thinking now about a husband a wife, the wife grabbing my shirt and telling me, "You ARE my priest!" wanting me to do something for her that I felt I could not do. I will always feel I let her down, but I trust God to fix it. I am still learning my role as I must live in this world. I'll do the best I can as I am able.  And love God first, last, always. 
The way I do it, is by a continual dying to self. The challenge is that you cannot die to that which you cannot see or do not know that you have. (Am I repeating myself?) To say you are sorry only takes meaning if you can declare what you are sorry for.  To die to a part of the self requires that you know yourself first. And that is what hurts: letting your own truth out. 
It comes when we realize we have told our first lie.  I wrote about that when I was first on a team for the Walk to Emmaus at least 15 years ago.  Forgiveness comes when we first realize that we can deceive ourselves and others. It is the beginning of the hardening of our hearts.  It is the first thorn in our own crown.  That is what I recall from when I was maybe seven years old. The question was "Who started the fight?" and I looked down into the St Augustine grass and then into the Mesquite tree, with the thorns...and I said, "She did." It was a deliberate lie. I remember how I began to feel cold...and frightened...and how I got away with it.
From that lie, I learned to lie to mysef about many things. I watched how other people lied to me, and how I chose to accept their lie, for the simple reason that I knew myself to be a liar.  And it built and grew strong and thought it was in charge. Forever.

Enter God, who does not give up. The battle began for my soul. Who would win?  Free will always demands a choice.
This spiritual open heart surgery demands consent.  It is a walking back into darkness, but carrying the Light of Christ,that pretty human and divine creation...who is both here...and there...and says "you can do this."  I am kind of stuck on the eyes of the person to whom I was reading my poetry this week.  I could see he was fighting to not react, to just help.  And in those moments, I felt both heard...and great compassion.  I handed him my soul. He did not step on it. He was teaching me how to listen, too.  Nothing we do travels in only one direction. 

And here I am, trying to find my way back to God. Being vulnerable. Deliberately. Born a teacher, trying to make sure I help others along the way.  Trying to tell the truth. Trying to not be afraid of the truth. Trying to be so completely vulnerable that nothing will ever take me away from God again. 

I place these things here to tell you I am not afraid.  Sort of.  I write them in hopes to offer encouragement to others who might want that bliss of intimacy with God...that the saints write about.  So that, while the world will eventually take your body back into itself, your soul will return, even while it harbors here, to God.  
This is clearly unfinished, but I'm putting it out into space anyway.  A little bit of stardust returning to heaven...

Love, Cindy

NMWBY

There just never seems to be enough life for life.   I found myself reaching for two items here, in my prayer room, that did not belong in this room. I had each in my hand and realized that, mathematically, I had to walk in opposite directions to deliver them to their proper homes, that it was foolish and a waste of energy to carry them both to complete the task.  So I set one down, put the other back where it belongs, and this morning, as I walked into the room...there it was, the second task, waiting to be taken home. 
I write that as I remember yesterday, standing between two priests at the Whataburger. No one else in line, I feel them (the priests) flanking me. Part of me goes off to the side of the room and laughs. The woman behind the counter looks at the three of us and asks, "What do you want?"

What do I want? What do I want? I want to be a priest. Could it be any more obvious to anyone?  I mean, are you blind?

Alas, a priest, in this lifetime, I will never be. And I honestly don't know how to live in this body God gave me.  In my head, because of the way I was treated as a child, I can still see the two only options I had: to be used or to use. Someone was always going to win and I was going to fight to the death to make sure the person that won was me.
So perhaps the idea of being a priest creates for me that beautiful place where I don't have to choose to fight. I can just be a child of God, living for God, mothering others to grow closer to him...and not have to worry about being objectified or mishandled.
And I know a few priests who would be laughing out loud if I said that to them right now. There is no escape from being saint or icon or the devil himself. A collar doesn't protect you from that. People see what they want to see. One simply continues to be the priest inspite of it.
And so it goes, the world may not know me, but God knows me and God knows my heart even better than I do...so I tell Him daily, many times a day:
Not My Will But Yours....NMWBY...and I do my best to let go of my desires....AGAIN...

But the Whataburger adventure was, as all adventures, a surprise, a laughter experience, a learning experience.  We talked about many things. When there are three, I am less selfish. I go into my pastoral road and get a bit theological.  Okay, maybe  a lot theological. These priests are respectful of me. They do not [laud]their position over me (I can't think of the correct word).  I think priests who are not yet comfortable in their role tend to drawn attention to the authority they have been given and they are quick to let you know who they are.  I look for the priest who knows who he is...he is the best company.My strength does not threaten them, and they have no trouble telling me to back off in a way that is not offensive or hurtful to me. But those are rare. Like diamonds. I cherish them. 

So one priest poses a question in logic for me. I recognised it immediately: the goat, the hay, the lion, the boat, the river.  I tried to remember the solution. I found it.  We laughed. He tried another one, but I could not follow the instructions. He won that one.  We laughed. The challenge came up when I suggested they both go to the movie "The Life of Pi" during the holidays.  I thought I did a pretty good sell.  But I'm pretty sure they will let it pass. That's too bad. I want to have more things to discuss, including whether or not the movie will include all of the theological concepts introduced in the book.  I like to discuss books.

Yes, I always have personal issues, that remain relevant, but I will gladly settle for a theological discussion in lieu of someone helping me to address my challenges.  Besides, with the work I do, the distraction is welcome. I faced a lot of pain this weekend, perhaps these last seven days. I watch and see how I can help...but I am stuck now in this place where I have to know myself better again...and the energy it requires to move in and out of myself while I am moving in and out of other people's lives is exhausting. 
I was designed to be a priest, my spiritual gifts are most present there...but that is not an option...so I must hone my skills as a chaplain, which is also what I was built for, but it is more of a second tier spiritual gift. Better than being a high school teacher, not as good as a college professor, but it will do and I believe I am good at it. Good enough at it.  That's how it feels now, because someone is cutting open my heart again...just as I asked...and I am not working to my full potential. Later, when my heart heals, I'll be back to my old self...caring for the dying.

So the couple of hours with the priests yesterday was a great blessing.  How long I will get to have these experiences, I never know. I fully expect them to go away each time I leave. I prepare my heart to always know that today might be the last time, because I realize full well, I have wandered into the undiscovered country and dangers lurk in every corner.  I write about it because I always intend to be as "transparent" as possible in my adventures. I think that, if I crash and burn, the next person can learn from it.  But grow we must. 
There is too much of a disconnect between the secular world and God's world. One does not inform the other too much these days, and what I see are people suffering so greatly as a result of it.  Kind of like our ridiculous U.S. Congress, each side feels it does not have to compromise. 
Before you become outraged, let me assure you of my understanding of the omniscience and omnipresence of God. Perhaps that is still unclear.  I mean, God wins. God is above all. God is the beginning, the end...the whole damn thing.  But we who live here on the earth, we are not fully connected to God. Whether or not it is right, I want the world to be connected. I see so much suffering and I see the war between the sacred and the secular.  I see the subtle battles being fought daily of "who really is in charge anyway? " Some people want God, but on their own terms...say denominationally, or theologically or psychologically...or whatever.  It is quite a power struggle between the True Good...and a whole lot of little evils.  Some suffering cannot be avoided. But some suffering can be avoided, simply by a bit of humility, a bit of submission...which oddly does not destroy the ego exactly, but refines it to something that does not run the show, but makes the show better.  Clear as mud, right? sigh.

I prayed my divine office last night. One of the priests used my phone yesterday to pray his while I was out in the garden with the other, looking at rows of broccoli and onions and hidden garlic...and rabbit trails...I pray with books because I like to hold the book, smell the pages, feel connected to something old and ancient.
When I finished my duties, I recalled the instruction of another priest. I removed the crucifix from the wall and sat in the chair. (This is not a new activity) How do I keep doing this work? How do I protect the people I care about most?  How will I keep learning if things change drastically, as I suspect they will?  And I see His beautiful hands, nailed to the wood.  I ponder on that often: the hands nailed to the wood, especially in times when I see or experience suffering and pain from which there is no escape.  I see hands nailed to wood. My heart sees hands nailed to wood.  None of us can escape who we are, try as we like...and at some point, we have to remember we are nailed to that cross with Him...that part of us that cannot escape the reality that we do not want to own...it's nailed there with Him. He endures it for us and we endure it with Him and through Him and for Him...because we intuitively know...He did it for us.

Such is real love. To risk everything for the beloved, to hurt for Him, to care for Him, to give up all for Him, to die for Him...because He did it for me...little insignificant, pride-filled me.  Anyway. He loved me anyway. And for me to do anything less...for Him...would be obscene.

I am called to teach that love to anyone who doesn't feel it...all the time...because it's always, in all ways, there.  It can stop wars and killings of every kind. It can heal broken families and broken hearts. 

Hey, Thanksgiving is just around the corner. Most of us are going to see the people we love most on that day...and probably get hurt once or twice by them...and some of us aren't going to see the people we love...and that's going to hurt too. What could have been, what should have been, what was, what is...what might be...
We are all nailed to the cross in some way. Part of us anyway.  But we aren't nailed alone. He's with us. Always.
Maybe if we remember that, we can be more thankful. I hope I can...
Not My Will But Yours, Lord...
NMWBY...

Love, Cindy

Distractions

An hour ago, I decided to write. I've been downloading songs onto my new phone.  Mostly songs about the past. Past lives, past lovers, past dreams...
Came across a little Bible, about three inches by two inches. I could tell my daughter had played with it as a child: she had colored on some of the pages. It had a picture of Jesus next to a boat and said "New Testament WITH PICTURES." I smiled. Then I looked at the first page: "To Cindy, from Herbert Earl Eugene Eubanks III"
Oh my, I had fallen in love with him my sophomore year at Texas A&M.  He was a nice boy, a dentist now, somewhere in south Texas probably.  He got me going to the Baptist Church.  I enjoyed it enough. I mostly enjoyed his company because he was an incredible dancer.  I would even go to church, just to keep him around...
Now that might mean nothing to anyone...except me. The book I picked up before that one was a wired bound journal from probably 1985. I opened to an entry. I was writing about Charlotte, a speech teacher I met. We had become great friends and that made me so very happy.  I was so lonely in my marriage, perhaps because I hid from people...but meeting Charlotte was a deliberate act. I needed to do something I was good at: coaching kids for speech competitions. I recall walking into her office at the high school, telling her I wanted to judge tournaments...that I went to Nationals...and all that jazz. I was lucky, Charlotte welcomed me with open arms. Lots of entries in the book, I realize with both sadness and gladness that some things have never changed. Dozens of ideas for stories, writing about the environment, being married, dreaming about other lives...the usual stuff.
But I wrote some important words about Charlotte: "Charlotte calls it grace. We have been graced with each other's friendship. It doesn't matter whether or not you believe in God. It just matters that through the many eons of personal relationships we have found each other...I have someone to share my poetry with and not be ashamed..."
I write these two events because it reminds me that I was at a very different place back then...wanting to believe in God...but not too sure of the idea. I think now about how God wooed me back...made me remember...things I had lost. I remember the need for connection. For feeling valued. For having a purpose.  I realize that even when we don't know what we are talking (or writing) about, we are always searching for the same things: meaning and connection.
I have been praying much more often and more deeply these days, now that I have a priest again who seems to be willing to walk the path with me, at least for now.  I don't know why it matters, but it does. No doubt more unresolved issues. But that is not for today's writing.

Today is about connecting. To God. To nature. To men and women. To children. Connecting, risking, touching, holding, listening, speaking, feeling human. And remembering.

In The Cloud of Unknowing, there is a discussion about how memory gets in the way of union with God.  I will tell you that, when I am in complete surrender to God, what is past and what might come is so very unimportant...being completely submissive to the now is exquisite and indescribable joy.  But the truth, for me, is, that to get to that island of bliss, I have to wade through my memories of that day, that moment...and give them up...but it is not an emptying experience...it is a gifting experience. I take what is in my head and give it away. I seem to not go to that blissful place unless I give something away.  A tribute perhaps, to the one who gives everything. It is like a long run, and then lying in the grass when the endorphins remind you that you did a good thing, you let the poison out of your body, you willed it out by exercise...and you begin to feel the goodness of just a little cleanliness.
In prayer, you give up wanting anything. You give up wanting. At least I do. Say I want something from someone. I can't stand that I can't have what I want. In prayer, I struggle, first wanting, then weaning myself from that selfish desire and working my way into wanting what God may want of me. As I being to spiritually grasp that experience, I begin to realize the fruitlessness of wanting. I move into the beginning of surrender. I have to ask to want to surrender...and oddly, the desire comes...and with it all the pleasures of letting go. A release...not unlike...other activities you might be able to relate to...only so much more satisfying...and filling. It is like a great war was fought and you lost and you are glad you lost. At least, it is that way for me. I know I always want my own way.

So my prayer time has been much like that. Purging and refilling. 

This week was perfectly horrible on several levels.  On Monday, I felt like I was in the fight for my life.  I hurt in every cell of my body. The wounds were deep...but my head told me, these things had to happen...they were all following the plan, to clean me out from my attachments...absolutely ANYTHING that was keeping me from a closer relationship with God, I was girding myself to remove...and it hurt. I am well aware the journey is far from over. But today, four days later, I am feeling human again...and I recognize the strength that has come to me:confidence in God's will for my life, however this plays out.  I am learning more and more to not want. Hard lessons for a little girl who lost so much early in life.

I agreed to lector today. I did not know the passage, nor had I recognized the feast day.  As I read Ezekiel 47, I remembered the research I did on the passage, about turning salt water into fresh water...and how pre-Christian religions always believed that at that place, where salt water becomes fresh, that is where God resides...and I began to feel so excited to be allowed to read that to the congregation.  Then the psalm.  Then I Corninthians 3: 

Brothers and sisters:
You are God's building.
According to the grace of God given to me,
like a wise master builder I laid a foundation,
and another is building upon it.
But each one must be careful how he builds upon it,
for no one can lay a foundation other than the one that is there,
namely, Jesus Christ.
Do you not know that you are the temple of God,
and that the Spirit of God dwells in you?
If anyone destroys God's temple,
God will destroy that person;
for the temple of God, which you are, is holy.

 

 

I read with an understanding I did not know I had.  I read with a strength I did not know lived inside me, and I read for my friends, who were all hurting from the election results...and other grave personal challenges.  I felt overwhelmed to bring them a message of peace and consolation...which was right there on the page in front of me.  Could they hear in my voice my great love for them? Did they understand? I will never know.

But I smiled, because God gave me the chance to try. 

I hugged my two women friends after Mass. One have given me the Eucharist, the other shared the chalice...did they know my joy?  Did they know how much they minister to me, every day, as I stuggle with my ups and downs, my holding ons and my letting gos?  I wonder if they knew how grateful I was for them, as I was so grateful for Charlotte, nearly 30 years ago. 

But, in God's great story, my day was not over. Later, a friend called in despair of the challenges in her life, which were indeed very great...and I was still feeling His power, His energy, inside me. I did my whole active listening thing (you may laugh, but I write like that because I have worked hard to learn how to listen) and then went into friend mode and told her what I thought. (Oh heavens! Should I do that? I never know! I just pray God will smooth out whatever I screw up!)

And then it hit me, she needs to know the verses, too.  She is a temple of God, the spirit is dwelling in her...and that important passage: "If anyone destroys God's temple, God will destroy that person."  I took that to mean during Mass, that we all have someone looking out for us, all the time...that we are not alone...and God will be like that strong big brother: if anyone tries to hurt us, He'll be right there...defending us...reminding us of our value as His Children...

 

This is the first Church: we, His people...and the first building was the Lateran Basilica. Perhaps the building held the Tabernacle...but as we grow into God's love, we become the Tabernacle, the Holy of Holies, where God resides. And God will always protect His own...

 

I needed to know that this week.  I'm far from figuring out how I am going to do the things I have to do, but I have been made aware again that I don't have to be finished or complete to be a blessing.  And my friend calmed down...because I listened...and because I had people enter my life to teach me how to calm down...so that eventually

 

we all can listen to Him, where He tells us one more time:

 

I loved you first.

 

Love, Cindy

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