Super-moon has come and gone
I wonder if I'll stop writing.
My prayer life is only a shadow of what it once was.
Riding my bike almost daily, I am reconnecting to memories
and feelings I had forgotten.
The smell of wet limestone and fresh cut grass
and the air-conditioning inside a strange church
The smell of sterling silver jewelry
or was it the cleaner?
Has my prayer life stopped, or is is simply reforming itself
to the reclamation of old ways.
The body
50 years old
isn't always pleased with the way I'm treating it now
But it was not happy with the way I was treated it before
either.
Joints hurt, fingers stick,
even alone, I do not want to appear physically weak
And I have this strong desire to push myself
Beyond my limits
Beyond what I think I can handle.
Life is just too short
To do what other people
Think you should do.
I've lived in a bohemian manner
off and on...always rebelling
against...
what was it?
I always called it illogical, but really
it was more of a violation
of my spirit...
Saw a photo of a man
I once knew...and remembered
what I had done
all because I felt I was not treated fairly
with something he was only remotely connected to
How does one actually atone for sins
so outrageous? When you didn't even know
you were doing wrong, you were just so angry...
I look at that angry child that lived inside me
The one who took it all, because she didn't know how
to not take it all...until she became as dark as the people who
hurt her.
These sins, these are the reason we hold fast to the story
of a man, who was more than man
better than man...
who dared to say,
even to me,
"I love you anyway."
So today...this present time...I ride my bike.
And remember so clearly
not all that lives is dark
A bit more
each day
I forgive
myself.
I ride my bike
Remembering that
often blessings are mixed
into the light and the dark
of who we are
Digging in the dirt with the priest
who gently said,
"No, you're doing it wrong"
as I was pulling vegetables.
He showed me how to
harvest the best parts
of the plants.
Even then,
they were covered with mud...
and they took
a long time
of washing
to finally be clean enough to eat.
I ride my bike
growing stronger each day
Pushing myself just a bit farther
Not thinking so much
about how good
or how bad I was
back then.
In riding, I am learning how
to harvest myself
from the person I was hiding in the ground
taking with me the best parts
and then washing myself
of the dirt that might
still weigh me down.
^^^^^^^^^
Notes from last week:
^^^^^^^^^^^
God says to me, you have not forgiven enough. You have not forgiven yourself.
Seriously, Lord?
Yes, Cindy. Seriously.
My friend told me her story. She said God told her, You have to love them.
Why couldn't God say that to me?
Why couldn't He say, Love them?
Why did He say, Forgive them?
And I knew and didn't know. You can't love without forgiving. And you cannot forgive without loving.
The priest at a Mass this week said forgiveness is not a feeling. It is an action. An act of free will. We will all have feelings that we don't know what to do with, and feelings that will change in time; but forgiveness is a choice...and loving is a choice. I think "in love" is not a choice, it just happened to us...but to love, in spite of, or because of, being "in love"...that is possible. We really don't have good words for all these things...
So forgiveness is heavy on my heart...in every form: I need to forgive...and I certainly need to be forgiven. It's all so complicated. I think I'm done with it...and I'm still there...in the grip of the devil of unforgiveness. I am caught not just in what things I have no power over, but also in the things I can choose to do or undo. I wonder when the story-telling will end. I wonder when the hurt feelings will go away. I wonder when (even if) I can love in that way that so many people take for granted.
God of mercy
God of love
You are always
What I'm dreaming of
Waiting in the doorway blind
Can't ever leave the past behind
Wonder if you wouldn't mind
Holding my hand again?
Hold my hand.
Love, cindy
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Who are you?
Walking along the unbeaten path
kicking stones
and admiring the clouds
I feel your hand in mine
And I look to my left...
and realize suddenly
I'm not holding anyone's hand
It was a dream again
When did you stop holding my hand?
When did you decide that
another place
person
thing
was prettier
or, in your case,
more convenient?
How did I not know
you were gone?
My mother
called me a Pollyanna,
always seeing the good in people
when I should be looking out
for the bad.
In all people,
there is good.
It is the hunger,
sometimes overwhelming
that makes them behave
poorly.
But there are days
when I finally have to realize
that you are more comfortable
in the dark
and I stop trying
and turn my eyes to
the flowers
the rivers
the birds
and the bees...
and when I have found myself again
I turn and look
and realize
I'm walking alone.
Again.
Pollyanna tells me
Try again.
love, Cindy
kicking stones
and admiring the clouds
I feel your hand in mine
And I look to my left...
and realize suddenly
I'm not holding anyone's hand
It was a dream again
When did you stop holding my hand?
When did you decide that
another place
person
thing
was prettier
or, in your case,
more convenient?
How did I not know
you were gone?
My mother
called me a Pollyanna,
always seeing the good in people
when I should be looking out
for the bad.
In all people,
there is good.
It is the hunger,
sometimes overwhelming
that makes them behave
poorly.
But there are days
when I finally have to realize
that you are more comfortable
in the dark
and I stop trying
and turn my eyes to
the flowers
the rivers
the birds
and the bees...
and when I have found myself again
I turn and look
and realize
I'm walking alone.
Again.
Pollyanna tells me
Try again.
love, Cindy
Sunday, June 16, 2013
Affirmations
Wondering today
What do you think of me now?
I saw that half-a-second look on your face,
Disapproving of my past
Deciding for yourself
What a woman can
And can't do.
Nothing else you did
or said
mattered.
No polite bullshit words
could cover up
the sad reality
that my hard work
amounted to
nothing
in your eyes.
Once, in tears,
I told a friend,
"I thought my mother
would be proud
of what I'd done."
My friend laughed.
"You know her.
You know how she is.
Why do you look to her
for approval?
She will hurt you
every single time."
And my heart hurt just a little less.
"But I want her to be proud of me."
Ain't gonna happen.
Just ain't gonna happen.
Yesterday,
a friend gushed with
beautiful sentiments
about my work,
about how I helped her
to see things
she needed to see.
(I hear that very often lately)
Then
people I had not seen in ages
stood by our table
and remembered aloud
all the things I had done
many, many years ago.
Everyone was smiling and happy
and telling me I was good.
But in my heart, I thought,
my mother never said
"Good job"
even when I brought home trophies
every weekend.
My father liked my music,
but I only knew that
after he was dead.
At the funeral,
I learned
he really liked me.
At my mother's funeral
my mother's friends never spoke to me
I knew she told them
Again and again
how I had disappointed her.
"If you only knew..."
I thought,
"You would understand..."
But, even in death,
I kept the secret.
The blessings
I think I need most
I am convinced
I will never get
And from my work
I know
This is a sad truth
In nearly every heart
That comes to me
Looking to be healed.
Our world is in such deep trouble
Because we choose
to judge
Rather than
to bless
the most important people
In our lives
Our wounds
So deep,
forever present,
cause us to
wound
the ones we love
the most.
The only way out
is to
receive
the blessings
given
by strangers
and friends
and things that go bump in the night.
The heart of stone
can heal
even without the blessing
of the father
or the mother
who wanted to bless
but had none to give
The heart heals
when it chooses to hear
"I love you"
from the one
who comes
in the surprise
of that moment
when you
open your eyes
and suddenly know
you
are
not
alone.
Love, Cindy
What do you think of me now?
I saw that half-a-second look on your face,
Disapproving of my past
Deciding for yourself
What a woman can
And can't do.
Nothing else you did
or said
mattered.
No polite bullshit words
could cover up
the sad reality
that my hard work
amounted to
nothing
in your eyes.
Once, in tears,
I told a friend,
"I thought my mother
would be proud
of what I'd done."
My friend laughed.
"You know her.
You know how she is.
Why do you look to her
for approval?
She will hurt you
every single time."
And my heart hurt just a little less.
"But I want her to be proud of me."
Ain't gonna happen.
Just ain't gonna happen.
Yesterday,
a friend gushed with
beautiful sentiments
about my work,
about how I helped her
to see things
she needed to see.
(I hear that very often lately)
Then
people I had not seen in ages
stood by our table
and remembered aloud
all the things I had done
many, many years ago.
Everyone was smiling and happy
and telling me I was good.
But in my heart, I thought,
my mother never said
"Good job"
even when I brought home trophies
every weekend.
My father liked my music,
but I only knew that
after he was dead.
At the funeral,
I learned
he really liked me.
At my mother's funeral
my mother's friends never spoke to me
I knew she told them
Again and again
how I had disappointed her.
"If you only knew..."
I thought,
"You would understand..."
But, even in death,
I kept the secret.
The blessings
I think I need most
I am convinced
I will never get
And from my work
I know
This is a sad truth
In nearly every heart
That comes to me
Looking to be healed.
Our world is in such deep trouble
Because we choose
to judge
Rather than
to bless
the most important people
In our lives
Our wounds
So deep,
forever present,
cause us to
wound
the ones we love
the most.
The only way out
is to
receive
the blessings
given
by strangers
and friends
and things that go bump in the night.
The heart of stone
can heal
even without the blessing
of the father
or the mother
who wanted to bless
but had none to give
The heart heals
when it chooses to hear
"I love you"
from the one
who comes
in the surprise
of that moment
when you
open your eyes
and suddenly know
you
are
not
alone.
Love, Cindy
Thursday, June 6, 2013
The way we've always done it...s
Wrote this part a week ago: Sometimes I wonder if the many drafts I have written are somehow accessible to view, because things seem to happen, even when I am not publishing them...
In my classes on pastoring, I learned that you don't go into a new church all fired up and start changing things. You spend the first year just listening and watching. You identify the the things that work, the things that don't work; what they perceive as problems, what you perceive as problems...and discover all the "sacred cows."
Change is always hard. Change is sometimes painful. Change causes us to doubt our absolutes, question what is true and what it not.
So when the 90+ year old man decided to ask me a question. He wanted to discuss what the priest did the week before during a Mass we shared for someone who had died. I sat and waited to hear what he really needed.
What is that book the priest was reading from during Mass?
The Sacramentary.
It belongs to the Catholic Church?
Yes.
Well, who wrote it?
What do you mean?
The priest read the 23rd psalm. It was all wrong. Why did they change it? Who is responsible for changing it?
Pope Benedict.
(He paused)
I just don't why we keep changing things. We keep dumbing down things to accomodate people. You can't tell the difference between right and wrong anymore. Why don't they just leave things alone? The psalm was all wrong.
At this point, I had to decide how to frame the next group of words. This man was a very intelligent man. How much did he want to know and how much would be helpful to him? I had to decide. In the midst of this conversation, other people in the room agreed with him. Someone said,
Why don't we just do things the way Jesus did them?
sigh.
So I explained that Pope Benedict's goal was to make the translation more true to the original scripts. (I had no real knowing of what was absolutely correct...as the Catholic Church has such a need to be right...I cannot expend too much energy there or I would never get any work done, still trying to understand it all, but I offered my opinion as best I could) The Catholic Church uses the Jerome translation from the Septuagint, which differs from the Protestant translations of the Bible. In particular, the 23rd Psalm, if you were to look at the Hebrew, had some different understandings of what words mean.
I took the example of 'hell.' When I visited the week before, the reading spoke of Gehenna, which means trash heap...the place where trash is burned. It was the least desirable place to be. Hell, when we hear the word, we think of pitchforks and fire and such, but in fact, the idea of the place of the dead was quite different in those days. I explained that although it appears watered down, the new translations are more correct...even if they don't exude the familiar feelings we associate with the more familiar words. (I think I did a better job explaining at the time than I am doing recalling it now)
Then I told him about my little prayer book. In my first Catholic prayer book, the 23rd psalm was not the 23rd but the 22nd...and I would get out my Bible and then look at the prayer book...and I didn't understand how it appeared that at least one of those two books was wrong. At 8 years old, I do not know if I ever asked the nuns about it, but at night, I would stare at my books...and go from word to word to word...it was a great mystery.
I can't recall how far I went into the discussion, but I suggested a bottom line...to reflect upon what the words might be telling us to do. Change seems inevitable...and maybe it was a good idea and maybe it wasn't; but we can agree that this world is suffering...and it needs God.
That was my first event of the morning, after Mass. I'm sure I have not told it well, or even with great accuracy, but it is one of the reasons I love this life. People want to know about God. It is my obligation to continue to learn how to tell the story as accurately as possible, so that someone who hurts might feel better. I love the questions they ask me, things I may not have thought about.
I have no doubt that every encounter I have is a vehicle to draw me closer to God. I recognize that I must always offer my best, and to quickly forgive myself when I fail. And then try again. I celebrate the challenges because each one reminds me that I belong to God alone.
I keep wanting to change my relationship status on FB. I think I may want to let a man into my life on some intimate level, but I doubt that I could find one who would not distract me from my work...and as a woman, I know I would be inclined to want to please him...but if I had to choose between, say, a husband and helping someone in trouble...I know I would choose the work.
******************************
I stopped here (above) because I had gone too far...again. The thought of letting someone into my really private space is just plain scary, but I am left with no reasonable excuse to reject that option any longer. God has removed all of my excuses, one by one. Still, I believe I would choose the work over play...most likely because I may have forgotten what it was like to play.
Spent three hours this morning with a friend, reviewing, observing...and plotting...ways to bring people, in particular women, into the strange and wonderful experiences we both knew of God. God has provided me with such perfect friends, each unique...and well suited to help me grow closer to Him, as well as to my friends. I had been pretty much overwhelmed by the sufferings of people I care about and I needed, not so much recreation, but to sit down and do a little strategic planning, to be held accountable to my own prayer life, to recognize my gifts and graces, and to help my friend see hers.
I thought at length about the encounter I had a week ago. This last week, in the reading from Tobit and the Pharisees confusion about heaven, I found myself speaking to the concept of despair and how we deal with it. In the prayer to God:" Lord, I cannot endure this suffering any longer. Please take my life." This prayer is a true and authentic prayer to a God you trust. "Take my life, God. I am tired of living. I am tired of remembering who I am not. I am tired of remembering my mistakes. I am tired of being alone. I am tired of being in pain...I am tired."
I spoke about that moment when we realize God is not going to end the suffering...so we consider ending it all by ourselves...and that, too, is a prayer. Should be a prayer. Some good Catholics may tell you it is a sin to pray for death. I will respond with the truth that we often pray for things that are neither good nor reasonable, but we are not able to see that we are praying for unhealthy things, so we pray them anyway. Some women pray for a husband, young girls pray for a prince, young boys pray to be a hero, or have a good job...but often our prayers are so myopic...yet God hears them, and I think, is gladdened by our willingness to speak with Him...even about the "less than pretty" stuff.
As in Tobit, we see the prayer of Sarah (in Tobit), where she decided to kill herself...and as she prays...she realizes how her death would hurt her father...and changes her mind.
That is the great truth about prayer: (spoken of in The Shadowlands-look it up)
Prayer doesn't change God. Prayer changes us.
The lament (well documented in the psalms) is a perfectly acceptable form of prayer. I knew when I said, "if you have a friend who is despairing, considering suicide, do not argue with them, but listen...and suggest making a pizza. In the 20 minutes it takes to make a pizza, the desire to die will be gone...because that's how feelings work. They change." And I knew I hit a nerve. I could feel it. The "pizza story" always hits a nerve. I eventually tell it everywhere I go.
So the battle between "always done it that way" and the truth that our feelings "change on a dime" are in constant battle inside of us. We seems to live by both "rules" at the same time. Both can work for us and against us....sometimes at the same time.
The key to survival is communication: listening well and speaking well. We are stuck with all these hungers and desires and must somehow manage them rather that "them managing us." I confess I am not very good at it...prudence...or temperance, for that matter. I just keep trying. It's a process. It's organic.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
I wasn't going to post this one yet, but I just read a comment from Scott Hahn who said the Pope was speaking about the same thing...so here it is, still unfinished.
I do like this Pope. And I had a truly great day of conversation. THAT must be writting about much later.
Dearest Lord,
I am grateful for these moments, for the times when you were smart enough to send me friends who suggested we share a pizza. I am glad to have walked with others who really didn't want to stay here...and in nearly 20 years of talking with others, I have only lost two. Those two made me bolder, though. I don't wait anymore. I know you hold them close, and their pain is now gone.
The ideas today were so full and vast, I was exhausted just from thinking about them...but I can see a bit more clearly than the day before. I have no idea how things will unfold, sometimes I want my own way, but even when I ask...I know that You will only give me what is best...so I never ask too hard or too much. I surrender my ambition to you. And that is hard for me to do.
I stood outside tonight, and remembered our evenings together, when I was less than 20...I sang better, but I knew so very little about life. Yet, I do not think I loved you any less then than I do now.
This is a crazy, kind of insane life...but I do love it. I feel like I am such a slow learner, and I am so grateful that you hang in there with me. Last night, I was stuck in a guilt circle...I remembered when I was ambitious, and how I had failed myself and you...and I thought I might never get to do all the things I want to do for you...and I became despairing. But you did not leave me in my despair.
You brought me the right people, in the right moments...who were able to say the right things. Thank you. At the end of this examen, I know I remembered to pray, I remembered to teach, I remembered to learn. I remembered to be thankful. I remembered the love. I remembered the laughter and the tears. I remembered the truth, and the hunger, and the waiting.
Truly, it is in giving that we receive and in dying that we are born to eternal life.
It was a good day.I must remember this day when I come to the day that is not so good.
You know how I stepped out today. You know the risk I took, even if it might be too small. You know about my fear about tomorrow. I hand those over to you as well.
For all the ways you protected me today from harm, most often in ways I will never know, I thank you. For the steamed broccoli and cheese, and for the hamburger; for the bagel and coffee for breakfast, for the books I read today, and the songs I got to sing. For the rain that fed my grass and flowers, for the much needed relaxing bath...and for all the feelings I got to feel today...I thank you.
Now I'll stop writing...and I'll just listen.
My first, my last, my only love...it's gonna be okay. I can feel it. Now teach me to share it.
Love, Cindy
In my classes on pastoring, I learned that you don't go into a new church all fired up and start changing things. You spend the first year just listening and watching. You identify the the things that work, the things that don't work; what they perceive as problems, what you perceive as problems...and discover all the "sacred cows."
Change is always hard. Change is sometimes painful. Change causes us to doubt our absolutes, question what is true and what it not.
So when the 90+ year old man decided to ask me a question. He wanted to discuss what the priest did the week before during a Mass we shared for someone who had died. I sat and waited to hear what he really needed.
What is that book the priest was reading from during Mass?
The Sacramentary.
It belongs to the Catholic Church?
Yes.
Well, who wrote it?
What do you mean?
The priest read the 23rd psalm. It was all wrong. Why did they change it? Who is responsible for changing it?
Pope Benedict.
(He paused)
I just don't why we keep changing things. We keep dumbing down things to accomodate people. You can't tell the difference between right and wrong anymore. Why don't they just leave things alone? The psalm was all wrong.
At this point, I had to decide how to frame the next group of words. This man was a very intelligent man. How much did he want to know and how much would be helpful to him? I had to decide. In the midst of this conversation, other people in the room agreed with him. Someone said,
Why don't we just do things the way Jesus did them?
sigh.
So I explained that Pope Benedict's goal was to make the translation more true to the original scripts. (I had no real knowing of what was absolutely correct...as the Catholic Church has such a need to be right...I cannot expend too much energy there or I would never get any work done, still trying to understand it all, but I offered my opinion as best I could) The Catholic Church uses the Jerome translation from the Septuagint, which differs from the Protestant translations of the Bible. In particular, the 23rd Psalm, if you were to look at the Hebrew, had some different understandings of what words mean.
I took the example of 'hell.' When I visited the week before, the reading spoke of Gehenna, which means trash heap...the place where trash is burned. It was the least desirable place to be. Hell, when we hear the word, we think of pitchforks and fire and such, but in fact, the idea of the place of the dead was quite different in those days. I explained that although it appears watered down, the new translations are more correct...even if they don't exude the familiar feelings we associate with the more familiar words. (I think I did a better job explaining at the time than I am doing recalling it now)
Then I told him about my little prayer book. In my first Catholic prayer book, the 23rd psalm was not the 23rd but the 22nd...and I would get out my Bible and then look at the prayer book...and I didn't understand how it appeared that at least one of those two books was wrong. At 8 years old, I do not know if I ever asked the nuns about it, but at night, I would stare at my books...and go from word to word to word...it was a great mystery.
I can't recall how far I went into the discussion, but I suggested a bottom line...to reflect upon what the words might be telling us to do. Change seems inevitable...and maybe it was a good idea and maybe it wasn't; but we can agree that this world is suffering...and it needs God.
That was my first event of the morning, after Mass. I'm sure I have not told it well, or even with great accuracy, but it is one of the reasons I love this life. People want to know about God. It is my obligation to continue to learn how to tell the story as accurately as possible, so that someone who hurts might feel better. I love the questions they ask me, things I may not have thought about.
I have no doubt that every encounter I have is a vehicle to draw me closer to God. I recognize that I must always offer my best, and to quickly forgive myself when I fail. And then try again. I celebrate the challenges because each one reminds me that I belong to God alone.
I keep wanting to change my relationship status on FB. I think I may want to let a man into my life on some intimate level, but I doubt that I could find one who would not distract me from my work...and as a woman, I know I would be inclined to want to please him...but if I had to choose between, say, a husband and helping someone in trouble...I know I would choose the work.
******************************
I stopped here (above) because I had gone too far...again. The thought of letting someone into my really private space is just plain scary, but I am left with no reasonable excuse to reject that option any longer. God has removed all of my excuses, one by one. Still, I believe I would choose the work over play...most likely because I may have forgotten what it was like to play.
Spent three hours this morning with a friend, reviewing, observing...and plotting...ways to bring people, in particular women, into the strange and wonderful experiences we both knew of God. God has provided me with such perfect friends, each unique...and well suited to help me grow closer to Him, as well as to my friends. I had been pretty much overwhelmed by the sufferings of people I care about and I needed, not so much recreation, but to sit down and do a little strategic planning, to be held accountable to my own prayer life, to recognize my gifts and graces, and to help my friend see hers.
I thought at length about the encounter I had a week ago. This last week, in the reading from Tobit and the Pharisees confusion about heaven, I found myself speaking to the concept of despair and how we deal with it. In the prayer to God:" Lord, I cannot endure this suffering any longer. Please take my life." This prayer is a true and authentic prayer to a God you trust. "Take my life, God. I am tired of living. I am tired of remembering who I am not. I am tired of remembering my mistakes. I am tired of being alone. I am tired of being in pain...I am tired."
I spoke about that moment when we realize God is not going to end the suffering...so we consider ending it all by ourselves...and that, too, is a prayer. Should be a prayer. Some good Catholics may tell you it is a sin to pray for death. I will respond with the truth that we often pray for things that are neither good nor reasonable, but we are not able to see that we are praying for unhealthy things, so we pray them anyway. Some women pray for a husband, young girls pray for a prince, young boys pray to be a hero, or have a good job...but often our prayers are so myopic...yet God hears them, and I think, is gladdened by our willingness to speak with Him...even about the "less than pretty" stuff.
As in Tobit, we see the prayer of Sarah (in Tobit), where she decided to kill herself...and as she prays...she realizes how her death would hurt her father...and changes her mind.
That is the great truth about prayer: (spoken of in The Shadowlands-look it up)
Prayer doesn't change God. Prayer changes us.
The lament (well documented in the psalms) is a perfectly acceptable form of prayer. I knew when I said, "if you have a friend who is despairing, considering suicide, do not argue with them, but listen...and suggest making a pizza. In the 20 minutes it takes to make a pizza, the desire to die will be gone...because that's how feelings work. They change." And I knew I hit a nerve. I could feel it. The "pizza story" always hits a nerve. I eventually tell it everywhere I go.
So the battle between "always done it that way" and the truth that our feelings "change on a dime" are in constant battle inside of us. We seems to live by both "rules" at the same time. Both can work for us and against us....sometimes at the same time.
The key to survival is communication: listening well and speaking well. We are stuck with all these hungers and desires and must somehow manage them rather that "them managing us." I confess I am not very good at it...prudence...or temperance, for that matter. I just keep trying. It's a process. It's organic.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
I wasn't going to post this one yet, but I just read a comment from Scott Hahn who said the Pope was speaking about the same thing...so here it is, still unfinished.
I do like this Pope. And I had a truly great day of conversation. THAT must be writting about much later.
Dearest Lord,
I am grateful for these moments, for the times when you were smart enough to send me friends who suggested we share a pizza. I am glad to have walked with others who really didn't want to stay here...and in nearly 20 years of talking with others, I have only lost two. Those two made me bolder, though. I don't wait anymore. I know you hold them close, and their pain is now gone.
The ideas today were so full and vast, I was exhausted just from thinking about them...but I can see a bit more clearly than the day before. I have no idea how things will unfold, sometimes I want my own way, but even when I ask...I know that You will only give me what is best...so I never ask too hard or too much. I surrender my ambition to you. And that is hard for me to do.
I stood outside tonight, and remembered our evenings together, when I was less than 20...I sang better, but I knew so very little about life. Yet, I do not think I loved you any less then than I do now.
This is a crazy, kind of insane life...but I do love it. I feel like I am such a slow learner, and I am so grateful that you hang in there with me. Last night, I was stuck in a guilt circle...I remembered when I was ambitious, and how I had failed myself and you...and I thought I might never get to do all the things I want to do for you...and I became despairing. But you did not leave me in my despair.
You brought me the right people, in the right moments...who were able to say the right things. Thank you. At the end of this examen, I know I remembered to pray, I remembered to teach, I remembered to learn. I remembered to be thankful. I remembered the love. I remembered the laughter and the tears. I remembered the truth, and the hunger, and the waiting.
Truly, it is in giving that we receive and in dying that we are born to eternal life.
It was a good day.I must remember this day when I come to the day that is not so good.
You know how I stepped out today. You know the risk I took, even if it might be too small. You know about my fear about tomorrow. I hand those over to you as well.
For all the ways you protected me today from harm, most often in ways I will never know, I thank you. For the steamed broccoli and cheese, and for the hamburger; for the bagel and coffee for breakfast, for the books I read today, and the songs I got to sing. For the rain that fed my grass and flowers, for the much needed relaxing bath...and for all the feelings I got to feel today...I thank you.
Now I'll stop writing...and I'll just listen.
My first, my last, my only love...it's gonna be okay. I can feel it. Now teach me to share it.
Love, Cindy
Sunday, June 2, 2013
Body and Blood
I think it was LaCugna who wrote that Mary was the only human being who could say "This is my body, This is my blood" with complete certainty when speaking of her Son, Jesus Christ. I recall reading that passage with a bit of shock and then a new and better understanding of how we form our theological understandings in light of who we are as men and women.
At their births, I held my children, knowing that, from my body, new life arrived on this earth that was uniquely and intimately connected to me. My blood was flowing through their veins and was being pumped in their hearts. As a mother, I held them from their very beginning, a single unique cell, fashioning its DNA to become a viable living being.
This is my Body.
This is my Blood.
And even if a thousand generations pass...I am still there, I am still a part of that human being, some little strand inside them will find its roots in me...and will find the roots of the mother who came a thousand generations before me...
The womb carries the body and blood of the next life, the new life. Perhaps the chalice is indeed a kind of womb, which must be poured out that life may continue to be renewed.
At their births, I held my children, knowing that, from my body, new life arrived on this earth that was uniquely and intimately connected to me. My blood was flowing through their veins and was being pumped in their hearts. As a mother, I held them from their very beginning, a single unique cell, fashioning its DNA to become a viable living being.
This is my Body.
This is my Blood.
And even if a thousand generations pass...I am still there, I am still a part of that human being, some little strand inside them will find its roots in me...and will find the roots of the mother who came a thousand generations before me...
The womb carries the body and blood of the next life, the new life. Perhaps the chalice is indeed a kind of womb, which must be poured out that life may continue to be renewed.
Baby mine don't you cry
Baby mine dry your eyes
Rest your head close to my heart
Never to part, baby of mine
Little one when you play
Pay no heed what they say
Let your eyes sparkle and shine
......baby of mine
If they knew all about you
they'd end up loving you too
all those same people who scold you
what they'd give just for the right to hold you
from your head down to your toes
you're not much goodnes knows
but you're so precious to me
sweet as can be, baby of mine
I think I missed a line. When I think about Mary, holding her little boy...I think, if she knew this song, she would sing it to him. I know, if I had the chance to hold him, I would sing him this song.
Yesterday, my son and daughter went out into the desert, and then up a mountain, and distributed their father's ashes...I found myself long in thought all day about it, about them, and about him. I was not there, I was not invited...but I could not have been there. My grief is still too much for them to handle, or to understand. My children may want to say, get over it, he did not want you anymore. He made another choice, get on with your life already. They just wouldn't understand. But I prayed all day long, knowing that we all do things and make choices to live in this world, and we all do the best we can...and we make a lot of mistakes along the way. And to survive...not just exist...we forgive: ourselves, others, God...
Some people have challenged me on the point I make about forgiving God. They don't understand my way of thinking theologically...by forgiving God, I am not casting some attack on His omnipotence, but that, within the human connection, reconciliation must occur in human terms. Like it or not, trauma and suffering passes through out heads as a connection to God...we ask, what did we do to deserve this? or why does God hate me? or however you might form your lament...to heal, you have to claim your suffering, however ugly or illogical it may seem. And then, forgive it...and spead it out on the winds...a burden not only your own anymore, but one that, carried by the world, becomes lighter...Forgive the God who does not need your forgiveness, because you need to forgive God...and God knows you need that to grow closer to Him.
I have great images from this last week running through my head. I've been asked to be spiritual director for two retreats for this fall. They overlap a bit, and I am wondering if this is what God wants me to do. I know I am good at this work, I know that I have wanted things to come to this point. This work makes me happier than any chaplain work, although chaplain work is deeply satisfying. The "real world" point of view is that I can be paid to be a chaplain, while I do not want to be paid to do spiritual direction. There is a job here, a job in Waco, a job in Corpus. So it gets complicated. But then, I am finding that there are jobs that may fit into what I believe I am called to do. Add to this equation a great desire to be closer to my grandchildren, who are less than a day's drive away. Should I move closer and start all over again?
Discernment. It's not really about doing what makes us happy, but it is not unreasonable to factor some of our "happy" needs into the equation. If we are right ordered, that will all fall into place without much angst. I am aware that these concerns are fairly insignificant to what God might require of me, yet I must expend energy with them, because I love my family here and my family there. Without question, the work of a Christian is in all corners of the earth. The idea of "where might I be most effective" is almost ludicrous. "Bloom where you are planted" is s stupid, cheesy ideal, but it is nonetheless truth. Solzhenitzyn wrote in "One Day in the Life of Ivan Denosvich" that even in horrific conditions, value is found, even if it is only personal value. I think it was Frankl who wrote that people die when they give up...or it could have been Primo Levi...all those books run together in my head, I read them so long ago. The point is, we make our lives count by making choices: to do good or to do evil. Easy as that.
How does this fit into Corpus Christi, or "This is my Body, This is my Blood"? I think that, in order to live out this life, we must hold closely to that to which was are connected. The life force...the soul of who we are...the "most real" body and blood, which is that which connects us to eternity...and to God. The human body will wear out...and its blood will eventually cease to help up live, but beyond this body, we will live. I have no doubt. There is a place to go from here, when we are done learning what we needed to know in this reality. I should say there are places where we might go...although 'place' seems sufficient, because geometry will not matter then...or there...if 'there' is a safe enough word to use.
Here, in the Eucharist, however you choose to embrace it (or Him), is kind of a divine acknowledgement that life is more than here and now. And that thought it comforting in good times and in bad. The Incarnation of the Divine, and to the degree that we are able to grasp it, allows us to lives good lives no matter what our circumstances might be. This Body and Blood transcends gender, race, geography, social status, wealth or poverty. It provides exactly what one needs to every single human being that popped out of a womb. It is father and mother, brother and sister, friend, mentor, protector, teacher....faith, hope and love.
And if you are able to make the connection, it is both human and divine. And if you are able to accept it, God came to this world through the womb of a woman, who was more than just a means to an end, but a living, breathing, thinking creature...who made a choice to say yes to something outrageous, and extraordinary. An ordinary woman, who from the moment she said, "Let it be done to me..." became extraordinary.
And the truth of it is, when you say yes to God...you are given the chance to be extraordinary too.
Love, Cindy
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Butterfly Kisses
28 May 2013
I stood in the Dickey's parking lot, west of Austin, each grandchild coming back to me for one more hug and one more kiss. "Please stay?" "Why do you have to leave?" "Let's go swimming!" "I love you, Nana."
The wave that flowed over me confused me. I keep saying to others that the last ACTS retreat was so powerful, that is changed their lives...and things were going to be different. But the only real truth I can say in these moments is that I will never be the same.
I will never be the same.
As I was "allowed" for the first time to be the woman I know myself to be during this last retreat...and happily not being beaten for being unique, I found that I was loveable. Love-able.
In seminary at SMU, I learned about Prevenient Grace, which connects so nicely into I John 4:19 "We must love because He first loved us," which I learned in 1996 while reading a book by Henri Nouwen called "Reaching Out." ( How's that for a string of thought---that is more of what goes through my head. I always have to slow down my thoughts to write, and I still do it poorly)
In Christian History, I learned about "the Fall."
In the beginning,
Adam and Eve were "not able to not sin"
After the Fall, Adam and Eve were "able to sin"
With Christ, Adam and Eve were "able to not sin"
That's about the shortest version of redemption I learned. But there were many stories, all of them good...I have nearly all of my three years of classwork from seminary on cassette tapes. Most of those professors are not at SMU anymore. I have a machine to convert the tapes to MP3 files, and have only done a few. My friend who lent me the machine is not in a hurry about getting it back...
sigh...I always stall when I have something important to write.
We have a new deacon at church now. Before Mass yesterday, I went to shake his hand. I said, "Sam, right?" and he replied, "DEACON Sam." And I thought, 'oh really? Did you think I couldn't tell with your little green side sash? ' And my mind jumped to judgement: pride. Immediately I was reminded of another, a priest, a baby priest, who thought much of himself. And then I was convicted of the pride that came a bit more slowly to me, when I was a Methodist minister, and the DS insisted on calling me "Reverend Johnson." I thought that was a bit much. I considered myself a pastor, not "the Reverend" and besides, one of the associate pastors at the large church where I worked insisted that the title "Reverend" not be used for those of us not yet ordained. But his two words felt like a man drawing a line in the sand: let us be clear on who I am and who you are not.
He could not possibly know anything about me or my struggles...and my wounded, dark side thought, "Oh, I am so gonna mess with him." Arrogant men still drive me crazy. For that matter, so do arrogant women. But I just walk away from arrogant women. But arrogant men, I think back to how men treated me as a child, or a young woman...and I say to myself, in my best Bugs Bunny voice, "Of course you know this means war." I no longer have to submit myself to the whims and desires of men...but apparently I have not yet forgiven them for using me for their own pleasures.
Deacon, huh?
Would you like to engage in a theological discussion? You pick the topic. Let's have a go.
I will assess his level of understanding...and begin there. (I'm going to have to fight him with my left hand...otherwise it will not be sporting)
I do not like arrogant men. Yet, clearly, in this examination, they still have some control over me...because part of me still wants to fight them. To make a point. To matter.
He's got a long way to go before becoming a priest.
But my path...on this earth...is much longer, I fear.
Back to the little hugs and hands and kisses.
What has been healed in me is connected to the little Adam and Eve story of sin, but with a twist.
I was born "not able to not love"
Bad people entered my life and suddenly I was "able to not love."
Healing and forgiveness, given to me through others who understood Jesus Christ created in me
"able to love."
Standing with my son and his family, I suddenly understood that I had value that went beyond my ability to write a check. That my part in this family was not simply the duty of social norms, I was actually wanted. This is a completely foreign thing for me. I had spent my entire life trying to be what others needed or wanted. I was desperate to be included...while at the same time so afraid of people's power over me that I knew my job was take all power whenever I could. A strange way of looking at things, but reasonably accurate.
The last retreat, it seems like I finally "came of age." I did the work I was born to do, I did it well. I spoke the truth...and most importantly, I remained completely under the submission of God. I did not hide my gifts to be liked or included. I did not hide them from the priest in attendance. I was not afraid of what he might do if he didn't "like" what I was doing. I remained always to working only what I was asked to work...I did not hide myself nor flaunt myself...I was in every respect that I could understand, a pastor...I was going to write priest, but I am not that. I do not presume to fully understand the rituals the Catholic Church requires...not do I know if I would want such responsibilities. I am, however, a pastor. I can shepherd from the front, from the back and from the middle. I can shepherd one, or many...and I can bend without fear to people with power, who do not claim power because they "need" it, but because it was given to them as God saw their humility and knew that they knew they were not in charge.
I have been give discernment. I am grateful to God.
I know that I am able to love.
I know that I am loveable.
That was the great and powerful miracle that arrived after God took nearly everything away from me. And almost sadly, I cannot write more now.
It is time to go to church.
Lover, let the love flow freely.
You will never have less
Never be less
Because love is...
etraordinary
does not follow
the rules
of physics
or time
It increases
when it should decrease
it loves anyway
it works miracles
it lives
with or without us
is directed
but never allows
us to control it.
It requires only one thing
for us to say yes
to open our heart
and let it do
what it wants
when it wants
it makes us cry
and laugh
and sing
It is beauty
and sadnesss
and loss
and desire
and is
completely
totally
undeniably
wonderful.
Love, Cindy
I stood in the Dickey's parking lot, west of Austin, each grandchild coming back to me for one more hug and one more kiss. "Please stay?" "Why do you have to leave?" "Let's go swimming!" "I love you, Nana."
The wave that flowed over me confused me. I keep saying to others that the last ACTS retreat was so powerful, that is changed their lives...and things were going to be different. But the only real truth I can say in these moments is that I will never be the same.
I will never be the same.
As I was "allowed" for the first time to be the woman I know myself to be during this last retreat...and happily not being beaten for being unique, I found that I was loveable. Love-able.
In seminary at SMU, I learned about Prevenient Grace, which connects so nicely into I John 4:19 "We must love because He first loved us," which I learned in 1996 while reading a book by Henri Nouwen called "Reaching Out." ( How's that for a string of thought---that is more of what goes through my head. I always have to slow down my thoughts to write, and I still do it poorly)
In Christian History, I learned about "the Fall."
In the beginning,
Adam and Eve were "not able to not sin"
After the Fall, Adam and Eve were "able to sin"
With Christ, Adam and Eve were "able to not sin"
That's about the shortest version of redemption I learned. But there were many stories, all of them good...I have nearly all of my three years of classwork from seminary on cassette tapes. Most of those professors are not at SMU anymore. I have a machine to convert the tapes to MP3 files, and have only done a few. My friend who lent me the machine is not in a hurry about getting it back...
sigh...I always stall when I have something important to write.
We have a new deacon at church now. Before Mass yesterday, I went to shake his hand. I said, "Sam, right?" and he replied, "DEACON Sam." And I thought, 'oh really? Did you think I couldn't tell with your little green side sash? ' And my mind jumped to judgement: pride. Immediately I was reminded of another, a priest, a baby priest, who thought much of himself. And then I was convicted of the pride that came a bit more slowly to me, when I was a Methodist minister, and the DS insisted on calling me "Reverend Johnson." I thought that was a bit much. I considered myself a pastor, not "the Reverend" and besides, one of the associate pastors at the large church where I worked insisted that the title "Reverend" not be used for those of us not yet ordained. But his two words felt like a man drawing a line in the sand: let us be clear on who I am and who you are not.
He could not possibly know anything about me or my struggles...and my wounded, dark side thought, "Oh, I am so gonna mess with him." Arrogant men still drive me crazy. For that matter, so do arrogant women. But I just walk away from arrogant women. But arrogant men, I think back to how men treated me as a child, or a young woman...and I say to myself, in my best Bugs Bunny voice, "Of course you know this means war." I no longer have to submit myself to the whims and desires of men...but apparently I have not yet forgiven them for using me for their own pleasures.
Deacon, huh?
Would you like to engage in a theological discussion? You pick the topic. Let's have a go.
I will assess his level of understanding...and begin there. (I'm going to have to fight him with my left hand...otherwise it will not be sporting)
I do not like arrogant men. Yet, clearly, in this examination, they still have some control over me...because part of me still wants to fight them. To make a point. To matter.
He's got a long way to go before becoming a priest.
But my path...on this earth...is much longer, I fear.
Back to the little hugs and hands and kisses.
What has been healed in me is connected to the little Adam and Eve story of sin, but with a twist.
I was born "not able to not love"
Bad people entered my life and suddenly I was "able to not love."
Healing and forgiveness, given to me through others who understood Jesus Christ created in me
"able to love."
Standing with my son and his family, I suddenly understood that I had value that went beyond my ability to write a check. That my part in this family was not simply the duty of social norms, I was actually wanted. This is a completely foreign thing for me. I had spent my entire life trying to be what others needed or wanted. I was desperate to be included...while at the same time so afraid of people's power over me that I knew my job was take all power whenever I could. A strange way of looking at things, but reasonably accurate.
The last retreat, it seems like I finally "came of age." I did the work I was born to do, I did it well. I spoke the truth...and most importantly, I remained completely under the submission of God. I did not hide my gifts to be liked or included. I did not hide them from the priest in attendance. I was not afraid of what he might do if he didn't "like" what I was doing. I remained always to working only what I was asked to work...I did not hide myself nor flaunt myself...I was in every respect that I could understand, a pastor...I was going to write priest, but I am not that. I do not presume to fully understand the rituals the Catholic Church requires...not do I know if I would want such responsibilities. I am, however, a pastor. I can shepherd from the front, from the back and from the middle. I can shepherd one, or many...and I can bend without fear to people with power, who do not claim power because they "need" it, but because it was given to them as God saw their humility and knew that they knew they were not in charge.
I have been give discernment. I am grateful to God.
I know that I am able to love.
I know that I am loveable.
That was the great and powerful miracle that arrived after God took nearly everything away from me. And almost sadly, I cannot write more now.
It is time to go to church.
Lover, let the love flow freely.
You will never have less
Never be less
Because love is...
etraordinary
does not follow
the rules
of physics
or time
It increases
when it should decrease
it loves anyway
it works miracles
it lives
with or without us
is directed
but never allows
us to control it.
It requires only one thing
for us to say yes
to open our heart
and let it do
what it wants
when it wants
it makes us cry
and laugh
and sing
It is beauty
and sadnesss
and loss
and desire
and is
completely
totally
undeniably
wonderful.
Love, Cindy
Cinnamon sticks and water
circa 18 May 2013
I feel like I've done so little today. But I've prayed well, and attended Mass at St Mark's...where things seem to affect me differently there. This time, it was the water in the new baptismal font...and as I heard it flowing, I knew I had to figure out a way to get there more often...and just be still with God.
Each time I return there, it is as if it is a surprise. I can't exactly explain it. Something must have happened there, something primal or deep inside me. I look up at the stained glass stations of the cross, the ones placed along the 'wrong' wall (Msgr. Smith intended them to be on the dawn wall, not the dusk wall)...and I look at the 11th Station: Jesus dies on the cross...I am drawn like a fly to that one...because it looks like that night of the full moon, back in 96, during Lent...a retreat down near Possum Kingdom...with the choir from the Methodist Church. Once I knew everyone was asleep, I went out to the fire pit, where the wooden cross stood, pretty much life size...and cried like a little girl about the impending divorce...like a speeding train, I knew I could not stop it...and some part of me was glad it was happening, because I didn't like who I was becoming in my marriage. I found a stone and I seemed to remember offering some kind of prayer to God that said, "I give up. I can't live like I was living, but I don't know how to live now. I don't want to live now, but I have to keep living. So I give my life to you. I don't want it. I don't want anything anymore, but I know I have to live. So it's yours. Do with it what you will." and I placed the rock on the cross. I had to stretch to reach the cross bar. The wind was gently blowing on that spring night...and there off behind the cross, through the trees that did not yet have any leaves...the full moon was rising. I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seem...and I just stood there, hugging the cross...wishing that somehow, placing that stone on it, I could just let go of all the mistakes I had made...and I could somehow learn to be happy.
I feel that moment every single time I go to Mass at St Marks. During the Mass, I am mesmerized by that stained glass image of the cross...and I love it as if it was the most important thing in the world. I look at it, and I feel that night, I live that night over and over again. It seemed like the beginning of God courting me...and one always likes to remember that first date. Yet it was so much more than that. I had spent so much time in the woods at night with Bob, when we were dating...God knew that, to seduce me, He had to take me to my favorite place...and provide me with my favorite things: a river, barren trees, a full moon, a gentle breeze. I can fall in love so easily under a full moon. And I guess I did. Why that stained glass seems to be connected, why it is the little drops of blood falling from an empty cross seem so important to me, I cannot explain. It is just who I am...and who God is...to me.
A thousand thoughts go through me. Ah...it becomes clearer now. Grandbury, the tornadoes, traveling there with friends...Glen Rose, that was the retreat center. I remember now. All the little pieces. Returning to the Eucharist at St Marks, how I fell to the ground in happiness...why would such a little thing affect me so? Because, to me, it is no little thing.
I cannot speak too well in a contemplative state and I vaguely feel myself going there right now. It is kind of a seduction, this God relationship, which takes all the parts of me and mixes them in a bowl and I feel myself swimming around, much like the wind of a tornado, strong, but not destructive like a tornado. I should have anticipated this...after one amazing retreat, with so much good birthing and so much death being buried this past weekend...and then retelling the story this afternoon to my spiritual director Liz...I didn't think it was going to happen today, but I write and I am really not here. I hear the birds outside my window, singing their night prayers...saying good bye to the sun and thanking God for the day...and I feel all the memories of the Mass, and the telling of the story...
Do you remember what God said?
And Paul?
Be courageous. Time is getting close. Don't let false spirits confuse you...they are everywhere. They want you to be afraid, discouraged.
The things I did, the way I did them...if it was me, I would be sad or embarrassed or something...but I did what I was told to do.
Not like when I gave up, and tried to kill myself again by sleeping with the wrong man. That was long ago...and I learned from it...how a woman can kill herself and still breathe. It's actually pretty easy. Yes, I tried to stop all this foolishness of God, in the only way I knew how...and even then, God did not let go. I suspect no one would really value anything I might write or say, because of the choices I've made, the mistakes I allowed...trying to die because I was too scared to live.
I get confused about it all, trying to offer some rational explanation for the things that keep happening, how I am allowed to witness so much healing...and even be a part of it. And how I know that, if I hadn't had horrible things happen, I would not be able to be the servant I am allowed to be. It is just all so confusing...and definitely not logical.
Be courageous. Speak from your heart what you have learned. Do not fear the truth. Do not fear death. The Evil One thrives on making us afraid of ourselves. I have seen heaven and hell...and the healing that lives between them.
It all seemed to begin with that cross, that stone...that blood that dripped onto the dirt beneath, mixing with my great tears of grief and loneliness and sorrow...thinking about the ones who cried there before me, and the ones who will cry later...under a full moon.
There are things I want to write, but I am still afraid, not for me...but for my children and grandchildren, who may not ever understand...yet must know, we are so much more than dust and water.
We are more than mud.
I loved
without knowing love
but I loved
waiting
for her to return to me.
I loved
when they hurt me
knowing
they hurt me
because
in their own hearts
they were waiting
for love too.
In prayer
I am overcome
by the emptiness
of this world
and its
great hunger
waiting
to be filled
with love.
I endure
their loneliness
ignoring my own.
No, understanding
my own.
He sees it all.
Use me Lord,
Let my ears
hear their truth
feel their pain
sing their song...
just enough
to make them brave
to sing
all by themselves
a love song
to You.
Empty me
enough
to be space
for them
Fill me
enough
to help
to start their song
Remove me
when they
begin to walk
And let me be happy
to leave
Because when my work is over
And I have no more hands to hold
I know you'll be there
holding my hand
And taking me
home.
Such odd words. I'm not sure why I write them. But I'll know later.
Love, Cindy
I feel like I've done so little today. But I've prayed well, and attended Mass at St Mark's...where things seem to affect me differently there. This time, it was the water in the new baptismal font...and as I heard it flowing, I knew I had to figure out a way to get there more often...and just be still with God.
Each time I return there, it is as if it is a surprise. I can't exactly explain it. Something must have happened there, something primal or deep inside me. I look up at the stained glass stations of the cross, the ones placed along the 'wrong' wall (Msgr. Smith intended them to be on the dawn wall, not the dusk wall)...and I look at the 11th Station: Jesus dies on the cross...I am drawn like a fly to that one...because it looks like that night of the full moon, back in 96, during Lent...a retreat down near Possum Kingdom...with the choir from the Methodist Church. Once I knew everyone was asleep, I went out to the fire pit, where the wooden cross stood, pretty much life size...and cried like a little girl about the impending divorce...like a speeding train, I knew I could not stop it...and some part of me was glad it was happening, because I didn't like who I was becoming in my marriage. I found a stone and I seemed to remember offering some kind of prayer to God that said, "I give up. I can't live like I was living, but I don't know how to live now. I don't want to live now, but I have to keep living. So I give my life to you. I don't want it. I don't want anything anymore, but I know I have to live. So it's yours. Do with it what you will." and I placed the rock on the cross. I had to stretch to reach the cross bar. The wind was gently blowing on that spring night...and there off behind the cross, through the trees that did not yet have any leaves...the full moon was rising. I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seem...and I just stood there, hugging the cross...wishing that somehow, placing that stone on it, I could just let go of all the mistakes I had made...and I could somehow learn to be happy.
I feel that moment every single time I go to Mass at St Marks. During the Mass, I am mesmerized by that stained glass image of the cross...and I love it as if it was the most important thing in the world. I look at it, and I feel that night, I live that night over and over again. It seemed like the beginning of God courting me...and one always likes to remember that first date. Yet it was so much more than that. I had spent so much time in the woods at night with Bob, when we were dating...God knew that, to seduce me, He had to take me to my favorite place...and provide me with my favorite things: a river, barren trees, a full moon, a gentle breeze. I can fall in love so easily under a full moon. And I guess I did. Why that stained glass seems to be connected, why it is the little drops of blood falling from an empty cross seem so important to me, I cannot explain. It is just who I am...and who God is...to me.
A thousand thoughts go through me. Ah...it becomes clearer now. Grandbury, the tornadoes, traveling there with friends...Glen Rose, that was the retreat center. I remember now. All the little pieces. Returning to the Eucharist at St Marks, how I fell to the ground in happiness...why would such a little thing affect me so? Because, to me, it is no little thing.
I cannot speak too well in a contemplative state and I vaguely feel myself going there right now. It is kind of a seduction, this God relationship, which takes all the parts of me and mixes them in a bowl and I feel myself swimming around, much like the wind of a tornado, strong, but not destructive like a tornado. I should have anticipated this...after one amazing retreat, with so much good birthing and so much death being buried this past weekend...and then retelling the story this afternoon to my spiritual director Liz...I didn't think it was going to happen today, but I write and I am really not here. I hear the birds outside my window, singing their night prayers...saying good bye to the sun and thanking God for the day...and I feel all the memories of the Mass, and the telling of the story...
Do you remember what God said?
And Paul?
Be courageous. Time is getting close. Don't let false spirits confuse you...they are everywhere. They want you to be afraid, discouraged.
The things I did, the way I did them...if it was me, I would be sad or embarrassed or something...but I did what I was told to do.
Not like when I gave up, and tried to kill myself again by sleeping with the wrong man. That was long ago...and I learned from it...how a woman can kill herself and still breathe. It's actually pretty easy. Yes, I tried to stop all this foolishness of God, in the only way I knew how...and even then, God did not let go. I suspect no one would really value anything I might write or say, because of the choices I've made, the mistakes I allowed...trying to die because I was too scared to live.
I get confused about it all, trying to offer some rational explanation for the things that keep happening, how I am allowed to witness so much healing...and even be a part of it. And how I know that, if I hadn't had horrible things happen, I would not be able to be the servant I am allowed to be. It is just all so confusing...and definitely not logical.
Be courageous. Speak from your heart what you have learned. Do not fear the truth. Do not fear death. The Evil One thrives on making us afraid of ourselves. I have seen heaven and hell...and the healing that lives between them.
It all seemed to begin with that cross, that stone...that blood that dripped onto the dirt beneath, mixing with my great tears of grief and loneliness and sorrow...thinking about the ones who cried there before me, and the ones who will cry later...under a full moon.
There are things I want to write, but I am still afraid, not for me...but for my children and grandchildren, who may not ever understand...yet must know, we are so much more than dust and water.
We are more than mud.
I loved
without knowing love
but I loved
waiting
for her to return to me.
I loved
when they hurt me
knowing
they hurt me
because
in their own hearts
they were waiting
for love too.
In prayer
I am overcome
by the emptiness
of this world
and its
great hunger
waiting
to be filled
with love.
I endure
their loneliness
ignoring my own.
No, understanding
my own.
He sees it all.
Use me Lord,
Let my ears
hear their truth
feel their pain
sing their song...
just enough
to make them brave
to sing
all by themselves
a love song
to You.
Empty me
enough
to be space
for them
Fill me
enough
to help
to start their song
Remove me
when they
begin to walk
And let me be happy
to leave
Because when my work is over
And I have no more hands to hold
I know you'll be there
holding my hand
And taking me
home.
Such odd words. I'm not sure why I write them. But I'll know later.
Love, Cindy
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