As always, I approach Lent rather like someone holding out a sharp pointed stick towards a wayward mouse in the corner of the room--poke, retreat, poke, shriek, retreat, poke....you get the picture. Perhaps this is because I grew up in a house where the word "Lent" was never really mentioned. Not that it was considered a swear word, but it simply had no importance in our house.
That has since changed, as those of you who follow this blog have seen. If you look back in my blog archives to the year 2011 and click on March, you will find my posting, "Lent or Whatever," which chronicles my inability to fast and give up things. Especially food.
However, this year I am giving a stab again at the fasting thing, having recently read a fascinating piece by Heather King (A former bad-girl, convert to Catholicism) in "Magnificat." In it she decides that she is going to "fast from criticizing people." I can get behind that. I decided to give up judging people for this Lent. Heather goes on to write, "Ash Wednesday dawned. I waited to be transformed, and within an hour I was mentally nipicking, criticizing, and judging any number of people.....Prayer without fasting is a gesture. Mercy without fasting is a gesture...Fasting is a consent to be consumed."
Whew. This makes me sweat, but it also goes straight into my heart, because I so resist this way of "doing" Lent. Nothing too hard, God, please. No sacrifices. Nothing that will remind me of how poor I really am within. Nothing that will remind me of my addictions.
So, I'm on a modified fast today, and haven't broken down sobbing into the corner yet, clutching a piece of wriggly's spearmint gum. I also, beside trying to get rid of certain snarky personality traits which I won't detail here, have decided to go for an entire MONTH without buying a book, particularly on Amazon.com., my site of favorite book whoredom. I will give the money I would spend on books to the homeless shelter in Northampton or to the Survival Center. Let's give OUT with something I am giving UP. Doesn't that make good sense to you? Doesn't it even....remind you a tiny bit of the logic ofThomas Aquinas? No, ok. How about Dick Nixon and his wife's plain cloth coat?
I read another man's words, Fr. Vincent Nagle, who had spent time in a third-world country with few resources himself. He writes, "I gained something through this poverty. It made me aware of the essential." These are heartening and strengthening words for a wussy lady trying to give up 3 snacks a day, plus biggish plates of food.
I've also discovered another writer/pastor who might appeal to some of you--Jon Swanson. He's written several books, one of them called, "Lent For Non-Lent People: 33 Things to Give Up For Lent." I know it sounds rather dreary, but it isn't at all. It's fairly useful and even contemplative! Among the items in his list of 33 things you could give up are: "First place in line..The last word...A quarter-pounder...Three scowls...10 minutes of frantic activity...One argument..." and much more. It's a fresh look at what we might want to give up, and he encourages us to think of what we might put in the place of the things we offer up.
Hence my title,"Lent and the Book Whore." I am giving up buying books and giving out the money I save to people who need it far more than I. This reminds me of what is essential. This reminds me of my own inner poverty. And it actually gives something useful to somebody else.
If you are wondering how much money that might turn out to be (I haven't reached a firm total yet), I estimate it at around $70 per month. Easily, and that includes a lot of Kindle books.
So, however you decide to observe Lent (which means "spring"), or whether you decide it has no relevance for you whatsoever, you might get a kick out of the list of 33 things, simply because it makes us take a closer look at ourselves. And Jon's website is: http://300wordsaday.com. Happy Lent!
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Thursday, January 3, 2013
MORE IS NOT ENOUGH
Are you as surrounded by the detritus of Christmas and the holidays as I am at our house? Do you walk through your living room kicking at things spilling from chairs, the coffee table, and some unnamed, dark corners? Do you struggle with resolutions to make do with less, bag up the extras, and take it to the Salvation Army?
I am drowning in stuff--old hats fall in my face as I try to organize the closet; countless shoes and oversized boots seem to have bred together during the night, producing even more shoes, even a sandal or two. I'm tempted to call a moving company and say, "Pack it up, boys! Take it away!"
What happened? How did I go from a fervent admirer of Laura Ingalls Wilder and their very modest Christmas consisting of tin cups for each girl, a penny, and a stick of candy which was more than enough? We used to make all our own Christmas presents when we were poor and living on $5000 a year (some time ago...). I remember the sense of satisfaction at knitting a sweater for a nephew (never mind that he burst into hysterical howls when the turtleneck squeezed over his eyes--note to self, do not knit turtlenecks for little ones ever again); at making a stuffed bunny with sewn on button eyes for my niece; at growing and drying basil to store it in reused cardboard chicken bouillion containers for my family. I think I even made soap once.
And now? I am a corrupt consumer of Western goods which fail--as they always do--to make me happy. Not content with a simple Kindle from two years ago, now I have a Kindle Fire with Cloud storing capacity, whatever that is. Never mind that when I type messages on it, asking a priest friend to forgive me for "finking out" on going to Mass with him, autocorrect wrote, "Funk out." It won't even let me swear and wrote "Damon," for "Damn." I am surrounded by moralizing electronic devices, even a smart phone which actually makes me feel dumber than salt.
I want to return to a simpler, cheaper, less consumer-oriented life. I want to walk through the supermarket with my little red plastic clicker counting up what I've spent so far, because I have an actual LIMIT (gasp, what is that!) on how much I can spend.
I want to make beer again with my honey, using Aunt Lena's Malt syrup from the store and brewing it all in a new plastic garbage can, watching it bubble and get ready until it is time to bottle it for modest consumption. Forget the bottles of wine from Dashing Dave's liquor store.
I want to unearth my sewing machine and make things again, remembering that I sewed bathing suits for both my mom and myself many years back. I want to grow enough vegetables in my hillside garden to store squash and potatoes through the winter as I used to do.
Is it possible to turn the clock back to a simpler time, a life where people actually phoned each other and heard a real human voice on the other end, in which you could detect emotion? It was a real connection unlike the electronic messages which make us think we are joined but which I am coming to believe ultimately separate us from each other. Just go out to a restaurant at night and see the couple sitting at the table, romantic glasses of wine at hand, staring into their cellphones, reading messages or perhaps online publications on How to Have a Hot Romance. I have news for you: "Look up. Look into his or her eyes. Touch hands under the table, and don't forget to talk!"
I am taking as my cue for the new year a wonderful phrase I read recently; that the word "saunter" comes from the French words, "Sainte Terre," referring to the slower pace pilgrims used, knowing their feet were on holy ground. I am going to bag up the clothes I don't need and give them to Good Will and find a way to strip down, get lean and sleek for the work of the last 1/4 of my life.
As St. Basil famously said (a church father of the Eastern Church in the 4th century); "The bread which you do not use is the bread of the hungry; the garment hanging in your wardrobe is the garment of the one who is naked; the shoes you do not wear are the shoes of one who is barefoot; the money you keep locked away is the money of the poor...."
So that is my question to you, if it is applicable: What in your life belongs to the poor?
I am drowning in stuff--old hats fall in my face as I try to organize the closet; countless shoes and oversized boots seem to have bred together during the night, producing even more shoes, even a sandal or two. I'm tempted to call a moving company and say, "Pack it up, boys! Take it away!"
What happened? How did I go from a fervent admirer of Laura Ingalls Wilder and their very modest Christmas consisting of tin cups for each girl, a penny, and a stick of candy which was more than enough? We used to make all our own Christmas presents when we were poor and living on $5000 a year (some time ago...). I remember the sense of satisfaction at knitting a sweater for a nephew (never mind that he burst into hysterical howls when the turtleneck squeezed over his eyes--note to self, do not knit turtlenecks for little ones ever again); at making a stuffed bunny with sewn on button eyes for my niece; at growing and drying basil to store it in reused cardboard chicken bouillion containers for my family. I think I even made soap once.
And now? I am a corrupt consumer of Western goods which fail--as they always do--to make me happy. Not content with a simple Kindle from two years ago, now I have a Kindle Fire with Cloud storing capacity, whatever that is. Never mind that when I type messages on it, asking a priest friend to forgive me for "finking out" on going to Mass with him, autocorrect wrote, "Funk out." It won't even let me swear and wrote "Damon," for "Damn." I am surrounded by moralizing electronic devices, even a smart phone which actually makes me feel dumber than salt.
I want to return to a simpler, cheaper, less consumer-oriented life. I want to walk through the supermarket with my little red plastic clicker counting up what I've spent so far, because I have an actual LIMIT (gasp, what is that!) on how much I can spend.
I want to make beer again with my honey, using Aunt Lena's Malt syrup from the store and brewing it all in a new plastic garbage can, watching it bubble and get ready until it is time to bottle it for modest consumption. Forget the bottles of wine from Dashing Dave's liquor store.
I want to unearth my sewing machine and make things again, remembering that I sewed bathing suits for both my mom and myself many years back. I want to grow enough vegetables in my hillside garden to store squash and potatoes through the winter as I used to do.
Is it possible to turn the clock back to a simpler time, a life where people actually phoned each other and heard a real human voice on the other end, in which you could detect emotion? It was a real connection unlike the electronic messages which make us think we are joined but which I am coming to believe ultimately separate us from each other. Just go out to a restaurant at night and see the couple sitting at the table, romantic glasses of wine at hand, staring into their cellphones, reading messages or perhaps online publications on How to Have a Hot Romance. I have news for you: "Look up. Look into his or her eyes. Touch hands under the table, and don't forget to talk!"
I am taking as my cue for the new year a wonderful phrase I read recently; that the word "saunter" comes from the French words, "Sainte Terre," referring to the slower pace pilgrims used, knowing their feet were on holy ground. I am going to bag up the clothes I don't need and give them to Good Will and find a way to strip down, get lean and sleek for the work of the last 1/4 of my life.
As St. Basil famously said (a church father of the Eastern Church in the 4th century); "The bread which you do not use is the bread of the hungry; the garment hanging in your wardrobe is the garment of the one who is naked; the shoes you do not wear are the shoes of one who is barefoot; the money you keep locked away is the money of the poor...."
So that is my question to you, if it is applicable: What in your life belongs to the poor?
Thursday, December 13, 2012
My Crazy Brain on Advent
I have just spent an inordinate amount of time wandering around the internet. I managed to make myself a cup of hot, strong English tea (with real cream and sugar, no crap splenda thank you very much) and sit at my desk--always a challenge with this ADD broad. I answered email, looked at Joyce Rupp's message (a marvelous Catholic writer with deep spirituality), thought about it a bit, tried to send it to a friend, and failed, because everytime Google sends something to me that requires ACTION, I enter fail-mode. The email link did not get sent, and I wasted more time berating myself for being a techno-boob.
Then I had to check on my www.jacquielawson.com Advent calendar. This is a nifty little gizmo (only $2.75 if you get TWO) where you click on this Alpine Village and the tree and village are covered with glittering little ornaments. Each day you click on the date and some new scene appears. It's INTERACTIVE. You can make actual digital wreaths on it! You can pretend to decorate a SOCK for Christmas. Don't bother to go out into the woods and actually harvest any greens and don't bother to knit a sock (something that also puts me in fail-mode) and decorate it. Just do it on the screen, and then go down and eat some cookies.
Then I had to go click on Allie Brosh's blog--www.hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com and see my favorite take on Christmas: "The Year Kenny Loggins Ruined Christmas." This is a hilarious blog which will make you fall on the floor crying with mirth. Hopefully it is mirth and not an excuse to mourn a dog which died five years ago, or perhaps mourn an ex-boyfriend of thirty years ago. Not that I do that. The dog came over and nosed me worriedly, whining a little and wagging her tail to show that she thought I was totally f....ed because I was writhing on the floor and crying. She doesn't understand human mirth.
Oh, and that brings me to another dramatic event in our life up here on the hill. "Squirrel Murder." I came home from spending massive amounts of money at the Big Y yesterday (it's only the wine, I consoled myself, it's not that I am not thrifty with our family's money, it's the wine....) to find my friend, Mel, who helps clean our house and generally keep us from being condemned by the Department of Health, looking very worried indeed. The story came out in bits and pieces. "Squirrel dropped from side of house..." (Yes, they roam across our clapboards with impunity!) "Dog went for the animal"...."blood gushing everywhere"....I began to get worried. "Wiped off the dog's muzzle--her paws were bloody too...." Clearly, an Alfred Hitchock Bates Motel had occured on our very deck. I went out, and indeed the deck had red spatters on it, so did the gate, and other parts of the deck. Ack. Serious murder. Not to be cleaned up by the application of spray cleaner and wipies. Ack.
Perhaps it was time to drink straight gin out of the bottle. But perhaps not, as I had to unload my groceries. So all this was whirling around my mind at 4:50 a.m. today after I woke to pee (sad but true), and my thoughts took off like a winner at the Kentucky Derby, reins flying. It would probably take some serious drugs to get my mind to slow down, but I'm not going to go there.
Anyway, how do we get from the Internet, Kenny Loggins, and squirrel murder to Advent? Because that was what I was thinking about this morning (after worrying about the dog, getting in some early anxiety about our spring trip to Italy and could I sleep on the plane?) as I lay in the dark, saying a decade on my Rosary and praying for all the wounded people I know. Which is rather a lot. I thought of lying in the dark, and how the light would soon (well, soonish to be accurate, as in 7:00 a.m.) pierce the edges of the curtains. I would wait for it--like Advent. I would prepare myself for God's coming, aka, the Light. I would think prayerful thoughts and think about Jesus, instead of worrying about our hotel in Rome and did our dog actually get scratched by the squirrel and would she die of a massive infection because I was too LAZY to take her to the vet?
I gave up after awhile and let my mind run crazily in and out of reality. And I knew, as I did so, that God didn't mind. He/she doesn't care if my mind is a bad neighborhood, as Annie Lamott so famously observed. I suspect he was actually grinning at me as my thoughts writhed around inside my head. "Poor sweetie," he would say, giving me a digital pat, "it will all be better by and by. Because, as one of my favorite holy women once said, All shall be well, all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.
I guess if you are holy you don't have to be grammatical.
Then I had to check on my www.jacquielawson.com Advent calendar. This is a nifty little gizmo (only $2.75 if you get TWO) where you click on this Alpine Village and the tree and village are covered with glittering little ornaments. Each day you click on the date and some new scene appears. It's INTERACTIVE. You can make actual digital wreaths on it! You can pretend to decorate a SOCK for Christmas. Don't bother to go out into the woods and actually harvest any greens and don't bother to knit a sock (something that also puts me in fail-mode) and decorate it. Just do it on the screen, and then go down and eat some cookies.
Then I had to go click on Allie Brosh's blog--www.hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com and see my favorite take on Christmas: "The Year Kenny Loggins Ruined Christmas." This is a hilarious blog which will make you fall on the floor crying with mirth. Hopefully it is mirth and not an excuse to mourn a dog which died five years ago, or perhaps mourn an ex-boyfriend of thirty years ago. Not that I do that. The dog came over and nosed me worriedly, whining a little and wagging her tail to show that she thought I was totally f....ed because I was writhing on the floor and crying. She doesn't understand human mirth.
Oh, and that brings me to another dramatic event in our life up here on the hill. "Squirrel Murder." I came home from spending massive amounts of money at the Big Y yesterday (it's only the wine, I consoled myself, it's not that I am not thrifty with our family's money, it's the wine....) to find my friend, Mel, who helps clean our house and generally keep us from being condemned by the Department of Health, looking very worried indeed. The story came out in bits and pieces. "Squirrel dropped from side of house..." (Yes, they roam across our clapboards with impunity!) "Dog went for the animal"...."blood gushing everywhere"....I began to get worried. "Wiped off the dog's muzzle--her paws were bloody too...." Clearly, an Alfred Hitchock Bates Motel had occured on our very deck. I went out, and indeed the deck had red spatters on it, so did the gate, and other parts of the deck. Ack. Serious murder. Not to be cleaned up by the application of spray cleaner and wipies. Ack.
Perhaps it was time to drink straight gin out of the bottle. But perhaps not, as I had to unload my groceries. So all this was whirling around my mind at 4:50 a.m. today after I woke to pee (sad but true), and my thoughts took off like a winner at the Kentucky Derby, reins flying. It would probably take some serious drugs to get my mind to slow down, but I'm not going to go there.
Anyway, how do we get from the Internet, Kenny Loggins, and squirrel murder to Advent? Because that was what I was thinking about this morning (after worrying about the dog, getting in some early anxiety about our spring trip to Italy and could I sleep on the plane?) as I lay in the dark, saying a decade on my Rosary and praying for all the wounded people I know. Which is rather a lot. I thought of lying in the dark, and how the light would soon (well, soonish to be accurate, as in 7:00 a.m.) pierce the edges of the curtains. I would wait for it--like Advent. I would prepare myself for God's coming, aka, the Light. I would think prayerful thoughts and think about Jesus, instead of worrying about our hotel in Rome and did our dog actually get scratched by the squirrel and would she die of a massive infection because I was too LAZY to take her to the vet?
I gave up after awhile and let my mind run crazily in and out of reality. And I knew, as I did so, that God didn't mind. He/she doesn't care if my mind is a bad neighborhood, as Annie Lamott so famously observed. I suspect he was actually grinning at me as my thoughts writhed around inside my head. "Poor sweetie," he would say, giving me a digital pat, "it will all be better by and by. Because, as one of my favorite holy women once said, All shall be well, all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.
I guess if you are holy you don't have to be grammatical.
Thursday, November 15, 2012
IT'S ENOUGH
I've been thinking a lot about God lately (a common occurence), pondering my relationship with Her: Is it sort of like double-dating? Is it more like having a fabulous life coach? Perhaps I could call God my BBF? I tried to zero in on how I envision God, and what about the fact that I am not a terribly worthy person, being full of odd sins, dark corners, musty revenge, and sour remorse. What about that stuff? Doesn't that impact this all important relationship?
A few Sundays back, Pastor Andrea gave another of her brilliant sermons about making room for God in our hearts. She spoke of "clearing out the junk" to make more space for Jesus. This "junk" might include: current addictions, bad habits, attachments that draw us away from God, and more. At the end of the sermon I remember feeling--Wow, will God not come to me unless and until I clean out the trash in my heart? There's so much of it! I'd need to rent one of those expensive dumpsters and I could fill it up in about a day. Or an hour.
Here's my take on it, after being a Christian and person of faith since I was 20 and got snatched up by God and shaken by the neck, rather like a beloved but lost puppy. Which I was. Like all of us, I've experienced ecstasy, joyful times, and some seriously dark times when I wasn't quite sure I would come out the other end or even in what shape I might be in when I emerged. If I ever did come out on the other side.
One day in prayer I was loving God, feeling the warmth within that seemed to fly out of my heart to God. I was yearning to be with him. As sometimes happens, the CNN newsfeed from God entered my brain with these words: I want to be with you as much as you want to be with me. Say what? God wants to be with ME with my strange, undisciplined heart, my need for revenge, my devotion to always being right, my lack of reaching out to the poor and marginalized, and my tendency to be too attached to crisp Chardonnay at the end of the day? Really, God?
But if it's true for me then it's true for you, because one of the more glorious parts of our faith is the idea of the Body of Christ. When we open ourselves to God, we become larger than ourselves, more connected, part of the vast cloud of witnesses to Jesus. We become part of the divine and each other.
Here are a few other insights that I have learned to trust. The way these "knowings," as I call them, come in is different from my own thoughts. The knowings seem to have a weight to them, to be in a voice that is not mine, and they also tend to be way wiser than anything I could invent.
This morning in prayer I was loving God, thanking her for my life, for health, for family, for church, and for surviving the hurricane. The CNN newsfeed kicked in and the words came, "Loving God is enough." Really? You mean I don't have to go down and make home made pizza for the homeless man on the corner of State Street? (That would be a good idea, though.) I don't have to knit tents for the homeless? "Loving me is enough," came again, with a certainty that rocked me.
Now I suspect that when we love God, we are transformed. Perhaps my need for revenge and my inability to forgive certain people in my life will be changed. Probably when I read of all the people whose lives have been devastated by the hurricane, I'll fire off a check to help them rebuild, or help send some supplies. Because we are all beloved by God--no matter our addictions or our brokenness--and there is no "them" or "us." It's all us. Many things could happen and probably will. But the crucial thing is that we first love God and believe that God loves us back, with all our weird imperfections. It is hard to believe. Then the words were followed by an image.
Remember when your kid started getting really independent, and she didn't like to hug you too much or snuggle on your lap anymore? But then some magical moment came (perhaps you bribed her with M & Ms) and your daughter or son sidled up to you and plopped onto your lap. With a sigh of gratitude, you put your arms around that warm bundle of beloved flesh. I think that's how God feels when we love her, as if we had suddenly sidled onto her lap and she could now let out the breath she was holding to say, "Finally, sweeetie, I've been waiting for you a long time." And we will whisper, "Thank you," because, as Meister Eckart has said, "If the only prayer you say in your whole life is 'Thank you,' it will be enough."
So don't--at this moment--worry about the trash in your heart. God loves you anyway, no matter how many dumpsters you could fill up. First love and let yourself be loved, then you can focus on the cleanup job.
Friday, November 9, 2012
RECEIVING THE SIGNAL--PTYCAT
My husband, aka "Toady" as in "Wind In the Willows," has just bought a newish car--a sporty white stick-shift Impreza with lots of bells and whistles on it (heated seats!), advanced technology embedded in the steering wheel (What happened to tin cans and red threads?), moon roof, and more. He can sync his Iphone with Pandora so the GPS comes in and the music stills. It boggles the mind. But the most interesting thing about this is a button beneath the radio with these letters on it: PTYCAT.
"Pity cat?" I murmured. "What's that about, honey?"
"Ah," he answered, going too fast around the corner and making thrumming noises in the back of his throat, "that's so you can program your radio to play a certain kind of music. Theoretically I could program it to play only classical music stations."
"Cool," I said, clutching my seat and staring up through the moon roof at the trees flying past. I was beginning to feel a tad queasy. "And then what?"
"Well, the problem is that the stations out here in Western Mass. don't put out any signals yet that identify them as a classical station or a rock station, so the PTYCAT can't pick them up."
"Ah," I said in a pious tone, brain furiously beginning to think. This had to feed into a faith blog.
So here's the analogy, and please bear with me as an ex-English major and fervent, liberal Christian. I think God is constantly sending out messages, signals, to us in a language each of us is particularly attuned to. It could be through nature, friends, loving family, starlight, music, whatever most touches your heart.
How often have you talked to friends and had one say, "I just had this hunch, almost as if someone were talking to me--don't go down that road, don't cross that bridge now, or this is not the person for you."
I have been blessed to be the recipient of many God messages over the years, I'm not quite sure why. Maybe because I pray a lot, read Scripture, and belong to a faith community, and that helps keep my heart "tuned" to God so she can get through to me. Maybe it's sheer good luck, mercy, and grace.
I remember my dear older brother telling me years ago about an experience he had when he was up in New Hampshire for our cousin's wedding. It was a hot day, and he had dunked under a cold waterfall to cool off, and was standing on the bank when he saw a ball of luminous silver light. This message came straight into his mind; You are as bright and shining, Nick, as the day you were born.
Somehow the message got through; maybe my brother's heart was softened for some reason, or maybe the logical mind was on a coffee break, stunned by the beauty of the wild river. Whatever the reason, those words affirmed for him something crucial--a sense of worthiness, of acceptance. I would also add "love."
I have another friend, an older woman who recently lost her husband of over 60 years. You can imagine how difficult it is to craft a life after the loss of someone you've spent your entire adult life with. She is not a person of faith, more an Enlightenment kind of gal. But one night, listening to a favorite piece of classical music, she definitely sensed her husband's presence in the room, a warm embrace. She called in tears to tell me this.
Now I know our faith does not depend upon God coming down from above, white robes flapping, to deliver words of hope and deliverance. But I do believe that if we "tune" our hearts with prayer, meditation, compassion, reading Scripture, and belonging to some kind of faith community, we may well hear God more often than we thought possible. Or not. It's also possible for someone's heart to be open at the right time so the words and the knowing come in.
PTYCAT may not have arrived yet in our part of the world, but God is always attuned to our hearts from the moment we draw our first breath, always there, always trying to get through to us. Our job is just to stay tuned in.
"Pity cat?" I murmured. "What's that about, honey?"
"Ah," he answered, going too fast around the corner and making thrumming noises in the back of his throat, "that's so you can program your radio to play a certain kind of music. Theoretically I could program it to play only classical music stations."
"Cool," I said, clutching my seat and staring up through the moon roof at the trees flying past. I was beginning to feel a tad queasy. "And then what?"
"Well, the problem is that the stations out here in Western Mass. don't put out any signals yet that identify them as a classical station or a rock station, so the PTYCAT can't pick them up."
"Ah," I said in a pious tone, brain furiously beginning to think. This had to feed into a faith blog.
So here's the analogy, and please bear with me as an ex-English major and fervent, liberal Christian. I think God is constantly sending out messages, signals, to us in a language each of us is particularly attuned to. It could be through nature, friends, loving family, starlight, music, whatever most touches your heart.
How often have you talked to friends and had one say, "I just had this hunch, almost as if someone were talking to me--don't go down that road, don't cross that bridge now, or this is not the person for you."
I have been blessed to be the recipient of many God messages over the years, I'm not quite sure why. Maybe because I pray a lot, read Scripture, and belong to a faith community, and that helps keep my heart "tuned" to God so she can get through to me. Maybe it's sheer good luck, mercy, and grace.
I remember my dear older brother telling me years ago about an experience he had when he was up in New Hampshire for our cousin's wedding. It was a hot day, and he had dunked under a cold waterfall to cool off, and was standing on the bank when he saw a ball of luminous silver light. This message came straight into his mind; You are as bright and shining, Nick, as the day you were born.
Somehow the message got through; maybe my brother's heart was softened for some reason, or maybe the logical mind was on a coffee break, stunned by the beauty of the wild river. Whatever the reason, those words affirmed for him something crucial--a sense of worthiness, of acceptance. I would also add "love."
I have another friend, an older woman who recently lost her husband of over 60 years. You can imagine how difficult it is to craft a life after the loss of someone you've spent your entire adult life with. She is not a person of faith, more an Enlightenment kind of gal. But one night, listening to a favorite piece of classical music, she definitely sensed her husband's presence in the room, a warm embrace. She called in tears to tell me this.
Now I know our faith does not depend upon God coming down from above, white robes flapping, to deliver words of hope and deliverance. But I do believe that if we "tune" our hearts with prayer, meditation, compassion, reading Scripture, and belonging to some kind of faith community, we may well hear God more often than we thought possible. Or not. It's also possible for someone's heart to be open at the right time so the words and the knowing come in.
PTYCAT may not have arrived yet in our part of the world, but God is always attuned to our hearts from the moment we draw our first breath, always there, always trying to get through to us. Our job is just to stay tuned in.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
WHAT'S LOVE GOT TO DO WITH IT?
I've been thinking about love lately, always a good thing to do from time to time, probably inspired by Pastor Andrea's Children's Sermon where she held up a small tube of glue and asked, "What is the glue that makes a family?" "Love," one child said very softly. "What is it?" Andrea asked in an encouraging and not too threatening manner. Another, older girl said, "Love." Andrea waved at her to be louder. "LOVE!" the girl said in a ringing voice.
So that made me furiously to think, as Hercule Poirot used to say in the Agatha Christie mysteries, just what do I think about love? Both my husband and I have been having an ongoing conversation, sometimes conducted via email, with a dear young cousin about romantic love. She is curious about it as she is now involved in a romantic relationship herself.
My husband has helpfully pointed out, "Annie and I broke up at least six times in the first week...or maybe it was the first month," just to encourage our cousin that romantic relationships, even good ones, can start out volatile and unpredictable. I believe she found it helpful to know that her staid, married relatives, with 45 years of marriage behind them, had such uncertain and erratic beginnings.
Earlier in the year I had a Facebook conversation with my cousin about how one falls in love: that it isn't really something one chooses, rather love chooses us. We THINK we are making the choice, but everything I've experienced and seen over the years convinces me otherwise.
My favorite anchoress, Julian of Norwich from the 14th-century, often spoke of Jesus as "our mother," and as "..our clothing, who, for love, wraps us up..." She knew that God's love was like a cloak, that we are clothed in divine love. That's been my experience too.
I certainly did not choose to become a Christian or even to believe in God. I used to think Christians were seriously deluded, perhaps even hallucinatory, and I wanted not much to do with them, although I accepted the fact that perhaps ONE young woman I knew--a devout Christian--was okay, mostly because she tolerated my bawdy sense of humor and love of sherry.
But after hearing an astonishing performance of Bach's 'St. John's Passion' in Oxford, God came blasting into my life--unchosen, just appearing--in a way that could not be denied. I was hooked, wrapped in love, converted, transformed, and now inhabiting that camp I never thought to live in--Christianity.
I think it is the nature of love, both human and divine, to sometimes come up from behind when we aren't looking, to enfold us and invite us into a reality we had not expected, much less chosen.
Do you remember the first time you saw your son or daughter? At birth, when she was all wet and bedraggled, or if adopted, when he was handed over to you, did you choose to love him or her? Didn't you just fall in love with a suddenness that felt like tumbling downstairs?
I expect to continue these conversations with my young cousin about the nature of romantic love--how sometimes it almost feels like an addiction, as if we are losing a part of ourselves if we don't see our beloved immediately. That's how I feel when I don't spend enough time in prayer. But I also hope at some point, in the kindest possible way that would never hint of persuasion or pedagogy, to point out that falling in love with Jesus is a bit like falling in love with a romantic partner. We tumble into love with Jesus our mother just as we do with our partners, our children, and our friends. It's just more, that's all. Way more. Infinitely more.
So that made me furiously to think, as Hercule Poirot used to say in the Agatha Christie mysteries, just what do I think about love? Both my husband and I have been having an ongoing conversation, sometimes conducted via email, with a dear young cousin about romantic love. She is curious about it as she is now involved in a romantic relationship herself.
My husband has helpfully pointed out, "Annie and I broke up at least six times in the first week...or maybe it was the first month," just to encourage our cousin that romantic relationships, even good ones, can start out volatile and unpredictable. I believe she found it helpful to know that her staid, married relatives, with 45 years of marriage behind them, had such uncertain and erratic beginnings.
Earlier in the year I had a Facebook conversation with my cousin about how one falls in love: that it isn't really something one chooses, rather love chooses us. We THINK we are making the choice, but everything I've experienced and seen over the years convinces me otherwise.
My favorite anchoress, Julian of Norwich from the 14th-century, often spoke of Jesus as "our mother," and as "..our clothing, who, for love, wraps us up..." She knew that God's love was like a cloak, that we are clothed in divine love. That's been my experience too.
I certainly did not choose to become a Christian or even to believe in God. I used to think Christians were seriously deluded, perhaps even hallucinatory, and I wanted not much to do with them, although I accepted the fact that perhaps ONE young woman I knew--a devout Christian--was okay, mostly because she tolerated my bawdy sense of humor and love of sherry.
But after hearing an astonishing performance of Bach's 'St. John's Passion' in Oxford, God came blasting into my life--unchosen, just appearing--in a way that could not be denied. I was hooked, wrapped in love, converted, transformed, and now inhabiting that camp I never thought to live in--Christianity.
I think it is the nature of love, both human and divine, to sometimes come up from behind when we aren't looking, to enfold us and invite us into a reality we had not expected, much less chosen.
Do you remember the first time you saw your son or daughter? At birth, when she was all wet and bedraggled, or if adopted, when he was handed over to you, did you choose to love him or her? Didn't you just fall in love with a suddenness that felt like tumbling downstairs?
I expect to continue these conversations with my young cousin about the nature of romantic love--how sometimes it almost feels like an addiction, as if we are losing a part of ourselves if we don't see our beloved immediately. That's how I feel when I don't spend enough time in prayer. But I also hope at some point, in the kindest possible way that would never hint of persuasion or pedagogy, to point out that falling in love with Jesus is a bit like falling in love with a romantic partner. We tumble into love with Jesus our mother just as we do with our partners, our children, and our friends. It's just more, that's all. Way more. Infinitely more.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
ON EXAMINING MY BREASTS AND THINKING OF GOD
When St. Paul advised us to pray without ceasing, I suspect he did not have in mind a lady examining her breasts in the shower for any odd lumps which might portend disaster. I think not. But this morning as I let the blessedly hot water sluice over my body I thought, "I know they say it doesn't make any difference examing your breasts, but let's just do it anyway. Let's be countercultural about our breasts!" (I'm beginning to sound like Dick Nixon, referring to myself in the third person, probably a sign of immanent breakdown.)
So there I was, fingers tentatively circling, hoping I wouldn't find anything bad, when suddenly my mind switched from worried, vigilant mode to gratitude mode. I thought, "Hey, these breasts have nursed two babies! I've had these nice, comfy mounds of flesh for 53 years." (We won't count stuffing Kleenex into a bra when I was in 7th-grade.) This flesh has been health-giving, nourishing, and also fun.
I am deeply grateful to be here at 66 years. I know a lot of people who have not made it this far, or who have made it with bits of themselves excised out or cut away to preserve their health. My mother never made it to this age. I am grateful to not be in pain. I am grateful to be able to stride up our country road with our dog, Nita, tugging at the leash. I am grateful to have eyes that see, and hands that can cook delicious food for my honies.
Four years ago I had a total hip replacement on my right side, as my cartilage had been eaten away leaving me with the painful crunching of bone on bone for several years. The night before surgery I had to "wash" my entire body with anti-bacterial wipes in preparation for the next day. As I stood in our bedroom scrubbing away, I was again surprisingly flooded with intense gratitude. I looked at my body and thought, "You have carried me through life for 62 years--these legs, these arms, this corpus. I am so grateful to you."
It was a bit of a snively moment, actually. Like many women, I have spent significant amounts of time not particularly loving my body, criticizing each new bulge, working on toning, and just not quite accepting myself as worthy, as fundamentally okay. But here God was, working through me, reminding me of the wonder of my body. Yes, it has a sell-by date. Yes, I know I won't be here forever, and that's all right. It truly is. The blood still surges through my veins, my heart still pumps reassuringly, my lungs suck in and out, my feet walk, and the brain mostly still works, although we won't talk much about memory. Why do I remember paying $13.95 for my first two-piece Rose Marie Reid bathing suit when I was 14? How is that useful?
The lesson I took away from these experiences is that I need to remember gratitude. To praise God for my breasts. To thank God for my feet, even the Vulcan salute due to two broken toes. To praise our creator for this astonishing corpus which still delights in life, for "I am fearfully and wonderfully made."
So there I was, fingers tentatively circling, hoping I wouldn't find anything bad, when suddenly my mind switched from worried, vigilant mode to gratitude mode. I thought, "Hey, these breasts have nursed two babies! I've had these nice, comfy mounds of flesh for 53 years." (We won't count stuffing Kleenex into a bra when I was in 7th-grade.) This flesh has been health-giving, nourishing, and also fun.
I am deeply grateful to be here at 66 years. I know a lot of people who have not made it this far, or who have made it with bits of themselves excised out or cut away to preserve their health. My mother never made it to this age. I am grateful to not be in pain. I am grateful to be able to stride up our country road with our dog, Nita, tugging at the leash. I am grateful to have eyes that see, and hands that can cook delicious food for my honies.
Four years ago I had a total hip replacement on my right side, as my cartilage had been eaten away leaving me with the painful crunching of bone on bone for several years. The night before surgery I had to "wash" my entire body with anti-bacterial wipes in preparation for the next day. As I stood in our bedroom scrubbing away, I was again surprisingly flooded with intense gratitude. I looked at my body and thought, "You have carried me through life for 62 years--these legs, these arms, this corpus. I am so grateful to you."
It was a bit of a snively moment, actually. Like many women, I have spent significant amounts of time not particularly loving my body, criticizing each new bulge, working on toning, and just not quite accepting myself as worthy, as fundamentally okay. But here God was, working through me, reminding me of the wonder of my body. Yes, it has a sell-by date. Yes, I know I won't be here forever, and that's all right. It truly is. The blood still surges through my veins, my heart still pumps reassuringly, my lungs suck in and out, my feet walk, and the brain mostly still works, although we won't talk much about memory. Why do I remember paying $13.95 for my first two-piece Rose Marie Reid bathing suit when I was 14? How is that useful?
The lesson I took away from these experiences is that I need to remember gratitude. To praise God for my breasts. To thank God for my feet, even the Vulcan salute due to two broken toes. To praise our creator for this astonishing corpus which still delights in life, for "I am fearfully and wonderfully made."
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