Bridging the Gap

Our Mom was paralyzed in a car accident 29 years ago today.  She didn’t realize that today was the day because she was playing Bingo.  But, her kids did.  

My younger brother and I remember the knock on the door in the wee hours of the morning.  We were the only ones still living at home.  I was 16, he was 14.  My sister was newly married and my older brother was in boot camp at the Naval Training Center in Illinois. 

It was our Uncle and Mom’s best friend at the door.  Mom had been in an accident.  She hurt her back, so she was flown to the nearest city with better doctors, is what I remember.  But, I also remember thinking she just wouldn’t be able to lift anything heavy for awhile.  

That turned out to be true.  But, how true, I had no way of knowing.  

My brother remembers a yellow envelope with her belongings, cut rings, and money covered in blood. I remember seeing her in the ICU, how bad the room smelled, metal coming out of her head and arm, asking her how she got some random abrasion, and hearing her robot voice say she would walk again. 

I left the next day for Disney World for my planned Spring Break trip with my high school choir.  I didn’t want to go, but staying wasn’t helpful to anyone.  She came home from the rehabilitation hospital three months later.  My brother and I became caregivers, and adults who looked like children.

Today, 29 years later, I’ve been very unlike me.  Fighting tears most of the day, actually.

I heard River of Dreams on Saturday while I was making dinner.  I heard it because I put it on my Spotify playlist awhile ago, because it reminds me of my Mom.  She used to play it on the piano and the piano itself would come to life.  But, Saturday, while standing in my kitchen, it brought my walking, piano-playing Mom and my little girl self into Room 167 at the nursing home, and I wept for all of us.  

So many losses over such a long period of time.  If you’re 29 years of age, you’re still young.  But, if you’ve been in a wheelchair for 29 years, or caring for and loving someone who has, it seems like a different kind of 29.  Maybe like dog years, where 1 year is really 7 years.  Or something like that. 

But, I need to write today, because I’m still surprised by my emotions, which tells me I’m not as smart as I think I am.  Especially after sooo long, and after Saturday.  I thought I got “it” out of my system.  Whatever “it” is, exactly.  

After talking to Mom today, and realizing that today is just another day for her, I think I am figuring it out.  

Today, I am sad for me and my brother, and for losing the last few years of our childhood.  I am sad for my older siblings, too, but in a different way.  We all bear and have borne different kinds, levels, and layers of suffering because of our Mom’s accident and the upside-downness that follows.  Where we went to college, or not.  Where we lived, or not.  How far we dared to dream, or not…

Even now, she is often at the center of our thoughts.  Our emotions vary widely, depending on what is happening with her, what she needs, or what we wish were different.  

But, because her suffering is and has been so great, her children’s suffering, as it relates to her own, remains unseen.  She is like a ship making her way through the ocean.  We are tied off in little inner tubes bumping along behind her, riding the waves as they come.  

It’s not that she doesn’t care, she just can’t see us back there. 

I was recently trying to convey some uneasiness I had about some changes in her health.  She said, “Well, how do you think I feel?”  

She’s right, of course.  

But, that didn’t keep me from feeling my feelings, just like it hasn’t for 29 years.  But, there’s often no place for them because her suffering is so giant and unending, it hogs all the room.  So, I stuff them, and cry for her instead because there’s plenty to cry about.  

And now I know something else.  I am familiar with pain created by a gap in understanding.  

I am writing a story about what life is like after losing a spouse.  I am an interesting author for such a story, because I have not lived that life.  I hope I never will, but am not naive enough to think I won’t.  But, I meet weekly with people who are.  I hear their stories and recognize their great suffering because their spouse died, but also that their suffering is unnecessarily greater because it is not seen nor understood.  

After today, I understand my motivation and my ability to write about someone else’s suffering a little better.  I see them and I see a gap.  

I don’t like gaps.  They’re unnecessary.  Love and compassion and listening and trying to understand can close them, or at least come close.

Dear Mom, Josh, Mike, and Michelle, spouses missing their spouses and all who live with a gap in understanding,

I see you.  I hear you.  I love you. And I want to understand…

P.S. Heidi, same goes for you…

Love, 

Me

 

Competitive Suffering

If only awareness of another’s suffering made our own disappear. 

A week ago, my Mom had her leg amputated and an inch of collarbone removed.  Even the pain between the two seems to be in competition.  Her shoulder, the clear winner in the beginning, is now falling into a tie, but only because second place is catching up.

An elderly father is hospitalized for the third time in a month.  A daughter wonders what is next and how to care for him, while working full-time to make ends meet.  A marriage ends and arbitration begins.  Someone receives a terminal diagnosis.  A husband watches his wife of 50 years linger in her last days of life and he feels like he is “going to a funeral every day.”  

The Ukraine is being invaded and bombed by Russia.  Death and terror abound, and a 90-something can’t stop looking at the spots on her hands, ashamed they concern her at all - with all of the “real suffering” going on in the world.  

If only awareness of another’s suffering made our own disappear. 

If only...  

A friend with a broken ankle decided to “stop whining” after listening to my Mom talk about her amputation.  But, her ankle is still broken and 8-weeks of healing and rehabilitation are still ahead.

As much as we wish it were different, being privy to another’s suffering doesn’t erase our own.  And sometimes, perhaps most of the time, we feel shame about that.  

But, if greater suffering vanquished lesser suffering, all who suffer less would have no suffering at all, and those who suffer most would be huddled together - suffering, without anyone who could understand or sympathize with them.  

I think it is a noble instinct, though. To consider our own suffering as nothing the moment we hear of something more uncomfortable, tragic, or grandiose.

But, whatever suffering existed before awareness of a greater suffering, isn’t nothing.  It still exists, and is perhaps even a greater suffering than before because it does exist and remains uncomfortable.

What then?  My hope is that suffering “less” than another can bring not shame, but awe. Awe at greater suffering borne bravely, with a side of fruit.  Abundant fruit.  

Inspiration.  Compassion.  Patience.  Perseverance.  Gratitude.  Goodwill.  

Ankles can break, legs can be lost, and hands can grow concerning things in times of war, as well as peace.  May sufferings great and small bring that mysterious grace which allows one to rejoice in them.

…we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.

Romans 5:3-5

One Room Away

I’m outlining a pink bunny in red embroidery thread.  It’s part of a quilt top I started making for my niece when she was born.  A year ago.  I hope it doesn’t become her wedding present.  

One room away, Predator vs. Alien is on the TV, and the rest of my household is discussing saliva made out of acid.

Seasons are changing.  In this one, I can no longer count on everyone being at the dinner table and day trips are catch as catch can.  We have work and workouts, band and birthday parties, and school is just around the corner.  Graduation dates are creeping onto real-life calendars and you can’t help but wish you could freeze time.  

But, the time you do have is, well…interesting.  

You eat together, watch highlights of the latest kickboxing video, and get fruit stickers on your arm from the boy eating an apple next to you.  You tickle their backs when they lay on your lap, but they don’t want to sew and you sure don’t want to watch what’s on TV.  

So, you enjoy their presence from a room away, and you think about…

Yesterday’s conversations, the passage of time, and daily tragedies that we survive, but cannot fix - all while trying to make sure your tears don’t fall on your sewing project because water makes the pattern disappear.  

Sometimes, you just plain stumble on a metaphor.

My mind became a gathering place for the people on my heart.  They didn’t seem to mind that they’d never met and the furniture was old.    

A friend suffered another stroke.  Mom is too young for a nursing home.  An aging child cares for an aging parent, both wondering if they can survive the arrangement.  An elderly widower has plenty of money, but no companion nor ability to drive.  No, he’s never heard of Uber.  Who is he?

I feel the weight of each one more than I care to.  Maybe.  But, especially because discomfort always gives way to hunting solutions, and I can’t find any.  It seems I am close enough to feel their pain, but too far away to offer any real comfort.  

Maybe it would be different if you weren’t just one person in one place.  Maybe there is no such thing as lasting comfort.  Maybe comfort only exists when it is fresh and given again and again and again.  And maybe it just feels better to write it all out, and hope that what you’ve written can comfort someone other than yourself. 

“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.” 2 Cor:3-4

At Your Window

I’m sorry in advance that this is depressing.  But, the reality is stark.  I wrote this poem on my way home from work after doing another window visit today.  

I understand that nursing homes are trying to keep their residents safe, intentions are good, they have to follow the rules that other people make, and the heroes who work there are working very, very hard...

But, they are suffering trying to be all things to all people, and the people they are working so hard to serve are suffering more still.  I don’t know how to change laws or rules, but I know how to write.  And I know how to hope to be a voice for the voiceless as people languish in the silence...

At Your Window

I am standing outside your window

And you can see me there

But I cannot hold your hand 

And I cannot stroke your hair.

I yell through the glass that I miss you

And I fill your bird feeder

You yell back from your bed

That you feel bad everywhere.

I say that I am sorry

I say “This is the pits”

You lay there untouched and seen

Hoping this is it.

But it’s not and you grow tired

You’re angry they like to say

So the overworked few who can come in

No longer want to stay.

I tell you that I love you

But through the window I cannot climb

So, I turn around and walk away

And again leave you behind.

I hope that some little birds

Will come and stay awhile

Though they innocently flaunt their freedom

May they also bring a smile...

While you lay in endless wait 

For things to open up

You will not die from Covid

You will die from lack of love.

Becoming Secondary

Sometimes, there is a downside to working in hospice and it is different than what you might think.  It's not too much death or dying, but a hyper-awareness of time in my normal every-day living.

Nothing brings this home more than when I'm trying to track down my percussionist in the orbit of high school marching band when I can't get him on the phone.

Does that seem like a weird set of circumstances to bring the old sand-filled hourglass center stage?

I'm hoping I can explain, and figure it out for myself at the same time...

I get to meet people in the evening of life on a routine basis.  Very often, they've become secondary to the people in their lives for whom they were primary for a good long while.  Spouses and kids, mostly.  They were wives and husbands, mothers and fathers, and their best years were the same years I'm living now.  But, their people slowly moved on.  They were moved from the center of their lives to the periphery, and became someone to check in on, rather than someone to be included and enjoyed.

My eyes are wide open to this shift.  I'm becoming aware of the people in my life who may feel like they've been dropped in a secondary slot, permanently.  I am still primary for my children because I can drive and grocery shop and facilitate everything that is important to them.  But, I am inching my way to the periphery and every time I'm holding my phone and there is no answer on the other end, I know.

An unscheduled weekend rolls in and feels like a blessing and a curse because time together is so important.  But, finding more than two people who want to do the same thing is a chore and getting all five to agree is nearly impossible.

So, we compromise. 

At the river, a couple of us fished down the bank a little ways, I sat on an uncomfortable rock until my butt hurt and then filled a trash bag with other people's trash, while someone else threw rocks at spiders the size of grapefruits, hoping to pass a few minutes while noting, "this is the-most-redneck-vacation."  It seemed like the best bonding moment was our unanimous relief to be back home, savoring the memory that we created.  Mainly, that we didn't want to go back there any time soon.  No discussion needed.
 
Sunday kept us altogether for breakfast and Mass, but separate for the rest due to attractions that couldn't be resisted and commitments that needed to be kept.  But, fortunately for me, my plans included sitting poolside and holding a baby for a couple of hours which seemed to slow time a bit.  Gratefully.

Unless I am hitting Sonic at Happy Hour, there are few things my boys are interested in joining me for, and doing things as a family is, well, usually a compromise for most of us.  So, I sit on the futon as long as anyone will sit by me, deliver pigs in a blanket to a fort in the woods, change my schedule to steal a lunch date at Subway, and go to the skate park when it's almost dark because "they have lights, you know".

I know I am becoming secondary.  Just in little moments for now, but they are coming more frequently and I know they will keep coming, as they should.  Occasionally, someone will notice a little tear and recognize that I'm not okay and while I'm trying to find the words to explain, they decide they didn't really want an explanation, anyway.  And I'm relieved, because I couldn't really explain it, anyway.

Hope Embodied

We're still celebrating Easter and for me, Easter means hope.  Hope has become one of my favorite things to write about, because it's the one thing we need to live as much as air and water.  But, its sources can be harder to find.  It's not pumped into our homes by the city and it takes more than breathing to be filled with it. 

Sometimes, we just have to go looking for it, or hope it finds us when we.just.can't. 

So, it is with this in mind, that I want to tell you that I had a good day at work today.  I had a good day for a lot of reasons, but the biggest reason was meeting someone special. Somebody who inspired me, and who I know will inspire you, too.  Her name is Candace and she welcomed my help in sharing her story, which most definitely needs to be shared.

This is Candace. (I took her picture in the hospital, but when she saw it, she offered to send me one instead. :)) 

When Candace was 14-years-old, she began to suffer from kidney failure.  After three trips to the doctor and three misdiagnoses, she ended up in the ER with little chance to live.  Her mother prayed and told the Lord, "I will take my daughter any way, but don't take her away from me."  This is a prayer that Candace has struggled with, because she's here, but her life is difficult and tiring.  

For awhile, she was angry.  She'd been robbed of living a normal life and nothing could change that.  Nothing, but a change of perspective.  A gift from a 2-year-old with cancer who just wanted to play Barbies.  She still has the bracelets they made together.  Candace looked around her at Cooks Children's Hospital and absorbed what she saw...kids who were "sicker" than she was, and yet, they were kids who were happy.  

They showed her what it looked like to live with joy despite significant and imposing limitations.  After 31 days in the hospital and dialysis for almost a year, Candace received a new kidney from her father.  She still remembers receiving the call that the time had come because she was out finishing up her school shopping for her Senior year.  Although her body rejected it early on, her medical team won.  Her father's kidney did its job for about five years, until her body rejected it for good.  She started retaining fluid, it started hurting, and it had to come out.  

That was bad enough, but her faith stopped working, too.  She felt "forgotten".  

But, her grandmother was there to cheer her on, reminding her that "this is a test" and faith "the size of a mustard seed" is enough to get the job done, all while she pointed her toward the mountain her faith needed to move. 

Since that time, Candace has been undergoing dialysis for 10 years.  Three times a week for three-and-a-half or four hours at a time.  She beams about "getting it down to three-and-a-half hours" and how 30 minutes of not-being-on-dialysis time is worth more than you can imagine.  

She spends this time with the people who keep her going...her Mom, Dad, Grandma, boyfriend, and two brothers.  They take her to the ER when she has to go, encourage her to go out when she'd rather stay in, and keep close tabs on her daily activities, down to the drop - "Are you supposed to drink that?"  "Is that too much for you?"  I know an 11-year-old brother who is going to be a gift to the world because he has already learned how to care for someone other than himself.

Candace still hopes to be a hospital "care partner" one day, since her care partners made such a lasting impression on her.  They take you outside, sit with you while you play, or anything at all "just to make you happy."  

Candace, I'm pretty sure you were a care partner today because you made me very happy, indeed.  Thank you for letting me share your story.  You are hope embodied.  Keep shining, girl!    

"...Amen, I say to you, if you have faith the size of a mustard seed, you will say to this mountain, 'Move from here to there,' and it will move.  Nothing will be impossible for you."

Matthew 17:20

Unplanned, Unbound, and Undeterred

I'm just listening to the rain and thinking about life --Reflecting on a few things from the past couple of weeks. 

I've attended three funerals, watched a last breath, attended a fundraiser to end human trafficking, saw Unplanned, met one long-suffering person among many, and am trying to keep up with my Mom from two states away, as her bones continue to crumble and she finds Jesus in her bruises...

Recently, I attended a fundraiser for Unbound - an international organization to stop human trafficking.  Thank you to my beautiful and passionate co-workers for paying for the table and inviting me along.  I couldn't imagine wearing a semi-formal anything to something related to human trafficking, so I didn't.  I wore the same clothes I wore to work.  Probably the weakest protest ever, but I was eager to field any questions regarding my choice of dress. 

I heard some real life stories, that looked far different from anything I had previously imagined.  People from near and far "farmed out" by people they loved, for money, drugs, or whatever.  Over and over and over again.  And yet, the victims find God bringing good from it.  They are grateful, and I am in awe.  I wanted to throw up, cry, and jump for joy.  I didn't actually do any of those things, but I was still glad I was just wearing work clothes.

A few days later, I watched Unplanned.  I felt like I'd just come home from a long, hard day at work.  Some chips and dip and a Pepsi later, I felt about the same.  I'm not usually an "emotional eater", but sometimes I make exceptions. I wanted to see the movie because I felt it was my social responsibility to do so, and because it was based entirely on people and events from the town where I've lived for the last 12 years.

As a child with my parents, I remember going to an abortion clinic to protest.  In my adult life, I went once to pray with my women's group, and much later had an opportunity to have a single conversation, which ended with one changed mind and one new life.  So, I've thought about abortion, shown up a few times, and prayed about it off and on over the years.  But, throughout my adult life, it's been the abandoned people in nursing homes that have made me weep. 

After watching the movie, I guess I felt equal parts guilt for not doing more, horror at the magnitude and the details, sadness for all of the lives lost and irreversibly scarred, overwhelmed at the thought of "taking it on" and yet, exceedingly grateful for the ones who have, and do.  I thought about Abby Johnson, and the guilt she felt for being complicit in over 22,000 abortions, how she accepts God's forgiveness for that, and how I can, too.

In contrast to those who suffer and die because of other peoples choices, I meet multitudes who are suffering for no apparent reason.  Their bodies hurt them.  There is no solution in hand, no end in sight, and they are okay with that. 

Suffering with chronic pain since he was a child and a host of medical diagnoses, one of my patients has a body that is decreasingly able to supply his limbs with the amount of blood they need to function.  Some limbs have been lost, some still need to be removed, and more will need to be removed in the future.  And no one comes to visit. 

I probe him for his secrets which explain his peaceful acceptance of all that he's suffered and his plan to suffer still more.  He simply says that he's still here, so each day, he has to wait to see what God has in store for him.  God is the only one who can release him from this life, or provide relief in the meantime. 

I believe suffering has redemptive value, but he doesn't.  I expect that he wishes God would "hurry up".  But, he doesn't.  He just waits.  Without impatience or expectation, and yet with all the hope and trust he needs to do what God is asking him to do - come what may. 

And this reminds me of someone else I know.  My mom.  She's been wheelchair-bound for 25 years, until last Monday - when she came abruptly to a flight of stairs, flew out of her wheelchair, and landed at the bottom.  She broke her leg in a few new places, but it was already broken in others.  Years of not bearing weight on her legs are taking their toll. 

But, you won't hear her going on about that.  What you will hear, is how it was a miracle that she didn't hit her head, or that her 400-pound-wheelchair stopped at the top of the stairs and didn't tumble down on top of her, killing her on the spot.  She's convinced God and his angels "set her down", and was further convinced when she found herself, Jesus, and an angel in a bruise that covers her entire left arm.  Good luck talking her out of it. 

My niece observantly pointed out to her that "She finds Jesus in everything."  Not a bad way to go through life.  She's in this weird saintly place where she is eager to suffer and feels very blessed that this happened during Lent.  A special suffering during a special time and "To God be the Glory"!

I espouse the theology behind all of this, but to see it lived out is mystifying, at best.  Thank you, Mom. 

For all who have suffered in your body, mind, or spirit because of someone else's choices or for no apparent reason at all, you are not alone. As you look around, I pray that you can find people who can speak into your pain.  In the meantime, I offer what I have - stories of people, who like you have not been spared, but have thrived anyway.  God be with us.  Amen.   

Like Superheroes in Heaven

I meet a lot of amazing people with equally amazing stories, but I rarely cry.  Yesterday, I was only on my second visit of the day and knew it was going to be a tear-jerker, pretty soon after walking through the door.

I want to share this visit with you, not because I cried, but because he said I could, and you should know this man, and the wisdom he embodies.  I suspect, a man rarely seen, and less often appreciated.

A man in his 60s, lying alone in his hospital room, turned his head toward me as I entered.

It was apparent that he was "handicapped", as he called it.  He said he was born prematurely, one leg was bigger than the other, and what happened to all of the light wheelchairs?

Within minutes, I learned that his brother died on November 1, and "50% of me died that day, too". The floodgates opened.  He used to live with his brother and attend the church where he preached, but then he died, and now he lives in a nursing home.  "Nursing homes are freezing."

Ugh.  I hate being cold and I certainly can't imagine living in a place where I could never get warm. Pretty much my definition of hell, actually.  More tears.

He had multiple medical issues going on, recounted the numerous falls out of his wheelchair, including the one when he hit his head on a table leg and everyone thought he was dead.  But, he said he looked up and waved and said, "I'm here."

Saint Teresa of Avila once said something like, "Even if you have a life full of nothing but suffering, when you look back on it from heaven, it will seem like but one night in an inconvenient hotel."  I sure hope she's right.

I knew I was in the presence of a saint in this man's room.  But, the following confirmed it.

The surrounding circumstances were unclear, but once he was a spirit, floating above his body and the grass.  Do you think you were in heaven?  "I know I was.  The colors are much brighter there than they are here!"  (I hear that a lot)  "Did you know that when you're handicapped and you go to heaven, you're re-done all over?  Like a superhero."

No, I didn't know that.  Not for sure.  I mean, not like you.  Can I share your story with people?  I think they'd really like to know that.

"I'm looking forward to my funeral!  Don't be sad.  I'll be with my brother and the Lord will be at his side.  People will be singing and praising the Lord.  I want the same songs my brother had at his funeral (and he listed them).  I want a blanket on my casket that says, "This lamb went to be with the Lord."

Tears were streaming down my face, and a physical therapist walked in.  And this is what it's like to be a chaplain.  In heaven and at a funeral in one moment, interrupted, and moved along in the next.

So, that was it.  I had to leave, so I left.  Sad, but rich, and with a clearer and more convinced picture of heaven and all of the superheroes who live there.

An Unraveled Hem - A Tribute to Mothers Who Have Been Left Behind For Now

Mother's Day.  My children are all alive and live under my roof.  I talk to my mom every Wednesday on the phone, have a stepmom who loves me like her own, and live two doors down from my mother-in-law, whom I adore.  I don't think I've ever been more grateful for these richly layered blessings, and on this Mother's Day, in particular. 

Over the past year and a half, working as a hospital chaplain, I've had a most privileged view of motherhood.   There has been more good than bad, but the good is expected and the bad is really bad.  Really bad, in that it is really hard to make sense of and impossible to forget.  In the world, there are probably more children losing mothers to old age than mothers losing children of all ages, but not in my world.

Only a mother knows that an 11-week old fetus can be born with hands that look like they're folded in prayer, and that this same child who lived secretly within her will largely remain a secret.  Others carry their children into labor along with their dreams for them, only to never hear them cry.  Even once.

Some have their children long enough to see them grow into successful college students, marry, or become parents of young children and then...they're gone.  How can God take them now?  Just when...

As proposed by a meditation whose source I can't recall, I agree that whenever possible "What now?" is a much more fruitful question than "Why?!".  Stack all of the good things that can come from the death of a child (or anyone we love) as high as the stars, and it will likely still be too short to satisfy our why.  So, what now? 

Children are always on the brink of starting something new.  Elementary school, middle school, high school, military service, college, being married, having babies, a new career, retirement, grandchildren...

Every day is a "just when" day when you're a mother.  That's who we are.  We anticipate the good things that lie ahead for our children, as we should.

These women who have lost children, young and old, come home with me.  They show up in my tears when I tuck my children in at night and stand invisibly near our table during mealtime prayer.  Psychological jargon will tell you this has a name.  Transference.  Wikipedia defines it as "a phenomenon characterized by unconscious redirection of feelings from one person to another."

Yes.  Maybe.  Maybe it is unconscious in the beginning, but not for long.  I carry these mothers with me consciously and intentionally.  They are my heroes.  They make me a better mother and help me to stay present.  They remind me that when I am not overwhelmed by the demands of motherhood, I will grieve the absence of them.  These women are honest (yet, great actresses, too), courageous, generous, and humble.  They know their limitations, which they feel poignantly.  They are the greatest proof that living when you'd rather die is not only possible, but beautiful - and empowers others for whom living may be hard, too - whatever the reasons.

These women do not belong to me, but I want to keep them close and hold on to the hem of their garment.  I want to feel the flow of strength they cannot feel, but that I can see, so vividly.  I'm not sure, but I think everyone can.  You may be one of these women and wondering why strangers keep pulling on your clothes.  If not, you undoubtedly know one.

If you can, please join me in saying,

"Thank you, Moms, for letting us remain near you and for your example.  Sorry about the hem.  You should probably find a good seamstress, 'cause we're not turning loose any time soon..

For you, we eagerly await the day that you are with your children who have gone before you, and all will be well in your world once again.  May God continue to grant you grace sufficient for the moment, as we continually and unfailingly see Him doing, in you.  Happy Mother's Day."




 

Two Irreconcilable Worlds

I have an embarrassing history of being totally ignorant about what is going on in the world.  Not being a TV person and spending very little time in the car, it has been very easy to be ignorant.  I never felt compelled to check the news, because I never understood how simply knowing about bad things, without the ability to impact the situation for good, was helpful to anyone. 

Well, time has passed, and I have slowly decided to stay more informed; probably a combination of the guilt of being a bad citizen, the inability to participate in conversation, and the embarrassment that comes with it.  I  downloaded an app for a local news station, and started checking it once a day.  However, I just found out about the recent Ebola outbreak from my niece (because I hadn't seen anything on the local news), so I downloaded the CNN app.

Today (and probably the whole of my life), people are fleeing everywhere. Staying in their homeland would involve conversion to Islam, extreme taxation, or death by the sword.  Children are dying from thirst in the mountains after fleeing religious persecution with their families.  People are dying by the hundreds from ebola virus.  And I'm sitting on my futon, thinking about part-time jobs and getting in one more beach trip before school starts.

I don't know how to reconcile my life with their lives.  I don't want to be un-impacted by such horrific suffering.  As a Christian, I know I can and should pray.  Is that it?  Pause for a moment, feel bad for a moment, intercede to the Father for them, and then business as usual?  It's a little gut-wrenching to think the answer is "Probably".  Other ways to help in a practical manner seem non-existent. 

It brings me back to the point where I seem to find myself more and more frequently...to appreciate what I have, and to give where I can.  Just yesterday, I registered my boys for the upcoming school year.  In the health section, I checked the "No" box 54 times (18 for each boy) where it asks about specific problems or medications.  Nope.  Nothing.  Healthy as horses.  Do you mean that for every "No" I checked, some parent checked "Yes"?  Yes. 

Have we moved in the last three years to find work in farming or fishing?  Hell, no!  I can't even imagine that.  But, someone has.  Lots of people.  Every person who has a child in this school district has to answer this question, and it's not because it's irrelevant. 

I'm grateful when I check the box that I am, in fact, my child's parent and we reside in the same place.  Again, I could not imagine it any other way.  But, a lot of people can't imagine it my way, either. 

So, this morning, after taking a peek at the news and getting ready for the next thing in my day, it looks like the world is "going to hell in a hand basket" and my world is as rosy as ever.  What to do with that?  I will live more gratefully and intentionally this day.  I will not complain about anything that is short of the pain of death -at least for today.  I will try to encounter Christ, as I attend my women's group this morning.  I will donate to an old classmate's campaign for safe driving, call a friend who's having a hard time, and bring "Happy hour" to a friend recovering from surgery. 

This doesn't mean anything in the face of religious persecution or ebola virus, but it means everything in my world, and that is the best I can do.

Dear God of Worlds - Large and Small,

Thank you for my life and all of the healthy people in it.  Thank you for freedom of religion.  Thank you for the tremendous wealth, comfort, and safety we have in this country.  I pray we use it for good, and that it may not be an obstacle to anyone's salvation, as you have said.  Lord, please free, comfort, and protect those who need it.  You have said that we need not fear that which can kill the body, but only that which can kill the soul.  Please convict us of this, Lord.  Help us to live in such a way, that is small, but important.  You see and know all.  Jesus, we trust in You.  Amen.

Going, Going, Gone

A few stories from the lives of people I love.  People who are saying good-bye or wishing they had the chance...

~I helped a friend go through some of her belongings last night; Some were 50 years old or better.  I pulled stuff out from under her bed and went through her kitchen cabinets.  I boxed up what she didn't want and brought it home.  My friend is 95-years-old, and is moving away to her old hometown, where she can see the ocean from her living room. 

She moved several times within her retirement facility in the last couple of years, and each time, she has gotten rid of things she's held onto for most of her life.  The green dress she wore in Las Vegas once was not about to go, but that was an exception.  During this final purge, amongst boxes of jello, wine glasses, and an old sugar crock, I was fighting back the tears.  It didn't seem to be the least bit painful for her, but watching her have to let go of the simplest things because there will no longer be room nor need of them, were little deaths for me.

In the midst of a season, in a world, where acquiring is life, I know she's on the other side.  She will be moving mid-January.  God willing,  I will see her a couple more times after the Christmas Break, but that will probably be it, for good.  And that is a hard thing to know.

I hate good-byes.  I especially hate them when they are forever.  Although, fortunately, we can only move through life going forward, so I have rarely known these ahead of time.   A friendship made between rides to hair appointments and lunches at Whataburger is going, going,...

~Another friend celebrated her 60th wedding anniversary this year.  She and her husband split up a few months later.  But, only because they had to.  He left the retirement facility one-too-many times without signing out, and became a liability.  (Going to the donut shop is fine, but be careful if you are too young or too old).  His mental faculties are declining, and can no longer safely stay put, with his wife of 60 years.  He was moved to his own apartment in a nearby building, which his wife can reach by a short bus ride.  He calls her all day long.  Her voice is the only thing familiar.  Their marriage, as they know it, is going, going...

~One of my dearest friends over the past nine years lost her daughter on October 30th of this year.  She was murdered by her ex-boyfriend, who had been stalking her for months.  He killed her, set her house on fire, and shot himself.  She was 41-years-old.  A well-loved beauty who loved dogs, motorcycles, and life. 

I was helping my friend clean out her daughter's house a couple weeks ago.  Everything was just as she left it, except it was all covered in soot.  There was plenty of food in the pantry, dishes in the dishwasher, and cigarettes in the ashtray.  The days were marked off on the calendar up to the day before she died. 

On earth, all that is left of Tabitha is the incredible love her family and friends have for her, which will never be able to cover the excruciating pain they feel at having her ripped out of their lives.  From the outside looking in, it seems the only pain that comes close, is that of not getting to say good-bye. 

Sometimes, we get to prepare for the end.  The end of a relationship or the end of a life. 

And, sometimes, we don't.

Dear God, thank you for old and new friends.  Thank you for the way our lives get all tangled up, so that we can't help but be influenced by one another.  I know You hear the cries of anguish from Your beloved people.  Please comfort them, as only You can.  My hands are sweaty on the keyboard and I feel shaky inside, putting these stories together on one page, when each one has impacted me so deeply.  Please, please, please let their pain be fruitful for all who are touched by it - That we may love better and more - That we may forgive and make our forgiveness known - Like we don't have forever to get it right.  Amen.

Eternal rest grant unto Tabitha, O Lord, and let Perpetual Light shine upon her.  May she rest in peace.  Amen.

Cigarette Burns and Pooping in the Bedroom

I'm thinking I'd rather be in bed right now, but I have too many details from other people's lives swirling around in my head (again).  I have a friend who marvels at how the world is big enough to hold all of the stories that it contains.  I'm starting to wonder the same thing.

My boys were eager to get back to the skate park after being out of town for a few days, so we headed up this afternoon with a cooler of drinks in tow.  Bringing food and drinks for the skaters was part of the resolution we made at my last women's meeting, in an effort to "love the sinner, but hate the sin".  It sounds presumptuous and judgmental even to write it.  Of course, skating is not sinful, but there are a lot of other things that often go with the skating lifestyle...Sex, drugs, rock and roll?, rebellion, tattoos/piercings and language that would make a sailor blush. 

They're not worse sinners than me, or people who dress well, or people who keep their lips buttoned.  They're just not so careful about covering it up.  Sort of refreshing in its own way, if you think about it.  The point is that these kids need love like everyone else on the planet.  They're just not (always) the most approachable or easy to love. 

I took my seat at a picnic table, and in 5 minutes, (I think my little guys were inviting them) there were 6 dudes at my table throwing back drinks and talking to me for the first time.  I'd seen several of them before, and one was quick to say "Y'all are the coolest parents that come up here."  And I thought I'd been invisible every time...

Most of them came and went, but two stuck around.  It didn't take long to notice the (nine) cigarette burns running down the right side of the skinny, shirtless one.  As I was talking to him, I kept thinking how he looked like Jesus.  Not just because we're supposed to see Jesus in everybody, but for real.  His hair was dark and almost shoulder length, and his eyes were honest.  I told him he had great hair.  He said "thanks", showed me how he couldn't get his fingers through it, and shared his dreadlock plans with me. 

In short time, I learned he's almost 20.  He lives with a roommate (who has nine cigarette burns down his left side) and his anti-social girlfriend.  Their self-inflicted cigarette burns are a memorial to their friend who died when he was hit by a train.  Apparently, he convinced eighteen friends to burn him with cigarettes, so they each did half in his memory. 

He has one brother and thirteen sisters.  They are mostly "half" sisters, because his mother was a "crack whore", so their dads are all different.  They were all eventually adopted by the same family, but they "never really cared what I did".  He said the best piece of advice he's ever received was, "You only live once, so you better enjoy it the first time around."  I countered with the idea that there are a lot of things that are good for you that don't necessarily feel good.  He acquiesced, but followed with, "But, only if you have to."

His goodness came through when we started talking about the three-year-old boy I've seen up there.  He said he saw somebody give him a cigarette once.  It was the only time he beat somebody up.  "You don't give cigarettes to a three-year-old."  Agreed.  He went back to skating and circled around every time he got thirsty.   

The other guy made me want to cry...
After describing himself as a "roller coaster addict", he painstakingly described a "Haunted Adventure" house experience, and said we should never go.  I very sincerely told him that we wouldn't.  Little by little, the conversation moved from this scary fake experience to his scary real experience.  He jumped around between mission school this, and group home that.  There was something about how he and his sister were left beside a Georgia highway when he was a baby, and his struggles with a learning disability.  Later on, he and his sister were adopted, but only to be sexually and mentally abused.  His adoptive mother locked them in their rooms and wouldn't let them out.  "If I had to go #1 or #2, I had to go in my bedroom because she wouldn't let us out."  He and his sister communicated through an air vent.  They were eventually put in foster care and bounced around the system. 

He pulled up his shirt to show me his rose tattoo in honor of Lady Gaga.  Apparently, he's a big fan, she has something similar, and that is good enough for him. His vulnerability was palpable, and when he showed me that he knew the alphabet in sign language, I could see his hand trembling.  He is 24-years-old.  He is looking for a job and planning to start school in the Fall.  He lives with a lady who ran a group home where he previously lived, and her children.  He affectionately calls her Mom. He attends Church with her dad.  He knows he makes mistakes, he knows God forgives him, and believes "I am a man of God." 

My sons were "in and out" during these conversations, but my 8-year-old caught on that the second guy had suffered a lot and heard me repeat something I heard Mother Angelica say once. "When we are suffering, that is when we are most like Christ.  If we are not like Him at any other time, we are like Him when we are suffering."  To this, my son said, "I guess I've suffered."  I said, "No, you haven't."  He said, "I've suffered a little.  My great-grandmother just died."  I said, "Yes, but you didn't suffer."  And he said, "I guess I wasn't really that sad."  Right.

I vacillate between thinking it is and isn't good for my kids to be at the skate park.  Today, it was good.  It was good because they got to see that these kids are "nice".  Even if they use bad language or have metal in their face.  It was good because my oldest son heard about real suffering, and consequently, realized that he has not really suffered.  Having parents who love you enough to make you go to bed at night, chores here and there, and something other than your favorite food for dinner is not suffering.  In lieu of going to Africa to appreciate what we have, I think we'll be going back to the skate park.  We still have a lot to learn.


Dear God, I don't know how I continue to meet so many people with such painful and incredible stories.  I can only assume that you are "hooking us up", so thank you for the privilege of being on the listening end.  Lord, have mercy on these kids, and on their parents, who will have to give an account for them on the day they meet You face to face.  Please, give me the grace to show them Your Goodness, Truth, Light, and Love.  Thank you for my Regnum Christi sister, Robye, who provided the drinks I brought today, and all of those who spur me on in my faith.  God, bless us all.  Amen. 

A "Rough" Life - A Tribute to My Grandma, An Uncle, and My Dad, Part II

My Dad was in Vietnam at the same time as his younger brother. They were 11 months apart in age, but they weren't stationed together.

From the evictions, beatings, and sheer terror of my Dad's childhood, I always assumed when he left to join the military that he never looked back - Relieved to be away from the heavy hands and empty bottles. But, no.

He wrote every week - sending updates, offering encouragement, and money when his Dad was out of work or money was tight.

I've only ever seen my father honor his father and mother, but I didn't think it was possible for that to have always been so. But, it was. By the grace of God. There is no other explanation.

My Dad was responsible for monitoring communications during the war. He knew things were getting bad where his brother was, when someone came in and tore the paper off the teletype and tried to leave with it. My Dad demanded to see it, and confirmed his suspicion. His brother was killed when his armored personnel carrier drove over a landmine. My Dad escorted his body home.

Stateside, three letters were written requesting an early release from his military duty, including one from his parents. He was desperately needed at home. His brother in reform school needed him, his brother in a wheelchair needed him, his baby brother needed him, and his parents needed him more than all the others put together. So, he did what he does. He showed up.

Like yesterday. My Grandma had a beautiful Rosary, Mass, and graveside service. Her casket was blue; just like she would have chosen. Today, he's wrapping up all of her personal business. Just like he did for his three brothers and his Dad. "Well done, good and faithful servant."

I never knew my Uncle Mike was a real, funny, lovable man. Now, I know. I knew my Dad was a great man. Now, I know he is an even greater man than I knew was possible. And, now I better understand why my Grandma just wanted to shut me up.

The more I know, the more I don't know, but the more I feel. And I know that is good.

I'm tempted to dwell on these final, unread letters from the Vietnam war. I'm tempted to dwell on the three telegrams indicating a missing son, then a dead son, and finally, the dead son being escorted home by his brother. My humanity wants to stay here - in solidarity with my Grandma and the pain she once knew.

But, my grandmother doesn't need this from me, and God let me know that this morning - the day after her funeral and the day I've understood her better than any other day.

"Man is so made that he can carry the weight of twenty-four hours - no more. Directly he weighs down with the years behind, and the days ahead, his back breaks. I have promised to help you with the burden of today only, the past I have taken from you and if you, foolish hearts, choose to gather again that burden and bear it, then, indeed you mock Me to expect Me to share it...

A man on a march on earth carries only what he needs for that march. Would you pity him if you saw him bearing too the overwhelming weight of the worn-out shoes and uniforms of past marches and years? And yet, in the mental and spiritual life, man does these things. Small wonder My poor world is heartsick and weary. Not so must YOU act."
-God Calling

I love you, Grandma. I will continue to pray for you until I see you again. Please pray for me and all who are dear to me, especially your son, my Dad.

Uncle Mike, I can't wait to meet you in person. Thank you for your service and your letters.

Rest in peace

Dear God, Thank you for my Grandmother and her choice to have my Dad. She easily could have aborted. Thank you for the special bond we had and the privilege of honoring her with song and prayers the final day of her life. Thank you for the opportunity to assist another into Heaven.

Thank you for my Uncle Mike. For his service, for his humor, for his letters, and for his love.

Lord, Thank you for my Dad. I've known no one who has loved so well in the face of being loved so poorly. Thank you for giving him the grace of forgiveness and a deep conviction about following your Commandments, and making no exceptions.

Please bless him on earth and for eternity - for his love and fidelity to You and those You entrusted to Him. You are an awesome God. Please, through your mercy, grant eternal rest to the faithful departed. Amen.

A "Rough" Life - A Tribute to My Grandma, An Uncle, and My Dad, Part I

May 28, 2013 - It's almost midnight and I just closed the lid on a lot of love I never knew existed.

My Grandma died four days ago and her funeral was today. We were as close as two people who are fifty years apart and two states away can be.

I always knew my Grandma had a "rough" life, and I was always strangely comfortable with this blanket description. Between her rough exterior and inability to share those things from her life that necessitated the impenetrable wall she built, I gradually and subconsciously believed her life was lived just beyond the place where real dates and times and faces and letters and infinitesimally deep emotion happen.

I've begged and pleaded with her to share her life with me, but she always brushed me off with, "I don't know, Heidi" or "I can't remember". I don't think she could recall even one happy memory.

She was forbidden to marry the love of her life, and instead married an abusive man who vascillated between insanely drunk, jail, and unemployment.

She had five boys. Today, I saw a picture of her, biting her lip and staring straight into the camera, as they pinned her second oldest son's bronze star on her husband, days after his death in the Vietnam war. His name was Mike. He was 20-years-old. He is my brother's namesake. And for me, that is all he has ever been. Until today.

The box I just closed were all of the letters he and my Dad had written (usually weekly), between bootcamp and their final post. Through his writings, I learned my uncle was a funny, laid back fella who liked to tell people to "Go to hell" and who ended his letters with "Bye for now" and "Send prayers".

He encouraged his wheelchair bound brother to study hard, his brother in reform school to "keep your nose clean", and repeatedly asked his Mom not to worry.

He would often write, "They can't get this kid" and had made R & R plans in Australia. He never went. It was scheduled for one month after he was killed.

After I found my Grandma's final letter to him, I didn't read many more of his. It was written two days before he died. She wondered why he hadn't written, was very worried, and what should she do about filing his income tax?

The letter was returned. Unopened. Marked deceased.

After just pouring over his letters, and getting to know him for the first time in my life, the last unanswered letter in my Grandma's handwriting pricked my soul with a sliver of the pain she spent the rest of her life trying to forget.

She was 40-years old when she buried the first of her children. When I am 40, my oldest will only be twelve. She had already lived two lifetimes in the span of my single one.

If living with an abusive husband and burying a son wasn't enough to shut her down emotionally, the years to come would try to finish the job.

One of her sisters was murdered and she buried two more sons - both died from drug/alcohol related causes.

**I really want to continue here, but this post will be entirely too long. Please see part II, which is already written on paper. I only have to punch it in (as I have done here), one letter at a time on my phone. We are on our way home from KS...

Unfinished Business

The last two days have given me a lot to think about.  I'm dumbfounded.  Maybe it is a good thing God only lets us see a little bit at a time... 

Case #1:  My boys are becoming very interested in skateboarding, so we've been hitting the skate park after dinner.   Last night, I noticed a very little boy who was surprisingly proficient on a scooter and a little girl hanging out behind one of the jumps.  I didn't see any parents, but assumed, since the kids were so young, that they were close by. 

I saw them again tonight, and unfortunately, I was wrong.  The young girl wandered over to our game of tennis, so I invited her to join us.  I asked her where her Mom was.  She said, "She's not really around here."  After a few more questions from me, I learned that her Mom lives in Southgate (a low-income apartment complex), but she is living with the other kids who are her cousins and their parents, across the street from the skate park.  Apparently, tonight, the parents were in Snook - a little town 16 miles from here, and the oldest cousin (a teenage girl) was in charge of the others (ages 12, 7, and 3-the little boy on the scooter).  . 

It was a little after 8pm, so I told her we were going to have to go, because it was bedtime.  She said, "It's 8:00?  My bedtime is 8:30."  I told her "You better go soon, too, so you can get to bed on time."  Then, she told me, "I can't.  When the parents leave, we can't get in the house", proceeded to name all of the doors that were locked, and said "Maybe 1:00".  I said, "1:00 in the morning?!"  She nodded.

I felt sick as I packed up our tennis gear, imagining those little kids "stuck" at the skate park for any length of time, let alone until 1:00 in the morning!  I wanted to take her with me (and her 3-year-old cousin, too), but I couldn't figure out how to get around the inevitable kidnapping charge.  Instead, I thanked her for playing with us, and she ambled away.  I couldn't believe I was leaving her and her 3-year-old cousin there.  The very-foul language and sometimes overt sexuality at the skate park make me uncomfortable.  My mind raced as we went home and I put my own boys in bed. 

After bedtime prayers and kisses goodnight, I drove back up to the skate park and had a look around.  I decided that if I couldn't take those kids to my house and put them to bed, I could at least call the police, and get somebody on the job.  Fortunately, the kids were nowhere around, and I turned around and went home. 

I don't know if anything will come of it, but they are definitely on my "radar".  There are soccer moms, classroom moms, hockey moms, you-name-it...  Where are the skateboard moms?!!

Case #2:  I received a voicemail from the Church office yesterday, with details of a lady who was asking if anyone could bring her groceries, and whether the transportation ministry (which I coordinate) could help.  However, earlier that morning, a friend unexpectedly picked up my 4-year-old for an overnighter, so I was really looking forward to a full day of FREEDOM.

I tried to ignore the voicemail (reasoning that it was likely a lady I already know), and finished up some paperwork that I needed to take to the Church anyway.  When I dropped the paperwork off, the secretary in the Church office told me that the lady needing groceries had already called back three times, thinking that she'd missed the call.  Ugh. 

I walked out to my car, trying to decide which chunk of my freedom I wanted to lose - to run an errand for someone I didn't know.  I reluctantly picked up my phone and called her, hoping that she could wait one more day.  I didn't ask her, but she couldn't.  Her daughter was sick, and she wanted to make some soup to get her well.  I took down her list and headed to HEB.

Have you ever grocery shopped for someone you didn't know?  What brand of bouillon do they like?  What is "sweet bread" if it isn't the Hawaiian kind?  Did you know Nescafe comes in cinnamon and dark roast?  Are store brand instant potatoes as good as name brand? 

After marking through everything on her list, and getting my list, too, I was on my way.  I knocked on the front door, and stood there with grocery sacks up my arms.  I waited, but no one came.  I rang the doorbell, and no one came.  I started walking around the house, and I saw her.

I don't mean to be stereotypical, but she looked like one of those kind-eyed, short-in-stature, 80-year-old ladies from the Himalayas, smiling for a National Geographic photographer.  She insisted on taking some of the groceries from my arms, and I retrieved more.  She kept saying "You're an angel, You're an angel" and told me how she started "praying and praying" after she called all of the grocery stores, and churches, and found out no one delivers. 

We piled all of the groceries on the dryer in the musty garage, and I asked about her daughter.  She quickly and quietly said, "Aca! Aca!" and ushered me into the house.  Laundry was piled up all around the perimeter of the living room, like a laundry service with hills of white sheets, and water was running full blast in the bathroom.  She apologized for the house, and led me to a very thin lady laying in a chair in the middle of the room, with her feet propped up on an end table. 

She roused her 50-year-old daughter who she described as being very weak, after vomiting for days last week, after eating something.  Her daughter was now unable to walk, and she thought some soup might help her get some strength back.  The daughter half-smiled, made brief eye contact, and thanked me for coming, at her mother's insistence.  She had not been to the doctor, and I'm not sure why. 

My lady was eager to fix the soup.  I offered to take her daughter to the hospital, if the soup didn't help.  She said she would call me if she needed help, paid me $77 for the groceries (plus $23 for the Church, and $10 for my gas), and I left.  I kept wondering if I should have pushed harder to take her daughter to the hospital, but I had to get home to meet my kids after school.

I fully expected to hear from her today.  I didn't hear anything and called twice with no answer.  Tonight, to my chagrin, my husband informed me of a recent E.coli outbreak in our area.  If I can't get her on the phone tomorrow, I'm going to see if I can track them down at one of the local hospitals... 

In both of these circumstances, I feel powerless.  Instead of having the ability to tie up the loose ends with a pretty bow, I'm restricted to this little desk, writing to you.  I hope my sharing will help you go to these places with me.  Entering into another person's world is a tremendous privilege.  Even, and especially if it is unsettling to do so.

Dear Heavenly Father, Thank you for beautiful weather, friends who love my kids, and the world wide web.  Thank you for meeting and surpassing my needs and expectations.  Lord, my heart is heavy tonight for the kids growing up at the skate park, and the lady with the sick daughter.  You know where they are, and you know what they need.  Please make Your Presence known to them.  Thank you for using us to answer another's prayers.  Thank you for a conscience that doesn't let selfishness dictate every move.  Thank you for the generosity and joy of the lady, who was so happy to give, though it seemed like she needed what she was giving.  Thank you for allowing encounters with the "poor in spirit".  They teach me everything I need to know.  I'm sorry I hesitated at the opportunity to receive what you were offering.  Please grant me the grace to love You and my neighbor with all my heart, according to Your will.  I love You, and know You are near.  Amen.   

Fear, Hope, or Love - The Reasons for Every Action Since the Beginning of Time

Fear.  Hope.  Love. 

One of these three things motivate every action of our life.  They dictate how we suffer interiorly, and how we treat others.  They are often very hidden, but the absence of clamor doesn't nullify their existence or change their power.  If anything dictates everything in my life, I want to know about it.  I like to know what I'm doing and why I'm doing it.  If you don't have clarity about what you're doing, it is impossible to act with purity.  Purity of intention is acknowledging and removing all selfish intent when performing an action, and doing it for love alone.

To do good to others in the hope that, in turn, our Lord will be good to you is a supernatural motive, even if it is self-centered.  To do good to others with the consciousness that Christ asks it of you is less egoistic.  To do good to others because you are convinced that Christ will consider it as having been done to Him personally is a sign of pure love of God.  To do good to others because you can please God, and you want to give Him the best you can, is perfect love of God.
The Hidden Power of Kindness, Lawrence G. Lovasik

Fr. Lovasik didn't refer to doing good to others to avoid going to hell, but it is a possible motivation nonetheless.  In the same way, fear, hope, and love dictate our response to suffering in our lives.

According to Rt. Rev. Dom Lehodey in Holy Abandonment, there are three degrees of conformity to God's will in response to suffering:

In the first degree, we have no desire for suffering; in fact, we avoid it as much as possible.  However, we are willing to endure it if it is the only way that we can avoid committing a fault [for fear of condemnation].

In the second degree, we don't wish for suffering, but when it comes, we accept it and endure it willingly because we know that suffering is a part of God's plan for us.  We have a love of suffering, but this love is only a consequence of our love for God. [Hope in God's goodness and plan]

In the third degree, which is the most perfect of all, we are not content with just accepting the trials that God may send us and suffering cheerfully out of our love for Him...our love for God is so great that we long for trials and we rejoice when they come to us because we know that they come from the hand of God and are ordained by His adorable will. [Love]

 [What is contained in brackets is my interpretation, based on St. Bernard's summation]

According to St. Bernard, beginners as a rule have only resignation derived from fear; proficient bear the cross with a willing heart, a more generous conformity begotten of hope; the perfect embrace the cross with ardor, which complete conformity is the fruit of holy love.

Since we are all looking for happiness, it is good to know that we can have something even greater.  That something greater is joy.  It transcends happiness because it is not dependent on people or circumstances.  "Authentic joy is a deep interior peace and satisfaction that we experience as the fruit of wisdom and understanding." (Endow study guide)  It is the result of placing our expectations on Jesus, and not on others.  It comes when we do all things with purity of intention - the intention to love our neighbor for love of God.  Even, and especially, in our suffering. 

In his letter Salvifici Doloris, Pope John Paul II gives us four reasons our suffering can be seen as a reason for joy:

1.  It clears the way for the infusion of grace which transforms human souls.
2.  In it, there is concealed a particular power that draws a person interiorly close to Christ...
3.  ...human sufferings, united to the redemptive suffering of Christ, constitute a special support for the powers of good, and open the way to the victory of these salvific powers.
4.  Faith in sharing the suffering of Christ brings with it the interior certainty that the suffering person 'completes what is lacking in Christ's afflictions'; the certainty that in the spiritual dimension of the work of Redemption he is serving, like Christ, the salvation of his brothers and sisters.

So, basically, our suffering (IF we unite it with Christ's suffering by our intention to do so), can serve for our own salvation and that of others. 

That is a reason for real joy.

Dear Heavenly Father, Thank you for the rain, roofs that don't leak, and bread machines.  Thank you for loving us.  Thank you for fear to motivate us when our love is not yet perfect.  Thank you for hope along the way, and your love to imitate.  Please give me the wisdom to know what motivates me.  I want to do all things for love of You.  Please grant me the grace to act with purity of intention and detachment from all that is not You nor leads me to You.  Please give me the joy that comes from understanding your love for me, and your plan to bring good out of everything, especially suffering.  Thank you for the opportunity to participate in my own salvation and that of others.  Thank you for Pope John Paul II and the continued guidance of your Church since you gave Peter the keys to your Kingdom.  Thank you for Pope Francis and for his love.  Amen.

Pope John Paul II, pray for us!

I'm Like Pontius Pilate

April 12, 2011 - Lenten Reflection – The Passion

As I have been meditating on the sorrowful mysteries, I am struck by many things. 

Jesus asked only one thing of his disciples during His passion.  Stay awake!  Stay awake for 1 hour!  Ahhhh!  We cannot comply even with this simple request.  Oh, poor Jesus.  Accused or denied at every turn.  The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.  Sweet Jesus, please show us how to stay awake for You.  If denying the flesh is the only way to make it stronger, please show us those things that have a hold on us, so that our flesh is as willing as our spirit.

The second, I want to scream at Pontius Pilate, “Where is your backbone?!”  How can you so easily command that Jesus be scourged and then say you are innocent of His blood?!  The reason for my animosity is twofold.  #1 - He gives the final word to put Jesus to His death.  #2 – I am like him.  I want to please people, just like Pontius Pilate.  So much so that I would put my Savior to death?  I have not seen much in my life to prove otherwise.  I have silenced my tongue so as not to offend unbelievers or other Christians, even.  I don’t want them to think I am persecuting them.  Is this not the same thing?  In an effort to “placate the crowd”, Pilate’s vanity put Jesus on the cross.  What if Pilate had not been influenced by what the people thought?  The people tried to kill Jesus multiple times on their own, yet, they were unsuccessful.  God used someone with influence, but who silenced his tongue, to give his power and means to the masses.  He acquiesced.  Oh, Lord, please take my vanity away from me!!!  

Lastly, I think about Mary.  How much did she know ahead of time?  It is easy to think the Passion was easier for her, if she “knew what was coming.”  But, how much did she know?  She didn’t know Jesus was in the temple, even after searching for Him for days.  So, going forward, I imagine her watching Jesus, just as I imagine watching my own son.  At each turn, she must have thought, “Please, let this be the end, Lord.  How much more can He bear?”  When they placed the reed in His hand, I think about his fingers opening to receive it.  For so much of the Passion, Jesus seems to passively receive his torture, “like a lamb being led to the slaughterhouse”.  But through this, we see His active participation in it.  He accepts it, only to have the accepted, mocking reed ripped out of His hand and hit on His newly crowned head with it.  Oh, Lord, please forgive us!  Be merciful to us and give us Your courage, patience, and perseverance!

God, forgive us.  Mary, pray for us.  Jesus, be with us.  Let us remain with You.  Amen.

What Jesus Saw When His Sweat Became Like Drops of Blood Falling on the Ground

Today is Holy Thursday.  The day we remember and commemorate the Last Supper, the Institution of the Eucharist, and our Lord's Agony in the Garden.  For me, it is easy to glide over our Lord's agony in the garden.  It is covered in a single paragraph, and the details are scanty.  What we do know about it offers very little visually, except for "his sweat became like drops of blood falling on the ground" (Luke 22:44). There is nothing in Scripture that describes what Jesus actually saw or felt during that hour and a half.

We know there are a lot of gaps in Scripture, and often find in the Catholic faith, incredible detail to fill those gaps, made known in personal revelations by Christ Himself.  As a Catholic, it is not required that we believe these accounts, nor is it encouraged to consider them as historical fact.  The Church simply makes a thorough assessment of what has revealed, and offers approval (not to be confused with promotion), if there is nothing that contradicts Church teaching (which began when Christ gave Peter the keys to the kingdom).

With that, there was a woman named Anne Catherine Emmerich who lived from 1774-1824.  She bore the physical wounds of Christ, called stigmata, in her own body.  Many, many details of the spiritual life and the Lord's Passion were revealed to her.  In the Dolorous Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ, she commits 27 pages to what was revealed to her of Christ's agony.  I am going to boil it way down, because I have to communicate something of what she's seen to you.  I am going to summarize where possible, and quote where it is impossible.

The first agony in the garden:  Jesus saw and bore all sins, of all humanity, for all time.  Then, satan tempted Him with all potential (not actual) sin in His life, where human suffering was caused because of His actions:

"satan reproached Jesus with having been the cause of the massacre of the Innocents, as well as of the sufferings of his parents in Egypt, with not having saved John the Baptist from death, with having brought disunion into families, protected men of despicable character, refused to cure sick persons, injured the inhabitants of Gergesa by permitting men possessed by the devil to overturn their vats, and demons to make swine cast themselves into the sea; with having deserted his family, and squandered the property of others; in one word satan, in the hopes of causing Jesus to waver, suggested to him every thought by which he would have tempted at the hour of death an ordinary mortal who might have performed all these actions without a superhuman intention...

The second agony:  Jesus "beheld the enormity of the debt of sin that He was going to pay and the suffering required to satisfy Divine Justice" while harassed and tempted by satan, "Takest thou even this sin upon thyself?  Art thou willing to bear its penalty?  Art thou prepared to satisfy for all these sins?"

The third agony:  "Jesus having victoriously resisted all these assaults by his entire and absolute submission to the will of His Heavenly Father, a succession of new and terrifying visions were presented before his eyes, and that feeling of doubt and anxiety which a man on the point of making some great sacrifice always experiences, arose in the soul of our Lord, as he asked himself the tremendous question:  'And what good will result from this sacrifice?'  Then a most awful picture of the future was displayed before his eyes and overwhelmed his tender heart with anguish...

The frightful visions of the future ingratitude of the men whose debt to Divine Justice he was taking upon himself, continued to become more and more vivid and tremendous.  Several times I heard him exclaim: 'O my Father, can I possibly suffer for so ungrateful a race?  O my Father, if this chalice may not pass from me, but I must drink it, thy will be done!'"

The soul of Jesus beheld all the future sufferings of his Apostles, disciples, and friends; after which he saw the primitive Church, numbering but a few souls in her fold at first, and then in proportion as her numbers increased, disturbed by the heresies and schisms breaking out among her children, who repeated the sin of Adam by pride and disobedience.  He saw the tepidity, malice, and corruption of an infinite number of Christians, the lies and deceptions of proud teachers, all the sacrileges of wicked priests, the fatal consequences of each sin, and the abomination of desolation in the kingdom of God, in the sanctuary of those ungrateful human beings whom he was about to redeem with his blood at the cost of unspeakable sufferings.

The scandals of all ages, down to the present day and even to the end of the world...

It was also revealed why Peter, James, and John were chosen to stay and watch with Him:
After Jesus woke them from their sleep, John saw the condition He was in and said, 'Master, what has befallen thee?  Must I call the other disciples?  Ought we to take flight?'  Jesus answered him: 'Were I to live, teach, and perform miracles for thirty-three years longer, that would not suffice for the accomplishment of what must be fulfilled before this time tomorrow.  Call not the eight; I did not bring them hither, because they could not see me thus agonizing without being scandalized; they would yield to temptation, forget much of the past, and lose their confidence in me.  But you who have seen the Son of Man transfigured, may also see him under a cloud, and in dereliction of spirit; nevertheless, watch and pray, lest ye fall into temptation, for the spirit is indeed willing, but the flesh is weak'...

Dear Jesus, I am sorry for my sins.  I am sorry for my ingratitude.  Please help me console Your Sacred Heart.  I will try to live my gratitude for Your sufferings and death in everything I do.  Please give me the grace never to offend You again.  I love You, Jesus.  Remember me when You come into Your Kingdom.  Amen.
 

Self-imposed Suffering

Today, in my women's study on suffering we learned there are three causes of self-imposed suffering, according to Fr. Richard Gill:

1.  A victim mentality - We see ourselves as victims and are always looking for someone else to blame.

2.  A fantasy view of human life - Adopting a romantic, "Hollywood" view of the world that is bound to disappoint us when it doesn't come true; thinking that life is beautiful and that it ought to be that way.

3.  Self-pity - Feeling sorry for ourselves, being obsessed with our own weaknesses and defects, comparing ourselves unfavorably to others, not taking responsibility for our own personal growth.

Then we considered the question, "Is there any suffering in your life that is not part of God's will for you?" 

It is a question worthy of reflection.  It makes plain emotional and psychological sense to minimize suffering when possible.  It also hinders the fruitfulness of the suffering God intends.  So, figuring out whether you are suffering unnecessarily is time well-spent. 

According to Jacques Phillipe in Interior Freedom, "People who haven't learned how to love will always feel like victims; they will feel restricted wherever they are.  But people who love never feel restricted...We feel a natural revulsion for situations we cannot control.  But the fact is that the situations that really make us grow are precisely those we do not control."

In The Promise, Fr. Jonathan Morris details three means by which we can suffer in seven ways:

Means by which we can suffer: Physical (through our senses)
                                                   Emotional (through negative emotions)
                                                   Spiritual (through perceived distance from God)

Seven ways we suffer: 
1.  Trifles (discomfort, annoyance, boredom)
2.  Failures and personal limitations (include victim, fantasy, and self-pity mentalities here)
3.  Lost love
4.  Sickness
5.  In face of sin and wickedness
6.  Meaninglessness and depression
7.  Death

Okay, I'm all "talked" out on the anatomy of suffering for today. 

In a nutshell, there are a lot of ways we can suffer, and some of those ways are self-induced.  If we are suffering in ways that God does not intend us to suffer, we need to stop it.  We need to be aware of the three trap mentalities, which are simply living ideas that hold partial truths.  Be completely truthful with yourself.  I know Hollywood has more influence than I want to admit...

If you fall into victim-mode, fantasy, or self-pity, shake hands with reality and shake off all untruths.  Write down the truth and carry it around with you if you need to.  Ask God to show you where you've been duped.  The devil is sly and content with any small deviation from truth.  In fact, he prefers small deviations; they are less likely to arouse suspicion.  2+2 = 4.  Don't settle for 3 or 5.

Dear Heavenly Father, Thank you for time to gather with other women and delve into Your Word and Your Truth.  Thank you for the promise that the Truth will set us free.  Lord, give us the courage to look within and truly see the errors of our heart.  In our insecurity, it is easy to look around or use reality TV as a measuring stick.  Sometimes, it is hard to know what is influencing our thoughts and actions, because we're influenced before we give our permission.  Please be with us Lord.  We want to be free, so we want to know and live the Truth.  Give us the grace to know what that looks like for each one of us.  Increase our love, so that we may never be victim to another.  Increase our faith, so that we may trust You in every circumstance.  Help us to live in reality at all times.  Thank you for all.  Amen.

Your Cross Is You

"Remember, you are only an instrument.  Not yours to decide how or when or where you act.  I plan all that.  Make yourself very fit to do My work.  All that hinders your activity must be cured.

Mine is the Cross on which the burdens of the world are laid.  How foolish is any one of My disciples who seeks to bear his own burdens, when there is only one place for them - My Cross.

It is like a weary man on a hot and dusty road, bearing a heavy load, when all plans have been made for its carriage.  The road, the scenery, flowers, beauty around - all are lost.

But, My children, you may think I did say, "Take up your cross daily and follow Me."

Yes, but the cross given to each one of you is only a cross provided on which you can crucify the self of yours that hinders progress and Joy, and prevents the flow through your being of My invigorating Life and Spirit.

Listen to Me, love Me, joy in Me.  Rejoice."

Jesus, in God Calling

Today, in my women's study, On The Christian Meaning of Suffering, we reflected on the life of a woman named (Saint) Gianna Beretta Molla, who voluntarily gave her life at age 40 for her unborn child.  Upon discovering a large ovarian cyst during her second month of pregnancy, she refused an abortion or complete hysterectomy, both of which would have spared her life at the expense of her child's.  Instead, she chose surgical removal of the cyst, which would not compromise the baby, but would leave her vulnerable to further complications.  "A few days before the birth, anticipating that the delivery might be dangerous, she said to her husband, "If you must decide between me and the child, do not hesitate:  choose the child - I insist on it.  Save him!" She had a healthy baby girl and died one week later.  She already had 3 children, ages 6, 5, and 3. 

Our room full of mothers took a collective deep breath, and followed it with "Well, she must have known her family would take good care of her children..., But...".  We admired her conviction but felt reasonably sure we lacked the same.  "I don't know if I could do it." echoed around the room.  There was a palpable weighing of consciences and the discomfort which always follows coming up short.

In the conversation that followed, we discussed our awareness of God's grace, and the fact that it only accompanies real situations.  Most of us have not been given that grace, because that situation is not our own.  Abandonment to Divine Providence offers the perfect advice at this uncomfortable juncture. "If it [the soul] should feel neither attraction nor grace to do those things that make the saints so much admired, it must, in justice to itself, say, 'God has willed it thus for the saints, but not for me.'"

We are all called to shoulder different crosses because we are unique, and the part of ourselves that "hinders progress and Joy" is what needs to be crucified.  However, most of us focus our attention outwardly, instead of focusing on what needs to change within.  We live in fear and wait for the next big cross to be lashed to our back.

 Etty Hillesum, a 29-year-old writer who died in Auschwitz, said, "Man suffers most through his fear of suffering."  "Reality is something one shoulders together with all the suffering that goes with it...But the idea of suffering (which is not the reality, for real suffering is always fruitful and can turn life into a precious thing) must be destroyed.  And if you destroy the ideas behind which life lies imprisoned as behind bars, then you liberate your true life, its real mainsprings, and you will also have the strength to bear real suffering, your own and the world's."

We throw away our peace in times of calm, when all is well.  We feel justified in skimming over the joys of today because we're "waiting for the other shoe to drop".  We want to be ready!  We're not sure for what, but we want to be ready. 

Instead of borrowing suffering, let's borrow a page from the diary of Sister Faustina, "I regard the time of peace as a time of preparation of victory..."

The Lord has already carried His Cross.  He is proven.  He is calling us to follow Him.  "If any man would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.  For whoever would save his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it" (Matthew 16:24-25).  Let's climb out from under our cross, and get on it.  It's the only way we can be like Him, and it's a lot easier for Him to carry.

Dear God of All That Is Good, Thank you for the gorgeous weather and so many opportunities to experience You.  Thank you for God Calling, and continually revealing Yourself and Your plan to us.  Thank you for the examples of the saints, and people who model heroic charity and courage.  Thank you for the reminder that real suffering is always bearable, because Your grace is abundant in reality.  Help me to destroy imagined suffering in my life.

 Lord, please give me the courage to climb upon my cross.  Help me to see and know those things that hinder my progress and Joy, and to do whatever is necessary to remove them.  Please give me and all others who are pursuing You, the grace of knowing when we are comparing our relationship with You to someone else's relationship with You, and spare us the confusion and feelings of inferiority that come with that comparison.  Thank You for making our burdens light and for the rest we find when we come to You.  Amen.