...but only say the word...

Often, the familiar things in our lives become - well, normal.  They fade into the background and are the predictable, "beige" backdrop for the varied goings-on that each day reveals.  Every once in a while, though, some part of the mundane will burst to the forefront, dazzling us with fresh insight, new discovery, or broader understanding.

I was at Mass on Friday with the school kids.  Consecration was finished, the Agnus Dei had been sung, and Father lifted the host:  "This is the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world.  Happy are those who are called to His supper."  We responded in one voice:  "Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed."  And there it was.  Words spoken time and again, suddenly alive with new meaning.  "Say the word, and I shall be healed"...this is true.  I speak it in faith before approaching the altar to receive Holy Communion.  So then, the converse must be true as well.   "...and if you do NOT say the word, I can not be healed...."  My soul cannot be made whole but that He ordains it so.  None of the things that fill my day, whether they are noble or servile, bold or subtle, faithful or false, whether I am proud of them or ashamed, no word or deed will heal me.  The Latin word we translate as "healed" is sanabitur - sound, healthy, sensible, sober, or sane.  It is the word from which we take "sanitary" and related words.  This simple response in Mass is a reminder that our wholeness - our redemption - is only possible because He has spoken the word.  I imagine that the "word" is not unlike what was spoken to those who came to Jesus for healing:  "Your faith has healed you."

What a way to walk into my day!  The idea that nothing I will do or say will trump God's grace...that He has spoken the word, healed me, and permitted me to approach the altar and receive Him!  What can I do but offer all else that I have in faith?  Even my failures are redeemable if I repent.  It is at once humbling and empowering.  I pray that my memory of this is long, and that I can be obedient to the word...that I can always approach Him in faith, offer all that I have, and be healed by the complete outpouring of His redeeming love.

Reflection on suffering, where words fail

Maybe rash isn't the right word, but it is perhaps the right image.  Very frequently in the last couple of weeks, I find myself saying that I will keep people who are near and dear to my heart in my prayers because of medical issues.  I am honored and blessed to know them all, and to bear them up in prayer is a joyful burden.  It is a burden to see pain and sickness, but these dear people teach me so much in their suffering - about joy, about dignity, about generosity, about self sacrifice, about faith, and about perseverance.  Though in most of these lives, their suffering is a private matter, for two in particular, their suffering is a very public matter indeed.  It is for this reason alone that I feel that I can share my reflections in this forum.  I do so with the utmost respect and humility; I am so utterly touched and humbled by them, and by the obvious light of Christ in them.

There are two elder priests in our community.  One is relieved of administrative duties due to ongoing illness, but remains active in ministry and as an advisor to the current pastor.  The other is nearing his 93rd birthday, and while officially 'retired', he appears to have misunderstood the meaning of the word.  They are very different men, and they are very different priests.  Somehow, though, the reality of Mass is more visible when they are struggling physically.  At Mass we bear witness to a re-presentation of the sacrifice of Calvary, and enter into that mystery.  Eternity breaches time, and we are brought  into the Holy of Holies.  The priest celebrates the sacrifice in persona Christi - in the person of Christ.  To me, a suffering Christ - a slain lamb - is made infinitely more visible in his suffering servant.  A loving Christ, who wholly sacrificed himself, is made infinitely more visible in these dear men, who sacrifice themselves, against worldly wisdom, to bring Christ to us in the Eucharist.  What blissful agony in their eyes as they raise Him up!  Ecce agnus dei, qui tollis peccata mundi!  And as their words implore us to behold the Lamb of God, their lives demonstrate Him most eloquently.

It is the same for so many others I am blessed to know.  They clearly demonstrate the image of St. Paul.  He was given "a thorn in [his] flesh, a messenger of Satan to torment [him]."  There are debates about what Paul's "thorn" may have been.  A particular sinful habit, a physical ailment...I've even heard it suggested that it was an actual demon.  I don't care.  Far less important than the literal nature of Paul's "thorn" is the purpose it served.  Whether physical, behavioral, or spiritual, St. Paul's "thorn" was an instrument of humility.  It helped him keep perspective, reminding him that God's grace was sufficient for him, and that God's strength was made perfect in his (Paul's) weakness.  The Vulgate reads "infirmitate" - infirmity.  I pray God's healing in the lives of those I love, but I have come to recognize that sometimes, the answer is "no."  Sometimes, His purpose demands that we be broken or weak so that He can be visible in us.  It is difficult to grasp what eternal meaning lies in temporal suffering, but I believe in my very core that this is true:  His Grace is Sufficient.  And sometimes, the most impaired bodies house the most unencumbered souls.

Holding My Breath

In the course of his homily this weekend, our dear little Sicilian priest made reference to the Holy Spirit inspiring us to pray. The point he made was that Jesus was a man of prayer, and we are called to be prayerful, as well, after his example. I am a much better reader than listener, just as I am a better writer than speaker. Father's point was well made, and well taken, but it sent my mind wandering because of his use of the word "inspiration."

I have been toying with the concept of inspiration in my mind for a long time. I have been particularly drawn to the fact that the same word is used medically to refer to indrawn breath. The parallel is intriguing, isn't it? The Holy Spirit, the breath of God, gives us wisdom, understanding, fortitude, counsel, knowledge, piety, and fear of the Lord. That same Spirit incites faith, discernment, and manifests the charismatic and miraculous through us. It bears fruit of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Without it, we would cease to be, just as our lives end when we cease to draw breath. Without inspiration, we die.

There's another element here, too, that expands on Father's point. When we take in breath, we also have to let it out. Keep taking in breaths without exhaling, and you will eventually hyperventilate and pass out. I learned this well as a singer: even if you let out SOME of what's in your lungs, you can still get dizzy, see spots, and crash into the piano. You must exhale completely so that you can inhale new, fresh air (inspiration!) and continue. You must be obedient to the design of your respiratory system, or suffer the consequences. In the same way, we must be obedient to the inspiration of the Holy Spirit. He inspires us - to pray, to speak, to write, to be still - and we must. We can chose not to respond for a while, but eventually, the "breath" will become stale and useless, we'll lose consciousness, and it will escape. Very likely, it will escape loudly but unintelligibly. In my experience, it's far less amusing than crashing into a piano.

In singing, you correct the problem of inefficient breathing by learning to relax and breathe fully, keeping an open and unrestricted airway. It takes a lot of mental energy to do this at first; it requires intense concentration on a process that involves the mind and body on a much broader scale than just "regular" breathing. But it gets easier. Eventually, breathing this way becomes second nature. It doesn't require concentration or focus, but rather facilitates concentration and focus on other things. I suppose it stands to reason that the same is true of the Holy Spirit's inspiration, as well. When inspired to pray, we need to pray. When inspired to speak, we need to speak. When inspired to be silent (that's a gargantuan task for me!), we need to be silent. The design demands obedience in order to function. And while it may require considerable concentration and focus at first, it eventually becomes (closer to) second nature as we are transformed in His image. And friends, pray for me. I need to really be mindful and grow in this area. There are three pianos in my house.

Oh yes, I did!

"No, you didn't," you might say to me, especially if you know me well. But I did. I absolutely did. I walked out of the grocery store with a full cart, turned it to the parking lot, took a running start and jumped onto the back. It wasn't completely childish; I looked for moving cars first. But for a few seconds, I was just flying - feeling the crisp October breeze in my face, feet dangling as I supported my weight with my arms on the cart handle. I did it, and it was completely exhilarating.

What strikes me as odd about my little adventure is how long it has stayed with me. I was a little giddy...a little giggly about it for several hours afterward. It still makes me grin, and close my eyes to feel the wind in my memory. It was a simple, unadulterated joy, it is now more than a week old, and it is still buoying my soul in the choppy waters of life. Life as a stay-at-home mom (there's a misnomer if ever I've heard one!) is always crazy. Run this one here or there, feed this, change that, cook this, wash that, collapse and repeat. It's easy to feel pulled under...swept away...gasping for air. I somehow forgot that simple pleasures can go a long, long way, spilling sunshine into cloudy days, and providing shelter from the squalls that pop up from time to time. Laughter can reset any mood, October sunshine can penetrate any dark corner, and even a short "flight" can renew your perspective. Next experiment: skipping!

To Find a New Way...

...to do everything. Well, at least in matters of faith, it seems like everything. I find myself fumbling around of late, like a fish out of water. It seems a little strange. It could just be a bump in the road, or growing pains, or a self-examination brought on by my recent change in demographic. (I'm no longer a 'young adult'...the 18-34 bracket is a thing of the past.) And it's really not even a new problem. It's just at the front of my awareness these days, gnawing at the corners of my conscience.

I used to know how to pray. I used to make a habit of spending intimate time with the Lord. That intimacy was mind-driven. I chose to make time to read, to study, to meditate. I chose to spend that time so that I could be prepared for the rest of my life...influences, interactions, activities and the like. I was front-loaded, if you will.

But now, I find that my mind needs to follow action. Instead of actions being born out of a mind willfully focused and directed to the things of God, they are immediate responses to the events and people in my world. More often than not, I have no control over them, and tend to feel buffeted about, nervous and unsure of myself. Not a good place to be as a wife and mother. Somehow, I have to find my sanity and my devotion in the midst of activity, rather than bringing it ready-made into the tasks of my day. For me, it's like learning to live backwards.

Even in matters of personal discipline, this is true. With a husband and six busy sons, I cannot choose silence on those days when I don't feel like playing nice. I cannot choose to walk away from an argument or tense situation. There is no "stop, breathe, and pray." There is no waiting for clarity and wisdom. There are only situations that must be handled immediately; waiting can make the difference between a minor tiff and a full-blown fight. What is at first a child with a marker can be a completely re-decorated room in a very short time. And I am decidedly in over my head.

Needing to feel front-loaded with my spiritual life stems from a need for vigilance. We all need to be vigilant - to be mindful of our words and actions and keep them in check. But my natural inclination is not to be good. Temper, language, relationships...I react first, think after the fact. It's rather a dangerous temperament for a wife and mother. My world of droolers, ketchup-eaters, and back-talkers demands gentleness and wisdom, forgiveness and forbearance. But at the same time, time to weigh responses and think through the possible consequences of words and actions is an un-affordable luxury. It seems like the perfect storm...the perfect teapot for a wickedly destructive tempest.

It's tempting to chastise myself for making too much of my role here. And I would be right to do so in the "real world." But in the small society of my husband and our children, the impact of my words and actions is immeasurable. It is at once an awesome and terrifying role, with repercussions going far beyond what I can see here and now as I watch my little ones on their way to manhood. It is terrifying to imagine that what I say or don't say to one of them can impact them for the rest of their lives. What's a mother to do?

Today, I don't have any answers. Just a hasty prayer for heaven to protect us from all harm, no matter where it may come from and what form it may take. And a desperately cherished wish that a quiet, thoughtful place will come find me at the sink or under a mountain of laundry and give me courage and strength for whatever lies ahead.

Behind the 8 Ball, Under the Gun, and Other Uncomfortable Places

Ah, fall. Football, soccer, back-to-school. It's all the hustle and bustle of adjusting to a new normal, however crazy it may be. The madness of having six children to occupy every day is replaced with the madness of children with things to do away from home every day. It seems like the whole world is racing past, and I, as usual, am so busy trying to keep up that I am missing it all. There is a certain desperation to my days...wake up, get out of bed, get everyone fed and dressed and out the door, then try to bring some order to the house, run whatever errands need run, and brace myself for the afternoon rush of homework, dinner, lessons and sports. Once the kids are in bed, I try to get things at least somewhat prepared for the next day before I crash, gathering a few (interrupted) hours of sleep before it all starts again.

There is certainly an element of chaos to my life. I need a degree of order to make the chaos manageable, but it seems to elude me. I can't help but be aware of truths that chastise me for the state of my world: God is a God of order, not of chaos. Very often, I realize that if I were just better prepared and better organized, these things would not affect me so dramatically. It is my shortcomings that make little things loom large. And I feel so alone in it. That voice that reminds me of divine order is answered by a heart that cannot see order, and therefore fears that the divine has drawn back, leaving me to stumble about and grasp in desperation for a bit of calm, a bit of silence, anything to keep me from being completely overrun.

I believe, in the very core of my soul, that there is always a purpose -- that there is a divine order, and that no amount of laundry, soccer, homework, and meal preparation can disrupt it. My inability to see is just that: my inability to see. My vision has become clouded and narrow. This whirlwind that tosses me from one day to the next is only a tiny speck in the grandeur of God's design. He is above it, beyond it, and despite my fears to the contrary, he is the very fiber that weaves it into being. He is here in my chaos. He is here in my blindness. I feel too swept away to reach for him, but he holds me still.

And so, for today, I pray for courage to repent of my blindness, and my smallness of heart and mind. I cast myself upon the grace that bears me up and beg for mercy, acutely aware that I deserve none, but confident that his redeeming love surpasses all. His justice is satisfied in Calvary. His righteousness spurs me on, and calls me to open my eyes, lay bare my heart, and let him heal my unbelief -- to be filled by love that does not grow weary -- love that is fed and that blossoms even as it is poured out. Not by might, not by power, but by the spirit of the Lord of all.

Now That You Mention It...

I was at Mass this morning, sitting with my 4 youngest children. They were squirrelly, entertaining those around us and driving me to distraction. A lady behind me leaned forward and whispered, "I'll bet you wish you were an octopus." I hadn't thought of it before, but yes. Yes, Mrs. Groff, I would very much like to be an octopus.

When He Calls My Name

"She said to them, “They have taken my Lord,
and I don’t know where they laid him.”
When she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus there,
but did not know it was Jesus.
Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping?
Whom are you looking for?”
She thought it was the gardener and said to him,
“Sir, if you carried him away,
tell me where you laid him,
and I will take him.”
Jesus said to her, “Mary!”
She turned and said to him in Hebrew, “Rabbouni,”
which means Teacher."

**Excerpted from Daily Mass Reading for April 6, 2010

I was caught by a particular detail in this reading. Mary Magdalene was the first to see Jesus after he had risen. She was obviously distraught; the loss of Jesus was undoubtedly terrifying for her. After all, it was she who had been caught in adultery and saved from public stoning by Jesus. It was she who had anointed his feet with expensive perfume and wiped them with her hair. It was she of whom he said "she loves much, for she has been forgiven much." She was walking in the redemptive power of Jesus' love, and accompanied him, with his own mother, to Calvary. And now this! His body had been stolen away, robbing her of the chance to again anoint him with the oils and spices that would commit his body to the earth for the last time! In this grief and confusion, comes the question: "Woman, why do you weep?" In desperation, she asks for the body of her Lord, not realizing who it was who had asked. And then he spoke her name. Jesus said, "Mary," and with that one word, her confusion and grief fell away. When Jesus spoke her name, Mary knew him. There was no doubt; there was no questioning. There was only recognition of her Lord.

So often, I am swept away in the confusion of my life. Chaos, to some degree or another, is the norm. I am uncertain what to do or where to go. It seems that I am pulled in so many directions at once, and I can't hear my own thoughts above the clamoring of children and chores. What made Mary different? She was truly listening. She was ready -- longing -- to see Jesus. And when he called her name, her heart was ready to hear. He calls me by name, too! (John 10:3) Make my heart ready, Lord! Give me ears to hear your voice! Wash away my unbelief!

When he calls my name, I want to hear him.

When he calls my name, I want to turn and see him.

When he calls my name, I want to recognize my Lord and my God

For there is peace, strength, and redemption -- when he calls my name.

It's a Good Day to Die

Mind that indulges in worldly pleasures

I am dead to you

Body that distracts from discipline

I am dead to you

Tongue that rattles without the steady breath of wisdom

I am dead to you

Judgement that denies another's dignity

I am dead to you

Selfishness that robs gratitude

I am dead to you

Faithlessness that stifles the freedom of joy

I am dead to you

Pride that scorns humility and service

I am dead to you

Unforgiveness that fetters to pain and bitterness

I am dead to you

Anger that speaks ahead of Love

I am dead to you

I am dead

To what seeks destruction

That I may live, a new creation

Clothed in grace

Renewed in the hope of eternity

Eyes gazing ever at perfect love

His arms outstretched

In perfect sacrifice

Embracing my wretchedness

In perfect redemption

"...count yourselves dead to sin, but alive to God in Christ Jesus."

--Romans 6:11

Teach Me Love

In the depths of my soul,

In the quiet of my heart,

Teach me Love.

Teach me love that cannot be shaken

Not by frustration

Not by anger

Not by exhaustion

Not by guilt

Not by ingratitude

Teach me love,

That the words on my lips,

That the work of my hands,

That the path of my feet

Will be ever clothed

With grace,

With gentleness,

With wisdom,

With truth

Teach me Love

So fully, so deeply, so purely,

That seed scattered will be reaped in joy,

Bearing Love in due season.

Teach me Love

Boundless and full,

Poured out in abundance

Teach me Love!

**With gratitude, to JL, for taking the step. I'm honored to walk with you!