Music est totus

It's Good Friday.  I've been trying to think of something to offer in contemplating Holy Week, but my mind keeps turning back to music.  The Eucharistic hymns of St. Thomas Aquinas...the passion hymns from centuries of Christian devotion...these are swirling in my mind and spilling from my lips this week.    So I'll leave you the "playlist" for my week in hopes that you will find a place to contemplate the Passion and death of the Lord, and truly celebrate His resurrection.

What Wondrous Love is This
O Sacred Head Surrounded
Were You There
Pange Lingua
Verbum Supernum
Ave Verum Corpus

Suddenly Anonymous

If I were suddenly anonymous, what would I do?  When I started to stew on this post a couple of weeks ago, I made some notes in my little notebook.  Then I started to string them together a bit.  Then I went back to them a few days later and realized that this was starting to read a bit like the Red Hatter's credo..."When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple..."    That really wasn't my intention, and it made me laugh, but on further consideration, I realized that the theme of the "red hat" poem and of my own thoughts for this post were not altogether different.  They're both about a woman growing into herself...shedding concerns about appearances and social propriety in favor of the liberty that comes with truth.  They're about a woman discovering what's most important, discovering what defines her, and letting the chips fall where they may for the rest.  I am not old (unless you ask my children), I don't have much purple in my wardrobe, and I look ridiculous in hats.  I do, however, have red socks...

I don't really get much time alone.  In a busy household, there's always something going on close by, even if I'm not directly involved in it.  Because of the constant noise and activity, I find my mind meandering at strange times - in the shower, at the grocery store, folding laundry - and moments of insight pop up wen they might be least expected.   On a recent intellectual stroll, I started to imagine how I might be different if I were to be suddenly anonymous.  After all, when you're anonymous, there are no expectations.  There is no novelty in new behaviors, attire, habits, etc., because there is no history of anything else.  So, then, what would I do?  How would I be different than I am every day of my life now?  And perhaps more importantly, if there would be some significant difference, what's holding me back now?

The first thing on my 'anonymous list' would be a covered head in church.  I already do this when I travel, but there are valid reasons to refrain in my own parish for now.  This has been an area of conviction for me for years, and I am growing into it slowly but surely.

Next up, I’d like to think I’d hold my tongue more if I were anonymous.  I’m very quick to open my mouth, even when wisdom would advise silence.  Smart girl that nobody knows keeps her mouth shut unless her input is solicited!

This item may seem to contradict the previous one, but it’s just the other side of the coin.  When wisdom says speak, I’d like to think that I could speak more freely and opt for directness over diplomacy.  If I were anonymous.  Hand-in-hand with this directness, I’d like to exercise more freedom in the words I choose about my faith and religion.  Somewhere between the “Praise the Lord, I think I broke my foot” of my childhood and disdain for “wearing my religion on my sleeve” is an honest, free expression of the faith I try to live.  I’m learning to breathe freely in this area again, but right or wrong, I’m hesitant to be different to those I’m with every day.  I don’t want the open discussion about what is, for me, a very private journey.  It’s hard to talk about it while I’m in the midst of it.

There are other things that have floated on and off of this list in the last few weeks.  Some are whimsical, some very serious, some passing and some convicting.  All of them, however, have challenged me to seek God, seek His call in my life, and seek His direction to answer it here, where I am known.  Anonymity has its fleeting freedoms, but freedom sought and embraced in the midst of the familiar is true, lasting liberty.

Addressing my tendency to procrastinate...

...wasn't on my list of New Year's resolutions, and it's a darn good thing.  I'd really feel bad about the timing of this post.  It was meant to be a New Year's post.  Then I figured that as long as I posted it before the end of January, it would be okay.  But, well, life happens.  And Lent is a great time for new beginnings and resolutions too, right?

It's no secret that I spend a lot of my days feeling overwhelmed and completely at a loss.  There are so many things to do, limited time in which to do them, and a myriad of distractions that follow me.  Such is life with small children...and large children...and husbands....  I feel pulled in so many directions, and none of them feel like a direction per se, but more like a tangent circle in which to chase my tail.  And then I wonder why I'm exhausted, frustrated, and lack a sense of order in my world.  In contemplating all the noble, idealistic, and heroic changes I was going to make in the new year that would make my house clean, my children behave, and keep me running on schedule with sufficient time to do all the things I want to do, I got bogged down.  I got discouraged.  Let's face it; there is no magic wand to wave, and that's what I was really dreaming about.  Then I thought, "maybe I should resolve to make peace with the fact that I'm a lousy housekeeper, that I have a short temper, and that my household is in constant chaos.  After all, we're not on the 6 o'clock news, no one's in jail, no one's flunking out of school...that's enough, right?"  But it isn't enough.  No matter how you look at it, to let that be enough is not a resolution but a resignation.  It is giving up.  And who makes a resolution to be a cop-out?  Better yet, who would post such a thing publicly and pretend to be proud of it?  Certainly not I.  And so here we are, at Ash Wednesday, and my New Year's post is just appearing.

You might wonder what changed.  What made me feel that I had something worth sharing?  What resolution did I finally make that I could live with and work toward in the coming year?  I realized that my point of origin for my actions is, most of the time, wrong.  I take action because of fear, anger, or frustration.  I rush around to get kids ready, to get meals on the table, and to keep at least some appearance of order.  I want things to look, at least publicly, like I'm not desperately struggling just to keep a modicum of functionality in my home and family life.  My point of origin needs a fundamental change, and that's a resolution I can make, work at, and feel good about sharing.

I resolve this year to make LOVE my point of origin for action and speech.  I will care for my family not because they are clamoring to have their needs met, but because I love them.  I will care for my home not because I have an image to maintain, but because I love my family and I desire order in our lives so that we can move through our lives more peacefully.  I will discipline my children not because they embarrass me or make me angry, but because I love them and I am called to bring them up in the love and fear of the Lord.  I will choose gentleness, I will choose calm, I will choose silence.  I will get this wrong - probably a lot.  But I will choose humility and begin again.  I will choose love above all, for in love is the beginning, the sustenance, the redemption, and the end of all things.

And now these three remain: faith, hope, and love.  But the greatest of these is love.
--1 Corinthians 13:13

...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!