Coming down the mountain: After the retreat

Be still and know that I am God.

Image source: Eric Bartley

Psalm 46:10

I woke up this morning to a beautiful display of cloud to cloud lightning, just like this picture. "Time to write," I thought, so here I am, coffee at the ready, listening to the thunder and to the still, quiet voice.

I can not tell you all that occurred on the retreat; for some things there are not words, so I will wait for the fruit of it to come tapping out of the keyboard, to come laughing out of my mouth, to come weeping out of our shared stories, and to come sweating out of my work. The expressions of God in us are poems that are lived.

I will share this little story, because it is mine to give, and because it points to the finger of God, stirring our little lives.


Two years ago this weekend, my sister came to me here in Texas. It had been years since we'd seen each other, and we managed finally to find each other in our sisterhood. 


It is so hard to explain that last sentence. Eleven years separate us. She longed for a sister and when I was born I was given away to be adopted. She was told that I had died, and then she wasn't even given a funeral to show her how to grieve. I was a gaping wound in her heart, a loss. On my part, I was told I had half brothers somewhere. A sister wasn't mentioned. When I went searching for my birth family at 18, I was told by someone who knew the family that I should quit looking, so I did. Then our mother found me. One of the many surprises was her, a sister.


A sister...another of those inexplicable gifts. I could go on and on chasing this tangent, trying to wrap other words around such a word. For the present, I can only leave the word, hanging like a bead of nectar from the honeysuckle. If you have never tasted sisterhood, this is close...

Image Source: http://themagiconions.blogspot.com/2009/08/honeysuckle-nectar.html

On her weekend visit, when we found each other all over again, she noticed something about my life. Not feeling quite secure enough in me, she left her gentle rebuke and sisterly advice to a Christmas present later that year. In the mail came this message on a plaque, "Be still and know that I am God."


I did not feel an immediate connection, merely a sweetness, in the message. The plaque went on a windowsill. When I moved, it went into a box for almost a year.


Until just this past week the message was locked in that box. Monday I determined to decorate my dining room and finding myself with art too small to cover a large expanse of empty wall, I thought of my sister's plaque and dedicated that wall to it. It is at the top, above a cross and several pieces of art that demonstrate being still, knowing God. There is only one character moving in all the pictures, Judas dipping his bread into Christ's bowl at a rendition of the Last Supper. "There," I thought, looking at the arrangement. "That'll fix that."


Then Thursday, I signed in for the retreat and the Bible verse chosen for it was revealed to be that very same one. I felt the nudge, that invitation, that stir in my heart that said, "Will you listen?"


I am being still. I am listening. 

I am learning.

One thing that I have learned is that, even when you think you are answering one call, it turns out to be another. Sometimes the plan was laid for you long ago.

The liturgical year of the Catholic Church is based on the date of Easter, which is based on the Vernal Equinox and the phases of the moon. So the same feast may occur on different dates year after year. Two years ago, my sister visited me and graciously sang songs with my little choir on the feast of Corpus Christi. I say graciously because she is Mormon and I am Catholic, and the theology of Christ on this feast day is one where our faiths diverge. She sang anyway, her voice and her choice were a gift to me.


My retreat ended two years later, on a Sunday, on the feast of Corpus Christi.


Two years ago she saw something in my life that needed stillness, God, and listening. The retreat was built around the very phrase she chose to give to me. 


Also on the retreat were three sets of sisters: half sisters, full sisters, and one set of five sisters. God meant for me to be on this retreat. God meant for me to notice all the many ways that this relationship of sisterhood is played out.


I am listening.

Image source: http://miriadna.com/preview/501

"For those who believe, no explanation is necessary. For those who do not believe, no explanation is possible."-- Author Unknown

I can spell ad hominem!

I mentioned I was going to pray for this very same person over on Facebook and someone thought he should take me to task. On the whole, I thought he was rather nice about the whole thing, given how irritated Catholics religious zealots atheists people get.

Even more so after reading this--get a load of the comments in here. Wow! (And why are they reading Catholic mags exactly? To get their daily dose of offended?)

When did Atheists get to be so darned sensitive? You mention that you are going to pray for someone, someone they don't know either by the way, and they pounce. What it is with these guys?

Gosh and golly, they call you stupid and stuff. It almost makes me want to...wait, no it doesn't. Look, they don't have any arguments better than "Smart people don't believe in God." or "Gravity is God."

Oh yeah? Like you've ever read The Summa.

My only response is this. You guys are mean and you prove it, especially when you get in charge--think Stalin and Pol Pot.

So, until you can come up with good stuff like hospitals, universities, and science without borrowing the system we theists created--heck I'll even take a school of art that is objectively beautiful (no fair calling "only smart people can appreciate it"), or even someone who can actually argue (logically) point by point with Aquinas, I'm not listening.

Nanner nanner nanner.

And I'm praying for you, Mr. Atheist (and don't you think you should change your name there--you are acknowledging Him with it). You can't stop me. Even if you guys get in charge again and start killing us off (again), I'll pray for you. Especially then.

A Mother's Day Reflection: There's just something about Mary...

Can you picture her? She was maybe thirteen. Dirty. Fetching the day's water from the town well. Nothing much to mention in earthly terms--just some nondescript girl in a nothing kind of town from a nothing-left country that had been overrun and ruled over repeatedly. Her smallness and poverty and humility are probably the most notable things about her.

What did God see in her? Why did He raise up so lowly a girl so that all generations shall call her blessed (Luke 1:48)? Her "blessedness" does not come from something within herself. She is special because of what God has done to and for her, not through any magnificance of her own. The best explanation of the nature of Mary I've heard is where she is compared to the moon: like the moon reflects the brilliance of the sun, all of Mary's glory is merely reflected glory--as if anything connected to God can also be connected with such a word as "merely." Mary is amazing because God is so incredibly amazing. He (capital H) chose her (lower case h) to be His own mother, to be the Mother of The King.

And like Christ wasn't what the people of His day expected, a wordly power, a king (small k) who would kick those Romans rulers all the way back to Rome, Mary isn't what we'd expect in a Queen Mother! Her greatness is a small greatness--obedience, humility, quiet pondering, and a silent suffering witness to the Child of her body crucified. Any mother has wondered at images like the Pieta and thought, "As much as I could not bear it to hold my child, how much more awful for her to bear her Perfect Son and her God?!"

Pondering beyond that, how much more wonderful was her life? In my motherhood those first awkward steps, that first word, that first brilliant smile almost brought me to my knees with the joy of it. How could she have born the daily thrill of being in the presence of her God, humbled to become one of us and her baby! How extraordinary God makes the ordinary!

I just can't imagine it. I can't fathom it. As much as I am a mother, I feel in my bones her motherhood far surpasses mine. Her pains and even her joys and sweetnesses all have a weightiness mine will never approach. Being so close to God, His mother in fact, she reflects God's Glory that much more in all that she does. As close as I can ever come to that in my own motherhood is to reflect upon the most perfect mother I know--her. In that sense I am like a moon.

Let me be big enough to pray, my God, that I become small.

Have a Good Friday

When I was a young girl I thought suffering was a result of sin or it was merely unfair and unjust.
      then I became a NeoPagan

When I was a NeoPagan I saw suffering and thought it was due to a lack of growth or perhaps a faulty state of mind. I saw the voluntary suffering of shamans as interesting and as a possible path for personal growth. I saw the voluntary sufferings of Catholic as comical and small-minded.
     then I became a Catholic

As a Catholic I see that suffering is inevitable. In a way that can't be explained in a short post, it comes from that original rebellion against God, Who is Goodness. This fall of ours and of the rebellious angels rent the fabric of nature and produced suffering. We endure suffering that already exists and perpetuate suffering through our continued rebellion. However, suffering can redeem us. Through suffering we grow. Those shamans really were on to something.

Here is a video explaining the existence of evil in a world created by an all good God. It is an analogy between heat and God. Heat exists. Cold is the lack of heat. God exists. Evil is merely the lack of God. This video doesn't prove the existence of God. Instead, it shows how the existence of evil does not disprove Him.

Although probably not attributable to Albert Einstein as is claimed, I still like this explanation. It suits the scientist in me.

Hang in there!

A few weeks into Lent and your intentions may not be translating into actions. Don't let your pride get in the way of perfecting yourself. You will never be perfect. It's that simple. You will always have to be humble enough to see that there is more work yet to be done. Mother Teresa reminded us that "God doesn't require us to succeed; he only requires that you try." Yearn for God, but you will not become God. If you think you should be perfect, you never will even come close. If you've fallen, forgive yourself, pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and join the rest of us who are striving to become who we were made to be. It is a dusty work.

I'll be hitting the Confessional soon myself--of that I'm certain.

Halfway There!

Just in case you are getting a little tired of the sackcloth and ashes, here's a story about another 40 days...

"How long can you tread water?"

For those who seek and do not find...

God is. I got that message loud and clear one day when I least expected it. Faith wasn't something I merited or even asked for. It came as a complete surprise. No doubts here.

For those who have no surety but only doubts and longing you could take my word for it, but I can't imagine that would be satisfying.

I could also show off my faith to you. "I'm so certain!" I could tease. "No doubts here!" I could brag. Not only would that be wrong, it would be all wrong.

Instead, I'll tell you something I also know for sure: your faith is greater than mine. I'll offer you this in explanation. God gives us what we need to seek Him. Once I knew the truth, I would continue to seek the truth. I am like a dog with a bone, I will gnaw away at it until I get to the marrow. I'm not about to let it go. But, to seek God, I needed Him first. I had to have proof. Any amount of doubt would have lost me. I am that petty.

What I'm saying is this, faith is a gift from God. The less mature of us, the ones like me, are given more. We can't handle the subtelties of faith.

You seek. You long. You suffer for God. That is the truer faith. You are made of a harder wood than I. Do not be afraid.

Imagine that we are children learning to walk to our Father. You have stood and taken your tottering steps on your own. You stumble and fall like the rest of us, but our Father knows you. You may pout a bit, even cry, but you are going to stand up and keep going.

Me and my ilk? We give up too easily. We're distracted by the toys lying about us. For us, we need a constant guiding hand or we will sit and idle away our time staring at the dust motes dancing in the light.

You, though, you who seek and do not find? You are made of stronger stuff. You are the older brother or sister. I'll cheer you from behind.

Into the Silence

Since I have been on the other side of this table, I can read this specialist like a book. She's wondering, "Just how honest can I be?" I can see her return read of me, evaluating that I am not the type to burst into tears at the first inkling of bad news. It's a delicate dance we're having.

She's telling me what I already know, have hoped to avoid, but have been doggedly pursuing for over a year now: there's something wrong.

Still, I am experiencing revelations daily. Although I have already assessed him, diagnosed him, and have merely sought professional confirmation and assistance, seeing the reality in black and white finally does bring me to tears. I do it discreetly, alone, upsetting no one but myself.

I am learning that some of the professionals in this maze are honestly caring, genuinely concerned, and purposefully helpful. Some are merely indifferent and therefore tolerable. Some, and these are the ones to watch for, are very full of themselves as saviors. They scare me. I'm beginning to think I need armor to save me from those who would save me.

My son, on the other hand, is as happy as ever. He likes going here and there and playing with all the new toys. He never says a word to all these specialists. His speaking is a private and careful affair. He says his precious few words after much thought and very rarely for strangers. But his eyes dance and he catches my gaze to hold up a truck. "Green," is what he would say if we were at home, meaning, "Look, mom, my favorite color."

The technical name for the way he speaks is "telegraphic speech." It's a phase we usually pass in and out of long before the age of three and a half. He and I have struggled for it, attained it late, and have maintained it long enough to make of it an art.

Make no mistake, he is a smart one. He has been deaf intermittently which is part of his delay and partly why doctors have delayed in taking me up on my insistence that something else is going on. Now that they are shouting my own clamorous alarm back to me, I find that I would really rather not be hearing it.

It's an odd position to be in. I am at once an honest assessor of his abilities, a plebeian petitioner among the royalty of experts, and a mother bear on her own turf. Like my son, my eyes speak the volumes I can not say:

Don't mess with me...Help me...I know...I don't understand.

I've been on the other side of all this as a teacher and advocate. I know the ropes. I could have sworn this would have given me some advantage. Only now am I realizing my mistakes. Compassion only carries you so far. It is an arrogance to assume that familiarity with the details gives you a sense of anyone's reality.

I am finding myself humbled in ways I would never have expected. I stare at the experts and think back to when I've said those same words about another woman's son. So this is what she felt when I said that. Now I know why she looked at me that way. Knowledge is always trumped by experience, sympathy by empathy.

Not that I am in any way advocating a lack of sympathy for those in sympathetic circumstances. Not that I think it is fruitless to try to understand another in this world. What I am saying is this: I am slowly and utterly beginning to understand the commandment, "Judge not, lest ye be judged."

Just because you are familiar with the terms, the outward appearances, there is little of another's actual experience that can be known. We may say things to one another from across a chasm of differences. We may even come to some understanding. But it is in the ringing silences between the words that we lose one another again. There, in that realm, is God. Only He knows what truths lie therein. Leave the fathoming of it to Him.