Trying to Channel Peace

“Make me a channel of your peace…”  These words, set to verse in a liturgical hymn,  flow rhythmically, undulating through my mind. This prayer, the one  of Saint Francis of Assisi has replaced the Serenity Prayer as the daily verse I cling to in effort to support my conscience as it continues to evolve.  I thought those words as I sat through the Grief Support group last week, feeling like a foal in a heard of stallions.   As the women take turns introducing themselves sharing the tragic sources of their grief, I meekly introduced myself “Hi, I’m Leigh, I’m a volunteer”  What can  I possibly say to these women who have suffered such formidable losses over the course of their lives? To be in your 50’s and be predeceased by your husband and daughter while watching a grandchild battle cancer is unfathomable to me.   I sit, humbled by their visible pain and am reminded how little I know about life.   As I listened to a women describe the way that she found her daughter’s body I thought “God, grant me wisdom to comfort her.”  And then later that day I thought it again, as I listened to Grandma talk about Aunt Bev’s growing cancer.  I watched as she grimaced and winced in pain as her  bruised and bloodied face and hands caused her aged body to ache.  Her wounds are the aftermath of falling from bed and I can’t imagine a life where danger confronts you even as you sleep.  I thought the words again “make me a channel of your peace….not to seek to be consoled but to console…”  I whispered the prayer a few days later when I had explain to the pretty, kind young girl who works at my office that the man who gave her a flower had just arrested and had been planning a violent assault.  And I thought it again when I saw the normal, innocent pain of disappointment on my son’s face as a single tear dripped down his cheek because after calling  five friends, and no one could come over to play.  Again and again I thought “Dear God, let me bring  comfort to them ”  yet it never feels as if I can offer enough.

I wonder often, does a person have to be at peace to be a channel of it?  Can I feel such weighted sorrow and sadness, yet contain it enough that I can  still bring comfort to others?  I pondered that question but recognize that in doing so, my thoughts  to drift towards the edge of self-pity.  Reflecting on all the ways I used to avoided feeling such heaviness, I accept that I have begun to “de-crap” and simplify my life.  But in doing I have more time on my hands than I have allowed before.  Some days pass painfully slow, feeling as long as a week.   I’ve been stripped of all my past coping mechanisms, I simply sit like a man in solitary confinement, paying his dues, the retributions for his past mistakes.   To pass idle time my mind began to comfort itself, playing a loved and favorite familiar word game, one that I’ve played since I was my children’s age.   I simply pick a letter and try to think of as many words that start with it as I can.   Since the tension at home is constantly vacillating from bad to well, not so bad at times, it doesn’t surprise me that words that I unconsciously chose was a “D,” yet the word that describes the irreparable damage of a marriage waste land remains no where on my list.  So, how many words did I think of that start with a “D” and describe how I feel at the moment?  Downtrodden, despondent, depressed and despair.  Dispirited, distraught, dissonant, dissociative, deluded, distorted.  Down in the dumps. Dejected, dangerous, deranged…disposable… and the one that’s my favorite…I feel like a contagious disease.

With all those “D” words rattling my brain I almost didn’t hear my daughter singing.  My beautiful angel of a daughter, her imperfections perfect for their existence, yet balanced with grace, love, and her intelligence.  Then I remembered the conversation we had in church today.

She asked me “Mama?  Why do we have to be quiet in church?”

I answered “God gave you two ears and one mouth so you can listen twice as much as you talk.”

“God talks to us?” she asked, wide eyed and curious?

“Yes” I replied.  “And church is the best place to hear him, but we can not hear what he is saying if we are too busy talking ourselves.”

Remembering my own words, I grew quiet and gave God the chance to come up with some “D” words of his own.  “Dig deep, dear daughter, do not doubt or despair.   Christ’s divinity has already paid your debts, so do not delay or dawdle in this darkness.  Day by day  your devotion and diligence pay dues, your duties are done.  God does delight in you…”

Bowing my head and closing my eyes, I whisper a word that starts with a “T” instead of a “D” … thank you.

Say a Prayer From Heaven

I wonder if Mother Theresa looks down from Heaven and believes in the true goodness that came from her existence and the labors of her work?  Does she finally feel as if her life and spirit form a chord of harmony,  aligning in a way that was so painfully absent when she walked amongst us  in her human form?   I wonder if her soul is finally at peace?  The more I read about her spiritual darkness, the more fondly my heart grows for her.

From where I sit, I know her. I understand her plight.  Yet, I recognize the arrogance in making such a statement as one might conceive I am making a comparison between us. I  do not mean to insinuate such  an arrogant thing.  But simply, I embrace the comfort in knowing the degree of inner dissonance she suffered.  The more that she succeeded the more distraught she became.  I know her fear.  The fear that if the world knew of the true  torture  her soul endured, that knowledge would negate the good that she had done, that others would doubt her and in doing so doubt God.  But, oh! how this knowledge brings me hope and courage of my own, for she kept on trying to cling to her faith and to Christ’s love, even through the decades where she felt abandoned by him.  Stumbling and fallible she always carried on, a true testament to devotion that inspires faith.

“If I ever become a Saint — I will surely be one of ‘darkness.’ I will continually be absent from Heaven — to [light] the light of those in darkness on earth” she wrote.  Oh, Dear Theresa please come and visit me and know that those of us who share the dark night that you felt, need a saint to guide us, one who knows our plight, one who brings us comfort through compassion and understanding instead of a sense of inadequacy as their holy perfection only amplifies our guilt and sorrow, self-inflicted through our awful sins that have served to demoralize and leaden the pain within our souls.    Oh Dear Theresa, I think I’ve found a friend…Come, please be with me, be my guiding light and when you can not share your company with me,  please say a prayer from Heaven.

 

 

 

God Sightings: Through the Eyes of a Six Year Old

“Mom, we have home work to do.   Well, not real home work.  There is no writing or studying.”

Thinking that my daughter was referring to the thick packet of worksheets and reading lists sent home from school for summer vacation, the very same packet that I inadvertently threw away, I  asked her to explain her homework more to me.

“We need to be on the look out for God sightings” she answered.

Then it dawned on me that this was homework from her vacation bible school.  I felt a sense of relief and peacefulness come over me.  Statements like that were the exact reason I signed the twins up for it.  It was why I had to color code my calendar in order to figure out how to coordinate and keep track of all the  transportation, child care and work schedules, sometimes cursing myself for trying to juggle so many things at once, feeling slightly like a masochist who brings unnecessary discomfort on them-self.   There have been countless moments where I thought, “Forget it. Why bother. They’ll never notice if they don’t go.”  But that quiet part of me that listens to unspoken wisdom whispered softly “This is important. Make the sacrifice. Find a way to get them there. Things will work out.”

My daughter proceeded.

“Do you know what God sightings are?  We each have to share one tomorrow.”

I mindlessly rattled off a list of things I thought were indicative of God’s presence, from rainbows to the child birth, then rambling on about Noah and God flooding the earth.  She replied in such an adolescent tone, not uncharacteristically precocious for her 6 years,

“Mom!”  As in, Mom you need to be quiet now! “I ALREADY  have one.”

She said it with such assertiveness and confidence that I was instantly intrigued and completely dumbfounded by what she might say next.

“Oh sorry honey” I said. “Tell me what your God sighting is.”

She answered “It is getting to see my mom and dad.”

I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me by my own ignorance and lack of insight.  She knew right a way that a God sighting means love.  Her response and insight was far simpler and more pure than I could have fathomed.

Then she asked “Mom, can a God sighting be when there is something bad?”

“Well, what do you mean honey?” I asked.

“I told them that Aunt Bev has cancer.  Can she have a God sighting too?”

Tears filled my eyes and both pride and sadness filled my heart.  I don’t know if I will ever stop being surprised by her insight or that of her brothers.  I explained that yes, Aunt Bev could have a God sighting and that sometimes God brings comfort and peace, acceptance, to people who are dying in pain if they are willing and trying to look for it.

Then she quickly changed the subject and began to describe the songs that they sang at vacation bible school.   She showed me the dancing and hand gestures that accompanied the words.   She broke out in song, singing sweetly, imperfect, and beautiful for her confidence.  She swayed her arms over her head, dancing in rhythm as she sang the words

Stand firm when life changes.

Stand firm through the ups and downs.

Stand firm, for you know that God is in control.

The storms of life will push and pull, but we are standing on the rock that never rolls.

Again, tears filled my eyes.  Is she six or is she an angel?

I gently asked “Do you know what that song means?”

She innocently replied, “No Mommy, will you explain it to me.”

I paused for a moment and said. “Well, honey, it means that some times it seems like life is so awful we are just going to die because of it.  It seems like everything bad is happening around us and it hurts us so badly that we think we  aren’t strong or brave enough to get through it.  But, we need to remember that God never gives us more than we can handle and if we put our faith and trust in him, then we will some how find the strength to survive even, when we think we can’t.”

“Oh” she said thoughtfully “I should sing this to Aunt Bev.”

Her astute clarity clouded my own as I fumbled for words, trying to choke back my cries for fear that she would think she said something wrong if she heard them.  I replied with a simple “Yes you should” but wish instead I had said “Oh my precious, sweet little girl, you should sing it for the entire world.”

Spiritual Drought

We are experiencing a significant drought.  Crops are stunted.  Farmers don’t have water for their cattle and the grass that is usually green and lush is now brown, dry and brittle.  It is a situation that seems to reflect my spiritual life at the moment.  Over the course of the last several weeks I have felt a sense of a spiritual “lacking.”   When I depart after Mass I feel unquenched.  I am thirsting  for some spiritual nourishment and feel its depletion deep in the marrow of my bones.  As I look at the brown, parched earth around me, I wonder if  maybe instead of blaming myself for failing to be a “Good Catholic” I should consider that there exists an alternative cause for this spiritual drought.  In my world of idealistic and perfectionistic expectations, every problem or failure is directly and indirectly a result of my action and in the universe of me, self-blame is the sun that I orbit around.  But yet, despite the gravitational pull of the self blame that continuously moves me closer towards self-centeredness, I am somehow aware that this longing and lacking is not entirely my fault.  I began to notice the absence of Holy days and perused the calendar of the Liturgical year and realized that my circumstance is more analogous to postpartum depression after experiencing the ripe and fertile  seasons of Advent, Lent and Easter.  The highly electrical and profound gospel readings are plentiful and always conducive to contemplation.   I realize I’ve been inflicted with the noticeable mundaneness of  the Ordinary times.  Compound this with the fact that this is the time that priests take vacations.  So, not only is the content of the readings more common without a flair for the dramatic, but the eloquent speakers who have the ability to pull in even the most stubborn of congregants, go away on holiday and are often replaced by priests who have long since passed their primes and offer sermons that have surpassed their expiration date. Last Friday was a good example,  the first reading was about Hezekiah falling mortally ill, but following the message of the prophet Isaiah, he was healed and granted 15 more years.  There was great potential for a sermon there.  Even the second reading held promise, but instead the homily was on the evil of birth control.  As the priest spoke I felt my discouragement, that “spiritual thirst” gone unquenched yet again.  I looked around the chapel as the priest lectured on the absence of Godliness in contraception and I’m quite certain I was the only person in the room of child-bearing years.  It was me and the elderly blue haired widows.  Since I had a hysterectomy over three years contraception is a moot point,  and I was pretty certain that the elderly women adjacent me weren’t really concerned about the use of contraception either, although, if I’m wrong it would make for an interesting conversation.   I sat there disappointed wondering what about Hezekiah. Wondering what he did with the 15 years that he was granted?  Wondering about the other blessings did Isaiah commanded to be designated as a prophet?     I sat in Mass wondering why I went, feeling as though I had wasted my time.  It was a struggle to remind myself that not every sermon can be a great feast of spiritual knowledge.  I had to remind that it is important to simply attend and participate in the time-honored rituals that are woven throughout the structure of the mass.

As I reflected on my craving  for the Passion in Lent or the eager anticipation in Advent,  my thinking became clear.  Not every day and every season can be ripe with passion, excitement, or profound significance  because life consists of every day moments, common and ordinary.  After the crucifixion of Christ and the tyranny of the Pontus Pilate, citizens and worshipers of Christ must have felt this spiritual drought as well.  There was a period of time where there were no phenomenal events, where their devotion and commitment to their faith was challenged by simply the need to remain faithful to their beliefs.  I am reminded that it is so much easier to attend mass each week when we experience something profound, that while it is important to honor Holy days it is actually easier to do so because they are there and sometimes magnificent.  I am reminded that the teachings and lectures of Ordinary times seem, well, sometimes just drab than at Christmas, making it so much more difficult to remain disciplined and practice our faith during these Ordinary times.

Perhaps Ordinary times are meant for self-reflection in their unremarkableness. Maybe this absence of sensationalism is meant to help us quiet our minds and simply rest, allowing our spirit to strengthen,  like the marathon runner who trains every day, gearing up for the race season.  Their training days lack the endorphins and adrenalin elicited by the excitement and anticipation of the big race, which sometimes makes it difficult to find the motivation to practice, but if they don’t they will fail to develop the daily skills that will give them endurance and strength when needed to complete their marathon.  Lately it feels like the best I can do is simply show up as my heart does not really feeling committed to being at mass.

Then, this evening as I was working in my flower garden, I realized that our drought has made it easy to remove the weeds.  The earth was so dry that it turned to dust, allowing me to fully remove roots that would normally cling to the earth, snapping at their stems and leaves before breaking free from the encasements of soil.  Pulling them out of the ground was effortlessly.  And  how deceptive the weeds were.  They appeared so lush and full, in numbers far greater and more powerful  then the delicate flowers they choked out.  But as I removed them one by one, I realized that what I thought was a group of weed usually was only one burdensome plant and that once removed the aesthetic beauty of flowers quickly magnified.

Our spiritual life is like that as well.  During a spiritual dry spell it may, at first, seem easy to ignore the weeds and allow them to grow as we  fail to attend to our practice,  But quickly, our lives become  over run by things that choke and overwhelm us, making it hard to know where to begin again.  But perhaps it is in these very moments where we commit to our faith and practice even though things seem so common place, that our growth is most apparent. Because continuing to practicing in times where there is no major crisis or special holiday makes it easier for us to prune and remove our spiritual weeds, strengthening us each day.

Thoughts on Suffering

The other day I watched a documentary called “Brides of Christ,” it was an episode of Our America with Lisa Ling.  The documentary weaves together the story line of a young women who chooses to become a nun while another woman chose to leave her religious order and enter the secular world.  The host spoke of Christ calling lives into the religious vocation and reminded the viewer that sometimes Christ calls them away as well.  That thought had never occurred to me, that Christ would call someone to no longer be a priest or nun.

For years I have explored various religions and believed that often individuals of devout and simple faith must be happier, more content and at peace than me.  I often fantasized about joining a religious order, or even simply going away for a week retreat in a monastery.  People do it all the time, just give up the secular world and enter a religious life.  I had always assumed that once a person adjusted to the structure and the routine that the emotional demands of daily life in the secular world would simply fade away, that the confinement of monastic life would actually be an expansion for the soul and that once you figured that out you’d experience peace and contentment.  But now I realize that even people who devote their lives to Christ still suffer. I had not seen it before because I so badly sought the escape from the emotional angst that has plagued me throughout my life.

No apostle writes of suffering more than Paul.  One of Paul’s writings was read at Mass this weekend,  “And to keep me from being too elated by the abundance of revelations, a thorn was given me in the flesh, a messenger of Satan, to harass me, to keep me from being too elated. Three times I besought the Lord about this, that it should leave me; but he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’…For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities; for when I am weak then I am strong” (2 Corinthians 12:7-10).  Pope John Paul II explained that Paul found salvation through his suffering, that in experiencing loss and anguish he shares in the passion of the Christ.

Perhaps it was a coincidence that Sunday morning before Mass I spent some time reading about Mother Theresa because I was curious about what inspired her, her early life, and wondered what it was that made her great. Perhaps it wasn’t.  While reading about her, I was surprised to discover that there was such harsh criticism of her and her practice of her faith.  And the controversy surrounded her belief that suffering could bring people closer to Christ, suggesting that this belief resulted in the delivery of neglectful medical care in her hospitals.  Then I went to Mass and heard Paul’s readings, an undercurrent of meaning and purpose has begun to unfold.

I suppose, at least for this moment, I accept that suffering can not be avoided. It is so much easier to wrap myself in self-pity and despair and forget that there is no escape than to accept that I must simply endure.  But didn’t God also suffer when he sacrificed his son?  To seek the avoidance of pain is to aspire to be greater than God, and thus is not for me to do.  So if I can not seek the avoidance of pain, how do I survive and grow from it?

St. Paul writes that when we allow ourselves to learn from pain then suffering serves it’s purpose,  “to bind you together in love and to stir your minds, so that your understanding may come to full development” (Col. 2:2). I wonder if this is true.  If we allow it can suffering really help love grow?  Can it make us kinder, soften our hardened core?  If we see it as an opportunity to grow can we embrace the pain more fully without the fear of going mad and becoming lost in it?  Just as our earth journeys around the sun, rotating in a pattern, turning day into night and then back to day again, will we cycle in and out of suffering and pain?  Perhaps somethings are meant to hurt and that’s where faith comes in.  Just as a bandage does not heal a wound but simply assists and brings comfort along the way, faith will not prevent or take away our suffering, but simply helps us find the strength, courage, and endurance so we can survive.

I Tried Not To Be Catholic

I fought against religion because my mother so intently evangelized God’s love and the power of Satan.    The fear that I would end up in Hell because I was not good enough is one that has torture my mind as long as I can remember.   I remember being afraid, so much so that I could not sleep at night.  “If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.”  What if God didn’t want me?  What if I wasn’t good enough and I died and he wouldn’t take me….I worried and worried and worried…never realizing that the prayer was meant to bring me comfort.  When you are a teenage girl who’s just been hurt by a boy, you don’t want to hear how weak you are because you allow the devil to influence you, you simply want a hug from your mom.  I never got that, so I turned my back on God in favor of alcohol and cigarettes.  I was 16 when stole my first bottle of my father’s scotch and hid it under my bed.  I knew it was wrong, that was why I did it.   I didn’t like the taste but I loved the burn.  When I felt angry or nervous I’d just take a shot, I don’t know that it ever got me drunk, but that wasn’t the point, it was the very act of being defiant.  Which is why I had a brief stint where I started to smoke.  The boy that had just broken up with me hated it, so I’d smoke just to prove my point, I was hurt, I was angry, I was reckless and I simply didn’t want to care, so I pretended I didn’t in hopes that I wouldn’t. . . I was lost and simply needed a hug from my mother and was angry at the God that my mother so passionately loved more than me.  I thought that if he were watching he had abandoned me.

It would be decades later before I realized that my story is more reminiscent of “Footprints” in the sand than of being forsaken by God.  So, despite my  attempts to futility fight against my Catholic faith, I am indeed Catholic and in the recent month I have been attending Mass three to four times a week and I find that on the days I don’t go, I miss it.  Part of me screams out “how the hell did THAT happen” while a part of me, in a calm and gentle voice soothingly chimes “of course it did.”  That doesn’t mean I accept and agree with every decision and belief disseminated from the Vatican.  My beautifully blessed children were conceived through in vitro fertilization, they’d not exist had I’d followed the church’s dogma devoutly.  I spent years searching for spiritual answers because I did not want to be small-minded in any way.  I thought that one denomination or religious view would constrict my lens and narrow my scope to the point that I became blind and ignorant.  Yet I have still settled into it and have accepted that may Catholic faith is as much about accepting things we do not embrace and daily practice just as much as Buddhism or any other spiritual belief.  I’ve come to recognize that the person who practices Reiki goes through cleansing rituals of fasting and meditation and believes in “laying of hands” just as intensely as a Christian might.  I recall the words of the Dalai Lama when he said that if we tried to feed the world only with wheat we would be ignoring all the people who only eat rice and that the reason they eat rice is because wheat does not grow where they live.  So in that, I believe that God appears differently to each of us and I took the long route to cut through the chase and simply accept him for who he is.  I suppose it is the accessibility, the simplicity, the tradition and my childhood roots that have brought me back to the Catholic Church with some gentle nudging and encouragement from a few influential people.  The noon day mass several blocks from my office, or a seven am service each day just makes it easy to be there.  A Sunday service that engages my children a block from their favorite restaurant allows me to feel I’ve done well and not tortured my kids through an hour of boredom.  Despite my growing devotion for the Catholic faith, I still quote Elizabeth Gilbert, when asked what type of God she believes in she replies “a mighty one.”

I scrutinize myself and worry, wondering how do I raise my children to embrace a religious belief when I felt so burned by God’s love in my youth?  My mother’s adoration of God somehow became perverse and distorted, her religious fervor fueling her emotional abuse and medical neglect.  I hated going to Sunday Mass, it was so boring, confusing and I never understood it.  She’d send us to Religious Education classes but instruct the nuns that we were not to learn the “Hail Mary” because we’d be worshiping false idols.  She didn’t want me to learn about evolution for that matter either. I remember the little things, like being put in a pink floral dress for First Communion and wondering why I wasn’t in white or the way my father would stop by the convenient store on the way home to buy the Sunday paper and purchase himself a coffee.  When he returned to the car the aroma of coffee and donuts emulsified through the air.  I remember always wondering why he never offered us anything, never brought us donuts or cocoa but simply lived in this world where there was only him and he had no affect on us.  Breathing in the belief that I didn’t matter along with the scent of coffee.   So it should come as no surprise that I have struggled to find a way to create a different experience of religion and faith for my children, one that is fun, intriguing, and happy.  One that brings comfort instead of fear.  One that brings acceptance instead of judgement and forgiveness not blame, at the same time I am redefining faith for myself.

When you attend Mass frequently you begin to notice the little things that go into the procession, the flow and beauty of the tradition.  there is so much I just never knew.  I find there are moments where I am touched by the spirit, flooded by the power and grace of the moment in the same way that I felt when I meditated.  These days I  often leave Mass feeling like I’ve just had an hour massage of my mind and spirit.  I think of the times that I went to Mass and felt nothing and angrily said “see, there God, it didn’t work” and used it as an excuse to never go back.  Yet I am reminded of the times I paid for a massage that failed to get the knot out of my back.  Instead of saying “see it didn’t work, this is a hoax, how foolish and stupid I was for trying,” I scheduled another and forked over more money.  I failed to realize that if Church didn’t work the first them, then I just needed to go back, I simply hadn’t prayed long enough.

Yesterday I went to Mass with my children and brought along my niece and my nephew (ages 7 and 3).  That meant that I waddled into church alone like a mother duck leading her flock, four children under the age of 7.  I reminded the twins that their cousins didn’t know what to do during Mass so it was their job to make sure they didn’t feel nervous and to help them through it.  I listened as my daughter grabbed the cards with the new Mass language and showed her cousin how to find the readings and hymns in the great big blue books that line the pews.  She showed her how to cross her arms for a blessing instead of communion and watched as my son held the hands of his cousin leading him down the aisle.  I sat with a child on my lap during the sermon, another one tucked under my arm, just soaking in the hour of contentment that they experienced simply by being with me.  I think back to my childhood and wonder whether I might have enjoyed Church more if it brought me an hour where my mother sat silent and simply hugged and snuggled with me.

At the end of the Mass before we exited the pew an elderly man approached me wearing a pastel yellow polo shirt. He walked up the aisle from the back of the Church, leaned over and embraced my arm.  His voice was soft and spoke kindly, warmly yet matter of factly, stating to me “You are an incredible mother.”  I felt my jaw hit the church pew and was quick to reply “Oh, only two are mine, the other are my niece and nephew.”  He simply smiled and tipped his head saying “It doesn’t matter” and walked away.  I stood shocked for a moment thinking to myself “how the hell did THAT happen” but quickly followed it with “of course it did.”