For a Friend Who Grieves

What is it about grief that strips you down
and comforts you at the same time,
leaves you naked in the dark
yet fed with divine morsels.

You want to gather and depart--
convene a love tribunal then run
to the nearest table and climb underneath,
wrapping the edges of your sweater
tight against itself.

Grief is digging down, further than you can feel
while gasping for breath, reaching for daylight,
hoping for a sign of life--a butterfly,
a window, a cormorant on the waves.

I once felt grief so terrible that my body
fell face forward, knees curled under me on the
hard industrial carpet of the church.  My heart
wished it could descend through the nasty synthetic
flooring--slip through the foundation,
descend into dirt, be covered and protected by dirt.

But that is the grief of abandonment.

What of loss.  The loss of a love that has never hurt you.
How do we heal that ache, that pure pain.
We can never feign joy.  We wade into the lake where
grief is shimmering on the surface and
sorrow is the bitterly-cold at our feet.  We hesitate.
We swim.  We endure.  We hope.
We return to the earth drenched.
We are dried by the sun's heat.
We walk forward,
ahead,
without despair,
and look back to see the cormorant
plunging the waters for fish.

Six Ways to Wonderful

I'm not sure where I'll be going with this post.  The title is all I have at the moment.  I did have to Google the phrase; I'm not sure where I'd heard it before.  Well, the term "Six Ways to Sunday" surfaced, and other than the title of a mob movie in the 1990s, the phrase has carried the definition of thoroughness, complete in every way.  It also implies that there is more than one way to accomplish your goal.  Somehow I knew this.  I felt the words were vast, containing many paths to one destination.  But there was joy.  It wasn't a matter of relative joy, but joy that permeated all reality.

So, I'm gonna get theological!  Once again.  Here I am at the locust tree pulpit.  (I must be motivated to preach.)  So, I believe that there is only one way to God the Father and that is the Lord Jesus Christ.  John the Revelator says so in the fourteenth chapter of his Gospel.  I really like John.  However (and this "however" does not dilute but describe the verse), Jesus is in each of the "six ways to wonderful."  He is the joy that permeates all realities.  Relativism is not entirely wrong if you approach it from the context of Christ being all and in all.  There is a man in Eastern Europe that has never met Jesus.  I've never met him, but I'm sure he's there.  He prays to Allah and believes Islam is a way of peace.  He loves.  He prays.  He cares for his family with devotion and faithfulness.  He has never been shown the Gospel of Jesus, but he is living it.  His joy is the joy of Jesus.  He will meet him one day, and it will all come together.  He will make it to Wonderful, although his journey will look entirely different than mine.

I have a friend who is like a sister.  She is my beloved.  I tell her so.  We have the most amazing discussions on faith and mysticism.  We understand each other.  We have experienced the Divine touch.  And yet her journey is not labeled Christian.  She has no label.  She is on a journey, a most incredible journey that I have watched and appreciated and from which I've learned so much.  I believe the Holy Spirit is at work in both of our lives.  I do not feel the need to correct her or show her the way.  Why should I??!!  She demonstrates the virtues of Jesus!

So maybe I'm bordering on some ancient heresy of the Church.  I don't know.  C.S. Lewis describes a very similar reality in the last book in his series, The Chronicles of Narnia.  He was the first author that opened my eyes to the many ways to Wonderful.  And I have met the Way---the Jesus that is the Way in all ways.  He is the current, the pulse, the beginning and the end of every journey.  Unless, of course, you have asked Him to leave.

Re-Entry

Damn you, holiday madness!  Now I get to clean up the mess, and I'm brutally reminded that I longer have the vow of poverty protecting me from well-meaning givers of tchotchke.  As a matter of fact, it didn't protect me then!  I just didn't feel as badly re-gifting Christmas paraphernalia when I owned nothing.  Now I quite literally face the dilemma of whether or not to allow my children to open a box of toys that I deem EXCESS.  I just want to avoid the whole thing.  Like last year!  It took me almost all of 2013 to face the remains of December 2012.  The greeting I want to hear this first week of January is not "Happy New Year," but "A Brave Re-Entry to You!"

I've spent the past six weeks getting by with minimal house-cleaning, washing/drying laundry but never folding it, making cookies when the sink's already full of dishes, and creating gifts out of toilet paper rolls.  Now the piles of paperwork and the guest room full of ornament tubs are SCREAMING at me, insisting I take care of them yesterday.  And I want to exercise my Catholic right to cuss.

Would it make any difference to forfeit Christmas in 2014?  Can I announce the reinstatement of my vow of poverty?  How was it so easy THEN to say, "please no gifts....only monetary donations to the Sisterhood."  Ha!  Could you see me now?  The Ball Community would like all holiday observances to take the form of CASH in plain white envelopes.  Wouldn't that be a fantastic way to start 2015!?

It's like I've entered some kind of Scrooge-reversal.  I'm Scrooge, but the Tiny Tim version of Scrooge.  "God bless us, everyone....with MONEY."  But it's not like that, because I would rather have nothing at all then gifts.  I would rather have a meal together, an open bottle of wine, a round of carols where everyone sings regardless of ability.  Is that too much to ask....to avoid the commercial Christmas?  I feel the depression pulling at my edges already.  January has never been my friend.  Can I attempt re-entry without the anger and despair?  What is the key?  I don't have the answer right now.  But while I shift the packages around and throw away tinsel, I hope some Spirit will visit me with the answer.

Community, Solitude, and the Aurora Borealis

I'm not finished with the aurora borealis.  This idea of glory, of transcendent beauty, is a muse of mine. I used to see beauty and want to swallow it . . . literally.  How can you shove handfuls of swaying trees down your throat?  I don't know.  But I've done it.

It is a gift to desire beauty.  There are very few moments for me anymore where I am distinctly aware of its presence.

Which brings me to my New Year's....um....pledge?  I am afraid to say resolution.  But I want to pledge to myself a balance of community and solitude.  These two realities are full of beauty for me, but they do not simply appear like a genie when I rub the beauty bottle.  I need to pursue them and accept them.  Maybe I desire community, but I have been given solitude.  Acceptance.  Maybe I desire solitude and have been thrown into community.  Instead of running the other way, I accept.  

Now in this acceptance of my circumstances I am not giving up the pursuit of strong, nurturing friendships.  I am not avoiding the quiet, centering times of prayer.  I am not passively moving through life saying, "everything happens for a reason."  I am accepting what I cannot change.  But if I can change things?  If I can move a mountain for one moment of rest?  Look out world!  I pledge to myself to pursue the beauties of community and solitude.  And maybe in those moments I will catch a glimpse of aurora borealis.

Glory

The Aurora Borealis.  The Cree's Dance of the Spirits.  A collision of energy.  Aurora--goddess of the dawn.  Boreas--Greek for North Wind.

This strange, magnetic beauty has pulled me to its center since I first saw it illustrated in my 6th grade science textbook.  It is the cause of my desire to live in Alaska for one year.  I want to rent our house in CT, take a job in an Eskimo pub, and look for the lights, the glory.  Unlikely, but it's a beautiful thing to exercise the freedom to dream.

One of my former students would draw on a blank white page, slashing colors everywhere with no apparent goal.  When she deemed the masterpiece was finished, she would look up with a wild eye of joy and say, "Glory!!"  Her father, a theologian who transformed my understanding of God, often spoke of the glory of God---the ultimate vision we will attain in heaven.

Oh glory, glory, glory.  I can find You in the locust tree.  I can find you in my child's face.  But a world lit up with green and purple!?  Let me live underneath your glow.

An Eyeful

My husband and I are working on compiling pictures of Lion and Bear for a DVD Christmas present to our families this year.  Well, let me correct that statement:  My HUSBAND is compiling pictures, and I'm giving occasional feedback.  Last night's feedback was this, "some of the transitions between pictures don't allow me the eyeful of picture I'm wanting."  Just now, while making my favorite lemon curd (the sexiest thing I've ever made in my kitchen), I couldn't stop thinking about the word "eyeful."  Mouthful, earful . . . these are words I hear more often.  But eyeful could possibly be the best of all the Full Words.

I had a considerable amount of angst over my last blog post.  I was afraid of offending.  This fear is dreadfully familiar.  It keeps me from being myself, letting my thoughts and passions flow freely.  There is no anger at Protestantism.  It is my heritage.  The old hymns were born in my soul at a young age.  It is my joy to participate in my husband's expression of worship, because it is also mine.  So in an effort to articulate my love of Catholicism, I want to speak about the eyeful.

When I enter a Catholic church, I am given an eyeful of my faith.  Each statue, sculpture, mosaic, painting, and stained glass window fill my sight, and my heart comes alive with promises.  I am reminded of His words, "I will never leave you nor forsake you."  The great cloud of witnesses is pictured in the faces of saints around the altar.  Icons, images, statues---all these are windows into the Real.  What believer doesn't need reminders along the way?  Having an eyeful of Scripture---the Gospel quite literally displayed before me, is what keeps my fire stoked.

Now in the case of my current parish, I am given a different kind of eyeful.  Sacred Heart is my church home.  It is simple, poor, and quite stark for a Catholic sanctuary.  One of the only images of Jesus is a hand-drawn picture of Him pointing to His Sacred Heart, and along the edges are the signed names of parishioners.  But the liturgy is my eyeful at Sacred Heart.  I have never worshiped with a congregation more committed to its liturgy.  At Sacred Heart, the liturgy is truly "the work of the people."  On Good Friday our priest holds a large wooden cross off the ground while everyone is given the opportunity to show their reverence to the symbol of our freedom from sin.  We either bow or kiss the rough cross.  Our priest, who normally walks with a cane, embodies the Cross' image of sacrifice and love while lifting this heavy, heavy piece of wood.  He is the eyeful of my faith.  He points me to Jesus.

I used to teach second grade Catechism.  I loved teaching about the sacraments.  They are the visible work of God's invisible work.  They are my eyeful of faith.  God is transcendent, but he is always imminent.  He created us to desire tangible things, and He has designed his Church to impart the beauty of the faith with actual beauty that we can see and taste and touch.  Our worship is an eyeful, an earful, and a mouthful.  All these translate to a full faith.

Mother Mary

The sermon was on Mary's Song during our Protestant worship this morning.  It was a blessing to hear the story of Mary from a perspective I was familiar with as a child.  It took me back.  Mary, so young and innocent and trusting--how important to honor this example of youthful Christianity.  It was helpful to take my eyes off the image I've become accustomed to meditating upon:  Mother Mary watching her son being crucified, her pain impossible to imagine, a woman of surreal faith and strength.  The sermon reminded me of Christmas.  Now is the time to remember her first words noted in Scripture, "how can this be?"  Now is the time to remember her wonder.

But I can't do it.  I'm trying!  But I can't.  I want to stand up in the church service and say, "You're wrong!  Mary is not an example of all Christians!  She bore the GODHEAD.  That makes her extraordinary--holier than ANYONE."  We don't pray to Mary.  Unless by "pray" you mean, "ask for prayer."  We don't worship Mary.  Unless by "worship" you mean, "honor the singular human being who birthed God."  Protestants have worked so hard to communicate the personal nature of our relationship with Jesus, that we have forgotten about the Transcendent Majesty of  God choosing to dwell in the HUMAN FLESH of a young girl.  She became a Tabernacle.  She fed GOD with her breasts.  We can not simplify this reality.  We can not make it ordinary so as to neutralize the adoration of a feminine icon.

Remembering Mary calls us to emulate her humility, to remember we are simple and small and asked to do great things.  Yes.  This is all true.  But remembering Mary also calls us to stand in awe of a unique person in human history.  She is The Mother.  She is given to the Apostle John as a Mother while Jesus hung from the cross, and in turn, she is the Mother of the Church.  She is our Mother.  She is constantly pointing us to Jesus, just like she did at the Wedding in Cana.  Those who came to her with the problem of no wine (which is a REAL problem) were directed to Jesus.

I laugh when I see the bumper-sticker, Obedient Women Never Made History.  Ha!  What an ignorant statement if I ever heard one!  Mary, the most famous of all women, was of all the most obedient.  She is not God.  She is not meant to be revered more than God....she would never want that!  But she is WAY more than a special teenage girl that we can reflect upon during Christmas.  She was the Tabernacle of the Most High God.

And just to make my rant a little longer (please smile), this is precisely why the Catholic Church believes she was EVER-virgin.  Joseph cared for her as a devoted husband, but their marriage was never consummated.  She was a holy, holy tabernacle that he honored and did not touch.  The End.