Embrace the Passion of Christ

This Lent has been a hard one for the Church as a whole, but it has hit Europe especially. They are facing the purging now that began in America in 2002, but it seems the media and the world in general has become even more vicious and visceral in their reactions. A light is being shown on the sins of the Church, and even as we all collectively shudder, we, the disfigured Bride of Christ, must recognize that even the innocent must be scourged along with the guilty.

We live in a world today that hates us as Christians, but most especially as Catholics. It is launching a vile and backhanded assault against "the Vatican" and against our Holy Father, Pope Benedict XVI. In so doing, they are assaulting us all for we as Catholics are in solidarity with all who suffer injustice.  In our innocence, we partake in the sufferings of those who were abused. In our own guilt, we partake in the divine justice that is owed to the men (and women) in the Church who have abused others.  In the mystical reality of our identity as the Bride of Christ, the Mystical Body with Christ as our head, we must enter into and suffer His own Passion. We are one with Christ, and cannot be separated from Him.

I have heard and seen others, in America and abroad, who have expressed that they are "shaken" by these revelations of sin and debauchery in Ireland and Germany (especially given what has happened here). Sadly, I am not shaken at all. I am saddened. I am angry. I am beyond emotion. But I am not shocked, and I am not shaken.

We have to recall that God does not reveal sin without revealing His mercy. In this season of Lent, as we enter Holy week, it is fitting that the Church as a whole suffer to her very soul for the sins committed in her name, and perhaps with her seeming acquiescence.  It is fitting that such horrifying sin has been revealed, for now it can be purged. We enter Holy Week in humiliation, even we who are innocent. We hear once again the banshee cries directed toward all priests, most especially our Holy Father, screaming, "CRUCIFY HIM! CRUCIFY HIM!"  We shudder deep within ourselves, perhaps wanting to look away, but knowing we cannot.

We look into the eyes of the guilty and innocent alike and find ourselves reflected there, part and parcel of both the bad and the good of our human nature.

We walk the road to Calvary with our Savior, knowing why He became Incarnate and went to the Cross to save us from our sins. We offer ourselves in union with Him, to be ridiculed, to be scourged, and ultimately, to be crucified.  Unless we accompany Christ along the via dolorosa, we cannot rise with Him in the Resurrection, knowing the full revelation of His Mercy.

Mk 4:35-40 35 On that day, as evening drew on, he said to them, "Let us cross to the other side." 36 Leaving the crowd, they took him with them in the boat just as he was. And other boats were with him.37 A violent squall came up and waves were breaking over the boat, so that it was already filling up. 38 Jesus was in the stern, asleep on a cushion. They woke him and said to him, "Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?" 39 He woke up, rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, "Quiet! Be still!"  The wind ceased and there was great calm. 40 Then he asked them, "Why are you terrified? Do you not yet have faith?"

This parable has relevance to our time. If you recall from scriptures, Jesus was always getting into a boat with the disciples and going somewhere, so we recognize this image as a reflection of the Church buffeted about in the world.

We are now those disciples in the boat with Christ as the "violent squall" of an insanely violent media attacks relentlessly, as money-grubbing attorneys with no interest in anyone's soul, much less his own, seeks to bring down the Annointed of Christ himself, seeking hard to find guilt where there is only innocence. In response, we, the faithful, are filling the chapels and churches, we are praying in our homes and in all places, at all times. If we are "shaken" it means that we think Jesus is sleeping and cannot hear our cries. For some, the scandals may well rattle their faith, yet they are in good company, for did not the Apostles (but for John) flee also when confronted by the violence and accusations of the crowd? 

Sounds a lot like the Passion of Our Lord, doesn't it?

We should not be shaken in these times. We should recognize that Christ does not sleep among us, but has sent the Holy Spirit to guide the Church through every storm of every century, and will not fail us now. Christ himself has not abandoned us; He is with us and calls US to be even more united with Him in His suffering for the salvation of sinners. We must pray, we must do penance, and we must, in absolute faith, embrace the Passion of Christ and in so doing, come to understand the full revelation of His saving power through the exercise of Divine Justice, Divine Mercy, and Divine Love in the folly and the glory of the Cross.

In the Office of Readings last Saturday we read an exhortation from St. Gregory Nazianzen:   "We must sacrifice ourselves to God, each day and in everything we do, accepting all that happens to us for the sake of the Word, imitating his passion by our sufferings, and honoring his blood by shedding our own. We must be ready to be crucified."

Today, the antiphon of Morning Prayer reminds us:  "Jesus said: my heart is nearly broken with sorrow; stay here and keep watch with me." 

The Office of Readings today is from Hebrews 10:39 exhorting us: "We are not among those who draw back and perish, but among those who have faith and live."

Today, Monday of Holy Week, we are called to courage, called to "set our faces like flint" and remember that we, too, must be crucified with Christ. We are waiting and we are watching. We are called to have faith....and live.

An Autumn Tale of Beauty and Disaster

Tonight is Story Time With Adoro. Why? Because it's been awhile and my readers are bored.

I love Autumn. It's my favorite season. The vibrant colors of the trees capture me, the cooling temperatures soothe my heated brow, and the scent of leaves and bonfires sends me soaring.

So many see this season as a time to begin school or other things, and indeed, I see that, too. I await with dread all the things that "ramp up" and wish I could just escape into the beauty, rather than into the imprisoning chambers of work or school that prevent me from touching the majesty of God's creation.

This year it's been awful; a week ago when my street was supposed to bloom into full golden glory of color, it froze, it snowed, and then a wind blew. Less than twelve hours later all of the trees were bare and both the gold and the green leaves were plastered to the ground. Those leaves left on the trees were already turning pruny, and the next day were brown and dead. No glory this year. We went from pretty and lively to....dead and hopeless.

Not helpful, God, but I love you anyway. I'm sure there's a metaphor there somewhere, to be figured out when I get around to it.

But! Instead of lingering and moping about my street's lack of beauty, I have decided to remember what I love about this usually-beautiful season, and share with you one of my favorite memories of this time of year. It's one that unites the heights of joy and the depths of humiliation and agony.

Are you interested? Read on.....

The Red Maple

When I was a little girl, growing up in a little country neighborhood, I was enchanted by the Maple tree that graced our front yard. It was my favorite place. I could sit down and rest against it, I buried my dear guppies there with great ceremony (hilarious story I must tell one day), and that tree is where I first learned to contemplate...and to fly. Maybe even to trust.

Everyone knows that children are inventive. I grew up while video games existed, but were considered to be indulgent luxuries. We knew all the great cartoons, but spent most of our days playing in our country neighborhood, exploring the hills, talking walks, playing with other children, and...inventing new games and new adventures.

You can imagine, then, how my older brother saw the Maple tree not as something simply beautiful to behold, but as our own personal jungle gym. It seemed an obsession with him...every time we left the house, he would head directly to the tree in his quest to conquer it and rest among her branches.

His constant quest to climb higher constantly aggravated Mom, but intrigued me.

I wanted to do what he did. I wanted that courage. I wanted the vantage point he described. I wanted to rest in those branches, too!

It wasn't long before I went to the tree and, with heartfelt tears, complained I couldn't climb because I couldn't reach the lowest branch. Initially my brother teased me, but eventually good will overcame him and in a rare show of brotherly love, he pulled our picnic table to the tree and instructed me to stand on it, feeling I would be able to reach the branch and climb from that point.

I was still frightened, but my brother encouraged me, directed me and finally, I made it to the first branch. I don't recall whether he pulled me up or pushed me up where needed, but I do remember that I didn't make my first climb alone. It took several tries before I finally figured it out. He tried even to encourage me to venture out into his favorite branch, but I refused at first, needing to become accustomed to the lowest before ascending to what was higher.

The unfortunate part of this was that "my" branch was our JUMPING branch; it was...our exit from the Maple Tree.

Oh, yes...what goes up must come down. And if it's fun, it must come down REPEATEDLY and with much enthusiasm!

We had a new hobby!

My brother and I would rake up leaves beneath the lowest branch (which wasn't that low), and in a rare show of sibling support and love, we would get along in this great endeavor of survival. Where usually we argued, in the Maple Tree we had peace. It was an unwritten and unplanned sanctuary. It didn't matter what hatred we had for each other below...but while in those branches and leaping from them, we loved each other and willed each other's good.

That meant that we developed rules.

The first rule was that I had to learn to climb the tree by myself, but there was a grace period given to me for that, based on my height and ability. You see.,.my brother was a good teacher and a good brother, at heart, and knew I couldn't do anything on my own or without his wise direction. Or limits.

I hate to admit it, but he was right. I respected him and dang it...learned to climb that tree because of HIM and no one else!

Our second rule was far more serious, for we had the basic understanding that anything hitting the ground from any height tended to explode. If it worked with eggs, it worked with us.

Our exit custom involved raking the colorful leaves into a nice big pile under the designated exit branch, and after my brother had experimented with the softness of it, he finally convinced me to take this great leap, rather than having him assist me down via the picnic table.

Oh, what a terrifying leap it was! Oh how I stared at those terrible leaves, trying to imagine them as feathers, trying to trust the brother who so normally tortured me...but would never will my ultimate demise!

I still recall perching on that forked branch, there among the red-colored leaves, knowing my only way down was to let go....

And so it was....

I still remember the leap and the soft landing, the explosion of color, and the rapid ascent of us both as we sought to repeat the thrill of weightlessness and color.

Of course, it wasn't long before Mom came outside in terrified horror (or was it horrified terror?) to inspect our new game. She saw that, in fact, it was a good game, we had our own rules, and established in stone that we could ONLY leap from certain branches. She saw our rare cooperation and thought it a good thing, over and above the danger that we might be injured. She saw love before she saw anything else, and in the end, gave her approval.

Not all such games were good, though.

Stupidity and concupiscence always enters Eden

Our neighbor, a teen I greatly admired and even adored, didn't have a tree in her yard. She saw what we were doing and, because the leaves from the forest and her neighbors were plentiful, she had no problem raking them into a big pile in her own yard.

One day as I played alone, she invited me to join her which was a very big deal. Why would Annette ever want me to play with her? But I went, and we had a great time leaping from the top of a ladder she'd erected, landing in the leaves. From the ladder, maybe it was lower than the branch, but it was an easier climb which meant more chances to free-fall into the crunchy, colorful leaves

They were so soft that they led me to misunderstand physics.

So it was that I climbed the ladder, and, from the top, bent my knees hoping to land on them in the same way I landed on my springy feet. I didn't understand how the human body absorbed shock, I didn't understand that the leaves weren't really "springy"; my legs were. The leaves just helped a little.

I remember leaping, and in mid-air, hearing Annette scream at me in alarm, "DON'T DO THAT!"

She was older and understood physics in a way I did not. It wasn't scientific, but practical.

Annette couldn't do anything to save me from the disaster that awaited me.

I remember landing, my legs bent beneath me. I didn't "bounce" as expected, but rather, the concussion of the landing compressed my entire body, the landing a complete, abrupt shock.

I didn't "spring" or "bounce" or anything. Instead, I was driven into the ground as a whole and rolled to the side, stunned, unable to move my legs, unable to stand.

It was pain...but it wasn't. To this day, even KNOWING about spinal injuries, I can't describe the sensation. It was a pain I'd never felt, but which told me that this time, it was serious. I quite literally couldn't will my legs to move, I couldn't stand up although I tried.

Annette asked me if I was alright but all I could do was cry. I wasn't "alright" but was afraid Mom would find out what I did and punish me. I felt helpless and hated Annette's comments, telling me I was fine and telling me to "GET UP! You have to get up! Stop crying!"

I couldn't get up. I tried. Several times. I couldn't. My back and legs hurt so badly that I couldn't move, my legs actually wouldn't work at all, and I realized I had to do SOMETHING.

To her credit, Annette told me to just wait a minute. I wanted to go home. She didn't want to let me go home.

It was years before I realized Annette was terrified, too; just as terrified as I that I'd been seriously injured. From my perspective, I didn't want Mom to know. From her perspective...she was older and felt like she was at fault. I wish I'd listened to her and just laid there, waiting either for someone else to come, or just to feel better.

But I have never been one to wait when things are wrong, and, well...she let me go.

In tears, I went home. In tears, still unable to stand, barely able to move at all, I CRAWLED across her yard, across the street, and through our yard, hoping Mom wouldn't look out or think anything strange of my behavior. (Yeah, right...Adoro crawling across the street. Not strange at all...never mind the gravel...)

All I knew was that something was seriously wrong with me, I didn't want any attention, and hoped that if I just got home and ignored it...it would go away. I don't know how, but I managed to crawl all that distance (in excruciating pain), across the gravel road, into the house and to my room, pulling myself into bed. Hoping that maybe a nap would make it all better.

I remember thinking about Jesus, and how He fell when carrying His cross.

I remember Mom yelling at me from some other part of the house when she heard the door open, asking what I was doing. I just said I was tired and wanted to take a nap. Mom probably figured that was a blessed event, and never actually came out of the kitchen to see what I was doing. I was glad...I still couldn't stand up, and I was exhausted from all that crawling.

It didn't take me long to cry myself to sleep in terrified exhaustion. I never wanted to jump out of anything ever again.

I remember opening my eyes that afternoon and moving my legs. I remember carefully sitting up, carefully standing. There was no pain. It was all gone. I stood in my room and even JUMPED, waiting to collapse to the floor. It never happened.

I wondered if it was a dream, but no...my knees and my palms told another story, one told by gravel and dirt, and not all of it could be washed away.

Mom NEVER knew and STILL doesn't know of that event. I still puzzle it over, having had some medical training. I have a few theories but can't say I totally understand. Obviously, much of the pain was muscular, but when I consider the distance of my leap and the compression upon my spine, I am amazed I DIDN'T have a spinal injury, and have NEVER had back problems that didn't come from a different DIRECT injury (later in life - a result of an assault at work.)

As it was, I lived to walk another day, to run, and even to leap. I never again leapt from Annette's ladder, although I do recall she was overjoyed to see me walking later, and even teased me a little. Yet...she never brought it up again. My brother and I, we continued to leap out of the tree and a year later, used both the lower and higher branches to exit in to our respective piles of leaves. One branch became "His" and I would bring books up there so that, if he was gone, I could sit up there and read, or contemplate, or imagine. I "wrote" stories in my imagination, concealed myself in color and perhaps learned that the best place to be, ever, is in the present, especially when one is enclosed by colorful leaves and resting in the strong arms of a majestic maple tree somewhere in the Midwest.

Ah....to return to those days....

Why do any of us ever have to grow up?

*

Surreal Week

Last weekend, I still had a greyhound and I was looking forward to my last day at work. My worry for him tainted my joy at leaving my job, but I was looking forward to some "free days" in order to spend time with him, likely to be his last days.

But that's not how it worked. The cancer was end stage, and I will write more about it and what happened, but I can't do it yet. Suffice to say that Tuesdy was a terrible day, I made the hardest decision I have ever made, at the most inconvenient time...and those most impacted showed me nothing but compassion and understanding.

But my grief was so deep on Tuesday, I fell asleep in tears, I woke up and immediately felt Fire's loss...and had to go to work. I'm grateful I had to work, for it kept a certain schedule, preventing me from sitting around in a daze. I couldn't stop my tears, I begged God for help, and I went to work with tearstained cheeks and swollen red eyes, determined to do my job even though my heart was breaking.

Having to talk about it did help, even though, had I had my choice, I would have spent Wednesday locked up not speaking to anyone. But God had other plans for me, and my Manager, who knew what happened, hadn't passed on the news to my co workers. They knew my dog was sick and had cancer; they didn't know why I'd left work, so I had to tell them. There are many pet owners in my office, and they formed an unofficial support group for me on Wednesday, individually, sharing their losses, empathizing with mine, and no one commented when the tears came, no one made a fuss, and somehow, I made it over that hurdle. One co-worker isn't a fan of pets, but she is blessed with a soft heart for the suffering both human and animals, and when I told her I'd had to put my dog to sleep, I could see tears in her own eyes. I quickly made an exit...I barely had control of my emotions, and I could see that she, too, was trying to maintain at that point. So through our shared cube wall our conversation continued...it was easier when neither of us could see emotion.

By the end of the day, a sort of numbness set in, and I walked into a half-empty house, Fire's lack of presence echoing and reverberating. I never realized until then how BIG his presence was. My big red dog wasn't whining to get out of the kennel; the kennel was empty and silent. My Shepherd was even subdued, not having to compete for my affection. I had only one dog to take out...my worry for Fire was gone, and in place of that weight was a heavier, silent weight. So I went about our regular routine...but this time, without the other half of it.

Then I turned on the TV. I wanted to take the Shepherd for a walk; her evening walks had been missed for awhile, for obvious reasons, but on Wednesday evening, the sky was overcast and darkening, so I turned on the TV. I didn't normally watch the 6:00 news because I had access to the news all day at work, via internet, and figured I didn't need to know any more. Much of the stuff I was handling was news-worthy stuff, and I didn't need to see it played out overly-much when I got home. But Wednesday night, I needed the weather.

Almost immediately, I saw the breaking news. I still had the awful numb feeling, so in a disconnected manner, thought the initial reports, without a visual, were referencing the 35W bridge over the Minnesota river that runs between Bloomington and Burnsville about 20-30 minutes south of Minneapolis.

That bridge is closer to the water, would indeed be a disaster, but of a different sort...so initially I still had a vague sense of horror, but I could not grasp what they were saying. University? 10th St? Where is that? I was racking my brain, trying to find the mapping files stored there, for I've driven the length of 35W through the Metro area at least a thousand times since I've lived up here, more than 10 years. What bridge? The information wasn't making sense.

And then they had the initial grainy images from the air...and then I understood. Yet I was still anesthetized by my grief, and now this was added to it. I couldn't move away from the TV...I couldn't do anything but watch, amazed, unbelieving, wondering if anyone I knew was involved or had friends there.

One week ago, for work, I'd driven across that bridge en route to a shop in Bloomington. For a long time, that bridge has caused me vague unrest when crossing it. Last Wednesday, especially. I had an odd feeling, a sort of "twinge" that something wasn't right. I remember loooking across towards the west, as I headed southbound on the bridge, noting the low cement rail, looking at the view...and considering the drop to the river. I remember a strange sense of nostalgia that came over me, and I shook it off and continued on. When re-crossing, northbound, the sensation caused me to again look to my right, at the construction workers, and consider their safety as all the cars rushed by on one side, the river on the other. I vaguely wondered what it would be like to work on the bridge.

I had no idea it would be the last time I crossed that bridge. I had no idea the horror that would occurr only one week later.

Thursday, my second to last day at work, we recieved emails from the top describing how claims should be handled with regard to this disaster, compassion being priority. We didn't know enough to be able to describe a process to people, but as I understand it, my co-workers weren't asked about process or what to do. Those who did call were just taking care of business and had other concerns. They knew it was an odd situation and knew that we'd all have to wait before we'd know what to do.

Today was my last day at work. I expected my last day to be joyful, but instead it was busy as I cleaned out my desk, got nothing done on what was left of my files, and basically just tried to clean some things up to make life easier for whoever takes my place. I went out with our special investigations unit, all of whom worked in my unit at one time, and they congratulated me for getting out. All of my co-workers were envious...because they want to leave, too. The truth; not many people really LIKE working in the insurance industry. They do their jobs, they do their best...but it wears on them.

So it was strange today as I was busy...but not so much. My files were reassigned by the end of the day, I shipped a couple off to the new reps, tried to have good to do's in them, apologized for what was not done, and said my goodbyes. I am leaving with both personal and professional references from management and co-workers, and I did decide, when answering the exit interview questions, to allow the company to contact me in the future with any particular openings. I do believe in leaving doors open, even if we think we want them closed. My official answer for leaving is to return to school. "Burnout" was not an option, and there were some good points to my job, and what I've learned here.

I can't believe that I'm now officially unemployed, and am so by choice. I can't believe that I'm going to orientation for Grad school tomorrow, and that in a few weeks, it begins. I can't believe that basically, I'm in a financial free-fall, I've jumped by choice...and I'm not as terrified as I should be.

Because in everything that's happened during this tragic week, and my very trying month, I see God's hand. On my Birthday, on June 20th, I commented that 33 was a bad year for Jesus. Indeed, why should I expect anything different for myself? We are called to follow Him, even unto the death.

So June passed with a preface...and July was the beginning of my year of trial. Fire started limping on July first, and I lost him on July 31st, the Tuesday of my last week of employment. August 1st brought one of the worst disaster in the history of Minnesota...and August 3rd...the end of my gainful employment.

By my choice.

And it all seems surreal. Just surreal.

But God is present, He is everywhere, He is loving, and we have to trust in Him, even when we don't understand the events surrounding us. Even in the midst of unspeakable grief and suffering, we must trust. Even when all is lost...that is only an illusion, for all is contained in God's hands, and he is especially close to those who suffer.

Please continue to pray for those involved with the bridge collapse, victims, survivors, families, and rescuers. Please pray for our government leaders, the specialists, and those who rebuild. Please pray for the Twin Cities; these are trying times.

None of us is immune to disaster; we don't know the day or the hour.

And when life gets surreal...it really just means that you finally understand that you really have no control over anything, and have to give the steering wheel to God...because the only one you have is just a toy.

Prayer need NOW!

I am watching the local news, and there has been a catastrophic bridge collapse in Minneapolis, on 35 W over the Mississippi river.

For those of you not local, this is a main bridge in the Twin Cities. 35 W is a major Interstate highway which, when it reaches Burnsville at the southern portion of the metro area, it splits into 35 and 35E. 35 W continues, passing I-94 near downtown Minneapolis, and then crosses under Washington Avenue, where the bridge begins. It crosses over the Mississippi, with an exit onto University Avenue, which runs through the University of Minnesota - East Bank. The entire bridge has collapsed completely.

Cars are in the water, cars are crushed, a vehicles are burning, and a lot of people need prayers right now.

This is a major disaster. They estimate over 50 cars on that bridge. It has been under construction, doing resurfacing, so lanes have been shut down, otherwise there would have been even more traffic. It happened shortly after 6 pm tonight, still rush hour, but not at the peak.

This is going to have repurcussions for a long time, both due to the casualties and lives lost, and of lesser importance, the traffic detours as a major Interstate highway is detoured around and through this major downtown/University area.

Please keep praying.