Neither Ashes Nor Cross

Usually I look forward to Lent, but...not this year.

This year, I'm not ready, and the fact that it is late is a great mercy to me, for as we count down the final hours, still I am not ready. This year, I don't want Lent to come.

It is not that I haven't prepared, or that I haven't chosen my penance. Rather, it is that I am not ready to repent and I dread both repentance and the penance I owe, even knowing the depths of God's mercy and the fact that my penance can never match the depths of my sin and the ends to which I am drawn should I continue on my present course:  Hell.


This year, I shudder at the sound of Lent,  and I want to flee, but I cannot flee, for as Psalm 139 says, even if I fly to the ends of the earth He is there, to the depths of the sea and to the skies above...He corrals me like an untamed mustang.

I can do nothing but surrender.

For the last several weeks, I have been working my way through LOST and tonight, I finished it, right on schedule. For weeks, between LOST and four seasons of DEXTER I have been pondering human frailty and the reality of life without Faith.

As it turns out, in my real life I have also been struggling with my own Faith. 

For a couple weeks now, although I know I need to go to Confession, I have not gone. I desire to go, but because I am dealing with some questions and issues of unbelief, I have chosen, directly, not to go.

Why?

Because in spite of my deep queries, I believe in the Sacrament and the Authority of Christ.

And because I have not gone to Confession (and need to), I have not received Our Lord in Holy Communion  for a few weeks now.

I am grateful for the graces of Spiritual Communion, but for now, I cannot approach and receive Jesus from the altar; I am not either objectively or implicitly disposed.

Yes, it IS hard to stand aside to let others leave the pew while they glance at me in askance, but I will not go forward even for a blessing, for, quite honestly,  this is the wrong time for a Blessing stolen only to deflect my Pride in the face of the unasked questions of strangers regarding the state of my soul.

We all fall short. We all sin. We are all LOST.

I've watched the entire series now, in only a few weeks, hoping to be done by the start of Lent. While I enjoyed it and didn't "get" some of the stuff imposed upon it or supposed from it, I will say this: there is one line that broke through my own heart, and it's something I take with me into Lent, and hopefully beyond.

In the final season of LOST, Jacob says that he chose them not for who they were, but for who they were not. (Not his exact words).  He chose them because they were all flawed. They were alone, they were already lost, and they were already broken. He chose them in order to give them something for which to live...and for which to die.

I admit I was brought to tears by this for I, too, am flawed, alone, lost, and broken. 

I can't pray the prayer of Queen Esther without tears, for whenever I give voice to it I am desperate, even though it speaks to my constant condition: "Help me, Lord,l for I am all alone, and I have no one but Thee."

Esther cast herself upon the Mercy of God, who chose her not for her status, but for her lowliness. He heard her prayer even before she prayed it.

That struck me in the script for LOST: even though it wasn't a religious  show by any means:  the reality is that God does indeed choose us for our humility, but never for our Pride.

We may be chosen for the purpose of purification but in the end, we learn to choose Him through sacrificial love. Not love of ourselves, but love of others, for their good.

That is true charity.

This year, I enter into Lent unwillingly, but still with the intention to observe the penances and sacrifices. This year it will be harder than ever, for I also enter without Faith. I enter Lent, this year, with nothing to offer, and truly, neither am I open to receive.

I enter this Lenten Season as Judas for even as I profess to follow Jesus, I cannot claim to be one of  His Own. 

My kiss, right now, to Jesus is one of betrayal. I know He chose me out of my solitude and brokenness and reached out to me because I am lost. Yet all I have to offer is a kiss of betrayal.

My only prayer, this Lent, is that by the Triduum I will come to Him with absolute trust in His Mercy.

For now, I have a long ways to go.

I am grateful for these 40 days to give me a chance to take back my kiss, to take back my stolen 30 pieces of silver and to instead, embrace the shadow of the Cross that falls over me.

Judas was lost because he appealed for mercy to the wrong authority. It wasn't because he wasn't repentant, but because he refused to speak to the One whom he had offended.

Tomorrow, I will receive Ashes, and with the watered-down admonition to "Repent, turn from sin and believe in the Gospel".  This is all well and good, and I might have to actually, through my work, impose those words upon another, should Father (my boss) tell me to do so. I will be obedient to that should he conscript me into that service.

What I prefer and want to hear, though,  and want to impose upon others is this, the harshest of introductions into Lent and that which helped me grow up:

"Repent, man, for you are dust and to dust you shall return." 

If we lose sight of our final ends, that of eternity, Lent has no meaning whatsoever.

No one around me, priest or layperson has, in recent months reminded me of my final end. To do so is politically incorrect.

If Lent doesn't do it...then I have no reason to repent. If Ashes have no meaning for me, neither does the Cross.

If neither Ashes or Cross have meaning

...why should I repent?

Catholicism and the Art of Home Maintenance - The Sequel

I've said it before and I'll say it again; the worst decision I've ever made was the decision to purchase a house. In my case, specifically, a town-home.

Case in point:   Some of you will recall my comic escapades a few years ago when I attempted to replace a simple toilet-seat. 

I thank God for the good sense not to have purchased a single-family home. Although I looked at a few, those in my range (back in 2002) were true crack houses needing to be flipped.  Not my market in any way, shape or form. But...that meant the best townhome I could get was among those built shortly after the Dharma Initiative was invaded and destroyed by the Hostiles.

The problem with home maintenance is that it doesn't end. 

In the time since I've purchased my home, I've had to replace the furnace and water heater, both of which were done, providentially, the winter after my grandmother died and left me a small inheritance. (Thanks Grandma! Please say a prayer for her, y'all!)

Other things aren't so expensive, but they add up over time, stuff breaks down, and people like me...well....I'm helpless. I can start a circular saw and I can start a chain saw and operate a Hurst tool, and give me a sledge hammer and your old garage will collapse in 5 minutes as we flee the catastrophe, but gosh darn it, when my toilet breaks someone better call an expert for me right quick!

A few months ago I got a letter from the City stating they detected a small leak in my house and gave instructions as to how to identify the source of the leak.

Obviously I knew by mere observation that no water was leaking out of any of my appliances or accoutrements, therefore I set about trying to follow the very simple instructions.

In fact, I recalled that my garage spigot seemed to have a small leak (or was that from the hose that is still attached, rusted to the spigot itself?).  So I tried that...after I couldn't twist it any more and didn't want to actually turn it ON as it was -20 outside, I wrapped the hose around an old recumbant exercise bike tipped up against the wall and...VOILA'! No more leaking!

I went inside to my furnace-water-heater chamber and tried to reach the internal shut-off for my garage spigot.

Uh-oh.

Can't reach it.

At all.

When my water heater was replaced, it was replaced with one that was taller and wider (yet somehow more "efficient"?) and as I am  a minimalized-statured individual, it seems that my water heater is not politically-correct enough for me to actually reach the piping and twisty-thingies behind it that are supposed to turn things off.

I have a backup plan in case a pipe breaks somewhere:  Flee the house, knock on every door in the vicinity until someone either tall enough or tiny enough responds to save the day. 

In the meantime, I'll have lots of towels on hand and maybe some teflon tape and...well, duct tape and WD-40.

WD-40 and duct tape fixes everything, you know.

Adventures in Home Repairs

A week ago I realized I was in real trouble and I had a choice: build an ark or call for help.

The unknown small leak has been weighing on me with great anchors for months now, and added to that was a leak that sprung beneath my kitchen sink. That one seemed to be contained after I discovered it one morning on the way to work. (Why are these things always discovered when one has to be somewhere else and has no time to deal with it on the spot?).

So I put an old dog dish under the leak, pulled out plastic bags intended for dog refuse and tried to dry them off - any that weren't already petri dishes for penicillin - and headed off into the big frozen white yonder.

And then...last weekend, as I headed to work, I got ready to go as usual. While drying my hair I noticed that the bath mat where it butted up against the tub was SOAKED.

WHAT?!

Quickly I soaked up the water with an old towel and ran downstairs. Sure enough, the water had leaked through the ceiling into my downstairs half-bath! Dirty, nasty water that had been un-filtered through the infrastructure and fan fixture.

Great.

So I cleaned THAT up and headed for work after ensuring the leak was not happening so long as I wasn't taking a shower.

I was certain I would come home to an aquarium and a very wet, cold, and pouty German Shepherd.

Time to call for help...

This weekend, my brother, in response to my desperate calls and emails, heroically strapped on his carpenter's belt and quested to save me in my ivory tower.

(Well...actually...after I sent him an email complaining about water dripping through the ceiling, he offered to get into his car and help me with my minor elementary-level  home repairs in the hovel within which I reside as long as the bank allows me to do so. )  

My brother arrived with a box of chemicals and tools, a shopping list and ideas while we inspected the biggest problem areas needing immediate repair.

As it turned out, the toilet leak was a flapper dancing improperly in my toilet. She was removed and re-employed by the department of sanitation and replaced with a more flexible model.

The rubber ball was rubbing against the wall (get your mind out of the gutter - we haven't gotten there yet!), so the arm had to be bent back to center and the screw  had to be adjusted a little for a more proper flow.

Once we fixed THAT problem (or so we thought), my brother tried to show me how to scrape off the old cauk and clean the grout in the shower. It was petrified and the tool...useless.  The best we (meaning me, actually) could do was clean it up along the base, and within the tub, spray mildew/mold killer, which, much to my surprise, did a lot to whiten up the grout! There are still problem areas, though, so we determined that all we could do was caulk the base for now - which is the area that was leaking.

So...I have a new skill! I can caulk the base of a bathtub like nobody's business, and then clean up the mess! Yay!

Of course, in this process I learned that no matter what guys do, they leave a mess behind. Ladies, all the stereotypes about men and women are true.

Case in point: Brother stood on toilet seat to reach the malfunctioning fan overhead. Dust and dirt and foulness came down - right into the basket where I kept my brushes and lotions, etc.! Could he maybe have either moved it or asked me to put it elsewhere before he "cleaned" above?

No, apparently not.

He'd already observed that my upstairs sink was draining slowly and in need of a snaking or drano. So what did he do? He rinsed the nasty grate in the sink, which will be GUARANTEED to completely stop it up! Oh, and when the water drained, there was all that nasty stuff in the sink that naturally, he didn't wipe up himself.

I stood, stretching out my aching back, demanding to know what he was doing by dumping that crap in my otherwise clean sink.

"I'm a guy", sez he.

Yeah. "Idiot" sez I. Glaring, I wiped it up.

As I went about my house, I realized that everywhere my brother went, he left a trail of dirt from weird sources and I was constantly cleaning it up after him.

Even when we re-arranged my livingroom, dusting and vacuuming electronics as we went, when he was finished, there was STILL stuff on the floor where he had been kneeling, making electronic connections. Where did THAT even come from?????

It didn't help that the living room was in utter chaos as we rearranged it, moving things temporarily to this and that spot, moving sacred images and statues, sacramentals and books, research materials and old paperwork that needs to shredded.

Indeed, the dog had to quite literally get into the mix so she could see what was going on. Unfortunately, because of the constant state of flux, she didn't have any place to BE! As it turned out, this was not a good thing for her...or us.

As I vacuumed up old dog hair and dust from behind the areas previously covered by furniture, a terrible smell arose. My  brother, seated on the floor, commented upon the stench of the dog who seemed to have burped nastily in his face.

This being unusual for my dog, I stopped to inspect her and indeed, she smelled...pukey. As did the air in the  livingroom. Very pukey.

I took her outside, then once we were back in, the wave of stench nearly knocked me backwards.

I peered around the apocalyptic "living area" in confusion,  finally spied the source of the stench: indeed the dog, anxiety-ridden by the sudden upheaval of the main room, added her own upheaval in the form of what was left of the dinner she'd eaten 5 hours earlier.

UGH!

Already, we had the windows open upstairs and fans blowing to clear the area of the fumes from the mold/mildew cleaner.

Already, we had the door and windows open downstairs because that same chemical smell and those fumes from the WD-40 for other projects was permeating our senses.

And now...the smell of sickness. The terrible, terrible smell of sickness, and the realization it was sickness that was destructive to some historical documents which then had to be thrown out, for they could not be preserved.

UGH!

By 3:00 am or so, the order and normal scent of the house was more or less restored, the dog's anxiety calmed by the stability of at least some of the objects with which she was familiar, and it was time to retire to our rooms and finish up as much as possible the next day.

Final Status:

I'm happy to report that the toilet seems to no longer to leaking, the doors  no longer squeak, there is not a flood to be found in my house, and the caulk is curing as we speak.

The dog kept her breakfast and dinner down just fine, and in the production of the event and subsequent blog post, no bad words were used by either my brother or myself. ;-)

Now, there's only one thing I didn't do this time, so I guess I completely contradicted the advice given in my post from a few years ago:  I didn't call a priest. Maybe next time.

Murder in the Heart

Tonight I watched the movie "The Quick and the Dead" (1995), a movie I thought I'd seen before, but it turns out, well....I hadn't.

It's not the kind of movie I normally watch, but tonight I did so with theological themes in mind, and I have to be honest; under the influence of the philosophy of Flannery O'Connor. I can't explain exactly why, but I think she would have loved this movie.

While there are themes of vengeance and outright violence, it takes place in a town seemingly-improperly named: "Redemption".

The characters are all fallen, none are necessarily likeable (outside of the little girl who suffers an unspeakable offense), and even that child displays the concupiscence of the world that surrounds her, yet none of the protection given to other children her age.

The film juxtaposes those who are murderous by nature, those who have reformed and are trying to overcome their nature, and those who are there by choice but truly have a more benevolent nature. All are fallen, all have sinned, and in the same way, but not all share the same level of depravity.

The lone voice of reason and holiness is quiet (but far from silent), is vilified by all sides and even falls himself, seemingly a discredit to his own attempted reform. In this movie, that which is holy is chained, disarmed except to be armed for battle for the enemy, and then forced into that battle, forced into a temptation so strong he cannot overcome it.

The protagonist enters with a vengeance, but in the process, learns the soul of the antagonist and seeks to flee. She is bolstered by a voice from the past, the only one who knows who she is and what she seeks. That, too, is a temptation, and she returns to the  battle, only to learn that her chance to stand down is gone. It is a metaphor, at this point, for addiction.

"Your chance to back out is gone."   The words of evil Herod are clear.

The duel scene between Herod and his son, "The Boy", are the antithesis of the Gospel, for in this movie, the Father not only directly kills his son in a town named "Redemption" but does so for his own glory, and then denies his patronage to the deceased boy. The Boy was somewhat of a town hero; if anyone should have won the duel, it should have been him, but in Redemption, evil holds court, reveling in a taste of Hell that just continues.

It's no surprise that the Woman, the protagonist, deals the killing blow, crushing Satan beneath her heel, and in so doing, passes on the star that represents the Law into the hands of the Holy Man, the lone representative of moral law.

I don't know if the author of the original story, Simon Moore, is a Catholic, but based on this movie, I see Catholicism, I see Christianity.

Now, before you object, I am not saying that the moral play-out of this movie is Christian, or that what the characters did was right, or that it didn't twist Christian themes a bit. However, I do see an allegorical nature to it and think we might legitimately take notice and use it to examine ourselves.

Examination of Conscience

The protagonist, the female gunslinger, came a bit too close to home for me, although I'm not willing to express all the dimensions of that. Certainly, as a woman who once ventured into law enforcement and worked hard to harden myself to the world around me, the main character here could "speak" to me.

In all honesty, I sought to be what she was:  cool, collected, tough, and a great shot. She could play with the big dogs and still maintain her femininity while placing them at bay.

Tonight, as I watched the movie, though, the scene that most stood out to me was her response to the vermine that stole the innocence of the only innocent character in the movie. She struggled with justice and mercy, opted for mercy even as "Satan" egged her on, then found herself in a position of self defense. She was triumphant, but struck to her very being. She was not innocent and had entered into this walking her daddy's line.

I'm no different.

When she blew the pedophile's *ss away, I said to myself that I would have done the same thing, but I would have had no mercy.  I would have taken him out piece by piece, slowly and with great relish to ensure he suffered as slow and painful a death as possible.

That's murder, folks.  That's murder in the heart, and yes, I'm capable of it. I hold a hatred and anger so deep within myself that I could look you straight in the eye and tell you in person what I stated above, and I'm neither the victim of such a crime nor the relation or friend of one who has suffered it (to my knowledge).

But oh, yes, I know it is within me and in that knowledge, I am brought to my knees by the words of Christ, who, in Matthew, 5 asserts that sin in the heart is as real as that sin made manifest. As we give life to temptation, so that temptation becomes sin and therefore palpable in the eyes of God, even if not physically committed.

Yes, I have committed murder in my heart, I did so tonight and have done so many times before. Too many to count.  I know I could and will kill in hatred and vengeance; my own conscience tells me  it's possible. What I learned in psychology tells me this: That which we can conceive in our imaginations we have the propensity to commit.

I recall standing in the early morning corridor of an apartment building, a gun in my hand, loaded, pointed at a man who had just drawn on us. I did not want to kill him, for truly, he was just being stupid and had no intent, on his own part, to kill anyone else, certainly not us. We were to learn he was a regular guy, if a not-so-bright-one and in my professionalism, I had no desire to pull the trigger. Although I knew I might have to kill, I had an innate sense that the level of force we offered was sufficient.

I can't say, though, that if I was emotionally involved I would have the same restraint.

Yes, I have it within me to pull the trigger. I have it within my fallen nature to take a life.

I have it within my nature, for I have, through the trials of life, been formed in a murderous culture that fed into my own propensities, making it possible to give license to such murderous evil.

I have had murder in my heart, and therefore, in God's eyes, I have been guilty of murder.

Lord, have mercy on me, and defend me from evil.

Sed libera nos a malo. Sed libera nos a malo....

Real Women Wear...

So this week, I was really scandalized to read "Pants - A Manifesto", followed by "Pants Pass", although not the posts themselves, but all the insane (and some insanely hifreakinlarious) comments from extreme crazies all over the interwebs.

Seriously, why does the question of "skirts versus pants" bring out all the insane extremists from all corners?

Listen up, y'all, I have a solution to this that should put an end to this "debate" once and for all! 

Some of you may recall the post I wrote some time ago, Real Women Wear Kevlar.  (If you're unfamiliar with it, go check it out so you can get the proper background on what I'm going to say next. And yes, I will know if you only skimmed over it because your comments will be typically insane, much like what poor Simcha experienced with her tongue-in-cheek posts!).

So! Here is my solution to the pants vs skirts debate:

ARMOR! 

There are those who would argue that pants are "immodest" and one really "you have to work hard to be this creepy" suggestion was that on a woman, pants "create an arrow to her crotch".

OK, what if that has merit? Let's consider that, for after all it is the extreme!  And it is related to the claim that pants in general induce men to lust after strange women. (Never mind if he's that fickle he's the one who is strange and sick.)

On the other hand, there are those who claim skirts are immodest and another creepy suggestion was that skirts provide "easy access" and therefore, incite men to lust.

Now, we are excluding from this conversation things such as painted-on pants that are tighter than skin, and we are excluding rubber-band skirts that are shorter and tighter than underwear. I think we can ALL agree that these things are not fit to be worn in public unless covered by a burqua.

OK?  OK then.

So! Armor it is!

Ladies, for your fashion pleasure and for the safety of men who apparently feel entitled to "enjoying your beauty" such that they forget about "custody of the eyes" being a part of THEIR responsibility, let me offer you a line of clothing that will satisfy everyone on all extremes!

ARMOR!

First, we will have a cotton-lined, Kevlar-covered iron chastity belt. The covering over the iron will allow "breatheability" but we'll also be using a new, revolutionized process to create it out of ironwood with a lead core, ensuring that even the strongest of chainsaws cannot cut through it!

A special code will be programmed into it (in the most modest possible area) allowing for replacement, cleaning (only with a team of handmaids to protect privacy) and of course, upgrades and adjustment for size.

Married ladies will have a model that will allow only one person to have the code, that being her husband. He'll never have to worry that she'll cheat on him again!

PANTS! 

Now, for those ladies who prefer pants to skirts, the armor worn by the Knights of yore would work very well. The addition to be made is a longer "skirt" of metal to cover down to the knees, but designed in such a way that she won't even realize that she's wearing anything resembling a skirt!

And the good news is that there will be no need of worrying about whether the pants are too tight or if they reveal too much, because metal is opaque! And...no worries about "plumber butt" with those problems we ALL have with buying pants:  you know, if it fits in the hips it's monstrous in the waist, so if we sit down we reveal our butt-tattoos!

Bah! Those days are OVER with Pants of Armor (tm)!

These warm, comfortable Pants of Armor come in different sizes and with different types of inner padding, or, for you mothers, outer padding or spray-on coatings to ensure that your wet, sticky children don't become inextricably stuck to you on those frigid winter days. On the flipside, if that's the best way to get them to go somewhere, you can carry them around hands-free!

SKIRTS! 

Now, for you ladies who prefer skirts, the solution is, of course, the Chain Maille option! The Chain Maille is handmade, lined with Kevlar and cotton, although it comes with a hair-shirt option for the most serious and penitential.

The delicate chain work flows quite naturally but as it clinks against your chastity belt, it will remind all men anywhere in your vicinity that you are most certainly not "easy" and, in fact, given that you're wearing armor, you can easily brain the nearest overzealous suitor with simply a practiced swish of your skirt!

Still not convinced?  

Then let me advocate for you the fitness benefits of this clothing line!

You know how easy it is to gain weight in that simple, light fabric we're so used to in this day and age. Everything "stretches", allowing us to "let ourselves go".  Not armor! Not only does it squeeze everything in, making it impossible to breathe or eat if we gain too much weight, but on hot days it becomes a sauna, helping to sweat off the pounds! Besides, given that each clothing item weighs anywhere from 15 to 80 pounds each, you'll have the strength of ten Wonder-Women within a week of wearing it!

Say goodbye to those expensive and prohibitive Health Club or Spa memberships - YOU WON'T NEED THEM ANYMORE!

But WAIT!  There's MORE!

Objection:  I can't wear chain maille - I don't shave my legs!

Answer:  That's OK!  If you leave off the Kevlar leggings for only a day, you'll never have to shave your legs again! The Chain Maille acts much like a day at the spa, but without all the heat, wax and immodesty!  Simply walk or move about as your normally would, or even when sitting in your chair you'll find that the maille will be able to reach even the most difficult places!  The Chain Maille used on the inside layer of the skirt is the finest and most delicate and you won't even notice when the inside of the skirt turns into a hair-skirt! Great for wear during Lent and Ember Days and all Fridays throughout the year especially when your legs are smooth as a baby's butt!

So! There you have it!  Are you ready to make your purchase?

If so, just go to www.modestwomenweararmor.com and buy your new clothing line today! 

Ladies, whether you prefer pants or skirts, once you're clad in armor, you can be seen as "easy on the eyes" without ever been seen as "easy" ever again! 

Call 1-888-MODESTARMOR today! 

Out of Sorts and in Pieces

For the last few weeks, I've been very "out of sorts". Discombobulated. Disconnected.

Yeah. "Out of Sorts" says what I probably most need to say. Such an imprecise idiomatic phrase and yet...so accurate as to my ongoing present condition.

There's been a lot going on in my life personally, spiritually, practically, even physically. Some my fault (sin!), some the impact upon me of the sin of others, some spiritual attack....you get the idea. In other words, it's life.

My story isn't any different than anyone else's. 

Last week, my co-worker/friend's father passed away. Even though it was expected and there have been many close calls over the recent years, she had a hard time with it. Not a "hard time" she is really sharing, but knowing our friend and her aversion to suffering and grief, well...she's gotten extra prayers.  From experience I know to let her grieve in the way she must, and to not "pen her in."  I've done my best to be "normal" around her, which is surprisingly easy, and having been there before I know that I was most grateful when people didn't fawn all over me, but rather let me be in that moment, whatever it was at the time.

The hard thing with grief is this: it is transitory. It is sharp one moment, and like a distant memory in the next. It never really "goes away" for the one who was loved and is no longer there is still loved and still present, if in a different way.

This particular co-worker/friend and I share a particular aversion to being emotional in public. We'd prefer our tears to be in solitude. We don't mind admitting having shed those tears, but we prefer they remain between us and God, that our grief and weakest moments be with Him alone, for only He can truly console us.

So ironic, then, the other day as we spoke of grief in general terms. I was fine, and spoke of losing my Dad when I was 20, having to miss the first day of class  of a new semester in college because of Dad's funeral...and then being immediately thrust back into college life as though nothing had happened.

As if it didn't matter.  But it did.

My friend lost her mother long ago, when she was young, and now, losing her father....grief beyond words and mere understanding.

As we spoke, sharing, quietly, our own stories of grief and loss, I felt fine. I empathized with her and spoke of my own past grief in even clinical terms. We both knew that grief is real when it comes and goes; it is surprising in its sudden agony in unexpected moments, ebbing and flowing, losing its sharpness over time, and yet...still able to twist in the very core of the soul making it once again fresh and unrelenting. What changes over time is the surreal quality of it; grief can perhaps be experienced more deeply over time, just like the fresh-turned earth over a new grave.

That evening, I told my friend the details of my father's loss, and how, when I went to school, I was angry in general. My entire persona was anger; I felt little but anger.  I wanted to talk to someone, but whenever anyone offered a shoulder, I fled, holding back the tears.  The VP of my college, whom I had come to know because of his visit to our study-abroad group while we were in Mexico, was a particular confidant, and he made it clear that his door was open to me. Yet whenever he tried to get me to open up about my grief, I found a reason to leave, yet I always thanked him for the invitation, telling him I was fine.

I was lying and he knew it. I'm not sure many others knew I was running about with such a burden, but Brother C. knew, and I give him a great deal of credit for being so available to me, even though I didn't take him up on it.  I know he has no idea how much help he was to me back then, but for various reasons I'm not sure I'll ever be able to tell him.He probably doesn't remember me anyway; I was one student among many and Br. C. tended to have an open-door policy, always taking time for those who came knocking on his door.

Even though Dad died more than 15 years ago, at times I am still almost taken by surprise, and in fact, the other night was one of them.  As my co-worker and I shared our experiences, there, as we stood in the office, having just discussed the transient and surprising quality of grief, I told her of how lost I was when I went back to college after Dad's funeral. I told her how it took 8 months of anger before I actually "lost it" in the presence of another.

That evening, suddenly, I couldn't study. I couldn't focus on my assignments, and even reading for pleasure could not engage my attention. I tried to work out, I tried the computer lab, thinking maybe a little internet surf might be helpful. I looked up grief and its effects, finding nothing. I tried humor sites but could not laugh.

I gave up and headed back "home" to my dorm. En route through the college center building I passed the piano room, where a good friend of mine was practicing.  I walked in,  closed the door, said hello, and sat down.

She asked me what was wrong.

Nothing, I said.

She was silent, staring at me, waiting.

"My Dad isn't going to be there when I get married."

I burst into tears. "This is so stupid! I don't even have a BOYFRIEND!"

"No", my friend told me. "He's NOT going to be there when I get married, or when I graduate, or have any other huge event in my life where he would be an honored guest".

His seat would ALWAYS be empty. 

I'm not sure she said THAT, but that was the image in my mind.

The other night, when I spoke with my coworker about this conversation, at the very moment I said, "My Dad isn't going to be there when I get married", suddenly, unexpectedly, without any prior notice, tears overflowed.

I don't know where they came from. They were just...THERE.  Suddenly I was crying.

I have shared this experience many times, I have thought of it...no emotion whatsoever. But the other day, and right now as I write this, I confess, I couldn't/ can't seem to stop the flow of tears.

Even as we laughed about grief, about the very POINT my own sudden squall of tears made about the transitory and fickle nature of grief, there was consolation in simple understanding. I prayed mightily that no one would enter our office. As it was the squall faded away and God's Providence kept the office door closed.

When someone did finally enter, both of us were as dry-eyed and normal-looking as we'd ever been, and joking as usual.

No one understands grief as mightily as Our Lord, and I think He has a special regard for those who weep out of such a deep love and loss.

Grief isn't everything, though...

I've also been out of sorts because I've been feeling, once again, that I'm being torn into pieces. 

While I was in college a friend once told me that I suffered from "option overload".  I had so many options I didn't know what to do. Every door was open to me, and every door was legitimate.

It's different now, and yet...the same. I am once again suffering from "option overload". Once again, there are too many doors opened to me, all are good, all are legitimate. The doors aren't as prolific, the options not the same or as lucrative.

It's a whole new game now, and....it's not a game.

This time it's for keeps, and I'm long past my expiration date in that regard.

This Old Maid, stuck with, as we used to call it in the midst of the game, the "cute card!", has landed in my hand.

I never knew such a stupid and pop-culture card game could become the icon of my life.

As long as I hold this particular card, I am losing the game that isn't a game; no one is called to be an "Old Maid".

God has a plan and Vocation for EVERYONE.

But this particular Old Maid is partially ripped and torn away.

Yeah. I'm out of sorts. I'm a bit melancholic, I'm a bit lost. This will pass.  The pieces will come together. Eventually. 

The only thing I'm trying to do right now is hold on. As a Confessor said to me recently, the only thing I can do is hold onto prayer like a dog holds onto a bone.

Prayer is the only thing I truly possess.

The rest...is just fluff.  Transient bits of cosmic hiccups.


I don't even know where to store that!

Guess I'll just keep chewing on my bone......

Passion

I've made a decision....of sorts.


Today I received a response back to my most recent letter to the Passionists in St. Louis, which I sent under obedience to my spiritual director's orders. Sister is inviting me to visit them, in spite of what I revealed as a very peppered history and a hopeless amount of debt and obstacles.  My age, apparently, is not an issue; she reads in my letters sincerity, and in fact has not told the community about me as I am, in her words, "so far in the future".  By that she means that I won't be entering by May or August or October.  Yes, I'm an "if" but I am far in the future.


I gather from what she says that they are experiencing an unusually high number of inquiries and visits this year, and this is wonderful to "hear".  Please keep the St. Louis Passionists in your most heartfelt prayers!  I don't know if I will visit, or whether if I do, their particular community is for me, but this increase for them is a sign of the workings of the Holy Spirit, the life of the Church, and may He call MANY to this charism to offer their lives in union with the Passion of Our Lord!


So...you may be wondering, what is the "decision" I have made?


I may be speaking prematurely, but the one thing I know is that in order to progress in any way, I need to make a decision.  In looking at my life and circumstances through the lens of reason, I know when I can and can't visit religious communities. The great irony in working for the Church is that it is not easy to take more than a day or so away, for quite literally, my presence is required in nearly everything we do. There are times where it can be filled with volunteers or taken over briefly by a co-worker (at least in this parish),. but the reality is that I am not free to enter into discernment during the academic year. Of course, my own graduate studies has had something to do with this over the last three years, too.  Next school year will be a little different, but what is not being given to my own education is, really, going to translate into even MORE work and activities and crazy hours at the parish. That is the nature of working for the Church:  you give EVERYTHING whether you have it or not. 


That is the nature of God, deep calling into deep.


So, now, again,  I am facing another summer, a great gift of TIME, but also again, without the benefit of income.


Last year, about "now" when I met with my spiritual director and expressed my panic of oncoming financial disaster, he told me, "God is asking you to trust Him."  


He was right then, and I think, even more so now.  This year, though, the situation even more precarious:  It's not just the mortgage and credit for car repairs/maintenance & other random necessities I'm trying to pay, but now, both my undergrad loans (which have been subsidized in deferment while in school), and my UNsubsidized graduate loans, are all coming due. In fact, my grad loans have been due for the last few years, but have been in deferment in their unsubsidized state. Ergo: I owe more than my education actually costs.  


All I can see in front of me is disaster. And, having been in the job market even when it was good, even back when I was making decent money, well, I've NEVER had a job that will pay what I owe right now on a monthly basis.


And I have NEVER intended to be in a position to not pay my bills. I have always intended to pay them and have always worked hard to make sure I'm holding up my end. Thus far, I have excellent credit and I even keep an interior rolodex of money owed to people who helped me along the way, whether intended or not. I want to pay even that undocumented debt...and I WILL. Come hell and high water both at the same time, I was raised right, and I. Will. Pay. My. Debts. ESPECIALLY the personal ones.


Period. 


It doesn't make any logical sense, therefore, to state right now that I am giving this summer, again, to God.  


But I declare it so; this summer belongs to God. My Vocation is more important than anything else, because my salvation is dependent upon my Fiat to God in every circumstance. It is not that I effect my eternity, but a matter of operatio sequitor essse:  grace builds upon nature. 


A year ago I noted that we all work so hard for money, when really, all we really desire, all we really need, is actual TIME.  How many professionals have TIME to spend? Vacations are limited, overtime is premium pay, and in America, we tend to be obsessed with our jobs and what we put into them. 


I don't care anymore about Corporate America. I care to pay what I owe, but more than anything, I want to give to God what I owe HIM, and that is...time.  It is nearly impossible to find TIME for anything, but here it is, in my lap. I don't want to waste it. Live is not about making money, but about who we are in relation to God.


The other night, I was reminded that my life is not my own; I am called to lay it down, as are we all. 


Life to the Author of Life


Saturday evening, the vigil of  Mother's Day, after Mass I purchased three roses. One for one of my volunteers (who left before I could give it to her), one for my Mother whom I am not going to see for several weeks, and one to give the Blessed Mother.


I was almost in tears when I realized I'd purchased the rose too late for my volunteer, who has been so helpful to me this year, and really, ever since I began in my position.  Such a small token of respect, and I couldn't even give it to her! I considered leaving it for her, but realized by morning it would be wilted. I considered asking the people selling the roses (parishioners) to perhaps give it to her the next day, but realized in their busy-ness, it might be forgotten.


I wanted to give a rose to my mother, but as I wouldn't see her as usual for Mother's Day, I suddenly understood I had an option, one Mom would appreciate, one I would as well. After all....she raised me!


When I left work with the three roses, I drove to my home parish and went to the statues of the Immaculate Heart of Mary and Sacred Heart of Jesus. They aren't in the Adoration chapel, but in the main sanctuary of my parish, and I KNEW this was where I should make my offering. I laid the roses at the feet of the Immaculate Heart:  one in the name of my volunteer, one in my Mother's name, one...from me. Each was a different color, each, a different purpose. 


Two of those roses were in thanksgiving for lives lived according to God's plan.  One was in hope of a life yet to be fulfilled, but thanksgiving for the chance.


As I looked at those roses, I thought to myself, "I have just given God something HE created. How lame."


Then I understood a deeper lesson.  A lesson that brought home again the fact that we are not our own. We do not even possess ourselves. We "do what we do not want to do" in a constant battle against our passions, and therein is our own Passion; the Passion only revealed in light of the Cross.


I knew that it was one thing to hand a rose to Our Lord through His Mother, but it was merely symbolic of what I need to do: to lay down my own life. 


Roses die and enter the dumpster.

Souls grow and are united with the eternal life of God Himself. 


When I gave my rose this year, I did it as a symbol of my intention, my lived hope to not just lay down my life, but to enter into eternal holiness.  Not just in a symbol, but in reality.


I don't care if I have to live in a van down by the river:  my heart and soul belong to Jesus, and if that is true, so does my debt. Whatever happens....so be it.Jesus, I trust in thee. No matter what comes..I trust in Thee. Even if I have to live in a van down by the river.

Never Neverland

Michael Jackson died today.

People tend to have strong reactions about him.

In my observation, that has been true from his very childhood.

He's like an undead Elvis, only so because he didn't die when stardom would have recommended, but continued to live in infamy far past his prime, pushing the envelope.

I'll admit it; I AM saddened by his death, maybe because it seems that the polarization caused by his fame means that people are too busy analyzing him to be bothered with prayer for him.

When I was a child, maybe fourth or fifth grade, I, and most of my friends, had a HUGE crush on Michael Jackson. Some friends of mine created their own dance to "Thriller". We screamed for him, we wanted to be like him. We wanted to know him. We wanted to wear black leather pants with white socks and one glove. And a red vinyl jacket.

Then I moved to Minnesota, and in this particular state, the buzzword was "Gay". I'd never heard that word outside of the context of "happy" and mind you, I was only 10 at the time. But as far as my new classmtes were concerned, Michael Jackson was "Gay" as was anything of which they did not collectively approve.

On my own, I went on being a fan, and my Dad gave me, that Christmas, a cassette tape of the Jackson Five. That same Christmas, I got "Thriller".

It was with disappointment and disillusionment that I witnessed Jackson's descent through plastic surgery, charges of pedophilia, various new albums, and near obscurity. His name remained big even as his persona degenerated into the realm of pure stock media villification.

For years, now, I've been a disillusioned fan of Jackson. I remember when he set his hair on fire during a Pepsi commercial, and even as I laughed, I was struck to my core at the viscious attack at something that could have happened to anyone.

I don't know what happened to him. I remember how I always thought he was so tough, I remember the "crush" I had on him, and the disappointment over the years when he didn't measure up to what I thought he was. The pedestal he'd been on simply was gone.

But I've grown up, of course, and Jackson did, too.

But did he really? As I watch tonight's "memorial" on Nightline, I can't avoid seeing the contrast between the man I "fell in love with"as a child, and the strange imitation of zombihood he became as he matured.

On Nightline, his childlike perceptions stood out starkly; his expensive purchases made becuase he could.

Michael Jackson is a tragic figure if only so because he was never allowed to be a child, and as such, he was never allowed to grow up. He never grew into the man he was supposed to become. I won't get into theories on that, but it seems clear that he was always searching for something that was snatched from him long ago.

I'm surprised that his death affects me, but it does, for in a way, I grew up with him....and then he became something unrecognizable.

May God bless and keep him. My prayers go out to his family, and I pray he is finally granted the peace he was never allowed to experience or even truly seek during his pilgrimage on earth.

Michael Jackson...may the peace of Christ be with you.

May you never find Neverland, but rather, may you find Eternity.

*

The Importance of Authenticity and Truth

Several years ago it was my great privilege to take an EMT (Emergency Medical Technician) class at a tech college, something I'd long wanted to do. To my great delight, I loved the class, and at a particular point, we were arranged into groups in order to practice doing patient assessments.

We were in the last third of the course, gaining confidance, and I'd become very good friends with one of my classmates, Heidi. We often studied together, drilled each other as we prepared for our next class, wanting to do well. She and I both were considering advancing to the next level, maybe even to enter paramedic training, and realized we had to have a good foundation in order to do so. It's a competetive field, and while our instructor, himself an active paramedic, was supportive of this, he made no bones about the challenges.

I took this very seriously, as did other students in the class. So to my great surprise, one day when we were practicing random scenarios, one of my partners began giving signs and symptoms that...well...let's just say he was pulling them out of a place where the sun don't shine.

I was trying to do the assessment, and told him outright that the stuff he was putting together made no sense whatsoever. In fact, at that stage, we KNEW what the injuries were, and the practices were to help us put the pieces together, INCLUDING signs/symptoms. He was caught, and said, "It's just practice. It doesn't really matter, especially if you know it anyway."

Well, you know me, and I was fiery even back then! While our instructor was working with the group next to us, he happened to perk up when he heard my group's conversation as I explained to Mr. Confusion the necessity of practicing properly. I explained to him that if we practiced using signs/symptoms that didn't match the injury, we'd associate the wrong things, and in the end, we'd end up killing our patient. Why? Because we wouldn't be in the field with the proper, matching things enforced in our memories, but stuff that was all over the board. Wrong practice leads to dead patients. Period.

I think this "conversation" was one of my early "rants", and even I was surprised at the stream of passionate discourse that came from my lips! (No worries, no profanity, just...um...I emphasized the importance of the details!)

As I said, I took this VERY seriously. Our instructor didn't actually get involved in the conversation, just nodded, told Mr. Confusion to work on those things he was lacking in, and that our goal was...keeping patients alive.

(Actually...our instructor seemed a bit amused by my diatribe. *sigh* Then again, he was used to me, my causing trouble in class...and had no problem slamming me when I did something stupid or weird. Great teacher!)

As usual, I'm sure that you are asking, "Why. Is. This. Relevant?"

GREAT question! Thanks for asking!

The other day, I wrote about the necessity of knowing what comes into our souls, and in how it is imprinted upon us whether we like it or not. Yes, I was talking, at least initially, about the popular book, "The Shack."

Now, people can read whatever they like. In no way am I saying that they cannot. There are legitimate reasons to read things of very questionable and detrimental theological value and I leave that to the (hopefully) well formed conscience of the person making that decision.

If you don't have a well-formed conscience, though, or you know someone who hasn't received any formation, well, then it might be better to stick to something containing authentic truth.

Why? Let's go back to my example: if, in EMT class, our professor had taught us that a person with hypovolemic shock (ie shock from massive blood loss) would have a bounding pulse and flushed face, well, then if we encountered a person in such a condition, they'd bleed out on us because we'd have learned the wrong things! And what if YOU were the person who was injured? You'd know some of your symptoms, maybe, and would begin to treat...and in the meantime, you'd die, thinking, "Oh, I have a weak thready pulse, I must not be bleeding very much....."

(Don't worry...we'd send flowers to your family and offer them our condolences....and our regrets that you hadn't been better trained!)

Theologically, then, if you don't know a lot, and sincerely want to learn, and someone hands you a book full of errors, well, you're going to go on internalizing those errors. You're going to pass them on, and in the end, not only will your "patient" be spiritually dead...but so will you. And you'll propagate that error more quickly than Ebola or Swine Flu.

Look at it this way: if someone comes to you and says they are hungry and in need of a feast, would you go find a dumpster outside of McDonald's, brush the ants off an old burger wrapper and give someone a moldy bun with a rancid smear of condiments but no meat? Sure, maybe SOME of it would be ok, but the rest would be poisonous.

Then why would anyone EVER recommend to someone ASKING for conversion or an introduction to God something that doesn't actually reveal who He Is? Why hand someone a rancid piece of social commentary as opposed to something that will truly feed and sustain them?

In doing such a thing, not only do you kill your patient, but you might be killing yourself.

Truth is important. It's eternal. What we do here on earth has eternal consequences, and eternal rewards. Sure, we can enjoy a work of fiction, but we tend to pay attention to the fact that what we read as teens or adults might not be proper for a child. Why isn't this lens in place for those who maybe have some spiritual maturity and who have the ability to deflect heresy? Why would a spiritually mature person with solid theology give the equivalent of smut to a person new to the Christian life? Sure, the women in the mags might be beautiful, but do they portray true beauty or just make the voyeur bring them down to the lowest possible level, and warp their own intellect/memory/will in the process?

Oh, yes, I went there.

I can read a book like Vincent Bugliosi's Helter Skelter without a qualm, and might even have a legal discourse on the topic, as well as a moral discourse. But I wouldn't recommend it or the material to an 10-year-old.

There IS such a thing as spiritual maturity, and that does not necessarily go along the same timeline as physical maturity.

We really need to consider our personal recommendations to our friends, loved ones, and acquaintences. If our recommendations contain error, then what fruit can come of that? If we recommend heresy to our brother, then how will we have the right to be surprised when he never comes to understand the Truth? Whose fault is it?

Ours.

If we have the Truth, why would we share anything less? Why would we recommend anything less? If we endorse something that doesn't hold up to scrutiny, then perhaps we need a checkup on our own faith. If we are apologizing for God, then maybe we need to take a step back and be silent before we have a chance to deny Him.

The next time you recommend a book to a soul seeking God...make sure you're not going to be held responsible for the damage done to that soul. Make sure....because you will suffer even more for it.

Makes you glad for the grace of Confession, doesn't it? ;-)

*

Ignoring the Obvious

SANCTE PATER: Be careful not to offend gay worshippers, Catholic priests warned

For some reason, homosexual activists, like the Hollywood divas, have some kind of crazy idea that the world revolves around them. They think they have a "vote" in something they clearly know nothing about or have outright rejected.

We must be very clear: the Church does not exist as an admiration society for whatever popular immoral issue happens to be running the headlines. The Church, in fact, is a hospital for SINNERS. She is concerned with the salvation of SINNERS. Jesus Christ died for SINNERS...and that would be ALL of us. Including practicing homosexuals.

They should be flattered that the Church doesn't cave into their demands to accept their lifestyle, for if she did, that would mean that she didn't love them and that Christ, her Bridegroom, does not love them. The very fact that the Catholic Church continues to stand up for the sacramentality of heterosexual marriage (thus for LIFE) is directly indicative of her love of homosexuals.

Personally, I'm thrilled to be given the title of "sinner" and a place to go for help. That means both that I'm loved and that I have the dignity given to me by God that indicates I still have the ability to reject what is evil in favor of virtue and all those things that are of God.

The second the Church starts affirming me in my own favorite sins, I will realize that I am no longer loved by God.

America in Historical-Critical Biblical Artistic Terms

In class, as we study Isaiah and Jeremiah, in reading the prophecies in historical context, it's impossible to ignore the lessons for today.

We all know the old adage: Those who ignore history are doomed to repeat it. There are variations, but that's the basic line, and the meaning never changes. Stephen King even has his own version from one of his books: "Those who do not learn from history are bound to be beat up by it again."

Something like that.

And it's true. In Christian Anthropology, we study the nature of man, and in Spiritual Theology, we study the masters, from the pagan philosophers to the great Catholic Saints and Doctors. In all of these subjects, we can't help but mesh them together and see the tapestry that has been woven before us. We have not learned from history; we are repeating it.

We are, in artistic terms, a Diego Rivera melting into a Salvador Dali.

Biblically, we can substitute "America" in place of "Israel" or "Jerusalem" and have a pretty good idea as to what's coming next. We can take an objective look at the immorality of our culture, the secularization of our country, and all the people crying "Peace, peace" where there is no peace. The American false prophets (Obama, Oprah, etc.) are advocating all sorts of social change, even as those they claim help are the most victimized by their ideologies.

In the siege of Jerusalem, the captives were forced to eat their own dead children, among other horrors. What's so much worse about America is that not only does our new leader advocate abortion, but the slaughter of children born alive in spite of the attempt on their lives, and we're using embryos....THOSE ARE CHILDREN....in vaccines and to study various cures. How is that better than the cannibalism of Jerusalem? It's worse because it's been CHOSEN and ADVOCATED!

Let me make this comparison again:

In the siege of Jerusalem, the people were forced to eat their dead children. They had a water source, but were cut off from food for, what...three years? How long was it? Long enough for them to resort to cannibalism out of desperation. Those who thirst without respite will die. Those who hunger...get creative. In their desperate creativity, they ate their own children.

Can you imagine anything more horrible?

No?

Check out modern-day America:

America is not under siege. We have abundant food and water. We are a wealthy country, in spite of our huge national debt. The milk and honey are flowing, wine is being poured out copiously, and there is much rejoicing.

We are under no duress. Yet the abortuaries are doing brisk business in in-the-womb slaughters these days, and our new President-elect has voted THREE TIMES against the Infant Born Alive act, which would require medical treatment for babies born alive in spite of the intention of the abortionists and the mothers to kill them in utero.

You say that no, we're not eating our children. Maybe not as the inhabitants of Jerusalem did...but what we're doing is much worse.

Remember....they were under duress and seeking survival. Doing the abominable just to try to live. They were not in their right minds.

We are...in theory. We have more than we need.

But we ARE eating our children. We ARE cannibals.

In our culture, human embryos are being used in vaccines, in research, in ways that benefit us in expensive ways. Not only are we eating our children...we are paying for the privilege.

This is the stuff of sci-fi horror genres. This is the stuff born out of the depths of Hell. And as a country, we're voting it in and choosing it.

Human nature doesn't change. We are the same now as the people in the fertile crescent, B.C.

The ONLY thing that has changed is our ability to harness science to our own moral destruction.

America/Jerusalem. Same Diff.

Same result.

Wait and see.

Friends

Love or hate "Friends" you have to admit that every so often they have good lines.

Ross: Like it or not, you're going to have to deal with the fact that I'm not going to stop planning my future with you. Because we're going to end up together and I love you.

Rachel: Well, I love you too.

Ross: And that's the first time we said that so I'm going to kiss you!

Rachel: Well, you'd better!

LOL!

I don't watch the old reruns, but I used to be a huge fan, and happened to see just this portion of dialogue, had to share.