The Humor of Flannery O'Connor

Finally, I've had the time and found Flannery O'Connor's "Habit of Being" on the shelf of my local library. My only regret is that I don't own this book. I've half a mind to mark it up just so I can bring it back to the library and explain I've "defaced" it therefore need to purchase it.

It is truly difficult not to get out a highlighter as I go through it, and mark the pages with little stickers. Certainly the stickers can be removed, but really...once placed, why would one EVER remove them? Really?

Alas, this is something I must offer up, as we were taught by our mothers, and alas, I will have to bring this delightful tome back to the library and there relinquish it, unmarked.

Such a tragedy!

I have a sense that dear Flannery would understand.  For a glimpse into her mind and her humor, I will present a snapshot below. Know that she suffered not only from lupus, but other conditions and happened, in this particular time, to be on crutches because of a deterioration of her hip (not related to lupus). Her life still demanded that she travel to some degree and so she worked within her disability and as you can see, found the humor available to her through her very own suffering, but never without her sharp wit and take on the humanity around her:

I have decided I must be a pretty pathetic sight with these crutches. I was in Atlanta the other day in Davison's. An old lady got on the elevator behind me and as soon as I turned around she fixed me with a moist gleaming eye and said in a loud voice, "Bless you, darling!" I felt exactly like the Misfit and I gave her a weakly lethal look, whereupon greatly encouraged, she grabbed my arm and whispered (very loud) in my ear. "Remember what they said to John at the gate, darling!" It was not my floor but I got off and I suppose the old lady was astounded at how quick I could get away on crutches. I have a one-legged friend and I asked her what they said to John at the gate. She said she reckoned they said, "The lame shall enter first." This may be because the lame will be able to knock everybody else aside with their crutches.

Ha!

I think that old lady attends my parish. Or maybe her grand-daughter  might be the same one who, mistaking me for the mother of several active children, directed me to "have lots more!".

In any case, I love Flannery's take. A woman after my own heart!

;-) 

*    *   *   

Exercises in Humility

Sometimes God throws curve balls, not just to keep us on our toes, but also to remind us Who is really in charge, and to teach us to depend a little more on him. These experiences, although often painful, sometimes embarrassing, sometimes humorous (or all three) have other side effects, if you will:  gratitude, fortitude and of course...wisdom. 

This morning as I got ready for work, I was planning my day. I have a lot to accomplish with an event this weekend, and since I'm off tomorrow I need to be certain all my ducks are in a row so that I don't walk into a disaster on Saturday morning.

As I left my house, I grabbed a couple things to have for lunch, considered getting an oil change (I'm way overdue) and realized that I had to stop and get gas - not something I could put off any longer.

I locked  up, got into my car, set my bag of stuff on the seat next to me and as the car came on, so did the radio, tuned to Classic NPR and playing my favorite flute concerto. Normally I begin praying the rosary as I leave my driveway, and if I have to get gas, I get it from the station around the corner. But this morning, because that music was playing, I decided not to stop for gas. I evaluated the gauge and judged that I probably had enough juice to get me to a gas station near my work. That left me free to enjoy the incredible music.

Exercist  #1:   I wasn't free

All the way to work, I kept staring at the gas gauge, wondering if I should get off this or that exit to a nearby gas station. I began to "plan" what to do if it dropped lower than I expected. Surely enough, as I neared my possible exits closest to work, the gauge dropped and I "knew" the gas light was going to come on at any moment. That was the first time I began to pray since I'd entered the car.

"Please, God, just let me get to the gas station...give me enough to get there."   I watched the gauge bob up a little bit, as if a little injection were just given. I drove conservatively, doing all I knew to preserve what I had.

My prayer did not cease until I turned into the gas station lot and pulled up to one of the pumps. I turned off my car, breathed a sigh of relief and turned off the car.

Exercise #2:   Poverty

That's when I turned to my bag and reached in for my purse - which wasn't there. 

I stared into the bag, seeing my Liturgy of the Hours, a binder, my work keys, my lunch - but no purse.

It was slowly dawning on me that I had no money, no cell phone, and....no gas.

Uh oh!

I looked at my watch. I knew my supervisor was going to a meeting, one I had decided not to attend because of things I needed to accomplish in the office.

I was going to call her, but then recalled that without my cell, I didn't have her phone numbmer.

Uh oh!

What to do?

Exercise #3:  Humility

Taking a deep breath, I walked into the gas station and got in line. I had only a little change, not enough for the pay phone and certainly not enough for multiple calls.

I explained to the clerk that I had a bit of a weird problem and needed assistance. No purse, no money, no cell, no gas. She called her manager to the front and I explained the predicament to him, greatly embarrassed.

Although I grew up poor, I'm not sure I ever "felt" our poverty so much as I did in that very moment. I was walking into a business I had intended to patronize only to hold out my hand and ask for spare change.

I explained where I worked and that I just needed to use the phone to contact them to ask for help both to reach my supervisor's cell, or to ask one of them in the office to come help me.  I tried to hide my interior cringe, realizing how far this little episode was already spreading.

Thankfully he was very helpful, gave me the store's cordless phone and stood by while I called 411 at his direction (they didn't have a phone book that had my work city in it & I don't have the main number memorized!). 

I called the front desk, explained to the receptionist my strandedness and poorness, and she gave me my supervisor's cell number, but also told me to call her back if I couldn't reach her. She said that someone in the office would be able to help. I thanked her and tried twice to reach my boss - no luck, and it's not as if she could reach me where I was! I did explain the "back-up" plan and told her not to worry if we didn't connect, just said I'd try later. Which I did - no luck.

I called the parish office back and told the receptionist I was still stranded. She transferred me to the business administrator who said he'd come to the gas station to release me from gas station purgatory. (My words, not his). 

I handed the phone to the clerk and thanked her for their help and said my assistance was on the way.

Upon returning to my car, I continued to stare at my bag, wondering how I could possibly NOT have my purse? How could that be? How did I leave it home? WHERE WAS IT?

*sigh*

My "savior" soon arrived, filled my tank and told me to just write him a check when I next returned to work (ostensibly with my purse this time). He said that he'd been in a similar boat before and thought it nothing to offer a little assistance.

When I arrived at work, I had a message from my boss who had called the parish office and learned I was already being assisted. She told me that she was going to start sending me messages to remember my stuff every day. (Yesterday I left my work keys home).

Yes, that's life.

Obviously God judged that I was in need of humility today. But because of that lesson, I'm also incredibly grateful that I have people in my life so willing to come to my assistance, that I didn't run out of gas on the freeway with no ability to call for help along with the money to pay for it, and that, well, I have a job, for even though I am poor, at least I (usually) have enough for what I need without having to beg every day.

Thank you, Lord.

Stop laughing! 

Verbum Domini

During my Master's studies, our professors, especially our scripture professors, spoke of the Synod taking place regarding Holy Scripture. We studied the various methods of study, critiqued them, used them and learned from them, although, of course, we learned primarily from God Himself.

Our texts regarding Sacred Scripture came to us primarily through Dei Verbum (Vatican II), The Pontifical Biblical Commission, and Pope Benedict XVI (Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger). We couldn't help but fall in love with our dear Papa's scriptural tutelage, and greatly lamented the state of scriptural "scholarship" which has been dominated by either near or outright heresy for the last 40 years or so.  Jesus of Nazareth was a breath of fresh air, a rock to cling to in an ocean of "scholarship" seeking to deny the divinity of Christ, or to at least separate His divinity from his humanity.

Although we did not study these dominant academic dissidents in our program, all of us had been exposed to them, and a few of my classmates had been trained under them and inflicted with their disassemble-ship of Christ through the scriptures.  They were sincerely traumatized and confused, having to see the study of the Bible through entirely different eyes. They were eyes they desired, but their confusion arose from the twisted "scholarship" that has so lead people astray and destroyed their faith (quite literally) for a very long time.

In scriptural studies, Redaction criticism may have a place, but not a dominant place. Historical-critical methods have a place, but not if used in isolation. As our Holy Father pointed out in Jesus of Nazareth, and now, again, more feverently in the Apostolic Exhortation, Verbum Domini, the methods of scriptural interpretation and research need to be taken in proper context of the WHOLE of scripture and Divine Revelation.

As I read the first section of Verbum Domini, I realized it was nearly a complete synthesis of my Master's program. I considered writing to ask Pope Benedict XVI if he had patterned our education after this introduction, but rather, I see it as the work of the Holy Spirit: it reveals that those who taught me were well within the mind, heart, and soul of the Church and formed us accordingly.

As I began the second section, I found myself deep within Ecclesiology and through all of it, deeply entrenched in our Catholic Theological Tradition.  Pope Benedict XVI operates through the hermeneutic of continuity, finding the foundation for us all and bringing it to light through the Church Fathers (Patristics). He knows he cannot speak of scriptural interpretation apart from St. Jerome.

Although I have not completed my study of the Exhortation, one of the passages that has affected me most deeply came from Pope Benedict XVI himself, and I hope it is a passage that fuels your own prayer as well.  I pray most deeply that you will read it and decide to enter into this Apostolic Exhortation. By definition this document is a re-presentation of known Catholic Doctrine, "exhorting" the faithful to follow what the Church in her wisdom has ALWAYS taught as Truth.  Take this document to heart, let it enter your soul, and let it draw you ever closer to Our Lord.

As the cross of Christ demonstrates, God also speaks by his silence. The silence of God, the experience of the distance of the almighty Father, is a decisive stage in the earthly journey of the Son of God, the incarnate Word. Hanging from the wood of the cross, he lamented the suffering caused by that silence: "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" (Mk 15:34; Mt 27:46). Advancing in obedience to his very last breath, in the obscurity of death, Jesus called upon the Father. He commended himself to him a the moment of passage, through death, to eternal life: "Father, into your hands I commend my spirit" (Lk 23:46). 

 This experience of Jesus reflects the situation of all those who, having heard and acknowledged God's word, must also confront his silence. This has been the experience of countless saints and mystics, and even today is part of the journey of many believers.  God's silence prolongues his earlier words. In these moments of darkness, he speaks through the mystery of his silence. Hence, in the dynamic of Christian revelation, silence appears as an important expression of the word of God. 

~ VERBUM DOMINI

DEO GRATIAS! 

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....

New Beginning

November is such a deathly month.

The festivities of All Saints' Day leads into the remembrance of all those who have passed on the Feast of All Souls. We the faithful are encouraged to visit cemeteries and pray for the dead, those Holy Souls in Purgatory, and in the meantime the skies tend to be darker, the sun gives less light, we rise in darkness and work the only light of the day away while we are crammed into stuffy offices.

The physical darkness also leads to a darkness of the soul, in a sense, as well. Recently when I went to Confession the priest observed how the temptations seem to crouch and attack even more vehemently as we descend into this dark season, and we must be that much more on our guard.

When we fall into sin, especially when we refuse to repent, our intellects become darkened as well, we begin to lose our way all too easily, and this makes it that much more necessary to cling to Our Lord, to keep our eyes on Him, and to stay close to the Sacraments.

I've been wandering around in a fog myself of late. Ever since the time change, rising with a kiss of light in the sky but leaving work in darkness, I'm discombobulated. Earlier this week I was sick with food poisoning and struggling against a mini-depression. (Not speaking in the clinical sense).

I'm always a little frustrated during this time of year, because the trees have given up their glory to the encroaching season, their skeletal branches reminding us all of death. The parks no longer draw crowds, instead they are taken over by Canadian Geese that leave their droppings as payment for the layover. We cannot walk in the evenings because it is so dark and there aren't enough street lights. There is always a feeling of danger, so I opt to remain close to home where I can control some of the light that shines through the darkness to light our way.

Today, though, I woke up to snow, and I actually breathed a deep sigh of relief.

Although for years I have dreaded the first snow, a conditioned response from my years working in Insurance Claims (even as I worked as an Investigator snow was a nightmare to my ability to do my job effectively), and last winter was spent on mostly-bald tires, this year, for some reason, I'm relieved.

While I'm not quite ready to sing praises to snow, I am grateful for the light it brings and reflects. Now I may choose to walk the dog in the evening, for the whiteness of the snow absorbs and reveals the lights of the city, or if it is clear, the light of the moon.

It is like a new beginning, this advent of winter. Just as we recognize human death as the beginning of eternal life, so is the coming of winter in November a revelation in some way, of the promise of eternal beatitude. It is one of the reasons I so love the seasons here in the North, for even in the darkest time of the year, we are surrounded by light, should we choose to see it.

God Loves Single Women

Sit back, relax and have a cup of hot cocoa or something. It's Story Time With Adoro! 

I lived in Minneapolis when I celebrated my 24th or 25th Birthday. Maybe it was my 26th? Who knows?

In any case, I got together that evening with some friends who picked me up at my house in south Minneapolis and we went out to dinner at the Green Mill on Hennepin Avenue in Uptown. (For those not local, that's an area just "south" of Downtown Minneapolis, filled with restarants and nightclubs and to-die-for apartments and homes of high value but no parking. I'm sure it's the Greenwich Village of the Midwest.)

We were a small group, planning to meet a few other people later on that evening at a club downtown. Our plan was to go to South Beach (which would be host to a deadly shooting a few weeks later), and then meet another friend at The Quest nightclub a block or so away sometime around midnight.

As it turned out, we had to split up because a few people couldn't stay out the whole night, and one friend had to leave around midnight. So my friend who had agreed to meet her boyfriend at The Quest left with our other friend, Heidi, and I walked my friend Marie to her car in the parking garage. Then I headed to Quest and stood in line, hoping to get ID'd in time to get my free birthday drink.

I'm not sure if it's true anymore, but at the time, Quest was primarily a destination for those of African-American descent. It was a very popular and very cool place, they played great music with the unfortunate side effect (as in the case of several Downtown Minneapolis clubs) of playing host to the occasional murder.

We who lived there were used to the street warfare and realized that if we never went out for fear of getting shot, well, we'd never go out. Ever.

Seriously, part of a great night on the town meant risking getting caught up in the warzone antics of a few sociopathic malcontents who like to make city living miserable for their targets and anyone standing anywhere in their vicinity.

So there I was, alone, in line at the Quest. Just to set the scene, I was wearing a short little black skirt and a form-fitting top, both of which revealed my figure and my great-looking legs. (* sigh * I miss them) While I've never been a great beauty, I was quite easy on the eyes at the time, and fit in quite nicely at this dark, bass-thumping nightclub.

Indeed, I came in just in time to get a drink...but there were no birthday deals, so I paid to enter the club and for a rail drink. A screwdriver or rum and coke, I think. It doesn't really matter.

I wandered through the crowds, searching out my friends, who were supposed to be there. I coudn't find them, and was beginning to panic. Was I blind? Where were they?

I don't know why, but I've always had a fear of being left alone someplace, or being "stood up" somewhere. That night, that fear became somewhat of a reality. Although I knew that my friends would not intentionally  abandon me someplace like the Quest, of ALL places! What happened?

At some point, I met a guy who was either there with friends and got bored, or arrived there by himself in hopes of finding some sort of entertainment. He approached me as I was standing alone and clearly searching the crowd, and we struck up a conversation. This man was a complete gentleman, and in fact, helped me search the club for my friends. And no, he wasn't white. I'm pretty sure I was the ONLY white chick in the entire place at the time, which is part of what concerned me with finding my friends...they were white, too. They should have stood out!

This gentleman in his kindness basically became my escort (the good kind!) and talked me into standing still for awhile, with the thought that my friends might ALSO be looking for me. He logically pointed out that if we were all roaming on the opposite sides of the club, we might find each other if one of us takes time to stand still. I saw his logic so stood talking with him for a bit, hoping one of my friends might happen past, at which time I also planned to invite this kindly stranger into our own mix.

When the man left for a moment to either head to the bar for a water or coke or something, I remained where I was, and some gangsta-type guy walked up to me and said in a low voice, "The Brotha wants to talk to you."

"What?"

He wouldn't look at me. He was just a messenger. "The Brotha wants to talk to ya." And he signaled with his doo-rag clad head that I should follow him. 

Whatever

Now, mind you, I was still in a bit of a panic, I'd had a few drinks (although not that many that evening, even though it was my birthday), and in my distracted illogic, I had some hope that this guy was really an emissary of my friends. Never mind that my friends would not send a stranger to bring me to them.

Just the same, I went into a darkened corner with the guy, and there I was brought to the "throne" of another guy who was clearly in charge of the bunch. No one was looking at me. The "Brotha" had his hand partially covering his head in quite the kingly manner, and as I approached, he addressed not me, but his henchman who had brought me to him. He did not speak, just waved his hand in a "shoo-ing" motion.

I was largely ignoring him, instead, looking for my friends. I didn't know who this Loser was, but realized as I was there that I was in the besotted lair of some kind of local gang. The Crips? The Bloods? The Rolling 30's? Who?

Who cares?

In any case, the henchman pawn that led me to his king basically told me I was dismissed, (to give him credit, he didn't seem real thrilled with his role and actually had a sense of sympathy about him,albeit misplaced) and because I didn't really give a rat's ass anyway, I walked away. It wasn't as though they were holding my friends hostage. I wondered how many of those guys were packing heat, though, and how they'd gotten through the metal detectors.

Having left unscathed the pathetic Lair of the Gangsta King, I was happy to find my "savior" waiting for me. 

I told him what had happened, and he just shook his head. It was around that point that I realized I'd just been a sow on display and had been "rejected". And you know...I've never forgotten it. I've come to realize that The Quest was that  particular Gangsta Loser's own personal sow arena.That horseapple in a do-rag was sending his gangsta pawns out to find fresh meat for his approval, and if they didn't meet his image, in other words, if he didn't want to "tap that" then they would be dismissed.

Hi, I'm a cow. Like every other woman in the club that night, according to that jerk. Better a living cow than a horseapple, that's what I always say. 

How I wished I had hooves so as to trample such carrion into the manure they choose to imitate.

But really, never mind. That's an old story that will never die in any age.  The nice guy who befriended me and I both realized my friends weren't there, and so he actually gave me a dime to complete the fee for the payphone so I could call my friend. She didn't have a cell so I called her home number, hoping she'd check messages. She answered the phone!

Apparently, they had gone to Quest, the boyfriend of our other friend wasn't there so they returned to South Beach to pick us up...but Marie and I had already gone!. So she went home, not knowing what else to do since I didn't have a cell and it was plausible that I had gone with my other friend. Well, when I called she agreed to come back and get me, being I was stranded and all, so my new friend and I walked out and stood on the corner, waiting. It was a warm and pleasant June evening, and I was happy this guy really seemed to have no interest in hitting on me. He was legitimately a nice guy.

(How RARE!)

I learned during our sidewalk conversings that he was an Entymologist who had, until recently, lived in Chicago. He told me he was concerned with what was happening at the Quest, because, just after we'd walked out the door, there was a fight and a massive police response. Traffic downtown was gridlock. He said that clubs that catered to the black population in Chicago had been shut down because of crime, and he didn't want to see the same kind of segregation in Minneapolis as that which exists in Chicago. He liked the fact that a woman such as myself, and others of my friends (which I'd told him were also white or varying races) could come and go in such clubs, and that the main clientele of the Quest would come and go in the other Downtown nightclubs as well.

Among my friends, for our part, we thought nothing of it; although there remains a certain amount of segregation in every big city, in my observation, Minneapolis doesn't even come close to what is experienced in Chicago. I regularly hung out with a mixed crowd, and was comfortable in doing so. Perhaps the greatest evidence of this was my presence that night at The Quest; even though I never saw another white face, no one paid any mind to me or I to them. No one cared. Neither of us was "threatening" to another.

So it was that my new friend waited with me until Heidi pulled up in her Jetta. I had his phone number, but never called afterward because I "wasn't the kind of girl to meet guys at the bar". Yet, I have to say, I've never forgotten him, an oasis in a desert of immorality. A gentleman among creeps.

To this day, I believe that God sent this man to me to protect me, to help me get out of a bad spot, and to give me companionship in a place where a woman alone would have been in a very dangerous position.

The Quest is still in existence, and has hosted groups such as the bluegrass-influence group, Nickel Creek (one of my favorites). But I don't know what it's like now on an average Friday or Saturday night. I think, other than attending a concert, that was the last time I visited The Quest.

God looks out for Single women, I am absolutely convinced of that. 

No, I don't think the guy who befrended me was an angel, but he continues to serve as a reminder to me that God often uses us all to provide protection and comfort for strangers, and we should follow that call.

So I ask you to pray for the man who helped me that evening...may God bless and keep him, and raise up more men like him! He was the very image (spiritually) of St. Joseph. I wish I could meet him again, if only to thank him for his simple assistance to a young woman out of her element and without the protection of her friends.

I continue to believe he was motivated out of true good will, recognizing a woman alone, out of place, and out of her element. I've always felt bad about not calling him back, but at the time I was not looking for a boyfriend, I felt he was too old for me, and, well, I had met him at a bar (never mind we were both sober).

I trust he is likely now happily married and watching out for his own little girls. I hope he didn't feel too slighted by not hearing from me (for some reason I don't hear the earthquake of a breaking heart), but just the same, I remember him well, whoever he was, and hope that all mothers and fathers raise such good sons. He did their parents proud and I will forever be grateful.

My only regret is that he is not a friend of mine today.

Ladies, God takes special care of single women and often sends help even when we don't know we need it.

Gentleman, please look upon this example of how God uses men to protect His beloved.

It isn't rocket science; holiness is pure common sense, willing the good of the other and always living in the light of knowing we find our ends in God alone.

Musical Contemplation

Elgar's Cello Concerto in E Minor, originally composed against the backdrop of post-WWI chaos, is a heavily emotional and contemplative piece. As today is a 1st Friday, perhaps it will aid you in your on contemplation of the Passion and Death of Our Lord, and the perfect love with which He went to the Cross for us.

News of the Intercessor Relief from the Omaha Archdiocese

This is the 1st time I've weighed in on the topic of the suppression of the former "Intercessors of the Lamb", but today I received an important email from the Omaha Archdiocese and those who are obedient to the Bishop and taking steps to discern where God is calling them.


They're in a difficult place and I felt it would be worth sharing this information for the former Intercessors are indeed in need of assistance. Please read the text provided below (I omitted the old news of the suppression, etc, all of which can be found on the Diocesan website).


My Dear Friends,

Many of you have been emailing and phoning over the past several days with questions and concerns for the 56 former Intercessors of the Lamb, who under the guidance of Archbishop George J. Lucas, are beginning a time of community discernment as they look to the future. I thank you for all of the prayerful support you have offered to them in this challenging time.

Attached to this email is a letter and a photo of the former community members and a letter from Archbishop George J. Lucas which will help answer your many questions about these faithful individuals as well as address questions you have regarding the teachings of Nadine Brown and the status of the BellwetherOmaha website.
Thank you for your continued prayers and financial support for these devoted and obedient men and women of God.
In Christ,

Rev. Gregory P. Baxter

Archbishop’s Delegate


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Dear Companions and Friends,

May the grace and peace of the Risen Lamb be with you. We would like to thank all of you for your love, prayers and intercession. As you can understand, this has been a difficult time for all of us. Questions and concerns have been pouring in from all over, so we wanted to update you at this time.
Due to the tremendous compassion and generosity of Archbishop Lucas and the Archdiocese of Omaha, we are currently being cared for in a retreat center outside of Omaha. It has been a time to pray, to grieve, to reflect and to rest as we try to come to terms with this great loss. We are deeply moved by the love and support that has been pouring in from all of you and we know that this is what is carrying us right now. The Lord promises us in Jeremiah 29:11 a future full of hope. The weeks and months ahead will be a time to heal and discern the future that the Lord intends for us. Please continue to lift us up in prayer. Pray that we will receive the grace to understand His vision and move forward in His will for us.
Many of you are writing to ask if there is anything that we need. Other than your love and prayers, we need your financial support right now. The cost of finding a home for 50+ people is monumental. Like the Israelites in the Exodus, we left with very little. The Archdiocese is helping us to look for a place which would house our community, so that we can continue to live and work and pray together, and from which we can, once again, begin to communicate with all of you on a regular basis. Our monthly expenses will be approximately $25,000 which includes housing, utilities, food and basic living expenses such as gas and phone service.
VERY IMPORTANT: Checks should be made payable to “Archdiocese of Omaha” with a notation in the memo field for “Intercessor Relief,” and mailed to:



Intercessor Relief
c/o Archdiocese of Omaha
100 N. 62nd Street
Omaha, NE 68132

An urgent reminder: Any donations to “The Intercessors of the Lamb, Inc,” will not be used to support a Catholic organization. If you choose to donate to anyone, personally, whose name does not appear on the list at the end of this letter, you may be running the risk of supporting Intercessors of the Lamb, Inc.
A financial report of donations and expenses will be posted on our website at appropriate times. It is our desire to have full transparency and accountability for all of the generous funds contributed for our support.

Statement from Fr Baxter...with given permission to pass on to former Companions)



The bellwetheromaha web site (www.bellwetheromaha.org) is no longer affiliated with the Catholic Church and should be avoided by all Catholics.


I am working with 48 former Intercessors and will continue to do so as they discern the possibilities of forming a new community. If any one wants to make an “authentic” donation to help the former community members you can let them know that only those checks payable to the “Archdiocese of Omaha” with a notation made in the memo field for "Intercessor Relief" will go to support these former Intercessor members. They can send a donation to:

Intercessor Relief
c/o Archdiocese of Omaha
100 North 62nd Street
Omaha, NE 68132

These would be tax-deductable gifts.

Please feel free to forward this to those who may interceded in helping.

Thank you and God bless you.

Fr. Baxter

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Once we settle in, we will need the following items:



Computers

Printers

Cars, trucks, vans

Possibly some furniture

Phone cards to assist with long distance calling

Gift cards so that we can purchase household items



Please understand that we need some space and privacy to grieve and work through all that has happened. We realize that we are all grieving together, and we carry you in our hearts. We realize that many of you have questions and do not understand what has happened. Even to us, this is quite a shock, but we are all in agreement with the Archbishop and support him 100% in his decision.
It is very important that you know that the canonical visitation with Fr. James Conn was not the reason for the suppression of the public association of the Intercessors of the Lamb, nor was it due to problems with the charism itself. After the canonical visitation, the majority of the community was excited about Archbishop Lucas’ desire to help us grow in various areas of our community life. With the help of Fr. Gregory Baxter, that process was underway and things were actually going well…we began to feel excitement about the future. There are 56 brothers, sisters and priests who, along with the vast majority of our local lay community, remained obedient to the Archbishop throughout that entire process. The suppression came because of the unwillingness of Nadine Brown to cooperate with Fr. Baxter, the Archbishop’s trustee, and the unwillingness of the majority of the “Intercessors of the Lamb, Inc.” civil board to comply with Archbishop Lucas’ directives that would put the civil board in conformity with the Canon Law of the Catholic Church and allow us to move forward as a community within the Catholic Church. We thank those on that board who did comply with the Archbishop.

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////


The best sources for accurate updates during this time can be found on the Archdiocese of Omaha’s website on the following link, called “Intercessor Update”: http://www.archomaha.org/newsevents/intercessors.html.
Our mailing address is:

Name
P.O. Box 31457
Omaha, NE 68131

Our email is:

intercessorrelief@gmail.com


We are so very grateful to all of you who have expressed your concern for us and who have sent in donations to assist us so far. Your kindness and generosity to us at this time of great need will not be forgotten!

It is very important for all of us here to let you know that all of the former Intercessor of the Lamb priests have remained faithful to the Archbishop, along with the vast majority of former sisters and brothers. We have listed below the names of all of us who are standing in firm obedience to our Archbishop and to the teachings of the Roman Catholic Church. We are:


Name  -  Former Religious Name



Father Mark Nolte Father John Mark

Father Kevin Joyce Father John Paul

Father Walter Jong-A-Kiem Father Paschal

Father Christopher Onuoha Father Christopher

Father Michael Voithofer Father John Michael

Father Les Valerio Father Francis



David Hennessy Brother David Marie

Charles Beck Brother Paul Marie

Ryan Waddell Brother Francesco Diego

Sean Tobin Brother Simon Mary

David Simon Brother Noah Michael

Michael Nolte Brother Michael

Edward Wamala Brother John Marie

Deacon Gregory Lies Brother Jerome

Anthony Kote-Witah Brother Anthony of the Lamb

Matthew Bomm Brother Matthew Thomas Mary

Thomas Todt Brother Jeremiah

Bob Newell Brother Raphael

Bill O’Connor Brother Peter





Agnes Bitature Sr. Cecilia Marie

Angelina Pang Sr. Angelina

Angela Lee Sr. Angela Mary

AntoninaForteza Sr. Mary Antonina

Barbara Lund Sr. Barbara

BenedictaQuainoo Sr. Benedicta Therese

Carmen Ramos Sr. Pia Therese

Catherine Mackid Sr. Agnes Anawim

Cecilia Becker Sr. Maria Rosa

Chris Gerien Sr. Catherine Marie

Cindy Iglesias Sr. Carmela

Cristina Guevara Sr. Mary Cristina

Danielle Tayabas Sr. Mary Angelus

DanikaBoever Sr. Mary Danika

Elisabeth Ng Sr. Mary Natalia

Gloria Erickson Sr. Gloria

Holly Dow Sr. Holly

Jacqueline Bocklett Sr. Anna Marie

Janice McGrew Sr. Mary Hope

Jean Felber Sr. Jean Michelle

Jenny Mansingh Sr. Rosalinda Marie

JuliannaKoh Sr. Therese Marie

Kate Casale Sr. Mary Rose

Kathy Hawkins Sr. Miriam Agnes

Lily Ogbulafor Sr. Mary Uchenna

Linda Roach Sr. Gabriella

Linda Marie Neuhoff Sr. Elizabeth Marie

Lindsay Brennan Sr. Lucia Therese

LouellaColburn Sr. Louise Marie

Louise Edwards Sr. Louise

Lynne Keating Sr. Judith Marie

Rebecca Wunderlick Sr. Rebecca

Rose-Mary Roy Sr. Rose Virginie

Rita Gatt Sr. Rita Therese

Rita Bazzi Sr. Mary Rita

Sherraline Lewis Sr. Petra

Vilma Gomez Sr. Evangeline



Those who have decided to return to their homes and to their lives in the world are:



Donna Fleming Sr. Mary Magdalene

Marianne Bell Sr. Margaret Mary

Mavis Stowers Sr. Mary Faustina

Wade Marsh Br. Francis Ambrose



Once again, we thank all of you who have been so kind and supportive to us during this time of trial. We repeat our promise to pray for you, for your needs and for all the intentions of your hearts.

Gratefully, in the Heart of Jesus and Mary,

(signed by the former Intercessors)
*****************************************

Please note that I was not a "Companion" and do not share the charismatic spirituality, however I do support these good men and women who had a community one day and didn't the next. We are all edified by their obedience as they pass through this trial, and they do certainly deserve our support and prayers. 


Other than that, I really don't think I have anything else to say about it. Please keep the former Intercessors in  your prayers as they discern their future.

Never Forgotten - The Feast of All Souls

November 2nd is the Feast of All Souls, and all of November we are called to especially remember the dead, those who have left for eternity and may be suffering the agony and ecstasy of Purgatory.

Yes, the Doctrine of Purgatory is alive and well, although many funeral-goers in our day and age may be missing this teaching. It has become common for many who come to Catholic funerals to be subjected to the Eulogy line-dance of nieces, nephews, aunts, uncles, children and friends of the deceased offering their varied tributes to the guest of honor, none of which actually ask for prayers for their soul.

There are those who don't understand why such a display is inappropriate to a Catholic Mass, and this lack of understanding is scandalous because it does not only betray an ignorance of the doctrine of Purgatory, but also of the reality and holiness of the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass which is nothing other than the entire life of Christ and most especially, the Sacrifice of Calvary made present right through the Resurrection.  *deep breath* 

The Catholic funeral is to call to mind, most especially, the death and resurrection of Christ, the hope of salvation, the reality of purgatory and the necessity of prayers for the deceased.

The liturgical and devotional practices of November are to call us to remember the dead, pray for the Holy Souls and reflect upon, in this season of death, our own future particular judgment. One day we will all stand alone, naked, before God, our entire lives, actions and omissions up for review. Heaven is not a guarantee. We do not get there by being merely "nice people".  We are called to be HOLY which is NOT the same thing as, "a nice guy".  I know a lot of "nice guys" and "nice gals" living a life of utter rejection of God. And I used to be one of them.

If I'm not careful, I could return to such a state, for I, too am weak. I, too, will face my Judgment and it will NOT be pretty, for I have much to atone for already, and my life is not  yet over.

Ghosts

There is always debate about what Catholics believe with regard to ghosts.

Yes, I believe in ghosts, but my belief as a Catholic does not usually match the popular portrayal of them.

We, as human beings, are body and soul, and we believe in a future resurrection. When we physically die, our souls go on, either to Purgatory to be purged of any impurity, or we go straight to heaven, if, in fact, we have attained a state of holiness that allows us to bypass the necessary purgation.  This is what the process of canonization reveals; whether a person has truly lived such a holy life.

What are ghosts?

Recently I read a tale of a little girl who inhabited a cemetery and a trail nearby, as well as other adjacent domains. Many people describe the apparition, what she is wearing, how she sounds when she speaks, and some paranormal investigators tried to locate her own cemeterial domicile.  In their findings, they thought this spectre might belong to a Protestant corner of an ecumenical cemetery, given the documented sightings.

As I read the story, I was struck not only by her plaintive attempts at communication, but also by her suspected origin; the Protestant corner (vs. Catholic, Jewish, or non-religious).  I realized that this little girl might be in purgatory for, as a protestant child, no one is praying for her soul. I began to do so, in hopes that perhaps all she was seeking in her appearances was someone to notice and pray for her.

Yes, I notice.  All we Catholics notice.

Well....maybe. After all, if Purgatory is not preached in our own parishes, how many are actually praying for souls?

How many pray for even their own dead?

I confess that I rarely pray for even my own family's souls. I am ashamed, but this day every year gives me a fresh reminder and holds me to account for my own sin of omission, for yes, it is a sin to not pray for the dead!

It is for this reason that, this year, I want to especially focus on prayer for the deceased. We cannot know their judgment, so we look to the resurrection, to the mercy of God, and we know that each and every cemetery reveals an opportunity for grace and is, in and of itself, a sign of hope.

I've been looking, therefore, for nearby cemeteries, to include inactive ones still containing their dead, for I hope to go there to pray most especially for those souls that have been forgotten. I encourage you all to do the same in your own locale.  For those in Minnesota, you may begin your light "research" here.

How many have been forgotten?

How many souls roam about the earth not to haunt, but only to be noticed in hopes some generous and compassionate soul will pray for them?

Last weekend I visited a cemetery and saw many broken, abandoned tombstones. Perhaps their family has died and gone away. I am reminded of my own father's tombstone, which I have never seen and now, no one lives close enough to visit. I have never seen where my grandmother was buried, and know that her Protestant daughter and son-in-law do not pray for her for they do not believe as we Catholics do. I don't think I've ever been taken to my Grandfather's grave, likely in the same cemetery.

I feel guilty because I have never been there and know that my own family's graves are abandoned, but I find one consolation; better the grave site be abandoned than their souls.

Still, I cannot help but be struck by obviously abandoned graves, knowing from observation and experience how few people really visit graveyards outside of the burial, and if they do, it is for sentiment and not for pious prayers for their beloved deceased.  It is a joy to behold flowers decorating a grave, for it tells me that person was and remains loved.  However, does that love always translate to ongoing prayers for their eternal souls? We cannot know; we can only examine ourselves, not the motivations of others.

Let no soul be forgotten; let us always pray for them, remember them, and  ensure that no soul ever spend their purgatory begging to be noticed.

Do not let the spiritual bouquet of prayers be only plastic replicas, but give those Holy Suffering Souls the living flowers of prayer and penance; one day you will be where they are, and you do not want to be one of the Abandoned.

REQUIEM aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis. Requiescant in pace. Amen.

ETERNAL rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May they rest in peace. Amen.

Random Search Terms

Every so often I take a gander at the search terms used to find my blog. Over time, I've noticed, without needing to check the actual statistics, the most popular posts.

Sometimes, the oddest terms are used to find the most popular of my posts, or those that are more obscure, and sometimes I just roll my eyes as I try to figure out what Google is doing to direct people to my blog. The results are both humorous and serious so I'll share a cross-section with you along with my responses:


Query:  Cow eye spiritual direction

Not sure where you're going with that, but if a spiritual director had cow eyes present (without being attached to a living cow) I'd get the heck out of her office!

My friends have informed me, however, that my blog is the #3 resource for those using that particular search term.

I'm proud to be your third-ranked expert, worldwide.

Query:  Remember your forefathers.

Serious request, landing on 5 Grains of Corn, written after an intense lecture by one of my grad professors and he was right, on every count. I've never looked at Thanksgiving the same way again.

Query:  Summa theologica abstinence meat contemplation

This one landed them on my post on Why Catholics Eat Fish on Fridays.  I gotta say, though, given that word combination, I love the Summa Theologia, I abstain from meat on Fridays and therefore find that the contemplation of tasty meat is one of my favorite hobbies.  Mmmmm.....steak...bacon....roasted pork...barbecued chicken..... mmmmmmm.....

Go away! Can't you tell I'm contemplating here? What? Isn't the grill big enough for you?  Huh? Huh?  HUH? WHA-AT?

Oh, sorry, got carried away.  *blush*

*AHEM!*

OK moving on now...

Query: How do you rinse sauerkraut?

Great question, and one of the most common hits to my blog.  I had that question once, too.  What I did was empty the bag (I was using Sweet Bavarian, as if "sweet" and "sauerkraut" aren't totally ironic terms when used in relation to one another), into a colander, took the sprayer and hosed that fermented, shredded hunk of rotted cabbage down to remove every trace of the vinegary ooze it was contained within.  Then, when I was satisfied, I added it to a bunch of other ingredients to ensure that rotten vegetable would never be tasted by anyone who hates it as much as I do.

Please don't ask me about lutefisk. I may be Swedish but it has been my great pleasure, thus far, to avoid that rotted gel formerly known as fish flesh and  if someone asked me how to rinse it I'd suggest using lighter fluid and a match then maybe a shallow grave somewhere in the northern woods.

Query: www.St Augustine's letters on Prayers to Lady Propio.com

Well, that's unique. Possibly looking for St. Augustine's letters to Proba?

Try here, then scroll down to the Third Division. Is that what you're looking for?  Some excerpts in that letter came up in the readings of the Divine Office in the 29th week in Ordinary Time.


Query:  Why do some men devote their lives to cats?

Oddly enough, I've seen this question more than once and have NO IDEA why those asking that question are directed to my blog.

I have no idea why men devote their lives to cats, or even that any men anywhere would ever do such a thing.

I would therefore suggest that the person making the query pose it to the man they have in mind, in hopes he may explain his obsession addiction devotion   uh.... lifelong interest in the feline species.

Query:  Jesus, I trust in You. 

Yes, I do, too. Amen!

A Time to Live - a Time to Die

It is a season of death and today, the message and reminder came to roost.

We are watching the world around us wither away and die, and although this death is characterized by brilliant colors, even as those colors peak the sounds and sights and smells of life are changing, drying, withering, and disappearing, life ebbing away.

Tuesday morning I had to be to work earlier than usual so took my dog out to walk in the pitch-darkness of October's pre-dawn.  A huge storm was encroaching upon us, massive hurricane-like winds predicted, sustained over the next 36 hours or so. It was raining a little, and the wind was nearly still.

As we walked among the scattered wet leaves, as the rain fell upon us, as we made our way in the darkness, I took note of the stillness. I reflected upon the fact that I could not hear the birds chirping anymore; they had all fled. Weeks ago. Each day seemed to be more silent than the last.

The only sound other than the wind in the trees, was our footsteps, but even those were muffled in the wet darkness that encompassed us. I stopped to let my dog sniff at a particularly interesting tree (to her, anyway), sensing the approach of the monster storm, feeling the pressure, my hands aching, sometimes sending piercing pain up my arms, like nails at the base of my wrists.

A piercing pain suddenly shot through my ankle and I had to limp the block back home, through our silent and apparently-sleeping townhome complex.

I was reminded that every day, we are dying, too.

In the summer, even the mourning doves sing when a storm approaches, but even they are silent now, having fled the oncoming Minnesota winter.

The geese, usually so vocal during those early morning hours, remained mute, not daring to take to the skies. It was too dark to see them in the nearby field where they normally gathered, but I knew they were there, hunkering down, staying together.

Even the crows, those carrion eaters so ubiquitous especially in late summer through fall and winter, often aggressive in their presence had nary a caw to offer.

Ah, yes, the season of death makes its true advent. Ahead of the violence of the storm, all are silent, as if awaiting the judgment to come, taking the opportunity of the rapidly decreasing barometric pressure to be a sign to lay low and wait; which, for we humans, tends to call us to reflection and repentance.

We can learn a lot from the behavior of animals; from their presence and from their absence.

It's been very dark and dreary these last several days, and between yesterday and today, the midwest has been terribly battered by a massive storm doing massively bad things to people and property.

And in the midst of this terrible storm, a friend and volunteer of mine received his own earthly judgment.

Is it a time to live? Or a time to die? 

He came in to talk to me tonight, his demeanor grim, but...mundane. He's not an alarmist, but even in crisis has the patient air of someone who has been through everything. Something about his expression tonight, about the tone in his voice told me that his request to talk to me was of priority and could not wait. It didn't matter that five other people were waiting to speak with me regarding their also very important questions or comments or business. Or that several others came to wait in the crowd needing attention.

Last year he was diagnosed with cancer and although had given a commitment for his volunteer work, he wasn't sure if and when he could show up as scheduled. He wanted to be present as much as he could. We needed him and of course, he wanted to continue his life as much as his cancer treatments would allow. Everyone was praying for him, and when his cancer went into remission, we all rejoiced with him.

Recently, he revealed they thought his cancer had come back and they were, of course, "doing some tests". They weren't sure yet.

But tonight...tonight, he gave me the update, and he got the news only today:  9 weeks to 11 months left.

Not "left until the last chemo treatment" or "left until he gets to go on vacation", but...left.  As in the end of earthly life.

The cancer has spread to his brain, and now he's having seizures. They are minor ones limited to appendages, but they could manifest in any way. He had to talk about "A Plan", at the behest of his doctor, because he intended to continue in his service. I considered asking if he'd rather not, but of course, I know this man; he'd rather die in the traces for he was happy in his life of service and prayer. I did ask him what his plan was (in case he wanted an easy way to say he wanted to step down), but no, he is going to push through, and was going to talk to his class so that they would know what to do if he "went down".

The entire conversation was surreal, and although I knew other people were gathering, needing things, asking questions, it didn't matter. It was as if we were in a pocket of silence, and oddly, people didn't insist on intruding as they normally do. It's as if they somehow knew that this conversation was, quite literally, life and death.

I knew he would not have wanted tears, and by God's grace, they were kept at bay as I focused on the tasks at hand for his behalf.  As soon as he left the office, I fielded all the others who were there, and ran up and down the hallway, making decisions, taking care of business; all those things required of my job.

As if I hadn't just heard the most devastating news, knowing the friend we were losing, wondering how we would handle this, help him and respond to the grief of all those who will be touched by this. Wondering who to tell, who not to tell.

Having to remain silent about this news, even with other volunteers, until my co-workers knew, and my superior was busy in another part of the building.

I had to be silent about this terrible, devastating news of terminal cancer of a man who only recently lost his brother to the same disease.

After I had handled all the "fires", I went into my office and sent out prayer requests, blinking back tears. There was no time for tears; there was work to be done. It didn't matter that people would sympathize and want to pray for the man; it wasn't the time. Among the living, work must be done on behalf of the living, and right now, my friend is still living. He's tough; he would not want to see sorrow, but hope.

He doesn't want pity, but prayers for God's will for him.

If nothing else, he needs time to truly come to terms with the news of his terminal status, and even with that, find a place for hope that maybe it is not yet so; he is not ready to leave for eternity.

But yes, it's hard, and this evening was a hard evening. I was thankful for the "busy-ness" of it for it kept me from being able to reflect upon my own sorrow by redirecting me to the needs of others in that moment. It allowed me to retain a professional demeanor so that I could respond to some other very serious needs without being emotional about any of them.  I could smile and joke and pretend to be normal, having received a blow that was anything BUT normal.

I don't know what's going to happen. It's possible that his cancer will again go into remission. That IS possible and his doctor is doing all he can and my friend is holding on to this hope even in the face of the honesty he may not be with us in this earthly pilgrimage for much longer.

As devastating as this news is, I so love that he is determined to not let anything change. He is continuing to live his life as he is able and I am humbled at the humility he is exhibiting as he passes through this dark valley. I am humbled by his family, through their prayer for him in Eucharistic Adoration.  I am humbled by his own faithful witness in the face of this news and, truth be told, it was his own strength and no-nonsense attitude that  kept my own emotions at bay tonight.

Before he left, I gave him a hug and promised prayers, not just from me, but from all those I know.

Please pray for him. I can't tell you his name or where he is or anything that identifies him, but know he is a faithful Catholic, a dedicated father and grandfather, a retired teacher, a volunteer, friend to more souls than one can count, a mourner, a cheerleader (if more along the lines of a drill sergeant), a man of deep prayer, a man of deep faith who knows that death doesn't erase dignity, but only carries it to a higher place; one that is eternal.

Right now, he is embracing his time to live, if only to prepare for his time to die.

God's will be done.

The Sacrifice of Vocation: Family

This last summer, during my retreat in Wisconsin, as I knelt praying at 6 a.m.or so, I pondered the sacrifices required of any Vocation.

I thought of the priests I know who, like it or not, are offering Mass at 6:30 a.m. or earlier, or even in the evening on Sundays, 9 or 10:00 pm if they are assigned to a college campus.  Their preferences matter not; they have laid their lives down for Christ, and it is He whom they serve, according to the needs of the Mystical Body, no matter how inconvenient.

I knelt there that early morning, preferring to be snoozing, pondering the reality of the married life.

Yes; I was pondering married life and the sacrifices required of any couple.

I thought of those who were single women, who left behind or dispensed with what they had or combined their property with that of their beloved. I thought of those men I knew who sold or gave away their property in order to receive that of their beloved, and together, make their home.

I meditated deeply upon those families that combine their resources. Fundamental to my meditation was, actually, my mother's expressed position that those who marry our relatives become members (are absorbed into) our family. She did not reference any relative as "removed" as in the terms "a cousin once-removed" or "twice-removed".  Those were mere legal terms; they did not express the reality of our family.

I could recall many times my mother deflected me away from legal definitions in order to help me understand that marriage bound one family to another, helping me to see that the fruit of the various marriages were my own relatives, those bound in the Sacrament truly became my own cousins or aunts or uncles. If they were related in any way, they were family and should be received as family and acknowledged as family.

This reality came home to me in a special way after my parents divorced when I was a child. Family on Mom's side always asked after Dad and his family. Family on Dad's side never acknowledged the fact we had other relatives.

That said a lot. A lot.

I pondered, this summer, deeply, the effects of a decision to end my solitude

I considered that for so long I have been an "old maid", so accepted in our culture, yet...so unnatural in God 's own order.

I'm tired of being alone. I'm tired of being an anomaly, of being the "old maid" in a culture so PC it can't call a spade a spade for fear of being sued by the ACLU.

A man and a woman, when they are married, make some very serious changes to their lives.

I know that, as a woman, if I married, my life would change. I would embrace a different schedule, adopt traditions belonging to another family and make those traditions my own. I'd make sacrifices and my life, as I know it, would be no more. Period.

My definition of "freedom" would change, for I would give up my life for love, I would forsake my belongings for love, and I would look to a future with my beloved, rendering mere "stuff" unimportant.

In this regard, entering religious life is no different than marriage.

When I enter, I enter, as in marriage, with all that I am and all that I am not.

I will take on another family, and that family, in turn, will absorb me and mine into it. We will become bound together.  Life will not be the same. Whether I am married or whether I enter religious life it is the same; I cannot continue as I am, as a single woman.

I look forward to and welcome the change. Yes, it is a struggle as I look around my house and realize my attachments, but I know my attachments make my sacrifice greater, for if I didn't care, or rendered it all as "nothing" then I would ultimately go to Our Lord empty-handed, my offering meaningless.

Yes; I want to give everything to Him, for Him, through Him.

I want to enter my new family as a contributing member, knowing that any vows I take bonds my blood-family more closely to Our Lord, for, if my family's premise hold's true, they do not lose me, but only absorb another family.

If Jesus is my spouse, what does that mean, according to Mom's philosophy?

What family would not want to claim Jesus as a member?

I pray Mom lives long enough to see my final profession if it be God's will. I pray my brother not feel abandoned as he sees his sister enter "the cloister".

Yet...I haven't even begun....nothing is formal, I have no entrance date.

Just faith, hope, and love. Nothing more, nothing less.

That is the sacrifice of a Vocation.

Blogging Quotes of the Day

Man is least himself when he comments in his own name. Give him a blog and a pseudonym, and he will tell you the truth. 

~ inspired by Oscar Wilde (1854 - 1900)
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Blogging is turning one's worst moments into utter hilarity without a microphone and MC to cue the crowd.

~ loosely inspired by J.P. Donleavy - the rest is my observation.
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I blog to discover what I  know.
~ Flannery O'Connor
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There is no excuse for anyone to write a blog for public consumption unless he has been called to do so by the presence of a gift. It is the nature of blogging not to be good for much unless it is good in itself.
— Flannery O'Connor
***

The Intercession of Fr. Walter Ciszek, SJ

I've written before of the good Father Ciszek and his cause for canonization. I've written about how I became aware of him after praying to the Unknown Saints, asking for any of them to reveal themselves.

Fr. Ciszek did. No, he is not canonized, but that week a friend introduced me to his book, "He Leadeth Me", and his subsequent book, "With God in Russia."  Oh, yes, indeed, the good Father was praying for me and I found much need to call upon his mechanical expertise in my years as a miserable and under trained claims investigator/adjuster.

This morning, on my way to work, his "Prayer of Surrender" kept coming to mind; certain portions of it stood out and his biggest adage, which is often set forth in the Liturgy of the Hours:  "Surrender to God and He will do everything for you."

Even though I didn't understand the random prayers, I prayed them sincerely, for I love them and they have guided me through some very serious trials.

This afternoon, I came across an article about Fr. Ciszek's cause for canonization, and sent it on to a few friends who know of him and also found great value in his spirituality, trials, and testimony.

Then, this evening, I went to leave work and sure enough, my car would not start. Two different co-workers using two different sets of jumper cables worked with me to start my car. The battery wouldn't hold a charge.As usual, I assumed the worst: alternator. Starter. All of it, all at once. And never mind the fact I'm overdue for a transmission flush and about due for an oil change. Oh, and one of the NEW brakes is grinding again.

Don't get me started.

After the last jump attempt failed, I walked around my car, knowing it would remain there until it was towed. I don't have the money. I have a credit card which, although I'm nowhere near the max, is high enough and I can barely pay it each month. (In fact, I have 2 cards that have attained the "barely-being-paid" status thanks to car problems, grad books over 3 years, and other random things my meager paycheck doesn't cover).

Facing this problem, I just sighed.  "Lord, Thy will be done."

I did all I could, my co-workers did all they could. I was grateful for their efforts, and grateful to have a ride home. God could do what He wanted with my car....I was bereft.

Surrender

I left work and called the tow driver from my pre-paid cell to give him the info. He couldn't get it until morning. Fine. I preferred an evening pickup, but it was what it was.

Tonight a friend called me and said he thinks he can fix my car. After some discussion, we realized that perhaps there was an applicable warranty, perhaps it is the battery and not the much more expensive alternator, and perhaps this situation isn't so bad as I thought.

Tomorrow morning I will be making some calls, but until then, I am praying to Fr. Walter Ciszek for his mechanical intercession, once again, and suspect he has been praying for this very issue for some time now.

Surrender to God, indeed. He knows how much we can take, and how much our finances can take.

Please pray for me, and pray for the canonization of Fr. Ciszek, who does his work behind the scenes and apparently, in the engines of cars owned by paupers like me.

PRAYER OF SURRENDER

Lord Jesus Christ, I ask the grace to accept the sadness in my heart, as your will for me, in this moment. I offer it up, in union with your sufferings, for those who are in deepest need of your redeeming grace. I surrender myself to your Father's will and I ask you to help me to move on to the next task that you have set for me.

Spirit of Christ, help me to enter into a deeper union with you. Lead me away from dwelling on the hurt I feel:

to thoughts of charity for those who need my love

to thoughts of compassion for those who need my care, and to thoughts of giving to those who need my help.

As I give myself to you, help me to provide for the salvation of those who come to me in need.

May I find my healing in this giving.

May I always accept God's will.

May I find my true self by living for others in a spirit of sacrifice and suffering.

May I die more fully to myself, and live more fully in you.

As I seek to surrender to the Father's will, may I come to trust that he will do everything for me.

With Ecclesiastical Approval


adapted from the spiritual teachings of Rev. Walter J. Ciszek, SJ.


The Father Walter Ciszek Prayer League, Inc.,
231 North Jardin Street
Shenandoah, PA 17976
(570) 462-2270


Official Organization for the Promotion of the Cause of Canonization of REV. WALTER J. CISZEK, S.J.

Life is Between the Triumph and the Fall

Some people have horses in their blood. I'm not one of them. I wasn't born into a "horse" family, nor, at any time in my life, has it been among God's design to bring me by adoption, or by blood, if it were, into such a destiny. Instead, He placed horses in my soul.

This morning, I called my boss to request a vacation day, and my request was granted. On the spur of the moment, I decided to go, alone, to the movie Secretariat, and only a few hours later found myself alone (quite literally) in a huge, darkened theater, watching a matinee showing, enjoying the life of one of the greatest horses ever to place a hoof on earthly soil.

Even knowing the story, knowing Secretariat won the Triple Crown in 1973, I still laughed and cried and rejoiced at the triumph and the simplicity of one of God's greatest creatures. (I've given nothing away about the movie; the history of the horse is only the vehicle that carries, as Paul Harvey would have said, "the rest of the story.")

Then, this evening, Netflix, on my pauper's account (the single-disk version), Ruffian was delivered to my mailbox. I have to chuckle at Providence here, for until a few days ago, another movie and another TV series was in line far ahead of this movie. I changed it on a whim.

So it was, today, that I came to realize that I was born between the triumph of Secretariat and the fall of Ruffian, during what may have been one of the greatest periods in the history of American horseracing.

I'm thrilled to have been conceived, born, and weaned during such a time, simply to be able to claim my heart was perhaps already beating in symphony with those of two of the greatest racehorses ever to grace American soil, bar none.

Ah, but do I wax too poetic? I cannot help it; as I said, I have horses in my soul and believe they were placed there by God himself, for He continues to communicate with me through these incredible works of art, these paragons of beauty of His own creation.

I've written before of one of my earliest childhood memories:  Mom holding me up so I could see what was passing by our house:  two horses, two riders. I asked what those creatures were, and Mom explained, carefully, that they were very beautiful animals called "horses".  I exclaimed, "Oh...I LOVE horses!"

I meant what I said, down to my soul, to my heart and to my intellect and will.  Oh, yes, in spite of the fact Mom told me many times as I grew up, upon viewing my many drawings of horses and my many requests for ownership, that I would "outgrow it."

It's the only thing Mom was ever wrong about:  I never stopped loving horses.  That love has matured, but it has never left me, and in fact, was a vehicle to my conversion.

This afternoon, I came home from the movie and spent some time reading, then decided to take a brief nap. As I drifted off, thinking of horses, I thought of Brandy, the Shetland pony owned by a family in my neighborhood.

(As an aside: is it called a "neigh-borhood" as opposed to "the hood" when there are horses in it and not just gangstas?)

Grazing Contemplation

Perhaps it wasn't just fishing that introduced me to contemplation. Perhaps it was horses as well.

I remember the first time I rode Brandy, and I recall, vividly, even though I was only 8, being bucked off. She didn't like the way I rode her very bumpy (to me, the unschooled sack of potatoes on her back) trot, and decided to be rid of me. She succeeded the second I realized she was bucking. I could paint you a photograph of her  hind legs stretched out above me, the image from the impact as I struck the ground, before I rolled away in survival-mode.  I still remember Laura, the girl who was leading Brandy, getting her under control, her mouth a perfect "O" as she turned towards me, shocked, a mere teenager, unsure of what to do, her blonde bob refusing to move itself being in the same state of shock.

I stood up, shaking, assuring her I was fine, but it was years before I rode again - I mean rode.

Still, through Brandy, I also learned forgiveness. I so loved horses that I could not stay away from her, the horse (pony!) who had broken my heart by introducing me to fear.

I decided I needed to really make friends with her and so I visited her often. She seemed so lonely. She was not kept in a paddock like other horses, and the one shelter/paddock she did have was a junkyard. It may have been a shelter, but the neighbor kept all sorts of rusting tools and implements there, and there wasn't a shred of green in that fenced-in piece of hell on earth. For that reason, they kept her tethered with a chain around her neck, and attached on the other end either to a spike in the ground or a tree on the slope across the gravel "road".

That's usually where I found her.

I remember, shortly after she bucked me off, finding her wound by her chain tether around the tree. She let me approach and even nickered at me, clearly recognizing her demise. She kept trying to reach her head to the ground to search for grass, but she was held fast. I took her by the chain and led her, unwinding her from the tree. After awhile she became anxious and started to run. I  ran away, diving to the side as she did so, thinking she was after me, angry with me.  But no...she was only happy to be free!  (It took me years to realize that, sadly. But one best learns about horses by being with them.)

I remembered from Laura's instruction how to leap onto Brandy's back, but because Mom had aways taught me to ask permission to access someone's property, I started asking the neighbor (in spite of my intense shyness - my love of horses, and Brandy was enough to overcome it) if I could visit her and sit on her back while she grazed. The neighbor stood there in his dirty wife-beater, holding his can of beer, and grunted his approval. He didn't care what or when I did it, as long as I didn't let her loose.

It was carte-blanch access to her, and yes, I took advantage. Mom always knew (I think) when I went to visit Brandy.  (Mom was insistent on safety around animals and insistent that she "know" an animal I was around!)

I recall long summer afternoons, either walking or riding my bike along the part-paved part-gravel road of our country neighborhood, approaching Brandy who often took little notice of my presence. I always asked her if she minded if I just "sat along". She didn't, so unless she was obviously agitated (which she was, some days), I leapt aboard and spend the hours daydreaming. Sometimes she would walk a bit, according to what her tether would allow, and my heart leapt at the movement.  In those hours I spoke with Brandy, I spoke with God and...I was fully myself. In all that I was, I was me. Alone, in solitude and maybe...contemplation.

I didn't need anyone or anything else. There was no one there to demand anything of me, there was no one there to ridicule me, there was no one there to laugh at me. It was me and the horse and God. Perhaps it was there that I really learned to pray.  I remember thanking God over and over again, for horses, even if they be at rest in the field. So was I.

As a child I was always a loner. Some of that had to do with the lack of children in our neighborhood. Certainly I had some wonderful friends, but I learned early on never to depend on their presence in order to have fun. I always loved reading, and silence, and nature. If Mom kicked me out of the house and told me to go play outside, I had many places to go...the woods across the road, the yard, riding my bike in our country neighborhood, or maybe visiting Brandy, my favorite pastime.  I was never lonely, and if I felt lonely, I went to Brandy, for I thought she might be lonely, too. Her "family " never seemed to pay attention to her, and she was often without the food and water she needed.  More than once I provided for those things, out of what I knew:  immediately fresh-cut grass and gallons of water from our sink.

Ah, Brandy, who in her passive grazing, taught me so much about forgiveness, compassion, contemplation, and action.  

This afternoon, as I drifted off, I felt myself once again astride that stout little bay as she grazed the bare crabgrass on that shadeless Illinois hill....ah, yes...I forgave her, time and time again for having thrown me that one time. I'm sure it must have been my own damn fault. After all, I'd never ridden a trot before and bounced like a sack of potatoes. She was meant for better things.

God has often used horses to reconnect with me. Of course, it is never He who has needed the reconnection, but me. I have needed the grounding, the foundation.  I have found, in looking at the pattern of my life, how God has used horses to bring me back to "center". Fr. Barron, of Mundeleine Seminary, speaks in his video "Three Paths to Holiness" of "finding the center".

Some find it in the rose-window of a Cathedral, and yes, I see it and find it there, too, and of course, in Jesus in the Blessed  Sacrament, exposed in the Monstrance or held aloft at Mass.  Yes, indeed, there is My Lord and Savior.

But I also find Him, in lesser form, which connects me in perhaps a lesser way to Him, through horses. Through their movement, through nature, through the solitude inherent in an afternoon ride.

While I tolerate commercial trail rides, I prefer the silence and solitude of riding alone or with someone who also prefers the resonance of passing hooves, the dappled shadows of an autumn day, the calls of random birds, and the rhythmic movement of one of the glories of creation in full stride.

It was this that reconnected me with God, years ago now, and it was this that reminded me of my mortality.

Divine Providence

Who can foresee God's Providence? Doesn't He always provide for what we need?

Until a few days ago, "Ruffian" was not on my docket. Other things were. But I came across it and decided to   place it at the top of my queue in Netflix.  A few days ago, I proclaimed I would be in  to work as usual on Monday and able to handle a particular thing (nothing of importance).

This morning I woke up, felt just fine, but...needed a day off. I was tired of all the events of the past weeks, the irregular schedule involving late nights, early mornings, and irregular days off. I don't do well with an irregular schedule; I am a regimented person who needs, to function properly, a regular schedule. I haven't had one in over 3 years. But some weeks are worse than others, and this morning, I couldn't take any more: I needed time.

I called in to my boss, asked for the day, and she gave it to me. I don't know if I've ever been so thankful.

It was with this setting that I went to see Secretariat, and then, this evening, watched Ruffian.

Those who are not horse enthusiasts might miss the connection, so I will lay it out:   Secretariat won the Triple Crown in 1973.  Ruffian's first race was May 22, 1974 (as a two-year-old).  I was born just short of a month later. As I squalled in my mother's arms, some of the greatest horse racing drama in history was playing out, and some of the greatest horses in history lived, translating their heartbeats to hoof-beats, and in that time, I was introduced to their species.

I only wish I could have seen them. I am happy to have lived when they lived. I think, had I not been born a human, I would have instead lived as a Thoroughbred.

Yes, horses are in my soul, and may God will that it ever be so.

Do you give the horse his might?  

Do you clothe his neck with strength? 

Do you make him leap like the locust? His majestic snorting is terrible.

He paws in the valley, and exults in his strength; he goes out to meet the weapons.

He laughs at fear, and is not dismayed; he does not turn back from the sword.

Upon him rattle the quiver,

the flashing spear and the javeline. 

With fierceness and rage he swallows the ground; 

he cannot stand still at the sound of the trumpet.

When the trumpet sounds, he says 

"Aha!"

He smells the battle from afar,

the thunder of the captains, and

the shouting

  ~ Job 39: 19-25

 Amen 

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* The photos of Secretariat and Ruffian were taken from stock footage in their races at Belmont - in Secretariat's case, his winning run in the Belmont Stakes.


* The last pic is my own, a pastel on paper, "The Challenger" from 8th Grade. I may make a more complete picture possible at another date. It just seems to match the scripture and versus of Job.