Finding God...finding me

I just finished watching "Flicka" a movie based on the book, "My Friend Flicka". I still remember reading this book as a horse-crazy teen, although I can't recall the details.

You should know...I'm still horse-crazy, but still, without the horse to satisfy my cravings. Yet God is merciful and provides what we need, when we need it. In fact, horses figure prominently into my conversion, although that part was omitted from my overall conversion/reversion story.

Several years ago, I was living in an apartment with a roommate from whom I was becoming more and more estranged as our paths were parting. The bar life wasn't enough for me, and had no depth. I hated my job, I hated our apartment, I hated having no space. I hated that I didn't know who I was, where I was going, or why I existed. I knew there was something more...but what?

For a long time I'd desired to go horseback riding. All summer I bugged my roommate and other friends about it and got the lipservice, "Oh, sure, one of these weekends..." But that time never came. It was too expensive. There were other things going on. There were other people who would rather go to this or that.

Day after day, night after night, I sat on our deck in the summer months, watching the sun set over the cracked pavement and flickering neon signs that comprised our view. I was a caged bird, and I couldn't even sing anymore.

Finally I decided it was time...and one Saturday morning, I got up and called a local horse ranch, making a reservation for...one. I asked for a 2 hour ride, which they advertised but couldn't accomodate for only one. But they said I could ride as long as I wanted and the price would decrease each hour, allowing for the same cost for two hours.

I put on my jeans, found my boots, and drove the forty minutes out of the 'burbs and into the Minnesota River Valley.

There was something that day that struck me. Forever burned into my memory is the image of descending into the valley, along the ravine that rose above us. I can still feel the careful steps of the horse, and I recall looking upward, only to see an eagle soaring above.

Finally, I had found peace. Finally, I knew who I was again. Finally, I was where I belonged, if only for an hour or so.

I literally fell in love with the land we were on, seeing beyond it, seeing the Creator, seeing our place in things. I remember the gait of the horse, passing through dappled shadows, the fields, the forests, the vistas, the river flowing, glistening, endlessly in praise to God above.

When we were allowed to let the horses run, I remember first the sense of being out of control as I found my seat again, and then, the second time, laughing joyfully in rhythm with my mount as we passed through the field together, of one mind, of one form.

All week, my heart soared up there with the eagle, and I knew I could not stay away.

But I knew this wasn't it. It wasn't so much about the horses, but it was about God. I had been seeking His face, and found it, once again, there at the ranch. I was quite familiar with horses; when I was 13, Dad paid for English riding lessons for me, every other week. That is a gift that has and will last a lifetime, skills applied to one of the greatest loves of my heart, something that continues to bring the presence of my Dad into my life.

And so, in the horses, the memory of my Father and the knowledge of God merged, and made me more aware of my mortality. Horses can be dangerous; they are animals, they are herd animals, and as such, they can be unpredictable. They are beautiful and noble and even obedient (some of them!), but no matter the temperment, one has to respect what they are and what they were created to be. It would only take a misstep of the horse to cause our downfall. If the horse spooks, takes a jump, runs into a tree...death can come quickly and unexpectedely.

This realization brought me back to Mass, although, sadly, not to Confession. Yet there I was, every week, at Mass, wanting to know God again. Wanting to be with Jesus, not having the courage to seek Him truly. But I could not stay away. Each Sunday, even if we were out until 2 am, I got up early enough to get to the 8:30 Mass before heading out to the ranch. It was in this time that I actually began leasing a horse, so each weekend meant that I was out there in the pasture, catching my horse, feeding him, brushing him, riding him...for hours.

I was living a childhood dream. I was a child again. That October was a very warm one and a couple of us crossed the river one day in favor of galloping along the state trails. It was amazing! THIS was the dream I'd had ever since I was a little girl, desiring to gallop headlong through the woods, under the shining sun, over hills, along paths reserved for the hoof, endlessly reveling to the rhythm of the horse.

I think I'm STILL picking bugs out of my teeth from that day.

All good things must come to an end, though. That winter I bought a house and so discontinued my lease with the horse. But something even greater happened, that took me beyond where I was and confronted me with reality.

There was a horse there that had been dumped off. This little guy was just cute as a button, and attracted me to him instantly. It was his condition I saw first; his sunken neck, his terrible hooves, the spine standing ridged by sunken furrows the entire length, his tail, the hairs broken off near the top, indicative of worms, along with his swollen belly. His inability to keep food in his mouth from his overgrown teeth.

Each time I was out there, I paid special attention to this horse, and it wasn't long before he would follow me around like a puppy. He nickered when he saw me, and when I left. His stricken shadow followed me wherever I tread. And so I named him "Nickers" and wondered if I should try to adopt him?

He was obviously neglected, and my friends who worked at the ranch tried to approach the ranch owner about him. But over months, nothing happened. Finally I took matters into my own hand...I could not stand to see this suffering, especially after the story I heard.

My friend revealed that a few years prior, there had been a neglected horse named "Silver" who had also been dumped off by an unknown person. Over time his condition worsened as the herd there in the boarders' pasture excluded him...he was weak. He was beaten upon, he was reviled, he was set apart in order to die for the betterment of the herd. The boarders got together and in pooling their money, got a vet out to care for him. And each did what they could according to the vet's instructions. Silver rallied for awhile, and then took a turn for the worse, this time one from which he could not recover. So they called the vet out again and together paid to put him down.

I knew I could not let that happen to Nickers. And so on New Year's Eve when I went riding, I spent some time in the last daylight to take photos of my friend Nickers. The photos were forwarded to both the Humane Society and to the Carver County Sheriff, where I made a report of animal neglect. They had my name for the purposes of records, but I did ask to remain anonymous.

The ranch owner found out it was me, though, and I was banned. He said I was a "troublemaker" and it wasn't any of my business. He said that it was all for nothing, too, because "they" said that he was just old, and look what I'd given up in order to become such a chancre sore.

I can no longer return to that ranch, ever again. My friends kept me updated, though, and told me that the Humane Society made repeated visits, charging the ranch owner to fatten that horse up.

And the Humane Society doesn't make repeated visits if nothing is wrong. They are far too busy for that.

In some ways it saddens me that I can't return to that paradise on earth, but even that wasn't untouched by sin. It was a stepping stone God used to bring me back. He reminded me who I was, who I was supposed to be.

Loving horses...that's secondary. He reminded me that I am His own adopted daughter, so all of this already belongs to me. What is God's is ours and when we see injustice, even if it is detrimental to us, we are called to act, We are called to speak for those who cannot speak, we are called to remember that we do not act alone and for no reason.

Yeah, I'm still that horse-crazy girl who once fed a staving pony with fresh-cut grass from our yard and gallon jugs of water from our kitchen. (That's a different story). And I'm still that idealist that wants to see the world from the eyes of a child. Because no matter where I go, every paradise is corrupted because nothing on this earth will ever satisfy what I truly desire. Even horses.

I Came Home to Divine Mercy

Divine Mercy is part of my conversion story - a part that wasn't told in that series of posts.

When I was living in the darkness of my sin, working nights, and basically, embracing the total darkness that was my life, a co-worker gave me some books to read while at my post at night: The Left Behind series.

I was seeking God at the time, sensing my separation, sensing his call, but I was at a loss as to what to do. I remember thinking that maybe I should find a priest, make an appointment, and pose my questions to him. But who? What church? Weren't priests too busy to deal with the likes of me? And if I DID find a priest, I was quite certain he would tell me I needed to go to Confession, and I didn't want to and would be at a loss to explain why. I feared being pressured into something I didn't want to do, so I ran from the idea.

And because I had nowhere to go, I went nowhere...or so I thought.

One Christmas, Mom had given my brother and I a CD with the Divine Mercy prayer on it, along with a pamphlet explaining the devotion and how to pray the chaplet. I remember finding the CD and the pamphlet, and I read it over suspiciously, thinking it was too easy. It also said I had to go to Confession...so at first, I tossed it aside. Something told me not to throw it away, though, so I added it to my collection of eclectic things that didn't otherwise have a place in my home and my life.

But as I was reading the "Left Behind" books, I found that I was offended by the outright anti-Catholicism expressed within the pages, including the idea that the Pope became the right-hand man of the Antichrist. I couldn't explain why I was so offended, but it was like someone was attacking my Mother. Attack me all you want...but do NOT mess with my Mother!

I was conflicted, but somehow, these books drew me into an understanding that I had been rejecting God, and I had to make my peace with Him...and that move was mine. I didn't believe in the Rapture, but it did come to me that if God wanted to wipe me off the face of the earth, he would do it. If he wanted to cause the earth to erupt into earthquakes and raining fire, he could do it.

And always, I had the presence of the crucifix on the wall of my livingroom - because it wasn't home without that. Thank you, Mom.

So through all this introspection, I went back to Divine Mercy, not really believing the promises to St. Faustina, but I really wanted to. I needed to believe, and I needed mercy.

But I could not leave the life I was living behind me. I could not, in good conscience, come to Jesus begging for his mercy without a true desire to change. Somehow I understood this, so I put the pamphlet down again.

Then finally, I picked it up, and I found a rosary buried in a box somewhere, and I prayed the Chaplet of Divine Mercy. I apologized to Jesus that I could not go to Confession, but I begged for Mercy just the same.

I think I might have prayed it a few other times, and then put it away again.

I credit Divine Mercy for bringing me home, for it was shortly after these prayers that my struggle to return to Confession began in earnest. I began going to Mass somewhat regularly, almost always receiving communion, but still feeling like an outsider. I always sat in the back of the church, not wanting to approach the Holy of Holies, as though Jesus didn't know I was there!

And he drew me on, even as I ran away...His Mercy continued to endure. I so desired mercy, but I was terrified to approach. I could not trust. My life had beaten all forms of trust out of me, such that I could not even trust God.

Jesus never gave up on me, and he doused me with those rays of Mercy until finally, finally, I came home. In my conversion story I explained some of that experience, the agony and ecstasy of it, but I don't think mere words can possibly convey the reality of this incredible experience of Divine Mercy.

When I bought my townhome, I had bare walls, so I requested art for Christmas and birthday gifts. Specifically religious art. I can't remember if I requested Divine Mercy specifically or whether the Lord put it on her heart, but my Mom gave me a Divine Mercy image which I had blessed on Divine Mercy Sunday a couple years ago. It now hangs on my livingroom wall next to a very realistic crucified Jesus, and I find that I cannot venerate one without the other, for they are one in the same.

I have another picture that combines the Sacred Heart of Jesus (another image I grew up with) and the rays of Divine Mercy. No one can enter my home without seeing these things.

Thanks be to God, the Divine Mercy of Jesus brought me home and to this day envelopes me in all my sinfulness, all my imperfections, and brings me to him with all his Divine Love.

If you are struggling with your faith, if you have been away for a long time, just pray this chaplet...you have nothing to lose and everything to gain.

For those interested, my Conversion story can be found here. Warning: many links!

Jesus, Son of David...have pity on me!

Author's Note: This is the basic presentation I gave to our RCIA class, but in a more complete form. It was my second scripture reflection of my first year teaching RCIA.
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When I first began to reflect upon the readings for today, the 30th Sunday in Ordinary time, I initially had a different idea in mind as to what I wanted to talk about, but with deeper consideration, I saw that there is a theme running throughout, which speaks of mercy, it speaks of going away in tears, consolation, and guidance. It ends in rejoicing. The second reading speaks of patience with the ignorant and erring, referencing those called by God to offer gifts and sacrifices on their behalf. There is some deeper theology with relation to the order of Melchizadeck and I would like to discuss it, however suffice to say at this point that this is a reading and a reference you will hear especially around the time of the ordinations which take place in the spring. Remember this term, and remember this reading, but for now, file it away in the back of your mind as an important concept to be considered later.

With regard to the Gospel, Bartimaeus was me a few years ago. I had been raised Catholic but fell away and was living a life in which I was involved in the occult, palm reading, and other things my Mom did not raise me to do. On occasion I attended Mass, and each time, I cried from pretty much the opening prayer until about a half hour or so after it was over. It completely freaked me out, and as a result, I rarely attended the same parish because I didn’t want people to recognize me as the “weird crying lady”.

A curious thing was happening during these years…I went to Mass so infrequently that I seemed to go only when the readings were about the Prodigal Son, or about similar themed Gospels such as this one about Bartimeaus. I began to think that the various parishes only recycled the same readings, over and over!

I remember, though, as I sat weeping at those Masses, how much the way I was living my life contrasted with what was being taught, and I was made aware, even though I didn’t want to see it, that the life I was living was one of darkness. I was really lost in all that mess. I was not living the life my Mom had intended for me, or that God had intended. I remember in those times, praying for Jesus to have mercy on me, to have pity on me. I was so blind, though--because I didn’t understand that I was crying because Jesus DID have pity on me…and He was calling me to him via the Gospels and the homilies--and the tears.

In this regard, Bartimaeus was far wiser than I, for in his blindness he still recognized the Son of God. I just sat there crying for mercy and when Jesus called me to Him, I ran away in tears.

Slowly, though, I began to come back, and for a few years, I knew I needed to go to Confession, but I could not work up the courage to make an appointment and I could not bring myself to stand in line---the weird crying lady strikes again! I’ll admit at this point that part of my struggle was with my pride…I didn’t want to be so exposed in my weakness.

The thought of going to Confession literally made me shake in my shoes. But I continued to pray for mercy, and I began to attend Mass more often, trying to go every Sunday. Yet I also continued in my own personal darkness, living a life divorced from God’s will and everything I’d been taught about morality.

But the Lord is faithful, even when we are not. The Lord went so far as to send me a priest. I happened to be at a friend’s house one evening, and the priest at the parish I had been attending was a family friend, and “just happened” to be there for dinner. He and I had a great conversation about cooking, garlic, and wine or some such things. Through this conversation, I considered that he was a pretty cool guy...and maybe I should contact him and make an appointment for what promised to be a difficult Confession. I had a sense that he was an empathetic soul and that maybe I could trust him.

A few times I picked up my phone in an attempt to call to make an appointment, and then quickly slammed it down. A few times I went so far as to get into my car, drive to the parish for Confessions on Saturday...and as soon as I saw the Church, I hit the gas and got out of there as quickly as I could!

The Gospel refers to those who rebuked Bartimeaus, and indeed, there were those in my life, too...even as I prayed for the grace to return to my faith, there were people who rebuked me. God is faithful, and sometimes those who rebuke us have the opposite effect than what they intend. For some reason, I kept running into co –workers and other people who attacked the Catholic Church, and they ALWAYS brought up the Sacrament of Reconciliation, claiming it wasn’t scriptural or some other alleged complaint. Rather than being driven further from the Church, I began to ask questions I should have asked long before.

Finally, after watching EWTN, and doing some reading about the Catholic Church and our beliefs, as Easter was approaching I resolved that I was going to finally go to Confession. So I did a web search of all the parishes in the area and found a communal penance service with individual confessions afterward.

I had finally reached the point where I realized that I really was completely wrapped up in my own darkness, and I knew that I couldn’t go on like that anymore, and I couldn’t keep running away from Jesus. I was literally saying to God, “Master, I don’t want to be alone in this dark any more…I want to see.”

One of my obstacles had been in my lack of understanding of the Sacrament. I actually thought that I had to perfect myself, I had to turn away from everything in order to have what they call a “firm purpose of amendment”. I knew that I couldn’t just change so drastically, and by going to Confession, I was, in a way, making a solid commitment to God. While I was quite a sinner, a healthy respect for God had been instilled within me and I did not want to make matters worse through any form of insincerity. What I learned was that it’s God’s job to perfect us, and that we can’t always just cast everything away without his Grace.

If we refer to the Gospel again, we see that the blind man cast away his cloak, a representation for sin and those things that encumber us and prevent us from following Jesus. Again, he was far stronger than I, or maybe most of us, because it’s so difficult to leave it all behind and approach Jesus. I couldn’t do that; I needed Jesus’s help and the grace of the Sacraments to give me strength.

So I went to the church that evening, and at the entrance there was an examination of conscience, which was, in a nutshell, a list of mortal and venial sins. For example, it listed the 1st Commandment: I am the Lord your God; you shall have no other gods except Me. Then it went on to list offenses which fall into this category, such as Occult practices; palm reading, divination, Tarot, etc. Well…THAT hit home! I actually became convinced that I was the WORST SINNER EVER.

Keep in mind that EVERYONE there was at that church for Confession…and the church was FULL.

I was already crying, and sat near the back of the church, listened AGAIN to the story of the Prodigal Son, and this time, I knew that it was all about me, and I saw the pattern of the last few years…all about blindness, returning home, and the rejoicing that followed. God was not trying to scare me away, yet as I stood in line for confession, I couldn’t stop crying. There I was…the weird crying lady again.

I think I stood there for about 45 minutes or so, but it felt a LOT longer. I had hoped to go behind a screen, but the line there was MUCH longer and I realized that if I moved to that line, I might lose whatever courage I had and just leave...but I didn’t want to leave. It was time to answer Jesus’ call to me.

One of the objections I’d always heard, and still hear from people, is that we, as Catholics, aren’t confessing to God...but to man. It’s important to point out that in Confession, we ARE confessing directly to Jesus, but the priest is there in persona Christi, which is a term you will hear a lot. It means, “in the place of Christ”, so while we may see or hear the priest and what he has to say, when he tells us that we are absolved, it is not him speaking under his own authority, rather he is speaking as Jesus because it is JESUS who forgives our sins through the priest. So that night, it was Jesus I was going to see.

Finally it was my turn, and finally, I was the blind man who had come to Jesus, finally ready to say, “Master, I want to see.”

I was a complete mess--that poor priest!

I could barely speak, so I just handed over the examination of conscience and said, “Father...it’s been about 12 years...”

There was a pause during which I was sure the full judgment I thought I deserved would come crashing down upon me.

“THAT’S WONDERFUL!” the priest proclaimed. “That’s GREAT! YOU’RE the prodigal DAUGHTER!”

HUH!? Not what I’d expected to hear. In spite of all the Gospels I’d heard, in spite of everything...I thought I deserved to be condemned and cast away. That’s not what happened.

I made my confession, most of it completely unintelligible, but this priest NEVER ONCE asked me to repeat what I had said...because he wasn’t the one who needed to understand, or decipher my words. He knew I was doing the best I could, and it was Jesus who heard every single word.

I will NEVER be able to explain what it was like to make my Act of Contrition and walk out of there, 12 years GONE.

Gone.

And you know...I really could see more clearly after that day. I could identify those parts of my life that needed to change, and through this pivotal moment, I was able to find the courage to walk away from those things that had held me captive for so long.

I wish I could say that my life immediately changed, but it didn’t. I was still encumbered, like we all are, by various things, people, relationships, etc, which held me back, but slowly, through prayer, through the sacraments, through a true desire to follow Jesus, those things changed. Those things are still changing, every single day. And I’ve found that the closer we become to God, the more clearly we can see.

Twice in this Gospel, Jesus gives the blind man a choice, because we ALWAYS have a choice. When Bartimeaus called out to Him, Jesus didn’t just go to him, but he CALLED to him in response. He gave him a choice rather than approaching him on the roadside. He was asking for a commitment, a willingness to do something other than sit there and cry.

Then, again, after he restores his sight, Jesus tells Bartimeaus, “Your faith has saved you...go your way.” And Bartimeaus, his sight restored, chooses to follow Jesus. He could have gone back to his old life…he could have just walked away, grateful but unchanged. Jesus gives us all this choice and does not enforce it. He tells us to go our own way…and lets us make that critical choice.

Our way...or God’s way?