I have been reading Rumer Godden's In This House of Brede, set in Great Britain, about a woman in her 40's who leaves her professional life to become a cloistered nun at Brede Monastery. It's been especially poignant for me as my own friend has entered a Benedictine cloister, and it seems, in some senses, that I've been reading about her and her Sisters.
But it's also made me ask other questions, given the point I've reached in my own discernment.
While I've not given a lot of thought to entering a Papal enclosure, there are thoughts that draw me to it. The contemplative life IS attractive; it's tough, it's stable, and it's tranquil. The idea of routine does draw me, I have to admit. I love the idea of singing the Divine Office, I love the idea of learning the chants, of becoming a part of the tapestry that is the liturgical year.
There is a part of me that adores the hidden life; it's one of the reasons that even though so many people know who I am, I continue to blog under a pseudonym.
And yet, there is a part of me that rebels. Even as I want to be anonymous, I want to be known, and I'd lose that by entering the enclosure. If I wrote something, it wouldn't be under my name, but signed as an anonymous nun. Even as I love the habit and the importance of it, I'm not sure I'd be able to handle not being recognized within it.
I'm a person who would never stand out in a crowd...and yet, here I am, in my vanity, worried about being recognized in a habit!
Do you see the irony?
But I have yet to tell you about the biggest draw to that kind of life, and it transcends all of the above; purgation.
In reading about Brede, and in reading separately about the austere lives of the Cistercians, who also follow the Rule of Benedict, I have been deeply struck by their way of life.
It is a purgation; they die to the world, and live in self-denial, praying not for themselves, but for others, for the Church. They go about their daily tasks, they do what they need to do in order for the community to survive, but observe silence where they want to speak, eat what they may not want to eat, and spend most of their hours in prayer.
Purgatory.
How little we hear of it, and yet, we must bear it out when we go to our Judgment.
And there are some who are called to this purgation on earth, to divest themselves of pleasures on behalf of themselves and the rest of us (more so the latter). To offer everyday sufferings, the life in a cloister, to leave life early in order to spend time in the earthly fires of purgatory, perhaps praying for a special cause.
We could not survive without these prayers, without these very real men and women who are praying for us at every hour, all over the world.
I don't think I could ever live that life, but the insight from this book prompts me to pray for them, for all our dear brothers and sisters who deny themselves...for us, the Church.
Pray for them. When you wake up at 1:14 am, offer a prayer, no matter how small. If you have insomnia, take at least a moment of it on your knees in unity with those who pray for you. And when you rise, offer a Hail Mary specifically for cloistered Vocations, the most hidden of lives, the least prayed for, the most unseen.
**
Monday, January 12, 2009
The Superior Scribbler Award
I'm way behind on these lately, and for that, I apologize. There are awards I've been given but maybe haven't acknowledged on my blog yet, but I do hope to get to them! Part of the problem with some is that most, if not all of the people I would offer those awards to have already received it!
But not this one.
Both Fr. V. of Adam's Ale and Fr. Zehnle of Servant and Steward have graciously bestowed the Superior Scribbler Award upon me this week, and I am deeply honored, especially in considering the company of those to whom it has also been granted.
Next is Tara at Loved Sinner. She is an amazing artist, another dog lover (like Adrienne) and has a ton of cool photos of her Corgi, Stella. I like Tara because I think she's a lot like me but more composed and if we were in the same state, we'd likely hang out with our dogs and talk art and theology! This dear lady is a converted Mormon and has a wonderful conversion story! She is SO on the list of people I need to meet!
And how can I NOT mention Terry at Abbey-Roads!? Classic! This guy is a local mystery. He blogs under his own name, but most of us haven't met him even though he frequents some of the same parish hangouts. His work ranges from (moral) burlesque to written baroque to contemporary issues to spiritual and mystical. It's impossible to NOT learn from this dear man, whom I HOPE to finally meet one day. And then have Vincenzo photoshop the meeting into some ostentatious, ridiculous and ingenious scene. (See some of V.'s work at right...)
Is there anyone who doesn't know Owen Swain at Luminousmiseries, the 20-year-Protestant Pastor-become-Catholic who has both a gift for art and for writing? He's honest, open, tells his life and his perspective as it is, and I have to say, gives great inspiration to us all through his own humility. (Owen, don't let that go to your head or I'll take it back! lol)
And what of Fr. Cranky who says what we are all thinking, priests and laity alike, even though we usually won't say it? To this day, I am trying to discover the happy medium in posture during Mass when witnessing the TOUCHDOWN! signal during the Our Father...is it proper to simply do a profound bow while hiding my intense laughter, or is it more proper to go to my knees and cover my mirth with a tissue? Fr. Cranky, whoever and wherever you are, this award goes to you!
*
But not this one.
Both Fr. V. of Adam's Ale and Fr. Zehnle of Servant and Steward have graciously bestowed the Superior Scribbler Award upon me this week, and I am deeply honored, especially in considering the company of those to whom it has also been granted.
Here are the Rules:
* Each Superior Scribbler must in turn pass the award on to 5 most-deserving Bloggy Friends.
* Each Superior Scribbler must link to the author and the name of the blog from whom he/she has received the Award.
* Each Superior Scribbler must display the award on his/her blog, and link to this post, which explains the award.
* Each Blogger who wins the Superior Scribbler Award must visit this post and add his/her name to the Mr. Linky List (scroll down). That way, we’ll be able to keep up-to-date on everyone who receives this prestigious honor!
* Each Superior Scribbler must post these rules on his/her blog.
So, now that we know the rules, we can play. And since two people have given me this award and I've neglected to respond to others, I'm now going to award accordingly, and I EXPECT you all to visit the following blogs and report back to me as to what you found, and then link to those blogs also! ( Disclaimer: There is no rank to this list! And yes, I am making up rules by requiring my blogging readers to add the following to their blogrolls.)
Next is Tara at Loved Sinner. She is an amazing artist, another dog lover (like Adrienne) and has a ton of cool photos of her Corgi, Stella. I like Tara because I think she's a lot like me but more composed and if we were in the same state, we'd likely hang out with our dogs and talk art and theology! This dear lady is a converted Mormon and has a wonderful conversion story! She is SO on the list of people I need to meet!
And how can I NOT mention Terry at Abbey-Roads!? Classic! This guy is a local mystery. He blogs under his own name, but most of us haven't met him even though he frequents some of the same parish hangouts. His work ranges from (moral) burlesque to written baroque to contemporary issues to spiritual and mystical. It's impossible to NOT learn from this dear man, whom I HOPE to finally meet one day. And then have Vincenzo photoshop the meeting into some ostentatious, ridiculous and ingenious scene. (See some of V.'s work at right...)Is there anyone who doesn't know Owen Swain at Luminousmiseries, the 20-year-Protestant Pastor-become-Catholic who has both a gift for art and for writing? He's honest, open, tells his life and his perspective as it is, and I have to say, gives great inspiration to us all through his own humility. (Owen, don't let that go to your head or I'll take it back! lol)
And what of Fr. Cranky who says what we are all thinking, priests and laity alike, even though we usually won't say it? To this day, I am trying to discover the happy medium in posture during Mass when witnessing the TOUCHDOWN! signal during the Our Father...is it proper to simply do a profound bow while hiding my intense laughter, or is it more proper to go to my knees and cover my mirth with a tissue? Fr. Cranky, whoever and wherever you are, this award goes to you!
*
Prayer Request
Today, Januar 12th, is my older brother's birthday. Please pray for his conversion. Thank you.
New Housemate
Well, my new housemate showed up tonight a lot later than expected for a few reasons. I had picked up dinner earlier knowing she'd be hungry and wanting to have something to offer.
She recently had a car accident, and as a result was still so rattled this morning that she didn't have time to pack up her stuff from the motel so paid for another night, and originally planned to come to my house, and then return to get her stuff. Well, by the time we'd had dinner, and she used the phone to return a couple calls, it was 9:00. She said she just isn't up to getting her stuff and returning so late, wanted to be sure I wouldn't consider it rude if she just spent tonight at the motel.
Far from it! My goodness, if I felt crappy I'd just say, "Look, my stuff is still there, the roads are awful, I'm going there and I'm going to stay there tonight. See ya tomorrow."
Maybe I'm the rude one.
So tonight is my last night of "freedom!" before I have to deal with a housemate. And I have a feeling that my computer is quickly going to be moving into my own bedroom so I can write and do papers in privacy and quiet with the door closed.
The good thing is that a great deal got done in the storage room today, and it's livable, even though plastic storage crates are stacked up along the walls. The bed is made up with fresh clean sheets and a little lavender linen spray, there is now plastic on the window to help keep the heat in, and we're on our way to organization.
We'll see how this works out. Tonight I was a "hostess" and it'll probably take a couple weeks before my friend feels "at home", and has her own sense of freedom here.
All in all, it could be a good thing for both of us, both financially and personally. And, given our different working hours, there's a good chance that we'll not be around each other enough to go crazy!
She recently had a car accident, and as a result was still so rattled this morning that she didn't have time to pack up her stuff from the motel so paid for another night, and originally planned to come to my house, and then return to get her stuff. Well, by the time we'd had dinner, and she used the phone to return a couple calls, it was 9:00. She said she just isn't up to getting her stuff and returning so late, wanted to be sure I wouldn't consider it rude if she just spent tonight at the motel.
Far from it! My goodness, if I felt crappy I'd just say, "Look, my stuff is still there, the roads are awful, I'm going there and I'm going to stay there tonight. See ya tomorrow."
Maybe I'm the rude one.
So tonight is my last night of "freedom!" before I have to deal with a housemate. And I have a feeling that my computer is quickly going to be moving into my own bedroom so I can write and do papers in privacy and quiet with the door closed.
The good thing is that a great deal got done in the storage room today, and it's livable, even though plastic storage crates are stacked up along the walls. The bed is made up with fresh clean sheets and a little lavender linen spray, there is now plastic on the window to help keep the heat in, and we're on our way to organization.
We'll see how this works out. Tonight I was a "hostess" and it'll probably take a couple weeks before my friend feels "at home", and has her own sense of freedom here.
All in all, it could be a good thing for both of us, both financially and personally. And, given our different working hours, there's a good chance that we'll not be around each other enough to go crazy!
Embracing Suffering
I received an email today that referenced someone "living with leukemia".
That terminology has bothered me for a long time; "living with HIV" or "living with alcoholism" or "living with Hodgkin's Disease".
Yes, it's important to be positive when dealing with a serious illness, so in no way do I ever want to denigrate what others are experiencing. And I know that at any time, I could myself be struck by something terrible.
But today, in that email, I realized what is so bothersome to me with regard to the words being used; it's a denial of the very real suffering being experienced not only by that person, but by those who love them. It is "politically correct" to use the term "living with" as opposed to "suffering from", and therin is the problem.
We live in a society that wants to escape suffering. Indeed, we all want to escape suffering, but this systematic form of escape through the rhetoric of political correctness does nothing to truly aid those who have been struck by disease.
Yes, they are living, and they are coping, and they are getting by; but they are greatly suffering. And as long as we ignore the fact of their very REAL suffering, then we are also denying them, and ourselves an opportunity to address our greatest questions to the Savior who also suffered.
Christ Himself dignified our suffering through what He endured. Who are we to deny it when it happens to us?
That's not to say we should not take advantage of science, for there are treatments, there are pain medications, there are cures. And we need to pursue those things, but not in order to live in denial; rather to embrace what we are experiencing and offer that back to Our Lord.
It seems to me that when we are overly positive with regard to the awful things that happen to us, it becomes a form of denial of what it really is. What is closer to reality? That someone is "living with" leukemia, or that someone is "suffering from" leukemia?
In fact, both are accurate, but "suffering from " is MORE accurate, for one who is not living cannot suffer. And when we approach our friends who have this or some other disease, and we have the attitude of "you're living with this disease", we are not open to what they might truly be experiencing. We are focused on being happy and joyful and living in la-la land where there is no suffering and death.
Yes, we die. We have to face that. And someone who has this or other diseases are also facing that reality, and they have to do so on their own terms. But that does not mean the topic should be avoided.
God forbid, if I ever have such a disease, that everyone treat me like a china doll that might be broken if someone happens to point out the fact that I'm mortal.
How can any one of us truly come to know ourselves or know God if we don't embrace our suffering? If we focus ONLY on "surviving" we are forgetting the end to which we are directed. We are missing an opportunity, or, if it is someone else who is suffering, we are denying them an opportunity to help them find God in their darkest moment.
We have been created for eternity, not for this world; it is important to realize what a gift God has given us by granting us life, but it is also important not to deny the suffering inherent as long as we live it.
My prayers go out to those who suffer from serious diseases; and I have this to say to you: don't let the world cheapen your experience through political correctness. If you are suffering, let those close to you know about it and don't be bullied into thinking you have to be positive all the time! Recognize what is happening to you, find God in that darkness, and invite those you love to help you with that burden, for one of them may experience it next. Do you want THEM to suffer the greater loneliness of suffering alone in a world that denies what is happening?
*
Maybe I have no right to speak on this, or perhaps I do, but from a different perspective. But there is one thing I have learned through my own kind of suffering..it's always easier when someone else truly understands what is happening, and is willing to sit with you in that darkest hour. And it means that much more when the light of dawn arises again, giving a new perspective to your own questions and fears.
*
Stop denying suffering. Yes, live with it, but embrace it as well and call it what it is. If you don't, you can't ever truly accept it.
*
That terminology has bothered me for a long time; "living with HIV" or "living with alcoholism" or "living with Hodgkin's Disease".
Yes, it's important to be positive when dealing with a serious illness, so in no way do I ever want to denigrate what others are experiencing. And I know that at any time, I could myself be struck by something terrible.
But today, in that email, I realized what is so bothersome to me with regard to the words being used; it's a denial of the very real suffering being experienced not only by that person, but by those who love them. It is "politically correct" to use the term "living with" as opposed to "suffering from", and therin is the problem.
We live in a society that wants to escape suffering. Indeed, we all want to escape suffering, but this systematic form of escape through the rhetoric of political correctness does nothing to truly aid those who have been struck by disease.
Yes, they are living, and they are coping, and they are getting by; but they are greatly suffering. And as long as we ignore the fact of their very REAL suffering, then we are also denying them, and ourselves an opportunity to address our greatest questions to the Savior who also suffered.
Christ Himself dignified our suffering through what He endured. Who are we to deny it when it happens to us?
That's not to say we should not take advantage of science, for there are treatments, there are pain medications, there are cures. And we need to pursue those things, but not in order to live in denial; rather to embrace what we are experiencing and offer that back to Our Lord.
It seems to me that when we are overly positive with regard to the awful things that happen to us, it becomes a form of denial of what it really is. What is closer to reality? That someone is "living with" leukemia, or that someone is "suffering from" leukemia?
In fact, both are accurate, but "suffering from " is MORE accurate, for one who is not living cannot suffer. And when we approach our friends who have this or some other disease, and we have the attitude of "you're living with this disease", we are not open to what they might truly be experiencing. We are focused on being happy and joyful and living in la-la land where there is no suffering and death.
Yes, we die. We have to face that. And someone who has this or other diseases are also facing that reality, and they have to do so on their own terms. But that does not mean the topic should be avoided.
God forbid, if I ever have such a disease, that everyone treat me like a china doll that might be broken if someone happens to point out the fact that I'm mortal.
How can any one of us truly come to know ourselves or know God if we don't embrace our suffering? If we focus ONLY on "surviving" we are forgetting the end to which we are directed. We are missing an opportunity, or, if it is someone else who is suffering, we are denying them an opportunity to help them find God in their darkest moment.
We have been created for eternity, not for this world; it is important to realize what a gift God has given us by granting us life, but it is also important not to deny the suffering inherent as long as we live it.
My prayers go out to those who suffer from serious diseases; and I have this to say to you: don't let the world cheapen your experience through political correctness. If you are suffering, let those close to you know about it and don't be bullied into thinking you have to be positive all the time! Recognize what is happening to you, find God in that darkness, and invite those you love to help you with that burden, for one of them may experience it next. Do you want THEM to suffer the greater loneliness of suffering alone in a world that denies what is happening?
*
Maybe I have no right to speak on this, or perhaps I do, but from a different perspective. But there is one thing I have learned through my own kind of suffering..it's always easier when someone else truly understands what is happening, and is willing to sit with you in that darkest hour. And it means that much more when the light of dawn arises again, giving a new perspective to your own questions and fears.
*
Stop denying suffering. Yes, live with it, but embrace it as well and call it what it is. If you don't, you can't ever truly accept it.
*
Either Better or Worse
(UPDATED 1:57 PM Monday - SCROLL DOWN *******)
This morning I had two emails from friends. Both of them involved the possibility of a cracked engine block. And I've thought of that myself.
That's worse than a leaky head gasket.
So one friend suggested that I do take it to the dealer (which I'd wanted to avoid as I am out of warrant by a bit over 7,000 miles). I have nothing against the dealer per se...they do good work, their service is wonderful, etc. However, they make their money on parts, so they won't put in used or aftermarket where possible. And I understand that. They also tend to have higher labor rates, especially for mechanical.
However, my friend brought in her car with a cracked block, and as it turned out, it was a common problem for that model year so they replaced it under an unnanounced "warranty" as a courtesy, given the problems they were having.
Well, I called the dealer and asked about that; was it worth it to bring it in? (I was fishing for info, as in, a statement indicating maybe other 2003 Saturns have had similar problems). Of course he suggested I bring it in, but I will have to pay $60.00 for the diagnostic. But it could be worth it if it turns out to be like my friend's scenario.
Or, worst case, I'll be taking my car to another shop to replace the engine to the tune of around $4,000 or so.
Doesn't that sound like fun?
Don't you just LOVE the smell of stale burned oil in the morning?
*
UPDATE 2:00 pm :
I went to the Saturn dealership, and waited for over my expected hour, although I saw through a couple windows that they had the hood open and were working on it. The service manager came in to speak with me, said that they were having a hard time finding the source of the leak. They THINK they know where it's coming from, but can't tell for certain, so they were cleaning up the engine. He asked if I had a little more time so they could put some dye in the oil and see if that helped them identify it.
I said I could wait, and asked where they thought the leak was coming from. I'm about to butcher this, but it's not a part or problem I ever had to write on an estimate as a claims adjuster, so on this, I have no idea what I'm talking about. They think it's from the cam shaft gasket? (I might as well say I need a new knifter pin...)
He did tell me, and being that I couldn't quite envision what he was talking about, I of course forgot what he said. However, he said it's not as bad as a head gasket, and it doesn't seem like a cracked block. Deo Gratias!
Then he came back about a half hour or so later and said that now it's not leaking at all, so asked me to put about 100 miles on it, and bring it back on Wednesday morning. No problem.
I asked about the oil level as of today, he said it's fine, and he looked mystified as well. It should be registering at least a little low...but it's not. So I'll keep an eye on the leaking between now and then, and will have it in Wednesday.
They didn't charge me the diagnostic fee today; they'll wait until Wednesday.
So...keep praying. I'm sure the problem is still expensive but NOW I have a little hope that it'll at least be manageable!
This morning I had two emails from friends. Both of them involved the possibility of a cracked engine block. And I've thought of that myself.
That's worse than a leaky head gasket.
So one friend suggested that I do take it to the dealer (which I'd wanted to avoid as I am out of warrant by a bit over 7,000 miles). I have nothing against the dealer per se...they do good work, their service is wonderful, etc. However, they make their money on parts, so they won't put in used or aftermarket where possible. And I understand that. They also tend to have higher labor rates, especially for mechanical.
However, my friend brought in her car with a cracked block, and as it turned out, it was a common problem for that model year so they replaced it under an unnanounced "warranty" as a courtesy, given the problems they were having.
Well, I called the dealer and asked about that; was it worth it to bring it in? (I was fishing for info, as in, a statement indicating maybe other 2003 Saturns have had similar problems). Of course he suggested I bring it in, but I will have to pay $60.00 for the diagnostic. But it could be worth it if it turns out to be like my friend's scenario.
Or, worst case, I'll be taking my car to another shop to replace the engine to the tune of around $4,000 or so.
Doesn't that sound like fun?
Don't you just LOVE the smell of stale burned oil in the morning?
*
UPDATE 2:00 pm :
I went to the Saturn dealership, and waited for over my expected hour, although I saw through a couple windows that they had the hood open and were working on it. The service manager came in to speak with me, said that they were having a hard time finding the source of the leak. They THINK they know where it's coming from, but can't tell for certain, so they were cleaning up the engine. He asked if I had a little more time so they could put some dye in the oil and see if that helped them identify it.
I said I could wait, and asked where they thought the leak was coming from. I'm about to butcher this, but it's not a part or problem I ever had to write on an estimate as a claims adjuster, so on this, I have no idea what I'm talking about. They think it's from the cam shaft gasket? (I might as well say I need a new knifter pin...)
He did tell me, and being that I couldn't quite envision what he was talking about, I of course forgot what he said. However, he said it's not as bad as a head gasket, and it doesn't seem like a cracked block. Deo Gratias!
Then he came back about a half hour or so later and said that now it's not leaking at all, so asked me to put about 100 miles on it, and bring it back on Wednesday morning. No problem.
I asked about the oil level as of today, he said it's fine, and he looked mystified as well. It should be registering at least a little low...but it's not. So I'll keep an eye on the leaking between now and then, and will have it in Wednesday.
They didn't charge me the diagnostic fee today; they'll wait until Wednesday.
So...keep praying. I'm sure the problem is still expensive but NOW I have a little hope that it'll at least be manageable!
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Bad News on the Car
I stopped in at SEARS this morning, and although I wish businesses weren't open on Sunday, I'm glad they are. I have to work today, too...for the Church, and I HAD to get there.
Well, I knew it wasn't good when the first tech came in and indicated he wanted another opinion. After a bit, the person at the counter walked out, and she looked at my car. And then they got a supervisor, and he looked at my car.
And then came in to confirm the bad news; it's a leaking head gasket. They can't do the work, they said the leak was a large one, but not "dribbling" so I'd be ok to get to work and home. Just keep an eye out, they said. Fine.
But it means at least a $1500 bill, not to mention other car repairs that need to be done...not by their diagnosis, but by mine, and some regular maintenance that I've been putting off since I didn't have the money.
I'm going to admit I was in tears as I drove in to work, already knowing that this is going on my credit car (which has enough debt on it), and knowing that I have no choice. I can't not fix the car. Now I'm just trying to find a place that has a loaner to offer. And I'm not going to the dealer; their service might be good, but as a rule they won't use aftermarket or used parts where indicated.
God's will is in this somewhere, and so I just hope I can find a way to pay for these repairs.
Oh, my, I DO NOT need this problem!
*
Well, I knew it wasn't good when the first tech came in and indicated he wanted another opinion. After a bit, the person at the counter walked out, and she looked at my car. And then they got a supervisor, and he looked at my car.
And then came in to confirm the bad news; it's a leaking head gasket. They can't do the work, they said the leak was a large one, but not "dribbling" so I'd be ok to get to work and home. Just keep an eye out, they said. Fine.
But it means at least a $1500 bill, not to mention other car repairs that need to be done...not by their diagnosis, but by mine, and some regular maintenance that I've been putting off since I didn't have the money.
I'm going to admit I was in tears as I drove in to work, already knowing that this is going on my credit car (which has enough debt on it), and knowing that I have no choice. I can't not fix the car. Now I'm just trying to find a place that has a loaner to offer. And I'm not going to the dealer; their service might be good, but as a rule they won't use aftermarket or used parts where indicated.
God's will is in this somewhere, and so I just hope I can find a way to pay for these repairs.
Oh, my, I DO NOT need this problem!
*
CAR QUESTION!
I can't get through a winter without some kind of car problem, usually having to do with the engine. * sigh *
Yesterday I had to work in the morning, drove out of my garage and went on my merry way. I parked outside when I got home because I needed to leave again. Well, I took some garbage out to the garage, and in so doing, saw a puddle of fresh-looking oil on the ground. I touched it to be sure it was oil and not just melted ice on a dirty floor. Nope. Oil.
I immediately went out to my car to check the oil. It seems clean, seems maybe slightly low, but OK.
I had to leave again, and in backing my car out, stopped to see if there was fresh oil. None.
I checked the oil again last night, didn't seem to be a problem. When I got home, I placed a paper bag under my car to help me detect whether it's continuing to leak and how much.
The place I took it on my last oil change is open on Sundays, but I happen to work today, assuming I can get there. I just checked the oil again, it again seems to be fine, not even needing to be topped off. I didn't see a leak under the car.
If it's important...I went with a synthetic oil at my last change, which now has about 2100 miles on it or so.
The temperature around here has been in the double-digits,, towards the low side. Cold, but not bitter (that'll come this week.) My garage isn't heated per se, but it is sheltered and so stays above freezing in the winter. What can cause a leak that's there one moment and gone the next?
Hopefully I can get through today, and tomorrow I'm off so I can take it to the shop and have them check it. I'm praying it's something simple and not, say, something along the line of a cracked block....
*
UPDATE! - Once I backed my car out of the garage, I did see a sizeable leak on the brown bag I'd placed underneath. It's leaking on the right side, so I'm also wondering if it's a torn CV boot or possibly power steering fluid. I am going to swing by the place that did the oil change to make sure it's not an issue.
It doesn't seem to be leaking at all outside, only in the above-freezing garage, which seems to indicate a problem with a seal. I've also learned of a couple other places that are open on Sundays and so I may be able to get there.
Please pray...I HAVE to get to work today; it's too much for my co-worker to handle alone!
Yesterday I had to work in the morning, drove out of my garage and went on my merry way. I parked outside when I got home because I needed to leave again. Well, I took some garbage out to the garage, and in so doing, saw a puddle of fresh-looking oil on the ground. I touched it to be sure it was oil and not just melted ice on a dirty floor. Nope. Oil.
I immediately went out to my car to check the oil. It seems clean, seems maybe slightly low, but OK.
I had to leave again, and in backing my car out, stopped to see if there was fresh oil. None.
I checked the oil again last night, didn't seem to be a problem. When I got home, I placed a paper bag under my car to help me detect whether it's continuing to leak and how much.
The place I took it on my last oil change is open on Sundays, but I happen to work today, assuming I can get there. I just checked the oil again, it again seems to be fine, not even needing to be topped off. I didn't see a leak under the car.
If it's important...I went with a synthetic oil at my last change, which now has about 2100 miles on it or so.
The temperature around here has been in the double-digits,, towards the low side. Cold, but not bitter (that'll come this week.) My garage isn't heated per se, but it is sheltered and so stays above freezing in the winter. What can cause a leak that's there one moment and gone the next?
Hopefully I can get through today, and tomorrow I'm off so I can take it to the shop and have them check it. I'm praying it's something simple and not, say, something along the line of a cracked block....
*
UPDATE! - Once I backed my car out of the garage, I did see a sizeable leak on the brown bag I'd placed underneath. It's leaking on the right side, so I'm also wondering if it's a torn CV boot or possibly power steering fluid. I am going to swing by the place that did the oil change to make sure it's not an issue.
It doesn't seem to be leaking at all outside, only in the above-freezing garage, which seems to indicate a problem with a seal. I've also learned of a couple other places that are open on Sundays and so I may be able to get there.
Please pray...I HAVE to get to work today; it's too much for my co-worker to handle alone!
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Faults
I'm a complete ditz.
That actually used to be my reputation, back around my college years. Even before. No one ever called me "dumb" because they didn't think that; just a bit air-headed. And yes, I was. Some of that was just being young and running around looking at the world with stars in my eyes. We all did that to some degree, even if not in such a loud dramatic way.
I'll never forget my first review at the psych facility, where I worked with children and adolescents. I rarely saw my assigned Supervisor as I worked a different shift, and wondered how my first review would go. It was nerve-wracking, as this really was my first job. Yes, I'd been a lifeguard, and I'd taught after-school enrichment classes for elementary students, I'd worked a few years in a community-based child care and as a chaperone. But the psych facility...that actually MEANT something for my future.
So I went into the review, and sat down with Ruth. She had a file in front of her and went over some things, asked a few questions, and then was very candid. She told me that when I'd first started, she wasn't at ALL sure about me because...and here she hesitated...I seemed like such a ditz.
I remember cringing in my seat but striving to retain an impassive expression; she was right.
But then she said that she'd also seen my reports, the reports of other staff, and how I handled things on the unit, especially with regard to the frequent crises that happened. And she told me, "So whatever you're doing, but keep doing it...it works!"
And she also gave me the advice to be more "self-aware", which she didn't need to define; I too often let my temper show, and then, as now, I wore my heart on my sleeve.
Growing Up
Somehow, over time, I've become less and less of a ditz. At least...outwardly. One of my nicknames in high school and into college from someone who knew me well was "Giggles".
Yes, I'm quite embarassed by that. Of course THEY loved it and just adored the lovely color of red my face would turn when they called me by that name. But it was a term of endearment, even as it called out to one of my flaws.
How many of us have or had nicknames that arose out of not our perfections, but our flaws?
To this day, I still carry the traits that used to be obvious, but maturity has forced them into hiding. They haven't gone away; I'm still a ditz. I'm still clueless.
Back when I was in Law Enforcement, one of my FTO's observed that I did seem to have a gift of having sudden, complete, intense focus. But it took nothing at all to destroy that focus. One commented that my ability to focus like that could save someone's life one day (he tended to be the positive one).
And so, I can manage to be observant and not entirely oblivious ALL the time, but it's very easy for me to become distracted and lose focus. I can look directly at a situation and not see a problem, only to learn later on there was something OBVIOUS going on.
I can be completely in tears with empathy in one moment, and the next, entirely miss what's really going on.
Because of this flaw, I know I've unwittingly been rude to a lot of people. And I have to wonder; would I rather be thought of as rude, or a complete dimwit?
Beating Ourselves Up
All of us have our lost moments, without exception. We do stupid things, we get wrapped up in ourselves and miss what we're supposed to be seeing. We are maybe not feeling well so facts aren't penetrating our minds. There are a thousand things that can cause us to miss what is before our eyes. Or it could just be our flaws.
We tend to know our flaws, and when they come to our attention, usually through our own realization too late to make amends, we beat ourselves up. Or if we realize it in the moment, we end up destroying it by trying to backpeddle and re-do it. Sometimes it's best to just move on.
Usually the "offended" parties notice our faux pas and have already moved on, either because they know us and expect our flaws, or have decided it's nothing to worry about. People can see the difference between intent and oblivity.
So it happens that we are often long forgiven by the time we even realize we've been cause for offense.
The very fact that we are proleptically forgiven for being ourselves should be cause for humility, for we don't ever deserve such consideration. And yet, there it is.
We all have friends and family members we dearly love even as we see their faults in full relief. It's part of who they are and it's what makes them...well...them. It would be wonderful if some habits would go away, but because maybe that will never happen, we accept the little things and love others in spite of annoyances.
When we lose our loved ones, often what we remember and love most were the things that bothered us.
Maybe, when we are silently berating ourselves for minor offences, although we should learn and try not to repeat them, we should also try to keep them in perspective and understand what is a pea in a tower of quilts to us is nothing but a forgotten moment to others.
That actually used to be my reputation, back around my college years. Even before. No one ever called me "dumb" because they didn't think that; just a bit air-headed. And yes, I was. Some of that was just being young and running around looking at the world with stars in my eyes. We all did that to some degree, even if not in such a loud dramatic way.
I'll never forget my first review at the psych facility, where I worked with children and adolescents. I rarely saw my assigned Supervisor as I worked a different shift, and wondered how my first review would go. It was nerve-wracking, as this really was my first job. Yes, I'd been a lifeguard, and I'd taught after-school enrichment classes for elementary students, I'd worked a few years in a community-based child care and as a chaperone. But the psych facility...that actually MEANT something for my future.
So I went into the review, and sat down with Ruth. She had a file in front of her and went over some things, asked a few questions, and then was very candid. She told me that when I'd first started, she wasn't at ALL sure about me because...and here she hesitated...I seemed like such a ditz.
I remember cringing in my seat but striving to retain an impassive expression; she was right.
But then she said that she'd also seen my reports, the reports of other staff, and how I handled things on the unit, especially with regard to the frequent crises that happened. And she told me, "So whatever you're doing, but keep doing it...it works!"
And she also gave me the advice to be more "self-aware", which she didn't need to define; I too often let my temper show, and then, as now, I wore my heart on my sleeve.
Growing Up
Somehow, over time, I've become less and less of a ditz. At least...outwardly. One of my nicknames in high school and into college from someone who knew me well was "Giggles".
Yes, I'm quite embarassed by that. Of course THEY loved it and just adored the lovely color of red my face would turn when they called me by that name. But it was a term of endearment, even as it called out to one of my flaws.
How many of us have or had nicknames that arose out of not our perfections, but our flaws?
To this day, I still carry the traits that used to be obvious, but maturity has forced them into hiding. They haven't gone away; I'm still a ditz. I'm still clueless.
Back when I was in Law Enforcement, one of my FTO's observed that I did seem to have a gift of having sudden, complete, intense focus. But it took nothing at all to destroy that focus. One commented that my ability to focus like that could save someone's life one day (he tended to be the positive one).
And so, I can manage to be observant and not entirely oblivious ALL the time, but it's very easy for me to become distracted and lose focus. I can look directly at a situation and not see a problem, only to learn later on there was something OBVIOUS going on.
I can be completely in tears with empathy in one moment, and the next, entirely miss what's really going on.
Because of this flaw, I know I've unwittingly been rude to a lot of people. And I have to wonder; would I rather be thought of as rude, or a complete dimwit?
Beating Ourselves Up
All of us have our lost moments, without exception. We do stupid things, we get wrapped up in ourselves and miss what we're supposed to be seeing. We are maybe not feeling well so facts aren't penetrating our minds. There are a thousand things that can cause us to miss what is before our eyes. Or it could just be our flaws.
We tend to know our flaws, and when they come to our attention, usually through our own realization too late to make amends, we beat ourselves up. Or if we realize it in the moment, we end up destroying it by trying to backpeddle and re-do it. Sometimes it's best to just move on.
Usually the "offended" parties notice our faux pas and have already moved on, either because they know us and expect our flaws, or have decided it's nothing to worry about. People can see the difference between intent and oblivity.
So it happens that we are often long forgiven by the time we even realize we've been cause for offense.
The very fact that we are proleptically forgiven for being ourselves should be cause for humility, for we don't ever deserve such consideration. And yet, there it is.
We all have friends and family members we dearly love even as we see their faults in full relief. It's part of who they are and it's what makes them...well...them. It would be wonderful if some habits would go away, but because maybe that will never happen, we accept the little things and love others in spite of annoyances.
When we lose our loved ones, often what we remember and love most were the things that bothered us.
Maybe, when we are silently berating ourselves for minor offences, although we should learn and try not to repeat them, we should also try to keep them in perspective and understand what is a pea in a tower of quilts to us is nothing but a forgotten moment to others.
Life is Changing
A couple days ago, in musing about the virtue of charity and the need I have to really do a better job of extending myself to others, I was also taking stock of the blessings I have. While I don't have a lot of money and often struggle to pay my bills (especially in winter with the increase in heating costs, gifts for people, events necessitating "extras" that aren't a part of my budget, etc.), well, a lot of scrimping..or debt increase, happens. But I have a roof over my head, and I have what I need.
Then I wondered...what if someone else needed what I have, maybe the only thing I can offer right now? If someone needed a place to stay, would I be willing to take them in? I didn't have to think long; I gave a big yes to that. Because I've been in that place before, and of course, I love God. Therefore I'd have to do the right thing.
Funny how Our Lord works.
Last night I received a phone call from a friend, and she said she was at a particular motel. What?! She's local! What happened?
When I called her back she launched into an explanation of her housing crisis, her typical mad series of events that has placed her in a bad spot. She has a job, she has money, but suddenly she has no apartment. Her belongings are in storage.
She didn't ask outright, but it was clear what she needed. And so I told her that if she needs a place, she can stay with me.
The problem is that my spare room is a storage room and it's not quite livable. It can be made so, first by moving junk around, then by actually getting rid of junk. Which I want to do.
Well, a roommate is a great motivator to get rid of stuff, and she has a gift for that kind of organization.
She knows I'm starting school again in a week, she knows I have a dog, and she basically knows what she's getting into. So I hope this works out. I don't know yet if this will be short-term or longer term. But I will say this; it'll be nice to have someone else to help with expenses. It'll be nice to know that I can go to the gym after work because the dog has been let out already.
But it'll be hard living with another person again, and having to be "inconvenienced", yet it's also necessary.
It's hard to grow in charity when there isn't anyone around to love.
So, some changes are coming, and on one hand, while I dread them a little, overall I'm looking forward to this new adventure. And I hope it works out, especially for the sake of my friend, who seems to have nowhere else to go.
Do you realize how close many of us are to that problem? When I was "homeless" in college, I had a place to go...a few of them. And so I have to admit that it gives me a sense of joy to finally be able to offer that to someone else.
Also...be careful what you agree to in your musings and conversations with God...He might ask you to make good on it!
*
Then I wondered...what if someone else needed what I have, maybe the only thing I can offer right now? If someone needed a place to stay, would I be willing to take them in? I didn't have to think long; I gave a big yes to that. Because I've been in that place before, and of course, I love God. Therefore I'd have to do the right thing.
Funny how Our Lord works.
Last night I received a phone call from a friend, and she said she was at a particular motel. What?! She's local! What happened?
When I called her back she launched into an explanation of her housing crisis, her typical mad series of events that has placed her in a bad spot. She has a job, she has money, but suddenly she has no apartment. Her belongings are in storage.
She didn't ask outright, but it was clear what she needed. And so I told her that if she needs a place, she can stay with me.
The problem is that my spare room is a storage room and it's not quite livable. It can be made so, first by moving junk around, then by actually getting rid of junk. Which I want to do.
Well, a roommate is a great motivator to get rid of stuff, and she has a gift for that kind of organization.
She knows I'm starting school again in a week, she knows I have a dog, and she basically knows what she's getting into. So I hope this works out. I don't know yet if this will be short-term or longer term. But I will say this; it'll be nice to have someone else to help with expenses. It'll be nice to know that I can go to the gym after work because the dog has been let out already.
But it'll be hard living with another person again, and having to be "inconvenienced", yet it's also necessary.
It's hard to grow in charity when there isn't anyone around to love.
So, some changes are coming, and on one hand, while I dread them a little, overall I'm looking forward to this new adventure. And I hope it works out, especially for the sake of my friend, who seems to have nowhere else to go.
Do you realize how close many of us are to that problem? When I was "homeless" in college, I had a place to go...a few of them. And so I have to admit that it gives me a sense of joy to finally be able to offer that to someone else.
Also...be careful what you agree to in your musings and conversations with God...He might ask you to make good on it!
*
Friday, January 09, 2009
Vocations Placement
Tonight at Mass, I learned that in the Archdiocese of St. Paul-Minneapolis, this is Vocations Awareness weekend.
"How timely!", I thought to myself, as I have a little to say on this topic...
Often, someone just beginning to discern their Vocation, or maybe someone just wanting to do some research to check out their options, hits the internet as a way to do this quietly. It's what I did, and I found a wealth of information. Perhaps too much.
I didn't know the real difference between a Franciscan or a Benedictine or a Dominican. And then I found out there were Carthusians, Trappists, and Norbertines. And random Augustinians, and other varying communities. Where to begin?
Some time ago, I received an email from vocationsplacement.org, and at the time I was working on putting together a presentation/information / resources for confirmation candidates, and of course, others who might be interested. I remember checking out the site and I took their placement "test", noting that I was "just browsing". (I'm not sure if that was the term or not).
Since then I've gotten random emails from them on updates and such, but never went back, not having a need, either personally or professionally.
Well, every so often, even from the professional end, I check things out to see if they should be on our list of resources and I couldn't remember my experience at Vocations Placement. So I went back, and since my personal circumstances have changed (i.e. I am seriously interested in religious life), I checked a different box to indicate that.
I might have mentioned this site once before, or read about it on another blog, as I seem to recall a commenter stating she'd gone there and checked that she was seriously interested, but did NOT want the Communities that fit her profile to be contacted on her behalf. She, like me, wanted information only. She was inundated with emails from these different communities.
Now, the site asks you to fill out your info, requiring your address, phone, and it asks you to log in with a user name and password so you can come back to make changes and not have to go through the test every time. They ask if you are looking for habited only, or non-habited only, or maybe you just don't care which. It's a non-biased test, looking for your preferences, ostensibly to find a "placement" for you. They ask you if you're interested in Dominicans or Benedictines, and even have one place to add any info; such as, if you know the name of a community offhand, a particular group, a particular spirituality (ie Augustinian; many communities have an Augustinian Rule, but there isn't an Augustinian Order that I know of, at least to the degree of the big ones).
Now, on the surface, it seems like this is a good idea; that it can help you narrow your search, or provide information on a cross-section that might be your interest at the given moment.
After completing the test, I also wrote in a few things, where indicated, as I actually know what I'm looking for. I'd asked specifically in a checked box to send me info on Dominicans and ONLY habited communities. I also indicated that I did NOT want any communities to be contacted.
I prefer to make the contact myself if I'm interested so as not to waste anyone's time.
Well, here's what happened:
* My browser crashed and I was booted out of the site while starting to take a second test with regard to...well, something else. I forget. I tried to go back and log in, but there was no place to log in to my own account. It appeared I'd have to retake the test once again, and I didn't have time. Thank God I didn't!
* A few hours later, I received over 25 or 30 seperate emails, each with information on an individual community. I didn't click on all of them, just a few to see what types of things they sent. I realized IMMEDIATELY that they did not answer my specific requests of Dominican and habited communities. In fact, they sent me Carmelites, Benedictines and non-habited Dominicans.
* Some of them seemed to be fine; I learned of a community of hermits or anchoresses, offering different options and a website. Unfortunately the website isn't yet developed and all one gets is the the name, the fact they are Augustinian, cloistered, and there's a photograph of nature. I also found a Dominican cloistered community that hasn't been listed on other sites (to my knowledge).
THE WORST THING
* I am now receiving emails from Vocations Directresses at these various communities. The first I received was from a Carmelite cloistered community, the second, from a Cistercian community in Wisconsin. (I didn't know they were there!).
Please note; I definitely did not indicate interest in Carmelite communities; the spirituality doesn't appeal to me, nor does their lifestyle. But God bless them! I may have clicked on Cistercian, just out of curiousity, not really realizing they would get an email to contact me.
**
So now, I'm in a bind. Firstly, I have a ton of mail in my inbox, and created a folder just in case there's something useful there, if not for me, than for someone else. I'm always happy to highlight a cool religious community on my blog especially if I haven't seen it elsewhere. So, I can deal with "junk mail"; it's part of life in this world. We all have to deal with it.
But I have a problem with the fact that all these Vocations Directors all over the country and maybe Canada are getting "false positives" on a potential vocation to their community...in essence, they're getting junk mail indirectly from ME! And of course, they are responding with some very nice email invitations and questions about where I am in my discernment, etc.
Now I have to wonder...should I respond to apologize that they received my request in error? Did the Sister in question type up the response and send it herself, or is it a template? (I'm hoping the latter is the case!) Or should I respond, even to ask that info be sent to my work, for it would be good to have those materials around?
The email from the Cistercian Sister was an especially nice one and it makes me want to respond, even though I'm not interested in living that particular way of life. Then again, one never knows. After all , my good globe-trotting-outgoing-socialite friend is now in a Benedictine cloister headed for simple vows, then likely permanent vows a few years from now.
God has a sense of humor.
So I have to say I don't recommend the site as a good resource for someone who is seriously looking...but is perhaps more directed and focused in what she is looking for. I also would not recommend it to my Confirmation students, for fear they might be innundated by all sorts of things...and destroy a potential Vocation just by overwhelming them with information they aren't equipped yet to handle. In fact...who really is equipped to sort through all that without at least SOME foundation or exterior direction?
It kind of reminds me of choosing a college. Remember after you took the ACT or SAT how you were innundated with college materials? It's hard enough to sort that stuff out without adding thousands of religious communities to the mix!
Certainly the site can be helpful in isolated ways if you don't mind putting up with a lot of stuff that you shouldn't have to. Remember, I found out about a couple communities I didn't know existed. Unfortunately, even though they aren't for me, they may start sending me information I don't need or want, or take the time to contact me. That's a waste of their very valuable time and it shouldn't be happening.
There are better sites out there; stick with those.
I recommend:
Institute on Religious Life / IRL
Holy Vocations (blog - TONS of great resources for men and women!)
Roman Catholic Vocations (blog - news stories, photos, TONS of great resources including blogs of priests and religious)
Council of Major Superiors of Women Religious
There are others, including specific communities, but the above links can give you a good start and they DON'T involve contacting anyone you don't want to contact unless or until you are ready.
Happy Discerning!
*
"How timely!", I thought to myself, as I have a little to say on this topic...
Often, someone just beginning to discern their Vocation, or maybe someone just wanting to do some research to check out their options, hits the internet as a way to do this quietly. It's what I did, and I found a wealth of information. Perhaps too much.
I didn't know the real difference between a Franciscan or a Benedictine or a Dominican. And then I found out there were Carthusians, Trappists, and Norbertines. And random Augustinians, and other varying communities. Where to begin?
Some time ago, I received an email from vocationsplacement.org, and at the time I was working on putting together a presentation/information / resources for confirmation candidates, and of course, others who might be interested. I remember checking out the site and I took their placement "test", noting that I was "just browsing". (I'm not sure if that was the term or not).
Since then I've gotten random emails from them on updates and such, but never went back, not having a need, either personally or professionally.
Well, every so often, even from the professional end, I check things out to see if they should be on our list of resources and I couldn't remember my experience at Vocations Placement. So I went back, and since my personal circumstances have changed (i.e. I am seriously interested in religious life), I checked a different box to indicate that.
I might have mentioned this site once before, or read about it on another blog, as I seem to recall a commenter stating she'd gone there and checked that she was seriously interested, but did NOT want the Communities that fit her profile to be contacted on her behalf. She, like me, wanted information only. She was inundated with emails from these different communities.
Now, the site asks you to fill out your info, requiring your address, phone, and it asks you to log in with a user name and password so you can come back to make changes and not have to go through the test every time. They ask if you are looking for habited only, or non-habited only, or maybe you just don't care which. It's a non-biased test, looking for your preferences, ostensibly to find a "placement" for you. They ask you if you're interested in Dominicans or Benedictines, and even have one place to add any info; such as, if you know the name of a community offhand, a particular group, a particular spirituality (ie Augustinian; many communities have an Augustinian Rule, but there isn't an Augustinian Order that I know of, at least to the degree of the big ones).
Now, on the surface, it seems like this is a good idea; that it can help you narrow your search, or provide information on a cross-section that might be your interest at the given moment.
After completing the test, I also wrote in a few things, where indicated, as I actually know what I'm looking for. I'd asked specifically in a checked box to send me info on Dominicans and ONLY habited communities. I also indicated that I did NOT want any communities to be contacted.
I prefer to make the contact myself if I'm interested so as not to waste anyone's time.
Well, here's what happened:
* My browser crashed and I was booted out of the site while starting to take a second test with regard to...well, something else. I forget. I tried to go back and log in, but there was no place to log in to my own account. It appeared I'd have to retake the test once again, and I didn't have time. Thank God I didn't!
* A few hours later, I received over 25 or 30 seperate emails, each with information on an individual community. I didn't click on all of them, just a few to see what types of things they sent. I realized IMMEDIATELY that they did not answer my specific requests of Dominican and habited communities. In fact, they sent me Carmelites, Benedictines and non-habited Dominicans.
* Some of them seemed to be fine; I learned of a community of hermits or anchoresses, offering different options and a website. Unfortunately the website isn't yet developed and all one gets is the the name, the fact they are Augustinian, cloistered, and there's a photograph of nature. I also found a Dominican cloistered community that hasn't been listed on other sites (to my knowledge).
THE WORST THING
* I am now receiving emails from Vocations Directresses at these various communities. The first I received was from a Carmelite cloistered community, the second, from a Cistercian community in Wisconsin. (I didn't know they were there!).
Please note; I definitely did not indicate interest in Carmelite communities; the spirituality doesn't appeal to me, nor does their lifestyle. But God bless them! I may have clicked on Cistercian, just out of curiousity, not really realizing they would get an email to contact me.
**
So now, I'm in a bind. Firstly, I have a ton of mail in my inbox, and created a folder just in case there's something useful there, if not for me, than for someone else. I'm always happy to highlight a cool religious community on my blog especially if I haven't seen it elsewhere. So, I can deal with "junk mail"; it's part of life in this world. We all have to deal with it.
But I have a problem with the fact that all these Vocations Directors all over the country and maybe Canada are getting "false positives" on a potential vocation to their community...in essence, they're getting junk mail indirectly from ME! And of course, they are responding with some very nice email invitations and questions about where I am in my discernment, etc.
Now I have to wonder...should I respond to apologize that they received my request in error? Did the Sister in question type up the response and send it herself, or is it a template? (I'm hoping the latter is the case!) Or should I respond, even to ask that info be sent to my work, for it would be good to have those materials around?
The email from the Cistercian Sister was an especially nice one and it makes me want to respond, even though I'm not interested in living that particular way of life. Then again, one never knows. After all , my good globe-trotting-outgoing-socialite friend is now in a Benedictine cloister headed for simple vows, then likely permanent vows a few years from now.
God has a sense of humor.
So I have to say I don't recommend the site as a good resource for someone who is seriously looking...but is perhaps more directed and focused in what she is looking for. I also would not recommend it to my Confirmation students, for fear they might be innundated by all sorts of things...and destroy a potential Vocation just by overwhelming them with information they aren't equipped yet to handle. In fact...who really is equipped to sort through all that without at least SOME foundation or exterior direction?
It kind of reminds me of choosing a college. Remember after you took the ACT or SAT how you were innundated with college materials? It's hard enough to sort that stuff out without adding thousands of religious communities to the mix!
Certainly the site can be helpful in isolated ways if you don't mind putting up with a lot of stuff that you shouldn't have to. Remember, I found out about a couple communities I didn't know existed. Unfortunately, even though they aren't for me, they may start sending me information I don't need or want, or take the time to contact me. That's a waste of their very valuable time and it shouldn't be happening.
There are better sites out there; stick with those.
I recommend:
Institute on Religious Life / IRL
Holy Vocations (blog - TONS of great resources for men and women!)
Roman Catholic Vocations (blog - news stories, photos, TONS of great resources including blogs of priests and religious)
Council of Major Superiors of Women Religious
There are others, including specific communities, but the above links can give you a good start and they DON'T involve contacting anyone you don't want to contact unless or until you are ready.
Happy Discerning!
*
A Few of My Favorite Things
You dog owners....
You know how it is when you are awakened out of a dead sleep by the excruciating sound of your dog preparing to vomit? So you leap out of bed, realize it's dark and so you fumble for your glasses before turning on the light? Yeah. And then you realize you have your rosary in your hand and you have to let go of it now. And so you fumble for a spot to put it because you haven't yet figured out how to turn on a lamp or hit a switch. And your dog is already ahead of you on the stairs, but waiting, so you yell, "NO! Don't puke there!" And you find the light at the stairway and race her down, then at the bottom of the stairs you hit the light again, turning it off, and you realize you're back to not being able to see. So you turn it back on before proceeding, all the while thinking that these stupid delays are going to mean you'll be doing yucky cleanup.
And then you rush through the livingroom; the dog is already at the door, still heaving, and you know time is short (because you just stepped in some spit with your bare feet), and so you skip the leash, skip the shoes, and just take the dog out and stand out on the sidewalk of your townhome in the bitter cold, wearing only lounge pants, a t-shirt, and in bare feet. And thank God that there are no other dogs out or bunnies (which in the past have served to immediately make her forget about her sour tummy). Once you're satisfied that she is good "for now", you step back in, fumble for the leash, and find the only closest thing to put on your feet...some slipper socks, and you can't even pull them all the way on because the second you step out the door the dog stops her heaving because she sees a neighbor and is about to take off to say hello.
So you yell NO! really loudly and lounge for her collar. (Hoping to God that the neighbor doesn't look over and see you in your bare feet and minimal clothing with your hair standing on end.) And the dog seems to have forgotten she was getting sick, so you bring her in. And immediately she begins heaving again, since she had never completed her business and suddenly remembers what she had gotten you up to do. So you step back outside JUST IN TIME for her to leave her mess there and not on your feet.
And also, you're cold.
Ah, the joys of dog ownership...
Benedictines on the Brain
It doesn't help that the deep sleep had to do with a really intense dream. In between Sr. Mary's Investiture this week and reading "In This House of Brede" in which a clothing ceremony and simple vows were noted just before I went to sleep, I of course dreamed about it.
In the dream, I ended up at a Benedictine convent, completely amazed because up until that moment I thought I was Dominican. But they showed me to my room (not "cell"..it was a dream, you recall), and we were preparing for an Investiture...three of us. Apparently we had been there for awhile. We were next to a school, and I'd parked my old borrowed car in front of it. And after my hair was chopped off and I was clothed in the habit and veil, we all decided to go out for dinner. So I looked out for the car, and it was gone.
Then someone gave me one of the programs, and there was a note scribbled on it from an old roommate, with whom I haven't spoken in years (ever since I explained I couldn't be her proxy on a living will because of her Terri-Schaivo-death-like preferences.) The note was short and to the point...she couldn't understand why I was choosing this way of life and basically thought I was an irresponsible idiot. I can't remember the wording.
Knowing the source, I set out to write her a letter and explain the reasons women choose and are chosen for these Vocations.
But we had to find the car first. We didn't. As it turned out, the note-writing "friend" had come and collected the car herself and just hadn't bothered to tell me.
And so it was that, when I woke up so suddenly having to immediately take action, I thought I was wearing a habit.
As it turned out, it was just a blanket that was attached to me.
Sure wish it had stayed attached while I stood barefoot and clothed only in my t-shirt in the cold.
So how's YOUR morning going?
*
You know how it is when you are awakened out of a dead sleep by the excruciating sound of your dog preparing to vomit? So you leap out of bed, realize it's dark and so you fumble for your glasses before turning on the light? Yeah. And then you realize you have your rosary in your hand and you have to let go of it now. And so you fumble for a spot to put it because you haven't yet figured out how to turn on a lamp or hit a switch. And your dog is already ahead of you on the stairs, but waiting, so you yell, "NO! Don't puke there!" And you find the light at the stairway and race her down, then at the bottom of the stairs you hit the light again, turning it off, and you realize you're back to not being able to see. So you turn it back on before proceeding, all the while thinking that these stupid delays are going to mean you'll be doing yucky cleanup.
And then you rush through the livingroom; the dog is already at the door, still heaving, and you know time is short (because you just stepped in some spit with your bare feet), and so you skip the leash, skip the shoes, and just take the dog out and stand out on the sidewalk of your townhome in the bitter cold, wearing only lounge pants, a t-shirt, and in bare feet. And thank God that there are no other dogs out or bunnies (which in the past have served to immediately make her forget about her sour tummy). Once you're satisfied that she is good "for now", you step back in, fumble for the leash, and find the only closest thing to put on your feet...some slipper socks, and you can't even pull them all the way on because the second you step out the door the dog stops her heaving because she sees a neighbor and is about to take off to say hello.
So you yell NO! really loudly and lounge for her collar. (Hoping to God that the neighbor doesn't look over and see you in your bare feet and minimal clothing with your hair standing on end.) And the dog seems to have forgotten she was getting sick, so you bring her in. And immediately she begins heaving again, since she had never completed her business and suddenly remembers what she had gotten you up to do. So you step back outside JUST IN TIME for her to leave her mess there and not on your feet.
And also, you're cold.
Ah, the joys of dog ownership...
Benedictines on the Brain
It doesn't help that the deep sleep had to do with a really intense dream. In between Sr. Mary's Investiture this week and reading "In This House of Brede" in which a clothing ceremony and simple vows were noted just before I went to sleep, I of course dreamed about it.
In the dream, I ended up at a Benedictine convent, completely amazed because up until that moment I thought I was Dominican. But they showed me to my room (not "cell"..it was a dream, you recall), and we were preparing for an Investiture...three of us. Apparently we had been there for awhile. We were next to a school, and I'd parked my old borrowed car in front of it. And after my hair was chopped off and I was clothed in the habit and veil, we all decided to go out for dinner. So I looked out for the car, and it was gone.
Then someone gave me one of the programs, and there was a note scribbled on it from an old roommate, with whom I haven't spoken in years (ever since I explained I couldn't be her proxy on a living will because of her Terri-Schaivo-death-like preferences.) The note was short and to the point...she couldn't understand why I was choosing this way of life and basically thought I was an irresponsible idiot. I can't remember the wording.
Knowing the source, I set out to write her a letter and explain the reasons women choose and are chosen for these Vocations.
But we had to find the car first. We didn't. As it turned out, the note-writing "friend" had come and collected the car herself and just hadn't bothered to tell me.
And so it was that, when I woke up so suddenly having to immediately take action, I thought I was wearing a habit.
As it turned out, it was just a blanket that was attached to me.
Sure wish it had stayed attached while I stood barefoot and clothed only in my t-shirt in the cold.
So how's YOUR morning going?
*
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Strugglin'
I'm having a very rough week, lots going on, in life and spiritually. This morning was a difficult one...all I wanted to do was go back to bed and hide under the covers all day. At times, I was almost in tears.
What's wrong with me, I don't know. And yet, I do know to a certain degree although I'm not going to discuss it.
I haven't stopped praying, though, and have regularly been going to the chapel to pray the Divine Office. This week there seems to be a special phrase for each day. And often, I will stop in the middle of a psalm to speak with God about some other topic on my mind. After awhile I'd return to my prayers...and there would be the answer. Or the understanding. Or the very phrase that answers or even asks what I really want to say.
It reminds me how close God is, even in our sin, in our questions and in the smallest moments of our lives.
That's how we come to know God, sometimes; by falling. By shattering. We can't put ourselves back together, but God can, and He does, little by little, if we'll let Him.
But it doesn't stop there; in other things in life, God draws attention to our flaws and our struggles through other people. More and more, I've been seeing where I lack charity and patience, where I haven't given all that I could have. Tonight I gave a talk, and in the midst of the talk I realized that although I was there before an audience, the words needed to be directed towards me, probably more so than everyone else.
Yet I'm grateful for these moments and for my struggles this week. Even though I have sinned, I'm seeing God more clearly in His infinite Mercy, and coming to see my flaws in much greater degree.
Praise God for His enduring mercy, for if we don't ever experience it, we can't live it and can't exercise it. And without mercy, we'll never know love or justice.
I love being Catholic; it's a living paradox that makes more sense the deeper one goes.
*
What's wrong with me, I don't know. And yet, I do know to a certain degree although I'm not going to discuss it.
I haven't stopped praying, though, and have regularly been going to the chapel to pray the Divine Office. This week there seems to be a special phrase for each day. And often, I will stop in the middle of a psalm to speak with God about some other topic on my mind. After awhile I'd return to my prayers...and there would be the answer. Or the understanding. Or the very phrase that answers or even asks what I really want to say.
It reminds me how close God is, even in our sin, in our questions and in the smallest moments of our lives.
That's how we come to know God, sometimes; by falling. By shattering. We can't put ourselves back together, but God can, and He does, little by little, if we'll let Him.
But it doesn't stop there; in other things in life, God draws attention to our flaws and our struggles through other people. More and more, I've been seeing where I lack charity and patience, where I haven't given all that I could have. Tonight I gave a talk, and in the midst of the talk I realized that although I was there before an audience, the words needed to be directed towards me, probably more so than everyone else.
Yet I'm grateful for these moments and for my struggles this week. Even though I have sinned, I'm seeing God more clearly in His infinite Mercy, and coming to see my flaws in much greater degree.
Praise God for His enduring mercy, for if we don't ever experience it, we can't live it and can't exercise it. And without mercy, we'll never know love or justice.
I love being Catholic; it's a living paradox that makes more sense the deeper one goes.
*
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
Life in a Box
It's been a strange day. Today, my friend Sr. Mary's Investiture took place, and as she died to the world, I was attending a funeral Mass for someone who had physically left the world. It was a beautiful parallel, and one maybe only another Catholic could understand.
Boxes are such a symbol...caskets are boxes, even if really fancy and expensive ones. The Pope...wasn't he buried in a pine box? A pauper's box? For he had nothing of his own...he belonged entirely to Christ.
Several years ago, when I was on light duty and working "Downtown", I was sent into the file room with some papers. I had names, and knew that I could find that name in one of the many boxes the filled the room.
It didn't take long for me to be saddened. Maybe because one of the things I was filing away had the name of a Firefighter who had died on the job; in fact, it was his last day on the Job. And in fact, he'd extended that day to cover for another Firefighter. And was killed. My hand shook a little as I found his file and put it away, wanting to offer some sort of reverence, realizing what this "name" had done.
None of what I knew was written on the page I filed. In fact, the page was something administrative that really had nothing to do with anything. But I put it away, and looked at some of the other names in the same dusty brown box. I looked around the room at all the boxes, realizing that they were FILLED with names, and stupid information about random career events.
But NONE of those boxes and files would tell us who those people were. I thought of one of the guys on light duty with me; he was a driver, was close to retirement but wanting to hang on for another couple years before he finally accepted his pension. He was sacrificing himself to help his children pay their own bills and get a better start in life. He had just adopted a small dog, whom his dear grandchildren loved, but the greatest reward of his life was really those children. He'd do anything for them. Even if it meant staying on the Job forever to help his adult children provide for them...he'd do it. His was a life of sacrifice, and even then, he knew that it was a life that might be given for even the least among us.
I wished I could go through the files and open them not to see useless insurance or random information, but stories of their lives. Of who they were, who they loved, and who loved them.
The memory of that file room has never left me, and I hope it never does.
Living to Work, or Working to Live?
Before I went to Mexico, we were introduced to the Mexican answer of the question, "What do you do?"
In America, if someone asks us that, we offer our careers. We tend to define ourselves by our work, what we have studied or apprenticed to become. In essence, we hand someone a dusty old box filled with random dry documents that really offers nothing.
In Mexico, and, I suspect, other parts of the world, the answer no matter what the career, would be, "I am a mother". "I am a father, and devoted to my family."
They define themselves not by what they do...but who they are. In a short conversation, you can come away knowing something about them as human beings. Their great gift is that of building relationships. I've never met someone from Latin America who was not like this.
One of the custodians in my last position used to spend time in my "cube" telling me, in Spanish, of his country, his people, his family. My Spanish was very bad, but he was patient and helped me to make connections, find words, and in this, he introduced me to his own struggles. He told me of El Salvador, how Christmas isn't joyous because of the violence that takes place there. He lamented about his family, still in that country.
And we spoke of Catholicism and religion. His family was being evangelized by Jehovah's Witnesses, and he didn't see the difference between our faith and theirs. Even in my forgotten, rusty Spanish, I tried to convey our belief in the Trinity and the reality of Christ as both God and Man...and the JW's denial of these truths. He had to know that our religions are NOT the same and their understanding of Christ was not the same. Even though they were nice and meant well.
In the end, I gave him a few Miraculous Medals blessed by Pope John Paul II, asked him to pray to Our Lady for her intercession, and to remain faithful. He was amazed at the gift, and when I've handed those over many people have been amazed. But he didn't come talk to me because I gave him sacramentals...he spent time talking to me because he wanted SOMEONE here to know his family, to know him through his Vocation, not by his job. His job didn't define him.
I'll never forget Jose. (That was his real name. Please pray for Jose and his family in El Salvador).
The Problem with America
We have all heard the catch-phrase "American Dream". This varies, but it has to do with materialism to some degree which leads to a house with a stereotypical Art-Deco white picket fence and a limited number of children, or none at all. We learn of the sacrifice of our ancestors who came here, but in riding on their coattails, we aren't expected to have to offer any sacrifice for ourselves. We are a country of plenty and with that plenty, we have lots o' criticism for people who don't agree with our ethnocentric ideals.
We've gone from being separatist and racist to "tolerant", which, in current American parlance is actually a more extreme and diversified form of separatism, racism, and discrimination guided by elitist relativistic principles.
Our ancestors were staunchly nationalistic in their hope in America, even while they clung to their ethnic identities. Their sufferings were things we can't imagine, but today, we persecute the mirrors of our own grandparents. Today, they come from different countries arising from different conflicts. And in 30 years, their children will be lamenting our generation for the treatment of their own parents.
In the end, none of that matters, for we don't define ourselves according to our ancestral hopes; we define ourselves by the silver platters that have been handed to us. We are guided by "careers", not the idea of "Vocation", and we look to our own invented yardstick and timeline for definition in our lives, never bothering to ask how God defines us and what He has called us to become.
What happiness He has in store for us, if only we would be willing to divest ourselves of the culture of plenty long enough to see how poverty-stricken we really are.
American culture is like the dusty file room downtown, and we are all choosing to define ourselves only by dry details that belong only on the peripheral.
We place our lives in boxes, and when it contains what we think it ought, we brush our hands together, but can't understand why the dust won't go away, or from whence the musty scent arises.
We need a new perspective. We need to see ourselves not in terms of career, but vocation. We need to first understand to what we have been Called, and only from that point can we ever discern what to do with our gifts.
We are not the boxes we create for ourselves. But if we can't see what God has designed for us, that is the location to which we will be relegated, left only to gather dust and be forgotten unless someone has another document to file away.
*
Boxes are such a symbol...caskets are boxes, even if really fancy and expensive ones. The Pope...wasn't he buried in a pine box? A pauper's box? For he had nothing of his own...he belonged entirely to Christ.
Several years ago, when I was on light duty and working "Downtown", I was sent into the file room with some papers. I had names, and knew that I could find that name in one of the many boxes the filled the room.
It didn't take long for me to be saddened. Maybe because one of the things I was filing away had the name of a Firefighter who had died on the job; in fact, it was his last day on the Job. And in fact, he'd extended that day to cover for another Firefighter. And was killed. My hand shook a little as I found his file and put it away, wanting to offer some sort of reverence, realizing what this "name" had done.
None of what I knew was written on the page I filed. In fact, the page was something administrative that really had nothing to do with anything. But I put it away, and looked at some of the other names in the same dusty brown box. I looked around the room at all the boxes, realizing that they were FILLED with names, and stupid information about random career events.
But NONE of those boxes and files would tell us who those people were. I thought of one of the guys on light duty with me; he was a driver, was close to retirement but wanting to hang on for another couple years before he finally accepted his pension. He was sacrificing himself to help his children pay their own bills and get a better start in life. He had just adopted a small dog, whom his dear grandchildren loved, but the greatest reward of his life was really those children. He'd do anything for them. Even if it meant staying on the Job forever to help his adult children provide for them...he'd do it. His was a life of sacrifice, and even then, he knew that it was a life that might be given for even the least among us.
I wished I could go through the files and open them not to see useless insurance or random information, but stories of their lives. Of who they were, who they loved, and who loved them.
The memory of that file room has never left me, and I hope it never does.
Living to Work, or Working to Live?
Before I went to Mexico, we were introduced to the Mexican answer of the question, "What do you do?"
In America, if someone asks us that, we offer our careers. We tend to define ourselves by our work, what we have studied or apprenticed to become. In essence, we hand someone a dusty old box filled with random dry documents that really offers nothing.
In Mexico, and, I suspect, other parts of the world, the answer no matter what the career, would be, "I am a mother". "I am a father, and devoted to my family."
They define themselves not by what they do...but who they are. In a short conversation, you can come away knowing something about them as human beings. Their great gift is that of building relationships. I've never met someone from Latin America who was not like this.
One of the custodians in my last position used to spend time in my "cube" telling me, in Spanish, of his country, his people, his family. My Spanish was very bad, but he was patient and helped me to make connections, find words, and in this, he introduced me to his own struggles. He told me of El Salvador, how Christmas isn't joyous because of the violence that takes place there. He lamented about his family, still in that country.
And we spoke of Catholicism and religion. His family was being evangelized by Jehovah's Witnesses, and he didn't see the difference between our faith and theirs. Even in my forgotten, rusty Spanish, I tried to convey our belief in the Trinity and the reality of Christ as both God and Man...and the JW's denial of these truths. He had to know that our religions are NOT the same and their understanding of Christ was not the same. Even though they were nice and meant well.
In the end, I gave him a few Miraculous Medals blessed by Pope John Paul II, asked him to pray to Our Lady for her intercession, and to remain faithful. He was amazed at the gift, and when I've handed those over many people have been amazed. But he didn't come talk to me because I gave him sacramentals...he spent time talking to me because he wanted SOMEONE here to know his family, to know him through his Vocation, not by his job. His job didn't define him.
I'll never forget Jose. (That was his real name. Please pray for Jose and his family in El Salvador).
The Problem with America
We have all heard the catch-phrase "American Dream". This varies, but it has to do with materialism to some degree which leads to a house with a stereotypical Art-Deco white picket fence and a limited number of children, or none at all. We learn of the sacrifice of our ancestors who came here, but in riding on their coattails, we aren't expected to have to offer any sacrifice for ourselves. We are a country of plenty and with that plenty, we have lots o' criticism for people who don't agree with our ethnocentric ideals.
We've gone from being separatist and racist to "tolerant", which, in current American parlance is actually a more extreme and diversified form of separatism, racism, and discrimination guided by elitist relativistic principles.
Our ancestors were staunchly nationalistic in their hope in America, even while they clung to their ethnic identities. Their sufferings were things we can't imagine, but today, we persecute the mirrors of our own grandparents. Today, they come from different countries arising from different conflicts. And in 30 years, their children will be lamenting our generation for the treatment of their own parents.
In the end, none of that matters, for we don't define ourselves according to our ancestral hopes; we define ourselves by the silver platters that have been handed to us. We are guided by "careers", not the idea of "Vocation", and we look to our own invented yardstick and timeline for definition in our lives, never bothering to ask how God defines us and what He has called us to become.
What happiness He has in store for us, if only we would be willing to divest ourselves of the culture of plenty long enough to see how poverty-stricken we really are.
American culture is like the dusty file room downtown, and we are all choosing to define ourselves only by dry details that belong only on the peripheral.
We place our lives in boxes, and when it contains what we think it ought, we brush our hands together, but can't understand why the dust won't go away, or from whence the musty scent arises.
We need a new perspective. We need to see ourselves not in terms of career, but vocation. We need to first understand to what we have been Called, and only from that point can we ever discern what to do with our gifts.
We are not the boxes we create for ourselves. But if we can't see what God has designed for us, that is the location to which we will be relegated, left only to gather dust and be forgotten unless someone has another document to file away.
*
Monday, January 05, 2009
Live, Jesus, in our hearts....forever...
The darkness of night on campus surrounded me. Dew was settling upon the grass and the few cars that remained in the lots. The various Halls loomed silently, only a few windows glowing in those wee hours. No one was walking about...but me. Even my own shadow had taken a respite for the night.
I was making my rounds, from one dorm to the next, from St. Mary's Hall into Heffron, then to Griffon. Lasalle was next, then on to Hoffman, a building that had no public ghosts but often harbored carcasses of someone's pet.
The trek was short to the Chapel, and my key rattled in the lock as I turned the core, making sure it would lock when I closed it.
The Chapel was my favorite building and yet I passed through it quickly, thinking my professionalism must make it more holy. I hadn't been practicing my faith, but I wanted to be sure it was safe. I don't remember anymore if I genuflected...I think I did, out of habit, but I wasn't sure why.
But there was a Presence in the chapel. Even though I was alone, there was a sense of protection and..well...presence. I would shine my flashlight around, but always, turn towards the front, towards the tabernacle.
And always, there would be the sense of welcome, the invitation to remain. To be seated, or to kneel. Even to sit on the floor. Only to remain, for it was somehow...home.
Often, when I passed through the Chapel, my eyes would tear up and I'd wipe them away, savagely, having no time for emotion.
Even as I longed to remain, as I wanted to lie face-down on the floor, allowing the red plush carpet to absorb me, to gaze at the candle at the tabernacle...I went about my business.
And always, as I left, there was a sense of rupture. It was agony.
But I had to be about my rounds. I had to make the next call. My voice echoed in the chapel, and I was proud...I was doing my job. I was a good worker. The chapel was safe, and I knew I was Called...to make sure it was safe. This special refuge that I was locking up...it was safe. No one could get in.
Not even me, without the key.
I should have dropped the keys.
I should have remained.
I should have let the silence and the darkness of the chapel swallow me. At times, I did stop, and I turned towards the altar. I sat in a pew, in the silence, begging for mercy. Begging for help. Knowing Jesus was there, but not knowing how. Wishing I wasn't so alone, and paradoxically knowing I wasn't.
And then I would get up and flee into the lights of the quad, making sure the door was locked behind me. If I had remained, I would have been there all night. It scared me that I didn't want to be anywhere else, and so I ran away.
I couldn't seem to enter the welcoming Presence of the chapel without tears, and so it became my custom to rush through it. Not wanting to be disrespectful, even though I didn't know why that idea would come to me. Always saying a rare prayer while there.
It was the only darkness on campus that didn't threaten...and yet terrified me at a level I couldn't understand. For when I entered, I sensed love, and I didn't understand the source.
It was easier not to ask questions but instead, to flee.
But when I got back from Mexico, something was different. In the chapel, there were pamphlets, and some of them were for religious communities, and some of them were missionary. I read through them and looked at my options. I wanted to go back. Was I a missionary?
I rejected the ones that had to do with being a Sister. I'd looked around at the Brothers who ran my college, and their life wasn't attractive. I didn't want that..but I wanted to give. Everything.
Each time I passed through the Chapel, I would seek out the rack with the info, looking for something new. I would ask God for His help, loving the silence and the welcome, but too shy to remaine.
I was the elusive doe, the silent lamb. The shy fox.
But even now, I can look back, and remember the warm, enveloping darkness of the Chapel, the Presence of Christ, and wish I was there. I wish I had taken the time to remain, to forget about the schedule that existed only in my mind.
I wish I could lie face-down on the red carpet and offer myself to Our Lord, who waited for me there, who comforted me even in the seconds I took to pass through. Even though I was the least...He knew I was there, and tried to get my attention. And I ran away.
We used to pray, at every school gathering:
St. John Baptiste de la Salle.....pray for us!
Live, Jesus, in our hearts....FOREVER!
And so I continue to pray. And He answers, for even though I didn't realize He was with me, Jesus has never let go of my hand...or my heart.
*
May He live forever in your heart as well.
*
I was making my rounds, from one dorm to the next, from St. Mary's Hall into Heffron, then to Griffon. Lasalle was next, then on to Hoffman, a building that had no public ghosts but often harbored carcasses of someone's pet.
The trek was short to the Chapel, and my key rattled in the lock as I turned the core, making sure it would lock when I closed it.
The Chapel was my favorite building and yet I passed through it quickly, thinking my professionalism must make it more holy. I hadn't been practicing my faith, but I wanted to be sure it was safe. I don't remember anymore if I genuflected...I think I did, out of habit, but I wasn't sure why.
But there was a Presence in the chapel. Even though I was alone, there was a sense of protection and..well...presence. I would shine my flashlight around, but always, turn towards the front, towards the tabernacle.
And always, there would be the sense of welcome, the invitation to remain. To be seated, or to kneel. Even to sit on the floor. Only to remain, for it was somehow...home.
Often, when I passed through the Chapel, my eyes would tear up and I'd wipe them away, savagely, having no time for emotion.
Even as I longed to remain, as I wanted to lie face-down on the floor, allowing the red plush carpet to absorb me, to gaze at the candle at the tabernacle...I went about my business.
And always, as I left, there was a sense of rupture. It was agony.
But I had to be about my rounds. I had to make the next call. My voice echoed in the chapel, and I was proud...I was doing my job. I was a good worker. The chapel was safe, and I knew I was Called...to make sure it was safe. This special refuge that I was locking up...it was safe. No one could get in.
Not even me, without the key.
I should have dropped the keys.
I should have remained.
I should have let the silence and the darkness of the chapel swallow me. At times, I did stop, and I turned towards the altar. I sat in a pew, in the silence, begging for mercy. Begging for help. Knowing Jesus was there, but not knowing how. Wishing I wasn't so alone, and paradoxically knowing I wasn't.
And then I would get up and flee into the lights of the quad, making sure the door was locked behind me. If I had remained, I would have been there all night. It scared me that I didn't want to be anywhere else, and so I ran away.
I couldn't seem to enter the welcoming Presence of the chapel without tears, and so it became my custom to rush through it. Not wanting to be disrespectful, even though I didn't know why that idea would come to me. Always saying a rare prayer while there.
It was the only darkness on campus that didn't threaten...and yet terrified me at a level I couldn't understand. For when I entered, I sensed love, and I didn't understand the source.
It was easier not to ask questions but instead, to flee.
But when I got back from Mexico, something was different. In the chapel, there were pamphlets, and some of them were for religious communities, and some of them were missionary. I read through them and looked at my options. I wanted to go back. Was I a missionary?
I rejected the ones that had to do with being a Sister. I'd looked around at the Brothers who ran my college, and their life wasn't attractive. I didn't want that..but I wanted to give. Everything.
Each time I passed through the Chapel, I would seek out the rack with the info, looking for something new. I would ask God for His help, loving the silence and the welcome, but too shy to remaine.
I was the elusive doe, the silent lamb. The shy fox.
But even now, I can look back, and remember the warm, enveloping darkness of the Chapel, the Presence of Christ, and wish I was there. I wish I had taken the time to remain, to forget about the schedule that existed only in my mind.
I wish I could lie face-down on the red carpet and offer myself to Our Lord, who waited for me there, who comforted me even in the seconds I took to pass through. Even though I was the least...He knew I was there, and tried to get my attention. And I ran away.
We used to pray, at every school gathering:
St. John Baptiste de la Salle.....pray for us!
Live, Jesus, in our hearts....FOREVER!
And so I continue to pray. And He answers, for even though I didn't realize He was with me, Jesus has never let go of my hand...or my heart.
*
May He live forever in your heart as well.
*
Sunday, January 04, 2009
Vocation - Who We Really Are
Vocations have been on my mind a lot lately, for a number of reasons.
My own discernment is one of them, for I still need to find a Spiritual Director, I still need to visit the Sisters that it seems God has drawn me towards, and I can't seem to get there! When I am available (ie in between semesters), they are at the Motherhouse. When they are here, I am busy with school and weekend work...my job requires that I be there. And their cutoff age is 35.
There is no chance I could enter before my next birthday...too much debt. Housing market not good for sales. I'm willing to quit school to enter, but I'm not willing to quit "just in case". For now, it seems that continuing with my Master's is God's plan for me. I can only continue until I'm told to stop. And no knowledge will be wasted. So I go on, trying to discern God's time and not my own. He doesn't know age. Only I do.
The second reason is that I'm reading Rumer Godden, In This House of Brede, which is a story about a London businesswoman who leaves her life behind to enter a Benedictine cloister. It's a fascinating read, and does reveal the reality of religious life; that it is not romantic or glamorous. It's actually showing me the world that I know exists, for I've been devoid of "romantic" notions for a long time. I can't say this book is helping me, though. Although it is fascinating, and I'm totally absorbed, I read it as a single woman and realize how easy I have it. How set in my ways I am. How hard it would be to enter a community, cloistered or active, and have to deal with people ALL THE TIME, and even the politics. There would be no real escape.
The luxury of my own life is the amount of time I have to myself. If I want to get away, it's easy. I simply don't answer the phone or door, and I disconnect from the internet. Done. (And do you see the problem...how the word "I" is so central to this?).
Giving ourselves to God means dying to ourselves, giving up our little luxuries, being available to others, whether we like it or not. Living in community means we have to either flounder or grow in virtue and grace. Religious life is a hard life; it means we don't get to run away when it gets difficult.
All of this is especially important now, for as I read this book it points to the third reason why the idea of Vocation has been so close to my heart of late: my dear friend, Sr. Mary Gibson, has her Investiture in the Holy Habit of St. Benedict on this Tuesday, December 6th. As I've been reading Brede, I've been trying to see her there, what she is going through. I can't attend this Tuesday, for I am in Minnesota and she is in Kansas City, but I will be there in spirit and in prayer.
My friend is a great inspiration to me; although she is a few years younger than I, she has also had many careers, she has also struggled to know God, and her Vocation actually took her by surprise. She had not really considered religious life, and then, suddenly, discovered the Benedictines of Mary. Through her job in a parish, no less. (Just as I have discovered, through my current job in a parish the Sisters I am discerning). Sr. Mary was a socialite, never knowing a stranger. And that's how we became friends. She has a great sense of humor, an eye for beauty, a love of travel (having lived in Rome for a year), and we even identified on the career front; for awhile, she was a paramedic, and loved the work. (While I once aspired to that career, I stopped with EMT and used the training only in a volunteer capacity, somewhat marginally professionally through my short firefighting career.) As it was, I think we understood each other, but what was most important in our friendship was and remains our love for God and desiring to be what He calls us to be.
Although I cannot receive direct letters from her, for she is limited, I can send her blog posts, I can send her letters, and know that she is praying. And every time I pick up my Liturgy of the Hours, seeing her name inscribed inside the front cover, I pray for her.
It seems she has found her Vocation, and I wish I could describe to you her happiness the day I met her on the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. She'd just visited the Monastery and that evening had a meeting with her Spiritual Director. She ran out to me from her meeting, as we were to go to Mass together. You should have seen the GLOW emanating from her! I'd never seen her so happy, and she told me that her SD had never seen her so at peace.
God calls each and every one of us. I'm still struggling to find my place in His plan, and just today was in a conversation with a friend about this very thing. We are all formed by our backgrounds, our choices, the things we once thought we desired or thought were right, only to have to face the fact that they were not. Maybe for someone else, but not us.
I've been so confused given my own background, having to re-adjust my perspective to something other than the world's view, and it will probably be a struggle for a long time to come. And that's perfectly fine. It was what it was, and it now is what it is...but it doesn't have to be where I remain. God is calling. He has a plan. He always did. And He uses EVERYTHING.
But...in the end, we become who God called us to be, if only we keep trying. I'm not sure if I have a Vocation to religious life. I'm still very torn on this, especially recognizing my own ingrained habits. I'm certain I am not called to marriage, and the idea of a single, celibate life seems perfectly natural to me. Yet it's important that I take some time to discern if perhaps God might be calling me out of myself to live in a community, something that really does seem to go against my being...or maybe not. For is that really what I was seeking as I trekked through law enforcement, firefighting, and ski patrol? Was I really looking for a community home?
We, in our brokenness tend to look among the wrong things instead of the greater. We feel unworthy to approach the King, who calls us His children, recognizing in us the design to be princes and princesses. Instead, we eat the slop of pigs and look to foreign ideals for definition, when all we need to do is come back to the house of our Father.
I know that I'm still straddling these worlds. I have one foot in slop, the other in the King's Court, and for the life of me I can't seem to let go enough to let Our Lord clean me up, offer me a ring, and clothe me in the finery He's had on reserve. I can't seem to let go of my own definition of "freedom" in order to embrace true freedom.
And that's what it is about; our Vocation is not something that we do. It is who we are called to be; it's who we were brought into existence to become. And in the end, it is a call to eternal union with God.
I'm still searching, I'm still trying to come to terms with my past so that I can embrace my future. I'm still trying to die to myself so that I can live for God.
Only in finding my Vocation can I do any of it.
*
My own discernment is one of them, for I still need to find a Spiritual Director, I still need to visit the Sisters that it seems God has drawn me towards, and I can't seem to get there! When I am available (ie in between semesters), they are at the Motherhouse. When they are here, I am busy with school and weekend work...my job requires that I be there. And their cutoff age is 35.
There is no chance I could enter before my next birthday...too much debt. Housing market not good for sales. I'm willing to quit school to enter, but I'm not willing to quit "just in case". For now, it seems that continuing with my Master's is God's plan for me. I can only continue until I'm told to stop. And no knowledge will be wasted. So I go on, trying to discern God's time and not my own. He doesn't know age. Only I do.
The second reason is that I'm reading Rumer Godden, In This House of Brede, which is a story about a London businesswoman who leaves her life behind to enter a Benedictine cloister. It's a fascinating read, and does reveal the reality of religious life; that it is not romantic or glamorous. It's actually showing me the world that I know exists, for I've been devoid of "romantic" notions for a long time. I can't say this book is helping me, though. Although it is fascinating, and I'm totally absorbed, I read it as a single woman and realize how easy I have it. How set in my ways I am. How hard it would be to enter a community, cloistered or active, and have to deal with people ALL THE TIME, and even the politics. There would be no real escape.
The luxury of my own life is the amount of time I have to myself. If I want to get away, it's easy. I simply don't answer the phone or door, and I disconnect from the internet. Done. (And do you see the problem...how the word "I" is so central to this?).
Giving ourselves to God means dying to ourselves, giving up our little luxuries, being available to others, whether we like it or not. Living in community means we have to either flounder or grow in virtue and grace. Religious life is a hard life; it means we don't get to run away when it gets difficult.
All of this is especially important now, for as I read this book it points to the third reason why the idea of Vocation has been so close to my heart of late: my dear friend, Sr. Mary Gibson, has her Investiture in the Holy Habit of St. Benedict on this Tuesday, December 6th. As I've been reading Brede, I've been trying to see her there, what she is going through. I can't attend this Tuesday, for I am in Minnesota and she is in Kansas City, but I will be there in spirit and in prayer.
My friend is a great inspiration to me; although she is a few years younger than I, she has also had many careers, she has also struggled to know God, and her Vocation actually took her by surprise. She had not really considered religious life, and then, suddenly, discovered the Benedictines of Mary. Through her job in a parish, no less. (Just as I have discovered, through my current job in a parish the Sisters I am discerning). Sr. Mary was a socialite, never knowing a stranger. And that's how we became friends. She has a great sense of humor, an eye for beauty, a love of travel (having lived in Rome for a year), and we even identified on the career front; for awhile, she was a paramedic, and loved the work. (While I once aspired to that career, I stopped with EMT and used the training only in a volunteer capacity, somewhat marginally professionally through my short firefighting career.) As it was, I think we understood each other, but what was most important in our friendship was and remains our love for God and desiring to be what He calls us to be.
Although I cannot receive direct letters from her, for she is limited, I can send her blog posts, I can send her letters, and know that she is praying. And every time I pick up my Liturgy of the Hours, seeing her name inscribed inside the front cover, I pray for her.
It seems she has found her Vocation, and I wish I could describe to you her happiness the day I met her on the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. She'd just visited the Monastery and that evening had a meeting with her Spiritual Director. She ran out to me from her meeting, as we were to go to Mass together. You should have seen the GLOW emanating from her! I'd never seen her so happy, and she told me that her SD had never seen her so at peace.
God calls each and every one of us. I'm still struggling to find my place in His plan, and just today was in a conversation with a friend about this very thing. We are all formed by our backgrounds, our choices, the things we once thought we desired or thought were right, only to have to face the fact that they were not. Maybe for someone else, but not us.
I've been so confused given my own background, having to re-adjust my perspective to something other than the world's view, and it will probably be a struggle for a long time to come. And that's perfectly fine. It was what it was, and it now is what it is...but it doesn't have to be where I remain. God is calling. He has a plan. He always did. And He uses EVERYTHING.
But...in the end, we become who God called us to be, if only we keep trying. I'm not sure if I have a Vocation to religious life. I'm still very torn on this, especially recognizing my own ingrained habits. I'm certain I am not called to marriage, and the idea of a single, celibate life seems perfectly natural to me. Yet it's important that I take some time to discern if perhaps God might be calling me out of myself to live in a community, something that really does seem to go against my being...or maybe not. For is that really what I was seeking as I trekked through law enforcement, firefighting, and ski patrol? Was I really looking for a community home?
We, in our brokenness tend to look among the wrong things instead of the greater. We feel unworthy to approach the King, who calls us His children, recognizing in us the design to be princes and princesses. Instead, we eat the slop of pigs and look to foreign ideals for definition, when all we need to do is come back to the house of our Father.
I know that I'm still straddling these worlds. I have one foot in slop, the other in the King's Court, and for the life of me I can't seem to let go enough to let Our Lord clean me up, offer me a ring, and clothe me in the finery He's had on reserve. I can't seem to let go of my own definition of "freedom" in order to embrace true freedom.
And that's what it is about; our Vocation is not something that we do. It is who we are called to be; it's who we were brought into existence to become. And in the end, it is a call to eternal union with God.
I'm still searching, I'm still trying to come to terms with my past so that I can embrace my future. I'm still trying to die to myself so that I can live for God.
Only in finding my Vocation can I do any of it.
*
Spiritual Direction and Self-Deception
Terry at Abbey-Roads has a great post on Spiritual Direction, pointing out advice from the Saints. He quite correctly notes that often, we want a director out of self-love, and look for one who will flatter us, making us believe we have progressed further than we have. This is a danger in the spiritual life, but of course, if we really were Saints, then we wouldn't need to tell a director how holy we are, would we?
Here is what he has to say:
OUCH! Is anyone cringing?
I've been seeking a spiritual director for a long time now, and a big part of me doesn't want one, because, of course, if I'm honest with him I know I won't be able to step out of the spotlight that will be shown on my faults. However, those who are in vocational discernment are strongly recommended to get a spiritual director, and those preparing to enter religious life as well, for some pretty obvious reasons.
There are a couple priests in my diocese, whom, I've been told, believe that ONLY people discerning major things in life need regular spiritual direction, and they will not see anyone outside of those parameters. Terry's post makes me consider a little more deeply why that would be.
Last year in a class on Catholic Spirituality, our professor also pointed out that sometimes people need direction for specific things, maybe a few appointments, and then they're done. A good director knows how to listen and help that person understand on their own what God is doing in their lives, and often, they have that "lightbulb" moment and don't ask for or require further direction.
There is a WEALTH of information via the Saints that can aid us in our spiritual lives. I've been greatly benefited by St. Francis de Sales' Introduction to the Devout Life, and Finding God's Will for You, as well as Slawomir Biela's God Alone Suffices and most recently, St. Catherine of Siena's Dialogue. (I would not recommend this last for a beginning Catholic...it does seem to require a certain doctrinal foundation which she refers to repeatedly.)
That said, I've also often read that "Devout Life" is meant to be used by someone WHILE they are in spiritual direction for that was his intention. And St. Teresa of Avila's Interior Castle was written for cloistered nuns...not the laity.
Yet those books can be helpful, and they do draw attention to our own tendencies to think ourselves holy, in order that we can come crashing back to reality again and really work on what separates us from God.
Can't find a spiritual director? Terry makes a great point, from the counsel gleaned not just from the Saints, but from everyday Catholic living: stay close to the Sacraments, spend time in prayer, and take advantage of the wealth of the Church to aid you in holiness. Our holiness does not depend on having a spiritual director, but is entirely dependent upon following God's will for us.
Sometimes we need more intense assistance. Most of the time, we don't.
*
Here is what he has to say:
Many people who have grown accustomed to spending much time in prayer, reading many spiritual books, imagine themselves saints already and seek a spiritual director who suits their fantasy and taste, flattering their progress in the spiritual life, long before virtue is proven, or prayer is more than an occasional interior consolation, and so on. Many of us lay people imagine ourselves to be very holy if we spend a few hours a week in adoration, attend daily Mass, or recite the Liturgy of Hours on a more or less regular basis.
.
If we happen to have led wicked lives in the past, or have come through some great temptation or trauma, and experience the least hint of a remarkable conversion, even an experienced priest can think we are holy and very special. That is unfortunate, because then spiritual direction can become a pretext for mutual admiration and approval - a sort of spiritual recreation, rather than helping the soul enter the narrow way that leads to life.
OUCH! Is anyone cringing?
I've been seeking a spiritual director for a long time now, and a big part of me doesn't want one, because, of course, if I'm honest with him I know I won't be able to step out of the spotlight that will be shown on my faults. However, those who are in vocational discernment are strongly recommended to get a spiritual director, and those preparing to enter religious life as well, for some pretty obvious reasons.
There are a couple priests in my diocese, whom, I've been told, believe that ONLY people discerning major things in life need regular spiritual direction, and they will not see anyone outside of those parameters. Terry's post makes me consider a little more deeply why that would be.
Last year in a class on Catholic Spirituality, our professor also pointed out that sometimes people need direction for specific things, maybe a few appointments, and then they're done. A good director knows how to listen and help that person understand on their own what God is doing in their lives, and often, they have that "lightbulb" moment and don't ask for or require further direction.
There is a WEALTH of information via the Saints that can aid us in our spiritual lives. I've been greatly benefited by St. Francis de Sales' Introduction to the Devout Life, and Finding God's Will for You, as well as Slawomir Biela's God Alone Suffices and most recently, St. Catherine of Siena's Dialogue. (I would not recommend this last for a beginning Catholic...it does seem to require a certain doctrinal foundation which she refers to repeatedly.)
That said, I've also often read that "Devout Life" is meant to be used by someone WHILE they are in spiritual direction for that was his intention. And St. Teresa of Avila's Interior Castle was written for cloistered nuns...not the laity.
Yet those books can be helpful, and they do draw attention to our own tendencies to think ourselves holy, in order that we can come crashing back to reality again and really work on what separates us from God.
Can't find a spiritual director? Terry makes a great point, from the counsel gleaned not just from the Saints, but from everyday Catholic living: stay close to the Sacraments, spend time in prayer, and take advantage of the wealth of the Church to aid you in holiness. Our holiness does not depend on having a spiritual director, but is entirely dependent upon following God's will for us.
Sometimes we need more intense assistance. Most of the time, we don't.
*
Saturday, January 03, 2009
Dandelions for Dad - Part III
Part II can be found here. Names have been changed. This is the last chapter, all written in January, 1995 with the exception of the end. The "ending" was written a few years after his death, after I'd graduated college and had gotten my first career. I also added a small adjustment today. Because I didn't have a relationship with God at the time, I did not speak of Him, although my writings about my Father since then have been filled with the grace of Faith God has given me.
**
I kept glancing at the coffin containing my father. He looked so peaceful, but so bloated. He had gained a lot of weight, but the jaundice didn't show. I was glad the funeral home had done such a good job. We had chosen to keep the coffin open for that very reason and also to avoid questions a closed casked would prompt.
**
One of the mourners told me about Michelle. She was a little 5-year-old girl who lived next door to Dad. He learned one day that her own father had abandoned her and her mother, so every Monday, he went over to give Michelle some sort of gift, be it gum, a Disney movie, or simply a piece of candy. This went on for three years. Dad died on a Tuesday. On Monday, Michelle had noticed his absence. The week prior, Jacob had brought the last gift.
Michelle, in return for Dad's kindness, gave "Mr. Josh" a single pink rose to place beside the casket.
At first, when I gleaned this information, I felt guilty. I thought that he had felt abandoned by me, his own daughter, and had "adopted" Michelle to take my place. I later came to my senses, realizing my selfishness. I understood that the situation was simply an example of the kind of person my father had been - right up until the day he died. Dad always considered others, was sentimental, and always tried in little ways to make things better for people around him.
**
After the service, the family again had privacy. I stood in front of the coffin, staring once again at Dad, knowing that this was it, the final goodbye. I would never see him again. On Monday as I sat in class, Dad would either be stored or buried, never to see the sky again. I cried as if I would never stop, and honestly, I felt that I never could. Jacob stood beside me, his arm around my shoulders, trying to comfort me. But all the self-control in the world would not put a stop to this. Finally he ordered me to look at him.
Tearing my eyes away from Dad, I looked at Jacob as he told me, "Say goodbye, turn around, walk away, and don't look back."
I knew he was right and this was it. I looked at Dad once more, reached out to take hold of his arm and give it a squeeze, let go, turned around, and walked away. I never looked back.
Jacob and I hugged each other and cried together. I hitched in a breath and whispered what had been plaguing my very soul ever since I heard the news.
"He never knew how much I loved and appreciated him..."
"Yes, he did.." Jacob's words were proper, but his voice betrayed a different truth.
"No, he didn't. I never told him..."
Then Jacob said the one thing that succeeded in giving me some perspective. "Life is always unfinished."
**
I often think of my Dad, and usually not a day goes by that I don't remember him. I try not to feel the guilt that sneaks up on me when I least expect it. I try not to remember all the weekends I could have spent time with him - but didn't. The truth was that I couldn't face the problem because it made me feel helpless and I didn't know how to deal with that. So I ran away.
Dad wouldn't help himself, so we couldn't help him, either. So we forgot him.
Dad was the only person who had ever supported my dreams wholeheartedly, unquestioningly, and unconditionally. He supported my career choices from the beginning. He believed Jacob and I could do anything, and actually told us so. He gave me incentive in the first place and related over and over how much he bragged to his friends about our accomplishments.
And I never appreciated it.
Dad was not there when I graduated from Law Enforcement skills in the summer of 1995, nor was he there when I graduated with my 1st college degree or my subsequent Master's (2010 update). He wasn't there to congratulate me and help me celebrate when I got my first professional job. If I ever get married, he won't be there to escort me to the altar. If I ever have children, he will not be there to hold them. If I enter religious life, he won't be there to witness my vows and meet his new "family". I can never call him on the phone or go visit him at home. He will never again laugh with me at the stupid little tricks life plays on us. Dad is gone and he has left a huge, never-ending void in my life that can never be repaired.
If there is one thing I hope to pass on that I learned from my father, it is this: How to see and appreciate the good in life, no matter how little sun we see or how dark it becomes. He always put the happiness of others before his own, and I can only hope that one day I'll have the fortitude to do the same.
In memory of my Father
For all the things left unsaid.
Rest in Peace. I love you, Dad.
*
**
I kept glancing at the coffin containing my father. He looked so peaceful, but so bloated. He had gained a lot of weight, but the jaundice didn't show. I was glad the funeral home had done such a good job. We had chosen to keep the coffin open for that very reason and also to avoid questions a closed casked would prompt.
**
One of the mourners told me about Michelle. She was a little 5-year-old girl who lived next door to Dad. He learned one day that her own father had abandoned her and her mother, so every Monday, he went over to give Michelle some sort of gift, be it gum, a Disney movie, or simply a piece of candy. This went on for three years. Dad died on a Tuesday. On Monday, Michelle had noticed his absence. The week prior, Jacob had brought the last gift.
Michelle, in return for Dad's kindness, gave "Mr. Josh" a single pink rose to place beside the casket.
At first, when I gleaned this information, I felt guilty. I thought that he had felt abandoned by me, his own daughter, and had "adopted" Michelle to take my place. I later came to my senses, realizing my selfishness. I understood that the situation was simply an example of the kind of person my father had been - right up until the day he died. Dad always considered others, was sentimental, and always tried in little ways to make things better for people around him.
**
After the service, the family again had privacy. I stood in front of the coffin, staring once again at Dad, knowing that this was it, the final goodbye. I would never see him again. On Monday as I sat in class, Dad would either be stored or buried, never to see the sky again. I cried as if I would never stop, and honestly, I felt that I never could. Jacob stood beside me, his arm around my shoulders, trying to comfort me. But all the self-control in the world would not put a stop to this. Finally he ordered me to look at him.
Tearing my eyes away from Dad, I looked at Jacob as he told me, "Say goodbye, turn around, walk away, and don't look back."
I knew he was right and this was it. I looked at Dad once more, reached out to take hold of his arm and give it a squeeze, let go, turned around, and walked away. I never looked back.
Jacob and I hugged each other and cried together. I hitched in a breath and whispered what had been plaguing my very soul ever since I heard the news.
"He never knew how much I loved and appreciated him..."
"Yes, he did.." Jacob's words were proper, but his voice betrayed a different truth.
"No, he didn't. I never told him..."
Then Jacob said the one thing that succeeded in giving me some perspective. "Life is always unfinished."
**
I often think of my Dad, and usually not a day goes by that I don't remember him. I try not to feel the guilt that sneaks up on me when I least expect it. I try not to remember all the weekends I could have spent time with him - but didn't. The truth was that I couldn't face the problem because it made me feel helpless and I didn't know how to deal with that. So I ran away.
Dad wouldn't help himself, so we couldn't help him, either. So we forgot him.
Dad was the only person who had ever supported my dreams wholeheartedly, unquestioningly, and unconditionally. He supported my career choices from the beginning. He believed Jacob and I could do anything, and actually told us so. He gave me incentive in the first place and related over and over how much he bragged to his friends about our accomplishments.
And I never appreciated it.
Dad was not there when I graduated from Law Enforcement skills in the summer of 1995, nor was he there when I graduated with my 1st college degree or my subsequent Master's (2010 update). He wasn't there to congratulate me and help me celebrate when I got my first professional job. If I ever get married, he won't be there to escort me to the altar. If I ever have children, he will not be there to hold them. If I enter religious life, he won't be there to witness my vows and meet his new "family". I can never call him on the phone or go visit him at home. He will never again laugh with me at the stupid little tricks life plays on us. Dad is gone and he has left a huge, never-ending void in my life that can never be repaired.
If there is one thing I hope to pass on that I learned from my father, it is this: How to see and appreciate the good in life, no matter how little sun we see or how dark it becomes. He always put the happiness of others before his own, and I can only hope that one day I'll have the fortitude to do the same.
In memory of my Father
For all the things left unsaid.
Rest in Peace. I love you, Dad.
*
Dandelions for Dad - Part II
Part I can be found here. Keep in mind that the names have been changed and the passages in blue italics are "flashbacks" to childhood.
I still remember that fateful fall day. It was dark, wet, and stormy, a day when even the clouds hung low in their gloomy desperation. Mom went out to the maple tree in the front yard and smashed a bottle to pieces, in a symbolic act of rejection. Shortly afterwards, Daddy walked out carrying a suitcase. From then on we only saw Daddy on weekends. Some time later, after much ado, sound, and fury, not to mention court battled and children as pawns, Mommy and Daddy were "Divorced."
"I'll tellya, Josh was a great guy. He could really put 'em away. When I remember the times we used to drink together..."
Sometimes I would appraise the speaker, note the beer gut, and think, "Guess what, buddy, you're next on the list..."
When I was 10, Mom, Jacob, and I moved to Minnesota. Dad came to visit one Easter and when he left, I had to go to school, where I sat in my seat and fought to hold back the tears. I was completely unable to control myself. I told the teacher I didn't feel well and she let me go to the bathroom. Some time later, the kindly, grandmotherly school secretary came to check on me. "Are you going to upchuck?" she queried.
I laughed at the term, having never heard it before. I told her no, but that I still felt sick. She told me that when I felt a little better I could come see her in the office. So I did, and I "helped" her out for awhile with some probably meaningless things. After some time she asked if I felt better and invited me to go back to class. But Mrs. Brugger let me know that I could come visit her any time I wanted.
She never asked me what was going on, but in looking back, I know she knew that I needed some time, and that sometimes "sick" was a word that described a lot of things without going into detail.
About a year later, Daddy moved to a nearby suburb and then to Minneapolis. We were able to see him a lot more, usually on weekends, since that was the court order. he denied drinking whenever confronted but just the same, we knew what was going on. The proof was all there, but we didn't know what to do to stop it.
"Which one of you is the one who loves horses? Oh, I have a picture from when you were about [that] big, when your dad brought you over to go horseback riding!"
I had always loved horses, and when I was 12, Dad paid for me to have riding lessons for about a year, even though eh couldn't afford it. On my 16th birthday, we went to Canterbury Downs to watch the horse races. We joked around about the "Filly for a Fan" drawing that I entered. he said we would name the filly "Julie's Dream" after me.
Before the race he asked me if I wanted to drive home and offered me the keys. Not being naive, I took them. Whenever he went to place our bets, he didn't return until the beginning of the next race. By the end of the last race, Daddy was not exactly sober. I drove home.
"My, I remember when you were just a little girl!!" You must be about done with college now, Eh? You haven't' been up here for how long now? It's too bad that such sad circumstances brought you to Michigan..."
Little by little I began to get involved in more and more activities in school and church, making it "impossible" for me to visit Dad. When I was pressured by Mom and Jacob to go visit him, I would make excuses, talking about how busy I was. The truth was this: I just didn't want to deal with it. Daddy was still drinking, wouldn't admit it, and I didn't want to spend the time dealing with the problem if he wouldn't.
My Grandpa died when I was 14. Dad moved to Michigan to take care of Grandma and make sure she was getting along. It was hard to see him at all after that since we had limited time off from school and only one family car, which of course was needed by my mother to get to work.
I thought I didn't care. I pretty much wrote Daddy off as dead, killed by alcohol which had left only a shell of his former self. Whenever I spoke to him on the phone, his speech was slurred and he often drifted off in mid-sentence, seeming to forget what he was talking about. Every once in awhile Jacob and I would talk, and we began to predict how much time Dad had left. And we felt helpless because there was absolutely nothing we could do.
Dad came down for my High School graduation. I didn't get much time to spend with him - I had parties, a boyfriend, and endless other "important duties" imposing on my "valuable time," not to mention a severely bipolar mother who terrified me and insisted I meet a certain curfew, far different than the legal standards. Dad left town the day after graduation. He had to get back to Michigan. I was happy he had come, but apparently not happy enough.
Jacob went to Michigan about once or twice a year to visit Dad. I had different circumstances than he and was never able to go. We did keep in contact by phone, but little by little, our conversations grew shorter and further apart. Dad was always checking and re-checking my address, as if he feared I would just up and move on him, disappearing off the face of the earth. That's probably exactly what he did think. And that's almost exactly what I did - not physically, but emotionally, I abandoned my Daddy.
I spoke to Dad before I'd left for my semester in Mexico, gave him my address there and promised to write. I did write to him, but there were so many things I wanted to tell him in person so I couldn't put everything down. I collected postcards for him, knowing he would enjoy those. About a month before I returned to the U.S., Jacob told me that Dad wasn't doing well, and that I should be prepared to come back and travel to Michigan immediately. I was angry with him, believing him to be overreacting.
I returned on schedule and that night I called Dad to let him know. We didn't say much; Dad sounded tired and his speech was slurred. I didn't know if he was drunk, or if it was just the effects of long-term alcohol use on his brain. I suspected the latter. Jacob went to Michigan without me; after having a semester with no work, I had a lot of shifts to pick up in order to be able to pay for second semester. So Jacob called about every other day to give us the latest reports. he said that Dad was incontinent, and he had to make "vodka runs" to the store for him, and Grandmas was almost blind and seemed to have no idea what was going on with her son.
On Christmas Eve I called to talk to Dad. Jacob said that Dad's back hurt and he was unable to get out of bed. The next day, Christmas, was the same story. Jacob said that he was turning yellow and he could hardly move. He refused to go to a doctor, so Jacob went on acting as private nurse. He returned home on New Year's Day, 1995.
On January 3rd, he woke me up to inform me that Dad had actually risen to go downstairs, repeating, "St. Francis, St. Francis", the name of the local hospital. he collapsed, was taken to the hospital and never regained consciousness. He had a Do Not Resuscitate order and had indicated he also did not want kidney dialysis.
The hospital kept him comfortable and the doctor kept in close contact with Jacob, who had been granted the burden of Power of Attorney.
I went to work with tears in my eyes, resigned to what my intuition told me - that Dad would die that day and I'd never get a chance to say goodbye. I worked to keep my mind off the situation, but all evening I watched the clock, waiting for the message to come. All through my shift I dealt with other people's crises, keeping watch over suicidal kids, talking them down from the hallucinations, letting them vent about their abuse issues. But I couldn't stay at work forever, and at some point I knew I'd have to face my own ghosts. When I got home at midnight, Mom came out of her room.
"Your Aunt Brenda called at 10:30. Honey, your Dad died at 9:00. I'm very sorry."
I called Jacob at his college. We talked for awhile and then I spent the night crying and praying, going out of my mind, not knowing what to do or how to feel, regretting every word I had never said, regretting what few words I did sometimes say. The next day, just to keep busy, I drove down to school to move some thing into my dorm room. I informed the people at work that I would be unable to work the remainder of the week. I packed and prepared for the information regarding the funeral. We left for Michigan on the 5th, for the wake and funeral on the 6th.
*
Go to Part III, Final Chapter
------------------------------------------------------------
I still remember that fateful fall day. It was dark, wet, and stormy, a day when even the clouds hung low in their gloomy desperation. Mom went out to the maple tree in the front yard and smashed a bottle to pieces, in a symbolic act of rejection. Shortly afterwards, Daddy walked out carrying a suitcase. From then on we only saw Daddy on weekends. Some time later, after much ado, sound, and fury, not to mention court battled and children as pawns, Mommy and Daddy were "Divorced."
**
Sometimes I would appraise the speaker, note the beer gut, and think, "Guess what, buddy, you're next on the list..."
**
I laughed at the term, having never heard it before. I told her no, but that I still felt sick. She told me that when I felt a little better I could come see her in the office. So I did, and I "helped" her out for awhile with some probably meaningless things. After some time she asked if I felt better and invited me to go back to class. But Mrs. Brugger let me know that I could come visit her any time I wanted.
She never asked me what was going on, but in looking back, I know she knew that I needed some time, and that sometimes "sick" was a word that described a lot of things without going into detail.
About a year later, Daddy moved to a nearby suburb and then to Minneapolis. We were able to see him a lot more, usually on weekends, since that was the court order. he denied drinking whenever confronted but just the same, we knew what was going on. The proof was all there, but we didn't know what to do to stop it.
**
"Which one of you is the one who loves horses? Oh, I have a picture from when you were about [that] big, when your dad brought you over to go horseback riding!"
I had always loved horses, and when I was 12, Dad paid for me to have riding lessons for about a year, even though eh couldn't afford it. On my 16th birthday, we went to Canterbury Downs to watch the horse races. We joked around about the "Filly for a Fan" drawing that I entered. he said we would name the filly "Julie's Dream" after me.
Before the race he asked me if I wanted to drive home and offered me the keys. Not being naive, I took them. Whenever he went to place our bets, he didn't return until the beginning of the next race. By the end of the last race, Daddy was not exactly sober. I drove home.
**
"My, I remember when you were just a little girl!!" You must be about done with college now, Eh? You haven't' been up here for how long now? It's too bad that such sad circumstances brought you to Michigan..."
**
Little by little I began to get involved in more and more activities in school and church, making it "impossible" for me to visit Dad. When I was pressured by Mom and Jacob to go visit him, I would make excuses, talking about how busy I was. The truth was this: I just didn't want to deal with it. Daddy was still drinking, wouldn't admit it, and I didn't want to spend the time dealing with the problem if he wouldn't.
My Grandpa died when I was 14. Dad moved to Michigan to take care of Grandma and make sure she was getting along. It was hard to see him at all after that since we had limited time off from school and only one family car, which of course was needed by my mother to get to work.
I thought I didn't care. I pretty much wrote Daddy off as dead, killed by alcohol which had left only a shell of his former self. Whenever I spoke to him on the phone, his speech was slurred and he often drifted off in mid-sentence, seeming to forget what he was talking about. Every once in awhile Jacob and I would talk, and we began to predict how much time Dad had left. And we felt helpless because there was absolutely nothing we could do.
**
Dad came down for my High School graduation. I didn't get much time to spend with him - I had parties, a boyfriend, and endless other "important duties" imposing on my "valuable time," not to mention a severely bipolar mother who terrified me and insisted I meet a certain curfew, far different than the legal standards. Dad left town the day after graduation. He had to get back to Michigan. I was happy he had come, but apparently not happy enough.
**
Jacob went to Michigan about once or twice a year to visit Dad. I had different circumstances than he and was never able to go. We did keep in contact by phone, but little by little, our conversations grew shorter and further apart. Dad was always checking and re-checking my address, as if he feared I would just up and move on him, disappearing off the face of the earth. That's probably exactly what he did think. And that's almost exactly what I did - not physically, but emotionally, I abandoned my Daddy.
I spoke to Dad before I'd left for my semester in Mexico, gave him my address there and promised to write. I did write to him, but there were so many things I wanted to tell him in person so I couldn't put everything down. I collected postcards for him, knowing he would enjoy those. About a month before I returned to the U.S., Jacob told me that Dad wasn't doing well, and that I should be prepared to come back and travel to Michigan immediately. I was angry with him, believing him to be overreacting.
I returned on schedule and that night I called Dad to let him know. We didn't say much; Dad sounded tired and his speech was slurred. I didn't know if he was drunk, or if it was just the effects of long-term alcohol use on his brain. I suspected the latter. Jacob went to Michigan without me; after having a semester with no work, I had a lot of shifts to pick up in order to be able to pay for second semester. So Jacob called about every other day to give us the latest reports. he said that Dad was incontinent, and he had to make "vodka runs" to the store for him, and Grandmas was almost blind and seemed to have no idea what was going on with her son.
On Christmas Eve I called to talk to Dad. Jacob said that Dad's back hurt and he was unable to get out of bed. The next day, Christmas, was the same story. Jacob said that he was turning yellow and he could hardly move. He refused to go to a doctor, so Jacob went on acting as private nurse. He returned home on New Year's Day, 1995.
On January 3rd, he woke me up to inform me that Dad had actually risen to go downstairs, repeating, "St. Francis, St. Francis", the name of the local hospital. he collapsed, was taken to the hospital and never regained consciousness. He had a Do Not Resuscitate order and had indicated he also did not want kidney dialysis.
The hospital kept him comfortable and the doctor kept in close contact with Jacob, who had been granted the burden of Power of Attorney.
I went to work with tears in my eyes, resigned to what my intuition told me - that Dad would die that day and I'd never get a chance to say goodbye. I worked to keep my mind off the situation, but all evening I watched the clock, waiting for the message to come. All through my shift I dealt with other people's crises, keeping watch over suicidal kids, talking them down from the hallucinations, letting them vent about their abuse issues. But I couldn't stay at work forever, and at some point I knew I'd have to face my own ghosts. When I got home at midnight, Mom came out of her room.
"Your Aunt Brenda called at 10:30. Honey, your Dad died at 9:00. I'm very sorry."
I called Jacob at his college. We talked for awhile and then I spent the night crying and praying, going out of my mind, not knowing what to do or how to feel, regretting every word I had never said, regretting what few words I did sometimes say. The next day, just to keep busy, I drove down to school to move some thing into my dorm room. I informed the people at work that I would be unable to work the remainder of the week. I packed and prepared for the information regarding the funeral. We left for Michigan on the 5th, for the wake and funeral on the 6th.
*
Go to Part III, Final Chapter
Dandelions for Dad - Part I
I've decided to post, in a series, what I wrote back in 1995 while trying to come to terms with my father's death. I couldn't speak to anyone, but I could write..and so I did. The format of this was what I had just experienced as a 20-year-old, alternating with flashbacks to childhood. All of the names have been changed.
Walking into that room was the hardest thing I've ever done in my life. Knowing that I was going to have to accept what I saw, not knowing how I would react...my legs were jelly and every force within me told me to turn and run away; to reject what had happened, to return home and go on with my life. But there was one stronger force which morbidly and determinedly pushed/pulled me towards the front of the room. The funeral director had set this up specially so that the family could "view the remains" before they closed the casket for the wake. Gritting my teeth, holding my breath, and fighting to control my emotions, I walked up to the coffin and stared down at my father.
I remembered being very young, and how much I loved my Daddy. I spent so much time with him that everyone called me "Daddy's Girl." I used to follow him around, singing him songs, keeping him company, asking questions, and joking around. I used to bring him my favorite flower, dandelions, and he would hold them under my chin to see if I liked butter. I often brought him bouquets of violets and dandelions, in all their vivid color. And he would always smile and thank me and give me a hug. Then he would put them in a vase as if they were the most precious gift he'd ever been given. He was a very good Daddy.
But sometimes, I remember, Daddy used to act kinda funny. I thought it had something to do with the strange-smelling stuff in the brown bottle. Or the stuff in the tan plastic glass with the brown rim. I wondered why he would never let me near it, or why Mommy glared at him so much when he had it. Then he and my mom started yelling at night after my brother, Jacob, and I were in bed. I was upset by it, but only because they were loud and mommys and daddys weren't supposed to fight. I would go to sleep, covers pulled over my head to protect me from the ghosts and monsters because Mommy and Daddy were too busy yelling at each other to chase the boogie man away.
People were coming in to pay their last respects. I was composed, but unsure of how to act. Jacob and I stood together, needing each other for support. My uncle directed the guests to sign the book. We accepted condolences and thanked people for coming. With a strange sort of detachment, I thought for awhile that I was the one who had died and the sentence imposed for my sins was to sit in eternal damnation at my father's funeral. The wake dragged on and on, always the same. Different faces, everyone saying the same inane things over and over again and again...
"He was so young! I never even knew he was sick! I just realized the other day that I hadn't seen Josh in awhile and I was going to go visit him...what happened?!"
We went on, telling the truth, so help us God. We went on as always, just as we had been for years, avoiding what should have been faced so long ago. Not that it mattered anymore.
Before we left to go to Daddy's friend's house (a shrine circus clown!), Mommy admonished Jacob and I not to ride with Daddy if he'd been drinking. I was confused. Wasn't it good to drink? Wasn't she always telling us to drink more water? Why shouldn't Daddy???
But I did understand, no matter how much my child's soul tried to hide it from me. and the clown's children, who were older than us, told us not to go with him. They thought they should call our mother. But being children, they did nothing, fearing even to do what was right. There was a line there between adult and childhood, and it should never be crossed - so we thought then. As the time drew near for our departure, even though I heard whispers of daddy's friend's children, talking about our dad and looking at us worriedly and sorrowfully, we still got into his car. What choice did we have? He was Daddy! And Daddy always knew what was right. It was easy to relinquish control when you don't possess it in the first place.
Daddy was driving funny on the way home, swerving all over the road, back and forth. Jacob and I were laughing because Daddy was fooling around, just being funny. then we looked behind us at the flashing lights. Wow!! A police car! Just like in "CHiPs"! Daddy was getting "pulled over!" Neato-Cool!!!
It never really occurred to us that Daddy was doing something wrong.
Jacob and I got a ride home in the squad car. Mommy wouldn't tell me what was going on but years later I learned that she went to bail Daddy out of jail that night.
"I'm very sorry this happened. If there's anything I can do..." Voices droned on and on.
I wanted to scream at them, "Look! There's nothing you or anyone else can do! He's dead! Look at him! you should have done something while he was alive so that you wouldn't have to smother me with meaningless words!!!! Someone should have stopped this from happening! GO AWAY!"
But I only nodded and thanked them for coming.
Go to Part II
** ** **
Walking into that room was the hardest thing I've ever done in my life. Knowing that I was going to have to accept what I saw, not knowing how I would react...my legs were jelly and every force within me told me to turn and run away; to reject what had happened, to return home and go on with my life. But there was one stronger force which morbidly and determinedly pushed/pulled me towards the front of the room. The funeral director had set this up specially so that the family could "view the remains" before they closed the casket for the wake. Gritting my teeth, holding my breath, and fighting to control my emotions, I walked up to the coffin and stared down at my father.
** ** **
I remembered being very young, and how much I loved my Daddy. I spent so much time with him that everyone called me "Daddy's Girl." I used to follow him around, singing him songs, keeping him company, asking questions, and joking around. I used to bring him my favorite flower, dandelions, and he would hold them under my chin to see if I liked butter. I often brought him bouquets of violets and dandelions, in all their vivid color. And he would always smile and thank me and give me a hug. Then he would put them in a vase as if they were the most precious gift he'd ever been given. He was a very good Daddy.
But sometimes, I remember, Daddy used to act kinda funny. I thought it had something to do with the strange-smelling stuff in the brown bottle. Or the stuff in the tan plastic glass with the brown rim. I wondered why he would never let me near it, or why Mommy glared at him so much when he had it. Then he and my mom started yelling at night after my brother, Jacob, and I were in bed. I was upset by it, but only because they were loud and mommys and daddys weren't supposed to fight. I would go to sleep, covers pulled over my head to protect me from the ghosts and monsters because Mommy and Daddy were too busy yelling at each other to chase the boogie man away.
** ** **
People were coming in to pay their last respects. I was composed, but unsure of how to act. Jacob and I stood together, needing each other for support. My uncle directed the guests to sign the book. We accepted condolences and thanked people for coming. With a strange sort of detachment, I thought for awhile that I was the one who had died and the sentence imposed for my sins was to sit in eternal damnation at my father's funeral. The wake dragged on and on, always the same. Different faces, everyone saying the same inane things over and over again and again...
"He was so young! I never even knew he was sick! I just realized the other day that I hadn't seen Josh in awhile and I was going to go visit him...what happened?!"
We went on, telling the truth, so help us God. We went on as always, just as we had been for years, avoiding what should have been faced so long ago. Not that it mattered anymore.
** ** **
Before we left to go to Daddy's friend's house (a shrine circus clown!), Mommy admonished Jacob and I not to ride with Daddy if he'd been drinking. I was confused. Wasn't it good to drink? Wasn't she always telling us to drink more water? Why shouldn't Daddy???
But I did understand, no matter how much my child's soul tried to hide it from me. and the clown's children, who were older than us, told us not to go with him. They thought they should call our mother. But being children, they did nothing, fearing even to do what was right. There was a line there between adult and childhood, and it should never be crossed - so we thought then. As the time drew near for our departure, even though I heard whispers of daddy's friend's children, talking about our dad and looking at us worriedly and sorrowfully, we still got into his car. What choice did we have? He was Daddy! And Daddy always knew what was right. It was easy to relinquish control when you don't possess it in the first place.
Daddy was driving funny on the way home, swerving all over the road, back and forth. Jacob and I were laughing because Daddy was fooling around, just being funny. then we looked behind us at the flashing lights. Wow!! A police car! Just like in "CHiPs"! Daddy was getting "pulled over!" Neato-Cool!!!
It never really occurred to us that Daddy was doing something wrong.
Jacob and I got a ride home in the squad car. Mommy wouldn't tell me what was going on but years later I learned that she went to bail Daddy out of jail that night.
***
"I'm very sorry this happened. If there's anything I can do..." Voices droned on and on.
I wanted to scream at them, "Look! There's nothing you or anyone else can do! He's dead! Look at him! you should have done something while he was alive so that you wouldn't have to smother me with meaningless words!!!! Someone should have stopped this from happening! GO AWAY!"
But I only nodded and thanked them for coming.
Go to Part II
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