Feb 28, 2011
The Gift
"The Presentation of the Gifts during mass is more than just bringing up the bread, wine and collection. Those members of the congregation are not just bringing up our monetary offering. They are symbolically bringing up our spiritual offerings and requests as well. Which makes it a good time to silently let God know our prayers and requests, and give him our thanks. (Instead of sitting there aimlessly tapping your feet to the hymn like I have been guilty of doing...)" ~Michael at Reach Paradise
My family is often asked to bring up the gifts at Mass and we don't like it! It's uncomfortable getting up in front of everybody and walking to the front-feeling all those eyes upon you. Yesterday, my husband, my youngest daughter and I were on the end of the pew, so we decided that it would be just us three to bring up the gifts instead of our whole family of six marching up there. (Number seven was cantoring, and after Mass Fr. Dennis commented on the fact that I was beaming every time my oldest son sang!)
But, youngest son didn't get the message. There he was following Paul and Mary and I to the back of church. He looked as if he hadn't brushed his hair and I noticed that his face was dirty with a blue-tinged mustache from blue kool-aid enjoyed the night before during a family Monopoly game! (Why didn't I notice that before we left the house?) I felt embarrassed.
"And Jesus, looking at him, loved him." Mark 10:21
But the truth is that my youngest son coming along to the altar carrying the jar of wine was the best gift of all! My youngest son presented himself just as he is-a boy in NEED of God's love and mercy and always eager to give himself to the Lord in any condition he finds himself. He didn't hide behind any pretenses or false self. He came as he was with all of the love in his heart and his forever readiness to give himself to God.
How I wish I could be like that! I want to open my heart, really open my heart, to give God my all-even my messy, dirty, unkempt self-because He loves me, the real me, not just the me I am willing to show to the world, but the me that I bury deep inside because I'm ashamed of who I really am. If I could be able to do that, then I would become a real gift to my Maker.
And now I realize that even with a blue-tinged mustache and messy hair, my youngest son inspires my heart to pride and joy just as much as my oldest son does with his gift of song! And the next time that my family is asked to bring the offertory gifts to the altar, I will do so with joy in my heart, knowing that by doing so, I am praising God with my entire self, the good and the bad, all of which He loves with a deep and abiding love.
"You who are alive and well shall praise and glorify God in his mercies. How great the mercy of the Lord, his forgiveness of those who return to him!" Sirach17:24
Feb 26, 2011
The Truth Hurts
I loved this poster when I first heard about it, and I believe the message it portrays to be true. But, I also understand the reason why it was removed from the New York building to which it was displayed...nobody likes to be confronted with a painful truth day in and day out. We don't quite know how to handle the hurt, the guilt we feel, even those of us who have never personally had an abortion. Archbishop Dolan plainly and clearly speaks to this intolerance in his most recent blog post.
But I face these truths nearly every day in my work-life. Just yesterday, in fact. There we sat, face to face, a young mother and I. As I cozied up to her and shared the fact that we are both mothers of five children, I expected us to get along just fine because of our commonality. But then she said it, she said those words I dread, those words that put a knot in my stomach every single time I hear them..."My most recent pregnancy ended in abortion."
My most recent pregnancy ended in abortion.
Maybe I should be keeping track of the number of times I've heard those tragic words, those words that cause my heart to harden, that make me turn away from the client I am with, unable to face her, unsure of what to say. I quickly pray, for her and for her now-dead baby, that's for certain. But I am unable to draw any sort of compassion from my heart, for those words have been uttered in my presence far too often.
Once is far too often.
I want to see inside her heart and I wonder about how she might be feeling. Is she sorry? Is she hurting over her decision and what she's done? Or, is she relieved with no regrets?
But, I can't dwell on my thoughts; I'm paid to do a job. I've got to give this woman nutrition counseling and vouchers for six months of nutritious foods even though she killed her baby, because according to WIC (Women, Infants and Children) policy all postpartum women who qualify based on financial need and nutrition risk are allowed to receive WIC benefits (nutrition education and healthy foods-milk, eggs, cereal, bread, fruits, vegetables and juice) for six months following the termination of a pregnancy-whether that termination resulted in a birth, miscarriage or abortion.
The truth hurts, yes, but abortion hurts with a damage beyond repair.
Lord, give me a heart of compassion, a heart of love for all. Wake me up from the dread fear and sorrow that grips my heart in the presence of painful truths. Give me strength to cope and courage to turn the hearts of others so that everyone will value life, will give life, your greatest gift to us all. And please, God, don't ever let me grow comfortable upon hearing those words "My most recent pregnancy ended in abortion." Let me always feel the discomfort and pain that the loss of innocent life rightly deserves. Amen.
Feb 25, 2011
Me N My China Town Warrior (Early Draft - Chapter 1)
Hey readers,
I'm just posting an early draft of the first chapter of Me N My China Town Warrior. Seriously, it's draft 1. Anyway, it doesn't give away too many spoilers from the book it's a sequel to (China Town Warrior - available on Amazon if you haven't read any of my crazy postings like every day this past week). My intention was to have a main story that connects for a 4 book series, but I also wanted to have each book able to be read as stand-alone titles.
Anyway, I've got about 6 chapters done for the first draft of this new book, then I'm going to take a break and adapt a screenplay I had written into a novel (completely unrelated to China Town Warrior). But yeah... Read it.... Comment if you feel the need. They're always appreciated.
NOTE: If you want a soundtrack to play while reading this, the first song I label accurately, but the second one I'll add in here just in case. It helps create the visuals.
1st song - "Me N My Arrow" - Harry Nilsson
2nd song - "Onward Blindly Onward" - Rare Air
“You… uh… like… uh sucking Irish cawk, you rotten whoooooooooar?” It was the pitiful attempt of a fat, young oaf to talk dirty as his pregnant brunette mistress rhythmically bobbed her head up and down below him. The balding ogre with a ring of buzzed, blonde hair and the most innocent blue eyes anyone has ever seen gurgled like an overweight newborn, dangling baby fat cushioning his chin from his neck.
One tender, pudgy hand clutched the steering wheel, holding it steady as the headlights lit up a long stretch of paved road lined with trees on either side for as far as the night eye could see. Isolation. These two lovers were alone on an infinite path of nothingness driving about 80 miles per hour.
Harry Nilsson’s “Me and My Arrow” chimed in over the radio as the brunette slurped beneath the ogre. She paused for a moment to catch a breath, running a hand across her chin to wipe some dribble away, and then returned to the work of an intern.
While one hand was fiercely gripped on the wheel, the other was holding a fried chicken drumstick in the air like a golden, crusted scepter, rubbing the greasy hunk of meat against the baby-faced barbarian’s open lips, a perfect arrangement of teeth tearing into the extra crispy batch of soul food. Tiny pieces of crinkled chicken skin drizzled off the gargantuan’s chin into the mistress’ hair, unknowingly entombed for an eternity amidst a vaporous jungle of hair spray.
A figure appeared suddenly on the road ahead. It was that of a man, shrouded in what looked like a brown overcoat or sheriff’s duster from the Western films of old. The man had long, dark hair dangling out from around his neck over the front of his cloak. A backpack nestled on one shoulder, rugged and torn.
The king behind the wheel watched as this man trudged down the desolate road, marching out in the middle of nowhere for God knows how long. Alone. Surrounded by trees and plains for miles without recourse. What was he doing here? Where had he come from?
Curved road up ahead spelled out the crimson Ferrari’s doom, as the driver’s head was turned, watching a figure shrink back into the darkness. It was a turn onto a bridge over a lake glimmering in the moonlight like a star-studded romance movie cliché. The king screamed, tossing his half-eaten scepter behind him and clutching the wheel with both hands. The flight over the railing was majestic, something magical and dazzling in the ambience of the night sky’s glistening array.
Water rushed its way through the cracks and lining of the car, seeping in like the mighty hand of Poseidon, dragging the couple down to their eternal slumber. The brunette was flung off the man on impact, tossed back into her seat. Her seatbelt clamped around her as her pretty nails feverishly clutched for the release button.
The man already had his undone and was working on kicking his door open, jamming his wing-tipped shoes repeatedly against the lodged door until it finally gave. Pushing himself out, the man swam to the surface, dressed for success with his red power tie wading through the water like a shark’s fin.
A gasp announced to the cosmos that he was safe. The man waded for a few moments, waiting for a second gasp that would not surface. Terror lurked in his orbs as he swam for shore near the bridge, chubby digits clawing into thick mud. Beaching himself, the solemn beast wriggled along solid ground, reborn in the wet earth that enveloped him.
Crisp and cold was the night mother that swarmed around him as he climbed to his feet, and crisp and cold was his heart, still beating at the bottom of that lake, anchored by his unborn mistake. A baby’s underwater scream looped through his brain as he stood there for a moment. Silent. Stern. Those eyes scanned the desolate road for any sign of life. There were no headlights, and his house was back the way he came.
That’s when the Irish jig seized his legs. Senator Ian Hannity couldn’t explain it, but as peril and fear crept further into his heart, as he heard his father, Judge Hannity slamming the gavel down at his trial of manslaughter, the young oaf just ran. Onward. Blindly. Onward. Run. Allow the Irish tin flute and bagpipes to set the rhythm. It will be all right if you run. If you dance.
Barreling down the street like a tub of jello wrapped in a muddy business suit, Ian listened to the music. His face reddened as he breathed heavier than he ever has in his entire life, and his power tie fluttered behind him like a banner, waving good-bye to the night mother of mischief deeds. Fire rushed up his leg muscles, and heat circulated through those frosty veins, filling up the heart with hope and prospect once more. Maybe no one will ever know? Maybe no one will ever find the wreck?
And so he ran for what felt like a century. He bolted down an endless array of trees along a recently renovated highway pondering the glass of scotch on the rocks that awaited him back at home where it was safe. He thought of how glad he would be to see his oblivious wife and his five year-old son. Oh, and a big plate of bangers and mash.
The thump to the chest brought an end to these thoughts. It was a rock hard, rugged hand jutting out from a sheriff’s duster like a concrete blockade – the kind of hand with off-centered and fearsome-looking knuckles and massive veins pushing through the cracked skin around it. It was a worker’s hand, unlike his dainty, tender playboy’s mitt.
“Excuse me,” Hannity flustered. His own soft paws attempted to move the solid clamp that held him in place to no avail.
“You crash your car?” the stranger asked. His voice was deep, like the sleeping sounds of a hibernating bear echoing off the walls of a never-ending cavern. Eyes like blue moons illuminated behind a canvas of long, dark hair. His face was also veiled by this canvas and a thick mustache that tickled the lips as he spoke.
“No?” Hannity pleaded.
“I heard something crash into the lake up there,” the stranger said. “Were you driving that car? Was anybody hurt?”
As the stranger spoke, Ian saw the man’s eyes water and shimmer like two deep whirlpools. Little red Ferraris sunk to an eternal slumber beneath the glazed orbs, and a baby once again gurgled beneath the waves.
“Look,” the senator said, pausing for a moment to collect his thoughts and reflect on the damning sound wreaking havoc on his brain, “It was… uh… just me in there. I’m… uh… fine.”
“Are you sure?” the stranger asked. He removed the clamp, but his eyes froze over like small icicles, probing into Ian’s facial features and expressions as if searching for a secret to spear.
“Certainly,” Hannity barked, running his hands over his forehead. “I’m fine. Fine!” He chuckled lightly. “What… uh… are you doin’ out here anyways?”
“Walking.” The stranger shrugged casually.
“Wawking? Wawking to whe-ar? From whe-ar?” A spark ignited in Hannity’s cold frame. This could be an angle for him to exploit or use to his advantage. A strange man walking down this desolate highway in between towns that are at least 60 miles apart?
“Just walking.”
“Hmm. What have you… uh… seen while you’ve been wawking?” Ian reached into the pocket of his pants and pulled out a soggy pack of gum. Juicy Fruit. Hopefully the flavor is still there.
“A couple cars. Your car. Then I heard it crash.”
“Yeah?” He carefully removed the gum from its flooded package and folded the piece over before placing it on his tongue. “I bet you’ve been wawking for a while. You must be… uh… tired. Maybe hungry?”
“Aren’t we all in some manner of speaking?” The stranger’s lips curled into a smile as an ignition of life burst forth through his demeanor. He brushed the hair away from his face, revealing a youthful appearance beneath that haggard and worn mask. Those blue orbs sparkled, and a warmth instantaneously filled the night. “I’m just a wanderer learning what I can learn.”
Something about this vitality and comfort possessed Ian Hannity and forced his hand to extend forward. His fingers clasped the stranger’s, and they shook on it.
“I’m just a senutah,” Ian grinned. “We’re about ten miles away from… uh… my home city. We can wawk back and grab a scotch… or something, Wanderer.”
END
The first novel can be purchased HERE
Purple with Jewels a la Katy Perry!
A Lit Candle
I'm turning inward to God, silently giving Him all of the nuances of my heart-the pain, the worry, the joy, the busyness, the frustration, the love, the deep acceptance of it all...and in that silent prayer, words to share escape me; I'm lost in an unexplainable whirl. Then...I find these words that help explain it all...I am a burning candle, lit somewhere in the middle of my life, not knowing or caring where I began or how long I will last. Would you like to read more about burning flames? Visit Katherine at Evlogia today and see how you, too, are a candle in the present moment...
Feb 22, 2011
Unknown
and although we never spoke,
in my self-centered obsession
I felt that he didn't like me
because he wouldn't smile or even
make eye contact with me
but others spoke highly of him
and the good he did in this world
taking a poor sister into his care
helping her return to her home
half a world away
and day after day
we sat only a few pews apart
our voices joined in prayer
to the only One who will ever
really know us
now he's gone, his pew is empty
his soul is on its final journey
to the only One who really
does knows him
what's left behind is a sparse
obituary
and a prayer in my heart
for the man who was, to me,
unknown
her funeral was small,
only a few relatives in attendance
but their love for her was
genuine, and the tears
they cried were real
although she had spent
her entire adulthood
in a house near the church
poor health required a move
to the nursing home
in recent years
I was shocked
when the officiating priest
had to ask for her name
during his funeral homily
and I thought it sad
to be unknown
and I longed to make a difference
leave a mark upon the earth
to reveal my face and what
is deep within my heart
before it's too late
and I pass this way unknown
I busy myself
and I make connections
and I strive and I push
because all I want is to
be known
yet in the end, will it really matter?
when He calls me to His heart
He will know who I am
down to the smallest detail;
and after I'm gone
there will still be an empty pew
left behind
and some tears shed by those
who love me
but the world at large
will never know me
will not remember me
and it does not matter at all
that I am unknown
spending precious time with Him
in the silence of my heart,
with head bowed down
and knees to earth,
we share all we need to know
of the other
so if these fleeting moments
here on earth
leave me by myself, alone
familiarity will still be mine
in His heart, I will always
be known
Feb 20, 2011
Pleased to Meet You; Hope You Guess My Name
It's about 1:30 A.M. on this lovely Sunday morning. The chill of Winter has returned and destroyed many a hope for an early Spring, sending the rejuvenating feeling of rebirth back into its cave, hiding from that frosty air of death that surrounds us all.
Or some shit like that.
It's not time for a cheap attempt at poetics. It's time for a party - time to force that rebirth and that renaissance of man to SPRING forth. As of today, I am an official "published author" in a manner of speaking. I am of the few who followed through with their convictions and charges of completing a "novel" and distributing it to the masses at large. Granted, selling and earning some money is an entirely different kind of animal... ALTOGETHER!
But that's not what I'm thinking about.
I mean, it is, but it isn't.
I've had a few Jack and cokes tonight. No beer for a change. Tonight was a Jack and coke night in that it pleased the female bartender with the nice rack. 'Cannons' as I called her, as she enjoyed showing them off in earnest hope to grab a bigger tip (cash tip, not penis). She even proclaimed it to the Heavens, telling all us rowdy boys that her mother used to say, "If you've got it, flaunt it." Uncreative and cliche.... but still a saying worth adhering to, I suppose.
Cannons was lovely though. She danced beautifully behind the bar, her perfect body swaying with such rhythm and grace that even a blind man could feel she glimmered in a manner more picturesque than the Taj Mahal at night. It was her eyes that frightened me though. They were dark and pained. Anguishing eyes that spoke of horrors and atrocities she tried to kick under the rug with her tantric dances. Her beauty hid a forlorn secret sealed away in a deep tomb, one that didn't want to be open. It was like the Ark of the Covenant in a sense, something that one had to avert their eyes too.
The bar in general was such an atrocity - a dive bar with more dramatic interludes between the players than a daytime soap. One could feel it in the air and hear it on the breaths of all those sullen drinkers. They all fucked and fought with one another, isolated in their own little Carpentersville strip mall.
But Cannons.... She was the broken gem in all this.... And she was all I could think about as I sat there, listening to the crew for "Boys Night Out" riff one another about each others' mothers.
Driving home, escaping that dismal void of oblivion, I let my inner werewolf loose. He had been building within me all this time as Cannons danced - hungering madly, a depraved beast lurking in the darkness like some ravenous animal. It was the atmosphere that brought him out, the hopelessness that put the published author in a daze. The logical, nonsensical one went to sleep while I puffed on a cigar outside the madhouse, and the inner beast clawed at the gates. I could feel my lips raise in a snarl as tobacco plumes flared from my nostrils. My eyebrows furrowed. My fingers bent into crooked paws.
Once I hit my car and the clutch was engaged, he was free to bellow out and howl at the moon. His breath fogged the frozen windshield, and his eyes peered through the cover of frost caking all viewpoints. Locked inside this vehicle, the monster was free to be himself. His incessant howling gave way to the sore, scratchy throat I feel now, as the wolf hungered for "Jump Into the Fire" by Harry Nilsson on the way home.
You can climb a mountain
You can swim the seaaaaaaa-eeeeeaaaaaa
You can jump into the fire
But you'll never be freeeeeeeeeeeee
You can shake me up,
Or I can break you dooooooooown!
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH
OOOOOH OOOOOOH OOOOOOOH OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH
(repeat)
"We can make each other happy!" he belted. "We can make each other haaaaappy! We can MAKE EACH OTHER HAPPY!"
It wasn't Cannons the wolf was thinking about. She was just that gem in a mine of sorrow. It was the rejuvenating Spring shining forth that glimmered in his hoarse howls. It was the thought of being published, of being a writer, of possibly getting paid to tell stories and entertain. It was the thought... of HER. Of a twinkling memory of days gone by. Of a goddess among mortals. A woman so divine that the writer who held the wolf at bay failed to achieve many moons ago.
But this was a new moon. This was a new eve. A new dawn. A new opportunity. And he was a newer, more evolved creature.
The physical manifestation of constructing imagination into reality was back. The Gene Wilder "Willy Wonka" ingenuity and persona was rebuilding itself, and it was ready to impose such a wonderment on the outlying dark world.
Like Cannons, the wolf, in his own way, was a shimmer of hope in a desolate, dead wasteland. He had the power to bring anew blooming plants and lush greenery like Arthur after sipping from the Holy Grail. Personal achievement had been ascertained, and it kept going... kept pushing forth from the brain... through the hands... to the paper... Infinite Nonsense was channeling into the world from another dimension.
On this day, hope was reborn. Hope not just for building an empire of a changing thought, but hope for feeling the warm vibrations of love, accomplishment, and strive again.
May the werewolf stay unleashed.
Feb 19, 2011
Published!
I published my first novel. I guess it's best described as a grindhouse exploitation-style social comedy about the modern day male brain. Here's a trailer below I made for it.
Also, here is the link to the book on Amazon!
http://www.amazon.com/China-Town-Warrior-Scott-Waldyn/dp/1456541765/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1298154936&sr=8-3
The Catholic Priest: Image of Christ
Helping with this website, even in a limited way considering his busy high school schedule with study, sports, work and volunteering at church, has been a tremendous blessing in my son's life. Last year, Fr. Jim Kubicki, SJ, the national director of the Apostleship of Prayer, had mentioned A Vocation to be a Priest to the staff at our local Relevant Radio station, and John was interviewed for their vocation week special. More recently, John was contacted by Steen Heidemann, the author of The Catholic Priest:Image of Christ. Mr. Heidemann generously sent John a copy of his beautiful book and asked John to review it on the website.
When the book arrived in the mail, I was overcome with the beauty of the artwork it contained. With John's permission, I shared The Catholic Priest: Image of Christ with my friends at St. Francis de Sales Seminary as well as with all of my sisters at our monthly rosary night. Everyone was moved by the beauty of the artwork it contained.
What follows is John's review of The Catholic Priest: Image of Christ, which can also be found at A Vocation to be a Priest on the News Page---
As a means of honoring the priesthood, Pope Benedict XVI declared last year to be the “Year of the Priest” but these heroic men need more than just one year of honor, and Steen Heidemann who worked tirelessly for eight years, has produced a timeless source of honor for priests with his masterpiece, The Catholic Priest; Image of Christ which reflects the true beauty of the Catholic Priesthood. Mr. Heidemann took an interest in presenting the faith and the priesthood in current art with alternatives to what is termed ‘contemporary or financial art’. According to Mr. Heidemann, “'Works,' to quote the Holy Father, 'do not copy previous centuries, but are made in a continuation with the past. The ordination picture here by American artist Neilson Carlin is an example.'”
This 319 page book printed in six different languages (English, French, Italian, German, Portuguese and Spanish) is filled to the brim with the most stunning and inspirational pictures of the Catholic Priest in the different aspects of his life. Each of the works of our period shown by Christian artists in this book, reveal a continuation with the past rather than-a- simple echo of it. For those who are contemplating a vocation to the priestly life, this book truly will inspire you in your discernment.
As I read through the book, I was amazed by the many breathtaking images which portray how wonderful and beautiful it is to be able to work in the name of Christ, bringing others closer and closer to Him. While reading and admiring the beautiful artwork, it really struck me that in each painting, it is evident that Christ is depicted in each priestly image.
As a priest, men are called by God to be just like Christ, to be Christ himself. The term for this is to become an “alter Christus”. We men are called to love people, to care for them, counsel them, pray with them and for them, just as Christ did. This is the image that this book successfully portrays through the use of many beautiful portraits of the priesthood.
According to the author, the book is arranged with “the first and principle part of a sermon by the Holy Father given in Poland and texts by Cardinal Medina and the Institute of Christ the King, the main collaborators on this book. This describes not only what the priest does, but moreover who he is. This is then followed by several chapters on the holiness and charity of the priest, and after two inspiring texts on the Mass, and one on the priest as a monk, several examples are given such as St Bernard, Saint Jean-Marie Vianney, along with outstanding priests like St Maximillian Kolbe and Bl. Ivan Ziatyk, one who died at the hands of Nazism and the other during the insane years of Stalin in the Ukraine. Finally, the question of what is a vocation is answered just before the conclusion written by Cardinals Canizares and Burke.”
Every picture depicts the Catholic priest giving his entire being to Christ during the different stages in his life, as well as in the lives of the people he serves. Each picture is so masterfully depicted that is hard for me to pick a favorite. I will hold all of these paintings, produced by artists from all over the world, close to my heart, as they inspire me to discern my own vocation, and draw me into a deeper respect and love for the priesthood.
Receiving this book was so wonderful and I will always treasure it, and turn to it again and again. I encourage any one who is discerning a vocation to the priesthood to purchase this book. I promise you will enjoy it as much as I did. This book would make a wonderful ordination or anniversary gift for a special priest in your life. It may also be useful instrument in teaching the Catechism to children and young adults. Owning The Catholic Priest; The Image of Christ and perusing the many fine works of art depicted within would make one feel that every year should be the year of the priest.
The Catholic Priest; The Image of Christ is printed in Italy by Grafiche Flaminia, a company run by priests, and is available for purchase online through the following points below-
English: US+ Canada: Ignatius Press with Liamar: www.ignatius.com
Rest of the English speaking world: Gracewing: www.gracewing.co.uk
French: L’Oeuvre: www.oeuvre-editions.fr
Italian: Cantagalli: www.edizionicantagalli.com
Soon to be released in Spanish, Portuguese and German and will also be available for purchase at World Youth Day in Spain.
Feb 18, 2011
Roses for Our Lady
Roses for Our Lady is a lay organization in the Archdiocese of Milwaukee with a thirty year history whose purpose is to "bring honor and glory to Jesus and Mary in the world today" through the promotion of authentic Marian Devotion-to Jesus through Mary. I have recently been elected president of this fine group and would love nothing better than to begin that position by introducing Roses, as it is affectionately called, to the world at large.
So without further ado, I invite you to please visit our brand-new website and I ask you to keep us in your prayers as we transition into this time of new beginnings and move forward into what will hopefully become another prayer-filled thirty years of devotion to Jesus through Mary!
Feb 16, 2011
Sea Glass in Winter
Finding myself with the gift of several solitary and unscheduled hours on a warm winter morning that felt delightfully like spring, I knew that I had better not waste it!
With the sun in my eyes, I drove to my favorite place-the lake. Trudging through the knee deep snow, I was delighted to find patches of sand and rock exposed, the product of winter's melting. I was standing in the purity of white snow, looking out upon the peace of blue water, and was drawn to the muck of rocks and sand. Beauty all around, easy to delight in, yet I look for the beauty that can only be found in the dirt, for that's where the real treasure is. How often our Lord himself used the dirt, sand and rocks to teach us lessons about faith!
"But Jesus stooped down, and with his finger wrote on the ground, as though he heard them not. So when they continued asking him, he lifted up himself, and said unto them, He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her. And again he stooped down, and wrote on the ground." John 8:6-8
Writing on the ground to prevent the throwing of stones, how strange...and how strange it is to be here on the beach in winter! The downtown buildings that seem to be rising in the morning mist are contrasted against ducks flying close to the water, wings vibrating as they skim the surface. Waves searching for shore beneath the ice and snow produce a thumping sound as they retreat to their original location in the deep. I am completely and utterly alone. It's just me and God at the lake.
I think of the blind man who could see after Jesus applied mud made with saliva, as my eyes are now focused on the pockets of sand and rock beneath my feet, searching for the glittering jewels that I covet. Like a child playing a game of I Spy or Where's Waldo, I am determined to find and pick out the colorful sea glass hidden among the dirt.
And I walk on water! How is it that just two months ago the very place I stand would have had me waist deep in the lake? But now, I am on top of those waves looking at the earth that has surfaced through force of wind and water, looking for God and finding Him here. I crouch low to gather my rewards.
Hidden beneath the snow, down low amid the muck of winter sand, sea glass waits patiently for the taking. I fill my pockets with bits of color to be placed into clear jar containers, and each time I look at the jars of sea glass on the window sill, my heart thrills a bit.
And I know that as I travel through this life filled with the work of money to be earned, groceries to be bought, meals to be cooked, house to be cleaned, children to be nurtured, I will continue to search for God...and find him in the most unexpected places-places of beauty, yes, but also places of grime and dirt. For God is everywhere, just waiting for me to find Him.
Feb 15, 2011
Faith Becomes You
Psalm 33:6
For Valentine's Day, my husband and I had a long overdue night out at the movies. Although we had received free movie vouchers months ago, we couldn't decide on a movie until I read the Deacon's Bench review of The Rite. My husband loves scary movies. I don't. When I was growing up my mom always told me not to watch movies about the devil because by doing so, you are allowing him access to your soul. Years ago, when Paul and I were still dating, he took me to a see a movie called The Prince of Darkness, despite my mother's warning. It truly was a good date movie, believe it or not, because I had my face buried in his chest the entire time while I prayed the Hail Mary over and over again! Nothing like fear to draw you close, is there?
Now, with the encouragement from the Deacon's words, I decided that I could handle this one and it would be a movie that both Paul and I would enjoy. As we passed the ticket taker at the theater he delighted in giving us the direction;"The Rite is on the left! Nice romantic movie choice for Valentine's Day!" :)
It was a good movie, it really made me appreciate my Catholic faith, but it freaked me out plenty as well! As we were leaving, I saw an usher from our parish and said "Makes me want to run right to church!" "I'll meet you there!" he replied. I wasn't the only one who felt the fear portrayed in that movie!
I haven't been able to stop thinking about The Rite all day today, and it has brought about an interesting discussion this evening between Paul and I. My favorite line from the movie was delivered by Anthony Hopkins' character to the young Seminarian in his charge near the very end. He said, "Faith becomes you." So I took those words to adoration tonight and held them before the Lord in prayer...
Faith Becomes You
When fear presses down and my thoughts turn to escape, I look to the Lord and hear Him say-
Faith Becomes You
When I'm misunderstood and others whisper behind me, I look to the Lord and hear Him say-
Faith Becomes You
When I forget who I am-a child of God, and behave in a sinful and scandalous manner, I look to the Lord and hear him say-Faith Becomes You
When stress and sorrows crowd around me everywhere I turn, I look to the Lord and hear Him say- Faith Becomes You
I sit before Him in His golden case recalling the words from a friend...
"Faith is resting in God's love, His presence and His provision."
And I become more like Him when I rest in His love, His presence and His provision.
Faith does become me. So, I carry the becoming of my faith in my heart as I leave His presence and when I am surrounded by fear, misunderstanding, sin, stress and sorrow, I will look to the Lord in faith and find that he is always present to me and I can rest...
I can rest.
Oh Lord, I waited long for this time with You. Thank You for the gift of Your restful presence. Thank You for the gift of my faith. Amen.
Glee Polish
Feb 13, 2011
A Lovely Quixotic Gesture
I wanted to go deeper...and He is giving me many opportunities to do just that, so many in fact, that I have already lost count and have resorted to listing without number...this week I am flinging my heart and praising God for...
~children falling ill like dominoes, requiring my patient care as I brush their fevered brows and whisper words that soothe, and the joy of watching them recover to full, robust health.
~patience with self when continually corrected by boss who had been silent for so long. Did I need her attention? Maybe so, for I'm learning to improve my efforts and to quiet my pride.
~a coworker who silently observes me over the years, bravely takes my hand and keenly notes that my disposition has changed from raging denial to quiet acceptance of my life. I hadn't known that the change in me was so obvious and was warmed by her willingness to share that with me.
~the monthly Holy Hour for vocations in our beautiful Seminary chapel, voices joined in prayer for a common cause.
~oldest son who calls after leaving the house to warn me that the walks are icy, knowing that I will be out the door shortly.
~the profoundly poetic words of Caryll Houselander.
~sons who teach me how to download music on the computer.
~younger friends who look up to me (me-can you imagine?) as a role-model for parenting advice.
~husband's strong yet gentle hands loosening the knots in my neck and shoulders.
~hearing words of thanks from a neighbor for a simple note and jar of jelly that was given during a time of need and learning that such a small gesture brought much needed joy during a time of grief.
~petting our guinea pig, Daisy, and being rewarded with purrs of appreciation.
~early morning solitude and silence while the family sleeps.
~teenage son who wears dress shirt and tie to Sunday Mass even though we wouldn't have required such formal dress
~knowing that on St. Valentine's Day and every day, I am loved beyond measure by the Lord.
Hemmed In With Love
How closely and with such care does God watch over us! How blessed we are that he knows every detail about our lives!
My children all play basketball and one of our favorite family pastimes is to attend as many games as we can together. Someone always keeps stats for the sibling who is playing and we all become involved in the sport as we avidly watch the plays and cheer for the team. I wish that more gyms would offer a family price because paying for six of us to watch the seventh play can get pretty pricey at times! But no matter the cost, the great value of spending time together every weekend as a family will outlast any temporary damage to our pocketbook.
A few years ago, the six of us were lined up on the bench watching John, the oldest, play. It was with a bit of trepidation that Paul and I had recently purchased contact lenses for John so that he could avoid the hassle and worry of wearing glasses while he played. John always puts his all into playing and as most players do, gets physically jostled about quite a bit during the game. At this particular game, he had just been bumped hard by another player and my husband suddenly stood up and walked down the bleachers and onto the court. He held up his hand to stop the game. I couldn't imagine what in the world he was doing! Paul is not the type of man who looks for attention or who would ever interfere with a game. I knew that John wasn't hurt in that recent jarring, so why would Paul just get up and go to him during a game, without a word to the rest of us?
What Paul saw, that no one else on the team or on the sidelines noticed was that when John was bumped, one of his contacts popped out of his eye and fell to the floor. Paul walked right over to the place where the contact had fallen, and picked it up. How in the world did he see that? Even John wasn't immediately aware of what had happened!
As providence would have it, one of the referees had some contact lens solution in his pocket and John cleaned the lens and went right back to playing.
In that particular instance of my husband's close observation of our son, I saw a reflection of God's constant close attention to us all. Not a hair on our heads is left uncounted, not a speck in our eye goes by unseen. He is forever watching us with tender love, ready to step in and bring guidance to our mishaps so that we can work to repair the damage to our bodies and souls, no matter how slight the harm may be. We have a God who knows us in every minute detail; a God who is forever waiting to lift us up and brush us off when we fall, and then give us a boost so that we can start all over again.
"You have searched me, LORD, and you know me. You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar. You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways. Before a word is on my tongue you, LORD, know it completely. You hem me in behind and before, and you lay your hand upon me." Psalm 139:1-5
Feb 12, 2011
To Want What I Have
Marriage Prayer
Heavenly Bride Groom,
we come before you as husband and wife.
Pleading this day for the necessary graces to carry on
in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health,
until the hour of our death.
I promise to be the guardian of my spouse in all things spiritual
so that someday we may enter the Kingdom together.
Bless us this day, body and soul, so that one day
we may be worthy of celebrating with you
at the wedding feast of the Lamb.
Amen.
Isn't it terribly romantic that World Marriage Day and St. Valentine's Day fall so closely together on the calendar? If we're lucky, Fr. Dave, our pastor, will invite all of the married couples to renew our wedding vows at Mass this weekend. I would marry Paul all over again, so I do hope we will be renewing our vows. Over the years, I have found him to be romantic in ways I never imagined he would be when we were first married nearly twenty years ago. It's the little things-the compliment on the scent of my newest perfume, his ability to make me laugh even in the most serious of situations, giving needed space when I'm cross, willing to tell me the hard things I need to hear-even when I don't want to hear them-just to keep me on the straight and narrow in life, letting me be who God made me to be-even when he'd rather make me into who he wants me to be.
Paul is usually a hard rock guy. His favorite day of the week is when "House of Hair" is on the radio. Me, I prefer my music a bit more mellow. The other day I came home from some errands and a wonderful song was playing repeatedly on the CD player in the kitchen. It was "For My Wedding" by Don Henley. I had never heard it before. Paul came upstairs from the basement and asked me if I liked the song, and of course, I answered that I loved it! He mentioned that he felt that as the years passed, we were becoming more alike, because he loved the song, too, and it wouldn't have normally been in his taste repertoire. To me, there is nothing more romantic than growing old with your spouse, mellowing together like fine wine, understanding one another without having to use words. To know, live, work, pray and grow together over the years is a beautiful blessing from God, one that I hope I never take for granted. Here are some of the lyrics to "For My Wedding"...
For my wedding, I will dress in black
And never again will I look back
Ah, my dark angels we must part
For I've made a sanctuary of my heart
To want what I have
To take what I'm given with grace
For this I pray
On my wedding day
For my wedding, I don't want violins
Or sentimental songs about thick and thin
I want a moment of silence and a moment of prayer
For the love we'll need to make it in the world out there
To want what I have
To take what I'm given with grace
For this I pray
On my wedding day
On my wedding day
On this World Marriage Day and St. Valentine's Day, I join with Don Henley and pray that we will all want what we have and take what we are given with grace, regardless of our state in life. For as long as we are seeking to know the will of God and serve Him in all things, all people-children, adults, married, single or religious-will be living a life of grace, and that is the ultimate romance, the divine romance with God, our creator, who loves us more than any human ever could.
(a partial re-post from the archives)
There's Still Good in You
I often write about how the mind is a computer that can be programmed and molded to think, feel, act, and perform a certain way. It's a slave, in a sense, to the programmers that install software into us all. Now, one can take the stance that this is done intentionally as a means of populace control or for a similar devious purpose. One can also take the stance that this is a self-perpetuating monster we designed that has spun horribly out of control.
One could make the case for a multitude of scenarios, but neither one of them is important for what I am going to discuss.
While that software fucks us all up and perhaps makes us prone to stereotypical, cliche drama we see plastered all over our LCD screens, our minds are not without defenses and countermeasures. For one reason or another, I never mention this topic. I always tend to write about the grim. It's darker and more humorous, more alarming and confrontational.
Yes, human race, I bitch about you, me, and all the rest, but there is still good in you. I see it in little instances all the time. I see certain people trudging through the solemn, serious, poisoned masses with chipper demeanors so intense, a warmer beat pumps hotter blood through my body. They took to heart some of the less poisonous programming, something akin to the Gene Wilder Willy Wonka viewpoint on life - utilizing pure imagination.
If that song is echoing off the ridged mass that is your brain, listen to it for a moment. Note its mood. Note how it makes you feel. Note its positive intensity that inspires you to build a world as ideological as that. Those statements are written imperatively, but in actuality I'm more asking than telling.
Sure, we can tear down the simplicity of it all, break down the beauty of those ideals by using a milieu of negative examples. We can live in the now and focus on how the world is too complicated to build such an innocent, high vibration.
That reminds me.
I have a friend who was watching 'Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure' and noting how upbeat the movie is about the future. This was a feeling 80s movies shared as a whole, according to him, that through music and art, the future would be this wondrous, fantastic place. Of course that sentiment has been lost in time since then, or so it seems.
However, I see all these weird people popping up, these beacons of light trudging through rivers of shit. I see all these web sites jacking into the web promoting simple and FREE techniques to reprogram a better quality of life into the human brain. They're everywhere, and the more time I spend actually paying attention to this facet of life, the more I realize that their numbers are stronger than I originally imagined.
We're not doomed, and we will never be doomed.
That's the fear talking - the overpowering "little man" that surrounds us daily. He climbs from our TV sets. He leaps from the newspaper headlines. He assaults us from the radio, telling us how physically sick we are, how scared we are, and how deadly all these unseen enemies are.
Along with being programmed to be neurotic wrecks, we're programmed to need more and more pharmaceutical drugs and fear "terrorism" on every step. Muslim Extremists are everywhere. It's in the headlines all the time. They're out there... watching and waiting for us to "let our guard down", even though border security has never been much of a concern to halt this supposedly impending epidemic of anti-American suicide bombers. If it was, the fear-mongering may be somewhat believable.
One of the issues concerning fears that irks me the most are these signs I see in increasing numbers stating: "if you see something, say something".
On the outside, that may seem like it's convincing people to open their mouths and "stand up" to "criminal or suspicious behavior", but on the other hand, it's just more of this weird mindset. Yes. Look for suspicious activity. Maintain a mental demeanor of "being aware" of all the crimes that could possibly be happening this very second. Fear the unknown. Use your "better judgement" to target suspicious activity that may or may not be an agent of this unseen enemy sweeping across the land.
We don't war with countries or clearly defined bad guys. We war against ideas.
Drugs. Terrorism.
Vague terminologies meant to keep us all on our toes - never to succeed and never able to try something new. Never able to shake enough of that dark energy to follow in Willy Wonka's footsteps and "make the world taste good".
Feb 11, 2011
De Starbucks Nail Design
Feb 9, 2011
Kiss the Pain Away
With a poke of her finger
the child's blood oozed out.
She startled at the pain
but patiently cooperated
while together we watched
the hemocue vial fill with a drop
of her blood for the iron test.
With a bandage, a sticker
and a kiss from her mother
she was on her way-
proudly showing her wound
to anyone who would look...
With one stab of the lance
His blood flowed,
sticky and warm down
his thin, battered side.
There was no movement on His part,
no startled jerk in response
to the pain.
But it was she who winced
and grabbed at her own side
in a fruitless effort to stop
the pain she felt.
Unable to reach him
to give that motherly kiss
that takes away the pain,
she simply stood,
working against the swoon
and watching the drops of blood
as they splattered down.
One precious drop fell on her sleeve
and she wiped it with her forefinger.
Tears fell and mingled with the blood.
She gently rubbed the tears and blood
between her forefinger and thumb
as if that caress would ease the pain-
that pain-
foretold so many years before
in those curious words-
"A sword shall pierce your heart"
-and now she understood-
two Sacred Hearts, one unbearable pain.
His blood, her tears,
poured out silently,
eternally,
together,
poured out
without an end.
And now...I reach
out my hands in my desire
for Him,
my need to lessen His pain;
I receive His body, His blood,
her tears-
into my own body
where it mingles with my blood
and is released in my tears.
My action of deep faith and love
does what she could not do
on that black day.
She couldn't ease His pain
or lesson her own sorrow then,
but now...
she takes my hand, leads
me to Him
and I become the one who
can kiss the hurt away
with my devotion
and my love.
