“God utters me like a word containing a partial thought of himself.” (Thomas Merton)
But am I true to that word? Or do I impose sanctions against myself in an empty attempt to manage myself to my myself and to my world.
Someone recently told that they loved me and I thought, “Do you love me or the version of me I have either presented to you or the one you have crafted yourself in your imagination?” It was an honest question, because I realize that I do not always present my true self. I present part of myself, but not the whole. And while a certain amount of self-censoring may be advantageous to conduct business and be socially acceptable in a general sense, there should be some people with whom you can actually be yourself.
Technology and social media have this lovely little trick of reminding you exactly what you were doing on this day in past years. These last few days have been interesting to relive.
Last year I was walking through the heartbreaking tragedy of divorce. Divorce can be such an isolating thing, causing a tidal wave of rejection, doubt, regret, and grief. Yet, the memories I am seeing paint a different picture. The picture is of a deep and abiding love. It shows a kind of affection that is perhaps difficult to find in this world. It is a picture of a heavy grace.
The day before Valentine’s Day I went to court and had the mediation that would finalize my divorce. What timing. A friend took me to my lawyer’s office, waited in the car, and when it was over took me lunch. The emotional exhaustion and anxiety caused such a sharp dip in my blood sugar, I was physically shaking.
When I was steady again, I picked up two of my big kids and drove to northern Maine to see another friend. I was so tired I laid on the bed and crashed. When I woke up I realized he had covered me with a blanket. We had a refreshing visit, drinks, and let ourselves laugh.
The next day, Valentine’s Day, I went to a cabin tucked into the woods. My friends wined and dined me. They had a six course meal, paired with drinks and music for each. Their kids were the little waitstaff and we were cozy and joyful and talked freely about our sorrows. They tucked me into bed when the last cocktail went to my head and left a note that said, ”Words cannot describe how much we love you or how much trouble you will be in if you wash the dishes.”
When I’m worried and I can’t sleep I count my blessings instead of sheep And I fall asleep counting my blessings..
(White Christmas, 1954. If you can’t hear that in Bing Crosby’s voice we can’t be friends.)
I like my job. Every day I cook meals and snacks for students who are in the pursuit of truth, goodness, and beauty. They come into the kitchen singing or laughing—occasionally crying. I listen. I dispense motherly advice, say prayers, or offer broth, tea, or chocolate—as appropriate. I stand over my cauldron sized tilt-skillet and stir cheese sauce for massive quantities of mac-n-cheese and make pans of brownies to feed hungry hearts. There is so little stress in that, because no matter the chaos of the general world, food makes sense. Food is nearly as consistent good liturgy.
In truth I am not a very strong person. When I was a child I was so sickly and weak that my dad said he remembers placing me in my crib, looking down at me crying, and giving me to God. He told God that He could take me if he wanted because my dad didn’t know what else to do to help me. I was a year old and 14 pounds, skin and bones, sallow eyes.
Turns out I was allergic to the burning of wood used to heat the house. Who knew? But when they moved, I gained weight.
I wasn’t so strong growing up either though. Always anemic and slightly underweight. I was diagnosed with scoliosis when I was 8. Doctor said it was so severe I would be in a back brace by the time I was 16 and would likely be facing surgeries. My parents opted for therapy in the form of ballet instead to develop my almost non-existent muscle tone and chiropractic care (including a shoe lift) to straighten out my spine. It worked. Crisis averted.
Maybe what I lack in physicality, God made up for in spirituality. I am no expert on the mind of God, certainly. But in all my physical challenges, I have certainly known there is strength in the “sanctuary of my baptized soul” as the prayer says. Even as a little child, my relationship with Jesus felt like an intimate thing, like maybe I was actually his favorite or that he had something special for me. Something like what St. Catherine of Sienna calls her inner cell. So many people today tell you to look within and find divinity. But, I think it is more accurately explained that one goes within to create a little cell and then invite Divinity to meet you there and to commune with you.
I was thinking of this today as I thought about what it means to be strong. A dear friend told me so clearly last week, when I was feeling my worst, “You are not weak.” I believed him, because he never lies. And yet, of course, I was not feeling very strong at all.
Meeting Divinity within that inner sanctuary is the thing that makes sense when the world feels chaotic and disordered and when that chaos and disorder tries to creep into my soul. That deep place—that temple of the Holy Spirit—is where there is strength, despite me feeling weak physically or spiritually.
When I was going through the initial pain of separation and divorce another friend texted me, “Ask Jesus to be the Master of your emotional house. Lay it out before him and ask him what he wants you to keep and what he wants you to let go of. And then ask him to feel everything with you.”
It has been two years since he said this to me and I think maybe this Lent I will do a little soul spring cleaning with this as the guiding light. Jesus, Master of my emotional house, what do you want me to keep? And what do you want me to release?
Will I be able to let go though? Will I be strong enough to let the Master take what he wants? I tend to be overly sentimental about the tchotchke things in my soul.
Follow strength. That is the thing, isn’t it? If you want to be strong, you do the strong thing—maybe even if you don’t feel like it. Maybe spend extra time in that inner cell until you do feel like it.
During the pain of my separation when it was clear that he would not be coming back and the grief hung heavy in the air like the thickest fog that rolls in from the coast, the same friend sang this into my phone. When things were so dark and I lay awake wondering what my life would be, I would listen to this like a balm for all the sore spots in my heart.
Things are still challenging, but not that same kind of dark. The fear isn’t there and that particular pain is healing. I still wonder what will become of my life. But, the Master of my emotional house is still there, holding space for me.
If you are going through something that pushes the limits of your abilities, you find your courage waning, and you aren’t sure which way to go, follow strength.
If you want to be strong, do the strong thing. If you are faced with two choices, choose the strong one. That’s where the Holy Spirit is. He is always calling us deeper into intimacy with him in that secret place. Sometimes no one else understands that. You may not be able to articulate it or share it. Yet, hang onto it. Follow strength. Carry on.
I don’t recall really going to any funerals until I was quite grown—maybe my senior year of high school. And even then they were few and far between. However, in the past 10 years I feel like they have been a major source of my social interactions.
Got plans this weekend?
Oh, yeah, headed to a funeral.
Cool, cool.
I even go to extra funerals that are not required. A work friend’s parent who I have never met? I’ll be there. A neighbor several houses down who I only ever waved to going to driving by? Yep. I will show up. And so help me, if possible I will be bearing a casserole. (For all the smack we foodies talk about casseroles, when you need to eat your feelings it comes best in a 9×13 with bubbling cheese under the toasted bread crumbs.)
It’s not that I like funerals. In fact, I find them excruciatingly painful. Every cell of me wants to get up mid-service and go wait outside until it is over. But, I will myself to be in it and to help shoulder the weight of the grief. Grief carried alone is devastating. Grief borne in a community is devastating and redemptive and connective. So, I stay and help in some small way to carry the collective grief in a way I hope others will do for me when my grief is too big to bear.
It’s only the first week of February. I have had three funerals already. I cannot tell you the last time I went to a wedding. In fact, I have never even been invited to a Catholic wedding. But, if you are grieving, I am your girl. It’s not that I am morbid—well, not in an excessive way. Just the right amount of memento mori to keep one’s eyes on heaven, remembering that this world is not our home. We talk about death, heaven, hell, purgatory, and hope a lot in our home. I have some thoughts about the Last Things. These are my thoughts—take ’em or leave ’em. There is zero judgement projected on how you handle the topic of the Last Things.
In Genesis 33 we read the account of Jacob reconciling with Esau. If you remember, the brothers had had a major falling out due to a sold birthright (sold/stolen….potato/patahto) and blessing of the patriarch gone awry. Now after many years they would face one another again. The whole cohort was on the move—a pilgrimage let’s say, a procession if you will. Jacob put the women and children smack in front. Now, I am no biblical scholar, but in practical terms, that just doesn’t seem to be the most efficient way to travel. I bet that was one slow moving caravan. If they were anything like my children there were probably lots of stops for snacks and fighting over who got what seat on the camel. Women traveling with little children are not known for their agility, decorum, or timeliness. They get there when they get there. “So, help me don’t make me pull this caravan over. Because I will. I will pull this whole thing over if I hear one more word about someone not sharing the raisins.” (They probably had raisins for a roadtrip snack, right? I will imagine they did.)
Procession
Today was the Feast of the Presentation or the Purification of Mary or The Ascent of the Lord to His Temple, depending on your tradition. It all comes to the same thing though. Infant Jesus being taken to the temple after the 40 days of his mother’s ritual purification. (Just to be clear, Mary was always Most Pure. We are talking about completion of ritual purity, not moral purity.)
Need some reading and listening recommendations that are beautiful and thoughtful? I mean, you probably have your own recommendations, which you should send to me. In case you are interested in what is feeding my mind lately here you go.
For reading:
This book is gorgeous. The imagery is lovely and profound. I underlined and highlighted so many things I may as well have highlighted the whole book.
I used to call myself a Christian feminist, until that label no longer seemed to fit. But, I also couldn’t find myself snuggly in the opposite camp either (you know the type. Do I need to say it? If you follow some podcasts like Restoring the Faith and ever threw up in your mouth a little, you are my people).
This book illuminates the mystery and beauty of womanhood. It speaks to the symbolic meaning of the feminine as displayed in nature, the Church, and the woman…“of womanliness, as a mystery, its religious rank, its archetype, and its ultimate image of God.”
And it is largely the fault of women (and not the patriarchy as some would lead you to believe) that has destroyed, or can we say tainted, this symbolic meaning.
“In reality woman had lost her power as symbol while she still believed to be retaining it. A culture that in its last analysis is no longer turned toward God in reverence and with a sense of responsbility has, if viewed according to a deeper insight, also foregone the presence of woman. The woman, however, who recklessly and unconditionally allows herself to become part of such a culture, basically affirms only her own exclusion. Her presence is nothing more than a pretense….
“It is not the man but the woman who must save the endangered feminine image; she must rescue it in its three-fold revelation as established by eternal decrees…”
I cried reading this book. It is that good.
For listening:
I am very much enamored with The Symbolic World podcast. The episode called Weaponized Compassion was so good I wanted to pass it around like a Gospel tract. No lie.
I usually just listen to podcasts in my kitchen at work. But it’s also on YouTube if you watch videos of lectures.
Another podcast that keeps me company on my commute is From The Summit, the podcast of Magdalen College. My favorite recent episode was this one with Dr. van Versandaal. It has been an interesting exercise for me to think about contemplation in relation to festivity and celebration, because I often enter into the experience of contemplation with quietness and solitude à la Thomas Merton.
I didn’t use to believe in it. But, I did it anyway. Now I believe in it and do it even more. I am speaking of praying for the dead. There is something about it we cannot help. Even people who claim to not believe in Purgation will say things such as, “May they Rest In Peace” or lately I hear a lot, ”May they rest in power.”
If what’s done is done, why the wish for peace and power? It’s not a wish, it’s a prayer. Unless one believes in the power of wishing, I suppose. I have never particularly gotten anything I have wished for. But, certainly have seen answers to prayers.
“Of course I pray for the dead. The action is so spontaneous, so all but inevitable, that only the most compulsive theological case against it would deter me. And I hardly know how the rest of my prayers would survive if those for the dead were forbidden. At our age the majority of those we love best are dead. What sort of intercourse with God could I have if what I love best were unmentionable to Him?” (CS Lewis)
You can google a Biblical defense of the doctrine of Purgation. You can read the Church Fathers. You can read CS Lewis if that is more your speed. I will not try to convince you. Not in this space. Texting with my son tonight about all the theological papers I have proofread and edited over the years and all the ones I will never write, he said, ”Write them now! I would support you in this.” I replied, “For whom? Myself? Besides, I am a mystic and not a theologian.” He said the world had plenty of theologians. People need their hearts strengthened along with their minds.
I have a penchant for dwelling on the negative. I am not uncomfortable sitting…nay….wallowing in my feelings. I can throw a mean pity party for myself. Don’t judge me. You’re invited. BYOK (bring your own kleenex) We can play all the sad songs and get really deep in it. Do you want to hear the traumas chronologically or alphabetically? Let’s go.
It’s a tough balance, you know. I was definitely raised with a “power of positive thinking” mindset. As the lyricist Propaganda says, “Self-sufficiency dies hard, right? But when rightfully humbled, God shows up in burning bushes.” All the positive spin in the world does not make the tragedies of my life somehow OK.
Yet, there is goodness. I know it is just as important to process the good as it is the bad. If we stop to notice the clouds, we sure as hell better stop to notice the sunshine.
I have always been lonely. Always. When I was a little girl, burying myself in books I was lonely. When I was a teenager, burying myself in journals full of angst and drama, I was lonely. I was lonely when I got married—especially when I got married. I am lonely now that I am divorced.
I find myself always longing for the day when the loneliness will somehow be satisfied. Like one day, somehow, surrounded by the right mix of people whose love for me matches my love for them I could breathe easier, I could rest, I could sleep without dreaming.
reconciling things 