Preach to the choir

I met a prayer prophet.

At least that's what I called her, a new friend who is the mother of my son's soccer friend.

She was telling me at soccer practice how grateful she was that while having her family in town from Colombia these past few months, there had been very few misunderstandings and hurt feelings. Occasionally, disagreements had arisen, but she credited prayer in preventing them from getting overblown and causing lasting tension.

She got teary-eyed as she told me that she and her mother are spending as much of their remaining time together as possible, enjoying all they can. 

Then she confided that her mom had seriously misunderstood the meaning behind her words once. They had an argument, and my new friend told her mother to please go, pray and ask the Holy Spirit for guidance, and if after prayer she still wanted to be mad, she could be.

"Do you think I would bring you all this way to my home just to make you suffer?" she asked her mom.

The situation was soon rectified.

"I think everything works out right with prayer," my friend told me. "Just prayer, prayer, prayer in everything."

On that evening that was something I needed to hear. Honestly, I feel God gave my friend the opportunity to tell me that precisely, to be a prayer prophet for me. And it wasn't a topic I had even suggested, but it led to a message I recognized.

I pray; I throw up thoughts to God sporadically throughout the day. Thank you. Thank you! Come with your mercy. Protect my family. Bless this person, Father. Help me! Forgive me. Guide me. Hold my hand.

So my friend was preaching to the choir, really. But this choir member was struggling anew with an old problem and had become weary of praying about it, had forgotten the grace and power of prayer. 

I think preaching to the choir is too often slammed as a resounding gong that does nothing, stirs no one and imparts no aid in the fight to be better human beings.

But is the choir perfect? Is their harmony so sublime already that improvement is impossible?

Preaching to the choir is still preaching, and if done with God's help, is effective and stirring and energizing. Because sometimes the choir has fallen asleep. Or the back row is gossiping while the front row is self-righteously pretending not to listen. Sometimes every single last person in that choir is bent over their phone playing a game, wasting time and effort on distractions and cheap rewards. Sometimes the choir is sulking because they don't get to sing the hymns they like today. Or they're singing mechanically, because they have been doing it for so long, they forgot why they loved to sing and glorify in the first place.

Preaching to the choir is very necessary sometimes, I think, and I have been thinking about it a great deal lately, because I have lately had people preach to me and have been truly very grateful. May no one ever say that Hillary is past the point of accepting and welcoming and reflecting on others' preaching!

After all, we live in community to share wisdom with each other, to share joy, love and hope and to say, "Soldier on! I'm coming, too." Or the never obsolete words: "You're not alone. I've struggled. But now I'm here to help carry you forward with my encouragement."

The choir needs encouragement, too. The choir needs each other and needs a good preacher (not always the same person from moment to moment). The choir needs, every so often, one member to stand up on a dreary day and belt out Amazing Grace with such beauty and truth that everyone is fortified and renewed, 

The Wise Men Found Him in a Manger; But He May be Found Anywhere - by Daniel Hylton

Over the centuries, there have been many discussions, questions, and even arguments about the Three Wise Men who attended the birth of Christ, such as; did they actually attend His birth, or did they arrive as many as two years after that event, when He was a child?  Who were they?  Whence did they come?  How did they know about the advent of Christ?  Were they Persian, Babylonian, or Zoroastrian astronomers, perhaps?  And if Zoroastrian - did Zoroaster himself learn of the prophecy of the coming of Christ from the Hebrew prophet Daniel, as some believe?  Or were the Three Wise Men Chinese, as the Chinese - and many others - claim?

And, in modern times, the arguments continue - did the Three Wise Men even exist, or is the whole tale just a Christian fable?

Well, I frankly don't care.  In fact, for the purpose of this post, I will not address any of the traditions, questions, or doubts that attend the tale of the Three Wise Men. For; I know in my heart that they lived and that they saw the Christ Child.  And that is what matters to me.

They came from somewhere to the east, in that vast landscape of Asia that stretches from the Middle East to the Pacific Ocean.  It had been understood by most of the eastern cultures for several, perhaps many, centuries that the King of the Universe would someday come down and be born upon earth, as a man, specifically, as a Jew.  They knew that a special never-before-seen star was to herald his birth. The Three, like generations of wise men before them, diligently watched the sky for the sign of the advent of the King, hoping against hope that they, in their generation, would be the ones fortunate enough to witness the marvelous event.

And one day - or night - there it was.

Unique, bright, like nothing else in the heavens, it hung low in the western sky.

They had no doubt of its significance.

Their hearts bursting, their minds alive with anticipation, the Three loaded up their camels, gathered their servants, accumulated supplies for a long journey, and set out toward the west, following the Star, seeking a King.  And, at the end of two years, they found Him.  Astounded and awed by their immense good fortune, they presented their gifts, worshiped Him, and then, being warned by an angel of God of Herod's deadly animus toward the new-born King, they avoided the Israelite usurper and "went home by another way."

But they took with them an amazing gift; they had seen the King of Kings, born upon earth as a man.

Now, Jesus Christ is variously described as the Son of God, the Son of Humanity, a prophet, a kind and gentle Teacher, a Healer, the Savior.  And He is, of course, all of those things and more.

But I see Him, first and foremost, as the Wise Men saw Him - the King of all.

I was raised by Godly parents, good Christian people who taught me to live by His teachings.  I read the Bible completely through as a young man, many parts of it I read more than once and studied much of it diligently.  I even memorized at one time or another several passages of scripture.  Even so, I never had that deeper experience to which so many spiritual folk bear witness.

For me, for much of my life, belief was based not so much upon spiritual experience as it was upon intellectual reasoning.  It was faith founded upon the pragmatic underpinnings of knowledge and of all that I had learned about the various belief systems of humanity.

In the year 1986 I found myself living in an extremely rural part of Tennessee with a wife and four young children, and I experienced a startling, and rather abrupt comprehension that being a parent was not just about providing food, shelter, and clothing.  I needed to understand the meaning of human existence if I was to impart anything meaningful to my three daughters and my son.

So I set to work, educating myself on the subject of the Great Question; Why Are We Here? Learning what I could of every theory about the existence of life on earth - and I mean every theory - I eventually dismissed all of them except the Bible.  But all my dismissals, at the time, were based solely on rational thought, and upon those things which I had discovered of each theory or religion, not on any particular spiritual experience.

Understand: I am not touting myself as an authority on anything, especially religion.  I do not care what anyone else chooses to believe, and I long ago passed the point where any human can claim influence with me as it concerns the most basic questions of existence.

By late summer of 1987, I had decided in a rather cold intellectual sense that Jesus Christ was the answer, and that His teachings were the way to understanding.  So, I read the New Testament once again, this time as if I was reading it for the first time, without any preconceived notion of what any of it meant.  And I found that it satisfied, in a purely logical sense, all my questions.

But I wanted more.  I wanted empirical evidence of my Maker.

Then I happened upon a very old book called Deeper Experiences of Famous Christians.  Admittedly I was skeptical of many of the things expounded inside that book; nonetheless, after reading it, I craved an experience of my own - a personal meeting with God.

To that end, I made my way one day out across the field behind the house, down through the hollow and into the forest beyond.  Searching through the woods, I found a small clearing with a large rock jutting from the ground near its center like an altar.  I knelt and prayed.  After praying for some time, it occurred to me that, rather than yammering in God's ear; it would benefit me more to listen.

So, I listened.  And I heard - nothing.

After that day, and for every single day thereafter, in all kinds of weather, every evening after work, I went faithfully into the woods to that little clearing, knelt down, and told God simply; I am here.

Nothing.  Ever.  Nothing.  I never heard His voice.  There was never any kind of sign.

Through all those days, while awaiting a sign from the heavens, I read the New Testament again.  And yet again.  I spent an hour every day alone in the forest, listening.  Days turned into weeks, weeks became months.  After eight months of this, summer had cooled into autumn, autumn became winter, winter turned into yet another spring.  And I had had no experience.

I grew discouraged.  Discouragement eventually devolved into a sort of rebellious anger.  But, in fact, something had happened to me over this time period which had nothing to do with my earlier studies.  Nor was it related to any experience.  It was, in a very real way, miraculous.  The words of Jesus had passed through my eyes, worked their way through my brain, and had settled in my heart.

I knew now, without any doubt, that I was a created being.  I knew that God created me.  And I knew that Jesus Christ was His Son.  I knew now the reason I - or any of us - exist.

So, then - I wondered rather petulantly - why didn't He speak to me?

One fine spring evening in 1988, I had finished my supper and was about to make my way, once again, into the woods behind the house.  But as I went out the front door and onto the porch, the rebellious anger erupted.  

I am done with this, I thought.  It is pointless.  He will never speak to me.

Turning the other way, I abandoned any thought of going to my "altar" and I tromped down the lane toward the bridge over the creek.  As I walked on, and on, through the dappled sunlight that cast long shadows across the lane, my dark mood gradually lifted and after a while I began to quietly laugh at myself.  Who did I think I was, anyway?  In the great scheme of things, I would barely qualify as a worm; likely something even less.  Why then would The Almighty feel compelled to speak to me?  He would not, of course.  For in a vast universe of humble servants, I suddenly realized, I was among the humblest; perhaps the humblest of all.

I stopped on the bridge, gazed down into the sparkling stream, and smiled to myself.  The dark mood, its attendant anger, and the weight of needing to hear the Voice of God were gone.  As was the need for an experience.

I was abruptly and rather acutely aware of the warm spring evening and all the life it contained within it, all of it a testimony to the Creator of life.  Birds chirped in the thickets, wildflowers burst through the ground along the creek, the heady scent of honeysuckle filled the air.  The earth itself was bearing witness to its Maker.

Never again would I need to go into the forest, find an altar, seek a sign.  Every day of being alive was in and of itself an experience, a sign.  Nothing else was - or would ever be - necessary.  At last content, I turned toward the house.

And then, right then; when I expected - and needed - it least, He was there.

Right there.

With me, on the bridge.

Did I see Him?  No.  Did I hear an audible Voice?  No.

Yet He was there.  And He was there for me.

I have never related the details of that moment to anyone; nor will I ever do so.  It is meaningful only to me, is highly personal, and it can have no bearing whatsoever on anyone else in their striving after God.

Over the years, I have referred to it privately as my Three Wise Men Moment.  For in that moment, upon that bridge, I, far less wise than they, far less clever, far less deserving, was given a great gift that has sustained me throughout my life.

I often find myself distracted by the cares of this life: the need to make money, the frustration with the contemporary state of politics, the anger over man's inhumanity to his fellow man that is daily seen, the worry over this or that or some other thing. And I more often than not forget that which matters most - that which, in fact, alone truly matters; living a life that pleases the King.

I lose my way.

So then, every so often, I must push the world aside and go back in time to that moment on the bridge, to touch that moment, to remember it and its meaning.  To remember what really matters.

Then, my priorities properly restored, my mind and my heart lifted, my feet back upon the right path, then, and only then, can I get on with my life "by another way."

Merry Christmas.



Daniel Hylton is the author of the Kelven's Riddle fantasy series.

Community

A couple weeks ago at my optometrist's office, I made a confession when they asked how I was doing.

"My littlest one started kindergarten, and that was so hard. It hit me like a ton of bricks. I'm still adjusting."

Making that confession felt good. It feels good - mostly - every time I make it. Yes, I am a mama whose life has been almost entirely wrapped up in her kids' health, behavior, nutrition, entertainment, sleep, and happiness for several years now, so indeed, it did hit me like a ton of bricks when my last one left me to get a formal education.

The ladies behind the desk didn't have much to say to that, though one agreed that her youngest starting school this year impacted her in much the same way. They listened and nodded, and for me it was once more a release of feelings that have been burdening me.

Now granted, I confess my feelings too often. I don't just wear them on my sleeve; I have them emblazoned across my forehead, tattooed on my lids, threaded around my hair and dangling from my ears. I cannot keep my emotions couped up; I must free them - preferably in the company of others. This isn't always the best way, but nobody could say I'm not honest. In fact, that's what one friend told me when I made a different "confession" of feelings and insecurities to a group of ladies I respect. I asked them if they thought I was being crazy, and she replied, "No, I think you're being honest."

All this talk about feelings, my dear readers, was simply to say that we need each other, community. I need community, heaven help me. In the past few weeks, I have called my dad and my two sisters on the phone and sought out my friends for guidance and comfort in this new and uncertain phase of my life. And sure, it would not be the best idea for me to blab my real heavy concerns to near strangers at my eye doctor's, but it would not a bad idea, either, if I feel supported and respected even if, at the same exact time, I am vulnerable.

It's like that great soul song, "Lean On Me", says: "we all need somebody to lean on" at one time or another. God gave us each other, for He is Himself a community of persons: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. 

How often have we heard repeatedly the dreadful news that arose from the actions of individuals who felt profoundly alone, society's "loners"? 

Our families are ideally the mirror of God's love for us, the epicenter of a hopefully ever widening opportunity for and experience of it.

I have often heard church compared to just a social club, but for me there could be no better community than one with God at its center, one where the members learn from each other. Yes, we, imperfect as we are, know we'll still fail each other along the way with our rash judgments or selfish indifference, but we also know that we will succeed often, too, by welcoming and encouraging one other, bolstering each other in the storms, rejoicing with each other in the victories, and continually being Christ for each other.

The other day at a church volunteer gathering a young mother spoke to me of her struggles with her very temperamental toddler and his habit of getting up six to ten times a night. The best and most hopeful thing I could give to her was to assure her that I have been through that as well; my own children didn't sleep through the night until they were toddlers or preschoolers. I often felt lonely and floundering, too, in my vocation as a mother. I shared how my moms' group, started through our parish, saved me from that isolation.

Isn't that the gift we have to offer in community - the assurance that "You are not alone" and "I am with you"?

With the solid foundation of compassion, mercy, hope, selflessness, courage, and at the very base, love, we build authentic communities. We don't just build them with our family, our colleagues, fellow parents, fellow believers, or those with whom we share a common interest. We build them by including those who are lonely, afraid, marginalized, smiling regularly at someone who looks as if they feel alone, giving our time to one another.

We are not islands. Beginning with family we are the essential building blocks of life and love for each other.

Short, mostly unedited: Gratitude

This morning at my children's school, the wind suddenly picked up, rushing toward me...well, like a movie moment.

I lifted my face and watched the trees, and I was suddenly very grateful. It never fails that a strong wind reminds me of the presence of God the Holy Spirit. And so I thought, Thank you Father for my life, for my health, for Matthew my husband, and Berto, Analisa, Gabriella and Daniel Samuel our children...even though I am having trouble being happy right now, I am still so very grateful...

Thank you for everything. Please keep doing what you're doing. And help me be happy.

When I reflect a bit, I am awed by the fact that I get to know my children - four beautiful, kind, talented, intelligent children. Maybe I'm amazed, in the words of Paul McCartney. I hear their praises often. I'm not surprised by the admiration they receive, even though they behave better for others usually, but I am struck by the great gift of having had a part in bringing them into this world, a not unsubstantial part. Nevertheless, when people stop me to tell their impressions of my children, I want to say simply, it's God. I try, but he made them what they are. I have a part in it, but I would not do it nearly so well devoid of his grace and guidance or lacking the courage to keep going and working at motherhood even when I think I am not doing it well at all, that I'll never learn how to be a truly great, on-task mother.

I want to complain about the incessant work of a larger family sometimes. I want to ask my husband and children if they realize what I do, if they notice, if the kids will ever listen about putting things back where they belong instead of leaving them littered about our home. If they're thankful. I want to cry, Look at me! I'm doing a lot for you here! But I also want to shut my mouth, to not say it, to not demand the recognition. Shouldn't I appreciate what others do, too? Anyway, when it is demanded, it is always given grudgingly, and these tasks are my job, even when they spread into the evening hours as they perpetually do.

So, thank God for my vigor, that I can do every day what needs to be done. I am very grateful.

And there are great little things that bring me joy right now. For instance, the smell my tomato plant's leaves leave on my hands after I have pulled them between my fingers. They started as a mushy tomato on my counter, a tiny vine curled in its heart. I sliced it open and submerged it and its juices in my rose planter. And now, look, it has grown so tall in a few weeks!

Similarly, I took a moldy, sprouting sweet potato several weeks ago and buried the whole thing in an empty planter. It grew wildly within a few days, so much so that we wondered if it would take over our house, climbing up the stucco columns to eventually smother the whole structure.

I have trimmed it since, but its vines seem to prefer to trail the earth anyway.

These plants, as well as my red roses, make me happy, simple pleasures, because I seem fated to kill green things. Yet here I am succeeding, and I love to stroke my living greenery, grateful that I have made things grow through my care.

My own life has grown tremendously through my efforts and with the presence and love of others since I became a wife and mother. It's growing still, swelling with blessings and experiences and lessons learned after countless mistakes and a few frightening, startling intervals. I cannot fail to be grateful for it.

Sometimes I just need a little reminder, like feeling a refreshing wind pick up on a cool September morning.

England Anthology: Everywhere Home, and the Westminsters

Westminster Abbey

 

Wandering around the eclectic foodie's paradise of Borough Market (at which I consumed the most heavenly doughnut) in London with my friend Holly and brother Nate, I was impressed by a magnificent church across the street to my left. I asked the gentleman at the nearest stall, "What building is that over there?"

"A church."

"Yes, but what church?"

"I don't know."

I was saddened by his indifference to and ignorance of such a gorgeous edifice. What was in fact Southwark Cathedral deserved to be referred to by name. I walked over to it shortly afterward and gazed on it from just outside its gate, reading the welcome posted on the bulletin there. The Anglican cathedral was by the River Thames, and I could see an enormous ship docked in the distance. It begged for some artist to sketch it in charcoal.

The whole of England, from what I could tell in my short visit, was home to hundreds of magnificent churches, and each one had for me a powerful magnetic pull. I never grew weary of seeing or being in them. Each was home. Though I confess that I had the ungracious thought once or twice, This used to belong to Catholics, I was soon corrected: No, these all belong to Christ.

And that was why I loved them.

Visiting the Tower of London on Thursday, we had the good fortune to sit within St. Peter-ad-Vincula's Church and hear the history of some of the executed prisoners buried beneath its floors and how they were all given a Christian burial by Queen Victoria. The Yeoman Warder, who lives at the Tower, explained his own good fortune in having the use of that church for the baptism and weddings of his children. I did not take any pictures, because it was forbidden, but it had quite a beautiful organ in it, a simple altar, a raised tomb in its midst, and a tricky step just outside the door before one ascended the narrow stairs. It was less ornate than expected. The Norman St. John's Chapel within the White Tower, over 1000 years old, held greater attraction for me. Though simpler still, its stone glowed like solid sunshine; its rudimentary pews invited; and its bold arches inspired.

Holly, a true friend, accompanied me without complaint or protest to Mass at Westminster Cathedral on Sunday morning even though she isn't Catholic. Within that church far more intricate than any I had worshipped in, the feeling of being home was more complete, for Mass is the same wherever you go in the world. Every parish reads the same readings all over the world on any given Sunday. The Our Father is prayed by all. The "peace be with you" is always proffered to our fellow Christians. We always have communion. Even if half the Mass is in Latin or all in a foreign language, you feel that you are a part of an enormous, culturally rich, global family.



The Byzantine-inspired Westminster Cathedral

On the way in to Mass, a gentleman tried to forestall me.

 

"Stop!" he cried, waving a pamphlet, perhaps one that had a few points against Catholicism. "Just give me a moment to speak with you. Jesus saved me!"

 

I smiled, shook my head and walked on, but I wanted to reply, "Doesn't He save us all?"

 

After Mass as Holly and I wandered around the various chapels, she said, "I've never been in a church where so much was going on before."

 

The cathedral was lined with chapels to either side of the sanctuary: the Blessed Sacrament chapel to its left with its sign begging quiet for those praying, a chapel of St. George, one of St. Paul, another for Divine Mercy. There were also lines of people waiting to enter the ornate, traditional confessionals before the next Mass. An enormous baptismal font with a statue of John the Baptist near the front of the church greeted those who entered.

 

 

Holly loved the architecture. I, too admired the structural elements, lighting and colors. The crucifix reminded me of the San Damiano one before which St. Francis of Assisi prayed when he heard Christ tell him to rebuild his church. The altar was ethereal, and the architecture in general surprised me, for I was sure that such a relatively new church, built in the 1800s, would not compare to that other Westminster, much older. In fact, I had never heard of the Catholic Cathedral before my parish priest told me about it.

 

 

I may never know how the interiors of the two compare, for when Holly and I went to Westminster Abbey later that day, it was closed to tourists. I was more pleased than disappointed, despite not being able to see the names and tombs of the many famous English buried within. It was Sunday, and the Abbey belonged to those who worship, those for whom it was home.

 

 

 And we could at least take pictures.

 

Holly, always the artist, poses beautifully. Perfecto!

My renewed determination to fight for Light

The Christophers, a group that encourages people to use their God-given talents to make a difference, has a saying: It is better to light one candle than to curse the darkness.

I spend far too much time cursing the darkness. And feeling guilty that I have lived so simple and secure a life, full of love. I oscillate between thinking I should completely avoid the news and live in ignorance of evil - so that I can stop sinning in my anger against and my opinions of human beings - and believing that such ignorance would itself be a crime.

Yesterday I finally decided to read a section of the Sunday newspaper that covered women's and children's rights in Guatemala. Moving from one article to the next, my anger increased, for I was reading yet again an old story, only about a different country, of women and children being maltreated by men in the twisted confines of an utterly male-dominated society: denied education, essentially sold into marriages by poverty-stricken parents, abused both physically and sexually by boyfriends, husbands and fathers, dependent on their abusers because of their lack of means, frightened or wary to approach authorities that statistically do little or nothing to prosecute the males in their lives, betrayed by destitute mothers who are themselves so dependent on these "men" that they do not protect their children or report the crimes for fear of inevitable starvation.

In Guatemala girls marry and get pregnant young; thirteen is not uncommon. Education is seen as an unnecessary investment of their time when they are simply to be married off to often strange men who desire them for their physical selves - not their whole person. How there can be any hope for love or respect in such an arrangement of ignorance....well, I do not think there can be, which is perhaps why these girls often end up in misery, repeating the patterns of their mothers and grandmothers. Boys and girls are raised witnessing the poison of such a culture, and they would be fortunate indeed not to imbibe it, but how can they avoid it?

How many times have I read similar articles about other cultures all over the world, in Asia, Africa, the Middle East?

Every time I read such stories I struggle with my view on men in general. I struggle badly. But how it is that at this point in history there are still cultures and governments on this planet that do not protect women and children's rights with the full force of law confounds and angers me. Are the challenges of acquiring food in these countries so desperate that people's sexual, emotional and mental health, including education, are ignored? It must contribute. One Arizona university psychologist, interviewed for the stories, said it was not enough to blame the stereotypical Latin "machismo", either, for Guatemala suffered terribly for ten years with a civil war where men were acclimated to extreme violence and women were viewed as war prizes or as the objects of terror tactics.

Still I do not think that should fully explain the depravity. If mankind is essentially good, would he not crawl out of a hell hole, if slowly? Can the most basic unmet needs for food, water and shelter kill his soul?

But can I truly say anything when I live in a country where poor is not poor compared to the poverty that is suffered in third world countries, where laws exist - and more are introduced every year - that protect each individual's rights? Can I judge anything when my life has been so sheltered in the United States of America?

If more people like me worked more diligently to feed the poor in this world, I firmly believe the poor would have more time to worry about their emotional, intellectual and spiritual needs.

Here comes my struggle with guilt. I take my son to a pizza, games and bowling venue and think of all the children in the world who do not even have a full meal that day, let alone fun. I wish sometimes for a bigger house but then imagine all the families in India, Central America and Africa living in shanty towns or measly huts with no running water or electricity. I think of my desire for a few new summer clothes and then feel selfish in wanting pretty outfits when others have next to nothing to wear and no shoes for their feet. I just feel guilty period that others live in misery every day of their lives.

I am unbalanced, because I curse the darkness regularly, ruminating on its influence, but spend far too little time lighting candles.

There is always hope, and I did read of the women in Guatemala working to change the culture for themselves and others, pushing for education, freedom and for better laws and enforcement. Some of those women worked for government agencies, tracking statistics so that they can engender change, or heading schools, enticing families to keep their kids in for the free meals they give each day. Right now I have no doubt there are too few of those women, but there will not always be.

There will not always be.

Personally, as a woman I must stop feeling guilty and start acting, using my God-given abilities to bring about change in my small or not so small way. In speaking with my husband yesterday evening, he told me I should stop talking and find a charity that acts for women's and children's rights, and then I need to support their efforts. He is absolutely right, for if I continue to sit around just reading newspapers and feeling furious with my fellow human beings, I am only adding to the darkness and the despair.

I'd rather light some candles.

Sunlight on the Forest Floor: Children of God

The altar and crucifix of St. Augustine By The Sea Church, Waikiki, Hawaii 

 

A while ago I read an article from someone who was debating the Catholic belief in the Eucharist. He essentially asked, Why on earth would the King of the Universe lower himself to become something we eat and digest?

The questions that must follow such a query are: Why would the King of the Universe die on a tree for us? Or be born as one of us, a dependent infant, in a stable?

The cross was considered a very humiliating death, and yet God suffered it for us as only God could. And the manger itself speaks volumes about how much our God values humility, honesty and simplicity, not the transient wealth, station, or power the world esteems.

Why is God present with us? Why was he born among animals and crucified with criminals?

Read More.....

Jesus has your back

This post is not solely about confession, but I must bring it up in light of my unique experience as part of my witness. As to the purpose and necessity of confession, contested among Christians, I can only say that sin does not occur in a vacuum. It very rarely affects only ourselves. When we sin we sin against not just our God but against the whole body of Christ, causing discord and scandal and laying stumbling blocks in the path of those who do not know our hope. It's a good, humble thing to confess our sins to each other as St. James (Letter of St. James 5:13-16) pointed out, and sometimes it is very necessary for healing relationships and for gaining new strength in the fight. If you want to know why Catholics practice confession, especially in light of the Eucharist, go HERE. As for my own personal experiences, sometimes after confession I have felt so joyous that I have wanted to eat a fat slice of chocolate cake; sometimes I have felt immense relief, unburdened; one time I felt deep dissatisfaction - and it was my fault for avoiding confessing the thing that was most necessary; and then there was this time when, despite the pain of the experience, I realized that Jesus had my back. 

This is a vulnerable post; even if you disagree with the need for the Sacrament of Confession as reconciliation after Baptism, please respect that.

I used to think I was one of the righteous ones, and it made me a little pouty.

(Whoa! How's that for a beginning? Be patient, and I will abase myself presently.)

Jesus said this in the parable about the lost sheep:

What man among you having a hundred sheep and losing one of them would not leave the ninety-nine in the desert and go after the lost one until he finds it? And when he does find it, he sets it on his shoulders with great joy and, upon his arrival home, he calls together his friends and neighbors and says to them, 'Rejoice with me, because I have found my lost sheep.' I tell you, in just the same way there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over the ninety-nine righteous people who have no need of repentance. Luke 15:4-7 (NAB)

I used to think, What about me, Lord? I'm trying. I love you. I'm on the right path! Don't I bring you joy?

Read More...

Sunlight on the Forest Floor: Marriage

I found it a little ridiculous that the media made such a huge deal about the couples Pope Francis married more than a month ago. They pointed out that some of the couples had been cohabitating; one already had a child. They declared that Pope Francis is so much more open, and this is an additional sign of change (for the better, they would argue). They hinted that similar couples might have been booted out before, shunned, and denied the power and fulfillment of marriage.

Marriage to them is merely a choice, I suspect, to enter into a visible contract. What they don't understand about marriage made all the difference in their interpretation.

....Read More

Sunlight on the Forest Floor: my journey toward God, trying to see the forest for the trees

Archbishop Fulton J. Sheen once said, "There are not one hundred people in the United States who hate the Catholic Church, but there are millions who hate what they perceive the Catholic Church to be."

I used to be one of those people, though hate is perhaps too strong a word. I had a very strong, very foggy dislike of the Catholic "institution", and for the life of me, I cannot tell you from where or what it stemmed. Perhaps it is hereditary among Protestants. I believe I heard from various people I respected that Catholics were destined for hell, a passage from Revelations entering in here, and I think it's likely that I heard some blunt opinions about Catholicism growing up in the Bible Belt. But I could not have told you why I distrusted the Catholic Church or what exactly they believed about Jesus Christ that was so very different from my faith in Him. I only know my perceptions were called into question when I first learned that the man I would someday marry was Catholic.

I freaked out.

Now, of course, I can look back and laugh at my little tantrum. I can remember fondly my dad saying matter-of-factly, "Hillary, that's the oldest Christian church there is!", and how I felt comforted by that. I can remember the night I first truly received Communion, after attending Mass for 10 years with my husband, and how I was overpowered by God's love and mercy and spent my time in that front pew before the altar, kneeling and sobbing.

Since that night I have learned so very much, much of which I could not have remotely grasped without God's grace and guidance. I have learned just how ignorant I was of everything save the Gospel (and I have my dad to thank with my whole heart that I was not equally ignorant of the Word). Not only did I not read the Old Testament and the Epistles or appreciate their relation to Jesus, I did not understand fully, or even reasonably well, the hallmarks of Protestantism, and I presumed to know Catholic theology based on a legacy of several-hundred-year-old prejudices.

That last statement is definitely not the case for some, but I suspect it is for many Protestants.

I have many relatives and dear friends in many different Protestant denominations, and I have been in many different churches - Methodist, Baptist, Assembly of God, Church of Christ, and Jehovah's Witness (with a dear childhood friend). My favorite Gospel singer, Keith Green, was Protestant. These posts I intend to write regularly are not to disprove the validity of any denomination. I mean to dispel prejudice, misunderstanding and ignorance about the beliefs and practices of the Catholic Church in order to foster greater unity.

Wow, good luck! you might say, but I will try.

And never fear: I will continue to write humor (One of the greatest humorists, Erma Bombeck, was Catholic!) when the mood strikes, and I will write about my little rascals often. Yet I must be able to write what I wish, and often I wish to talk about God. It is something my family did quite a lot of while I was growing up, and it's not healthy, as many of us know, to suppress the Good News.

Happy Easter

The week before Easter is a busy one for Catholics. Palm Sunday finds us singing Hosanna! as we enter the church with palms behind the priest, remembering Christ's triumphant entrance into Jerusalem on the back of a humble donkey. There is Holy Thursday Mass when we commemorate Jesus washing the feet of his 12 disciples. On Good Friday we read the Passion, as on Palm Sunday, and there is a procession with a wooden cross up the center aisle of the church. Then, at last, comes Holy Saturday night and Easter morning.

My son Berto had his feet washed, with 11 other members of various parish ministries, on Holy Thursday. He was very nervous about it, but Matthew and I told him to imagine Christ washing his feet and to reflect on something in his life with which he would like Jesus' help, or to think of someone he believes could use Jesus' help (can't we all?). Before he and I left for church, we read in John what Jesus told his disciples after cleansing their feet, "I have given you a model to follow, so that as I have done for you, you should also do."

I smiled at Berto as he sat on the altar steps in bare feet, one of just two children seated in the twelve chairs there with their white basins, pitchers and towels beneath.

"Mom," he said afterward. "Looking around, I realized that I have young feet." Then he chuckled.

It's not what I hoped he would get out of it, but oh well.

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On Good Friday I prayed a lot and took deep breaths every few minutes as I studied. I would be narrating the Lord's Passion that night at Mass, and it was my turn to be nervous to the point of feeling faint. And so I prayed for courage and understanding and for God's blessing so that I could glorify his name. I asked for Mother Mary to be with me. I asked Jesus to hold my hand.

Dear friends have told me I have a childlike faith. Perhaps that is my gift. I don't have stellar understanding. I do not write brilliant faith posts. I talk far too much when I should really be silent most of the time. But I have a childlike faith in and immense love for Christ Jesus, and so I asked him to hold my hand as I read of his Passion and crucifixion. When there were moments of silence during the narration, I pleaded, Don't leave me now. Keep holding my hand.

He did, though he suffered through it all for us, and I was merely reading about it. I was amazed; I always am. I am anxious and restless, praying to the Holy Spirit for courage, until I stand behind that ambo to read. My legs might tremble still, but I can speak clearly and, by the grace of God, help to impart understanding of His Word.

Ana served that night, and on the way home we were both feeling joyful, though perhaps we should have kept it for Easter. We were simply grateful to serve. I asked her how it felt to go to the back of the church with the deacons to bring Holy Communion and to be one of the first to venerate the cross and told her she did a wonderful job. She told me that when I read it was as if Jesus was speaking.

I didn't respond to that right away. It seemed impossible since I am a woman, but it choked me up nonetheless. And all I could think of was how I felt exactly the same way when I listened to my dad reading the Bible during my childhood.


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Throughout this year numerous people have come up to Matthew and me at church and told us how much they enjoy watching our kids altar serve, particularly Ana. She always has a broad smile on her face when she is up in the sanctuary or on the altar steps, and her joy is contagious judging from the many comments made to her parents. Berto is much more stoic and dignified, and that is his special way of serving.

On Holy Saturday one mother in the parish said, "What has made my year is your daughter. That's where it's at: singing altar servers!"

She was speaking of the way in which our Ana girl had belted out the hymn, Table of Plenty, while waiting with Berto and the deacon on the steps for the gifts to be brought forward.

Matthew and I had noticed it, too. Our little girl had her mouth wide open in praise and was moving her head about with gusto as she sang the chorus:

Come to the feast of heaven and earth

Come to the table of plenty!

God will provide for all that we need

Here at the table of plenty!

She was so in the moment that Matthew and I had to laugh, though silently of course, and we glanced over at our friend Adolfo next to us, and he was also grinning. She was certainly doing her part to spread the joy of Easter!

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Every year I'll try to share a song of Keith Green's. I was raised on his music, and he is still my favorite gospel singer and a very talented pianist/songwriter as well. He wrote several songs based on Jesus' parables, such as the Prodigal Song Suite, and they are all beautiful, so enjoy.


There is a Redeemer by Keith and Melody Green


Happy Easter, readers and friends!

Away by Laney Smith

Laney, guest writer of this post, is my cousin, and I love and admire her a ton even though I haven't seen her since she was two, and she really isn't my cousin in the blood sense of the word. My dad and her dad adopted each other as brothers when they were just boys in Idaho, long before they even imagined having daughters. Before Laney was born her dad and mom used to visit my family in Tennessee, and we had grand adventures together making corny home videos like our Star Trek spoof where we battled enemy life forms (cockroaches). Dad used to tell his kids, much like the no pens, pencils, knives or scissors rule, not to answer the door to anyone, ever. To illustrate his point he'd say, "I don't care if Grandpa and Grandma (in Idaho) show up or Uncle Nick or your Uncle Rueben!" Well, of course, Uncle Rueben did show up one afternoon all the way from Missouri, and after very little debate we did answer the door, because Uncle Rueben was always a fun visitor. Plus, he let us raid his car trip cooler while we waited for mom and dad to join the reunion.

My whole rambling point is that sometimes you get to choose additions to your family. God encourages us to build a large tree of people who aren't simply related to us by blood. So, Laney, I wish you a very Merry Christmas, Cousin, and I hope with all my heart that you will be home with your dad, mom, sister, and brother next year. And may God bless you and all of us this Christmas, everyone!


This morning, Christmas Eve Eve, I was feeling especially homesick. Listening to tantalizing music spreading Holiday cheer, I was beginning to wish I could strangle all who sang about being home for Christmas while I was stuck on a dull gray ship in some port of Japan. Over the last few days I’ve started to grow bitter over a whole world that continues to turn even while I’m away. Being in the Navy can be a beautiful thing with its benefits and travel. Being halfway around the world during Christmas, however, makes me question my career decision. This will make year three of being overseas during the holidays, and I would give almost anything to be home for them. It was a nice surprise, while sulking and sweeping, to hear a buzz from my phone. My sister sent me video after video of family and friends saying hellos, and wishing I were there. I won’t confirm nor deny that the goofy messages and videos made me feel so happy that I cried like a little girl that found her lost kitten. But God's timing and my beautiful family were exactly what I needed today. I don’t know that I’ve ever received a better Christmas gift. We talked back and forth for a little bit before I had to stop pretending to clean and actually go back to work. For the rest of the day, my smile has stuck and my mind has been clear, with an appreciation for what I do have, even though they’re halfway around the world: family who love and care about me, that haven’t forgotten about me. “I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams.”

Beat the Blues, Not Yourself

I've been beating myself about the mental bush for the whole week thus far. The same old, same old feeling that I'll never be successful, that I've made so many mistakes in my journey as a writer, that perhaps I'm one of those individuals with some talent who is doomed to fail, because we don't understand a secret ingredient that others grasp so completely in the quest for creative fulfillment.

Or perhaps just most people hate us. Guess I should go eat worms.

When you are hurling negative comments at yourself, cutting down hope with a wicked little hatchet, it's hard to be positive toward others. I apologized again to my husband this morning and asked, as he smiled knowingly back at me, if he thought I would be apologizing again tomorrow.

"Yes."

He's probably right. I hope for better. See? I'm improving; I'm hoping.

Funny thing is that the deeper you sink into your hole of dissatisfaction, the harder it is to pray for deliverance. And I don't mean crying to God, Please make me a professional writer! Please help me to understand what I lack. Please make other people help me somehow.

I mean the kind of prayer that my friend Dana prays with her family, that I found so inspiring when she confided it to me:

Father, thank you for all you've given us....for our health and happiness and our home. Please just keep doing what you're doing.

So I prayed it this morning, a variation.

Please help me to appreciate all that I have - our beautiful children, our home, all our food and especially our health...even our dog, Father.

Throw in a pickup truck, and it could be a country song.

It's about the joy that you embrace when you're down, a clarity of vision and patience, too. This morning at school, my nine-year-old Ana was hugging me at school and pointed to the sky.

"Look, it's a dragon fly, Mama."

I gazed up to see it.

"No, it's a hummingbird," I said with wonder, and we watched it high in the blue, higher than I thought it would go. I felt the gift of it's beauty after these days of selfish absorption.

Then I went to take my big, almost 11-year-old boy his lunch, and he met me by the basketball court.

"Give me a hug and a kiss," I said jokingly.

He looked around sheepishly from beneath his mop of hair, and then consented to give me a hug and a big smile to go with it.

And when I came home, I found an email from a dear, longtime friend who I had not heard from in so very long, and the email read like poetry to me.

So I see again today, God has been very good to me. I just hope I can remember it tomorrow.

Starry, Starry Night: There are always points of light in the darkness

A month and a half ago, I was going through my quarterly Vincent Van Gogh period. No, I do not mean that I was inspired to paint pictures to rival Starry Night, The Potato Eaters or Sunflowers. Instead I was going through an artistic depression that, had it progressed further, might have had me contemplating cutting off an ear and mailing it to a relative or some random person.

Of course, I would never do that. I am not even close to being as Vincent Van Gogh as Van Gogh was himself - in manic depression or creative ability. Yet, you must give the beautiful genius this provision for his insane choice: his talent was never properly appreciated or rewarded in his lifetime. No wonder the lady who used to sell him his art supplies, while giving an interview on her hundredth or something birthday, said he was a morose jerk. Ask any creative person, and they're likely to tell you that when they get depressed about the reception of their work and the result of their efforts, they can go to some pretty dark places. And then, on top of it all and because of it all, their generative powers just about die (writer's block, apathetic painter's brush, composer's recalcitrant keys, etc).


We love you, Vincent. You were a genius, if unstable...and aren't we all?


As for this creative person, things turned around on Holy Thursday night. I was a Lector at Mass that evening, and I read the Old Testament reading of the first Passover. While crying and complaining to my husband on the phone at lunch that I was pathetic, he encouraged me to shift my focus from myself and my frustration to something more worthy of my attention. He told me to go over my reading for Mass. I didn't feel like doing it, but I did. And I stayed off my computer. When the time came to depart for church, I got on my knees and asked God to forgive me for snapping at my children every moment and for being completely selfish the whole day because of my self-centered disappointments. During my reading, a miracle: I did not make one mistake - no stuttering, no mispronunciations, no loss of the rhythm in the reading, and I was astounded that such a thing could be on a day when my attitude had been venomous.

My husband whispered, "Good job!" when I returned to the pew, and I replied with conviction, "By the grace of God."

My cry since, whenever I begin to crave the sour berries of self-pity, has been, "Father, save me from discouragement!" Sometimes you have to reject the all too alluring, soul-numbing and dead-ending gospel of "ME".

Anyway, some great things - great to little me - happened in the past couple months. The domesticated bohemian shared one of my posts to Google +. (Thank you, Philip!) My friend Holly wrote a great guest post about her grandfather. I wrote three other fairly popular posts of which I am quite proud. The writer Jennie of A Lady in France gave me some calming words of wisdom. My dad also wrote a guest post, and though it was very short, it of course brought in a slew of traffic, because his pieces always do. And I was gifted with words of encouragement from a cousin, a childhood friend, and my brother who told me that he reads each new post. Of course, I immediately got nervous and upended by writer's block upon hearing this from my big brother. Go figure.

Points of light in the darkness. All I can do, like any of us, is to keep striving. Sure, I've had days when I avoided the computer, and yesterday I missed the once-a-week posting goal I set for myself. As each and every weekend approaches, I resolve that this Saturday I'll sit down and pitch another post to a humor site; yet, for the past three months, being very busy, I haven't. And, okay, SEO does not exist for my blog, and technology to me is like an uneasy alliance with an alien network: great plans, poor communication. But I don't despair. No, indeed. I keep working, keep hoping, keep creating and seeking those points of light in the darkness.

They are always there, those starry, starry nights. They are there for all of us.


Mr London Street published again, and, as usual, it is a beautiful and funny post. He is always brilliant in reflections about his relationship with his wife. His posts, like fine wine, have an excellent finish. I am ashamed that I chronically feel twinges of jealousy when I read his words, but I am sure that I could never so well keep an audience's attention when writing about my mouth guard or my need to fill a prescription. Ah, well, we can't have it all, and I comfort myself that at least he can't write about what it's like to be a mama, or mum, or an accident-prone girl from Tennessee currently living in Arizona - ha!

P.S. Nathan, you're not old, and your words are vibrant. In the words of an American, keep truckin'.

Keith Green - Easter Song

E. Stanley Jones, a Methodist preacher and missionary, once wrote about his first time preaching - before a large crowd of well-wishers. He got off to a good start, but when he was just a few sentences in, he made a mistake and was so mortified by it that he completely forgot the rest of his sermon. He stood in front of the congregation for several moments trying to regain his thoughts. Eventually, he gave up, apologized and started down the steps from the pulpit, completely deflated. What a terrible beginning to his ministry! But something set it back on track; as he writes:

As I was about to leave the pulpit a Voice seemed to say to me, "Haven't I done anything for you?"

"Yes," I replied. "You have done everything for me."

"Well," said the Voice. "Couldn't you tell them about that?"

Instead of taking a long walk of shame to his seat, he said to the congregation, "Friends, I see I cannot preach, but I love Jesus."

He proceeded to explain how a man who had once been a "wild, reckless" youth in the community had been given new life and a determination to serve Jesus.

Jones wrote that this experience of initiation into ministry taught him an important lesson: God did not need him to be His lawyer with great arguments and fancy words; God needed a witness.

Isn't this what every Christian is supposed to be? We cannot prove that Christ is who he said he is except by the love he has given us, that love that is meant to overflow to those around us.

I have been stumbling toward God from childhood, sometimes doing my best, sometimes doing a poor job of it. But it seems to me the best witnesses for Christ are often the prodigal sons; they know how to witness for God. They understand in detail the darkness, the poverty of human existence; they've experienced it, and they want to pull as many as they can from the clutches of quiet or not-so-quiet despair. Think about the great Christian evangelists, teachers and writers. The Apostle Paul, St. Augustine, Edith Stein, Thomas Merton, C.S. Lewis: they all experienced conversion, and then they devoted their lives completely to Christ.

Another man who understood that God needs no lawyers, no great debaters - but passionate witnesses - was Keith Green. A former drug abuser, hard-living musician and believer in "free love", he had a terrible experience while on tour in a foreign country that devastated him. He pulled himself out of the abyss through the grace of Jesus Christ and began using all his talents for the One who had saved him.

Here is a video of the talented Keith Green singing the joyous Easter Song by Annie Herring.

http://www.youtube.com/embed/Z3kc1jDahU4


Our Lord has risen. Happy Easter, my friends, readers! He has risen. Alleluia! Alleluia!

Conquering Myself Through Christ

If there were no one who said, "I die, but I shall live," no one who said, "I and the Father are one," then there would be no hope for those who suffer mute and devoid of hoping. All suffering would then be senseless, destructive pain that could not be worked on, all grief would be "worldy grief" and would lead to death...
A person's resurrection is no personal privilege for himself alone - even if he is called Jesus of Nazareth. It contains within itself hope for all, for everything - Dorothee Soelle, On This Gallows


I have sworn off the news. Long ago I swore off watching the news. Now I complete the division: no more reading distressing, disturbing, feel-bad stories. Because I don't let go, the ingested information festers, and I begin to feel worse and worse about humanity. I agonize over the injustice and harm people I perceive as innocent have suffered. Of the perpetrators of evil, I think, These people are ruining the world for my children!

Yes, I'm an arrogant sinner. Bear with me.

Earlier this week I finally got to reading the news in the Sunday paper, and I deliberately read stories I should have avoided. I just couldn't believe I was reading about the same horrific sins that repeat and repeat...and repeat. My anger and repulsion and self-righteousness exploded.

That night I dreamed about zombies, zombies everywhere. I floated above their clawing fingers until finally finding refuge in an iron-clad prison with other bedraggled humans. I could see the zombies outside through the bars, but they could not get in. We could not go out. Two young girls were waved into the fancy car of what I knew was a monster, right outside the metal slats. I wanted to wave them in to safety, call them back from a dreadful mistake, open the heavy metal door, but I wouldn't do it for fear of granting entrance to what I abhorred.

I woke up at the edge of that dream in the morning, my wrong side of the bed, and I knew exactly what my brain had done. I hate zombies: I hate the entire idea of that, the imagined look of them, the portrayal of such things and their methods of survival for "entertainment". And my subconscious, fermenting in the pool of my distress, anger and disgust, had given me zombies.

I am an arrogant sinner. I am like Elijah in the cave, crying, I'm the only one. And how did God respond? I have left me seven thousand in Israel. (1 Kings 19)

Before I have justified reading the news by a shaky belief that to ignore it is to ignore that there are people suffering in this world. By reading it, I can at least suffer with the victims, acknowledge their pain. But what do I do with the knowledge of others' suffering? Nothing except to mourn their circumstances, nothing but detest their tormentors and the crime, nothing but feel bad about the perpetual violent inclinations of my race, nothing except align myself with the Pharisee (Luke 18: 9-14) who prayed blindly and falsely, "Thank you, God, that I am not like this publican - a sinner!" That endangers my soul, and it does nothing to improve this world, only increasing the burden of sin by heaping my own upon the pile.

Who does accept the suffering of others, who said, "Cast your cares upon me"? Who was a victim of the violence of this world? Who removes the scourge of sin in the willful act of final sacrifice? Jesus Christ.

Suffering is consecrated to God by faith - not by faith in suffering, but by faith in God.

Only the sufferings of Christ are valuable in the sight of God, who hates evil, and to him they are valuable chiefly as a sign. The death of Jesus on the cross has an infinite meaning and value not because it is a death, but because it is the death of the Son of God. The cross of Christ says nothing of the power of suffering or of death. It speaks only of the power of him who overcame both suffering and death by rising from the grave - Thomas Merton, To Know the Cross

Someone I love dearly told me recently, "If you remove Christ from the cross and hang yourself up there, you're just dead and the rest of us are doomed."

I cannot suffer for others. I cannot remove their pain or "work on" their suffering and bring any good from it. I can only give love and work as a laborer in my Father's harvest, striving to find ways to alleviate others' suffering instead of merely feeling badly for them, and all this requires hope. If I strangle that hope by exposing myself more and more to the knowledge of evil, without acting to reinforce good in this world, what use am I?

So I aim to keep myself from sin and from despair. And let me not pray as the Pharisee but as the Publican, not raising my eyes even to heaven as I plead honestly, "God be merciful to me a sinner."

Conquer

People seem to think that it is in some way a proof that no merciful God exists, if we have so many wars. On the contrary, consider how in spite of centuries of sin and greed and lust and cruelty and hatred...the human race can still recover, each time, and can still produce men and women who overcome evil with good, hatred with love, greed with charity, lust and cruelty with sanctity. Thomas Merton, The Seven Storey Mountain


I am seeking the Prince of Peace. He said In the world you will have tribulation, but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world. Today I have read about tribulation that isn't even mine, yet I find it hard to be of good cheer, to be brave.

There was another shooting. There is rampant abuse by vile people of the youngest, most vulnerable and impressionable among us. I want to give up - build a fortress, sail away, take the next rocket to the moon with my children and my whole family. I want to give up on humanity, that race so capable of producing monsters - and not the ultra-hip, hyper-sexualized ones with which they spin all manner of mindless entertainment.

What I speak of, this despair, it is cowardice. Sometimes I am appalled by my own selfishness and inertness. What can we do but strive? We stop striving to live morally for ourselves and to live bravely and proactively in the world, and we die spiritually. I have no choice but to put my head into the wind and surge forward despite fear and despair. There is no good option but to respond with love. By the grace of God only can I do this. By prayer and fasting and searching.

I feel overwhelmed by what I see in the newspaper and on the Internet. Sometimes like today I walk about my home snapping at my children because my thoughts plague me; a storm cloud sits on my brow; and my mind is preoccupied with evil that I cannot battle personally, evil that I cannot undo for those who have suffered its consequences - those whom I love and ache for though I don't know them.

Like Martha in the Bible, I am troubled by many things, but on days like today I wish I could sit at Christ's feet, cling to his robes with a steel grip. He would remind me, no doubt, that sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. I should not worry about tomorrow.

Perhaps He would point out that sometimes a simple game with your children can dispel the blackened skies and remind you to live in love and hope. I wandered around my house today, seeking shelter for myself in some distraction. Only when I crossed my legs on the floor, responded to my kids and bent my mind to a game of Candy Land did I find it, and I was so grateful to have it. I cannot give in to hopelessness.

What right have I to be selfish in my despair? I am extraordinarily blessed in the purest blessings of life, and I thank God for it daily. But there are those in the world who have no shelter, who are blessed with next to nothing. I have heard some of their tales of survival and victory, and I have learned through them that triumph over evil is possible and necessary. Like the Jamaican runner, Olympian Shelly-Ann Fraser-Pryce, who grew up in a harsh neighborhood where young girls are not often given the chance to reach potential, sometimes pregnant at 12. She went to college, and she won another gold. in London. Like the elderly woman who lived next to my husband before we were married. She was abused at age 3 but as an adult became a missionary in South America. Like the Olympian Lopez Lomong who was once a child soldier in Sudan and now helps operate a charity to provide clean water and other necessities in his homeland.

If this world were glowing, coming up roses everywhere - a fairyland of love and laughter- there would be no need to exert ourselves, to show love to strangers, or to use our talents selflessly for others. The weeds affect the wheat and visa-versa. Both must grow together until the harvest. The evil in the world ignites the light of good people and the flame of great deeds. Without this struggle there would be no Mother Theresa, no firemen rushing into the World Trade Center, no by-standers tackling a gunman outside a Tucson Safeway, no policemen removing the threat to innocent people outside a Sikh Temple, and no brave men and women working tirelessly to save children from exploitation and horror. I wish for no evil, but it exists. Through God's guidance and mercy, I pray that I will be brave in having my own role in overcoming it. And we cannot doubt that those who love their children and do their best to guide them in the way they should go are doing their lion's part to make the world stronger, a better place.

Even a smile can do that in some little way. So God bless you, and God bless all of us in our endeavors - in overcoming evil with good and hatred with love.


I have felt this way today, so though I wrote this a long while back, it seems like the best post for my mood on this unique and challenging day I experienced. Sometimes I am absolutely disgusted. Is it better to avoid the news, the internet and be ignorant of the corruption and vulgarity in the world and so manage to maintain a greater hope, a more charitable view of your fellow creatures? I don't know, but I do understand it is unforgiveable to lose hope, charity or love.

Spirit

This post is dedicated to the mother of my close friend who recently suffered a heart attack and is recovering. I pray that you get well quickly.

Have you ever been around someone who is a mystery? They attract other people, and you yourself wish to be near them. Not because of their appearance or their confidence or their personality, but because they seem to be in possession of something very valuable but intangible - something which brought comfort and perhaps joy with it.

Not to say these people are perfect specimens of the human race. They may struggle financially, battle recurring depression, have health troubles, challenges within their family, but regardless, they have something that pulls them through all this with the extraordinary ability to uplift others as well.

I recall how my dad stood at the grill during my graduation party, and a group of young men who had never met him before surrounded him, asking him questions and seeking his advice. I knew why, but they probably didn't understand. And they certainly weren't the only ones to do this during my time at home. I had friends and cousins and saw near strangers hang on my dad's words, trying to glean something permanently strengthening from them.

And my mother to this day often finds herself in long conversations with people she has just met. They spill their troubles, and she mops up the messiness, doling out compassion and love.

You meet people with this sort of quiet power, but you're most likely to recognize its impact if they are not your friends and are not related to you. I know many of my friends possess it - I can feel it while in certain conversations with them - but it is not startling to me. Yet I have recognized it in something so pedestrian as an email, and it did surprise me; a gentleman I scarcely know sent me a message telling me not to be discouraged concerning my writing, but how he said it held that same power that gives strength if one avails oneself of it.

Sometimes it pervades the home where people dwell. There's more than enough of it to go around, and it's like permanent sunshine indoors. While on a trip this fall to visit family and friends, I recognized my Uncle Kipper and Aunt Cheryl's house had it - love and nourishment for all who lived, visited or rested there.

Sometimes people bring it with them into a home where there is conflict and struggle, and it suddenly, inexplicably dispels the shadows and balances everything, at least while they linger.

One of my closest friends moved to be nearer her family, a long way from friends who love her, but I understood what good there was for her in that decision when I met her parents again on our trip, the day of her daughter's baptismal. When they came to church for the wonderful occasion, they brought that sunshine, that strength with them. And, yes, it was already in that spiritual refuge; it was already present with their daughter, but they made it more abundant. For me, being around and talking with them and my friend at her home after the baptismal was like homecoming, a spiritual homecoming. I recognize what they carry with them. It gladdens me, and I garner what wisdom I can from it.

My friend told me that at her parents' 50th wedding anniversary, her dad said that he was proud all 10 of their children had gone to college, a great thing. Then he stated that the reason their family had made it through difficulties and thrived was because they always had God.

How many times have I heard my dad say the same thing? And many others.

That quiet power, that sunshine, that strength, that thing that makes some people state after a devastating tragedy that their faith helped them through the pain - that thing that confounds so many people - it comes from God.

The more you cultivate it by seeking Him, the more likely you are to feel it when your life is troubled and the more it will give strength to others without you fully realizing it.


The wind blows where it will, and you hear the sound thereof, but cannot tell from where it comes, and where it goes: so is everyone that is born of the Spirit - John 3:8

Time and Chance...and Gratitude

I had a healing conversation with my parents recently, one in which they let me cry abundantly until my cellphone and ear both felt permanently moistened.

 

It's been almost two weeks since the accident, the first five of those spent in the hospital. I thought I was a trooper while in that cozy, safe hospital bed. I knew my blessings quickly, and I had no anger (unless you count yelling at the officer who told me I actually needed to talk instead of nodding, and I replied, "I...don't...want...to!", or when I scolded the ED nurses and docs for leaving me on a backboard and in a neck brace for what felt like 20 stiff hours). Nevertheless, my rattled emotions have blindsided me since I've come home. Yesterday, I heard a neighbor's motorcycle while my kids and I were in the front yard, and it upset me badly. My children crying, especially my youngest two, has the power to discombobulate me completely.

Ella, my youngest daughter, and Danny Sam, my littlest boy, were with me when a black motorcycle, entering my left line of vision like a torpedo, blew a red light and T-boned our van where the driver's side door hinges September 28th. Suddenly I was looking through a splintered windshield and an emptiness where my driver's side window had been. My sideview mirror was gone, wires dangling like mangled limbs, and my door was bent into my intimate space. Blood warmly dripped down my arm and hand.

The horror of knowing you are where you are in that moment and that there will be consequences to that fabled time and chance that happens to us all is indescribable.

And it was nearly unbearable. I was in physical pain immediately from a collapsed, bruised lung and broken ribs, and I selfishly closed in on myself those first several minutes. But the pain of hearing my children scream and wail for me until the first responders came was more terrible and haunting. I couldn't reassure them; I could barely speak, though I tried to wave my right hand in a calming signal and eventually tried to lift my voice above the cacophony of noise to breath, "I'm okay..."

I knew by their strong voices, their undulating cries, and their confused questions that they were okay and had no idea what had just happened. They were both sitting on the same side of the van as myself, but I don't believe they glimpsed the same black hulk I did before the crash.

They were not hurt, praise God. That would have been unbearable. They were not hurt at all, except for a tiny scrape on my son's thigh that I think he got as the fireman accidentally knocked glass from the window.

There is a part in the book The Walking Flame where the main character Aram must face horrendous environmental conditions. Beings called Astra wrap their enormous wings and strange bodies around him, shield him. I really don't care how it sounds: that is the image that sprang to my mind in the hospital regarding how my kids were protected from harm. Their guardian angels enveloped them.

I suppose people could ask: Well, what about you? You were seriously hurt.

You must have faith to understand. God never left me. He never left us.

He was present in the two kind, sober-faced men who stopped to ask if I was okay, who when I shook my head, responded, "Hang in there. We're going to get someone to help you."

He was present in the firemen who finally comforted and calmed my children, who were cheerful in speaking to them, who gave me a great, extraordinary gift when they got my children to speak back to them, who told my babies their mama was going to be okay, who asked about the teddy bear and doll buckled into the seats of our van. My respect for what those men and women do in traumatic situations is multiplied tremendously. They were sooo calm, so miraculously cheerful, that it comforted me and let me wholeheartedly trust them with my children when I was unable to take care of them myself.

God was present in the policemen who kept me lucid and engaged and speaking, who bent my driver's side door all the way back, so I could be placed on the stretcher. He was present in the EMTs who tended me all the way to the hospital, who were kind despite my extreme grumpiness, who told the ambulance driver to step on it already and put on the lights.

And He was present in my husband who rushed to be with us after I weakly told him on the cellphone that we'd been in an accident - to just come. My Man dashed like Flash Gordon across a long field to get to the scene, was stopped by a female officer, and had to wait in agony for the "all clear" to come see us. He barely got to me in time to grasp my hand and say, "Baby, I'm here...I'm here," before the ambulance took me away. But because he was there so quickly, he was able to take Ella and Daniel into his arms and familiar papa care. They weren't removed from the scene by strangers from Social Services, and I am so glad.

Good things come. I understand now what Job meant when he said of God to his misguided friends, If He kills me, I still trust him.

I've now witnessed the light of God shining brightly through people. And I know what it is, the Peace of Christ, to forgive someone when they have injured you badly and could have hurt your beloved children.

Go pray in the field, and be persistent

I am currently reading Anne of Green Gables to my two oldest, and in the book Anne confesses to her new adoptive mother that she does not say nightly prayers, essentially because God gave her red hair "on purpose", and she resents it. But Anne also points out that if she were to pray, she would go into a field alone or a forest somewhere and look up, up, up....and let the prayer come to her.

This brought back a childhood memory, or, rather, a string of them. I told my children that in Tennessee, I did use to go into the cornfield or near the edge of the woods to pray in the evening before bedtime. It was usually summer and during twilight when the whippoorwills' calls pierced the fog about the hills and woods. As I stood in the uneven soil of the field or dropped to my knees and began Our Father, I felt closer to God than I would have if shut up inside.

There were also evenings when I'd sit in an old lawn chair by Freddy's grave just below my bedroom window, the light spilling across my lap. Freddy, you see, was a big floppy-eared black rabbit whom I loved very much. He died too young - even for a rabbit, but I sat by his grave often, twirling my favorite walking stick in my hands. And in sitting by Freddy's grave in prayer, I felt closer to the One who had made my dear little friend.

After sharing this with them, we were led into a discussion of the importance of persistent prayer - not only as a means of asking and receiving, but as a way of seeking your Creator often and being humble before him.

"And it's very important to thank God for your blessings," I added. "Because in doing so, you'll become more aware of just how truly blessed you are. Do you know what I say in many of my prayers?"

"Amen?"

"Well, yes...but, no, I say 'thank you, Father, for all we are blessed and provided with'."

I didn't add that I always thanked Him for their Papa and for each of them, too.

"I know; I know," said Berto, his eyes growing wide and lighting up. "I've heard you say that at dinner."

"Mama, do I pray enough?" asked Ana, her eyes growing misty.

Well, dang, I wasn't trying to make it a chore, a burden or a schooling in guilt. I was trying to convey the strength you get when consistently seeking your Father.

"Yes, Ana. We pray together at church, don't we? And during the school year, we say Our Father on the way to school each morning. Look, God simply wants to hear from you, so it can be as simple as saying at bedtime, "Father, I love you and thank you for my friends and family and toys and home. Amen.' Just remember to talk to Him often, and to ask for His guidance when you're older."


Proverbs 8:17 I love them that love me; and those that seek me early shall find me

Psalms 27: 8 When you said, Seek you my face; my heart said unto you, Thy face, Lord, will I seek.