Inspired by Corrie ten Boom

How many times have I written, “when I returned to the Church,” – so many times! But it’s a story worth telling and there are many facets to it. There was even a particular Protestant writer that helped me come back to the Church. 

I spent Advent 2002 going to Mass every Sunday. I went to the Christmas Mass. And then…nothing. This was my typical cycle. Start strong, end with a thud. Then just before Lent 2003 began, the parish priest contacted me to ask what we were going to do about the decree of nullity for my first marriage, as I had not yet followed through with that.

Thus, began my search for my baptismal records (a long story), which led me to a Catholic Q&A forum, and also to my local public library. I didn’t know the parish had a library or I might have explored what they had to offer. In the end, I think I was meant to end up at the public library because I learned some important lessons there.

I found the religion section in the library and started looking for books with a Catholic theme. I found a biography of a Catholic priest who left the Church so he could get married. I also found an author who contributed to publications that didn’t promote authentic Catholic teaching, though I was ignorant of that at the time. During my search, I also came across the books of Corrie ten Boom, a Dutch woman who had been active in the resistance during World War II. She belonged to the Christian Reformed church but I was intrigued by the blurb on her book, The Hiding Place, as I was very interested in the experiences of those who had lived through the war, especially in Holland.

I read the entire book by the former Catholic priest. I was not impressed with his story and his abandonment of his vows. I read part of the book by the other Catholic author, whose name I am purposely withholding. Even with my lack of Catholic knowledge and experience, I could recognize the falsehoods he was perpetrating. I was disgusted. 

The book by Corrie ten Boom was the complete opposite. It completely captivated me in my search for truth. She wrote about Jesus like he was her personal friend, which he was.  He led her in her daily decisions and how she treated people. The bible was not a list of optional suggestions and platitudes, it was her life. She lived and breathed the word of God. I could trust her. She kept her eyes on Jesus, I needed to do the same.

That was my last trip to the public library for religious books. I found an online bookseller shortly after that and began to fill my shelves with orthodox materials. I spent a few more years on the Q&A forum but eventually, I had the basics down and I could trust my instincts regarding reading and viewing materials. I also ended up buying The Hiding Place so I could always have a copy of a Protestant book that made me a more faithful Catholic. I think Corrie would be OK with that. 😄

Come, Holy Spirit!

My little prayer group met on Saturday. We have been participating in the Life in the Spirit seminars, following a 7 week prayer guide and also a series of videos from Renewal Ministries that are easily found online. After several weeks of preparation, it was time to pray for the release of the gifts of the Holy Spirit with some of our members.  

We began by praying the Glorious Mysteries of the Rosary and then talked for a short time about the sensations or emotions they might experience while being prayed over. Some people might feel warm or energized, some people will feel nothing. There is no right way or wrong way to feel.  Everyone was encouraged to be open to whatever the Lord had in store for their particular situation. We then blessed ourselves with holy water, renewed our baptismal promises, and prayed a prayer of commitment. Two of the women in our group are experienced in prayer ministry so they led us in praise and worship, singing, and intercession. It was beautiful, powerful, and yet also gentle.

I found it interesting that when we were singing, we harmonized rather well. Three of the five of us aren’t really gifted in that area but I found it pleasant to listen to and didn’t feel as self-conscious as I normally do when I sing under my breath. I give all credit to the Spirit who was inspiring us!

In the months ahead I look forward to encouraging my friends to open their new gifts from the Holy Spirit, and seeing where the Lord leads them. 

Keep Going?

Brothers and sisters, Christ did not send me to baptize but to proclaim the gospel, and not with eloquent wisdom, so that the cross of Christ might not be emptied of its power. ~ 1 Cor 1:17

Well, there you have it – I was sent to proclaim the gospel but not with eloquent wisdom! St. Paul said it and now I am saying it. It makes me feel better about my blog too – sometimes I just don’t know what to write about and sometimes I wonder who my 2 readers are. Sometimes I lament my poor grammar, especially when I run it through the online writing assistant. 

I started this project a month ago to see if I had a writing charism. I’ll write for a few more weeks and then I may mothball the project…or not. It really depends on what God wants me to do. I am open to whatever he wants but I am looking for some feedback. NOT compliments. No. A charism is given to someone in order to be given away. So if the blog has touched you then please let me know. You're also free to send others a link - it is public.

One other thought regarding readership, perhaps this blog is meant to be a daily journal that will only be read and distributed after my death. If that is God’s will then it’s mine too. 

Knowledge vs. Knowing

When I first returned to the Church it was a very exciting time. Aside from going to Mass several times a week I spent a lot of time reading apologetics books. I was also a member of an online Q & A forum where Doubting Thomases could ask questions and knowledgeable and faithful Catholics would give answers that aligned with actual Church teaching. I just couldn’t get enough of it. I would eat breakfast and lunch at the computer while reading the forum and then go back after dinner for more. When I wasn’t on the computer, I was inhaling books. I was utterly saturated and I loved it. I ‘drank the Kool-Aid’ long enough, now I was drinking the spiritual milk.

I wanted to join the RCIA team to share all of my ‘abundant knowledge and wisdom.’ Truthfully, I think I wanted to show off.  The group at that time were either seasoned and trained school teachers or experienced prayer group and bible study leaders. All of them had been involved in various ministries almost longer than I had been alive. I was completely and utterly out of my depth! Thankfully they tolerated my presence and, in their wisdom, I don’t think they ever called on me to lead a class. If they did, they surely picked up the considerable slack as I was often tongue-tied when it came to actually speaking about what I had read. This went on for a few years and the annual repetition of the lessons probably benefited me more than anyone that ever came through that program! So, I ended up knowing a lot about Jesus but I didn't really know him.

At some point, I realized I wasn’t making much progress in my spiritual life anymore and it was time to receive deep healing.  This took place over several years through different ministries in the Church, but clearing that initial dam of sin made a significant difference in how God was able to use me from that time on. This happened after I was prayed over for a release of my spiritual gifts and when I was baptized in the Holy Spirit.  It was like going from black and white to technicolor. I went from knowing intellectually that God loves me and all other human beings, to encountering the risen and living Christ. Finally, I knew Jesus, not just about him, and finally, I could share him with others!

Real Confusion Meets the Real Presence

In a previous chapter of my life which I might title “Before Conversion,” I knew very little about what the Church actually taught. Amazingly, I did know that the bread that the priest consecrated at Mass was Jesus. It wasn’t a symbol, it wasn’t Jesus beside or around the bread, it wasn’t half Jesus and half bread. It was truly all Jesus and It only looked like bread. 

When I was invited to my friend’s First Holy Communion, I was about 7 years old. I had never received any religious instruction but I was riveted by the long lines of people going up the aisle to receive a “round white thing.” I knew there was something special and significant about that.  I also remember wondering why some people received it in their hands and some on their tongues. The event left a deep impression on me. 

When I was 15 years old another friend invited me to a First Holy Communion Mass, this one for her little brother. I was a little older so I began to ask questions about the Sacrament. My friend loaned me her brother’s sacramental prep book so I could learn more about it. This is where I learned that Transubstantiation is the changing of the bread’s substance into the substance of Christ's body. The book didn’t use those exact words as it was written for 7-year old children but that is what it taught. I believed it instantly, completely, and wholeheartedly. What a grace!

That does not mean I always treated the Eucharist with the respect It deserved. I made excuses for my behaviour and received Communion anyway, telling myself I needed Jesus. Yes, I did need Jesus but I didn’t understand that the way I was living my life meant that I was profaning the Body and Blood of the Lord.

Not only that, and perhaps this is less significant in the scheme of things, but I thought Eucharistic Adoration was idol worship. Let me explain! As I was baptized but not raised in the church, and because this devotion had all but disappeared when I was growing up, I knew nothing about it. I only remember when it returned to my parish I read about it in the bulletin but there was no explanation as to what it was. The older folks remembered it from their youth, but for someone like me that fell between the cracks, I had no context for it. Perhaps I had seen a picture of a monstrance and was repulsed by it’s ostentatious golden and bejeweled decoration, but that was all I “knew” of it. Sad, isn’t it?

When I look back at these experiences it’s a wonder to me that I am Catholic at all. I am thankful that through the grace I received through my two friends inviting me to Mass, I was able to encounter the Real Presence of Jesus in the Eucharist. Ultimately that desire to receive Him is what drew me back permanently. 

Filling Tires and Souls

My husband filled my bike tires the other day. All of a sudden, it’s easier to ride my bike. I don’t have to pedal so hard and I am not tiring as quickly. I biked over 10 kilometres today and I feel pretty good.

Being filled with the Holy Spirit is like filling your tires. You're more supported so you can work more effectively. You’ll have more strength and more stamina.

Even when I haven’t been on my bike in a few weeks my body remembers what to do. It feels especially good to get out and ride when I’ve been moping alone in the house for too long. All of a sudden, my blood is pumping and it’s so good to breathe in the fresh air.

It's the same with the Holy Spirit. I might be languishing in my sloth but then he comes along and gets the spiritual muscles moving and I quickly remember how good it is to be doing his work!

The Little Lunchtime Miracle

 When I wrote about the lady who wanted to alter her clothes it brought back memories of another person who crossed my path that needed help in a small way.

I was at work one day sitting at the reception desk. I was enjoying a quiet moment as both my supervisor and my boss were away at lunch. The conference room across from my station was being used for a meeting but the door was closed.

A few minutes later a man who had been in the conference room came to my desk. I asked if I could help him assuming he needed more coffee but he said he needed a private room to say his midday prayers. I immediately went into a state of hypervigilance. Not because he was Muslim but because he was a man of faith and my coworkers were decidedly not.

Quickly I raced through the possibilities of where I could put him. Not my supervisor’s office – she was a very unsympathetic person and I could hear her shrill reaction if she caught him in there. None of the offices upstairs would work as they all had large windows. I decided to put the man in my boss’s office. If the boss walked in during the prayer time, he might be insensitive to the situation but not hostile.  I then prayed with all my might that nobody would disturb the man.

Amazingly, both my boss and supervisor returned from lunch much later than usual that day, long after the man had completed his devotions and returned to the conference room. This was such a departure from their normal routine I could scarcely believe it.

I love these little moments that God gifts us. They are an opportunity for us to help others and also to build our faith and to learn how to trust in Him.

A New Garment

I love it when beautiful random memories pop up. This is one of them. 💕

It was a very warm day when she wandered into the shop where I was working. She walked up to my counter and asked me for a pair of scissors. I probably took a step back mentally if not physically. I wondered if she wanted to hurt herself.

I slowly opened my drawer and took the scissors out. I reluctantly handed them to her and asked her what she needed them for. She told me she was hot and was going to cut the long sleeves off her shirt. I am sure I looked at her like she was crazy.

She took the scissors to her left sleeve and started cutting. She was serious! It was more difficult to cut the right sleeve with her left hand. As she did this, she babbled away to me, telling me she was in town for a relative’s funeral and in her culture, and she was supposed to wear the same clothes for several days. I wasn’t sure if she was putting me on or not, and I wasn’t going to ask because she was holding a sharp object!

She then announced she was going to cut her pant legs shorter. By this time, she had won my heart with her openness so I offered to cut the pant legs for her. It was coffee time in the shop and the managers were out back so I quickly sent up a prayer that they wouldn’t decide to return early, and also that the phone would not ring.

I went around the counter and proceeded to cut her outfit. I didn’t do a very good job – the cuts were somewhat jagged. I could have sent her into the public washroom and asked her to hand her pants out to me but I figured that was going to backfire. I knew if the managers saw what was happening, they’d be making rude and cruel remarks about this woman for the rest of the day. I couldn’t bear the thought of that happening.

When I was done, I stood up and she gave me a delighted grin. She reached for my hands and held them in hers and thanked me. I gave her a little blessing and she thanked me again. Then she was off into the hot sunshine in her new “shorts.” I wondered if she might regret her actions and come back to berate me but I never saw her again.

Wherever she is, I hope she is well.

Infobesity

Infobesity. It’s information overload. We collect so much data that we walk about in a glutted state, so full we can barely move. We become distracted and confused and it becomes more and more difficult to make decisions.

The initial solution is to stop. Stop reading, watching, listening, doing. But nature abhors a vacuum so it wants to be filled. If we don’t fill it with something good, it doesn’t care. It just wants to be filled.

Let Jesus fill your great hunger. Let him water your parched soul. Make yourself an empty vessel so you can be filled more fully with Jesus. Pray obstacles will be removed so healing can begin and freedom be restored.

How To Pray

How many times have you prayed for someone where part of the prayer was for your desired outcome? Lord, I pray for your protection on Floyd but inspire him to go to Mass instead of golfing on Sunday morning. Jesus, please have mercy on Ethel, help her to see her drinking is killing her, amen.  Dear God, please make it possible for Elmer to forgive his sister Beulah before it’s too late.  

These are all good intentions. Piety, sobriety, forgiveness – we should all be striving towards that, right? And prayer is good – I’m talking to God! We are supposed to pray every day so if I pray this prayer 9 days in a row, while wearing the Miraculous medal, and lighting a candle every day then God will have to answer my prayer, right? Yes, indeed God will answer your prayer. He will say yes, no, or not now.  

So, you’re frustrated because your intentions are pure. You’ve read the bible where God says ask, knock, I will give it to you. Yet Floyd just booked a tee time; Ethel has been through detox 3 times and still isn’t dry, and Elmer is now screening his telephone calls. *sigh*

I will share something important about praying for others. We cannot control another’s free choices through prayer. The best prayer is simply to ask God to remove obstacles to belief and to restore your loved one’s freedom to respond to God’s grace. That’s it.

I am sure someone was saying that prayer for me. My pride, brokenness, and foolishness kept me holding onto things that weren’t right. Eventually, grace uncovered my sins and converted my heart and I am so thankful.

Reminders

Has this ever happened to you?

There are times we reject the Church's teaching because they remind us of times when we sinned, even if we didn't know we were. It's just too painful to hear people talk about even when we know they aren't talking about us specifically. Even if we've healed from these events and forgiven it's never pleasant to be reminded of those events. 

I can't remember who wrote that. I found it in my journal but didn't note who the author was. I need to be more diligent! 

He Leadeth Me

If you’re an impulsive person like me it can be very confusing when you are trying to discern if God is speaking to you or not. When your first instinct is always to react to emotions this can often lead you down the wrong path. Eventually, you get older and you either learn from your mistakes or you are just too tired to chase down every inspiration. If you are fortunate enough you can find a balance between your feelings, your experiences, and when the Lord is truly leading you.

I want to tell you about a particular time in my life where God led me by the hand to my little emerald island to speak to me and show me his great Heart.

Shortly after I left New York I went to meet up with my husband so we could visit my in-laws in Nova Scotia. We had a few little day trips planned but nothing major. We like to stick around where the folks are because they are getting older and well, you just never know what’s going to happen.

A few days after we arrived, we thought we might go to Prince Edward Island for a day and we’d pack a bag in case we stayed overnight. Or maybe we wouldn’t go at all. We’d been many times before so we weren’t concerned if we put it off to another time.

The next day one of my children phoned. He told me he was sorry to give me bad news on my vacation. He had waited until I left New York in order not to put any more stress on me while I was there taking care of my other son and his family, but he had a tumor and he couldn’t keep it from me anymore. I felt time stop. I was caught in that horrific moment and I could not move. I felt like someone had punched me in the gut. I tried to be strong because if Mama is losing it then the world is surely ending.

Nobody knew for sure if the tumor was cancerous. Only surgery and a biopsy could confirm it. I wanted to know when the surgery was but it had not been scheduled yet. I told my son I was packing up and leaving Nova Scotia as soon as possible but he was adamant that I stay where I was. I reluctantly agreed. 

I had been in the house for some time so my husband came to see what was taking me so long. He said we should go home but I told him we were to stay where we were. I asked him to tell his brother and sister-in-law our news but I would not be making an appearance poolside that evening. I also made my husband promise not to tell anyone else about the diagnosis until we had more answers.

It was very difficult to sleep that night. I sat in the TV room trying to find flights home on my phone even though I had promised to stay put. No matter what I tried I could not find flights or make my phone cooperate. I didn’t have access to a computer or laptop and calling the airline was not an option. Finally, I went to bed.

I couldn’t face anyone the next morning so I told my husband I wanted to go to PEI after all. He didn’t want to, but at this point he was willing to do anything so I wouldn’t start crying again so we packed an overnight bag, checked the ferry schedule, and headed out.

As we waited for the ferry, I remember it was a beautiful sunny day. I flipped through some travel brochures while I had a coffee. I decided we should go to the western part of the island as it as less touristy. The last thing I wanted on this trip was to keep coming face to face with the cheerful and eccentric Anne of Green Gables.

I can’t remember if it was a photo of the place or the description that caught my attention but there was an old Catholic girls school that had been converted into an inn in Tignish. It had a Mary garden complete with a grotto. Instantly I wanted to go there. I called the number but I wasn’t hopeful. August on the island is very busy. A lady with a kind voice and a strong Maritime accent answered the phone and yes, there was exactly one room left. I immediately booked it.

As we got closer to Tignish I began to notice that there were quite a few roadside shrines to the Blessed Mother. Some were the regular ‘bathtub Mary’ version but there was one in particular that was quite large and made of rocks, like a grotto. It was very comforting to me at that time to see this as it reminded me of Lourdes, a place of many healing miracles.

As we drove up to the inn, I saw there was a beautiful old brick church right next door. We asked about Mass times but one had already been celebrated in the morning and there wouldn’t be another until tomorrow evening. However, a famous organist would be playing a selection of music after supper.

After dropping off our bag in the room we headed over to the church. It was like a balm to my aching heart. There were beautiful paintings on the walls, traditional gold stars on the ceiling, and statues of all my favorite saints. We lit some candles and there was even a book where we could write prayer requests. It was like a hug from heaven. And of course, Jesus was there in the Tabernacle.

After the organ recital, I noticed there was Eucharistic Adoration in the little chapel next door. I couldn’t believe that out there, practically in the middle of nowhere, there was an Adoration chapel. My husband headed back to our room and I was able to spend some quiet time praying with Jesus. I slept well that night.

I was still scared for my son but our impromptu pilgrimage to the little emerald island had given me the strength I needed to get through the next few weeks. It was so clear to me that we had been led there to be ministered to, and tenderly cared for, by Jesus and His mother. I still feel dazed by their love and overwhelmed by how personal it was. Even the motto of the province is Parva Sub Ingenti - the small under the protection of the great. 💕

 

An Unexpected Gem

Anybody that knows me knows that I love going on pilgrimages and retreats. I love travelling to places where nobody knows me or my story or my past and I can just be. We often find God in these places because we are open to him and because very often these locations are anointed by healing or an apparition or both.

Two years ago, I was helping one of my children with his family’s health situation. Everyone was stable but they wanted some moral support (and help with the laundry and scrubbing the toilet!) and I was happy to be needed. Almost every day for 18 days I went to the hospital so I decided I would try to make each day a mini-pilgrimage. I was in New York City so it was easy to find many different churches to visit when I needed a break.

There were 2 churches that I passed regularly while walking from Penn Station to the hospital. I didn’t go to Mass at either one but I did stop in to pay my respects to the Blessed Sacrament and offer up prayers of thanksgiving for the healing of my family. Also, air conditioning! It was August when I was there so it was a real blessing to get a break from the heat and humidity.

One day I took the wrong exit out of the train station. When I got to street level, I looked around and could see a steeple topped by a cross. I hoped it was a Catholic church. I walked in that direction but there was some construction going on so I had to go around the block. I wondered if there was indeed a church, would it be boarded up like some others I had seen in my daily travels. I kept walking because I had to find out!

When I finally arrived at St. John the Baptist church, I took one look inside through the open doors and knew I was home! This little gem of a church is beautifully decorated in traditional style. There were statues with kneelers, candles, paintings, even a little shrine to St. Padre Pio that contained one of his socks and one of his gloves. I walked around this treasure for a few minutes undisturbed. Although this church is right in the heart of midtown it was an oasis of quiet. It was hard to pray in there, though. There were too many beautiful things I wanted to look at!

At one point a very kind gentlemen greeted me. He was obviously familiar with the place and told me about the fire that had occurred there and about his sister, a parishioner at this church before she died. When I meet people like that, I always think of St. Paul’s letter to the Hebrews when he reminds us that we need to, ‘show hospitality to strangers, for by this some have entertained angels without knowing it.’

There were a few other churches that I visited on that trip but the most special one had to be this little jewel in Midtown.

To be continued…

Swimming In the Shallow End of the Pool

Politics is not something I want to write about on this blog but in light of all that is happening this year I realized that for the first time ever, within 3 months, North America could be led by 3 Catholic politicians. Now I know what some of you are thinking and I agree with you. Two of these fellows are Catholics in name only. The third, the president of Mexico, does identify as Catholic but prefers to call himself a “Christian, in the broadest sense of the word…” Fair enough. In fact, I think he is the most truthful one of the bunch.

So, let me dig a little deeper into the faith of the other two. Actually, I don’t think I have to dig too deep at all as their beliefs seem more wide than deep. Recently I read a chapter in Dan Burke's book Spiritual Warfare and the Discernment of Spirits and he writes,

Catholics simply do not know the Faith they claim. Years of immersion in the shallow end of the pool does not teach someone to swim, no matter how much time they have spent in the water.

And I can’t remember where I read this but,

Being sentimental about rosaries or nuns is not faith.

I don’t personally claim to have insider knowledge of a certain prime minister or that guy running for president south of the border but I have heard on multiple occasions of their support for abortion, among other things.  Just supporting abortion alone is contrary to Catholic teaching. Yet, a former first lady of America states that the presidential candidate is 'guided by faith'. Not sure how she came to that conclusion. I mean, standing in a garage doesn’t make me a car, same as sitting in a church doesn’t make me a Christian.

Please don’t get me wrong – this is not a post of support for the current president. He has used people of faith because they routinely vote for his party. He’s no more prolife than the other politicians I have referenced.

Our neighbours to the south are in deep trouble. Their only hope is to pray for an outcome to the election that is pleasing to God. I have no idea how that is going to happen without an enormous and miraculous conversion. Americans need to fast and pray for their country. We need to do the same for ours but for the moment our politeness as Canadians, which is rapidly deteriorating as the virus continues to grip our country, will hopefully keep us from self destruction.

All of this reminds me of Luke 19:41-44 where Jesus wept as he approached Jerusalem and said the city would be crushed by its enemies because the people didn’t recognize the time of their visitation from God. I am praying we will be attentive and recognize his presence before it is too late.

Empty Prayers

Eleven years ago, my son was deployed to Afghanistan. He wanted to be a soldier since he was 10 years old so none of this came as a surprise. He was well trained and is very intuitive so I knew he had done everything he could to prepare for his mission.

I’ve often had a sense if something will ultimately turn out or not but I was coming up blank about this situation. I felt hyper-aware and dead at the same time. Someone told me I would get through this because I was a person of faith but I told them that faith is not an anesthetic. I lay awake many nights wondering what my son was doing but trying not to count the days until he was home.  I would be positive one second and down the next. There was simply no middle ground.

In an effort to do something with all these turbulent feelings I started collecting holy cards of saints that had some connection to the military or the safety of soldiers. I planned to pray for their intercession every day. I made a list of all the prayers I would say each day for the 7 months my son was gone - the Rosary, the Chaplet of Divine Mercy, and other devotions and litanies as well. I determined I would attend Mass as often as possible and be as attentive as possible. I think I lasted a week. It was simply too much to sustain under those stressful circumstances. If I prayed at all, the only prayer I could muster up was Lord, please keep my son safe.

Thankfully God knows us well so he sends his Spirit to help us. In Romans 8:26-27 St. Paul writes,

Likewise, the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words. And God, who searches the heart, knows what is the mind of the Spirit because the Spirit intercedes for the saints according to the will of God.

So that was how I prayed for months, with sighs and groans too deep for words. Thankfully I also had the church community and other Christian friends praying. When I could not pray, they did.

These days are also stressful and we are also laying in wait for hidden enemies to show up.  There will be times we feel so depleted and distracted it will be hard to pray. Yet even under these extraordinary circumstances, we have continued to make time to be with our friends. If we can do that then let’s try to meet each day with Jesus at an appointed time and rejoice in our time together – just like we do with our other friends. 💗

Rain

Water everywhere. Rain, rain, rain, every single day. First, it was kind of funny because it just fit in with this annus horribilis of 2020. I’ve tried to put a positive spin on it – green landscapes, hydrated skin, no forest fires, or drought. There was even a 30-day haiku challenge I joined and several of us wrote about our sodden summer. But enough is enough. The rest of the province is wearing shorts and spending time outdoors, it is too hot to go outside back East, but here in northwestern BC, I am checking for moss between my fingers and toes.

Somehow every single weekend for the past 15 weeks the rain has held off for our outdoor prayer meeting but on Aug. 15 it did not. We sat huddled under umbrellas and rain capes. Some of us had blankets or coats draped across our knees. Steadily the rain fell from the sky. We had not prayed for sunshine, only for a dry spell because didn’t want to be greedy. But maybe the rain was a test to see if we would persevere.

The water was a good reminder that we were praying for an outpouring of grace from the Holy Spirit. We do need to be filled on a regular basis because as ‘cracked vessels’ we leak! Someone also noted that a dry sponge doesn’t work well, to be used properly it needs to be soaked. And perhaps we were also learning a lesson. Not in a punitive way but maybe in our discomfort we would still find joy and it would produce endurance, character, and hope. Indeed, we did find joy!

As the meeting wound down it was remarked that someday we will talk about this exceptional summer and our blessed little prayer group. We will remember our joy in spending time with each other and with Jesus. We will mention the weather and how we sat outside - on purpose - to pray in the afternoon showers. We will look back and it will have become part of our story.

A Shower of Roses on Assumption

Today is the Feast of the Assumption of Mary. I love this feast because it celebrates Mary’s body and soul entering into heaven and being reunited with her Son. It’s also a bittersweet day because it’s the anniversary of my mother’s passing.

My mother was far away from the Church when she died although she wasn’t hostile towards it. She was no feminist but she felt in some ways the Church was somewhat old fashioned. She also grew up in a time when a lot of what passed for church teaching was more misunderstanding and even superstition. You know, like if I pray this prayer for 9 days in a row then X will be guaranteed to happen. She told me that as a child she was sure she would go straight to hell if she ate meat on Fridays. She came of age just as Vatican II got underway so there was even more confusion. She loved Pope St. John XXIII and the whole idea of ‘opening windows in the Church’ yet I don’t remember her ever going to Mass except for my grandmother’s funeral. Still, she believed in a good God and she was a very loving, kind, patient, and generous mother to my brother and me.

A few years ago, it was the 20th anniversary of her passing. Every year this anniversary was brutal. Right after my birthday in the middle of July, I would start going into a depression in anticipation of it. I was laying in bed that morning and I was probably crying. In desperation, I prayed for St. Therese’s intercession. I prayed she would send me a rose to let me know if my mother was alright. I asked her to send a very clear sign, something as obvious as a 2 x 4 to the head as I didn’t want to second guess myself. I wasn’t sure it was the right thing to pray for because we are not supposed to ask for signs, we are supposed to have faith, especially when things don’t look very promising. At the same time, Therese had promised that ‘When I die, I will send down a shower of roses from the heavens, I will spend my heaven by doing good on earth.’  So, I got up and I went about my business that morning and tried not to think much more about it.

At noon the mail arrived and right on the top of the pile was an envelope from the Society of the Little Flower featuring 3 red roses and stating that my St. Therese Rosary was enclosed. On the back of the envelope was a picture of St. Therese and a statement that she was known for her love of roses and is often called on to have one sent from her heavenly garden as a sign of hope.  I opened the envelope and pulled out the letter addressed to me. The first line read, ‘There’s nothing like a mother’s love, is there?’ And then I really started to cry! Therese had clearly sent me a rose as a sign of hope.

I had not ordered this rosary or expected any correspondence from this society. I had never even heard of them before. It was actually a letter seeking donations so my name and address had been sold to them by somebody. At the same time, I did not care that this came about in such a worldly way. Events had been put into place in anticipation of this day so that my prayer would be answered and I was grateful. After all, had I not prayed this same prayer every year since my mother died?

Many will chalk up this particular event to coincidence but time and time again God has shown me his love and care exactly when I needed it most. He made us to be tactile beings and will use earthly signs to connect with us and respond to us. 

As for the yearly depression in anticipation of the anniversary of my mother’s passing, that’s gone. I now feel peace on this day. I still miss my earthly mother but my hope is that she is now enjoying Eternity with our Blessed Mother and her Son. Amen! 🌹🌹🌹

A Lesson From the Past

I just have to say I love writing this blog. I will think I have a topic and I'm all set to write about that but then the Holy Spirit pops into my mind with other ideas (I call it Popcorn from the Holy Spirit) and off we go in whatever direction He wills. Today's post is definitely one of those posts. 😄🔥

Facebook Messenger…where messages never die. I bet I could find some lost socks from the dryer in my FB mailbox too. I was scrolling through old messages and deleting them when I hit paydirt! I found a series of long-lost messages between me and one of my cousins about our uncle’s decision to be euthanized (blog post coming soon). I found a very terse message written to someone I had a very difficult relationship with. I also discovered a scathing review of a certain person’s behaviour at a wedding I attended. I had no idea I could be that vicious. Wow. This is what is so fabulous about writing – you can see how you have (hopefully!) grown, matured and mellowed...and forgiven.

The messages were all dated 2011. It’s hard to believe that was 9 years ago already! The following year I attended my first healing retreat and that’s when I started down the road to living my life in the Spirit. Up until that time I had been laying a foundation that was all about following the letter of the law. I knew all the rules and regulations, when to do this particular thing, when to do that thing, for how long, what to read, what to say, what to think. I was very scrupulous because worldly values had only hurt me. I figured if I followed all these church rules, I would be safe. I suppose I was but I am quite sure I did not attract one person to a life of faith with my rigidity. I had my piety in order but to a degree, I was still dead inside.

Each healing retreat I went on could be the subject of individual blog posts but that will come at another time. The two things they all had in common though was that forgiveness and repentance are the keys to freedom. But don’t ask me how you can measure and calculate that because it will be different for each person and each situation you need to deal with. Different retreats will have different methods to help you get to the root of your particular circumstances but I’ve made the most progress at ones that have daily Mass, plenty of opportunities for the Sacrament of Reconciliation, group time, private one on one time with a leader, and free time. And Kleenex. Lots and lots and lots of Kleenex!

I’ve been on retreats where I cried multiple times a day for 9 days in a row. It was like a dam breaking. All that pent up hurt and all those thoughts I couldn’t bear to express or didn’t have the words to articulate, they all came gushing out. And just when you think you’re done there’s more. But it’s good, it’s all good.

In a way, a retreat is like going up a ladder. You can’t climb to the top in one giant step. You have to go up rung by rung. Sometimes you have to examine the rung to make sure your foot is actually on it and then you can reach up and go a little higher. The further up you go the more disoriented you may feel but if you’ve got your spotter and the ladder is on a steady foundation then you will get there.

I bought a lot of books over the years trying to figure out how to find peace. I’ve talked to a lot of people about what has hurt me. Some were friends, some were paid professionals. I’ve journaled until my pen ran out of ink or my laptop overheated. But in the end, there are just some things that only Jesus can heal.

Assumption - How It Is Possible

In preparation for the Feast of the Assumption tomorrow I would like to share the following, written by  Elizabeth Scalia few years ago. 

"For most of my life, the assumption of Mary existed as little more, for me, than a head-scratcher of a dogma.

I understood that Elijah and Enoch had been assumed into heaven, so if I considered Mary’s assumption..."

Read the rest here. 

Elizabeth explains microchimerism and how it relates to Mary and all women and it is fascinating!

My Sixteenth Year - Part 2

Continued from Part l

It was a pretty rotten start to our visit but life had to continue. My mother had to go to her father’s home to see how he was doing so she told me I had to stay at my cousin’s and have a nap. You can imagine how a 16-year-old feels about being told to take a nap but one look at my mother’s face and you could see something had died inside of her. I went to bed.

I lay there with the biggest lump in my throat. I was almost choking. I have never in my life felt so terrible even when my parents died years later. But the lump wasn’t from grief, it was from guilt. It wasn’t because my cousin said our grandma had a heart attack from the excitement of seeing us. It was because I had been angry with my grandma before we even left for the trip and now, she was dead.

When my father and his wife had visited Amsterdam earlier that year my mom’s sisters and mother had paid a surprise visit to them. I liked my father’s wife and we got along very well so I couldn’t understand why they did this when everyone else had clearly moved on. 

So, I lay in bed with the most enormous burden on my conscience. There was no way I could talk to my mother or anyone else about this. It was almost as if the enormous choking lump in my throat was a physical manifestation of that guilt. I think I was even too ashamed to pray for help. I didn’t know a lot about God but I did acknowledge his existence and I didn’t feel I deserved his help or his mercy.

If only I could have gone to confession to speak to a priest. I would have had a safe haven to unburden myself, listen to some wise words, and be absolved of this grudge. Surely the priest would’ve told me that my angry thoughts towards my grandmother did not kill her. I had not heard of magical thinking at that time but that’s exactly what I was experiencing. I know now that the only thing that killed her was blocked arteries, not the personal thoughts of a teenaged granddaughter or her somewhat ill-considered visit to her former son-in-law.

A few days after her death we celebrated my grandmother’s funeral Mass at her church. The church was beautiful, built of warm brick with gorgeous stained glass, patterned tile floors, and with stunning artwork of saints and biblical scenes painted on the walls. I was captivated by it.

I wasn’t overly familiar with the order of the Mass but I had been going to church with a friend earlier in the year so I knew there would be a fair bit of getting up, sitting down, getting up again. And then I realized with horror that there would be Holy Communion. Well, Holy Communion was not horrific. What was dreadful was that I knew I should not receive It as I had not made my First Communion nor had any instruction to prepare me for that event. Amazingly I did know the consecrated hosts were Jesus. I didn’t know much more than that but I knew this was not just ordinary bread and I must not trifle with it.

As we shuffled down the pew toward the aisle, I told my mother that I shouldn’t go up for Communion. I’m not sure why I didn’t just sit it out as I did in my friend's church. She gave me a stunned look as she was surely wondering where all this sudden piety had come from. I can’t remember how she replied but I knew I better not make a scene in church, especially on this day, and so I am sad to say that was my first experience of receiving Holy Communion.

My Sixteenth Year - Part 1

 I was 16 years and we were finally going back to visit “the old country.” We hadn’t been back to Amsterdam in six years and we knew from experience how much can change in such a short time.

My aunt and her husband picked us up from the airport and took us to their home where we would be staying with them for the next three weeks. I was sharing a room with my 14-year-old cousin so she took me down the hall to show me where to put my things. We were catching up on the latest news when I heard a strange sound from the living room. I asked my cousin if she thought it sounded like laughing or crying. Oh crying, she said. She then blurted out that our grandmother had dropped dead that morning. I was so stunned I could barely take it in.

What had happened is that my grandmother had gone to wash her hair that morning in preparation for our arrival and had suffered a heart attack. My grandfather found her dead on the floor. My cousin said the excitement of our visit might have caused it – she was never known for being subtle.

It was difficult to process this because it was so sudden. It also seemed especially cruel because my mother hadn’t seen her own mom in 2 years. She had been looking forward to showing her parents that my brother and I were turning out OK despite our parents’ divorce. My grandparents had wanted us to come back to Holland after my father left but my mother had refused. I actually didn’t know about that until 20 years later.

How different my life would’ve been surrounded by family and old friends. At the same time, I wonder if I would’ve ever come to faith while living in Europe.

…to be continued.

Prayer

Prayer. It’s the answer to everything. So why can it be so hard? It’s talking to God, right? I should just be able to pick up where I left off and keep going just like with an old friend. So why do I put it off?

Or I find myself approaching Jesus with a litany of requests. I mean, they’re all good things – employment opportunities, good health, safe travels, that sort of thing. That’s what we’re supposed to pray for, right?

And then there are the friends that don’t go to church but do believe in some benevolent force out there and they think I have some direct line to it. When things go wrong, I am one of the first ones they approach to ask for prayer because…well, you know…I’m religious. When friends ask me to pray, of course, I do. They will tell me my prayers do work because they got the job, or the meeting with the child they gave up for adoption 40 years ago went well (true story) or their health improved. I don’t think anyone has ever told me my prayers don’t work but that’s because ultimately all prayer does work – but not always the way we think it will.

So, what is prayer? It is talking to God. My hope is to talk with him as naturally as I do with my human friends. That means sharing the ordinary things like how my day went, what I thought about, what I read. Praise is also an important part of prayer. It should come before our requests, even before our thanks and contrition.

When it comes to my requests, I know he is always happy to listen. There is no special formula I can pray the guarantees I will get what I ask for in the way that I think it should be. Thank goodness there isn’t because I’ve demonstrated time and again that I do not always know what is best! The best prayer is simply asking that all obstacles will be removed that keeps a person from God. Or to put it more simply, Thy will be done, not my will be done!

As for a direct line to God – if you are baptized then the Trinity lives within you and you do indeed have a direct line to God. But just being sacramentalized isn’t enough. When we receive this great gift of being adopted children of God, we need to open this gift as it isn’t of any use until it’s unwrapped. Then we can enjoy it, use it, and share it. As for the next time your unchurched or spiritual-but-not-religious friends ask you to pray for them, tell them you will but remind them that Jesus would love to hear from them too. 💗

Rainbows, sheep and fires

I just spent about an hour listening to music from my younger days. Now I have to play something from the relaxation channel to settle down because I’ve scratched up a lot of memories. Funny how music can do that. Scents too.

There was a rainbow late Sunday afternoon. The funny thing about a rainbow – to see it you have to have your back against the sun and you have to look at the rain. I’m sure there is a spiritual lesson there somewhere…

That reminds me of a story about a sheep that was lost. When he was found his wool was so overgrown and unwieldy, he could barely move. He was so grateful to be sheared that he held very still while all the layers and layers of dirty matted wool came off. Then he was able to run free again. I’m sure there’s a lesson there too…

Today our priest told us a little story in his homily. It was about a family whose house caught fire. When everyone had gathered outside, they realized one of the children was still in the burning house. They saw him in the window and he was crying out. His father told him he could see him, that he was there to catch him. The little child said he couldn’t see his father and he was scared. Again, the father said he could see him and encouraged his child to jump and he would catch him – and he did. Another spiritual lesson…

If Jesus is asking you to come and walk on the water today go to him. He will hold you up if begin to sink. He will catch you when you jump out of the burning building. He will hold you gently as he shears off the old growth. And his rainbow in the clouds is a reminder of his everlasting covenant with us.

Obedience

Obedience.

That’s not a word we hear a lot of these days. It’s swathed in oppression, servitude, bondage. But if you look into its etymology it comes from the word audire – to listen, to hear.

How often have I cringed the minute I hear I have to do something a certain way? How many times have I talked myself in to or out of something, to exert my own will? How many times have I refused to listen to those who have set limits so that I don’t hurt myself or others? At times it’s been as simple as being too stubborn to wear proper clothing in bad weather. At other times I've tuned out my conscience and caved into curiosity and ended up hanging around with people that didn’t have my best interests at heart.

When I returned to the Church, I was obsessed with every rule, every precept, every commandment. I wanted to be told how to live my life so I would never be hurt again. If I was obedient then I might be assured a place in heaven. It might not be in one of the best rooms in my Father’s house and I might not be feasting with the Saints but I would happy enough in my corner nibbling on scraps. Thus, began a time of agonizing scrupulosity.

Eventually, I started dismantling my brick wall of so-called submission and compliance that was actually fear.  I started building a foundation of trust in Jesus and with Jesus. I started listening to him. In his Word, in good homilies, and in orthodox books, time and time again he showed me he was faithful, merciful, forgiving. It became easier to be truly obedient to him because I wanted to please him instead of myself. Am I always successful? No. Has it become easier to discern his voice? Yes.

 “Call to me and I will answer you, and will tell you great and hidden things that you have not known.”~ Jeremiah 33:3

 

 

Psalm 9

I’m finding it difficult to come up with something new today so I’m just going to post a few lines from Psalm 9. Hopefully tomorrow will be a better day and I will be inspired. In the meantime, I can’t have a better contributor than the Lord!

 R. You will never abandon those who seek you, Lord.

 The Lord is a stronghold for the oppressed,

   a stronghold in times of trouble.

And those who know your name put their trust in you,

   for you, O Lord, have not forsaken those who seek you.

Opa's Gift

I have a crucifix in every room of my house. One was a gift from my in-laws, one belonged to my uncle who had Down syndrome, another comes from Mexico. The one in my kitchen was attached to a wall rosary that was 6 feet long. But the one I love most hangs right beside the front door.

That crucifix hung in our home when I was a child and was a gift from my paternal grandfather. I always remember it hanging over the doorway in my parent’s bedroom in Amsterdam and later on in Canada, but I’m not sure why it was there because we didn’t go to church.

After my parents split up the crucifix ended up in the bottom drawer of my mother's dresser. When I left home, I took the crucifix without asking. I don’t remember why I felt the need to have it. I just did. And I don’t know why I didn’t ask if I could have it because my mother would surely have given it to me. I hung it up in my new home but in a somewhat hidden spot. I didn’t want to look “too religious.”

This particular crucifix consisted of two separate pieces. The cross portion was made by my grandfather who happened to be a carpenter. But the metal corpus had come to him while he was on a journey.

During WWII my grandfather had been arrested by the Nazis. I don’t know why and it’s unlikely I will ever find out. The War was not something we were allowed to talk about with my grandparents. We weren’t taught that this was wrong, there was just an unwritten rule that it was not done.

Somehow my grandfather escaped from the Nazis and he went into hiding. Some cousins suggested he hid in a convent in northern France. Perhaps he hid closer to home. We will never know for sure. But at some point, after the war ended Opa returned to Amsterdam, and as the story goes found this particular corpus in a bombed-out building in Rotterdam.

In my twenties I went through some very difficult times and the crucifix went back into a dark bottom drawer and stayed there for a long time. Sometimes I would take it out and look at it as I found it rather beautiful in a melancholy way. I wondered who the original owner was and what had happened to them during the war. I imagined my grandfather finding the corpus and carrying it home with him. Was it still with its original wooden cross then? How did my grandfather feel when he drove the little nails into the wood to attach the body to the new cross?

Eventually, I returned to the Church and I resurrected my crucifix from its tomb in the bottom drawer of my desk. It was dusted and blessed and hung in a place where it would not be overlooked by anyone in my home. Wherever it journeys in the future I pray it will always be in a visible place, sparking conversations around its origins but even more so about Who it depicts.

Plaster Saints

I’m sure you’ve heard of the book “Tuesdays With Morrie.” It’s a memoir Mitch Albom wrote about a series of visits he made to his former sociology professor Morrie Schwartz.  Well, I have “Tuesdays with Mary” (not her real name). We used to enjoy getting together for coffee after Wednesday morning Mass but the virus-that-shall-not-be-named put a stop to that. After a few weeks of soul crushing loneliness, we figured out a way to continue getting together and started meeting outside at her house, under the eaves, and spaced several feet apart. We are sheltered from the incessant rain this summer but we’ll have to figure out a new plan once the weather turns cold. One day at a time…

This past Tuesday we were discussing the wildly popular TV drama The Chosen. If you haven’t seen it, we highly recommend you watch it! The director describes it as “not your grandma’s Jesus show” and he isn’t kidding. The series portrays Jesus through the eyes of those who met him. I can guarantee you will see yourself in one or more of the characters. I can totally relate to temperamental and impulsive Simon Peter! What I love about this show is that the apostles are depicted as flesh and blood humans that sweat, cry, laugh, feel emotion, and make mistakes. They are not plaster saints.

It was Mary that introduced me to the phrase “plaster saints.” The dictionary defines them as a person without human failings. In pious literature and art these people are often held up as tranquil and perfect examples of what we should aspire to be. In my personal experience it’s impossible to achieve that. Thankfully God’s grace goes a long way to assist me in overcoming struggles and temptations.

The most plaster-y plaster saint has to be St. Therese of Lisieux. She is almost always portrayed as cloying and sweet. Her sister edited her writings and likely introduced an element of florid Victorian piety into Therese’s original diary entries. Therese is also reputed to send roses in answer to a prayer and many people find this very appealing, myself included.

The truth is that St. Therese was a spoiled brat when she was little. She was the baby of 5 surviving daughters from a fairly comfortable family and her mother died when she was very young. It’s no wonder her family overcompensated for this great loss and pampered and indulged her. But Therese had a tremendous and sudden conversion at the age of 14. Most of us don’t experience sudden conversion. It’s more like 5 steps forward and 3 steps back and repeat and repeat and repeat. Eventually St. Therese followed her sisters into the Carmel but it wasn’t all smooth sailing after that. She struggled with the other nuns at times because she was high-spirited and often misunderstood. Near the end of her life she experienced a very dark period that tested her faith.

I bought Therese’s diary titled “Story of a Soul” in the first flush of my conversion/reversion but the book sat unread on my shelf for quite some time. Then one year I needed to find something to read for Lent. By this time, I had heard rumors that Therese’s writings were saccharine and antiquated so I figured if I could get through this book it would make for a great Lenten penance. It would be right up there with putting dried peas in my shoes. So, I cracked open the book and was surprised to find msyelf becoming engrossed in it. Out came the highlighter – the book soon sported baby blue lines and stars throughout. Yes, Therese’s writings can be somewhat effusive but she was very much led by Love and the Holy Spirit so it’s no wonder she found it hard to rein herself in.  

In Therese’s thirst for life she also acknowledged her littleness, her utter dependence on God. I was tempted to post several of Therese's quotes referring to this but there are simply too many. Instead I will close with her last words at the tender age of 24 – “My God, I love you.” 🌹

Fitting In

I remember the day my mom taught me to make the sign of the cross. I felt like I had just discovered some great astonishing truth. In a way I truly had. But this isn’t about a ritual or an action with deeper meaning that I can capture in a short blog post. It’s about fitting in.

I was baptized as a newborn but I have no memory of going to Mass with my parents when I was a child. When my mom taught me how to make the sign of the cross, I was probably around 9 years old. All my Catholic friends had long since made their First Communions and were champion cross makers. I could not even remember in what order to start – heart, head, shoulder? Left side or right side? I looked like a novice - or worse - an impostor. I needn’t have worried as I wasn’t even going to Mass so nobody was going to discover my secret.

I did go to church sometimes with a friend who belonged to the Church of the Nazarene. There was zero cross making there! But I didn’t fit in there either. In Sunday school we were learning about the Christmas story and one boy asked the teacher what a virgin was. I was 11 at the time and I understood what the word meant and sat there in wide eyed disbelief that this was going to be discussed. The teacher never missed a beat and responded that a virgin was a lady who had not had a baby yet. It was the perfect answer in that situation but I felt awfully worldly.

Around that time the church also had an altar call during their service. My friend whispered encouragement to me, to go up there and dedicate myself to God but I sat rooted in my seat. It’s not because I was Catholic that I hesitated but I was so afraid I’d do something wrong and embarrass myself.

Several years later I was in high school and we took a field trip to the abbey in Mission. We entered the chapel and my Italian friend was right at home, blessing herself with holy water, genuflecting towards the tabernacle. I felt like a dunce. I wanted so much to know instinctively how to do those things, to have them come naturally, to understand why we did those things. I felt like a stranger in my own church.

Many years later I crossed myself correctly as I sneaked into the back of my church after a very long absence. I knew why I needed to genuflect – and Who I was genuflecting to. I even remembered when to sit and stand during that scary Mass. Eventually after some months it all began to feel comfortable again.

At the same time, I still felt I would never be Catholic enough. I’d be sitting at Mass or at some holy presentation with all the other ladies but squirming in my seat. I had come back to the Church via a long and twisted road. I hadn’t lived a pure and pious life and I struggled with some of the teachings. I considered myself damaged goods.

But an interesting thing happens when you begin to trust Jesus and allow him to heal you. He does meet you where you are but he loves you too much to leave you there. He presents the Truth and helps you to understand why he teaches what he does. He knows that transformation can be terrifying. But he doesn’t leave you alone. He sends his friends to accompany you, to pray for you, to encourage you.

And then one day, after you’ve experienced healing, you’re sitting at Mass or at a presentation and you think - I am Home. I am home and I am healed and I have joy. I was lost but I was found. I fit in, not because I am perfect or because I know all the right gestures and responses, I fit in because Jesus has made a place for me in his Sacred Heart.

Love and Mercy

Meeting Mary

August is dedicated to the Immaculate Heart of Mary so I hope to post several more reflections over the coming weeks about the Blessed Mother.

It’s December and I am six years old and in Grade One. We are drawing Christmas themed pictures with pastels. After our art class we will practice for the school concert where we will sing about wise men, a travelling star, and a baby being born in a manger. I select a sky-blue pastel to draw the veil on the mother of the baby in the stable. To this day I cannot remember why I chose this particular colour as a small child would not know that blue has been associated with the Virgin Mary for hundreds of years. And so, my relationship with the Blessed Mother is born in a public school of all places.

I think a lot of people have this sort of arms length relationship with Mary. She’s trotted out at Christmas, part of the Nativity scene placed on the mantel, or as a character in a church basement play, perhaps appearing on a Christmas card although these are getting harder to find.

Thirty-two years later I find myself sneaking into the back of a church that is built in the round. Do you know how hard it is to sneak into a round building?

This is my first Sunday back at Mass after a five year absence. It’s the first Sunday of Advent and I’m probably not the only one feeling a pull to return, however briefly. But this time something is different and I keep coming back Sunday after Sunday.

I find the church heavy on men, not necessarily in the pews but in the hierarchy. I’m not sure how to reconcile my discomfort but I don’t want to leave. So, I find myself turning to Mary. She’s gentle, quiet, a reassuring maternal presence. She radiates peace and calm. She teaches me about her Son through the mysteries of the rosary and she prays for me. When I read about her in the bible she is always pondering, considering, giving practical and sensible advice, and praising God. I begin to worry a little that I might love her too much.

Then one day I realize that I haven’t thought about her for some time. Instead I am thinking about Jesus and loving him more and more each day. And then I smile because that was her mission all along – to lead me to her Son.

The Carmel

This was inspired by many things that crossed my path in the past few days. 

Her garden is bursting now. Months ago, she prepared the soil, constructed a shelter, and monitored the weather. She consulted various sacred texts in order to yield the best and most abundant crops. Seeds were sown and then buds pushed slowly, ever upwards toward the light. Then finally – breakthrough! But her work is not over yet. The tender plants will continue to need life-giving water, the warmth of the Son and prayer. As she tends the vibrant plots, she hopes they will bear much fruit. She is a gardener of people. 

Abba - Father

"Let's start at the very beginning, A very good place to start," sings Maria in the Sound of Music. I'm sorry if I've just given you an ear worm for the next 3 weeks! 

When I began to believe in God I only understood him as one entity. Even though he is one-in-three, the Trinity, the Father, Son and Holy Spirit - I only knew him as a sort of grandfather-like figure with a long gray beard, out there in the cosmos, running the show. In my 10 year old mind he was benevolent when it suited him, and punished us when we slipped up. Kind of like my own earthly father. 

During the years since I returned to the Church I came to know Jesus and the Holy Spirit very well. But the God of my youth slipped farther and farther into the background. I felt puzzled that even though I knew him first, I now knew him least.  I hoped that I could renew our relationship.

And indeed, Abba-Father has made himself known to me. That old man who ruled the universe with an iron fist, who whipped the rug out from under me at random moments...he didn't exist. That was me projecting my brokenness onto God. Again and again in the Old Testament I have read of the Father's care for us, his plans for us. Disaster strikes often in the OT but every time someone puts their trust in God, miracles happen, battles are won, crises are averted. God has also put a limit on evil by giving us his only Son to die for us.

In my search for the Father I came to realize he had always been there for me, inseparable from the Son and the Holy Spirit. In the the circle of relationship, where the Trinity gaze steadily upon each other, they abide in perfect kinship and in communication with each other, and they invite you to join them.