We walk together alone

I have a friend currently on Camino. The same Via Frances that I walked 2 years ago. Okay — so Chris is walking over mostly the same terrain that I walked, but in a different time, a different pace, a slightly different season. I follow his blog over at shookwalkstheway.wordpress.com  while looking back through my own journal. I comment on the blog and I use FB Messenger to communicate at times. In my own way I walk with him. But, this is his Camino, not mine, just as my Camino was mine. True, mine was shared heavily with my walking companion, Susan. Even so, we each walked it with different interactions, different experiences and differing memories.

I find myself torn between offering information and suggestions and simply watching Chris’s progress. I want to encourage him on his journey, but I also long to hear the stories from the road which bring in to sharp focus so many stories of my own. How much to say or not say? How to listen and just be?

I’ll continue to follow my friend on his journey/Camino as I reflect once more on my own.

 

0

Who touched me?

Sunday’s readings included the story from the Gospel of Mark of the woman who had been hemorrhaging for 12 years. She fights her way through the crowd surrounding Jesus, believing that if she can just touch the hem of his clothes, she will be healed. This story is stuck in the middle of the story of Jairus, the temple official who’s daughter will be raised from the dead at the end of the story.

But I digress — I’ve head both of these stories multiple times and this time, the woman’s story jumped out at me in a different way. She manages to touch Jesus’ hem and she knows in her body that she is healed. She’s going to slip away and be happy. But, Jesus stops and recognizes that he has been touched. He demands to know who touched him. I can see his buddies rolling their eyes as they say “What? Of course somebody touched you. You’re in the middle of crowd with all sorts of folks touching you.” But he knows and she knows. And she realizes that she must come forward and acknowledge her healing.

I think what caught me short was that she knew she was healed, even before Jesus stopped, asked who touched him and then proclaimed to the crowd that her faith had healed her. She knew. She didn’t have to have Jesus tell the world that she was healed.

At the same time, she also realized that she had to own the fact that she was healed. She had to acknowledge that touching his hem did it. She had to acknowledge that she believed.

There have been times when I knew that something changed — that a hurt or problem had been healed — long before the public acknowledgement. Sometimes the healing is the easy part. Owning it is more difficult. Folks my laugh or think I’m a bit odd because I believe that somehow Jesus or God has healed me. But I must admit it, to myself and to others.

Share the word.

0

Unzipping the Fat Suit

So, a couple of mornings ago I had one of those strange, just before waking dreams. I can’t remember anything about it except that in the dream I reached up near my face and proceeded to unzip all the way down (like a baby’s footed sleeper) and stepped out of what seemed to be a “fat suit” — yup, out stepped a smaller, less padded me. A me that could move more easily. A me that could run without wheezing. Not a scrawny, skinny kind of me, but a slimmer, unpadded, healthy me.

So many ways to go with this: is it just a physical need? or is it that and a need to step out of emotional padding? To step out of my protective shell and walk free.

I’ll be chewing on this for a while. And in the meantime, when I look at brownies and ice cream and hot fudge, I’ll just remind myself that eating that is not helping me to unzip the fat suit.

 

0

Everything is Holy Now

Sometimes I find a song that I just don’t want to lose track of. Susan included this in her Creo en Dios post this morning. It very much speaks to where I am on this journey. And the best way to keep something for real is to share it:

0

Bloody Sunday

Yesterday marked 50 years since “Bloody Sunday” — the first attempt by non-violent protesters to cross the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama as a part of the march to Montgomery. The behavior of the State Troopers and other local law enforcement is a black mark on the soul of Alabama. It left scars that may never completely heal, both on those who were working for voting rights and those who sought to maintain the status quo.

Today at mass, after communion we heard a lovely, soulful piano rendition of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” It is a good thing that my mascara is waterproof. Images filled my head — the juxtaposition of the attitudes and beliefs of various family members clashed with each other and with society.

I grew up in Alabama in the 50’s and 60’s. I am of an age to remember asking about White and Colored water fountains, restrooms and movie theater entrances. I have memories of seeing the news on TV when Bull Connor turned the dogs loose; I remember George Wallace in the door at the University of Alabama. JFL’s assassination and Martin Luther King’s assassination are real life events for me. It was very confusing. Why were the asian and other international families more or less accepted and the black families not? (yes, those families that were sort of accepted were generally scientists employed at TVA);   Why would someone shoot a US president or a black Baptist preacher?

In my world, we still stood for Dixie with even more pride that the Star Spangled Banner. The only version of that other song (Battle Hymn of the Republic) that we sang generally had words that were making fun of school or striking out at  other things that children like to rail about.I could sing them now and type them out, but they seem so petty and mean at this point in my life. My father held a deep distrust, and maybe even hatred of Catholics.  And yet, this morning I was moved to tears as I sat in a Catholic Church listening to the Battle Hymn of the Republic.

One song brings memories of another. Past life plays a role in shaping current life. Injuries, like the injustice, fear  and just plain meanness at the Edmund Pettus Bridge leave scars.  Even when the injuries heal, the scars are often left behind. I’m thinking that is not a bad thing to have to see and accept the scars along with the beauty. It is difficult to accept and forgive my home. Today, as in the past, Alabama shows off her wounds and her meanness and her stupidity (and seems to want to brag about them!). Some days I want to take this state, its people and its government, and just shake it and holler “You are better than this! You know better! Stop it!” But then, I must love her, scars, fear, hatred, love, smiles, Auburn football and all.

 

 

Learning a New Song

Golden Music-(SHOLT)Since I retired from my position as parish musician (for the English language masses), no one has been called to fill the spot. Perhaps no one has answered the call. Who knows? The result is the same: a cappella  music led by the priest, or possibly at communion by me from the pew. Of late, we have been learning/singing a new Gloria at mass. This learning is done by having the Gloria played for us during mass, while we join in as we learn it.

The congregation as done really well with the refrain. But, the “verses” are a problem. As I try to learn to sing this way, I am struggling. I look at the notes on the page. I attempt to hear them sung. I try to follow. Fail. There are sections that I just can’t get. This is due, in part to the fact that I am surrounded by others struggling the same way. Some notes come easily while others, well, we are usually in the chord, but have no sense of the actually melody. And, I can’t pick out the melody from the speaker because I can’t actually hear it and I don’t trust the person next to me, with his strong baritone that follows the person next to him (me) for accuracy. I’m sure I will eventually get it, but not without a struggle.

Learning a new song might be a perfect metaphor for learning to live a life centered in God/Christ. First I must hear the melody… maybe hear it many times. Then, I begin to try to sing along. It’s not going to stick if I don’t jump in and try it out with my own voice. That might work for others, but it doesn’t work for me. When I have trouble getting it right, I have to listen once again and try once again to match what I hear. I can’t possibly lead others, and expect them to even approximate the right notes until I have made them my own. Only then, can I pass on the melody and share the song.

It seems that process has a parallel in other areas of my life. I must listen to the song of creation, the song of the Trinity, the melody of being loved without bounds by God. Once I have heard that song, then I must try it out in my own voice. I must sing of creation, and practice the melody of love. I miss notes. I go back to listen to the song. I try it out again. Whether I get it completely right or not, then I can pass it on to others. I can only share it the way I have learned it, so I behooves me to listen and attempt to sing the right notes. And, only when the melody is solid, is it safe to harmonize. (And I do love harmony, especially in music).

In my Cursillo friendship group, we review our week together by looking at the last week through 3 lenses:

Piety/Holiness: Opening up to hear the new song through prayer, sacraments, listening
Study/Formation: Learning the notes; practicing the notes; studying the music to make it a part of my life
Action/Evangelization: Singing the song so that others can learn it.

Music: the song of my life.

Truth and Understanding

Truth is eternal. Our knowledge of it is changeable. It is disastrous when you confuse the two.

– Madeleine L’Engle

So very true. And the disaster happens all too often.

And how very freeing to begin to understand this: As I grow — up, out, deeper — and I accept that my understanding of truth is changeable, how much that frees me to change. If I truly accept this, then it is no problem to “change my mind.” Not defeat. Just a new understanding.

Wouldn’t that be nice.

Protective Layers

In yesterday’s old testament reading ( Deuteronomy 18:25-20), Moses tells the people that God will send a prophet and they must listen to what he says. And, he further explains that this is exactly what the people asked for when they said

‘Let us not again hear the voice of the LORD, our God, nor see this great fire any more, lest we die.’

It seems, we so often seek a layer of protection from God — a prophet, the Magisterium, the Catechism, recited rote prayers, and more. Anything to protect from direct contact with God. We are so fearful. We might die.

I’m not totally brave. There are feelings I have, choices I make that I hold dear but that I know would burst into flame and be burned away if I were to be able to be open to God’s presence without the layers of protection. I would likely find myself transformed in some way that I’m not sure I want at this point.

I continue to protect myself from face to face contact, or from hearing directly. I hesitate to say it, but to be open to hear the voice of the Lord more directly is something to strive for. (The entire time I am writing this I am shuddering because what I hear in my head is “Be careful what you ask/pray for. You just might get it.”)

Another New Year

January makes me shiver… (apologies to Don McLean)

Another new year… 2015 added 2 more grandchildren to the fold. Avery arrived in January, Henry in November. We’ve already celebrated Avery’s first birthday! Marie and family are back in Birmingham; David and family are in Orlando and no longer own a home in Melbourne. I travelled as far as Nova Scotia, but stayed on this side of the Atlantic.

And, I have been remiss in actually journalling online. Or journalling at all.

The journey seems to have settled into a rather steady walk. Not too fast, not too slow. Learning and relearning the importance of being present in the present… presence. Reflecting on the implications of Incarnation: the present body must be important somehow, if we believe in the Incarnation.

Resolutions always seem to fail me. Or I fail to carry them out. That said, I plan to take a moment and journal my thoughts, frustrations and occasional insights. Later.

Knowledge of Good and Evil

A part of my daily routine is to read Richard Rohr’s Reflection that arrives in my inbox each morning. Some days it seems we are on totally different roads. Other days, we are both in a place where it feels like I can sit and listen, share and reflect and grow toward God. Today, was one of the “Aha!”  days.

Today, he mentioned the admonition not to “eat of the tree of knowledge of good and evil.” That particular section of Genesis has always bothered me a bit. Why not?  Isn’t is good to know good from bad? As I have grown [older] I find it less bothersome. I find that judging what is good and who is evil is a task best left to one with better vision, understanding and compassion than I. Life is much more of a joy if I leave as much of that judgement up to God and simple attempt to love those around me, wherever, however I find them. Maybe not simple, but certainly less oppressing.

The older I get, the more I realize that we all are both saint and sinner, good and evil. I find that the mailman who is deemed to be difficult and disliked by one set of neighbors is the same person who carefully delivered the mail to the door for another neighbor who was weak from chemo as she fought cancer. I find a priest who has caused me great personal anguish and pain through his own anger  to be the same person who so often led me to great insight and spiritual growth. I must learn not to just the parts, just try to love the person.

The “Aha!” moment — seeing this “forbidden fruit” as something that will truly cause us more pain and suffering… a sort of warning that doing this, eating of this fruit will not work out so well as we imagine. Of course, like most children, we don’t really believe it until we make the mistake for ourselves, and then it can be hard to let go of it. Trying to be judge and jury and getting trapped brings to mind a story of a friend’s son.

They were at a mall and he kept trying to poke his head through the railing to look down at the level below. His mom instructed him repeatedly “Don’t do that! Don’t put your head through there!” Of, course, as a eight year old boy is wont to do, he did it anyway. And his head got stuck. Panic ensued. Mall security and more was called in to extract him from the railing. The resulting extraction was unpleasant at best.

When he was finally freed, his Mom turned him to face her an asked “Why did you do that? Didn’t you hear me tell you not to? Didn’t you know you weren’t supposed to do that?”

His response: “Yes, you told me. But, I didn’t know it would HURT!”

Ah — how often have I had that same reaction?

 

Powered by WordPress. Designed by WooThemes