There are some relationships that of late have seemed strained and distant. I believe I have some understanding of why this might be. The misinformation that gives rise to  it is painful. The desire to jump up and shout “You’ve got it all wrong!” and proceed with a defensive stance is strong but probably not a useful response.  So I sit with the situation, and I wrestle with understanding and forgiveness. And I am seldom of a mind to believe in the Divine Intervention.

On Sunday, in the midst of much disorganization and chaos, I pulled a dear friend aside and asked her to pray over me. She obliged, calling the Spirit to bring healing and wholeness to the immediate situation. I felt a bit of calm, a bit peace and a hope that I would be able to work through the babble and chaos with grace. That was good enough.

Good enough until I was face to face with a couple of people that had exuded a coolness in my direction of late. In every case, there was warmth and peace. An unspoken  closing of distance surfaced. Over and over I noticed these flashes. And I marveled. It seems that the Holy Spirit decided that my expectations set the bar a bit too low. The Spirit was not in to simply meeting my expectations – Her vision went far beyond.

Thanks to my friend for her presence in prayer. Thanks to the Spirit who breathes out healing and peace. Thanks for the gift that was, and is, so much greater than expected.

My writing is not to tell my story for my children and grandchildren. If they find my writing interesting, that is wonderful. But, I write to tell my story to myself.  I write to sort my memories which are dominated by the emotions of the moment/event instead of objective observances. Often, I can recall how I felt, but not what caused me to laugh or cry. This is strange, since I overtly make decisions by thinking through things. This is not so strange when I recall that big decisions are made based on my gut.

Writing is a way to walk back through a memory and put flesh on it. Writing forces me to not just have an emotional response, but to sit with it and hear what that emotion is telling me. It might be telling me about myself or about another person. If I remember fear, writing about it helps me to sort through what made me afraid [or sad, happy, content] and learn not only what I fear, but why. Writing is helpful because it helps me to name my fears and joys and sorrows. And, if have found that in real life, just as in magic and fantasy and folklore, if you can name something, it loses a lot of it’s control over you.

I suspect that the unpronounceable name of God, YWHW (or whatever those letters were) was affirmation of the fact that we can never truly name or tame God. We can however name and take some control over other things and relationships in our lives. Writing is my way of doing that.

There is an exception: one of the responses I learned, and repeated,  from the beginnings of my journey within the Roman Church went this way:

Lord, I am not worthy to receive You, but only say the Word and I shall be healed.

The current translation is now:

Lord, I am not worthy for You to enter under my roof, but only say the Word and my soul shall be healed.

(OK, I’m not positive I have the words exactly correct, but I think I do.)

It’s the “enter under my roof” and “my soul will/shall be healed” that have had the impact. When I heard and said the former version, I was focussed strictly on the Host — that little wafer that I received. Not that this is a bad thing, but the “enter under my roof” and the addition of the word “soul” seem to broaden my understanding. I now reflect on allowing God to enter into my “house” – into my “home” — into my life in general. My house is the world, the heart and the mind where I live.  When I say the words “under my roof” it calls up a vision of welcoming God into that space where I live. And, the grounding for where I live, day to day, in physical terms or in emotional or spiritual terms is my soul.

Now, I’m not sure what the intent of the change was. For me, this opens doors. It gives me something more concrete to work with. It points to the places where I live and to the reasons and forces that empower me to move day by day. What a beautiful surprise!

The angel Gabriel was sent from God to a town of Galilee called Nazareth, to a virgin betrothed to a man named Joseph, of the house of David, and the virgin’s name was Mary.

And coming to her, he said, “Hail, full of grace! The Lord is with you.”
But she was greatly troubled at what was said and pondered what sort of greeting this might be.

I have to admit that I’ve had this reaction — someone greets me with a smile and a message that is sooooo positive. And my first reaction is one of suspicion. What does she want from me? Anyone/anything that happy to see me must want to eat me for dinner. The list goes on from there, but you get the idea.

And so, I look to Mary for the followup. She hears the rest of the story and ponders it a bit. And then she simply asks – “How can this be?” That is where I fall short, it seems. I hold my questions and suspicions close and don’t reveal my hand most of the time. I can only ask for Mary’s simple courage as she wonders aloud “How?” She doesn’t try to sidestep the issue, she doesn’t play at false humility — she just goes with it.

It seems I must accept that the questioning is essential, but so is the acceptance.

After he talked a bit about himself and the book and finished reading a section , the floor was opened for questions. One struck question and answer struck me deeply.

Wayne comes from the Deep South. He worked registering voters in Birmingham during the Civil Rights Movement. He has worked with the Southern Poverty Law Center. But, this was not the mindset of the community into which he was born. He was also a Baptist minister at one time in his life.

The question:  “What event had the most profound impact on your life?”

His response ran something like this: That would have to be my conversion.”[Remember he is a Southern Baptist flavor of Christian] My conversion experience caused me to no longer fit in with my church or my community. I could no longer reconcile my own beliefs with those of in my church community or my family.

There just simply are not that many people who can say that — it is difficult to be transformed, difficult to allow God to touch me so profoundly that I no longer fit the mold. This simple witness was not preachy, but the simplicity and honesty of his statement dug deep. No apology, no brow-beating — just truth.

Amen.

My friend mentioned that she had in the not so distant past decided to pray for all the men she had dated over the past 20 years… I don’t know what the issues are/were, but, I could tell that that there had been much anger and frustration. I knew where she was coming from, since I once had a penance that involved offering every song I sung at mass for those that I felt persecuted me. (Music was one component of the persecution)  Aaarrggghhh! I almost cried because I knew it was exactly what was needed.

Funny thing about this idea of praying for those who persecute you: Both of us reflected that we started slowly and begrudgingly to walk through the motions of praying for those we were angry with and had been deeply hurt by. We just said the words because it was the right thing to do. Slowly, it changed. Slowly, the process moved from saying prayers for them to praying for them. Then, to really praying for them. And one day you look up and realize that you are really praying for them, and Anger has given up trying to hold you in that place where you eat the rat poison  and hope the rat dies.

Myself, I understood that when one of those who I felt persecuted me launched into something that would previously have angered me, hurt me, made me feel in danger. I realized that I was no longer angry, but very sad for this person. I was praying for him. I was asking God to bring healing and good things into his life. What a load I set down that day.

That’s not so say that these persecutions were not painful or that at some level I was not justified in my feelings of anger toward the other. And, in some cases, in many cases, you may not ever be close to the persecutor. It might be bad and downright dangerous. But, to move from a need for vengeance and anger to a place of letting go, stepping back from me and into a place of sincere concern for someone is one of those miracles we need in our daily lives.

Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised much by recent developments. After all, I am old enough to remember George Wallace blocking the door at the University of Alabama; I even have vague memories of Bull Connor and his dogs and fire hoses. So, why be surprised at the actions of the Alabama Legislature now? Maybe I’m not so much surprised as disappointed and saddened.

It’s not just this stupid, malicious immigration law that was passed recently. It’s not just the idiocy of the death penalty.  True, it is embarrassing to make a new friend in a different state, and then to tell them it would be a bad plan if they came to visit because it’s a really bad time to have skin other than pasty white in this state right now. Really doesn’t matter if you are legal or undocumented if you look like you might not have the proper ethnic background. I read about those who have decided it is too dangerous to stay here. I wonder about my own church community which is probably close to 50% latino. I worry about the children who will be ripped out of schools — and for those they will leave behind.

If that weren’t enough concern, the legislature decided to change the rules for things like health insurance for teachers who retire after December 1. There are many stories in the news about the loss of personnel from school systems that will result from this. I know people who have suddenly decided to get out now… and “now” means in the middle of the school year. To finish the school year as a teacher or administrator or lunch room manager means losing ground. The timing is insanity for teachers, principals and students.

My snarky, dark side sits back and thinks: Well, maybe we won’t need the teachers, etc because there will be fewer students. Could be.

The sad part is that those who think these laws and changes are good, are probably not going to see the effects first hand. As best I can figure, politicians and legislators inhabit a different universe from the one I live in.  They will find a way to blame the innocent and the victims for the problems they themselves have created and fostered.

I cry for Alabama. I fear Alabama will get what she deserves.

A couple of days ago I was searching for an image of a First Years stroller for a review on a website, toady Amazon sends me email suggesting 10 First Years strollers that they hope I’m interested in buying. I get suggestions for protein and energy bars, electronics, books… If I ever browsed for something they know it and are ready to keep it in front of me.

Google and Gmail are not as obtrusive, but they also pay very close attention.

Privacy is an illusion. I am pretty sure of that. So, it seems that one had better be in touch and comfortable with all those things that one searches and follows. Pure at heart? Or at least ready to own our own vices and curiosities… Because Big Brother is just around the corner.

But I had a moment of slight sadness. Watching the cousins (the bride and groom’s children and their cousins who made it to the event) I so wished that the southern cousins (our 3) could have been there. They get together maybe every 2 or 3 years at the beach in the summer, and all showed up for each of our 3 weddings. I was sorry that David, Marie and Daniel (and their spouses) were unable to make the trip. It always does my heart good to see them together.

There is a bond there that sometimes seems a mystery to me. They know that they are connected despite differences and distances. Wouldn’t it be a better world if this kind of connection existed in abundance the world over? We are all one grand family in this world, but how easily we can forget the connection. Or maybe, like me, we often feel so very disconnected.

So — here’s to connectedness. Here’s to the fun of seeing blended families that work. Here’s to seeing a former sister-in-law that I haven’t seen in more than 15 years (and it was really great to see her and no, she wasn’t at the wedding, just happened to be at the same place earlier in the day). Here’s to self-written vows, a justice of the peace and a glass stomped in true Jewish tradition.

Don’t get me wrong here — I want every child to be able to develop to her/his own potential. I do want some recognition that each child’s potential can be quite different.

So, what happens? Too often, teachers find that they must “Teach to the test.” Teach only those things that someone has decreed to be essential, because if any child can’t master this enough to fill in the proper circle on the page, then the entire year is a failure. Leaves little room for preparing those kids to think, to experiment, to learn even more (or less) than the prescribed lesson.

It seems rather like church. I didn’t grow up a Catholic, but even I can start to give a Baltimore Catechism answer to Who is God? Why did God Make Us? It’s true that catechism (Baltimore or New) answers can give a starting point for exploring my own walk in faith. So often, it seems, rote answers are the end of this journey, not the beginning. The proper answer is what is expected. It is the test. The Church teaches to the Test, instead of leading people beyond or pointing people to the Source.  I have a strong sense that Jesus wasn’t looking for everyone to be average.

Just thinking… that’s all.