by Liz | Jun 29, 2015 | main
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.
by Liz | Jan 30, 2014 | main
I hate falling. It scares me. I hate that loss of control, the moment of panic when my mind races worrying about what will hurt, what will be broken, where the bruises will be.
I hate falling: physical, mental, emotional, spiritual. But, I find the most vivid descriptions of Why in the physical form.
I’ve barely been out of the house for 2 days now. There was ice and snow. Not a lot by many standards, but enough to make walking tricky and at times treacherous on our iced over driveway. I’ve fallen on ice a few times, and they stand out vividly in my memory: once, wearing ski boots at a ski resort in Boone NC and another on the St. John’s campus in New York. Both proved painful, and extremely unpleasant. Neither resulted in anything being broken. I’m not sure about bruises. But, I remember, in my gut the sensation of falling and the pain upon hitting the ground.
My balance is not as good as I would like. I can recount stepping through the ceiling in the attic (a fall stopped by the ceiling joists) which resulted in bruising from the back of my knee halfway up my butt. Or two falls on the Camino. Or falling and cracking a rib running to get out of the rain on campus; falling in the Chili’s parking lot in pouring rain causing a rotator cuff tear.
And there is the grandaddy of all falls in my memory — falling off of the front porch (four steps high, no railing) into a pyracantha bush. I must have been 5 or 6 at the time. To this day, I am very timid about leaning out or jumping ditches or anything where I might fall.
Get the picture? We haven’t even gotten to mental, emotional or spiritual falls… but, let’s just say I’ve had a few. Some of them, I am only now beginning to understand as falls. I’ve miss opportunities because of this fear of falling. There are times I simply cannot or will not let go (and let God) because I am so terrified of falling. Even in battling depression, it seemed impossible to let go and fall to the bottom, trusting that there was indeed a bottom to stop the fall.
Funny thing is that when I do let go, when I do allow myself to risk falling, I don’t always fall. And, so far, I’ve been able to get up again when I have fallen. But, still, it holds me back. What if I don’t bounce back? What if I lose it all? What if I lose something? What if I speak the truth and you never talk to me again? Or you laugh at me? Or write me off and pretend I don’t exist? What if I sell everything to buy the field where the precious pearl is buried, and then discover I hate pearls? Butch and Sundance had to jump and fall into the river to escape. Me? I would probably have died on the cliff out of fear of the fall into the river.
I really hate falling. And yet, it seems that to move forward, to growth, to love, I’m going to have to risk falling, even if I am scared.
by Liz | Apr 26, 2013 | main
Today’s Gospel, John 14:1-6 comes to my mind often, and generally brings a quiet smile.
Jesus said to his disciples: “Do not let your hearts be troubled. You have faith in God; have faith also in me.
In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. If there were not, would I have told you that I am going to prepare a place for you?
And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back again and take you to myself, so that where I am you also may be.
Where (I) am going you know the way.”
Thomas said to him, “Master, we do not know where you are going; how can we know the way?”
Jesus said to him, “I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.”
I find peace in the idea that there are many rooms (dwelling places) so that all are welcome in this great house we so often call heaven. I find comfort that someone is getting it ready and will take me to just my spot at just the right time. I can relax a bit with the idea that there truly is no written treasure map, but instead the ongoing, growing relationship with Jesus/Christ/God to find the way. If there is no written map, then I don’t have to try to find it – I only need to stay with the tour guide as best I can and let him/her show me the way.
Note: writing this has opened a floodgate of thoughts, feelings, beliefs that I am not yet ready to share. So, for now, I’ll work through them in private, seeking to understand better the Way.
by | Feb 21, 2013 | main
“Seek and ye shall find” pretty much sums up today’s gospel reading.
The questions for me boil down to:
What am I seeking?
How will I accept what I might find?
I think of my husband’s approach to so many things: Don’t ask questions when you don’t really want to know the answers. There is some wisdom in that, I suppose. That attitude can certainly keep one from following some very painful paths, but it strikes me as a bit of “head in the sand.” The challenge is to seek, even when I might not particularly like the answers. My reaction to those answers might change over time though as I grow to understand and/or accept them. I’ve lived long enough to begin to realize that sometimes (not always, but many times) what seemed like a crushing blow turns out to be the very best thing that could happen. That horrible thing turns out to be so much better than the solution I would have suggested. At other times, the answer is immediately grand. And then there are times where the finding just creates the need for more seeking.
Seek and you shall find. Knock and that door will be opened. Be at peace and be brave and step through that door.
by Liz | May 22, 2012 | main
Wisdom observes that the rain falls on the good and the evil. Bad things and good happen on the say day. What looks to be a blessing now may be seen as a curse later and that which is seen as a curse or great misfortune now may later turn out to have been the best thing that could have happened. My mother always told me that “life isn’t fair.”
My friend went to bed Saturday night and never woke up. At this point, I have no idea why she never woke up. She was only 51 (several years younger than I am); she was energetic, full of life and love for her God, her children and her grandchildren (not to mention so many others in her life). She gave a lot, and gave up a lot, to be my setups boss for the most recent Women’s Cursillo in the Mobile Archdiocese. We disagreed about many things and, I believe, held each other in great respect and love through our different approaches. We agreed on many more things in this life. She frustrated me at times, and God knows I frustrated her. And we laughed and laughed and laughed in each other’s company.
She helped me to know that while I don’t have a strong personal devotion to the Rosary or to St. Joseph, what I can truly appreciate is the fact that she did. I will always treasure the special rosary she gave me this spring… the one crafted from one that I believe was her mother’s at one time. The one with the missing/broken bead and the St. Teresa of Avila medal carefully added by her (St. Teresa was our “Patron Saint” for the Women’s Cursillo this time around); Yes, she gave it to me with the missing bead, and pointed it out — we are not perfect, and it was so perfect in it’s imperfection.
There is a part of me that is screaming “Why?” and a part that is yelling “This is NOT RIGHT!” and an even bigger piece that is just downright mournful about that gaping hole that has been ripped in the fabric of my daily life by her untimely departure. I think of our discussions over the past few weeks and wonder about some of the things that we talked about: uncertainties about the future, not being sure which way we were being called to go, pain and hurt in some relationships, and healing that seemed to be happening almost in spite of us. I need to talk to her and share with her the pain of losing a friend and ask her help in dealing with it — and then it smacks me between the eyes that she can’t be there for me because she is the one that I’m missing.
Time will make this bearable. Time will bring perspective. It always does. One must walk through the loss and learn to love all that it has to teach. But, forgive me for wanting to jump ahead and skip this part.
‘Manda — I love you, and I miss you.
