Pilgrimage

I planned to keep a journal.  I thought I would write each day about the one thing that stood out, that shone brightest with beauty or insight, revealed most His face.  I thought I would write about the one thing each day. 

 

The thing with pilgrimage is that you do all the preparation, then (not unexpectedly) you have no idea the way it will lead you, the way God will lead you.  If you are lucky, you do know only this...God will lead you.

 

Decades ago under the good guidance of Fr Eugene LaVerdiere, I was encouraged to deepen my praying with the scriptures by not relating to one of the characters in the passage but by being myself in the passage.  Think of a common biblical story – the pilgrim disciples on the road to Emmaus - something like this painting by Josef von Führich, 1837 ...

then 'step into the picture' and let it unfold.

  

This is what I experienced on pilgrimage - I stepped in, entering the humanity of Christ, of God with us, in a new and deeply moving way.  Walking so closely at times I could feel the dust from his steps fall upon my own feet.  Terra Firma.  We stood together on the same stones, drank in with our eyes the same landscape, stepped into the same mud of the River Jordan.  There was a comingling, an incorporation that I had not experienced before, stirring a longing in me, an interior movement, a recognition.  Uncontrived and inexplicable, like love ripened in a long marriage.  As though I had been looking all my life at his feet, his cloak, watching his hand, accustom to his voice.  When I received communion in the cave at Bethlehem that first morning, it dawned upon me that I do not only receive Jesus by this wondrous sacrament, become the body of Christ, but in a very substantial way He receives me.  I was not going on pilgrimage, we were.   At Dominus Flevit (God’s tears) I wept with Him for all our resistances, on the way to Tiberius I laughed with Him in the sea spray of Galilee, on the Mount of Beatitudes I felt the winds of the spirit carry His words to me.  The same stones that absorbed his agony at the flagellation received my body and it's heartrending load. 

 

If there was a one thing, this is it.  It was not some shining moment among many, some singular point of clarity and conversion, a flash revelation of mercy and love; it took more than a moment.  It was the ongoing impact of each experience, each place, each word spoken grounding me and awakening my senses, eucharisteo, humbling and joyful, overwhelming at times and so very ordinary, extraordinarily human.  It is the sense that everything belongs, that the stones do sing, and it is the grace that has come home with me, small pilgrim that I am.  It is the keepsake in my soul.  Everything brings me to Jesus. 

Jesus [Go to your inner room]

I draw prayer round me like a dark protective wall, withdraw inside it as one might into a convent cell and then step outside again, calmer and stronger and more collected again.
        Etty Hillesum An Interrupted Life

Here’s what I want you to do:  Find a quiet, secluded place so you won’t be tempted to role-play before God.  Just be there as simply and honestly as you can manage. The focus will shift from you to God, and you will begin to sense his grace.
       Matthew 6:6 The Message

Sunday's Gospel...

This image of Martha and Mary caught my eye...do we listen to Jesus from 'a safe distance', even while in the same house, doing what is necessary in our own minds, or will we allow ourselves to be drawn intimately closer...

Hymn by Edgar Allan Poe

At morn--at noon--at twilight dim--
Maria! thou hast heard my hymn!
In joy and woe--in good and ill--
Mother of God, be with me still!
When the Hours flew brightly by,
And not a cloud obscured the sky,
My soul, lest it should truant be,
Thy grace did guide to thine and thee
Now, when storms of Fate o'ercast
Darkly my Present and my Past,
Let my future radiant shine
With sweet hopes of thee and thine.

As the story goes, Poe was living near Fordham University and was irritated by the bells ringing at 6:00, noon, and 6:00.  He went to complain, and the Jesuits there explained to him the Angelus - a prayer of devotion to the Incarnation. Its name comes from the scripture verse (in Latin), Angelus Domini nuntiavit Mariæ. 'the angel of the Lord came to Mary'.  His Hymn is poetry and prayer...

Here is one of my most favorite pieces; and yes, I wish the bells rung here, constant reminder of our not being alone, but accompanied by Grace, calling us to prayer.  I love his poem, and how he too found consolation here. 

The Angelus by French painter Jean-Francois Millet

 

 

Forgetting to Remember

Forget: To treat with thoughtless inattention. To fail to become aware. To leave behind unintentionally. To not recollect. Disregard. To lose oneself.

Sometimes I can go for hours forgetting to remember.  Wilson barks outside the front porch. Kyla laughs at Papa’s silly joke, rubs his nose with hers.  I lose track of time and then it’s a mad dash of a mad woman and the scrambled mess I leave behind tells the tale straight.

We pile out to dance class and when Kyla climbs in after, I can see that she is barely holding herself together, and when I ask her what's wrong, she chokes out, "They forgot what I know.  It was like I had to start all over again." Oh I know, daughter of mine, I know.   I am newly amazed at how God knit us together from such circumstance.  We hold hands.   Back home, we cuddle cozy on the couch and share some clementines.  She smiles. Roger smiles too at the sight while she begs him to join us, pleeeease.  This girl simply loves to sit tight together.

As the afternoon shadows lengthen Kyla sings songs, sorting what she might do for the talent show that is months away.  I only have to ask twice for the colored pencils to be picked up off the living room floor.   The phone rings, "Can Kyla play?" and she's bouncing out the door, arms full of dolls, heading down the street to the neighbors house.

My husband comes in like Atlas, but smiling.  He is a man whose smile comes easy.  I have been loved by him for as long as I can remember and my throat catches at the sight of him.  I show him the iris that bloomed today.  I remember.  Fix his dinner plate and he thanks me.  There’s that smile.  We share a glass of wine, talk about our day, continue the long conversation we've been having; discerning decisions that lay before us, discover peace under it all.   
 
When did I begin to forget again?  Ephphetha, Jesus said to the one who could not hear, Be opened!

I remember Kyla saying after breakfast, her head cocked near the window, "Shhhh.... if you listen, you can hear the birds......"   I remember the sight of them, conspiring over their cereal bowls.  And later, the two of us girls singing out “I want to be a saint so bad…I want to see my face on a holy card” and our glad laughing at the good of it!  And why not. 

Remember: To become aware of something forgotten again. To be mindful. To keep in mind as worthy of consideration or recognition. To show gratitude, as with a gift. To use the power of memory. To mention favorably, as in a prayer or friendship.

In the morning, I leave my heart open on the windowsill by the sink.   Shhhh…if you listen…

The very real presence of God is right here.    

I hear Him in the running water as I rinse the dishes from last night, my ears anointed in the quick explosion of flame as I light the stove, in the thunder of heartbeat held good morning close, and the quiet quake of creaking floorboards as I breeze by to put in a load of laundry. 

I quiet.  Mary Oliver’s good question becomes the whisper of God
“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” 

Ephphetha, I whisper…be opened.

Repairer of Fences - Isaiah 58:12

I am alone in the dark, and I am thinking

what darkness would be mine if I could see

the ruin I wrought in every place I wandered

and if I could not be

aware of One who follows after me.

Whom do I love, O God, when I love Thee?

The great Undoer who has torn apart

the walls I built against a human heart,

the Mender who has sewn together the hedges

through which I broke when I went seeking ill,

the Love who follows and forgives me still.

Fumbler and fool that I am, with things around me

of fragile make like souls, how I am blessed

and to hear behind me footsteps of a Savior!

I sing to the east; I sing to the west:

God is my repairer of fences, turning my paths into rest.

Jessica Powers (Sr. Miriam of the Holy Spirit) 1905-1988

Standing on God's Word

This is no mental exercise in believing but a physical reality.  For some things there are no words, no explanations.  For some things there is only the need to trust.  To take off our shoes, feel the 'hidden ground of love' on which we stand.  Spoke a bit on this during retreat and someone snapped this photo of me.  A little photoshop fun and viola!  Like a snapshot that elicits memories of days gone by, it brought to mind and heart gratitude for the journey that has been and a prompt to remember God's own companionship in my life for whatever lies ahead.  Thanks for the memory!
         

After sharing this on retreat, it's here by popular request!

JONAH

you can pause music playlist at bottom right

 

The 23rd Psalm

  The Lord is my shepherd, there is nothing that I want.
 He makes me lie down in green pastures,
he leads me beside quiet waters,
 he refreshes my soul.
He guides me along the right paths
for his name’s sake.

Even though I walk
through the darkest valley, the shadow of death
I will fear no evil
for you are with me;
your rod and your staff,
they comfort me.

You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies.
You anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows.
 Surely your goodness and love will follow me
all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the house of the Lord
forever.

Probably one of the most well known and beloved of the psalms, it was only recently that I saw how this song of blessing reveals the shift that makes all the difference, the turning that transforms. 
Do you see it?  At first, David speaks about God, third person, academic, an idea, however personal the thought.  But then midway, we see a change, he speaks face to face, intimately. 
"You are with me."  The movement is interior. 
There is now personhood, relationship, recognition. 
And that changes everything. 

CREATION - original by James Weldon Johnson

CLICK HERE TO LISTEN

Forget watching the video
(performed by Whintley Phipps - great voice)
 and just listen.

Close your eyes, go ahead, and get carried away!

I love the line "GOD SMILED...AND THE LIGHT BROKE!!!!

I hope this makes you smile and shine!

I wander around the expanse of this new space with it’s open walls,

not sure where to put a picture I have just unpacked and so glad to find.

I hold it here...and there. Other things needing my attention, I lean it

against the kitchen window and forget it there. 

Now it seems it's where it belongs and i love it. 

It’s hues evoke something peaceful and deep, soothing in me.

There's an old calendar print on the back that was used when it was framed.

I’d seen it again in the unpacking, smiling (i love old things), and quickly forgotten.

Yesterday i walked outside and saw it there through the window.

How it caught my eye.

Somehow it touched me with it’s surprise of beauty.

Snowy mountains and blossoming meadows...a clear running stream and pale sky.

Surrounded by stained cardboard, tack nails and a twist of rusty wire.

Unprotected, it shows the wear and tear of time, beauty aged and sharpness softened. 

Some patches have been eaten away or torn; gone missing somehow.

This is not the backside of the print, like the weavings of a tapestry.

This is an entirely different scene, in the same frame, heretofore hidden.

Is it the landscape of things not chosen. 

The things we let take a back seat in our life;

The valley of ‘if only’.

The homeland we never dreamed possible

or if dreamed so, even then, just in bits and pieces.

Is it a glimpse into the high country, what we call the other side of life,

eternity here now (though mostly unseen or neglected),

it’s tattered state not worn through but just coming into view?

[Conor, I think now of you and ‘What Dreams May Come’]

Is it the magnificence of those who have backed me up,

been my mountain of strength, held me secure, let me shine.

Their own self-sacrifice shown in its rough edged paper frame,

which moves me to deep felt gratitude, prompts me to prayer.

Is it my own life, hidden away even to myself,

though not sadly or with regret, but given away

so as to make of my life a home for love.

I know...it’s just a page from an old calendar

in an old frame

of an old print.

like I said

(i love old things)

For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face:
now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.
- 1Corinthians 13:12

God comes to us disguised as our own life...Richard Rohr

I ordered roses for planting and immediately remembered my mothers  advice,

“Better start saving eggshells.”  Eggshells?

My daughter gave me a bird’s nest for Christmas with lovely blue speckled eggs
nestled within.  It’s shape and color greet me from the kitchen shelf where it rests in a basket.
I was captivated last spring by the eggs laid in nests in my garden, doves and hummingbirds.
And eggs for breakfast, soft boiled for our youngest who loves to crack the shell open and scoop out it’s creamy goodness.
Or the perfect shape and weight of an egg in the hand, before we crack it on the edge of a bowl and mix the dough.
We visit our friend and head out to the chicken coup to gather eggs there, warm and fresh for lunch.
Color eggs for Easter; symbol of the tomb, and the resurrection.
Visit the children’s zoo and you can’t miss the excitement of the crowd gathered around the incubator full of eggs, mystery hidden still in some, breaking out in others, and the baby chicks every hand reaches for.  Holding those loveliest of creatures thrills each, awestruck with wonder and delight. Little feet tickling our hands and softest down, golden yellow, gray, white...and that high persistent chirping that draws our heads close to hear.
All that from an egg.

But saving eggshells?

Eggshells are for the garbage; messy, stinky and sharp, no good.
Yet, they have sat, collecting in a bag on my counter and only as I shared this with my husband did he tell me how many times he nearly threw them out and wondered what I was up to (he thought maybe some craft project).

“Better start saving eggshells,” my mother taught.
“Crush them fine and put them in when you plant.
That’s how you get the sweetest smelling roses.”

I think of the things ‘long sitting on the counter’ in my life,
the things I am sometimes tempted to discard; messy, sharp and stinking, no good.
I carry them with me to mass
crush them as my meager offering,
plant them at the altar...
In their place I am given Christ,
crushed and buried too,
I swallow deep, taste the water with the wine
feel it seeping into the dark earth of me.

The wilderness and the solitary place shall be glad for them,

and the desert shall rejoice and blossom as the rose.
Isaiah 35:1

On the 5th Day of Christmas...

This morning I read about Simeon...
A good man
One who lived in prayerful expectancy
And the Holy Spirit was on him
Simeon took him [Jesus] into his arms and blessed God

So I am sitting here...in the imaginative prayer of St. Ignatius,
feeling the weight of the Christ child in my arms, close and warm.
I am dumbfounded...
no words form...
just that weight and warmth
and the lump in my throat.
I am deeply sunk in the moment
when she pads out
"I was calling you"
and crawls into my lap,
heavy and warm
and I hold on
in silence
as long as I possibly can...

feeling the weight of the Christ child in my arms, close and warm.
I am dumbfounded...

Some Children see Him lily white,
the Baby Jesus born this night.
Some Children see Him lily white,
with tresses soft and fair.
Some Children see Him bronzed and brown,
the Lord of heav’n to earth some down;
Some Children see Him bronzed and brown,
with dark and heavy hair.
Some Children see Him almond eyed,
this Saviour whom we kneel beside,
Some Children see him almond eyed,
with skin of yellow hue.
Some Children see him dark as they,
sweet Mary’s Son to whom we pray;
Some Children see Him dark as they,
and ah! They love Him too!
The Children in each different place
will see the Baby Jesus’ face
Like theirs, but bright with heav’nly grace,
and filled with holy light.
O lay aside each earthly thing,
and with thy heart as offering,
Come worship now the Infant King,
’tis love that’s born tonight!