Home Again

This summer has been busy. In July I spent a week studying iconography again, came home for two weeks, and left on a long-awaited road trip with my brother, destination: mid-western family loop.

We grew up in Illinois and moved when we were young, but old enough to consider ourselves as having "grown up" there.

Several years ago, our aunt, our Dad's only sibling and surviving member of his immediate family moved to a home near where we'd lived. We've been wanting to visit, but our respective schedules have been difficult to coordinate. But this summer...it happened. Finally.

We left a week ago and arrived to find our stoic uncle working on a project and an ecstatic aunt I haven't seen since my Dad's funeral in 1995, rushing out of the house to greet us. After a whhirlwind few days of conversation and "childhood tourism" we moved on to another state to visit more family, and I haven't had a moment to just rest and pray about what has happened and all that I learned within the bonds of "long-lost" family and home.

I have a lot to ponder about this trip and our visit home but haven't the energy tonight to write all that is in my heart and on my mind.

Please be patient with me while I sort out some of the profound things I have encountered during the last week of visiting family in a few states; I hope to be back to writing again soon.

Restored to Innocence

A couple days ago, I went to Confession, cringing once again at having the same laundry-list of sins. I'm the kind of person who could probably LIVE in a confessional and never run out of sins ot confess, but of course, if I were to never leave, I would never have a chance to try to overcome my numerous faults and weaknesses that lead me into sin.

Every now and then I long for the days of childhood innocence; back when I didn't understand real evil and even better, had never experienced it or had been the author of it.  Yet even this frivolous longing carries within it God's grace, for it makes me even more grateful for the Sacrament of Confession.

All of this was on my mind when I entered the tiny room and knelt down behind the screen, the priest already intoning the beginning of this most sacred rite. I listed my sins...as always...knowing that God already knew what I had done and had only been waiting for me to come to Him to take full responsiblity and ask for the grace to overcome them, to start anew. Once again.

I listened to the advice of the priest and when prompted, began my Act of Contrition, the very same one I learned back in First Grade when I received the Sacraments.

"Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended you. I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of Hell....

And then it happened. I can't properly explain it, but there, as I prayed the words, it was as if I was taken back in time to a confessional long long ago. I was again six years old, and, having confessed my little sins, things like fighting with my brother and disobeying my mother, was moving haltingly through the Act of Contrition. I could feel my page-boy style hair cut and in my mind's eye, see a little of the light of day peeking through the woven wicker-type screen, revealing the silhouette of Fr. W. as he waiting patiently for me to complete the prayer, his hand already raised in anticipation of absolution.

But most of all, because I offended You, O my God, who are all Good and deserving of all my love....

There I was, kneeling in the Confessional, an adult, having committed much greater sins, having now had a long life of having gravely, over and over again, severed my relationship with God in ways I couldn't even have imagined as a child. I knelt there and the tears came as I recalled that sweet, sweet innocence of childhood.
 

I firmly resolve, with the help of your grace, to confess my sins...

 
It truly was as though suddenly, I was a child again, kneeling humbly before my God, knowing His Mercy, and overwhelmed because I am also an adult, an adult who has been wounded by sin. As I said that ancient prayer, I knew without a doubt that in my sorrow, in my repentance, in my desire and will to lean on God in order to overcome my sin, in His Mercy He indeed restored me to that beautiful innocence of childhood.
 

...to do penance, and to amend my life. Amen.

 
Still experiencing the sense of timelessness, lost in the echoes of childhood, I bowed my head to receive Absolution, my tears turning to joy with the unmerited, undeserved gift of a greater knowledge of God's incredible love. 
 
As I stood to go, renewed, restored, I had come fully to myself again but could still turn to look at memory's image of me as a six year old, skipping gaily out of the confessional when only moments before I'd trudged in shyly and a bit guiltily, sent in to expose to the light the sins that could only exist under the cover of darkness.
 
I wiped the tears away as I returned to the chapel where I knelt once again to pray, this time to offer my assigned penance, raising my eyes to Jesus in thanksgiving, knowing His mercy is eternal and that in His eyes, I am once again a child of God.
 
Through the Sacrament of Confession, Jesus gave me glimpse through His own eyes; now I know that I need not long for that innocence of childhood, for it is but a mirror image of holiness, and through the grace of the Sacraments, we each can be that reflection for eternity. That is our Call.
 
The Sacrament of Confession restores us; no matter what we have done, by humbly accusing ourselves before God, through contrition for our sins, we open ourselves to His Grace. While we may still suffer the effects of sin, God remembers no more what He has forgiven. It doesn't matter if we are six or seven or eighty-one; once we have come to Jesus, it is, in His eyes, as though those things have never happened. We are, once again, a mere child He delights to indulge in His great love.
 
Thank you, Jesus.

Growing Up

Adulthood is never what children perceive it will be.

From a child's perspective, when one finally "grows up", they will be respected, have money to spend, get to sit at the adult's table at family reunions, and not have to go to bed when the best shows are on TV or the best things happening in the neighborhood.

Yeah, from a child's perspective, things in adulthood are all peachy and perfect.

I wish it was really like that. 

You know that some days I sit up and think, "Oh my gosh! I am just a kid! Where is there an adult to go to in order to handle this problem! Help!"  Then I stumble across a a mirror, see the wrinkles and sags, the weight gain and, well...the oldness...and realize there isn't anyone to go to anymore.

And even worse, more and more, I find I am becoming like one or the other of my parents, for better or worse.

The most tragic part of that fact is this: no matter how much I aspire to their greatest virtues, I seem to have made my own their most grievous faults. I have become the sum of the fall of my parents. 

Nobody's Mom and Dad are perfect. Nobody's! No matter how well-to-do or how impoverished, every family, in modern pop-psychology terms, is "dysfunctional".  Welcome to the human race. In ancient times and theology that was called "concupiscence", but in modern times, we poo-pooh that away by labeling it with things such as "dysfunction" and "co-dependence".

Oh, fogeddabodit! Let's just get to the point and recognize we're all a bunch of sinners in need of salvation, and yeah, we've been harmed by the sins of others! So what? How does that make anyone a victim?

Sorry, got off on a rant there for a bit.

Every so often, I fall into the Oprah-victim-pity-pot of interior destruction. Oh, to see her big brown eyes well up with tears for my familial demise....cry me a river. Seriously, is there anyone who DOESN'T deserve to be on now-defunct Oprah?

Tonight I fell into that trap for a short period. I thought about how, as a child, I was bullied. Always, in fact. I always had a hard time fitting in, and I think the reason was two-pronged:  Mom had a difficult time socially for a few reasons, and, well we were poor and from the wrong side of town. Dad was a great guy, everyone loved him, he loved everyone, but let's face it; he wasn't an over-achiever unless he was drunk, and then he was living what he wanted to be but was always denied because of his congenital disability. (My parents were bullied as children and as adults, too. Dad died, but Mom continues to be bullied by her own siblings.)

[I don't care what age you live in, but your social circumstances and family hierarchy dictate how you are treated by others. You cannot legislate that away. Period.] 

So...I was pondering my childhood today, often an exercise in futility. Recently I came across a piece of music and if my piccolo wasn't so in need of repair, if my embouchure wasn't so in need of practice and retraining, if only I could remember how to finger the notes...I think I could pick up either a flute or piccolo and play the piece. In fact I did, in a dream, and it was incredible. If only that had been real life!

It was this that made me ponder so much, for my love of music is often met by the resistance of memories I wish I could forget.

You know the movie "A Christmas Story"? 

Yeah, well, as children my brother and I begged for a piano because we both loved music as did Mom, as did my Dad, whose father was a musician, teacher, and salesman in a music store.

One Christmas we came home to...a two-octave organ, totally mechanical sound (computers do better now...far better, far more realistic), complete with set drum beats, "trumpet" sounds and others that sounded NOTHING like the actual instruments, and after only a few weeks of "piano" lessons that took us far beyond what the limited keyboard allowed, both of us [necessarily] quit lessons and the organ gathered dust until Mom finally managed to pay someone to take it away.

That took years, by the way. It was our fishnet-legged lamp in the window and I'll never forget my disgust. I suspect that's why Mom was so enthusiastic after their divorce, to spring for a flute for me when I was finally able to choose an instrument in 5th grade. (In the US, that's when public schools began musical instruction). Granted it was rented, but she didn't put up a fight with any substitutes like trumpet (which I also took up in high school) or clarinet (which I never wanted, no offense to clarinetists!).

Then there took over the concupiscence, the push-and-pull of child and parent as the child struggles to become herself or himself in the world.

I loved music and began singing. Mom loved the fact that I loved music and encouraged it, but didn't seem to understand the sense of balance. She began to ridicule my successes and my attempts, and this was part of her own disease of bipolar.

One summer, I tried out for Community Theatre, having been a member of our tiny parish youth choir, and so accepted the help of another community-involved parishioner to help me in my audition. I nearly got the lead role, was cast as unofficial understudy with a serious role in the chorus...and had a great time! That same summer, in prep for a talent show at a camp I wanted to attend, my fellow chorus-members, the music director, and musicians helped me to prepare a song and gave me great advice while my Mom waited as an all-too-verbal spectator.

I was trying to sing "Memory" from the musical "CATS", a song I knew my Mom loved, so my offering had a lot to do with her own influence. As I learned the piece and sang it with accompaniment, as the experienced musicians and teachers encouraged, taught, and helped me to make it my own, I heard only one voice, that of my mother, speaking above them all,  "You're no Barbara Streisand."

I cowered in shame and listened to that litany all summer. "You're no Barbara Streisand."

I still remember the musicians and one of the actors exchanging glances, pretending not to notice, then renewing their lessons for me. Knowing I wasn't trying to be great; that I was only trying to have fun in an entertaining way; and that's something I could do.

Over the years, I heard that line a lot. As I soloed in my parish, as I was selected to cantor, as I occasionally auditioned for high school productions, always my mother telling me, "You're no Barbara Streisand."

There was a dichotomy, though, as I practiced my instrumental music, for Mom didn't have a comparison. She wanted me to be a professional musician. When I aspired towards visual art, she shot that down, telling me there was no money in it and I would end up on welfare. As we were already there, that terrified me and yes, I knew she was right about that. I wanted to be an actress; not allowed, and yes, she was right about that!

I nearly joined the Marines after my band teacher handed me a brochure about the Marines Band, something I knew about thanks to my uncle, a proud former Marine! It was a great deal! If I enlisted, I could go to ANY, and I mean ANY Music school I desired, on a full scholarship! Because my brother had been around and around with an Army Recruiter who wouldn't take "no" for an answer, I said nothing about this to my Mom, but did to my band teacher. "What's the catch?"

"Well, you gotta go to boot camp."

"Um...no thanks. Not selling my soul for boot camp."  (Seriously, if only I could have predicted the 2 boot camps I would go through a few years later...lol)

When I pondered colleges, and we went to visit the college I would eventually choose, and while we gathered information regarding various programs, including theatre, Mom informed me once again, "You're no Barbara Streisand."

Finally, I'd had enough. I don't recall when I said it but I do know it was in private - a grace she had never left to me. Finally, finally, I cried out in tears of frustration, anger, and sadness:

"Why do you continue to compare me to BARBARA STREISAND?  I'M NOT HER!!! STOP comparing me!!! I CAN'T SING LIKE HER! I DON'T KNOW HOW!  WHY do you compare me????" 

It was as if I had slapped her; she hadn't realized what she was doing.

The reality is this; her years of comparing my every attempt to the GREATS made me aspire to something more mundane, more average. More people oriented, less arts-and-music oriented.

So it was that I left my music, my art behind. So it was that I majored in Criminal Justice and spent four years defending myself against the extended family trying to tell me that law enforcement wasn't for me.

But at least I didn't have to try to sing like Barbara Streisand anymore.

All Grown Up

It would be easy to blame my Mom for a lot that's wrong in my life, but I can't. If victim-hood is going to come into this particular Diego Rivera mural, it's going to involve everyone, not just my family, not just yours.

We all have our stories, and if we know them, we can take responsibility for them.

Yes, I left music and the arts because of constant and overbearing criticism holding me to a standard I could not meet, but I don't regret the degree I pursued, even though I'm not qualified to work in that field anymore - because of my own choices and career path. Yes, I live in a townhome I can't afford because I bought it back when I had a good job, and left it because...it was time, and now have to pay off grad loans on a salary that pays less than peanuts. That's my choice, not my Mom's.

Every criticism from Mom was an attempt to ground me, to keep me balanced, and to ensure I did not suffer the financial and personal ruin of the poverty in which she raised us. I can blame my Mom and my Dad for a whole lotta things, but as an adult....I truly can't blame them for anything.

All I can do is thank them. 

I thank them for trying to guide me as best they could, even though they suffered so much from the deprivation and abuses thrust upon them long before they brought my brother and I into the world.  I thank them for giving us the opportunities they could, and even if misguided, for criticizing us to try to keep us from being what we all hate. I thank them for being who they are (or in Dad's case, who he WAS, may he rest in peace), so that we could become greater, according to God's calling.

And most of all, I thank them for the life they gave us, with all its trials, all its suffering, all its failures, all its triumphs, for much we experienced together, and much, growing up, made us who we are today.

We may not be much, and we will never be "great" in the eyes of the world, but both my brother and I know who we are, where we came from...and it's gonna be a whole lotta years before we ever really "grow up."

Somehow..I think Mom (And Dad, Eternal rest grant unto him...) would agree.

To all you Moms and Dads out there, I speak to you all...Thank you. 

Eternal Love,  

Your Children

Cupcakes

Tonight I'm craving cupcakes.

Dunno why; I rarely eat cake, much less cupcakes. The last chance I had to eat them I turned them down with no regrets. Then again...they were store-bought.

That's not what I crave.

What I crave is that little soft, moist cake baked in a tiny cup, topped with homemade butter-cream frosting.

I need that little cake of loving Mom-made goodness, that taste of homey simplicity, the flavor of classroom intercession, family pride and welcoming fellowship with...whoever imbibes.

There's just somethin' about Mom's cupcakes, even about the word itself.

It's the cutest word in the English language:  cupcake.  Cup. Cake. A piece of cake that fits in a cup. A little cup. It's a cute little cake in the likeness of a cup but it's made up by the substance of a sweet, delectable cake. Mmmm....cake. Cupcake. Single-serving perfection with icing on top.

The best cupcake I ever had is the kind made by Mom.

Dang it! I'd feel so much better right now if I had such a simple little cupcake.

*sigh*

If Jesus came to my house, I'd bake Him a cupcake, if I had the ingredients. Just like Mom's.

Jesus would love cupcakes.

Mid-Western Farm-town Diner

Nostalgia

Every farm town has a diner. Those old towns that rise from the Midwestern prairies aren't governed from marble towers, but around old tables and Naugahyde chairs in the midst of the scent of frying bacon, mouth-watering burgers and fresh coffee.

Every so often I remember the little town I used to call home, and which may forever be my "hometown", for something about it draws me back, again and again even though the last time I saw it I was at the threshold of my teenage years. It is but a shadow, but a vivid one indeed, that occasionally comes to me and calls me back to it through all my senses.

Our little town had a very small "downtown" only two blocks long, if that. The barbershop had a twisting pole, the Ben Franklin had a big sign running the length of the store upon its false front, and the sidewalks were covered intermittently by the ports over the doorways, inviting people in simply by providing protection from the elements, be it the heat or rains of summer or the snows of winter.

Some businesses, though, by their very being and the scents wafting from their interiors invited us in, and indeed, that was Ma's place in our town, the only diner, a timeless place of burgers, fries, and farmers.

I could be describing any small town diner here:  You open a creaky partially-rusted screen door complete with peeling white or grey paint, and let it slam behind you as you enter the low roar of the diner. Depending on the time of day, you're greeted either with the dominant scent of bacon or  burgers, and always, always always the inviting aroma of coffee, visible while it brewed: the brown rims were calf-inated, the orange were de-calf.

I never did understand what calves had to do with coffee, but after all, it was farm country and there was a lot I couldn't grasp. Even so, I loved entering the diner and seeing men just like some of my uncles, taking a break, eating together in their John Deere hats and overalls, smelling of the barns and fields no matter how cleanly they tried to be.

There was a homeliness about the place, with its counter running the length of one side and booths on the other. All the tabletops were a type of yellow-creme color, while all the chairs were a variation of ripped Naugahyde of red and black.

Oh Give me a Home...

You can walk into such a place in Anytown, Mid-Western USA and find a seat, and the same kind of  friendly waitress will come to your table, pad and pen in hand, pouring coffee, asking to take your order. She'll set tall glasses of ice water in front of you in cloudy old plastic glasses, and for the kids, she'll take straws out of her apron pocket with a glint in her eye, knowing you'll rip off one end and blow them at your sibling.

But it's worth it to her to pick up those stray straw wrappings because she remembers doing it, too, and in fact, does it herself when she and her co-workers clean up at the end of the shift.

She hands you a Naugahyde-backed menu clad in cracked clear plastic detailing the fries, malts, burgers, sandwiches and desserts common to the venue:  fries, onion rings (maybe), vanilla, chocolate or strawberry malts, hamburger or cheeseburger, chicken or pulled pork sandwich and a slice of pie for dessert, or maybe a scoop of ice cream or a Sundae.

You never have to order ketchup or mustard, because they are already at your table, in opaque plastic red or yellow containers; red for the ketchup, yellow for the mustard, right next to the metal thing that holds the napkins, salt, pepper, sugar and jelly.

The burger comes on a plate with dill pickle spear on the side, the bun is buttered and if you ordered cheese (like my brother always did), it's melted perfectly. The fries come in a little red basket lined with wax paper, and you always have to check the cap of the ketchup bottle and the salt/pepper shakers to make sure the lids are on tight before you tip them onto your burger and/or fries.

The malt comes in the metal container in which it was mixed and the waitress pours it into a tall plastic glass for you, gives you another straw and then sets the container down so you can pour in whatever is left after you've drained your glass a bit. Because it's so cold and thick, you can't drink the malt but instead scoop it up with your straw and lick it off the end. The malt usually comes before the burger and Mom always has to warn you to slow down on the ice cream so that you have room to enjoy the burger that is still coming.

The place mats are simple white ones with "ruffled" edges that look like a child's drawing of a cloud, and Moms everywhere offer pens and pencils as entertainment. It's not always necessary, though, because the shellacked photos in the diner are fun: they are photos superimposed upon a wooden border matching the same cloud-shaped border design as the paper place-mats, but the photos are of children dressed like farmers and saying mysteriously adult things such as, "You been farmin' long?"  In the photo, one child-farmer appears to be wryly amused while the other kicks at the gravel in dejection.

There was always a hum of conversation, a homey-ness of a home kitchen and a familiarity between the farmers and servers in the diner my family couldn't quite touch, even though we were "regulars" there, too. It was a treat to go to Ma's.

Memories

In the summer we'd arrive and step over the rust-stained, watery sidewalk where the air conditioner drained, avoiding the drops as it sucked the humidity from inside. We'd enter the relative coolness, only to emerge after our meal or  malt break into the furnace-blast of a hot, humid summer day. In winter we'd traipse across the icy sidewalk, beneath the silence of the air conditioner and enter into the humid, fragrant warmth of the diner, welcoming us into any seat in the house, only to emerge later into the winter desolation from which we'd received only a friendly respite.

Ah, yes, the farmtown diner, a staple in any community, the place where the problems of the world are left behind in favor of the greasy goodness of a perfect hamburger, basket of fries, and thick malt.

A place where we could sit and meditate on pictures like "Keep On Truckin" right next to John Deere advertisements and listen to the NPR Radio in the form of conversation of the everyday family farmer, the salt of the earth, in one of the most decent places in the world.

I never used to understand that old photo, "You been farmin' long?", but now, more than 30 years later, I understand it far more deeply than I ever sought, and now I understand the sympathetically wry smile of the kid in the red hat and the sad dejection of the boy in the black hat.

Somewhere in my distant memory, I remember the dog days of summer, the hot blast of Illinois summer heat when the screen door of Ma's slammed behind me for the last time, leaving me on Main Street side-stepping the drip of the air conditioner; but the sound still rumbles in my ears and I can still smell the scent of fresh burgers on buttered buns, and I can still see the frost coating the exterior of the metal malt mixers as they were set on our table.

Most importantly, I can still remember the farmers talking shop, the endless fields, and the land that is the heart of our country.

That is where my heart beats.

Lead Us Not Into Temptation

I remember, as a little girl, learning the "Our Father", first from Mom, and then, when she was working, from Dad.  He was Lutheran so prayed the doxology at the end in a way similar to how it was prayed at Mass...yet with a little different wording.  Mom knew he did this but told us we must pray it as she taught us, so it became a small thing within our family to honor our parents in that special way. It pleased Dad when we prayed the doxology, and it pleased Mom when we didn't.  When they were both home, we prayed the "Catholic way" and still, everyone was happy, for Dad deferred to Mom while giving us a wink.

Even as I remember this fondly, I also recall to mind the part of the Lord's Prayer that terrified me to no end.

...Give us this day our daily bread, 

And forgive us our trespasses

As we forgive those who trespass against us. 

Lead us not into temptation

But deliver us from evil. AMEN.

The prayer scared me, for it seemed to rapidly descend from the comforting image of a yummy loaf of bread (which we didn't have EVERY day, but most days, and I really didn't know why we were praying for something so bland to be given to us DAILY. Or maybe we were praying for it so that it would be there when Mom wanted to serve it, and that prayer always seemed to be answered.)

The next image that came to mind was the word "trespass", and I knew that one. I always saw the black signs with orange wording, surrounded by a white border. I recognized the sign even BEFORE I knew how to read, for Mom pointed them out and told us we must never enter land where we saw that sign. And a few of our neighbors sported them, so we knew without a doubt that "trespassing" was a bad thing. I still remember the warm summer afternoon as we walked the gravel road on the hill over our house, exploring the neighborhood, listening to the sound of large dogs, legendarily vicious dogs warning us in no uncertain terms to heed the signs posted at intervals around the property.

Every time I prayed that prayer, and even to this very day, when I say the word "trespass" I think of that sign, standing out in its warning against a dark fence covered in encroaching foliage. Where, probably, there were big thorns and spiders hiding.

Still, it wasn't "trespass" that made my blood run cold. "Trespass" was just the warning before the REAL problem happened.

Rather, it was...."Temptation"

The very idea of being led into Temptation was enough to give me chills and nightmares. 

Lead us not into temptation

But deliver us from evil. AMEN!

It was very clear to me that "Temptation" was a place, because in the prayer, we were asking God not to lead us there. Any time we were being led somewhere, it was a location. So, it stands to reason that if we were asking God NOT to lead us into Temptation, my first question was:  Why would God lead us somewhere awful?  If God is Love, wouldn't it stand to reason to believe He would NEVER take us by the hand and lead us into some terrible, terrible place, worse than my night terrors, worse than the monster in the closet and the ghost under the bed?

Obviously, Temptation HAD to be an awful place, ESPECIALLY if were imploring He who is all Love not to bring us there.

 In my mind, I envisioned Hell. I thought "Temptation" was where the devil lived, but since "Hell" was a bad word, then we probably couldn't say it in Church, and that's why we called it "Temptation."

I finally Saw Temptation

One summer, we went to visit our Grandmother in Minnesota, in the house where Mom grew up. Mom decided we needed a nap so as soon as our suitcases were brought up to the bedroom, she and Dad pushed the two beds together to accommodate us all, and tucked us in.  Neither of us wanted to sleep, so my brother began the afternoon by telling me the crack between the beds led to Hell.  He said that if the beds separated, we'd fall in and be tortured forever.

I told him to be quiet, leave me alone, and I put my pillow over my head in SPITE of the summer heat and fell into a troubled sleep. Unfortunately, I still remember the dream with a certain vividity.  In the dream, my brother and I were awakened by an earthquake that separated the beds. In between, just as he'd noted, was the crack to Hell, and in spite of all we did to cling to each other and to the blankets and bedposts, we were drawn down into the lair of Satan.  We received a whirlwind tour of this awful, awful place where the heat was unbearable, where the devil laughed incessantly at our demise, until finally, somehow, we escaped.

In the dream, when I screamed, asking where we were, the Devil said to me, "Temptation..."  followed by his evil chuckle.

I still remember waking up, drenched in sweat, shaking, the sun still high in the summer's mid-afternoon. Even as I tried to shake it off, I couldn't, and now, how many years later...I STILL can't.

We were too little then to even KNOW about horror movies, had never seen one and didn't know they existed. I'd never seen ANYTHING like that before, and even the other terrors that sometimes awoke me at night weren't so awful as that particular dream.

Lead Us Not Into Temptation

A few days ago, I briefly read something that had to do with temptation; the fact that we must pass through it in order to overcome it, in order to grow in virtue.  And in passing through that temptation, it is as though we are being scorched, we are being damned, we are being tortured.  We can't see the end of it, but this is what makes it so important to pass through such a trial;  it is how we grow in virtue and learn to trust in God.

Mom could never explain this to me because the concept was too big, and really, most of us can't grasp this reality.

I know that even with all the education I've received in theology in the last couple years, I CONTINUE to pray that I be preserved from temptation.  It scares me for I am too weak, I too often given in, and my will has been trained over the years to give in to my passions.  So when I am tempted I scream and cry out to God to save me, he remains silent, and...I give in to my malformed will.

I get up each morning hoping to overcome, and yet, at the end of the day, find I have failed miserable, often through very direct acts against God.

Now, as an adult, I understand what it means to pray, "Lead us not into Temptation, but deliver us from evil."

As an adult, I know that Temptation is indeed a place, and while it is not Hell itself, it is the gateway, and as soon as we enter that crevasse, we realize that, in fact, they blend into one thing. NONE of us goes to Hell without giving into Temptation. None of us gets out of Temptation without passing through it. Temptation is a paradox.

A terrible, terrible paradox, yet one we must enter, we must survive, we must, through the grace of God, overcome.  No one becomes Holy without temptation.

So it seems that, in the spiritual life, we are at an impasse, aren't we?  Temptation is the gateway, and it is much scarier in appearance than it is in reality. Temptation itself is not a sin; it is only an INVITATION to sin, something calling to our passions.  That deathly knell can really seem like it must be obeyed, it can seem a lot more attractive than living holiness, can seem like it's not a big deal to give in to that one little passion....and yet, once we do...we might be cut of from God completely.

God never stops loving us. He is like the sun, which gives its rays, yet if we put a wall in front of it, that light can no longer pass through. The light does not stop in reality...it is actually that we have chosen not to let it in. We cut God off, refusing His Love, refusing His grace.

And there, in that eternal darkness, is Hell; eternal separation from God.

That's where Temptation leads.

Temptation is both pretty and dangerous and may come to us under both appearances, even while trying to make us believe it is something else.

But no, Temptation is indeed a place; it is the very doorway to damnation.

When confronted with it, when we are trapped there between Temptation and God, we need only take a step back, look upon the Cross, and let God love us.  Even if we can't see the end of the assault, we can gaze upon our Crucified Lord and know that, eventually, this temptation will end, and to get through it all we need to do is trust in Him.

Jesus will never let go. The question is...will we let go of HIM?

Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo. Amen.

Lead us not into Temptation, but deliver us from Evil.....Amen.

A Tale of Two Guppies

When I was a child, we had a fish bowl without fish. We had everything needed for them: little blue and grey stones covering the bottom, a little castle tower and some plastic "weeds". I constantly begged Mom to let us get a goldfish for the little bowl.

In school, we learned about guppies, and studied them in a fun class. Our classroom even had guppies and we got to name them, and the teacher told us where we could get them for ourselves if Mom and Dad said we could! They didn't seem too expensive, so I asked Mom if we could get a couple guppies. I promised I'd take care of them!

Mom replied that I didn't do my part to feed the dog each night, or check on her water, so how did she know I'd be faithful to the fish? I PROMISED I would be faithful and give them their food and water, and pleaded that it would be "a GREAT learning experience!" Finally she relented, we went to the pet store, and upon seeing the small cost of the little fish, she let me pick out two to take home.

I still remember carefully carrying them home in their little plastic bag. I didn't understand how they could just swim in there and not die. After all, WE couldn't breathe in plastic, and if we caught bugs, we were supposed to poke holes in it for air! Mom had to stop me from opening the top to "let more air into the water."

Swish and Stripe

The fish bowl was waiting for our new pets when we arrived home, and so I carefully poured my new little friends into their new home. They swam around, inspecting their bowl, so I went about my day, satisfied, but often returning to visit them.

I decided to name them "Swish" and "Stripe", for I loved their features and thought the best names were truthful ones that said something about them.

True to my promise to Mom, I was Johnny On The Spot with the food for the little fishies. I realized that they must be hungry after their long journey to our home, and so I made sure to feed them in the proper quantity: about the amount I would give the dog. The little flakes of what I imagined must be "manna" floated on the surface, and I was gratified to see that Swish and Stripe darted for it, biting off little chunks.

But they left most of their dinner uneaten. I thought that maybe they weren't so hungry because, well, maybe they were scared. So I stayed and talked to them and pushed the food towards them. They seems uninterested. Well, I didn't like it when Mom made me eat, either, so I left them alone. It was there if they wanted it.

Over the next few days I was quite careful to make sure they had the proper food at the proper time. And of course, since they never finished a meal, I figured that perhaps I was insulting them by not feeding them ENOUGH so I went back and gave them seconds. I didn't like soggy bread, either. The fresh stuff was the best.

But still, they didn't eat their dinner. I was getting very very worried. I must not be a good Mom.

Then one day I saw that they weren't moving so freely, didn't seem so interested in anything. Swish was starting to float a little. I poked him and he wagged his fins and swam away. I thought maybe they needed more food to keep up their energy, so I gave them some more.

All day long, their condition was of concern to me. Both were listless, partially floating, partially swimming. Their water was cloudy, and so I thought maybe if I cleaned the bowl, they'd feel better. It would be like getting fresh air.

Cleaning the Bowl

So very very carefully I picked up the bowl and took it into the kitchen. I ran the water, testing it to be sure it was cold (because it was always COLD water that revived people, it was logical to think it was the same for fish!).

I put the plug in the drain and slowly poured the water into it. The fish were caught against the trap as the rest of the bowl water poured over them, even as the cold, rushing water from the faucet infused it. The fish both wagged their fins, so I thought they were enjoying their bath. I made sure they were nice and clean before I took the water away in order to refill the bowl.

While it filled, I apologized to Swish and Stripe, and explained that they'd be back in their clean house in a minute, and I knew they needed water and felt bad about taking it away for a second.

As soon as there was enough in the bowl I put the fish in by dumping the trap into it, and then I ran the water into the bowl some more.

But Swish and Stripe didn't seem interested in swimming and exploring. I thought they were bored, so I set the castle up again, and the little seaweed. But still...nothing. One floated. The other, barely wagged his fin.

So I decided they must be hungry and gave them their dinner early. Then I left them alone; maybe they were just napping.

Later that day, I discovered both floating, and neither moved when I tried to encourage them to swim. I went and got Mom, saying the fish were sick. She told me she was sorry, but they died.

Sadly, I told her that I would bury them. They were mine, and I should take care of them, even that hard part.

So I found a napkin and laid it next to the bowl. With my own hand, I lifted them out, each in turn, said I was sorry but I would send them home to God, then placed them on the napkin. Together. I folded the top of the napkin over them, and then folded it again to make their shroud.

I went to my room to get my little shovel and my prized purple plastic flower. It was one of my favorite possessions and my little friends deserved to have it at their grave. I made a little cardboard "headstone" reading "RIP Swish and Stripe".

Before we went out, I remembered that when people die, there are prayers said, so I took a book from the shelf so that I could find a passage which I was hoping God would help me to miraculously read. (I couldn't read yet, but I knew my alphabet!)

The Funeral

Slowly, tenderly holding Swish and Stripe and all the implements of burial, I processed all alone out to the Maple Tree in the front yard...my favorite place. At just the right spot, where I knew I could look out and see and remember them, I began to dig.

When I thought the grave was deep enough, I carefully placed the little shroud containing Swish and Stripe into it and picked up the book. Turning to a page somewhere in the middle, I looked, hoping at some point the letters would make sense. I saw the word "The". So I began to "read" about how Swish and Stripe were good fish and that God must love them, too, but maybe more than I did. And so because God loved them, He wanted them to be with Him in Heaven but first we had to put them in the earth. I told God I was sorry I didn't feed them enough and that I hadn't done the right things to keep them alive and hoped that He could do a better job with them. And then when I couldn't think of any more, I closed the book and tossed it solemnly aside.

Slowly I shoveled the dirt over the napkin and packed it on top, then set the headstone and put the flowers on it. I said goodbye to Swish and Stripe, picked up the shovel and the book, and went inside.

I was very very sad. My friends had died, and I had a sneaking suspicion it was my fault, but I didn't know what I'd done wrong.

Sneaking Suspicion...

For a couple weeks, I went out to visit the grave and make sure the flowers were still there, and the headstone. The headstone was gone, maybe blown away, and the flowers moved, but I planted them deeply in the dirt to make sure they would stay. I knew the cardboard would be in terrible condition anyway so let it go. I knew where my fish were.

But as I dug the flowers into the grave, day after day, making sure they weren't lost, I began to wonder about the fish.

What happened to them after they died? Where did they go? Were their bodies still intact? What did they look like?

I tried not to think of these things. I knew it was "sacrilegious" to dig people up...did that apply to fish, too? Once in the ground, weren't they supposed to STAY there? But how could they be BOTH in the ground AND with God at the same time?

So finally, overcome by curiosity, I decided to check on them.

One afternoon I got my shovel and carefully removed the dirt. It was easy to pull the dirty napkin out of the grave, and as I did not intend offense, I "prayed" with my book before I dug them up.

When I lifted it, at first it seemed there was nothing there. Were they like JESUS??!!

Slowly I opened the top of the napkin. And stared. Fascinated.

All I saw was an outline of each fish, what remained of their scales. An outline on the bottom, a little on the "top". Swish and Stripe were GONE. I couldn't even see their tiny bones!.

Slowly I covered them up again and put them back into their grave. I paused as I re-buried them.

Looking up towards the sky I said, "Dear God, I hope YOU took Swish and Stripe, because if you didn't, that means the cat ate them!"

*

An Autumn Tale of Beauty and Disaster

Tonight is Story Time With Adoro. Why? Because it's been awhile and my readers are bored.

I love Autumn. It's my favorite season. The vibrant colors of the trees capture me, the cooling temperatures soothe my heated brow, and the scent of leaves and bonfires sends me soaring.

So many see this season as a time to begin school or other things, and indeed, I see that, too. I await with dread all the things that "ramp up" and wish I could just escape into the beauty, rather than into the imprisoning chambers of work or school that prevent me from touching the majesty of God's creation.

This year it's been awful; a week ago when my street was supposed to bloom into full golden glory of color, it froze, it snowed, and then a wind blew. Less than twelve hours later all of the trees were bare and both the gold and the green leaves were plastered to the ground. Those leaves left on the trees were already turning pruny, and the next day were brown and dead. No glory this year. We went from pretty and lively to....dead and hopeless.

Not helpful, God, but I love you anyway. I'm sure there's a metaphor there somewhere, to be figured out when I get around to it.

But! Instead of lingering and moping about my street's lack of beauty, I have decided to remember what I love about this usually-beautiful season, and share with you one of my favorite memories of this time of year. It's one that unites the heights of joy and the depths of humiliation and agony.

Are you interested? Read on.....

The Red Maple

When I was a little girl, growing up in a little country neighborhood, I was enchanted by the Maple tree that graced our front yard. It was my favorite place. I could sit down and rest against it, I buried my dear guppies there with great ceremony (hilarious story I must tell one day), and that tree is where I first learned to contemplate...and to fly. Maybe even to trust.

Everyone knows that children are inventive. I grew up while video games existed, but were considered to be indulgent luxuries. We knew all the great cartoons, but spent most of our days playing in our country neighborhood, exploring the hills, talking walks, playing with other children, and...inventing new games and new adventures.

You can imagine, then, how my older brother saw the Maple tree not as something simply beautiful to behold, but as our own personal jungle gym. It seemed an obsession with him...every time we left the house, he would head directly to the tree in his quest to conquer it and rest among her branches.

His constant quest to climb higher constantly aggravated Mom, but intrigued me.

I wanted to do what he did. I wanted that courage. I wanted the vantage point he described. I wanted to rest in those branches, too!

It wasn't long before I went to the tree and, with heartfelt tears, complained I couldn't climb because I couldn't reach the lowest branch. Initially my brother teased me, but eventually good will overcame him and in a rare show of brotherly love, he pulled our picnic table to the tree and instructed me to stand on it, feeling I would be able to reach the branch and climb from that point.

I was still frightened, but my brother encouraged me, directed me and finally, I made it to the first branch. I don't recall whether he pulled me up or pushed me up where needed, but I do remember that I didn't make my first climb alone. It took several tries before I finally figured it out. He tried even to encourage me to venture out into his favorite branch, but I refused at first, needing to become accustomed to the lowest before ascending to what was higher.

The unfortunate part of this was that "my" branch was our JUMPING branch; it was...our exit from the Maple Tree.

Oh, yes...what goes up must come down. And if it's fun, it must come down REPEATEDLY and with much enthusiasm!

We had a new hobby!

My brother and I would rake up leaves beneath the lowest branch (which wasn't that low), and in a rare show of sibling support and love, we would get along in this great endeavor of survival. Where usually we argued, in the Maple Tree we had peace. It was an unwritten and unplanned sanctuary. It didn't matter what hatred we had for each other below...but while in those branches and leaping from them, we loved each other and willed each other's good.

That meant that we developed rules.

The first rule was that I had to learn to climb the tree by myself, but there was a grace period given to me for that, based on my height and ability. You see.,.my brother was a good teacher and a good brother, at heart, and knew I couldn't do anything on my own or without his wise direction. Or limits.

I hate to admit it, but he was right. I respected him and dang it...learned to climb that tree because of HIM and no one else!

Our second rule was far more serious, for we had the basic understanding that anything hitting the ground from any height tended to explode. If it worked with eggs, it worked with us.

Our exit custom involved raking the colorful leaves into a nice big pile under the designated exit branch, and after my brother had experimented with the softness of it, he finally convinced me to take this great leap, rather than having him assist me down via the picnic table.

Oh, what a terrifying leap it was! Oh how I stared at those terrible leaves, trying to imagine them as feathers, trying to trust the brother who so normally tortured me...but would never will my ultimate demise!

I still recall perching on that forked branch, there among the red-colored leaves, knowing my only way down was to let go....

And so it was....

I still remember the leap and the soft landing, the explosion of color, and the rapid ascent of us both as we sought to repeat the thrill of weightlessness and color.

Of course, it wasn't long before Mom came outside in terrified horror (or was it horrified terror?) to inspect our new game. She saw that, in fact, it was a good game, we had our own rules, and established in stone that we could ONLY leap from certain branches. She saw our rare cooperation and thought it a good thing, over and above the danger that we might be injured. She saw love before she saw anything else, and in the end, gave her approval.

Not all such games were good, though.

Stupidity and concupiscence always enters Eden

Our neighbor, a teen I greatly admired and even adored, didn't have a tree in her yard. She saw what we were doing and, because the leaves from the forest and her neighbors were plentiful, she had no problem raking them into a big pile in her own yard.

One day as I played alone, she invited me to join her which was a very big deal. Why would Annette ever want me to play with her? But I went, and we had a great time leaping from the top of a ladder she'd erected, landing in the leaves. From the ladder, maybe it was lower than the branch, but it was an easier climb which meant more chances to free-fall into the crunchy, colorful leaves

They were so soft that they led me to misunderstand physics.

So it was that I climbed the ladder, and, from the top, bent my knees hoping to land on them in the same way I landed on my springy feet. I didn't understand how the human body absorbed shock, I didn't understand that the leaves weren't really "springy"; my legs were. The leaves just helped a little.

I remember leaping, and in mid-air, hearing Annette scream at me in alarm, "DON'T DO THAT!"

She was older and understood physics in a way I did not. It wasn't scientific, but practical.

Annette couldn't do anything to save me from the disaster that awaited me.

I remember landing, my legs bent beneath me. I didn't "bounce" as expected, but rather, the concussion of the landing compressed my entire body, the landing a complete, abrupt shock.

I didn't "spring" or "bounce" or anything. Instead, I was driven into the ground as a whole and rolled to the side, stunned, unable to move my legs, unable to stand.

It was pain...but it wasn't. To this day, even KNOWING about spinal injuries, I can't describe the sensation. It was a pain I'd never felt, but which told me that this time, it was serious. I quite literally couldn't will my legs to move, I couldn't stand up although I tried.

Annette asked me if I was alright but all I could do was cry. I wasn't "alright" but was afraid Mom would find out what I did and punish me. I felt helpless and hated Annette's comments, telling me I was fine and telling me to "GET UP! You have to get up! Stop crying!"

I couldn't get up. I tried. Several times. I couldn't. My back and legs hurt so badly that I couldn't move, my legs actually wouldn't work at all, and I realized I had to do SOMETHING.

To her credit, Annette told me to just wait a minute. I wanted to go home. She didn't want to let me go home.

It was years before I realized Annette was terrified, too; just as terrified as I that I'd been seriously injured. From my perspective, I didn't want Mom to know. From her perspective...she was older and felt like she was at fault. I wish I'd listened to her and just laid there, waiting either for someone else to come, or just to feel better.

But I have never been one to wait when things are wrong, and, well...she let me go.

In tears, I went home. In tears, still unable to stand, barely able to move at all, I CRAWLED across her yard, across the street, and through our yard, hoping Mom wouldn't look out or think anything strange of my behavior. (Yeah, right...Adoro crawling across the street. Not strange at all...never mind the gravel...)

All I knew was that something was seriously wrong with me, I didn't want any attention, and hoped that if I just got home and ignored it...it would go away. I don't know how, but I managed to crawl all that distance (in excruciating pain), across the gravel road, into the house and to my room, pulling myself into bed. Hoping that maybe a nap would make it all better.

I remember thinking about Jesus, and how He fell when carrying His cross.

I remember Mom yelling at me from some other part of the house when she heard the door open, asking what I was doing. I just said I was tired and wanted to take a nap. Mom probably figured that was a blessed event, and never actually came out of the kitchen to see what I was doing. I was glad...I still couldn't stand up, and I was exhausted from all that crawling.

It didn't take me long to cry myself to sleep in terrified exhaustion. I never wanted to jump out of anything ever again.

I remember opening my eyes that afternoon and moving my legs. I remember carefully sitting up, carefully standing. There was no pain. It was all gone. I stood in my room and even JUMPED, waiting to collapse to the floor. It never happened.

I wondered if it was a dream, but no...my knees and my palms told another story, one told by gravel and dirt, and not all of it could be washed away.

Mom NEVER knew and STILL doesn't know of that event. I still puzzle it over, having had some medical training. I have a few theories but can't say I totally understand. Obviously, much of the pain was muscular, but when I consider the distance of my leap and the compression upon my spine, I am amazed I DIDN'T have a spinal injury, and have NEVER had back problems that didn't come from a different DIRECT injury (later in life - a result of an assault at work.)

As it was, I lived to walk another day, to run, and even to leap. I never again leapt from Annette's ladder, although I do recall she was overjoyed to see me walking later, and even teased me a little. Yet...she never brought it up again. My brother and I, we continued to leap out of the tree and a year later, used both the lower and higher branches to exit in to our respective piles of leaves. One branch became "His" and I would bring books up there so that, if he was gone, I could sit up there and read, or contemplate, or imagine. I "wrote" stories in my imagination, concealed myself in color and perhaps learned that the best place to be, ever, is in the present, especially when one is enclosed by colorful leaves and resting in the strong arms of a majestic maple tree somewhere in the Midwest.

Ah....to return to those days....

Why do any of us ever have to grow up?

*

Family Obligations

A few years ago I read of a religious sister who was FINALLY able to enter a community with a very strict age limit, one that long excluded her...but accepted her for a few reasons: they agreed she had a Vocation (or seemed to), they agreed it seemed God was directing her to them and they to accept her, and, well..it was her life circumstances that prevented her entrance. Not her will. Not her delay, but God's.

In short...they saw that her priorities were in order for her state in life. She was responsible for caring for her parents, there was no one else, and so just as they gave their lives to her, she knew she must return that until God called them Home. It was not a chain, but a freedom of conscience, knowing she was within God' s will for her.

That story has always struck me; the beauty of her Vocation, of her Call, of her love for her parents. She honored God by honoring them, even though her heart broke as she was not able to answer God's Call in the time frame that applied to so many others.

The fact is, that the cutoff age for many many communities is thirty, or maybe thirty-five.

The fact is...I'm thirty-five now. I began "discerning" in my late 20's, and tried to rush because of all the cutoff ages. It was God who slowed me down, I know it was God who directed me to that story to remind me it was HE, not me, who was in charge. His timeline. Not mine.

Ultimately, a given community's age limit isn't an issue; God makes the limits, and He will impose HIS will in all cases. If that door remains shut, it simply indicates that God has other plans.

The Importance of Family

As I continue to discern, I realize that my family is a part of it, too, whether I like it or not. That doesn't mean that they get to decide anything, but only that God is in the familial relationships and moral demands upon us, and often, through our families, reveals His will in that moment.

I have a dear friend who feels called to marriage, but is still single, well into her 40's, but knows she is doing what God wills; caring for her aging father. All the other siblings are married off. She is the only one left, and embraces her call with a love I only WISH I could imitate. God bless her and all her family. They are very close, very supportive of one another, and...ALL are converts to the Catholic Faith.

Until today, I really didn't identify with the woman in the story I mentioned. My Dad passed away when I was twenty, and although Mom is declining before her time, she still lives on her own, so on the surface it seems that there is no obligation for me to step in as caretaker.

After all, she has my brother, who is a very devoted son, sees her a lot, and has space for her in his house.

Um... BUT!

This afternoon my brother called me at work because we've been unable to connect in other venues. In our conversation, he told me that Mom had some kind of pulmonary disease and mentioned what he called an "early symptom" of said disease. Which seemed nearly plausable to me, but didn't ring a bell and I couldn't actually make any direct connection between what he said and what he claimed to be the problem.

A web search didn't help.

Mom hadn't mentioned this particular diagnosis, but I admit I took my brother at his word, thinking it was because Mom had told him and, well, because before Dad died he predicted his death. Then again..he'd been predicting his death for YEARS with faulty timelines.

I don't know really, why I believed my brother. Charity? Good faith, knowing brother loves Mom and loved Dad?

Well, tonight I called Mom, and asked her directly about the conditions my brother claimed she had. Um...no. He took her actual diagnosis and symptoms out of context and made up his own.

Certainly the disease he named is POSSIBLE and PROBABLE. but isn't what the doctor has diagnosed. Nor do the symptoms exactly match what he took out of context.

My brother doesn't have medical training (I have some, enough to think critically with a foundation of knowledge), and Mom does as well. Further...Mom doesn't hide her conditions. She announces them and talks about them incessantly. Her entire identity is wrapped up in her most recent diagnosis or health problem, and her entire source of entertainment is her menu at various functions if she attends.

Suddenly...

I realize that maybe the reason I'm not where I think I should be, in ANY Vocation, might have more to do with God's plan than anything else. I wonder if it may well be that I be involved in caring for my mother until death.

It is clear to us that, although things aren't so bad as my brother tried to say, it IS clear that she won't be living alone for much longer. My brother has a good heart, but in reality, isn't equipped to provide medical care nor does he have enough knowledge to do so or report it with any accuracy.

I have to discern this carefully, for on one hand, it might be a distraction. On the other hand...it might be reality.

I've known of Novices who have had to leave the convent to care for sick or dying family members, simply because there was no one else, or no one...equipped.

In taking our small family history in to context, though, I see God's wisdom in this. Because of all the trauma we experienced growing up, between Dad's alcoholism, Mom's bipolar, and their divorce, well...there are some very very deep wounds that we share.

The ongoing years help, but I have to wonder if God is perhaps calling me to, at some point, serve our mother as caretaker, legal guardian, or something in her last months or years. That isn't a negation of vocation, but simply part of who I am...a daughter. It is part of honoring one's only surviving parent.

I don't know, but I know God will lead. And I know that where He leads is for our good. Perhaps such a situation would lead to the healing our little family needs. Perhaps it wouldn't, and it would be better for me to enter a religious community before Mom's death, if only so that she can see that her only daughter has a home and is not alone. Or maybe in all this mess I'll meet my husband, somewhere in this jungle and discover that, after all, I AM called to marriage and only fled it for so long because I've been so damaged?

No one knows. God does. He has a plan.

I'm glad my brother called me today and gave me misinformation. I'm glad I called Mom to check it out, and I'm so grateful right now for my family and that I still have them that it hurts.

I don't know who I am or where I belong or what I was called to be. But I DO know that I am my mother's daughter, I am my brother's sister, and that they are all I have. It is they who have formed me and continue to do so. God put us together and through this very very torn family, we have learned to love each other even when all of us preferred to walk away...and in a sense...I did. But I'm back now, and know I would not be the woman I am without them or without the suffering we have endured.

Family is a part of discernment to ANY Vocation, and perhaps as I continue to seek God, maybe I need to spend more time with my family. Maybe it is through them that I will finally obtain clarity.

Please pray for my family; my brother once discerned the priesthood but has fallen so far away I fear he will never come back. And Mom...I don't even remember the last time I saw her smile with true, abandoned happiness. She's been living the Passion for at LEAST 30 years. And yet she continues to give. Pray for her, pray for us all. I am the ungrateful daughter, the adulteress, unfaithful Jerusalem. I look at my Mother and I see the Cross and know that no matter how confused I am, how far I fall...there is my life and my salvation.

I know my readers will all understand the metaphor.

*

As in all things...God's will be done. I am only His unfaithful servant.

Partisan Paranoid Protester

1. I am not partisan.

I can't be "partisan", for I claim no allegiance to any political ideology.

I vote with the issues and happen to find that currently, the Democratic Party LEAST represents me, or, at best, it MISREPRESENTS what I believe while working hard to convince me and other people who are more gullible that they actually follow Catholic teaching on Social Justice.

Um...no, they don't. They INCORPORATE some portions of Catholic Social teaching, but any idiot can do that by accident. Unfortunately in the case of our government, a LOT of idiots are actively working to deceive the people in this country and I refuse to be one of their Stepford Wives.

2. I am not paranoid

It is NOT "paranoid" to recognize that our own Government is trying to force something upon the American people, and in so doing, outright condemns and works hard to quash legitimate protest.

Can protests get out of hand? Certainly!

But since when is it proper for proud liberals to protest their pet projects (immigration, the war), while proud conservatives (pro-life, health care "reform" requiring tax-payer funded abortion "rights") are publicly villified, arrested, and denounced for exercising their same rights in the same way? Both have peaceful protests protected by our Constitution.

Personally, I find many protesters to be inane, tiresome, aggravating and often idiotic (no matter WHAT their belief.)

I ALSO am grateful to live in a country where we CAN have those protests, I am happy those protesters remind our government that we are a more-or-less Democratic country...especially when one agrees with the reigning regime.

Oh, wait!

...does anyone see anything wrong with my last sentence?

In this, I blame the media even more than I blame our government because...our government got their power through the media. And keeps it.

It's not "paranoia" to be upset that you really DO recognize unfairness in how legitimate concerns are being addressed.

And it's not "paranoia" to draw very clear parallels between what's happening now to what happened in the past in other countries with far more history and suffering...and wisdom...and who STILL voted in evil dictators such as Hitler and Stalin.

You may disagree, but you don't have the right to trample on the reality of history or what people of those countries have faced...and are watching happen in America now.

The Arrogance of American politics will be our destruction unless we are willing to face history!

It's not a matter of political leanings...it's a matter of knowing history and recognizing TRUTH.

I'm not paranoid because I'm expressing an opinion that goes against the current flow. It means I actually have a brain and am engaging it rather than swallowing without question the current mantra of 'HEALTH CARE REFORM!" I'm not seeing how this is any kind of a "reform" at all.

Protester

Yes, I'm protesting. That part is correct.

I have been AMAZED at the vitriol and outright, hostile accusations made against people who have been speaking out against the "Health Care Reform" being shoved down America's collective throat.

I've been called all sorts of things, even in my minimal commentary on social networking. I've been villified and blocked by people who responded to an innocuous "RT" (retweet) on Twitter, people who CLAIM to be good Catholics. I've been accused of being PARTISAN but I wonder where anyone saw that I claimed allegiance to ANY party?

No. I respond to what is in front of me. I refuse to sell my soul to something of the world that can be voted out. My interest is in eternity, and in that interest, I want our government to be interested in Truth, which truly benefits us all.

Let me tell you the truth...

I grew up on welfare, so as a child, we received Medical Assistance. (MA). I think they covered everything we needed, actually, but if they didn't, I didn't hear about it or didn't understand.

When I was in college, I no longer qualified under Mom's MA coverage. I found that I MIGHT qualify for MinnesotaCare, and so I went to speak with a really condescending social worker in Steele County, and went through the humiliation of what they call a "spend down". It was a term I'd often heard Mom use growing up, but until I was there, myself, I hadn't the foggiest idea of what it meant.

I had to go through hours of this analysis, as a solid COLLEGE STUDENT, because we were homeless, Mom was in the hospital and on MA, and as a student, I wasn't making any money. As it was, there were two possible options for me. I could go through one plan that would cost me $6.00 per month, or I would be on MA.

Sure! I could afford that! $6.00! A ridiculously cheap amount! I WASTED more than that each week! And I liked the idea of contributing, after many years of being on welfare. I knew it was cheap because I'd researched the cost of health insurance for an independent college student.

But no...the State decided that $6.00 per month for me was too much, and that's why I had to go through the humiliating "Spend down". And it was made even MORE humiliating by the obvious condescending attitude of the social worker who assumed that because I was from a welfare family and lifestyle, I'd be on her desk forever.

And this is exactly the kind of person throwing their lot in with Obamacare and the "Reform".

So it was that I actually chose not to attend my next "spend down" and spent my college years without health insurance. I found the system ridiculous, illogical, and I refused to be a dead weight on society when it was clear that I could pay SOMETHING into my own medical care, even if it was minimal. I refused to endorse the system with my participation in a dehumanizing acquiescence given my own viability of being a productive member of society.

After all, if the outcome for one who went through the "spendown" every so many months was the same as someone who was introduced to the system through an emergency and humiliated there instead, I figured I'd wait and deal with the probem if it was needed instead of subjecting myself to it without need.

It was clear I wasn't wanted and I wasn't human...why put myself into that position? (And dare I say it? That attitude is probably why I never sought treatment and almost died in 1996 when I woke up unable to breathe. I'd rather die than be so dehumanized ever again. What's the difference?)

Since then I've been paying taxes into things for which I will never reap benefits. (Social Security, anyone?) Maybe that is Just. Maybe I'm just paying pack what I took from our country while growing up. Let's call it even now. I've more than paid back what I owed.

Now, leave me alone. And if you want to kill your infants, do it on your own dime. I want no part of that and refuse to pay it.

It's not paranoid to protest against rampant murder. Ask anyone in Nazi Germany or Stalin's Russia. Or current day India.

Let's be honest

The "health care crisis" in this country has everything to do with politics and nothing to do with reality.

I've seen many uninsured people go into the hospital and receive excellent care, for the people actually doing the work of caring are very good at it. They go into the medical field because they actually *gasp* want to HELP people!

My Dad was one of the people whose life was saved by this "awful health care system". He didn't have a job. Mom brought him to the hospital. They were long divorced but she was concerned about a physical problem he was having. He didn't want to go. As it was, he had dead bone removed from his foot in an emergency surgery which saved him from death by septic shock, and he spent a few months in a local nursing home.

I'm not sure who paid the bill, but no one told him "no".

Medical Debt isn't real debt

When I worked as a claims investigator, as a matter of course, we gathered financial records and credit reports. I learned quickly that medical debt meant NOTHING.

No one burned their car or arranged for their truck to be "stolen" in order to pay off medical debt. Even though it showed on a credit report that they had thousands in "collections", no one was pursuing them on those bills.

My manager told me early on to ignore medical debt in my assesments of potential fraud. Over time, I saw why: nearly EVERYONE had some kind of medical debt in collections. And their claim weren't fraudulent.

If they were, it was for a financial reason OTHER THAN past medical problems.

Now, don't use this to go out and get that plastic surgery you've always wanted. These people probably had medical emergencies and problems they couldn't control. Could happen to any of us.

At that time, I had good insurance and everything I needed was covered but for the copay.

Now, though, as I work for the Church, our insurance is outright crap, we have no choice, and quite honestly, I've avoided going to the doctor for over a year or so because I can't afford the bills that will come.

For you see, I have this reason of integrity of wanting to pay my bills if I can. I will go back to the doctor only if I think I'm dying.

The climate now actually makes medical debt more collectible, and everything...billable.

All we're paying for is administration of the paperwork...not our own care.

So yes, I believe reform is needed.

But not what's being shoved down our throats.

Reform needs RESEARCH. That's not an unreasonable demand to make.

It needs to be taken out of the government's hands and handled in a way that prevents partisan lines.

It needs to recognize the dignity of each and every human being from conception to natural death.

True reform isn't about politics; it's about people.

I see nothing in Obama's "reform" that has anything to do with humanity at all.

I refuse to ever be so dehumanized again as I was under the government system that ruled my health care as a child and a young adult.

You can argue politics all you want. But I lived the reality and I wouldn't wish it on anyone.

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Trust

I remember one summer day when some wildflowers blooming between the two-lane road and the river caught Mom's eye, and she pulled to the side of the road, exclaiming over them. I think I insisted I accompany her, so she took me out of the car and set me upon the shoulder of the road, making sure I was right next to the car.

Mom admonished me to remain where I was while she picked flowers. She didn't want me to go with her for fear I would tumble down the slope and into the river. She didn't want me to move away from my spot for fear I would wander into traffic; and I understood these things. I was actually a very obedient child and when Mom said, "Stay there and don't move!" I knew she meant it!

But what Mom didn't realize is that she had set me on top of a very large ant hill. This is something I had seen immediately, but thought maybe she knew best. I protested weakly, but Mom's gaze was already on the wildflowers in the ditch, so I thought maybe it wouldn't be a problem.

Not so.

It wasn't long before the ants revolted, protesting the compression of their tunnels and their compadres, and streamed out of the top of the hill with shock and awe. I saw them coming, and knowing all about ants in Illinois, I yelled for Mom, just looking for permission to move.

All I wanted was to be taken from that ant hill. Mom ignored me; she was picking pretty flowers.

I began to hate those flowers.

The ants were swarming up my legs, having no shame. They covered my sandaled feet, they were climbing up my legs. But Mom said that moving from that spot was dangerous and I might be killed if I did; so I remained, rooted, in spite of the torture. I only screamed all the louder.

Mom was oblivious.

Finally she returned, saw the fury of the ants, heard my desperate cries, and quickly removed me from the massive anthill. I don't think I have, to this day, ever seen one like it. She brushed the ants off of me, she set the flowers aside, and she apologized, deeply, from the bottom of her heart. My torture was hers.

She saw how much I trusted her and had remained there, in perfect obedience to her word, in spite of what I'd suffered. I have no doubt that Mom felt horrible about it. She knew that I'd remained in that spot both out of trust and obedience, and by those faithful acts, I'd suffered greatly. They weren't fire ants, but it didn't matter...those things ATTACKED and for a tiny child, that attack is terrible!

Trust Is Important

Lately, the topic of trust has become paramount. A couple months ago, it came up with my meeting with my spiritual director (as I knew it would), and I began praying hard about it.

Many times, I've written about trust in God, and the necessity for that trust. The same week as that meeting, Fr. Corapi spoke in great depth on trust in God, and how the rejection of that trust is rejection of God Himself. It is a denial of the Holy Spirit. His words struck me to my very soul.

It seems, on the surface, that I am a "trusting" person. Wrong.

I really am not. I always reserve something to myself. I have secrets I've never been able to speak. They are too deep, too dark, too horrific. They are between me n' God. Only He knows.

But since then, some of those secrets came to the surface in prayer, as I asked Him about my inability to trust Him.

Many memories came to the forefront. Things I wish I could forget.

When I was in 10th grade, I was on the gymnastics team, and we'd all bought corsages for our mothers, or boutonnieres for our fathers. I remember lining up with the team that night and stepping out, raising my arms in the customary greeting, then stepping back into formation, proud to be there, even though I knew Mom hadn't arrived. I continued to anxiously search the doorways and the stands, hoping she would appear, knowing what was going on: she knew she was supposed to be present for Parents' night, but didn't know she'd be given a gift in the beginning.

I knew, because of that, that she was at home trying to force my brother to come to the meet. She was on a "family unity" kick, and spent far more time arguing for him to do stuff no one else cared about than to get to where she was supposed to be, and invited to be.

Indeed, that's what happened. As our team lined up on the white line of the Floor in front of the bleachers, each team member was called by name. We were to go forward to take the corsage or boutonniere, and then meet our parent/s in this yearly ritual.

As I dreaded, my name was called. Knowing Mom wasn't there, I still went forward, not knowing what else to do, and I took the corsage from my coach, standing in place, searching the bleachers for Mom...even knowing she wasn't there.

I'll never forget the silence.

The silence of my team. The silence of all the parents present, staring at me, staring away from me, wondering where my Mom was and why she wasn't there.

I nodded to my coach after a few moments and returned to the line, standing at attention, holding the wilting flower behind my back, grateful, for once, for that militant pose.

It hid my shame.

The Meet was well underway by the time Mom finally appeared. I had to keep up appearances, and although I'd never before wanted to so place a symbol under my feet and trample it until it was unrecognizable, I broke from my team, walked up into the bleachers, and gave Mom the corsage, and then gave her a hug for appearances alone while I smiled with gritted teeth, "This is for you, you missed EVERYTHING."

She'd even missed my event.

The other parents in the bleachers, I could see, were looking away, pretending not to notice our humiliation. They even covered their corsages. It was obvious.

I returned to my team, and to my competetion. Not that I had anything left to give to anyone.

When I remember that evening, I can't remember it without crying. For indeed, I was later to learn, Mom was so late due to a power struggle with my brother, trying to force him to come to my gymnastics meet. She was so intent to win a battle that didn't matter that I was the one who lost.

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Trust is important.

I've often wondered about why I don't trust God, why I struggle so much to give everything to Him, but in looking at my life, it's obvious.

Trust is counterintuitive.

I don't blame my Mom in the early years, and in fact, I remember the anthill-incident with great humor. I fully believe she is a natural contemplative for she has always had the ability to lose herself in the natural beauty of...anything. It wasn't until she was overcome by bipolar that things really got out of control.

During our teenage years my brother and I "lost" our parents. First we lost Dad, but of course, he'd never really been there. Mom was the anchor. And when she succombed to bipolar, we lost our own moorings.

One day during Adoration, I was musing on how she was completely unrecognizable during those terrible years. I remember lots of smiles, lots of love during our childhood, and also discipline. She was a mother...what else to expect? But during our teenage years, when we most needed guidance, when we most needed stability...Mom was a totally different person. We never knew WHAT to expect. There was nothing but anger and instability.

For years I've said we had a rough time growing up, but we were never abused. Yet, yes, we were. Emotionally.

Please don't blame Mom. Yes, I know that's something Stockholm Syndrome victims say. But I MEAN it...because Mom didn't know she was doing it, and if she did, she'd be devastated. I'd prefer she never know. My brother agrees...we've talked about it.

As far as Dad goes...it's all about absence.

Profound Advice

A few years ago, I went to Confession, in one my rare face-to-face Confessions. I don't even remember what I confessed, but I remember it had something to do with my family, and getting along with them. This priest, I could see, had no idea what to say. He paused, and I remember wiping tears. Finally he said, "God is your Father. Mary is your Mother."

For years now, I've considered that advice. But it's not enough. It doesn't erase what has been done, although it has helped in many ways.

We come back to the need to trust: how do we learn, again, to trust?

God asks us to have the faith of little children, but I don't think I can ever be a child again. I know too much, I've experienced too much...I've sinned too much.

I can only reach upward with hooded eyes and a stiff neck, with an expectation of the next "blow", the next betrayal. I remember the moist remnants of kisses planted by my Mom just before or just after she did something insane. I remember hiding in the darkness, wondering what to do, not knowing what was going to fly through the air next.

I remember my brother coming into my room, tired of dodging fine china, making his bed on the floor, asking me to wake him up in time to go to work. I remember the odd sense of harboring him, when normally I would be pushing him out of my space. This time, he was a victim, like me. We were terrified. Together, but apart, for we didn't even really trust each other.

We were two children, surviving, wanting to flee, and only recently, my brother apologized for leaving me alone when he went to college. There was nothing to forgive; I fled, too, as soon as I could.

VOCATIONS

So often, the topic of vocations comes up, and I wonder how many are still shuddering in hidden rooms, much like my brother and I? How many of us can hear God calling, but associate that call with the unjust punishment meted out by those we were supposed to be able to trust?

We form our understanding of God through our parents, our understanding of God, and experience of holiness directly through them. As it should be.

But what happens when things go wrong?

Then what?

It is no wonder that we hear God call, and we flee.

The other day, I heard someone say, "Where do you go when you are in trouble? To your mother."

No. I don't. I go to anyone BUT my mother.

Yes, I think mothers are wonderful. I love the theological importance of motherhood. I love my mother, and I love our Blessed Mother.

But go to her without reserve? I can't fathom the idea. It's alien to me. I stare at mothers and daughters in wonder.

Go to our Father, without reserve? No, thank you. I tried that a few times, too.

How does anyone learn to trust God when those who are supposed to model God have been lost themselves? But I have to wonder...how will I ever learn to trust God, when I can't even come close to trusting those who were supposed to reveal Him to me?

Alone on the Anthill

Sometimes, I feel like I'm a helpless child again, standing on an anthill, this time on the freeway, screaming for help while the ants swarm angrily. And there's no one to answer my cries because this time, I have to get myself off this anthill if only I can figure out which way to step.

And maybe if I could stop screaming long enough, or maybe if the cars would stop honking, or the river rapids would be quiet, maybe then I could hear the voice of my Father finally getting through, telling me which way to go. Because eventually, I have to learn trust.

But for now, tonight...I just wish the ants would stop swarming.

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Year for Priests and Father's Day

I don't think it's any mistake that several important days are converging along with the advent of a very important year in the history of the Church.

The Year for Priests began on Friday, June 19, which "happened" also to be the Solemnity of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Today, of course, is the Memorial of the Immaculate Heart of Mary, and tomorrow is the secular "feast"....Father's Day.

Fr. Cory Sticha has an incredible homily for this weekend's Mass readings, and one of the things that struck me the most was the reality of the Spiritual Fatherhood of Priests.

"This year, we have a second fatherhood which we are asked to remember. On Friday, the feast of the Sacred Heart, Pope Benedict proclaimed the Year for Priests, a year of prayer for priests and celebration of the ministerial priesthood. Like Fathers' Day for our earthly, physical fathers, we are called during this special year to remember those priests who have truly shown the spiritual fatherhood that is the nature of the priesthood.

While most priests are not fathers by birth, all priests are called to be spiritual fathers, who give the same self-giving love to the people they have been called to serve. The focus of any priest should not be on his needs and desires, but on what is best for the parishioners that he's called to both serve and lead. Sometimes that service and leadership might lead to making decisions that aren't popular, but priests are still called to make those decisions on behalf of the parishioners.

Priests are also called to teach and preach the saving love of God and show the example of loving God and loving our neighbors. We're called to join in celebrating joyful occasions, and to be a source of comfort in times of sorrow. In short, we are called to be fathers. It's not a coincidence that the spiritual fatherhood and the earthly fatherhood have similar job descriptions. Both draw from the example of God our Father in Heaven."

I have to admit, Father's Day is always a bit difficult for me, and it kind of stops me in my tracks to realize that next year, my birthday will be ON Father's Day.

I've written before about how I was a "Daddy's Girl", which is pretty common for little girls. By the time he died, I'd long grown out of that phase, but of course that closeness, even when wounded, remains. We all NEED our Fathers; they're so important in our formation on so many levels, for they reveal to us, in a sense, the face of God, the love of God, and the protection of God.

Sometime in the last year, my Mom told me that she believes I was conceived on (or near) my Dad's birthday and her projected due date was close enough to Father's Day that they hoped for it. As it was, apparently I missed it by a day or so.

Just the same, every year my birthday and Father's Day was always close enough so that it was a special time for Dad and I, and we often celebrated our days together. If anything, that joint celebration probably strengthened our bond, and Dad was always so proud to have those special dates so close together.

But sometimes life gets in the way, and bonds are broken, although maybe not completely shattered or destroyed.

Even though I hadn't seen my Dad for nearly four years when he passed away, my grief hit me hard, and it comes back again around my birthday/Father's Day. It's easier when it's a few days apart, but this year it's the same weekend. Next year...the same day.

My heart caught in my throat when I looked ahead, realizing this. Realizing that finally, the dates converge.

I haven't had a Father since 1995.

A few years ago I wrote a blog post about the recognition of the spiritual fatherhood of priests, although it's one I took down. It was somewhat shocking then, to read Fr. Sticha's words that seem to follow the same lines of thought I'd had at that time.

I remember going to the chapel in my annual grief, lamenting that I didn't have a father, missing my Dad. And I remember pondering the priests in my life and their spritual fatherhood and how, after I'd become a member of a parish, the priests there became...Fathers. I wouldn't be where I am now without them.

No, it's NOT the same as having my Dad. I can't just call up the parish priest and complain to him about this that and the the other thing, ask him to fix my car, change out my ceiling fan for one that works, etc. etc.

What they do is so much more important than such menial tasks. Priests show us the face of Christ, they bring to us His Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity. They feed us with a Divine food far greater than any mere earthly meal, and through them, the Mercy of Jesus Christ is revealed to us and absolves us of our sins. On the more temporal level, those I know have helped me get into grad school, have helped me get my current job, and are assisting me in my discernment of a religious Vocation. (Actually, several Fathers are helping me, in different ways, on this particular front!)

After all...what good Father doesn't want to see his daughter married well?

So even as I face this annual bout of grief for my Dad, I know that I am not so fatherless, for there are a HOST of Priests who have been and will continue to be Fathers to me, and to all of us.

Tomorrow, as we pray for our earthly Fathers, living and dead, let us also remember to pray for Priests, for it is their spiritual Fatherhood that ensures we will never be orphans.

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Go read Fr. Sticha's entire homily!

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