Pilgrimage

   Picture this: two fit 70 year olds climbing the Pyrenees, ten miles up and then three straight down, having eaten a roll for sustenance. The wife of the duo is now sitting in the woods at the side of the trail weeping like a crazed mental patient while the man is slumped beside. She is barely able to think but just knows her husband is embarrassed by her as others trod by. Then he turns and says: "I want my Mommy" and she bursts out laughing." The Camino, that 500 mile walk in Spain, is saved.

 After her hero passes she finds notes he made on other trips. One struck her, how he believed that we shouldn't be tourists but pilgrims. What does this mean? It meant a lot I think for John : it meant travelling with purpose, to find what service God wanted him to engage in. To make a difference on his trips to Ghana, Central America and South America. 

  I must need metaphors because I have clung to the thought that I am on a pilgrimage still with John but different. In the corner of this room are our two hiking sticks, Camino shells, his running shoes, sunflowers. This is where I pray each morning. It reminds me that if I could do 175 miles of that walk in Spain I can do this hard last few years left to me.

On this walk so far I have encountered many trail angels who have helped me keep going just like on the Camino.Like on the Camino, I have cried over small things, then dropping my soap in the shower, now, not being able to get the cartridge in my printer. The first line of Scott Peck's classic "The Road Less Traveled" is this: "Life is difficult." I don't think we expect that, do we.

 I will end, clinging to my metaphor, with something that happened on the trail: "Mass at the stunning Leon Cathedral. When the homily is given in Spanish I try to open my mind and see what appears. I keep getting the word "profound". Then the message became clearer. We are all profoundly significant in this life. We ALL matter so much to the world,  to our world."  We are all pilgrims. Amen.

 

 

A Darshan moment

 

  

So long ago. A moment of liberation. 

     Leaving Mass, annoyed. Prayers for the Viet Cong to convert? Really? When did prayers work, I thought ? What good has this faith done for any of my unhappy, drink sodden relatives including my family? Enough, I'll sleep in and find my own way. How many have gone down that road ?

   Then marriage to my love and Denver. "Please come to Denver in the Springtime." Yes, we will. "Hey, rowdy boy why don't you settle down, Denver ain't your kind of town." A baby girl in tow and then another child to be born there. Looking sadly down I70 towards home a thousand miles away. 

Pack up and west to California, land of beauty and all that is good. A lovely tri-plex, walks to the library with toddler's hands held, sandy beaches near by, nasturtium growing in the front, a garden. What more do you want ? Oh ,but want is who we are. There's a hole that no one ever talked about. Oh, maybe St. Augustine did. But how long has he been dust?

Then this happened, with everything I ever wanted surrounding me and in the quiet of a rented living room, I said this: "God, if you are there, help me. " Nothing happened but I felt better. 

  I have told this story before but I came across a word today that says what happened next so well. A week later I picked up a small book as a gift. The cover said something about love but when I started to read I was hooked. A story about a saint's statue never getting greasy after years in a kitchen piqued my interest. The essays were from another book that somehow I got my hands on despite no Amazon. "Quantity of a Hazelnut"

 It was darshan." It's a gift; it's like there's a moment in which the thing is ready to let you see it. In India, this is called darshan. Darshan means getting a view, .....as if the clouds blew away and you could finally see the Himalayas. They are letting you have their view, say the people of India, darshan. This comfortable, really deep way of getting a sense of something takes time. It doesn't show itself to you right away".(Gary Snider)

I blew the clouds away with an invitation, help me, whatever that means.

From then on for all these years sentences in a book would mean something, they would jump out. So many guides :Merton, CS Lewis, Fae Melania. The clouds were blowing away and I could finally see.

What a treasure to have found that metaphor.

The eagle, pain and confusion.- Postcard 7

  What an odd place! Underground, dusty, dark, with drawings on the walls, and yet here in this space I was given life enriching advice by an eagle.

A Kiva, used for meetings and prayer by Native Americans, was the setting for my writing group to write a story, anything the picture inspired. This was in 2020.

In my mind, I went down those ladder steps respectfully and quietly. I went with an open heart ready to hear just the wind if that was what was offered. I sat on a wooden bench and closed my eyes.

Soon, I saw an eagle overhead soaring but a bit erratically. Suddenly, I am flying with him and our eyes meet in sympathy. A Voice tells me this: "Many weeks ago a lightening and wind storm surged through here; the eagle was thrown in a thicket of briars. Caught by the thorns the eagle wrenched himself away tearing tendons in his left wing. He flew off in pain and confusion. He has been healing ever since.

"His eagle mind never once asked: why me or how did this happen, or when will I be better. He flew off and healed. One day at a time. Carry this eagle mind into the future and live."

Those were the exact words that I heard that August day. A road map for me it seemed ,though at the time I had no idea why I would need it. Then came the pain and confusion. However, the boundless, eternal, all knowing Creator saw and using my imagination handed me a gift.

My imagination is a blank page where the Creator can post truths by way of images and speech. I just have to step aside.

So I thank that God, the Native Americans, Meinrad Craighead whose story called Vessel inspired us that day and for the eagle who bore the message to me. A deep bow.

Don't wait for joy to come to you. Postcard 6

 

In a moment of grace, I was given to understand that the Camino walk we took together in 2013 would be a perfect metaphor for this hard journey of loss. One foot in front of the other, tears expected, friends along the way that made it easier.

I think of the young Scot I walked with for a bit who had put his pain avoiding,  40 dollar socks on a clothesline only to have them taken. Plus his banana. We wound up laughing.

The postcard to the right was from a place called "Hospital Del Alma",  Soul Hospital. A small room with an open door that anyone could enter and listen to quiet music, drink tea and escape the hardship for awhile. I wrote: " Old wooden beams, a candle flickers in a purple glass, a voice chants. In front of me is an old oak table and chairs. A monk is in the garden talking to two pilgrims. Something about this place says I can do the Camino." Something about that hard walk tells me I can do this one.

There was also a poster on the wall of the front room that talks of shadow chasing, that we rush through the Camino as we do our lives. Oh yes, we do. And how we worry. I remember another elderly walker who said:" Next time I won't worry every minute whether I can do this is not." Another metaphor. What do we miss seeing as we foresee a disaster that never happens?

Our writing group walked the labyrinth again this week and I was given a guidance that had to come from Beyond." You must make joy, which is why you are here. Don't wait for it to come to you." And I write my postcard stories and feel joy. I grab a fistful of leaves, throw them in the air and I feel joy. 

So to the wind blown monk who provided this special respite in Castrojeriz, Spain, I thank you for all that I gained by walking through your door, perching in the garden, and just being with the God who must inspire your works.

And to anyone who reads this, I pray you find your Hospital del Alma today where you can just be, savor your breath and this one of a kind day...and maybe post a picture to show it.

The Monk Who Lost His Faith-postcard 5

   

How did this amazing connection begin? 

It was a Fall day in Kentucky in the 70s when John and I watched our little kids tumble down a hill at the monastery. Such a joyful scene. We had come to the Monastery of Gethsemane, me being a huge Thomas Merton fan. He had passed a few years before but I wanted to be where he once was.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a crew cut haired man in denim jeans and shirt coming up a path. We waved. He came over with a big smile and we began to chat. It soon became apparent that something was amiss. I guess it was when he said: "I don't know what I am doing here." It seems our new friend, impressed by the amount of stars and galaxies, had come to an emptiness where belief had once been.

 We invited him to dinner, he came one Thanksgiving and was most kind not to mention the turkey, vastly undercooked, was bleeding. His first meat in twenty years. Poor monk.

We moved back to Georgia but wrote back and forth. He married and moved to Florida. I recall our first Christmas card exchange; mine was filled with angels and shepherds, his was a Christmas flower bordered in black. Once I sent a letter chiding him and his idol Carl Sagan for their hubris in being sure there was no Creator of this vast incredible universe. Pretty bold on my part.

The letters became less frequent but one day I received the above drawing of his monastery and written on the back was this:

"Strange piteous futile thing

wherefore should any set thee love apart

Of all man's clotted clay the dingiest clot

Alack thou knowest not how little worthy of love thou art

What wilt thou find to love ignoble thee

Save Me save only Me."..."The Hound of Heaven" by Francis Thompson

  And I knew that the Hound had finally chased and worn my monk down; that he had turned to embraced the One Who loved him. We will meet again.

Two Kindnesses on Skye-Postcard 4

 

  Scotland is magic. Despite the rain and cold, it captured my heart. 

We arrived in Aberdeen in September of 2010 tired but excited .We wandered the streets enjoying gardens and churches then fell into bed exhausted. Immediately, I had this dream:

The lady across the street arrived with a white statue of Mary that she received as a gift. She is so excited .I am doing yoga stretches on the floor and trying to keep an eye on my grey and white cat to be sure he doesn't get out. Short dream but so vivid I wrote it in my journal.

Four days later, after Inverness, Culloden, and the Highlands, we arrived at the Isle of Skye to another lovely B and B with a view of the firth out the window.

 John decided to hike north to a ruin visible from the town and I sat in a small park, bundled against the wind, reading "Braveheart." A young lad from Glasgow passed and was sure to tell me that the book wasn't true and we laughed. "Maybe, but its a great story", I told him. As we communed, a fluffy cat came from nowhere and jumped on the bench, then my lap. For the next hour we warmed each other. This had never happened to me before and I fell in love with that creature and so appreciated his warmth. 

Alas, the dismal rain started again and I had to leave my furry friend to go inside. As I sat at the dining table, writing and enjoying the watery view, the Grandmother of the house came in. She didn't hand me a throw blanket, but with a smile she tenderly put it around my shoulders.

So I offer my prayers of thanksgiving for the health that John and I had to enable this trip, the kindness of the sweet Scot grandma, the warmth of the fluffy cat who joined us the next day at the bus stop and left only when we got on. He who was by the way, grey and white. 

 

 

The Circle Dream- Postcard 3

   

This one was short and sweet and it has been tucked in my mind's pocket for years. 

It was a dream. There is a happy circle of people, mostly women; we are  dancing to and fro with the Lord in our midst. We are so joyous and wanting to be nowhere else at this minute, just here , dancing. All of a sudden, I feel the Lord take my left hand and attach it to the person's hand on His left as He eases His way backward out of the circle. I am stunned, what's happening here? "Where are You going?"   He says: "I am leaving and now, you lead the circle". Of course it is not the same but we keep dancing. 

It was so real that it seemed like a short documentary but its meaning? I never figured that out til..

In 2015, with no credentials and a lot of cheek, I started a writing group at my church. I loved writing, the doing , the way it revealed what I thought when I hadn't a clue-the magic. Who will come?  

We are twelve and have been meeting for 9 years. Lives have changed, books written, trips to the wetlands and the labyrinth. We have met our God in the words we share. We write stories inspired by art, postcards and many other oddities. 

Where the Creator is there is no time and the Almighty knew what was coming for me as did my husband in some mystical way. The circle has been the way He has kept me balanced. The love and care of my writing group cannot be described. Constant. Sensitive. Patient. Loving. They have held my hand through every minute of my loss.

We don't dance but Christ is in our midst and it's a wonder.

the white butterfly-postcard 2

 

 The young man approached after Mass, a member who I had never met before and asked me the strangest questions. Was I close to my mother.? And so on. It seemed so odd that I backed up a bit looking for an escape. We talked a little, how I loved my mother but had lived for years away from home. Then he said: "Have you had an encounter with a butterfly ?" My mouth dropped open and I sputtered, why, yes.

 Oh my, how could he know?

A few years before I had been on a hillside in Australia feeling alone, tired and forgotten. I sat on a pile of logs to rest and was treated to the dance of a small white butterfly. It flitted around me, never landing just being with. It was rather amazing. I thought :"it seems like a visit; a comforting, arms surrounding visit." The feeling was so strong that I had to take a picture from there which turned out to be a gorgeous sweeping shot of fields and mountains.

Turning back to my new friend I said: "yes, a very comforting visit" He said: "That was your Mom."

And so with this postcard, I pray for that young man, my Mother and all the people in Australia who were good to me. Jodi who found a church for me to go to and her Dad who, when that didn't work out, invited me to sit on another hillside and talk about loved ones who have gone before us. For all of this I am grateful.

Praying with Postcards-1

   It began here. My spiritual journey. 

In 1969, I had liberated myself from the oppressive duty of church attendance. The priest at St. Clare's in Rosedale said we need to pray for such and such and I thought "when has that ever worked ?" The people I knew who were churched were not happy humans so what good was their faith doing?

 I walked my self home over the bridge that crosses the Belt Parkway in Queens and left that nonsense behind. Freedom!!!!

Our small family moved a bit and 1971 found us in California, Huntington Beach. Freedom and paradise! Then it happened: one morning I woke up with a chasm inside that felt as deep as the sea. Something huge was missing: that's the only way to describe it. I can see myself that day standing in our living room praying this pitiful prayer: "God, if you are there, help me." Nothing happened but I felt a tad of relief like I had done "something."

A week later I was shopping for a dear friend's birthday and found a small book of essays the name of which escapes me. As I read through, it was like the Spirit was holding a highlighter and  underlining each word. My eyes were being opened to what was true. I kept saying: "yes, yes and yes, I get it." Unbeknownst to me, I was  hungry for the words of faith that I was finding. The essays came from a book called "The Quantity of a Hazelnut" : it changed my life. I still have it.

I was also being tricked into faith. I recall taking a book out of the library in Huntington Beach soon after that .I thought it was a love story called "Late Have I Loved Thee' and how clever is the Spirit , it was the biography of St. Augustine. Everything was undermining my unbelief. That was August of 1971.

So I use this postcard of that place and I pray with it. I thank God for belief and all it has brought to my life. I pray for the high school friend who keeps that small book by her bedside for these past 50 years: for the author of the book, Fae Malania and for the people who came to a lonely couple's house for Easter. And for being redeemed, thank You.

The white light in Scotland

  

 How will I write this? 

While I was in Scotland a close friend sent a beautiful birthday card. I finally got it the other day as my mail was being held. I sent her a text of thanks and she replied ending with this: "I am sure the white light was with you the whole trip." Oh my, how could I have forgotten ! Early in this hard time she had sat with me at Mass. Afterward, she had an emotional time telling me about the white light she saw over my head that she couldn't take her eyes off.

That was not long after another dear friend had shared this, something that had never happened to her before: "One night as I was holding my handwoven rosary and praying a decade for my friends who are widows, I saw a circle of light at the front of my eyes which were closed. As I lay there enjoying the swirling light , suddenly it turned into a tunnel of white light, with the tunnel itself being a reddish color. I felt led down the tunnel and did not want to open my eyes possibly ending the experience . It was so calm and peaceful."

And so to Scotland.

Beautiful country, home of my ancestors, land of magic, they say and of treacherous two lane highways with a rabbit's ear distance between the going cars, coming cars and on the wrong side to boot. How did my son do it ?Twenty miles takes twenty years....off your life.

The night before this particular ride to Oban, I kept hearing this: "I wish I was there to care for you." Over and over. I should have known.

On to Oban, Mull, Iona and white knuckles. We made it and the next day as we sat around having coffee I asked each traveler what was special about that day. We shared a bit and then my son's shoulders began to hunch, his face reddened as he fought back sobs. His sister quietly comforted. Moments passed as he kept trying to say :"I heard. "I heard" and then finally this : "Dad told me to watch that center lane more carefully because his TT bird was in the back seat."

" When you walk through the storm hold your head up high and don't be afraid of the dark. At the end of the storm is a golden sky and the sweet silver song of the lark, walk on,walk on with hope in your heart for you never walk alone, you never walk alone."

the unused joy jar

 

On a shelf, ignored since December of 2021. A plain jar that holds cards that capture in writing some moments of joy. 

02-14-20 John went back to the store and bought a heart with opals that I had admired.

03-09-20. Phone call with my niece thanking me for being many things to her. 

04-21-20 Finally went to our favorite bookstore. The owner passed them out the back door. Covid.

And so on. 

All the forgotten joys in a glass jar. 

On Twitter last night I was remined of one. A Twitter Army friend had sent a 100 dollar credit on Amazon to me, a person he never met. I was telling another twitter friend who knew him too what a big heart he had. We both miss his posts as he passed a year after that. I then told her how he had made it to my Joy jar that day. April 21st 2020.The jar that has sat there waiting for my unravelling to subside. 

Two cards now, new ones.

 6-28-23 Sean my youngest son sent pictures from his trip to Mongolia. I was invited but thought he would much more enjoy the trip to the wilds without a whining Momma. He still takes me along and I feel joy.

06-29-23 The doorbell rings and the smiling face of my nurse friend who, hearing I have sun poisoning from a lake trip, thrusts a big bottle of Aloe Vera in my hand and says, "God wouldn't leave me alone until you got this."

If we look for it, we find it even when we thought it impossible.

the amazing tale of an English journal

 

 It started with an order from my beloved niece to a woman in England who hand makes journals and sells them on line. I will quote Teresa, the purchaser:

"It was something I purchased for myself, a treat to encourage self care, a budding renewal of my art, watercolor painting. I found it online through that amazing phenomenon of following links, people, artists.

When I saw the hand bound and handmade watercolor paper journal with two birds wrapped with a length of leather, I loved it, it was perfect. And having always loved birds, it seemed just right. A special self care treat. So happily I purchased this one of a kind journal.

When it  finally arrived from England, I opened it with great anticipation, the treasure I'd picked out for myself. Wrapped in a stunning box, with lavender sprigs and in a muslin bag with a hand drawn card, I reverently took it out. And then I heard it.. the voice...

'That's not for you, you know.' Trying to ignore what I had a creeping feeling was going to be another familiar message from "beyond", I tried to dismiss the thought, of course it was for me! I bought it myself "

But.... I knew who it was for before I heard:' that's for TT bird.'

The familiar voice and message was not for me but came through me and I tried hard to send it away.! I tried! But every time I looked at it, I knew. It's for TT bird."

 John had always called me TT bird (sweetie bird) and I had no idea what "the two will become one" meant until he left us. All the decisions made by two, all the hard times borne by two. And then there is just one. The one legged ladder about to fall over. But I know this:  the two as one goes on , it does not ever end : the caring, the helps, it is all there in a different way and I for one fall to my knees in gratitude. 

shoes of a pilgrim

 

Several months ago, I had put all of John's shoes in a bucket, ready for my kind son to take to Goodwill. I could let go of these surely, they are just shoes. As I picked the bucket up, I started to weep and my son said: "Mom, you don't have to get rid of anything, ever." All the shoes are still there. 

 This picture last appeared in my Camino story. I told of how I can actually read about the Camino with pleasure in the remembering now. Then I looked closely at the picture and noticed the grey jacket on John's backpack. I have been wearing that daily and it has kept me warm all over. That jacket. But what about the shoes. I wore hiking boots, what did he have on? And in the cache of shoes, I found the exact shoes from the picture. The obsession continues, the title being "looking for John".

I have a small prayer corner that I go to each morning. It's where we meet : John, Christ and I. Our shiny wooden hiking sticks, one John made, are there, wood pieces from a beloved maple taken down from the house in the Catskills, our Camino shells, sunflowers, the prayer of surrender of St. Charles de Foucauld, a treasured carved bowl made by Australian aboriginals, and a prayer card of St. James. I go to that corner gratefully as it is my sanctuary.

And now, a new item, the scuffed up, worn hiking shoes that I didn't let go those months ago. Call me mad, it's O.K. I know what comforts me. 

 

Afraid of many things

  

 What do you fear?

 In this hard last year I have been afraid of many things: music, the interstate, riding home in the dark, and anything that might trigger a memory. So when a friend asked if I would like to see a movie about the Camino, the holy 500 mile pilgrim way in Spain, my first thought was "no." What if I sit in the theater weeping like a bathtub overflowing reliving the time in 2013 when John and I did the Camino? 

  Instead, I put on my big girl pants, went and enjoyed a movie that was very inspiring and that didn't break my heart. I am getting there.

I am reading a well done book about another pilgrim and laughing at how similar his journey was to ours. The pain, the joys, the adventure of it all. And now I am rereading my journal notes and reliving the time with pleasure.

...the scene in the Pamplona square where a drunken Russian youth almost landed in John's lap.

...at Mass in that city where my mind kept being flooded with these words: "Jesus is Lord, Jesus is Lord" and then in the homily in Spanish which I don't speak, I heard this: "Jeus es Dio."

...a pilgrimage takes you out of what is usual, the things that cosset and contain your life...a hill looms, a crushing descent, your eyes weep often without your permission.

...writing on a wonderful shady bench on the patio of a church,,,bells peel, roses surround, cobblestones...a respite.

...a picture of John pushing a wheelbarrow filled with cabbage up a steep hill for a older resident of the town..

  I am so glad my son made me take a camera, my friend invited me to the movie, my beloved said yes to the walk and I kept a journal.

I will end with the title of the book : "To the Field of Stars" by Kevin A. Codd

...and this prayer given by some nuns after Mass in Pamplona :" May Your protective shadow cover them during the day, and may the light of your grace enlighten them at night, may your pilgrims finish happily the road to Santiago. " A prayer for any of us as we walk each other other Home.

 

they've got their father's heart

 

Journal Notes 10-02-21

Kindnesses:

...an e-mail from Antionette thanking me for doing the writing group.

....John bought lunch for a lady waiting to get her car fixed.

...John picked up a man as he was walking from Kroger and drove him home.

...John brought a strawberry shake home as a  surprise for me.

My very insightful niece had written  to me on December 22nd of this year :'"the sacred cord connecting you is taut. Evidence that you are he and he is you is in your beautiful children that you created together."

 As with so many things in this hard year I gained clarity only with time. It came to me yesterday, the truth of that statement. I will give some anonymous examples because my children are like their Dad; they turn away from praise.

..a young teen visiting a wealthy man's home . He was offered an ATV to lark about on and as soon as he saw Hispanic kids his age picking grapes in the heat he couldn't do it...

...a couple walking in Las Vegas'. The man saw a homeless man half asleep on a cardboard pallet: money given and then gently the poor man was told that he mattered.

...a man is driving down a busy street when he sees a woman with three small children walking hurriedly along. He offers a ride, drops the kids where they are going, takes the Mom to a motel where she lives. Soon he is trying to find a way to get her a car.

...an adult child who doesn't leave you alone for three months; takes you to church, the movies, out to eat and teaches you how to pump gas. Drives you to the dentist when a tooth is screaming and makes sure you get home from Australia by yourself. 

...a young man, after Katrina hit the South, heads, with his truck loaded with dog and cat food, to Mississippi where he drives around trailer parks knocking on doors, seeing what people need.

 John had an employee at his restaurant who called once a year after we retired to invite him to an AA meeting for the anniversary of his sobriety. John went every year, where he was praised for the help he gave to R. At the gravesite a year ago he was the only one who was able to speak and he was wonderful, eloquent and grateful. This year all three of my Georgia children attended the anniversary for R in their Dad's place.

Yes, his heart beats in them. 

I do not want my life to be only about grief ...

 

I do not want my life to be only about grief. But it seems Facebook knows about my situation and so things pop up all the time. I have learned to skip over them but today a poem jarred loose another story that I must tell. 

The poem started this way:

"How do I live without you? Oh, my love, I do not. "

And that has been my experience. 

On December 22 of this past year I received a message from my dear niece who thinks of me so often. I can tell. She wrote: "your love for him and he for you is stronger than ever.. the sacred chord that connects you is taut...you are him and he is you...keep loving your dear man-he feels it and is longing for the day you can be together again...remember that time is not a thing where he is..it's O.K. to love someone with all your heart...it's the most beautiful blessing that you have..".

Such odd but tender words. The writer said the words came through her. Later that day I was looking for something in the closet and on a shelf is my box of cards; John's contributions in a bag on the top. On a whim or maybe one of those nudges, I took the top one out and smiled at the old folks perched on a log. I opened and read where he signed this:

07-25-07

"We are one. 

Love you, John."

The poem ends this way:

"You walked such a blazing pathway, when your feet were on this earth, that your imprint lingers on and I place my own feet in your steps, one by one.  

How do I live without you?

It's really simple, I do not." Donna Ashworth.

And in this grace filled time, on this very blessed earth, I am finding that that is O.K.

being a fairy wren

 

  I like wrens. They have been neighbors for decades on the Graham plantation. For thirty years, in the winter, one or even two will perch on a small ledge by our front door and sleep through the night. How did the first one find the ledge and did he instruct all those who followed of its safety? They only live about eight years so the mystery persists. John swore that they must have had chats. I don't know but I love to see their little feathered bodies all curled up in plain sight.

 But there are wrens and then there are wrens. Once you see an Australian fairy wren you are spoiled forever. 

My beautiful Australian daughter-in-law gave me that colorful journal you see. Above the print is a fairy wren. All the other gorgeous birds are from her home country. Some of the questions on each page are : what was the best thing about yesterday and what are you grateful for today, what are your priorities ? 

When the sun hits the fairy wren you know what a gift this bird is as it flits in your yard. Like a rare jewel has fallen from the sky. You have to smile.  And I bet you're thinking where is this going.

Years ago, while in prayer, I was asked to be Christ to someone once a day. Why I forgot that I don't know but instead of resolutions like eat more raw veggies and avoid carbs I am going to finally heed that call. Being Christ seems daunting although I get it but what about being a fairy wren to someone each day. This all seems lighter, brighter to me somehow. I look forward to it.

 When I tell the welcome lady at Wal Mart that I love her, maybe I have dropped a jewel into her apron. A simple thing. Of these things the Kingdom is made. 

when your friend tells you the truth

 

  It will get pretty ordinary here but bear with me. I have had the flu/cold/covid, who knows, since 12-26. Slight fever, terrible nose products, slight sore throat and last night, I coughed my left lung into my palm. Not really.

 A friend advised that I get some Mucinex to get the gunk out of my lungs. I knew that needed to be done. Then I thought, easy for you to say, healthy friend. I have been a princess taken care of for 57 years .I haven't left the house since Monday, I have little gas in my car,  my hair is dirty. BWAAAAAA. I CAN'T do it!!! I thought of friends, tried several delivery options, no go. BWAAAAA. I knew this friend was watching me on line so I found some big girl pants and they actually sold it to me out of the pharmacy drive up thanks to the clerk, Jessica, who made it happen. I told her I loved her on the phone. Do you  think she will appear in my kindness journal?

But here is the miracle, why write if not. As I was grumpily driving to CVS, my Friend took over my thinking. I can describe it no other way.

This is what I heard:

"At this time it appears you are weak and vulnerable but I don't want to think of yourself that way. You are My child . This is what I see:

...a youth wo grew up poor getting a Regents scholarship in a house filled with chaos. Determined to get a college degree.

--- a young lady graduating with a degree despite the chaos and a Father twice housed in a mental institution....

...despite growing up with alcoholic parents, and many relatives the same, through determination and My grace, you have never succumbed.

...who lost her fist child to miscarriage and endured the fear and sadness of that hospital trip.  

...a woman who at 70 years hiked 175 miles of the Camino in Spain.

...and after that started a writing group with no experience, just some ideas. That group has been a healing for many.

...a woman who has endured her greatest fear and not become bitter.

  I have left many out for brevity but share these. If you think I am bragging I am not doing a good enough job writing this story.(But did I tell you about the 11 and a half pound baby I had naturally?.)What I wrote has little to do with me and more with the Friend, the Lord, who has had my hand every step of the way.

As the words came flooding in I knew what was happening. Today was a test for me. I think I was given at least a year to live in fear and trembling as it is part of the process.(I am not the only one who breaks down in Kroger I am told.).But now it's time to remember who I am. I may fail, who knows, but what a profound gift to be hearing how I am seen by the One who loves us so.

"He is Kind, He is patient, slow to anger and rich in mercy."

I don't deserve this

   

Last June, John and I flew into the Albany, N.Y. airport for a visit to our beloved Catskills. A kindness happened as we deplaned and I heard the Spirit whisper :"why not keep track of those you see on this trip ?" That was the beginning. Now if I pick up my pen to journal, kindnesses jump in my lap like warm kittens and demand to be written about first. It's a habit.

 In a previous story I ranted about a person that did the wrong thing, for me at least. Here are some of those times when the exact right thing was done. Most know who they are.

...Two days after John passed, my family and I went to evening Mass. One dear lady crossed the church, knelt in the pew in front of me and said: "No words just I love you." We put our heads together and wept.

...the staff at our dentist office. They loved John. A lovely card, two calls from the receptionist. And when the office closed, they made sure we are Facebook friends so we can stay connected. The person who called went with the dentist to the new office and having her there when I have to go, heartens me.

...One of the friends in our writing group has left more than one creative package on my porch. She made a journal for my trip to Australia, a fruit cake and candle for Christmas. And for a year she has given me an open invitation. As I type this I realize it has taken me a whole year to accept. We have a date on Jan 11 for lunch and antiquing. What price for that friendship ? 

...John did the bills and although organized I had no idea the system. I needed folders and this angel dropped her life and got folders, labels and would take no payment. Just left them with me with a smile. She also took care of my plants when I went to Australia. She is appalled that I don't talk to them, she spoiled them all. They miss her. I throw her a kiss every Sunday at Mass and we smile. She has my back.

These are the ones like the kittens that insisted to be written today. There are so many more that I will write about. This is what the beatitude means that "they that mourn will be comforted." You will be comforted in ways you could never conceive because the hole is so deep and people, so kind.

And finally to John O'Donohue, the Irish poet and writer whose words I was given before John passed because there is no time and God knew that I would need to know this:

"We cannot see the dead, but because we cannot see them does not mean that they are not there...transfigured in an eternal form. In their new transfigured presence their compassion, understanding and love take on divine depth, enabling them to became secret angels, guiding and sheltering the unfolding of our destiny." 

I have lived to know the truth of this.

We will meet one day and I will thank John O in person where all things are perfect and the only language spoken is love.

the tough guy

  My hero was born into a large Irish Catholic family; he was the 7th child. His Mother was 40 when he arrived on Mother's Day and I think his parents may have been weary by then. I surmise that John tried very hard to find his place in that crowd and get some attention. He was the family clown . He was a good boy and I have a radio that was his as a young child; on it he scratched the words: "John is a fine boy". He wanted to be and he was.

Then came the teenage terrors and on a subway platform at 15 John turned his back on his true self to become a tough guy, his new persona. He searched for a long time for a good fit for who he was. Don't we all ? Church was out of the question for a tough guy.

Drifting into mid-life and unsure, an accident brought things to a head. Where am I going? What am I doing ? Choices. A Cursillo week-end, a jogging habit , focus on the family. A trip to Honduras with our youngest son after a devastating hurricane.

I have some words that he wrote in 2009. "I thought about the closeness to God (teenage and under) and the years of difficulty(20s) when moving away from God. The ins and outs, the turns, the coming closer and the moving away. Closer is better".

 In the years after, in the closer years, he led a group from our Church that took yearly mission trips to a Franciscan compound in Honduras. Doctors, nurses, dentists. And if ever it seemed like some praise might be coming his way, he was nowhere to be found. The leader role was a great fit.

 There is a plaque on the wall of a school in Ghana that he assisted in many ways. The last line reads : "He will be greatly missed."

And in all that serving he was a great father and role model to our four children.

John later found another niche assisting older people in our parish in a million ways. Playing chess, food shopping, doctors trips, just being with, finding new homes. One of the gentleman he helped eventually passed away and at the funeral his daughter was praising John for his selfless caring of her Dad. I found these words in my journal notes: 12-22-18" I told C. that John had given his heart to Christ." Three years later to the day, John left us. I just noticed that now as I type.

In 2006, as we were planning to run a retreat house in South Carolina, John wrote: "The Holy Spirit has been guiding my movements for a long time." Yes and the fine boy became a fine man.

 I wasn't going to go to Mass tonight, too cold, coming home in the dark. But on the way to church, this all came to me. I had no intention of writing something so personal but I know it was just another nudge. My John became God's. I know he is now giving all the praise to the One who turned his life around and made him exactly who He wanted him to be : His fine tough guy and mine.