Mercy, Mercy (and me)

When Pope Francis declared this the “Year of Mercy,” I struggled. I was like a barnacle trying to latch onto a whale with customary enthusiasm, but not knowing how. What is mercy, exactly, and how does it differ from kindness, forgiveness, and other similar words? How do I go about “being merciful?” Don’t you have to be God to show mercy?

The best help I could find was thinking about the corporal works of mercy – all the practical ways to do good. They are these:

works of mercy

And that helped, a bit. Unfortunately, my goal of focusing on mercy in an intentional way sort of drifted into the uncomfortable mush heaps of New Years’ resolutions and things to do “when life slows down.” But the tenacious belief in life slowing down is like the adult version of believing in the Great Pumpkin. Our faith in it endures despite marvelous lack of proof.

But something prompted me recently to consider what it was like to experience God’s mercy for the first time, and that maybe if I were to remember what that was like, this idea of living mercifully might be easier to understand.

My dad, a general surgeon by profession, was diagnosed with emphysema in 1991 or so, and told that if he continued to smoke as heavily as he did, he wouldn’t have more than a few years left to live. He quit cold turkey the next day. Soon, our house was buzzing with my dad’s plans to reignite the custom harvesting company that his dad had once operated, and which he had worked on with his brothers in their early twenties. My dad had fond memories of traveling south through the grain belt with his dad, and evidently thought that one of the greatest gifts he could impart to his own kids was this same experience. Dad.jpg

Our yard quickly filled up with grain trucks, combines, service trucks, and we learned about reels, hoppers, grain moisture levels, etc. My uncles joined the endeavor, and my dad hired several boys from his hometown to form a crew. The plan was to contract with local farmers in Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska, and South Dakota, harvesting their wheat and moving steadily north throughout the summers.

“The guys,” as our family called them, were housed in a motor home and trailer, which would be parked at our home during the off seasons.

The camper trailer was a great place for a kid to explore, full of loose change, pens, magical trinkets, and sometimes candy bars. It was a convenient place to be alone, and in a large family, this was often a must. That’s where I went one day of my 12th year, and after exploring thoroughly, stumbled onto some pornography.dark doorway

At the time, I had no idea what it was called, or where it came from. I only knew that the words and images fascinated me, that I wanted to look at them, and at the same time was conscious that no one should know. I stowed the magazines away somewhere no one else would find them.

This was the beginning of what I later began to sense was an addiction. I had become addicted to pornographic material, and in a short time felt that I had a sort of “hidden life,” a double self, and that no one knew who I really was. And if they did… there was a certain sense that I would be considered base, strange, un-loveable. Along with the excitement of it came a sense of self-loathing and a constant “I’ll never do it again” feeling, accompanied by the revulsion of having done it, once again. I felt that I was alone in it, and wished often that I could be like other kids seemed to me – innocent in a way that I wasn’t.

I remembered seeking consolation in books about adolescence that my parents had, doctors insisting sexual curiosity and experimentation wasn’t wrong – was normal and natural, even. Reading this made me feel better for short periods of time, but a gnawing sense of unease wouldn’t go away.

I had never known what masturbation was – no one had ever (apart from these books) explained it to me, or about pornography. Where did this sense of guilt come from?  I tried to rid myself of it, but it remained.

Within the next four years’ time, my dad died, and my parish priest invited me to join a youth group for our diocese. I felt surprised, but delighted that he would consider me a good candidate.

Being in this youth group meant planning youth events, and involved meeting for one weekend each month, in a town somewhere in our diocese. At first, the kids in this group struck me as weird (they hugged everyone! They prayed! They were actually interested in their faith!) But soon I felt a strange attraction to this foreign lifestyle. I found my new friendships to be stronger and deeper. We talked about things beyond our classes, our teachers, and school-yard gossip. We talked about Jesus, and who we wanted to be, and what things were important.

The more time went by, I began to feel a discomforting sense of living two different lives. On these weekends, I was prayerful, thoughtful, kind, and generous. Back home, I would revert to being grumpy and moody to my siblings, gossipy with my classmates, and of course, struggling with this pornography addiction.

Our youth group meetings inevitably involved (boringly, I thought) daily Mass, Confession, and Bible study time. At Confession, I shared the “safe” sins and questions with the priest, but never, ever those related to pornography. This was something I didn’t want anyone to know about, especially not a priest.

I remember a particular ride home with a friend, in which masturbation came up in the discussion. She casually mentioned it as a mortal sin.

“It is?” I said. “Are you sure?” I felt squeamish as she told me that knowingly withholding a sin in Confession is also a sin. I still remember how I struggled with this new discomfort, this sense of feeling “caught” by God. I tried to laugh it off, tried to inwardly justify. But I couldn’t ignore the uneasiness I felt.

The Dream

Not long after that, I had a 3467764700_82285da5df_odream. In the dream, I was standing in a gymnasium. After a while, I grew aware that there were thousands of people in the gym, and that the people here were from all areas of the world. Everyone was talking, in all different languages.

Suddenly, someone said, “Look! Jesus is coming to give a press conference!”

I turned, and in the center of the gym was Jesus, white-robed. I remember one thing that seemed strange in my dream: Jesus spoke, but never opened his mouth. Everyone clearly heard and understood him, but not with our ears. He said,

“The Apocalypse is fast approaching. The end of the world is drawing near.”

That was all. But panic erupted in the room. I watched as people approached him, asking what would become of their sister, their aunt, their families, their villages, their homes? Everyone had questions for Jesus.

crowd crop

‘There are too many people in this room,’ I thought. ‘All he sees is a crowd. He couldn’t possibly know who is here. He doesn’t know I’m here.’ I felt so small, unnoticed, and hidden. But I had an urge to ask him a question, too, telling myself he wouldn’t hear it, but that I would at least try. So, I whispered, “Jesus, do you love me?”

And in the dream, it was as though all the people, and the noise, and the needs, totally disappeared. Jesus turned and faced me, and he was glowing, with what seemed like light, but I recognized that the glow was not light – it was love.

Jesus glowing

The love radiated out from him to me, and later, I tried to remember it in a way I could understand. What I remember is a sense of being loved as a man loves a woman, and as a father loves a daughter, and as a son loves a mother, and a brother loves a sister, and every type of love you might experience in life, but all from Jesus. And even describing it in these many ways, there was so much more than that, that there are no words I can think of that can explain. I felt completely enveloped, covered and transformed by this love.

And that’s when I woke up.

 

A Life-Changing Confession

Confession

The dream was on my mind weeks later, when we had our next meeting. Confession came around, and I went, eager to ask the priest about Jesus’ words. “Do you think the world is going to end soon?” I asked him.

“I don’t think that was the part of the dream that Jesus wanted you to focus on,” said the priest. “I think he was trying to tell you that he loves you.”

His words were like a dam being broken over my heart, and I started weeping. He handed me some Kleenex, explaining that that’s what they were for.

“And,” he said, “I’m not sure, but I sense there might be a sin that you haven’t brought to confession yet,” the priest said.

With this invitation, I poured out everything – everything that I had kept hidden for so long, sobbing the whole way. The priest told me, over and over again, that I was good, that I was loved, and that I was beautiful. He prayed over me, and gave me absolution.

I left the confessional, feeling as though flying were possible. graceThere was a weight that had been sitting on me for so long, and it was like being without it left me lighter than air. I experienced a tremendous joy, and desire to laugh out loud at everything. I wanted everyone to receive the joy and peace that I had just received. It was an overflowing of goodness.

 

 

I have never forgotten what happened that night. It changed me forever, and set the course of my life in an entirely new direction. It gave a meaning and purpose to my life that I had not had before. This is not to say, that everything was happily ever after! I was still me. There was a lot of work to be done – primarily in learning how to love my family better, how to care for my friends and others better. But the chains of my addiction to pornography, thank goodness, had been broken.

But the combination – what I experienced in the dream, and what I experienced in Confession, showed me a glimpse of God’s love that left me certain that if each person only had a chance to receive it, everything – homes, cities, countries, the world – would be healed and made whole.

What does mercy mean?

All of this happened 17 years ago, now. With the time that has gone by, some of that zeal that I first had, has become quieter, more practical. Faith isn’t always feelings, I learned, slowly and often painfully. The feeling, and the sense, of God’s mercy, is something I can remember receiving, but it’s not a gift He gives me every day, or even every month, or even every year. Often, it has seemed that the commitment to faith is like what I imagine marriage must be – ignited first by enough strong feelings and conviction to make a vow, and then bolstered by daily practice, sacrifice, and commitment. You can only learn by living it, over time, that sometimes love is accompanied by feelings, and sometimes love is willed, independent of the feelings that make it convenient.Holy Spirit.jpg

So, I look back on the memory of my first receiving God’s mercy, and I glean from it truths that I can apply today. Here is how I understand God’s mercy:

Mercy is knowing that you are known fully, the good and the bad, and that you are loved exactly as you are, and where you are.

Mercy is the generosity of God taking you over, regardless of your limitations, imperfections, and sins.

Mercy is an invitation from God to join His team.

Mercy is that God believes better things of you and for you, than you do for yourself.

Mercy is never a denial of evil or sin where it exists. It isn’t saying, “Oh, that’s not so bad,” or, “Oh, that wasn’t really wrong.” It is only when we know and name our evil as it is that we can be transformed by God’s grace.

How do I show mercy to the world?

I don’t really know. I’m still figuring this out.

I know that, that day in the Confessional, I needed to know that I could be known, really known, and still loved. And coming out of Confession, I was conscious that everyone in the world needs this, too.

kindness

Sometimes when I remember that we were all born into this world without really knowing what we’re doing, and that we’re all trying to figure it out, and learning as we go, and that we’ve been led and taught by others who also were born into the world without knowing what they’re doing… recognizing this helps me to see people with more love. It helps me not excuse wrongdoing, but understand it.

Over the years, I’ve learned that some people need to hear it the way I did. Other people are different, and they need that love and mercy to be shown to them in a different way. Sometimes, it means giving my full listening ear to the student who is acting out in crazy ways. It means saying, “Hey, I notice something seems hard today. Do you want to talk about it?” Sometimes it means noticing the person at the party that is getting overlooked. Sometimes it means being a little more patient with the person in front of me who is driving too slowly. Sometimes it means not opening my mouth, not making the moment about me.listening.jpg

Sometimes (this one is harder for me) mercy isn’t the nice, easygoing way. Sometimes mercy is saying to your kid, “One piece of candy is enough,” when they want to grab a handful, and will burst into loud, angry tears in the grocery store, while everyone questions your parenting. Sometimes mercy is letting someone know that they are hurting someone. Sometimes mercy is being honest, rather than making someone feel better through a lie. And sometimes, mercy is setting a clear boundary, not allowing someone to make you a doormat.

I do know that the corporal and spiritual works of mercy are good guidelines to follow, especially when you’re in a time when you’re not really “feeling the mercy.” Whether you’re in a good mood or a bad mood, you can always give someone something to drink. You can still pray for someone who really makes you mad. An act of kindness is an act of kindness, whether the feelings are there or not.

But the tough thing I am finding, is that mercy takes discernment. It’s not always clear whether to give someone your “cloak as well as your tunic” is the best course of action, or whether setting a clear boundary is. To be merciful, we need to keep the lines of prayer open, and regular.

Mercy can feel really good to receive, and it can feel painful, and it can feel aggravating, and it can feel enraging. It feels good when you are in a place where you know you are weak, and you know you need love, and you are ready to receive it. It can feel painful when you know someone is sacrificing for you, but you are conscious that you have only been thinking selfishly. It can feel aggravating when someone you are really annoyed by is suddenly kind and forgiving toward you. It can even feel like hatred, (like in cases where a parent asks a child to eat a healthy snack rather than fun junk food).

However it feels to the recipient, mercy is something from which world will always benefit. I hope we can all grow in the rest of this year, in receiving God’s mercy, and in letting God’s mercy radiate outward to all those in our path.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Posted in Family, Grief

Dad’s Chili

If I had known that that night would be my last with Dad, would I have acted differently? Would I have attempted to say the words that had not been said, or show him any special deference? But,  I didn’t know that this was the last night, and in the natural course of things, the day only surprises me in its memory by how ordinary it felt.   I asked him if he would make his chili, just as if it were any other Sunday.  I noticed that he looked more tired and more white than usual, which was not surprising, considering he had been recovering from the flu.   But, flu or not, he agreed.

We had enough tomatoes, enough kidney beans, enough hamburger.  We had the cumin, the oregano, the chili peppers, all obediently waiting in the pantry as if they had known they would be called for.  I had been thirsting for the chili for at least a week, and in my anticipation I laid out each ingredient sequentially, so that Dad would be able to find everything as he needed it.  I laid the large chili pot on the cool stove, and the skillet nearby.  I knew that as soon as my dad arrived in the kitchen, all of this order would be disrupted and become a sloppy but alluring clash of aromas that would call each of us down at intervals to check the simmering pot; knowing this, however, did not take away the charm of imposing order early on.

Dad found me in the kitchen, already drawing the hot water in the sink for the dishes.  He rolled up his shirt sleeves to the elbows, and I saw his hands, tan from the summers, worn down and leathery from hard work, yet polished in a way that reminded me of an old saddle which acquires a layer of shine from being rubbed over so many times.  These were the hands of a surgeon – skilled, artistic.  It always seemed so right to me that a surgeon, accustomed to healing and working alongside the human organs, should also naturally show talent in the many-faceted chemistry of cooking, though how I made the connection I now fail to recognize.

We cut the onions into thin, rectangular strips, mincing them, our work precipitated by, “Watch out, Babes,” from Dad, the sharp knives glinting a bit too closely to my smaller fin9005540815_221f09af47_mgers.  Soon I allowed him to manage the rest of the onions, my own eyes watering and blurring my vision.  He then turned to the stove and pulled out the white package from the microwave, letting the hamburger fall in a half-frozen slab onto the skillet.  I watched the pink flesh simmer, transforming itself to brown, as I stirred and flipped and snatched tiny tidbits of brown hamburger to taste, well-seasoned and spicy.

Dad did the tasting and “spicing,” and I did the pouring, opening the cans of kidney beans and allowing everything into the pot, followed by the tomato sauce, the tomatoes and then the now browned mixture of meat and onions.  The pot was large and capable, and the mixture inside reminded me of volcanic lava, gushing and popping in choleric activity.

My dad, all patience, found a magazine and sat at the kitchen table, a half-drunk coffee cup for comp11134855646_9589588f8d_many.  And I, too, took a book and read, and we sat, not talking to each other but enjoying being in the same room and doing the same thing.  In the next hours we stirred, added spices, and watched the pot.  When Dad cooked, the tomato sauce had a habit of escaping from the pot and dripping on the stove, so that by the end we had not only the chili but also a piece of contemporary artwork- a jumble of dried red splashes applied liberally and indiscriminately.  The used dishes and cans sat haphazardly inside and around each other, dripping a mixture of sauces and juices into greasy pools on the counter.  The knives, shiny with use, sat on table, which itself looked crummy, but nonetheless the incense of the chili wafted all over the house and gave it a loved feeling.

Everyone gathered around to taste the chili, and we all savored it, hot and tomatoey and full of spice – enough to clear your sinuses, Mom always said.  There was a certain magic about Dad’s chili and the nights when we ate it were different from the other nights and all the other suppers.  It might have been the hint of lemon and vinegar in the sauce, or maybe the beer, added toward the end, which sizzled at the top and added a slightly pink tone to the mixture.  This night was different, though.  Dad didn’t eat the chili.  Here I had wanted him to make it because I knew it was something we both liked, and yet, he wouldn’t eat it.  I felt sad somehow, knowing how much work he had put into that pot, and how much I myself was enjoying it- and yet he couldn’t enjoy it with us.  And with that observation, a great part of the joy of making chili with my dad evaporated.  I worried about him.  How sick was he?

It was the next day that he died.  We all came back from the hospital after he was anointed and the house had lost something.  It didn’t feel right and it had lost the essence of being a home, though everything looked and seemed the same.  We could have pretended that Dad was at the hospital on call, or making rounds, and I think we did, for that first night. The next morning I opened the fridge and saw the leftover chili, covered in Saran wrap and staring at me.  It seemed wrong that the chili was still there when Dad had died, as though with his death the chili ought to have disappeared as being a part of him.  The chili’s leftover existence seemed incoherent, and yet- in that week we left the chili there in the fridge, and no one dared to eat it – and no one dared to throw it away.

After that we couldn’t find the chili recipe.  We tried sometimes to make it the way Dad did – Mom knew the basic ingredients, and so we would compile them in the way we knew best.  I remembered the onions and the hamburger, and the kidney beans and the tomatoes, and the tomato sauce.  I remembered the hours of time we waited – I remembered the beer at the end.  But it was the spices that Dad added that had given the chili the magic it had had – or maybe it was the fact of Dad’s making it, so quietly and so patiently, and so kindly.   Whatever it was, it was gone.

I found myself missing Dad’s cooking – even the exasperating mess of cans and dirty dishes and the sploshed oven range and counters.  I missed the smells of spices and hot food, and the feeling that something good would be on the table to eat in “just a bit.”  I missed that knowledge of being loved- the knowledge of love that can only be communicated in good cooking.  I longed for the recipes and for the companionship that cooking with my dad gave me.  Most of all, I found myself looking around for the half-drunk coffee cup, the one he always absent-mindedly left somewhere before giving up and reaching for another cup to leave half-drunk somewhere else.  The fast-paced rhythm of life kept us going, moving, off to school and to work and even to play.  But that feeling of loss lingered in the air.  The cooking smells that had given our house a loved feeling were gone.

One day, long after my dad’s death, we were cleaning the cupboards and came upon a multitude of old cookbooks.  5352878973_e209663988_z I opened Dad’s old mint-green faded copy of The Joy of Cooking – and out fell the chili recipe!  It was a discovery that brought tears to my eyes – that paper we had given up for lost long ago. There was a friendly spattering of dried red tomato sauce all over it, like a greeting.  And there was my Dad’s messy scrawl of writing – a recipe which had been perfected and altered several times throughout his life.  I had not seen the recipe in years, and probably he had stopped needing it by the time I was helping him make the chili.  But there it all was, and I took it in as a treasure:

Sautee 1 large onion

Brown 2 pounds of hamburger in a pan: now add both hamburger and onions to a large pot.  Then mix in all of these things:

38 ounces of kidney beans

38 ounces of tomato sauce

38 ounces of whole peeled tomatoes

8 cloves of garlic

2 teaspoons cumin

2-4 teaspoons of oregano

6 tablespoons of chili powder

(Watch Out!!) Anywhere from 2 to 12 dried chili peppers or 3 tablespoons of crushed red pepper

1/2 teaspoon of anise seed

1/2 teaspoon of fennel seed

4 teaspoons of salt

1 can of beer

Optional: 2 teaspoons of lemon juice

2 tablespoons of vinegar

Add water if it gets too hot.

I put the worn paper close to my face to see if any trace of the chili had lingered between the pages of this favorite book.  And that night, we followed the recipe and added every spice religiously to the letter.  The magic aroma entered the house again like a memory, comfortable in its environment, and it felt the same as it had, and still not the same.  Everyone came by to lift the pot and take in the smell of the chili, and our family was connected again in a way that it had not been connected in years.  We laughed and smiled and told stories about the way Dad was, and wished he could be there.  And we thought about what he would add to the chili to make it his own.

In the years since then, I have appropriated the chili recipe.  Now, I cook it when I miss my dad, and somehow, in the process of cutting and mixing and sautéing – in the course of adding a pinch of cumin, or oregano, a spot of lemon juice, I am reminded for a moment of my dad, and his patient, leathery-veined hands, that feeling of waiting for something good, that atmosphere of cheer and warmth and cooking.  And I love to share this recipe with others – friends that I have met throughout the course of time.   It is to me like introducing them to Dad, as though as they taste his chili, they will know somehow who he was.  I know it isn’t possible, but having his recipe is a way for him to stay alive in my heart and a way for him to continue to live; and that is part of the magic of this recipe.

In Line at the Confessional

The walls are lit w455557484_76ac142ac0_zith a hovering glow, intimate, flickering – what I associate with holy. I walk into the chapel, and register a line of people, waiting, walking the slow dance to confess their sins in the tiny room, a little light signaling that it is time to approach.

My heart feels like teeth after an afternoon of sugary treats and soda – plaqued, crudded, sodden with sin – in need of a cleaning. I feel the familiar need to go, to say it all to the priest, to hear the words of absolution, to feel in the heat of his hands that unmistakable murmuring hum of grace enter through my forehead. To experience myself known fully and loved fully.

 

Confession starts at 11:30, and it lasts until 12:00. 30 minutes and so many people in this line. I calculate. If each person goes in for 3 minutes – can we all make it? No. How about 2? Possibly. I feel the urgency of each minute. Among this line, will I get a chance? I become aware of the hollow and silent, unmentioned chasm between the ‘ought to’ part of me, and what I know as the real me. I ought to care about all of these people, all of these souls, and to hope that we all make it in and out, like little cars at the car wash, and leave sparkling, shining inwardly with flames relit, the joy beaming through our eyes. Really, I just hope this line is not so long that I don’t get my own chance. A selfish truth. Something more to confess.

I pray a Hail Mary like an untrained puppy, aware of its smallness, its ugliness, its predictable predilection for failure. I feel the prayers of Mary cover me and advocate for me, the small one, longing for the goodness and beauty and truth and being just a little dusty terrier on the heels of grace.

The confession line moves – not slowly and intermittently, like some, but somewhat like a line to a bathroom, I think, and realize that in some strange part of my brain, I’ve connected the relief of confession somewhat with the need and relief of the toilet. This is not anything I would ever tell anyone.

An old woman enters, carrying coats, places them in a pew, and takes her place ahead of me several places, between a mother and her sons. I feel a flash of indignation for those of us who have been waiting in line all this time – what made her think she could cut ahead? I am like the prodigal son’s brother, like the man who worked all day for the same wage as the one who started an hour ago. She must be the mother’s mother. I quiet myself, I accept it. This is good for me.

6015273944_23ba3f01ca_o

4655242534_a6125f7d83_mThe mother has honest eyes, open, like small pools of water. Her sons look to be 14, 12, 10, and I see, nestled underneath the oldest brother, a young girl about 7. The boy’s eyes are all reiterations of the mother’s. They stand in line, whispering to each other, jostling, fidgeting. The whispering is constant, but it flares and peaks at times, and then quiets.

I meet the mother’s eyes, not intending to smile, wanting only to look, and yet I see in her eyes the desire for a smile, and so I do. I think, “So many kids!” thinking of wanting to be further along in the line, and on my way out. I realize that I should be inwardly thanking this woman for her openness to life, and so I decide to be grateful instead of impatient. The oldest boy shushes the younger ones, and the second oldest barely conceals a defiant glare. Everyone inches forward.

People keep entering – elderly men in their seventies, mothers and children, businessmen from the office. From the doors, they see half the line, and prepare to step in it. And, over and over, like a repeating punchline, each person comes to recognize, with a disappointed half-slump, that the line is very long – twenty people now, maybe even twenty-four. We’re all here on our lunch breaks; we’re all playing the lottery of the confessional, betting on time being enough to hold us all.

People stare ahead silently. The man after me askes, “Is there only one priest?” “Yes,” I reply. He seems to want to continue the conversation, so I stare ahead of me at an invisible object, hoping to convey an attitude of deep prayer and reflection.

The statues are covered thoroughly in purple. It all begins tomorrow – Holy Thursday Mass, and the washing of the feet. I remind myself that Peter was still falling, even then, and he lived with Jesus personally for three years, so it’s natural that I am still a sinner too. The line moves fast enough that I know the priest will just hear me say my piece and absolve, which is comforting, in the same way that it was comforting to hear my piano teacher just say, “Okay,” when I told her I had not practiced much, rather than receiving the long lecture too. To say the same laundry list each time is humbling. And sometimes, I even wish that my sins might be more creative, or might at least show greater strides forward.

I can feel the synchronicity of a different time – and Galileans, just very much like these Minnesotans, cloaked in their politeness, and their ideas of what they should be and their sense of what holiness looks like, inwardly calculating their turn, their place, their thoughts still so mercenary, ordinary, self-seeking. So many bodies moving and straining and yearning to meet Jesus, to see in his eyes His perfect knowledge and His love, a love that covers and transforms our dirty sloppiness, our dingy rags.

I see a crowd that, in its collective inner desire, pushes against each other, makes petty rules and arguments. I see a woman who loves her ailing mother and so pushes her closer to Jesus, unaware of the man who needs a cure who has not gotten pushed further away. We know He heals and that we need His healing. We can’t afford not to be healed. And so we push.

We see with human eyes a man who must choose some and not all, because there are so many – so many bodies, so many souls here. We see a man who has only two eyes, two ears, two feet. We cannot but believe there are limits, as we ourselves are limited, despite the limitlessness we see deep in His gaze, as it turns to us.

And so we push. We pretend not to – but we push, with our minds, with our hearts. We shout out prayers, we repeat them, babbling, feeling so small, so unheard, so forgettable. We hear out own selfish thoughts and attempt to hide them like a hole in our clothing, conscious of what makes us unlovable, unbeautiful, impure. We hide behind beatific smiles, wanting the smile to be only the manifestation of what is truly in our hearts. But we, who see our hearts from within, recognize our fakery. To own it is best.

I am now next in line – suddenly, it feels not too long, but too short. The woman ahead of me will soon be out. And I’ve forgotten everything. I’ve forgotten what I’ve done. I’ve forgotten what to say. I have only a moment to say it, and now I can’t remember. The light blinks on, I go in. The words come out, somehow. The walls reverberate with patience and with love. The priest receives my words, not a flicker of reaction in his face. His hands are interwoven with the beads of a rosary. My mind thinks, “farmer’s hands,” – see how the farmer waits for the autumn and the spring rains.

My head is bowed. I make my act of contrition. I feel over my head, like a hood, a thrumming of grace, the peace and the love coming in through my forehead through these hands. Your sins are forgiven. Go in peace.

My heart dances like the bright Sunday sun in my memory of being five years old. I feel a weightlessness, a pureness, a wholeness. I sense joy down in my core, beaming out through me as though I am glowing. I smile at the priest and thank him, feeling like Scrooge on Christmas day. As I leave the confessional, my eyes smile and take in all the people still in line, wanting them to receive the warm rays of light. I sense that something has gone from me, and has left room for this whole and all-embracing joy-light, and that now I am ready to go out again, sparkling and made clean.

Posted in Lessons Learned

What my bad day taught me

A few days ago, I locked myself out of my bedroom, bathroom, closet and office by mistake. I live in one of those sturdy old houses – meaning, in effect, that the hinges were so well-made and tight that I could not remove them, and the door handle also was not removable from my side of the door. It was late enough that I had no desire to call a locksmith. So, I was stuck outside of my room overnight.15136260663_30259e9dbb_o

I was cranky. I wanted the world to know of this grave injustice. A bunch of routines I never really thought about were disrupted – my clothes for the next day were behind that door, as well as my makeup, toothbrush, my bed for sleeping in, my phone charger (with a phone about to die). I thought about showing up to my school the next morning, disheveled, in yesterday’s clothes. How awful.

It took me until the next day to appreciate: The fact of my frustration alone was a privilege, because I have already been given so many gifts. I could worry about this and be annoyed by this because there were hundreds of bigger things that had been taken care of for me already.

For instance:

I got to sleep in my warm house, not the cold outside.

I had a roommate who responded generously and lent me a change of clothes for the next day, as well as use of her phone alarm.

There was a spare futon in the basement, with sheets on it! I still had a comfortable place to sleep.

I could afford to call a locksmith the next morning.

Recognizing this, it was easier to laugh at myself and the circumstance, and to be grateful and receptive to the moment I found myself in.

Do we often recognize the thousands of things that had to go right in order to have an “ordinary” day?

– If I drove anywhere and got there safely, it’s miraculous that all of the drivers on the road were paying attention, and stayed safe.4452373616_8aaffb83c1_o.jpg

-If I ate food, it’s miraculous, the number of processes that brought this food into my hands, and the fact that I had enough money for it, as well as the fact that I didn’t spill any food on my clothes.

-If none of my many appliances, light fixtures, electronic devices broke down today, that’s a pretty good day. 6866327_f6e75cd4a7_o.jpg

-If I was able to walk, not worry about some health issue, then that’s a pretty miraculous day.

-If I didn’t need to think about friends or family members who had died or were suffering, my day was miraculous.

-If I knew where I’d be sleeping tonight, that’s a miraculous day.

I could go on for many more bullet points. The thing is, there are thousands of ways I can think of that my needs are met each day, that I seldom ever think about.

This is what my locked bedroom-office-bathroom-closet door taught me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in Family, Lessons Learned

A lesson for posterity from my farting grandma

My grandma, I later learned, went to college in her 70s, learned Spanish, and went on a trip to Spain where she translated for the other tourists. My grandma, raised on a North Dakota farm, passionately against ever farming herself, married a farmer, raised 5 children, but also taught at a local school.

But the first lesson my grandma taught me was about farting.

I was about 8 when Grandma had her first stroke. It left her forgetful, fuzzy, less spicy. The strict grandma who sat with us while we played piano and made ugrandmas pillboxs go over that trouble spot seventeen times, disappeared inside someone I secretly associated with Winnie the Pooh – same voice, same comfy shape, same unassuming manner. Grandma’s stroke became the reason I knew about pillboxes. Grandma used toothpaste to hang up our crayon scribbles on her walls. Grandma became somebody who straight-facedly asked of my newborn brother, “So, what are you going to name the little Adam Joseph?”

My siblings loved our grandma, and we also chuckled because we now remembered more, saw more, and thought maybe even we knew a little more.

And one day, on a visit, grandma walked over to see me, farting her way through the living room like a little-engine-that-could-almost-go-no-more. My throat ached and my cheeks nearly burst with concealed laughter at my funny, tooting grandma.

I couldn’t believe the unconcerned, serene look on my grandma’s face.

“Oh, I guess I’m just feeling a little woozy today,” she said, just like one might say, “Oh, I guess we might see a little sun today, maybe.” It was a fact. Farts are facts. The fact of one’s farting is nothing special, nothing to laugh at, nothing to be embarrassed over.

It’s funny how my grandmother’s little 15-foot walk could be one of the memories that emerges in the vastly accumulating archives of a 30-something life.

It reminds me too, of her son, my dad, walking through Cabela’s with me and taking a look at little deer-hunting camoflauge baby outfits for my youngest sister. Miscalculating, he tipped over half the contents of the rack onto the floor. At 15, I felt mortified on his behalf, and waited to see his embarrassed reaction, his profuse apologies or attempts to hide what had just happened.

Instead, Dad calmly bent over, picked up the several garments, and quietly replaced them. No harm done. Farts are facts.

I am still learning how to be more comfortable farting in public.