God Talk and Tea

We are meant to leave the safety of the harbor

Spending a good deal of the summer with my friend Rose means spending a good deal of time at  garage sales! On one of our early morning outings, I was intrigued with a small rubber stamp buried under books in the bottom of a cardboard box. It bore the image of a sailboat and the words:  “Ships are safe in harbor, but that’s not what ships are made for.”

I thought a lot about those words later in the month as I watched boat owners scramble to moor their boats in the harbor because of an impending storm, and again, as I sat in a small wooden church, huddled with other parishioners as the storm whipped around the 150 year old structure.

At that moment the church was our safe harbor, a port in the storm, but when the pastor said, “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord,” it was a reminder that we were meant to go into the world to be Christ to others, not stay at home in the harbor where it is safe.

Still, it is comforting to know that when our spiritual supplies are low, when we need “repairs” or a place of calm and rest, we can find, through the parish, sustenance in the reception of Eucharist, God’s Grace in the sacraments and a family of believers ready to welcome us home before we begin our journey again.

Autumn’s gift is a renewal of body and soul

Where I come from, in upstate New York, autumn was not a season that stealthily caught you off guard. There, in the bosom of the Heldebergs, autumn “arrived,” in full phantasmagoric color, in crisp apple-picking days and dimly lit supper times. It held me captive, but I never knew why. Even now, as autumn approaches, I find myself stirred by vague memories of long walks home from school under a harvest moon, the smell of fall air and the delightful treat of caramel apples. Now that I am older and a little wiser, I realize that on a deeper level there is meaning in the purpose of fall itself; in the season that signals a moving into winter.

For me there was, and still is, comfort in the latency, that period of time when growth is stilled. After the last harvests of fall, the created world begins its journey inward, when the growth of spring and the fulfillment of summer comes to a halt and life begins a period of rest and renewal.

Contemporary author Denis Waitley reminds us that autumn is the season “for enjoying the fullness of life—partaking of the harvest, sharing the harvest with others, and reinvesting and saving portions of the harvest for yet another season of growth."

Certainly, there is an essential quality to the experience of growth. God has deemed it necessary in all areas of human existence. Think of Jesus, who, as Scripture teaches, grew in wisdom and grace. There was no “Cecil B. DeMille” moment of revelation, with trumpets blaring and lights flashing, where Jesus became aware of all things from all times. Neither are we born with a full spectrum of knowledge, nor does any flower erupt from the earth in full bloom, at once whole and complete.

But growth for the person can be the most painful of experiences, often stemming from great trials of loss and doubt. When the trials are many and the pain becomes overwhelming, we are often encouraged to find ways to flee from the experiences, and with the escape, avoid growth. How blessed we are that nature needs no such escape route.

Surely, God created all things not only for our enjoyment and benefit, but also to instruct us. Nature teaches that periods of stillness, of turning inward, are necessary and fruitful for all of God’s creation, most especially God’s children.

Perhaps that is why God created autumn to be so beautiful; to encourage us to lose ourselves in the stillness for awhile in order to prepare for our next season of growth.

“We are not born all at once, but by bits. The body first, and the spirit later; and the birth and growth of the spirit, in those who are attentive to their own inner life, are slow and exceedingly painful. Our mothers are racked with the pains of our physical birth; we ourselves suffer the longer pains of our spiritual growth.”  Mary Antin

Remembering to raise up our human nature

Having recently observed a very contentious exchange between a customer and waitress in my local diner, fueled with great pleasure and precision by the customer, I have to wonder why people feel that being loud, abusive and rude is something of which to be proud. This woman not only seemed to feel it was acceptable but gloated that she had put another person in her place in front of a room full of patrons while hurling every profanity in the book. She didn’t seem to realize that the only person who looked like a fool was her, especially as she was scooping mashed potatoes off her plate with her hands and slamming them down on another plate to make a point.  Seemed like she had been mentored by some of the latest TV “housewives!”

I thought of her today when I came upon a book entitled, “Living Like You Belong to God.”  Remembering where we come from, and to whom we belong, goes a long way in nurturing decisions and behavior that reflect our noble origins, instead of dragging our human nature through the mud.  Perfect it won’t make us, but it can help us be a positive influence in the world, instead of an embarrassment.

Talking sensibly about God

Several years ago when I was editing a manuscript that would be used in Burundi for a faith-sharing  process, I was given a book to read entitled, Theology Brewed in an African Pot, by Agbonkhianmeghe E. Orobator. I was a bit intimidated at first, expecting the vision from a culture so markedly different from my own to pose a challenge. I was delightfully mistaken. One passage resonated with me and has been shared many times:

“We need to dispel the notion that theology is the exclusive preserve of experts and academicians. Theology is something that we all do all the time, even without actually paying attention to it.

“I find no better illustration of this than the conversation between Mr. Brown and Chief Akunna. The former had probably spent a few years studying the Bible and theology in his native England to prepare for his missionary journey to the African village of Umuofia. He possessed an impressive mastery of the religious vocabulary and could reel off the theological terminologies with ease.

“Chief Akunna had not received any formal theological training in the knowledge of his religion. Notwithstanding, he possessed a native sense of religion that made him a theologian of no lesser statue and repute than Mr. Brown. He knew how to talk sensibly about God—the nature of God, the meaning of workshop, meditation and creation, divine providence, and divine retribution.

“In the course of this engaging conversation between Mr. Brown and Chief Akunna we get a clear idea of the meaning of theology: talking sensibly about God.”

Peace comes in soup and sandwiches and red shutters

I’ve always hated white aluminum siding. But today I find myself homesick for it, and the little beach cottage that wears it with grace. Weather-worn windows are simply adorned with wine-red shutters and a freshly painted entrance door to match. Red is good energy for an entrance. At least, that’s what I’ve learned from the dog-eared pages of my  Feng-Shui manuals. Everything in the house is old. Not old enough to be valued antiques, but old enough to have memories. I even miss the occasional pungent aroma of cigar that wafts through the rooms while I’m there. Since my visits are most often solitary, I imagine the smoker is the keeper of some of those memories. We are on gracious terms, and I often thank him for letting me share in the deep peace of the place. Sometimes, when I am feeling melancholy, I invite him to come and sit a spell, and sometimes, he obliges.

Maybe I am comfortable with the arrangement because the smell of cigars reminds me of my Uncle Elias of Blessed Memory, the epitome of curmudgeon, full of bluff and bluster, who loved his family deeply. I remember him bringing soup and sandwiches from his coffee counter across the street from the hospital where I spent long hours in Hospice with my mom, after my dad died. Each day he would ask the same things about his sister. “Did she like the soup? Did she eat the sandwich? Tomorrow I’ll bring her a pastry.” It was his way of dealing. He fed people. For me, it’s about changing shells, like the hermit crab. My favorite is made of white aluminum with red shutters.

A joyful heart is the health of the body

Working as part of a writing and editorial team means, of course, paying close attention to how things are worded. Our antennae are geared to catch mistakes. So, it is no surprise that we often find ourselves sharing the bloopers we’ve seen or heard during the week.

Last week, a co-worker shared some commentary he had heard during a news story.

The reporter, commenting on the scene of an accident, stated seriously, “The emergency crews have been here since they arrived.”

Wearing our editor’s hats, we had a good laugh at someone not only stating the obvious but getting paid for it, as well. It immediately brought to mind the now famous sayings of Yogi Berra, whose classics include, “It's like deja-vu, all over again,” or “If you ask me anything I don't know, I'm not going to answer.”

Early the next morning, I had to drop some letters in the mail bin downstairs next to another co-worker’s desk. I asked her in all seriousness, “Do you think the post office will return this to me if I don’t put a return address on it?”

My co-worker looked at me with a dead pan expression and after a few seconds of well-pointed silence asked, “How would they send it back to you if you don’t put a return address on it?”

There it was, the big, “DUH!”; the dead quiet filled up with my own unspoken thought, “How could you say anything so stupid?!”

Feeling duly chastised, I remembered yesterday’s laugh fest after hearing the reporter’s comments. “Who’s laughing now?” I chided myself. But when I was done feeling stupid, following yet another lesson in humility, I joined my co-worker in a hearty laugh at my expense.

Laughter and a good sleep, said my Irish father, are the best cures for any ill. He was a wise man; one who taught me the value of learning to laugh at yourelf when necessary. This skill, he said, encourages us to not take ourselves so seriously, which can result in our becoming so “full of ourselves” that there is little room for anything else.

As a student of life, my father’s antenna was raised to the incongruities inherent in being human, and he was fond of pointing out that no amount of education, authority or power will prevent a person from making a fool of him or herself at some point in time. And while he admitted sometimes appreciating being there to see it happen, he was careful not to gloat too obviously because he knew his time was coming. And when it did, he was always ready with a laugh.

When I think back on the most memorable times and people of my life there is always laughter involved. Sharing and making memories with family around the kitchen table, friends at work whose humor relieved stressful situations, laughter in a hospital room or even in a funeral parlor which, if even for a brief moment, eased the pain of loss and offered a glimmer of life’s hope, beauty and the promises of God.  “A joyful heart is the health of the body,” says the psalmist, and certainly that has been true in my own life.

But on those days when even a smile seems hard to muster, I try to remember the words of another wise, but unknown, author: “Even if there is nothing to laugh about, laugh on credit.”

"Laugh at yourself and at life. Not in the spirit of derision or whining self-pity, but as a remedy, a miracle drug, that will ease your pain, cure your depression, and help you to put in perspective that seemingly terrible defeat and worry with laughter at your predicaments, thus freeing your mind to think clearly toward the solution that is certain to come. Never take yourself too seriously."  Og Mandingo

 

You are more than your illnesses

When my mother was first diagnosed with cancer she swore me to secrecy. She said she didn’t want  people looking at her funny, or avoiding her because they didn’t know what to say. “You become the disease,” she said.

My mother’s insight was on the mark, not only for cancer, but depression, as well. At some point in my recovery (actually, discovery is a better word for it), I realized  I had identified with my illness. Not only did others see me as the person with depression, but I saw myself that way, to the point of forgetting what life was like before the illness or considering there could even be an “after” the illness.

I don’t remember the circumstances of that realization, but I do remember it was a catalyst for me to gain control of my thoughts, my attitudes and my decisions. Depression has a way of forcing you to surrender, but that moment of realization made me determined to tear up the white flag. I had to fight, because I was determined that I was not going to spend the rest of my life being that depressed person.

I was depressed. Now I’m not.

It took a lot of work, and faith, to get from one point to the other, which is one of the reasons I’ve hesitated in sharing the journey. I am happy to be where I am, and, on some level, have been afraid of being identified, once again, with the illness. But depression taught me, among other things, that fear is an obstacle to growth.

A spiritual journey through depression

Ten years ago, I was diagnosed with serious clinic depression. I was in crisis. For some reason I felt compelled, from the first day of my realization that something was wrong, to keep a journal of the journey that would take place during the next four years.  It seemed strange, since, though I am a writer, I have never really kept a journal, other than spiritual reflections and my rambling attempts at poetry. 

At some point in the process of recovery, the journal began to morph into a manuscript, but it wasn't until several weeks ago, more than 10 years later, that I was able to send some sample chapters to my publisher. I suppose my counselor could help me uncover the reasons for my reticence, but I haven't seen her professionally in years now. Actually, after four years of intensive therapy, I've learned to identify my motivation for things, that is when I'm willing to really look at myself honestly.  Sometimes, that's really hard. Sometimes, I wish I could just call her up on the phone to chat, and maybe throw in a few therapy issues off the cuff, but she'd see right through me. She's probably the most amazing person I've ever met.

Anyway, after some recent admissions of friends and acquaintances, that they are struggling with depression, I thought I would share a little of my journey, in bits and pieces, as I wait for a response from the publisher. Could be that there's a lot more work to do on the manuscript before it will be accepted, but in the meantime maybe someone else will find some solace in knowing they are not alone.

The manuscript is titled (at least for now) Deep Water. Any posts with those words in the title will be excerpts from the book. I will continue to pray, as one who understands, for all those suffering from a very challenging illness. Recovery is hard and humbling work, and worth every drop of blood, sweat and tears that goes into it.  There is joy when we get to the place of remembering that God has a purpose for every life.

Leaving like Moses

In my many years of catechetical work, I have often been asked what difference Mass makes. I have reflected on that many times in my life, especially when the celebrant announces, "The Mass is ended. Go in peace to love and serve the world."

It seems to me that, when we leave Mass nourished by the Eucharist, we are called to go out the way Moses descended Mount Sinai, with his face shining, with his heart brave and strong, to face the challenges of a world that often forgets God.

 

                                                                                                                                                                            Image by Steve Nethercroft

Wisdom often lies beneath the surface

Several nights ago my son decided to order hot wings for dinner. He asked the girl on the phone if  the wings were breaded, explaining that he only wanted the plain ones, no breading, with hot sauce on the side.

"I’ll ask the cook," she said.

After a few moments of silence she assured him, "No, they are not breaded."

"Great, I’ll take an order," responded my son.

About 25 minutes later the order arrived and my son flipped open the box to see, you guessed it, 10 pieces of darkly fried and heavily breaded wings. Now he was annoyed. "Can you believe this?? I specifically asked her if they were breaded and she said no."

He promptly went upstairs to call and complain, and came down minutes later with an incredulous look on his face. The girl on the phone had explained to my son that the wings were not breaded. "They are covered with flour, not bread."

What do you say to an answer like that?

My husband then relayed the story that, while on the job last week, he had called the same restaurant to place an order for lunch. After a curt, "Hello," a young woman on the other end promptly told him that he had called on a fax line and that he wasn’t allowed to call that line to order. It was for faxes only.

"Then why did you answer??" asked my husband.

Ignoring the question, she continued to insist that he had called on a line for faxes only and he had to call back on the regular line to place an order.

"But you are already talking to me," my husband pointed out.

"I know that," she admitted, "but this number is for faxes only."

Growing more irritated by the second, he also pointed out that she could have taken his order twice-over in the time they had spent having this conversation, but to no avail.

"Sir, you will have to call on the other line."

My husband slammed down the receiver and immediately called the other number.

The same young woman answered, "Hi, may I take your order?"

It was like something out of a Seinfeld comedy, a parody on literalism; a spoof on surface living. But sadly, it was not a caricature but an example of the reality in which many people live, unaware or ignoring, the fullness of ideas, of people, or of circumstances.

Such a world view is similar to riding on the waves of the ocean, or traveling over the earth, and insisting there is nothing below the surface.

Wisdom is never the fruit of literal living; rather it is the fruit of plumbing the depths of life. And who better to offer us insight than Job, who was plummeted to the depths of life and loss but retained his faith in God.

Wisdom, said Job, "is hidden from the eyes of all living, and concealed from the birds of the air … God understands the way to it, and he knows its place. For he looks to the ends of the earth, and sees everything under the heavens."

We may better understand the work of wisdom by considering Job’s analogy of the miner who puts an end to darkness by turning over mountains and cutting through rock, who hangs in darkness, away from human habitation, to mine the precious things of the earth—stones that reveal sapphires and dust which contains gold.

Of miners, Job says, "The sources of the rivers they probe; hidden things they bring to light."

We, too, must be miners of our spiritual lives, moving past the easy answers of surface living to the uncovering of wisdom at every level of human existence.

Then we, like Job, may discover that love of God is true Wisdom and the greatest of all treasures.