God Talk and Tea

A spider's lessons on life and friendship

Who would have thought that, in the middle of winter while taking garbage out to the deck, I would run into a very large spider hanging down from a single line of web? In the warmer weather, we seem to have an overabundance of spiders, but I’m not accustomed to seeing them when there's frost on the windows. Still, I don’t know much about spiders, except, perhaps, for the compassionate, intelligent Charlotte of “Charlotte’s Web” fame.

For some reason, I never read the award-winning children’s book until I was an adult, and I still got weepy, especially when Charlotte says to Wilbur, the pig, “You have been my friend. That in itself is a tremendous thing. I wove my webs for you because I liked you. After all, what’s life anyway? We’re born, we live a little while, we die. A spider’s life can’t help being something of a mess, with all this trapping and eating flies. By helping you, perhaps, I was trying to lift up my life a trifle. Heaven knows anyone’s life can use a little of that.”

What’s life anyway?

There seem to be days when we just can’t find an answer, when things seem so overwhelming that we wonder why we are here in the first place. But then, in those moments when we are able to lift up someone’s life a trifle, or when our lives have been enriched by someone else, we know, like Charlotte, that we are here for each other.

"Wilbur never forgot Charlotte. Although he loved her children and grandchildren dearly, none of the new spiders quite took her place in his heart. She was in a class by herself. It is not often that someone comes along who is a true friend and a good writer. Charlotte was both."

Every community needs a Director of First Impressions

Yesterday, while visiting my sister-in-law who is caring for her mom—a Hospice patient—I heard a   funny, but also disturbing, story about what happened when my sister-in-law called the parish to ask for a priest to come and visit. The conversation went something like this:

“Hello?”  (no introduction)

“Oh ... Hi, is this the Church of the Saints and Angels?”

“No, that’s not what we’re called. We are referred to as Saints and Angels Church.”

“Oh, OK, I’m sorry … umm … but the sign in front of the church says, ‘Church of the Saints and Angels.’ Anyway, I was calling to ask for a priest to come and visit my mom and bring Communion. She hasn’t been able to get to Mass.”

“She hasn’t been to Mass?” (uh oh, disparaging tone is slipping into ‘get thee to confession’ mode!)

“Well, no, she’s 89 years old and under Hospice care. Could I leave a message for one of the priests to…”

“No, you’ll just have to speak to him yourself.” (an abrupt version of ‘I’m really not interested in hearing your story so save it for the priest’)

“What?” (I must be dreaming. What happened to ‘What would Jesus do?’ Maybe I should hang up and try again.)

“Hang on!”

A few seconds later a warm, engaging priest gets on the line, offers to be at the house in half-an-hour and the pastoral nightmare of the earlier conversation fades into a funny story to be told around the dinner table.

In reality, the tone and unprofessional behavior of this particular secretary is all too common in our parishes and schools, stories of which often overshadow the good work of secretaries who instinctively know the power of respect and kindness; to say nothing of the damage done to communities built by evangelization and hospitality.

Maybe it would help if new titles were awarded.

Today, while I was doing some research on how best to create a resume in today’s market, I came across a list of some workplace titles that have emerged during the past few years. My favorite was Director of First Impressions, formerly known as receptionist.

I like it, because it recognizes the importance of those who have a difficult job dealing with the often rude and crude general public, and it emphasizes the critical role of those who answer the phones and emails, build relationships and serve as the voice of a community.

And when that community is formed by disciples of Jesus, the voice should be one of joy, or at the very least, good humor.

Not always easy, to be sure, but curmudgeons are not a good fit for the job.

 

Becoming my mother's daughter

For many years, February was a difficult month for me after the death of my parents. My father died on February 15 and my mother’s birthday is February 27. For years their loss cast a pall over the month. I missed them terribly, but time has changed things. I see my father often in the face of my son and I run into my mother daily each time I pass the hall mirror.

I think I began to realize I was morphing into my mother when I first read a quip by Erma Bombeck who shared a story of putting on a sweater and seeing her mother’s arm come out of the sleeve. I laughed hysterically before I realized it would only be funny if I could relate to it. In a panic, I took a long hard look at my hands. Sure enough, they bore a striking resemblance to my mother's. When did that happen?

Then there was the less than tactful family friend who said at my mother’s wake, “You look more like your mother than she does.” Now that’s a wake-up call. For a time I was disturbed that  I was unable to craft my own “self.” But part of my maturing process has included becoming comfortable with the fact that I am not just my own person. I am my mother’s daughter.

I no longer need to be told that I look like her. I see it, as much as I see that I bite the tip of my finger when I’m thinking, just like she did.  Sometimes I’ll carry a Hersey Bar in my pocketbook, like she did, and we both share a penchant for stenographers’ notebooks, jigsaw puzzles and birds.

And I am set in my ways, as she was. I have had the same framed child’s paintings, my artistic son’s first masterpieces, standing on the mantel in my kitchen for 20 years. She had a blue plate with a furry skunk on her backsplash.

From her I learned that tea is the soother for all of life’s problems, and I have had more than my fair share, of tea that is, since she died. And though I already had children of my own then, I don’t think I really began to grow up and grow into me until I had to bear her death.

“When I stopped seeing my mother with the eyes of a child, I saw the woman who helped me give birth to myself.” -Nancy Friday

 

Ma'am, there's no one here who can help you

So last week I was on the phone with the electric company. They had left a message that my service  would be shut off the next day unless I paid my bill in full.  I explained to the young woman that, being self-employed, my checks don’t always come in on a regular basis. Could she extend the shut off date for two weeks?  She gave me an unequivocal no. Well, could I pay a portion of the bill now and the rest in two weeks.  "Ma’am you would have to pay 75% of your bill -- $600, and I can’t guarantee shutoff would be postponed." Ok ... was there anyone else there with the authority to postpone shutoff for two weeks?

That’s when I heard, “Ma’am, there is no one here who can help you unless you make a payment of $600.”  With her tone, I almost expected her to add, “so stop whining #$*&@”

Really?  A company that received a rate increase recently giving them an additional $100 million in revenue and with whom I had been a customer for 35 years wasn’t willing to help me?  Somehow I didn’t think this particular phone representative was a reputable spokesperson for the company, so I made another phone call – to the Board of Public Utilities. And just let me say, the utility company will now be getting the partial payment in two weeks and the rest will be put into a special payment plan for 6 months. My thanks to the gentleman at the BPU and the lovely lady in customer relations at the utility company.

I have to wonder why this just couldn’t be done first time around instead of wasting everyone else’s time, and raising frustration levels? Surely there’s a lot of truth to one rotten apple…..

“No one here can help you” are not words I’m accustomed to hearing. Obviously I’ve been spoiled. My friends and family would bend over backwards to do whatever they can to help in any situation. For the past 16 years I have worked in some capacity for the Church, and in spite of the consistently negative press, I was always confident that if I needed help I would get it, and I was never disappointed.

 But struggling financially puts you in a place where people are not always so quick to be gracious or generous. You are often treated rudely, with disrespect, and with a real lack of concern. When you can’t pay your bills, suddenly your status changes.

Years ago, when I was writing for a Catholic newspaper, I interviewed a number of homeless men at the Catholic Charities shelter. It was a trailer, actually, with bunk beds arranged neatly throughout, and a small kitchen and office space. The men had been business men, teachers and laborers. One was an engineer.  Some had been dealing with family issues, which made a sudden decrease in salary a death knell.  For others, there were medical issues and mounting bills.

I remember walking out of that trailer and thinking to myself, “This could happen to me; to any of us, really.” Then I was thinking of the material losses. Today, I am thinking about the loss of respect and dignity. Thank God, Catholic Charities was able to provide some help during a tough time and, most especially, help those men maintain their dignity.  At least these few didn’t hear, “Sir, there’s no one here who can help you.”

Who knew the energizer bunny could dance?

Several years ago I gave my husband a gift certificate for a few introductory dancing lessons at an Arthur Murray Studio. Though a carpenter and building contractor by trade, he always admired the people who seemed to moved effortlessly, or at least more competently than he, across the dance floor.

He hated to dance at weddings, and we had two coming up in our family—two sons getting married in the same year.  That was four years ago, and now I can’t get him to stay home. I can hear some wives laughing—“So what’s the problem??"

He’s still at the studio four nights a week, though I long ago hung up my dancing shoes, and loving every minute of it. I think if he could justify giving up his day job he would do it in a heartbeat.  Who would have thought the carpenter had the soul of a dancer? And it’s certainly been good for his health as well. He’s dropped 50 lbs which has gone a long way toward keeping his blood sugars balanced, and the girls in the family hide behind me at family weddings because they can’t keep up with him. It’s not unusual for them to duck behind my chair and whisper, “Save me!” They love to dance, too, but he’s the energizer bunny on steroids.

If you’ve made a New Year’s resolution for more exercise or healthier living, consider dancing. If you live in New Jersey consider the Whitehouse Station Arthur Murray Studio. It’s a great place with the greatest people—and you’ll get to see the energizer bunny! I think they're setting up a cot for him in the back room!

The furnace of love is hot indeed!

When I was young one of my favorite books, aside from the entire Nancy Drew series, of course, was an oversized, beautifully illustrated collection of Old Testament stories. One story in particular always held my fancy -- Shadrach, Meschach and Abednego who were thrown into the fiery furnace by King Nebuchadnezzar.

This story was a continual source of amazement for me as I pondered these three young men willingly entering a white-hot furnace, surrendering themselves totally to God so they would not have to violate their beliefs or God’s law.

 Wow. Now these were some heroes.

 There’s no doubt that story played a part in forming my often passionate and sometimes radical heart. Later, as an adult who, like most others, found themselves thrust into one furnace or another from time to time, the witness of these three faithful Jews imparted also the importance of trusting fully in God.

 After all, life has a way of wearing us down and scorching our soul, providing us with innumerable opportunities to either do it our way or place our trust in the love of our Creator. There is no doubt as to the courage required for such trust, though, because just as often as love is the Angel that rescues us, love also seems to be the force that pushes us in the furnace!

 Love makes us vulnerable to what others think about us, say about us, feel about us. Love can leave us lonely on the road to Calvary and open to the searing pain of loss – the break-up of a marriage or relationship, the loss of a job or vocation, the death of a child, a loved one, a spouse. Certainly, if we didn’t love, we wouldn’t hurt.

 It is often so difficult to keep the heart open to love when love has been the cause of so much pain – trust broken, backs turned, thoughtless words spoken – that we may find ourselves succumbing to the desire to protect our hearts from Love’s flames. Then, little by little, we allow our hearts to turn to stone.

 When this begins to happen it is a time for prayer, a time to reflect on the words of Scripture, “Harden not your hearts.”

 This is the time to reflect on God’s Word -- Jesus.

 Jesus’ example shows us the heart fully devoted to God can be wounded, broken or even consumed by the flames and, still, in the agony, rise up again.

 The reason for this is Love, not the imperfect love of persons but the perfect love of God that will not be turned away, even by sin, as long as God’s love is what our hearts desire. You see, God is a wise Lover, desiring only the heart freely opened, freely given – and devoted to God above all things as the fearless hearts of three young Jewish men.

 So when you hear God whisper, “Harden not your heart,” know that God also whispers your name – Beloved. And God never lets a Beloved walk into the furnace alone.

“He has freed us from the raging flame and delivered us from the fire. Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good, for his mercy endures forever.” Daniel 3:88-89

In moments of awareness we discover the soul

Revelations can happen at the most unexpected time, especially when the eyes of the heart are  open to God.

One night, after a special dinner at the shore with our oldest friends, four of us walked the two blocks to where our car was parked.  Ever the entrepreneurs, my friend Rose and my husband, Frank, stood on the street corner for a few moments discussing the possible profit margin of a newly built set of condominiums. Her husband John and I stood by the car watching in awe as a fiery sun drew ribbons of molten light through thick purple clouds.

"The promise of eternity in a sunset," John mused quietly. When I turned to look at him, he was smiling broadly at the vision he was encountering, as if it were the very first time he had seen so breathtaking a sight. I was not surprised.

During the more than thirty years of our friendship, I had learned that John possessed the soul of a poet, a depth I wasn't sure many people had been privileged to see.

Tonight, with his awareness of the divine so obvious, he seemed a far cry from the often times "distracted" young man of years ago who had one day run into his future father-in-law's house with his future father-in-law's car.

It happened one fine evening when Eddie French asked John to back the car out of the driveway to make room for another visitor. Eager to oblige and make a good impression, John promptly made his way to the car, put the vehicle in reverse and proceeded to smash into the foundation of the house. The building shook, plates fell off the wall. Twenty minutes passed and John could still not bring himself to get out of the sorely mangled car, knowing no words could ever makes sense of what had just happened.

Finally, Eddie strolled out of the house, walked up to the driver's side of the car and said through the open window, "I just have one question."

"What's that?" John muttered sheepishly.

After a serious pause, Eddie asked, "How fast was the house going?"

It was a moment of grace, a moment of compassion, a moment of forgiveness, and a moment that John would never forget!!

Perhaps it was one of those moments, like a shared sunset, that allowed John to "see" a little more deeply into the man who could have berated him severely for his carelessness but chose instead to reveal a soft spot in his nature.

Sometimes, in a privileged moment of honesty, trust and vulnerability, we are blessed with an experience of insight into the true nature of another person. This is a moment to treasure and one for which we should be attentive, because to reveal to another even a small part of our true selves, to make known our deepest desires or greatest fears, is to make ourselves vulnerable as Christ was vulnerable.

It was at Gethsemane that Jesus revealed the depth of his love and faithfulness, as well as the true agony of a fear that caused his soul to be "sorrowful even unto death" – but his friends slept.

To share in such moments with another person is to experience God, but we need to keep the eyes of our heart open so we don't miss the revelation.

A Celtic blessing for the New Year

On this first day of the New Year it always seems meaningful for me to call to mind the friends and family that I have lost – to death or distance or time – and pray for them.  But today, as I read through a wonderful book that one of those friends once sent me as a birthday gift, I rediscovered a lovely Celtic blessing that does not limit blessings to just a few but extends them to all.  I thought it would be a fitting way to begin this first new day of the year by sharing it.

Beannacht ar chách

(Blessing on everyone)

Nara tiugha féar ag fás

(Not more generous the growing blades of grass)

Ná gaineamh ar thrá

(Nor the grains of sand on the shore)

Ná drúcht ar bhán

(Nor the dewdrops on the pasture)

Ná na beannachtaí ó Rí na ngrás

(be the blessings of the Kind of grace)

Ar gach anam a bhí, a bheidh ná atá.

(on every soul that was, that will be or that is.)

From The Glenstal Book of Prayer