God Talk and Tea

Giving thanks because I'm drinking from my saucer

Writers always have their favorite hangouts, places where they can observe life as it goes along its unexpected way.

At one time, for me, it was the coffee shop in the local hospital, where I was spending many hours waiting for loved ones to get tested, have surgery, or recover from an illness. I’m also fond of a quiet corner booth in the local bread and bagel store, with its awesome soup and a fireplace in chilly weather.

But my favorite has become my own backyard deck, where my husband set up a small round table and leather office chair, and extra length of outdoor electric extensions so I can have some mobility in the case of rain. I love being surrounded by walls of trees, and listening to the chatter of a host of birds. But most of all I love being able to make myself an endless pot of tea.

I have a small collection of tea pots, and when my dad died, he left me a small collection of china tea cups and saucers, all collected from garage sales and antique hunting. Some I shared with friends, some I kept.

It must be my Irish blood, but there’s nothing better than a strong cup of tea, poured from a lovely tea pot into a lovely cup and saucer, something that has fallen by the wayside in these days of diners and drive-ins where there’s not a saucer to be found.

Today, the saucer has become a non-essential part of the dinner service, but when I was growing up we never set the table without them. When our tea or coffee would spill over onto the saucer, my mom would place a napkin under the cup to soak up the spill. My dad would pour it back into his cup, but I would drink from the saucer.

My mom would scold me for poor manners and insist that I promise never to be seen in public drinking from the saucer.  It’s a promise I’ve kept, for the most part. But if you sneak up on me while I’m writing on my deck in the backyard, you may catch me breaking that promise – not because of some childlike fondness for breaking the rules but because of something I read a few years ago. It was a poem or the lyrics of a song entitled “Drinking From My Saucer.” It said, in part:

Haven't got a lot of riches and sometimes the going's tough,

But I've got loving ones around me and that makes me rich enough.

I thank God for his blessings and the mercies He's bestowed,

I'm drinking from my saucer 'cause my cup has overflowed.

If God gives me strength and courage

When the way grows steep and rough,

I'll not ask for other blessings I'm already blessed enough.

And may I never be too busy to help others bear their loads,

Then I'll keep drinking from my saucer

"Cause my cup has overflowed."

These words brought new meaning to a simple act I’ve been doing since childhood, and served as a reminder, even in the most difficult of times, of God’s many blessings, and the reasons why we are blessed when we discover and share the reasons for drinking from our saucers.

So, when I hear my mom’s voice telling me to mind my manners and put down the saucer, I am happy to remind her of something she taught me by her childlike joy in life: “Rejoice always. Pray without ceasing. In all circumstances give thanks ...” (1 Thessalonians 5:16-18).

“If you want to be happy, be grateful.” Benedictine Brother David Steindl-Rast

Photo by karl chor on Unsplash

God’s stories are powerfully told in the hospital

Every writer needs a favorite place where they can scribble notes on napkins or complete
manuscripts while the noise of living plays in the background.

Hemingway had La Closerie des Lilas, his favorite restaurant in Montparnasse, Paris.

I have the Terrace Café in JFK Hospital, Edison, New Jersey.

Certainly, a smoke-filled café on the left bank of Paris, where such artistic geniuses as Pablo Picasso, William Faulkner, Salvador Dali and Dorothy Parker gathered to create and exchange ideas, cannot be compared to my little hospital café.

But for me, spending close to two months in the hospital within a year while doctors and nurses worked to heal my son and then my husband, this flourescent and formica restaurant overlooking the hospital parking lot has provided a much appreciated place of respite with plenty of coffee, the daily newspaper and really great soup.

Simple blessings are often the most meaningful.

My fellow patrons may not have included the literary or artistic giants of our time, but their conversations—their tears, their frustration, their laughter, their resiliency—revealed the stuff of inspirational writing.

One afternoon, when I was too tired to even write a word, I took a table near the window with my back to most of the room. Even a smile would have been too much to muster. But the noise of living crept in behind me where a very elderly dad sat eating at a small table across from his senior son.

While they ate their voices rose in anger and accusation.

“You’re a useless son!”

“You’re a terrible father!”

“You’re a drunk!”

“You’re selfish!!

It went on for 30 minutes before the son stormed out and left the father holding his head in his hands. What became clear to me, in his face and beneath all the anger, was an unspoken fear—of pain and dying or, maybe, of being alone or unloved. Certainly these two men loved each other, but for some reason had just not learned how to do it well.

Theirs was a story of the human condition, taking one step toward love and two steps back in our weakness and frailty. Jesus understood this condition and shared the secret, “Love one another as I have loved you.” But dying to self is not a challenge easily met.

Any stay in the hospital, as a patient or a loved one, will confirm a basic truth—being human is not easy. We suffer physically because we are mortal, but we suffer more deeply because we love. It was these stories of love’s suffering and giving and rising above fear that filled my brown stenographer’s notebook every day when I visited the Terrace Café, drank my coffee and was warmed by my soup. Every visit brought new opportunities to consider what was really important in life and how I could do it all better.

Someday I may have the chance to create something meaningful with the notes I scribbled, but for now I’m just grateful for the lessons and the not so simple blessings of health for my family, good doctors, caring nurses and the unfailing support of my friends.

Above all I am grateful for the glimpses of God caught through the human stories encountered each day and the light of hope that shines through the indomitable human spirit.

'A perfect dose of grace' for all seasons

 This small but powerful book of stories is the perfect read for you when you want to reward yourself with some well-deserved quiet time! Rabbi Irwin Kula, author of “Yearnings: Embracing the Sacred Messiness of Life” wrote, “If you want to find God, know love, and truly understand these are the same, read this beautiful book. But be prepared to have your heart opened up, to laugh and to cry, to take many deep breaths of awe and wonder, and to shout out to the Heavens and to the people in your life, Thank You! Hallelujah! What a perfect dose of grace this book is for people of all backgrounds!"  

You can deliver this book now to your e-reader by visiting Things My Father Taught Me About Love, Kindle edition.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

More on paper products and stockpiling

Blame this on my alto buddy who reminded me of the story.

My father used to say that if you’re going to take the road less traveled, take a roll of toilet paper, just in case. I had a neighbor who carried half a roll in her purse at all times. On the day our diocesan choir traveled to Washington, DC, to sing in the Basilica of the Immaculate Conception, I was sorry I didn’t pay attention to them.

 We had already made our half-way pit stop – to eat –when we discovered there was no more toilet paper in the bus restroom, nor was there any backup anywhere on the bus. We quickly ran out of napkins, and searched purses and pockets for any kind of alternative.You can only imagine how relieved we were to finally arrive at the Basilica, an awe-inspiring house of worship with excellent facilities!

 And since necessity is the mother of invention, we were again relieved to have a modest, but very holy two roll supply of toilet paper for our trip home. The names of the suppliers will not be revealed to protect their welcome at the Basilica on our next trip – for which I will be sure to pack a roll in my music bag!

 At times like these I remember my Aunt Evelyn, the queen of stockpiling, who always had what you needed in her purse, especially if it was a plastic rain bonnet! But honestly, if there is anything I’d like to stockpile, it’s memories – all the happy, funny, far-out, sad, and silly times spent with family and friends. For me, that’s what life, and writing, is really all about

 

An amazing garden of gifts!

My cousin Debbie is a baker. It’s in her blood, and in her wisdom she pronounces, “Not everyone can say they look forward to getting up every morning and going to work. I LOVE my job.”    

My son, Shaun, is a teacher. He lives and breathes teaching. Every moment is seen through the lens of educator and everyday his work is rewarding, even when it’s difficult.

Venerable Pierre Toussaint, a Catholic slave, was a hair dresser. His gift for this work not only earned him considerable wealth but enabled him to touch the lives of a arge number of people as he lived the Gospel teachings of charity and love.

I am a writer. But until recently, at the ripe old age of (sorry, the signal’s breaking up) and having written for the better part of my life, the most I would say is that I love to write. Months ago, if you asked me what I do, I would have said, “I work as an editor for an international faith based organization.” A few years ago, I would have answered as an administrator and religious educator for a Catholic diocese.

But today, having broken out of the cocoon, I can admit what I have known on some level since I was four. I am a writer.

Being a writer – or a baker or a teacher or hair dresser – is not all we are, but it is the unique work through which the eternal self blossoms to fullness and lives as a child of God. What an amazing garden of gifts God has cultivated in the human spirit!

 

 

 

(The image used is at www.inspirationline.com/EZINE/31MAR2008.htm)

A swing is good for the soul

While taking a break from writing I decided to drive over to a lovely spot on the bay with parking and benches, and most important for me, trees for shade. While I was sitting there decompressing, I noticed the children playing at the playground nearby. I found myself totally engaged in the joy of the children on the swings. Squealing, jumping, laughing, wanting to go higher and highter. I remembered days when the need for  a prayerful space and time would overtake me, and I would search out a swing at a nearby park. Then there were memories of joyful abandonment, freedom, trust and a glorious experience of space and time. I often wondered if that was the way a soul felt when lost in God. I guess I have misplaced a little bit of my child's heart. Today, I would feel conspicuous on a child's swing. That's sad, at least for me. It signifies that I need to do some soul work and regain the sense of joy in myself. Maybe the two-seater swing in the backyard would be a good place to start.

A joyful heart is the health of the body

"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

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 laughter and the value of learning to laugh at one’s self 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."

Copyright © 2010 by Mary Regina Morrell

Not bothering is an important part of the journey

"How do you do nothing?" asked Pooh…. Christopher Robin replied, "It means just going along, listening to all the things you can hear, and not bothering."

For many years I have written a newspaper column at least twice a month. During the past several years, it has been almost once a week. Adding a stray column here or there, I would estimate that I have written some 500 columns about a variety of spiritual topics.

But recently, as has happened several times during those years, I have found the writing difficult, the thoughts jumbled into little piles like rocks collecting on the bottom of a stream bed that has stopped its move forward.

I remember the first time this happened.

Tossing and turning one sleepless night, I wondered if I could possibly be losing the gift I had been given. It was a disquieting thought, so I rose from bed to find something to occupy my mind.

Of course, as many women will do, I turned to cleaning, sorting out piles of mail that had accumulated in the den. As I threw one thing after another into the garbage I came across a greeting card that I had purchased but never sent—probably because I liked it so much I didn’t want to part with it. The photo was of a cat stretched luxuriously across the top of a roll-top desk full of "stuff," obviously basking in the sun which shone through the adjacent window. The verse read, "There’s no pleasure in having nothing to do. The fun is having lots to do and not doing it."

Doing nothing is a concept I can’t quite get my head around, but at three in the morning, with a mind running on overtime and getting nowhere, it sounded like an incredibly wonderful experience.

Still, being the often times stubborn Irish woman that I can be, I put aside the thought and went on cleaning, musing about the solution to my predicament. The next thing I was to pick up was a book of poetry by Emily Dickenson. Randomly I opened the pages and my eyes rested on a poem about a little brook. The first and last verses say it all: "Have you got a brook in your little heart . . . and your little draught of life is daily drunken there . . . Beware lest this little brook of life some burning noon go dry!"

As the light began to dawn in my head, it was almost as if my faithful guardian angel could be heard muttering something like, "It’s about time!" while exhaling a sigh of relief.

I sat in a nearby chair and considered what I had to finally acknowledge. I needed to stop writing for a time and take a respite for doing nothing—not a retreat, not a time of prayer or recollection, all of which have a purpose, but a time of no purpose other than to simply be and, in the "be-ing", be renewed and refreshed.

So, every year, as I did then, I take a hiatus from writing. But during this time of simplicity and expectant waiting for the rain of renewal, I store up all the spiritual lessons life has to offer so I have plenty to write about when the brook is filled.

If I were to rate my accomplishments in life, learning to make some time for "not bothering," is high on my list.

Thanks, Christopher Robin!

Copyright © 2010 Mary Regina Morrell