Love in a Paper Bag

Today I took a meal to a family who lost a loved one on Monday. I didn't know the man who passed away. I've never met his family. At least not until today. His wife and I crossed paths for a few moments as paper bags of food changed hands over the threshold of their home. A simple greeting, a thank you, a blessing, and a condolence were the only words we spoke . . . the only words we likely ever will. But in that brief moment, I felt God's hand. He was the connection linking together two strangers.

Several years ago, I learned that when you're struggling with life, feeling lost or disconnected with God, the quickest way to heal yourself is to help someone else. It's the Golden Rule, it's the Beatitudes, it's Corporal Works of Mercy, it's social justice in action. It's the work we were created to do. I felt God's hand today because I was God's hand today. "Comfort those who mourn." And don't be surprised if you find your own heart healed in the process.

To The New Year

Happy New Year! New year, new beginnings . . . familiar story, right? What is it about the turning of this particular calendar page that sparks in each of us such a strong desire to change, to renew? Maybe we as humans are only equipped with 365 days worth of cache before our systems require us to reboot and clean the slate. Or maybe there is just something particularly attractive in that continual "second chance" we give ourselves after slugging through the day-to-day for four seasons. Regardless the motivation, I definitely feel the need for a new start this January 1.

It's been a particularly hard year. Some years are like that. While I write often about the presence of God in our lives, it's funny how much of last year I spent questioning his whereabouts. I don't doubt he was there, is here . . . I've only come to see that he isn't always where I've expected him to be. Truth be told, that's been one of the most painful lessons I've ever learned.

While I'm not one to make New Year's resolutions, I feel compelled to make one this year. (Sort of for my own survival.) My resolution is to keep looking for God and to be more aware of the ways in which he is trying to find me. I promise not to be lazy about this. I know so much better now that much of what professes to be of God is not. Many things in today's world seem grim. Lot's of people are suffering in their own way. I can give you lists of bad things, horrible things, but yet sprinkled among those there is still beauty, and peace, and love, and hope. I'm betting on it. I'm banking my heart on it.

I'll share with you here what I find. Join me if you like. Help me along the way. I'm pretty sure it'll be easier with friends. So here's to 2012! Brighter days ahead.

Misjudging Simon

I've been thinking a lot about Simon of Cyrene lately. You remember Simon. He's the guy standing by the side of the road who in the blink of an eye finds himself caught up in Christ's last moments on earth.

In the past, I have always imagined Simon's struggle as being one of getting involved. I've pictured him going about his business that day never considering the "wrong place, wrong time" kind of moment only hours or minutes away. I framed him as a spectator to life. Someone just hanging by the side of the road watching. I guess it has been this impression of him that's always made me judge him a bit harshly.

For some of us (for me), seeing someone struggle is like feeling real physical pain. I want to help. I need to fix everything. I don't want anyone to be lost and alone. I can't bear the injustice. This is especially true for someone I care about. I jump up and down on the side of the road and throw myself in front of the procession. I rip the cross away and chain it to myself. I can carry this forever, I announce.

How could this Simon guy just stand and watch? Why did he have to be forced into service? But a thought occurred to me recently. What if Simon was standing in that crowd wanting to be pulled in? What if compassion overwhelmed him and he just couldn't bear the thought of Christ's aloneness? Maybe he wanted to be noticed. Maybe he knew he would never be able to face himself if he walked away. Maybe I misjudged Simon. I've spent all this time labeling his struggle as taking the cross from Christ. What if his real heartache came from having to give it back?

That's a heartache I know too well. I don't want to let go. So I meditate on this Fifth Station of the Cross. I ask Simon for my lesson. What comes to me is that sometimes we are blessed with the privilege of helping one another. In those moments, we provide comfort and some relief. We allow for rest and encourage rebuilding of strength. But ultimately, this road we walk, we walk alone. Our cross is a private possession that cannot be given away, only shared for a time. It's okay to jump up and down on the side of the road and let someone know you are ready and willing to be his or her Simon. Just remember that in a little while, you'll need to face this weary friend and gently place the cross back.

Lord, Have Mercy

In times of uncertainty, it is more important than ever to cling to hope and faith. Growing up Catholic, my faith has always been intricately entwined with my being. For example, when things get lost around my house, the first line of defense is a prayer request for St. Anthony's assistance. No conscious directive to pray, just an automatic plea, "St. Anthony . . . help!"

An immediate response of I'll pray for you slips from my lips when told of another's pain or suffering. The inner voice that fills my mind is a mixture a self-absorbed monologue sorting through the happenings of life and an ongoing dialogue with God. Funny thing is that none of this was known to me until my faith was shaken. In the midst of questioning why and how could this happen, I cut myself off from God. What followed was a lonely, empty room where silence suffocated breath. In this whiteness, I found myself wordless, prayerless, and lost.

Here again I seek solace in the words of Henri Nouwen, my sweet protector and angel spiritual guide. He reminds me that I can run from God, but God will not run from me. In that white, silent room, God stands by the door. He watches me and waits for me to turn and notice that I've never been alone. Nouwen writes,

You wonder what to do when you feel attacked on all sides by seemingly irresistible forces, waves that cover you and want to sweep you off your feet. Sometimes these waves consist of feeling rejected, feeling misunderstood. Sometimes they consist of anger, resentment, or even the desire for revenge, and sometimes of self-pity and self-rejection. These waves make you feel like a powerless child abandoned by your parents.

What are you to do? Make the conscious choice to move the attention of your anxious heart away from these waves and direct it to the One who walks on them and says, "It's me. Don't be afraid." Keep turning your eyes to him and go on trusting that he will bring peace to your heart. Look to him and say, "Lord, have mercy." Say it again and again, not anxiously but with confidence that he is very close to you and will put your soul to rest.

The waves come in many forms . . . some expected, some unexpected. The point is to keep your eyes above them and firmly focused on Christ. He shared our humanity, but was not flawed.

Lord, have mercy. Lord, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.

The Next Step

When we are hurting most, sometimes it helps to find peace in the words of wise individuals who have traveled difficult roads before us. One such person is Henri Nouwen. His writing is like the most soothing oils. You can sense in his words the compassion of one who has experienced pain and can speak from a place of knowing. The following passage comes from his book, The Inner Voice of Love.

The great challenge is living your wounds through instead of thinking them through. It is better to cry than to worry, better to feel your wounds deeply than to understand them, better to let them enter into your silence than to talk about them. The choice you face constantly is whether you are taking your hurts to your head or to your heart. In your head you can analyze them, find their causes and consequences, and coin words to speak and write about them. But no final healing is likely to come from that source. You need to let your wounds go down into your heart. Then you can live them through and discover that they will not destroy you. Your heart is greater than your wounds….You have to let go of the need to stay in control of your pain and trust in the healing power of your heart.

It's so easy to get caught in pain. Letting your thoughts drown in whys, hows, and what ifs creates an endless circling that rarely gives much relief. Instead it drains away what strength you have and makes little room for hope. Faith means believing in Jesus and trusting him to guide your life. Faith is easy when the path is well lit and the horizon bright ahead. But let's face it, who really needs a guide in those conditions. It's when the sky is dark, the road filled with dangerous twists and turns, and you are barely able to see the next footfall, that you must cling tightly to someone who knows the way. The healing power of your heart comes from God. Surrendering and trusting that he knows you better than you know yourself is the only way to have the courage to step out into the darkness with the faith that the sun will rise again and brighter journeys are ahead.

Signal Graces

Fear seems to be a driving force in the world right now. Markets are affected by fear, people are living in fear, fear is influencing future decisions. There is a definite short-term impact of this kind of atmosphere, but of greater concern is how this way of thinking changes who we are as a people. We were not created to live in fear. We were created to be filled with a peace of knowing that our Creator loves and cares for our every need, both great and small.

I know these truths in my heart, but in the middle of fear, truth and logic are often lost on me. At these times, I find great comfort in the gentle reminders God so lovingly sends my way. I call them signal graces. They may arrive in the form of a book I happen to open to just the words that will touch my hurting heart. Sometimes a signal grace is gifted in the readings at Mass or in the message of a homily seeming to have been crafted just for me.

Other times signal graces come in unexpected emails from a friend, a surprising gesture from a stranger, the particularly beautiful way in which the sun glints through the trees, or the lyrics of a song I happen upon on the radio. The point is those graces are everywhere, always. It's just a matter of me noticing. God doesn't sit back and watch me struggle only to decide that at a particular breaking moment he'll send me a little sliver of hope to keep me from throwing my hands up and calling it quits. In fact, I believe I'm surrounded by these loving reminders and gentle supports every moment of my life.

It's not about me finding time or space to seek God. God is always seeking me.

I want to share with you a few of the signal graces I've come across in the last few days and weeks that have been particularly helpful in dealing with fear. I pray that you will find some comfort in them as well. I also hope you will take a breath from the fear that may be surrounding you and see the many gifts and wonders God has for you.

Isaiah 42:10

Fear not, I am with you;

be not dismayed; I am your God.

I will strengthen you, and help you,

and uphold you with my right hand of

justice.

Do Not Look with Fear

by Saint Francis De Sales

Do not look with fear

on the changes and chances of this life;

rather look to them with full faith that as they arise,

God--whose you are--will deliver you out of them.

He has kept you hitherto.

Do not but hold fast to His dear hand,

and He will lead you safely through all things;

and when you cannot stand, He will bear you

in His arms.

Do not anticipate what will happen tomorrow.

The same everlasting Father who cares for you today

will take care of you tomorrow and every day.

Either He will shield you from suffering or

He will give you unfailing strength to bear it.

Be at peace, then, and put aside all anxious thoughts

and imaginations.

Prayer by Thomas Merton

My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going.

I do not see the road ahead of me.

I cannot know for certain where it will end.

Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think that I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so.

But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you.

And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing.

I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire.

And I know that if I do this

you will lead me by the right road

though I may know nothing about it.

Therefore will I trust you always

though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death.

I will not fear, for you are ever with me,

and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.

Say Often, "Lord, Have Mercy"

by Henri J.M. Nouwen

"You wonder what to do when you feel attacked on all sides by seemingly irresistible forces, waves that cover you and want to sweep you off your feet. Sometimes these waves consist of feeling rejected, feeling forgotten, feeling misunderstood. Sometimes they consist of anger, resentment, or even the desire for revenge, and sometimes of self-pity and self-rejection. These waves make you feel like a powerless child abandoned by your parents.

What are you to do? Make the conscious choice to move the attention of your anxious heart away from these waves and direct it to the One who walks on them and says, "It's me. Don't be afraid" (Matthew 14:27; Mark 6:50; John 6:20). Keep turning your eyes to him and go on trusting that he will bring peace to your heart. Look at him and say, 'Lord, have mercy.' Say it again and again, not anxiously but with confidence that he is very close to you and will put your soul to rest."

[Source: The Inner Voice of Love by Henri J. M. Nouwen. Image Doubleday Books© 1996.]

On Faith

Faith is a delicate string

Upon which hangs our hearts and souls.

We dangle unaware of its strength.

Until, in the midst of the strongest gale,

We grasp with our entire being.

How tightly we cling,

Crying out for relief from all the uncertain motion.

Please let it stop, we pray.

Is this tender filament enough?

Pleading for it to sustain our fragile selves

Awaiting peace.

Promising this time to appreciate its delicate plait

And the landscape below.