Content in the wilderness

So we've made it through four weeks of Lent. How are you doing?

Have you slipped on a Friday and eaten meat? I totally did that just this last Friday (although it wasn't actual meat; I'd forgotten egg-drop soup uses chicken broth. I was halfway through the bowl before I remembered). Are you just absolutely yearning for what you've given up, (you can have it on Sundays, remember. I have had little bits of cheese) or are you at the point where you no longer crave what you've offered as your sacrifice this year?

More importantly, though, have you made a real journey of the soul?

I have this sense that's hard to put into words, but in a way, this Lenten season is changing me more than others in the past have done. And it's not the giving up cheese that's had anything to do with it. I renewed my Marian consecration, the completion of which, this second time around, just gave me this amazing sense of peace. As I went through the 33-day preparation for the consecration (which started before Lent began), I was asking for the grace to let go of things, people, I've held on to, or if God's will for them to be in my life. I don't know that I've let them go entirely, but I certainly am more open to God's will being done with them...am less clingy about these things my mind wants to grasp.

I know that probably makes little sense to you.

But I've also, as Lent has progressed, tried to give myself more silent time just talking to God. When 2014 began, I adopted St. Alphonsus Liguori as my patron for the year, and I've been reading some of his writings. Last week, I read this:

"Finally, if you wish to please the loving Heart of your God, try for as long a space of time as you can to converse with Him, with the greatest possible confidence; He will not fail to answer you and even to speak with you Himself. Not that He will make audible sounds strike your ears, but He will answer in words that you will clearly understand in your heart, insofar as you leave conversation with creatures and try to speak with your God -- you alone with him alone: 'I will lead her into the wilderness: and I will speak to her heart (Hosea 2:14).'"

That last verse from Hosea stopped me when I read it. There is a reason why I am where I am now -- where we all are. And I know I forget, sometimes, even when I am silent, to talk to God. I can become so caught up in my own stresses and grievances, in my daydreams or thoughts of the past, or even fill the silence with other distractions -- reading, although I love it and it is a good thing of itself -- to really listen, or to ask for God's help and to rest in His grace. Things my not be as I'd wish them to be, but I am trying to be more content in the wilderness.

Fictional fervor

So it's a rainy, grey day here in Florida, and I'm sitting at my desk at work, drinking tea, and ostensibly writing a school board budget story. All my calls have been made, and I am picking at it in a desultory fashion, but my head (heart? both?) isn't in it.


Maybe it's just me (or is this a trait many writers -- or we of the overactive imagination -- posses?), but I can see one characteristic of a person, just one, and suddenly there is a character in my head. It doesn't happen all the time, but it did today.


Earlier this week, in editing a columnist's copy, there was a name that struck me as just completely fictional (although this man had lived, and was later killed in WWII). I immediately knew who the made up person was: he was Southern and possibly of French extraction, cultured, living in the early teens or 20s. Names do that to me, too, and I'm forever scrawling down interesting ones to be used for characters later (although I rarely do; finding the scraps of paper with random names on them, sometimes years later, can be amusing...or frustrating, in the "why-didn't-I-do-something-with-that?" vein).


So today, when a new coworker walked down the hall, his manner of walking -- in a loping, somewhat stoop-shouldered gait -- suddenly fit with this person in my head. I was halfway into scrawling a full-blown character study on the closest reporter's notebook -- two and a half pages filled, before I'd even realized it -- how he walked, what he wore (light colored suits, even in winter), the color of his eyes (green); there he was, like Athena from the head of Zeus.


I used to have these sorts of creative writing spurts far more often than I do now, so I feel little guilt for taking the time (besides, my boss has always said she doesn't care if we go to the movies in the middle of the day, provided we turn our copy in on time. And no, she's not kidding). Now I should make sure to do something with it, unlike times before.


And finish the school board story...

Lent and mortality

Blessed first week of Lent!

At Mass yesterday, Father said something in his homily I didn't quite expect. He said, "Lent is a time to think about your own mortality."

I'm not trying to be all morbid on a Monday morning (because Monday's are hard enough!). You also might be thinking, "Well, yeah, of course Lent is a time to think about that. Don't we start off with 'You are dust and to dust you shall return' on Ash Wednesday?"

And we do. But after Father said it, I realized I don't spent much time in Lent reflecting on the end of my days on this earth. To start off with, I think about what I'm giving up (this year, it's cheese). Then there's the remembering not to eat meat on Fridays, of course. Mostly, though, I just go about my day as usual, perhaps with a few extra prayers thrown in. I'm certainly not thinking about death. I have my usual preoccupations with work, daydreams, and errands I need to run.

I don't think Father meant that we're to think about it constantly, though. No one really likes to think about death. We all have things we want to accomplish in life, and the idea that we might not reach certain milestones is frustrating. Death is also a separation from those we love, and as anyone who has lost someone knows, that can be very painful, even if we have faith in the Lord. But for Christians, death is also a journey TO someone we love, to Christ and his love, and that is the reason we should have no fear.

We'll hear it later in Lent during this reading from 1 Corinthians 15: 55-57. “Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting? The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ."

One day, our life on earth will be through. But we will go to a new life in Heaven, eternal life, won for us by the sacrifice of Jesus on the cross. Lent is part of that journey, about preparing our hearts for both the Resurrection at Easter, and for the day we will meet God face to face. 

***
You might be wondering about my Lenten sacrifice. Why cheese? I hadn't given up a food in a while, and I both love and eat lots of cheese. Although at first I was contemplating doing way too much: going to daily Mass, upping my at-the-moment negligible gym attendance to every day (ha!), giving up buying books, adding more spiritual reading to what I'm already doing, donating extra money to charities.

But we're not supposed to go overboard. Our sacrifice, while supposed to be something we will miss, is also meant to be manageable. And while not eating cheese for 40 days may seem silly, it's making me think consciously about what I'm eating -- something I haven't been too good about lately. Much of my snacking involves cheese, and I use cheese in recipes and on sandwiches without thinking. On Fridays, when we abstain from meat, I'm even more conscious of it now, since I can't just make macaroni and cheese or a grilled cheese sandwich. I came thisclose to eating baked ziti at a baby shower on Saturday, the heaping spoon of cheesy pasta poised over my plate, before I remembered...

As for those other things I mentioned first off, I am trying to do some of them. It's ok to change your Lenten sacrifice if what you decided initially isn't working. And don't beat yourself up if you slip. We're human.

Also, if you're looking to add something to your Lenten journey in the short term, today begins the Novena to St. Joseph. You can join it here: http://www.praymorenovenas.com/st-joseph-novena/

Why I'm single...

So Valentine's Day is Friday, and while being single on this particular day doesn't bother me, there are times where (while trusting God and trying to be patient) I do get tired of my single state.

This mostly ridiculous list, then, of the "10 Reasons Why You Might Still Be Single," made me laugh. While I know the real reason is #1 (more importantly, adding God's will, which didn't make the list), #8 (which I'm about to spoil, sorry) also has merit, since I'm fairly certain living in the part of Florida retireeland where I dwell is, in fact, an actual equivalent to being trapped at the bottom of a well. ;)

Source: http://www.fark.com/comments/2816114/Photoshop-this-nice-view-from-bottom-of-a-well

Thoughts on year's end/year's beginning


Happy 2014! This new year crept up on me. It's not that I was unaware it was coming, exactly, but that it seemed to arrive so quickly.

I saw out the old year and rang in the new in my pj's on my friend (and former roommate) Pam's couch. Her boyfriend still being out of town with family, we spent the night talking, drinking wine and snacking on cheese, fruit and (not at all healthy) Totino's pizza rolls. We watched a movie (Admission, with Tina Fey and Paul Rudd -- one of the rare occurrences where I think a film adaptation is better than the book), pausing it to see the ball drop in New York, and finally exchanged Christmas presents.

It was a completely comfortable way to celebrate. Not that I dislike dressing up and going out (sometimes I very much enjoy it), but being an introvert, was very content with a stress-free New Year's Eve.

I couldn't possibly have foreseen this year just past, which was both difficult and wonderful in ways I would never have imagined: that I would move again courtesy of  a landlord who let our rental go into foreclosure, travel to Puerto Rico (a time with my best friend and her family that I am so grateful for) or lose a parent.

My dad dying from cancer is something which I certainly hadn't anticipated for 2013 when the year began. There are still people who, when they ask me how I am doing, ask it gingerly, clearly more uncomfortable than I am, as if I will crack and crumble beneath the weight of the question; who get this almost comical look of sorrow on their faces or are sadder than I seem to be when they talk about it, while I, on the other hand, could easily joke about the fact that the hardest person on my Christmas shopping list wasn't going to be a problem this year (and then, naturally, quickly found three or four things he would have loved). Yes, it makes me sad that he's no longer here and some songs heard in the car still (and may always -- Philip Phillip's "Gone, Gone, Gone" comes to mind) make me teary. I have had a few more serious crying jags about it and I would - of course! - much rather have had to struggle to find him a present than not. As with other family members who have passed out of this life, I will miss him until I see him again. But am I distraught most of the time? No.

Why? Because he has been born into Eternal Life and is someplace better than I am. I cannot be disheartened by that. And because all the struggles and hardships he faced, all the stress - some of it admittedly self-induced - and pain of depression and his cancer are gone. He was ready, a man of faith who struggled all his life and sought to truly believe in hope despite trials, who had doubts, but oh, how he prayed!

There was joy, too. Of an unexpected new pope, Francis, of seeing family at our family reunion, of witnessing friends wed and welcome children. Of small things, like discovering new books and TV shows (yes, I geeked out over "Doctor Who" this year. I'm not ashamed). At the beginning of this year, inspired by something I saw on Facebook, I took an old glass jar and began filling it with scraps of paper, jotting notes of good things that happened, written on the backs of receipts, envelopes and even a scrap of Christmas wrapping paper. I opened it last night and read them again. Some of them are ridiculous and fun: "Talking to Sarah (best friend) and having her reassure me that I'm not a total idiot & spastic girl" (which, by the way, is somewhat untrue. I can be both an idiot and spastic, sometimes all at once), another noted the birthday of a former crush had passed without my remembering it as "some sort of victory" and laughing over the fact that my mom called "randomly to tell me about a kooky dream she had." Although it's not in the jar (my post on it likely wouldn't have fit), I also knew the joy of and outpouring of love and care that I received from family, friends, coworkers and acquaintances in the wake of dad's death.

Other notes in the jar aren't joyful but rather fact-filled, including some scribbled down during phone conversations about the progress of dad's illness. In one, early on after he was diagnosed, I wrote down a few things he said: "It's in God's hands," and "Don't let it ruin your day," which I remember made me laugh when he said it, because here he is with cancer and he's telling me that, and "It's nothing to get down in the dumps about." Even now, the incongruousness of it made me smile again. On the back of that paper, I also wrote "Had a good, albeit short, cry to The Beatles 'In My Life.'" I cried a bit again last night reading it. You see, I'd always had this idea that I wanted to dance with him to 'In My Life' at my wedding reception, since The Beatles were his favorite. Anyway...

At a certain point, I just became too busy to write things down and put them in the jar. Other than a program from our mass at my family reunion in Illinois over July 4th weekend, the only thing dated later is the ticket from the Audrey Assad concert I went to in St. Pete in early November (which was amazing). After July, everything went so quickly with my dad's health. And then in August I was helping plan a funeral, then sorting through a life worth of things (which still continues), but that time with my mother and my brothers (frustrating as it sometimes was) I would not trade.

I'm thinking on doing the jar again in 2014. Unfolding the scraps of paper having forgotten what was on them was a neat activity. I'm not sure what I'm going to do with them now. Perhaps paste them in a book. Although, in that case, I should just go back to journaling. I think I'm less spastically idiotic when I do. :)

Randomly:

I am occasionally quite lonely. I was afraid for a while to even admit it, as if it were a weakness, but have found peace with it in recent months. It isn't necessarily a bad thing, either, as someone once told me that loneliness is simply the Lord yearning for more of you and your attention. You never know. There may come a day when I am surrounded by noise and family and yearn to have all this time to myself back again. :)

Also, I am stronger than I sometimes give myself credit for being.

In the books read in 2013 department, I read fewer books than in 2012 (51 to 61, although I have five I haven't yet finished, one a devotional and another I started only on Dec. 29th). My one concrete reading goal I've set myself for 2014 is to actually read all of JPII's "Theology of the Body." Arleen Spenceley, an acquaintance/fellow Catholic journalist, invited her friends on Facebook and Twitter followers to try reading two pages a day with her in order to complete it in a year. As I've tried reading the daunting-yet-rich tome twice before, and heretofore failed to complete it, two-page sections a day seems manageable.

Naturally, there are just stacks of other books I want to read. Listing them would take too long, I think, and this post is already lengthy enough.

Every year, at year's end/beginning, I have a tendency to write that the coming year will be better than the last. It is a sign of hope, an evidence of and faith in things not seen. I, like most, make some sort of resolution. Usually it's to write more, up the days of the week I exercise, daydream less or to be more spontaneous.

This year, I make none. It's not because I'm not setting goals, or that I don't want to be a better person (or write and exercise more) in 2014, or that I'm without hope (because I have ever so much hope!), but rather I am trusting that God will hold me and guide me in the best path regardless of what promises I make (or even subsequently break) to myself. And thanks to Jennifer Fulwiler over at Conversion Diary, and her patron saint generator, I will be praying 2014 with St. Alphonsus Liguori.

Finally, on this Solemnity of Mary, Mother of God, I also ask for Our Lady's protection and prayers for the year ahead. Here's to what's to come!

A spark in her bonfire heart*

She waltzes, alone, no glorious dress whirling 'round her,
In too-long jeans, a T-shirt and bare feet, cool on the foyer tile.
The muscles in her feet flex and arch, pushing her through the quarter turns
And the balance steps, the music's exuberance having launched her from
Her couch's supine embrace. Her own arms, mimicking a proper hold
Clasp no one, only her imagination sees a partner, feels his hand on her waist.
Smiling to herself, she pauses in turn, laughing at the fiction
And thinks suddenly of how goofy she would seem,
Should someone stumble upon her,
Spinning, a solitary Miss Havisham, minus the ghoulishness.
And yet she finds joy in the dance, even if it is danced alone.





*Thanks for the inspiration, James Blunt.

"Love's as Warm as Tears"

This:

"Love's as Warm as Tears" by C. S. Lewis

Love's as warm as tears,
Love is tears:
Pressure within the brain,
Tension at the throat,
Deluge, weeks of rain,
Haystacks afloat,
Featureless seas between
Hedges, where once was green.

Love's as fierce as fire,
Love is fire:
All sorts - infernal heat
Clinkered with greed and pride,
Lyric desire, sharp-sweet,
Laughing, even when denied,
And that empyreal flame
Whence all loves came.

Love's as fresh as spring,
Love is spring:
Bird-song hung in the air,
Cool smells in a wood,
Whispering, "Dare! Dare!"
To sap, to blood,
Telling "Ease, safety, rest,
Are good; not best."

Love's as hard as nails,
Love is nails:
Blunt, thick, hammered through
The medial nerves of One
Who, having made us, knew
The thing He had done,
Seeing (with all that is)
Our cross, and His.

Decisions, decisions...

So having finally finished St. Augustine's "Confessions" last week, I need to decide which of the many awaiting spiritual works I'll tackle next.

Here are a few of my choices:

The biography of Blessed Pope John XXIII can wait a little, I think, but I definitely want to read it before he is canonized in April. Other than the fact that he called the Second Vatican Counsel, I know so little about him.

St. Rita is one of my favorite saints, ever since I heard her referred to in college as "the saint of impossible dreams," or a female St. Jude. She's on my go-to short(ish) list of saints I pray to regularly and, while I'm familiar with the rudiments of her story, would like to read it in more detail.

"Love and Responsibility" I've wanted to read for ages. I also have a feeling I could read "Praying with the Saints for the Holy Souls in Purgatory" in tandem with another one of these books, say as a devotional before bed, even.

Tackling a re-read (or re-start, rather) of "No Man is an Island" probably deserves to be at the top of my list (see the above link), since I already started it once.

The book on the bottom I think I discovered in a Leaflet Missal catalog. It's an 1897 reprint about Catholic nuns aiding the wounded during the Civil War. It's a part of history, despite knowing a fair bit of the about the Civil War, that I'm completely unfamiliar with, which ergo makes it fascinating to me.

Right, so Merton first, I think, then the Civil war nuns. :)

Romantic proposals

We've all seen them: viral YouTube videos (or, I'm dating myself here, when TLC had a show -- a spin-off of "A Wedding Story" -- called "A Proposal Story") of men proposing to their girlfriends in grand manner with marching bands, dancing flash mobs, family members flown or Skyped in, celebrity help or personal films played in rented movie theaters. They're fun and utterly joyful to watch, and you have to commend these guys for putting so much planning and effort into that special moment.

There's nothing wrong and so many things right about them, but I've never wanted that.

I think just about any woman has imagined at some point (barring those who discerned religious life from an early age) how they would like -- or not like -- a man to propose to them, even if the face of the man is still hazy. I, for example, don't want to be proposed to at a sporting event, in a jewelry store (ugh, that one Zales commercial actually makes me cringe a bit), at any store or restaurant for that matter or at a giant family gathering ( for either side). Call me selfish, but -- should I be fortunate in that regard -- I've always wanted that moment to belong just to me and the man who will be my husband. Some of the most beautiful proposal stories I've heard from my now married or engaged girlfriends are the ones where the men planned something personal, yet private, whether it was on a beach, up a mountainside or in a church.

And the other day, going through my Feedly feed, was this post by Ann Voskamp, "The Real Truth about ‘Boring’ Men — and the Women who Live with Them: Redefining Boring," which I find incredibly beautiful. 

In it, her sons ask how their dad proposed, and when she says it was without fanfare in a car, pulled over on the side of the road on a cold winter's night, and that he even (shockingly!) didn't drop to one knee, their immediate response is "how boring!"

Voskamp explains to her sons, however, that it isn't the proposal that makes a life, but  "how a man purposes to lay down his life that makes him romantic."

She doesn't argue that romance is bad, because it isn't at all. But she goes on:

"Romance isn’t measured by how viral your proposal goes. The internet age may try to sell you something different, but don’t ever forget that viral is closely associated with sickness – so don’t ever make being viral your goal.
Your goal is always to make your Christ-focus contagious – to just one person.
It’s more than just imagining some romantic proposal.
It’s a man who imagines washing puked-on sheets at 2:30 am, plunging out a full and plugged toilet for the third time this week, and then scraping out the crud in the bottom screen of the dishwasher — every single night for the next 37 years without any cameras rolling or soundtrack playing — that’s imagining true romance. ... The real romantics are the boring ones — they let another heart bore a hole deep into theirs."

I encourage you to read the whole thing.

Let it begin with me

So at mass on Sunday, I was in a great mood. I'd been to the Audrey Assad concert the night before (it was essentially an hour and a half of praise and worship, which was wonderful and much needed), and woken up at 6:15, thanks to the time change, then made some progress in reading St. Augustine's confessions (which I've been reading off and on for over a year now -- but I'm almost done!).

Like I said, great mood, the priest gave a wonderful homily, and I wasn't even minding the cantor's overly operatic musical stylings that typically distract me completely from the mass. I was sitting on the end of a pew, and next to me was an older man, easily in his 80s. I got up and went to communion and got hung up in the line for the precious blood, so because the pew had filled from the opposite end, walked all the way around the section of pews to come back to my seat. When I got there, I found the old man had moved both my purse and my sunglasses over and taken my spot!

He moved off the kneeler and let me back into the pew as soon as I tapped his shoulder, but it was amazing how fast my great mood started to fizzle, and I could feel myself getting annoyed. My internal dialog as I knelt went something like this:

"That man took my seat! And he moved my stuff! How dare he?! That's so rude! I would never do that! Does he think just because he's ancient he can do whatever he wants? I bet he just wants to duck out so he can win the race of other seniors out of the parking lot....But wait, I just received Jesus in the Eucharist, I shouldn't be letting myself be angry. Be charitable, be charitable, Lord please help me to be charitable."

Guess what the closing hymn was?

"Let there be Peace on Earth."

And I started to laugh silently to myself. "Let begin with me," indeed! It turned out that my supposition about the man was wrong, as he didn't leave until the hymn was over. I have no idea about why he actually felt the need to move over and take the spot at the end of the pew previously occupied by me (I guess I can't really call it mine, either, since the pews don't exactly have assigned seating). But I got to thinking as I drive home that that's all it takes, something that small and quick, for us to take our eyes off the Lord get off track, and for the devil to slither in, even when we've been focusing on prayer.  

To NaNoWriMo or not to NaNoWriMo?

So today, Jen over at Conversion Diary blogged about NaNoWriMo -- National Novel Writing Month, which is November -- and just tackling writing projects in general: "I felt God nudging me to write this post, like he was saying, 'There is someone out there who needs to write a book. I gave them this great idea for a story, and they keep talking themselves out of putting it down on paper.'"

Raises hand.

Ugh. I have been so tempted to do NaNoWriMo so many times, but never have...and the ideas for books (both fiction and non) in my head are nearly endless (years ago...YEARS! ...I had an idea for a Catholic chick-lit novel, and got so much encouragement from people I talked to about it (even a Sister of Life), but did nothing). But I'm just so afraid that I will run out of time in the day to get writing in because of excuses (work, trying to work out more, the experimental cooking I never do, thinking about projects, daydreaming about things, reading other people's books that are probably better than anything I'll write and watching TV shows that have started up again...b/c some of us don't have/can't afford a DVR to watch them whenever we want and fast forward through commercials...sorry, I digress, whinely), or that even if I try, everything I write will just be sheer, unmitigated crap. Excuses, excuses, excuses.

I actually started two different story lines a couple of weeks ago, all fired up because I had not one, but TWO fiction ideas that are completely disparate (one science fictiony, the other historical), and after a couple of frenzied hours flipping back and forth between two Word documents, have proceeded to do absolutely nothing with them.

Work ethic, thy name is mud.

NaNoWriMo might actually help me here, seeing as it's deadline driven, and the panic of deadlines is something I find helpful when trying to complete tasks (House cleaning, it can wait. Oh, but someone will be over in 35 minutes? I become a frenzied whirlwind of house-straightening). And you have to achieve a certain word count per day, so it isn't like you can procrastinate until November 28 and then just write 50,000 words by midnight November 30. No, really, you can't: you sign up and write into a system that keeps track of your progress. Also, you can't start it and write into something you've already started; you have to start with a completely new topic.

You know, because that's not intimidating. The list of how NaNoWriMo works gives all sorts of advice, with #7 being "This is not as scary as it sounds." Uh huh. I keep thinking and occasionally blogging about how I don't do enough writing, so perhaps I should just go for it. I overthink to the point of inaction so often that anything is better than nothing, right? Right?

How are you?

The other day, a friend asked me how I was doing. I actually was doing fine, and said so. But it got me thinking. How often -- usually in passing -- does someone ask 'How are you?' or "Are you doing ok?" Is the person just being polite, or do they really want to know?

When someone asks, do you give an honest answer? Or do you lie, and just say you're good, even if you are anything but?  Do you really want to share that you're really feeling sad, lonely, angry or completely frustrated with your job/parents/roommate/boyfriend/grades/class schedule/singleness/life choices?

How often do you ask others those questions yourself?  Do you expect a complete answer when you ask? Do you truly want to be an ear for someones grievances?

Ok, that's a lot of sentences that end in question marks, lol. I think sometimes, it depends on the level of friendship, whether the person is a co-worker (some of my co-workers I know very well, others are more like acquaintances) or a closer friend. Certain people I know I can unburden myself to if I'm having a hard day. Others, not so much. And there have been occasions where I've asked someone how they're doing, and they have launched into something that's bothering them, when really all I meant was a polite hello. You have to think, though, what if they live alone and don't have anyone else to talk to? I know venting to my best friends about rough days or my frustrations really helps me, and sometimes, we all need a sympathetic ear.

I'm not sure where I was planning on going with this, really, but it's something to think about.

"...a little pencil..."

While I was away on bereavement leave after my dad's passing last month, I spent time helping my mom sort through some of my dad's things between what to donate and what to keep. One of the things we sorted (not that we're finished yet) were his books. My dad had a lot of books and enjoyed reading history -- World War II, the Old West and Civil War history especially -- along with espionage and adventure thrillers and some science fiction.

He also had fair amount of spiritual reading and a lot, specifically, by Blessed Mother Teresa. I took a few of them home my mom didn't want, and have been flipping through them at random. One of the (multitude of) beautiful things about Mother Teresa -- who's feast day was Sept. 5th -- was the simple, relatable way she could express very deep spiritual thoughts, as well as encourage people to work for God, trust in Him and pray always. So today I just wanted to share some of them.

"You can pray while you work. Work doesn't stop prayer and prayer doesn't stop work. It requires only that small raising of the mind to Him: I love you God. I trust you. I believe in you. I need you now. Small things like that. They are wonderful prayers."

"You and I have been created for greater things. We have not been created just to pass through this life without aim. And that greater aim is to live and be loved and we cannot love unless we know. Knowledge always leads to love and love to service."

"Be the living expression of God's kindness; kindness in your eyes, kindness in your face, kindness in your smile, kindness in your warm greetings. We are all but His instruments who do our little bit and pass by. I believe that the way in which an act of kindness is done is as important as the action itself."

"I always say I am a little pencil in God's hands. He does the thinking. He does the writing. He does everything and sometimes it is really hard because it is a broken pencil and He has to sharpen it a little more. Be a little instrument in His hands so that He can use you any time, anywhere. We have only to say 'yes' to God."

An insufficient thank you

Where do I even begin?

In the weeks before my dad's death, I wrote a lot, more than I'd written in a while. It, and vast amounts of prayer, helped keep my emotions, so often on the verge of being loosed, somewhat in check, at least while I was in public. I was mourning in advance, I think. Some of that will eventually make its way here. Other portions of it - like a post about his cancer and the affect it had on him that I began with the best of intentions but then devolved into some now-confessed anger - likely will not, at least not in its entirety.

I have heard myself, in the past weeks, referred to by some as a very private person, and I suppose that's true in some ways, although I don't see myself as such. I suppose people said it because I didn't broadcast my worries and feelings, or even the fact of my dad's cancer, to the general public. In that way, I think, I am like my dad, who didn't tell some people he was ill because he didn't want to be a pitiful center of attention. Or perhaps it's a lack of trust and a fear of opening myself up. My dad could be like that, too. But sometimes, it's a combination of things. Some things are too close to be shared, at least right away.

Anyway, one thing I do need to do is say thank you. I know so many words, but in the last several weeks I can't tell you how many times I have been moved beyond them. Whenever, anytime in the future, I find myself starting to feel down or otherwise woe-is-me sorry for myself, I need to remember these weeks, and the incredible amount of love that has been poured out upon me by my friends. I have lost count of how many of you (and this doesn't even begin to include family) went out of your way to do something, even something you think meaningless and insignificant, to make my or my family's life easier, to give me solace or make me laugh. If it is even a fraction of the love the Lord has for me, then I am beyond blessed.

I know I don't even know the half of the people who prayed for me, for my family and for the repose of my dad's soul - who are still praying. I do know that they have sustained me, and helped me keep focused on dad's salvation, rather than his absence. Thomas Merton says that, one day, when we, too, are gone, we will know all who have prayed for us. Some thank yous, in that case, may be delayed. :)

But there have been so many expressions of care and sympathy, beyond the prayers:
Cards came from coworkers -- one who bought be a beautiful orchid that was waiting on my desk when I came back to work this week -- and those who chipped in for a completely unexpected cash collection that they mailed to me at my mom's house.
Cards also arrived from friends who have had or will have masses said for the family and the repose of dad's soul.
My friend Nikki from high school, who I hadn't seen in I don't even know how many years but with whom I reconnected with via Facebook, came to the funeral and took some truly lovely pictures at the graveside - something I would, had I not been focused on the moment, still never thought to do, but a gift I will cherish always.
Michele, who not only baked yummy snacks, but who charmed the Olive Garden manager with her Louisiana Southern accent into giving us a backroom and free appetizers following the viewing, and then, at the reception after the funeral, essentially pushed me bodily into a chair and stood over me, bullying me (lovingly, truly) until I forked food into my mouth, because otherwise I wouldn't have had time for a bite, being too busy trying to be a polite hostess and visit with everyone there.
Pam had my lawn mowed while I was gone so I didn't face code enforcement fines for the jungle my yard already was when I left. Kim and the I'm-still-kinda-shocked-about-the -incredibleness care package.
Julia, Sarah & Michael -- who played the most gorgeous Bach-Gonoud "Ave Maria" on his violin at the funeral mass -- who dropped everything and who came to the funeral on flying trips; I'm so sorry we didn't actually have time for a real visit.
Several friends posted goofy things on Facebook or sent me emails with funny pins from Pinterest to cheer me, or let me alternately cry on the phone or ramble aimlessly in a more-than-my-usual discombobulated manner.
Joy, who I hadn't seen in probably three or four years, chatted with me over Vietnamese one night like we were still in high school and had only seen each other the day before.

So many others texted, emailed or posted condolences on Facebook. I have so much gratitude to so many people, and if I've left you out or not mentioned you by name, I'm sorry, and it isn't remotely meant as a slight. Some will be receiving thank-you notes (because I was raised in South, and that's what we do...and because I have your addresses), but for the moment, this more general one will have to suffice.

I love you all. Thank you.

Spiritual reading fail

I have not been doing well with my spiritual reading lately. Well, if lately means "this year."

Actually, I could go back farther than that, actually.

Because I keep track of the books I read (I know lots of people who do this, some via Goodreads, me in a blank journal), I can tell you that I started reading "The Confessions" of St. Augustine 1:14 a.m. on October 20, 2012.

I'm still on page 141.

Now, to be fair, it's pretty dense material. But I should really be finished by now, especially with as many vacations I've managed to haul it along since I started with the hopes of getting deeper into it (because St. Augustine's writing is amazing), but the last time I can actually recall cracking it open and reading/taking notes on it was in January. In February, I noted in my reading journal that "I will finish it!"

Although I think I'm even more at fault when it comes to Thomas Merton's "No Man is an Island." I bought it after reading (and loving) his "Seven Storey Mountain," but a pen and two boarding passes from flights to and from Oklahoma for Thanksgiving, 2011 mark both the page (62) and the rough date I left off reading. I just need to start over.

And don't even get me started on how many times I've started (and completely failed) to get into St. Thomas Aquinas. Even the "Shorter Summa" is beyond me. Is there a Summa for Dummies out there somewhere?

My lack of progress in these books doesn't stop me from wanting to expand my spiritual reading library, though. Not too terribly long ago, I bought both a biography of St. Rita of Cascia and "Love and Responsibility" written by Karol Wojtyla before he became Pope John Paul II (which reminds me I've only made meagre progress though his "Theology of the Body"). And whenever I get a copy of the Leaflet Missal catalog, the pages are soon dog-eared with other books I'd like to have.

You know that feeling you sometimes get when you know you need to do something? Anyway, this whole topic came about because I've been feeling the lack of serious spiritual reading lately. Beyond daily prayer and going to mass, spiritual reading, at least for me, helps me to see how the saints were open to His call and trusting in his grace, but oftentimes just like us, struggling to make sense of what God wanted them to do. Many incredibly smart men and women, too, have so much wisdom to share through their writings that can help lead us closer to Christ.

The book I finished reading most recently, although a novel, I would couch in the spiritual reading arena. I reread "Brideshead Revisited," by Evelyn Waugh, who converted to the Catholic Church.

Set in England between the two world wars, "Brideshead" is a very Catholic book about forgiveness and redemption, dealing as it does with the wealthy and aristocratic Flyte family, who are Catholic, seen through the eyes of the agnostic Charles Ryder, who is befriended by the younger son, Sebastian Flyte, while the two are students at Oxford. When I first read it in high school, while I went to church and was involved in youth group activities, I wasn't as passionate about my faith as I am now, and, while I knew and recognized the blatant Catholicism of it, much of the book's depth was lost on me at the time.

This time, was just floored by a)Waugh's amazing skill with language -- some of his prose just took my breath away, the bitingly dry and sometimes not-so-subtle comedy, the vocabulary (although Waugh allegedly poo-pooed the book after re-reading it several years following its publication) and, b) the simple yet powerful truths he conveys as Charles -- who is quite puzzled by this new world he's entered -- learns about the (sometimes ill-practiced) faith of his new friend and his family.

Still, I don't doubt it's the prompting of the Holy Spirit telling me to get back on the ball with more serious spiritual reading.

There is a wonderful book by Father Jean-Pierre de Caussade (1675-1751) called "Abandonment to Divine Providence," -- which, if you haven't read, I highly recommend -- and despite being written so long about, it is just full of sage advice. For example, on this particular topic, he says "If it is God's will that the present moment should be spent in reading, reading will exert a mystical power in the depths of the soul."

Not only can spiritual reading help you grow in your understanding and faith, but it can also help you explain the faith to others or, as de Caussade says, "builds up in me a kind of spiritual store which, in the future, will develop into a core of usefulness for myself and others."

In fact, in flipping through it's dog-eared, heavily underlines pages, various passages leap out at me, so full of beauty and comfort as I write this, I see so much that I need to be reminded of. Speaking of the Holy Spirit... :)

What are some of your favorite works of spiritual reading?

7/7, Day 7.5: Belay that

So I had started a post for this final day of the 7 posts, 7days blogging challenge, but was pulled away mid-writing by family (I've been at my parent's this weekend), and when I came back to it, well, the seventh day had turned into a pumpkin.

I know the whole point of the exercise was to post even when things aren't perfect, or even necessarily ready, and to write write, write every day, but the post I had planned needs more from me...and sometimes that takes time. Plus, I have written every day, only today I just didn't meet the deadline. And while I can't promise I will post something every day from now on, it will be more frequent, and more than just once per week.

Anyway, I have loved taking part in this, and the writing every day -- for me, not for work -- is so good. It seems bizarre even to me to think this, but I'd actually forgotten how much I needed the outlet, regardless of whether anyone reads this blog or not. It's good for the soul. Or at least my soul.

7/7, Day 6: Revisiting "Brideshead"

Earlier this week, I started rereading "Brideshead Revisited" by Evelyn Waugh. The last time I read it, I was in high school, and it's always fun rereading books after a long gap, because you get different things out of them as an adult.

Sebastian with Aloysius, Lady Julia and Charles
from the 1981 miniseries
 

 Back then, I read it the first time (for fun, mind, not for school) in large part because I'd discovered the miniseries with Jeremy Irons, Anthony Andrews, Diana Rigg and Sir Laurence Olivier through reruns on Bravo, and would come home and watch episodes of it after school (often in the same afternoon as more atypical early 90s teen fare like "Saved by the Bell." How's that for opposite ends of the spectrum?). After I bought the book (which actually has a tie-in cover to the mini-series, even though it was produced in the early 1980s), I was somewhat amazed to discover that Evelyn was in fact a man (baby!), but I do remember enjoying it, more so for its plot of how the upper crust lived in pre-WWII England than anything else.

"Brideshead" is a very Catholic book, dealing as it does with the wealthy and aristocratic Flyte family, who are Catholic, seen through the eyes of the agnostic Charles Ryder (Irons), who is befriended by the younger son, Sebastian Flyte, Lord Marchmain (Andrews), while the two are students at Oxford. When I read it in high school, while I went to church and was involved in youth group activities, I wasn't as passionate about my faith as I am now, and, while I knew and recognized the blatant Catholicism of it, much of the book's depth was lost on me at the time.

Now, even only 100 pages in, I'm just floored by a)Waugh's amazing skill with language -- the lengthy paragraph where, in the preface, he describes the older Charles' disillusion with his Army career just took my breath away, the bitingly dry and sometimes not-so-subtle comedy, the vocabulary (although Waugh allegedly poo-pooed the book after re-reading it several years following its publication) and, b) the simple yet powerful truths he conveys as Charles -- who is quite puzzled by this new world he's entered -- learns about the (sometimes ill-practiced) faith of his new friend and his family.

"Often, almost daily, since I had known Sebastian, some chance word in his conversation had reminded me that he was a Catholic," Charles says on page 86, and again, on 89, the following exchange takes place between Sebastian and himself:

C: "They (Catholics) seem just like other people."
S: "My dear Charles, that's exactly what they're not ... they've got an entirely different outlook on life; everything they think important is different from other people. They try and hide it as much as they can, but it comes out all the time. It's quite natural, really, that they should."

A few pages later, Charles, in talking with Sebastian's younger sister, Cordelia, he asks her if her family talks about their religion all the time. "Not all the time," she replies. "It's a subject that just comes up naturally, doesn't it?" To which Charles responds, "Does it? It never has with me before."

It all reminded me a bit of this quote I read on someone else's blog (forgive me for not noting who's blog that was) last week:

"Writing is a vocation and, as in any other calling, a writer should develop his talents for the greater glory of God. Novels should be neither homilies nor apologetics: the author's faith, and the grace he has received, will become apparent in his work even if it does not have Catholic characters or a Catholic theme." —Piers Paul Read, "The Death of a Pope"

That said, I'm now catch passing Catholic references I never would have recognized in the book when I was 15. The first page of chapter one, for instance, describes Oxford's "spacious and quiet streets" where "men walked and spoke as they had in Newman's Day..." Newman, of course, is Blessed John Henry Newman, who was a teacher and Anglican pastor at Oxford but then later in life converted (Waugh, too, was a convert) to Catholicism. Filled with nerdy glee, I made a margin note about it.

As an aside, does anyone else make copious margin notes in some books? I remember having a discussion with a guy I sort-of dated years ago (sort of because we talked around it for ages and he only finally asked me out to dinner the night before he moved across the country, but that's a story for another day) about taking notes in a book. I am (quite obviously) in favor, and will happily mark up, jot notes, underline and draw arrows to points/words/passages I find interesting or compelling (does it bother anyone else to switch ink colors while taking notes in a book? I'm not Type A about many things, but that's one of them) because it gives immediate access to said notes when and if they're needed again, as well as serves as a quasi-journalish, time capsule of sorts, documenting thoughts had at the time.

He was in the opposite camp, preferred his books pristine, and instead chose to create a file on his computer for whatever book he was reading, then take type in his notes or observations there, rather than in the book's margins. It almost goes without saying that he was an (albeit very well read) engineer.

But I've digressed...

Anyway, what struck me about the above passage from "Brideshead" is that it's true. When your faith is part of your life, it becomes obvious, even if you're not proclaiming it from the housetops. It simply (profoundly, deeply) colors your life and, as Cordelia Flyte said, "comes up naturally."

7/7: Day 5, or What's in a name?

Today is the feast day of St. Anne, (and also that of St. Joachim who also is celebrated today), mother of the Blessed Virgin Mary, grandmother to Jesus. Perhaps because I was given her name, I've always had a devotion to St. Anne, and ask for her intercession often, I had several friends wish me a happy feast day on Facebook today, which was awesome.

According to Wikipedia (which is, of course, never wrong, lol), “Anne, alternatively spelled Ane or Ann, is a form of the Latin female given name Anna. This in turn is a representation of the Hebrew Hannah or Hanani, meaning 'He (God) has favored me', the name of the mother of the prophet Samuel.” It also means graceful, I've been told.

When I think of grace, my mind automatically begins, “Hail, May, full of Grace, the Lord is with thee.” St. Anne was the mother of Mary, and therefore was, when pregnant with the Blessed Virgin, literally full of grace herself.

I think, too, especially when considering the Old Testament story of Hannah, that (in one of those Old Testament/New Testament correlations) both she and St. Anne were older, essentially beyond childbearing years, when they bore their children, gifts from God. I, who am as yet unmarried, wonder if I, too, will be “old” when I have my children (I certainly would have been considered such in Biblical times, or even in the 1940s, a woman doomed to spinsterhood), should I be so blessed as to marry as I feel God is calling me. But I suppose their fate also should give me hope, in the sense that I too may one day be blessed as they were, that my prayers will also be answered, my patience rewarded. A friend told me once on a retreat that God never withholds His blessings. :)

There is a strength in waiting, a grace and favor to accepting where God has me. A hopefulness in trusting in His plan, His timing, which are so much more knowledgeable than my own human plans.

Anne is actually (full disclosure time), my middle name, although I have never been called by my first name except by teachers who didn't know better. My first name is Laurel, a name which is derived from the laurel tree. In a way, and I've never thought about it before, my two names go well together (not just in flow), but in that trees, and the wood of the laurel tree especially, is strong, a hard wood that is not easily chopped down. Trees also bend with the wind (provided the wind isn't of hurricane strength), with change. In ancient Greece and Rome, victors were crowned with wreaths of laurel leaves. 

People have often thought I don't like my first name, but that isn't true. It's a beautiful name, but my parents simply have never called me Laurel a day in my life. Anne was a long-standing choice, but with an Anne Marie already in the family, and my parents unwilling to duplicate, Laurel was the last-minute addition. For what it's worth, no one thinks I “look like” a Laurel, but everyone thinks I do “look like” an Anne.

I was named for my great-aunt Anna Kroner, my great-great aunt actually, my great-grandmother's sister. I remember meeting her as a child, once sitting by her feet on a front porch in Illinois during a summer visit. She was rather curmudgeonly, although she and my dad were always close. She was a nurse in the 20s and 30s, and, depending on which family story to believe, she either A) could never find a man who was good enough to meet her highly exacting standards, or B) the man she loved broke her heart and she never got over it.

It must run in the family, those  incredibly high standards. I have them, too, I have been incredibly fortunate, however, in that my heart has never truly been broken. Which is a grace unto it self and a way I have been favored indeed.

Graceful. Grace-filled. Moving with elegance and refinement and rhythm, like a waltz. I love to waltz. There is joy in the three-beat cadence, the gentle quarter-step swings to the beat, but I haven't waltzed in years, other than the occasional, solitary turn around my living room. There is a longing to be dancing in a sumptuous dress – I have dreamt of it – like classic Hollywood actresses, women who seemed the epitome of class, there on the black-and-white-screen. I am a romantic, and hope for that, too. 

Anne Elliot, the heroine in Jane Austen's final novel, "Persuasion," was also older, but capable, sensible and a romantic as well. A literary creation who loves her family despite their foibles, and another Anne who patiently waited, trusting and receiving her heart's desire in the end.    

The literary Anne Shirley, of L.M. Montgomery's “Anne of Green Gables,” thought her name to be very unromantic. I am not of that mind, but we are in agreement about one thing:

“...if you call me Anne please call me Anne spelled with an E.’

‘What difference does it make how it’s spelled?’ asked

Marilla with another rusty smile as she picked up the teapot.

‘Oh, it makes SUCH a difference. It LOOKS so much

nicer. When you hear a name pronounced can’t you always

see it in your mind, just as if it was printed out? I can; and

A-n-n looks dreadful, but A-n-n-e looks so much more distinguished.

If you’ll only call me Anne spelled with an E.”

7 Days, 7 Posts, Day 4: Old song/time machine

Working on my back-to-school tab today (and yes I wrote the column, although I'm not completely satisfied with it. And no, I didn't fiction it up, either), I set my Ipod to shuffle to give me some music to work by. 

After about half an hour, a song popped on that that I'd forgotten I'd downloaded, out of nostalgia, at some point, "Adonis Blue" by an English/American group called Voice of the Beehive. My dad has a thing for buying random albums to see if they're any good, and this was one he found (on cassette) back in the early 90s that I, um, appropriated at one point and listened to over and over. I think it's still somewhere in a box with other cassette tapes I haven't touched in ages.

Anyway, this song popped on and suddenly it was 1991 again and I was maybe 13. It's summer break, and, shade-cooled, I'm straddling a large branch 15 feet off the ground and half-way up the cherry laurel tree that used to stand in the center of my parent's back yard. With my back against the tree trunk and my feet balanced on slightly lower branches, my Sony Walkman clipped to my jean shorts and headphones on, I listened and re-wound and listened again, at the same time alternately reading a battered paperback copy of "Romeo & Juliet" and daydreaming about this guy named Craig, my crush of the moment.

All this from an early 90s pop song. Yes, I climbed a tree to read Shakespeare, although I don't remember why. And yes, I remembered all the words to the song. You listen to something often enough and it sticks with you. Clearly. :)

7 Posts, 7 Days, Day 3: Making the same-old interesting

So part of the challenge of this challenge (and at somepoint I will stop referring to it and just write about something, I swear) is finding things to write about. It's a conundrum I often face at work, too, only in a slightly different fashion.

I've been at my job for almost eight years now, and for the last five or so, I've been covering the same beat for the paper. That means I'm in charge of the annual graduation and back-to-school special sections.i do love the responsibility of it, despite the fact that they can stress me out (the grad tab -- so called because it's tab-sized. Sorry, journalism lingo -- in particular).

The challenge comes in with having to write columns every year that are somehow new and interesting. With the graduation section, it seems a little easier. But for back-to-school, there are only so many times/ways you can write about coming across an aisle of school supplies in a store weeks before you expect them to be there (which I think I've done at least twice) and have it be interesting. So that's kind of the hurdle I have to leap over tomorrow: come up with something about back-to-school that's compelling. Because the reader (or at least this reader) can tell when a writer doesn't really enjoy their topic. There's no spark. 

If I could fiction it up a bit that might be fun, since so many stories in novels and movies are like that, similar plot lines repeated over again only in slightly  different ways: boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy finds girl again, for example.

Hmm...fiction. It is a column, so I can do essentially whatever I want, within reason. Or perhaps I could come up with something in iambic pentameter? Or would that be too much? Yeah, maybe. I'll need to give this idea some thought. :)