Spiritual

Simplicity

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True prayer is simple and sincere.

Growing up, I was uncomfortable with prayer. I preferred to talk to G-d about what was going on in my life and ask for things that I needed help with. It was a good system. I didn’t have to think about the vastness of G-d and universe, and certainly no one ever talked to me about Jesus except with the yearly reminder at Christmas.

When I first went to church, I read that day’s verse. It hit a little close to home and I cried. I sat there for two hours wondering what I should do, how to make things right. I talked about my problems, I asked what I should do, but it wasn’t until, almost involuntarily instead of asking for something for myself, I asked for my friend.

Once I was taken out of the equation, a warmth and calm washed over me. It was tangible. My eyes dried and I sat for only a few more minutes and knew that whatever happened, it would be alright.

Simple and sincere.

I am once again at a place where simple and sincere are my watchwords. This is not easy for me. I’m wordy. So afraid of offense, I talk around the issue and apologize before I need to, sometimes when I don’t need to at all and the sincerity gets lost in all the wasted spaces. I need to convey feelings, and they are so complex that the extra words are already forming and the reader will get tired of them as soon as they start reading. I need to be simpler. The subject is simple; why can’t the message be?

Simple and sincere.

If I remember that in many instances in my life, it will give me great reward. One of the things I will practice here before I get too wordy.

The Words of My Mouth, The Thoughts of My Heart

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Some days I find something in each reading, and they mesh together and amaze me with their insight.

There’s a great book that I got for free when I first got my Kindle called Under the Tamarind Tree by John Harricharan. It has motivationals and pithy quotations. What I found that worked really well with this book was to randomly pick a page or a location as Kindle operates and read that section. I find that it gives me more message awareness by being random rather than reading the pages in the order they were written.

Today’s: “You meet people for two reasons, one is to learn something from them and the other is for them to learn something from you.”

I say this all the time about my friends on Tumblr. My eyes have been opened to many things. It doesn’t mean that we will agree on all the things and that we won’t argue or debate, but the amount that I learn is astounding. The inspiration I receive is energizing. The continued encouragement I receive is motivating. I’ve had people thank me for my small contributions. I would say that my two biggest influences, other than individual friends are the Daydverse and Tumblr and I will probably write a bit more about each later during these forty days.

In the beginning of this first week of Lent, I am still finding my sea-legs so to speak. I see things in everything and my spiritual compass is spinning like a top; it doesn’t know which end is up or why I suddenly end up in that misty, joyful place and want to share my journey with the world.

I’m still trying to form the feelings into words and so I repeat myself a lot. I talk about why I started attending Mass, why I’ve taken the forks in the road that I’ve taken, the influence of my best friend, which you will see in today’s passages.

Some highlights from the passages in The Living Gospel: Daily Devotions for Lent 2014 by Theresa Rickard, March 10:

“Let the words of my mouth and the thought of my heart find favor before you…” – Psalm 19:15

“…when we respond with compassionate action to human need, we are responding to Christ.”

“…act with loving care…”

“…instead of refraining from buying a piece of clothing during Lent, we will buy a set of new clothing for a needy person…”

“…do one thing today to help a person in need.”

 

“Let the words of my mouth and the thought of my heart find favor before you…”

I often carry more in my heart than I can express. Some things aren’t meant to be expressed through words, but through deed. However, as a writer, often words are all I have. I can only hope to reconcile the thoughts, the deeds and the words into what I truly want them to be. It takes practice. And I need plenty more of it.

“…when we respond with compassionate action to human need, we are responding to Christ.”

“…act with loving care…”

When I was in college, it was common practice to car pool and to have your passengers pay for your gas. When I finally had a car, I couldn’t wait to offer rides for the extra money. My father had one of the biggest shit-fits I have ever experienced over this. Why was I asking for gas money? Well, Dad, I need to put gas in the car and then drive the girl home. Isn’t her house along the route to ours? Yes. You’re passing her house anyway; why do you need extra gas for that? Hmm.

He didn’t say it would be compassionate for you to drive her because it’s on your way home anyway. He expressed why he thought I was wrong and suggested in his own way how I could (and should) be compassionate and kind on my own. He always went out of his way for people regardless of the cost to himself.

I never forgot that. It was one of the many lessons my father gave me. He was a quiet man with a funny streak a mile long. But he was EF Hutton. When he told you something, it was quiet, and you leaned in to hear it, and it required deeper thinking. It was important. And it was remembered.

Recently, as many of you know, my friend has been going through a trying time. We are usually in contact with the descriptor ‘often’ being a drastic understatement. When he realized this would change, he knew this would do ridiculously negative things to my anxiety, and wanted to reassure me and make sure that I would be okay, and he set up an art trade where I received a Starbucks card so when I needed a time out, I had one. This is only the most recent compassionate act he’s done for me, and he’s taught me much more.

“…instead of refraining from buying a piece of clothing during Lent, we will buy a set of new clothing for a needy person…”

This was one of my Lenten commitments. I gave up soda for Lent, and had already decided to take the money that I would have spent on soda (which is a lot more than you would think) and donate that to Random Acts. I will be doing that early next week. Random Acts is the epitome of compassion and kindness. They not only do things for others, they inspire others to do things. They are truly doing G-d’s work and if you’re looking for a worthy charity, I would recommend them heartily.

“…do one thing today to help a person in need.”

The cornerstone of Lent is prayer, fasting and almsgiving. Almsgiving is not only the giving of money. It is also the giving of time and talent. Sometimes that person in need is someone from Tumblr who comes to your inbox looking for comfort or a hug. Sometimes it is a phone call in the middle of the night. Sometimes it’s helping one of the elderly ladies to her car after Mass.

There are so many things that can be done that fit into your budget and lifestyle as well as changing for the better that Lent is helping us focus on. I can feel changes that remained with me from last Lent, and I know things will remain with me when this Lent is finished.

I will talk much more about my journey, my reflections on Lent and my friends who have encouraged and sustained me and who I try to do the same for. This Lent is especially meaningful for me. I’m writing so much about it that I know I’m repeating things I’ve already written and will again trying to get the right tone, and maybe at the end of forty days I’ll have something worth reading if I manage to put it all together. In the meantime, I will continue with these daily missives and hope they make some semblance of sense; not just for you, but also for me.

Friendship Appreciation

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“What can you do today to express the appreciation you have for those who are important to you and who you might take for granted in your life?”

This was today’s question from the priest during his homily this morning and it could not have been timed more perfectly. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about this very thought.

I’ve spent much of the last year reading and working on the daily pages of a motivational book: Achieve Anything in Just One Year by Jason Harvey. I would read each day’s quotation and do the exercise, but sometimes the activity is just too hard mentally to do and I would put the book down for an extended period.

Most recently, I left off at Day 127. The quotation for Day 127 was: “True friendship is like sound health, the value of it is seldom known until it be lost” by Charles Caleb Colton. On this day they are asking about friends and friendships, their importance and how to keep them. One thing that I was very wary about was the phrasing of the first line after the quotation:

“How many friends do you have?”

I have never liked this kind of question. I think it comes mostly from the influx of social media being our barometer for modern friendship. For me personally, I don’t like counting friends. I also really dislike it when outernet friends and family differentiate between Facebook and ‘real’ friends or ‘internet friends’ and ‘real’ friends. These kinds of designations have continually made me feel awkward. It feels as if they’re saying that some of my friends are ‘lesser than’ and in my heart they’re not and have never been.

I think the expectation is that at my age (and boy do I hate that phrase), I’m expected to live in the past. Friends from high school and college are surprised at the level in which I’ve embraced modern social media meeting places and introductions to friends who will be lifelong friends. My friends range in age from 19 – 85, some closer than others, but that is always the way of friendships.

We connect on different levels with different people. People with kids, parents from school, church groups, book clubs, the cashier at the supermarket that we see weekly or sometimes daily; that friend of a friend who liked that thing on your Facebook or that reblogger on Tumblr who you discover is the same age, has kids like you and understands completely the joy and benefits that is fandom. I wish I had Tumblr twenty years ago, although I suppose that if Tumblr was around twenty years ago, there’d be a new one that we’d all have to learn anyway.

My friends give me great joy. Watching them do happy, watching them create, arguing about this fandom thing or that political thing, debates, discussions, philosophy, religion and whatever else; you name it, it is there and it is glorious to see and hear so many differing opinions and respectfully disagree.

I have high school and college friends, Scadians and Daydians and now the Posse, but those distinctions are a shorthand for the commonality of who we are to each other, how we met and how we played, and many of them overlap. There are friends and close friends and a best friend. There are friends who communicate every day, either by text or phone. There are friends who communicate once a month or less. There are call backs I should make more frequently and slack I should give more often, but in all of the mistakes I make, these are the people who are ceaselessly there when it truly counts. And knowing that, having that faith in the friendships I’ve found, being lucky enough to be a part of is one of the most special and important things in my life.

But that’s what makes these exercises so hard. “Write about your friendships.”

How am I supposed to do that?!

I can’t possibly put down on paper how much my friends mean in my life. There aren’t enough adjectives to describe the family of friends that I have.

I’ve never looked for more friends as this exercise suggests I should be doing. I’m happy with the friends I’ve found. We’ve passed by the millions of random chances that threw us onto each other’s paths and we wandered into the others’ lives precisely when they were supposed to and became the support for one another.  And over time, those friendships change. They deepen. The trust grows and the comfort of a text message or a voice on the other end of a phone call is a deep soul thing and to have the privilege of that with more than one person is truly a blessing. It is unbelievable to think of the randomness and the beauty in the finding of each of them.

There are ups and downs and misunderstandings and disagreements and laughter and hugs and forgiveness and I’ve found it all with the most eclectic group.

I often think that friendship is deeper than any other kind of relationship. We choose our friends and they choose us. Think about wedding vows and relate them to your closest friendships: honor and keep, sickness and health, richer and poorer. They are there through all of it, helping us in the big ones and all of the little ones. They are comfort and joy and support through the sadness and trouble that inevitably stop by in every life, but they are also the best of life. Without them, we truly are nothing.

Alone can be good for short spurts. Time to think and contemplate and find your inner places, your belonging places. But the best parts are the places with friends; when you fit. It fit in so few places that when I fit, I can feel it. It’s only happened two or three times in the last few years and the calm it’s brought me is palpable. The laughter over the stupidest things you’d never laugh about without these wonderful people. It’s the McDonald’s drive thru, sleeping on shoulders, long hugs, wiped tears, supportive whispers and autocorrected texts and so much more.

So, back to the priest’s question of the day:

“What can you do today to express the appreciation you have for those who are important to you and who you might take for granted in your life?”

I think we all do the best we can with what we have. That’s not always the best there is, but it’s all we can do. I try to appreciate my friends in a public way. I think they know in their hearts how much I appreciate their presence in my life and their friendship.  I’m extraordinarily grateful to my friends, having them, their friendship, their being always by my side; I just have a terrible time expressing that out loud. I can thank acts pretty well, but thanking people simply for being themselves seems funny to me.  Some people I can express it to, but my personality is to stay quiet, draw no attention, and if I’ve been quiet and unemotional with someone all my life (my siblings for example), I still have a hard time expressing what I feel. I find it easier with newer friends because we’ve started out in that candid, more emotionally honest place.

When my friends are hurting, I’m hurting and I want to help. I offer even though they know that I’m there to help with anything. And they have helped me, more than I ever could have expected from someone. With anything. And everything. From moral support to financial support and everything in between.

When parents die and couples divorce; when kids grow up and move away; when we retire and travel the world or just visit the library or get a part time job, our friends are always there; constantly with us and for us and we are there for them and that is the most brilliant thing I can think of in a friendship.

I Heard it in the Homily

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*This essay is about me and my dealing with things. Except in rare circumstances, my coping falls to me until and unless I ask for help. And sometimes I can’t ask.*

When I’m having a particularly difficult time, I pray for patience, courage and strength. Never one without the others. In my early days with the church, there were times when the priest said, “Let us pray.” I had no idea what to do. Make my shopping list? Think about breakfast? Write fan fic in my head for the next three minutes? But one day the words just came to me: patience, courage and strength, and just the thought of them during prayer was very calming and gives me a moment to re-focus. When I have nothing or no one specific to pray for, I can always use more patience, courage and strength.

Today was one of those days. Actually, it’s been one of those fortnights. I’ve been falling into a deeper depression and heart palpitating anxiety and sudden bursts of tears. There are several factors causing this, some that shouldn’t be reaching the level of anxiety that they are and others that are obviously out of my control.

Sometimes my coping works and sometimes it builds to a crescendo until some kind of an outburst happens. I’ve had one outburst in the last three weeks, and considering that I’ve been sick that long, the kids have taken turns being sick, my friend died, a student at my son’s high school committed suicide, my friend has had a crisis of their own and can’t help me, and payday and therapy can’t come soon enough, I think one outburst is a reasonable ratio to three weeks of time.

For example, my coping this morning when my car went sideways in the snow was very good.

My coping last October in Virginia with the idea of driving forty-five miles on a straightaway in near perfect weather was very bad and if you ask anyone present, that would be an understatement.

It’s unpredictable, this coping thing.

Some of my successful coping isn’t available (more than one thing and for varied reasons) and in addition to the coping not being accessible, the idea of the coping being unavailable increases my stress levels.

It’s hard not to blame the people around me (whether in person or by phone/text, whether by actual acts or acts of omission), even though in my mind, my logical places, I know that no one can read my mind and by the time I can, by the time I’m able to, ask for what I need, it’s often too late.

At this morning’s homily, one line blared above the others, and stood out to me:

“We are called on to be strong.”

The exact message I needed to hear today. Maybe I can get through another day if I can hold onto that.

We’re not called on for more than we are able; I truly believe that despite my much often heard whining. I’ve been strong before. I can do this until tomorrow and then see where I stand. Maybe tomorrow is the day I can reach out and my hand is grasped or maybe someone will reach for me. I don’t know. I just have to hope that I’m strong enough to endure until the depression passes or the coping returns, whether that’s through people, writing, planning, carrots, or whatever. I won’t know until it happens, but until then I am called on to be strong and the best thing I can do is believe in myself and have faith that things are going the way they should be and this moment is just that: a moment soon forgotten.

Remembering September 11th

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Mass was oddly unsatisfying this morning. My expectations may have been a little high, although the somber intonation of the congregation’s response to the priest’s words illustrated that it was not an ordinary day for daily Mass.

I read a friend’s account of 9/11 and I hadn’t known that she was there that morning, and her reminiscence of the perfectly blue, perfectly clear sky over Manhattan triggered my memory that I truly had forgotten about in talking on Tumblr this morning.

We are from Long Island; in fact, I grew up in NYC before that, and after marriage, I moved about 250 miles away, well out of the city area. We traveled often to visit our parents and siblings, and on September 10, 2001, we were returning from Long Island. The crossing over the Throgs Neck Bridge gives you a perfect view of the World Trade Center, and we drew our four year old’s attention to it.

We got home safely, but had to be up early waiting for the Verizon guy to fix our phone line. I turned on the television as I did every morning and watched the Today show. They were talking about a plane that ‘accidentally’ hit the World Trade Center.

I watched the rest of it unfold in real time, spending the day trying to get through to our family and friends still in the area, keeping my son entertained away from the TV, and talking to passersby on the street.

At the time, we lived in a first floor apartment, and while our landlord lived off site, he was very well known in the community, and he happened to be there for some kind of maintenance work on that morning of September 11th at our apartment. Our front door was open, and we were on the way to the local supermarket by the older people with their wheeled carts. I think every person stopped by, poked their head in the door and asked for an update. We had neighbors, strangers and acquaintances alike stepping in and out, watching the television for a few moments, speak to landlord, shake their heads in disbelief and walk aback out to finish their morning errands.

The rest of that week was spent huddled in front of the TV. Driving past our local airport was traumatic. A plane overhead against our state capital’s skyline nearly made me drive off the road. There were local memorials, prayer vigils, thankfully for us, no funerals, but our families knew people and my husband’s NY office lost nine people that day.

One year later, our son should have been in kindergarten, but we kept him home. We opted to bring him to the New York State Museum where there was a 9/11 exhibit. I have never been affected by a museum exhibit except Holocaust displays. This one was somber, silent save for some weeping. They had a piece of original fencing where folks memorialized loved ones with missing persons flyers and flowers, flags and ribbons. Relics and artifacts, fire helmets, badges, parts of the buildings’ infrastructure, street signs, but the most profound item: the Engine 6 Pumper, destroyed in the collapse of the Towers.

Even recently, my husband and watched Fringe, and there are some parts that take place with an intact World Trade Center. I find it very jarring. It doesn’t fit my world, and it brings me unbelievable sadness and pain.

For me this is one of those Holy Days, much like we just observed with Rosh Hashanah and will celebrate with Easter. That’s not to be disrespectful of more religious people, but this is one of those days that I just reflect. I think about my life, and the direction it’s going, the mistakes I’ve made and how to adjust myself to be a better person; I think about my kids and friends and family. I’m grateful for our friends who survived; I pray for those still struggling, with physical ailments related or PTSD, and I mourn, not only for the dead, who simply went to work and never came home, but also for the people; the world that changed on that day for all of us. I think when our parents told us things and quelled our fears, and said we were safe and would be well; I think they truly meant it. I wonder for how many do those words feel hollow and like a lie? I feel it. There are no other answers, but to reassure our children or our friends that need reassurance, but how hard it is to say when I’m  not sure if I believe it, but I still hope and I guess that’s why I continue to say it, not only to my kids, but to myself.

One day I will go to the memorial. I don’t know when or if it’s something that I am strong enough to do, but it is something that I must do; one day.

Every year, I always recommend this book. I believe it is out of print, but try and find it anywhere. It is the epitome of humanity and of strangers coming together and doing.

The Day the World Came to Town by Jim DeFede

Also, visit the Dalai Lama’s Twitter and Facebook. He is a wise, compassionate man and it is good to think on his words.

As well as one of the main organizations that I support: Random Acts

 

world trade center, 1980s

The Beauty of Touch

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I love when inspiration hits; a memory of something good; a phrase that sets my mind wandering and that happened in a wonderful way at today’s Mass.

Today was the Feast Day of St. Thomas the Apostle.

Thomas needed to see that Jesus had risen from the dead before he would believe it. It wasn’t because he didn’t trust his friends or Jesus’ word, but Thomas needed to touch him. How many of us does he represent?

When the priest described Thomas as touchy-feely and gave an example from his own life; of his three year old self touching a hot oven after his mother warned him not to, so many things in my mind came flooding to the front. We all have those moments.

This touchy-feely part of the sermon clicked and immediately I thought of my first trip to England and my visit to Warwick Castle.

I am a Doubting Thomas.

If you tell me the water’s too hot, I must put a finger under the tap. I like to open cabinets and the drawers in the refrigerator, and in a museum, I am an absolute horror to bring along. If it doesn’t specifically say in big bold letters DO NOT TOUCH, it’s a safe bet that I will touch it. Granted, I have not ever climbed up onto a Revolutionary era cannon at The Smithsonian as I saw one young child do, but I have my other mo
I’ve slid my fingers along the woven edges of medieval tapestries at The Cloisters. If I’m in an art museum with a roped off masterpiece, I must run a finger along the velvet rope that keeps me from the painting itself.

I’ve touched the fire truck at The State Museum.

When I was visiting my close friends, often a touch on my shoulder relieved any anxiety that had been rising, a hand grabbed and squeezed in friendship elicited a smile, fingers brushing as a cup of tea was passed was a small hug.

Most recently In Wales, the only thing that kept me from rocking and weeping during the flight was my hand on my pocket frog, the cool Lucite against my palm, my thumb rubbing the same spot over and over again. I also liked to rest my hand against the cold stone of thousands years old castles and brickworks and abbey walls.

Touch is the most soothing thing when it’s wanted or when you least expect that you wanted it. I feel this at daily mass every day during the peace part of Mass. I’m a little lost when there is no one around me to shake my hand. That simple touch sets my whole day on a positive note.¬

In Warwick, though, we were able to take a tour of the castle, and we eventually came to a room with a large, stunning chest. We were told that this tower (known as the Ghost Tower) was known to have the ghost of Sir Faulk Greville who was murdered by his servant, and we should listen for it. I think we all chuckled nervously.

The chest was next to a locked door and yes, I turned the old knob. The door didn’t budge in case you were wondering.

As the tour group was heading into the next room, I touched the top of the carved chest. I looked around and tried to lift the lid.

It opened!

It opened quite easily. I was just about to peek inside when a voice began to speak. I jumped at least ten feet, dropping the lid that fell noisily into its original closed place. I looked around the empty room and ran out after the tour group as fast as I could catch up.

When I met up with them, I realized that it was the tour guide on the other side of the door speaking at the exact moment I lifted the lid. Not quite the ghost I had just started believing in.

Touchy-feely is one of the more adventurous and a most beautiful part of human nature.

Easter Sunday: The Journey Continues

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I spent this morning at my first Easter Mass. It is also my last one as a non-Catholic, and I think that weighs on me in both good ways and difficult ways. I’m very attached to the Father’s homilies. He has a way of speaking that is both soothing and comforting and also firm. He has a way of getting his message through to you in that lovely, gentle way. Whether I agree or not with every one of his homilies, he is consistent in his tone and basic message, and he has a way of bringing a caring place to every conversation. He uses a lot of anecdotes and humor in his sermons and it is in those that I can see myself. I can relate with both sadness and joy depending on the emotion pulled up with his words, and of course, think about things and make plans of action as realization takes hold in my mind.

Today, of course, the Gospel was of John and he compared it with the other three Gospels. John had faith; he just believed. He didn’t ask where Jesus was when the burial tomb was empty; he simply knew that His words had come to pass.

Faith is one thing that I am consistently lacking. I have a friend like John, who leads his life by faith. I look to him for my inspiration when things go horribly wrong or wonderfully well. What would my friend do? Would he moan and complain about it as I would do? No, he wouldn’t. His example made me ready to hear Jesus’ words and really listen. When the Father spoke about a Red Steamer Trunk, and too many things in it, I easily saw myself. I like my things. They don’t have to be fancy things, but the important things mean a lot to me. My frog, Bob. My friend’s tea cup. The rock from Dolwyddelan Castle. The cross I received from the church on the first Sunday of Lent. The picture of my kids, and the note from my husband telling me everything would be alright. Except for the tea cup, these travel with me everywhere, every day. The story of the red steamer trunk made me think about the rest of my things that I have, but that aren’t as important and I’ve tried to make some decisions based on whether I want to carry a heavy oversized trunk that I will never use everything in or a smaller backpack where everything is a necessity.

It’s hard to change a lifetime of habits.

It’s hard to walk away from things that were once so very important to my daily existence; my emotional safe places. But they were binding; trapping me in layers upon layers of someone else’s important.

The very first homily I heard from Fr. J was on May 7, 2012. He was just back from his sabbatical in Rome. I wasn’t sure I liked him. He was different from the other priest who I’d grown accustomed to in the previous two months. But I took a deep breath and I gave him a chance.

He talked about his visit to Rome, the places he visited, the places he prayed, the Pope and other things that moved him. He reminded me of how I speak of Wales and I was drawn in by that comparison right away.

He began then to talk about the spirit. I know he meant the Holy Spirit, but how many of us who do not follow the tenets of the Catholic Church believe in fate and destiny and something like a spirit that moves us in one direction or another. It’s really not such a foreign thing. I’ve always believed in that and in something bigger than me. And so, when he began to talk about the spirit moving him, I felt the spirit, the one that brought me to the church in the first place, the subconscious poke, a light at the end of the tunnel for me, and as I continue to follow it, it is still hard to form the words around the feelings.

Halfway through this service I was crying – it was so emotional on a subconscious level.

Today was much different. Part of that is the different place I’m in. My brain chemicals are stabilized mostly. I have some goals for the rest of the year. I have a stronger faith and a spiritual goal as well. As I finish my first Lent, I’m pleased with myself. I did not ‘cheat’ once, although I did accidentally have a tiny bit of bacon mixed into a tasting on a Friday. And the cheating is only on me; no one else cares if I ‘made it through’. But I do care. I struggled very little in the last forty days, and I think a lot of that had to do with my reason for abstaining.

I did it for me, and only me. I didn’t do it because someone said I needed to, or because I had to, or because I should. I did it because of the deeper meaning behind abstaining and keeping the fasting days, because I believed in where I was going and this was one way of cleansing myself before the Easter.

This was also the first year that I understood why Easter is a happy holiday. Realizing that it is not a celebration of Jesus’ death (that is commemorated on Good Friday), but a celebration of His eternal life in heaven through His Resurrection. It sounds so simple now.

No one explained it to me, but attending the Masses up until today, and reading the extra things that I had been reading, it brought a greater understanding and commitment to the church for me.

Today was children laughing, wailing about the long service, wheelchairs, crowded pews, bright light, candles, colorful banners, music and instruments, trumpets and violins, the choir loud and proclaiming, hands given in peace and love, hugs, warmth washing over, and above all, the true meaning before I go home to chocolate eggs and a turkey to be put in the oven with kids searching for Bigfoot in the woods and a teenager calling home and actually wanting to speak to his parents and siblings.

It is a good day.

And so I do what I’ve been doing daily since Lent began, and what I’ve tried to do practically since I was born: Write.

I posted about my success these last forty days, but the success isn’t only in the numbers (which surprised and impressed me), but in the daily. In the needing to. In the pen to paper and clattering of keyboard.

I know that a lot of my writing this month has been either faith based or Supernatural, and it is actually surprising that they really do go hand in hand, at least in my mind. I won’t bring too much of the show into this now, but one of my loves for the show is its metaphor and of course, it’s take on some religious mythos. It says some of what that I’m afraid to say, but it also lets me think.

Still, I’ve always been one to hide my faith and I find that similarity in Dean Winchester. Wanting it, but not quite believing it. Needing something, but seeing things that contradicted that faith. Keeping a talisman because it’s the only thing he has to believe in.

Whether I was afraid to admit to being Jewish when Jewish was different or not wanting to bring it up when there are other more religious Jews in attendance (or in a chat room) because I feel judged (and never by them, but the feelings are still there). I grew up doing things so much differently than even my cousins who lived next door. Now, part of that were our parents’ ages. My cousins’ parents were my mother’s aunt and uncle, and so they were from a more religious generation. But I was raised in a very follow the traditions household. We changed our plates for Passover, but we didn’t throw away all of the bread. Bread went into the freezer and we didn’t eat it, even when we would eat out. (Wendy’s is a good place for Passover – great salads, no croutons.)

I didn’t like being different, especially when I was supposed to be the same.

We observed all of the big holidays and some of the smaller ones. We didn’t go to services, but we celebrated Chanukah, lighting two menorahs – one electric and one candlelit. We didn’t say the prayers on the side of the candle box, but we didn’t get a Christmas tree even when Christmas crossed the threshold into secular American holiday and all of the children were dating Catholics.

I still don’t like to stand out, but turning forty-five clicked an off button for me, and now that I’ve gotten it back on, sorted out (at least in diagnosis) my medical-mental health problems, fell into the deepest pit I’d ever been in and then pulled out, and had life turn upside down for friends, I’ve started to speak out.

I’ve started to stand up. And the church is part of that, both in the turning the switch back on and in giving me something to think about and write about and feel.

When I started going to church, I hid it from everyone except my therapist and my Facebook. The thirty people on Facebook were my support system, prodding me, encouraging me, hugging me, and they guided me through last spring as I found my way along the catacombs of a new religious feeling.

Being told by the priest that Jesus had been Jewish and I was welcome in His house was overwhelming and so devoid of the usual condescension that statement is usually attached to when spoken to me (at other times by other people). He never asked me to be Catholic. Not once. Of course, he was very happy when I came to him, but I had been attending Mass daily with him for more than seven months at that time. I didn’t, but I could talk to him. I was received warmly by my fellow churchgoers. People who didn’t know me took my hand and introduced themselves to me. I didn’t feel strange asking questions. They never asked why I didn’t know very basic things.

When the Father would announce the opening hymn and sound like an announcer at the train station (Please turn to #53 in your Missalette, that’s #53, five, three, in the Missalette, #53), we would laugh together despite the feeling of irreverence. When he had a ‘private’ conversation with a parishioner with the mic on, we wondered if we should tell him, but soon realized that the conversation wasn’t private and the Father was having some fun with us.

From the first day, sitting in the pew in tears, I was warm with the feelings of the Spirit and Christ floating over me. And whatever else was going to happen, I was okay. I never stopped coming after that.

Easter is renewal. It is rebirth. It is the Resurrection. It is the reminder that all things are forgiven, and more importantly, not that I will be forgiven, but it gives me the strength to forgive those that have wronged me or the people I love. Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.

2013 is a new year for me. Things are clicking into place. (I hope.)

This Easter is my first real Easter. I understand it and I feel it, and my old life is gone, or at least it’s in a box in a corner of the room and I need to see what it is I want to bring forward with me into this new life without completely dismantling the old one.

These moments are meaningful; more meaningful than things used to feel. I put myself out there, much more than ever in my entire life. It’s scary. It’s new. I need to do it. It is part of my rebirth and the rest of this year is part of that journey. I will probably share it with you.

Reflections for this Holy Week

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I wanted to write something for the reflection for my church’s blog on March 26th (yesterday), but the words aren’t coming as easily as I had expected (or wanted) them to. I chose today’s date because it was one that was very significant to me.

One year ago today I began attending daily Mass during the week. It kind of came about accidentally, but in the last year, I’ve discovered that nothing is accidental.

Every day that I attended, I discovered something new about the Lord, the church and myself.

For one thing, I became calmer. I wasn’t looking for it, but it was a definite change in my mindset.

It began on my drives to church in the mornings. They had the effect of washing away the troubles and the bad part of the last night and the morning. I wasn’t trying to get rid of it, but my mind would clear itself and when I arrived at the church door, I was ready for whatever message was coming my way.

For another thing, more likely than not there was a question in my mind, a struggle, something that I needed help with and had nowhere to go, and nine times out of ten, the answer was there in the Mass. If it wasn’t in the Gospel or the Responsorial, it was in the homily.

As a child and young person growing up, I wasn’t Catholic, so the few times I would attend church for friends, for weddings or funerals, it was awkward. I was awkward. I understood nothing, I never knew when to stand, when to sit, when my eyes should be open or closed. How did everyone know what to say and when? I was uncomfortable whenever Jesus was mentioned.

However, from my first day here at Mass, I wasn’t awkward. I wasn’t looked at strangely. I was welcomed. I felt welcomed. My questions were welcomed. No one cared that I wasn’t Catholic, and they went out of their way to explain anything to me that I asked about. I was allowed to explore my faith and myself and the pieces of the church that I had never seen before or been exposed to, and discovered much more than a place to rest my depression or simply a place to go.

I still didn’t know what to do, but it didn’t matter. I stood when the person in front of me stood, and sat when they sat. When they turned to shake my hand, I shook theirs, and in that moment of touch, it was like a bolt of lightning. I felt my face alight with a smile and joy filled my soul and I looked forward to that touch every day; the connection as our eyes met, our hands met. I would close my hand and keep that touch in there for as long as I could. It gave me energy. It gave me hope. It gave me promise and purpose and love. And I held it close.

When I would forget, I could just close my hand and it would be back again.

One year ago I took refuge in the pews of the church, usually empty save for me or the occasional visit by the grounds keeper. Before I began attending the Masses, I would just sit and read the daily prayers in the Missal. I was lost and at a loss and just in the sitting and talking to G-d, I found something. I hadn’t realized it at the time; it took several months to realize how important my mornings with G-d meant to me and how they changed me in a positive way.

In the year since that first day, I have found many more readings that fit into my daily life and give me guidance and a hand to hold when I’m feeling alone.

Mass is not an obligation to me. I look forward to the Mass. And I’m never alone.

I have this deeper understanding of who Jesus Christ was and is and where He fits into my life. It is more comfort than I think I have ever felt.

 

The beginning of today’s Psalm reminds me of why I started coming and why I come nearly every day:

In you, O LORD, I take refuge;
let me never be put to shame.
In your justice rescue me, and deliver me;
incline your ear to me, and save me.
R. I will sing of your salvation.

 

 

It’s the Last Sunday Before Holy Week

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G-d is the G-d of second chances—or third or fourth or as many as we need.

This Lent, stop kicking yourself. Move on and make the best of today.

 Lord, I make no excuses for my past, but I don’t want to be bound by it either. Lord, set me free to move on.

(Connery, Fr. Thomas (2012-12-09). Traveling Light – Spirited Reflections and Prayers for the Days of Lent (Kindle Locations 656-657). Creative Communications for the Parish. Kindle Edition.)

John 8:11 – Neither do I condemn you.

Communion Antiphon –

Has no one condemned you, woman? No one, Lord.

Neither shall I condemn you. From now on, sin no more.

(John 8:101-11)

In the meditation (from The Word Among Us publication for March 17, 2013), we are reminded, “Jesus knows our sins far better than anyone else, even better than we know them. Still, he refuses to condemn us. It doesn’t move him one bit when others try to remind him (or us) of our failings.”

As most of you know, this is my first Lent. Since it is my first time, I’ve gone to several people in order to both do it right and make it meaningful for me. I was told that the act of giving something up isn’t simply to suffer, but to trade something that we enjoy and think we can’t live without for G-d and Faith and what is really important to us.

For me, I’ve been talking about writing and writing since I was a little kid. Some of it is bad. Some of it is so good I can’t believe I write it. One of the things the Internet has given me is a platform. A platform to share, to get feedback, to meet people and to share my thoughts, my feelings and to thank the people who help me on a daily basis. I try to do that, and in the last year, I am a better person and I am grateful for that, to G-d, to the friends who’ve stood with me and supported me and shown me what true friendship is as I now find my true faith.

What I had decided to do in addition to giving something meaningful up, I added a few things into my life. I was asked the other day about how giving up my diet soda and favorite scone treat was going, and I admitted rather reluctantly that it was going surprisingly easy; easier than I expected. I’ve missed neither except for a couple of times that I wanted a soda and then reminded myself why I wasn’t drinking them, and I was fine.

I did go from 5-6 12oz. cans of diet Coke a day to ZERO. Cold turkey. I replaced it with green tea in the morning and water throughout the day with very occasional visits to Starbucks.

I attend the daily Mass three days a week and I’ve been trying to attend Sunday Mass (which I will continue for the next two Sundays).

I had a chance with Lent to remind myself of my New Year’s resolutions, one of which was to increase and be more consistent in my writings of all subjects: fan fiction, non-fiction, memoir, my spiritual journey of the last year and anything else that springs to my mind. I’ve certainly been better than last year, but I still need work, and so for Lent, one of the things that I promised myself was to do more writing, ideally on a daily basis: one faith based writing and one writing about anything else.

Unfortunately that hasn’t happened as easily as I would have liked and last week brought my second bout of a deeper depression than I’ve experienced since I’ve been on the medication. I know it’s a recovery process and there will be times like this, but it’s not easy and I’m still not out of last week’s; there is a mound to climb over and with my friend’s birthday looming (I’ll write more about her on Tuesday), it is just not an easy week.

They’re not for everyone, but I stick to my rituals and they help. I get up in the morning and I have my ‘kindle things’. I check the free app of the day because Free is Good. I check the overnight onslaught of Tumblr, which is usually good for a few smiles. I check my Facebook. Even if I don’t do anything else in the daily routine, I do those and I read two things: the day’s Scripture/Mass from The Word Among Us and the day’s entry in Traveling Light by Father Thomas Connery, which is a book of reflections and prayers to be read during Lent. My church gave these out with a small cross at the beginning of the Lenten season.

These five things are an always for me. They set my day. Some days, the scripture readings are just readings, the next day in a succession in the life and teachings of Jesus, and a reminder to stay on your path, but some days (remarkably more often than not), they speak very specifically to something I’ve been dealing with, something I’ve been praying on, something I need counsel for, and somehow, despite all of the belief and the comfort, I am still surprised when G-d knows exactly what I need and when I need to hear it.

Today was one of those mornings.