homily

Lost and Found in the Homily

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Today’s homily was all about being lost, and being lost sheep, and the everyday ways we are lost and find ourselves again. I don’t know why, but my first visit to the UK kept popping up in my mind throughout my pastor’s talk. Not just the visit or the trip itself, but all the little times that I was lost there. I don’t think we were ever truly lost,  but those moments seemed so big at the time, and even now they stand out in a seemingly unrelated homily that included my pastor being lost in the snowy woods with his dog.

My first thought of being lost in England was standing in the rain. I don’t think we had umbrellas, but we were looking at a map and it was raining. It was a cold, poking kind of rain that covered my glasses  We were years away from little wipers on your eyeglasses.

At that time, we stayed at youth hostels and you can’t spend the daylight hours at a hostel, even in the cold, winter months, so we were up and out every morning. I don’t remember where we were heading on this day, just that we didn’t know where we were, and we needed to look at our map.

We were surprised when an older woman came out of her house and across the street with an umbrella and showed us where we were, and how to get to where we were going. She said to go across the field we were standing next to – it was faster if a bit muddy. We weren’t sure about going across someone’s property, but she said it would be alright. We took it.

It was definitely a shortcut.

When we crossed the border into Wales, I hadn’t realized that I was lost, but I knew that I had been found. I talk about this aspect of my trip often, so I won’t be redundant, but it is a significant thought of being lost even if I hadn’t known it at the time. It was, and continues to be a sacred place for me.

We also found ourselves lost on Craigower Hill just above Pitlochry in Scotland. We kept climbing up and up and up. We didn’t quite make it to the summit, but we made it pretty close. We slid down and had to start again about halfway up, and then it started snowing.

Luckily we found ourselves at the bottom eventually at The Moulin Inn for some fabulous lasagna and cider.

We became stuck in the Cotswolds having planned on leaving on Sunday, and not knowing that the buses don’t run on Sunday. The hostel warden took pity on us and let us in earlier than their usual evening opening. He also loaned us books and told us some of the history of the town, Stow-on-the-Wold.

Being lost in Edinburgh, in the snow, at two o’clock in the morning was better with a new friend than alone.

This was a three week trip in January with my college roommate, and these are only a handful of memories that popped up during the homily on lost sheep.

Being lost isn’t so bad. I know I’m never alone and what all of these anecdotes remind me is that no matter how long you’re lost or where, there is always a way out, a way to be found, a way to find yourself and that trip was one of those places and times that I did.

(Reading: Jeremiah 23:1-6)

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.

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.