Among Women

[Note: This is a repost of yesterday’s. I decided to divide it into two posts – one the actual reflection on the readings and the second to come later this week on the art project and what each item means to me and to the overall design.]

Today was the second of four weeks spent reflecting on women in the Gospel and the Gospel Women in our midst. We begin each week with a prayer, and are given a glimpse of the two women we will be reading about and reflecting on as the week goes by. We think about last week’s two women and then create art as reflection of them. Or, as I hash-tagged it on Instagram, #artastheology.

I often talk about how I use writing in many ways, including as therapy, and as theology, reflection, meditation. I would claim myself not to be an artist, but in the few retreats that I’ve been fortunate enough to be a part of led by artist, Brother Mickey McGrath, I’ve discovered a calmness from the act of coloring, and that has led to simple drawings, tracings, and copying. You can see some of my work on the pages of my website. I’ve tried to stop demeaning my art as an example to my son, who has the potential to be a true artist. He has the talent for it.

We’re supposed to reflect on them through the week, but it wasn’t until this morning that I connected to the Bent Over Woman and the Syrophoenician Woman. I sometimes have trouble connecting to parables and the abstract as well as picturing myself in ancient Jerusalem. I can also see things a little too literally. I’m not bent over, so what do I have in common with her? We don’t really know anything else about her.

But I recognized myself in her quiet; her being there, but not there for anyone else, unnoticeable, unimportant. Jesus doesn’t wait until he’s called upon; he takes the initiative, he heals her, and that’s all. It’s done.

With the Syrophoenician woman, she is there for her daughter. Jesus tells her no. She’s not one of his people, and he’s not going to help her. She talks back to him. She tells him, no, you will listen to me. She stays polite, she makes her point, and he rethinks his position. Maybe he admires her persistence, her love for her child; maybe even her impertinence.

This shows me once again that we have the ability to see ourselves in these women. We hear their stories but do we really hear them? How long does it take for us to listen?

There are women throughout the Gospel. Jesus surrounded himself with women; they were his disciples. Mary Magdalene was the first person to report the Good News. Most of the women in the Gospels aren’t named; only a handful of them, and each of them, named and unnamed, have something to teach us, to show, to tell.

These four weeks are opening our group up to us as Gospel women and reminding us of the women in our midst who embody the Gospel, Jesus’ words, His Word, and his example.

When we were “dismissed” to begin our art project, we were introduced to the items we could choose from. How will our art reflect the two readings (The Bent-Over Woman and The Syrophoenician Woman) and how are we reflected in them and with the art items?

Piles of letters, feathers, fabric, words, magazines. All things that look like nothing until we choose what appeals to us, and make it into something of our very own. No formal direction, no preconceptions, just letting the spirit work.

One of the items I chose were puzzle pieces; they were there to represent that everything fits together, it is all connected and interconnected, and after I decided on them, I remembered my words on my prayer bead: Connect, Interconnect.

It really is all connected.

[NOTES: The Bent-Over Woman (Luke 13:10-17), The Syrophoenician Woman (Mark 7:24-30)]

My Everlasting Gobstopper Prayer Bead (Title Change)

Today was week one of a four week mini-retreat I guess I’d call it. I hadn’t realized that there was an art component, but Brother Mickey and my son’s hesitation to explore his own talent has me stepping out more and more in the artistic realm. It’s not museum quality, but I’ve been pretty happy with what I’ve worked on.

The theme for the four weeks is exploring and meditating on the women of the Gospel as well as the Gospel women in our own lives. We all know them, and this series of exercises will let us dwell on them and ourselves with the guidance of the women mentioned in Scriptures.

Every week we will hear two readings and have the week to think on them. Lecto Divinia was mentioned as a tool which is one that I enjoy. When we return, we’ll talk about our week away and work on some kind of art that reflects our reflections.

Today, being the first day, we reflected on why we’ve come to this type of workshop and we set out to make a prayer bead. It’s not quite a bead. Some of us went long like a rosary. Some of us made necklaces, bracelets, danglies, and whatever else struck our fancy.

Mine is a necklace that i’ll wear the next four weeks, and then I will probably convert it to a danglie.

It’s something tangible to hold onto while I’m reflecting or meditating or sit next to my keyboard while I’m writing.

I anchored mine with a bell. I like d the idea of a little bit of noise in the silence of meditating.

Today’s silence was a bit too relaxing – I think I fell asleep. No one said anything, but I still feel as though I missed some parts of the talking bits.

When mine was finished, it reminded me of an everlasting gobstopper. Watch Willy Wonka making them, and then look at my photos from this morning.

Massiversary

I was running late this morning, and wondered if I should even try to make it to the 9am Mass. Since it’s Tuesday during Lent (the last Tuesday in fact) there is another mass in the evening. I thought a moment more or two about which one to choose, and then decided to go to the first one.

I was glad I chose that one. Today is my Massiversary, so it was really important for me to be in attendance then.

When I first started showing up at this church, it was random. If I got the urge that I should stop in, I did. I’d find a pew, also randomly, and read that day’s readings from the Missal. Often, they were right on target for what I was feeling or what I needed to hear at that moment. I was going through a lot at that time, and all I wanted was a quiet place where no one would bother me and I could sit quietly. Somewhere I could be anonymous.

I wouldn’t describe it as a perfect solution to what I was feeling, but it was peaceful and what I wanted; what I needed when I needed it. I did this for a couple of weeks, probably closer to almost four. It wasn’t everyday; It was perhaps ten times in total but they were important to me. They centered me and got me ready for my recovery. I hadn’t realized what else I had to look forward to, but all that was on my mind in these first few moments was evening out my mental health. I still call it recovery.

I had been talking about my depression on Facebook and talking about my church visits and receiving encouragement from a small group of close friends who knew what was going on as I started my medication and therapy. One of these friends, T was a college student in Nebraska. He talked about going to the seminary, but was in college for a different major. He was an incredible friend during this time, posting encouragement on his own page that really resonated with me. Scriptures, Antiphons, quotations from saints and holy people. He sent me a very nice, personal note that I still look at on occasion and it gives me abundant feels. Another friend, B, loves choir music and he would also post a variety of encouraging things unbeknownst to him until I mentioned that I found the posts and the music encouraging.

On one of these days, T suggested that I attend an actual Mass, telling me that the Easter week masses were really quite beautiful and he thought I would enjoy them.

I took his suggestion to heart, and showed up on the Tuesday of Holy. Week. A woman was sitting at the end of a middle pew in the church. I noticed her because of her jacket. It was black with multi-colored flowers and stems and leaves embroidered on it. She was also wearing a light colored straw pill box hat. She would wear a hat every day. I loved the embroidery, so I sat two seats behind her. I stood when she stood, and sat when she sat. I didn’t kneel or cross myself, but I followed along as best I could.

The service really affected me, the priest’s homily hit on things that I, again, needed to hear, and I went back the next day and the day after that. The day after was not a Mass, but a prayer service. At the end of Holy Week the masses are in the evening. We went to visit my mother in law and I borrowed one of the missals for the weekend. I read it every day that we were away.

That was the start. Over the course of that first year, I’d either sit directly behind that woman or two rows back, depending on when the other women arrived. We’d switch back and forth until one of the women sat right next to me. We still sit together.

Today when I arrived, an elderly man was in my usual seat. I sat behind him and about halfway through I realized that this was my original seat that first day, two rows behind my first church friend with the embroidered jacket who’s not here anymore.

I hadn’t intended to make such a memorable statement on this morning, but it was nice that it randomly happened that way.

It was nice remembering that first time. Every day, it’s like the first mass. Except I know what I’m doing. I pray, I cross myself; it all came in its own time, and each different ritual when I was ready. I hadn’t told myself that I was ready; I just did something and realized after that fact that I’d participated in some aspect of the mass.

The rebirth and renewal of Easter is the perfect time to remind me of my beginning with the church. I was baptized two Easters ago even though I’ve attended since 2012. This week is full of those anniversaries, but that first Tuesday will always be a special one for me.

Lenten Prayer

Prayer is one of those things that sounds like an easy fix, but it is far from that. It is also not rocket science. Prayer is one of those things that is very individual to each person doing it. There is no right way or wrong way to pray. As long as it’s meaningful to you, you’re doing it right.

It took me a long time to figure that out. While I’ve always believed in G-d and had conversations with him, I had always found formal prayer to be out of my reach.

There are many opportunities during the Lenten season to pray a little extra each day and to spend some of that time in contemplation of those things for Lent: fasting, abstinence, penance, almsgiving and prayer itself.

One suggestion that was just offered at a recent retreat is that upon waking up in the morning, sit up in bed with your eyes closed and breathe slowly. No special counting or breathing necessary, just try and clear your mind. No thinking, no listmaking, no complaining. Think about what you’re grateful for, thank G-d for all that He’s given you, all that you have and get ready to start your day.

Think about the ways you can be better, can do better. Last Lent I tried to pray the rosary every day. This Lent, I’m trying to be a little quieter in my thoughts and writing a bit more and looking inward.

When I first began to attend the daily masses at my church, I never knew what to pray for during the prayer of the faithful. It was easy to pray for the sick and the dead – that’s right there in the big print. I had people who were sick, including myself; I had people who had died, but what were my silent intentions? I felt that I needed something tangible to think about in order to pray for it. If I had nothing more tangible to pray for, I had started praying for patience, courage and strength. Sometimes it was a bit more – patience with my kids, courage with my therapist and the like, but it couldn’t hurt and it still felt respectful.

At that recent retreat, I was reminded of an interview Mother Theresa gave on television where she was asked what she spoke to G-d about during her prayers. Her answer was, “Nothing, I just listen.” And while she’s listening, what was it that G-d was saying to her? Her answer to the reporter was, nothing. He just listens.”

Sometimes the silence is enough for our prayers to reach G-d. It’s taken me quite some time to find that place in my prayer. I can now sit in silence during a Mass without looking around, not sure if I’m doing it the right way. What I discovered is that my way is the right way for me. And we will all find our way.

That is one of the things I really love about The Little books. I’m currently reading The Little Black Book for Lent. On the left page is usually some kind of historical reference. On the right side is a portion of the day’s Gospel and a meditation. At the very bottom of the right hand page is the suggestion to “spend some quiet time with the Lord.”

Quiet time, contemplation, meditation, prayer.

Don’t let the focus rest on you. Focus on the joy of the season. Lent isn’t about you or me or the sin we might be running away from. It’s focus should remain on G-d. Every step on this journey should be moving us towards G-d. Lent gives us the opportunity to slow that journey down and look deeper into ourselves and our relationship with G-d.

At a recent Lenten reflection, the director told us to look at who we are and offer ourselves during this time. Lent gives us the time for reflection, for prayer, for thoughtful communion with G-d.

Day 1 of Lent – What to Give Up

Ash Wednesday is here. It feels much earlier than usual, although I guess it feels that way every year. I’ve been contemplating what to give up this year, and it’s a real struggle. I feel sometimes that my choices are too easy, but while it shouldn’t be impossible, it should be a little difficult. I should be able to notice that something is missing and then give pause on why I chose to eliminate that from my life for the next forty days.

I thought bacon. But I don’t really eat that much bacon. Mostly on cheeseburgers when we go out to eat. We almost never buy bacon on its own for our house, although I have had cravings for BLTs in the past. Maybe we should give up eating out for Lent.

I thought Netflix. Well, at least the rerun parts of Netflix. The repeated binge watching of television series over and over and over again. The TV is constantly on in our house (less now but it’s still an issue; my habit). Netflix has taken the place of constant cable news that I gave up after the last election (2012). The problem with giving this up is that Supernatural reruns are my go-to white noise. I can do almost anything else while Supernatural is on, especially the early seasons. It’s a comfort thing. Supernatural was there when my depression returned and I needed another med adjustment. Supernatural kept me from being listless and lethargic.

There’s always the internet, Facebook and/or Kindle. I know several people who give up either the internet or Facebook for Lent. This doesn’t make sense for me since that is my family and primary school communication, I do most of my writing online in the clouds and on my kindle, so it’s much more than a crutch. For some of my family, this is the only place they get to see pictures of my kids, and I theirs. Used well, Facebook is a G-dsend.

Ice Cream? Uh, I don’t know.

Chocolate? Been there, done that.

Diet Coke? Ditto.

McDonald’s Breakfast Burritos? But I love them! I would eat them every day if I could.

Starbucks? That goes so close with my writing that I’m not sure that I could do without it for forty days. Maybe…

These are all things on my maybe list. I’ve given up some of them before. Some were harder than others; much harder.

On Monday morning, I began to read The Little Black Book. I’ve enjoyed these “Little” books seasonally, both in paper format and e-book. On Monday, it talked about fasting and abstinence (which is much different from the Yom Kippur fasting that I was used to.) One of the things mentioned was that “the church no longer attempts to prescribe Lenten practices in detail” and “choosing practices that are adapted to one’s own circumstances.” This implied to me that I was not expected to give something up if it didn’t fit with my other “penitential season” practices.

I’m not sure my priest would agree, and after the initial burst of wishful thinking, I went back to the list in my mind. It also felt a little like when I was a kid and didn’t want to stop writing on the High Holy Days because they weren’t really work. For me it wasn’t something to meditate on the meaning of; it was a cop-out. Again, that’s for my personal feelings and perspective. We all need to come to our own place this Lenten season.

Choosing an item isn’t just about the item itself; it’s about the introspection, the prayerful thoughts that go into the choosing, what makes this item important enough to make the giving up a sacrifice?

Not only that, but how is the giving up part of the larger idea of what Lent is all about – the penance and the getting ourselves ready for Christ’s sacrifice for us? Certainly, whatever we give up doesn’t compare to His sacrifice for us. It is but a small imitation, but it’s all we can offer.

So how do we continue to give.our Lenten experiences meaning year after year?

I could give up brussel sprouts. I don’t hate them, but we almost never eat them. Does that count?

The truth is, the only one who can tell me if it counts is me. Trying to get out of it doesn’t hurt anyone or change the meaning for anyone but me. Who am I observing Lent for in the first place?

The responsibility is on me because the benefit, whatever that might be spiritually is also on me.

I’ve decided to give up the breakfast burritos and ice cream. Tuesday morning was my last burrito until after Easter and Tuesday night was my last bowl of ice cream (black cherry chocolate chunk). Something from the morning and something from the night to remind me each day right after I wake up and right before I go to bed that these forty days are different.

How else will I make them different? And how will they change me for the rest of the year?

Time will tell.
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50-1 – Turning Fifty

This is the second week of the second month, and I had anticipated being so much far along in my reflections. I’m still not sure how I want these to flow; I just feel that my fiftieth year deserves something a little special; a little different; a little more.

My age has always been one of those oddities for me. Between not caring at all and caring too much, I can never remember how old I am without doing the math. Being born in December, I was always the youngest in high school and college, having just made the cut off to attend school in my year. My middle son is usually the youngest (October birthday) in his class and my daughter is usually the oldest (January). One of my closest college friends was born in January, so he and I were quite literally one year apart. At my first job in the early childhood field, I remained the youngest or at least close to the youngest for most of my tenure there. Things evened out a little bit after my first son was born with colleagues and other parents in school, but I still tended to be one of the oldest in any give group. Even now I am either the youngest (at church or the Red Hats) or the oldest (at any other school or friend function.) My closest friends are in their mid-twenties/thirties.

I don’t know how I feel about the whole age thing.

I already feel adrift, falling somewhere between baby boomers and gen Xers, a forgotten generation of sorts. Too old and practical for my twenty-something friends, and too flighty and culture savvy for my aged peers.

People laugh and think it’s vanity that I can never remember my age. It’s not intentional; it’s just never been important enough to stay on my mind. Oh, I knew 18 and 21, 25 and 30. Forty didn’t bother me like I was told it would, but 41 made me cry, pretty much all year. Forty-one was tragic. I looked forward to 42 – my Douglas Adams birthday as I called it, and I expressed my age that year every chance I could. But after that….it feels like a countdown, and I don’t like to dwell on it or that I’m not quite where I wanted to be at 49. It didn’t help that 45 came with the baggage of a heaping pile of a previously unknown and undiagnosed severe case of depression and anxiety that is finally beginning to stay on the track it’s supposed to be on.

One thing that I do enjoy lately is that we’ve have hit the moment pop culturally where most of my favorite television shows have actors around my age: Misha Collins-ish,Jensen Ackles (at least they’re not twenty), Norman Reedus, Alan Cumming, Robert Downey, Jr, John Barrowman. (Notice the obvious lack of women/actresses in my age group to look up to, though.)

At the end of the year, I will be 50, and I wonder what that means. I’m beginning this series of reflections. My aim is to do about fifty of these, originally planned for one a week, and I’m not going to worry about it being the second week of the second month. I’m going to go with the flow. Some of the time. This is the year of positive thinking. I’m just going to trudge on, and make my way through this year, paying attention, noticing, writing, and moving forward.

Always moving forward.

I am in good company, however:

This past weekend, the Super Bowl turned 50.

In September, Star Trek, one of my most formative childhood and adolescent guides to my world will also be 50. Star Trek formed and inspired my creativity, my writing, my thoughts about the future and space travel (I was born during the Apollo age), and my never-ending love of science fiction, which begat fantasy. Star Trek was very important in my life.

NOW (National Organization for Women) was founded.

Batman: The Movie was released and was soon followed by the television show.

UFWOC (United Farm Workers Organizing Committee) founded.

How the Grinch Stole Christmas aired for the first time.

The first Kwanzaa was celebrated.

Nolan Ryan made his debut in the big leagues with the NY Mets (my favorite team. I grew up near Shea Stadium.)

The SCA (Society for Creative Anachronism) was formed at author Diana Paxson’s graduation party at UC-Berkeley. The name was created by author Marion Zimmer Bradley. Like Star Trek, the SCA was a tremendous influence and inspiration in showing me new worlds, new people, and new skills like costuming and jewelry making. (It’s kind of amazing how many of my life’s influences were born the same year as I was.)

Days of Our Lives premiered.

The Supreme Court case that brought us the Miranda warning to our collective vocabulary and basic civil rights was decided.

The start of Medicare.

The Department of Transportation was created.

The Black Panthers formed.

Pampers creates the first disposable diaper, and I for one, can’t thank them enough.

New Year, Not So New Me

Plans, resolutions, goals, intentions, lists, stuff, things. They all need to be made and to be got done. Today is the first day of the first full week of 2016, and lucky for me I didn’t make any tangible resolutions other than to be more thoughtful and meditate on what I want this year to be and to bring and what I want to bring to it. I’ll set the tangibles a few more weeks into the calendar.

Christmas was quite lovely in that dull normalcy that we both crave and wish would be more exciting. I loved it. The kids were home, enjoying home and hearth and gifts by the tree. One son working, one son building Lego, my daughter rearranging her room and making her bed. Everyone in their own little worlds, but joining in the bigger world of our family for movies and food.

I was up early today, but then a second wind of tired blew in, and I laid down for just a minute. An hour later and it was snowing and my whole day melted away. I stayed in bed.

I can feel the sun trying to peek out, but the roads are still snow covered. I need a birthday snack for my daughter’s classroom for tomorrow plus a birthday cake for home. Plus tonight’s dinner. There goes the snowplow. That means more snow than it looks from my snow speckled, cozy window. I don’t want to go out in the snow!

My new me of getting up early, planning my writing calendar, and setting up my new blog format will come. After all, this first full week has just begun, and I have plenty of time to catch up.

Let the lists begin and the dressing commence.

My baby hits double digits tomorrow. Maybe that’s what I’m really avoiding. No, no; the library book is calling me. I’m sure that’s it.

Happy New Year to all whatever it may bring; or what we may bring to it.

RCIA – First Day

This morning was my first day as an RCIA teacher. It took me until last night to finally sit down with the readings and the notes from the Breaking Open the Word book that I’ve had sitting in my Adobe file for the better part of a month.

It’s not that I’m lazy – not when it comes to reading anyway, but in my subconscious I thought that if I prepared and read the readings and the papers, then I would have to go through with the class. Now, keep in mind that I was a teacher for over ten years, but those were kids, and in the end, it wasn’t for me. By last night I realized that whether or not I did the homework, the assignment wasn’t going away. I call it an assignment, but I did volunteer for it. To be honest, I want to do it. It wasn’t that long ago that I was on that side of the table in the RCIA program. Just like I brought something from my background as a catechumen, I think that I can offer something in return. I have a unique perspective, and I think everyone on the team has something special to bring to the new people.
They’ve been doing this since the fall. I was the new one again.

The catechumens are dismissed by the presider right after the Gospel is read and with me we go across the parking lot to the parish center. I glanced at my watch as Father C began his homily and tried to determine how much time I would have with them before they went on to part two of their weekly learning. Forty-five minutes. What would I say for forty-five minutes? I should have guessed that I overestimated my time when Father C said he doesn’t get to do this that often and he was going to use his time to talk about Mary.

I must admit that when he got to his fourth or fifth point about the Mother of G-d, I was almost gleeful at how much of my time had whittled away. Here I was worried that I’d run out of things to say before I ran out of time.

When we finally arrived at the parish center, the other team members were wondering what had happened to us. Father J was also there, asking if he could sit in.

Um, sure.

As it turned out, while it seemed as though he did a lot of the talking, it really was an even split between the four of us. And in retrospect, the point of breaking open the Word is to get the catechumens to think and to talk about their interpretations of the Scriptures and the Readings and to ask the questions that most concern them.

We talked about the prophet, Micah, and wondered why he wasn’t given more playing time so to speak. He’s the one who prophesies that the Messiah will come from Bethlehem. That’s a pretty important piece of information. We talked about the liturgical year and the three cycles, A, B, and C that the church follows. I didn’t get to add that this is my first C cycle. I started in A with Matthew.

We talked about Mary and Elizabeth. I added my own two cents about how through Advent, we’re waiting in our modern lives, and we know what we’re waiting for, but right there in the moment, Elizabeth also knew that she was waiting for her Lord and Savior, and was astonished that His Mother came to visit her. It’s kind of amazing to realize how they watched the prophesies come to fruition.

The one thing I didn’t get to say was about how the Incarnation is in tandem with the Death and Resurrection of Lent and Easter time. Jesus is born so that he may die and be reborn. Sometimes, it’s a lot to understand. That’s one of the reasons that I enjoy going over this with the catechumens and each year as we get another Gospel writer’s point of view.

I think having Father J at this, my first class and having Father C take up so much time before dismissing us was just the icebreaker that I needed to begin my role in this ministry. I will be better prepared, although I was ready today, but next time I won’t be as full of anxiety. I’ve already met the two women, and as I walk with them on this path, I am still learning and growing in my faith.

We also talked about the interconnectedness of everything that we do and see and how it all relates around us. Father J mentioned the Star Wars connection this week in his homily, and I’ve seen things on my journey that relate back across my entire life. I’ve been wondering what I was looking for with this year of mercy, and our parish’s holy doors. I still don’t know what I want for this year, not entirely, but tomorrow is when I’ll walk through the doors. I’ll have more about that tomorrow.

From Death into Life

There is a line in a hymn, I think it’s sung at funerals or as they’re called in the Catholic church, Mass of Christian Burial. It goes, “from death into life.”

I began attending this celebration of life by accident in one of my early days of attending Mass. I was there, and I couldn’t leave without drawing unnecessary attention to myself, so I remained, hidden in plain sight, in one of the back pews, wishing I was invisible, feeling as though I didn’t belong in such an intimate family gathering. I was, however, wrong – this mass invites the community members, the congregation; to be in communion with the family, to send their loved one on their next journey. I followed the program, I sang along, I prayed, and I found something in that service. I think my first funeral service was for a woman named Dottie. I still have her program in my church papers that I’ve collected and saved.

After that first time, I continued to go to the Rite of Christian Burial when it occurred during the daily mass time. I almost never knew until I arrived at church, and after one or two more, I found great comfort in this Mass.

But I still didn’t get it – that death into life bit.

I could never understand that phrase. How can you go from death into life?

It wasn’t until after my spiritual conversion, and after passing this tree, always on my way to my writing workshop.

On the way to the library, I passed the church adjacent to this tree, and the cemetery that surrounds this tree, and one spring day it was gloriously sunny and bright, and the green leaves had sprouted and grown.

I could see them bright against the white of the siding on the church building; this delicate new growth rising from the fallen tree, its life long thought buried and gone.

This was when I could grasp death into life, life from death, the infinite from finite, everlasting life from our journey on earth.

Now, when I sing the hymn, I picture this tree when I sing death into life.

Vocations and Saints and Good Days, Oh My

I’ve spent today with so many thoughts running through my head. I started today in a weird place. I showered yesterday so I was able to sleep in a little, but I had forgotten to change the clocks back, so when I awoke this morning, they were all wrong except for my cell phone and my kindle. I hate waking up to wrong clocks on the time change Sunday. I find it so confusing. If I don’t realize the change I’m fine, but throwing it in my face just irritates my senses. That’s why I try to change them all before I go to bed, and avoid them all night.

Today was one of those days that was good in retrospect. It’s hard to pay attention to life as it is happening, but it is in looking back that we see what was there. This was something John Boehner said this week after he left Congress. He was asked if the Holy Spirit played a part in his decision to leave, and he relayed that he was told that we only see the Holy Spirit in retrospect.

It should say something that I’m paraphrasing John Boehner!

But it’s the same with good days. They are simply not bad days until you look back and breathe that sigh of relief and announce to yourselves, hey, that was a good day.

Griffins and Ginger Snaps

-I write, and I have a blog because of course I do-