Just Faith, Everyday

I read recently some interesting article about faith that reminded me of my Latin language skills, recalling the base for the term religion: religio-- to retie, to bind . This idea of re-tying, binding yourself to something--like the climber who adjusts carabiners while scuffling over the sheer face of rock--struck me as especially appropriate an image during Advent (or at any time the practice of faith and contemplation leads us to look inside ourselves). Of course there's the meaning of binding oneself, of being bound, which connotes negatively, of course. I don't see this so much as the deeply personal experience of free will in the climbing that is human life. I tie myself back to God again and again, even as I fall or slip in the climb. In fact, I am utterly grateful for each carabiner, the length of rope--moments of grace, depth of mercy--which the relationship I cherish with God affords me. In the quiet stillness I find the spirit enters, creates realization in ...

The other night my husband asked me what my favorite Christmas movie was, and I had to answer the George C. Scott rendition of A Christmas Carol. His Scrooge is the Scroogiest, and the whole atmosphere of the filming accentuates the Dickensian: the ghostliness, the spiritual, the festive. The story itself is filled with the idea of mercy and compassion as the true spirit of Christmas. The curmudgeon's conversion reminds us that even the most lost soul has a home to come to. In my umpteenth time watching the movie, I saw in a new way how Scrooge chooses to move forward during the conversion process, even when he is afraid and resistant. Isn't it that fear which often keeps us from confessing, as Scrooge does on his grave at the end of the story, faults and misgivings? When he says "Why show me this if I am past all hope?" In this hopeful statement is that bit of grace, a moment of clarity--he becomes self-aware that the horror of what he sees he might change by...

Is anyone out there noticing an uptick in meanness these days? For example, I find disturbing the ways in which people vault their expectations online on comment boards in mean-spirited, uninformed, and utterly cynical sharing. I rejoice when I see both balanced and fair understanding in commentary, and when I see the positive (since it seems so rare these days). I am wondering--why does it seem so hard for people to find joy in the world and too easy to find fault? I understand there ARE some things that really do rot out there--I'm not so naïve that I cannot see there's a need for critical perspective. My point is, there seems a lack of real--well, perspective. Rot can and will always exist--can we bring some kind of constructive rather than destructive perspective to it at all? Look at almost any commentary on news, writing, art, etc which exists online and you will find a bevy of commentary from bored, hung-up, perhaps disgruntled people who spend so much time onli...

I’ve been hobbling like Quasimodo for too long--it was really doing a number on my self-esteem until I finally broke down and went to visit with my doctor. I hurt my knee pivoting the wrong way, and between this and back pain, work stress, and personal demons, my life has been a little tumult of calamity, which of course descends all at once. Isn’t that how it usually goes? A little soul therapy along with referrals to anti-inflammatory medicine and PT helped. This month, therapy was watching a movie with friends: the recently acclaimed Of Gods and Men, about a community of Trappist monks living in Algeria in the 1990s enduring the terrorism there at the time, witnessing the extraordinary ordinary of everyday life for the villagers there, and confronting their own personal demons. Their monastery was a place for villagers to come and receive medical care. Just that--the compassion with which the Trappists shared with their Algerian community--was inspirational enoug...

Once during yoga class at the Y, I was struck by the oddity of our situation--inside our instructor serenely intoned "breathe, stretch..." and just outside our doors, the summer camp leader repeated in monotone to six year-olds "shoes by the door, shoes by the door, shoes by the door, stop...stop! Stop! Stop!" It was farcical--but something of a reflection of life, true to form. This can be how my brain operates depending on the day--within, I am calm, and from without, shouting and the noise of life compete for my attention. Or vice versa. Sifting through this messy cacophony is priority one. I keep thinking I have to separate the two, but maybe it's best to have both that inner and outer world competing for my heart and soul. I was irked at the noise from the YMCA camp, ready to register a complaint, but had I followed through on this, I wouldn't have this lesson: let one inform the other. Let the noises and distractions of the world inform my choices...

This is going to sound gross--you’ve been warned--but today I nearly left a piece of myself behind: a broken toenail. I have this bad pinky toe, and it’s always been painful to consider removing, but today it decided to remove itself painlessly on the edge of a soft couch. I was grateful it didn’t hurt and took the ugly away! So of course I got to thinking about needless worry, about pain taken away, about the things we leave behind, the bits and pieces of ourselves. I marvel to think about the sheer amount of pieces--the bits I didn’t like, and some grudgingly taken away. I’ve left pieces with friends who needed consoling, bits throughout my graduate career at various classes and in various administrative offices, crumbs after capstone moments like graduations and weddings and baptisms, chunks after disagreements and gatherings. Giving myself to life, if I am really giving myself to it, involves necessarily leaving myself behind, both going into and out of the situation at hand. La...

I'm flashing back to childbirth, to the experience of pain. It was excruciating, but it was mine to have--I was bent over with it, then straddling bedside, stretching, rocking back and forth, and always, always breathing, breathing with stride. Exercising patience with breathing, with being present; with my husband's help, I was able to do both, and possess my pain. Hold it and practically admire it. Oddly, it was awe-inspiring even as it broke me down. I'll never forget that day--now it's been almost a year, and yet feels like a lifetime. Through initial feeding problems because of her cleft palate, litany of doctor consultations, surgery, fevers and colds, and then watching her learn to become human, we have come to know our little Peanut. Have I come to know myself in a new way? The answer came in the death of a friend, in the mundane of life. When our friend--our favorite lector at church and weaver of stories at social functions there--died, I felt the sorrow an...

Well, here we are--the first day of summer, though in Georgia arguably summer's been here for a month (soooo hot). I've been appreciating those cool mornings in Massachusetts on my recent adventure there to visit with my parents. They're undoubtedly the most proud grandparents at the moment, and it was something else to watch them with my daughter, to think of the way they must have felt with me and with my siblings, watching them grow, learn new things each day, from the moment eyes open to the minute they drift off to dream land. As much as I love and adore my little one, I enjoyed stealing away several times for a little quiet--and my favorite instance was visiting a favorite beach with my brother. It was, as he said, "like visiting an old friend." We prayed and meditated there for awhile, letting the sound of the surf, the warmth of the sand, and chill of the breeze become like prayer to our senses. Being present in that moment was soul-quenching. I had a...

I'm amused whenever I hear Isabella cooing and babbling to herself in the backseat; I can't see her but I know what state of mind she's in from the sound of her voice, or her cry, or even the kind of breathing in her sleep--measured, easy, peaceful. It helps me feel everything is alright in the world, regardless of my stress level. Thinking this through, I placed myself in that spiritually: I believe God understands and listens to the stirrings of my soul, when all is sound and babble. I have days when that's ALL I sound like, and knowing someone's listening is the source of comfort. I know some find this support in the ear of compassion, and we can all be a source for others by our silent listening, wise words, or compelling action. We can reflect our Creator's mercy in this world by our presence to others. Consider that next time you're traveling along your way, and listen to what comes back to your soul.

And I’ll rise again. Ain’t no power on earth can tie Me down. Yes, I’ll rise again. Death can’t keep Me in the ground. "Rise Again," a traditional Spiritual It occurred to me, sitting and listening to Good Friday unfold this year amongst my friends, that what we celebrate is something of a funeral. This seems obvious, but it's not until you have experienced death first-hand, and considered what it means to rise from the depth of that sadness--or watch a child go through this. When my uncle died I watched his daughter go through a significant change in her life, watched it sap her energy and addle her mind, never mind my own. It's hard to relate if you feel wrapped up in the death of things--the potential "funerals" we can experience each day, be that of loved ones or of things ended, like relationships, jobs, dreams. Those things we cling to can feel much more important than what the big picture of life's meaning can offer us. As our choir director ...

Lately I'm learning lessons about mercy in unexpected places, with people I thought had lost hope, and in situations I never thought I'd be in. Handing over my daughter to a surgeon--however talented he may be--was one such mercy; the nurses, doctors, and people who surrounded us helped me understand that while we wrung our hearts out, there were many parents and children who felt helpless surrounding us, but would make it through. I heard next door to our room the constant rocking of an old chair, a parent relentlessly trying to sooth a little one who suffered as well; I would see in the faces of the children who rode along in their radio flyer wagons a sense of hope, some fear, some pain. Maybe a sense gratitude in what was now possible. More recently this sense of mercy came to a head with the death of a cousin who long suffered in life--he'd experienced every imaginable sort of tragedy, suffered especially physically, and to some might have seemed the embodiment of J...

After feasting on a lovely "date night' with my husband I found myself thinking about the way food nourishes in more than one way. All my life that's been a visceral experience. Potluck was the idea I had while drifting off to sleep that night of our feasting--a potluck for Isabella's first birthday. I wondered--is it appropriate to ask others to contribute? That's what my family did for well over a decade of birthdays--maybe fifteen-odd years of birthdays, first Communions, an anniversary or two, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. I recall always summer parties--though we had them all year long. Our table, brimming over with platter after casserole dish of Portuguese favorites and the occasional "American" cuisine: tripa (cow stomach), bacalau (salt cod), caçoila (beef and liver stew), favas com linguiça (a garlicky, spicy sausage), povo (octopus, now and then), meatballs or lasagna, or linguiça and peppers (always from my Godmother). Desserts of all sort...

Wind blowing at twenty to thirty miles per hour through tall pines sounds to me like surf pounding shore--both meditative and restorative to a mind addled and overworked. I sit and listen--just listen. It's rare, this giving in to the senses, making it a prayer. I seek again a prayerful practice, and it turns out I need go no further than my seat at home to get to this Holy Grail. I look to the slant of sun, the way it drapes on different parts of the house at different times of day. I smell the savor of food prepared by willing hands, made excellent by a desire for something delicious and nourishing. I touch the warmth of tiny hands on the babe in my lap. All prayer. Taking this further, I'll cultivate presence--mindfulness in my everyday interactions. Ordinary, everyday encounters, ones I take for granted, I'll elevate. Bring understanding and love to the fore--speak only to nurture (I need to work on this). Harbor no resentment. These take real work, and are the ...

OK, so I nearly went nuts the other day, trying to do too much at once. I thought I would end up doing laps around my house, screaming and blathering, and that someone would come and "swaddle" ME and take me away. Thankfully, I knew enough to do what many a girlfriend has suggested before I even had a baby: take a mental break. What I've found over the years doing this is that stepping back and taking stock has evolved into a physical, spiritual, AND mental phenomenon. Let me go ahead and suggest this to any of you struggling to stay afloat--it's well worth the pause in your life. Taking the break, though, reminded me of perhaps the most sobering aspect of motherhood (or adulthood, for that matter). There's more to life than just me. Hear me out--this isn't a downer. Of course that ice cream (ok, Skinny Cow ice cream sandwich) and walk in the park was something I absolutely needed and deserved-- I'd spent all day grading miserable papers and caring for ...

Just some quick thoughts before I go to sleep. Today is the anniversary of my Baptism. The rain patters overhead on our thin roof, everyone snores about me (husband, daughter, dogs), and I sit here and think of the many ways my faith has led me to this point, with and without my help. I find it extraordinary. There are so many ways to initiate one's life--some we choose and some foisted upon us. Yesterday I recalled that phone call of dread three years ago when I heard my uncle had died--and all the changes since then. He's anointed, in the heavens with all those our family misses, and his death began in those left behind a desire to be healthy, to love fully, live wide and large. It was a different kind of baptism--death and birth and everyday living can grace us with those moments. Sometimes the most ordinary experience can make us stop in our tracks and think of the life we're given. The other day it was watching my dog, Dot, lift her head and howl straight up at t...

Met with an old friend today, and was so glad to pick up where we left off; for awhile I was worried I had lost him. Catching up I knew we’d both experienced quite a bit in the time we hadn’t seen each other: we’d both lost and gained things central to our lives. Driving home, I though about our chat, about what I am grateful for in my life, and looked out and ahead--at the abnormally warm, sunny day (for a January in Georgia, anyway), at the stands of pine trees flanking the road. My tranquilly snoozing daughter in the backseat paired with what lay ahead of me got me to thinking about the cliche. Why is it that often we can’t see the forest for the trees? In every way I catch myself on this one, and know you might, too. I’ll be looking at other peoples’ houses or clothes or whatever, wish for more or different, and forget to take a look at what I have, however humble. We live in a really small space, but we’re surrounded by trees, visited by a wide variety of birds in all their co...

I used to make cards for people--when I was little I dreamed, for a bit, of drawing and writing for Hallmark. Mostly I believed that I could make someone smile with construction paper, markers, crayons, and a good word. At least, the old lady who was home-bound on Raymond Street thought so. Or my aunts and uncles, friends and siblings. However cheesy (you may think) Hallmark is (and often I do, too) we can say that it’s a manifestation of the way we seek to communicate with each other--in serious, silly, loving, or odd ways. Some don’t know how to put those words together, but I have always felt compelled to create my own combination of images and grace, little prayers in a compact package. Guess I haven’t changed much. I’m reaching back always to that guileless sense of self I had at 10 or 11 years old, knowing that if I just gave it my whole heart, that all would be well. I believed my father when he said that whenever I was afraid I should pray the Our Father. I am, as everyon...