Fr. Jan Kieliszewski-Rest in Peace

Last week, on a day with particularly beautiful weather, I decided to hang the wash on the line in the backyard.  For some reason, as I was pinning the clothes to the line, I was overcome with melancholy, a deep sadness that was very familiar to me from my past experience with depression.  The sorrow seared deep within me and I had no idea where it came from or what it was about.  There was absolutely no reason on earth why I should be feeling so down at that particular moment.  I went inside and wrote an email to a friend asking for prayers.

As I hit the "send" button, my daughter Mary came downstairs, and with her 12 years of sweetness, she threw her arms around my neck and embraced me for the longest time.  I asked her how she knew that I needed a hug at that particular moment and she simply said, "I could just feel it."  I knew that my daughter and her loving, impulsive action was an immediate answer to that prayer request I sent out.  My daughter is a joyful Godsend in my life.  But not everyone is blessed with a daughter who intuitively knows when they are needing a little extra love.

Last year in my candidacy for the Oblates of the Precious Blood, I corresponded monthly with Mother Marietta from the Handmaids of the Precious Blood.  In one particular letter she told me that if I ever feel tempted to something that was very unusual for me, I could know that at that particular moment, a priest somewhere in the world was being tempted with the same thing, and I should pray for him.  My struggling to overcome the things that tempt me can help priests in their temptations.  That's a powerful thought; that I could help a priest that I may never know to grow in holiness by offering up my sacrifices for him.

Last weekend, just before Sunday Mass was to begin, Fr. Jan Kieliszewski, a priest whom I did not know here in Milwaukee, committed suicide in his church.  No one in the Archdiocese can offer any explanation as to why this man, in his mid-sixties, who gave his life over to the service of the Lord and His Church, would have taken his life.  It was shocking and deeply sad news that has rocked our already distressed Archdiocese.

I can't help but wonder if I had offered up my melancholy on that recent laundry day if it would it have helped this priest in some way?  What if, in that moment when sorrow hit me hard, I would have remembered to tell God, "I give you this pain for the priest who most needs your help at this moment, for a priest who is feeling the pangs of despair" if that might have prompted Fr. Jan to reach out for help and thereby find a way to stay alive until God naturally called him home?

Of course, I'll never know the answer to that question.  But as an Oblate of the Precious Blood, I am committed to praying for priests, to offering all that I am for their sanctity, and if I didn't pray enough for priests before Fr. Jan's suicide, I am committed to praying for them more than ever now.  And I am committed to lightening their load by offering them loving encouragement and gratitude, and helping them in their valuable and necessary work in any small or large way that I can.

Fr. Jan's name was on the Monthly Prayer Request for Priests calendar on June 18th, and all of Milwaukee was asked to pray for him on that day.  My family and I did our part and we prayed for him, as we pray daily for every priest on the calendar when we gather as a family for dinner.  And now, I will be praying for Fr. Jan's soul every day for the rest of my life, as well as for the souls of all priests, those living, as well as those deceased.  Will you join me, and pray for priests as well?  May Fr. Jan, through the mercy of God, rest in peace, eternally embraced in the ever-loving arms of his Father.

St. Mary Magdalene

The feast of St. Mary Magdalene is one of my favorites.  I've always wanted to model my life after this beautiful and holy woman; that is, I want to love much.  I recently learned that during the course of the last seventy years, it was realized that the seven demons that Jesus cast out from St. Mary Magdalene was actually referring to His curing her depression and anxiety, not the prostitution that is usually attributed to her. As one who has deeply struggled with those same mental illnesses, the knowledge that we have this commonality makes me love her even more.

Here's a treat from my favorite local poet, Jessica Powers, aka Sr. Miriam of the Holy Spirit, OCD, in honor of this special Feast Day:

God is a Strange Lover

God is the strangest of all lovers;

His ways are past explaining.

He sets His heart on a soul:  He says to Himself, “Here will I rest my love.”

But he does not woo her with flowers or jewels or words that are set to music,

No names endearing, no kindled praise His heart, direction prove.

His jealousy is an infinite thing, He stalks the soul with sorrow;

He tramples the bloom; He blots the sun that could make her vision dim.

He robs and breaks and destroys-there is nothing at last but her own shame, her own affliction,

And then He comes and there is nothing in the vast world but Him and her love of Him.

Not till the great rebellions die and her will is safe in His hands forever

Does He open the door of light and His tenderness fall,

And then for what is seen in the soul’s virgin places,

For what is heard in the heart, there is no speech at all.

God is a strange lover; the story of His love is most surprising,

There is no proud queen in her cloth of gold; over and over again.

There is only, deep in the soul, a poor dishelved woman weeping….

For those who have need of a picture and words:  the Magdalen.

And something I've shared before from Fr. Gerald Fitzgerald, sP, the founder of the Handmaids of the Precious Blood, and my spiritual father:

To Saint Mary Magdalene

You claimed
the false
until you found
the True;
your beauty
wounded
until Beauty
wounded you,
and plunged your soul
into a spring so sweet
your tears
fell as chaste pearls
at Mercy's
feet.

Purging the Past, Entering the Reality of Now

Justin,  the de-clutterer, at the beginning and end of his scholarly career

I'm in a purge mode this summer and have decided to go through my house from top to bottom recklessly tossing out anything deemed to be, in my opinion, extraneous.  It was my son Justin, the recent high school graduate, who got me started on this goal toward clutter-free living.  In the week after he graduated, but before he began his full-time summer job, he systematically emptied out kitchen cabinets and junk drawers, extravagantly tossing out nearly everything.  I'd come home from work and find the cupboards practically bare.  And I liked it.  Suddenly everything seemed so clean and bright and I don't miss the things he threw out at all.  Really, I couldn't even tell you what they were!  It just goes to show how little I needed those items I had piled up and saved!  Now I've taken it upon myself to continue Justin's work and I have been scandalously eschewing the unnecessary melange from my home including my prayer journals.

In the few years prior to writing this blog, I kept prayer journals where I recorded my daily prayers based upon scripture verses from the daily Mass readings, a sort of written lectio divina. It was a time of my life where my suffering from depression was deep and the prayer journals served a very helpful purpose in bringing about my healing.  But now, as I read through them one last time before I forever renounce them, I find that I am more than happy to kiss the past good-bye and to accept my beautiful life as God has brought me to it in the present moment.  I am so grateful to find that those old books filled with words of sorrow and the struggle for joy no longer reflect who I really am today.

And yet, those years of journal writing were also years of voracious spiritual reading for me, and whenever I would read something that touched my heart or inspired me, I'd have to write it in my prayer journal so I'd never forget it.  Now I've come across some terrific quotes that I had saved and rather than toss them to the insignificance of yesterday with the rest of the household trash where they would be forever lost, I have decided to share them here on this blog where they will hopefully be a source of inspiration for others...

So I begin with these:

From My Monastery is a Minivan by Denise Roy regarding her childhood dream of becoming a priest (much like St. Therese of Lisieux):

"Here I sit, twenty years later, no longer wondering what I'm going to be when I grow up.  I've arrived.  And guess what?  My childhood dreams have come true.

For two decades, I have broken bread, poured grape juice, preached, prayed, told stories, bestowed blessings, taken care of the sick, heard confessions.  I have been a parent.  These have been the sacraments of my daily life and, I suspect, of yours.  These are simple, sacred acts.  These are how we mediate love, as we minister to our own little congregations-children, spouse, family and friends.

I have discovered that it is a great vocation."

From my favorite author, Carryl Houselander:

"For the moment, the precious and only now, you alone are the bearer of the Blessed Sacrament into your own little world.  You are the monstrance, the priest giving Communion, the Real Presence, to your husband, your children and your friends; and the reason why, or one reason why, Christ has given Himself to you, is because He wishes to be with them, as things are, only through you.  This is an astonishing thought, as every thought about the Blessed Sacrament is, if you bring an ounce of courage and realism to it."

And one more journal scribble that I found to be irresistibly worth saving, from a conversation during my daughter's basketball game with the graduate pictured above:

Justin:  "Mom, why don't you talk to some of these other parents here?"
Me:  "Because I don't have anything to say to them."
Justin:  "Yes you do!  Just ask, 'So how's Jesus working for you?'"  ;)

Glory to God For All Things

"Thou hast brought me into life as into an enchanted paradise. We have seen the sky like a chalice of deepest blue, where in the azure heights the birds are singing. We have listened to the soothing murmur of the forest and the melodious music of the streams. We have tasted fruit of fine flavour and the sweet-scented honey. We can live very well on Thine earth. It is a pleasure to be Thy guest." ~from Akathist Hymn of Thanksgiving:  Glory to God For All Things, Ikos 2

With the beginning of May I've passed the four year mark in my blogging career.  When I first began to blog I thought that, like many of my other hobbies such as scrapbooking, floral arranging and counted-cross-stitch, this would be a short-lived endeavor lasting maybe a year or two and it would fizzle out.  Except that blogging isn't really like any of my other hobbies.  I don't blog simply to pass the time or to learn a new craft. I blog to share my faith and hopefully glorify God in the process.  And, one of the joys of blogging is that over these past four years I have come across many kindred spirits, blogging buddies, you could say, that are quite gifted at sharing their own experience of faith and who inspire me with their words.  One such blogger is  Amanda Rose who writes at Little Steps Along the Way.

Amanda has recently written two amazing posts that have worked their way deeply into my soul and have made a profound impact upon my prayer life.  I tend to be a melancholic spirit and slip quite easily into depressive episodes, but Amanda has shown me an effective antidote for my moodiness.

In her post, My Portion is the Lord, which was featured on Dr. Anthony Lilles contemplative blog, Beginning to Pray, Amanda reminds us to sing hopefully when all seems dark:

"I hope when my mind says I shouldn’t. I hope while the tears run down my cheeks. I hope when I cannot hold back the sobs of disappointment, grief and exhaustion.  Even when I doubt, my souls sings “my portion is the Lord."  I cling to this truth."

I encourage you to read it all and to remain hopeful.  And on her own blog, Amanda shares a post that not only encourages the virtue of hope, but also the virtue of gratitude.  In Singing Alleluia Through Our Tears, Amanda introduces her readers to a magnificent Orthodox prayer, an Akathist Hymn of Thanksgiving, written in 1934 by an Orthodox Metropolitan while he was held in a Russian prison camp.  I am startled each time I consider a man held captive, enduring the horrors of a prison camp, who can conjure up a prayer to magnify the Lord with such glorious words of praise.  I have since printed out the Akathist Hymn, Glory to God for All Things, and have been praying with it every day.  I encourage you to pray with it yourself and see if you, too, aren't amazed by the beauty of this prayer and uplifted to give glory to God for all things, even in the darkest of times.

"Glory to Thee for the Feast Day of life
Glory to Thee for the perfume of lilies and roses
Glory to Thee for each different taste of berry and fruit
Glory to Thee for the sparkling silver of early morning dew
Glory to Thee for the joy of dawn's awakening
Glory to Thee for the new life each day brings
Glory to Thee, O God, from age to age"

~from Akathist Hymn of Thanksgiving:  Glory to God For All Things, Ikos 2

slipping into silence

silent tears
in the silent rain
silent sorrow
and silent pain

silent shame
from a silent past
silent suffering
now the silence is cast

silence remains
in a silent heart
can you feel the silence
rip your soul apart?

silent day
and silent night
silence continues
its silent plight

silence holds
and silence ties
looking down
with silent eyes

yet here in the silence
He speaks to me
my soul is listening
I can clearly see

the deep love He has
in His heart so dear
His silent presence
is love ever near

beautiful silence
I will embrace
this quiet time
this silent space

and into forever
silence will remain
a sign of His love
and His kingly reign

silently His heart
melts into mine
and our hearts become one
in a silent shrine

Contemplate a Crucifix

"If you ever feel anxious or afraid or if you ever wonder does God really love me, does God really care, do I matter, contemplate a crucifix. In the crucifix we see Jesus with his head bent to kiss us, his arms opened to embrace us and his feet nailed fast to pardon our sins. We can never pass a cross or a crucifix with indifference because there we see God's compassion, God's heart, God's love put on full display for us."

~Bishop Donald Hying, from the July 3rd homily at the Cathedral of St. John the Evangelist

Everything is Holy Now

Yesterday I noticed ten yellow finches on the side of the road that prompted me to think of God, but those finches also reminded me of someone else, a little girl who passed away three years ago. Today I found out that this would have been her birthday. God's timing is impeccable. Please pray for her mother, Andrea, who continues to grieve the loss of her precious daughter. From the June 2009 archives....


I’m amazed when I realize how the Holy Spirit uses people to bring about good in this world. I am even more amazed when I realize that the Holy Spirit uses me to console others. I feel so small and little, how can I be of any use to anyone, I wonder? And then He shows me that all I have to do is something small and little, and that’s enough.

I recently learned about a song from the Unitarian Church called “Everything is Holy Now”. The song focuses on how God can be found everywhere, in everything. I liked that idea and ever since I heard about it, I have been doing my best to see God everywhere and in everything.

I am an occasional runner. Last year, while running past a local park, I noticed two yellow birds flying together, in obvious joy, near a glade of evergreen trees. I felt God’s presence in those birds and ran home to write a poem about it. It wasn’t much of a poem, nothing that I thought I would ever share with anyone, but it became a prayer for me whenever I ran past those trees, to thank God with the words “Everything is Holy Now”.

Then one day, I noticed a road-side memorial set up by that glade of trees, the kind that commemorates the death of someone at that location. While watching the local news, I learned that a six-year-old girl, Mackenzie, was hit by a car and died at that very spot. I struggled to see what could possibly be holy in the death of a young girl.

A few days later at morning Mass, Fr. Dave announced that he was presiding at Mackenzie's funeral. He said that he was praying to the Holy Spirit to help him find the right words to say.

After Mass, I asked Fr. Dave why he would find it so hard to find the words to say at the funeral, after all, hasn’t he presided at thousands of funerals? He answered, with tears in his eyes, that funerals for children are rare. So I told him about my poem. I said it wasn’t much, but maybe he would find it to be helpful and he said he would like to see it. I e-mailed my poem to him, and later during that same day, he wrote back saying that Mackenzie's mother, Andrea, liked the poem and they decided to use it to begin the eulogy homily.

God used me and my simple little poem, to bring a bit of healing and comfort to a grieving family. Isn't it amazing, that there are times when we are compelled to do something without understanding why we need to do it, and after we follow through, we realize that our compulsion had nothing to do with us, but everything to do with God's will for us?

It's the power of the Spirit…

It has been one year today since Mackenzie died. The roadside memorial is still standing, often refreshed by loving and grieving family members. I continue to thank God with the prayer “Everything is Holy Now” whenever I run past the memorial, because I believe that Mackenzie is in heaven and it is she who is holy now.

I ask God to comfort all of the parents who grieve the loss of their children, I ask Him to cradle all of the sweet babies that have gone to heaven too early in His gentle arms, and I ask him to continue to help us all to find the holiness in life, even when it is difficult.

Yellow Birds

At the edge of the park, there is a beautiful glade of evergreen trees.
The ground around them is covered with wildflowers and tall grasses.

I watch in joy and wonder as two bright yellow birds
dance and flutter among the flowers.

I am filled with a delightful awe
at the quiet beauty that you have
blessed this world with, Lord.

A prayer comes to my mind and heart-
“Everything is Holy Now.”

May the soul of Mackenzie and all of the souls of the faithful departed,through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.

Be Real For Me, God

Be real for me, God.
Let me see you
let me touch you
let me know you.

Be real for me, God.
Move out of my imaginings
and dreams and enter into
my every tangible moment.

Be real for me, God.
Be my only desire
be my only joy
be my only life.

Be real for me, God.
Step out of the painting
on my wall and stand
with me face to face.

Be real for me, God.
Let me forsake all
others and live for
You alone.

Be real for me, God.

One Thousand Gifts

Ann Voskamp. Could she be the woman who has the power to change my life? To change me from a bent over, tear releasing, withering woman to one who learns how to feel joy again, no, more than feel it, to live joy? To live His joy-the joy He surely must have meant for me when He created me as a speck in my mother's womb? That day, nearly forty-six years ago, when He reached deep within her thirty-eight year old tired body, already the carrier of eight lives before my own, and changed me from His thought to a real, living human being?

I've been reading Ann's A Holy Experience blog ever since I started to write Imprisoned in my Bones in my effort to release the God that for too long I had kept bottled up inside of me, as if I were trying to contain the essence of EVERYTHING and seal Him back up within this real, living human body that He created. My first visit to Ann's place and I fell in love. Everyone does. Who could not love that little farmer's wife, mother to a brood of six homeschooling wonders, who turns mere words into wisdom and poetry and love; whose heartbreakingly beautiful piano music and photography of her family and her farm makes me turn to her page again and again; who took her own pain- unspeakable pain- and lifelong depression, and turned it into joy with a list. That's it. A list.

I've made a few stumbling attempts to follow her example, you've seen them right here on several Mondays. But, I didn't number my gratitude like she does. I simply wrote it. Maybe that will change now. Her book came in the mail this week. The book that I had pre-ordered online over a month ago; the book that arrived on a day so busy that I was going to go right from work to the school gym where I was signed up to volunteer at the admission table for my son's basketball tournament, collecting dollars from guests who came to cheer on their sons; the day where I would leave the house at 6:45 in the morning but wouldn't arrive back home until 10:30 at night.

But first...

First, I placed a quick telephone call home to say hello to my husband, and breathe a word of love to him through the phone line. He said, "Do you have a minute to stop at home and get your book?"

He didn't have to tell me what book he was speaking about. "It came? YES! I will be right there!"

Walking in the back door, I saw it, still in the cardboard cover, right next to a sandwich brimming with ham, lettuce and tomatoes for my supper. My husband loves me well. I quickly unwrapped One Thousand Gifts and embraced it close. I took my book, my sandwich and my daughter and headed to the gym where the rest of our family would meet us when it would be time for Jack's game to start.

In between taking the dollars from the sports fans-parents, grandparents and siblings who were bursting with pride for the young basketball player in their lives, and in between bites of my sandwich, and in between conversations with my daughter about her future hopes for marriage at age twenty-two with two children to follow, ("Not five, or seven, or ten?" "No, Mom, they might be bratty children and how would I handle so many of them?" "No life in a convent praying to the God you are so madly in love with?" "No, Mom, I will always, always be madly in love with God, but I don't want to be a nun.") -I began to read Ann's words. Her words of wisdom, poetry and love.

And when I read these words on page twenty-six-
"For years of mornings, I have woken wanting to die. Life itself twists into a nightmare. For years, I have pulled the covers up over my head, dreading to begin another day I'd be bound to just wreck. Years, I lie listening to the taunt of names ringing off my interior walls, ones from the past that never drifted far away: Loser. Mess. Failure. They are signs nailed overhead, nailed through me, naming me. The stars are blinking out. Funny, this. Yesterday morning, the morning before, all these mornings, I wake to the discontent of life in my skin. I wake to self-hatred. To the wrestle to get it all done, the relentless anxiety that I am failing. Always, the failing. I yell at children, fester with bitterness, forget doctor appointments, lose library books, live selfishly, skip prayer, complain, go to bed too late, neglect cleaning the toilets. I live tired. Afraid. Anxious. Weary. Years, I feel it in the veins, the pulsing of ruptured hopes. Would I ever be enough, find enough, do enough?"

I could feel my head nodding. Me too, Ann-Ann without the fanciful 'e', as she puts it. We share a name with or without an 'e', and we share pain. But, we both know that Ann(e) means "grace" and who better to show me how to live His grace, to accept His grace, to deeply live His grace, than a kindred Ann(e).

And I haven't gotten very far in the book. This morning, two days after receiving it, I open the book that I thought I would finish before leaving the basketball game and find that I am only on page forty-seven where she shares her story about how writing her list of One Thousand Gifts makes her feel happy. She says:

"Long, I am woman who speaks but one language, the language of the fall-discontentment and self-condemnation, the critical eye and the never satisfied...Well, if all these were gifts that God gives-then wasn't my writing down the list like...receiving. Like taking with thanks. Wait. 'And he took bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to them...' Gave thanks. This crazy-dare gift list-it's language lessons in eucharisteo! For real: But eucharisteo-it's the word Jesus whispered when death prowled close and His anguish trickled down bloody. He took the bread, even the bread of death, and gave thanks. I look down at my list. This thanks that I am doing-it seems so...crude. Trivial. If this list is the language of eucharisteo-this feels like...guttural groanings. But perhaps the "full of grace" vocabulary begins hauntingly, simply, like a child, thankful for the childlike. But doesn't the kingdom of heaven belong to such as these?"

I thought that I would pick up Ann's One Thousand Gifts and not put it down until I had devoured every last word along with my sandwich. The sandwich is long digested, but the book is going to take me forever to read through-each page gives me so much to consider, to contemplate. This book is taking me deeper into who God means for me to be. Thank you, Ann, without the fanciful 'e' for sharing your lessons with me, with everyone, and for carrying us along with you in your quest for gratitude.

It's time for me to really start my list...

1. rebellious son who wakes and finds me here typing, holds me long with his stretched out arms and whispers love, then asks "What time will you take me to confession?"

2. husband chef, who makes delicious sandwiches that nourish with love

3. kneeling low at a Holy Hour for life before an elaborate golden monstrance that houses the Author of life, and words from transitional deacon Christopher Klusman spoken in that glorious American Sign Language reminding all of their beauty that comes from the One who formed us fearfully, wonderfully, and I believe him, I believe that I am beautiful

4. words-words that drift from my mind through this keyboard and are shared with everyone on this blog, and with a few in intimate email messages, words of mine and words of others that have healing properties, words spilled out from me and words graciously meant for me, given to me by others, words that give love

5. women like Ann Voskamp who bravely share their pain and their searching for His grace so that I may learn how to find His grace as well

*************************************
Thank you, Ann, for One Thousand Gifts!

Stronghold

"My soul is weary with sorrow: strengthen me according to your word." Psalm 119:28

He's seen her tears and heard her sobs. He watched her lay in bed, unable to get up. He saw her close the door on the world, wanting to hide inside of herself, but forcing her way through each day anyway. And he held her. Everyday. He held her until the pain went away, until she could breathe again, live again. But he never forgot. He couldn't forget what it was like to watch his vibrant wife wither away, barely able to care for the children, completely unable to care for herself.

Summer came and the energy came back and her lungs breathed deeply taking in the fresh air of newly cut grass and fragrant flowers. The sun shone brightly waking her up to joy. But he didn't forget. He watched her closely, her every move, for any sign of that dark mood that easily overtakes her spirit.

Autumn came, and he knew. He knew that her spirits would become as fragile as the leaves that shriveled on the trees and blew to the ground at the first strong wind. So he watched closely; he watched for the signs of despair. When he saw a book on the kitchen counter with the word "sadness" in the title, he immediately confronted her, asking her why she was reading that book, thinking that she was dwelling on despair, clinging to sadness, unaware that it was a fictional story that had nothing to do with her emotions. Relief filled his eyes with her explanation.

But she knows. She knows that wherever the seasons may take her, whether it's to the heights of joy or the depths of despair, he will always look out for her, always love her and always hold her until she can stand on her own once again. He is her stronghold sent from God and entwined through marriage, to care for her and to carry her when she becomes too weak to stand on her own.

Sometimes I Cry

He's very emotional
and given to bouts of tears;
when they begin to fall
his ability to express
his sorrow in words disappears.
All he can say is
"Sometimes I cry for no reason."

He needs to be held and loved
and to know that he is not alone.
With my arms around him
his weeping turns to sobs;
I hold his heaving body close,
absorbing his hurt through my skin
and into my heart.

He needs something,
some One to cling to
when his heart is aching
and he feels lost and scared.

I turn to the Sacred Heart of Jesus
and implore Him to make room
for this little child
who hurts so much.

I know His Heart will
take him in
for I have entered
into His love myself
in my own neediness and worry;
my longing for assurance
that I'm alright, that I will survive.

The beauty he will find there
is the warmth and peace
that is only found in
His Most Sacred Heart
open, bleeding, vulnerable;
so blessedly vulnerable.

And the thorns that circle His Heart
do not poke and jab;
they have burned away
in the fire of His love.

And the insecurity
that reduces him to tears
no longer wracks his fragile body;
it, too, burns away in the fire of His love.

Liquid Prayer

Last Winter I spent many bitter moments shedding tears of sorrow and depression, so when the joy finally arrived to my heart late this Spring, I was most grateful to brush aside those wet streaks that were forever running down my cheeks and replace them with the wrinkles of a smile. This morning, for the first time in months, I felt the tears hovering at the brim of my eyes once again, but this time, I didn’t quickly wipe them away and I felt no embarrassment over them, for I recognized that they were not tears of sorrow, but rather, they were tears of a different sort; they were tears of gratitude for a life full of living and full of love. I gladly let these tears linger, for I knew they were a most special prayer offered to my God who brought me out of the depths and into the light.

In this year when I am learning to accept whatever crosses or blessings that God chooses to bestow upon me, I choose to list these blessings which I have gratefully accepted and for which I am pleased to let the water of sacred tears fall.

-for a thriving and lush backyard garden abundant in blackberries, tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, eggplant and peppers

-for the presence of Mr. C at daily Mass after a long absence due to illness. His smile that shone through his pain as he entered the church was a bright spot in my day, and as I watched him struggle to change posture from sitting, to kneeling to standing, I was reminded of our beloved Pope John Paul II from whom we learned so much about the joy that is found within great suffering.

-for the lovely sight of Deacon Christopher Klusman standing like an angel at the altar beside Fr. Dave

-for newly ordained priests and deacons who lift up spirits with their fresh perspectives on the Gospel

-for the opportunity to serve families in need each day, and hopefully make a difference in their lives, bring a little love to their hearts and comfort to their weary souls. Today my heart goes out to a twenty-one year old single mother with four children under the age of five. I remember a time when my four oldest children were all five years old and younger, and I know how hard it is to get through each day, so I am also grateful…

-for my loving husband who has been right by my side every step of the way as we parent our five children together. He does so much…he loves so much, and I know that I could not manage without him

-for our sweet little guinea pig, Daisy, who lets me hold her in the evenings and find comfort in stroking her soft fur. It’s stress relief without the calories of chocolate!

-for my daughter who is taking on the cleaning chores at home this summer to relieve me of some efforts at the end of long and busy days at work

-for the job opportunities which came to my three oldest sons this summer, all through connections at our parish…
John is working full-time at the parish cleaning, doing yard work and general maintenance, Justin is busy mowing lawn for some of the elderly parishioners, and Joe has been asked to assist Fr. Dave with some office chores…
Their employment is a great blessing and I hope that my boys will see that their attendance at daily Mass and all of their service to the parish has provided immediate temporal benefits as well as the many spiritual benefits that will hopefully come in the future

For all of these gifts I am so very thankful, but the one gift which stands out among my list of acceptance, and the one that surprises me the most when I realize that I truly am grateful for it, since I had spent the Winter months bemoaning it, is the gift of tears, sweetly dripping from the corners, blurring my vision of this present reality while clarifying my vision of the joys to come in His kingdom.

“It’s such a secret place, the land of tears.” Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Washed Out

hurt washes over me like a wave
drowning my face in tears
immediate-
without reason-
without restraint-

I succumb to the wave
and am washed out...

upon my return to the shore
I lay heavy with water,
soaked to the core
aching from the fight for control
of my emotions

I am drained and exhausted

resuscitate me Lord, and
keep me from the water's edge
Amen.

Therese Borchardt has a wonderful book and blog "Beyond Blue" which offers great comfort and support to those suffering through depression and other mental illnesses. I found this wonderful poem "Seasons of the Soul:My Bipolar Experience" there and was deeply moved. I hope it moves you as well.