Carmen’s Chatter

Unless I am wrong, and it would not be the first time, I do not know that anyone has ever studied, analyzed, and presented the influence on Ælfric of The Rule of St. Benedict. If I am correct in this, then here is large lacuna in Old English scholarship that deserves close attention.

The tenth-century Ælfric of Eynsham was an amazingly gifted, beautiful writer of English, that is, of OLD English. He wrote some of the earliest and certainly finest sermons in English, he was the first translator of the Bible, and he was a Benedictine monk and (later) abbot living in England.

Ælfric’s sermons are therefore shaped by the wisdom of Benedict’s “little rule,” and it is interesting that this Anglo-Saxon monk describes the first command Eden-rich Adam and Eve broke as “þæt lytle bebod” (“that little rule / commandment”), an Old English phrase echoing “this little rule” of Benedict’s Epilogue. In sermon XXI, “De Falsis Diis” Ælfric writes:

Ne hungor ne þurst, ne hefigtyme cyle, / ne nan swidhlic hæte, ne seocnyss ne mihton / Adam geswencan on þam earde, / þa hwile þe he þæt lytle bebod mid geleafan geheold. (Neither hunger nor thirst nor bitter cold / nor overwhelming heat nor sickness could / torment Adam on this earth, / so long as he faithfully kept that little commandment [author’s italics].)

(This material is adapted from my introduction to God of Mercy: Ælfric’s Sermons and Theology (Mercer University Press, 2006).

In this striking Old English echo of the Rule’s Epilogue, Ælfric is laying bare his entire theological argument. As Benedict’s Prologue points out, the child of God finds following submission’s path simple; the only “hard” thing is stubborn self-will: “The work of obedience is the way to return to Christ when the carelessness of disobedience has made you stray.” Ælfric viewed obedience as a comfort, not as a daunting divine request, and his framing the Fall of Man as Adam and Eve’s breaking “þæt lytle bebod” (“that little commandment”) shows the core of his mercy-focused Benedictine theology.

Ælfric understood the Ur-bebod that God gave Adam and Eve as being related to the reassuring words spoken by God’s Son: “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. . . . For my yoke is easy and my burden is light” (Matthew 11.28-30). In Ælfric’s Benedictine mind, God’s first “little commandment” and the later “little rule” of Benedict were separated only by time, not by spirit because Ælfric understood and taught that God the Father did (through Christ) and will do (through the Holy Spirit) most of the work for his children who desire spiritual growth; all that is left is humility through repentance and kindness by doing good.

I would love to see a fully realized study of the influence on Ælfric of The Rule of St. Benedict.

Thoughts anyone?

Right now, the grass in our front yard is high. Yes, it is. I could cut it. I could. But I am choosing instead to focus on my family. Sean is recovering from hip surgery, the kids have things to do, and so the grass is growing higher and higher; and I really don’t care.

I guess when it starts prohibiting the mail person from shoving mail in our mailbox, perhaps I will then crank up the lawnmower, give it some gas and oil, and push it around the perimeter.

Till then, I say—let the grass grow, green and long and beautiful.

I have just finished reading Michael Plekon’s Hidden Holiness (University of Notre Dame Press, 2009). It is an unusually good book because it is both scholarly and useful. In its foreword, the archbishop of Canterbury says:

“The patriarch Enoch was a shoemaker; with every stitch by which he joined the lower leather of a shoe to the upper leather, he united the Glory that is below with the Glory that is above.” This ancient rabbinical Jewish saying represents a vision in which holiness is a matter of connecting the ordinary matter of earth with its depths in the life of God. (page vii)

He continues, pointing out that a person who lives a life focused on holiness is “not primarily the high achiever of the moral life, the honours graduate in discipleship, but the person in whom the depths of the ordinary become visible” (page vii).

The rest of this rich, engaging book presents us with an astonishing amount of information in easy-to-digest story-form about different people who lived real Christian lives that were extraordinary in their ordinariness.

Here are some excerpts that give the flavor of this excellent book.

Etty Hillesum (1914-43) wrote diaries and letters from the Westerbork internment camp for Dutch Jews, saying in one letter: “And when the turmoil becomes too great and I am completely at my wits’ end, then I still have my folded hands and bended knee” (33).

“[W]onder what it might mean for God to become human. What would this mean for God? What would it mean for us human beings?” (45)

“God . . . is ‘love without limits’” (53).

He also quotes author Kathleen Norris, who describes holiness as that which “takes a stand for awe and wonder and beauty even in the midst of ordinary daily activities” (139).

This Christocentric book is full of stories that inspire because we see ordinary people like you and like me who tried and still do try to live out Christ-focused, other-loving lives. Michael Plekon has done us all a great service with this well-written offering.

Since Sean couldn’t go far, we had a picnic by the river to celebrate Father’s Day and what a terrific dad he is. We had ham sandwiches with lettuce and mayo and mustard. We had what was left of his big chocolate chip birthday cookie. We had grape-cranberry juice. We had barbeque chips and fritos. We had cut-up pear. And we had the river moving slowly by us. And each other. It was more than enough.

I meant to say yesterday but forgot that this spiritual exercise of “counting the stars” includes (but is not limited to, smile) noticing the problems in my life and the problematic people (so to speak) and being grateful for them, too. *Sigh.* Who out there finds that easy? But I’m determined not to pick and choose so much but to take life as it comes and be grateful for it all. Somehow.

The “somehow” part of that is still TBD.

But as I get older—and 48 is definitely reaching the half-century mark—I see that the mysteries of grace are inexhaustible. That my life is not fated to follow a certain path determined by my genes or by my experiences, instead, my life is in Christ’s hands, and the transformation of my heart is ongoing.

All I have to do is desire it.

Christ does the rest.

I will learn to rest in the one who says, “Come to me, all you who are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28).

Amen.

And thanks, Peggy, longtime dear friend, for the comment on the last blog! Hope you are feeling much better!

Today I am going to “count the stars” of my world. I mean I’m going to notice things, pay attention, listen, be. I’m going to give my eyes and ears to the mundane, to the ordinary, to the slip of paper here on the computer desk and to the address scribbled on it in blue ink—to the clock with “Turbine Room” on it—to the flowers in my front yard—to the cherry poptart with white icing—most especially to my hot cup of coffee with whole, organic milk in it.

I’m also going to give my eyes and ears and self to the person talking to me. Listening seems the greatest gift we can give anyone. I don’t mean with my ears only but with my whole being. My staying wholly present in a conversation, listening with my whole self and not thinking of an answer or a comment back to my friend, gives another person a vast space in which to be.

Don’t we all need that?

So I’m going to count the stars today.

When I dig in the dirt later this morning, I will be thinking of Jacob Edfeldt. He was a student at Shorter. He had two heart transplants in his young life, the second one in 2007. This second new heart was rejected last week, and Jacob died.

This news has cut across our campus and left a gash in our community. Jacob was truly beloved. To meet him, you would never have thought he had seen the inside of a hospital, much less had two heart transplants. He was a joyful person who brought joy to others.

So today, when I plant a flower my daughter brought home from Young Scholars camp, I will be thinking of and praying for Jacob’s family, who are burying Jacob this morning.

I will be thinking of 1 Corinthians 15:42-57:

So it is with the resurrection of the dead. What is sown is perishable, what is raised is imperishable. It is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory. It is sown in weakness, it is raised in power. It is sown a physical body, it is raised a spiritual body. If there is a physical body, there is also a spiritual body. Thus it is written, “The first man, Adam, became a living being”; the last Adam became a life-giving spirit. But it is not the spiritual that is first, but the physical, and then the spiritual. The first man was from the earth, a man of dust; the second man is from heaven. As was the man of dust, so are those who are of the dust; and as is the man of heaven, so are those who are of heaven. Just as we have borne the image of the man of dust, we will also bear the image of the man of heaven. What I am saying, brothers and sisters, is this: flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God, nor does the perishable inherit the imperishable. Listen, I will tell you a mystery! We will not all die, but we will all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed. For this perishable body must put on imperishability, and this mortal body must put on immortality. When this perishable body puts on imperishability, and this mortal body puts on immortality, then the saying that is written will be fulfilled: “Death has been swallowed up in victory. Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?”

And when I drive to Powder Springs at noon for Jacob’s memorial service, I will be thanking God through tears for the short life of this astonishing young man.

Jacob, you are missed, and we thank God that we knew you for a time that was all too short for us all.

Now, I have gone through various stages in my driving. I have mentally pushed cars outtamyway when they didtakeevertoolong to PULLOFFTHEROADWHENTHEYARETURNINGRIGHTHOWHARDISTHAT?! This mental pushing has often been accompanied by my talking meanly to the driver in the other car, in spite of the fact that he/she can’t even hear me. I have also on occasion through the years shouted inside my car at the other driver’s “stupidity.” And I have in the past been quick to honk my horn long and aggressively and plow on forward.

But now something has changed. When I drive and someone is slow to turn right and get off the road (my pet peeve in driving) or pulls out in the parking lot without looking behind them, I pray for them, either with words or just in the way you do when you send a feeling of peace and God’s grace in Christ to someone.

What is up with me? I am a middle-aged Cuban-American woman, historically short on patience. But something has transformed inside of me.

I have found driving is a way of praying. When I see an ambulance, I pray for the drivers and the patient and their family. When someone annoys me in any way driving, I pray for them. I pray for those who smile at me as I pull up beside them in my car, and as my car comes to rest at the red light, I pray for those who look suspiciously through my Honda Accord’s windows. I pray for the young men in the souped up car with the outsized wheels and shiny chrome. I pray for the young mother riding down the road with the baby in the car seat. I pray for the men and women in the fire truck.

And on and on.

It makes me slow down and see the others in those vehicles as people. They are no longer THINGSINMYWAY.

Thank goodness. It gives me great hope for other areas where I need to change. If I can accept God’s love and grace in this area of my life where before I had been so loud and obnoxious and stupid, then there is hope for other areas where I need to accept God’s love.

I have decided that not accepting God’s love in my life is an arrogance I am no longer willing to practice.

My mother gave my son, John, a powder-blue small Gideon Bible. It sits here looking very modern for a Gideon-given Scripture. I mean—powder blue!

So I start flipping through it and find this verse in Titus: “Speak evil of no man” (Titus 3:2a). Then I read: “Be gentle and meek” (Titus 3:2b).

How do I speak badly of nobody? Are you kidding me? Then comes the answer: by being gentle and humble.

Then I read that God’s mercy has saved us by “the washing of regeneration, and renewing of the Holy Spirit, which he shed on us abundantly through Jesus Christ our Savior” (Titus 3:5-6).

Now here are words I very much like: “regeneration” and “renewing.” I need a spiritual makeover. I need to be revived and made new. How comforting to be reminded that this is going on in me through the Holy Spirit’s presence in me, abundantly mine in Christ.

I will learn to accept God’s love, by his grace.

Amen.

But you can’t have MY Sharon Kessler! Well, she is not “mine,” not really, but Sharon’s words of encouragement certainly make my life more present in God’s love.

Surely self-doubt is the writer’s constant companion. Just as surely, a kind word from a smart friend is the writer’s constant encouragement. Sharon’s encouraging presence in my life reminds me of the truth of these Bible verses:

1 Thessalonians 5:11: “Therefore encourage one another and build up each other.”

Hebrews 3:13: “But encourage one another daily, as long as it is called Today, so that none of you may be hardened by sin’s deceitfulness.”

James 5:16: “Therefore confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed. The prayer of a righteous man is powerful and effective.”

I hope I am “Sharon Kessler” to someone else today!

What do we do when things don’t turn out the way we want?

I know what my children do. They cry. They complain. When they were younger, they threw tantrums.

It might look like this. One minute, I am a thirty-something woman walking calmly down a mall corridor with my beautiful toddler daughter smiling beside me, and the next minute, after some I-didn’t-get-what-I-expected moment, there on that can’t-be-sanitary floor of the mall is a kicking, screaming, all-limbs-flailing, living, breathing “thing.” I would stare, then pick her up, put her writhing and still protesting self under my arm, against my side like a football (for maximum safety), and walk to the car with a look of calm that belied my absolute horror.

But seriously now, when I at forty-eight don’t get what I want, how am I any different from my once-toddler daughter? I may do it quietly, even invisibly, but deep down where all my meanings are, I kick and scream and become a “thing” inside. I do stare at my soul then in absolute helplessness.

The difference now is that at forty-eight I take my spiritual temper tantrums to God. I talk with my friend Jesus about them, in great detail, and then I try to listen to his wisdom, which I desperately need. The details of our dialogue will never make a blog because they are so private, but isn’t that the most awesome mark of intimacy?

Amen.

My husband, Sean, had hip surgery today. We got there at 8, he was taken in at 9, surgery started at 11, and it lasted till 3. I had been told it would be forty-five minutes, but his hip needed more work and more repair than had been anticipated.

So I waited and waited and waited.

For the first two hours, I began, read through, and finished a wonderful young adult novel, to see if it would be suitable for my daughter. Then Brother Lawrence kept me company for the remaining four hours. Brother Lawrence is a seventeenth-century French Carmelite lay brother who had a lifelong conversation with God. He picked up the baton of the Cloud’s anonymous author and carried it, so to speak.

Brother Lawrence was very fond of saying that we should do everything with love. He said that it doesn’t matter what we do so long as we do it with love. He said that even doing small things, such as cleaning a kitchen, represents the true worship of God, when done with great love.

So I sat and waited with great love.

I found myself concerned for those around me. Many were going to pre-op appointments. Others were being paged for surgery outcomes for loved ones. Every “Will the FILL-IN-THE-BLANK family please come through the double doors to the nurse’s station” became a surname that went through my heart for prayer. Then I worried for the three women sitting in the corner playing with their cell phones. I worried for the pacing mother with her fussy toddler. I worried for the obese woman sitting a few chairs over from me, waiting for her pre-op appointment, with her five children in tow. She kept wheezing.

I compulsively underlined everything in Brother Lawrence that spoke to me. Even before Sean left for surgery, he said I had underlined more in Brother Lawrence than I had left unmarked. (Sean does not mark in his books, ever.) Christianity Today wants me to write an article on Brother Lawrence, so you could say I was also doing my homework in the outpatient waiting room.

At first, I read and read and didn’t budge from my seat, but then the forty-five-minute surgery became an hour-and-a-half surgery; so I politely asked the receptionist was that to be expected. She said it was.

Then, when it was two hours and a half into the surgery, I asked the receptionist again, politely, if all was okay, and she called back to find out details, then said, “He’s still in there.” That is when my stomach became involved, and I knew I was trying not to be nervous because I got very quiet inside.

I do not like it when I get very quiet inside. It means I am more worried than words can say. For an English major who loves words, that is a serious state to be in. So I read more Brother Lawrence, who practices the presence of God. I tried to follow Brother Lawrence’s lead. I talked to God. Short things like, “I’m nervous. What is going on? Be with Sean.”

Meanwhile, my very special friend Beth kept texting me: “I’m praying” and “How many cups of coffee have you had this morning?” (I said, “Two,” and she said, “Go get another; two is not enough for today”) and later “What is happening now?” and then “Surgery usually lasts longer than expected” and finally as delay piled onto delay, “Hang tough.”

Each text was like a hug. I have known Beth since college. She knew me when I was as mature as a green coconut. She reminded me not long ago that I always sat in the front [read: "nerd"] seat in the middle row while she sat in the back. I was like, “I had to keep my academic scholarships and couldn’t miss a word the teacher was saying!” Beth and I used to tool around Rome in her beautiful blue MG Midget, with the top down. Beth walked through fire with me in college, and she still does.

I love Beth because we laugh a lot, even when (especially when?) life is surely not funny. I love her because she still likes me after all these years, even though she knows me so well, which is such a comfort, because it cuts down on the number of words needed to communicate. Also, I love Beth because she really prays. I mean really prays. I thank God for her steady heart. She trusts God in all circumstances. Iron does sharpen iron.

Also, my awesome college friend Leah texted me early on to say she was praying. How much it meant to know friends were praying. I knew so many were thinking of and praying for Sean. It meant a world of difference.

Finally, four hours on, I heard: “Will the Butcher family come through the double doors to the nurse’s station.” I met then with the doctor who spoke in multi-jointed medical terms about the reasons for the longer-than-expected surgery. The doctor is obviously brilliant and he was also kind, and I kept thinking how if I just had a dictionary, I could look up all of those terms and truly understand what he was saying. Out of all that the doctor said, I did hear and process enough hard facts about the complexities of the surgery to be worried, no matter how cheerful and competent Sean’s doctor is.

Then I shook the doctor’s hand and thanked him and went back out into the waiting room. Then I just had to step outside. As instructed by a large sign, I gave the receptionist my cell phone number, in case I was needed, and then I escaped from the frigid waiting room and into the furnace of 90+-degree heat and blue skies and brilliant sun.

That’s when I saw the cloud. It towered upward, a stunningly white cumulonimbus cloud. It was as white as snow, with billowing edges that reached from the tops of green pine trees to the sky’s peak and covered the entire width of my vision, or so it seemed. And it spoke to me. I looked at it and thought of the cloud of unknowing—of how much we don’t know—how close God always is to us, even in the life-and-death situation of four hours of anesthesia and complicated surgery—how close he was to me as I waited to hear how my best friend, Sean, was doing in such a surgery.

God is closer to us than we know. God is closer to me than my breath, closer to you than your breath. God is like the glasses on my nose. That close.

And I knew I wouldn’t cry but would be on the verge a while, with the pent-up worry that, when some stage of relief has been reached, settles in the eyes and makes them heavy. I stared at the cloud. It spoke to me. Its presence was comforting. Surgery over, I stared at it as I called my mom, Beth, and another dear friend who’s like a brother to me, and talked with each one of them. I texted Leah. I called another very dear friend but couldn’t reach her but knew she was praying. These were my anchors, and I am grateful to them. These were our anchors.

When owing to a complication Sean was admitted for the night—also unplanned—other friends called as I rode the elevator up to Sean’s room. The calls kept coming, from friends near and far.

I am so grateful not to walk this journey on earth alone.

So there is this fountain outside my office window, to my left as I sit and stare at this computer screen. One of the great joys of my life is listening to this fountain. Even when I’m not consciously listening to it, I hear its soothing sounds.

Its tranquility makes it easy to sit here and wait for a senior producer at Moody Broadcasting to call so that we can do an interview. We will talk about writing, why it’s important and what are some principles of writing well. I have my copy of Zinsser’s On Writing Well at the ready.

Here are my favorite lines on writing:

Good writing isn’t written; it’s rewritten.
Simplify! Simplify! Simplify! (Wait! I meant this: Simplify!)
Get out the clutter.
Revise.
The difference between the exactly right word and the sort of right word is the difference between lightning and the lightning bug.
Don’t tell me the cat screamed–bring the cat out and let him scream.
Writing is hard.
Writers are those people who find that writing is especially hard for them.
Focus on the verbs.

From Session One, quoting Psalm 119 (from Bridges to Contemplative Living with Thomas Merton: Discovering the Hidden Ground of Love (volume 4, edited by Jonthan Montaldo and Robert G. Toth, Ave Maria Press, Inc., 2007):

It was your hands that made me and shaped me; help me to learn your commands. Your faithful will see me and rejoice for I trust in your word.

From the Introduction to Bridges to Contemplative Living with Thomas Merton:

Contemplative living is a way of responding to our everyday experiences by consciously attending to our relationships. It deepens the awareness of our connectedness and communion with others, becomes a positive force of change in our lives, and provides meaningful direction to our journey.

Also from Bridges to Contemplative Living with Thomas Merton:

We have the choice of two identities: the external mask which seems to be real and which lives by a shadowy autonomy for the brief moment of earthly existence, and the hidden, inner person who seems to be nothing, but who can give himself eternally to the truth in which he subsists. It is this inner self that is taken up into the mystery of Christ, by His love, by the Holy Spirit, so that in secret we live “in Christ.”

And what is love? When you love another person you simply forget yourself and think about the other person. You are not concerned with yourself. And if you love this other person and know that it is mutual then you know the other person is thinking about you. So that what happens in love is that each one forgets himself in order to live in and through the other. This is what God asks of us. He asks us to live in such a way that we don’t have to think about ourselves, He will think about us.

That phrase is ubiquitous in religious discussions. Its source is easy to find. Look in the Old Testament books of Psalms and Isaiah for juicy examples.

“Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord!” (Psalm 27:14) and “Wait for the Lord, and keep to his way, and he will exalt you to inherit the land. . . .” (Psalm 37:34a) and, my favorite, “[T]hose who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint.” (Isaiah 40:30)

So. But what does “wait on the Lord” really mean? I have to look at each word in that phrase. What does “wait” mean? I know “on” is a preposition and “the” is an article telling us “here comes a noun.” But what does “Lord” mean? Until I know what “wait” and “Lord” mean, how can I be certain to know what it means to say this often parroted phrase: “wait on the Lord”?

Wait is an old friend of mine, for its origins lie in Old English, in the verb wacian, for “to be awake.” So “wait” really means “to keep watch” and also “to be awake.” It means to stay alert.

But wait. Aren’t there two kinds of waiting?

There is the kind of waiting that my husband, Sean, and I did this morning at Redmond Hospital. It was Sean’s pre-op visit. First we went to the doctor’s office at 9:00 a.m. and paid our hefty bill. Then we went to Redmond Hospital, getting there as instructed at 9:45 a.m. for a 10:15 a.m. appointment. And first the bookkeeper called us in and made sure our account was paid up. Then we went back into the waiting room and waited and waited and waited and waited.

The Cuban of the couple (me) got up after forty-five minutes to very politely ask the receptionist did we miss something, were we in the right place? Just a nudge. She assured me all was well. After waiting thirty more minutes, and knowing I had to pick our son up at noon, I went back to said kind receptionist, who generously got on the phone and called back and said, “Any minute now.”

I reported this news to the British person in the couple, who said, “Any minute? Does that mean a close minute or a far-away minute? It could be ANY minute, right?” So we had a chuckle about that.

Ten minutes later, we heard, “Mr. Butcher,” and we went back, and we did more paperwork and answered more questions. Then we went back out to the waiting room, and we waited for the blood work, and we waited and we waited and we waited.

We were polite to everyone, obviously, but alone and together huddled in that waiting room, we did whisper things like, “Really, this is getting a bit much” and “Come on—I mean, for us to get here at 9:45 for a 10:15 and still be sitting here at 11:15 is ridiculous.”

That is one kind of waiting, the tedious kind, the kind that is interrupting MY/OUR plans and MY/OUR day. Here is another.

When my husband, Sean, and I were first married, he was a lawyer at the third largest law firm in London, Lovell White Durrant, now known as Lovells. Some days, I could not wait for him to walk the twenty-five minutes home to our one-room (not one-bedroom, but ONE ROOM) flat, so I would take off down Mecklenburgh Square, turn right on Doughty Street and walk past the Charles Dickens Museum (I loved that street), turn a slight left onto Roger Street, turn right onto Gray’s Inn, turn left onto High Holborn, and walk until I came to Holborn Viaduct.

Then I would stand discreetly (I hoped!) across the busy street where I could see him emerge from his office building. Of course, this being London, no one noticed me much with all the black taxis and busy business people around. I would have spent my day writing my dissertation and/or doing research in the British Library. It was a great existence. I worked all day long, waiting for the reunion with my new husband in the evenings around 6 p.m.

Now, that is the kind of waiting that I think those Bible verses mean, the joyful kind. I didn’t mope around all day waiting for my husband to get off from work. I was working, too (albeit not very highly paid—alright, not paid at all, except for the Fulbright scholarship). I was waiting to be reunited with my best friend and lover to whom I had made (quite happily) a life-long commitment (which includes hip surgery moments).

The “Lord” part is also interesting. The Old English language is also present in Lord. This word comes from Hlaford, from hlaf and weard, Old English words for “loaf” (or “bread”) and “warden” (or “guardian”). So Lord literally meant “the guardian of the bread,” and bread was the sine qua non of medieval life, as there were no Krogers, just weather and fields and hard work to grow food.

My “Lord” is the “bread” of my life—Christ—without whom I cannot exist, neither literally nor spiritually. He feeds my soul, in all ways. He knows me better than anyone. He knows me intimately.

So when I remember that twenty-nine-year old woman I once was, hopelessly in love with my husband, standing on a busy London sidewalk in all weather—hot sun and later wet snow—staring up at that huge and impressive symbol of European and international commerce and the high-powered legal profession—the Lovell White Durrant office building, waiting happily for my husband to appear, able to pick him out from any crowd by knowing his particular bearing, that tilt of his head, that brown curl, that way he bends, the way he switches his brief case from one hand to the other, I think that that is the kind of “waiting on the Lord” that I want more of in my life.

Lord, make my waiting joyful, giddy even, certain-in-its-intimacy, happy-in-its-mutual-acceptance, and confident-in-its-love-in-you.

Last Thursday, I went to a contemplative prayer gathering at St. Mary’s Church in Rome. I was invited by Liesl Bold, its facilitator. The group is studying Thomas Merton, and one of the disciplines that the group practices is contemplative listening.

So first we opened with short introductions, then moved into the twenty minutes of contemplative prayer, followed by reading from the Bible and also a few pages of Merton, and then comments and contemplative listening.

Contemplative listening means you just listen to the other person’s comment. You do not ready in your mind some comment of your own to piggyback onto their comment. You do not ready in your mind some disagreement or argument to make aloud. You just listen, without judging and without analyzing.

It was awesome. I saw how often we (I) simply do not listen to others. Instead, I use their words as fodder for the ever ongoing internal dialogue I am having with me, myself, and I (really, “me” again, since the objective case is needed here with the “with”).

Since Thursday, I have revisited everyone’s comments about Merton’s thoughts that we read together, and their comments have nourished my soul, as has Merton’s writing and the contemplative prayer that we all did together.

Riding down Cave Spring Road yesterday in my gold Honda Accord, my teenager in the backseat, the green landscape of rolling fields and cows and tall trees whipping past our windows on a lovely late spring afternoon, Kate and I were heading to her best friend’s house for them to enjoy a sleepover, when I adjusted the mirror down so I could see Kate’s face and dark brown eyes and say, “Kate, remember who you are. Remember that you are my daughter and that we are friends. Remember that I trust you.”

Big sigh from the backseat, “Oh, Mom. You always tell me that.”

Do I? I guess I do, but each time it feels like the first time I’ve ever uttered those words. I mean, Kate’s thirteen now, and though I trust her and also her best friend, having been on several field trips together as chaperone, I also think, They are thirteen and don’t understand my concern.

That conversation got me to thinking about how my relationship with God becomes less and less about rules and more and more about intimacy.

Remember who you are.

That is God reminding me, “You are the daughter of the God of Love. You are cherished.”

Two things I’ve spent my whole life trying to quit are . . . well, lately, too much coffee consumption (cup #6 at 8 a.m. might be a bit much in most people’s vocabularies) and a focus on sweets instead of salads (Krispy Kreme donuts with chocolate glazing beckon so much more perfectly than no-matter-how-vibrant-and-green fresh salad does).

No, actually, in addition to trying to forsake or at least moderate these two addictions (would rather use “propensities” here, but dislike imprecise diction), I’ve spent at least the last two decades trying to quit busybodying and striving. I’ve made great strides on the first front, at least visibly and volubly, but the second bad habit is ever at the fore of my Phi-Beta-Kappa-skewed life.

Let’s look at busybodying first. Matthew 7 (3-5) speaks great truth to me here:

Why do you see the speck in your neighbor’s eye, but do not notice the log in your own eye? Or how can you say to your neighbor, “Let me take the speck out of your eye”, while the log is in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take the speck out of your neighbor’s eye.

When I was twentysomething, I liked giving advice to my friends until I began to realize two things: 1) that often my friends didn’t want the advice I was giving them and made that point abundantly clear (thank goodness, though it was painful at the time) and 2) that I needed the advice I was giving my friends more than they ever did!

In short, I no longer like giving advice, nor do I trust myself to give advice, though I sometimes will. I try to give advice only when asked, and even then only hesitantly because what do I know? (I have to confess that I do find with my closest, very closest friends that I often want to help them figure out difficulties and will be pulled into wanting to say, “Could you do this?” or something like that, but as soon as that is out of my mouth, I think, What do you know, Girlfriend?! And if I slip and “give advice” to an acquaintance, I immediately regret it. It feels so arrogant to me now.)

I do know that as I have become more aware of who I am that I have realized more and more that I have absolutely no grounds for giving advice to anyone. What a relief that epiphany has been! I am so messed up that I marvel that I make it from day to day and mainly hope that as a parent I can help my children be more mature and happier than I (that’s my greatest prayer).

(Contrarily, I do feel it is my job to give advice to my children, but I am painfully aware that they are watching my actions scrupulously and that my flawed behavior and choices speak much louder than my “advice” to them ever will.)

So, my desire is to avoid like the plague even wanting to give advice. I will, however, tell my husband or a very close friend not to be so demanding of themselves because that’s less advice and more a pleading to be kind. It’s another way to say, “I love you.” My closest friends are always conscientious and likely to be hard on themselves. And, again, I am always aware that anything I say even like that—I am also (mostly) talking to me. At least now I am aware that I am a fragile, mistake-prone, clay-footed person who needs more good advice than anyone except God can possibly give.

Because at twenty I was in need of painful self-awareness and improving my listening skills (always true, always ongoing), I thrived on giving advice. It made me feel powerful or secure. But the truth was that my soul was completely blind and deaf. It is still greatly blind and deaf, but at least I know it.

The Cloud’s Anonymous writes about such judgment:

My point is—don’t judge. No person on earth should be judged by another. Nobody can say whether what someone else does is “good” or “evil.” That said, yes, you can scrutinize a person’s actions, weigh them in your mind, and determine whether the deeds themselves are good or evil, but you cannot judge the person. . . . So—I ask you—who can judge another’s actions? Those invested with the authority to care for others’ souls, and this authority can be granted publicly by the command and ordination of the Holy Church, or privately by the Holy Spirit, who may inspire a person to shoulder this responsibility in a loving, mature way. We all need a reminder here, however. Never casually assume that you’re meant to take on this power. Don’t rush to judge anyone’s mistakes, and don’t be a faultfinder. Only speak out if you feel the nudge of the Holy Spirit during contemplative prayer. Those who arrogate this responsibility to themselves find it’s terribly easy for things to go wrong. So beware of that. Judge yourself as you want; that’s between you and God or your spiritual director, but leave others alone. (Chapters 29 and 30)

I am a busybody in this sense, though. I do like to “fix” things and think I can. I have not yet learned that God doesn’t need me in that way. I like to feel “needed” but must learn to “be still and know that God is God” (Psalm 46:10).

Now to the striving front. I always think of God as my teacher, my demanding teacher, and I must make all A’s. Or I think of God as my parent, and since my parents made mistakes (who doesn’t), my view of God is skewed and warped in that way. What has most helped me learn to love rather than strive is my friendship (and more) with my husband, Sean.

Sean’s unconditional love for me manifests itself in so many small ways that I could never even begin to describe and never could merit, no way, that he has taught me more about God’s love than anyone else ever could or has. My friendship with Sean has shown me that God mostly wants me to “be” with him, to be his friend. I don’t have to be “good” or “working hard” or a “spiritual honors student” with God. I just have to be available.

Once, when Sean and I had a hard time, years ago, I remember Sean’s saying, “I feel lonesome.” He wasn’t cutting me down. He was just more thinking aloud, and I realized then that I was not present in our friendship and that that was all that was required. I think I sometimes pull away from God because I think I am failing God or not living up to his expectations of me when all God really wants is my being with him, my presence, my turning up to enjoy his company.

I miss out on so many picnics with God (so to speak) because I believe that I am unworthy of his friendship. Surely that is pride in its ugliest form, to think that I am unworthy of God’s love.

The Cloud’s Anonymous has something to say about this topic, too, about letting go and embracing God:

In short, let God’s grace do with you what it wants. Let it lead you wherever it wishes. Let it work and you receive. Look on it, watch it, and leave it alone. Don’t meddle with it, trying to help, as if you could assist grace. Fear that your interference could wreck everything. Instead, be the tree, and let it be the carpenter. Be the house, and let it be the homeowner living there. Become blind during contemplative prayer and cut yourself off from needing to know things. Knowledge hinders, not helps you in contemplation. Be content feeling moved in a delightful, loving way by something mysterious and unknown, leaving you focused entirely on God, with no other thought than of him alone. Let your naked desire rest there. (Chapter 34)

Peace to all!

P.S. A friend asked me where my 2006 interview with Frank Morock is online (Frank interviewed me about my book on Benedict of Nursia). This interview has been rebroadcasted, I just learned, and is podcasted here as #826 (June 23, 2008).

A calla lily is blooming in my little garden. You would think that Middle East peace had been achieved—I am so happy about this white with pink flower. Also, my freesias have kept blooming their hearts out in fragrant reds, yellows, whites, and a purple or two. My bee balm has begun blooming in that rich purple-red hue, and my butterfly bush is about to burst into color (violet), as are my cone flowers (given to me by my mom last year).

We keep on having rich, old-fashioned red, very perfumed roses, and I bring them in and stick them in vases of all types. They make our kitchen aromatic. The large clematis flowers on the mail box are purple and red (I planted them two years ago). And I am waiting on the bright pink crepe myrtles to bloom later this summer. Their ever-increasing leaves are a deep, vibrant green. It’s a magical time of the year. Everything is blooming or being waited on to bloom.

I do so wish my soul were more exactly like that.

I love Alfred E. Newman. He’s kind of like the icon of my soul, the poster boy for my path through life—anxiety. In the 70’s, I was an avid reader of Mad Magazine, and that’s where I met my good buddy Alfred.

I refuse, of course, to give in to fear, and there are plenty of Bible verses that remind me: “Don’t fear.” But I also know that six cups of coffee a day are perhaps not the best path through life, and I routinely choose it, too.

MaryKate Morse in her article, “Flourishing, Not Fear: The Gift of Power (Part II)” gives us enough Bible verses and reasons not to fear but instead to choose lives of confidence in Christ.

Or, as Søren Kierkegaard said (found on the Facebook wall of my friend Darrell Grizzle): “With the help of faith, anxiety brings up the individual to rest in providence.”

That’s what I’m hoping and praying and eating my Bible for.