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Dedicated Widow

2/27/2014

The Prophetess Anna

This weekend I had the joy of renewing my promises, originally made in 1996, as a Widow Dedicated to the Lord with a private promise not to remarry and to live according to a Rule I devised with the help of my Spiritual Directors. This does not involve living in community.
Here are parts of this rule that might interest other widows who could make a private promise with a priest witnessing it not to remarry and to live in some similar way that seems right to them:I try to live simply, giving everything away to the poorest of the poor, to pro-life or other apostolates whatever money I have that I don't need as a necessity. I dress in simple blue clothing: jumpers or dresses with blue or white sweaters or blouses, in honor of Mary.
I attend Daily Mass and make frequent Confession. I pray daily the rosary, the chaplet of Divine Mercy, the Liturgy of the Hours (Morning prayer, Evening Prayer and Night prayer, and meditate on spiritual readings. I spend an hour in silent prayer either in a Church or at home. I devote most of my time to apostolic endeavors such as writing, speaking and teaching. I am not under strict obedience but I do follow the advice of my spiritual director.

This Rule is not binding under pain of sin to allow for the flexibility I need as an older woman and as a widow for availability to my family, however, I will make my best effort to follow it.

The Cure' of Drawers

I tend to be drawn to priests who are very intellectual or creative. Recently, however, a priest came through who was neither. He gave a homily right from the heart that was so deep and moving that many had tears in their eyes. I could see how God can work so well with “normal” people. In German there is a word for this: einfach. It means “one drawer” – in order words, that instead of having many drawers or compartments in the personality, someone is just transparently integrated. Interesting to think about, no?

One of my adult daughters might someday need a bone marrow transplant, but maybe not. However, reading of the possibility, even though this is supposed to be very painful on the donor, her sister and also super-wimpy me, immediately pledged that to save her life we would certainly bear that pain. If you love enough you will do anything to save the life of the loved one no matter how painful. This reminded me of our Jesus, who suffered such excruciating pain. Why? Because he wanted to save us for eternal life.

Here are the links to Dr. Chervin's websites: http://www.rondachervin.com/ and spiritualityrunningtogod.com

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a miraculous feat & a Case of Mistaken Identity

2/20/2014

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My grandson-in-law, Sean, who is in RCIA in Ann Arbor, Michigan reported this
wonderful miracle that happened at his parish Church, St. Thomas:

“A few years ago there was an older woman in RCIA. She had trouble believing that baptism actually does something (i.e. confers grace). She just thought it was a nice symbol and that's it.

So, at the Easter Vigil, when we get confirmed and baptized, the priests take parishioners from the pews to wash their feet with baptismal waters.

Incidentally, they picked out this woman. She didn't want her feet washed because she had horrible chronic sores on her feet. The priest convinced her to come up anyway and she consented to have one foot washed. So, they washed her foot, and sure enough it was covered with painful, open sores. Then they continued on with the ceremony, baptized her and confirmed her and everything. Everyone at church witnessed this.

Later that night she went home and forgot about everything. She took off her shoes and realized that her one washed foot was completely healed! But the other foot was still afflicted with sores! She came into church the next day and showed the priest and all the other newly baptized people just how powerful the baptismal waters are!

A friend of mine, who is a writer, much influenced by Flannery O’Connor wrote about this true life incident. I am including it not for the sake of ridicule of people like the one featured in the story, but rather as what we used to call “a slice of life.” You could smile at the description but then finish by praying for those with such afflictions.

“Should've backed right out the post office doorway when I saw the line of twenty waiting customers. But, no, I *had* to mail the taxes and so became Customer 21. "Breathe through your nose, Pat," I advised myself, "as shallowly as possible. And don't touch anything!"
Fore and aft of me people were sneezing and gurgling phlegm. One couple began arguing in a romance language. Despite an official sign prohibiting cellphone usage, half a dozen defiant types kept right on yacking. Customer 22 coughed on my head. ("Don't touch your hair, Pat! Try not to breathe at all!")
As always, I'd kept my opaque dark glasses on while standing in line so no one could complete the shattered/horrified look on my face. Plus, I could appear to be staring at the ceiling while in fact scrutinizing everybody ahead of me in order to determine who had a bomb.
Customer 17 caught my eye because she was extremely tall, even more unkempt than I, and had the most unusual neck I've ever seen: it went from the tip of her chin to her collarbone in a 45-degree sweep, like a sort of cowling; no jaw definition at all. And she'd styled her reddish hair the way Bette Davis had begun to do in her seventies.
It wasn't until Customer 17's turn at the postal clerk's counter, with her back to me, that I got a glimpse of her physique: linebacker shoulders tapering to impossibly narrow hips which could not carry the spandex pants she was wearing and so their waist had slid down and I found myself gazing upon the upper regions of a hairy buttocks that most certainly belonged to a man. The voice that boomed from Customer 17 was also distinctly male. ("Now would be a good time to stare at the ceiling, Pat!")
I'd no sooner looked away when Customer 17 became offended. The postal clerk had addressed her as "Sir" and she'd growled, "I have a deep voice but I'm ALL Woman!" And before the clerk had finished sneering, "Sor-ry, my mistake," Customer 17 had pulled taut the front of her yellow sweatshirt, indicating the presence of a bosom -or something *like* a bosom. At this, Customer 22 snorted and muttered disgustedly, "Jee-zuss!"
Customer 17 whirled around to confront those of us standing in line. "Who said that?!" she demanded.
Customer 22 took a step forward -the toe of his shoe bumped the heel of mine- and smirked, "I did... LADY." ("Get ready to run, Pat!")
The two postal clerks on duty had backed away from their counters and were exchanging coded glances that either meant 'call the cops' or 'I'm betting five bucks on Customer 22'.
Customer 17 sized-up Customer 22 and in a haughty theatrical voice accused him of being a cad. A CAD! That's what Bette Davis would've said!
If I'd been counting ceiling tiles as I'd meant to be, I would've kept my mouth shut; instead, the sound of that seldom-heard word -in the grotty downtown Hayward post office, no less!- made me laugh out loud.
Customer 17 glared at me. I lifted up my sunglasses (please note my approbation!) and chirped, "Great word, sister!" She smiled and turned back to the postal clerk, who, after all this foreplay, had to inform her that the business she needed to conduct would have to be transacted at the main post office across town.
"Which bus goes there?" she asked.
"I dunno," the clerk replied.
Customer 17 turned back toward the line of impatient customers and asked for bus guidance. When no one said anything, Customer 22 gruffly told her she could walk to the main post office in fifteen minutes. "Just go straight -I mean, west- down D Street and turn left when you come to the police station. The post office is right next door."
"Is that really where it is?" Customer 17 asked the clerk.
"Yes," he said, "but it might be more than a fifteen-minute walk."
"But I CAN walk there?" Customer 17 pressed.
"Yeah, sure," the clerk said. "You probably COULD get there in fifteen minutes," he lied, eyeing the mammoth line that had developed.
Customer 17 left.
Customer 22 barked, "JEEZUS H. KEE-RIST!"
The postal clerk told him he was 'mean', but said it with a smile.
The line began to move again and soon it was my turn at that clerk's counter. "What can I do for you today, young lady?" he asked genially.
I so badly wanted to reply, "I have a soft voice but I'm ALL Man! A retired Air Force Colonel, as a matter of fact, but you may call me 'Sir'!"
If I hadn't suspected that Customer 22 would've torn me to pieces on the spot, and if I'd remembered to breathe shallowly and not touch my hair, I just might've done so...”

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Fear of Loneliness

2/17/2014

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I was writing to a friend about fear of loneliness. She has been a widow for more than 40 years! She replied with this sublime advice:

“I recall the dark tunnel after G's death, coming home at night in an apartment that was pitch dark. No one to greet me.

That went on for quite a while, and then one fine day, opening the Gospel of St. John I found the precious words; 'I am all alone, and yet I am never alone because I do my father's will'. That was for me a 'light'. When I feel 'alone' I immediately double check whether I am doing His Will. Whether or not I FEEL his presence is not longer essential; He is there but as the Little St. Therese put it; He is sleeping in the boat, and I should let him sleep peacefully."

At a homily today, the priest referred to The Unholy Trinity:
Me, Myself, and I.

My adult children have asked me and my twin-sister, both almost 77, to give them instructions about our wishes, in case we become demented:
I wrote these words about my funeral. The first part seemed truly from the Holy Spirit, but the second part seems like a gift from some comic spirit that I wrote, perhaps, with the unconscious wish to lighten things up:“In the eulogy I wish Diana, one of my daughters, to convey that my only wish is that everyone, especially in the family, would forgive me for all ways I have hurt them. But they don’t have to give a list from the pulpit. They can wait for the reception.”

And here is the even more witty reply to the last two sentences from Jim Ridley, the web-master and president of goodbooksmedia:

Of bloopers and bummers of mom be mum.
Tally them not nor number their sum.
Blurt no odium
From the podium.
What a sly and shrewd motherly stratagum:
Postponing all verbal conniption
'Til the post-funerial reception,
Where most probably none will be blabbed
In a vocal locale where there's grub to be grabbed.
No gabbing maw's flaws
While they're stuffing their maws.
The ones with a grudge'll
Be gagged and turn cordial.
Chewing the cud'll
Trump wielding the cudgel.

I wrote on the blog about how one of the Vietnamese sisters who studies here was run over by a jeep with a snow plow in the front in the dark and how our Rector and others immediately ministered in love to him as he became hysterical that he had hit the sister in the way he, himself, had been hit 2 years before.
As a result he has been coming to pray for the sister, who is in a coma, but responding better and better in the ICU. One of our seminarians, Larry Lynn, is ministering to him every day around noon, so just as I walked out of the cafeteria he had just arrived at the entrance to the chapel and Larry called me up. This man, Reed Jaffe, was brought up Jewish but drifted away, however, now in his desperation he started praying old Jewish healing prayers for Sister. He's a hippie biker, 50 years old, was disabled and now runs a shop that sells bikes.

So, because of my Jewish background and kind of charismatic ways, I could just grab his hands and pray with him and tell him how Jesus helped me through the worst moment of my life, Charlie's suicide, and so on. It was a wonderful hour.

What a Pope Francis, outside the box, ministry moment! Deo Gratias. Please pray for him and for the Sister.

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anguish and anger assuaged

2/11/2014

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A horrible but also grace-filled incident happened here at the seminary. A jeep with a snow plow, driving in the dark, hit one of our young Vietnamese Sisters who studies here. She is now in a semi-coma in the ICU of Hartford Hospital. The driver was also taken to that hospital. He was inconsolable, partly because he had been the victim of the same kind of accident 2 years ago. He is a non-practicing Jew. Our seminary rector and others were at the hospital and reached out to him with such love that now he is visiting our chapel to pray for the Sister and also to get counsel from one of our seminarians! All the Vietnamese, some 50 between priests getting M.A. degrees, seminarians, and sisters, take turns sleeping in the waiting area outside ICU and visiting her room to pray for her on a relay. Also many of us non-Vietnamese visit and some stay overnight.

I have been reading a book about Christian social philosophy vs. non-religious political philosophy. The concept was that seeking utopia on earth through politics is misguided because only in heaven will we have perfect. It reminded me of a truth used in anger management when we are outraged that things don’t go well: "perfection is a dream and an illusion." On earth that is. I think in the US many of us tend toward a kind of Pelagianism. (The heresy that we can be good out of our own efforts without needing grace.) This exhibits itself, perhaps, in the spirit of “fix it now.” In daily life can this take the form of micro-management? By contrast the author I was reading emphasizes doing what is just in our sphere of influence without the dream that “if only we defeat party “x” life will be beautiful.” I don’t take this to mean that we don’t need to vote against a party that is promoting evil, but that we can’t do it with the illusion that if we succeed then sin will disappear from our country.

On the way to chapel, someone had written with a stick into the snow: Jesus loves you, but I’m his favorite!

I got into a terrible rage in the night over the smugness of a male authority figure. This was someone I had known many years ago. Seeing him again brought up lots of memories. I truly wanted to kill him. So, in the morning I went to early confession before Mass.

After confession I was given so much grace that I could see the same person afterwards and greet him with radiant friendliness.This incident reminded me that Jesus can take away a sinful emotion in a minute if He so chooses. (I don’t mean that the feeling of justified anger is wrong in itself, but working it up into wanting to kill someone certainly is sinful.)

A lovely insight for the Feast of Our Lady of Lourdes. The priest, Fr. Dennis Kolinski, of the Canons Regular of St. John Cantius, suggested that a reason the reading was the Wedding at Cana for this feast, really about the Immaculate Conception, was that just as the angel greeted Mary as full of grace, not just having lots of grace; so the water jugs were to be filled to the brim! May all of us be full to the brim with love of God, neighbor and even smug enemies!

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twintinabulation of the belles

2/8/2014

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Aquinas says charity is the virtue of loving God and your neighbor for God’s sake. This came up in a class. I thought of an analogy: “You wouldn’t say to a friend – I love you, but I hate your kids.”

You could die laughing!
You may not remember that I am a twin, unidentical, and I have twin daughters, identical. Anyway for our 75th birthday my daughters put together a reunion that came to be called "the twintinabulation of the belles" a parody of the poet, Edgar Allen Poe's Tintinabulation of the Bells.

So now, we are meeting on a conference call to work out all our documents in the hands of someone with power of attorney in case we get demented and cannot make decisions. My daughter, Diana, does furniture art and lots of custom decorated boxes, so I woke up with this idea:
Dear Diana,
How about designing 4 decorated boxes for us called
"Twintinabulation of the Belles Dementia Bo," into which we have copies of all these documents - all the docs of the older set of twins in all the boxes. And then, one day, all the docs of the second set of twins as the boxes have more space each time an older twin dies.
Smile.

And/or: the box goes into the coffin of each together with favorite objects such as her rosary, her cross...? or these go up in the cremation flames if that is the method desired.
A para-liturgical innovation to wow any conventional funeral attendees?
Is this blog itself a sign that dementia is already firmly entrenched?

After our conference call of the twintinabulation for an hour going over all the details of our funeral wishes, it felt as if we had done a "dress rehearsal;" but then, since we have no idea when we will die, the first night, is not the day after the dress rehearsal but "whenever." Deflating!

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Tears of Joy

2/4/2014

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A Nigerian priest here at Holy Apostles said his father loved the rosary so much it was always in his hand. At age 100, though, he couldn’t pray it because his hands were too stiff, so he put it in his mouth so he could pray it with his tongue! Isn’t that wonderful?

All my life I wished I had the talent and gifts to write something like a Catholic Kahil Gibran. But I don't have such gifts.
Now a Distance Learning student who lives counter-cultural with his family in the forests of Michigan, from whence he commutes to part time teaching jobs, is planning a series of books using my ideas and those of others like C.S. Lewis and Von Hildebrand.
So, in his M.A. directed studies class, he sent me the first chapter of one of these books called The Joy of Being Good and it is like a Catholic Gibran! Truth in a poetic style. My truth in a poetic style!

Josefa Menendez, the wonderful mystic Sacred Heart nun claims that Jesus told her that “regardless of the pains I allow, I want you to be abandoned and happy.”

One of my daughters, Carla Conley, is a prize winning poet. Here is her latest. Back story, she is something of a hermit in the sense that she lives with her family of husband and children but rarely leaves the house.

Spying on Jericho

Here is what I built: this brick-by-brick
edifice, this tower where a soul
flings down its scarlet rope but cannot climb
its ladder to autonomy. I am,
or not. I hide and go or hide and go seek.
For there are caverns in the air
considered places wanting; there are walls
that aren’t: places willing; constancy
or places waiting. Here, I cannot speak
at all, at all, at all. I am confounded,
and ready to be scattered, wrung around
the rose cathedral or the mouth of hell.
Barbicans fall first
we all fall down
and then the neck is breached,
we all fall down
and ramparts tremble when the trumpets sound.
A window sees the light or it is blinded.
It spies. It must rely as it relays
its tale of sunshine on the fact of sun
shining, simplifying cords of hair
or brick-by-brick, unmaking until all
I am
is left to learn the ways of air.

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Dedicated Widow

a miraculous feat & a Case of Mistaken Identity

Fear of Loneliness

anguish and anger assuaged

twintinabulation of the belles

Tears of Joy

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