One thing

There’s a low-rumbling storm passing through. Flashes of light. Groans filling the sky. I’ve been sitting on my bedroom floor in the dark, trying to pray. But all I can manage to say is, “Lord . . .” Lord, like He knows what I’m trying to say even though I don’t. So, I sing Angel from Montgomery over and over again, the only words I have that come close to prayer, tears seeping, my voice cracking.

 

Just give me one thing, Lord, that I can hold on to.

 

I don’t know what to grab in this freefall, in this year from hell.

 

To believe in this living . . . Lord, this time it’s too hard, there’s too much piling on too fast. 

 

I am an old woman, alone in desperate times. I don’t know if this faith of mine is enough. One thing to hold on to.

The light. The darkness.

That bright ray of light became smaller and smaller.

A number of years ago I was attending a music workshop at a college in the mountains of West Virginia. I needed some quiet time, so I went to my room and sat on my lumpy dorm bed trying to meditate, gazing at the mountains in the distance. My attention kept wandering but I persisted. I began to sense a ray of light that encompassed my entire body and the light became smaller and more concentrated until it focused in the middle of my chest. I was able to keep my focus on that light to the point that it felt that the small beam of light was my entire existence. My body ceased to exist, the room around me ceased to exist, and nothing remained but the light. Even then I wondered if that was what it felt like to die, and indeed I wondered if I had died. I wasn’t afraid.

I have recalled that moment occasionally, but only remember how it felt. It never happened again.

Today I recalled the beam of light experience, comparing it in a strange way to my experience in the isolation of the pandemic. My world is getting smaller and smaller, compressing into a feeling that has settled in the center of my chest. But it is far from the bright light I felt that day in the West Virginia mountains. Instead it is a crushing darkness—sadness, anger, and dread. The reasons for this darkness need not be discussed. There is no useful reason to explore the darkness.

I don’t want to be crushed by the darkness. I don’t want my existence to be overshadowed by anger and disappointment. I don’t want to feel this insignificant.

The only thing I can think to do—I will sit in silent prayer and look for the light.

Thoughts in quarantine

For forty years the Israelites wandered the desert. The Book of Exodus tells us the Israelites had been in bondage in Egypt for hundreds of years when Moses led them out of Egypt to cross the desert on the way to the Promised Land. God even parted the Red Sea to make their journey easier. The walk across the desert should have taken about a month, not forty years.

I’ve been thinking about the time that the Israelites spent in the desert, comparing it in a sense to the time most of us are spending confined to our homes because of the Covid pandemic. Perhaps we need to learn something in this time when life as we knew it has come to a screeching halt. We are in a virtual desert. Although I am looking out at a large body of water, it is a desert in terms of human contact and earthly distractions. I live alone, in relative solitude with no cable television and no companions. I have a refrigerator, running water, and air conditioning (thank you, Lord!). I’ve been complaining of course, especially since there is no end in sight. But complaining and kicking the baseboards has no useful value. Can I begin to see it differently? Can this time become something positive rather than a huge, frightening nuisance? 

God kept the Israelites in the desert for forty years instead of weeks. Obviously, they weren’t learning what He wanted them to learn. Moses never got to the Promised Land; he died in the desert. Jesus retreated to the desert to be alone and pray—the desert provided Him a chance to communicate with His heavenly Father. Early Christians—the Desert Fathers and Mothers—removed themselves to the desert in Egypt to live monastic lives in order to grow closer to God. I didn’t choose this time in “the desert” but I can try to overcome the loneliness and frustration and use it as a time to grow.

So I’m trying to accept this time, this vast desert of uncertainty, as a time to grow closer to Him. Something I read today struck me as way to approach this—to paraphrase, I read that even in misery, wanting to love Him is a sign of His presence.* Think about that . . .

*Reading Thomas Merton’s Thoughts in Solitude

Merton, Rohr, and God's plan

“We stumble and fall constantly even when we are most enlightened. But when we are in true spiritual darkness, we do not even know that we have fallen.” 

Thomas Merton, Thoughts in Solitude

This quote from the writing of Thomas Merton came to my attention today at a time when I am (once again!) desperately seeking the presence of God. A number of years ago, I went for a week-long silent retreat at an abbey on the banks of the Shenandoah River in Virginia. I wanted marching orders from God, concrete directions on what to do with my life. A moment in time is seared in my memory—standing in the driveway, swirling around searching the sky, so convinced of the presence of God that I expected to see Him drifting through the clouds. And the only message I got from that intensely connected moment was not the concrete direction I was seeking, but the words that came from my mouth, unbidden, “I just want to be closer to Him. Closer to Him.” The reality of that moment, the utter conviction of the connection to God is just as strong now as it was then.

These words written by Thomas Merton, “We stumble and fall constantly even when we are most enlightened,” were reassuring, an affirmation that it’s okay not to feel the ever-present rush of my driveway moment when God seemed to be within reach, almost visible. Sometimes I doubt His presence altogether while recognizing the spiritual darkness and knowing that—for a time—I have fallen away from Him.

These days, these months of late, have been a spiritual test. The world is in the midst of a pandemic and, for me, that means months of living a life of solitude, even more so than my pre-pandemic life. I miss my children and grandchildren so much I can feel it as a physical pain in my gut. There is no end in sight so I don’t know how long I will have to endure. And I am increasingly filled with red-hot anger toward those who are ignoring the precautions advised to avoid spreading the virus. Meanwhile our country is experiencing another wave of racism and political rancor. It’s ugly. It can’t be God’s plan. Or is it God’s plan, the only way to move us into a more loving co-existence. Can I trust that God even has a plan? Has He ever had a plan?

Today’s Daily Meditation from Richard Rohr seemed particularly on point. I will include it here in its entirety (emphasis mine):

The Wisdom of Job

Tuesday,  July 7, 2020

Theology does not by itself provide wisdom in crisis. All theology must become a living spirituality to really change us or the world. It’s disappointing that we Christians have emphasized theology, catechism, and religious education much more than prayer and practice. The biblical book of Job is probably one of the greatest books on prayer that has ever been written. It breaks our stereotypes of what it means to communicate with God.

If we view Job’s story as a journey into an ever-deepening encounter with God, we keep the question of suffering from becoming an abstract debate observed at a distance. It is a text that only fully makes sense to those who’ve felt suffering, been up against the wall, at a place where, frankly, God doesn’t make sense anymore and we no longer believe “God has a plan.”

Job loses his livelihood, his savings, his family, and his health. His practical, religious friends appear as self-appointed messengers, to speak what they are sure is God’s answer to Job’s suffering. They offer the glib, pious platitudes of stereotypical clergy. What they do is try to take away the mystery, but they cannot solve the problem. God says you cannot solve the problem of suffering, you can only live the mystery. The only response to God’s faithfulness is to be faithful ourselves.

Most of the things Job says to God in his pain are not what Christians have been trained to say to God. The pretty words are mostly gone; there’s no “swirly talk,” as writer-pastor Molly Baskette calls it [1], that Christians so love to put in their prayers. Instead, Job dares to confront God, the very thing many of us were trained never to do. In fact, we called it blasphemy.

During Job’s crisis, he yells at God, accuses God of all kinds of things, speaks sarcastically, and almost makes fun of God. “If this is a game you’re playing, then you’re not much of a God! I don’t need you and I don’t want you!” It’s this kind of prayer that creates saints. Yet we can’t pray with that authority unless we know something experientially about God. We can’t pray that way unless we are assured at a deep level of the profound connection between ourselves and God.It takes one who has ventured into that arena where we say angels fear to tread.

Ultimately Job’s story reveals that God cannot really be known through theology and law. God can only be related to and known in relationship, just like the Trinity itself. Or, as the mystics assert, we know God by loving God, trusting God, and placing our hope in God. We cannot really “think” God.

Job’s religious friends and advisers have correct theory but no experience; thoughts about God, but no love of God. They believe in their theology; Job believes in the God of their theology. It is a big difference. The first is information; the second is wisdom.

 I consider all the times I have shaken my fist at God, knowing that He would still love me in spite of my insolence and doubt. 

I consider what it means to stop believing that God has a plan, that all of this makes sense from a worldly point of view. Maybe He doesn’t have a plan, He doesn’t micromanage earthly existence the way we think He does.

And maybe giving up this magical thinking about God’s management of creation will lead me into a deeper relationship with God.

All of these thoughts may not make sense to others. They are connected for me in a way that I am unable to communicate well. The way I experience God is undergoing some sort of transformation that I cannot yet define.

Beloved

This morning I sat alone, for a long time, on the north pier. Surrounded on all sides by a living photograph. The water glistened. The green grasses of the marsh off to one side and waves lapping on the rocks. A small fishing boat perfectly placed in the distance. Sea birds darting over the water in their dance of joy. Sunlight breaking through the cotton-candy clouds. No photograph could have done it justice.

And on the osprey nest just yards away, young birds flapping their wings, building up the muscle to spend their lives in the sky. The privilege of my existence, in that place, at that moment did not escape me.

The wonder of God’s creation in one small slice and I had it all to myself. I said aloud, “Lord, I still find it hard to accept that I am your beloved. But allowing me to be here now is pretty convincing. Thank you.”

Lately the persistent evil side of life, our human brokenness, has been especially crushing. But I was able to understand that the glory of God and our brokenness can coexist and that God’s love—being the beloved—cannot be diminished.

Hatred

“We cannot pray in love and live in hate and still think we are worshipping God.”

A.W. Tozer

Admittedly, I don’t know much about A.W. Tozer. I know he was a Christian pastor, a humble man of great depth, and he is often quoted with reverence as a great teacher.

Reading these words of A.W. Tozer, in this time of great national turmoil, caused me to sit up straight and think—yes, those people, those awful hateful racist people are betraying their alleged Christian values, those Pharisees aren’t worshipping God.

Brakes squealing. I cringe to think of some of the racist attitudes I have had in my long life. As much as I try not to be like those awful racists, those ugly other people, my own knee-jerk racist attitudes are like an indelible stain on my own conscience. I am humbled, embarrassed, and I pray forgiveness. I’ve been blind and there’s no excuse. I wish I had done better.

And then . . . do you see what I just did? I’m throwing stones at other racists, especially those who call themselves Christian. Do I hate them? I want to follow the adage—"love the sinner, hate the sin,” but even that involves pointing a finger at others. Should I point the finger at myself?

And honestly, I admit to big, big hate for the elected leader of this country. I have such a visceral revulsion for the man and for everything he does. If it’s wrong to hate, then no hate is excusable. Is there another word for this feeling I have?

I have no answers to any of these questions. 

Ants can't swim

Excuse me for my current craziness. You don’t have to excuse all of my other craziness, but today’s craziness should be forgiven. I am angry beyond words because of the horrible mess going on in my beloved country. I am sick of racism, hate, incompetence, blasphemy, rancor, political nonsense, Amazon furniture that falsely claims to be easily assembled, and ants. 

Suffice it to say, the furniture came in a thousand pieces, not one piece attached to another, no parts labeled, illustrations that were done be a two-year-old, and instructions written in ancient Hittite. I sweated blood in the assembly of this monstrosity. Two drawers are broken, things don’t line up properly, and it looks like it was put together by an orangutan. Sorry, didn’t intend to demean orangutans—they would have done it better. Enough of that.

Which brings me to the ants. There are tiny ants on my black countertops. I can’t see them because they are in camouflage. They are in my mailbox and inside the dishwasher. They attach themselves to any remnant of a food item or any kind of food serving item anywhere in the house. They are the smallest ants I have ever seen and I wonder if they are indigenous to South County. I know they have been swimming in my well, the bastards.

Because I’m in such a nasty mood I have not been kind to the ants. No more Mr. Nice Guy, picking them up gently and releasing them outside. I’d make a lousy Buddhist. I know I am harming living things and I don’t care anymore. 

Here’s what I have discovered: Ants can’t swim. I fill my kitchen sink with water and I sweep the ants into the sink to watch them drown. They move their miniscule legs as if they are trying to walk on water. Did Jesus invite them to come out of the boat? I don’t think so. If I’m feeling especially wicked, I douse them in boiling water. I leave the water in the sink all day and keep a body count. And I don’t feel guilty. So there. Don’t mess with me. I’m not in the mood to be messed with. 

The pier

The pier is my sacred place. Let there be no doubt that it is there on the pier that I often find God. 

This morning I sat on the rocks near the water and waited while a family spent time on the pier. Before they left, some children went out there and further delayed my time. Then a woman riding an adorable fat-tire, mint green bike rode to the end of the pier. She was at one end, alone, and I figured it was safe to make my move. So I staked out my space on the opposite end of the pier and tried to connect with the Lord.

And from the other end of the pier, I hear the mint green bicycle woman say, “God, what do you want me to learn in this situation?”

What?!!! 

I couldn’t hear much else of what she was saying, but apparently she was recording something. When she finished and got up to leave, I told her I wanted to hug her because what she said was straight from the Holy Spirit. So we sat and talked. She lives around the corner from me. My sacred place is her sacred place too and we share the same search for God. 

God is good all of the time. Thank you, Lord, for sometimes being so obvious that even I can figure out what you are saying. My heart is full.

Merton's apple

James Finley, a student of Thomas Merton, recounted this lesson that Merton once taught him: (from Merton’s Palace of Nowhere by James Finley)

“Merton once told me to quit trying so hard in prayer. He said: "How does an apple ripen? It just sits in the sun." A small green apple cannot ripen in one night by tightening all its muscles, squinting its eyes and tightening its jaw in order to find itself the next morning miraculously large, red, ripe, and juicy beside its small green counterparts. Like the birth of a baby or the opening of a rose, the birth of true self takes place in God’s time. We must wait for God, we must be awake; we must trust in his hidden action within us.”

Have patience with the process; it's all in God's time, not mine. This is the message I've been getting over and over again, in different words, from different sources, over the past few days.

It started when I sat on the pier, staring into the heavy fog, asking God what's next. The fog, my own personal "Cloud of Unknowing," hid everything from view. Eventually the fog will lift, but I may never know what's next in my life. It may be nothing. Can I accept that?

At about the same time I got a slightly different insight into Psalm 46:10--"Be still and know that I am God." In the past, my interpretation of the verse has been a call to quiet, to listening for God's voice in the midst of the clamor of daily life. But I saw it from a slightly different angle--it seemed to say to stop moving, stop trying to make things happen, and let God do what God does. 

Last night I sat outside in the dark, trying not to think too hard, or even pray too hard, listening to the quiet sound of the waves on the Bay. We're all living through dark days, but I've heard it said that God works best in the darkness. And a peace washed over me as I sat in the dark. I stopped striving, stopped trying to figure out what He wants, what I need, what it all means. I just let it be and told Him that I want to give up the fight. I submit, Lord--your will be done.

Not Simply Orange

A walking lie. This morning I walked toward the pier carrying a plastic bottle that claimed it was Simply Orange. It wasn’t Simply Orange at all—it was about 1/3 orange juice and 7/8 San Pellegrino. I saw two young men approaching the pier and knew that they were walking much faster than I could walk. I had no energy or even any desire to get there first. So I took my fake Simply Orange and waited on a nearby bench. The young men left and I began to walk toward the end of the pier. It was then that I started to cry.

The Bay is wrapped in thick fog today, angel hair spread thin. Nothing is visible beyond the end of the pier—not the islands near the Eastern Shore, not the boats heading toward the ocean, or the small plane overhead that I could hear but not see.

Once again, I pleaded with the Lord to take away this thorn, this depression that descends on me unannounced. Don’t ask me to explain it, though I’ve lived with it and through it for a thousand years. I don’t try hard to hide it—that’s my newest approach. I freely admit it. People say, “What’s happening? Why are you depressed?” As if it needs a reason. Sometimes I try to tie it to something situational, but often there’s nothing new to blame. It’s just what is.

“Lord,” I pleaded, “Give me some hope. What do I have to live for?” Out of the fog, a large dead fish passed in front of me, its eyes empty and its entrails floating behind it. “Really, Lord? That’s it? A dead fish?”

My beautiful renovated house with a stunning view of the Chesapeake Bay is nearly finished and I have moved in. My drawers are organized, most of the boxes have been unpacked, and I’m sleeping in my own bed. Finally. I did it with a plan to live out the rest of my life here. It was a great idea, wise to plan ahead, to take charge of my own aging. But that creates a problem. My next step has been finalized. What’s next? Do I sit here in pandemic isolation waiting for the plan to continue to unfold until its inevitable end?

I stared out at the Bay, looking for God, seeing only dense fog. Yes, a brilliant metaphor, placed there by God to remind me that I was not meant to know the future. Maybe there’s something exciting beyond the fog that I can’t imagine. Maybe it’s all fog. Only the Lord knows. Yet the plans to escape spin in my head. I have to get out of here, move away from this beautiful place where I planned to live out my life. And there’s the problem—I want to run away from this plan for the final chapter of my life. It may make sense rationally to take charge of my future, but I’m not a planner, not a rational person. And I don’t what to say this is all I could ever want.

Thelma and Louise race toward the cliff. They have a plan to take charge of their own fate. They realize too late that maybe it’s not the best plan after all.

Angel

I know I haven't written in ages, but this aching feeling won't leave. John Prine died last week. It hurts my heart to know he is gone. And I’ve been thinking about Mike, my cowboy, gone now for over eight years. Sometimes I miss him with an ache that feels as fresh as yesterday. So this is the story I wrote in my head.

Angel

She sat at the kitchen table, staring at the screen door, its latch broken as it opened slightly and slammed shut in the humid stirring of wind. Maybe there was a storm blowing in. The sky darkened and the air hung heavy. A fly buzzed past her ear and landed on the cold eggs on the plate in front of her. The fly had more interest in her breakfast than she did.

She stared at the screen door, the vacant stare of one whose mind was many miles, many years away. She tried to remember the melody of that fiddle tune they played together—he on guitar, she on banjo. There was some gimmick in that tune that was distinctive, a slide from the 2^ndfret to the 5^thand a hammer-on to the 7^thfret. But the melody was lost in the quicksand inside her head. Maybe she could pull out the old recording of them playing together but it required more effort than she could muster.

What was beyond that screen door? The years had flown by leaving her a mottled string of emotions. Like her mother’s old recipes, scribbled on bits of paper, torn envelopes, and the back of Christmas cards, yellowed with age and stained with nearly a century of splattered food. She remembered how she felt when she once had dreams—hopeful, significant, young—but she tied the memories to no specific events. Nothing happened but she once felt young.

Big drops of rain began to fall as the screen door blew against the broken radio that had been sitting on her kitchen floor longer than she could remember. She knew the rain would come in and soak the kitchen but still she sat and stared. Ten years ago, just after he died, she stopped smoking. But now she wanted a cigarette.