Light the candles
Begin prayers in the church, begin prayers in the home
Pray for others
~ The Lord Jesus to Dina Basher, Mosul, Iraq
A gathering of thieves. A clamouring at the gates. The king’s son must decide.
Light of Christ, pierce him
Illuminate the past, the present and the future
Then, shine the path forwards.
This, rather, is the fasting that I wish:
releasing those bound unjustly,
untying the thongs of the yoke;
Setting free the oppressed,
breaking every yoke… ~ Isaiah 58: 6
One steaming Friday last year, my country suffered a severe setback. Angry and upset, I realised the top federal prosecutor needed all the prayers he could get. So, I hastened to my Friday Devotions. In the silence of the church, I begged God for help for this brave and earnest man, surrounded by enemies, yet fighting to uphold justice and mercy.
God’s reply to me then was,
And My spirit continues in your midst;
do not fear!
A few short weeks ago, this prosecutor shook the country by an act of great valour. As a result of what he did, innocent men accused of a wrong they didn’t commit walked free this week. In these tumultuous times, that single act of courage fed many faltering spirits with the food of heaven. By the courage to do what was right, this wise man led the way.
In his own way, he showed us all that true courage is never more needed than when we are most afraid.
Today, another Friday a year on, I return home at night to dismal news: the prosecutor has just handed in his resignation. While a part of me falls into immediate sadness, I don’t allow it to besmirch his going, for he had given his all. He was truly a luminary great. A true follower of our humble and brave Christ, he never allowed fear to manacle him. Despite great and relentless suffering, he had taken the mission of Christ into the highest chambers.
Tracing my heart over the words of today’s readings,
This, rather, is the fasting that I wish:
releasing those bound unjustly,
untying the thongs of the yoke;
Setting free the oppressed,
breaking every yoke;
Then your light shall break forth like the dawn ~ Isaiah 58: 6, 8
I see the verses which speak to this good man’s mission, hidden within the office he was elected to. He had literally set prisoners bound unjustly free. In his brief tenure, he had broken yokes which had emboldened the corrupt and incarcerated the innocent.
Now, it was indeed time for him to move on.
And for others to take his place. To carry on the salvific mission of Jesus.
Releasing those bound unjustly,
Untying the thongs of the yoke;
Setting free the oppressed,
Breaking every yoke
So that God’s promise for this soldier of Christ shall be for us too,
Then your light shall break forth like the dawn
The Luminous Mysteries is the Illumination of Conscience
Every year, I seek a Lenten ritual. Special prayers. A new meditation. Each year, Lent takes me on a journey. This year, work has been so heavy and I’ve not been able to quieten myself sufficiently to make out what God wants of me during Lent. Through the crash and lurch of passing days, I saw one thing, though:
The Luminous Mysteries
Through all the wild days, like the gentle moon, Luminous Mysteries has hovered just off the side of my consciousness. Never intruding. Quiet and still, in patient wait.
Perhaps knowing that despite the crash and swell of my days, I would recall that old night 4 years ago when an unseen voice had written these words on my heart,
The Luminous Mysteries is the Illumination of Conscience
And with that, I finally recognised the reason for its presence.
This year, I was to recite the Luminous Mysteries of the Rosary as my Lent prayer for the illumination of conscience.
Come, Holy Spirit, enlighten the darkness of my understanding and sharpen my conscience, so that I may recognize God’s will in all things. Send forth Your light and truth into my soul! May I see all my sins and failures in this light and confess them with a contrite heart. Jesus Christ, gentle Savior, I put my hope of salvation in You. Accept my confession with loving mercy and move my heart to true sorrow for my sins. Heavenly Father, when You look into my soul, look not so much at the evil I have done but at the genuine sorrow which I feel within my heart. Help me to confess all my sins with a childlike trust in Your loving forgiveness. Amen.
Tend the flock of God in your midst,
overseeing not by constraint but willingly,
as God would have it, not for shameful profit but eagerly.
Do not lord it over those assigned to you,
but be examples to the flock.
And when the chief Shepherd is revealed,
you will receive the unfading crown of glory. ~ 1 Peter 5: 2 – 4
The past ten days or so have been an eye opener. Taken into inner sanctums – both mine and of others – they were journeys I’d rather not have gone on, canyons and caves I’d rather not have seen. Because there’s nothing nice in discovering you have far less patience and tolerance than you previously imagined. That despite the uncountable afflictions of so many years and the multitude of lessons learned from them, your capacity for suffering is still pea-sized.
That your first response when the fire hits is a fire far worse – never mind all the things the Lord has taught you about fleeing to His Holy Wounds for cover.
Yet, if I am to be completely honest with myself, I have to admit that the struggle this time fell into a light different from old before’s. I was so tired from the nonstop running around, from the plotting and planning, from navigating difficult people whose sole focus in life is to muddy and rut up the path even more for others. I thought I would break from being stretched so taut and thin.
I thought there’d never be an end to the ground breaking and rising up before me.
Yet,
every time I thought I needed a quiet moment to sob and weep out the hurt and frustrations,
every time I wanted to just lie down and forget it all for wee minutes,
every time I tried to shut the world out to gather myself back to form,
a hidden being held my shoulders and bade me rise. Each time, he told me, Come, we have to move.
Each time, rage geyser-ed within me over the immaturity and irresponsibility of my subordinates, the strong presence put up his hand and stayed my pyroclastic flow of emotional ash and lava, saying,
Come, we have to move
Ferocious headache. Equally ferocious tic in my eyelid like never before.
Come, we have to move
No rest. No respite.
Yet, each time someone stuck out a foot and I tripped, this being was always there to keep me from falling. Each time the ground opened up beneath me, a bridge of wisdom would spring up a solution out of nowhere.
No delusions were allowed me, for my spirit knew him. It was my St. Joseph. All this while the Discerner of my dreams. Now, the Saint of my journey through Egypt. Firm, calm, wise. Come, we have to move.
Today, the winds outside my home rise in an urgent chorus. My avian friends scatter their melodies through the spaces in the wind~notes. Only a single kingfisher braves the thrashing boughs, staying long enough to firm his message to me, Listen! The winds speak!
For once, my spirit is quiet and attentive, guided to this Saturday of Mary by Her Gentle Spouse, Joseph. Arriving here, the words of heaven find their way to me.
Tend the flock of God in your midst,
overseeing not by constraint but willingly,
as God would have it, not for shameful profit but eagerly.
Do not lord it over those assigned to you,
but be examples to the flock.
Each line is heaven’s silver arrow, piercing the resolutions formed in the waters of hurt and fear, in response to the wounds suffered this week, hidden within the folds of my heart. As I finally lay my ears against the call of the winds, John Greenleaf Whittier’s words return to me,
Up from the sea, the wild north wind is blowing…
I watch the shaken elm boughs…
Between the passing and the coming season,
This stormy interlude
Gives to our winter-wearied hearts a reason
For trustful gratitude
A reason for trustful gratitude. Only then, does my heart open to receive the closing verse,
And when the chief Shepherd is revealed,
you will receive the unfading crown of glory.
To suffer in silence and without complaint is what He asks of you.
~ St. Margaret Mary Alacoque
The spouse of Christ who longs to become perfect must begin with her own self. She must put aside, forget everything else, and enter into the secrecy of her own heart. When she has done this, let her sift narrowly all her weaknesses, habits, affections, actions and sins. She must weigh everything carefully, and make a thorough examination of past and present. Should she discover even the least imperfection, let her weep in the bitterness of her heart. ~ St. Bonaventure
I heard the words, Spouse of Christ, yesterday. Unfortunately, there was no time to follow the words into the woods of discernment. No scant minute to even seek the Lord’s will for me for Lent. Each week is more brutal than the one before. The workload is crushing. I can see that I’m getting a lot done; yet, there is no sense of achievement. Neither time nor strength to revel, even for a while. Deadline after deadline. Hurdle after hurdle. Rushing from one assignment to the next, my memory leaks worse than a sieve.
Due to the extremeness of the week, the waters of my heart were choppy and roaring. I could not seem to settle into peace and inner quiet. A trip to the stores late in the evening yesterday found me agitated, restless and dispirited. I left the store empty-handed, unable to recall what I needed to buy. I was so tired. I was also worried about a major event scheduled for the coming week.
Go indoors
For some reason, I kept seeing those words before me all day. Nearly 2 years ago, the same words kept coming to me. Go indoors was a warning then. To return to serving and focusing on my family – not because they were in some danger – but because I needed the mantle of the family to see me through a cruel attack at work.
This time, as I rushed from end to end from morn till evening, Go indoors kept knocking at the door of my heart.
Driving home, I ran the day through my mind. On the outside, everything seemed calm and normal; yet, inside, I felt something within me was spinning out of control and getting worse. Knowing I couldn’t go on this way, I took my mutinous will with a firm hand. Once home from the store, I went straight to dinner preparations. As the stove busied, I settled the laundry for the day, helped the kids with their studies.
They weren’t earth-moving actions. But they possessed a power.
Suddenly, from being flung around in the vortex of madness and work overdrive, I fell to the ground, calm and steady once more. Late that night, with most of the family in bed, unable to chip away at tasks for next week, I reached for my gift book instead, Susan Branch’s Martha’s Vineyard ~ Isle of Dreams. It had been so long since I read anything late at night but I did this night, and I was glad for it.
The words in the book steered my heart towards winter branches awaiting spring.
The next morning, something else was waiting. A commenter had written this in my previous post, “I find him (God) best in solitude and open space…” And the words, open space had twinkled up at me like a bright blue star in the dark swathes of sky.
So, coming to the morning of Mary, I too sought open space.
For some reason, despite the imperious ticking of the clock, I wanted to know how a nightingale sounded. Finding a video of it, I played its song over and over. From there, I explored other bird sounds. And slowly, a gentleness began to ribbon itself around me.
A tiny rosebud of a miracle then unfolded. Despite the very busy day ahead, it seemed as if several layers of my ears were opened up. Even as I scurried about, I could hear many different birdsongs as they laced the gold~blue morning air. I was suddenly functioning on two levels, busy yet alert to Nature.
Then, a second rose of a miracle bloomed.
For the event next week, I had to approach some people for help. Always being someone who preferred shadows and backseats, I was not looking forwards to it. In addition, we were short of funds. I cringed at the idea of seeking donations from our usual donors, knowing that some could make it unpleasant for me. I didn’t mind humbling myself if it would yield something good. But I drew the line at licking the floor merely as entertainment for some.
Praying to St. Joseph from days before, I knew it was his idea when he whispered to me names of possible new donors whom I hadn’t considered before. Nervously, I made contact and bashfully sought help, giving everyone an escape avenue so that they didn’t feel pressured to commit.
Ask anyone in the know and they’d tell you this was not the way to go.
Miraculously, every person and company I approached agreed to give – and cheerily at that! I skipped and skipped all the way home, to the serenade of birdsongs in hidden nests.
It was in the quietness of that happy relief that I once more saw the words, Spouse of Christ. Surprised, this time, I realised that Someone was calling me – and calling out a message.
The spouse of Christ who longs to become perfect must begin with her own self. She must put aside, forget everything else, and enter into the secrecy of her own heart. When she has done this, let her sift narrowly all her weaknesses, habits, affections, actions and sins. She must weigh everything carefully, and make a thorough examination of past and present. Should she discover even the least imperfection, let her weep in the bitterness of her heart.
Let her weep in the bitterness of her heart. Over and over, through the busyness of the days and weeks, the Holy Spirit had been urging me towards inner silence. He led me back first to the needs of my family, then to the tiny birds who live and sing for God. When I had obeyed, through St. Joseph, He worked all those miracles – slowly quietening the anxieties in my heart.
There were still streams to wade through and canyons to be crossed. But the Spirit of God saw much further, and He wanted me to be quiet enough to see it too.
put aside, forget everything else,
sift narrowly all her weaknesses, habits, affections, actions and sins
make a thorough examination of past and present
weep in the bitterness of her heart
The call to Lent.
Dave Sandford, Lake Erie
Up from the sea, the wild north wind is blowing
Under the sky’s gray arch;
Smiling I watch the shaken elm boughs, knowing
It is the wind of March. ~ John Greenleaf Whittier
This has been a truly severe few weeks. If I thought 2019 was a tough year, it is nowhere near the incredible stress that has manacled almost every day since January.
I came to Wednesday this week, worn to the bone. Incredibly, it is only February. An unbelievable number of deadlines to be met in the coming days, so much work already done, yet seemingly not a dent in that towering mountain before me.
Late last year, heaven had sent me a belated Christmas gift in the sudden transfer of my boss. Life had become increasingly difficult under him. Job change or early retirement not being an option for me, I was glad indeed to see him go. Still, there was no remedy for the anxiety I felt about who would replace my old boss. I couldn’t help but be anxious that it’d be someone worse – based on past experience.
From where I was, looking over the landscape of the coming months, despite my resolve to be brave and not cave in to despair, all I saw then were the endless weave of sand dunes beneath an unrelenting sun.
Then, remembering the sign from the end of January, before daybreak of this 1st Wednesday of February, I went to St. Joseph and laid down my heart before him. I was so tired but there was still so much to do. I wanted to hope for good things, and if it wasn’t the good that I was imagining, I wanted to be brave and strong.
Late that evening, with the primrose yellow evening sun peering determinedly over my shoulder, I received news of our new boss. What little we knew of him offered scant hope. With that last rung broken, I was completely emptied of myself. So, I gave myself up to St Joseph. Please help, I whispered. Boss. Deadlines. The rest of this year. The years left till my retirement. Please help, St. Joseph, I whispered as I rested all my burdens at his feet.
It was night when St Joseph gently slipped my weary heart an unexpected gift. Some weeks before, I had received a beautiful gift from a dear friend, Sue Shanahan, of 2 precious and gorgeously illustrated books written by Susan Branch. I had been slowly working my way through the first book, The Fairy Tale Girl, and I had come to the final few pages. It was winter and in the book, the author had left her home in California for some months of respite from pain and sorrow, on Martha’s Vineyard. She was exchanging grief for uncertainty, yet looking also for hope and peace. I felt my heart go with her on that plane ride from California, knowing what I know now what she hadn’t known then: that her life was about to change forever. That awaiting her was truly the peace and hope she yearned for.
What I hadn’t known was that something was waiting for me too.
At the end of the book, on that final page, were the stirring lines from a poem,
Up from the sea, the wild north wind is blowing
Under the sky’s gray arch;
Smiling I watch the shaken elm boughs, knowing
It is the wind of March.
The words the wind of March sheared through my heart with a suddenness that took my breath away, tumbling a brook of silver~joy into the wearied gullies. The wind of March. My tired spirit was thrust high into the skies of sudden hope. March! The month of spring. Of the Feast of the Annunciation. Of news we tremulously await as a family.
Of St Joseph!
Winds! The one element vested with certain power to still my spirit. No matter how I am feeling, the call of the winds possesses a power only heaven can bestow, to quieten the squalls in my spirit, to raise it in freeing joy. True to form, just the mere sight of the words wind of March, roused my spirit to an anthem of joyful hope.
Something in March
Something in March
Something’s coming in March
my spirit pranced about in giddy glee.
Nothing definitive was revealed to me that Wednesday night. Nothing about my new boss nor his leadership. Nothing of how the months ahead, the years even, are going to be.
And yet,
Up from the sea, the wild north wind is blowing
Under the sky’s gray arch;
Smiling I watch the shaken elm boughs, knowing
It is the wind of March
spoke a secret to my heart.
And then the folds of my heart closed tight upon that secret, resolutely sealing its knowledge from me, until the time of illumination.
Up from the sea, the wild north wind is blowing
Under the sky’s gray arch;
Smiling, I watch the shaken elm-boughs, knowing
It is the wind of March.
Between the passing and the coming season,
This stormy interlude
Gives to our winter-wearied hearts a reason
For trustful gratitude.
Blow, then, wild wind! thy roar shall end in singing,
Thy chill in blossoming;
Come, like Bethesda’s troubling angel, bringing
The healing of the Spring.
Morning has broken like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken like the first bird
Praise for the singing
Praise for the morning
Praise for them springing fresh from the world
Sweet the rain’s new fall, sunlit from heaven
Like the first dewfall on the first grass
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden
Sprung in completeness where his feet pass.
This was the hymn at Saturday morning Mass, First Saturday of the month. Hymn numbered as J64, brought by the Angel. Just after some unexpected rains too.
Morning has broken
It didn’t feel like it just then. Darkness covers much still. But my timing is never God’s. If this morning of life is to come, it will. I will wait by sending my heart to the needs the Angel has laid out for me. There is work to be done, and to it I go. Healing of my godmother’s sight. Souls of abusers. Muslim souls. My own sins and burdens. All to be brought before my Jesus.
Sweet the rain’s new fall,
sunlit from heaven
May the morning come, may it come soon, this special morning of the soul.
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