LENT 1 ~ THE FIRST PLACE
I look within me and around me, and almost everywhere my gaze falls, I see something that I cannot bring before the eyes of heaven, because it is not right, because it is not pure. So much of it is old, sores from the past that fester on into the present. The cleaning and cleansing that I need…. it is much work indeed, that I’m tempted to bow in defeat even before I begin.
The doing must be Mine. ~ Anonymous, In Sinu Jesu: When Heart Speaks to Heart – The Journal of a Priest at Prayer.
I see those words and I wonder, Am I treading where I should not? Am I attempting what I am not called to?
Indeed I am. But I struggle to let go and let God. Some days I can. Some days I just cannot. Partly because of pride, because I somehow think I can do God’s job for Him. But mainly because I cannot accept that good meant for me need not always be earned the hard way – my way.
Nonetheless, God has been clear: Let Go and Let God. I need to bring every rock and pebble before God’s Eyes, and rest each and all within His Heart. I need to learn this hymn of surrender.
Immediately, I sense plans and ideas clamour at my heart.
But only one is needed.
Give the first place to the adoration that I have asked of you, and still ask of you, and you will see wonders. ~ Anonymous, In Sinu Jesu: When Heart Speaks to Heart – The Journal of a Priest at Prayer.
LENT 2 ~ ABANDON TO ME
The things that weigh upon you most heavily, the things that cause you the most anxiety and distress, are the very things that I want you to abandon to Me. ~ Anonymous, In Sinu Jesu: When Heart Speaks to Heart – The Journal of a Priest at Prayer.
The things that weigh most heavily upon me are like fruits on a tree. They appear and disappear according to seasons, and they are not always the exact same. But the stirrings they evoke are often beyond what I am able to handle with calm faith.
When my heart aches over something, I trouble heaven a great deal, and I know God doesn’t have a problem with that. But going to God with a problem is only the halfway point in faith; to go the whole distance, one must leave the issue in the Heart of God.
Abandon to God.
And that is precisely where I often stumble. Everything that I take to God, I take back on my shoulders. And then, I go back to God. The pattern is repeated. I cannot seem to be able to leave my pain with God. Often, I don’t know how to.
Something else niggles at me. How do I reconcile abandoning to God and persistent prayer? For long minutes, I think of my various prayer struggles, trying to understand.
Something begins to take form.
Persistence in prayer is to deepen our asking – as much as we are called to. Some prayers are one off prayers. Most others are not. They require us to return to Heaven’s door repeatedly. They are not the same as the prayers I often pray – where I take back on my shoulders the burdens I’ve just offered up to God – and then go right back again.
Persevering prayer is the work of the Spirit in us.
Although we seem to be saying the same prayer over and over, although there seems to be no discernible change to the petition, there is indeed a difference. Each time we go to God with it, persistent prayer means we are deepening it, we are plumbing the depths of that prayer.
And every deepening we obey must end in abandonment of the petition into God’s Heart. Because abandonment – spiritual surrender – is not merely the last latch on the gate.
It is the link that binds one prayer to the next.
LENT 3 ~ WHILE THE CANDLES ARE LIT
A long time ago, I saw these words on a sticker, Did you hug your child today? Although I didn’t heed them that very moment, I did later that night, but it was no longer the same. About two years ago, a fellow blogger saw something over the horizon. For a very brief moment, the veil was lifted for him, and his impassioned plea to me was, Hug and kiss your children.
Sad days ago, in Parkland, Florida, a grieving Fred Guttenberg reminds the world yet again, Hold your children tight, because in the school shooting, his daughter numbers among those who will never again hear their parents tell them how much they are loved.
I hug and kiss my children a lot now. I tell them how much I love them. Some of the older ones squirm in understandable embarrassment, but that only gets a giggle out of me; it doesn’t stop me. Even if they don’t realize it or value it, every child, young or adult, needs to know they are loved. And they need to hear it now because the shadows of tomorrow will not always be made known to us.
And the candles bequeathed to the world will not always remain lit.
LENT 4 ~ CANDLES. EMERGENCY.
An urgent wind parting the trees from sunny morning hours. There were some things I wanted to get done but for some reason, the winds wouldn’t leave me. I stopped and listened to their melody. It was not troubling. Neither was it comforting.
Listening deeper, I sensed this: Listen, Listen, Listen.
From yesterday, reading something, two words lingered awhile even as others moved on: Candles. Emergency. Even at that moment, I sensed it was not about stocking up on emergency candles. And that it was not to do with ‘candles’ and ’emergency’ as we understood it. When the winds raised their call, I stepped off the road and went back to the words, trying to touch to discern.
But the second I did, they misted out of reach.
Undeterred, I sought to understand. I looked up candles and learned something I never focused on before. That candles symbolize Jesus.
The wax is the Flesh of our Lord; the wick, which is within, is His Soul; the flame, which burns on top, is His divinity. ~ St. Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury
I felt the words swim before me again – a personal sign that the veil was being dropped back in place. I sat back and in my heart, went over what I had been shown thus far and the little I understood about Light. That there will come a time when the darkness around us will deepen to the point where ordinary illumination will no longer suffice. And that when that time comes, it is the Light within us that will shine the path ahead that we may see. The less we block it, the brighter the Light for us to see ahead.
And then I understood that, that Light is Christ enthroned within us.
I returned to what I had learned about the symbolism of the wax, the wick and the flame. I thought about how a candle looks like. From wax to wick to flame – in some ways, an allegory of a spiritual journey.
The journey of enthronement.
Then the door closed completely and I couldn’t see anymore.
Until hours later, when I went to In Sinu Jesu. Until I saw,
Abide in Me and I will abide in you, speaking through you, and touching souls through your words.
LENT 5 ~ LEFT BEHIND
Some hours back, I had the fleeting thought to pray for the Holy Souls of Purgatory. I love them much but sadly, of late, I have not spared much thought or prayers for them.
Then, there was dinner and other house chores to work on and soon the intention got lost somewhere.
But it wasn’t a mere passing thought.
Well into the night, when the day’s frolicking winds had fled to their hidden nooks, I read an old mother’s plea to a priest for help.
My son committed suicide on July 8 2012. He was only 39 years old. I was maybe 50 feet away when he shot himself. Can’t find peace and I do have tremendous guilt that I had not saved him. If I only went to his room, but I didn’t. My life is hell, and I am old, praying so hard but my pain is so intense. I am just worried as he was such a good son but not been in church since his childhood. Please help me, I am hoping that merciful God will forgive him, I don’t think that he knew that suicide is a mortal sin. Help me please.
The mother had written to the priest about 3 months after the tragedy. It is now close to 6 years since that day when 2 lives ended – the son’s, and in many ways, the mother’s too. That is what untimely death does, worse when it’s suicide because I suspect guilt stays longer and bites deeper.
This mother was grieving the loss of her child and the loss of life as she knew it. Deep inside, she was screaming and pleading for them both.
For every life that ends, so do other worlds.
I think it is this plea, this poor woman’s and others as well, that the angels have placed in the curve of my night hours tonight. I don’t know anything about this poor, poor mother beyond what she has written. I wish I did because it would make my own ache bearable if I knew she has now passed through the darkest parts of this valley of grief.
If such a thing were possible.
But what is my pinch of pain compared to this severe sorrowing of those left behind to grieve? Those who remain to suffer doubt, worry and fear, in addition to the terrible inner tearing as they mourn the loss of someone who left without a goodbye. Who likely left not knowing they were loved and would always be loved.
I loaded this woman, her son, and others onto my prayer cart. I had yet to say my night Rosary, so to it I resolved to take these suffering souls.
It was then that I recalled something I had read.
When a particular people become for you a cause of worry and distress, give them to Me and represent them before My Eucharistic Face. ~ Anonymous, In Sinu Jesu.
I wasn’t anywhere near an Adoration Chapel. But I thought I’d close my eyes tight and go before Jesus in my heart for those who suffered this particular scourging – those left behind to grieve.
That very second, my memory gently pressed before me,
You will see changes in them that only My grace can produce. ~ Anonymous, In Sinu Jesu.
The distress left me.
LENT 6 ~ DEDICATION
There is a very real sense in which the prayer of adoration is a loss of one’s life. It is a kind of falling into the ground to die. Remember this when you come to adore Me. When you adore Me, forgetting yourself and forsaking all things for Me, you imitate Me, for adoration is a kind of death. It is a passing out of everything that solicits the senses and a cleaving to Me alone in the bright darkness of faith. ~ Anonymous, In Sinu Jesu
Adoration is a kind of death. It has been two days since I read that and it has followed me silently in all the weave of hours since. As the sun~warmed morning breathes elfin breezes through the trees this day, Adoration is a kind of death returns yet again.
In these two days, the veil has thinned twice. Both times, the prayer nook I stop by daily for random prayers gave me Surrender Prayers. I don’t remember this happening before – similar prayers over consecutive days. The second prayer today gave me pause:
Prayer of Self Dedication
from the Sacramentary
Lord Jesus Christ, take all my freedom,
my memory, my understanding, and my will.
All that I have and cherish
you have given me.
I surrender it all to be guided by Your will.
Your grace and Your love
are enough for me.
Give me these, Lord Jesus,
and I ask for nothing more.
This prayer of Self Dedication I received today is the hand that has stayed my busy gallop. Because in days past, my gaze has often gone and remained upon my February calendar picture: The Presentation of the Child in the Temple. We’ve always had a calendar up. Lots of February pictures. But never of The Presentation. And every time I see it, Someone holds me back for a bit.
More than once, I’ve wondered why.
Today, reading the second surrender prayer, the clarity of its call pierces deeper.
The adoration I now offer the Lord is the beginning of the journey to what He truly means by adoration. I must not remain rooted in my present form of adoration. Because it must evolve into what is decreed by the Divine Will.
To set this into motion, I must first dedicate myself to the Heart I seek. This complete surrender will protect me from resisting, choosing to return to roosts of comfort.
Because the Heart of Jesus is to be found far removed from where I am now. I need to leave myself if I am to find Him.
LENT 7 ~ WOUND ME
Allow Me to speak to you in such a way as to wound you with the piercing of Divine Love. When you come before Me and wait upon Me in silence, you are, in effect, allowing Me, when I choose and in the way I choose, to wound you with an interior word and to set you on fire with a communication of divine love. ~ Anonymous, In Sinu Jesu.
What wounding is this that awaits me in this adoration journey? Will it be worse than what I have endured so far? Already I feel my enthusiasm for adoration waning slightly.
Because I fear suffering more than anything. I have none of the welcoming of suffering that the saints have.
How the saints welcome suffering is beyond me! Anything is bearable for the love of God.
When I place myself beside these old greats, I see where it is that I am different from them: I cannot suffer like them because I do not love to the extent that the saints can. The saints can suffer anything because they love God completely. Every sliver of self-love has been burned away, leaving hearts aflame only with the love for God.
To seal this understanding, my eyes fall upon these next lines.
My words are like arrows of fire shot into the heart and wounding it so as to inflame it and heal it with divine love. ~ In Sinu Jesu
Dare I open myself to this? Already my heart is cowering in fear.
Thy Will be done.
LENT 8 ~ THE HIDDEN RACE
I went over the edge today. I saw it clearly, I knew I was heading there. And yet, I refused to stop. Yesterday, I felt God was asking me permission to wound me with His word. I didn’t know what it would mean for me except that when a word like ‘wound’ is used, it is never going to be easy or pleasant. I knew it would hurt and I was so afraid.
And yet, I could not seem to hide from that invitation to open myself as never before. Shrinking within myself, not wanting it a bit, I found myself saying, I need to die to myself.
And then, feeling like I was throwing myself off a building, I offered,
Thy will be done.
Wound me.
He is a God of His Word. Wound me He did – by wounding my child. There had been an athletics race and my child had given till there was nothing left to give, and yet had been crushed.
My anger at what God had allowed to happen was beyond fury. I know nobody will stand on my side in this. Some day even I might see the unreasonableness of my emotions and response. But at that very moment, I plumbed the depths of disappointment that so much of heart and soul training from this child who had been so easily vanquished before but who fought to overcome deep-rooted weaknesses, had now ended in dismal failure.
Because, at the root of my falling was the fear that my child might turn away from the God trusted and relied on for strength and grace to persevere.
I was so afraid that this result would lead to a spiritual catastrophe – the beginning of the turning away from God.
I had asked to be wounded – I hadn’t asked for my child to be wounded – and to be wounded in this way. The sheer unfairness of it drove me out of myself. I flung myself at God. Not in humility but in cold flaming anger.
I didn’t hold back. But I kept it hidden because if I was headed for hell, I didn’t want my children to see and to learn of that dark road from their mother. Within my heart I faced God in all my ugliness. Honestly, even Adam and Eve had the sense to search for leaves to cover their nakedness. I, on the other hand, couldn’t be bothered. I didn’t try to be what I wasn’t and probably never will.
And I told God so. I don’t have the faith for this blow You’ve dealt me, I told Him bitterly.
At that moment, I recalled this from In Sinu Jesu,
When you come before Me and wait upon Me in silence, you are, in effect, allowing Me, when I choose and in the way I choose, to wound you…
Expect Me, then, to speak to you, to console you, and to enlighten you…
My anger was so cold and deep that I didn’t want God’s consolation. Nevertheless, I turned to Him in my heart, saying, Console not me, but my child. I was so far away from God to be able to accept His consolation, but I knew my child needed it and I hadn’t the power to give it.
I then went to comfort my sobbing child. Faced with such depth of young heartbreak and disappointment, I demanded in my heart, Give me the words for my child. Tell us why this had to happen.
The plea had barely left my heart when my eyes were taken to a small bookmark pinned to the wall.
I have fought the good fight,
I have finished the race,
I have kept the faith. ~ 2 Timothy 4:7
I had never noticed that bookmark before. But I didn’t even need to ponder the familiar words. The moment my eyes fell upon them, their meaning for the sadness silvered into my heart.
There had been two races that day. One that we all saw and watched.
And there was another – hidden from physical sight, where God was the judge of the race of heart, will and all things hidden from human eyes.
My child had failed in the first race.
But in the eyes of God, my child was victor in the race that mattered the most – the hidden one.
LENT 9 ~ HOW DO I COME HOME?
The turbulent days behind me, I am now in a place where the winds keep counsel among the sodden trees. Even when they occasionally blow by my path, it is in careful, measured breaths. The skies sob in bursts and fits, but it is not for this that the winds mourn.
It is because I chose to rebel against God and His Will.
Since that rebelling, I had gone to the hours of my day. I had been very busy. There was much to do and much that I got done. I came to the end of the work day satisfied.
Yet, there had been a serrated edge to the day. Because a wound had been sewn up but stitched up roughly because I chose to rebel. I had given in to a wounding by heaven but I had given in in anger.
Old anger always looks different in the morning after.
Still, remorse sits distantly within me. I know I have sinned but if it happened again, I’m not sure I would choose another path of response and reaction. I don’t know if I am even capable of it. I think of Jesus~in~my~heart. I feel He is near. Heaven has not shut its doors against me despite where I chose to go.
But something keeps me from throwing myself into His arms. There is a breach between us. I am rooted to my side. I do not know how to cross over.
How do I come home? I ask the air about me. The night hours take my question but no answer do they yield. I think of all the saints close to my heart – Padre Pio, St. Francis of Assisi, St. John Bosco. I think of taking their hand and asking them to lead me back to God. But the thought mists away as soon as it comes, as if brushed away by an unseen hand.
Then, I think of Mother Mary and my thoughts stop there. No words knit to form my plea. I sense none is needed. I sense I must let it be for now.
In the early grey morning, a tiny silver bell slides across my spirit. It chimes,
Adoration.
That is the way home.
LENT 10 ~ THE ONLY SON
….you did not withhold from me your own beloved son. ~ Genesis 22:12
I was not Abraham two days ago. While I had not withheld my son from the trial he faced because that was simply beyond my power, my response to what had unfolded certainly constituted a withholding.
Willful and calculated.
Today, I come to the First Reading and God tells me, Long before you were faced with the faith-response to offer up your child, Abraham was, and he chose to break his own heart if it meant choosing to love his God.
Abraham didn’t try to strike a win-win deal with God. Neither did he marshal an array of arguments to his favour. In simple obedience, Abraham chose to love God – despite what it would ask of him.
Faced with an Abraham moment – of a far smaller scale – despite all my resolutions, I had chosen to love myself. I wish I could say that I was ashamed or sad or angry with myself, but I wasn’t. I knew I had sinned but even now, I wasn’t sure I would choose Abraham’s Way the next time.
Then, came the clincher:
He who did not spare His own Son
but handed Him over for us all.. ~ Romans 8:32
There will be another race today. My child faces yet another test. And so do I. In some ways, today’s race will be harder. I fear for my son. I fear the crushing. I fear the tears. I fear myself.
He who did not spare His own Son but handed Him over for us all.
Then, in a strange fluid easiness, I surrender my child to God. I give Him the race and all that would follow. I feel sick to my stomach but I ask for the strength to suffer that small cross. No bargains, no wheedling. I don’t feel heroic, neither am I pretending to be Abraham.
It just feels like the thing that has to be done.
I will not withhold my son from God.
LENT 11 ~ GATES
Let the prisoners’ sighing come before you;
with your great power free those doomed to death. ~ Psalm 79:11
A year ago, this exact verse came before me, and with it, the face of someone I honestly despise. But something stirred in me that however much that nasty man had hurt me, he was a prisoner who had to be set free – because the root cause of his darkness was a dangerous love and worship of money and wealth.
Yesterday, not knowing this verse was going to appear again, a friend mentioned this same person to me. It was from her that I heard again about this man’s growing desire for money.
I saw that he was fast sinking into a deadly spiral.
I honestly didn’t want to pray for this man except to pray for protection from him because being my superior at work, he has hurt me deeply and still possesses the power to harm me. In my moment of reluctance, I saw these words pass before my heart:
Before My Eucharistic Face
Jesus was asking me to bring this man to Adoration.
Since I do not live close to any church, I did what I could. I went to the live streaming link to the Divine Mercy Chapel in Poland and I went before the Blessed Sacrament. My spirit knelt before the Miraculous Image, and I placed this man before the Face of Jesus. No words did I fuss over except to utter his name.
I then felt I ought to bring other names as well and so I did. With each name I pressed, I leaned in to determine His will, to see if I was truly called to pray for that person.
Groups of people passed before my spirit’s eyes. As I touched each one to take them before the Eucharistic Face, with some I could sense a yielding, like some invisible latch had fallen and its gate opened; with others I felt a shrinking away, like they were closing in on themselves.
After yesterday’s dying to myself, I was not in the mood to be disobedient by feeling guilty for not praying for more people. I was here to bring before the Eucharistic Face only those whom Jesus called for through me today.
When my Adoration had ended, I sat back and rested my heart against the morning winds as they sang their silver and gold hymns among the leaves.
Slowly, I became aware of a single word.
Gates.
LENT 12 ~ PATHWAYS
Learn from My saints. Study them. Receive their teachings. Draw inspiration from their friendship with Me.
But do not try to imitate them.
Each of My friends arrives at union with Me by the path traced for her by the Holy Spirit. Even when two paths may appear similar, know that they are not identical. All of these paths converge in union with Me, in the light of My Face, and all of them lead to the open door of My Sacred Heart. ~ Anonymous, In Sinu Jesu
LENT 13 ~ BLESSED BE THE HOURS
This morning, during quiet minutes, I suddenly thought of The Angel of Peace. A seer has often mentioned that The Angel of Peace will come soon. I wondered who might that be. If it were any of the archangels – Michael, Gabriel or Raphael – I wonder why his name has never been pronounced.
I know the dangers of attaching too much credence or belief to a visionary or seer. I remind myself of the dangers, because these are indeed dangerous times of confusion. I do not want to go the way of many who waited for the proclaimed time, but the wait was in vain.
Yet, the words, Angel of Peace slipped in when much of the world was still asleep today, and it lay quietly on my heart. Along with it came unbidden a memory, worn soft with age, tears and old love. A memory of an angel~love that never had need of words when I needed comforting. Tender softness against my heart when I was tossed about by some wild wind of ache and tears, a softness that alone had the power to ease any storm.
This love gave me a peace each time it came. A peace that was soft, gentle yet strong. It has now been very long since I’ve felt this peace. The old days have not returned yet.
My thoughts returned to the Angel of Peace. Who are you? I asked. And then I went to my day, the hours soon became lost in whorls of busyness.
I returned home as a golden orange flush gently swelled the warm evening skies. I should have been out, in the fading lisp of the aging day, quietening my heart as the day bade farewell. But too tired and in some pain from a foot injury, I stayed in and stole glances at the soft beckoning of the tangerine sunset.
There was something in the eyes of the sky. An odd quietness, deep and alert, in the distant western abode where the sun goes to die each day. It was as if something or someone was waiting for me. But the demands of family and home shifted impatiently beside me and I could not go to the bidding of the waiting skies.
When I didn’t go to meet that strange, secret quietness, it came towards me. I suddenly remembered that as I had awakened late that day, I hadn’t had the time to go to my daily readings and then to my prayer nook for my day’s prayer. So, I hastened to the Bible. And from there to my prayer nook.
One saint I’ve never gone to before was waiting for me and she held out something to me now. St. Gertrude had misted by pretty often of late, and while I had never reached for her hand, today, she had a prayer for me.
GUARDIAN ANGEL PRAYER
by St. Gertrude
O most holy Angel of God,
appointed by God to be my Guardian,
I give you thanks for all the benefits
which you have ever bestowed on me in body and soul.
I praise and glorify you that you condescended
to assist me with such patient fidelity,
and to defend me against all the assaults of my enemy.
Blessed be the hour
in which you were assigned me for my Guardian,
my defender and my patron.
In acknowledgment and return for all your loving ministries to me,
I offer you the infinitely precious and noble Heart of Jesus,
and firmly purpose to obey you henceforward,
and most faithfully to serve my God. Amen.
It could have come on any day, but this prayer came today when my thoughts were on The Angel of Peace. A tough day awaits me, but I seem to be held safe in an invisible embrace of peace and stillness. Unhurried, I recall once more the angel~peace of old, still and quiet. I think of those have been granted the grace of seeing their guardian angels and I think about how their lives must have changed since then.
Because no one is ever the same once they have seen those who share our lives, yet are not of this world.
Blessed be those hours of grace when we saw.
And knew.
And loved.
LENT 14 ~ ANGEL’S LIGHT
Blessed be the hour in which you were assigned me for my Guardian, my defender and my patron. ~ from The Guardian Angel Prayer, by St. Gertrude
I think my Angel of Peace has come. Since the events of yesterday, despite the crags and ruts the day held, no trouble ripples have touched my heart today. I went about my day in quiet and in unruffled peace. I believe that for every path that opened up before me in each task and decision of the day, the angel gently lit up the one that lay in the will of God.
In uncharacteristic obedience, my spirit acquiesced each time.
Because today, given my foot injury, I was not able to heat up the floors rushing from one task to another. I was forced to slow down, to walk with careful, measured steps. At this slow, labored pace, I had time to think and to sift through responses. I didn’t plunge headlong into tasks. When the photocopier got overheated, I didn’t rush to another bullet on my to-do list while it cooled down; I sat down and stared out at the distant hills wearing their trees like jewels.
Despite the disruptions and machine breakdowns and the ungainly hobbling, everything that needed to be done got done and got done in peace.
Because I left myself and held Another’s hand. Because today I followed the Angel’s Light.
LENT 15 ~ NOBLE HEART OF JESUS
I offer you the infinitely precious and noble Heart of Jesus. ~ Guardian Angel Prayer, by St. Gertrude
Since I read St. Gertrude’s Guardian Angel Prayer, I have become more conscious of my unseen companion. I went into the challenging hours of yesterday willing myself not to lose peace over discomforts, delays and sandpaper-moments. In every door I passed through, my heart sought that golden presence.
Granted, I didn’t always choose the way of Light in the hundred moments embroidered into the busy day. But with each stumble, I righted myself and started anew, my spirit always in alertness for that fragrant peace that could still storms.
It was in the part and weave of the hours that I began to see a word come before me over and over ~
Noble Heart of Jesus
When my work day had ended, I found some quiet minutes to seek St. Gertrude’s prayer once more. There I found the birthplace of the day’s echoes,
In acknowledgment and return for all your loving ministries to me,
I offer you the infinitely precious and noble Heart of Jesus
My Angel was asking an offering of me. I did not refuse.
Every time my heart saw the Angel, I whispered, I offer you the noble Heart of Jesus.
LENT 16 ~ REST
The past few days, I’ve been noticing that the number 15 seems to light up for me. I’m not into numbers, but the frequency of this happening was hard to ignore. So, I looked up the biblical significance of 15 and learned that it connotes
REST
With my foot injury, my husband has been repeatedly telling me to rest if I wanted to get back on my feet as soon as possible. I tried but it’s hard when you have a family to take care of and a demanding job that waits for every hour it can claim of you. Still, when 15 came up as REST, I decided to take it to the Lord, because I honestly didn’t know how to rest without causing a crash along the railway tracks that run through my family and work life.
I also had a suspicion that REST might have a different meaning for me at this time. That it was not merely about putting up my foot and gazing at the green while the kids tear down the house and deadlines loom and everyone else runs around to compensate for my ‘rest’.
I was right.
There are so many lesser things that pull you away, that eat up your time, and that are stumbling blocks in the path of your coming to be with Me. Learn to recognize these obstacles for what they are. Some of them are your own doing; others are the work of the Evil One;
…still others come from the ordinary cares of life in a world that has forgotten how to be still in My presence. ~ Anonymous, In Sinu Jesu
Ordinary cares of life in a world that has forgotten to be still in My presence. The endless bullets in my daily to-do lists. The hundred you-musts and you-have-to’s. The crashes waiting to happen.
In a world that has forgotten to be still. My Adoration minutes the past few days have been pockmarked by inner chattiness and distractions and wanting to take charge of my time before Jesus. Despite my injury, despite a slower pace than usual, I have not been able to still myself completely even in the presence of God. Truth be told, I’m not sure how.
Jesus heard my heart.
Do not let yourself be stopped by any of these things. Learn to come to Me quickly, generously, and gladly. I wait for you in the Sacrament of My love, and you will not be disappointed in coming to Me. This is really all I ask of souls – that you come to Me.
And I will do the rest.
LENT 17 ~ A SINGLE WAVE
We must be continually upon our guard, for we are engaged in a perpetual war; unless we take care, the enemy will surprise us, when we are least aware of him. A ship sometimes passes safe through hurricanes and tempests, yet, if the pilot, even in a calm, has not a great care of it, a single wave, raised by a sudden gust, may sink her. It does not signify whether the enemy clambers in by the window, or whether all at once he shakes the foundation, if at last he destroys the house. In this life we sail, as it were, in an unknown sea. We meet with rocks, shelves, and sands; sometimes we are becalmed, and at other times we find ourselves tossed and buffeted by a storm. Thus we are never secure, never out of danger; and, if we fall asleep, are sure to perish. ~ St. Syncletica
Growing up with a mother who suffers from Narcissistic Personality Disorder, I learned the lesson of a single deadly wave from early childhood. I lived and breathed in singular fear of someone so consumed by herself and her wants, because all it would take for my day to go from gold to black would be a single wave.
But while I am no longer called to this fear, I am called to vigilance against the thieves of faith. I need to be vigilant with myself, with my family.
And with all those who come to our gates. For the thief never announces his arrival nor his tools. He strikes at will.
The eyes in my head can only do so much. The vigilance needed for the times we are in is different, far deeper than ever known. I cannot be sure that I have all the gates covered, I cannot be sure that I know the shape and form a thief may take. To possess confidence in my abilities to guard and detect danger – even while I proclaim otherwise – is to be surely struck down by that single wave because pride makes for a weak gate-lock.
The calls to Adoration, to rest, that I have been hearing this Lent, are the bells that chime telling me to seek humility through the resting of my will – because it is humility that will make me seek the Supreme Guard of Gates – Jesus. It is humility that will allow me to let down my guard and let Jesus in. It is only humility that will allow me to allow Jesus to guard my gates.
We have a most intelligent and experienced pilot at the helm of our vessel even Jesus Christ himself, who will conduct us safe into the haven of salvation if, by our supineness, we cause not our own perdition. ~ St. Syncletica
LENT 18 ~ TRUST. COME.
Do you not see how much I have been calling you to trust in Me? Trust is the key that opens all the treasures of My merciful and infinitely loving Heart. I am touched by a single act of trust in My merciful love more than a multitude of good works. The soul who trusts Me, by that very fact, removes the obstacles of pride and self-determination that impede my freedom of action. There is nothing I will not do for the soul who abandons herself to Me in a simple act of trust. ~ Anonymous, In Sinu Jesu
When will that day come when I have learned to trust in God perfectly? When will that day come when I can abandon all worry and fear and doubt in the Heart of Jesus? When I can fulfil in perfect obedience His will for me even when I do not understand the whys and wherefores?
I have no answers. If anything, I have more doubt in myself because my lot is cast with those who question and struggle endlessly with trust.
But I suspect this unexpected Lent journey to the Heart of Jesus through Adoration has much to do with the solution – if it is not the solution itself. Trust is the Everest of my faith journey. What if all I am called to is to merely present my sorry self before Him in Adoration and that Jesus will take it from there?
And then I recall, indeed, that was what He promised me,
This is really all I ask of souls – that you come to Me. And I will do the rest.
LENT 19 ~ LITTLEST BELLS
We often believe that it’s the loudest gongs that get our attention in life, but yesterday was proof yet again for me that that the most tiny of bells can hold its own.
It was my Reparation Monday again and I began the day with a prayer that God tell me who or what my daily struggles should be offered for. I briefly imagined that it would be for priests, but swiftly damped that down when I remembered I should not direct.
When I asked again, the face of my friend’s son came before my heart. We had met at church the previous day and she had told me about recent struggles with her son who seemed to have grave psychological issues. The child’s face had stayed before me through much of Sunday, but I certainly didn’t expect God to ask that I suffer for this child on Reparation Monday.
But He did, and so I did and I hoped the difficult day and the worth of its tough hours did something for that troubled child.
I had worked outstation that day and some health issues preoccupied me throughout. When the terribly hot red evening hours came, bringing with it lethargy, I forgot all about suffering for children, even my own, and decided I deserved to put my feet up and rest a bit. Dinner would be whatever there was, kids could help vacuum the floors and the family laundry could stay in their baskets.
But an email had come in from a dear~heart blogger friend. In it were the words,
Busy with my grandchildren
I heard a soft chime as I read those words. As I read them again, my own brood returned home from sultry evening farewells. The draining day had taken a bit more out of them than usual and they were not all-about-the-place as they usually were.
Busy with my grandchildren
Today was to be lived and struggled through for children. It began with my friend’s son and now my own needed me. That was the message of the bell. Getting to my feet, I whispered the prayer I had learned late last year, I Choose Jesus. For that boy, for my own.
Somehow, I found the needed vigour to attend to the calls of home and hearth.
I can’t help but wonder just how many of such little calls to reparation through children must have slipped unheeded to fall and be lost in my busyness and in the many, never ending tempests of emotions, day after day after day. How many people, known and unknown, how much they must have hurt, just because I was too caught up in my inner noises to hear the silver chimes that come softest.
My thoughts return to the Adoration I am called to each day. Being still and silent with my Jesus is merely to run my fingers over the surface of the lake. Much, much more lies below. And reparation, caring for children, choosing Jesus for those who won’t – these and more are all somehow tied to Adoration.
The tiny silver bells that chime for me go far deeper in Adoration than I realize.
LENT 20 ~ OUR SACRIFICE
So let our sacrifice be in Your presence today ~ Daniel 3:40
LENT 21 ~ ENTER THE CELL
Let us enter into our cell, and sitting there, remember our sins, and the Lord will come and help us in everything. ~ St. Poemen
Yesterday was a day that took far out of me than I had to give. I returned home very tired from a late afternoon meeting but in relatively good cheer. Yet, the day chose to sulk. Hot breezes blew about distractedly and couldn’t seem to settle in peace into their wind~nooks. It was a day that didn’t wound or tear into you, but like dry branches against a window pane, scratched your spirit at random. I had overslept that morning, thus missing my morning Adoration. In the evening, after cooking dinner and not much else done, I was too exhausted to call the family together for Family Rosary.
This morning, still feeling the effects of the previous day’s strain, I was nonetheless determined to return to prayer. I went before Jesus in Adoration but in the ensuing minutes, caught myself wandering off several times. I didn’t seem to be doing much by way of consoling Jesus. It was one of those days where no storm troubles, yet the spirit cannot settle into peaceful deeps.
And so, there I was, before the Lord, but wriggling and fidgeting. I certainly wasn’t getting much done.
Adoration ended and I went to the Bible. The day’s Readings and Responsorial psalm were about the stiff-necked and all manner of stubbornness.
Oh, that today you would hear His voice:
Harden not your hearts as at Meribah,
as in the day of Massah in the desert ~ Psalm 95: 7 – 8
I resolved to harden not my heart, but to live out this new day better than yesterday.
Yet, even to my ears, I sounded weak and not fully committed to what my lips proclaimed.
But the very second I prayed that prayer, a strange disquiet entered my spirit.
I saw before me an instance at work the previous day, at the end of that dissatisfying meeting, where I almost spoke ill of my superior by revealing his failings to another colleague. We were interrupted by someone, but had that not happened, I would have certainly vented my frustration to the fullest.
Yesterday, I was not in the least troubled by that almost-disclosure at work. But today, after my pathetic attempt to console my Lord in Adoration and a weak offer to listen to His voice, there came this sudden and strong disturbance. This deep troubling of spirit that I should not have done what I did, that I should not have ventured to speak ill of my superior even if it was the absolute truth.
The unpleasant feeling in my heart caused by a disturbed conscience deepened and worsened. I grew restless and desperate to pull the thorn out. But no church did I have nearby, no priest to hear my confession either.
Let us enter into our cell, and sitting there, remember our sins, and the Lord will come and help us in everything. ~ St. Poemen
I read the quote twice. Enter the cell. Sit there. Recall my sins. It felt far short of what I wanted desperately then – Confession. Then, I saw the words,
the Lord will come and help us in everything
It still didn’t seem like much. I wasn’t sure if that would help. Then, I recalled another breath of words,
There is nothing I will not do for the soul who abandons herself to Me in a simple act of trust. ~ Anonymous, In Sinu Jesu
Still, believe or not, I dithered. In asking me to abandon myself to Him, Jesus was asking for a level of trust, which in all honesty, was not that high, but for me it was.
At that moment, my angel gently pushed towards me a tiny stream of pearls,
This is really all I ask of souls – that you come to Me. And I will do the rest.
At these words, I finally turned to Jesus. Kneeling before Him, I gave Him everything – my sin against my superior, my lack of faith, my doubts now. I didn’t feel a miraculous lifting, but with more conviction than before, I resolved to go to Jesus every single time I felt the thorn prick my conscience, every single time I doubted He could help me.
My vow sent to its rightful place, I went to the day and the work that awaited me.
Within the hour, my heart was troubled no more.
LENT 22 ~ WOULD I?
I resolve in the first place to remain continually in the presence of God and to ask myself frequently if I would do this or that if my confessor or superior were watching me and especially if God and my guardian angel were present. ~ St. Conrad of Parzham, resolutions in the novitiate
LENT 23 ~ TAINTED SACRIFICE
For it is love that I desire, not sacrifice,
and knowledge of God rather than burnt offerings. ~ Hosea 6:6
LENT 24 ~ AN ANGEL AMONG MEN
Hours after St. Conrad of Parzham’s quote was laid before my eyes, my thoughts often strayed back to him. I kept thinking of the person behind that simple warning and reminder to stay away from the cliff’s edge of sin. So, I sought to get to know the saint and I’m sure glad I did, for that voice from beyond that held me back from sin came from the most gentle, humble, simple and quiet of souls. More importantly, St. Conrad’s life seems to be the one Jesus, through the In Sinu Jesu writings, seems to be calling me to – to be lost in Him in order that Christ’s Light shine unhindered through me.
Saint Konrad of Parzham
Based on the original German of Rector Georg Albrechtskirchinger
http://www.salvemariaregina.info/Martyrologies/Konrad.html
A New Gift from God
In the little known village of Parzham, Germany, around the year 1800, there lived and worked a farmer – Bartholomew Birndorfer. The tiny village lay in the valley of the Rott (Rottal), a stream that flows into the torrential river Inn, whose waters flow, in turn, into the river Danube. “Bartl” was a wealthy farmer. The old saying fit him well: “In Rottal dwells the pride of the farmer – his beautiful horses – his field – his timber.” Bartl had twenty-two cows, ten horses and one hundred twenty-five acres of fertile soil all around his comfortable log cabin with its flat shingle roof. But hard times came when a devastating and unruly Freemasonic revolution swept over the land. The government siezed the monasteries and confiscated their goods. The so-called “Freethinking Enlightenment” spread doubts against the Faith, mocked piety and, in many families, lessened the bond of good morals and holy virtues. The wars of the tyrant Napoleon raged in Europe; in 1809 Rottal, too, was laid waste. Continual torrential rains in 1816 and 1817 caused a painful famine. Not until 1818 was there a turn for the better – a real year of plenty. As often as a full cartload of crops arrived at the barn, the farmer with his wife and children would kneel down, pray three Our Father’s and thank God for His gifts with tears of joy.
The graces of this year were not to come to an end until another child was born to the Birndorfer family. It was the 22nd of December, shortly after midnight. Later that same day the baby boy was taken by horse-drawn sleigh through deep snow to the parish church and was baptized with the name Johannes Evangelist. Arriving again at home, his mother clasped her “Hansel” in her arms and thanked the Lord of life and death affectionately for this child of God, which the Lord had given her. She was happy about the beautiful name. Would it have some mysterious significance? At any rate, year after year and day after day, through vivid stories of the Boy Jesus, she would make that Holy Life come alive for her little boy, so that he would imitate the example held out to him and taste the delights of divine love.
Pious Childhood
The blonde-haired, blue-eyed Hansel was thriving visibly. After his cradling, he began making expeditions across the floor. He soon found his way everywhere. In the kitchen he would play with fir-cones and sticks. He waddled through every room. He got acquainted with the chickens, the dog and cat, the cattle and horses. The household brought up Hansel as it had brought up the other children. He enjoyed the best visual instructions. Farm life and Christian example were both placed before his senses. When poor people or hired hands came, tired and worn, to ask a night’s lodging, Hansel would fetch milk and bread for them. He took his place with the house occupants for daily prayers and the Rosary. Often he was found praying in a quiet nook. No one disturbed him there, neither the farm-hands nor the maids. He had no patience for any indecency in the children at the village square. All the adults were amazed how recollected Hansel was at prayer and that his intense devotion was so obvious on his countenance. No wonder everyone was so fond of him and called him a little angel!
At age six Hansel became a student. He learned reading, writing and arithmetic, Bible History and the “Canisi” – as this little catechism was called – in which St. Peter Canisius had condensed the truths of the Catholic Religion into short and clear lessons. Attentive and diligent, Hansel took in every subject with a laudable persistence. Once he brought home an award for receiving a high grade on a test. During this school year, Hansel also distinguished himself as quite a special person. On the half-hour’s journey to the school in Weng, he would sometimes go apart from his noisy comrades and would silently and secretly pray several Our Father’s. Sometimes he would induce a fellow-student to offer Our Heavenly Mother a Rosary. When a quarrel and fight broke out, Hansel would intervene and make peace. When he did not succeed, he regarded it as better to just be on his way. Children acting rowdy with each other or speaking in a shameful manner would call out when they saw little Johannes, “Quiet! Quiet! Hansel Birndorfer is coming!” Their bad words would stick in their throats. Cursing gave pain to his soul. Should he hear any blasphemy, he would fall to his knees, weep and beg the Lord God for mercy on the blasphemer. Whoever saw this was deeply moved. Gradually such blasphemies were held back in his presence. Throughout the parish and school, people would ask, “What kind of boy is this?” And they would receive the answer, “He is an angel among men.”
After finishing school, Hans advanced step-by-step in the hard work of farming. He worked in the stable; he mowed the meadows; he drew the plow. Although still young in years, he already viewed his life and his world as a bridge over the river of time to God, the Eternal. So he never forgot throughout all his occupations, to maintain his union with the Lord of Heaven and Earth. Good intention and the worship of God ennobled his work. Under the hottest sunshine, Hans wore nothing on his head. One day, his father feared he would suffer a heat-stroke. So, a few days later, he admonished him to wear a hat. The boy answered, “Father, shouldn’t someone take his hat off when he is going to pray?” His father replied, after a short consideration, “Yes, of course. But tell me, do you pray the whole time you are working?” As Hansel answered this question in the affirmative, his father was astonished, but said nothing to dissuade him from this. He saw that work in union with God made his son happy.
Grief and pain soon associate themselves with happiness. Hans was fourteen years old when death took away from him his exemplary, quiet mother. Only two years later, his good father also was carried away from the farm to the cemetery in Weng. His mother dead! His father dead! What great, bitter sorrow! Hans wept pitiably.
The Young Man
An orphaned farm, an estate being inherited, in Bavarian villages puts the whole community in turmoil. Everyone asks, “What will happen to the farm now?”
The brothers and sisters took over the inheritance together. For the time being, Hans, the youngest of them, eagerly and willingly looked after the work of the two hired hands. No one was more punctual, conscientious and dutiful. He worked from early morning until late evening. He also brightened every workday through the thought that all work must be a divine service and tend to God’s greater glory. He strove continually to give more time to interior recollection, contemplation and prayer. Sometimes one might have seen him in a cart, the reins in his right hand and an open prayer book in his left. Once, while he was absorbed in spiritual reading, the reins lay limp. The horses went off the road and the wagon tipped over, spilling the whole load. In complete tranquility he loaded it up again. At home he spoke of his accident. His brothers and sisters were of the opinion that “…prayer is certainly good; but it is not necessary to pray all the time!” Hans only answered, “But it’s not forbidden either.” They were astonished at his intense conviction and were silent; they knew that, in fact, many a cart had tipped over when no one was praying.
When there was a break in the farm work, Hans liked to withdraw back into the hay barn. On its door he had hung pictures of the Savior and his patron Saints. Before them he used to thank the Creator who provided the grass for fodder and cattle, and he would say a little prayer of petition.
On the eve of Holydays he would sit, now and then, on the bench in front of the house and just meditate there. He would think about the numberless creatures of the earth and gigantic forms in the heavens, about the sun, moon and stars, about the great Almighty God. One evening an old maid-servant sat down nearby. She tried to coax him to come and have a talk with her. Hans, distracted from his contemplation, nodded his head, mumbled a little and let her talk. But as soon as she began to gossip about people and slander them, he cut her off: “It’s not good to gossip about people. It is wiser to pray the Rosary. May God preserve you.” He got up and went to his room.
There stood his home altar. It was simply arranged. On the table was a small case with a picture of the Mother of God; above it was a crucifix; in front a flickering oil lamp; on either side candlesticks with white candles, besides several paper flowers and little fir boughs. Here he lay the offering of his bodily fatigue and his self-discipline. Here he examined his conscience every evening. Here he gazed at the picture of the Throne of God before him and held conversation with the Lord God. Here he read, in the still of the night, the Holy Scriptures. Sometimes a rooster would crow, the sun would rise up and break through the clouds of night with its beams of light, and the man of prayer would go to his day’s work as fresh and strong as if he had slept the entire night. And his sister Therese would find his bed still made.
Almost every morning, Hans went to church. Whether it snowed or rained, whether a gale blew or the stream through which he had to wade swelled and overflowed its banks – nothing could hinder him from attending Mass in Weng or St. Wolfgang. Sometimes he stood from 3:30 a.m. in the church courtyard, or, in really bad weather, in the little vestibule in the front of the church and waited until the sacristan came and unlocked it.
The first day of the Christian week was for Hans fully and completely the day of the Lord and of the victory of Christ. Just at the crack of dawn, he would make a holy hour at the church in Griesbach. There he would go to confession and, at the quiet early morning Mass, would receive the Body of the Lord. Then he would go to Weng for the Parish High Mass, and then back home. In the afternoon he liked to go to the Devotions at Birnbach, although it was an hour’s journey from Parzham. He was always the first to arrive at the church. He took his place in the front pew of the Gospel side, next to the wall, and prayed with intense attention. After the Devotions, when all the people were gone, he conversed with the Savior. He knelt before the altar and remained up to two hours before the Blessed Sacrament. And thus on Sundays, streams of divine grace would flow into his heart and assist his work throughout the week.
Other young men sought their Sunday relaxation in the public houses. Only once did Hans attend a theater performance by the Birnbach Youth Union, of which he was a member. It so happened that right in the middle of the play, he let out a hearty laugh. The sound grated on the ears of the audience and seemed to echo, as the embarassing event stuck in his memory.
The most beautiful leisure time Hans experienced was when he went on pilgrimage, alone or with like-minded persons, to the Mother of God at the beloved Shrine of Altötting or to the Church of Maria Hilf, situated in the countryside high above the city of Passau and the river Inn. Such pilgrimages were physically very fatiguing. Between 1:00 and 2:00 a.m. they would get up and walk six hours, fasting and praying all the way until the journey’s end. When they were not actually praying, they would speak of life’s struggles on the side of God. Hans, usually so quiet, found words to edify his companions with the Mysteries of Redemption. After visiting the miraculous image, they would go to confession and receive Holy Communion, and give thanks to God for temporal blessings and spiritual graces. For a mid-day rest, they would sit on the bank of a stream near the church and eat whatever they had brought with them. Afterwards, they would visit the church again, pray until the departure time and then again walk six hours back, with joyful hearts, until they had their home soil under their feet.
On St. Leonhard’s day, Hans went every year to the Solemn Blessing of Horses at Aigen am Inn. At this pilgrimage church there labored a Father Dullinger. Hans chose this priest to be his spiritual director. Through him, he got to know better about the various Religious Orders. One by one, he examined their particular obligations: perpetual adoration, celebration of daily Mass, sacrifice for the conversion of sinners, prayer to assist and console the faithful departed, assistance for those struggling to preserve purity and virginity, intimate devotion to Mary, as well as worship of the Most Holy Trinity. As a member of the Third Order which St. Francis had founded for lay people, the Franciscan spirit grew in him. For nine years Hans went every fourteen days over the hills to his confessor, and back again. Each time it was a march of ten hours, and on the whole it required a determined step to advance on the mysterious path to this destination, which God had determined, but which Hans did not yet clearly see.
At the Crossroads
All at once the news broke into his quiet, hardworking, interior life. Two sisters and a brother had left and married. The others still cultivated the farm together. Nothing had changed much. But a sadness set in, invisible yet palpable. The farm was still a bachelor home. A bachelor home is unnatural for a farmer. An unmarried farmer lives only for himself. A real farm is anchored in the family. Only through marriage does the family live on, the farm prosper and farm life remain worth enduring and happy.
One evening, this sadness burst out around the farm house. His brothers and sisters demanded that Hans get married and take over the farm. Hans laid his elbows on the table, closed his eyes, clasped his hands in front of his face and thought over the situation. He looked back on days gone by, when his father and mother were keeping house at the farm and the children, quiet and happy, were unconcerned about the future. When his parents were alive, they had often said, “Son, we are leaving the farm to you. The future heir is soon liable to be unsettled. You can change that by marriage. The Birndorder Family must continue to live on this farm.” The demand had surprised Hans. He knew that, having grown up with animals, crops and soil, he had become a good farmer, that he had received a great talent for farming and that he truly had enjoyed it. On the other hand, he found in himself another talent: the beautiful life of union with God, with Christ and with Mary. In worth and rank it was higher than the stars. And thus Hans stood at the crossroads: the cloister or the farm. He made the most important decision of his life. Slowly he let his arms sink to the table, opened his eyes, raised his head high and spoke in a firm voice, “The family can live on in another line. The house and farm will still stand. My life should be to listen to God and Him alone. I am going into a cloister. Now you know. The good God has not forgotten me. He has already prepared a place for me.” The die was cast. His brothers and sisters quietly surrendered to their fate.
Shortly thereafter a letter arrived. It announced that the Capuchins in Altötting were willing to accept Hans Birndorfer into the Order. Hans was overjoyed. He recalled the words of Christ: “If thou wouldst be perfect, go, sell all thou hast and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in Heaven. And come, follow Me.” According to this request, his family paid him for his portion of the property. Thereafter he gave one portion of the money to the poor of the neighborhood and the other he donated for the expansion of the cemetery in Weng. Now he was stripped of all possessions, like St. Francis of Assisi. The way to his new goal was free. He bid farewell to his home and his parents’ graves and began his journey to Altötting.
Time of Probation
With his entrance into the Capuchin family, Hans Birndorfer received a new name – Konrad. The coming months would show whether he had really turned his back on the world and whether he could endure being totally dependent on the charity and mercy of other men.
For a good year and a half, he was given to the Porter of St. Anne’s Cloister as an assistant. He overcame the difficulties that arose with patience and humility. In the meantime, he wrote to his family: “When I first came it was somewhat difficult to be among so many Brothers. It was a long time before I could call them all by name. Now, thanks be to God, I can not only remember their names but also where their cells are, in case I have to fetch them.” Suddenly, to his regret, he was transferred to Burghausen on the Salzach. Here he had to care for a sick priest. Here also he encountered the elderly Tirolian, Gabriel Engel. This Father had, in fifteen tireless years, re-established the Capuchin Order in Bavaria, where it had withered up after the decade-long troubles of the “Cloister Storm” of the “Enlightenment”. This genuine reformer became for Konrad at that time a tremendous example of manly virtue and Religious observance.
The two year pre-school was soon at an end. Konrad had been observed long enough for it to be known that he was fit for the Religious Life. Now he would be sent to the little Cloister at Laufen on the Salzach. At that time the Novitiate for lay brothers was there. Konrad was solemnly clothed with the brown cowl and the long hood. It was September 17, 1851. With the clothing began the decisive year of probation for the new Religious – the Novitiate. There he would learn to know exactly the obligations of the Order and how to fulfill them. And the community would examine him – whether he was really suited for the Religious life in general, and for the Capuchin Order in particular. Konrad wrote his former home: “Pray very hard for me, that I may get through this year successfully; that I may not just wear the habit, but rather obtain the spirit of a true Capuchin brother.”
He himself prayed and worked untiringly for this goal. This meant: to learn to embrace the Holy Rule with the vows of poverty, chastity and obedience; to make diligent progress in Christian doctrine and in contemplative prayer; to root out weaknesses and faults and to cultivate virtues, and in particular to obey without any interior resistance. There was manual labor in addition. Konrad worked as an assistant to the gardener. Much of his new way of life came easy to him. It was harder to always deny his own will, even to the point of abandoning well-cultivated good habits, if the Novice-Master demanded it. Often it cost him a struggle, which brought humiliations and penances with it.
At the end of the year of probation, Konrad wrote down together his experiences and reflections. He set up a plan of life for himself with eleven headings:
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I will really accustom myself to live always in the presence of God and ask myself often, would I do this or that if my confessor or superior saw me? How much more so in the presence of God and my guardian angel.
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I will often ask myself when crosses and sorrows come: Konrad, why are you here?
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I will avoid leaving the cloister as much as I can, except when charity towards neighbor demands it, or on account of obedience or health, or on pilgrimage or some good purpose.
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I will truly strive to preserve fraternal charity in myself and others. I will thus watch over myself, that I may utter no word that would be contrary to charity. Their faults, failings and weaknesses I will patiently endure; and I will, as far as is possible, cover them with the mantle of charity, when it is not otherwise a duty to disclose them to my superior, in order to put an end to them.
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I will observe silence exactly and perpetually as far as is possible. I well be very sparse in speech, and this in order to avoid many faults and that I may be able to converse with God so much the better.
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At meals I will always, as much as possible, remain in the presence of God, always keep myself in check and deny myself those foods which I desire the most; rather I will take that especially which I like the least in order to practice mortification. And I will always avoid eating anything outside meal times.
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I will always go promptly to choir, as soon as I hear the bell, when I am not otherwise hindered.
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I will avoid the opposite sex as much as possible, unless obedience imposes a duty in which I must deal with women. I will be rather serious and keep custody of my eyes.
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I will always fulfill obediences exactly and promptly and especially I will make every possible effort to seek to deny my own will in all things.
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I will truly strive both to observe minor points of the Rule as well as to overcome as much as possible every deliberate imperfection. I will never deviate from the Holy Rule even so much as an inch, come what may!
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I will always strive to have a truly intense devotion to the Blessed Virgin Mary, and will truly strive to imitate her virtues.
These resolutions, composed with deliberation and full trust in the assistance of Jesus and Mary, contained nothing too ponderous to fulfill. No heroism was promised. With caution, in view of human weakness and external circumstances, sensible limits were established – such as with the words: “I will make every possible effort…”; “…as much as I can.” Good intentions! Is not the road to Hell paved with them? Resolutions must be firm. Let us see what Konrad really accomplished and what virtues he developed – as much as he could!
The 4th of October, 1852, the Feast of St. Francis, was Konrad’s Profession Day. He knelt on the step of the altar, placed his hands in those of his superior and spoke the solemn oath of his irrevocable dedication to God: “I vow and promise Almighty God, the Most Blessed Virgin Mary, St. Francis, all the Saints and you, Father, for the rest of my life to observe the Rule of the Friars Minor, living in obedience, without possessions, and in chastity.” The Novitiate was completed.
The New Occupation
A few days later, the Father Guardian from Laufen spoke after the morning Mass, “Konrad, God calls you! You are to go at once to Altötting to the Cloister of St. Anne. There you will take over the office of Porter.” Konrad knelt down, begged a blessing for the journey and set off across the countryside through Shusters Rappen. When he arrived at the pilgrimage town, he was assailed by a great fear. He had hoped to be permitted to live in silent solitude behind cloister walls. So many people, of different rank and station, of different character and intention, asked here for information and help. Would he not from one fault, slip and fall into many others? In his distress, Konrad went first to the church and begged Christ for His grace. Then he rang the bell and thus announced the commencement of his service.
The beginning was hard. The office of Porter at Altötting proved to be the most difficult and troublesome in all Bavaria. And so it was the greatest responsibility that an Order could give to a Brother. That a man with only one year’s membership in the Order was chosen for the office, was taken by some of the older Brothers as a personal insult. Envy worked through their hearts. As soon as Konrad arrived, they were really nasty towards him. They weren’t going to tolerate him in the cloister. For several days they would not even give him a cell. Truly he had become the least and poorest of all. At first they considered his piety and eagerness to serve as acts of hypocrisy. Their malevolent speech reached the ears of the Father Guardian. He tested him before everyone, when he said sharply, “Brother Konrad is about to find out that he is just a charity-case for us.” These words must have been a slap in the face to a man of honor, who had left a beautiful farm to serve God alone. But, contrary to expectations, Konrad did not stomp out. He accepted the humiliation with a bow of the head. He didn’t even bat an eye. A more cheerful glimmer shone on his countenance. This noble self-control convinced his superiors and reconciled him with his brethren. He had left on all a lasting good impression.
A great deal of work was packed into the course of a day for the Porter, which for him consisted of twelve to sixteen working hours. Konrad received the mail and carried it to Father Guardian. He administered the donations for the House and recorded the Mass stipends with the requested intention.
Merchants brought to him their wares and bills. Pilgrims left with him their religious items – such as candles, Rosaries and Happy Death Crucifixes – to be blessed, and beseeched him to fetch a priest for confession. Visitors would ask him to bring one of the Capuchins – a relative or friend – to the parlor to speak with them. He would offer hospitality to benefactors and clerics.
The poor of the village, children and vagrants who came begging were given bread and soup or beer. And all these tasks Konrad performed without resentment or complaint, without agitation or anger. He worked ever with an unalterable patience, with a joyful countenance, with a friendly tone of voice. There were days when the bell summoned the porter to the cloister door two hundred times! And how Konrad obeyed it! When it rang, he would break off from praying or speaking, or even set the mouthful of food back on to his plate, just as he was bringing it to his mouth. Yes, it was the same when he had to go and fetch one of the Fathers – he would hasten instantly back to the porter’s station, even two or three times, as often as the bell was rung. The sound of the bell was for him the voice of God.
It was astonishing, with what love Konrad cared for the poor. To the Brothers who baked the bread, he often made the request, “I beseech you, put something together wherewith the poor can really have something good.” As soon as the cloister family had finished a meal, Konrad would go to the kitchen and take whatever he could find that was still edible to the porter’s station, to give to the hungry. If someone would reproach him on this account, he would answer with an intimate and full trust in God, “What a man gives to the poor is all returned to him.” Sometimes the cook had nothing more to give, or he kept back some available sausage, fearing that some of the Brothers would not have enough at the next meal. When this happened, Konrad would say, “Then I’ll eat nothing,” take his portion and give it away. No one knows how many baskets of bread, pitchers of beer and bowls of soup Konrad carried away and distributed in the course of his religious life. But the people gave him forever the characteristic name – Father of the Poor.
All the poor children of Altötting knew Brother Konrad very well. Day after day they would run to the monastery portal, and impetuously ring the bell. As soon as they saw Brother Konrad standing in the cloister entrance, they would hush their chatter, fold their hands and pray with him the Hail Mary devoutly. He became stern if any of them rushed through it. He would warn them with the saying, “Above all else, we Capuchins must pray!” After the prayer the little ones would call out cheerfully, “Please, Brother Konrad!” Then he would give each child a loaf of bread. One or the other would receive some good counsel along with it. Then they would run off with a happy, “God bless you!” Everyone in the pilgrimage town acknowledged him to be the Children’s Friend. And the little boys and girls continued to love him long after their childhood years.
Immersed in God
As porter, Konrad demonstrated a heroic devotion and loyalty. At all times and until his last days, he was at the service of everyone who claimed his attention, with a constantly steady willingness and love. This virtue sprang from his religious spirit, from his intense union with God.
Where did his heart dwell? Nearby the porter station, under a stairway, is the tiny, dark Alexius Cell, barely large enough for a kneeler. A narrow crack in the wall afforded a view of the tabernacle in the monastery chapel. In this stairway cell, Konrad knelt before his Beloved and adored the Son of God, hidden and ignored in the Blessed Sacrament. There one would find him in the free minutes between the business of the day. There he would make his first holy hour, every day at 3:30 in the morning. And when everyone else had gone to their evening’s rest, he would speak yet longer with God by the dim light of a candle. Nevertheless he would go punctually at midnight to the communal chanting of Matins in Choir, the daily morning offering of the Capuchins.
The same love he had toward the Blessed Sacrament, we find in Konrad also toward our Crucified Redeemer. Out of his deep devotion to the Passion and Death of Christ, Brother Konrad drew strength and salvation. Compelled by this love for the Cross, he daily made at midday the holy Way of the Cross. In his cell hung a crucifix with a painful countenance. Before this image he was accustomed, especially in the evening, to contemplate and meditate in silence. He often took it down from the wall and held it in his hands, whispering fervent prayers to his beloved Savior, and perceiving what He would answer. In a letter to his sister, Resl, Konrad wrote, “The Cross is my book. One glance at the Cross teaches me how I ought to act in every circumstance. There I learn patience and humility and meekness and to carry every cross; yes, to me the cross is sweet and light.”
The disciple of Christ and friend of the Cross at the cloister door in Altötting was also a Marian Knight – a tender devotee of the Blessed Virgin Mary. How often and with what recollection he recited daily the beautiful Ave Maria! The Little Rosary of the Immaculate Conception was always hanging from the middle finger of his left hand. As a rule he prayed daily the Little Office of the Blessed Virgin Mary. What a grace-filled experience it was for him to daily serve Mass at 4:30 a.m. in the Chapel of Grace (Gnadenkapelle). And at midday he would go regularly to the Gnadenkapelle, kneel motionless and pray before the miraculous image (Gnadenbild) of Our Lady of Altötting in deep recollection of soul. What a beautiful scene before God and man! Many people saw Konrad’s prayers to the Mother of God like fiery spheres issuing out of his mouth.
A sense of piety and of continual worship of God shown forth on Konrad’s countenance. It indicated a constant, steady expression of cheerfulness; it gave continuous testimony of the peace and joy of his soul, which he found in God.
To His Dying Breath
Certainly, the course of years takes its toll on the body. The innumerable privations and overburdenings that he had demanded from his body had left scars. Furrows had burrowed across his face; his hair had turned white; he was tormented by aches and pains; his back was hunched over. Konrad was becoming weak. Everything he did was painful. He was always cold. His limbs grew stiff. His knees shook. 75 winters lay behind him.
On April 18, 1894, Brother Konrad tapped along, supported by a strong cane, on his way to the Gnadenkapelle. It was the last time he would ever serve Mass beneath the statue of Our Lady of Altötting. On returning to the monastery, he managed to drag himself around for a few more hours. But in the afternoon he had to tell his superior, “Father Guardian, it’s the end!” The doctor came and said to Konrad, “That’s just too hard a job for you at your age, down there in that cold hallway. You’re completely worn out.” Without a complaint the dying man endured his pain and weakness. On the third day, Saturday, April 21, he received Extreme Unction. In the evening the infirmarian gave him another spoonful of medicine and said, “Now I have to go and check on our sick Brother Benjamin.” Konrad replied, “Of course, you may go. I won’t be needing you any more.” At 7:00 p.m. the cloister family assembled together for Night Prayers. Someone knocked at the main door. Shortly thereafter the porter’s bell rang. Konrad thought the assistant porter had not been able to hear the metallic voice. In obedience to the bell, the dutiful old man lifted himself with his last ounce of strength. He took the candlestick with the burning candle in his trembling hand, staggered and tottered to the door of his cell and altogether collapsed. A novice coming that way and finding him, called immediately for help. Capuchins came hurrying to the spot. They carried the dying man to his cot. A Father recited the prayers for the dying. The Ave bell rang peacefully from the bell-tower of Altötting. Konrad smiled, looked heavenward with joyful eyes and departed this life. It was between 7:00 and 8:00 in the evening, the time when he had always prayed to Our Lady as the “Help and Consolation of the Dying”.
“Take thy rest now, thou tireless hero of charity, of fortitude and of faith! True, thou hast never crossed the Alps, nor sailed across the sea. Rather, thou wert for more than forty years a continuous watchman out of obedience; but with this obedience, thou didst elevate the lowest of offices to serve as a knight of Christ, and it was on this account the equal of the noblest of undertakings!” (Pope Pius XII)
The Dead Lives!
In the Imitation of Christ, we read: “He is truly great, who has great love.” He is great, who always fulfills his duties perfectly out of love for God. This was fully and completely valid in the case of the Capuchin Brother Konrad of Parzham. The Church therefore, on Pentecost Sunday, 1934, after due deliberation and much prayer, proclaimed and declared that he is a Saint.
“Brother Konrad’s tomb, truly a tomb of the living! It teaches and admonishes, consoles and heals, and leaves a life that had withered in full bloom again! This tomb is adorned with an altar full of glory; hymns of praise and thanksgiving are sung before it; all around it shine burning lights, and a jubilant festive joy fills the Christian people who find in Brother Konrad a new, powerful patron Saint – Konrad is the shining ornament of Bavaria and all the German people, as well as for the universal Church of Christ!” (Pope Pius XII)
Holiness consists in forming our day out of the love for Christ. Holiness is our life’s work, our contribution to society, the necessary step we take towards achieving eternal salvation. The saintly life is for us an example and a mirror, light and help.
Saint Konrad of Parzham, pray for us!
LENT 25 ~ MAKE READY
I believe that He wants us to acknowledge that part of our life that could use some housecleaning to make room for Him to fill our spirits completely. A Lenten sacrifice is an individual decision. Each of us knows what we need to do to make ready for His Resurrection. ~ Ellen Fassbender, Peaceful Heart, Open Mind
I think many of us would have had the acidic experience of having our unique Lenten observances put under pious scrutiny, only to be proclaimed un-Lenten – just because they do not fit within common interpretations. Ellen Fassbender is one of two bloggers I know who cleans out cupboards and hold-alls as part of a personal Lent practice – all in the name of paring away, pruning and making space for the Risen Christ. Her different and gentle take on Lent is something I wish I’d known earlier because it would have helped my younger kids to prepare better and more meaningfully for Lent.
But there’s still some long days left and I’m much grateful for Ellen’s wisdom.
LENT 26 ~ NOT AS YOU DO
Your fatigue and your distractions in adoration are no impediment to My action in the depths of your soul. I have assured you of this before. Come before Me and remain before Me even when you feel that your adoration is no more than a struggle and a failure to remain attentive in love and focused on My Eucharistic Face.
LENT 27 ~ THE TINIEST DART
I’ve been home on sick leave for the past two days. And a colleague decided to have some fun at my expense. Even if I were hale and hearty, her selfishness would have rankled; battling the flu, the tiniest dart was magnified.
And so began the back and forth that is my lot every time someone hurts me: the plotting of my response, followed by running to God. Then, the revisiting of that wound, another round of plotting, repentance, back to God. It’s the same wearying cycle every time that you’d think I would have tired of it at this age.
Not even the flu could keep me away from this negative cycle.
The only difference was perhaps that I ran very quickly to God every time I was tempted to a snarky rebuttal. I prayed and prayed for the grace to suffer this mere splinter of a Cross. What was the use of coming this far in the journey only to be felled by a yellow breath?
Yet the struggle wore on. I went to bed with it on my heart, even with all the prayers. When I awakened, feverish and aching in the purple-wreathed dawn, my hurt was before me. I was chagrined. Why did I not seem to be improving? Why wasn’t I becoming a stronger person when others hurt me? Why was I so sensitive to the callousness of those around me? It seemed that the more I learned of God, the weaker and more feeble I was becoming.
Why are You allowing this? I asked God.
Your sufferings will be made of weakness and weariness and dependence on others. ~ Anonymous, In Sinu Jesu
Even in my feverish state, the words pierced through. Not any other type of suffering, but the one that hurt me most – made of weakness, weariness and dependence on others. Oversensitivity to a curt remark, a stony look, a snide giggle. No need for an actual sword to bring me to my knees. All it took was the tiniest dart and I would fall.
Why?
Your sufferings will be made of weakness and weariness and dependence on others.
Because it is willed. Because sometimes, the greatest of my Crosses will be concealed within in the tiniest dart.
LENT 28 ~ THEY FORGOT
They forgot the God who had saved them
they did not believe the promise.
they did not heed the voice of the Lord ~ Psalm 106: 21
LENT 29 ~ WHEN YOU LEAVE
You will no sooner have resolved to give yourself to God than Hell will send out its forces against you. The devil himself, the arch-deceiver, will renew his warfare and turn all his forces against you. Enraged at your desertion from his party, he will leave nothing undone to ruin you. . . . ~ Venerable Louis of Granada, The Sinner’s Guide
In much of my life, one thing that stands out is the reaction of people when I dared to leave their party. Breaking away from my NPD mother. Leaving the friendship of the narcissist university mate I mistook as a friend. Choosing Christian work principles over flamboyance of worldliness. Going against the Napoleonic mindset of our parish ‘elite’. Or even taking the side of Pope Francis(!) – finding light and strength in his words that seem to set other teeth on edge.
In each of these situations and more, when I dare to break ranks, sometimes, just questioning because something seems off to me, – it gets people foaming. Their anger used to frighten me. I used to backpedal when this happened, damp down my doubts and allow people to tell me that I was wrong – if it would just help calm things down.
But not any longer.
This reaction when I choose to go against the flow because I sense the Will of God does not lie here, this reaction of not mere anger but absurd anger, is a red flag to me. It tells me something is not right. Something is not of the true Christian spirit here.
Something else is in control.
Enraged at your desertion from his party, he will leave nothing undone to ruin you.
I am tired as I read these words for I have felt and continue to suffer from their very flames. Not every one of my sufferings is because of satan’s fury. Not every time I’ve chosen my own path and suffered for it, it has been because I was obedient to God’s Will.
But I have come to know this different edge of the knife when I choose the Cross of Christ over the deceiver’s will. The rage and hatred is different. It cuts differently. It makes you bleed differently too.
I have every reason to fear it.
But since last Thursday, an old prayer has found its way into my spirit. Christ’s last words on the Cross which He Himself gave me on the Feast of the Exaltation of the Cross some years ago.
Into Your hands I commend my spirit.
Every time I sense something in the air, stirrings of unease, or even in bouts of praise and thanksgiving, in moments of deep peaceful stillness, my spirit naturally falls into this ancient prayer.
Into Your hands I commend my spirit.
Everywhere I turn, this prayer lies in wait to catch my heart.
Not once do I turn away to seek a different prayer. Not once.
LENT 30 ~ VERY FEW
Why should I not hold conversation with you who are the friend of My Heart? I speak in this way to many souls but not all recognize My voice, and very few welcome My conversation and receive My friendship as the freely given gift it is. ~ Anonymous Benedictine Monk, In Sinu Jesu
This is for all the times I’ve doubted that I had heard His voice.
For all the times I’ve let my life’s noise drown out His voice.
For all the times I allowed others to assume His voice and to take control of my life.
LENT 31 ~ ENTREATY TO ST. JOSEPH
O glorious St. Joseph, to you God committed the care of His only begotten Son amid the many dangers of this world. We come to you and ask you to take under your special protection the children God has given us. Through holy baptism they became children of God and members of His holy Church. We consecrate them to you today, that through this consecration they may become your foster children. Guard them, guide their steps in life, and form their hearts after the hearts of Jesus and Mary.
St. Joseph, who felt the tribulation and worry of a parent when the child Jesus was lost, protect our dear children for time and eternity. May you be their father and counselor. Let them, like Jesus, grow in age as well as in wisdom and grace before God and men. Preserve them from the corruption of his world, and give us the grace one day to be united with them in Heaven forever.
Amen.
LENT 32 ~ NOT A SINGLE COPPER COIN
So, then, whoever seeks to be received into the discipline of the cenobium is never admitted until, by lying outside for ten days or more, he has given an indication of his perseverance and desire, as well as of his humility and patience. And when he has embraced the knees of all the brothers passing by and has been purposely rebuked and disdained by everyone, as if he wished to enter the monastery not out of devotion but out of necessity, and has been visited with numerous insults and reproaches and has given proof of his constancy, and by putting up with taunts has shown what he will be like in time of trial, and when the ardor of his intention has been proven and he has thus been received, he is asked with the utmost earnestness if, from his former possessions, the contamination of even a single copper coin clings to him. ~ St. John Cassian
Had that question been posed to me, I would have been in the uncomfortable position of having to admit that the contamination of more than a single copper coin clings to me. As long as this world continues to have a hold over me, the chink and clang of copper coins will give me away, and deny me entry into the Heart of God.
Ever so often, I trundle from the other end of the spectrum, and go to where I think I’m not so bad after all, taking up position, not quite Pharisee, not quite Publican, but somewhere in between. It is for such times that this warning has come to me today – if the contamination of even a single copper coin clings to me – for when I dare to delude myself that God will not mind a stray copper coin or two in my heart.
The contamination of even a single copper coin.
I think of the ancient prayer, Into Your hands I commend my spirit, Christ’s last words on the Cross. I think of the way the prayer blew into my heart last week, with the sultry evening breezes from the chambers of the orange~purple sunset skies. I think of the way this old prayer of life has returned to me in these last days of Lent – this ‘bridging prayer’ – marking the ending of one life, leading to the beginning of the next.
I wonder why it has returned; somehow, it is time to ask that question.
The moment I do, a memory returns.
The memory of Tearing Winds on the Feast of Our Lady of Lourdes last year. Of a strange, frightening, intense internal storm hidden from everyone else. A powerful, almost debilitating rage of winds inside my soul, with no discernible source. The hours of struggle. Struggle to hold on. Struggle to pray. Every prayer being snatched away by violent hurricanes. Struggling to make sense of what this was, clawing my way out of its vortex.
And each time, falling back.
Until I screamed for Mother of Lourdes. She sent me a prayer like a lightning bolt.
Into Your hands I commend my spirit.
I lunged for it like the lifeline it was. And then, the storms died.
Much, much later, prompted by the Spirit, I returned to the memory. I was made to understand that the tearing winds were from the future.
And they were coming for our spirits.
Into Your hands I commend my spirit is the Prayer of Spirit Safekeeping. In the last breaths of Lent, the Prayer of Spirit Safekeeping has returned strongly to me. To be said at every moment of recollection. When I am disturbed. When I am at peace. When I am filled with joy.
I run the eyes of my heart over these past few days. I want to make sure I am missing nothing.
The Prayer of Spirit Safekeeping had returned first. That was followed by the warning of the copper coin, that I hold back nothing for myself.
I remain still before the discernment.
The pearl slides into its oyster.
The house must be swept clean and returned to its Master.
LENT 33 ~ BUILD AN ORATORY
Build an oratory within yourself, and there have Jesus on the altar of your heart. Speak to Him often while you are doing your work. Speak to Him of His holy love, of His holy sufferings and of the sorrows of most holy Mary. ~ St Paul of the Cross, writing a reply on Jan 9, 1760 to a busy married woman who felt that she couldn’t seem to find enough time to pray.
So this is where the journey of close to two decades, likely more, has led to.
Begging God for death
Pre-dawn vision of Jesus
Wipe My Blood
St. Philip Neri
Rosary
Grief
Padre Pio
Abuse
The Invisible Scar
St. John of the Cross
Seek Counsel
Blow the Breath of My Mother into the realms
St. Francis of Assisi
Quieten Down, Listen Up
St. Germaine Cousin
Holy Eucharist
A Coming Flood
Prepare
Mercy
Confession
Rosary of Atonement
The Miraculous Image
In Sinu Jesu
Adoration
Into Your Hands I commend my spirit
This odd inner excitement from last week. Just like in the old, old days of childhood. An excitement that is vaguely familiar. I press and probe, What excitement is this? What joy is this?
The little pod un~buds itself.
It is the excitement of waking up in a new home.
Not the going to a new home. But having arrived, the excitement of waking up in it.
What new home is this?
An oratory within myself.
LENT 34 ~ AMARE NESCIRI
Amare Nesciri. Love to be unknown. ~ St. Philip Neri
I am close to tears. So, this is the death I sensed was coming – death of my work being known. Death of recognition of my workplace efforts. It is a death that will be very hard to take because not only have I wanted people to see Jesus through my work, I am also nourished by what I do.
My work gives me life. My work is my life.
And today, my Jesus tells me He will answer the first prayer – to be seen through my work – but on one condition – if like a grain of wheat, I fall to the earth and die first – by accepting the gentle invitation of amare nesciri. Not just to be unknown.
But to love to be unknown.
I want to weep and weep. Now I see just how much of my longing was actually centred on myself. Abuse has been so much a part of my life. Daughter of an NPD mother, I learned to accept shaming and belittling and mockery of almost everything I did. I also learned to accept theft of my efforts when my mother stole the few successes I had.
When I grew up and left home, abuse followed me to my workplace just because I am of the minority race – and the only Christian- in this community where I work and live. People mistrusted me simply because I was a Christian, their enemy.
But soon all that changed.
My work efforts became the moat around me that kept the marauders at bay. No matter how much they hated the faith I professed, grudging respect of my work and my work ethics made them hesitate to wound me – although for some, even that didn’t stop them.
More importantly, through my work too, I rebuilt the inner confidence that my mother has always taken pains to shred and tear apart over and over. My work helped me find out who I really was. It helped me to see I was not who my NPD mother had indoctrinated me to believe.
But now, Jesus was asking me to let go of my work. Not to stop working, but to no longer depend on it in order to live. To cut the vines that clung to my heart.
To remove the contamination of my remaining copper coins.
Amare nesciri. I will continue to work. The effect of my efforts will be there but my workmates and superiors will no longer see me. I will recede into the background; I will no longer matter.
For amare nesciri is the falling of the grain of wheat to earth – in order to die – that Life may come through.
In that way, people will finally see Jesus.
LENT 35 ~ OBEY
As the wax which we place near the fire assumes any form we wish to give it, so the loving soul ought to obey as soon as her Beloved has spoken. ~ St. Paul of the Cross
This entire week, the word ‘obey’ has been before me. I spoke to my children about it, taught them its meaning, admonished where necessary. I met a friend at church. She was struggling with her marriage, planning to carve out a ‘new life’ for herself through social work that would give her the separation she needed from her husband. As I listened to her, I felt her pain. But I wondered too, What if, in trying to reclaim her life, she is moving away from the Will of God?
Obey.
I had a brief encounter with a troubled boy who had no need of God in his life. With my sister-in-law who chose to live life on erring terms.
I was more than troubled by the various disobedience. I was angry. I certainly had a lot to say about it.
Yet, today, as the rose awakened the slumbering sable veils, St. Paul of the Cross came to tell me, the loving soul ought to obey as soon as her Beloved has spoken. I had been so preoccupied with the disobedience of other people that I forgot to examine my own conscience and check my own disobedience. I have a great decision before me – amare nesciri – to love to be unknown – and I have yet to make a firm commitment to it. It is my obedience to the Will of God that I need to focus on – first and foremost. When I see people around me rebelling, if the Spirit presses me to an action, then to it I must go.
But that does not exempt me from placing my own obedience beneath His gaze, so that I too may not be found wanting.
I turn the eyes of my spirit towards amare nesciri. Those are the words that will seal my hermitage. Even if I am not discernibly moved, I know that the moment I say the words, there will be no turning back.
I feel no resistance within me and yet, I stop at the gates, unable to go on.
And then, going past myself, I say the words that don’t want to come forth.
Thy Will be done.
LENT 36 ~ I LOVE TOO LITTLE
I love Thee, O my Redeemer, but I love Thee too little; for Thy mercy’s sake, increase in my soul Thy love. ~ St. Alphonsus Maria de Liguori
LENT 37 ~ PREPARE
Yesterday was the lull, and today was the storm of sorts. Not violent, not tearing. But annoying. Draining. I couldn’t focus from morning. My Adoration today must have been my worst ever. But recalling Jesus’ words in In Sinu Jesu, This is really all I ask of souls – that you come to Me. And I will do the rest, I didn’t bother to beat myself up.
Nonetheless, the wind sure had its claws out for me today. Try as I did, I couldn’t seem to settle into lines of peace. Still, it did feel as if someone was standing guard over my spirit, keeping the gusts from vexing me further.
When I came home, trying to get some office work done, I went into another whorl of annoyance. Again, it was a brief battle – and no credit will I take for it; once more, I sensed someone within me holding the door closed against trespassing spirits.
Then, I read these words, Prepare properly for Holy Week.
Immediately, I guessed the dark abode of the clawing winds that had sought to assault me all day. In that instant, I felt the unseen vice release its hold over me. I didn’t need to worry about all that hadn’t quite worked out that day. I didn’t need to fret about whys and how-comes.
Because the winds had come to trouble, the emissaries doing the bidding of the dark, to take my eyes off the Light in the distance.
Prepare properly for Holy Week
The winds leave.
LENT 38 ~ THEY HAVE RETURNED
This had been a week of some physical suffering. I had attempted to be brave about it, and on the first day, it did seem that I would be able to weather it. Then, I was shown the words, Prepare for Holy Week, and so I offered up my pain and worries as my part in my Lord’s passion. The moment I did, everything changed. The suffering intensified overnight. I began to wobble.
Yesterday found me telling God, I’m so sorry. I can’t do it. I want to but I can’t.
This time, my mind took over, trying to cajole me into not relinquishing my suffering, but my will had been weakened beyond words. I could not find it in me to join my sufferings with Jesus’.
I knocked on every door of every saint who had come to mean something to me. I prayed to Mother Mary. Through it all, heaven stayed silent. I didn’t sense that I had been abandoned, but it felt as if everyone I invoked had retreated behind closed doors, except for St. Therese the Little Flower – I sensed a ‘movement’ when I called her name.
Then, I remembered two I had missed out.
I hastened to St. Anne. This time, I felt the door yield to my pleading. Just.
Following this, the name of another saint appeared before me. St. Gianna Beretta Molla. I knew she had been a doctor, and I desperately needed the comfort of one at that moment. I prayed and prayed that she speak to me.
St. Gianna did. She corrected the medication I was on.
That night, before I slept, I tried to do some spiritual reading to take my mind off things. But exhausted from work, my suffering and two days of almost no sleep, the words swam before my eyes. I struggled to focus, my eyelids were coming down.
Then three lights emerged from that mist:
St. Therese the Little Flower
Place your sufferings into the Wounds of Christ
Redemptive Suffering
I was so exhausted that although my heart acknowledged all three, it was the last – Redemptive Suffering – that stayed with me. I went to bed that night, with a prayer on my heart to St. Gianna and St. Anne that they help me to suffer my pain for Jesus, in honour of His Passion, so that my suffering might be of use to someone.
What had slipped my mind was that St. Anne and St. Gianna were also the patron saints of mothers.
I slept well but was awakened close to six in the morning by a dream.
I was outside a building. I had the feeling that there was water nearby, that it was a waterfront building. There were cars. I saw one, a humble, old car, a muslim father and kids inside. The kids were slightly impatient. I heard the father calmly tell the children to be patient a while longer. I sensed he and others were waiting for something or someone. Then, I interiorly knew that the mother, a muslim too, had gone inside that waterfront building
Then, I too was inside that same building. A priest was just ending the celebration of Mass. For some reason, I went right up to the altar, but to the right of it. Behind the altar, doors opened out to a huge, huge, flowing river. A golden river. The waters seemed to be even higher than the building I was in.
Suddenly, the moment the Mass ended, a great mist rose from the golden river and began to swirl around. There was something so deeply, inexplicably beautiful in that mist that the congregation collectively gasped at its beauty.
But I didn’t have time to immerse myself in it – for being closest to the river, I saw something the others had not seen yet.
That it was not mist.
It was children! Little children! Hundreds of them!
These children were alighting from a sort of river bus. Each one had a photo. I knew immediately that the little ones had come from heaven. And that they were going to be ‘matched’ to the person in the photo that each clutched.
In such a crowd of busy, silent children, it should have been impossible, but I immediately saw the one I sought. I rushed towards him and hugged him tightly as I sobbed and sobbed. All around me, the rest of the congregation at Mass, all of them parents too, cried out and surged forwards, towards their children in tearful joy.
But the little boy in my arms didn’t hug me back as I expected. He didn’t pull away either. He was contented to remain in my tight embrace. But there was something in the way he looked up at me. In the way he searched my face.
It was as if he knew me, yet was learning about me for the first time.
Looking down, I saw that this beautiful boy dressed in the smart wedding finery of a ring-bearer’s white silk shirt and clean, pressed black pants, had his arm tight to his chest; like all the other children, he too was holding a photograph.
As I was about to take the photo to see who it was of, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a smaller child. A girl, standing a little away by the side of the altar.
At that moment, two things registered.
The altar had been stripped of its white cloth. The altar was now bare, clean unadorned wood.
And the little one was standing by it, holding her photo and gazing at it with deep, deep love. A love so rarely seen in one as young as she was.
Suddenly, there was no one else there at that moment. The room was still and silent. All the other children had been claimed by their parents. They had left. The building had fallen into a watching silence. All that remained was me and these two children.
Stunned at seeing the little girl, I asked the little boy, Who is that?
Hearing me, the little girl finally turned to face me. She had my daughter’s eyes. She had another daughter’s soft hair. Little though she was, she had her hair tied up in a low, little bun, soft waves framing the sweetest, purest face.
She looked straight into my eyes.
She was wearing her hair just as I always did – as none of my other daughters did.
In that moment, I knew her.
She was my daughter!
My wee one whom I had miscarried at eight weeks of pregnancy. The love of our lives whom my husband and I had grieved for, far away from human eyes. The precious one no one had known, no one even remembered now, save my husband and I.
She had now come home!!
And then, I suddenly realised who the little boy was.
He was my eldest child!
The long awaited baby I had miscarried after long years of barenness. I hadn’t known back then if it had been a boy or a girl. Today, finally, I knew.
Many years ago, Jesus promised me that my children would be returned. At that time, I struggled to understand. Even as I continued to be blessed with children, even as I found exquisite joy in each one, my spirit knew they were not the ones who had gone. Many times, I asked God if to long for them was to be ungrateful for the beautiful children we had been blessed with.
I wondered if it was even right to wait for them.
Today, on the day the altar is stripped bare in the grief of the Ultimate Sacrifice, God told me I had not been wrong to wait. That I had not been wrong to love to the depths that I had the babies who had died in my womb. That if there was anyone who was wrong, it was those who denied us our grief.
And those who rejoiced in our loss.
Today, God fulfilled His promise to me and to all other waiting parents on this 30th day of the month of flowers.
God returned my children. Just as He had promised.
LENT 39 ~ WILL YOU RISE
LENT 40 ~ VICTORY
Short weeks before the Passion Week, St. James came before me. I had learned some years before, that whenever he comes, it will mean, Prepare for Battle.
I didn’t get into a panic this time, but I went into alert mode.
There were indeed many spiritual skirmishes, but I came through with few bruises. And I thought that was that. Even when the Passion Week loomed and the warning, Prepare, sounded again, I didn’t see the shadow take form before me.
When it did hit – in the form of physical suffering that brought on fear and worry and distraction, I slipped and struggled to regain my footing. Of all the battles I had imagined, this one caught me off guard. From Holy Thursday right up to Good Friday, I struggled to hold on to my faith. I struggled to console my Crucified Lord.
Easter Vigil morn brought some relief. Gulping in air, I hoped the worst was behind me. Yet, I held on tightly to the 2 saints who had kept vigil with me in my struggle – St. Anne and St. Gianna Molla. Something told me it was far from over.
I was right. Travelling to Easter Vigil Mass, I was dragged down once more. Fighting fear and weakening of faith, I suddenly remembered the light that came to me on Good Friday.
Place your sufferings into the Wounds of Christ
I lunged for it. Over and over and over again, every time the pain and discomfort took hold of me, I sank my sufferings into Christ’s Wounds. I didn’t try to pretend faith. I told St. Anne and St. Gianna that I was slipping. I begged them to not let go of me.
Towards night, before Mass, I finally emerged from that battle.
I offered thanksgiving to heaven.
And wondered why I wasn’t flooded with more relief.
That was answered soon enough. The moment I stepped into church, as it began to fill up, I was hit again.
The hammer that struck this time was different. In some ways, it was far worse than what I had endured the whole week. Every time I tried to immerse myself into the prayers, I was hit from every single direction.
I was hit so that I would not pray.
I tried to fight back but even I could tell my attempts were weak. My blows were soft against the unyielding iron of evil.
Suddenly, before me, misted these words again,
Place your sufferings into the Wounds of Christ
I fled to the Wounds of Christ. Every time negative thoughts about people entered my mind, I fought back by placing the persons into the Wounds of Christ. I sensed a new courage flood me. My enemy had unmasked himself but I was no longer cowering in fear behind stones. Everything he threw at me, I did not deflect, but I reached out and grabbed and plunged into the Wounds of Christ. Over and over and over. Bring it on, I challenged as I have never before done.
Every attack now meant more souls for Christ.
The moment I received Holy Communion, I knew it was truly over.
The Wounds of Christ had won.
writingonmyheart 