Tavard, George. The Inner Life, Foundations of Christian Mysticism.
Paulist Press, 1976. pp. 93, 94
"All along the spiritual life, God may be known also in these two ways,
as light, presence, ground of our being, fulfillment, spouse; or as night,
darkness, absence, cloud, abyss of all being, the inaccessible, the
all-other. Some spiritual tempers are better attuned to perceive the
immanence, others the transcendence, of God. The way of immanence usually
leads to an illuminated knowledge and awareness of God, the way of
transcendence to an obscure awareness of him in the night. But the two may
also alternate in everyday experience. And the obscure knowledge of God as
absent may well be better than the joyful knowledge of him as present, for
it is less liable to illusion and misinterpretation."
Welcome
Jesus
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Changing People
Changing People
Louise and I left home about ten o:clock in the morning of that cold, gray day to visit Jay and Gertrude in Minneapolis. Jay had been our pastor for about six years during the sixties when war and social issues bitterly divided our country and our congregation.
This was a time when the ugliness of the war in Vietnam became visible to the American people as battle scenes entered their living rooms through television.They witnessed napalm burning the flesh of children, a general explaining that they had to destroy a town to save it. Our own young men, obeying the orders of their lieutenant, massacred an entire village at My Lai. College students were demonstrating in the streets as political leaders bowed to the urgings of the military, sending more and more troops into battle.
It was a time too when people we knew as Negroes began to assert their right to live in dignity, enduring beatings and cigarette burns as they sat at a Woolworth lunch counter, cringing from attack dogs and water hoses used by the lawful authorities to intimidate them. Angry mobs threatened little black children as they walked to school escorted by armed soldiers of the National Guard.
Jay knew right from wrong on these issues and determined that his ministry called him to tell the truth. Every Sunday he preached. He told his people how wrong, how evil their attitudes were. And every week they became more angry, some even rising to leave the sanctuary while he continued preaching. On one occasion he traveled to the hospital to call on a seriously ill parishioner who angrily ordered him out of the room as nurses worried over his dangerously rising blood pressure. Jay was a short, pudgy Swede whose light complexion accentuated his baldness. And his defining characteristic was his stubbornness. Our membership declined as more and more people left to hear a more comfortable message, one that confirmed them in their own strongly held political and social views.
Another phenomenem of that time was an interest in popular psychology. Books like "I'm OK, You're OK", "Born to Win", and "Games People Play" proliferated. We found that it was helpful to recognize little tapes in our heads, tapes programed earlier in life and triggered by moment to moment experiences so they played messages from our critical or nurturing parent, our child or adult mode. A basic teaching tool was the T Group. Ten or fifteen persons would gather without any directions about what they were supposed to be doing, or to whom they might look within the group for leadership. There they would struggle to find the purpose of their meeting, how to spend the time, arguing with each other, competing for a leadership role, attacking one another. This unstructured environment was designed to accomplish change as reading a book could never achieve.
This became Jay's passion and he left the church for days at a time to attend and eventually lead seminars. He used members of the church as his guinea pigs and we benefited from the learning he had acquired. But to the majority of our members this was an additional reason for his dismissal as our local church pastor. So Jay secured an appointment as an associate in a large church in Minneapolis where his personality and his intense interest in psychology again caused problems. Losing his position there he worked as a counselor in a hospital, then formed his own successful company.
Louise and I drove warily on icy roads to Minneapolis, viewing with apprehension the many trucks that had skidded off the highway the previous night. When we arrived I planned to accompany Jay to the camp he had rented from the church and then participate in the programmed activities. Louise would stay and visit with Gertrude.
The retreat began with supper Friday evening. There were about forty in attendance, mostly young professionals in their late thirties and early forties. We gathered in small groups after supper to play the psychological exercises assigned to us. But then a note of alarm swept through the room as we learned that a young man in one of the groups had stood up abruptly, cried and escaped out into the night. Concerned that he might injure himself we searched in the parking lots and surrounding fields but could not find him. We learned later that he had called from a nearby telephone, would not return but was apparently safe.
The next morning I chose to participate with a T group. There were ten of us. I was an outsider, as the others had obviously been together previously. As was the rule, we had no agenda, no agreed purpose. We met in a lodge, sitting on the floor, struggling with what we were going to do together.
Then it began. I witnessed the strangest transformation I have ever seen.
One of the participants, a man, with great poise and self confidence, a leader in the group, began to eye Irene suspiciously. Then he attacked her verbally, accusing her of having something wrong with her. And I could see what he had noticed. Irene was somewhat remarkable, seeming to talk off the top of her head in a whining voice. She was no more than forty years of age, visibly Italian with black hair, swarthy complexion, an attractive full figure. Then other members of the group joined in the attack questioning why she talked the way she did. Irene resisted, insisting she didn't know what they were talking about. But finally she broke down and began crying, sobbing. And then a different person emerged. As she sobbed we saw a warm, emotional person speaking from her heart with a rich, relaxed voice. She told us about how she had been raised, and as she talked a picture of her family life appeared: a home where the aroma of rich brown meat sauce bubbling on the stove filled the kitchen, where a tenor voice singing opera could be heard in every room, where her family quarreled loudly, reconciled generously, with nothing held back, trusting in the deep love they had for each other.
But then Irene fell in love and married a very reserved. blonde Scandinavian probate lawyer, who at this very time was outside the lodge cross country skiing, and who had absented himself all weekend from any contact with these strange people who voluntarily exposed themselves to each other, probed deeply into their unconscious selves to explore who they were and why they felt and acted the way that they did. Irene explained that from the first in their marriage she had been obliged to restrain her natural self, how their first quarrels had so threatened her husband that she feared for the continuance of their marriage.
So she had performed her own lobotomy, denying the person she was in order to be a wife to her husband. She no longer was God's creation, warm, passionate, loving, but had become a stick figure, withdrawn, cautious, careful not to offend.
And as I witnessed this strange occurrence I vowed that I would never again criticize my wife, never try to change her from the person she was, that I would accept her as she was and love her as she was, because that is who she was intended to be.If only I could have kept that noble resolution.
Louise and I left home about ten o:clock in the morning of that cold, gray day to visit Jay and Gertrude in Minneapolis. Jay had been our pastor for about six years during the sixties when war and social issues bitterly divided our country and our congregation.
This was a time when the ugliness of the war in Vietnam became visible to the American people as battle scenes entered their living rooms through television.They witnessed napalm burning the flesh of children, a general explaining that they had to destroy a town to save it. Our own young men, obeying the orders of their lieutenant, massacred an entire village at My Lai. College students were demonstrating in the streets as political leaders bowed to the urgings of the military, sending more and more troops into battle.
It was a time too when people we knew as Negroes began to assert their right to live in dignity, enduring beatings and cigarette burns as they sat at a Woolworth lunch counter, cringing from attack dogs and water hoses used by the lawful authorities to intimidate them. Angry mobs threatened little black children as they walked to school escorted by armed soldiers of the National Guard.
Jay knew right from wrong on these issues and determined that his ministry called him to tell the truth. Every Sunday he preached. He told his people how wrong, how evil their attitudes were. And every week they became more angry, some even rising to leave the sanctuary while he continued preaching. On one occasion he traveled to the hospital to call on a seriously ill parishioner who angrily ordered him out of the room as nurses worried over his dangerously rising blood pressure. Jay was a short, pudgy Swede whose light complexion accentuated his baldness. And his defining characteristic was his stubbornness. Our membership declined as more and more people left to hear a more comfortable message, one that confirmed them in their own strongly held political and social views.
Another phenomenem of that time was an interest in popular psychology. Books like "I'm OK, You're OK", "Born to Win", and "Games People Play" proliferated. We found that it was helpful to recognize little tapes in our heads, tapes programed earlier in life and triggered by moment to moment experiences so they played messages from our critical or nurturing parent, our child or adult mode. A basic teaching tool was the T Group. Ten or fifteen persons would gather without any directions about what they were supposed to be doing, or to whom they might look within the group for leadership. There they would struggle to find the purpose of their meeting, how to spend the time, arguing with each other, competing for a leadership role, attacking one another. This unstructured environment was designed to accomplish change as reading a book could never achieve.
This became Jay's passion and he left the church for days at a time to attend and eventually lead seminars. He used members of the church as his guinea pigs and we benefited from the learning he had acquired. But to the majority of our members this was an additional reason for his dismissal as our local church pastor. So Jay secured an appointment as an associate in a large church in Minneapolis where his personality and his intense interest in psychology again caused problems. Losing his position there he worked as a counselor in a hospital, then formed his own successful company.
Louise and I drove warily on icy roads to Minneapolis, viewing with apprehension the many trucks that had skidded off the highway the previous night. When we arrived I planned to accompany Jay to the camp he had rented from the church and then participate in the programmed activities. Louise would stay and visit with Gertrude.
The retreat began with supper Friday evening. There were about forty in attendance, mostly young professionals in their late thirties and early forties. We gathered in small groups after supper to play the psychological exercises assigned to us. But then a note of alarm swept through the room as we learned that a young man in one of the groups had stood up abruptly, cried and escaped out into the night. Concerned that he might injure himself we searched in the parking lots and surrounding fields but could not find him. We learned later that he had called from a nearby telephone, would not return but was apparently safe.
The next morning I chose to participate with a T group. There were ten of us. I was an outsider, as the others had obviously been together previously. As was the rule, we had no agenda, no agreed purpose. We met in a lodge, sitting on the floor, struggling with what we were going to do together.
Then it began. I witnessed the strangest transformation I have ever seen.
One of the participants, a man, with great poise and self confidence, a leader in the group, began to eye Irene suspiciously. Then he attacked her verbally, accusing her of having something wrong with her. And I could see what he had noticed. Irene was somewhat remarkable, seeming to talk off the top of her head in a whining voice. She was no more than forty years of age, visibly Italian with black hair, swarthy complexion, an attractive full figure. Then other members of the group joined in the attack questioning why she talked the way she did. Irene resisted, insisting she didn't know what they were talking about. But finally she broke down and began crying, sobbing. And then a different person emerged. As she sobbed we saw a warm, emotional person speaking from her heart with a rich, relaxed voice. She told us about how she had been raised, and as she talked a picture of her family life appeared: a home where the aroma of rich brown meat sauce bubbling on the stove filled the kitchen, where a tenor voice singing opera could be heard in every room, where her family quarreled loudly, reconciled generously, with nothing held back, trusting in the deep love they had for each other.
But then Irene fell in love and married a very reserved. blonde Scandinavian probate lawyer, who at this very time was outside the lodge cross country skiing, and who had absented himself all weekend from any contact with these strange people who voluntarily exposed themselves to each other, probed deeply into their unconscious selves to explore who they were and why they felt and acted the way that they did. Irene explained that from the first in their marriage she had been obliged to restrain her natural self, how their first quarrels had so threatened her husband that she feared for the continuance of their marriage.
So she had performed her own lobotomy, denying the person she was in order to be a wife to her husband. She no longer was God's creation, warm, passionate, loving, but had become a stick figure, withdrawn, cautious, careful not to offend.
And as I witnessed this strange occurrence I vowed that I would never again criticize my wife, never try to change her from the person she was, that I would accept her as she was and love her as she was, because that is who she was intended to be.If only I could have kept that noble resolution.
Turning to God
A Testament of Devotion by Thomas R. Kelly - First published
1941. This edition 1979 Reprint 1989 Quaker Home Service ISBN 0 85245 1431.
"How, then, shall we lay hold of that Life and Power, and live the
life of prayer without ceasing? By quiet, persistent practice in turning of
all our being, day and night, in prayer and inward worship and surrender,
toward Him who calls in the deeps of our souls. Mental habits of inward
orientation must be established. An inner, secret turning to God can be
made fairly steady, after weeks and months and years of practice and lapses
and failures and returns. It is as simple an art as Brother Lawrence found
it, but it may be long before we achieve any steadiness in the process.
Begin now, as you read these words, as you sit in your chair, to offer your
whole selves, utterly and in joyful abandon, in quiet, glad surrender to Him
who is within." P. 35
1941. This edition 1979 Reprint 1989 Quaker Home Service ISBN 0 85245 1431.
"How, then, shall we lay hold of that Life and Power, and live the
life of prayer without ceasing? By quiet, persistent practice in turning of
all our being, day and night, in prayer and inward worship and surrender,
toward Him who calls in the deeps of our souls. Mental habits of inward
orientation must be established. An inner, secret turning to God can be
made fairly steady, after weeks and months and years of practice and lapses
and failures and returns. It is as simple an art as Brother Lawrence found
it, but it may be long before we achieve any steadiness in the process.
Begin now, as you read these words, as you sit in your chair, to offer your
whole selves, utterly and in joyful abandon, in quiet, glad surrender to Him
who is within." P. 35
Unusual Personal Letter
Hi Jeff, I'm writing to you because I have no one else to share this with; but I've had a little intellectual excitement rereading essays in the "First and Last Freedom" by Krishnamurti, a book I've dipped into over the years. The essays are about the mind and belief as he describes how our minds work, the interaction between experience, memory, the creation of ideas, but showing how all of this is "conditioned" or tainted by us as individuals so that we cannot discover "truth." He ridicules the reading of books, acquiring knowledge and beliefs to insulate ourselves from fear and insecurity, so that we have something to hold onto. He demonstrates how we cannot find "God" through adoption into a belief system, which cause us to defend our truth and explains the disharmony and violence prevalent in the world. All of this is written in a simple nontechnical manner as though he's talking to a friend, or someone he just met on the street. So, to his bottom line, the only way we can "see" reality is through silence, avoiding thinking and the mind. And this is the only way we can experience the divine. This is an "aha" experience for me because it sheds more light on what I've been reading elsewhere and makes it more credible. And the meditation I'm doing and learning about, first with Christian contemplation and more recently Buddhism. I have no doubt that through this mysticism people have in the past and to this day, attained an ineffable, joyful, peaceful experience that is the divine at the heart of reality. Unfortunately it is not a personal god who is with us at all times and who loves and cares for us, as is the God of Judaism, Islam and Christianity. I don't know if you'll even read through all of this, but I thank you for being there with an e-mail address so I could get it off my chest. And another foundation book that I've got to look at again is "The Perennial Philosophy" by Aldous Huxley. (whose father was a renowned scientist.)
Part of what's going on here with me is having Alice as a guest, trying to be nice to her, listening patiently, wondering if I'm an inconsiderate, selfish bastard for being so impatient with talking about nothing, and realizing for better or worse that I am an intellectual whose joy in life comes from the world of books and ideas, which as I write this is what Krishnamurti rejects as the way to find "Truth."
Part of what's going on here with me is having Alice as a guest, trying to be nice to her, listening patiently, wondering if I'm an inconsiderate, selfish bastard for being so impatient with talking about nothing, and realizing for better or worse that I am an intellectual whose joy in life comes from the world of books and ideas, which as I write this is what Krishnamurti rejects as the way to find "Truth."
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Homeland
One author speaks of an "existential loneliness" that permeates every human spirit, a kind of unnamed pain inside, deep within us, a restlessness, an anxiety, a sense of "all aloneness" that calls out to us. I prefer to name it an "existential ache." It is a persistent longing in us and it happens because we are human. It is as strongly present in us as autumn is present in the cycle of the seasons. I believe that this ache is within us because we are composed of both physical and spiritual dimensions. Our body belongs to the earth but our spirit does not. Our final home is not here, although "here" is where we are meant to be transformed by treasuring, reverencing and growing through our human journey. No matter how good the "good earth" is, there is always a part of us that is yearning, longing, quietly crying out for the true homeland where life is no longer difficult or unfair.
From Praying Our Goodbyes by Joyce Rupp
From Praying Our Goodbyes by Joyce Rupp
My Snowmass Retreat
The retreat center and monastery are about a mile from each other on the spacious fields surrounded by hills and snow covered mountains. It’s a beautiful place with comfortable weather for the ten days I was there in September, 1995. This was my first meditation retreat, lucky to be there as the waiting list dwindled until my name appeared.
I traveled by train coach, sleeping adequately, stretched out on a couple of seats. The dining car especially is enjoyable, seated with strangers with whom one quickly bonds, sharing information you wouldn’t tell others because you’ll surely never see these people again. Arriving at Glenwood Springs a couple of days early I enjoyed sightseeing at the souvenir shops, the hot springs complex and restaurants. Even saw a Green Bay Packer game at a bar where I was obliged to drink a couple of beers as my admission price.
Then, as prearranged, I was picked up at my Ramada Inn by Pat and her tragically disabled daughter who lay in the back of the van, unable to communicate or to move. Pat carried her into the retreat center when we arrived and where she silently lay during our activities. I’m posting a picture of her showing how we tried to be of some small comfort in her disability
The accommodations were luxurious, the vegetarian meals imaginative and tasty. But three of us men chose not to accept a room there with a room mate, but instead slept at the original monastery where we each had our own room, even though this required getting up at four o’clock in order to reach the center for breakfast.
Meditation was not as arduous as I experienced later at Buddhist retreats and we sat in chairs instead of on cushions for an hour at a time, preceded each morning with scripture read by one of the retreatants. Silence was mandatory except at the evening meal. Between sits we did walking meditation and in the afternoon watched Father Keating’s lectures by video. And there was time each afternoon to hike the hills that surrounded us.
Snowmass is located south of Glenwood Springs, Colorado and north of Aspen. The link on this blog shows the monastery and the monks as they worship and work raising cattle, making cookies for sale.
But hey, I’m not selling anything here. Just wanted to give some of my gigantic crowd of readers the opportunity to follow up on this or the link to Contemplative Outreach which has groups closer to you.
If you choose to visit my blog you’ll find quotes from Father Keating, who I find to be a remarkable man.
“Contemplative Outreach is a spiritual network of individuals and small faith communities committed to living the contemplative dimension of the Gospel in everyday life through the practice of Centering Prayer.
Our purpose is to share the method of Centering Prayer and its immediate conceptual background. We also encourage the practice of Lectio Divina, particularly its movement into Contemplative Prayer, which a regular and established practice of Centering Prayer facilitates.
We identify with the Christian Contemplative Heritage. While we are formed by our respective denominations, we are united in our common search for God and the experience of the living Christ through Centering Prayer. We affirm our solidarity with the contemplative dimension of other religions and sacred traditions, with the needs and rights of the whole human family, and with all creation.”
SNOWMASS RETREATS
Cost
8-Day: $550 Double, $600 Single
10-Day: $650 Double, $700 Single
2007
October 9-18, 2007 10-Day Intensive
November 2-9, 2007 8-Day Post Intensive
November 12-19, 2007 8-Day Post Intensive
December 4-13, 2007 10-Day Post Intensive
2008
January 8-17, 2008 10-Day Intensive
February 5-14, 2008 10-Day Advanced
March 4-13, 2008 10-Day Post Intensive(Amarillo)
April 15-24, 2008 10-Day Post Intensive
June 17-26, 2008 10-Day Intensive
July 29-August 7, 2008 10-Day Post Intensive
September 9-18, 2008 10-Day Intensive
October 7-16, 2008 10-Day Intensive
November 7-14, 2008 8-Day Post Intensive
November 17-24, 2008 8-Day Post Intensive
December 2-11, 2008 10-Day Post Intensive
All retreats are held at Snowmass unless otherwise noted. We encourage you to consider being on a waiting list for any of the retreats, since we reguarly have cancellations and some retreatants do get into every session from the waitlist. To include your name on any waitlist please contact Carol DiMarcello, 3550 Capitol Creek Road, Snowmass, CO 81654, 970-927-9376, or email coc@sopris.net.
St. Benedict's Monastery
Ph:970-927-3311
Retreat Center: 970-927-1162
Bro. Chuck, Retreat House Guestmaster
Best time to call: between 9:30 a.m. to 11:30 a.m.
Home
I traveled by train coach, sleeping adequately, stretched out on a couple of seats. The dining car especially is enjoyable, seated with strangers with whom one quickly bonds, sharing information you wouldn’t tell others because you’ll surely never see these people again. Arriving at Glenwood Springs a couple of days early I enjoyed sightseeing at the souvenir shops, the hot springs complex and restaurants. Even saw a Green Bay Packer game at a bar where I was obliged to drink a couple of beers as my admission price.
Then, as prearranged, I was picked up at my Ramada Inn by Pat and her tragically disabled daughter who lay in the back of the van, unable to communicate or to move. Pat carried her into the retreat center when we arrived and where she silently lay during our activities. I’m posting a picture of her showing how we tried to be of some small comfort in her disability
The accommodations were luxurious, the vegetarian meals imaginative and tasty. But three of us men chose not to accept a room there with a room mate, but instead slept at the original monastery where we each had our own room, even though this required getting up at four o’clock in order to reach the center for breakfast.
Meditation was not as arduous as I experienced later at Buddhist retreats and we sat in chairs instead of on cushions for an hour at a time, preceded each morning with scripture read by one of the retreatants. Silence was mandatory except at the evening meal. Between sits we did walking meditation and in the afternoon watched Father Keating’s lectures by video. And there was time each afternoon to hike the hills that surrounded us.
Snowmass is located south of Glenwood Springs, Colorado and north of Aspen. The link on this blog shows the monastery and the monks as they worship and work raising cattle, making cookies for sale.
But hey, I’m not selling anything here. Just wanted to give some of my gigantic crowd of readers the opportunity to follow up on this or the link to Contemplative Outreach which has groups closer to you.
If you choose to visit my blog you’ll find quotes from Father Keating, who I find to be a remarkable man.
“Contemplative Outreach is a spiritual network of individuals and small faith communities committed to living the contemplative dimension of the Gospel in everyday life through the practice of Centering Prayer.
Our purpose is to share the method of Centering Prayer and its immediate conceptual background. We also encourage the practice of Lectio Divina, particularly its movement into Contemplative Prayer, which a regular and established practice of Centering Prayer facilitates.
We identify with the Christian Contemplative Heritage. While we are formed by our respective denominations, we are united in our common search for God and the experience of the living Christ through Centering Prayer. We affirm our solidarity with the contemplative dimension of other religions and sacred traditions, with the needs and rights of the whole human family, and with all creation.”
SNOWMASS RETREATS
Cost
8-Day: $550 Double, $600 Single
10-Day: $650 Double, $700 Single
2007
October 9-18, 2007 10-Day Intensive
November 2-9, 2007 8-Day Post Intensive
November 12-19, 2007 8-Day Post Intensive
December 4-13, 2007 10-Day Post Intensive
2008
January 8-17, 2008 10-Day Intensive
February 5-14, 2008 10-Day Advanced
March 4-13, 2008 10-Day Post Intensive(Amarillo)
April 15-24, 2008 10-Day Post Intensive
June 17-26, 2008 10-Day Intensive
July 29-August 7, 2008 10-Day Post Intensive
September 9-18, 2008 10-Day Intensive
October 7-16, 2008 10-Day Intensive
November 7-14, 2008 8-Day Post Intensive
November 17-24, 2008 8-Day Post Intensive
December 2-11, 2008 10-Day Post Intensive
All retreats are held at Snowmass unless otherwise noted. We encourage you to consider being on a waiting list for any of the retreats, since we reguarly have cancellations and some retreatants do get into every session from the waitlist. To include your name on any waitlist please contact Carol DiMarcello, 3550 Capitol Creek Road, Snowmass, CO 81654, 970-927-9376, or email coc@sopris.net.
St. Benedict's Monastery
Ph:970-927-3311
Retreat Center: 970-927-1162
Bro. Chuck, Retreat House Guestmaster
Best time to call: between 9:30 a.m. to 11:30 a.m.
Home
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Christ as Friend
Merton, Thomas. _The Living Bread_. Farrar, Straus & Cudahy, New York. 1956,
p. 9.
"Love for God is the deepest fulfillment of the powers implanted by
God in our human nature which He has destined for union with Himself.
In loving Him, we discover not only the inner meaning of truths which we
would otherwise never be able to understand, but we also find our true selves in
Him. The charity which is stirred up in our hearts by the Spirit of Christ
acting in the depths of our being makes us begin to be the persons He has
destined us to be in the inscrutable designs of His Providence.
Moved by thegrace of Christ we begin to discover and to know Christ Himself as a friend
knows a friend - by the inner sympathy and understanding which friendship
alone can impart."
p. 9.
"Love for God is the deepest fulfillment of the powers implanted by
God in our human nature which He has destined for union with Himself.
In loving Him, we discover not only the inner meaning of truths which we
would otherwise never be able to understand, but we also find our true selves in
Him. The charity which is stirred up in our hearts by the Spirit of Christ
acting in the depths of our being makes us begin to be the persons He has
destined us to be in the inscrutable designs of His Providence.
Moved by thegrace of Christ we begin to discover and to know Christ Himself as a friend
knows a friend - by the inner sympathy and understanding which friendship
alone can impart."
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Alone
I was alone. My parents told me they were going to a movie, that grey, cold, dismal Sunday afternoon in February. I was ten years old, without brothers or sisters, and on that particular day without friends or companions. I'd given up my dog after he dug such a hole under Mrs. Figge's front porch that the house almost slid into it. I was free to wander on my bicycle, and eventually came to the bridge over Turtle Creek where a large crowd and emergency vehicles had congregated. I got off my bike to watch also, as a large crane lifted a dark blue, 1932 Chevrolet from the creek by its back bumper, high in the air where it swung back and forth.Then the cold hand of fear reached in and clutched my heart. My folks had left home in a dark blue 1932 Chevrolet, and to my distress I saw that aluminum paint had been used to cover the rear bumpers, just as with my parent's car.
I had no one to talk to, no one to reassure me that this was just a coincidence. Then I thought of going to the police station to obtain the details of the accident. I rode my bike up State Street to the building where the police had their offices. Leaning my bike against the store front I walked up the long, dark stairway to the landing where an officer sat behind a glass window. He was large, old and in a lousy mood as he rudely answered my question, saying that the accident had occurred that Sunday morning at 2:30 a.m. Depressed and still not reassured I went back to my bike, rode back to the scene of the accident, unable to free myself from the conviction that my parents had died. The thought occurred to me that the officer had made a mistake,that the accident had happened at 2:30 in the afternoon. So it was with fear and trepidation that I revisited the police station, walking up those dark stairs to again question the officer. He wouldn't even talk to me this time, angrily telling me to leave the premises. It was with a heavy heart that I rode back to my house, still wondering what I could do.
Billy Lundberg was my best friend and I rang the bell at the front door of his house. His Dad came to the door, and told me to just go home, as though my story confirmed his suspicion that my father and mother were not proper parents and there was nothing he was going to do to remedy that situation.
As the darkness deepened I sat silently, alone in the house.
Many years later my wife and I saw a play in which a coffin leaned against a stand in the midst of a large family gathering. From time to time one of the players would enter the coffin, closing the door behind him, remaining there for some extended period before rejoining the family. The symbolism spoke to me, reminding me of the many times I had experienced the pain of feeling alone, forgotten in the midst of a social occasion, as though I had died and no one cared, no one even noticed that I no longer existed. To be alone in this way can be an experience of death.
All of my life I've been striving to be somebody, a person who cannot be ignored, overlooked, forgotten. I've toiled in so many ways to be popular, to be successful, to be admired, to be heard. This, I have believed, is to be alive. What other purpose could there be for life?
But now in my old age I strive to be nobody. Without regrets for the life I have lived I toil to be unnoticed, to free myself from the habitual longing to be a star, to be noticed, to be important. I work now to learn how to be anonymous in good works, to be of service without any form of reward.
One need not be lonely, even though alone. There is a solitude that brings a deeper understanding of life. Meditation is the most extreme form of being alone, for in meditation we seek to disregard even our own thoughts. In meditation we burrow deeply into the darkness, seeking to be free from our most basic desires.
In the Hindu culture there are stages of life, a time to learn, a time to be responsible as a householder, and retirement, a time to discover the meaning of one's existence.
My parents finally returned that Sunday evening, apologetic for the sorrow they had caused me, but with the reasonable explanation that the first movie was full so they had watched the second show. But I can still remember the loneliness of that experience.
I had no one to talk to, no one to reassure me that this was just a coincidence. Then I thought of going to the police station to obtain the details of the accident. I rode my bike up State Street to the building where the police had their offices. Leaning my bike against the store front I walked up the long, dark stairway to the landing where an officer sat behind a glass window. He was large, old and in a lousy mood as he rudely answered my question, saying that the accident had occurred that Sunday morning at 2:30 a.m. Depressed and still not reassured I went back to my bike, rode back to the scene of the accident, unable to free myself from the conviction that my parents had died. The thought occurred to me that the officer had made a mistake,that the accident had happened at 2:30 in the afternoon. So it was with fear and trepidation that I revisited the police station, walking up those dark stairs to again question the officer. He wouldn't even talk to me this time, angrily telling me to leave the premises. It was with a heavy heart that I rode back to my house, still wondering what I could do.
Billy Lundberg was my best friend and I rang the bell at the front door of his house. His Dad came to the door, and told me to just go home, as though my story confirmed his suspicion that my father and mother were not proper parents and there was nothing he was going to do to remedy that situation.
As the darkness deepened I sat silently, alone in the house.
Many years later my wife and I saw a play in which a coffin leaned against a stand in the midst of a large family gathering. From time to time one of the players would enter the coffin, closing the door behind him, remaining there for some extended period before rejoining the family. The symbolism spoke to me, reminding me of the many times I had experienced the pain of feeling alone, forgotten in the midst of a social occasion, as though I had died and no one cared, no one even noticed that I no longer existed. To be alone in this way can be an experience of death.
All of my life I've been striving to be somebody, a person who cannot be ignored, overlooked, forgotten. I've toiled in so many ways to be popular, to be successful, to be admired, to be heard. This, I have believed, is to be alive. What other purpose could there be for life?
But now in my old age I strive to be nobody. Without regrets for the life I have lived I toil to be unnoticed, to free myself from the habitual longing to be a star, to be noticed, to be important. I work now to learn how to be anonymous in good works, to be of service without any form of reward.
One need not be lonely, even though alone. There is a solitude that brings a deeper understanding of life. Meditation is the most extreme form of being alone, for in meditation we seek to disregard even our own thoughts. In meditation we burrow deeply into the darkness, seeking to be free from our most basic desires.
In the Hindu culture there are stages of life, a time to learn, a time to be responsible as a householder, and retirement, a time to discover the meaning of one's existence.
My parents finally returned that Sunday evening, apologetic for the sorrow they had caused me, but with the reasonable explanation that the first movie was full so they had watched the second show. But I can still remember the loneliness of that experience.
Silence
Maloney, George A. _Inward Stillness._ Dimension Books, Denville, New
Jersey.
1976.
"Silence is the interior air that the spirit of man needs in order to grow
spiritually. Such silence leads man into the inner recess and there his
Heavenly Father will recompense him (Matt.6:6). This recompensing comes to
man in the healing of psychic disturbances, the chaotic meaninglessness
of so many past experiences that hang like dried skeletons within man's
memories, the anxieties that force man into an isolation of deadly
loneliness. Man becomes consoled, loved by God in an experience that is
beyond concepts. He knows that he knows God loves him! This
being-loved-by-God experience at the deepest level of his consciousness
restores his strength, pushes him to new self-giving and creativity." p.30
Jersey.
1976.
"Silence is the interior air that the spirit of man needs in order to grow
spiritually. Such silence leads man into the inner recess and there his
Heavenly Father will recompense him (Matt.6:6). This recompensing comes to
man in the healing of psychic disturbances, the chaotic meaninglessness
of so many past experiences that hang like dried skeletons within man's
memories, the anxieties that force man into an isolation of deadly
loneliness. Man becomes consoled, loved by God in an experience that is
beyond concepts. He knows that he knows God loves him! This
being-loved-by-God experience at the deepest level of his consciousness
restores his strength, pushes him to new self-giving and creativity." p.30
Saturday, August 11, 2007
What is Prayer?
Prayer is the soul’s sincere desire
Uttered or unexpressed,
The motion of a hidden fire
That trembles in the breast.
Prayer is the burden of a sigh,
The falling of a tear,
The upward glancing of an eye
When none but God is near.
What Is Prayer?, by James Montgomery
Uttered or unexpressed,
The motion of a hidden fire
That trembles in the breast.
Prayer is the burden of a sigh,
The falling of a tear,
The upward glancing of an eye
When none but God is near.
What Is Prayer?, by James Montgomery
Friday, August 10, 2007
True Friend
It was a cold afternoon in December. I parked my car at the curb and walked carefully over the unshoveled walks toward the side door of the shabby one-and-a-half story house. Opening the door as I had been instructed, I called to let Herb know that I was here. Herb was my first hospice client. Dying of cancer, he lived alone.
The door opened to a cluttered dining room . There was a kitchen straight ahead of me, a small living room to my left. The air was warm and oppressive. The drapes and shades were drawn, dimming the light of that sunless day. Papers and old magazines lettered the desk in the dining room. The furniture in the living room was shabby and dirty. Even from the door I could see that the kitchen sink and table were covered with assorted boxes and jars of food.
Herb lay before me on a cot in the dining room. He lowered his arm from across his forehead and raised himself to see who was entering his house.
“Hi Herb, I’m from hospice here to be of help to you,” I said.
“OK, come on in.”
And so began my friendship with Herb who suffered the pain of cancer and the knowledge that he would die, probably before the warmth of spring brought new life to the world.
This hospice assignment was unusual, although I did not at first recognize it’s significance. Generally a volunteer gave respite time to a primary care giver. But Herb had none. His wife had died eight years before. He had one son in Texas who was himself disabled and unable to return home even for his father’s funeral. So Herb continued to live alone, calling upon me for all of the errands he could no longer do for himself. A hospice nurse checked him every other day or so giving him morphine and other medications, and a hospice aide came each week to do his laundry and light cleaning.
I stood looking down at Herb. He was in his sixties, I guessed, and was not wearing his glasses. He was clean shaven and dressed in a flannel shirt and gray trousers. Although he appeared clean there was a bad odor coming from him which his urologist’s nurse later told me was from his catheter, caused by not drinking enough water. And with Herb’s temperament, I would never get him to amend his ways, in this respect or any other.
Our first meeting was brief, but he said he’d like to go somewhere the next day for lunch.
So next day I entered the side door of his house again to find him sitting, wearing his jacket and billed cap, in one of the easy chairs in his living room.
“Well Herb, where are we going for lunch?”
“The Liberty Inn.”
“Gee Herb, we’re not dressed for a fancy place like that.”
No answer from Herb. He worked his way out of the chair, declining my offer of help, then stood leaning on the walker I had placed before him. As we went out the front door I breathed deeply, welcoming the cold clean air. We proceeded slowly and deliberately. I stood below the three steps of the porch to assist him as he placed his walker and stepped down each step to the sidewalk. I held the door for him as he backed in the front seat, then placed his walker in the trunk of my car. He was impatiently struggling to find the slot for his seat belt and I placed my hand on his to guide it. Then we were off for our first adventure together.
The Liberty Inn was crowded with diners celebrating the coming Christmas. I confided to the waitress that my companion was ill and asked if we could sit in an inconspicuous place. I don’t know why she ignored this request, seating us at a table in the center of the room near the entrance where, as it seemed to me, a flood light shown down upon us. Immediately I saw that a fellow member of the bar was sitting in a booth directly in my eye sight, dressed in a dark suit and white shirt with checked tie, ardently courting a similarly dressed business man seated opposite him. He pretended not to see me.
Herb was loud and self important, calling the waitress before she had time to come to our table, ordering his shrimp and demanding a sauce when it did not accompany his food. He had a hearing loss in part from physical causes but mostly because he had stopped listening to other people. There was no conversation between us.
Halfway through our meal my lawyer friend stood up to leave and stopped at our table to greet me. I restrained my impulse to explain that my guest was a hospice patient, and, “Look at me and see what a nice person I am!” But I hoped he would not assume that I was related by blood or marriage to my luncheon partner.
In the months that followed I saw Herb two or three times during the week. We went shopping together at Woodman’s grocery store. I drove my car as near the entrance as I could, took the walker out of the trunk, place it before Herb, pulling him so he could stand. Leaning on the walker he entered the store while I parked the car. Then I searched with him for the motorized shopping cart that he maneuvered from aisle to isle. I discreetly followed at a distance but close enough to help him when an item was beyond his grasp. Apparently the cancer had not affected his appetite and he enjoyed choosing and anticipating the experience of eating. On one occasion he had me searching for Louisiana Hot Sauce, telling how good it was, scornfully dismissing my ignorance about it.
Customarily after shopping we ate together at a family restaurant near the store. We sat opposite each other in a booth. Herb always kept his cap on when he ate. I always looked away when he partly removed his juicy false teeth after eating and moved his tongue around cleaning his mouth. Our entrance into the restaurant attracted attention because of his difficulty in getting around the tables with the walker. And neither of us was very good looking. One day it seemed we were waiting an unusual length of time to be waited on, and I felt anger arising in me as I rose to get the waitress. After eating and still controlled by my anger I walked back to the counter to approach her and push a five dollar bill in her hand, to insist that next time she not pretend to ignore. us.
“I guess you can’t understand, but this man is dying of cancer and deserves better treatment,” I said.
Together we kept appointments with his urologist at the Beloit Clinic, and for an eye exam which I still cannot understand in view of his limited life expectancy. And to his family practice doctor. One day I waited an unusually long period of time for him. He was crestfallen when he emerged from the examining rooms. After being seated in the car he told me the doctor was not familiar with the workings of his catheter and had spilled his malodorous urine causing him great embarrassment.
Later there he insisted on a blood transfusion to remedy his feeling of weakness. The doctor didn’t argue with him and we went to the Special Care unit of the hospital where Herb lay receiving new blood, as though he couldn’t acknowledge that this would give only temporary help.
Often he called me at home to ask that I bring him Kentucky Fried Chicken, or, on another occasion, a special kind of shrimp. I brought the food still warm to him and he sat on a chair in the kitchen facing the wall at the small clean area on the table, spitting from time to time in a waste basket conveniently at his feet. I sat and watched him with little conversation between us as he chewed his food. But one day I could see that he was offended by my refusal to share his offer of food eaten with him. So I gingerly sipped a beer as he ate, remembering the time he had called me to buy mouse traps for him.
I came to know Herb over the few months we had together. He had been a used car salesman and Vic Hansen for whom he had worked was his hero, because of his ability to buy cheap cars and sell them at a profit. He had only a weak relationship with his only child and they did not communicate with each other. There had been an altercation with the neighbors long ago, serious enough that the police had been called. He had no church relationship, had never joined any service or social club. I never saw any books or religious material in his home. He had no interest in television or radio programs.
He talked little about his wife, except to tell me of his recurrent dream that he was late and his wife was calling him to come home. Whether this was caused by an embedded memory from the time he lived with his wife, or whether there is a supernatural explanation depends on you, dear Reader.
Hospice nurses are a special breed. Often they have chosen this vocation because of the opportunity to have time with their patients and to be close with them, something impossible in a busy hospital. So I was surprised to see the anger and impatience in Herb’s nurse one afternoon.
“Now I’m not going through this again, Herb, unless you promise me you will follow up on it.”
Yes, I told you, I’m ready to go to a nursing home. I need more care than I can handle here,” Herb insisted.
“Herb, we’ve been through this again and again, and I won’t stand for it. You’re putting me through unnecessary work, for nothing. I’m not playing any more games with you. Do you hear me,” she exclaimed.
“No, I’ll go,” Herb said, but with a small wicked smile as though he enjoyed harassing his nurse.
So she took out her cell phone and began calling, searching for an opening in a local nursing home suitable for a hospice patient. She found one, and next day Herb did move to an assisted living home where he had a room at the end of the hall, away from the other residents. I went there that day, passing by the colorful dining room with its noisy residents, unmindful of the fact of death.
It would be only a day before Herb died. It was late in an afternoon. The shades were drawn, the door closed. Herb lay quietly on his side, a wounded animal in fear of his nurse. He had spilled soup on his bed clothes and she had scolded him. I didn’t know how to help. It was unfortunate that this man, so alone in the world, had such an unsympathetic care giver at this crucial time.
We were quiet together. Then he lifted his head slightly and without looking at me said, “True Friend.”
Herb died alone at two o’clock the following morning. Those two words he gave me are ample reward for my small attempts to be of help to him.
It was a cold afternoon in December. I parked my car at the curb and walked carefully over the unshoveled walks toward the side door of the shabby one-and-a-half story house. Opening the door as I had been instructed, I called to let Herb know that I was here. Herb was my first hospice client. Dying of cancer, he lived alone.
The door opened to a cluttered dining room . There was a kitchen straight ahead of me, a small living room to my left. The air was warm and oppressive. The drapes and shades were drawn, dimming the light of that sunless day. Papers and old magazines lettered the desk in the dining room. The furniture in the living room was shabby and dirty. Even from the door I could see that the kitchen sink and table were covered with assorted boxes and jars of food.
Herb lay before me on a cot in the dining room. He lowered his arm from across his forehead and raised himself to see who was entering his house.
“Hi Herb, I’m from hospice here to be of help to you,” I said.
“OK, come on in.”
And so began my friendship with Herb who suffered the pain of cancer and the knowledge that he would die, probably before the warmth of spring brought new life to the world.
This hospice assignment was unusual, although I did not at first recognize it’s significance. Generally a volunteer gave respite time to a primary care giver. But Herb had none. His wife had died eight years before. He had one son in Texas who was himself disabled and unable to return home even for his father’s funeral. So Herb continued to live alone, calling upon me for all of the errands he could no longer do for himself. A hospice nurse checked him every other day or so giving him morphine and other medications, and a hospice aide came each week to do his laundry and light cleaning.
I stood looking down at Herb. He was in his sixties, I guessed, and was not wearing his glasses. He was clean shaven and dressed in a flannel shirt and gray trousers. Although he appeared clean there was a bad odor coming from him which his urologist’s nurse later told me was from his catheter, caused by not drinking enough water. And with Herb’s temperament, I would never get him to amend his ways, in this respect or any other.
Our first meeting was brief, but he said he’d like to go somewhere the next day for lunch.
So next day I entered the side door of his house again to find him sitting, wearing his jacket and billed cap, in one of the easy chairs in his living room.
“Well Herb, where are we going for lunch?”
“The Liberty Inn.”
“Gee Herb, we’re not dressed for a fancy place like that.”
No answer from Herb. He worked his way out of the chair, declining my offer of help, then stood leaning on the walker I had placed before him. As we went out the front door I breathed deeply, welcoming the cold clean air. We proceeded slowly and deliberately. I stood below the three steps of the porch to assist him as he placed his walker and stepped down each step to the sidewalk. I held the door for him as he backed in the front seat, then placed his walker in the trunk of my car. He was impatiently struggling to find the slot for his seat belt and I placed my hand on his to guide it. Then we were off for our first adventure together.
The Liberty Inn was crowded with diners celebrating the coming Christmas. I confided to the waitress that my companion was ill and asked if we could sit in an inconspicuous place. I don’t know why she ignored this request, seating us at a table in the center of the room near the entrance where, as it seemed to me, a flood light shown down upon us. Immediately I saw that a fellow member of the bar was sitting in a booth directly in my eye sight, dressed in a dark suit and white shirt with checked tie, ardently courting a similarly dressed business man seated opposite him. He pretended not to see me.
Herb was loud and self important, calling the waitress before she had time to come to our table, ordering his shrimp and demanding a sauce when it did not accompany his food. He had a hearing loss in part from physical causes but mostly because he had stopped listening to other people. There was no conversation between us.
Halfway through our meal my lawyer friend stood up to leave and stopped at our table to greet me. I restrained my impulse to explain that my guest was a hospice patient, and, “Look at me and see what a nice person I am!” But I hoped he would not assume that I was related by blood or marriage to my luncheon partner.
In the months that followed I saw Herb two or three times during the week. We went shopping together at Woodman’s grocery store. I drove my car as near the entrance as I could, took the walker out of the trunk, place it before Herb, pulling him so he could stand. Leaning on the walker he entered the store while I parked the car. Then I searched with him for the motorized shopping cart that he maneuvered from aisle to isle. I discreetly followed at a distance but close enough to help him when an item was beyond his grasp. Apparently the cancer had not affected his appetite and he enjoyed choosing and anticipating the experience of eating. On one occasion he had me searching for Louisiana Hot Sauce, telling how good it was, scornfully dismissing my ignorance about it.
Customarily after shopping we ate together at a family restaurant near the store. We sat opposite each other in a booth. Herb always kept his cap on when he ate. I always looked away when he partly removed his juicy false teeth after eating and moved his tongue around cleaning his mouth. Our entrance into the restaurant attracted attention because of his difficulty in getting around the tables with the walker. And neither of us was very good looking. One day it seemed we were waiting an unusual length of time to be waited on, and I felt anger arising in me as I rose to get the waitress. After eating and still controlled by my anger I walked back to the counter to approach her and push a five dollar bill in her hand, to insist that next time she not pretend to ignore. us.
“I guess you can’t understand, but this man is dying of cancer and deserves better treatment,” I said.
Together we kept appointments with his urologist at the Beloit Clinic, and for an eye exam which I still cannot understand in view of his limited life expectancy. And to his family practice doctor. One day I waited an unusually long period of time for him. He was crestfallen when he emerged from the examining rooms. After being seated in the car he told me the doctor was not familiar with the workings of his catheter and had spilled his malodorous urine causing him great embarrassment.
Later there he insisted on a blood transfusion to remedy his feeling of weakness. The doctor didn’t argue with him and we went to the Special Care unit of the hospital where Herb lay receiving new blood, as though he couldn’t acknowledge that this would give only temporary help.
Often he called me at home to ask that I bring him Kentucky Fried Chicken, or, on another occasion, a special kind of shrimp. I brought the food still warm to him and he sat on a chair in the kitchen facing the wall at the small clean area on the table, spitting from time to time in a waste basket conveniently at his feet. I sat and watched him with little conversation between us as he chewed his food. But one day I could see that he was offended by my refusal to share his offer of food eaten with him. So I gingerly sipped a beer as he ate, remembering the time he had called me to buy mouse traps for him.
I came to know Herb over the few months we had together. He had been a used car salesman and Vic Hansen for whom he had worked was his hero, because of his ability to buy cheap cars and sell them at a profit. He had only a weak relationship with his only child and they did not communicate with each other. There had been an altercation with the neighbors long ago, serious enough that the police had been called. He had no church relationship, had never joined any service or social club. I never saw any books or religious material in his home. He had no interest in television or radio programs.
He talked little about his wife, except to tell me of his recurrent dream that he was late and his wife was calling him to come home. Whether this was caused by an embedded memory from the time he lived with his wife, or whether there is a supernatural explanation depends on you, dear Reader.
Hospice nurses are a special breed. Often they have chosen this vocation because of the opportunity to have time with their patients and to be close with them, something impossible in a busy hospital. So I was surprised to see the anger and impatience in Herb’s nurse one afternoon.
“Now I’m not going through this again, Herb, unless you promise me you will follow up on it.”
Yes, I told you, I’m ready to go to a nursing home. I need more care than I can handle here,” Herb insisted.
“Herb, we’ve been through this again and again, and I won’t stand for it. You’re putting me through unnecessary work, for nothing. I’m not playing any more games with you. Do you hear me,” she exclaimed.
“No, I’ll go,” Herb said, but with a small wicked smile as though he enjoyed harassing his nurse.
So she took out her cell phone and began calling, searching for an opening in a local nursing home suitable for a hospice patient. She found one, and next day Herb did move to an assisted living home where he had a room at the end of the hall, away from the other residents. I went there that day, passing by the colorful dining room with its noisy residents, unmindful of the fact of death.
It would be only a day before Herb died. It was late in an afternoon. The shades were drawn, the door closed. Herb lay quietly on his side, a wounded animal in fear of his nurse. He had spilled soup on his bed clothes and she had scolded him. I didn’t know how to help. It was unfortunate that this man, so alone in the world, had such an unsympathetic care giver at this crucial time.
We were quiet together. Then he lifted his head slightly and without looking at me said, “True Friend.”
Herb died alone at two o’clock the following morning. Those two words he gave me are ample reward for my small attempts to be of help to him.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Realm of the Holy
Those who live in this province are the vanguard of the soul, and their weapons are devotion, compassion and unending intent. They find the paths through the grim landscape of human suffering and guide us towards them; they blaze their trails upon the engines of absolute faith, and nothing can stand in their way. Their reward is a rapture so deep and astonishing that it lifts them beyond the world to the brink of the eternal moment.
Everyone of us is guided by them. Doors appear and disappear, mists lift and new horizons are visible. Compassion is the key to the portals of our souls, and these spirits wander through us like invisible housekeepers, replacing on the mantle this fragment of a dream, tossing out those old and tattered fears, surreptitiously rearranging the library of our grievances and misfortunes.
They lead, coax and give signs, in the hopes that some will listen.
(author unknown, at least by me)
Everyone of us is guided by them. Doors appear and disappear, mists lift and new horizons are visible. Compassion is the key to the portals of our souls, and these spirits wander through us like invisible housekeepers, replacing on the mantle this fragment of a dream, tossing out those old and tattered fears, surreptitiously rearranging the library of our grievances and misfortunes.
They lead, coax and give signs, in the hopes that some will listen.
(author unknown, at least by me)
Introduction
Thought you should know who (whom) you're consorting with, you great big crowd of people who are avidly reading this blog each day. Well, as you can see, I'm old. Sometimes that indicates a person is filled with wisdom, but I won't claim that. Instead I've accumulated some quotations over a period of years from men and women with a reputation for great wisdom, and I'd like to share those writings with you.
In addition I'd like to share some of my personal experiences as a lawyer, and as a volunteer with hospice, my church, the local hospital and so forth. World War II might sneak in also. And the hospice experiences may include intimations of immorality. I mean immortality. Anyway I think someone else already used that phrase.
This is obviously my first try at blogging, so be patient with me. I'll try to feed you some great stuff. But the odds are you won't use it anyway. Too bad.
In addition I'd like to share some of my personal experiences as a lawyer, and as a volunteer with hospice, my church, the local hospital and so forth. World War II might sneak in also. And the hospice experiences may include intimations of immorality. I mean immortality. Anyway I think someone else already used that phrase.
This is obviously my first try at blogging, so be patient with me. I'll try to feed you some great stuff. But the odds are you won't use it anyway. Too bad.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Epiphany
Sarah was two years old, with straight brown hair cut short, bangs covering the top of her forehead. Her eyes were blue, wondering as I set her in the rocking chair that swiveled, before the front windows of the living room. Mahalia Jackson was singing, praising God for all his goodness and mercy. I knelt on the carpeting before Sarah, looking into her eyes as the music swelled. I turned the chair around to amuse her, but returning so that I could continue looking into her face. This was the moment I knew that there was a God, and that he had blessed me.
The Cloud Of Unknowing._ Translated by Clifton Wolters. Penguin Books,
1978.
"Only he (God) is completely and utterly sufficient to fulfill the will and
longing of our souls. Nothing else can. The soul, when it is restored by
grace, is made wholly sufficient to comprehend him fully by love. He cannot
be comprehended by our intellect or any man's - or any angel's for that
matter. For both we and they are created beings. But only to our intellect
is he incomprehensible: not to our love." pp. 62-63.
1978.
"Only he (God) is completely and utterly sufficient to fulfill the will and
longing of our souls. Nothing else can. The soul, when it is restored by
grace, is made wholly sufficient to comprehend him fully by love. He cannot
be comprehended by our intellect or any man's - or any angel's for that
matter. For both we and they are created beings. But only to our intellect
is he incomprehensible: not to our love." pp. 62-63.
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