Listening to God

 

I do not propose to be an expert at this for all peoples.  But after five decades of me being me, I have got a sense for how I am led by God.  At least in the area of "what my next job is," I have learned to hear His voice ... somehow. I would like to share that with you in case it will help.

First, I am writing with the presumption that God cares about us and how we spend our lives, and therefore, the place we spend most of our daylight hours must matter to Him as well.  Think about how many graduation speeches are about "making a difference," "having courage to move into the unknown," and "helping people."  Those three items are very much related to God and His business.

Second, I believe that because I am not Moses with a nearby mountain, that God is going to communicate with me in some place and some way that is intelligible to me.  Even though my life has a certain degree of solitude to it, I do have to pull-back and get a sense of what is happening in my own heart.  That is where He speaks to me:  in the core of myself, the Inner Sanctum, as it were.

Then, I look at my circumstances and assess their value to me.  I consider possibilities.  I throw proverbial lines in the water, and then I do what makes sense when things unfold.  And so it was with the last big change in my life.

Not that making important decisions is easy; it is not.  Nor is the process without pain; it can test the strongest of hearts.  But as someone once said, anything worth achieving may involve some struggle.  Well, if someone didn't say it, then I just did.  

So, here's what happened:  (now I sound like Adrian Monk, the tv detective) I had every intention of spending only a couple of years working at the hospital when they hired me back in July of 1999.  It wasn't my field, but it is where the door opened up, and I settled in as best I could.  Then over 20 years seemed to pass by and I started to finally feel I had a handle on what I was doing.  New tasks no longer made me anxious.  I learned to take on responsibility with a sense of confidence that  you only earn through maturity ... which typically only comes with age and proving yourself. I weathered the typical work related issues and learned a few people skills in the long run.  And yet, for some reason, as I neared the last decade where one thinks more about retirement, I didn't feel like I was getting the consideration I needed to retire with any level of monetary comfort.  I was thinking I was going to be financially struggling in retirement.

They have this deal where they take the last few years of your salary and average it and blah-blah-blah, to get a figure to base  your retirement money on, you get the idea.  But it was more than money.  I had been stuck at Salary Grade Level 1 for a long time.  It mattered to me, and I said so.  But no one seemed to hear what I was saying.  My responsibilities grew and grew and grew, and nothing else grew with it:  Well, something important like my Sense of Satisfaction.  So there was this lingering thing in me that was marinating, something like discontent.

I had come to the hospital in 1999 under interesting circumstances.  I had taught high school for a few years, and then left full-time teaching, and was doing some temp work at a neighboring University.  I was dying of boredom in that job.  There was so little to do that my boss at the time literally said, "Go play on the Internet."  And the Internet was brand new then so all I was doing was shopping for birds, which was an interest of mine at the time.  (I raised cockatiels and sold their babies.)  At work, I used to look out the window of the office, across Route 81 to the mountain where the hospital sits and think:  "I'd like to work there some day."

Before that time period, at some point I had sold a cockatiel to a man that lived in the Valley near the hospital.  Then, in 1999, the guy gave me a call and wanted to return the bird and a second one to me because he and his wife were down-sizing.  So I drove to their house to pick up the birds, only he didn't show up.  He was out golfing somewhere.  His wife pulled in the driveway from work and I introduced myself to her and asked her where she worked.  She said, "the hospital up the hill."  I remarked, "I'd like to work there someday."  She said, "Bring me your resume."  And I did.  A few weeks later I interviewed and was hired.  My new friend Trudy had opened that door.  She also introduced me to one of my closest keep-forever-friends, for which I am so grateful.

Fast-forward over 20 years to last year.  We were in year 2 of the pandemic.  Work was busier than a one-legged man in a butt-kicking contest.  But I had time on my hands after work hours, finally, for some reason.  I felt a yearning to take a class and was aware that we had a union benefit that would cover tuition for ONE class a semester.  FINALLY I was not working a part-time evening job, or tending a litter of puppies, or dealing with something draining:  I could have the time and focus to take a class.  Hooray!  I poured-over the classes offered in the area and was choosing between Native American studies and Criminal Justice.  I felt a strong pull to learn more about justice, so I signed up for a class online at a community college and was all set to start when they sent me the bill.  I reached back out to the union and they said, "Oh no, we don't cover classes at the community colleges, only at the 4-year schools because those faculty members are also part of the union."  So I had to pull out of that online class :( ... and I missed the deadline to sign up for a course at a 4-year school.  I was bummed.  The semester moved by without me taking a class, and my attention turned to other things.

Meanwhile, the radio broadcasts relentlessly pelted everyone with messages about getting vaccinations.  I am not anti-vaccination.  I just was not sold on whether or not they were effective.  It seemed like vaccinated people were still getting sick, and still getting hospitalized.  The people with underlying co-morbidities ended up in the Intensive Care Unit.  People were saying this, that and the other thing about the efficacy of the vaccines, the science, as in: "are we following the science," and a very uncomfortable culture of pressure was forming.  Everyone was talking about It, but not everyone was talking NICE about It.  People were speaking to each other in tones that were unkind and belittling.  I felt like every time I turned around I was justifying to someone or other why I had decided against taking the booster.  I never knew who wanted people like Me around and who didn't.  Not everyone understood that if their vaccines were working and they were wearing masks, me wearing a mask and being only 66% vaccinated was no threat to them... IF their vaccines and masks worked like they thought they did.  It was just all-around uncomfortable, illogical, and quite maddening.

Then at work a mandatum came out from on High:  Get the booster by February 21 or you will be suspended without pay ... which would lead to either using your vacation accruals, resigning, or being fired.  We were given less than three weeks to, excuse me for saying it, crap or get off the pot.

I realized that accepting This Booster, was not a final act.  It would be the beginning of many small acts of the State taking away the freedom of its people.  There will be more boosters - whether or not they are proven to be effective - there will be more mandates... and  there will be more pressure.

I thought perhaps I could ask one little question about possibly retiring and that one email took on a life of its own.  It was sent right up the food chain to the head of H.R.  I kept making it clear that I was not certain what I was going to do, no decision had been made, I just had some benefit-related questions.  Then the culture pretty much became a "Here's your hat; where's your hurry?" thing.  I felt myself in the river being propelled out the door.  

Meanwhile, I was looking at jobs online left and right.  I could not leave where I was without a place to go to, a safety net.  I was applying for this, that and the other thing.  I found a dream job in Western Massachusetts, but they refused me the courtesy of acknowledging my application or returning my subsequent follow-up phone call.  One Thursday night, I sent an email to a company I had been working for on the side.  They interviewed me the following Monday, but their offer came in significantly lower than what I needed to feed me and the three dogs and keep the roof over our heads.  Sadly, I turned them down.  Their counter-offer didn't help.  I was crestfallen, I really felt that job would be a good fit for all of us.

Then, as the deadline was coming closer I looked up to the heavens and said to my hospital friend who had passed away last year, "Trudy, you helped me get into the hospital, now please help me get out."  Next came the phone call with the second offer from the job.  I crunched numbers and realized that a few things changed in my circumstances that would make that possible.  Namely, the difference between that salary and the one that I was going to leave was a gap that almost exactly matched what my final paycheck would be from the hospital.  That's what I call "God's Math."  You don't question it, you just say Thank You and go with it.

So I gave notice and moved into the future.  Apparently my hankering towards criminal justice was not about taking a class, it was about the nature of the next job I would have (which is in that field).  I took a week off to let the dust in my brain settle.  The weight of the pressure of the previous month did not lift immediately.  But I was able to pull myself together with God's help to start training for the new job.  The first week I did a lot of talking to myself to get me into a space where I could start something completely brand-new and move into it with some sort of confidence and poise.  I like it.  I have no regrets at all.  Even when the unthinkable happened, the Friday before the mandate would be imposed, they LIFTED the ban at 4pm.  Why?  Because they must have realized it is unconstitutional to demand someone to take a foreign substance into their body when there were so many questions about side effects, efficacy, etc. and not end up with a boat-load of lawsuits.  In some cases, people who were on the fence, proverbially, just caved-in and got the booster.  I am glad now that I did not.

##############

Will the Real Joseph Please Stand Up?

 

Ugly Truth:  Here's why I am still single:  I would rather be right and alone, than be perpetually annoyed and married.  And perhaps it is as simple as that.  I do not mean to be a jerk.  But I have no patience for unnecessary errors and it seems to me a common unlikable trait that many people do not want to be enlightened and put aright:  they would rather be stubborn and wrong.  As my good friend Barb once said to me, "You do not tolerate fools gladly."  SIGH.  I must agree, this is my flaw.  

So of things that I think I am expert in and they are not many, I admit, ... I believe I should have the last word.  And I narrow the playing field down to what I know for sure:  I know my dogs for sure.  I know my religion and saints for sure.  I know the Bible for sure.  Those are things I have studied in, worked in, educated myself in so that I have a degree of expertise... and I will play that card if I have to.  

This is a holy card of St. Joseph holding baby Jesus.

For purpose of comedy I offer you the latest travesty from the field of "Hagiography," or "study of the Saints."  The religion I belong to (Catholic) celebrates people who were great people in our faith because of their virtuous lives.  We believe that when we die, we, the truest part of ourselves, do not POOF evaporate, but we return to the Creator from which we came.  AKA "God."  There is a charming campfire song from the early American Protestants that sings:

        "Will the circle be unbroken by-and-by Lord, by-and-by?  There's a better land awaiting in the sky, Lord, in the sky..."

The circle referenced in the song above is formed of people on earth who live, as well as those who have gone before us in faith.  We believe that the spirit of Love connects us.  We can talk to people who have passed, and we believe somehow they can hear us.  (We do not worship them, for they are not God.)  We believe that they care for us in our daily concerns even though they do not physically walk among us.  Even people of no faith at all may have moments where they feel that someone, somewhere, is rooting for them, or helping them out in situations otherwise unresolvable by human efforts alone.  In short, assistance of a holy one, namely, a Saint, or even Divine intervention itself is required.

With Christians, both Protestant and Catholic, we believe that eternal life is a reward gained for us by the virtue of Christ and His gift to us, not what we do ourselves.  However - and this has a 500 year-old misunderstanding behind it - some Protestants think that Catholics think we can "earn heaven by our good deeds."  We Catholics do not teach that.  BUT - and this is a big BUT - While on the one hand you can say, "Your good works cannot get  you to heaven," It is also true that "Faith without works is dead."  (If the Church had sent me to dialogue with Martin Luther instead of the other guys, we'd be in a different place today.  Just sayin'.)  Importantly, and little-known-fact:  Pope Benedict (formerly known as Cardinal Jozef Ratzinger) was involved in a theological truce in our lifetime between the Catholics and the Protestant Lutherans over this very issue.  We have come to an important understanding that you cannot say "I am saved" and not actively serve your neighbor in some way.  We do believe that HOW you live your life of faith on earth matters.  To wit, we should become holy, become saints.  The God of the Old Testament said, "Be ye holy, as I Am holy, so sanctify yourselves..." And that is the work of a lifetime, is it not?

So I have laid the foundation for you of Saints 101.  Why these people are important to us, is because they are shining examples of the power of a faith that is alive.  The Catholic Church has a liturgical calendar that celebrates at least one saint just about every day of the year.  We typically celebrate them on their Feast day, which is the day they passed on to heaven.  It is impressive  how many great human beings have actually walked among us.  Some of their names are more recognizable than others:

*St. Francis of Assisi - statues picture him feeding birds or with a wolf at his side.  

*St. Patrick of Ireland - a bishop who preached to the Irish nation before it was Christian.

*St. Nicholas - a bishop who was known for his kindness to children and the poor.  

Each of these were real, historical people who have both true stories and legends - perhaps at times a bit embellished, and other times just as frequently display daring magnanimity - that accent their biographies.  But I can tell you that from our days as small children, Catholic kids are given little booklets of pictures and stories about these men and women.  When iconographers - those who engage in the artistry of saints - put certain things in the picture, you get clues as to who they were.  For instance, martyrs or saints who were known for their purity or virginity typically carry a lily.  Sometimes those who books wrote will have a book in their hands.  You get the idea.  

True example.  One parish I went to had a statue of St. Agatha holding a palm branch that someone recently tucked into her closed fist.  I asked why, since that is not the traditional rendering of her.  The leadership at the time felt that her holding a pair of plyers might be frightening to children.  And my typical response was:  there is no excuse for not teaching people that the plyers were originally crafted into the hand of the statue because St. Agatha taught that by little acts of love and self-denial we are able to symbolically remove the nails from the hands and feet of Jesus on the cross.  The lesson being: our loving actions can ease His suffering.  

And yet other renditions of St. Agatha have her holding a plate.  Because of what appears to be on the plate, people presumed were two loaves of bread, they declared her the patron saint of cooks and bakers.  However, they are not two loaves of bread.  When she was being martyred for her faith, her cruel torturers performed a barbaric mastectomy on her ... She is pictured holding her body parts on a plate because that is her offering of herself for her faith.  Gruesome but true.  Even if you don't share her faith, you have to respect a person that will stand for their convictions to that degree ... understandably she is the patron saint of people who have breast cancer.

Okay so now that I took you through all that ... here's the funny story I promised.  St. Joseph the foster-father of Jesus is celebrated in March around the time we celebrate St. Patrick's Day.  In the days of ethnic neighborhoods 50 years ago, it used to be that the Irish Catholics would party-it-up for St. Patrick's Day; while the Polish and Italian Catholics would celebrate St. Joseph's Day.  The Irish would do a parade and corned beef and cabbage; the Italians would do a spaghetti supper and all was merry and right with the Catholic world.

So this year, in late February, two different Catholic missionary outreaches sent me a booklet of prayers in honor of St. Joseph.  Except they both bungled the picture of who they put on the booklet cover.  To the first one, I wrote this:

I received your 7 days of prayer to St. Joseph booklet.  I couldn’t stop laughing.  You put Bishop Patrick of Ireland’s picture on the front cover…. Green vestments and shamrock over his right shoulder.

Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, 

another religious Order put St. Anthony of Padua holding baby Jesus on the front cover of THEIR novena to St. Joseph!  St. Joseph didn’t have a tonsure, or a brown Franciscan habit.

 I guess catechesis really did fall apart in the last 40 years if we can’t get our saints straight by visual cues.

 Sincerely,

 C.M. Arabik

-------------------------------------------------------

I got a very kind reply of how the picture came from a Church in Scarborough, England, where perhaps there were zealous Irish parishioners who added shamrocks and green vestments to St. Joseph's picture... and that the lily and the absence of a bishop's mitre (hat) are proof it is St. Joseph.  (I aint buyin' it.  But I thanked him for his response.)  

Look, if we want to clearly teach people (and children) who is who, then we need to be OKAY with the image remaining the same over the years.  It is important.  It tells a story.  We need some things to not change in order to ground us in the faith.  We can't have an icon or photo that leaves people wondering, "who actually is this in the picture?"  

Obviously, there can be updates or changes in the style of the art that reflects the genre (ie. Byzantine art tends to have more gaunt figures than Roman art) BUT there are things that remain the same.  When you see an image of St. Dominic, he is going to have a dog carrying a torch sitting next to him because his name and the name of the religious order he founded, the Dominicans, translates from the Latin to:  "Dogs of God," as a reference to their persistence in preaching the Gospel of Christ.

I leave you with this, though, in honor of St. Patrick, I show you this image and His beloved prayer.  I prefer it much more to the short quips people attribute to him that may or may not be actually his words... ie.) "May you be in heaven a half hour before the devil knows you're dead."  Indeed.  +

:

        

Class is Now OUT of Session!

 

"Sean Connery."  What's the first thing you think of when I say that name?  (every woman, I think, over 35 goes, "oooohhh...") And why is that?

Next question, related to it:  What do Ronald Reagan, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, and Captain von Trapp all have in common?  Give up?  They are people that - in my mind - exuded a sense of Class.  

For those of you wondering what I am ranting about this time ... I am grieving the loss of a sense of nobility or "class," in our American society.  If you ask the Brits, they will tell you that there never WAS any class in the States anyways, but I disagree.  I think there were enough people that had a sense of decorum, at one point, but that is all but vanishing.

How do I know it's gone - well, at least almost gone?  Take the White House as an example.  Please.  Take the White House, and someone re-infuse some class there.  On this point, the left and the right have accidentally agreed.  

I have friends who are good, moral people and they could not vote for Donald Trump because he had no class.  I told them not to look at his behavior, but at his stance on the issues - he is, after all, from Downstate New York and those people live in a herd and yell at each other all the time.  It is their way.  In his case, once he got into Office, he couldn't stop the damn Tweeting.  Although, to be fair, Tweeting was his way of getting his opinion out there before the Media took it, re-spun it, and presented something completely Other as the rendition of what was said.  But sometimes he was crass, blunt, and behaved like an 8th grader with no parental controls on him. 

I myself, who am personally familiar with a fair cache of swear words, take issue with the utilization of them in formal diplomatic meetings.  The current occupant of the Oval Office has been an all-around disappointment and disgrace to both the Office and the Religion he claims to be a member of for many reasons.  Last week, I watched a Press conference where he looked down at the podium and said, out loud, "Stupid sons-of-bitches."  WHAT?!  In a Press Conference?!  And maybe the reporter was Stupid - which my mother taught me was "not nice" to call someone that - I don't know.  But why drag the person's mother into the slur - I who own dogs know that there are bitches (a breeding female dog's formal title) and there are bitches - a dog that is snappy and disagreeable and can't be trusted to behave properly.  Or, as a female theologian I knew once said:  "by definition, a bitch is a person who takes up a lot of psychological space."  Mull that over for a bit.

Another Biden Conference blunder:  "what the hell is going on here?"  And he's looking around the circle of people where he is sitting as if he doesn't KNOW where he is.... maybe he did not.  But, again, can we not trust him to represent the face of the country with a certain sense of class or decorum?  

I will give it to the British Monarchy, Queen Elizabeth in particular, she has walked through decades of all kinds of heartache, critique, opposition, and the attempted re-defining of the role of the aristocracy, etc. and yet she still dresses up nicely, puts on a stylish hat and smiles pleasantly when the situation warrants.  I remember the era of Lady Diana being taught to do the little "royal wave" when she was out and about, her bashful girlish smile endeared us all.  She made Princess-ship look, well, absolutely royal.  What does America have that can touch that with a ten-foot pole?  Nothing.  Really.  

From our rock stars to our Miss America pageants, we have brought forth generations of stoners and tarts.  To a large degree, the music that started out so fun in the 1940's and 1950's has morphed into an audio version of violence, profanity and indecency.  We have allowed our young people to memorize words to songs that could make my grandmother's ears fall off the side of her head, and yet they don't know the Constitution, the Ten Commandments or the Golden Rule.  They have been proselytized by music.

How the heck did barbarians take over this country?  One kid at a time.  When parents stop parenting and don't weed out behavior - when they in fact, actively role model bad behavior in front of their kids because their generation bought the "everybody's doing/saying it" lie, everything began to trend morally towards entropy.  When parents stop standing with teachers and police and principals and pastors and start siding with Junior and Missy, divide-and-conquer morality has won the day.  Your kid can grow up to wear the smartest designer clothing and drive the best car and live in opulent luxury but if you haven't taught him/her to be a decent human being, you have given him nothing of real value.

No one with a brain can under-state the role of parenting and education in determining the future of our entire society.

True story:  I was at a Parent/Teacher conference and the parent in front of me came to school in uniform ... with a gun on his hip.  Now if that is not an attempt to intimidate, I am not sure what IS.  His wife had called me on the phone wailing that I was "picking-on" their child ... I wrote a detention for her incessant talking ... and then the rest of the class miraculously became quiet students.  So all I needed to do was write ONE detention, and then I could teach class without the annoying chattering going on.  I told that mother:  "what I do to the other kids is not your concern. Your concern needs to be your kid.  I want it QUIET in my class.  I will write the detention to whomever I see talking.  All I need to do is write ONE.  Your job is to tell your kid not to be THAT ONE.  Don't talk to me about how unfair my practice is.  My JOB is to teach.  Your kid's job is to learn."  Well that was the general gist of the conversation and the mother still had the impression I was "picking on" her kid. 

Here's why I bring that up.  When you look at someone's parenting style, you can also tell how they will deal with other problems in life.  I am now realizing that is why St. Paul spells out the importance of a man having control over his own house before he becomes a deacon in the church.  If you have no control, authority or respect at home, you won't have it anywhere else.  Take THAT idea to the White House.  The Current occupant of the Oval Office clearly is covering for and dismissing the bad behavior of one of his sons.  He also referred to him as the smartest man he knows.  Hmmm.  The smartest man you know let himself be filmed with a woman who "worked the night shift" in a seedy hotel?  How is that a good image for a "smart man"?  I am willing to bet that his parenting of his sons involved a lot of useless pleading and proposing alternatives, rather than a meeting with the Board of Education to the Seat of Understanding.

So put this failure as a parent in a role of leading an entire country.  And when one big entity of evil invades, terrorizes, murders and annihilates a much smaller country, do NOT stand up at  your podium and say, "We will hold you accountable.  You've got it coming." or any such nonsense.  Because your son is living proof that you have no bite behind your meaningless barking.  And that big entity of evil is going to continue slaughtering and marauding a much smaller country, and then another, and then another, etc., because you have no moral spine.  You have no moral authority and you have no class.  There is no reason for anyone to respect you.  If the reporters in your Press Conference won't treat you with respect, and the best you can do is mutter swear words under your breath - and accidentally into the microphone - do you expect any major world power to take you seriously?  Come on, now.  

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Lord of the Foxholes

Lord of the foxholes
and the open roads
You walk with us
You bear the load.

When life is long
or dangers near,

You hold our hands;

You calm our fears.

The trials of life

that come our way

won't crush our spirit

or hold us sway

Though faith seems dark

and hope feels grim

we know we've got

a friend in Him

So teach us how 

to see this through

as You walk with us

on our way to You.

+

I wrote this on Feb. 4, 2022, as I struggled with resolving a work situation.  Little did I know that twenty days later on Feb. 24 this would more appropriately be a poem for the People of Ukraine.  

Canadian Down, eleven a.m.

 

The vacant city lot was dry and barren with nothing on it except for the body of a man lying on his back.  It was over 90 degrees Fahrenheit with the late morning sun beating down with the ferocity of a desert climate... and yet it was Canada in July.  One of my traveling companions avoided glancing to the side where the man was.  I pleaded with him:  we have to stop.  He responded dismissively that it was "just a bum."  And that was when we parted company in more ways than one.

I walked toward the man, scanning his form to see if there were any weapons that could be used against me.  Work boots tattered, navy blue work pants, and a heavy barn jacket over his shirt, he laid there motionless.  I studied his face, a strange bronze-copper color, with beads of sweat across his forehead.  He had a beard, but I could not tell his age. I wondered if he was an indigenous Canadian.  He did not look like any race I had ever seen before.  As I studied him quickly, I stated the obvious to my traveling companion who was now a few feet away from me:  "we have to see if he is alive."  And so my friend kicked his foot.

Yeah.  No kidding.  I shouted:  "Don't kick him.  Just watch to see if his chest is rising and falling."  (I may not be a medical genius, but I think that is a basic barometer of life that is a little more humane than kicking him.)   The guy appeared to be breathing but did not stir.  He did not gasp or flinch a muscle of his hand or anything.  I turned and sprinted to the building next door:  a laundromat.  

Behind the manager's counter of the laundromat, a thirty-something woman chatted with a man in a light, disengaged way.  I think the technical term for it is "shooting the breeze" but in any country it really was kind of just ordinary flirting.  I was out of breath a bit from my sprint as I burst through the door, reluctant travel companion behind me and still a nonparticipant in the errand of mercy.  I forced out my words:  "Do you speak English?"  If she did, she decided it would be a bit of fun to pretend she did not.  

With my thumb and pinky I made the universal symbol for telephone ... which is also the Hawaiian symbol for "hang loose, the waves are great today."  I know NO FRENCH.  Whatever I had from a brief unit in Junior High had completely vacated my brain.  But I took a stab at Spench, my basic Spanish with a French accent, thinking she might understand "Policia," - plus, hand gesture for phone - "Call Policia."  She could not have possibly been less interested in my earnest plea.  She smirked at me like I was a fool.  A man at the dryers turned and said, "can I help?"  I asked him to please call the police for the man outside.  I took him out and pointed at the semi-lifeless form on the dirt.  He said he would take care of it and I left it with him.

I was, frankly, a little rattled at this entire interchange.  But almost more disturbing than that was my companion's lack of interest in the whole business.  You see, for the past few days as a small group of us traveled to a major Canadian religious shrine, he and I were having an ongoing, shall we call it a "linguistics disagreement."  When we had arrived at the shrine on Saturday, we stood before the biography of Brother Andre Bessette which was engraved on a large bronze slate... in French.  My companions were bi-lingual Spanish-English.  I am an English-as-first-language with a smattering of education in conversational Spanish, Biblical Greek, musical Latin, and swear words in Polish.  So my insistence that he stand with me and we try to decipher the biography which was in French was met with:  "I don't speak French."  I countered with:  "I don't either, but Spanish is a romance-language and some of the words you can actually SEE are similar."  He wasn't buying it.  He was deeply religious and didn't give a rat's bum what the biography said.  Why were we at this shrine anyways?

And THAT is the under-pinning of the Sunday morning encounter with the guy on the ground.  We had actually JUST walked out of Mass and the Gospel was the story of the Good Samaritan.  I understood that much from looking at the printed French gospel passage in the missalette:  The Good Samaritan helped a man he found alongside a road who was beaten up and left to die.  I had heard this story many, many times in English so I knew the point.  Religious people walked right by the man in the story.  A priest, a rabbi, a someone else, all walked by and left the guy - it read like the beginning of a golf joke.  But, truly, who was the "someone else" in the story?  

When I saw that guy on the ground and insisted we respond, I was making sure that I wasn't the "someone else" who walked on by.  Here was the moment to respond.  I may have missed others accidentally, I missed at least two because I was afraid to get involved, but this one I would NOT miss.  Over the years since then, it has given me cause to ponder the great quote of G.K. Chesterton:

            "The Christian ideal has not been tried and found wanting.  

                                    It has been found difficult, and left untried."

It seems to me, some people spend a lot of time praying and don't ever take the vehicle out of neutral.  And as someone once quipped:  "Even God can't steer a parked car." We wouldn't mind if God used us to preach to the nations, to do healing crusades, to drive out demons, to have television shows and radio spots.  We wouldn't mind that at all.  And yet, He often just needs us to be present to the moment of need that is before us.  He needs us to not live like Christian zombies going through the motions of devout life, without ever really kicking it into gear.  

Perhaps that is radical.  But that is the Message we were given.  And it changed the known world when it first began to be lived out loud two thousand years ago.  May we always have the courage to do the right thing the first time.  May God have mercy on us for the times we fail, and may the angels cheer us when we succeed in being His children and doing what He would do for those in need around us.

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I Am Miss Understanding

 

I laid on my side on the cot in the small jail cell, scrunched almost into a fetal position, pondering how things had gotten this out of hand. What excuse could I offer before a judge for my behavior? Heretofore I had prided myself (and therein lies the key) on my pleasant, almost cherub-like disposition. I had made it my business to “roll with the punches” of life. And yet I had only entered the new year by days and my whole mentality just melted right down. Over 50 years of almost boring predictable stability and I shot it all to … yeah.

I am not surrendering responsibility for my behavior on a tiny virus that has up-ended the entire world. I will not say that the stress of listening to weekly political haranguing had worn me down that far to make me lose my temper. I cannot even give credit for my melt down to my run-in a few months ago with a bump on my skin that had the potential to be the other, in fact, the FIRST C-word, because, as I had anticipated, that had turned out to be a nuthin’ burger as well. Or perhaps the cloudless days of Central New York, end-upon-end, had put me in a funk. Nope. I aint gonna blame what happened on none of those things … I will let you be the judge …

December 31^st approximately 11 am.

I ordered my nephew’s Christmas present online too close to Christmas. True fact. So, I while I traveled out of state to see my family, the delivery truck went to my own front door and left his present there. I didn’t ship it to his house directly because, frankly, I had also ordered an adorable front door mat that was too good a deal to pass up. So, I had been back in town maybe three days when I realized I needed to get my Act together and pack this thing up and ship it to him. I took a box that had recently been used to ship reams of paper. I put the gifts into the box. I wrapped the box sideways at the seam with duct tape, and over the top with clear cellophane packing tape. There were no other address markings on the box. It was in ship-shape, quite literally, and THIS is what the kid at the shipping store sad to me:

“Good morning. So, you want to ship this out, but I’m not sure we can send it like this. It’s not a shipping box.”

What do you mean? It’s sealed tightly. There are no other addresses on it. The labeling is clear. What do you mean?

And he repeated: “It’s not a shipping box.”

YES it is.

“I need to call my manager to check on this.”

Yes. You do. (and at this point, I am 3 and a half seconds from picking up this box and going to some other shipping office …)

And the manager lady comes and says: “This IS a shipping box. PAPER shipped in it.”

End of story. The box shipped and nobody got smacked. I went to work at the hospital and life went on … until 5pm.

December 31^st approximately 5:30 pm.

I went to the wine store to buy something sweet and fruity for New Year’s Eve... and I do not mean tangerines. I brought two bottles to the counter and the guy rang me up instantly. I said to him, “So even with my mask on, at least you didn’t ‘card me’ …” He grinned and said something about knowing better. I smiled behind my smurf mask and replied, “Good for you, because I’m old enough to be your mother...” and we both laughed.

Then I got in the car and wondered if I would have been flattered if he HAD carded me... or at least argued that I couldn’t possibly be old enough to be his mother...

December 31^st approximately 5:45 pm.

I walk into the grocery store to make my Big Purchase for my solo flight New Year’s Eve dinner: a lobster. I go back to the fresh tank and there is a kid working behind the counter sweeping; maybe he was in his late 20’s to early 30’s. He spins around like a dreidel – almost off balance – and asks how he can help me. (Now the million-dollar question is not HOW, but IF, anyone can help me...)

I need you to fish one of those lobsters out of the tank for me, about 2 pounds or so. Really, any one of them would be fine.

“I can’t handle the live lobsters. I’m just the janitor. I can get you something out of the meat case, but I can’t handle the lobsters. They told me not to handle the live lobsters.”

Well then, who can help do that for me?

“I don’t know. The butchers all just left for the evening.”

(Of course they did.) All right, I’m going to go to the front of the store and find Someone.

There is a girl sorting coupons or something at the front desk. She’s the one who re-directs traffic if the lines get too long at checkout stations. She cheerfully sprints to the Customer Servants’ Hiding Place (let’s be honest that’s what it really is) and pages A Guy to the meat department. I turn my cart around and try to get there more quickly just as I see him walk up to the janitor kid and say: “Why did you page me?” and the kid literally throws his hands up in the air and says: “I didn’t page you. I don’t know WHY they paged you back here.” The guy is annoyed. By now I am six feet behind him literally waving my arms in the air behind him and jumping up on my tip-toes saying: “It’s ME. I paged you. I need help!” And he turns toward me and says: “yeah?” with just that much enthusiasm.

Meanwhile at the live tank of lobsters a man and his little son are enjoying watching lobsters crawl over each other and fling their claws around. The father said out loud, “We are just looking.”

The store employee looks at the man and says, “You’re together? Then you don’t need me.”

And I shout, “WAIT! We are not together – I NEED YOU TO PULL A LOBSTER OUT OF THERE.”

And he turns to the janitor and berates him: “Why didn’t YOU help with this?” And the kid stammers again about not being able – I mean, allowed - to handle a live lobster. The store Big Guy seriously said to me: “I don’t know how to do that.” At which point I realized I had two first-class sissy babies waiting on me and I switched into my Teacher Mode:

They aren’t going to get you because their claws are banded. You just reach in, pull one out (tell me I’m not seriously giving these directions to this joker), put him IN a bag, put him ON the scale, weigh him, PRINT the tag, TAPE it on the bag and I will go away happy. Oh, and you may want to use that rake to pull him up out of the water.

“I know that.” (no, you didn’t.)

He fished a lobster out and then put it on the counter and tried to hold it down with one hand. It was at that point he said to our janitor friend: “I need a bag.” And the best they could do was a 30-gallon trash bag which he made no attempt to tie-off so that the lobster wouldn’t escape and crawl around my shopping cart. Not to worry, that’s why I carry bricks in my purse: I just set it on top of the lobster bag and anchored the whole thing down. I had the amazing foresight to go to the self-check-out lane to avoid any further complications with humans.

I went home, made dinner, never opened the wine and settled in to watch tv with the dogs.

The next day my notice came in the bank that my IRA was reaching its maturity date. If I did not direct them otherwise, they were going to roll it over into the same crappy amount of interest for the next year or two. Well, I might need that money for something I’ve got up my sleeve, so I needed to make a call and change their plan.

January 3, around 10:30 am

A quick phone call to the lending institution while I was taking a stretch break from work.

Hi, I just got a letter from you stating that my IRA is maturing on January 14 and I don’t want to renew it. I want you to roll the money into a savings account.

“Are you over 50? Because if you are, then I don’t have to charge a penalty fee.”

Yes, I’m over 50 and why would you have to charge a fee?

“Because you are taking it out before it matures. And we don’t have savings accounts, but I could put it into Shares for you.”

No. I am just CALLING you before it matures. Do you want me to actually come into a branch on January 14 to do this?

“Well, I will put a note in your file for Them, so they know you are going to do that.”

Great. I just didn’t want to somehow miss the window of opportunity and have you roll it over.

January 15^th at some point in time.

I walk into the bank with my smurf mask on and I tell them: “I want my IRA. I want it in cash. In fact, I want it all in pennies and dimes. AND I want it within the next ten minutes so that I am not late to work.”

Someone pushes a button under the counter. They hand me a bag of dimes that was not the right amount and I fling them all over the floor and begin screaming: COVID MADE ME DO IT! IT’S TRUMP’S FAULT! IT’S BIDEN’S FAULT! IT’S PELOSI’S FAULT! IT’S THE GUY ON THE RADIO’S FAULT! IT’S THE GUYS WHO ARE AFRAID OF LOBSTERS AT THE GROCERY STORE FAULTS! I’M HAVING A MIDLIFE CRISIS AND YOU JAMOKES ARE NOT HELPING! I’M HANGRY! FRIENDLY’S CLOSED ALL THEIR LOCAL STORES AND I NEED A SWISS CHOCOLATE ALMOND SUNDAE RIGHT NOW! ONE OF MY DOGS IS IN SEASON AND I HAVE TO KEEP THE OTHER ONE AWAY FROM HER FOR TWO WEEKS AND I AM GOING OUT OF MY COTTON-PICKIN'-MIND! MY WHOLE LIFE IS UPSIDE DOWN AND IT IS ONLY THE SECOND WEEK OF 2022!

And then strong arms wrapped around me... but not the way I needed them to... “Ma’am, we will take care of you. Calm down.” And my shoulders wanted to fight against them being moved backwards and funny-like and the click of handcuffs sounded a lot worse in real life.

You have the right to remain silent.... (but isn’t that the whole problem?! I’m supposed to remain silent through all this idiocy around me?! I FINALLY just snapped.) Anything you say can, and will, be held against you in the court of law (you are so handsome, could you just say that one more time I like hearing your voice.) You have the right to an attorney (somehow, I don’t think she wants to take this call from me) … the courts will appoint one for you … (can I request Benny Colone from “Bull”)…

Words, droning on and on … sounds like a dog snoring in the other room …

January 4^th 6:30 am.

As I get all this off my proverbial chest, I feel a being hover over my cot. I thought it was the sheriff, come to take me to the court. Hot breath in my face with a strange smell, like, dog food of some sort made me turn my head to the side and un-curl myself. I started to come to my senses: I was NOT in jail. Madeline Grace, with her soft chocolate-brown fur, looked down at me with those soulful cocker-spaniel eyes. I was home in my bed, truly and for real. I rolled my face into my pillow for a minute, almost fearful of what people would dish-out to me today. She butted my arm with her nose. I got up, offered my whole day and self to God, and bravely began a new day. And perhaps, that is all we can do.

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(BTW: In case you got confused: January 15^th never happened. All of the other days DID, exactly as I told you!)

Joseph and Mary Among us in Disguise

 

Sometimes things are not as bad as you think they are:  they are worse.  The day I learned that true-fact is the day I almost burst out crying at work almost two decades ago.  I also learned the important lesson that you ONLY learn by experience, regardless of how many times people say to you, “Don’t judge.”  (which I hate by the way.  By default, when someone says, “Don’t judge,” they have already judged you, and that doesn’t feel good either).  I don’t remember their names, but I remember the day I met them in person.  I always think of them as Mary and Joseph now.  Yes, that Mary and Joseph.  They were young.  They were in distress.  And they were fighting a System that doesn’t always see the situation in entirety before it passes judgment.

I received a phone call from a young man asking that I produce proof of his attending a birthing class with his fiancée.  The urgency in his voice was palpable.  I became suspicious.  I presumed this was some attempt at fighting the young woman for custody of the baby.  He said his lawyer told him it would help to prove he was a good father if he could get written proof of attending the classes.  When I hear the word “lawyer” my ears perk up.  People never seem to have lawyers engaged when things are going well or are uncomplicated.  I wasn’t sure if I could find the information he needed and I wasn’t breaking any speed records to get it.  Again, I presumed he was making this young mother’s life miserable in some way. I deferred him.  But he just called back again, pleading for the proof that he attended the five classes, that were two hours each. 

The next week, the couple walked into my office.  The young woman then personally asked me for the proof that he attended the classes.  The feel of something being “off” was in the air, but I had never felt this kind of OFF before.  I asked her why they needed proof for attendance for the lawyer.  She looked at me with deep pain and said, “you don’t know?”  No. 

You can understand what rain is being inside the house and looking out the window to watch it rain.

You can understand what rain is being under an umbrella and seeing it rain around you.

But you only can truly understand rain when you are standing IN THE RAIN, outside Noah’s ark, and getting soaking wet.

I was about to get rained-on.

She told me the baby had been ill in the middle of the night and needed a decongestant.  The good young father had gotten up so that she could rest and gave the baby cough syrup.  Only … he accidentally gave the baby too much.  That is easy to do no matter what age you are.  I reflected later that I had made a similar mistake with a non-lethal medication once and was very unnerved.  But what happened to this couple is … the baby died.  And so they had some part of the Institution of our society trying to put him in jail for manslaughter when it was a very tragic accident. 

How do you know someone is innocent in a case like this?  Perhaps I would make a poor juror, but I could see his innocence with my own eyes:  as she spoke, the pain that went across his face was even painful to watch.  He dropped his chin down as if his life would be “over” no matter which way the court went with the data.  And I get that.  Haven’t we all done things in life, even much less serious, that haunt our memories?  We may be the only one who remembers the mis-placed word, the unkind event, whatever it was, that torments us?  We want forgiveness, but we cannot forgive ourselves.  In his case, I sensed his struggle would be indefinite.  And she stood by him when I handed them the proof of class attendance and I wished them healing and peace.  How I wanted to wrap my arms around both of them to show them how deeply I felt for them … Mary and Joseph seeking a place of shelter from this terrible sadness – the loss of their beloved child.

At this time of year when we celebrate the birth of The Baby in Bethlehem, let us remember in a special way all those who have lost children … in all of the many and sad ways people lose children.  Let us grieve with those who grieve, so that we may hasten the time of rejoicing to return.