Something that surprised me about Africa was that most everyone spoke English. I learned it was a way to unify all the the countries & tribes. If we are completely honest it probably has a bit more to do with colonization than it does with unity, but that's not my point. The children were excited to speak english with the Mzungu visiting their village. They would ask "How are you?" "I'm well, how are you?" and a chorus of flat monotone "fine(s)" would fill all the space between me and their beautiful faces. I started saying things like "terrific" and "absolutely fantastic", mainly to puzzled looks, when posed the same question. It just rubbed me the wrong way that I had traveled half way around the world to hear the conversation I have with people every day. The one with the hidden meaning, I don't really want to tell you how I am because I know you don't really care. Maybe they got it right, don't be rude and tell people what they want to hear. Learning the english language with a side of our philosophy as well.
I was struck with something I read about a guy I knew. It said "he is one of the nicest guys I know, no one kinder". Well from my experience he is a good guy, but he was also one of the biggest assholes I've ever had the pleasure of knowing, and I knew him well. So as my thoughts tend to do I looked at myself first. Was there something particular about me that brought out his brand of asshole like no one else has ever seen? Maybe. I am challenging yes, but I haven't typically brought that out in anyone else I've known. So what else? Oh yeah... he was super concerned with what other people thought about him. His modus operandus was to tell you what you wanted to hear. Well, of course someone who tells you what you want to hear is going to come across as nice and kind. That is as long as things remain on the surface and you never learn what he really thinks. You'll never feel the rage that comes like a tidal wave swallowing everything in it's path.
When did nice replace honest?
When did fine become our answer to everything?
For the sake of everything interesting and engaging avoid the bland and monotone. Dig deeper and be honest, you might be met with puzzled looks. Who cares? I guarantee your life will become infinitely more interesting. Life is short, don't waste your time on anything less.
Thursday, April 17, 2014
Tuesday, April 15, 2014
pain, fear and love
"Live life to the point of tears" Camus.
I'll admit I don't know a lot about Albert Camus, and I picked up this philosophy from a notable quotes magnet stuck to my fridge. I'm a crier, happy, sad, distraught, frustrated, elated, or devastated. My favorite kind of tears are the ones that fall out of my eyes when I'm laughing so hard I can't catch my breath. Unfortunately those are not the ones I had to face this week. My worst fear happened over the weekend, the one I actually vocalized to a friend, through my tears, that I didn't think I could handle if it were to happen. That same friend told me the news.
I cursed a lot... and so did most of my friends.
Well I'm still standing. I thought it would knock me down or shatter my heart and instead, emboldened as if I have something to prove, I want to yell back "what else you got?"
But I haven't, because... well... it hurts like hell.
I think I would love for my rational brain to invade my heart and shut it down. Shut down the fear and little anxieties that plague my hope. But doing so also cuts off my ability to love, hope and dream. Since I am a feeler. I want to feel. I hope to feel happy but that's not always the case.
I don't know why I distrust that I will have the strength and wisdom I need to deal with whatever I have to face. The fear is the present dealing with the future instead of the present dealing with the present. We are strong enough, we will we be strong enough or we will gain the strength as we walk through whatever life brings.
We are in the final days of Lent, and the call of these 40 days to open our hearts to Him is not lost on me.
Rend your hearts not your garments.
My heart feels wounded and exposed. Pierced and infected with a lifetime of pain and hurt that have grown into fear and insecurity. Insecurities that remain mostly hidden to all but those who resemble the ones who inflected the pain.
Fully surrounded I have no choice but to surrender.
There is a connection between pain, fear and love that none of us escape. I truly believe when we can express our own hearts and listen to those of others we will find none of us are alone. What I think makes me a crazy lunatic actually points to the fact that I am a real live human being wrestling with the fact I have a heart big enough to feel pain and still have room to love. Even when it hurts I wouldn't want it any other way.
_____
I wish her insight to battle love's blindness
Strength from the milk of human kindness
a safe place for all the pieces that scattered
learn to pretend there's more than love that matters
Monday, April 14, 2014
St. Mary Magdalene
I love to find out how or why someone chose their particular patron. The stories are as varied as the saints themselves. What's interesting is more often than not the explanation I hear is the saint chooses you. I'm inclined to agree. My patron seized my heart long before becoming Catholic was a thought in my head.
Kneeling next to a lake on a blue camping tarp when I was 16 years old spending a week with friends and fellow campers who had become like family to me over the past 3 summers. The pastor was praying the sinners prayer and at the time I believed myself to praying it with him. My words were much different. I was baptized with my sister 97 days after I jumped feet first into the world. That evening by the lake my heart, comprehending what my mind wouldn’t until years later, formed the words "Thank You… thank you… thank you… thank you…" over and over again. "Thank you for your protection. Your hand in my life this far. Your wisdom and guidance..." Lost inside my faith and my prayer, when I opened my eyes I realized, the tears that have been pouring out of my eyes have pooled around my knees on the blue plastic. I have never doubted the source of Mary Magdalene’s tears, nor the faith and love that led her to the feet of Jesus. I’ve found myself again and again over the past 23 years on my knees lost in my own prayer of tears.
Oh, but the Saints are thorough and persistent.
After finding myself at Mass more and more. Experiencing Lent with the Church I longed to fully celebrate Easter. Knowing I couldn’t partake in the Eucharist. Licit or not, I could receive a blessing from the Priest or Deacon. I filed out of my pew making sure my arms were crossing my heart as I stepped up to the Deacon. Bob. He blesses me making the sign of the cross and saying “Mendy, May Almighty God bless you, the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen”. I was a little surprised he said my name, no one had before and no one has since, but it was Deacon Bob. He and I had spent an hour every Sunday over the past 3 months talking about what it means to be Catholic. He patiently answering all the new questions I came up with week after week. He knew me well. Why wouldn’t he use my name?
The Gospel reading every Easter morning is about Mary Magdalene. That early Sunday morning she trails behind Peter and John running to the tomb. She’s already been there. It’s her second trip. She is the first to see Jesus is gone, missing… taken? She’s brought Peter and John back. They assess the scene and return home. She weeps, heavy hearted and confused... lost. She sees the gardener and asks him where they have taken Him. He looks at her and says “Mary”, and she KNOWS. She knows He is not the gardener. She knows He is so much more than she will ever comprehend.
I also share my patron with my beautiful God Daughter, who coincidentally (if you believe in them) was baptized on her feast day, July 22 2012.
St Mary Magdalene, Pray for us.
Kneeling next to a lake on a blue camping tarp when I was 16 years old spending a week with friends and fellow campers who had become like family to me over the past 3 summers. The pastor was praying the sinners prayer and at the time I believed myself to praying it with him. My words were much different. I was baptized with my sister 97 days after I jumped feet first into the world. That evening by the lake my heart, comprehending what my mind wouldn’t until years later, formed the words "Thank You… thank you… thank you… thank you…" over and over again. "Thank you for your protection. Your hand in my life this far. Your wisdom and guidance..." Lost inside my faith and my prayer, when I opened my eyes I realized, the tears that have been pouring out of my eyes have pooled around my knees on the blue plastic. I have never doubted the source of Mary Magdalene’s tears, nor the faith and love that led her to the feet of Jesus. I’ve found myself again and again over the past 23 years on my knees lost in my own prayer of tears.
Oh, but the Saints are thorough and persistent.
After finding myself at Mass more and more. Experiencing Lent with the Church I longed to fully celebrate Easter. Knowing I couldn’t partake in the Eucharist. Licit or not, I could receive a blessing from the Priest or Deacon. I filed out of my pew making sure my arms were crossing my heart as I stepped up to the Deacon. Bob. He blesses me making the sign of the cross and saying “Mendy, May Almighty God bless you, the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen”. I was a little surprised he said my name, no one had before and no one has since, but it was Deacon Bob. He and I had spent an hour every Sunday over the past 3 months talking about what it means to be Catholic. He patiently answering all the new questions I came up with week after week. He knew me well. Why wouldn’t he use my name?
The Gospel reading every Easter morning is about Mary Magdalene. That early Sunday morning she trails behind Peter and John running to the tomb. She’s already been there. It’s her second trip. She is the first to see Jesus is gone, missing… taken? She’s brought Peter and John back. They assess the scene and return home. She weeps, heavy hearted and confused... lost. She sees the gardener and asks him where they have taken Him. He looks at her and says “Mary”, and she KNOWS. She knows He is not the gardener. She knows He is so much more than she will ever comprehend.
I also share my patron with my beautiful God Daughter, who coincidentally (if you believe in them) was baptized on her feast day, July 22 2012.
St Mary Magdalene, Pray for us.
Sunday, April 13, 2014
Passion (Palm) Sunday
One of my favorite things about being Catholic is the liturgical calendar. Specifically because we do the same things each year it's a small way to recognize my growth, based on my thoughts and my feelings, rather than inches on a door frame.
Ironically enough it was the non-denominational Church I was attending before converting that hinted back to this. Specifically their Good Friday service. It was there, for the first time, I recognized my posture to Jesus on the cross. I think we all want to believe we are John, Mary or Magdalene distraught at the foot. Not one of the other apostles dispersed, denying or betraying.
Or worse...
At the foot of the cross, I find myself more often than not a mocker in the crowd or the other thief, shouting "if you really are Christ prove it..."
I had never fully embraced this about myself or heard anyone admit that's where we sometimes sit. So you might imagine how surprised I was finding myself in the middle of the gospel reading at Mass on Palm Sunday shouting:
“Let him be crucified!”
"His blood be on us, and on our children."
"Hail, king of the Jews!"
“You who would destroy the temple and build it in three days, save yourself! If you are the Son of God, come down from the cross.”
“Wait, let us see whether Elijah will come to save him.”
Knowing those closest to Jesus didn't find themselves at the foot of the cross either. There is something honest in saying these things out loud. Something soul wringing and comforting that my salvation isn't worked out in one moment but over and over again when the love of Christ on the cross shines in the darkest places of my heart. There is something human about struggling and failing, finding Jesus on the cross and getting back up again. Rather than acting as if I have it all together because "it is finished". We are not forgotten, we are called back to Him again and again in the question He asks Peter. "Do you love me?"
I do.
I will fail to.
I will confess.
I will try again.
Ironically enough it was the non-denominational Church I was attending before converting that hinted back to this. Specifically their Good Friday service. It was there, for the first time, I recognized my posture to Jesus on the cross. I think we all want to believe we are John, Mary or Magdalene distraught at the foot. Not one of the other apostles dispersed, denying or betraying.
Or worse...
At the foot of the cross, I find myself more often than not a mocker in the crowd or the other thief, shouting "if you really are Christ prove it..."
I had never fully embraced this about myself or heard anyone admit that's where we sometimes sit. So you might imagine how surprised I was finding myself in the middle of the gospel reading at Mass on Palm Sunday shouting:
“Let him be crucified!”
"His blood be on us, and on our children."
"Hail, king of the Jews!"
“You who would destroy the temple and build it in three days, save yourself! If you are the Son of God, come down from the cross.”
“Wait, let us see whether Elijah will come to save him.”
Knowing those closest to Jesus didn't find themselves at the foot of the cross either. There is something honest in saying these things out loud. Something soul wringing and comforting that my salvation isn't worked out in one moment but over and over again when the love of Christ on the cross shines in the darkest places of my heart. There is something human about struggling and failing, finding Jesus on the cross and getting back up again. Rather than acting as if I have it all together because "it is finished". We are not forgotten, we are called back to Him again and again in the question He asks Peter. "Do you love me?"
I do.
I will fail to.
I will confess.
I will try again.
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