Missing treasures

I've found myself these last couple of days really spending quality time in the Lord's presence in the morning upon rising, rather than just a few fleeting and unfocused moments.

Yesterday was the memorial of St. Mary Magdalene, and the Office of Readings contained a wonderful reflection on her from St. Gregory the Great, pope. He pointed out Mary's great grief over Jesus, and how distraught she was that his body had been "taken away." In her longing for him, she alone remained behind where his body had been laid, and so became the first to encounter her risen Lord. She recognized him, but not until he called her by name.

So with us. When our hearts burn for everything except our Lord (or, when we allow other things to become lord over us), we do not encounter him so quickly, though he may be appearing to us in so many ways. And it is only when we he calls us by name that we recognize and respond to him.

Today is the memorial of St. Bridget of Sweden, and the Hours contained a wonderful prayer attributed to her based on Christ's passion, death, and resurrection. It mirrors how I've reflected on Jesus' wondrous sacrifice for us, and gives me something to reflect on as I prepare to work on revising Jubilee's Way of the Cross program for next Lent . . .

Sometimes it really is who you know

I'd deciced that the line down the front fork of my bike might be a crack, which isn't the sort of thing to take chances with. When carbon fiber fails, things can get ugly fast. I can't help thinking about what could've happened had it given out three weeks ago, hurtling downhill at 30+ mph, doubting whether I was gonna make it around the curve, my rear tire starting to slip out from under me as I tried to bring my speed back under control, a farm tractor trundling up the hill in the lane I was certain I was heading for. (Somehow I'd made it; I swear it must've been my guardian angel, because I thought for sure I'd lost it.)

At any rate, last Thursday we were enjoying a couple brews with our friend who'd wiped out earlier the day of my close call, breaking his scapula and collapsing a lung (ouch!). So I figure I'll probe the group's collective expertise concerning my fork. The young lady (she's 25 or so, the daughter of one of my friends) pipes up right away: it seems the cycling shop where she works has the exact fork I've been looking at online, which someone had bought and returned the previous week because it was the wrong size for their bike. It couldn't be sold as new, having already been cut to length; she was certain it'd fit my bike.

Sure enough, I was able to get a clearance price on the exact component I'd decided on, and with installation it cost less than the fork itself would have run me otherwise.

(Thanks, God!)

Never judge too quickly . . .

In this case, that maxim would apply to the weekend.

I took off Friday afternoon to rent a chain saw (28" bar!) to take care of the rest of the downed tree in my backyard. Well, I simply couldn't get the thing to start; it kept flooding, even after I returned to the rental place for additional instruction. This was basically the same saw I used to drop a tree in my front yard last year, but basically all I accomplished with my afternoon off was a nap, after which I was still ticked off. The whole situation just evoked a lot of emotional baggage from my youth. Finally I decided to pull on my cycling clothes for a vigorous evening ride, which was just what I needed, though with riding so hard I ended up staying up later than I'd planned . . .

Saturday morning brought a nice men's fellowship meeting, and a short rehearsal with a new guitarist who's joining our parish music ministry. Then we had plans to visit an area lake, where some friends were hosting a get-together for our marriage encounter group. We took along some freshly-picked corn to share with everyone; early in the season, so the ears weren't too full, but they certainly were sweet! Spent some fine time on the lake; took lots of pictures, which I haven't had a chance to download yet or I'd include one or two (maybe will add later). There were storms in the area, but only one while we were there, which came through when we were already indoors. The drive home was quite stormy - I don't think a minute of the hour-long drive passed without lightning illuminating the sky, and it absolutely poured for about half the drive - but uneventful.

Yesterday we had a couple new musicians join us at Mass, and welcomed back a young choir member who just finished a year in Latin America; as it happened, we were starting our communion hymn with a verse in Spanish, so she and I did a duet on it. In the afternoon we were going to a festival at one of the area churches, as a friend's band was playing. But it was such an incredibly gorgeous day that I decided to ride my bike, with the mrs. and another friend meeting me there. Nice group, very tight, did a great job covering a broad variety of tunes, from In the Mood to Spanish Eyes to Black Magic Woman. By the time they'd finished, we'd decided it was a fine day for a picnic, too, so I rode the bike to a nice park in the area (which, conveniently, I had to ride past to get home anyway) and staked out a picnic table while everyone else went and got the food and supplies. We hung out there for a couple hours as we cooked and ate and cleaned up. A brisk bike ride home completed the day.

With as wonderful as the weekend turned out, it's hard to believe I was in such a sour mood on Friday.

A call to service?

Some dreams are of no apparent significance, or may even seem utter nonsense. Others, upon further consideration, prove unconsciously revelatory, teaching me about my hidden attitudes and feelings. And then there are those that, initially, seem to ring out with an undeniable truth, but really end up preparing me for something entirely unexpected.

This morning, after hitting the snooze button (a once-per-morning ritual for me), I dreamt I was sitting on a sofa with my oldest sister-in-law, whom I also consider a dear friend, waiting for my wife to be ready for us to go somewhere. (For the life of me I don't know where we were; I didn't recognize the house.) With tears in my eyes, I lamented to her: "I know in my mind that the greatest joy we can ever know is to give fully of ourselves. But this knowledge doesn't seem to translate into action in my life." At this point, the second sounding of the radio broke through my slumber, so this was a fresh thought as I awoke.

The sense I had was of service to the poor, the sick, the homeless, etc., rather than of giving myself in love to my wife, which, while I think I'm doing fairly well at, is nonetheless an area in which most of us could still use some improvement.

This dream resonated with several things that I know to be true or have recently experienced. First, true giving of ourselves is, in fact, a gift to us. This has never failed to prove true in my life. Second, as I was mowing the back yard last night I kept thinking, almost as a mantra: of those to whom much is given, much is required. I was struck by how blessed I have been, in so many ways, and how little it seems I give in return. Third, I am still moved by the heart-stirring story I read yesterday of Our Lady of Perpetual Help Home, just outside Turner Field in Atlanta.

Once in the past, such a dream portended an opportunity for service that I might not have recognized without it. Fifteen years ago, a vivid dream of my late grandfather left me with a strong sense of our society's abandonment of the aged. It was the second thing within the week that had called my attention to this issue; I don't really remember what the first was. But that Sunday, there was a notice in our parish bulletin soliciting volunteers to provide geriatric respite care. (Respite caregivers assist family members who are caring for someone who requires constant supervision, by giving them a break of a few hours to run errands or just go relax for a while.) I volunteered, was trained, and ended up serving in place of another caregiver while she recovered from an accident. It "just happened" that my availability coincided with her injury; the change in my work schedule that necessitated the end of my service also "happened" to coincide with her getting clearance to resume her caregiving activity. Still, it was a real joy to care for and get to know my charge, a quite lucid but physically declining 94-year-old man who was being cared for by his rather spry 74-year-old son.

Now I've read this article, and had these thoughts and this dream. It could be that the latter were simply unconscious reactions to the former. Still, I think I'd better be attentive over the next few days for a fresh opportunity to serve.