A not-so-blissful dream

I'm not sure what family members I was watching with, perhaps my daughter and son-in-law, fast-forwarding through the program on the DVR.  Suddenly one of them told me to stop, to back up, and a pornographic scene began to play out on the screen.  I was appalled by what I saw, embarrassed to be seeing it with them.  I started to change the channel, but they insisted on viewing this, entertained by it.  The scene before me grew increasingly perverse, and suddenly I was not watching but present in it.  Still dismayed, I was the only one who thought anything wrong with the drunken debauchery.  Yet as the scene resolved, I didn't feel angry toward the participants who had reveled in their pleasure undeterred by and uncaring of my presence.  Instead, I went about cleaning up the mess they'd left behind, my heart full of tenderness toward them.

I awoke knowing this was God's view of my life, not of the sin over which I've wrenched my heart for so long, but of that I've tolerated or excused.  He doesn't want me to beat myself up over it.  But he wants me to see it as he does, even if the world around me would scoff at this point of view and encourage me to continue to accept or excuse what God would have me reject.

We need to be careful with our dreams, and pay them neither too much nor too little heed.  Considered properly, some of them can reveal our unconscious thoughts; others may simply be random chemical and electrical activity in our marvelous, mysterious brains.  Some of my dreams seem best ignored, others bring insight simply taken at face value, and some seem to open up with further consideration.  One way that I've been taught to analyze some of my dreams doesn't seem widely practiced, but on the few occasions I've used it I've found it most revelatory.  I doubt I'll ever forget the first dream I considered in this way, nearly 14 years ago.

Assume each element of the dream represents the dreamer in some way - some different aspect, feeling, or attitude of myself.  So it isn't just dream-me that represents me, but the dream-others, the dream setting, and the different dream-objects reflect some part of me as well.  In this dream, I am the television, revealing the impure activity.  I am the other viewers, entertained by the sinfulness on display, feeling curious and titillated and envious.  I am represented by the participants in the scene, though in the dream I was not them, taking my pleasure heedless of its effect on anyone around me.  I am the setting in which the action occurs - a restroom, actually - intended for one purpose but now perverted for another.  There are other elements, too graphic to include here, that represent my shame and humiliation.  But in the end, I am the one who sees the harmfulness of the activity and is repulsed by it, yet somehow - maybe for the first time in my life actually cutting myself some slack - still loving those (myself) who have offended, wanting something more for them (me), and trying to clean up the wrongdoing and its aftermath.

I've never considered that the final element of the dream may be the one that represents the thing I should most be aware of, but that was certainly the case in that first dream I considered in this way, and it seems true of this one, too.

Or maybe it's just another goofy, meaningless set of signals to which my brain has added context that really doesn't apply.

A blissful dream turns real

I just woke from spending a little time with someone I once loved.  (And no, I don't believe that it's possible to truly love someone, then not love them, but were she still in my life I would not love her in the same way.)  Back then, we were almost 30, far from home, very good friends, and I fell in love with her, knowing I'd soon be returning home to you and the girls, she to her husband.  Both of us were determined not to hurt our spouses, yet we relished our friendship.  We read Shakespeare together, spoke of films I still haven't seen, drank a proper tea, and she taught me to appreciate classical music.  There are things in my life that I still enjoy to which she introduced me, though that is no longer why I enjoy them.  I'm still not sure what she ever got from me, aside from an enamoured puppy.  I failed to guard my feelings, of course, and gave my heart over to her.

By then I'd gotten that anonymous Letter, not fully believing it, though I would learn upon my return home that it was true.  When I did, the only way I was eventually able to reconcile with you, my love, my bride, was to know that I had not withheld my heart from her.  Had I learned the truth and not known that I'd myself been unfaithful in all the ways that matter most - had I denied myself the full feelings and experience of that relationship for your sake and then learned of your infidelity - I don't know that I ever would have forgiven you.  As it was, I treated you poorly for most of a year.  I'm so sorry that I withheld my forgiveness and mercy and love from you for so long.

This morning, I was with her again, in a different place.  I was alone with her somewhere, first in the room of a house, aroused but for some reason not yielding to that desire.  Then she was driving me somewhere, in a city I didn't recognize, to a destination I didn't know.  In my dream, she'd written me a teasing note that I was reading as we arrived, and I tucked it into my pocket to savor later.  We entered the eatery, and in the room, there you were, bending over one of our grandchildren as my heart lingered over the excitement of her wanting me, and of wanting her in return.  In that moment, there was a choice before me, which I realized in my dream and upon waking was really no choice at all, and I walked over and kissed you, and discreetly went over and threw that note away.

This dream is important to me, especially in your absence.  There is some reality in it, though were she in my life she would take no such impropriety.  I have long since chosen you over her and all she might represent to me, and so I choose still.

I must help you hear this, love of my life.  Though I may miss my friendship with her, I know I can't be her friend again because of how I chose to love her in your place.  And I hope you know I will never again make such a decision, to love another in the way I am to love only you.  I may have friends who I treasure for who they are and the something inexpressible that they bring into my life.  But if so, they are not and will never be an attempt to recreate what I had with her.  Rather, they will always be friendships that help me be the man God is calling me to be, and in the process, to love you more fully.

I will never again give anyone a piece of myself in a way that usurps your place, that diminishes my love for you.  I'm really glad to be your husband.

And my new friend, should you read this, please know that I treasure you for who you are, and for how you don't want anything from our friendship except what God would have it be.

Lost

I'm sure it's mostly a bunch of juvenile ramblings, artificial melodrama, memories that I'm better off not reliving.  But with the original Gritswin missing, I feel as if I've lost an important chunk of my life with it.

I know I was writing in it back when IT started.  I remember writing in the hotel room in Philly, and his condescending attitude about it.  I don't remember for certain, but that may have been my first entry.  Then came later that same weekend, at the Y . . .

Passion

"It is called the passion narrative, and we are reminded that the word 'passion' is from the Latin, meaning 'to suffer.'  In a time when 'passion' is associated with heavy-breathing romance and the selling of perfumes, we are caught up short by the reminder that to love is to suffer and the suffering is not always sweet.  In real love, the stakes are high; it is risking all." - Fr. Richard John Neuhaus, Death on a Friday Afternoon

This is why we honor lasting love over "falling in love."  Falling in love is easy.  It is discovering all of the interesting things about a person, the things that attract us to them.  It often involves overlooking the other's faults and embracing their newness.  It is this sort of love that people mean when they say that "love is blind."

To have a love that lasts is so much more challenging and rewarding than that.  First of all, it means deciding on a regular basis - day-by-day and month-by-month - to continue to do the sort of things that drew us to one another in the first place.  For some reason, we seem to think that "happily ever after" is a fixed point that we reach - maybe while we're cutting the cake - and that we're going to continue to live there simply by inertia unless someone really screws it up.  But when we stop doing the things that nurtured our initial love, it is going to tend to fade.  And there are plenty of reasons for not doing those things: work, kids, outside interests, other demands on our time.

The thing is, in addition to that, there is the truth that, no matter how loving we may think ourselves or aspire to be, we are still flawed human beings, with different needs and different faults which often come into conflict.  When that happens, someone is going to get hurt, and our self-preservation instincts kick in at that point to protect us from further injury.  And if we aren't actively tending the relationship, if we've stopped doing those things that nourished our love in the first place, there isn't any way to overcome that defensive wall we cannot help but raise.

I imagine that Teri and I have been as guilty of both of these dynamics as anyone.  Somehow - by grace alone, I suppose - we've overcome that to love each other more deeply than I ever imagined we could.  Our initial love seems superficial and juvenile by comparison.  It would be embarrassing to look upon it, except for how it has led us to where we are now.  But it's also true that we're still flawed people, with different needs and faults which still - often! - come into conflict.  And it would be easy for me to write here in my blog that we've reached the point where I know I'm always going to make the choice to bear whatever hurts our relationship may bring me, and to do all I can to cause her as little hurt as possible.

The truth is that, for any of us, the best we can do is recommit ourselves to each other in this moment.  While I cannot imagine choosing otherwise, I also know it's important that I not (in mom's words) write a check with my mouth (fingers) that my ass can't cash.  All I can do, now and when the next conflict arises, is look up at the cross and see there the passion which my Lord willingly  bore for me, and be inspired to willingly bear whatever passion life brings to my bride and me, that we might become the people God dreams for us to be, as individuals and together.

Now, let me not leave the impression that love is mostly crosses, but its joy cannot be full without accepting the burdens, too.  While I know Fr. Neuhaus wasn't expressly writing about marriage, it seems to fit nicely there.

Solitary confinement

I've no idea how people live alone.  I couldn't do it without going insane.  And I think I understand how people who are widowed after a lifelong marriage can "lose the will to live."

Oh, it isn't as if I could be anywhere near there after only three days on my own, with my wife definitely coming back, even if it is to be at an currently-undetermined time.  I'm just saying I can understand it.

And oh, now that I'm not advertising this blog on Facebook, it's beginning to feel like the old advertising tagline for Alien: "In cyberspace, no one can hear you scream."  But then, I'm not screaming, so no harm.

Alone

Gracefully Alone

Alone now, 5 a.m.
I gently close the door
After we kiss goodbye.
I knew that you must leave;
Encouraged you to go,
Your need greater than mine
To have you remain here.
Go tend to your father.
Then, swiftly, do fly home
into my loving arms.

Tragically Alone, Once

Long past, he was alone.

Mom took us to visit

His fam'ly, far away,

Leaving him to pickle

His bourbon-drenched psyche.

Broken beyond knowing,

Heeding despair's urging,

He left us all alone.

Hopefully Alone

I'm not my father's son.

His was not an answer.

I've found a better Way:

My hope lies in the Lord.

I love you, but have placed

My reliance on One

Who never disappoints.

Thus can I bid you go

do as you must, for now,

eagerly awaiting

you to return to me.

Submit to one another . . .

I've decided to at least try on for size doing as she has asked me to do . . .

My Lent begins in earnest

This morning, I prayed though I didn't feel like it, felt as if I didn't belong in the Lord's presence.  Old stuff, newly scraped open twice yesterday.  I should know better by now.  I do know better.  But in the middle of the assault, it is hard to connect with.  I must find healthy ways to deal with that.  And I must touch base with Teri about it far earlier, rather than let it spiral out of control.  After this one healthy decision - to honor the Lord with my time, at least:

- Letting the words of Psalm 43 (the third section in today's Office of Readings) concuss against me as an accusation was not healthy.

- Hardening my heart against the words of mercy in the subsequent reading from St. Leo, conscious as I was that I was doing so against God's pleading to me in Ps 95, was not healthy.

- Skipping breakfast just because I didn't feel hungry was not healthy, after a fast day yesterday.

- Finally reaching out to someone was probably the second halfway decent decision I made today, but I didn't do that in a healthy way, either.  I should have trusted Teri with this.  Still, it was better than keeping it all in my head, I suppose.

- When that tension finally gave, I nearly passed out.  Literally: room swirling, cold sweat, everything I remember from my freshman year in high school.

For a guy who thought he'd gotten a lot healthier than this, that's a lot of unhealthy decisions for one morning.  I must learn to turn to God's mercy when I start to feel assailed.  I must remember what I have learned of God's (and others'!) love for me.  I must not put myself through the wringer like this anymore.

I must believe that I deserve better.  Perhaps that requires nothing more than Fr. Neuhaus suggests: keeping my eyes on Christ, rather than myself.

Darkness and light

"Exploration into God is exploration into darkness, into the heart of darkness.  Yes, to be sure, God is light.  He is the light by which all light is light.  In the words of the Psalm, 'In your light we see light.' Yet great mystics of the Christian tradition speak of the darkness in which the light is known, a darkness inextricably linked to the cross.  At the heart of darkness the hope of the world is dying on a cross, and the longest stride of soul is to see in this a strange glory." - Fr. Richard John Neuhaus, Death on a Friday Afternoon

A week for opposites in my post titles, I guess.

The phrases "exploration into God" and "longest stride of the soul" are actually from a quote by Christopher Fry's A Sleep of Prisoners, to which Fr. Neuhaus refers.

John Michael Talbot wrote a beautiful song based on San Juan de la Cruz' Dark Night of the Soul, perhaps the best known Christian writing on this theme.  Dylan Thomas took it on, too, only apparently never found a lasting answer.  We've learned that Mother Teresa experienced a prolonged darkness in which she went decades without a sense of God's presence in her life.  

The darkness in my life has been very black indeed.  Almost fatally so, at times.  And yet the Light has shone in my darkness, and my darkness has not overcome it.  In my blackest hours, I've always had someone in my life who bore the light of God's love into my life.  As I reflected in my last post, sometimes the darkness of our lives can serve the purposes of the Light.

I learned today that a coworker is in jail.  I don't know if the allegations against him are true, but they are serious.  Guilty or not, he's likely to have a very dark road ahead of him.  I don't know him well, nor know whether I'll have opportunity to bear light to him.

But I certainly don't know how anyone gets through such darkness without the light of Christ.  Maybe Christianity is a crutch for the weak, but I have learned just how weak I am.  It is only when I have joined my darkness to the cross that I have ever experienced the light of resurrection.

Healing from pain

"To see all things 'in Christ' is to see them in Christ complete, in the mystic person in whom the Head is completed by its members and in whom the members complete themselves and complete the Head." - Thomas Merton, preface to Marthe, Maria, et Lazare (from Honorable Reader - Reflections on my Works)

So, when we discovered that our intent in visiting Columbus, GA this week was somewhat foiled, I wanted to come home the next day except for not wanting to drive 10 hours for two days in a row.  Instead we hung out for one more day; we had a short visit with our son-in-law, and then I babysat Emma so she could have a nap while everyone else went to lunch.  Later in the afternoon, I went out to the library in search of a computer on which to blog a bit on Fr. Neuhaus, whom I've been neglecting for a little while now.  (Neglecting writing, not reading; I've still been reading his book: good stuff!)  On the way, I realized I left my book in the hotel room, but heck, I was going to a library!  I wandered over to the Religion section in the hope of finding a copy of Fr. Neuhaus' book , when my eyes fell on this really unusual Merton volume.  The Abbey of Gethsemani is one of my favorite places in the world, so I feel a special closeness to Merton.  It seems they've published a book of prefaces that he penned for foreign or revised editions of his books.  The author of the preface to this volume commented on the irony of writing a preface to a book of prefaces.   I encountered some great stuff in this particular preface of Merton's, but what struck me as pertinent to where I am right now was in this specific quote.  The computers were all tied up, so I couldn't post on this when I read it; I went back to the room and wrote longhand, which now becomes this post.  (And I'm going to have to read the rest of this book!)

Of all authors, I especially hesitate to be critical of Merton, whom I respect deeply, and who hasn't been able to explain himself to us for over four decades.  So rather than getting caught up in what he may have meant by implying that Christ is somehow incomplete without us, I find myself really resonating with the idea that I need to see all things in Christ.  Of course, we're challenged in this by many different circumstances we experience; most of us have encountered setbacks which are later revealed to be blessings in disguise.  Yet even if we accept this premise in a general sense, we may greatly struggle to receive or experience it in the context of our most traumatic personal experiences.

When we observe or encounter evil in the world or in our lives, we often ask ourselves, "Where was God?"  But when it affects me personally, when I have been offended and hurt to the core of my being, or worse, have hurt another to the innermost part of their own personhood, should I really expect to somehow - eventually - see this "in Christ," complete or otherwise?

And yet I have seen and come to believe that God is especially present with us even in the midst of the greatest hurt we receive, protecting us from the full harm that would otherwise surely ensue.  I see, too, that God is more obviously present in our healing from those hurts, and further so in our pouring forth the healing we have received into the lives of others.

I have found that nothing has hurt me or diminished me so greatly as the hurt I have inflicted on another.  But when I do what I can to participate in that person's healing - not for the purpose of simply salving my own shame, but truly from a desire to see them healed for their own sake, and even if that means leaving that person alone - I begin to see my share of this hurt "in Christ."  As I see God using my deepest hurt to help another be healed of their own, I begin to see a value in my own pain, to see it "in Christ," and to not hate it or dread it with my entire being.  For this other's sake, I may even be slightly grateful for some thing that I hate for my own.  For when my newly-healing soul can reach out to another broken one, is not Christ's crucified and resurrected healing presence at work in our midst?  How can I not then begin to see this hated event in Christ, and if not be thankful for it, at least be thankful that He has brought some good from it?

That isn't to say that I should put on rose colored glasses, pretend I was unaffected, or proclaim evil as good . . .

Useless worry

The man hasn't returned a phone call in over a year.  So why am I feeling angsty about this sense I have that I should call my stepfather and visit with him while we're in Georgia this week?  It isn't as if he's going to answer now!

Okay.  I'm going to call him.  And I hope he answers.  I really would like to see him again.

A modern parable

The kingdom of heaven can be likened to a Super Bowl party.  The host invited many guests . . .

The mind; learned responses

It's fascinating (and, in this case, mildly annoying) how quickly the mind learns.  Just Friday night I was able to sleep through the night relatively well.  Then Saturday evening I lost balance on a step stool and stumbled backward.  I caught myself without making a serious impact against any hard surfaces, and thought I'd escaped injury until I rolled over in bed on Saturday night.  Each time I've rolled over since then I've been immediately aware of it.

But last night that was for a different reason.  Through Tuesday night, every turn was painful.  (The occasional sneeze and cough haven't been any fun, either.)  After keeping an eye on things for a few days and not liking the trend, I finally went to the doctor yesterday.  She told me I'd pulled a muscle, and to start taking ibuprofen (which I'd been avoiding primarily to be able to tell what was going on) for it.  By the second dose it was helpful, and I was mostly pain free last night.

But over the course of the previous four nights, my mind apparently became well-trained.  It now associates my rolling over with pain.  So I was still awake whenever I moved last night, bracing for the shot of pain that my brain had learned was sure follow.  That was probably a good thing, as I doubtless moved more gently than I'd have done unconsciously.  I experienced a mostly pain-free night, due to a combination of modern biochemistry and a quickly-trained brain.

I suppose it will untrain itself, too.  I hope it's able to do so swiftly, as I could really use a good night's sleep . . .

Clinging to the illusion of control

"True availability to God overcomes the fear of being dependent on others, for God provides.  It is our determination to be independent by being in control that makes us unavailable to God . . . .  Availability is letting God have his way, even when it brings us to the cross." - Fr. Richard John Neuhaus, Death on a Friday Afternoon

I wonder if this is more of a challenge in America than in other societies, though I'm sure there are other cultures that share our obsession in this area.  For the gospel which our society preaches is of independence and self-sufficiency.  As values, these certainly have great merit.  But if we make them our creed, well, we're going to find our dependence on Christ pretty tough to accept intellectually, let alone embrace wholeheartedly.

Consider the disdain we have for those who are in need.  "It's their own fault, " we lament, enumerating the reasons.  Consider how difficult we find it to ask for help, in any area of our lives.  We'd rather have every tool in our own shed, even if we're only going to need that snowblower once every 5 years.  We don't want to be personally indebted to anyone (yet at the same time we've accepted some types of debt as a natural part of modern life).  Consider how greatly we admire those who are always helping others but seemingly never need assistance for themselves.  Consider how we'd literally rather die than be a burden on others, even though they may long for the opportunity to serve us.

We don't realize how many of our circumstances are beyond our control.  For all of our competence and dedication and diligence, we are each but a single accident away from calamity, yet with our whole strength we clutch the illusion that we are in control and refuse to turn loose of it.  It is our security blanket, and indeed it is no more secure.

But our nearness to dire circumstance need not be a cause for anxiety!  God has us in his loving arms, and will provide for all that we need, all that our loved ones need.  For in the eternal scheme of things, our greatest and only lasting need is for him, and Christ has provided a Way home for us that no amount of competence, dedication, and diligence - and certainly not our own righteousness - could ever earn us.  When we depend on God for this most basic need, we learn that every other need we thought we had either doesn't really matter, or is provided for in abundance.

Odd inspiration

One of my favorite daily comic strips is Pearls Before Swine.  Stephan Pastis does some unusual things with it.  Yesterday's strip uses a couple of them: referring to other strips, and going a step further with Bil Keane's trick of treating himself and other cartoonists as characters in his strip (seeing as The Family Circus was about a human family whereas Pastis' is about a group of anthropomorphic animal characters).

Today's strip struck me for a different reason.  It provides a typical societal (well, probably more typically male) take on marriage as a lifetime of missed opportunities for more fleeting liaisons.  The thing is, this perspective that we sometimes take of marriage being a restriction to our freedom is a great obstacle to a successful and rewarding marriage.

As I commented to Lauren this weekend, life is change.  Change makes each moment different from the previous one, and makes each one unique, as well.   It is a wonderful gift to us, but, once again, we err in both directions with regard to it.  It is in our nature to long for both change and stability, to fetishize change and to fear it.  So sometimes we value novelty too highly or, perhaps, recognize it only in certain contexts.  At other times we harden ourselves against change, hunkering down in our desire to preserve what we treasure about our past or current situation.

Because I wake up next to the same person every day, I may overlook the newness in her today, lament that she isn't growing in the ways I think she should, or despair because "she isn't the person I married anymore." (Frankly, it's a very good thing for both of us that we're not!)  In any of these cases, I fail to recognize the gift I'm given: the opportunity to love my wife for who she is today, which means simultaneously treasuring the sameness in her and discovering the newness in her and loving her in a new way.  Over time, this brings a balance of novelty and stability that only a lifelong marital love can provide.

It is easy to seek out and find novelty in a different person, and we have billions of them to encounter, at least in a superficial way. But only in a lifetime of monogamous love can we grow to intimately know another, to fully discover them for who they are and ourselves for who we are in relationship with them (which can be a daunting concept!), to accept them for their strengths and their weaknesses and be accepted for ours.  Only the experience of a lifetime of changes together brings this closeness, this depth (not the same as intensity!) of love.  Yet this intimate knowledge is never complete, for tomorrow we will both be different and have new things to discover in one another.

I'm excited to make new friends and have new experiences along my life's way.  It's a treasure beyond telling.  But I'm not going to be succumbing to Timmy Swan's premise that it's a good thing to mate with another bird every now and then.

Theotokos

"Chalcedon made it definite that Mary is to be acknowledged as 'Mother of God' (Theotokos is the Greek term).  Others said that she is, of course, to be called 'Mother of Jesus' and even 'Mother of Christ,' but 'Mother of God' is going too far.  No, responded the orthodox party, it's not a question of our going too far but of how far God went in becoming man.  She must be called Theotokos not in order to honor her, but in order to tell the truth about Christ . . . .  If Jesus Christ is not true God, to worship him is nothing short of idolatry." - Fr. Richard John Neuhaus, Death on a Friday Afternoon (on "Behold your son . . . Behold your mother." Emphasis added)


In recent years, both Protestant and Catholic believers seem to have been derailed by this term.  It is true that there have been Catholics who felt that the perfect, divine Christ was too unapproachable for them, and who have turned to his less-powerful (and therefore less threatening-seeming) mother for intercession.  Despite St. Paul's encouragement that Jesus is "like us in all things but sin," and indeed came that we might approach God in confidence, devotion to Mary became for some a substitute for devotion to Christ.  Mary herself would be appalled.  Those rightly indignant that anyone would attempt to substitute a mere human being for God in their worship have opposed any perceived elevation of Mary to too lofty a role.  Catholics with appropriate respect for Mary have not always responded non-defensively in this specific case, and when we have, the errors - real or perceived - of Maryolatry have been used to dismiss our explanations.

BTW, the fifth century Council of Chalcedon emphasized the dual nature of Christ as fully human and fully divine.  Theotokos - God bearer - should not be a term over which Christians must disagree.  Referring to Mary as "Mother of God" doesn't imply in any way that she was present before the beginning, nor imply that she is superior to her son.  It simply refers to the belief that Jesus Christ is simultaneously fully human and fully God - a central premise of orthodox Christianity - and the simple reality that Mary is his mother.

At the same time, both Catholic and non-Catholic believers need to accept our responsibility for ensuring that no one puts another in Christ's place.  Mary is a great example for our faith, blessed with a specific role in God's plan of salvation. "Do whatever he tells you," she says; her role has always been to bear Christ to the world, and we are her successors.  Mary is no more equal (let alone superior) to God than we are, nor any less in need of the salvation which Jesus won for us.  But abandoning terms or ideas because some people have misunderstood them is a steep road, and especially dangerous when it comes to such a central topic as who Jesus really is.