"But only say the word and I shall be healed" Thoughts of a shattered soul.

Especially in this paradoxical age of intellectual progress combined with spiritual regress, there is a heart-breaking dichotomy in society. I should clichely say that I ought to speak for myself here, but it seems that most people, at least the human ones, bar the door to their soul. There is a split between the person we are and the person we allow others to see. We try to appear to be someone even just a little better (whatever "better" may be) then our wretched selves. Sound familiar? Welcome to the human race. I don't have to elaborate. It's a reality cutting through to the core of this banishment called "life." To quote Casting Crowns, we are "happy plastic people under shiny plastic steeples, with walls around our weakness and smiles to hide out pain."

Coupled with the pain of this falsity, there is that incessant longing within our hearts: that seemingly infinite emptiness that lies within the deepest abyss of every soul. No matter how beautiful the sunset, how touching the smile of a child, or how marvelous the embrace, there is always the possibility of more. There is something about a gazing into a sunset that leaves one feeling so vulnerable, looking beyond. What makes it so healing to walk alone on a stormy night with rain soaking one's skin and wind whipping to the marrow of one's bones? It is those times that are most beautiful that the possibility of more shines most brightly. In his sermon titled "The Weight of Glory," C.S. Lewis calls this longing an, "inconsolable secret within each of us: a secret which can neither be told nor be kept silent." We are discontent foreigners in a strange land who bear broken hearts and shattered souls.

In order to break down this seemingly inescapable dichotomy within society, families, and the heart of the human person, reception of Communion must do at least this: it must make known our real selves, at least to the God we receive. Just prior to receiving the Blessed Sacrament, the faithful recite the words, "Lord I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed." In receiving communion, we are allowing Christ, through the Blessed Sacrament, to literally enter within the very persons He created. He touches the center of our being. Through Communion, we allow Christ to know us, gracing us with a small sharing the clarity we will find in Heaven.

Alright, enough talk. Pontificating ad naseum is not what this blog is for, and it is time for the habituated college student to shut-up and the lost teenager to resume her ramblings. This post finds its origins in a spiritually-tied-in-knots college student who has too much time and freedom to think over Christmas break. It may not be theologically correct and might go overboard on the poorly-written flowery imagery, but what I tried to explain here is the one thing I hold onto. Through reception of the Blessed Sacrament, even the smallest wound within us may "be healed," allowing us to lose ourselves through Communion and become known: to become one in, with, and through Christ.

Photo taken by the lovely Mary Swinford

What the entire world cannot contain, love imprisons here.

On Christmas.

Around Christmas time, I nearly inevitably get this sort of anti-climatic feeling in my soul. It seems as if so much stress and preparation goes into this one day, only to have it gone in the blink of an eye. I suppose one could say that is due to the secularization of Christmas and that the materialistic side ought to be set aside anyways. But, even liturgically where the season runs through February 2nd, everything seems routine. Every year, we enter into the same spiritual preparation for an event which took place in history over 2000 years ago. What's the big deal? Christ isn't coming tomorrow--Christ came, is here, and will be into eternity. Things in life just aren't as good the second time around, never mind the 2010th time around. Rather than getting caught up in rehashing age old events, I wish I could enter into the reality of the incarnation on a day to day basis--an ever-present reality of Christ's presence, constantly calling us back towards Him.

spinning insanity

It would have been helpful to have had a hamster as a pet. It has taken me far to long to learn something that that tiny little rodent could have taught me as early as I could open my eyes. As it turns out, turning from one direction and running the other in a hamster wheel does not get one out of the whirling insanity. The perspective may be new, but the wheel remains.

At least, this is what life seems to be teaching me recently, in a recent fit of unhealthy introspection.

I've realized that the thing I've longed for most has always been the thing I'm most afraid of. That used to be death. Now it's love. You know, the pure Agape kind of love that orders everything to be as it ought. Thing is, I thought I changed, but I haven't. I'm in the same spot as always, just looking in a different direction. I'm still trying to hop off this wheel of insanity, just by different, but equally terrifying means.

To use another analogy: I'm sitting on the edge of a diving board. I used to want to climb back down, into the "pits of despair" (to be over-dramatic and cliche.) Now I'm looking forward, into the waters of life. (Another cliche.) Thing is, I haven't moved.

How long can I sit comfortable on the unstable tip of this diving board, too afraid to face either the solid ground behind or the impending waters ahead?

terrified.

You know, I'm not afraid of living alone. There's something comfortable with the idea that the only person that I'll ever have to answer to on this earth is me. It's familiar and comforting to imagine the possibility of knowing that wherever I go, whatever I do, there will never be anybody but myself to call softly to me, whispering "hello... that's not right. Turn around." Nothing to worry about, and no one to keep me from taking a swim hazardously in the deep end when even the depths of this ocean called life isn't enough.

Like I said, I'm not afraid of being alone. No, what I'm afraid of is being with another. There's something utterly and completely terrifying about having someone else look into your soul saying "hey, I know you." To give part of myself away without knowing how it will be handled--this is what does, and always has, given me this sick sort of feeling in my stomach. When I look at couples around me, they mesh so well together. They know who the other is, what they stand for and believe in, and what they don't. The very thought of allowing someone to become so close to me that we're one is so foreign to me. It's so completely other than my self-absorbed life.

Maybe that's why I liked you so much. In my feelings for you, there was no risk. If you did have feelings for me, I know that you would never admitted it. I'm not who you're looking for. As friends, we could have those want-to-be intellectual discussions that ignore what was really haunting us. We were mad. When we talked about our theological questions, we both know that what we really meant to talk about was our lack of faith. Neither one of us would admit it, though. We danced around Truth to the rhythm of theology. That's why I loved you and hated you at the same time. My heart would scream "if only!" and wait for the day when you would admit that we may be more than simply friends, but the rest of me dreaded that day that never came. Because of that, you were a safe friend to have. I could, and still can, hide myself when I talk to you. Around you, I can live this lie and yet be more wholly myself at the same time.

No, I'm not afraid of living alone. I'm terrified of living in love.

longing for that place I've never been

There's something about the season of Autumn. Every breath of that crisp air feeling like a taste of something beyond, and the light filtering through the golden leaves showcases the Lord's earthly paradise. Melancholy is in the air, and it's pulling my heart north.

Growing up, fall was my family's time to go camping. After the craziness of gathering everything from enough socks to last over a week to extra jackets for those cold Upper Peninsula evenings, all us restless children would cram into our 12 passenger van and drive north.

As I grow older, my memories from my younger years camping are lessening. Thankfully a few still remain. One bright afternoon, my cousins, brothers, and I traveled the hiking trails from campsite to campsite, the danger of a spider web hitting our face lurking with every step. Another time, my aunt and I formed the sand leading down to the shoreline into steps to ease the walk, steps that fell apart the second one set foot upon them. Our evenings were spent taking in the scent of pine trees and campfires while filling our bellies with s'more and hot-dogs.

As I grew older, my experience of camping trips changed. I joined the ranks of those required to help clean out the van beforehand, and I found myself not only making sure I had enough clothes to last the week, but packing for my younger sister as well. The drive up was filled with less time sleeping and more time watching the world pass me by, contemplating the deeper parts of a middle school life. In the evenings, I began to take in good conversations along with s'mores. Life was good.

Now, immersed in college and unable to head north, I find myself longing for those crisp fall evenings where I had naught to do but trace my feet in the sand and watch the sun sink below the horizon. As much as my heart breaks for want of this beauty, part of me realizes that the Upper Peninsula is not really what I long for. Not as a final end, anyways. It is simply an imperfect arrow pointing towards something deeper. By the time I hit teenage years, camping was reduced to yet another family event I was required to participate in. In my family of ten, nothing ever goes right and I began to get caught up in this. I became more than a little annoyed at my sister waking me up every night to go to the restroom, and my seven siblings and I never could agree on who got the chocolate pudding cups and who had to settle for vanilla. The lack of flushable toilets became more disgusting while my sleeping bag felt less and less comfortable. My family's camping trips may be filled with wonderful memories, but they are less than perfect.

Still, standing on lake superior and looking at those beautiful sunsets, I found myself in the place where I feel more at home than anywhere else in the world. Yet, at the same time, those are the moments when I am less at home than ever. The beauty of untouched nature calls my heart towards an even more beautiful Place, a mystery, a breathtaking wonder that words could never contain. Longing--this my only road-map to this Place. Psyche says it beautifully in C.S. Lewis' novel "Til We Have Faces:"

"No, no no," she said. "You don't understand. Not that kind of longing. It was when I was happiest that I longed most. It was on happy days when we were up there on the hills, the three of us, with the wind and the sunshine where you couldn't see Glome or the palace. Do you remember? The color and the smell, and looking at the Grey Mountain in the distance? And because it was so beautiful, it set me longing, always longing. Somewhere else there must be more of it.

It's fall, and my soul longs to be back at that place so badly. Back to the Upper Peninsula, and beyond to that even greater Place where I've never been.

tales from the waiting room

A few months back, I went with my roomie to the doctor's office. While she was in her appointment, I killed time on her iPod touch. It took forever to type, but here's what I left with:

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

As I sit here in this pale green and grey waiting room, I'm wondering how much longer it will be. Not how much longer until my friend comes out, although I'd be lying if I said I wasn't wondering that too. No, I'm wondering how long until I'm one of them. I glance around the room and see the employees all dressed in their brightly colored scrubs. In such light clothing, how can they keep warm in this prison of dated wallpaper and frigid air conditioning?

"Is it five yet?" one of the employees asks the other "I have errands to run and cleaning to do yet tonight." Work, errands, and chores--such is life.

But, is that it? Is that all there is to my life? Why go to college only to meet so dull and typical a fate?

I look up from my friend's iPod. An elderly lady is walking in, using a cane to support her. "How is your MS treating you these days?" one of the employees asks with a half sincere smile. Finally, a brief ray of warmth in this stone cold confine.

Over the sound of my stomach rumbling, I hear her reply: "oh, I'm not as I used to be, but I'm getting by." I glance at my watch. It's nearly dinner time now. I've been waiting for nearly an hour. One hour of this cold, negative existence, with this electronic device as my only friend.

"Ten minutes left." the employee tells her coworker. Slipping through the center of the hour glass--that's how these jobs call one to live life.

An employee dials a number on her cell phone. "Hi hon I'll be there to pick you up in about fifteen minutes so be ready. Mm hm"

Ugh. More obligations an living by the clock. I feel like barfing.

"Ok just be by the door this time." she continued, "I love you. Bye"

There. That's it! She said it!

I glance up to see the lady with MS greeted by an elderly man and a little girl. "grandma!" the little girl ran into her grandma's arms with obvious excitement and love in her eagerness. "Careful now," the grandpa warned "your grandma's muscles aren't as strong as they used to be."

"oh come now" the frail elderly lady smiled as she engulfed her bouncy granddaughter in a hug.

There it is again! That's why!

Like the woman on the phone said to her child--love. That's why they spend their days in this cold greyness. This doctors waiting room may feel like a prison, but if it is, it is a prison of love, and staying here is one of the freest choices these employees have ever made. These people love.

Doggerel.

Dancing with Eternity to a Rhythm of Monotony

These highways of hollow
These roads of regret
Paved with ponderings
Dreams of memories
Of a past never lived

To the left lies infinity
To the right, a knife
Along the road we dance
Without rhythm
We entertain death

Emptiness--our constant companion
A dried up fount of nothing
A comforting reminder
That after this lorn path
There lies peace

what is it about the sound of voices?

"Since Fr. Ubald doesn't speak very audible English, he will be speaking in French with a translator to translate his words into English."

"Oh no," I groaned internally. If there was one thing I was hoping sitting there at St. Tom's that Wednesday evening, it was was that Father Ubald wouldn't have an accent. This translator situation seemed even worse! "It would be better if he had an accent, get me out of here sooner." I thought to myself, "How much time is this going to add onto his talk?" Yes, I wanted to listen to this Rwandan priest's talk, but only if it was audible and entertaining. Heaven forbid that I may be inconvenienced by the telling of this man's experience of genocide, the slaughter of his family, and the healing ministry he has encouraged!

But... as Fr. Ubald began to speak, previous annoyances seemed to melt away. His body-language and face told of emotion that could not be shown through words alone. The nature and tone of how he talked, his mannerisms and emotions spoke more than any words he said through that translator. His French words left a story unheard, but his emotions relayed the unimaginable despair felt by those involved in the genocide and the beautiful healing that had gone on not only in the hearts of the victims' families, but in the killers themselves.

I guess my point is that what I thought was going to be a huge inconvenience ended up quite the opposite. Funny how that happens.

Grandpa.

"Oh yeah," came the comforting sound of Grandpa's voice, rolling across the furniture in the room and resonating off the walls before his words settled peacefully not only in my ears, but in the very center of my soul as well. Despite the fact that age has allowed his voice to waver a little, it still has its depth. Not only deep vocally, when Grandpa talks, his words mean something.

"On the day your grandma and I were to be married," Grandpa continued, "my army unit was called out on the field. My commanding officer woke me up in advance and told me to get out of there! I had a wedding to get to. So I showed up at your grandma's door six hours before we were to be married!"

I leaned in to hear better as his voice invoked a sense of something so far away, yet so close to his heart.

Ya know, when Grandpa tells stories, you're not just listening to a story: you are transported back into the place where the stories happened. To put it into more philosophical terms, the listener escapes the rusty chains chronos into the ever-present kairos. Simply calling this experience "story-telling" is far too much an understatement. His words aren't merely words. The sound of his voice alone is greater than music.

From my grandparents first year and a half spent traveling throughout Europe while my grandpa was in the army, to the frigid yet beautiful Upper Peninsula winters: this isn't just his life he's talking about, this is part of mine. My heart grew out of this old, wrinkly man. I don't know what I would do without him.

Hmm... These are the times I never want to forget.

on bikes and books

Awhile back, something happened when I was biking home from work. I suppose from the outside it may not have looked that interesting, but it was one of those moments that hangs over you for days to come, constantly encouraging you to revisit the encounter and question it.

I was on my routine bike ride home from work when, up ahead, I noticed a bike pulled off to the side of the road. As I grew closer, I began to see a boy whom I pegged to be about a sophomore in high-school. Why he was out biking at 1 pm on a school day, I do not know. He was simply sitting there, reading a book and seemingly enjoying the day. I was staring at him, studying his face and wondering what brought him to where he was. He looked up suddenly, noticing me looking intently at him. Our eyes met. "Hi." I said as I drove past. "Hello" came his response. I nearly stopped to ask him what he was reading, but, anxious to get home, I continued on my way. That was our only interaction at that time. As I continued to bike, I could not stop wondering who he was and why this kid was out, sitting on a bike trail and reading during school hours. I spent the rest of the ride home wishing I had stopped to say something more to him.

As I was nearing the end of the bike trail, I hoped that he would pull up behind me so I could figure out who he was. Of course, he wasn't there. But then, just as I was turning onto the main road, I sensed someone behind me. I turned to look back, and there he was. Already down the main street, I didn't want to go out of my way and turn around. Besides, he was getting ready to head in the opposite direction. "See ya around." I called out to him. "Bye." came his response.

Such a small encounter, but my mind will not allow me to forget about it. Who was he? Why would this 15-16 year old looking kid be sitting on a bike trail reading a book during school hours? Simply sitting outdoors and reading at all is uncommon for kids his age. I guess I'll have to be content to let this one remain a mystery. I've never seen him again.

Free falling

Sometimes I wish I could jump off a cliff just for the beauty I would see while falling.

No, I'm not really considering jumping off a cliff; I do quite enjoy living with two feet on the ground. But imagine! The exhilaration of the wind flowing through one's hair, the feeling of zero gravity, the sites one would see as the world slowly grew closer and closer, and the realization that these wonders are consuming the last moments of one's life. Beautiful.

I suppose that's kinda like life for some. They live in the moment, enjoying every second regardless of morality and consequences. So maybe they end up in a ditch somewhere, shattered into a thousand pieces, but at least they devoted themselves to their fall. At least they lived their drop. I suppose brokenness is better than living safely on solid ground, too afraid too risk the fall.

riveting introductory post

I have wanted to start a blog for awhile now, but I have yet to actually get around to it. This could be partially due to my laziness, lack of time, or my tendency to waste what little time I do spend on the inter-webs on much more productive sites. (E.g. facebook.) Also, I am hesitant to put my thoughts out there for others to read. For onesies, there's not much there worth reading, and for twosies, even if they are worth reading, who has time? Live is lived by the clock. Go go go go go. (Too bad so few stop to listen to old grandfather clock, who is telling us to slow down and breathe before breaths can no longer be inhaled.)

But, ya know what? The more I think about it, (and I only just starting thinking about this as I started writing this post,) I realize that the primary reason for putting blogging on the back burner is that I do not know what to write for my first blog entry. I feel as if I should have some sort of introduction. E.g."Hi, I'm me this is my blog this is what I'll be blogging about." However, you, the reader, are likely not going to get much out of the blog as it is. I'd rather not make that worse by boring you about my interests, passions, and aspirations for this blog. If you are insane enough to actually want to know where this is headed, you are free to "follow" me. Just click the button on your left.

Hmm... in the rare occasions that I do freely write, I tend write about my thoughts and feelings. So I suppose if I were to tell you what I will blog about, it would simply say "Hi, I'm Molly, and I will write about my thoughts and feelings."

But isn't that a given? What else would someone write about besides either something that they had put some thought into or something that they were feeling? Even if I were to make that lame introductory post, I would have put thought into it. I have no doubt that it would have ended up being quite boring--not unlike the entry you are reading at this very moment.

So rather than put you asleep with that, I am devoting my first blog entry to telling you why I am not making a lame introductory first post... by making a lame introductory post. Irony.

I am going to go read. If you would like to test your endurance of poorly written blog entries, you are more than welcome to drop by again sometime soon.

Goodbye.