Resurrection Clothes

Have you ever had a time of severe trial of your faith that eventually passed, and you wondered afterward why it was so hard to trust God during that test? I have, and through one of them, in particular, I learned a lesson that I’ve remembered ever since—a lesson about hope and trust in God. A number of years ago, everyone in my immediate family was experiencing serious personal problems all at the same time, and I felt responsible for things beyond my control (which was almost everything). Eventually, as these situations worsened and I was constantly worrying—really obsessing over them—I fell into a state of anxiety and depression. I didn’t seek medical treatment or counseling because I felt so hopeless that I couldn’t imagine anything making it better. And besides, the problems everywhere I turned seemed so real and unfixable that my wounded mind told me my feelings were true. I tried to turn it all over to God, but then each time I’d immediately start worrying again. Fin...

Lord, I’m tired. I’ve been doing what you said. Now where’s my bread? I’m glad we’re going to a place alone, with you, to rest. And in the boat we do have respite, time at last to listen to the wavelets slap the boat, to see the sky so blue so vast, to smell the air so full of joy, to laugh and then in awe recount what has been done through us, our hands, our oil infused with miracles beyond our grasp. But now (I gasp) the crowd has followed us preceded us in fact, and here we go again. Your face your eyes so full of mercy and of grace and as you speak we all—the crowds and we alike— forget our need and drink and eat your words, refreshment at its best! Yes, we’ll soon feed the thousands with some little loaves of bread, but even now, we’re satisfied, consuming what you said. February 19, 2019 The Gospel for today is Mark 6:30-34, about the twelve disciples’ return from their successful mission: Jesus had sent them out, two...

Lesser Gifts I.    This Little Light of Mine Oh come now! It’s so tiny, so unshiny how can it give light enough to make a cricket dance? Puny little thing! It flickers now and then, but when it’s held up to the light of day it fades and squirms away. Just hold it up, you say and say and say. Oh, all right then, here you go, I sputter, eyes a-roll. You shake your lion head and smile and I see stars, so small, fly off your mane but all together dancing,  whitening the air.  Is mine like that? A little star among the billions trillions sesquatillions? Yeah, I guess—what if we all said Not enough of this big bright is mine? Is that your point? Should I just stop my whining, just  let my microscopic flicker shine? II.    Coins of the Realm Walk up timidly and put them in my little coins, the last I have of this world’s goods. One, two…. So small, so insignificant,  but all I...

Folks in Alcoholics Anonymous speak of having “the RIDs,” meaning they feel restless, irritable, and discontent without knowing what’s causing it—a generalized feeling of anxiety and fretfulness. I know the feeling only too well, although my addiction is not to alcohol but to fixing people and circumstances. I say that, but of course it’s really an addiction to trying to fix, which results in being unhappy because I can’t fix other people—or most circumstances. Thanks be to God, over the past thirty years or so I’ve learned to more quickly recognize this temptation to fret over what’s beyond my control and instead to refocus on what I can fix: my own thoughts and actions. When the RIDs come, once I realize what’s going on, I may go for a walk, pray, meditate, read, journal, talk it out with someone, do “the next right thing” (another AA term meaning “something constructive”), do something fun, or use a technique called “focusing.”* But the RIDs eventually return, and I find...

How did it happen? This hiding of my gift to concentrate on his? I’d trained myself by not pursuing math because I saw (or thought I saw) so much more talent in the boys, for whom it seemed to come so naturally. I let it go, the math, and even more, the poetry, the writing—hid it underground. But like anything with half a will to live,  it will emerge again. Am I to judge it? Would I judge  my human child unworthy  of the trouble and the heartache of her raising,  of providing what she needs, of letting her emerge into the world to rise—or seem to fail, then rise at last?                                        …But then, what if she fails at last? What if this gift long hidden has not grown but rotted underground? What if the flighty muse has taken all her offerings to someone else? Well, come on back, I’ll try...