Obedience and Redemption

Rule #10 The Rule of St. Francis

United themselves to the redemptive obedience of Jesus, who placed His will into the Father's hands, let them faithfully fulfill the duties proper to their various circumstances of life. Let them also follow the poor and crucified Christ, witness to Him even in difficulties and persecutions.

I believe with all my heart that God loves us with a parent's heart, knows us and our ways to the core, and is delighted when we unite our will with his, or in humility, completely hand over our will to him, as we learn to trust Him, through circumstances, experiences, or faith.

He wants to work with us. He delights in our simple acts of love. Jesus, in the garden, had his own will. but in loving and redemptive obedience, handed his will to the Father. 

My circumstances in my life are as a wife, mother, writer, volunteer, lover of Christ, and witness to His mercy. I struggle when I have to follow him into dark places — which present difficulties and persecutions, but know that the more I trust him in those times, the more peace I find, even in the darkness.

My Lord has given me much these days. I have fullness of purpose, every morning to evening.  Checking email, and finding work, dealing with clients and potential ones, social media posting, writing, photoshopping, finding inspiration, and carrying on.  Sometimes two phones on the go with various freelance projects on the hook.  He supplies me with my daily bread. I only have to obey, and be the best example of the work that I do.

And then there's the people I love and mentor. Two women who have exited darkness, and are struggling at times to walk in light. I am not journeying with them to be their judge, mother or jury. Just give them a bit of haven, when there's a haven of peace to be found. If I am to emulate the Blessed Mother in her wonderful actions of charity, it's what I choose to do, in her footsteps, and the footsteps of St. Clare. I love them and their strength, and in their vulnerability. It might just be sitting and watching some television like a couple of old folks, or sitting beside them at Mass. Praying for them while they are in confession.

My family, and being available and loving to them in whatever way leads me closer to Him. I am full of expectant joy at the realization that there is a grandson on the way, soon to be a part of a family that already loves him. I'm also so grateful that the Lord has heard my cry, and in his love and mercy and surprising way, gave Tara and Darren a whole new occupation — parent.

I'm grateful for my husband and the things that we share together, whether it's cooking a meal, watching a tender movie (he likes chick flicks) and housework. We do housework together. He's better at it than I am. I get distracted, where he has his mother's Pennsylvania Dutch sense of purpose, cleaning every corner, and dusting every ledge.

Obedience to God's will takes me into interesting places. Today it was helping chop onions and carrots with my husband for tomorrow's urban mission. It was an inspiration of the Holy Spirit to ask my husband to help, and I'm very grateful. Tomorrow it's the Mission, where I will seek the face of the Almighty in every face I serve.

And then, tonight, just a simple obedience to the rule of St. Francis. This is, for me, a delicious obedience of just following in the path of others who have gone before me. Every two weeks I meet with beautiful people from all walks of life. The thing we share is the desire to follow in the Footsteps of a Saint who knew abandonment to the Holy Will was the best way to find peace, joy and freedom.

Who do you trust?

I woke up this morning, if not an atheist, at least an angry doubter.

I figured I had my reasons. Inside I was seething mad. Angry that in an hour I had to stand in front of a church, be part of the catechists group being commissioned, and feel like a hypocrite.

And I really, really hate hypocrites. Hate and Mad and Angry seem to be big words in my vocabulary these days.

Some people might say that it's just stress, and I should calm down. Others say, "none of this really affects you, so you shouldn't take it on".

Okay. Fine. Don't take it on.

You see, a few weeks ago, someone I really trusted, someone who was actually one of my children's godparents, was outed as a Paedophile. He was looking to have sex with a 14 year old boy.

And the tough thing is, in my large, extended group of friends and family — in the hundred or so people that I surround my life in — he was the only real "practicing" Catholic that I reached out to on a regular basis. I "guess" he was practicing, all right. I don't know how much he was really living his faith. Oops. There goes my anger again.

The deal is, he would scold and condemn people for their actions a lot. I would hear from some of them, how they dreaded a phone call from this person, because they knew the debasement would begin.

I would have lengthy conversations about the "Capital C" Church with him. The thing is, now, in my recall, I don't know how much we talked about how much we love Jesus.

You see, in any normal conversation with me, it's going to come up. I am in love with Christ. I teach catechism to adults, and that better be the most clearest thing I teach. I believe with all my heart, that religion is dust and nothing without a love for our Savior.

So now, I feel I've not only lost a friend, a fellow warrior for Christ, but I've been dealing with a hypocrite who didn't care enough about his life, his wife, his children, his faith.... enough said. And my faith? It feels damaged, done... Done with this conversation...

Thing #2. I have two mentally challenged people who live with me. They both are intelligent, physically healthy people in their 40's. But they both struggle with mental illness. A gamut of diagnosis from PTSD, social anxiety, depression, hormonally charged psychosis, and borderline personality disorder.

And these two don't like each other, and in the last two weeks, have both skirted around about suicide. They have both imprinted on my husband and I (transference) as parents. At least they treat us as if we were their parents. It's not a role we bought in for. They were simply renters. One has been with us for 11 years, the other for over two years.

When we are away for as short as two days, all hell breaks loose, and I had to deal with one cutting himself, and the other talking about "going away permanently". They both want the other "gone" from the house.

DH and I are thinking, well, let's just sell the house. Then we are free! I have a permanent "why can't we all just get along mentality," until I just can't anymore.

I remember my mother in law saying once, "My giving a crap just crapped out", after listening to her 8 children bicker about each other to her over the decades.

There's a lot more but it's not the point of this post. It's been a long time since I wrote anything, and today was a day that just stands out and I want to remember it.

Go back to this morning. Standing in my kitchen. Telling my husband I was sort of done with this faith thing, this religion thing. Who cares. What does it matter. Why don't I just give up....

He didn't really know what to say. He's a non-practicing ex-Catholic who barely handles that part of my personality. He'd rather I return to the fun-loving, hard drinking, party animal who ... well, I can't even remember, it's been that long. Trust me, though, although I was a nice person, I was not an angel.

A half an hour later I walked into the church, acknowledged a few people I was expecting to be there, genuflected and sat in the middle of the pew. I looked straight up at the crucifix, then a little lower to the sanctuary light, and said to Christ, "Well, I'm here. That's all you get today. I'm sort of done, Jesus. I have nothing for you. You have to talk to me."

Silence.

And then, "So, who DO you trust?" came into my head.

Quickly I thought of all the people I knew and all the issues of this week. Nobody. There wasn't a person I could really trust.

And I always say (or would in the past), "Jesus, I trust in you." Whenever something goes bad, it's my go-to prayer.

I realized I was a hypocrite first class, because I was trusting in all of those people. And every single one of them did and will and will continue to let me down. They will fight for my attention because they are wounded, they want my ear, or they want my sympathy for their addictions, their fears, their desires, their sins.

And I can't do a thing. And I can't trust that they would be there for me in my despair.

But Jesus, the one I have put second, or third or fiftteenth in my priority of trust, he was there today, asking me "Who do I trust".

Point taken, Jesus. Point taken.

The priest's homily was on: "when you have doubt. When you don't even think God exists. What to do."

I guess I'm ready for my confession now.

A lesson from St. Francis

I learned an interesting lesson yesterday about value. I learned it from St. Francis a long time ago, but I realized yesterday I hadn't really taken his wise advice. And the really interesting thing is, he actually visited me and is hanging about for a while. I'm praying every time I look at him, I'm reminded about the value of friendship, faith and things that you "think" are valuable.

I'm just an ordinary person. Like you and almost every other person I know, over time you've amassed .... stuff.
It may be tools, it may be art, it may be books, it may be shoes. Perhaps you're a person who really likes shiny things, like necklaces or jewellery of some kind. You might be the proverbial "picker" who loves "kitzy" things. Over the years I did pick up things. Books were probably my biggest impulse purchase, but I've certainly got enough wooden statues, little pictures, knick-knacks, hat, scarves. Things.

These things pile up over time. I'm certainly not a hoarder, but it is more than amazing how much "things" can start to invade your freedom to pick up and move or even just enjoy the sparse and clean look of a room.

It wasn't just me. My husband's garage is an interesting collection of tools, bottles .... things...

I've been working on purging these things from my life for almost a year. It's not like I had rooms piled up. I just didn't have a lot of time. Life got in the way of organizing a good "purge".

I would drag things from the basement collection of things and add them to the garage. I would take things from one room or another and also drag them to the garage. Eventually a full 1/3 of the garage was full of "things".

I know from business practice, it's always good to have smart goals. Setting goals is easy but achieving them isn't. That's why setting SMART goals - Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Realistic and Timely - is the first step in making your goal a reality.

So number one was Specific: Getting rid of all these things. I don't use them. I don't even enjoy them anymore. Many of them I thought had great value. Comic books, old boxes from the 60's, orange crates, hippy garb from the 60's, old things. Collectible art and jewellery. Purses, some of them expensive. Scarves, some of them very expensive, like a Gucci scarf I bought in Rome and never wear.

Number two: Measureable. Well. There is 1/3 of our garage that needs to disappear.... that's pretty measureable.

Number three: Achievable: Getting together a well marketed garage sale would send droves of people to my door because, well, you know, my "things" are very important and desirable.

Number four: Realistic. In my mind, everyone would want these things. This was my "realistic" goal. Why wouldn't they want these "things".

Number five: Timely. This is where I struggled. I was "too busy" there wasn't "time" I started to hate my own excuses, so I bit the bullet, set a date and announced it on Craigslist. TWO days of garage sale. I let the neighbours know so they could also get involved. I was planning on advertising in multi-markets, and getting signage MADE and putting the signs everywhere.

Except ... I didn't do that. I was "too busy" again. Nevertheless, Saturday morning there were people. A steady group of people. On Saturday my prices were what I thought was reasonable, but I quickly realized what I paid $100 for, people were willing to pay around $3. And no one was interested in  hippy kitchz or books.


Things were sold. I did okay. But I only actually got "rid" of around 20 percent of my junk ... er "things".

I was more hopeful on day two. This would be the day, I thought. The neighbours were now fully engaged. We put up more signs and waited and waited and waited.

They dribbled in. The neighbour across the street sold some things. I sold a few things. I dropped my prices. Still no deal.

This is where St. Francis comes in. My neighbour asked me if I wanted her St. Francis statue. St. Francis is one of my all time favorite saints. One of my favorite stories was this...

Born in 1181/1182 to a wealthy cloth merchant, Pietro Bernardone, and his wife Pica in the town of Assisi, high in the Umbrian hills of central Italy, Francis grew up in privilege. A spoiled young man, he led an extravagant lifestyle, throwing expensive parties for his friends and dressing in the finest silk fashions brought back from France by his father. When it came to "things" Francis had it in droves. But after his conversion, he realized that these "things" were actually keeping him away from growing spiritually, and he was in bondage to them. Only by giving them away for free to others was he truly happy.

So here I was, with this big statue of St. Francis that my neighbour didn't want and I did. BUT it was the message of St. Francis that spoke clearly to me.

It was time for all this stuff to go. For Free. So I jumped on Craigslist, announced the free stuff, and went outside and told every person who walked into our yard that the things were free. That's when the fun happened. The neighbours had fun in our yard too calling out to anyone walking by, "Come get some free stuff!". I loved seeing the shocked faces. I loved making people happy. Those so-called precious things to me became only precious by giving them away. By making someone else happy. The nice Muslim man who took the fish tank and didn't understand why we just wanted to give it to him. "Are you sure? Are you for real? Seriously?" It was great. The older man who appreciated all the music... The nephew who is excited about the snowboard that Chad used to own. The new grandmother who is preparing to play dressup with all the jewellery that she just got. The comic books to the collector. The last thing I gave away was that expensive Gucci scarf to a sweet little hipster girl who really didn't understand why I won't be putting that on Craigslist.

But I did. Those things were still keeping me in some sort of covetous bondage. I wasn't coveting my neighbours goods, I was coveting my own! I had valued them, when really they had no value at all, in the big picture. Maybe some of those people will be selling them again. I just have to say a big "whatever' because I've never felt freer.

I still have some free stuff/crap/things in my garage, and I'm hoping that someone comes and takes them away. I'm taking the leftovers to a thrift store. There's crystal wineglasses, and a few scarves, and who knows what else.

I hope that this lesson makes me think before my eyes are distracted by some little knick-knack again.

Thanks Frankie. And welcome to my garden, statue of St. Francis. I hope you enjoy it there, to remind me of the value of giving away things of no value, and giving away things of great value, like faith.

A tale of two hospitals

As luck would have it, this Palm Sunday I haven't gone to Mass yet.  I will! I still have one evening Mass at 7pm, and it's 5:39pm. I'm dressed and ready to go, so all I have to do is get a salad together. And we'll have a lovely late dinner tonight when I get home.

That is not why I'm writing though.

I got a call at 6:39 this morning from my mother's caregiver at the assisted living residence. The ambulance had taken my mother to the local hospital (Surrey Memorial) because her nose had started bleeding and wouldn't stop. She was spitting blood and there was blood apparently everywhere. I hurriedly got showered and dressed and drove down there to the newly opened Emergency Ward. Walking in to the triage area, I asked about my mother and was directed to a specific area where I found her immediately. She was on a gurney, half sitting, with a nebulizer, and quite comfortable. In the few first minutes she had two nurses check on her and talk to me as well. Mom was going for some chest xrays after the fluid in the nebulizer had completed and then we'd wait to talk to a doctor. The nurses were attentive and asked mom a lot of questions about her medicine and her ability to use it, and her mobility. A geriatric doctor also came by and asked mom lots of questions and had a few suggestions for her. It did take some time after the x-rays for the doctor to come, but in the four hours we were at the hospital, mom got excellent care. The doctor explained the prescriptions (she was in danger of developing pneumonia, or in fact had an early onset of it) She has four new prescriptions to use up this week, and she has to see her regular doctor, but I believe the prognosis is good.

After getting the meds for my mom, it was off to see my mother in law in Langley Memorial. She also has pneumonia. One thing I noted right off, is the parking is 2.50 less for two hours. My visiting time with mom at Surrey cost me $16.00. (3 hours) Two hours at Langley Memorial was $7.00.

Finding Lucy was more than a challenge. Walking into the ward, I went to the nurses station, where three nurses did their best to pretend I wasn't there, even with eye contact. They simply looked away and looked at other things. I went to the apparent room where Lucy was supposed to be. The names outside the door didn't match hers, and indeed she wasn't there. There were three nurses in the hall, two seated and one standing, talking about non-nursing related topics. Again, eye contact, no question, they ignored me. Frustrated, I asked where Lucy might be. They said ask the nurses station. I went to the nurses station again, and caught one nurse's eye, who was on the phone. I made gestures to indicate to her I needed her help. That not working, I had to end up going from room to room, looking at the names for some clue where my mother-in-law was. After five minutes of frustration, the last nurse I tried to talk to said, "who are you looking for?" I told her, and said that her name isn't on any of the door patient lists. "Oh, we don't necessarily update all the time" Really? I said, "I saw her name on the list in the nurses station, but couldn't make out where she was."
 "Oh, we don't necessarily update that either" the nurse said with a deadpan look.
 Really, again.

I found Lucy sleeping in a stuffy, not very sanitary room. The bathroom was clean, but the whole ward is old and over-used. After Lucy woke up, a nurse came to help her with her nebulizer. He never came back to check to see if it was finished (the water was evaporated in the water area of the nebulizer). After 15 minutes she took the nebulizer off, but her oxygen had not been attached to its oxygen source. I said to call for the nurse with her button, but her button was placed in such a way it was almost impossible for her to push it. I had to do it for her. She needed her oxygen right away (She can't be without it). I went behind her bed, found the oxygen leads and the supply line and got it going for her. Success. Around five minutes later, the nurse came and said, "Oh your nebulizer is finished? I told him we reconnected the oxygen supply and he said, "Oh that's good."

Really? That's good? What do I know about attaching an oxygen supply? What if I did it wrong? What if I wasn't even there, and Lucy was without oxygen, which she needs 24/7?

Right now, I'm doing what my mother told me to do when I got angry. I'm counting to ten. Really.

Conclusion? Even though the parking is expensive in Surrey, the quality of care is far superior.
Thank you SMH for looking after my mom so well.

How's this Lent going for you?

Every year, like every other Catholic I know, we look forward to making big changes through Lent. More of this, less of that. And every year, like every Catholic I know, I fall short. It's never a perfect situation.
I've come to the understanding this year that it's not supposed to be. I think we're supposed to see the humanness in our trying, and the human-ness in our failing.
After all the whole purpose in the end, is recognizing that we need God in our life.
Big stuff this year. I was giving up drinking any kind of alcohol. I'm not a heavy drinker by any stretch of the imagination. I thought this would be easy. I thought that I would normally have a glass of wine two or three times a week, and a one cocktail maybe once or twice as well.
It's interesting, because I sure "felt" like having a glass of wine a lot more than I thought I used to. And of course, yesterday ... almost at the end of Lent, I gave in to not one, but two glasses of amazing red wine. So there's a fail. But no more. I'm waiting until well after Easter to have another. (At least I hope)
The other thing was to get to Mass early. The 7:30 Mass, but not only that, to pray with the Priests, the morning Liturgy of the Hours. Originally, quite good. But then this week, hit with the biggest cold I've had in years. It seemed more than a cold. I couldn't stay awake, I was so weak. Gary got the same cold, so we walked around the house like zombies for three days.
Am I beating myself up about this? No. I think the "trying really hard" was the real lesson. And knowing that no matter how hard I try, I will always need God's help to really succeed.

Time Passes

It seems that time passes so quickly.
The last time I wrote anything here, it was my mother who was so ill.

Since that time, it was my father who passed away. November 30, 2012. He died due to complications from a gall bladder attack. They could not operate due to his low blood pressure, and he became septic. As a family, we are still reeling from this loss. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't want to talk to my "Pops". He did have prostate cancer that had migrated into his bones. He didn't experience a whole lot of pain, yet, but it would have gotten terrible, so in a way, I guess, God spared him.

I'm off to morning Mass in 15 minutes. Two weeks ago I was laid off from my job at the Cloverdale Reporter. Loved working with some creative and energetic people, and I loved the community that I served.

But time passes so quickly.
The last time I wrote anything here, I hadn't travelled all over Europe.

Craig and Marcia, my brother-in-law and his wife, invited us to join them on a whirlwind, by van, tour of Europe. We started in Paris for a week, then all fix kids and four adults packed up in a van and drove then to Assisi (the slow route - only 18 hours) and from there, Rome for 8 days, Split, Croatia, Medjugorje Bosnia, Zagreb, Salzburg, Austria, Munich, Germany and finally in Amsterdam. That trip will have to be another entry. There's too much to write in a few moments. I made a video about the trip though. It's on youtube. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mv-i20d2u2Q

Time passes so quickly.
I can't believe how much healing continues to occur. Since this blog there has been so much reconciliation and peace between brothers and sisters. Shelley, Dianne and I are going to Vegas together to celebrate Shelley's 50th. We were at Dad's bedside when he passed, and I know that he's praying for us.

15 years of praying for healing for my family at every Mass and I've really seen in these past two years many tears and hugs and hope abounding. I've gotten to know and love many nieces and nephews and I know that God's working in our family.

It doesn't mean that there won't be more struggles, trials, and challenges to forgiveness.

I suppose, what I've learned since this last post is to persevere and trust. Or better said, I'm LEARNING to persevere and trust. Some days I'm dreadful at doing either.

Paris, August 2011

Bob Dylan, Brigitte Bardot, Sam Elliot, Sophia Loren, Leonard Cohen... What do these people have in common with Paris?

Although old, there's still a lot of tangible sexiness abounding. A certain quality that intices you. It's like a brand new love affair. You want to be loved back, you want to discover new things every day, you can't wait to wake up and see that person again.

I haven't been here long, but I've learned a lot, just by watching and letting the sensory overload of this city take control.

So many things I've noticed.

There's an abundance of overt acts of physical attraction here. Lots of people kissing. In parks, on the subway, on the streets. It's not something I think I've ever seen in any other city.

On a Sunday Afternoon, praying for the poor souls

On a Sunday Afternoon praying for the Poor Souls

In the process of doing some volunteer newsletter work and trying to find a last name for an article I bounced back to my blog.

It's been almost a year and a half since I last wrote anything! And in that time, I've travelled all over Europe with family, got a new job, helped my parents transition into new housing, visited my son and his new girlfriend back east, and tried to continue to journey closer to Christ.

This is the month of November, and my November Prayer for the Souls in Purgatory is taped to my desk (which is a mess today by the way) I am trying to pray for them every day this month.

I think of all the people that are no longer on earth, but very much part of my life. Those people who have in large and small ways, helped me to become the person that I am.

My uncle Paddy who's concern for the poor and downtrodden never ever stopped him from standing up for them. I wish he was with me today. His fire and zeal taught me to never be afraid to help, to aid justice. 

My aunt Joyce, Paddy's wife, who's absolute beauty was inside and out a shining example of joy. Just thinking about her makes me smile. My sister Shelley is very much like her.

My friend Ellie Kohut. She taught me the beautiful face of forgiveness and the wonderful power of hope. Her answer to my question "How are you today Ellie" was always, "Not too, bad, God Thanks". I miss her all the time. I miss her smile, her hope, her powerful forgiving nature. She was so very tiny, but her spirit was so very big. Oh how I miss her.

My friend Rod (George Rodney Atchison) One of the last things he said to me, was that we'd be friends all his life. It was one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me. He was such a good friend. We spent hours and hours talking about life, and love and about Jesus. Whenever I stand at the left of the altar and look over the congregation, I hope that he is in his regular seat, right at the front, beside the choir, where he was happiest, listening to Father Mario and his homilies. May God grant him that joy. 

I want to continue to be good in order to see Ellie and Rod in heaven one day. I know that they are at the very least on their way there.

My friends Ziggy and John Holt. They both died suddenly, going over cliffs. I have this great fear of driving on mountain roads. It probably happened after their deaths. I should not have fear when God is with me. Its rational, and yet, not rational. They were a blessing to me, because they just loved me for being me. They trusted me and I trusted them. You couldn't have had better friends than either of them. At least, they were good to me.

Norman and Marcel Poirier. Two brothers who lived life so BIG. They were so young when they left this world. Marcel died suddenly in a motorcycle accident, Norman by a quickly moving cancer. They both taught me to capture every day and to not be afraid to learn something new. 

Every day we grow closer to that moment when we are released from this mortal coil and move towards our forever-ness. I know that the past 15 years has led me to a relationship with God that I never thought was possible, or real, or so full.

This relationship consumes me, convicts me, gives me such great hope. And sometimes, in a period of spiritual dryness, a longing so deep that every day my soul cries out for Jesus and the company of those saints and their help in finding Him again. I know that I will find Him in the quiet, in the seconds and moments between words, not in the words.

My loved ones, who are not physically with me, are with me in the company of saints, I pray. In this special month, they are somehow mystically closer than ever. I thank God for this grace.

On the Feast of the Sacred Heart

Today is day six of a Novena to Pray for a Healing or a Cure. My mother is very ill, and at this point we don't really know what's physically wrong with her. She is resting comfortably at home, awaiting another attack, where her body haemorrhages. On Saturday night, after taking her to the hospital (2am) I cleaned up the blood all over the bathroom and part of her bedroom. It looked like a crime scene.

Yesterday, I cleaned their place up again, as the first time was just to get rid of the obvious blood. I found out that blood, left to its own devices, can foul up the place pretty bad. It took a lot of work to get rid of the smell. Even though the blood wasn't visible, the smell was enough to send one reeling.

I steam cleaned the carpets, prayed, and was surprised to see Gary show up. He did an amazing job finishing the steam cleaning.

This has been an amazing journey, this week, praying with Mom and dealing with Dad, and my sisters, and my family and my own interior life. Today I am alone, and I was beginning to make excuses, not to see Jesus today on His Feast day of the Sacred Heart. The novena I've been praying for 6 days now, has the Litany to the Sacred Heart in it.

Today I am emotionally and spiritually drained. I've been fighting the good fight, trying to console my father and my sisters, being there for my family. Today I wanted a day of quiet, away from all, to rest.

It's also Canada Day. The rest of the city is in Cloverdale, whooping it up with music, dance and festivities. There's no way I could be there, as today I've also been visited by a migraine, my little companion today. It constantly reminds me that too much noise, too much light, too much of anything and I'm going to pay. It's ruling my day.

I have just enough time to go upstairs, put on some more suitable attire, grab the darkest glasses I can find, and brave the outdoors. For Jesus. Because it's on days like this, when I don't feel His presence, don't hear His voice, don't have His consolation, want to just hide under blankets, don't want to even answer the phone, that He is closest to me. And I need to say a quiet thanks.

Coincidences?

My May 4 post spoke of my continuing journey with Jesus, through John 15. Since May 4, I've gardened, prayed, read, prayed, spent time with almost everyone I love, learned to love more.

It's been beautiful. I also gained a new trust and love for Mary, Help of Christians. It's interesting. She's now showing up everywhere. I have a statue of her in my garden. I pulled a prayer card out of an old jacket as I was going out, yup, there she is, a prayer for Mary Help  of Christians. We meet in a room, called, yup, Mary Help of Christians Hall. It's all becoming very interesting. So I asked her to pray for me, nonchalantly, just in passing, "Sweet Mother, Pray for me, that God's will be done." That's it.

So on the Feast day of Mary Help of Christians I get a phone call for a job. I didn't really even formally apply there, just sent an email. That was on May 24. They wanted me to start the very next day, on May 25.

I said yes. Then I remembered. I try to read the readings of Mass before Mass. The readings for May 25?
Yes. Yup. John 15 Verses 1-8.

God is hitting me over the head with His love.

I'm now there for a few weeks. I'll be able to go to Europe in August. And I'm working with some very wonderful people, five minutes away from home.

Of course I still love the people I was working with and my heart aches for them, but I do feel really blessed right now.

And I'm going to abide with Jesus as much as I possibly can.

I also learned a lesson about appreciation today, and I can't wait to give my husband the biggest hug and kiss.

That's all she wrote.

Lent Through to the Divine Mercy

How do you describe this journey? This was one of the most interesting Lenten and Easter through to Divine Mercy experiences for me...

This Lent compared to last year was very interesting. Last year I journaled every day. This year, I only wrote through a retreat that I took.  Last Lent as I recall was a conversation with God where I did all the talking. This year, I couldn't talk. I couldn't pray. I couldn't write. I struggled through a desert.

But God spoke to me very strongly.

I am the true vine, and my Father is the vine grower.

He takes away every branch in me that does not bear fruit, and everyone that does he prunes  so that it bears more fruit.

You are already pruned because of the word that I spoke to you.

Remain in me, as I remain in you. Just as a branch cannot bear fruit on its own unless it remains on the vine, so neither can you unless you remain in me.

I am the vine, you are the branches. Whoever remains in me and I in him will bear much fruit, because without me you can do nothing.

Anyone who does not remain in me will be thrown out like a branch and wither; people will gather them and throw them into a fire and they will be burned. If you remain in me and my words remain in you, ask for whatever you want and it will be done for you.

By this is my Father glorified, that you bear much fruit and become my disciples.

As the Father loves me, so I also love you. Remain in my love.

If you keep my commandments, you will remain in my love, just as I have kept my Father's commandments and remain in his love.

"I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and your joy may be complete.

 

I have lost count of how many times this Lent and Easter that particular scripture came up. Over and over again. From Westminster Abbey, in prayer,  to pruning my own trees, to walking and listening, and driving my car. The Scripture would come on the radio, or a podcast, or in various places. During this period, I got laid off after working there for 9 years, lost a transmission in my car; may have possible serious medical issues — all these physical or secular things that really, in the big picture, have no relevance to my relationship with God.

Since Easter, I am trusting in Him more. I am praying more. I am rejoicing more. Even though I do not know what tomorrow brings (and I never have) I worry less.

 

I have been able to see the beauty of new faith in the Easter Vigil. Praise God. I have had the extreme grace to be able to be there for my aging parents. Praise God. I have had the joyful grace of spending time with my sister. Praise God. I have had the inspiration of several paintings in my head, like seeds that need to sprout. Praise God.

I am a walking contradiction. And I like it.

Advent Begins

It's my desire to continue to blog this Advent. I was successful last Lent, but this seems harder! Lord bless this blog, bless this journey, and all who read it.

 

November 28, 2010

Wake up! Be alert! It is the hour. These words bring us to attention as we begin this Advent season. St. Benedict would say, “Be sober and alert!” The reason we are being called to attention is because this holy season matters to us who are seeking God. We are to take time to watch and wait for something important is happening - Jesus has come, is coming and will come again. Advent brings new energy, new grace for encountering Christ if we open ourselves to it and pay attention.

November 30, 2010

And so I do begin. Thank you Lord, for making me your child. Help me to grow in the gifts of the Holy Spirit. Help me to become your peace and justice to others. And please help me to become close to you this Advent.

Todays reading:  Luke 10:21-24

At that same hour Jesus rejoiced in the Holy Spirit  and said, ‘I thank you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and the intelligent and have revealed them to infants; yes, Father, for such was your gracious will.

All things have been handed over to me by my Father; and no one knows who the Son is except the Father, or who the Father is except the Son and anyone to whom the Son chooses to reveal him.’

Then turning to the disciples, Jesus said to them privately, ‘Blessed are the eyes that see what you see! For I tell you that many prophets and kings desired to see what you see, but did not see it, and to hear what you hear, but did not hear it.’

It’s true, Lord, Blessed are the eyes that see what we see. Faith has given us eyes, and ears in these troubled times to see You, to hear Your Voice. to seek You and to Love You. Even in the darkness, we seek you. Even in our own desert, we seek you, although we may not hear your voice as clearly as we desire.

This Advent has begun with so much sorrow around me. Again, I am walking through a valley of tears, with friends who have parents who have passed away, brothers who have been brutally murdered, sickness and hospital stays. I experienced three days of extreme pain in my shoulders, back and arm, where movement was excruciating. Even strong painkillers didn’t help much. On the third day, I rose again, (ha ha, not a holy rising, but at least I could stand and I was able to go to church)

It seems every Advent is a struggle against the world. Consumerism, time, noise … it all fights with my soul.

But there is always the penitential dying to oneself available even in that. Trying as hard as I might to kill my pride, encouraging seeking and seeing truth, discovering more about myself, my strengths, my weaknesses. And in so many ways I should change. God is good and is revealing much of this early in my advent journey.

Today’s question is really a realization that God has adopted me. And wow, yes, I see that. Many people born into the church may not recognize the adoption as clearly as one who is a convert. Father Mario was clearly speaking of that last Wednesday.

The Lord’s adoption announcement might say. “Yes, I called her many times. I reached out to her many times through people, through books, through music, through art. I tried everything. This stubborn child was always looking for me, hearing my voice, but then running away. I rejoiced when she stood and made a decision to turn towards me. Her guardian angel supported her all the way. The company of her family in heaven, now saints, were imploring with prayer that she perservere. And then the day happened. Every day since has been an adventure. The first five years were the most interesting, as there was a serious tug of war between satan and myself. Watch her grow now. She tries, and I smile. She wants to be a saint. I will guide her. There’s a long, long way to go.

Persecution for His Name's Sake.

"Beloved, do not be surprised that a trial by fire is occurring among you, as if something strange were happening to you. But rejoice to the extent that your share in the sufferings of Christ, so that when his glory is revealed you may also rejoice exultantly. If you are insulted for the name of Christ, blessed are you, for the Spirit of Glory and of God rests upon you. But let no one among you be made to suffer as a murderer, a thief, an evildoer, or as an intriguer. But whoever is made to suffer as a Christian should not be ashamed but glorify God because of the name. For it is time for the judgment to begin with the household of God; if it begins with us, how will it end for those who fail to obey the gospel of Christ? 'And if the righteous one is barely saved, where will the godless and the sinner appear?' As a result, those who suffer in accord with God's will hand their souls over to a faithful creator as they do good."
(1 Peter 4:12-19)


Enough said, almost.


It never fails to amuse and sadden me at the same time, that even though I try to live my faith, and love those around me with the love of Christ, doing my best not to judge others or their choices in their journey towards God. (as soon as I am blameless, I will feel free to judge others, but until that time, I have not the right) my faith is the butt of anger and jokes.


But it hurts, really hurts, when people feel free to slam my faith as if it was absolutely necessary to hurt me. If they used the same words to describe my faith if I was Islamic, or Jewish, they would not do this, I know. I could be Baha'i, Wiccan, a devotee of any ancient pagan faith, and they would be nothing but charitable. 


Nevertheless, I take hope in Peter's words. 


The fact that I went on a "pilgrimage" and not a trip is a horrible thing, I guess.


Again, it's just part of the journey. I shall dance in the blessings of all persecution. As Jesus reminds me, Blessed are those who are persecuted for My name's sake.


Blessings to you as well, on this rainy day.

Pilgrimage Part Two: Jerusalem and Galilee 2010

Pilgrimage Part Two

Israel

The Allenby Bridge and Jericho

Heat. Heat. Heat. 

An unaccustomed heat assaults us as we hit the Allenby Bridge. All our passports and travel into Israel goes uneventfully, and before long we are on the road with a new guide and a different bus to Jericho.

Israel presents itself as a very clean country, with a different look than Jordan and Cairo. Pristine little villages, stark empty spaces, little or no garbage strewn here or there. A country with an apparent plan, it seems.

We enter Jericho and have a quick break. Gary climbs the Jericho remains, and I stand at the spring of Elijah. We have lunch. We are off on the bus, with our new guide Dikko, who reminds me of a Peter-like gruff character. He knows how to lead, he doesn’t have much patience for dawdling, but he is a shepherd above all. 

We drive through the barren wilderness that St. John the Baptist inhabited. Hills and crevasses bathed in sunshine. Little or no vegetation.

JERUSALEM

It is here, where I have my sister’s rosary. And it is from here, that I address my journal to my sister, in love and charity. She made this rosary for me, and I carry it, with all my love, to the sites where Jesus waked, and loved us, and taught us, and spent his agony, in love for us.

To Shelley

Shelley, your rosary reached Jerusalem. As I looked over the city, with your rosary laid on to the stone wall, I saw all that laid ahead, and at the same time, all that has passed in time. This is the city that changed our lives forever, whether Muslim, Christian or Jew. I said that Cairo has an energy like a tuning fork. This city Jerusalem, has a sense of the seen and the unseen. Our eyes see this city, so much of it holding the past right in front of our eyes, but at the same time, but at the same time, a sense of anticipation. Our Lord will return here.

GETHSEMANE:

The Grotto of the Betrayal.

Tradition tells us this is where Judas betrayed Jesus. To step down the stairs into the darkness of this small space you have a sense of much more than history here…

The Grotto of Gethsemane is the place where Jesus, betrayed by Judas, was arrested. Located in the Garden Gethsemane this natural cave was used by farmers to store grains. From the sixth century on it served some Christian communities as a cenacle. It was renovated in the 1950s, but it still looks more or less like 2000 years ago. It is the holy places in Jerusalem which has conserved its original appearance best.

The cave contains three altars with murals above. The paintings over the high altar shows Jesus praying among the Apostles, the Assumption of the Virgin and the Kiss of Judas.

During the first 400 years the place of the betrayal was a stone on the left of the pathway which linked the city of Jerusalem to the Mount of Olives. The for nearly 1000 years this cave was said to be the place of betrayal. Then it was renamed Grotto of the Agony as it was thought to be the location of the Agony of Jesus.

Shelley, here, as I walked into this sacred space, I looked for Jesus. And he was here. The vigil light lit, with the sacred tabernacle. Oh, I fell to my knees. Imagine, if this is indeed the spot, where Judas did betray Jesus, and our Lord must spend time in here, at the site of his betrayal of his friend. Imagine reliving one of the most painful moments of your life, and having to stay in this space. I fell to my knees before him, in consolation, and in some despair. Oh my Lord, how you must be here? How we all betray you at times, and yet you perservere? I am so sorry, Lord.

I can only imagine your tears as well, my sister. They would have had to drag you from this space, in tears and in weeping. But this was only the beginning of our journey together, Jesus, our Lord, Gary, our fellow pilgrims and you, in my heart.

How do you even write about the most intimate relationship you ever will have? I realize that this journal will not be written nightly. That with the grace of God, I will be given time to remember, and have the Holy Spirit reveal to me this journey, not just today, but throughout my life. I pray that he gives me some time to write before the memories of this amazing journey pass away.

Gethsemane and Church of All Nations, Jerusalem

The garden of Gethsemane is one of the sacred places dearest to Christian tradition. The fact that it is still rich today in olive trees hundreds of years old, twisted and gnarled, has confirmed the belief that these may be the very same olive trees that witnessed Jesus' last night before his arrest.

Shelley, we celebrated the Mass here.

My face was wet with tears. You do know how your throat is sore from crying, and your eyes are wet with salty tears, how they run down your face and neck. This is the agony of our Lord. This is where He asks us to stay with him for just one hour. This is where He accepts the will of the Father. I remember you surrendering your will to the Father. I remember that summer day you told me that. I recall how this surrender, for me, is a daily struggle, sometimes even a minute by minute struggle. But our Lord, He struggled, and then with Love, Surrendered. At that moment, when He accepted the cross, our lives began. Satan was starting to squirm.

Why did I not expect to cry? Because it has been years since I cried at a Mass? How, when I had just left Him in the betrayal, could I not cry?

Almost at the end of Mass, I could not restrain myself, I quickly walked, lunged even, towards the rock that Jesus prayed to the father. And I lay your rosary and mine on the rock, and kissed it. My emotions had gotten away from me, because Father had not completed the Mass. He bowed beside the rock and kissed it. The Mass was over.

I realized I should have shown much more decorum. I felt as the Magdalene, unable to control her feelings. There I was, in complete desolation over the moment.

After Mass, Lynda walked towards me, and we embraced and wept loudly. There was nothing more I could do but weep.

Bethlehem

In Bethlehem we assemble. The Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem is a major Christian holy site, as it marks the traditional place of Christ's birth. It is also one of the oldest surviving Christian churches. It was under renovations all over the place.

I closed my eyes. I heard so many different languages. I smelled the age of the place, at the same time, the construction noises. It was sincerely hard to put myself in the place of Christ’s birth. There was a Greek Orthodox Mass happening very near us. The crush of people, and then the stairs… And then.. the star, which tradition tells us is where Christ was born. On my way down the stairs, the hymn Emmanuel was in my head. And I thought to myself how Glenn would love to be here at this point.

I brought your rosary with me and laid it on the manger site. And then in the silence of my heart, tried to find Jesus there… Father said, “Each one of you has been called to this pilgrimage for a special reason, something the Lord wants to reveal to you.” I took peace in the face of this, that not every holy site is going to pull me into this feeling of communion with our Lord, but this particular holy site will touch someone else very deeply.

From the Church of the Nativity to the Milk Grotto. 

This was very different, and so beautiful. There was a quiet reverence in this place. A coolness and calmness swept over me, as we descended deep into a cavernous shrine to the site where our Lady nursed Jesus and the Holy Family spent time. This grotto, with a Franciscan chapel built above it, is considered sacred because tradition has it that the Holy Family took refuge here during the Slaughter of the Innocents, before their flight into Egypt. Tradition has it that while Mary was nursing Jesus here, a drop of milk fell to the ground, turning it white.

The Franciscan priest told of the many miracles at this site, because of the fervent prayers of the people who used some of the white powderish substance in the grotto. Many miracles of healing and of babies being born to infertile couples. I have some of this powder.

Walking the streets of Bethlehem and Jerusalem and seeing all of the different faiths, the little children coming from school, the men talking about the world, and their lives outside of their stores, people rushing here and there, Hebrew scholars and Hassidic Jewish men in their long coats and hats, Muslim women in the full burka, and Christians with their rosaries or crosses. This is a city where, for a change, the non-religious are the minority.

God speaks to his people in this city, albeit with different voices, perhaps, but He is speaking to us. I pray that one day, in truth and in love, we speak with one voice.

Shepherds Field

I was really looking forward to the Shepherd’s Field. This is where Lucy, Gary’s mom, felt the closest to the Lord. I felt it was important to get a picture of Gary here, especially for his mom.

Your rosary was here, in the Shepherd’s Field, and you were with me too, my sister. You would have seen Gary becoming more comfortable with this little community of believers, all of us becoming very close by this time. Yes, there are little petty differences. If you read in the Gospels, you will see that not all of the disciples, or apostles for that matter, were always charitable and loving towards each other. But nonetheless, I am enjoying watching Gary relax and be at peace. There hasn’t been a cell phone call, or a crisis to deal with in days. I’ve even forgotten about work for the most part.

Shepherd’s Field reminds me of angels. And surprisingly enough, the feathers on the ground remind me of my own guardian angel, and all of the guardian angels, accompanying us on this journey, Are they speaking and talking to one another, rejoicing in their charges, as they continue on this pilgrim journey towards Christ?

The beautiful Canadian built church of the Shepherd’s field is small, but so sweet. It is a church in the round, with the altar in the middle. How different is that? The acoustics are beautiful too. And as pilgrims, we sing Christmas Carols in this beautiful little church.

Day Three:

Actual date: Saturday: October 16.

I’ve actually lost track of time. I’m writing this in the quiet of our hotel room, on a day that I am sick. The night before my insides were being wrenched out of my body. I was in much pain and it threw me for a loop. Not much sleep at all. This is actually day 5 of our Jerusalem pilgrimage, and I’m here, and not at the Dead Sea where it is 106F. Yesterday’s heat really got me. I only had black clothes to wear, and I almost passed out a few times, from the heat. However. God is Good. Gary is there, and I’m resting right now. Today is Saturday a Holy Day for the Jewish People and it is quiet. So quiet outside you can’t even see hardly one car moving around. And all the stores, save a few are closed. You can’t imagine a city that shuts down for God. Isn’t that amazing? So, so get more Imodium would mean walking blocks and blocks. I’ve opted for complete fasting, a bit of water and the two Imodium I still have. And letting nature take it’s course, so to speak.

Anyway, I digress, dear sister.

Day Three is the Holy Sepulchur. 

We begin our day very early. 5:30am. We want to get to the old city by the Jaffa Gate and walk through the streets of Old Jerusalem well before the stores open and the crowds appear. If you see my pictures you see Old Jerusalem still at sleep. There aren’t the thousands of people, only us and the breadmaker’s (which smell amazing) hard at work for the morning people.

We are not the first people at Holy Sepulchur Church however.

There is a Mass happening before us. We must try to be quiet and respectful. There are people from all nations stirring around us to be closer to the place where Jesus, on the cross, breathed His last.

I really can’t explain this to you, my sister. I am trying to write this with as much of the “smells, bells and senses” of the moment, but it is impossible.

How do you describe the senses of Love. How do you share with someone, the intimate details of your relationship with someone who loves you so deeply, that HE died for you. You know this already, but, honestly, sweetest sister, you have to be there to really feel it.

I thought my tears ended at Getsethmane. They did not. At the Stone of Annointing Golgotha, I wept, tears pouring down my face. Gary went to Mass with me. I knew in my heart, that this particular Mass was important for him to attend. God knows. I was so happy to have him there with me, and yet we weren’t together. He was at the back of the small area, and I was very near Father at the altar, and near near near to the place, … the foot of the cross. If I looked up, with the eyes of faith, from where I stood at Mass. I would have looked right up to Jesus’s face. His blood would have spilled right onto me. This was not on purpose, this was just where I stood. And cried. And it is only now, days later, that I understood the enormity of where I stood.

The lector, reading the first reading, broke into tears at the end of her reading. It brought more tears to everyone’s eyes. This was the moment.

Your rosary was there with me. And I laid it, along with the prayers in my heart for the healing, spiritual, emotional and family healing of all our sisters and brothers. May they all forgive and love one another, and find Jesus, as you and I have.

This was the foot of the cross.

Now, we walked solemnly, and not far… to the place where they laid Him. In your mind’s eye, when you think of the Passion, you think of miles away from the site of his death, to the site of his Resurrection, but in fact, it is just steps.

The Greek Orthodox church currently has the responsibility of maintaining this sacred space. There was a huge lineup waiting for the Sepulcur to be open. In fact, we were fortunate to be where we were. Gary had disappeared. I thought of Mary Magdalene saying “they have taken My Lord, and I do not know where they have put him.” I was thinking, Gary has been here, and now I do not know where he has gone.

I was worried that perhaps the enormity of the day perhaps made him angry or bitter. You have seen him when he was really on a rampage against God and faith.

But no, he was with one of our pilgrims, who with a gentle hand was shepherding him with kindness, and with sweetness, as I could never have.

And another wonderful pilgrim, suggested that when it was my time to go into the sepulcher, that I beckon Gary to come with me. Despite all the crowds behind us, she would make room for him.

I was afraid to do that. But I did. And he came. And I cried again.

And my sister, your rosary laid on the tomb of Christ, along with mine. Our pilgrim rosaries, now holding a relic of our love for Him and for each other.

Obviously I wish you were here, but I am so glad that it is Gary who is journeying with me.

I had promised Gary that if he went to Mass, he could rest for the rest of the afternoon if he chose. We were going to walk the Via Dolorosa, and I know that in the past, he has said negative things about this particular religious practice. In my heart I wanted him to come so much, but I didn’t want to push and shove him into faith, I wanted to love him into faith.

You know I love the Stations of the Cross. To walk the steps that Jesus took. And now, with three other lovely ladies, Lynda, Heather and Jill, we were going to carry the cross through the Sixth Station, Veronica wipes the face of Christ.

The heat was oppressive, and I was afraid. You would have relished the heat. I can see your face now, laughing, knowing what a wimp I am with heat, when you, my sister, love it so much. There would have been no hat for you, and no sunblock. You would have worn your long skirt that you would have pulled up and tanned your legs everytime we weren’t at a holy site and you could have caught some of those amazing rays.

I put your rosary in it’s little container on my heart (in my bra). You would walk the stations with me, in spirit.

The first and second station were in a quiet spot, near a church. Then we entered the streets of the Via Dolorosa. Only around 7 or eight feet across the streets are crowded with vendors, and buyers and people of faith, and people of no faith. There are onlookers who look at us with pity, distain, wonder, awe, and smile. Every kind of person you can imagine, are watching us as we walk these steps. Believe me again, my sister, this is impossible to describe. The sounds of the vendors, “hey lady, only $1 US” “Pashmina’s here,” Arabic, Hebrew, Italian, Russian, Chinese, Japanese, Tagalog, all the languages of the world. 

All eyes are on us as we snake our way through the crowds, singing softly, “Jesus, remember me, as you come into your Kingdom”. The smells of spice, of sweat, of the dusty heat of the day, (it is still relatively morning, and yet it’s close to 35C) Shade is a temporary respite from the sun. There is no respite from the noise, from the movement of bodies through these narrow streets.

This is no Stations of the Cross as you’ve experienced it at any church. This is much closer to what Jesus experienced, but to a much gentler degree.

No one is hitting us. No one is spitting at us. There may be sly looks of bemusement on those not of our faith, but it still has some sense of respect.

Not so in the time of Christ. Not so for HIS walk.

The sixth station is called.

Let me tell you first of MY plan. MY PLAN was to be the last person holding the cross. I did not want to lead. Lynda and Heather and Jill, such beautiful women, were far more equipped to carry the front than I. Lynda , a schoolteacher and gifted with the most beautiful voice, and Heather, a writer and once-upon a time religious sister, now mother and wife, and Jill, who cried when I called her Veronica. This is her first pilgrimage, and sometimes I know it’s very difficult for her, but her joy, at being called Veronica, and when I hugged her after, gave her such peace. Anyway, in my pride, and my decision-making with God, I had decided, that I did not want to hold the crosspiece, and see the people looking at us head on. I felt strange even, being a woman, holding the cross. This was Jesus’ walk, not mine, I thought. I will walk beside him, as one of the women who loved him.

Not my walk, was my thought, as suddenly, the front of the cross landed squarely on my shoulders, heavy, touching your rosary. And, yes, you were walking with me, on this walk, my sister.

Heavy, because the others hadn’t quite caught or held it yet, I don’t know. My eyes closed tightly, thinking, not my plan, Lord, but yours. Here you go, God, teaching me, that yes. I do have a cross. And yes, if I love you I will show it, and I will live it.

Someone, perhaps just a person in the narrow streets shoved me, not hard, but it caught me off guard, and Lynda moved forward, catching my sandal and it almost came off. Right off the beginning, I was learning, as we snaked through the narrow streets, Up stairs, around corners. I could not sing. I just stepped, one step at a time, smelling the smells, feeling the cross heavy on my shoulders, looking at the curious eyes around us.

Jesus himself, our wonderful Priest, Father Craig told us, walked this walk at around the same time of day as we were walking. It was a marketplace, and it was busy, and there were people around, and our Lord was there to be made a spectacle of. To be ridiculed, to be sworn at. To be abused, his already broken body bleeding on every stone.

And then it ended. Our station had ended, and we relinquished the cross to the seventh station.

I touched your rosary as much as possible, to all of the places of this sacred walk.

It ended these stations, with an Allelulia, in a quiet courtyard. Jesus has risen. Indeed he has risen. And our journey, ended at the 3rd hour.

DAY FOUR

The days are rushing past. I know that I have not mentioned all of the places that we have seen. I have not mentioned every church. If God is willing, he will remind me at Mass at some future time, this thing or that..

As an aside, I have to tell you of the wonderful fruit, and the wonderful bread and food, of this area. The fruit and vegetables especially are so good. I don’t like to say better than ours, but yes, they are better. The sweetest, crunchiest apples, wonderful oranges, and pears, and grapes. The fruit is amazing. Everything grows here, bananas, oranges, lemons, pomegranite, pears, apples, pomelos, cherries, peaches, olives, and more and more. All kinds of vegetables, the best tomatoes, peppers… And the fresh bread. But today, as I am sick, I have no desire for any of these things. I pray I feel way better tomorrow. I rest, and then type. I will sleep more, but not too much, as we get up most mornings at 6 or 6:30 in the morning.

And so, sweet sister, I will rest, and remember to tell you of Day Four and…

The Church of Saint John the Baptist, where he was born

The Dead Sea Scrolls and the Essenes…

The Marketplaces (I can only imagine you here. You’d be out every night, making deals with every vendor… You would want to live here, my sister, close to Jesus, …. AND the great deals)

In Love and in Christ,

Marla

St. John the Baptist. 

Where he was born. Your rosary laid on the spot of his birth. A beautiful church, full of peace. This is where St. Elizabeth bore St. John and kept him from death, during the massacre of the innocents.

October 22 NOW AT HOME.....

With the gracious assistance of the Holy Spirit, and the promise of Father Scott that the memories of this pilgrimage will always be with me, I finish this journal…

Friday October 15

It was a week ago that we had Mass at the Upper Room (Room of the Last Supper). I had received an email from Tara, asking for prayers for Mrs. Coen. What better place to offer prayers. Father Scott asked us to write down a simple prayer intention. Up to that point, all my intentions were carried in my heart. This particular intention seemed to be very important to place in his hand. And so we prayed for many people that day, in that little church. I was dressed in black that day. I had no other clothes to wear. It was an extremely hot day, so I offered up this uncomfortable clothing for the day as well.

Mary visisted Elizabeth and the instruction of the angel Gabriel, during the annunciation. And we went to the old village where we visisted the Church of Visitation. Now, dear sister, a strange thing happened. I could not walk those steps to visit Elizabeth as Mary did. The heat, so oppressive, made walking difficult for me at that time. I stopped at the foot of the stairs to the Church (there are around 100 stairs or so, winding up the mountain. To the right of me, is a beautiful trail overlooking the valley, forested and rich with beautiful vegetation, flowers, houses dotted here and there on the sides of the valley. I stayed there with Sheelagh, a fellow pilgrimer. We talked of life, of family. In a way it was another visitation of a sort. God is good. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a beautiful bride and her groom walk down the trail/road. And I caught them on my camera, looking at each other, with the beautiful village behind them.

The Western Wall, (the Wailing Wall). 

It was Friday afternoon, just an hour or so, before Shabbat. Scriptural Sabbath is celebrated from Friday sunset to Saturday sunset. The word Shabbat derives from the Hebrew verb shavat.

Many Jews attend synagogue services on Shabbat even if they do not do so during the week. Services are held on Shabbat eve (Friday night), Shabbat morning (Saturday morning), and late Shabbat afternoon (Saturday afternoon).

We saw many religious (Hassidic) jewish men, with the sons in tow, heading along with us towards the Western Wall, to offer prayers prior to Shabbat.

Marcia had asked me to compose a prayer for her family. I did, including Craig and Marcia, and their children and their descendants, for God’s will to be primary in their lifes, for a blessing of faith on all of their children.

I gave the prayer to Gary to honor his brother and sister in law. He walked down the stairs onto the square reserved for men only, and indeed, put the prayer into a crevice into the wall. A rabbi then approached Gary and prayed over him, for the intensions.

I stood on the hill, as all of this happened. The heat had hit me full on, and I had some heatstroke at this point. But my soul rejoiced in Gary, as he carried our prayers with him.

Saturday October 16

The day I was sick, and rested. The night before, well, let us say simply, was a cleansing. Gary and most of the pilgrims visisted the Dead Sea, Massada, Qumran.

From Essene Spirit.:

Since the archaeological discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls in 1946, the word "Essene" has made its way around the world--often raising a lot of questions. Many people were astonished to discover that, two thousand years ago, a brotherhood of holy men and women, living together in a community, carried within themselves all of the seeds of Christianity and of future western civilization. This brotherhood--more or less persecuted and ostracized--would bring forth people who would change the face of the world and the course of history. Indeed, almost all of the principal founders of what would later be called Christianity were Essenes--St. Ann, Joseph and Mary, John the Baptist, Jesus, John the Evangelist, etc.

Let’s just say, I loved the Essenes. Seeing and reading some of the Dead Sea Scrolls, their poetry, songs, and spirit was amazing. I’m not finished learning about their rules of life…. It might take a lifetime.

Bethany. How strange, that the Lord keep me away from Martha Mary and Lazarus. However, maybe another time, sister. Maybe it’s meant for you and I to visit them. Father has some close friends who live in Bethany. Other pilgrims told me that this was a very poor section that they visisted. The Christians who live here live in serious poverty. We should pray for them and keep their plight in our hearts.

The little village of Bethany with the adjoining village of Bethpage rest on the Eastern slope of the Mount of Olives. It was and is the area from which the Palm Sunday procession began. A beautiful little church commemorates three events in the life of the Lord. 1. Here he stayed at the home of Martha and Mary. 2. Here he raised Lazarus from the dead. 3. Here he was anointed for his burial. A large monastery stood here in Crusader times.

Sunday, October 17

We are leaving Jerusalem for Tiberias.

I have sorrow about leaving Jerusalem. I had felt the presence of our Lord everywhere, walking in His footsteps. I just had to close my eyes, and with the help of the Holy Spirit, I felt him everywhere.

We drove through the ancient caravan route into the Valley of Jazreel to Gailiee. We saw the village of Naam where Jesus raised the widow’s only son from the Dead.

From the dry hills and rocks of Jerusalem to Galilee, I started to notice small patches of green, to larger patches, farms becoming more lush and green, fields of banana trees, pomegranate, every type of fruit and vegetable.

The River Jordan. Such a beautiful place. So many Christians, both Catholic and Protestant gather here. I see some protestants being baptized, their white robes in the green water. Your rosary and mine were immersed in the water, with a prayer. There is where I purchased some bottles of Holy Water for future baptisms in our family.

The Church of the Primacy of Peter. This was our first glance and where our feet first touched the shores of the Galilee. I could not wait to place my feet into the waters where Jesus called His disciples. Where Jesus told Peter, You are the Rock, and on this Rock I will build my church. It was there that I found my own rock. Your rosary bathed in the shores of the Galilee. Your rosary laid on the Rock in the church of the Primacy of Peter.

So many Masses were being held outdoors. By people of all nations. This is our Church, where African hymns are heard on the wind. This is our Church, where Russian, Italian, Chinese, people of all nations join together to rush to the shores. To hear the wind, the birdsong, to feel the green grass underfoot. This was Jesus’ home – Galilee – for three years. There was joy in the air.

We weren’t finished. We walked through the ancient excavation of Capernaum, where Jesus taught in the synagogue. Your rosary laid on a pillar. We stood before the house of Peter, where Jesus stayed, and healed Peter’s mother in law.

THE MASS AT THE MOUNT OF BEAUTITUDES

I can say, that this period of grace was the most beautiful Mass for me. Father stood, his back to the Sea of Galilee, our voices raised in praise, adoration and joy. I was so blessed to be able to proclaim the first reading and the responsorial psalm. How blessed. The birds dancing around our little community, the flowers, the fields of fruit, and then beyond the fields, the beautiful sea of Galilee. Jesus was here in body, soul and divinity, He was here in our Hearts. He was here in the Homily. He was here.

Just as Father was consecrating the bread into the Body and Blood of Christ, I looked up to the sky and saw fingers of light spreading down to the ground through the clouds. God’s light. God’s finger’s. God’s body and blood before me. It was too much. My heart soared. I did not cry. My heart soared. I thought if there is anywhere I ever want to go when I want to experience God, it will be this memory. This place.

They had to send someone down to tell Lynda and I that the bus was leaving. It felt like minutes, but I guess it wasn’t. Time stopped. It was time to say goodbye to this place. I wanted to place this beautiful place in my heart forever.

We then were blessed to stay in the Caesar’s hotel, right on the beach. Our view from our room was the Sea of Galilee.

That night, at the end of day, just as the sun was setting, we took a boat on the Sea of Galilee. As we approached the centre of the lake. The captain cut the engines. There we were, bobbing on the gentle waves, hearing only the sounds of birds, wind, the lap lap against the ship’s wooden sides. Here we rested, and meditated in this silence, of the apostles, in their fishing boat, with Jesus, resting. It was here that Peter asked Jesus to command him to walk on water. It was here that each one of us, our hearts bursting, cried out to Jesus. It was so beautiful, so joyful. Here was not the way of the cross, or Golgotha, but a gentle, loving reminder, of how Jesus leads us… I was thankful, joyful, and at peace.

After an amazing rest, we were in for an extremely busy day. There was almost no time left. I was now realizing that this beautiful time with Jesus was ending soon, so I was torn between feelings of anticipation and feelings of sadness. Would this be the last time I was here?

Nazareth: The cave of the Annunication.  Here is where Mary, a young woman, heard the words of the Angel Gabriel. Here is where Mary and Joseph raised the young boy Jesus. Here is where the steps to Mary and Joseph’s home is still there. It was the young boy’s steps to his Mother that we looked at. The beautiful church of the Annunciation, where hundreds of countries offer their beautiful images of the Virgin.

Every day, every Mass has been beautiful. Our group of pilgrims have become church, have become disciples, have become friends and family to each other. Every Mass brings us even closer together and closer to Jesus. As we gathered in the lower area of the beautiful church of the Annunciation, we see above us, people of all nations, praying with us, and joining with us, as Church. Franciscan priests, a community of Africans, in beautiful colorful dress, an American looking young man, whispering the prayers along with us. Our community grows and envelops all those around us as Church.

MOUNT TABOR: First thing in the morning. 5:15am

Dearest sister, you know my fear of curvy mountain roads. Well, you have never ever seen Mount Tabor. I had to let my fear go. Close my eyes, and trust the driver and pray. It was quite a hill!

I heard the whoa’s and whoo’s and oooooh’s of the people around me as we whipped around hairpin turns and zig zagged up the mountain. The van was driving reasonably fast, and my body was thrown back and forth for seven minutes until we reached the peak of the beautiful mountain. I opened my eyes and saw all of Galilee stretched out before us.

The Transfiguration of Jesus is an event reported by the Synoptic Gospels in which Jesus is transfigured upon a mountain (the Mount of Transfiguration) (Matthew 17:1-9, Mark 9:2-8, Luke 9:28-36). Jesus became radiant, spoke with Moses and Elijah, and was called "Son" by God. It is one of the miracles of Jesus mentioned in the Gospels.[1][2][3]

This miracle is unique among others that appear in the Gospels, in that the miracle happens to Jesus himself.[4] Thomas Aquinas considered the Transfiguration "the greatest miracle" in that it complemented baptism and showed the perfection of life in Heaven.[5]

There is peace here. No crowds as of yet. Our guide has been so helpful in making sure difficult places such as the Mount of Tabor are visited first. When we return to the foot of Mount Tabor, there are thousands of people waiting to take vans up to the mountain.

We traveled on to the ancient city of Sepphoris where the explored the excavations of the ancient capital city of Galilee. Tradition tells us that this is where the young child Mary was brought up.

We drove to the sparkling port city of Haifa and Mass was at Mt. Carmel, home of the two prophets, Elijah and Elisha. Our last mass together,. Sadness and happiness.

We made it to Tel-Aviv and the airport to Frankfurt. Our hotel at Frankfurt was beautiful, spotless, very modern.

The pilgrimage is over, but in so many ways, it lives in my heart.

My soul lives in Galilee. My soul prays beside Jesus in the Garden. My soul dances on the sea, with Jesus. My soul rests on the Mount of Beautitudes. My soul suffers in the streets of old Jerusalem. My soul yearns for the peace of Mount Tabor. 

My soul is restless until it walks in the footsteps of Jesus, again, someday.

In Love and in Christ

Marla