Chronic

Another poem.
I am in constant pain
It never ends
It sometimes abates
It shifts to new places
Just when I think an old pain is done
a new one takes its place
or it comes back
Since I was 7 years old
always the pain

I challenge the pain
“Fight me, you coward,” I yell at it.
It is the nerves, you see.
They are overly alert.
There are medications for this.
They make me stupid.

I challenge the pain.
“You are a record of something that is done! Get over yourself! Get lost! Get out!”

The pain grins at me from behind a rib
From atop my ankle
From beneath my scapula
From deep inside my guts
“I remember everything,” it sneers.

“You are just creating drama,” I sneer back, as I hand it to God.

For Those Who Persecute You

There is probably nothing in the universe that will calm & change your heart faster than praying for people who make you insane with rage.

It’s also a fantastic way to alienate & annoy the sort of people (nearly every human on Earth) who feel entitled to their rage.

I haven’t written here in a while. I was keeping a private journal, then stopped, writing nothing at all, which is an odd thing for a writer to do, let alone an economically disastrous thing. But as is the case with me when I suddenly stop doing something, I was exercising a spiritual practice.

I am vexingly given a great deal of these by my priest, whom I grudgingly admit is always right. I had been reading Story of a Soul, which many of you (okay, 5 out of my 7 readers) know to be the autobiography of St. Therese of Lisieux. It is delightful, and, as another priest in my parish says, “So beautiful. Also, such drama.”

Therese is a little French girl, & therefore slightly over the top.

But it is really quite spectacular, & essential reading for anyone whose vocation is love, no matter what they are doing with their lives.

So I’m reading this lovely book & having a somewhat spirited conversation with priest & teenaged goddaughter when he whips out a hardbound copy of Imitation of Christ and exhorts me to read that first. After all, it’s the source material for St. Therese’s entire existence.

“Fine,” I say, & take it.

It takes me a while to get through. It was written during a time when it was incredibly useful to tell people they were going to Hell. We don’t really do that anymore; we spend more time telling folks how easy it is to get into Heaven, since Jesus died for us (also love the Lord your God with all your heart & all your soul, etc). But back then, people used to randomly stab each other, gut cats for medicinal purposes, and literally believe that red haired women were brides of Satan (imagine such a thing!). Yes, people do that now, but they were much worse back then.

Everybody loves to talk about how awful the world is now but have you seen history?! The entire story of man’s day to day life shows a progressive trend upwards toward love. We are actually doing much better. We really are. Since Christ’s death & resurrection, people have been gradually becoming less awful on the whole.

Day to day life is less brutal. Complain all you want about a barista getting your Starbucks order wrong. It’s a hell of lot less stressful than having a marauding band from a neighbouring city-state murder your whole family. Sadly, that still happens in some parts of the world. But it still happens less. Marauding a neighbouring city-state & murdering whole families is pretty much frowned upon by all people at this point in human history.

Wow, that was divergent. Anyhow, it took me a minute to get through Imitation of Christ. I didn’t rip through it like I was ripping through Story of a Soul. It needs more thinking. It’s basically a collection of 4 smaller books (the third one seemingly interminable at times) telling you that you are a piece of crap, the cause of all your own problems, & that you need to do better.

And it’s right. At this point in my adult life, isn’t every problem I have my own damned fault? Didn’t I create every situation I’m in? Didn’t I allow someone to treat me that way, didn’t speak up soon enough to prevent something, neglected to do something I should’ve done days ago?

I’m now back to reading St. Therese, & she says pretty much the same things as Imitation (hell, she quotes it all the way through), but in this breathless girly style that speaks to the child inside me that still aches for love.

And of course the only way to receive love is to give it abundantly, even when it is spurned, misused, ignored, or trampled. Give love abundantly anyway. If you cannot find a thing, be a thing.

Love, actual burning love like Therese goes on & on about, does weird things. It inspires random weeping in front of an icon of Mary holding the infant Jesus. It inflames inconsolable sobbing during a particular beautiful piece of music. It leads you to merrily injure yourself in ten different little ways helping out someone who will never know what you did, whom you’re not even sure you like. And you will do it gleefully.

Love also helps you pray for people who, let’s face it, totally suck. People who hurt you, who hurt themselves, who hurt others. People whom you would rather punch. People who probably deserve a good punch.

Pray. For. Them.

And don’t do this thing we all want to do, which is, “Dear God, please make So&So stop being a prick. May they burn in Hell for all eternity if they don’t stop.”

No. When Jesus asks us to pray for our enemies, he means like he did upon the cross. “Forgive them, for they know not what they do.” These people were in the process of killing him & he prayed for them.

Notice he didn’t invite them up for tea & bickies. But he did pray for them.

You can pray for someone you know you can’t even be around again. You can pray for someone you hate but never met (I don’t understand how people do that, but apparently some of y’all hate people you have never & will never meet). You can pray for internet trolls. You can pray for abusive parents (only if you are ready & feel safe to do so). You don’t have to hang out with these people. Just pray.

You don’t even have to ask forgiveness for them. You can just say, “Heavenly Father, I pray for So&So.” You don’t even have to use the words “help” or “be with”. Any time you want to punch someone, pray for them.

If they make you cry, pray for them.

If they boggle the mind, pray for them.

You may never see them change. What will change is your heart. Your mind. Your sense of peace. Your ability to live fully. Usually. You’re still a person. You’re still going to hate everything from time to time. Take a second & pray.

You know what else changes? Sadly, some people get annoyed with you if you start doing this. Even if you don’t tell them. It’s like when you quit drinking or eating fried Snickers. The people who still drink & eat fried Snickers see you over there not drinking & eating fried Snickers & they feel oddly betrayed. You haven’t told them even once that they need to quit, too, but they are judging you. For being healthier & less judgy. I don’t know what to tell you. That happens.

When you pray for others, your desire to participate in addictive outrage & the constant turmoil of public discussion diminishes. Imitation spends a lot of time on shunning the advice & thoughts of people, & it is not wrong to do so, because every human on Earth is a flawed creature who could be telling you something while suffering a hormone imbalance or hunger or maybe they’re a manipulative jerk. Who knows? Hell, don’t listen to me. I’m getting over a migraine & I’m loopy. I’m just telling you a thing I’ve been doing.

You may want to try it, too. Whatever. It’s all in scripture.

Adoration Part Two

As I mentioned last week, Father Michael’s been putting out a monstrance for Adoration these last couple of weeks of Advent. My last experience was pretty emotional & very intense.

Tonight’s was also, but in a very different way.

This time I went having heard much less bad news, which didn’t mean I was necessarily having a good day. I had a weird day. But it wasn’t an awful day.

I went in a cheerful mood. I was happy to be ending my day in this manner, knowing that everyone else was busy with a vestry meeting, & I’d selfishly have Christ all to myself again.

I knelt for a bit, & in my head I sang the little chant Father Vladimir taught us:

Here’s my heart, Lord.

Here’s my heart, Lord.

Here’s my heart, Lord.

Speak what is true.

I did that for a good long while with a smile on my face, then just said “Speak, for your servant is listening.” And then I was quiet in my mind.

Here is where some of you will think I am crazy.

I perceived Mary sitting on the pew next to me. I knew she wasn’t actually there there, but she was there. She looked so young & yet spoke with such an aged, wise voice, in a slow, deliberate way, like English was her second language, but she was very good at it if she took her time. She glanced up at the monstrance subtly. “You can sit back,” she said gently. “You’re in pain.”

So I did.

She said, “I knelt by his cradle when he was a baby. And I fell to my knees when he died on that cross.” She said it so carefully and lovingly. I burst into tears.

She spent a good long time telling me some things that might not make any sense to you, but they made perfect sense to me. She said to love him as she loved him, because he is both her son and her God. She knew it was strange.

She said that he never didn’t love me, even when I denied him. You want to talk about a Jewish mother guilt trip. But she didn’t mean for me to feel bad. She just wanted me to know. I felt bad because I felt guilty.

And then Christ was there. I mean, he’s always there, but he was part of this conversation. “Hey, you were a child,” he said, & for some reason Mary sounds like she’s from Israel, but Jesus sounds like he’s from Yonkers. There is nothing I can do about that; he always sounds like a 30-something rabbi from Yonkers to me.

I was basically sobbing at this point. “You were a child & you were in so much pain.”

“He cried with you,” she said. “He cried for you.”

So basically I’ve completely lost it alone in this dark church & Jesus is walking me through some stuff I feel like crap about & he’s explaining where he was during all that & helping me love & understand difficult people. He’s also forgiving me for not getting things at the time.

He & Mary are also consoling me on some difficult people & things now. And telling me that no, it’s not fair but if anyone can handle it, I can.

But where I completely surrendered to the conversation & cried like a child was when he very plainly said to me, “I love you so much. Hey, I love you. You have no idea.” And Mary said it too & I just kind of crumpled on the kneeler & sobbed like a child.

Which of course is when Father walked in & had to lock up the church. But his timing was impeccable; if he’d come in a couple minutes earlier, I would’ve missed all that.

I’m not telling you this because it’s a special experience just for me. It’s a message for you, too. Jesus loves you. You have no idea how much. You can’t possibly comprehend it. I can’t.

Also I get the impression Mary feels a little sorry for men, because they have a hard time being vulnerable. And sometimes they are mean about it. That was really good mom advice. Jesus was basically like, “Ya know, she’s not wrong.”

So that’s the story of my near hour with Jesus & his mom. She thinks of the church as her daughter-in-law. Isn’t that sweet?

I am going to see if other parishes have weekly or daily adoration, because there is nothing like it & I want to go again. I don’t know if it’ll be the same as St. Nicholas — a dark, cold church lit only by a few candles with lingering Sunday scents I know & love — but I want to try.

Reset

  
Tonight I finally went to Compline at Saint John’s Cathedral. Brit has mentioned it on Facebook & in person a few times, & Chris reminded me, so I took the 101 to the 405 to the 10 to the 110 to get there. If you live in Los Angeles, you know how much I love Jesus now.

I was having quite a bit of post High Mass angst. As y’all could probably tell, this has been a harrowing year filled with loss & violence & needful change. High Mass sort of keeps me sane, but once it’s over & everyone’s left coffee hour, I have to trudge back home where there are no cats any more, where the failures of my adulthood hit me in the face like a badly caught football.

You all know me to be a fairly cheerful creature, but lately it’s just been too much. I’m over it. I need for things to be bright.

So why not pray in the darkness, holding a single lit taper, while a choir intones gorgeous harmonies as one voice, praising God?

My brain is completely reset. I feel at peace. I will probably sleep well tonight. I want to go forever and ever, amen. 

Talking about sci fi for an hour after with Chris & Mark most certainly did not hurt (even though I was a didactic psychology git for part of that, which is a flaw I am not sure how to purge). We probably laughed too loudly, but I don’t think anyone minded.

I was going to write another poem about this, but I don’t think it’s necessary. This is a set of emotional responses I can simply categorize: 

Today was amazing from start to finish. 

I am calm and happy. 

I love my church friends.

I love compline. It was much better than Cats (& my compline app). I will go again & again.

Because I Have To

I am only writing something tonight because Richard messaged me earlier today & told me he likes these. Nothing happened today, but I like Richard & want him to be happy.

 

This font is not comforting.


Really the only thing I can disclose from my day is that I returned to Target & it was not awful this time. Both my contacts & new glasses should be here in 7-10 days.

I ate delicious leftovers, watched Blacklist (which featured a truly delicious Ressler & Tom fight) & now I’m here. I don’t hurt very much, but my muscles are being very odd. I think my ankle wants to pop out again.

 Many wonderful things occurred that a few of us are chalking up to the work of God. For two weeks, a group of us have been praying & lighting candles for a friend’s cousin & another friend’s child. Today, the cousin (in a coma, not expected to live) woke up, & the child’s biopsy was good news.
When prayer is answered, as y’all know, I am not surprised. This does not dull my delight at the good news one whit. It’s like tracking a package & then the package gets here. God hears us.

I don’t pray for Him to subvert His will, but I do tell Him what I would like for that person, or their family, then add the legal caveat that He knows better & He probably already had something fabulous planned.

When I lose someone, I have to ask “Please help me to grieve properly. I am a robot & it comes out sideways & you know I suck at this feelings crap.” 

I’ve had to do this twice this year. Each time, something amazing happened. The Sunday after the Horrible Wednesday when my aunt, friend, & cat Persephone died, I had not slept. I got dressed & went to the early Mass & lit candles & prayed & sobbed, openly, in front of people. If you know me, you are stunned. This is not a thing I do. Our Deacon & Canon gave me big hugs & talked to me. I went home feeling more at peace.

When Neil died recently, I did not sob the Sunday after (I had done most of my sobbing & wailing at home that week). But I went to High Mass & two of my church friends who knew came to me & gave me great hugs. Christopher just looked at me & knew. Ed came & sat in the pew & reached over. Poor Ed had recently lost his mother, but he was empathizing with me over my cat. Both gestures were so kind & comforting. My church family is amazing.

My online prayer family is also amazing. We don’t all agree on denominations or who is the Son of God even, but we heed the call to prayer & go cuckoo bananas. For years, I have joined with friends of all faiths in prayer & seen amazing results. You believe what you want; I believe in outstanding medical care & miracles.

I guess today was actually pretty eventful after all.

My Lord & My God

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Long ago I made noises about posting my reactions to Father’s sermons here, & true to form I think I did that a whopping two times before senility & busyness claimed me yet again. Well, catechism is over, I & my sister & my fellow brothers & sisters in Christ are confirmed/baptized, & I’ve now been a year at Saint Thomas. I should probably FOCUS. Is it wrong to picture The Rock with angel wings, screaming at me?

Today’s gospel was, as the liturgical year demands, John 20:19-end. I really enjoy the whole of John 20. I love that Mary Magdalene calls Him “rabboni” (from the Easter service), a term of respect mixed with affection. If I were her, I’d be sobbing with joy as I said it. Can there be no greater happy shock than finding your beloved friend & teacher alive after watching Him suffer & die?

But back to this week. Here Thomas is not having any of this “Guys, for serious, I’m Jesus!” nonsense. He wants to poke the poor guy. Thomas is saying, in modern parlance, “You best bust with the holes in your hands & your side or you can get out.” We can’t be too hard on Thomas; this was the guy that was late to the party. Everybody else was present when Mary saw Jesus & told the other disciples “YOU GUYS! HE’S BAAACK!” Then He came to them & they got to have a jubilant old time with breathing the Holy Spirit & whatnot.

Thomas was that dude who found out a week later & was all WHUT?

So Jesus indulges him & Thomas says, in stunned joy & chastisement, “My Lord & my God.” Father points out Thomas does something very different here by acknowledging that Jesus is God. This is super hard for us to wrap our heads around (& is triply hard to explain to your Japanese roommate in college), but Thomas sees it. He feels it. He recognizes that Jesus is the entirety of God’s divinity in human form, that God deigned to live amongst us as one of us. He suffered as we suffer, & more so than most of us ever shall.

Jesus says to Thomas “Because thou has seen me, thou has believed; blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed.”

Father asks us to imagine what it would be like if Christ returned today. What would we, creatures of 24 hour news & immediate gratification, need to believe that Christ was indeed Christ? In the scriptures, He performs many miracles that Bronze Age people immediately associate with the divine. But we see miracles every day. Cardiologists revive the dead on a daily basis. Man has walked on the moon. Bubble wrap & Hologram Tupac exist. We are a nonplussed people. Seriously, what would Jesus have to do to make Himself known to us?

Have that little conversation with yourself, & be honest. Most Christians would immediately say “Oh, I’d know,” but would we? We’ve all piled our personal aspirations on Christ. We’ve assigned him our politics. We have numerous distractions & points of cynicism to engage us. How would you know you were talking to the actual Christ?

I answered this question silently to myself in the pew, immediately. “If I hugged Jesus, I would be instantly healed. I wouldn’t have fibromyalgia any more, or celiac disease, or arthritis, and my metabolism would work, & then I would drop everything and follow Him because I actually could.”

Two things struck me later as important to examine so I could root out my own biases. First, the act of hugging was assumed. Of course Jesus is a hugger. Deacon Walter is a hugger. Father Davies is a hugger. Jesus would hug, right? Well, maybe not. Would a firm handshake suffice? Would I even need to touch Him?

And the second assumption is of course that I would meet Him. Now if you know me, you know that I eventually meet everybody, because that’s what I do. It’s not intentional; it just happens, no matter where I live or am. But there are 7 billion people on this planet and utterly no guarantee that Jesus would have even the faintest interest in visiting Los Angeles, or even America. His agent would argue that He needs to be out here, but that’s applying our ideas of publicity & outreach to Christ. Maybe Christ doesn’t reach people through media. Maybe He’s a Reddit poster, or an astronaut, or majors in interpretive dance. He could be a soldier or a cat fancier or a stay-at-home mom. This is the 21st century; He need not appear as a Jewish male in order to get people to hear Him.

So then what would Christ have to do to get you to believe?

Later in the sermon, Father mentioned that we are all, currently, the body of Christ on Earth. You have His hands, His feet, His eyes. I think Father was quoting someone but I missed that part thinking about how crappily I was treating Christ’s body. I was treating it very well, when I had a trainer. I was fueling it properly & exercising it properly. Over the past few months, though, as I continue to recover from injuries, I’ve been treating Christ’s body like the Play Doh Fun Factory.

If I ever needed a message to get me to properly think about how to feed Christ’s property, that was it. For lunch I chose brown rice & chicken breast, plus vegetables. Ok, I had a Chipotle bowl. There is no reason Jesus wouldn’t like Chipotle! Especially if He had fibromyalgia & couldn’t cook today cos of His neck & shoulders.

Anyhow when Father’s sermon is posted to YouTube, I’ll add the link here so you can see that what he said is a lot more learned than how I heard it.

Oh, & the picture above? Father gave the Class of 2014 catechumens personalized Byzantine icons. Mine depicts Archangels Michael & Gabriel. I think I know why.

KJ Adan also has a book out, in case you actually wanted to read something longer.

Left of Mother, Right For You

I talked to my Mummy yesterday!

You’re looking at me funny.

No, you don’t understand. My family don’t talk. We are not talkers. We don’t “keep in touch”. We are adrift in a sea of memory misery.

I’m always floored by you folks who say that you talk to your moms every day or every week or every month or every fiscal quarter. I think it’s great! If I manage to adopt a child someday, I sure hope she calls me, too. I would of course call her, or at least text her to see how her smoodgie face is doing. But this has not been my world. There are several reasons for this, some of them are of course my fault, unless you believe that your parents shape your behaviour, and then I am absolved of responsibility. Muahahaha!

But the point is (there’s ever a point?) I am ECSTATIC I talked to my Mummy, & we made plane reservations and for the first time since I was in college, I am spending Thanksgiving and Christmas with her, my sister, & my brother. YAYZ times four gazillion million!

AND.

My father apparently asked why my mother did not request his presence (which is rich because the man can tell you the date of every battle in every war in the history of human civilisation, but he cannot remember birthdays or holidays). My mother stood up for me. STOOD UP FOR ME. She told him, “I want to see my daughter for once.” And he said, “Is she still cross with me?” Really?

And my mother (my mother!) said to him, “Cross with you? She never wants to see you again for as long as you live. How much more clear should she have been?” He said, “Oh.” (Well DUH.) He then said, “If she was in some sort of trouble, you would tell me right?” (RICH.)

My mother (MY MOTHER!) said, “No, I would not. But rest assured she is doing better now than she has ever done in her life, and don’t you dare jeopardize that by contacting her again.”

MY. EFFING. MOTHER.

ROCKS!!!!!!!!!!!

This is kind of huge. This is kind of wonderful huge for me. This is kind of safe and loving and epic. If I didn’t have a migraine, I would feel exceptionally faery light right now & possibly dance on my tippy toes. I feel like somebody’s daughter and I can’t wait to see her and hug her. Also I might cry. Good cry.

But here’s the funny part:

So we talk briefly about the food bit of Thanksgiving, since I am now an unholy nightmare of food limitations & an incorrigible pain in the arse to everyone who wishes to feed me. She asks if she has to do anything different and I say not really, most of her dinner is from scratch. The roast potatoes don’t need to be modified, and neither does the turkey…

“Oh, unless you use one that has fluids & stuff in it.”

“Oh,” my Mum says. “Well, sometimes I inject it with stuff.”

“Oh,” I say, “Well, just let me know what the ingredients are. If there’s any MSG, I can’t have it. Also some thickeners & flavourings have gluten in them, especially gravy mixes. But I can make a gravy from scratch for you if you like. I don’t want to be a pain in the arse.”

“Ok, we’ll talk about that before you come down.”

“And of course I can’t have anything that’s been remotely near a crumb of stuffing.”

“Oh, you don’t like stuffing any more?”

I blinked. “Um, well, I can’t have stuffing. Bread.”

My mother gasped. “YOU CAN’T HAVE BREAD?!!!”

*palm/face*

“Mum, I have celiac disease.”

“Is gluten in bread?”

“Mum, gluten is a protein in wheat. So yes, it’s in bread, Yorkshire pud, gravy, crusts, some drinks even. It’s effing everything.”

“Well fook me, no wonder you’re losing weight!”

“Oh, and I can’t have dairy.”

“What?”

“Yup.”

“No clotted creme for you then, mate.”

“NO NO I can have creme. Well, a little. I can’t have milk, yogurt, ice cream. No lactose. No milk sugar. It’s like Atkins. The more cooked it is, the better. So like I can have cheese a bit.”

“Oh that’s good.”

“Oh and I can’t have peanuts.”

“Christ.”

I am laughing while typing this. It’s so NOT ENGLISH to have things wrong with your belly. Stiff upper lip and all that. But I explained that if I have a hint of a portion of a crumb of gluten, I will have dysentry (as Rick describes it). Also I will be bloated for a couple of weeks & my weight loss will be stalled at least a month as my system fixes itself again. So I think she realizes this is a big deal.

But it’s ok, because I can help cook. I can make lovely things. My Mum said she wishes I was coming earlier so I could shop at Trader Joes with, and I told her about the Trader Joes gluten free list. Now I think things are happier.

I also discovered my Mum does not like goat cheese. Caroline does. We must get it from my father, which makes sense because the Mongolian/goat cheese loving blood (type B) comes through the Slavic bloodline. This is per my doctor & Google.

I’m up to a bunch of wacky writing/thinking/publishing type nonsense, but more about that at another time.

Also I wish Posterous would let you post a SMALLER header photo. Lame.

Oh, by the way, NOTHING should be named “tunnel of fudge.”

*today’s blog title brought to you by “Left of Mother” by Curve, off the album ‘Cuckoo’