Tuesday, September 22, 2015

Veni Si Amas--- A Poem

My day has been filled with lots of poetry, so I might as well fill in with a little more. Sometimes I write poetry. I don't claim to be highly original, inspiring, or schooled in the art of meter, but yes, sometimes I write poetry.
This poem is called "Veni Si Amas", it is about the chapel at a convent I visited two summers ago. 'Veni Si Amas' is Latin for 'Come if you Love' and it is written on the gates to the convent grounds.
Enjoy.

Veni Si Amas
If Wisdom had a voice,
it would sound like the old pipe organ upstairs,
The rich and candid sound,
 Is unmistakable,
and carries with it
the history of all its year
with every note,
Easter Vigil,
Christmas Mass,
and every Sunday in between.

And even now, in all the stillness
as I sit on a tired-out pew near the back of the sanctuary
if I listen hard enough,
I can swear I hear organ notes
from two years ago
still chasing each other
through the nooks and crannies
of the convent chapel
to remind the weathered stone
that some things,
 never change.

The  stained glass window
fractures the late afternoon light
into water color paint
 spilled on the marble floor
that is sure enough of itself
that it doesn't need to mix
to make new color.

Dust motes swirl
in the painted light
glittering bits of broken stars
only visible
during select times of
day.

The upholstery  on the kneelers
is the same wet-tree- bark brown  as the robes
that the statue of St. Francis
is wearing on the left side of the altar
and though the Sisters here are Franciscan,
their habits are the color of
the sky when the sun has risen
but is not yet visible above the housetops.
A tranquil grey
not yet giving way to blue.

In front of me, and to the left
sits a little nun
all clothed in pre-dawn sky
her veil is black though,
the color her habit would be
a few hours closer to midnight.


I was told that if you live in the convent
for long enough,
even though all of the sisters look the same
from the back,
you can tell who is who
by the way the habit clings
or the veil falls
or the shoes squeak
or the shoulders spread,
or the way hands clasp in prayer
but as I have yet to inherit this skill
the nun in front of me
remains beautifully
anonymous.

And we are in separate worlds right now,
she and I.
I am amongst the weathered stone.
And brown kneelers,
and anticipation of dishes to wash later.
She is  in the world, and not of it,
in a place no one else can touch
(maybe there are clouds the color of her habit there)
where she speaks to the God she married.

She has a prayer book sitting next to her
all dog ears
and colored ribbons
musty pages that can't help but whisper when they turn
small print
and a spine that cracks
almost as much as my own.

The bottoms of her shoes are scuffed.
Mostly the toes
and not the heels.
Either she is light on her feet
or she spends a lot of time
crouching
next to the little children
at the Sister's school.

She is young.
Her hands are unwrinkled
as they clasp at her rosary beads.
Though her face remains hidden,
I can hear the whisper of a breath
that sneaks through her lips
at every "Glory Be".

Her posture is one of reverence
head bowed
hands clasped,
back straight.
Her posture is one of concentration
shoulders clenched
feet still.

The very existence
of such sisters:
their laughs far softer than the pipe organ,
their cooking,
their imperfect and crooked-toothed smiles,
their twilight games of frisbee on the front lawn,
their reverence and concentration
poured into every,
single
mandatory afternoon prayer
communicate a higher power to me,
far better than any long-winded
explanation of the Divinity of Christ.
The very lives they live
communicate cosmic secrets
far removed from our ordinary days
of five o'clock traffic
and coupons for milk.

As I watch
even the most elderly nun
lower herself carefully,
(like someone setting a final domino
in its place in a long chain)
to genuflect before the tabernacle
and a God she is sure is there,
I think:
if watching that
display of love,
so genuinely felt,
even after all of these years
isn't enough to make you
believe in God

maybe nothing ever will.

Monday, September 14, 2015

On Letting Jesus Move Into Your House

It's only taken me about twenty years, but recently, and finally, I've noticed a trend in my life. I'm a coward. In more ways than one, but particularly in my relationship with Jesus.
I'm always afraid to go deeper. I'm always afraid to give Him more.
Its been a constant struggle.
I used to think that the more I gave Jesus the more limitations I had. That in order to be holy, I would have to morph into a made-up, over-exaggerated "cookie-cutter" version of Catholicism and I'd have to wear long jean skirts and give up makeup and only watch G-rated movies or something.(I know. I used to be dumb).

I was afraid of the change that giving Jesus everything would bring. I was afraid that others would notice the change and not want to be around me. That my friends wouldn't recognize me.
For a while in the early parts of my life, I was a closet-Catholic. I didn't want to admit how much God was a part of my life, how much He was changing me. But what I didn't realize then, was that one can't have a powerful encounter with God and NOT change. You have to change. Whether or not you feel the effects of the change immediately, a change happens. Deep within your soul. Something has to shift.
Such an experience happened to me when I was seventeen. After experiencing God in a powerful time of Eucharistic adoration like I had never experienced Him before, I was reminded of the quote Frodo says at the end of The Return of the King after he, at long last, finally gets to return to the Shire.

"How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on, when in your heart, you begin to understand, there is no going back?"

Indeed, what I came to realize was that there was no going back. Once you experience God, nothing else than living for Him will satisfy. Funny how that works.

Because I'd spend the majority of my life until that point going deeper in my faith-life in cautious increments and half-steps, I surprised myself when, without consulting anyone about my decision, I signed up for an 11 day retreat at a convent half-way across the country.

As I stepped onto the plane, I had a distinct feeling that my life was about to change again. Because surely, I would encounter God here. And surely that meant I would have to change.

During the retreat we had scheduled in approximately a day and a half of silent prayer. Half-way through the first day, the Sister who was running the retreat would take each of us into her office and chat with us, asking how our prayer was going, and how our heart was faring.

It was then that this very wise and beautiful Sister gave me the best analogy for my relationship with Jesus that I had ever heard. Now, after further reflection, I have expanded and dramatized the metaphor to what I'm writing now. Imagine this:

You have a house. You're really sucky at managing your finances because, lets face it, you're not a real adult yet and that crap is scary. So you realize in order to make ends meet, you have to rent out the upper-floor of your house. There's a full bathroom up there, a bedroom, and besides the need to share a kitchen, you might hardly ever have to interact with the person renting the upper part of your house, so as long as they're not totally crazy, it should be good, right? So you put an add in the paper and hope for the best. The next day you get a knock on the door.
It's Jesus.
Okay. You know Him, he seems like he'd make a solid roommate so you give Him a tour. When the tour is over and you're about to tell Him how much the rooms upstairs cost, He looks at you and says:

"This house is nice. I like it. I'll move in at once."
"Well, you don't get the whole house," you say, sort of put off. "You just get upstairs."
"Oh, but I really like the whole house. I'd really like to move in and share the whole house with you."
"Well, I'm sorry," you say. "But the upstairs is all you get."
"Alright," Jesus says, "I'll come back tomorrow."

You really like Jesus. The two of you have been friends for a while. But you're not sure about being roommates. Because if that happened, you'd probably see Him all the time. And He'd want to spend a lot of time with you. And He'd probably end up meeting all of your friends. And maybe if you were watching a movie in the living room and He didn't like it, he might ask you to change it. And He'd probably end up knowing all about your life if you live together.

No, you think. Its better that you just stay friends. Living together might be pushing it.
Jesus comes back the next day and the process repeats. He's still being stubborn. He wants to whole house. You stubbornly tell him no. But there are no other takers on the rooms upstairs. And you really are pretty broke. Eventually desperation kicks in, and you finally agree to let Jesus move in. To the whole house. You're scared at first, but Jesus turns out to be a pretty good roommate. He comes in, not even judging how much of a mess your house is and helps you clean up. He fixes the broken faucet in the kitchen and He turns out to make your whole life a lot better. You guys stay up way too late talking all the time and if you go a whole day without seeing Him, you miss Him. You begin to wonder why you weren't house-mates from the beginning.

Ok. That analogy is slightly whimsical and may seem silly. But I've been meditating on it for a few months now, and I realize its validity.
I had been confining Jesus to the upper room for months. He wanted the whole house. Heck, upon further reflection it seemed like I hadn't even let Jesus in the door. He was still waiting on the porch.

It was then that I realized I need to let Him in. By talking to Him about everything. The good and the bad. My successes and my failures. By talking to Him daily. By letting Him be apart of every mundane daily task. By striving to live with virtue and to clean up my own messes, but asking Him to help me when I needed it, instead of trying to hide it all from Him.

It's a process, friends. It is such a process. To let Him in. Let Him have His say. Let Him love me. Let Him see every part of my house. Even the things I shove under the rug.
It is a process.
But thanks to that retreat. Thanks to that analogy.
Jesus may still be getting unpacked, but He is here to stay.
Take the whole house, Lord. Make it beautiful. Let us make a home together.

Omnia Gratia Sunt. Allelujah.