An Invitation

Adoration5

I had an invitation last week to spend time with a very old friend. The timing wasn’t the greatest. I had two finals to finish – one in philosophy and one in comparative theology – both writing intensive. The kids have stuff going on as their school year is winding down. One is testing for his learner’s permit this week and his summer job has started. The usual to-do list and urgent errands have been amplified the last few weeks with lots of extra time being Mom Taxi. So even finding time to get out of the house alone wasn’t going to be easy. But I just knew I couldn’t say no. Thursday evening, instead of taking advantage of the a few hours of free time to work on my finals, I went to Our Lady of Peace and spent that time in prayer before the Blessed Sacrament.

That sounds all peaceful and lovely, doesn’t it? It was. Except for the part when my brain went into overdrive. This is a crazy thing to do. I have so much to do. And I haven’t been to adoration in years. Besides, this is such a totally Catholic thing to do. And I’m… I’m… well I don’t know what I am. A has-been Catholic? A would-be Lutheran? A hell-bound heretic? Why did I decide to do this? I wonder if the lightning strike will take out the whole church or just me…

Yeah, it got a little intense there for the first few minutes. But, here’s the funny thing: Jesus and I have already had this conversation, on more than one occasion, and he has no use for all those nice neat boxes that I spend so much time trying to fit myself into or fight my way out of. Jesus knew I needed a reality check and during that time I spent sitting there in the quiet, candlelit church, he gave me one. The only thing that mattered in that time and space was that I had showed up to spend time with him.

I was invited: Come. Be Still.

So I came. And I was still – or as still as I get. And that was still enough to be reminded that Jesus sees me with different eyes and when I can be still, or at least somewhat still-ish, I can catch glimpses of what he sees. And when that happens, my life doesn’t look quite so crazy.

 

 

My Way Isn’t Working

stubborn-scared

Patience is a virtue. It isn’t one of mine. Now if stubbornness were a virtue, I’d be golden. Don’t be misled, I don’t mean the never-give-up type of perseverance that has brought me through some really rough times. I mean the hard-headed, I-got-my-Irish-up stupid type of stubborn that has a tendency to land me in trouble. Yeah, there’s no spiritual reward in that kind of stubborn. Trust me on that one.

Still nursing my injured foot, I lasted five whole days on the crutches before I did anything overly stupid. Then I decided I could cook dinner and hobbled around the kitchen on one crutch to do it. Not only did I make the foot incredibly sore but I also burned my hand in the process. Given another four days, I decided to walk the half mile from my lousy commuter student parking space to my sociology class using only one crutch, not taking into account the fact that I had to then walk back. I was in tears by the time I got back to my car. That was three days ago and as of this very moment, I’m sitting at the kitchen table, with my foot iced and elevated, crutches by my side, sipping on a cup of strong Irish tea and pondering ways to bake a batch of snickerdoodles without putting weight on my foot – or if there is any way I can get away with putting just a little weight on it.

My younger son watched me get up yesterday and head into the kitchen on one crutch and called after me, “Uh, Mom, should you be using TWO crutches. You’re never going to get off them if you keep this up.”

Darn kid. Why did I ever teach that one to talk? But he makes a valid point. I know if I use both crutches and stay off my foot as much as possible, it doesn’t hurt and the swelling goes down considerably. So why do I keep trying to do what I usually do? Because I can’t stand not being able to do things for myself and in my own way. Because I can’t stand having to ask for help. Because the only way for this foot to heal is to be still and wait.

Be still and wait. I’m perfectly fine with being still. Sometimes. At times of my choosing. For finite amounts of time. Oh alright, I’m okay with being still when it’s on my own terms. And waiting – also, for finite amounts of time and on my own terms.

How many times have I needed God’s help and wouldn’t ask? How many times did I decide to limp along and make things worse rather than be still and wait for the healing or answers or guidance that I needed? How many times am I going to charge ahead with only half of what I need? How many times am I going to let my stupid pride trip me up, both spiritually and physically? What’s going to take to get through this thick head of mine?

Maybe spending a third week on crutches will get me to sit still and ponder these questions. Maybe after a batch of cookies…Hey, this office chair has wheels, I’m sure I can manage on my own.

Okay. Okay. I’ll admit it. I can’t stand being laid up because I can’t stand not being in control because not being in control scares the shit out of me. But I also have to admit, my way isn’t working. Maybe it’s time to let go, be still and wait.