Trash or Treasure?

“You shall be called by a new name, pronounced by the mouth of the Lord.” (Isaiah 62:2)

I don’t know why, but the idea of being called by a new name appeals to me.

I like being called “Mom” — very much. I think my primary vocation in life was parenthood. I base that assertion not only on my experience, but on what I’ve read. In her book, FOLLOW THE PATH: THE SEARCH FOR A LIFE OF PASSION, PURPOSE AND JOY, Sr. Joan Chittister writes, “Real passion focuses our efforts. It becomes the compass needle which presented with multiple options becomes the direction we take at every fork in the road.”

Providing a secure and emotionally stable home for my girls was the compass needle of my life for years. Sometimes, I erred — primarily when I accepted jobs in order to alleviate our poverty without really considering the impact those jobs would have  on our lives. But, overall, I think I succeeded. The odds were slim that either  of my girls would graduate from high school, because I was a single parent who suffered from depression, raised her children in poverty, and was scarred emotionally by violence. We beat those odds. My girls not only graduated from high school, but also graduated with honors from college — and the oldest went on to earn three more degrees, recently completing her doctorate. Granted, the work was theirs, but I think I gave them a stable foundation on which to build.

So, “Mom” is a good name, and “Grammy” works well, too. Hearing the twins’ beating hearts for the first time unleashed in me creativity I hadn’t experienced in years. For me, that’s a sure sign of love. I was grateful to be among their first caregivers and cried all the way from their home to the airport the first time I left — and the second — and the third. I prayed for more than three years to be part of their lives — never imagining where that would lead.

Writer. Artist. Woman of Faith.

These are good names, too, but they don’t pay the bills — at least they haven’t since I left the newspaper business. While many people my age have the luxury of enjoying retirement, spending my life in a state notorious for low wages and an average annual income that’s lower for women than men, I must work. Fortunately for me, I enjoy working. I enjoy accomplishing something. I enjoy the social interaction of the workplace.

But, at this stage in my life, I need something different in the workplace than I needed while my girls were growing up. While the girls were growing up, I needed a job that I could do well and leave, because what gave life meaning occurred outside the workplace. Now? I want to do work that is meaningful — not necessarily work that I have to take home with me,  but work that enables me to contribute to something greater than myself, work which makes me feel that I am doing what I was created to do, work that makes me feel that I have been called by name.

After the crucifixion, Jesus appeared first to Mary Magdalene, but she didn’t recognize him; when he called her by name, she knew him (John 20:14-16). Currently, I feel as though I am walking in the dark. Raising my children is behind me. Building community by reporting honestly and with integrity is behind me. I go to the tomb — to the last place I experienced meaning in my life — but it is empty. It has nothing for me now. I explore new opportunities, seeking the one which will enable me to use my gifts and to find satisfaction in contributing to the greater good, but I have not found it.

Each time one doesn’t fit, I slip into the patterns of thought I learned at home, variations off a single theme: “You’ll never amount to anything.” But the other day, when I was knitting and allowing recent experiences to tumble around inside my head, a familiar idiom rose to the top: “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”

And I recalled the Scripture verse that I had meditated on earlier in the day: “You shall be called by a new name.”

And I thought of Mary Magdalene, whose name I share. And I began to wonder, as I turn from the tomb and I am called by name, could the name I hear be “Treasure”?

 

What Did You Learn?

“The older brother was so angry that he would not go into the house; so his father came out and begged him to come in.” (Luke 15:28)

The two boys really weren’t all that much different, when you think about it — the two sons in the Parable of the Prodigal Son. (Prodigal, in case you don’t know, means — according to our good friend Merriam-Webster — “characterized by profuse or wasteful expenditure: lavish.”) They both were concerned primarily with themselves; they just expressed it differently.

The younger son wanted money so he could go off and do what attracted him — which unfortunately involved not only travel but reckless spending. The older son stayed with his father and worked, knowing that when his father died everything would be his; after all, his brother was long gone!

The difference between them was a fairly simple one. The younger son gained wisdom and humility. The older son’s heart was hardened and he remained selfish.

Whoa! I can almost hear you saying, “You’re misreading that parable.” Most of us identify with the older brother. Most of us, especially those of us who attend church regularly and try to do what is right, are in truth like the older brother in some respects. We shoulder our responsibilities rather than attempting to flee them. We do the work which must be done rather than heading off on adventures. We put one foot in front of the other, not expecting anything special — and sometimes getting exactly what we expect. (Occasionally, we have friends, families or co-workers who appreciate what we do and show us, but not always.)

We appreciate the father’s love for both of his sons — and are grateful for that metaphor of God’s love for us — but we understand the older son’s anger. We would be angry, too. And that’s what I should understand, right? It’s righteous anger that the older brother shows, not a hard heart.

Perhaps, but I strongly suspect this is another parable about personal growth. In the Parable of the Sower (Matt. 13:1-9, Mark 4:1-9, Luke 8:4-8), we learn that our environment affects the way we receive the Word of God and the way it grows in us. In the Parable of the Weeds (Matt. 13:24-30), we learn that we must learn to live in a less than perfect world, and trust God with the harvest. I suspect this is about learning from our experiences, learning to have a right relationship with God.

The younger son didn’t want the life his father lived — he imagined something different and went out into the world to build that life for himself, failing abysmally. From that, he learned that he hadn’t appreciated what he’d had and returned as one who had grown in wisdom, capable of humility. The older son wanted what his father had and worked hard — like a slave, he claimed (v.29) — but this work didn’t deepen his relationship with his father or his appreciation of the life he had chosen. He lashed out at his father in anger when his father acted in love.

But his father doesn’t give up on him, either. Instead, he is the same loving father who greeted the wayfarer son with love. He goes out to meet his son and patiently explains their relationship: “You are always here with me and everything I have is yours” (v. 31). And then, he goes on to explain the celebration: “He was lost, but now he has been found” (v.32).

It’s not just about us, son, the father said. It’s not about what we do or what we have; it’s about relationship. In this case, it’s about creating a sanctuary so the lost can come home.

The parable does not end with the older son in his father’s arms. The parable ends with the father’s lesson  to his son. Because so many of us identify with that son, the question becomes: how do we respond? Do we learn to open our hearts and our lives to others? Do we learn to welcome those who have been lost? Do we embrace them and share with generosity?

Do we learn the lesson and throw ourselves into our father’s arms to receive his kiss? Or do we remain angry and walk away? The choice is ours.

 

Blessed

“Henceforth all generations will call me blessed.” Luke 1:48

Really?

I smile now when I recall how I initially reacted to that pronouncement. I was raised Catholic which means: (a) I grew up calling Mary “Our Blessed Mother,” and (b) I had not read the Bible in any of the religious education classes I attended during those formative years. In fact, prior to Vatican II, Catholics were discouraged from reading the Bible, so I doubt if any of my teachers had read it either.

At college, I was introduced to Scripture by a charismatic woman who lived on the same floor in my dorm. I was amazed to discover that much of it was familiar. The Old Testament readings I’d heard at Mass — there. The readings from the Letters (primarily) of St. Paul — there. The gospels — yep, they were there, too. Even the Lord’s Prayer, which I learned before starting school, was there. Wow!

But reading it myself drew me into a more intimate relationship with the Word of God, and changed the way I understood it. Unfortunately, some of my training caused me to misunderstand some passages. When I first read The Magnificat, which is what Catholics call Mary’s song of praise, I thought she was saying, “I’m so amazingly special that everyone is going to acknowledge it by calling me ‘Blessed,'” which is — of course — what Catholics do: Blessed Virgin Mary, Our Blessed Mother, Blessed Mary Mother of God. Yep, we call her “Blessed.”

Months — maybe years — passed before I finally understood she wasn’t saying that at all. She was experiencing joy, and in that joy, she was expressing — maybe using a little hyperbole, but maybe not considering the role of oral tradition in her time — her wonder at the incredible gift she had been given. An easy gift? Probably not. Two thousand years and millions (if not billions) of pretty Christmas cards have removed us from what must have been an incredibly difficult experience for an undoubtedly religious and probably very young woman. And yet, she is filled with joy, wondering that someone with nothing special to commend her — at least from her perspective — should be chosen by God. She experienced her joy as a sense of being blessed, so abundantly blessed that people would talk about it.

People probably did talk, though human nature being what it is, they probably used words more akin to “slut” and “whore” than to “blessed among women.” But Mary knew the truth, knew the Word of God both from His messenger and from His life within her, and she could not contain her joy. “I’m so incredibly happy, I just know everyone will come to know the truth and realize how blessed I am”

I can’t imagine her joy, but I know my own and sometimes it does bubble over just like that! Last week, as I traversed South Dakota, hugged dear friends, talked for hours with sisters of the heart, enjoyed my daughter’s companionship, over and over one thought ran through my head, “I am so blessed; thank you, Lord. I am so blessed; thank you, Lord.”

Has my life been easy? No, but it has been good. God has worked through it all to shape my heart and mind until I could see him, could feel his hands creating in me a way of being that includes gratitude and hope and compassion as well as kindness and love. He has helped me to see his face in the homeless and to experience his grace in disappointment, to know in my bones that trusting him with the circumstances of my life leads to greater fulfillment than any plan of mine.

Will all generations call me blessed? Probably not, but that’s OK. I know I am blessed and that’s enough.

Ripples: A Different Perspective on the Parable of the Sower

“And some seed fell on good soil, and when it grew, it produced fruit a hundredfold.” Luke 8:8

St. Theresa of Avila said something to the effect that God has no hands, no feet, no voice in this world except ours and through these He works. I’m sure some will interpret that literally and will object. Some Christians will point to Scripture — God’s Word, his voice in this world. Some Catholics will point to the Sacraments — God’s action in our lives.

As literal as I can be at times, when I first read that, I didn’t think of either of those objections. I simply responded, “Yes! Let that be me! Let me be your hands, your feet, your voice in this world.” This “Yes” led me to engage in activities which would deepen my relationship with God, such as meditating on Scripture and keeping a spiritual journal. It also motivated me to volunteer for tasks which would allow me to share my understanding of God, such as teaching religious education and leading retreats.

Fifteen years later, my understanding of that call has changed. I’ve come to appreciate the Ignatian idea of God in all things, and have come to realize that to be God’s hands, his feet, his voice, we have to understand that he is present in ways infinitely beyond our human capacity to understand, present in birdsong and joy, in winds whipping across the waters and pain, present — always present.

And in that presence, he calls us always to make choices for life — choices that bring to life inside us all the gifts he has given us, choices that affirm his goodness in ways that send ripples into the world. Those ripples are his hands, his feet, his voice because they emanate from his action in our lives.

I think the Parable of the Sower (Matthew 13:3-9, Mark 4:3-9, Luke 8:5-8) can help us do this. 

Some seed fell on the path; it was trampled and birds of the sky ate it up. Whenever we trample upon the rights of others or take from them what they need, we are failing to choose life. This has tremendous political and economic ramifications, but it has deeply personal implications as well. We must look at our lives with both charity and honesty to see if this dynamic is at work in any way. If it is, and we allow it to continue, we are conspiring to silence God.

It does happen. I worked for more than seven years for a woman who took credit for my accomplishments and blamed me for her mistakes. I had numerous reasons for staying, some better than others, but with the wisdom of 20/20 hindsight I can see the damage I did to myself and to those whose lives touched mine by failing to recognize that I was not in a place where I could put down roots, blossom and bear fruit.

Some seed fell on rocky soil and withered for lack of moisture. Different scenario, same results. Sometimes, an opportunity looks good, and we jump in with both feet, but it doesn’t work in the overall scheme of our lives. For me, personally, that means any new endeavor must be balanced with time for prayer, time to write, time to paint and some opportunities for social interaction. Without those activities, something inside me withers and dies. 

That is not what God wants for me. If I am to be his hands, his feet, his voice, I must be alive inside and out! Only that which lives can bear fruit, and only with the fruit that our lives bear can we reflect God into the world. It’s that simple.

Some seed fell among the thorns which choked it. Our lives can be choked in so many ways. Some ways are obvious: abusive people choke the lives out of those around them by in stilling fear and by undermining self-esteem. But we can be choked in subtle ways as well. When someone we love is critical of our choices, because their expectations are different than our dreams, we lose confidence in ourselves and in our dreams. That, too, prevents our lives from bearing fruit that reflects God into the world.

We have a responsibility, a moral obligation, to seek rich soil, soil in which we can put down roots, grow, blossom and bear fruit. That is not to say we should immediately throw away everything that doesn’t work in our lives. Instead, we should begin by looking at our lives and seeking to understand what is preventing us from putting down roots and moving toward fruitfulness. Then, we should begin moving in the direction of life, trusting in the step-by-step process God’s life-giving presence.

I needed to have the courage to walk away from an employer whose choices choked me, even if it meant working in a convenience store while getting my bearings. I needed to appreciate the way God nourishes me not only with his Word and the sacraments, but also at the easel, and to make a commitment to creating art. I needed to make these decisions and others to find rich soil, but I think I have found it — and I am grateful. In my gratitude, I can only desire for others this blessing I have come to know.

Be God’s hands, God’s feet, God’s voice in this world — seek rich soil.

A Time of Miracles

We live in a time of miracles.

I don’t think my generation — or any of those that follow — can claim the moniker Tom Brokaw gave those who grew up during the Great Depression, and those who fought in the trenches and on the homefront during World War II: the Greatest Generation. Those men and women were great because they were willing to make sacrifices for the common good. When soldiers went off to war, those at home did what was necessary to pay for that war — they didn’t wave a few flags to feel righteously patriotic and then go on with their own lives as though those in the the trenches didn’t matter.

And yet, in the midst of the self-centered, “I don’t want to pay taxes but I want good roads and good schools and responsive services from the government (without government intervention in my life)” mentality which runs rampant today, miracles are occurring. I’m not talking about breakthroughs in cancer treatment (though having lost a mother to cancer, I celebrate what can be done today), and I am not talking about technology (though things might get ugly if anyone attempts to separate me from my tablet, smartphone or e-reader). I am talking about the miraculous way we are coming to see one another as human beings.

I grew up in a different world.

I grew up in a world where people were judged by the color of their skin. I was in seventh grade when Martin Luther King was assassinated. I was in third grade when he gave his famous,  “I Have a Dream” speech just months before John F. Kennedy was assassinated. He said on that August day: “I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident; that all men are create equal.’ … I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.”

On that day, black men and women were still expected to give up their seats for white people on buses. On that day, signs reading “For Whites Only” stripped the dignity from black men and women. On that day, police brutality against blacks was considered acceptable by too many Americans.

Today, too many doors are still closed to blacks and other minorities as a result of poverty, but the law stands with them and that is a miracle for which I give thanks. I give thanks that American voters chose a black president in my lifetime, that while Martin Luther King, Jr., did not live to see the dream of a black man judged not by the color of his skin but by his character, I did live to see it.

And yesterday, another miracle occurred — the Supreme Court ruled laws banning gay marriage were unconstitutional. For me, that is evidence of the Spirit of the Living God sweeping across this nation. God declared in Genesis that it is not good for man (or, by extension, woman) to be alone, and in their mothers’ wombs, He created some with a same sex orientation. We must believe that He has been drawing us to this point for a very long time now.

I am grateful to have lived to see it. I have to confess that I was not aware of any orientation other than heterosexual until I was nearly 30 — but I was both naive and confused about sexuality as a result of being the victim of sexual violence. One night, I was drinking wine with a friend who was also a single parent. She said, “I love you,” and kissed me. I was stunned. I had no idea that women could love women.

Since that night, when my eyes were opened to the variations of sexual experience, I have met numerous amazing people who are gay or lesbian. (If I’ve met others, they’ve not identified themselves to me.) At times, I’ve ached for them — for the struggles some have faced. For the friend who was torn to pieces when she fell in love because she is also a person of faith who attends a church that still is fundamentally homophobic. For the friend who was afraid to come out to his parents because his father would occasionally make homophobic remarks; how could he be himself and honor his parents?

Truthfully, I wish I could end this by coming out, finding a wonderful woman to love and living happily ever after — now that it’s legal to do so. The writer in me likes the drama of that ending. Unfortunately, time has shown me that scars from being victimized by sexual violence stand between me and emotional intimacy, which must be the precursor of physical intimacy regardless of its nature.

And  so, I can only share vicariously the momentous joy of knowing — as it was widely proclaimed yesterday — love wins! But I do proclaim it! Love wins!

Motherhood as Visionary

“True visionaries are true believers.They have the courage of their convictions because they have convictions. They transform others only because they themselves have been transformed by the power and majesty of their beliefs.And steeled by their beliefs, they can willingly persevere in seemingly impossible quests to repair the world.” — Chris Lowney, HEROIC LIVING:DISCOVER YOUR PURPOSE AND CHANGE THE WORLD

I’ve been feeling my age lately — for several years, actually. I don’t have the energy I once had, need more sleep, need more time to sit quietly and reflect, am less  willing to exhaust myself by multi-tasking. Even working full-time seems onerous some days.

Sometimes I tell myself I’m just exhausted. It’s been a long and lonely life. I’ve worked hard but have little to show for it — in terms that our society sees and values. I have to remind myself that what I accomplished is significant, if not entirely tangible. I raised two girls by myself, with no child support and little family support. By myself, despite being deeply wounded by life, I  gave them healthy enough roots and strong enough wings for them to grow into remarkable young women. By myself.

I did this because Ioving them transformed me. At 60, I can still remember seeing my oldest for the first time and wanting to give her the world. I knew that I could only do this if I went before her and set an example, created a trail that she could follow. She was born on February 18; I started college in June. I was going to teach her the importance of education by getting a college education myself. I was not going to be a do-what-I-say-not-what-I-do parent.

Of course, having had a mother with an eighth-grade education and a dad whose educational endeavors didn’t extend past high school, I didn’t understand a great deal about the college experience. I’ve heard that studies have been done on the challenges faced by first-generation college students, but they didn’t exist when I was young. I just bumbled into the experience, learning as I went. I didn’t realize, for example, that I should not accept a financial aid package that included three different student loans because repaying them concurrently would  be impossible. I simply trusted the financial aid folks knew what they were doing and were doing what they could to help me. I didn’t realize that a college education only leads to a higher-paying job if you prepare for a profession that garners a decent income. I trusted advisers who  assured me that just getting a degree would make a difference in my earning ability.

The lessons were hard ones, and ones for which I’ve paid dearly. But, I don’t regret learning them. I’ve seen both of my daughters graduate from college with honors, and build careers. They’ve had other lessons to learn, but my desire to teach them the importance of education gave them a foothold to go further than I found possible.

And I stopped the cycle of violence in my family, which I consider to be especially remarkable because, in addition to the physical violence I experienced at home, I was sexually molested when I was 12, and wakened in my bed by a couple drunken strangers who took my virginity when I was 18. Today, domestic violence is a crime and rape crisis centers exist to help women whose sexual encounters are not consensual, but I grew up in a different world — one that didn’t acknowledge the toll those experiences could take on a women’s heart or psyche.

The world was starting to change when I was a young mother. One day, when I went to class with a choker of bruises that I hadn’t been able to hide with clothing accessories and make-up, a classmate who was earning a degree in counseling took me to the women’s crisis center. There I learned that (a) the abysmal mess I kept making of my life was an expression of my woundedness, and (b) my girls would repeat the same patterns if I didn’t address those issues in order to provide them with an emotionally stable home and to set a better example than my mother had set for me.

Because I did not want my girls to face the same demons that terrorized me, I worked with a gifted counselor for nearly five years. I faced with as much courage as I could muster all of the experiences I had locked in boxes and tried to shove to the back of my emotional closet. There were many nights, after my girls went to bed, when I would pull out my journal and write until the pain was so visceral, I thought I would die. I would rock and cry and rock and cry until I was too exhausted to do more than sleep. I will always love my counselor for walking  through those dark years with me, and I will always be grateful to her for helping me to find my way to a place where I could function with some degree of wholeness.

Her work enabled me to raise girls whose lives reflect none of the self-destructive patterns that characterize the lives of those of us who have been wounded by violence. While one of my daughters remains single, I have watched the other marry a truly good man and I have seen the way in which their relationship continues to grow. I see his commitment to her and to their marriage, and my heart aches with joy because she experiences every day something I have never known and will never know — love. She has no idea how hard I worked to do what I could to ensure her heart and mind were not scarred in ways that would make it difficult to have a healthy relationship.

I wonder sometimes how I managed to juggle the life I lived while raising those girls. I often worked two jobs in addition to cooking, caring for our home, going to the laudromat weekly with five or six loads of dirty clothes, and trying to carve out time to paint, an activity necessary for me to keep body and soul together. In reading Chris  Lowney’s book, I remember. I wanted to build a better life for my girls than I had, and that vision strengthened me. I may not have repaired the world, but I did persevere in what I believed was important.

I raised two amazing women by myself.

Numinous Improvisation

“You will become pregnant and give birth to a son, and you will name him Jesus.” (Luke 1:31, GNTD)

That’s straightforward enough. An angel comes; an angel says, “This is what you will do and this is how it will happen;” and that’s what happens.

Kind of. Her betrothed almost set her aside — though he did plan to do it quietly and, hopefully, avoid the stoning which was the penalty for adultery. She gave birth in a barn — though Bethlehem would have been full of relatives at the time, which demonstrates how hardened most hearts were toward her among family members. Then, because her husband had a dream, she found herself traveling to Egypt with a newborn, possibly before she had recovered from the birthing experience, which may have been accomplished without the help of a skilled midwife.

Two thousand years have done a great job of wiping away the sweat and tears of what must have been a difficult lived experience. But stories always do that — even the stories we tell ourselves, especially the stories we tell ourselves about others. Their lives never seem to have the muck and chaos of our own.

This morning, as I sat down to prayer, which is how I start every morning when I am on my own, the daily readings included the gospel story of the Annunciation, and I found myself envying the way God clearly indicated to Mary his will for her life. I’ve not had that clarity for a very long time — since 1998, to be exact. In truth, I only had clarity in my life for one short period of time — from 1990 – 1998. I had gone to the Chicago Institute of Art with a dear friend, saw one of Georgia O’Keeffe’s cloud paintings; thought, “I could do that;” and walked out of the museum knowing in my bones that my life would be wasted if I didn’t paint. So, creating art; motherhood, the deep call of my heart; and personal/spiritual growth formed the triad that shaped my life during that period of my life.

It might be more accurate to say creating art, motherhood and personal/spiritual growth shaped me during that time, but I did not allow them to be enough. Who knows why? In a meditation published in December in a devotional called The Magnificat, Ann Voskamp, writing about The Fall in the Garden of Eden, says, “Our fall was, has always been, and always will be, that we aren’t satisfied in God and what he gives.” Perhaps, unintentionally, I did allow myself to be tempted away from the grace-filled gifts that God had given me.

Sister Joan Chittister, in her book, Following the Path: The Search for a Life of Passion, Purpose and Joy, writes, “People who are unusually gifted in something often tend to take it for granted. … In fact, they are often inclined not only to discount the gift itself as commonplace or even worthless, but to doubt their own abilities in anything else.” While it may be arrogant to claim unusual giftedness in any of the areas indicated, it might be fair to wonder if I didn’t try to prove myself in other areas — grant writing, non-profit management, mentoring — because of self-doubt. It might also be fair to wonder if I failed to recognize the deep stirring of my heart in the areas of motherhood, art and personal/spiritual growth because I was so engaged in trying to prove myself.

I’ve been spending several evenings a week throughout Lent in prayer and in reflecting on God’s call for me at this juncture in my life. I’m turning 60 this year, and am acutely aware of time’s winged chariots. During the past 17 years, I’ve moved seven times and held nine different jobs. I was not carried on the wings of a dream or driven by burning ambition. At best, it might be said, I was a pilgrim seeking the Holy Grail of destiny or clarity or God’s will or something. I wanted to know again the passion that allowed me to balance two jobs, an art career, raising children, caring for a household, and prolific, self-reflective journal writing.

What I’ve come to realize is this — for me it comes down to three things: my relationship with God, creative expression  and — yes — motherhood. A life shaped around that sacred-in-my-life triad is deeply authentic and has the potential of becoming deeply rooted. Because I failed to value what mattered most — going so far as to set painting aside for at least five years, maybe longer — I don’t know what that life will look like. I know that I’m a deeply contemplative person, so it probably won’t be a busy life. I know that these authentic expressions of myself will have to be balanced with activities that enable me to be financially self-sufficient. I know that I will have to be flexible in exploring what all of this means, in imagining what it will look like.

Over the weekend, when I was writing in my journal, I found a phrase to describe this phase in my pilgrimage — numinous improvisation. I like the sound of that. I like the way it characterizes this time as sacred. I like the way it alludes to music and theater and other performing arts. I like the dignity it accords this shaping period of uncertainty.

I also like being old enough to appreciate a simple truth: Mary’s clear instructions didn’t reveal how difficult God’s promise unfolding in her life would be. Maybe all these years of drifting through myriad life experiences has been God’s promise unfolding my my life. Maybe, I’ve been collecting material which will provide rich earth for the seeds of creative self to grow through this numinous improvisation and  bloom. I hope so.

I switched metaphors there, didn’t I? Hopefully, you get the picture anyway.