the healing hands of God

“How do you know that God is present?” is a question I have been asked more times than I can count. But although it is an easy question to ask – especially to someone who has made a life commitment because of a deep belief in that Presence – it is not an easy question to answer. Being born and raised within a Tradition of belief and having been schooled in the rubrics of the faith, the “know” part is fairly easy to answer; the “how” part, not so much. It takes time, examination, reflection on previously lived moments to recognize God present in the passing of a day, and still it often ends up as a piece of knowledge: the flowering tree I passed on my way to work; the $20 I found in my coat pocket the day I forgot my lunch; my nephew’s laugh-out-loud enthusiasm of a rolling tennis ball; the extended deadline of the assignment I didn’t finish…

But sometimes, some times, I recognize God without having to reflect back. I am able to feel God’s presence in the moment – I think it’s called Grace. It doesn’t happen a lot; it doesn’t even happen often, at least not to me. But when it does, it reaches a place deep, deep within, and fills me to overflowing. I recently met someone in whose presence I feel the Presence of God. The relaxing encounters have been so profound that I have been reduced to tears when we meet. I’m not sure she has any idea how sacred for me her time is; how through her hands I experience the healing hand of God; how grateful I am to be able to feel the Grace in the moment; how I thank my God whenever I think of her...

waiting for God.....

"God dwells in you as you"

it was my favorite line of the movie

sitting with the Divine

can i tell you where i’ve been? what i’ve done and failed to do … can i tell you who i’ve loved? the risks involved; costs paid, the shame and the ecstasy … can you sit with me a spell? can you hold me till i can feel you? can you love me as i have loved another? can you teach me how to love you? can you rock me in your arms? can you satiate my desire? can you remind me who i’ve been, who i am and will become? can you take my hand in yours, guide me to a brand new day … tell me that you love me now more than yesterday; just as i am, no matter where i’ve been?

One Week Ago Today

A journal entry from June 26, 2009

My father was buried one week ago today. Before the coffin was closed, people were invited to say their last goodbyes. I waited until everyone else had passed before I went up. He looked asleep, that's all. I removed my mobius ring from my right hand and put it on the little finger of his left hand. I wore it as a reminder that what is inside of us flows constantly outwards and vice-versa. My dad lived that way ~ what you saw is what you got and who he was. It was my way of being with him in the next life to give him the ring. I made a sign of the cross with my thumb on his forehead and sealed it with a kiss. I whispered to him that I loved him and then the casket was closed.

Waking My Dad

A journal entry from June 18, 2009

What did you think of the day, Dad? There were so many people who came to see you ... So much love and respect was spoken of you, so rightly so. I know you were proud of your family today ~ were you surpised by the witness of your life spoken by your grandchildren? They adored you, Dad. I miss you. It felt almost like watching a dream ... Seeing you in that box. I kept waiting for you to open your eyes and smile with your wink, but you did not move. I found myself saying over and over again "I cannot believe my dad has died." I truly am in great disbelief. My tears speak of my great love for you, Dad. I wish you hadn't left us so soon, so quickly. I love you.

My Dad Left Us Today

A journal entry from June 15, 2009:

My dad left us today. He always said he was counting on there being a purgatory so he'd have a chance at heaven. But he needn't have worried, not even for a second. My dad was one of the kindest, most giving people to walk this earth. He asked nothing of anyone except for them to be themselves. And he had a WONDERFUL sense of humor. He loved to laugh and he used to thank Trish and me for coming by and making him laugh. All of his children received his sense of humor and love of laughter. My dad was greatly respected by all of his children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, all of whom are shedding tears this night. I miss you, Dad, and "I love you a whole great big bunch."

A Visit With Dad

A journal entry from June 4, 2009:

I saw my dad today. I could not believe my eyes. I took his hand and he held on tight. He looked so sick, so weak. I struggled to keep my tears inside - I did not want to scare him. He just kept smiling at me and mouthing the words "I love you" over and over again. I gave him my card and Trish read to him the message I'd written inside ...

Dad,

If I could choose to be anyone I wanted to be

I would choose to be you.

You are goodness and light,

peace and mercy,

generosity and grace,

kindness and love.

You are a helper to those in need

and a consoler to those in sorrow.

You are strength, patience, and welcomer

to everyone and everything that crosses your path.

From you I have learned that every gift needs to be shared

and every person be given a seat;

that animals should be respected

and children taken care of;

that truth allows freedom

and money deserves responsibility;

that patriotism involves love

and family is everything.

That a smile is indeed a funny thing and does wrinkle one's face ~

though I never have been able to locate its secret hiding place! :)

I love you, Dad, with every single bit of my heart and soul,

and I thank you for finding me worthy to be your daughter.

I love you,

Sarah

Trish put it on the wall where he could see it before we left.

Everyday faith ...

I read this morning on Facebook an entry that asked: "How do you live life so your faith is totally part of your life?"

Here's my answer: I try to recognize daily at least one thing for which I am grateful about myself and the day ... and when I can't think of anything, I listen for butterfly sneezes ~ works every time! ;]

I Know Two Things For Sure

I received a comment recently by someone who has been reading my blog for awhile. "I didn't realize you were a Sister," she wrote. Although I have referred to my life within the Community here and here and here, I guess I have never directly said I am a Sister of Mercy! So, here goes ...

I don’t really have a “vocation story,”— at least not the kind illustrated by the yearnings of a young girl to grow up and be just like her “habited” teacher. Nor the heart-wrenching decision of the adolescent soon-to-be young woman as she attempts to break the news of her impending entrance into a life of holiness gently to her boyfriend AND to herself. In fact, 28 years and hundreds of journal entries later, I still lack a good story but I know two things for sure: First, I have not and probably never will achieve a life of holiness. However, my life in Mercy has undoubtedly realized a greater wholeness within me as human, woman and “Song of God.” And second, I did not bring myself to Mercy nor do I maintain myself here. That is the work of “Solamente,” my God. I need only to be attentive; the rest is not my concern. My name is Sarah and I am a Sister of Mercy of the Americas. I am an educator by profession and currently teach at the University of Detroit Mercy. If you are a woman in touch with both the magnificence and the messiness of being human, maybe you should consider Mercy. If you find the melody of your life-song being hummed by persons most in need, perhaps you ought to consider Mercy. If the desires of your heart originate and lead you beyond and Beyond, you probably need to consider Mercy.

ch-ch-ch-changes ...

All changes,

even the most longed for,

have their melancholy;

for what we leave behind us

is a part of our selves;

we must die to one life

before we can enter another. ~anatole france

There is a time for departure

even when there's no certain place to go.

~tennessee williams

The Beginning of a Spirituality ~ Part III

The Lilac Sanctuary

The walk to school every morning was purposeful and timed. If I left the house on time and walked without delay I could arrive with breath to spare and time to visit with my classmates, an integral exercise in what continues to be the most attended class of the newly blossomed adolescent years - socialization. But the walk home was different. Instead of a preoccupation of what was to come, which often filled my thoughts along the morning trek, my mind assumed a memory mode as it soared through the past events of the day. It was almost an effortless thinking, an effortless being. It just was and it mattered not what time I left school, for I was going home and need not worry about arriving before the bell.

On the way home I took a different path ~ a path that would take me past the huge brick house on the corner. It was not the house I liked, it was the bushes. The bushes filled with luscious green leaves that stroked my bare arms and legs like gentle kisses as I walked through their midst. The bushes filled with aromatic blooms of lilac, white and pink that towered well above my head and made me feel as if I had entered another space in time entirely. Each day I ventured in and through and out feeling full and filled, and for reasons I did not care that I did not understand, I emerged whole and fulfilled. I loved those bushes and their space and how they made me feel.

Once I grew and moved away from my place of origin, each visit home I would venture past those bushes – just to be sure. But one summer afternoon as I arrived in the city, something seemed odd and I began to feel an almost nauseating pain in the pit of my stomach. I thought it was the hot weather and the length of time I had traveled in an un-airconditioned car. But as I approached the huge brick house, I quickly forgot about the heat. The bushes were gone! My temple had been destroyed. And even though it has been gone several years now, I cannot help but venture past where it once stood each time I return home – just to be sure.

The Beginning of a Spirituality ~ Part II

Under Kelly’s Front Porch

I was 10 years old and loved gumball machines. At that time you could put in a penny and out would come 2 gumballs and, depending on the machine, a tiny trinket would accompany the colorful spheres. The tiny plastic object was no bigger than a thumbprint and usually possessed a ring at one end so as to be strung like a charm from a necklace or bracelet. For me, those trinkets were treasures, my most prized possessions. Perhaps because they were cute and colorful; perhaps because they were mine. They all meant something to me and I loved them for it. I kept them in a box my grandmother had given me and in it they were transported back and forth from my hideout. Actually, it was our hideout, Kelly’s and mine. Kelly was my friend and we used to take my trinkets underneath her front porch and set them up here and there. That’s all we did – we took them out and set them up, one by one, and then sat there looking at them and being with them – often in silence. If someone had asked I doubt we could have explained why; we just did and it was good and that was enough.

And then one day Kelly stopped coming to the hideout and so it became my hideout. I continued to enter the place, box in hand, alone from then on. Soon the summer ended and Kelly went back to her school and I went back to mine. The weather turned colder and I visited my little temple less and less.

Thirty-plus years later my temple is housed in a sacred corner of my bedroom and continues to contain trinkets which represent my life, my love, my connections. Reminiscent of the altarcitos of Hispanic popular religion (small places common in many homes where Holy images and objects of meaning are placed), a simple mission style bookcase serves as my altar’s base upon which currently rest the following items: a small weaving from the altiplano or high mountainous regions of Peru; a candle; prayer cards and service programs containing small photographs and prayers of eternal rest for two dear friends; a miniature earthenware container filled with pinches of dirt from 12 countries in which the Sisters of Mercy of the Americas minister and reside; a petite bottle of holy water from the shrine in Mexico decorated with a colorful image of Our Lady of Guadalupe; a little clay vessel given to me 26 years ago at my entrance ceremony; a piece of stone etched with the words Be still and know that I am God; the crude clay bird hand-fashioned during a retreat; a piece of weathered driftwood from the lake at Stillpoint; coral from the shores of Belize; and my drawing journal displaying a mandala I created for Mary. I try to visit my mestiza temple daily and sit in silent reflection amidst the visual fronteras of my soul.* Some people call it meditation, others call it contemplation. I learned a long time ago to call it prayer, even when it does not feel like it.

*With experiences and devotions in two distinct worlds and not comfortably fitting completely into either, my spirituality embraces mixed traditions; lives in the borderlands. From the poem “To live in the Borderlands means you” by Gloria Anzaldúa in Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza

The Beginning of a Spirituality ~ Part I

WAY UP HIGH, SERAPHIM ...

As a small child of no more than four, the Mass was mostly in Latin and very little made sense to my young ears. Except for one word - one word spoken one time within that hour of babble when I knew that I was being named specially among the crowd and recognized - the word was seraphim. And even though it was not Sarah, I knew it meant Sarah because after all, it wasn’t English anyway and that was just the other language’s way of saying Sarah.

A few years later the babble turned familiar and my curiosity waned until one Sunday I noticed what had been there always, hanging high above the altar. It was way up high, so high that if you sat too far up in the body of the church, you could not see what I oftentimes saw and oftentimes did not. It was rectangular in shape from the angle just below it, a box which hung by four chains made of what looked like wood and decorated on the bottom with colors of turquoise and cream and something of a darker hue from the perspective further back. There seemed to be no light attached to it and nothing hung from it to identify its purpose and so I would look at it and wonder “Why is this here?” and “What is that for?” And sometimes, because the box hung from chains and there was a rather large space between it and the ceiling, I saw it. It was a cross, but not a real cross, more like a shadow cross sitting between the box and the ceiling. But there was no real cross making the shadow cross so maybe it was some other kind of cross. Sometimes I would see it and look around at the other faces in the community gathered and wonder if they too could see it. Other times it was nowhere to be found and I would still look around at the other faces and wonder if they too could not see it. And even though I could not see it every time, I was sure of it; I knew it was still there even if I was the only one who knew about it. Somehow I think I was.