Month: January 2022

The deepest, darkest part of the mind…

In the crevices of the mind, in every man and woman, there lies a dark place closed to most of the world. This is common knowledge. It happens over time with experience, discernment and contemplation. I believe God doesn’t want us to be open with everyone. He wants our total commitment to Him. He knows who we are and that is what matters. Thank you, Lord God, for giving me the wherewithal to keep my blog relatively unknown. I cannot share my deepest thoughts otherwise.

Only about four people know me and one has been relegated to the background. I see one of them a couple times a week and we may talk for a few seconds, or minutes, or maybe an hour per month, if I approach him. He is my spiritual director who has mixed emotions about me. His opinion is guarded because he knows more than I know about myself. He has been the recipient of others’ opinions about me. I’m ambivilant about that. The other person talks to me about once a year. She does not have access to the people with whom I come in daily contact because she lives in Louisiana. She only hears my side of the story. She is not Catholic, so her opinion differs from someone who is Catholic. That is the backstory.

This is the front story:

The pope has asked the people of the world to give him their opinions. He wants to see how his church is living up to the Church’s Creed. The pope has called for a worldwide listening session. Every Catholic church is being asked to participate in what the pope is calling a “Synod on Synodality,” and my pastor is enthusiastically preparing for our church to participate, on Thursday. The pope wants us to tell him how well he and his brethren are listening to the people on the ground. And, my spiritual director, who is also my pastor, wants everyone in his church community to come to the event. About a month ago, my pastor asked if I will be there, on February 3, and I said, “I’m not going to that.” He said, “OK.”

Since then, the pastor has been announcing the Synod at all Masses in our church. He has been describing it, and inviting us, and saying he wants us all to be there. He has added snacks and refreshments and social hour beforehand to draw people in. He really wants this to succeed.

The trouble with me:

On November 22, 2021, my pastor, acting also as my spiritual advisor and a support person, attended a tribunal meeting with me and three other church Fathers. I gave a 20-minute statement begging for help and forgiveness, to which I was chastised and berated. The Father, who I was trying to reconcile with, was unwilling and unprepared. He changed his story right from the start and no one even blinked an eye. They did, however, place serious restrictions on me because he asked for them. The results of that meeting were written up and sent to the highest church Father in our Diocese, the bishop, who acknowledged, accepted and concurred with the other church Fathers.

My dilemma:

The Church often alludes to people who live on the peripheries. There are millions who do and I am one of those people. There is even a massive number of churches that will not participate in the synod. So, I ask, how do I, in good conscience, attend a Synodal gathering, knowing my voice will never be heard? If I were to go, how would I even voice my opinion in a community that knows nothing about this meeting with these church Fathers, who did not listen to me? Do I go and not add my voice? What would be the purpose of that? How do I break free from the shame these church Fathers have placed on me? My inner voice tells me I will never break free. I’ll note here — the bishop will also be attending the meeting on February 3rd. There are so many variables and these are the voices screaming at me from the depths of my soul. I trust my pastor has at least some idea about how I feel, think and am trying to decide whether to go to this upcoming event. Yet, he has not voiced his opinion nor given me any feedback. And, I ask for it now?

Please, Lord God, hear my prayer. Amen!

And Just like that…

I know what my soul needs to survive! It needs to help people, to talk them through life’s hardest trials and deepest hurts. It needs to help people with heavier-than-average burdens, particularly men. I’ve always been better with men. Men find it hard to open up. They need to trust and feel trusted. I like to think of them as reluctant travelers through the murk and muck of life’s emotional turmoil, unlike women who make their emotions an essential part of their beings.

I tried to imagine what would have happened if I had dared to go out and talk to the man that day — the man in the chapel who I wrote about in my previous blog entry. If I had not ignored him, I wonder what would have happened? I imagine he would have been skeptical at first. Maybe he would have waved me away or ignored me the way I ignored him.

I’ll never know.

But, if I could imagine, I believe he would have opened up to me. I believe he would have ranted and raved at the world and wouldn’t give up. I imagine I would have listened for a very long time, until he broke down and cried. I imagine I would have told him how blessed he was, knowing God had just shined a certain, separate and distinct huge light upon him. I imagine his face would have begun to relax, and I could see his soul in the light of Christ. That is what I imagine could have happened, if I had gone out to talk to him that day.

I have been dwelling on this scene now for days on end. It has been a mystery to me for three and a half years, and now I understand what happened the day I saw the man, before I opened my eyes. God works in no uncertain mysterious ways. He knows what we all need and sometimes, if the right two people happen to be in the same general area together, he’s going to use them. We are, after all, his hands and feet.

Yes, I regret my inaction tremendously.

But, I also know I can’t go back no matter how much I want to. Yes, I want to go back and do it all over again. God, please? I can ask God to give me a second chance, but it is always up to him whether he grants that wish or not. I cannot know until, if and when, it happens again. I have prayed for the grace. I have asked God to forgive me. I know I’ve been forgiven because I confessed it, albeit as an afterthought, but still. Just because I’ve been forgiven doesn’t mean I’m not still suffering. Look at what happened to me after the confession.

And yet, my life goes on.

I’ve grown accustomed to not knowing and understanding exactly what that vision means, until now. I’ve wept over it. I’ve felt extreme remorse because of it, and I have begged for mercy and a second chance.

Now, all I can do is wait.

Waiting is a virtue, I know — one I’ve never been in possession of. I pray for the grace to receive a second chance. Please, Heavenly Father, receive my prayer. In Jesus’ name. Amen!

Journaling back to my soul…

During a recent Carmelite meeting with my temporary formation teacher, Gene, we discussed — what he called — the levels of the journey someone must take to reach Divine Union. He mentioned what I consider one of the most important levels in the long climb to the top. It consists of looking at ourselves and seeing our brokenness and sin. Here is where I am.

I have been struggling for over a year with lukewarmness and subtle clues from my Creator about my own brokenness. God has been showing me, little by little, what a worthless and sinful being I am. I’ve seen more than I wish, and less than I need.

The hardest part of all is admitting these flaws to myself and to my confessor. It’s just not that easy.

It isn’t in the light, but in the darkness, where I find my true self.

On August 10, 2018, I had a vision while inside a chapel. In order to get the true meaning of this vision, I had to first work out my salvation for three and a half years. Here is why:

Last night I went to my usual Saturday evening Mass. I was awaiting confession in the Adoration Chapel when my confessor showed up. I had been struggling with blood pressure spikes as of late and, when I saw him, it immediately shot way up. I felt fear!

As Catholics, we are taught to make an examination of conscience before confession, but always, when I go to confession, the Lord brings out thoughts, words and deeds I had not planned to discuss. In the depths of my soul, I must confront these things and see my sinful side. Confession is a chance meeting to unveil our sins and imperfections, sometimes for the first time. When it happens, it surprises or shocks me. It is always painful.

This was one of those nights when I uncovered a sin I did not expect to see.

Strange as it seems, I had been ruminating on the vision (above) for a couple of days, and with each passing thought, my memory became clearer and clearer. While dwelling on this memory, I saw how I had just received the Eucharist — the body of Christ — during Mass. I knelt in my pew with head bowed and eyes closed, thanking God for the gifts he had given me. Suddenly, behind closed eyes, I saw a huge hole open up in the ceiling and a beautiful pale yellow light shone onto a man sitting in a pew a few rows in front of me. He was hunched over in deep soulful prayer. I had never seen him before. In fact, I had not even noticed him even though there were less than a dozen people present. He was a stranger to me, but it wasn’t the man who I began to pay attention to. It was the light. And the light disappeared as soon as I acknowledged it.* When I opened my eyes and looked at him, I could only see his back. He was hunkered down low. I didn’t see the pain in his body that day, but I know it now.

Nevertheless, I was consumed with trying to find the light, but when I closed my eyes again, it never materialized. I had not focused on the man because I didn’t want to. I didn’t realize it was all about him. Later, I even told my former pastor that perhaps this vision wasn’t meant for me but, he assured me it was. When I asked him if he knew the man, he said he didn’t notice him.

After Mass, the man rose from his seat and walked swiftly out the door.

Just yesterday, I remembered looking up at him as he passed but quickly looked away because his face was contorted and it frightened me. I couldn’t tell if it was pain or anger; it may have been both. I remember, now, what he looked like. I remember his clothes, light-colored, a beige shirt and camel-colored pants, a little dirty and wrinkled, as if he had slept in them. I wondered if I should go after him and talk to him and tell him what I saw but, I was too consumed with my own self-centered desires. And, these selfish desires remained unfulfilled, so I allowed another thought to pass through my consciousness. On this second thought, I decided to go chase after him. However, when I opened the door, he was gone. I saw a small, red, beat-up pickup truck zoom out of its parking space and high-tail it out of the lot. I assumed it was the man. I remembered feeling surprised at how suddenly he left. It had been only a few minutes. I closed the door and went back to my pew, thinking I had tried to do my duty.

The whole scenario was unsettling.
  1. I had missed an opportunity to comfort someone.
  2. I never realized how divine that opportunity was until my confession.

Although I never saw the man again, I questioned the vision many times over the years. I’ve written about it, but not about the man. He evaded my memory. I always left out that part. I’m certain I repressed seeing him because I never remembered him until the day before my confession. I understand now why I wrote about the vision in a previous blog, but not the man. I mentioned this vision to the priest. I had told him about it a few years ago, shortly after he became my spiritual director. I don’t think I ever mentioned it to him again — that is, until Saturday night.

During my confession, I reminded the priest about the vision and told him about the man and what had happened, I asked him if it was a sin, fully expecting him to say no. But, he didn’t. He nodded his head yes. I could see the hurt in his eyes. He was well aware that it is a sin not to help someone in pain, not to show the love of God. I, however, was shocked. How could this be a sin if I didn’t even understand the meaning of it? It doesn’t matter. My confessor was right. And, I couldn’t sleep last night because of it.

We are all called to comfort those in pain, and to love each other. That is God’s greatest desire. That is what Christianity is all about. I could have helped that man that day — my once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to know I had helped someone through a clear prompting from the Holy Spirit, with a specific person — and I had failed.

I was inspired to write this journal entry as a condition of my salvation.

Soul searching is hard. “Life is difficult,” as F. Scott Peck says, in The Road Less Traveled.

I had lunch with my friend, Louise, on Friday and we discussed life. She likes to see life as being about adaptation. She put out her hand in front of her face and waved it in a swaying-like motion. “You have to learn to sway,” she said. Swaying is hard. Life is hard. Learning hard lessons takes time and can take the wind out of our sails. Please God, forgive me for my sins? Amen…

*Here is the original blog post if you’re so inclined: https://smarieack.livejournal.com/4926.html

Broken Heart…

If someone were to ask me, “what does a heart that is breaking look like?” I would say it looks like this: a flower, in God’s garden that is moved by a change in its natural color and form. It is not always a flower. Sometimes it’s a weed, like this dandelion above. But, it is always changing, never the same and forever dying in time.

Why do I mention this, you may wonder. Well, because I think I am dying of a broken heart, one heartbeat at a time. I don’t have a firm explanation, other than sometimes, I feel an intense, dull pain during one heartbeat, right in the middle of my chest. I woke up this morning to one. And, just as I was typing this paragraph, I felt it again. I honestly do not know why I’m talking about this here, other than the fact that there are only four or five people who even know about this page. And, if I were to guess, I don’t think anyone ever visits here.

Something happened to me in late November of 2021, that I think has changed me forever. I cannot talk about it. It’s a part of me now, and it’s shame-filled. But, It’s something I have to live with for the rest of my life, however long that may be. And, yes, it has to do with my spiritual life. It’s a cross God has given me, and though I’m not sure how well I am carrying that cross, it’s with me all the same. It is with me now, forever.

This is what a beautiful light and life-filled heart looks like — a dandelion blazing in the sun…

Some may think I am a pitiful fool, who is — out of desperation — just feeling sorry for myself. And, yes, that may be true. I’ve known heartbreak in my life and I have broken free of the pain before. But, this. This is different. This is part of my makeup. This is not part of my past. This is my present and my future. This is my punishment for the sins of my fathers and myself. I feel it in my bone marrow. I feel it in my brain and all the way down to the tips of my toes.

As an aside, my spiritual director is sick with Covid, and I am worried. It hurts my soul all the more. I pray for him, but I know that only God can be at his side. Please Heavenly Father, take due care of him. He is precious in your eyes. Please keep him in the living garden of your love. AMEN!

For now, this blog entry is supposed to be about me. But, I die inside with all that the world is coming to. I die to self. I die to others and I die for love of God. I do not know how long I will be on this earth, but please know this. I am dying, one heartbeat at a time.

And there is more. I do not recall the last time I cried at home. I always seem to cry while in the presence of the Eucharist, at church, but never at home. When I was separated, from 2008 through 2011, I cried all the way home from work — a 117 mile trek — for a year. But, I always stopped crying when I was home. So, this is different. This is something new. This is not normal for me. Something deeper is happening to my soul.

This is what happens when the light takes the color away from the heartbeat…

There is no hope for revival when the color turns to black. There is only despair. Wow, this blog entry sounds sooo gloomy. May the Lord grant that his light may one day fill the darkness that is my soul.

Time and the wind will take us to our Father….

Blessings…

On Waiting

I wrote this last night, but I’m just now publishing it tonight.

Something my pastor said recently in one of his homilies made me think. He was talking about waiting — how we are always waiting for something.

He spoke of the idea about how most of our lives are lived in the between times. Well, I call it patience. Isn’t it patience, or the lack thereof, which drives our souls to meddle in a different space or value of waiting? Whatever you call it, doesn’t seem to matter as much as the description of the feeling you get while waiting, I think. He said instead of getting anxious, we could try to see the person or people who are making us wait — see them with different eyes. We can see their troubles and their fears. Maybe their son just committed suicide. Or their wife is sick in the hospital. Maybe they have a sibling who is sick, they can’t pay their bills, etc., etc.

Whatever the reason, the choice is ours, whether we get anxious and impatient, or whether we can look upon our neighbor with love in our hearts. So I began to reevaluate my emotions because I often feel anxious and antsy when I have to wait. I tried looking through these different lenses when I went to the grocery store. I watched people while I waited. And I imagined their sorrows, even their challenges. I was happy the cashier was there working to serve me. And I thanked God, privately, for her service.

Yesterday was New Year’s Day. And I went to a friends house for dinner. I prepared most of the dinner, but she bought a frozen lasagna. And then texted me when she overcooked it. I was a little annoyed. I thought in my head, “Can’t you do anything right?” Then I remembered the plan. What were her fears that day? Maybe she had family issues I didn’t know about. Then I also remembered we are all Gods children. And I gave myself permission to forgive myself too. And that felt nice. 

I went to Confession on Saturday evening. I was anxious about it. I said to the priest. “Father, you know the drill. Do I have to say it?” He shook his head yes. So I said it, but it was hard. Harder than usual. He told me to pray the rosary because it was the Solemnity of the Blessed Virgin. Then, something important happened. On my way out, he said don’t beat yourself up over it. And I looked at him. He was sitting there looking up at me with a strong look in his eyes, and he said, “God loves you.” And in that moment, I remembered what I came for. I came to be forgiven. I believe God prompted him to say those words because I needed to hear them. It was definitely a God moment, that moment when you know, you just know something extraordinary is taking place. Had I forgotten that God loves me? Maybe I had.

On the way home, I stopped at a Christmas light display to take a picture. I was praying the rosary and I began to weep. I think the weeping was part of my penance. It’s a strange phenomenon. It didn’t last long, really. Maybe a minute — just long enough to know that I was in God’s presence. It’s always a warm beautiful feeling when God shows us his presence. For me, it doesn’t happen often. But I love it when it does.

God bless you. 

Goodnight