Be Not Idle

One of my favourite people is Pat who runs Celebration of Faith, a Catholic bookstore in St. Clair.  About a month ago, I stopped in and she gave me a statuette of St. Anthony. She wouldn’t allow me to pay for it. She said that’s the deal she has with St. Anthony. She’s asked him so many times to pray for her and her family, and she’s seen that he’s tireless in his intercession. So she gives away his paraphenalia.

I thought it was very cool that St. Anthony is one of her “prayer friends”. I used to have a few in college, mostly other young people in the Navigators’ Bible study group. They were the people I could ask to pray with me or for me.

I was never great at asking saints to pray for me. I’d call on St. Andrew from time to time when I was kid. (Usually when in a boat.) I had a feeling that they were very busy with God. Seemed a shame to interrupt them. I prayed the Rosary, of course, but that was more a meditation on Christ than asking for anything.

So the angels took the brunt of interceding when I had no one else to pray with me. St. Michael got a lot of desperate calls late at night when spooky sounds or general oddness abounded.  And my poor guardian angel! My mother’s grandmother had told her, and she passed it onto me, that if you began the Rosary at bedtime and fell asleep, your angel would finish it for you. Poor Phred must have covered 9/10 of every Rosary I prayed before I hit puberty. (Phred is my guardian angel. When I was a kid, someone got it into my head that guardian angels have names. I hope mine has a sense of humour.  

 But it’s a relatively new thing for me to ask the saints to pray for me. It’s really only been since I moved to this area. There are more Catholics around here, but I haven’t really become a part of my parish. Ironically, I know more people at the daily Masses in a neighbouring community, since so many older volunteers are Catholic.

Anyway, I’ve had St. Anthony’s statuette in a box since then, languishing on a coffeetable. I was looking for a good place to put it. I have the Holy Family on a bookshelf in the livingroom, surrounded by family photographs – which makes perfect sense the more I think about it.

I forgot who sent me this game. I know, it’s supposed to be called a  “meme”, but that recently-coined phrase always reminds me of a roomful of hyperactive 8-year-olds. 

1. Open the nearest book (of at least 123 pages).
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people.

 As it so happens, there are TWO books equadistant from me. (Sounds like a math problem, doesn’t it?)

 Killer Smile by Lisa Scottoline

“They were upstairs at the museum, and on the way over, Mary had called Frank Cavuto and Jim MacIntire again and left more messages. Skinny Uncle Joey wasn’t in either, and it gave her a pang of homesickness she was too old for. She considered calling home and asking her mother why she was so frigging thin, but stopped because she’d have to reveal she was on Pluto.”

Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art by Madeleine L’Engle

“A successful businesswoman had the temerity to ask me about my royalties, just at the time when my books were at last making reasonable earnings. When told, she was duly impressed and remarked, ‘And to think, most people would have had to work so hard for that.’  I choked over my tea, not wanting to laugh in her face.”

 Alas, I don’t know who to tag. I believe my blog-friends like The Clamster (aka Kasia) have already done this one…

On Saturday, I picked up my friend Karen. We both had errands in Port Huron, and she was going to be my guide to find the St. Vincent de Paul Society. I let her have first crack at what I was getting rid of: two boxes of houseware and three bags of clothes. 

I find it hard to describe how wonderful I felt watching her try on things and finding treasures among my discards.  It made me think of how people might react to finding something just right for them at St. Vincent’s. But what really floored me is that she immediately said, “I’ll go through my closet and see what I have to pass on.”  And when she saw something she really liked but that didn’t quite fit her, she said, “I could hang onto this, but someone else will absolutely LOVE this!”

She has an automatic generosity and honesty that puts me to shame. When we were in Home Depot, she found some money and immediately looked for the person who left it behind. Then she informed the management. No “finders, keepers” or hesitation.

 She herself works two jobs and is looking for a third. She always is on the look-out to help other people, even if it’s inconvenient.

 She’s not alone by any means. I’ve met an octogenarian last summer who fixes up broken appliances and sells them to help his neighbours pay their bills. He considers himself in good financial shape because his social security check covers his basic needs and his little trailer is in decent shape.  He said God gave him his health and longevity so that he could keep helping others.

 Then there are the kids, the ones who get free school lunches and wear out the clothes passed down from their older cousins. But they collect pop cans so they can raise money for Christmas gifts and groceries for other families. 

 I wonder how such people learn so much generosity, yet those of us who have more have such a struggle with being generous. 

One of my classmates, Jessie, is a  pre-teen with a lot of imagination and heart. Today I commissioned her to make me a squirrel for my garden. We agreed that the price would be under $100. Her mother suggested that maybe we could trade art.  (I’ll have to see if she likes any of my boring old things… Maybe I could make her a horse-shaped bowl?)

 Children are so brave about their creativity. She knows that her masterpiece, a mare and foal, may crack or even explode in the kiln. She made it a bit thick and let it dry quickly. But for her, the most important thing is to make it.

Pope John Paul II said it often that young people need Jesus. I have a student who is a senior. I’ve had him in class less than 15 days, but it’s clear that he’s troubled in his heart.  Other students have plans for the future – sometimes totally unrealistic or intentionally hyperbolic plans – but he doesn’t want to think about it.

Sometimes my students will express the wish that school would be over and they could do something more interesting. More often than not, “interesting” means hanging out with friends and/or doing nothing in particular. But many of the  seniors  become anxious when they realize that school doesn’t last forever. They have to make plans and do something because they want to, not because they’re being forced by laws or their parents.

One of my collegues commented, “There’s something wrong when students have no goals; they imagine no future.”  In other words, they have no hope.

It’s not just the “at-risk” kids who feel hopeless. Sometimes they are students who have a lot going for them, but seem depressed or lacking in self-confidence. I often wonder if they are longing for something less material than what usually ends up in the “futureography” essays: “good-paying job”, “lots of friends and parties”, etc.  Someone who gives them hope.

 So this young man is going to become my special prayer intention during Lent. I scarcely know him, but I know he’s hurting.

I had a very odd and enlightening dream two nights ago.  The only question is whether it’s a warning or a reminder.

I was in the parking lot of the church in my hometown. It was nearly full, as if for a holy day. The sun was shining and it was warm, so it might have been Easter. I was wearing a flowered dress and white shoes, so maybe it was May Crowning.

There were pennies and a nickel on the pavement and I squatted carefully (because I was wearing a skirt) to pick it up.

 When I picked up the change, I spotted some more underneath a truck.  I leaned forward and picked it up. Then I stood and saw quarters glittering on the pavement a few steps away.  Other people looked to see what I was doing, but they headed into church.

Long story short: I was still out in the parking lot when everyone began to sing. So I was missing Mass, but I was still out there picking up change – and I felt guilty but I couldn’t or didn’t stop. (It was not clear to me whether I was in charge or was compelled.) 

 I awoke somewhat disturbed.

A Hymn by G.K. Chesterton

O God of earth and altar,
    Bow down and hear our cry,
Our earthly rulers falter,
    Our people drift and die;
The walls of gold entomb us,
    The swords of scorn divide,
Take not thy thunder from us,
    But take away our pride.

From all that terror teaches,
    From lies of tongue and pen,
From all the easy speeches
    That comfort cruel men,
From sale and profanation
    Of honour and the sword,
From sleep and from damnation,
    Deliver us, good Lord.

Tie in a living tether
    The prince and priest and thrall,
Bind all our lives together,
    Smite us and save us all;
In ire and exultation
    Aflame with faith, and free,
Lift up a living nation,
    A single sword to thee. 

In the spirit of divesting myself of material goods, I tackled the kitchen this week. Material things, in and of themselves, are not bad. However, hoarding items is. My goal was to sort out a few good things and pass them on to local charities. 

It soon became hilarious how many things I DON’T USE are in my kitchen cabinets and cupboards. When my parents were here in the fall, my mother commented that I have a variety of  cleaning supplies and really only need a few basics.

That’s nothing compared to my kitchenware. I’m keeping what matches my new set of dishes. Good-bye, personalized coffee cups! (I haven’t needed them since I stopped working at a big company where things tended to disappear.) Good-bye, hamburger press! Adios, glass carafe! 

There are also duplicates. I have two wooden cutting boards, one of which I didn’t unwrap at the housewarming.  Sissy sent me a beautiful set of towels (handpicked by her hubby JoeCool) for my birthday, so I put the others into a box and the stained ones into the ragbag. My elder brother and his family gave me a quesadilla maker just like the one I already have, so the unopened Christmas present will go.

It’s tempting to keep these things. For example, I’m apt to scratch the Teflon coating on the quesadilla maker, since I use it so often. But then again, it’s tempting to keep EVERYTHING for myself and give nothing away.

Hand-me-downs are another matter. A juicer, a badly tarnished tea strainer, a dented colander, a McDonald’s glass from when Jim Carey played the Riddler… My friends and relatives passed on their odds and ends; it’s easy to pass them on again!

St. Vincent de Paul in Port Huron gave me a number for pick-up of furniture. So that will be next week’s project.

The Lord God formed man out of the clay of the ground and blew into his nostrils the breath of Life, and so man became a living being.

  - Genesis 2:7

As a kid, I used to imagine Adam being made of blue Play-Doh. (Because blue is a masculine color.)  I knew very little about clay. Once in a while I’d run into a patch of it while walking in a lake – a slippery mass of the blue-tinged white clay of Michigan. But it wasn’t until high school that I saw clay being used – and rather misshapen objects at that!

I’ve been taking clay class nearly a year. I joined because I had such a terrible experience with clay in high school, and I wanted a “do-over”.  It’s been wonderful! I’ve yet to use a wheel. Instead, I build things by slab and coil methods.

I’ve gone from making sculpture – like the angel that was Mom and Dad’s Christmas present – to more utilitarian objects.  I’ve gotten a good response to my work, even when they’re just sitting on the shelves near the kiln, waiting for the first firing. My teacher, Carolyn, told me that my bowls show my “signature”. I made them by using paper patterns to cut clay shapes, then layered them into a bowl. I worked from the outside in, layer by layer.

As of Thursday, I’m making tiles for my kitchen – a more durable backsplash than the stained and peeling wallpaper. I have sketched out tiles with a fruit motif to complement my Corelle Chutney dishes. I will mimic a classic Italian style by using a white glaze and a single colour per tile to accent the fruit.

At home, I have to measure the walls above the kitchen counter. I’m excited yet nervous. I face the prospect of cleaning, stripping, and preparing the walls. If I think about it, I start to worry that the tiles themselves won’t turn out. But I try to concentrate on one thing at a time: drawing, measuring, sculpting.

Truth to tell, I never thought of myself as an artist.  My best friend through grade school  is a great artist. When we were kids, she would become totally absorbed in drawing and painting. By high school, she had a maturity and a style that was very much her own. Her watercolours impressed even our teacher, who was a professional watercolour artist.  I was artistic but more of a dabbler.

Strangely enough, my skills are growing as I find reasons to make things. I suppose I’m not an artist as much as I’m a craftsman. Just like I can take an old piece of furniture or a discarded lamp and change it into something beautiful, I can make make something out of clay.  At first I was dissatisfied because what I wanted and what I produced weren’t the same thing. Gradually, however, I figured out that clay isn’t fabric or wood. It’s clay. So I let the clay be clay, and I changed my design.

Now I find satisfaction in the work itself. When I’m pressing down and forward on the clay, working the airbubbles out of it, the action is soothing even if my “rose” of clay looks more like a deformed seashell. Pressing it into slabs by running it under a roller – that’s fun. Carving into the clay and building up forms – those are like meditation because any extraneous thoughts have no room in my mind. All I can think about is what I conceive and what I’m doing at the moment.

• This Lent, I’m giving away as many material possessions as I can.  I’ve learned that material possessions interfere in my spiritual growth. I’ve learned the more I have, the less time I have. I’ve learned that writing is harder when clutter takes over my desk. I’ve learned that it’s harder to pray the Rosary when I keep thinking about the dusting, vacuuming, etc. But despite what I’ve learned, it’s hard to let go.

• I will not surf the ‘net on weekdays. Instead, I will wake earlier and spend time in prayer. 

• At work, I will bite my tongue and be more patient with my chronically upset students.