Be Not Idle

This morning I woke up thinking of a maze, which brought to my early-morning mind the brick labyrinth at a summer house. I’ve walked the labyrinth on one occasion – a particularly wet day when walking on the beach proved too cold – but found it dull, as it inexorably leads to a single point.

Such a labyrinth would make a simpler life because, as complex as it looks, you’re brought to the end. A maze is full of choices. Sometimes we realize a few turns in that this is not our path. Or we discover the truth only when a dead-end blocks our way.

Or perhaps we never realize it.

That’s a frightening thought. Unlike a rat’s maze, the goal isn’t as clear-cut as a lump of cheese.

Well, I was pondering this image when I came to today’s morning readings. And here it is, in the end of Psalm 119: 9-16:

I will ponder all Your precepts
and consider Your paths.
I take delight in Your statutes;
I will not forget Your word..

Point taken, Lord.

Where is the wise one? Where is the scribe? Where is the debater of this age? Has not God made the wisdom of the world foolish? (…) For the foolishness of God is wiser than human wisdom, and the weakness of God is stronger than human strength. - excerpted 1 Corinthians 1:20-25

On this feast day celebrating Your Triumph on the Cross, Lord Jesus, thank You for sharing the frailty of humanity, and for sharing Your strength with us.

 Jesus said to him, “If you wish to be perfect, go, sell what you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.’ When the young man heard this statement, he went away sad, for he had many possessions. – Matthew 19:21-22, New American Bible

I’ve been reading The Apostle of the Chippewas, about Servant of God Frederick Baraga.  In less than 100 pages, it summarizes Baraga’s life story. One circumstance grabbed me.

Fr. Baraga served at the Odawa (Ottawa) village of Arbre Croche, Michigan. NonChristian members of the tribe would bring him idols and other articles they had used, “requesting that Father Baraga would burn them in token of the native’s willingness to convert to Christianity. The missionary would participate gladly in such ceremonious offerings… (praying as they burned) ‘God of hosts, who alone should be adored, receive with pleasure this sacrifice.’” (p. 29) Continue Reading »

About a year ago, I met one of the nastiest women in my life. Within a half hour, I knew she was the epitome of all that I should not be: angry over trifles, greedy, underhanded, and vocally “honest” without charity. At the time, I was thunderstruck by her audacity and annoyed that any attempt to change the topic of her tirade resulted in another, new tirade. She made a tedious task absolutely onerous.

As usual, I thought there was a lesson in the experience.

Thank you, God, I thought, for showing me what I will become if I don’t give up Anger.

And as usual, I missed the lesson.

When I met Mrs. Angry again, I hid my dislike under a civil tone. But I found something to do in another room and, after my volunteer work was done, I didn’t hang around to chat.

However, I met her again last week. I was visiting with a bookstore owner who has been a good friend (and terrible matchmaker). She had to run into the storeroom for a bit. Then Mrs. A came in, complaining about the store hours and the time she wasted coming when the store was closed, etc. The over-the-top complaining triggered my recognition.

She directed her bile my way, since there were no other customers. I wished my friend the shopkeeper a speedy return.

“Ah, poor thing,” I told her. “But you made it this time.”

She was still angry and made a few comments about the shopkeepers inopportune lunch hours.

“Well, you can’t blame her for eating,” I said. “So take a deep breath. It can’t be good for your blood pressure to get upset about it.”

“No, it isn’t,” she said. But she wasn’t done. She remained combative, telling the shopowner to contact that publisher of an out-of-print book. She dismissed a pocket-sized Scripture reader that I recommended. I was taken aback when she said, “This (indicating the book she was purchasing) was written by a Christian, not a Catholic.”

“I was under the impression that Catholics were Christian,” I said.

She was speechless – for less than two seconds, to be sure, but that’s a long time in the lifecycle of a sharp-tongued woman. Then she informed me not only that Catholics were indeed Christians but, through a subtle change in tone, that I was a dunderhead to be more pitied than scorned. It was in that moment I realized that Mrs. A herself was Catholic and considered herself as uptight upright a woman as any.

I found myself asking for Mrs. A’s opinions and commisserating with her about whatever she was complaining about. My friend the shopkeeper was better than I was, as gentle and soft-spoken as ever. By the time of her departure, Mrs. A had smiled a few times and even replied to my “Enjoy your weekend!” in kind.

So what was God’s lesson for me? Only days later, it jumped up from the page I was reading:

If you love those who love you, what reward will you get? -Matthew 5:46

It’s natural to avoid disagreeable people. However, I’ve gotten in the habit of avoiding people with whom I disagree philosophically or politically. And when one of my friends made rude criticism of my fellow Christians, I simply decided to delete her e-mails that contain such rubbish and not respond. But lately I’d considered breaking off my relationships with a couple friends because it’s hard to be charitable when tensions arise.

So now, it seems, I have to try again.

…You lead me in directions I would not have chosen for myself. Give me the wisdom to discern Your Will and the courage to follow it. – from a prayer by Fr. John Catoir, Joyfully Living the Gospel Day by Day

I’m not living up to my potential and neither are most of you.

Most of us have moments of inspiration. We watch a program about a quadrapalegic woman who learned to paint with a brush in her mouth, or we read an article about a low-income couple who managed to make a home for orphans. We feel uplifted by their courage and inspired by their example. 

Then we channel-surf for another hour instead of starting that To Do List we wrote during Lent. Or we continue that novel that’s not really very good – and its subtext might even be bad – because it sure beats spending a couple of hours working on the novels that have been bouncing around our heads for the last decade.

We feel moved, but we don’t move.

Continue Reading »

For all men were by nature foolish who were in the ignorance of God, and who from the good things seen did not succeed in knowing Him Who Is, and from studying the works did not discern the Artisan.

- Wisdom 13:1

Fill us with Your love that all our days we may sing for joy. – Psalm 90:14

For a few days, I have heard the familiar chirp of the robin. However, the first robin of spring is never official until I see it. Yesterday I finally did.

Often people make disparaging remarks about the climate of the Midwestern States. They speak of ice and snow as if those were all there are to life here. But there’s a beauty to autumn – the changing of the light, the particular crispness of the air, the glowing color of maple leaves against a gray sky – that’s more pronounced than in warmer climes.

I spent one spring in Florida and noticed that the season wasn’t as astonishing as it is Michigan or Ohio. When crocuses poke out of the snow, even if it seems too early - perhaps ESPECIALLY if it’s too early -  joy alights in the heart. Even if you like winter, there’s still a certain childlike sense of anticipation for those first signs of spring.

 Perhaps the best example I’ve ever had occurred when I was taking classes at Wayne State University in Detroit.  It was early February, an overcast day in which the only brightness seemed to be the dull white of snowbanks. I was walking past  the School of Education when I heard a robin singing. I stopped and looked for it.

I wasn’t the only one.  The sidewalk was dotted with people, heading in different directions, and several paused. The robin was on a bare tree, singing its song to attract a mate. Someone commented that it was the first robin; another that spring was coming. We smiled at each other as we went on our way.  No matter the forecast, we knew winter was at its end.

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.

Do not give in to sadness, torment not yourself with brooding. Gladness of heart is the very life of man, cheerfulness prolongs his days.

Sirach 30:21-22.