Blind Sight

Matthew 10:26-33

26"What I tell you in the dark, speak in the light. What you hear in whispers, proclaim from the rooftops."

This one verse alone sums up the purpose of this blog. The Lord blessed me with a gift that I allowed to stay hidden for years, sharing only with those closest to me and those I was certain would not reject me for it. I was blessed with a gift to write clearly and passionately about all that the Lord has done for me. But instead of openly proclaiming His wondrous love, I kept it to myself, afraid of what people would say about me. I was afraid to be labeled as a zealot, a preachy, obnoxious, in-your-face, holier-than-thou shrew. Or at least that's the excuse I used to justify my lack of action. Honestly, I was ashamed to be so bold in my faith as to share with the world what God shared with me in private. I liked being quietly faithful, not bothering anyone, not stirring up trouble, not taking on the dreaded labels of "religious", "churchy", or "too Catholic".

Looking back on my attitude makes me sad and gives me hope at the same time. Sad because I denied who I was and what I was gifted to become. Hopeful, because I am breaking out of that denial and I am becoming the woman I was gifted to be. A woman who is deeply proud of the labels "Beloved Daughter of God","Cursillista", and "Roman Catholic".

So what changed? The Lord blessed me with a miracle I would not dare to ask of Him. He restored my sight - physically and spiritually. In a single instance, He spoke to me in the darkness, at the deepest reaches of my soul, and granted me the courage to speak in the light and proclaim His whispers from the housetops.

On December 7, 2007, a typical Friday morning, I was at work and noticed that I could not see properly out of my left eye. Denial set in instantly, along with cold hard fear. I had never had anything like this before but I tried to tell myself it was just a migraine coming on or the stress of the ongoing divorce proceedings getting to me. I was seeing gray streaks running across my field of vision and there was pain all around the eye. I waited through the weekend, hoping a migraine would set in and prove that it was nothing more serious than that. By Monday, it was much worse and I called my eye doctor.

Seven doctors and one MRI later, it was Christmas. I had been told they didn't think I had MS, but they wanted a second MRI to confirm that diagnosis. They also wanted a look at what they told me was a tumor on the optic nerve. By now the vision in my left eye was labeled on the visual field tests as a total loss. I could see out of it, but barely and the colors were all wrong. Red was black, white created a starburst effect, and yellows and oranges washed out to pastels. On Christmas Eve, when I glanced down at my five-year-old son, who was sitting on the kneeler by my left knee, I could not see his face.

After Christmas, I had the second MRI and after a five day agonizing wait for results, was told that the suspected tumor was a severe inflammation of one of the torsional eye muscles. There was also an inflammation of the fat tissue behind the eye. The two were pushing the optic nerve out of place and also compressing it, thus causing the pain, vision loss, and color loss.

The treatment was a massive dose of Prednisone, a wonder drug that has the power to turn me into a fast-talking, foul-tempered, short-fused, emotionally unstable witch. It also allowed me to go three to four days at a time without sleep. I finally caved after the second week and requested something to help me sleep. I was given Ambien. With Ambien, I could take a tiny pill and stay up for an hour or so making lunches, writing checks, signing permission slips, calling my estranged husband and the best part it all was that I did not remember any of it. My mother and sister teased me about the Ambien blackouts. They also took my car keys at night.

The unfortunate part of this treatment was that I was on it from January 1st until February 29th. The fact that no one dropped a house on me during those two months is probably a miracle unto itself. But house-dropping aside, it worked. My vision improved drastically but did not return to normal. I had noticed some decline in my right eye, but was told it could be due to the Prednisone. The only way know if the drug was causing the problem in the right eye was to come off it slowly. I joked with the doctors that their game plan was to "come off the Prednisone and pray". Not funny, that was actually the plan.

Through all of this, I was surrounded by family, friends, and a faith community that enveloped me in prayers, hugs, and offers of assistance. I found myself unable to see clearly and yet I could see clearly the very face of Christ in those around me. Just before Christmas, I went to confession and found that I while I could not see the beautiful stained glass windows in the church, I could see the stains on my soul with a clarity I had never known. In that confessional, my pastor told me that losing my sight was my greatest blessing. He was so frighteningly and prophetically right.

On February 29,2008, I stopped the medication. I was told two things: the nerve could be permanently damaged, never returning to normal and that this could recur, at which point they would start looking at more serious causes such as lymphoma, lupus, and a number of other diseases. I made plans to come back in April and crossed my fingers.

My vision remained stable for about a week. Then it began declining slowly in both eyes. This time there was also a constant pain on the top of my head, about the size of a half-dollar. There was also pain whenever I moved my eyes. I told myself it was the flu, stress, being tired, maybe a migraine. Finally, I reached the point that I needed to know what I facing. I saw my primary doctor on a Tuesday, telling him I had an appointment with the neuro-opthalmologist on Friday. He told me not to wait that long. I saw the neuro-opthalmologist the next day and had an MRI, my fourth, on that Friday. The whole process was starting over. By the following week, I had lost enough peripheral vision that I nearly had tunnel vision. I also started seeing double. The left eye was going dark and the right eye was seeing black streaks like I had seen in the left one in December. They told me a biopsy was most likely the next course of action. Muscle inflammation doesn't spread to the other eye or cause the pain on the top of my head.

I was due to make my Cursillo weekend on May 17th and my sponsor told me repeatedly that I could wait until September. I insisted that I was supposed to go one this one. There was such a feeling of urgency in me that I could not explain but by then I was learning to trust the pull of the Holy Spirit. I assured everyone that I would be fine, somehow.

May 9, 2008, I attended a Healing Mass. I was not ready to tell my mother that I could no longer safely drive. As I left, she said to me, "I don't know why you go to these. If you can see when you get back, I'll believe in all this."

"Mom, I go to just let God hold me and love me." I could see she didn't buy that so I just left it alone.

I quietly called my estranged husband and asked him to drive me. I drove to his house and he drove to the church, which was in the next town over. As I sat in pew, I kept my eyes closed through nearly the entire Mass. The double vision was making me nauseous and dizzy. The pain on the top of my head was now excruciating, as though someone were forcing a railroad spike through my skull. As the Mass ended and the Healing service began, I leaned over to Bob and told him, "If I hit the floor before Father Roy lays hands on me, I am not resting in the Spirit, I am having a stroke, so call an ambulance." He asked me if I wanted to leave and I seriously considered that perhaps I should go to the hospital.

I had been praying since March "not my will but Thy will be done". That night in the church it was a mantra for me. I sang along with the music with my eyes closed and this mantra running through me all the while. As I sat there waiting to go up to the altar to be prayed over, I was nearly overcome by the smell of roses and the strong sense of a presence near me. Startled, I opened my eyes and looked around, but there was no one anywhere near me. I had been reading "Story of a Soul" by St. Therese of Lisieux and all throughout Lent and Eastertide, she was speaking directly to me through her writings. Now, as I was at my lowest point, completely surrendering my independence, admitting my weakness, and asking not for the return of my sight, but for the strength to be humbled, she was standing beside me.

Finally, I went forward to the altar and no sooner did Father Roy lay hands on me, then I fell back and rested in the Lord's Spirit. As Father Roy lay hands on the woman next to me, his robes brushed my leg and it was as though an electric shock ran through me. I heard a voice say to me "Your faith has healed you, my daughter." I have no idea how long I lay there but when I got up, I was still in agony and my vision was just as awful. I talked with a few friends who promised to pray for me, found Bob and told him to take me home.

As we rode home, I had my hands over my face to block out the oncoming headlights. Physically I was in agony but spiritually I felt so peaceful. We stopped for a bite to eat and then after reaching his house, I took the wheel and somehow managed to get myself home. I drove with my left hand covering my left eye and steering with my right hand. Exhausted, I went straight up to bed.

The next morning, as soon as I opened my eyes, I realized I was no longer in pain. I also realized that my peripheral vision was back and the sunlight looked evenly bright in both eyes. I sat bolt upright and grabbed my glasses. Looking around and even out the window, I could see normally for the first time since December! I attend Saturday morning Mass every week and as I drove to the church that morning, I could see every blade of grass, every petal on the flowers, every leaf on the trees. Over and over, I kept repeating "Thank you, Lord! Thank you!" I am still repeating that to this day.

By Sunday morning, I was confident enough to tell my mother that I could see again. I started telling everyone and anyone who would listen to me. I went to the neuro-opthalmologist as scheduled two weeks later and the visual field tests came back perfect in both eyes for the first time. Even in December, there had been a loss in the right eye, but with the left eye nearly blind; no one paid much attention to the right.

In between the healing and the confirmation from the doctors, I made my Cursillo as planned. I was so very aware of how blessed I was and how loved I was by my God, which made for an incredibly powerful four days. While I was there, my sponsor had written to me that I needed to find a way to open up and share my gift of writing with as many people as I could. But how?

After I came home, it suddenly hit me that a blog would be a great venue to start. This is by no means where I will stop. I have plans to complete a spiritual memoir, which I already had in the works. I am also putting together a program to teach children and adults the art of journaling, especially about their spiritual lives.

The gifts that I needed: a new insight into myself, the courage to accept that new insight, and the boldness to share it publicly, all these were given to me that night. The Lord sent His messenger Therese to me months earlier and she showed me the way to be humble in His sight. I may never see my writings in print, but then neither did St. Therese. I am no saint, but maybe in my real and broken imperfection my words will touch someone else's life.

At Home With My Lord

Luke 10: 38-41

Martha and Mary


I find this passage, short as it is, loaded with imagery. Jesus comes to the home of Martha and Mary. Martha, thrilled that the Lord has chosen to spend time in her home, rushes about taking care of all the little details to make His visit a pleasant one. Mary, also thrilled that the Lord is in her home, places herself at His feet to listen to His every word as if He may not visit this place again. Her action seems simple enough in this modern age, but in the time of Jesus, she was bold, even brazen, to ignore her duties as hostess and sit with the men to listen to the Teacher. I am sure Martha was shocked at her sister's complete lack of decorum.

If you have sisters, you can put yourself into this story quite easily. Can you hear the conversation as Jesus is coming up the walk? Martha barking orders, checking the bread she has baking in the oven, making sure there is wine on the table, that there is water to wash off the dust from the road, and that the floor is swept perfectly. Mary, telling her sister to stop fussing, is standing at the door waiting for His arrival and rushes out to greet Him with a kiss. After a time, Martha complains to Jesus that Mary is not helping her with all the work. Jesus gently tells her that Mary has “chosen the better portion and it shall not be taken from her”. I wonder if Martha was hurt that He did not recognize that she was overworked or if she could see that He was calling to her to put aside her perfectionism for a time and just enjoy His company.

Can you hear the discussion after He left? Did Martha throw up her hands in frustration and demand to know why Mary would not help her? Did Mary shake her head in dismay that her sister did not take the time to sit and listen to Jesus?

In my house that conversation would have gone something like this:

"All these men in the house and you leave me to do all the work! Would it kill you to refill a wine glass or fetch more food from the kitchen? What happened to your manners?"

"My manners? He comes all this way to see you and spend time with you and you can't even sit down and listen to Him. What is wrong with you? With the way things are going, who knows when He will be able to visit us again! Honestly, there is more to life than the perfect party!"

Perhaps, they were able to spend time together talking about what each of them took away from the time spent with Jesus and were able to appreciate the perspective of the other and learn from each other.

Martha chose to act in the service of the Lord by actively taking care of His needs and the needs of His disciples. Rested and refreshed, they were able to continue their journey and advance their mission of preaching that the Kingdom of God is at hand.

Mary also chose to act in the service of the Lord by actively listening to His teachings. She stayed close to Him, listening attentively, remembering all the little details. Even though she did not always understand, she trusted that the day would come when understanding would be granted to her.

Jesus is not going to come up the walk to my home and teach in my living room. But He does dwell within me. My very being is the home He has chosen to visit. I have to prepare a proper dwelling place for Him not by becoming perfect but by simply opening the door and being ready to receive Him with an open heart. I also have to recognize that it is time to stop fussing about doing everything right and to just sit with Him, listening to all He is trying to teach me. It is very easy to get caught up in religious practices, trying to create the perfect heart, and miss out on all the words of love He is trying to speak to me. It is also easy to become so caught up in reading and study that I can miss out on the opportunities to work with others on the same journey and so miss out on seeing that He is at work within them. I have much to learn from those He places around me and even though I rarely recognize it, they can learn from me as well.

He did not come only to save us as individuals, but also as a community of believers interdependent on one another for strength, support, and the encouragement to persevere in the faith. We are to remind each other to be both the missionary of Martha and the contemplative of Mary, striving always to do His work by advancing His mission of proclaiming that the Kingdom of God is at hand.

Prodigal Daughter - Part 2

Luke 15: 11-32

The Prodigal Son's Older Brother

I wonder - where was the older brother all that time when the prodigal son was off partying? He was at home working the land. He was trying to live his life in a respectable manner, trying to do the right thing, and to just be an upstanding young man. He had tried very hard to be all that his father wanted him to be and yet when this kid brother showed up broke, starving, and stinking like pigs, he had to have felt cast aside as the welcome home party started without him.

I have often seen myself in this story as the prodigal, crawling home to God in disgrace, miserable in my broken, sinful ways, begging forgiveness He had already granted, and seeking His grace, which was within me all along, but I was too blind to recognize.

I am also disturbed to see myself in the judgmental older brother. I had prayed for some time now that my abusive soon-to-be-ex-husband would find God and change his ways. No sooner were the divorce papers and restraining order filed than he was in the chapel with the Blessed Sacrament pouring his heart out to Jesus. He has gone nearly every night since. And there is that nasty little gremlin voice inside me saying, “Oh sure now he goes?” I see him now attending daily Mass two evenings a week and he has not missed a Sunday Mass in sometime now. He has become more involved in the parish over the past year and yet prior to that, he had questioned every activity in which I became involved. The more I see this, the more outraged I become. Which leads me to the great question – WHY? Why is okay for me to be the prodigal but not Bob?

I had to hit the lowest depths, the very edge of hell, to find my way back to God. Why should it be such tremendous leap of faith for me to accept that the same gracious and loving God who gathered me into His loving embrace would also reach out to gather up this broken man? Why is it so hard to accept that Jesus died on the cross as much for me as for Bob? I suddenly find myself filled with anger and outrage, demanding the vengeful justice of an authoritarian God. But if God were to deal with Bob according to the abuses he had inflicted on me, would He not also deal with me according to my own failings? Believe me, that would not be pretty as I have no great claims to sainthood.

It is my faith that leads me to accept that the great banquet of God’s grace flows through each and every one of us. Yes, even through Bob. As I struggle to forgive the man who beat me down mentally, emotionally, and physically, I find myself nudged into ever deepening involvement within the faith community. There, I continually find the strength and grace I need to understand God’s unconditional love flowing freely through others just as lost and just as broken.

I wonder if the older brother was able to finally enter the banquet and share the father’s joy over the return of the prodigal son. I wonder - did he stay away until all his anger and outrage was recognized and resolved or did he take the first step in faith, walking into the banquet uncertain if he could accept this scandalous brother? Did he take that step in faith knowing that his father loved him and wanted to share all the same wonderful gifts with him as well as his brother? Did he finally see that there had been times in his life when his father had forgiven him with the same loving embrace?

I wonder finally if I can take that bold step in faith. Can I accept that God sees the beauty and goodness in Bob, just as He could see in me at my worst moments of sin? I don’t have that answer yet. But I have faith that God will grant me His grace to accept the anger and outrage and that He will heal the pain at the heart of these emotions. I know that He sees me as both the prodigal son and the older brother, because they are both a part of me. He loves and accepts me as I am, no matter where I am on this journey and He walks beside me, guiding me home, just as He does with Bob.

Dare to Knock?

Luke 11: 5-10

Everybody knows this one. Come on, say it with me now:

"Ask and you will receive. Seek and you will find. Knock and it will be opened to you. For whoever asks, receives; whoever seeks, finds; and whoever knocks is admitted."

So now the question is this: do I dare to knock?

As I read this parable, the words that leaped off the page at me were not the familiar lines I have just quoted. No, what stood out to me was "in the middle of the night". As I spent some time with this it occurred to me that when Jesus speaks of the man banging on his friend's door to borrow three loaves of bread, he comes in the middle of the night. That led me to more questions than answers.

How desperate do I have to be to bang on a person's door in the middle of the night? How did I get to this door? Where did I come from? Did I leave a place of relative comfort and safety or I am searching for a safe haven for the night? If I bang on this door, do I really even know what I need? Do I have to courage to ask for it? Do I have the faith to admit that I may not know what I need but know deep down that I need something I can only find here? Do I have the audacity to ask for refuge for the night?

One thing I am certain of: if I am going to venture out in the middle of the night in search of something, I would have to be fairly certain that the occupant of this house would open the door. I would also have to be certain that the occupant would be both capable and willing to provide me with whatever it is that I need.

At the encouragement of my spiritual director, I placed myself in this scene and spent several evenings returning to it. The following is what I saw and heard there in the middle of the night at the door of the house of my Lord.

For several nights, I could walk up the path to a small, warm looking cottage. I could see a single light on in the kitchen and I could bang loudly on the heavy arched door of this cottage. Jesus would open the door and I would find myself frozen, without words, only tears. Part of me wanted to fall at His feet and part of me wanted to flee down the path, too afraid to admit I didn't really know why I was there. I would stand there, crying, until I could stand it no longer and I would sadly take myself out of the scene, praying for the courage to return. After a week of this, I was finally able to stay there.

The door opens and I am face to face with Jesus. I can see the kindness and compassion in His eyes. He already knows why I have come and yet He waits patiently for me to speak. I am overwhelmed by exhaustion and a swirling storm of emotions. I am tired, lonely, and completely empty. Again I am frozen, speechless, on the doorstep with tears coursing down my cheeks. Some nasty little voice inside whispers to me "Run! You don't belong here and you know it." I can feel the fear welling up inside of me. The insecurity creeps in again. Who am I to bang on the door of my Lord in the middle of the night?

His gaze hold me fixed there on the doorstep and He smiles at me. There is so much love and tenderness in that smile and a gentleness in his eyes like I have never seen. I fight the urge to run. I so desperately need to be here. I want to be here. Why am I so afraid of such great love? The inner battle finally saps what little is left of my strength and I fall to ground at His feet, sobbing uncontrollably.

In a soft, but firm voice, He asks me, "Daughter, what do you need?"

"I am so tired, Lord and I've become so lost again. I just want to rest awhile. I can't go any further."

"Come inside. Eat and drink with me. Rest your head. Leave your cares with me. When you have eaten and you have rested, you can continue on your journey. You are always welcome here. Do not be afraid to come to me. I am always waiting for you, no matter what the hour."

With that, He stretches out His hand and pulls me to my feet. Putting His arm around me, supporting me, He guides me to the kitchen table, which is set with bread and wine for two. I suddenly realize how very hungry I am and how thirsty I have become. As He passes me pieces of bread and fills and refills my wine, I pour out my fears, my worries, my broken dreams, my failures and my sins. He listens intently and patiently. Finally, He asks me, "Child, what is your deepest desire?"

Without stopping to think, I reply, "To love and be loved. To be accepted as I am. To be seen and to be understood."

Taking my hand in both of His, He smiles again saying,"My beloved daughter, this is why you come to me. Do you love me?"

"Yes Lord, I do. You know I do."

"Who can understand you better than He who created you? You come to me whenever you are in need. No matter what you need or how much you need, I will give it to you if you ask. Do not be afraid to ask me for I will give you all that you need. Come when you are tired, when you are hungry, thirsty, in pain and lonely. I am always here for you. Do not let your fears keep you away from me. I will never reject you. I understand when you fail and I forgive all your sins. Do not be afraid. Knock anytime and I will be at the door, waiting to care for you. Your faith has brought you to me. Rest now and go forward in my peace. Be assured of my love for you."

I close my eyes, resting my head on my arms and fall fast asleep.

I awoke the next morning in my bed after sleeping a full night's sleep for one of the few times in several years without the help of alcohol or sleeping pills. I awoke refreshed and somehow lighter. All of the worries and fears are still with me, but they no longer have the same weight. All because I dared to knock.

Why did the man in the parable knock on the door in the middle of the night?

It was to borrow three loaves because a friend had come in from a journey and he had nothing to offer his friend. I have been filled and cared for so that I can return to my home and do the same for those who come to me in their hour of need. And when I am empty, I know the way to the house of my Lord. He will give me all that I need, including the courage to knock.

Every saint has a past and every sinner has a future.

GPS = God Prepares & Sends

Men aren't the only ones who hate to admit they're lost and don't want to stop for directions or to consult the map in the glovebox. I often find myself praying for direction. I need the Lord's help in navigating the twists and turns of my sometimes stormy life. The problem is when I pray for direction, I get it. Now don't get me wrong, that is a very good thing. God doesn't leave me standing on the roadside in the dark of night wondering where I'm supposed to be going.

What gets me into trouble most often is that the paths that God asks me to take are not always the ones I want to take. Think Psalm 23 and the whole valley of the shadow of death idea. I'm good with green pastures, restful waters, my cup running over and dwelling in the house of the Lord forever. I can do without the valley and stopping for dinner with my enemies all around me. I'd rather sit comfortably in the house and have a nice relaxing dinner with the Lord, leaving the enemies outside in the valley of the shadow of death.

I have a hard time accepting that while I am in control of my actions, I am not in control of the world around me. I would like to think I know exactly what God has planned out for the rest of my life. God certainly has planned the trip, but like the maddening dashboard GPS, He only calls out one navigational step at a time. Then when I deviate from the plan, which is fairly often, He has to give me directions to get back on track again. In the end, the one moving forwards, backwards, or even going around in circles, is me. Free will is wonderful but it will absolutely get me lost when I start thinking I know a shortcut that is better than God's path for me.

I have found one thing to be true: whenever God calls out direction change, He has already given me everything I need to make the change. In other words, He prepares me before He sends me forth into something new. Now if I could just learn to trust in that, maybe I could spend less time going around circles trying to figure out the way forward.

I keep asking for the map that God is holding which shows the whole path for my life but then there would be no mystery to life. How could I learn from my wrong turns if I never made them? How could I enjoy the surprises God has in store for me if I knew what was coming? Let's face it, the surprises are all the fun in life.

Besides, God knows me well enough to know if He gave me the map, I'd probably just lose it anyway.

Become Childlike

Matthew 18: 1-5

I find myself struggling with this passage. Jesus instructs his disciples that in order to enter the kingdom of heaven, one must become like a little child. Are you kidding me? I have spent my adult life trying to grow up, trying to get it together, trying to act like a responsible adult and now Jesus is telling me to act like a child!

After reading and rereading this passage, what I finally see is what Jesus does not say. He does not say act childish; demanding your own way, crying and whining when you don't get what you want, stomping your feet or dragging along when you follow Him down a path you don't want to take. What He does say is to be humble like a child in order to enter the kingdom of heaven.

I spent some time reflecting on my own two sons. I have learned that in many ways they are my greatest teachers in the ways of the Lord. They rely on me to feed them, clothe them, care for them, tend to their cuts and scrapes, dry their tears, rejoice in their successes, console them in their failures and most of all just to love them for the beautiful children that they are now and the beautiful men they are becoming. If I can do these things in my own broken, human way, does not my Father in heaven do as much for me and so much more?

As a volunteer in the kindergarten classroom I have seen that children are free to be open, loving, and vulnerable far more often than adults. As adults, we have learned to close off portions of our hearts to protect ourselves from the big bad world around us. Children know nothing of the world. All they know is love so they are free to love those around them with a selflessness that is unmatched by most adults.

My ten-year old son demonstrated this openness recently in an act of kindness that touched me at the deepest levels. We were at Mass on Thursday afternoon. As we knelt, he leaned over and whispered to me "At the sign of peace, can I go over and give the sign of peace to that nice lady over there?". I glanced across the aisle at the elderly woman he was pointing to and without really giving it much thought, said "yes".

At the sign of peace, he quickly kissed my cheek, climbed over his six-year old brother, crossed the aisle and walked halfway down the pew to reach this woman. I was shaking hands with those around me and it was not until he was coming back across the aisle that I realized what he had seen about this particular woman. She was alone and isolated. There were four empty pews in front of her and five empty pews behind her.

As we knelt again, I glanced across the aisle and saw her sobbing into a tissue. It struck me then exactly what my son had done for her. He saw her. Nothing more extraordinary than that - he saw her. He realized she was alone and reached out to her. He did not shake her hand but instead gave her a big hug, full of all the love and light that only a child can give. She needed that hug. I don't know why and neither did he, but somehow he knew what she needed. I didn't know the woman that was at Mass Thursday and neither did he. He told me he just wanted to be nice to her.

This is what it means to be like a child. It means not to look but to see. We are called to see the people around us as though we are seeing through the innocent eyes of a child. If I am a child of God, then those around me are also children of God. As children in this classroom that is the world, we need to remember what it is to be kind, to be accepting, to be loving, to share well with others, to laugh, to play, to comfort each other and while we can't realistically befriend everyone, we can respect them and treat them fairly.

As adults, this can feel uncomfortable, even emotionally dangerous. Yet this is what Jesus calls us to be - a child who is open and loving. He told his followers, "When you welcome one of these little ones, you welcome me." He never said it was going to be easy but He did say that with God, all things are possible.

Prodigal Daughter

Luke 15:11-32 - The Prodigal Son

Think you know this story by heart? I thought so too until last year when a week of guided prayer, based entirely in scripture, caused me to take another look at it.

The first things that stood out to me were the missing parts of the story. The prodigal son was in a far off land. He didn't go hang out with a rough crowd on the wrong side of town. He skipped the country with his inheritance. I know what happened next - wild living, ending in disgrace and famine. Next thing I know, he wakes up, smells the pig wallow, and decides to throw himself on his father's mercy - smart kid.

Now the part of this story that really intrigues me is the journey home. No hopping on Jet Blue for my boy. No, he has a long, hard road home. I don't get to hear about that part of it. Why? Probably because if I am to see myself in this story, I need to be able to look at my own journey home.

How many times do you think he second guessed his decision on the road home? How many times do you think he tried to find other ways to survive on his own, only to end in failure? I know I would be thinking of anything and everything to avoid going home in disgrace, especially knowing big brother was there to rub my nose in it. I'll come back to big brother in another posting.

The other piece of this that really stands out to me is this: when he finally makes it within sight of the estate, his father sees him while he is still a long way off and rushes out to meet him. The prodigal son goes through his rehearsed speech, declaring his unworthiness. His father barely hears him, calling to the servants to prepare a banquet, dress him in fine robes, and to put a ring on his finger. After walking all that way in the heat and dust, coming home in rags, exhausted, smelling of swine - was he relieved or ashamed by such an over-the-top greeting? And if you think about it, if the father rushed out to meet him while he was still a long way off, doesn't it then stand to reason that the father and he walked home together?

For me, I was raised with religion and gained my faith, or so I thought, when I lost my father at fourteen. God in His great love had surrounded me with the people I needed to guide me through seeing my father lose a seven month battle with lung cancer. I knew it was God who provided me with all the love, guidance, and support that I needed at the time but how quickly I forgot.

By the time I was nineteen, I had begun to turn my back on every belief I had once held dear. I began to act like a spoiled brat, deciding that God had ditched me during the year I had spent with an abusive boyfriend and therefore I could do whatever I wanted.

I still went to church. I was married in the church at twenty-two and both of my sons were baptised there, but little by little I quit coming the banquet of love that is the Mass. By the time I was thirty-three, I rarely went at all.

Then my life was upended again. This time, my four year old son was dangerously ill and my marriage was falling apart. I suddenly found I couldn't pray for myself, not even for strenth to care for my son. I was so undeserving and so unworthy that the only prayers I could offer were for my innocent son, often begging God to listen to me despite my sins.

Finally, after several months of trying to cope with a child on a feeding tube twelve hours a day, the responsibility of changing the tube, caring for my eight year-old son and his needs too, seeing what was left of my marriage disintegrating before my eyes, it was all too much.

On June 16, 2006, at 1:00 AM, I collapsed under the weight of it all. The pain was too great and the darkness crashed in on me. I found myself drowning in every awful thing I had ever done and every awful thing anyone had ever done to me. I was submerged in a most hideous noise that reverberated in the depths of my soul.

I could take no more and I grabbed a knife off the end table in the living room, which had also become my sleeping quarters. I was intent on slitting my wrists. I knew I would spend an eternity trapped in Hell for committing suicide and since I was already experiencing Hell, I knew I didn't want to stay there. Finally, in desperation, I fell to my knees, knife still in hand, and cried out from the deepest part of my soul for my God to save me from myself. And He did.

I found myself surrounded by silence, wrapped in stillness, and embraced by peace. I rested in that silence, stillness, and peace until dawn. It still took me a long time to find my way back to the banquet of love and even longer to find my way to Reconciliation.

God didn't wait for me to make it back to confess my sins or even to get myself to Mass. He rushed out to meet me where I was, kneeling on the floor of my living room, surrounded by the shattered pieces of my life, drowning in darkness, knife in hand, about to take my own life. He came the moment I called out for Him.

I was too blind to see that He had been beside me and within me all along, but I know now that He walks beside me and inside me. Most importantly, He will walk home with me, even when I forget the way.

Me? A Puddle Jumping, Rainbow Chasing Son Worshipper!

What do you see in this picture? If you were sitting on the seawall, would you be running for your car?

I see the power of God displayed across the sky. The wind was blowing and the rain was just starting to pour down. The smell of fresh summer rain was everywhere and all around this downpouring, wind driving black cloud was clear blue sky. I know all this because I didn't run for my car. I got out of my car and stood with my face in the wind, breathing in the power all around me.

I'm sure the people in the cars around me thought I was more than a little nuts. But what does that matter? I have my own way of giving glory to God, just like we all do. When I give Him glory from the depths of my soul, that joy deep in my soul is undeniable. That joy is there to glorify my Creator. For me, I never feel closer to God than when I am outside experiencing His creation as if it is all new. I notice this newness most often at the beach where the wind and waves change the face of the sand by the hour.

On a calm, sunny day, I can hear the gentle lapping of the waves whispering to me with love. The warmth of the sun on my face draws my face heavenward to soak in the gentle caress of the light breezes. Somedays I can walk for hours and on others I am called to find a quiet spot to soak in the love of my Father, Abba, Daddy. And it's good to just be Daddy's Little Girl.

On a stormy day, I love to climb out on the rock jetties and stand with my face in the wind. The power of the waves crashing around my feet, spraying me with a cool, salty mist that is both energizing and awe-inspiring. The greater glory of God is all around me and I can't soak up enough of it. To think that this same powerful God dwells inside of me is both humbling and empowering. Together with my God, there is nothing I cannot do!

I can't always be at the beach, but look for me outside after the rain. I'll be the one barefoot, splashing in the puddles laughing with pure joy and looking skyward, searching for a rainbow. God created puddles and barefeet. Man separated the two with shoes. How often we separate ourselves from the simple beauty of the creation all around us!

If the Bible is God's love letter to us, Creation all around us is His gift to us. Look around you - hear the birds, feel the softness of the grass under your feet, smell the flowers, enjoy the cool breeze, the warmth of the sun, the refreshing rain. Remember this, God doesn't need to create any of these, anymore than He needed to create us. He created us to shower us with love and He has surrounded us with beauty to remind us of that love everyday.

Notice the H and the arrow sign point up the rainbow to heaven and smile because God truly loves you!

Why This Title?

Why a cup of coffee with God? Does that seem a bit informal? Let me explain it from the perspective of my life story.

From the time I was small, I remember watching my father take his first cup of strong, black coffee out to the back porch. He would sit there in the early morning hours, quietly watching the world come to life. I asked him once why he did this. His answer was simply, "Well Nudnik (his private pet name for me), I just like to have my first cup of coffee with God."

Somehow that made sense to me. I was eleven at the time and since I had started school, the nuns had been teaching us that we could have a personal relationship with God. They taught us that God loved us and wanted to be a friend to us. At the same time, we were learning to confess our sins, which were offending to God, and we were also learning the structured prayers. In my young mind, this seemed like a very strange way to be friends.

But a cup of coffee got me thinking. I watched my parents take their after-dinner coffee outside on the porch or at the dining room table, hold hands and quietly talk about what had happened during the day. That was an image I could understand and relate to very well. As I grew older and found close adult friendships myself, it was an image I cherished.

Thus the beginning of the most beautiful friendship began to unfold before me. This was not only THE GREAT I AM but the same Father that calls me his Beloved Daughter. I am so overflowing with His love for me that I have to share it with the world.