Today is the Day--Blue Scapular and Join the Confraternity of Immaculate Conception of BVM

Today is the day.  Today I give myself to my mother.  I am being invested in the Blue Scapular and joining the Confraternity of the Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin Mary.  I cannot wait to give her my all knowing she will give me to her Son.  I am so undeserving, so weak, so unworthy and yet she whispers my name and wants me to follow her. 


I have been emotional a lot today.  True to form, she gave me a song.  This one was written and recorded by the group Casting Crowns.  It says more than I could ever say on such a special day. 




Who Am I?


Who am I, that the Lord of all the earth
Would care to know my name
Would care to feel my hurt?
Who am I, that the Bright and Morning Star
Would choose to light the way
For my ever wandering heart?

Not because of who I am
But because of what You've done
Not because of what I've done
But because of who you are.

I am a flower quickly fading
Here today and gone tomorrow
A wave tossed in the ocean
A vapor in the wind
Still You hear me when I'm calling
Lord, You catch me when I'm falling
And You've told me who I am
I am Yours.

Who am I, that the eyes that see my sin
Would look on me with love and watch me rise again?
Who am I, that the Voice that calmed the sea
Would call out through the rain
And calm the storm in me?
not because of who I am
but because of what You done
not because of what I've done
but because of who you are.

I am a flower quickly fading
Here today and gone tomorrow
A wave tossed in the ocean
A vapor in the wind
Still You hear me when I'm calling
Lord, You catch me when I'm falling
And You've told me who I am
I am Yours, I am Yours

not because of who I am
but because of what You done
not because of what I done
but because of who You are

I am a flower quickly fading
Here today and gone tomorrow
A wave tossed in the ocean
A vapor in the wind
Still You hear me when I'm calling
Lord, You catch me when I'm falling
And You've told me who I am
I am Yours.

Whom shall I fear
Whom shall I fear
'Cause I am Yours
I am Yours

True Believers Shake Hands???

I hide when they stand to shake hands.  I peer around the corner, standing in the back, and sing the hymn as Mass begins.  I know very few will ever understand me.  I know you understand, my mother, and I need you to hug me when my illness makes it so I look odd or anti-social.  Shaking hands is the worst.  I really don't want to shake hands because the thought of germs terrifies me.  Mother you know how frightened I get and how hard I try not to hurt people's feelings.  I don't want someone to  hold out their hand and see that all-too-familiar look of disappointment when I won't shake hands with them.  Then their disappointment turns to anger and they look at me as if to say that I'm arrogant or snooty.  If they only knew how little I felt about myself, how much I judge myself,  and how many times I get impatient with myself for not being "normal".  I dart around, hide in back rooms, and even go to the restroom to avoid the hand-shaking part of Mass so that I don't have to upset others.  I take all the blame for their, at times, overblown reactions all on myself.  Oh mother how I wish I would stop beating on myself. 

Today I brought a present I let the six-year-old little girl inside of me make for Fr G.  I am terrified he will think it's stupid.  I am also almost giddy with excitement.  My scapular and Fr G's designation certificate came in the mail yesterday and mother, my dearest mother, soon I will belong to the confraternity that honors your immaculate conception.  I cannot wait to belong to you in a deeper way.  I brought the certificate for him so we could talk about when I can be invested with the scapular and join the confraternity.  My anxiety is bad, the whole mass I sit in the back but I did experience a moment when Fr G talked about  how Jesus allows himself to be confined to the tabernacle and he waits for us and wants us to spend time with him.  That touched me so much, mother, that he waits for me. 

The prayers have been said and I see Fr G serving those who will be serving with him and an older man walks up to me.  He walks with a cane, I have seen him before and he's probably in his 70's.  He seems to have some mental needs of his own but he walks up to me, in this sacred moment.  I look up and he holds out his hand to shake mine.  I guess I was caught off guard, dear mother, so I simply said that I don't like to shake hands.  Then he gets angry and says, "Peace be with  you" in a forceful tone with his hand still out and I repeat that I don't like to shake hands.  His face grows dark and he says, "I will pray for you to become a true believer."  I ask him what he means by that and he asks if I believe that the wine on the altar is really your Son's blood.  I tell him that I do.  He then tells me that part of believing includes shaking hands with your family.  I feel the anxiety skyrocketing and I said, "Part of being a family is being understanding when someone has an issue and being compassionate."  He then rambled about his mother dying and how some day I will know "the truth" and then I will be right with God.  I also try to explain that passing the peace does not require shaking hands but he talks over me.  Oh my dearest Mother why does this happen to me in what is supposed to be my family?  He cuts me off every time I try to comment.  His biting remarks sting me very deeply.  I feel overwhelmed.  Mother I tried to focus on your Son but I felt like bawling and running away.  He then talks about some other things and I say things that are brief responses and I can't believe he is starting a fight over handshaking during the time when Fr G is giving us Jesus.  If he is a "true believer" then why is  he picking a fight? 

I then ignore him and he walks around reading various pamphlets in the narthex.  You know mother that I asked you to help me.  I refuse to let him see me disintegrate into tears and confirm to him I am flawed, not a "true believer" and that he is somehow justified in ripping me to shreds.  He then walks back to the sanctuary, no doubt to receive your Son after being so cruel.  He says, "Merry Christmas" and I glared at him and sneered.  I got in line and begged you to help me.  The tears are pouring down my face and my mind goes back to the days I was a little girl and was told I wasn't wanted.  I remember wishing and hoping I could be part of a family.  Lost dreams that never came true.  I am not like these people at all.  I am twice divorced, no minor children, and can't even sit in a pew.  I am a freak, stricken with a mental illness that was resurrected by an abusive act of an impatient priest and now I fear I will never be able to sit in mass.  I thank you mother for helping me walk up to receive your Son.  Sadly, I don't even remember receiving your Son as I was drowning in anxiety.  I skip the cup (germs) and almost run back to the narthex.  Afterward I walk into the back room that has become my hiding place.  I began to sob, and I pick up my gift for Fr G and put on my coat.  My heart is breaking.  I feel so misunderstood.  Why doesn't anyone understand me?  Mother why do people misunderstand me?  Why can't they just see I have "issues" and not be so nasty?  Sadly it's not the first, fifth, or even tenth time this has happened.  Each time I endure it the person who launches into me gets away with it and I'm left shredded, again. There is no justice in what I endure.

I tell Fr G quickly what happened and he said he was sorry.  He has nothing to apologize for as he has given more than most to help me.  I give him his gift, uncertain if he even likes it or if it will end up in a dumpster somewhere.  I poured hours into it but in this moment I think it's junk, cheesy, and stupid.  You are the only one, mother, who understands how deep the self-hatred goes and how easily I can fall into that cesspool over and over again.  I told Fr we could talk later as I needed to leave quickly and he said "We will talk" and I know he cares.  I told him about the scapular and gave him the designation certificate and almost ran to my car.  He sees my hurt and anxiety and I quickly leave.  Why was I so stupid to think that a hand-made shadow box illustrating the writing I gave him after his first weekend at his new parishes was a good idea?  Of course it's stupid.  I am embarrassed and filled with shame.

I sobbed all the way home.  I am frustrated mother.  I am told repeatedly that I should forgive others when they hurt me, let them off the hook, and be kind but why do I have to excuse everyone who abuses me while they just walk away scot free?  Why am I the one who has to endure abuse and then "forgive" everyone?   At what point can I hold them accountable and tell them that they are hurtful and rude?  Mother I need to learn how to appropriately stand up for myself. 

As I drove home I asked you to hold me.  I know I just cannot bear to attend Saturday and Sunday masses any longer.  I will try to just attend Tues and Weds Masses.  My heart breaks because I know that I cannot stand to go to Midnight Mass, the ultimate and most beautiful Mass of all.  Mother I just can't bear it any longer.  I am sick and need compassion and I get treated like I'm rude and am verbally attacked by those who say we are supposed to be family.  I don't even know what I need so how can anyone else know how to help me? 

I am not sure what to say mother but I firmly believe that if you cannot help someone at least do not hurt them.  I hate that the holy sacrifice of your Son is nothing more than an endurance contest of  misery.  All of the holy significance is lost for me.  I go because I am told I have to go.  But I know now that with my illness being this severe I am not required to attend.  There is nowhere I can hide and not be cornered and asked to shake hands.  There is nowhere I can go and not be looked down on or verbally abused or seen as a freak. 

Hold me mother and love me.  I need you today more than ever.  People don't know what it's like to have PTSD, OCD, and bipolar disorder.  Three heavy crosses that I cannot bear alone.  I cannot do it alone and I am misunderstood in my efforts to belong.  Please mother, pray for me.  I need you to pray for me.  I feel utterly alone.  I feel like a freak.  Please embrace me and never let me go. I love you and I need to remember that you love me. 

The Woman With the Alabaster Box

She can't even see him really.  She knows he's there.  Others talk about feelings they get, things they see, signs and wonders and all she has is an insatiable longing to be near him.  She suffers from a hunger that cannot be satiated. She has tried to do things to get close to him but so many have told her that she's not worthy to come or healed enough to serve or that she is not obedient enough to the religion to participate.  The people who whisper and gossip and get turned on by the dirty little stories of other people's sins don't want her to be near him. She only knows she needs to be near him.  She had two celestial visions but she is too tainted and crazy to be believed.  She needs him and that's all she knows.

Since childhood she has come to the understanding that she cannot feel love.  Love doesn't exist in a feeling way to her like it does to others.  She knows that people love her but she cannot feel their love.  She can only feel sadness when someone who said they love her leaves.  She can't experience love as a feeling.  She discovered that early on sex was the closest she can come to feeling anything so she used her sexuality as a way of feeling "love". When she is hungry she uses sex to fill that emptiness. 

She had been told as an adult that's not what love is but it's all she knew growing up.   They say it's not allowed in her faith but they don't understand.  Without sexual expression there is no love for her.  She has to have the only feelings she can experience or life is a dark void.  She has been told he is there so she stays even though she doesn't belong like the others.  She came from across town and she wants to find him because she needs him.  She doesn't care about impressing anyone.  She is looked down on as being odd.  She doesn't come to be seen by others, she comes because she needs him.  She hides in the shadows of the balcony when she can so they don't see her.  She feels exposed when they do see her.  She needs to know she is loved so she can continue to live.  She needs his love.  She needs him.  She has done horrible things in the name of needing a man's love.  The sunlight goes behind a cloud and all is dark.  Her  mind rolls back like a large scroll unfolding its dark pall over her thoughts. 

The hotel room is barely clean...the ceiling is a drop ceiling stained from the leak that may not have even been fixed.  It smells of dirty secrets and a window air conditioner is blowing out musty cold air.  He is a business man, a CEO of a very prestigious company.  He doesn't use his real name but neither does she.  They pretend to be interested in each other's brief introductions.  The internet pic was accurate.  He's well built, very polished, extremely handsome, and the epitome of success.  He's married, has three teenaged children, wears a large gold band, and lost his mistress when he moved across country.  He takes off his wedding ring and sets it on the nightstand.  This is how he divides his two lives.  He is not the cheating husband when his ring is off.  He has a black Lexus in front of the hotel room door.  He is totally comfortable with what he is doing.  These are actions that say that these experiences are part of a world he keeps behind a black lace curtain.  It's a lovely facade that is covered up from his family.  He says it's part of his way of "having fun" and he pretends to be having fun every week or two.  In reality he looks demanding and his eyes are dark.  He is very handsome but his blue eyes are cold like steel.  He has nothing in them but the drive to be in control and to dominate.  Whenever a man has dark eyes that means he wants power and to be in charge.  He is not about love.  He knows what he wants and she can tell he wants to dispense with chatter and get down to business.  With nothing left to say he asks her if she wants him to say I love you.  She says no.  She then focuses on the ceiling and disappears.  The little girl comes to keep her company and all is black.

He is almost finished getting dressed, thanks her, and says he will call her.  She knows he won't and he knows that she knows.  It's all a lie so that he can quickly leave.  He finishes putting his tie back on and he kisses her cheek and tells her the room is paid for if she wants to stay.  He finishes tying his polished brown shoes, grabs his cell phone and keys, and then opens the door.  The sunlight hurts her eyes and as he waves he leaves the hotel room door open and barks angrily into the phone, "Of course I won't miss his recital for crying out loud!  I just got held up.  I'm on my way."

She gets up, shuts the door, feeling empty and disappointed again.  She showers and then catches sight of her face in the bathroom mirror.  Lines are starting to appear where there use to be rosy cheeks.   Why does it always come to this?  How did life go so wrong?  She then sees that her eyes are as empty as his.  This isn't what she wanted.  She wished she could say this was the only time she did something like this but it isn't.  There have been other times all ending the same way.  One preached at her and told her she was a bad person.  He told her she needed to accept Jesus.  One or two paid for fancy rooms, a large jacuzzi, and the best food, but they never call her back.  Countless blurring of experiences all ending in deep loneliness and despair.  She has the sad eyes of a broken woman.   

She wants to feel love but somehow that desire has been twisted into an obsession about sex.  Sex and all those feelings are the only love she thinks she will ever experience so she settles.   She sinks deeper into her misguided search for the knight who will be looking for fun but mistakenly fall for her and rescue her from her dying self.   

She goes to the nightstand where she tossed her clothes and sees that he left her a crisp 50.00 bill in the ashtray.  Her breath catches in her chest and she shakes her head.  She doesn't even have the esteem to feel angry she just shrugs her shoulders, puts herself together, and goes to her car leaving the 50 dollars behind in the dark room.  She starts the car and then begins to cry. As she makes a few work calls she begins to sob deeply and the phone slips from her hand to the floor of the car.  She cries deep racking sobs that come from somewhere within.  A lost little girl with straight dark hair is looking at her from inside her broken heart wondering if she will ever be hugged and wanted.  The little girl turns and slowly walks away carrying her Raggedy Ann doll.  She is lost forever in abandonment and depression.  The gray curtain falls and there in the car is the little girl, mascara pouring down her face, feeling nothing, hating herself for believing and daring to believe the smart man would see what she really longs to have and would save the little girl.  It's all lost now and she puts the whole scene and her brokenness into her alabaster box.  The little girl keeps it safe for now.  She then puts the car in gear and drives away quickly wanting to get rid of the memory of what she did.  She sees her actions as the confirmation of how evil she has become trying to be good.  How can you be so evil when you only want to be good and help the lost little girl?   She puts the memory of the little girl away with the alabaster box and goes to lunch and back to work.

She tried to come back to the faith and volunteer for things to be part of the community but people have heard whispers of this and that and her depression and mania alternate in a whirlwind that convinces people she's not very close to God.  After all, people who are close to God know how to act in worship and around others and they aren't  mentally ill.  They don't blow up or challenge authority or even dare say they disagree with a critical teaching.  To her it all looks like Stepford and she hasn't learned that being yourself is not always OK.  They don't say they feel emptiness and darkness like she does.  She dares to say that she feels nothing, no matter what she does.  It's like her soul must be dead and her body hasn't gotten the message.  She walks around seeking feelings to confirm she's still alive.  They avoid her because she's crazy.  Only crazy people feel like she feels.  She knows this and agrees.

The faith community must feel things.  They are all married because everyone must be married unless you are a priest or nun.  The fact she's been twice divorced is a sign she is not close to God and crazy.  She wonders if they hold onto their husbands because she might be shopping for a new man and she's a bad woman.  They live in their shelters that are very expensive.  They shut out public schools and "those people".  They go to sports games and ballet recitals and take really long vacations posting everything on social media.  They have all day to polish their nails or garden and complain about how vexing it is to have such a schedule.  They all laugh about how their husbands leave socks on the floor.  How annoying but "what can you do?"  Their sweetness smells like spoiled sugar to her and she finds it salty in the wounds of her life.  They talk about how sad they are that the SUV broke down and they all have to pack into the Volvo to go to mid-week children's events at the parish.  They talk of how proud they are of their children and there doesn't seem to be any tolerance for those who couldn't begin to have that upper middle class existence and who see her as a sinful woman.  They never seem to run out of money.  They never have to choose between groceries and the  light bill.  They never seem to wonder what they will do now that they are low on gas.  They never wonder if their husbands cheat on them with evil women who have little girls crying inside of them who need affection.  They sit in church all polished for their performance.  Some seem genuinely happy and some want everyone to think they are happy.  When she talks about having a bad past they say they too weren't always good and they say, "I was pretty bad too.  I didn't even go to church for a while" and she realizes their definition of bad and hers are a thousand miles apart, like the chasm that separates her from ever being close to them.  Two arms stretched out on the cross, as far as east is from the west. 

She walks up to the front of the church as they sing Agnus Dei and she feels eyes on her.  Yes it was true a year ago this would not have been allowed.  She is so stained.  They told her she needs to heal before she can do some things and she doesn't understand this.  The leader must have saw her stains because he disapproved of her pouring out the contents of her alabaster box for the broken God.  But that leader left and all those who polished his armor are lost.  He had sneered at her and rolled his dark eyes at her when she talked to him.  Actually she had seen that look many times.  He wished she would disappear.  All her life it has been the same.  "Make me look good or go away".   His message was very clear.  She can't make his armor shine so she needs to go away.  He had beautiful shiny armor too.  She would try to help him keep it shiny but anytime she reached out to him she put fingerprints and stains on his armor.  He would become impatient.   She really wanted to help him and be part of the group but the more she tried the harder she would fall.  She kept clouding up his armor and finally she crawled away sobbing because she couldn't help him be shiny and the pretty people needed him to be shiny.  She was then forgotten by him as if she never existed at all and she put that rejection in her alabaster box.  Her fear of not existing was a phobia of hers.  Her worst fate on earth would be to become invisible.  She thinks of another woman in the same predicament during the time of the Bible.  It was about 2 thousand years ago.  She pushed her way into the polished people who looked down at her and fell at his feet.  She probably couldn't see him either through her tears. She used her hair to wash his feet.  Her tears poured over the feet of God.  She had to force her way through all of those who rolled their eyes and sneered.  The woman wants to be close to him so she will find a way.  She must be near him.  She needs and wants him. 

As she stands at the front of the church with the others she has to close her eyes so she can't feel the congregation looking at her.  They wouldn't understand.  It's not the people there, it's all the eyes of all the people that know what she's really like, why she has insatiable cravings for men and their attention.  It's her eyes condemning herself over and over. She has this dark hatred for herself.  It's the eyes of the little girl crying and accusing her of neglecting her and ignoring her.  The little girl with the rag doll and the alabaster box.  Every week she prays that someone will show her she's worth loving.  Those in line with her to serve all pray the prayer.  She keeps her eyes clamped shut and says nothing.  She knows she's unworthy in ways they could never comprehend.  She is unworthy to even exist.  Being a sinner seems like a good thing when you think that you should be annihilated.   If she could ever see she was merely a sinner who needed redemption and someone who deserved mercy she would consider that making progress.  

She has never said a single thing in Mass for many months.  She is not part of their family.  She is on the outside.  She reads the responses silently but does not speak them out loud.  She does not sing.  She only watches as the crowd mills around him and she longs to be with him.  They want their armor to shine.  She just wants his love.

With her heart breaking she receives him, because he is all that makes her alive.   He alone can quench the hunger that makes her sinful.  She apologizes to him every time she receives him.  She tells him that she is sorry.  She feels bad that she even receives him but she really has nothing to offer in exchange for his brokenness.  The little girl with the wounded heart steps forward at that moment and opens the alabaster box and pours it out on him.  She anoints him with her precious memories.  She then offers her doll hoping that he will accept it.  It's all she has in that moment.  In those moments in front of everyone she longs to look out at the families and say she is sorry.  For what ...she has no idea.  She holds his blood in her hands and she stands there smiling and offering him to the lovely people who seem to know him and love him better.  She looks in the chalice and sees the wine, now blood.  A tear drops into the chalice.  She blinks them away.  She wipes the edge of the chalice and sees his blood on the linen and her mind rolls back.

She sees her son and he is covered in blood,  Everywhere there are tubes and wires.  This is the first time she has been allowed to see him since he had the accident.  Everything is swirling and distorted.  Beeping noises are everywhere.  Everything feels like it's underwater and she can't hear people when they speak.  Blood is in droplets all over the floor.  There's a panicked scream in the background of her mind and it's really high pitched and makes her insides turn to water.  It is her screaming NO! NO! NO! NO! 

A cold rushes through her as her oldest son lays in front of her.  He is walled off from smiling at her behind a curtain of death where she cannot go and a machine is breathing for him.  Then she sees his head.  It's split open like a broken melon.  She can see his brain, the wire running into it to see if he will remember all the wonderful things that they shared together.  Chunks of his brain are hanging out of his nostrils.  She has failed as a mother.  She has failed to protect him and to help him grow up.  He is 16.  She holds her broken son sobbing and wailing at the ceiling.  She begs God to kill her and leave him alone.  What has he done that merits his being broken?  She wails, screams, and no sounds come out--they are all in her broken heart.  He fades away and all is swirling around her.  The little girl puts her rag doll in the bed beside him, "Mom I don't want to die".  And she dies along with him ...and the little girl sees her heart dying and curls up drawing her black patent leather shoes to  her chest and begins to rock herself. 

"The body of Christ broken for you."  Mary is with her son and she cradles him in her arms.  His blood pouring onto her clothes, and she's crying at the sky and it is all darkness.  Her son is dead and she remembers his first steps, his voice when he called for her.  She remembers being his mommy.  My baby!  My baby!  His blood, his precious blood!  Why does he have to be broken?

It is finished.  "I'm sorry, he's brain dead."  Her heart slowly dies as she watches his heart slowly stop beating and finally stop.  The swirling, the earthquake within her  heart, the brokenness.   The veil has been rent in two within her heart.  She sees her little blonde baby, "I love you mommy."  The 7 year old with his painted picture of a tulip.  The teenager with hands shaking one evening, "Mom I had a dream I died.  I don't want to die Mom."  His hugs and his smile and his laughter.  Her soul has screamed in grief and it will never cease screaming but no one can hear it.  No one hears the screaming.  The little girl sits inside of her and gathers all that screaming, all those tears, and all that grief and puts it inside the alabaster box and then covers her ears. 

It is finished.  The cup is almost empty and she finishes the last of his blood.  She places the chalice on the altar, bows, and sits.  She cannot kneel and it hurts her heart they may think she is disrespectful.

The woman breaks through the crowd, she dares to come to Jesus.  She is tainted from  her sin and she is crying tears only he can see.  They dropped into the chalice, salty tears of pain, and they mixed with his blood.  She tries to visualize him and she throws herself at his feet and he says that her tears touched him.  They didn't just touch his feet.  They touched his heart.  He forgives her.  He tells the crowd that her humility and her self hatred have driven her to him and that he appreciates her gift.  Maybe he saw the little girl trying to give him the Raggedy Ann.  The gift of her empty soul was seen and embraced.  The little girl is all alone and he sees her with her alabaster box.  Her only treasures are the secrets poured out from the box.  He calls them on their blindness and tells her that she is forgiven and that her many sins are gone.  He reaches into that place the veil is rent in two and he embraces the heart that is broken.  He saw the little girl.  

 Suffer the children to come unto me for such is the kingdom of God.  

He sees and he understands.  Her sins are many.  He said this to her not to them.  He was not trying to humiliate her.  She always hid so many of her sins so he says this to let her know that even though there are many, he sees and yet he loves.  He loves her anyway.  He loves her.  Why can't she feel love?  She knows he loves the little girl and now maybe someone can tell the little girl that it was wonderful she was born.  Did their eyes meet?  She longs to see his eyes.  Male eyes that are not dead.  Male eyes that do not seek to dominate or control but to love.  She sees reflections of those eyes every now and then.  A priest who talks to her has them.  They meet and eat dinner so she can ask him about the eyes of God and how can she have them too.  She tries to ask him where he got them but the little girl knows he is safe and she won't stop talking.  She knows he is not like the other men and she tells him all her stories and he patiently listens as she shows him everything in her alabaster box.  She is happy that he is safe.  She tries to ask about how he got the eyes of God so filled with love and peace because she wants them too.  But the moments slip into hours and she can't stop sharing the depths of her heart and he is gone and she is left with the image of God's eyes.  She puts that image in her alabaster box.  It is her memory and she holds it close to her heart.  The one man who does not seek anything from her.  The one who gives and pours out his heart in infinite patience.  He takes the God who died and he pours out God's love for her through his eyes.  She knows he does this and she loves him for it. She loves him and the God in his eyes. 

She has been thinking about being with someone all day and Mass is taking too long.  She had set up a time.  She longs to be holy like the pretty people but she cannot seem to get the idea out of her head that time is slipping away and soon she will not have enough looks left to draw any man's interest and she will have nothing.  She needs to feel that feeling again.  She doesn't want to go because she wants to live a better life but she is torn in half and her mind is churning with thoughts of men with dark eyes and time where she can experience the only type of love she understands.  She hasn't done this in 2 years but she feels weak.  She asks God to please help her.

She is tapped on the shoulder and a friend gives her a bracelet.  It is turquoise and has images of the mother of God on it.  Dozens of images in a little white box.  She said that someone wanted her to have it and that she would email her later with the story.  It is all images of the mother.  The one who was broken and wailed to heaven for the broken son.  All images of her. The mother of God conveying her longing to be close to the woman who sees her gnawing for sexual release and understands she has it mixed up with love. The woman who was pure tells her that she experienced perfection in love and that she never had need for sexual experiences.  Love is about perfect union with God. The woman longs for that union being one with her soul, with the little girl, and the belief that she matters.  

It's over and she leaves having seen a glimpse of him, having tears mingle with his blood, and having been told by him she was forgiven.  Flashes of her past push her out of the parish quickly but she has seen him and for now that will be enough.  Her empty alabaster box rattles inside of her as she leaves.  She has nothing more to offer him.  She is spent and fought her panic and anxiety so that she could stay and experience being with him.  She discards the critical eyes and prepares to go home to be alone.  She dreads surviving another week but now she knows.  It's not the pretty people who condemn her at all.  It is she who has condemned herself because she is mixed up, not pretty, divorced twice, and not one of them.  She is not part of this family.  She longs for things she shouldn't and cannot share that with them. 

As she leaves the parking lot she sees a pretty mom wiping her son's little pink hands with a baby wipe.  She wants him clean and puts him in the back of her shiny car.  She places the plastic pack of wraps in a floral tote and gets into the car.  The wipe falls from the edge of the tote and floats to the ground.  The little boy is sweet.  He looks about 4 or 5 years old.  The woman watching the scene realizes she never wiped her son's hands with wipes.  She was a bad mother.  The wipe blows across the parking lot and impulsively she stops the car, opens the door, and retrieves it.  It smells of baby powder and there is no obvious dirt on it but a small twig is attached to it.  

She feels the woody twig.  The wood takes her to the pounding of the nails into the cross and the blood of God running out all over it.  The mother is there who wants to wipe her son's wounds away and her wailing heart breaks as she cries to the sky.  The blood on the purificator, and the hospital sheets was there.  The silent screaming was there.  The blood and the tears, and the cross, and her heart.  The blood of the little girl screaming after being assaulted by her father and the blood on the sheets and her nightgown.  "This is what men do to you when they love you."  Then she sees the image of the cross and Jesus saying to the bloodied little girl crumpled at his feet that he loves her and that all that happened to her was wrong.  It was not love.  His blood pours down the cross and the little girl cries and wondered if she killed him.  She wants to take him down and feel his arms around her.  He looks down from the cross and says, "I do this to show you how much I love you" and it all confuses the little girl.  Blood and love go together for her.  

The wipe smells so pretty, just like the woman in the car.  If she wiped her son's hands with pretty wipes would he still be alive?  She imagines the smell of the powder with Mary washing little Jesus and saying how he needs to get cleaned up for bed.  She remembers the day when she danced with  her son with chocolate all over his face and he kissed her and said, "There!  Now you have a Hershey kiss." She is startled by the sound of a horn honking behind her.  She puts all the memories in the alabaster box and the little girl takes it and walks away with her rag doll as it's time to go home alone.  Her offerings of expensive spikenard are all of these priceless memories both agony and joy that she shares with the only one who will ever really understand.  She pours them over the broken God who bleeds and in that holy moment she, the sinner, dares to share her bleeding with him.  

She realizes her car is blocking the exit and she quickly drives away with the smell of the wipe and wine that is his blood filling the car.  As the car turns the corner she hears the rattle of the bracelet with all the pictures of the mother on her wrist.  The anonymous gift that would keep her from thinking of her hunger and meeting a man today.  No dark eyes today.  The crying mother wants to be close to her.  The little girl puts that victory in her alabaster box to pour out on him next week and they head for home.

Doing What Scares Me the Most

I went on vacation with my ex to Niagara Falls.  We stayed on the Canadian side.  I remember wanting so much to go up in the Skylon tower that speeds up in a glass elevator to a dizzying 775 feet above the ground with an amazing view of the falls and the city.  I wanted to go so badly and yet I have this crippling fear of heights.  There is a terror that begins in my stomach, a churning panic that makes its way to my head where I become panic-stricken and just know someone will push me over the edge of anything high and I will fall to my death.  I will never allow people to touch me when I'm up high. 

I made myself go.  I turned my back to the glass part of the elevator and made it to the top.  There was a gift shop and other things to see but my body was buzzing like a live wire.  I saw a circular platform with a roof over it that went all the way around the tower.  There was a fence and the view looked amazing.  It was also very windy.  My husband wanted to go out and look but my terror was making my feet feel like they weighed 50 pounds each.  I went outside but could not pull my back from up against the center wall.  The huge post that supported the tower and contained the elevator was firm against my back as I felt blasts of wind.  My mind was racing and my husband was rather impatient and was looking over the side.  He seemed too close to the wall looking down at the falls for me to join him.  No matter how hard I pushed, I could not make myself step away from the wall.  I don't want anyone to think anything bad about my ex as he sincerely supported me in my anxiety and mental illness mood swings.  He was just very excited and didn't understand how traumatic this was for me.  He loved the view and most of the people were really enjoying seeing the falls from the tower. 

I didn't want to have to leave a tourist town wishing I could have seen something that was blocked by my fear.  Keeping my back firmly against the center, I moved counterclockwise sliding my feet sideways and circled the tower platform.  Now, mind you, three people could have walked side-by-side between me and that barrier fence without touching the fence but to me,  it was as if I was dangling over the edge.  My mind kept fearing that the wind would gust and I just knew one would blow me over the edge and it would be instant death.  I kept moving, sliding my feet side-to-side, back pressed against the wall, wind whipping in my hair as I slowly moved all around the tower.  Once I realized how far I was from the exit door, panic mounted as there was no way to avoid it now.  I had to keep moving.  I was at the half way mark and I had to finish.  I felt my knees shaking, my mouth was dry, and I was crying.  I was not going to let it beat me.  It took everything I had to keep sliding my feet sideways keeping my back against the wall, moving around that tower's observation deck.  I was about 3/4 of the way around and my husband found me.  He walked up to me like it was no big deal and said, "Oh there you are."  I snapped back, "Don't you touch me!  I'll fall.  I am going to make it all the way around this."  He was stunned and quietly moved beside me, a little in front to reach the door first.  I did see some scenery and the falls were amazing but my fear clouded my sense of wonder.  My fear often distorts and impairs my enjoyment.  I was facing outward but my mind was racing and my heart was galloping like a horse.  I kept feeling forward with my left hand against that cement wall, waiting to feel the door.  Waiting to get off that platform.  Each step was a little big closer to achieving my goal.   I could only stay focused on making it to the door where we came out onto the platform and to keep moving and not stop.  My husband, very concerned for me at this point, continued to walk alongside me, encouraging me and telling me I would be OK.  Two other people came up and asked me if I was all right; after all, I was pressed against the back wall, sliding my feet sideways, crying, and I'm sure I looked pretty scared.  I was crazy beyond scared.   My mouth was dry and I could barely swallow.  I told them I was fine.  Finally I felt the door and knew I wasn't going to die.  My husband opened the door so when I got to it I could slide inside where I would be safe.  It was the hardest thing I had ever done in my memory.  I was shaking and only wanted to get to the ground so we left.  I almost sank to the floor and we found a bench to sit on and I got my shaking under control before we had to ride the dreaded elevator all the way to the ground.  I wish I could say it worked to cure my fear of heights but it didn't.  I am still very afraid of heights.  I can at least be proud I faced my fear, no matter how crazy I looked and congratulate myself on my courage and determination.  Sadly when I look back, I never asked my husband for help, never told him of my plan, and never asked for his support.  He was very concerned that the heights affected me so dramatically. 

Fast forward to now.  I suffer with crippling anxiety going to church.  I think it started when I quit smoking.  Smoking medicated a ton of anxiety for me.  I had no idea until I quit.  My terror of going to church is pretty severe.  There is no doubt the Skylon is a 10 on my terror rating scale.  Church is about 8.5.  My knees and hands shake, my mouth gets dry, the panic is sharp and escalates like that elevator to heights that activate my fight or flight responses.  I can enjoy some of what I see but there is no relaxing or feeling peace or part of anything.  It's too intense. 

I hear over and over words that bring comfort, love, and peace to so many, "We are all a family" and my insides quake and I want to run and hide under my bed with my rag doll.  I have come to learn that the word "family" terrifies me.  I wish there was another way to identify a close-knit group of people but family is the word that makes me freak out in terror.  At the same time I desperately want to be part of a loving family.  So I am a ball of conflict; fighting to get it away from me, and trying to cling to it to receive what I never got as a kid.  My views have been all over the board on being part of a church family.  I thought that it was best to push that away, to stomp off, to stop trying to go to church and dump the whole thing; God, Church, and that horrible idea of family that reminds me of physical, emotional, and mental agony.  "Family" is the reason I'm so broken, so frightened, and so scared.  "Mother" and "Father" are only words that hurt and represent authority figures who violate you and your trust.  They are people who never wanted you, never cared, and never will.  They are people who break promises, who mock and laugh at you, and people who are glad when you're gone.  Sadly I've had some horrible experiences in the church that were perfect confirmations of my beliefs that "family" only hurts.  I have also had lovely experiences that seem to conveniently fly out of my memory.  When I'm alone and thinking, I recall them and the beauty of the people who reached out even if I looked like a terrified, angry animal at times.

I walked away from the church (again) and sadly I don't think anyone noticed I was gone.  I really did try a few times to meet people but my fear, and their inability to understand why I am the way I am only served to push me further and further toward that edge where I will fall into nothingness and die.  I would reach out with my back against that concrete wall but if you touch me I will freak because I am trying to stay alive spiritually and I need to find the door.  I try to keep moving but it takes all I have to just be there, so how do I make friends?  How do become part of a family?  I suffer with bipolar disorder, OCD, and PTSD which causes anxiety attacks (flashbacks) and makes it hard for me to think clearly.  

It is only after I push everything away I realize that I want to be a part of a group that wants me and loves me.  I want to be accepted.  I realize I have been too afraid of asking for help, too afraid of asking for support and being willing to let others know of my disabilities.  My back-to-the-wall fear  blocks my feeling accepted.  I don't want you to know I'm anxious so I try to look like I couldn't care less and then when no one chisels their way through my "I dare you" expression I feel slighted and run away like a wounded animal.  I am not beating  up on myself or saying everything that happened is my fault, but I have realized if this is what I really want I need to ask for help on how to be a part of a group.  I really don't know how to do it.  I only know how to cling to the wall and feel my way around and then leave and do that again next week.

I always thought you were totally honest with people and maybe that's not the best starting point.  I am so afraid and confused I'm not sure what is the best way to approach the dreaded "family" word and how I can reclaim it for something loving and positive.  I write this so that people will know that not all disabilities are things you can see and understand just by looking at someone.  Sometimes they are much deeper, or even more subtle that you realize.  I am so busy being terrified of you I don't know how to show you the neat things about me, and I can't see what's really amazing about you.

I need to be more patient and loving with myself, to ask for help in this spiritual quicksand, and slide my way around with  my back to the wall and go after the goal that scares me the most.  What is that goal?  To step away from the wall, to stop reacting all over the place and to take the first step forward.  It's important to be part of a family.  I want to be wanted.  I want what everyone else wants; love, acceptance, and I want to know that I can step away from the wall and let others walk with me.  If we are all meant to be in God's family then there is a reason I am suffering with all these miserable disorders and I just might be needed somehow, in some way, for some reason, by the church.  Am I irreplaceable?  I know you are but why don't I see myself that way?  I need the church to reflect back to me the way I really am and not look at myself in the distorted mirror I have been using too long.

Mental illness has taken so much from me.  It's shattered relationships, marred my perceptions, and filled me with self-hatred.  It's convinced me that my illness proves I'm useless, messed up, no good, and imperfect.  I don't understand why I have decided that being mentally ill is a moral failing but I seem to have believed that more and more.  My "family" taught me that being perfect was the only acceptable way to be so I try and when I fail I get mad.  I'm like the child playing the board game who gets angry and messes up the board and runs off every time they lose.  I really want to enjoy being in church but I won't let myself and I can't begin to love myself and love others if I don't learn how to face the fear, take a step away from the wall, and reach out to others.  I need to talk about it when appropriate (and shut my beak when it's not) and ask for the right kind of support.  I get angry when no one helps me but I push them away when they try. 

I don't like the alternative; growing old alone, bitter, disillusioned, and depressed.  I reach out and sometimes it fails, but chucking God, the church, and everything connected with it seems to be drastic. I'm just not sure how to believe or what to do.  I want to go to confession but I have this feeling that I need to take a deep breath and then decide who to talk to, and where to go.  I am learning not to let my feelings take over and make impulsive decisions for me.

I am ready to slide my back along the wall so that, even in my terror, I can see there is beauty out there and I can feel good about myself.  I can face the fear and do what scares me the most try to become part of a family.  I want a real family that wants me around and accepts me.  I want people who accept me for what I can do,  not whisper and avoid me over the things I cannot do.  It's worth a shot. I'm at rock bottom right now.  At least it's solid ground and it's not high up in the air.  I can do it.  I need to do it. I want to do it....for me and for the church, who doesn't even know they might need me.  That's OK, I'm struggling with believing that too.  :)

Ashes to Roses

I got off work early because I knew it was going to be a busy afternoon.  I wanted to get ready for my consecration to Mary and we were moving our entire department at work.  I had to pack so I couldn't wear dress clothes to work and I was eager to get home and get ready.  

When I got home I packed up what I was taking.  I had a rosary and sacred heart necklace I was taking because Fr G was going to bless things we put on a table set up for us.  We were to leave those on the table, pick up a prayer card with our prayer of dedication on it, and sit in our reserved section for mass.  Then after the mass was over, we were to pick up our blessed objects and a miraculous medal that was in a bowl filled with them, that would also be blessed during mass.  It was so neat to have a chance to have some things blessed on the same night we were to make our consecration.  

I decided on a blue dress, Mary's color, and had also asked Fr G if it would be OK to bring my statue of Our Lady of Lourdes.  I had originally thought about bringing it early (5:30) so people could come early and spend time with her.  

She is part of a shrine I have to her in my bedroom.  She watches over me when I sleep.  I gathered her up and the floral bouquet surrounding her and went to the church.  After checking my email I realized that no one had been notified of this chance to spend time with the statue and I was sad.  It seemed like such a waste to put her in a side chapel and not have anyone see her.  I then got a prayer card so I could pray over the consecration I would make and realized I had forgotten my reading glasses.  I cannot read at all without them.  I then began to become very anxious.  I was sad but still determined.  If I had to have someone read that consecration one line at a time and me repeat it line-by-line I would do that.  I refused to give up.  I then thought of a local grocery store nearby and, knowing they had a pharmacy, figured they would have reading glasses.  I headed off and after looking around, found a pair that would work perfectly.  I also got some bottled water (I need it because I take a medication that dries out my mouth) and I went back to the church.  I was so discouraged and wondered why I brought my statue.  I began berating myself asking myself why I set myself up for disappointments and why didn't I just show up like everyone else.  I kept thinking about my statue and I said a prayer asking our Mother to intercede and let all go the way she wished.  

When I got back one of the leaders was there and suggested (without my asking) bringing the statue out and putting her front and center on the table.  I felt so excited and went and got her.  I set her in the middle of the table with the floral garland around her and she looked gorgeous.  She was meant for that spot and really made the table look beautiful.  

Then I tried to find a place to sit in our reserved section.  I saw a man, close to my age, looking at the reserved sign.  He asked me what it was for and I explained that the section of pews was reserved for all who completed the class on consecration to Mary.  He seemed confused and I explained it again and he then went and sat in the row behind the reserved section.  For some reason he seemed reluctant and I chalked it up to  him not being able to sit in his favorite seat. I totally get that but didn't think much more about it.  I had a spot I thought would be fine and I told myself that tonight is special and I really want to sit with my classmates and enjoy this celebration together.  

I love the Feast of the Immaculate Conception and now that I am dedicating myself to her and joining the Confraternity of the Immaculate Conception of the BVM I really am excited about this day.  Even though it had gotten off to an emotional start it was all working out great. 

The man who was behind me came up to me to talk again.  People were filling our section and my pew was suddenly packed and I was feeling the anxiety starting to rise.  What does this man want and what is his problem anyway?  He bent down and said very softly, "Do you think it would be OK if I sat in the very first row of this section.  You see I have anxiety problems and I get anxious if too many people are in front of me.  I need to be in the very front to not get anxious.  Is that OK?  I really tried to sit back there but it's bothering me."  Suddenly I realized, I'm NOT the only one who feels this way.  Even though mine was the reverse of his I still got his issue and told him that of course he could sit up there.  I don't know what made him think I was in charge of seating but I reassured him no one would mind and he went up to the front and sat down.  

I was another story.  Once a woman, two boys, and husband packed in beside me I was done.  Waves of disappointment washed over me as the panic was rising to levels I knew I couldn't handle.   I wanted so much to sit with the others but I knew I couldn't.  I got up and got my coat and phone, along with my prayer card and went out to the lobby.  There was a chair so I plopped my coat on it and waited for mass to begin. Another mass I stand through and wander around.  I thought of all our Mother had done for me in the past month and I felt terrible.  Why can't I just sit and enjoy the mass?  Why do I always do this?  I am failing my Mother and I felt terrible, worse than I have ever felt about my panic disorder.  Here I am consecrating myself to her and I can't even sit in a seat.  I then and there decided I would walk up to where the rest of the group was and make my consecration in the aisle next to where they were all standing when the time came.  I am not going to let this defeat me.

As the mass started I enjoyed it at first.  That is rare because usually mass is an endurance contest with me battling hard to get through it.  I rarely, if ever, enjoy mass.  Sometimes I have to leave early but I always try to at least stay until the homily is over.  Tonight I was determined, no matter what, I was staying.  As the mass continued I began to get more and more frustrated with myself.  Then a woman from our group came in.  She was very sick with a cold and very late for mass.  She talked to me and wanted to get her rosary up to the table and get her prayer card but it was on the altar and the homily was happening at that time.  Our consecration was set to take place right after the homily.  She was very sad that she couldn't get up there but I had my card.  I told her my plan to walk up to where everyone else was located at the time and pray the consecration prayer.  

She and I walked up when the time was right and I let her read the prayer, along with me, off the card.  Had I not been the in the back, she wouldn't have been able to make her consecration along with everyone else because she wouldn't have had a prayer card.  She was very sick and obviously wanted to come and do this with all of us.  She thanked me and decided she would ask Fr G to bless her rosary after mass was over.  

I realized that twice that evening I was there to  help someone else.  Twice, my illness gave me insight and put me in the right place to help another.  Had I not had that insight I would not have been there and been able to be of assistance.  Did that help me feel good?  Well...not exactly.  

As we got close to receiving the body and blood I began to beat up on myself.  What good am I to our Mother?  What can she do with someone as messed up as me?  Then all of a sudden I felt her sweet presence.  Then a whisper, a reminder of what she had said earlier that day, 

"If you only knew how much you are loved.  If you only knew."

Tears began coming like a river down my face and I felt this loving acceptance.  In spite of my phobia of churches and crowds (and being touched) she made it very clear that I am loved.  I am loved by her, God, and a lot of people who had helped me get to this point. They accepted me as I am and care about me.  Not to mention the priest up at the front of the church.  There are no words to say how much I appreciate his staying the course with me.   He had so many reasons to bail and he didn't.  At one point he was the only person who stood with me and helped me.  I can't even say how much he means to me and how much I appreciate him.  As I realized all that I had and the two times my disability was used by God to help someone else, I couldn't stop the flow of tears.  They weren't tears of embarrassment or humiliation but tears of gratitude and joy.  My heart overflowed and I realized that this is the mystery I will live in and grow into, "If you only knew how much you are loved".  This is the journey of my soul, to grow in my understanding, every day, for the rest of my life of just how much I am loved by God (and our Mother).

I took communion and the rest of mass went by quickly.  As I took communion I remembered, with his body and blood, that this is how much I am loved.  He died for me.  I also know how much my savior loves me because he gave me his mother to be my mother too.  I am loved so much and I am only scratching the surface.  What oceans of depths there are to learn about God and Mary's love for me?  

After the mass our group gathered one last time and watched a video.  I got to tell Fr G about the message and how it is for all of us.  Our Mother loves us as if we are her only child.  We are each a treasure to her.  If we only knew how much we are loved, our lives would never be the same.  

My life will never be the same after this 33 days.  I plan on studying more about my Mother and keeping on with my prayers.  I can't wait until my scapular arrives so I can be invested and dedicate myself to her and the message of her love.  Hold out your hand, she will lead you directly to Jesus.  If you only knew how much you are loved, you would run to her.  And so I run.  I run as fast as I can to my mother.  I run as a little brown-haired girl with bare feet carrying a little bouquet of daisies.  I run and I run and I run---to her.  Because she loves me. 

My Magnificat

My Magnificat

 

 My soul sings and out of its darkness.  It proclaims the ever-present God.  I rejoice because you and your mother were there.  You were there in my agony and I was never alone.  You embraced me and I seek your favor as your undeserving servant.

 

 From now until forever I will call on my blessed Mother who will immerse me in her sweetness and take me to her Son.

 

 The Almighty stands on His throne and reigns all that is; seen and unseen and gifts me with a Mother.  Holy is the name of God and blessed forever is the name of my Mother...Mary.  She stands above all humanity as the one who would never refuse your will.  She embraces me and I know she saw the tears of a child clutching her rag doll and stroked her hair in the long, lonely, terror-filled nights.

 

 She showed me mercy and took me to the heart of her Son, who I couldn't go to on my own for fear and self-hatred.  She took me to Him and always takes me to Him, "Do whatever He tells you" a gentle whisper in my ear as I stand shaking before the one who is feared by every nation.

 

 He shows me the only love I ever had and asked me from the cross, "Leave them to me" so that I can let go of my anger and His arm will scatter their wickedness to hell where it belongs.  Those who discard us in pride will wallow in their conceit and he will "take care of them" in a way that is just and right. 

 

 Those who stand and boast and who left me behind, those who build up themselves with the cast off hurting in their wake will be brought down from their thrones of pride and He will show them the error of their ways.  He will show he is the only one who deserves a throne and his seat is the one of mercy and justice.

 

 Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness for they shall be filled and those who see no need for a Savior will wander empty.  His Mother will continue to call to them and plead with her Son, "They have no wine".  She will continue to try to bring them to the cross where the blood of her Son will satisfy their thirst and the thirst of her Son for their love.  His blood is our wine changed by the Eucharist, our Thanksgiving, now and for eternity.

 

 You never forgot my nightly prayer, "Please make me a good Christian and Catholic so I can go to heaven".  Thirty years later you answered my prayer and kept your promise to hear and answer all prayers in your name when you walked the earth. 

 

 Thanksgiving and praise to you God for your many gifts and for your mother who you gave to your church.  My heart sings in song and thanksgiving.  Blessed be God and blessed be our mother Mary now and forever.

 

Consecration Day

Today is the day I have been longing for.  Like the woman holding out her hand and struggling to grasp the hem of his garment, I long to grab hold of something new, something deeper.  I was shopping all Sunday afternoon and kept feeling our mother calling me whispering that it wasn’t important to find a blue dress.  I felt a deep longing to connect with her on this last day of study before my consecration to her. 

I re-read what I had read in exhaustion the night before and felt the warmth of her arms when I prayed the Ten Evangelical Virtues of the BVM.  I also prayed the Chaplet of Divine Mercy.  I long to see her, to be consumed by her love, and to feel the warmth of her sweetness as she draws near when I pray or study about her.

I still hear her whispered affirmation, “If only you knew how much you were loved.”  Her sweetness is heady, almost a dizzying consummation of my inner being.  I want to know how much I am loved.  Show me my loving mother.  As I consecrate myself to you let me enter into that mystery.  Let me exist in that increased knowing that you love me, discovering more each day how much you love me and how much I am loved by your Son.

I did not learn how to be merciful to myself as I never experienced that growing up.  I need to learn how to sit and let myself be loved.  I need to live in the unknown of those sweet words, “If only you knew how much you are loved.”   I can sink into that mystery and lose all sense of time. 

I am eager to make this consecration to you and to have you show me how to get closer to your Son.  Lead me to the foot of the cross, my mother, and embrace me now and always. 

“If only you knew how much you were loved.”  Let that be the eternal mystery of my soul, searching and seeking living water.  I need living water in my parched heart and I long to find the source of the water that this parched soul needs to flourish and grow.    

Lead me to the rock that is higher than I.  I do not know how much I am loved.  I am afraid of how my life may change but you are always leading me to your Son.  With my hands shaking and much uncertainty, I consecrate myself to you saying, “Show me, loving Mother, how much I am loved.  I am fearful because much will change when I am consumed by unrelenting, all-consuming love.  Show me and I will know.  Place me in your heart and open my eyes so I can see how much I am loved, today and always.” 

A Holy Sacrifice

I am here.

I feel the panic rising.

I am in a box and it's slowly filling with water. 

The ice attacks my heart and I feel like I can't breathe. 

The anxiety always fools me,

disappearing sometimes,

other times it comes out from behind the black curtain,

bowing and taking center stage. 

Then I become the puppet and the anxiety is the master,

pulling my strings and I must comply.

The ushers look at me but don't say anything. 

I will stand here.

There were no end seats,

nowhere where I wasn't seated next to someone. 

I can't do it. 

I refuse to leave. 

I am here for Jesus and for my friend. 

He doesn't know anyone and they don't know the gem that stands in front of them. 

He glistens in the son.

I feel horrible,

what kind of cheerleader am I for him withering in the back? 

I wait for the announcement,

"If you will notice in the back of the church,

the lady in blue moving back and forth. 

She is a friend of the priest and is here today to celebrate his first weekend. 

Isn't that great? 

A bonkers,

anxiety-ridden

freak

is here

to offer her support?

It's hard to believe he has friends like her."  

The Disciples were astonished that he was speaking with this woman.

I feel the heat of a self-induced spotlight

but of course there is no such announcement.

It's just me indicting myself for not being a perfect friend. 

I begin to see myself more as a liability to this man

but I am determined to smile at him when he's talking,

so I pull it all inside and pour the secret pain into the chalice in my heart. 

The chalice inside is the offering I will unite with Jesus. 

This is my body, this is my blood.

I offer it with his. 

My feet and back hurt. 

Where can I go and escape my fear?

If I go to heaven you are there.

If I make my bed in sheol you are there.

Everywhere I turn it is there, attacking me,

robbing me of my joy. 

I won't let it rob my friend of a supportive presence. 

Even if I am crazy. 

The bigness of my smile at him is inversely proportional to the measure of my anxiety.

I gather it all up. 

I saw some daisies to day and my great-grandma McCarty said they are always smiling at me. 

They are always happy,

like my friend. 

I always see smiles on their centers so I put those in the chalice too. 

Smiles through my tears for Jesus,

and my friend,

and Jesus smiles at my friend too.

I stand in the back.

His first weekend at a church that doesn't know him. 

They lost the thundering priest. 

This softer, gentler man offers love,

and the cross

and the faith

in such a way that you hear him ask,

"Do you say yes?"

and you find you want to say yes. 

He makes me want to say yes

so I can feel happy and be gentle. 

No one ever calls me gentle.  

You hear him make it sound so beautiful.

You want to embrace the cross,

the pain,

the anger,

My God, my God why have you abandoned me?

You want to embrace it all,

the tears no one hears, 

the panic,

the hell that is my secret at Mass,

all because he makes my life look beautiful.

He makes me feel beautiful and not a wreck. 

He makes me see what I have,

Not how much I lack. 

I want to run up front and tell people that this man is amazing,

He is the only person who makes me want to say yes. 

I am at the well.

I am the Samaritan woman, 

the woman who lived the ugly life.

He knows my darkness and yet he offers me living water. 

He makes me want to say yes. 

I thirst.

Give him a chance to show you that you are beautiful too.  

I don't say anything I just pour it into the chalice. 

Sweet with the bitter. 

Wormwood and gall,

the sweet tears of our mother mingled into the sadness. 

Mother behold your son.

Son behold your mother. 

She holds the gentle priest in her hands and smiles.

Into your hands I commend my spirit.

He holds up the host and his hands hold Jesus.

I walk my own via delorosa in the back,

planting my anxiety in quiet corners

like a desperate vine. 

My back,

twisted on the stairs coming in,

screams in protest. 

I offer my anxiety,

my fear, 

the back pain,

my aversion to touch and germs,

all of it to Jesus on the cross.

It all goes in the chalice of my heart.

All my childhood I was forced to let people touch me,

forced to touch them. 

I hide in the bathroom. 

Never again will someone touch me that I don't want touching me. 

Never again will I be pressured to do that. 

I only touch my friends.

I hear Agnus Dei and I come in and a man tries to shake my hand. 

My little girl says no. 

Panic rises and in a quick blurt I say,

"Sorry I don't shake hands".  

Father forgive them, they know not what they do.

It's OK to sing back here. 

As we sing a song about Jesus calling us,

my heart begins to break. 

The tears are flooding my heart and eyes,

and my insides are all mixed up.

I am here for my friend. 

He is starting here and I don't want him to see me upset. 

He has to be so tired and so overwhelmed. 

I want him to see me smiling,

and I want him to be happy today. 

I push away a couple of escaped tears and smile at him with everything I have as I receive Jesus. 

I put the rest in the chalice in my heart.

It is finished.

I keep my vigil in the back and wait for most to leave. 

I again smile and tease my friend,

he seems to be doing OK.

I wonder how he FEELS. 

I wonder if anyone asks him how he feels. 

I wonder if anyone asks him if he is OK and if this change has been sad for him too.

Does he have any tears from his goodbyes? 

Does he feel alone? 

I want to say more but he may be happy and I don't want him to be sad. 

I joke with him. 

He asks about me and I say I'm OK.

I don't want him to feel anything but sunshine and daisies today. 

I will every ounce of peace I wish I could have,

the ache in my back,

the sadness at my germ phobia alienating me from others, 

the misery of all of my suffering from all my anxiety,

I push it all into one big ball of love and happiness, 

along with all the offered up suffering,

I offer it for all that he may feel that may not be good in this move. 

I offer it all up for all his sadness,

exhaustion,

anxiety,

uncertainty,

and gift his heart with my smiling daisies.

I will bear my anxiety alone and any consolation I reject and offer it to God asking him to please give it all to my friend. 

I give it like the little dollar in the offering plate.

My last dollar. 

It is all that I have give.  

What little it is

I pour it over him,

I pour out my chalice of pain offered as love,

I pour it all over his head onto him so that sunshine,

love,

warmth,

and compassion

run all over him and leave pools running behind him as he walks home. 

I give it even if it's merely to be left behind as droplets on the pavement,

discarded and unseen.

It can become the footprints of the holy man,

trails of his sacrifice. 

Like Aaron anointing his priests, 

he will be covered in sweet holy oil 

mixed with the redemption of my darkness into a gift.

He will be walking wet like Jesus after he left the Jordan. 

Water dripping from the well that he offers me.

I give it all with all the love I have and with all the love of Jesus,

poured out with Christ over him, 

all over him,

it runs in streams from the cross

and my chalice, 

onto him,

into the earth,

and now I can smile.

It has all been redeemed.

This day you will be with me in paradise. 

I am at peace again.