Recognizing who we are

“...the God of Jacob,
who turns the rock into a pool of water

and the flint into a flowing spring…” 
--Psalm 114:8

How often do we feel misunderstood? Or worse, unnoticed.  Unseen.  People look at us and see not a refreshing pool of water or a life-giving stream, but a jagged rock, a flinty piece of stone.  They see not us (at least not who we imagine we are), but someone else… Perhaps it is just who they think we are.

Sometimes this isn’t necessarily unpleasant.  At least a few times I have been standing in the frozen food aisle at HEB and had someone ask me where the eggs are?  Or, wandering through Barnes and Noble, I am occasionally stopped by someone looking for a particular book.  Both cases might be explained by the fact that I was wearing a tie and looked like I could be an employee.  But, explain this one: I was waiting at the light at Gessner and I-10 when someone pulled up next to me and rolled down his window. I thought he was going to ask directions, so I rolled mine down ready to help. But, instead he said, Hey! Are you a preacher? You look like a preacher.  (I wonder what he would have thought if he had seen that I was wearing my red pants!)

People have their ideas, their opinions; I still remember overhearing a salesman tell my mom that I had wide hips like a girl.  I was 8 years old.  That was 1967. I was in the dressing room at the Craig’s store at Memorial City.  All, I wanted were some hip-huggers and a Nehru shirt! But what I remember is that comment.  It has stuck with me. In my imagination I was a lean, athletic build. A cross between Peter Noone and Jimmy Wynn! Was it true? Did I have wide hips?  I don’t know. Do I still? Does it matter? I guess the answer is obvious; to an 8 year old boy it did.

No matter how hard we try to be a fountain, too often the world looks at us and sees only a pile of rocks (in mom-jeans). 

Anyway, perhaps because of my life-long concern over my hips, I try to exercise every day. I get up and go for morning walks.  It is something I’ve written about before-- my morning walks to the park; and over the years a part of my morning routine has become picking up the trash at the park.  I try to make the place look a little better for the people who come after me.  I’m not alone in my efforts. There are a few of us.  We have a kind of community.  No special handshakes or anything, but we know each other’s faces and we thank each other for our efforts. And when the messes get really bad, we offer sympathy and a helping hand.

But during the school week I am often out extra early—before dawn, so I don't see my trash buddies, and when it is that dark I can’t always see the trash --or what’s in it.  One morning I had the awful experience of picking up a pizza box only to have a swarm of ants come streaming out complaining that they hadn’t finished breakfast.   So, on this particular morning I was just walking, praying my rosary and enjoying the stars. The sky was beautiful and clear and the trees were thick dark shadows against it. At that hour the park is pretty empty, but occasionally someone would pass and--not wanting to disturb the quiet-- we would mutter a quiet good morning to each other.  Near the end of my walk as I was coming around the far end of the park to the street side I caught a glimpse of something in the headlights of a passing car.  It was a Burger King bag standing on the curb. I thought about just leaving it. Someone else will get it.  But, instead I walked out the gate. Picking up the bag, of course I found more: a cup and fry envelope close by and burger wrapper a few feet away with some wadded up napkins and a couple of ketchup packets.  Anyway, there I was bent over by the curb carefully trying to pick up a straw and cup lid without letting go of everything else, when I heard a voice call:  Hey. I haven’t seen you for a while. How are you doing?   

Looking up, there was the silhouette of a woman paused on the track.   After a few niceties, she thanked me for picking up the trash and waved and disappeared into the dark. Only after she was gone did I realize it was Sara. The freckle-faced woman in the hijab that I talked about in another of these essays.  I couldn’t see her face, but I knew it was her by two things: first, her speed. She’s a pretty serious runner. And second, and most certainly, as she passed under the dim glow of a street lamp I caught a glimpse of her head covering.

After putting the trash into a can, I headed home feeling slightly giddy. I kept hearing those words in my head: she hadn’t seen me for a while.  She had stood out to me, because I don't see many women dressed like that. Full body jogging suit and a hijab. But me, I'm just a goofy old guy who walks at the park. We're a dime a dozen! No one even sees me...  And yet...

It feels good to be noticed. Makes us feel –what? Seen. As if someone has recognized that we matter. We have value.

But how? Why had she recognized me? We don't really know each other. We just see each other at the park --and not that often.  I was out in the street, a good 15 or 20 yards away from her. And it was dark. And the nearest street lamp was half a block away. And my back was to her; I was bent over the curb picking up trash and… oh.  That!  She recognized me not by my face, not by my clothes, or even my name, but by what I was doing. She knew me by my action. 

And in that moment I felt truly recognized. Like I had been truly seen. And it felt wonderful. Almoast home, I paused at the corner.  My shadow stretching out over the damp grass, across a driveway and into the street ahead, majestic and tall --a reflection of how I felt at that very moment.  I looked up into the sky in wonder at the feathery edges of the tall pine trees against the fading night. And I remembered those beautifull lines from Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poem, “As Kingfishers Catch Fire.”

“Each mortal thing does one thing and the same…

…what I do is me: for that I came.”

And I thought –yes. This is who I am. This is why I came.  I am more than the mistakes I make. The annoying habits I can’t seem to quit.  More than the foolish things I say in public.  I admit that sometimes I may be a rock, a real stumbling block.  But sometimes, gosh darn it! I can also be a pool of cool and refreshing water. And standing there I had the wonderful feeling that this person, this near stranger, had recognized that. Had recognized me.

Of course, there is more to me than what I do at the park.  For instance, in the 5^th grade a girl told me I was a good kisser.  You can probably tell, I am still very proud of that.  And of course, there is more to Sara than her head covering, her speed and her great posture.  But for the moment, I felt seen, truly seen and it felt very good.  Realizing that I still had to get home and shower before work, I started walking again. And noticed again my shadow stretching out before me.  Looking at it now, I realized how comical and elongated it actually looked. And I noticed something else; the shape of it bounding ahead of me shrinking slightly as I came to the next street lamp. Watching it, I realized there was something about the middle… the shape… in fact, the pockets of my walking shorts seemed oddly prominent. I touched them.  In one was my phone; the other had a packet of Kleenex and my rosary; but there was something else about the shape of it --of me... something about the hips…  Oh well… At least I was recognized. That’s what really counts.  Right?

The grace of gift and giving

“What return can I make to the Lord

for His generosity to me?

I shall take up the cup of salvation

and call on the name of the Lord.”

--Psalm 116:12-13

I keep hesitating to write, waiting for something profound to say or some beautiful epiphany to happen. Waiting until I have something to share.  But this morning during my prayer I was contemplating these 2 verses from psalm 116 and it occurred to me:  I never have anything to share… except that which is given to me by God.  And so, here is what God has given me and I (like the psalmist) take it up and offer it back to God.

What do we have to give to the Lord save that which the Lord has already given to us?   Even if we would make an offering in thanksgiving we would only be giving back to God what God has already bestowed on us.  We have nothing of our own to offer.  Consider the example in the psalm: The cup of salvation –the literal cup—comes from materials God provided, and is shaped by hands God created, through talents God bestowed. As well the spiritual cup “of salvation,” it too is a gift, a grace God offers us through the gift of Jesus Christ.  And all we can do is take up that gift and offer it back to God in praise and thanksgiving.  In a sense, all we can do is “re-gift” the gift we have been given.

And as I pondered that, I began to think: isn’t that a kind of reflection of the Holy Trinity.  The gift of grace and love radiating back and forth between the Father, Son and Holy Spirit in a kind of eternal communion of re-gifting. God’s love is not only a gift that keeps giving, but a gift that calls out to be given—as if it were never completely accepted until it is given away!

We receive the gift and the gift itself calls us to give it away, to give it back to God, and by doing so we take part (in however small and humble a way) in the beautiful relationship of love that is the Trinity, a relationship of generosity, of abundance, of sharing, of love.    

What has God given you today?  Offer it back to Him.  A quiet rainy day? A moment of laughter? The tears of a friend?  A prayer? A cucumber sandwich? Or the cup of salvation? Don’t hesitate. Share it; in fact, re-gift it! And remember, whatever you have been given, its not really yours until you give it away.

All I know is the dark (thoughts on Psalm 88)

Sunday, 5 May 2019

All I know is the dark

“…all that I know is the dark.”

Psalm 88:18

This psalm haunts me with its hopelessness.  The psalmist feels utterly rejected, decrying that God has “deprived me of my friends…” (8), “plunged me to the bottom of the grave…” (6); filled with misery and cut off from hope, he feels “like the slaughtered lying in the grave,” (5) forgotten even by God.  But unlike so many psalms of sorrow and suffering, this ends not with an affirmation of trust or hope (a verse about God’s faithfulness, His saving mercy or love), but instead with a final inescapable resignation, “all I know is the dark.”

It is a supremely powerful expression of our utter helplessness and isolation. One senses no hope in this prayer, not even a plea for hope. It is simply a statement of God’s unconcern, God’s hard justice, God’s pitiless wrath.

“I am finished! / Your anger
has overwhelmed me…” (15b-16)

What are we to do with such feelings of hopelessness? The psalmist offers no comfort, only complaint, only witness to the truth of it.  One wonders that such words, such a prayer, would have ended up in the canon of scripture.  What were the rabbis and scribes thinking? What made them feel this was appropriate as part of God’s Holy Word?

And yet I can attest to the truth of it.  In a house riddled with depression and feelings of isolation and loneliness, my prayer too often echoes it.  I am overwhelmed by the needs of others, unable to find comfort in prayer, or rest, or even a bowl of onion dip, I feel “finished.” Opening my Bible, in search of solace or inspiration, I feel lost; sometimes I’m so exhausted I find it hard even to just focus on the words on the page.  My vision blurs, my head throbs. I close the Book or close my eyes and all I know is darkness.   

I sit down to write, and nothing comes.  Even these reflections; nothing. My efforts to read at least a chapter of the Bible a day and write something (in my journal) about it every day has fallen by the wayside.  Initially I was set to blame the Psalms themselves.  I tell myself they are less interesting to reflect on because they already are themselves a reflection (of a kind) and so when I sit to write (to reflect on them) my words feel like little more than a pathetic restatement of their own themes.

Yet, with the year we have had thus far, I would think spending more time in prayer and reflection would be my only hope.  There has been anxiety about work, one daughter in the hospital, one daughter moving to Minnesota, a leaking roof, cracks in the shower tiles, broken dishwasher, broken dryer, repairman visits, car troubles, struggles just to get to mass (let alone on time and with a smile), all while worrying about one daughter aging off our insurance, worrying about hospital bills for another, and occasionally trying to figure out how to make time for a date night with my wife. Not to mention wondering if we will ever be able to afford to retire (and if so how big of a cardboard box we will need to comfortably live in under the freeway overpass).   This is clearly a time for prayer!  But, during this strange season of anxiety and over eating, this time of near constant therapy visits, when I should be turning to God for comfort, instead I turn to a carton of onion dip and a bag of chips.  Of course, this isn’t healthy and can lead to trouble even with my closet full of “comfort waist” khakis.  Between September and January, I put on close to 15 pounds; one of my daughters sweetly referred to my little “Santa Claus belly.” 

Aargh!  I truly felt “finished!”  Not only was I having trouble praying, but suddenly I needed to exercise and avoid the chip aisle at HEB as well.  I needed to stop eating so much, needed to exercise and needed to find comfort in something other than chips, dip and Shiner Bock.  But how? 

As a writer, I was feeling lost. I was constantly trying to make time for writing, but each time I did –I felt dread and anxiety welling up within me.  Felt overwhelmed by the very thought of putting a word on the page; almost disgusted by the very idea of it.  Though I would write something each time (even if it was only a few words or a few sentences) I always felt sour when I was done. There was no comfort in the act of writing.  And though I’d recently sold 2 poems and had another published in an anthology, instead of feeling affirmed in my creative efforts, I felt even more worthless; my achievements belittled by the critical voices in my head. Nothing I did was good enough; my efforts felt pathetic; worthless; instead of pride at being published, I felt shame and regret.  I not only wanted to hide my achievements, but I wanted to hide from them. I began to isolate myself, to hide not only from my family, and friends, but from myself (and in the end from God). Like the psalmist, I knew only the dark, and in a sense, began to find my only comfort there.

Yet, in the middle of all this I was invited to read a poem and say a few words about poetry to a group of middle schoolers at a Diocesan Poetry Festival (over at St. Francis de Salles).  Feeling so overwhelmed by life, the last thing I wanted to do was face a bunch of pre-teeners and 13 year olds and see my own true worth reflected (and confirmed) in their bored eyes.  The invitation actually filled me with panic!  But the event was being organized by a friend of mine (Maria) and I had bowed out last year (and the year before that) and the fact that she still asked me again made me feel guilty about saying no, again!  I could feel the rising of one more failure looming before me –a failure that seemed somehow worse than boring a group of middle-school poets and their parents—it was the failure to say yes to a friend when she asked for help.  So, instead of making an excuse or finding a way to bow out, I said, yes. Though I secretly hoped something would come up at school to keep me from being able to go.  Though I said yes, I guess I was still secretly hoping for “no.”

But in the end, I went.  I got lost on the way. Parked near the church instead of the school, then headed in the wrong direction when I tried to walk to the school (mistaking the nearby public school’s playground for that of the church school),  but in the end I found my way to the festivities and when I arrived I was greeted with great joy and given a seat of honor (near the winning poets).  And when it was time I was introduced and got up and spoke (for 3-4 minutes) and read my poem and as I finished I could feel the weight of the silence –palpable-- and the gaze of those young and old eyes so intense; they weren’t bored. They had listened. They had cared.  They had needed to hear a message about the importance of what they (or their child) was doing –the making of poems—and they had needed to hear the poem I had given them, had needed the comfort of those words.  What had happened in that auditorium qua cafeteria had not been about me (or for me)—it was for them!  And by saying yes to Maria’s request I had (for a moment) stopped thinking about myself and my weight and my failures and my ego and my loneliness, and I had thought about Maria and her efforts to create a Poetry Fest for these young writers.  A chance for them to shine, to realize the importance of words, of art, of poetry.  Of truth.  The importance of standing as a witness to the truth. To stand up and say: This is true. This is what it feels like to be 13 and in love for the first time.  This is what it feels like to discover life, the world, a buttercup (or a butterfly) for the first time; this is the truth of being 13 or 12 or 11 and feeling amazed by the stars or the clouds or the birds in flight! And this is how it feels to be 13 or 12 or 11 and alone and unloved. This is how it feels when all you know is the dark.

To be a witness, to be a presence, to be a voice in God’s great song, we don’t have to be amazing, we don’t even have to be good, or joyful even, and (as Mother Teresa said) we don’t even have to be successful. But we do have to show up. We have to be willing to say yes, even when the whole world is busy saying no.

That was the lesson I learned that day. And even though walking back to my car I got lost again and wandered half way round the church before finding it, I felt a whole lot better. In fact, I even felt a little lighter. Quite possibly even a little radiant. Of course, my life is still full of stress, and my house still needs repairs, and there are still bills to pay and my pants are still a little tight, but I said yes to a friend in need and none of that other stuff matters quite as much now… In fact even the burdens feel a little lighter now.   

Anyway, part of what I want to say is this: When all you know is the dark, don’t be afraid to say it.  Someone might need to hear your words to let them know they aren’t alone.  But also this, always remember that even when you are in the dark, if someone reaches out to you and asks for help, don’t be afraid to say yes. It is quite possible God put you there for a reason. And (oddly enough) that reason may have nothing to do with you.