Thursday, October 27, 2011

Chasing the Wind

“Do not imagine that the important thing is never to be thinking of anything else and that if your mind becomes slightly distracted all is lost.” Saint Teresa of Avila
 

She sits, hands warmed by a mug of tea, gazing out the back door at the rain. Once upon a time, when they first owned their home, she could look out and over the top of the willow oak tree. Now, she sees under it; is eye level with the oak's lowest branches, reaching wide to shield her.  For a moment she can't bear the weight of it and longs for the nakedness of winter. It will come soon enough. She will embrace then reject the chill, just as she always does, much like a spoiled child all too soon bored with her toys.


She remembers images, but not moments or how she felt or what she thought. She forgets the sound of her father's voice, but she clearly sees his face, older and gray. She remembers a word here and there but strains to remember the voice that now only speaks fleetingly in dreams. Often she feels gypped of time spent with him. She really only knew him as a child. It's just that there are so many questions.


It has stopped raining. The deck is awash in leaves scattered recklessly about and pinned to the glistening wood. Scattered, like the stray thoughts constantly disrupting her prayers. Pushing through, allowing herself to be called back, then slipping away again and again. How patient He must be; how He loves her through all her wandering. She returns to Him often and is off again, like a child playing at the feet of his mother. Lost in play, then remembering, he gazes up at her and smiles, "Mama" and turns again to chase the wind.


And so, she offers her racing-about, her thoughts of friends and family, her memories of long ago, her longing for what cannot be, and her hopes and fears of what's to come - uniting all in supplication with each whispered Ave - as she returns again and again to images of fiats and visitations, of a holy birth, of anguish and death, of water and wine and miracles, of resurrection and ascension, and of queenship and a sovereignty divine.



And all is not lost.


Monday, October 24, 2011

Only Because I'm the very proud Mom ...


 That's my baby girl performing at a FOCUS Coffee House on the campus of Belmont Abbey College last Spring. And yes, she gave me permission to post this.  
Love you, Megan!

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

Happy Feast Day!



Today the Church celebrates the memorial of 
Sts. Isaac Jogues & John de Brébeuf, and their companions:
The Jesuits of North America -17th century priests and martyrs.
Happy Feast Day, little Isaac Jogues!


This morning we listened to The Huron Carol in honor of these brave Jesuit Martyrs, 
and in joyful gratitude for our own little Isaac Jogues Samuel Phillips:

The Huron Carol 
by St. John de Brebeuf, S.J.

'Twas in the moon of wintertime 
When all the birds had fled, 
That mighty GitchiManitou 
Sent angel choirs instead; 
Before their light the stars grew dim, 
And wond'ring hunters heard the hymn: 

Jesus, your King is born, Jesus is born, In excelsis gloria 

 
Within a lodge of broken bark 
The tender Babe was found, 
A ragged robe of rabbit skin
Enwrapp'd His beauty 'round. 
But as the hunter braves drew nigh, 
The angel song rang loud and high:

Jesus, your King is born, Jesus is born, In excelsis gloria
 
The earliest moon of wintertime 
Is not so round and fair 
As was the ring of glory on 
The helpless infant there. 
The chiefs from far before Him knelt 
With gifts of fox and beaver pelt. 

Jesus, your King is born, Jesus is born, In excelsis gloria
 
O children of the forest free, 
O sons, O sons of Manitou, 
The Holy Child of earth and heav'n 
Is born today for you. 
Come kneel before the radiant Boy, 
Who brings you beauty, peace and joy. 

Jesus, your King is born, Jesus is born, In excelsis gloria



Listen to the carol here: