SoC 2:4

Encountering the Holy: The Wise Women in My Life

 

A buse is parceled out in generous portions in my house, where I am five, nine, thirteen, seventeen years old. But I only run when it rains. It rains and I run, down the road, through the woods, up hills and down hills, with purpose, toward a goal. I always end up in the same place, in the back pew of my church, the same church where I attend Mass each morning before school. Cold and wet, I stare hard at the crucifix on the wall, the image of Christ hanging.

Where are you, God?

A hand touches my shoulder. It used to surprise me, but now it sustains me. Sister Mary Margaret somehow always knows I will be here on the rainy days. We walk in silence to the convent where she sits with me, gives me hot soup. It’s always the same. I never remember her leaving my side on these dreary days. She wraps a blanket around me.

“I think you’ll stay at your grandmother’s house tonight,” she says. I look into her eyes, grateful, and there You are.

I sit at Mass with my grandmother, who saves me regularly, but not often enough to prevent the lasting scars. Sometimes my grandfather comes, too, but mostly it’s just the two of us. The priest’s homily drones on. I’m bored. I wonder why I can’t serve on the altar. Why must I settle for religious life when, even at twelve, I know I’m called to be a priest?

Where are You, God?

My grandmother reaches over and squeezes my hand. “I love you,” she silently mouths. She smiles. I know You are with me.

I stand in line to register for my first high school classes. I’m nervous. I don’t want to be known as the timid, fearful being I was all through grade school. I want a new beginning, but I hate change. Couldn’t change be easy, just this once? Where are You, God?

“Do you know how to find the swimming pool? That boy told me the biology lab is next to the swimming pool,” a voice says.

“There is no swimming pool,” I respond, and we laugh because we are freshmen and this is going to be a tough and wonderful year where older students tell us the library is upstairs even though the school has no upstairs. She is Peggy and she thinks I am funny and smart and I will see You in and through her many times over the years.

I know her first as Ms. Appleton, then Pat, then Tricia, the name reserved for use only by her closest friends. We are teacher and student, then co-music ministers, and, finally, friends. She teaches me many things. She loves her faith and it comes shining through in all she does. She is faithful, even as she teaches church history and all the horrid facts of our past, of my past. How can this terrible past have become this . . . idea . . . that I love and hold so dear? She teaches about world religions and morality and there is no Baltimore Catechism in this class. I learn more about my faith from two years in her class than ever in my life.

I question. My life goes on, and I play guitar at church every Sunday, but the spark is gone.

Where are You, God?

Tricia tells me my questions are good, not a sign of weakness.

“Your thirst for knowledge is a gift.” She tells me to keep singing, keep seeking. Everything will come in time, she thinks. Eventually, I hear exactly what You are saying.

I go back to the church. I have been away five years and I decide to try a new parish family, just in case things don’t work out.

Are you here, God?

As soon as I walk in the door a familiar face from a different parish, Susan, runs to greet me.

“We’ve missed you,” she says simply, never even mentioning the fact that she, too, has moved on from that other place. Joy, an unfamiliar but pleasant face, approaches me briskly. She wants to know everything about me.

“You’ll sit with me tonight.” I do.

During Mass the priest apologizes for any hurts the Church might have inflicted upon any one of us and asks us to come back. I wonder exactly how many of us are strangers here.

Does he always apologize for the Church?

After Mass Marian comes up and says, “Do you sing? We could use you in the choir.” I feel You welcoming me and I realize there are no strangers in this place.

Janice is good to me, in spite of my ridiculous expectations. I want so badly to believe The Waltons is the way life really is for people, that I simply got left out, the best things denied me because I’m somehow not good enough. I am thirty-something and I am angry. Why can’t I have a family life of my own?

Where are You, God?

Janice invites me to Thanksgiving Dinner. She invites me to Christmas Dinner. On my birthday she bakes me a cake. Her husband and her kids like me and we get along great. I understand You are telling me I am wise enough now to choose my own family.

Colleen C. is my massage therapist and I am her daughters’ tutor, but first we are friends. Today I come and I tutor first one, then the other, and I am full of . . . something . . . and while I am efficient, I am not at my best.

Where are You, God?

Then it is my turn and Colleen works my muscles patiently and with great care. At first we jabber, as usual, about church and work and her kids and my dogs, but soon I fall silent. Out of nowhere, it seems, emotion erupts from me. I cry because life is tough right now and there is not a single thing I can do about it. Colleen’s hands comfort me with careful but persistent pressure. Her hands work the muscles in my shoulders, neck, head, and then my face. She massages my tears into my skin. “Your body is just telling you it’s time to deal with a thing or two,” she whispers. Then she says, close to my ear, “Everything really will be okay.” I hear Your wisdom in her voice and I try to believe you.

At the rally outside Fort Benning protesters are milling around, waiting to take action or even be arrested. I am among those who oppose the training of Latin American rapists and torturers at the U.S. Army School of the Americas. My eye catches a small group of protesters talking with a soldier. Soon they become angry, insistent, wanting only to be right and not to teach a lesson in peace. I hope the protest will remain nonviolent.

Where are You, God?

Sister Mary Dennis, my good friend, stands silently, watching. She holds a sign that says, simply, “Love.” I know You are present among us.

Hard-headed and wanting my way, as usual, I find it hard to get through my life with all the ups and downs. I can’t carry this entire load on my own. I am seeking clarity, a reason for my horrific past. I’m tired of struggling with the past and the future while the present passes me by. I am very nearly in despair.

Where are You, God?

I find Shan just in time. Her great faith, her laughter, and her ability to hear what I really mean are the things that draw me to her initially, but I soon discover the most important reason she is the best person for this job: She tells me straight, every time, and yet she enfolds me in a blanket of compassion. According to Shan, I need to learn one great spiritual truth: You will take care of me and my life if I just let go of it. I see You alive in her eyes and recognize Your presence in her life. I hope that with her guidance, I, too, will learn to trust You.

Marianne is dying. I’ve tended her for three long years, ever since she was first diagnosed with inflammatory breast cancer. One gift You gave me I often consider a curse: I am good with those who are dying. Marianne is my friend, my best friend, and I begrudge her nothing. She has given me everything. We have prayed together, laughed together, learned together, cried together. She helped me see that being a child of God requires action on my part.

And now she lies in a coma. I’m at her bedside, trying hard to pray, to remember that she was never without faith.

Where are You, God?

I rise to leave. I hesitate, turn back to her where she lies on her side, laboring to breathe. I place one hand on her thigh, another on her arm. Finally, I pray. I lean down and kiss my friend on her cheek. She opens her eyes, awakening from a coma just to talk with me, as though she has been waiting.

“Oh, you finally came,” Marianne says with a smile, though I have always been here. I sit beside her on the bed and we have a last conversation, her last ever, and I hear You in her words of thanks, and I praise You through my tears.

Grandmother has Alzheimer’s. Today she knows my name but I think she’s forgotten I’m her granddaughter. I look into her eyes and wonder when, exactly, I should have said goodbye. I hold her close and hope she knows I am here.

I get the call just in time and I rush to sit vigil. I whisper in Grandmother’s ear, “If you can let me be here when it happens, I want to stay with you.” When she dies the next day I am holding her hand. I feel blessed beyond belief, but alone, as well. Grandmother is gone and so is Marianne. I feel abandoned and bereft.

Where are You, God?

Collen L. is our new youth director. I notice her bright red hightop sneakers before I ever see her face. We connect immediately in that cosmic, inexplicable way that people sometimes do. We are instant friends. She is an actress and a storyteller and she will teach our kids improvisation. I am hooked. I laugh more than I ever have in my adult life. She teaches lessons to the kids—and to me—through improvisation. First, make your partner perfect no matter what. Second, trust your partner to make you perfect. That’s tough. Most importantly, always say yes. Everything good in life requires me to say yes.

And so I do! Yes! Yes! Yes! I hear You, Lord, and yes is my answer. I hear You in Colleen, Jann, and Shan. I hear You in Glenda and Jama and Elizabeth, and You are coming in loud and clear. I experience you in all my friends, in my sister’s love of her children, in my dreams, in my mind! Yes! I accept your many blessings.

Spirit of Wisdom, I long to hear Your voice. I crave the sound of it—a whisper, a tremor, a rumble, a crash—and I rejoice each time You speak to me. I yearn for Your touch— the caress of Your Holy Breath on the wind, a hand, an embrace. However You come, I am ready. You light a Holy Fire within me, invigorate me, excite me! You are sensual and practical and extravagant and ultimate. You are the Holy. You bless me, Lord, with these wise and wonderful women, placing them in my life exactly where I need them to be, and You speak to me and guide me as plainly as if You were there in flesh, walking beside me. I am not alone. You have created me. Continue, please, to form me, to conform me, into Your image.

Dear God, I only pray that when You do speak, when You do touch me, that I am worthy in my response:

Come, Holy Spirit, Come!