Tuesday, January 9, 2007

Dearest God,

This morning I thought of Madeline. As I wiped my nose, a flash came to me. I was going through the hardest time of my life 12 years ago. I could function but just barely. I had lost a member of my family, not to death but to an incident. I could not let her go; I loved her so much. But I had a job, a ministry to tend to, a home to keep, a husband, other children.

I was to lead a retreat in Kentucky. Our women were looking forward to spending time where Thomas Merton lived in faith, wrote books, and modeled the life of God. I had used my grieving time at home to write the retreat. When I was exhausted, I would rest. I didn't get out of my pajamas for a week. I was sick, sick in heart and soul. Part of me was dead.

We drove the four hour drive to the Abbey of Gethsemane. What a welcome sight, a monastery out in the boonies, the beautiful hills of Kentucky. I was grateful that most of the area was silent. Talking was permitted in the conference room and the guest area only. The grounds, bedrooms, hallways, and dining area were areas of silence. We ate in silence, all chairs facing the same way, looking through a huge picture window overlooking the hills, statues, and grounds.

It was meal time. I was sitting close to the door. We had already begun eating when I heard a noise. An elderly homeless woman was entering the dining room. About 5'4" weary-looking, bent over, she carried a couple of bags. She plopped her things down by my seat. Then she pulled out a worn out black trash bag that she placed on her chair. She began talking to me. I pointed to the "silence" sign. She scarfed down her food like a starved dog.

After eating she asked if I could take her to the store. I wasn't quite sure what to do. But I said yes. When I started to pick up one of her bags to carry it, she cried out, "NO! Don't touch that!" I drew back my hand. "I just wanted to help." I told her. She gave me a dirty look, then followed me to the car.

In the car the music played, a classical CD. She closed her eyes, traveling to a far-off place. I stopped talking. I just watched her, a smile forming on her face, a serenity. When we arrived, she insisted on carrying all her belongings. She grabbed a few items including bleach and cleaning products, then carried them to the clerk who started to pick one up. "No, don't do that!" She cried out. The clerk looked puzzled and frankly so was I. I tried to explain that the salesperson had to ring up the items. She finally allowed her but took out a wipe and cleaned each item before placing them in one of her much used plastic bags.

Back in the car the music played. Her eyes closed. She entered a realm where only she could travel. I watched, amazed, wondering about her life, who she was, where she was from, how she came to the Abbey.

When we returned she went to the desk and I went to the conference room. Later at mealtime, she appeared once again, carrying all her possessions. She placed the trash bag on the chair just like she did the seat of my car.

After the session that night I was exhausted, my heart still broken. I wanted nothing more than to fall into bed and sleep away my troubles. But just as soon as I put on my pajamas, I saw a note pass under my door. I picked it up. It was from Madeline. She wanted to thank me for taking her to the store. She invited me to her room. Again I wasn't sure what to do; but I went.

Madeline and I talked for about two hours. She had been a classical pianist in the eastern European bloc. She had come to America with her parents. When they died, she had nowhere to go and no way to make a living. She hit the streets and had lived there for several years. She carried everything she owned.

She was tired, weary from cleaning her room. She had used all the bleach and cleaning products to clean her bathroom. I suspected that she had been a victim of rape. She did not want me to touch anything although she invited me to sit in the chair. I was very, very careful.

My nose was a bit runny and without a kleenex I started to draw my arm up to my nose. She hollered at me. "No! Don't do that!" She got me a piece of toilet paper. Then she gave me a hard time, elucidating about germs.

During our visit I came to love this strange woman. I listened to her story. She asked for nothing. I could tell she trusted me but still not enough to touch anything. I finally asked her how it was that she ended up at the Abbey. She told me that she spends a lot of time at the library reading. She opened a magazine and found the Abbey. She said she knew she had to go there. She waited for her social security check, bought a $10 blue bag and a one-way ticket from New Jersey to Kentucky. When she arrived in Louisville, she called the Abbey and insisted that one of the monks pick her up. They thought she was with my group so they drove an hour to retrieve her.

The longer I spoke with Madeline, the more I realized that God had sent her to me. For some reason I could not explain, this woman was a comfort to me. In her I saw Jesus, the one who walks with the poor and the poor in spirit. Except for the time in the car she did not smile. Life had been hard but she was a survivor. When the subject of faith came up, she told me she was Jewish.

I was mystified by all that was happening, my heartbreak, a homeless woman from New Jersey, a place of silence, a retreat entitled, Woven Together in Love. I didn't know what to make of it all. I finally told Madeline I needed some sleep. I rose and started to open the door. Of course, she screamed at me not to touch the door knob. I thanked her for her invitation to talk. Then I walked next door to my room.

I sat down on my bed, then fell to my knees. What does this all mean, I asked myself. And just then another note came under the door. This time she thanked me for visiting her. She wanted to give me a gift. She had placed one of her precious belongings on the note, a needle she used to sew her rips and tears. I lay on my bed and cried.

The next morning in our session we continued a weaving on the floor. We wove into our cloth people who were important in our lives, friends, teachers, parents, siblings, children. Our pile of ribbons, lace, and yarn lay on a table for our selection. As we shared around our circle, I talked about Madeline, then wove her into our tapestry. I had chosen a beautiful white lace to represent this new friend. One of the women stopped me and said, "I need to tell you about that lace." My aunt in France gave me that piece of lace many years ago. Since I hadn't used it, I thought I would bring it for the craft we were making. My aunt's name was Madeline. With tears in my eyes, I wove this woman whom God had brought into my life into our fabric. Moments later I wove the member of my family whom I had lost. Although tears poured from my eyes, somehow I knew it would be okay, I would be okay.

The next day the retreat ended. Madeline needed a ride back to Louisville so my friend and I drove her to the Jewish Center. She got all her belongings, then stood by the car. I knew I would never see her again and I had so much I wanted to say. I walked around to the side of the car. I looked at her and asked if I could hug her goodbye. She put her bags down and opened her arms. I walked into her arms and we hugged for a long time. My friend said there was a huge smile on her face. Then she picked up her bags and walked away. I watched until she was out of sight.

A few days later I went to visit a shut in. Sue had ALS. She had wanted to go on the retreat; but she was not able. She asked me to tell her all about it and so I did. At the conclusion of the story she told her college-aged daughter to get her doll from the other room. A doll made from rags, Sue handed her over to me. "I want you to have this doll. I bought her some time ago. I wasn't sure why at the time. But I knew there was a reason. Now I know. She was meant for you. Her name is Madeline.

Madeline now sits on a shelf in one of my bedrooms. She has for 12 years. Sue died a short time after the retreat. Madeline would be in her middle 80's by now if she is still alive. I don't know the full significance of all that happened that weekend. But I do know that my healing began.

Mysterious God,
you weave people
into our lives.
We do not always know why;
it's not important.
Your doings do not always
have a clear reason.
You are the light of day,
the darkness of night,
the twinkle of the stars,
the joy of laughter.
You are the love
that passes
from loved one to loved one.
I cannot begin
to imagine
the depths of your love;
but I do see
the ways in which
you present yourself
to us.
So grateful
are we;
how splendid
your glory.

Gratefully yours, Andrea