Sunday, October 28, 2007

Dearest God,

At times I languish in self pity. I forget who I am and my relationship to you. I lean toward feeling sorry for myself. On my knees washing the wooden floors, I make my case, justify my anger, refuse solace. My hurt, disappointment turns into anger and I tell you what I intend to do. I leave you out, sideline you like a tossed away hand wipe. I tell myself I am justified. My anger builds and I justify more and more. And I am sad.

I do not recognize this bitter woman. It is not me, just an image of me, one I do not like. She does not have solitude in her soul. She does not know where her faith resides. Perhaps tossed aside like you.

This morning I decided to attend St. Anthony’s Monastery for worship. When I pulled into the long driveway, I knew I had made the right decision. As I entered the sanctuary, St. Therese stared outward at me. I know her so well. Her picture hung on the wall, candles burning below her. Drawn to her, I sat close by allowing her love for you to pierce my soul. Tears formed and spilled down my face. The bitter woman cried. She spoke to me of loving long, sacrificially.

We stood as the priest entered. We spoke the prayers, gestured, read responsively. He spoke about the tax collector and the Pharisee. My earlier conversation with myself was so like the Pharisee. The laundry list of what I do right. So wrong. The tax collector says simply, “Have mercy on me, a sinner.” Only one walks away justified and it is not the bitter woman. Warm tears teach me that bitterness can turn to tears and be released. Bitterness can dissolve in the face of divine love. Only then do I find myself, my faith, my God.

I cannot live in the face of bitterness. I can only live in the light of love. And love must lead me, teach me, challenge and humble me. I cannot permit life’s disappointments to rob me of the purity of my love for you. And my love for you must be what leads me, moment by moment, day by day. On my knees washing the floor needs to be the prayer of the pure heart, rather than the bitter complaint.

How blessed I was as I knelt on the kneeling bench. My knees that had been on the floor washing were now the knees bent in prayer. The purity of my loving heart had returned. My self pity turned praise.

Gracious, Loving God,
my rotting flesh
steals away the purity
of my faith.
I lose my way
and I give in
to bitterness.
Holy One,
you come to me.
you cry out,
"Come home,
little lamb.
Come home
to me."
You send saints,
your church
to accompany me
on my return trip home.
As I find you,
I find myself.
So grateful.

Love, Andrea