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  • Death is a teacher of time and treasure

    "Dear angel guide my feet, I come each moment closer to the brink, it may be I am nearer home today, dear angel, than I think"    Carved on an old headstone in an English cemetery

    The headstone found in an old English cemetery relayed an incomplete story of a family struck by tragedy—the dad, James, died in 1929; his wife, Margaret, died a year later and his daughter, Mary, age 22, died the following year. One may imagine any number of stories to fill in the gaps of this family’s losses and it wouldn’t be hard to imagine a young girl of 22 years succumbing to the pain of a broken heart after losing both her parents so close to one another. She, herself, died just days before the second year anniversary of her father’s death.

    It seems this story comes to mind for me most often as we approach the date of my own father’s June birthday. In some way, I suppose, I have projected on this young English girl my once seemingly unbearable pain at his death, followed closely by the death of my mother, so many years ago. It was a desolate time, one that taught me the cost of loving.

    Surely, for those who remain behind, death is the cruelest blow. But it is only so because of the human heart’s desire and capacity to love, and in that truth we have evidence of our maker.

    Who, but God, could have created a heart and soul capable of such deep love and such profound grief? And who would be better able to console us then the One who made us as we are?

    In all of the significant losses of my life I have found God in my grieving, or perhaps it is God who found me, and in the finding reminded me that amid every loss there remained abundant blessings.

    One such experience, profound in its simplicity, was a monumental step forward in the healing process of grief.

    As I am often lead to do when pain threatens to overwhelm me, I had escaped to a little cottage at the beach to spend time alone in a place where time was all mine. A small paper journal recalled my day:

    Here, at the shore, there had been time for making pie, a beautiful thing with golden brown crust and fresh, succulent blueberries. Unfortunately, the cat thought so, too, and in the whip of a tail the counter resounded with purple as in a display of children’s finger-painting, and the remnants of pie resembled a vat of paw-pressed grapes. I sighed.

    Still, it was pie, none-the-less. With my eyes closed I slipped one salvaged morsel in my mouth, remembering a morning standing at short stocky bushes plump with blueberries and picking until my fingers took on the hue of distant mountains at the close of day. Gratitude welled up in me.

    I must find joy in my life as it is, because it is mine, and I know it is mine by the generous hand of God. Such knowledge makes ignorance impossible as an excuse for failed gratitude and cast away blessings.

    Whether in our most painful moments or through the stress and strain of daily life, it is easy to lose sight of gratitude, as it is easy to lose sight of the passing of time and the fragility of tomorrow. But death, which is so often the source of our deepest pain, has also taught me that cast away blessings are lost treasures and that joyfully living the life we are given is the most meaningful expression of gratitude.

    Who, but God….?

    Copyright © 2010 by Mary Regina Morrell

  • Letting go is simple wisdom with divine potential

    We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to accept the life that is waiting for us. Joseph Campbell

    Did you ever pass a car fire on the highway and wonder how it started? I have, many times, and today I got the explanation—when it happened to my husband.

    While I was cooking dinner I got a phone call. I could tell by the tone of my husband’s voice that whatever had happened was going to require my going and picking him up somewhere. I had just hoped it wouldn’t be on some god-forsaken backwoods road in a part of New Jersey I didn’t know.

    As it turned it out, he was only two miles down the road in a gas station. He had driven all the way home from the shore on the parkway and had made it to Route 9 when he and my son heard a pop in the engine. They pulled into a gas station next to the fuel pump because they also needed gas. My husband got out of the van and opened the hood to discover the engine was on fire. Bad enough in itself, but very bad when you’re parked next to a fuel pump! Fortunately, for him and the terrified gas station attendant, he had a fire extinguisher under the seat and was able to avert a tragedy.

    Now this van is 18 years old, pushing 200,000 miles, looks like it has been through a war and sports silver electrical tape bandages on its scrapes and dings. Add to that a fire.

    "I think it’s time to get a new van," I suggested to my husband.

    I thought I caught the hint of a nod, but his eyes were glazed over. When I came home from work the next day I expected we might start looking for a replacement. Instead, I saw the familiar reflection of silver tape in the sun as I pulled around the corner.

    "It’s fixed," he said proudly when I walked in the door.

    I just sighed. Sometimes it’s hard to accept when it’s time to let go. Sometimes what is has such a powerful hold on us that we fail to see the possibilities of what might be. We tend to think of letting go in terms of loss, and sometimes it is, but just as often it is a gain, if we can acknowledge that thing, that relationship, that circumstance as having filled its potential in our lives; for better or for worse it has had an impact on who or where we are at this moment in time. But this moment has already past away, and those things should not define us or our future.

    New life is ours, says the Lord. And it happens by letting go of the old, by trusting in our God who spoke to the exiles in Babylon through the prophet Jeremiah: For I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord, plans to give you a future and a hope.

    God instructed the Israelites to live fully during the time of their exile in the land where they found themselves, to build houses, plant gardens, marry and have children. But God also told them to be ready to let go, to move on to the new future God had planned for them.

    There is a teaching in the ancient Chinese philosophical text Tao Te Ching which states, "To hold, you must first open your hand."

    It is simple wisdom with divine potential.



  • Making a difference one brick at a time

    Every year it seems easier to become overwhelmed by the challenges and needs of the world, the community, our parishes, Bluebricks chris-barbalis-1217154-unsplashour poor, so much so that we never move out in faith to fill any of those needs. But every journey begins with the first step. The journey of faith is no different. If God can feed thousands with a few loaves of bread why do we doubt what God can do with our meager efforts?
     
    A source of encouragement for me has been Dorothy Day, social activist, writer, Catholic convert and woman of great faith who believed that the Gospel call to holiness was possible for all of us. She wrote,”People say, ‘What is the sense of our small effort?’ They cannot see that we must lay one brick at a time, take one step at a time.”
     
    She keeps me walking, and building with my little bits and pieces, even on those days when I feel like, “What’s the use?”
     
    Chris Barbalis photo on Unsplash.

  • Avodah

    “Ask God’s blessing on your work, but don’t ask him to do it for you.” Dame Flora Robson


    Prayers for our work should include prayers for inspiration and the strength for perspiration. When we add to that wisdom and willingness to dedicate all our efforts to the Lord’s service we are certain to succeed in all we do. It is interesting to note that in Hebrew the ancient word avodah (ah’-voe-dah), which is used in Scripture, has dual meanings: worship and work. How wise we would be if we could see all our work as a means of worshipping God, and how beautiful our lives would be if all our work was worthy of being called worship.

  • Sometimes talking to God is like talking to yourself

    "Answer when I call, my saving God." Psalm 4:2

    Yesterday was one of those days. You know the kind, when your mind is pulled in every direction; five requests for help, four email emergencies, three phone calls about a personal "business matter" and it’s only nine o’clock in the morning. So I decided to take a break and call my husband. I dialed his cell number from my office phone and, wouldn’t you know, as soon as I got through my cell phone started to ring. I hung up on his call and answered my phone.

    "Hello?"

    I heard a woman’s voice but then she hung up on me. I was annoyed.

    It sounded like my co-worker. I had called her earlier from my phone so maybe she was just returning the call. I decided to try my husband again before checking with my co-worker. I dialed his number and was interrupted by another call on my cell.

    "Hello?" I said sharply.

    "Hello?" I heard her reply, but nothing more, so I hung up.

    God, this is so annoying, I thought.

    I looked at the in-coming call location: work. It has to be her, I thought. But then, as I reached to phone my husband one more time, it suddenly became embarrassingly clear – I had been calling myself.

    My cell number and my husband’s both begin with the same four numbers and, being mentally fragmented, I dialed the wrong number.My husband laughed out loud when I reached him. I think he considered it right up there with the time I roasted my eyeglasses on the turkey for Thanksgiving dinner.

    He suggested the phone call story would make a good column, but I reminded him that I needed a spiritual connection. That’s when he hit me with, "Well, sometimes talking to God is like talking to yourself. You don’t get an answer and all you hear is the sound of your own voice."

    I was speechless for a few seconds. God talk from my husband is a rarity. There was a lot to unpack in what he was saying, not the least of which was wondering if he was speaking from experience. Certainly, I have had a fair share of emails from readers who empathize with the words of Dolly Parton’s song, Hello God. She asks the question, "Hello, God, are you out there? Can you hear me, are you listenin’ any more? Hello God, if we’re still on speakin’ terms can you help me like before?"

    I imagine King David would emphasize, as well. So many of his psalms seem to be asking, "Are you listening to me?"

    One of my favorites is Psalm 13, when David asks, "How long, Lord? Will you utterly forget me? How long will you hide your face from me? How long must I carry sorrow in my soul, grief in my heart day after day?"

    This is a man on the edge, but one who is confident enough in God’s love to hold God’s "feet" to the fire. Without fear, he entreats God, "Look upon me, answer me, Lord, my God!"

    Still, in spite of his painful situation and the lack of God’s response, David ends his psalm by saying, "I trust in your faithfulness. Grant my heart joy in your help,that I may sing of the Lord, ‘How good our God has been to me!’"

    Renowned Rabbi Abraham Heschel has said, "A religious man is a person who holds God and man in one thought at one time, at all times, who suffers harm done to others, whose greatest passion is compassion, whose greatest strength is love and defiance of despair."

    David was a religious man. We may have trouble believing it because we see, with human eyes, the magnitude of David’s sins. But God saw something more. In spite of his sinfulness, his great accomplishments and his periods of trials and deep turmoil, David depended on God. It was through his darkest periods that David developed a trust and hope in God that would sustain him throughout his life.

    David’s psalms are encouragement for us because they are songs of faith in a God who is always listening and always responding, even when it seems like we are talking to ourselves.

    Copyright © 2010 by Mary Regina Morrell

  • Not bothering is an important part of the journey

    "How do you do nothing?" asked Pooh…. Christopher Robin replied, "It means just going along, listening to all the things you can hear, and not bothering."

    For many years I have written a newspaper column at least twice a month. During the past several years, it has been almost once a week. Adding a stray column here or there, I would estimate that I have written some 500 columns about a variety of spiritual topics.

    But recently, as has happened several times during those years, I have found the writing difficult, the thoughts jumbled into little piles like rocks collecting on the bottom of a stream bed that has stopped its move forward.

    I remember the first time this happened.

    Tossing and turning one sleepless night, I wondered if I could possibly be losing the gift I had been given. It was a disquieting thought, so I rose from bed to find something to occupy my mind.

    Of course, as many women will do, I turned to cleaning, sorting out piles of mail that had accumulated in the den. As I threw one thing after another into the garbage I came across a greeting card that I had purchased but never sent—probably because I liked it so much I didn’t want to part with it. The photo was of a cat stretched luxuriously across the top of a roll-top desk full of "stuff," obviously basking in the sun which shone through the adjacent window. The verse read, "There’s no pleasure in having nothing to do. The fun is having lots to do and not doing it."

    Doing nothing is a concept I can’t quite get my head around, but at three in the morning, with a mind running on overtime and getting nowhere, it sounded like an incredibly wonderful experience.

    Still, being the often times stubborn Irish woman that I can be, I put aside the thought and went on cleaning, musing about the solution to my predicament. The next thing I was to pick up was a book of poetry by Emily Dickenson. Randomly I opened the pages and my eyes rested on a poem about a little brook. The first and last verses say it all: "Have you got a brook in your little heart . . . and your little draught of life is daily drunken there . . . Beware lest this little brook of life some burning noon go dry!"

    As the light began to dawn in my head, it was almost as if my faithful guardian angel could be heard muttering something like, "It’s about time!" while exhaling a sigh of relief.

    I sat in a nearby chair and considered what I had to finally acknowledge. I needed to stop writing for a time and take a respite for doing nothing—not a retreat, not a time of prayer or recollection, all of which have a purpose, but a time of no purpose other than to simply be and, in the "be-ing", be renewed and refreshed.

    So, every year, as I did then, I take a hiatus from writing. But during this time of simplicity and expectant waiting for the rain of renewal, I store up all the spiritual lessons life has to offer so I have plenty to write about when the brook is filled.

    If I were to rate my accomplishments in life, learning to make some time for "not bothering," is high on my list.

    Thanks, Christopher Robin!

    Copyright © 2010 Mary Regina Morrell

  • Is it god or is it God?


    “Make your ego porous. Will is of little importance, complaining is nothing, fame is nothing. Openness, patience, receptivity, solitude is everything.” Rainer Maria Wilke


    Today it was neither a good homily, family story or insightful friend that lead me to this page. Instead, it was a typo.


    As it is not unusual for me to be rushing to meet a deadline, I often make mistakes while typing. Yesterday was no different, and while proofreading a hastily completed lesson on the name of God as God revealed it to Moses, I realized I had typed, “I aam” instead of “I am.”


    At first I laughed because, for some strange reason, it reminded me of the fractured saying of Popeye –”I yam what I yam and that’s all that I yam!”


    It was even funnier imaging God talking with Popeye’s voice!


    But once I got past the chuckle, I continued to be intrigued by the four letters, which would make a strange name for God, unless, of course, it referred to a personal god of sorts.


    A god whose name would make a sought-after acronym for the T-shirt industry:


    I.A.A.M. — “It’s All About Me!”


    That was it! That was what I was seeing in those four letters. Certainly, with living in the world today as experience, we know firsthand this is a god that raises its ugly head too often for comfort.


    And we all know people who could wear the t-shirt, some proudly and others underneath their clothes so neither we, nor they, would notice.


    They are the ones who make it clear that they know just about everything about anything, the ones who think nothing can hold a candle to their ideas, their work, their way of doing things. The world seems to revolve around their wants and needs, and certainly, their perspective is the only one that could be considered clear. They are always right, while the rest of us see through muddy waters.


    The scary thing about this god is its power to entice. Born of our insecurities and fed by our ego, we can all too easily be led astray.


    None of us are immune.


    During one of my own trips to buy a t-shirt, while engaged in an I.A.A.M. whine session that I conveniently called prayer, God stopped me in my tracks with a short, but powerful, question: What is your motivation?


    “Whoa, let’s not go there!” was my reaction, as I ended (or so I thought) the chat we were having.


    I didn’t like that question, because it would force me to the root of the I.A.A.M mentality–the “why,” and that would mean I would really have to start looking at who I truly was and the real reason for my decisions.


    But that question was a turning point in my life, because when we start to look at the whys of our self-centeredness we start to look at the reasons for our sinfulness.


    Today that question lives on the periphery of my thoughts, ready to jump out on center stage should a decision or behavior need challenging..


    It’s a God question, one that was painful and challenging and grace-filled because it was the fruit of prayer. We all get the questions, but we don’t all hear them unless we quiet our self-chatter long enough to utter the silent prayer of the heart, the prayer of openness to God’s will that leaves us very vulnerable to the truth –even when we don’t want to hear it.


    Copyright © 2010 Mary Regina Morrell

  • A simple life brings joy to the spirit

    "Tea ceremony is a way of worshipping the beautiful and the simple. All one’s efforts are concentrated on trying to achieve perfection through the imperfect gestures of daily life. Its beauty consists in the respect with which it is performed. If a mere cup of tea can bring us closer to God, we should watch out for all the other dozens of opportunities that each ordinary day offers us." Kakuzo Okakura, tea master, as recorded by Paulo Coelho in Like the Flowing River

    Hanging on the wall in a quaint gift shop at the New Jersey shore is a hand carved wooden sign that reads, "Life doesn’t have to be perfect to be joyful." The black and white photo above the words portrays the image of a country grandma, hair pulled up in a bun, her plain cotton dress protected by a flowered print apron tied at the neck and waist.

    She stands in the doorway of a tired wooden shack. Old-fashioned baking utensils and mottled pottery are visible through the door. It’s not hard to imagine she has just finished mixing up a home-made pie or two. Obviously, she doesn’t have much, as far as money or belongings go, but she exudes an aura of contentment.

    At least for me, the image provoked feelings of wistfulness, and I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who considered purchasing the sign. Many people seem to yearn for days gone by. Of course, in reality, such a homespun country life as the one implied by the image brought with it innumerable challenges and hardships. But the message of the words still embodies an understanding of the principal of simplicity; the reality that the most meaningful things in life are not the wealth and success our culture entices us to strive for, but those moments when we realize joy in the blessings of life and love.

    The real problem doesn’t lay in our having money. The erosion of our spiritual life begins when our desire to possess the things money can buy leads us to compromises that damage our personal and family lives. When not having something destroys our joy, then it is time to acknowledge that our attachment to things other than God is leading us away from God.

    "Everything we possess that is not necessary for life or happiness becomes a burden, and scarcely a day passes that we do not add to it," writes author Robert Brault.

    As I grow older, and hopefully, wiser, I realize the truth in his words, and become increasingly aware of how much I have contributed to the weight of my own burdens; how much I have wounded the "whole" of who I am with worry and with attachment, and, ultimately, I am reminded of how far I have moved away from the spiritual principal of simplicity.

    To restore wholeness first requires a restoration of relationships, to God, to created things and other people. Within those relationships we discover the joy that leads to a deeper understanding of who we are meant to be.

    "Tis the gift to be simple," wrote Shaker Elder Joseph Brackett, Jr., in 1848 when he composed the Shaker dance song, "Simple Gifts." Once an obscure piece of music, it has become a beloved religious song across the country. As with most well-loved music, the song has been recorded and, often re-written, not always to the benefit of the original. Today we are more familiar with a revised edition that changed the simple article "the" to "a." That one little letter changed the intent of the composer, who believed that simplicity was the gift of God. Perhaps the popularity of the song stems from the fact that, deep within the human heart, we believe it, too, even when we have trouble living it.

    This man of simple faith has left the world with a simple song, a beautiful mantra for a deep and holistic spirituality:

    " ‘Tis the gift to be simple, ‘tis the gift to be free, ‘tis the gift to come down where you want to be, and when we find ourselves in the place just right, it will be in the valley of love and delight."

    Copyright © 2010 Mary Regina Morrell

  • Drinking From My Saucer

    During my travels around the Internet, I came across this poem/song lyrics entitled Drinking From My Saucer. I found several references to the author and am still not quite sure if I have it right. One sight had a copyright for Jimmy Dean, another listed John Paul Moore, 1970. In either case, I found the image charming, so I’m sharing it here, on a page meant for discovering and sharing our reasons for drinking from our saucers.

    I’ve never made a fortune and it’s probably too late now,But I don’t worry about that much, I’m happy anyhow.And as I go along life’s way, I’m reaping better than I sow,I’m drinking from my saucer ’cause my cup has overflowed..Haven’t got a lot of riches and sometimes the going’s tough,But I’ve got loving ones around me and that makes me rich enough.I thank God for his blessings and the mercies He’s bestowed,I’m drinking from my saucer ’cause my cup has overflowed..O, remember times when things went wrong,My faith wore somewhat thin,But all at once the dark clouds brokeand sun peeped through again.So, Lord, help me not to gripe about the tough rows that I’ve hoed,I’m drinking from my saucer ’cause my cup has overflowed..If God gives me strength and courageWhen the way grows steep and rough,I’ll not ask for other blessings, I’m already blessed enough.And may I never be too busy to help others bear their loads,Then I’ll keep drinking from my saucer“cause my cup has overflowed.

  • Now is the moment to love the dying

    "When all the funeral guests had left, I stood alone in my father's empty kitchen, the home of my childhood, and sobbed uncontrollably as I began our nightly ritual of making a cup of tea."  Mary Regina

    It is never painless to spend time with the dying. It is harder still when that person is young, perhaps a young mother with children, and the grief you know the family is experiencing rests close to your own heart.

    Those of us who have volunteered for Hospice, and no doubt, all the rest who work in any capacity with the dying, have all had to answer the same question: "How can you do it?"

    Certainly, it is not always easy, and most of the time the answer is beyond the power of words to explain; it simply has to be experienced. But recently I came across a quote that was full of meaning for those who serve the dying:  "The mystery of love is greater than the mystery of death."

    The words seem to echo the reality of a room filled with mementos, photos of family and precious times together, mobiles of hearts and angels hanging from a ceiling in view of a dying loved one, radios tuned to a favorite station, flowers arranged with care on a dresser that holds the bare essentials of a life once filled with activity. It's love. It's all love.

    Hospice volunteers learn early on that they are there to dispel what Mother Teresa called a "poverty of intimacy" which, she said, plagues contemporary Western civilization. We hear her words in all we do: "Speak tenderly to them. Let there be kindness in your face, in your eyes, in your smile, in the warmth of your greeting. Always have a cheerful smile. Don't only give your care, but give your heart as well."

    Within the mystery of death, love stands guard and waits, filling the moments that "are" with itself, so that the moments to come will never be empty, never devoid of someone so loved. The people of Hospice are blessed to be a part of that love, walking the journey with family and the dying themselves, and for those who have no family Hospice volunteers make sure that final days are filled with the touch and attention we all spend our lives seeking. As a dear friend explained to me of his experience as a Hospice volunteer, "It changes lives. Ours." 

    He shared the moment of that realization as he watched the eyes of a young wife and dying husband as they looked at each other, sharing all the love they could in a gaze. In that instant he realized the importance of the moments that "are," the "now" of our lives. We, like him, have learned that every moment is endowed with opportunities to love and this moment is all we have.

    And death has been our teacher.

    Copyright© 2010 by Mary Regina Morrell