Coffee for the Soul

(some rambling reflections on The Imitation of Christ, by Thomas à Kempis)

It was just a love-tap, but the kind with enough force to knock down a crooked tree.  My complacency shivers in the aftershock as all that was certain sits in a crumbled mess at my feet.  I see words written on my heart taken for the letter by me, incarnate in Him.  Then the rubble speaks an immeasurable truth to remind me:  "He must increase; I must decrease." 

There's Chicken Soup for the Soul, which inspires and warms the soul, but then there's coffee for the soul.  That's what The Imitation is.  It sparks the soul awake, kicks it into gear, gives a taste of that restlessness "until I rest in You." (Augustine)  And so continues this business of trying to "Let your religion be less of a theory and more of a love affair." (Chesterton)

I aspire to love.

Then come constant reminders that love isn't easy.  It hurts.  It requires giving giving giving of self, which gets really hard, especially when we forget it's for God. But even slaving over everyday work isn't necessary as long as the work is done with love.  As Mother Teresa said, "To work without love is slavery."

I aspire to that kind of freedom.

Speaking of freedom, we are in the midst of a fortnight praying for just that--religious liberty, both in the courts and in our hearts.  The Archbishop of Philadelphia says it well:  

Politics and the courts are important.  But our religious freedom ultimately depends on the vividness of our own Christian faith--in other words, how deeply we believe it, and how honestly we live it.  . . .  The worst enemies of religious freedom aren't 'out there' among the legion of critics who hate Christ or the Gospel or the Church, or all three.  The worst enemies are in here, with us--all of us, clergy, religious, and lay--when we live our faith with tepidness, routine, and hypocrisy.

Oops. . .

Ah, sweet, sweet Mercy!  What Love, that took my sins as thorns in the head, forgave me, and loves me still!  He whispers to me in the pages of this book, in the people around me, that it's time for me to wake up, smell the coffee, and start living life fully for Him, with Him, in Him--He who is Love.

I aspire.

Oh My Love, Won't You Sing Along?

I was in a coffee shop when I first saw his face--on a free music download card.  He looked like he was laughing to himself, which is always a good sign in my opinion.  I picked up the card with his name and the title of the song--Greg Laswell, "How the Day Sounds"--and ever since then, we've been friends.  He doesn't know that, except that I told him both times I actually met him.  But he's always had a knack for singing the music of my soul.  Melancholic and poetic, songs that rise like the tide and spin and twist and come back down.  

Friday night I went to his concert and stood front and center as he played.  Afterwards, I shook his hand, had him sign the free download card I picked up over three years ago, and chatted with him.  It didn't feel like he was an idol, but a human being, an artist like me, someone who strives to turn the pain into something beautiful, and then shares it so that others can appreciate it and know that they are not alone.  It reminds me once again that this whole human experience connects us so that no man is an island--when one of us knows pain, truth, or beauty, we all share it in communion with one another, and so we share it with Christ.

I love how quirky this video is.  And. . .is that Elijah Wood?

What Dreams May Come

As a dreaming little girl, I saw Someday as a picture perfect scene that would magically unfold when I grew up:  all my hopes and dreams would come true for all of happily ever after amen.  It was a Disney princess-contrived fairy tale, I'm sure, worsened only by the sappy chick flicks I ate up in my teens.  It's a lesson we all learn some way or another that the road to Someday isn't a red carpet lined with roses; it's the Via Dolorosa, the way of suffering.  The way to glory is the way of the Cross.

As I sat in church yesterday, thinking about my childish dream that life would painlessly (or at least more easily) unfold, I realized that if it had, I never would have come to experience the love of Christ the way that I have.  Ever since the first day I realized that Someday wasn't coming anytime soon, I found myself desperately searching for answers, for courage, for strength.  In my suffering, I heard the cry of Christ from the cross, "I thirst."  And I found that He just wants to love and be loved, the same as me.    

He brought me through one dark period of my life, but once again I find myself wandering in a dim uncertainty (though this is an altogether different kind of pain).  Life seems to be getting the better of me these days, but I've been working hard to make some changes.  Yesterday, just when I felt like I was completely lost and none of my work was paying off, He showed me in an unmistakable way through the Eucharist--a glimpse into Someday, which I now recognize to be Heaven itself--that He has not forgotten His promise to make me all new, to transform me by grace.

So today I picked up the cross and whined and complained the whole way because I'm tired and people are rude and why can't I just get out of here already?  I kept asking for grace--in the form of some comfort that it is all working out--but as Flannery O'Connor said, "All human nature vigorously resists grace because grace changes us and the change is painful."

I heard this prayer today--

A Confederate Soldier's Prayer

I asked God for strength, that I may achieve;

I was made weak, that I might learn humbly to obey.

I asked for health, that I might do greater things;

I was given infirmity, that I might do better things.

I asked for riches, that I might be happy;

I was given poverty, that I might be wise.

I asked for power, that I might have the praise of men;

I was given weakness, that I might feel the need of God.

I asked for all things, that I might enjoy life;

I was given life, that I might enjoy all things.

I got nothing that I asked for, but everything I hoped for.

Almost despite myself, my unspoken prayers were answered.

I am among all men most richly blessed.
(Author Unknown, but God bless him!)

--and now I am certain that true, transforming grace is not magic, nor fairy dust that will make us fly so we never have to face grown up problems.  It is Blood out-poured, a Life given freely--not painlessly--for us so that while we walk along the Way, we don't have to walk alone.

Grace You Can Taste

Called to be saints but it's like trying to run in a dream--

immobile, then sliding, slipping, tripping into

 icy streams--a gasp for brief relief.  

The sun as it spills through glass chapel panes sets fire--

bread broken, wine shared and the flames grow higher.  

Fire burns, but does not consume--transforms.  

Mercy in its fury embraces sorrowing souls--

become joy and hearts glow.

Every cup is a communion--

of coffee shared in smiles through gritted teeth,

of peach wine reminiscent of days spent

falling in love with the One who made the mountains

and skies dotted with stars,

of blood poured out.

Thirst brings me to my knees and I reach

for the Cup, taste the drops on my lips

in Communion with saints--

Grace.

heaven on earth