The Prodigal Patient

"You have beautiful teeth," the dentist and his hygienists told me  "But they're extremely weak and cavity-prone.  There's not really anything you can do about that."

This was their explanation for why, after I'd spent the last six months putting extra work into taking special care of my teeth, I returned to find out that I had two cavities.

That incident was a few years ago, and I kind of gave up on the dentist after that--why bother?  I wondered.  If there's nothing I can do, why go through the torture of sitting in a sticky chair with a blinding light in my eyes while someone scrapes my teeth and pokes my gums with a piece of metal?  I remembered all the times I'd spent in the chair in my youth with my mouth propped open by metal contraptions, my gums shot up with Novocaine, and my teeth filled with who-knows-what. *shudder*  No, I decided to spare myself anymore of that pain.

Lately though, I've had a little voice in my ear telling me how important it is to visit the dentist regularly, how it's good to have your teeth cleaned by someone who knows what they're doing every once in awhile as a refresher and a preventative for future disease and decay.

Finally, the prodigal patient returned.  I was received with a fair scolding, then loaded down with a new toothbrush, free floss, and coupons for fluoride rinse to encourage me to do better this time around.

A few days later, I stood in line for confession and studied the crucifix at the front of the church.  I suddenly imagined Jesus as a dentist, scraping away at the plaque on my soul.  Like my teeth, I am weak (and sinful), and there's not much I can do about it except keep trying to do what He tells me--and keep coming back to the sacraments for a deep cleaning, for guidance, for grace.

Maybe that's the best part--God  not only receives us back with open arms, but He also doesn't scold (though sometimes the transformation comes with pain), and He always loads us up with grace for the journey, to restore us, to nourish us so that we can do better next time.

inertia

an object in motion wants to stay in motion

but not me

i fly and flit then come back down

and burrow in my happy.

pass by a gas station late at night
and hear the murmur of souls filling up
to keep on the journey.
there they are but i am gone
and keep moving
in my little red car driving
with the windows down
and i keep moving--where does that mean i am?

opportunities make themselves known,

but we remain faceless friends.

the future about to take shape goes back to what it always has been--
i am tired and oddly relieved

to be out of control and in the familiar.

i would have stopped time watching shooting stars in a boat on a lake,

but then i wouldn't have lived for months in the alps with my second family.
i would have stopped time riding for freedom in the country,
but then i wouldn't have splashed through sprinklers in a moonlight serenade.

these are mere moments--

sprinkles

of grace
in a cup of black coffee
in a heart beating fear.

When Life Gets You Down. . .Stick Your Head Out the Window

My brain was on the fritz.  It was a combination of weak morning coffee, writer's block, and then a wave of indecision.

I vocalized my inner turmoil (entirely consisting of petty first world problems) as we drove down the street.

He said, "Look, do you see that dog?"

I saw the dog in the car ahead of us, his head sticking out the window to catch the breeze.  "Yes."

"That dog couldn't be happier than he is right now. Could. Not. Be. Happier.  You need to be like the dog!  Just be.  Be the dog."

I took his hand and squeezed it.  "I should," I said.  "I really should be more like the dog."  But I was still thinking about my indecision.  "I just, I shouldn't get a latte.  They're so expensive."

He rolled his eyes.  "I'll buy it for you."

"No, I don't want you to--"

He rolled down his window.  "I'll be out here if you need me."

And he stuck his head out.  Like the dog.

Out of Control

      Sometimes the obscurities of life become overwhelming and it feels like I simply can't get a grip on anything--nothing is in my control and it all seems to be slipping, slipping away. . .like the dream that feels real, but the details of which fade quickly in the light of day.  Try as I might, I can't fit the pieces together to make sense of anything.  My world crumbles around me and I am helpless to stop it.
      In the turmoil, I desire peace--answers to put my mind at ease.  But the more I grasp for answers, the more unsettled I become.  It's when I remember that there is Something bigger than me at work--love, the love of God, the will of God moving and working through me.  This is my anchor of peace.  I always seem to know that it's there, that it's all I need, but living this truth requires being mindful of it constantly--constant trust and surrender in acceptance of the mystery. 
      I've come to find that the journey of faith isn't about what I plan to do with my life or my future.  It is about the becoming, about learning how to know and do and understand God's will in the moments.  It's being my best self and putting forth my best effort in all I do.  It requires practice and patience, but leads to finding joy simply in taking care of life's responsibilities in the present, and responding to everything with love.

"That Christ's love is extravagant means that it is always better to err on the side of hungering too much, rather than too little; better to wear our hearts on our sleeves rather than let them harden from cynicism and despair; better to be willing to let our hunger make us look like fools  than to pretend we have life under control and that our hunger doesn't matter. To love Christ is to suffer the full unanesthetized pain of not being in control, not being able to "make" things go our way, not being able to make the edges of life match up. To attend Mass is to bow to mystery, not certainty."  ~Heather King  (emphasis mine)

Life is so rich. . .and so busy. . .and so hard. . . and so good. . . I am so thankful.

to ponder

"There are no ordinary moments."  

(The Peaceful Warrior)

The pain, the joy, the fear, the success, the frustration, the laughter, the longing, the misery--all are extraordinary, unrepeatable gifts, and each one changes us.  I'm thankful for the moments, and I aspire to be thankful in them as well.  And since I don't want to drag this post out by filling it with the many meanderings of my mind, I will leave it at that. 

Surprised By Joy

[*Disclaimer*  The title of this post is also the title of a book by C.S. Lewis that I have neither read nor know much about.  I just like the way it sounds.]

Exactly two years ago today I left my college town as a post-grad nomad. . .I had big dreams in my heart as I drove away from that smelly old mining town rusting along the Ohio River.  I can tell you that none of those dreams came true, and the funny thing that I never even thought I would say is, I'm so thankful they didn't.  

After eighteen years as a student who (NerdAlert) loved school, I'm still just not really sure what else to do, other than make coffee.  When they asked me what I wanted to be when I grow up, I said I wanted to be a ballerina (I never took a single lesson) or an actress (I have terrible stage fright, and though I find theater fun, I never found it very fulfilling) or the president (but only so I could outlaw abortion and then hang out in the White House).  

My concept of reality wasn't very realistic.  Still isn't, actually.  If you had told me then that I would be where I am today, though. . .I don't know what I would have done, but I'm glad you didn't.  It's been a struggle to get here, but I've enjoyed watching the mystery unfold.  I can't say that I wouldn't like to change a few things, but without those particular causes for suffering, I wouldn't have also found a particular cause for joy.

Reality has a way of checking itself, and it seems to do this in waves for me.  Often when I find my brain about to explode from the pressure of it all, I am surprised by this unique joy (a happiness I really never thought I could feel), and all the overwhelming thoughts weighing me down lose their heaviness.  They take on color and fire and become like rainbow confetti.  Then I welcome the explosion, because that means it's time to party.