God in the Pond: On Half-Hearted Attempts at Knowing God

This work is on display at Mirarmar.  It was painted
by one of the Divine
Word Missionaries, named Carlos.
Reminds me of my childlike level of spiritual development
as well as God's tender care, playfulness and assistance.

There are so many excuses precluding quiet time with God.  It’s hard for me to unchain myself from my office desk, to get away from my mobile phone and my laptop and to just “let God do the work,” as my spiritual director said the other day.  On Sundays, I try -– almost never doing paid work, but frequently staying busy.  In an effort to extend this, for the third year in a row, I’ve gone on a weeklong retreat. I’ve joined mostly vowed nuns and priests, and a handful of retired laypeople.  For the second year, I’ve done this retreat at Miramar, which means “view of the sea.” It’s a beautiful old home in Massachusetts, very close to Cape Cod, owned and run by the Society of Divine Word Missionaries.  This year, I was on a directed retreat, which means there were no lecture-type conferences that are part of what are called “guided retreats.”  The directed retreat allows the retreatant to follow their own path.  The recommendation is four private prayer periods, in addition to attending Mass with the group.  Predictably, I found many things I felt I needed to do to take me away from the retreat.  Some I—and I’m sure you--will question as to the necessity.

I showed up without an empty journal, which is requisite on retreat (I’ve heard the recommendation to bring only your journal and a Bible).  So I went into town to scout for a notebook.  I also forgot a sun hat, which led me to the local thrift shop.  And then there were the two lobster lunches—hey, I’m not in Massachusetts that often, right, and there was a glut of lobster due to the high temperatures.  A dream about Willie Nelson led me to text some friends about going to see him perform at Farm Aid in Hershey, PA.  A concert that helps the stewards of the earth?  This is holy work, right?  Is it really any wonder that my director was expressing that I wasn’t going “deep enough” in my retreat?     

There were a number of moments that were more in keeping with the retreat.  Several times when I spent 20 minutes quietly in the meditation chapel practicing centering prayer or meditation.  Times when I consciously, slowly, ate my food, and stared out at the grounds of the retreat center silently. Occasions when I realized that even the wonders of the ocean didn’t really compare to the awesomeness and grandeur that you can tap into when your soul and God begin to meet. 

All week, I heard a delightful croaking of frogs outside my window from a pond on the Miramar property.  One of my last evenings there, I walked across the lawn to spot one of the little guys.  I slowly paced the perimeter of the water filled with lily pads, stopping whenever I heard a croak and trying to see where it came from.  And again: walking, stopping for a moment, looking, seeing nothing.  I realized I’d have to stop and be still for a very long time before a frog would make itself known to me.  And I thought that was kind of like God—that if I don’t stop for long enough, I’ll only hear enough to know that my Creator is out there, but will never be able to take in the full manifestation.  I think it’s a fairly simple conclusion from this year’s retreat, but one that’s seemed to touch several of the people with whom I’ve shared it.  I expect I’ll continue to struggle with unplugging and giving God enough of my time (and I question whether “enough” is the right word—God wants all of us).  But this morning I’ve got my votive burning and sat still for 20 minutes.  I suppose I’ll keep trying. 

On Experimenting with Obedience

As I discern about committing to a life of poverty, chastity and obedience, I wonder which might be hardest for me.  My guess: obedience.

My mom has described me as having been a willful child.  More recently I've been called a contrarian, and a person who delivers strong opinions about everything.  It seems innate.  Even when I don't make a conscious decision to change things to meet my needs, my mind/body seems to do it on its own.  Last week, I became suddenly convinced that an appointment was at 9 a.m., even though it's 8:30 every other week. Presumably my body had decided to sleep in.  This is not the first time I've done this sort of thing of unconscious rescheduling.

These days, to see how I'd handle obedience, I've been experimenting with it in minor ways.  Recently, during a work building remodeling/transition, a manager put a table in the middle of an open office space.  And left it there.  A permanent fixture for impromptu meetings.  I have a real, palpable dislike of blocked passageways--a Feng Shui hangup that makes me physically uncomfortable.  When I unconsciously spoke out in horror about the hurdle, this manager's manager said I should feel welcome to bring it up.  But I knew that the table-choosing manager really wanted this furniture and wasn't getting much else that she wanted in the transition.  So I decided to bite my tongue.  It mostly worked.  Other than now, as I write about the table and the thought of it makes my leg want to kick something, I usually don't think about it at all.  It's just another obstacle in life to step around.

Of course, I'm not sure how a lifetime of obedience would go for me.  Heck, I'm not even sure I did the right thing in biting my tongue, or that this is the kind of thing is what obedience is all about.  Earlier today I met with a vocation director and she talked to me about how the friction in community life is a path to holiness.  It reminded me of a quote in a book I'm reading about Thomas Merton: "The discipline [of writing] transformed him from a self-confessed middle-class prig into a struggling bohemian artist seek to forge in the smithy of his soul the uncreated conscience of his race" (editor Robert Inchausti). I can only suspect that what may be most difficult for me--community life and obedience--will be part of my spiritual path, the place where my soul is forged and formed.

Moving Toward The Light

Starting tomorrow, I'm doing the stereotypical and sometimes ridiculed ritual of giving up food for Lent.  But it's not just chocolate in particular or coffee or sweets that are on the chopping block.  It's all of those things, to some degree.  I'm uniting my recently faltering attempts to lose weight and to get more active and stronger, with Christ's Lenten journey.  When I think about the story of Jesus standing on the hillside with Satan, overlooking the shining city that he could have had, I think, "That must have looked awfully yummy."  It takes courage and discipline to take a deep breath and stand back and say, "I don't need this."   Overeating is something that I do to avoid boredom or a task that makes me nervous, or requires effort.  Or today, eating with family, I ate at a restaurant a meal that I later learned was unbelievably laden with carbs and fat. Recently I've been thinking about some of the costs of this food addiction, things that go far beyond how one looks.  In a previous post, I alluded to the idea that there's a real case to be made for maintaining a healthy weight to do my part in our nation's health care cost crisis.  We all know that a healthier body requires fewer doctor's visits and the cost therein.  Let's save those health care dollars for our brethren who really need them!  Last week, for the radio program I host, I interviewed a writer about the Endangered Species Act.  He mentioned that one of the ways to take care of our habitat for the animals God has created is to reduce consumption.  He didn't literally mean just food consumption.  But it's a good place to start.  When we reduce or eliminate our meat intake, we eat foods that are produced in a way that maintains habitat for animals, that require less energy than, say, the Cadillac of our food pyramid--beef.  When we eat less, we don't need as much fuel to haul ourselves and our groceries around, either.  So with these considerations in mind, I head off into the rest of Lent, without the constant presence of a plate in front of me.