Once upon a time in Rome, during the reign of the Emperor Diocletian (in the third century), a young girl gave her life in witness to Christ under harrowing circumstances hard to imagine. She did this in spite of frightened parents, repeated and successively more cruel tortures, threats, and even persuasive words and temptations from those around her. She also spent some time chained, bleeding, and broken in the Emperor’s dungeon. There Mary is said to have appeared to her and healed her, strengthening her resolve with the promise of victory and the hope of Heaven. Some of her tormenters were converted to Christ by this child’s astonishing courage, faith and perseverance through punishment after punishment.
A Reading from from Book of Revelation
Whoever has ears, let them hear what the Spirit says to the churches. To the one who is victorious, I will give some of the hidden manna…
Ihave come to the top of the mountain to a place we now call, St. Baume (Holy Balm) * to visit my patroness, St.Mary Magdalene. I am not in as good a shape as I used to be. Getting myself up this mountain was not that much fun for me, plus I’m very banged up.
But now that I am here, I feel refreshed by her smile when she comes out of the cave to meet me. She is on her way somewhere with a water jug, so I just follow her. She is watering what looks like a kitchen garden, with flowers planted in between the vegetables. She seems to smile at every plant.
Back at the mouth of her cave, she takes my backpack off my shoulders, dusts me off, invites me in.
I feel a lot better now, as she sets out bread and olives on a piece of clean, rough cloth, setting a wild flower in the middle.
My eyes adjust to the comparative darkness, and I look around me at her hermit’s cave. It is sparse, with only the necessary things for living. Knowing her, I am not surprised to see that she often brings in flowers from outside, set in little clay drinking cups in various places where she could balance one.
The only thing I didn’t expect was the art. The cave walls are full of simple, colorful murals. Jumping up to look more closely, I can see they are vignettes, that they tell a story. I am thrilled when I realize it is the Gospel story. I know the actual written Gospel was probably never seen by St. Mary Magdalene, but I also know she lived this story, and that some of it rests on her testimony.
Delighted, I ponder over several of these pictures.
She is grinning over my shoulder, reaching out to touch a figure of Jesus teaching with his arms wide. She guides me to other paintings, clearly hers, touching them, chuckling at some of them, because of memories of her own.
I wonder how she did these with the scant materials available to her. I think of the day of Pentecost, at which she was present, and reason that anyone given the power to speak languages previously unknown to her in order to preach the Gospel and praise God so that all can understand, probably has the ability to preach it in art in a mountain cave in some mysterious way.
I am surprised to find a picture of myself with Jesus. “Hey that’s me!” She smiles. Some scenes from my life are mixed in with the Gospel story as if I were part of it. Other depictions I recognize as my own life, the painting showing Jesus taking part. In places, it is hard to tell which story is which.
I reflect that the Gospel is not just a story that happened a long time ago; it is alive and happening every day, and we are each part of it.
“It is no longer I who live but Christ who lives in me.”
Turning back to where I had been sitting, I notice there is a stream running through the cave. It seems to come from somewhere within the mountain, and to flow out of the mouth of the cave, and down.
I have never seen anything like that before.
This is a good opportunity to change the bandages on my wound again. As I begin to remove the sweaty, stinging cloth from my chest wound, she watches with concern.
She has me kneel at the edge of the water. She brings a basket, setting it beside us. She dips a small pitcher into the stream and pours the water onto the wound. She pulls from her basket a broken alabaster jar I recognize, anointing the deep wound gently with fragrant ointment.
I feel a deep sense of peace, my breathing becoming easier as warmth spreads though my body.
I have had this wound such a long time, I had forgotten how painful it has been. It has never healed, only become deeper, more jagged, bleeding so I have to change the bandages on it several times a day.
The relief is tremendous.
Everywhere the water splashed on the rock floor, tiny white flowers have sprung up, like glittering little stars in the dim light of the cave. She picks one and hands it it to me.
The chest wound, I am surprised to see, is still there. Not only that, but it bleeds still, perhaps more, and the blood drizzles down mixed with water now.
I am surprised, I admit, that it is still there, given the sense of healing I feel.
She explains to me that this kind of wound, this wound of the heart I bear, is what she calls, a “royal wound,” because it is joined to the wound in the Heart of Jesus.
She encourages me to remember the wounds endured by the heart of Jesus: his betrayal, his agony, the abandonment of those who believed in him, the misunderstanding, the mockery and rejection, the torture he underwent, the vinegar to drink in his suffering, his dying cry to the Father from the cross, the last indignity of the lance to his broken heart. Didn’t I remember the blood and water that flowed out as a sign of grace and mercy for us and of the birth of the Church from his wounded side?
I had not thought the worst and latest injuries to my wound qualified. Maybe I thought that because the pain seemed so meaningless to me at the time; just a horrible thing I would never recover from.
I used to understand this lesson she is teaching me. At a certain point it had stopped making sense to me. I realize that does not make what she is saying any less true.
Whether a wound received is meaningless and cruel or if it is one sustained with love, and anointed with personal meaning; either way, Jesus transforms it into his own because we belong to him and we share his life.
He wants our wounded hearts to bleed clean and uninfected, to become, by his grace, life giving and effective, drawing his grace into them and out to the world.
The Magdalene and I sit quietly for a while, and I enjoy the calm I feel.
She squeezes my hand and tells me that with time and holy living, the blood and water I am seeing flow out of my heart now will become invisible, and the wound will be a quiet, hidden scar. I will feel a gentle ache from time to time, and I should let it serve to remind me of this day; of this love, of the heart of Jesus, and of my new chance at life.
Now she leads me along the stream, reaching back for my hand. We pick our way through more and more glittering flowers toward the heart of the mountain.
Suddenly there is space and light and thousands on thousands of people of all races and all times, singing and praying. I realize this is mass, Jesus himself is the priest at God’s alter, under which a river flows, the beginnings of the mountain stream.
We hear the word of God from him reverently. We go up for Holy Communion with all the people, filled with joy and awe. We receive Communion from his hand. Together we kiss his feet.
We pray with all the people for a long, happy time.
Then she leads me back to her cave where it is quiet, and a golden late afternoon sun lights the murals on her wall.
She dips my fingers into a small bowl of a deep red paste, takes my hand, and presses it to a blank spot next to her pictures of the Gospel.
I begin to paint.
*The legend of St. Mary Magdalene’s life after the recorded events of the Gospel is that she and her brother and sister ended up in what is now France, where they preached the Gospel. Eventually the Magdalene was said to have retired as a hermit to a mountain cave. Her remains are there and are venerated there to this day. Her feast is on July 22.
Let’s talk about the sexual abuse crisis in the Church again.
I don’t see anything changing.
I don’t see survivors of abuse being put first. I hear innocuous (at best) statements from the hierarchy that sound as if they consulted lawyers before they composed them. I have even heard murmurs that the Church is being persecuted. I am ashamed to say I have even heard this from the pulpit.
I have heard some of the laity blaming the abuse crisis on whatever their pet issue is with the Church.
As a survivor of child rape and various types of sexual abuse from different people throughout my childhood and adolescence, and after years of therapy, I feel I have some authority on this subject though my abuse was not Church related. It is not gay people priest or lay that caused this. It is not celibacy. It is not the lack of female power in the Church. As we are finding out, nuns have also sexually abused children as well, and nuns have been raped and forced into abortion.
The origin of sexual abuse is the sickness of the offender. Not everyone in power becomes a sex offender just like everyone at a party doesn’t become dangerously drunk. There are s lot of things going into this.
I have learned that when there is sexual abuse, similar to someone with an addiction, the problem becomes a family “disease.” A certain configuration happens in the family. There are roles everyone starts playing in order not to speak truth about the problem or to cover it up to protect the whole (or the image of the whole.) Everyone begins to protect the addict or abuser. Anyone who is evidence of the problem or tries to deal with it in an honest way will be silenced in one way or another. The Church is a family. We are sick with this problem.
The Bishops have played their roles and protected the whole (or so they thought) at the expense of the victims and really, in the end, at the expense of the whole.
Some things I think we need to deal with are first figure out how to protect children, seminarians, and nuns in a way that does not just please lawyers or cover for us, but really does something.
Then we need to deal with the enablers of abuse and make sure there is no more of that through education and support perhaps. Maybe we need to bring in other people for them to be accountable to about this rather than just one another. Obviously that is too hard for the bishops to do. They have tried and massively failed again and again. I am not an expert on fixing this problem. I mostly know how not to fix it.
It seems to me we then need to look at the abusers themselves. What’s going on with these people? What makes them do that? What needs to happen to permanently stop their behavior? They need to be stopped. We have to protect others. I also believe the Church is about redemption. What needs to be done for their healing? Once they are removed from access to children and the vulnerable, and they are willing to take responsibility, face just consequences, pursue treatment they should be helped to redeem their lives somehow though they should never be around children again if they have abused a child. If they are not helped in an effective way to heal they will continue to find ways to offend as surely as an alcoholic will find ways to drink.
As a Catholic abuse survivor I feel responsible to speak up. Also people should know it is hard for me (and I can only imagine how hard it is for survivors of clergy sexual abuse) to hear about all this without being triggered into my P.T.S.D.
People say ridiculous things on social media about sexual abuse and they don’t know what they are talking about and how much their attitude hurts survivors to hear.
I have started not to want to see Bishops and Cardinals in their regalia. Seeing their black robes, red hats and big crosses, or their crosiers and miters makes me feel nauseated now even though there are three Bishops I know personally and love dearly. It’s not them personally- I feel better the ones I know are there actually. The nausea is what has happened and how I don’t see anything changing. “Put it all away,” I think.”Why not wear the simple robes of poor Friars as a sign of repentance?”
The clothes they now wear are signs of status and power that just seem so inappropriate right now. I used to like the outfits because they were historic. I don’t like them anymore.
As I have said before all this behavior of secrecy and self/institutional protection even when it comes to how they have at times treated victims of abuse like enemies is very typical also of a family or any group in which the sickness of sexual abuse has or is occurring. This is what humans do when there is sexual abuse. They protect themselves even at the expense of the abused. They protect the group. They protect the perpetrators. It happened to me and it’s happening to the survivors of clerical abuse too.
I have read about and spoken to clergy abuse survivors who met with their Bishops and came away really upset, feeling unheard and uncared for and that nothing has or will change. “Come forward,” they say, seeming to have no idea how hard that is for people like us. Most of us have had more than enough of people who don’t listen and don’t help. Sometimes I think that part of my experience has been worse than the abuse itself. It’s re-traumatizing.
The hierarchy does not seem to understand how angry the laity is, either. We want to see Jesus purifying the Temple with a whip cord and overturning some tables. Now. Now.
We don’t see that. Don’t they understand? People are losing their faith. People are leaving the Church they love.
I am deeply Catholic. I am an obedient daughter of the Church (though obviously not perfect) and I am having thoughts like, “How dare you? Why should we listen to y’all anymore? How can you tell US what to do? How can you ask us for money?”
I have to drag myself to mass sometimes. I don’t want to leave Jesus because of Judas. I believe the Church is true. So do so many of us. What are we supposed to do? This is our home, and the Eucharist is at the center of our Catholic life. I refuse to leave. I never will.
I don’t know what to do with all this. I don’t want to read this stuff in the news anymore. It literally makes me sick.
I resent how I had to stop being a Eucharistic Minister because I can’t handle the classes they make us take about sexual abuse in order to serve. This rule is well meaning I know. But….why do WE have to take those classes? YOU take them!
I don’t, as a survivor, think classes would have had any effect on my abusers or their enablers.
After years of inner struggle about those classes I made a call about it. It was hard for me to explain my problem but I got the Diocese to let me take an alternative one- on- one class with a kindly gentle person. She didn’t even hardly mention abuse to me, just the ethics guidelines. But I broke out in hives immediately afterward and felt terrible emotionally for days.
I don’t think those classes help. I worry about other survivors taking them, especially those who don’t realize yet the reality of what happened to them and aren’t ready to deal with it. Those in charge should have trained psychologists available in case someone has a breakdown.
Something like this happened to me before in a different way early in my process when I was young. I was not ready at all. I went home suicidal and feeling like cutting myself. What business do they have risking traumatizing abuse survivors anyway? It is cruel and irresponsible.
I have seen nothing from our leaders that gives me any hope of any meaningful change. I want to see them in sackcloth and ashes. I don’t see that.
My socioeconomic status is fairly low. I do not wield worldly power.
I have been praying, though. Praying and starting to avoid news about the crisis for now.
Here’s what I have prayerfully come up with, and I hope some of you will join me. Starting on the Memorial of Our Lady of Sorrows, September 15, I am going to start wearing black to mass, every mass I attend. I will wear black next to Our Lady whose children have been crucified and continue to be crucified.
I am an obedient and loving daughter of the Church and I mean no disrespect. But I am in mourning with Our Lady. I want Judas to see and repent. I want to never forget and for no one to forget the victims. I want children and nuns protected. I want actual change. I want to see humility and repentance not the protection of power.
#Wearblacktomass in honor of Our Lady’s tears. When they see us they will see her and all her wounded children.
Lectio Divina (Holy Reading) is an ancient Christian way to pray the Scriptures. It involves reading a passage of the Bible, listening to God in silence, responding back to God in prayer, and then resting in silent prayer.
To pray Lectio Divina, you will need:
Some quiet, private time.
A comfortable place to sit.
A note book and something to write with
An open, receptive heart
Make yourself comfortable in whatever way you can best
You might begin, after the sign of the cross, with a vocal prayer to the Holy Spirit. I like this one:
Come, Holy Spirit,
come by means
of the powerful intercession
of the Immaculate Heart of Mary,
Thy well beloved spouse.”
Step 1: Lectio
Have a passage chosen ahead of time. I usually choose something from the mass readings of the day, particularly the Gospel.
Read the passage aloud, slowly and reflectively.
As you hear the Scripture passage, listen for a word, phrase or sentence that stands out to you. (Don’t worry, one will.)
After the third time reading the passage through, write your word or phrase into the note book.
The Benedictine monks, who most developed this prayer form, called this note book a “florilegium,” meaning, “book of flowers.” Writing your verse or phrase down will help you focus as you pray, and be fruitful for later perusal, discussion with soul friends, or for future prayer and reflection.
This word or passage that stands out as you hear the Word of God, is considered to be the Holy Spirit speaking to you.
Step 2: Meditatio
You may want to set a timer for this section of the prayer. Try to make it a light, non- jarring sound. I have an app on my kindle and my phone also with a nice Tibetan bell sound for this purpose.
As to the time duration, ten to twenty minutes should do it. But even five is OK if that is all the time you have.
This time will be silent, eyes closed.
• Inwardly repeat your word or phrase with expectation. As you ponder it, apply it to your life and relationship with God. Let yourself be guided by the Holy Spirit, allowing Him to make clear His message to you.
When your mind wanders, gently bring it back to your word or phrase, placing yourself once more in God’s presence.
• Ask the Lord, “What are you saying to me in this word or phrase?”
Step 3 Oratio
After the timer goes off, take a moment or maybe a few moments to respond with a prayer back to God about what He has lead you to understand or given to you during meditatio.
You might wish to write your prayer response into the notebook and to pray it aloud.
Step 4 Contemplatio
This usually means to rest in God’s Heart in silence.
Again, set the timer, perhaps for 10-20 minutes as during the meditatio, close your eyes, place yourself in the presence of God, and rest lovingly there together with him.
If it is hard for you to do this, you might choose a prayer word like the Name of Jesus, Mary, or the word, “God,” “love” or “peace,” for your mind to hold onto like a walking stick as it travels in quiet over the next few minutes.
When the time is up, you may wish to pray aloud the Our Father.
End with the sign of the cross.
Blessed are those who hear the word of God
– and cherish it in their hearts
(a responsory from the Liturgy of the Hours)
If you pray Lectio Divina on a regular basis it becomes second nature. When you hear God’s word.at mass, say, you may notice you go through this process in a brief way. You will find the Word and praying it as an outflow into daily life and activities.
This method of prayer is well developed over centuries. You will pray it in excellent company: the Communion of Saints, Christians all over the world, and the Holy Spirit.
God’s Word is active and alive, (Hebrews 4:12) always does what God sends it to do, and never returns to him void. So we can pray it, internalize and live it.
May our souls magnify the Lord.
Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly… (Colossians 3:16a)
When I go to sleep, I take time, after I get comfortable, to let myself be loved and to feel that God surrounds and fills me with His loving, protective presence. Early in my young widowhood, I used to make it a habit to say, as I sank into my bed, “Into Your hands, I commit my spirit.” I would think to myself, “my spirit….. and everything else.”
I love sleeping, and I love naps. Naps are a kind of any time Sabbath, a rare and splendid solitude. Naps are prayer. Naps are a letting go into God, right in the middle of the day. They are a form of contemplation, really. A nap can even be a dreamy Lectio Divina. I love falling asleep to a quiet recording of one of the Gospels.
I loved it when I found out that St, Therese of Lisieux, Carmelite Nun, and Doctor of the Church, used to fall asleep sometimes during the set hours of solitary prayer in her cell. She wasn’t really supposed to do that. It was an accident. She didn’t feel bad about it, though. She saw it as falling asleep in her Father’s arms. What could be better than that?
Catherine Doherty, in her wonderful book, Poustinia, says,
“Sometimes we are so exhausted mentally, morally, and physically, we can’t do much of anything… we just flop down! Well, to sleep in the arms of Christ is a pretty good idea. You don’t have to do anything. It’s being simple in your relationship with God.”
Holy Naps can also be shared, of course. When my kids were younger, and their dad was still alive, we had a tradition of the Sunday Family Nap. We all cuddled and fell asleep listening to music or a story, and by the time the recording stopped, everyone was asleep. It was a holy Sabbath rest, and I continued to honor it with the kids for years to come.
My second husband and I found that naps were indispensable in dealing with the stress of fighting cancer. We would pretend cancer couldn’t follow us into our bed, and we liked to put on one of those relaxation recordings, wrap the rosary around each other’s hands as a joined prayer, and sleep that way.
Jesus said He would give us rest. But we are to come to Him for it.
“Come to me, all you are are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
I like to think about how he said to St. Faustina,
Know, My daughter, that the ardor of your heart is pleasing to Me. And just as you desire ardently to become united with Me in Holy Communion, so too do I desire to give Myself wholly to you; and as a reward for your zeal, rest on My Heart (Diary, 826).
This is what I like to do, lay my head on Jesus’ Heart, like St. John did at the Last Supper. I let myself be loved and comforted and healed by sleeping there like a tired little bird in the crook of His arm.
So have a nap. Make it a nap of restoration and silent love.
Expect great things from a holy nap.
“He pours gifts on His beloved while they sleep.” Psalm 127
Don’t feel guilty about relishing a good nap, if you can get one; the kind where you know you’re sleeping, and you’re happy about it. Be happy about it. You need it!
As my daughter, Maire’s, friend, April, says, “We need naps after our naps!”
Sweet dreams. And may the love of God enfold you in all your naps!
I remember learning the Hail Mary when I was 20. I was dating the Catholic boy who I would one day marry. I was curious about the Hail Mary, never having heard more than the first line of it in a movie.
I asked him to teach it to me. After a few tries, I still wasn’t picking it up well. He was frustrated. I asked, “How fast did you pick it up when you learned it?” He said he didn’t remember ever not knowing it. I was impressed.
As for me, I received it as something precious and exotic. Once I finally learned it, I could hardly stop praying it. I went on to learn from him how to pray the rosary. I didn’t know what to make of many of the stories to be pondered during its recitation, but I prayed it anyway, making the best of it. I interpreted the mysteries of the rosary in my own way that made sense to me, until, gently, the stories started to change me. The Gospel became for me, not just an old story I was learning about, but something that was happening still, even in my life as I lived it.
At the center of the Hail Mary is JESUS. I didn’t know what to make of Him, either. But I held Mary’s hand like a child until she led me into the great romance of my life; Jesus: Jesus in His Catholic Church, Jesus in the Word of God, Jesus as experienced personally and within, Jesus shining through human love, Jesus in the Eucharist, Jesus in the mercy of the confessional, Jesus in Mary, Jesus in the lives of the Saints, Jesus, inseparable from life and being itself.
All that stuff used to freak me out. But now it’s everything to me.
The Hail Mary is half Scripture. The second half is a product of the Church’s prayer response and reflection, over time, on the first half already given to us. Elizabeth repeats Gabriel’s greeting as she recognizes Mary as Queen Mother, confirming her in her mission by her own humble words of wonder, joy, and encouragement, filled with the Holy Spirit. Mary responded with her song of the Gospel that we call the Magnificat. (See Lk. 1-39-56)
What must have passed between these earliest Church Mothers, these prophetesses, and friends, during Mary’s three month stay at Elizabeth and Zechariah’s house? I imagine that three months was a lovely weaving, as in the lives and friendships of many women, of daily work, love and prayer; maybe for them it was dishes and divine secrets, cooking and singing Psalms, sewing baby clothes, drawing water, feeding the animals, tending the fire, breath-catching prophesy, washing and folding, praying and cleaning, laughing and crying.
Maybe Elizabeth gave Mary tips on morning sickness before the household recited the Sh’ma. (Dt. 6:4) Perhaps there were harmless jokes on the speechless Zechariah. What did they think when they went to the Temple on the Sabbath knowing what only they knew?
I imagine they pondered the Scriptures, pulled weeds, planted seeds.
They must have encouraged one another.
What was it like in their quiet moments?
Did they star gaze at night in humble awe, overcome once again with the mercy, greatness, and faithfulness of God, at the the ancient promise He was fulfilling in their persons? How amazing it must have felt that it was them in the midst of it, at the epicenter of this secret new beginning for humanity.
How they must have grown in faith, in love, and determination, in the presence of the Holy Spirit in their relationship, this first Christ centered friendship, this prototype of the Church.
What did they talk about as they swept the floor, watched the sunset, walked with the silent Zechariah after dinner?
Mary was most likely present at the birth of John the Baptist along with the woman neighbors who would have come to help. It seems she would have stayed for the circumcision and naming ceremony (Lk. 1: 57-80) as well. Did she stand in awe beside Elizabeth and witness the return of Zechariah’s speech with his own beautiful, prophetic song? I bet she did.
When Elizabeth watched Mary go, I wonder if she prayed that start of the Hail Mary again, to accompany the younger woman on her way, and to lift her up in prayer as she went home to face all that she had to face, and to do all that she must do?
I think of my friends, my soul sisters, who love, confirm, walk with, and encourage one another every day in our own Christ centered relationships. Through them I have often known the Holy Spirit’s presence and confirmation, love and strength. I have often thought, over the years, that there was nothing more beautiful to me than their faces at prayer, than being in the midst of their love, their work, as they transform the world around them. I would not be myself without their friendship. I would have been someone else.
I think of my friendship with Mary and how it has changed my life beyond recognition.
And I have to say a Hail Mary.
Because I love my life!
On this last day of May, of this month of Mary, this feast of the Visitation, let us say a Hail Mary together with gratitude. Pray another in thanksgiving for your friends, and another for all the intentions of Mary and St. Elizabeth as they continue their work together in Heaven for the Kingdom of God.
Ascension Day is traditionally celebrated today in the Church, and it is also considered the first day of the first novena, as Mary and the Disciples remained in Jerusalem to pray for nine days for the coming of the promised Holy Spirit. This is the heart of our novena tradition.
A novena can be a special time between God and the praying soul, a pilgrimage of transformation and insight, as well as a way of “storming heaven,” with a petition. A novena prayed with faith is also a time of expectant waiting.
Whatever I am praying for, I try to ask with an open heart, one that is actively seeking God’s will.
Sometimes God does not give me what I thought I wanted when I began. Sometimes he changes me instead.
Sometimes I begin to get a sense that I should ask for something different than the petition I started with. My prayer seems to be redirected. Maybe this is so that I might pray with the Holy Spirit rather than just out of my own will.
I know, dearest Mother, that you want me to seek God’s holy Will concerning my request. If what I ask for should not be granted, pray that I may receive that which will be of greater benefit to my soul, [and the souls for whom I pray.] ~ from the Novena to Our Lady of the Rosary
Other times, my single-mindedness of purpose grows and I continue with my petition, like the “persistent widow” I am.
When I begin a novena, I am not sure what God will do but I know he will do something!
I try to be attentive to what God may want to say to me during this time of focussed, dedicated prayer.
The divine synchronicity interwoven with daily life reminds me that heaven is near, and that God is always speaking.
The symbolic meaning of having a dove land on the hood of my car and look through the windshield at me while I am praying at a red light may seem hard to miss. But it is possible to think nothing of it. I want to notice and make the connection.
If I dedicate and consecrate these nine days of prayer to cultivating my awareness of God’s voice speaking through life itself as it happens, a novena can be a time of becoming attuned to Holy Spirit and wonder.
If I am praying a novena to a particular saint, St. Therese, let us say, I try to find ways to weave her presence into my life. I may read about her or read from her writings during that time. I will talk to her as I go about my day, ask her to join me in my work and prayers.
I might do small acts of service in her honor; especially the kind she liked during her life on earth, the sneaky kind.
I may make use of imaginative prayer to go into the situation I am praying about, letting St. Therese lead me in bringing God’s light into darkness, to let her show me something, or to visually surround the people involved, with God’s love, with hers, and with mine.
I often ask friends or family to join me in praying a novena. Jesus encouraged us to join together when we ask for something, and it encourages me to know that someone I love is praying along with me.
I like to to begin a novena by going to Confession.
It always seems to me that I can “hear” God better after Confession. The grace released into my life from the sacrament enlivens my prayer.
At mass I may offer my reception of Holy Communion for the person or intentions I am praying for.
I try to drop in at church and visit Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament more often during my novena too, even if only for a moment. I can bring all my concerns there to him for healing; setting them at the foot of his alter for him to arrange in divine order. In his Eucharistic presence, my intentions are blessed, and my troubled heart can rest.
Sometimes I plan a series of nine Scripture verses that I think correspond well with my novena, one for each day to reflect on during the day. Bringing God’s Holy Word into my prayer deepens and interconnects the experience. “God’s word is alive.” Also it never returns to God void but always does what he sends it to do. I trust the word to act on my heart and to return to the Lord full.
I usually give up something at least for a day, or for the duration of the novena. This may be something small, like sugar in my coffee, listening to music in the car, or my favorite drink. St. Therese said her greatest weapons were “prayer and sacrifice.” Fasting and prayer are well established practices for us in our faith when we are commending a situation to God.
Right now I am keeping a novena journal. In it I am recording my prayers, thoughts, insights, Scripture passages and events that stand out to me during this time. It seems to be a fruitful and helpful way to pray, reflect, and notice how God is working in my life through my novena. I look forward to reading it through at the end.
Often when we pray a novena, it is because we are suffering in some way. Part of praying a novena meaningfully can be offering our suffering in union with the suffering of Jesus, that it may be redemptive for others, especially those for whom we pray. St. Therese once offered her difficult walk across the infirmary when she was very ill, for missionaries.
A novena can be a transforming experience when lived and prayed deeply; both for ourselves and those around us.
I like to give thanks at the end of a novena, for all God has done, is doing, and will do in response to my petition, whether or not it looks like my petition was, “granted.” I know that God will only give me what is right and at the right time.
His love never fails; nor does its power to change everything, anything, anytime.
My youngest daughter begged me to help a friend of hers whose family had no place to live. It was an emergency situation. They had tried everything. Her friend had come to her in tears- a friend who I had only ever seen smile and laugh- a kid I remembered by his radiant smile.
This friend’s mom was an invalid. I didn’t know the details. She wouldn’t be any trouble, my daughter said hastily, between sobs, she wouldn’t be in the way at all, “She just hangs out.” The friend had a brother, too, an older brother. The brother had a job at Taco Bell and could pay us rent. All they needed was a room.
“Please, Mom, please!
“This friend came over later, a fifteen year old guy friend of my daughter’s. We had a guest room since my oldest daughter had moved out not long before.
The boy cried in my daughter’s arms in the front yard, thanking her. He looked at that little room like it was heaven. They only would accept this one room. They had only ever lived together in one room and they would be fine, he said.
No, I could not afford this. No, I am not an extravert who likes people around all the time. No, I didn’t want to do it. I felt absolutely panicked, actually. Neither would this be the first time throughout this family’s long stay with us ( about a year, I think,) that I had anxiety.
However, how could I ever look at Jesus again if I refused?
It turned out the mother of this family was in agonizing pain all the time. She had not walked in over a year. She was in too much pain even to sit in her battered wheelchair. She spent her days lying in bed looking at the ceiling, waiting for her sons to come home from school or work and help her with her physical needs. She could barely raise her arms without terrible pain. Her sons had to do everything for her, even feed her.
The older son worked hard at Taco Bell and went to school. The younger one went to school and mostly took care of his mother.
The mother and younger son joked around a lot. I could hear them laughing often as he cared for her. The older son was very protective of his mom, and also cared for her, doing the cooking and carrying her when needed, though he was of slight build. He was obviously proud to do it. Both boys honored their mom completely, and obeyed her in everything. Their devotion to her was evident.
Sometimes I felt bad for them for the things they had to do as teen-aged boys. They never did understand my alarm at their situation, even though they were often frightened themselves. I can only account for this by the fact that to them, this was just life as they knew it.
The first thing I saw in the mornings when I got up, was the younger son coming down the hall toward the bathroom with his mother’s bed pan. He would always smile and tell me, “Good morning!”
Of course I tried to help out. I asked people, I posted on Face Book (in a way that protected their identities,) I got out of my comfort zone and went out looking for help. Even though I am daunted by authority figures and the world of officialdom, and by having to go places and ask questions, I did all of this. What else could I do? I often thought this family could have done a lot better in the person they ended up with to help them. I did not have much success.
Individuals were often reluctant to get involved, though some offered me some money to help out, or a gave me a gift card for them. My friends brought food by for us. Because sometimes we ran out.One reason we ran out of food was that the boys got their food stamps cut at one point, to $11 a month. Yes, this is the truth. How do you feed two teen-aged boys on $11 a month? You can’t.How can a family of three survive on minimum wage, especially from a job that varies in hours of work offered? They can’t.
A lot of people said, “Oh go to St. So and So, they do that.” I did. They were out of money. In my experience they could not help us. “Go to Such and Such Charities.” I went. All they could offer us was a one time gift of a $50 Wal-mart card. It did help. But then what?
For housing help for them, I encountered a waiting list three years long, and income requirements that put it out of their reach.
Parish Social Justice ministry? Out of money, too.
The food pantry in our neighborhood could not help this family with food because they lived with me, and the rules indicated that my income must be counted as part of theirs, and, in that case, we were disqualified. We hardly ever had enough food during this time. Nothing was working out.
“Lord, I am trying to do what you want me to do, can you make the path more clear!?” …….. and maybe a little easier?
Everywhere I went to get help for this family, there really was not much. I am not putting these wonderful organizations down. Obviously, we should be helping the charities around us more than we do!
When we think of the poor, I think we tend to believe the charities have it covered, but how could they? They can’t do everything, and they don’t. We have to do stuff, too.
I went to the free clinic to try to get medical help for the mother. They could not help us or even see her at all, because they did not have the specialist on board to correspond with her disease, and those were the rules.
The community hospice could not help us with palliative care because her disease was not on their list of terminal illnesses. It was not on the list because, it is a treatable disease, though hers has been untreated so long she will likely die from it, eventually. She will die a slow, agonizing death because of her poverty and because of her status as a non-citizen.
Her sons are citizens, but she is not. They are in constant fear of being separated, of their mother being taken from them, or the brothers being separated somehow if anything happens to their mother while the youngest is a minor. They have been afraid to seek help because of these things. As it turns out, help is hard to find, anyway.
Her pain is what made me really angry. Trying to get help for her frustrated me the most. Sometimes I felt crazy.
My massage therapist friends came and worked on her, bringing essential oils that helped with pain. But that can only go so far on a body twisted and deformed by advanced, unchecked degenerative disease.
The Catholic hospital took her once when the pain was especially bad, and stabilized her. A doctor there gave her a prescription for pain. The other patients and nurses on the floor put together some money between them to pay for her medicine for a while. It was truly touching to us all. But that medicine is long gone, though she usually refused to take it, fearing she would need it more later.
When the enormous hospital bill came, it could not be paid. Also, getting her to the hospital had been so terribly painful, I think now that her illness has progressed more, that it would take an ambulance to get her there. Since it is such a temporary solution, it hardly seems like a good one now.
Oddly, a protective government service showed up to my house to check on her. Seeing it as an opportunity, I tried to ply the visitor for help and information. Getting her help was out of their scope. The social worker was very nice and did offer me a number to an organization that would help pay the hospital bill she already had. It would only be a drop in the bucket, a lot of trouble to get it, and have no effect on her present situation. This did not seem very helpful to me. Sorry, but it didn’t.
Though sometimes the stress of having another family in our house was intense, my daughter and I became very close to this family. The mom could not speak English but somehow we managed to have conversations, sometimes for hours. Sometimes she would let me help her with things, but she usually wouldn’t. She was embarrassed. That’s OK.
All three of them were very quirky, smart, and funny. I have a lot of good memories from that time. I hope they do, too.
The boys had their faults like anyone, so did we, and sometimes we all drove each other crazy. Don’t think we didn’t. Because it was truly difficult sometimes.
My daughter and her friend had their friendship strained to the limit at times.I am happy to say, she and that boy are close friends still.
The family insisted on giving me some rent, and I let them, because I knew it was an issue of dignity, and also I knew that the older son was proud of the way he took care of his family. I was proud of him, too.
When the younger son turned sixteen, he started working too. He would often be very tired, staying up late at night, sitting on the edge of their bed, doing homework in his McDonald’s uniform as his mother looked on or slept.
Both sons made good grades and took advanced classes. Their mother is very strong on education. She wants them to have a better life.
A young couple from one organization became interested in the younger son, and they were the ones who helped him with interview skills and to find a job.They were very kind to him.
One of my sisters-in-law brought audio books in Spanish to help pass the mother’s time, and my friends who spoke Spanish, would come by and talk to her sometimes. That was so kind.
People sometimes gave them helpful things, like a much needed hospital bed.One of my brothers helped the older son get a full time job, and he is doing well at that job, and taking a class or two at the local community college when he can. He doesn’t make much money, but they are able to have their own little low- rent place now, and even get around in their own vehicle, such as it is.
The younger son says it’s hard for him because he feels like he works twenty-four hours a day. He goes to school all day, cares for his mom, goes to work, cares for his mom again, and never has enough time to do all of his homework because he is so exhausted, and he worries about his grades. Sometimes he wants to run away, but he can’t. One time he started to, but he started crying and had to come back and tell his mom all about it.
They are barely, barely making it, but at least they are kind of making it.However, the problem of their mother’s agony remains.
What to do? The pain gets worse and worse all the time. The boys get scared sometimes, and I call my nurse friend. She goes and checks on them, giving them advice, but she can’t do anything about pain medicine. I have asked doctor friends. Nothing has worked out so far.There is “no room at the inn” for her.
“How is your mom today?” “She can hardly move at all. She cries. I cry. It’s really hard.”
She suffers terrible agony with no relief. She is poor. She has no insurance. She has no rights. What is left? What do we do? Dear Reader, what would you do?
God grasps our arms for help; for each of us is His beloved servant never far. ~ St. John of the Cross
* Note: the mother of this family died this Easter. Of a totally treatable disease.
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