God's hand dipped into the chaos. God's hand dipped into the chaos. God's hand dipped into the chaos.
God's fingers laced through the nothing and gave shape to mountains and poured water on the earth and traced rivers through the land.
God's hand dipped into the chaos.
God chose a girl from the millions and gave her a pure soul and set her on the earth and sent an angel. She said yes.
And in the middle of the darkest night of the year, God's Son slipped into the chaos from the body of the girl into the waiting hands of the trembling Joseph. God's Son wrapped in thinnest cloth against the world's night, God's Son warmed by the breath of beasts. God's Son, so small, sent to fight the world's chaos.
I am here, on my knees, imperfect as I am. Lord, dip your hand into this chaos. Dip your hand into this chaos. Dip your hand into this chaos. Lace through my wanderings and give shape to knowing and pour truth in my heart and trace virtue on my soul. Come, Son, into the waiting hands of this trembling me. I will wrap you up in my thinnest gifts and warm you with my best spirit. Come, transform me.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Monday, December 13, 2010
The Work of the House
I won't resent it. I just can't resent it. Another trip to the sink with dirty dishes, another wiping of the counter, another load in the laundry. I won't resent it! These small acts are inevitable, and if I resent them now, it will make for a miserable lifetime of the same!
I am setting myself a challenge. Instead of, "I have to do the laundry," I will now say to myself, "I GET to do the laundry." I get to do the dishes. I get to vacuum the rug. Is it not a privilege to spend my days with my daughter, supported by my husband who is blessed to have a steady job in this tipsy economy? Is it not a privilege to watch her grow, to teach her to speak, to one day help her walk and then someday guide her through her homework? Is it not a privilege to have dear white dishes to wash and clothes to launder, a rug to vacuum and pretty trinkets to dust? Is it not a privilege to prepare our dinner and feast together? Yes, yes. Join me, won't you, in this thanksgiving? A quiet, joyful way to spend our Advent.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Guadalupe
I always thought Our Lady of Guadalupe was beautiful. But it wasn't until I spent two years teaching our nation's poorest of the poor that I learned to love her.
A dear friend from college gave me a lovely statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe as a gift for my classroom. She was very pretty, but very Anglo! So, my mom and I delicately darkened her skin with a paintbrush and a little tea. It did the trick. And made her more beautiful.
I set her on the counter that ran along the windows, in my direct view as I stood at the blackboard. And there, as I sweat in the desert heat, and as my heart broke for these little ones, she became my mother. How good it was to look upon her during moments of angst, or peace, and see her, her face brown like these children. So long ago, she had appeared to such a little man, and so, she loved to be near all of us.
Though they were rascally and quite normal nine-year-olds, my children also had depth of heart unlike most. Having witnessed the world's gravity beyond anything I've seen, watching death, removing the boots of drunk and passed out fathers, crying for their imprisoned mothers, attending funerals for young tragedies, losing the language of their ancestors... It was all so much to bear. And so, if you stood in our little classroom and watched carefully, you would have seen it: Alonzo took a detour on his way back from the pencil sharpener to graze his fingers on her feet. Larissa leaned in softly and whispered in her ear. Alyssa ran her hands along her veil. And a befuddled teacher implored her with her eyes, "Please, dear Lady, pray for us."
The Lord has taken so much away from them. The Lord took much away from me during those days. We had mornings when we might all have broken in two. We spent days feeling empty and short of breath, close to tears and to quitting.
But there she was, Our Lady, ready to give us the Lord's greatest gift. Full of grace, and full of the Son, she stood with tenderness in her eyes. Do you hear her? She sings her Magnificat. The Lord lifts the lowly, gives food to the hungry! And just as St. Juan Diego beheld her, his cheeks flushed, his pants dusty, we kneel before her catching our breath in amazement. She appears to the littlest ones to give the greatest of gifts. Carried in her womb, the Light of the World is waiting to enter our hearts.
I am miles and months away from those children now. I pray for them and ache for them and always will. But I entrust them to Our Lady's care, and pray that in their dreams and in their prayers, they are still tracing the lines of her face with their fingers and whispering in her ear.
A dear friend from college gave me a lovely statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe as a gift for my classroom. She was very pretty, but very Anglo! So, my mom and I delicately darkened her skin with a paintbrush and a little tea. It did the trick. And made her more beautiful.
I set her on the counter that ran along the windows, in my direct view as I stood at the blackboard. And there, as I sweat in the desert heat, and as my heart broke for these little ones, she became my mother. How good it was to look upon her during moments of angst, or peace, and see her, her face brown like these children. So long ago, she had appeared to such a little man, and so, she loved to be near all of us.
Though they were rascally and quite normal nine-year-olds, my children also had depth of heart unlike most. Having witnessed the world's gravity beyond anything I've seen, watching death, removing the boots of drunk and passed out fathers, crying for their imprisoned mothers, attending funerals for young tragedies, losing the language of their ancestors... It was all so much to bear. And so, if you stood in our little classroom and watched carefully, you would have seen it: Alonzo took a detour on his way back from the pencil sharpener to graze his fingers on her feet. Larissa leaned in softly and whispered in her ear. Alyssa ran her hands along her veil. And a befuddled teacher implored her with her eyes, "Please, dear Lady, pray for us."
The Lord has taken so much away from them. The Lord took much away from me during those days. We had mornings when we might all have broken in two. We spent days feeling empty and short of breath, close to tears and to quitting.
But there she was, Our Lady, ready to give us the Lord's greatest gift. Full of grace, and full of the Son, she stood with tenderness in her eyes. Do you hear her? She sings her Magnificat. The Lord lifts the lowly, gives food to the hungry! And just as St. Juan Diego beheld her, his cheeks flushed, his pants dusty, we kneel before her catching our breath in amazement. She appears to the littlest ones to give the greatest of gifts. Carried in her womb, the Light of the World is waiting to enter our hearts.
I am miles and months away from those children now. I pray for them and ache for them and always will. But I entrust them to Our Lady's care, and pray that in their dreams and in their prayers, they are still tracing the lines of her face with their fingers and whispering in her ear.
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