withholding

I was in a record store the other night, indulging in a little browsing of cds and records. It’s a satisfying hobby, even when I leave empty-handed, which should happen more often than it does. I like the independent record places as opposed to the Best Buy’s of the world. Are you going to have a guy with half-shaved head, multiple piercings, and tattoos ask if he can show you a nice washer/dryer combo? Probably not. (Maybe in L.A? I hate to generalize too much.)

This usually pleasant indulgence was disrupted by public parenting. The parent’s 2-year old was not thrilled about the stop at the music store. She cried, she screamed. They told her, sharply, to shut up and then left her on the floor to continue crying and screaming while they checked out the latest dvd releases. Simply ignored her. As they made their purchases, the toddler, who had been yelling for “chips!!” grabbed a bag of pretzels, ripped it open, ate a few bites, and then her dad took the bag and tucked it behind the register, where mr. tattoo couldn’t see it, and scowled at his daughter.  By the time they got themselves out the door, my soul felt sad.

A few weeks ago I asked the group of kids at Wednesday night church, “Where is Quanisha tonight?”  They said, “Oh, she got in trouble. She can’t come to church anymore.”

During one of my first Wednesday night experiences here this fall, 3 kids had their dad on the ropes during dinner.  They were bugging him and they were all in on it.  He lost his cool pretty quick and began to take away church night.  ”That’s next Wednesday!” he’d yell as he banged on the table for emphasis.  ”That’s another Wednesday!”  After 4 or 5 of these proclamations (the kids were winning in the battle of driving their dad crazy), he finally shouted “If I have my way, you’ll never see the inside of a church building again!!”  Initially, that story made me laugh (later), but in a rueful sort of way. 

I just got back from my prayer retreat group I’m participating in for 30 weeks.  Based on the spiritual exercises of St. Ignatius, it’s been a pretty great experience.  But there are some exercises that I don’t agree with, can’t wrap my heart around very well.  Tonight was one of those nights.  My theological differences rushed to the surface as the ideas of “just praying more and harder” and not receiving all of God’s blessings “like the cake without the icing” were touted….well, they were talked about.  I won’t get into all the details.

Here’s what I’ll say.  God does not withhold care or concern from us.  Ever.  God does not withhold love from us.  Ever.  No matter what we do to try and prove that God does these things, God does not.

what dreams may come

I have always been a vivid dreamer, since childhood.  I even remember a few dreams I had from when I was a kid, ethereally etched in new and old formations of dreams I have now.  I have recurring dreams, some like clockwork, others appearing like old friends.  I won’t tell you about them, at least not here.  They reveal too much about me for even me sometimes.

I think God does his best work on me when I’m alseep.  I also think it’s my best prayer time.  

uptight about the new transmission, eh?

The last few nights, though, I’ve had nightmares.  And what with all the vivid-talk from above, I sometimes awake with heart racing and a sweating brow.  (Sometime, ask me about the nightmare I had at camp in Idaho one fall.  Well 2 nightmares.  They still give me pause.)  So to wake feeling not rested or even anxious (the Wicked Witch is threatening me again!), I feel cheated, like I wasted time.  Not that I think God only works on me through Good Dreams and Good Witches…that’s why I have an old fashioned paper diary that you don’t get to read.

I’m not in any sort of anguish, don’t feel that I am at a crossroads.  Well, replacing the innards of my pickup caused one of them, I know that for sure.  But 2 nights in a row?  So tonight, as I was getting ready for bed, I picked up a book given to me by my family:  ”A Timbered Choir: The Sabbath Poems 1979-1997.”  Wendell Berry wrote them.  And here is the poem I will close my day with before I close my eyes:

 

The body in the invisible
Familiar room accepts the gift
Of sleep, and for a while is still;
Instead of will, it lives by drift

In the great night that gathers up
The earth and sky. Slackened, unbent,
Unwanting, without fear or hope,
The body rests beyond intent.

Sleep is the prayer the body prays,
Breathing in unthought faith the Breath
That through our worry-wearied days
Preserves our rest, and is our truth.

 

Sweet dreams.

let’s all do our exercises

New York brings out my youthful side

Would you believe there is a place in Syracuse called the Spiritual Renewal Center?  Well, you better believe it because it’s true.  And I wouldn’t lie to you.  Seriously.  Anyway, the previous intern left me great info on this place – they offer everything from mentor and spiritual guide training to one-night classes on prayer, or the book of Mark, or the Troublesome Teachings of Jesus.

I met Sister Marise a few weeks ago and signed up to be part of “The Spiritual Exercises of Saint Ignatius.”  Every week, on Tuesday nights, I’ll head to the center to meet with a small group for an hour and then with a prayer guide for an hour.  The week leading up to Tuesday night is guided by a sort of prayer routine to follow.  

This makes it sound bland, but it is anything but boring because prayer is dangerous and bold and changes things.

If you know me well, you know that morning is not my best time.  I am a slow starter with coffee in hand and my low voice even lower.  One roommate even noticed my tired, morning “Aase shuffle.”  One of my goals in participating in this daily practice is to begin each day with this practice of prayer and the “format” of the program.  So far, so good.  But I’m only a week in.

So when you roll out of bed, say a little prayer for me that I’m up and at ‘em, having started the morning on the right side of the bed.