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when God gives too much

I told God this morning that He has given me too much.
That it is all just too much.

And make no mistake.  This was not a prayer of praise. I was not thanking God and praising Him for the air in my lungs, the sight in my eyes, or the gifts He has given only to me. This was a prayer of pissed off and doubt.

YOU have given me too much.
As in YOU made a mistake.
YOU clearly have no idea what you are doing.
You have got the wrong person in mind for all of this stuff you have given me.

And you know what set me off into this prayer of anger?
The power went out.
As I was blow drying my hair.
Yup.
It always comes down to our hair, doesn't it ladies?

Or our thighs.
Or our husbands.
Or our children.
Or our house.
Or our crappy furniture.
Or the piles of papers to be filed.
Or the bills.
Or the calendar of appointments.
Or the kid in trouble.
Or the other kid in real trouble.
Or the loneliness.
Or the hollowness.
The emptiness.
The drowning
The draught.
The noise.
The clock.
The time.
The fear.
The hard truth you can not stand to acknowledge.
The desire to not do His will because that work is painful and the narrow gate hurts.

I sat on my floor with wet hair and said out loud to God,
"You have given me too much."

And then Jay called. From Eversource.
He called to tell me I was the only house in my area that reported an outage.
In fact, I was the only one in CT that had reported an outage.
And most likely, the only woman yelling back at an automated voice---"I am missing Mass!!!! My hair is wet!!!!" (which, FYI, the computer does not understand anything besides "yes" or "no"...and takes you back to the beginning of the recording every time you yell, "Are you kidding me!???")
And could it be...that maybe...I just blew a fuse?
I assured him that every light was off and the power in the entire house was off and then I told Jay about my hair..and that I was missing Mass...and that probably, my whole life sucks now because of this.

But then I noticed.
The other lights were on.
And the digital clocks too.

I do not know for sure what happened, other than my chord was pulled, I was yanked to the floor, and I was reminded of where my true power source comes from.
And although my prayer to God was not the nicest...at least, I acknowledged Him.

Like the child who comes at the parent with complaint and argument when truthfully, the reason for their discomfort has nothing to do with the parent, but rather their own poor choice, so I come to Jesus.

I am the daughter that runs to her father quick to accuse, because deep down, she knows he is the only one who supply the comfort she needs.

I come to Him gratefully and I come to Him ungratefully, but regardless of the how, is this...I come to Him.
When I am undone, when I am buried, when I am powerless. She knows he can take it, and that he will never leave.

I turn to Him.
And he turns the power back on, just enough to get me standing, plenty to go about my day.

Maybe my problem is not about being given too much to do.
Maybe my problem is about taking on more than God asks of me.
Maybe my problem is in perfection and crossing off lists and getting everything right.
Maybe God does't expect half of what I expect of myself.

Father Dave Pivonka says, "Purgatory is full of people who did more than God asked of them."


Please Lord- open my eyes to what YOU want from me today...give me just enough...time..patience..work...keep me plugged into you, my true source of energy, the power I need. Amen.

when God gives too much

I told God this morning that He has given me too much.
That it is all just too much.

And make no mistake.  This was not a prayer of praise. I was not thanking God and praising Him for the air in my lungs, the sight in my eyes, or the gifts He has given only to me. This was a prayer of pissed off and doubt.

YOU have given me too much.
As in YOU made a mistake.
YOU clearly have no idea what you are doing.
You have got the wrong person in mind for all of this stuff you have given me.

And you know what set me off into this prayer of anger?
The power went out.
As I was blow drying my hair.
Yup.
It always comes down to our hair, doesn't it ladies?

Or our thighs.
Or our husbands.
Or our children.
Or our house.
Or our crappy furniture.
Or the piles of papers to be filed.
Or the bills.
Or the calendar of appointments.
Or the kid in trouble.
Or the other kid in real trouble.
Or the loneliness.
Or the hollowness.
The emptiness.
The drowning
The draught.
The noise.
The clock.
The time.
The fear.
The hard truth you can not stand to acknowledge.
The desire to not do His will because that work is painful and the narrow gate hurts.

I sat on my floor with wet hair and said out loud to God,
"You have given me too much."

And then Jay called. From Eversource.
He called to tell me I was the only house in my area that reported an outage.
In fact, I was the only one in CT that had reported an outage.
And most likely, the only woman yelling back at an automated voice---"I am missing Mass!!!! My hair is wet!!!!" (which, FYI, the computer does not understand anything because "yes" or "no"...and takes you back to the beginning of the recording every time you yell, "Are you kidding me!???")
And could it be...that maybe...I just blew a fuse?
I assured him that every light was off and the power in the entire house was off and then I told Jay about my hair..and that I was missing Mass...and that probably, my whole life sucks now because of this.

But then I noticed.
The other lights were on.
And the digital clocks too.

I do not know for sure what happened, other than my chord was pulled, I was yanked to the floor, and I was reminded of where my true power source comes from.
And although my prayer to God was not the nicest...at least, I acknowledged Him.

Like the child who comes at the parent with complaint and argument when truthfully, the reason for their discomfort has nothing to do with the parent, but rather their own poor choice, so I come to Jesus.

I come to Him gratefully and I come to Him ungratefully, but regardless of the how, is this...I come to Him.
When I am undone, when I am buried, when I am powerless.
I turn to Him.
And he turns the power back on, just enough to get me standing, plenty to go about my day.

Maybe my problem is not about being given too much to do.
Maybe my problem is about taking on more than God asks of me.
Maybe my problem is in perfection and crossing off lists and getting everything right.
Maybe God does't expect half of what I expect of myself?

Father Dave Pivonka says, "Purgatory is full of people who did more than God asked of them."


Please Lord- open my eyes to what YOU want from me today...give me just enough...time..patience..work...keep me plugged into you, my true source of energy, the power I need.

open your eyes and fly

I woke up to a blindside.
My Friday all alone, to get work done, and clean the house, and maybe...just maybe...do some writing...took a fast turn.
Two kids home from school for reasons one might consider medical, if they knew nothing about medicine...
two unruly dogs who like to bite my leg while I work...
and two birds that flew straight into my sliding glass door.
Which wasn't even clean.

These birds?
They completely derailed the day.
Because now I had birds to care for.
Two of them.

With a zip lock baggie over my hand and a large leaf in the other, I gently guided them into a Nike shoe box.
The dogs stood on the other side of the glass, licking their lips and wagging their tails.
A perfect target for a hungry beast- the lame, the paralyzed, the hurting, the too frightened to make a move.

And so I carefully carried the shoe box into my laundry room, and set them on top of the dryer.
I sprinkled bird food at their feet and held up sunflower seeds to their tiny beaks.  Beaks, that up close, truly looked like they could poke my eye out at any given moment.
One bird managed to stand, but kept his eyes shut.
The other stayed on his side, until finally, was able to prop himself up on his skinny sticks for legs.
I talked to them.
I took their pictures.
I promised they would be ok.
Then I screamed.
Because one started to fly and I knew it was going straight for my eye.

It landed on my door.
The other flew out of the box and landed on a laundry bag.
Two kids home.
Two dogs barking.
And now two birds flying...in my house.

And how does this end?
Well.
In their own time, they flew away to a nearby tree.
But it was the hour before they flew that amazed me.
These birds barely moved.
Were they stunned by the hit?
Were they afraid of me, their rescuer?
Were they injured?
Were they confused?

I kept careful watch....checking on them every now and then.
I knew they were vulnerable, and that the one...his eyes...they were still shut...and I know all too well what can happen when you are vulnerable with eyes closed:
the hungry beast comes to devour.

I remember being motionless.
Sitting on my bathroom floor.
Stunned.
Afraid.
Injured.
And confused.
The perfect target for the evil one.
And it was in that place that I was taught a very hard, but very important lesson.
It was in that place that I heard His voice.
Be still.
Just be still.
Feel your sadness.
Feel your pain.
Do not run from it.
Rest in it.
I have come to save you.

And I promise. I won't poke your eyes out.
Ok.
I didn't hear that.
But truth be told, I was given new eyes.
So maybe He did poke my eyes out, to make way for the new ones.

But the birds.
And the lesson I was reminded of.

No matter how hard the hit, we will fly again.
Clipped wings grow stronger.
We soar like never before.
We open our eyes.

We open our eyes and we fly.

why I cry in church

Lately, I come to Mass, look at the crucifix, and immediately start to cry.  Until I sit and gaze upon His suffering, I have no idea how much I am wading in my own suffering- how I have managed to walk through this morning routine joyfully and graciously- all the while, deep down, there is this aching howl dying to get out- to scream to the world.  And it feels like walking in through the front door of your home after a long, awful day, dropping your heavy briefcase and falling into bed.  It's that kind of falling down and weeping-not because you feel sorrow-but mostly because you feel comfort-the kind of comfort when you share that most hideous thing you are carrying and someone looks at you lovingly and says, "me too,  I feel that too, I get it."  This is why I cry at the foot of the cross.  Because this is where my suffering  meets Jesus' suffering. This is where I am understood. This is where my sorrow takes on great purpose.  And I am not drowning, but wading. Wading in the waters that will not cover my head, and even so, if they do, He will breathe for me.

Just yesterday we stood in our circle in front of the church as we do, and we comforted a friend who is steeped in her sorrow. And I shared, in the oh so eloquent way that I do, "You know, it is not that I enjoy suffering, but He is never more present than when things suck."

And so I am at long last learning to embrace these rocky roads when I find my feet stumbling upon them, and to ask him to take in the air for me should the waves cover my head, and then I walk into church and I fall to my knees and I joyfully allow the dam to break and the river of tears to flow, because there is no greater comfort than sharing in His pain, then knowing He cares. And it is here on my knees where His mercy calls out; this place of profound love, where sorrow mingles with joy, and His wounds shelter me from the storm.

eye contact

My chow - labrador mix, that I was told "does't have much lab in her",  is unruly.  And so we paid a nice man $175 to help train her.  After the 2 hours we were told that he can come to our home three times a week for coaching, or, for $2200, he could take our unruly dog home with him for two weeks, for in residence training.  For that kind of time and money, I would prefer to give him my teenagers.

"It is important that when your dog obeys, you make that eye contact. See how she looks up at you? You want that."

People, let alone my dog, do not make much eye contact.
We are looking at our phones, as if to say, "I have someone better to look at than you."
We have conversations that are shouted from room to room, we yell up and down staircases, we text and we text some more.
We really don't look at one another anymore.
Rarely do we make that effort to walk, step or physically move.

If the eye is the mirror to the soul, what does this say about our relationships? With our spouses? Our children? Does being in the same room, or under the same roof, mean that we are connected?  If we do not take the time to be face to face, with full concentration on the one in front of us, how can we truly know how they are? Who they are? Who we we are? How do we determine the condition of a soul we are too busy to see?

Kids do not like to sit and look at their parents.
We are stupid.
We are boring.
We are annoying.
We are losers.
Sometimes they hate us.
And we have nothing wise to say. Ever.
Their eyes are everywhere, but looking into ours.
Lord only knows what they see.
They are always moving away, pulling, and reaching for anything but what we want to offer them.
And maybe there is something to hide-- after all, we look away when we are not truthful. Sin thrives in the dark.
Or maybe I need to let go of my overly, anxious imagination, and trust more.
But whatever the case, I still want to really see them.
Because I know that if we stare at each other long enough, the eyes will overflow.
They will let me know what hurts.
They will see mommy again...they will remember to whom they belong.
And like the good shepherd, I long to bring my scattered home, to hold my lamb in my arms, to wipe away every single tear.

I have not been to Adoration in a while.
And I think I need it.
That face to face time.
That chance to look into each others eyes.
Our eyes say it all. They tell the whole story. We have the tears, wrinkles, and blurry vision to prove it.
No words are even needed.
Just a gaze.
And  yet, if I am being truthful...I am afraid to look.
What if I do not like what I see?
What if I can not handle what it is I am freely choosing to not notice?
What if what God has in store for me is so much pain, so much suffering, that once I look, there is no going back?

And so I have been praying a prayer, Complete Trust in God, by Francis de Sales, whose last lines are, "Either He will shield you from suffering or He will give you unfailing strength to bear it. Be at peace then, and put aside all useless thoughts, all vain dreads, and all anxious imaginations."

My dog is still unruly.
But when we walk now, I take that moment to tell her to heel, to sit, and then I look for her eyes.
And in that brief moment, she stops pulling and reaching, she settles into the quiet, she knows I am there.

eye contact

My chow - labrador mix, that I was told "does't have much lab in her",  is unruly.  And so we paid a nice man $175 to help train her.  After the 2 hours we were told that he can come to our home three times a week for coaching, or, for $2200, he could take our unruly dog home with him for two weeks, for in residence training.  For that kind of time and money, I would prefer to give him my teenagers.

"It is important that when your dog obeys, you make that eye contact. See how she looks up at you? You want that."

People, let alone my dog, do not make much eye contact.
We are looking at our phones, as if to say, "I have someone better to look at than you."
We have conversations that are shouted from room to room, we yell up and down staircases, we text and we text some more.
We really don't look at one another anymore.
Rarely do we make that effort to walk, step or physically move.

If the eye is the mirror to the soul, what does this say about our relationships? With our spouses? Our children? Does being in the same room, or under the same roof, mean that we are connected?  If we do not take the time to be face to face, with full concentration on the one in front of us, how can we truly know how they are? Who they are? Who we we are? How do we determine the condition of a soul we are too busy to see?

Kids do not like to sit and look at their parents.
We are stupid.
We are boring.
We are annoying.
We are losers.
Sometimes they hate us.
And we have nothing wise to say. Ever.
Their eyes are everywhere, but looking into ours.
Lord only knows what they see.
They are always moving away, pulling, and reaching for anything but what we want to offer them.
And maybe there is something to hide-- after all, we look away when we are not truthful. Sin thrives in the dark.
Or maybe I need to let go of my overly, anxious imagination, and trust more.
But whatever the case, I still want to really see them.
Because I know that if we stare at each other long enough, the eyes will overflow.
They will let me know what hurts.
They will see mommy again...they will remember to whom they belong.
And like the good shepherd, I long to bring my scattered home, to hold my lamb in my arms, to wipe away every single tear.

I have not been to Adoration in a while.
And I think I need it.
That face to face time.
That chance to look into each others eyes.
Our eyes say it all. They tell the whole story. We have the tears, wrinkles, and blurry vision to prove it.
No words are even needed.
Just a gaze.
And  yet, if I am being truthful...I am afraid to look.
What if I do not like what I see?
What if I can not handle what it is I am freely choosing to not notice?
What if what God has in store for me is so much pain, so much suffering, that once I look, there is no going back?

And so I have been praying a prayer, Complete Trust in God, by Francis de Sales, whose last lines are, "Either He will shield you from suffering or He will give you unfailing strength to bear it. Be at peace then, and put aside all useless thoughts, all vain dreads, and all anxious imaginations."

My dog is still unruly.
But when we walk now, I take that moment to tell her to heel, to sit, and then I look for her eyes.
And in that brief moment, she stops pulling and reaching, she settles into the quiet, she knows I am there.