If My Life Was Perfect...

     I have struggled to advise a family member as to how to fulfill their unique human potential.  Knowing the position of respect bestowed on me has given me a sense of responsibility.  Only following the Boston Marathon Bombings have I been given an inkling as to how to fulfill my responsibility.
    My family member lacks the sense of how to fulfill his adult responsibilities--fulfill his human potential.  Ascribing responsibilities on other intimates how they have failed their responsibiltiies to my family member has clouded his willingness to look at his own human potential--the gift he has been given by God--by his belief in God.  I know that belief exists in him.  I do not know the form of belief.
    My belief--the form of my belief--calls me to offer something.
    From an unlikely source--the Boston Marathon Bombings suspect--I understand one way--one something--I may offer.
    Optimist--idealist--that I am, recent years have taught me, "life is not perfect."  Self-pity is not the sum of that equation in my life.  So where does that leave me--how does that affect my offering to my family member.
     A List.  An Itemized--A Humbling List.
     If My Life Was Perfect...    
     I Would Not:
          Need to wear my ankle foot orthotic--my brace on my right leg
          Need to walk long distances with a cane
          Need to use a wheelchair
          Need to take medication to control my intentional tremors
          Need to take anticonvulsants to control my seizures
          Need to grab the right handrail with my left hand when walking up or down a flight of stairs
     I Would Not Fear:
          Outstretching my left hand--lose the use of my left and right hand by:
               Opening doorknobs
               Carrying heavy bags of groceries
               Carrying heavy loads of laundry
            My capacity to stand up from the ground
     People Would:
         Think my handwriting was beautiful

Don't Walk Too Fast...

Don't walk too fast.
I don't run.
I can't run.
The light is green.
The light says, "Walk."
Don't walk too fast.

Don't walk too fast.
The light is with me.
You are not.
Don't walk too fast.

Don't walk too fast.
I amble from strain--from pain.
I tiptoe toward not hurting.
Don't walk too fast.

Don't walk too fast.
Don't zoom past me on your motorcycle.
Don't rush to judgment.

Don't walk too fast.
Toughen my skin???
Understand that they do not???
I do.  Yet...
Don't walk too fast.

Don't walk too fast.
Yet...Understand???
Know???  They can.
Don't walk too fast.

Don't walk too fast.
Yet, understand???  At another time--in another world.
They will--they must.
Don't walk too fast.

Don't walk too fast.
Toughen my skin???
No.
Don't walk too fast.

Don't walk too fast.
Numb my heart???
No.
Don't walk too fast.

Don't walk too fast.
Toughen my skin?  Numb my heart?
No.  That is the price of my words--the price of my quest.
Don't walk too fast.

Crossed Wires...Jangled Nerves...

Crossed wires….jangled nerves….

When you were born,

your umbilical cord was wrapped around your neck five times.

Crossed wires….jangled nerves….

The corded gifts that keep on giving—epilepsy…cerebral palsy.

Crossed wires….jangled nerves….

You have excess electrical activity in your brain--epilepsy.

Crossed wires….jangled nerves….

Epilepsy is like a thunderstorm in the brain.

Crossed wires….jangled nerves.

I can do it myself, Mom, don’t you know, I can do it myself….

Can’t you see, Mom, I can’t do it myself, I need your help.

Crossed wires….jangled nerves….

The faster I walk, the more I trip.

Crossed wires….jangled nerves.

Your cerebral palsy accelerates your aging process.

Crossed wires….jangled nerves.

The harder you intend to use your left hand, the more it will shake—intentional tremors.

Crossed wires….jangled nerves….

The more hostile I am, the more intense my tremors.

Crossed wires….jangled nerves...

The more data you throw at me, the slower I compute.

Crossed wires...jangled nerves...

The more instructions I hear, the more I must write them--

the more Velcro from my ear to my brain I need.

Crossed wires….jangled nerves….

The more instructions I hear, the more I must write--

the more Velcro from my ear to my brain I need.

Crossed wires….jangled nerves….

The less I write, the less I remember.

Crossed wires….jangled nerves….

The more I write, the deeper I think.

Crossed wires….jangled nerves….

The more challenges I am given, the more I want to surmount them.

Crossed wires….jangled nerves….

Listen. Pray. Speak. Act. Pray. Listen

My tears—my sadness—are God’s nudging me to arise.

Listen.  Pray.  Speak.  Act.  Pray.  Listen.

Long after your name—your face--is eclipsed by wonder-filled days,

Your words echo—reverberate—in the depths of my being.

The rhythm of your words inspires in me a constant drumbeat.

Listen.  Pray.  Speak.  Act.  Pray.  Listen.

What do I say?

When do I speak?

How do I voice my sadness to you?

Will you listen?

Will you hear me?

Listen.  Pray.  Speak.  Act.  Pray.  Listen.

Lend me your ear.

Give me a voice.

Give me a plan.

Grace me with faith.

Listen.  Pray.  Speak.  Act.  Pray.  Listen. 

You will listen.

You will hear.

You will change.

Listen.  Pray.  Speak.  Act.  Pray.  Listen.  

                                           September 4, 2007

     One day, a former coworker and I were working alone in the library.  With my back turned to him, my coworker must have seen someone who used a wheelchair.
     Without thinking anything of it, she said, "Oh, there goes another gimp."

     What?

     I was stunned--absolutely stunned.  I was rendered uncharacteristically speechless.  Never had anyone called me a gimp--never had I called myself "gimp."
     Writing has been the vehicle I have used to process my feelings--the deeper the hurt, the clearer the writing.  This piece was my attempt to process what happened, and what my feelings were.
     I do remember Janet.  She was not malicious per se--she was genuinely naive, and totally clueless.  Janet was a piece of work.  She is retired now.  I know nothing more of her life now.

     Ever since I was a little kid, I have believed that if I found the right words I could foster understanding.  I don't know if Janet ever understood--truly understood--the impact of her words.  The relationship that followed was based in nervous fear.  Janet was put on notice that if she ever so misspoke again, there would be consequences.

     It is ironic.  At the time that I wrote Listen. Pray.  Speak.  Act.  Pray.  Listen, my energies were focused on the word "gimp" and my inclusion in the word's definition.  I was walking with an ankle-foot-orthotic--a brace-- at the time, but, I was not in any way shape, or form, using a wheelchair.  Nor was I about to do so.

     Five years later, my circumstances are quite different.  No, I do not call myself a "gimp."  That has not changed. What has changed is that I use an electric wheelchair to live--to move long distances.  I don't know how I might have responded.  I guess the word "gimp" still would have been the main issue.  Yet, I wonder how would Janet and I have interacted.  I cannot mourn a lost friendship.  Close friendship far exceeded any physical differences.
     Although much has changed in five years, in all aspects of my life today, I continue to be committed to listen...pray....speak...act...pray...listen.

Seventy Times Seven

     I hear Jesus speaking to Peter more often than I remember at earlier times in my life.  Peter asked Jesus how many times he had to forgive someone who had sinned against him.  Seven times?  Jesus says, "Seventy times seven."  Forgiveness worthy of her name needs to be repeated whenever her name is called to serve.
     Jesus is not admonishing me to forgive someone, who has sinned me.  Rarely do I think in those terms with regard to other people.  I listen to The Lord's Prayer to attune myself with how I am abiding by the call to forgive other individuals in my life.
     Jesus stands by me, as I whisper, "this isn't fair."  What? Quiet, solitary moments in the bathroom, and in bed, my ankle asserts herself.  "Don't be quite so proud of your accommodations to me."  I want to share my whisper, that she does not rule my spirit
 .  Cleansing, and restful moments may not be sacrificed.  Give me time.  Jesus forgive me, as you call me to forgive not a person, but, my intimate--my ankle.  It is not an it.  My ankle is a she.  My ankle is worthy of my love, my care, my respect, my care.  My ankle--she--is a partner in my life.  I may not neutralize her by reducing her to the state of it--the state of material goods in my possession.
     She has rendered a lifetime of service.
     I revel in the accommodation to her weakness....
    Several days later, I am not as hurt by her pain.  We will enjoy traveling the accommodating path together...swimming, discovering a program with a personal trainer to map out the most accommodating path--not a medicinal, but, a forgiving path.
    My ankle calls me now, yet, in years to come, my ankle's sisters and brothers will plead with me to stop calling them It, and treat them as my intimates.
    Marking--celebrating--51 years of life today, I am evermore aware of the eternal forgiveness that Jesus spoke of.  I am called not to be forgiving of my ankle seven days a week.  I am called to forgive each member of my body's family.
     Am I really that different from anyone else in Jesus call to forgive our intimates--our aging intimates--seventy times seven?  Just a thought.

Life Changes...A Changing Life...

     On April 26, 2011, I will turn 51.  Had you told me two years ago that I would be living as I am now, I would have laughed at you.  Yet, in 2011, here I am.  This is the life I am called to live.
     When I left the paid work world, I was not at all sure what my life was supposed to be, much less than what I wanted it to be.  I was not retiring, yet, I did not know what to call my new life stage.  Retired, as I had witnessed it in my life, did not describe what I was entering.  In closest terms for me to describe, I was on disability.  But, what did that mean?
     My transition from full-time employment to on disability was abrupt.  Most people left their place of employment on a long-anticipated, established date.  Coworkers, and supervisors knew the date, and there was time to say thank you, to reconcile any short-term or long-term differences.  There were no conversations regarding, "What are you going to do, once you do not have to go to work each day," and "If I were leaving work, I would...."  There was no time to prepare for such a drastic change in living.  Retirees returned to work, and said, "I don't miss the work, I miss the people."  That was inconceivable to me.  How could 24 years of my life be erased from my memory?  Yet, that is what I would say now.  I do not miss all of the people I worked with for more than 24 years.  I do miss some of those people.  I am in touch with some people.  I do not miss the pressures of work.  I do miss the treasure hunt for information that I traveled with those who had questions, and needed answers.  That treasure hunt was not a daily journey, yet, when I loved that journey, and I am guilty of infecting many.
     When I tried to conceive what my life on long-term disability would be, I had no model to consult.  I felt guilty.  My conception of long-term disability was someone who was completely unable to leave their home.  Perhaps, the person's life circumstances were more drastic than that.  I had no idea.  As much as I told former colleagues that I would be "The next chapter will be to strengthen myself physically as much as is possible....I must discover opportunities that call upon my mind, rather than tax my physical abilities."  I had no idea what the words I had been given to express meant.  I had no idea.
    The physical weakening that led to my exit from the work world defined my life for the next year and a half.  I needed to embrace the Serenity Prayer.
    God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.
    I sought the courage to identify what I could not change about my new old self.  I needed to learn how to accommodate to my weakening body--my right ankle--and my capacity to stand up from the ground.  For a lifetime, I had resisted fiercely anyone who dared to say that I could not do a task that I was undertaking.  After all, I had never lived with the capacity to use both hands.  From birth, my right leg had been shorter than my life.  I did not undertake tasks that required a perfect balance.  OK, I dressed up as a little ballerina.  But, the balance beam was not narrow, by any stretch of the imagination.  I never was a gambler in any casinos.  The only challenge I undertook was that of a response to, "Do you think you can do that?" As much as I resented the comment--the lack of faith in me, all I could say was, "Do you want to make a bet?"
    Oddly, the suggestion that I consider going on long-term disability was made in Las Vegas.  In my mind, it was a long shot--the biggest gamble I had ever made.  The stakes were high--my future.  What was I getting myself into?  This gamble flew in the face of all that I had been taught.  "You will learn to live independently."
     Courage to change the things I can.
This entailed identifying what, how much, and how I could restore my compromised right ankle, my weakening left hand--I could not lose her strength, I just couldn't--and my capacity to stand up from the ground.  Accepting the things I could not change was more elusive for me to identify.  Yet, the things of courage were more concrete to identify.  Though identified more concretely, the things of courage were much more difficult to change.  Bending from my knees to the ground were not a part of my things of courage.  I knew better than to squander any courage I might be given on a youth's capacity that I had relinquished to an accommodating life.  My things of courage calling for attention were my right ankle--she was on her last leg--and my left hand--she was my sole source by which I could squeeze everything out of my life.
    How much?
    To what degree could I hope to be restored?  Before I could accept my compromised health, I needed to identify what my restored self would look like life--what would she feel like.  What was I praying to be restored was essential.  What was I not praying to be restored in my body?
    What did a resurrected body look like to me?  Others' conceptions--even those closest to me mattered little, if I did not have a strong sense of it in my own life.  I am not saying that my vision would be perfect, or what a resurrected body would look like--would be in my life.  But, if I was to have any hope than I better change resurrected body from a it--a thing--to an intimate in my life.
    I could not jump to the step of addressing the how before I understood the how much.  Though not fully understood by some who loved, and love me, by the grace of God, I knew that the answer to how could change on the basis of how much, my right ankle could be restored to her younger self.  My right ankle, my left hand, my left hip, each and every body part of my body is not an it.  They are my intimates.  They are she, they are her.  Only when I call them by their given names am I worthy to make decisions in their best interests--decisions in our best interests for a full life together.
    My vehicle to understanding how much was ankle surgery.  That action would reveal to me an answer to how much.
    How?
   This question frightened me.  To some, the concrete form of how--a scooter, or a wheelchair--seemed clear. Yet, I had not arrived at the concrete foundation I needed in order to wheel forward.  Others' attitudes, physical boundaries--navigating those physical boundaries--and my perceptions of individuals I had seen in my life were my biggest obstacles.
   Wisdom to know the difference.
   Before I could find solace, and embrace any wisdom, I needed to return to the matter of courage.  What of courage was I not addressing?  Now that I knew answers to today's things of courage was I not acting upon?  Only after I answered and acted upon those questions could I hope to be granted any wisdom.
    The Serenity Prayer is not a prayer to be navigated, and lived once and for all.  That might be nice, but, life doesn't work that way.
    On April 14, 2011, I was given a gift that I would never have imagined to be a gift--a wheelchair.  With the accommodations of recent years, I need to discover where I want to go outside of my home that I put out of my mind as unrealistic destinations.  With compromised stamina now restored, I may look at the outside world again, and try to get back into circulation once again.
     Had you told me two years ago that I would be living the life I am, I would have laughed at you.  Yet, this is the life I am called to live.  Yikes!
     What did a resurrected body look like to me?  Others' conceptions--even those closest to me mattered little, if I did not have a strong sense of it in my own life.  I am not saying that my vision would be perfect, or what a resurrected body would look like--would be in my life.  But, if I was to have any hope than I better change resurrected body from an it--a thing--to an intimate in my life.
     My vision is far from perfect.  Intimate though my resurrected body may be, if there is any hope of my intimate being perfected--fulfilled--such intimacy must be shared--respected, and embraced.
     Yikes!

Understanding's--Compassion's---Scope

     The wait for a wheelchair continues.  Work with the vendor of the wheelchair, and the insurance company advocate continues.  The need is unrelenting.  The work seems without end--without a tangible result.
     I am a reasonable, logical, peaceful woman.  I am not comfortable being aggressive in stating my proven needs--my proven need.
     Friends, family, and acquaintances recognize my need, and offer the compassion ever so helpful as I strive toward my goal--a wheelchair.  I never imagined--I resisted--my need for a wheelchair.  Time, and my ankle convince me otherwise.
     I try to draw on my natural tendencies to achieve my goal--a wheelchair.  Logical.  I identified the steps necessary to secure a wheelchair.  An accounting of my physical symptoms, and capacities, a doctor's mobility assessment, an insurance company advocate, a medical vendor acceptable to the insurance company.
     Reasonable.  I listened to the doctor's recommendations.  I spoke with the insurance company advocate.  I visited the medical vendor.  I tried wheelchairs likely to meet my needs.  I maintained constant contact with the advocate, and the medical vendor.
     Aggressiveness expresses itself in cries of desperation from me.  Threats to change vendors.  Yet, aggressiveness, and threats help no one.
      Working to secure a wheelchair in the last three-and-a-half months lead me back to a lifelong question.  First, is it reasonable to expect that another human being may understand basic human needs, and life circumstances that may not be their own?  Second, is it true that no one may understand my/our human needs, because my/our life circumstances are not theirs?
     I am either a foolish optimist, or an optimistic fool.  Maybe both.  I hate to think that none of us may understand the basic human needs of another person, or persons, because our life circumstances are different--are not identical.
    Is it possible to surmount seeming indifference to those basic human needs?  If so, how?
    My default has been that indifference is surmountable.  I begin with logical appeals.  I resort to emotional appeals.  I seek support, and reinforcement to identify, and pursue other courses of action.
    Then, I wonder.  If my need is not enough--if the need/needs of the individuals for whom I am advocating are not enough--then, how can I appeal to the self-interests of the indifferent party?
    I am far beyond angry.   I am exasperated.  I am exhausted.  I am depressed.  Yet, none of these strategies, insights, or feelings has rendered a wheelchair.  Anger, exasperation, exhaustion, depression serve no one.  They are not effective conveyors of my emotions to the people who seem to have the resources to meet my needs.
    I wonder about the appearance of my need.  I am extremely grateful to be able to navigate my condominium.  So, to anyone who observes me navigate just short distances, they would surmise that my need does not rise to their requisite threshold.  Yet, anyone who has known me for any length of time--before I stopped working in 2009--they would know that I do not whine.  I do not pull the pity card--the victim's vengeance--in my daily dealings.
    How do I communicate the need that exceeds my immediate home environment?  How do I communicate that my need in a dignified manner?  Does pity need to be the weapon I must use to get my needs met?  I am no victim--by nature, I am no victim.  Yet, indifference is victimizing me unnecessarily.

Entombed Body, Free Spirit

I imbibe in the wallowing wine,
Not of my taste, she is bitter.
I must wash away my sorrow,
Swallow the sadness that darkens my spirit.

A sour, bitter woman
I must not become.
A woman who poisons others with my dour view, I cannot become.

Awaken me from my sorrowful, soured, saddened slumber.
Awaken me to all that I will do yet in my life.
Awaken me to all that I will know yet in my life.

I cannot succumb.
I must not become.
Tempting though it may be,
I cannot enlist in the battle of antagonistic righteousness.

Hard though it may be,
My needs I must share.
Yet, how?
When?

Entombed body,
Give me room to sit.
Give me space to stand,
Entombed body.

Free spirits,
Together may we sit,
Together may we stand,
Free spirits.
                                     Undated, before 2008.
                                     Most cleansing of all therapy is writing.
                                     No burden is too heavy--no pain                                                    too intense for the healing--the freedom--                                      writing provides.
                                     I treasure her gift.

Grieving A Body

For years after I began to have symptoms of MS, I used language to avoid owning them:  "The left hand doesn't work anymore," I said.  "There's a blurred spot in the right eye."  In distancing myself from my ravaged central nervous system, I kept grief at bay, but I also banished any possibility of self-love.  Only gradually have I schooled myself to speak of "my" hands, "my" eyes, thereby taking responsibility for them, though loving them ordinarily remains beyond me.
                           Waist-High in the World, Nancy Mairs, p. 43
     I understand what Nancy Mairs is describing.  She did not claim to be a spokesperson for all disabled individuals.  Permit me to refer to Nancy Mairs by her first name.  She invites her readers to share intimate details of her life, in the hopes of nurturing understanding by other individuals.  I accept her invitation.  I hope you will accompany me.  Nancy provides a starting point from which to reflect on the "ravaged central nervous system."
     I began to notice symptoms of osteoarthritis ten years ago.  Osteorthritis and cerebral palsy joined forces to accelerate my aging process.  My approach for my cerebral-palsied right hand, and my unaffected left hand has been to personify their relationship to me, and with one another through writing.  When I began to notice that my right hand depended inordinately on my left hand, I conceived of a conversational eavesdropping between my affected body parts.  For a lifetime, I have been called to respond to questions regarding my disabilities.  Early on, it became clear that the more open I could be about my body--about my disabilities--the deeper my relationships with other people would be.  Eavesdropping is frowned upon socially, however, it seemed that writing--writing a dialogue between body parts--could be an effective vehicle to transport questions into answers and understanding.
    I am intrigued by Nancy's comments about grieving, "In distancing myself from my ravaged central nervous system, I kept grief at bay, but I also banished any possibility of self-love."  I think I have taken a different approach than she describes.  Neither one is better than the other.  When I was fitted for my first ankle-foot-orthotic, or leg brace, I knew that I would face a psychological adjustment.  I talked about my brace--about my fears--with my coworkers.  In so doing, I invited them in for two purposes.  Quite selfishly, I needed their help to adjust to the new appendage to my body.  But, I hoped that they could understand what they had within themselves--what their "braces" were--that joined us.
     "Ravaged central nervous system," is a marvelous description.  I am not thrilled by the fact that my right ankle is on her last leg.  I am not thrilled by the fact that I understand the meaning of "homebound."   I have joked that, as I have been trying to secure a wheelchair, I have forgotten what it is that I am trying to get out to do.  Yet, it is not a joke.  It is true.  It is pathetic.  I am driven to distance myself from the pathetic aspect of me--that pathetic aspect.

A Limp of Truth

Tonight,
You limped ahead of me.
You sensed
My exposed nerves;
Straight to my core you cut.
In your limp,
You spoke a truth of me.
The truth you speak
Is
One from which
I may not walk away.
                               August 1993
     Truth survives the test of time.  Though 18 years ago, the place, and the image are indelibly etched in my memory.
     Sharing this story--walking in an elevated walkway past a mirror--serves as a reminder of lessons that I am called to learn.  I am not alone.
     Each of us is given lessons in our life--each day--to learn.  The question? Am I--are you--willing students of our life lessons given each day?

I Sit Before My Vanity

I sit before my vanity,
Dressed in pride.
In my mourning,
I must ask,
"What face will I put on to the world?
How do I face myself?"
A heartfelt smile of optimism and hope,
Foolish or not,
I am pale without it.
Braced,
I walk straight with few trips on my journey.
                                                             2005
Wearing my first brace since childhood was one of a series of health challenges that called into question how I meet my compromised body.  Questions continue.  The source will change, as will I.  Yet, the questions will continue.  Will I be open to the questions?  Will we?

Don't Walk TOO Fast

Don't walk too fast.
I don't run.
I can't run.
Don't walk too fast.
The light is green.
The sign says, "Walk."
Don't walk too fast.
The light is with me.
You are not.
Don't walk too fast.
I amble from strain--from pain.
I tiptoe toward not hurting.
Don't walk too fast.
Don't zoom past me on your motorcycle.
Don't rush to judgment.
Don't walk too fast.
                              Real life cannot be scripted.
                              All I may do is to reflect upon it.
                             Based on an intersection with a motorcyclist
                             crossing University Avenue in St. Paul.

Strength...Weakness...A Strong Will

     We must learn to pray out of our weaknesses so that God can become our strength." - Joan Chitister     

     I found this passage tonight.  It was posted in Sojourners' Verse and Voice.  Joan Chitister calls us to do much more than dig ourselves--individually, and collectively--out of a hole--a hole of bravado.  We shudder at--we deny--the very presence of weakness in our lives.

      Weakness.  "Not in my backyard."

      Weakness.  We don't know how to live with it--in our lives, much less in our selves.  

      Strength.  We cannot live without it in our lives--in our world.

      Weakness.  What does it mean?  Strength. What does that mean?

      We are at a defining moment in our lives--in our world.  Why?  What is so special about this moment? Is it just because Joan Chittister's passage was selected by Sojourners today?  I think not. 

     In my personal life, surgery prompted me to confront bodily strength and weakness.  Realizing that now I may walk without pain raises the question, "How long has it been?"  Last spring, perhaps?  If not, when?  I do not know.  I denied my weakness.  

     My surgery was designed to treat my "weak" ankle---my weak foot.  In four to six weeks, I thought should be at full strength. 

     A cure is resignation's salvation--pain's hope.  Yet, a cure is more elusive than salvation's promise to us.  A cure is a dangerous temptation.  His return on investment is shallow, at best.  Pain's hope must be deeper than a cure.  Pain's hope is far from easy.  Yet, openly willed each day, it is far more fulfilling than any cure could ever be.

     May we meet this day with a strong will--

     A conscious choice to embrace what is life-giving.

     May our strong will be a declarative act of living,

     Rather than a defiant part of speech.

The Breaking of the Bread

     Just now, I rediscovered a reflection written last winter, after Mass one Sunday.  It is easy for me to make my pronouncements. They--my pronouncements do not represent achievements being lived.  They are realizations that I hope I can achieve at some time.  
    I have been relinquished of the daily pressures and deadlines that are integral to everyday life for most everyone.  That is not lost on me.  I am eternally grateful for the relief I have been given, so that I may navigate my journey.

     Leo fell several times and severely injured his leg.  He had a metal rod implanted in his leg.  Since his surgery in mid-March, he has used one crutch to walk.   I feel closer to Leo than I did before his fall, and surgery.

     On Sunday, someone behind me commented that he was still walking gingerly.  He meant no malice. I said nothing.

     Yet, I at a very deep level, I hoped that he could have been awakened…jolted…into the vital reality so clearly before him.

     We are called to bring our imperfections into our walk….our journey….toward perfection….a perfection that is far from our own making, however repulsive that seems to our mental faculties--our reasoning self.

     Do we?

     Hardly.

     I am as guilty as the next person at wanting to put forth my best exterior inside the door of the church, and to my “reserved” seat.  It makes me feel good.  Likely, I will continue to do so.

     We are not called to exhibit deliberate foibles to the public square.  We are not called to project with a megaphone for all to hear our foibles, so that we may be credited for being “imperfect.”

     We are called to listen.  We are called to bring a keen ear to our lives--to our foibles.  We need to resist nothing other than to give alms, to do acts of penance to avoid facing…re-forming our imperfections.

     As it is, we try to time human healing, when whatever life force imperfects us.  We try to run toward the safety of convenience--a convenient life lived on our human deadlines--at our human pace.

     On Sunday, I felt betrayed by my brace that I could not walk perfectly at my own pace.  I thought I saw tears in Leo’s eyes as he broke the bread.  Whether he did have tears in his eyes is unlikely--almost irrelevant.  The sense of betrayal at that moment brought me to tears.  

     Quick. Find a tissue. 

     God forbid someone see me vulnerable at the moment of a revered offering.  Yet, it was the breaking of the Bread, after all.