Small things

Sr. Dorcee, belovedLeave a comment

Small Things

Anna Kamieńska

It usually starts taking shape
from one word
reveals itself in one smile
sometimes in the blue glint of eyeglasses
in a trampled daisy
in a splash of light on a path
in quivering carrot leaves
in a bunch of parsley
It comes from laundry hung on a balcony
from hands thrust into dough
It seeps through closed eyelids
as through the prison wall of things of objects
of faces of landscapes
It’s when you slice bread
when you pour out some tea
It comes from a broom from a shopping bag
from peeling new potatoes
from a drop of blood from the prick of a needle
when making panties for a child
or sewing a button on a husband’s burial shirt
It comes of toil out of care
out of the immense fatigue in the evening
out of tear wiped away
out of a prayer broken off in mid-word by sleep

It’s not from the grand
but from the tiny thing
that it grows enormous
as if Someone was building Eternity
as a swallow its nest
out of clumps of moments

Friday: from the archives

Sr. Dorcee, beloved2 Comments

A bit of a balm for those who are fearful:

Jer 39.17: But I will deliver you on that day, says the Lord, and you shall not be given into the hand of the men of whom you are afraid.

What is the thing you most fear and most earnestly pray about, the thing that you most dread?  If you love your Lord and yet know your own weakness, it is that something may happen to sweep you off your feet, or that your strength may be drained and you may yield and fall, and fail Him at the end.  The lives of many are shadowed by this fear.

But take comfort.  The God who knew the heart of His servant Ebed-melech knows our heart too.  He knows who the men are (what the forces of trial are) of whom we are afraid.  And He assures us and reassures us.  The Bible is full of “Fear nots.”  You shall not be given into the hand of the men of whom you are afraid.  (Amy Carmichael)

Walking and loving in darkness

Sr. Dorcee, belovedLeave a comment

Catherine Doherty writes about the love that finds us in the darkness:

Through faith we are able to turn our faces to God and meet his gaze.  Each day becomes more and more luminous.  The veil between God and man becomes less and less until it seems as if we can almost reach out and touch God.

Faith is a pulsating thing; a light, a sun that nothing can dim if it exists in the hearts of men.  That’s why it’s so beautiful.  God gives it to me saying, “I love you.  Do you love me back?  Come and follow me in the darkness.  I want to know if you are ready to go into the things that you do not see yet, on faith alone.”

Then you look at God, or at what you think is God in your mind, and you say, “Look, this is fine, but you’re inviting me to what?  An emptiness?  A nothingness?  There is nothing to see.  I cannot touch you.  I cannot feel you.”  Then God goes on to say, “I invite you to a relationship of love: your love of me, my love of you.”  Yes, God comes to us as an invitation to love. . . .

At this moment love surges in our heart like a tremendous sea that takes us in and lays us in the arms of God whom we haven’t seen but in whom we believe.  Across the waves we hear, “Blessed are they who have not seen and yet believe” (John 20.29).  Now I walk in the darkness of faith and I see.  I see more clearly than is possible with my fleshly eyes.

(Catherine Doherty, Re-entry into Faith: “Courage–be not afraid!”)

“It is easy, nonetheless, to run for the shade.”

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I thought I might entice you by a quote or two from Contemplative Provocations by Fr. Donald Haggerty.  (I’d really like to quote the whole book!)

Contemplative prayer is initiated undramatically–one might say in a concealed, subtle, confusing manner.  One symptom is a dry discomfort in prayer like the bodily ache of a fever that does not subside.  The aridity contrast with the prior experience of prayer, when a consoling sense of God’s presence was enjoyed.  Now there is little felt contact with God, nothing savored in emotion.  God seems to disappear more and more into hiding.  Other symptoms as well seem incongruous as signs of growth in prayer.  A focused attention on Our Lord becomes difficult. Noisy distractions disturb prayer.  Petty concerns interfere with prayer and replace quiet reflections about God.  The gospel pages no long offer vivid attraction.  Anxious thoughts and unwelcome memories intrude, and the mind is unable to settle down.  The struggle for an attentive silence and some serenity can burden an entire period of prayer.  The sense of being alone, somehow separated from God, unable to prayer, does not let up.

The return each day to silent prayer in this condition means to face the discomfort of silence.  There can be a strong temptation to give up prayer or to find some activity in silent prayer to counter frustration.  A more superficial prayer can be adopted which discards the effort of listening in silence to God.  One might opt, for instance, to spend time in prayer simply reading.  In that case the dryness and distraction may lift to a degree because they are less noticed.  This may seem to restore relations with God.  It would be a poor exchange, however, a step backward.  The soul would forfeit a grace it was beginning to taste of a deeper thirst for God.  The thirst of the soul for God is stronger in the desert.  It is easy, nonetheless, to run for the shade.