Category Archives: Accompaniment

Trying to keep a toddler relatively chill during an hour-long liturgy can be a uniquely punishing experience.

The little human often grasps neither the rhythm of the mass nor the utility of whispering when communicating. He is quite heavy, a thirty pound bag of rice that wants to move, point, be held a little higher, and be balanced in odd ways on my body. The setting is quiet and public, and so visibility (and potential for embarrassment) is high.

All of these details sum to a basic and physical reminder, during the mass, that I am in need and not in control.

For a long time, I regarded this strain with varied levels of resentment. Now, I try to see it as an asset to prayer.

I try to recall, during this strain, that the worst disposition I can carry into the liturgy is one of self sufficiency… that I am basically okay on my own and do not depend, each day, on the grace of God.

The presence of a toddler, then, is a very physical antidote to this lie of self-sufficiency. The strain can actually crack me open to experience the grace of the mass and of my life.

If we let them, toddlers can act as an antidote to our self-sufficiency before God.

Which is consistently the origin of the abundance and joy in our lives? The known or the unknown?

Right.

And why, then, do we seek so often to control our circumstances?

Let us try, each day, to venture into the unknown.

A friend recently shared with me the following story.

He was, some months ago, on a road trip with Fr. Richard Rohr, OFM.  

(Moment of delightful appreciation for what it must be like to make a road trip with the good Friar.)

In a glorious non-sequitur, Fr. Rohr shared one definition of sanctity.  He said: “You know, a saint is someone who has forgiven reality.”

Since hearing this definition, I’ve thought about what this might mean… to “forgive reality.”  

Surely, understanding this definition could take a lifetime, but for me, now, “forgiving reality” means relinquishing my emotional reactivity (anger, judgment, pride, etc) as I confront any reality that appears, in this moment, imperfect or threatening.  (It is my hunch, also, that I am able to do this to the extent that I experience forgiveness myself and trust in the loving kindness of God.)

As I am able to forgive reality, I am able to see more clearly, live more artfully, and respond to reality with love.

The novitiate for the Congregation of Holy Cross in East Africa is located at Lake Saaka, a crater lake hidden by the rolling hills of rural Western Uganda.  It is impossibly temperate and beautiful.  Here, the men in formation will work, pray, and study for a year before taking first vows.

And, for many years, their next stop in formation was Dandora, a slum of Nairobi, Kenya.  In Dandora, one hundred thousand people struggle to survive on four bleak square kilometers that border Nairobi’s largest dump.  Depending on which way the wind is blowing, the air smells either strongly or faintly of burning garbage.  Save for the sunrise and sunset, there is no natural beauty.  Here, the religious who took vows at Lake Saaka, would continue their formation with pastoral work and theology studies.  

Both Saaka and Dandora are places of sincere intensity.  At Saaka, it is the intensity of witnessing the growth of one’s own inner life in a wildly abundant experience of God’s creation. In Dandora, it is the intensity of witnessing the visceral resilience, strength, and prayer of God’s people.

I have thought about these extremes for some time.  They certainly defy clean interpretation.  What remains clear to me, though, is that I have known religious of the Holy Cross who, because they have lived in both intensities, carry a profound capacity to witness to the unrelenting and merciful love of God.

In German, the way to say “to meet” (as in, “good to meet you”) is actually a composite of two verbs: kennen lernen.  Kennen means “to know” and lernen means “to learn.”

Fascinating, right?  Truly meeting someone does, in fact, demand attentive receptivity so that we can learn how to know the person.

I do not know if this interpretation is implied by its etymology, but it is still a worthy reminder.

We have the opportunity to learn to know those around us every day, even those that we met, for the first time, long ago.

Here is one of my favorite stories from the writings of the Desert Fathers.

A novice is worried because the monk that he sits next to during the late prayer keeps falling asleep. He asks an older monk what he should do.

The master’s response? See that the sleeping monk is comfortable. Do not disturb him.

Often, we conceive of a “conversion experience” as necessarily startling or shocking.  Many times, though, an experience of unexpected gentleness can be uniquely powerful and an enduring reason to believe.

Last week, our older son and I flew on an airplane. As we were about to take off, the pilot explained where on the trip we might experience turbulence and how to prepare ourselves.

This is an outstanding exercise for our personal and professional lives. Anticipating turbulence with loved ones, in counselling, and in spiritual direction can enable our artful response.

And yes, there is turbulence for which we cannot prepare. Knowing this, we can spend the time in silence, cultivating solitude and trust, so that we have the interior resources we need when a challenge arises.

Anticipating turbulence helps us respond instead of react when strain enters our lives.