The Hallelujah
I was really excited this year about Jack visiting from Costa Rica for Christmas. Jack is my mother's cousin, and I met him for the first time last spring when Mom and I visited Santa Ana. He's a really fun person, and he and I are very alike in spirit and humor.
The last few weeks I have been preparing for Jack's arrival. Although he was only spending one night at my house before going to stay with my Aunt Mame, I wanted everything to be perfect. I scrubbed my apartment from top to bottom. It took five hours. I even cleaned the inside of my medicene cabinet. Did I think Jack would care about my medicene cabinet? No. But I cared. I cleaned my pantry. I bought a six pack of Coors, his favorite American beer. I put together a selection of books for him to read. I spent two days creating the most "welcome back to New England" meal I could think of, Beef and Potato stew with Guinness.
Before I left for the airport Tuesday night I set the table for two, turned the crock pot to "simmer," and put Dad's old leather jacket in my car so Jack would have something warm to wear. Everything was perfect.
Then everything fell apart. Jack didn't get off the plane. While other happy families reunited at the gate, I stood holding Dad's heavy jacket, distraught and worried. I got terse with a security guard who sent me to the wrong gate. I had Jack paged. Someone looked up his name and told me Jack had missed the flight; he was on the next one. I had two hours to wait. I sat and thought about the stew simmering away in my kitchen. I thought about how early I had to get up for work. I longed for my ipod. I got grumpy.
Once Jack arrived, things started looking up. We didn't stop talking all the way home. I forgot how tired I was, and put my early morning shift out of my mind. On the way to my apartment we passed a pizza place. Jack nearly jumped out the window of the car because he hadn't had a decent slice of pizza in twelve years. Excited for his "first" taste of American pizza, I stopped the car quickly, and he ran into the little store. Then I remembered my stew at home and started to laugh out loud.
I had spent all this time preparing and working and planning. In the end it was a good thing because my house was clean and comfortable, and Jack ended up eating some stew after his pizza anyway. But still, things didn't go as I planned.
This Advent I promised myself I'd really prepare a place for Jesus. I tried to be mindful every single day. I said I'd pray an hour a day at least. I told myself I'd find extra prayer services to attend. In the end, I didn't do that hour of prayer every single day. But I did pray more often. And I missed Mass twice but I went to a very moving yoga - prayer service at Hope Church. I also attended Taize, which I wouldn't have done if I hadn't missed Mass last week.
In and of itself preparing is not generally bad or futile. Because otherwise the apartment would be cluttered , the fridge would be gross and there'd be no six pack of Coors.
But flexibility is key in planning. It's important to keep in mind that airlines aren't always on time and that sometimes a man just wants a slice of pizza.
We can pray for Grace and make ourselves as open as possible in preparation, but it's still all up to God. Rigidity in faith, I am learning, might not be as useful as I once thought it was.
So, (ready for a corny and moralizing anaology to end this one?) I'm going to keep making stew but I'm not going to freak out about how many potatos to buy,* because in the end we might end up just getting a pizza and eating both.
Hallelujah!
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*right, Shannon?
Showing posts with label advent. Show all posts
Showing posts with label advent. Show all posts
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Rehashing Advent: the dark, the light and the Hallelujah
The story of the darkest parts of my Advent seems disheartening.
But the truth is that the moments of Light far outnumbered those two dark weekends.
The Light
"They're here!" The supervisor is smiling. I'm munching on chocolate covered pretzels and trying to finish my charts while planning report for the next shift. I'm mentally preparing a list for the next morning, "find G. a coat," "remind W. to fast for blood labs," "urine test results for S."
"Ah! Already?" I start munching and documenting faster. My shift is over but I'm staying late because of the guests who have just arrived in the second floor patient lobby. I need to get down there.
I step off the elevator and walk around the corner to the Atrium. The snow on the windows is glowing, reflecting the many lights from inside. The angel at the top of the Christmas tree oversees the scene, as a few patients mill about and some take seats in rockers and on couches. Denny, the street team NP is talking to a group of children, two of them her own, while her husband tunes his guitar.
When the music starts and the children begin to sing, everyone is silent at first, but then one by one they join in the singing. Slowly the room fills with more and more people. Nurses, aides, and patients leave what they're doing and gather around to listen to the carols. Although the music is mostly upbeat ("We Wish You a Merry Christmas," and "Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer,") I see many of the men and women wiping at their eyes clandestinely. I wonder how many of them see themeselves or their own kids in the bright, innocent faces.
The nurse next to me wipes her eyes. The housekeeper wipes his eyes. I wipe mine.
The children do Silent Night, a request from a tired but happy looking woman sitting on a couch with her friends. Then they sing a few songs from The Sound of Music before launching into a rendition of Jingle Bells with a second verse they wrote themselves about getting injured while skiiing. Their lyrics elicit genuine laughs and delighted applause from their audience.
At that point my chest began to ache. I pressed my hands to my sternum as hard as I could. I felt so much love and so much hope that I could barely breathe. I looked around at everyone gathered. People from all walks of life, different faith backgrounds, varying degrees of hardship, tragedy and trauma. I was suddenly very, very sure of God's presence.
And I knew we were all going to be ok. In that moment I wasn't worried about whether I had gotten to church on time last week. I understood completely that God doesn't "love" as a verb alone. God is love.
When those kids started singing and we all joined in, our world stopped for a few minutes. The patients stopped smoking or watching tv or doing laundry. The nurses stopped charting and pouring and reading and fussing. Jim stopped sweeping. The security guard put down his newspaper. And like the Whos of Whoville we joined all our different voices in song. And in that song there was love. And where the love is, there is God. And in that moment, I became sure of it.
I continue to watch the patients in the crowd. In the corner a man in a hospital johnny appears to not be listening. His eyes are far away and trained on the ceiling. But he is tapping his foot. Beside me a small woman who has seen three friends pass away in the past two month, (all of them patients of ours) grabs at my arm with one hand and rubs her eyes with the other. "It's been a hard year," she whispers, not for the first time. "Every time I get my life on track someone else dies."
The nurse next to me whispers back, "it's time for a new beginning ... a fresh start."
Yes. Yes. Yes.
But the truth is that the moments of Light far outnumbered those two dark weekends.
The Light
"They're here!" The supervisor is smiling. I'm munching on chocolate covered pretzels and trying to finish my charts while planning report for the next shift. I'm mentally preparing a list for the next morning, "find G. a coat," "remind W. to fast for blood labs," "urine test results for S."
"Ah! Already?" I start munching and documenting faster. My shift is over but I'm staying late because of the guests who have just arrived in the second floor patient lobby. I need to get down there.
I step off the elevator and walk around the corner to the Atrium. The snow on the windows is glowing, reflecting the many lights from inside. The angel at the top of the Christmas tree oversees the scene, as a few patients mill about and some take seats in rockers and on couches. Denny, the street team NP is talking to a group of children, two of them her own, while her husband tunes his guitar.
When the music starts and the children begin to sing, everyone is silent at first, but then one by one they join in the singing. Slowly the room fills with more and more people. Nurses, aides, and patients leave what they're doing and gather around to listen to the carols. Although the music is mostly upbeat ("We Wish You a Merry Christmas," and "Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer,") I see many of the men and women wiping at their eyes clandestinely. I wonder how many of them see themeselves or their own kids in the bright, innocent faces.
The nurse next to me wipes her eyes. The housekeeper wipes his eyes. I wipe mine.
The children do Silent Night, a request from a tired but happy looking woman sitting on a couch with her friends. Then they sing a few songs from The Sound of Music before launching into a rendition of Jingle Bells with a second verse they wrote themselves about getting injured while skiiing. Their lyrics elicit genuine laughs and delighted applause from their audience.
At that point my chest began to ache. I pressed my hands to my sternum as hard as I could. I felt so much love and so much hope that I could barely breathe. I looked around at everyone gathered. People from all walks of life, different faith backgrounds, varying degrees of hardship, tragedy and trauma. I was suddenly very, very sure of God's presence.
And I knew we were all going to be ok. In that moment I wasn't worried about whether I had gotten to church on time last week. I understood completely that God doesn't "love" as a verb alone. God is love.
When those kids started singing and we all joined in, our world stopped for a few minutes. The patients stopped smoking or watching tv or doing laundry. The nurses stopped charting and pouring and reading and fussing. Jim stopped sweeping. The security guard put down his newspaper. And like the Whos of Whoville we joined all our different voices in song. And in that song there was love. And where the love is, there is God. And in that moment, I became sure of it.
I continue to watch the patients in the crowd. In the corner a man in a hospital johnny appears to not be listening. His eyes are far away and trained on the ceiling. But he is tapping his foot. Beside me a small woman who has seen three friends pass away in the past two month, (all of them patients of ours) grabs at my arm with one hand and rubs her eyes with the other. "It's been a hard year," she whispers, not for the first time. "Every time I get my life on track someone else dies."
The nurse next to me whispers back, "it's time for a new beginning ... a fresh start."
Yes. Yes. Yes.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Rehashing Advent: the dark, the light and the Hallelujah
I challenged myself this Advent to think about my Faith in new ways, and to open myself up to unexpected changes in my relationship to others and God. I also made a rather secular deal with myself to do at least one fun thing every day until Christmas in the hope of rekindling the spirit of the child who waits with hope and joy (and without stress) for December 25th each year. So I give you the Dark, the Light and the Hallelujah of my Advent journey.
The Dark
On the fourth Sunday of Advent I overslept. Still, I wasn't concerned, knowing I could catch a 5pm service at St. Paul's in Harvard Square. After sledding most of the afternoon with a friend, we grabbed a cup of cocoa at Diesel in Davis Square. We got to talking and before I knew it, I was running late. My watch read 5pm exactly as the train pulled into the Harvard Square stop. I realized that I still had about a ten minute walk to the church. Thinking quickly, I decided to play things safe, stay on the train to Park Street and then take the Green line to a 6pm Mass at St. Cecelia's. Better to be early than late, I reasoned, the events of the previous week fresh in my mind.
I was freezing when I finally got to St. Cecelia's. While we were sledding I had failed to bail out of my saucer on one unlucky run and ended up in a small brook, which had soaked my clothes through. Still, I was early, and consoled myself knowing I'd have time to warm up and meditate before the service. But when I got to the door a sign posted read "Silence Please."
The church was full of candles. And empty of people.
"Welcome to Taize," a man greeted me warmly.
My dismay showed on my face and the man's face fell too.
"There's no 6pm Mass today because the students are all on break," he explained, "but you're welcome to join us for prayer."
The week before, as I partially alluded to, I was late to church and missed the Gospel reading. On top of being late, when I got in line for Communion, somehow the priest looked me over and returned to the altar without administering the Sacrament. I was left standing alone in the center aisle like lost toddler or a forgotten bride. God's unwanted child. No Gospel. No Eucharist. Essentially no Mass on Gaudete Sunday.
I'm a pretty terrible Catholic in plenty of ways but weekly Mass is a discipline that I practice the way some people play an instrument or do martial arts. I have attended Mass in many different cities, states and countries in all sorts of languages with all sorts of people.
And now, this Advent, at a time when I have been focusing more instead of less on my faith... I somehow managed to miss church two weekends in a row.
I thanked the man and took a copy of the music. I walked down the center aisle, my snow boots creating jarring noises in the silent room. The candle light danced all around me and I tried to remind myself of how much I love Taize services. I tried to tell myself that it would be good for me to just listen to God for an hour instead of just reciting all the traditional prayers. I tried to clear my mind. Then I knelt down and tried to stop myself from crying.
The Dark
On the fourth Sunday of Advent I overslept. Still, I wasn't concerned, knowing I could catch a 5pm service at St. Paul's in Harvard Square. After sledding most of the afternoon with a friend, we grabbed a cup of cocoa at Diesel in Davis Square. We got to talking and before I knew it, I was running late. My watch read 5pm exactly as the train pulled into the Harvard Square stop. I realized that I still had about a ten minute walk to the church. Thinking quickly, I decided to play things safe, stay on the train to Park Street and then take the Green line to a 6pm Mass at St. Cecelia's. Better to be early than late, I reasoned, the events of the previous week fresh in my mind.
I was freezing when I finally got to St. Cecelia's. While we were sledding I had failed to bail out of my saucer on one unlucky run and ended up in a small brook, which had soaked my clothes through. Still, I was early, and consoled myself knowing I'd have time to warm up and meditate before the service. But when I got to the door a sign posted read "Silence Please."
The church was full of candles. And empty of people.
"Welcome to Taize," a man greeted me warmly.
My dismay showed on my face and the man's face fell too.
"There's no 6pm Mass today because the students are all on break," he explained, "but you're welcome to join us for prayer."
The week before, as I partially alluded to, I was late to church and missed the Gospel reading. On top of being late, when I got in line for Communion, somehow the priest looked me over and returned to the altar without administering the Sacrament. I was left standing alone in the center aisle like lost toddler or a forgotten bride. God's unwanted child. No Gospel. No Eucharist. Essentially no Mass on Gaudete Sunday.
I'm a pretty terrible Catholic in plenty of ways but weekly Mass is a discipline that I practice the way some people play an instrument or do martial arts. I have attended Mass in many different cities, states and countries in all sorts of languages with all sorts of people.
And now, this Advent, at a time when I have been focusing more instead of less on my faith... I somehow managed to miss church two weekends in a row.
I thanked the man and took a copy of the music. I walked down the center aisle, my snow boots creating jarring noises in the silent room. The candle light danced all around me and I tried to remind myself of how much I love Taize services. I tried to tell myself that it would be good for me to just listen to God for an hour instead of just reciting all the traditional prayers. I tried to clear my mind. Then I knelt down and tried to stop myself from crying.
Monday, December 21, 2009
a bit of light Advent Reading
Over the past four weeks of Advent one of the things that has kept me the most on track with staying spiritually mindful has been the writing of a man whom I have never met.
I found Stephen Hough's blog on the first Sunday of Advent when I googled the phrase "darkness to light," which led me to the first of his four Advent posts.
Four sentences in, I was hooked.
Hough, an internationally acclaimed professional concert pianist, decided to choose a new musical piece each week, and explain it in a seasonal context.
It wasn't what his entire blog has been about during Advent. I'm guessing that religion is not a subject matter he speaks of often since in that initial piece he writes "for the next four Sundays, atheist, agnostic and freethinking readers might want to avoid posts with the word ‘Advent’ in the title - you have been warned!"
I have become a regular follower of his blog (and recommend that you do to), because he is a truly engaging writer no matter what the subject matter is, but for now I'll focus on the four Advent pieces. It's been fascinating to read about the season through the eyes (and ears!) of a professional musician who is also extremely well versed in Church theology and doctrine.
The musical pieces he chose to write about are as follows:
1. Prelude Chorale and Fugue, Cesar Franck
2. The Fountain and The Bell, Federico Mompou
3. F minor piano sonata (specifically the second movement), Brahms
4. Ave Maria, Franz Liszt
The pieces he chose to explain are not explicitly religious. In fact, the only one I immediately registered as liturgical was Ave Maria. But Hough writes of the composer's backgrounds as well as the historical context of the pieces. He also focuses on the music itself, the notes, the melodies and the instruments. The way Hough connects each musical masterpiece to the themes of Advent reminded me of the way someone else may find God in a sunrise, or in the ocean waves, or the movement of an electron.
I also took the time to read some of the conversations taking place in the comments sections of the four Advent pieces. Because I do not have a large or steady faith community of my own here in Boston*, I found myself drawn to these discussions between Catholics, Protestants and atheists. Together they've created conversations in which Hough's ideas were questioned, built upon and further explored.
I was amazed as I read through the various conversations. Everyone who comments, it seems, is genuinely interested in creating dialogue to further each individual's understanding of Advent. Hough also takes part in these conversations, explaining and defending his own views when necessary, but very open to the ideas of his peers and readers. People don't always walk away from it agreeing. But everyone comes to the table willing to listen and interested in hearing what was said in response.
I will certainly be posting more about my own thoughts on the season in general, and especially on Advent 2009. In the meantime I hope that if it interests you at all you will click on one of the links above and read some of Hough's insight into how these four pieces capture the pre-Christmas season.
He has certainly been an inspiration to me these past four weeks.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
* the subject of an upcoming post for sure
I found Stephen Hough's blog on the first Sunday of Advent when I googled the phrase "darkness to light," which led me to the first of his four Advent posts.
Four sentences in, I was hooked.
Hough, an internationally acclaimed professional concert pianist, decided to choose a new musical piece each week, and explain it in a seasonal context.
It wasn't what his entire blog has been about during Advent. I'm guessing that religion is not a subject matter he speaks of often since in that initial piece he writes "for the next four Sundays, atheist, agnostic and freethinking readers might want to avoid posts with the word ‘Advent’ in the title - you have been warned!"
I have become a regular follower of his blog (and recommend that you do to), because he is a truly engaging writer no matter what the subject matter is, but for now I'll focus on the four Advent pieces. It's been fascinating to read about the season through the eyes (and ears!) of a professional musician who is also extremely well versed in Church theology and doctrine.
The musical pieces he chose to write about are as follows:
1. Prelude Chorale and Fugue, Cesar Franck
2. The Fountain and The Bell, Federico Mompou
3. F minor piano sonata (specifically the second movement), Brahms
4. Ave Maria, Franz Liszt
The pieces he chose to explain are not explicitly religious. In fact, the only one I immediately registered as liturgical was Ave Maria. But Hough writes of the composer's backgrounds as well as the historical context of the pieces. He also focuses on the music itself, the notes, the melodies and the instruments. The way Hough connects each musical masterpiece to the themes of Advent reminded me of the way someone else may find God in a sunrise, or in the ocean waves, or the movement of an electron.
I also took the time to read some of the conversations taking place in the comments sections of the four Advent pieces. Because I do not have a large or steady faith community of my own here in Boston*, I found myself drawn to these discussions between Catholics, Protestants and atheists. Together they've created conversations in which Hough's ideas were questioned, built upon and further explored.
I was amazed as I read through the various conversations. Everyone who comments, it seems, is genuinely interested in creating dialogue to further each individual's understanding of Advent. Hough also takes part in these conversations, explaining and defending his own views when necessary, but very open to the ideas of his peers and readers. People don't always walk away from it agreeing. But everyone comes to the table willing to listen and interested in hearing what was said in response.
I will certainly be posting more about my own thoughts on the season in general, and especially on Advent 2009. In the meantime I hope that if it interests you at all you will click on one of the links above and read some of Hough's insight into how these four pieces capture the pre-Christmas season.
He has certainly been an inspiration to me these past four weeks.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
* the subject of an upcoming post for sure
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Starting Advent - ex tenebris lux
This Sunday was the start of the season! Advent marks the beginning of the Church year! A time of starting over, and making ourselves new again! Happy New (church) Year!
It may come as a surprise to people who know me but I usually don't pay attention to Advent at all.
Growing up in a Catholic town it seemed that Advent was for children, and Lent was for adults. Advent was cheerful, warm and fun. Every day we opened a new door on the Advent calendar at home. Every week we lit a new candle on the wreath at school. We sang carols at church. We gave each other secret gifts.
In contrast, Lent was cold, dark and scary. The music at church was about blood and death. And although I participated in abstaining from meat, and putting money in the rice bowl instead of spending it on sweets, I dreaded Lent coming each year, and couldn't wait for it to all be over. I had no idea why the adults didn't just cancel it.
As I grew up, I began to appreciate Lent more for its spiritual benefits, but I became removed from Advent. Preparing for Christmas became stressful the way it is constantly depicted in secular culture. My Christmas ends up being wonderful and magical, but I always arrive there wondering where the hell I've been for four entire weeks. At Christmas Mass every year I am a little sorry that I skipped Advent, because I feel like I've been dropped off on Christmas instead of finding my way there.
But not this year. This year I want to recapture some of the actual anticipation and joy I felt as a kid before Dec. 25th. I want it to come from an honest place so that my energy isn't forced, and my holiday spirit isn't sicky-sweet or abrasive. I want to be able to share that energy and renewal with other people when they need it the most.
And I'm going to do it all by observing a mindful Advent.
I know a lot of my friends and family have no interest in religion, and rest assured I don't mean to force (too many)* angels and shepherds on you in the next four weeks.
But I am going to try to check in here at least once a week on how I'm doing with Advent. It's a resolution that I'm hoping will keep me on track with my other resolutions.
Advent is a journey from darkness into light. I could use some light. And if you could too, I hope you'll come with me.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
* Angels and shepherds still included, and the qualifier "too many" to be defined on an individual basis by participating bloggers while supplies last. Management is not responsible for rogue shepherds or rowdy angels.
It may come as a surprise to people who know me but I usually don't pay attention to Advent at all.
Growing up in a Catholic town it seemed that Advent was for children, and Lent was for adults. Advent was cheerful, warm and fun. Every day we opened a new door on the Advent calendar at home. Every week we lit a new candle on the wreath at school. We sang carols at church. We gave each other secret gifts.
In contrast, Lent was cold, dark and scary. The music at church was about blood and death. And although I participated in abstaining from meat, and putting money in the rice bowl instead of spending it on sweets, I dreaded Lent coming each year, and couldn't wait for it to all be over. I had no idea why the adults didn't just cancel it.
As I grew up, I began to appreciate Lent more for its spiritual benefits, but I became removed from Advent. Preparing for Christmas became stressful the way it is constantly depicted in secular culture. My Christmas ends up being wonderful and magical, but I always arrive there wondering where the hell I've been for four entire weeks. At Christmas Mass every year I am a little sorry that I skipped Advent, because I feel like I've been dropped off on Christmas instead of finding my way there.
But not this year. This year I want to recapture some of the actual anticipation and joy I felt as a kid before Dec. 25th. I want it to come from an honest place so that my energy isn't forced, and my holiday spirit isn't sicky-sweet or abrasive. I want to be able to share that energy and renewal with other people when they need it the most.
And I'm going to do it all by observing a mindful Advent.
I know a lot of my friends and family have no interest in religion, and rest assured I don't mean to force (too many)* angels and shepherds on you in the next four weeks.
But I am going to try to check in here at least once a week on how I'm doing with Advent. It's a resolution that I'm hoping will keep me on track with my other resolutions.
Advent is a journey from darkness into light. I could use some light. And if you could too, I hope you'll come with me.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
* Angels and shepherds still included, and the qualifier "too many" to be defined on an individual basis by participating bloggers while supplies last. Management is not responsible for rogue shepherds or rowdy angels.
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