Monthly Archives: December 2015

Dec212015

Hospice experiences elevate

The Hospice elevates my relationship with Jesus and Mary, the Holy Spirit exercising influence, the Father always abiding within love.  Celebrating Christmas early with my family, I parted from a pleasant gathering to receive a call from the Hospice, calling for my service in Westlake, at the Ames Family Hospice Home.  I was told an elderly gentleman, a cancer patient, was transferred to the facility after a suicide attempt.  I was not sure what God was calling forth.  My scheduler instructed me there would be plenty of medical personal to assist me if I felt overwhelmed by the patient’s needs.  Matters proved so easy I feel ridiculous for doubting whether I was capable of handling a suicidal patient.  The patient did have a startling surprise waiting for me.  God never ceases to amaze during my Hospice experiences.  It turns out the ninety-six year old patient grew up in the same town as me.  We shared Temperance, Michigan as our hometown.  Once he discovered the fact, he took the extreme coincidence in stride, accepting the matter as natural as can be, informing the nurses when they came to check on him that we had a lot to talk about since we were both from Temperance.  I sat stunned, marveling at the wonders of God.  He was talking about streets, buildings, some names that I knew intimately.  For him, it was nothing at all.  I saw no signs of depression or suicide as he was so elated to have someone to sit with him.  He told me war stories detailing encounters with the Japanese, rambling and wandering all over the place, yet thoroughly entertaining.  The man just wanted someone to talk to and he was a talker.  The way he would smile, deeply enamored when looking at me as if we had been friends all our lives, warmed my soul comfortably.  There was even a delightful moment late into the visit.  Deep into the night, everything quiet in the expansively and refined Hospice facility, the patient sleeping sound—I fell asleep myself.  I woke to the patient stroking my thigh, assuring me that everything was going to be alright.  I could only chuckle.  Of course, his reprieve from sleep led to more talking, stories and more names of people he knew from Temperance, this time mostly covering his crow hunting days as a boy in the woods west of Summerfield Road.

Speaking with the scheduler once I returned home, filling out timesheets he informed me regarding my Serbian patient.  I posted details about meeting her son and grandson.  Arriving at 11:30 PM Friday night immediately after work, I discovered the patient with her son and grandson lovingly on both sides of her bed.  Our short conversation delved deeply into their mother, her grandson subtly expressing a deep lack of faith.  The encounter was striking in spiritual relevancy.  I learned the woman passed away before midnight, less than a half hour after the conversation.  She waited upon her son and grandson.

Driving to my family Christmas gathering, I listened to a lecture by Archbishop Fulton Sheen on the marvels of Mary.  It was a particularly favorite lecture of Father David Mary.  It must always be kept in mind the immense intellectual and scholarly proficiencies of Archbishop Sheen.  He was profoundly so much more than a media embracing priest.  I felt it important to post this video.  He presents some extremely powerful insight into the power and majesty of the relationship between Jesus and Mary.

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Dec202015

Song of the Mystic

Ljubica Cuca Sokic

Ljubica Cuca Sokic

 

At the words of the sacred Virgin Mary, St John was sanctified in his womb. Our Lord and St John the Baptist visited each other in the wombs of their mothers (the wombs of our mother are little worlds), and it is said that the glorious Precursor placed himself on his knees in adoration of his Savior and that at the same instant he was given the use of reason. But the world will believe only what it sees. (Be this said in passing). —The Sermons of St Francis de Sales on Our Lady

A voice cries: “In the wilderness prepare the way of the LORD, make straight in the desert a highway for our God. Isaiah 40:3

John answered them, “I baptize with water; but among you stands one whom you do not know, even he who comes after me, the thong of whose sandal I am not worthy to untie. Gospel of John 1:26-27

Song of the Mystic
by Father Abram J Ryan

I walk down the Valley of Silence —
Down the dim, voiceless valley — alone!
And I hear not the fall of a footstep
Around me, save God’s and my own;
And the hush of my heart is as holy
As hovers where angels have flown!

Long ago was I weary of voices
Whose music my heart could not win;
Long ago was I weary of noises
That fretted my soul with their din;
Long ago was I weary of places
Where I met but the human — and sin.

I walked in the world with the worldly;
I craved what the world never gave;
And I said: “In the world each Ideal,
That shines like a star on life’s wave,
Is wrecked on the shores of the Real,
And sleeps like a dream in a grave.”

And still did I pine for the Perfect,
And still found the False with the True;
I sought ‘mid the Human for Heaven,
But caught a mere glimpse of its Blue:
And I wept when the clouds of the Mortal
Veiled even that glimpse from my view.

And I toiled on, heart-tired, of the Human,
And I moaned ‘mid the mazes of men,
Till I knelt, long ago, at an altar
And I heard a voice call me:— since then
I walk down the Valley of Silence
That lies far beyond mortal ken.

Do you ask what I found in the Valley?
‘Tis my Trysting Place with the Divine.
And I fell at the feet of the Holy,
And above me a voice said: “Be mine.”
And there arose from the depths of my spirit
An echo — “My heart shall be Thine.”

Do you ask how I live in the Valley?
I weep — and I dream — and I pray.
But my tears are as sweet as the dewdrops
That fall on the roses in May;
And my prayer, like a perfume from censers,
Ascendeth to God night and day.

In the hush of the Valley of Silence
I dream all the songs that I sing;
And the music floats down the dim Valley,
Till each finds a word for a wing,
That to hearts, like the Dove of the Deluge,
A message of Peace they may bring.

But far on the deep there are billows
That never shall break on the beach;
And I have heard songs in the Silence
That never shall float into speech;
And I have had dreams in the Valley,
Too lofty for language to reach.

And I have seen Thoughts in the Valley —
Ah! me, how my spirit was stirred!
And they wear holy veils on their faces,
Their footsteps can scarcely be heard:
They pass through the Valley like Virgins,
Too pure for the touch of a word!

Do you ask me the place of the Valley,
Ye hearts that are harrowed by Care?
It lieth afar between mountains,
And God and His angels are there:
And one is the dark mount of Sorrow,
And one the bright mountain of Prayer!

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Father Abram J  Ryan, the poet-priest of the South, born at Norfolk, Virginia, 15 August, 1839; died at Louisville, Kentucky, 22 April, 1886. He inherited from his parents, in its most poetic and religious form, the strange witchery of the Irish temper. Fitted for the priesthood by a nature at once mystic and spiritual, he was ordained just before the beginning of the Civil War, entered the Confederate army as a chaplain, and served in this capacity until the end of the war. In the hour of defeat he won the heart of the entire South by his “Conquered Banner,” whose exquisite measure was taken, as he told a friend, from one of the Gregorian hymns. The Marseillaise, as a hymn of victory, never more profoundly stirred the heart of France, than did this hymn of defeat, the hearts of those to whom it was addressed. It was read or sung in every Southern household, and thus became the apotheosis of the “Lost Cause”. While much of his later war poetry was notable in its time, his first effort, which fixed his fame, was his finest production. The only other themes upon which he sang were those inspired by religious feeling. Among his poems of that class are to be found bits of the most weird and exquisite imagery. Within the limits of the Southern Confederacy and the Catholic Church in the United States no poet was more popular. After the war he exercised the ministry in New Orleans, and was editor of “The Star,” a Catholic weekly; later he founded “The Banner of the South” in Augusta, Georgia, a religious and political weekly; then he retired to Mobile. In 1880 he lectured in several Northern cities. As a pulpit orator and lecturer, he was always interesting and occasionally brilliant. As a man he had a subtle, fascinating nature, full of magnetism when he saw fit to exert it; as a priest, he was full of tenderness, gentleness, and courage. In the midst of pestilence he had no fear of death or disease. Even when he was young his feeble body gave him the appearance of age, and with all this there was the dreamy mysticism of the poet so manifest in the flesh as to impart to his personality something which marked him off from al other men. His “Poems, Patriotic, Religious, and Miscellaneous” have reached dozens of printings.  –Catholic Encyclopedia www.newadvent.org

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Dec192015

Holiday Season

What a day of splendor with my new friend. I want to say her name so badly, however due to patient privacy rights the dispensing of names is forbidden. I will hold her name in silence, grasped deeply within my heart, mind, and soul. I have been singing her name over and over throughout my work day. This morning when I arrived for my visit, I was greeted by a Serbian Orthodox priest from St Sava in Parma, a wonderfully kind and hospitable gentleman inviting me to visit his church. There was also a friend of the patient visiting. I was just in time for the conducting of final rites, the sacrament of unction, the anointing of the sick. When the priest began the anointing, I immediately dropped to my knees, knowing I was blessed to be witnessing something profound. I found the anointing powerful in grace. The priest made the sign of the cross on seven parts of the patient’s body: her nostrils, cheeks, lips, breast, and both palms of her hands, and finally the back of her hands. The priest would call out while conducting the effort: ‘Mighty warrior of Christ’ then pronouncing the patient’s name. At least, that is what I remember. Researching online, I cannot find the Liturgy exactly as I recalled it. Kneeling, I was overwhelmed a bit by the supernatural immensity of the act being conducted in front of me. Overall, my patient’s final anointing was an invigorating event, bringing forth tears. The patient’s friend and the priest provided details regarding the patient’s life. I was informed she was a painter by hobby, although she never took herself serious as an artist. The painting I admired, meditating upon it while praying, was a possession she held deeply. There was a depth to the original artwork that drew me in. I learned the artistic effort was done by a female friend of the patient, a girlfriend from college days. The artist specifically gave the patient the painting as a gift. The female friend would go on to attain a reputable global standing in a higher-academic European art worlds. Her name is Ljubica Cuca Sokic.

Returning to the patient, another surprise greeted me, it is one I am still meditating upon. I arrived after work to discover two men sitting with her, one young and one older. It was obvious they were family. I learned it was her son and grandson, the two arriving together sooner than expected. I was delighted to find my patient beaming, one of her eyes open looking directly at me. Joy filled my being. Here is what transpired in conversation with her son and grandson.

‘Look at her. There she is, and now she is alert, radiating like sunshine.’ I could not take my eyes off the patient. There she was, one eye open, gazing upon me.

‘You know her?’ Her son, a distinguished looking professional man, one whose presence announces success, looked with astonishment at me.

‘Yes I was with her last night and this morning. I met her priest and her friend, attending her receiving of the Sacrament of Unction.’

‘She looks different to you?’ Her son, arriving from San Diego, implored me to tell him more, inspired by my words of hope.

I could not take my eyes off the patient. ‘Oh yes, she is happy to see you.’ I talked directly to the patient. ‘There you are. Look at you. You see me.’ I turned to her son. ‘She sees me, look at that.’

‘Really, you see something different in her?’ Her grandson addressed me, taking over the moment, a coldness tainting his words.

‘Oh yes, this is remarkable. Look at her.’

‘Is it her eye?’

‘Yes.’

‘I did that myself. I opened her eye. She has not had visual perception for months. I opened her eye.’ His father observed his son closely.

‘Well maybe I am wrong. I am only a simple electrician, a man of faith. I have no medical standing.’ I looked closely at my patient. I spoke again. ‘NO! I see a difference. It is more than the eye. Your grandmother is a special lady. She is happy.’ I stared at my patient, there was something there, her presence pronouncing delight, an elation to be with her son and grandson.

Her son found comfort in what I said. ‘Your words are pleasing.’

Her grandson stared hard at me, void of emotion, intelligent, a young man of great abilities. Being the youngest in the group did not stop him from patronizing me when he spoke, treating me like a child talking of Santa Claus: ‘We appreciate your effort. You are a good man. Thank you for giving your time to our loved one.’

Her son could not allow his son’s lack of hope to remain upon the moment. ‘You really see something.’ Her son implored me, to talk more, amazed I found a difference in her.

I looked to her son. ‘Yes I do’.

Reflecting back, I now wish I would have said, ‘Yes. It is obvious her faith, hope, and charity is on fire, ignited by the arrival of her son and grandson.’ It was. I know it. Her grandson’s doubt I did not want to directly confront. I felt it was not my position to impose my thoughts upon their final moments with their mother. I feared I had gone too far talking so assuredly of seeing a difference in her. I did see the difference. I excused myself, parting company with them, allowing them their final moments with their loved one in privacy and peace. I have made the conviction, I will return this morning, assuring the grandson I did see more, thanking him for the opportunity to share in his grandmother’s passing. I am convinced my patient will understand what I am doing.

Marianna

The painting

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Dec182015

Our Lady of Perpetual Help

God is good and all giving. I made a difficult decision, the Man of Prayer assisting in deliverance, and God rewarded immediately with confirmation. I received my first bedside vigil in two weeks or so. What a treasure I was invited in upon. An eastern European woman reposing within final hours makes for splendid prayer opportunities. Her room is filled with love, children and grandchildren decorating; eastern icons coloring her nightstand, Our Lady of Perpetual Help and wonderful images of Jesus adorning. Prayer proved bountiful, and most amazing the Hospice is overwhelmed suddenly with bedside vigils. My newfound treasure will provide delightful company throughout the coming end of my week, a full two days off in preparation for Christmas. There is so much to look forward to. I will spend tomorrow morning and afternoon, then going to work, and immediately returning to my prayer partner. I will capture the original painting presenting itself upon her wall, next to a 50s painting I suppose of her husband, who dashingly duplicates the good looks of Clark Gable. There is a bit of the devil within those eyes, yet don’t we all have a bit of a mischievous nature. It is so exciting to have a new friend. Tomorrow will be a day filled with prayer and a new friend.

The difficult decision centers upon the overhauling of my daily mass. I am going to abandon the Poor Clares of Perpetual Adoration, leaving St Paul Shrine. It must be done. It is a heartbreak. I will continue to attend Sunday mass with the sisters at the Shrine, spending Sunday afternoon with the Eucharist, and possibly continuing with the Saturday prayer group. I will discern further. The change of venue occurred through consolation with the man of prayer. It is for the good of all souls. Clearly during mass, a church appeared to which I will attend. It was not the one that first came to mind. St Paschal Baylon was my first choice, yet this small church, Eucharist based, St Clare continuing, settles firmly upon my consciousness. I like the idea of a small parish, one of little standing in reputation, providing the Eucharist daily for adoring in a private chapel. I am pretty sure the Holy Spirit turned the light on to a new adventure in daily worship. Tomorrow will actually be the first time I attend mass at the church. I am thankful God provided the man of prayer to assist and guide me during such a transitional time. I am so secure and trusting in his voice and spirituality. It is so blatantly obvious the man of prayer is authentic, possessing a prayer structure, fortitude, and devotion that inspires, launching me forward. I know my path is one of advanced prayer. He guides through example, and God is good and all giving in every regard. I was pleased he inquired about bedside vigils as I am convinced he is a man perfectly suited for sitting next to souls preparing to meet their maker. He is a man who should be sitting next to those dying, privately praying and providing a faithful presence. I waited for him to inquire, while knowing all along he had so much to offer. God finds a way to bring us where we are most effectual.

OLPH

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Dec172015

White as snow

We may compare the whiteness of snow to the whiteness of a pure soul because it surpasses any other whiteness, and that is true you will see in tomorrow’s Gospel (Matt 17:1-9), where it is said that Our Lord being transfigured, His clothes became ‘as white as snow’.  That shows well enough that nothing whiter can be found.  Listen to the royal psalmist David.  Lamenting before God that, through sin, his soul has become blacker than black, he entreats him Him to be pleased to wash him with His ‘hyssop’ so that by his means it will be made ‘whiter than snow’…..

Snow is obedient.  It is the divine Psalmist who declares that it is, assuring us that it does the will of God, that it obeys His word …fire and hail, snow and frost, stormy wind fulfilling his command! . Ah! Watch it fall: It falls so gently.  See how it remains on the ground until it pleases God to send a ray of sunshine which comes to melt it and make it disappear.  Oh how obedient is the snow!  Such are the souls who dedicate themselves to the Lord, for they are supple and submit themselves absolutely to the discretion and guidance of those who command, no longer allowing themselves to be in control by the use of their own will and judgement.  —The Sermons of St Francis de Sales on Our Lady

snows

 

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Dec162015

Our Lady of Pilar

This is a re-post from last Christmas of 2014, honoring the continuing theme of Mary, also touching upon the excitement of a summer vacation to Spain and Lourdes. The family wedding will be in El Pilar Basilica, the vacation centered in Zaragoza. Here, also, is a link to a delightful slideshow for a Maronite monastery in Massachusetts, the Maronite Monks of Adoration. It creates the desire to take photos.  The monastery is Eucharistic based.  I am trying to arrange a quick three day retreat for New Years Eve.  I would like to explore a religious men’s community centered upon the Eucharist similar to the Cleveland Poor Clares.

A post in honor of my parents.  I spent quality one-on-one Christmas time with my mother.  My father passed away this year, in the fall.  My parents were married in my mother’s hometown of Zaragoza, Spain.  My father, a United States Air Force man at the time, and mother were married at El Pilar Basilica.  Their marriage endured through fifty plus years.

gohistoric_23351_mOur_Lady_of_the_Pillar The image of Our Lady of the Pillar is a wooden statue decorated with gold; it is about fifteen inches high. The crown adorning the head of the statue is very intricate. It was made in forty-four days by thirty-three workmen; in it there are 2,836 diamonds cut triangularly, 2725 roses, 145 pearls, 74 emeralds, 62 rubies and 46 sapphires. The crown of the Infant is identical with that of the Virgin, except in size.

The history of this particular statue of Our Lady is unique and interesting. It is said that in the year 40 A.D. the Virgin visited the Apostle Saint James while he was at prayer one night on the shore of the Ebro River in Zaragossa. Mary was standing on a column of marble, and she gave St. James her effigy, requesting that he build a chapel in her honor. Saint James complied.

aVirgendelPilar

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Dec152015

A weapon: the silence of prayer

Many arguments, vindications, justifications emerge, yet within them is the evil promptings of wasted energy, to pursue that which never should be allowed to entangle. The tongue and pen remain silent. The mind struggles. It is a monumentally difficult task for me not to fight, to throw a fit and demand.  Satan lures with self-righteousness, instigation into a voice declaring war against that which should be understood.  Opposed to brutal confrontation, purity and perfection are desired, prayer a gift of silence. A gift of the Holy Spirit: ‘understanding’ allows insight, a penetrating comprehension of matters so the light and silence of God is understood, the broken ways of men and woman seen within truth, the fracturing of lives provided the grace of not being judged, compassion filling the heart and mind, darkness illuminated by the light of God. Disregarding motivation and consequence, the in-your-face demand for conflict, Holy Spirit graced ‘understanding’ allows patience and peace. It is the practice of saints.

Thoughts were appeased with scripture, the story of Jezebel meditated upon. Jehu is an amazing Israelite king. There is something he does in the following scene I find subtly marvelous, trusting in God during his cleansing of the world from evil, holding to silence. Jezebel, possessing a spirit of control and manipulation, trusting only in herself, prideful in the adorning of herself in that which she knows is the time of her death, calls out to Jehu, asserting control of the moment, unable to hold her tongue and need to demand supremacy. Even to her end, she is insistent upon establishing she is the master of the moment: the Jezebel spirit. She is a woman consumed by control and power, a spirit of domination–the antithesis of the handmaid of the Lord. Mary, the Immaculate Conception, is defined through Jezebel.  Jezebel announces the splendor of Mary. Mary is the servant of the Lord, the woman amongst women who majestically surrenders self-will in favor of obedience to divine will. Jehu never rebukes Jezebel. He never answers her. He never acknowledge her words, her need to demand, her improper negotiations ring out unheard. Jehu, a warrior of God, understands the nature of evil, the wicked ways of the Jezebel spirit. Trusting in God, he looks to others, knowing evil subjugates, evil makes enemies with its every breath. He instantly forms alliances, calling out for Jezebel’s very servants to throw her to her death. The servants oblige. Jezebel’s self-willed ways of beautification, self-enhancement prove futile. God allows her to be trambled by horses, her remains eaten by dogs.

When Jehu came to Jezreel, Jez’ebel heard of it; and she painted her eyes, and adorned her head, and looked out of the window. And as Jehu entered the gate, she said, “Is it peace, you Zimri, murderer of your master?” And he lifted up his face to the window, and said, “Who is on my side? Who?” Two or three eunuchs looked out at him. He said, “Throw her down.” So they threw her down; and some of her blood spattered on the wall and on the horses, and they trampled on her. Then he went in and ate and drank; and he said, “See now to this cursed woman, and bury her; for she is a king’s daughter.” But when they went to bury her, they found no more of her than the skull and the feet and the palms of her hands. When they came back and told him, he said, “This is the word of the LORD, which he spoke by his servant Eli’jah the Tishbite, ‘In the territory of Jezreel the dogs shall eat the flesh of Jez’ebel; and the corpse of Jez’ebel shall be as dung upon the face of the field in the territory of Jezreel, so that no one can say, This is Jez’ebel.'”

The man of prayer of emerges significant, allowing prayer to rise supreme. That which I always knew was my strongest gift from God once again becomes my armor and weapon of choice, my vehicle for cleansing and healing. A cold touches my sensibilities, shutting me down a bit, reposing me to bed during moments away from mass and work, reading a book on Joseph, the Holy Family illuminated greater. I find it apropos for the Advent season, a time of reflection and rest. I will shut down this week, expending energy only at work and mass, downloading during idle moments. Hospice activity has struck a standstill. I perceive the matter as an invitation from God to further healing, an opportunity to wipe my heart and mind free from Ann, dissipating the obsession, the ineffective aspiration of sharing life with her. It will take longer, yet it is a prayerful start. I travel interiorly, examining my core, seeking infusion, trusting in God.

jezabeld

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