Mass at St Paul Shrine today. Cold and rainy, an hour jump ahead for daylight savings, too much work, the day appears as nothing special. Ramona was at Mass. She attends frequently. Praying before the Eucharist standing proud in my favorite monstrance, she sat in the front pew praying intensely. My heart and prayers went out to her. There was no inclination whatsoever to reestablish communication. It is done. May God have mercy upon both our souls. Within my healing through mature fellowship, an immersion in seeing Christ in my brothers and sisters, an understanding emerges and advances–a respect for a higher calling regarding intimacy. Personal one-to-one interaction demands particulars, psychological soundness a staunch mandate. It is too late in the game for nonsense. I am strong in solitude, anchored in the Presence of God. I do not need constant companions due to brokenness. I do not need company because I cannot be alone with God. Frailties cannot be overcome by suffocating within others. Demons only rear their heads. I do welcome others based upon perceived strengthening of spirits. None are permitted close at this time. Jim Nagle and the Man of Prayer are exceptions. Those two I speak with randomly, yet sharing personal thoughts when we do talk. Yesterday was a wonderful, warm, and simple one-to-one with the Man of Prayer in the St Paul Shrine lobby. I shared with him the blessing God bestowed upon me when allowing Louise to come to Him while I held her arm. Louise’s brother told me when she was young she was awkward. She fell down the family stairs twice, never recovering from the falls. She was always mentally slow. He told me their parents sheltered her. The nuns at her Catholic school adored her, passing her even though she could not complete her studies. She never had a boyfriend. Throughout her life, she had two jobs, neither lasting six months. Her older sister by ten years, the one I met, took care of her after their parents died. I am convinced she is a woman who lived a life dominated by fear. She reminds me of the sensitive and adorable character Laura from Tennessee Williams’ play ‘The Glass Menagerie’. The poor thing moaned and cried throughout my first visit. The accompanying Hospice nurse during her passing, her personal nurse, told me that after weeks of being unresponsive, Louise cried out to her ‘I am scared’. Doesn’t anyone reading understand the immense treasure God gave me by allowing me to comfort such a frightened soul. I kept telling her she could not imagine how grateful I was to be with her, how much she meant to me, that my life blossomed greater for spending such precious time with her. I am positive she perceived my sincerity for it was authentic and profound. Louise was too kind to me and I will never forget it. Today during Mass, after receiving communion, returning to my seat, my eyes wandered to those waiting to receive the body of Christ. An image of the cold hard profile of Ann flashed in my mind. It was as strong as if she were standing there. A satanic tint colored her profile, a cursed darkness of mind and spirit standing staring blind. The further I move away, the stronger in the practice of faith and mature fellowship I advance, the more her brokenness becomes apparent. I do not think I could celebrate Mass with her. I considered never returning to the Shrine, yet that is reactionary and short-sighted. Too much has been accomplished there to allow negativity to mold the future. The Poor Clares are too important as well as Father Roger and others. A prayer partner from St Paul Shrine, one who likes Ann, mentioned she always scared her, the woman sensing an intrinsic evil festering within her core. There is nothing to do but pray. I am sure she tries her best. Life is difficult. She battles dark interior forces. All is of God’s doing, minus our misdoing, which is still of His doing within the mystery of creation. God is good and all giving. There is a woman who intrigues me at St Clare. Unromantic, older, she provides distant comfort and support during Mass. Jim Nagle informs me she is a widow, as he describes her a soul out there alone. She sits in front of me, off to the left. Daily, I follow directly behind her to receive communion. She is harsh in her lack of attention, obviously not impressed with me in the slightest degree. I embrace her scrutiny, absorbing her strength, offering her my own. I am positive she is a spiritual equal. I catch her observing and studying me. She does not think much of me. I find comfort in the fact. I make eye contact only when I feel the moment is pertinent, avoiding her during the exchange of peace. Her presence is tangible, while intentionally ignored. I am not sure why I mention her. Analyzing myself, I would determine she embodies the maturity I need from another. She is one, if she determined it necessary, who would be able to nurture. There is no doubt I am being lifted, in my mind being formed for retiring into the cloistered religious life. Few will be able to bolster, while all are viewed as breathing, living, symbols of Christ. I did not mention about the St Clare widow, all that silent strength, a stare that speaks so loudly of an advanced spiritual state of being, is embodied in an elderly woman standing approximately five foot two. Even now, I can see her short stature, a smile instantly blossoming upon my lips. I look forward to sharing Mass with her tomorrow as we march forward toward Easter. The retreat to Massachusetts looms lovingly in simplicity and refinment. A time of doing nothing. Quietly contemplating Good Friday and Resurrection Sunday.