Spent Saturday, alone, visiting Toledo. Significant in symbolism, road construction dominated driving around the city. Interstate Seventy-five is a nightmare. Departing, returning to Cleveland, the entrance to Seventy-five was blocked. I routed myself through downtown, bound for interstate Two-eighty, forsaking Seventy-five. Arriving at Two-eighty, another road block greeted. The ubiquitous road construction represented well a feeling of frustration and sadness. Memories surfaced of futility, various incidents emerging in detail. Overall, the realization became concrete I never stood a chance. It was inevitable my life would crash, even within a concrete devotion to God. Mary guiding, then and now, I hold no bitterness, accepting and understanding my path to understanding. I recall the Rescuer driving me out of the city of my rearing, announcing my time in Toledo was done: ‘take a look around for your never coming back’. Tonight, I sit in downtown Cleveland, watching the World Series at Progressive Field, huddled amongst a packed house, cheering on the Indians playing the Cubs in Chicago, typing this between innings. Traveling eastbound on the Turnpike, during morning prayer, the comprehension Cleveland is home arose relevant. It may not be a permanent home, yet for now it is a good home. Through grace and hard work, I have matured into peace. Today, the Poor Clares of Perpetual Adoration at St Paul Shrine conducted their annual fundraiser. The Bishop celebrated Mass. The Church was full. Many friends attending. The food was good and the auction entertaining. I purchased two ponchos knitted by the sisters. It is good to have a sober home, allowing authentic worship of God. Now let’s concentrate on winning a World Series tonight. Indians just pulled to within one, score three to two.

The weekly evening Mass schedule settles into a satisfactory routine. Mondays offer Holy Rosary in Little Italy. There is a gentleman I was convinced I knew intimately. I introduced myself Monday, inquiring regarding my conviction I knew the man. After a few explorations, the mentioning of a changed schedule and St Paul Shrine, a lightbulb turned on. Of course, I knew the man from St Paul Shrine. He informed me he read during Mass every Tuesday. I knew his face instantly after hearing the fact. Tuesdays, Our Lady of Lourdes Shrine presents Mass and Adoration with the Sisters of the Holy Trinity. Yesterday, a pleasant surprise presented itself when the Man of Prayer made an appearance. Friday, the Man of Prayer is confident he will be able to join me in prayer with the Benedictines of St Andrew’s Abbey. Our Lady of Lourdes Shrine enjoys a young priest celebrating Mass, a vibrant articulate teacher at the Borromeo Seminary, a true scholar. Not to be extravagant, yet to be honest, during the Eucharistic celebration, from out of nowhere, I felt overwhelmed to tell the significant other that this one would be a bishop. Thy Will be done. Continuing the admiration of young priest, Wednesday’s Mass, Adoration, and confession at St Anne’s affords another. This one intrigues, bringing forth prayers along with the admiration. During confession, he delighted with a penance request of reciting and thinking about the words of the ancient prayer known throughout the centuries as the ‘Te Deum’. He wanted me to think about the prayer’s importance as a death march for numerous martyrs. The prayer was traditionally chanted by persecuted saints during their execution. The prayer brought to mind the procession scene from Ingmar Bergman’s ‘The Seventh Seal’. I am not sure it is the holiest rendition of the ‘Te Deum’, yet it dramatically marked me as a young man—thoughts of death, the black plague, violence, self-inflicted torture, hopelessness, and toil parading before beloved characters.  A final thought on the yong priest from St Anne.  He concluded my confession powerfully by placing his hand on my head during absolution.  Wonderful and poignant.  The final day of my weekly evening schedule of worship is Adoration on Thursdays at St Mary of Collinwood, a quaint Slovenian parish remarkably supported and nurtured within the harsh inner-city of Cleveland’s eastside. The large ceiling fresco painting above the sanctuary of the Queen of Heaven soothes lovingly during adoration, quiet prayer, and a Rosary.

Te Deum (English translation)

We praise Thee, O God: we acknowledge Thee to be the Lord.
All the earth doth worship Thee and the Father everlasting.
To Thee all Angels:
to Thee the heavens and all the Powers therein.
To Thee the Cherubim and Seraphim cry with unceasing voice:
Holy, Holy, Holy: Lord God of Hosts.
The heavens and the earth are full of the majesty of Thy glory.
Thee the glorious choir of the Apostles.
Thee the admirable company of the Prophets.
Thee the white-robed army of Martyrs praise.
Thee the Holy Church throughout all the world doth acknowledge.
The Father of infinite Majesty.
Thine adorable, true and only Son
Also the Holy Ghost the Paraclete.
Thou art the King of Glory, O Christ.
Thou art the everlasting Son of the Father.
Thou having taken upon Thee to deliver man
didst not abhor the Virgin’s womb.
Thou having overcome the sting of death
didst open to believers the kingdom of heaven.
Thou sittest at the right hand of God
in the glory of the Father.
We believe that Thou shalt come to be our Judge.
We beseech Thee, therefore, help Thy servants:
whom Thou has redeemed with Thy precious Blood.
Make them to be numbered with Thy Saints in glory everlasting.
Lord, save Thy people:
and bless Thine inheritance.
Govern them and lift them up forever.
Day by day we bless Thee.
And we praise Thy name forever:
and world without end.
Vouchsafe, O Lord, this day to keep us without sin.
Have mercy on us, O Lord: have mercy on us.
Let Thy mercy, O Lord, be upon us:
as we have hoped in Thee.
O Lord, in Thee have I hoped:
let me never be confounded.

The east side of Cleveland, a love/hate relationship, extremes of internal and external stimuli packed into densely populated neighborhoods, proved rewarding today.  The drive to Holy Rosary attained a significance in appreciation.  Descending steeply down Edgehill, rounding a sharp curve, an unknown immense church steeple standing hilltop, destined for the red bricks of Murray Hill, a sense of something unique surrounding pervaded more than usual as I entered Little Italy.  Quietly listening to soft piano and violin music, a sense of calm overwhelmed.  Beauty existed within the passing city vista.  The sound of my tires upon the red bricks, traveling slow, accentuated the music.  City driving can be rewarding.  My mileage is down drastically since starting the new East Cleveland job.  I am becoming accustomed to city driving—traveling few miles, yet encountering heavy traffic. I understand I will still suffer moments of intense irritation and frustration.  The physician assistant overseeing the healing of my staph infected fingertip hosted me today near the intersection of Som Center Road and Wilson Mills in Mayfield Heights, allowing me to pass by St Paschel Baylon.  Passing by the church on my way home, I was able to pick up material for the third season of Arise, the second I will be attending.  I was asked to lead the Thursday evening meeting at St Paschal Baylon.  It will be a small gathering, however I am intrigued by possibilities as the significant other will participate.  We have agreed upon an intense concentration upon finances, tracking daily every penny spent, developing an acute awareness of where money is going, allowing a long term plan of Godly orderliness to develop.  It reminds me of a non-Catholic Christian friend, a remarkable Bible scholar serving the Salvation Army as a general, one of his favorite mantras: ‘Our God is a God of order and detail’.  The Sunday Gospel reading, “For the children of this world are more prudent in dealing with their own generation than are the children of light.  I tell you, make friends for yourselves with dishonest wealth, so that when it fails, you will be welcomed into eternal dwellings.  The person who is trustworthy in very small matters is also trustworthy in great ones; and the person who is dishonest in very small matters is also dishonest in great ones.  If, therefore, you are not trustworthy with dishonest wealth, who will trust you with true wealth?  If you are not trustworthy with what belongs to another, who will give you what is yours? —allowed a clear explanation of the importance attributed to a mature faith coming to peace, acceptance, and responsibility regarding money.  Delusion is eliminated as self-awareness through planning and cognizance, authentic stewardship, replaces a carefree unrealistic handling of finances.  The maturity existing within the structure of the Arise sessions will allow an indirect addressing.  God is good and all giving.  I am tired and need to look over the Arise material.

Here is a photo from my cellphone, a wonderful painting stationed to the left of the sanctuary, paying homage to the feast day of the Italian Saint Januarius.  During his Homily, the priest told of the remarkable life of the MIlano Bishop, his miraculous survival after being placed amongst starving lions, finally suffering martyrdom through a beheading. I was charmed to watch an old Italian woman gently wrap the painting in a protective blanket before carrying it off.  I imagined it was hers and she was promptly taking it home. Several men offered to carry the painting.  The painting was nearly as big as the diminutive woman. She refused both offers, smiling as she exited the church with her possession.

From Catholic Online: St. Januarius was born in Italy and was bishop of Benevento during the Emperor Diocletion persecution. Januarius went to visit two deacons and two laymen in prison. He was then also imprisoned along with his deacon and lector. They were thrown to the wild beasts, but when the animals did not attack them, they were beheaded. What is believed to be Januarius’ blood is kept in Naples, as a relic. It liquifies and bubbles when exposed in the cathedral. Scientists have not been able to explain this to date. St. Januarius lived and died around 305 A.D. and his feast day is September 19th.

Follow up visit with the hand doctor revealed my fingertip trouble was a staph infection. The doctor attributes a second degree chemical burn for the severity, yet I am not sure. There was no initial burn, simply irritation that exploded the day after the suspected incident. Regardless, slow in happening, recovery is occurring. The sensitivity of the fingertip is painfully raw, unexpected contact paralyzing. The appearance has improved, still the magnitude is obvious. The blood blisters, relieved of puss, blood, and swelling, have left behind a dead layer of covering skin. Drainage still occurs, at times pouring forth. God is good and all giving. The weekend proved pleasant in acquaintance. The significant other’s brother visited from Connecticut, driving back east after a visit in Wisconsin with the oldest sister. I am left with a lingering impression of restraint of personality, simplicity refining through grace. Previously, the brother annoyed a bit in second-hand description with the talk of his incredible intellect, academic excellence. Meeting him, I encountered a quiet man, unassuming, content and pleased with the smaller things of life. He spoke little of himself, although top secret operations, submarines, and worldly travel colored his sparse voicing of personal endeavors. His lack of words, his calm and cool disposition, spoke louder than the multitude of words many boisterous individuals are willing to bombard upon those God positions in their life. Visiting the Cleveland Botanical Gardens, the four of us enjoyed the plants, butterflies, and critters. We also enjoyed Lolly the Trolly, touring downtown on a historical bus, learning about the locale and individuals from founding years. Saturday night, reflected back upon decades gone by with the viewing of Alfred Hitchcock’s classic ‘The Trouble With Harry’. Everything settles nicely into the advancement of my spiritual life through the easing and comfort of a personal life with quality individuals able of caring and extending kindness, a simple and pleasant approach to a refined life, abandoning selfishness, extremeness, and unwarranted dependency upon utilizing faith through personal inadequacies. Sunday morning, following Mass at St Stephens, the four of us visited with a niece, exploring the Christian group home she lives in. Led by a married couple mentoring, populated by a handful of young ladies, the small community embraces an intense daily life of prayer and scripture, committed to revealing and exercising the will of God within their lives. The niece was excited to have visitors, glowing while sharing her passionate and fruit inducing life. She pointed out the significance of the flag flying on their front porch, and also hanging in her bedroom, explaining it was the flag flown by the troops of George Washington during the Revolutionary War. It is getting late, not sure where I am going, forsaking all efforts, resorting to silence.

The last forty-eight hours have been intense.  A bacterial attack, I speculate, upon my right index fingertip proved severe.  The culprit was a coolant fluid used for metal cutting at work, a liquid known to harbor bacteria and fungus.  I cleaned several filters for the fluid without gloves, believing the washing of my hands sufficient enough.  It now appears there was an open wound beneath my right index fingernail.  The bodily assault was hideous, causing a swelling and the creation of blood blisters.  The searing pain was horrendous.  The aftereffects forced a fingertip appearance as if it had experienced an intense smashing; bruises covering the fingertip and extending down to the middle knuckle. There was never a contusion, just an invasion.  I am positive I will lose my fingernail.  This morning I was treated by a competent and friendly hand specialist and his assistant.  They were so stunned by my fingertip they took photos.  Cultures were taken and sent out in order to clearly understand what happen.  They blocked the nerves in the finger with an anesthetic, before opening the blisters, relieving pressure and inducing blood flow.  Even through the numbness, the relief tendered settled soothingly.  The hand doctor squeezed and prodded the numb finger, forcing out blood and puss, informing me it felt good for him to relieve the finger as it was so obviously in need of purging.  He comforted me with the acknowledgement I must have endured a horrible night.  He was correct, yet I found the endeavor spiritual, not overly proud of my resorting to panic, convinced I was going to lose the fingertip.  The explosion of swelling and blood blisters a day after the initial irritation was beyond belief.  Thursday before the Nick Cave movie, we attended, impromptu, a Mass and specially called for post-Mass Eucharistic prayer service at Our Lady Queen of Peace in Shaker Heights.  Throughout the Mass and prayers for world peace before the Eucharist, the pain climaxed in horrible throbbing and harsh relentlessness. Internally, I spoke meekly to my Lord, trying to accept and understand.  Others endure much more formidable physical distress. Scripture words: And if your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away; it is better that you lose one of your members than that your whole body go into hell—arose relevant.  A vivid dream the previous night of my fingernail falling off, followed by complications of losing my right hand, frightened my mind.  I was convinced I was at least going to lose my fingertip due to a dramatic fungal assault upon my fingertip bone.  The hand doctor assured me it was not a fungus invasion due to the rapidity of my symptoms.  I learned a fungus attack is slow, taking time for the fungus to invade and spread.  He is confident that though my experience was traumatic there will be complete recovery.  He assures me the culture will explain what happen; prognosticating a chemical burn created the quickly exploding infection.  I reside in the spiritual nature of the bodily complication—identifying imperfections, seeking the Lord for a greater understanding of myself, recognizing the heroic effort of the significant other in supporting and nurturing me through the forty-eight hours of misfortune.  She truly cares; kind and gentle in the giving of herself to the commitment to my welfare and happiness.  Genuine, I find myself staring at her at times, amazed by the authenticity of her feelings for me.  I slept through the afternoon after Mass at St Paul Shrine, falling into a deep sleep, quenching body and spirit.  God is good and all giving.

Due to a severe right index fingertip infection, a trip to the hospital, and a full schedule no post today. We saw a movie ‘One More Time With Feeling’, a powerful three dimensional documentary on a profound artist handling the death of a teenage son, one of twins–a testament of a man of the world discovering a new self, uncertainty and love centering, amidst tragedy, friends, and family. Bravo. Minimalism, yet extravagant. Jesus supreme.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=svru1jNLIK8

Friday proves a celebratory blessing in prayer, sharing vespers and Adoration with the Benedictines at St Andrew’s Abbey.  It is a powerful experience; silence intense, voicing of Psalms as a choir, concluding communal activity with the singing of ‘Salve Regina’—remembrance of prayerful evenings with the Brothers Minor of Fort Wayne.  It proves simple in manliness, the sharing of faith with brothers, men humble before the Eucharist.  I have extended an invitation to the Man of Prayer to join me on Friday evenings.  Authentically, he is steeped so deeply in prayer, the invitation arises purely.  Though treading upon the lunatic fringe, his dedication to prayer, his sacrifice and ability to remain hidden, able to hold his tongue amongst those keen in perception and practice, I would be honored to be accompanied by the Man of Prayer, to share in profound concealed prayer and Adoration.  I received a call from John the Hermit the past week, placing my thoughts upon him.  Though undergoing the rigors of a serious prayer life, I could not see him accompanying.  I witnessed him in Massachusetts amongst the Maronite monks of Adoration.  He was unable to withhold the immature tendency to talk too much, constantly isolating himself with monks and pouring himself out upon them.  I am blessed God has provided the strength and furthering to grasp the essential nature of holding one’s tongue in order to advance–wise virgins refusing to share their wine with the foolish.  Wisdom and understanding is beheld, exercised, and shielded within a developed prayer life through the consistency of silence, the tendency toward silence opposed to expression.  The significant other and I were sharing a fondness for lyrics of Robert Plant, singer of the classic rock band Led Zeppelin, ‘living reflection of a dream’.  Within the ‘Rain Song’ lines emerge relevant: ‘Speak to me only with your eyes….Ain’t so hard to recognize – These things are clear to all from time to time.’  A final thought.  Mass at Our Lady of Peace in Shaker Heights lifted with inspiration.  The priest apologized at the end of Mass for forgetting to offer prayers to a dear longtime friend, a priest who passed away yesterday.  He voiced the passing of Father Wilfred Smith, loosening knots within my heart.  I visited with the priest over the last year at the Jennings Center, getting to know him fairly well.  As his mental competency and health declined, he demanded a ceasing of visitors.  He desired to be left alone as he approached death.  I felt the tenderness of God when the day after his passing the news was offered so simply.  I spoke to the priest after Mass, sharing with him my experience, learning from the priest father possessed a sister who is a cloistered nun, and a nephew who is priest.  News I was unaware of.  The day was long and night is upon me.  God is good and all giving.  An encore with lyrics for the significant other.

The Rain Song

It is a springtime of my loving
The second season I am to know
You are the sunlight in my growing
So little warmth I’ve felt before

It isn’t hard to feel me glowing
I watched the fire that grew so low
It is the summer of my smiles
Flee from me Keepers of the Gloom

Speak to me only with your eyes
It is to you I give this tune
Ain’t so hard to recognize –
These things are clear to all from time to time

Talk talk talk talk

I’ve felt the coldness of my winter
I never thought it would ever go
I cursed the gloom that set upon us…
But I know that I love you so

These are the seasons of emotion
And like the winds they rise and fall
This is the wonder of devotion
I see the torch we all must hold

This is the mystery of the quotient
Upon us all a little rain must fall.

Just a little rain.