back home, doing what is do-able

I arrived home from the Catholic Media Conference in Denver un poco enferma and very worn, so I’ve spent a couple of days in bed catching up on sleep, rest--and being awed by how much my holy trinity of grandchildren have grown while I was gone!

The day I came home from #CMC13, Saturday June 22^nd, marked ten years to the day since Pat and I finished walking the Camino de Santiago. I will put together soon one more blog post (or two?) to mark this great anniversary.

But for now, here’s an earlier blog post that you may not have seen yet, and I hope you'll enjoy:

Doing what is do-able

Every morning when I first wake up, there is a moment, an instant, really, when life is completely still, calm, peaceful. I don’t yet remember yesterday’s worries or today’s plans—but more importantly, I haven’t yet felt and evaluated the day, its work—or how my body feels. It only lasts a milli-second, a nano-second, a breath or two—but I turn to that moment often in prayer as a helpful reminder.

That moment of peace reminds me of what it feels like to bring no baggage with me into the day. No anticipating the work. No plans to rearrange.  No anxiety over how hard it will be, or how or what I will need to do to take care of it. No expectation and no regret. No super Girl Scout “be prepared” attitude. I just stand expectant, open to that moment and only to that moment.

This is what I hear Jesus saying to the Twelve when he directed them to “take nothing for the journey.” 

When you live with a chronic condition, especially one that involves pain, it is too easy to live as if I already know how terrible life is going to be. Like a gypsy reading the future, I look at the palm of my hand or the cards on the table and find strange comfort in anticipating the pain, preparing for the problems, holding the fear at bay with an attitude of readiness. This also provides me an illusion of control!

But Jesus urges me to let go and take none of that with me. He invites me to just walk into my day and into my life counting solely on the power of the authority of He who is my Lord.  I don’t even need to know how or if I’ll be able to do it well tomorrow. I only have to choose today to take nothing in my journey, and to trust Him with every detail of my life.  

No, it is not easy. But it is do-able.

Choose today, only today

from Denver and the CMC, a prayer litany of "not yet"

As I noted yesterday, I'm in Denver this week attending the Catholic Media Conference. Please join me on my Facebook page and on Twitter!

Enjoy this repost of one of my favorite old posts, my own prayer litany of "not yet"

Not Yet

I remember my therapist grinning at my honest response, “not yet.” Struggling with a difficult situation, I sought help to see my world with new eyes. With the smile of someone who knows a secret that you don’t, he added, “Yet is such a hopeful word, full of possibility.”

I had never thought about that. There’s a vast difference between replying, “no, I won’t do it,” and “no, not yet.” I may not be ready, or not know how to do it—yet. And that’s okay.

I tend to be very hard on myself. I consistently demand things of myself that I would not dream of saying to a friend who is in pain or simply at a loss with how to proceed in her life. So it’s no great surprise that I would also assume that I should know everything, and do everything right.

Take learning to live healthy with a chronic condition. Exercise. Nutrition. Learning about drugs. Knowing how to tell my friends or family what’s going on with me. Getting enough sleep or rest—and knowing when to push myself harder. Why do I expect myself to be an expert? Why can’t I allow myself the ability to say, I am not taking care of that now, not yet.

Sometimes all I have to offer is a litany of “not yet”

Lord, I am looking, but I don’t yet see.

I am listening, but I don’t yet hear.

I remember, but I don’t yet get it.

I am moving, but I don’t yet know where to go.

I am seeking, but I don’t yet know how to find you here.

I want to trust you, but I don’t yet do so.

I desire to surrender to you, but I can’t yet let go.

I need to hope, but I don’t yet have it in me.

I come to you with open hands and a heart that still whispers, not yet.

No. Padre Island, Dec. 2010

this week from Denver: pondering on attitude

I am in Denver this week, attending the annual gathering of Catholic communicators from the U.S. and Canada -- the Catholic Press Association's Catholic Media Conference.

This is a rich, busy and special time with my colleagues and friends in the Catholic press, and my time will be limited to posting on my Facebook page and on Twitter. Please join me there!

So for now, enjoy this recycling of one of my early posts:

During a recovery period after one of my surgeries, I was not allowed to drive for months. The months became even longer because our car was a standard transmission—and both my physical therapist and my surgeon warned me that the shifting gears would set the recovery back on my right wrist. Unable to even drive myself to a haircut, I felt utterly isolated. I was, literally, stuck at home, incapable of getting to daily Mass or meeting a friend for lunch.

Like a toddler learning to walk, I battled to regain use of my arm in the smallest of tasks—opening a jar, holding a book, writing a note, and fixing my hair. 

I longed for any sense of normality, and of course, for contact with the outside world. I missed the ordinary, normal things that, so often, I complain about having to do!

Then I got the news that my writer friend Gerri had suffered a stroke that threatened her life and left her paralyzed on half her body. Gerri’s recuperation has been truly miraculous and impressive, but the most amazing aspect was her attitude and perseverance—and her marvelous sense of humor. Like the email she sent—punctuated with a smiley face, reminding us:

“Still alive and sort of kicking. My stroke was 1 year ago, on 2-15. Thanks for all the prayers. Keep them coming, I'm far from back to normal.” 

Or the email with dancing figures across the page where she joked, “I really miss driving my car and the ability to get to mass during the week—I am saving on gasoline costs, though!”

What Gerri reminds me of, constantly, is that only I can change my attitude. And attitude leads to behavior. It's not about noting that someone has it worse than me—someone will ALWAYS have it worse than me—but about stepping out of my personal swamp of self absorption and shaking off the mud long enough to walk in a different direction, towards someone else in need who needs my presence. 

Sculpture wall on

University of Oklahoma campus, Norman