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