the Lent we never asked for

Much like an unwelcome diagnosis, or a sudden accident or unexpected death, who could have predicted how Lent of 2020 burst in and suddenly transformed our lives forever.

In truth, we have all experienced personal moments like this before. Events that stop us in our tracks and almost always force us to our knees. With one phone call, or medical diagnosis, or accident, or the birth of a baby— life as we know it is changed forever.

But seldom do we experience those moments together, as a community. Here in Oklahoma, the bombing of the Murrah building — 25 years ago this April 19 — was such an event. Everyone was affected, changed, transformed. It is not an exaggeration to say that the fabric of our identity as a city and a state was shaped and changed forever that morning. 

And now here we are, facing an unthinkable and unimaginable crisis as a global community. It is truly beyond my ability to ingest, let alone comprehend. 

And yes, it is Lent. 

Last year at this time, my Lent was a struggle to accept the newly revealed diagnosis of being a heart patient. I didn’t want it. I didn’t ask for it. And it was not the Lenten journey I would have chosen.

So forgive me for sounding — and being — selfish when I say, I am truly grateful to have company in this year’s challenging Lenten and Holy Week journey! 

Let me explain. I am not saying that I wish suffering or hardship or darkness upon anyone. But I am genuinely thankful to be reminded that we walk together on this earthly journey, with all the bumps and unforeseen things that we are and will encounter.

The devil wants to tell us that our suffering and our pain is unique, that no one else feels what we feel, and that no one can understand what we are going through, how difficult life can be.

Don’t believe him. 

We are all uncomfortable. We are all in unfamiliar and uncharted territory. We are all struggling, experiencing dis-ease, out of our comfort zone. We are all, in our very specific, personal situations, on a once-in-a-lifetime pilgrimage. 

It is a pilgrimage we didn’t choose. True! May it be a good reminder that God is here and in control.

From my porch in Oklahoma City, I will be praying for you and your Holy Week! ❤️

15 years after my Camino: when suffering is prayer

The funny thing about making a pilgrimage like the Camino de Santiago, the kind that incites an awakening of something new in your heart, is that you continue to learn from its lessons for the rest of your life--or so I assume since I'm still learning 15 years later!

As our long first day came to an end, I noted in my journal:

"I only remember being this sore after childbirth. Today we climbed El Perdón, where wind turbines lined the horizon at the top of the mountain. We walked paths and rocks and uphill and downhill. We passed fields of green and yellow wheat. We stopped to smell the dill and to watch a family harvesting a field of white asparagus... We walked in the heat of the day, longer than we said we would do on our first day."

Some people, like my husband Michael, can walk the entire 500 miles of the Camino and never get a significant blister. But I noted in my journal two things: I already had “big blisters,” and it was our “first internet access!” I didn't know it then, but I struggled with sores covering my toes or feet for basically the entire month of June.

In Estella, a 1,000-year-old town early on in our walk, I wrote:

“The albergue has 38 beds and a beautiful mural of St. Michael painted on the wall of the back patio. Our hospitalero is a guy with strict rules, big tattoos, and bad skin. 

With every painful step today, I offered my walk, my pain and my tears for the people I know who hurt even to stand everyday—Shirley, Lonnie, JoAnn’s friend who lost a leg in the [Oklahoma City] bombing, all who hurt every day. God bless them. When we arrived here we saw a man with a fake leg on a bike! God be with him.”

a butterfly wing that I found and taped to my journal, 

and a rough sketch of a church steeple that I doodled during a break in our walk

a traffic sign that I didn't recognize, 

and copied to my journal after I learned that it means: "unclear or undefined danger"! 

I’m convinced that no matter how much one prepares and trains in order to “successfully” walk this historic pilgrimage, the Camino will still be what it needs to be for every peregrino. It’s a personal, intimate experience.

And as is true of life, we can’t predict what the pilgrimage will demand from us. For me that meant blisters upon blisters. Never would I have dreamt that this experience would come back to help me and guide me years later as I began to face the beginning of my physical struggles with chronic pain.

and add that your name is dirt

“Stop trying to think out a solution for the moment: there isn’t one. One day there may be; God will then show it to you. In the meantime, accept it all as being the big thing for God and his Church that he asks of you—that, and the depression too. You will find the relief of merely accepting, instead of struggling, wonderful; and I include in this, accepting anything in yourself, during the crisis, which seems to you a failure or fault. Don’t exonerate yourself, but just say you are sorry, briefly, to God, and add that your name is dirt—that’s what is to be expected from you—but you’re sorry, you are forgiven, and it is over. 

During the war I was simply terrified by air raids, and it was my lot to be in every one that happened in London—sometimes on the roofs of these flats, sometimes in the hospital… I tried to build up my courage by reason and prayer, etc. Then one day I realized quite suddenly: As long as I try not to be afraid I shall be worse, and I shall show it one day and break; what God is asking of me, to do for suffering humanity, is to be afraid, to accept it and put up with it, as one has to put up with pain (if it’s not druggable) or anything else. I am not going to get out of any of the suffering. From the time the siren goes until the All Clear, I am going to be simply frightened stiff, and that’s what I’ve got to do for the world—offer that to God, because it is that and nothing else which he asks of me.”

~Caryll Houselander

I sure love it when I read some sort of reflection or essay and find myself laughing out loud at the words—especially when it’s because of the intimacy (with God) and honesty of the author.

“…and add that your name is dirt,” certainly made me laugh… and pay attention to the rest of the essay!

I have been fighting a stiff, painful neck for over a week. In the past decade or so, I’ve had a number of issues with my neck and shoulders, including surgery on my cervical spine, so it is safe to say that I have learned many things that help me when I’m struggling with this type of pain.

But this time, nothing I’ve tried is working. Nothing is making it go away—or even feel much better.

What I hear in Caryll Houselander’s words is the wisdom that comes from knowing – from living – acceptance, rather than struggle.  Surrender, rather than self-sufficiency. And confidence in God’s presence in the every day of life, every single aspect of it, rather than worry or fear.

In other words—why do I think I have to… get over / get better / be better / succeed / try harder / pray harder… before God can use me?  Before I can offer my day and myself to God?

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NOTE: if you’re interested in learning a bit more about Caryll Houselander, check out this blog post by my friend, the talented Heather King.

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"If we only have sense enough to leave everything to the guidance of God's hand, we should reach the highest peak of holiness."

~Jean-Pierre de Caussade,

Abandonment to Divine Providence

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NOTE #2: All photos are from my recent drive and visit to the great city of St. Louis for this year's Catholic Media Conference!

as in the Camino, so in life

All photos © Maria Ruiz Scaperlanda,
the Camino de Santiago, 2003

I really enjoyed the opportunity during this Lent to ponder and expand on a topic I wrote a few years ago for the New York Times section, "Room for Debate."  The original question I was asked was, "What is the Purpose of Lent?"

When I was invited to write a reflection on Lent or a particular Lenten practice for the North Texas Catholic Newsmagazine this year, I used that previous discussion as a spark to reflect further, specifically, on fasting...

Here's what I came up with:

   Ten years after my friend Pat and I walked 350 miles of the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage across northern Spain, we sat at her dining table and laughed about the vigorous women we were then — and how much our lives had changed.

   Pat was battling brain cancer, and I was learning to function with a chronic autoimmune condition. Exactly one week after marking the 10th anniversary of our arrival at the holy city of Santiago de Compostela, Pat completed her earthly pilgrimage.

   During that last year of her life, as I walked with Pat through her chemo, then radiation, and then finally facing her impending death, we used to talk about and ponder how the physical trials of our daily life mirrored the struggles and challenges we went through on the Camino.

   In truth, however, it’s the other way around. Our Camino pilgrimage was — and is — a metaphor for our lives: I can’t anticipate what struggles today will bring, but anything is doable one step at a time; Every uphill has a downhill; Hardships become manageable with a friend; Every single thing that I carry weighs me down, so I must choose wisely what is in my backpack. And accepting that there will always be hardships and trials in our daily walk is the path to, ultimately, learn to notice the unexpected blessings along the way.

   In our culture, however, things like pain, suffering, worries, difficulties, grieving, are all things to conquer — and above all — to anesthetize as quickly as possible. Each of us becomes an addict looking for a quick fix. Drugs. Food. Exercise. Sex. Alcohol. Shopping. Television. Disposable relationships. Whatever it takes in order to not feel bad, sad, or hurt.

   Lent offers me a unique opportunity in my quest to open my heart without reservation to what God wants to give me each day. I fast to get out of my comfort zone. But mainly I fast as a continuation of my pilgrimage, out of my desire to become deliberate in my daily living.

CLICK HERE to read the rest of my reflection in the North Texas Catholic.

brokenness

my Dad, folding hands in his sleep, in spite of all the hook ups

"What people don't realize is how much religion costs. They think faith is a big electric blanket, when of course it is the cross. It is much harder to believe than not to believe. If you feel you can't believe, you must at least do this: keep an open mind. Keep it open toward faith, keep wanting it, keep asking for it, and leave the rest to God. ”

~Flannery O’Connor

“Many people would be willing to have afflictions provided that they not be inconvenienced by them."

~Francis de Sales

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When I was young, I was convinced that I would grow up to be a doctor. I also loved any and all doctor shows—and still do. But I think that must be connected to a different spiritual need, a topic for a later date.

Imagining myself as a doctor meant that some day I would be able to heal the suffering I instinctively sensed in the three grieving grandparents living with me. I would be able, finally, to fix the broken dreams of my refuge parents, to collect the pieces of living sorrow all around me and make it whole again. I would be able to help.

It was a childhood illusion—one quickly and categorically dismissed as soon as I began to take science courses my first year of college!

I’ve been remembering these loving yet misguided childhood notions during my many hours spent in hospitals and other medical facilities lately.

Sometimes the only thing one can do to fix the brokenness and heal the suffering is to be present to it—and with—the people we love.

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“When we handle the sick and the needy we touch the suffering body of Christ and this touch will make us heroic, it will make us forget the repugnance and the natural tendencies in us. We need the eyes of deep faith to see Christ in the broken body and dirty clothes under which the most beautiful one among the sons of men hides. We shall need the hands of Christ to touch these bodies wounded by pain and suffering.”

~Blessed Teresa of Calcutta

my girls surround my mom in love

my Camino, 10 years later: remembering Estella

Ten years ago today, my friend Pat and I arrived by foot to the 1,000 year old town of Estella--after walking 14.5 miles on the Camino de Santiago that day.

a butterfly wing that I found and taped to my journal, 

and a rough sketch of a church steeple that I played with during a break in our walk

A 10-year-anniversary is a significant landmark—and I find myself remembering, reflecting, and feeling thankful for further things about the Camino, even now.

Since Pat and I began our walk in Pamplona, this was early on in our pilgrimage. Yet that day I noted in my journal two things: I already had “big blisters,” and it was our “first internet access!”

Some people, like my husband Michael, can walk the entire 500 miles of the Camino and never get a significant blister. But as we made our way across northern Spain, I struggled with sores covering my toes for basically the entire month of June.

Here’s what I wrote in my journal:

“The albergue has 38 beds and a beautiful mural of St. Michael painted on the wall of the back patio. Our hospitalero is a guy with strict rules, big tattoos, and bad skin. 

With every painful step today, I offered my walk, my pain and my tears for the people I know who hurt even to stand everyday—Shirley, Lonnie, JoAnn’s friend who lost a leg in the [Oklahoma City] bombing, all who hurt every day. God bless them. When we arrived here we saw a man with a fake leg on a bike! God be with him.”

a traffic sign that I didn't recognize, 

and copied to my journal after I learned that it means: "unclear or undefined danger"! 

I’m convinced that no matter how much one prepares and trains in order to “successfully” walk this historic pilgrimage, the Camino will still be what it needs to be for every peregrino. It’s a personal experience.

As is true of life, we can’t predict what the pilgrimage will entail. And for me, that meant blisters and learning to walk daily with chronic pain, as well as having the opportunity to offer this struggle as prayer for others in need.

Never would I have dreamt that this experience would come back to help me and guide me years later as I began to face my own chronic physical struggles.