I was in mass listening to the cantor sing the responsorial hymn, “These are the people the Lord has chosen, chosen to be his own.” I thought, “Seriously? Really, God, these are the people you chose to be your own? Was no one else around? It must have been some seriously slim pickings.”
I know this sounds rather cynical, but truly, we can be scary people: mass shootings, human trafficking, abortion, sexual predators, greed, self-glorification…. well, just pick any day and read the headlines.
And I do believe people are good. I do believe they mean well. I even think when someone claims they don’t believe in God that they really do – it’s just a little deeper inside – right beyond where they have looked. And I always have hope that they will look a little farther someday and come to know what they believe.
Still, it’s hard to imagine anyone deliberately choosing our hot mess of a people that makes up humanity.
I peeked over to look at my husband’s missal wanting to read the words for myself. That’s when I realized, I misheard the lyrics. It’s like when Kenny Rogers sings “Lucille.” You may think he’s singing, “You picked a fine time to leave me Lucille, with 400 children and a crop in the field.” But it’s really not 400 children because that would be excessive, even by Catholic standards. It’s four HUNGRY children! (Although, by either account, that was harsh of Lucille.)
What the cantor was singing was not “These are the people,” but “Blessed are the people that the Lord has chosen to be his own.” Reading this, I felt the kind of relief that Kenny would have, had Lucille shown back up with a bucket of fried chicken, some biscuits, and a heap of cousins to harvest the crop.
It made more sense to me to contemplate the blessings of him choosing us. “But you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for his own possession, that you may proclaim the excellencies of him who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light,” (1 Peter 2:9). Yet, he didn’t just choose us as an entirety of humanity but as individuals who he loves and longs for intimacy with. “Behold, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands; your walls are continually before me,” (Isaiah 49:16).
Sometimes I think the problem with our humanity has nothing to do with the semantics of whether “These are the people the Lord has chosen…” or “Blessed are the people the Lord has chosen….” It’s that we can’t wrap our head around any of it. We can’t understand why God would choose us as individuals or entities. We can’t grasp the enormity of the blessings that come from being children of God, children he wants — calls out by name and loves unconditionally.
I know I don’t get it. That, when I am sitting in a holy place and hear the holy words that he has chosen us, that I question it. I guess it’s hard to get past the question, why? or really? or how come?
Maybe the answer isn’t in the questioning, or even in the listening. It’s like the lyrics of a song when you think they are one thing and about something else entirely. Perhaps, it’s a matter of us genuinely hearing.
“Blessed are the people that the Lord has chosen to be his own,” (Psalm 33:12).
Do you have trouble understanding the reality and depth of God’s love for you? I know that I sometimes fail to grasp even an inkling of it. During this advent season, my prayer for you is that your hearts genuinely hear what the joyous message of Jesus’s birth means for our salvation. It’s better than anything we can hope to find under our tree. ... See MoreSee Less
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18 years ago today this boy made me a mama. For some reason, I can’t come up with the words to explain the joy he’s given me. Nor can I do justice to the person he has become or to the indelible imprint he’s made on my heart.
But then, I remember that today is Thanksgiving, a day we pause and notice the many blessings in our life, the people that give it meaning, and the myriad of ways that God’s love, ever perfect, manifests in our lives.
Thanksgiving.
Yes, that word will do.
Happy 18th Birthday Patrick Patangan ... See MoreSee Less
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When I reminisce about Thanksgiving, I don’t think about food. If I am being honest, I don’t even think about being grateful. What I recall is the excitement of being out of school, the quiet wonder of gazing out the car window at the rows of pines that lined the highway as we traveled to my Granny’s house, and the creak of her screen door as it flew open and I rushed inside her modest two-bedroom home straight into her warm and wrinkly arms.
I don’t think about the turkey.
Instead, I remember running to the park with my brother and sister and our two cousins. With a coveted cardboard box, we perched at the top of a giant hill that spilled onto an oval track. Squeezing together so we could all fit, we flew down the hill on our makeshift sled. We slid easily on the dead grass beneath. The nippy air rushed our faces. My heart raced with a giddy mix of joy and exhilaration. Then, having reached the bottom, we sprinted back up the steep hill to do it again with the same joyful tenacity as a Golden Retriever fetching a ball. We were tireless despite our pounding hearts, icy hands, and the tattered box that eventually disintegrated into pieces. 𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦.
I don’t think about sitting around a crowded table or how the brown gravy spilled onto my green peas.
Instead, I remember curling up next to my Granny and reading from her stack of magazines. I remember the gentle roll of her belly with each inhale and exhale. I folded into her quiet breath and wasn’t distracted by the din of the television or the mundanity of adult conversation. 𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘴𝘢𝘧𝘦.
I don’t think about the punk-red color of cranberry and whether it still had lines from the can that trapped it or the chunky tart texture of some homemade version my mother attempted.
Instead, I remember my uncle taking us to the minute market and handing us each a small brown bag. He told us to fill it with whatever we wanted. The decadence of his gesture remains a favorite memory. In awe, I carefully picked red-hot fireballs, purple ring-pops, pink bubble-gum cigars, and black envelopes of pop-rocks. 𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦.
I don’t think about the perfectly smooth skin of the brownish-orange pie or the tub of Cool Whip that I much preferred to pie.
Instead, I remember giggling when I felt the stubble on my aunt’s leg and how when I called them stickers and continuously pet her leg as if she were a porcupine instead of a person, she giggled too. I remember jumping on the sofa bed with my cousins and eventually stilling into the springs that poked me in the back. 𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘦.
Thanksgiving isn’t about food but the people who feed us. It’s about the time we have with our family that passes too quickly, the moments of joy we steal between all of the rushing and perfecting, and the memories that sustain us after those we love pass on. It’s about giving the people in our lives something to be thankful for that isn’t tangible but touches our hearts in a way that years later reminds us how small things become big. With abandon, I glide into gratitude for the people in my life as if I were still a small child huddled on a cardboard box ready to descend, only this time, into a warm memory.
For all of it, 𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘬𝘧𝘶𝘭.
Share with the people you cherish and make beautiful memories on this special holiday. ... See MoreSee Less
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Lately, when I catch a glimpse of my face it appears to be melting like candle wax or colorful taffy in the hot Florida sun. It evokes the hollow horror of Edvard Munch’s painting, “The Scream.” Since I haven’t taken any LSD, I figure this droop must be part of aging. I spoke with my doctor about the way my origami shaped eyelids are folding in on themselves, and she said that she thinks I could qualify for the medically-necessary surgery to put them back in their proper place so my vision isn’t impaired. I didn’t know whether to feel validated by her comment or virtually hopeless.
Earlier that day I was speaking with a friend who is teaching a class on the Book of Ecclesiastes and he mentioned its humanistic view of vanity which goes beyond society’s obsession with appearances. The only thing I knew offhand about the chapter is the passage that begins “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens,” (Ecclesiastes 3:1).
It reads like beautiful poetry, a cadence of simplicity making sense of a senseless world: “a time to be born and time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build,” (Ecclesiastes 3: 2-3). A time to be young and cute with body parts in their proper spot and a time to have your eyelids tied up with thread so you can see every new crevice of decay. Somehow that line must have been edited out. I suppose for the sake of brevity, not lack of validity.
“Vanity of vanities! All is vanity” (Ecclesiastes 1:2). When this was written it wasn’t just talking about my drooping eyelids but the author’s attempt to alleviate his sense of feeling lost in the world through the pursuit of pleasure, work, and wisdom. The long and short of it is that life is fleeting, meaningless, and futile in all its pursuits without the realization of the constancy and contentment that comes from God. Accepting God’s pervasiveness in all things, his persistence in loving all people, and his passion on the cross that allowed us a pass at salvation is what is going to fill the hollow ache of our hearts. Void of God, life is just vanity.
This is not suggesting we quit our day jobs, or stop pursuing pleasure, knowledge, or making the world a better place. Only that without God, “the time for everything,” is going to feel more like nothing than not.
As far as what time does to my aging body, “Vanity of vanities! All is vanity” (Ecclesiastes 1:2). (Besides, basset hounds have droopy eyes and they are kind of cute!)
It’s an interesting perspective to think of life as vanity when it is devoid of God but it makes sense. On the flip-side how much more fulfilling could our lives be if we were in constant communion with God? Wouldn’t we be more joyful, generous, and gentle? I’m betting the effort pays off a lot more than trying to fight gravity 🙂 ... See MoreSee Less
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Today is World Kindness Day. I am not sure who designated it but I figure it was someone important like Jesus. If not him, I certainly think Jesus would approve – maybe even question, why everyday wasn’t dedicated to sharing kindness.
While I wanted to write to share the happy message of World Kindness Day, I was feeling kind of anxious about it being just another task. I had 400 other things floating in my head, pinging me to prioritize them, and bullying me into buying into the urgency of getting them done.
And I realized that for the message of kindness to extend to others, we must first understand kindness ourselves. If we can’t slow down with ourselves, we are unlikely to slow down for others. If we don’t learn to be patient with ourselves, we won’t be patient with others. If we don’t practice forgiving ourselves, we won’t understand how to forgive others. If we don’t quit telling ourselves how important our to-do list is, then we won’t make time to actively love others.
So, my message is this, do something kind for yourself right now. Yes, like now, now. And then take that happy feeling, that good thought, that deed of indulgence, or rest, or whatever it is, and share it with others. I bet it’s like the fishes and the loaves and it multiplies exponentially-- spreading beyond the busy spin of self into a better, softer, kinder world for all of us.
Today is World Kindness Day. How will you celebrate? ... See MoreSee Less
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