Alms

 Just not sure

Why I'm at this keyboard right now

10:00 PM I should be asleep

Just not sure

Why I stepped into the study to take

This machine off the shelf tonight

A night filled with a Dodger win 

And a good supper 

Other than a reflection I heard this morning

Taken from Luke 7 where

Jesus upends and berates the Pharisees 

In shockingly, even rude language

He wasted no time in offending his dinner host

Made statements about them focusing on outward appearances

Instead of attending to their internal chaos and upheaval 

Then he used a word that caught me straight up

Absolutely straight up

Not a common word, sort of an old word

Seemingly a powerful word 

That's come back to me over and over today

Alms

Alms

Alms

"Give alms to clean the inside"

Which is much more important than polishing the outside

Alms for whom?

Alms from where?

Alms for what?

Why alms?

"Give alms to clean the inside."

So simple

So brilliantly simple

So shockingly hard to do

For others

For ourselves

For God

Why am I writing this now?

Really no perceptible reason

Other than to given in and obey

Obey the lifelong voice deep inside

To write it down

Just write it down

It doesn't matter why

Just write it down

To clean the inside

Giving alms.

1,925 years ago------

 ------- a philosopher born in Palestine was well educated in Greek thought and beliefs, but he wasn't satisfied. One day he was walking along and met an very elderly man from Syria. He told this man about his search for Truth and the man surprised him with a story that rang of Truth like he'd not heard before. As he walked the roads of the Middle East he came to Ephesus where some of the first Christians lived. He was so taken with the Truth of their converted lives that he, too, became a Christian. Given his position as a highly educated philosopher he felt the need to go to Rome, speak with the Emperor, try to convince him to stop killing Christians, well,  just because. His arguments were strong and so clear, but it was too risky for the Roman elite, at that time, to listen and to believe. It would take them another 200 years. In the meantime he could see it was a no win situation and sooner or later (which came in 155) they'd take his life. As this became more obvious he wrote his First Apology and then his Second Apology in defense of the new Christians, the new congregants called Catholics.

I knew nothing of this man until yesterday morning when I made a serious search online of how Catholicism differs from my Lutheran/Presbyterian background. I'm taking a class at St. Paul's with the intent of converting at Easter Vigil Mass, but I have alot of questions. In my search I learned about St. Justin Martyr and his First Apology that includes a very clear description of the mass (as it was in 130 and still is today) and the Catholic Eucharist. Of course, I  had to know more so I went to Amazon and ordered up a book with all of this new information and it arrived 24 hours later. I spent this afternoon in the warm fall sun consuming it.

Now I've made the acquaintance of this amazing person who lived and wrote 1.925 years ago because he met an elderly Syrian Christian man in his wanderings who told him about Christ. He founded a school in Rome to teach new converts and made it his mission to save as many Christians as he could. 

Think of this chain of events ---- elderly Syrian man speaks to Greek Palestinian who writes a profound treatise on the faith that I learn about via the internet and Amazon brings me his book in 24 hours. 

I'm most grateful to that elderly Syrian man who shared his faith. He has spoken to me today through St. Justin Martyr.

Thank you, Lord.

Remnants

My fridge is often a sundry collection of remnants. "A small quantity of something." "Leftovers, residue, tail end, scrap, fragment." "A small part or portion that remains after the main part no longer exists."

The English "remnant"comes from the French word  "remanant" which means "to remain."

If I think of it this way it sounds like the remnants of past meals choose to remain in the fridge, when I actually choose for them to remain, until they meet their ultimate demise of being thrown out.

It seems outside influences can determine if a remnant remains and for how long. Simple enough for my fridge. Not so simple for the wider world.

Biblically, God promises there will always be a remnant of those he pledged eternal love to so many centuries ago.   These remnants continue to exist because God  has never chosen to throw them out. God never will.  It's an eternal non-negotiable. 

But, looking at the condition of our world today it seems everyone believes that they, and only they,  know which remnants are still worth the high cost of support, which ones should be thrown out, and which ones are truly rotten.  

Both sides, every side, all sides are on very thin ice here.  Unless we're in the deepest of daily prayer and communion with God it's not wise to throw out a remnant that could be a warm patch or a way through a tough time or a life-saving piece of sustenance for someone, for anyone. 

By the grace of God, humanity continues on the shoulders of remnants who live out their invisible calling to be scraps of love, fragments of faith, and delightful residues of fragrant forgiveness.

Amen.

Seek You

 In the light of a spring evening

As day gives way to night

When the house becomes more quiet, more empty

This is when I seek You.

Here

Now

On my own

There is still purpose

A reason to be within this particular set of walls.

In the waning of darkness

As the moon hands over the sky to sunrise

When I awake in the house

So very quiet, still empty

This is when I seek You. 

In this New Day

By calendar

By season of life

Always

May I seek You.

Prayer

As I handed all that I do 

All whom I care for 

All that I worry about 

Into Your hands this morning

Save me from taking it all back tonight

Loosely held may I let my worries for the future slip through my hands 

Take my judgments about others' motivations out of my heart.

It's only me, only my life

That I am responsible  

To present to You at the end

And

I'm not sure, but probably so

That the end is already under way

Grant me wisdom and vision to use

My time - Your time

My gifts - Your gifts

In the best way possible

Amen

Words

Waiting for words to come

Pen poised for action

No words yet so

I'll just write these.

It's not the case of no words, though -

It's the case of too many words

Flowing, Spinning, Flying

Between images and memories

Around stories waiting to be written

Caught up in concerns, censors, crashing

If there was just one story with

One plot, one hero, one ending

Then only certain words would do 

But

There are so many plots, so many heroes, so many endings

It's hard to start 

And

It's hard to stop

Waiting for words to come

As for tonight

This piece is done 

The 1951 Veterans of Foreign Wars Essay

(Note: Written on 3/23/23, posted on 4/16/23)

Pierre de Beaumarchais was a very famous French playwright with the ear of Louis XVI as the colonies were on the brink of revolution.

He was also a secret arms dealer funneling cash and weapons from Spain and France to the newly forming American rebels in the 1770's.

And he was quoted in my Mom's essay in 1951 when she was a junior in high school. 

She won $7.50.

"Freedom's Open Door" was a lengthy and hot call for Americans to fight the threat of communism in the early 1950's. Her father served in WWI and her two oldest brothers were in WWII.   She lived in eastern Montana and I imagine she sat at the farmhouse kitchen table to write this very powerful and exquisite essay for her English class that was then submitted to the VFW essay contest. 

It reads like a college paper on American government and values. 

It reads like a call to arms.

It reads like a young woman with very clear ideals and beliefs.

It reads like my Mother.

The fact that this 72 year old essay reads at all is amazing because it's taped on the first page of a terribly yellowed scrapbook. The pages that follow hold very old, dried corsages, tickets to the  US Capitol, and handwritten notes about boys named Harry and Eddie. 

The world of a sixteen year old Montana farm girl in 1951 - so full of dreams and ideals.

And

I only just looked at this scrapbook and read about Pierre de Beaumarchais tonight.

It's March 23, 2023 and my Mom has been gone five years today.

The uncomfortable angst that comes on such days sent me on a search when I got home tonight.

I thought I was searching for collage pieces to make a design of my insides so the light of day could calm and cleanse them.

Instead I picked up this ancient scrapbook that's been in my guest room for the past five years.

I sat down and was startled to find my young mother on the first page as the second place winner of the VFW essay contest.

When the dead have been gone for too long, we begin to search.

We hope to find a piece of them to claim, to cling to.

Tonight the very intelligent, extremely well-written young woman, who bore me just six years later made a visit.

I am most grateful and inspired.