Power

The voice of the Lord is over the waters;
the God of glory thunders,
the Lord thunders over the mighty waters.
The voice of the Lord is powerful;
the voice of the Lord is majestic.
(Psalm 29: 3-4)



South Beach, Hurricane Sandy.

Best Birthday Present, Ever

Where do I start, except to say that the past few days have been amazing, beginning with a random, out-of-the blue e-mail from Janis Ann Tanner who turns out to be a second cousin from my long-lost Piazza family.

I am now in touch with two more cousins, Annette Valentinetti Facciponti and Andrea Rasulo - these names are beautiful music! - and with my grandparents' generation having numbered 65 siblings and first cousins, this is the tip of the iceberg.

To understand the significance of all of this, one must first know that I never met my father, have only known a few details of his life (this is one of only two photos I have of him, and I only saw these for the first time at age 30), and have never met anyone on that side of the family. Imagine that half of who you are is a black hole, an emptiness that never goes away (and yeah, I've done a pretty fine job of making up for all of that, I'd say); and now, suddenly - ON MY BIRTHDAY - I am given the most incredible gift, the best gift ever: at least three cousins with names and faces and common history, with more to come.

I've spent my whole life adopting myself out to friends and neighbors with big families, never knowing, of course, that I had a very large family of my very own.

I knew they'd come for me.

Catholics Come Home

During the recent ten years that I lived in Coolidge Corner, Brookline, my almost-daily walks usually included a brisk walk along Harvard St. through Brookline Village past St. Mary's Roman Catholic Church, a towering and magnificent display of architecture. On some level, I think it must have brought me comfort, all those years I was so far from home - both geographically and religiously - simply to walk by the place. I could just as easily have walked west on Harvard Street, or up or down Beacon Street, or chosen a multitude of directions and neighborhoods in which to walk, but I almost always chose to walk through the Village.

In those ten years, out of deference to the Judaism I had embraced, even though I often wondered what it looked like inside, I never went in to St. Mary's (except for the one Palm Sunday a few years back when I popped in ever-so-quickly, not even daring to gaze beyond the narthex, in order to grab a palm to take to my godmother who was in a nearby hospital).

Today, since I was in Boston for the weekend, and in need of going to church, I attended the 10:30 Mass at St. Mary's. It was a beautiful Mass, with beautiful music, in a jaw-droppingly gorgeous sanctuary that felt more like being in a European cathedral than being in suburban Boston. It was wonderful being back in Brookline, and even more joyous being in St. Mary's, finally inside that big church I had walked past almost every day but hadn't even dared to peek into. It was especially meaningful being there as a fully-home-again Catholic.  Nobody sang louder than I did today. 

For the past few years there's been a sign on the front of St. Mary's, part of a church-wide campaign to reach out to fallen away Catholics (a category in which I, very interestingly, thought that being a convert to Judaism I was exempt from), that proclaims: Catholics Come Home (which I had been "mistakenly" reading as an invitation all this time, as in: Catholics, Come Home).

I now know that that sign was placed there specifically for me.

Catholics come home.

Indeed, they do.

These photos, from my phone, do not even begin to do justice to the magnificence that is St. Mary's Church in Brookline (nor do the words above even begin to describe my joy at having attended Sunday Mass there):

Okay, I knew I had a few St. Mary's photos on file (these are from March 17, 2011):

God is on Facebook

My move back to Edgartown this past spring to my childhood home, the actual house in which I grew up, a move that involved much laborious, hands-on renovating and repair, all jammed into about a ten-week period, with multiple trips to Boston, and deadlines, was just about the most challenging couple of months of my life, physically. It's amazing, isn't it, what one is able to accomplish when there's a deadline (my husband always used to say, "The amount of time you have is the amount of time it will take to complete a task").

My move back home was part and parcel of the obvious dead-end I had hit in my Jewish life, both professionally and spiritually. The paltry, extremely part-time and much-less-than-satisfying job that I had ended up with, a job that used about 5% of my time and talent, had ended suddenly in April (by e-mail, the day before Passover: "We can't afford a cantor"). And with no job on the horizon - due partly to the economy, but in all honesty, even though my Hebrew was very good and my voice was certainly good enough, there were many occasions where I simply was not accepted as a Jew - all I had to show for my Judaism, after twelve years of intense study and involvement, were less than a handful of true friends and a couple of kosher kitchens; no God that I could touch or see, and after having spread myself thin by working in multiple temples and Hebrew schools over the years, I had no real community I could call my own. I had ended up as a not-untypical Jew - non-affiliated and barely observant (keeping kosher was the last to go; I loved keeping kosher. I always said, keeping kosher is like a Jewish GPS; three times a day I knew where I was on the planet). A person who is Jewish by birth, who never even sets foot in a synagogue, at least has familial ties and traditions - primordial memories - that help to maintain a Jewish identity. I didn't even have that. I was empty. I had nothing. Foxes have holes and birds of the air have nests... but I didn't have a home.

All those hours that were spent painting and repairing my grandparents' house, moving boxes and furniture, relocating my entire life, had begun stirring memories of my family - my beautiful Methodist grandmother, and my childhood and my religious roots, and were awakening a longing that I couldn't identify at first, but that I would soon recognize as my need to come home to the church - to the Roman Catholicism I had loved but had left twelve years ago for what I thought at the time was a higher calling that would engage even more of my musical talents and spirituality.

But what to do? I called my friend, Passionist Father Vincent Youngberg, a priest I had made friends with years ago and with whom I had remained in touch, and could barely form the question, as it was such a scary thought: "Have you ever heard of someone who converted to Judaism and then unconverted and went back to Christianity?" He responded, "Well, no, I've never heard of anyone who did that, but if someone came to me under those circumstances, I would take that person into my arms." The tears that flowed during that conversation told me I was on the right path.

On Sunday, June 17, I wrote in my journal: I really need to get back to church. God is calling me home.

I deliberated for a couple of days, trying to work up the courage to go to Michael - my former-parish-priest-become-friend-and-confidant (I wonder, sometimes, if he ever knew that at times, even while I was deeply engaged in Judaism, he was more of a mentor and guide than any of my rabbis or teachers). I was terrified, really (of what? Admitting failure? But I hadn't failed - I had accomplished what I had set out to do, in spades - most of it, anyway).

On Tuesday morning, I woke up and said to myself, I think today's the day. I think I'll walk down to the rectory tonight and visit Mike.

At some point during the morning I opened my Facebook page and saw that my daughter, who with her partner had set out the day before on a road trip from Los Alamos, New Mexico, home to the Vineyard, had posted a status update that included a phone-photo, taken from the car, of a 50' cross on the side of the highway, a photo titled, simply, Texas. Okay, great, they're on their way, and isn't it great that I can follow their progress - while in the back of my mind thinking, hmmm...now that's a weird photo for my non-religious daughter even to have taken, never mind to have posted onto Facebook.



Texas

Later in the day there was another status update from the road, from her partner, from Oklahoma. Okay, great progress. Wait a minute - it's another 50' highway cross. Okay, what's going on here? Two photos of crosses, from two of the least likely people I would think of to post photos of crosses onto their Facebook pages.



Oklahoma

Ahhh - got it!

Down I went to the rectory, and instead of sitting back in an end-of-day, reclining pose, perched myself upright and said, "I'm ready to come home." And Fr. Mike - unflinchingly - did exactly as Vincent said that he himself would do - he opened his arms and gave me a welcome-home hug that may as well have been from God, himself - oh, wait...

But the story isn't over. The next morning I went to Mass - my first Mass and Holy Communion in twelve years - came home, opened my Facebook page and - yep, you guessed it - there was another photo from the travelers, in Kentucky now:



Kentucky

By now, a couple of other Facebookers had picked up on the cross theme, including my daughter-in-law, who queried, "Hey, what's up with all the crosses?"

I chimed in with, "Oh, I get it. Yesterday's were for the Father and the Son, today's is for the Holy Spirit," which got a couple of Likes and chuckles, but here's the thing: I wasn't kidding.

There's no place like home...

(related post, here)

Return

When I wrote in yesterday morning's entry, "...fostering the knowledge that God is very near and that all is well... " I had no idea how well things actually were or how good the day was going to get.

Yesterday was my eldest's thirty-eighth birthday. At Mass, during intercessions, I offered a prayer of Thanksgiving (aloud; not typical for me), thanking God for its being my first-born's birthday and requesting that God bless him with love and peace, today and always.

Last night I received a surprise text message from him (the child, not God), a sweet message, ending with, "I love you."

This from one who has been gone from home, out of touch with me for close to two years.

Today I'm remembering that I've prayed to Mary for assistance with my family a few times recently, since re-acquainting myself with the Memorare: "...never was it known that anyone who fled to your protection, implored your help, or sought your intercession, was left unaided..." Mary should know about a mother's love, right?

If someday you suddenly see a bathtub on my front lawn with a statue of Mary in it, you'll know why.

Spring up, oh well!

The Memorare

Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to your protection, implored your help, or sought your intercession, was left unaided. Inspired by this confidence, I fly unto you, O Virgin of virgins, my Mother. To you I come; before you I stand sinful and sorrowful. O Mother of the Word Incarnate! Despise not my petitions, but in your mercy hear and answer me. Amen

Living Streams

Twice this week I've dreamed that there were huge pools of water in my yard - one in the back yard, old and stagnant, covered over with sheets of plywood; the second pool, in this morning's dream, was in the front yard, a huge sink hole next to the water spigot, bubbling and alive.

Today's dream has evoked a slurry of words and images, all swirling around in my morning brain - the place where my nighttime, dreaming mind interfaces with my daytime, becoming-conscious mind - add morning Mass/hymns/songs/Communion to the mix; all of the above fostering the knowledge that God is very near and that all is well...

Water of Life
River of Life
The Woman at the Well
Miriam's Well
Spring Up, Oh Well
Moses and the Rock
Holy Water
Source of Life
Living Stream
Overflowing
Abundance
Baptismal Waters
River of God
Streams bubble, bubble up
Fill my home. My Life.
Wash me clean.

...as well as a couple of songs, including this one - learned many years ago and played and sung at many a bible study:

I've got a river of life flowing out of me,
Makes the lame to walk and the blind to see,
Opens prison doors, sets the captives free,
I've got a river of life flowing out of me.

Spring up, oh well, into my soul!
Spring up, oh well, and make me whole!
Spring up, oh well, and give to me,
That life, abundantly!

And this Tim Manion song (based on Psalm 46), which I had the pleasure and honor of singing at my first-born grandchild, River's (yes - great name, right?), naming ceremony in May, 2010:

There is a river, a great flowing river
And it makes glad the City of God.
Broad are its waters, and deep are its voices,
Its songs are of peace in the house of the Lord

What shall we fear, though nations may tremble
and darkness may rise to trouble the sun.
The kingdom is near, the remnants assemble,
and lift up their eyes to a day just begun.

Daily Bread

I love attending daily Mass and can't wait to get there on Monday through Thursday mornings, but I also love having Fridays and Saturdays free, morning being my most productive and creative time of the day. Having no reason to leave home two days a week allows me to get into a delicious groove of creativity. I could attend the Saturday afternoon vigil Mass, I suppose, so I'd only be missing one day a week, but I've decided I rather like having two full days off (besides which, the vigil Mass is simply an earlier version of the Sunday Mass). This break allows me an extended, uninterrupted stretch of time - a sabbatical, if you will - in which to accomplish a few things - or even nothing, if I so desire - and then, by Sunday afternoon, I am truly hungry again for the Eucharist and can't wait to get to 5:00 Mass (okay, by Sunday afternoon it's almost three days off). And I rather like that hungry feeling, a feeling that translates into the experience of wanting and eagerly anticipating God (as compared with being constantly satiated and possibly becoming complacent).

The above photo is of a sand dollar - one of many that my mother brought home from Siesta Key beaches during the years she lived there during the late 1970s/early 1980s. I've kept this one on my mantle, prominently displayed, for years. This large version - I also have several fifty-cent-piece-sized versions - has come to remind me of the large wafer that the priest elevates and consecrates during the Liturgy of the Eucharist at Mass. On some level, even during the years I was away from the Church, I lived with this visual, albeit subliminal, reminder of the Eucharist. Of course, during my non-Christian years, it was just a shell; a fond memory of my mother and an innocent connection to my past.

Coincidentally - or not - the sand dollar is replete with Christian symbolism. Rather than explaining it in my own words (as I have, hundreds of times, because I find it fascinating - and the part about the star inside breaking into five tiny white doves is absolutely true, and amazing), I'll let this little poem tell the story (author unknown):

The Legend of the Sand Dollar

There’s a lovely little legend
That I would like to tell,
Of the birth and death of Jesus
Found in this lowly shell.

If you examine closely
You’ll see that you find here,
Four nail holes and a fifth one
Made by a Roman’s spear.

On one side the Easter Lily,
Its center is the star,
That appeared unto the shepherds
And led them from afar.

The Christmas Poinsettia
Etched on the other side,
Reminds us of His birthday
Our happy Christmastide.

Now break the center open
And here you will release,
The five white doves awaiting
To spread Good Will and Peace.

This simple little symbol
Christ left for you and me,
To help us spread His Gospel
Through all Eternity

Roll Away the Stone

"Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene went to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the entrance."
John 20:1





As I mentioned in my previous post (Open Up the Gates) - I am constantly amazed and fascinated by the power of the sub-conscious mind; the urges that we follow that on the surface appear to be mundane actions but turn out to be fraught with significance.

A few months ago, the week of Easter and Passover, to be exact, I was installing metal posts for my garden fence. I was within a couple of hammer blows of finishing the project when I heard and felt the distinct clinking sound of metal on stone. I've dealt with many a garden stone in my day, and though I was annoyed by the interruption, I figured it would be an easy task to dig the stone out and finish my project for the day. How wrong I was. I ended up having to dig a hole approximately 2' in diameter and at least as deep, and spending a very long time wrestling what turned out to be a massive hunk of granite out of what seemed like the bowels of the earth. And I do mean wrestle. This thing was very heavy, and to make matters worse, it was round, so there was no easy way to grab onto the thing; a slippery thing, it was. I managed to leverage it upwards a bit with the shovel, and after a lot of maneuvering and grunting and swearing, and at one point becoming aware that my fingers were precariously close to the working edge of a shovel that contained a very heavy stone - I did get the boulder up to the surface. As difficult a task as it was, there was also a fantastic feeling of accomplishment when it was done.

I took the above photo with my phone to document my victory, and to show to my friend Ben who had also, coincidentally, done some stone-wrestling the day before. If you compare the size of the stone to the shovel, you'll have an idea of its size.

As I also mentioned in my previous post, I often later discover deeper meanings in what initially appear to be ordinary photographs. It's as though my photos are self-portraits; expositions of my interior world.

When I looked at the photo a few days later, I immediately thought, "Oh, it's a stone at the mouth of a grave," which reminded me of the story about the stone that had been rolled away at Jesus' tomb on Easter morning. Then I realized that it was Good Friday when I was actually thinking these things. I had not been consciously aware, however, that it was Good Friday because, you see, at that time I was Jewish, and the Christian calendar was not on my radar - consciously, anyway. It's like that with me, for some reason. A lot.

And here's the amazing thing: two months later, after living and studying and working in the Jewish world as a fairly observant Jewish person for twelve years, I returned home to the Catholic Church.

So, the photograph turns out to be true in ways that I didn't even know about at the time. On a purely physical level, I did roll away the stone - a huge, heavy stone from deep within the earth, a task that took every bit of cleverness, strength, and sheer stubbornness I've ever had to muster - and yes, I am quite strong and stubborn as it turns out. But the photograph also reveals a profound spiritual truth: on that spring morning during Holy Week 2012, unbeknownst to me at the time, I was wrestling with and rolling away the stone from the tomb where Jesus had been buried inside me for twelve years; unbeknownst to myself, I was in the process of returning to Christianity.

I suppose this could also be filed under "There are no coincidences or accidents." I do know that the subconscious is a fascinating place - is this where God lives? - and I also believe that we each already contain, within ourselves, most of what we need to know about ourselves and that on that April morning I was doing exactly what I needed to do - in a gestalt kind of way - in order to tell myself something I did not yet have words for. I just have one question: how did I know the rock was there?



The stone, in its present location, in my mother and brother, John's, rock garden, created approximately thirty years ago in the backyard of my childhood home in Edgartown where I recently returned to live.

Open Up the Gates

There is so much I want to write about, especially as pertains to the past few months, but I barely know where to start. So I will begin, simply, with today.

The above photo was taken this morning, a few minutes before the gates opened at the Martha's Vineyard Refuse Disposal and Resource Recovery center (the dump).

I don't normally dump on a Thursday morning, but this week I had extra trash and recycling left over from my tenants. I meant to go yesterday but slept late and got distracted by other projects. Today I woke in time to pack my car - there's something quite satisfying about tending to one's own garbage, I find, aside from the monetary savings, that is - and even managed to be first in line for the dump's 8am opening. Not only did I not want to deal with long lines and the pre-Labor Day weekend crowd, I also wanted to be home in time to clean myself up and get to 9am mass.

Shortly before the gate was due to be opened I noticed the silhouette of the gate - I was facing east, into the morning sun - which, along with its shadow, created a shape that grabbed me (as a life-long photographer, I am probably more tuned in to light than most people, and I do love silhouettes). I knew that the gate would be opened momentarily and my chance to capture the image would be gone, so I quickly roused from my semi-conscious state, grabbed my phone, and got the above shot (love my phone camera).

As with many of my photos, it's only later that I notice deeper meanings within the image.

First - it's a great shot, if I do say so myself. "A great catch," as they say. It's symmetrical, balanced, and in focus.

Second - it's a powerful image; very strong. It's an unambiguous and unabashed cross.

Third - it's a little clever. Somehow, my half-awake eye saw beyond the obvious, beyond the somewhat annoying closed gate, and saw something bigger.

Good job!

There's more, though:

The frame and the mesh of the gate, along with its shadow, have created the shape of the cross, but the cross itself is empty and open. The chain hangs unattached and unlocked. The symbolism is obvious: life outside the cross (without Christ) is restricted, closed, fenced in; life inside the cross (with Christ) is clear and open; unlocked. There's freedom in the cross.

The question is, what caused me to see this cross in an ordinary steel gate while sitting in a car full of trash, half awake, listening to mindless-clap-trap-radio, literally moments before the dump-keeper roared up on his motorcycle and opened the gate for the day?

The answer is easy: God opened my eyes to see the cross. It was a gift.

A sub-text here could also be gleaned from the text of the Jewish High Holy Day services - coming up in just a couple of weeks - words that encapsulate the theme of the season: פתחו לי שערי צדק: (pitchu li, sha-arei tzeddek - open for me the gates of righteousness - and it continues: and I will enter in and give thanks). So, even though this is a world I have left behind, I am apparently still - subconsciously, at least - somewhat tuned in to the rhythm of the seasons (the fertile ground of the subconscious mind continues to fascinate me).

Message for today: know that the cross is inside me, and I am inside it, and even when things appear to not be going my way at the moment and when life seems to be closing in on me - remember that life with Christ is the clear and open path. And no matter how lonely and lost I feel at times on this journey, God is with me every minute and always shows me the way.