Give the Best you Have

Being

"We are so obsessed with doing that we have no time and no imagination left for being. As a result, men are valued not for what they are but for what they do or what they have - for their usefulness." ~Thomas Merton

Mom and I circa 1993

One of my mother's laments is over her loss of a sense of usefulness. All her adult life, she has worked, first at home raising seven children, and when my parents divorced, she spent long hours working, sometimes two jobs, to put food on the table and a roof over our heads. In her later years, she worked to provide for her own living expenses (as best she could). She helped others by opening her home to various children and grand-children as they needed a temporary place to land. After she retired, she moved back to our hometown and obtained part-time work to keep busy. Eventually, the position was discontinued, and with her declining cognitive abilities, it became difficult for her to consider another job, although she still mentions finding work so that she can feel more productive.


Her days have dwindled to washing her own clothes, putting dishes away in the cupboard (although this is also becoming difficult for her), taking out the trash, and tiddying up her living space. She has no interest to organize or engage in any sort of hobby. She spent so many years working a job, that she didn't develop any, and even if she had, I'm not sure at this point she'd be able to manage them. She did enjoy reading, but that also has become difficult, not only because of failing eyesight (macular degeneration), but also because of her decreasing ability to follow a storyline. It's difficult for her to remember what she read on the previous page.


Unfortunately, visiting with others, friends and relatives, has created more agitation instead of relieving it. Her perception is that others are visiting to "check her out, critiquing her" to see if she is crazy. She thinks I set these visits up so that I can get their critique in order to put her away. Nothing could be further from the truth, but that is her perception and she knows what she knows. She still needs the visits, even if they disturb her. 

Her interests now are watching her movies, eating out, and going for rides. Riding in the car, seems to calm the periods of agitation that creep up on her.

Mom 2010

I've been thinking a lot about "being" in comparison to "doing," as I watch mom's abilities decline and also as my ability to ease her distress is limited. Mom is not unique in feeling that it is what you "do" or "what you have" that matters, not who you are. It is not only prevalent in society at large, but also in how we view "ministry." I remember a conversation with a fellow Catholic who just couldn't quite render equivalency to the ministry of contemplatives (those that live in cloistered religious orders and spend the majority of their time praying) and those out in the world actively involved in ministry of some sort, relieving the sick, ministering to the poor, evangelizing those that are considered outside God's will.


A high premium is placed on that which can be seen, rather than the unseen, that which can be measured, counted, and visualized as successful. It makes us "feel" of worth, a sense of accomplishment. This is not to say there isn't a need for actively engaging society in order to minister. Jesus warned in the coming judgment that the shepherd will divide the sheep to the right and the goats to the left according to whether or not they ministered to Him. "I was hungry and  you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me." (Mt 25:34-37) Those that inherit the kingdom are those the King recognizes, those that ministered unto "the least of these my brethren;" because as they did to the least, the King says, they "did it to me." (Mt 25: 40).


But there is a need to be actively engaged in prayer, contemplation, and meditation as well. As water is to a garden, so prayer and meditation is to the world around us, that those in it might bear the fruit of righteousness and holiness, for in the end, that is the goal, not "usefulness." Prayer is a mighty weapon and an effective means to holiness for us and for others.


Even at that, in the end, to pray might be too much for some. To value my mother because of her prayers would also be to miss the point. She is valued because she is and this world, certainly my world, would not have been the same without her. As she continues to pull inward, and as my ability to relieve her distress, lessens, I hope and pray I remember that being together in this, no matter what shape "it" takes, even if mom seems "far away," is exhibiting a sweet, fruitful fragrance in a world that seems more and more to devalue the unseen and unproductive among us.

Somebody's praying

Ruby Mary Ann Gagnebin Fried

At an early age (7 yrs), my grandma died. Her death left "a hole" in my life. She was my comfort. I'd crawl into her lap when darkness created scary shadows on my wall. She'd hold me in her arms as she rocked me to sleep singing softly in my ear. Christmas day, 1955, my dad sat me on his lap as he told me the angels came and took her to heaven.

Since that day, I haven't escaped dark times, when those shadows again stretched across my life and I felt the loss of grandma's physical comfort. Some of the darkness has been because of my own choices, some because of the choices of others, some just because this world is not perfect. Darkness knocked me off my feet as if I were caught by an undertow at the beach. The tumultuous waves sent me thrashing, unable to get my bearings as murky seaweed seemed to entangle itself about my head.  Even when I was thrashing, being assaulted by waves of grief or pain, there was one thing that kept me from succumbing to the waves, and my feet reaching for solid ground. I knew, among others, my grandma was praying for me.

There were also times in my life when it was as if I was allowed to go just so far and no farther down a road that would lead me in a direction I ultimately, in my heart of hearts, did not want to go, because there was a higher calling on my life, beyond the immediate, beyond my own desires. Strong arms captured my heart about the time grandma died and have held onto me ever since, and to that end, I believe my grandma, among others, was praying for me.

I know as long as I'm living in this world dark times will come, when the shadows seem scary and I'll long for grandma's lap, long to hear her singing in my ear, so I can listen to her heartbeat. In the darkness of those times, I'll always know, someone is watching over me, and I'll thank the Lord for my grandma, who, among others, is praying for me.

Somebody's Praying by Ricky Skaggs
Somebody's prayin', I can feel it
Somebody's prayin' for me
Mighty hands are guiding me
To protect me from what I can't see
Lord I believe; Lord I believe
Somebody's prayin' for me.

Angels are watchin', I can feel 'em
Angels are watchin' over me
There's many miles ahead 'til I get home
Still I'm safely kept before your throne
'Cause Lord I believe, Lord I believe
Your angels are watchin' over me.

Well, I've walked through barren wilderness
Where my pillow was a stone
And I've been through the darkest caverns
Where no light had ever shown.
Still I went on 'cause there was someone
Who was down on their knees
Lord. I thank you for those people
Prayin' all this time for me.

Perception

Photo (c) 2010 Joaquin Aragon, used by permission

Perceptions paint colors of various hues on my day. Is the glass half-full or half-empty? Am I in a cave viewing only shadows, not reality itself? Or is the brightness of sunlight illuminating the dark corners of my mind so that I can see the dust particles floating about?

For years, Sundays were the busiest day of the week for me. I used my Monday(s) as a day to recuperate. My perception of Monday, therefore, is one of quiet, restful reflection about the upcoming week even though my life has changed. I do sympathize with those who must start their workweek and dread Mondays. I hear, "Yep, it was another Monday!" on social networking sites, meaning, all hell broke loose, or at the very least, nothing "seemed" to go right.

I often wonder, is it the anticipation that my Monday will be quiet and restful that colors my perception, so much so that no matter what happens on Monday, I tend to see it as positive? Is it contrariwise for others?

As I watch Mom cope with her own reality from day to day, colored by her perceptions, it was interesting to me to see that yesterday, Sunday, a day that typically, for years, filled her mind with doom and gloom, was actually pleasant, filled with laughter. She even started, at one point, singing in her mind "June is Busting Out all Over," after she asked me what month it was. What made the difference? For one thing, she didn't remember it was Sunday. To her, it was just another day, but one that, at least yesterday, didn't have thoughts of doom and gloom clouding her perception.

Living with Alzheimer's

Photo (c) 2009, David McClearen

My mother lives with Alzheimer's. 
I live with Alzheimer's too, because mom 
lives with me. 

Her memories are all mixed up, her perceptions fused with her paranoia, short-term memory loss means conversations are difficult because thoughts are repeated endlessly, and sometimes, hallucinations are accepted as real-life events with little room for discussion as to the validity of them. Some days a dark cloud descends and life is bleak.

It does no good to remember the relationship we had in the past. It has changed. Mom knows her relationships have changed and she can't find a reason for it. It does no good telling her the change is in her mind. Even if she could accept it, which she can't, she would forget the conversation soon after, and would wonder to herself again, what happened.

It also does no good trying to get her to remember, as if by saying, "Mom, remember this or that," she will somehow suddenly put everything together in one Ah Ha! moment. It only frustrates her and makes her feel like I think she is crazy, which I don't. Sometimes, with a little guidance, she can come to an understanding that is consistent with reality, but her reality changes with her perceptions, her perceptions are her reality, so even though there might be a meeting of the minds, it soon passes, and we are back to square one.

Other days, laughter fills our conversations, and I find mom delightful. Today was one of those days.
It's best to take each moment, each hour, each day as they come. That is easier said then done, but I'm learning. I never know, when she ascends the stairs, if I'll meet the lady or the tiger, but whoever she is at that moment, she is still my mom, and I love her. I am grateful, will be eternally grateful, for this time we have together, living with Alzheimer's. She is not the disease, she lives with it. And so do I.

Southwell on the beauty of faith

I keep running into Jesuits, not literally, in my readings. Came across another, Robert Southwell (c. 1561 – 21 February 1595), an English Jesuit that according to Joseph Pearce (Literary Giants, Literary Catholics), "employed the beauty of language as a means of conveying the beauty of faith (p 18)."

Southwell was martyred in post-Reformation England. Queen Elizabeth I issued an edict that any English-born subject that entered the priesthood after her accession to the throne could not stay in England longer than 40 days on pain of death. Southwell at his own request was sent to England in 1586 as a Jesuit missionary. According to his bio, he went from one Catholic family to another, administering the rites of the Church. Arrested after six years of missionary work, he was held under house arrest and tortured in the hopes that he might reveal the identities of or provide evidence against other priests. He spent 3 years in the Tower of London, where he was only allowed his Bible and the works of St Bernard. While awaiting execution for treason, although he denied any evil intentions toward the queen, the torture continued. Eventually he was hanged, disemboweled, and quartered.


Much of his poetry, it is believed, was written from prison and is said to have influenced another Englishman, William Shakespeare.


Southwell's intimate relationship with his Lord, forged in the furnace of his suffering, shines forth in his verse:
Let folly praise that fancy loves, I praise and love that Child
Whose heart no thought, whose tongue no word, whose hand no deed defiled.
I praise him most, I love him best, all praise and love is his,
While him I love, in him I live, and cannot live amiss.
Love's sweetest mark, laud's highest theme, man's most desired light,
To love him life, to leave him death, to live in him delight.
He mine by gift, I his by debt, thus each to other due,
First friend he was, best friend he is, all times will try him true. 


All I can add is, Amen. 

Gerald Manley Hopkins and me on writing

A prayer, as Jesuit Gerald Manley Hopkins offers his writing efforts to God, even though they might seem fruitless:

"Also in some meditations today I earnestly asked our Lord to watch over my compositions that they might do me no harm through the enmity or imprudence of any man or my own; that He would have them as His own and employ or not employ them as He should see fit. And this I believe is heard."

I've practiced the art of writing for many years, journals, letters, written lectures, devotions, news articles, papers and thesis, all in an effort to explore possibilities of the writing life. I'm still experimenting with possibilities. I've read books and thought, I wish I had written that, or instead, this is how I would have written it, or better yet, if I could write one book before I die, this is the kind it would be. Sometimes I've allowed reactions to my efforts to derail and discourage me, but over the long haul, I've always come back to the same desire, to write.

I heard an author on television just yesterday say that writing is a solitary life, and it is, but that writers like to be read, they need others, and it's true. It's one of those paradoxes that accompany the writing life. We certainly desire a pat on the back, a human desire for appreciation. It gets lonely sometimes lost in my own head. But in the end, a writer must write because he or she must write, so I keep writing.

My greater desire, more than the desire for appreciation from a reader, as lovely as it is, is that my writing, whatever form it might take, be Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam, for the greater glory of God, which is why Gerald Manley Hopkins' prayer resonated with me.

I passionately long for God to find my efforts a fragrance that is pleasing and brings Him joy; that my meager efforts to indulge myself in the written word would somehow unite with His effort to comfort, encourage, and inspire others to seek out the best in themselves and become all that God created them to be. In the process, of course, as I write, I seek the same for me, that I become all God created me to be, seeking to be, as St Francis claims holiness is, the best version of myself.

I guess if I were going to illustrate how I see myself in writing, it would be as a St Clare to St Francis, or perhaps a more accessible example, a Sam Gangee to Frodo. I can't carry someone's burden, I can't walk someone's path, but I can come alongside, walking with for a spell, or even at times, carrying another by offering words in writing that might help another continue moving forward when the way is dark and the path is difficult. To that end, I write.