Br. Francois e-mailed that I should be reading more of the hermits, of the desert fathers.
I happened to unpack a box of books and came across a paperback I'd found awhile back at H. B. Reading the back cover, i realized that this book is intended for me. St. Seraphim spent many years as a hermit and even more in silence, solitude and slowness. Yes, it is a slow process.
I've been very ill with sickness of body and soul again. Last night I awoke and could only put my rosary on the sore point in my side. I cannot pray in words, not much other than to repeat the prayer printed on the coffee mug, a prayer to St. Joseph, as a friend e-mailed instructing to begin the novena for his upcoming feast day. Drinking from the mug is all I can muster of a novena.
Thankful for two days' respite, I am plunged once more and feel as if I could die, that all has drained from my body with little left of my mind. But my confessor told me in the two days' of lightness, that my soul would not die. It seemed in the previous plunging, that it surely would.
Last night, then, I realized that I am merely being immolated and nothing to be done about it. Rather than struggle as the temptation for survival comes, I am practicing resignation. Thy will be done, O Lord. My spiritual da wrote me a letter mildly chastising me and trying to do a basic "jump start", but my battery is nearly dead, it seems. He wants me to get to the garden, but there is none until I am able to work the soil, or rather the hard clay stamped down by a small, rumbling "cat". He wants me to then build a greenhouse and grow beautiful orchids. He writes, "You don't seem to be able to enjoy all the good things God has given you. You need to get to your garden. You can later build a greenhouse and grow orchids and people will come to see their beauty and be led to think of God. I can see you being known as "The Orchid Lady"! What a beautiful title. You can be beautiful yourself through union with God and at the same time reveal the beauties of His creation."
This morning I left my Spiritual Da the message that the orchids will have to wait, that I am being immolated, had written him a letter, but doubted I could even get it out to the mailbox yet.
How could anyone comprehend, truly? I call and leave a message for my confessor, telling him thanks for praying for my son, and that another cause for reparative suffering, but also rejoicing as he seems to be taking a step to turn slightly to the right, to the light, although he knows not how deformed is his soul from some choices made. I leave the message to my confessor that I am grateful for the two days' respite, but that I am being immolated and this is to be expected, and that I must conserve all my energy so as to put on a good "front" in case I encounter people, for how could they comprehend what is happening? That is all, other than my heart suffers most.
But St. Seraphim is a guiding light in this way of silence, solitude and slowness. And might I add, "of suffering"? So I am calm and learning to be resigned to God's will. I am assured in the night that this is from God, although I fell back asleep briefly to intense and instructional dreams, and also disturbing. God allows the devil his small space in the fireplace.
The image strongest when awake, however, explains it all: I am a small cleaning rag, and I am being lifted up out of the water, wrung out, used to wipe dirt all about, and then plunged into the bucket, lifted up, wrung out, used to wipe dirt, and the process repeats, over and over. Each time, though, the water in the bucket becomes more and more gray with grit.
This is Lent. My Spiritual Da also wrote that it is very good, this Lent, and my being able to clearly see my sins. He also says I seem fragmented. Oh, how true this is! I am as fragmented as the dirt being wrung out of the rag. But resignation to the process helps, and I rest. Both he and my confessor, without knowing what the other has said, tell me to rest in God's mercy.
St. Seraphim had a coffin in his cell. He lit candles before an icon of Our Lady of Tenderness. A candle is lit before my statue of Our Lady of Grace which stands upon one end of my coffin here at Agnus Dei Hermitage. It overlooks the pond. The ice has all melted, and two mallards swam the perimeter early this morning--the perimeter of the final skiff of ice in the pond's center.
St. Serphim advises to call upon the Virgin Mary to help guide and lead and protect. I do so. Thanks, St. Seraphim, for the help through the paperback book and now in presence allowed by the Holy Ghost. It is all grace, and that also a matter of faith.
I happened to unpack a box of books and came across a paperback I'd found awhile back at H. B. Reading the back cover, i realized that this book is intended for me. St. Seraphim spent many years as a hermit and even more in silence, solitude and slowness. Yes, it is a slow process.
I've been very ill with sickness of body and soul again. Last night I awoke and could only put my rosary on the sore point in my side. I cannot pray in words, not much other than to repeat the prayer printed on the coffee mug, a prayer to St. Joseph, as a friend e-mailed instructing to begin the novena for his upcoming feast day. Drinking from the mug is all I can muster of a novena.
Thankful for two days' respite, I am plunged once more and feel as if I could die, that all has drained from my body with little left of my mind. But my confessor told me in the two days' of lightness, that my soul would not die. It seemed in the previous plunging, that it surely would.
Last night, then, I realized that I am merely being immolated and nothing to be done about it. Rather than struggle as the temptation for survival comes, I am practicing resignation. Thy will be done, O Lord. My spiritual da wrote me a letter mildly chastising me and trying to do a basic "jump start", but my battery is nearly dead, it seems. He wants me to get to the garden, but there is none until I am able to work the soil, or rather the hard clay stamped down by a small, rumbling "cat". He wants me to then build a greenhouse and grow beautiful orchids. He writes, "You don't seem to be able to enjoy all the good things God has given you. You need to get to your garden. You can later build a greenhouse and grow orchids and people will come to see their beauty and be led to think of God. I can see you being known as "The Orchid Lady"! What a beautiful title. You can be beautiful yourself through union with God and at the same time reveal the beauties of His creation."
This morning I left my Spiritual Da the message that the orchids will have to wait, that I am being immolated, had written him a letter, but doubted I could even get it out to the mailbox yet.
How could anyone comprehend, truly? I call and leave a message for my confessor, telling him thanks for praying for my son, and that another cause for reparative suffering, but also rejoicing as he seems to be taking a step to turn slightly to the right, to the light, although he knows not how deformed is his soul from some choices made. I leave the message to my confessor that I am grateful for the two days' respite, but that I am being immolated and this is to be expected, and that I must conserve all my energy so as to put on a good "front" in case I encounter people, for how could they comprehend what is happening? That is all, other than my heart suffers most.
But St. Seraphim is a guiding light in this way of silence, solitude and slowness. And might I add, "of suffering"? So I am calm and learning to be resigned to God's will. I am assured in the night that this is from God, although I fell back asleep briefly to intense and instructional dreams, and also disturbing. God allows the devil his small space in the fireplace.
The image strongest when awake, however, explains it all: I am a small cleaning rag, and I am being lifted up out of the water, wrung out, used to wipe dirt all about, and then plunged into the bucket, lifted up, wrung out, used to wipe dirt, and the process repeats, over and over. Each time, though, the water in the bucket becomes more and more gray with grit.
This is Lent. My Spiritual Da also wrote that it is very good, this Lent, and my being able to clearly see my sins. He also says I seem fragmented. Oh, how true this is! I am as fragmented as the dirt being wrung out of the rag. But resignation to the process helps, and I rest. Both he and my confessor, without knowing what the other has said, tell me to rest in God's mercy.
St. Seraphim had a coffin in his cell. He lit candles before an icon of Our Lady of Tenderness. A candle is lit before my statue of Our Lady of Grace which stands upon one end of my coffin here at Agnus Dei Hermitage. It overlooks the pond. The ice has all melted, and two mallards swam the perimeter early this morning--the perimeter of the final skiff of ice in the pond's center.
St. Serphim advises to call upon the Virgin Mary to help guide and lead and protect. I do so. Thanks, St. Seraphim, for the help through the paperback book and now in presence allowed by the Holy Ghost. It is all grace, and that also a matter of faith.
