Mary DeTurris Poust's Blog, page 32

Mary, Mother of God: Keeping her close

My Scripture reflection from today’s pages of Give Us This Day:

When I was growing up, I’d sometimes get annoyed that I was named after the Blessed Mother. Every time a religion teacher would tell us to write about our patron saint, I’d wonder which of Mary’s many titles I should choose.

As I became an adult, my Mary issues deepened. She seemed too perfect, too high up on a pedestal to be seen from my lowly position. And then, in an instant, everything changed. I became a mother, and in one fell swoop Mary jumped down from her throne and became the very human mother she was, a woman who struggled with doubt and fear, confusion and pain. She may have said “Yes” to God, but that did not take away the suffering she would encounter.

In today’s Gospel, Mary listens to the shepherds. And, we are told, “Mary kept all these things, reflecting on them in her heart.” How very ordinary, storing away memories the way all mothers do, the way I store away handprints in clay and heart drawings from preschool.

It’s unfortunate that we tend to relegate Mary to such a lofty place—Queen of Heaven—rather than keeping her close where we can see her, in the muck of the everyday life she knew so well. No mother wants to be kept on a pedestal when her children are crying out for comfort.

If you don’t already subscribe to Give Us This Day, do yourself a favor and click the link and subscribe today. It’s a great monthly publication with the readings of the day, daily reflections, essays on spirituality, and an abbreviated version of Morning, Evening and Night Prayer.

FYI: The artwork above was given to me by my husband, Dennis, this Christmas. It was made in Italy, and I’m assuming it’s a copy of something famous, but I have no idea what. If you know, feel free to tell me in the comment section.

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What if a New Year’s resolution isn’t the answer?

It’s that time of year again, the time when we look at ourselves and see all the stuff that needs improving over the next 12 months. We want to lose 10 pounds, exercise five times a week, work less, play more, and organize our house, our schedules, our lives. It all sounds great on paper, but those resolutions can do more harm than good. Why not take a different approach this year, one that will transform you from the inside out? I’ll get you started. 

When I wrote my book Cravings: A Catholic Wrestles with Food, Self-image, and God, I had a resolution revelation. Although I’ve never been a fan of New Year’s resolutions, I always seem to have some form of self-improvement in the works year-round. But as I began to focus less on how much food I ate and more on the way I ate my food and the way I saw myself, things began to change. The PowerPoint slideshow below is based on one of the food-faith talks I give at retreats and workshops. The actual workshop presentation is, of course, a more complete discussion of the topic, but the slideshow will give you the highlights and offer some food for thought — zero calories in this kind of food, so no worries! If you want to learn more, click the “Cravings” tag at the end of this post for other articles, reviews and other posts related to this topic, or buy the book, which has reflection questions, exercises, and meditations to help you put the ideas into practice and shift your focus from worrying about food to celebrating your life. Click HERE to get Cravings on Amazon. And now on to the slideshow. (Expand to full screen for best viewing.)

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Peace and blessings on Christmas

“In the beginning was the Word,

and the Word was with God,

and the Word was God.

He was in the beginning with God.

All things came to be through him,

and without him nothing came to be.

What came to be through him was life,

and this life was the light of the human race;

the light shines in the darkness,

and the darkness has not overcome it.”           John 1:1-5

Peace, joy, blessings, and love to you and yours on Christmas!

 

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We are all broken, beautiful, and beloved

For all those who heard me talking about our brokenness on the Morning Air Show on Relevant Radio this morning, here’s the original column that sparked this as a retreat and workshop topic for me. We are all “broken, beautiful, and beloved.”

If you look around my office prayer space or on my bedroom dresser, you’ll notice one constant: broken conch and whelk shells everywhere. Small and blue-gray, large and sun-bleached, twisting, turning, spiraling in that gorgeous and mysterious way that seashells do. Although I have one perfect channeled whelk shell that I purchased in Cape May, N.J., years ago, my prized possessions are broken shells of every shape and size because, as far as I’m concerned, they are far more beautiful than the ones that are perfectly intact and so lovely on the outside.

I love the way the brokenness lets you see inside, where the true beauty lies. There you discover the magnificent soft turns and intricate work of the Creator typically hidden by the outer shell, details so beautiful you would gasp if a sculptor had crafted them out of marble. Yet there they are, lying on the sand, trampled underfoot, washed ashore and pulled back out by the next tide along with tangled seaweed and discarded cigarette butts, or, every so often, tucked into the pocket of a hoodie by someone hoping for a sacred souvenir, a reminder that even some of God’s most beautiful creations are cracked and dulled and hobbled by the pounding surf of daily life.

I think I’m so taken with these shell fragments because they remind me of people, broken but beautiful. Even the people who look physically perfect on the outside harbor an intricate beauty and brokenness somewhere on the inside. It’s just a factor of our humanity. We don’t get through this life whole and intact; we are meant to be broken open, to expose and embrace our inner beauty.

But that’s not easy. I don’t know about you, but I have a hard time looking at myself with the same gentle eyes I use to look at my collection of scarred and shattered shells. I understand in theory that “I am wonderfully made,” as Psalm 139 tells us, but translating that into an attitude that guides my daily life is a challenge. In my mind’s eye, I see only the imperfections in the creation that I am. I would be wonderfully made, if only (fill in the blank). I may believe God has an unconditional love for everyone else on the planet, but believing that about myself is, well, unbelievable.

I struggled with that concept throughout the writing of my book Cravings: A Catholic Wrestles With Food, Self-Image, and God, where I explored the ways we allow our hunger for wholeness to fuel unhealthy urges — whether for food, alcohol, shopping, gossip, sex, gambling or any other empty “vice” — that only pull us further and further away from understanding our true self and recognizing our belovedness in God’s eyes.

“Our brokenness is truly ours. Nobody else’s. Our brokenness is as unique as our chosenness and our blessedness,” writes Henri Nouwen in Life of the Beloved. “As fearsome as it may sound, as the Beloved ones, we are called to claim our unique brokenness, just as we have to claim our unique chosenness and our unique blessedness.”

Can we begin to see our brokenness as a blessing rather than a curse, a beauty mark rather than a scar? It can happen only when we fully place ourselves in God’s hands and accept once and for all that we are indeed wonderfully made, even with — or maybe because of — our flaws and weaknesses, our wrinkles and quirks, our sins and struggles. God doesn’t love us only after we are “fixed.” God loves us into being and loves us through our imperfections, patiently waiting for us to climb on board and revel in that gift. Unfortunately, we are too often caught up in the mirage of wholeness, the mistaken belief that a perfect outer shell will make us more lovable.

We are so busy spinning our wheels in an effort to become shiny and unblemished to the outside world that we miss the still, small voice urging us on from the inside, the Spirit beckoning us to stop spinning, stop judging, and rest in the arms of God exactly as we are at this moment, knowing we are loved perfectly despite our imperfections.

We are all shattered in one way or another. We are all incomplete, missing pieces here and there. But we are all beautiful. In fact, we are more beautiful because of it. Who wants polished perfection that belies the truth of what’s inside when you can have the raw power of beauty that’s broken because it has lived and loved and lost and carried on in spite of it all? Be broken and be beautiful.

This column originally appeared in the National Catholic Reporter on Feb. 11, 2014, and was based on a much earlier NSS blog post and a lifetime of collecting broken seashells. 

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It takes a village, and I love mine.

Every year, St. Thomas the Apostle Church in Delmar (like so many other area churches, Catholic and not) sponsors a Giving Tree. At the start of Advent, the tree is covered with tags, each one listing a gift, either much needed or much wanted, or both. This year there were probably more than 1,000 tags. We grabbed a few, as did the other parishioners crowded around the tree after Masses that Sunday, most of us looking for just the right gift we wanted to get for someone in need. A warm coat. A new doll. A gift card to the grocery store. A sweatsuit. A poinsettia.

When we delivered our gifts to the parish’s school gym for distribution last weekend, Olivia and I asked Barbara, the woman in charge, about the remaining tags on the tree. What would happen to those gifts, we asked. They won’t get bought, she said. Some were general asks, such as “Women’s pajamas. Large,” meaning the organization didn’t have a specific person in mind but knew it would be used for one of the many people served. Others, however, had first names. Pel wanted a warm black jacket. Evie wanted a porcelain doll. Olivia and I looked at each other and grabbed those two tags, and we set out to find the doll. I headed straight for Tuesday Morning in Glenmont because it seemed to me that inexpensive porcelain dolls should be Tuesday Morning’s wheelhouse. Wrong. The closest we came was a truly frightening porcelain cat in a Santa suit. To which I could only say, Why?

So I put out a call on Facebook, asking if any local friends knew where I could buy a fairly inexpensive porcelain doll. In response, I received two, count ‘em, two messages from friends (Thank you, Jennifer and Arlene.) saying that they had porcelain dolls in excellent condition and would be willing to donate them. When I delivered the first doll to the parish, they asked if the second would be coming because they already had someone in mind. And so Evie is getting her Christmas wish answered, and now someone else, perhaps a woman who isn’t expecting to get anything at all, will also get a porcelain doll.

As I thought about writing this post as a thank you to my friends, I couldn’t help but reflect on the many times people — far, near, virtual — have stepped up to help, sometimes without my even asking — and have made my life so much better, easier, happier. Like last night, when Chiara’s religion teacher (Thank you, Michele.) stopped by to deliver her little Christmas gift and faith formation handouts because Chiara missed class yesterday. Or when we went to Italy, and I called on a whole army of local helpers to make sure my dad and stepmom didn’t have to cart three busy kids all over an unfamiliar town while we were gone for 13 days. To and from dance class and gymnastics class and Scout meetings and school clubs  they drove, sometimes more than once, so that Dennis and I could travel worry-free. Even friends I haven’t seen or spoken to in months called or emailed or pulled me aside on the way out of Sunday Mass to tell me to give my parents their cell phone numbers in case of emergency, or for any reason at all. I want to list them all, but I’m afraid I’ll miss someone — that’s how many people were involved. But I’ll give it a shot…

Thank you for being my extra set of feet, ears, eyes, car keys: Laura, Michele, Valerie, Joan K., Joan W., Lisa, Jessica, Rob, Rose, Fred, Delia, and Liv’s friend who transported her back and forth to Homecoming. And thank you to friends and neighbors who offered to be on call should the need for help arise, which, thankfully, it did not: Anne, Teresa, Denise, Arlene, and anyone I might have missed on this list but really hope I didn’t.

I am so grateful not only for your support and generosity when I was in Italy or when I was searching for a porcelain doll but always. So often many of you offer to drive one of my children somewhere to save me a trip or take one of my kids overnight or come to my rescue with some crazy item I need for school or travel or Giving Trees. Know that you are my village. And I am happy to be yours if ever, whenever you need me.

 

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What’s in your gratitude journal?

I haven’t kept a gratitude journal with any long-term success over the years, despite knowing the benefits. In my latest Life Lines column (now running in the current issues of Catholic New York and the Catholic Spirit) I explore why and give you a peek inside: 

The Advent and Christmas seasons tend to make us more grateful and more giving. At this time of year, when we’re abundantly aware of children who want nothing more than a pair of mittens or a warm winter coat, we seem to recognize how lucky we are. We collect boxes of stuffing and bottles of gravy for our parish food pantry and take tags off the Giving Tree so that others will have for one day what we have every day. And in those moments we are humbled by our blessings and all too aware of the fact that we often remain blissfully unaware of those same blessings the other 11 months of the year.

Gratitude isn’t meant only for a season but for a lifetime, and using gratitude practices to transform our lives is promoted in both spiritual and secular books and blogs by people of all faiths or no faith at all. The advice seems so obvious, the practices so easy, and yet it is often difficult to remember to be grateful, not just for the grand and sublime things—an illness healed, a job secured, a child safe—but for the minute and perhaps ridiculous things—a perfectly brewed cup of coffee, a dog waiting at home with a wagging tail, a night with no meetings or obligations.

I have kept various gratitude journals with fits and starts over the past 10 years. My first, started in 2003, lasted only a few months. I’m assuming the book got buried under some magazines or scooped up in a cleaning frenzy and dumped out of sight, and with that I quickly fell off the gratitude wagon. I tried it again with more success in 2011, after reading the beautiful and moving “One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are” by Ann Voskamp. The author takes on the challenge in her own life to list 1,000 things for which she is grateful, and in the process she is transformed inside and out. So I started a journal modeled after hers, noting not only the spectacular things that made me gasp with gratitude but the small, silent things that usually went unnoticed

Here’s a random sampling of what a couple of days in my journal looked like. Today I am grateful for…

The sound of thunder

Noah home safely

Warm chocolate chip cookies

Memories of Rome

Early morning soccer games canceled the night before

All my babies sleeping snug and safe in their beds

Clean bathrooms

I kept that up through #310 before I started taking things big and small for granted all over again. In 2012, I started up again and made it as far as #426, and then the journal goes blank. Did I have nothing to be grateful for all those days and months between then and now, or did I just lose sight of the blessings? It’s the latter, of course, and when I lose sight of the blessings, I also tend to lose sight of the joy and hope and light that is always lurking around, even when we see only darkness.

It’s easy, when we’re not intentionally trying to be grateful, to focus on the problems, the obstacles, the annoyances of daily life. Instead of giving thanks for a full moon glistening on a blanket of snow, we curse the weather that scuttles our party plans. Where once we took the time to note something as simple as a cat curled up and purring on the arm of the couch, we instead whine about the litter box that needs to be cleaned. Again.

It’s a matter of perspective, and I’m not talking about whether the glass is half-full or half-empty. No matter which part of the glass we see, gratitude is our calling. The German mystic Meister Eckhart once said, “If the only prayer you said your whole life was ‘thank you,’ that would suffice.”

So today I’m dusting off my journal and starting all over again at #427.

 

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Remembering Thomas Merton

Ever since I first came in contact with the writings of Thomas Merton almost 30 years ago, he has spoken to me. I know I’m not alone there. Countless people of every faith and persuasion have found meaning in his writings and his life. Of course, others will counter that with claims that he was too flawed to be held up as a role model, or, dare I say, saint, but that’s precisely why he’s a great example.

I find comfort in the fact that he carried on, following his path toward God, even when he was thrown off course by his humanness. I look at Merton and see holiness wrapped in weakness, and isn’t that where most of us are?

We’re all called to be saints, but oftentimes our humanity gets in the way. In Merton, we can see ourselves, trudging ever closer to God despite mistakes — some of them pretty major — and confusion and doubt.

Today, on the 46th anniversary of his death in Bangkok, I am taking time to remember and reflect, but Merton is never far from my thoughts because so many of his words are constantly ringing in my ears.

Hanging next to my desk is this Merton quote:

My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going.

I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I am following Your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please You does in fact please You. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that, if I do this, You will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it. Therefore I will trust You always though I may seem to be lost in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for You are ever with me, and You will never leave me to face my perils alone.

See what I mean? Comforting and yet challenging. I read those words and think, “Oh, good, Merton had no idea where he was going either.” Then I read a little more and think, “Oh, no, he trusted God completely. Can I do the same?” For me that’s a saintly role model, reminding me that I’m not alone but pushing me to go beyond my typical response and reach for something deeper, truer.

Twice in the last six years I have been blessed to attend a silent retreat called “Merton in the Mountains.” By a lake in the lower Adirondacks, I have had the briefest glimpse into Merton’s way of life. It wasn’t easy either time. In fact, it was downright difficult and more than a little frightening — to give up my voice, to sit and wait for God while trying to throw off the monkeys of worry and doubt and pride and ambition. Merton knew those same feelings, and yet he continued to return to the silence, the solitude because that is where he knew he’d find God.

Another quote from Thoughts in Solitude that rings true for me, maybe truer with every passing year:

To love solitude and to seek it does not mean constantly traveling from one geographic possibility to another. A man becomes a solitary at the moment when, no matter what may be his external surroundings, he is suddenly aware of his own inalienable solitude and sees that he will never be anything but solitary. From that moment on, solitude is not potential — it is actual.

But perhaps the quote that always calls me back, the one that echoes in my head, is the quote below. It’s a constant reminder of my inability to ever know God if I try to make him in my own image:

God approaches our minds by receding from them. We can never fully know Him if we think of Him as an object of capture, to be fenced in by the enclosure of our own ideas.

We know him better after our minds have let him go.

The Lord travels in all directions at once.

The Lord arrives from all directions at once.

Wherever we are, we find that He has just departed. Wherever we go, we discover that He has just arrived before us.

Merton reminds me that I still have a shot, even when I don’t get it right on a pretty regular basis. Merton, with his beautiful and powerful words, gives me something to hold onto when God feels very far away.

Thomas Merton, pray for us.

This post originally ran on NSS on Dec. 10, 2013.

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Advent: A new twist on holiday treats

Excerpted from Cravings: A Catholic Wrestles with Food, Self-Image, and God

‘Tis the season to pack on a few pounds.

Between Thanksgiving and New Year’s Day, most of us are faced with plates of cookies and homemade candies, special fat-laden side dishes at holiday meals, and office or neighborhood parties where almost everything is on the “naughty” list.

Turn things around by joining in the baking and cooking festivities, but go one step further. Instead of loading up your own counters with cookies and peppermint bark, bake it, make it, and then give it away. It’s the perfect way to bring our love of food and love of others together in one generous swoop. Head down to the home of your elderly neighbor with a tray of goodies, invite a lonely person over to share your famous sweet potato casserole, host a dessert night and invite family and friends to come over and sample what you’ve made with love and gratitude.

Find special recipes that tie into seasonal feasts, rather than feasting all season long. Put oranges in your kids’ shoes on St. Nicholas Day, December 6; bake St. Lucy’s Bread on December 13; hide a small symbol of the baby Jesus in your King Cake on the Feast of the Epiphany. There are so many beautiful food possibilities linked with the many feasts of our faith. Celebrate them!

***********

Since St. Lucy’s feast day is right around the corner and on a Saturday to boot, why not try making St. Lucia Bread with your kids or for a loved one? Here’s a recipe (and photo) courtesy of PainlessCooking.com. And don’t feel stressed if you don’t have big candles in holiday colors, or matching ribbon. Use birthday candles, if you don’t have anything else. Make it your own. That’s part of the fun.

ST LUCIA DAY WREATH

6 ½ to 7 Cups flour
½ Cup sugar
2 Teaspoons salt
¾ Teaspoon cardamom
2 Packages active dry yeast
¾ Cup milk
½ Cup water
½ Cup butter
3 Eggs
1 Tablespoon milk
1 Egg

Glaze:

¾ Cup powdered sugar
¼ Teaspoon vanilla
About 2 teaspoons milk

Decorations:

6 Wax candles
3 Yards ribbon

Grease large cookie sheet.

In large bowl combine 2 cups flour, sugar, salt, cardamom and yeast; blend well.

In small saucepan heat ¾ cup milk, water and butter until very warm (120 to 130F degrees)

Add warm mixture and 3 eggs to flour mixture; blend on low speed until moistened.

Beat 3 minutes on medium speed.

Stir in additional 4 ¼ to 4 ½ cups flour until dough pulls away from sides of bowl.

Knead in ¼ to ½ cups flour until dough is smooth and elastic.

Place in greased bowl, cover loosely with plastic wrap and towel.

Let rise in warm place (80 to 85F degrees0 until doubled in size about 1 ½ hours.

Punch down dough several times to remove air bubbles; divide dough in half and shape into balls.

Let rest on counter covered with inverted bowl for 15 minutes.

Shape each half into a 45 inch rope; twist ropes together.

Place in a ring shape on prepared baking sheet; pinch ends together to seal.

Cover and let rise in a warm place until doubled in size about 1 hour.

Preheat oven to 350F degrees.

Combine 1 tablespoon milk and 1 egg; brush over wreath.

Bake for 25 to 35 minutes until golden brown; cool on rack.

To assemble cut and hollow out 6 holes in wreath for candles to fit into.

Place wreath on serving tray; combine glaze ingredients.

Spread a little glaze on bottom of candles and press candles in holes in wreath.

Drizzle glaze over wreath and decorate.

 

 

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Happy St. Nicholas Day. What’s in your shoes?

The shoes were placed by the front door with care last night. Okay, to be honest, the almost-18-year-old just left them there out of habit, but the two girls were all over it. They still love the Feast of St. Nicholas. Somehow it’s like the unofficial start of the season around this house.

I love that this day makes them so happy because they know for certain what they might find in their shoes the next morning won’t be big or expensive, and yet they get excited just the same. Perhaps we can take that reminder with us as we go about our frantic shopping for the perfect gift this season. It really is the thought that counts, so don’t get so hung up on spending a certain amount or buying a designer label. Give from the heart and it’s sure to be a hit.

If you’d like to read a little about the real St. Nicholas — patron saint of children, sailors, pawnbrokers, and young women who want to get married (quite a collection) — click HERE. There’s also a neat little section on Hobbit gift-giving and how their Middle Earth practices might influence our own. Happy Feast of St. Nicholas! Now I feel like the season is really under way.

This post originally appeared on NSS on Dec. 6, 2013. I’m on silent retreat this weekend, so Dennis handled the festivities for me.

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What did Mary know, and when did she know it?

Earlier this week another Catholic blogger decided to do a line-by-line dissection of the popular Christmas song “Mary, Did you Know?” Nothing he said was new to me; I’ve heard it all before from other writers who have harped on the misguided theological aspects of this pop-culture take on Mary and Jesus.

All I can say is this: If we don’t understand that people are moved by songs that make them feel some sort of spiritual stirring (even if the songs are theologically incorrect or not theological at all), then it’s no wonder our pews are empty. People respond first to the tug of the spirit. Then we get to theology.

Or I could put it something like this, with all due respect to my fellow Catholic blogger:

Mark Shea did you know what today’s Catholics need is not intellectual discourse?

Mark Shea did you know sometimes even a pop song can put us in touch with the Source?

Did you know God makes himself known in ways we might not think,

And the lyrics you are dissing could be the missing link?

 

Mark Shea did you know that some people hear this song and feel God’s presence?

Mark Shea did you know that we Catholics turn away more with our condescending offense?

Did you know if this song can make one person stop and in prayer clasp her hands

then I’m sure Mary and Jesus won’t mind and will probably thank the band.

But seriously, getting hung up on song lyrics like this and making a big deal of showing how off the mark the songwriter was — according to Catholic standards — serves no purpose other than to put people off and make them feel less-than. It certainly doesn’t bring people to God, and isn’t that what this journey is all about, helping people grow closer to God, deeper in faith? From where I’m standing, that’s all that matters, even if I don’t always choose liturgically or theologically appropriate songs. Music moves the soul, and sometimes the most unlikely songs can bring a person to God.

I remember when I was young and wrote church hymns for the 9:30 folk group at my parish. Every holiday I sang a new original song. They weren’t great, but they were written from the heart of a young Catholic girl who just wanted to know God in a deeper way. Then one day someone asked me to sing a particular song I had written at a special Mass, and the priest coordinating the liturgy told me I couldn’t sing the song because it wasn’t quite theologically correct. I don’t think I ever wrote another spiritual song after that, and I didn’t sing again at Mass until I was an adult with children of my own. And guess what we sang? “Mary, Did You Know?” Yes, that’s right — in a Catholic church!

And do you know what’s the real kicker? As I sang this song for the first time (it wasn’t my choice but that of our group leaders), I got chills up and down my arms as I sang the final line: “Did you know that your baby boy is heaven’s perfect lamb? The sleeping child you’re holding is the great I AM.” Now, I didn’t get chills because this was news to me or because I pondered what Mary did or did not know about this fact. I got chills because as I sang those words, the enormity of the Incarnation hit me again, as if for the first time.

That’s what music does. It gives us an emotional, sometimes physical reaction that stirs our soul. It helps us leap across the great divide to come one step closer to heaven. It helps us look at old things in new ways, and in doing so we find joy and light and hope that wasn’t there before.

So maybe we should lighten up a bit and perhaps give people a little more credit. Maybe no one — including the songwriter — is really wondering what Mary knew. Maybe we’re all just trying to remind ourselves of what we should know and what we should be contemplating during this season of waiting.

That being said, I look forward to what I can only assume will be an upcoming post on the theological problems surrounding “The Little Drummer Boy.”  Oh, and here’s a cool new version of “Mary, Did You know?” by Pentatonix:

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