Forgiveness

When the storm comes, it is best to stay out of the rain. Due to stubborn pride, I did not listen to the gentle instruction of Wisdom. I chose to go out into the storm, though I distinctly heard the Voice of God urging me to stay in.

Despite the lateness of the day, and the harshness of the weather, I convinced myself that errands could not wait until the morning. In the tiny public transport van, en route from the post office, it happened. Evil is like that, striking at will. On that day, at that hour, in that moment, on that van, a bully chose to target me. Abusers have no impulse control, like a hungry lion, they pounce on their prey.

When very bad things happen to us, we suddenly remember our authentic self. Though we may not have listened to Wisdom before the catalyst event, we do manage to finally listen when face to face with Evil.

Sometimes, we are fortunate, and are allowed, by circumstances, the means to escape, unharmed, unscathed. Sometimes, we are not so blessed. Evil comes upon us. The abuser delights in our pain and discomfort. The bully strikes repeatedly with threats and intimidation.

In this specific case, I did my best not to antagonize. I even changed seats in an effort to disengage. Abusers confuse our desire for peace with weakness. Lacking all self-control and respect for personal boundaries, abusers seek to destroy that which they perceive to be a personal affront to their way of life.

As I moved and changed seats, the bully followed me, changing his seat as well. We were in a small confined space; a moving public transport van. No physical escape was possible. No passenger came to my defense. The driver was either unaware, or unwilling to get involved. I was all alone against the bully, as is often the case when we find ourselves in battle against Evil.

The sky darkened, and the rain began to fall. As I could not physically escape my tormentor, I chose to leave my body, and surrender my spirit to the light of God. My abuser could then hurt or mortally wound my body, but my true self would be one with God. To be thus threatened, bullied, and abused; that journey through hell lasted an eternity.

At the bus shelter, in front of the food market, a woman cradled an infant in her arms. I hurried inside the store to buy bread and bottled water. The air was bitterly cold. I longed to return home. Having made my purchase, bags in hand, I huddled by the shelter, and noticed the infant in the woman's arms was actually a doll!

I stood there and watched the nameless, homeless woman tenderly cover her doll in a blanket. She rocked her baby gently, back and forth, while singing a lullaby. My knees buckling, I sat down next to the woman on the bench, as we waited for the last bus Home.

The wind blew. The rain continued to fall. It was cold, snow was imminent. and the woman continued to rock her baby. I recognized the cherubic cabbage-patch features of the doll. I had once owned one, in my youth. Instinctively, I understood this woman was the Universal Mother. Her baby doll was a symbol for all children, all those orphaned, abandoned, exiled, unloved, and imprisoned.

It is written that the word "angel" denotes function not nature. This woman next to me was a angel of Mercy. Her function was to deliver God's message. "God is Healing."

The soothing notes of her lullaby washed over me. I felt the tears flowing freely down my cheeks. I heard myself crying, sobbing. "Oh, God!" I cried out, "I'm hurting!"

Sometimes in life, we who are for peace must live among those who are not for peace. We who profess to be for love are tested by those who are not for love. We who say that we are for non-violence are challenged by those who are for hate.

So, do we bite the hook, and respond in kind? Is vigilante justice to be the law of the land?

For some people, it is absolutely appropriate to pick up the sword to fight the good fight. We are all warriors, each in our own way.

Discernment is key.

I was not chosen for battle with a sword. The angelic visitor sitting next to me on that bench was sent to deliver a message of healing, not vengeance.

People who passed by, stared at the woman and her doll. "She's crazy." They hissed, as they walked. I would submit to these worldly men and women of the jury that true crazy is destructive.

The young man on the bus would be considered normal by society. His dress, speech, countenance were fair to behold. By contrast, the woman and her doll were dressed in soiled tattered clothing. The woman's speech was labored and clumsy. But, of the two individuals, who was truly crazy? True crazy is evil and destructive!

The angelic messenger waited with me, and she and her doll, and I rode the bus Homeward Bound.

Mercy is not something we practice when only convenient. Mercy is a way of life. In forgiving ourselves, and those who seek to harm us, we free ourselves from the tragic event, or on-going abuse.

As for Justice, in time, the Truth will out. It always does.

That night, I went to sleep, and dreamt that I was in a large toy store filled with white-clad cabbage-patch dolls, all smiling, dancing, and singing.

Amen.

Love

In the movie musical Oliver!, there is a scene of an orphan awakened by the light of a new day. He opens the window, and gazes out. He sees love in the Morning, and love in the faces of all those in the margins. He is able to see love in others because it lives so abundantly within his own heart.

It is not enough to ask, "Where is love?" We must be willing and open to answer by saying, "Love is here."

A good friend sent me a photograph of her husband and daughter blowing out candles on a birthday cake. It is one of my favorite photographs. It is not posed, nor is it perfectly in focus, but it is natural, spontaneous, and genuine. In it, a father and daughter express an exuberance of emotion. He holds his hands to his mouth in joy-filled surprise. His daughter blows out the tiny flames with earnest concentration. The cake between them, taking up most of the frame, has the added symbolism of the familial bond connecting the two figures.

I keep the photo out where I can see it, for this photograph is a visual reminder to seek out that which connects me to others, and more importantly, I am reminded to love others as myself.

What value is there to prayer, service to others, preaching, teaching, study, hard work, sacrifice, if empty of empathy and compassion?

It is not enough to bake and serve a cake. Are we willing to share it as well? Are we willing to sit down with one another, setting aside differences, and just meet as equals? Love is radical, yes? Love presupposes that no obstacle exists, or could ever exist, between itself and the object of its affection.

Yes, I do use the word, "Affection." It is not enough to say we love, we must demonstrate it, earnestly, joyfully.

Spiritual lessons don't always come in a leather-bound book, or vaulted cathedral. Sometimes lessons can be found in the mail, in a simple photograph. I am grateful to my friend, for though we are physically separated by a vast distance, she nevertheless continues to share her life and wisdom.

Love is like that. Knowing no boundaries, it can do all things.

Quality of Mercy

As teenagers, April, Robert, and I were classmates and friends. we lived in the very nice suburbs of Westchester, New York. April came from a good family. So, it was all the more shocking when it was reported she had used a gun to shoot herself in the head outside, on the steps of Grand Central Station. It was a violent death, for someone who had never previously been violent. Robert, my kind, loving, and gentle friend threw himself in front of the Metro-North train. He was killed, horrifically.

Robert came to be known by some in the local and national media as the last of the Westchester Suicides. That year, a long string of teenagers from Westchester County had committed suicide in consecutive order. Though their deaths were not coordinated, the general public wondered if there were a connection, other than the obvious connection of having lived in the same geographic area.

April had cried out for help. Her family responded by institutionalizing her. April had just wanted to be heard, not locked up in a heartless facility. She ran away. And, like so many homeless teenage runaways, she fell prey to the underworld. In a final effort to escape the pimp that had so decimated her life, she shot herself.

In death, her desperate cry for help had finally been heard. The New York Times magazine wrote a special feature on her. April would have liked seeing her photo in the paper. Robert had also been prominently featured in the papers.

Their deaths have haunted me throughout my life, inspiring me to reach out to those in pain, or in crisis. I felt guilty for many years, because both April and Robert had reached out to me for help, but at the time, I had chosen to ignore the signs. "I'm too busy with my problems," I remember saying to myself. Thereby, justifying my indifference.


It is always so much easier to criticize others for their lack of mercy. Did I kill April and Robert? Had I pulled the trigger of April's gun? Had I pushed Robert into the on-coming train? No, of course not!

But, silent indifference can be just as unmerciful, just as deadly, as the most deadly act.


Let us be Mercy itself, within balance, to all those who come across our path.

The spiritual path is not a selfish or self-serving path. Whatever spiritual gifts one nurtures, or accumulates, must be freely shared. In this way, we all benefit. We all grow. We all heal. We are One.

In The Whisper

"One Who Knows Patience Knows Peace."---Ancient proverb.


Stillness teaches us Calm.
Stillness teaches us Patience.
Stillness teaches us to Listen.


One of the seniors who lives near me was feeling alone and isolated. So, I asked her to accompany me to the toy store in town. Toy stores are mystical places filled with wonder.

Time passed as we searched the shelves. My neighbor was delighted to find a blue horse. Her eyes were filled with glee as she began her tale. As a little girl, she once rode a blue horse. As a summer treat, her father had taken her to a ranch. She had been allowed to choose any horse to ride. There had been one lone blue horse. She had never known such horses really existed. She thought they had merely been the stuff of legend. But, on that blue horse, riding across the fields of wild grass, she had felt triumphant, invincible, like a warrior princess.The owner of the store sat on the carpeted floor. I sat on a wooden treasure chest. We were transfixed.

The elderly woman before us became young again. It was an enchanted moment. Beaming, transported through time, reconnected to lost innocence, my neighbor was beautiful. And, her happiness was contagious. We all felt it, in that room, in that moment.

I sat quietly; thus, I was able to hear.

When those moments of starry wonder happen, they don't always announce themselves with sound and fury, but in a whisper. We can easily miss these moments, we are too busy, too distracted by real world events. We make excuses for ourselves. "No, time to stop," we say. In most cases, justifiably so.

But, when we do stop, the moments of wonder are there, waiting.

Inner Vision

There is a man who lives in the county. each day this man begins his day at three-thirty in the morning. He drives a little bus from the country into the big city. He drives the people who live in the country to their very important jobs in the big city. He knows their jobs are very important because they tell him so. He believes them because his heart is pure. ------- In the early evening, the man, whose name is Michael, waits patiently for the people to finish their work, at their very important jobs, to board his bus. Michael, whose name I have changed out of respect for his privacy; I have given him the name of an Arch-angel, as the purpose of the man who drives the bus is to keep his passengers safe. From the city to the country, Michael must drive over many hills. He must navigate his bus full of passengers through the daily chaos of traffic. Their safety and comfort is his main concern. ------- Michael works very hard at his job, but never complains. He smiles at his passengers when they board and disembark. He smiles at each and every one of them, whether they smile at him or not. ------- At the end of his work day, he returns to his cabin in the deep woods, in the country, where his family, and three dogs, wait eagerly to greet him. They eat their evening meal together, and retire early. ------- Each day is much the same as the next. Until one day, a stuffed monkey boarded his bus! Michael had driven a bus for many years, but had never seen such a thing. A stuffed little monkey, dressed in blue, paid his fare, and sat down as politely as possible in one of the empty seats. The other passengers eyed this stuffed monkey suspiciously. ------- The little brown monkey was old and worn, his stitching was loose, and frayed. He was missing a nose, and one amber-colored eye. ------- The other passengers were rude to him. They made fun of him, and spread cruel lies, rumors and gossip about him. ------- The little brown monkey did not respond in kind. He remained silent, but Michael, the driver, could sense there was a deep sadness in the little brown monkey in the sky-blue suit. The other passengers were not impressed with this strange new passenger, after all, they had very important jobs to go to. "That stuffed monkey obviously does not!" They said to themselves. ------ The little brown monkey simply liked to ride the bus each day, as he had no family, or friends, nor did he he have a home. -------- Time Passed. -------- The passengers with very important jobs grew more and more emboldened in their cruelty towards the little brown monkey, who as usual would never respond in kind. ------- The other passengers confused his gentle nature with weakness, and they chose to be all the more hate-filled towards the monkey. ------- Michael would witness their behavior through his rear-view mirror. ------- Years Passed. ------- The little brown monkey rode the bus less, though he he never told a soul, it began to hurt too much to be the byword, the laughingstock of an entire town. -------- "Better to be alone," He thought. "What good am I?" He asked himself, "A stuffed monkey, old and worn, with no nose, and a missing amber-colored eye. Only God could love one such as myself, and God does not seem to be on this bus, or to live in this town." ------- The little brown monkey's perceptions were based on the way the passengers treated him on the bus, and by the way the people ridiculed and shunned him in the town. ------- Then, one day unlike any other day, Michael the driver of the bus had seen enough through his rear-view mirror. ------- He waited for the passengers, with the very important jobs, to disembark. Michael stood up from his seat, and approached the little brown monkey, and gave him a warm embrace. ------- "I have something for you, " Michael said in a soothing voice. He took out a travel-sized sewing kit, and began to repair the little brown monkey's frayed stitching. Michael also produced, from his pocket, a beautiful black button. "I know this is not amber, but it will do for an eye. I'm afraid I couldn't find a suitable nose, though. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me?" Michael said, as he severed the last thread. ------- He gave the little brown monkey a very long good-bye hug. "I won't be driving this bus anymore. It is time for a change, so, I have asked to be assigned a different route. But, I just wanted you to know before I left, that I SEE you." Michael smiled as he held the little brown monkey's tiny hand. -------The little brown monkey looked lovingly into the eyes of the man who drove the bus, and said, "I SEE you too." ------- The heart enables one to attain Inner Vision, to see that which matters, all else is unnecessary distraction.

Burning Incense

The Way of Love is open to All. ------ After the funeral, I suddenly felt hungry, for the first time, it seemed, since the death. As I bit into the liverwurst on pumpernickel, I looked out the window of the coffee shop, and thought of my friend. In the rain, as the coffin was lowered into the ground, she had stared straight ahead. She didn't cry. Her son had committed suicide. Had she prayed that he would come back to her? Absolutely, yes. Did he come back to her? No. He is dead. Had I prayed for my friend, that she would find healing? Absolutely, yes. But, prayer is not magic. Perhaps, prayer can be described as an on-going relationship between the individual and God? An open conversation, in which we speak, and actively listen.------- An artist, a young man has been recently diagnosed with macular degeneration, too advanced for someone his age. He no longer is able to see clearly. Despite squinting, and rubbing his eyes, all has become a blur. He thought about throwing all his paints out in the trash. After all, he would no longer be able to paint in the same way. All colors were now a blur to him. He made a remarkable decision. He chose to paint by faith. Before, when he had perfect vision, he painted for a worldly audience. Now, of his own free will, he chooses to paint for God.------- Did this young man pray for his vision to be restored? He confessed that he had thought about it. But, instead he chose to Accept. Did I pray for this young man? Absolutely, yes. I prayed that he would be granted the wisdom and strength to endure, lovingly and patiently, whatever might come.------- A year passed since the suicide of my friend's son. I joined a support group for people who had suffered any kind of loss. All loss is painful. To my amazement, the moderator of the group was my friend! I sat in the circle, silently watching, listening as men and women cried and shared their pain. I watched my friend console others, perhaps just as God had consoled her. Her personal tragedy had become a source of light that she could now share with others, helping them to heal. I cried too, not because I felt sad. I cried at the glory and majesty of God. He works in such wondrous ways! The man with macular degeneration was in the room as well. He mourned the person he used to be. Pain is not a one time phenomenon. Sometimes, pain, even if it is overcome, regretfully can resurface, as a bittersweet memory; a private personal agony. We held hands, in that circle, and prayed. Once again, prayer is not magic. Does God hear all our prayers? Absolutely, yes! Does God answer all our prayers? Absolutely, yes! But, sometimes, His answer is "No, my child. My Will is enough for you."------ I love the image of prayer as the gentle fragrance of burning incense Rising into the air. Prayer is hope-filled. Prayer is honest dialogue with God. He loves the real us! Prayer is love. And as we pray, honestly, openly, allowing ourselves to be vulnerable, we rise. ------ We rise!

Heart

For hours, I would sit on the wooden bench focused on the one painting in the room. In the painting, a man, in profile, dressed simply in black, seated at table, head bowed; a round loaf of bread for his supper, the scene lit by a single tapered candle. ------- -- I would visit this painting often, so often in fact, I had become a regular in the viewing room. Almost always, I sat alone. It seemed this modest painting did not call out to the crowds. "Just as well," I thought. I enjoyed the hallowed space. -------- One day, to my surprise, a priest entered the room. He stared at me, even as I continued staring at the painting. Merely curious, or sincerely interested, the priest tilted his head, squinted his eyes, and asked, "What is it about this particular painting that intrigues you so? I kept looking at the image on the canvas. For a long time, I did not answer. I felt it was important to find the right word. the robe-garbed holy man shifted his weight. In the silence between us, time passed. Eventually, he sat down on the bench, as he waited patiently for my response. I felt the stillness in the room. I closed my eyes for a moment. The word made itself heard. "Grace," I answered. -------- "Grace?" The stranger beside me asked, one eyebrow raised. "The bearded man in the painting, his head is bowed. Though he has so little, lives so modestly, and is eating such a meager supper, he is not sad, or weighed down with grief. His head is bowed in silent prayer. He is giving thanks for the abundance of his blessings," I answered. -------- "You can see all that?" He asked. "Look at his face," I said. "There are two sources of light in the room, that of the half-spent candle, and that which emanates from him. The lines in his face denote a hard life. Yet, there is such a look of inner peace in his countenance. He is consciously grateful. I wish I could be like him, to be so content with my lot, and with whatever is before me." ------- The priest listened attentively. He looked at the painting once again, and sighed audibly. He stood up and left the room just as suddenly and quietly as he had entered. -------- Art is subjective. And prayer is deeply personal. God is able to speak to us in varied ways. He may even send a messenger or two, to challenge us. -------- Are we listening? Are we present? Are we willing to participate in God? Do we have eyes to see, and ears to hear? Finally, and perhaps just as importantly, do we allow our hearts to remain open to God in others, within ourselves, and to God in the world around us? -------- As we ponder these questions, let's spend a few moments in silent meditation.