A Time for Consolation

St.Ignatius wrote at length about spiritual consolation and desolation.

While, consolation is the easy part. It's the season where the soul is enveloped in peace, a sure sense of God's presence, great interior joy and hopefulness. It is manifested as one's personal prayer life becomes deeply satisfying, scripture reading becomes more meaningful and one's vocation, blossoms.

Desolation, is just the opposite and also afforded by God. St. Ignatius described it,'I call desolation what is entirely the opposite of (consolation), as darkness of soul, torment of spirit, inclination to what is low and earthly, restlessness rising from many disturbances and temptations which lead to want of faith, want of hope, want of love. The soul is wholly slothful, tepid, sad, and separated, as it were, from its Creator and Lord.'

Unspeakable sadness...

The last 6 months have been a trying time for me at every level. Reading some of my earlier posts, I realise now that I was slowly entering a dark hole, from whence the light slowly dimmed and finally went out.  

My work related stress kept building up till it got really bad in December and I mean...Bad. So much so, I think my low BP and the general lethargy and sickness came as an off-shoot of all that. To say that I was broken within would be an understatement. During that time, I even began to doubt God's love and lost hope that he would intervene for me. A lot of what I was going through was not just because of the work. It was crazy, but what made things worse was that for the longest time my personal prayer life was dry, the Bible was no longer speaking to me, sharing with my spiritual elder made no difference and nothing seemed to be breaking through. 

At least earlier on, I had the 'lights' of God's presence. Even when I couldn't sense his presence, I knew he was near when suddenly things miraculously fell into place, difficult situations suddenly became simpler, people relented or at least I had confidence in God's word when things looked hopeless but here there was no comfort, no solace and no sense of God's presence and then, the stress. Many people came and told me that God wanted them to affirm me - 'God loves you' but those words, which earlier used to thrill my heart seemed empty and dead.

There was no hope and none seemed to be coming. Last year, Christmas was not really a feast of old and New Years was just plain depressing! That was the lowest point. I just broke down during mass in Church and even then, there came no help from above.

There was one discipline I following during this time- I spent a lot of time in front of the Blessed Sacrament. Hours together, just sitting there. I did not try to force myself to pray or try to discern anything. I guess, by that time, I was fed-up and tired. If God wanted to reach me, then he had to come. 

It was during this time, I came across this thin book called 'Miracles Do Happen: God can do the impossible' by Sister Briege. I thought the title of the book pretty clichéd and there was nothing really to attract me but I just picked it up and started reading from the middle. She speaks about a 'torn tent' where the Lord sits waiting for us. She says that we get so hassled with the state of our souls and the demands of out lives that we forget that the Lord will repair the 'battered tent' and sort everything else if only we sit before him in silence. 

At the same time, I received several 'Words' from my online intercessory group about holding on and God working through my suffering. Finally, after New Year's, Mother Mary came to my rescue. I really don't know how or when but one day during the rosary, she inspired me to tell the Lord how much I loved him. It was hard! In the middle of the mess of my life, to focus on Love is very hard. But with her, I manage to tell Jesus- 'I love you, Lord'. It was like breaking through the waters for a breadth of fresh air. Saying it over and over again with Mary, I suddenly got perspective. The most important thing in life is to remember- God loves you and you love him too. It's as if, the troubles and the sufferings are just ancillary because what matters is that you love the Lord. (The strength to love him comes from God so to tell Jesus that you love him is impossible without his grace)

My work troubles did not magically go away but I have received new strength. I am no longer fearful or as fearful as I was, though I still get panic attacks but going to Mary and asking her to take me to that lonely place where the Lord is found, telling him again and again that I love him, is healing in itself.

As the light keeps growing brighter, I have to come understand why this period of desolation is so important. It is to purify the spirit. To look to Jesus even when it seems that you receive nothing from him ('Lord, to whom can we go to? You have the words of eternal life.') That is the love that he desires and the fruit of desolation.

Tis the night the Saviour was born...

There came upon a starlight

When the Saviour of man

Chose to be born

When hope, joy and peace

Came to us in a babe of swaddling cloth

The angels rejoiced, Shepards thrilled, wise men searched and one, yes one seeked to kill

But in the cold opulence and crass consumerism of open malls and red nosed reindeers

Did you hear the babe cry?

Did you see the heavens rent open and angels come down?

Did you hear the heralds? Did you see the star in the East? Did you wait for the Father's promise come true?

Our God with Us is fulfilled this very night again.

Christmas is not about us or even about others but it is about the Christ child and his humility and the unfathomable Love of the Father.

A Happy and Holy Death

This week saw the death of a much beloved nana. She lived to 93 and witnessed the marriage of many of her grandchildren. She was blessed with Hannah's heart when she gave up her only son to become a full-time lay missionary. Nana continued to live with him surrounded by his missionary community, in the same house where she raised her 8 children till she breathed her last, peacefully in her sleep.

She lived a full life in the midst of her loved ones and close to her Lord and saviour. 

It was a good death indeed...

I believe that a good peaceful death is a gift from God. One that we must ardently pray for irrespective of one's age. Some of us may be elevated to die as martyrs but for those of us who are elected to not to, a peaceful death must be our aim. A good death is also the fruit of a long and perilous journey, it requires life-long preparation... like a successful marriage.

Here is an excerpt from a beautiful article on MercatorNet which describes a death that I would love to have ...

...the phone rang. It was from my niece in Ireland, to tell me that my older brother, Johnny, who had been taken into hospital a few days earlier with what they thought was a problematic lung infection, was not responding to treatment; he was now in a very critical condition. I instantly dropped what I was doing and caught the next plane to Cork. I arrived late the same night. Early the next morning, All Souls Day, I went to the Bon Secours hospital where he was lying in the intensive care unit. There was my dear brother, only a year older than me, who had stayed with me only a fortnight before and with whom I shared so many memories of the past, now lying helpless and struggling to breathe, with an oxygen helmet on his head and surrounded by bleeping and flashing machines.

But he was also entirely conscious and completely at peace. The first thing he said to me (he had been an army officer for thirty years and had always described himself as a “bluff soldier”) was, “I think courage and dignity are required right now”, with a wry smile. The second was, “Do you remember Churchill’s last words?” I quoted them. We had both shared a great interest in Churchill’s life and I was always looking out for memorabilia relating to him to give to Johnny. I reminded him now that my best find had been a 1940s biscuit tin at our local waste disposal dump, decorated with the key quotes from Churchill’s wartime speeches.

The third thing he said was, “A friar in sockless sandals came round earlier and, to use an old-fashioned word, he has shriven me.” He then told me the hymns he wanted at his funeral, the simple inscription for his grave – no mention of honours or army rank – and the words for a memorial card. They were from St Thomas More, and Johnny recalled his own father, to whom he had been very close, telling them to him: “Do thou pray for me and I will pray for thee, that we may meet merrily in heaven.” The word “merrily” particularly mattered to him. He always had a great, if sometimes mordant, sense of humour, and heaven had to be a merry place. When someone placed a blanket over his feet so they wouldn’t be cold, he said with a characteristic smile, “Don’t worry, they will be the first to burn”.

These little conversations and remarks went on for most of the day. Johnny’s children never left his side. My brother and sister joined us. A palliative care doctor came by and gently indicated that his lung capacity was decreasing and that his oxygen levels were dropping. A nurse quietly and sensitively monitored the situation, explaining to us that they would only give him morphine when his breathing had clearly become very distressed. A young lay pastor came and prayed a decade of the Rosary with us. A huge plate of sandwiches materialised from nowhere in the relatives’ waiting room. The sockless friar (a Capuchin) came back with Communion, the nurse opened a small aperture in Johnny’s “helmet” and he received a fragment of the Host with great reverence and recollection. He called for a sip of cordial and managed to suck a tiny amount with a straw. He also had a spoonful of ice cream. He made it clear that he didn’t need any more food.

At four in the afternoon he was asked if he would like some morphine to ease his, by now, very laboured breathing. He said “Yes” quite firmly. The doctor explained that the oxygen helmet was no longer of any use and it was gently removed. The machines were then unplugged and Johnny was made comfortable. He fell asleep. We all stayed with him, talked to him, sang to him, held his hands and stroked his head until, an hour later, he drew his last breath. My younger brother turned to me and said in a voice of awe, “What a mystery death is!” I thought of a favourite remark of Johnny’s, which he had repeated to me only a couple of hours before: “There are no pockets in a shroud.”The Capuchin returned and reminded us that All Souls Day was a wonderful day to die on. The palliative care nurse wept along with us all. I remembered that Johnny had chosen St Joseph, patron of a happy death, as his Confirmation saint and had always had a special love for him. In fact he had named a succession of his boyhood tortoises “Joseph” in the saint’s honour. In his last hours St Joseph had not deserted him.

I have described Johnny’s dying in this detail – and what a privilege it was to have witnessed such a death, his last loving legacy to his family – to show the kind of experience we would all wish for: sensitive and attentive care, spiritual and medical, by all the staff and the vital opportunity for Johnny to make his own inimitable farewells. It is a memory that his children and the rest of us will carry until our own dying day...Johnny died, as he said, in the country he loved and surrounded by the people he loved; “My faith, my family and my friends are what matter to me” he told us in his soldierly fashion. In the intensive care unit of the Bon Secours hospital, with its Catholic ethos and atmosphere – a crucifix on the wall and a statue of Our Lady in the corridor – patients are treated as children of God: “Johnny is in God’s hands” the nurse said as she monitored him. It makes all the difference – in life and in death.

And Johnny’s own last words, before he slipped into unconsciousness?

“I am very happy now.” 

To die a holy death, at peace with one's neighbour and God  is a blessing indeed. 

O to die in the arms of Mary and Jesus...

St.Joseph, patron of happy and holy death

Ora pro nobis

Song of Hope...

"To the pure, all things are pure, but to those who are corrupted and do not believe, nothing is pure. In fact, both their minds and consciences are corrupted." - Titus 1:15

 I found this true, time and again; especially when exposed to secular media, films and music. Numerous were the times I heard the Lord sing and coo to me through the din. Numerous too, were the times my mind was dulled from perceiving the evil therein. 

I like to believe that I am protected and my Father sings songs of gladness over me. 

Some of the most beautiful lessons I learnt were from sources far, far from religious or spiritual.

The most distant memory that comes to me (considering that my memory is like a sieve) is of my watching the undeniably morbid movie, The English Patient. Lust, adultery, fornication and lies abound in that love-in-the-time-of-WWII film. But this is what I remember most- the scene where the lady-much-desired and her (cuckold) husband were flying their two-seater propeller jet to their dug-out site in the North African wasteland, where the lady's lover was waiting to be picked up. The affair was broken off by then and the husband knew that he was cheated upon, though he did not reveal it to his wife or the friend/lover. As the plane descended, the husband's feral rage took over and he tried to drive the jet into the lover, hoping to kill all of them together. Instead, the husband dies instantly, the wife gets mortally wounded and perishes in the desert and the lover dies much later, a victim of euthanasia, broken-hearted, burnt beyond recognition and a traitor. The film treated the entire story very romantically... but all I heard, was a still soft voice saying- The wages of sin is death.

God did not need to meet out their punishment. Their own flawed decision set into motion the wheels of fate which they could not stop and led to their untimely destruction, and that of others as well. I felt sorry for them... I really did; but it brought home to me the truth that death was not just metaphorical; it was real and concrete. 

Then there was Avatar. Who can forget the memorable Na'vi greeting- 'I see you.', which is to see into another, to truly look into their souls. How poignantly it reminded me of Psalm 139 ...

Then there is the other side of the spectrum. When evil warps the imagination, nothing then can remains innocent. Before predators became, there was the thought, the fantasy that foreshadowed it. There are those who after encountering the Light, now practice extreme abstinence, not out penance but out the desire for protection. It doesn't  take much to awake the old demons...

The Lord often does deliver them but sometimes he desires to strengthen their will by asking of strong measures.

St. Augustine knew of it. St Paul remarked of it when he spoke of the thorn in his flesh . 

But take heart, in the end, Grace and one's love of Jesus will see one through...

A Mustard seed of Faith

 God does not make mistakes!

That is the Truth and Truth it is. The catch is whether we believe it or not. Not believe it being the Truth but believe Truth (who is God) about Himself. 

So, we all believe in God and as Jesus so poignantly said- Even the demons believe in God. 

They just don't trust Him.

And so, when one does introspect, "Do I believe that God does not make mistakes?", it is the simplified version of, "Do I trust God never to mess up even after all the mess I created for myself?"

This 'Parent' question spawns numerous off-springs like, why does God allow children to suffer from cancer? Why are there so many wars? Or closer home- Why me, Lord?

...a dim echo of, 'Could God have made a mistake?' 

Your really don't have to search your memory to recall instances of people asking you this question in retrospection  They pose it as a rhetoric and they really don't expect an answer. There isn't one, they think; seeing the situation they are locked in. 

And what about the many times we have whispered it to ourselves in the secret recesses of our soul? 

My times-of-distress teaser was a simple- Lord, where are you?

I never expected an answer... because I believed He did NOT have an answer.

Then something happened that made me wonder...

The week that was, was a roller-coaster. A high and a low and a low. It was a difficult, difficult time, especially for a person like me who does not like change or a disturbance in my daily rhythm. I don't remember if I threw one of my posers at God but I definitely was wondering what on earth was happening. Somewhere in the middle of the week, I received a card from a close friend in Canada. It was posted weeks ago to a common friend and was waiting to be received. I just didn't have the time to collect it. It finally found its way to my hands through a fellow choir member and I opened it...

It was small-ish, simple card, with a caricature on the cover. On the inside was my pals' neat, tidy handwriting on the two facing sides. Then there, right at the bottom of card was this printed verse from Daniel...

"God loves you very much."

I nearly wept...

In all the Bible, that was my favourite verse. I never told it to anyone. I loved that verse before I even knew how to read the Bible. It called to me as no other verse ever did. My favourite Bible meditation was to imagine myself in Daniel's shoes and hear the salutation, 'Daniel! God loves you' over and over and over again.

Fear not! God loves you...

He knew my soul even before that week arrived. He timed it to reach my hands at the opportune time. He sent his Spirit to remind me... He does not make mistakes.

Though it is not quite the correct response to my, 'Lord, where are you?' cry; it is the best One. 

What I am going through, is well and foreseen. Even in the midst of the chaos I created for myself and for others, He does not make mistakes. There are no wrong judgement calls and there is disaster-recovery for Him. 

The Light has shone in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it.

The Return of the Eldest Son

 “There was once a man who had two sons." 

I had read the story of the prodigal son a very many time and heard beautiful homilies from the pulpit a thousand times over... but the story never sang to me.

One was the elder and one was the younger.

There was the obedient and there was the rebel.

Even after my heart's conversion; I knew I had walked the prodigal son's broken path and came home after much barrenness... but even then the story never spoke to me.

My selfishness and arrogance, I was aware. I still remember the times I told the Father, the ancient curse behind my demand for independence- I wish you were dead.

But the Love of God rescued me and I felt the soft mantle of the Father's robe as I pressed my heart into His. Then I heard his agonizing cry...

"My heart won't let me do it, my Love for you is too strong" 

I continued my journey with God till I finally saw the Eldest Son was I. 

"but this son of yours..."

I am the eldest in my family and I know better than others the heavy responsibility to care for the younger while young myself. I knew better than others the pain of being favoured under and disciplined harsher. In my minds eye,  I saw it run through out the Bible, I saw younger being greatly loved. Jacob over Esau, Joseph apart from his 11 brothers, David ahead his brothers,  Mary before Martha and John, beloved of the Lord. 

The Eldest Son, did all things right and true to his father, so much so he despised his brother for having made the foolish choice. Deep in his heart, it was not the property but laud he gave himself for adhering to his father's rule. Such self-discipline is truly admirable but it made him proud. It gave him a seat of judgement, a throne. His brother's disobedience, heightened his obedience. He never waited with his father for his brother's return.

And many were the times, I judged others. Not consciously but in my attitude. Protestants with dodgy theology, homosexuals, casanovas and weak-willed politicians... my brothers who I despised. My own who I could not acknowledge as mine. Who I begrudged the Father's patience and his mercy.

But the Father loved them both

This is where the parable began to make sense to me. The Father asks for one thing and one thing alone- Love. 

The father in the parable was already old and infirm,nearly blind, he had already died a thousand deaths and waited for his lost son to return. To a man who has seen death face to face, the past and hoary remembrances do not matter. Only the beloved does. The light of his eyes was gone, but the light of his spirit had grown acute. In his very spirit, he sensed his son's return.  With this light, he saw his youngest from afar. 

I only saw the erring and the fallen. Coming into the Light helps you recognise the obvious which those who are steeped in sin do not. My calling was to love them into return. My calling was to love the wounded who did not how how to return. My calling was to rejoice with the Father when my lost brother returned. But for that I needed to love into dying to myself. Like the Father who loved man so much as to give up his greatest Love, his only Son to redeem us. 

It is the paradox of love, when you have lost everything, you have everything to give. When one is nothing, then one can love truly those who are nothing. 

When I understood this, I returned to the banquet to celebrate my brother's return.

Suffer little children

I read this article about a man named Ken, who was conceived in an act of rape. 

His mother was 15, unmarried and alone.

This is his story... 

Ken explained that he was adopted as an infant, and at age 30, located his birth mother and learned the circumstances of his conception.

“Her story was that she was hit over the head with a baseball bat and was raped at 15. So she went away to Catholic Charities, had me, made the brave decision to keep me — and, well, keep me alive. And then I was adopted and I have three beautiful children now, have been married for 15 years – and I would just like to speak up for those [voice breaks] who have no voice.” 

Ken defended both women who are the victims of rape, and their innocent children who are conceived in violence: “It really eats me up when I hear people talk about rape, because it is horrible. My mother won’t tell me who my father’s name is because he threatened to kill her if she ever said anything. So she has not told me his name, but if I was ever to meet him, the first thing I would probably do is punch him. I think rape is horrible, but what I want to say to women out there is: you can take something that was terribly done to you, and make something good out of it. And that’s, [voice breaks] that’s me.”

Ken talked about growing up in a loving adoptive home – his parents had just celebrated their 50^th wedding anniversary — and how he shares a relationship with his birth mother, her husband, and their children (his half-siblings). He expressed gratitude for his birth mother’s going through so much to give him life. He admired how she rebuilt her life after her assault, pregnancy, and adoption placement, saying: “That was a hard time in her life. She sacrificed a lot….But she moved on in her life, and she was able to overcome the shame that was put on her.”

He urged people to see that children conceived in rape are just as human, just as “real”, as everyone else.

“It’s an emotional topic because I just get tired of people treating these unborn children like they’re, like they’re nothing. And they can be born, and they can grow up, and they can have a great life.”

Most of all, they are human beings...

More than 2000 years ago, there was another girl, maybe younger who found herself with a child and chose to have him. 

His name was Jesus and his mother was, Mary. 

"I have called you by name; you are mine!" Is 43:1

He was still a toddler when He and his parents had to flee from their town. The ruler of that land gave the order to massacre all male chidren, 2 years and under.

Strange! The blindness of not recognising the humanity of a child within the womb can well extend into their early years. The rage of a tyrant wiped out an entire generation in his state. 

I was born in the 80's. Many of my generation never lived to be born because they were considered less-than-human. They called it choice then, now it's some sort of 'right'.

How come no one ever recognises the unborn for what they truly are- a Gift, a Blessing, a Ray of Hope?