Teeth

Ms. Kiemde is cutting teeth -- four to be specific. Her top front teeth are coming in, followed by two tiny pearly whites flanking each side. Are they incisors? Eye teeth? I'm not certain of the proper names for these cuspids, but I am certain of what they are inspiring in my almost eleven-month old baby girl. I am observing new behaviors in this child. A new level of cranky. Fiesty. Furious. Feeling her power. Do you remember what your gums cracking open felt like? Having our insides split a bit to make way for new growth: it's difficult. The surface itches, aches, throbs. We bleed when we get new teeth.

I think the same might be said for most developmental processes in all humans. Teething is akin to growing, to adopting new ways of being; it's learning. Just as it is difficult to literally "birth" new teeth, I believe it is as hard for us to make way for any new thing to come forward in our lives. We itch. Ache. Throb. Maybe bleed a bit, too, in some regard.

Today, my prayers are for any and all who are teething - literally and figuratively. I am praying for babies, adults, teens, elders. I am holding images of new cuspids and precious gums in my child's mouth along with the way I am learning to practice being calm when I'm angry; a smile and deep breath are often just as difficult to come forward as these teeth.

I hope this finds you with patience for all that is trying to break the surface; I send good thoughts for all that is trying to emerge and become a helpful, visible new part of your being.

Happy Contemplating!
Melissa Borgmann-Kiemde,
Visitation Companion,
Mom, Wife, Lover, Writer, Contemplative at Work

Tending to our Interiors: Introducing Inspiration from Fr. Richard Rohr, OFM

Note: The following was written for the Visitation Monastery North Minneapolis blog. I post it here to invite readers of "QueenMab Contemplates..." to follow this series on Fr. Rohr.

"There is nothing to prove and nothing to protect. I am who I am and it's enough." — Richard Rohr

After I left my ten-plus year post in urban education, I spent a year cleaning people's houses. I got paid to tidy, scour, tend to the dust and grime that we all accumulate in our living spaces. For twenty four hours a week, I would scrub, sweep, polish a family's home or single person's pad, making my way through bathrooms, kitchens, dens, bedrooms, laundry rooms, office spaces, attics, basements. It was privileged work in many ways - as I was privy to the interiors of others' "sanctuaries" - so to speak. I came to think of this period in literal and figurative ways; I was cleaning out not only the inside of other humans' homes, but tending to my own interior spaces: of heart, spirit, mind. It was sacred work on many levels.

During this time, I listened to a lot of Fr. Richard Rohr, OFM, founder of the Center for Action and Contemplation, on CD. I'd go into these sacred spaces, broom and bucket in hand, and -- (if it wasn't a Bob Marley kind of morning, or Neil Diamond flashback afternoon that I was having) -- I'd pop in a recording of the Franciscan priest from New Mexico. Viola! I was on retreat while at work. Every action of soap and sponge and elbow-pushing-arm, became a contemplative, active prayer of sorts. I was, in the words of Fr. Rohr's, putting to use the most operative word in his organization's title, being a person of contemplation AND action. What I encountered in my heart and mind whilst listening to "Jesus and Buddha: Paths to Awakening" or "The Great Chain of Being: Simplifying our Lives" conference or "True Self/False Self" made its way literally through my interior life and into exterior action.

During this year of prayer and manual physical labor, I made significant changes in my life. I worked to simplify or downsize in all respects of property and ego; I let go of everything I thought I knew for certain; I felt freer and more happy than I had ever been - as I cleaned and contemplated and wrote blogs as prayerful prose for the public. It was a revolutionary year of my life.

I've recently become re-acquainted with Fr. Rohr, as a friend hooked me up with his daily meditations sent via email from the Center for Action and Contemplation. It's exhilarating to re-discover this spiritual teacher/wise counselor and touchstone. As a prolific writer and speaker, Fr. Rohr has many books and CD's published to inspire our lives; he's not unlike the Visitation's co-founder, St. Francis de Sales, or the many holy people who inspire our hearts, minds, souls, and bodies.

In the days, weeks, months to come, I will be re-posting some of Fr. Richard Rohr's words as they so move me; I will be working to apply them, through a Salesian lens, to my own life. I invite you to join me!

Peace to all this day.

Melissa Borgmann-Kiemde,
Vis Companion

Week's End Assignment: Passion Reading!

If you are anything like me, you are tense navigating this past week's news. You might be celebrating the passage of Health Care Reform, while holding the conflicting responses emerging in a polarized nation's warring verbiage. You recognize the complexity of financial costs associated with such Health Care legislation, and hold these dollar amounts alongside images of uninsured friends and family members, (maybe former students and their relatives) with whom you are in direct relationship. You work diligently to defer judgment about enraged people's responses bombarding your email inbox, Facebook page and television screen, and try to navigate calmly the barrage of words, posing your own critical questions:

(What does health care cost? What does it mean to lead as a democratic nation? How do we model liberty and opportunity for all? How does a government's allocation of tax dollars reflect the priorities of a nation? Where is creation and wellness in this financial picture? Where is education? What is life-giving? What results in death or further destruction? What research and experience do we all need to read, reflect on, or engage in?" )

Perhaps your heart aches with anger and outrage over the headlines announcing the current pope's connection with the sex scandals in the Catholic church. Perhaps you align yourself compassionately with a stance of forgiveness and mercy for all perpetrators, while seeing the past sins in not recognizing the need to acknowledge the many victims. Maybe you struggle as a catholic or religious person who wants to celebrate the tenants of his or her faith in a life-giving, liberating fashion. You want freedom and joy and radical love to be known -- and justice for all people, regardless of their beliefs or skin color or economic standing. You wonder about how you move forward in faith, in hope, in love for all that is at hand in these messy human circumstances. You try to trust that something powerful is at work in the collective conscious of a church -- or in a politicized nation and impassioned people.

You pray.

If you are anything like me, you want to not be so tense. You long to release anger, frustration, and see each headline, email, television broadcast with Love's eyes.

Here's an assignment that I gave my praying, searching, spiritual self this morning, given all at hand. Perhaps you will find this helpful?

Read Passion Sunday's scriptures: Luke 22: 14- 23:56.

If you can make space in your brain, meditate on the story of betrayal. Move closer to the suffering of Christ. Hold fast to the tensions present in the innocent being tortured. Marvel at all the human dimensions that this enfolding drama extends -- while recognizing the radically transformative outcomes - of Divine proportion -- that are possible in this Passion tale.

Then find yourself in this story. Locate your current leaders. Consider present lawmakers alive and in this narrative. See the uninsured and abused. See how you are all connected, all one. And let your heart, mind, and spirit be softened, as you let go of your need to know everything, be in control, or be right.

Let Love lead you.

Leaning toward New Life

My grandfather is in the nursing home dying. He is no longer eating, refusing food, and taking only water for the most part, in tiny sips or doses from a sponge, when he is able. His mind remains sharp, but his body is in rapid decline.

I hold this knowledge in my own limbs as I move through my day, acting as normal as possible, but knowing death is imminent. It's a precious time. A sacred time. These are days, moments of privilege and re-ordered priorities, as family members recognize the closeness of Francis Liewer's passing.

Last Friday afternoon, in lieu of driving directly to Omaha, Nebraska, from St. Paul, Minnesota, to see my siblings, my husband and I changed routes and instead pointed our car to Norfolk, to St. Joseph's nursing home, where my grandfather had just been moved. It was a happy choice we made, shifting our course, and going to my hometown. My mother's voice the other end of the line -- tearful, weary, breaking in a rare occasion, after spending eight days next to her ailing father; Francois and I knew we were being called to grandpa's bedside.

At six months pregnant, I am not only emotional, but my body is larger than it's ever been, carrying baby and new weight, readying and making way toward giving birth. Tending to my grandfather's health brings all aspects of our human bodies and vulnerabilities into fuller awareness. Grandpa's thinning skin, his clammy fingers and touch, the bulging bed covers where underneath, I know, are further apparatus to aid him in blood and bodily fluid flow. I sit next to him at St. Joe's, hold his hand, moisten his dried, cracking lips with a damp cloth, and marvel at the proximity of age, death, wisdom, angels. Inside my own belly, baby Kiemde kicks and rocks, rolls over. The nearness of new life is almost enough to make me buckle: Grandpa's, my child's.

My dear friend Sr. Jill Underdahl recently wrote to me saying that, among other things, "St. Joseph is the patron saint of happy deaths." As a sister of St. Joseph of Carondelet in St. Paul, Jill shared this information about her order's namesake, expanding my prior knowledge of the saint. "Because it is imagined that both Jesus and Mary were present to Joseph at the time of his death, Joseph's death is called 'happy.'" This information makes me smile. In addition to being patron to carpenters, fathers, the universal church, Joseph is busy tending to the dying.

In my previous investigations regarding St. Joseph, I discovered a much cruder kind of patronage placed upon him: that of happy home sales. As I put my Juno Avenue house on the market two years ago, I did much research on this matter, and found a way to move beyond the superstitious "buy-a-St. Joseph-statue-and-bury-him-upside-down-in-your-backyard" action, to my own prayerful, ritualistic way of placing his figure in a sacred spot where I paid some serious homage. I looked on Joseph as father, foster father in some respects, tending to baby Jesus, holding this precious, innocent life: protecting, loving, guiding, nurturing the child from youth into adulthood. I meditated on the many ways that that kind of parenting, that kind of care could be akin to the process of letting go, releasing something, anything beloved, and letting it evolve, become anew.

Selling my house became a seriously spiritual action. I believe St. Joseph oversaw this process. My grandfather passing, is another spiritual action. Here again: I see, (hope, imagine, pray,) Joseph is overseeing this!

As Grandpa releases his body, lets go of his limbs, these human bones and muscles and sinewy tissues that make up his earthly form, and becomes pure Spirit, (as I so believe), St. Joseph is there. As his physical body betrays him in its functioning, I imagine a larger kind of liberation occurring. The tethers of his skin and bone form are retracting, and allowing something inside him to open up, be born anew.

In a few short months, I will give birth to a new baby. At this time, my husband Francois and I have discerned that our child will be delivered at a hospital in downtown St. Paul; it's one bearing the name of "St. Joseph."

Last Friday, holding my grandfather's hand, I looked into his eyes, and asked him if he was aware that we were expecting a baby.

"Yes. You are due on May 5th,"he announced. While he had the date wrong, his knowledge of the correct month Baby Kiemde is to emerge made me beam.

"Grandpa, I have a request: I want you to be there, at the birth,"I said, placing his hand on my stomach. "We will be at St. Joe's, just as you are now, with this saint overseeing things, but we'd like you there in your spirit, pure soul form. Can you promise this?" He smiled when I asked the question. "When our baby is born, he will know you; she will see you, and probably scream and cry. But you will witness this all, and help him or her come forward."

He grabbed my hand again before I left, and squeezed.

These are moments of life I'm clinging to as I lean toward all that is imminent, on the verge of shifting, coming forward, getting born.


In peace, prayers, contemplation,
Melissa Borgmann Kiemde

Healing our Families: Attending to our Stories, Screams, Salvation

Yesterday, at 5:30pm, I had the privilege of addressing a group of about 40 women gathered at the Sisters of St. Joseph Carondelet Center in St. Paul. I was invited to speak to this community on the topic of "Healing our Families" - as part of a Lenten Series - sponsored by the nuns and the CSJ Consociates. Before a room of mostly pink-skinned Sisters, Consociates, St. Joseph Workers and Friends, ranging in age from 22 to 80, I delivered the following reflection.

I offer it here for your own contemplation. I say "Thank you" to all who read and respond to such musings, especially my own immediate family. You all do wonders to inspire me, and countless others, I'm certain!

Love,
Melissa

****

CSJ Healing Service
March 27, 2009

Healing our Families: Attending to our Stories, Screams, Salvation!

Good evening! Let me begin by saying what a privilege it is to be in this community tonight; what an honor to be present in this space, with all of your glorious spirits, collective wisdom and stories, and given this opportunity to crack open a bit of scripture, and reflect upon this topic of healing our families.

I begin tonight with a story. I turn then to scripture. I conclude with questions and a prayer. The title to this, by the way is, “Healing our Families: Attending to our Stories, Screams, Salvation!”
.

Three weeks ago, on the second Sunday of Lent, I was running errands after mass. I had a laundry list of things to purchase, which took me to Walgreens on Lake Street. (Who here has been to the Walgreens on Lake Street?) While I was walking in to pick up these items, my eye was struck by a tall, handsome fellow. And everything in me started to sort of quake. He was handsome: 6’4”, clean cut handsome. Blazer over jeans and Italian shoes wearing handsome. Brown. African brown handsome. Rimless glasses handsome. I wanted to melt when he looked my way. I tried to proceed forward in my drugstore purchases, but over the course of the next 14 minutes, I went a little bit nuts -- swooning over this fellow that I’d never laid eyes on before in my life.

I found myself standing next to him in the deodorant aisle, picking out anti-perspirants; or rather: trying to pick out an anti-perspirant, but wondering instead where he lived, what kinds of food he ate, and whether he might want to take me out for Thai curry some night? I tried to focus on the Shower Clean and Pure Rain deodorants before me, but all I could think about was how nice and clean he smelled, like he maybe just stepped out of the shower or carried the scent of rain with him wherever he went.

He was so pretty!

Now, I know that I’m addressing a group of mostly nuns. And maybe there’s something seemingly illicit about talking about sexual attraction before a religious community? But I don’t think so. Because I know each of us, at some moment in time has had an encounter with beauty, with that which takes our breath away, and inspires a swooning-like feeling. And I think at the heart of these kinds of experiences -- is something that flows from God, is something that resembles the Divine, is something that has the power to heal us. And these moments are sacred and worthy of our collective note-taking or reverence.

I had to write about this experience afterwards. I had to write about all the aisles this fellow and I encountered one another in, in the store. (Toilet paper, toilet bowl cleaner, dryer sheet aisles.) I had to write about making eye contact with him and smiling. I had to write about how I got shy and quiet, but never spoke. I had to confess my own larger fears over what reaching out and extending words might mean. I had to disclose my complete joy over the encounter, and my utter frustration of what ensued. I had to admit how long it had been since such an experience had stirred such emotion in my heart and limbs. I had to celebrate that this body, this Divinely made being could have such an encounter, and even, quite possibly inspire something similar in him, the hot Walgreens man, who could be, for all intents and purposes: the other, the observer, even possibly, Christ in our midst.

What does this tale have to do with Lent, this Healing Service, or any of our families?

I turn to this weekend’s scriptures.

In preparation for today’s service, I found myself prayerfully drawn to these words from St. Paul’s Letter to the Hebrews and the Gospel according to St. John.

Christ Jesus was in the flesh,
he offered prayers and supplications with loud cries and tears
to the one who was able to save him from death,

and:

"I am troubled now. Yet what should I say?
'Father, save me from this hour'?

Can you repeat these after me?

Christ Jesus was in the flesh,
he offered prayers and supplications with loud cries and tears
to the one who was able to save him from death,

and:

"I am troubled now. Yet what should I say?
'Father, save me from this hour'?


How many of us know these aching questions, these cries coming from our own weary lungs? From our own salty lips? Beseeching a loving God and Creator for salvation?

Whew. For this 40 years old, single lady, roaming the planet trying to honor Love, these questions pierce the core of my heart.
I imagine they might resonate with each of you, as well. No matter what your circumstance as an individual, as a person part of a larger family. How many of us feel we have failed our families? (or they’ve failed us?) We haven’t been fully enough in our community? Haven’t responded in the most compassionate way to our cousins or to the Christ in our midst? How many have felt just like Jesus, here, achy, seemingly alone, and possibly letting down a leader, a parent, a figure of faith that we aspire to serve? (How many of us have feared death?)

I’m 40. A 40-year old single woman who loves God with her whole heart and mind and body. I'm a single, never-been-married woman who wants nothing more than to serve a discerned calling to partner and marry and have children. But has that happened yet? Nope! Guess what my cries sound like to God? Guess what screams pour forth from these lungs!

Enter: Walgreens man. Enter Love. Enter Jesus. Enter a moment, a chance encounter, when beauty pours forth, and pierces my heart, reminding me of my own beloved nature.

How does such a story, juxtaposed with scripture, provide insight into healing ourselves? How does a story like this relate at all to the healing of our families?

I return to a meditation on oneness. On our belovedness. On recognizing our connections with Christ, on seeing our suffering, our screams, as aligned in his own humanity, in his questions and story, and united equally, then, in His salvation…..Don’t you think?

The answer, from the prophet Jeremiah is as simple as this, The Lord says, “I will place my law within them, and write it upon their hearts.”

What’s the Lord writing here, (pointing to heart) except the word, “LOVE!”

Say it with me: LOVE!

***
So I wrote down this story about the Walgreens guy. I entitled it, “Weak in the Knees at Walgreens. “ I posted it on my blog, and then emailed it my list-serve of about 250 people. Included in this list, were my family members.

And do you know what happened? It triggered something. My aunt Marian, a biologist living in Lincoln, Nebraska, who screams a lot about stuff and incites all sorts of riotous on-line writing, softened in her reception of this. She re-titled my email, “Melissa’s Knees: Our Love Stories.” What ensued for days on end, in my online Borgmann-Family Listerve world: were narrative after narrative, written story after written story, response after response: all bearing witness to each family member’s “weak-in-th- knees” moment, when he or she had a similar encounter with Love.

It was beautiful and inspiring. It felt to be a kind of sweet balm, antidote to that which ails. It was healing.

As I close, I ask each of you to consider:
What is your story? What “weak-in-the-knees” moment have you encountered? What first hand stories of love have you shared with family or friends? How have you experienced Christ’s entrance in your world? At Walgreens, at the dining room table, how do you see yourself aligned with him in suffering and salvation?

My prayer is that in and through our individual and collective witness to such encounters, we know healing in our hearts and homes. May we encounter the beloved in our bodies and in the beauty of the other . May we find alignment in Christ’s suffering, and simultaneously say, “Thank God for the Salvation of Story!”

Amen?

Amen!

****
LENTEN PRAYER ~ A Time for Healing ~

Fridays, 5:30 – 6:15 pm
Carondelet Center, 1890 Randolph Ave., St. Paul
All are welcome!

March 6 ~ Prayer Service for the Healing of the Nations
featuring musicians Mary Preus and Tom Witt

March 13 ~ Healing Our Country
Reflection by Joan Wittman, CSJ Consociate, Chair of Legislative Advocacy Partners Working Group

March 20 ~ Healing Our Communities
Reflection by Brian Reusch, Minnesota Council of Churches, Celeste’s Dream visioning circle

March 27 ~ Healing Our Families
Reflection by Melissa Borgmann, teacher, author, spoken word artist, lover of the gospel

April 3 ~ Healing Our Earth
Reflection by Rabbi Amy Eilberg, Jay Phillips Center for Jewish Christian Studies, peace educator

Lenten Prayer is sponsored by the Sisters of St. Joseph of Carondelet and Consociates: Celeste’s Dream, Hedgerow Initiative, Justice Office, Membership, St. Joseph Workers, Wisdom Ways Center for Spirituality

"Closer to Fine:" Living in the Questions with the Indigo Girls

There's more than one answer to these questions

Pointing me in a crooked line

And the less I seek my source for some definitive

The closer I am to fine

- Indigo Girls

***

I lead a charmed life. This, I do believe.

Yesterday at this time, I was taking my seat in the Cities 97 Radio Station Studio C to hear a live recording of the Indigo Girls , as they prepare to release their latest CD, "Posieden and the Bitter Bug." For those of you who don't know these two rocking female singer/ songwriters, I encourage you to seek them out. For those who do, I imagine you'll understand my complete and utter joy at being invited to this event.

Goodness! What is it to be able to hear live music? What is to hear live music that you love? What is it to hear live music that has somehow changed your life? Transformed your perception, gave you pause and inspired you to consider something anew? Pierced your heart and made you feel less alone in the world? Yes! How often do we get to pay homage to the sources of inspiration in our life?

My longtime Phillipian friend and volunteer buddy, John Michaels, invited me to this event. Many of you may know John as the radio personality and traffic reporter at KTCZ Cities 97 (as well as several other stations). John rocks. He's funny. He has a great disposition. And John knows how to call out traffic conditions for the greater Twin Cities area, thereby increasing the capacity for people to move from one location to the next - with a little more ease, information, and peace of mind.

On this day, John Michaels helped me in my own sort of daily, blessed journey through relationship, work, service, as I navigated oodles of plaguing questions - all in graced time, with such powerful musical artists singing live before me, and the

loving, funny company beside me.

I'm trying to tell you something about my life

Maybe give me insight between black and white

And the best thing you've ever done for me

Is to help me take my life less seriously

Its only life after all

Yeah

I first heard the Indigo Girls with Jill Mayberger. Road tripping between Omaha and Denver to see my sister, Stephanie, in college, Jill introduced me to this raw acoustic female duo. When she put in the tape cassette of their 1989 self-titled release, "Indigo Girls," I think my life sort of changed. I know something in me shifted sideways at least. "Closer to Fine" played as the first song on the album, and I knew almost immediately that Emily and Amy were two women I had to be connected to, related to, on at least some level.

Well darkness has a hunger thats insatiable

And lightness has a call that's hard to hear

I wrap my fear around me like a blanket

I sailed my ship of safety till I sank it

I'm crawling on your shores

Who talks about the darkness? Who talks about light? How do we navigate the fear? How do we navigate any of this blasted life with all of its questions? What does it mean to wrap fear around you like a blanket? What does it mean to crawl on someone's shores? Whew. When I heard these lyrics of the Indigo Girls for the first time, I am certain I wept with their resonance. On Thursday, in Studio C, in the company of 40 other folks, I wept again.

I went to the doctor, I went to the mountains

I looked to the children, I drank from the fountains

Theres more than one answer to these questions

Pointing me in a crooked line

And the less I seek my source for some definitive

(the less I seek my source)

The closer I am to fine

The closer I am to fine

Before I left for Cities 97 on Thursday, I was having a lovely lunch at my church, St. Phillips, where I volunteer. Excited about going to see these women perform live, I was raving to Betty Lou and Carol and Dale and Fr. Jules about their music. How does one really explain the Indigo Girls? How does one connect their faith community with their social arts community?

And I went to see the doctor of philosophy

With a poster of rasputin and a beard down to his knee

He never did marry or see a b-grade movie

He graded my performance, he said he could see through me

I spent four years prostrate to the higher mind

Got my paper and I was free

I tried singing this song, "Closer to Fine." I tried to recall the lyrics and their potency and describe this magic of their vocal harmonies.

I tried to find properly labeled recordings of the Indigo Girls on my laptop in my itunes folder. I couldn't.

I went to the doctor, I went to the mountains

I looked to the children, I drank from the fountains

Theres more than one answer to these questions

Pointing me in a crooked line

The less I seek my source for some definitive

(the less I seek my source)

The closer I am to fine

The closer I am to fine

Instead, I found myself rambling about doctors and philosophers and priests and lesbians and gay people and nuns and what it means to ask so many questions and seek answers. I tried to draw a connection between Jesus and Justice and Emily and Amy and our Catholic faith community and myself. I sighed. I smiled. I tried to communicate in words what seems the ineffable.

I stopped by the bar at 3 a.m.

To seek solace in a bottle or possibly a friend

And I woke up with a headache like my head against a board

Twice as cloudy as I'd been the night before

And I went in seeking clarity.

I sent my church colleagues a link to this song, "Closer to Fine" and then I headed out to the studio. There, before the authors of this potent song; there, before the raw, real, resonant lyrics being performed by these two lovely women, I celebrated. I swirled in my life questions, in my uncertainty, in my inabilities to fully articulate things, and I sang along.

I went to the doctor, I went to the mountains

I looked to the children, I drank from the fountains

Yeah we go to the doctor, we go to the mountains

We look to the children, we drink from the fountains

Yeah we go to the bible, we go through the workout

We read up on revival and we stand up for the lookout

Theres more than one answer to these questions

Pointing me in a crooked line

The less I seek my source for some definitive

(the less I seek my source)

The closer I am to fine

The closer I am to fine

The closer I am to fine

I do feel closer to fine with such work and words and wonder in the world.

International Communication...

Video Skype anyone? Goodness!

I'm sitting at the Fireroast Mountain Cafe in South Minneapolis, and for the past hour have been mesmerized by a young blond who is wearing a headset and has a small video camera mounted to her computer. She has been speaking softly in another language, and conversing clearly with a person via her laptop and this internet connection. She laughs. Smiles. Nods. And I hear this foreign language spoken that takes me to scenes abroad. To life abroad. I imagine different warmer settings and time zones and something outside the frosty morning here in South Minneapolis. I am happy next to this woman.

She packs up her computer and equipment, and I learn she was talking with her sister and parents in Germany. (I have to inquire, right?) She is an education student doing an internship here in a German Immersion school, and has been studying and working in St. Paul for the past four and a half months. She has four weeks to go. She shares that this technology has been a saving grace. "It's just like they are next door, and I can reach out and see them and hear their voice, and it makes me so happy, less homesick."

I have at some point in the recent past been conversing with many of you about what it is to dialogue across nations, lines, borders, races, classes, boundaries....and how we develop and maintain relationships while living, traveling, studying abroad. I'm especially interested in how we raise families and children in the larger world. Seeing this technology at work inspires me as I lean into my future and imagine the possibilities of life and love....Here. And Abroad.

Yes!

Happy Contemplating and Communications!
Melissa

On Amminadab and Nahshon: Christmas Eve Contemplations

Today is Christmas Eve. Christians around the world are preparing to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ. Whether you believe in this guy's miracle conception or not, His presence as a good, good man is pretty easy to acknowledge. Whether you hold that He was a literal Son of God, it's hard to doubt His power as a revolutionary fellow who sought to bring light and love and justice to the world, right? The guy worked really hard to challenge people in power and transform the way we conceive of glory, goodness, success, wealth. He met people in their poverty, in their brokenness, in spaces where they felt most crippled and unworthy to be, and He loved them. In doing so, He allowed the most horrible, wretched, weak among us, to know love -- to feel worthy, in a space of seeming unworthiness. He invited us all to consider our own broken and simultaneous beloved nature. Who wants to argue or disagree with this? Don't we all want to be loved at some point in time? Don't we all want to be accepted as the crazy, mixed-up, beautiful lot that we are? I will speak for myself -- I do!

But I don't know. I just think the guy has a good story and I'm a sucker for a miracle any day of the week, especially ones where angels and lovers come together. Jesus, Mary, Joseph: they rock in my book. The Angel Gabriel - he rocks. Elizabeth and Zachariah, their baby, John: all rock. Each of their stories is layered with these amazing elements that challenge all notions of reason, and invite us into mystery. A barren woman conceives. A virgin lady finds herself with child. Baffled men have dreams that change the course of their lives. (Joseph didn't have to stay with Mary, right? Zachariah didn't have to speak John's name and support this cousin-to-Christ coming, did he?) I love these stories, people!

What I'm meditating on today, though, aren't these familiar figures central to the Christmas story. What I'm holding this morning in my prayer and contemplation, are a couple folks I've never spent any time on: Amminadab and Nahshon.*

Now who knows Amminadab and Nahshon? Seriously! Who has ever heard of these people? I'm waking to read my scripture for the day, and I'm pouring over the first chapter of Matthew's Gospel, and I come across this litany of names, that details the genealogy of Jesus, and I'm struck by "Amminadab" and "Nahshon." I mean, there's a whole host of names I barely recognize, but these two stand out to me.

"Meet my great uncle 'Amminadab.'" Or "Mom and dad, I'd like you to meet my boyfriend, Nahshon." These are the sentences that come into my imagination and make me giggle. Who has a great uncle Amminadab? Who has ever dated a Nahshon?! Maybe it's because I just spent the past week in Ghana with a gorgeous fellow named "Saddam" who turned out to love Jesus and woke me up each morning with cheesy contemporary Christian tunes. Maybe these names attach themselves somehow to this recent perplexing or surprising experience of love, and it just makes me happy. Or, maybe it's because I just like the notion of Jesus descending from some regular blokes with names that make me laugh. Or perhaps it's that I often wonder what my greater purpose is on this planet, and maybe just maybe, I could be Amminadab -- or in fact, might marry Nahshon, and give birth to a really amazing baby that goes on to inspire people for centuries....

Who knows?!

I just go this direction in my musings this Christmas Eve morning, and it makes me happy.

Who are you in this Christmas story? Who are these figures in your imagination? What names strike you? What does any of this old and familiar, or new and funny narrative inspire in your heart and mind?

Happy Contemplating! Merry Christmas! Blessed Hannukkah! Big Love this Season to All -- no matter what you believe!

Melissa

*Gospel

Mt 1:1-25

The book of the genealogy of Jesus Christ,

the son of David, the son of Abraham.

Abraham became the father of Isaac,

Isaac the father of Jacob,

Jacob the father of Judah and his brothers.

Judah became the father of Perez and Zerah,

whose mother was Tamar.

Perez became the father of Hezron,

Hezron the father of Ram,

Ram the father of Amminadab.

Amminadab became the father of Nahshon,

Nahshon the father of Salmon,

Salmon the father of Boaz,

whose mother was Rahab.

Boaz became the father of Obed,

whose mother was Ruth.

Obed became the father of Jesse,

Jesse the father of David the king.

David became the father of Solomon,

whose mother had been the wife of Uriah.

Solomon became the father of Rehoboam,

Rehoboam the father of Abijah,

Abijah the father of Asaph.

Asaph became the father of Jehoshaphat,

Jehoshaphat the father of Joram,

Joram the father of Uzziah.

Uzziah became the father of Jotham,

Jotham the father of Ahaz,

Ahaz the father of Hezekiah.

Hezekiah became the father of Manasseh,

Manasseh the father of Amos,

Amos the father of Josiah.

Josiah became the father of Jechoniah and his brothers

at the time of the Babylonian exile.

After the Babylonian exile,

Jechoniah became the father of Shealtiel,

Shealtiel the father of Zerubbabel,

Zerubbabel the father of Abiud.

Abiud became the father of Eliakim,

Eliakim the father of Azor,

Azor the father of Zadok.

Zadok became the father of Achim,

Achim the father of Eliud,

Eliud the father of Eleazar.

Eleazar became the father of Matthan,

Matthan the father of Jacob,

Jacob the father of Joseph, the husband of Mary.

Of her was born Jesus who is called the Christ.

Thus the total number of generations

from Abraham to David

is fourteen generations;

from David to the Babylonian exile,

fourteen generations;

from the Babylonian exile to the Christ,

fourteen generations.

Now this is how the birth of Jesus Christ came about.

When his mother Mary was betrothed to Joseph,

but before they lived together,

she was found with child through the Holy Spirit.

Joseph her husband, since he was a righteous man,

yet unwilling to expose her to shame,

decided to divorce her quietly.

Such was his intention when, behold,

the angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said,

"Joseph, son of David,

do not be afraid to take Mary your wife into your home.

For it is through the Holy Spirit

that this child has been conceived in her.

She will bear a son and you are to name him Jesus,

because he will save his people from their sins."

All this took place to fulfill

what the Lord had said through the prophet:

Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son,

and they shall name him Emmanuel,

which means "God is with us."

When Joseph awoke,

he did as the angel of the Lord had commanded him

and took his wife into his home.

He had no relations with her until she bore a son,

and he named him Jesus.

A Reflection on Today's Scripture...

Friends,

I find these readings* particularly charged, and wanted to share them with someone...

These ideas strike me...

Descending, in order to ascend..

Going into the depths of suffering, in order to understand it, transform it...

The GRACE that is given to each of us...

The way Paul is writing (is it Paul?) in this first reading, about the body as metaphor...How all parts work together in love....

It makes me ask, "How am I ligament? What is my best function to serve this 'body' as it grows?"

The Gospel reading rocks my world, too. This parable. This business of compassion, grace, patience, and great fervor, passion, rage, where growth and fruit are not apparent! Bless the fig tree that doesn't produce fruit. Bless the human that seems to be barren and not growing. Bless the tenderness of others --when time and patience and cultivation or support are extended- toward seeing the fruits born. Such faith in the unknown!

Peace, Prayers,

Melissa

Reading 1

Eph 4:7-16

Brothers and sisters:

Grace was given to each of us

according to the measure of Christ's gift.

Therefore, it says:

He ascended on high and took prisoners captive;

he gave gifts to men.

What does "he ascended" mean except that he also descended

into the lower regions of the earth?

The one who descended is also the one who ascended

far above all the heavens,

that he might fill all things.

And he gave some as Apostles, others as prophets,

others as evangelists, others as pastors and teachers,

to equip the holy ones for the work of ministry,

for building up the Body of Christ,

until we all attain to the unity of faith

and knowledge of the Son of God, to mature manhood

to the extent of the full stature of Christ,

so that we may no longer be infants,

tossed by waves and swept along by every wind of teaching

arising from human trickery,

from their cunning in the interests of deceitful scheming.

Rather, living the truth in love,

we should grow in every way into him who is the head, Christ,

from whom the whole Body,

joined and held together by every supporting ligament,

with the proper functioning of each part,

brings about the Body's growth and builds itself up in love.

Responsorial Psalm

Ps 122:1-2, 3-4ab, 4cd-5

R. (1) Let us go rejoicing to the house of the Lord.

I rejoiced because they said to me,

"We will go up to the house of the LORD."

And now we have set foot

within your gates, O Jerusalem.

R. Let us go rejoicing to the house of the Lord.

Jerusalem, built as a city

with compact unity.

To it the tribes go up,

the tribes of the LORD.

R. Let us go rejoicing to the house of the Lord.

According to the decree for Israel,

to give thanks to the name of the LORD.

In it are set up judgment seats,

seats for the house of David.

R. Let us go rejoicing to the house of the Lord.

Gospel

Lk 13:1-9

Some people told Jesus about the Galileans

whose blood Pilate had mingled with the blood of their sacrifices.

He said to them in reply,

"Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way

they were greater sinners than all other Galileans?

By no means!

But I tell you, if you do not repent,

you will all perish as they did!

Or those eighteen people who were killed

when the tower at Siloam fell on them–

do you think they were more guilty

than everyone else who lived in Jerusalem?

By no means!

But I tell you, if you do not repent,

you will all perish as they did!"

And he told them this parable:

"There once was a person who had a fig tree planted in his orchard,

and when he came in search of fruit on it but found none,

he said to the gardener,

'For three years now I have come in search of fruit on this fig tree

but have found none.

So cut it down.

Why should it exhaust the soil?'

He said to him in reply,

'Sir, leave it for this year also,

and I shall cultivate the ground around it and fertilize it;

it may bear fruit in the future.

If not you can cut it down.'"

Meditating on Job: My Sunday Prayer

Then Job answered the Lord and said,

"I know that you can do all things,
and that no purpose of yours can be hindered.
I have dealt with great things that I do not understand,
things too wonderful for me, which I cannot know.
I had heard of you by word of mouth,
but now my eye has seen you.
Therefore I disown what I have said, and repent in dust and ashes."

- Job 42: 1-6

I have found this passage particularly helpful as of late. Sr. Mary Margaret, my spiritual director at the Visitation Monastery in North Minneapolis, has had me meditating on the book of Job.

Everyone knows of Job right? This fellow who knew some serious trials and tribulations! A good guy in the Old Testament, who loses pretty much everything: home, family, a content demeanor. This stand up fellow, who is prosperous and sort of "jolly," I think you'd say, is struck by a run of cruel events that include a horrible skin affliction from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. Yea. "This skin affliction?" you might wonder: Boils. Were I him, I think I would have personally been done about the time that the boils showed up all over my body. (I'm a wimp when it comes to pussy lump infections on skin!)

You know what happens, too, with Job and his wife and friends? They look at all his trials and tribulations, and since they make no rationale sense, they believe Job must have done something to deserve them! They blame him for his woeful circumstances....Now: how helpful do you suppose this is?

Ack! Not so much!

But it's all just blessed humanity!

The book is an awesome one, as it gets at the very heart of the human condition, the heart of human suffering. It reveals beautifully our attempt at trying to understand our circumstances, (our broken hearts, our lost jobs, our failed performances, our ailing pocketbooks, our aching earth, our passing-away or departed loved ones) and provides us all with this beautifully rich and miserable protagonist: Job!

I have not had boils, but I have known the equivalent of pussy gross infections in my spirit -- this ugly and ouchy thing that is like doubt and dejection and uncertainty beyond uncertainty where Love is concerned. Whew! Not fun! Not pretty!

But what is sort of fun, or at least reconciling, given Mary Margaret's assignment: is reading the book of Job, and coming to this part in Chapter 42...Coming to this other side, where there is a
realization that there are things "too wonderful" to really get. But we don't have to. I don't have to. Because some benevolent and loving thing that I call God, does get them. And God can do all things. No purpose of this Loving Creator can be hindered.

How awesome is that?!

And all my cursing and questioning, I can release. I can ask this to be dissolved -- like dust and ashes -- so that something a new might be seen, born, realized.

Yes.

I rest on this last image of dust and ashes...And I think of a phoenix. Of a bird rising from the fire and ashes, and I look to the restoration of Job, and I know: no matter how long suffering persists, there is love. There is something good my eyes will see. There are wonderful things this very minute. Yes.

Do you believe this?

In Peace, Contemplation, Prayer,
Melissa

On Rage: Some Thoughts on Recognizing Fire

This is a working draft of a story that I'm interesting in exploring for thematic purposes. Rage, Fear, Love, Compassion, Desire, Anger are so closely connected in my spirit. This is my attempt at simply seeing some of this in a healthy light...

***

I just came from having dinner with my friend April. April is amazing. April is a dancer. She's a choreographer. A visionary. An artist. A seer. A communicator on so many levels. Words. Body. Spirit. Jah! Amen.

April is having an interesting go of things. As a Professor of Dance at a Minnesota university, she's faced some interesting times this past year. In the midst of the dance program being cut, on the last day of her teaching in the spring semester, she fell in her classroom, tore all the muscles in her shoulder, and ended up having to wear a brace for the better part of the summer. She has not been physically free to make dance, to do the one thing she is most passionate about on the planet. She has not been free to do the one things she feels most called to do. It's frustrating. And now, five months after her injury, though she's back at work teaching, she has learned that for her body to heal, she must have surgery. She must have 3 screws put into her shoulder. And again: her body is not allowed to do the thing that her spirit and mind want to do the most: dance, make art.

We are talking this eve, April and I, at Mid-town Market, over a Ramadan Special and Pham Vietnamese Deli dinner, and I hear in this good friend of mine, these words that I find so utterly resonant: "I'm just kind of bored. I can't get excited about anything. Not the election. Not dating. Not getting a new job. No, the one thing I want to do: I cannot."

I start laughing. Not at my friend, but at life. At circumstances. At the jacked up nature of how this world goes. At how these words of hers ring so utterly true in my own body.

For years, I have felt clear. I have been on fire. I have been passionate about what I am to do. I have felt God calling me and pointing me toward one thing: Partnership. One. Person. Male. Lover. Sharing a life. With me. Building something. Committed. One thing. That's it.

And it makes me laugh, at how ludicrous it all is. This desire business. I can do a lot of things. I can teach. I can write. I can temp. I can travel. I can go back to school. I can volunteer. I can babysit. I can clean houses. I can read. I can meet new people. I can go dancing. I can date. I can clean my closets. I can simplify and downsize. I can renovate my house. I can plant a garden. I can pray. I can sell my house. I can budget. I can learn about retirement planning. I can study the economy. I can study politicians. I can meditate on leadership. I can work out. I can be the best woman I know how to be. But can I make a partnership happen? Somehow, it seems it's the one thing that just is outside my "control" - my grasp. And that little fact, has left me dejected in a way that I'm not sure I'll ever be able to give words to. Dejected. Rejected. Feeling utterly outside the realm of God. Outside of God's love and light. That's what it feels like. Whew. Dejected. Ain't no joke, this experience, this emotion.

When April is talking, I recall all of this. I hold the fullness of my past nine month's on this planet. And I feel overwhelming empathy. Whether this is really April's experience or not, I am cognizant of mine.

I recognize, still, somewhere, in the midst of moving to my new apartment, and getting clear about my trip to Africa, this kind of dejection has subsided. Perhaps I've let it go. (Mind you: the desire to partner is still there, but I've gotten back on this track to simply do what I can: Remain positive. Be faithful. Be a good woman. Be as loving as possible, be as studious as possible. Be as engaged and service-oriented as possible. And take my little steps. Hold my little light. Move forward.)

What comes to mind next, in this conversation with April: is my rage. I find myself talking out loud about terrorism. About my own inner terrorist, inner anger. (No lie!) About my disgust with today's news. About Governor Sarah Palin. About John McCain. About the most recent smears that Obama associates with terrorists. About my own desire to blow things up..... It's sort of surreal thinking on this conversation as I write this. I can see myself almost screaming. Mid-town Market. Holy Land Restaurant, and I'm enraged, going off about Governor Palin and the notion of Obama being linked to an angry 17 year old named Ayers who will go on to become a professor and help transform Public education in Chicago. I am pointing a finger and cursing.

Really?

Really.

April, quiet, listens, waits, and then says, "Yeah, how's that feel? Can you see your anger? Can you see it? Can you hold it? Can you hold your rage? What does she look like?" And in this one subtle gesture, she models for me what it is to hold this red hot emotion, as if it were a small child, in my palms.

And I start to cry.

We talk a bit more. I get clearer and calmer about myself. (My feelings of responsibility. My desire to make change. My need to communicate.) I listen to how this woman, my friend April has compassion for Governor Palin and the rest of the candidates, how she has compassion for me. And I am in awe of how she is able to be so wise and calm and tender and detached.

On the way home, driving down Lake Street, still reeling from all of these thoughts, I wonder,

"Where does my rage come from? Is it fear? Is it feeling separated from God? How connected is rage to arrogance? What? Do I think I know what is right? Do I have all the answers? Do I know that I'm supposed to marry? Do I know that Sarah Palin is unfit for office? What do I really know? Who am I? Who is God? How big is LOVE?"

I'm thinking this, and marveling at how alive rage can be in my body and what it does to me, how I feel on fire.

And then I hear sirens.

I'm driving down Lake street and behind me about 4 blocks are red fire truck lights swirling and sirens going off. And I wonder if I'm far enough ahead of the truck. If I can just drive ahead and avoid a pull over. But then I think better of it. We have to pay attention to such things. It's the law. It's good practice. And I ease myself to a stop, pulling to the right. And what happens? The fire truck pulls over the left, across from me and turns off his sirens.

"Oh, really?" I think. You just needed to catch up with me, eh? Just confirm the crisis that is so near, eh? I laugh to myself, and start to pull forward. Then, just because I think the universe likes to really kick my ass, or sort of kick all of our asses, the truck turns across the four lanes between his position and mine, and pulls directly in to park in my pulled over and paused spot.

Really? Really.

I think this truck came to the call of a fire, just like my friend April invited me out this evening and helped me see what has been so powerfully burning within me. Anger. Love. Rage. Desire. Fear. Hmmm.........

I am thankful for fire trucks. I'm thankful for my friend. I am thankful for pulling over. I am thankful for being so close, and yet safe, by these flames.

St. Francis de Sales, Sr. Mary Virginia, and Obama: Getting rid of the Fear!

((The following was inspired by a Borgmann-Family-email. My aunt Marian, an avid Hillary supporter in Nebraska, is writing specifically to my cousin Derrick, an avid Obama supporter in Colorado. Her question triggered my own tale from tonight in Minneapolis.)

***

How are you handling the ups and downs of the Colorado [presidential candidate] polls? Back when I was obsessed with this election, I made myself sick watching polls. I'm a recovering democrat now. -Marian

***

I'm back from the Visitation Monastery. (For those who don't know: I hang out a lot with nuns who sorta saved my life when I was teaching in North Minneapolis.)

Anywho. It's a Salesian Spirituality evening, and we are doing a little reflection/ meditation/ prayer work with some pithy passages of Francis de Sales (one of the founders of the Vis Sis's.)

Sr. Mary Virginia reads aloud this line,

"Remain in peace; rid your imagination of whatever troubles you."

Sr. Mary Virginia is in her early 70's. She speaks fluent Spanish, and comes from St. Louis. She has a new left knee. She says, "This phrase really speaks to me. I've been waking up with crazy fears of my imagination, and I just need to get RID of them!"

She pauses, and we are to move on in the group. But I have to ask, "Sr. Mary Virginia, can you give me an example of what makes you afraid?"

"Oh, Melissa, I keep imagining that Obama is going to lose the election. I wake up at 5 am, sick to my stomach."

I started laughing so hard and then squeezed her. I am glad to not be alone.

I love this woman. I love this room of 35 people: nuns and lay folk from the community and across town, who gather one night a month to get real in their faith and in how they try to keep fear and anxiety at bay, and trust God's in charge. We are all recovering "control freaks," I think.... :-)

Just passing this along....

xoxo,

Melissa

The Gift of a Poem: "Things to Think" by Robert Bly

This poem arrived today from my friend Ellen Debe. I love her. It came with this sweet and simple introduction:

I always think of this time of year as 'new' because of school starting. So...........here is a New Year's gift for you:

Things to Think

Think in ways you've never thought before.

If the phone rings, think of it as carrying a message

Larger than anything you've ever heard,

Vaster than a hundred lines of Yeats.

Think that someone may bring a bear to your door,

Maybe wounded and deranged; or think that a moose

Has risen out of the lake, and he's carrying on his antlers

A child of your own whom you've never seen.

When someone knocks on the door,

Think that he's about

To give you something large: tell you you're forgiven,

Or that it's not necessary to work all the time,

Or that it's been decided that if you lie down no one will die.

~ Robert Bly ~

(Morning Poems)

Critical Response:

I notice....

the direction by the poet, to "think in new ways."

the phone ringing

a large message

Yeats

The image of a wounded animal

A bear and antlered moose emerging,

a child being carried.

The child is one of my own.

a door knock.

News of being forgiven.

"If you lie down no one will die."

It reminds me of....

The last poem Ellen ever gave me, entitled, "Wild Geese" by Mary Oliver.

Oliver's lines, "you do not have to be good....You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves."

My friend Marianna, who lives up in the woods by the Snake River with her dogs and cats and horses and knows the intimacy of such creatures in wild landscapes.

Native beliefs around parenting, around family, around our interconnectedness.

The Franciscan, Fr. Richard Rohr, and how he talks about "the great chain of being."

Being wide-awake and encountering my own unborn son.

Leaving teaching.

I feel...

excited about the call.

hungry for Yeats.

scared of blood and the natural and supernatural.

at peace with the possibility of forgiveness.

calm with the largeness of letting go.

achy with the desire for this message.

I wonder....

What Bly knew of Yeats?

If either ever had children?

What part do bears and moose play in his thinking? travels?

What does work look like for most people? What does it look like for you? me? My dad? Barack Obama? McCain? teachers in Afghanistan? teachers and healers and factory workers here?

Who do we think we are keeping alive?

Who do you feel responsible for?

How heavy is carrying a life in our heart or body or spirit or psyche?

What does "lying down" mean for you?

What does forgiveness do to the brain?

What would happen if we all took these instructions on how to think?

Could this poem save someone's life?

I speculate....

That Robert Bly was a teacher who loved nature and knew death and the weight of life and the capacity to work constantly in the name of sustaining something that was already being sustained by something like water and sun and animals and earth.

What do you speculate?

Happy contemplating!

Melissa

Africa Discernings: How I Heard God this past week. Part I.

There are subtle and then not so subtle ways that I hear God talking to me. This past week's experiences were no exception -- especially where my heart has been concerned and a desire to return to Africa has persisted.

How do you hear God? Or how do you perceive the Divine at work in your life? Do you believe in a Benevolent Creator? Who among you gets nervous when I ask these questions? Who among you gets calm? What happens to me when I am writing about this stuff? Why do I write this stuff down? If I insert the word "Jah" or "Yahweh" or "Buddha" or "the open heart" or "Love" - does the question resonate more fully?

As someone who was raised Catholic, it's easiest for me to say, "God." But I get that that doesn't read or bode well for some of your spiritual and practical navigations. I respectfully and humbly submit my notes on such matters. I do so with humor and joy and hope, that, as a reader, you might know compassion and joy and hope as well. Yes. I think compassion and joy and hope are helpful things for my spirit, for your spirit, and for those around us who piss us off. It's best if we can have love rather than getting pissed off, don't you think? More love and compassion, less anger and pissiness. I'm just looking for a way through life that is helpful, rather than harmful. Navigating the love and fear and anger is an important thing to figure out, don't you think?

I digress.

Back to how I heard the Big Love talking to me this past week....

***

It's Sunday, and I'm in Norfolk, Nebraska. I'm at home for my aunt Peg's wedding, and taking an extra day in a long weekend to spend time with my family: my parents, my siblings, my nieces and nephews, my cousins, my aunts and uncles and friends that are in town.

It's good. It's been a long, long seven months since I've been home, and this trip back for a wedding - that has been a long, long time in the making - is well worth it!

Going home is not ever easy for me, as the eldest, unmarried child who travels solo in this rocking family with these rocking parents and rocking siblings and their spouses and significant others. I adore these people, and recognize how profoundly I am loved and cared for by them all, as well as how much I love them all. But often, I'm lonely in this family, and feel like a crazy older sister who is single and has no visible lover, and so by most accounts is on the track to becoming a "cat lady." I don't want to be a cat lady, by the way. (No offense to people with cats.) I want to be the older sister who rocks the casbah in the world by writing and making change and having a hot lover and partner who adores her and makes everyone laugh and inspires significant topics of conversation when he shows up with me.

Yeah. I want to come home with Barack Obama, or some equivalent of a single, young Desmond Tutu -- or even a kind of a Bill Clinton - without the Monica business. (I like leader types. I like especially leader types who love God and have the capacity to balance me out. Yes. I like leader types with scientific minds who like identifying the root causes of unwellness in our world and are seeking ways to heal us. Those with visions of life beyond the borders of the United States also rock.)

Anyway. It's church time. And I'm walking into Sacred Heart with my mom and some semblance or faction of siblings. And my mom says to me,

"Melissa, you are turning 40 this year. It's a significant birthday, a milestone; have you thought about how you want to celebrate this? Your sister is turning 21, also a significant birthday, maybe you want to do something together?"

And I pause for second and then find myself responding,

"I want to go back to Africa. I think I'm supposed to be back in Africa."

Now saying this aloud to my mom is like saying I want to date someone like Bill Clinton. I'm not sure that she really hears me, or can hear me. Like Bill Clinton, Africa --South Africa has it's overwhelming beauty and charm and promise and power. But also like Bill Clinton, South Africa has a kind of tainted image that brings up some kind of pain and scandal. My mom doesn't want to see me off to any place where there is pain and scandal. (That apartheid business was messy, right? And the poverty there ain't no joke. To say nothing of the HIV/ AIDS pandemic. And what my heart has done when it's been on South African soil or in proximity to citizens of the country?! Well it's all taken a gigantic toll on my spirit and psyche that my mom registers. And, ultimately, it all begs for love and attention -- not unlike the messy, screaming-for compassion-and-outrage impeachment circumstances once surrounding President Clinton. Who wants to spend any time dwelling on such things?!)

But my mom says nothing, and this is huge. A gift. And my words just rest there in the air as a kind of uttered dream, and this feels good to my heart. I don't know what I'm saying really in this moment walking into church, just giving voice to this achy space in my body and spirit that wants to speak and honor what God calls me toward....

Africa...South Africa....Kenya...Uganda...Zanzibar...Tanzania...Ghana...
Nigeria...Cameroon...Congo....Libya....Africa...

On this Sunday, the scripture and songs are not-so-subtly speaking to me. This is nothing unusual, however. Hearing God's voice in scripture? Please. That's the whole point! This former English teacher takes it all in stride: literature is literature is literature doing it's job reflecting and opening us up to ourselves and our world. What I note, however, is that the Gospel reading from Matthew is being repeated for the third time this week, and that is unusual.
(Per my bus- riding-routine to work, I'm praying with scripture daily via my pda.) Here I am for the third time this week, reading and hearing about Jesus and Peter, as the disciple is being called to walk toward Christ on the water. What's Peter do? He doubts. He second guesses himself and who God is, and he starts to sink.

When I read this passage on the Monday prior, it wasn't lost on me: Do not doubt God's love! When I read it on Tuesday, it was another gigantic reassurance: Do not be afraid! Step forward! Hearing it for the third time this Sunday, I am mildly blown away.

"Mom," I say to her next to me in the pew, "It's the third time this week this gospel has appeared."

And so I cry. Because I know: I have been doubting. I have been sinking. I have felt wildly like Peter in so many ways: believing, but fearing. And it's just not helpful, the fearing part. Because after all, when we doubt, we start to sink. Who needs more sinking? God sure doesn't. We are better off to trust and to receive and believe in love, than doubt in its source.

And then what happens next is the bigger "Wake up, Meliss and Pay Attention" jolt. A guest homilest rises in the pulpit to break open scripture, and his name is Francis, and he's an Oblate of Francis De Sales.

For those who don't know, Francis de Sales is one of the founders of the Visitation Order, and one of the groups of nuns I spend a lot of time with as a "Visitation Companion." He and the co-foundress, Jane de Chantal, are like my spiritual parents. I tune in.

Brother Francis is funny. He tells jokes. He brings comedy to his role in talking about the missionaries in the world. He likens Jesus' walk on this planet with the walk of the missionaries around the country. He talks about the gift of poverty. Of traveling and learning a new language. Of having to build relationships across culture and class and experience...Of having to ask for help. Of walking outside our comfort zones and following God's lead.

I am moved deeply. I am calmed by this man's message. My sister-in- law, Jodi and I exchange knowing glances after his sermon. Jodi's niece, who has just returned from South Africa, has announced her own intentions to become a missionary. Jodi and I pray for this niece and for the voices of concern and doubt and questions that have come forward. We get the ramifications of anyone making such an announcement to family. We pray.

My mom turns to me and says,

"Where do you think this guy is from? Your dad said there was a visiting priest from South Africa who was in church. Does he seem like he's from South Africa?"

I'm thinking "No, this Brother sounds like he's from New Jersey." But I appreciate that my dad is tuning into such things and asking questions....

And then it's time to sing. It's communion time, and the song the congregation is invited to join singing: Be Not Afraid.

And so in our two pews, our family does what we love to do: sings. My mom and I harmonizing, and the words inspiring more crazy emotion.

You shall cross the barren desert,

but you shall not die of thirst.

You shall wander far in safety,

though you do not know the way.

You shall speak your words in foreign lands,

and all will understand,

You shall see the face of God and live.

And I cry. I sing, I cry. I love. I feel it all. I know the desert. I am in the desert. I am wandering. I am safe, but I don't know the way. I want to return to this land where I've known overwhelming love, but I am afraid. I don't understand this call or why it persists, I just know it's here, and won't take a back seat. And so the words pour out as sung, harmonized prayer with my mom, "Be not afraid..."

And then we are done, and the congregation is sitting quietly in our post-communion contemplations, when Brother Francis comes back up to the mic.

"By the way," he says, "For those of you who don't know, that song was written by a Jesuit for a young nun. I'm sorry, a young SISTER, who was returning to Africa, but was nervous and afraid about her call to go."

Really? I mean really? I started laughing. It's like God was hitting me over the head: "Meliss, just in case you missed the message earlier, and you are doubting this desire, this invitation, yourself, me, here's another clue: Get your ass back to Africa! Quit being afraid! This sister was scared, and so are you, but it's okay. Go."

That's what I heard at least. I'm sorry if it offends anyone, too, when I hear God saying the word, "ass." Translation of God can be hard. I could be way off my rocker here. But the continuing coincidences or serendipitous messages reassure me.

I think I exchanged looks with my mom then. A smile. A knowing.

I will go.

Who am I to doubt or be afraid?

***

By the way, when I spoke to my dad later that day he inquired about the missionary's talk. He had attended the earlier 9am mass by himself and had a different guest speaker. "Did you have the brother from South Africa who sang the end of his homily in Swahili?" he asked me. "It was so awesome. I told your mom that you'd love it."

I appreciate my dad tuning in to such things. He's getting his own message, I think.