It is two years since I completed this writing, and Pentecost approaches
once again. On that day I shall finish
the exposition of the readings for holy Mass (700+ pages) I undertook these two
years ago. This work, also, I hope to
publish.
The work I publish here – at the same time as the lyrics for Songs
for Children of Light and a book of poetry titled silence in the city
– is my first. Though I have been
writing regularly for twenty years, only now do I venture into
publication. What shall come of it? Will anyone read these lines? I don’t know.
It is not in my hands. I can only
be obedient to the Lord’s prompting, to His cross. (As St. Faustina,
whose Diary I have eaten in the past year, has said – and Jesus has stressed to
her – it is the intention that matters and not the work itself.)
And in the past month I have begun composing Chanted Verses for
each of the days of Catholic Liturgy; and so another year I shall be in these
rented rooms. (And other writings come,
as the sword of St. Michael stands by--)
As I find I need remarkably few hours teaching to sustain myself, more
deeply do I enter into my hermit’s life, increasing practices with the passing
days, and with an eye toward forming an order, if I may, dedicated to the LORD’s Divine NAME.
For this and my other writings I have developed websites.
We do not know where the Lord may lead, brothers and sisters. Let us simply be obedient to His call, and
lay down our lives for all.
June 25, 2003
“Dear children! Also today I call you with great joy to live
my messages. I am with you and I thank
you for putting into life what I am saying to you. I call you to renew my messages even more,
with new enthusiasm and joy. May prayer
be your daily practice. Thank you for having responded to my call.”
Our Lady Of Medugorje
Suffering. Not a word one would associate with Christmas, and yet the source of great joy. My pilgrimage to Medugorje
was one of suffering from beginning to end, yet the time was ever blessed. In a final lesson to my college students
before departure for the holidays, I spoke of the suffering of life, its
inevitability, and the importance of accepting and transcending it. The lesson was confirmed in my pilgrimage.
In the airport parking lot
furthest removed from the terminal, I waited half an hour in the bitter cold
for a shuttle which was to come every ten minutes. A first driver told us he wasn't to pick us
up. A second said the same, then finally relented.
When finally I arrived at the check-in line, an attendant informed the
persons immediately behind me that there might not be seats for them on the
plane – I was barely safe.
The first of three plane flights
was to Brussels, Belgium,
and was to take better than seven hours.
The less-than-usual legroom and relatively hard seats provided little
comfort for the overnight flight. (We
left Newark at 11:30 p.m. and were to arrive in Europe
at about 12:30 the next afternoon,
having lost six hours.) On this flight I
found sitting next to me the couple who would be my pilgrimage companions,
especially for what would prove to be "adventurous" travel. The few others on this tour we would not meet
until arriving in Medugorje – though we should have
met them in Dubrovnik.
The couple were middle-aged: he originally from the rolling hills of
Iowa, though having spent most of his adult life in Los Angeles, and still
connected to the Air Force; she a Korean woman whose struggles with English
(though having lived in the U.S. at least twenty-five years) provided some
amusing exchanges. She was Catholic and
hoping her husband would agree to be baptized by the end of our
pilgrimage. He was a rather devout
secular humanist. (Even
showed me its creed in the front of a magazine at the start of our flight.)
I took what opportunity I found to speak of the faith and its place,
which could not be preempted by science.
He seemed to listen patiently to my responses to humanism's tenets and
my thoughts on the need for moral imperatives, as well as balance of faith and
reason. But most of the flight was spent
struggling to sleep and eating the food laid before
us.
My first epiphany came as we descended to Belgium. Over
the years I have developed major difficulties with change in pressure and
almost always experience severe ear pain when landing on a plane (and even
taking off). I had found earplugs made
for flights some time ago (though they did not always help entirely) and bought
two sets for this journey. But I did not
use or need them. When my fellow pilgrim
told me of his technique – holding nose and blowing out the pressure – it made
me question my dependence on my earplugs-- me, who am
supposed to be so devoutly Christian and who depend on God for everything
(rarely taking medicine, for example). I
recalled my belief that one must accept suffering/sickness first, and offer it
to God, or any cure would be useless.
And so I prayed.
And I found that the silent WORD that is God's NAME (YHWH) not only
focuses one on the awe and wonder of God's presence, but its leaving the mouth
agape and the throat open even physically allowed the pressure to pass through
me. I faced this impending suffering,
this death, with patience and in prayer, and remaining in His WORD was kept
free of the pain. (Such faith must we
have in facing trials. May I remember
His WORD in all things.)
Arriving in Brussels in the early afternoon, having gotten maybe three hours sleep, I sought
the airport chapel, since we had an hour and a half before our next
flight. I didn't happen upon a Mass, but
the chapel provided a quiet place – with the Blessed Sacrament – to offer
prayer. (There was also a spare
Protestant chapel and an icon-filled Orthodox chapel.) I said my Daytime Prayer, prayed a decade of
the Rosary, and knelt in silence before the Sacrament for a while... then made
my way to the gate, not wanting to be late.
I could have stayed another hour.
On my way I noticed the plane was listed as delayed. Now the "adventure," as my fellow
traveler called it, was to begin.
Against his own warning (in bold letters) to those needing to take an
extra plane to the departure city – to leave three hours between planes – our
tour coordinator had left less than two, not only here, but before our next
connection in Rome. Making that flight
was in jeopardy that grew more serious as this flight was continually pushed
back further, and, of course, contrary to the tour coordinator's assurance that
someone would be there if we had a problem, there was no one to speak for
us. So the scramble was on. We spoke with the airline representative in Belgium and learned yet another trick had been
played on us: since we had a split ticket, they were responsible for getting us
to Rome, but not responsible for our making our
connection – as neither would the next airline be. It began to look more and more as if we'd be
hung out to dry.
The plane took off about two hours late, but there was still a slim
chance we could make our connecting flight (which was on time). The flight attendant assured us someone would
meet us at the gate to take us to the plane.
During this time there was certainly recognition that Rome might not be a bad place to get
stranded. In fact, I had very much
wanted to come to Rome for the Jubilee Year (and had looked into it), and my fellow traveler
would have much preferred it to Medugorje, where to
him there would be "nothing to do."
But I could not afford to foot the bill and wanted to be in beloved Medugorje for Christmas.
When we got off the plane, just at the departure time for the next
flight, no one was there to meet us. As my companion veered off momentarily to check if his luggage
would be here or on the next plane-- his wife and I hurried along to find the
gate. Of course, it was a half
mile away, so I left his wife at one checkpoint in order to run ahead to find
the plane. (The departure sign had a
little figure of a man moving quickly toward a plane.) By the time my sweaty body arrived, there was
absolutely no one at or around the gate.
I found a helpful worker at a nearby store who led me to an airline
counter, where I discovered the plane had indeed gone and we couldn't fly out
until the next evening. I booked seats
for myself and my fellow travelers, who eventually caught up with me at the
counter, and realized we'd be in Rome for a day. [Though I was unable to contact
our travel representative, it did seem this airline would cover the cost of the
flight.]
I had hopes of getting into the city that night, but that was not to be,
for the adventure was not yet over.
First of all, my luggage had been lost, and it took a couple of hours of
running from counter to counter, told it would be here and then there, before I
was told to return the next day to look for it.
After that chaos – and lines and waiting-- we searched for a place to
check my companions' bags overnight.
While there, they became inclined to take a taxi to the city [to find a
hotel], but I wanted to check with the airline which had delayed us to see if
they could help.
On my last legs, I found one woman remaining amongst a line of empty
agent counters. She said to bring all the
tickets, so I ran back downstairs and across the airport to get my friends, but
when we'd finally trudged up to her, she reiterated the airline's lack of
culpability for our problem. I begged
her to allow me to call our tour coordinator, but she said she didn't know the
prefix for the States (?!). Finally,
upon hearing us snap at one another, and seeing my companion's wife was about
to collapse from exhaustion, she relented and offered us motel rooms for the
night.
We had to walk another
three-quarters of a mile to the airport hotel, and when we got there the
check-in person said he'd gotten no fax from the airline. He assured us all would be OK, but I believed
nothing at this point – though I relented and went to eat, at my fellow
pilgrims' urging. We did finally get the
rooms, and the nightmare was soon over.
It was after midnight by the
time my exhausted body got to rest.
