It was the hobo story.
Reaching deep into my own grandmother’s history of being a safe place for hobos that traveled by their house. Cold water slapping me awake to how far we have come from being open to strangers and sharing our food. Ice cubes is more like it…
Then tears. They sneak back up now as I read Wells and feel seen by her. By you. Tenderness somehow all about me. And not.
Somehow this counts for something; for the people we tell to keep on moving. I’m not sure how but it does. I have to believe that it does somehow or we all are lost.
And we are not.
The point is simply this: how tender can we bear to be? What good manners can we show as we welcome ourselves and others into our hearts?-Rebecca Wells
Sometimes the simplest of tools are the best when entering discernment, or facing challenging situations of opinions.
And, these three questions seem to be pretty simple, straight-forward tests that move me to be more in line with what I believe God might ask of me.
Is it true? Is it necessary? Is it kind?
There is debate, imagine that!, in the origin of these. But whether they come to us from certain poets, Christians, Buddhists, other religions or philosophers, they seem to call us to a reckoning towards our higher selves, and to a spirit of kindness. So much so that I wonder that in simply asking,
“Is it kind?”
I might better know the answers to all of the other questions. And the answers that best suit my soul.
Many of us are searching; wrangling our faith and reason against the pain and suffering cast by nature’s net over our, or loved one’s lives. Entire lives have been changed, and taken. Homes and precious memories have been made into seemingly meaningless, soggy piles of rubble on the side of the road.
Then I come across this. Yet another reference to Job, the possible poster-child of suffering, and one most perfect paragraph that reflects and reminds me, in words and ways that I could no better express, both the arrogance and grounding comfort of my belief.
In case this writing may also meet and lift you where you are today, I share it here, with love.
“Ordinary Mysticism”, Dennis Tamburello, O.F.M
How many times do I slay my self by unconscionable deeds,
aggression against soul?
How many intentions do I abandon in selfish unkindness,
omission against body?
How many thoughts do I hold so tightly
that they seize to hardened beliefs;
a defended-war against mind?
Aware of these grievances against the singular and collective matter of these, what hope do I have to reconcile the harms I have done? How many times might I be invited, allowed to dip my weary hand into the well-spring of forgiveness?
“As many times as needed”, I am answered.
Forgiveness is not doled out like tokens at a fair.
Nor metered in degrees of deserve or earn.
For as often and as long as needed,
and reached for by a trusting hand,
forgiveness follows to refresh
and renew the soul,
body and mind,
as a newborn in Love.
And then I hear,
“Drink deeply here and as often as you thirst.
I am not satisfied by the arid deserts you walk
but by the oasis you claim in Me.”
Lifeline to a friend,
After a long, longer, longest of time I am at my computer today, doing what I have intuitively known was needed next on the memoir, and I feel dusty. All over. Dirt of the past and who I was has clung to me like lint to charged-up plastic sleeves.
I’m stepping away. I’m making myself remember you, and what you might need. I write this note and remember who I am. Today.
That none of this today could be as it is without the path to here. It just works this way. I am all that I have done, known, experienced. I am also what I hope to be by the grace light of God.
There. That helps. Grace-light of God. And friends who show up and journey for awhile, if not always, with me as I am.
Love you. Bunches.
Suffering creates space enough for us
to know that we are alone
and in need of the omnipotent
and perfect love of our Maker.
It is not so large a price to pay
to see and step again
into and through
the small doorway of God’s peace.
It is the work we can only do from here
as our little selves;
mistaken mortals longing for Home.