Breath Prayers for People With Fibromyalgia

Hey there, lovies. I thought you might enjoy seeing this gallery I did for Beliefnet. It's for people with fibromyalgia, but I'm thinking it's appropriate for any kind of chronic pain disease.

I'm going to put the link, both live and the url. I hope it blessings you. I think I need some of these prayers tonight!

http://www.beliefnet.com/Faiths/Prayer/2009/10/Prayers-for-Fibromyalgia.aspx

Yours in the Love of Christ,
mair-francis

The Canticle of the Lamb

I have a confession to make. When I'm sad, I eat. A lot. I wish I were one of those people who lose their appetites when they're depressed. Maybe I am. If so, I push past this natural instinct and eat, usually until I'm sick.

I have another confession to make. I'm sad more than I like to admit. I'm good at hiding it. Or maybe I'm not. The problem is, I'm pretty good at fooling myself, too. But sometimes God, who truly loves me, breaks through my wall of sorrow. It doesn't matter that I've virtually ignored Him for weeks. Or that I've been disobedient when I hear His whispers calling me to come to Him. Maybe He is merciful because He knows I'm sad. Even in the center of this amazing new life, melancholy lays on my shoulders like a dark, heavy mantle. That makes me even sadder.

Was it me that wrote all those books? I asked myself lying in bed at 3 a.m. How in the world did I do it? I feel like such a failure now, weeks past two deadlines. Every night, especially at night, my body is on fire with pain. My injured foot is throbbing. My stomach, after two bowls of potato chips (and that icky tummy trouble I told you about) aches and burns. I haven't sleep well in days. Was it me who wrote about a sick, sad woman who found Jesus in the night, in her bed of affliction, so to speak? And she asked Him to share with her His pain. "Share with me Jesus," Gina Dolores, queen of sorrows, would say.

I did not ask Him to share with me tonight. I lay there hurting and sad, and wishing I knew what it will take to feel better and feeling a little hopeless. The last thing I wanted was to carry a cross, even His. Definitely not my own.

And then I had to pee.

I got up and and for a moment I tried a little positive self talk. "Claudia," I said, because apparently when I'm very sad I am not Mair. LOL. I was thinking about weight loss. My ridiculously failed diets slash fasts slash new life plans slash and whatever else that was weighing, no pun intended, on me. "You can do this," I lied. "You can get back on a program and lose this weight. You can..." Then I sighed. "I can't do it," I said in a moment of complete honesty. I have no will power or discipline.

I'm weak. I am needy. I'm a ragamuffin. Seriously.

I'm not sure why, but for some reason in that moment I thought about St. Francis DeSales. Then again, of course I know why. God planted that thought. He's one of my more quiet patron saints. Not the guy you'd want at the party, like St. Francis of Assisi, but I "heart" him, just the same. He's the guy, this patron saint of writers, that I'd want to write a letter to, especially if I were feeling like a big, fat (literally) failure and sad writer. Or maybe get a letter from.

"Send me a little help," I said, and whether it was to God, or St. Francis DeSales, I'm not sure. "St. Francis De Sales, pray for me," I asked, because I feel guilty if I ask the saints for anything other than their prayers. But I had bigger problems (like the size of my butt). So I trusted the Holy Spirit would get him the message. Despite how I felt tonight, I really do believe in the communion of saints. I believe they pray for us if they do nothing else. I was counting on it.

On the way to the bathroom I remembered my dear, dear lovie Gina gave me a book of letters St. Francis DeSales wrote. He was a fine spiritual director, and reading and writing letters is how he walked in friendship with many people. I haven't shared much about my new monastic life, but one of the things Lisa and I are committing to is writing letters. Don't be surprised if you get one, one of these days! Anyway, I hadn't read this book yet, but I hoped I'd find some nugget in it that would give me some measure of peace. I found it in my library, which is waaaay in the back of the Little House, near Bun Bun's cage. I had to feed him first because he started thumping his little bunny feet as soon as I got close, and then I had to look, in the dark, for the book. The light blew weeks ago, and with these cathedral ceilings, forget about changing it.

I finally found it, came back to bed and turned to a random page. But there is no random when you believe God loves you, even when you feel crappy. There are gifts, and if you are watching carefully, if you are listening with your broken heart, you may be given the grace to discover them. I did, in a letter St. Francis wrote to a woman. The header said, "Practice the Mortifications That Are Given You."

We post-modern followers of Christ don't think much about mortifications. We're far too selfish, and that idea is a tad Medieval. But mortifications can be as simple as the very basic, needful denials you take upon yourself for the good of your soul. And more than my body is obese, my soul is starving for a very specific healing, one that God promised He was already granting. It's in process, though it sure hasn't felt like it lately.

I need some body mortifications. My overeating, for whatever reason I do it, is a mortal sin. It's killing me in more ways than one. And if I don't deal with the sadness, I'm never going to stop. Lord, have mercy.

Anyway, Bro. Francis jumped write into the letter with wisdom. It's as if his words were written for me. And of course, in that mysterious way God does things, they were.

"Do not worry yourself; no, believe me, practice serving our Lord with a gentleness full of strength and zeal. That is the true method of this service. Wish not to do all, but only something, and without doubt you will do much."

Wonderful isn't it, but there's more. He said to practice the mortifications that most often present themselves. For me, that would be not numbing myself with food like it's a drug, but instead listening to what my heart is whispering beneath seventy pounds (at least) of excess weight. "This is what we must do first; after that we will do others." And then he said something so beautiful and heartbreaking. "Often kiss in the spirit the crosses that our Lord Himself placed on your shoulders. Do not look whether they are of a precious or fragrant wood; they are truer crosses when they are made of wood that is vile, abject, and even stinking. It is remarkable that this always comes back to my mind, and that I know only this song. Without a doubt, my dear sister, it is the canticle of the Lamb. This song is a little sad, but it is harmonious and beautiful. "My Father, be it not as I will, but as Thou wilt."

Oh, Lord. How this speaks to me. My cross of pain and weakness--my cross of the sin of gluttony, so stinking and awful to me, are like His conductor's baton He uses as He directs the circumstances of my life into the sweet music of the canticle of the Lamb. It's a song I know by heart, but somehow, I stopped paying attention to it. I disregarded it like the easy listening music playing in the background at the grocery store. I forgot how lovely it sounds, and how meaningful the lyrics are. I failed to remember the canticle of the Lamb is me and my Beloved's "song".

The grace doesn't stop there. St. Francis mentions Mary Magdalen seeing the risen Christ. She was look for a glorious savior, but what she saw was a wholly ordinary looking man in gardener's clothes. She didn't recognize Him He was so plain, St. Francis said, until He said to her, "Mary."

Many of you know that Mair is a derivative of my true soul name--a name I'm still growing into: Mary. St. Francis, in this letter written centuries ago, practically called me by name. "My dear sister," he wrote, "it is our Lord in gardener's dress that you meet here and there and every day in the occasions of ordinary mortifications that present themselves to you. You would like for Him to offer you other and finer mortifications. Oh, God. The finest are not the best. Do you know think He says, 'Mary, Mary.' No before you see Him in His glory, He wishes to plant in your garden many flowers, little and lowly, but to His liking. That is why He is dressed so."
Seriously, you're are not going to believe this, but maybe you will, because God is good. Tonight, a little after midnight, I finished rewriting a chapter in the St. Teresa of Avila book, God Alone Is Enough. It was one of the chapters about her analogy of the interior garden--the soul garden we all have within us. We are gardeners along with Christ, and there, in our souls, He meets us. He is the Master Garden, and sometimes, He waters our gardens with no help from us at all. This is what I wrote about tonight.

It is prayer that waters our gardens. I can't help but believe this letter, talking about Christ in gardener's clothing, was yet another urging of my Beloved for me to come into His arms; to simply pray; be with Him; rest in the garden. I so need it. And I believe He is saying "one simple thing at a time, Mary Francis. Listen to your sad heart instead of eating." It's one small thing I'm certain He gave me the grace to do. One itsy bitsy baby step. Just one. I can only do it, because I believe He will help me.

I'm going to go to bed now. It's after 5 a.m. But before I lay me down to sleep, I'll pray a simple Our Father, and dream of a garden that my Beloved delights in. I can almost smell the flowers (virtues) that He in His goodness will help me grow. The sweet song I think I've always known, the canticle of the Lamb, will be my lullaby. And I feel hopeful. This "soul music" is the only thing that gives me any modicum of relief this morning.

I love y'all. And I've missed you!

mair (mary) francis

music garden image from http://www.oisinmcgann.com/artwork/gallery/musicgarden.html

I'm Still Here!

But I'm a little worse for the wear right now. I started this glorious week with what appears to be an ulcer. I'm going to take a wild guess and say my tummy troubles are most likely caused by taking Motrin over a period of two years. And I took a lot of it, lovies. My bottles of Motrin are the 500 tablet kind. I have matching ginormous bottles of Tylenol.

But the tummy trouble was actually a gift of sorts. One does not eat whatever one wants whenever one wants to when it feels like there is--and it very well could be--a hole in one's stomach. So, I've taken to eating small meals that are much healthier. Mind you, I've eaten healthier since I've been here, but I still had my awful moments. My body has said, "No more!" And I'm trying my best to listen. In fact, I'm gathering my medical records and going to a naturopath soon. Traditional medicine hasn't helped me much. By God's grace and the generosity present in this beloved community, I'm going to try another way.

I had a dream shortly after I arrived in Lexington, that I lost a lot of "weight". I put the word in quotes because I think the dream had a layers of meaning. I don't think I'm going to just lose pounds, but rather, habits that have held me down.

One habit I hope to lose is worrying. What's the point of it. It's like Peter walking on water. He was walking on water! And then he started worrying about wind, as if the elements could actually interfere with his gravity defying miracle.

It's a miracle that I'm here in Lexington. Love brought me here, but three weeks into this journey my gut (literally) ached and I wondered how in the world I was going to make it. I had heartbreaking nightmares that went straight to the core of my concerns. And then the ulcer thing, or whatever is wrong with my stomach. And then wicked migraines and sinunitis, and vertigo. Even before I got sick I prayed some desperate prayers. I told God: You bought me here to do this work for you. You have to help me. I'm trying, but I need You to provide for us. I just don't make money fast enough.

It's a humbling lesson to learn, again and again, it's not me providing, but God. I resist this notion. I want to pull myself up by bootstraps, when I don't even have boots, let alone the kind with straps so sturdy I can pull myself up by them.

And you know what? I got a miracle. God provided. Love is keeping me here, too.

Yesterday, some of the books I ordered--and don't get me started on that drama--finally arrived and soon I can actually begin work applying for 501 c 3 for The Living Room. We have more exciting projects, too! Involving the arts, the under-served and minorities. We were just sitting there talking, and someone brought up the lack of minorities in the thriving arts community here in Lexington. Another great idea and opportunity to serve was born.

For now, edits on the St. Teresa of Avila books are due. A novel is due. I have a headache, lovies, but I'm weary of having been waylaid for four days by pain, fatigue, and vertigo. I've gotten out of the rhythm of prayer that much of this work hangs on. It's time to be a writer, and urban abbess again.

And Lord, have mercy. I'm an urban abbess! Pray for our community, and heaven help us!

Grace,
mair-francis

God's Handmade Soul

Tonight I got an email from one of my lovies, Nadine. She'd reunited with a childhood friend and shared pictures of their joyous time together. I couldn't help but think of Keysha.

Keysha and I met at a crucial time in both our lives. I was fourteen, and she was twelve. Despite our age differences, we were best friends, and it is she who stood at the altar beside me in that little Pentecostal church on April 15, 1980. We were both "seized by the power of a great afffection," as the old folks used to say about being born again. We were also magnificently filled with the Holy Spirit at the same time, the gift of tongues pouring out of our newborn souls. I told her stories, and for hours we'd be caught up in these tales I'd spin. We got to be heroines with handsome boys who loved us in my stories, and I believe in many ways those yarns kept us safe from the horrors happening outside our ghetto doors.

Of course we drew apart. We got older. We played with boys, and the years multiplied between us. The next thing I knew we were apart for a very long time, but I loved my friend. We'd share so much, and I missed her.

We've seen each other a few times since I've been writing, and the last time I saw her was the first weekend in August, just after her birthday, and before mine. She stopped by on her birthday tour. I gave her books; she gave me a word from the Lord.

I think I may have mentioned the yoga class, or maybe I talked about this miracle of trying to get to Lexington with your help. Whatever I had to report, she looked at me, her eyes full of wisdom and compassion, and Keysha told me, essentially, the worst is over.

Both of us are far heavier than we were as lithe youth, and she'd just gotten a membership to a gym. I told her how we'd be gardening in Lexington, and sharing meals. She assured me in the end I'd be a new creation, not just in my heart, but in my body. Wow. At long last.

My lovie, Erin is becoming a new creation, too, and isn't that amazing, how God shapes us in the image and likeness He always wanted us to be in. Erin's rediscovering her life and sharing the journey. I guess I'm doing the same thing here.

Don't you think it's incredible that you can begin again the simple act of being you? You can keep the best of yourself and add to it, and drop off what doesn't serve God, yourself, or anyone else. Yesterday I dreamed I lost a lot of weight. Sure, I want to literally lose weight, and I'm certain I will in time, but I had to wonder if this dream was telling me something important.

I'm losing WEIGHT, burdens, toxins to my being.

Today at Mass, in the middle of his homily, Fr. Norman (who is AMAZING by the way) asked us to sing. The song was a revamping of the Diana Ross favorite from Mahogany, "Do You Know Where You're Going To."

Do you know, where you're going to?
Do you like the things that God is showing you?
Where are you going to?
Do you know?

And then he started rapping. I don't know about you, but I like a priest who can bust a rhyme now and then. Fr. Norman asked some good questions, though. It's a blessing and gift to know where you're going. And to be able to discern God's will in it, better still.

I guess I'm rambling like this because Nadine's pictures made me think of Keysha's lovely benediction. All the bad things--the weights pinning me to the ground--she assured me are behind me, and life, brand spankin' new and shining, is spread out before me.

I think I know where I'm going to. I'm loving the things God is showing me.

Now, I still have my struggles. Becoming new, rediscovering my life, whatever I want to call my great awakening, comes with challenges. Something has to happen to the old me, and things are indeed happening. I'm making adjustments, body, soul and spirit, but I can face the difficulties with courage, trusting God to know the blueprint of who I truly am, and to mold and make me, with His own hands, into this very beautiful soul.

And He'll do the same to you.

“We are his workmanship created in Christ Jesus to do good works which he has preordained for us to walk in.” Eph. 2:10.

Hope.

mair-francis

Little By Little

"What I want to bring out is how a pebble cast into a pond causes ripples that spread in all directions. Each one of our thoughts, words, and deeds is like that."-- Dorothy Day

A few days ago, I hung my icons on a small, east facing wall by the red sofa of love, but I placed my picture of St. Terese, the Little Flower on the wall beside the front door. God is the head of this little house, but I've dubbed her its patron saint. My friend Bethany gave me the portrait of her cradling a bouquet of roses. The picture came to me just after I saw one of St. Terese's books in Borders, and was moved to pray right there in the aisle, "St. Terese, the Little Flower, send one of your roses to me. Pray to God for me."

The very next day the picture was in my mail box.

Did I tell you I fell in love with this house the first time I saw a picture of it on Craigslist? It's odd, but from that moment on I called it "my little house". Sure, I flirted with other houses, but none gave me the feeling this one did. And here I am, sitting in a miracle typing this.

We still have too many boxes. Honestly, that Ken Burney is a bigger pack rat than I am! Don't think tempers haven't flared as we've dealt with this radical change of life. But there is still love in the walls here. And we are changing. Change isn't always easy.

I've spent these eleven days changing my rhythm. Actually, I've spent them creating a rhythm out of the chaos that was my life. I'm now, unbelievably, a morning person. The long gone "breakfast" meal I so dutifully prepared as a newlywed, has returned. Breakfast was the first meal to go, lovies. But before the food gets cooked, I trudge down the street in the dark at 6:30 am for morning prayer with Lisa, every day except Sunday. At 7:00 I wake the kids for school and get them out by eight. I do whatever chores are necessary, and then I write. Three nights a week my family shares meals with the Samsons. And you know what, living in an intentional, new monastic community is far simpler than I believed it would be.

It isn't very romantic, though there are days, like Labor day, when we are fairly enamored of one another. I don't always feel like going to morning prayer, but Lisa and I are faithful. Shared meals requires that you come out of self-imposed exile and give of your time and self. In fact, so much of community is just that, giving of yourself. We don't always know what to do, and in those cases, we choose to love the best way we can.

But I've noticed it's the little things that are changing us. The big, dramatic movement is over. We are settling into the dailyness of this existence. We pray. We eat. We love. We watch for Christ's coming through the broken. We are Matthew 25 people, waiting to serve Christ the prostitute. We are pebbles tossed carelessly in a pond, amazed by the wonder of ripples.

It's a wonderful little thing.

mair-francis

Happy New Mercy

Yesterday was terrible, and that's really all I want to say about that. But I will add how remarkable it is that a day full of hope can also be a harrowing day of stress and high octane anxiety. And surprising anger. We made it to Lexington after midnight. I cried a little when I finally found myself in Lisa's arms. I did not go inside of The Little House. Instead I came to Lisa's, which is home in every sense of the word to me. Or maybe Lisa is home. I'm not sure, but it really doesn't matter.

Despite my many blessings, I ended up crying myself to sleep. And isn't that how life is? Joy mingles with sorrow, and often we feel sorrow most deeply. I finally fell into a fitful sleep around four a.m. I woke up at six.

And here I am, in this quiet house, where the only sound I hear are crickets outside and the soft din of appliances. The sun is rising on W Third Street, washing the sky in baby blue. Like it always does, light dawns. God hears my prayer, "Lord, I'm sorry," and the other prayers I whisper in this morning, prayers like, "Lord, I'm thankful." Mercy was already waiting for me when I rose, and I'm sitting with her, and a cup of tea, and you.

I am thankful for this morning. Today I am 45 years old. I have far too many gray hairs to be such a sprightly lass, and too many wrinkles around my eyes. Don't get me started on my mid-section and epic behind. There are many years of failure behind me, but mercy has a short memory and bad eye-sight. She doesn't remember my faltering years, and all she can see is my contrite, but grateful heart, and she finds it so very beautiful to behold.

Most years I think about the little treats I want for my birthday. I drop massive hints, and I give to myself as lavishly as my budget will allow. But I have everything I want this chilly September morning. It's hard to even imagine anything lacking. This year for a treat I think I'll simply wear my dress with the butterflies--the one I wore to the Christy Awards. I'll make an effort to remember to watch more sunrises, and savor more moments, be they perfect, or imperfect. I'll spend as much time as I can with mercy; she's a good teacher, and lovely companion. And most of all, I'll trust in the Lord; not in myself, and certainly not in my own righteousness. And I'll say "thank you," when it is proper to do so.

Thank you.

Thank you for sharing this life and journey with me, and the new mercy God grants just because it pleases Him to share them with us every single morning.

I love you so.

mair-francis

108% of Giving In Love Equals This...

“We have all known the long loneliness and we have learned that the only solution is love and that love comes with community.” – Dorothy Day

This is The Little House. It's the place your love is moving me into on Monday, the day before my birthday. What a wonderful, AMAZING gift you all, and our good Father have given me.

I can't tell you how difficult it was for me to ask for your help on August 12th, even though I know the Holy Spirit whispered that I should do just that. My pride stood in the way. I don't mind telling you the worst things about me, but hitting you up for money is another thing all together! I respect you. I didn't want you to think I was using you. I was ashamed that this was happening to me. I felt like the worst kind of failure.

I asked my dear lovie, Heidi, to be my strong arm. I asked Alison to join her in that task. Alison is a great mobilizer. Lisa gave me courage. She told me people loved me enough to want to help. Many of you prayed, and on the strength of those things I asked for your help with fear and trembling. I'm so glad I did.

I always say "Blessed are the poor in spirit" is my life's verse, but the truth is I often resist true spiritual poverty. Yet, there I was with no way out of my situation here, and no way into my new life in Lexington. I had to humble myself and acknowledge not just the fact that I failed and need God's mercy, but also that I cannot fix everything. I try to, but I had no "fix it myself" option this time. God truly did what the old folks talk about and "made a way out of no way." And He did it through His people as, I believe, He loves doing best.

Look at that house! It's small, but oh my gosh: it's adorable. And yes, it really does look like that, flowers and all. I haven't seen it except in photographs, but Ken, Lisa, and my son Kamau have. It's about a block and a half from Lisa, on her street. God is giving us exceedingly, abundantly above all we could ask or think. His mercy is astounded. I believe this will be the beginning of creating "a home for the soul." You can't imagine how important that is for me.

What began five months ago as my most fervent prayer to live in intentional Christian community with my dear, dear lovie, Lisa Samson, will be a reality on Monday. We had no idea it would happen so soon, and God knows we couldn't forsee these circumstances. It's bananas! I know it's been awhile since we chatted. As you can imagine, all of this change has consumed me. I haven't even been able to concentrate on my work. But I wanted to update you. I'm surrounded by boxes and insanity, and I'm a little sick tonight, so I'll keep this simple. Thank you is terribly inadequate, but I'll say it anyway: thank you, so so so very much.

Look what you've done. You are so beautiful and kind. I'm grateful.

love,
mair-francis

More soon...